Zero.

Stealth meant exiting to mu-space at such a precise angle and energy that spillover radiation was close to nothing, detectible only to someone who knew where to look and what to look for, with the most sensitive of equipment. One by one, the Pilots’ ships slipped out of realspace existence and were gone . . .

Ready?

. . .until Roger-and-ship alone remained.

Ready now.

They blasted into mu-space, creating a transition signature that would have lit up the realspace environment like an explosion, even amid the shining light of a billion suns.

Because they were heading into the true core, and it would take force as well as finesse to prevent them breaking apart in the jagged mu-space reefs corresponding to the titanic gravitational swirls of the black hole at the centre, except, except—

I love you.

Yes.

—they burst out into realspace for a fraction of a second, right at the threshold of obliteration, enough to see what they knew they were going to see, and then they ripped away into mu-space once more, turbulence and chaos as they had never experienced – so hard to fly – as they twisted around obstacles like coral reefs formed of folded spacetime, hurtled down through spirals of reality – very hard, but we can do it – and finally, finally pulled onto a geodesic that with luck would take them clear – yes – and they screamed along a trajectory more extreme than a hellflight, a reality-shearing, self-immolating, agonising way to fly for which there was no word, not even in Aeternum; and then they were through, tumbling into a clear golden void which by the standards they had grown used to was simple mu-space, easy to traverse, though its currents were strong.

They coursed into a crimson nebula.

What year will it be when we return to Labyrinth?

I don’t know, I really don’t.

Even their superlative ability to track distortions had failed during the ultra-hellflight episode that challenged most of what they had learned in Labyrinth about theoretical limits to ship-and-Pilot performance.

But we’ll still be able to find Labyrinth.

That will never change.

Their flight was easier now.

And was it worth it?

The Admiralty will think so.

As of this moment, only Roger-and-ship knew that a theory long held by humanity was wrong, in a way that must be linked to the aeons-long engagement with the darkness that, from the point of view of Pilots and non-Pilots alike, could only be considered an extended act of invasion, of cosmic war.

What lay at the galaxy’s heart was not a black hole, and perhaps never had been.

How is it that nobody knew?

Good question.

It was not formed of matter at all.

THIRTY-NINE

EARTH, 793 AD

Morning mist failed to cloak the stench of the dead. Slaughtered villagers and holy men, here and there a whimpering survivor – which meant only that their entrance to Hel’s realm was delayed for a while – and soon there would be the buzzing of flies and rustling of beetles, unless more people came to burn or bury the folk of the Holy Isle, whose beliefs and sanctity had so clearly failed to save them.

Fenrisulfr led good men.

A woman was moaning from behind a pig-sty, and someone else was breathing heavily, but there was no reason to investigate. Among the drying blood and hardening gore were fresh shoots of green grass, while sparrows squabbled heed-lessly nearby, and the weight of his sword on his hip – he had laid aside his axes for now – with the soft squeak and smell of the leather, were comfortable and pleasing and somehow very new, as if he were seeing the Middle World through a child’s eyes.

I lead good men.

It was the thinnest of thoughts, like a dying man’s voice.

Stígr felt my vengeance.

And so did all these slaughtered people whom he had never met before, who had never heard of Ulfr’s – Fenrisul fr’s – home village, or of the poet Jarl slain because of Stígr’s machinations, or of Eira, sister to Jarl and volva to the clan and everything to the heart of a young warrior and dead, so long dead, because of Stígr’s dark sorcery once more, and how was any of this going to bring her back?

It wasn’t. Nor would she recognise him, the man he had become, if she could return, for in a real way Ulfr also had perished a long time ago.

Brökkr and four of his strongest fighters were standing in front of him.

‘Chief. Feels like the morning after.’

‘It does.’

‘Got treasure to take home, but I’m not sure about young Thóllakr’s haul. Gold and steel don’t eat. Drink blood maybe, but you don’t need to carry food for them, is what I mean.’

Fenrisulfr squinted at him. ‘Speak plainly, Brökkr.’

‘There.’ Brökkr gestured with a hooked thumb. ‘Got himself a thrall, if you can call it that.’

‘Óthinn’s piss,’ said Fenrisulfr. ‘I might have known.’

Two of the fighters chuckled, but their smiles were vicious. This was going to cause trouble, and it amused them. And if they were the ones to spill someone’s blood, then all the better – at least that was how Fenrisulfr read their thoughts, and he had been a reaver chief for a long time now.

Too long, by the Norns.

That, too, was a new thought.

Thóllakr’s bounty was the girl – young woman – who had been tending his wounds when Fenrisulfr had slain Stígr and triggered the Holy Isle’s doom, the destruction of those who lived here. Except that Thóllakr had taken this one for his own, and not by force, to judge by the way she clung to Thóllakr’s arm and stared down at the ground, avoiding everyone’s gaze and clearly wishing they were not here.

Wishes count for nothing.

If they did, then Eira would still be—

Enough.

He forced himself to speak. ‘You’re claiming her, is that it?’

‘I am,’ said Thóllakr. ‘Her name is Thyra and she’s from an inland village and we’re— Well, she’s under my protection.’

‘Under your hips,’ muttered one of the fighters, poking one finger through the fingers of his other hand, and waggling it.

‘When we move inland,’ said Fenrisulfr, ‘I want you to remain behind with the guarding party. And no trouble, Thóllakr. All right?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘And while you’re here, there’s a roan gelding by the foundry that I like the look of. I want him looked after for me. Take your thrall, and if she knows how to groom and feed a horse, let her help you. Do it now.’

‘Yes, chief.’

Fenrisulfr looked at Brökkr, thought of spinning on the spot and slamming his heel into Brökkr’s liver – the kind of kick that drops a man, leaving him conscious and wishing he were not, because of the pain – but an ambush shot was not the way to deal with a feisty former lieutenant who might be considering a challenge for leadership of Fenrisulfr’s people, combining two bands into one. Domination for face had to be overt, against a prepared foe, though sneakiness in a fighter was and always would be a virtue.

‘Walk with me,’ he told Thóllakr. ‘Bring the girl.’

The two leering fighters looked at each other, wondering if Fenrisulfr was going to assert his right to take her, either while Thóllakr watched or after Fenrisulfr had beaten him unconscious, assuming he protested. Fenrisulfr noted this but did not comment further, waiting instead until he, Thóllakr and the girl were far from the others. He pointed at the horse, still tied up where it had been.

‘The gelding is strong,’ he said. ‘Can carry a decent weight.’

‘Er, yes, chief.’

Fenrisulfr looked at the causeway peeking through the waves, joining the Holy Isle to the mainland. ‘My orders are that you exercise the horse while I’m gone. I’ll let the rest of the guarding party know that. When you cross to the mainland,’ he added, ‘don’t even think about heading west inland, because you’ll miss the rest of us, since we’re turning south.’