CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

 

THE DARK CASTLE

 

Inside, all was black. With no means of lighting their way, they crept forward, along a straight passageway, constructed, as far as they could tell, from the same uniform grey blocks. Occasionally they passed open doorways - all dark, all as dead and empty as the buildings on the mainland. They stumbled upon objects - some familiar, some unidentifiable, all apparently dropped in haste, perhaps only moments before. Ahead, they fancied they could sometimes hear movement, echoing distantly, as if from some deep cave, some great, labyrinthine space. And another sound - harsh and insistent, like a single note blown upon a horn, but somehow empty, repeating mindlessly, over and over. Then, there was a flickering light, dim at first, but, like the sound, growing in intensity as they moved forward, its source far ahead, where the passageway seemed to come to an abrupt end.

The end proved to be a junction with another passageway, that stretched away on either side. But this was unlike anything they had ever seen. The walls were smooth and white, the floor hard and of an shiny, unidentifiable material, the ceiling flat and featureless and as square and smooth as the floor and walls, entirely lacking any visible means of support. Along its centre, they now saw, ran the source of the flickering: a line of light - neither firelight, nor daylight, but some other sickly illumination that had no clear means of production. It stretched the full length of the long passageway in both directions, unbroken, but here and there, sections of the line flashed intermittently like a guttering flame. For a moment they stood, uncertain which direction to take.

A sound of running footsteps off to their left made the decision for them.

As they passed along the passage, more doorways came within view; some rooms dark, others brightly lit. One contained nothing but rows of beds. Another, angular, spindly tables and chairs, and the remains of a foul-smelling meal, recently abandoned. They moved on, the insistent sound ringing ever louder in their ears, never varying, never stopping. It was, thought Bjólf, like the sound of insanity.

Up ahead, three black-clad figures, laden with unidentifiable objects, emerged from a doorway. Seeing the approaching warband, one dropped everything and fled, leaving the others standing in shock. Bjólf flew forward with the others close behind. They hacked down the two guards where they stood. Fjölvar raised his bow to bring down the third, but Bjólf stopped him. "We follow," he said.

The trail led them to a wider corridor with many more rooms leading off it, and at the end a doorway that looked to be made entirely of glass. None could imagine how such a thing could be made, or why.

From a side room came a crash. They followed the sound.

Inside, there were benches like those in the grey, squat building, many of them covered with glass containers, things made of shining metal, weird instruments out of some delirious nightmare. Cowering in a corner was the one remaining guard, Bjólf recognised him as the man who had eluded them in the courtyard. He stepped up to him, putting his sword point to the man's throat.

"Skalla," he said.

The guard pointed a shaking hand in the direction of the glass doors. Bjólf withdrew his sword, not wishing to demean its blade with this man's blood, leaving him to his miserable life.

Beyond the glass doors was darkness, but for a weak pool of light in the chamber's heart, and a scattering of strange, small dots of light - some green, some red. The doors themselves - if such they were - offered no means of opening. Bjólf nodded at Godwin, who stepped forward, spat in his hands, then swung his axe at them. They shattered in a great explosion of glinting shards, scattering across the floor like gemstones.

Bjólf entered first. Ahead, there was another door, some unknown material this time, smooth and featureless. To their left, in a dark corner, completely in shadow, he sensed a movement. There was harsh breathing, and a cough.

"Why did you come here?" came a hoarse voice. It was Skalla.

"I told you my reason," said Bjólf.

"Some pointless revenge? What am I to you?' He paused, coughed again. "Or perhaps I should ask what she is to you..."

Halldís stepped forward, her sword raised. Bjólf held her back. He could just make out Skalla's feet now, just beyond the pool of light, where he was slumped against the wall. But he could see little more, could not see whether he had a weapon trained on them.

"Are you dying?" said Bjólf.

Skalla gave a grating laugh. "Perhaps. It's so hard to tell these days."

"Then I will not waste time. The black box you carry around your neck. You still have it?"

"For what it's worth."

"Give it to me."

"And if I do not?"

"Then I will take it."

"So why even ask?"

"Because now, at the last, I wish you to know why we came." He stepped forward, into the light. "To destroy you. To destroy your masters. And to wrest from your dying hand the remedy for the living death."

A strange, throaty sound came from the shadows. At first, Bjólf thought Skalla had succumbed to his wound. Then he realised, as the sound grew, that it was laughter; deep, resounding, uncontrollable laughter, broken only by a bout of painful coughing. "You did all of this, for that?" chuckled Skalla. He laughed again. "Here! Take it!"

The black box skittered across the smooth floor to Bjólf's feet. Halldís snatched it up, opened it, peered at the contents.

She frowned, sniffing at what she saw, then touched it with a fingertip and raised it tentatively to her lips. A look of disbelief came over her. "S-salt..."

"Yes!" laughed Skalla. "That is what you all fought for. That is what you all died for. A box of salt!" There was a movement. "You'd better have this too." From the shadows, the flask slid across the floor, the same Skalla had used to awaken the berserkers. Bjólf snatched it up, tipped its contents into his hand. Water. Plain water.

"It's a trick," said Bjólf. "This is not the remedy."

"You fools! There is no remedy! No respite, no rescue, no escape."

Halldís swayed, suddenly dizzy. "You lie. The white powder... we have seen it work..."

"On the berserkers... of course! Because my masters made them that way. To be controllable. But they are different. It will not stop the living death that is all around us. Not even the masters can stop that."

Beyond the end door came a thump. A scratching. Sounds of movement.

"What is that?" demanded Bjólf.

"My masters. They shut me out. Left me to my fate." He gave a cynical chuckle. "I cannot blame them for it. I would do the same."

The sounds intensified. There was a sudden hiss, and the door slid open, flooding the chamber with light. In the doorway, silhouetted, stood a huge figure. For a moment all stared, blinking at its half-familiar shape, struggling to focus against the glare. Then, with a roar, it flew at them.

The door slid back, plunging them back into near darkness. Bjólf grabbed for the black box - but as he did so, the huge warrior swatted it out of Halldís's hands. It clattered on the hard floor, its contents scattered among the glinting fragments of glass. Staggering backwards, Halldís drew her sword. The creature's swiping fists struck it from her grip, sending it spinning past Atli's head, then battered her shield, splitting it with one blow. She smashed against the wall and slid to the floor, as the members of the warband, as one, fell upon the hulking creature. In the confined space, in the dark confusion, weapons were as much a danger to their fellows as to their enemy. They set upon it instead with their bare hands.

It had no weapon of its own, this one, but all knew that once its fingers grasped them, they would be torn apart. Úlf and Frodi held one arm fast, Njáll and Godwin the other, and with others grabbing its legs they wrestled the roaring, thrashing thing onto its back. Bjólf stepped into the pool of light, standing over it, his sword drawn. Atli, knowing his part, jumped forward, heaving at the gleaming helm upon its head, ready for the killing blow. It flew free suddenly, sending Atli sprawling back onto broken glass.

None were prepared for what they saw. Sword raised and ready, Bjólf found himself looking down upon the face of Gunnar, or what had once been Gunnar. His eyes were wild and red, his blue-tinged mouth foaming, and there was no trace of recognition in his features. Yet, distorted though they were, the features were still familiar, still his friend.

Bjólf hesitated. In shock, the others - for an instant - unconsciously loosened their grip. The creature immediately leapt forward, grasping at Bjólf, sending him flying, his hands slashed by the scattered shards as he fell. It stomped forward, glass crunching underfoot, towering over him, and, with a ghastly cry, reached down and gripped Bjólf's helm. He felt the metal begin to buckle between its huge hands, about to crush his head. In a last desperate move, he grabbed at the floor, felt the grainy texture under his fingers, the sting in his wounds, grasped at it, and flung it in the thing's face. The creature stiffened. Bjólf rolled out from beneath it as it crashed lifelessly to the ground.

All the party stood dazed, no sound but their panting and the harsh note of alarm that still sounded all around them. Halldís climbed painfully to her feet, looking upon the scene with an expression of growing horror. It seemed to Bjólf that her defiant spirit flickered, that her strong heart - feeling, passionate, human - now teetered on the brink of what it could take. But at least she was alive.

As he threw off his helm, a deep thud from the far room suddenly drew his attention. Then a clunk which seemed to reverberate through the whole of the floor, as of something heavy being moved. When he looked, he saw for the first time that the sliding door from which Gunnar had emerged had not completely closed. All along one side, a sliver of light broke through. At the bottom of it, wedged in the gap and keeping the door's edge from the frame, was a beautifully decorated golden scabbard.

"Open it," ordered Bjólf. Godwin and Úlf stepped forward. Others joined them, shoving axes, sword grips, anything they could find into the narrow gap, heaving against it.

"My contribution," coughed Skalla as they worked on it, his features now dimly visible in the light. "To help you to your goal."

Bjólf glared at the shadowy presence. "Why would you, of all people, wish to help us? To betray your masters?"

Skalla gave a shrug, heard more than seen. "Because it pleases me. Because I tire of them. Of life."

In response to a final, mighty effort, the door suddenly hissed open, illuminating the room. Skalla lay propped up in the corner, his breathing rough, his black leather armour wet with his own blood, the bolt protruding from his shoulder, and in his limp hand, lying upon the floor, the fine, gold hilted sword of Hallbjörn's ancestors.

Halldís stared at the precious blade for a moment; a blade she had thought forever lost. Memories stirred. He looked back up into her face. She met his gaze with cold eyes, at the man who had destroyed everything she had known and loved, helpless before her. She could not remember how many times she had wished for such a moment. Staring fixedly at him, she advanced slowly. Skalla nodded at the inevitability of it, almost laughed. She bent over him, took up her father's sword from his weakened hand, then turned and walked away. Without a word, Atli took up the gold scabbard and passed it to her. She sheathed the sword, and put it through her belt.

"You do not wish him dead?" said Bjólf.

Halldís shrugged. "I wish it. But what good is there in it?"

Bjólf nodded, then, turning to Skalla, grabbed him by his hauberk and hauled him to his feet. "Well then," he said, "you can come and meet the masters with us." And with that, he dragged him into the next room.

It seemed that in stepping through the doorway they had finally left behind everything that was familiar to them. None could relate anything here to the world they knew, even those with experience from years of voyages. Apart from a single, strange table or bench to one side, the room was featureless - so featureless that it was hard to see it as a real place at all. It seemed as if it were somehow half-finished - a weird, transitional zone between this world and another, as if whatever strange gods had created this corner of the universe had become distracted, and left it, forgotten, unstamped with any clear identity or purpose.

Every surface was as white and smooth as ice, as if all composed of the same impossible substance, a sickly, oppressive light that seemed, inexplicably, to filter from the high ceiling itself, with no clear source. And there, directly ahead - the only distinct feature in the whole scene, set into the white rear wall and almost as high as a man - was what appeared to be a huge circular shield, forged from steel, its metal shining in the light. All was so strange, so inhospitable, so hostile to life, that there was not one among the company who did not now feel the same deep dread that had afflicted Atli among the decaying, alien edifices in the grove of death.

That the room was empty was immediately apparent. Where the masters had retreated to was not.

"Where?" demanded Bjólf. Skalla nodded towards the great disc of metal in the far wall.

Bjólf understood now that it was some kind of doorway. As he approached, dragging Skalla with him, the lights flickered and dimmed. One by one, the glow from the devices along the benches fizzled out until only a few points of light remained. Skalla looked about him. "They are trying to shut you out," he said. The explanation meant nothing to Bjólf, but he sensed urgency in the words.

"Open it," he said, shoving his captive forward.

Skalla slumped against the wall next to the great metal door, staining it with his blood, his breathing laboured. "Yes, why not," he said with a humourless laugh, coughing.

He raised no latch, reached for no key. Instead, he pulled off his gauntlet and jabbed a finger repeatedly at a strange metal box upon the wall, from which glowed a tiny red light. It emitted a series of unpleasant, high-pitched sounds as he did so. "They do not know that I know this," he said. The fact seemed to amuse him.

The red light changed to green. There was a heavy clunk, and, with a deep hum, the huge steel door swung slowly open, bathing them in light.