by William King
Ragnar leaned on the fortified parapet of the outer wall and looked out into the distance. He was troubled and Sven knew it. He just did not quite know how to express himself.
Bluish snow, tainted by alchemical pigments, fell in chill cold flakes. Ragnar stuck out his tongue and tasted one. It tingled in his mouth as he swallowed. He studied their surroundings. Enormous buildings disappeared into the monstrous, low-hanging purple and black clouds that filled the sky, roofing the city. In the distance he could hear the crackle of a firefight.
Ragnar felt strangely reluctant to answer his friend’s question. There had been something personal and sacred about his experience at the shrine and he did not want to share it with anyone else at the moment. He wanted time to think about what had happened.
Ragnar glanced around. The rest of the Blood Claws were huddled along the wall, staring into the distance. Aenar raised brass field magnoculars to his eyes and looked out for a moment, before handing the viewing instruments to Torvald. It was obvious they were looking for some sign of the battle going on out there. Strybjorn held his weapon at the ready, looking relaxed yet alert. The rest of the pack lay sprawled along the wall, taking their rest while they could. It was a trick they had learned from the Grey Hunters — sleep when you can.
Behind them the previously empty space around the shrine was filled with the massive bulk of Imperial spacecraft, each disgorging its cargo of men and machines. Now the Wolves had established a safe beachhead, General Trask, the Imperial field commander, was prepared to reinforce it. Tens of thousands of Imperial Guard, hundreds of massive battle tanks and dozens of heavy artillery pieces were being deployed on the plain around the shrine. Not nearly as many as were holding the spaceport twenty kilometres away, but enough to make the shrine all but impregnable.
From up here Ragnar could make out the standards of the 12th Maravian Guard regiment, the twin-headed eagle holding a solar disk in its claws. The Maravians themselves lined the emplacements in the walls nearby. Tall, broad shouldered men in light blue winter combat uniforms, they held their lasrifles as if they knew how to use them. A veteran regiment according to camp rumour, they held themselves apart from the Space Wolves, seemingly a little in awe of them.
One of them, obviously a green recruit, had actually asked Ragnar whether the Wolves really had cleared the shrine in the teeth of ten times their number. Ragnar had told them it was only five times, but that had been enough to silence the lad. Lad! Ragnar smiled. The man was probably older than he was.
Another glance showed Imperial Guard officers in braided uniforms and commissars in thick, black coats moving among along the battlements, come to inspect the position for themselves. The officers smiled and talked, at least until they got close to the Wolves; the commissars looked stern and forbidding. One of them caught Ragnar’s glance and gave him a tight-lipped smile. Ragnar grinned, showing his fangs, and the commissar looked away. He was not sure whether it was because the man was intimidated, or he thought Ragnar might be some sort of mutant to be cleansed. Ragnar would not have bet against it being the latter. Not all servants of the Imperium regarded the Space Marine Chapters with awe, or even liking.
Not that it mattered under the circumstances. Ragnar felt sure that if it came to fighting, the Wolves could take out this entire regiment, no matter how badly they were outnumbered. He pushed the thought from his mind. Everyone was on the same side here. Out beyond the walls were hordes of heretics and daemon-worshippers. There were enemies enough to go around without looking for any closer to hand.
Sven had had enough of being ignored. “Are you just going to stand there with your mouth open and wait for a Thunderhawk to fly in or are you going to answer my bloody question?”
“I was thinking about what to say.”
“Are you ill? You don’t usually take so long to answer.”
Ragnar looked back at Sven for a moment, and wondered whether he should tell him. He looked significantly at the Moravians for a moment and Sven nodded, and gave them time to pass way off along the parapet, then slowly, in halting stumbling words, Ragnar tried to explain what he had felt in the shrine the previous evening. Sven belched loudly but said nothing. When Ragnar finished speaking, he looked up at him searchingly.
“I’ve heard that others have had the same experience. Some of the Wolf Lords, some of the Long Fangs, one or two Grey Hunters. Never heard of it happening to a Blood Claw. Maybe you should talk about it with Ranek or one of the Rune Priests. Maybe it means you’ll be the one to find the Spear.”
Sven’s tone suggested that for once he was not joking. Ragnar considered this for a minute. Sven was only echoing what he himself had thought in the minutes after he had left the shrine. Then he had felt like running to find Ranek and tell him what had happened. Some instinct had stopped him, and he had gone to sleep instead.
“The priests are all in the sanctum with the Great Wolf and his retinue, working divinations, trying to find out where the Spear is. Who knows when that will be done?”
“When you get the chance, talk to them,” said Sven.
“I will,” said Ragnar.
“Maybe I should go and look at the old pile of bones,” said Sven stifling a yawn. “Maybe Russ will appear and promote me to Grey Hunter.”
Ragnar shook his head. Sven did not seem capable of taking anything seriously for more than a few minutes. No, Ragnar corrected himself, maybe he just hid what he took seriously behind a screen of levity.
“Think they will find the Spear?” Sven asked eventually.
“They have to.”
Slowly a thought seemed to work its way from Sven’s brain to his tongue. He looked almost embarrassed to voice it. “Would it not be terrible if we were the ones, our generation, this Chapter, I mean, who lost the Spear of Russ.”
So, despite appearances, some things did weigh heavily on Sven’s soul.
“We will find it, and when we do, the ones who took it will pay.”
“Why did they take it, do you think?”
“Because it’s ancient and sacred.”
“To us. To the folk of Garm, yes. But to heretics?”
Apparently, thoughts also found their way into Sven’s head sometimes.
“Maybe they will use it as a rallying point. Claim that they are the ones blessed by Russ. Chaos worshippers have done such things before. Their holy one, Sergius, is claiming that the Emperor has forsaken Garm and that only Chaos can save the world.”
“He’s probably praying for Chaos to save him, now that I am here.” Ragnar could almost see the thought return to trouble Sven’s mind.
“Wasn’t the Spear supposed to be magical? Garm did wound Magnus with it, after all, and Russ used it to kill a heap of monsters. Could it not protect itself? And why couldn’t old Leman Russ leave it at the Fang like any sensible Space Wolf would have done?”
“I am not Leman Russ, Sven, I can’t answer that. Maybe he left it here for some purpose. Was it not as a mark of his respect for Garm?”
“I mean, the locals did not exactly make a good job of protecting it, did they?”
“They did for ten thousand years.”
“Aye, I suppose so.”
Silence fell again. Ragnar considered Sven’s words. What could the heretics be doing with the Spear? Ragnar had at first thought they had taken it merely to spite the Wolves, but Sven did have a point. If the Spear was a mystic weapon in some way, then what other things could they be up to? He shook his head. He was neither a mystic nor a scholar. It was not for him to answer such questions.
Ragnar returned to studying the distant cityscape. The buildings were huge, larger even than many of those he had seen on Aerius. They also looked much older, as if they had been hewn from enormous chunks of granite eroded over the millennia. Their exteriors were soot blackened and scarred by acid rain. The ancient gargoyles clinging to their sides were mere blank outlines. Everywhere black clouds puffed from enormous high chimneys. Even though war raged all around, the forges
of Garm continued to work.
That was another part of their current problem. Garm was a major centre of weapons production, and had been since the time of Russ. As long as those factories kept working they would churn out an endless supply of munitions that would keep the war going, perhaps even allow it to be taken to other worlds. There was no shortage of armaments here. No shortage of men to use them either, judging from what he had seen. Then his mind returned to the question of the Spear.
Rumour had it that interrogation of the surviving heretics revealed they were little more than bandits, a horde made up from the local militias who had been driven from their destroyed factory keep. There had been tens of thousands of them in the initial attack, spurred on by this Father Sergius, who had since vanished along with his acolytes and the holy relic. All that Ragnar could gather was that Sergius had once been an Imperial priest, high in the temple hierarchy. He had been a well-respected scholar too. It just went to show, anybody who was not a Wolf could be a heretic. You just never knew.
Looking through the magnoculars, Ragnar could see the evil sign of the Eye of Horus blazoned across the sides of one of those cloud-piercing keeps. Just the sight of it made him feel sick with hatred and anger.
Focusing on the building showed him the fighting that was under way. Shots blazed from the slit-like windows at the tiny figures advancing across the cratered concrete plain below. Heavy weapons lashed out at Predator tanks. It was hard to judge whether those men there were loyalist or rebel. The banners told no story. They bore a white bear on a blue background. From the briefing he had received before they made the drop, Ragnar knew that these were supposed to be a faction loyal to the Imperium, but that meant nothing. The situation here on the ground was fluid.
Another complication was that every factory keep was an independent kingdom ruled by its own Merchant House, in theory owing allegiance to the Imperial governor, in practice contributing only tithes and conscripts to the planetary levies. Each Merchant House had its own private army, its own weapons, and its own legacy of grudges and hatreds with rival Houses. It seemed that the assassination of the governor and the breakdown of planetary order had given everyone the excuse they needed to start paying off those grudges. This was civil war on a scale that almost defied comprehension. Alliances shifted daily.
From reports they had received it seemed that it mattered less whether a House was loyal or rebel than whether it was prepared to help you smash your hereditary enemies. Treachery was the rule; savagery the law. So far the fighting had been contained on the western continent, and even here there were still large pockets of stability, but as the fighting wore on, it was spreading across the map like a stain of spilled blood. Soon, the whole world would burn, if steps were not taken to prevent it.
“Looks like they’ve got themselves a nice little fight going on over there,” said Sven. “Wish the Great Wolf would let us go and join in.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that the next time I see him,” said Ragnar. “I’m sure he will give you leave to go and sort out the Garmites.”
“Bet he won’t,” said Sven. “We’ll need to stay here and play nursemaid to the Guards.”
Another glance backwards showed him massive cloth-metal pavilions erecting themselves automatically. Mess halls, administrative centres, field temples to the Machine God. Among them he could see inquisitors, spacefarers and soldiers of all ranks.
It looked like the entire paraphernalia of the Imperial war machine was being dropped onto Garm. Rumour even had it that a Titan legion would join them soon. Ragnar hoped so. He had long wanted to see one of these mighty man-machines from up close.
Overhead, Thunderhawks flashed across the sky, striking at distant positions. The action seemed more like a vast tiger unsheathing its claws, a swipe in the air to test its strength rather than a considered attack on the enemy. In time the Imperial tiger would roar and strike. At the moment it lay quiescent, surveying its prey.
“I think I have seen enough bloody snow for one day,” said Sven. “I think I’ll go to the shrine and see if Russ will talk to me. Most likely he will, I reckon. He will say: ‘Sven, you’re a bloody hero. Go out and show this world what Space Wolves are made of.’”
Ragnar was beginning to wish he had never told his friend of his experience back in the holy of holies. He could see he was going to take a lot of joshing about it.
“He’ll say: ‘Sven, if you had a brain you would be dangerous.’”
“I am bloody dangerous, Ragnar. So are you. So is everybody in this stronghold. I just want to know when we’ll get a chance to prove it to the enemy.”
Ragnar looked into the medical sarcophagi, wondering why Hakon had sent for him. The old sergeant lay stiff and unmoving. Gurgling tubes, filled with greenish fluid, snaked from the walls of the ancient bio-magical machine into the sergeant’s flesh. His carapace had been peeled away, giving him a strange vulnerable look. His skin was pallid, like that of a corpse. A metal mask covered one half of his head, hiding the great hole in his skull. The scars on the remaining side of his face stood out even more strongly. Only his eyes looked alive. They burned with fury.
The Wolf Priest nodded to Ragnar, telling him it was all right to speak, and then retired to his duties. A few moments later, Ragnar could hear him muttering medicinal incantations over some of the other patients.
“How are you?” Ragnar asked. Hakon’s lips quirked into a tight smile, but the fury never left his eyes.
“I have been better,” he said.
“You will be so again.”
Hakon gave a near imperceptible shake of the head. “I do not think so, Ragnar. I have heard the healers speaking; there is too much damage for my body to heal. Parts of my brain were blown away. My spine is damaged. I will never fight again. Or walk for that matter.”
There was no self-pity in Hakon’s manner, only truth. Ragnar did not know what to say. Confronted by the magnitude of the sergeant’s loss, he suddenly felt very young and inexperienced.
“I heard you were field promoted,” said Hakon. “That is why I asked to see you.”
“I would have come anyway.”
“No matter. I think you will do well, Ragnar, if you live and learn to control that fury of yours. It’s a great thing in a warrior to be a berserker; it is not such a good thing in a leader. A leader needs to be able to see clearly at all times. It’s one thing to throw your own life away in combat, even if it’s not a very clever thing; it’s another thing to throw away the life of your pack.”
“I know, sergeant. I do not think I am ready for this…”
“No one ever does, no matter what age they are. Do not think that way. I can see you have it in you to be a great leader one day, Ragnar. You are a thinker, perhaps too much of one, and the Chapter has need of men who can think as well as fight.”
Ragnar did not know what to say, so he kept quiet.
“I would have recommended you for Grey Hunter soon. You and your packmates Sven and Strybjorn are about ready for it. It seems Berek Thunderfist has already seen that.”
“What do you mean?”
The sergeant’s voice was soft and rasping, and Ragnar realised there was a certain underlying sadness in it. Hakon was speaking like a man who knows he is going to die soon, he realised.
“I had some doubts, but I do not think Lord Berek has any. I think you are just about ready for Grey Hunter, but I am not totally sure. Because of your fury; it can be a terrible weakness in a man. Berek seems to think differently, but then he always lacked a certain prudent caution.”
Ragnar opened his mouth to say something, feeling that he should defend the Wolf Lord, but Hakon interrupted. “Don’t misunderstand me. The Wolf Lord is hungry for greatness, but he has other virtues that make up for it. He is a great leader whatever flaws he may have and you can learn from him, if you watch him. You’ll learn from his flaws too, if you are as smart as I think you are.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
&nbs
p; “Because I am an old man, Ragnar, and I do not have much more time in the flesh. I can see something in you, Ragnar, Ranek could as well. I am not sure that it is something good, but good or no, I believe you will have a great impact on the Chapter — if you survive. I am trying to make sure that you do more good than harm.”
“I will always do my best.”
“Aye, and that might be your undoing, Ragnar. For you are headstrong and have very distinctive views of what the best is. It’s a failing that most Wolves have, until we get some grey hair and a little sense.”
Ragnar wondered whether the healing potions were making Hakon’s mind wander. They sometimes did that even to men with constitutions as strong as a Space Marine’s. Under the strain of injury even their bodies’ ability to metabolise poisons and drugs sometimes behaved strangely.
“Is that all you have to say?” Ragnar asked.
“No. Despite what I just said, I wanted to tell you that I was proud of you. You were the best batch of aspirants I ever trained at Russvik. Maybe the best I ever saw. See that you live up to that.”
Pride filled Ragnar at the old man’s words. Hakon had always been a rough-tongued man, and never spared a word of praise for anybody. Apparently, he had hidden his true feelings.
At this moment, two Iron Priests entered. Something about their attitude told Ragnar that they had come to take Hakon away. They gestured for him to leave. Hakon saw this and nodded.
“That’s all. Go now, and may Russ watch over you.”
Ragnar nodded and made the sign of the wolf. He could see Hakon flinch as he tried to do the same and his body would not respond. Ragnar halted for a moment then turned to go. As he left the medical bunker, he knew for certain that he would never see the old man again, and that left him greatly saddened.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Whose bloody brilliant idea was this?” muttered Sven, as they slid quietly over the lip of the crater and into the night.
