Authors: M. D. Lachlan
Wolfsangel (53 page)
She tried to smother her deeper thoughts. For as long as she could remember she had loved only Vali. Now she was terrified of him, and Feileg, with his honesty and kindness, offered her the chance of a simple life away from the affairs of kings and sorcerers. Adisla’s love for Vali had devoured her, Feileg, her mother, everything it touched. But for that love, the Danes would never have come for her and her mother would still be alive, little Manni too. She couldn’t abandon the prince, though, no matter what.
Questions of the heart were for the sunshine and the open air. In the tunnels of the Troll Wall she had more pressing concerns. Adisla had never known such dark. It seemed like a beast smothering her, her flint a little thorn that she jabbed into its belly, forcing a momentary retreat, before its dead weight came down on her again.
How would she call a witch? What would she say? Adisla didn’t know. First, she thought, she needed light. There was plenty of detritus on the tunnel floors. Surely she would come across a lamp eventually? It was impossible to believe that the dead children she had found had spent their whole lives in the dark.
She crawled on and on, her fingers numb from striking the flint. At the end of one cramped fissure the ceiling and the floor came together into a narrow slash in the rock. She crawled forward and pushed her head and arms into it. Then she struck her flint and nearly dropped it in awe.
She did not notice the cavern, the spears of white that dropped from the ceiling, nor the folds in the rock where dead witches seemed to peer out at you. She saw only the blazing gold piled high to the ceiling, splendid as a bonfire. She struck again and again, and among the swords, the byrnies, the goblets and the plate, the jewels and the coins taken in tribute from nightmare-tormented kings for twenty generations, she saw something far more precious - a fish-oil lamp.
It was quite a drop to the floor from where her tunnel came in and she knew there would be no turning back once she had gone down. Adisla withdrew her head, wriggled round and lowered herself down feet first then dropped into blackness. Agony shot through her leg as she landed and she let out a cry that echoed back at her. She had twisted her ankle - the same leg that the arrow had struck. Even as she held it she could feel it begin to swell. No matter. She needed light. She struck the flint and crawled to where the lamp was. Her fingers curled around it and she shook it. It was nearly full. Again she hit the flint. Five, maybe six, tries and she located what she was looking for - something that would burn, a tattered cloak in some rich material she had never felt before. She found the edge of the cloak, teased off some threads and struck the flint. Adisla had made a fire this way thousands of times at home but now it seemed impossibly difficult. Her fingers were bleeding from catching them on the edge of the steel by the time an ember took. But then she had the lamp alight and looked around at the glory of the witch queen’s hoard.
Her fear did not subside as the dark shrank back but it changed in nature. Before, the tunnels had seemed full of unseen eyes, invisible and hungry mouths. Now, in the silence of the huge cavern, she was afraid that she might be alone. Adisla realised that she might well die in these caves, witches or no witches. In some ways, to be alone was the worst monster of all. The gold was incredible but, she realised, useless. She couldn’t drink it, she couldn’t eat it, and it almost mocked her.
The pain in her ankle was growing. Was it sprained or was it broken?
There was a distant noise, a stirring like a breath but much louder. She told herself it was the wind, but the air was still. She wanted to extinguish the light and hide but knew that she had chosen to face whatever was in those tunnels. There it was again. What was it? Adisla’s throat was dry and she had to struggle with herself not to snuff out the lamp.
Cold prickled her skin and she began to shake. The lamp was guttering, or was that her imagination? Panic gripped her. Adisla scrambled up but had forgotten her ankle. She screamed and fell to her knees, nearly dropping the lamp. The flame guttered and nearly died. She forced her hands to pick it up and held it high to look around.
A terrible child stood over her, haggard, filthy, with the face of a woman and the eyes of the drowned.
And then Adisla was calm. She realised that she had not seen the lady properly in the dark. This was no cave-dwelling hag, this was a queen. The lady extended her hand and her kind smile told Adisla to forget about all pain, the anguish she felt for Vali, her desire to find Feileg, even the agony of her ankle. It would all be all right, thought Adisla. She knew that this lady had suffered torments beyond imagining and could take all those that Adisla felt and wash them away. The lady was dressed in a fine robe embroidered with gold; a beautiful necklace burned at her throat and a crown of sapphires shone like ice in the sun upon her head. Even the dark seemed to peel away around this lovely woman.
‘I need you to help my Vali,’ said Adisla. The lady smiled and Adisla understood that she knew that and was already working to free him. From the lady’s demeanour, Adisla felt certain that even now Vali was on his way to meet her and that soon everything would be settled. This lady had great powers and could break any enchantment that Vali had suffered.
Yes, everything was going to be all right. The lady had looked into her mind and sent her a vision to bring her peace. Adisla saw herself on a farmstead in the sun, children about her who ran giggling from old Bragi as he staggered around pretending to be a bear. There was someone else next to her, Feileg or Vali, she couldn’t be sure which. She felt secure, though, loving and loved among the people she valued most in all the world. The lady had shown her that future and she was grateful to her.
Adisla took the witch’s hand and Gullveig led her to the lower caves.
51 Reward
In the north, though the wind was a knife and the sky black with snow, Veles Libor was not cold, he was sweating. Underground, the wind didn’t cut him and the snow didn’t touch him. In the swaying torchlight he pulled away the rocks. He would toil alongside the Norsemen because he knew them well enough to realise that should he not do the work some might think he was not worth a share of the reward.
He knew that the hardest part would come if they found any treasure. Bodvar Bjarki owed him nothing; the crew owed him nothing and they were not men of his king. So he had to rely on two things - his sharp wits and his companions’ dim ones. Accordingly, he talked constantly of the robbing ways of southern merchants and how one fine warrior had been tricked into giving half a dragon’s hoard for a worthless belt that a merchant had claimed was that of the god Thor, capable of giving its owner a giant’s strength. In truth, he hadn’t really thought there would be any treasure and had run out of ideas as to how he would pay Hemming the ransom for the prince. However, anything was worth a go, and the crooked treasure mark and the great pile of stones looked very promising indeed. So he needed to make his companions see his worth.
‘To get the best price for plunder, you need an experienced merchant on your side,’ he said. ‘When I think of all the proud warriors who have sold great treasures never knowing what they had, it makes my heart weep. I tell you this, if I had that dragon’s loot to sell, I would have got twice what it was worth. But then again I know where to find the buyers.’
Some of the men were naive farm boys with little experience of anything and they lapped up what Veles was saying. Bjarki, however, was a different matter. The berserk had to realise that if Veles got back to Haithabyr with their plunder Bjarki would never see so much as a bushel of oats in reward. However, Veles thought he could convince him that bargaining skills might be useful in a neutral port where Bjarki didn’t have to fear the merchant’s connections. Also, Bodvar Bjarki owed compensation. If he took anything but coin back to Forkbeard, the king would place his own value on it, which might leave the berserk with still more to pay. The merchant thought he’d use all these arguments when the time was right.
The piled stones were finally clawed away and they stood looking at a great flat slab. It had on it the same rune as the first rock they had removed, a jagged line with another through it.
‘What does that mean?’ said Bjarki.
‘It is a curse,’ said Veles. ‘The treasure in here will need very careful handling if the men who take it are not to be struck down. In Byzantium this sign was used to slay the emperor himself.’
‘Where is Byzantium?’ said one of the farm boys.
‘He means Miklagard,’ said Bjarki.
‘Where is Miklagard?’ said the farm boy.
‘West of here and down a little,’ said Veles. ‘Big town, lots of sorcerers used to allaying curses. This did for them.’
Bjarki snorted. ‘I have my own way with curses,’ he said and tapped his sword. ‘I’ve never met a sorcerer who can put his head back on when you’ve cut it off.’
‘Then you have never met the wizard Ptolemy. He is a friend of mine and it is something of a party trick,’ said Veles.
The farm boys inclined their heads, impressed.
‘I would like to test that trick,’ said Bjarki. ‘Perhaps I’ll take you back in two pieces and see if he can stick you back together again.’
Veles went quiet. He knew enough about human nature to see that Bjarki was quite capable of carrying out his threats. He didn’t bother pointing out that, by the berserk’s own account, he had been trapped by a sorcerer. Perhaps the death of the men who had enchanted him had made him bolder, or had the ridiculous wolf mask given him courage?
‘Shall we get this done?’ said one of the men. ‘I don’t like this place. It grows crow food and I have no desire to let it make a meal of me.’
Bjarki nodded and went to the slab. He was a massive man but his arms were not long enough to span the stone. He tried to get his fingers behind it but it had jammed against the sloping end of the passage. Then he crouched and tugged at the rock at its front. He couldn’t get the purchase to move it.
‘Allow me,’ said Veles. He took up one of the wooden wedges lying on the floor and hammered it with a stone into the crack between the slab and the passage wall. Then he sent a crewman down to the beach for water. The man came back and Veles poured the water onto the wood.
‘Do you hope to wash it away?’ said one of the farm boys.
‘Yes,’ said Veles. After a few moments the wood began to swell and the gap between the wall and the slab widened. Bodvar Bjarki nodded, impressed, as Veles drove in more wedges.
‘I am a magician in my own right, as you can see,’ said the merchant with a smile.
Eventually, the gap was big enough and Bjarki stepped forward. He forced his hand in and pulled. Nothing happened. He spat and he swore, working himself up into a rage, mumbling under his breath, ‘Odin, war merry, lord of death. Odin, destroyer, wrecker, mighty slayer. Odin means frenzy. Odin means war. Odin, Odin, the mad, the half blind. Odin! Odin! Ahhhhhhh!’
The slab lifted. Bjarki heaved it into the vertical, where it teetered for a heartbeat and seemed that it would fall back into place, but then it tipped towards him. Bjarki leaped back and the stone followed him with a crash. There was a rush of stinking air from the hole in the cave floor, and even Veles, a man of iron stomach, found himself retching. Two crewmen had to turn aside to vomit. Even Bjarki recoiled, though he stepped forward again pretty quickly.
‘It’s a tomb,’ he said, ‘and a fresh one - you can smell the rot. Come on, lads, it’s a good sign. No one’s been here before us. Here’s my freedom from my oath to Forkbeard.’
He kneeled and secured a rope to a projection in the rock over the hole that seemed designed for the purpose.
‘This is good,’ he said. ‘They’ve helped us out here, boys.’ He grinned. ‘Last one down’s a pauper.’ Then he lowered himself into the blackness.
What was in that pit? Vali. No, not Vali. Something had Vali’s thoughts but they no longer defined its personality. They were loose and unconnected, shooting stars, here and then gone. His memories and experiences were pulp, running into each other, friendship and love no more important than the feel of the rock under his feet, the cold of the cave.
At first he had accepted being in the pit because of his love for Adisla. He knew how near he had been to killing her, and though the sound of the slab sealing him in had filled him with despair, he had also welcomed it. While he was trapped he could cause no more harm. When he’d seen the stricken Noaidi, his animal self had taken over and he had accepted his fate for quite different reasons. He had food, the pit was sheltered - why would he not want to be there? Then the food had run out and he had beaten the walls with rage, leaped at the rock sealing him in, tried to dig his way out and eventually, as any beast would, accepted his fate and sat down.
By then he could hardly remember who he was. His humanity seemed like a shoal of silver fish, turning and moving in the water, suddenly possessing shape and form and then scattered to chaos by massive jaws.
Veles was not far behind Bodvar Bjarki. He cut his hands coming down the rope and cursed as he hit the rubble of the floor.
Someone threw down a burning torch. Veles picked it up and peered around. He touched the wall - something sticky was on his fingers. He licked at them and then wiped his tongue with his sleeve. It was blood.
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