[Space Wolf 03] - Grey Hunter

by William King

  “I think you might have got one,” said Sven. “Lucky throw.”

  Sven lobbed a grenade over his shoulder too. Another explosion. Another scream of agony. “That’s how it’s done,” he said.

  Ragnar looked at him. “Things would go a lot better if we could take out their supporting fire.”

  “Really. I would never have thought of that,” said Sven sardonically. He lobbed another grenade. Another explosion ripped through the inside of the building. Ragnar could tell that their foes were close.

  “They’ll have to stop firing soon or they’ll hit their own men,” said Ragnar.

  “And when they do—”

  “This!” said Ragnar. As soon as the support fire stopped, he leapt up and began blasting away with his bolt pistol. The heretics were so close that he could see his own distorted reflection in their goggles: a twisted grey-clad figure splattered with blood. The muzzle flash of his gun was dazzling. Almost as soon as he had popped up he saw the oncoming infantrymen ready their autorifles to blast him. They were obviously just as prepared for the moment when the support fire stopped as he was; what they lacked were his superhuman reflexes.

  He was hunkered down again before any of them could pull the trigger. A tidal wave of bullets passed over him, and thunked into the sandbags behind his back. He could feel the structure shudder under the impact.

  “That was smart,” said Sven sarcastically, lobbing another grenade. “I hope the others are doing better.”

  The grenade blast was so close behind them that it was near deafening. “Best get ready for hand-to-hand combat,” said Ragnar.

  “With what? My fists?”

  Ragnar tossed him his bolt pistol, and activated his chainsword.

  “Even you ought to be able to do something with two pistols, Sven.”

  “I imagine something will come to me,” said Sven with a crooked grin.

  “It had better. They are just about on top of us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Let’s give them a warm welcome then,” said Sven, springing up just as the shadow of a man with a bayonet loomed over him. He began blasting away, bolt pistol in each hand. Shells blazed out at close range burying themselves in human flesh before exploding. Sven stepped sideways, still shooting, spraying their foes with both pistols. Ragnar took one more moment to watch him then twisted and sprang out over the sandbags, landing in the middle of the oncoming wave of infantry.

  Holding the chainsword with both hands, he cut right and left, shearing limbs and breaking bones, splattering himself and everything around him with bright red blood. A howled battlecry erupted from his lips as he surrendered himself to the fury of close combat. All of his pent up aggression, all of his earlier worries and fears during the descent, powered his rage. He struck with tigerish swiftness, moving through the mass of foes like an unleashed daemon. For a few brief instants he was unstoppable, but then the sheer mass of onrushing troops bogged him down. The enemy were all around him, stabbing with bayonets, pumping out bullets at close range, too intent on preserving their own lives against this unleashed berserker in their midst to worry about hitting their own comrades.

  Ragnar ducked and weaved, but the ground was slick underfoot with blood, and it was hard to keep his balance, avoid his enemies and get power behind his blows. He tried his best though. Even as he felt a bayonet find the gap between shoulder-plate and upper armguard, he hacked down one man and smashed in another’s face with a punch. Teeth sprayed everywhere under the impact of his gauntleted fist.

  A stab of pain behind his knee told him that another of his foes had managed to find a weak spot in his armour. A backhanded slash with the chainsword ensured the man would never do anything else again. Already he could feel the wounds beginning to dot but the healing process was slowing him. He lashed out again and again and with every stroke a foe died. But for every man who fell there were two to take his place. There were just too many of the heretics for one small squad of Blood Claws to hold back.

  A bullet from out of nowhere grazed Ragnar’s temple. It felt like someone had just hit him with a sledgehammer. He shook his head to clear the falling blood from his eyes, and in that moment, a crowd of men seized him, trying to immobilise his limbs and still his deadly blade. With a roar, he lifted two of them and dashed their heads together with a sickening thump. As he did so he felt an arm go round his neck, as someone tried to drive a knife into his throat.

  Ragnar threw himself forward, hoping the momentum would toss his assailant from his back but the man held on for grim death, and drove the knife home once more. Blood slicked Ragnar’s chestplate — and it was his own.

  Now a real killing fury settled on Ragnar. He was no longer fighting to preserve his life but to take as many of his foes down to hell with him as he could. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders trying to throw off his attacker, and as he did so he lashed out with his chainsword, catching another man in the belly. Ropes of entrails slid from the man’s gut but Ragnar advanced anyway.

  In his fury he lost his footing on the slick intestines and tumbled over backwards. There was a crunch as something cushioned his fall, and Ragnar realised it was his dagger wielding assailant. The man’s arm now dangled limply around Ragnar’s neck.

  Above him loomed a huge man with a rifle. Before Ragnar could react, he smashed the butt of the gun into Ragnar’s skull. The blow would have caved in the head of any normal man, and even his reinforced bone structure could not entirely protect Ragnar. Sparks flickered before his eyes, and for a moment all he could see was blackness. He sensed rather than saw the man draw back his rifle for another blow and stabbed forward and upward blindly with his blade. He felt it connect with something, and pass through the moist sack of the man’s flesh and cleave through his innards. The man screamed, and voided his bowels and bladder.

  At that moment, Ragnar’s sight returned and he rose to his feet. His fist smashed into the man’s face and sent him toppling over backward. Ragnar reeled forward, howling with anger, chopping at any foe within reach. Still they came on, an endless tidal wave of enemies. He could see none of his battle-brothers, and their smell was lost among the scent of heretics and cordite. Perhaps they had already fallen. Perhaps he was the last of his squad still left alive. If so, he resolved, he was going to make the traitorous heretics of Garm pay dearly for the lives of himself and his comrades.

  Ahead of him, he could see the man in the commissar’s uniform. It no longer looked white and clean. It was stained with blood and blackened with smoke. Somehow he had lost his mask. The man’s cold face paled a little as he saw Ragnar staggering towards him but he raised his chainsword defiantly, and advanced to meet the Blood Claw with the powerful confident step of a skilled warrior.

  As their blades crossed Ragnar realised that he faced a worthy foe. The man’s skill was tremendous. Normally, he would not have physically have been a match for a Space Marine, but Ragnar was braised and battered from his earlier battles, and the Garmite was fresh and hungry for glory. Sparks clashed and chainswords screamed as they met. The commissar ducked below the sweep of Ragnar’s return stroke and lashed out, catching the young Wolf on the arm. The vambrace of his armour smoked as the friction of the chainsword bite heated it unbearably. Ragnar stepped forward, grabbing the man’s sword arm with his free hand and closing his grip tight. With a sickening crunch bones gave way. The commissar did not utter a sound although his face went pale and sweat beaded his brow. Ragnar thrust his own head forward in a swift butt to the bridge of the man’s nose, breaking it. As the Garmite fell backwards, blood leaking from his nostrils, lips tight with self control, Ragnar lashed out with a kick that broke the man’s hip. As the man fell, Ragnar’s stamping foot crashed his skull.

  One or two of the Garmite soldiers looked upon their dead leader in horror, but they were filled with confidence and their morale held. It did not matter how strong Ragnar or any individual Marine was, there were just too many foes. Like angry ants swarming over an
armoured beetle, they came on, stabbing, hacking, pumping bullets at Ragnar with startling disregard for their own lives and the lives of their comrades. The sheer mass of flesh moving inexorably as a sea pushed Ragnar back towards the emplacement. He felt like a swimmer caught in a riptide, but still he fought on, blood and sweat threatening to blind him.

  From out of nowhere something caught Ragnar behind his weakened knee, and he collapsed into a half crouch. Something heavy crashed into his skull again. Stars novaed across his field of vision. He felt suddenly weak and nauseous, barely able to keep upright. In all his time as a Space Marine he did not think he had ever felt like this. The knowledge that he was about to die sparked fury within him but pinned by the press of bodies, weakened by wounds and loss of blood, he could not summon the energy to turn his bloodlust into action. Instead he kept chopping and hacking, lashing out with fist and foot and head as well as blade. He knew it was a hopeless straggle. His limbs felt heavy as lead. His opponents seemed as numerous now as when he had started.

  Still a grin came to his lips, and a howl erupted from his throat. This was a warrior’s death, better by far than being charred to a crisp within a super-heated drop pod. No Space Wolf could ask for more.

  His howl was answered by a war-cry from close by. “For Russ and Berek!” he heard someone shout and was surprised to see the man in front of him cloven in two by the blow of a chainsword. Sergeant Hakon stood there, looking like some daemon of slaughter. Blood covered him from head to foot, his armour was painted almost totally red by it, and his grey hair was the colour of rust. He picked up another Garmite and tossed him back among his fellows, bowling them with the sheer force of impact, then he charged among them, lashing right and left and leaving Ragnar a clear space among the carnage in which to catch his breath.

  Ragnar stood panting for a moment, watching as the sergeant slew every infantryman within reach, before tossing his head back and emitting a monstrous howl of triumph. Even as he did so, a lash of tracer fire whipped in from somewhere to the left and took the sergeant in the skull. The whole side of Hakon’s head was blown away, leaving exposed fragments of brain. Like a mighty tree toppling the sergeant fell forward and was still.

  For a moment, shock paralysed Ragnar. It seemed impossible that the sergeant was dead. He had been there, invincible and indestructible from the first day Ragnar had arrived at Russvik. He had trained and fought alongside the Blood Claws until they knew his face almost as well as they knew their own. He was part of the squad, its leader, and guiding light… and now he was gone.

  Ragnar stood frozen as the tidal wave of Garmite infantry surged back in his direction. Part of him had lost heart at the sight of Hakon’s fall. Part of him simply wanted to stand still and let the oncoming soldiers slay him as they had slain the sergeant. What was the point of fighting? He was just going to die like the squad leader.

  Even as these thoughts flickered briefly across his mind, he savagely suppressed them. The fury he had felt earlier returned, his rage felt boundless. From deep within himself he drew on reservoirs of strength he had not known he possessed. The weakness fell from his limbs. Hakon had bought him a respite that had allowed him to recover. It was time now to repay his debt to the old man.

  He leapt forward, bullets clattering off his armour with a sound like a blacksmith’s hammer falling on metal. Seeing his face contorted with rage, a few of the Garmites panicked but most of them were brave men. They kept firing and braced their bayonets, readying themselves for the colossal impact of Ragnar’s charge. Even as he sprang forward, praying to Russ that no bullet would wound him mortally before he could kill more foes, Ragnar heard more Space Wolf war-cries from close at hand.

  Suddenly he was aware of mighty figures nearby, crashing through his enemies with weapons blazing and chainswords shrieking. Dozens of Wolves had closed with the foe, emerging from the haze of gunsmoke and dust to smite the enemy. They swept into the melee alongside Ragnar, smashing through the Garmite line like a thunderbolt through rotten timber.

  In a heartbeat, the whole complexion of the fight around the shrine’s entrance changed, as the Garmites’ initial success turned into a rout. Tough, battle-hardened warriors the natives might be, dedicated to the cause of wickedness beyond sanity, but the sight of a mass of Space Marines surging through them was enough to break even their morale. The great mass of them turned tail and tried to flee, and then they were dead.

  “We bloody well won,” said Sven, looking at once pleased and angry. It was a typical response. He still glared around him, sensitive to the slightest movement, reacting to the smallest noise or change of scent. An hour after Logan Grimnar had declared the shrine cleared, he was ready for combat in a heartbeat. Even the re-shaped metabolisms of Space Marines took time to calm down after the fury of battle had passed. There was an aftershock, Ragnar realised. He felt that way himself.

  “At what cost?” Ragnar asked.

  “You’re still bloody well here aren’t you? So am I.”

  “How about the others?”

  “Aenar was wounded again. Torvald is fine. Strybjorn took a couple of knocks, but he’ll be all right once the healers look at him.”

  Ragnar shifted his weight. There was pain there, far worse than anything he had experienced during the battle. Then, it was as if his mind had shut out anything that would not help keep him alive. Now it was more difficult to ignore. He had removed his greaves and sprayed the wound with synthetic flesh. The skin was already starting to knit as his body healed itself. There was a dull ache in his stomach that he realised was hunger. He removed a ration-tube from his belt and began to suck on it. The taste was bland, and it did not feel like he could get any sustenance from a mere paste, but he knew it contained all the nutrients he needed. More than that, it contained the alchemical ingredients that would help him heal. He recognised that hunger; his body craved the raw materials with which to repair itself.

  “Good idea,” said Sven and began to slurp loudly at a tube of the food-paste. “Some beer would be even better.”

  Ragnar glanced around. They were on the outskirts of the field hospital. In airtight tents, the Wolf Priests worked their rituals on wounded Marines. Dozens of the less badly wounded sat around. A priest moved among them, deploying medical augurs. His examinations were quick but thorough, more in the nature of simple checks to make sure his patients were all right. While it was true that a Space Marine would heal naturally and swiftly from almost any injury that did not cripple him, there was no sense in taking chances. It was not unknown for men who had taken blows to the head to walk around normally for hours afterwards then keel over and die.

  “What about Hakon?” Sven asked.

  “He’s still in there,” said Ragnar. “The priests would not let me stay while they performed the rituals. One of them told me he is most likely going to join his ancestor spirits.”

  “Look over there,” said Sven. Ragnar glanced in the direction of Sven’s pointing finger. He saw Berek Thunderfist and Morgrim Silvertongue stride forward. The Wolf Lord paused here and there to exchange smiles, jokes and words of encouragement with the wounded. Every time he did so, the man’s spirits would perceptibly rise. As if sensing Ragnar’s eyes upon him, he looked up and gave Ragnar a cheerful wave. Ragnar waved back and the Wolf Lord strode over towards him.

  “No, don’t get up,” said Berek as Ragnar and Sven made to rise. “You have both taken honourable wounds in battle. You deserve to rest.”

  They stayed in place. “Sergeant Hakon is in a bad way,” said Berek. “He is in a coma. His spirit hovers over his body.”

  “Will he recover?” asked Ragnar.

  Berek shook his head. “No.”

  “Will he die?”

  “We do not know. Even if he lives there has been too much damage to his brain. He will not be fit for war ever again.”

  “It is not the end he would have wished,” said Ragnar.

  “Nor any of us,” said Berek. “But these things happen. It is
not Sergeant Hakon’s fate that I wished to talk with you about, Ragnar.”

  “No?”

  “Now that Hakon is gone, your pack needs a new leader. Things are in a very fluid state at the moment, and we are expecting the Garmites to counter-attack at any hour. Until I have time to assign someone, you are in charge of the squad, Ragnar. I will make the announcement after the evening rituals.”

  Ragnar simply stared at Berek. This was not the way things were usually done, but then again, it was the Wolf Lord’s choice. Ragnar was sure that there must be better, more experienced men for the task available, but it seemed that for reasons of his own, Berek had chosen him, for the moment. Perhaps this was why he had been asked to accompany him to the Pride of Fenris. Perhaps Berek already had him in mind for command. Who could tell?

  “Thank you, lord,” said Ragnar.

  Berek clapped him on the back. “I am sure you will do well. You fought bravely today. And this is an auspicious place to get your first promotion.”

  Sven gave Ragnar a sour look but kept his mouth clamped firmly shut. Ragnar was surprised by his restraint. Berek turned and strode away, bellowing greetings and jokes to the men. It did not surprise Ragnar that he seemed to know all of their names. Morgrim followed.

  Ragnar looked at Sven; Sven looked back at him. “I fought as well as you bloody did. Why did he not pick me?”

  “Maybe he wanted someone with half a brain,” said Ragnar.

  “He could have picked Hakon then,” said Sven and grimaced. Even he seemed to realise that the joke was not funny under the circumstances. Ragnar stared at him for a moment, feeling like a gap was opening up between himself and his friend. Sven met his faze levelly for a second and then grinned.

  “I can think of worse men to follow,” he said.

  “Who?” asked Ragnar.

  “Give me an hour or two and I am sure someone will come to mind. Or maybe a day.”

  “If you have any stray thoughts give them a warm welcome. They will be in a strange place.”