by William King
“You’re still here, Thunderfist. I am surprised.” His voice was violent and ragged, coloured by the pain coursing through his injured frame.
“You saved my life. I’m paying my debt.”
“I don’t need your help,” Strybjorn hissed through gritted teeth, and tried to rise. He managed to get to his knees, but then started to topple. Ragnar reached out and grabbed him, putting his hand under Strybjorn’s left arm. His chainsword was holstered and he held his bolt pistol in his left hand. Blood trickled in rivulets through the cracks in Strybjorn’s armour and stained Ragnar’s arm red.
“We’d best get going. It’s only a matter of time before the nightgangers find their courage again. Or the Chaos Marines find it for them.”
Even through his pain, Strybjorn managed to look thoughtful. “I wonder how Hengist and the others are doing.”
Ragnar strained his ears to listen. He could hear no sounds of conflict in the distance. It appeared Hengist’s force was dead or worse yet, captured. Ragnar hoped that the tumbled bridge would hold back the Chaos Marines for a little while but somehow he just knew it would not stop the pursuit for long.
Strybjorn leaned against Ragnar as they moved off into the gloom.
Ragnar tried to retrace the steps that had brought them down to the temple. It was difficult. He could catch scent traces of the Space Wolves but they were overlaid by the acrid stench of the nightgangers to the point where it was difficult to pick out his Claw brothers at all. Ragnar realised now how they had been sucked into a trap, allowed to move ever deeper beneath the mountain while a huge force of nightgangers assembled all around them. They had been allowed to reach the temple, and they had walked in like living sacrifices to the Changer of Ways. It was not a cheering thought.
Ragnar’s shoulder lamp probed the gloom ahead. He bent down and saw recent traces that Sven and the others had been here. That at least was reassuring. A groan from behind him told him that Strybjorn was not in a good way. Ragnar turned to see that the Grimskull was pale-faced, his skin taking on a yellowish pallor that Ragnar had come to associate with death during his former life on the islands. He only hoped that Strybjorn’s superhuman strength would make the difference and pull him through. Ragnar wondered how he could discern what was wrong. Perhaps there had been internal injuries that he did not have the skill or the equipment to treat. He knew that was all too possible. Often it was not the obvious wounds that killed warriors. When he was a lad, Ragnar had heard tales of men taking what appeared to be a light tap to the skull, fighting on through a battle, and then keeling over stone dead in their moment of triumph. Maybe that was going to happen to Strybjorn.
“You go on without me, Thunderfist,” Strybjorn said. The words sounded strange coming from his mangled jaw. “I’ll wait here. If any are pursuing you I will hold them off.”
“You are coming with me, Grimskull, if I have to knock you down and carry you. You’ve come this far. Be man enough to go the whole way.”
Their eyes locked. As with Sven he sensed the resistance there, and as with Sven he beat it down. He felt that had Strybjorn been at his full strength, he might not have obeyed, but in his weakened condition, he did not have the willpower to defy Ragnar.
“You win,” he said. “Onwards.” The motors in Strybjorn’s armour wheezed asthmatically as he moved, and ruptured feed pipes vented steam from his backpack, but the Grimskull moved off at a limping stagger along the tunnel.
Ragnar could see that it was all he could do to keep on his feet.
Ragnar breathed a sigh of relief. He recognised this place. It was the great underground lake. He had never imagined that he would be glad to see its foul waters, but certainly he was now. Sighting the waters around his home island would not have made him any happier at that moment. No matter how bleak and foul this place, it was a landmark Ragnar recognised, and he knew he was on the right track.
There had been times over the last few hours when he had thought he was lost. The way looked very different on the way back up to the surface. Ragnar understood only too well why. It was simply that he was now going in a different direction, experiencing the tunnels and caves from an opposite point of view to that of a few hours ago. As if that was not enough, he knew he was tired. He was alone except for Strybjorn. All of these things had conspired to alter his perceptions of the place, rendering it unfamiliar, menacing and hostile. He shook his head and reminded himself that in truth it was all of those things.
“Is this the lake of the dead?” Strybjorn asked, his voice a bubbling whisper. Ragnar realised that his fellow Blood Claw was hallucinating. “Are we here at last?”
“No,” Ragnar said. “It is not. It’s just that foul, Chaos-tainted pond Sven spat in on the way down.” Ragnar tried to smile, but the best he could manage was an exhausted grimace.
“It’s you, Thunderfist. I killed you then, and you killed me, and we’ve come to hell together.”
Ragnar shuddered. For a moment, it seemed quite possible. His mind reeled with the concept. Perhaps Strybjorn was right. Perhaps their corpses lay back in the ruins of the Thunderfist village. Perhaps the whole trip to Russvik, the whole process of induction into the Wolves had been merely a hallucination, a last dream-like fantasy conjured up by his pain-wracked brain as he fell forward into death. Perhaps now they really were dead. Mutually slain, maybe they had entered hell together.
Ragnar fought for a hold on sanity. He breathed deeply of the foul air, catching the scent of stagnant water, and mould and fungus. He saw the trails of blood where the corpses of the nightgangers they had slain earlier had been dragged away, most likely to be devoured. He felt the cool ceramite gauntlets encasing his fingers, and the hilt of the bolt pistol in his hand. He scanned the area, senses keener than those possessed by any mortal man.
No, he told himself. I am not dead. Nor is Strybjorn. Not yet anyway. We are Space Wolves, chosen of Russ, and we will not give up.
He unclipped another vial of painkiller, and pressed it against the induction valve in Strybjorn’s armour. With a hiss the vial emptied as the chemicals entered the Blood Claw’s system. Strybjorn let out a long groan, shook his head, looked around, his cavernous eyes filled with pain, but no longer perhaps quite so feverish.
“Let us go on,” he said. Ragnar nodded his agreement. In the distance, he thought he heard the sounds of pursuit.
“What was that?” Strybjorn asked. Ragnar was surprised that the Grimskull had heard anything. For the past hour he had become increasingly feverish, barely able to stand on his feet.
“It was nothing,” said Ragnar. He was lying. It was the sound of metal-shod feet moving up the corridor behind them. The echoes rang harshly on the stone. It was difficult to guess the distance that separated them from the source of the noise but Ragnar could not believe it was far. Whoever was following them was confident. They were making no attempt at stealth. They were coming on with all speed.
Ragnar cursed. He realised that they were in the long gallery where he had climbed to spot the ancient girders. It seemed to Ragnar as if days or weeks had passed since they were last here. The surface was not too far away now, as far as he remembered. They had almost made it. Almost. Still, he consoled himself with the thought that Sven and the others seemed to have escaped. He had come across no sign that disaster had overtaken them or that they had been captured. They must have reached the surface by now, Ragnar thought. They might even have got clear of the zone of interference and been able to summon help. They must have made much better time than him on the long climb from the dark heart of the mountain. They had not been burdened by the wounded Strybjorn.
“Let’s get going,” Ragnar said. “Not much further now.”
Strybjorn nodded and limped onwards.
They had almost crossed the gallery when Ragnar heard a familiar melodious yet sinister voice ring out behind him.
“Where are you going, puppy? Do turn around, please. I want to look at you, for I never like shooting anyone in the ba
ck.”
Ragnar recognised the voice. It belonged to the Chaos Marine who had taunted Sergeant Hengist. Slowly he turned around, letting Strybjorn slump to the ground as he reached up to draw his chainsword.
Ragnar almost flinched as he faced his enemy. He had half expected to see a full squad of dreaded Chaos Marines and a horde of nightgangers. All he could make out was a solitary figure.
“Madok!” he spat. Ragnar noticed that some of the icons on the Chaos Marine’s armour were glowing, doubtless with malign energies. The hairs on the back of Ragnar’s neck prickled. What was going on? Was there a cursed spell being cast here?
“You remember. I’m flattered. That’s good too. When your soul reaches hell, you will be able to tell everyone who killed you.” The words hissed flatly through the dank air of the cavern.
“I’m not dead yet.”
“Believe me, it’s only a matter of moments before I change that.”
“Where are your brethren? All dead?”
“No. They are hunting down the few survivors of your little party who fled the battlefield like the cowards they are.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ragnar could feel the beast within his soul snarl at the insult and begin to rise to the fore.
“What you believe or don’t believe is irrelevant.” Once again, Ragnar thought that he could hear a hint of boredom in the Chaos follower’s voice.
“Then why are you telling it to me, filth?”
The armoured sorcerer sighed, as if wondering at the sheer ignorance of the whelp before him. “Because it’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of taunting one of your kind from so close. And I intend to savour it. It’s one minuscule speck of revenge for the burning of Prospero, but these days I take my pleasures where I can.” .
“You are of the Thousand Sons then.”
Ragnar knew now that Madok was one of his Chapter’s most ancient and feared foes, devilish magicians as well as fearsome warriors. The Space Wolves had cleansed the Thousand Sons’ homeworld of Prospero in the aftermath of Horus’s rebellion thousands of years ago. The Traitor Marines had never forgiven them for it. Several times since they had attacked Fenris, apparently with the intention of repaying the favour. Ragnar wondered if Madok’s presence now was indicative of another such plot. Of course, he thought, it had to be. That was why it was so imperative that someone get away to warn the Space Wolves. Ragnar gleaned a small crumb of solace and confidence from the thought of Sven passing on the message, and the retribution which would swiftly follow.
“Bravo. The idiots in the Fang still teach some aspects of the ancient truths then.”
“They told me enough about your treacherous kind to recognise a twisted and irredeemable foe of humanity when I see one.”
To Ragnar’s surprise, Madok laughed. His mocking voice took on a scholarly tone. “They told you nothing. It was not us who attacked your Chapter. It was you who treacherously attacked our home.”
“After you had forsworn your duty to humanity and the Emperor.”
Madok shook his head. “So much certainty. So little knowledge. We did not forswear the Emperor. He forsook us. He sent his Wolves to attack us simply because he did not like the path our primarch, the revered Magnus, had uncovered: the path to knowledge and limitless power.”
“Limitless evil, you mean.”
Madok shook his head sorrowfully.
“Truly it is said that it is foolish to argue with those whose minds are closed. And no Chapter has ever had minds more closed or uncivilised than the Space Wolves. I don’t know why I have wasted my time trying to enlighten you.”
Ragnar wondered that too. Was the Chaos Marine waiting for something, he wondered? Perhaps he was hoping that his companions would arrive and help him capture Ragnar. At that precise moment Ragnar did not care. Every moment he delayed Madok was a moment more for Sven to bring word to the brethren at the Fang.
“We may be uncivilised but we are loyal to our oaths,” Ragnar growled.
“You’re certainly persistent in your folly.”
Ragnar wondered what Madok meant. He was starting to detect something now, some enchantment that tugged at his senses and compelled him to listen to what the Chaos Marine had to say. Was this some subtle spell designed to make him vulnerable to heresy?
He decided he’d better do something. Yet something prevented him from acting. His mind felt as if it was snagged in a net. Were the glittering jewels on Madok’s armour glowing more brightly? Were they the cause of his caution? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts Ragnar asked the Chaos sorcerer, “How did you get here?”
“We came in answer to the prayers of those who worship the Great Mutator. We came in under cover of the meteor swarm that your childish brethren came to investigate. We came in answer to those who worship us. The temple below was consecrated by one of my brethren left on this world after our last attack on the Fang. He taught the true way to those mutants. He led them out of error and into freedom.”
Ragnar nodded. The last piece of the puzzle was in place. He forced his arm to move, to fight the spell that he was sure Madok was placing on him. Slowly, as if fighting against a great weight, he raised his bolt pistol until it was almost aimed directly at the Chaos Marine. As if Ragnar had broken their spell, the gemstones on the Chaos Marine’s armour ceased to glow.
“You are stronger-willed than I thought, puppy,” Madok said, his voice dripping scorn and hatred. “I suppose now I will have to kill you. A pity. It would have been pleasing to have you march willingly to the altar of Tzeentch and have you offer yourself up to the Changer of Ways. Still, I suppose we can’t have everything.”
With eye-blurring speed, Madok brought up his weapon and fired. Ragnar’s sluggish reflexes were not up to matching him. Before Ragnar could even react the pistol was blown from his hands with one shot. It was an awesome feat of marksmanship. Knowing now he had but once chance Ragnar raised his chainsword and rushed forward. The barrel of Madok’s bolter moved to cover him. It appeared huge as the mouth of a cave. Ragnar’s keyed-up senses saw the barrel was indeed shaped like a daemon’s head whose mouth would spit bullets. He knew at that moment he was going to die. There was no way at this range that a warrior like Madok was going to miss.
He flinched as he heard the roar of a shot, before realising that somehow, impossibly, he was not hit. Instead he saw a great chunk had been bitten out of the Chaos Marine’s armour, forcing the sorcerer to stagger back. Of course, Ragnar grinned, Strybjorn still had his pistol; he must have regained consciousness and opened fire. Madok reeled backwards and then regained his balance in an instant, almost casually sending a shot past Ragnar. The shriek of shattering armour and a groan of pain told Ragnar that the shell had found a home in Strybjorn’s body.
Still, the Grimskull had given him a chance, and Ragnar fully intended to take it. As he ran, the last trace of spell-induced lethargy fell from him. Ragnar knew he was himself again; a Space Wolf in full battle frenzy. With a howling warcry he sent his chainsword through a vast arc, intending to drive it clean through the heretic’s body. Madok swivelled desperately, trying to bring his gun to bear. He almost made it. Instead, he just managed to interpose it in the way of Ragnar’s blade.
There was a shriek of metal on metal. Sparks flew as the two weapons came into contact then the chainsword cleaved clean through the Chaos Marine’s gun. Still Madok had time to drop it and step back. The sorcerer extended his hand with a grasping gesture and a runesword flashed from the scabbard at his side and leapt into his hand. Its blade was black. Red runes gleamed with pent-up sorcerous energy along its length. Ragnar knew without having to be told that its touch would be deadly. He chopped again using two hands to drive his blade home. Madok’s daemonsword rose to parry. Blade rang against blade with a clangour like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Madok struck back at Ragnar. The Blood Claw leaped clear and sent a counterstroke hurtling at the Chaos Marine. Once again Madok parried easily. They circled each othe
r warily now, weapons held at the ready. Ragnar’s hair stood on end as Madok’s blade emitted a low eerie moan. It was somehow alive and sentient, Ragnar sensed.
“That is correct,” Madok purred, guessing the chain of Ragnar’s thoughts. “This daemon weapon will consume your soul even as it drinks your blood. It thirsts, you see.”
“First it will have to hit me,” Ragnar said, a low growl emerging from his throat as he lashed out at the Chaos Marine. Madok ducked below the stroke and lashed out with a lightning-quick counter.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said, unleashing a flurry of blows which Ragnar strove desperately to avoid. He parried, ducked barely managed to spring aside from the onslaught. The speed and power of the Chaos Marine were incredible. Ragnar knew how strong he himself was, but compared to Madok he might as well have been a child.
And why not, Ragnar thought, as he managed to turn aside another thunderous blow? The shock of the impact left his arm feeling numb. Compared to the Chaos Marine he was but a child. Madok had millennia of experience and all the gifts that the powers of Chaos could lavish on him. Fighting against such a man was more than madness, it was sheer folly. There was no way to overcome such a fell foe. Ragnar felt that he might as well just give up. It would be less painful in the end.
Once again Ragnar became aware that these thoughts were coming from outside himself, that he was being subjected to the influence of some external power. The woeful dirge being sung by the runesword was affecting him. The effect was subtle and demoralising. Its hellish shrieking sapped the courage and strength from Ragnar’s arm and will. Once more he steeled himself and threw off the spell, parrying Madok’s blade and throwing himself into a furious offensive that sent the Chaos Marine backwards step by step until Ragnar had regained all the ground he had lost to Madok’s onslaught.
