Blood of Asaheim Page 7

  He smiled as he remembered the stanzas. Even as the landscape dropped far below him, dwindling into a white haze, his mouth moved silently, speaking the eternal words soundlessly.

  The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea,

  The hot stars down from heaven are whirled;

  Fierce grows the steam and the life-feeding flame,

  Till fire leaps high about heaven itself.

  Seeing the proud spike of the mountain below made his hearts swell. That place was eternal, founded by gods and guarded by savage angels, an inviolable citadel amid a darkening galaxy. It had stood for millennia before his birth and would do for millennia after. Other worlds might fall into corruption or ruin, but the Fang would remain unsullied forever.

  That was what he had always believed. That was what he still believed.

  So it ever has been, he breathed, watching the sweep of the planet’s atmosphere drop into a glistening curve. So it ever shall be.

  Gunnlaugur knew that he could never have done what Ingvar had done. He was body and soul of the Fenryka: the most deadly, the most faithful, the most potent of the Allfather’s many servants. No others compared with the Wolves of Fenris. No life compared to that of the Sky Warriors, lived without compromise or quarter, thrust into the white-hot core of combat, gifted the mightiest weapons of humanity, charged with its ultimate defence where all others faltered.

  Gunnlaugur respected his brothers in other Chapters. He had fought alongside many of them, and recognised their skill and devotion. He had fought with mortal men too, many of whom had fallen with honour.

  But they were not Fenryka. They were not Russ’s sons.

  Much do I know, and more can see.

  The fetters will burst, and the wolf run free.

  Gunnlaugur smiled. War was coming again. He was leaving the Fang, taking murder out across the sea of stars. Whatever else had transpired, that was good. It was the proper state of things.

  ‘Clearing the grid, vaerangi,’ said Jorundur, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engines. ‘We’ll get visual in a moment.’

  Gunnlaugur looked out ahead. The milky grey of the sky had faded to black as the atmosphere thinned to nothing. Familiar constellations emerged into pure clarity, obstructed only by dozens of gunmetal-grey defence platforms in orbit above the planet. The closest of them was less than a kilometre away and hung massively in the void, the marker lights on its gun turrets blinking in the dark.

  ‘I don’t see the ship,’ said Gunnlaugur, scrutinising the view forwards as the platform slipped by beneath them.

  ‘I’ve got a fix,’ said Jorundur. ‘We’re not at full tilt yet. You know this thing shouldn’t even be flying?’

  Gunnlaugur ignored the snipe. For as long as he’d known Jorundur he’d been complaining about the readiness of the ships he flew. He’d have found something to complain about if Russ himself had given him Hrafnkel to pilot.

  ‘There it is,’ announced Jorundur, gesturing to a glowing rune on the viewer display. ‘Take a look at the realview. How sharp are your eyes?’

  Gunnlaugur narrowed them, scanning the velvet darkness. For a long time, he saw nothing. Hundreds of vessels, from tiny system runners to gigantic capital ships, occupied the Fenris system at any one time, but few lingered for long in the planet’s shadow.

  Then he saw something glinting in the empty gloom like a sliver of alabaster. As Jorundur steered the Thunderhawk closer, details emerged.

  It was small for a frigate, of an old design. The engine-level on it looked big; its weapons array looked small. Its shell was black, with old Rout images painted on the flanks in chipped yellow and grey. Its bridge was set lower than usual, surrounded by charred bulkheads. Faint plumes of gas vented from something jagged and reflective under its hull.

  A single word, Undrider, had been etched along its side.

  Gunnlaugur pursed his lips. ‘That’s the one?’

  Jorundur nodded, bringing Vuokho to approach speed. As he did so, hangar doors on the receiving ship slid slowly open, spilling warm yellow light into the void.

  ‘I’m told it’s fast,’ Jorundur said.

  Gunnlaugur felt deflated. ‘Right,’ he said.

  Jorundur smiled in vindication.

  Heap of shit.

  ‘Welcome aboard, lord,’ said the Undrider’s master.

  Gunnlaugur grunted acknowledgement, barely looking at him.

  The master, an experienced kaerl rivenmaster named Torek Bjargborn, used to the perfunctory ways of Sky Warriors, didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘We’re ready to go, on your order.’

  Gunnlaugur’s eyes roved around the command chamber. The pack stood alongside him. None of them looked impressed.

  It was a small, cramped place by the standards of interstellar craft. The captain’s throne was surrounded by concentric banks of cogitator stations. A dais had been raised behind it on which the pack had congregated. The floor was polished black marble. Cracks in it had been repaired with a dull grey aggregate.

  Beyond and above the throne was a dome of bronze-lined crystal viewers, thick with tarnishing. As on all such ships, a low murmur of machine-clicks and human muttering provided a constant accompaniment to the grind of the sub-warp engines. An aroma of sacred oils rose from the deck, spiced with an undertone of human sweat and engine lubricant. Servitors, many hard-wired into consoles, clattered away at menial functions. There were more of them than usual, and fewer human crew.

  ‘What’s your complement status, master?’ asked Jorundur.

  Bjargborn didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Twelve per cent down, lord. But we do have extra servitor provision. Demands on the fleet are heavy, I’m told.’

  The look on Jorundur’s face said all that needed to be said.

  Gunnlaugur turned to Váltyr. He gave a half-shrug.

  ‘It only has to get us there,’ he said.

  ‘Can it even do that?’ replied Váltyr.

  Bjargborn had the stomach to look affronted.

  ‘It will, lords,’ he said. ‘And back again. It may not look much, but it’s voidworthy, and it’s fast.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Very well, master, you have the order. Take us out to the jump-point. We’ll cross the veil as soon as we can.’

  Bjargborn thumped his chest, bowed, and resumed his seat in the throne. Around him the machine chatter picked up in volume.

  Jorundur’s nostrils flared. ‘This ship stinks.’

  ‘All ships stink,’ said Baldr.

  ‘Not like this one.’

  ‘I’ve known worse.’

  Gunnlaugur ignored the conversation. He walked slowly away from the throne, under the observation dome, looking out and up at the stars. The constellation of the Hewer was visible, framed by bronze.

  In a few hours that view would be gone, replaced by heavy lead shutters to blank out the madness of the empyrean. On arrival at Ras Shakeh it would be replaced by an alien set of constellations, each with its own name in another language.

  The underpowered ship irritated him. It pricked at his pride, wearing at it like acid on metal.

  We cannot be that short-handed. It is an insult.

  He flexed his fingers, trying to let his annoyance flow out of him. It would be some time before he could exorcise the emotion through combat.

  Hjortur would have railed against this. He would have howled the Fang down until he got what he wanted.

  He closed his fists, squeezing hard against the inner membrane of his gauntlets.

  He could be a poor judge. There will be a time to howl; this is not it.

  Gunnlaugur felt the floor beneath him vibrate as the frigate began to power up. That did something to ease his mood, and he felt his clenched hands relax a little.

  At last.

  For what it
was worth, for what little it meant to him, the mission was underway.

  Ingvar didn’t sleep.

  Warp travel always had the same effect. He felt nauseous, unquiet, unable to meditate, unable to think, unable to do much beyond prowl back and forth in his cell, his fangs bared.

  A long time ago, back when he’d been a Blood Claw, he’d asked Hrald, the Wolf Priest, why passage through the empyrean affected him so badly, whether it spoke of some taint or flaw within him. The old hook-nosed warrior had looked deep into his eyes for some time before clapping him roughly on the shoulder.

  ‘Who knows?’ he’d said. ‘The warp – it’s Hel. You should hate it. Only worry if you come to like it.’

  Ever since then he’d suffered in isolation, keeping himself locked away, breaking off contact with his brothers until the cramps and the dizziness faded.

  Jocelyn had been scornful of that. The Dark Angel had been the one he’d had most trouble with in Onyx. The others had all rubbed along together well enough, but the pale-skinned son of Caliban had been difficult: proud, high-strung, close.

  ‘Why does it make you sick, Space Wolf?’ Jocelyn had asked him during a jump, his deep eyes suggestive of mockery as much as curiosity.

  Distracted by his sickness, Ingvar had growled at him involuntarily. That alone had been a minor humiliation. His squad-brothers needed no extra inclination to think of him as bestial.

  ‘Why does it not make you sick, Dark Angel?’ he’d replied. ‘Unless your kin feel at home here. I’ve heard that said.’

  Jocelyn had laughed that off, not deigning to show anger. Later, Ingvar regretted the exchange. Matters never came to head between them after that; equally, they never succeeded in breaking down that fog of early suspicion.

  They became stereotypes of their Chapters with one another: the snarling Wolf, the haughty Angel. They should have done better, perhaps. It would have been nice to transcend expectations.

  Ingvar reflected on that, alone in the practice cages of the Undrider, blade in hand, his stomach churning. He moved the sword back and forth, turning it under the harsh light of the lumens, finding some solace in the familiar rituals.

  He wondered where Jocelyn was now. Perhaps he still served with the Deathwatch. Perhaps he was back on the Rock, rediscovering the ways of his old Chapter, just as he had done. Perhaps he was dead.

  Ingvar would never know. He had no special access to information, no back-channel route to the Inquisition. They had severed things completely, rendering him as ignorant of future operations as he had been before they’d first come to Fenris to take him.

  For all that, Ingvar found it hard to conceive of the universe without Jocelyn’s sardonic presence in it. The Angel would be fighting somewhere, just like the others. All of Onyx Squad would be, scattered to the six corners of the galaxy, alone again, trying to relearn old lives, trying to forget what they’d seen together.

  ‘Still don’t like it?’

  Ingvar didn’t turn around. He’d not heard Váltyr enter the cage-room. That had been sloppy.

  He completed the manoeuvre. His blade flickered in the semi-dark.

  ‘Nothing changes,’ he said, watching sidelong as Váltyr moved into his field of vision.

  The blademaster wore his armour but went helmless, just as Ingvar did. Holdbítr was sheathed at his side.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ said Váltyr. ‘This ship creaks and moans like a skiff in a gale.’

  Ingvar said nothing. He moved into another manoeuvre, one taught him by Leonides. It was a complicated, difficult switch, something that would seldom be used in real combat, mainly a means of training the mind to work with the blade. The Blood Angels had an interesting philosophy on close combat. As in all things, they valued the aesthetics of a gesture as much as its effect.

  Váltyr watched him as he worked, peering through the wire of the training cage.

  ‘You’ve learned new tricks,’ he said. ‘That was not taught on Fenris.’

  Ingvar let dausvjer fall away.

  ‘Too artful for the likes of us.’

  Váltyr smiled. ‘Don’t let Gunnlaugur hear you say that,’ he said, reaching for the door to the cage. ‘May I?’

  Ingvar nodded, though he had no appetite for it.

  Why are you here? To prove you can still best me? Or worried I’ve moved beyond you?

  Váltyr closed the metal door behind him and drew holdbítr. The blade was longer than Ingvar’s – straight, double-edged, rune-etched, spell-wound and with its edge honed down to a vanishing point that would hew a Rhino’s hide.

  It was a fine weapon. It wasn’t dausvjer.

  ‘I was bored, in your absence,’ said Váltyr, swinging the blade around him lazily and taking up position. ‘Baldr can handle himself, but it’s all hammers and bolters with the others. I missed our sparring.’

  Ingvar pulled his sword into guard. He hadn’t missed their sparring. He’d always been able to appreciate the skill of the blademaster, but had never loved going up against him. Váltyr’s fetish for the weapon was something that disturbed him. A blade was for use, not for worship.

  ‘Nothing too strenuous,’ Ingvar said, watching the tip of holdbítr warily. ‘Just loosening the arms.’

  Váltyr nodded, and started to circle him. His lean face caught the shadows, and the pinned black in his golden eyes seemed to shrink into nothing.

  ‘Your stance has changed,’ he said.

  ‘Has it?’

  When Váltyr moved, it was characteristically quick. He seemed to have the facility to leap from total immobility into action with nothing in between. It was a fearsome talent, made all the more lethal by his habitual coolness. Ingvar had seen Váltyr eviscerate opponents before they’d even known he was planning to move.

  Holdbítr swooped, and dausvjer flickered up to meet it. The two lengths of metal clashed, sparking from one another.

  Váltyr didn’t press the attack. He pulled away instantly, dancing back, resuming guard.

  ‘Who fought best?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell me names? Chapters?’

  Ingvar kept his eyes fixed on Váltyr’s hands. Watching the blade was an error; the hands were where the attacks came from.

  ‘I learned that such things are meaningless,’ he said, shadowing carefully. ‘We all had our gifts.’

  Váltyr looked disappointed. ‘Diplomatic,’ he said, before bursting into a flurry of attacks.

  Ingvar met them all, and the swords spun around one another.

  There was a kind of raw perfection there. They were alone. No one witnessed their skill, their neatly matched violence. In the past, Ingvar would have found that a waste; boastful Fenrisian souls liked the open display of prowess. After long years fighting in the shadows, locked in a quiet world of enforced secrecy, that urge had abated.

  He wondered if Váltyr felt the same way. The blademaster had always celebrated purity. That might have been the key to him. Or perhaps it was something more. Perhaps Váltyr needed the reassurance of it all, the gentle, repeated reminders of his uniqueness.

  Holdbítr jabbed down, held double-handed. Ingvar darted away from it, letting the accumulated power in the strike dissipate. Then he pressed in close, swinging dausvjer hard.

  It didn’t trouble Váltyr. Nothing seemed to.

  ‘I don’t think you’re any faster,’ Váltyr observed, his voice as calm as ever as he worked.

  ‘Speed is not the only thing,’ said Ingvar.

  Those words were Callimachus’s.

  ‘But it is, Gyrfalkon. Move fast enough, and the gods themselves will bleed.’

  Váltyr demonstrated the point. He came back at Ingvar in a spinning, dazzling series of rotations and cuts.

  For the first time, Ingvar struggled. He let the blows jar against his parries, attempting nothing more than defence, retreating back across the cag
e step by step, riding out the storm.

  ‘Blood of Russ,’ hissed Ingvar. ‘Does this have to–’

  Váltyr silenced him with a vicious left-right swipe that nearly hurled dausjver from Ingvar’s grasp. Then he piled in again, mixing up standard thrusts with the chaotic, freeform bladework he loved.

  ‘Just keep up,’ he said. ‘If you can.’

  Ingvar crashed against the wall of the cage, scraping along it as he fended off the incoming storm.

  So that’s what this is, he thought. You are here to remind me of the order of the pack.

  Ingvar shoved clear of the cage edge and moved back towards the centre. Keeping holdbítr at bay took up every last dram of his physical skill. Facing Váltyr’s expertise again was a chilling experience.

  ‘Show me something new, then,’ said Váltyr. ‘Unnerve me.’

  That was when it happened. The moment was over in less than a heartbeat, less than a thought, but the clarity of it was breathtaking.

  Ingvar saw the gap, opened by Váltyr’s enthusiasm. Leonides would have called it a half-breach or sotano, the sudden thrust upwards at a three-quarter angle, jutting past the guard and beneath the breastplate.

  The twist to get there was excruciating, too narrow and confined for all but the sharpest hands. But he knew, in that instant, that he could do it. He knew he could stab the blade through, blooding him, throwing him off, ending the fight.

  Ingvar had never beaten Váltyr before, not truly, not when he was concentrating.

  So when he pulled back, the fact that he hadn’t made the move was a choice, not an omission. It was not a mistake. He had not erred. Another decision had been made.

  Váltyr hammered away at him, his sword-edge smearing into a silver gauze of movement. Two, three more strikes, and Ingvar was rammed against the cage-edge again, his room for movement closed down.

  Ingvar looked down. Holdbítr was pressed against his throat, lodged up to the skin.

  Váltyr smiled. ‘Close, this time,’ he said. ‘You still know how to move.’