Blood of Asaheim

Chapter Twenty-Four



Canoness de Chatelaine knelt before the altar and watched the memorial fires burn in their brazier pans. Dozens had been lit, each one marking the soul of a fallen Sister. The smoke, pungent with incense, twisted up into the chapel’s vaults.

As the thin columns rose the choir sang a low, cadenced dirge. The music was a blend of traditional Shakeh death-chants and sanctioned Ministorum melodies. The words had been written by Sister Renata of her Celestian bodyguard. Like so many others, Renata was dead now, her body lying somewhere unmarked in the smouldering ruins of the lower city.

De Chatelaine bowed her head. The rites of remembrance gave her a little comfort. So many of those she had lived with for years were gone, their lives ended in cruel and ignominious ways, but as long as the rites endured some measure of dignity could be restored to their legacies.

As each brazier was lit, a chime sounded and a priest declaimed the name of the fallen. As the list neared its end, ordered by rank in the Imperial way, only a single brass pan remained empty.

An iron-masked acolyte walked up the remaining station with a flame cradled in his metal-gloved hands. As he reached up to the pan and the coals kindled, the chime sounded a final time.

‘Sister Palatine Uwe Bajola, of the world Memnon Primus, of the Orders Famulous, afterwards of the Order of the Wounded Heart. Confirmed slain in the conduct of righteous duty. Gathered into the bosom of the Emperor of Mankind. Blessed are the martyrs. Their souls remain inviolate.’

The canoness listened sadly. Bajola had always been a mystery to her. De Chatelaine had never understood why someone with the Palatine’s gifts had wanted to take up a station in such a remote world. The pleasures and rewards of ministering to a devoted populace were not something Bajola had ever seemed to feel deeply. De Chatelaine had always felt that her restless spirit would have been better employed elsewhere; perhaps in one of the bigger Orders, or perhaps in the Famulous chambers where she had come from, with all the glamorous system-spanning work that entailed.

She remembered how Bajola had been on the day she’d arrived on Ras Shakeh. De Chatelaine had admired the younger woman’s poise, her calm manner, her quiet application. Only later had she been troubled by the amount of time Bajola had spent in the bowels of the cathedral, how disconnected she had been with the work of the other Sisters. When Bajola had so vociferously opposed the decision to seek protection from the Wolves of Fenris, for reasons de Chatelaine had never fully understood, a rift had threatened to open between them.

That had never happened. Now, after so much bloodshed, it seemed pointless to even think of such things. She was gone, and any secrets she had were gone too.

It would have been good to talk before the end. If the Palatine had not been so obsessed with that damn cathedral, perhaps they would have done. But that was in the past now. Perhaps one day it would be rebuilt and a shrine dedicated to her heroic defence of it. It was always comforting to think of the future.

With the last of the pans lit, de Chatelaine got to her feet, bowed a final time towards the altar, and turned back down the chapel’s central aisle. As she walked towards the doorway she heard the scurrying footsteps of aides. They kept to the shadows of the aisles, cloaked and hooded. Some were flesh and blood like her; others were at least part mechanical.

As she pushed the heavy gahlwood doors open and stepped into the cool of the night, one of them came up to her, bowing and genuflecting.

When he raised his bald head, displaying an age-lined face and blank white eyes, de Chatelaine recognised her Master of Astropaths, Ermili Repoda.

‘Could it not wait, master?’ she asked.

Repoda bowed again in apology. ‘You commanded me to inform you if the Choir received anything.’

Despite herself, de Chatelaine felt a twinge in the pit of her stomach. It was dangerous to hope.

‘And?’

Repoda swallowed drily.

‘I do not wish to give you grounds for false optimism,’ he said. ‘But since that… thing was killed, we have been getting intermittent scraps. Nothing as solid as I would like, and mostly from the acolytes who are not yet trained to interpret soundly.’

De Chatelaine drew in an impatient breath.

‘I think we were heard,’ he said, his face oscillating between doubt and expectation. ‘I do not have a reliable name, nor a time, but someone has been trying to reach us.’

‘No more detail?’

Repoda looked uncertain. ‘Perhaps. A title, maybe. The Wolves may be able to tell you more. My people interpreted it differently: one of them came up with gibberish, another the title Storm-caller. I do not know what to make of it.’

De Chatelaine pursed her lips thoughtfully.

‘Storm-caller,’ she said slowly. ‘I will speak to Gunnlaugur of this. It sounds like something he would recognise.’

Repoda bowed again. His hands twitched nervously. He looked on edge. Everyone around her was on edge, driven into a state of fragility by what they had seen and lived through.

De Chatelaine gave him a kind look, not that he would have seen it.

‘Do not despair, master,’ she said. ‘I had almost given up, and then our prayers were answered. The Wolves will not leave their own kind: more will come, and when they do our survival here will count for something. They will find this city still defended, ready to receive their warriors for the crusade we hoped for.’

Repoda tried to smile, but his old face produced little more than a grimace. ‘I hope you are right, canoness,’ he said.

De Chatelaine drew in a deep breath. The airs around the Halicon were purer than they had been.

‘If I had learned to doubt, master,’ she said, ‘then I have unlearned it again. The Master of Mankind does not desert souls who remain true to Him. That is what we need to remember, is it not? To believe.’

She smiled at him again, more for her own benefit than for his.

‘After what we have seen,’ she said, ‘surely even the most lost of us has remembered that.’

In a forgotten corner of the upper city, cloistered away from the overcrowded chapels, converted hab-units and medicae stations, shaded by spear-leaved trees and open to the deep night air, a fire burned.

It was larger than most, a heaped pile of wooden slats stuffed with torn fabric and doused in oils. Váltyr’s body lay amid the roaring flames, lying on his back with his open eyes gazing up into the sea of stars. About the pyre were set his warrior’s artefacts: his armour pieces, what remained of his pelts and trophies. Set at his feet, hanging from an iron frame and sheathed, was holdbítr. The blade looked mournful. It would no longer draw; the pieces had been retrieved but only a smith with the skill of Arjac would be able to reforge the blade.

Gunnlaugur watched the flames consume the corpse of his battle-brother and friend. He knew what Váltyr would have wanted: the sword to be destroyed with him, to perish completely so that none but he would ever wield it.

That would happen in time, but the pyre would not be sufficient to harm it. A greater furnace would be needed to melt the imperishable metal and break the wards of the runes along the blade.

His eyes moved away from the flames and scanned across the pyre’s watchers. Four others had gathered before it, each standing silently, each lost in their own thoughts.

Olgeir was closest. He stood proudly, his huge shoulders pushed back, his snub nose and gnarled beard silhouetted against the pyre’s glow. His deep-set eyes stared into the heart of the fire. He had not been close to Váltyr, but Gunnlaugur knew they had respected one another. Baldr’s affliction had hit him harder. Though Olgeir had argued for giving Fjolnir the Emperor’s Mercy, he had done so with pain in his eyes. Since Baldr’s entry into the pack they had fought together like kin-brothers, their bolters ringing in unison. If Baldr died, Olgeir would mourn long. If he lived but did not recover, he would mourn longer.

Beside him stood Jorundur. The Old Dog, if anything, looked slightly less hunched than he had done on past campaigns. His fury towards Hafloí had abated; even he could see how Vuokho’s last flight had turned the shape of the battle. Gunnlaugur suspected his wrath had never been full-hearted in any case. An odd relationship had developed between those two, as if Jorundur saw something in Hafloí worth protecting or encouraging. If that were so, then it gladdened his heart. Jorundur, for all his bitterness, was a priceless asset to the pack, a repository of knowledge and experience that outstripped even his. It would be good to see him fighting again with his old assurance.

Next was the whelp. Hafloí watched the dancing flames with only perfunctory interest. Death to him was like life: ephemeral, fleeting, of little importance when set beside the raw pleasures of the hunt and the kill. He had not had time to develop a deep connection to either Váltyr or Baldr and did not pretend to mourn more than he ought. His ruddy face was thrust out belligerently, as if chafing at the necessity to mark the passing. Gunnlaugur smiled with bleak foreknowledge. Hafloí would learn to mourn, should he live long enough. He would learn what it was to lose a soul-brother, one whose life had been shared amid blood and fire. For now, though, he was just as he should be: fearless, alive with boundless energy, uncaring of anything but the feat of arms.

Finally, set apart from his brothers, stood Ingvar. The shadows hung heavily on him, part-masking his stone-grey features. His expression was hard to read. Gunnlaugur knew that Váltyr and he had always chafed at one another, vying for the mantle of the pack’s deadliest blade. If Váltyr had become the more lethal swordsman, Ingvar, to his mind, had become the more complete warrior. Now, though, such contests were irrelevant, and Ingvar’s face betrayed nothing but grief. If he had stayed in the Halicon as ordered, he might have arrived in time to save him. Or perhaps he too would have died. Gunnlaugur could see the doubts preying on him even as the lambent red light played across his battered armour. Those doubts would not leave him quickly, adding more layers to his already conflicted soul.

Gunnlaugur’s eyes turned back to the pyre. Váltyr’s body was almost gone, slowly reduced to whitening ashes. The wounds he had taken had been burned away. Gunnlaugur hoped that, at the last, the blademaster had found some measure of peace in what had been a restless, doubting life. He would have deserved that.

Moving slowly, he raised the heavy shaft of skulbrotsjór, lifting the weapon in salute against the glow of the dying pyre.

As silently as he, the others did the same – Olgeir raising his sword, Jorundur and Hafloí their axes, Ingvar his rune-blade.

No words were spoken. The four of them held vigil as the last of Váltyr’s mortal remains were consumed. Only when the flames had died and the embers were cooling did they lower their weapons again.

‘The thread is cut,’ said Gunnlaugur softly.

Olgeir was the first to leave, nodding to Gunnlaugur as he stalked off, his face tight with emotion. Jorundur and Hafloí were next, both heading back to the hangars to work on Vuokho. Hafloí looked eager to be away; Jorundur pensive.

That left Ingvar and Gunnlaugur alone again, separated only by the smoking ashes. Ingvar made no move. For a while nothing passed between them but the low crackle and spit of oil-soaked wood.

‘How is Fjolnir?’ asked Gunnlaugur eventually. He tried to keep judgement out of his voice.

Ingvar stepped into the circle of fading light. Gunnlaugur noticed that the soul-ward pendant he’d worn since leaving Fenris no longer hung around his neck, though the Onyx skull still did.

‘The Red Dream has him,’ Ingvar replied. His voice was wary. ‘I believe him to be recovering.’

Gunnlaugur nodded. Baldr had been restrained, clapped in adamantium shackles and buried deep within the Halicon’s dungeons. Doors a metre thick locked him in. Even if he woke to madness again, there would be no escape from the citadel.

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘I took a risk, accepting you both back. The gates had been sealed.’

Ingvar bowed. ‘I know,’ he said. He needed to say nothing more; the gratitude was evident.

Gunnlaugur hoisted his thunder hammer, locking it across his back.

‘I still don’t know if I was right,’ he said. ‘Even if he recovers he will be tainted. You saw what he did.’

Ingvar sheathed his blade.

‘I share your doubts. I nearly killed him myself.’

‘What stopped you?’

Ingvar hesitated. ‘Callimachus would have killed him without a thought. Jocelyn would have done it, as would the others. But we have never been a Chapter for rules, have we? We have always acted as our souls warned us.’

Gunnlaugur didn’t recognise those names, but he could guess well enough what Ingvar meant.

Ingvar looked directly at him. Weariness scarred his grey visage.

‘For better or worse, I am Fenryka. I doubted it for a time, but a wolf does not shed its pelt. I would give him a chance.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘If you permitted it.’

Gunnlaugur considered the words. As ever, something about Ingvar’s tone unsettled him. Perhaps he would just have to get used to that.

‘Váltyr never argued for your exclusion,’ he said. ‘You should know that. It was me. And you were right: that was for pride. I am shamed by it.’

Ingvar looked surprised. For a moment, he didn’t reply.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his eyes flickering briefly towards the pyre. ‘I had assumed–’

‘Váltyr was not jealous. He warred with himself. It was never about you.’

Ingvar nodded slowly, taking that in. At length his grey eyes rose again.

‘So what now, vaerangi?’ he asked. ‘We have survived. We have been blooded. What comes next?’

Gunnlaugur rolled his shoulders, feeling the deep-set fatigue in the muscles.

‘The canoness received word of reinforcements,’ he said. ‘If she’s right, then Njal is on his way.’

‘Stormcaller?’ Ingvar looked impressed. ‘Our hides are worth that much?’

‘Not ours,’ he said. ‘But this is more than one lost world. Hundreds are ablaze. This is a new war, one that has only just begun.’

‘At least not garrison work,’ Ingvar said wryly, working to raise a smile. The effort was weak, but Gunnlaugur did his best.

‘No, at least not that.’

Ingvar looked thoughtful then.

‘I have much to tell you,’ he said. ‘I learned things from the Palatine before she died. It may have been for those alone that fate brought us here. There are things about Hjortur we were never told.’

‘We shall speak of them,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Truly, we shall. But not now, not while the ashes of our brother are still cooling.’

He looked down at his hands.

‘I was wrong, brother,’ he said. ‘Your presence wore at my pride, and I let it govern me. Now Váltyr is gone I have need of counsel like never before.’ He looked back up. ‘Can the river flow cleanly between us again?’

Ingvar came towards him, grasping him by the arm.

‘We were both at fault,’ he said fervently. ‘I forgot myself. Never again, brother. I swear it.’

His eyes held steady – two orbs of flecked grey, like the plumage of the raptor that had given him his name.

‘I told the Palatine we were both of the blood of Asaheim,’ he said. ‘I am not sure I meant it then. Now I do.’

Gunnlaugur took Ingvar’s hand and gripped it in his own gauntlet. The two of them stood before the glimmering light of the pyre, alone at the summit of Hjec Aleja.

‘I am glad,’ he said.

For the first time in a long while he looked at Ingvar’s face and saw no challenge there, real or imagined. A future presented itself: their twin animal spirits, as lethal as any in the galaxy, working in tandem, no bitterness dividing them.

‘For Fenris, brother,’ he said proudly. ‘Our blades together.’

Ingvar closed his eyes then, as if some terrible, crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For a moment, he made no reply. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion.

‘For Fenris,’ he said quietly, his head bowed.