Blood of Asaheim

Chapter Three



The Thunderhawk Vuokho stood on the apron. Steam drifted up its ugly, chipped grey surface as the ice it had picked up on the way in evaporated in the heat of the hangar. Beyond it, further along the cavernous interior towards the entrance ramps, servitors and kaerl ground crew clattered and banged their way through a thousand menial tasks. The gunship hangars of the upper Valgard were never still; always the constant growl and whine of engines cycling up, or the tinny clunk of weapons being loaded, or the rumble of refuelling tankers crawling across the rockcrete floor.

Jorundur Erak Kaerlborn, the one they called Old Dog, looked over his pride and joy with a watchful, cynical eye. He knew every centimetre of its surface, and each fresh scratch or dent annoyed him a little more. He didn’t care about the way the thing looked – given his own dark-eyed, sunken-cheeked visage, that would hardly have been reasonable – but he cared deeply about how it flew. Vuokho was as much a member of the pack as he was, a part of the whole, a component in the system. If it were ever lost then they would grieve for it as much as they had done for Tínd; perhaps more, for Tínd had been a difficult one, given to rages and with a fair slice of Gunnlaugur’s fierce pride boiling away within him.

Jorundur didn’t like taking Vuokho out on training missions. The machine-spirit hated the charade of it – it had been bred to hunt, just as they had been. If he had had his way he would have been left on his own with it more often, taking it out and up into the high atmosphere where the sky fell into nightshade-blue and the stars dotted the arch of the void. That was where its engines operated at the perfect pitch of efficiency, where the true power of its thrusters could be unleashed in bursts of furious velocity.

In space, a Thunderhawk was a clumsy, compromised thing, hampered by atmospheric drives it couldn’t use; on land it was a bulky monstrosity, squatting against the earth like a deformed mockery of a prey-bird. Only in the inbetween spaces, the thin airs where void and matter met, only there was it unsurpassed.

‘Brought it back safely, then,’ came a voice at Jorundur’s shoulder.

He didn’t need to turn to see who was speaking. He carried on staring at the gently cooling chassis, moving his glistening, scrutinising eyes slowly over its outline.

‘This time,’ he replied as Váltyr drew alongside him.

Jorundur was not sociable. He had none of Baldr’s easy manner nor Olgeir’s generous humour. Of all of Járnhamar, Jorundur found Váltyr the easiest to rub along with; the two of them shared an appreciation of the colder side of killing.

‘What did you make of him?’ asked Váltyr.

‘The whelp? He can run. I’ve seen him fight. He’ll be all right.’

Váltyr nodded. ‘We need new blood,’ he said. ‘Things have felt… tired.’

Jorundur gave a dry snort.

‘That’s because they are.’ He drew closer to Váltyr, and lowered his voice. As he did so, lank grey-black hair fell around his face. ‘Everyone is tired, blademaster. If they keep sending us out, year after year, with no chance to breathe or retrain or remember what we’re doing, we will be more than tired – we’ll be dead.’

Váltyr didn’t pull away.

‘Times are hard,’ he replied evenly. ‘What do you want? A soft bed and a weekly steam-bath?’

‘I wouldn’t turn it down.’

‘No, perhaps you wouldn’t.’

Jorundur was older than the next most experienced member of Járnhamar by a good hundred years. In the normal run of things he’d have shifted sideways into a heavy weapons squad a long time ago, taking his place amid the hoary old veterans with their gnarled gun-hands and konungur-tough hides. No one knew why he’d resisted it, staying in the ranks of the Hunters even as the chance for promotion to the Guard had passed him by. Some said it was because he lived for flying and would have missed the chance to pilot a gunship, others that he found the company of Long Fangs even more objectionable than that of anybody else.

Jorundur was happy with the speculation; he liked to keep people guessing and never explained himself. In any case he knew well enough that Gunnlaugur needed to keep him in the pack: things had long been too straitened to countenance the departure of a seasoned pair of weapon-arms, no matter how pinched-faced and snipe-tongued their owner was. As things had turned out for him, that was good enough.

‘So is this thing combat-ready?’ asked Váltyr, moving away from Jorundur to inspect the flanks of the Thunderhawk.

Jorundur followed him.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, feeling suddenly uneasy. ‘We’re going back out? Already?’

Váltyr nodded, reaching the first set of wings and running his finger along the thick leading edge.

‘Like you said, they will keep sending us on these missions.’

Jorundur spat on the ground, shaking his shaggy head in disgust.

‘Morkai’s teeth,’ he swore. ‘We’re not ready. Olgeir could spend three weeks with that whelp and we still wouldn’t be ready. Who’ll take Tínd’s place? Arse of the Allfather, this is pathetic.’

Váltyr smiled. ‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ he said. ‘They’ve given us two days, and this thing needs to be fully operational. They’re loading up a frigate right now. I’ve seen it. It’s a shit-bucket, but it looks fast.’

Jorundur spat again. He could do that all day.

‘Where, then?’

‘Ras Shakeh.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Two months away, on the fringes of protected space. Grimnar thinks we need to be pushing out a bit, extending our reach as others withdraw theirs.’

Váltyr reached up towards a cracked picter-lens embedded halfway up Vuokho’s cockpit armour, but Jorundur slapped his hand away.

‘Lunacy,’ hissed Jorundur, rounding on Váltyr and prodding him in the chest, pushing him away from the sacred adamantium. ‘We need to retrench, not expand. Will someone ever tell the Old Wolf that we’re all taking losses? Does he think that we can pick up the slack of every half-manned Chapter in the segmentum?’

‘Actually, I think he does think that.’

‘Then he’s as stupid as he is stubborn.’

Váltyr sighed. ‘Tell him that, then,’ he said. ‘Gunnlaugur will brief the pack when things are settled. I came up here because I thought you’d be pleased to see some real action.’

Jorundur paused. That was a reasonable point.

He looked up at the gunship’s still-hot engines, mentally running down the list of repairs he’d intended to hand to the Iron Priest. Some of them might be possible in two days, and a few more could be carried out on board the frigate, but most would have to wait.

It was the incompleteness that irritated him, the constant harrying from one job to the next, never leaving enough time to work on something properly, always patching-up, shifting-out and making-do.

Perhaps that was his age talking. Maybe that had always been the way, and he’d just tolerated it back then. Or maybe things really were getting worse.

‘I’ll get it fixed up,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘But tell Skullhewer it won’t be in ideal shape. One big hit, and–’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Váltyr, already walking away. ‘Just do what you can – I’ve a feeling Gunnlaugur has more pressing concerns right now.’

‘Like what?’ asked Jorundur.

‘You’ll find out,’ said Váltyr, his voice as dry as ever.

Ingvar spun tightly on the ball of his right foot, thrusting out with dausvjer, sending the blade low and hard. Then he pulled it back, withdrawing, curling his whole body up tight, generating momentum, feeling his muscles respond.

He repeated the movement, then again, each time adjusting the pace a little, angling the point a fraction more, testing his stance. The repetitions went on. Firelight danced around him, making his sweat-covered skin shine. He heard the crackle and snap of fuel in the braziers, tasted the charcoal in the air, smelled his own hot, ripe scent as his body worked.

The physical exertion helped his mind relax. It purged the residual sickness of the long void-journey, purifying him, restoring his animal vitality.

He would have preferred to have sparred with a drone, something that would have fought back, something he could have smashed apart and left in a pile of sparking debris across the floor of the training chamber.

But the Wolves didn’t use training drones, so he was alone, going through the motions on his own, rehearsing sword-thrusts with imaginary opponents in the dark.

‘Why don’t you use them?’ Callimachus had asked him.

Ingvar remembered the Ultramarine’s studiously polite expression. Callimachus had been trying hard to be diplomatic, but it had been clear enough what he had thought.

‘A drone doesn’t attack you like a minded creature,’ Ingvar had said. Back then he had been fresh out of Hjortur’s old pack, contemptuous of the skills of those he’d been thrown together with. ‘It has no soul, and a warrior needs a soul. We fight each other. We fight the enemy. That’s the way to learn.’

The rest of the squad had remained quiet. Back then, Ingvar had assumed they were cowed by his confidence, his ebullient manner, the proud heritage of Russ that he wore nakedly over his dull black battle-plate. Now he couldn’t be quite so sure.

Callimachus had shaken his head.

‘Forgive me, but it makes no sense,’ he’d said. ‘Why not send your neophytes into war with the skills they need?’

‘They learn the skills in real combat, or they die.’

‘Indeed. Which is a tragic waste.’

‘Conflict tests the warrior.’

‘Quite so – but the drone-drills prepare him. They are more flexible, perhaps, than you realise.’

Ingvar hadn’t believed him. He hadn’t believed him even after two more weeks at Halliafiore’s training facility on Djeherrod when the punishing regime had driven him into a level of exhaustion he had never known before, not even on the Long Hunt back to the Aett. He hadn’t believed him during the sparring sessions with the other members of Onyx Squad, when he’d been taken to the limit by all of them.

He’d only believed it truly when he’d finally come up against a Deathwatch-conditioned drone – a titanium-clad monster of spikes and flamers and needle-guns that had swooped around the cage like a trapped wasp, anticipating every move he made, reacting with astonishing speed, nearly taking his arm off and breaking several fused-ribs before he’d finally managed to put it out of action.

After that he’d been a bit more circumspect. Callimachus, true to form, had been painfully generous about it.

‘I entirely respect your way of war, Eversson,’ the Ultramarine had said afterwards, picking his words carefully. ‘Truly, I respect it. But is it possible that there might be some virtue in learning from precedent?’

‘You mean the Codex,’ Ingvar had said, back then barely knowing of what he spoke.

‘It does have some uses.’

Ingvar pulled out of the manoeuvre, letting dausvjer drop. He had been practising for several hours; even his body had its limits.

The exertion had done him some good. The burn in his biceps and quadriceps had a welcome familiarity about it. It felt good to be back on the home world, surrounded by the totems and sigils of the past, steeped in the harsh grandeur of the Halls of Asaheim. He was adjusting. He was remembering.

He would have preferred to have sparred with a drone.

‘My lord.’

The kaerl’s voice came from outside the locked and barred door to the training room. Ingvar pushed his shoulders back, letting his muscles unwind, before giving the order to unlock.

‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ said the man, bowing deeply as the door slid back.

‘What is it?’ asked Ingvar, reaching for a cloth and wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

‘Jarl Blackmane wishes to inform you that he has reached a decision. He thought you should know as soon as possible, since time is always short.’

Ingvar felt a sudden pang in his stomach, an unwelcome reminder of how tenuous his fate had been since returning to the Fang.

‘Fine,’ he said, barely looking at the man before him. ‘I’ll report to the Jarl.’

The man stared at the floor, as if embarrassed.

‘That will not be necessary, lord,’ he said.

Ingvar looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

The kaerl hesitated, aware of the awkwardness of the tidings he’d been asked to convey.

‘I am commanded to inform you that you are to report to vaerangi Gunnlaugur. He will brief you prior to deployment to the Ras Shakeh system. Questions, supplementary orders and equipment requisitions are to go through him. The Priesthood has been informed and records amended. All has been done that was required to be done.’

The kaerl swallowed.

‘Congratulations, lord,’ he said. ‘You are once again a member of Járnhamar.’