The wolftime, p.38
The Wolftime, page 38
‘What? I was playing!’ She stopped about twenty paces away, fists clenched, almost lost inside her thick fur coat.
‘Come on, let’s away,’ said Agitta, moving to grab the girl’s wrist. Korit jumped back, laughing, almost falling over a stone. ‘Get here, you silly girl.’
‘Could be blubber and bone left, if it’s fresh,’ said Gytha, peering past the pair to the commotion among the rocks. They were about seventy paces from the cawing flock. She thought she saw blood on their beaks, which meant the corpse couldn’t be too old. ‘Maybe even some meat.’
‘We’ll send a sled for it later,’ said Agitta. Korit’s laughter finally brought a smile from the old woman. ‘Time to head back.’
‘We’re here now,’ said Gytha. She didn’t know why she was so curious but she wanted to see what had attracted the carrion eaters. She left the bowstring loose but nocked an arrow as she advanced. There was something odd about the stones around the rocks, as if they didn’t fit in with their surroundings. ‘Might as well check before going to all that trouble.’
The birds lazily scattered at her approach, revealing a mass among the stones. There were bird droppings everywhere, but the red of blood stained the boulders and pebbles beneath. Gytha heard Korit and Agitta not far behind, her daughter asking hushed questions, the grandmother telling her to be quiet.
There was a heap of fur, black in colour.
‘Thunderwolf!’ gasped Korit.
‘Careful, Gytha.’
There was movement, but it was only a few straggler birds plucking at the carcass. Gytha took another couple of steps closer, about to turn away, resolving to send the hunters to skin the wolf properly. Then she caught a glimpse of a different sort of hair, which at first looked like a rendtusker, but as she took another step she saw the unmistakable features of a man lying beneath the wolf, face and body caked in blood.
‘Morkai’s breath,’ she cursed, confused by what she saw. It was clearly a man, beard and all, but he should have been dwarfed by the carcass of the thunderwolf. Instead he was almost equal in size. She turned back to take-mother and daughter, eyes wide. ‘It’s a Sky Warrior! They must have killed each other!’
Korit pulled her hand free and dashed forward to look, shrieking as she saw the dead man. Agitta followed after, brow furrowed.
‘He has no battleplate,’ said the old woman.
‘Look at the size of him!’ Gytha took two more cautious steps forward. The scavengers were regaining confidence, hopping and slinking towards the corpses. ‘That’s no ordinary man.’
‘I hear tales that sometimes the Sky Warriors come down to battle the beasts and explore the changed lands,’ said Agitta. ‘This one found something as deadly as himself.’
Gytha wondered what the warrior’s name had been. She could see the wound on his throat that had slain him, a dagger-like tooth still sticking from the eye of the wolf that had killed it in return.
‘Warning’s still the same, my love,’ said Agitta. ‘More dangerous things will be drawn by the blood.’
Gytha had to agree. If the thunderwolf had a mate nearby it might well catch the scent as the sea breeze took it into the woods. Looking at the fearsome beast she knew her small bow and arrows would barely hurt it, if she could bring herself to draw and loose at all.
She had seen dead bodies before, but never a Sky Warrior. She looked more closely, seeing the Fenrisian likeness in the features, though flatter and stretched out, it seemed. The hair was light without the blood. He looked young. The blood at the throat was strikingly red, brighter than any she had seen. A small droplet rolled down from the rag of flesh.
‘He’s alive!’ Gytha shouted, rearing back as though she had been attacked. She checked the wound on the wolf to be sure; there was no flow at all. But the Sky Warrior’s blood was a trickle of liquid. ‘He’s bleeding, which means his heart is still pumping!’
‘Leave him be, this is not a good omen,’ said Agitta.
‘Are you gothi now, to tell me how to read the wyrd?’ snapped Gytha.
‘Foolish woman, you’ve not been gothi for a season yet.’
‘But I am gothi, and I am telling you that this is a sign that our wyrd is good. A Sky Warrior in the death’s embrace with a wolf! How much clearer could it be? Go! Fetch others. I’ll guard him here.’
Agitta looked as though she might argue, but a fierce glance from Gytha forestalled any debate. The old woman found Korit’s hand and the two of them started back along the shore at a brisk walk.
Gytha looked down at the Sky Warrior, wondering what to do. That he was not dead already was amazing, but the wound was terrible and it was possible his thread would snap any time. His eyes were open but seeing nothing, staring up at the sky. She took out her knife, cut a strip from the boar hide he wore and used it to bind his throat, pulling it as tight as she dared, a wad cut from her coat cuff used as a dressing on the wound itself.
With that done she took up her bow again and perched on a nearby boulder, eyes moving between the trees, the Sky Warrior and the sea.
It took six people to carry the Sky Warrior, using two tree limbs and many furs as a bier so as not to jolt him too much. It was tough work transporting this precarious load along the rocky shoreline, but by dusk the giant had been deposited on a bed of pine branches and furs, away from the breaking ice at the sea’s edge.
‘Waste of time,’ said Kjora, arms crossed tight as he watched the giant being lowered with some effort. ‘We need to finish what the wolf started.’
‘He is a Sky Warrior,’ said Ourilk, emerging into the light of the fire. ‘You would kill one of our protectors.’
‘Not one of ours, not from the North Tower,’ said Faeras, who had shadowed the group along the shore and back but not lifted a finger to help. ‘Look at the terrible garb, no son of Fenris ever wore anything so badly made. It’s upplander. One of the Evil Eye’s monsters.’
‘And you have seen every man and woman that walks the world?’ Gytha snapped at the pair of elders. They still resented the whole expedition and missed no chance to let that be known. ‘You, who’ve travelled no further than the Black Ridge and never sailed beyond the Cliffs of the Wyrm tribes before now?’
‘And neither have you,’ said Faeras. ‘Just because you found it does not make it yours. It is not a pet to bring home and feed scraps.’
Gytha felt someone beside her and glanced around to see Bjorti had come up from the other part of the camp. He looked down at the giant.
‘Big fellow,’ he grunted.
Ydra and several other elders gathered at the sound of raised voices, Kjorfi bringing up the rear of the group with slow strides. Gytha had wondered if the elders would survive the trek, but so far they had proven themselves less frail than they looked.
‘He is a stranger,’ said Kjorfi. ‘He may live or he may die, as his thread has been laid. The gothi vouches for him and that is enough for now.’
There were words of disappointment from Kjora and Faeras but they did not spend their breath arguing the matter. When the others had dispersed, Kjorfi approached Gytha and Bjorti.
‘I hope you are sure, Gytha,’ said the elder, not unkindly. His brown eyes met hers and he reached out a calloused hand, laying it on her arm. His gaze moved to the comatose giant. ‘I trust you, but if we are wrong in this, it could end our journey and we shall not deliver your warning.’
He walked away and Gytha felt Bjorti’s fingers tighten on her shoulders from behind, pushing into the tense muscle.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asked quietly.
Gytha looked down at the wounded man, face drained of blood, eyes staring like the dead. Even in such a stricken state there was power there, and not just physical size. She could feel it radiating like warmth. Was this what it meant to be gothi?
‘It is another piece of the thread spooling before us,’ she said. ‘Our wyrd made real.’
‘You’re starting to sound like a gothi,’ he said, turning her around. There was no mocking in his expression. ‘How do you feel?’
Gytha reached up a hand and stroked his face, letting her fingers comb through his beard a little. She did not think about the question but let her heart answer.
‘I feel ready,’ she said. ‘I feel as though I am following my wyrd and don’t have to fear it.’
Bjorti nodded and stepped back with a reluctant smile.
‘I have more nails and braces to make,’ he said.
She watched him head across the firelight and then into the darkness towards the glow of the small furnace. Turning her attention back to the giant, Gytha was reminded of a babe swaddled tight, though there was nothing innocent about the scarred face swathed in the furs. She sat down next to him and started to sing: a song her father had sung to her as a child. Not a lullaby but a saga, of the Wolf King and the time he outwitted Morkai.
It seemed the gothi thing to do.
The Sky Warrior lay by the largest fire, covered in furs and blankets, while Gytha and a few others took turns to watch over him. They had tried to stitch the wound in his throat but Hjorki, who was their most experienced needleworker and herbalist, and other hands less delicate that had mended many a torn sail, couldn’t get the point through the giant’s thick skin. They dared not prise away the thick scab that had formed, but Hjorki assured her that the huge warrior was healing in his own way.
The gothi slept for a few hours and returned to her vigil midday. Others had salvaged meat, fur and blood from the thunderwolf, and from a cup kept warm by the fire she dribbled some of the latter into the giant’s lips every now and then.
The chop of axes and rasp of saws sounded across the shore, accompanied by constant hammering. To keep herself busy Gytha plaited lengths of cord made from sea-tusk hide that would become cables for the longships. She pictured the sails in full wind, taking them across the sea on the next stage of their journey, billowing and flapping as her people followed their wyrd to Asaheim. A whisper broke her thoughts.
‘Gothi!’ Her companion was Erkrand, a little younger than Lufa, who had hurt his arm the day before. She followed his gaze to the giant.
The Sky Warrior’s eyes were moving but there was no sense there, a roaming gaze that saw nothing. His lips parted a few times and whispered words issued. She did not understand them, though a few sounded familiar.
‘He speaks the Uppland tongue,’ said Erkrand in amazement, leaning closer. ‘He must have fallen from the heavens.’
‘Be careful, he is a warrior and strong beyond reckoning,’ warned Gytha, pushing the youth back by an arm’s length. ‘Should he wake suddenly he may strike out from instinct. That fist would break your skull open with a single punch.’
She recognised a word as she sat back and, despite her caution to Erkrand, leaned a little closer to hear better. The eyes briefly met hers, flicking across her face before reverting to their uncomprehending stare.
‘Valkjyr,’ the giant muttered. ‘Uppland… valkjyr…’
‘What’s that?’ asked Erkrand.
‘A legend from the east,’ said Gytha. ‘I heard a trader tell it when I was little. There are tribes across the dawnwaters that believe warrior maidens arrive to carry the spirits of the valiant dead to the halls of the Allfather. It’s strange, he doesn’t look like an eastlander to me. He must have heard it from one of the other Sky Warriors.’
The giant fell silent again, lips parted. There was more colour in his skin and his eyes fluttered closed. No valkjyr will claim him while I stand guard, Gytha swore silently.
‘Go fetch Artur Surebow,’ she commanded the youth, pointing past the fire to the tents in the lee of the cliff. ‘He’ll need to lead the hunt out again.’
‘They brought back a broadstag and half a dozen rabbits only two days ago,’ protested the boy, standing up. He dusted ash off his breeches, wincing as he forgot about his injured arm.
‘I think we’re going to need more food when this one wakes up.’ Gytha looked at the immense mound of warrior beneath the furs, two heads taller than the tribe’s largest fighter, Hallidar Ironarm. ‘A lot more food.’
Unarmed.
Warplate compromised.
Physical injuries severe.
Blood pressure low.
Pulse weak.
Gastric functions limited.
Blood in the mouth.
Smell of smoke.
Crackle of flames.
Guttural voices.
Dark shapes on the edge of vision.
Battle ongoing.
Vulnerable.
Conclusion: Self-extract.
Gytha’s scream was cut short by the giant’s fingers around her throat, lifting the gothi from the ground. One moment the Sky Warrior had been asleep, lying on his back. The next…
He was looking at her, brow furrowed. The grip was not tight, she could still breathe. It was painful to hang by her neck and she gripped the thick wrist to take some of the weight. Clear of the furs, his body was a human-shaped mass of muscle and rags, marked with scars and strange metallic lesions. A viscous layer sheened every bulge, more like molten wax than sweat. Even though he looked as pale as a corpse, his arm was as rigid as a roof beam. The other hand was bunched into a fist. She remembered the warning she had given Erkrand.
The giant’s eyes flickered from her to the surroundings, reflecting the waning sunlight. There were other shouts of alarm.
‘Stay away!’ Gytha called out. ‘I’m not hurt! Stay back!’ If the warrior had wanted her dead she would already be a corpse.
He spoke but she didn’t understand the words. The warrior shook his head and tried again, his words thick with effort and accent.
‘Who you?’
‘Gytha,’ she said. ‘You are safe. The thunderwolf is dead.’
He lowered her to the ground but did not remove his grip. Others approached, keeping their distance. There were aettgard among them in their coats of scale and chain, spears and swords in hand. The sky warrior’s eye passed over each in an instant, assessing the danger.
He took away his hand. A hint of a smile played across the giant’s bloodless lips.
‘I killed a Blackmane?’
Gaius’ furs and rags had been torn to shreds – the thunderwolf’s claws had even shredded his armour undersuit. Gytha promised clothing would be provided but urged him to stay by the fire to keep warm, swathed in furs and blankets woven from goats’ wool.
He stared at the flames, cerebral processes quickening as he ate another haunch of venison, using fingers and teeth to rip the flesh from the bone. A small child – he could see a family resemblance with Gytha, presumably a daughter – moved to take the bone but he had not finished. He snapped the leg bone, splintering it between his fingers to get at the soft marrow within.
‘Good eating,’ he told the child, but she shrank back behind her mother, terrified. Gaius slurped down every scrap of protein, fat and gristle he could find, gnawing at the bone to get the last of it free. He was ravenous and despite the injury to his bowels he would need to eat a lot more to help the Belisarian Furnace power through this difficult phase.
Nearly the whole tribe must have come to look at him by now, most sating their curiosity before heading back to their beds, some still lingering at the edge of the firelight, peering from the darkness. Gytha had said little except to explain how he had been found, and he had shared nothing of his story. Now that he felt his immediate hunger satisfied he needed to work out what to do next.
‘I have failed,’ he said quietly, dropping the bone back to its wooden platter, eyes staring at a log falling to ash within the flames. The pride of killing the Blackmane had been replaced by the hollowness of knowing he would have died without the help of Gytha and the other tribesfolk. ‘The Test of Morkai, I failed.’
‘If you live, you have thwarted Morkai,’ Gytha replied. ‘That is all any of us can do.’
‘My thread was cut, my wyrd was met. I should have died.’
‘It was my wyrd to find you, and my thread that knotted yours so that it could continue. It was not meant to be.’
He looked at her, eyebrow raised.
‘Trust me, I am the gothi,’ she said with a half-smile.
Gaius nodded. ‘Very well, I will not argue with a gothi. Even so, I cannot return to the shame of my failure. I should be dead and now I am not. I am between lives, living on your thread.’
‘There is much you can still do with this life you have,’ Gytha told him. She pulled the daughter onto her lap and the girl snuggled into the furs, eyelids drooping. ‘Perhaps even restore your honour before the eyes of your companions.’
‘How so? I could not survive alone in the wilds of Fenris. I meant to prove that I was as good as any son of this world – better than a son of this world.’
‘I have a calling too, something I have to do.’ Gytha stroked the girl’s hair. It was the most natural and gentle thing Gaius could imagine, like nothing he could remember. Such tenderness seemed at odds with the determined look in the woman’s eye, the harshness that she must have lived through. ‘I must reach the Tower of the North and warn the Sky Warriors of a terrible danger.’
‘What danger?’ asked Gaius.
‘I have a vision, of a green beast attacking the wolf of the stars. Of a golden king. I do not know its meaning but perhaps your gothi might understand it.’
If what she said was true, Gytha was a psyker. On any other Imperial world she would be reported and taken for study by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Since the start of the Indomitus Crusade many tens of thousands had been seized by the Black Ships that followed the battle groups like nightcrows followed wolf packs.
But this was Fenris. She was gothi, and that made her sacred. Either way, the Rune Priests would want to know of her visions.
‘There is a sea and a continent between you and the Aett,’ he said.
