“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Elvar breathed.
“No,” Grend muttered. “And then there is that.” He pointed north, beyond the chasm that was the vaesen pit, towards a mountain, its top sheer and almost level, as if a giant had taken a huge axe to the mountain and chopped its head off. Veins of red latticed the mountainside, where streams of fire leaked from its crust like pus from festering wounds.
“Eldrafell, the fire mountain,” Elvar said. “Growing up in Snakavik and Snaka’s skull, you become used to the wondrous. I never thought I would see something that made me feel… awe.”
“Ha, that is a truth,” Grend barked a laugh, which was rare for him.
The tales told that Mount Eldrafell had been broken in the fall of Snaka and that an ocean of fire had burst from its throat, spewing over the land and pouring into the vaesen pit, a huge rent in the land where the vaesen dwelled. They had fled the flames, all manner of creatures that had dwelled in the world below, clawing and climbing their way out of the pit into the world of sky and air and flesh.
Lights danced and flickered in the sky, silhouetting Mount Eldrafell and the horizon. They were fading with the arrival of the sun, but still bright enough for Elvar to see. There were lights of all colours and hues: amber and red and purple spiralled and swirled around blues and greens and pinks. During the brief night the whole horizon had been lit with the undulating incandescence of the gueljós, the god-light. Some said it was the souls of the gods who had fallen in battle, unable to rest, still waging their eternal war.
“It is… beautiful,” Elvar breathed.
“Heya,” Grend agreed. He looked at Elvar. “Following you has been…” He paused, looking intently at her. “Eventful.”
Elvar smiled. “Better than growing a belly and watching over a spoiled jarl’s daughter in Snakavik,” she said.
Grend shrugged and pulled a face, as if he were unsure about that.
Elvar slapped his arm.
“You should have spoken to Gytha, while we were in Snakavik,” Elvar said.
Grend’s face changed, the humour and warmth evaporating, his jaw a tight line.
“It would only have caused pain. To stir the embers of a hearth fire that cannot blaze.”
“It could blaze,” Elvar said. “Gytha could join us.” She looked at him, saw that settle into his thoughts. A ripple of hope flickered across his features followed by pain, a pinching of his eyes.
“She would not come. She made an oath to your father.”
“You never asked her. She would do it for you.”
He let out a long, exhaled breath.
“And then I would be the cause of her oath-breaking.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“You are a stubborn mule,” Elvar said. “Life is for the living, happiness for the taking.” An image of Biórr’s face appeared in her thought-cage. It was not the first time she had thought of him during the journey into the north, since he had kissed her.
Grend shook his head.
Footsteps sounded behind them and Agnar joined them, Uspa and Kráka with him.
“It is a sight, and no denying,” Agnar said, a grin on his face as he looked out over the vaesen pit.
The Battle-Grim had made camp on a small hillock fifty or sixty paces away from the pit’s edge. They had arrived a short while ago, just before nightfall, or, more accurately, twilight, because as they approached the summer solstice the darkness of night had faded into a long, extended and mist-like twilight. Uspa had strode to the brink of the vaesen pit and then prowled along its edge, the whole of the Battle-Grim following her. Elvar had been about ready to drop with exhaustion when Uspa had declared they were at the right place, and then all had set about making camp, much to Agnar’s frustration. He had wanted to cross over to the other side, but Uspa had said that it was impossible, and that they would have to wait for the right time.
For today.
“We must find the bridge and move on,” Agnar said, staring across the vaesen pit and scanning the northern horizon. Elvar stared, too, wondering where the famed bridge was. She could see no sign of it, only molten fire and smoke.
“And where is Oskutree?” Agnar murmured. “It is supposed to be the greatest of all trees, its boughs holding up the sky. Surely we should be able to see it?”
“Much was destroyed on the Guefalla,” Uspa said. “Do not expect it to appear as it does in the tales.” She pointed at a series of rolling hills to the east of Eldrafell. “Dark-of-Moon Hills,” she said. “We are close.”