The wolftime, p.21
The Wolftime, page 21
Arjac realised that they had switched to their native Juvjk and Castallor was watching the exchange with a bewildered expression.
‘We are discussing the proposal,’ the hearthegn said, switching back to Imperial Gothic with a half-smile.
‘We are not,’ said Grimnar, also in the tongue of their visitor. ‘Matters of fate and tradition require thought and counsel, and I will speak more with Ulrik and Njal on them. The fact of command resides with me alone, and on that I cannot accept these warriors. I am the Great Wolf, heir of the Wolf King. I would shame myself and the Chapter if I were to bend my knee to your primarch before swearing oaths to my own. The Wolves of Fenris have always lived by our own code and I am bound by it.’
‘I do not understand, but I will argue no further right now,’ said Castallor, bowing again. ‘I will seek guidance from my superiors.’
‘If you want to,’ said Grimnar. ‘But our laws are not changed to suit our mood.’
The others nodded and raised their fists in salute to the departing officer, who left in the howling wind. The shuttle rumbled into life and disappeared into the swirling snows. Arjac watched until the flare of jets was lost.
‘That was a long-winded way of saying pi–’
‘Not now, Arjac,’ snapped the Great Wolf.
Logan Grimnar left alone, carrying more weight on his hunched shoulders than when he had arrived.
Chapter Twelve
WYRDKNAK
A BEAST RETURNS
BAD OMENS
The babble of voices from inside the thegnhalle fell silent when Gytha stepped past the door held open by Orin. The two aettgard followed her in, closing the door before barring her exit.
Most of the hall was cut into the side of the hill, with only the front built out of wood and plastered stone. A shaft dug directly up from the centre provided a chimney for the firepit, though at the moment there were only fitful embers to complement the light from the torches in sconces on the walls.
The hall was half full, with the council of elders gathered on felled log benches at the far end, twelve of the most respected members of their community. Other worthies and the unashamedly curious were scattered about on rugs and low stools, smoking their pipes, eating and drinking.
All eyes were on Gytha as she continued forward. She saw sympathy in many, curiosity in more, and a few glances of suspicion, but not outright hostility. She relaxed a little, letting out a breath that had gathered on the walk from her house along the valley to the thegnhalle. She walked around the firepit and faced the elders, hands clasped behind her back. Agitta and a few others looked solemn, Faeras was clearly sulking; the rest greeted her with a mixture of smiles or indifference.
‘We have reached a consent,’ declared Ourilk, the current Tongue of the Council. She was only a handful of summers older than Gytha but was the most intelligent person in the settlement. Her gift for words leaned more to summary and negotiation than skjaldvers and so she had been made an elder, though she was not particularly old. Her dark brown hair was cut scalp-short at the sides and fell to her waist from a topknot, braided with golden thread and colourful beads. Like the other elders she wore a shawl of black-dyed wool over her hides and furs, clasped at the throat with the sigil of the Tongue – a fingernail-sized ruby set into a silver rune of juvi, the Word.
Faeras and another, Kjora, made grumbles at the Tongue’s declaration, but Ourilk ignored them and continued.
‘There is no doubt that you have discovered a wyrdknak and that your dreams have visionary potential. We have sought sign of bad stars upon this event but there is no evidence of maleficarum and we must believe that these visions come from the soul of Fenris, glimpses through the door of the Uppland. They have been sent to you for a reason, and we must divine that purpose and choose a course of action.’
‘We have had no gothi for generations,’ said the most senior of the council, Gotrin Tidebreaker. ‘Not since before the Burning Ones first came and the Sky Warriors made red snow of the invaders. It cannot be coincidence that these visions come to you now. It is with pleasure that the council welcomes you into their circle as our gothi, our messenger of the wyrd.’
Gytha laughed in surprise, eliciting a few frowns.
‘I don’t know anything about being a gothi! I can barely read the lower runes, not to mind casting the wyrdleif. Am I not meant to learn these skills by the hand of another gothi?’
‘If that’s what you want, Gytha, we shall have it arranged,’ said Agitta. She glanced at the other council members. ‘You must help us decide what is to be done, that is the point of giving you the chance to spend breath in the council.’
Gytha had no idea what to say. She stood in front of the wise and the serious feeling like she was a little girl, trying to excuse why she had stolen honey from the hunters’ traps. Anything she said would be ridiculed and she would be exposed as a fraud.
‘It’s a warning,’ she said, voicing the first thing that came to mind. She kept talking, letting the words spill out like spring melt. ‘I mean, they’re warnings. The visions. Even though I’m in no danger, the threat’s always there. And it’s been growing. The beast, the ogre, the monster of the red eyes is getting stronger. Whatever it is. But that isn’t the danger. It feels to me like it’s not just the giant, but the shadow of the giant that is hiding something worse.’
‘A warning for whom?’ said Faeras. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘You think we’d be a giant wolf locked in a fortress?’ snapped Agitta. ‘It’s the Sky Warriors, of course. Some big battle they’re fighting in the beyond.’
‘The Everdusk,’ said Ourilk. ‘The broken heavens. We know a war rages between the Uppland and the Underverse, tearing the sky apart. The Burning Ones came here and the Sky Warriors drove them off, but the Underverse, the maleficarum, keeps breaking through now.’
‘Why warn me and not one of their mighty gothi?’ said Gytha, choking back a sudden rise of sickness. The thought that she carried some message vital to the Sky Warriors made her stomach heave and her mouth dry, much like the visions themselves. ‘What can I do?’
‘Do?’ said Faeras. ‘What makes you think you have to do anything? Like you say, this wasn’t a vision for you, perhaps you just heard an echo. The runethegns of the North Fortress will act on it.’
Gytha wasn’t settled by the thought, though she wished she could just ignore the visions and carry on as normal.
‘I need help,’ she said. She found an empty stool and sat down, suddenly aware that the crowd in the rest of the hall had grown in number since she had arrived. Nearly four dozen folk sat in audience now, rapt as though listening to a skjald weave tales of the old heroes, like the Wolf King and the Red-Handed Son. She felt nothing like any of the people from those tales. ‘Maybe I should speak to one of the other gothi about this?’
‘If that is your need,’ said Ourilk.
She was interrupted by a shout from the far end of the hall.
‘Pa said the gothi of Sigurheim spends more time with the wyrdshrum and mead than he does reading runes! What use is that?’ Gytha saw Lufa near the door, without his father or sister. ‘What if the vision was meant for the Sky Warriors but came to you instead, ma? It’s been since spring, not just today. That’s not an accident.’
‘Only the council may speak,’ barked Kjorfi, banging his staff on the packed earth floor. The elder signalled to the two aettgard close to the boy. ‘Hish, away with your bad manners, child!’
‘Wait!’ Gytha stood up sharply and looked at her son. He seemed so earnest, staring at her from beneath his mop of unruly hair. ‘Lufa, what do you mean? Why are you here?’
‘We were collecting windfall in the woods, and Korit kept missing the basket and dropping the fruit, which rolled down the hill. So I was staying downhill of her to get them, and it made me think – what if the gothi of the Sky Warriors were too busy fighting their war, or lost in the Underverse maybe, and couldn’t catch the messages and so they were rolling down the mountain to you instead?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Kjora, and Faeras scoffed too. Both were silenced by a sharp word from Ourilk.
‘We know nothing of these matters,’ said the Tongue, looking at the other members of the council. ‘I must agree that the gothi of other places, other people, may have their own reasons for not helping us, or worse. Can we trust them with this gift?’
Gytha looked around the expectant faces, all looking to her to say something important. The title of gothi, though just imparted, immediately lent mystical weight to her every word.
‘This is…’ she whispered.
What? she asked herself. Stupid? Selfish? Across the hall she saw her son looking right at her, imploring with his eyes. She felt so small, but in that gaze she recognised the same look as when Lufa had listened to the old tales, back when he had been on her knee and first heard of the War of the Eye and the Breaking of the Wolves, when the Underverse and Uppland had been split asunder by the might of the old gods.
He looked on her as though she was a legend already. The implication of what she knew she had to do made her heart ache. Even so, she knew her thread had been tangled by this wyrdknak, and staying where she was would only knot the other threads around hers. This was wyrd at its most obvious.
‘I must warn the Sky Warriors.’
Gytha caught her breath after making the declaration, slightly surprised she had spoken the thought out loud. She expected laughter. Everyone’s attention made her want to shrink and disappear out of a crack in the wall. Instead she spoke again, coming to terms with her own thoughts even as she shared them.
‘I believe there’s a purpose behind these visions, whether from the sender or from the soul of Fenris itself, giving me this gift here and now. If the Sky Warriors fall in their war it would be a disaster for all the people of Fenris. The Burned Ones would come again and tear us from the gaze of the Allfather and into the Underverse, where they would make slaves of our souls.’
‘How will you warn them?’ said Faeras. ‘Walk all the way over the Icelands, swim the Death Seas, scale the Impossible Cliffs of Asaheim and knock upon the door of the North Fortress itself?’
Gytha laughed to hear the task described in that fashion.
‘Yes,’ she replied, undaunted by the thought. Why not? The moment she had declared her intent, she had felt calmer, as though her body had been at war with her spirit. ‘Yes, if that’s what I have to do. And perhaps I’ll kneel before the Great Wolf and tell him myself!’
Some of the watching folk laughed with her and she spotted a sly smile cross the lips of Agitta. Her mother-in-law’s expression quickly turned sombre, with a glare at Faeras.
‘It isn’t impossible, just difficult,’ said the old woman. ‘And we’re going to help her.’
‘We are?’ said Faeras.
‘Where our gothi goes, my spear goes too!’ called out Orin, raising the weapon in his hand.
‘You’re not leaving us behind,’ shouted Lufa, pushing forward as the crowd rose to their feet, some offering their company, others arguing against.
‘Oh, Bjorti…’ Gytha said, the sight of her son a reminder of her husband. She looked at Agitta. ‘I should have spoken to him first.’
‘He’d follow you to Hel with a smile if you go,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you worry about him.’
‘But it’ll be dangerous,’ said Gytha, turning back to the other people. ‘Helwinter is coming fast. Lufa, no, I can’t take you away from here, not to drag you to a fool’s death in the Icelands. No! This is madness.’
There was a fresh clamour, ended by the thud of Kjorfi’s staff.
‘Silence!’ he bellowed. ‘The elders are speaking.’
Cowed, the crowd retreated, some returning to their seats. Lufa arrived at his mother’s side, smiling.
‘You’d rob us of our smith and our best fighters?’ said Kjora.
‘I ask nobody to come with me,’ said Gytha. She pulled Lufa closer. ‘But… I don’t think I can make it alone.’
‘Then you’ll need all the help we can give,’ announced Gotrin. The Tidebreaker pushed himself to his feet, his body wracked with age but his eyes bright and fierce. He’d been aettjarl for a decade and had led them well. ‘And all the help we can give is to be your company. You are the messenger, but I hear it too. The message is for all of us. We have stayed here in some peace for more than a season, but it is the way of Fenris that nothing lasts. This is our call. Perhaps this Helwinter will be our last, but we should spend it seeking a better life. Since the Burning Ones brought their kast to these lands it has been poisoned. Asaheim… Asaheim stands beneath the shadow of the North Fortress. There a people can rest awhile from these troubles. Grow again, maybe prosper as we did before the Everdusk and all that brought it.’
‘It is not your decision alone,’ said Kjora.
‘No,’ conceded the Tidebreaker. ‘I am aettjarl, but the council’s will is the law.’
‘I vote nay,’ said Faeras.
‘My will is known,’ said Kjora. ‘This is madness.’
‘I’m with Gytha,’ said Agitta. ‘We make for Asaheim, or the Uppland, whichever we reach first.’
Gytha realised the others were waiting for her to speak, now that she was a member of the council. Every measure of good sense told her it was a terrible idea to leave, especially at the end of summer. It was a grave neglect to take her own children and the infants on such a dangerous journey. It was the way, as the Tidebreaker had said, moving from place to place as the lands broke and rose, but to trek into the far north would mean no return, as Agitta had claimed.
‘You’re gothi now,’ said Ydra, another of the elders. She and the others divided their attention between Gytha and the other folk in the hall, gauging their moods. ‘Speak.’
‘We head for Asaheim,’ Gytha said. There were cheers from the crowd, though not from all. Attention moved to the elders that had not voted. Their votes would settle the matter.
‘Aye,’ said Ydra. ‘When the wind-voices call, do not waste breath arguing with them.’
The others voted in favour too, their decision leaving a poignant silence for several heartbeats as the reality settled. Stools scraped on the floors as people stood and muttered conversation began.
‘It’s decided,’ said the Tongue quietly. Some people were already leaving, eager to begin their preparations. ‘We head north.’
Gytha felt fingers entwine with hers. Lufa smiled down at her, reminding Gytha that the world was not the wind-blasted wastes, the cloudy skies and the storm-wracked seas. That was just Fenris. It was temporary, always breaking and changing. This was her world – her family – and it went with her wherever she travelled, in this Verse or the next.
The noise still surprised Gaius, though he had been to the company halls several times already. Just three packs gathered around the trestles and benches, but songs, jokes and the clatter of eating combined to create a din equal to any battlefield. The Primaris Marine’s enhanced hearing allowed him to filter out much of the racket to isolate individual voices, or to hear the bang of platters on wood or the snap of logs burning in the great firepit at the centre of the hall. It didn’t come with a general volume control.
His squad followed beneath the dark beam of the main door – a thick plank of ancient wood that Ullr said had come from Leman Russ’ own kingship when he had sailed to Asaheim to seek the Aett. Everything had a history, from the tiles around the firepit, made from clay brought to the halls by one of Dragongaze’s predecessors, to the spoons made from iron melted down from ork helmets taken in battle two centuries ago. Just to walk from the threshold to one of the empty tables was to pass artefacts a thousand years old, to stride across history and Chapter memory.
Each pack had its place – not codified in any way, of course, but Ullr had taken Gaius to a trestle and bench on the left side of the hall as they entered, nearly fifty yards from the firepit. It pained Gaius to hear some of the Firstborn still refer to it as ‘Jaggi’s Corner’ after the pack that had previously inhabited it, but that was better than the ‘Pups’ Basket’, which he had heard more than once. He knew he had no right to their immediate respect, but three years of constant war against the traitors of the Great Rift was no training exercise. But, if the Wolves of Fenris had not witnessed it, it did not count. The worth of the Firstwolves would yet be earned in the eyes of their peers.
‘Drink with us, Firstwolf!’
Gaius turned, surprised to hear the name from another. It came from Drogr, named as the Ploughblade for the way he cut through his enemies like tilling soil, leader of the Crimson Claws. He lifted a hand to beckon to Gaius, one of his pack slapping the bench in the gap next to him.
‘Come tell us of the wars in the Everdusk,’ another called.
There was room for both packs around the enormous table, the Firstwolves gathered slightly to one end, Gaius on the right of Drogr. The pack leader gave a shout to the kaerls bearing platters and pitchers up from the company kitchens, and within minutes a feast of roast meats, honey-slab and steaming vegetables was on the table boards. Several large pitchers of mjod joined them, along with metal cups for everyone.
The meal began in near silence, as the hungry Space Marines gorged themselves to the exclusion of conversation. For all their lives since waking in the bowels of one of Cawl’s gene-arks, Gaius and his squad had known only ship fare and battle rations, and it was a stark contrast to find that almost every meal in the Aett was a banquet.
‘Doesn’t all the rich food and drink make it harder to eat protein gruel and ration packs?’ Aegreus asked, tearing open a thickly crusted loaf with his hands. He offered half to the Firstborn next to him.
‘It’s not normal to spend more than a few days here,’ confessed the Crimson Claw. ‘We celebrate while we can, to make the most of the bounty of Fenris.’
