“You are deep in thought, master.”
A raw voice spoke and Sæmundur jumped. He’d almost fallen asleep. For a moment he’d let his mind wander and immediately Kölski had broken free from the shadow. The demon sat on top of a gravestone, a gargoyle brought to life. Now that Sæmundur had stopped ceaselessly muttering incantations, he fully felt how absolutely exhausted he was. He couldn’t do this any longer.
“Do not despair,” said Kölski. “Redemption is within your grasp.”
Did I say that out loud? Sæmundur thought to himself. Or can he hear my thoughts?
If Kölski was capable of it, he showed no sign. Sæmundur waited until the demon continued.
“As I’ve said before, you are at your limit. You are merely human. Creatures of my ilk are far removed from yours.” Kölski smiled. “But … there is another which could speak on your behalf. Which could give you the control, the liberty, which is rightfully yours. You could become something far more powerful than you are now. Take a step towards claiming true control over galdur. If you have the courage to call upon him.”
Sæmundur knew of what the demon spoke. He had been considering it himself. The answer to his problems. The only thing holding him back was his own fear.
Before sacrificing Mæja, he had briefly considered manifesting the demon in his own flesh, but hadn’t had the guts to do it at the time. Which was perhaps for the best, it likely would have caused him to lose control of the ritual. Of the demon itself. But now … Now he had changed. He had attained the right mindset to advance further. He craved to feel that fire consume his mind again, to feel himself burn up from the blinding light of pure enlightenment. That unsullied primal force he had barely touched before.
He was well beyond second-guessing himself. The only way forward was through the crucible. From which he would emerge transformed. A shining beacon of enlightenment. Someone worthy of seeking out the Stone Giant.
The temple smelled of earth and burned birch. It was in complete ruins. Benches had been thrown over, broken effigies lay scattered around. Shards of glass crunched under Sæmundur’s feet. The walls were covered with graffiti, hearts and initials carved and sprayed over each other through the years. Clearly the temple was a popular place with the youth, somewhere they could let loose away from prying, judging eyes. Sæmundur doubted that the vættir minded. Clearly they were still being worshipped, although the sacrifices were wild debauchery instead of spilled blood. But he knew that wasn’t important. There were many ways to make a sacrifice, as he knew himself. In the middle of the room was a large sacrificial stone. Its bowl was naturally formed, the glimmering black lava rock like frozen winter darkness.
Sæmundur righted one of the benches with some effort and sat down. Every bone in his body ached. He felt weak. All these incantations he had spoken. New power brought into the world from his lips. He’d been reckless. He couldn’t be sure that a demon hadn’t broken through, inhabited his bones without him knowing.
Kölski clawed its way up an oblong stone, a sculpture of some vættur or the other. It had three eyes but no mouth.
“You are at a crossroads. Something you should be used to by now. You have to make a choice, master – because after this there is no turning back.”
He grunted. “That happened long ago, demon.”
“No, master. I’ve been standing guard over you, although you have not always been aware of it, holding back forces that would have devoured you instantly and filled your heart with the immeasurable hungering void. You’ve been dancing on the precipice, a lunatic only one false step from complete ruin. But now you can’t go further on your own. That is why I tell you that there will be no turning back. If you perform the ritual you will let that which is and that which has never been into your body and soul. You will cease to completely belong to yourself.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. It was strange to hear these words of warning from the devil himself.
“Perhaps I’ve never really belonged to myself.”
The threat of possession had been hammered into Sæmundur’s mind from the first day of his studies. Unlike almost everything else that teachers and others had tried to indoctrinate into students, Sæmundur had never seen any reason to doubt this universal truth. There were too many stories of galdramenn who went too far, became too careless, lazy, clumsy, ambitious. Every incantation, every syllable in a word of power, was a possible portal for the transmundane fiends to break through and possess the galdramaður. No master was safe from their corrupting force. The demon could overwhelm the galdramaður immediately or wait, hiding possibly for decades, before it struck at a prime moment. Sæmundur wasn’t certain if Kölski had been shielding him or whether his own power was sufficient, but he had always remained on guard. So to invite the beyond intentionally, meaning to tame it … It had been unimaginable up to this point. Impossible.
Which was exactly what his teachers had said when he pitched to them his research studies on the fundamental nature of galdur, in which he meant to gain a higher understanding by experimenting on galdur by developing a method that relied more on insight and feeling, rather than precise rotes from memory.
Impossible. Unimaginable. Disastrous.
A childish idea, a sign of his lack of maturity and patience. No one became a
