The Rot Read online

  Siri Pettersen

  The Raven Rings

  The Rot

  Translated by Siân Mackie and Paul Russell Garrett

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA, Norwegian Literature Abroad.

  W1-Media, Inc.

  Imprint Arctis

  Stamford, CT, USA

  Copyright © 2021 by W1-Media Inc. for this edition

  Text copyright © 2014 by Siri Pettersen by Agreement with Grand Agency

  Råta first published in Norway by Gyldendal, 2014

  First English-language edition published by W1-Media Inc./Arctis, 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Author website at www.siripettersen.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021936135

  English translation copyright © by Siân Mackie and Paul Russell Garrett, 2021

  Cover design copyright © Siri Pettersen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  ISBN 978-1-64690-601-7

  www.arctis-books.com

  To everyone who loved Odin’s Child and just couldn’t shut up about it.

  And to you. The one who is passionate about the planet. The one fighting alone because the distance between your dream and our reality is just too great. The one who wants to leave the world in a better place than it was when you arrived. The one who has always known we’re going in the wrong direction.

  This book is for you.

  PROLOGUE

  He sat in the tunnel between platforms, a cardboard sign propped against his knees. His face was hidden by greasy hair, but there was no doubt. It was him. And the tube doors were about to shut.

  Stefan shoved a teenager aside and elbowed his way through the crowded carriage. He was glad he had earbuds in. They blocked out the chorus of complaints. An old woman’s mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, but all he heard was Trent Reznor.

  He had to get off the train. Now. He’d lost the bugger twice already, and he wasn’t going to lose him a third time. Stefan flung himself toward the closing doors. His arm got caught, but he made it through. He stumbled out onto the platform before the train screeched off.

  There were people everywhere. The fluorescent lighting sucked the life out of their faces, making them look like zombies. But none of them were so dead that they wouldn’t react if he did what he had to do down here. He had to find another way. Another place.

  He walked into the tunnel. The beggar held out his hand without looking up. Stefan grinned.

  “Hey, Roast.”

  Roast raised his head. The recognition barely had time to flash in his eyes before he was on his feet. Quicker than what seemed possible. He took off, running up the tunnel. Dressed in black and disheveled, like a crow. Stefan raced after him. The sound of his shoes pounding against the floor echoed off the tiled walls. He squeezed through a ticket barrier, leaped up the stairs in three bounds, and came out on the street.

  Rain pelted his face. It was dark. Roast was almost in his grasp, but then he cut out into the traffic, darting in front of cars that veered away.

  Stefan didn’t hesitate. Instinct drove him onward. Brakes squealed. He braced himself against the wet hood of a car and resumed his chase. Screeching car horns intermingled with the music.

  He cut across Soho Square and gained a few meters. People were watching, but nobody was going to get involved. Not when his prey was a vagrant.

  Roast sent people flying as he cut through St Anne’s Court, took a left, and continued past Flat White, the coffee bar where they’d first met. Stefan’s lungs were burning, but he was willing to bet Roast was faring worse than him.

  He was right. The beggar slowed down. Looked around in despair, then stole inside a nightclub.

  Stefan pushed past some people and followed him inside. Roast was easy to spot: a scruffy mess among all the tight dresses and plunging necklines.

  Roast ran toward an emergency exit. Opened the door and slipped out. Stefan was there before the door managed to shut. He tumbled out into an alley. A dead end. The beggar stood in a corner by the dumpsters, snarling like a caged animal.

  “Game over, Roast.” Stefan walked toward him.

  Roast backed up against the wall, bumping into a drainpipe. Some plaster came loose around the fasteners, sprinkling onto his shoulder. The rain washed it down his faded coat. “I didn’t do nothing! I didn’t do nothing!” he screamed hysterically.

  That wasn’t true. He didn’t get the nickname Roast by chance, but Stefan couldn’t bother pointing that out. It wasn’t like there was anything human left to discuss it with.

  Stefan was gleefully aware that he had the upper hand. He could keep the Glock by his hip. Save a bullet. Instead he pulled out a pair of pliers.

  Roast’s eyes widened. He scanned the alley for something to defend himself with. He tore off a metal fastener from the drainpipe, sending the bolts tumbling to the ground. He started to hammer away at his own teeth, splitting his lip. The apparent absence of pain indicated that adrenaline was far from the only drug coursing through his body.

  Roast spat into his hand and held out his arm. “Take ’em! Take ’em! You can’t touch me. They’ll find you if you do! The pigs will find you!” Red mist sprayed from his mouth as he screamed.

  Stefan looked at the two white nuggets in Roast’s grubby hand. Rain collected around them in a bloody pool.

  “Idiot,” he replied. “The pigs don’t give a shit how you die. Do you think they would waste a penny on you? You’re forgotten. Or had you forgotten?”

  Stefan didn’t wait for a response. He rammed his elbow into the bridge of Roast’s nose, sending his head into the wall with a thump. He swooped up the teeth before Roast hit the ground. Then he dragged the unconscious body into the corner behind the dumpster, which looked like it was vomiting, the lid straining to contain all the garbage. The smells combined. Rotten food. Blood. And a stench that made it clear Roast no longer took his toilet visits very seriously. Understandable, perhaps, after more than a hundred years.

  Stefan tried to snap his neck. But Roast was sturdy. It took two tries before he heard the crack.

  He pocketed the teeth and surveyed the scene. No windows. No cameras. No people. He was safe. The pavement glistened. The rain beat against the lid of the dumpster. Stefan ran a hand through his wet hair. He put the pliers back into his bag, straightened his jacket, then cranked up the volume.

  THE HOLE

  “Peace of mind is all we’re asking for,” Telja Vanfarinn said, placing her hand over her heart, making the chain looped around her neck jingle.

  Rime almost burst out laughing. Anyone, even if they hadn’t grown up in Mannfalla, would have seen through that performance. Telja was wearing a black dress with sleeves that brushed the floor. She was playing the part of a widow, even though her husband stood large as life by her side. The grief was nothing more than an act. Put on to ingratiate herself with the Council, after she had shrewdly wormed her way into a meeting with them.

  “It’s tearing us apart, Rime-fadri. Not knowing. Not understanding Urd’s death.”

  Rime felt his lip start to curl. Urd’s name still made him feel ill, and it didn’t seem like that was goi
ng to change anytime soon. Not as long as his chair remained empty. It was a gaping wound that divided the circle of councillors settled around the table. Perilous. Festering. Impossible to talk about without causing an uproar that could wake half of Slokna.

  “You have received our condolences,” Rime replied. “I personally visited the head of the Vanfarinn family. She knows what happened. You’re … the daughter of her sister?” He looked at Telja, who had approached the council table unbidden.

  “Ravenbearer, our mother is old,” Telja said, skirting the question. “Her memory is not what it once was. You have honored us with your visit to her, but … some of the things she says you told her, they’re … well …” Telja adjusted her necklace.

  “Incredible,” Darkdaggar finished. “So incredible that we would expect the family to want confirmation from the man who was actually there when Urd died.”

  Rime had seen the attack coming, but he hadn’t expected it to be so blatant. He looked at the councillor. “Would you have me dragged before the assembly, Darkdaggar?”

  “Certainly not, Ravenbearer. The Vanfarinn family simply wants to put an end to the matter.” Darkdaggar smiled, but the light cutting across his face made it appear colorless. Lifeless. Drained. A stark contrast to the golden walls behind him, which were divided into twelve panels, detailing each councillor’s family tree. They branched up the vaulted ceiling, giving Rime the sense of sitting in a cage. The back of his chair felt like a wall, pinning him to the table.

  He was trapped. Chained to a chair that would never feel like his own. It belonged to Ilume. His mother’s mother. And he’d sworn never to occupy it. But here he sat. Councillor. Rime-fadri. Ravenbearer. Surrounded by enemies who spent every waking moment plotting his downfall.

  “Put an end to the matter?” Sigra Kleiv folded muscular arms across her chest. “Urd was killed at Ravnhov, and as long as those barbarians are not made to answer for it, the matter will never die.”

  Rime felt himself becoming more and more irritated. It was an effort to stay seated. “This is the last time I’ll say this, Sigra. The war has been called off. Accept it. Ravnhov can’t be brought before the assembly for something the blind did.”

  Sigra drew her breath to reply, but Darkdaggar beat her to it.

  “Possibly not, but then I don’t suppose we can drag the blind before the assembly either, can we?” He sipped some wine as laughter spread around the table.

  Rime looked at Telja Vanfarinn. Her cheeks were a fervent red. She could sense the shifting mood in the room. It made her bolder. Her veil of sorrow lifted.

  “We might have done, except nobody’s ever seen one.” She smiled.

  Rime stood up. “Nobody?”

  Telja’s smile withered. She looked at Darkdaggar pleadingly. Rime wasn’t surprised. Darkdaggar was the one who had granted her an audience, and Rime expected they’d had many conversations in advance of this meeting. How many points of attack they’d settled on remained to be seen.

  “Don’t take it personally, Ravenbearer,” Darkdaggar said. “Telja is just pointing out what we all know. What’s most conspicuous about the deadborn is their complete absence. Who claims to have seen them? A handful of Kolkagga? Is it any wonder people talk of delusions? Of people being poisoned? Or maybe eating something that didn’t agree with them? Or being subjected to … sorcery?”

  Laughter broke out around the table. Rime clenched his fists and moved closer to Telja. She took a couple of steps back, her dress sweeping the floor. Rime pointed at her.

  “The only reason you’re standing here is because many in this room remain loyal to the Vanfarinn family. I do not. Calling me and my men liars is not going to help you.”

  Telja’s gaze flickered between Rime and Darkdaggar. “I would never … I didn’t say … The mind is a fragile thing, Ravenbearer. It’s said that many strong men have seen trolls in the fog, and we—”

  “Trolls in the fog?” Rime caught her gaze. Held it. The wrinkles around her eyes revealed that she was older than he had first thought. Maybe that was where her boldness came from. It was now or never for her.

  “My sword has tasted blood from what you believe to be a myth. I’ve driven steel through them and seen the life leave their sightless eyes. Felt their breath. Heard them snarl. And I’ve smelled the stench of their burning corpses. A smell you’d carry with you to Slokna, Telja.”

  The laughter died down. Telja swallowed and lowered her gaze.

  “In the name of the Seer,” Darkdaggar chimed in. “Must we really be so dramatic? All the family asks is for the wound to be healed. They’ve lost a councillor, Ravenbearer.”

  Everyone turned to look upon the empty chair. There could be no doubt as to what they believed would heal the wound.

  Rime looked at Telja again. “Really? Would this chair give you the answers you require? Would you stop wondering how he died if one of your own sat at this table?”

  Telja hesitated but had enough decency to shake her head.

  “Of course not,” Darkdaggar said. “But at least it would offer assurance that Urd was not done away with in order to free up a seat.”

  The room fell silent. The accusation was blatant, and to make it in the presence of outsiders? Rime looked at each of them in turn. Men and women three or four times his age. They remained silent. Most of them because they supported Darkdaggar. A few because they didn’t want to make matters worse.

  Telja Vanfarinn took a step toward Rime. “Ravenbearer, you must forgive us. We’re speaking out of grief. All this talk about the blind and stone ways … For us, this is unfathomable. Nobody has seen proof of—”

  “Nonsense!” Jarladin interrupted. “The Rite Hall was full of people when Kolkagga burst through the gateways and the walls crumbled. If you want proof, you can buy a chunk of the red dome down by the harbor!”

  Telja seized upon the opportunity lustfully, as if it were up for negotiation. “A rite hall full of people means many stories, Jarladin-fadri. Forgive us, we were not there. We heard only that the building shook. Some say that the walls had been weakened by the dome. Others say it was the earth that shook.”

  Darkdaggar clasped his hands behind his head. “Such a tragedy that we’re unable to reassure you, Telja. That would have made things so much easier. But the truth is that the gateways are as dead today as they have been for the past thousand years. Isn’t that right, Ravenbearer?” He looked at Rime, his eyes glinting in triumph.

  Rime clenched his teeth. This had gone on for too long. He’d opened the door a crack and now the wolves were squeezing through. Diplomacy was not going to help him anymore.

  “People can talk until they rot in Slokna,” he said. “Just as they’ve always done. It changes nothing. I was there. I know what happened. Urd built his own funeral pyre. He was a rabid dog.”

  Sigra let out an exaggerated gasp. A spark was lit in Telja’s eyes. It was all she could do to hold back a smile. She grabbed a black bundle from her husband’s arms. Held it up. It was a tunic, which someone had cut into. On the chest, where the mark of the Seer should have been, there was nothing but a gash. A gaping hole above the heart.

  “This belonged to an augur, Ravenbearer. An augur who went out on the Ora where the ice was thin. Nobody has seen him since. They say he lost his mind. And that he was not the first. I do accept that Urd was peculiar, Rime-fadri, but he was never crazy. Maybe it was the loss of the Seer that drove him to melancholy. Maybe that was why he acted as he did. And, with that in mind, perhaps it could be said the entire matter was … well …”

  Rime could hardly believe his ears. He looked at her. “My fault?”

  She bit her lip. Measured him with her gaze.

  He stared at the tunic, feeling nauseous. The hole threatened to draw him in. Consume him. A dark void.

  He stepped closer to Telja. Her husband held out a protective arm. A pointless reflex. Rime grabbed him by the wrist and forced him back without so much as glancing at him. Telja gathered up her sk
irts as if preparing to run.

  Rime leaned toward her. “Urd killed Ilume right in front of me. My mother’s mother. He broke open the raven rings. Let the deadborn into Ym. Driven to madness by his own blindcraft. No, I didn’t kill him. But I can promise you that if I’d had the chance, I would have done so without batting an eyelid. Take a good look at the chair, Telja, because you’ll never see it again.”

  “Enough!” Sigra slammed her fist against the table. Leivlugn Taid gave a start next to her, his double chin quivering. His goblet tipped over. The old man had dozed through most of the meeting and had hardly touched his wine. It spread across the table. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone scrambled to save their robes.

  “This meeting is over,” Rime said. He opened the balcony doors and stepped out onto the bridge, drawing the cold air into his lungs. It was one of the oldest bridges in Eisvaldr, the one he used to cross to get to the Rite Hall. Now it protruded into nothingness, like a frozen tongue. Stone serpents hung out over the edge as if clinging to it. Rime realized he was doing the same, so he let go of the balustrade. The warmth of his hands left an impression in the frost.

  On the ground far below was the raven ring. Pale stone pillars witnessing their first winter after a thousand years hidden in the walls. They were dead. No use to anyone. He’d spent entire nights binding the Might in front of them. Drawing upon it until the pressure in his temples was unbearable, but the stone way refused to open for him. He might as well have dreamed that it once had. Darkdaggar had spoken the truth. The gateways had disappeared the moment Hirka passed through them. Taking her away from him.

  He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Jarladin came up beside him and stared at the end of the bridge. “If you just keep walking, you’ll spare them the bother,” he said, the wind toying with his white beard.