He couldn’t stay there any more. He needed to be among people, talking, drinking. Maybe even laugh for a change. A wave of anxiety crashed over him as he thought about Svartiskóli and the library, the fungus that had without a doubt reanimated the bodies by itself after he left it to its own devices. He retched over the sink and threw up the water he’d just gulped down.
Svartiskóli had to be in quarantine by now. Students or staff might have been infected. Perhaps the fungus had spread over to the main downtown area. Was the entire city infected at this point? His vision darkened, his knees grew weak. He splashed water on his face and wet his hair and beard. The risk had been clear to him – or so he’d thought at the time. What the real price of forbidden knowledge was. Some people would have been hurt, sure. But they weren’t supposed to die. Not like this. Did the brain retain consciousness after the mushroom took over? Were they watching, trapped inside their own bodies, as they stumbled around as unrecognisable monstrosities? Did they feel the spores spewing from the freshly grown fungus caps?
All that pain, the horror he had invoked. He had taken those lives. And for what? He still found himself restrained. They would come for him, sooner or later. They’d crack his galdur on Kári and discover whatever he could remember. Yet, even so, Sæmundur didn’t fear the Crown. As soon as they realised what he had learned – that he was reading and working galdur from Rauðskinna without losing his mind completely – he would become an asset to them. Not that he wanted to. They would enslave him if they could. Trap his mind and body in sorcerous bindings and shackles. Turn him into just another cog in their machine of empire.
He threw the front door open, one hand halfway into his coat. This line of thinking was making him sick. He knew Kölski was right. He wouldn’t find any answers in a book. He needed a change of scenery. A cold gust of wind came blowing in, carrying with it a potent stench of rot. On the doorstep was a pile of dead rats, all of them tied together by their tails. White maggots squirmed on their black fur.
Rotsvelgur.
Fucking Rotsvelgur. Apparently he wasn’t happy with the galdur Sæmundur had woven for him. He didn’t know exactly what this rat king meant, but it was clearly a serious summons. He couldn’t think about this now. The náskári would have to wait. He had to get out, clear his mind. Eat something. He threw the rats in his neighbour’s trash and walked briskly towards downtown.
The sky was clear, the fading winter sun cast diluted, thin light over the city. Sæmundur found even the weak sunlight almost too much to bear. Steam rose from his mouth as he breathed. In his pockets he found a worn pair of fingerless gloves which he put on, so his hands wouldn’t shake too much rolling a cigarette or two. A leafy-brown slop covered the streets, mixed with grimy slush.
He walked down Aragata towards Gottskálksgata, heading to the central area. Reykjavík was in full view, a small city on a small hill trying to stretch beyond its reach. Haraldskirkja’s split church tower ruled over the háborg, the acropolis in turn lording it over the city itself. From here the city looked beautiful and dormant. He looked to the south, towards the thaumaturgical power plant, Perlan, where Loftkastalinn floated lazily above its shining dome. Thick cables descended from the fortress, connecting it to Perlan. Loftkastalinn was the first of its kind, a technological colossus that defied the laws of nature. However, its use of seiðmagn wasn’t quite efficient enough yet, meaning the fortress had to charge its engines every couple of days in order to remain aloft. The Kalmar Commonwealth had grand plans when it came to utilising seiðmagn for military purposes. Sæmundur could just hear the roar of the thaumaturgical machines keeping the behemoth afloat, even at such a distance. Over his head a squadron of biplanes soared towards the floating fortress.
He walked around Reykjavík’s more affluent streets. He took in the upscale houses on Tjarnargata, sombre and respectable, decorated with delicate carvings made by skilled hands. Gnarled trees reached over the shell-sanded garden walls. There was not a spot of rust to be seen, the wood in the window frames white and shiny, the double-glazed windows clear of blooming frostwork. He kept walking. He didn’t know where. It didn’t matter.
* * *
Deep in his pockets he managed to find a few krónur, which he used to buy hot dogs at Bæjarins beztu. It was dark, the wind colder and sharper as soon as the sun went below the horizon. The central area was deserted. Those who were outside walked briskly and with determined steps, wrapped in warm clothing like mummies. Armed police officers and volunteer militia crossed Sæmundur’s path frequently, which nearly sent him running at first. They paid him no mind. Reykjavík was still there in one piece, more or less. Security had obviously been increased, the whole place felt on edge. But apparently they weren’t looking for him. Yet.
Sæmundur wandered up Laugavegur. The walk left him unusually weary, drained his energy completely. He told himself it was because of a lack of nutrition and rest,
