Cardell runs through the dusk, his upper body hunched so as to lessen the stitch in his side. The soles of his boots smack against the packed earth. Although the exertion has brought the taste of blood to his mouth, he is unable to gain on Winge’s lead. He can still see his spindly figure outlined against the slopes ahead, and from time to time a shout is carried back through the darkness, an urging to hurry, hurry! He clenches his teeth, presses his fist against the pain in his midriff, and forces his legs to continue.
At the tollgate, Winge has presented himself in front of some horses to stop the carriage, and although Cardell’s heart is beating so hard in his ears that no words can get through, a few quick glances are enough to apprise him of the situation. There are already some passengers in the carriage, a heavyset man and a younger woman. The driver does his best with the two tasks that an unkind fate has suddenly imposed upon him: to calm the horses frightened by Winge’s appearance, and to defend the rights of his customers to the carriage that they have already reserved. Even in Cardell’s ears, Winge’s attempts at changing his mind sound like the ravings of a madman. He himself has to catch his breath before he can utter a single word. As the driver is preparing to brandish his whip at Winge, Cardell is finally able to speak, pointing first to the driver.
“If you so much as touch him with your whip, you will spend the rest of your days with that shaft so far up your arse that the point of it will tickle the roof of your mouth.”
The entire group falls silent and awaits his next message. Cardell turns to the man in the carriage. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He has learned a long time ago that few seriously delivered threats need to be yelled.
“We’re no highwaymen. The money you have paid will be refunded, but you need to get out of this carriage this instant. As yet you’re free to choose how. Otherwise it will be nose first.”
That is enough. The matter is settled, and then they are on their way. An expletive floats after them once its sender deems the distance to be safe. Winge sits up front with the driver, Cardell behind, his feet planted on the carriage floor. Winge gives directions and urges speed. When the pace is not fast enough, Cardell yanks the whip out of the driver’s hand and lets the crack smatter around the ears of the horses until they break into a gallop, and the driver’s protests give way to panicked profanities as he struggles to keep the wheels out of the ditch.
In the night before them, a long bell has begun to toll at regular intervals, three strikes at a time. It is the tower of Hedvig Eleonora that speaks of calamity. The message is spreading. When they are halfway across the bridge towards the King’s Isle, the bellringer in Klara Church starts ringing the same strokes behind their backs. Both towers have raised lanterns in the night sky.
They reach the city outskirts, shrouded in darkness where the road can no longer be easily distinguished from bare ground. All they can do is narrow their eyes to keep the fencing in sight and hope that no sharp curve will come faster than they can parry. Soon the night gives way to a light before them, an illumination whose source still lies concealed behind the hills. It is strong enough to set the clouds aglow, and those beams that are sent back to earth again are enough to elicit a sigh of relief from the driver. The wind is shifting, and now they can smell the smoke. As can the horses. They possess senses that already allow them to perceive the danger ahead; they snort and show the whites of their eyes, breaking out of step as they chew on their bits and toss their manes as if to warn their master. Soon not even the whip will compel them to obey, and the driver can only shrug his shoulders at Cardell’s scolding.
“The devil himself couldn’t force them to go on. You see why.”
Cardell draws a breath to continue berating the driver, but Winge has already left them behind. A panting cough makes him known through veils of smoke that waft across the ground in their shifting shapes, the ghosts of giants.
Cardell tosses his purse to the driver, along with a parting obscenity, and sets off along the road. He passes the last crest and almost immediately runs straight into Winge’s back, come to a standstill to gaze at what is happening in the valley. Even at this distance, the heat can be felt on their gaping faces. Horn Hill is aflame, half of its roof on fire. Many windows have cracked in the heat, and through the blackening holes the inferno spews flames into the sky.
Cardell hears Winge call his name, now from behind him. He himself is far in front, running towards danger for all he is worth, down into the valley and in among the apple trees that have started catching fire like torches around a bonfire. The leaves crinkle, smolder, and then burst into flame, one by one as the heat drives the sap out of them.
Against his will, Cardell recoils at the yard in front of the door, filled with an ancient terror. The flames greedily lick the front of the building.
The two halves of the door have fallen from the frame, where glowing hinges loosen their grip. Behind them he can glimpse the hallway. The fire is established in the beams under the roof, and billows back and forth in impossible shapes. An outlandish breeze comes from all directions, straight into the house as the fire draws breath, strong enough to take hold of his jacket. Cardell keeps his hand in front of his face to ward off the heat. Then he regains control of himself and forces his legs to obey. He runs through arching flames, and jumps over the smoldering threshold.
Another world awaits on the other side. The glow is white and blinding, and although he squints, his eyes water in self-defense. Fire roars around him. The flames make sounds of their own, hissing and crackling as they crawl from meal to meal. Everything they consume adds to the mournful choir: wood that creaks and sags before giving way, glass and bottles that clatter before cracking with a high-pitched noise. The air sucks everything upwards, and makes every crack between the floorboards and walls whistle. Above him is a ceiling of roiling bubbles, an incandescent sea as if viewed from the deep. Cloth and paper take to the air on shining wings.
Cardell has encountered him before, the Red Rooster, when he devoured the ships that had been hit by the Russians’ red-hot cannon balls, and his thoughts are the same now as they were then. This is a living thing, a primordial creature full of malice that has been biding its time, to all appearances docile when lurking in fireplaces and stoves, patiently waiting to be let loose to collect all its debts. When the old one’s shackles are cast off, there is nothing to do but flee. But Cardell must run into the fire.