Wolfsangel

49

The witch’s energies had been directed towards Lieaibolmmai — towards giving him enough power to bring calamity on himself. She had provided the noose. He had put his head inside it and jumped. When he died under the teeth of the wolf, her mind became free.

She had been in the wolf’s mouth, the lowest cave, lying naked upon the teeth of stone to demand the gods recognise her suffering with revelation. She wanted to open that door that led even further into the earth, to the bound god, his serpents and his bowl. But she couldn’t find him. The passageways he had inhabited were still there but there was no sign of Loki, nor even a resonance of his presence. In her pain, frustration and madness she did not even notice that the sword she had enchanted was gone.

Lieaibolmmai’s passing had come to her like a lightening in the atmosphere, the feeling of a house with its doors left open to spring after a long heavy winter.

She struggled up from the jagged rocks and stood in her blood and her filth. Although the queen knew her way through the tunnels by touch, she had prepared a little lamp for the end of her ordeal, knowing that she would want the comfort of light after travelling to such dark places. She lit it and felt a tingle of relief course through her. At her feet was the little piece of leather with the Wolfsangel rune carved on it. She touched it and felt the resonance of the symbol inside her. It had returned to her. Yes, Odin was dead, taken by the only thing that could take him — the Fenris Wolf come to earth. She had given the hanged god his runes, let him come to his knowledge of himself, and he had cast the spell that had killed him.

She stumbled up a passage to where a spring spilled from the ground. She cupped her hand to drink, and as she lifted the water, some passed through her fingers. It fell, she thought, too quickly. She picked up a pebble and rolled it in her hand. It dropped from her fingers and bounced on the rocky floor. Too far? It seemed so to her. Only Odin could frighten the rocks and the streams, only Odin could make the air depart and the seas pull away. He was still alive. Despite her best efforts, he was still alive.

The witch queen — though she was now queen only of herself, her subjects all lying slaughtered — sank down in the dark, trembling. The air was moving in the passageways. She knew what it was — the breath of the god. He was coming for her and she was alone: no sisters to augment her power, no army of witches to send against him to weaken him. Had she been tricked? Had some deeper magic than hers turned her hands to murder?

The witch felt her mind twist. The god crowded in on her, inhabited everything around her, seeped through the passageways and caves to surround and suffocate her. Odin had come for her — Odin, lord of the hanged, Odin the berserk, Odin the frenzied, dangler, screamer, spear inviter, old one eye, Odin the mad, Odin the poet, Odin the rain, Odin the rock, Odin the dark and Odin the light. He waited at every turn of the tunnel, hid in every pool, but flickered away as she snatched a hand into the blackness to catch him, splashed footsteps through the dark as she chased to confront him.

And if Odin was there, where was the wolf? She had thought the northern sorcerer would bring Fenrisulfr to flesh on earth and destroy himself. But if the drum magician was not Odin, then the wolf could not have manifested. She was sure the wolf would only be fully present when the god came into his knowledge of himself. Sanity came to her now only in glimpses. She had killed, she had suffered, she had striven towards magical insight. Now worms seemed to gnaw through the labyrinth of her thoughts. Structures and links were missing from her mind, ways blocked, burned and broken. So other paths had been found, bored through the lattice of ordinary assumptions, building precarious bridges between areas of her mind that had only ever communicated indirectly. Others would have called it madness, but to the queen it was a blessing which she had won through her years of murder and pain.

A realisation sparked inside her. She was the first of magicians, a sorcerer without parallel. She had hidden her intentions even from herself, afraid that knowing her own plans would compromise her with the god. If he knew she was acting against him he would strike. But, deceived, she was safe. While her energies were directed at a false target, the god would think he had time — he might dally, hesitate. And in so doing he had given her the chance to bring the wolf to the cusp of existence in the best possible way — by getting someone else to do it for her. Her visions told her she had even hidden from herself the true nature of the spell and which boy would be used to house the spirit of the god come to earth. Odin had not been able to force this secret from her because she had not known it herself. So the god had not seen the peril he was in until her protector was ready.

She recalled the knot at the throat of the first dead girl — the dead lord’s necklace with its three tight twists, and she knew it had been a message — one thing hidden inside another, inside yet another. It was magic of the deepest depth, magic that works independently of the sorcerer — of her and through her, yes, but it could not really be said to be her doing. This was not spell casting; it was a force she had welcomed in as a child, something that now cast her.

The witch’s thoughts floated free of reason and into the realm of magical thinking, beyond logic and sanity but with the strongest possible connection to reality — the connection of death.

She clasped the rune to her, the one she had etched on the piece of leather. She held it to her lips, touched it with her tongue and breathed in its aroma. The smell was something beyond animal skin. It tasted of tears, funeral pyres and of the staleness of waiting. Loss.

The wolf was coming but needed something to take the final step, a suffering to propel it into flesh and chase the human out. There was something living in the upper caves, the warmth of the air on the witch’s skin told her. It wasn’t a rat and it wasn’t a bird. She looked at the rune on the leather, its meanings spilling into her mind — storm, werewolf, wolf trap. The girl, she knew, had come and now the queen sensed her importance. She was the trap to draw the brothers in. The pieces of the magical puzzle were falling into place. The girl was there, the brother would come, only the wolf was missing. The rune seemed to pulse in her hand. Three in one, a knot of misery, denial and slaughter. Odin was very near. It was time to summon her protector, the dead god’s enemy. It would not be easy. The wolf had grown, she could sense, and was close to his full power. A creature that could stand in front of the master of magic and snap off his head would not respond to a witch’s call. Something more was required to compel his attendance. The witch, whose mind was so linked to the caves that she could feel every movement within them, knew the girl had entered the hoard cave. She would go to her. She touched her tongue to the rune again. This time it tasted of blood.