Land of the Gods (Isolde Saga Book 4) Read online

  "Stop!" a strange voice cut in.

  Isolde looked behind the giant, and from the gate came Marco, strolling up the walkway as though he had complete control of the situation. The giant lowered its axe and stood to attention.

  ***

  Harald stepped out from the warmth of the temple into the cold night air. His eyes stung from the bitter wind and he squinted out into the pitch black night until his eyes slowly adjusted. The others were close behind him, and he heard Snorri grumble as Dok took off into the underbrush and disappeared from sight.

  “Good luck,” the old priest croaked as he stood in the arch of the doorway.

  Skaldi took the lead and began the ascent down the path in which they had come up. Harald followed with Thodin and Snorri behind him, joking and complaining as they made their way down the dark trail.

  “It’s alright,” Snorri said to Thodin, “if the god of death wants a sacrifice, we’ll just tell him we’re dwarves that don’t die without a fight.”

  Thodin let a laugh bellow out and it thundered down the ravine.

  “Aye, I’ll just say, it’s not my time… haven’t made enough money to die, yet.”

  “Show some respect,” Skaldi snapped from ahead. “Not everything is a game! This is a god we are going to see, not some cheap conjurer to be mocked.”

  Harald held back a laugh as the dwarves grumbled an apology. The truth was, Harald was terrified, and he knew the dwarves were too. He had worked it out long ago, when things got hard, the dwarves joked, and Skaldi got snappy. It was just how they dealt with fear.

  A twig snapped off to the side of the path, and Harald’s heart stopped as he heard the underbrush rustle before Dok popped out and weaved his way through the group like a black shadow. He pushed past Harald and came to the side of Snorri where he stayed and plodded along with the rest.

  They hadn’t gone far before Skaldi found what he was looking for. A break in the path that led sharply to the right and down steeply. In the dark night, it looked little more than an animal track, not a walkway for men. The brambles pushed in from the sides and their sharp thorns acted like razor claws, keeping out any but the most desperate. Skaldi pushed through, and Harald followed. The ground was uneven and stony, small crevices opened up and he had to watch his feet, lest his boot get caught in the dark and he break an ankle.

  Long tendrils of thorny branches leered over the path and Harald watched as Skaldi pushed past them with ease. It made Harald annoyed, for every branch Skaldi dodged or pushed back seemed to fling toward Harald like a catapult. He felt the thorns tear his wool and furs, stab into his legs, and cut thin, itchy scratches across his face. The only thing that kept him sane was knowing the dwarves behind him were getting just as bad or worse.

  “Oi,” they would cry at Harald. “Your bloody chest branches are at our head, lad. Don’t forget that.”

  Soon enough, the brambles gave up and the path opened up to a grassy clearing with dark slabs of sharp slate that pierced out of the ground like knives. The clearing rolled down gently before a drop and below that, Harald could hear the crashing waves. Skaldi led them on and Harald could feel the old man’s anxiety. He was silent and walked with his head upright and his eyes darting from left to right. Harald could feel it too, like a growing fear in his chest, but he always felt safe when Skaldi was around, so he didn’t let it bother him. He supposed Skaldi himself didn’t get that same assurance.

  They walked down the grassy slope and strolled along the edge until Skaldi found the break in the cliff. This was most definitely not a path, but rather a fissure in the rocky drop that one could squeeze through, and with utter care, use to get lower down the cliffy face. That is what they did, using foot and hand, like mountain goats they picked their steps, clawed to the edge of the stone, and before he knew it, Harald was being pulled into a cave by Skaldi.

  It was amazing, a hole in the side of the cliff, with nothing but the salty sea spray puffing up as a fine mist for a view. Otherwise, all you could see outside was the black night sky.

  “This would be it,” Skaldi said under his breath. He looked at the dwarves with a stern eye and said, “nothing but respect from here on. And better than that is silence.”

  The dwarves nodded and Harald felt his own lips tighten together. It was not often that Skaldi was scared, not like this anyway.

  To the side of the cave’s opening, a basket of extinguished torches lay disused and forgotten. Skaldi took one and with the motion of his hand, lit it up so that the darkness of the cave ran away in retreat, Harald could see the wet walls and smooth stone. The old man handed each of them a torch of their own and they made their first steps into the unknown. To Harald, it felt like they were in the throat of some great chthonic beast, slowly being swallowed up by earth and stone.

  It was cold, a shiver ran up his spine and he could feel the bitter air biting the tips of his ears. The passage seemed to snake around into the heart of the island, until it came to a small, cavernous opening and stopped. That was it, there was nowhere else to go, and there was certainly nothing of interest here, just bare rock and shadows. Deep shadows. Deep shadows that seemed to be slithering into the darkness of the corners.

  Harald blinked and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The shadows… they were moving. It was as though a greater darkness in the room was calling them back, sucking them up slowly and building its own mass. Harald felt his heart falter, his knees went weak and terror washed right over him. He had to run, he had to get out.

  “Steady,” Skaldi said, seeming to sense Harald’s fear. The old man put his hand on Harald’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. The look did not encourage Harald, but it made him stay, he did not want to disappoint Skaldi.

  The shadows were still being sucked up, and the great black mass was growing. The torches flickered and the flames rushed toward the darkness, being stretched from their wood before snapping to and fro, back and forth like in a storm. Harald felt the pull then like he was standing in a river’s current that wanted him to move with it. It did want him to move, he could feel it, the invisible current wanted to wash him right into that growing mass of darkness.

  CHAPTER IV

  The dark shadow in the corner of the cave grew and grew, sucking in the light from all around it. The shadows snaked inward and were swallowed whole and still, the black mass grew. Harald felt the fear creeping back into his soul, his eyes were wide, and he could even feel the fear pouring off the dwarves behind him.

  Harald watched as Skaldi fell to his knees and bowed his head low. He pounded his fists against the ground and still, the black mass grew.

  "Forgive us!" he cried, and again his fists pounded into the earth. "Forgive our intrusion, O Wise One, He who receives many and is richest of all. Hear our prayer, O Hēr, and do not forsake us in our hour of need."

  Skaldi pounded his fists on the ground and Harald could see the black shadow growing and deepening. He could feel anger radiating from it, like a wrath that was slowly filling the room.

  "Get down," Skaldi cried, "do as I do!"

  Harald fell to his knees and the dwarves followed suit. He felt the hard ground below his knees and slapped the stone floor as though he were lamenting. Each time he hit the hard rock, he felt the moist dust stick to his hands. Skaldi cried out again, the black mass forcing every ounce of energy from the room. With a voice that did not waver, the old man began to speak in the strange tongue of the elves.

  "Tu solus, to judge facta sunt et obscure insignis.

  Principem sanctorum et illustrium omnium rabies Dei,

  Gaudes cultor est observantia et reverentia.

  Veni, et ostende faciem tuam gaudium Eleusin.

  Qui vocat vos!"

  As though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Harald felt the tension of the cavern dissolve. It was like a window had been opened and fresh air flooded back into the room. He watched as the black mass of shadows exploded in silence, and everything was set back to where it was supp
osed be.

  But from the darkness, something new emerged. A man. A huge man, tall and slim, pale of skin with eyes like stones of black jet. He must have stood two heads taller than Harald, and stepped out from the shadows with his head held high. In the light, it was easier to see that his pale skin was, in fact, an insipid blue, nearly translucent. White wisps of hair blew back off his head, and he was clothed in black leather.

  Harald watched as the giant twisted its lips and looked at each of them in turn through his black eyes.

  "There are few who would summon me willingly," the giant said. The voice was cold, the words calculated and steady. "Rise Skaldi, tell me what you desire."

  "I would never dare to look upon such a holy face," Skaldi said, his voice shaking.

  Harald looked up at Skaldi and realised the old man's head was still bowed, and his hands softly slapped at the ground and his fingers dug into the dust. Harald felt his stomach lurch into his throat, was he supposed to not look at this thing? He hung his head low and felt the god's eyes on him.

  "Your friend dares too," the giant said.

  The god took a step forward and Harald felt cold fingers entwine themselves in his hair, and then a short jerk as the giant lifted him up. Harald kicked his legs as he was forced up and then winced at the pain as the roots of his hair began to tear away and the jet black eyes looked deep into his own.

  "Why have you disturbed the god of death, Harald Grimeye?"

  Harald felt his heart pounding, and thought the god might have felt it too by the way his lips twisted into a smile. He forced himself to lock his eyes onto the gods and was horrified. There was nothing there, no life, no love, no soul, just the sheen of black in which Harald could see himself.

  "SPEAK!" the god cried out.

  "Isolde..." Harald stammered, she was the only thing he could think of. "Is she alright?"

  Harald felt the god's fist release and he stumbled back to the ground.

  "I do not understand," Hēr said.

  Harald took a step back, his eyes flickered to Skaldi who was watching them intently and back to the dwarves who seemed to have crawled back to the far wall in fear.

  "My friend, Isolde," Harald said slowly. "I need to know if she is okay."

  "Alright? Okay?" the god seemed to turn the words over in his mind. He stood as still as stone, never blinking.

  "Is she okay? She is dead," he finally said, "so I do not know what you mean."

  "I know she is dead. She went to Bezhaal's realm. I just..." Harald stammered for a moment, he wasn't sure what he wanted to know.

  "Is she still able to return?" he managed finally to say.

  The god looked at Harald with dead-pan eyes.

  "Yes," he said and turned back to Skaldi. "Is this really why you have come to see me, Skaldi?"

  Skaldi seemed frozen to the spot, lying half prone on the ground, looking up at the giant Hēr.

  "N-no, my Lord Hēr," he said, "I believe Harald may have been... startled... by your appearance." The god made no motion and Skaldi went on. "We came to ask permission from you... I came to ask permission... a favour of sorts. If you would be so kind we would be in your debt..."

  "What do you want?" Hēr said in his monotonous tone.

  Skaldi paused for a moment, his eyes flickered to the floor and then back up to the god.

  "I need permission to raise the dead."

  ***

  "Allow her entrance," Marco ordered the giant.

  The flaming eyes behind the helmet showed no sign of thought.

  "NO MARK, NO ENTRY," the guard declared.

  "She has something precious that the master needs," Marco explained.

  Isolde's head was still spinning, how did Marco get here before her? He had come from behind the wall, had he lied to her?

  "What do you mean no mark?" Marco hissed at the guard. "Are you blind?"

  Marco turned to Isolde with eyes of pity.

  "My darling," he said, "you wish to gain entry, yes?"

  Isolde nodded but she felt guarded, who was this man?

  "Then forgive me," he said and ripped her shirt down.

  Isolde screamed and slapped Marco across the cheek but the man seemed not to care.

  "There," he said to the giant, pointing at the scars across Isolde's chest. "What greater mark do you need, fool? She has the words of the Witch etched across her flesh!"

  Isolde turned quickly and pulled her top back up. The marks that Valarth had sliced into her skin were burning, but she did not want them to know. In total silence, the stone giant walked back to his spot by the gate and Marco extended his hand to Isolde.

  "My apologies," he said. "There was no other way."

  She looked at his hand as if he were offering her poison and she made no motion to take. He lowered his hand slowly and laughed.

  "Come," he said, "I will show you the way."

  She followed Marco back toward the gates and felt like an ant as she passed through the enormous structure. Her eyes darted up the foreboding stonework and back down to the giant guards who stood like statues at the entrance.

  "Stone golems..." Marco said as they passed by.

  "What are they?" Isolde asked.

  "They are perfect slaves, born through black magic and cursed to obey any order their master gives."

  Isolde's fingers twitched and she lowered her hand slowly to her sword.

  "So you are their master?" she asked.

  Marco laughed again and gave her no answer. His confidence was frustrating, but what really worried Isolde was the secrets he seemed to keep so well guarded.

  As they stepped through the gates, a city of darkness opened up to them. Isolde took in the sights all as one. Far away, atop a black cliffed hill rose the tall towers of what must have been Bezhaal's castle. It dominated everything else, its crooked towers leering mercilessly above the city that sprawled out around it. Everything else seemed like a slum to Isolde. The dirt streets were so well worn that most were mud or hard earth, and every lane seemed to sprout hovels that piled on and around each other. It was as though there was no more space to live or grow, and the people were thick as they shouldered past each other in thronging crowds that had a mind of their own.

  A distant shriek pierced the air and hung over the town for a long time. The people froze at the sound and before she knew it, everyone around her scattered away like insects, fleeing into their homes and shelters until only Isolde and Marco were left.

  "She knows you are here," Marco said with a crooked smile.

  "Orlog?" Isolde asked.

  "She can feel your presence," Marco said under his breath, "she knows you have brought something for her."

  "Let her come," Isolde said, "I will kill her a second time."

  Marco laughed, "she will not come... no, no, no, my darling, she will send her death squads out to come and collect what is hers."

  "She can't do her own dirty work?"

  Marco looked into Isolde's eyes.

  "She has been... ill... of late. Perhaps you are the cause, who can say? But I can never remember a time when the city has been so terrorised. She has been searching... no... hunting... yes, she has been hunting for what she has lost."

  Marco's eyes turned intense.

  "What is this ruby you have?"

  Isolde paused for a moment, she didn't trust him, but what choice did she have.

  "It is her immortal soul," she said, watching for any hint his face might give away as to where his loyalties lay.

  But Marco's face was like stone, and if nothing else, Isolde thought she saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. The torchlights and watch fires began to sputter, and the shadows around them deepened. A second shriek cried out into the night but this time it was closer. The sound was horrific, it drove itself deep into Isolde's head, as though some hellish beast was calling for her.

  "Come," Marco cried. "They are near!"

  She could hear the sound of marching feet, the clashing of steel and iron and the rough
barks of inhuman orders. Her heart was racing and Marco took off into one of the side alleys. Yet something forced Isolde to stay, she needed to see who it was she was running from.

  A hunting horn sounded with a great vrooom and the death squad appeared from around the street ahead of her. She felt her knees go weak and her eyes widen. There were only five or six of them, but they were hell beasts, each and every one of them. Black mangy fur, curled horns and hoofed feet. Yet they stood proud and tall, like horrific mimics of man. Black leathery wings were folded behind their backs, and cruel forked tales whipped this way and that.

  They smelled her before they caught sight of their prey. Their twisted snouts were snuffing at the air, she saw their cruel hands tighten around nightmarish spears and axes. Vroooom... one of the beasts sounded the horn a second time and the murderous call snapped Isolde back to life.

  Where's Marco!?.

  CHAPTER V

  "That is a disgusting request, Skaldi," Hēr said. His cold, black eyes bore down onto the old man. "Necromancy fights against the natural order, did you not know?"

  Skaldi's eyes had again fled to the ground.

  "Yes, my Lord," he said, "I do know that, but the conditions of my request are not common, and the situation is dire."

  "Dire?" the god said, "how?"

  "The High-King Hrothgar threatens the south, many will die in his conquest, and we can stop that."

  The god stayed silent and Harald wondered if the Lord of Death would really care if people died.

  "Why is your request uncommon?" Hēr asked.

  Skaldi stumbled over the words, "draugrs," he said. "I wish to use the draugrs of Barrow Mors to help us fight for the north."

  Hēr nodded for the first time as though he was beginning to appreciate what Skaldi was doing.

  "So you are not raising the dead, but taking control of those that are sworn to protect for an eternity. Is that right?" Hēr asked.