Blood of Asaheim

Chapter Sixteen



Hafloí fought with two weapons, just as he did whenever he could, his axe in his right hand and his bolt pistol in his left. Older warriors, those who had honed their craft over centuries, would eventually settle on a preference for blade or ranged work, but he intended never to specialise. He enjoyed the interplay between axe-strike and pistol-kick, doling out death in equal quantities as he rampaged through the enemy. He relished the thick cut-and-drag of the metal on diseased flesh; he took delight in the action of the bolt pistol as it tore up body-armour and ripped through vehicle plate.

He’d opened his throat since Gunnlaugur’s order, giving in to the urge that he had always had to shout and holler and whoop with the raw joy of killing. That had been how it was in his old pack, all of them flame-haired neophytes led by the brutal vaerangi Oje Redclaw. They’d taken joy in their work, laughing like savage children in the heart of battle, pushing every limit that was set for them, racing out to be the fastest, the most deadly, the strongest, the best.

Járnhamar was different. He’d known it would be, but still the shock of it had been hard to get used to. From the long, hard training sessions back on Asaheim he’d learned just what it took to be a Grey Hunter. Olgeir was as strong as a mountain, Váltyr as quick as a snake, Jorundur as wily as an ice-drake. One on one they were all more than a match for him. Their sinews had hardened, their muscles had tempered, their combat-skills had been honed and honed again.

And yet, for all that, they were missing something. Their joy had gone. They had all been fighting too long; the Long War had made their spirits shrivel even as it had toughened their bodies.

Hafloí kicked out, plunging his boot into the reeling forehead of another plague-bearer. He loosed a single shot to halt the charge of another, jerked his axe-blade round harshly to decapitate a third. Flecks of blood circled him like debris swirling around a star, thrown up by the vicious hack, thrust and fire of his relentless movement.

One chem-tanker already smouldered, its fuel tanks ruptured and its toxin-cylinder leaking. He could hear that the other one – the one taken on by Gunnlaugur and Váltyr – was reeling. The hordes of plague-raddled mortals had shaken off their shock and now lumbered into combat, but they had little with which to combat the unleashed wrath of the Wolves.

‘Hjá, brother!’ Hafloí roared to Baldr, leaping clear of a las-volley before blasting the firer’s head open with a return shot. ‘The next one waits!’

Baldr was worrying him. On Fenris, Baldr had always been serenely, irritatingly in control. Olgeir had called him the quiet one, the calm presence at the centre of the pack.

Now Baldr was shrieking, ripping into the enemy with a stark energy that surpassed even his own. Hafloí had never seen another Fenryka fight like it. Baldr’s movements were fast, too fast, careless and slapdash. If the enemy had been more competent he might have been in trouble; as it was, his sheer brutality was enough to daunt the trapped and panicked host of misshapen and plague-twisted. They were terrified of him, falling over themselves to flee his haphazard sword-strokes.

‘Forget this filth!’ Hafloí called out again. ‘The tanker!’

No answer came over the comm. Baldr’s breathing was thick and wet, more like the wheezing of a dog than a man.

Hafloí spun round, swinging his axe to clear space amid the milling host of mutants, looking up briefly to gauge the shape of the battle.

Further down the ravine the remaining four tankers had slowed, grinding to a near-halt as the gorge-slopes descended into chaos around them. Their towering drive-units reared up above the swirling melee, underlit by eerie green glows, their engines churning as they struggled to change course.

Hafloí glanced over at Baldr one last time. He remained busy slaughtering those around him, lost in a mist of blood and fury.

‘Skítja.’

Giving up on him, Hafloí kicked into movement, sprinting after the next chem-tanker, firing at any plague-bearers who barred the way ahead and cutting down any who got too close. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he arrived. He might vault up into the cab and take the tractor-section down, or maybe go for the engines with kraks. In any event it would be a worthy kill to add to his name, something that might gain him a little more respect from the warriors around him.

He’d like that. For all their lack of mirth and vigour, for all their dreary fatalism, he’d still like their respect.

He was barely ten metres away from the chem-tanker when he saw the Traitor stride out from the shadows. If he’d been more experienced he might have sensed him earlier, though the fug of human filth clogging the ravine floor made it hard to pick out individual aromas. He might, though, have noticed the ever-heightening terror in the mortals he cut down so easily and seen that they weren’t just scared of him. As it was, consumed by the combat around him and fixed on the target ahead, he only saw the Traitor once he had lumbered into range.

Once, he must have been like Hafloí: a loyal Space Marine of the Imperium decked in blessed power armour. Now he had been altered, had grown, bloating and twisting as the slow arts of the warp had worked their baleful influence. His ceramite plate was thick with poxy encrustation, like polyps of dirty coral layered over rotting stonework. He trod ponderously on huge, cloven hooves, and necrotic flesh burst through wound-like gouges in his breastplate and cuirass. A sweaty stink of fear hung over him, and hosts of flies followed his every movement, billowing around him like a shroud.

Inexperienced as he was, Hafloí knew well enough what he faced.

Plague Marine.

His helm had once been an old Mark I issue but it had been ravaged almost beyond recognition. A dull green light spilled from hollow lenses, leaking across the decaying snarl of the vox-grille. A fused mass of tortured ironwork rose up over his shoulders, studded with loosely nailed skulls and pulsing with the ghost-flicker of unnatural energies. He carried a heavy glaive two-handed, and phosphor-dim witchlight glimmered over the pocked blade.

As soon as he saw the Traitor, Hafloí felt his battle-joy transmute to blind rage. Deluded mortals were one thing; fallen brothers were another.

‘Allfather!’ he roared, charging towards the Traitor, loosing a hammering barrage of bolts from his pistol and twisting the axe-head to swing.

The Plague Marine did not move fast. He could not match Hafloí’s pace and energy, and his reactions were sluggish.

But he did not need to move fast. As the Blood Claw closed in on him, cracking a dozen rounds against its fist-thick battle-plate, the Traitor raised his glaive and levelled the point at him.

‘Maleficaris nergal,’ he whispered in a glottal, sibilant wheeze.

Hafloí never saw the bolt hit him. He had the briefest impression of savage fire bursting across him, tinged with lime-green flickers and stinking of ethanol. The next thing he knew he was on his back, hurled five metres away, his armour half embedded into the earth below. His bolt pistol had been knocked clear and he only barely clasped on to his axe.

He tried to rise and instantly felt agony flood through his limbs. Witchlight rippled across his armour, playing across it like mercury sliding on steel. He felt his flesh tighten, his energy draining away. He tried to cry out, but his mouth had dried to a husk. Through a filmy haze of pain and disorientation he saw the Plague Marine loom over him, pointing the tip of the glaive at his neck. A hot-metal stink of fell magicks competed with the rank odours of decay.

The Plague Marine gazed down at him. His gestures were laborious, made as if wading through tar, but the power he exerted was crushing. Hafloí weakened further, his lungs burning as he tried to breathe. He felt his axe fall loosely from his grasp.

‘Just a child,’ whispered the Traitor, musingly.

His voice was extraordinary – gurgling thickly through bubbling layers of saliva and mucus, broken into overlapping tones and breathy echoes as if a thousand other voices jostled for prominence within his blank helm. No particular malice permeated it, just a kind of long, tired sadness. The air itself seemed to sag in his presence.

Hafloí couldn’t move. He stared up at the Plague Marine, watching the glaive hover above his neck. He could feel his skin creasing under his armour, crinkling with unnatural weariness. He fought against it, tasting sorcery at the back of his throat like a bitter gall, swallowing it down and coughing, but the vice did not loosen.

Hafloí knew then the measure of his foe: a witch, steeped in the twisting, changing ways of the warp’s touch, a warrior as far beyond him as he was to the milling crowds of diseased cattle that marched alongside the chem-tankers.

‘Just a child,’ repeated the sorcerer, shaking his head sadly before pulling the glaive back to swing.

The rain of bolter-shells came from hard over to the right, peppering the witch’s armour-plate and rocking him back on cloven heels. He staggered, lost in a bursting torrent of splintering ceramite. The glaive was knocked out of position.

‘Fenrys!’ came a bellowing, half-demented voice.

With the sorcerer’s hold broken, Hafloí managed to lift his head a little.

Baldr was charging across the ravine floor, his sword drawn, his bolter blazing. Tattered scraps of pelt flew around him as his limbs pumped.

The sorcerer responded, moving as slowly as before. His rotten armour seemed to absorb the power of the bolts, rippling like sludge as the shells detonated. The impacts clearly hurt him, but still he was able to lumber around to face Baldr’s attack.

Hafloí could barely move. He felt as if centuries of ageing had taken place in seconds, making his limbs frail and his bones weak. He tried to retrieve his axe, and the effort made him gasp.

Baldr closed in on the witch, and the two of them fell into combat. The Plague Marine’s movements were still slow, but somehow he managed to parry Baldr’s flurry of expert strokes. It was as if time itself sloughed to a halt around him, dragging everything down into a pit of torpor.

‘You are no child,’ observed the sorcerer softly, gurgling away as Baldr’s sword clanged against the rusty glaive.

Baldr ignored him, cracking him back several paces. His strikes were wild and florid. He’d discarded his bolter and now threw his sword around two-handed.

The sorcerer levelled the glaive and the Hunter smashed it clear in an explosion of sparks. Baldr’s movements were still erratic, but some dark, urgent fury seemed to animate him.

‘You should not be here,’ said the sorcerer, pushed back again and parrying sluggishly. ‘Why are you here, Son of Russ?’

Baldr pressed home the attack, cutting and lashing. Hafloí could hear his grunts of effort, the heavy breathing. He was fighting furiously just to stay alive.

Hafloí reached again for his axe, dragging himself across the rocky ground towards it. As he crawled nearer, he saw the first pair of glowing eyes emerge from the gloom. A plague-mutant stood before him wearing a heavy gas mask over its sore-thick face and holding a spiked morning star on a looped chain. More of them shuffled into view, edging forwards nervously, clutching flails, cleavers and meathooks in liver-spotted claws.

Hafloí managed to snarl, to clench his fists and clamber to his knees. That forced them back, squealing with fright, but they didn’t break. Hafloí knew that if they rushed him now he’d be in trouble. He tried to snarl again, but the noise died in his throat as his energy drained away.

Then, from behind him, the ravine suddenly exploded into light, a riot of lightning-white illumination that raced up the rock-face on either side and threw everything into eye-watering definition. Hafloí was briefly dazzled by it before his helm-lenses darkened; the mutants fell back, clawing at their faces and shrieking madly.

Hafloí twisted round to see the sorcerer bathed in a sick corona of vivid energy, cracking and curling around him like a billowing cloak. Baldr was suspended in mid-air above him, wreathed in the same whipping coils of power, his whole body clenched in spasms of pain. His head had jerked back, locked in a silent scream, and his arms were thrown wide. The sorcerer held his glaive up, using it to feed more power into the ether-summoned aegis.

‘Do they even know what you are?’ asked the witch, sounding genuinely curious. ‘Why have you never told them?’

Hafloí watched as Baldr writhed in pain. He tried to rise, to run again, to do something to break the deadening fatigue clamped on his limbs.

He failed, his strength giving out, and fell back to his knees.

‘Support,’ he gasped into the vox, forcing the words through clenched teeth. It was all he could do to spit them out, let alone rise again. ‘Blood of Russ, support now.’

Gunnlaugur sped past the broken shell of the tanker, his boots churning the earth as he sprinted. He needed no locator mark to spy Baldr’s position – he could see the witch-lightning crackling around a silhouetted core of brilliance. The stink of sorcery hummed in the air, rank and putrid.

‘Hjolda!’ he thundered, charging directly towards the source.

Váltyr and Olgeir tore along beside him, their blades flashing brightly in the unnatural light.

The sorcerer saw them coming. Gunnlaugur thought he heard him speaking – a whispered voice saying something to Baldr – but then the corroded helm swivelled to stare directly at him. The swathe of ether-energy surrounding Baldr gave out and the Hunter crashed to the ground, his head lolling like a corpse’s.

The sorcerer angled the glaive at Gunnlaugur, and the Wolf Guard felt the sudden build-up of dark power.

It was too late. Gunnlaugur pounced, his hammer held high and spitting with raw plasma. His enormous body, still streaming flecks of burning acid from the tanker’s immolation, coursed through the air, massively, unstoppably.

Gunnlaugur slammed skulbrotsjór down. The warhammer connected with the sorcerer’s helm, shattering the diseased ceramite and driving on in.

The witch reeled, bludgeoned to the ground. He tried to swing his glaive up but Váltyr darted in close, lashing holdbítr around and severing the sorcerer’s arm at the elbow.

Olgeir piled in next, throwing wild, heavy blows with both gauntlets, pummelling in a blind rage. He was screaming death-curses; in such a fury he was all but unstoppable.

Gunnlaugur swung again, hurling skulbrotsjór across hard, working it like a pile-driver, pistoning the energy-wreathed hammerhead into the Traitor’s throat and sending him sprawling on his back.

The Plague Marine was incredibly tough. Even in the face of that onslaught he somehow hung on. He reached for his glaive with his remaining hand, scrabbling after it as the blows came in.

Váltyr worked as smoothly as ever, switching hands and dancing in close. He chopped down on the sorcerer’s free arm, cutting the sinews cleanly and ending his desperate reaching for the glaive. Olgeir seized the witch’s broken legs and hauled him across the ground towards Gunnlaugur, pinning him face-up.

That left Gunnlaugur to land the killing blow. The Wolf Guard swept the hammer up a final time, gazing with disgust into the bloody mass of what had been the Plague Marine’s head. He could see a puckering mass of warty flesh looking back up at him, as pale as milk and rimmed with red. He saw one filmy eye blinking and the remnants of a crushed jawline hanging loose. Blood bubbled up from under torn flaps of crusty skin, dribbling down into a shattered gorget.

The Traitor tried to speak.

‘You don’t know–’

Gunnlaugur brought the hammer down, and skulbrotsjór cleaved the sorcerer’s skull with a thunderous clap of discharged energy. A sheet of pale flame shot up, raging across all three warriors before gusting out with a boom and rush like storm-wind.

The sorcerer’s body shuddered, spasmed, and slumped into stillness. The three Wolves broke away from it, panting hard, weapons raised, watching for any deception.

None came. The Traitor’s body lay broken, its eerie light gone, its throaty breathing stilled.

Gunnlaugur turned away, moving quickly to where Baldr lay. He stooped down, cradling the Hunter’s head in his hands.

‘Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Fjolnir. Speak to me.’

Váltyr crouched down beside them. He withdrew a handheld auspex from his belt and ran it over Baldr’s limp form.

‘Alive,’ he said. ‘But unconscious. The Red Dream has him.’

Olgeir limped to join them. He was still breathing heavily and one gauntlet was cracked and sparking.

‘What’s that on his armour?’ he asked.

Baldr’s breastplate and helm were coated in a film of luminous slime. It glowed in the night, an after-echo of the storm unleashed by the sorcerer. Olgeir leaned down to wipe it clear.

‘No,’ said Gunnlaugur, grasping Olgeir’s wrist. He could hear Baldr’s shallow heartbeat, just on the margins of detection. Morkai circled closely. ‘Not yet.’

He looked up, searching for the whelp, and saw Hafloí crawling towards them. The Blood Claw’s plate was scorched white, his pelts and totems ripped away.

Váltyr went over to him, hooking a hand under his armpit and dragging him to his feet.

‘What happened here?’ he asked.

Hafloí tried to answer but the words were just a mess of croaking. His head lolled loosely on his shoulders, his boots scraped for purchase in the dust.

Olgeir started to move, fingers flexing, bristling for more violence.

‘Four left,’ he muttered darkly, watching the remaining tankers slowly reversing down the length of the ravine, putting as much distance as they could between them and the Wolves. Their mutant entourage retreated with them, going warily with their weapons raised, staring nervously at the carnage they’d stumbled into. ‘Give me leave, vaerangi. Give me leave to take them.’

Gunnlaugur followed his gaze. His first instincts were the same. A cold anger seized him, spurring him to take up the hammer again. They had killed the sorcerer. All that remained were the witch’s vermin, ripe for slaughter.

He glanced at Váltyr. The blademaster slowly shook his head.

Gunnlaugur drew in a deep, reluctant breath. Váltyr was right. Baldr was teetering on the edge of death; the whelp was out of action. The hunt was over.

‘No, Heavy-hand,’ he said, his voice catching with frustration. ‘No, not now.’

He laid Baldr’s head on the ground and got to his feet.

Around them, the valley floor was a scene of pure devastation. Scores of bodies lay draped over the rocks, broken and bleeding by the Wolves’ assault. Two toxin-carriers had been destroyed. What remained of the enemy detachments were hurrying back the way they came.

Gunnlaugur’s gaze settled on the Plague Marine’s corpse. The body smelt even fouler in death than it had in life. Maggots dropped, still wriggling, from the gaping chasm of a shattered chest. The witchlight had died, sinking into nothing with the death of its master.

‘We’ll burn the gene-seed,’ said Gunnlaugur bleakly, reaching for his thunder hammer. ‘Then we return. Olgeir – you and I will bear Baldr. Váltyr will take the whelp.’

Olgeir started to protest. Gunnlaugur ignored him. He withdrew a long dagger from a sheath at his thigh and stalked over to the sorcerer’s corpse. As he walked, he heard the crackle of flames and smelled the chemical tang of boiling toxins.

It was destruction, but not what he’d hoped for. The pack’s resources were limited; he had damaged them further.

Pride. All for pride. The Gyrfalkon should have been with them.

Hafloí staggered up to him. The Blood Claw could barely stand, let alone walk.

‘My thanks, vaerangi,’ he rasped, blurting the words out from behind a heat-whitened vox-grille.

Gunnlaugur nodded curtly. He should have said something in reply, but the shame, the sick guilt of it, prevented him.

They would have to leave soon. They would have to trawl back across the desert, going as fast as they could, fleeing before the wrath of the pursuing host. That wasn’t victory; that was disgrace.

All for pride.

He bent over the sorcerer’s stinking cadaver, gripped the knife in his fist, and started to cut.

The night’s hunt had come to a close and the dawn was close. Ingvar walked up onto the walkway atop the city’s inner wall and leaned against the rockcrete parapet. He looked west, out across the encircling plains. The night sky was dark still, a cool, near-black purple studded with stars. Behind him the upper city rose up in tiers of glimmering light, pockmarked by smoke from the pyres. At the summit, proud and ugly, hunched the Halicon fortress, floodlit gaudily as the siege labourers crawled over it.

His body ached. Soon he would be entering his fifth day without sleep. He’d noticed his reactions slowing, just a little, probably imperceptibly to mortal senses but clear enough to him.

That wasn’t good enough. He’d have to work harder.

He rested his weight against the rough-cut stone and smelled the cool air. The scent of the city surrounded him – dust, sweat, spices, embers. He smelled the leaves of the trees as they swayed in their courtyards, and the oily burn of crawlers hauling material down to the bulwarks, and, faintest of all, the slowly growing tang of corruption, wafting across the plains and over the walls.

They were closing in, coming at the city from all directions, their ranks swollen with the newly-dead and plague-infested. By the time they arrived the air would be thick with their filth, buzzing with clouds of blowflies and making the citizens cough and retch.

He sniffed again, trying to guess distances.

Close, now. This would be the last night that the air was clear.

A locator rune blinked softly on the edge of his retinal feed indicating the presence of Jorundur climbing up to meet him. Ingvar smiled to himself. The Old Dog had been busy during the night, stalking through the shadows after the infected with a brutal zeal. Some life in him yet, it seemed.

Ingvar strolled along the parapet towards the nearest defence tower, wondering whose tally was the higher. He guessed his was, though you could never tell with Jorundur, who had a habit of surprising.

Jorundur emerged from the tower’s doorway and sloped onto the walkway. He went helm-less, just as Ingvar did, and his lean face carried a rare grin of enjoyment.

‘Thirteen,’ he announced.

Ingvar bowed his head. ‘Eleven,’ he replied.

Jorundur laughed. ‘Had trouble finding them?’ he asked.

‘The Sisters have been busy,’ admitted Ingvar. ‘I think this thing has finally been contained.’

Jorundur grunted dismissively. ‘Until the rest of them get here,’ he said, leaning heavily on the parapet edge, just as Ingvar had done. He stared out at the pre-dawn dark, wrinkling his hooked nose and frowning. ‘Any signal from the pack?’

Ingvar shook his head, resting his elbows beside Jorundur’s. Being reminded of the rest of Járnhamar out hunting, pursuing the genuine threat rather than mopping up the last dregs of sabotage, was still an irritant. He hid it poorly.

‘Still sore, then,’ noticed Jorundur. ‘Ice and iron, I don’t envy Skullhewer.’ He laughed again, his more usual cynical snort. ‘All your egos, jostling together like pups in a litter. Who’d try to command you? Not me, even if they begged.’

Ingvar smiled. ‘I think your time may have passed,’ he said.

‘I think you might be right,’ said Jorundur. ‘Allfather be praised.’

He spat on to the parapet and sniffed noisily.

‘So how’s your friend?’ he asked. ‘I made a friend of my own this night, you know. I reckon I could learn to stop despising the Sisters, given a little more time.’

‘Palatine Bajola is fine,’ said Ingvar. ‘The cathedral was hit. She took it personally. Her troops burned a lot of things to make up for it.’

‘Careless,’ said Jorundur. ‘Is she sloppy? Will she be a liability?’

Ingvar pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The Battle Sisters are tough. They’ll fight like wildcats to keep the enemy away from the Halicon. But her? I’d like to think so.’ He paused, thinking back to their exchanges. ‘I don’t know, though. She’s a strange one.’

Jorundur snorted, as if to say you can talk.

‘How bad was it hit?’ he asked.

‘They got into the crypt. Took out the archives, wiped everything out. That was it.’

Jorundur gave him a sidelong look. ‘The archives?’ he asked.

‘Yes. What of it?’

Jorundur thought for a moment, his hollow cheeks bulging as he ground his fangs together. ‘Nothing.’

Ingvar turned to face him. ‘Speak to me.’

Jorundur shrugged. ‘Perhaps they just got lost.’ His old, shrewd, yellow eyes glittered in the dark. ‘But you never asked yourself why, given the choice, they went for a bunch of scrolls in a basement?’

As Jorundur spoke, Ingvar felt a sudden pang of unease. He didn’t reply.

‘I mean, that place is covered in guns,’ Jorundur went on. ‘Really big guns, ones we’ll need. The bomb-drones, they’ve all been directed towards the sites that would hurt us – ammo dumps, power plants, comms towers. Think about it. You get a gang of them inside that cathedral, what are you going to tell them to do: head up to the batteries and bring them down, or torch the archives?’

He shook his shaggy head.

‘Maybe that’s what they wanted,’ he said. ‘I just find it surprising.’

Ingvar felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. He gripped the edge of the parapet, and the fingers of his gauntlet sent hairline cracks running across its surface.

‘They were trapped,’ he said. ‘It was their only target.’

Jorundur looked unconvinced. ‘If you say so.’

Ingvar pushed back, away from the edge.

‘I should go back,’ he said.

I swore vows never to disclose the secrets I was given to guard.

Jorundur reached out, grabbing him by the wrist and holding him back.

‘And do what, Gyrfalkon?’ he asked.

Ingvar whirled to face him, but couldn’t find the words to reply. He had nothing concrete, no suspicions, no theories, just the renewed sense of missing something important.

It was my wyrd to be here. Just as it was yours.

‘I don’t know. Yet.’

He started to push clear of Jorundur’s grasp when his comm-feed crackled into life. De Chatelaine’s voice emerged over the non-secure channel.

‘Warriors of Járnhamar,’ she said, sounding both concerned and angry. ‘Your presence is requested at the Halicon. Urgency, please, would be appreciated.’

Ingvar paused. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Communication from Gunnlaugur. He’s coming in now, carrying casualties. The apothecarion is prepared. We will do what we can.’

Ingvar shook his head furiously. ‘Skítja,’ he swore.

Jorundur was already moving, his cynical face hardening as he made his way to the tower portal. Ingvar hesitated for a moment, torn between conflicting priorities.

Gunnlaugur, you fool.

‘Can you give me more information?’ he asked, lingering on the parapet. ‘What has happened?’

He heard de Chatelaine exhale impatiently.

‘Forgive me, but your brothers can inform you better than I,’ she said, her voice sounding almost peevish. ‘I have many things to detain me. You are on the walls? Look up, Space Wolf, and I’m sure you will understand.’

The link cut out abruptly. Startled by her tone, Ingvar turned and peered out across the night-shrouded plains. Jorundur, halting before the portal, did the same.

Right on the edge of vision, across to the far horizon where the wide, flat landscape broke into ravine country, the perfect dark had been broken. A long, thin line of green polluted it, glowing softly in the night. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. Even as Ingvar watched, it grew in intensity, as if hundreds of tiny candles had been lit in the shadows.

It was still far off, but clearly visible. The faint strand seemed to stretch from north to south without a break.

‘So many,’ breathed Ingvar, everything else forgotten for the moment.

Jorundur drew alongside him.

‘Aye,’ said the Old Dog, his expression grim. ‘So they’re here at last. Now it gets interesting.’