‘But you didn’t forbid us, either.’ The clown danced and strutted about him, half in challenge, half in invitation. He caught a glimpse of Myrta, watching from nearby. His courtesan looked disconcerted. Concerned, perhaps, that he was going to throw her over for something… stranger. Or maybe that he was going to get himself killed before she had a chance to do it.
He smiled. ‘I suppose I can overlook it. Just this once.’
The clown stopped, bobbing on her heels – at least, he thought it was a ‘her’. She rocked back and forth for a moment, studying him from behind her shimmering mask. She leaned forward. ‘I am pleased to hear it, Duke Traevelliath Sliscus, Serpent of the Skyways and Prince of Many Colours.’ Her voice reverberated oddly, and he studied her garments more closely. He had dealt with the followers of the Laughing God often enough to know a Shadowseer when he saw one. Storytellers and seers, or so he had heard.
‘And what is your name, little clown? Something suitably enigmatic, I trust.’ Sliscus drew his blade and laid the flat of it across the Shadowseer’s shoulder. She swatted it aside and ducked beneath his arm. The length of her staff hooked his throat, but gently. She pulled him back, and Sliscus chuckled appreciatively. A moment’s pressure and his throat would be crushed. A warning, or a tease. Perhaps both.
‘I am one who walks between the veils of time and space, back and forth, up and down. I have seen black stars rise and cold suns set. I have heard the melodies spun by the eternal pipers in the court of deepest slumber, and tasted the fruits of an impossible tree. Is that name enough, Duke Traevelliath Sliscus?’
‘Are those names or stories?’
‘Is there a difference between the two? And what are my stories compared to yours, oh Serpent? You crawl through time, leaving a trail of fire and blood across the body of the universe. So must it be.’
Sliscus jerked forward, breaking free of the staff. He spun around, his sword raised, the tip set between where he imagined the Shadowseer’s eyes to be. ‘If that is the case, why are you here? What do you wish of me?’
‘What makes you think I wish anything?’
‘Pragmatism.’
She laughed. The sound echoed against itself, as if that mask hid a multitude rather than an individual. She glanced at Malys, and Sliscus frowned. There were stories – there were always stories – that Malys knew more about the Harlequins than most. But he had never given it much thought. What was it to him if Malys entangled herself in the petty schemes of such vagabonds?
‘I wish to pass along an ending before the story is begun – will you forgive me?’ The Shadowseer batted his sword aside and sidled close. There was a rhythm to her movements. A practiced saunter, as if this were not the first time, or even the second, that they’d had this confrontation. Sliscus found it aggravating and intriguing in equal measure.
‘For such an artist, I would forgive almost anything,’ he said. He set the point of his sword against the ground and leaned on it. ‘Spoil the story, if you will. I do not draw satisfaction from endings.’
‘Wise.’
Sliscus threw back his head and laughed. ‘I have never been accused of that.’
‘And I do not make it an accusation now. Merely an observation.’ The Shadowseer cocked her head, and the bells that hung from her cowl clinked softly. ‘You must take the Wolf’s heart, oh Serpent.’ She stepped close. Her form seemed to blur and twist. For a moment, he thought there were other shapes there, standing in the same spot like visible echoes. Individuals who had never been or ever would be. Pieces of stories yet untold.
Sliscus hesitated. ‘And is that the ending you have seen? Or the one you desire?’
‘One and the same, one and the same,’ the Harlequin half-sang.
Sliscus laughed and stepped back, putting space between them. He could taste the chemicals of the Shadowseer’s creidann – a minor hallucinogen, and one he had long since developed an immunity to. ‘The Wolf’s heart, you say. Easy enough to discern the meaning there – the heart of these mon-keigh warriors resides in their gene-chattel. They need them the way we need fresh materials for the body-vats. So, I am to take their future from them, am I?’ He laughed again and sheathed his sword with a flourish. ‘Delightful! I am to steal fire from gods and meat from the mouths of beasts.’
‘A good story,’ Malys said.
Sliscus glanced at her, smirking. ‘I am only in the good ones.’ When he turned back, the Shadowseer had rejoined the widening gyre, her slim form lost among the kaleidoscope of her troupe. He frowned. ‘She didn’t even ask to be dismissed. How deliciously rude.’
‘Planning to punish her, Traevelliath?’ Malys asked pointedly.
Sliscus chuckled. ‘Is that jealousy I hear, Aurelia?’
‘Curiosity,’ Malys said.
He shrugged. ‘One leads to the other, I have often found.’ He looked at her. ‘Will you join me, then? On this expedition, I mean.’
Malys pouted elegantly. ‘It has been some time since I last participated in a raid. Commorragh has its claws tight in my attentions, I fear.’
‘Then it is long past time you indulge yourself.’ Sliscus took her hand and kissed it with mocking gentleness. ‘Come, Aurelia, let us savage the primitives together, as we once did in more innocent times.’
‘We have never been innocent, either of us.’
‘No, we have not. And I am glad of it.’ Sliscus brought her hand up and stepped back. ‘Come. One last sarabande before the party’s end.’ Malys allowed him to draw her into the circle of Harlequins.
‘It would be my pleasure, Traevelliath.’
Chapter Eight
THE WAY OF THINGS
641.M41
The hunt was going well.
Ake had tracked his prey through the dense forests that covered the lower slopes of the Asaheim Mountains, finally cornering it in a bald patch where the trees began to give way to rocky scree. It had given him a good run, but they were both tired of the chase and he had brought it to bay at last.
The ungulate was a massive beast, battle-scarred and standing head and hands taller than Ake. An enormous rack of antlers rose above its proud skull like some pagan crown, and its shoulders and chest were nearly three times the size of his own. Its hide was pale with age. Most elk rarely lived so long. This one was either exceedingly lucky or exceedingly tough. Perhaps both.
His stomach grumbled. A Space Marine could go a long time without filling his belly, but too many months in the Aett had accustomed him to eating regularly. Then, he had always thought hunger made the meat taste better.
It had been almost a week since they had been banished. How Grimblood had howled! Ake grinned at the memory. It was no less than he deserved, jarl or not. And out here was better than in there, anyway. Even if they had to find food for themselves.
He bared his fangs and took a step towards the elk. He carried no weapons. His chainblade hung across his back, and his bolt pistol was holstered. He reached for neither. Hands and teeth would suffice. ‘Well,’ he growled, ‘what are you waiting for?’
The elk bugled a challenge. He answered it with a bellow of his own. The moment stretched. Then, with a thunderous snort, it began to bear down on him in a flurry of churned snow, razor-sharp antlers lowered for the charge. The ground shook slightly from the force of its approach. The elk called again as it drew near, and he could smell its musky stink.
He braced himself. Even clad as he was in battle-plate, the elk nearly outweighed him. He had a dim memory of seeing one of the beasts burst through a heavy palisade wall as if it were no more substantial than a morning mist. He spread his arms as it drew close, and at the last possible moment lunged to meet it with a snarl.
The impact rattled through him from muscle to marrow. Even with his armour’s internal stabilisers, he was nearly thrown from his feet. He had caught the elk by the antlers, and the servos in his armour whi
ned in protest as he tried to break the beast’s massive neck. The animal snorted, and the hot mist of its breath rolled over him, stinging his eyes. Up close, he could make out each and every variety of scar that marked its head and neck. There were claw and fang marks aplenty. There were even the ringed sucker marks of a kraken on its shoulders and forelimbs. It was old, this beast, and had beaten more than its weight in foes.
But it would not beat him. There was nothing that walked, swam or flew that could defeat one of the Rout. And especially not him.
The elk strained against him, groaning with effort. He began to twist, hoping its neck would break before its antlers did, but he couldn’t find the leverage. The prongs sawed against the palms of his gauntlets, etching grooves in the ceramite.
The beast bugled fiercely, as if in denial. Then, with a scream of effort, it wrenched him off his feet and sent him stumbling to the side. Ake staggered, surprised. It lunged, crashing into him. One of its prongs splintered, but the beast kept going, slamming him back. There was no time to brace himself, and he was soon driven against a tree. The impact jostled ice loose from the branches above and it pattered down over them.
Snarling curses, he clawed at its skull, hoping to break something. But it was like punching the hull of a Rhino. He heard a howl and saw grey shapes circling them. Something struck the tree above him, and he glanced up to see a familiar grin. Then Lukas was plunging down, landing on the elk’s broad back. The animal screamed as its bones splintered. It spun, trying to fling him off. Lukas caught its antlers and gave a sharp jerk.
‘No,’ Ake roared. ‘It was mine!’
Lukas rode it to the ground as it finally succumbed. Even so, Ake stayed well back as its legs twitched and kicked in a final spasm. When it had at last fallen still, Lukas climbed off it and rolled it onto its side. ‘A good ending to a good hunt, eh, pup?’
‘I was going to kill it,’ Ake growled. He flexed his hands, the kill-urge still singing through him. ‘It was my prey.’
‘It was our prey,’ Lukas said. He was calm, which only made Ake angrier. ‘We are a pack, pup. Not lone wolves. We fight together, we hunt together, we feast together. Whether you like it or not.’
‘Is that why you punished Grimblood?’ Ake snarled. ‘He stole our kill – how is this any different?’ He slammed a fist against his chest-plate.
‘Because we all agreed to share the kill, brother,’ Kadir said, stepping out of the trees. ‘It wasn’t his to steal or yours to have. It was ours.’
‘Who asked you?’ Ake snapped, glaring at the tall Blood Claw. Kadir’s arrogance grated on him. The tall warrior had assumed leadership as if it were his birthright. Ake wanted to grind his face into the dirt for that.
It never ceased to surprise Ake that the others couldn’t see that he ought to be in charge. Maybe not Dag. Dag was a halfwit. But Halvar and Einar had more sense. And yet, they were content to trot after Kadir. And Kadir was content to trot after Lukas.
‘Enough,’ Lukas said. ‘The meat is cooling. Best we share it now.’ He drew his combat blade and began to cut open the elk’s chest. ‘And I would have punched this brute’s brains out and already had it dressed and roasting over a fire by the time you caught up with me, pup.’ He grinned at Ake. ‘No need for argument then.’
Ake looked at the beast, fighting down his bloodlust. ‘It fought hard,’ he growled after a moment.
‘Not as hard as you, brother,’ Dag said. The other Blood Claw was grinning hungrily as he crouched nearby, watching Lukas saw the elk’s heart out of its chest cavity. Dag was always hungry.
Blood turned the snow pink, and Ake inhaled appreciatively. The smell would carry far and wide, and soon might bring other predators. But they would have dressed and cached the kill by then, as they had done many times since they had left the Aett and lost themselves in the wilds of Asaheim.
The tang of promethium alerted him to Einar’s presence. The taciturn warrior clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good hunt,’ he said. ‘Good chase. Good meat.’ After a moment, Ake nodded, accepting the compliment.
‘The best meat.’ Lukas stood, the elk’s heart in his hands. ‘Why is the best meat that which you chase down yourself? Do any of you ever wonder that?’
‘No,’ Halvar said. He tapped one of his many totems. ‘It is as the Allfather wills it.’
Lukas nodded. ‘Even so, my head is full of questions.’
‘And my belly is empty of meat, Trickster. Are you going to share that?’ Ake gestured to the heart. ‘If so, be quick about it.’ Lukas talked too much. He filled the air with words where none were needed. If Ake didn’t know better, he would have suspected that the Jackalwolf was getting maudlin.
Lukas tore a lump from the muscle and tossed the rest to Ake. He looked out over the wilderness. ‘I think it is the wolf in us. Once, we fought to prosper. Now, we only fight to survive. We sink back into our own shadow. We take legend and lore as the whole truth and only the truth, and seek to add to them, whatever the cost.’
‘Are you a philosopher now?’ Ake grunted. Lukas seemed to delight in leading them into metaphorical brambles. Ake had no patience for that. A proper warrior didn’t waste time thinking about such things. Not when there was prey to hunt, or enemies to kill. They weren’t skjalds.
He took his share and passed the heart to Dag. The pale warrior took the lump of meat eagerly and tore a chunk from it. He tossed it in turn to Halvar, who snatched it out of the air with a whoop. As he made to bite into it, Einar tackled him and the heart plopped into Kadir’s waiting hands. The tall Blood Claw tore off a piece and pitched it overhand back to Ake, who caught the heart with a laugh. ‘All the fresh air is getting to you, Trickster.’
Lukas looked at him. ‘Maybe it is.’
Lukas tore up a handful of tough grass and raised his hand. Opening his fingers, he let it whirl away in the wind. He inhaled, tasting the storm and the forest. Asaheim rose wild around him, spreading out forever beneath a shroud of black clouds.
The mountains stretched across the spine of the world, like a crest of stiff hair on a wolf’s back. Besides the seven great peaks that ringed the Aett like loyal thegns, there were hundreds of smaller mountains. Those tribes blessed or lucky enough to find sanctuary on the polar continent often made their homes in the shadows of the Aett’s smaller kin, down where the air wasn’t so thin and the cold not so biting.
He looked up. Snow and rain fell hard through the cracks in the canopy, pelting his face. The wind had died down somewhat. The Helwinter was losing its hold on the high places as Fenris drew closer to the Wolf’s Eye and the climate warmed. The storms would continue, and the ice would begin to melt. The seas were already lapping at all but the highest shores, and soon many of the tribes would take to the waters, looking for safety.
Fenris was beautiful, and fierce, and untamed. But it could have been so much more.
‘Just like us,’ he murmured. ‘We could have been something greater.’ Behind him, the others ate and talked and laughed. Lukas was glad. A few weeks in the wild would be good for them. Blood Claws didn’t do well with too much confinement.
The elk meat rested nicely in his belly, smoothing his thoughts. He studied the forested slope, seeking something familiar. Old pathways, not followed in decades or centuries, lit up in his memory as if he had traversed them only days ago.
The mountains rose heavy above the trees, their names solid weights on his memory. Thunder Mountain. The Fire Breather. Broddja, and southwest of it, Krakgard. They loomed up, immense phantoms barely visible in the snow. The names rolled off his tongue as he recited them quietly. As a boy, his mother had told him that wisdom sat in such places, waiting for those who had the wit to listen. The mountains had seen the oceans form and the clouds take shape, and felt the first kiss of the wind.
The mountains were older than Lukas, older than Grimblood or even Russ. They abided beyond all stories and ri
tes. He spotted the smoke a moment later, rising through the rain and sleet. There. He smiled and turned. ‘Get the rest of that elk up. Tie its hide, so we don’t lose anything.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ake demanded.
‘To pay our respects. Come on. Up. Up!’ He kicked Ake in the backside, jolting the Blood Claw to his feet. Ake whirled, snarling, but backed down when he saw the smile on Lukas’ face. Lukas tapped the young warrior in the chest with a claw-tip. ‘Hloja, brother. Laugh. This is fun, eh? Better than being stuck in the mountain.’
‘At least it was dry in there,’ Halvar muttered as he heaved himself upright with a rattle of totems and medallions.
‘A bit of weather will do you good, brother. Air you out a bit.’ Lukas reached out and caught Dag by the neck as he rose. He kissed the startled Blood Claw roughly on the top of the head before releasing him. ‘It might put some colour in those wan cheeks of yours, Dag. And it might even disperse some of those promethium fumes that cling so tightly to poor Einar.’ He looked at Kadir and shrugged. ‘No help for you, though, brother. Not until your hair grows back out.’
Kadir touched the shorn side of his scalp and frowned. Before he could reply, Lukas was already moving.
‘Where are we going, Lukas?’ Ake asked again.
Lukas grinned at the wariness in the Blood Claw’s voice. ‘There’s a village down there. The Jahtvian tribe. I take them gifts, sometimes. Food. Weapons. Little things, here and there, when I’m in the area.’
‘You feed them?’ Ake looked aghast.
‘It is Helwinter.’ Lukas peered at him. Ake was just two yellow eyes in the snow and shadows. ‘The beasts are seeking the safety of high ground as the seas eat the land. Food is scarce. Unless you happen to have a taste for kraken.’ Ake grimaced. Lukas laughed. ‘It doesn’t taste that bad.’
‘All my people used to eat was kraken. I know exactly how it tastes.’ Ake glowered at Lukas. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this. It isn’t the way of things.’ He looked around, seeking support from the others.
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