Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two (8 page)

No. Absolutely, no
.

All in his mind.

Alisha’s face looked blue as the upper carapace grew transparent. Purple-garbed medics tended holodisplays. All around, the med-hall was a vast space of mint-green and icing-white quickglass, the floor shining, reflecting the dozens of med-drones laid out in rows. Peripheral archways led to similar halls. Here and there, green hemispheric quickglass bubbles grew from the floor to enclose a med-drone, cutting off the patient from view as human medics and the city’s inbuilt systems got to work.

‘—your friend?’ someone was saying.

‘Sorry?’ said Roger. ‘I missed that.’

The medic had short white hair and green eyes, matching the surroundings.

‘Alisha Spalding is your friend,’ she said. ‘Have I got that right?’

‘Yes. Yes, she is.’

Jed was off somewhere with Bod, sorting out the overall disposition of the comatose refugees. Roger could have done with Jed’s support.

‘We’re going to try to wake Alisha now.’ The medic nodded towards three younger-looking colleagues whose hands were flickering through control gestures. ‘Taking it carefully.’

Many of the other drones appeared to be cycling to slow wakefulness without human oversight.

‘She was … traumatized,’ said Roger. ‘I guess the annotation data shows that, right?’

‘It does. Seeing the city come apart around her must have been frightening, so it’s understandable that—’

‘Alisha is – was – pre-upraise, about to become a Luculenta.’

Two of the medics stiffened.

‘She doesn’t have plexnodes implanted,’ Roger added to forestall their panic. ‘She’s not vulnerable in the way true Luculenti were. But she did get attacked through her interfaces, and she was, er, almost catatonic when I found her. Before everything went insane.’

At some point the Anomaly had gained the ability to link to ordinary minds; but at first it had been Luculenti who formed its components, linked through the virtual Skein: formerly their paradise and playground, finally the enabling mechanism of extinction. That was why Pilots had killed every Luculentus or Luculenta among the refugees, dumping the corpses before they dared fly to Labyrinth.

Medics would understand the need to squash a nascent epidemic.

‘We’re blocking cortisol and noradrenaline production,’ said one of them. ‘Dr Keele? We can bring her to full consciousness now.’

‘One moment.’ The white-haired medic turned back to Roger. ‘Alisha’s going to be spaced out, somewhat. She may not be able to focus on you.’

‘You need her to wake up feeling good.’

‘That’s the idea. All right, everyone. Let’s bring her out of it.’

Alisha blinked three times, then opened her eyes fully.

‘Good,’ murmured Dr Keele. ‘Very—’

The veins on Alisha’s forehead stood out as she saw Roger.

And screamed.

‘Shit.’

A medic gestured. Alisha’s eyelids fluttered. She dropped back into coma.

‘Pilot Blackthorne.’ Dr Keele’s voice was silken as brushed steel. ‘Pilot?’

‘Er, yes?’

‘Are you married to Alisha Spalding, or occupying any legal capacity allowing you to make medical decisions on her behalf?’

‘No.’

Why would she ask such a thing?

‘Then I have to ask you to leave. I’m very sorry.’

‘But can’t I—? I beg your pardon.’ Roger had no idea what to say. ‘Will she be all right?’

Meaning, can you fix her?

‘Leave her with us,’ said Dr Keele. ‘Will you be OK finding your friends?’

Jed and Bod, presumably.

‘Sure.’

‘Then …’

Roger was blinking – as Alisha had been, moments before – and he seemed to have swallowed warm salt water.

‘Take care of … Just …’

He turned away.

Get out of here
.

Striding, he moved fast, fleeing like an electron tipped from a local maximum: filled with momentum, inherently uncertain in direction.

I don’t have anyone
.

His last connection to home, severed by a scream.

The aftermath of attack lay before them: smoke-stink of extinguished fires, exposed beams black as charcoal sticks even from this distance; children corralling animals into makeshift pens; whimpers and yells from unseen wounded; the torn clothes and plodding motion of survivors clearing wreckage.

‘Ride!’ yelled Chief Folkvar.

It was rage, not urgency, for no raiders remained around the village. Ulfr, from his saddle on black Kolr, whistled down to Brandr. The warhound leaped up and Ulfr caught him. Off to one side, Hallstein did likewise with brave Griggr, who barked when she was steady in Hallstein’s arms. Then they kicked their horses into a gallop, following the rest of the party.

Folkvar’s mount thundered in the lead, the grey stallion’s legs a blur: there might have been eight legs, like Sleipnir of the sagas, ridden by the Gallows-Lord. It pulled ahead, faster than the others, while Folkvar’s cloak billowed in chill wind.

They all rode horses, everyone in the party, because Chief Gulbrandr had exhorted the other clans to generosity. Ulfr’s actions had saved the Thing from ensorcelment through
seithr
, the unclean magic of shapeshifters and gender-changers.

From the poet Stígr, most unholy.

They thundered into the village, wheeled the horses to a standstill, and slipped down. Each man used reins to hobble his horse, knotting the leather fast, then strode off, some following Folkvar, others heading towards someone precious they saw or sought.

Eira. You’d better be all right
.

Ulfr wheeled, staring, searching for signs of her.

There
.

The shriek of a wounded man in sudden pain came from beyond the ruins of the men’s hall. Brandr gave a small yip. Perhaps Eira’s scent floated through the stench. They ran around the hall, and saw her: kneeling by a wounded man whose shoulder was wrapped in stained cloth, while his face glistened with poultice.

Eira’s robe was streaked with brown, glistening here and there with battle-sea red.

No, by Thórr
.

But the gods did not exist to prevent disaster.

‘Eira.’

From the whiteness of her face, much of the blood was hers.

‘Eira, talk to—’

Her voice was a song, rising and falling, and along with her gestures was leading the wounded man – the wounded
stranger
– along the path to dreamworld.

One of the raiders?

‘And tell me, good Arrnthórr,’ Eira was saying, ‘what led Chief Snorri to call a vengeance strike?’

Ulfr nearly shouted, but held it in. Snorri, their neighbour, behind all this?

And why
vengeance
?

The wounded Arrnthórr’s tone was slurred, detached.

‘Killed … Sigurthr. Folkvar, by his own … hand.’

Ulfr’s knife was in his fist, though he had no memory of drawing it.

‘How do you know?’ asked Eira. ‘Tell me how Chief Snorri learned that.’

‘Told … us. Wanderer. Found poor … Snorri.’

Arrnthórr’s eyelids fluttered.

‘Describe this wanderer,’ said Eira.

Even before the words came out, Ulfr knew what the description would be: a one-eyed man in a wide-brimmed shapeless hat, perhaps accompanied by ravens, as if the most dreadful of the Aesir chose to walk the Middle World: the one who was both All-Father and Gallows-Lord, Spear-God and God of the Hanged.

To worship Óthinn for true meant human sacrifice. While the clan would normally avoid dark ceremony, perhaps this Arnthórr and others of Snorri’s war-band might deliver pleasing screams to the All-Father’s ears before their souls went to Niflheim. Except that Stígr had clearly ensorcelled them, much as he had done to others here – Vermundr, Steinn and Halsteinn among them, even Chief Folkvar – when they put poor Jarl to torture.

Eira’s brother, dead at Ulfr’s hand.

Another survivor, Arnljótr by name, had just finished confessing a similar story when Ulfr found him, trussed on the ground at Chief Folkvar’s feet. At the prisoner’s head stood two boys: Davith and Leifr, watched from a distance by the crone Ingrith. Both boys held spears pointed at Arnljótr.

‘You should not have listened to lies,’ said Chief Folkvar. ‘But then, we ourselves—’

Davith stabbed downwards, spear-point crunching into the throat. Leifr’s spear, a second behind, went through to the heart: a quick death.

‘Ah, boys.’ Chief Folkvar glanced at Ulfr, then placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder. ‘It was well done, Leifr Oddsson, Davith Oddsson. May your father feast amid the Einherjar in Valhöll tonight.’

If Folkvar wished Oddr among the warriors picked by Óthinn’s Death-Choosers, then Oddr was dead and the boys were orphans. Hence Folkvar’s forgiving them for killing without command.

‘We need to prepare ourselves.’ Folkvar addressed Ulfr. ‘Get the able-bodied and make sure they’re armed. Strip wound-fires of the slain if you need to.’

He meant, take dead men’s swords.

‘We shouldn’t attack,’ said Ulfr. ‘Stígr won’t stay to goad Snorri’s people on. If he’s not gone already, he’ll fade away when we turn up.’

Making his escape through dark magic.

‘Yes, and we’ll go in under truce,’ said Folkvar. ‘But we’ll keep a war-band close.’

‘Chief Snorri’s not known as a betrayer.’

‘Nor a reaver, but look what he’s done.’

Ulfr nodded.

‘I’ll tell the men to gather,’ he said.

By the time they rode downslope towards Chief Snorri’s village, it was sunset. Folkvar rode in with Vermundr on his right, Ulfr on his left: a prominence that Ulfr was not used to.

I’m no chieftain
.

But he remembered a conversation with Folkvar on Heimdall’s Rock some time before they departed for the Thing. Folkvar had wanted Ulfr’s assessment on the qualities of various men at fighting practice, and how they might fare as leaders of warriors. The sort of conversation a chief might have with a young man who showed potential talent for leadership.

Blades, axe-heads and helms gleamed with reflected torch-flames and the eerie steel-and-pink of dusk. On all sides, eyes were trained on the interlopers. Women stood here and there among the men, blades ready, vibrating with hatred.

‘Hold now.’

A tall, narrow-shouldered man with a long-handled war-hammer stood in front of them. His hair was wild and tangled – not combed or braided as a warrior’s pride demanded – but the air seemed to thrum with ferocity held fast, under tightened control.

‘I am Arne,’ he said. ‘Chieftain here, now that Snorri is slain.’

Folkvar, having drawn rein, performed a controlled slide to the ground, then stepped away from his mount, hands held wide.

‘That is a grievous sorrow,’ he said. ‘I did not know. It happened in our village?’

Arne turned to one side and spat downwards.

‘Snorri was never one to stay behind in battle.’

‘Nor is Chief Folkvar,’ called Vermundr from his saddle. ‘For we have only just returned from the Thing, many days ride from here.’

‘You are ly—’

Arne stopped, for to accuse a leader of falsehood before his men was a serious matter.

A chieftain cannot speak as the spirit dictates
.

Ulfr had not thought of this before. Not in such plain terms.

He must plan his words, however quickly, before he utters them
.

Like going into battle: you needed strategy and a true objective, or failure was certain.

‘They tell the truth.’ It was a youthful voice, from behind Ulfr. ‘I saw them arrive at their village.’

Arrnthórr, his forearms and wrists bound but his legs free, walked into view.

‘Folkvar killed Sigurthr,’ said someone among the surrounding warriors. ‘The poet told us that he—’

‘Stígr is an unclean shaman,’ said Folkvar, ‘a soul-changer and gender-shifter. He caused us to kill one of our own, poor Jarl. And he nearly roused the Thing to some dark purpose, but our Ulfr here’ – he gestured – ‘stopped him. Dark elves took Stígr to safety.’

Arne sneered at the mention of supernatural beings.

‘The gathered chieftains,’ said Vermundr, still mounted, ‘gave us these gifts in thanks for Ulfr’s courage.’

He gestured at the horses they rode, at a polished band on Folkvar’s upper arm.

‘We demand neither vengeance-gold nor blood,’ said Folkvar. ‘We offer only sympathy, because you have been caused ill by dark sorcery, just as we have.’

‘It is we who seek vengeance.’ Arne glared at the men and women in the circle, the clan he now had to lead. ‘But perhaps we’ve been searching in the wrong place.’