Blood of Asaheim Page 19

  ‘You think so?’ asked Gunnlaugur. ‘That’s not what I saw.’

  Váltyr sighed. ‘What do you want me to say? If he’s changed, we all have.’

  Gunnlaugur remained motionless. It was impossible to read the expression behind his bloody helm mask.

  ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d spoken against him. Yours was the only rune-sword in Járnhamar. Now there are two. You need to know this, though: you are my blademaster, my right arm of vengeance. That has not changed.’

  Váltyr didn’t know what to make of that. He hadn’t asked for reassurance. The fact that it was being offered at all gave him pause.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said.

  Gunnlaugur started walking again.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of this city,’ he muttered. ‘Hunting this scum is weary work.’

  ‘Just say the word, vaerangi,’ said Váltyr, following him. ‘We’ll all follow you out.’

  ‘No.’ The finality in Gunnlaugur’s voice was sudden. ‘Not all of you. I don’t want Ingvar with us. I don’t want him questioning orders. I don’t want him slowing us down. Skítja, I don’t want him there at all.’

  Váltyr didn’t like hearing that. It was not the way of the pack: Ingvar had behaved strangely since his return, sure, but he had been back only a few short weeks. There was time for that to change, for his old self to re-emerge.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. Gunnlaugur answered him with a snarl.

  ‘It is my judgement,’ he said. ‘You, me, Olgeir, Baldr and the whelp – we’ll conduct this raid. Ingvar can stay here with Jorundur and stiffen the resolve of the Sisters. Russ knows there’s plenty to keep them busy.’

  Váltyr shook his head. ‘He won’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘He doesn’t have to.’ Gunnlaugur swung his hammer menacingly as he walked. The head of it rolled like a pendulum in the gloom. ‘But I need you to support me. I have your word?’

  Váltyr didn’t like that either. In fifty-seven years Gunnlaugur had never asked him to support anything. He’d just gone ahead and acted – that was the way of things. Now, without warning, that seemed to have changed. It was as if all Gunnlaugur’s certainty, his famed pride and justified battle-arrogance, was eroding before his eyes.

  For a moment, Váltyr felt like protesting, arguing Ingvar’s case, standing up for the unity of a broken brotherhood.

  But he didn’t. He looked across at Gunnlaugur, noticing the pent-up frustration in the warrior’s shoulder-roll, the over-tight grip on the warhammer, the almost imperceptible stiffness in his long stride, and thought better of it.

  Perhaps it was for the best. A hunt – a clean hunt with no dissension – would clear the air.

  ‘You always have my support,’ said Váltyr, haltingly, trying to inject more certainty into his voice than he felt.

  ‘Good,’ said Gunnlaugur bluntly, sounding like he’d been given what he needed. ‘Then let’s get it over with. We meet at the Ighala Gate.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Váltyr.

  Gunnlaugur let slip a low, snagging growl.

  ‘Then we break out of this shithole,’ he said, ‘and bring Hel to the enemy.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The great sun sank towards the western horizon like a smouldering ingot of gold, turning the sky bronze and setting the world’s edge alive with fire. Shadows streaked across the rust-red of the plains, rippling over runnels of sand and merging in their broken lees. The air lost its heaviness; it remained hot, but the searing, beating oppressiveness of it lightened just a little.

  In happier times, dusk was magical on Ras Shakeh, a time to light candles under the lintels of the doorways and file towards one of the city’s one hundred and twenty-nine chapels to perform rites of devotion. Scents of cinnamon and gahl-oil would rise from braziers and thuribles, intermingling with the murmur and hum of voices lost in prayer and wonder.

  Now, though, the coming of night was far from magical. Hjec Aleja burned with unholy fires now, punctured across its expanse by the immolation of plague-addled saboteurs. Pyres constructed before the chapel doors now smoked from the charred bodies of the damned. The roast-pork stench of smouldering human flesh hung like a cloud over the narrow roofs and winding streets.

  Burning the infected was the only way to limit the damage. Keeping the flesh intact created foul cradles for the blowflies and maggots that spread the sickness. The Sisters worked methodically through the city’s many districts, dragging those with signs of infection from their habs and administering the Emperor’s Mercy. Civilians looked on sullenly, only partially aware of the dangers posed by the plague-carriers in their midst, resentful of the savage measures taken to keep the healthy intact. Rumours filtered up to the Halicon of riots in the poorer quarters, of families sheltering mutants in cellars and under floors, and fighting to keep them hidden from the burn-teams.

  They were only rumours, but this was just the beginning. All knew it would get worse.

  Olgeir stood on the ramparts of the Ighala Gate, just under the shadow of one of its many defence towers, and gazed out over the cityscape below. Unlike his brothers he had taken no part in the hunt. His energies had been devoted to the city’s defensive preparations: shoring up wall sections, excavating fire trenches, demolishing paths through the tangle of buildings to allow the passage of arms. He’d worked tirelessly throughout the day, hauling and lifting alongside the mechanised transports, roaring at the mortal labourers and exhorting them to greater feats of sacrifice. Many of the men were already exhausted, thrown into construction work straight from active tours on the battle-fronts to the south and west.

  Olgeir felt pity for them. He recognised their sacrifice, he could see the pain in their faces, he knew what some of them had already faced.

  He gave them no quarter. Time was short, and the storm front was closing. With the Sisters preoccupied with containing the infection, much of the task of improving the defences had fallen to him. He’d embraced it, throwing himself into the heavy, draining labour as if he alone could somehow refashion the entire city in the few days that remained. He’d trudged up and down the lines of sweating labourers between the inner walls and the outer gate, marshalling them, bellowing for more supplies, physically clearing blockages and barriers when mortal endurance failed.

  But even his strength was not infinite. As the last of the sun’s rays sank below the horizon, he leaned on the stone walls of the soaring inner wall and felt the sweat rising from his body like steam from a horse’s flanks. Every muscle in his huge body throbbed painfully, chafing at the input nodes where his power armour interfaced.

  He let his shaggy head fall back and pulled in a long, long draught of night-warm air, feeling the smoky taste of it against the back of his throat. Above him, the stars gazed down, points of brilliant silver in a field of darkening nightshade.

  ‘Hjá, great one,’ came a familiar voice from further down the parapet, towards the Ighala gatehouse where more lascannons were being slowly winched into place.

  Olgeir smiled as he turned to face Baldr. ‘Good hunting?’ he asked.

  Baldr grinned. His face was speckled with gore and his long hair hung unplaited around his neck. His helm had been locked to his belt and his blade was sheathed.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ he said, drawing alongside Olgeir and looking out over the city below. ‘Kill one, another runs from cover. It’s thirsty work.’

  Olgeir looked at Baldr carefully. He looked better than he had done when they’d made planetfall. His eyes had their old intensity back, like soft orbs of gold. Perhaps his cheeks looked a little more sunken than they should have, but his voice had recovered its calm, easy assurance.

  ‘It suits you, brother,’ he said. ‘I’d begun to worry.’

  Baldr sheathed his blade and leaned heavily against the stone railing.

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Bu
t nice to know I have a nursemaid.’

  Olgeir let a rumble of laughter escape his chapped lips. It felt good to let his lungs expand after so much heavy lifting. He stretched his arms out, feeling the muscles pull, loosening the stiff layers of hard flesh.

  ‘Don’t relax too much,’ he warned. ‘We’ll be heading out again soon.’

  Baldr nodded, looking eager enough. ‘Aye,’ he said, softly. ‘Can’t wait.’

  He meant it. His face had a hungry look to it, one that hung around his grey features like a scent. He stared out across the twinkling cityscape as the dusk-lights were lit, beyond the outer walls and across the wine-dark plains beyond.

  ‘You’ve been working hard,’ Baldr said, scanning the earthworks that scarred the route down the outer gate.

  Olgeir snorted. ‘We could have weeks and it wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Still. You’ve done plenty.

  Olgeir shrugged. ‘The main gates are rigged with incendiaries,’ he said. ‘Once they break in, we’ll burn their entire vanguard. After that they’ve got three layers of trenches to get across. We’ll pump promethium into them once this thing starts – it’ll take them a while to wade through all that. And this place has twice the armaments on it now. I diverted a whole stash they’d been planning to mount on the Halicon walls. No point keeping them there. If they get that far we’ll all be dead and rotting.’

  Baldr nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. Much more to do?’

  ‘Depends how long we’ve got,’ said Olgeir. ‘When the Sisters aren’t burning plague-carriers they’re training the civilians to shoot straight, which is worth doing, but they won’t do much more than slow the advance.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen mortals learn to fight. These ones are scared enough. They know there’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Olgeir grimly.

  Baldr’s fingers drummed against the parapet railing. He pushed himself away from them, grasped the hilt of his sword, then released it again. His movements looked nervy, impatient.

  ‘Where are the others?’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘We should be going.’

  Olgeir watched him warily. Perhaps his earlier assessment had been too optimistic. It was strange to see Baldr so transformed, so removed from his usual self.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said cautiously. ‘Brother, I mean no disrespect, but are you sure you’re feeling…’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He’d got so used to Baldr’s calmness, his lack of fuss or drama, that finding the words to express concern was difficult.

  Baldr looked back at him for a moment. It looked like he was going to say something, to unload some long-clutched anxiety.

  ‘Heavy-hand!’

  Ingvar’s clear voice rang out across the parapet. Baldr spun round, the moment gone, his expression clearing.

  ‘Gyrfalkon,’ he said, clasping Ingvar’s hand as he came to join them.

  Olgeir greeted him in turn. Ingvar looked pleased to see both of them.

  ‘Others not here yet?’ he asked. Like Baldr, his face and armour were speckled with dried gore. He hadn’t wiped it free of his matted hair or skin; the Wolves wore the blood of their enemies as marks of pride.

  ‘You were always faster,’ said Baldr. ‘Many kills?’

  Ingvar nodded. ‘Crawling all over the Cathedral district.’ He patted dausvjer’s scabbard. ‘Not any more.’

  Olgeir shook his head with disgust.

  ‘That blade shouldn’t sully itself with filth,’ he said. ‘The Sisters should have nailed this down themselves – they’ve had weeks.’

  ‘They’ve done plenty,’ said Ingvar. ‘This is a shrineworld, the garrison here is tiny. Don’t judge them too harshly.’

  Olgeir chuckled. ‘So she’s got to you,’ he said. ‘You’ve gone native.’

  Ingvar smiled. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But they can fight. You’ll see it.’

  ‘We’ll all see it,’ said Baldr.

  The noise of more boots crunched along the parapet. Three more warriors emerged from the shadows of the Ighala Gate tower. Gunnlaugur and Váltyr marched together; Hafloí trailed behind. The Blood Claw bore almost no trace of the wound he’d taken on the plague-ship. Váltyr’s expression was hard to read. He seemed tense, as if already preparing for the combat to come. Gunnlaugur’s burly face was expectant and heavy with kill-urge. He looked ready to burst out of the walls, ready to plunge into the oncoming horde and smash it apart single-handed.

  ‘Now listen,’ he said, looking across the assembled pack. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’

  Vuokho’s innards spilled across the blast plate, patchily lit by scaffold-mounted flood-lumens arranged around the perimeter. Whole engine sections lay on the rockcrete, stripped down and exposed to the night air. Oils and lubricants stained the ground in splatters. The landing stage hummed with the low buzz of machine tools, the whine of drills, the thud of rivet-guns. Welders threw dazzling arcs of blue fire across the scene. Between it all, dull-eyed labourers shuffled into place to lift, clamp, cut and fit.

  They were all servitors, and they crawled over the gunship’s carcass like scavengers picking at the bones of a fallen giant. Some looked almost species-normal, with only puckered grey skin and augmetic limb-units giving them away; others were more machine than human, with mere fragments of muscle and sinew stretched between jointed tracks and thickets of cabling. They slaved silently, ignoring the sparks from the welders as they burned against unprotected skin, never slowing, never hurrying.

  Jorundur clambered out of an inspection pit under the gunship’s huge underbelly and wiped his forehead. His skin was covered in streaks of inky engine oil, his beard singed from the hot metal of the thruster housings. He’d removed his armour and wore a filthy brown tunic that exposed the burnished sweat of his arms.

  He seized a rag from one of the more human-looking servitors and ran it over his neck. His hair and beard hung lank about his gaunt face.

  ‘Progress?’ he asked.

  The servitor looked back at him vacantly.

  ‘Task at phase alpha, lord. Estimated completion: five local days. Parts missing. List follows: two fuel-line regulator valves, three boost-plug sleeves, one–’

  ‘Spare me,’ sighed Jorundur, throwing the rag back at the demi-human workman. It slapped the creature full in the face and slid down to the floor. The servitor didn’t flinch.

  ‘Blood of Russ,’ swore Jorundur, limping around the apron to get a better look at Vuokho’s flanks. He felt stiff and awkward, a result of hours spent hunched over piles of crackling component-bundles. ‘Hopeless.’

  He stomped around to the cockpit. Its angular nose hung above him, still covered in re-entry burn and cracked from projectile impacts. One of the panes of armourglass was a shattered mess. That had been fun when it had happened, still barely into Ras Shakeh’s troposphere and with the gunship falling fast.

  He stood back, hands on hips. Vuokho was far from flight-ready. It was even further from combat-ready. Deep in his heart, he knew it would play no role in the battle to come. Even if he could somehow restore limited drive-function, the weapons would overload the second they were fired.

  His time would have been better spent with the pack, hunting the plague-damned before their foulness spread further.

  For all that, though, he couldn’t let it go. It was all he had, his peerless mastery of airborne combat. Take that away, and it was hard to mask the truth: he was old. He’d missed his chance for the Wolf Guard, he’d missed his chance for the Long Fangs. All that remained for him was death in Járnhamar, no longer fast enough to evade it, no longer strong enough to see it off.

  He could feel Morkai panting down his neck. At night, in the scant moments of sleep he allowed himself, Jorundur could feel the dark wolf’s foul breath running down hi
s spine. Only when he was in the air, wheeling and banking through the hammering fire-lanes and letting rip with the battle cannon, did the sensation leave him.

  He hawked up a bitter gobbet of oil-tainted phlegm and spat messily.

  ‘You and me,’ he snarled, looking up at his beloved Vuokho. ‘Ice and iron, I’ll get you in the air again.’

  He heard a faint cough, and whirled round.

  A Battle Sister stood before him. She was dressed in full ebony armour, though her head was bare. Like all her sisters she wore her hair clipped short. Hers was silver-blonde, shorn close to pale skin. Frost-blue eyes looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jorundur growled, irritated at the interruption. Being surrounded by mind-dead servitors was one thing; having living mortals sniffing around was another.

  The Sister bowed.

  ‘Callia, at your service, lord,’ she said. She proffered a regulation food-tin, vacuum-packed with protein extracts. ‘The canoness sent me. She thought you might have need of sustenance.’

  Jorundur looked at the tin doubtfully. He could smell its bland contents through the metal. He briefly remembered the supplies that had been destroyed with the Undrider – raw meats of Fenris, blood-heavy and slick with fat; whole vats of mjod, frothing in the cold and as thick as bile.

  He started to salivate, and swallowed it down.

  ‘My thanks,’ he muttered, snatching the tin from her. It looked meagre in his oversized hand, barely enough to sate a moment’s hunger.

  But she was right, and it had been good of her to come. He’d lost track of time and had little idea how long he’d been working.

  Sister Callia looked up at the half-dismantled Thunderhawk. Her cool eyes soaked up the damage.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ said Jorundur, a little quickly, unable to stomach criticism of it even when it was half ruined and broken open.

  ‘A mighty machine,’ murmured Callia. Her quiet voice held no trace of sarcasm. ‘Even before the war destroyed our few flyers, we had nothing so grand.’