Bloodsong
Page 13
Portland looked a him incredulously. “That it?”
“He may have more stacked away in the horse,” said Hogni. He told them a little about Slipper. Portland nodded.
“Ik ik ik. We know the model. We can deal with the horse. Okay, son. When you meeting up with him?”
“An hour,” replied Hogni, feeling sick. “Watch him, though—he’s a bit of a berserker.”
“E e e e e. Ha! He can be as berserk as he likes after a few drinks of what we have ere,” said Elijah, who had come across to serve drinks. The monkeys started hooting, swearing, and laughing.
The Volson boy was bad business. Thinking him dead, a great many rulers hadn’t bothered to stop, or had even encouraged, the lionization and hero worship of the young boy. People can dream, can’t they? But a living hero isn’t anywhere near as predictable as the dead variety, and now that he’d turned up, a lot of people in positions of power were very anxious to get him back where he belonged—in the ground.
Too good to be true, thought Hogni. And therefore, he had to cease to be true as soon as possible.
By the time Sigurd arrived, the bar had livened up quite a bit. Over three-quarters of the drinkers were Portlands.
“Lot of monkeys in here,” said Sigurd to Hogni as he joined him at the table. Hogni smiled and nodded. Sigurd leaned close.
“It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” he said softly.
Hogni started. “What? Nothing to go wrong, is there?” he stuttered. How much did Sigurd know?
Sigurd smiled at him. “Nothing I know of,” he replied. “You don’t look happy, that’s all.” He banged the table with his hands and laughed. He knew something was going on, but not what. Hogni was his friend. He loved him; therefore, nothing bad could happen. “Now we can get drunk.”
He sat down next to Hogni, ordered beer and chasers, and they began to drink.
It was an evil hour. Sigurd broke Hogni’s heart that night. His talk was all of friendship and hope and the power of good, making the world a better place for everyone to live in. Hogni was from an ancient ruling family and a lot of his intrinsic optimism had evaporated but Sigurd raised his spirits, made him believe again that anything was possible. He was about to snuff his own hopes out.
Sigurd was not a big drinker, and Hogni was doing his best to set him up time and time again with beer and chasers—small glasses of pale green liquid. There was, Hogni reflected, maybe enough drug in those to kill the boy with an overdose as it was.
Sigurd swiftly became blurred and began to droop heavily over the table. Slow enough to murder already, Hogni thought. He could see the Portlands watching closely. Hogni ordered another round. Sigurd shook his head. Hogni almost had to throw this one down his throat for him. Arms crossed, Sigurd slumped. Hogni called his name. Sigurd raised his head sluggishly and smiled blearily at his friend, then put his head back down. His breath had begun to rattle in his throat.
A group of Portland gorillas sauntered over from behind the bar cradling automatic weapons in their arms.
Hogni put his hand out and shook Sigurd by the head. “Just going to the toilet,” he said. Sigurd didn’t move.
Hogni walked a few steps toward the toilets, then broke into a run. They were going to gun Sigurd down right here in the middle of the bar—a public show. He could see Eve and Elijah chattering their teeth and cursing as they got out of the way. Hogni burst out of the bar and into the street. He wanted to be well out of the way once the shooting started. He wouldn’t put it past the Portlands to try to take him out at the same time just for the hell of it.
He wasn’t twenty meters away when the firing began, a brief rattle and then a violent thunder of gunfire. They sure were making sure. Hogni felt like bursting into tears. He turned round to see if he was being pursued. It felt inevitable that he was; he deserved it. But there was no one on his tail.
The gunfire started up again. Almost against his own will, Hogni crept back toward the building. As he advanced the noise reached a terrible crescendo, then shouting started. A couple of Portlands suddenly shot through the door and beat it off down the road.
Hogni got to the window and looked in.
Sigurd was lying on his back on the ground in the middle of a hail of bullets. The floorboards were dissolving into sawdust around him and Hogni could see his skin dimpling under their impact. Dimpling? thought Hogni. Dimpling? But it was true. The bullets were bouncing right off him. Sigurd had his hands over his face to keep them out of his eyes. Whenever there was a pause he tried to get up, but then they started again and he went back down. All around him the Portlands were shouting orders. It seemed to Hogni that they were just firing now to keep him down. What on earth were they going to do once they ran out of ammunition and he got to his feet?
Hogni was panting in fear and excitement. They’re trapped, he thought. Sigurd was on his back, in their sights, at their mercy—and they were trapped.
The Portlands were beginning to run out of ammunition. Every few seconds someone would fling down his weapon and make a run for it, making the remaining monkey-men even more edgy. A few of the leaders were running around the edges, ordering more ammo, more men, more everything.
Hogni clung to the window, still panting with excitement. It was impossible! Sigurd was like nothing you could ever imagine.
Behind the bar, the office door burst open and Elijah and Eve came in hauling a large mortar between them. Someone else was standing behind them with a flame thrower. Elijah sank to one knee, aimed—“No!” yelled Hogni, because this was surely the end—and fired. Sigurd exploded. Immediately the other monkey ran in and began to flame the remains that lay scattered among burning tables, chairs and floorboards.
Out of the inferno a shape could be seem. Two arms, two legs, staggering drunkenly about. Then there was a yell from the fire. A chair came hurling out of the flames at an impossible velocity. It struck the flame thrower operator on the chest and smashed him into the wall, killing him instantly.
There was another yell. Sigurd was angry.
The burning figure leapt out of the fire and landed directly on Elijah. There was an audible snap as Sigurd broke his neck with a twist of his wrist. The flames were burning out now and Sigurd was now as Hogni had first seen him, stark naked; but this time his body glowed with the heat. Hogni had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.
“This keeps happening!” yelled Sigurd in fury.
He struck out sideways at Eve and knocked her five meters onto the bar, where she broke. Then he grabbed a gun from the floor and began to fire rounds from the hip. By now the Portlands were in full retreat.
“Run, shitshitshitshit, run, run!” they were yelling. They poured out of the windows and doors. Hogni could even see some of them erupting through the roof and upstairs windows, in a total panic.
“Yes! Yes!” yelled Hogni. Sigurd had done it again— impossible, wonderful, beautiful! He yelled and whooped for joy as the raging figure stormed through the bar on a murderous rampage. Then suddenly Sigurd stopped, turned his head, and looked through the window straight at Hogni. Hogni froze; he had forgotten in the excitement that he was the one who had set this up. He paled, staggered backward. But Sigurd was coming. He jumped over the scattered, blazing furniture and was right now coming through the window to get him.
Hogni made no attempt to run. He could never get away, and even if he could, he deserved whatever was coming to him. Sigurd was in a rage, and just as he had never seen such beauty, so Hogni had never seen such rage in a person before. He knew that it could be held back by nothing in this world.
Sigurd descended in a rain of shattered glass and towered above him. Involuntarily Hogni sank to his knees.
“I betrayed you,” he begged, and he burst into tears.
Sigurd smiled, put out a hand, and lifted him effortlessly to his feet. “You’re my friend,” he said. “I will always forgive you. Don’t you understand that?”
Hogni stared up at him in amazement.
A crowd was beginning to gather. Someone plucked up the courage to ask, “Are you the Volson boy?”
Sigurd nodded. “I’m Sigurd.”
“And I’m Hogni Niberlin,” said Hogni, admitting his family name at last. Sigurd laughed, but didn’t seem surprised.
“Did you know?” asked Hogni.
“You were someone important. Why else did we meet?”
As they stood in the street, the sound of hooves thudded rapidly along the road; Slipper was on his way. The Portlands were nowhere to be seen, but the crowd was getting bigger by the second and Sigurd was worried that they might attack again while he was surrounded by so many people. As the horse rode up, he swung himself up on his back, put out an arm, and pulled Hogni up behind him. He was still hot enough for Hogni to cry out at his touch.
“You’ve seen me now,” Sigurd told the crowd. “I killed Fafnir. I took his skin, his gold, and his strength. We’re to make this nation one again, like it was in my father’s day. Remember me!” He pressed his heels lightly into the horse’s flanks, and they fled the town.
• • •
As they rode on, Sigurd cooled down enough for Hogni to put his arms around him and hold on tight. The boy had such smooth skin, burned clean so many times already. Underneath, the hard muscles moved like liquid. Hogni felt comforted and safe, like a cat lying on a warm stove at home. What would happen next? It was out of his hands, so far out of his hands that he hardly cared anymore.
He rested his head on the boy’s back and felt something against his cheek; something hot and wet—a patch of raw, burned flesh. Hogni pressed it gently with his fingers.
Sigurd winced and glanced over his shoulder at Hogni. “A leaf got stuck between my clothes and Fafnir’s blood couldn’t reach the skin there. It’s the only place where I can be killed.”
He smiled wryly, and then looked forward, searching for a place to spend the night. Behind him, Hogni gently put his hand on the place. Yes, a leaf shape. He felt Sigurd wince. Yes, it was tender. Yes, Sigurd could be killed here.
Hogni put his hand down to his side where he carried a knife. Inside his jacket was a small handgun, he couldn’t use that, Sigurd would feel him take it out. But the knife . . . ? If he wanted, the lad was his to take, his to have, his to kill. Perhaps no one else in the world had the knowledge. But Hogni did not reach for his knife. He put his arms back around Sigurd’s waist, leaned his face against the warm back, and let the tears come again. There was no uncertainty. Who could doubt such love? Hogni was won over to the last fiber in him. He leaned his head tenderly against Sigurd’s back, and wept.
• • •
There was a moment back there, kneeling in front of him, when I was about to spill my life out for him—slit my throat and die at his feet for what I’d done. But he didn’t want it. What about that? He didn’t want my life or even my apologies. He just wanted me.
Impossible, beautiful, perfect boy.
Yep; I was in love. Again. Already! Rrrruf. After two days. What does that say about me? I mean! It happens all the time; but this time was different. Like—really in love. After what I did! After what he did. But it was unfair. It was unfair to me, I knew that at once, even though he was the one making all the sacrifices, because he had enough love in him to love the whole world and I barely had enough for one. I was his, body and soul. He loved me more than anyone else ever had or could, but at the same time, I felt that he loved the ground under his feet as much as me. Funny, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was just unfair, that’s all.
And you know what? Bumping up and down on the back of that horse—ruuuuuf! Well, what can I say? He was like a god, but, woof, woof!—he was flesh all right. I tried to ignore it, but . . . well. I was practically lying on top of him already, with that horse trotting along.
Grrr-ruf!
He dropped me off in a little town nearby to get him yet more clothes, and then we carried on out to find a place to stay. We’d decided to sleep out that night. And you know what was going through my mind. Yes, yes. Well, I had to ask. I’d never forgive myself. Can you imagine, years later over a beer or a glass of wine, and I asked if he’d have said yes and he would have and I’d never asked? So I had to really. I mean. I was so nervous, I hardly knew what to say. But I was determined I was going to have a go.
We found this lovely place. Well, it was a bit damp actually—I expect we could have found something better but I insisted because it was so romantic. It was this half-fallen-down old church. Someone had been adapting it to Thor and Freya, I think, one of that lot. It was all overgrown. Very fertile. Wildflowers everywhere. Creepers all over it. We had something to eat, settled down—and I made my move. I came over and asked if we could cuddle up. He turned over—there was just a sliver of a moon, enough to see his face, shining because he’d been burned—burned for me, I thought. Funny. I wasn’t guilty. He’d forgiven me, you see? There was nothing to feel guilty about.
“I’m not cold, if that’s what you think,” I said.
“You can cuddle up, Hogni,” he said. Yes! Oh, yes! So I lay down by him and put my arm over him and stroked him all over. He sighed and lay still. Then I reached round to you know where. He turned to look at me. “There’s someone else, Hogni.”
“I’m sure you have to fight them off.”
“Someone I love.”
I was surprised. But it didn’t necessarily mean no, did it?
“But you could be mine if you wanted to, for just for one night.”
Sigurd smiled. “Yes, I can be yours for one night,” he said. And then we kissed. And then—we made love.
And in the morning—in the morning I was heartbroken. You fall for someone, you want them more than they want you, and of course it all ends in tears. In those two days he’d taken everything I had to give—forced it out of me, literally. I was drained dry—and I don’t mean it like that, either. I thought, Now the pain starts. We never slept together again, I became more of a follower than a lover after that. But Sigurd and I, we loved each other until the end, one way or the other. Funny! So, yes, it was sad, but it in another way, you see, it had only just begun.
Why did I do that? It happened spontaneously, but it was planned all along. By who? Not me! And Bryony underground waiting for me . . . I’d been unfaithful to her without a thought.
But it didn’t feel wrong. He wanted it—he wanted me—so badly, I had no right to say no. I’d taken everything from him and I had to give him everything back, too, for that one night at least. In the morning, when I made it clear that it wouldn’t happen again, he looked so heartbroken. But he was still pleased we’d done it.
“We had this time together at least,” he said. It made me blush. As if I’d done him a favor!
I must have seemed like a god to Hogni. I don’t like gods. Who are they? Do you think they have friends? Who do they talk to when things are getting them down? It must be very lonely in heaven. And then there’s power—dragon power. Power is the real dragon. It eats away into your soul and turns your heart into stone. First it turns your friends into admirers, then to followers and servants, and finally into slaves. Hogni is mine now. He’s bound to me by bonds of love as well as gratitude. I walked into his trap just so that I could fight like a demon, forgive him like a father, and love him like a girl. How can he resist me now? Yet I swear I never planned it. It’s just how I am. My bones understand. I swear to you, I had no more choice in this than Hogni did.
He’s a Niberlin. You see? Destiny, destiny. They are the seeds of the new nation. They have organization, a bureaucracy, government. The hardware—the tanks and guns, the industry, all those things you can build or buy, but the organization, the skills and experience—those you can’t buy, and if you take them, you break them. They have to give them to me. They have to come beh
ind me.
The Niberlin family is like a treasure chest and Hogni is my key. Why else did I come across him just as his life was in danger? When I won Hogni, I was on my way to winning the Niberlins; and when I have the Niberlins, I can begin the fight. It scares me sometimes. It can’t be a good thing, can it, to have all roads, all actions, even the moving of the human heart calculated to lift me up and bear me forward? But there is a goodness in it too, because around me, the very best in people flowers. Hogni would give his life for me and although I tell you the truth when I say that I would give my life for him this second if I had to—well. I’m not easily killed and he is. It’s a measure of how great his heart is that he will give everything he has. I may give more, but I have so much more to give. That is why the least of my followers will always be better than I can ever be.
But I also wonder if maybe I slept with him to become human again, in his eyes at least. Sex is so human, isn’t it? That night I wanted Hogni to show me that I was ordinary, too. He did show me, and I’ll always be grateful for that. He’d seen me fighting a hundred enemies and winning, but in his arms I was just a boy, doing something I’d never done before.
The sun illuminated the mist in a pearly sheen across the fields and woods as Sigurd and Hogni rode away from the small church where they had spent the night into a morning filled with the scents of water and wet leaves. Hogni sat behind Sigurd with his arms wrapped around his waist. He laid his head briefly on his back, taking care to avoid the weeping wound between his shoulder blades. Sigurd turned and kissed him. Then they set out on their way, Slipper placing his prosthetic hooves silently on the stones in between the puddles on the track. They headed northeast, toward the Niberlin lands. Soon Hogni would have to radio ahead and let his family know what was going on—but not yet. This beautiful morning was the last time he had Sigurd to himself. In a few hours politics would begin again.
On such a morning as this you could feel that the world stands still around you, but of course it never does. Beyond the mist, death was sharpening his tools. The Portlands had done their best to contain the fallout from the failed ambush at the Monkey’s Paw. They had imposed a curfew and radio silence in Milton, put up roadblocks, tried to ring-fence the town; but word was already out. Runners and rumors, banned TV and telephone lines, carrier pigeons even, spread the news. There’s always a way. Governments themselves are the worst blabbermouths of all. Already the world and his wife knew that the Niberlins had betrayed Sigurd, that the Portlands had ambushed him with opiates and small artillery, and that Sigurd had rescued Hogni and disappeared. The dragon killer, the son of the great king, the golden boy had returned from death, stronger and more beautiful than ever, wearing the dragon’s skin as his own, blazing fire and with the strength to fight an armored division without a wound to show for it. You could shoot him, you could burn him, but you couldn’t kill him. And he knew how to love. The Volsons were back.