“The key is mine and I will use it.”
“It will be stolen from you, Snorri, and by the worst of hands. You serve only the Dead King’s cause in this madness. Even if you evade his minions and find the door . . . nothing good can come through it. The Dead King—the very one who has worked these wrongs upon you—wants death’s door opened. His desire that it be opened is the sole reason your people, your wife, your children died. And now you seek to do that work for him. Who knows how many unborn are gathered on the far side waiting to come through in the moment that key turns in the lock?”
Snorri shook his head. “I will bring them back. Your repetition will not change this, Baraqel.”
“The breaking of day changes all things, Snorri. Nothing endures beyond the count of the sun. Pile a sufficient weight of mornings upon a thing and it will change. Even the rocks themselves will not outlast the morning.”
The sun now stood upon the Beerentoppen’s shoulder. In moments it would be clear.
“Where will I find Skilfar?”
“Her cave looks to the north, from the mountain’s waist.” And Baraqel fell into golden pieces, sparkling and dying on the waves, until in the end they were no more than the dancing of the morning’s light amid the waters.
I lifted my head to check the angel had really gone.
“He’s right about the key,” I said.
Tuttugu shot me a puzzled look.
Snorri snorted, shook his head, and set to trimming the sail. He took the tiller from Tuttugu and angled the Sea-Troll toward the base of the mountain. Before long gulls spotted the craft, circling about it on high, their cries added to the wind’s keening and the slap of waves. Snorri drew the deepest breath and smiled. Beneath a mackerel sky with the morning bright around him it seemed that even the most sorrow-laden man could know a moment’s peace.
• • •
When we made shore later in the day Snorri and Tuttugu had to drag me out of the boat like a sack of provisions. Days of puking had left me dehydrated and weak as a newborn. I curled up on my cloak a few yards above the high tide line, determined never to move again. Black sand, streaked with unhealthy yellows, stretched down to the breakers. I poked half-heartedly at the stuff, coarse and intermixed with pieces of black rock made brittle by innumerable bubbles held within the stone.
“Volcanic.” Snorri set down the sack he’d carried from the boat and took a handful of the beach, working it through his fingers.
“I’ll guard the beach.” I patted the sand.
“Up you get, the walk will do you good.” Snorri reached for me.
I fell back with a wordless bleat of complaint, resting my head against the sand. I wanted to be back in Vermillion, far from the sea and somewhere a sight warmer than the godforsaken beach Snorri had chosen.
“Should we hide the boat?” Tuttugu looked up from securing the last strap of his pack.
“Where?” I flopped my head to the side, staring across the smooth black sands to the tumble of rocks that ended the cove.
“Well—” Tuttugu puffed out his cheeks as he was wont to do when puzzling.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on it for you.” I reached out and slapped his shin. “You say hello to Skilfar for me. You’ll like her. Lovely woman.”
“You’re coming with us.” Snorri looming over me, blocking out the pale morning sun.
“No, really. You go traipsing up your mountain of ice and fire after your witch. I’ll have a little rest. You can tell me what she said when you get back.”
In silhouette Snorri was too dark for me to see his face but I could sense his frown. He hesitated, shrugged, and moved away. “All right. I can’t see any barns for you to burn or women for you to chase. Should be safe enough. Watch out for any wolves. Especially dead ones.”
“The Dead King wants you, not me.” I heaved onto my side to watch them start up the slope toward the rocky hinterland. The land stepped rapidly up toward the Beerentoppen foothills. “He wants what you’re carrying. You should have dropped it in the ocean. I’ll be safe enough.” Neither of them turned or even paused. “I’ll be safe enough!” I shouted at their backs. “Safer than you two, anyhow,” I muttered to the Sea-Troll.
To a city man like me there’s something deeply unsettling about being in the middle of nowhere. Excepting Skilfar, I doubted another soul lived within fifty miles of my lonely little cove. No roads, no tracks, no hint of man’s work. Not even scars left by the Builders back in the misty long-ago. On one side the bulk and heave of mountains, impassable to all but the most determined and well-equipped traveller, and on the other side the wide ocean stretching to unimaginable distances and depths. The Vikings had it that the sea held its own god, Aegir, and he had no use for men, taking their ventures upon its surface as impertinence. Looking out across to the bleak horizon I could well believe it.