by John Meaney
But Tannier was taking his time, going through official procedures that presumably involved communications between Barbour and Deltaville authorities, with additional complexity due to this being the daughter city. Perhaps there had been subterfuge or cover-up, but if so, no one was going to the length of denying Tannier’s very specific request.
The bulkhead was beginning to glisten as if sweating, about to change state. Then splits opened, and three glowing lattice-shapes floated out, one – a brilliant scarlet – in the lead.
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The simultaneous non-acoustic words formed in Roger’s mind, seeming to be addressed to him. From Tannier’s stare, shifting from Zajinet to Roger, he understood the message in the same way: a warning to Pilots.
‘Is this because of our quarantine?’ he said.
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Tannier rubbed his face, masking his reaction.
‘But you must—’
Roger stopped. At the far end of the room, another section of wall was liquefying. Then he picked up a resonance, and blinked.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, as Tannier turned to look. ‘Not a threat.’
All three Zajinets pulsed with luminescence.
‘You have to know what happened on Fulgor’ – he raised his hand to the nearest Zajinet – ‘don’t you?’
The wall was melting open.
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The woman who stepped out had shed the most glittering, confection-like parts of her haute-couture robe, so the remaining gown was black and gold-trimmed, already reshaping itself into a practical (though stylish) jumpsuit.
‘Rhianna Chiang,’ said Tannier. ‘May I ask what—?’
She dabbed at her eyes, removing smartlenses.
‘Just to save time explaining,’ she said. ‘You’ll inform your superiors, I’m sure, but it’s mutually beneficial not to make things public.’
Rhianna’s eyes were glittering obsidian; but Roger had already sensed the neural induction that she had kept quiescent before, fooling him as well as everyone else.
‘She’s an agent-in-place,’ said Roger. ‘Just as my father was on Fulgor.’
‘Very well play-acted,’ Tannier told him. ‘You fooled me, pal.’
‘He didn’t know until this moment.’ Rhianna’s eyes remained devoid of golden sparks, but her nervous system thrummed with energy. ‘If things are moving into the open, we need to be ready. D-2’s defensive systems are largely unformed. You know that.’
Tannier’s facial tension was a confirmation. Roger turned back to the scarlet Zajinet.
‘Why do you call Pilots blind?’
Sparks moved along the shining lattice-form.
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Rhianna came close enough to cup one hand on Roger’s shoulder.
‘Let me do the—’
But Roger felt the words come sure and strong:
‘You think that none of us can see the darkness, is that it?’
The Zajinets, normally shimmering and adjusting, became frozen 3-D images for a moment.
‘What did you say?’ whispered Rhianna.
All three Zajinets slammed into a conjoined configuration – in human terms, it might have been a huddle – and blazing patterns of light swirled around and around the new joint figure, white-gold and emerald green, sheets and webs of brilliance whirling and twisting and rippling through transformation after transformation. After a time, they separated, then drifted closer to Roger. Rhianna and Tannier both backed off, saying nothing but clearly alert, giving Roger his lead for now.
I have to get this right.
He had seen one world die; but the implications here might stretch even further than saving Molsin – assuming Molsin really was in danger – for these were Zajinets, at home in realspace and mu-space both, just as Pilots were: not tied to any one world.
And they know about the darkness.
Anthropomorphizing xeno behaviour was problematic – sometimes deluded – but this was one reaction he felt he could read.
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Could he turn the Zajinets, at least these three, into allies?
If they’re enemies of the darkness, why not?
He shook his head at Rhianna, then turned to the Zajinets.
‘You do sense the darkness, don’t you?’
The Zajinets flared, one after the other.
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Fear drew the blood from Roger’s face and skin, into his muscles.
‘It’s close?’
The air rippled around Rhianna – she was deploying a smart-miasma – and tiny nozzles appeared on the nearby wall and ceiling, Tannier’s eyelids flickering as he entered into a deep control-trance, interfacing as best he could with the newborn city’s untried, part-formed weaponry.
Da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da.
Roger could hear it now.
THIRTY-NINE
EARTH, 778 AD
Chief Folkvar met the traders and looked over the contents of their first two carts – weaponry and worked goods – while ignoring the captives in the third, for the village had no need of thralls. Hallstein had his eye on a fine-toothed comb formed from antler bone, a slit handle enclosing the comb proper. Beyond the carts, Ulfr walked, Brandr at his heel as usual.
A trader looked about to call out, but Folkvar touched his arm.
‘Wait,’ he said.
When Ulfr was past the women’s hall and out of earshot, he added: ‘We lost our volva, who was Ulfr’s lover, nine days ago. The berserkr inside remains close.’
‘My sympathies,’ said the trader. ‘Ulfr, you say?’
He indicated a bronze buckle, shaped like a wolf’s head, with small runes inscribed:
‘So,’ said Folkvar. ‘That is well thought of. He was rewarded for bravery at the Thing, but not by me. Show me that sword, would you?’
The trader offered the sheathed weapon hilt-first. Folkvar drew it, admired the gladius-like heft, and slid it back into place.
‘Is your weapons master among you?’ he added.
‘Yes, Chief Folkvar.’
‘Can an inscription be made here without damaging the blade?’
‘The sword was made with that in mind.’
‘Have him put the same runes there, and we have a deal, master trader.’
The man was still business-like, not yet smiling.
‘Do you pay in silver shards or coins, good Folkvar? Mead and food in part payment is welcome, of course.’
Folkvar gestured around the village.
‘Do you see any kings here?’
‘No, Chief.’
‘Then we pay in honest metal, not coinage.’
‘Aye, Chief.’
There was feasting, but not for Ulfr. He had eaten a little, while one of the travellers declaimed an Eddic poem – about Týr sacrificing his hand so that the hell-wolf Fenrir, offspring of Loki, would be bound in chains – but with too much skaldic cleverness and not enough feeling. Or perhaps this was not the time to celebrate anything.
From the longhouse eaves, a cat stared down at him, not bothered by Brandr or anything much. By a trader’s cart, two figures sat hunched and bound near the front, while a woman sat on the ground by the rear wheel. All three were thin. Their heads were bowed.
Thórr’s blood.
Ulfr returned to the feasting, then came back with three bowls of stew and a skin of sourmilk. The thralls muttered thanks in something that was not the Tongue. Ulfr offered the drink to the woman first, and that was when he heard the scrape of blade from scabbard.
Roaring, he spun to his right and thrust low and long, left fist to liver, slammed the top of his head against nose and teeth, then hammered down. The attacker dropped, but he was still alive. Ulfr shifted, ready to stamp down.
‘Hold, warrior!’
Two traders with spears were standing back. Their comrade on the ground was curled up, breathing fast and groaning, his sword forgotten. Brandr, next to him, growled at the newcomers.
I’ll kill you all.
But then Folkvar was among them, and Vermundr was coming from Ulfr’s left, Hallsteinn from his right.
‘Peace, Ulfr. Eira would have wanted peace.’
‘Agh.’ He pushed out a breath. ‘Agh.’
‘Let it go past you.’
‘No—’
But he forced another exhalation.
Hold.
The imminent berserkrgangr began to fade.
‘He was feeding your thralls as a kindness,’ Vermundr told the traders. ‘He had no interest in the woman.’
Ulfr nodded, staring at the downed man.
I still want to kill you.
Then he shook his head, teeth clenched and shoulders moving, and turned away, then stalked away from the firelight and humanity, only his war-hound at his side as always.
The next morning, he readied Kolr for travelling. The black stallion stamped down, wanting to be on the move. Brandr kept clear of his hooves. The last thing to fasten in place was the crystal-headed spear that Heithrún had given him.
‘Folkvar thought you’d be off on the hunt,’ came a low voice.
‘Hallsteinn?’
‘The same.’ Hallsteinn came out of the gloom, bearing a blanket-wrapped sword, his war-hound Griggr beside him. ‘You’ve friends here, and a chief that appreciates you.’
‘Even though I nearly killed a trader?’
‘He drew first and he’s still alive.’ Hallsteinn grinned. ‘I call that lucky.’
Usually the man with the unsheathed weapon was the man who won, but Ulfr understood what Hallsteinn meant. No one had died; no one need cry blood vengeance. If Folkvar could be diplomatic enough, the traders might even return some time.
‘Best if I’m gone before they wake.’
The liver punch would have done damage, and be painful days in the healing.
‘Not without this sword.’ Hallsteinn unwrapped it. ‘From the chief.’
‘What?’
‘He wanted to do it all ceremonial, like. Take this with you, but when you come back he’ll present it to you himself in front of everybody. That’s what he said.’
There was a belt threaded through the scabbard, and its buckle was a wolf’s head, inscribed as Ulfr.
‘Draw the blade,’ said Hallsteinn.
Ulfr did, and its runes matched the buckle’s inscription.
‘Be the wolf,’ added Hallsteinn.
Ulfr looked at him.
I already am.
He sheathed the sword, and tied the belt around his waist.
For the next day and the next, making distance was everything, solitude his goal. Part of the time he rode Kolr, other times he walked alongside the stallion. When riding, he upped the pace to a trot for measured periods, while Brandr rode Kolr, lengthwise across the saddle in front of Ulfr, war-hound and stallion taking to the arrangement as if they had been doing it for years.
But he would not rely on the stallion. Riding was not like sitting on a stool, but still, Ulfr needed to keep his legs in shape by running. Many a battle was preceded by a full day’s run or more to reach the battleground. Besides, only in movement could he forget.
It was the beginning of the second evening when he came across the injured wolf.
‘Hold, Brandr.’
He slipped down and used the reins to hobble Kolr. Then he crossed to the dark-grey shape, and stared into those circular irises, pale as bone.
‘Hush, my brother.’
The foreleg was broken, but dark blood, spilled from a raking gash, was the greater problem. Much had poured out, and the wolf was weak, too weak to—
No!
—attack, but a shape was flying at Ulfr’s throat and he fell back, smashing forearm into fangs and then Brandr was there, snarling and rending—
She-wolf.
—making room as Ulfr rolled, the sword coming free, chaos all around like the swirling Ginnungagap before the worlds began, and then he could see his target and the blade went in, hard and deep, stopping the heart.
‘By Thórr.’
He pushed himself up from the she-wolf, and moved on hands and knees to the male.
Dead.
Even as his mate had fought, the male’s spirit had slipped out, unable to hang on.
Norns be damned.
There had been no need for this, for the male’s injury or the female’s confusion as she fought for her mate. There was no need for any of the harsh tricks the three dread sisters played on humanity. Perhaps they existed, but no one would ever worship them.
If I could kill the three of you, I would.
He checked that Brandr was unwounded, save for scratches. Then he made a small fire and sat down cross-legged, his back to the flames, looking at the two dead wolves.
Ulfr stared down at the part-grave, part-cairn. His friends, like Hallsteinn and Vermundr, would not understand his honouring the wolves like this. Burial, though not without skinning them first.
Folkvar’s wrong about me.
It would be nice to fit in among the others, but part of his spirit was solitary, and people recognized it. Chief Folkvar, perhaps because his own abilities set him apart, seemed to consider Ulfr as an heir, as someone capable of command. It was an over-estimation: aloofness was not the same as superiority.
Medium wise should a man be,
Never too wise.
No man should know his fate in advance;
His heart will be the freer of care.
There were catchier verses among the best-known poems. There were some that stirred a warrior’s blood, and others shining with cleverness. But this call for ordinariness was something that Eira used to sing.
‘I know my fate, so damn you, Norns.’
Blood and death and hatred.
And my heart is not free.
Bound to a rock, like Fenrir or Loki, was more like it.
Yet while he imagined a solid rock and a fell creature tied to it, what he saw in the distance was very different: a moving mass of soil and stones, misshapen, squat yet huge, far bigger than a man. Something rippled in the air in front of it, then twisted out of existence.
‘You’ve let him escape again!’
It was the troll, and it was hunting Stígr.
‘NO!’
In the distance, the troll stopped moving. Then it, too, began to rotate, pulling the air with it until it was gone from sight—
Bastard creature.
—before rearing from the earth two spears’ lengths away.
‘Shit and blood.’ Ulfr leaped for the reins. ‘Shh. Brandr, come. Shh now, Kolr.’
Blowing into the stallion’s nostrils, he held the big head, wrestling against the strength of equine neck muscles. Hobbled, Kolr could not run, but he might still rear and fall.
‘Easy, that’s it.’
The troll remained quiescent, only small amounts of soil spilling from its outer form, making no attempt to reveal the glowing spirit within. Perhaps it understood the effect it was having.
‘All right, stay like that. Good boy.’
He rubbed Kolr’s nose once more, then stopped. The spear – Heithrún’s gift to him –was shining at its point. The embedded rune, normally invisible or close to it, was glowing scarlet, as it had once before.
So he unslung the spear, walked close to the troll – ‘Stay back, Brandr’ – and planted the haft on the ground.
‘Do we hunt Stígr?’
More soil spilled from the troll-form.
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Ulfr had no brother. Trolls had no ability to speak clearly. But that did not matter so long as it could help him kill Stígr.
‘Which way do we go?’
And why were they wasting time instead of galloping after the bastard?
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All of the Middle World began to rotate, in all directions at once.
Sorcery!
It curved, as the darkness surrounding Stígr curved, and yet this was different, as blueness sparked and hissed all around, and he knew he was not alone as reality revolved again and spilled him out onto ordinary ground.
Revealed in its true form, the troll-spirit hung beside him, a glowing tracery of scarlet lines, bright even in the sunshine.
Sunshine?
Ozone was in the air, and he was standing on a grassy promontory amid gleaming buttercups, while reflections like steel blades glinted off the crashing waves of the sea. In the distance, a stone building rose, taller than any man-made thing Ulfr had ever seen.
Neither Kolr nor Brandr were here.
Stígr?
From somewhere, he could hear the sound of nine dread notes.
Good.
The troll had carried him far from home, but his enemy was near; and that was all he needed.
FORTY
MOLSIN, 2603 AD
Tannier raised his hands like a witch-doctor calling down the thunder. He stared at Roger, focusing; and as he did so, a myriad tiny nozzles on the quickglass walls shifted to aim at Roger.
The three Zajinets, newly revealed in their hiding place, gleamed but did not move or communicate. Were they scared of the darkness they felt approaching?