‘Hold, Brandr.’

The war-hound wanted to attack, but Ulfr would not sacrifice him as Stígr had sacrificed his ravens.

Soil continued to spill from the thing.

Is it attacking?

Roots and stones fell aside, the last dark soil spattered on the earth, and what remained was a tangle of glowing scarlet lines, a complex tracery of light. Before the Thing, when Ulfr had fought the troll, it had been like this: scarlet fire animating a mass of moving stones.

‘What are you?’ he said.

It blazed more strongly.

<<Far-sighted man.>>

<<Darkness you see.>>

<<Blind, the rest.>>

<<You know the enemy.>>

Hanging in place, it neither attacked nor withdrew.

‘If you mean the poet Stígr, then yes, he is my enemy.’

<<Good, is good.>>

<<Trust, alliance.>>

<<Next time, ally.>>

<<Slay comrade.>>

Ulfr lowered his spear.

‘I do not understand, troll-spirit. We fight together against Stígr, yes?’

But the blazing scarlet twisted, blueness flared around it, then its presence was extinguished: gone, like a snuffed-out flame. Only the spilled earth, and the churned pit from which it came, remained as evidence: this was no dreamworld visitation, but a tangible power in the Middle World.

In the sagas, when humans tangled with greater powers, it rarely ended well.

Back in the village, he left Brandr in Steinn’s care. Brandr and Griggr, Steinn’s hound, had played together since they were pups. Now, Steinn clapped Ulfr on the shoulder, grinning and nodding, as if he knew what Ulfr was about and did not wish to say it, but wished him luck.

Maybe this is madness.

Outside Eira’s hut, a sheep was hobbled. He wondered why she had it: for wool, some kind of sacrifice, or simply for food.

‘If you’re eyeing up my sheep’ – Eira’s voice, from inside the hut – ‘you might as well know, you’re not her type.’

‘I’m not that lonely.’

‘No, I dare say you’re not. Come in.’

The interior stank of poultice and potions. Eira was sitting on her low cot, on deerskin stretched across a frame of slender branches. Rune-engraved pots were arrayed before her.

Her eyes were bright, her neck tense, her smile wide: a tangle of contradictions.

‘If you’re mixing concoctions,’ Ulfr said, ‘then I can help with the ingredients. You know, gather water, pick herbs, harvest Vermundr’s testicles. Whatever you want.’

‘I’m mixing healing potions, not poisons.’

‘Good point.’

But the poultice-smell came from her, not the pots.

‘Ulfr …’

‘You’re wounded.’ He crouched down in front of her. ‘Do you want to show me?’

‘Mind my pots.’

‘Sorry. Can I move them?’

‘Yes, if you don’t spill anything.’

He made room, then knelt on one knee, and dared to take hold of her hand.

‘Show me,’ he said.

Eira stared at him. Her eyes were passages to dreamworld. He wanted to fall inside for ever.

‘I’ll have to take my gown off for that.’

‘Oh. I’m, er …’

‘Give me a hand, then.’

He helped her remove jewellery and then the robe. Her body was beautiful. Either the poultice or the wound it covered was damp, and he tried to look; but her fingers were at his belt, tugging it open. Pulling off his clothes took an instant, then he was lying alongside her on the cot, pressed against her.

‘I had a vision,’ she said, ‘of a great warrior’s spear. And … I think I’ve found it.’

‘Eira. Gods.’

‘It’s just you and me, my warrior.’

Then he was plunging like salmon in a mountain stream, lost in cascades of sensation, everything he wanted now granted to him, because this was Eira, his seeress, his love, and she was all and all was her, while thoughts of scarlet fire and the spirits of trolls, of one-eyed poets and murderous ravens, were banished to Hel’s grey realm.

For as long as he could keep them there.

SEVENTEEN

LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

Clayton was an athlete of the old school, using his battered electromag-banded suit to work his strength in all directions, after a sparring session with combat mannequins set for random bursts of anaerobic violence. Session over, cleansed and refreshed with dodecapear-flavoured carb-ion fluid, he travelled to the Admiralty on foot, taking his time, trying to keep calm, to think of anything other than Darius.

Shit.

That was Darius Boyle, his former partner, now home on indefinite leave – his career surely over – from the side-effects induced by that careless cow Sapherson. Working for the intelligence service was far from a sedentary occupation; but you did not expect to be sidelined by your own medics.

Stupid, moronic cow.

Except that Sapherson had clearly been under orders to burrow deep. Orders emanating, as far as Clayton could tell, from the desk of Admiral Boris Schenck, chairman of the Admiralty Council, ferociously intelligent, aggressively conservative and proto-isolationist: the biggest asshole in Labyrinth.

This afternoon’s meeting was with Pavel, the venue a conference chamber deep within the hypergeometric core of HQ complex. After passing through the security levels, Clayton stepped out into the chamber to find Pavel waiting, his face calm. It looked like the calmness of someone exerting conscious neuromuscular control, slowed-down breathing and visualizing kittens, or whatever it took to stave off images of failure.

‘What’s your assessment,’ said Pavel, ‘of Clara James?’

‘I like her. Fast-thinking, decisive.’

‘Despite her place in the command structure.’

‘You mean’ – Clayton felt his mouth pull up to one side – ‘on account of her reporting to Colonel Garber, whose nose is permanently docked up Admiral Schenck’s rectum. Tell me this is not on the record, boss.’

Pavel did not respond to the humour.

‘We’re off the books down here. I need someone clear-sighted and professional, not irrational, revenge-oriented thinking.’

‘Sorry. Forget I said anything.’

‘Good. There are some questions to be asked about Admiral Schenck’s decisions.’ Pavel gestured, and a four-dimensional tree-structure rotated in a holoview. ‘Game-theoretic analysis of his objectives leads to some dubious results.’

Running operations off the books was neither new nor safe. Running them against stated policy could be considered treason.

‘Are we opposing Schenck in some way?’ said Clayton. ‘Forget emotion, but if that’s what you’re after, I’m in.’

They had worked together for years. Professional trust had always linked them.

‘I have – sources – within Internal Investigations,’ said Pavel. ‘There are certain enquiries I’ve been keeping track of.’

Espionage thrives on psychological paradoxes. Subverting the internal watchers, though: that was a covert pièce de résistance, the kind of victory every operative held dear: sublime, unshareable. Except that Pavel was revealing it now, exposing himself. If it were true, the revelation was a sign of trust; if false, a test for a potential traitor.

‘What enquiries?’ Clayton was not committing yet. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The response to Admiral Kaltberg’s death,’ said Pavel.

Clayton focused on everything he knew – and still remembered, despite Sapherson – about the case.

‘She was a good officer,’ he said. ‘Gould deserves all he gets.’

‘A little while ago, I would have rated Max Gould about as highly as I rated Adrienne Kaltberg.’ Pavel banished the holo diagram. ‘I’m not sure my opinion has changed.’

That was only a little indirect.

‘You think he didn’t do it?’ said Clayton. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No, I’m not sure at all. Not about that.’