Ingvar turned to face him. ‘Speak to me.’
Jorundur shrugged. ‘Perhaps they just got lost.’ His old, shrewd, yellow eyes glittered in the dark. ‘But you never asked yourself why, given the choice, they went for a bunch of scrolls in a basement?’
As Jorundur spoke, Ingvar felt a sudden pang of unease. He didn’t reply.
‘I mean, that place is covered in guns,’ Jorundur went on. ‘Really big guns, ones we’ll need. The bomb-drones, they’ve all been directed towards the sites that would hurt us – ammo dumps, power plants, comms towers. Think about it. You get a gang of them inside that cathedral, what are you going to tell them to do: head up to the batteries and bring them down, or torch the archives?’
He shook his shaggy head.
‘Maybe that’s what they wanted,’ he said. ‘I just find it surprising.’
Ingvar felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. He gripped the edge of the parapet, and the fingers of his gauntlet sent hairline cracks running across its surface.
‘They were trapped,’ he said. ‘It was their only target.’
Jorundur looked unconvinced. ‘If you say so.’
Ingvar pushed back, away from the edge.
‘I should go back,’ he said.
I swore vows never to disclose the secrets I was given to guard.
Jorundur reached out, grabbing him by the wrist and holding him back.
‘And do what, Gyrfalkon?’ he asked.
Ingvar whirled to face him, but couldn’t find the words to reply. He had nothing concrete, no suspicions, no theories, just the renewed sense of missing something important.
It was my wyrd to be here. Just as it was yours.
‘I don’t know. Yet.’
He started to push clear of Jorundur’s grasp when his comm-feed crackled into life. De Chatelaine’s voice emerged over the non-secure channel.
‘Warriors of Járnhamar,’ she said, sounding both concerned and angry. ‘Your presence is requested at the Halicon. Urgency, please, would be appreciated.’
Ingvar paused. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Communication from Gunnlaugur. He’s coming in now, carrying casualties. The apothecarion is prepared. We will do what we can.’
Ingvar shook his head furiously. ‘Skítja,’ he swore.
Jorundur was already moving, his cynical face hardening as he made his way to the tower portal. Ingvar hesitated for a moment, torn between conflicting priorities.
Gunnlaugur, you fool.
‘Can you give me more information?’ he asked, lingering on the parapet. ‘What has happened?’
He heard de Chatelaine exhale impatiently.
‘Forgive me, but your brothers can inform you better than I,’ she said, her voice sounding almost peevish. ‘I have many things to detain me. You are on the walls? Look up, Space Wolf, and I’m sure you will understand.’
The link cut out abruptly. Startled by her tone, Ingvar turned and peered out across the night-shrouded plains. Jorundur, halting before the portal, did the same.
Right on the edge of vision, across to the far horizon where the wide, flat landscape broke into ravine country, the perfect dark had been broken. A long, thin line of green polluted it, glowing softly in the night. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. Even as Ingvar watched, it grew in intensity, as if hundreds of tiny candles had been lit in the shadows.
It was still far off, but clearly visible. The faint strand seemed to stretch from north to south without a break.
‘So many,’ breathed Ingvar, everything else forgotten for the moment.
Jorundur drew alongside him.
‘Aye,’ said the Old Dog, his expression grim. ‘So they’re here at last. Now it gets interesting.’
III
The Blighted
Chapter Seventeen
Gunnlaugur lowered Baldr’s torso onto the metal-slab operating table. Olgeir swung the Hunter’s legs over the far end, arranging them on the stainless steel surface with painstaking care.
A man in a white tabard hurried up to the table, his hands stuffed with a thick bundle of cutting equipment.
‘Leave him!’ snarled Gunnlaugur, twisting round and shoving the man away. The mortal fell heavily, upending a metal container full of empty syringe cases. ‘This does not concern you, human.’
His mood was black still, fuelled by shame. The long trek across the plains had been hellish – a limping, straggling race in the dark, every jarring step risking more damage to Baldr’s battered body. As the night had waned the lights had started to follow them: a few at first, then hundreds more, always a long way behind, but growing like a canker across the horizon.
He’d longed to turn then, to bare his fangs and charge straight back into the pursuing horde, losing himself in the pure exertion that would help him forget.
Instead he’d set his jaw and staggered onwards, his arms hooked under Baldr’s shoulders, the dead weight of his battle-brother dragging him down.
None of them had spoken during the journey back. Olgeir’s harsh breathing had become more and more strained as he’d struggled to haul Baldr’s bulk on top of sigrún’s. Váltyr had had his own hands full keeping Hafloí on his feet. Between them they had cut a sorry sight, limping back to the safety of the city with the pursuing stench of the enemy curling at their heels.
Now, back in the Halicon, they were surrounded by fussing, useless mortals, stumbling over one another to offer their fussing, useless assistance.
The apothecarion was cramped and cluttered with equipment. It had six operating bays, each one designed for human dimensions, all reinforced for power-armoured occupants thanks to the Sisters’ presence. Baldr lay on one, Hafloí on another. Pristine white tiles reflected the glare of overhead lumen-bars, pitilessly picking out the damage on their battle-plate. Hafloí’s armour was the colour of bleached bone. Baldr’s was mottled and streaked with dark green growths, as if lichen had sprouted from the joints.
‘Get out,’ ordered Olgeir, gesturing to the remaining mortal staff. All four of them, including the functionary Gunnlaugur had knocked to the floor, scurried to comply. The apothecarion was then occupied solely by Wolves – Gunnlaugur, Váltyr, Olgeir and the two invalids.
Váltyr twisted his helm off, hurried over to Baldr and began to work. He was no Priest, but of all of them he had the deftest hands and greatest knowledge of the Apothecary’s art.
‘He lives still,’ he said, gently prizing the vacuum seals from Baldr’s helm and unlocking the catches. ‘I can feel his primary heart beating.’
Gunnlaugur started to prowl back and forth, unable to stay still. He felt like a caged bear, bursting with energy but unable to do anything. He removed his helm and shut off the comm-line to de Chatelaine. He yearned for answers, but knew asking for them would be futile: Váltyr needed to work at his own pace, undisturbed and unhindered.
Olgeir remained unmoving, his huge arms crossed, brooding. For once he had no words of encouragement to offer.
Hafloí, left alone on the next slab along, pushed himself up onto his elbows and peered over at Váltyr’s work. The whelp was still weak but had already regained some measure of control. He could speak again, and his strength was gradually returning.
Gunnlaugur no longer worried for him; Baldr was the concern.
‘This… stuff is resistant,’ said Váltyr, grimacing as he tried to clear the residue of slime from Baldr’s facemask. ‘It has some life of its own. It’s got under the seals somehow, I think he’s absorbed a lot of it.’
He withdrew a steel cylinder from his armour, unclasped it and took out a long scalpel. Working quickly, he cleared the algae-like filth from the gorget-join of Baldr’s armour, where the torso met the helm. The lumpy substance clung to the armour, stringing out viscously against the blade edge.
‘He was not himself,’ cro
aked Hafloí, still sounding disorientated. ‘He was screaming, Gunnlaugur. Did you not hear it?’
Gunnlaugur said nothing. He remembered how Baldr had been during their last conversation. He remembered how he had been on the warp-transit.
Should I have probed more, asked more questions?
If so, it was too late now. The knot of guilt in his stomach tightened.
So many errors, one after the other.
‘I’m removing the helm now,’ said Váltyr. ‘We can’t leave it on him, the airways are all but clogged fast.’
Gunnlaugur stopped pacing. He came over to the slab and rested his knuckles on the metal. Olgeir stayed where he was, silent, watching intently.
Váltyr pulled gently, releasing the helm’s locking mechanism. It came free with a dry hiss of escaping air.
Gunnlaugur felt his hearts sink. Baldr’s face was the colour of his armour – pearl-grey, sinking to black under his open eyes. His mouth was open, revealing a dark tongue lolling loosely amid gaping fangs. His breath was sulphurous, making Váltyr gag as he withdrew the diseased helm. Sores had broken out around Baldr’s white lips, tight with pus and ringed with angry red inflammation. His cheeks had sunken, and his clammy skin had a greenish tinge to it.
‘That is not the Red Dream,’ said Olgeir slowly.
Váltyr said nothing. He looked even paler than usual.
Gunnlaugur sniffed, flaring his nostrils and drawing in the noxious stench. Corruption was generally easy to detect – it was over-sweet, layered with the subtle flavour of the warp.
He couldn’t be sure. Baldr looked much like any of the plague-bearers he’d killed in the city. That thought alone made his stomach tighten.
‘Speak to me, Váltyr,’ he said.
The blademaster ran his hands through his hair, smoothing down the sweat-matted mass of grey. His movements were stiff; like all of them, he was tired.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. He looked up at Gunnlaugur. ‘If he were mortal, then… But he’s one of us. I don’t know.’
Olgeir growled in frustration and uncrossed his arms, balling his great fists impotently.
‘Skítja,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve seen filth like that on men I’ve killed, and–’
Hafloí tried to get to his feet, and failed.
‘He was screaming, Gunnlaugur. Something was wrong. He was–’
‘You don’t know–’ started Olgeir.
‘Enough.’
Gunnlaugur’s stare swept around the apothecarion, cutting them short. Silence fell, broken only by the soft workings of the chamber’s equipment.
Gunnlaugur’s chin fell to his chest. It was hard to clear his head, to think what to do – emotions boiled away within him, still too raw to dismiss.
‘No one enters this room but us,’ he said at last, his voice deliberate. ‘One of us remains here at all times, watching over him. We say nothing of this to the canoness. As far as she is concerned, we are tending to a fallen brother’s wounds.’
He looked up, fixing each of them in the eye.
‘For now, we do nothing. We watch, we wait, we hope. But if he is taken by plague, if his spirit turns…’
He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath.
‘If he turns, I will do it. I began this, I will end it. That is my judgement.’
He continued to stare at the others, as if daring them to disagree. Hafloí was too weak to object; he seemed to go limp again, resting his head on the slab. Váltyr looked gaunt, but nodded.
Olgeir held out the longest. His scarred, ugly face remained twisted by unhappiness. He looked down at Baldr’s diseased features, then up at Gunnlaugur, then back to Baldr again.
Then even his mighty shoulders sagged. He nodded resignedly.
Then the door to the chamber slammed open. They snapped round as one. Váltyr drew holdbítr; Gunnlaugur seized the hilt of his hammer.
Ingvar halted where he was, framed in the doorway, shocked by the reaction.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Close the door,’ hissed Gunnlaugur. Váltyr sheathed his blade.
Olgeir pushed past Ingvar and Jorundur, shutting them in. Only then did Ingvar catch sight of Baldr’s body on the slab.
‘Allfather,’ he swore, rushing over to the table.
‘Don’t touch him!’ warned Váltyr.
Gunnlaugur interposed himself between Ingvar and Baldr’s body, grasping the Gyrfalkon’s forearm.
‘He is in the Red Dream, brother. Be careful.’
Ingvar’s eyes went wide as he saw Baldr’s face.
‘That is no Red Dream,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Gunnlaugur maintained his grip.
‘They had a sorcerer,’ he said. ‘Baldr bore the brunt. He may yet recover.’
Ingvar angrily shook off Gunnlaugur’s grasp and shoved his way to the slab-edge.
‘Recover? Blood of Russ, he’s infected!’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Váltyr.
Ingvar rounded on him.
‘What more evidence do you need, blademaster?’ he asked, his voice wild. ‘Look at him!’
‘We will wait,’ said Gunnlaugur, watching Ingvar carefully. ‘He may yet–’
‘What did you do?’ demanded Ingvar. ‘Why was he taking on a witch unaided?’
Gunnlaugur suppressed a flare of anger. Ingvar’s face was lurid with accusation; it provoked him, but he knew the cause of that.
‘Watch yourself,’ he warned, pinning the words on a low, growling note. ‘You weren’t there.’
Ingvar laughed out loud, though the sound was bitter.
‘No, I was not! You saw to that. Why was that, vaerangi? What did you fear from my being there? That I’d show you up again?’
The room burst into movement. Olgeir came over, hands spread, trying to calm the others. Váltyr muttered something inaudible, glaring darkly at Ingvar. Hafloí tried to speak, but his dry throat betrayed him.
Gunnlaugur rounded on Ingvar, keeping his temper in check by a hair’s breadth. He could feel his heart-rate picking up, his blood pumping angrily.
‘Say no more, Gyrfalkon,’ he ordered, glowering menacingly. ‘If you value your hide, say no more.’
‘Not this time!’ cried Ingvar, eyes staring. ‘I held my peace before, I walked away twice – not again.’
He shrugged off Olgeir’s restraining hands and squared up to Gunnlaugur.
‘You knew there was something hidden in that column,’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘You knew it! But still you went after it, hungry for the glory you needed.’
Gunnlaugur felt his restraint slipping. Ingvar’s mood was febrile and his words pricked at him like dagger-tips.
‘Damn you to Hel, Skullhewer,’ Ingvar raged. ‘You killed him. Are you proud now? Has that sated your need for bloodshed?’
Ingvar swung in close, so close that the spittle from his invective flew into Gunnlaugur’s eyes.
‘You killed him, you fool.’
The dam broke.
Gunnlaugur launched himself at Ingvar, barely even feeling Váltyr’s futile attempt to rein him in, throwing himself forwards and butting him viciously on the forehead.
‘You want this?’ Gunnlaugur roared, throwing a punch with his left fist. It connected brutally, hurling Ingvar back and sending him reeling. ‘You want me to destroy you?’
Ingvar crashed into a trolley full of medical instruments. They spun and clattered to the floor as he careered on backwards. Gunnlaugur went after him, fists swinging, aiming for the head.
Ingvar pushed back, shoulders down and arms wide, crunching into Gunnlaugur’s waist. Ingvar wrapped his arms around him and heaved, arresting the Wolf Guard’s momentum and nearly upending him.
They rocked back, locked together, smashing machines and sending them skid
ding into the walls. Gunnlaugur twisted out of Ingvar’s embrace and hurled him aside. Ingvar slammed heavily into the apothecarion’s far wall, cracking the stone and spitting blood onto the floor.
Before Gunnlaugur could close, Ingvar came back at him, fists whirling. The two of them traded a flurry of bludgeoning punches, each one landing with the force of jackhammers. Ingvar was quicker, cracking two ferocious blows against Gunnlaugur’s right side, but Gunnlaugur fought as if possessed, his eyes blazing with a dark, enraged energy.
He crunched a deadening strike into Ingvar’s face, hurling him back against the wall. Then he piled in, lunging madly, roaring curses as his arms flailed.
By the time Olgeir and Váltyr finally dragged them apart both of them were panting hard and covered in blood. Gunnlaugur’s forehead carried a long gash and streaks of deep red coursed freely over his beard. Ingvar’s face was swollen and purple, his lips split and one eye half closed.
For a moment they both stared at one another, breathing heavily. Gunnlaugur felt his whole system blazing with energy, urging him back into the fight. The veins at his throat throbbed. His fists were still tight-clenched, aching to fly again.
Hafloí’s jaw hung open, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen. Váltyr looked weary of it all; Olgeir concerned.
Only Jorundur was unmoved. His sour laughter broke the heavy silence.
‘It happens at last,’ he said dryly. ‘Better now than when the walls are on fire. So is that it? Can we move on now?’
No one had any appetite to answer. Gunnlaugur remained poised, his fists raised and blood pumping. The discharge of fury had felt good while it had lasted. It had been building up for days, poisoning him, polluting everything he did.
Ingvar glared back at him. He’d taken a battering; brawling had never been his strong point. He was still angry, but something else lurked behind those stony features.
Shame, perhaps. Or maybe sorrow.
He glanced momentarily towards Baldr’s unmoving body, and something seemed to snap within him.
His shoulders slumped.
‘Brother, I–’ he started.
‘Say nothing,’ ordered Gunnlaugur, still primed, still snarling. He pulled himself to his full height, ignoring the slowing trickle of blood that ran down his cheek. ‘Say nothing.’
Blood of Asaheim Page 25
