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The Shapers of Scars – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Shapers of Scars

By Marc Collins

‘Three things shape a man’s scars: the foe, time, and the healer’s rites.’

- Fenrisian proverb

The old woman sits in the chill of the apothecarion, but she does not feel the bite of the cold. Long ago she passed beyond such things, in the way that only a life lived beneath slate-grey skies with the scent of salt and ice as constant companion can bless her with. She realises, on some soul-deep level, that she carries the world of her birth with her. Bound to her as surely as an oath. She sits, and she watches, and she waits. She is the eye of the storm, a rare ocean of calm, as others hustle and rush about her.

Before them a queen lies dying.

The old woman, the gothi, Bodil, spares her queen a look. A glance of recognition. A nod of respect. Her long pale fingers close around a bone tile, and she raises it to her face, pinning the fates in place, bound by rite. Worn gums draw back from her teeth, her pallid skin crinkles around scars and tattoos; she does not hide her age, nor the weight that this undertaking places upon her. Her blue eyes focus, pale as spring ice, as she reads the tile and curses.

‘Skitja!’

One of the medicae thralls lets his eyes drift to her, giving her an askance look. She laughs, and bares her teeth.

‘Oh, do I offend your sensibilities? If you have not the patience for me then get away from her! I would not trust half of you to calve a grox, let alone minister to our jarl!’ The thrall’s jaw flaps, noiselessly. Bodil snorts as she leans forward to look again at her queen.

At Katla Helvintr.

The jarl’s eyes, those sea-storm-blue eyes – a huntress’ eyes – are closed, locked so by the balms of the medicae and the venoms of the beast. Her auburn hair, like a crown of fire and glory, is matted with blood and sweat where it is not seared away by the acid’s bite. In her weakness, she has never looked more mighty. More deserving of ascension to the Allfather’s side.

She is called jarl, for she has carved out a hall and a hearth amidst the stars, as her line has for generations. She is called the Huntress Queen, for she has harried the enemies of the Allfather from their lairs, and made trophies of them. Here in the cold light of the apothecarion, Bodil thinks of such things with a wry smile. She cannot see the mighty void-ivory that adorns much of the ship, but knowing it is there is a comfort. And comfort is needed here today, as she casts the runes over the nicked thread of a valiant warrior.

‘If you die, my queen,’ the old woman says almost idly, ‘then the halls of the slain shall be the lesser for your lack. We each carry our red snow with us, for it is cold in the shadow of Morkai, is it not? Perhaps that is why they raised their mountain so high, the sky-warriors, that they might ever be in His light.’ She laughs, dry and cracked. Forced. She shakes her head. ‘But what would I know? I am only the gothi.’

Bodil checks the runes again, and scowls as she snaps up the tiles and drums them against the steel table she leans over. ‘It will be close, this thing,’ she whispers. ‘She is strong, but there are few stronger than the pull of their wyrd.’ She shakes her head. ‘The wyrm is her fate. It will cut her thread one day, perhaps not this day…’

Her eyes drift to the knife that sits beside the worn leather pouch of runes, gleaming alongside the long, thin needles of bone and the bowls of pigment. She does not reach for it. She will not countenance it as inevitable.

‘It will be the wyrm that ends her, but it is the hand of a loved one that will take her life. Not in betrayal, but with love.’

And through it all, Katla sleeps. She stirs fitfully, with the slow bite of pain. Venom and acid claw at her, gnawing at mind and muscle. She twitches, every breath forced from her through the iron ministrations of machines and the tubes which crowd her throat.

Katla suffers, and she dreams.

‘I want it found,’ Katla hisses. ‘The beast is near. I can all but smell it. Bring us about. Weapons readied. It cannot have got far.’ She sits upon the edge of her command throne, watching the silent void pass by as a tumble of rock and ice intrudes, but it does not dominate her attention. Her eyes are always in motion. Always seeking advantage against her enemies. She runs a hand through her hair, before checking again that she is still armed – that she is ready.

Twin axes are sheathed at her hips. Simple and direct. They have no names. Along the back of the throne lies her spear, its length gilded and marked with the runes of the world of Winter and War. It is called Fimbulgeir. It sits as a symbol of her authority, as a crystallisation of what it means to be jarl, to bear her Warrant of Trade. To stand as a queen.

Not of a ship, or a people, but as a symbol of something greater.

It has been many years since Katla claimed the rule of the Davamir Compact, ascended as queen amongst her peers in the other dynasties. It is a fleeting honour, and in time it will pass to another name. The dour and warlike Lamertines, perhaps. Or the addled ranks of the Radrexxus.

‘Spare me,’ she mutters, ‘from the joyless and the joy-curdled.’

‘Jarl?’ asks a voice from an augur-station, and she waves it off with a smile.

‘Nothing,’ she says, and stands. She stretches, muscles flexing with the need of the hunt. It is primal, this urge. It has kept mankind fed and safe, and standing between the teeming masses and the hungry dark. Where there have been beasts, there have been hunters. That is the lesson of Fenris. The wisdom her ancestors carried to the stars, and enshrined in the iron bones of her vessel, the Wyrmslayer Queen.

‘No auspex returns,’ the voice says again. This time she looks at the master of the auspex station. He is young. Eager. He is called Svend. She knows every man and woman upon her bridge. She knows, and understands, and judges. ‘They said it would be here. One last hive ship wounded and alone. Damn the Navy, and their–’

‘Peace, Svend,’ she laughs. ‘They will not have robbed us of glory. Its spoor is on the wind. It will give itself away before ever we have to search for it.’

‘How can you be sure, jarl?’ He asks the question innocently. She wonders if she was ever so starved for knowledge and experience, in her father’s time of rule.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘How often have we hunted together, Svend? I have led the wild hunt across the Allfather’s dominions for decades without rest, before ever you came into my service.’

The man bows his head, and looks away. She does not mean to shame him, but it is unavoidable. As certain as bloodshed.

‘I want my prize,’ she says, to a chorus of affirmations.

They will not fail her. The very thought of it is poison.

She looks away, just in time to see something flicker in the darkness of the abyss. Something moves amidst the ice and rock, its movements slow and languid in one moment – before it springs to sudden, writhing life.

A monstrous thing of chitin and muscle, and animal rage. The Imperial Navy had fought it, harried it from its fellows, wounded it. Yet now the beast returns, its fury kindled.

‘There it is,’ she says, and grins. ‘Did I not tell you? The void speaks to me. It speaks to all of the blood Helvintr. The Emperor’s hunters.’ She laughs. ‘Bring us around. Show it our teeth.’

The engines strain against the darkness and the cold, burning hot as the blood of worlds. Below them the gun-crews are about their work – readying the vessel’s great killing implements. Shells slide home and the macrocannons seal and arm with peals of vast thunder. Lance batteries crackle with bound fury. Great void-harpoons ratchet into place, they bare them like fangs. The older, bestial name for such implements has been long lost to them, but the claws will find their mark regardless.

‘Fire!’ she roars. The guns cut across the void with light and a fury that echoes her own as the blackness is streaked by sudden flame. Red against the darkness. For a moment they can see every detail of the creature – its ice-rimed hide and questing tendrils. Maws glimmering wetly, edged with razor teeth. Detonations blossom from its skin as it forges on, plunging, diving, jaws yawning in the eternal silence of the night.

The first boarding spores are already racing towards the ship, behind the questing nest of feeder tendrils. The thing has the audacity to think itself a predator.

But beneath the eye of the Wyrmslayer Queen it can be nothing more than prey.

Katla bucks and writhes upon the table as phantom pain racks her. Her ship was violated, then her flesh, and she remembers. She relives it, moment by moment, even as Bodil watches and the surgeons pore over their charge. There are more tubes now, and the relentless motion of knives. They are opening her, as surely as any action of the enemy. Bodil leans closer, sniffs the air.

‘She cannot be allowed to die,’ she whispers. The medicae do not look to her, set upon their task. ‘It is more than her body that must be healed, it is her spirit. She must be braced in her soul, rune-marked and warded.’ She reaches for the first needle, testing its weight as though judging its soul. ‘They will claw at you, my queen, these wights of the Underverse. They wish to pull you down beneath the thick ice, amongst the dead ships and drowned men. Yet even spirits may be made to fear.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
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