She was just tired of endlessly settling for scraps. She wanted the real thing. That day would come. This was only the spark. She would ignite the fire in their eyes. She raised her fist and started chanting, joyful fury gathering in her as others joined in.
No more Crown! No more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
* * *
Sæmundur was losing control of the galdur. He was struggling to rein in the forces flowing through him from outside this world. Something was wrong. Through his muttering of forbidden words and weaving of language and sound he had opened a metaphysical rift, one he was struggling to contain.
What Rotsvelgur had asked for was not impossible, but there was no established ritual that would permanently provide him with the protection and the aura of awe and fear he wanted. A temporary enchantment could be manifested, although with significant risk of a demon infesting the bones of either the galdramaður or its target, but it could be done. But a permanent galdur, that was still not manifested in the bones or flesh of its target … That would require some thinking out of the box.
Creating the audioskull for Garún had been an intriguing task for Sæmundur. He had been obsessed with the connection of music to galdur, how the actual intonation and shift in key affected the incantations themselves, and the noisefiend had been a kind of by-product of his research. He’d acquired a skull from one of the doctoral students in galdur in exchange for some highland moss and bound the demon into it. The galdur he used to make it was almost entirely a new creation. The demon was simple-minded, and so not a great risk, creating music from the proximity of danger to the person carrying it.
What Rotsvelgur needed was a similar kind of demon. One monitoring its surroundings, letting its wielder know of danger looming unseen around the corner. But it also needed to generate a kind of aura of fear and power. Its purpose was complex, but it still would have to be without the sentience of a tilberi or a golem due to its extended existence. A demonic servant was usually banished again within twenty-four hours, or after their task had been done, whatever it was. As long as it was busy at work the galdur had a higher chance of safely working. Idle hands were the devil’s plaything. This kind of demon would not have a task to keep itself busy with. It only had to watch and wait. Idleness was a dangerous thing for a malevolent sentience.
With every step he took to wrest control of the unearthly energy he was drawing on, the more he felt his grip of the galdur loosen. Nothing reacted in the way he wanted it to. Something else was taking over the reins, and the more he resisted the stronger the pull of the current became, drawing him towards the whirling centre of the abyss he was being forced into.
Sæmundur started chanting a galdur of binding. It was too early for it – the demon was not fully manifested and he had only an idea of how its power would manifest – but he had no other option. It was either that or risk a full-blown possession. Slowly, he felt the galdur come to a close. He held on to the rituals of the binding like a drowning man on to a rope. He was seething with anger over his own incompetence. This was all from his own lack of understanding. He was stumbling around blindly, finding obstacles where he expected clear paths and unblocked ways where he expected a closed door. He hated that feeling and the fact that he seemed to be unable to get over it. This was not something he could adjust to. He was at his limits and he knew it.
Rotsvelgur was watching Sæmundur from a distance, perched on top of a construction crane. Should the ritual go awry the hersir had no intention of being caught in the crossfire, or blamed for this mishap. He’d said he would stand on a lookout, but Sæmundur was not convinced the náskári would have his back if the worst came to the worst.
With aching lethargy, the binding incantation started to take hold. The demon would be bound into human ribs, welded into Rotsvelgur’s helskurn. Slowly the bones started taking on a faint shade of blue. The breastplate was made by the náskárar, roughly moulded out of iron with their seiður. It was coarse and uneven, covered in ugly, sharp edges. As if it had been found out in the lava fields, a relic cast in an eruption centuries ago. It was easy enough to move the iron apart with galdur to make grooves for the ribs on the inside of the armour. After the galdur was finished Sæmundur would seal them in, making Rotsvelgur’s galdur imperceptible. The only way to catch it would be to use the sorcerous glass of the seiðskrattar’s masks, something incredibly rare and unlikely to be used by náskárar.
Sæmundur keeled over as he felt a cloying, aching pull at the core of his heart. The connection he had made, the pathway he had opened within himself to the outer forces, resisted his will. They would not relinquish their hold on this world, now that they were in. They would not let go of him so easily.
He had felt this pull before. But never like this. His lips trembled as he spat out words of protection, of exorcism. With trembling hands he dug into the gravel and the earth beneath it, sketching out galdrastafir and runes of power. He knew that these symbols were only instruments to focus his mind. He knew that the true power came from the incantation, the galdur itself. The very force
