Joanne Harris - Runemarks

And now he must cast the Word on a man.

The thought made him feel slightly sick-but not with horror, he realized. With excitement.

Of course, he already knew its effects. He’d first seen them in action thirty years ago, when he was just a scrub. It had sickened him then: the creature’s hate, its curses, and at the end, when the final invocations had all been made, the near-human bewilderment in its pain-filled eyes.

Now he felt a surge of righteous joy. This was to be his moment of glory. For this task he had been granted a power that Magisters waited years in vain to receive, and he would prove himself worthy-aye, if he had to wade through rivers of unnatural blood.

Around him the Word began to take shape as, in a steady voice, he began to read aloud.

I name you Odin, son of Bór.

I name you Grim and Gan-glari,

Herian, Hialmberi,

Thekk, and Third, and Thunn, and Unn.

I name you Bolverk,

I name you Grimnir,

I name you Blindi-

At this point Odin could leave it no longer. With a sharp movement he brought his hand from behind his back and flung T ý r with all his strength at the Examiner. At the same time, he tore his left hand free of its bindings and cast Naudr, reversed, to release the chains that held him.

The weapon was small, but its aim was true. It snickered through the air, bit deeply into the Examiner’s thumb, and sliced across the pages of the Good Book before punching into the Examiner’s side.

It lodged there, sadly not deep enough to kill the man, but able to tap his blood in such abundance that for a moment Odin had the upper hand. He leaped at the Examiner, not with glamours now but with his own strength, knocking the Book out of his hands and driving the man against the wall of the roundhouse.

The Examiner, no fighter, gave a cry of alarm. Odin closed in. And he might even have managed to take the man if at that very moment the roundhouse door had not been flung open, and three men appeared in the doorway.

One was Audun Briggs. The second was Jed Smith. And the third was Nat Parson, his face flushed with unholy fire.

Meanwhile, above the roundhouse, Loki had spotted the Examiner’s trail. He’d seen it before; it was a strange greenish color, bright but somehow sickly, glowing like St. Sepulchre’s fire.

He saw the parson too, with his couple of henchmen, though both of them were far too preoccupied with what was happening in the roundhouse to pay any heed to the small brown bird that landed on the hedge, not far from them. Quickly Loki shrugged off his bird Aspect. A glance over his shoulder told him that Skadi had come to rest not far away, also clad only in her skin, but with her runewhip already in hand.

Here goes, he thought. Death or glory. Of the two, he wasn’t sure which he feared most.

Odin saw the three men enter. Instinctively he turned to fight-and straightaway caught Jed Smith’s crossbow bolt straight through the shoulder. It pinned him to the wall, and for a few seconds he was caught there, one hand pressed against the missile’s shaft, trying vainly to wrench it out.

“Examiner!” Nat ran toward the fallen man. The Examiner was pale but still conscious, his reddened hands clasped over his belly. At his feet the Good Book lay open, sliced almost in two by the mindbolt that had struck him.

Impatiently he waved the parson away. “The prisoner!” he gasped.

Nat felt a twinge of resentment. “He’s safe, Examiner,” he assured his guest.

“Secure him!” gasped the Examiner again, groping for his Book. “Secure him-gag him-while I invoke the Word!”

Nat Parson gave him a sideways glance. Oho, so the Examiner was asking for his help now, was he? Polite as ever, eh, Mister Abstinence? But not so cool with that hole in your gut!

Nevertheless, he raced to obey the order, joining Audun Briggs in half dragging Odin to the far side of the roundhouse while Jed Smith kept the prisoner covered, a second crossbow bolt ready.

He had no need of it, however. There was no fight left in the Outlander. Once more bound and gagged, he could do nothing but watch as the Examiner, lurching to his feet (with the parson’s help), prepared to complete the canticle.

I name you Thror, Atrid, Oski, Veratý r…

And now Odin could feel the Word closing on him…

Thund, Vidur, Fiolsvinn, Ygg…

His curse was stifled by the gag; his entire will now struggled against that of the Word. But his will was failing; his blood soaked into the hardpack floor. He remembered the Examiner saying to him, Your time is done, and was suddenly conscious-amid his rage and sorrow-of a feeling of deep and undeniable relief.

Something was definitely going on inside the roundhouse. Maddy could feel it-see it-as Bjarkán teased out the signs from the cool night air. She could see two signatures-Skadi and Loki-approaching from the opposite side of the square. They had not yet seen her, and silently Maddy made for the roundhouse’s only door, keeping to the broad crescent of moonshadow that skirted the building.

At her side her hand began to curl into the familiar shape of Hagall, the Destroyer.

Less than a dozen feet away the Examiner was preparing to unleash the Word.

The Word itself is entirely soundless.

Nat had learned that already, on Red Horse Hill. The Word is cast, not spoken, although in most cases it is preceded by all manner of verses and canticles designed to give it greater power.

His eye flicked back to the Book in the Examiner’s hands. The Book of Words, unlocked in his presence for the first time. The list of names on the butchered page filled nine verses, and their effect on the prisoner had been dramatic. Now he slumped, glaring, on the roundhouse floor, his single eye blazing defiantly, the ruinmark on his face glowing with unnatural light.

The Examiner too looked exhausted; his hands fumbled blindly at the open Book.

“Let me hold it,” said Nat, reaching to take it.

The Examiner did not protest; he surrendered the Book into the parson’s hands without even seeming to hear his words.

“Now answer me.” The Examiner’s voice was hoarse with exertion. His eyes fixed the prisoner; his bloody hands shook. “Tell me this, and tell me true. Where are the Seer-folk? Where are they hiding? What are their numbers? Their weapons? Their plans?”

Odin snarled beneath the gag.

“I said, where are they?”

Odin writhed and shook his head.

Nat Parson wondered how the Examiner expected to get a confession of any sort from a man who was so securely prevented from speech. “Perhaps if I removed the gag, Examiner-”

“Be quiet, fool, and stand aside!”

At this, Nat jumped as if stung. “Examiner, I must protest…”

But the Examiner was not listening. Eyes narrowed like a man who can almost-but not quite-grasp the thing he seeks, he leaned forward, and the Word rang soundlessly into the air.

All over the village, hackles raised, cupboard doors swung open, sleepers turned over from one uncomfortable dream into another.

“Where are the Seer-folk?” he hissed again, making a strange little sign with his finger and thumb.

And now the parson was sure he could see a kind of colored light that surrounded prisoner and Examiner like an oily smoke. It peacocked around them in lazy coils, and with his hands the Examiner fretted and teased the illuminated air like a seamstress combing silks.

But there was more, the parson thought. There were words in the colors. He could almost hear them: words fluttering like moths in a jar. Not a word came from the prisoner on the floor, and yet somehow the Examiner was making him speak.