A low hum that had just barely been audible kept steadily increasing. A growing shadow appeared in the eastern sky. Chimneys spewed out thick strokes of steam, which trailed in the behemoth’s wake. The sun gleamed on towering walls of iron. Cannons jutted out of the fortress at irregular intervals, covering all directions, some of them so large that they looked as if they could fire an automobile. Rotors and jet engines spun by the dozens, steering the machine forwards. Biplanes flew in swarms around the fortress, protecting their great hive of war and destruction.
Loftkastalinn.
The flying fortress. A gargantuan, sluggish monster made from iron and smoke. A miracle of modern engineering, remaking the very laws of nature to suit its needs. The future of warfare and the ultimate weapon, a symbol of unity, safety, power.
Loftkastalinn crept on closer until it was floating right above Austurvöllur. The dark iron mass blotted out the sky, massive cannons and turrets pointing down at the people gathered below. The deafening noise from the engines drowned out the crowd. A metallic voice came from the loudspeakers and megaphones, overpowering the engine drone.
“This is an illegal protest! Leave the square immediately!’
The voice repeated those lines like an incantation, but had the opposite effect from its stated intention. The crowd grew even more agitated, the shouts of protest turning into a steady, wordless cacophony. Hrólfur came charging through the crowd to find them.
“We have to get out of here!’ he yelled over the noise. “People are going to get killed!’
Garún stared at him, shocked. “You want to give up?’
“No!’ He looked offended. “But this is all about to go south. Stick around and you’ll end up dead or on your way to the Nine!’
“So what?’ she yelled at him.
“So we’ve got to stay alive to fight another day!’
“It’s not about you or me!’ she shouted over the noise. “Now is the chance to really make a difference! If we leave then nothing will ever change – and every non-human will always be a second-class citizen! And I won’t even be that.”
Hrólfur refused to budge.
“It’s futile! Do you think that the stiftamtmaður is sitting inside Lögrétta? Do you think that one goði is still in there? That house is empty – this is just a performance!’
“A performance that matters!’ A calm, seething rage boiled up in her. “Just fucking leave, then, if you are too scared to pay the price of real change! You fucking coward!’
She got up in his face and pushed him.
He stumbled backwards, barely catching himself on another person’s coat. A dark look came over his face. He glared at Styrhildur and Hraki, who stood next to Garún, readied as if to fight. And he did what she told him. He left.
Her rage had no bounds. The mob had lost control and everywhere she looked she could see brutal fighting. Supporters of the Commonwealth were now openly beating the protesters without hesitation, armed with batons from the police. She let anger guide her forward. A group of young people with bandanas over their faces were throwing stones at the police. She grabbed one stone, then another, and threw them until her shoulder hurt.
A red lightning struck, blinding her, and she stumbled forwards. Something had hit her in the head, hard. As she was falling, Hraki grabbed her and raised her to her feet. If she’d hit the ground she might not have managed to get back up from the stampeding crowd. Garún looked back and saw a young man holding a raised police baton, wearing an armband in the Kalmar colours on his right arm. He had an army helmet on his head. His woollen coat was thick and well-tailored, his shoes with no visible wear. His face looked as if he didn’t believe what had just happened. As if he was dumbstruck over this new power he found himself possessing. A slight smile crept over his face, the dawning satisfaction of the power he’d found at the end of the baton.
She still had a stone in her hand. She charged. He was so surprised that he didn’t react, still holding his baton in the air like a statue. She hit him right in the face with the stone, sounding a loud crack, and followed through with a kick to the groin, bringing him to his knees. The helmet flew off his head when she bashed him once, twice, in the head with the stone, now stained a sickening crimson. The other protesters surged in and stomped him into the ground.
The metallic voice from the fortress above went quiet. There were no more protesting chants, only the sounds of fighting. There was a war raging around them. The roofs were empty of dark-feathered náskárar, who now circled above, diving in groups of three, shredding men, grabbing them with the strong krummafótur and flying off with them, flinging police and civilians alike through the air, arms flailing helplessly. Another volley of rifle fire was let loose, the air crackling with unnatural energy, bringing down several náskárar. The roar of the crowd shifted and Garún saw the Crown’s regiments marching in. They appeared along the streets at Kirkjustræti, Pósthússtræti, and the alleyway leading to Ingólfstorg. In a moment they had completely sealed off Austurvöllur. The soldiers were clad in dark leather armour, fortified with steel, the iron masks over their faces making their appearance machine-like and inhuman. Many of them carried skorrifles, others had army-grade seizure-bludgeons charged with seiður
