Kenna’s prismatic face split into a rainbow smile.

—Dmitri-Stígr. You are the Trickster.

The reply came resonating back.

—More than you know, War Queen.

Kenna had believed that the darkness would reserve its worst horrors for any who betrayed it. Could this be the critical miscalculation leading to her armies’ defeat?

Perhaps Dmitri had waited until now in order to be sure of which way the battle’s momentum went. To determine which side was the more likely winner, having devised some way of avoiding destruction by the darkness. Now, as he directed his forces to the attack, his analysis would be the same as Kenna’s: that likelihood was a weak term for the virtual certainty of victory that now obtained.

His Siganthian-derived warriors fell upon Kenna’s forces, killing multitudes.

I trusted the Betrayer.

Kenna bent her head and concentrated, linking to her six war leaders that remained: to Roger and Freya at the galaxy’s periphery, to Magni and Gavriela halfway along the jet’s length, and to Sharp and Rathulfr, whose forces were still standing off, ready to swoop at the opportune moment – except that Kenna no longer believed the moment would come.

—We are lost, she shared with them.

Overwhelming desolation suffused her: the pseudo-memories of all those other realities, that infinity of failures; and now this, here in the only physical reality, the only true life, that she would ever know.

Failure, bitter and total.

While the galaxy and every lifeform in it paid the price.

SIXTY-THREE

HOME GALAXY, 1005300 AD

Rathulfr moved through space, making distance between himself and his personal squadron, then bent down upon his floating shield, concentrating hard, creating total focus. In a moment, his questing ping was answered; and the tone of Dmitri’s reply was mocking:

—How goes it, brother mine?

Rathulfr’s crystal face hardened into diamond.

—I killed a poet once, Trickster. He reminded me of you.

Again, sneering amusement coloured Dmitri’s thoughts:

—Poetry? I’ll give you a poem. Listen to my saga of death, my epic of destruction.

—Wait, Dmitri . . . The darkness will kill you. You must know that.

—Actually, that’s not our agreement.

In vacuum, Rathulfr snarled without sound. So one touched by darkness in a previous life could communicate with it now. It followed from everything that Rathulfr knew of Dmitri’s nature, and of Stígr before him, long dead.

—Kenna trusted you, he told Dmitri. She trusted you, the Trickster.

—That’s her fault, brother, wouldn’t you say? Why would anyone who knew me actually believe in me?

There was a smile on Rathulfr’s face now, and it was grim.

—Why indeed, brother? Why would anyone?

—What do you . . .? You bastard!

Rathulfr, floating in vacuum, laughed.

—Meet my berserka regiments. And give my regards to Hel.

His secret force of carls, trained to fight as only he could teach them, burst out of their hyperdimensional hiding-places and fell upon the Siganthian-descended creatures of Dmitri’s army. Those carls were strong and skilful, fast and courageous, able to fight as units or individuals, commanding zero-point energy with a daring no others could match; yet that was not what brought them victory.

It was berserkergangr, pure and simple, controlled at will, that rendered them superlative killers. They flew to contact, they fought, and Dmitri’s demonic army died, and that was that.

Rathulfr gave the command to his personal squadron.

—With me.

The rest of his army would remain in place, ready for the signal to commit. But he would need to fly himself to the galactic jet where the Trickster’s forces were dying, because there was one task Rathulfr needed to carry out in person.

Dmitri’s head was his.

It bought them time, no more. Gavriela and Magni were deep in conjoined analytical thought, keeping track of their swirling forces around the mid-point of the jet, fighting not just the great extrusions of the darkness, but something new: split-off extensions, hard to perceive in their angular complexity, fighting like soldiers in their own right.

Dark hordes upon hordes, though whether they were individuals or cell-like components, as the dead Anomaly had once subsumed organic beings, it was impossible to tell.

Gavriela’s resurrected warriors, her beloved Einherjar, and those of Magni’s people who had remained in this galaxy to fight, did their best against the growing force. But the darkness was increasing in strength, pouring ever more strongly along the bridgehead.

Roger and Freya were still in the midst of fighting, though they had fallen further back again, too busy for the greater strategic picture. Sharp, whose warriors could most clearly perceive the shapes of the darkness, led the only army holding back; but soon enough, lacking a clear target, he would have to let his fighters loose regardless.

They might at least damage the enemy, just a fraction, before succumbing.

—We’re losing, Gavriela told Magni.

—I’m afraid you’re right.

Her crystalline face grim, Gavriela said the thing she had been holding back.

—Your people should get away, Magni. Join the others who’ve fled the galaxy.

For a long moment, Magni seemed to think about this; and then he smiled.

—That would be sensible, wouldn’t it? But the sensible ones left long ago.

Finally, Gavriela smiled back.

—I’ve had enough of directing from afar. Time to fight?

—Now I know what Roger sees in you. Yes, time to fight.

From their commanding positions, they soared towards the main battle. After a split second to react, their personal squadrons followed, some of them smiling their hard, crystalline smiles.

This was what they had lived and trained for.

But ninety per cent of their fellow warriors were dead already: none of these fighters retained delusions about what they were flying into. This was death. The question was, how much damage could they inflict before they were done?

Now they would find out.

Then Gavriela and Magni were in the midst of it, blasting with zero-point energy in all directions, destroying creatures or extensions of the darkness, whatever the dark warrior-things were: killing them and killing them, while still the darkness poured onwards like a torrent. It was implacable, and when it finally reached the centre of the galaxy, it would lock in place and strengthen, and the black bridge would be in place forever.

Now, for Gavriela, there was only the fight.

As she became the death-bringer.

Fight. Then die.

So simple, in the end.

Dmitri, flying free of his demonic legions to face Rathulfr alone, began a mocking challenge:

—Well met, brother. What do you hope to—?

But a warrior who fought like a wolf knew that conversation was a distraction, that the Trickster intended to elicit a reply and then strike while he, Rathulfr, was attempting to communicate in return. Instead, he fell upon Dmitri, cracking space apart with the energy of his swings and thrusts, and when Dmitri dodged through the trickiest of trajectories, Rathulfr simply followed, implacable and focused.

Hairline fractures webbed Dmitri’s right arm.

—Wait, my—

Rathulfr knew that in an epic duel against the Trickster, in which the momentum of violence swept back and forth, that devious bastard would eventually win. Among Rathulfr’s resurrected forces, his Einherjar, were humans who had needed to be stripped of culturally induced fantasies regarding fair fights; but his élite carls had no such illusions, and neither did he.