Stormcaller

by Chris Wraight

  ‘Grey Hunter,’ she voxed quietly, noting the successful connection. ‘I think we need to talk.’

  The primary urban cluster on Kefa Primaris was called Kallian Hellax. It contained two billion inhabitants divided between twenty major hive spires and a heavily built-up hinterland of sprawling hab-units and communal manufactory clusters. The city core had existed for seven thousand years, having been added to and augmented dramatically during nine separate expansionary phases.

  As big as it was, Hellax was only the largest of many such hive complexes arranged across the planet’s temperate zones. No one had ever been able to survey accurately just how many workers lived in the full tally of towers – even the logic engines of the Mechanicus had their limits. However, it could be ascertained with reasonable certainty that the figure ran into the trillions, a factor commensurate with the sizeable levy the planet contributed to the Imperium in both tithes and manpower.

  All of these things Olgeir knew due to the databursts sent over by his escorts on their way down through the upper atmosphere. The statistics were impressive enough, but the actual sight of the hyper-cities emerging through the bands of cloud underwrote the cold facts.

  Hellax was wreathed in night-shadow. Great spikes of adamantium and rockcrete thrust out from the planet’s surface like blades, glittering with electric light and surrounded by a halo of moving aircraft. The entire pattern glowed with activity – furnaces, industrial venting, neon display-patterns on spire-summits, transit-spans carrying closely packed megatrains and bulk cargo streams.

  Hlaupnir had been left behind, hanging far above them in a stationary orbit and still flanked by the same void-fighters that had ushered it in from the outer limits. Olgeir now piloted an atmospheric lander down to the landing stages. Thraid had come with him, leaving Hanek in command of the system-runner.

  As they plummeted, military aircraft in royal blue livery soared up to meet them, dipping their wings in salute as they approached. The escort operation was slick and well organised, just as their orbital encounter had been once credentials had been established. Kefa Primaris, it seemed, was well governed enough.

  ‘Lord, if it pleases you,’ came a pilot’s voice over the lander’s comm, ‘follow the course-markers being sent to your ship’s cogitator. The governor has been informed of your arrival and awaits you in her chambers.’

  The governor: Praesidia Magisterial Lujia Annarovea, two hundred Terran years old, the Imperial authority on Kefa Primaris for seventy-nine. Olgeir studied the data on his pict screen carefully. It was hard to gauge much from the brief bio-note attached to the planet’s propaganda material, but he liked the way she looked in her image – stern, clear-eyed, standing tall in a military uniform of black trimmed with the same royal blue her fighters carried.

  ‘Lead on,’ he replied over the comm, easing the lander downwards and following the angled flight of the fighter wing.

  The tips of immense spires loomed under him, their outlines luminescent with heavy shielding. Olgeir’s lander glided towards a docking platform near the summit of the largest, situated on a narrow rockcrete apron just below a tall copper dome. An imposing Imperial aquila decorated the dome’s facing surface, picked out in golden lumens. Rain bounced and whipped across the exposed apron, where an honour guard of sixty Guard troopers in leather greatcoats waited.

  The lander touched down, hissing gently as shock absorbers contracted. Thraid activated the door-release mechanism.

  ‘Remain here,’ Olgeir told him, extracting himself from the pilot’s seat. ‘No one touches this vessel, no one moves it.’

  Thraid bowed. ‘By your will.’

  Gull-wing cockpit doors cracked open, easing down on long pistons. Olgeir clanged down the ramp, mag-locking an axe to his armour as he emerged into the elements.

  At the end of the twin rows of honour guards, a lone figure waited for him. She looked much as she had done in her pict – silver hair cropped severely short, a thin face, straight shoulders. She wasn’t wearing the ceremonial uniform of her calling and carried no aquila devices on her jacket, but was dressed in some kind of long gown of shimmering pearl-silver.

  Olgeir walked up to her. ‘Governor,’ he said.

  Annarovea bowed in acknowledgement. ‘Lord,’ she said. A slight tightening of her jawline gave away her tension. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’ Olgeir glanced at her gown, and she caught the look. ‘You’ll forgive the dress. Ceremonial dinner for the One Hundred and Forty-Fifth Regiment Kafjian Lanciers.’

  ‘Sorry to call you away.’

  ‘It wasn’t you,’ said Annarovea. ‘They pulled me out three hours ago to monitor long-range augur signals. Something’s inbound. Something worrying. I can only assume your appearance is in connection with it.’

  ‘We need to talk, somewhere secure.’

  ‘I had a chamber prepared as soon as I received notice of your arrival. Please, come with me.’

  Her voice was calm and business-like. Olgeir decided he liked this governor.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Olgeir, walking with Annarovea out of the rain and under the cover of the dome. ‘Though I warn you, you’re not going to like what I have to say.’

  Vuokho powered smoothly under the vast shadow of Heimdall’s starboard flank. Jorundur worked the controls, readying the gunship to dock. The two other Thunderhawks, Grimund and Kjarlskar, had already gone in, their work done and their damage taken.

  Jorundur looked out at the cruiser’s edge, noting the heavy damage sustained all along the facing hull-line. The flickering void shield coverage looked close to ripping away. Intermittent bursts of las-fire still belched out from the distant plague-hulk to test it, but Heimdall had finally pulled out to long range and was spared the full intensity of the vessel’s firepower.

  ‘We have clearance?’ Jorundur asked, watching the marker lights blink on along Heimdall’s hangar edges.

  ‘We do,’ said Beor.

  Jorundur grunted. He’d hung in the void for as long as possible, reluctant to give up the freedom of his own craft in exchange for the corridors and fire-pits of Heimdall. All there was to do on Njal’s ship was wait for news or fresh orders, neither of which appealed.

  ‘Then we–’ he started, then broke off. The comm-bead Gunnlaugur had given him suddenly signalled an incoming feed.

  ‘Lord, do you wish to make preparations?’ asked Beor.

  Jorundur waved the question away, feeding the bead’s input to his helm system.

  ‘Grey Hunter,’ came a message, crackling with distance and interference. ‘I think we need to talk.’

  Jorundur sat back, surprised. ‘Sister,’ he replied. ‘There are easier ways of getting in touch.’

  ‘None so secure. You need to know this – the Cardinal is making his move.’

  ‘He can’t be. We are far from orbit.’

  ‘Klaive convinced him. You need to warn your brothers.’

  ‘Skíthof.’

  ‘Be in no doubt, he will do it,’ said Callia.

  Jorundur quieted the comm and leaned towards Terrag’s station. ‘Run a scan on Vindicatus. Tell me if you detect course change.’ Then he reactivated the link. ‘Why are you telling me this, Sister?’

  There was a static burst – perhaps the germ of a bitter laugh. ‘My service is to the Imperium and the Order. One has gone mad. You are what is left of the other.’ Her voice lowered. ‘He is set on this. It must be stopped.’

  Jorundur checked the augur readings on his console. The Cardinal’s huge warship still occupied its allotted position, holding a parallel vector to the hulk at a similar distance to Heimdall.

  ‘He wouldn’t break an oath to the Stormcaller,’ he muttered. ‘He’s not that stupid.’

  ‘It’s already happening,’ said Callia. ‘Once we’re under full thrust and out of lance-range, you will not be able to overhaul us.’

&nbs
p; Terrag looked up from his station. ‘Detecting power build-up in Vindicatus’s sub-warp drives, lord. It’ll be moving soon.’

  Jorundur exhaled in disbelief. ‘Can you do anything to hold this up?’ he asked Callia.

  ‘There’s only a few of us left. Nuriyah controls the ship, so it won’t be much. If you want to stop this thing, you’ll–’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Jorundur balled his gauntlets, assessing options. ‘I’ll do what I can. Sister, you have…’ He swallowed. It was difficult, even then, to force the words out. ‘My thanks.’

  He cut the link and turned to Terrag again. ‘Can you reach Njal?’

  Terrag shook his head. ‘Not at this range.’

  Jorundur smiled thinly. ‘Thought not.’

  Beor turned to him. ‘We’re cleared to dock, lord.’

  ‘We’re not going in,’ said Jorundur, running a careful eye over Vuokho’s vital signs. As ever, the gunship looked half ready to fall apart. Every time the thing was patched up, it was sent right back into the warzone.

  Just like the rest of us.

  ‘Signal Heimdall,’ he said, preparing to plot in a new vector. ‘Tell them to shadow Vindicatus and not let it out of range. Then run a course back for the hulk.’

  Beor hesitated. ‘The hulk?’ he asked.

  Jorundur nodded grimly. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Njal needs to hear this, so we need to close in again.’

  Morven cleared her throat. ‘Lord, just so you know, I’m required to inform you that we’re in no shape to go back out there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just doing my duty.’

  ‘So you should,’ growled Jorundur, pulling the control column round and dipping Vuokho’s cockpit below Heimdall’s keel. ‘Now get ready to do some flying.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ingvar could feel Gunnlaugur’s gaze on him. He kept his head down and ran along the corridor with the rest of them, not wanting to have it out with him now.

  Gunnlaugur had other ideas. He caught Ingvar’s shoulder, just as they were about to break back into the next intersection.

  ‘What was that?’ he hissed.

  Ingvar shook off Gunnlaugur’s gauntlet. ‘Baldr should have remained on the ship,’ he said, using Járnhamar’s closed channel. ‘I know it, you know it.’

  ‘He’s gone, brother. We still have the hunt.’

  Ingvar knew the truth of that, but it still burned at him. Whatever canker had overtaken Baldr’s body and mind had been beaten: to see all that progress snuffed out, so soon, filled him with a fury born of both pain and frustration.

  An octagonal hub intersection loomed, now populated by the jostling of warriors as they assembled before the push into the core.

  ‘We are shield-brothers,’ Ingvar said, angrily, just before crossing the threshold into the chamber.

  ‘You were,’ growled the Wolf Guard. ‘All there is now is vengeance – fix on that.’

  Then he pushed past, into the chamber beyond, and Ingvar followed. Njal already stood at the centre of it, his huge battleplate streaked with blood. The Rune Priest was barely lit by the clusters of red helm-lenses glowing around him.

  ‘We are close,’ Njal said, turning his head up to the low ceiling, as if sniffing out a scent. ‘From now, keep locked on the main energy spike – that is the target. Gunnlaugur, Fellblade – your packs run with me. We will break through the centre. Bloodhame – stay back and hold the core gate. Long-axe – spread wide through the side-tunnels, sow fear in those that come at us.’ His severe glare swept back to them. ‘They know we are here. Now, more than ever, keep moving.’

  There were low growls of assent from the assembled warriors. They shook the bile from their weapon-edges, keying themselves up for a plunge deeper into the dark. Just as Njal looked ready to lead them in, a crackle of static burst out across the pack-wide vox.

  ‘Stormcaller,’ came Jorundur’s voice over the link, thick with white noise and barely audible. ‘Do I reach you?’

  Njal halted. ‘Speak.’

  ‘Signals from Vindicatus. The Cardinal has broken his oath. His ship is powering up. Ordering pursuit.’

  Njal swore. ‘He has moved yet?’

  ‘Still in position. Heimdall’s preparing intercept.’

  ‘What is Heimdall’s status?’

  ‘Heavy damage. It can fight. Just.’

  Njal’s whole body bristled with anger. ‘Bring him down,’ he ordered. ‘Full sanction.’

  ‘Do you need extraction, lord?’ Jorundur asked.

  Njal looked torn for a second. If Heimdall was drawn too far away or was destroyed, their chances of getting off the hulk were zero. In any case, the Wolves frigate was a poor match for the massive Vindicatus, even without the extra damage it had taken.

  ‘Negative,’ he snarled. ‘We are finishing this.’

  ‘Understood,’ came Jorundur’s reply. ‘The Hand of Russ be with you.’ Then the feed crackled out.

  ‘This thing is not over,’ snarled Njal, turning back to the packs. His staff flickered with slithers of lightning, as if his own rage were spilling out of the dark shaft. ‘We will destroy this place. We will tear it apart from the inside and cast the fragments to the void. Then we will destroy the oathbreaker. He cannot run forever.’ He lowered his staff tip towards the archway, and the skull-head burst into flame. ‘The hunt must be completed.’

  With Njal at their head, the packs loped into the dark, pelts swirling, heads low.

  Ingvar, though, held back.

  ‘Brother,’ warned Gunnlaugur wearily, seeing the hesitation. ‘No more of this.’

  ‘We can’t let him go,’ Ingvar said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Klaive is on that ship. We lose him now, the scent dies.’

  ‘Now?’

  Ingvar backed away, inching towards the chamber exit. ‘There is still time. Jorundur is in close. I can get to him.’

  ‘They will tear you apart.’

  The last of the hunting packs slipped into the tunnels, leaving Gunnlaugur and Ingvar alone.

  ‘We have to do this,’ said Ingvar. ‘You know why.’

  For a heartbeat, Ingvar thought the Wolf Guard would reach for his thunder hammer and drag him to heel. Gunnlaugur, though, did not move.

  ‘Njal will not forgive,’ the Wolf Guard said.

  ‘You lead the pack, not him,’ said Ingvar. ‘You asked for a name. Klaive can give us one.’

  Gunnlaugur remained poised to strike – poised to haul him away and shove him back into the fray. Then, slowly, he relaxed. The need for vengeance had never been questioned, only the means of obtaining it. ‘You are actually serious,’ he said.

  ‘Njal will need you,’ urged Ingvar. ‘Hafloí, too. But let me go.’

  The distant roar of battle echoed up from the tunnels ahead, growing in volume, capped by the stark bellow of Njal’s kill-rage. Gunnlaugur’s helm twisted away, angled towards the battlefront, over to where he belonged.

  He glanced back at Ingvar. ‘Go, then,’ he said. ‘Hunt him.’

  Ingvar bowed. ‘Vaerengi, I will not forget.’

  ‘Succeed. That is all.’

  Gunnlaugur clamped his fist against his breastplate in salute, then followed the rest of the pack down into the darkness. As he ran down into the tunnel, he unlocked his hammer, its head kindling with energy as he disappeared into the endless shadow.

  With Gunnlaugur’s passing, Ingvar felt a final spasm of doubt – a flicker, as ephemeral as the curls of lightning running across the Stormcaller’s staff. There would be no way back from this, nor forgiveness for it.

  This will damn me.

  He drew his sword. Its edge glowed keenly in the dark.

  So be it.

  He broke into a run of his own, heading the other way. Already he could hear fresh movement
in the cloying dark – remnants of the hordes they’d battled through, coming together for the lone, mad soul they could sense heading back towards them.

  ‘Old Dog,’ Ingvar voxed. ‘In range?’

  Another hiss of static, then the link burst back into fractured life. ‘Gyrfalkon?’ came Jorundur’s irritated voice. ‘Not for long. We are being flayed out here.’

  ‘Hold position,’ said Ingvar, picking up his pace. ‘Lock on to my signal – I am coming out.’

  ‘Skítja. Coming out? You know what you’re asking?’

  Ingvar’s helm-lenses were already giving him targets – runes in the dark, zeroing in on hunched shapes in the shadows. He didn’t break stride.

  ‘Surely, brother,’ he said, picking up speed, angling dausvjer for the first strike. ‘This is but the start.’

  The Cardinal hunched in his throne. He had an almost unbearable urge to gnaw on his fingernails. The habit had been with him ever since infancy, and even after so long occupying the high offices of his order, it had never quite been banished.

  There were many other things that ought to have been banished. He should have put aside his appetites for food and drink, for the pleasures of his sensor-shielded bedchambers, for the daily influx of narcotics that stimulated his nerves and dulled his mind. All these things should have been limited, freeing up the time for him to do what his followers expected of him – to be a leader. A prophet. A Prince of the Church.

  The problem was, of course, that since rising to the highest offices of the Ministorum there had been no external pressures on his conduct. None of his retinue would dare to so much as query any foible, much less question an order. He could click his bejewelled fingers and Nuriyah would bring him a fresh platter of cortex-snuff, or a salver of hydroponic-grown grapes, or a wide-eyed youth fresh off the tithe-shuttles. She would never say a word. Ever.

  Who, save a saint, could have resisted that kind of indulgence for long? But that, of course, was the point. He was supposed to be a saint, or something like one. His billions of followers revered him as such, fed by a ceaseless propaganda missionaria and desperate for hope in a darkening galaxy.