Blood of Asaheim

by Chris Wraight

  ‘We live amongst death on Fenris. From birth we are surrounded by it. It comes suddenly, the crack of an ice-sheet, the gush of flame. You cannot defend against such things. You learn to accept it: the way of things, fate. The wyrd.’

  ‘I could not live like that,’ said Bajola. ‘I have a… problem with fate.’

  Ingvar didn’t reply immediately. Bajola watched him all the while, holding his gaze with her brown eyes.

  ‘I’ve been doing all the talking,’ Ingvar said. ‘This has been an uneven bargain.’

  Bajola smiled, and lowered her eyes. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I could ask you the same things you asked me,’ he said. ‘You sit ill with your comrades. I have never heard one of your kind talk like you do. I wonder what forces created you. I wonder what forces brought you here. You are as unlikely a presence on this world as we are.’

  Bajola gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, as if to say Well read.

  ‘I was trained by the Ordo Famulous,’ she said. ‘I accompanied Hereticus Inquisitors on high-level missions and arbitrated in the disputes of planetary governors. If you’re interested, I speak twenty-nine dialects natively, six hundred more via lex-implants. I learned to read the state of a man’s soul through a single gesture. Once you read a man’s soul, you control him. At least, that was what the Inquisition taught me.’

  She sounded almost wistful as she reeled off her accomplishments.

  ‘I assume, though,’ she said, ‘that you think little of the Inquisition.’

  ‘It is always dangerous to assume,’ said Ingvar. ‘Your story is half-told. The Order of the Wounded Heart is militant, not ceremonial.’

  Bajola looked weary. ‘Ah, yes. The Wounded Heart prides itself on its burn-tally.’ She looked down at her hands, pressing her fingers together in a loose cage. ‘Why did I join them? It was not enough, in the end, to spend my days talking. I felt that I was wasting myself. I saw the effects of wars but never participated in them. I was a mouthpiece for others, never speaking for myself.’

  She looked back up at him. An edge of defiance danced around the edge of her expression.

  ‘I was advised against the transfer,’ she said. ‘They told me I wasn’t right for the Militant Orders. But there are ways of getting what you want if you try hard enough, even in the Adepta Sororitas.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Ingvar. ‘And you never regretted it?’

  The defiance in Bajola’s face faded, replaced by a more familiar resignation.

  ‘I regret plenty,’ she said. ‘I regret that this world is so damn hot, so damn arid. I regret that it will soon be put to the sword, and that so many will die. If I had stayed in the Ordo Famulous my life would have been easier, and probably longer.’

  Then she flashed a smile at him again – a knowing smile, one that spoke of a capacity for mirth that had not yet been extinguished.

  ‘But do I regret standing on my own two feet and learning to fire a bolter?’ she asked. ‘No, not at all. Turns out I’m good at it.’

  In that instant, in those few words, Ingvar felt he knew all he needed to know about Uwe Bajola. It was hard not be impressed, given the circumstances.

  ‘That makes two of us, then,’ he said.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  Gunnlaugur could hear the low fear in the canoness’s voice. The corpse lay twisted on the pristine floor of her chamber, stinking of rotting fish. Its unseeing eyes glared up at the ceiling, already beginning to decay from the inside. Its neck was swollen, bruised and oozing.

  ‘In the foundations,’ said Baldr. ‘Right under your feet.’

  To Gunnlaugur’s eye, Baldr didn’t look too good either. He seemed tired, distracted. His hair hung lankly around his forehead, which was strange. Of all of them, Baldr was normally the one who looked least like a savage.

  First Ingvar, now him, thought Gunnlaugur. What is wrong with them all?

  The canoness turned her face away from the corpse, her nose wrinkling.

  ‘It is – it was – Scholiast Geriod Nerhm,’ she said, drumming her fingers together. ‘He’s been missing for several days. I had assumed… Emperor forgive me. I had assumed that he’d deserted. Some have tried that, knowing the heat will kill them quicker.’

  Gunnlaugur studied the heap of suppurating flesh at his feet. The signs of virulence were familiar enough; the scholiast’s body could have been lifted straight from the corrupted heart of that plague-ship.

  ‘Had Nerhm been exposed to the enemy?’ he asked.

  De Chatelaine shook her head. ‘He was an official,’ she said. ‘He never left the citadel.’

  ‘What of the rest of your troops?’ asked Baldr, running a tired-looking hand across his forehead. ‘The ones you pulled back?’

  The canoness looked lost for a moment.

  ‘I– I suppose so,’ she said. ‘We have regiments extracted from the warzone, brought here to resupply. What was I supposed to do – leave them to be annihilated?’

  Gunnlaugur pursed his lips. ‘Have you seen any cases like this?’

  De Chatelaine shook her head. Her expression was distraught.

  ‘None,’ she said, weakly. ‘We didn’t think to–’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Baldr, his voice accusatory. ‘You’ve been fighting these things for weeks. There should have been quarantine for anyone coming from the front. Do you see what you’ve done?’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Gunnlaugur. He had no idea why Baldr was behaving so harshly. Blame was pointless; given the speed and severity of the outbreak of war, it would have been impossible to screen everyone.

  De Chatelaine’s face, though, had gone pale.

  ‘No, he is correct,’ she said, looking haunted. ‘We thought it was the right thing, to pull them back. We thought we were saving them. Oh, Holy Emperor…’

  Gunnlaugur shot a furious glance at Baldr.

  ‘It matters not now,’ he said. ‘We still have time. What medicae complement do you have?’

  The canoness struggled to focus.

  ‘Sisters Hospitaller, a few squads,’ she said. ‘The Sisters have training. We can run checks, set up quarantine for those in the garrisons.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Do those things. Are the gates sealed?’

  ‘Not yet. We had hoped for reinforcements. The Twelfth Guard battle-group, heading north from the ruins of Bagahz. From reports, they’re two days out.’

  Baldr rolled his eyes. ‘Do you not understand?’ he said wearily. ‘They allow them to survive. Carriers walk among them. You cannot let them in.’

  ‘They cannot be abandoned.’

  Baldr shot her a dark look. ‘There are millions of people in this city, canoness,’ he said. His voice was low but insistent. ‘Some of them will already be infected. If we act now, we might keep it down, but if you let more in, this thing will spread. You will have dozens, hundreds of living corpses within the walls. Is that what you want?’

  De Chatelaine looked down at the corpse, her drawn face riven with indecision.

  ‘Seal the gates,’ insisted Baldr, looking briefly to Gunnlaugur for support. ‘Allow none to pass in or out. Then start the purges. You’ll need flamer teams – everything contaminated must be destroyed.’

  Still de Chatelaine hesitated. For the first time, Gunnlaugur noticed the deep lines of fatigue around her eyes. She’d been fighting without pause for too long.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Gunnlaugur quietly.

  Slowly, very slowly, de Chatelaine’s chin lowered.

  ‘It will be done,’ she said. ‘Leave it to me. We have allowed this into the city, we will purge it.’ She sighed deeply. ‘So they have got what they wanted. We will be cooped up here, unable to strike out, waiting for them like rats in a trap.’

  ‘No, we will not,’ said G
unnlaugur fiercely. ‘We – the pack – we can still fight. We’ll hit them on the plains, blood them, show them what manner of warrior defends the city. It’ll give you some time.’

  De Chatelaine looked unconvinced. ‘I had hoped you would help us here,’ she said.

  ‘Right now they fear nothing on this world. When we have done with them they will fear plenty.’ He grinned coldly, baring his long hooked fangs. ‘It’s what we’re bred for.’

  On another day, perhaps she might have resisted longer. The toll of her workload, though, combined with guilt, seemed to dilute her will.

  ‘You will do what you judge best,’ she said, her eyes flickering to the corpse lying on the floor before her. ‘But if you go, just make sure you hurt them. Hurt them badly. For the first time since this thing began, I find myself wanting to see them truly suffer.’

  She stared at the scholiast’s body stonily. Then she recovered herself, and looked back up to the Wolf Guard.

  ‘I have much to do,’ she said. Her voice had recovered some of its steel. ‘Purge-teams will be dispatched. We will root this out.’ She shot him a wintry smile. ‘If there’s one thing we know how to do, it’s burn.’

  Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘You will not be alone,’ he said. ‘While the sun shines, we fight here. After that, the pack hunts.’

  De Chatelaine bowed. ‘So be it,’ she said. ‘While the sun shines.’

  Then she turned, pivoting sharply on her heel, and strode out of the chamber. Her boots clinked against the marble, echoing from her heavy tread.

  After she’d gone, Baldr made to do the same. Gunnlaugur prevented him, raising a hand before his chest.

  ‘Brother,’ he said. The tone he used was firm. ‘Speak to me.’

  Baldr looked back at him. His complexion was pale, his eyes dull. He did not look sick, exactly. Drained, perhaps.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You are not yourself.’

  Baldr’s eyelids twitched. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘The warp passage was… difficult. I will recover.’

  Gunnlaugur didn’t release him.

  ‘Ingvar suffers like that,’ he said. ‘I have to worry about you both now?’

  Baldr smiled. It was a distracted, snatched gesture. ‘Don’t worry about either of us,’ he said. ‘We’re not children.’

  Gunnlaugur’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘I don’t like to see you like this,’ he said. ‘It’s enough that Jorundur is forever in foul temper. You were always the one I could rely on to keep your head. If something is amiss, tell me.’

  Baldr hesitated. For a moment, he looked unsure of himself. His dull eyes flickered up to meet Gunnlaugur’s, then away again.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘Just warp-sickness. It will pass.’ He took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders. ‘I need to hunt. To hunt properly. Void-war is one thing. It doesn’t match the chase. You feel it too.’

  Gunnlaugur nodded. He let his hand fall away. ‘When night falls, brother’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ Baldr’s eyes alighted on the corpse. ‘For now, though, work to do.’

  Gunnlaugur grunted distastefully. ‘Aye,’ he growled, looking at the pile of pustulent matter at his feet. It would be the first to enter the furnace. Many more would follow. ‘Summon the rest of them. Time we got started.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Ahlja Yemue woke up. Her eyes opened lazily, bleary with mucus. It was hard to open her eyes. She would have preferred to sleep. Sleep was all she had wanted to do for a while. The pain was less when she slept, even though the dreams were bad.

  But she couldn’t sleep. Not now. The itching compelled her. It made her limbs restive and her mind fractious. She needed to move. She had something to do.

  Ahlja pushed her coverlet down. It smelled bad and was heavy with sweat. The mattress under her was damp and hot. The room around her was thick with flies.

  That wasn’t good. She didn’t like flies. Why were they there? She should have cleaned up. She was a good cleaner, the most fastidious in her hab.

  At some point the flies had got in and they hadn’t left. She didn’t remember when. Remembering anything was hard. Why was remembering anything hard?

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bunk and tottered upright. She was thirsty. Her throat felt furry and baked. Swallowing was painful.

  Ahlja looked at the window and winced. Strong sunlight burned away at the edges of the blinds. It looked like late afternoon outside. She shouldn’t have been sleeping in the day. There was work to be done. It was lazy.

  Work to be done. Work to be done.

  Her mind seemed to run in circles. Whenever she tried to think of something new, the same old thoughts would cycle around and around.

  Get up. Get up. Get up. Work to be done.

  Ahlja shambled into the washroom. Her feet ached. They looked swollen. She wouldn’t be able to squeeze them into her shoes. She’d have to go outside barefoot. That would be embarrassing. Helod would see her like that. She’d gossip about it. Hateful Helod. Why were her feet so swollen? Some misfortune must have occurred.

  She reached the basin and stared into the cracked mirror above it. She didn’t remember it breaking. It looked as if someone had thrown something at the glass, trying to shatter it.

  Ahlja looked at herself.

  Holy Throne. I look…

  Get up. Get up. Work to be done.

  She looked away. It wasn’t nice, seeing all those things on her face. She rubbed her hands across her belly, feeling the flesh sway and bulge.

  She was running to fat. Really, badly, running to fat.

  She felt sick. She need to drink something. She needed to eat something.

  She stumbled into the next room. No food there. Just her living area, tatty and smelly and buzzing with flies. The floor was covered in stains. One corner had a pile of drying, caking vomit in it. Other parts were worse.

  I should clean this up. Very soon. Just need to find the time.

  She kept walking, swaying heftily under her nightshirt, wincing as the material scraped across her lesions. Her feet trod through puddles of sticky liquid.

  No time now. No time now. No time now.

  She ran her hands over her hips. She felt the swollen curves there, pressing up against her nightshirt. So bloated, so uncomfortable, like something was trying to push its way out. How long had it been like that? She couldn’t remember.

  She did remember the man, though, the one who’d been helping her. He’d been nice. What was his name?

  It doesn’t matter. Work to be done.

  She’d appreciated his kindness. He’d been very good to her, offering the balm that soothed the worst of the rashes and making the spiced tea that had cleared her head a little and patiently winding the bandages around her sores on her calves and arms and neck. He’d been there for her ever since she’d first got sick. He’d never left her. So attentive. So kind, even if he’d always smelled strange.

  Perhaps that tea had made her stomach swell.

  Ahlja pushed open the door and limped down the stairs. The air was cleaner outside her hab-unit. The communal corridor was free of all the muck on her floor. That was shameful. The others had got ahead of her. Helod would be gossiping already, holding her nose and pointing at her doorway with spiteful eyes.

  It doesn’t matter. Work to be done. Work to be done.

  She reached the outside door and pushed against it. Sunlight flooded over her, blinding her, making her head throb. She felt dizzy and leaned against the frame. She could hear people talking and jostling around her.

  They were in the street, those people. She’d gone out into the street wearing her nightdress. Why was she doing that? It was indecent.

  It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

  She kept walking. The sunlight hurt her eyes so she kept one hand over them. It was hard
to walk. The stones in the street cut her skin. She felt the sores on her soles burst, popping open and spilling their fluids. She felt her belly sway. Throne, she really had got fat. It was embarrassing.

  She heard people gagging around her. She opened her fingers a little, just a crack, to see what was going on. They were running away from her, or pointing at her with disgust on their faces, or laughing.

  That almost made her stop. Why were they laughing? Why were they disgusted? Should she go back, clean herself up? Why was she even in the street in her nightshirt?

  It doesn’t matter. You have work to do. You have important work to do. They do not matter. They do not matter.

  She kept going. She didn’t like it when her mind cycled. If she just kept going, her mind cycled less.

  Then she heard shouting. She heard a woman screaming, and she heard men crying something over and over again. She didn’t like that. It upset her. She broke into a run, which was difficult on her cut feet and with her sagging belly.

  Do it now. Do it now. Do it now.

  Do what? Why was her mind cycling again?

  She picked up speed, bumping and jostling against the walls around her. She stumbled over a drain-cover, nearly pitching headfirst into the dust of the road. The sunlight made it so hard to see. She didn’t know where she was. Near the cathedral? She hoped so – she liked the cathedral. The priests had blessed her there, three times, maybe more. So hard to remember.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  The voice was like a woman’s, though horrifying; monstrously loud. Ahlja spun round, opening her fingers.

  She saw a monster coming at her, running after her: a huge, tall monster, clad in black armour and wreathed in fire. She saw the monster carrying an enormous metal weapon that smoked and spat from its muzzle. She saw the people scattering away from the monster, breaking away from her, sprinting up the street, screaming and falling.

  Do it now. Do it now.

  Do what? She got very scared. The monster was almost on her. She dropped her hands from her face, squinting around her, trying to work out where she was.