Stormcaller

by Chris Wraight

  ‘To the fight in the open, blade to blade,’ Njal said. ‘That is what we aspire to, yes?’

  Baldr nodded. ‘Where possible.’

  ‘Yes, where possible.’ Njal turned the torc in his gauntlets, studying the script carefully. ‘You still present me with a problem, Baldr Fjolnir. From the stories I’ve heard, a mortal would already have been burned for less. Do I risk you living? All for an extra claw in the pack? Gunnlaugur kept it secret, but will it stay that way?’

  Baldr found it difficult to look away from the torc. The collar seemed to suck in the meagre light around it, making the runes blacker than night.

  ‘If the Cardinal finds out, he’ll come after you,’ said Njal. ‘Once this is over we can go back to loathing one another, but for the time being we need him.’ He held the torc up, looking through its hollow interior at Baldr. ‘So this is a precaution. It won’t kill you. It won’t dull your instincts. Physically, it won’t affect you at all.’

  Baldr felt an almost overwhelming urge to pull away from it, and resisted. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dampener. A null-collar. If you have any aptitude at all, even something undetectable by my devices here, it will quash it.’

  A sick feeling curdled at the back of Baldr’s throat. He’d been surrounded by warding runes ever since entering the Mountain, but something about those on the collar appalled him.

  ‘Is it permanent?’ he asked.

  ‘I can remove it. No others can – it is bound to my soul-pattern.’

  ‘If they tried?’

  ‘It would end you.’

  The collar was slender – a few centimetres thick and perfectly smooth. It would slot between the armour-plates of his gorget and helm, hidden away from view.

  ‘I thought…’ started Baldr, then trailed off.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I thought that the power came from Fenris,’ he said. ‘From the soul of the world.’

  Njal raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘I had always believed… If a warrior had it… I believed that nothing could interfere with it.’

  ‘All strength is finite. Everything can be countered.’

  ‘So, where does it come from?’

  Njal looked at him. ‘Runecraft? Where does it come from?’ His icy irises glittered in the dark. ‘You think you are ready for those secrets?’ He let slip a grim laugh. ‘You are inches from damnation, Grey Hunter. This is not the time to be asking.’

  He held the null-collar up high, rotating it as if it were a crown of conquerors. Baldr tensed as it was lowered over his head. Njal rotated it so that the open section of the torc was at the front. Two dragon’s mouths, intricately carved from what looked like iron, gaped at one another across the narrow gap.

  ‘So you are bounded,’ said Njal applying pressure to either side.

  There was a faint sound of hissing, and the two dragon’s mouths clamped together. A ripple of heat ran across his skin, quickly dissipating. Baldr felt his breathing speeding up, and quelled it. He remained unmoving, his mind working to detect any change.

  ‘You will not feel anything,’ said Njal. ‘If your pack-mates ask, it is a rune-ward. For luck. I see you already carry one.’ He reached for his staff again, taking it up. ‘And that is the end of this. You may go. But you know, of course, that it is not the end. I’ll be watching you. Your pack will be watching you.’

  Baldr felt other eyes on him, and caught sight of Nightwing staring at him from a lone obsidian ocular implant. The raven’s head was eerily still.

  The Rune Priest reached for his staff again, and the wolf-skull shadow fell over Baldr.

  ‘You will never be out of our gaze again, Fjolnir,’ said Njal. ‘Best you get used it.’

  Chapter Nine

  Hafloí watched Olgeir fumbling with the airlock release controls, but the danger had passed. Behind him, open-mouthed mutant corpses twisted in the zero gravity, bumping up against the chamber’s sides.

  That fight had been closer than he was ever likely to admit. In such a dark, confined space, with no room to bring his superior agility to bear, the odds had been too tight. For a long time after his solo kill on Hjec Aleja, he’d gloried in his unrestrained way of war, and looked with some scorn on the older warriors of the pack. Since then, things had become steadily harder. His pack-mates took it all in their stride, but it was becoming slowly clear to Hafloí that there was still much to learn. There were other ways of fighting, not all involving pure speed and strength. Already he found himself wishing to fight in the void again, knowing that his movements would be quicker and smoother the next time.

  For now, he let his breathing recover and watched Olgeir try to gain entry.

  ‘You have air in there?’ Olgeir asked, using the vox-cable again.

  More static from the other side. ‘The what?’

  Hafloí snorted his impatience. ‘Just open it.’

  Olgeir persevered. ‘There is a vacuum on this side,’ he explained to the occupant of the chamber beyond. ‘You have breathing gear?’

  ‘Breathing gear, yes,’ came the response. ‘I’m wearing it. Are you of the Church? What is your ident? What diocese?’

  Olgeir pushed back and raised his bolter towards the door’s locking mechanism. Hafloí, seeing what he intended, moved out of range.

  ‘Get back,’ said Olgeir. ‘We’re coming in.’

  ‘Wait,’ came the voice. ‘What is your–’

  Olgeir fired, blowing up the lock-panel in a blaze of light. Crackles of electricity ran around the hatch rim, quickly snaking out.

  Then he drifted in close again and seized the edge of the hatch door. Gripping with both hands, he pulled. For a moment, the door-bolts resisted.

  ‘A bit harder?’ said Hafloí, enjoying watching the big warrior struggle.

  Olgeir heaved, his power armour servos geared up, and the bolts sheared. The hatch sprang open, blown out by air pressure on the other side. Olgeir shoved the hatch door aside and hauled himself through the gap, working against the rush of escaping oxygen. Hafloí followed him in.

  The chamber was lit by a single lumen lodged in the ceiling. It was less than four metres square and lined with banks of flickering cogitator equipment. Three bodies hovered at the rear, their uniforms ripped and bloodstained. One of them teetered on his feet, swaying uneasily in the zero gravity, wearing a sealed helm and a red voidsuit. He levelled a lasgun at them, backing away and rising as they came in. Olgeir scanned for the man’s vox-caster, and locked on to it with his helm’s counterpart.

  ‘Come no further!’ the man shrieked over the vox-link. ‘I will fire!’

  Hafloí ignored him and moved to study the cogitators, most of which looked operational. ‘Might get something out of this after all,’ he mused.

  Olgeir floated over to the mortal, his hand held open, his boltgun lowered. ‘Are you the only one?’

  The man backed up against the rear wall, his weapon still raised. The bodies of his companions bumped away from him. ‘Get out!’ he screamed. The muzzle shook as he gripped it. ‘Get out!’

  ‘We’re not your enemy,’ said Olgeir, keeping his distance.

  ‘These are augur records,’ Hafloí murmured, running his finger down the tall, boxy cogitator units.

  ‘Leave now,’ the man blurted, ‘or, or, by the Emperor’s will, I will end you!’ As he spoke, he switched the aim of his lasgun between the two of them.

  ‘That is unlikely,’ said Olgeir. ‘Just tell me–’

  The man opened fire. A tangle of poorly aimed las-beams hissed into Olgeir’s breastplate, scoring the ceramite and making the chamber flash with freeze-frame light-bursts.

  Olgeir shrugged off the impacts, pushed himself closer to the terrified man and grabbed his lasgun. With a twist of his armoured fingers he cracked the barrel and pushed it aside. The ruined weapon tumbled acro
ss the room, ricocheting from the walls before finally lodging up against the ceiling.

  ‘Your mind has been damaged,’ said Olgeir, speaking steadily. ‘Hel, how could it not be? Remain calm. We need to know what happened.’

  For a moment the man stared up at him, trembling, hovering halfway up the chamber wall with his boots twitching. Then he reached for the mouthpiece of his helm and wrenched it off. Olgeir lunged for it, but the survivor ripped it clear and threw it away.

  His face went red, instantly bloodshot as the air in his lungs burst out. Olgeir tried to grab him but the man somehow scrambled away, gagging and retching, coughing up blood from a ruptured windpipe. By the time Olgeir had seized him there was no way back. The man looked up at the Space Wolf with anguished triumph in his staring eyes.

  Then his body spasmed, and went limp. Disgusted, Olgeir let it float free, turning gently amid floating dots of blood.

  Hafloí looked on, unimpressed. ‘Strange decision,’ he said.

  ‘He must have been down here for days,’ said Olgeir. ‘Listening to them all outside, trying to get in.’

  Hafloí sighed. Olgeir’s perennial tolerance of mortal weakness could get wearing. ‘At least the hunt wasn’t wasted. We can withdraw these datacores. If they picked up anything before the station was taken, we’ll have it.’

  Olgeir pushed over to the nearest cogitator unit. Faint lights still played across its complicated surface, lost amid a filigree of valves and coolant tubes. Each of the cases whirred and clicked, a constant rhythm in the airless cold.

  ‘Start clearing them out,’ he said. ‘I’ll head back up and vox the Old Dog.’

  ‘And once we’re done?’

  Olgeir looked back over his shoulder, out past the circular hatch where the bodies of the plague-damned drifted in a soup of blood-spores.

  ‘Burn it,’ he said, pushing off again.

  Gunnlaugur strode through the halls of the Halicon. Menials, servitors and cherubim scurried to get out of his path. The Cardinal’s troops were everywhere, refitting and restoring. Golden altars had been hammered down over the older stone ones the canoness had used. Devotional picts of the Wounded Heart had been removed and placed with icons of the Fiery Tear.

  It was good to see the citadel being made strong again, but little else pleased Gunnlaugur. The gold, the incense, the chanting – all of it set his fangs on edge. He went as quickly as he could to the upper levels, shoving his way past any of the robed prelates too slow or clumsy to see him coming.

  Njal remained on Heimdall with Baldr, and the rest of the Wolves had been assigned to kill-teams operating in the wastes. The entire planet had a breathless air of preparation. All knew they would be back in the void soon, though the destination remained obscure. Only one firm message had come in, typically curt from Jorundur – Datacores retrieved. On our way.

  Gunnlaugur had tried to find the canoness to consult on strategy, but her aides seemed to have gone missing. Everywhere he went, the servants of the Cardinal seemed to have assumed the functions of governance, displacing men and women who had stood in position before the siege. It was getting hard to find anyone who knew anything about anything.

  He reached de Chatelaine’s private chambers in the Halicon’s eastern wing. The doors were unguarded, which was strange – there should have been two Battle Sisters on duty at all times.

  Inside, the chamber was empty. The canoness’s desk was piled with papers. Two long glass doors stood open on the external wall, the drapes hanging limply in the afternoon heat. A half-empty goblet of water stood on the arm of a throne.

  Gunnlaugur moved over to the desk and looked over the paperwork. All of it was stamped with the Ecclesiarchy icon, and looked like routine business – munitions movements, resupply plans. He wondered about leaving her a sign to contact him.

  He was about to turn away, when the doors to the chamber swung open again, and Sister Callia came in. When she caught sight of him, she froze.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘I was looking for the canoness.’

  ‘As was I,’ said Gunnlaugur.

  Callia’s gaze darted around, as if de Chatelaine might somehow be hidden somewhere in the chamber. ‘She is not answering requests for audience.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  Callia closed the doors quietly behind her. Gunnlaugur thought she looked hunted. ‘They should be locked,’ she said, and headed towards the nearest of the glass panels. The open panes led out to a balcony overlooking the upper city, and she slipped out onto it.

  Gunnlaugur followed her. The space outside was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a single power armoured warrior. As he stood next to her, Callia closed the glass door behind them.

  Hjec Aleja ran down away from them steeply. From that vantage, the scale of the reconstruction could clearly be seen. Ecclesiarchy-liveried landers were still coming and going in a steady stream. The streets milled with bodies, most clad in carapace armour or the crimson plate of the Fiery Tear. Out on the plains, Sentinels prowled. The noise of reconstruction hammered out from every corner.

  ‘What is it?’ Gunnlaugur asked.

  ‘I have not heard from her in hours. She answers on no channels, not even those private to the Sisterhood.’

  ‘Is she with the Cardinal?’

  Callia’s expression tightened. ‘I have not asked him.’

  ‘Perhaps you should.’

  ‘Where is your Stormcaller?’

  ‘On Heimdall.’

  ‘He should come back.’

  Gunnlaugur gave her a warning look. ‘He doesn’t answer to my summons.’

  ‘Then this is…’ said Callia, glancing up at him. ‘I don’t know.’

  Gunnlaugur waited for her.

  ‘His severity,’ said Callia, eventually. ‘His methods are not those we are used to. We were faithful, were we not?’ Callia’s expression was oddly trusting.

  ‘You were,’ said Gunnlaugur.

  ‘He has been handing out penance,’ said Callia. ‘I have tried to see the justice in it. My instinct is to believe. It is a strong instinct, but… even so.’

  Gunnlaugur sighed. ‘This is your business, Sister.’

  Callia looked at him intently for a moment, as if deciding whether to say more. ‘Why did you wish to see her?’

  ‘I’ve had word from Vuokho. We need to confer.’

  Callia nodded. ‘When I locate her, I will tell her you’re looking for her. She will be pleased. It is what we have all been waiting for.’

  ‘Just tell her where I am.’

  Callia paused then. She suddenly reached up to her collar and withdrew a small comms-bead. She handed it to him. ‘This is aligned to a secure channel, used by our Sisterhood,’ she said. ‘It might prove… useful.’

  Gunnlaugur looked at it steadily. ‘I can use the open vox-net.’

  ‘Please, take it,’ said Callia.

  Close up, Gunnlaugur saw the hunted look in her eyes again. He took the comms-bead, stowing it securely. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Like I said. It might prove useful.’

  Then she pushed the glass door open, and walked back into the chamber. She gave Gunnlaugur a parting bow, and was gone.

  Gunnlaugur watched her leave. As he was pondering what to do next, a comm-burst from Heimdall came in.

  ‘Njal summons you, jarl,’ said Derroth. ‘Landers are dispatched.’

  ‘By his will,’ Gunnlaugur responded, absently, noting the loc-fix of the incoming shuttle. He took a last look around the empty chamber. De Chatelaine’s absence was strange. It was out of character, and it would be good to have her back soon.

  Then he left, heading down towards the city’s landing stages.

  It took many more hours before Hjec Falama was cleansed. Its defenders had nowhere else to go, and so they fought on, grimly clinging to wh
at passed for life.

  As the sun set, a boiling ember in the rapidly darkening sky, the deep dark crept across empty, dusty streets. Shadows swayed and flickered against the remains of old walls, made to dance by the bonfires on every corner. Though the heat of the day was fading, Hjec Falama would remain hot well into the night, warmed by the crackle and spit of crisping flesh.

  Rigal secured the perimeter, sending his men out in teams to patrol. The storm troopers had evaded joining the Fenrisians in combat, keeping to their own disciplined patterns of attack. Bjargborn’s troops had been typically reckless, and Ingvar had hunted with them. Ingvar kept his bolter stowed, using a blade just as the kaerls did. They all killed in the old way – face to face, watching the eyes of the enemy as he died.

  After the killing, they fell back to the central courtyard and sat around fires, wholesome ones, and did what the Sons of Russ always did after battle – ate, drank, told stories.

  Ingvar watched them, holding their battered ration packs over the flames before devouring the freeze-dried gloop and savouring it as if it were konungur flesh. A raw happiness played across their drawn faces. They had all lost body mass since their service on Undrider, but could still crack a grin.

  ‘So,’ Ingvar said, turning to Bjargborn, who sat beside him in the circle of ruddy light. ‘Tell your story.’

  Bjargborn chewed, nodding. ‘Your battle-brother, Jorundur,’ he said. ‘He ordered us to the saviour pods. I ran down from the bridge as the destroyer hit us.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Everything was on fire. It nearly caught me. By the time I got there, most of the pods had gone. I jumped into the last, pulled the hatch, hit the controls. The explosions hit just before the docking-clamps blew, and I thought my thread was cut. Next thing I know, I’m out, and the planet’s swinging round me like an ice-skiff.’

  ‘How many got out with you?’

  Bjargborn’s expression darkened. ‘Half the complement? A lot of us made it down. The pods scattered, half of them stuck out in the deep desert. I don’t know if any of those made it. We had no comms, weapons, nothing. I remember kicking the hatch open and thinking the thrusters were still burning. Then I realised how hot it is here.’