‘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.’

‘Stígr is long gone,’ said one of his warriors. ‘Disappeared as soon as we rode out to attack Chief Folkvar’s holding. The women told me Stígr slipped away, but they don’t know how.’

‘He is an adept of seithr,’ said Folkvar. ‘Slippery beyond ordinary cunning.’

Arne wore a Thórr’s hammer amulet; he clutched it now.

‘The chieftains gave you horses,’ he said to Folkvar. ‘Let us give the poet Stígr a horse of his own.’

It was wordplay without humour: horse meaning gallows-tree. Skaldic language for a poet who deserved to hang.

‘We’ll find an ash for him to ride,’ said Folkvar. ‘Once we’ve found the bastard.’

‘Yes.’ Arne held out his hand. ‘Together, we’ll give him the long ride into night.’

‘Together, by Thórr.’

They clasped forearms, two chieftains forming alliance, discarding bad blood. For Ulfr, this was a masterclass in chiefly conduct; but in literal terms he considered their oath ill-wrought.

Because Stígr is mine to kill.

All around, the watching warriors shifted, taking some moments to catch up with the changed mood of Arne, still new as their chief. But Arne was resolved, that was clear; and several men growled, thumping blade against shield in agreement. It began a clamour of weapons clashing, and the conjoined cheer of men whose purpose was obvious once more, confusion tumbling away.

Vermundr caused his horse to step sideways, coming daintily alongside Ulfr.

‘Courage and wisdom,’ he said. ‘A good way for chieftains to behave.’

‘Yes.’

‘When you are chief, remember this.’

‘What?’

But Vermundr was already moving away, jumping down from his horse, leaving his hammer hanging from the saddle.

‘By Freyja’s creamy tits!’ he shouted. ‘Is there no mead to drink in this whole village?’

‘If your horn’s big enough for the job,’ called one of the women, ‘I’ve all the sweetness you’ll ever need, big man.’

The men roared, called out insults, laughed and gave cheers as they sheathed and slung their weapons. After tension and battle-fear – and despite the wounded – they needed release.

As the feasting began, Folkvar looked in Ulfr’s direction and winked.

I understand.

Ulfr grinned back.

This is how to lead.

Whether he himself would ever command warriors, that was a different question. While Eira hated him and Stígr still lived, there was only one clear purpose to Ulfr’s life. For all Arne’s and Folkvar’s words, their villages depended on people staying close to home, tending animals and crops, hunting as required. Deserting their land for vengeance on a single man was out of the question.

While hunting the poet alone was exactly what Ulfr planned to do.

Until you die screaming, Stígr, just like Jarl.

Then the world would be right again.

Life would be fine.

NINE

MOLSIN, 2603 AD

It occurred to Roger that he was being selfish. Watching the crowds passing through a concourse, gleaming quickglass everywhere, he allowed the world to slip from focus, and reexamined his reaction to Alisha’s scream. He had thought of it as severing his last link to home, but she was the one who was suffering.

Mum. Dad. At least you were never taken.

His parents might be dead; but Alisha’s family were as likely to have become part of the Anomaly gestalt as to have perished.

Acid bubbles gurgled: his stomach, calling him back to mundane reality.

‘Can I help you, Pilot?’

The man’s scarlet outfit looked like a uniform, but a cheery one, suggesting customer assistance more than emergency services.

‘I, um, could do with a bite to eat.’

‘Of course, and there’ll be no charge to your good self,’ said the man. ‘We like Pilots to feel at home in Barbour. So, let’s see.’

A quickglass pillar twisted up from the floor, formed a loop, and displayed a hanging sheaf of menus. It was a showy way to project a holo display. Like Bodkin Travers earlier, this man had commanded the quickglass surroundings with no visible word or gesture.

‘These are eateries?’ asked Roger.

‘Indeed. If you hold up your tu-ring, Pilot, I can transfer standard public-service interfaces.’

Roger’s tu-ring glinted.

‘Done,’ he said.

‘That was fast.’ The man’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Er, I can recommend the Orange Blossom, one deck up’ – he pointed – ‘at the top of that ramp. If you’re truly famished, you’ll find there’s an Eat Now service on offer anywhere at all inside the city.’