CHAPTER 8 – TOWER OF PROPHECY
They hurried on and after a while they reached the foot of the mountains. High above them rose barren slopes too steep to climb. No wonder that Vulf’s men had believed them trapped, Muus thought.
‘There is the path.’ Relief was clear in Kjelle’s voice.
The snow lay piled high and walking was difficult. The path led through two towering mountain walls, broad enough for a small oxcart, and with no more than an ankle-deep layer of snow on the ground. After some hours, Hraab started to lag behind. He never complained, but his face was red from exertion.
‘This won’t do,’ Ajkell said. ‘Hop on the sled, lad, let’s pull you.’
‘How far is it to the top?’ Birthe asked.
Kjelle shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you can scout ahead and find out, while we follow more slowly.’
The theynling gave her an angry glance but he nodded. He looked at Muus and opened his mouth, then he turned and walked away alone. Muus suppressed a grin.
After an hour, Kjelle came back, red-faced and short of breath. ‘We’re near the pass. There’s a ruin where we can take shelter.’
Birthe wrinkled her brow. ‘Is it safe? No wild animals living inside?’
‘I haven’t inspected it,’ Kjelle said stiffly. ‘I came back to tell you it’s not far.’
‘Well done,’ Ajkell said quickly. ‘We can see about animals when we’re there.’
They walked on, in a row, and soon they reached the highest point of the pass. Moon had begun a new journey, drawing pale streaks of light in the snow.
‘Over there.’ Birthe pointed to a dark spot between the trees. ‘Is that your ruin?’
‘Yes. It must be Bangerns Torn,’ Kjelle said. ‘A toll burg from the time the Vrakken Pass was a trade route. I’m surprised it still stands.’
‘A toll burg!’ Hraab sounded excited. ‘Robbing traveling merchants and earning lots of gold.’ He stretched the ‘o’ in gold, so that it sounded like a wolf’s howl.
‘There wasn’t all that much traffic here,’ Kjelle said. ‘It was more of a robbers’ den, from which murdering bastards such as Vulf terrorized the area.’
‘Oh,’ the boy said. ‘That's not funny.’
Kjelle’s face was hard. ‘No. When I was little, I thought it an exciting idea. But now ...’ He paused. ‘One of my forefathers had them all hanged.’
Hraab nodded gravely. ‘Good.’ Then he yawned. ‘I think hanging them was a great idea, too.’
As they approached, they saw a tower of gray stone, with windows and a door from which the wood had rotted, but otherwise intact.
Birthe walked to the doorway and peered within. She listened. Then she sang a few unintelligible lines, and listened again. After a few moments, she turned to the others. ‘My song disappeared. The tones should have rebounded, but they just vanished.’
‘Is there any danger?’ Muus said.
She bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. My song should have warned me if there was, but I heard nothing.’
‘Isn’t that good?’ Kjelle said. ‘If you don’t hear anything?’
Birthe shook her head. ‘It’s weird.’
‘We need a place to sleep.’ Ajkell nodded his head to Hraab. ‘The kid is dead tired. I suggest we take turns keeping watch.’
It was clear Birthe didn’t trust the tower, but she had no valid reason to object. She stepped inside. Muus, bothered by her sense of unease, followed. The starlight through the window holes showed them they were in the guardroom, a semicircular space, with a huge open fireplace to the left, and to the right the decaying remains of a table and a few benches. Against the walls were weapon racks for spears and swords. The door to the other half of the ground floor had fallen out of its frame and blocked the passage. Behind it, Muus saw rotting bunks, where the guards once had slept. In the corner stood an iron ladder, near a hatch in the ceiling which gave access to the first floor. It was just a tower; if there was any danger, he couldn’t sense it.
Ajkell came in with Hraab in his arms and put him down near the wall, out of the wind. ‘He was asleep on his feet; didn’t even wake when I picked him up.’
Muus looked down at the boy. His hair is like mine. Black and spiky, stiff with dirt, still with that pathetic wreath of silk flowers askew on his head. He was small, smaller even than Muus. His body was thin as a rat in winter and beneath his rags he was filthy.
‘Where did you find him?’
Ajkell arranged his mantle over the sleeping child. 'After the ambush. When I came to, he sat on my chest with a knife in his hands, ready to cut the bronze bracelets from my wrists.’
Muus looked at him in surprise. ‘Then you awoke just in time.’
‘Yes.’ Ajkell’s face showed no emotion. ‘Hraab is a good kid. Many others else would have put their knife in my groggy throat. He didn’t, he was glad to see I still lived. Make no mistake; he is one damn tough boy, for all his size. Vulf’s men had murdered his family. He played dead until they were gone and then he followed them; hoping he’d find Vulf alone.’
‘And what would he have done then?’ Muus was more curious than disbelieving.
‘He’s an ax thrower,’ Ajkell said. 'A rather good one.’
Muus nodded. With a knife or well-sharpened throwing ax, a child could kill an armed adult. If he was lucky.
‘He is wise beyond his years,’ Ajkell said. ‘A lot wiser than me at that age.’
‘That’s why you are a bear warrior.’ Muus grinned. ‘You aren’t supposed to be wise.’
‘And what are you?’ Ajkell sat on his heels and stared expressionlessly at Muus.
‘A Bryt.’
'And a slave?’ The question came out neutral, as if the answer didn’t matter.
There was silence. ‘No longer,’ Muus said. ‘For what I must do, I can’t be a slave.’
‘What must you do?’
‘Have you ever heard of the Shardheld?’
Ajkell nodded. ‘Of course, I...’ He stopped and stared at Muus. ‘You mean you ...’ He shook his head. ‘Are you a wiseman, then?’
‘I don’t know. According to the Völva of Belisheim there’s a curse in my head that keeps me from remembering my past.’
‘Have you got the skyshard?’
Muus took the pouch from his tunic. A faint blue light crept along his arm and reflected in his eyes.
'Ow enh a bach.’ It was Hraab, who sat upright and looked sternly at the blue stone. ‘Bach a enh.’ Then he lay down and slept as if nothing had happened.
’What did he say?’ Muus asked, while he put the shard back in its pouch.
‘No idea. My little brother used to do that. He was telling stories in the middle of the night and next morning he remembered nothing.’
‘Even in a foreign language?’
Ajkell looked thoughtful. ‘Not that.’
Muus bent over the boy, but Hraab didn’t react. His breathing was even, faintly snoring. ‘He’s really asleep.’
‘You thought he was fooling us?’
Muus sighed. ‘So many strange things have happened; I don’t know what to think.’
Ajkell studied Muus. He took a deep breath. ‘What are your plans?’
‘The völva told me I must go to Brytanna, to get my memory back. After that, I'll go where Fate leads me. I’ll travel to Falrom, probably.’
The bear warrior whistled. ‘That’s a damned awful purpose, mate.’
Muus nodded and sat for a while, without speaking. Then he went outside.
Kjelle was busy making a fire.
Muus looked around. ‘Where is Birthe?’
‘She went back a bit,’ Kjelle said, while he cut dry splinters from the inside of a fallen branch. ‘She wants to make sure that we’re not followed and she can hear better without us near, she said.’
‘Ah,’ Muus said, as he plopped down inside the doorway. ‘What a brave Nord warrior our völva is.’ He saw Kjelle’s face stiffen, but he was too tired to argu
e. Muus closed his eyes and leaned his back against the doorframe. It didn’t work; whenever he’d doze off, images appeared of flowing fire and glowing stone, heat that hurt him without warming and a sense of urgency that kept him restlessly shifting position.
It was Muus’ watch. He sat huddled up by the campfire and tried to stay awake. The night was quiet. No animal moved, nor a branch dropping its load of snow to the ground. Suddenly he stiffened. From the path along which they had come that afternoon, marched two by two a line of soldiers. Without a sound they arrived, their swords and spears at the ready, their faces unrelenting. Muus could only watch, his arms and legs, his tongue wouldn’t obey. A moment later he could see the colors of the approaching troop, red and blue. They were Eidungruve’s men and he didn’t recognize any of them.
At some distance from the tower, they halted. Their leader stepped forward, a burly warrior in a breastplate, who vaguely resembled Theyn Alman in his younger days. A step behind him followed an old man in a gray cloak. The leader in the breastplate opened his mouth and shouted, but there wasn’t any sound. The old one beside him stretched his hands out toward the sky. Around his neck he had an amulet that sparked in the darkness. Muus stared hard at it; whatever it was looked like the knucklebone he wore. The one that never did anything.
Other warriors emerged from the tower. Ten, fifteen men in leather armor, rushed out to meet the waiting soldiers. From the battlements, arrows shot down near Muus and killed two attackers. A tall defender with a white plume on his helmet cheered soundlessly and waved his ax. The attackers stormed forward and now the fight began in earnest, the more horrible for the absolute silence. The battle surged back and forth, while men of both sides fell. The defenders, rough men with ruthless faces, fought like berserkers and soon they appeared to be winning. The old man still stood, with arms raised imploringly, his mouth opening and closing in a silent prayer. Some force must have heard him, because from the night sky a blinding beam of light shot down and hit the top of the tower. For a heartbeat, it was as if rivulets of fire dripped down the walls. Four dark bodies thudded to the ground not far from Muus and no more arrows were loosed. The defender with the white plume turned around, his face contorted with rage, and his ax split the skull of the old man. This shocked attackers and defenders, and, for a moment, the battle faltered. The man in the breastplate used that moment to swing his own ax and down the plumed warrior. Now the defenders lost all courage. The attackers smelled victory, for their assault intensified. Finally, the last four defenders threw down their arms and surrendered.
The images changed. The sky was gray with approaching dawn. It rained hard and water gushed down the five bodies swaying from a nearby beech. The old man lay on his back in the mud, his hands crossed over his chest. Besides the body, the man in the breastplate looked how his soldiers were digging a grave in the soggy earth at the foot of the beech. The soldiers cast furtive glances at the dead wiseman, as if they were afraid that at any moment a new lightning could explode from his folded hands. They dug in haste, despite the rain, and after a while the grave was large enough. The man in the breastplate pointed at two of his soldiers. One of them protested, but a slap in the face made him shut his mouth and, without ceremony, the pair dumped the body of the old man in the hole. Muus stared at the amulet that was still around the wiseman’s neck. Clods of dripping earth fell down on the body and soon the grave was filled. The leader appeared to be making a last speech. He was not addressing his men, though; he motioned to the dangling robbers and pointed to the grave at their feet. It was as if he commanded them to guard the dead wiseman. Then everything disappeared and the polar night returned.
‘You said you would wake me for my watch,’ an angry voice said. ‘Were you asleep?’ It was Birthe, with Búi in her arms.
Muus shook his head and found his body obeyed him now. ‘No, I thought I was dreaming, but I was wide awake.’
Birthe sat beside him. ‘Tell me.’
When Muus had finished his tale, she stared motionless in front of her. A look of amazement crossed her face. She hummed a few notes and listened. ‘Funny, the tower is empty now, I hear my notes rebound. I don’t think it was a dream, Muus.’
‘Those soldiers weren’t real, nor were the bandits in the tower.’
Birthe thought. ‘It was a vision of the past. The vision was in the tower, waiting for someone it could appear to and now it's gone.’ She cocked an eye at Muus. ‘The soldiers wore Eidungruve’s colors?’
Muus nodded. ‘But they were all strangers.’
‘It could have been the ancestor Kjelle spoke about. He did hang the robbers in this tower.’
Muus looked at the beech across the path. It lacked some branches, but it was unmistakably the same tree. He stood up and walked over. At the spot where he had seen the grave, yellowish grass grew from the white. He sank to his knees and brushed the snow away. ‘This was the top side of the grave,’ he said, half to himself. Then he drew his dagger and began to dig.
To his surprise, the ground was soft and wet as after a heavy rainstorm. The earth was loose, so he seemed to be opening a freshly dug grave. Prepared for anything, he dug until his knife struck something hard. Moments later he exposed the toothless grin of a skull. With his hand he wiped the earth away. Vertebra appeared, and a piece of collarbone. Suddenly his little finger hooked a thin silver chain. Carefully he pulled it from the earth until he found what he sought. A finger bone, as small as the one he wore around his neck.
The moment he grabbed it, the chain broke. The bone felt dry in his hand, in spite of the wet ground from where it had come. Muus had expected more, a tingling or some other sign of energy, but there was nothing and he felt a vague disappointment.
‘There’s a rune written on it,’ he said as he inspected the little bone. 'A different one than on mine. I can’t read it.’ A sudden movement caught his attention and he looked up. Five translucent shapes, each with a rope around the neck and a weapon readied, dropped from the tree.
‘Oh Gods.’ Muus whispered and he took a step backward with the finger bone clenched in his grip.
Behind him, Birthe began to sing. The draugar hesitated, but one, the leathery remains of a strong warrior with a bald, scar-covered head, came at him. Muus' hand went to his sword, but he reconsidered. He remembered the old man from his vision. Without knowing what he did, Muus stretched his arms toward the sky. He felt the little bone quiver and a word formed in his head.
F'lach.
His hand seemed to ignite. A lightning bolt shot from the knuckle toward the approaching figure, jumped over to the other four and disappeared. The dead guardians of the grave went out like candles in a storm and Muus groaned. Tears ran down his cheeks while he cradled his burned right hand against his chest.
'Cool it with snow,’ Birthe said through gritted teeth. Her face was red and her eyes flashed. ‘You used seidr,’ she added in a tone that sounded as if Muus had done something terrible. ‘How, I don’t know. Male seidr.’
Muus dropped to his knees and stuck his painful hand in a heap of snow. Slowly he felt the pain subside.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ With a look at Birthe’s face, ‘Now you're angry because I used seidr?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Seidr is for women. Males have enough already. What else is left for us? Bearing children?’ She spat on the ground and turned her back on him.
‘That was fun,’ a high voice said. It was Hraab, who had climbed in the window and looked at them. ‘I saw everything. The power of the Shardheld is exciting.’
‘The power of the Shardheld,’ the girl said without looking. ‘You think the skyshard was acting through Muus?’
‘Yes,’ Muus said quickly. He knew he’d awakened the magic of the finger bone himself in some strange way. But if it’d satisfy Birthe, he’d gladly say the skyshard did it.
‘Oh, shit,’ the girl said. She shook her head. ‘You're lying.’ She turned around and wi
ped the tears from her face. ‘And I’m being silly. It was your magic, not the skyshard. The völva had warned me, knowing my opinion of men. Of the Largassens, the Rannars, who find gold and power more important than friendship and honor. Their kind of assholes I hate, not those few effeminate men who fool around with seidr.’
‘You mean me?’ Muus said, feeling hurt.
‘Of course not.’ Birthe gave him an impatient look. ‘I mean those Nord weaklings who practice seidr. You manipulate the runes, an art that has nothing to do with us. Not even male Nords use runes that way.’ She made an irritated gesture. ‘Rune mastery uses the power of the elements. That’s male magic. We women have the strength of our songs, weaving the strands of Fate. That’s seidr, female magic. Asgisla wanted you to return to Brytanna, because the druids work rune magic.’ She made a face. ‘I’m not jealous. Only there are moments I want to smash things, and then such a lightning rune would be nice.’
Muus pulled his numb hand from the snow and flexed his fingers. ‘It burned. A rune word like that you don’t want to speak often.’
‘Maybe you should hold it by its chain,’ Hraab said brightly. ‘Then you won’t burn your fingers.’
'Smart kid.’ Muus grinned. ‘I'll try to remember.’
Hraab stuck his tongue out and dropped backward off the windowsill. When Muus lay down beside him, the boy slept again. From outside came the soft hum of Birthe singing as she cradled Búi.