The Hearts of Men

The single flaming letter burned a brilliant emerald at the center of the obsidian page.

"Ah," Saemund whispered. Reverently, the dark sorcerer passed his hand over the unhallowed symbol.

Cried out in pain as he wrenched it back. Shocked, Saemund looked down at his fingers, surprised to see blisters. Not from the extreme heat of the greedy flames, but from the unimaginable cold.

Saemund rubbed his hand and smiled. He leaned back in his wooden chair and stared at the burning character. How many weeks since the diseased man had led them down the stairs at the back of the cavern? How many weeks had the dark book refused to offer up its imponderable secrets? Then a frustrated question, muttered just before he fell asleep, and the answer was waiting for him when he awoke.

So simple.

He fixed his eyes on the flickering emerald flames that burned without consuming the midnight page, and something akin to joy swelled in his dark breast; but it was too dark a triumph to be truly joyous.

"Wine," he said.

At once, a bestial, taloned hand emerged like a spectre from the stone floor and offered a gold goblet filled with the best vintage Saemund had ever tasted. Swirling the crimson liquid in the heavy cup, Saemund inhaled the magnificent bouquet and allowed himself a satisfied sigh. It had been the work of decades to reach this point. With a sip of the powerful wine, Saemund rose. His lame foot, as always, lagging behind, he trudged to the edge of his stony eyrie. He marveled again at the sight of the countless pillars that jutted like broken bones from the unseen depths of the Black School.

Seven years. Seven years to learn all he would need to learn, to ready himself for what was to come.

Before a lifetime of hatred would be purged, and vengeance would be his.

No man escapes his wyrd.

Peering into the bloody depths of his glass, Saemund smiled. "We will see."

+

"But why, Asleif?" Saemund had asked. He had sat beside his sister atop the low stone wall that marked the edge of his father’s land. "Why must you go?"

Asleif shook her head. "Oh, Saemund. You are too young to understand. The words of the priests, they touched me in a way I could never explain."

Asleif was right, he did not understand. "But, Fadir says –"

"Fadir is wrong Saemund, he does not understand. He refuses to hear and see what his own ears and eyes tell him. The old ways are dying, as they should. Already the Word is spreading. I wish to be part of it."

"But, can’t you be a part of it here? Why do you have to leave?"

"There are things I must learn," Asleif said, "things I cannot learn in Iceland. At Kildare they will teach me. Then I can come back home and make a difference."

"You already make a difference to me," Saemund whispered. Then he stared at her. "If you go, how shall I keep you safe?"

Asleif smiled as her eyes began to glisten. She reached out, drew Saemund to her.

Saemund crawled into her embrace and cried.

"Shh," she said, stroking his thick black hair. "You are strong, Saemund, but God, too, is strong. And just as you have kept me safe here, He shall protect me while I am away. I promise I shall be safe in his hands."

Saemund wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at his beautiful sister. "All right," he said at last.

"All right." Asleif stood and smiled. "Now come help me pack. My ship leaves in the morning."

Saemund stood. He had decided he would trust this new god to keep Asleif safe, to bring her back to him. Saemund had had no choice. Asleif had believed God worthy of their trust, so Saemund would believe this also. The thought had made him smile for the first time that day.

+

They met on the ledge at the foot of the stairs. The young Rus. The tattooed Moor. The barbarian woman. The monk. And their guide. Looking at them, Saemund knew all of them had changed.

Except their guide.

"You have done well," the diseased wretch rumbled in a voice that even seven years had been unable to drive from Saemund’s mind. "All of you." With arthritic deliberation, he raised a gangrenous hand, pointed to the ascending stairwell. The black flies that swirled about his hooded head droned like distant thunder. "Your training is nearly complete. You’ve but to pass through the iron doors above to obtain your freedom. Now go, that the Master might claim his prize." The corrupt wretch stepped aside, to let the sorcerers pass.

Before they moved, the others turned to Saemund.

Of course they did.

"We have decided," the arrogant Rus said, "that you shall be the last. You are old and lame, while we are young and strong. Will you contest this decision?"

Saemund stared at the Rus, at each of the others in turn.

"I will not," he answered quietly.

The Rus laughed. "Not even a fight? Where is your pride, lame one? Have you learned nothing these seven years?"

Deep inside the quiet places of his tainted heart, Saemund the Wise, laughed. He had forsaken pride long ago. The exigencies of his quest demanded it. Pride and conscience were dangerous things. And his need for revenge brooked no interference.

"You disappoint me, old man," the young sorcerer taunted.

Saemund watched the arrogant Rus, his smile a scornful gash in his handsome face, turn from him and lead the others up the stone steps toward the world and its coming dawn.

Memory flashed like an arclight through Saemund’s mind.

A winter’s night.

A dark and secret tower.

A raven.

And an invitation to Darkness. "No fee is asked for the knowledge you shall gain at the Black School, save one – that the last man to leave each class give his body and soul for eternal torment to the Master."

The diseased man said nothing as Saemund, the last, stepped past.

As he was always meant to.

+

"Fadir! Ari! Look! The ship is coming!"

Refkels had smiled as his small son tugged on his huge hand. "I see it, Saemund. And now that you have, it is time for you to go."

"Oh, Modir," Saemund had said running to his mother, "must I go? I wish to see the sailors and hear the news they bring."

Iounn knelt down and hugged her son. "It will only be a couple of months, Saemund. When you return the snows will come and the news will be here, and you will be a blacksmith. You will see. Isn’t that right, Ari?"

"Well," Ari said, scratching his ample red beard. "We will at least know whether or not to pursue his education next spring. If he proves an able pupil, as I’ve no doubt he shall, next spring I will return, and Saemund can become my apprentice. Then we will see what the boy is truly made of."

"The boy," Refkels said, "is made of plenty." He opened his arms wide, and Saemund rushed to him. "You pay heed to your Uncle Mountain," he whispered in Saemund’s ear, "and mind yourself. Ari is the best smith on the island and has much to offer."

Saemund nodded.

"Good, then I shall see you when you return. And Saemund, I love you."

"I love you too, Fadir."

Ari approached with a broad grin, and the two huge men shook hands. "This is a great favour you do us," Refkels said. "It shall not be forgotten."

Ari laughed. "You mean I shall not let you forget it." Ari broke the grip and walked over to his sister. "Stay well, Iounn," he said tenderly.

"And you, Ari. Care for my boy. With Asleif away . . ."

"I know," he whispered. Then Ari turned. "So, boy, are you ready?"

Saemund looked to his mother and father, then nodded.

Ari clapped his hands. "Good! A quick stop for supplies, and we’ll be off." Saemund and Ari walked over to where his uncle’s horse, Fenrir, was tied to a wooden post.

"Refkels. Iounn. Stay well."

"Good-bye!" Saemund had cried. Saemund’s parents had waved and smiled as his uncle led him away into the heart of the bustling market square.

Toward a destiny that could never be his.

+

The bleak monotony of the spiral stairwell was maddening. Through the innumerable cracks in the damp stone steps, the corrosive purple un-light of the Black School leaked like acid. Even after all that time, after everything he had seen and learned, even still, the profane illumination made his eyes ache. He wondered if the others – he could still hear them climbing just around the bend – were discomfitted by the light. He suspected not. He also suspected – hoped? – that said something about him . . . and them. As far as he had gone, as dark as his path had been, he would never want to feel at home in this place. There were illusions he clung to, still. They were small ones, he understood, but they kept him sane, kept him from toppling headlong into the abyss.

Separated him from those who were around the bend.

Saemund reached out, laid a trembling hand upon the sweating stone of the wall. His breath came to him only with great, heaving effort, and his legs quivered with exhaustion. The ages’ old ache in his left foot, the dull, familiar ache that was so much like an old friend, was a merciless torment that crept up his calf like leprosy. He could feel the perspiration gathering on his forehead, feel it run in rivulets down his weathered face, where it was lost in the hoar-frost fullness of his beard.

So close to the end. He could not stop now, not when he was so very close.

A wracked breath, a hand on the wall for support, and Saemund climbed.

His foot slipped on the rounded face of a step. He sprawled across the steps and cried out as pain lanced through his arm and shoulder.

Ahead of him, Saemund heard the others stop. A voice muttered something he could not hear. It was followed by harsh laughter.

For a long moment, Saemund gathered his breath, rested on the dank steps. Listened to the laughter fade.

When he felt strong enough, he struggled to his feet.

How different the others were from that day seven years ago, when they were led by their guide into the Black School’s boundless depths. No laughter then, no relief. Only fear and dread and the hope that they might survive what was to come. Saemund wondered how much they had learned in the darkness, what secrets they carried with them that were theirs alone.

He smiled. Their secrets would not matter. In the end, nothing they did would matter; the Jolasveinar waited for him, waited for them all.

For centuries, the thirteen demons had terrorized the peoples of Saemund’s native home in Iceland. Birthed by the terrible monster, Gryla, the Jolasveinar had stalked the Icelandic nights in search of children to bring to their wicked mother; to feed her obscene appetites.

Thirty-six years ago, in a cave hollowed out of Northern Iceland’s black, volcanic crags, Saemund found Gryla, sated, sprawled contentedly amidst the discarded remains of a hundred children.

Saemund killed her that day, had needed to kill her. For her blood. But her blood did not come without a cost. In the midst of their battle, the mother demon’s poison talons raked across his calf and foot, and damaged it forever.

A small price. Later that night, after tending his terrible wound, Saemund took the first step on the road to his revenge. With Gryla’s unholy blood and his own dark knowledge, Saemund had summoned and bound the thirteen Jolasveinar to him – forever.

Since that day, their loyalty had been unswerving, and they had saved his life more times than he could remember. In his heart, Saemund knew he could not have come this far alone. He needed his demons, like he needed his hatred, his pain. And in the desert darkness, beyond the iron doors that separated him from his freedom, they waited for him to succeed or fail. He could almost feel their eagerness as the end approached.

It would not be long now.

One way or another.

+

It had been the stench that made him pause before the door to his family’s home two months after his Uncle Ari had led him away. The rotting stench and the terrible, oppressive silence.

Ari had not been far behind. Saemund had asked to run ahead, had missed his family so very much.

In his eagerness to reach them, he had missed the signs. The untended fields. The empty pens.

He could not miss the stench.

Or the silence.

In a dream, Saemund walked those last few steps to his home. The smell was stronger now, nearly overwhelming, and a sound reached Saemund from inside the house, a sonorous droning that filled his mind. Bile rose, thick and acidic, at the back of his throat.

Somewhere, far off, he thought he could hear someone – Ari? – calling his name.

Knew it didn’t matter.

All that mattered, all that would ever matter again, was the door. It drew him forward like fate, called to him in a voice he was powerless to resist.

No man, or child, escapes his wyrd.

His heart raged like a terrified beast as Saemund gripped the deerskin flap, and flung wide the door of his father’s home.

Inside, the hearth at the center of the house was cold and grey. Through the gloom he saw Einarr and Ulfir, his father’s thralls sprawled across an overturned table. A horde of black flies covered them like an undulating shroud. Beneath it, Saemund saw the grotesque lumps that covered their naked bodies, the horrible, gaping wounds that opened their red-black bellies.

Saemund wrenched his eyes from his father’s men.

Met the crimson gaze of his dead mother.

Iounn lay shriveled like a dry leaf against the east wall. Her once beautiful face, so full of love and life, was purple and swollen with livid, black lumps. Her dead eyes were open and bled red tears.

Saemund staggered.

Beside her lay his naked father.

Saemund stared at the huge fleshy mounds that grew beneath his arms and between his legs. Refkels large waist was covered in a purple-red rash that spread upwards, like poison, toward his heart.

The rash meandered around the heavy iron sword that protruded from the center of his chest.

Saemund crumpled to his knees.

He wanted to weep. More than anything in the world he needed cleansing grief. But as he knelt upon the damp earth, he felt nothing. Somewhere inside him, in a place he never knew existed, a void opened that carried him down through an endless sea of darkness.

It was the beginning.

"Saemund?"

Saemund started at the sound. He turned to call Ari’s name.

Not Ari. The voice was that of a small, squat man who stood outlined in the doorframe. A gold cross hung from his neck over a simple brown robe.

Gently, the man asked, "You are . . . Saemund?"

"Yes."

"Oh, child, I am so sorry. Won’t you please come outside? There is nothing more for you here."

And because the priest’s words were true, Saemund stood. As he did, he stared one final time at his dead family, before he turned and left his home forever.

Outside the priest said, "It was Plague."

"Plague?"

"Yes, brought by sailors to the market. It spread so fast. There is almost . . . no one left. I was sent to minister. I watched over your parents, for a time. They spoke often of you."

Saemund turned away, could not bear the look, the heart-numbing sadness evident in the priest’s green eyes.

"Then, I was called away. Another family, you see. I only just returned this morning, to . . . this." A pause. When he resumed, the priest’s voice was so low Saemund had to lean forward to hear him. "I have been digging, had hoped to spare you. So many graves. I shall never rid myself of the smell of damp earth, my fingernails shall never again be clean. Never again . . ."

A lightning-snap of his head, and the priest was changed.

Startled, Saemund drew back from what he saw. The calm, sorrowful gaze of the priest was replaced by eyes as wild as a stormy sky. Like a raptor, the small priest lunged for Saemund, grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him. "Don’t you see?" he raved, "I tried to tell them! I warned them all about his terrible vengeance! But they would not listen!"

Saemund’s eyes grew wide. "You’re . . . hurting me."

The priest ignored him. "They were stubborn, so stubborn! They refused to give up the old ways, would not pay heed to the Word."

"The Word?"

"Yes, yes! The Word of God! If only they had listened, they might have been saved." The priest released Saemund, gripped his head in his trembling hands as fresh tears spilled from eyes that had seen too much suffering. "Oh, so much death."

Saemund rubbed his shoulders, took a step back. "You mean, God did this?"

The priest seemed not to hear.

As he stared at the haunted priest, Saemund did not notice Ari’s arrival.

"No!" Ari cried. He bolted past Saemund and into the house.

Oblivious, Saemund muttered, "What kind of God would – " A thought struck Saemund then, with the force of an avalanche.

Asleif.

It had been two years since his sister boarded the vessel for Kildare that she might learn more about this Christian God who let His only Son be crucified.

Who wiped out whole villages that did not accept His Word.

Saemund had never understood Gods, never truly understood why his parents and his sister screamed and fought. He cared nothing of Gods and their strange ways.

Until that day.

Saemund reacted with a speed born of desperation. Before the priest understood what Saemund was doing, he sat astride Fenrir and slapped the reins. As the huge horse surged forward, Saemund heard the startled cries of the holy man. And overtop the priest’s plaintive cries, Saemund heard Ari’s booming commands to stop.

Fenrir drove forward at full gallop. Saemund had not known how he was going to do it, but he had needed to reach Asleif.

Long ago, he had promised to keep her safe. He had to save her.

For this new God was a demon, and she had to see the truth.

Beneath Saemund’s calloused hand, the stone of the wall was not as damp as it had been. The steps, too, grew less treacherous. They were nearing the upper cavern. The dry desert air would be the reason for the dwindling moisture. He could still hear the others up ahead. Their coarse laughter echoed down on him.

And why shouldn’t they laugh? All their knowledge, all their power. The Black School offered so much.

And they were not the last. Each would pass through the iron doors secure in the knowledge that the price for their freedom was paid in full.

Paid for with Saemund’s life. And soul.

The thought gave him the strength to face so many things.

No man escapes his wyrd.

Perhaps, but as he continued to climb towards freedom and an ending, Saemund knew he would try.

+

"Saemund?" said the tall, pretty stranger who had entered the chapel.

It had been more then eight months since Saemund had left his uncle. Forced to wait out the long winter working at an inn in Reykjavik, in the spring, Saemund had purchased passage on the Viking knarr, Odinsson. A month had past before they docked at Portrush, in Northen Ireland.

Now he was here, at an abbey in Kildare.

To keep a promise.

"Asleif?"

"Oh, Saemund!" Asleif ran to him, engulfed him in her open arms.

Saemund stood like a statue as his sister embraced him.

"Saemund, it is so good to see you! But, I don’t understand. Why have you come?"

"They are dead."

Asleif stepped back, her hand coming to her mouth. "Lord God. No. Modir? Fadir?" Staggered, Asleif fell to her knees.

Saemund stared down at his weeping sister as though from some distant, unreachable place. Separated by a devouring void of darkness.

"How?" Asleif asked through her tears.

Saemund held his sister’s gaze for a moment, before he slowly raised his hand.

Confused, Asleif turned her head, followed the path of Saemund’s out-stretched finger.

"The Cross? Saemund, I don’t –"

"He killed them!" Saemund roared. His hatred spilled from him like vitriol and echoed through the chapel. "They wouldn’t change, they wouldn’t give up their beliefs. So He sent Plague and killed them. In the name of vengeance, He murdered them all!"

"Plague? Heavenly Lord, no."

"Again you call out that butcher’s name. Don’t you see? He is a demon who kills those who do not accept His Word! He even killed His own son!"

Confused, Asleif stammered, "His son? God did not –"

"Enough Asleif! Can you not see what is happening to you? Are you so blind? It is this, this Word," Saemund spat, "it has infected you like poison." A lost child, Saemund rushed to her, fell to his knees and gripped her hands. "Please, you must come away with me before it consumes you. Then together we can –"

"Saemund, stop!" Asleif rose, pulled away from him. "Please, stop. Listen to yourself. Oh, Saemund," she said, cupping his face tenderly in her smooth hand, "what has happened to you? Was it so terrible?"

Like blood, the sight of his dead mother and naked father splashed across Saemund’s mind. As it had every minute of every day since he first stepped through that door eight months before. Saemund turned his eyes away from the compassion in his sister’s gaze.

Asleif continued, "How can you say these things? You know nothing of God, of His ways. The Lord is a loving God, a God of Peace, not vengeance. He would never punish those who chose a different path."

"Vengeance," Saemund whispered, rising to his feet. "The priest used that same word. When he told me God killed them."

Asleif reeled. "Priest? What priest? I don’t –"

"It doesn’t matter," Saemund said, shaking his head. "What matters is you quit this wicked place. Leave with me, I beg you, tonight, and we will start a new life, you and I, far away from Gods and their punishments. You are the only family I have left. Please, in our parents’ name, please, you must come with me."

Asleif gripped the pew beside her to keep from falling a second time. "Saemund, no. I cannot leave. This is wrong. I don’t understand what happened to you, but this is all wrong. I will speak with the abbess, the one who brought you to me. She has been so good, has taught me so much. You could stay here for a time, in the dormitories where travelers are granted shelter, and she could teach you. Then, together, you and I can mourn, and I can show you God is not what you –"

"No," Saemund had said, "no. I was wrong to come here. I can see that now." At his sides, Saemund’s hands had balled into fists. "God was not content to take the lives of my parents. He had to take you, too."

"You are wrong. You do not understand!"

"I understand my parents are dead, and you are dying." Saemund had once again pointed to the Crucifix. "I understand it is all His fault. And I swear to you, should it cost me my life, I shall find a way to make Him pay. Goodbye, Asleif."

"Old man! Old man, come and look!"

The Rus. With a groan Saemund forged ahead through his torment. Around the final bend, the stairs ended in a large, roughly hewn cavern. And on the other side of the cavern, the black iron doors that led to freedom.

He had crossed this cavern before, had passed through those doors. Had needed to, that he might at last exact his revenge.

Only God can see into the hearts of men.

"You do not seem pleased, lame one," the Rus said with a harsh laugh. "Look, it is there, the doorway to freedom!"

Striding truculently forward, the Rus approached the huge doors. Turning back to Saemund, he smiled. "Shall you not challenge us, old man, even now?"

The others stepped into the cavern and turned to face him. The huge Moor, the woman, and the man who looked so much like the priest who ministered to his mother and father. Saemund sensed their power, sensed that all of them together would be too much. Even with what he had learned, with what he had become.

He would not let them rob him of his revenge.

"No fee is asked for the knowledge you shall gain at the Black School, save one – that the last man to leave the School give his body and soul for eternal torment to the Master."

It had always been the price for his revenge. Since the raven approached him that winter’s night, in his tower in Iceland, Saemund had known this to be true. It was a price he was willing to pay.

Only God can see into the hearts of men.

"I will not," Saemund answered.

The Rus laughed long and loud, and leaned on the doors. Soundlessly, they swung wide, and for the first time in seven years Saemund glimpsed the darkling sky.

"Look, Old Man," the Rus cried, pointing to a place above the hills. "Soon the sun shall rise, and a new day will begin in the world." Then the young sorcerer stepped through the doors. "Our world!"

One at a time, the others followed the Rus into the impending dawn.

And like that, Saemund was the last.

+

How to keep his promise? God had murdered his family, poisoned his sister. He had hated God so much. But he had been so young, just a boy. How was he to make war on God?

It was a question that plagued him for three years, as he wandered Viking-ravaged Europe in search of an answer.

An answer that came at last, in the form of Apollonius of Tyana.

Saemund’s wanderings had carried him deep into the fragmenting heart of the Caliphate of Cordova. It was there he first heard rumors of the old man who lived high in the mountains, the old man who had lived a thousand years and knew the answers to all questions.

For months, Saemund fruitlessly searched the scorching highlands of Spain. Then, on the day he finally grew too weary to look further, on the very day he decided to turn back, Apollonius found him.

"I have watched you for some time," he said from atop a rise in the heart of the Sierra de Gata. "Your hatred is a roaring, devouring flame. I feared it at first, but see now, beneath that raging fire, there is a glimmer of something more. And perhaps, together, if we look, we will find it."

For five years, under Apollonius’s watchful eye, Saemund learned alchemy and astrology, philosophy and medicine. He learned the forbidden arts of Illusion and Necromancy and came to understand the energies that drove people and the world.

+

Saemund stared at the others as they reveled in their freedom beyond the doors.

Waited.

Then, his foot dragging like a bloated anchor behind him, he took a single step into the cavern. Towards an ending.

+

The abbess, Offa, had met him at the grave behind the convent.

Of course, there had been no monastery. Saemund understood what his master had done from the beginning, had even smiled at the realization.

With an ache in his heart, Saemund remembered his parting words to his sister, remembered his hatred, his rage.

He had learned so much since then. For years he had longed to speak with her, to tell her he was ready to listen.

To tell her he was sorry. But his fear kept him away, the fear that Asleif was right, that fate, not God, had stolen his parents.

How did one seek vengeance on fate? And without his need for revenge, what was he?

As he stared at the simple, well-kept stone, he knew now it was too late; would forever be too late.

Kneeling upon the verdant green of the grave, the abbess, Offa, seemed to have aged in a way that time alone could not explain. He had only met her once, on his first visit to the convent. She had been gentle and kind. To Saemund, it had seemed as though she were able to sense his grief that day, as she led him to the chapel where his sister waited, and in sensing it, share it. With what happened later, he had all but forgotten Offa’s quiet, unsought compassion. Seeing her now, the look in her aged eyes, he wondered how he might ever have forgotten.

"When?" Saemund said, his heart shattering with the word.

"Three years ago."

Saemund trembled. "How?"

Offa turned her head, stroked the brilliant green grass. "Pox. There was an outbreak in Narraghmore. Four sisters were sent, to offer whatever help and comfort they could. None of them survived."

Saemund said nothing.

"Come," Offa said, "come inside. I’ve some things for you. Your sister saved them. She always hoped you would return."

Stored in a small wooden chest in Offa’s chamber, the ‘things’ had been few. Letters he had written Asleif when he was still a boy. Drawings she had done in her spare time. A few coins she had managed to save.

Her cross.

And her Bible.

Saemund reached into the chest, withdrew the Book and the Crucifix. Holding them in his quivering hands, he stared at them. As he did, all the old hatred came rushing back.

They were jokes, these objects. Symbols of a cruel and unjust God who could not even protect his sworn servants.

He smashed those symbols that day, broke and tore them until his rage was spent. And as he did, words poured forth from his lips, amid the tears. Words of hate and loathing, frightful words that he had not thought himself capable of uttering.

"Apollonius!" he raged before the startled abbess. "Do you see? Do you see what this God has done? You were right, my friend, the answer has come to me!"

Saemund wheeled on Offa, his eyes wild, his body a trembling mass of anger and hate.

"Oh, Saemund," Offa cried, "do you not see? The terrible plague that killed your family. The wretched disease that brought death to your sister and so many others. These things could never be the work of God. The priest was sent to protect your village, for only in the Word can protection from him be found."

Offa recognized the change in him, sensed his choice. And grieved.

"The path you have chosen," she had said, profound sadness in her aged voice, "is a dark one, an unholy one. Salvation will not be found down its midnight roads."

"Salvation is not my goal, sweet mother."

"Very well," Offa had said. "God’s greatest gift is free will, and you have made your choice. There is but one thing I might offer you, and it is this: Only God can see into the hearts of men, Saemund. Your secrets are always your own. Oh, my son, Satan is not infallible! His arrogance and pride make him weak and blind to so many things. Though it is beyond you to destroy him, he can be hurt. A pure heart, the blinding, shining light of a bright soul, these things must be your tools, they must be your greatest weapons. But even they might not be enough, in the end, and the price you pay to harm him may be higher than you imagine. Go now, in the peace and grace of God."

+

Saemund did go, then. Back to Spain. Back to Apollonius.

But Apollonius was gone, and as Saemund stared at the beckoning darkness of the cavern, he finally understood. Apollonius had taken him as far as he could, as far as Apollonius was willing to go. Saemund's path was not the path of his mentor. So Saemund journeyed back to his home in Iceland, to his mountain tower and its secrets. And waited. For years he waited, acquiring power, making deals with the spirits of the Night.

All in an effort to reach the Black School, that, one day, he might finally and forever destroy it.

That day had come.

One more step and Saemund could smell the air, see the sky beyond the others begin to brighten.

A moment.

It was all he would need.

Saemund fell, rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the brightening sky.

Came a cold wind, rancid and fell, from the depths of the stairwell. The endgame had begun.

At the touch of the wind, Saemund trembled, collapsed to a knee. Across the cavern and an eternity away, the sky continued to brighten, slowly, subtly, indigo giving way to violet giving way to blue . . .

Already the shadows of the doors were lengthening, falling back to meet him. Behind him, his own shadow too, was growing.

A single moment. Was it so very much to ask?

Only God can see into the hearts of men.

Footfalls from the stairwell echoed, shook the cavern. Drew nearer. The Master, Satan, come to claim his prize.

Saemund’s heart raced, his life’s blood pounding in his ears. His left foot dragging behind, he took two painful steps toward the light.

Collapsed with a cry, his damaged foot betraying him.

Silence now, the footfalls ended. Behind him, Saemund sensed a presence in the cavern, huge and imponderable. A vile, putrescent stench crawled up from the stairwell, sought to choke and strangle him. Saemund knew to turn was to be undone. Slowly, he rose. From their places beyond the doors, the others stared.

Inside the cavern the shadows grew like extended claws with the approaching dawn.

Two steps more. So close.

Beyond the doors the Rus called out, "He comes, the Master comes!"

They were his last words as six Jolasveinar converged and destroyed him. As the young Rus screamed his last, the remaining wizards fell quickly before the waiting demons.

Saemund watched the slaughter in silence.

One more step.

The shadows were long. Long enough?

A moment. All he needed was a moment . . .

A breath, and Saemund half turned, threw his shadow behind him upon the wall.

Prayed.

"I am not the last," Saemund said to the Master. "There is one more. He moves like a ghost. Catch him if you can."

Unseen, the presence in the cavern roared, reached out.

Snatched the shadow that trailed, like his lame foot, behind the struggling sorcerer.

When his shadow was ripped from him, Saemund reeled. Behind him, the stench in the cavern was overpowering, it clung to him, pulled and wrenched at him.

The Master realized his mistake.

Before Saemund, the iron doors began to close.

Too late, the moment was his.

With the very last of his strength, Saemund screamed, "Asleif!" and propelled himself through the closing doors, and into the burgeoning dawn.

As he landed amid the broken, tattered remains of the fallen wizards, a roar from inside the cavern shook the land.

It was not done.

Saemund turned, gasping for breath.

A pure heart, the blinding, shining light of a bright soul, these things must be your tools, they must be your greatest weapons.

Though his sorcerer’s soul was no longer bright, and the purity of his heart was tainted long ago, he had learned his lessons well over the years, had sought answers to every question.

And he knew a soul was not the only thing that might shine.

Saemund’s smile was an open wound that spat his rage, "I have beaten you, great one! I have entered your home and stolen your power, and I have tricked you!"

At Saemund’s words the doors stopped, remained ever so slightly, ajar.

Saemund screamed, "Will you stay in your land of shadow, great and mighty master? Will you allow a mortal to make of you a fool?"

And in his mighty rage, Satan, the Master, the Great Adversary, did not notice the faintest streak of sunlight, pure, unobscured, at last cross the mountain peak.

"Such a simple trick. The Great Adversary, fooled by a shadow! The Deceiver deceived!"

Satan’s rage was a towering storm.

"Yes, roar and cry your anger, spit your hatred! Come coward, I, Saemund the Wise, challenge you! Come, retrieve from me that which is owed you; my soul!"

Again the Great Beast howled his terrible wrath.

And as he did, sunlight, like an adder, found its way into the crack between the doors.

At once the invincible iron doors were thrown wide, blasted from their ancient hinges. And for the first time in its long, dark history, sunlight flooded the Black School.

The light, so pure and bright, brighter than the brightest soul, was a living hunger that devoured the shadow-school. It was greedy and ravenous, had sought, for so long, the merest chance to do its work. Its chance had come, and Saemund knew it would never stop its devastation. The light continued to burn, cleansing and purging. From within the Black School a thousand voices howled in pain and rage as the light invaded their realm.

And, at long last, destroyed it.

+

When it was done, Saemund stood. Though the sun above him was a gold and argent diamond, no shadow did he cast. One more price. He stared up at the night sky then down at his demons, taking in the shattered remains of the four wizards. They had been so confident in their might, had thought themselves invincible, new rulers of a dark and benighted world.

He had counted on that, of course. Had they been prepared, had they had time to work as one, even all of the Jolasveinar, together would not have been enough to finish them. And they had needed to die. He could not have allowed them their secrets, could not have allowed them the chance to do their Master’s work. And so, seven years ago, before he entered the Black School, Saemund had commanded his Jolasveinar to kill them. It was not hard to guess at their overconfidence, not difficult to imagine their dark need to witness the Master lay claim to his soul.

He had guessed correctly. Distracted as they were, and separated . . . The Jolasveinar had enjoyed themselves.

Saemund knew the loyal demons could sense his thoughts, sense his new and limitless might. Eager to do his bidding, the Jolasveinar chittered in the darkness.

"You have done well, my friends," Saemund said. "Very well, indeed."

Claiming once again his magic bag that had remained inviolate these seven years, so much more than he had been before, Saemund the Learned, Saemund the Mighty, gathered his demons and laughed.

Salvation, of course, had never been his goal.

Bio:Scott lives in Windsor, Ontario.

E-mail: clements@mnsi.net

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