Fucking halfwits.
Whatever was about to happen to Svartiskóli would be on them. They drove him to this. They left him no choice, and he would not back away from his right, his destiny. He would wield galdur like an unparalleled master. They would be forced to acknowledge him as their superior. And then he would make things right with Garún again.
Rotsvelgur was waiting for him in the store yard. He was alone.
“Sæmundrr. The day of reckoning has come,” the náskári said in skramsl.
“Yeah. I would have appreciated some information beforehand on what kind of galdur you want. I can’t just show up and do whatever, you know. I have to prepare.”
“No excuses,” Rotsvelgur continued in a low voice. “You will do as I request – or pay.”
“All right, relax. What do you want me to do?’ He felt sick asking this question. “And do you have the fungus?’
The náskári shambled up against him, leaning in close.
“Do not make demands before you have upheld your end of the bargain. My demand is simple: weave a galdur of fear and awe the like of which has never before been seen. A galdur of protection and dominance. Make them fear me.” He spoke with malicious hunger. “Make them cower. Make my soaring shadow blot out the sun.”
* * *
The meetings were held in the stockroom of a grocer’s in Starholt. Diljá’s uncle owned the place and sometimes attended their meetings. He was the one who distributed their periodical, Black Wings, outside Reykjavík. He wasn’t in tonight. This meeting had been planned for weeks now, with endless debate and discussion leading up to this point.
They were gathered in between stacks of crates, sitting on top of barrels and boxes. There was better attendance than usual, which was a good thing, Garún tried to tell herself. It meant people were interested, that they wanted to actively change something. But it also made her worry that they were going to derail the discussion or hijack the protest somehow. Jónas Theium was there with his usual gang of followers. Lilja was with them. Garún wondered if she remembered anything from their last encounter, when she had painted over her memories. If Lilja did, then she made sure to hide it.
Diljá greeted Garún with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They reached out to each other and Garún felt Diljá’s nerves and hope all piled up together in a bittersweet feeling that probably mimicked her own. Hrólfur came up and nodded in greeting to her, which she returned. The two of them had been talking by themselves when Garún had come in, in the corner by the coffee pot and mugs. Garún often wondered if there was something between them. Hrólfur seemed a bit too stuck-up for Diljá. He wore cheap but smart suits and sharp-looking glasses that complemented his features. He worked as a secretary or something for the city, a cogwheel in its bureaucracy. It was through him that they got most of their intel on how the city government worked with the Crown and how they came into occasional conflict.
“More people than the last few meetings,” Hrólfur said. “Looks like it’ll be a proper demonstration at least.”
“Yeah. I hope so. It’s important we stay on track.”
“It will be great, Garún.” Diljá placed a supportive hand on her upper arm. “We’re all here because we believe it’s the right thing to do. We’re going to make a difference.”
“Not if we don’t get this meeting started,” said Hrólfur, and he checked his watch. “Where are Katrín and Jón?’
“Katrín couldn’t make it,” said Diljá with an apologetic smile.
Garún was annoyed to hear this, but not surprised. She would have put money on Katrín bailing at the last minute. Why would a rich human girl like that risk everything? Writing articles would always be good enough for those people. That way they felt better and never actually had to get their hands dirty.
It had been almost two years since Katrín joined their group. Until then it had been the three of them: Hrólfur, Diljá and Garún. They had founded Black Wings. Hrólfur and Diljá had done the layout; Garún mostly put up protest posters, stencilling words and symbols of resistance around the city. She also worked on the printing press when a new issue was due – they all did. Except Katrín, that is. She claimed to have a busy schedule and couldn’t let herself go missing for hours at a time. Understandable enough, but still Garún was frustrated at her even though she always pulled her weight. Her monetary contributions covered a huge part of the paper and ink they needed.
It was hard to get good articles for the magazine. People were scared of being caught and didn’t want to risk drawing the Commonwealth’s attention. The journalists who had insisted on continuing to write damning pieces in the newspapers had quickly found themselves out of a job, their credit rating shot, any prospects of finding proper work basically turned to ash in their hands.
The periodical was printed in secret in a small space above a metalworkers’ workshop in the industrial district in Höfði. Hrólfur was responsible for renting out the space, and the craftsmen working the floor below had made it their business to not know exactly what the tenants above were up to. It was easier for everyone that way.
Initially, Garún had written a few articles for the magazine, some of which were well received. She mostly focused on the racism in Hrímland, which was stoked and reinforced by Kalmar’s xenophobic policies of segregation and human-first regulations. At first, she had felt good seeing her words in print, knowing they would get all around the city and beyond. She felt as if they were accomplishing something. She wrote under a pseudonym, like everyone else, but word spread around their tight-knit
