‘It does. Seeing the city come apart around her must have been frightening, so it’s understandable that—’

‘Alisha is – was – pre-upraise, about to become a Luculenta.’

Two of the medics stiffened.

‘She doesn’t have plexnodes implanted,’ Roger added to forestall their panic. ‘She’s not vulnerable in the way true Luculenti were. But she did get attacked through her interfaces, and she was, er, almost catatonic when I found her. Before everything went insane.’

At some point the Anomaly had gained the ability to link to ordinary minds; but at first it had been Luculenti who formed its components, linked through the virtual Skein: formerly their paradise and playground, finally the enabling mechanism of extinction. That was why Pilots had killed every Luculentus or Luculenta among the refugees, dumping the corpses before they dared fly to Labyrinth.

Medics would understand the need to squash a nascent epidemic.

‘We’re blocking cortisol and noradrenaline production,’ said one of them. ‘Dr Keele? We can bring her to full consciousness now.’

‘One moment.’ The white-haired medic turned back to Roger. ‘Alisha’s going to be spaced out, somewhat. She may not be able to focus on you.’

‘You need her to wake up feeling good.’

‘That’s the idea. All right, everyone. Let’s bring her out of it.’

Alisha blinked three times, then opened her eyes fully.

‘Good,’ murmured Dr Keele. ‘Very—’

The veins on Alisha’s forehead stood out as she saw Roger.

And screamed.

‘Shit.’

A medic gestured. Alisha’s eyelids fluttered. She dropped back into coma.

‘Pilot Blackthorne.’ Dr Keele’s voice was silken as brushed steel. ‘Pilot?’

‘Er, yes?’

‘Are you married to Alisha Spalding, or occupying any legal capacity allowing you to make medical decisions on her behalf?’

‘No.’

Why would she ask such a thing?

‘Then I have to ask you to leave. I’m very sorry.’

‘But can’t I—? I beg your pardon.’ Roger had no idea what to say. ‘Will she be all right?’

Meaning, can you fix her?

‘Leave her with us,’ said Dr Keele. ‘Will you be OK finding your friends?’

Jed and Bod, presumably.

‘Sure.’

‘Then …’

Roger was blinking – as Alisha had been, moments before – and he seemed to have swallowed warm salt water.

‘Take care of … Just …’

He turned away.

Get out of here.

Striding, he moved fast, fleeing like an electron tipped from a local maximum: filled with momentum, inherently uncertain in direction.

I don’t have anyone.

His last connection to home, severed by a scream.

EIGHT

EARTH, 777 AD

The aftermath of attack lay before them: smoke-stink of extinguished fires, exposed beams black as charcoal sticks even from this distance; children corralling animals into makeshift pens; whimpers and yells from unseen wounded; the torn clothes and plodding motion of survivors clearing wreckage.

‘Ride!’ yelled Chief Folkvar.

It was rage, not urgency, for no raiders remained around the village. Ulfr, from his saddle on black Kolr, whistled down to Brandr. The warhound leaped up and Ulfr caught him. Off to one side, Hallstein did likewise with brave Griggr, who barked when she was steady in Hallstein’s arms. Then they kicked their horses into a gallop, following the rest of the party.

Folkvar’s mount thundered in the lead, the grey stallion’s legs a blur: there might have been eight legs, like Sleipnir of the sagas, ridden by the Gallows-Lord. It pulled ahead, faster than the others, while Folkvar’s cloak billowed in chill wind.

They all rode horses, everyone in the party, because Chief Gulbrandr had exhorted the other clans to generosity. Ulfr’s actions had saved the Thing from ensorcelment through seithr, the unclean magic of shapeshifters and gender-changers.

From the poet Stígr, most unholy.

They thundered into the village, wheeled the horses to a standstill, and slipped down. Each man used reins to hobble his horse, knotting the leather fast, then strode off, some following Folkvar, others heading towards someone precious they saw or sought.

Eira. You’d better be all right.

Ulfr wheeled, staring, searching for signs of her.

There.

The shriek of a wounded man in sudden pain came from beyond the ruins of the men’s hall. Brandr gave a small yip. Perhaps Eira’s scent floated through the stench. They ran around the hall, and saw her: kneeling by a wounded man whose shoulder was wrapped in stained cloth, while his face glistened with poultice.

Eira’s robe was streaked with brown, glistening here and there with battle-sea red.

No, by Thórr.

But the gods did not exist to prevent disaster.

‘Eira.’

From the whiteness of her face, much of the blood was hers.

‘Eira, talk to—’

Her voice was a song, rising and falling, and along with her gestures was leading the wounded man – the wounded stranger – along the path to dreamworld.

One of the raiders?

‘And tell me, good Arrnthórr,’ Eira was saying, ‘what led Chief Snorri to call a vengeance strike?’

Ulfr nearly shouted, but held it in. Snorri, their neighbour, behind all this?

And why vengeance?

The wounded Arrnthórr’s tone was slurred, detached.

‘Killed … Sigurthr. Folkvar, by his own … hand.’

Ulfr’s knife was in his fist, though he had no memory of drawing it.

‘How do you know?’ asked Eira. ‘Tell me how Chief Snorri learned that.’

‘Told … us. Wanderer. Found poor … Snorri.’

Arrnthórr’s eyelids fluttered.

‘Describe this wanderer,’ said Eira.

Even before the words came out, Ulfr knew what the description would be: a one-eyed man in a wide-brimmed shapeless hat, perhaps accompanied by ravens, as if the most dreadful of the Aesir chose to walk the Middle World: the one who was both All-Father and Gallows-Lord, Spear-God and God of the Hanged.

To worship Óthinn for true meant human sacrifice. While the clan would normally avoid dark ceremony, perhaps this Arnthórr and others of Snorri’s war-band might deliver pleasing screams to the All-Father’s ears before their souls went to Niflheim. Except that Stígr had clearly ensorcelled them, much as he had done to others here – Vermundr, Steinn and Halsteinn among them, even Chief Folkvar – when they put poor Jarl to torture.

Eira’s brother, dead at Ulfr’s hand.

Another survivor, Arnljótr by name, had just finished confessing a similar story when Ulfr found him, trussed on the ground at Chief Folkvar’s feet. At the prisoner’s head stood two boys: Davith and Leifr, watched from a distance by the crone Ingrith. Both boys held spears pointed at Arnljótr.

‘You should not have listened to lies,’ said Chief Folkvar. ‘But then, we ourselves—’

Davith stabbed downwards, spear-point crunching into the throat. Leifr’s spear, a second behind, went through to the heart: a quick death.

‘Ah, boys.’ Chief Folkvar glanced at Ulfr, then placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder. ‘It was well done, Leifr Oddsson, Davith Oddsson. May your father feast amid the Einherjar in Valhöll tonight.’

If Folkvar wished Oddr among the warriors picked by Óthinn’s Death-Choosers, then Oddr was dead and the boys were orphans. Hence Folkvar’s forgiving them for killing without command.

‘We need to prepare ourselves.’ Folkvar addressed Ulfr. ‘Get the able-bodied and make sure they’re armed. Strip wound-fires of the slain if you need to.’

He meant, take dead men’s swords.

‘We shouldn’t attack,’ said Ulfr. ‘Stígr won’t stay to goad Snorri’s people on. If he’s not gone already, he’ll fade away when we turn up.’

Making his escape through dark magic.

‘Yes, and we’ll go in under truce,’ said Folkvar. ‘But we’ll keep a war-band close.’