Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two (30 page)

Roaring, he spun to his right and thrust low and long, left fist to liver, slammed the top of his head against nose and teeth, then hammered down. The attacker dropped, but he was still alive. Ulfr shifted, ready to stamp down.

‘Hold, warrior!’

Two traders with spears were standing back. Their comrade on the ground was curled up, breathing fast and groaning, his sword forgotten. Brandr, next to him, growled at the newcomers.

I’ll kill you all
.

But then Folkvar was among them, and Vermundr was coming from Ulfr’s left, Hallsteinn from his right.

‘Peace, Ulfr. Eira would have wanted peace.’

‘Agh.’ He pushed out a breath. ‘Agh.’

‘Let it go past you.’

‘No—’

But he forced another exhalation.

Hold
.

The imminent
berserkrgangr
began to fade.

‘He was feeding your thralls as a kindness,’ Vermundr told the traders. ‘He had no interest in the woman.’

Ulfr nodded, staring at the downed man.

I still want to kill you
.

Then he shook his head, teeth clenched and shoulders moving, and turned away, then stalked away from the firelight and humanity, only his war-hound at his side as always.

The next morning, he readied Kolr for travelling. The black stallion stamped down, wanting to be on the move. Brandr kept clear of his hooves. The last thing to fasten in place was the crystal-headed spear that Heithrún had given him.

‘Folkvar thought you’d be off on the hunt,’ came a low voice.

‘Hallsteinn?’

‘The same.’ Hallsteinn came out of the gloom, bearing a blanket-wrapped sword, his war-hound Griggr beside him. ‘You’ve friends here, and a chief that appreciates you.’

‘Even though I nearly killed a trader?’

‘He drew first and he’s still alive.’ Hallsteinn grinned. ‘I call that lucky.’

Usually the man with the unsheathed weapon was the man who won, but Ulfr understood what Hallsteinn meant. No one had died; no one need cry blood vengeance. If Folkvar could be diplomatic enough, the traders might even return some time.

‘Best if I’m gone before they wake.’

The liver punch would have done damage, and be painful days in the healing.

‘Not without this sword.’ Hallsteinn unwrapped it. ‘From the chief.’

‘What?’

‘He wanted to do it all ceremonial, like. Take this with you, but when you come back he’ll present it to you himself in front of everybody. That’s what he said.’

There was a belt threaded through the scabbard, and its buckle was a wolf’s head, inscribed as Ulfr.

‘Draw the blade,’ said Hallsteinn.

Ulfr did, and its runes matched the buckle’s inscription.

‘Be the wolf,’ added Hallsteinn.

Ulfr looked at him.

I already am
.

He sheathed the sword, and tied the belt around his waist.

For the next day and the next, making distance was everything, solitude his goal. Part of the time he rode Kolr, other times he walked alongside the stallion. When riding, he upped the pace to a trot for measured periods, while Brandr rode Kolr, lengthwise across the saddle in front of Ulfr, war-hound and stallion taking to the arrangement as if they had been doing it for years.

But he would not rely on the stallion. Riding was not like sitting on a stool, but still, Ulfr needed to keep his legs in shape by running. Many a battle was preceded by a full day’s run or more to reach the battleground. Besides, only in movement could he forget.

It was the beginning of the second evening when he came across the injured wolf.

‘Hold, Brandr.’

He slipped down and used the reins to hobble Kolr. Then he crossed to the dark-grey shape, and stared into those circular irises, pale as bone.

‘Hush, my brother.’

The foreleg was broken, but dark blood, spilled from a raking gash, was the greater problem. Much had poured out, and the wolf was weak, too weak to—

No!

—attack, but a shape was flying at Ulfr’s throat and he fell back, smashing forearm into fangs and then Brandr was there, snarling and rending—

She-wolf
.

—making room as Ulfr rolled, the sword coming free, chaos all around like the swirling Ginnungagap before the worlds began, and then he could see his target and the blade went in, hard and deep, stopping the heart.

‘By Thórr.’

He pushed himself up from the she-wolf, and moved on hands and knees to the male.

Dead
.

Even as his mate had fought, the male’s spirit had slipped out, unable to hang on.

Norns be damned
.

There had been no need for this, for the male’s injury or the female’s confusion as she fought for her mate. There was no need for any of the harsh tricks the three dread sisters played on humanity. Perhaps they existed, but no one would ever worship them.

If I could kill the three of you, I would
.

He checked that Brandr was unwounded, save for scratches. Then he made a small fire and sat down cross-legged, his back to the flames, looking at the two dead wolves.

Ulfr stared down at the part-grave, part-cairn. His friends, like Hallsteinn and Vermundr, would not understand his honouring the wolves like this. Burial, though not without skinning them first.

Folkvar’s wrong about me
.

It would be nice to fit in among the others, but part of his spirit was solitary, and people recognized it. Chief Folkvar, perhaps because his own abilities set him apart, seemed to consider Ulfr as an heir, as someone capable of command. It was an over-estimation: aloofness was not the same as superiority.

Medium wise should a man be
,

Never too wise
.

No man should know his fate in advance;

His heart will be the freer of care
.

There were catchier verses among the best-known poems. There were some that stirred a warrior’s blood, and others shining with cleverness. But this call for ordinariness was something that Eira used to sing.

‘I know my fate, so damn you, Norns.’

Blood and death and hatred.

And my heart is not free
.

Bound to a rock, like Fenrir or Loki, was more like it.

Yet while he imagined a solid rock and a fell creature tied to it, what he saw in the distance was very different: a moving mass of soil and stones, misshapen, squat yet huge, far bigger than a man. Something rippled in the air in front of it, then twisted out of existence.

‘You’ve let him escape again!’

It was the troll, and it was hunting Stígr.

‘NO!’

In the distance, the troll stopped moving. Then it, too, began to rotate, pulling the air with it until it was gone from sight—

Bastard creature
.

—before rearing from the earth two spears’ lengths away.

‘Shit and blood.’ Ulfr leaped for the reins. ‘Shh. Brandr, come. Shh now, Kolr.’

Blowing into the stallion’s nostrils, he held the big head, wrestling against the strength of equine neck muscles. Hobbled, Kolr could not run, but he might still rear and fall.

‘Easy, that’s it.’

The troll remained quiescent, only small amounts of soil spilling from its outer form, making no attempt to reveal the glowing spirit within. Perhaps it understood the effect it was having.

‘All right, stay like that. Good boy.’

He rubbed Kolr’s nose once more, then stopped. The spear – Heithrún’s gift to him –was shining at its point. The embedded rune, normally invisible or close to it, was glowing scarlet, as it had once before.

Perhaps it’s not just for killing trolls
.

So he unslung the spear, walked close to the troll – ‘Stay back, Brandr’ – and planted the haft on the ground.

‘Do we hunt Stígr?’

More soil spilled from the troll-form.

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Ulfr had no brother. Trolls had no ability to speak clearly. But that did not matter so long as it could help him kill Stígr.

‘Which way do we go?’

And why were they wasting time instead of galloping after the bastard?

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All of the Middle World began to rotate, in all directions at once.

Sorcery!

It curved, as the darkness surrounding Stígr curved, and yet this was different, as blueness sparked and hissed all around, and he knew he was not alone as reality revolved again and spilled him out onto ordinary ground.

Revealed in its true form, the troll-spirit hung beside him, a glowing tracery of scarlet lines, bright even in the sunshine.

Sunshine?

Ozone was in the air, and he was standing on a grassy promontory amid gleaming buttercups, while reflections like steel blades glinted off the crashing waves of the sea. In the distance, a stone building rose, taller than any man-made thing Ulfr had ever seen.

Neither Kolr nor Brandr were here.

Stígr?

From somewhere, he could hear the sound of nine dread notes.

Good
.

The troll had carried him far from home, but his enemy was near; and that was all he needed.

Tannier raised his hands like a witch-doctor calling down the thunder. He stared at Roger, focusing; and as he did so, a myriad tiny nozzles on the quickglass walls shifted to aim at Roger.

The three Zajinets, newly revealed in their hiding place, gleamed but did not move or communicate. Were they scared of the darkness they felt approaching?

‘What are you?’ Tannier’s face was blanching. ‘I don’t know your species.’

But he was staring at Roger, not the Zajinets. And he was controlling the surrounding inbuilt weapon systems currently focused this way.

‘It’s me,’ said Roger. ‘I’m no alien.’

Tannier shook his head, as if trying to shut out noise.

He thinks I’m an enemy
.

‘Tannier, I’m your fr—’

Golden fire spat, coruscating across the quickglass walls. Then Rhianna flowed past Roger, whipping the heel of her palm against the side of Tannier’s jaw – he had not seen her approach – and the knockout was immediate. He did not fall, but his brain had short-circuited – out on his feet – and that gave Rhianna the opportunity to take hold of his head between both hands and say: ‘Relax.’

Already out of it, his mind dropped into a type of trance, as Rhianna continued, soft-voiced, to tell him to soften his muscles and let go.

‘And when you awaken you’ll see and hear everything that’s around you so do it now!’

She snapped her fingers.

‘What did you–?’ Tannier turned fast, locking his gaze on Roger. ‘Shit, you wouldn’t believe what I just saw.’

‘I bet I would,’ said Roger. ‘Keep sharp, because that bitch Helsen can mess with anybody’s mind.’

But the walls were melting open at two points in the room, some sixty degrees apart, seen from his position near the centre.

Rhianna’s gown had become jumpsuit and cloak. She whipped up the cloak as a white collimated beam of smartions tore at her, smashing apart on the shield her cloak had formed. Tannier gestured, causing a smartmiasma to propel itself from the walls and ripple through the air, heading for the man who had fired on them.

Which meant the other attacker had to be—

Helsen
.

The nearest Zajinet was writhing and flaring, while the other two floated back, distancing themselves. Roger raised his fist, tu-ring pulsing.

Now
.

Helsen’s face was a snarling mask surrounded by twisting darkness, and she was clearly about to attack but he had no idea how. A pre-emptive strike was his only chance.

His ringware attacked on two fronts, launching subversive infiltration against every piece of smart-tech Helsen wore, carried on her person or held inside her body, while direct control of D-2’s quickglass caused the walls to spit out a cloud of smartatomic needles. On a timescale of femtoseconds Helsen was fighting back; but the floor rose up around her, swirling, because Roger had intuitive, cerebellum-mediated control of the quickglass itself: he could move it as if it were his body.

Even that might not have been enough, were it not for the shrieks of public alarms, and Tannier’s grin. Whatever comms interference Helsen and Ranulph had put in place, Tannier had bypassed it. Perhaps they had failed to realize he was senior law enforcement with appropriate authorization; or perhaps they had counted on the mind-altering trance to keep him out of the fight.