The Blind Seer (Isolde Saga Book 3) Read online

  “Can you see it?” Skaldi asked Harald.

  They had come to the top of a hill, the mist had rolled in thick and they had lost the sun and their westward path with it. Isolde watched as Harald held out a disc of cloudy crystal between thumb and forefinger, and did his best to squint into the sky through it. His neck craned high and his face scrunched up as he tried to find the sun through the thick fog and low clouds.

  “It’s not working,” he said as squinted his eye and twisted all around, trying to see anything through the crystal.

  Skaldi took the glass back and gazed into the sky with it.

  “There,” he said, pointing low into the clouds. “You have to move slowly with it, the sun appears as a glare more than anything, but you can see it and find your way.”

  Skaldi turned and looked back at Isolde.

  “Do you want to have a look?” he asked.

  She shook her head and he frowned.

  “No interest in sunstones?” Skaldi asked.

  She didn’t answer, but wished she could have a stone in which to see the hearts of people. So that she might be able to find her way around them. She wanted to know what Harald was thinking. He still wasn’t talking to her.

  As though he had read her mind, Skaldi put a hand on her shoulder. There were no words he could say, so he stayed silent, and through the talk of touch, Isolde knew she wasn’t alone. At least Skaldi loved her.

  She thought it felt good, but when she looked over his shoulder and saw Harald watching her through his one good eye, she felt the pangs of sorrow and guilt.

  “We have found the setting sun,” Skaldi said as he pulled away, “we follow it westward to the cliffs.”

  The walk was dreary and exhausting. Isolde couldn’t remember the last time she had actually slept in a bed. Her legs seemed to drag themselves along and her shoulder throbbed, but at least her nightmares were gone.

  Harald took the lead, he had the sunstone in his hand and held it up every now and then to keep the right direction. Skaldi was behind her, and she could hear the old man humming softly, and murmuring to himself. She knew that meant he was deep in thought.

  Isolde smelled it first; she breathed in the salty air and felt the cleansing sea-breeze run through her nose and deep into her lungs.

  “Watch your step, Harald,” Skaldi snapped.

  And at that moment, Harald flung himself back from the edge of the cliff. There was no way to see it until you were right on top of the drop. The mist mingled with the cloud so that the fall looked just like anything else in this bland landscape.

  Isolde looked down and followed the dark grey rock as it disappeared into the whirling mass of cloud. Somewhere far below she could hear the rush and crash of the ocean as it pounded and broke against the edge of the earth. But from where she stood, it looked as if the fall dropped forever. It was an eerie feeling, standing off the edge of all she had ever known, with the abyss but one step away.

  They spent the rest of the day following the cliff's edge south. By late afternoon, the mists had faded enough for Isolde to see the setting sun painting deep oranges and reds across the ocean.

  "Look out there," Harald said, pointing his finger back up the coast from where they had come.

  Isolde saw them instantly, the squared black sails of Skalloway longships. She tensed her jaw and remembered Hrothgar and the High-King’s promise to bring the world to its knees.

  "I hate them," she said.

  "Hate is a powerful word," Skaldi murmured.

  "No," she said, "I do hate them. I want them to die."

  "Isolde..." Skaldi said, "be careful of what you wish."

  "Do you know what they do, Skaldi? Have you seen it?"

  The old man nodded with tight lips.

  "They kill," she went on, "they rape, and destroy, they burn everything. I hate them!"

  "So do I," Harald said.

  "And I," Skaldi muttered, "but I do not wish death on anyone."

  Isolde looked back out at the distant ships and screamed out.

  "May the raging sea drown you all!"

  "Arghh," Skaldi screamed.

  Isolde and Harald spun as one, and saw the rusted arrow head sticking out of Skaldi’s grey robes. The old man’s deep face was long and stretched, his eyes wide. He took the arrow by the protruding head and pulled it through the ragged robe.

  "No blood," he said surprised, "it missed my body..."

  Another arrow whistled through the air and hissed passed Isolde's ear.

  "There!" Harald cried, and pulled up his great war-axe.

  Isolde heart hammered, she could see the figures coming out the misty valley below them. They looked like ravenous centaurs to her eyes, all black and scraggy until Harald cried out again.

  "Goblins!"

  The forms took shape, and he was right. Five goblins atop hideous wolves were screaming up the slope toward them. Another shaft zipped by overhead, and Isolde could see them clearer. Only one had a bow, another span a fiercely rusted scimitar over its head and the others shook iron tipped spears in their claw like hands while screaming out in a raucous clamour.

  She ripped out her sword and stepped up with Harald. Skaldi was to her right, the rusted arrow hidden in his hand. The wolves hurtled forward, their thick jaws wet with strings of saliva. Isolde felt her panic rise, but the cliff was to her back and there was nowhere to run. She gave Harald a quick glance and he nodded to her. Somehow that gave her strength.

  She tightened her grip on her sword and ducked under another flying arrow. As she came back up, fur, teeth, and steel was all she could see.

  The beasts crashed against them like waves against the cliff. All she saw was feral grey fur and the glint of an iron tipped spear. Isolde thrust her sword forward and plunged the blade deep into the wolf's chest. The weight of the beast smashed into her and she was forced down to the ground. But as she fell, she kicked up her legs and sent the beast and its rider arcing far over her. She heard the foul screams and yelps as rider and mount went flying over the cliff's edge and disappeared into the gloomy mist of the deep abyss.

  A twisted arrow thwacked into the ground next to her and she jumped back up. Harald was trading blows with the scimitar wielding greenskin. The monster hissed and cursed with every strike, but Harald's great axe let no blow through its guard. She caught the glimpse of movement to her right, Skaldi had stuck his stolen arrow through a goblins neck. The fiend was choking in its own blood, but the wolf was snapping and growling at the old man, who was teetering on the edge of the cliff.

  Her heart stopped in her chest. Skaldi's heel was slipping over the edge. His gnarled old hands wrestling with fang and fur. The wolf snapped and growled, the goblin atop it grasping at the arrow sticking out its throat. She had to move.

  Her legs snapped into action before her head caught up with what she was doing. Her sword was raised high, she was charging the wolf. One step, two steps and bang. The fifth rider hit her with all his weight and she collapsed to the ground, the wind knocked out from her. An angry spear thrust down at her face and she knocked it away with her hand. She looked up and saw Skaldi, he was locked in a wrestle for life and death, yet the old man saw her plight. In one fluid movement, he twisted his hip and launched his wolf and rider far over the cliff.

  The spear came stabbing down again and she twisted out the way. The wolf's fangs snapped at her and she lashed out, striking the beast with her closed fist. The wolf howled and leapt over her. It was going to meet Skaldi for battle. She leapt to her feet, her hand clutching her sword. She lunged at the goblins back and thrust her blade clean through its boiled leather jerkin. She saw Skaldi clamp his hands on the wolf's head. The beast howled out in fear and bucked its dying rider to the ground before bounding away into the mist from where it came.

  Isolde looked back to Harald. He was standing tall, bloody with battle and heaving for breath. The goblin he had been fighting had pulled back to his archer friend. The greenskin waved his scimitar and hissed with a
mouthful of needle teeth.

  "The king will be back," he growled.

  The pair of goblins turned and fled and Isolde watched as they slipped into the hazy wisps of fog that hid the hills to the east.

  "Gods," Harald cursed, "he was nothing like the ones I fought on Jotunn."

  "Are you okay?" Isolde asked, looking at the cuts on his arms.

  "Fine," he said, before looking at Skaldi. "They'll be back, we should move."

  The old man nodded and looked to the south.

  "It will get worse from here on," Skaldi said, "we've come to the Silent Hills."

  CHAPTER III

  Valarth tapped the ancient book in his hand and snickered as he watched the two goblins riding toward him. He would have preferred to have Rikgit killed, that was the point of sending such a small party west in the first place, but there was something satisfying in seeing the ‘King’ come running back with his tail between his legs.

  The other greenskins, the ones Valarth had kept for himself, had caught sight of their leader returning. The sounds of sneers, hisses, and cheers were thrown up and he couldn’t tell whether they were welcoming Rikgit back as a hero or as a coward. Maybe the two were the same for these goblins.

  “I sent five,” Valarth called out as Rikgit came closer, “where are the others?”

  The goblin hissed and bared his teeth as he jumped down from his wolf and stormed up to Valarth. The dark elf eyed the goblin warily and watched his green fingers twitch at the hilt of the vicious scimitar tucked into his belt.

  “Too strong,” Rikgit hissed, “you set us up!”

  Valarth laughed at him, “you’re supposed to be a king, remember?”

  Rikgit’s red eyes glared at Valarth.

  “Take more,” Valarth said with a smile, tapping his finger on the hard cover of the antique tome in his hand. “Actually, take the rest. I don’t need goblins, I have something better. Hunt them through the hills and bring me the girl.”

  Rikgit shrieked and curled his lips back to reveal his needle like teeth.

  “No,” the goblin hissed, “we don’t walk the land of the dead.”

  “You will,” Valarth assured him, “or Hrothgar will have your skin.”

  “You walk the Silent Hills,” Rikgit sputtered the words as though they were vile even to say.

  Valarth sighed and took a step forward to the goblin. He stretched out his hand and placed his pale palm on the greenskin’s forehead. Rikgit howled out in pain and fell to his knees. His long, green fingers groped at Valarth’s hand, and the dark elf smiled as he felt the goblin's skin searing beneath his hand.

  The rest of the goblins had gone silent, all of them were standing around the scene in shocked awe. Valarth took the opportunity to make a point. He lifted his palm and Rikgit rose with it, as though tied by some unseen cord. The goblin leader cried out, still frantically trying to pry away Valarth’s burning hand, but the dark elf only smiled. He raised his hand further still until the goblin’s feet were kicking in the air. Valarth turned to the crowded greenskins, swinging Rikgit as if he were as light as a feather.

  “You will all follow Rikgit through The Silent Hills. And you will bring me the girl!”

  Silence answered Valarth, and he looked out at twenty-odd pairs of wide red eyes. He let Rikgit drop to the ground, and the goblin leader clutched at his scalp where the skin had boiled and seared. The red print of a hand had been seared into the green skin.

  Valarth looked down at him.

  “You will lead your men through silence and death, through hell and flame, you will get me the girl, and you will bring her to me in Mousa.”

  ***

  Isolde was determined that the goblins would not get the better of her a second time. She followed Harald and Skaldi along the cliffy way, her feet sinking into the dark mud of the mushy ground. The crashing of waves and the salty air was a constant reminder of how close they were to the edge of the world. She wouldn’t have said it was a cold day, but she was sick of the fog and the rain that never fell, it just hung in the air as a fine mist that slowly dampened her furs.

  On and on they trudged, the ground squelching, her feet soaked and sodden. Skaldi slowed his pace, let Harald take the lead, and began to walk with Isolde for a change.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked with his slow ponderous voice.

  “I don’t,” she said with a smile, “I don’t feel her at all anymore. No more nightmares, no more fever, no more visions. You cured me, Skaldi.”

  She noticed his frown, and the smile fell from her worn face.

  “I don’t think you are free of Orlog, yet,” he said.

  “But, I don’t feel her at all. Even my shoulder feels better.”

  “Yet the infection still remains?” he said with his bushy grey eyebrows raised.

  “It’s still black,” Isolde sighed, “but I can’t feel it.”

  Harald cried out from in front of them and pointed far out to the horizon. Isolde could just make out the black towers, fading out of the thick mist. They looked like dark fingers ripping out from the earth to stand as sentinels on the edge of the cliff.

  “Those are the dark towers of Swona,” Skaldi said, “which means we are here.”

  Isolde looked around, but the landscape looked much the same. Drab green hills, black mud, the sheer cliffs, and the ever present fog.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “We are at Ama Frettir’s home.”

  Isolde followed Skaldi to the edge of the cliff and Harald followed suit. What looked like a sharp drop down to the razored rocks below was, in fact, a stairway, hewn into the side of the cliff so that it would be hidden from above. Only those that knew the way would know where to find the entrance. Skaldi took a careful step onto the stony stairs and began to pad his way down slowly. It didn’t seem far, the stairs must have only gone down a few hundred steps.

  “Three-hundred,” Skaldi said as though he had read her mind, “or there about. No one has ever got the same number counting down, as they have counting back up.”

  “Really?” Harald asked a little too excitedly.

  Isolde looked back at him and smiled, but as soon as she caught his eye, he diverted his gaze and looked back down to where he was stepping.

  Why is he avoiding me?

  They took the steps slowly, one at a time with the sea breeze blowing up from the crashing ocean below. Isolde could see now that the steps led down to a broad grassy landing that jutted out from the side of the cliff. It was like its own little, hidden world. There was a little stone cottage with a smoke streaming up out of the chimney. Fresh golden thatch covered the roof and fairytale windows looked out over the secret plot of land. There were a few snow-white sheep chewing the grass and wandering the grounds, and to the west, everything seemed to vanish, and Isolde knew that no fence was needed here, not when you lived on the edge of the world.

  Skaldi led them down a stony path and Isolde marvelled at the ancient trees that dotted the land. Gnarled walnut trunks twisted up against the wind, ancient hazelwoods clung to the earth, and a terrific oak, the width of a small house, stood sentinel over Ama Frettir’s cottage.

  As they approached, the little wooden door of the house swung open and an old crone stepped out. She was hunched over and looked to stand only to Isolde’s shoulders. Her woollen throw-over greyed with age. Isolde saw her hands first, they were gnarled with age, the knuckles thick and bony, the fingers curled into permanent claws. The old crone looked up at them and Isolde gasped. Her face was as creased and twisted as the trees in her garden, the skin lapping up into the deep valleys of her ancient face. Her nose was hooked down over thin lips, but it was the woman's eyes that startled Isolde. The sockets were not empty, but they were not filled with eyes either. Instead, the woman seemed to have swirling masses of stars set in jet black orbs as dark as the night sky. The crone smiled, blinked, and Isolde watched the stars shift and drift together until they clouded the dark orbs into milky white eyes.
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  “Skaldi,” the crone said, her voice old and raspy, “did you come for advice you won’t take, or to hear of things you already know?”

  Isolde heard Skaldi grumble under his breath before addressing the old woman.

  “Ama, how good it is to see you again. And to your question, both I hope.”

  Skaldi chuckled at his own answer and Isolde saw the old woman's thin lips curl up to a smile.

  “You are not alone,” she said.

  “Not alone at all, these are my, erm, friends. Isolde, Harald, meet Ama Frettir.”

  “Not them,” the old woman said, and with an effort, she raised her claw like hand and pointed back to the stony stairs from which they had just come.

  Isolde turned around and instantly reached for her sword. Green skinned goblins were streaming down the narrow way, hooting and clashing their iron as they pushed and squeezed down the stone steps as fast they could.

  “You have brought corruption to my door, Skaldi,” Ama said coldly.

  Harald drew his great battle-axe and stepped forward with Isolde. Skaldi sighed and Ama chuckled. She clicked her fingers and the goblins were gone. There was no sound, no hissing and cheering, no green skin or iron weapon. They had simply vanished. Isolde turned back around in amazement.

  “I hate goblins,” the old woman said. “Now, come inside.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Ama led everyone into her little cottage. It was warm inside, and cosy, but cosy always meant small. It was a squeeze to fit all four of them around her little kitchen table, plus the roof was so low that Skaldi had to keep hunched over and watch his head anytime he moved around.

  Isolde liked it though, there were dry herbs swinging lazily from the rafters, cooking pans and pots hanging from wooden pegs on the dry stone walls. The table itself looked as old as Ama and the thin-legged chairs creaked with the slightest shift of weight. There was an aroma filling Isolde’s nose, earthy, like sage or marjoram.