by John Meaney
‘Pilot Blackthorne.’ Dr Keele’s voice was silken as brushed steel. ‘Pilot?’
‘Er, yes?’
‘Are you married to Alisha Spalding, or occupying any legal capacity allowing you to make medical decisions on her behalf?’
‘No.’
Why would she ask such a thing?
‘Then I have to ask you to leave. I’m very sorry.’
‘But can’t I—? I beg your pardon.’ Roger had no idea what to say. ‘Will she be all right?’
Meaning, can you fix her?
‘Leave her with us,’ said Dr Keele. ‘Will you be OK finding your friends?’
Jed and Bod, presumably.
‘Sure.’
‘Then …’
Roger was blinking – as Alisha had been, moments before – and he seemed to have swallowed warm salt water.
‘Take care of … Just …’
He turned away.
Get out of here.
Striding, he moved fast, fleeing like an electron tipped from a local maximum: filled with momentum, inherently uncertain in direction.
I don’t have anyone.
His last connection to home, severed by a scream.
EIGHT
EARTH, 777 AD
The aftermath of attack lay before them: smoke-stink of extinguished fires, exposed beams black as charcoal sticks even from this distance; children corralling animals into makeshift pens; whimpers and yells from unseen wounded; the torn clothes and plodding motion of survivors clearing wreckage.
‘Ride!’ yelled Chief Folkvar.
It was rage, not urgency, for no raiders remained around the village. Ulfr, from his saddle on black Kolr, whistled down to Brandr. The warhound leaped up and Ulfr caught him. Off to one side, Hallstein did likewise with brave Griggr, who barked when she was steady in Hallstein’s arms. Then they kicked their horses into a gallop, following the rest of the party.
Folkvar’s mount thundered in the lead, the grey stallion’s legs a blur: there might have been eight legs, like Sleipnir of the sagas, ridden by the Gallows-Lord. It pulled ahead, faster than the others, while Folkvar’s cloak billowed in chill wind.
They all rode horses, everyone in the party, because Chief Gulbrandr had exhorted the other clans to generosity. Ulfr’s actions had saved the Thing from ensorcelment through seithr, the unclean magic of shapeshifters and gender-changers.
From the poet Stígr, most unholy.
They thundered into the village, wheeled the horses to a standstill, and slipped down. Each man used reins to hobble his horse, knotting the leather fast, then strode off, some following Folkvar, others heading towards someone precious they saw or sought.
Eira. You’d better be all right.
Ulfr wheeled, staring, searching for signs of her.
There.
The shriek of a wounded man in sudden pain came from beyond the ruins of the men’s hall. Brandr gave a small yip. Perhaps Eira’s scent floated through the stench. They ran around the hall, and saw her: kneeling by a wounded man whose shoulder was wrapped in stained cloth, while his face glistened with poultice.
Eira’s robe was streaked with brown, glistening here and there with battle-sea red.
No, by Thórr.
But the gods did not exist to prevent disaster.
‘Eira.’
From the whiteness of her face, much of the blood was hers.
‘Eira, talk to—’
Her voice was a song, rising and falling, and along with her gestures was leading the wounded man – the wounded stranger – along the path to dreamworld.
One of the raiders?
‘And tell me, good Arrnthórr,’ Eira was saying, ‘what led Chief Snorri to call a vengeance strike?’
Ulfr nearly shouted, but held it in. Snorri, their neighbour, behind all this?
And why vengeance?
The wounded Arrnthórr’s tone was slurred, detached.
‘Killed … Sigurthr. Folkvar, by his own … hand.’
Ulfr’s knife was in his fist, though he had no memory of drawing it.
‘How do you know?’ asked Eira. ‘Tell me how Chief Snorri learned that.’
‘Told … us. Wanderer. Found poor … Snorri.’
Arrnthórr’s eyelids fluttered.
‘Describe this wanderer,’ said Eira.
Even before the words came out, Ulfr knew what the description would be: a one-eyed man in a wide-brimmed shapeless hat, perhaps accompanied by ravens, as if the most dreadful of the Aesir chose to walk the Middle World: the one who was both All-Father and Gallows-Lord, Spear-God and God of the Hanged.
To worship Óthinn for true meant human sacrifice. While the clan would normally avoid dark ceremony, perhaps this Arnthórr and others of Snorri’s war-band might deliver pleasing screams to the All-Father’s ears before their souls went to Niflheim. Except that Stígr had clearly ensorcelled them, much as he had done to others here – Vermundr, Steinn and Halsteinn among them, even Chief Folkvar – when they put poor Jarl to torture.
Eira’s brother, dead at Ulfr’s hand.
Another survivor, Arnljótr by name, had just finished confessing a similar story when Ulfr found him, trussed on the ground at Chief Folkvar’s feet. At the prisoner’s head stood two boys: Davith and Leifr, watched from a distance by the crone Ingrith. Both boys held spears pointed at Arnljótr.
‘You should not have listened to lies,’ said Chief Folkvar. ‘But then, we ourselves—’
Davith stabbed downwards, spear-point crunching into the throat. Leifr’s spear, a second behind, went through to the heart: a quick death.
‘Ah, boys.’ Chief Folkvar glanced at Ulfr, then placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder. ‘It was well done, Leifr Oddsson, Davith Oddsson. May your father feast amid the Einherjar in Valhöll tonight.’
If Folkvar wished Oddr among the warriors picked by Óthinn’s Death-Choosers, then Oddr was dead and the boys were orphans. Hence Folkvar’s forgiving them for killing without command.
‘We need to prepare ourselves.’ Folkvar addressed Ulfr. ‘Get the able-bodied and make sure they’re armed. Strip wound-fires of the slain if you need to.’
He meant, take dead men’s swords.
‘We shouldn’t attack,’ said Ulfr. ‘Stígr won’t stay to goad Snorri’s people on. If he’s not gone already, he’ll fade away when we turn up.’
Making his escape through dark magic.
‘Yes, and we’ll go in under truce,’ said Folkvar. ‘But we’ll keep a war-band close.’
‘Chief Snorri’s not known as a betrayer.’
‘Nor a reaver, but look what he’s done.’
Ulfr nodded.
‘I’ll tell the men to gather,’ he said.
By the time they rode downslope towards Chief Snorri’s village, it was sunset. Folkvar rode in with Vermundr on his right, Ulfr on his left: a prominence that Ulfr was not used to.
I’m no chieftain.
But he remembered a conversation with Folkvar on Heimdall’s Rock some time before they departed for the Thing. Folkvar had wanted Ulfr’s assessment on the qualities of various men at fighting practice, and how they might fare as leaders of warriors. The sort of conversation a chief might have with a young man who showed potential talent for leadership.
Blades, axe-heads and helms gleamed with reflected torch-flames and the eerie steel-and-pink of dusk. On all sides, eyes were trained on the interlopers. Women stood here and there among the men, blades ready, vibrating with hatred.
‘Hold now.’
A tall, narrow-shouldered man with a long-handled war-hammer stood in front of them. His hair was wild and tangled – not combed or braided as a warrior’s pride demanded – but the air seemed to thrum with ferocity held fast, under tightened control.
‘I am Arne,’ he said. ‘Chieftain here, now that Snorri is slain.’
Folkvar, having drawn rein, performed a controlled slide to the ground, then stepped away from his mount, hands held wide.
‘That is
a grievous sorrow,’ he said. ‘I did not know. It happened in our village?’
Arne turned to one side and spat downwards.
‘Snorri was never one to stay behind in battle.’
‘Nor is Chief Folkvar,’ called Vermundr from his saddle. ‘For we have only just returned from the Thing, many days ride from here.’
‘You are ly—’
Arne stopped, for to accuse a leader of falsehood before his men was a serious matter.
A chieftain cannot speak as the spirit dictates.
Ulfr had not thought of this before. Not in such plain terms.
He must plan his words, however quickly, before he utters them.
Like going into battle: you needed strategy and a true objective, or failure was certain.
‘They tell the truth.’ It was a youthful voice, from behind Ulfr. ‘I saw them arrive at their village.’
Arrnthórr, his forearms and wrists bound but his legs free, walked into view.
‘Folkvar killed Sigurthr,’ said someone among the surrounding warriors. ‘The poet told us that he—’
‘Stígr is an unclean shaman,’ said Folkvar, ‘a soul-changer and gender-shifter. He caused us to kill one of our own, poor Jarl. And he nearly roused the Thing to some dark purpose, but our Ulfr here’ – he gestured – ‘stopped him. Dark elves took Stígr to safety.’
Arne sneered at the mention of supernatural beings.
‘The gathered chieftains,’ said Vermundr, still mounted, ‘gave us these gifts in thanks for Ulfr’s courage.’
He gestured at the horses they rode, at a polished band on Folkvar’s upper arm.
‘We demand neither vengeance-gold nor blood,’ said Folkvar. ‘We offer only sympathy, because you have been caused ill by dark sorcery, just as we have.’
‘It is we who seek vengeance.’ Arne glared at the men and women in the circle, the clan he now had to lead. ‘But perhaps we’ve been searching in the wrong place.’
‘Stígr is long gone,’ said one of his warriors. ‘Disappeared as soon as we rode out to attack Chief Folkvar’s holding. The women told me Stígr slipped away, but they don’t know how.’
‘He is an adept of seithr,’ said Folkvar. ‘Slippery beyond ordinary cunning.’
Arne wore a Thórr’s hammer amulet; he clutched it now.
‘The chieftains gave you horses,’ he said to Folkvar. ‘Let us give the poet Stígr a horse of his own.’
It was wordplay without humour: horse meaning gallows-tree. Skaldic language for a poet who deserved to hang.
‘We’ll find an ash for him to ride,’ said Folkvar. ‘Once we’ve found the bastard.’
‘Yes.’ Arne held out his hand. ‘Together, we’ll give him the long ride into night.’
‘Together, by Thórr.’
They clasped forearms, two chieftains forming alliance, discarding bad blood. For Ulfr, this was a masterclass in chiefly conduct; but in literal terms he considered their oath ill-wrought.
Because Stígr is mine to kill.
All around, the watching warriors shifted, taking some moments to catch up with the changed mood of Arne, still new as their chief. But Arne was resolved, that was clear; and several men growled, thumping blade against shield in agreement. It began a clamour of weapons clashing, and the conjoined cheer of men whose purpose was obvious once more, confusion tumbling away.
Vermundr caused his horse to step sideways, coming daintily alongside Ulfr.
‘Courage and wisdom,’ he said. ‘A good way for chieftains to behave.’
‘Yes.’
‘When you are chief, remember this.’
‘What?’
But Vermundr was already moving away, jumping down from his horse, leaving his hammer hanging from the saddle.
‘By Freyja’s creamy tits!’ he shouted. ‘Is there no mead to drink in this whole village?’
‘If your horn’s big enough for the job,’ called one of the women, ‘I’ve all the sweetness you’ll ever need, big man.’
The men roared, called out insults, laughed and gave cheers as they sheathed and slung their weapons. After tension and battle-fear – and despite the wounded – they needed release.
As the feasting began, Folkvar looked in Ulfr’s direction and winked.
I understand.
Ulfr grinned back.
This is how to lead.
Whether he himself would ever command warriors, that was a different question. While Eira hated him and Stígr still lived, there was only one clear purpose to Ulfr’s life. For all Arne’s and Folkvar’s words, their villages depended on people staying close to home, tending animals and crops, hunting as required. Deserting their land for vengeance on a single man was out of the question.
While hunting the poet alone was exactly what Ulfr planned to do.
Until you die screaming, Stígr, just like Jarl.
Then the world would be right again.
Life would be fine.
NINE
MOLSIN, 2603 AD
It occurred to Roger that he was being selfish. Watching the crowds passing through a concourse, gleaming quickglass everywhere, he allowed the world to slip from focus, and reexamined his reaction to Alisha’s scream. He had thought of it as severing his last link to home, but she was the one who was suffering.
Mum. Dad. At least you were never taken.
His parents might be dead; but Alisha’s family were as likely to have become part of the Anomaly gestalt as to have perished.
Acid bubbles gurgled: his stomach, calling him back to mundane reality.
‘Can I help you, Pilot?’
The man’s scarlet outfit looked like a uniform, but a cheery one, suggesting customer assistance more than emergency services.
‘I, um, could do with a bite to eat.’
‘Of course, and there’ll be no charge to your good self,’ said the man. ‘We like Pilots to feel at home in Barbour. So, let’s see.’
A quickglass pillar twisted up from the floor, formed a loop, and displayed a hanging sheaf of menus. It was a showy way to project a holo display. Like Bodkin Travers earlier, this man had commanded the quickglass surroundings with no visible word or gesture.
‘These are eateries?’ asked Roger.
‘Indeed. If you hold up your tu-ring, Pilot, I can transfer standard public-service interfaces.’
Roger’s tu-ring glinted.
‘Done,’ he said.
‘That was fast.’ The man’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Er, I can recommend the Orange Blossom, one deck up’ – he pointed – ‘at the top of that ramp. If you’re truly famished, you’ll find there’s an Eat Now service on offer anywhere at all inside the city.’
He looked at the nearest wall. An orifice opened, tiny cilia-like protrusions inside – ready to offer nutrients, Roger assumed – then melted shut.
‘That’s very nice,’ said Roger. ‘And I’ll take your recommendation. Thank you for your help.’
‘Any time, Pilot.’
Roger walked to the ramp which flowed upward, carrying him to the next level. There, orange and white blossoms – fine-structured quickglass extrusions, he thought – arched around an eatery entrance. Inside, small nodules in the floor indicated potential table positions; only three tables were currently formed, each with a solitary diner.
Near the rear wall, he chose a nodule, cranked up the submenu in his tu-ring, and commanded a table and seat to form.
No wonder the guy thought it loaded quickly.
His tu-ring was already configured to access local services, including city-admin functions not available to the general public. Timestamps showed his ringware making adjustments since his arrival – updating out-of-date configurations, coming back into synch with Barbour.
Dad? You were here?
So many secrets when you worked in the covert world. Dad had never mentioned spending time on Molsin; yet the ringware he had transmitted in those last seconds on Fulgor showed all the signs of an earlier visit. From the number o
f seconds spent on re-synching today, Dad’s visit had been years or even decades ago.
Perhaps before Roger was born.
Ah, Dad.
Now the time of his parents’ existence was gone, and it was his turn. The best he could do was make a fraction of the difference that they had. To be half the man his father was: that would be good enough.
‘Trust your instincts,’ Dad had told him. ‘Uneasiness comes from deep neural processing of atavistic senses – like smelling danger – which even with modern psych techniques are hard to bring to conscious awareness. Bad vibes are your primitive brain’s way of warning your civilized self of danger. For example, don’t ever step into an enclosed space with someone who makes you feel uncertain, never mind whether it might seem impolite. The point is to remain alive.’
Roger ordered a citrola from the table, broke off the quickglass goblet when it formed, and took a sip. The sweetness gave him a flashback to Lucis Multiversity and the day he met Alisha – and Dr Helsen.
He put the goblet down.
Helsen, and the day he first heard those nine strange notes: da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da. Perhaps it was not just the taste of citrola flinging him back into the past. Earlier, with Bod in the reception hall, he had – for a moment – caught the end of that sequence, and told himself it was imagination.
… da-da.
It was not sound, no more than the darkness twisting around Helsen had been an optical phenomenon. Instead, his perception came from synaesthetic processing in his brain – like people sensing auras or vibes – delivering exotic data translated to a mode he could recognize, much as his tu-ring used adapters and façades to link to Barbour’s local services.
If Dad were here, he would tell Roger to trust himself.
‘Shit.’
He tapped his tu-ring.
‘Jed? Listen to me.’
Roger knew that, to make his report, Jed would have to re-enter mu-space, and establish signals contact with a group of seven ships due to arrive in several hours. Before that, he would have to complete the formalities here in Barbour. Or he could try talking to local law-enforcement authorities, but he would need more than Roger’s fleeting auditory hallucination to convince them of danger.