The Burden of Loyalty

by Various

  Into the teeth of the snarling fire raced the Wolf Lord, a shot from his plasma pistol vaporising the head of an advancing legionary of Prospero. ‘Into the storm! We are the thunder of Fenris! We are the Allfather’s lightning!’

  He raced up the steps three at a time to come alongside Ranulf and the others that had been caught in the open. Ranulf’s left arm was clenched across his chest, blood on his hip and breastplate. The rest of the Old Guard poured onwards, ignoring the torrent of bolts, heedless of their foe’s wrath as they returned it in kind.

  Ranulf waved away Bulveye’s proffered hand of assistance. He grunted as he stood up.

  ‘It is nothing, Old Wolf. I can still fight.’

  ‘I did not say otherwise, brother,’ Bulveye replied. ‘Lead the assault!’

  The gap swiftly closed, the Thousand Sons soon abandoning bolters for gleaming halberds and bayonets against the chainswords and power axes of the Space Wolves.

  Through the fighting Bulveye spied a figure with a coat of dark blue over his armour, its thick cloth stitched with many archaic ­sigils and devices. Several hooded acolytes stood around the sorcerer, lightning and fire spraying from their out-thrust hands.

  ‘There he is, the witch-warrior!’

  Redoubling his efforts, Bulveye hewed down one enemy legionary after another, shouldering his way past his own warriors in his eagerness to bring the fight to the psyker. Yet he was still more than twenty metres from the grand entrance when the sorcerer turned and retreated across the threshold, disappearing into the bright light within.

  The Old Guard formed up around their lord and, like the tip of a spear, they punched through the Thousand Sons, trusting to the rest of the company to guard their backs as they surged up the steps again, ignoring the flicker of incendiary bolts that followed them. Beyond the doors, all was shimmering gleam and wisps of flame-like streamers of fog.

  There was no time for a subtle strategy. The precincts had to fall. Bulveye plunged into the shifting light with a last roared command.

  ‘With me! We sheathe our claws in the heart of the foe!’

  The noise of the fighting seemed distant and dulled inside the arched hallway of the library. There was no ceiling, the walls simply came together in a huge vault some twenty metres above Bulveye, Ranulf and the handful of warriors with them.

  The air thrummed with ambient power, a low hum that occasionally rose or fell in pitch, as though from a faltering generator. The light that suffused everything was similarly inconsistent, not so much flickering as dimming and brightening unexpectedly.

  Eight arches led away from the central nave-like chamber. Directly ahead, opposite the great doors, three huge winding stairways disappeared into the upper floors. Between them, Bulveye could see gateways leading into a cloister, lit by explosions that continued to fall upon the upper levels of the pyramid.

  Halvdan came up beside the Wolf Lord. ‘They went ahead. I can smell them.’

  It was true. A trail of incense-like fragrance marked the sorcerer’s exit between the stairwells. Bulveye felt a detonation not so far above them as it shook the walls, and pale dust and plaster flakes fell onto the grey armour of his warriors.

  ‘Only a fool would go higher into a storm of shells,’ he growled, scanning the corners of the room. ‘They must have some exit or bolthole on this level.’

  Boots clattered on the tiles behind as more wolf-brothers burst into the library. Bulveye glanced past them but could see little outside – the light seemed blinding from both sides of the threshold. Jurgen led the next group swiftly after the first.

  ‘They scatter like leaves in the long winter. Krodus is sweeping them up.’

  Bulveye spied two more of his lieutenants among those that had entered. ‘Redclaw, clear two floors above. Hroldir, I want squads scouring these corridors. Everyone else – kill anything you meet.’

  The Space Wolves company parted in several directions – three squads sprinted up the stairs, while others fanned out into the surrounding galleries and passages. Shouts and death cries rang back. Bulveye pressed on with his Old Guard, smashing down a silvered gate with one blow from his axe.

  Stepping over the twisted metal, he found himself in a courtyard nearly a hundred metres long. The walls on each side were sheer, rising up to a small rectangle of clouded sky far above, unmarked by window or slit. The ground was covered with stones, each a perfect sphere about three centimetres in diameter, of quartz and amethyst, garnet and andulasite. They had been artfully arranged in swirling patterns, pathways of tiled black between them.

  The footsteps of the sorcerer and his acolytes had left a wake of disturbed stones directly across the meditation garden. Rough breaks in the harmonious geometries jarred Bulveye’s nerves as he followed their course towards another gate at the far end of the cloister. Ornate pebbles crunched underfoot, some turning to powder, as they followed the trail.

  The vox chimed in his ear.

  ‘Old Wolf, this is Geigor.’

  He recognised the voice of Geigor Fellhand, the honoured Wolf Guard charged with command of the Blooded Claws. The veteran warrior did not wait for any acknowledgement.

  ‘We have encountered unusual portals throughout the city. The Thousand Sons have been using them as a transportation system, some kind of localised teleport network.’

  Jurgen sniffed. ‘That explains our prey’s intent. He scurries for a rat-tunnel.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bulveye muttered, then spoke back into the open vox-channel. ‘We are pursuing one of their warlocks, he might be heading for just such a portal.’

  ‘Then catch him before he reaches it. If your foe eludes you, hold position for the Sisters of Silence. These are not mortal technologies.’

  ‘None stay the hand of the Thirteenth – not even you, my hearth-brother. Russ himself tasked me with this duty, and only the abyss itself will come between us and victory.’

  ‘The portals are dangerous. If the Allfather had wanted to hurl someone mindlessly at the enemy, then He would have sent Angron. This is no saga of old, Bulveye!’

  ‘This is the greatest saga of our age, Geigor! But if you wish your name to be spoken softly in the telling, then that is your choice. Not for the Old Guard! These portals may be dangerous, but our foes are the greater threat.’

  Bulveye cut the link and broke into a run.

  ‘For all that, let us hope to catch this slippery eel before he bolts,’ he called back over his shoulder. He barged the next gate, his warriors close at his heel.

  Crashing into the chamber beyond, he was met by billowing jets of flame. As promethium lapped at his armour he twisted and rolled sideways to avoid the worst of it. Behind him, Dannet was not so swift – he thrashed past his Wolf Lord, bathed waist-to-throat in blue fire.

  Halvdan entered a second later, his bolter barking fiercely as he laid a salvo of shots into the flamer-wielding Thousand Sons legionary who had been lying in wait. More traitors opened fire, scything bolts and autocannon shells into the enraged Space Wolves spilling into the great hall.

  From the cover of a thick stone pillar, with bolt shrapnel and masonry shards rattling against his war-plate, Bulveye peered out to see the sorcerer. He was in front of a large, freestanding gateway a few metres from the back wall of the amphitheatre, made of gleaming metal and white marble, its keystone shining with golden light.

  The robed psyker stood with three acolytes, the corpses of two more at their feet, and a squad of Thousand Sons, trusting to their protection while his hands traced lines of runes set into the portal. Other Thousand Sons were stationed on the descending levels of the amphitheatre, and fired up at the Space Wolves. Bulveye stepped out, returning fire with his pistol.

  ‘Surrender to your fate, witch-kin!’ he howled. An acolyte ­stumbled backwards, robes on fire, his chest turned to molten pulp. ‘The Emperor’s Wolves will never give up the chase! Spare yo
urself the torment of hope!’

  The sorcerer turned at the challenge. He wore no helm, his gaunt face framed by a shock of black hair and a broad collar that rose up from the gorget of his armour. His eyes were pits of blackness, his features contorted in an expression of such rage that it startled Bulveye.

  ‘Murderer!’ the sorcerer spat, pointing at the corpses of his disciples, and then waved a hand towards the cracked dome of the amphitheatre. ‘Despoiler of dreams! Slaughterer of innocents!’

  ‘The Allfather has called justice for your crimes! No plea will be heard! Your transgressions cannot be forgiven!’

  The sorcerer was incredulous. ‘You would cast us as villains? I am Izzakar Orr, devotee of Magnus, master of the hundred paths. I have freed more humans from the blighted ignorance of Old Night than all of your barbarous horde – and this library alone contains more knowledge, more power to shape the destiny of mankind, than all the dank mead halls of Fenris. You massacre our people, raze our cities, destroy thousands of years of knowledge... and then dare to think that you are the heroes?’

  Squads of Space Wolves descended the steps, Halvdan at the fore. The Thousand Sons gave ground slowly, collapsing in rings towards their commander, demanding a toll of dead and wounded from the sons of Fenris even as they were slain.

  With a wordless snarl, Izzakar Orr thrust a hand towards the portal. The metal melted away to reveal a crystalline gate, the shimmering liquid gold flowing to create a rippling screen across the gap beneath the arch. Then he moved his hands in an arcane gesture, and the apparition of a many-headed dragon coalesced in the air around him. Orr threw his hands out towards the Space Wolves and the dragon burst into life; a flaming, roaring beast of myth that left trails of silver sparks as it snapped out its broad wings and soared in an arc to pass through the warriors of Leman Russ.

  Armour split and shattered at the touch of the monstrous spell, sweeping Space Wolves from their feet, gouts of blinding fire issuing from the beast’s open maw.

  The Wolf Lord flinched as the massive creature roared in his direction, Eldingverfall and plasma pistol raised defiantly but useless against the psychic attack. The creature shimmered as it coiled towards Bulveye, its immaterial form breaking into thousands of particles before it reached him.

  As the fog of the illusion dissipated, he saw that his warriors were unharmed, the dragon nothing more than a glamour. His eyes snapped to the dais at the bottom of the auditorium. The portal was still active, but of the sorcerer and his followers all that remained were faint shadows on the golden field, as though cast from the other side of a curtain.

  A faint heat came off the open portal, registering as little more than background radiation across the systems of Bulveye’s war-plate. He reached out a hand to the shimmering gold surface, but stopped just short of touching it.

  Ranulf laid a hand on his arm and pulled it down. ‘It’s a trap. Why else would they leave it open? They are waiting on the other side, or they’ve redialled the coordinates to the middle of a plasma reactor.’ He eyed the portal warily. ‘Or something. We all heard Geigor’s warning.’

  The snap of the vox stopped Bulveye replying immediately.

  ‘We’ve found another of the gateways, Old Wolf,’ reported Packmaster Hroldir, quietly and urgently. ‘Two more. I sent Bavdir up. There seems to be one of the portals on every other level.’

  Bulveye turned his gaze to the others standing just behind. The Space Wolves had secured the auditorium and the cloister outside. His warriors had seized most of the library, and squads were moving to secure the surrounding buildings.

  ‘Are they open?’

  ‘They seem active, yes.’

  He looked at Ranulf. ‘They cannot be waiting in ambush behind every one of them, can they?’

  The Old Wolf switched his vox to company address.

  ‘We treat this as unknown land. Recon in force, double-squads at all times. Vox-checks on the five-minute marks.’ As affirmatives ­crackled back across the link, the Wolf Lord returned his attention to the shimmering portal. ‘We’ll hunt this mystic down soon enough...’

  He moved to take a pace, but was baulked by Halvdan stepping in front.

  ‘You’ll not be going first, Old Wolf. Not this time.’

  Bulveye knew he could order Halvdan to stand aside. He also knew that there was every chance the warrior would refuse, and that would leave them in an awkward position. Instead he waved Eldingverfall at the portal.

  ‘What are you waiting for? A signed invitation?’

  With a shake of his head, Halvdan turned and stepped towards the golden field. It rippled like water as first his hand, and then his arm, and then the whole warrior passed through. Ranulf went next, swallowed quickly, a vague pulse of light and then darkness dappling the surface of the teleporter field.

  Jurgen stood at the threshold. He gave a slight bow.

  ‘I am not proud,’ he said with a grin. ‘After you, Old Wolf.’

  With a nod, plasma pistol and axe at the ready, Bulveye strode into the waiting auric gleam.

  Halvdan was at one of the tall windows, his bolter in one hand, the other flat against the ruby-like crystal. Ranulf had his weapon trained on another portal gate about ten metres directly ahead.

  The quiet was disturbing.

  Bulveye moved away from the portal and looked around. The chamber was square, about thirty metres across. The red-paned windows angled steeply inwards towards the high ceiling. Several of them were marked by thick cracks. Smoke drifted from fires somewhere not far below, the sparks from the flames still bright as they lifted into the sky.

  He could see the summits of other pyramids in the distance and, as he moved closer, Bulveye looked down at the pillars and roofs of the surrounding precincts.

  Halvdan approached him. ‘We must be nearly at the pinnacle,’ he said.

  More Space Wolves entered with a clatter of boots and whine of powered plate. The vox crackled into life and Bulveye felt a moment of relief at hearing Hroldir’s voice, in spite of the poor quality of the signal.

  ‘...some kind of basement... Squads reporting in from several locations... Two have moved out of auspex range…’

  Bulveye stalked around the crystal-windowed chamber until he could see towards the centre of Tizca. The fury of battle raged still, blossoms of explosions and gunship contrails marked the progress of the invasion.

  ‘The greatest campaign of our time and we stand here, watching from afar...’ Halvdan murmured.

  Bulveye growled at the thought and stomped towards the other gateway.

  ‘Not for long. The traitors must have passed through the next portal. They cannot have got far. All squads, continue the sweep. Hunt down Magnus’ dogs wherever they try to hide.’

  The next portal jump took them to another chamber within the Syrianus Library, one entire wall and a corner of the floor and ceiling blown out by the bombardment. A stench like burning rubber and charred flesh gusted through the breach.

  Past the broken stone and shattered crystal, Bulveye saw Space Wolves through the windows of one of the neighbouring ziggurats. Then he watched them flicker out of sight through another gateway. He activated the vox.

  ‘Any sign of the sorcerer?’ he asked.

  There was no reply. Only the hiss of static.

  ‘Hroldir? Jorllon?’

  Ranulf checked the connection. ‘They must be out of personal vox range. The other portals are some form of swift transit system across the city. We seem to be stuck on an internal loop, within this one spire.’

  ‘Ha! A glorified elevator?’ Jurgen laughed. ‘All of that concern for a sorcerer’s lift?’

  There were two other gateways in the hall, as well as several conventional exits.

  With a pulse of light, one of the portals flared into life. Bulveye and his wolf-brothers reacted as one, turning their weapons quickly
as dark shapes emerged from the gold.

  ‘Hold fire!’ he bellowed, relieved.

  Hroldir and his pack looked around in confusion as they stepped forwards.

  ‘By the Allfather’s hairy...’ The packmaster’s curse tailed off as his gaze fell to the Old Wolf. ‘We were... I don’t know. Another tower on the east side of the city.’

  Ranulf shook his head. ‘I’m not sure we’re making progress, here. Perhaps the Thousand Sons are changing the pathways when they move.’

  Bulveye gestured over his shoulder to the portal through which they had first arrived.

  ‘We’ll all retrace our steps,’ he decided. ‘Hroldir, you head back and we’ll go this way. Signal me when you–’

  Other portals flared. More Space Wolves were arriving from several directions, quickly filling the hall with armoured warriors. Some of them had not been with Bulveye, coming from the groups he had sent to secure other parts of the precincts. All were in a state of some bafflement and disorganisation.

  ‘This won’t do...’ Bulveye muttered, opening the vox-channel again. ‘Everyone, hold position! Do not move unless by my direct command.’

  At a nod from his commander, Hroldir and his squad started back through the portal that had brought them. Bulveye waved his axe at his Old Guard.

  ‘Follow me. Don’t let your guard down – the Thousand Sons could have circled behind us.’

  With a last glance around the hall, he stepped back through the gateway. Golden energy slicked like liquid over his armour, crawling like tendrils along his arms and legs…

  The harsh light of twin stars blinded the Wolf Lord for a moment, until his auto-senses flicked in a filter that cast a greenish sheen across everything. He nearly stumbled as he stepped off the gateway plinth and his foot sank into something soft.

  All about, for many kilometres, were undulating desert dunes.