Max flattened his big hands against the tabletop.

‘The longer we’re occupied with Zajinets,’ he said, ‘the less we know about Schenck and what he’s up to.’

Everyone in the room was cleared for knowledge of the renegade base near the realspace galactic centre. Also for intelligence regarding the darkness, to the extent they knew anything at all, and of the strategists’ best guesses as to its intentions.

‘You think the renegades will mount an attack fleet?’ said Clayton. ‘On what target?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Max. ‘And my ignorance is what scares me.’

He gestured, and Clara’s holo report disappeared, replaced by the familiar view of the galactic core and the shining needle, a thousand lightyears long, emanating from the centre.

‘I’m guessing—’ He started, then coughed wetly.

‘Max?’ Clara was out of her seat.

Clayton was already sending an emergency signal.

‘Medics,’ he said. ‘We need medics.’

Bending forward, Max’s fists were in his lap, fighting the pain. ‘Black. Stone.’

‘Don’t talk,’ said Clara. ‘Medics are— Here.’

The air rippled apart, and three uniformed medics stepped into the conference room. The rotation held open for an autodoc to slide out, its carapace already opening.

‘Positive . . . Vetting,’ said Max.

‘Using Haxigoji.’ Clayton took hold of Max’s shoulder. ‘Get Roger to train them up, right?’

‘Right . . .’

‘Everyone, we need room.’ The lead medic moved Clayton aside. ‘All right, Commodore. We’re with you.’

Golden sparks blossomed all around Max, interacting with his normal medical femtocytes that should have sent warning signals of any impending medical catastrophe. Perhaps he had spent too long working inside security-sealed rooms from which all comms were blocked; perhaps it was that simple.

Pavel Karelin rotated into the room, his face pale. ‘Commodore . . .’

The medics were bundling Max into the autodoc, which after a few moments sealed up.

‘Casevac now,’ said the lead medic. ‘Back off, everyone.’

‘I’ll handle security,’ said Clayton. ‘A watch team at all times.’

To guard Max, he meant.

‘Do it,’ said Pavel.

Clayton disappeared a second before the medics, and the autodoc that looked so like a coffin, rotated out to a secure layer of the Med Centre. After the rush, everything transitioned to stillness; then everybody moved and talked at once.

‘All right, listen up,’ said Pavel. ‘I’m Deputy Director pro tem, so let’s settle down and keep things running. And don’t worry, I want Max back in charge as soon as possible. I’m sure you do, too.’

But Clara thought of all the massive strain Max had been under for so long: it wasn’t just the torture he underwent while a prisoner; it was the years of being the only one who understood the threat the darkness represented inside Labyrinth, of identifying first Schenck and then the most powerful of his co-conspirators, slowly and secretly working without ever knowing whether he had just confided in an agent of the darkness few people could sense at all, and then only dimly.

Apart from Roger . . . and possibly every native inhabitant of Vijaya.

It took hours to get things organised, to respond to the shock of Max’s collapse. When Clara finally fastpath-rotated back to her apartment and Jed was standing there grinning, saying, ‘The answer is yes, my love. Definitely yes,’ there was a long, dislocated pause during which she did not know what he was talking about. Then it came to her, and for the first time in years she came close to crying as she kissed the man she loved.

‘Bloody right it is,’ she told him. ‘There’s no escape for you.’

They clasped each other hard.

TWENTY-EIGHT

EARTH, 793 AD

Chill wolf of the willow was the storm-wind’s name, and Fenrisulfr snarled in the face of it from his place on the prow-beast: the longboat which was leading the raiding squadron across the grey, chopping seas; and it had not escaped the grim-humoured warriors on board that their leader’s name meant he was a hell-wolf. His lieutenant, Brökkr, rode the second long-boat, and that was good. For a while after Byzantium, Brökkr had commanded his own fighters; now he had rejoined Fenrisulfr along with his men, on the promise of blood and gold and danger.

Sometimes Fenrisulfr wished he could employ rhetoric and magic as that bastard poet Stígr had so long ago, using words to control men’s minds. But Fenrisulfr’s actions and decisions, and his ability to control berserkergangr, would have to suffice, as they had since he slew the reaver chief Magnús, fifteen summers before.

‘Do they have good warriors over there?’ Thollákr shouted against the wind.

‘There are people who can fight. There always are.’

‘Good, then.’

Fenrisulfr half-smiled against hard wind and spume. ‘You know why we have so many water kennings for blood? Battle sea, sea of spears, current of the sword? Spears’ torrent?’

Thóllakr’s hair whipped in the wind as he shook his head.

‘No, Chief.’

‘Because we swim in it or drown!’

A grin was Thóllakr’s answer, along with: ‘And it makes you puke if you drink it.’

Fenrisulfr laughed, sea air deep in his lungs.

It was a heady pleasure to be alive and the bringer of death, never the recipient – until the Norns betrayed you, as they would in the end.

Finally, the shadow of land grew amid the grey blend of sea and sky, a promontory atop which stood a stone fort-like structure; except that if they had been told the truth, it was occupied by holy men, not warriors. Something other than the icy wind caused Fenrisulfr’s innards to chill, and by the time they beached the prow-beast on shingle, the recognition was strong, despite the gloom enveloping the world.

I was here before.

That other day, long past, when he had been transported by troll magic: bright sky and summer sun had shone as he slew the imprisoned troll-spirit. It had glowed blue, and was comrade to the red spirit that had carried Fenrisulfr – then simply Ulfr – across a great distance in the space be tween heartbeats. Somehow Stígr had been making use of the imprisoned troll’s magic, using it to transport himself at will.

Ulfr had removed that power by killing the captive, using the crystal-headed spear; but had failed to destroy his real enemy, that bastard Stígr, before the ‘good’ troll-spirit snatched Ulfr home.

‘They call it Holy Island,’ Thóllakr told Ivarr.

‘I know.’

‘Ári says they pray to a trinity, meaning Óthinn, Baldr and Loki, except they use different names.’

‘They’ll be praying while they shit themselves, soon as they catch sight of us.’

Several warriors walked downwind to piss, or squat down shielded by their cloaks, while they waited for the other long-boats to beach. Finally, when the whole band was gathered, Egil Blood-Sword and Bjartr Red-Tooth called them to order.

The two chiefs were more important than Fenrisulfr, if not as feared.

‘We take only tribute here, remember,’ said Egil. ‘And a small one at that. Keep your weapons sheathed, men. And not inside the local maidens, Davith.’

‘Or the sheep,’ said someone. ‘Or pigs.’

‘Why, did your mother sail with us?’

Chuckles and jeers were almost drowned by storm-wind.

‘The nicer we are to the locals,’ said Bjartr, ‘the fewer fighters need to remain here on guard, while we make a little incursion on foot.’

Later they would hug the coast until they found a suitable river inlet, and make use of the prow-beasts’ shallow draughts. Riverside settlements were rarely prepared for the sight of sea-going vessels suddenly appearing beside them: normal ships would smash their keels if they attempted to sail inland; but when raiders went a-Viking, they slipped deep into the country at will.