Bloodsong

by Melvin Burgess

  Around the two riders the air began to warm up, the dew dried, the mist lifted, the day opened out before them. Hogni was thinking ahead, but Sigurd was oblivious. His mind was filling up with Bryony. He was looking around at the fields, the trees shadowy in the mist, the gathering light and warmth, the birdsong, all the sights, sounds, and smells of the advancing morning, thinking how joyful it would be when he introduced all this to her. The world! They would become drunk on it, the two of them. She was a traveler from another world, he would see it all anew through her eyes. It would be the first day of creation all over again.

  And Hogni—the soldier prince with several hundred deaths to his name and a reputation for ruthlessness—sat behind him and wondered what on earth was going to happen next. And how was his family going to react to it? Sigurd was irresistible.

  But he needs us, thought Hogni. He needs us more than we need him. He needed their army, their bureaucracy, their government.

  “Yes,” said Sigurd, turning briefly round to face him. “I need you.”

  Hogni felt a thrill of fear and wonder go up his spine. Sigurd nodded at him and turned away. Hogni thought, Does he know everything? He blushed at that idea—a great many of his private thoughts were not for public consumption. He put his arms more tightly about the boy in front of him, but the gentle morning was over. Hogni felt awe rather than tenderness. Sigurd had died and come to life in the arms of Odin, the Allfather, the all-knowing. People were turning inside out before him. He was learning to see without eyes.

  He’s a god, thought Hogni. Or he’s becoming one. But he said nothing.

  About an hour later they arrived on the outskirts of the next small town. Hogni wanted to skirt around it.

  “Why? This is the quickest way,” replied Sigurd.

  “There’ll be people,” began Hogni; but then shook his head. Was Sigurd truly unaware that word would have spread? He shrugged, giving up. “Crowds are what happens next,” he said. “See? I can see into the future too.”

  Sigurd frowned at him, half smiling, not sure what his friend meant.

  “Go on, then,” said Hogni. “Maybe we can stop off for a drink.”

  “Good idea,” said Sigurd. Hogni laughed. The dragon killer was going to stop off for a cup of tea.

  And so began the public part of the story of Sigurd, right there and then as they rode out of the mist past the first few houses. Everyone knew at once who it was—how could it possibly be anyone else? And as they ran to greet them they brought their cameras with them, and so we have the first images of Sigurd since his resurrection. Those first stills, that video footage—remember? It was like Jesus on the street. Everyone, even the tiniest children, who knew nothing of all this or what it meant, recognized somehow in those first poor images the beginnings of a new world. Where were you when you first saw them? We all remember. The great skeletal horse, skeins of blood vessels and pulsing muscles growing over his alloy bones and carbonic systems. On his back, clinging on like a child, Hogni, the forgiven one, looking so small, his white face unreadable as he stares into the lens, inviting you to interpret what it was like to be there so close behind the great man. And Sigurd himself, red as fire, as beautiful as a girl, as strong as a machine, smiling fondly down, as if he had no idea how great he was. We look into his face today and we wonder how much he knew of what was to come. His smile is kind but enigmatic. It may just be the bad quality of the footage, or perhaps there is simply too much there for us to read. Perhaps he already knew the fate of every single one of us.

  Outside The Table and Chairs bar, Sigurd and Hogni came down from Slipper to eat, but had to get back up because the crowd was already too big. People fetched food for them to eat as they rode—sandwiches, pies, fruit, sweets, handed over heads to reach them. There was no scrum, no fan-fighting, no crowds squabbling about who had the honor of standing next to them, or touching their feet or the horse’s sides, no one tearing at their clothes. The people were good-natured. They were watching the future smile at them.

  Over the day as the news spread, the numbers grew from tens to hundreds, from hundreds to thousands. So quick! By the dawn of the next day, nearly a million people lined the route between them and the Niberlin capital, and numbers were still growing. People had walked through the night, now they were walking through the day. At first they simply wanted to see the arrival of the king, but when numbers like this are involved, things change. The strings of power loosen, the glue between leaders and the led begins to dissolve. Even the most brutal dictator cannot fight his entire people. The crowd understood that, and the rulers knew it too. At that moment, they had already been defeated. Of course they drew up their battle plans anyway.

  Once people realized what was happening, they came in greater numbers than ever before. Every mile, every hundred meters, the crowd got thicker and Sigurd and Hogni’s progress grew slower and slower. Sigurd stood up on the saddle and waved. How they roared back at him! Hogni was spotted and the crowd roared louder than ever. A Niberlin was with him! A truce, an alliance! Half the war was already won and not a shot fired!

  Slipper slowed down to a steady trot, then to a walk, then stopped. Things needed organizing. Sigurd stood up on the horse’s back and made a short speech. Times were changing. Already the dragon was dead. He was on his way to sign a truce with the Niberlins—who, as they could see, were already on his side. Hogni winced, waved, and was cheered hoarse. It was the first he’d heard about it. Sigurd beamed down at him, gleeful in his childish trick. And it would work—it had worked. They both knew it.

  Meanwhile, he told the crowd, their enemies were gathering—did they think the Portlands would sit still for long? Did they think the Smiths to the west and the Winstons to the southeast were going to hand power over on a plate? Word must spread. Everyone must prepare. He needed to raise an army. He had the money, his father’s gold was at the service of the people once again. It was time to rebuild.

  An air-shaking cheer went up. Who would dare fight against him? Hogni wondered. Was it possible that Sigurd could take over the country just by marching into it? What would the little kings and tyrants of this age do if they didn’t want Sigurd? Sack the people? Elect a new electorate? Shoot everyone?

  Sigurd asked for volunteers. He chose men, women, and children to help clear his route forward, set them marching ahead of him, keeping the road open for Slipper to go forward at a few miles an hour—fast enough to get there, slow enough to let word spread and make his progress inevitable.

  Off they set again. It was Sigurd’s third day above ground. Already it was like another age.

  There were enemies, too, hiding in the crowds. It was hardly to be heard at first, the first gunshot; but in a shocked, spreading silence, there was a further burst of noise and the scattering bullets ricocheting off Slipper, and from Sigurd’s head. Hogni caught a bullet in his arm; there was the blood to be seen by all. Ten meters away in the crowd, a small group of local militia were spotted easing their way backward. They had been used to these people obeying their every word up till now, but now the crowd had new horizons. There was a roar of rage, a glimpse of scared white faces as the militiamen held up their hands and tried to bark orders. Then, the crowd closed in. The men were literally stamped to death. The bloodied uniforms were passed forward and raised like a flag in front of Slipper— a standard and a warning to any enemies.

  Many people had seen the bullets bounce off Sigurd’s head. So it was true: He was invulnerable. Victory was already theirs.

  Ganglords and godfathers, kings and presidents, prime ministers, chieftains, head executives and chairmen of the board; everyone was scared. The people had found a new hope and hope means change. The boss never likes hope. He’s always the first to go.

  At the Niberlins’ house, Democracy Palace, it was the same. President Gunar and his sister peered out of their windows at the hordes gathering in Democracy Square outside. Flowers were being heaped up at the gates, kids were screaming, but it wasn’t just girls
and boys. Volson fever had spread to the militia. Whole divisions were turning up and pledging themselves, their arms, and their artillery to the wonderful boy. Everyone knew the Volson principles: unity, freedom, peace. Sigurd stood for us, for you and me. He was freedom from tyrants and the ambitions of kings. He was good government—so devastating when it goes wrong, so dull you can barely see it when it’s done well. To make it work everyone has to agree—and look! Here we all are agreeing, millions upon millions upon millions of us.

  The crowd was like an ocean; it murmured, it roared. You could float in it—but not if you were a Niberlin. They had been good rulers, it had been their pride. They were loved once but suddenly their fate was in the balance.

  Peeping out from behind the curtain, Gunar and Gudrun felt like children watching something scary on the TV from behind the sofa. You don’t dare watch it but you don’t dare miss it. An ocean of faces, all of them ready to judge, all of them ready to act. They were safe in their millions, and their rulers were so suddenly all alone.

  Gunar looked at his sister, who stood behind watching him carefully. Lying on a Windsor chair farther back in the room was a black and white sheepdog bitch watching them both intently, occasionally letting out a slight, nervous whine. Her head was only a little domed. This was Grimhild. Their mother—a dog? Yes, but it hadn’t always been like this. Once she had been as halfman as any of them, a woman famous for her intelligence, but now her long jaws made speech impossible even if she was capable of it. You could only guess how much she could understand. What else could she do but sit on a chair and cry for them?

  To one side stood Ida, big-boned Ida, in her floral print frock, watching the wallpaper with nothing to say. Grimhild’s personal servant, she dotes silently on her mistress. She has no tongue. The two are rarely seen apart.

  “He’s only fifteen,” hissed Gunar. “Knows n-nothing! Educated like a beach bum, silly hippy kid. Is he going to waltz in and take over everything we’ve w-worked for all these years?”

  Gudrun shook her head. “People get impatient. It’ll pass. He’ll show himself up, they’ll turn against him. We’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”

  “What if the p-pieces are us?”

  Gudrun rolled her eyes as if he was being a pain. “Poor old Gunar, whinge, whinge, whinge,” she said. Gunar snorted in amusement.

  “I only want to be king of everything,” he joked. They smiled fondly at each other.

  Gunar and Gudrun had fewer traces of the dog in them than their brother Hogni. Black and white hair brushed back, wide-apart eyes the color of dark honey, deep chests, just the trace of a muzzle—a bit of a tendency to whine or bark when they got excited. The family used to be proud of their human side and tended to hide their dogginess until the past ten years or so—Gunar put his slight stutter down to this suppression—but there was a game they’d had since childhood, and they played it now to amuse each other; hung out their tongues, which were suddenly revealed to be nearly a foot long, and panted like a pair of stupid old dogs.

  “Hu hu hu hu hu,” they went, and then burst out laughing. In her chair, Grimhild yapped disapprovingly.

  “Bitch,” said Gunar.

  “Labrador,” she accused him.

  “Not a Labrador! If I’m a Lab, you’re a p-poodle—an arse sniffing poodle with bad hair.” They smiled, trouble out of mind for a moment. Then Gunar looked back out of the window.

  “Have we been wr-wrong all this time?” he asked.

  “Wrong about what?”

  “A-ba, about us. The family.”

  It was so important to Gunar—to all the family, but to him especially: to do the right thing. Power was a stewardship of the people’s good and the land they lived in. The Niberlins’ claim to power was the belief that they made the best stewards. So far this had been undisputed.

  “Hogni thinks he’s on the same side as us,” said Gudrun.

  “Hogni gets infatuated with every p-piece he meets. . . .”

  “Sigurd was brought up by Alf, he’s a good ruler.”

  “But we don’t know. It’s s-s-so late!”

  Gudrun looked out of the window again. The crowd was everywhere. “There’s nothing we can do about it,” she said.

  Gunar looked unhappily at her. What about doing the right thing? What was the right thing? It’s not just you standing there trying to be honest and open for the sake of your own honor—millions of lives could be affected. Politicians sometimes have no right to be honest.

  “There’s nothing we should do about it,” Gudrun corrected herself. “Until we know.” She watched her brother anxiously. Gunar had been brought up to be king. Being king went hand in hand with doing what was right—with being right. Suddenly it was all being taken away from him. The people had changed their allegiance. He was deeply shaken.

  “We don’t know how it’s going to work out,” said Gudrun. “I think they’ll turn on him as soon as they see what a child he is. But maybe not. Maybe it’s our turn to be ruled now, Gunar. Look—all those people. If you want to stop him, you have to overrule them, and we don’t have that right.”

  “And what if he r-r-ruins it?” said Gunar. He glanced at her. “We’re the c-certainty in this world. This boy—what is he? No one knows.”

  “We tried to stop him,” Gudrun pointed out. “Now we have to try and work with him—for now at least.”

  Gunar looked at his sister. “Thought it was g-going to be me,” he said.

  “Remember what Father used to say?”

  “‘Only the ruled have rights. We just do our duty.’ I know.”

  Gudrun put her arms around him. Gunar was in a kind of shock. All his plans and ambitions were crumbling away to nothing. He’d thought power was planning, care, legislation. Now he saw for the first time what it really was: It was people, millions of them, wanting you, following you, believing in you. His armies would be like lost children in this crowd even if he cared to use them. These quick few hours had swallowed his ambitions whole and turned his honesty, his cleverness, his plots, and his ambitions to dust.

  There was a heavy thud as Grimhild jumped down off her chair and came over to comfort her children. Ida’s pale blue eyes turned to follow her mistress across the floor. With a whine, she lifted her muzzle up for Gunar to stroke. He rubbed her ears. “What would you say, Mother?” he said, and shrugged.

  Gudrun laughed “Would be bad advice,” she said. “She’d tell you to fight for what’s yours. You know Mum—family always comes first.”

  The dog licked her lips, but had nothing to say. The days when Grimhild could give advice were long gone.

  Down below, the crowds were still streaming in. They had been trying to stop the flood into the square for fear of people getting killed in the crush, but the soldiers they had sent in to guide the crowds had been pushed to one side. They’d had warnings announced all over the square about crowd safety and control, but no one seemed to be taking any notice.

  “What are we going to do?” Gudrun asked.

  Gunar smiled wryly. “W-welcome him with open arms, like the king he is.”

  Grimhild whined and pawed his leg. Gunar laughed and spread his hand over the scene before them. “Look! That’s royalty. We’re just in admin.” He nodded. “Everything we’ve d-d . . . d-d-done has been preparing for this. Everything will be different from now on.”

  Gudrun nodded. Yes. Banners would be flown, the red carpet laid out. The story of how the family had tried to have Sigurd killed was already abroad. People needed to know that they were on the right side. Then they would see what this boy was made of.

  “But we won’t side with a tyrant no matter what the crowd wants,” said Gunar, meeting her eye. She nodded. No tyranny. That was the most important thing.

  They had thought the arrival would be in the late afternoon, but the crowd was still growing and Sigurd’s progress was getting slower and slower. It would be the nighttime, then. Gunar and Gudrun had the square lit by floodlights, bright enough to f
ilm the meeting. They wanted all eyes to see them welcome Sigurd. A guard of honor was not possible—the crowd would not allow anyone with a rifle anywhere near him—but an area had been cordoned off by a barrier of soldiers, space for a small raised platform where the Niberlins could be seen standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

  Sigurd’s progress could be marked by the loudness of the cheering as he approached. The crowd was ecstatic. They knew their own power. Anything was possible this night.

  Gudrun had ordered screens to be put up in public places all around the city and farther afield in town squares and village greens, in public buildings, pubs and inns and hotels, in the hope that people would gather there rather than descend on the capital. Even so, Democracy Square was packed so tightly that people began to be displaced as the cavalcade began to arrive. Troops, tanks, and other artillery moved in ahead of Sigurd. The noise swelled. Gunar and Gudrun became increasingly worried that things would come to a head before he even arrived. Fights were breaking out. If serious violence began between the Niberlin guard and the men Sigurd had picked up along the way, people could die in the thousands.