The warlock beckoned him, and peered at the back wall of the cave. Rock slid into rock and a narrow tunnel was revealed.
They walked down the passageway in total darkness; then a second rock door opened and Harald followed the wizard into a vast and well-lit hall. For a moment he just stood, stunned and staggered by the pure size of the place.
‘It stretches the breadth of the mountain at this point,’ said the old man. ‘It takes half a day to walk its length, although as you can see, it is quite narrow.’
A gigantic hall! He could not see the other end. The ceiling was so high that it was shrouded in darkness; creatures winged about up there and their droppings had formed a thick floor of white rock below them. Across this Harald walked, turning as he went, and staring at the walls.
Not an inch, not a finger’s breadth of the vast walls, was not covered by runes. A million spells, a million different writing styles, a million different languages. Spells and charms from the thousand ages of man.
‘Once,’ said the warlock as he too let his gaze wander slowly across the loops and intricately styled letters of the hundreds and thousands of different languages, ‘once this mountain cavern was the centre of the world. All men of knowledge passed through here, and that which they knew or understood was inscribed upon these walls. There are runes hidden among the incomprehensible languages of the ancients that tell – or so I have understood it from more recent runes – of the creating of the gods, or the way a spell was cast to fashion the world from the void by a lone being who rests below us, in the impenetrable depths of the earth. There are spells here that are said to have been written by men not yet born, who travelled here from this world as it will become in the millennia following a great ice invasion that even now is building to cover the north-lands before three millennia have passed. A thousand different languages, and as many magic rituals as there exist stars in the sky. And I know and understand but a fraction of them.’
‘The knowledge is lost? Of the rest, I mean.’
‘No man can understand or accumulate the knowledge of so many generations. Over hundreds of years the Keepers of this hall have tried to learn as much as possible in order that their knowledge can be passed on, but gradually they have lost a fragment here, a spell there, the keys to many languages, and thus the loss of whole walls of magic rites. Among some of the more recent writings I have found the keys to older runes; and among them the key to older runes still. But always the trail ends, and one finds that only the first few yards have been understood. I have searched the ancient spells for one that would help you, and I have discovered only one way to release yourself, written in the very recent past in the runes of a strange race from the warm sea that lies half a year’s ride southwards.’
Harald shivered in the cool air of the Rune Hall. He walked back to the entrance.
‘One day this mountain will crumble and this vast knowledge will be lost.’
‘Knowledge shall die before mountains,’ said the warlock. ‘There is no worry there. But what a giant race we could be if only these secrets were known to us. They say that there are numbers hidden between many spells, secreted there a million years ago, which tell of how to build a great ship to sail, not the sea, but the vastness between the stars. Can you imagine?’
‘I can’t bear to think,’ said Harald, and ran up the darkened passageway. The great rock door behind him boomed as it closed again.
And then, as they sat in the small chamber of the Keeper, Harald learned how to break the curse of Odin.
‘Great peril attaches to failure to break the curse this first time. If you fail you are lost, not even dead, but lost, adrift in time, surfacing only occasionally. I shall explain in a moment. But first, you must know that to achieve release you must kill your father …’
Harald said nothing, but his face blanched and all blood drained from his head. His heart thundered. He could hardly bear to think of it. ‘Why?’ he managed to say eventually, through lips that were as dry as parchment.
‘Because you must carry a shield painted over with his fresh heart blood. This is what is written, and I know no better. So this you must do, for your own sake. To gain release, then, you must fight with your closest friend …’
‘Sigurd? I must fight him?’
‘You must sustain from him a mortal blow; and that mortal blow you must survive. Then you shall be released.’
‘Survive a mortal blow?’ yelled Harald. ‘But a blow is only mortal if I die!’
‘Then you must find a way of changing that. I’m sorry. That is all I can discern from the writing in the Rune Hall.’
Harald was shattered. The price was so high! And the chances were so slim! He could conceive of a man surviving a blow to the heart, and since that was a mortal blow, then perhaps that would involve release. But if this was nothing but a paradox, then he had no hope of ever breaking the spell of Odin. No chance at all.
The warlock said, ‘Of course, there may be other charms and spells that seem less impossible. This, as I say, is all I have found. And so it is your only chance, unless you care to spend a lifetime understanding the runes in the hall, and searching for yourself.’
Harald shook his head. He stared blankly at the other man. ‘So I must kill my father and then stand still while Sigurd cuts me down like an animal, like a Celt.’
‘And if you survive, you shall be free.’
To be free! The thought was so exciting, even though it was tempered with this great price, and the awful paradox.
‘And if I fail? If the blow kills me?’
‘Then you are lost forever. You are lost to time. You shall become a warrior in another age, and there will be no control of your destination. You will be born, and you will grow. The Bear god will be with you. At any time he might decide to possess, and you will become as now, a puppet in his hands, an unpredictable and totally destructive warrior of darkness. That is the price of failure.’
‘And then there would be no hope.’
‘Not necessarily. In earlier ages than this, more was known of the forces of the gods, and perhaps you will find a spell to release you that does not involve such precision. You can but search. You can but try. I wish you luck, I truly do. Never forget, this hall is here in all ages, and across the world there are magic sites where secrets may be learned for the correct price. This is how it had always been, and the way to these places is to follow the lore of the people who live on the land. In their stories they hold the keys to many dark places, where a dark soul might find refuge.’ The warlock smiled. ‘Of course I hope you succeed in this world. But don’t hold out too much hope.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harald, and rose to his feet. ‘So I must return to Urlsgarde anyway, and instead of returning a free man, ready to begin my life again, I must return and commit a foul murder … my own father … the great Bluetooth, to be cut down by his eldest son!’
Tears forced themselves from his eyes, and he hung his head, feeling all his shame and grief in this single moment. For, once he had stepped from the cave, he knew he would have no time for such human things.
His quest would begin in earnest.
‘One last thing,’ he said, facing the open mouth of the cave, staring along the short passageway at the greyness outside. ‘A wolf. It pursues me, and has done for many months. Give me a spell to rid myself of it.’
The warlock laughed, and Harald turned to look at him. ‘What’s the matter, wizard? That one beyond you too?’ There was more bitterness in his voice than he had intended.
The warlock grew solemn, angry, but kept a half smile on his lips. ‘The wolf will not survive its encounter with you,’ he said at last. ‘No spell is needed.’
He was gone, then, back into the mountain. Harald walked from the cave and found his way back to the bronze river, where his horse waited obediently for him.
As he rode from the gorge a gentle snow began to fall, coating his shoulders and his naked head.
CHAPTER TEN
Two weeks after taking his leave of the Keeper of the Rune Hall, Harald Swiftaxe rode across a low ridge, and briefly stopped in the early dawn light, watching as gentle snow fell across the lowlands that led down to the silver, ice-flecked fjord.
Ahead of him lay Urlsgarde, his family hold.
Tears rose in his eyes. For just a moment, though, like a whisper of the swirling, snow-filled wind.
Then anger rose in his heart; despair mastered all emotions, and voiced the cry that sprang, unbidden, from his cracked, blue lips.
The hold was in ruins. It had been deserted for long months, the palisade wall shattered and crushed, and the snow piling high against the several huts and houses where he had known only warmth and pleasure.
To have waited so long! he cried to himself. To have come so close to a return to the peaceful way of life, only to find that my home is dead!
He could not bring himself to move from the ridge. The horse grew impatient as the cold began to penetrate its hide. Harald himself was frozen, still wearing just his flimsy cloth garments, but carrying now a thin metal shield that the warlock had beaten out for him, a symbolic shield, just two hands broad and the length of his sword long. He carried it slung across his back, for he could hardly bear to look at it, knowing how it must be painted.
But now, he felt his destiny again slipping from him. The bear laughed in his mind, scanned the ruins of the settlement with eager eyes, for to the spirit of the god that lay within him, the sight of the snow-beaten walls and crumbling thatch roofs was a pleasant sight indeed, and filled it with new hope.
There were no ships in the fjord. Dark shapes on the scattered ice floes were just seals, or gatherings of black-feathered birds, taking on the shape of a gathered body of men, deceiving the eye, and the heart, for a brief moment. The huts by the shore were deserted too, crumbled and weathered, empty vessels, haunted walls, terrible to regard.
On the ridge where first the Bear god had approached, and where Harald knew he would face his final destiny, there were just skeletal trees and wheeling birds.
He saw no wolf, crouching among them. He saw no band of Berserks slinking towards him, crusted swords swinging, mouths grinning as they came for their final revenge. Behind him, too, there were miles of snow, broken only where his own horse had churned the deep drifts. For several days he had seen no sign of human life, nor wolverine prowling, nor ursine tracking. He seemed alone, isolated in his homeland, a lone spirit in an icy wilderness, confused and confounded, not knowing what to do, or where to turn next.
Without the shield, without the death of his father, there could be no release. Not in this world, not in this time …
But if his father was already dead!
He looked up into the heavens, tried to penetrate the grey clouds, the thin veil of drifting white. Deirdre, he thought loudly, trying to shout to her among the stars. What do I do? Sigurd, he cried, closing his eyes as he thought of his old friend. Where are you? Come and assist me, come and help!
Again he looked at the distant ridge. Again no sight of any animal or man set his heart thundering.
And then, across the wastelands, piercing his mind as well as his ears, came the cry of the wolf, the long and tremulous howling of the great black beast that had dogged his dreams and his days, had met him by the cliffs of the southern lands and fallen only a few days behind him.
Standing in the stirrups Harald scanned the snow fields, searching for a sign of the beast. The howling came again, filling the air, sending the hair on his neck standing and prickling. The voice came from all around him. He swung and twisted in the saddle, expecting the great beast to erupt from the snow at any moment, but all he sensed of it was its unearthly cry, and a vague impression of thundering as if it raced towards him, trying to catch him before he vanished again.
Feeling fear become his master, sensing the bear spirit start to panic and reach forward for control of him, Harald urged the horse forward. Riding down the ridge, the snow flew before him as his steed’s hoofs tried to rise above the level of the early fall but failed. An unusual depth of snow for so early in winter. It seemed to add the final touch of death and decay to the deserted hold.
But as Harald raced towards the ruins of his home, so a movement among the crumbling houses sent a surge of fresh hope through his body. He stopped for just a moment, and stared at where he had seen a slim shape dart from house to house, wading through the thick snow. No smoke rose from any roof; and no further movement occurred, and Harald wondered if the snow, the blinding whiteness, were playing tricks on him. A second later, he was shouting, riding as hard as he could calling out, begging the apparition to show itself one last time.
He rode across the bridge through the earth ditch, picking his way carefully to avoid drowning in snow, though the ditch showed clearly where the level dropped slightly. He passed the ruined gates, and dismounted in the yard. No hens now; no bleating goats, or smell of fresh meat cooking on huge, open fires.
Death. Desertion. A sense of evil hung across the place.
‘Elena!’ he called, his voice muffled in the swirling snow, his breath frosting and carrying downwards on the slight wind. ‘Father! Anybody!’
No echo, just the loss of his urgency, and the soft sound of snow falling across the sloping roofs.
He waded towards the nearest house, his father’s long house, now half in ruins, much charred and blackened from the fire he had witnessed on his last departure. The door stood open, half burned through. Inside there was just greyness and the chaos caused by time eroding the ruins of the fire.
Somebody wept – a high, bitter cry, quickly stifled. It was not a cry of sadness, but of fear, and Harald turned quickly and ran into the open yard.
He had recognised that bitter voice; he had recognised the girlishness of it, the pitch and the tone and everything about it.
Elena! It was Elena!
He called her name, loudly, and then again, shouting her name so loud that now his voice did echo from the crumbling palisade and the intact walls of some of the houses.
Movement from a small house brought him whirling round, blade singing from its sheath. It had sounded furtive, as if someone had crept up on him, but the furtiveness was just the effect of the snow.
A line of deep prints led into that hut.
‘Elena,’ called Harald again. ‘Don’t be afraid. Please, don’t be afraid.’
To have found her! He could hardly believe that fate could be so kind, and yet so cruel. The girl he loved, and knew he still loved, deep down, where the human soul was untarnished by blood or possession; but the girl whom the bear would treat as just one more victim should the fury take it, and bring it forward to possess the Berserker’s body.
But for the moment … just to see her, just the thought of her smile, sent Harald racing through the snow.
As he reached the door he stopped. Distantly a wolf cried, its cry growing more urgent, as if it sensed the nearness of its prey. It grew excited, racing faster across the wastelands, slavering and growling in its throat with the taste of blood hot in its mind.
Harald burst into the small house and stood, for a moment, adjusting to the dimness.
The girl screamed.
He saw her, cowering in a corner; and he remembered that the last time he had seen her as a human unpossessed she had also been cowering in that corner. On the pallet where Sigurd had lain, a shape now lay, almost dead judging by the stillness of the chest. Covered as the form was by blankets, it was difficult to make out who lay there … an old man, unkempt, unshaven, and drawn, thin and drawn.
‘Elena. Please, don’t be afraid …’
He walked towards her and as he drew near so she grew calm, staring at him. In the dimness he sensed the hostility in her, and his stomach knotted, his heart stumbled in the rhythm of its beat.
Suddenly she spat at him, hissing like a mountain cat. She leapt from where she crouched and flung herself at him, nails gouging at his eyes …
His mi
nd whirled … his skin began to burn …
‘NO!’ he screamed, and fought the bear so viciously as it raced forward to enjoy the moment, that the bear cowered and stopped, but hovered there, not far beneath the surface.
The loudness of his cry, the sudden animal ferocity in his eyes, sent the girl screeching and scrambling away, out into the snow. Harald raced after her and caught her, dragged her upright from where she had fallen into a drift and was trying to cover herself with the icy substance.
He swept the snow from her face. His spirits sank.
She had gone, completely gone. It was in her eyes, in her face, in everything about her. Unkempt and filthy, her face was gouged by two deep vicious scars. Her lips, once so sweet and full, now hung slack and wet. As he stared at her, as she stared at him with green eyes full of the fire of a more natural possession, so she laughed.
Her nails raked his face, but he just stood there. Against the wall of his shock the bear was helpless. It urged him forward, urged him to strike her down, to taste her blood, poisoned with madness though it was. But Harald just stood and stared at the terrible figure of the girl he had once loved while her nails raked and scratched his face. The claws shredded his skin, tearing great strips of meat from his cheeks and forehead, reaching for, but never touching, his eyes, as if – even in her demon possession – she wanted him to see her, to see what he had made her.
She chewed the bloody meat in her nails and giggled, raced away through the snow, stumbling and sprawling, then glancing back. Blood poured from Harald’s face, pain seared through his skull. He watched her. Slowly, then, he wept, dropping into the snow and letting the coolness wash the blood and pain from his face, letting the salt tears drain into the earth while his fingers grasped the ice and the bear laughed and laughed …