Joanne Harris - Runemarks

If it turns black…

Gods, he thought.

And whimpering with fright, Sugar pocketed the stone and set off once again at a brisk trot down the narrow steps and along the path to the Land of the Dead.

It had been almost three days since Odin had entered World Below on the trail of the fugitives. In that time he had moved gradually and carefully downward, favoring the smaller passageways and always keeping the river between himself and his pursuers. In this way he had crossed the Strond twice, approaching the Underworld by an oblique route that he hoped would put Skadi and her parson off his scent.

In that time he had barely eaten, barely slept. He still traveled in darkness but found that his sense of direction had improved beyond measure and that his reading of colors had become honed to a degree of accuracy he had not known since before the war.

He had sensed the presence of the Vanir in World Below, as he had sensed the presence of the Huntress. It was tempting to try to contact them, but in his present condition he dared not approach. Later he would, in full Aspect, once the Whisperer was his again-that is, if the Whisperer was ever his again.

Till then he concentrated on reading the signs-and there were many, stretching across World Below like the strings of a harp, tuned to exquisite pitch. It took concentration, it took glam, but at every new sign his foreboding grew.

Finally he cast the runes. He cast them blind, but it didn’t matter; their message was clear enough. First he drew Raedo, reversed-his own rune-crossed with Naudr, the rune of Death-

Then Ós, the Æsir; Kaen, reversed; Hagall, the Destroyer; and finally Thuris, rune of Victory-

– But for whom? Odin wondered. For Order or Chaos? And on whose side do the Æsir stand?

So it begins, Odin thought. Not aboveground, as he’d imagined, but deep in the belly of Chaos itself. Not the war-surely not yet-but war would follow as winter follows fall. Loki was part of it-Maddy too. What had started the chain of events? The waking of the Sleepers? The discovery of the Whisperer? Something else? He could not tell. But he knew this: he had to be there.

Someone else who had to be there was Ethelberta Parson. Why this was so she could not say, but as she and Dorian approached their goal, she sensed it with growing urgency. They had endured cold and discomfort, their feet were blistered, their food was gone but for a few raw potatoes they kept aside for the pig, they were out of lamp oil, and still Ethelberta was undaunted, following the squat snuffling form of Fat Lizzy through the labyrinth of World Below.

Dorian Scattergood had long since given up hope of finding anyone in that endless maze. Even the idea of finding his way home seemed impossible now, though that was not the reason he continued to move on. Ahead of him Ethel was a dim shape against the phosphorescent walls. Patient, tireless, as unafraid of the rats and goblins they had encountered on the upper levels of World Below as she was now of the passing dead.

“We do not need to fear them,” she had told Dorian as the first whispering wave of spirits brushed by them-he had been flattened against the wall, shaking with terror, but she had simply parted the flow and moved on, ignoring the mournful voices all around them-ignoring even the familiar voices of Jed Smith and Audun Briggs as they followed them to the Land of the Dead.

The road into Hel had been bad enough for Maddy. But for Odin it was much worse: he could not close his blind eyes to the presence of the dead nor his ears to their pleas and curses. They sensed it, and for what seemed like miles he was carried along, feet hardly touching the floor of the passage, on wave after wave of the marching dead.

It was not the first time he had risked that journey. Each time had been unpleasant, but this time he felt that something had changed. There was a sense almost of expectancy among the crowd, a knowing quality that made him uneasy. And for the first time they spoke to him-they called him by name.

Blind man on the road to Hel-

(I prayed to you, you let me die)

Odin No-Eyes, still alive? Not.

For.

Long.

When at last he heard a living voice, sensed the colors of a living being, he almost missed them both among the clamor and commotion. The voice rose and fell plaintively, seeming to argue with itself at length before falling silent for a moment, then resuming its one-sided argument.

“I tell you, I can’t-

“I can’t an’ I won’t, d’ye kennet, it’s unnatural, you can’t make me, all right, p’raps you can but-

“Mortal peril, he sez-

“Mortal peril…

The signature was goblin gold, tinged now with the colors of uncertainty and fear. There was something else in its vicinity-a token, perhaps, imbued with glam-that bore a very familiar sign.

Now, Odin was not in the least bit interested in Sugar-and-Sack, but he knew Loki’s sigil well enough, and it was easy enough, using ýr and Naudr, to approach the goblin unseen and to grab him before he could make his escape.

A few seconds later Sugar was dangling forlornly from Odin’s fist.

“Why, General, Your Honor,” he began. “What a surpr-”

“Save your blather,” said Odin. He sat down on the rocky floor, keeping a firm hand on Sugar. “In a moment I’m going to say a name, and you are going to tell me everything you know. You are going to tell me clearly, quickly, truthfully, and without a single superfluous word. Otherwise I’ll have to break your neck. I may break it anyway. I’m not at my best right now. Understand?”

Sugar nodded so vigorously that his whole body shook.

“Are you ready?”

Once more Sugar nodded.

“Right,” said Odin. “Loki.”

Sugar swallowed. Recalling Odin’s threat, he delivered his information in a single gabbling breath: “Netherworldrescuemission maddysfathermortalperiltimerunningout-”

“Wait.” Odin’s fingers tightened fractionally around Sugar’s neck. “Again. Slowly.”

Sugar nodded. “Netherworld,” he said in a strangled voice. “Rescue mission. Maddy’s father. Mortal peril. Time running out.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” snapped Odin.

“That’s because you’re throttlin’ me, sir,” said Sugar.

Odin loosened his grip.

“Thank you, sir,” said Sugar apologetically, sitting down on the floor. “Only it’s bin a while since I wet my whistle, sir, and it’s a tricky tale. I’d do better telling it in me own words, beggin’ yer pardon, and with me neck in one piece. Kennet?”

Odin sighed. Goblins, he told himself. Might as well interrogate the dead as expect a sensible answer from a goblin. He curbed his impatience and began again.

“Now tell me,” he said. “Where’s my brother?”

As it happened, Loki was waiting in a cell in Netherworld as Maddy prepared to meet the Thunderer.

This cell was entirely different from the one Loki had occupied. For a start, it looked neat and comfortable: there was a bed with sheets and a thick quilt, there was a standard lamp with a fringed lampshade, a small flowered rug, a window looking out onto green fields. On the window ledge there was a vase of flowers. A small occasional table stood by the bed, on which Maddy could see something that looked very like a tray of tea and biscuits. And beside the table was a rocking chair, in which a very small, very old lady was working on a piece of knitting.