“I represent a group of people who are staging a protest against the city walls that are being used to oppress the people of Reykjavík. We will be protesting Kalmar’s presence in the city as well. I’m here to talk to you about a possible alliance with your tribe. We could change things if we stood united against the Crown.”
Rotsvelgur kept staring her down. She held his gaze. She felt as if she was being tested. She’d heard of how confrontational the náskárar were, how highly they valued ruthlessness, strength and cunning. This was the first time she had talked with one, however, and she was becoming alarmingly aware of how much of her information was second- or third-hand knowledge and prejudiced hyperbole.
“Ok what ask þérr of Krxgraak’úrrtek? At die for another’s cause? Convenient. This wall err-at of relevance to us.”
She didn’t understand a bit of skramsl, but even she knew what Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram called themselves in their own tongue.
“That’s not what I’m asking at all. We will not incite violence at the protest. We only want to make ourselves heard. I know that Kalmar constantly harasses the náskárar all around the country, not just in Reykjavík. We are fighting to remove their death grip from our society.”
The náskári started pacing from side to side as she spoke. He cawed when she finished speaking, a sharp sound of disapproval.
“Kalmarr understan’t only violence – respect only violence. As þeirr should. Ok þérr shall be slaughter’d by their hand. As þérr should.”
“There must be something we can work out. If we discuss this and you could hear—”
“Vér speak-at to weaklings who fight-at.”
Garún was seething, trying to calm herself down with the thought that this was at least a good first step. A dialogue had been established. She hadn’t been lifted up and dropped from the sky. Politeness was mandatory when you were surrounded by armed, flying soldiers. The náskári turned away from her to face Sæmundur.
“Rotsvelgur,” Sæmundur started, “I swear to you I will make this worth your while.”
“Ok what hav’t þérr to trade what ek desir’t?’ asked Rotsvelgur.
Sæmundur found them weighing heavily on him again – those pitch-black raven’s eyes that did not see a man standing before them, but meat and bone. He only had one thing to trade. Whether this would end peacefully or in disaster rested on this moment.
“Svartigaldur,” said Sæmundur in a grave voice.
Rotsvelgur laughed. A náskári’s laugh sounded like teeth being dragged down an iron rod, smiling all the while. The story went that they did not know to laugh until humans settled Hrímland, and then the náskárar had only learned it to be able to laugh at their competing settlers. Sæmundur was uncertain if he had offended Rotsvelgur. He stood prepared, with an incantation on the tip of his tongue in case he needed it.
“Svartgaldr, say’t hann, as if Gottskálk the Cruel ha’t arisen.”
Rotsvelgur strutted back and forth in front of Sæmundur, his iron claws hitting the gravel with sharp, ugly sounds.
“I’m not an idiot, Rotsvelgur.” Sæmundur leaned in towards the towering náskári. He reeked of sea salt and carrion. “I know why you’ve let me rack up all this debt. Why you’ve been dealing with me, personally, even after you became hersir of the Ram Eaters. Galdur is forbidden among the náskárar. A vile, despised art. Do me this one last favour – and I’m your ace up the sleeve.”
Rotsvelgur stopped pacing.
“Do not forget yourself, old friend.”
He spoke in slow, clear skramsl. The language of the náskárar was rough and ill-suited to the vocal cords of other species, but through the years that Sæmundur had known Rotsvelgur he’d made the effort to learn the basics of the náskárar tongue, so he could better understand him.
“You are my tool regardless of whether I help you now or not.”
“Perhaps.” Sæmundur weighed his options. “But it’s up to you whether I will be a volatile weapon or not.”
“First you do what I ask. Then I will consider your request. What is it – moss?’
“Fungus. Gandreið fungus, mushroom caps heavy with spores.”
He ignored Garún glaring at him, knowing she would have some words for him later.
Rotsvelgur tilted his head. He seemed to be intrigued by this.
“I will call upon you in the next few days. Be ready. Then you will have your cursed fungus added to your total debt.”
“Wait, Rotsvelgur—”
“Fail me on this,” the náskári interjected, speaking in a low voice thick with the promise of violence, “and you will be fodder for our ravenous young.”
He raised his iron beak and cawed to the other náskárar. They took off at once, the force of Rotsvelgur’s beating wings threatening to throw Sæmundur and Garún off balance. And then they were gone.
“Sæmi,” Garún said in the quiet industrial yard, “what the hell are you up to?’
He ignored her question. The gravel ground against his boots with every step.
Sex
BEFORE
Ever since Garún could remember, her mother had dragged her to church. It had been a weekly event that broke up the monotony of her early childhood, as Hulda had insisted that her daughter never skip Mass. Not even if she was sick. Garún didn’t go outside much and so the trips to the church were some of Garún’s earliest memories.
She hated and loved it. Going outside was frightening but wonderful. Sitting in the church was dreadful yet beautiful. That was life in Huldufjörður for many people.
Garún’s grandmother would babysit her when Hulda went to work or to the grocer’s. Garún didn’t like being left alone with her strict grandmother. Her name was Snædís and she looked as if her name suited her well – a cold, pale goddess of snow. Most of their time was spent in silence. Her grandmother would knit while Garún played with her shells and bones. Garún’s grandmother taught her that they were animals and that she could play at keeping them as a farmer. She hadn’t ever seen real cows or sheep, but she knew what horses were because they
