She walked with Hrólfur down Hverfisgata, two random people in the middle of a crowd. The stream of people was a river filling out the entire road, flowing on towards Austurvöllur. The air was thick with promise and excitement. It reminded her almost of the celebration on the king’s birthday.
“Look.” Hrólfur pointed up to the eaves of the surrounding houses, where náskárar sat and surveyed the crowd. “The ravenfolk.”
In the sky the enormous náskárar flew in small groups, their blue-black feathers shimmering in the sunlight. On a few náskárar the light cast off the coarse and threatening iron fused to their beaks and claws.
“They’re out in numbers.” Garún permitted herself some hope. “Maybe last time wasn’t a fluke. If they decide to fully show solidarity then you know that something has to change.”
She stretched to see over the crowd. It seemed as if there was an unusually high number of huldufólk, or so it seemed to her – it was hard to see the difference between them and humans in such a large crowd. She even saw groups of marbendlar, decorated in garments made from shimmering scales, inlaid with luminous pearls. People were smiling and laughing. It was intoxicating.
The Crown had set up roadblocks, but it hadn’t been enough to hold back the sheer number of people going to the protest. Since it was Annexation Day, the gathering of massive crowds was technically legal. Garún couldn’t help but beam at the sheer number of people. They were here. Together. They were going to change the course of history.
They crossed the bridges at Lækjargata, over the stream and into the heart of the central city. There were fewer smiles and less laughter now. People unfolded signs and banners, raising them before entering Austurvöllur. A few pulled up scarves to cover their faces. Mostly the younger people, but she saw a couple of elderly ladies do it as well. Was it because of shame? Or good sense? She was uncertain. The grandiose buildings in Austurstræti towered over the pedestrians, severe and imposing, built in the Hafnían style. A reminder of who truly controlled the city.
A large crowd had gathered at Austurvöllur, pushing up against the defensive wall the police had formed around Lögrétta. Garún felt her stomach sink when it looked as if the Crown’s soldiers were among them, but as she got closer she saw they were just regular citizens wearing army helmets and armbands in the colours of the Royal Commonwealth. Occasionally they grabbed someone who they thought was getting too excited and dragged them behind their defence lines, disappearing them. Behind the front lines were rows of police officers, readily armed with the muzzle-loaded skorrifles. Just like last time. It sent a chill down her spine.
Garún felt the adrenaline rush as they merged with the protesters. A euphoric optimism was in the air, a certainty that new and brighter times were ahead.
No more Crown! No more Crown!
Garún quickly lost sight of Hrólfur. Most of the people arriving at the same time as her had charged to the front, signs in their hands – or else something they wanted to throw at the parliament building and lines of police. Their shouts shook Austurvöllur, their fists were raised in the air in sync with the chanting. Garún shouted, screamed, celebrated, and when she looked back a while later she saw the protesters had completely filled Austurvöllur. Signs were raised everywhere, like an angry rash. A symptom of the oppression that was smothering them. The house of Lögrétta faced the crowd, unshakable in its grey silence. Biplanes patrolled the skies above.
Rocks, skyr, rotten eggs and balloons filled with paint were let loose on the house of Lögrétta and the police. Whenever the curtains moved, ever so slightly, a rain of garbage came crashing down on the source of the movement. Windows shattered and the grey stone house was coloured with bright paint and filth, looking like a cliff roosted by seagulls, stained with decades of their droppings. Up on the surrounding roofs sat the náskárar, their massive, iron-beaked forms completely encircling Austurvöllur. Black-winged shapes circled the air above. They crowed with the protesters in their own language. To her surprise she recognised one of them. Clad in that unique breastplate, the leader of the tribe himself: Rotsvelgur. The náskárar bristled their feathers and cawed towards a group of police officers down on the street, who pointed their weapons up at the náskárar, ready to fire at the slightest hint of provocation. The náskárar nearest Rotsvelgur seemed tense, leaning away from him, looking tense and ready to fly off, almost as if they were more afraid of their leader than of the armed police below. Rotsvelgur did not agitate the police, instead occasionally cawing out a command, constantly scanning the crowd, an apex predator surveying his domain.
Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
She wasn’t aware how long she’d been standing there, her voice raw from fighting chants, when she almost accidentally hit Styrhildur in the face with her outstretched fist.
“Styrhildur! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!’
“I’m so glad I found you!’ she shouted over the noise. Her brother Hraki stood next to her, a black handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose. “Where have you been? Are you all right?’
She told her about their refuge in Elliðaárdalur. Styrhildur and Hraki had been hiding on the city streets. Garún told them where to meet, so they wouldn’t have to resort to scavenging or stealing to be able to eat. Styrhildur went a bit pale when she told them about the jellyfish and diving into the deep caves, but still promised they would meet up with her.
The crowd suddenly pushed against them, threatening to separate them. The shouts were more agitated, rougher, angrier. The conflict at the front had got more intense.
Free Hrímland! Free Hrímland!
No more Crown! No more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
They grabbed hold of each other, afraid to drown in the
