Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(87)
Their normal roles reversed, Ceolwen touched her servant’s shoulder tenderly. “Aela, are you with us?” The familiar voice cut through the half-heard screams and the muttering of desperate prayers that seemed to drift up on the breeze.
“Just a daydream,” she replied and forced a reedy smile.
In truth, it had seemed like something more. In Jarlstad, in that great, dark hall, she had felt memory collected around her in such weight that it could almost be touched with the outstretched hand. Here in the ruins of the old city lurked something similar, moments of such strength and clarity that they lingered on, waiting patiently in the emptiness to be called to mind.
Ceolwen seemed poised to ask something else, but the Thrym called to them from a nearby hillock.
“Come now!” Eyvind shouted. “Kolbrun found…something more.”
By his tone of voice, he did not fully trust whatever his eyes were seeing, and bid them make haste before the mirage faded.
48
Cliffs of dark granite loomed over the far side of the next dale and continued out of sight, stretching off into the eternally ice-bound wastes at the top of the world.
This rough terrain had shielded Aettirheim from attack on the northern edge, for no sizable force could have scaled and passed over without notice, while the treacherous, toothed coastline was a natural barrier to any foes from the east. The remains of the fallen ramparts ran along the city’s southern and western bounds before ending at the sheer rock face, thus completing the defenses.
Aelfhild could see that the nearest bluff was cut in the middle by a narrow cleft which snaked back into the rocks and disappeared into darkness. Leading up to the shadowed opening was a broad and grassy road, lined on either side by domed mounds swathed in green.
There were eleven of them in all, five to the east and six to the west, spaced evenly and with exquisite precision. Round boulders ringed the base of every mound in a circle broken only by a single, square slab placed at the point nearest the central path, one facing another across the way. A thicket of brambles had taken root somehow atop one of the domes. Gnarly roots pushed aside the carefully placed markers. The other mounds were clear of any growth save for grass and wildflowers.
These were without question barrows, the tombs of honored warriors and wealthy nobles, where the deceased were laid to rest along with their treasures. Many a fireside story which had kept young Aelfhild awake late into the night began with a barrow trespassed upon; curses and strong magic were said to linger over such places, and could cause untold evil if disturbed by those greedy for gold and silver. For a moment, she thought of Vidar and his fevered longing for treasure.
He would be near to bursting with glee if he could see them now.
These mounds, though, were serene and beautiful—sun streamed down atop the emerald crests to cast ten perfectly matching shadows, one spoiled by the curling vines.
“No carvings,” said Eyvind, nodding his head toward the smooth stones, “I want to know how the mounds are still so clear as much as who is beneath them.”
Kolbrun did not sound her usual bold self. “There is old magic here.”
Eyvind’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, but evidently thought better of any snide comments and kept quiet.
Rolf had made his way along the path between the barrows and stood before the gap in the cliffs, peering into the murk.
“Stairs here,” he called back to the crew, beckoning them over.
What once had been a natural gully in the rock, the Aettir’s craftsmen had carved into a winding staircase by chipping steps into the tapered channel. The walls were close—Aelfhild could stretch from one side to the other without fully raising her arms—and twisted and turned as they cut steeply upwards. Boulders blocked the way in a few places, forcing them to clamber over or under to pass by.
As they climbed higher, Aelfhild noticed that her palms grew slick with sweat, and her mouth felt suddenly cottony. Her heart quickened and her breathing along with it. The climb was not an easy one, to be sure, but there was some other unfamiliar feeling that nagged at her.
It grew worse further in.
Jarngrim was just ahead of her, and she could see dark stains spreading across the back of his tunic. Heavy breathing echoed within the tight space. It seemed she was not alone in her weariness.
Over her shoulder Aelfhild looked back to check on her mistress. Ceolwen’s skin was pale and damp, her face haggard. When the two Earnfoldings finally emerged back into the sunlight, they found the Thrym leaning against one another or kneeling as they struggled to catch a breath.
Embla growled as she paced a circle around her humans.
There was no grass atop the cliffs. Thorny brambles grew in great, tangled clusters. Alongside the verdant meadows below, this land looked somehow ill. The cloying pungence of overripe mushrooms drifted up from the thickets.
Aelfhild’s lungs burned, and it felt as though a great foot pressed down on her chest.
“Something is wrong about this place,” Jarngrim spoke in hushed tones, as though there might be some hidden listener. He gripped his axe tight.
The others seemed to instinctively clutch at their weapons as well; Rolf’s knuckles cracked around the haft of his great axe, and Kolbrun picked at the edge of her shield.
Eyvind, spear over his shoulder, stepped forward. “We must be clear of here by sunset; this is no place to be after dark. But while the sun is still up, we keep moving. Be wary, though. Jarngrim is right.”