“Well . . . that doesn’t sound too bad.” And so help me my feet started taking me south again. South and a little east. Tuttugu set off again too, just ahead of me.
“It’s the monsters that stop them reaching the Wheel.” Kara’s voice, an unwelcome nagging behind me. Even so, the word “monsters” was enough to stop both me and Tuttugu. We’d both seen more monsters than we ever wanted to.
“What monsters? You said anything a man could want!” I turned back, unwilling.
“Monsters from the id.”
“From the what?”
“The dark places in your mind where you make war on yourself.” Kara shrugged. “That’s how the sagas have it. You think you know what you want, but the Wheel reaches past what you think you know into the deep places where nightmares are born. The Wheel grows stronger as you get closer. At first it answers your will. As you get closer it answers your desire. And closer still it dances to your imagination. All your dreams, each shadowed corner of your mind, each possibility you’ve considered . . . it feeds them, makes them flesh, sends them to you.”
Tuttugu joined us. I caught a whiff of him as he drew close. Old cheese and wet hound. It was only when we had a moment apart that you noticed it. We probably all reeked after too long in that little boat and it would take more than a quick sinking to wash it off. “You lead us, v?lva,” he said.
Only Snorri remained where he was, out on the moor with long grass dancing to the beat of the wind all about him. He stood without motion, still staring south where the sky held a purplish taint, like a fading bruise. At first I’d thought it was clouds. Now I wasn’t sure.
“After you.” I gestured for Kara to lead us. My imagination proved torment enough to me from one day to the next. Absolutely no way was I heading somewhere that could put flesh on any bone I dreamed up. Men are dragged down by their fears all the time, but in Osheim apparently that had to be taken far more literally.
Snorri remained where he’d first stopped, close enough to hear our conversation but making no move to return or go on. I knew what he would be thinking. That the great Wheel of the Builders might turn for him and bring his children back. They wouldn’t be real though, just images born of his imagination. Even so—to Snorri the exquisite pain of such torture might be something he couldn’t step away from. I opened my mouth to make some remonstration . . . but found I had no words for it. What did I know of the bonds that bind father to son or husband to wife?
Raised in a culture of war and death I would have pegged a Viking warrior to be the most able of any man to put such tragedy behind him and walk on. But Snorri had never been the man I’d thought would lie behind the beard and the axe. Somehow he was both less than the fantasy and more at the same time.
I turned and walked back toward him. Anything I had to say seemed shallow beside the depth of his grief. Words are awkward tools at best, too blunt for delicate tasks.
I almost set a hand to his shoulder, then let it fall. In the end I settled for, “Come on then.”
Snorri turned, looked at me—as if from a thousand miles away—then twitched his lips, hinting at a smile. He nodded and we both went back together.
? ? ?
“Sail!” Tuttugu had returned to the ridge above the dell whilst I went to retrieve Snorri. Now he pointed out toward the ocean as we returned.
“Maybe we won’t have to walk after all,” I said as we reached Kara.
She shook her head at my ignorance. “You can’t just wave down a ship.”
“Why’s he jumping up and down then?”
“I don’t know.” Snorri said the words in a voice that suggested a slow-dawning suspicion. He left us and jogged up the slope toward the ridge. Kara followed on at a more relaxed pace and I dogged her heels.
Both men were crouched by the time we reached them and Snorri waved us down too. “Edris,” he hissed.
I edged alongside Tuttugu on my elbows, adding more mud to my costume.
“Shit.” I squinted at the flash of sail miles and more off the coast. “How the hell can you tell?”
I felt Tuttugu shrug beside me. “I just know. It’s the cut of the sails . . . just the way of it . . . Hardassa for sure.”
“How is it even possible?” I asked, becoming aware of Kara moving up beside me, her braid runes tapping as the wind played them out.
“The unborn knew where to dig for Loki’s key,” she said.
“It was under the Bitter Ice! Anyone who listened to the stories knew—oh.” The Bitter Ice stretched for scores of miles of ice cliffs and then reached back an unknown distance into the white hell of the north. How did they know where to dig?
“Something draws them to it,” she said.
“There’s unborn on that ship?” Suddenly I wanted to be home very badly.
Kara shrugged. “Maybe. Or some other servant of the Dead King who can sense the key.”
I shuffled back from the ridge. “We’d better move fast then.” At least running away was something I understood.
THIRTEEN