Now the plants began to die. Sigurd watched the trees wither as each day advanced, their leaves becoming yellow and spotted, their bark cracked. The rubble and ruins of the old city accumulated, but where a day behind them it had been green with brambles and bindweed, now the vegetation was yellowing and ill. The brambles thinned, grew weedy and malformed, then disappeared. The rubble became covered in a layer of moss—beautiful, and as still as a ghost. Eventually, even that disappeared.
The dragon was a horror, but this man-made devastation made it clearer than ever to Sigurd that Fafnir was only a little thing. You can kill a dragon, but a sick society was a monster with a million heads. If you kill one, there are a hundred more ready with the same thoughts and ambitions ready to take its place. Humanity, he thought—that’s a monster you can never kill; and it would be inhuman even to try.
By the time they came within the remains of the old city walls from the days when man and halfman were at each other’s throats, there was nothing. It was a desert of broken brick and glazed sand. Occasionally they saw some scrawny lizardy thing scurrying among the rocks, the odd cockroach or beetle, a few twisted lichens and tough little plants, but that was it.
Regin seemed to be unaffected by the horrors of the broken landscape. He was getting excited by the treasures ahead of them. He wondered what new powers they would win for themselves in the dragon’s hoard.
“Power, what good will that do us?” asked Sigurd, disgusted by what he had seen of power in this place.
Regin was amazed at the boy’s attitude. “Isn’t it good to be strong?” he asked.
“You start off being more than human, but you end up being less. Look at Fafnir. They say he was a man once,” said Sigurd.
“That’ll never happen to you,” said Regin with conviction. But Sigurd was unconvinced. How strange, Regin thought, that even Sigurd, who had been given all the gifts, still found something in himself to find fault with—his own strength.
Sigurd was right. Every tyrant loses some of their humanity along the way, but none ever carried it so far as Fafnir. His dominion was over rock and gold, he did his best to destroy any thinking creature that came near him, and to this end he had transformed himself into a weapon of war. It would take a taxonomist to deduce his humanity, but only fifty years ago he had walked on two legs. His miraculous skin, as Sigurd guessed, originated from the lift shaft in the Galaxy Tower; yes, Fafnir knew all about the Volsons and Sigmund’s knife. If he’d known its remains still existed he would have been out on the Welsh coast long ago to deal with Sigurd, Hiordis, Alf, and anyone else who might have access to it. As it was, he believed that no living creature had the means to pierce him. Fafnir had his own plans for the nation—to own it. But he was in no hurry. He had time on his hands. The monster considered himself immortal.
Even so he possessed countless defensive mechanisms. As Regin had speculated, he had radar, infrared, and magnetic imaging built into his nervous system, and he could wire himself into various security systems set up around his citadel while he slept. Organic security utilized plants or even animals to pick up vibrations and transmit information back to him. Fafnir might have been better to live in a forest, where so many living things could have protected him, but he liked the desolation of London. Here, there was no traffic, no ambiguity. The only people who came here, came for him.
Fafnir was clever, but for every trick there’s another trick. As a technician, Regin was Fafnir’s match. Invisibility and silence were arts well known to him. The monster slept undisturbed as they closed in.
At the Heath, the landscape degraded even further. They were near the epicenter of the blast; the subrock here had melted. A grotesque vitreous surface glinted around them, stuck in the form it had taken fifteen years ago when the intolerable heat of the bomb had blossomed in the sky. This was once the heart of the country. It was hard to imagine anyone living here ever again.
Like ants across the broken land, they began the ascent up to Hampstead Heath. Here began signs of Fafnir’s occupation. He’d raised earthworks, dug trenches, laid coils of razor wire in glittering loops stretching from horizon to horizon. They wandered in and out of minefields, trying to avoid the sensors posted everywhere. Sigurd thought, How scared he must be! How mad and miserable, to live his life hoarding his gold all alone.
As dusk began to fall, they found the most extraordinary sight of all. They turned a ridge of glassy waste and rubble, and there, hidden in a dip in the land, was the skeleton of a vast creature. It must have been eight meters long. The bones were iridescent, tinged with the colors of alloy and carbon polymers. Scattered among them were wires, fibers, and other devices, some organic, others manufactured, some both. The huge bones seemed to have sunk into the rock beneath it with their weight, and yet when Sigurd picked one up, he almost fell back. It was as light as a feather.
“Polymers. Clever. So that’s how something so vast can fly,” remarked Regin.
“Fafnir,” whispered Sigurd. A ray of hope sprang in him. Was the monster already dead?
But Regin shook his head. “Fafnir as he once was, or could be,” he said. “He’s cloned himself at some point.”
“Cloned? What for?”
“Any number of reasons. Perhaps he found alterations that necessitated going back to an earlier version of himself. He’ll have stored genetic material and other blueprints from various stages of his development, to be on the safe side.”
“But wouldn’t he need to store his own mind and his memories to do that? Is that possible?”
“There are stories.” Regin grunted and shrugged. “Fafnir has been abroad.”
For the first time, Sigurd had a failure of hope. Fafnir was impossibly, hopelessly dangerous. A scientist, a wizard, a monster; a tank, a gunship . . . was there anything he wasn’t? What chance had he got to kill such a thing with just a sword, however sharp? He began to pick among the bones as if he could find some clues to help him out of the dilemma, but he could see no way out.
By now the light was fading. Tomorrow they would set their trap, ready to spring it the next morning when Fafnir went down to the water to bathe. The site with the skeleton was hidden in a dip. It was as good a place as any to make their camp. Sigurd would rather have slept anywhere else, but he was ashamed of his steadily growing fear and said nothing.
As they made camp, the fear began to rise up in him. He fought it, but it was unstoppable. By the time their little shelter for the night was ready, he felt like weeping with it. Regin had warned him that Fafnir would have Fear, Terror, and other devices working for him. He told his old mentor that he was feeling uncomfortable, and Regin turned up his blockers, but it made no difference.
The fearful vortex in his stomach did not stop him from falling asleep, but as he slept a cliff of terror continued to grow inside him. In the dark of the night he woke up from a dreadful dream, retching with fear, wet through with his own urine, in the realization that he was utterly unprepared to deal with this. He had been designed, conceived, and brought up to be a hero, but alone in the night the truth came to him. He’d had such a soft life playing in the breakers on the sandy beaches of South Wales, while everyone around him promised him that the world would fall at his feet as soon as he lifted his arm. Now, in this awful landscape, armed only with a sword, facing a foe that armies ran from, Sigurd realized what a fool’s mission he was on. The world was huge and ancient and wicked; he was helpless and young. What hope did he have? He had been fooling himself. Worse, he had been fooled. Why had his friends and family let him believe such lies?
Sigurd opened his eyes and looked up into the bright, inhuman sky. He had been set up to fail. His father had intended him to inherit power, not win it from nothing. He was going to let everyone down and die here, soaked in his own piss. In a few hours he would face the dragon. He could taste death, his death, in his mouth now.
Unable to stay still any longer he sat up suddenly. Next to him, Regin stirred.
“What?” he
whispered.
Sigurd turned to stare at him. “I can’t do it,” he whispered.
“What?” Regin could not decipher the words. They were half choked. Even if he had heard them, Regin, like everyone else, assumed the boy was destined to win. They would have made no sense to him.
Sigurd paused. “I need a pee,” he said.
“Be careful to stay in range,” said Regin.
Sigurd nodded, got out of his bag, and picked his way through the tall bones of Fafnir’s other self. He wandered around distractedly, trying to think what on earth he could do to escape this dreadful death, when there was a noise behind him. Thinking that it was the dragon come for him already, he turned with a scream—but it was only Regin. Sigurd’s voice had alarmed him. He came closer and peered into his face.
“Sigurd?” he said. Sigurd looked back and tried to smile and to tell him that it was all right, but what came out instead were tears.
What could I say? I loved him, but I had my orders. Alf’s not a bad man, ambitious in the nicest way. He only wants to be a good stepfather, the one who brought up the great king and set him on his way. He’d never betray Sigurd. No one ever could! We loved him too much.
He’s just a child. I have children myself, five of them, but I don’t see that much of them. Their mother said I work too hard for family life, but Sigurd’s been like a son to me. All I wanted to do was take him in my arms and say, Sssh, I understand. It’s your choice—’course you can go home! But I didn’t. We were all so convinced about his greatness. Even his mother never told him not to do dangerous things. We all thought he was some sort of big hero and it turns out he’s just a nice kid who’s good at games. Here he was taking on the biggest shit in the world because we expected him to and now he was realizing what I was realizing too: It was out of his league.
But he couldn’t be allowed to betray himself. I couldn’t have that.
So I sat him down and gave him a talking to. Pep talk. How brave he was, how Odin loved him, how he was destined for greatness. The sword that only he could use, all that. And all the way through he was nodding away. Fine, okay, he understood, but he couldn’t do it anyhow. He was too scared. He’d failed before he ever got there, that’s all there was to it.
Sigurd, see, I said, those dark thoughts you have—they’re not real. Fafnir has some strange things hidden away up here. Men have killed themselves from fear just because they wandered too close to the Heath before now. He owns the secret to control men’s thoughts. I had devices at work to counter that, but Sigurd wasn’t proving as strong as we’d hoped. He was proving to be a sensitive little duck. Not much use in a hero, eh? What would it be like for him away from my instruments, lying in a pit under the earth waiting for the dragon to come? Others had lain in wait for Fafnir before and not one of them was still alive by the time he came. Some ran; some died of fear, some were suicides. What chance did he have? Our wonderful golden boy! He wasn’t even going to get near enough to smell his breath.
Not that I told him that. I said, “So it ain’t your fault, my dear. It’s not real, all this fear. It’s generated. It’s those devices Fafnir has that make you feel so weak and frightened, that’s all.”
He looked at me and shook his head, but I was getting angry by this time. This was bigger than him. He had no right! What other chance did we have? What if someone else got hold of all that weaponry, all that wealth? He had to try! What was his life worth after all? You could rule the heart of every man alive with what Fafnir had in that black citadel of his, for good or for bad. We’re the good. We should have it. Anyone can see that.
He wept and wept. All snot and tears and pissy pants. I put my arms around him despite all the mess and he cuddled into me—just like when he was little. And I didn’t say, Yes, m’dear, we’ve asked too much, you’re far too young. Let’s go home and have another look in a year or two. I didn’t say, Well, of course, actually Fafnir is technically almost impossible to kill. I just said, It’ll be better in the morning, like it was a bad dream or a spot of exam nerves. I don’t know why I didn’t just pack up our bags and go home. I suppose, the thing is, somewhere inside me, I believed along with all the other idiots that he was the one. Funny thing. I just can’t bear the idea that he’s no better than me. He has to be better than all of us.
He broke my heart that night. Such a little fool! I don’t think he knows what a lie is. All the time I was urging him into the jaws of death for the sake of humanity, but actually it was all for me. I wanted him to win for me. Yes, I wanted the products of the Destiny Corporation and the Norn Group technology. I wanted Andvari’s ring; but it wasn’t just that. I wanted to believe in him. I’m a cynical old pig, I’ve broken my snout on hard facts too often to believe in much anymore, but I still want to think that a pure heart can defeat all the wickedness in this world. So I was pitiless, even though it broke my heart to do it.
You know what scares me most? That I’ll betray him. Someone’s going to do it sooner or later. What if it was me? All the time I was holding him and comforting him I was thinking, Don’t let it be me. Please don’t let it be me!
I got him back to his sleeping bag in the end. I doubt if he slept, I only got a few hours myself. Then came the dawn and the beginning of a long day. I was busy setting up my surveillance and blocking gear and so on. He just lay in his bag like a corpse, didn’t speak, didn’t move—didn’t run away, either, mind. I was angry at him for letting me work alone—he could have helped.
Yes, such a long day. It seemed to go on forever, but it came and went anyhow, and then it was time.
I said, “It’s time.” He didn’t move, just lay there staring at space. God knows what he was thinking. I didn’t know whether to be furious or relieved. It’d be the death of all my ambitions— no ring, no nothing—and how would I explain that back in Wales? No one would understand. At least I wouldn’t have his death on my conscience, I suppose. I sat down next to him. Didn’t nag him, it was too late for that. I just sat there and waited.
After an hour I said, “It’s time, Sigurd. It’s past time. You going?”
He got to his feet and wiped his mouth. He looked out into the darkness and then back at me.
“Wish me luck!” he said.
“Good luck? You don’t need it!”
“I’m going to die tonight,” whispered Sigurd. He pulled a face—I don’t know what emotion it expressed—and before I could say another word, he ran out into the night.
I was running across bent over double to the remains of a low stone wall, going so fast I was toppling forward. I was dead already, there was nothing to lose. I flung myself facedown in the dirt. I retched again, pure bile. Shit! The fear’s supposed to stop once you get going. I pulled my face out of the mess and looked back. Regin was out of sight already, hidden safe away.
I felt so betrayed. Everyone had led me to this. That’s why I couldn’t say no, that’s why I couldn’t run away. It wasn’t me doing this—it was them. My father, my stepfather, my friends, Regin, my own mother. They were sending me to die and I was going along with it. Coward, I said to myself. Coward! I did what they said because I lacked the courage to do anything else.
I got up and started to crawl along, keeping down under the cover of the wall. At the end of the wall I was sick again. I looked at it hanging out of my mouth in strands and I thought, I’m still here. I didn’t mean I was still alive. I meant, I was still myself. Dead or alive, this was my fate. The time and place and manner of my death—these things are fixed. All I have of my own is how I face it. And this is how—on my hands and knees with green vomit hanging out of my mouth, scared shitless.
“Today is a good day to die,” I whispered to myself. I was almost tempted to walk the rest of the way just for the style of it. But you’ve got to try. That’s right, isn’t it? You’ve got to try. Stupid! Even then I was hoping to survive.
I got to my feet and ran down the muddy slope that led to the lake. There was Fafnir’s track—a muddy rut, two
meters wide, with the mud squidged up at the sides where his weight had crushed the earth. Gods! He was just so vast. This was where he slid on his way down to the pool to swim. I’d seen the film of it. It was poor quality film, shot from a mile away, but you could still see how he went down there like a kid on a slide, rolling and twisting in the mud until he hit the water like a ship being launched. This time he was going to disembowel himself on the way down.
Not. He’d dig me out of the ground like a badger digs up baby rabbits.
We’d already picked a place where a skeleton was buried so that the monster’s X-ray eyes wouldn’t see anything amiss. I pulled off my backpack, unbuckled the spade from the straps, and got digging.
It was a joke. Heroes and dragons! Fafnir was the most advanced piece of military hardware on the planet. What did I have? A sword. I was so dead.
Actually, I had a few other things. A Dranby-Cocke machine gun with five hundred rounds and a shotgun with explosive shells. It might as well have been a slingshot. I needed a fleet of helicopter gunships and a nuclear warhead to see this bastard off. Still—you gotta try. As I dug, I thought to myself, okay, if I have to die, I’m going to die as if my life depended on it. Does that make sense? This digging in the cold clay, the vomit, the piss, the fear and loneliness. It was mine. This was my death. It was all I had and I wasn’t going to miss out on one drop of bile. I had no choice. It was life. It was shit life, but it was all I had.
Bloodsong Page 3