The Young King.
Still the metal stayed level. Eventually, Ragnar shook his head wearily.
‘Enough,’ he said, gesturing for Ingvar to sheathe the sword again. ‘This won’t be decided by theatrics. Sit down.’
Ingvar did as he was bid. As he slid dausvjer into its scabbard, he suddenly realised how hard his primary heart was beating. He rested his empty hands on the cool stone of the bench.
‘I like you, Gyrfalkon,’ said Ragnar. ‘I like your spirit.’
‘Then send me back,’ said Ingvar.
Ragnar smiled, but there was no warmth in it, just a wry grimace.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I’ll reflect. You should do so too.’
Ingvar watched the Jarl carefully. Ragnar was a curious mix: insane levels of self-confidence coupled with a definite aura of fatigue. Perhaps command had proved harder that he’d anticipated.
‘The galaxy is changing,’ Blackmane said. ‘Old Jarls lose their wisdom, young ones forget their strength. Stormcaller has dreams nightly that make him haggard, and he does not trouble easily. Even Grimnar laughs less than he did.’
The Wolf Lord placed his hands together again. Those deadly gauntlets, ones that had ended the lives of a thousand souls, formed a bulky pyramid.
‘I would like to let Járnhamar remain here a while,’ he said. ‘They need to recover their strength. I would like to linger over this decision.’
Ingvar said nothing.
‘But I cannot,’ said Ragnar. ‘We no longer have that luxury. We must keep fighting, all of us, without pause, and in such times wisdom is the first thing to fall away. I will make my decision quickly. You will know it soon.’
Ingvar bowed. ‘And until then, lord? What I am to do with myself?’
‘You still have your sword,’ Ragnar said. ‘Reacquaint yourself with the rites of your home world. Keep the edge sharp.’
Ragnar shot Ingvar a grim look. His youthful golden eyes reflected the light of fires wetly.
Confidence. Fatigue.
‘Wherever I send you,’ he said, ‘you will have need of it.’
Chapter Two
Hafloí ran.
He churned through the snow, throwing up sprays of crystal-white behind him. His hot breath condensed in the freezing air in plumes. His hearts hammered, his lungs burned. He felt the motive systems in his armour hum and boost, operating in perfect sync with his blood-flooded muscles.
The arc of the sky swung high above him, clear and vivid. Ahead of him lay a long sweep of fresh snow running down to the black line of the river. Tight clumps of ekka pines clustered over to his left, getting thicker towards the steep edges of cliffs beyond. This was hard country, traversed by gorges and broken rockfields, all hidden under glistening swathes of bridge-ice and powder snow. It was treacherous, frigid, lethal, exposed to flesh-scouring winds that screamed across the plains and scythed through shivering chasms.
Hafloí grinned savagely. All of Asaheim was hard country. That was the point of it. That was why he loved it.
He pushed himself harder, sprinting down the long incline towards the hard blue shadow-edge under the encircling peaks. His armour made minute adjustments as his boots crashed against the scree, compensating for ankle-turning crevasses, absorbing the shock of the uneven terrain beneath the pristine blanket of snow.
He ran like a hunted skriekre, pushing his enhanced body to the limit. He leapt clean over obstacles, crashed through waist-high drifts. His limbs pumped, his arms swung, his shoulders rolled.
For a few seconds more he was alone in the valley, charging down towards the rushing water, a lone speck of movement amid the glacial indifference of Asaheim.
Then the gunship crested the sawtooth ridge behind him, growling up into the air on a column of oily smoke. It lurched up, around, swinging over the lip of the rise and out over the valley floor.
Set against the majesty of the high plateau, the gunship was an aberration. It was heavy, blunt, crude, expending staggering amounts of energy just to stay aloft. Its engines roared with a thrashing, hungry growl, and it stank of burning promethium. Its wedged nose hung low as it surged forwards on a dirty bloom of heat-haze.
Hafloí heard it coming and kept grinning. He never slowed, just carried on racing. Already going at full tilt, he swerved and veered closer towards the riverbed, zigzagging wildly along the tumbling slope.
The gunship came after him, dipping its cockpit and plunging low across the snowfield. As it roared closer its heavy bolters keyed up, clanking as gigantic magazines were shunted into cavernous chambers. A second later and the linked barrels slammed into life, hurling twin lines of shells at the fleeing figure below.
The rolling barrage crashed into the ground in hissing furrows of exploding rock and vaporising snow. Hafloí bucked and darted left, dancing clear of danger, jerking round suddenly and haring off towards the rapidly approaching tree line. Splatters of blackened slush streaked down his armour as he rode out the onslaught before breaking free.
The gunship roared past him. It climbed quickly, banked hard and came around for another pass, trailing its filthy curtain of smog behind it.
Too slow, thought Hafloí with satisfaction, vaulting over a cracked ledge before powering down a slope of jagged rocks and ice towards the first of the pines.
He covered the ground quickly, hearing the grind of the gunship’s engines grow louder with every stride he took. Just as he sensed the bolters click into firing positions he crashed into cover, shouldering through the dense, dark foliage as if plunging into water.
The trunks of the pines soared away above him like the pillars of some immense, shadowy cathedral. For the first time, Hafloí had cover. He ducked down low and slowed his pace, weaving through the snowy drifts piled high at the roots. The branches above him swayed in the wind, twisting back and forth and hissing at him.
Hafloí halted briefly, catching his breath, looking up into the branches. He could still hear the thudding whine of the gunship close by, but couldn’t see it through the thick cover. He concentrated, filtering out extraneous factors, letting his superlative senses do their work.
‘Oh, Hel…’ he spat, suddenly realising where it was.
The trees around him blasted apart in a hurricane of splinters. Hafloí ducked and leapt, exploding back into action as the forest destroyed itself. He heard a crack, and another, as the massive trunks were brought down. One swayed towards him, toppling directly into his path as its base was blasted away by a flurry of bolter-rounds.
He pounced out of its path, hearing the heavy whoosh of the trunk collapsing to earth behind him. More came down in a rain of severed branches and whirling needles. Gaps opened up in the canopy above, exposing the shadow of the hovering gunship and its juddering weapons.
Hafloí picked up full pace again, careering through the disintegrating forest. He vaulted over shattering stumps and ducked under collapsing beams. The air was choked with flying snow, rock shards and pulverised wood. He saw bolts impact on the earth around him and leapt out of their path.
He couldn’t outrun the gunship, and with every passing second his residual shelter was being blasted away. As he ran, he swung his head frantically from right to left, searching for an alternative strategy.
‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, spotting what he was after.
He skidded to a halt, throwing up a wave of scree and slush, then darted off to his right. The gunship adjusted course instantly, sending clattering bolt-rounds biting at his heels. Hafloí squeezed a few extra grammes of effort from his tortured limbs, sprinting hard down a steep bank as the remainder of his tree cover was ripped apart.
Then the land ended.
A dizzying precipice shot straight down, sheer and bald. Hafloí catapulted over the edge and out into the open. For a moment he was suspended in mid-air over a wide ravine, his legs and arms still pumpin
g, wet debris showering over him from the exploding forest above.
He plummeted fast, dragged down by his heavy plate. Twenty metres below was a tangle of boulders, ice-plates and scrub. They all swept up to meet him with pitiless speed.
The gunship followed him over the edge, picking up altitude to break clear of the remaining pines before lowering its head again and resuming fire. Projectiles whistled past Hafloí’s tumbling body, missing him by a hand’s width.
Then he was down, crunching between two huge rocks the size of Rhino transporters. The impact was sharp, sending painful shudders up through his battered body.
He staggered, righting himself, and scrambled onwards, skidding and stumbling down narrow icy paths between the boulders, ducking into their cover as the fire from above fizzed and cracked around him.
The further he went the larger the rocks became. He’d entered a maze of overlapping stone slabs, the remnants of some massive earthquake or landslip. The boulders loomed up above him, capped with messy crowns of snow. The fissures between them were treacherous, clogged with glassy patches of ice.
Hafloí barged his way further down, scraping his shoulder guards against the walls of rock that surrounded him. He was soon enclosed on either side by bulwarks of stone. The sky above him shrank to a narrow strip of white.
The gunship thundered overhead, and the fire from its gun guttered out.
Hafloí allowed himself a smile. This was better cover – the granite boulders would take some shattering. He pressed on, going as quickly as he could in the labyrinth between the rocks.
The noise of the gunship faded into the distance, then grew in volume again as it came back around. Hafloí paused, listening carefully. He heard the telltale whine of a hatch door lowering while in mid-air, and the dull crunch of ceramite against stone as one of its occupants leapt to earth.
Hafloí drew his bolt pistol from its holster and kept moving. The icy corridors between the rocks ran like cracks across an ice-sheet – joining up, splitting apart, opening into open clearings or drying up altogether. He exchanged speed for stealth. He could hear dull footfalls running across the ravine floor: ceramite boots, crunching against gravel and frost, coming closer.
Too noisy, Hunter.
Ahead of him, Hafloí saw a narrow crevasse running in from the left and joining up with the one he currently occupied. Where the two fissures met was a small opening, no more than five metres across and overlooked by towering crags on all sides. The sounds of footfalls came down the left fork, getting louder.
Hafloí pressed himself into the shadow of the nearside boulder and aimed the pistol. A second later a huge grey-armoured warrior burst into view. He went helm-less, exposing a shaven pate and black-streaked beard. He seemed to sense Hafloí’s presence and turned to face him, lowering a boltgun.
Too late.
Hafloí fired, and watched the mass-reactive round spiral towards its target. The bolt hit the warrior square in the breastplate, sending him crashing into the far boulder.
‘Hjá!’ Hafloí crowed, drawing the sword at his belt and preparing to leap after him.
‘Careful, now,’ came a low voice at his ear.
Hafloí froze.
Gingerly, he looked down. A naked blade rested against his throat, barely touching the skin. If he’d have pounced, he’d have cut his throat open.
‘And that makes you dead, whelp.’
His hearts still beating hard, he slowly let his hands fall to his sides. The blade was withdrawn.
The warrior he’d downed pushed himself away from the stone, moving stiffly. His big, ugly, snub-nosed faced was creased with laughter.
The second warrior stepped away from Hafloí, coming round from where he’d crept up behind him. The three of them – two Grey Hunters, one Blood Claw – faced one another. From some distance, the growl of the gunship could still be heard. The lower pitch of its engines indicated that it was coming down to land.
‘Skítja.’
Hafloí spat on the ground. He slammed his pistol back into its holster.
Olgeir, the big one he’d managed to hit with his neutered bolt-round, the one they called Heavy-hand, came over to punch him on the shoulder. The gesture was possibly intended to be affectionate; it felt like a slug from a lascannon.
‘Careless, lad,’ said Olgeir.
Olgeir’s gnarled face was encrusted in an impossibly dense mix of scar tissue, tattoos, ironwork piercings and curls of dark, stray hair. His streaked beard was full and unruly, cascading in snarls and braided twists over his full breastplate. For the exercise he’d reluctantly left his heavy bolter, the beloved sigrún, behind, and he looked strangely massive without it.
Olgeir’s companion shot Hafloí a dry smile.
‘You did well to outrun Jorundur,’ he said, stowing his blade. ‘He won’t be happy about that.’
Baldr Fjolnir was easier to look at than his larger battle-brother. His beard was less ragged, his skin less tortured by burns and scores. He was lean, compact, with a mouth that tended to smiles and clear amber eyes. He wore his hair long, and it still bore traces of the sandy blondness it had had when he’d been in the Claws himself.
‘You were waiting down here?’ asked Hafloí, rubbing his neck ruefully. ‘I only heard one of you land.’
Olgeir laughed again. His ugly face seemed made for it – a low, rumbling, throaty sound that rolled up from the curved barrel of his chest.
‘Not too bright,’ he observed.
Baldr was still smiling. There was no malice in the expression. The fair-haired warrior hardly looked capable of the extreme violence that his profession demanded, though Hafloí wasn’t stupid enough to doubt that he was perfectly capable of it.
‘We jumped together,’ Baldr said. ‘Make a note: that’s something an enemy might try. They’re unfair like that.’
Hafloí wasn’t in the mood to be baited. As his body recovered, his pride slumped further into a low, surly frustration.
‘Morkai,’ he swore, letting his head fall back and rolling it around. As the adrenaline stopped pumping, he could feel a whole cluster of aches and pains gathering to assail him. He’d pushed himself hard that time – harder than ever. ‘This is a joke. A joke. It’s not possible.’
Olgeir raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?’ he said. ‘So little faith – I think you’ll do it.’
Hafloí rounded on him then. He was exhausted, driven to the edge by the endless drills, the ceaseless challenges, the days he’d already spent being tested by members of a pack he’d never even wanted to join. He hadn’t done any proper fighting for weeks. He hadn’t fired a proper gun, or run at a real enemy with a real blade.
‘Fight me here, then,’ he snapped. ‘One on one – I’ll break your fat neck.’
Olgeir chuckled approvingly. Baldr shook his head.
‘No, you won’t,’ he said calmly. In the distance, Hafloí heard a muffled crunch as the Thunderhawk landed. ‘You’ll come with us, and I’ll show you what you did wrong.’
The Grey Hunter looked at Hafloí, and his expression was serious. As he returned the gaze, Hafloí realised, as he had done a dozen times already, that he had no choice.
‘Then we’ll do this again,’ said Baldr. ‘And again. Right until you find a way to kill us, just like we asked you to.’
The air was hot, sweltering in a haze of seamy darkness. Clangs boomed through it, rhythmic beats like the drums on an ancient slave galley. Sparks showered, bounced and died on the stone floor, hurled from the glowing, gaping jaws of a thousand foundries.
Gunnlaugur looked up, away from the magma-light of the forge floor and up towards the distant roof. He couldn’t see it. Thick columns of smoke swam up into the heights, pooling and drifting before being filtered up through hidden vents. The cacophony of the forging went with them – a discordant, overlapping strain of heat-softened metal be
ing beaten into shape by ranks of vast, tilting hammers.
Molten steel ran down gullies like river water, spitting and frothing as it slopped over the sides. Bloated calderas tipped up, sending fresh gushes into waiting moulds. Conveyer belts of segmented adamantium rolled endlessly, shunting metal from bulbous cooling vats, to anvils, back to the furnace, on and on in a round of hammering, shaping, folding, tapering and tempering until the proto-weapons emerged, carried off reverently by dull-eyed servitors for the benediction and finishing of tech-priests and Iron Priests.
Above it all hung the silent images of the ancient forge gods, picked out in beaten bronze and mounted on pillars of stone. As the army of semi-human artificers laboured, those bronze images flickered and glowed in the sullen light of eternal fires, staring calmly and inscrutably across the shifting gloom of the Hammerhold.
Gunnlaugur looked away from them and strode past the ranks of machines. He had not been down into the depths for a very long time, but it looked much the same as it had on every previous occasion. The smell of it was oppressive – a sharp, acrid cocktail of smog, steam and sweat that lodged in his nostrils and wouldn’t budge. There was barely room to swing an axe; none to run. It was claustrophobic, a vision of the underworld dragged up into the realm of the living.
Few Sky Warriors came to the Hammerhold without good reason. Gunnlaugur was no exception. It took him over an hour to find the one he was looking for, and it led him far away from the clamour of the main halls. Eventually retracing the routes he had taken last time, he slipped into side vaults and down cargo ramps, dodging the heavy crawlers that ground their way up from the deep-bore ore silos.
The booming clangs receded into a low murmur. A more modest vault awaited him – less than twenty metres in height, less than thirty wide. No icons of gods hung from the blackened ceiling, just bare stone worked into gothic arches. A single anvil rested in the centre of the chamber, black and heavy-set, shiny in the darkness. A furnace the height of two mortal men stood beside it, lit with shimmering coals that made the narrow opening shake with heat. A few other items stood beside the furnace – a rack hung with dozens of metalworking tools, a cauldron of water, iron caskets full of ingots – but otherwise the space was almost bare.
Blood of Asaheim Page 3