Runemarks

angry. This did not trouble him, however. He had dealt with a good many rustics in his time, and he was aware that such folk often resented the work of the Order.

“Fellow?” said Dorian. “Who d’you think you’re calling fellow?”

The Examiner took a step toward him. “Out of my way-fellow,” he hissed, holding Dorian’s gaze, and smiled as the guard’s colors flickered from angry red to uncertain orange, then finally to muddy brown. His eyes dropped, he muttered some commonplace, and then he was gone with a single backward glance of resentment, furtive, into the night.

The Examiner shrugged. Rustics, he thought.

Little did he know that Elias Rede-otherwise known as Examiner Number 4421974-had used that word just once too often.

Odin looked up as the door opened. He was far from close to breaking free, but by working and needling at the straps that bound his right hand he had managed to slip three fingers loose. It was not enough, but it was a start, and thanks to Dorian Scattergood it was to take the Examiner completely by surprise.

He’d entered the roundhouse boldly, the Good Book tucked comfortably beneath his arm. He had already quite forgotten the misery of Communion, that feeling of worthlessness and the knowledge that the most trivial and intimate part of his secret self had been peeled open for the casual scrutiny of something immeasurably more powerful…

Now he felt good. Strong. Masterful.

Armed with his new awareness, he saw that what he had taken for the compassion in his soul was in fact a deep, unworthy squeamishness. He had been arrogant enough to believe that he knew the will of the Nameless.

Now he knew better. Now he saw that he had spent the past thirty years as a rat catcher who thinks he is a warrior.

Today, he thought, my war begins. No more rats for me.

Still trembling with the exaltation of his noble task, he turned to his prisoner. The man’s face was in shadow, but the Examiner saw at once that his gag had been removed.

That stupid guard! He felt a surge of annoyance but no more; the prisoner’s hands were still behind his back, and his colors reflected his exhaustion. Across the ruin of his left eye, Raedo shone weirdly, a butterfly blue against his weathered skin.

“I know you,” said the Examiner softly, opening the Book. “And now I know your true name.”

Odin did not move. Every muscle protested, but he remained quite still. He knew he would have one chance, and one chance only. Surprise was on his side, but confronted with the power of the Word, he had few illusions as to his success. Still, he thought, if he could only get the timing right…

Hands still behind his back, he worked at the runes, aware that his glam was almost out, that if he missed, there could be no second try, but that sometimes a flung stone can be just enough to turn aside a hammer blow.

Beneath his fingers, with aching slowness, the rune T yr had begun to take shape. T yr, the Warrior, which had once adorned a mindsword of such power that it made him well-nigh invincible in battle-now reduced to a sliver of runelight no bigger than his fingernail.

But it was sharp. Beneath its small curved blade a fourth finger worked free of its bindings, then a thumb. Odin flexed his right hand, rubbing his palm softly with his middle finger like a spinner rolling a thread.

The movement was too small for the Examiner to see. But he saw its reflection in One-Eye’s colors, a darkening of purpose that made him narrow his eyes. Was the fellow planning something?

“I see you’d like to kill me,” he said, watching the blue of the prisoner’s glam take on the glossy purple of a swollen thundercloud.

Odin said nothing, but behind his back his fingers worked.

“So you won’t talk?” said the Examiner, smiling. “I assure you, you will.” In his hands the Book of Words lay open at chapter one: “Invocations.”

In other words, Names.

7

It takes a superior kind of courage to torture a man, reflected the Examiner. Not everybody has it, nor are many called to the task. Even he, in spite of his brave talk, had never been required to deal with anything much higher up the scale of being than a ruinmarked nag or a warren of rabblesome goblins.

And now he must cast the Word on a man.

The thought made him feel slightly sick-but not with horror, he realized. With excitement.

Of course, he already knew its effects. He’d first seen them in action thirty years ago, when he was just a scrub. It had sickened him then: the creature’s hate, its curses, and at the end, when the final invocations had all been made, the near-human bewilderment in its pain-filled eyes.

Now he felt a surge of righteous joy. This was to be his moment of glory. For this task he had been granted a power that Magisters waited years in vain to receive, and he would prove himself worthy-aye, if he had to wade through rivers of unnatural blood.

Around him the Word began to take shape as, in a steady voice, he began to read aloud.

I name you Odin, son of Bor.

I name you Grim and Gan-glari,

Herian, Hialmberi,

Thekk, and Third, and Thunn, and Unn.

I name you Bolverk,

I name you Grimnir,

I name you Blindi-

At this point Odin could leave it no longer. With a sharp movement he brought his hand from behind his back and flung T yr with all his strength at the Examiner. At the same time, he tore his left hand free of its bindings and cast Naudr, reversed, to release the chains that held him.

The weapon was small, but its aim was true. It snickered through the air, bit deeply into the Examiner’s thumb, and sliced across the pages of the Good Book before punching into the Examiner’s side.

It lodged there, sadly not deep enough to kill the man, but able to tap his blood in such abundance that for a moment Odin had the upper hand. He leaped at the Examiner, not with glamours now but with his own strength, knocking the Book out of his hands and driving the man against the wall of the roundhouse.

The Examiner, no fighter, gave a cry of alarm. Odin closed in. And he might even have managed to take the man if at that very moment the roundhouse door had not been flung open, and three men appeared in the doorway.

One was Audun Briggs. The second was Jed Smith. And the third was Nat Parson, his face flushed with unholy fire.

8

Meanwhile, above the roundhouse, Loki had spotted the Examiner’s trail. He’d seen it before; it was a strange greenish color, bright but somehow sickly, glowing like St. Sepulchre’s fire.

He saw the parson too, with his couple of henchmen, though both of them were far too preoccupied with what was happening in the roundhouse to pay any heed to the small brown bird that landed on the hedge, not far from them. Quickly Loki shrugged off his bird Aspect. A glance over his shoulder told him that Skadi had come to rest not far away, also clad only in her skin, but with her runewhip already in hand.

Here goes, he thought. Death or glory. Of the two, he wasn’t sure which he feared most.

Odin saw the three men enter. Instinctively he turned to fight-and straightaway caught Jed Smith’s crossbow bolt straight through the shoulder. It pinned him to the wall, and for a few seconds he was caught there, one hand pressed against the missile’s shaft, trying vainly to wrench it out.

“Examiner!” Nat ran toward the fallen man. The Examiner was pale but still conscious, his reddened hands clasped over his belly. At his feet the Good Book lay open, sliced almost in two by the mindbolt that had struck him.

Impatiently he waved the parson away. “The prisoner!” he gasped.

Nat felt a twinge of resentment. “He’s safe, Examiner,” he assured his guest.

“Secure him!” gasped the Examiner again, groping for his Book. “Secure him-gag him-while I invoke the Word!”

Nat Parson gave him a sideways glance. Oho, so the Examiner was asking for his help now, was he? Polite as ever, eh, Mister Abstinence? But not so cool with that hole in your gut!

Nevertheless, he raced to obey the order, joining Audun Briggs in half dragging Odin to the far side of the roundhouse while Jed Smith kept the prisoner covered, a second crossbow bolt ready.

He had no need of it, however. There was no fight left in the Outlander. Once more bound and gagged, he could do nothing but watch as the Examiner, lurching to his feet (with the parson’s help), prepared to complete the canticle.

I name you Thror, Atrid, Oski, Veratyr…

And now Odin could feel the Word closing on him…

Thund, Vidur, Fiolsvinn, Ygg…