He was too late. He had been too late before he started on his way, he now realised. These events had been set in motion long before he headed towards Reykjavík, long before they met. He had always been too late.
He looked over Reykjavík. The death and destruction he had left in his wake. He could create continents, drain oceans, rearrange the orbit of the stars, but he could not save Garún. But that had never been his purpose.
Time had unfolded before him. And he saw the threads of Garún’s fate, laid out before him. With a gleeful smile, he pulled at the seam of the seiður which had brought her to the end of her life, the galdur which trapped her spirit. He undid the curses, the malevolent seiðmagn, the brutal incantations which had bound her spirit to her bones, nails through the essence of her very being. He unwound the crude, ugly sorcery in an instant and to his surprise, Garún chose to remain, even though she was free. But then he remembered – she had always chosen to remain.
He lifted a hand and brought it crashing down upon the Nine. The stone fist broke through the roof effortlessly, crushing floors, digging into the earth and towards the chambers in the dark. Where so many souls were locked and imprisoned. With a small effort of his will, the prison doors burst open, shattered into pieces, and the prisoners came flooding out of the ruined building like a swarm of ants. One of them, a woman transformed by a cruel seiðskratti under the orders of a loathsome man, found Garún’s bones in the rubble. They were calling to her. She heeded the call and picked them up. The bones told her where to take them. Then, she found the person she had been looking for. Her lover, who still recognised her, despite all the terrible harm they had done to her body with seiðmagn. The soldier who had abandoned his post for her love. He took her hand and they ran for safety.
Numbness crashed over him like an ocean, drowning his consciousness and smothering him completely. It had been so inconceivably hard to find the strength to make this slight interference. It felt so good to finally let go. He raised his head and looked towards the endless sky, seeing the universe stretch out before him.
The cacophony of suffering merged with the noise of the city, blending in with the rhythm which rose and fell like waves crashing on the shore. Reykjavík faded into the background, disappearing into the painful scream which was all this harmful world.
Epilogue
The demon waited by the stone, silent and patient. The sun gleamed on its black chitinous shell. Time did not exist to it, only eternity. The stone was stooped and long, like a chrysalis made from lava rock. From its end hung a limp, pale hand.
Something gave. The hand twitched. From the stone slid an arm, a head, shoulders, a torso following it. The creature hit the earth like a stillborn lamb. It was hairless and gaunt. Human-shaped, but not quite.
Kölski started the incantation.
Þykkt blóð, þreytast rekkar.
Thick blood, fighters grow weary
.
Þjóð mörg vos öld bjóða,
The nation endures centuries of hardship,
grand heitt, gumar andast,
great destruction, men die,
glatast auður, firrast snauðir.
wealth is lost, the destitute are shunned
.
Hætt grand hræðast dróttir
Perilous ruin the people dread,
hríð mörg, vesöld viða,
storm upon storm, plagued by misery,
angur vænt, ærnar skærur.
heavy remorse, relentless warfare
.
Illur sveimur nú er í heimi.
An evil stir haunts the world
.
The creature twitched and opened its eyes. There was nothing behind the eyelids. The eyes were not obsidian black, nor the void of the night sky. They were nothing. The creature stood up on unstable feet. Its bare head was crowned with a tangle of black horns, gnarled and sharp like the cold of winter.
“Illur sveimur nú er í heimi,” the creature responded in a low voice.
Kölski took a deep bow and addressed the being.
“My Lord, what is your command?’
