Runelight Read online

  ‘Remember, this is a sacrifice,’ he said in his most persuasive voice. ‘New times demand new Laws. New ways.’

  For a moment Maggie still hesitated. It wasn’t that she was vain, but her hair was all she had of her past life. She remembered her mother brushing it every night when she went to bed; her brothers tugging on her braids when they were playing together.

  And then she opened her eyes again. She knew what she wanted. The past was gone. Her mother and brothers were all dead – and all because of the Firefolk. And here was Adam, offering her a chance to hurt the enemy, and all she could think about was her hair?

  ‘Give me the razor,’ she told him fiercely.

  ‘All right,’ Adam said, and smiled.

  Five minutes later, the job was done. Maggie’s braids were gone, and the rest of her hair was shorn so close that in some places the scalp showed through. It didn’t look too bad, Adam thought. Maggie’s hair was curly and thick, and would grow back soon enough. And under a bergha or a veil, no one would guess at the silvery mark – the silvery mark at the nape of her neck, just where the Voice had said it would be.

  He’d had to shave that part himself – Maggie couldn’t see to do it properly – and when he uncovered the ruinmark, the Voice in his mind gave a cry of triumph, making Adam flinch. The razor gave a tiny jump, leaving a faint line of crimson.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Maggie.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ he said.

  Adam folded the razor and put it back in his pocket. ‘I can see how they missed it,’ he went on. ‘Even when you were a baby, I’m guessing your hair must have hidden it.’

  ‘Hidden what?’ Maggie said. ‘Please, Adam – what do you see?’ Now there was tension in her voice, and he could feel her trembling as he traced the rune with a fingertip. It seemed to brighten as he did so, like tarnished silver beneath the polishing cloth. A forked shape like a fallen twig, gleaming now with a ghostly light—

  ‘What is it?’ Maggie said.

  ‘A sign,’ said Adam, smiling.

  Maggie raised her hand to her neck and gently explored the uncovered mark. It tingled slightly at her touch, but that might just have been the unaccustomed feel of stubble at the nape of her neck. ‘How did you know it was there?’ she said. ‘And what does it mean?’

  He smiled again. ‘It confirms what I knew: that you’re the one. The one we’ve all been looking for. I see a mighty Ash that stands beside a mighty Oak tree …’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Those are the words of a prophecy made by a famous oracle. And this …’ He touched the runemark lightly with his fingertips. ‘This is Ác, the Thunder Oak, and with it, we’re going to raise Asgard.’

  Beware of Gødfolk bearing gifts.

  Northlands proverb

  ‘YOU’RE SAYING I’M a demon?’

  Adam took a deep breath. That the girl had taken it badly, he thought, was in some ways understandable. But he hadn’t expected this outburst of rage; this furious denial.

  ‘No, you’re not a demon,’ he said, for what seemed like the fortieth time. ‘This mark is why I came here. That’s why I came to find you. It’s a powerful rune—’

  ‘It’s a ruinmark! A filthy, horrible ruinmark!’

  Adam put his arm around her. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know you’re upset. But listen to me. This runemark makes you special—’

  ‘There’s nothing special about me!’ Maggie said. ‘I’ve always believed in Order. Am I possessed?’ She clenched her fists. ‘Is this something that came from my dreams?’

  Adam shook his head. ‘No. But it gives you power over Dream. Power to change the Worlds, Maggie. Power to challenge the Firefolk …’

  Maggie stared at him. ‘How?’ she said. In the horror of discovering the filthy ruinmark on her neck, she had almost forgotten the reason for cutting her hair in the first place.

  ‘Remember your dream?’ Adam said. ‘About the red-haired man on the hill? That was you, Maggie. You did that. Without any knowledge or training, you were able to summon a creature from Dream, and send it after the enemy. Do you know who that man was? Have you any idea how close you came to taking out one of the Æsir for good?’

  ‘How could you know about that?’ she said.

  ‘I told you. I know lots of things. That’s a remarkable power you’ve got—’

  ‘I don’t want it! Take it away!’

  At that Adam’s patience finally broke. The part of him that stood aloof, watching and measuring from afar, saw his anger and judged it good. Anger could sometimes be useful, he thought; especially when dealing with this girl, whose fury, he sensed, almost matched his own. Sympathy hadn’t worked on her; neither had seduction. Now Adam turned on Maggie Rede, and slapped her face as hard as he could.

  For a moment nothing happened. The girl simply stared at him, her eyes dark with rage and astonishment. The mark of Adam’s fingers stood out in scarlet on her cheek; the other side of her face was white. Adam was suddenly reminded of Hel, the two-faced Guardian of the Underworld, and in spite of the closeness of the cave, he shivered.

  Then he felt it: a prickling, something like static. It surged; it built; and Adam felt the hair at the back of his neck rise up as if there were lightning in the air. He felt a sudden urgency to get away before it struck, but the Voice in his mind was jubilant; and Adam was rooted to the spot while the power of Ác, the Thunder Oak, spat and crackled around him.

  When it struck, it struck hard, and if Adam had not been expecting it, it might have done more damage. As it was, he managed to drop to the ground just as the static was discharged, but even so he felt it close, like a rush of dark air above his head – air that was filled with ephemeral particles, radiant and lethal.

  Adam had seen mindbolts before. This was not a mindbolt. It felt more like a gust of wind – an icy draught from Chaos itself – and even the Presence inside him ceased its gloating and whispered in awe, Gods! Gods! as the draught passed right through the cave wall with a shrug that made the Worlds tremble, before losing itself at last in the foundations of the Universal City and the labyrinth of World Below.

  Now Maggie looked down at Adam, and the expression in her granite-gold eyes reminded him so much of another girl that for a moment it might have been Maddy Smith, watching him from Red Horse Hill, the day she’d made him wet his pants. Adam had long since passed the pant-wetting stage, but even so, looking at her, his mouth was as dry as a shingle and his heart felt like a ruptured balloon.

  Gods! repeated the passenger.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Maggie.

  Adam Goodwin shook his head.

  And now, for a moment, Maggie froze, almost certain she’d heard something – a whisper – in some half-familiar language, remembered as if from a dream …

  She looked at Adam. ‘What did you do?’

  Once more he shook his head. ‘Maggie, I didn’t do anything. What you felt just now – that rush – was glam that, if harnessed, could strike a man dead just as I might swat a fly.’

  Maggie sat down on the rocky floor. Suddenly her legs – and much of the rest of the Worlds, she thought, that had once seemed so dependable – simply could not be trusted.

  ‘Felt pretty good, didn’t it?’

  Maggie looked at him, horrified. She too had felt the explosion of glam, and for all the darkness it brought with it, for all its reek of Chaos and death, Adam was right. It did feel good. Was this possession? she asked herself. Did this make her evil? And how could a filthy ruinmark have been there, on her neck, all the time, without her ever suspecting it?

  ‘Power isn’t good or evil,’ said Adam, echoing the words that Odin One-Eye had once spoken to Maddy Smith, years ago, on Red Horse Hill. ‘It’s something like fire. Out of control it can burn up a city – or, if you keep it in its place, it can cook you a batch of cakes and light your bedtime candle.’

  ‘But how do I do that?’ Maggie wailed.

  ‘It’s all right. I can help you. I c
an help you tame the fire – or use it on our enemies.’

  She looked at him wildly. ‘Teach me now.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘It isn’t safe. But you’ve already chosen the right path. You’re on the side of Order now. And I’m here to help you. Think of me as your personal guide.’

  Maggie gave a long sigh. It felt as if something inside her – a pressure on some vital organ, some nerve – had finally, blissfully, been released. The discovery of the ruinmark and the horror of what had happened next seemed almost insignificant now, compared to the relief of knowing that this was what had set her apart for all these years of misery; that this was the source of her unquiet dreams; and that someone wanted to help her – someone who wanted to be her friend.

  ‘So I’m really not a demon,’ she said in a voice that wavered a little.

  ‘Of course you’re not.’ He took her hand.

  ‘Then what am I?’

  ‘You’re a warrior,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the only warrior who can bring down the Firefolk. Remember the Book of Apocalypse? And there shall come a Red Horse, and the name of his Rider is Carnage?’

  Maggie took a deep breath. The Worlds still seemed to be spinning around her. Only Adam Goodwin was still.

  ‘Carnage?’ she repeated.

  For a moment Maggie considered that perhaps she hadn’t woken up after all, and that this young man and his Outlandish tale were nothing more than another dream, a cruel gift from the river whose waters sent good people mad …

  But Adam was still holding her hand. It warmed her frozen fingers. Maggie was suddenly aware of the fact that she hadn’t touched another human being since before the time of the plague.

  ‘But – I thought the Rider was you,’ she said. ‘I even saw your face in my dreams …’

  ‘No. I’m only a messenger. I’ll be your squire, your teacher, your friend, but without your glam I’d be helpless. I wouldn’t stand a chance in Hel against even the least of the Firefolk.’

  ‘And I would?’ Maggie said, feeling rather doubtful. She wasn’t a violent person; except in dreams she had never killed anything larger than a rat. But the thought of the Firefolk set her teeth on edge like biting down on a piece of tinfoil. And Adam’s hand in hers was strong – warm and strangely comforting.

  ‘What do you need me to do?’ she said.

  Adam looked at her tenderly. ‘I want you to come with me. Bring the Good Book. You’ll need it soon.’

  ‘Where?’ said Maggie.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there. First, you’ll stop by the tavern and pack. You won’t be going back again. That part of your life is over.’

  Maggie nodded, feeling dazed. It wouldn’t be a great loss. She felt as if the past three years had been nothing but a meaningless dream. If Adam had asked her to follow him in nothing but the clothes in which she stood, Maggie would have said yes without even a pang of regret.

  She looked at him, eyes shining. ‘And then?’

  Adam smiled approvingly. ‘After that it’s easy,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is dream.’

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS HAD already passed since his encounter with Chaos below Red Horse Hill, and Loki was feeling miserable. Miserable, nervous and hunted; and if Jolly had not been at his side, watching him all the time, he would long since have made a run for it and taken his chances across the Hindarfell. Gods and demons notwithstanding, the North was becoming too dangerous, and to Loki the Universal City, with its taverns and souks, sounded a likelier prospect than Ethelberta’s prophecy.

  Of course, the words of the Seeress had already spread like wildfire. Both Æsir and Vanir had their theories on how to interpret the prophecy. Originally it had sounded not unlike common speech, but rearranged in nine lines of verse, the words now seemed heavy and ominous, like the sound of chariot wheels rolling towards a battlefield:

  The Cradle fell an age ago, but Fire and Folk shall raise her.

  So far, so good. That part seemed straightforward. Most of the gods had already agreed that this meant the rebuilding of Asgard – otherwise known as the First World, the Sky Citadel or the Cradle of the Firefolk. The following line, however, had caused some disagreement:

  In just twelve days, at End of Worlds; a gift within the sepulchre.

  What was that supposed to mean? That the raising of Asgard would bring about the destruction of the gods? No one knew for certain. Oracles, as everyone knew, were not always clear on the details. And in twelve days – how could anyone hope to rebuild in such a short amount of time?

  ‘I don’t see that it matters,’ said Frey. ‘We don’t have the glam to rebuild it. Not in twelve days or twelve years. Look at us – the twelve of us; thirteen, if you count Loki. Skadi’s gone, Odin’s dead, and most of us have our glam reversed. It took all sixteen runes of the Elder Script to build the original Asgard. Sixteen runes and all of us, Æsir and Vanir, in full Aspect. And even then we needed help—’

  ‘Nice of you to remember that,’ said Loki sourly, under his breath.

  ‘The point is,’ continued Frey, ‘that even at the height of our powers, that was a monumental task. We had new, unbroken runes; we had all our warriors. How many new runes have we got now? Aesk and Ethel. That’s all we have.’

  ‘My brother’s right,’ Freyja said. ‘Why should we assume that we’re involved? All the prophecy really said was that Asgard was going to be rebuilt—’

  ‘Yes, by Fire and Folk,’ said Thor. ‘Don’t you want to see Asgard rebuilt? To have your Aspects back again? To give Chaos a damn good kicking?’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ said Sif in her most sarcastic voice. ‘Now all we need is your hammer back – the hammer you lost at Ragnarók.’

  At this, Jolly looked up with interest, but the Trickster shook his head. Tempers were running far too hot for him to stick his neck out now.

  ‘But, Sif, the prophecy …’ said Thor. ‘It practically promised there’d be war—’

  ‘I don’t see why there has to be war,’ said Sugar, whose anxiety, always high, had now reached unprecedented levels.

  ‘But you’re the god of war,’ said Thor.

  ‘About that …’ said Sugar-and-Sack. ‘I was thinkin’ that mebbe I’m not cut out for that kind of thing. You know. War and stuff.’

  Jolly gave a snigger.

  ‘What?’ said Sugar.

  But Jolly just smirked. As far as he was concerned, the fun was only just beginning, and Æsir and Vanir would soon find themselves in the middle of Ethel’s prophecy whether they understood it or not.

  Loki had his own thoughts, none of them optimistic. He’d had enough of oracles the last time the Worlds had ended. Besides, raising Asgard was one thing, he thought, but Treachery, Carnage and Lunacy were all things he felt he could do without. All in all, he told himself, he would much rather be in World’s End, sitting in a tavern somewhere, maybe drinking a glass of wine and watching the dancing girls.

  But he still had a task to fulfil, and Jolly was never far away, and besides, even if he managed to flee, he knew that Angrboda’s wrath would never cease to pursue him – not to mention ephemera coming after him through Dream.

  His return to World Above had met with something of a mixed reaction, ranging from scornful displeasure (Freyja and Sif) to thunderous rage (Heimdall and Thor). Heimdall had voiced the suspicion at once that Loki had somehow betrayed them, had sold himself to the enemy and was secretly working with Chaos. (The fact that this was true, of course, made Loki all the more nervous.)

  However, his tale of kidnap by the Tunnel Folk and of his subsequent release by Jolly – who looked enough like a dwarf, he thought, to make his story plausible – had convinced most of the others, with the possible exception of Ethel, who said nothing, but whose eyes betrayed more understanding than Loki found entirely comfortable.

  But allaying the gods’ suspicions was not the only task that Loki was to carry out. The second – and much more difficult – task was to talk
them into listening to a scheme so wildly implausible that even the Trickster wasn’t convinced that it wouldn’t lead to disaster.

  A pact with the Witch of Ironwood. Loki himself wasn’t convinced that such a thing was possible. And Angie – who was she working for? Her plan was far too well thought out to be simply the work of her crew; Loki knew from experience that Angie was as volatile as he was himself.

  So who was behind it? Chaos? Old gods? Surt himself? None of the options were promising. Whichever way you looked at it, Loki was sure it would all end in tears – or blood … probably his own. He needed an ally – and badly – before it all blew up in his face.

  Maddy seemed the obvious choice, except that she was a newcomer and the others might not follow her. Heimdall? Forget it. Frey? Njörd? Likewise. Idun bore him no ill-will, but her trusting nature meant that she believed no harm of anyone else either. Tyr would have been useful, but in his present Aspect he didn’t have the willpower to stand up to the rest of them, and as for Ethel, the Seeress – Never trust an oracle. That watchword had served Loki well in the past, and he wasn’t about to risk his life looking for exceptions.

  Which left only one possibility. And at last, after a great deal of planning and thought, Loki finally knew what to do. It would be tricky, but it might work. He went to see the one member of the Æsir he knew – well, he hoped – wouldn’t ask awkward questions and, once convinced of Loki’s good faith, would offer him protection.

  Thor.

  The strongest of the Æsir, in spite of his reversed runemark, the Thunderer had always held a grudging respect for Loki’s superior intellect; and this time, with the Hammer as bait, and in the light of the prophecy, the prospect of war on the horizon, he might be tempted to take up the fight. And with Thor on side, the others would follow, even to the End of the Worlds …