Blood of Asaheim

by Chris Wraight

  He let his blade fall away, leaving a thin line of blood against Ingvar’s flesh. Ingvar reached up to feel it, wincing.

  Váltyr strolled away from him, swishing his sword idly through the air. Ingvar watched him go.

  ‘You missed something, Eversson,’ said Váltyr. ‘I made a mistake, right there at the end.’

  Ingvar sheathed dausvjer.

  ‘Didn’t catch it,’ he said. ‘You were too fast. Again.’

  Váltyr laughed. ‘We should do this more often. Perhaps you could teach me some of those Blood Angels tricks.’

  Ingvar nodded. ‘Surely. When this is healed.’

  Váltyr bowed, with a victor’s gratitude. ‘Perhaps I’ll sleep now,’ he said, opening the door to the cage and stepping through it. ‘You should do likewise.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Ingvar watched Váltyr go. There was a slight spring in the sverdhjera’s step – barely perceptible, but definitely there.

  Alone again, Ingvar drew his blade and looked at it for a moment. Then he stepped into guard and executed the sotano. Perfectly.

  I could have done it. I could have halted him.

  Callimachus came to mind again, soft-spoken, courteous, reserved.

  ‘Why didn’t you strike him?’ Ingvar had demanded, back when Jocelyn had initiated yet another challenge to the squad leader’s authority.

  Callimachus had looked at him with a tolerant, cautious eye, as if weighing up whether a Wolf of Fenris could really be expected to understand such things.

  ‘I was taught this,’ he’d said. ‘Do not win every battle that you can, only those that you must. I did not wish to shame him.’

  ‘He’ll think you’re weak.’

  ‘What does that matter? I am not.’

  Ingvar looked up, out towards the door that Váltyr had taken.

  The decision had been the right one. Váltyr did not need another reason to resent his return; the inevitable tension between them would be eased by his victory.

  For all that, frustration burned away within him. He was too much of a Fenrisian not to chafe against defeat, real or imagined. Before Onyx, he would never have willingly lost a fight.

  Before Onyx, he would not have had the skill to avoid it.

  These contradictions will grow, he thought. I will become a contradiction.

  He knew he wouldn’t sleep. The hours would pass in wakefulness, made sharper by the knowledge of his concession to another’s pride.

  He started to move again, forcing his aching muscles back into practice strikes, making them move faster than before, more savagely.

  I could have done it.

  The sword danced in the dark, tracing tighter arcs than ever, propelled by his sullen anger.

  He imagined Váltyr’s face before him, not bright with triumph, but open-eyed with surprise.

  I could have done it.

  Baldr woke suddenly. His eyes snapped open, staring into perfect dark.

  He lay on his back, breathing heavily. He could feel the layers of sweat on his skin, chilling rapidly. Both his hearts were working hard, beating out a tremulous pattern that he could hear as well as feel.

  ‘Lumen,’ he whispered.

  A single globe flickered into life, casting a bleached glow over the narrow cell. It showed up pressed metal walls pocked with bands of rivets; a mesh floor; a low ceiling; a single bunk, worked out of a solid slab of stone.

  Baldr didn’t move. He watched, he breathed, waiting for his body to recover.

  He could still hear the echoes. The voices were very faint, hovering just on the edge of hearing, but they were still there. He hadn’t been able to understand them even in his dreams. Now they ran through his waking mind, cycling in an incessant babble of half-sensical syllables and phonemes.

  He reached up for the warding pendant at his chest, only then remembering that he’d given it to Ingvar. His fingers closed over emptiness.

  That may have been rash.

  The grind of the engines hammered away far below, thrumming up the walls of the cell and making them shiver. The hum of it was maddening after a while unless you could tune it out, which he couldn’t.

  That is surely the problem. I cannot tune them out. I must learn to ignore them.

  Baldr knew he should have sought out Stormcaller while on Fenris. The problem had become too intrusive, too frequent, and he’d long since passed the point where guidance had become necessary.

  He wasn’t even sure why he’d resisted it. Not fear, not of a straight-forward kind. Perhaps caution, or maybe an unwillingness to trouble the great ones on account of half-remembered nightmares and unidentifiable inklings.

  It was worse when in the warp. Many minds had strange dreams while in the warp. Baldr knew that Ingvar suffered, and he had considered confiding in him. Years ago he would have done so without hesitation, but now, after so much time and space had come between them, things were not so easy.

  He opened his mouth, taking a slow draught of cold air. His second heart stopped beating. His first returned to its normal rate.

  He could hear the activity of the ship on the decks around, above and below him. Kaerls trudged down corridors, filtration units wheezed as they pushed recycled air around, slaved stabiliser systems ticked over gently, emitting occasional chittering bursts as the Undrider’s machine core instructed them to adjust some parameter or other.

  It felt like being in the belly of a single giant organism.

  He pulled himself up onto his elbows. No more sleep would come to him that night. His clammy hair fell in lank strands around his face. He lifted a hand up to his eyes, and saw sweat glistening on the flesh. He watched a line of moisture run down the curved surface of his palm, leaving a thin trail like rain on glass.

  Things would be easier once out of the empyrean. Perhaps a stint of garrison work, leavened with manageable combat missions, would be beneficial. Dull, perhaps, but restorative.

  Baldr let his hand fall back to the bunk. The sweat on his skin evaporated fast, chilling him. He didn’t reach for a cloth to wipe it clear – his body was more than capable of adjusting. In any case, the cold would do him good. It would introduce some clarity.

  He lowered himself back down, resting his head again. His open eyes stared, defocused, up at the ceiling.

  Dull, but restorative.

  I should not hope for such things.

  It would be easier once out of the empyrean.

  Chapter Six

  ‘We are coming through now, lord.’

  Bjargborn’s voice betrayed some of measure of relief. Gunnlaugur guessed it hadn’t been easy for him sharing a cramped, poorly-equipped frigate with a pack of prowling, unsatisfied Sky Warriors. He’d done well, all things considered.

  ‘Very good, master,’ said Gunnlaugur, slicking his beard down with lacquer ready to receive his helm. ‘Bring us in close.’

  Gunnlaugur liked mortals. He liked their simplicity and prized their bravery. Kaerls were a tough breed even without genetic manipulation – they stood their ground, they followed orders, they knew how to hold an axe when the situation demanded it. Bjargborn was a good example of the type.

  The master swung round in the throne to direct the break back into real space. Ahead of him the lead panels on the observation dome creaked and snapped, ready to withdraw when the bolts were pulled.

  The seven members of Járnhamar stood on the dais behind the throne, just as they had done at the start of the warp-transit. All of them wore their armour. Gunnlaugur could sense their eagerness to have earth under their feet again. It was most palpable in Baldr, for some reason. He’d lost his habitual air of unconcern, and looked drained by the warp passage.

  ‘The veil is breaking,’ reported Bjargborn. ‘Navigator reports that your desire to come in close will be satisfied.’

  The
Undrider’s hull creaked, as if braced against crosswinds. The low grumble of the warp engines cycled down, ready to be replaced by the imminent roar of real space drives.

  ‘Let’s get a look at this place, then,’ breathed Gunnlaugur, his eyes fixed on the observation dome, ready for the withdrawal of the shields.

  A crack echoed up from the frigate’s bowels, and the deck trembled. A sound like an elongated scream shuddered across the command chamber, followed by a rushing hiss.

  The void drives thundered into life. The ether-screens slammed back into place. For a second, the viewer panes were smeary with snags of false colour. Then they clarified into the deep velvet of the void, punctuated by a pinprick-sharp starfield. In the centre of the display, dead ahead, was a rust-red world scarred by iron-black birthmarks.

  The cogitators around the throne burst into life as screeds of data suddenly flooded into the sensoria. Servitors started up their swollen-tongued chattering, and banks of bronze-ringed lights flickered. The Undrider was once again in the world of physics and matter.

  ‘Bring her up to approach speed,’ ordered Gunnlaugur calmly, walking forwards to Bjargborn’s side to get a better look at the view ahead. ‘Anything on the auspexes?’

  Bjargborn worked smoothly, his fingers running over levers and dials set into the arms of his throne.

  ‘Nothing yet, lord. Translation has been affected with ninety-two per– Ah. We’re getting something. Are we getting something? Yes, I’ve got ship signatures.’

  Gunnlaugur felt the hairs on his neck stiffen.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Behind him, he heard Olgeir’s low growl. The sweet tang of kill-urge suddenly pricked in his glands.

  ‘Unencrypted traffic picked up,’ reported Bjargborn, flicking a switch to send the feed to bridge-wide audio. ‘No location yet.’

  Speakers set on either side of the command throne crackled into a fizz of white noise.

  Ingvar drew up alongside Gunnlaugur. His grey eyes fixed steadily on the blood-red orb suspended in front of them. His expression was taut.

  ‘Do not broadcast that signal,’ he said.

  Bjargborn’s hands moved to comply, but it was too late. For a few seconds, the fizz dissolved into recognisable word shapes, thick with phlegmy distortion.

  ‘–sccrxxscrt… sfccgh… skeerrs… talemon mon mon morrdar ek’skadderjjul… nergal alech frarrjar… ach h’jar nergal–’

  The feed broke off.

  ‘How many ships?’ Gunnlaugur demanded.

  ‘One, lord,’ said Bjargborn. His face was white. He didn’t understand the words, but he knew what kind of mouth uttered them. ‘I think.’

  Gunnlaugur turned round to face the pack. He felt his blood already beginning to pump.

  ‘Ensure full power to the weapons.’ He seized his helm from his belt and lowered it over his head. ‘Maintain full speed.’

  Járnhamar were moving too. Jorundur took position by the throne, his eyes sparkling with sudden excitement. The others donned helms, twisting them into place with a series of tight hisses.

  Gunnlaugur glanced up at the observation dome, scouring the starfield. His animal spirits were active already, priming his muscles, making him alert, speeding his thoughts.

  ‘Find it,’ he snarled. ‘Then kill it.’

  Void battles were strange and varied things. Most were settled over unimaginably vast distances and conducted via the statistical feeds of locator machines, neither captain ever setting eyes on his opponent. Some lasted for months, with ships dropping in and out of the warp in a drawn-out attempt to gain positional advantage. Some were brutally simple – a rammed hull cracking apart in a destructive orgy of engine detonation, an overloaded shield generator causing a cascade of ruinous chain reactions. The variables to consider were immense, the variety inexhaustible.

  Which was why Jorundur enjoyed it. No motive cogitator had the imagination, the flair, to take on void war. It was left to flesh-and-blood captains, men and women who knew the tolerances of their ships like they knew the limits of their own bodies, souls who could eke out the last gramme of power and aggression while the universe exploded in fire and blood around them.

  This situation, of course, was different. Jorundur had no more understanding of the Undrider’s finer-edged capabilities than a newly-inducted ensign. It would have been prudent to leave matters in Bjargborn’s hands, trusting in the mortal’s experience of his vessel’s powers.

  But that would have been no fun. And, despite what many believed about Jorundur, his capacity to find enjoyment in his work had not been entirely lost over the centuries.

  ‘There it is,’ he said, pointing at a fast-moving blob on the forward auspex picter. ‘Give me hololithic local space. What are the shields doing? Speed to maximum – we need to close it down.’

  Bjargborn complied without hesitation. A three-dimensional matrix flickered into life above them, glowing in lines of red and gold, dominated by the globe of Ras Shakeh. It showed the position of the Undrider closing fast on the planet. Another signal emerged from the far side of the world, moving directly towards them to intercept.

  Jorundur had no idea what the ship was doing there. He could hear Gunnlaugur trying to establish comms with the world below and failing. All he knew was that it was there, that it was commanded by something unholy, and that it needed to die. The circumstances of its presence could wait until its carcass was burning up on re-entry.

  ‘What are we facing?’ he demanded, watching the signal race into range. ‘Give me something to work with.’

  ‘On screen,’ said Bjargborn, switching long-range scanner readings onto a picter mounted next to the command throne. A three-dimensional schematic sheered into life on the hololith, spinning around its axis.

  ‘Arch-enemy,’ said Gunnlaugur immediately.

  ‘A destroyer,’ confirmed Bjargborn, watching fresh columns of data running down the hololith boundaries. ‘Its weapons are powering up.’

  Jorundur scrutinised the flickering image rotating before him. The bridge around him ran with shouts and orders as weapon systems were brought online and the void shields raised. The lumens overhead dimmed, replaced by the dull red glow of combat lighting.

  ‘Can we kill it?’ demanded Gunnlaugur. ‘Decide now.’

  Jorundur growled. He needed more time. The outline of the destroyer was… odd. Its guns looked misshapen. It might have been Idolater-class, but if so then something bizarre had happened to its hull. The Undrider was probably faster, but his hunch was that it was weaker and packed less of a punch.

  ‘Ashamed you even asked,’ he growled, fixing his eyes on the hololith and gauging distances. ‘Maintain speed and course. Prepare for drop to nadir on my mark, ten thousand kilometres.’

  Bjargborn scurried to comply. Warning lights strobed across the picter array, warning of energy spikes out in the void.

  ‘Lance strike!’ shouted a kaerl from the sensoria station.

  ‘Too far away,’ breathed Jorundur. ‘They’re too–’

  Space ahead of them exploded into a blaze of harsh, caustic light. The Undrider slammed to port-zenith, sending unsecured crew members tumbling across the marble floor. Klaxons blared out, and the combat lumens flickered twice before resuming.

  ‘Evasive action!’ ordered Bjargborn.

  ‘Do not dare,’ threatened Jorundur. ‘In closer.’

  Gunnlaugur, still on his feet, looked at him sharply. ‘Closer?’

  ‘We can’t hit it back at this range,’ snapped Jorundur. ‘All we’ve got is speed.’

  ‘Hits to forward voids,’ reported a servitor. The voice was dry and empty of concern. ‘Damage on dorsal plates. Repair crews dispatched.’

  Ingvar approached the throne and stared hard at the hololith image of the enemy ship. Jorundur ignored him.

  ‘Down now, hard,’ he ordered. �
�Scrape the planet’s edge, find us some more speed.’

  The Undrider plunged towards the world below, and the huge orb began to fill the real space viewers. As it did so another energy beam scythed past, missing the crenelated spine of the frigate by less than a kilometre. The growl of the engines swelled to a howling whine and the deck trembled beneath their feet.

  ‘This is hurting,’ warned Bjargborn, as more warning lights blinked on across a dozen consoles.

  The structure of the bridge started to rattle. The sound of something shattering echoed up from a lower deck, followed by a diminishing run of sharp cracks.

  Jorundur ignored all of it. Proximity indicators rattled down in front of him, tracking the shrinking gap between the two ships. They were still too far out, and the enemy had the range on them.

  ‘Open fire, master,’ he ordered.

  ‘We don’t have–’

  ‘Open fire or lose your teeth.’

  The Undrider’s forward lance sent a shard of sun-white light arcing into the void. Banks of lascannons opened up all along the prow, briefly flaring up against the dark before disappearing in a hail of scattered beams.

  The barrage caused no damage, but the enemy adjusted trajectory, just by a fraction, enough to postpone the next volley. By then the Undrider’s course across the fringes of Ras Shakeh’s atmosphere was hurling it onwards even faster. Continents blurred by underneath them in smudges of red and black.

  A few seconds more…

  The enemy barrage hammered in again. The destroyer opened up with ship-to-ship las-fire and the Undrider took hits all along its exposed starboard flanks, making the shielding buck, flex and crackle.

  ‘Losing voids!’ shouted a kaerl from the cogitator banks, seconds before a hard bang made the chamber shake. The Undrider swung keenly down and to port, lurching off course just as a baroque cluster of cabling exploded overhead, showering the floor in bouncing, tumbling sparks.

  ‘And that’s enough running,’ said Jorundur, standing defiant and unconcerned against the ship’s yawing tilt. ‘Now we return the favour.’

  He caught sight of the enemy in the realview portals then – a bruise-black, bulbous destroyer, swinging in closer for another pass. Its forward lance was already blazing white, ready for the next spike. The telltale glitter of void shields shimmered across its outline, still intact.