Bloodsong

by Melvin Burgess

  But—in the way. Undeniably in the way. Certainly he needed to be removed. Tragic, really. The good die young. I just hoped I’d have time to take advantage of him in the meantime—in the nicest possible way, of course!

  Sigurd was certain he’d discovered a key ally. He’d saved Hogni’s life and now all the dogman wanted to do was to help him. Most importantly, he knew something about the dragon’s skin. According to Hogni it had been picked up by the Niberlins, old allies of Sigmund who shared his vision of unification and peace and ruled a large part of the Midlands. This was excellent news. Hogni apparently had trading links with them.

  Sigurd wanted to run there as fast as possible on Slipper’s back, but Hogni refused to get up on him.

  “He looks like Death,” he said. “You know. In person.”

  So the two of them walked along, leaving the horse to graze on the slaughtered animals behind them. He could catch up later. It was a chance, Hogni said, for them to get to know each other and make their plans.

  The dogman kept his arm firmly linked through Sigurd’s as they walked, swapping stories about each other, sharing histories. Hogni came from a large family who ran a chain of restaurants and food shops farther north. He was a bit of a wild sheepdog, as he put it. Didn’t want to join in the retail trade.

  He was always running off on his own on odd little adventures that never came to anything. He’d come down to the Heath to investigate stories about scattered bits of treasure from the dragon’s hoard that were supposed to be lying around the shattered landscape, just on the off chance that he could pick up a bit of free wealth.

  “I’m a scavenger,” he told him. “You better watch out.”

  But it was lies. Hogni was loyal and affectionate, he liked Sigurd, and he felt deeply in his debt. But he came from a family with other interests. He was one of the Niberlins himself.

  The Niberlins had been rulers since Sigmund’s early days. Things had changed a lot since then, and the Niberlins, like everyone else, had had to arm themselves and defend their borders. As result, most of the wealth they generated went into defense, but they had done their best to keep the vision going. Their people still had schools and hospitals, roads, a stable economy, a decent justice system. Like Sigurd and Sigmund before him, they knew that the only way for the country to have peace was to unite and the only way to unite in the current climate was to go to war. The Volsons and the Niberlins were natural allies, but the Niberlins knew themselves to be the best remaining hope for the nation.

  It made sense. What was Sigurd, after all? A boy from the far west, an unknown, with no experience in government. Their credentials were far better.

  Hogni was right. Sigurd was truly in the way—an unknown, a wild card, someone the people might rally around without knowing what they were getting themselves into. If he would join them, so much the better. But how likely was that? And it was late, so late in the day. War was coming, everyone understood that. The Niberlins had been slowly drawing up their plans, as had their enemies. Only a fool would suddenly transfer all the political hopes of England into the hands of this unknown boy, whoever his father was.

  As they chatted and joked, Hogni extracted a great deal of information. He soon knew that Sigurd planned to return to his home in the west, raise the seeds of a national army there, and fight to unite the country.

  “Alf hasn’t much of an army, I’ve heard,” Hogni pointed out.

  Sigurd laughed. “Things happen for me,” he said. “Look! I’ve met you already, you know where the skin is. You see?”

  Hogni saw; but meeting him wasn’t necessarily the good fortune Sigurd thought.

  Sigurd did not tell his new friend everything, though. Not about Bryony, for example. He had been on his own with her for so long and he did not want to break the society of two just yet. And he did not tell him that he had the gold. He let Hogni believe that the treasure had gone up with the rest of Fafnir’s hoard.

  The two of them walked until they were emerging from the area of devastation. Both were tired, so they made camp early, hidden away among some rocks thrown out by the blast, surrounded by birch trees. Neither had anything to eat, and Hogni went off to scavenge. By the time he came back with a dead squirrel he had knocked out of a tree with a stone, Sigurd was already fast asleep.

  Hogni walked over to the sleeping boy and looked down closely at his face.

  “Far too good,” he said to himself. He considered killing him there and then—he’d seen what Sigurd could do. But he had no stomach for it. He needed more than his own authority for such a deed. He made his way a little farther off, well out of earshot, and took a small two-way radio out of his bag.

  There were four surviving Niberlins—Gunar, the eldest, Hogni himself, their sister, Gudrun, the baby of the family, a late arrival and only eighteen years old, and their mother, Grimhild. The old king had died in an assassination attempt ten years before, from which Grimhild had only just survived. She had been a powerful woman, Grimhild, a witch, and a scientist—the two often went together these days—and she had her secrets still. Hogni was telling the truth when he said he was a wild card—he spent much of the time away from home, leaving the government of the land to Gunar. Gunar— Gunar-who-would-be-king, as Hogni called him when he wanted to tease—was a meticulous man in all his work, carefully drawing up the legislation, filling in the loopholes. They had all been trained in the work of government since they could walk and between them they managed the best-run lands remaining in the country.

  Hogni told them what had happened and who he had met. The family owed Sigurd something now—the life of a brother. They were reluctant to act against him, but the stakes were very big. The death of Fafnir had sparked off a whole new series of wars, the country was in chaos, and the Niberlins were in the final stages of drawing up their war plans. There was another powerful family, the Portlands, to the south and west with whom they held an uneasy truce; it would not last much longer. The Niberlins intended to strike first.

  Personal loyalty was one thing—and the Niberlins, like many dog people, held that in very high esteem—but this was war. It was lives by the million, it was the future. Sometimes there was no space even for loyalty.

  Hogni returned to sleep a short while later. He lay down and sighed. In the morning he would contact Gunar again and see what had been decided. He had done his best for the boy, tried to play him up to his brother and sister. But it was very late in the day. He knew what his instructions would be.

  It was a little before dawn when Sigurd awoke. He lay for a moment, staring out at the brightening sky before he remembered where he was. Outside! And Bryony wasn’t with him. There hadn’t been a minute since he had left that she wasn’t in his mind, and he was awakening now from dreams of her.

  Something light and sharp scratched gently at his ear. It was Jenny Wren. He sat up and held out his hand for her to sit on. The little bird piped and bent her neck for his finger. How long had she been here? Maybe she had sat in Bryony’s hand only a few hours before.

  Sorrowfully he had to give the little bird the bolt he had taken from Crayley as a symbol of waiting. He wrapped a piece of grass around it, and hoped she would see it as a symbol of hope. Then he sat and stroked the little bird with his fingertip. Such a slight thing to hold the thread between them! But Jenny was special, that much was clear. She was informed by some god—Loki, most like, the one who tricked fate. If so, who was he tricking this time? Sigurd and Bryony? Was he about to twist the love he was sustaining? Or was Odin the butt of this joke? If so, thought Sigurd, humanity could only gain.

  Without warning, the wren flew off and Sigurd settled back down to sleep.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Jenny was awaking Bryony in exactly the same way—standing on her temple and gently pecking her ear. She was separated from Sigurd by less than half a kilometer.

  There was no day or night underground; it was not the normal time for Bryony to sleep, but after Sigurd left, her heart had coll
apsed inside her. She was back where she’d started, facing a lifetime in solitary. Her misery had already become so deep, she felt that was poisoning her own baby. But Jenny was quick and full of life on her pillow—it was difficult to resist. With a little smile, Bryony put out her finger and Jenny jumped up, her tiny feet pricking her finger.

  In her beak was a bolt. Delay.

  Bryony’s heart sank, but around the bolt was a little weave of fresh grass. Hope, then. Is that what it meant? Bryony felt inside herself for something, anything—the tiniest blossom of pleasure. But there was nothing there. She flicked the wren away and lay back on her bed. There was nothing to get up for. Not yet.

  The next day, Sigurd and Hogni continued on their way toward the Niberlin capital. They were still on foot. Sigurd had sent Slipper to follow them along in hiding, following Hogni’s advice that they should go incognito; the cyber-horse was unmistakable until he had grown back his hide. It had been hard to resist the urge to fly like the wind straight to the Niberlins, but Hogni urged caution and Sigurd’s own common sense agreed. It would do him no good tearing in and making demands. He had to make alliances, strike deals. There was more at stake than just the skin. The Niberlins had an army and all the makings of a state intact, and Hogni was sure Sigurd could get an audience with Gunar and Gudrun, the rulers. The second brother he did not mention.

  Toward the end of the day, Sigurd and Hogni arrived at Milton. The network of roads that surrounded the old office town had turned the place into a market center—all roads led there. Hogni grew quiet as they drew near. Sigurd suspected that something was troubling his new friend, but he could not know what it was. Hogni said he was tired and did not want to talk. Perhaps later, after a few drinks.

  Sigurd had an urge for luxury—a deep hot bath, a deep warm bed. There was an expensive hotel just back from the main street. Sigurd had the wealth of nations but it was tucked away inside Slipper, so he borrowed the money off Hogni. Hogni himself did not care to be pampered just yet, he said; he had some business at a bar not far off. He made arrangements with Sigurd to meet up there to eat and have a few drinks in three hours’ time.

  “We need to get drunk together,” he told him. “You’re not friends with someone until you’ve got drunk together.”

  They parted in a busy street. The boy put his arms around him and kissed him. He smiled, nodded, turned, and left.

  “Too good, too trusting, too honest. He wouldn’t have lasted long, anyway,” thought Hogni as he watched him weave his way through the crowds. But he felt that it was himself he was plotting against. No one could betray Sigurd without betraying themselves first.

  The Monkey’s Paw was one of a chain of bars and eateries owned by the Portlands, the oldest halfman family in the country, able to trace their line all the way back to the laboratories at Portland Down where the original experiments were made. Entrepreneurial, ruthless, innovative, and greedy, the line had made a living ever since, first as pets, then as citizens, and finally as the owners of large areas of real estate, franchise eateries, media, entertainment, and clothing businesses. They made vast amounts of money through these interests, but that was just poop compared to their primary concern, politics.

  The family had lived for years in Ragnor, the glittering city where government and big business had retreated centuries before when ganglaw made their daily lives impossible elsewhere. The head of the family, old Bill Portland, had escaped ahead of Sigmund’s conquering armies, and taken with him the complete genetic archives of New World, the company formed by the remains of the government to control its most valuable asset. As a result the Portlands had copyrights on the codes for half the species on the planet.

  The family had taken full advantage of owning the most comprehensive genetic archives in the world. Most of the thousands of organisms that had become extinct over the past few hundred years had their genome preserved in code on New World files, as well as an ever-expanding list of those still current. Anyone wanting to brew up creatures for any reason, military, industrial, or retail, had to come to the Portlands for the basic ingredients. The archives of New World amounted to the biggest recipe book in the world.

  Old Bill took the view that if there had to be anything as inconvenient as government, it ought to be him. Businessmen get rich, but rulers get richest. He had many advantages—his own ancient cunning and experience, an organization stable over several centuries, and, above all, that New World archive. The past is a big place and Bill had it right there at his fingertips. He could pick and choose from the genome of over a million species, from mammoth to microbe, whilst simultaneously cross-referencing an equally vast archive of inorganic materials and systems to synthesize the final result into whatever he desired.

  For the past five years or more, the Portlands had been using this technology to build an army—the day would come. They already effectively occupied a stretch of land from Gloucester to mid Wales and as far south as London. Bill was big enough to call his protection rackets taxation these days. In the meantime, the family did not neglect their commercial interests, which stretched far beyond their own territory. Some years previously, the Portlands had made a commercial bid to take over Niberlin lands by buying up hospitals, schools, social service franchises, utilities, and so on over a period of years until they owned almost everything paid for out of taxes. Bill was confident of victory, but Hogni’s father had simply waited until he had spent a large part of his fortune, nationalized everything overnight, and then sold it off to the highest bidders the very next morning while the Portlands were almost penniless. The group protested violently, but there was nothing they could do. It put them back years; Bill was furious. It fortified his conviction that government was too powerful for anyone but himself.

  Such flash points apart, relations between the Portlands and the Niberlins were tense, but had not yet fully broken down. Hogni enjoyed drinking at the Portland bars, chatting with the customers, and perhaps picking up one of the younger family members to take home for the night. One day, as he and they all knew, he would become an enemy to his drinking friends and lovers overnight, but in the meantime it served everyone’s interest to have some sort of contact and Hogni could come and go unharmed.

  It was a Tuesday evening and the bar at the Monkey’s Paw wasn’t busy when Hogni came in to fix things up. The managers, Eve and Elijah Portland, recognized him as both a family enemy and a personal friend. They’d had good times with Hogni. They called him over for a drink, which he was happy to accept.

  “Woof, woof and down the hatch. Mmmm. Lovely. So, sweeties, what’s on the menu? I have a friend with me tonight.”

  Elijah and Eve rolled their eyes at each other. Hogni nearly always had a friend with him. If he didn’t, he usually did by the end of the evening.

  “Wha! Nice boy?” said Elijah.

  “Depends on your point of view, really,” said Hogni.

  “Na—hahaha! He won’t be by the time you’re finished with him,” chortled Eve.

  “Something s-s-sexy? Oysters? Does he like seafood?” asked Elijah.

  “Oh, no, not that sort of friend. Didn’t you get my message? This one is business.”

  He eyed them significantly, but he wasn’t surprised that they didn’t know what he was on about. Gunar and Gudrun would certainly have been in touch with the top brass about this and it wasn’t the sort of thing Old Bill liked to entrust to lowly bar managers. Eve nodded over Hogni’s shoulder. He looked round and saw a senior Portland sitting surrounded by a group of heavily built monkey-men; Portlands again, but bred for size, strength, and obedience rather than anything you could call brain. They were gorillas in every sense of the word.

  Hogni sighed; he hated dealing with the seniors. He downed his drink, asked for another, and went over to sort it out. Loathsome! He hated himself for this. But what else could he do?

  The gorillas moved over to make room for him, and Hogni squeezed himself in opposite the neatly suited monkey, who shook his hand with
distaste, announced that Hogni could just call him Portland—“Can it be Bill himself?” wondered Hogni—and asked what the Volson was like.

  “Big bloke. Very strong. Very ambitious,” emphasized Hogni. “He took out about twenty of those pig-dog things— know them?” Portland glanced over at one of his aides, who looked seriously impressed, nodding and hooting softly.

  “What, eh?” said Portland. “Tikit tik tik. And what’s he doing alive?”

  “Oh, really—I can’t deal with him on my own. Why do you think I got in touch with you? This boy needs an army to take him out. Anyhow, he saved my life. I owe him a favor.”

  “Er? You owe him a favor? This it? You bringing him here for a favor?”

  Hogni shrugged. “Politics.” He downed his drink. “Family,” he emphasized.

  “Don wanna get his hands dirty,” observed one of the gorillas. Hogni ignored him.

  “No one wants another Volson messing up the waters,” he said briefly. “We want him out of the way too. My people are miles away; this is your territory. Well? Do you think you can handle it?”

  Bill ignored the question, and his gorillas began to pant and rattle their knuckles under the table. You didn’t ask a senior Portland questions like that. Hogni began to feel uncomfortable. He almost wished he had Sigurd with him; he wasn’t safe himself. Quickly he went on to an inventory of Sigurd. His skin was something special, it was going to take an awful lot of firepower to get through it. “Really strong,” he said. Words didn’t do justice to what he’d seen Sigurd do to those pig-dogs. He was fairly confident this was not something he could explain to the Portlands or anyone else who hadn’t seen it, but he had to try.

  “Weapons?”

  Hogni licked his lips. “He has a broken sword,” he said.