A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

The earth was not suspended in the air exactly balanced by her heavy weight.

– Ovid, Metamorphoses

In the gloom of the hall, fires huffed and laughter chimed. The tables were laden: smoked lamb and roasted goat and fish, plums wallowed in pine syrup, shadow grouse stuffed with prunes, dark bread steamed in the ground. King Bardholt sat at the high table with the Chieftain of Solnótt.

On the benches, Wulf was crushed between Vell and Sauma, listening to a group of grizzled elders from the Barrowmark. They worked in some of the more interesting trades the North had to offer. One was a fur trapper who hunted with the Hüran, another combed peat bogs for iron (but had twice found a preserved corpse), and a third had made a small fortune from the bile of black whales, which could, apparently, be turned into a spice.

Wulf could not remember a night with better storytelling. He was warm and heavy, the way he always felt on the cusp of drunkenness. Vell lolled against him, well past that cusp. Across the table, Thrit wept with laughter at a joke Eydag had cracked.

As a child, Wulf had dreamed of Hróthi halls. The roaring fires after an adventure in the snow; the tales and feasting, the joyous songs. With his friends around him, food in his belly, and the haithwood far away, he could cushion the ache for his family in Inys.

His family in Hróth was his lith. A division of household troops (of which Bardholt had many), they numbered seven: Regny, Eydag, Karlsten, Vell, Sauma, Thrit and Wulf.

‘Fortunate that they’re all laughing.’

Wulf glanced to his left, at Sauma, who watched the hall from beneath her fringe of tight black curls. She was the finest archer of them all, the middle daughter of a chieftain.

‘Why?’ he asked her.

She sipped from a goblet of boiled water. Summer freckles dappled her brown skin.

‘They could be raging at Bardholt, demanding answers about the Dreadmount,’ she said. ‘After all, he converted Hróth for a queen whose divinity could yet prove false.’

Ever since the eruption, the air had been tight, though Bardholt had gone out of his way to slacken it. ‘It isn’t false,’ Wulf said. ‘I’ve not seen the Nameless One yet.’

‘Yet,’ Sauma echoed.

Eydag choked on her wine, and they both looked at her. ‘Witchbane?’ she snorted out. The old man at her side looked unamused. ‘You must be joking. What sort of heathen name—’

‘I did slay a witch.’

‘This should be good.’ Eydag lowered her cup and grinned, showing the chip in her front tooth, earned during a drunken tussle with Regny. ‘Tell us, then. What sort of witch?’

‘A witch is a witch. An evildoer, thirsting for the old ways. Some are snowseers who refused to follow the Saint. They turned to the ice spirits, fell to their will,’ the greybeard said, unfazed by the mockery. ‘I tracked this one to the Iron Grove, out near the Nárekengap. I saw her turn into a crow and eat the heart from her own mate. I crept into that grove while she slept, and I buried my axe in her heart. That was the last of her.’

Across the table, Thrit was flushed, hair stuck to the dew on his brow. ‘You did this alone?’ he asked the man, in a tone of false wonderment. ‘Crept up and killed a sleeping woman?’

‘That’s what I do, now I’m too old for chasing whales. I’m the first witchfinder in the North.’

‘How valiant.’ Thrit raised his horn. ‘And convenient, that we have only your word for this.’

‘Not all of us have bards to sing of our deeds, boy.’

‘They could use you in the West. Plenty of witches in Inys,’ Karlsten ground out. His eyes were bloodshot. ‘Tell our new friends, Wulfert. Wasn’t the Witch of Inysca your mother?’

Wulf felt Sauma tense. ‘Karl,’ Thrit warned in an undertone, ‘I’d shut the fuck up if I were you.’

‘No. Tell them!’ Karlsten pounded his fist on the table, rattling the cups. ‘Tell them how the baron found you at the edge of the haithwood, with a wolf at your side and—’

‘Fuck you, Karl.’

A fleeting silence fell as the Northerners looked at Wulf, who had locked gazes with Karlsten. Somewhere beneath the haze of drink, awareness burned in those small blue eyes.

‘I need to piss,’ Wulf said, holding on to his composure by a thread.

‘Wulf,’ Eydag started, but he had already stood and forged a path between the crowded benches. He marched until the walls fell away and he was out in the sharp, pungent air.

Though it was close to midnight, the sun was too shy to kiss the horizon. Dour light tawned the snow, which stopped at a field of steaming mudpots, spread before grim Mount Dómuth. Wulf walked through the drowsy settlement of Solnótt, past a small wool market and a blacksmith sweating at her forge. His heart matched the ringing strokes of her hammer. He strode off the wooden paths, on to the cracked yellow earth of the field, and sat as close as he dared to a mudpot, eyes burning.

There were no secrets in a lith, but he should have kept his mouth shut, the night Eydag had urged them all to share their stories, to bind them together. Before then, Karlsten had been a good friend. They had met at Fellsgerd as boys and survived the brutal training together, fast as brothers. Then Wulf had told the tale of his past.

Karlsten despised even the faintest whiff of the old ways. Verthing Bloodblade had sacrificed his grandparents to the ice spirits to win a victory. To him, Wulf now reeked of the same heresy and slaughter.

I am Wulfert Glenn. I am the son of Lord Edrick Glenn and Lord Mansell Shore. I am the brother of Roland and Mara. He repeated the words to himself. I am a man of Virtudom. I have a place in Halgalant.

When he could no longer feel his heartbeat, Wulf sleeved the tears away and took the letter from his tunic. He had saved it for a night like this, when he needed to remember he was loved.

Wulf, I trust you are keeping well in your dream world. I imagine you sitting in the snow, having stolen a moment to yourself to read this letter. I shall be succinct, but first, permit me some poesy.

Sometimes, in the mornings, I walk about and see the webs the spiders weave across the eaves and fences. They work so hard to build those lovely bowers, and yet they remain brittle. Home feels that way now.

Father has grave concerns about the harvest. We have had fair climes for a very long time, even the winters never too cold – yet all through the spring, the sun shed a dark light, as if it wore a cowl. I envy you the midnight sun, though doubtless you have suffered a far harder spring than we have. I pray the warmth of summer clears the air, if we see summer at all.

Wulf glanced at the sun. Dust scumbled its face, lowering its light. It was thinner, at least, than the thick grey murk that had hung in the air throughout winter and spring.

Until then, I am grateful that Father has always been prudent – our granaries, at least, are full. Saint willing, no one in this province will go hungry come winter.

On the merrier side of things, I feel a sense of purpose at last. Not long after you left Inys, I began work for Lady Marian, who was most amenable to my offer to be her secretary. She gives me a good salary and board at Befrith. She is the soul of kindness, ever careful of her servants’ comfort, and can even, on occasion, be full of mirth. My bedchamber is fit for a duchess!

With a weak smile, he turned the page over. He pictured Mara in a shaded room in the castle, writing beside a window, the larks chirping outside.

She has already begun to confide in me. Saint knows, she has been lonely in her winter days. At present, she is afraid for the family she never sees – Queen Sabran will not brook her at court. Marian knows her presence there will do more harm than good, but at a time like this, with all of us unsettled by the Dreadmount, she longs to be with her daughter and granddaughter.

There have been no rebellions, thank the Saint. Not everyone believes the Dreadmount erupted, since Queen Sabran never confirmed the rumours. The criers have said nothing. There are only whispers – which I suppose have the potential to be far more dangerous. What has it been like in Hróth?

Father and Pa and Rollo send their love. Saint keep you, Wulfert Glenn. Write to me soon.

He scrolled the letter and tucked it away. More than ever, he missed her. He missed his family. Small wonder the former Queen of Inys feared for hers.

Wulf knew more than most. He had poured the wine on the night King Bardholt received an envoy from Clan Vatten, who told him of a harrowing scream that had rung out on the night of the eruption. The work of fear-stricken imaginations, perhaps, or the grating of the broken earth – and yet that scream had seeded whispers of the Nameless One.

The sky remained silent, if grim. On the ground, there had been strange occurrences. Disappearances: sheep, cattle. Sounds from places high and low. Bardholt had burned every report, stone-faced. If people believed that anything had emerged from the Dreadmount, it threatened his consort and his religion, the cornerstones of his young kingdom.

Wulf breathed in the strong smell from the mudpot. The midnight sun ensnared him like a moth in amber. No matter how long he stared at it, this sky would not blacken again until autumn.

Less than a year ago, these mudpots had boiled and smoked like cauldrons, the day the Dreadmount burst. The day he had fainted into the snow. Thrit had found him lying there, icy cold and feverish by turns, while animals shrieked in the forest, birds flocking north and west.

‘Funny place to piss.’

Wulf glanced up. Thrit had appeared by the mudpot, arms folded.

‘Don’t get me wrong. We’ve all wanted to,’ he said gravely, ‘but it does seem unwise.’

‘I didn’t try.’

‘Good.’ He eyed the midnight sun. ‘I never liked this time of year.’

‘Why not?’

‘I always hated not being able to see the stars clearly.’ Thrit came to sit beside Wulf, giving him room. ‘In my grandparents’ country, they believe stars are the eyes of gods.’

This conversation was now heresy. ‘What sort of gods do they hold dear?’

‘They were called dragons,’ Thrit said. ‘Many Easterners believe they rule the sky and waters, but they’ve slept for centuries, driven away by some tragic event.’ A wistful look came into his eyes. ‘I’d like to see that place one day. To know more of my ancestry.’

Wulf understood that. ‘You’d go there, then,’ he said, ‘if you could go anywhere?’

‘I’d pay a fortune to see the Empire of the Twelve Lakes. One day, when I’m rich and foolhardy enough to risk my neck on the Ships’ Bane, I will. Where would you go?’ Thrit asked. ‘Far away from Karlsten, I take it.’ Wulf chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘Don’t let him shame you, Wulf. We know your heart. His is small and hard with fear.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Wulf stared at the shrouded sun. ‘People have feared me since I was a child.’

‘And no amount of brooding will persuade me to join them.’

Wulf met his gaze. Thrit often found something to laugh at, but for once, his dark eyes were sincere.

‘I hope you two aren’t planning to swim in there.’

The new voice made them start. Regny had arrived, a fur mantle over her tunic and mail. ‘No need,’ Thrit said with an easy smile. ‘Steam is good for the skin. Aren’t we glowing?’

‘Beautiful.’ Regny planted herself between them, one knee tucked under her chin. ‘I heard what Karlsten did,’ she said to Wulf. ‘Tomorrow, at dawn, he will bear a burning coal.’

Wulf shook his head. ‘It won’t change what he said.’

‘He made an oath to keep your secrets. A loose tongue cannot go unanswered.’ She glanced from him to Thrit. ‘I assume you both came out here to get away from him.’

‘Karlsten boils the blood. As might this mudpot, should we fall in it,’ Thrit added, ‘but at least we’ll die in better company.’ He tossed a stone into the hot grey slurry. ‘And I don’t think I can bear another tall story from Witchbane.’

‘If feasting bores you, I have something to stir your interest.’

‘A lonely chieftain with a chiselled jaw?’

‘That describes me.’

‘Oh. Yes, so it does. A lonely chieftain, chiselled of jaw, who also happens to be a man?’

‘If I had one of those, I wouldn’t share.’ Regny took a wineskin from her surcoat and drank, passing it to him when she was done. ‘A messenger arrived this morning, bringing word of a sickness in Ófandauth. His Majesty commands us to ride ahead and judge whether it’s safe for him to visit. If there is sickness, he wants us to ensure the safety of the Issýn.’

The Issýn had once been the most respected of snowseers. She had helped sway Hróth to the Six Virtues, later becoming a sanctarian. Bardholt still visited her village sometimes.

‘All of us?’ Wulf asked.

‘We’ll bring Sauma,’ Regny said, ‘but Karlsten will stay here. I’ve had my fill of him for a few days.’ She took out her blade and whetstone. ‘It will be nothing. Just sun folly.’

When Wulf snared her gaze, she looked away. He knew when Regny was unsure.

****

They slept on the floor of the feasting hall with most of the royal household. Every crack and opening was caulked to block the sunlight.

Close to dawn, Wulf woke to Sauma shaking him. With a stiff nod, he knuckled his eyes and groped for his fur boots.

The sky was a freshly scraped hide, raw and stretched. Outside the hall, the lith waited around a pit fire, Vell red-eyed and pasty. Though Wulf ignored Karlsten staring death at him, he was glad when Regny emerged.

‘Hair of the hound?’ he muttered to Vell, passing him a wineskin. Vell took it with a grunt.

Regny carried a pair of tongs. She used them to lift an ember from the fire, holding it up to all of them.

It was said that the Saint had held on to his sword throughout his duel with the Nameless One, even when its fiery breath had seared Ascalun to a glow. Bardholt liked that detail of the story – an illustration of courage and fortitude. Most red-hot swords would destroy the flesh, but sinners in Hróth could always atone by holding a burning coal for a time.

‘Karlsten of Vargoy,’ Regny said, ‘you swore to your lith that you’d keep their secrets. Yesterday, you broke that oath. You betrayed the virtue of fellowship, which bound the Saint and his Holy Retinue.’ She held the coal towards him, the light catching in her pupils. ‘Ask the Knight of Fellowship for mercy. Show that you are willing to suffer for your vice.’

Karlsten sniffed in contempt. He plucked off his left glove and looked Wulf in the eye before he slowly turned his palm up. Regny opened the tongs, dropping the coal into his grasp.

Eydag winced and looked away. Karlsten bared his teeth, pain cording his throat and filling his eyes, but made no sound. Wulf forced himself to hold his gaze; Karlsten stared back hatefully. He held on for too long before he flung the coal aside, face drenched in sweat.

‘My suffering is but a shadow of the Saint’s,’ he bit out. ‘I will work each day to make my soul worthy of Halgalant.’

‘I will ensure it, as your chieftain. Go for healing, and think twice before you flap your tongue again,’ Regny said, her face as cold as the snow. ‘Next time, I’ll put the coal in your mouth.’

****

Later that day, as they rode north, snow fell in threads from a leaden sky. The Hróthi bred small, burly horses for travel, footsure on the rock and ice of the Barrowmark – the northernmost and easternmost domain in Hróth, where the eversnow was dense and hard, the ground black with old ashfall.

In its scattered farmsteads and villages, the people eked out a modest living by ice fishing and hunting in the murkwoods, as well as trading with the Hüran. They had almost no light in winter.

This was where the Issýn had chosen to retire when the snowseers had been deprived of their formal place in society. Some had become sanctarians or healers, while others had gone into exile. Virtudom had no mercy on women who conversed with spirits.

The Issýn had still helped persuade the Hróthi to accept the Six Virtues. That was why Bardholt always returned to her, to ensure her comfort and seek her guidance. A shadow of his younger, heathen self clung on, buried alive by his love of the Saint.

The land rolled bleak and rocky, pitted by the deep cauldrons of ice that surrounded the lynchpin of the region, the table mountain called Undir. Beyond it stretched a frozen plain, the Nárekengap, where all maps ended in the North. Many explorers had tried to cross it, as had some erstwhile snowseers, searching for a fabled valley where the ice had thawed.

Far into that endless plain, an ice tower loomed from the crags, billowing steam into the sky, the only guidepost in the endless white. How many corpses lay beyond it, no one knew.

Wulf chewed on strips of salted lamb and spoke as little as he could. His thoughts kept straying to that story of a witch in the Iron Grove – the witch who turned into a crow.

At Langarth, no one spoke of the Witch of Inysca within earshot of Lord Edrick. The last person to dare had been Roland, aged fourteen, too confident for his own good: Father, I heard the cook say Wulf must be the witch’s bairn, since we found him in the wood. Is that true?

Their fathers had always been soft on them all, but Roland had been mucking out the stables for a month. Wulf is your brother. He has naught to do with a witch, Lord Edrick had told him sternly. You will never speak of her again. Not to him or anyone. Do you hear me, Roland Glenn?

Roland had agreed. Still, Wulf had learned enough by then. Their first cook had often whispered of the Lady of the Woods, before Lord Edrick had sent her away, and Roland had always passed on the stories. One was that the witch could turn herself into a bird.

Close to midday, Regny led them into a gorge, where a river purled over fragments of basalt. Their steeds galloped along its bank until Wulf tasted spray. When they turned a corner, he saw the horsetail waterfall that cut like a white knife.

‘We’re close,’ Sauma said.

‘Is that a sanctarian?’ Thrit shielded his eyes. ‘Saint, that’s all we need. An unsolicited bout of prayer.’

Wulf followed his line of sight. A figure was coming down the steep dust path beyond the river, green robe crusted with snow, waving one arm. ‘Stop.’ As the man stumbled closer, Wulf made out a weak and broken voice: ‘Please, friends. No farther. Turn back!’

Regny rode straight through the river to meet him. ‘Sanctarian,’ she said imperiously, ‘I am Regny of Askrdal, bone of Skiri Longstride. We come here on the king’s orders.’

‘Go no farther,’ the sanctarian said, wild-eyed. ‘Go back, young chieftain, I beg you. Tell His Grace to cease his journey north. He should ride as far from the Barrowmark as he can.’

‘Calm yourself.’ Thrit knitted his brows. ‘What’s the trouble, friend?’

‘A curse. A curse on Ófandauth. I would have sent a message to the king myself, but I no longer know who is afflicted, and who not. I have sat here in the canyon for a week, to warn those who would come too close. I can’t go back. I would sooner starve than—’ He made the sign of the sword, his hand trembling. ‘No soul should enter Halgalant that way.’

‘These people look to you for guidance, Saintsman,’ Regny sneered. ‘And you cower down here?’

‘I am a sanctarian, not a warrior or a physician.’

Wulf drew up beside Regny. ‘Sanctarian,’ he said, ‘where is the former snowseer, the Issýn?’

‘Locked into her home. So is anyone with sense.’

Regny tacked her gaze to the path. ‘We must see the village for ourselves,’ she said, ‘so I may describe this sickness to King Bardholt.’

‘If you insist, then I beg you, touch no one. It starts with a redness in the fingers.’

Sauma narrowed her eyes. ‘And how does it end?’

The sanctarian shook his head and collapsed on to a rock, clutching his face. Regny rode past him without a backward glance.

‘I don’t like this,’ Sauma said, catching up to her. ‘We should turn back.’

‘And what shall we tell the king?’ Regny said flatly. ‘That we came here to understand the sickness and still have no sense of what it is? How will this help him, Sauma?’

Wulf knew the sharpness in her voice. She was nervous. ‘Regny,’ he broke in, ‘you are the Chieftain of Askrdal. Let us go.’

Regny stopped her horse. ‘When I rule Askrdal, do you suppose I will send others into danger in my stead?’

‘Well,’ Thrit said mildly, ‘that is the way of this ranked world of ours. The common people sow, the high folk reap. You could question the sense of it, and the morality, but—’

‘I am no craven, Thrit of Isborg.’ She dealt them each a withering look. ‘Stay if you choose.’

She spurred her silver horse up the path.

‘She’ll seriously injure anyone who stays behind. Hot coal, tender places,’ Thrit stated. ‘Yes?’ Wulf gave a weary nod and rode after their leader.

The village at the end of the world was a sixfold ring of small rubblework shelters, huddled around a sanctuary that had received all the care the rest had been denied. Places like these were grim and hardy. On the black plains and the eversnow, it was difficult for seed to thrive, forcing those who lived here to rely on milk, butter and meat.

That made it all the stranger that no livestock could be found. As Wulf dismounted, he caught a distinct scent of rot. All seemed forsaken. Their horses were skittish, huffing and snorting.

Regny led them towards the stacked roofs of the sanctuary. She was too well-trained to show disquiet, but Wulf saw it in the set of her shoulders, the tightness of her back. Every window had been shuttered. No woodsmoke rose through the roof openings.

The sanctuary doors had been chained together. Thrit unsheathed a blade and used the hilt to knock. ‘Anyone in there?’

Only the wind replied. With slow resolve, Regny drew both her axes. ‘Wait.’ Wulf caught one by the haft. ‘This was sealed from the outside.’

‘If we don’t look, someone else will have to. And whatever this sickness may be, we must get the Issýn away from it.’ She looked from his face to the axe, which he released. ‘Search the south of the village with Sauma. Find the Issýn. Thrit, with me.’

They parted.

Sauma nocked an arrow, while Wulf kept a hand on his sword as they padded through the snow. ‘The animals might be grazing nearby,’ Sauma murmured. Her dark eyes flitted between houses. ‘Near a steamhole, perhaps. Grass would grow there.’

‘I don’t see any fires, either.’

Each time they rapped on a door, there was no answer or movement within. They stopped in unison when a hinge creaked somewhere in the village. Trading a glance, they waited, listening.

After a short time, they kept moving, finally reaching the thread of river that bounded the south of the village. Wulf approached the edge and looked down over the waterfall.

The gorge was deserted. Where the sanctarian had sat, there was only a long slide of blood.

‘Sauma,’ he said.

She joined him. When she saw, she drew a sharp breath through her nose.

‘Wolves,’ she said, releasing it in a fog. ‘Or a bear. More and more they’re swimming off the sea ice in the summers.’ Her fingers tightened on her bow. ‘If Ófandauth has a vicious bear as well as sickness, I might truly believe it’s cursed.’

‘I want to see what happened. Cover me.’

Sauma considered him. ‘We need to find the Issýn.’

‘Aye.’ Wulf glanced at her. ‘And then we need to get her away from here alive. And uneaten.’

Before she could talk him out of it – not that she would have tried – he went to retrieve his horse. Leading it by the reins, he returned to the path, cleats hooking into rock and ice, and faced the white cascade once more.

Once he had hobbled his mount, he glanced up to see Sauma, bow at the ready. She gave him a nod. He drew his sword and a deep breath before he stepped through the waterfall.

Daylight flickered into a cave. Smaller than most he had seen in Hróth, it was packed with tufted slabs of rock, walls like broken teeth. Wulf waded from the river, found his footing, and judged his surroundings. His cloak dripped, drowned by the roar in the cavern.

Trepidation was unfurling like a banner in his gut. He listened for any hint of life before he took another step, the clink of his cleats a little too loud. A thick, sharp scent burned his throat, clenching his chest.

The sanctarian was gone. As Wulf ventured deeper into the cave, the cold giving way to dry warmth, he watched for blood. Twice he came close to twisting his ankle. Turning a corner, he found himself in a small cavern. Glistening fangs of basalt jutted from above and below, so he had the sudden impression of standing on the lip of some direful mouth.

At first, he thought they were boulders – except boulders were rarely so alike in shape. They clustered together, dark and pitted. As if in a dream, he walked towards them, his nape slippery, sweat leaking down his cheek. The nearest came up to his breastbone. Following that strange instinct, he took off one of his gloves and placed his bare hand on its surface.

The stone was coarse enough to break his skin, as hot as if it had been set over a stove. As his fingers shook, an outpouring of sensations coursed in him, a great churning rush: affinity, desire, fear, and above all, a revulsion he could never have imagined. Whatever he was touching, it was not meant to exist. It was wrong.

A moment later, it cracked.

Wulf jerked back. Hairlines appeared in the rock, simmering red, and wisps of steam curled from inside.

He searched the ringing hollows of his mind. This cave must be joined in some way to Mount Dómuth, an extension of the fire mountain. As he watched the cracks smoulder, he smelled brimstone and foulness – and something else, something that sickened him.

‘Wulf!’

The voice snapped him out of his trance. He retreated from the smoking rock and emerged with a shudder into the daylight, the torrent of icy water shocking him back to himself.

Sauma was there, astride her horse, with Regny and Thrit and a gaunt woman in furs, her hair and skin both pale as mist.

‘Wulf,’ Thrit said. ‘What did you find?’

He tried to answer. Somehow, he needed to explain what he had seen and smelled and felt in that darkness. ‘Follow me,’ Regny commanded. The Issýn held on to her waist. ‘Back to Solnótt.’

From somewhere above came a horrible cry, startling the horses. Soaked to his skin, Wulf swung himself up to the saddle, and the five of them rode like a flood down the gorge, away from Ófandauth.