Eventually, the Rune Priest lifted his head and bared long fangs in a cynical half-smile. ‘Loathsome. But they are here, as are we.’ He turned to Gunnlaugur. ‘So, Wolf Guard. This is the time for tales. Tell me what happened here.’
Gunnlaugur did, leaving nothing out. He told of the landing, the destruction of Undrider, the arrival in Hjec Aleja and the defence of the citadel. He spoke quickly, covering the ground with no embellishment. Váltyr’s death was reported just as it would be in the annals of the Fang. ‘He died with blade in hand.’
Njal nodded in satisfaction. ‘And the other one?’
‘Baldr. He was…’ Gunnlaugur hesitated. ‘Changed. A madness took him. He slew the enemy champion, tore him apart, then we lost him. Ingvar brought him back, but the Dream has him now.’
Njal looked at him sceptically. ‘Madness? The Wolf?’
‘He used… the way of the storm.’
‘And you didn’t cut his thread.’
‘No.’ Gunnlaugur looked defiant. ‘There is no taint now, not that we can sense.’
Nightwing turned its half-steel head to face Gunnlaugur and stared at him inquisitorially.
‘That is not your judgement to make, Skullhewer,’ said Njal.
‘I judged when there were no others to do it.’
Njal considered that. ‘And now I am here,’ he said. ‘Which may be a sign, or it may not. In either case, you will bring him to me for examination.’
Gunnlaugur bowed.
‘And what of the canoness?’ Njal asked.
‘Brave. I trust her.’
‘Good. We have to work with these people. Fenris will not be sending more strength here, not soon. Battle has come to a hundred systems at once and the Great Companies are all engaged. They are even pulling out of Armageddon. We are just the start, the arrowhead before the shaft.’
‘To what end?’
‘That is what we must discover.’ Njal turned to his shieldbearer. ‘Álfar, tell him what we know.’
‘The Cardinal is named Giorgias Delvaux,’ said Álfar, in a voice as cadaverous as his appearance. ‘His power comes from the hive worlds of the Hvar Belt, bordering this subsector. He has issued edicts calling for a crusade and started drawing together what he needs. He commands a Grand Cruiser, the Vindicatus, in orbit above us.’
‘Reputation?’ asked Gunnlaugur.
‘Brutal. Orthodox. Fiercely ambitious, and he has the ear of those at the top of the Church.’
‘That’s encouraging.’
Álfar’s face didn’t so much as twitch. ‘They were unprepared for this. They don’t know what brought plague here, and they can’t fight it alone.’
Njal snorted derisively. ‘That won’t stop them wishing they were. They number thousands, we less than forty, so we must find a means to drive this our way.’
‘What of the Plague Marine?’ asked Gunnlaugur. ‘The one you took from the battle?’
‘He lives,’ said Njal. ‘Just. We have him on Heimdall, and secrets will be wrung from him. We need more, though. The Cardinal will purge this place before taking up arms again, and we need to be faster.’
‘There were deep-void listening stations on the system edge,’ said Álfar. ‘Dead to augur-sweeps, but they might have picked something up before being overrun.’
Njal turned to Gunnlaugur. ‘You still have your Thunderhawk?’
‘Just about.’
‘Use it,’ said the Rune Priest. ‘Anything we can find before they do will give us an edge.’
‘It’ll barely get off the ground,’ said Gunnlaugur.
‘We can fix that for you,’ said Álfar.
‘I’ll speak to Jorundur,’ said Gunnlaugur, looking like he didn’t relish it.
‘For now, though, we have prey to run down,’ said Njal. ‘The Cardinal has this right – this city will not be secure until we’ve purged every settlement, and we can do it as fast as they.’ He reached out to Nightwing, smoothing its feathers absently. The psyber-familiar half closed its eyes and angled its head back. ‘But I don’t want to stay here longer than I have to – the sea of stars calls.’
He looked around him, at the hot, dusty stone, as far removed from the icy wastes of Fenris as it was possible to be.
‘And I already dislike this place,’ he said.
Ingvar picked up Gunnlaugur’s summons soon after the war council had concluded, and headed in from the wasteland to the upper city, passing through streets where reconstruction was already under way. During the first phase of fighting, the Wolves’ very presence had been enough to provoke terrified gapes from the populace, but after witnessing so many horrors in turn, the packs’ power to shock had diminished. Citizens and soldiery bowed as Ingvar passed them, respectful but no longer overawed.
Ingvar preferred that. It was wearying to be treated like a god.
‘Is he as you expected?’ he asked Gunnlaugur once they’d met up at a heavily guarded and blast-shielded entrance to the lower Halicon levels.
Gunnlaugur passed inside, and Ingvar followed him into the long corridor that led to the apothecarion. ‘He is a Priest. What should I expect?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I asked.’
They went down, heading deeper into an underworld of old, musty tunnels. Ceiling lumens were replaced by flickering torches, set deep into the bare stone walls.
‘His anger already burns hot,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘He does not like to be beaten by anyone, let alone a man like the Cardinal.’
Ingvar smiled dryly. ‘De Chatelaine will flay her astropaths.’
They reached the apothecarion’s outer doors. Gunnlaugur pressed the entry rune, and held his face up to the scanner. A red line ran down across his right eye, before clicking off.
Heavy bolts clunked free, then slid open with a hiss. Lumens flickered on in the chamber beyond, illuminating banks of medicae supplies. Most of the shelves were bare – testament to how low materials had run.
‘What would Njal have done if Delvaux hadn’t turned up?’ asked Ingvar, as they entered.
Gunnlaugur made straight for the inner door, disabling the proximity alarms as he went. ‘Killed them all himself.’ He threw a hard glance in Ingvar’s direction. ‘Doubt he could?’
Gunnlaugur repeated the entry procedure on the inner doors, unlocking the medicae chamber beyond. Baldr lay where he had been left – on his back, bound tight to the metal bunk, his forehead clustered with wires and probes. His eyes were closed.
‘I never like to see this,’ said Ingvar.
They moved closer. Just as before, no taint remained on Baldr’s face. He was breathing more deeply now. The cogitator systems, all of them designed for mortal physiology, beeped and clicked around him.
‘What do you think?’ asked Gunnlaugur.
‘That we need a Wolf Priest.’ Ingvar reached for a handheld bio-scanner. He ran a series of tests, checking the results off against what he’d expect to see. ‘He’s just cycling now, held under by sedatives.’
Gunnlaugur rested his knuckles on the bunk-edge. ‘Any advantage to keeping him under?’
Ingvar shook his head. ‘His body’s recovered. He’s as he was.’ He stared at Baldr’s face, intently this time, scouring for more than the faint flicker of eyelids. ‘As far as I can see.’
‘He should go to Njal awake,’ said Gunnlaugur grimly. ‘If he’s going to be judged, he should face it standing.’
‘And what if the judgement goes against him?’
Gunnlaugur drew in a long breath, then looked at Ingvar. There was rare uncertainty in his warrior’s eyes. ‘He’s one of us,’ he said eventually. ‘He’s Járnhamar.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Just do it.’
Ingvar reached for the vial of clear liquid hanging over Baldr’s forearm. He cut off the flow, then pulled the tube
from the flesh. It withdrew with a faint pop, followed by an upwelling of blood, quickly clotted.
Then he reached for one of the last of the syringes, drew a stimulant into it, and found a vein. He depressed the plunger, then discarded it.
Nothing happened. Baldr’s breathing stayed the same, his eyes stayed shut.
‘You think–’ started Gunnlaugur.
‘Wait,’ said Ingvar, his eyes narrowing. ‘He wakes.’
Baldr’s finger twitched. Then his whole hand moved. His mouth opened a fraction, exposing his fangs. He breathed more deeply, making his chest rise.
Then his eyes snapped open – two orbs of amber, marked by the black pupil in the centre, as dilated as a Space Wolf’s eye ever got.
Baldr stared up at the ceiling. Neither Ingvar nor Gunnlaugur said anything – it wasn’t clear whether Baldr could even see them.
Suddenly his hands clenched, pulling at his bonds. His head snapped up, the blood vessels in his neck sticking out. The metal shackles flexed, but held. Baldr stared at them, his gaze wild.
Gunnlaugur took a step back, his hand straying to the grip of his bolter. Ingvar remained where he was.
‘Do you know us, brother?’ Ingvar asked.
Baldr gaped at him. A flash of panic ran across his face. He thrashed against his bonds again, making the bunk rattle in its brackets.
‘Then know yourself,’ said Ingvar, calmly but firmly. ‘You are Baldr Fjolnir, of Járnhamar pack. Of Blackmane’s Great Company. Of Fenris.’
Baldr stopped moving. He looked down at himself awkwardly, as if surprised to see he had a body at all. His head fell back against the metal. He licked dry lips, and swallowed painfully.
‘Why am I shackled?’ he croaked.
The voice was just as it had been, only roughened from lack of use.
‘You don’t remember?’ asked Gunnlaugur, still ready to draw.
Baldr’s forehead creased. He shifted his body in its bonds, and a bone pendant secured at his neck slipped across his chest.
‘This is… Ras Shakeh,’ he said, slowly.
Ingvar looked at Gunnlaugur. ‘Anything else?’
Baldr looked groggy and exhausted. ‘What happened?’
Gunnlaugur’s hand left his weapon. ‘You killed a lot of people.’
Baldr closed his eyes again. ‘Better tell me everything.’
‘You should try to remember,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘There is someone you need to meet. He will have a lot of questions, too.’
Chapter Six
This time, the repairs were made properly. Vuokho was covered in dozens of servitors and kaerls, most brought down from Heimdall following Njal’s return there. The gunship was hoisted on massive cantilevered struts, exposing damage even Jorundur hadn’t discovered. Pipework-encrusted hunks of the engine train were pulled clear, cleaned and restored, before being slotted back in by whole gangs of tech-crew.
‘Pointless,’ Jorundur muttered, watching the progress like a hawk. ‘No need to replace half of this.’
Hafloí snorted, standing beside Olgeir and Jorundur and picking gobbets of blood-clumped dust from his armour. The respite from the work of clearing the wasteland beyond the city was brief, but in the punishing heat of Ras Shakeh’s sun it was welcome enough, even for a Space Marine. ‘You should be pleased they’re doing it.’
‘Heimdall has its own gunships,’ said Jorundur. ‘They could use one of those.’
‘Vuokho’s fast,’ said Olgeir in his even, low-rumbling voice.
‘Do we have a location yet?’
‘The system edge.’
Jorundur spat messily. ‘It’ll be dead, just like everything else out there. Waste of time.’
‘It’ll be hunting,’ said Olgeir.
‘So we’re always promised,’ said Jorundur.
‘Skítja,’ said Hafloí. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’
Jorundur ignored him and looked over towards the edge of the apron, to where the first buildings clustered. Troops were moving all around the perimeter, some in Guard uniform, most bearing the signs of the Cardinal’s entourage.
‘This won’t end well,’ he said in a low voice, watching them march to their stations. Repair work had already started in the inner walls, and dozens of purge-teams prowled the lower city, flushing out infected zones, reducing anything living to ashes before moving on.
‘What won’t?’ asked Olgeir.
‘The Sisters are one thing. These… people. They’re another.’
Hafloí followed Jorundur’s gaze. ‘They can fight.’
‘You know what those bastards would do if they had the stomach for it.’ Jorundur looked at the whelp darkly. ‘We’re devils to them. They’d haul Grimnar up before the Lords of Terra and mind-wipe every kaerl in the Fang.’
Hafloí looked derisive. ‘If they had the stomach.’
‘They’ve tried.’
‘And failed.’
Jorundur shook his head wearily. ‘You look at that cardinal. What do you see?’
‘Fat,’ observed Olgeir.
‘Weapons. A Grand Cruiser. They got here quickly. Very quickly.’
‘When’s that damned gunship going to be ready?’ asked Hafloí, shaking himself down and preparing to leave. ‘If I have to listen to any more of this–’
But Jorundur was no longer listening. He walked over to the Thunderhawk’s carcass, his attention caught by some minor infraction committed by one of Heimdall’s service crew. ‘No. No. Have you ever seen inside a power train?’
Hafloí watched him go. ‘Is he getting worse?’ he asked.
‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ said Olgeir.
Hafloí drew his axe and turned it in his hands. The blade shone in the heat, flashing as it rotated. ‘He needs to fight again.’
‘We all do.’ Olgeir drew his own blade – a shortsword with a sickle-hilt. ‘You won’t have to wait long. Vuokho will be ready in a few hours. We should spend the time well – improving your aim.’
Hafloí bristled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with–’
Olgeir’s blade moved like a scorpion strike, snapping out and latching under the hooked edge of Hafloí’s axe. The axe ripped from his fingers and clattered on the stone two metres away.
‘Always room for improvement,’ said Olgeir, smiling. ‘There are chambers in the citadel that would serve.’
Hafloí retrieved his axe. ‘So be it,’ he said, a dangerous look on his ruddy face. ‘Let’s work on my aim.’
The Plague Marine hung in a holding cell deep within Heimdall’s hull.
Stripped of his armour, he looked like a side of rotten meat. His stomach was grotesquely split, glistening with entrails under a glossy sac. The skin of his pinned limbs was saggy and wrinkled, as if age had sunk deep into the bone. His head lolled against its bonds, marked by a single weeping eye, and his broken jaw dangled loosely, exposing the sinews of his facial musculature.
Njal stood over him, towering in the dark. Álfar was to one side, reaching for another drill. The cell was pooled in darkness, lit only by red lumens set in a distant ceiling. The walls trembled with the close grind of engines.
‘You are resilient,’ said Njal, lifting the Plague Marine’s bloodied chin with a single armoured finger. ‘I could admire that, in a different cause.’
The Plague Marine gazed up at him groggily. His lone eye rotated in a chafed socket, and blood ran down from the torn edges of his mouth. ‘Endurance,’ he rasped.
‘For what?’ asked Njal.
‘Not a means.’ The Plague Marine attempted to smile, and more flesh cracked. ‘An end.’
Njal took the drill from Álfar and looked at it bleakly. He depressed the trigger, watching the spiked bit whirr. ‘So how long are we going to have to do this?’ he asked, the weariness in his voice perfectly genuine. ‘Hours? Days?’
The Plague Marine coughed up a glut of blood. ‘It’s just pain.’
Njal nodded. ‘That it is.’ He primed the drill to the slowest setting, and moved towards the Plague Marine’s pinned fingers. ‘We’ll start with the name Thorslax.’
Despite himself, the captive tensed, his breath becoming rapid and shallow. Just as the blades were about to bite, a chime sounded. Njal held steady.
‘What is it?’ he voxed to Derroth, Heimdall’s mortal shipmaster.
‘The Cardinal, lord,’ came the reply. ‘You wished to be notified as soon as he arrived.’
Njal shut the drill off. ‘Send him down.’
‘By your will.’
Álfar shot Njal a quizzical look. ‘You permitted him to come here?’
Njal shrugged, putting the drill back amongst the other instruments. ‘He’s entitled. Hel, he’s welcome to take over.’ He reached for a cloth to wipe his gauntlets. ‘I did not come here to butcher rotten meat.’
The Plague Marine didn’t seem to hear. Exhausted, his body slumped against its bonds. A few moments later, and a second chime sounded, this time just outside the doors.
‘Come,’ said Njal.
The doors slid back, revealing Delvaux and his black-robed deputy. The Cardinal stepped carefully into the cell, pulling his robes above his ankles to stop the hem trailing through the muck running across the floor.
‘My lord Rune Priest,’ he said, bowing.
‘Cardinal,’ replied Njal, not bowing. ‘I do not know your shadow.’
In the confines of the cell, the physical disparity between Njal and the Cardinal was even more pronounced than it had been before. Delvaux, next to three huge, grisly, blood-spattered figures in power armour, looked both diminutive and flabbily corpulent.
‘This is my confessor,’ Delvaux said. ‘He is called Klaive. Bow to the Wolf, Klaive – this is his domain.’
The sable-robed man inclined his head gracefully. By contrast with his master, the cell seemed to suit him. His pale flesh and neat, precise movement made him the image of an excruciator, and he balked at neither the stench nor the sights.
‘Have you learned much from the subject?’ asked Delvaux, searching around gingerly for the least besmirched place to stand. Álfar watched him with a cool mix of interest and contempt.
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