The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(65)

“Gods know we need a weapon,” Kara said. “If Snorri’s set on leading us into Kelem’s lair . . . What do you plan to do if Kelem says no? What if he just turns you into a column of salt and takes what you’ve brought him?”

Snorri narrowed his eyes and tapped the axe beside him.

“Kelem wouldn’t be able to count Skilfar young if all it took to detach him from life was a sharp edge.” Kara held her hands out and Snorri passed her the spear across the flames.

“And a spear will do the job better than an axe?” he asked.

“Myths cast shadows.” Kara held the spear before her and the fire played its shadow across her face. “All the treasures of the sagas cast many shadows and even their shadows can be a deadly weapon. And to cast the darkest, sharpest shadow you need the brightest light. Darkness and light bound together can be a potent force.” She glanced briefly between Snorri and me. “A spear like this . . . with a bright enough light, could cast a shadow of Gungnir. A thing like that would make even Kelem pause!”

“Great, let’s go back to Skilfar and ask her if—”

“I could do it.” Kara cut across me. “If I do it now, before the Wheel’s touch has left me and my magic fades to what it was.”

“Would the shadow-spear last any longer than whatever Osheim did to us?” Snorri asked.

The v?lva nodded. “It will be anchored by more than my spell.”

“The gods didn’t send that thing.” I snorted and bit off the rest. It wouldn’t do well to tell them their gods were heathen nonsense.

Kara ignored me and stood, still holding the spear. “Best be done quickly. Take hold each end.” She nodded at me and Snorri.

We did as we were bidden. I made sure I got the blunt end. It looked every bit as fearsome a weapon here, with the firelight playing over the silver-steel runes cladding its dark timber, as it had in the warlord’s hand.

Kara took a step back and brought out the chunk of orichalcum, driving the shadows back as it lit in her hand.

“Hold the spear steady, so the shadow falls between you.” She raised the orichalcum. “Keep it close to the ground . . . Turn your heads away and don’t move.”

And without warning the metal in her grasp ignited into a white incandescence turning the whole world blind. The last thing I saw was the spear’s shadow on the floor between us, a black line amid the brilliance all around. I gripped the spear for all I was worth and found it crumbling away beneath my fingers as if the light had burned out its vitality leaving only ash.

“Christ, woman!” I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. “I can’t see.”

“Shush. Wait. You’ll see again soon enough.”

My sight returned slowly, blurs at the edge first, light and shade, then colour. I could see the fire, and the glow in Kara’s hand. The blurs resolved into edges and I saw that of the fist-sized ball of orichalcum she’d been holding only a fraction remained, a shining bead no bigger than an eyeball, as if the rest had burned away.

“Now, that’s a spear worthy of a god!” Snorri straightened up having taken from the place where the shadow fell a new spear, seemingly taller than the old, the design similar but with something fierce added to the mix so that the runes about it seemed to shout their message, the wood between them darker than sin, the silver-steel burning with its own light.

We sat awhile, watching Snorri hold the spear. It grew darker. I fell asleep.

? ? ?

The week Gorgoth said it would take the duke’s men to arrive turned out to be four days. Four days turned out to be three days too long—and I spent the first day sleeping.

Our beds were heaps of bracken, heather, and the occasional spiky sprig of gorse, all looking to have been yanked up, roots and all, still with the earth fresh upon them. Dinner predictably was goat, presented raw, and still eyeing us with that faintly surprised expression it wore when the troll ripped its head off. Breakfast was goat too. Also lunch.

I woke before daybreak on the second day and lay unmoving as the predawn began to reach in, blunt-fingered and finding only edges. Time passed and I saw, or thought I saw, amid the greyness, a deeper shadow, sliding toward the lump I took to be Snorri. The gloom seemed to knot about . . . something, concealing it, but leaving enough of a hint to draw my eye. Perhaps if I weren’t dark-sworn I’d have seen nothing. The something, or the nothing, gathered itself as it drew close to Snorri and rose above him, and still I lay, paralysed, not with fear but with the moment, held by it in the way that a waking dream can sometimes trap a man.

Dawn broke, no rays of sun reaching into our cave, only a different quality to the light.

“Knocking.” Snorri sat up, muttering. “I hear knocking.”

And just like that the strangeness left me and I could see nothing more sinister than Snorri, rubbing the sleep from his face, and Kara leaning over him.

“I don’t hear anything.” She shrugged, perhaps a flicker of irritation on her brow. “I need to check those wounds. Today I’ll make a poultice.”

? ? ?

The morning of that second day Kara trekked down the ashy shoulder of the mountain to a level where plants dared to grow and returned hours later carrying a linen pouch stuffed with various herbs, barks, flowers, and what looked suspiciously like mud. With these she proceeded to treat the wounds our Vikings had sustained, the slice above Snorri’s hip proving the most serious. All I could plead was skinned knees of the sort little boys endure. I probably sustained the injury falling to my knees to plead for mercy or praying to an uncaring God, but to be honest I had no recollection of it. Either way I got no sympathy from Kara who fussed around Snorri’s over-muscled side instead.