by William King
Strybjorn sat sullen and grim nearby, unwounded but apparently having trouble controlling his fury. Ragnar understood. Sometimes in the aftermath of battle, he had difficulty remaining calm too, although it had become markedly less common with every moon that separated him from his joining with the beast within and his ascension to Space Wolf.
Things had gone pretty much according to plan. The Rune Priest had spirit walked and mind controlled the men guarding the entrance to the power core into opening the massive armoured gate. The company had poured in, overwhelming ten times their number of foes in a matter of minutes. Surprised panicky men were no match for Space Marines who knew exactly what they were doing. They had been cut down with brutal efficiency. Save for a few officers kept alive so that their minds could be drained of knowledge by Skalagrim, all of the heretics had been put to death, swiftly with a single bullet. Such was the penalty for rebellion against the Imperium.
And there had been a bonus. One of Sergius’s acolytes had been supervising the power core, obviously an important strategic location. Taken off-guard, he had been overwhelmed and blasted into unconsciousness by Skalagrim. When the Wolf Priests revived him, the interrogation would be fierce.
Ragnar surveyed his own body. All of his limbs were attached. He had barely taken a scratch in the attack, and he felt a little guilty about it when he considered the pain Sven was in, and the deaths of some of the brothers. Still, casualties had been light. Only two fellow Marines had gone to greet their ancestors. A few more were so badly wounded that they would be unable to fight for the next few weeks. And the enemy was about to pay.
Even now the massive extractor fans in the ceiling above were whining as they spun themselves down to a halt. The lights had flickered and gone out for a few moments until the emergency power reservoirs had cut in. Soon this whole area of the keep would be uninhabitable. And sooner than that, the massive weapons holding the Imperial army at bay would no longer have the power to fire. The keep had fallen, their enemies just did not know it yet.
“What now?” Trainor asked. He looked a little disappointed. He had not taken much part in the fighting. There was no way he could keep up with the sheer speed and ferocity of the Space Marines. He had snapped off a few shots at his enemies, but compared to the battle-brothers his contribution so far had been negligible, and it rankled. “The heretics will soon assemble a force to retake this place.”
Ragnar smiled. Doubtless even now their enemies were massing troops to strike at them, and regain this vital strategic location. “They will find us gone. And there will be a few nasty surprises for them.”
Ragnar indicated the Iron Priests. They had already seeded the area around the obvious entrances with proximity mines and other booby traps. Those were the least of the nasty surprises that awaited the enemy. Once they penetrated the heart of the power core the whole place was rigged to blow.
“What if they succeed in disarming the main trap?” Trainor asked. “They’ll have this place again, and all your work will have been for nothing.”
Ragnar could not miss the bitterness behind the phrase, “all your work”. “The core is already wrecked beyond repair. Trust me. The Iron Priests know what they are doing.”
That was true too. A few well-placed charges in critical components had seen to that. They had just left the machinery looking as if it might work, in order to lure their foes into the trap. Berek gestured for them to get up. Ragnar glanced at his troops and then at Sergeant Joris, who nodded.
“Get up,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
From a long way behind them came the sound of a chain of explosions. A moment later, the lights flickered and the floor shook, as if the keep had been hit by an earthquake.
“Looks like the heretics found our little surprise,” said Ragnar.
“Maybe it was some innocent locals,” said Trainor.
Ragnar looked at him. “Innocent locals would not go anywhere near that power core.”
Even so, he was a little surprised that the idea had never really occurred to him. He had been so certain that what the Wolf Lord’s crew was doing was right.
Up ahead, Morgrim sounded the silver horn. Its long sweet note rang triumphantly through the corridors. Somewhere in the distance Ragnar thought he heard the screams of dying men.
“Greetings, Ragnar,” said Berek. The Wolf Lord sat with his guard, giving every appearance of being a man enjoying his evening meal. The whole company was taking a rest to eat before returning to the fray. It had been a long evening of marching through the increasingly stale air. Judging by the enthusiasm with which he ate, he might have been tearing a haunch of venison from a roasted elk, rather than squirting nutrient paste into his mouth. Everything Berek did, he did with gusto.
“Greetings, Lord Berek.”
“How went the day?”
“Very well. We passed through the battle at the core with no casualties, and only the lightest of wounds.”
“Very good. You are a lucky one, Ragnar. I have heard men say they would rather follow a lucky leader than a skilled one.”
“It would be better to follow a leader who is both, surely.”
“Aye, such men are rare.” His tone left no doubt that he thought Ragnar was looking at one. For some reason, Ragnar refused to take the bait and say the obvious thing. The silence lengthened, and then Berek gave a loud laugh and spoke once more, “You are doing well, young Ragnar. I do not doubt that sooner rather than later you and your companions will make Grey Hunter.”
In spite of himself, Ragnar felt pleased. Berek noticed his smile. “Go! Eat! Then make ready to leave! In ten minutes we will be on the move again. Hopefully once that apostate priest comes to, we will learn something of importance.”
“Are you sure that is what the Wolf Lord said?” asked Sven for the fifth time. He was as excited as a Wolf brother getting ready for his entrance into manhood. He kept rubbing at the metal eyepiece glaring from his left socket. A rim of scab had formed around it, and seemed to hold it embedded into the flesh. It was a disturbing sight.
“Yes. He said that some of us would surely be made Grey Hunters by the end of this campaign.”
“Did he say which ones?” asked Sven.
Ragnar glanced around and sniffed the air. He did not like this place. Not only was the air unpleasantly still and humid, but it had started to stink of human waste as the recycler systems failed. And underneath it all lay the subtle, unpleasant odour of Chaos that he was starting to become depressingly familiar with.
Sven was not going to be ignored. “Did he say which ones?”
“No — but I can give you a due.”
“And what would that be?”
“He will almost certainly choose from the ones who are still alive.”
“Ha bloody ha!”
Strybjorn came striding up. “I’ve been talking with some of the Grey Hunters,” he said. Obviously Strybjorn had news of some importance. Or at least rumours.
Ragnar was starting to suspect that any place you put two soldiers together in a campaign, you would get three rumours.
“And?” Ragnar asked.
“Seems somebody overheard Berek talking with Skalagrim.”
“And?”
“I am getting to it, Ragnar. I am getting to it.”
“Well, bloody well get on with it,” growled Sven.
“There’s been a big breakthrough on the outer wall. The Guard are in.”
“About bloody time,” said Sven. “After we did all the hard work.”
“The story of my life,” said Torvald gloomily.
“It won’t be long now till the heretics are brought to heel,” added Aenar chirpily. The rest of them divided their glares equally between Aenar and Torvald.
Sometimes Ragnar could not decide which of the two was more annoying, then he saw the cynical grin quirk Torvald’s lips, and realised that he was just rising to the younger Blood Claw’s bait.
“It also sounds like there’s some trouble
two levels down.”
“Yes?” said Ragnar.
“You know, Ragnar,” said Strybjorn, “being made acting squad leader has not made you any more pleasant.”
“Or you any less long winded.” Ragnar realised he was being a bit unfair. Strybjorn was anything but wordy. He was rarely anything but terse, but there were times when his old rival and former enemy’s mere presence just annoyed him, and made him want to needle Strybjorn.
“Let the man bloody finish, Ragnar,” said Sven. Strybjorn nodded and continued.
“Seems like Sigrid’s lads had some trouble with their objective, and had to be pulled out of the fire by two other companies. Berek just laughed when he heard about it.”
Ragnar was not sure that was an appropriate reaction. On the other hand, he had no doubt that if Berek had been the leader of the nearest company he would have gone to Sigrid’s rescue without hesitation. He said so aloud.
“Aye,” said Sven, “if only to have the pleasure of gloating about it afterwards.”
Ragnar glanced at Sven. He had not realised that he was capable of being so astute. “Let’s hope Sigrid feels the same way, in case we need rescuing ourselves.”
“We’re the bad bloody bastards of Berek’s company. What could we need rescuing from?” asked Sven.
“I am sure we might soon get a chance to find out,” said Ragnar, and as he did so a shiver of premonition passed through him.
Joris strode over. “The heretic has regained consciousness. It’s time to see what he can tell us.”
“I want to see this,” said Ragnar.
“You and half the bloody company.”
Without his mask, the heretic looked somehow naked. His face was pale and pasty and his eyes glittered with a mad light. There was no stigma of mutation on him, but he reeked of Chaos and its unholy power. Even bound, and immobilised by the power of the Rune Priest, he looked dangerous. Ragnar was glad they had taken him by surprise, he was not so sure that they would have captured him otherwise.
“Talk, heretic, and your death will be quick,” said Berek. He loomed over the traitor like an angry giant and yet, unlike most men, the Chaos worshipper did not quail.
“Sergius has guaranteed me life eternal,” the heretic priest said. “Chaos has guaranteed me life eternal, but you — you all shall die finally and forever, and after you die, your souls will be devoured by daemons. The Lord of Change will see to that.”
Ragnar had heard this phrase before. It referred to Tzeentch, the daemon god of mutation and magic. Ragnar had encountered others who worshipped the power on distant Fenris, in the caves below the mountain that had become known as Daemonspire.
“We will see how quickly you die,” said Berek.
“You can kill my flesh, but my soul will come back,” said the heretic defiantly. “Sergius has seen to that. I will come back. They will all come back. They are all coming back.”
As the heretic spoke a change came over him. His voice deepened, his eyes glowed. The Rune Priest’s face grew strained, and the nimbus of power playing around his head brightened. All of the watching Wolves tensed and readied their weapons. The temperature around them was sinking fast, and there was a strangeness in the air that made Ragnar’s hackles rise. The heretic’s skin aged visibly, wrinkles appeared where none had been before. His hair grew greyer.
“You are fools,” said the subtly altered voice. “You were lured here to your destruction. The way has been prepared. The hosts have been anointed. Red Magnus will claim back his power from the Spear that wounded him, and all of his sons will return. And then you will all die.”
There was no doubt about it, the man was possessed by a daemon. Already Skalagrim had begun the ritual of exorcism, chanting the words of the ancient litany. Ragnar raised his weapon to shoot. All of his brethren did the same.
“Death waits here. Death for you and all your Chapter.” The man threw back his head and bellowed with mad laughter. A hundred bolter shells riddled his atrophying body. He danced backwards, juddering under the impact, and then came apart. No flesh hit the ground; no blood spilled. Instead only a thick, oily vapour rose upwards and dispersed rapidly, disappearing and leaving no trace the heretic had ever been there.
Skalagrim stood there looking appalled. His mouth was open. His eyes stared into space. The strain of containing the daemon must have been enormous. Or perhaps it was something else. The old man spoke, “I touched its mind. Before it was cast back into the warp I saw a little of their plans. I know where the Spear of Russ is hidden. We must get it now, or this whole world is doomed!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Think this could possibly be a trap?” asked Sven sardonically, as they rushed through the darkened tunnels, following Berek and the rest of the company. They were close to the temple now. The way had been all too open. It was as if all the enemy in the area had been told to let them pass.
Judging by the scent, every heretic in this sector of the keep had passed this way, en route to the temple. What was going on?
What massive ritual was about to be performed, and what had the daemon meant when he talked of Red Magnus? He could only have meant the primarch of the Thousand Sons, the arch-enemies of the Wolves. If that Chapter of traitorous Space Marines were involved something terrible was about to happen.
“The daemon all but told us it was,” Ragnar replied.
“And yet old Berek is racing in there anyway. Makes you bloody well wonder, doesn’t it? Not even waiting for the rest of the Chapter to gather.”
“If Skalagrim is right, we don’t have time! Berek has broadcast the alarm. They will come as quickly as they can.”
“Aye, just in time to see Berek heroically recover the Spear of Russ, or so our beloved bloody leader is thinking.”
“Most likely.”
“You don’t seem too bothered.”
“I notice you’re right beside me.”
“I’m not going to let a couple of thousand heretics stand between me and becoming a Grey Hunter.”
“An admirable thought.”
All around them ran the Wolves of Berek’s company. Ragnar could sense them; the smell of the vast pack was perceptible even through the filtered air of the keep, and the toxic taint of corruption swirling all around. He wondered how it had been possible for the men of Garm not to notice it. The stench of Chaos was so blatant that even a normal human nose ought to have been able to pick it up. Ragnar pushed that thought away. There was no comparison between the sensitivity of what his nostrils could detect and what a normal man could smell. It was too easy to forget that sometimes, which was alarming considering there had been a day not too far in the past when he himself could not have followed a trail by scent or picked out a faint outline in darkness.
It was strange what one could get used to. There had been a time when his sensory impressions had been so vivid and overwhelming as to be painful. Now they were merely the way the world looked to him. He sometimes wondered what things would seem like if he could be returned to his old mortal perceptions. He suspected that the world would seem flat and grey and dull. He did not want that It occurred to him that he would not trade places with his old self even if he was given the opportunity, even if it meant he could get back Ana and his father and the whole Thunder-fist tribe. That thought seemed disloyal to the ones he had lost, but it was how he had felt. Time had dimmed the pain of his memories and let him adapt to his new life. Even faced by the prospect of imminent death, and confronted by the possibility of conflict with the forces of Chaos, he realised he was happy.
Perhaps even because of those prospects. He suspected, not for the first time, that the changes wrought within him went beyond the alteration of his organs and his muscles. He suspected that his brain had been warped too, changed so that he took pleasure in danger, and thrilled to the siren song of battle.
He glanced around and saw the same expression written on the face of his squad. They too were filled with expectation as they moved forward t
hrough the dark, crouched down ready for action as they bypassed the empty strong-points and guardposts of their enemies. He suspected that a similar expression would be etched on the features of every man in the Chapter from Berek Thunderfist on down. Another thought occurred to him. Maybe the reaction had nothing to do with the process that had turned him into a Space Wolf. Maybe it was simply one sane response to a lifetime committed to war in the Emperor’s service. If you were going to fight constantly, you might as well enjoy the process.
The more cynical part of him felt that it was not likely that a thousand men would all respond in the same way without some encouragement. Even amid his old tribe there had been those who loved battle, but there had also been those who fought only when they had to, who had actually disliked it despite all the encouragement of the hero sagas. Many of them had not been numbered among the worst warriors either. Some of them had been stalwart men with an axe when they had to be.
Of course, they had not been surrounded by an organisation that encouraged them to be dedicated to warfare. They had not been chosen to fight the enemies of humanity. They had not known that the fate of worlds, and more than worlds, might rest on their shoulders. And they had not gone through the long process of selection and hardening, tempering and training that the battle-brothers had. Most of them would not have survived it.
Perhaps that was where it came from. Perhaps the process of becoming a Space Wolf was like salmon swimming upstream to spawn in the highlands of Fenris. There, only the strongest and the most determined survived to reach the breeding pools.
