Gunnlaugur backed away from it. The bridge crew cleared a wide space around the empty command throne, opening it up as the air shook and shimmered.
Worm-like slivers of actinic matter snaked across the marble, joining up and twisting into slithering whips of power. The temperature suddenly plummeted, sending a fractured skin of hoarfrost shooting across exposed metalwork. There was a hard, echoing bang, the stench of ozone, then a vivid flash of magnesium-white.
When the blast cleared, two figures stood at its heart. One was Njal, the other was Baldr. Both were covered from head to boot in a thin layer of steaming ice, and residual warp-energies danced across their armour. Njal’s battleplate had brutal rents in the ceramite, as if mauled by some huge beast.
‘Stormcaller!’ cried one of the crew, his voice filled with a savage, unlooked-for joy.
Gunnlaugur had no time to react. His shock at seeing Njal on the bridge was only matched by that at seeing Baldr again. No teleport signal had been detected, and no locus had been issued. The Rune Priest had guided himself, somehow fighting through the vagaries of the warp to emerge, with pinpoint accuracy, back in the world of matter.
‘Did we kill it?’ growled Njal, his voice thick with effort. ‘Does it burn?’
Recovering himself, Gunnlaugur bowed clumsily. ‘It burns, lord,’ he said.
Out in the void, secondary explosions continued to go off, radiating silently like the birth of new and strange stars.
Njal twisted his helm free, revealing a harrowed, fatigue-hollow face. His blue eyes scrutinised the fallout.
‘Deploy the gunships again,’ he rasped from a hoarse throat. ‘Scan for movement in the wreckage. Any signs of life, notify me. Signal Vindicatus and request it remains in contact. Signal the surface and inform the Governor. We cannot relax yet.’
As all eyes were on Njal, Baldr suddenly fell to his knees. His ice-pale face was streaked with blood, and his eyes were glassy.
Before any kaerls could reach him he had crashed to the metal plating, out cold. Hafloí hurried to his side, but Njal held up a warning hand.
‘No!’ he commanded darkly. ‘Do not go near him.’ The Rune Priest turned to Gunnlaugur. ‘The fault is mine. He should never have been taken back.’
Njal stalked over to Baldr’s prone body and stooped over him, holding out an open palm, as if scanning for residual corruption.
No one moved. Gunnlaugur waited with the rest of them, powerless to intervene. They all watched the Rune Priest, not daring to interrupt.
Eventually, Njal straightened. His expression was mixed: grim, marked by a weary, duty-driven reluctance.
‘He lives?’ asked Gunnlaugur, already fearing what the response would be.
‘He lives,’ said Njal. ‘As do I, and that counts for something.’
Nightwing turned its gimlet eye towards Gunnlaugur.
‘But there is no doubt now,’ Njal went on. ‘He invoked the storm. He has the blood of our packs on his claws. I was wrong. I was badly wrong.’ The Rune Priest’s voice was tight with loathing. ‘Suffer not the witch to live,’ he said, bitterly. ‘There can be no other judgement.’
The words hit Gunnlaugur like blows. Such was the iron law of Fenris, and it was just, and sanctified by millennia, but it made the verdict no less hard to hear.
He bowed his head stiffly.
‘As you command it,’ Gunnlaugur said, forcing the words out, ‘it will be done.’
Vuokho came in hard, skidding across the flight deck apron as the thrusters gave out. Just as it had been since the void-battle over Ras Shakeh, the gunship remained on the verge of destruction, held together seemingly by Jorundur’s will and little else.
Gunnlaugur watched it land. The assault ramp slammed down and Ingvar stomped down to deck level.
‘Old Dog?’ Gunnlaugur asked, as the void-deck crew raced towards the gunship with fire-dousing gear.
‘Looking after our guest,’ said Ingvar, wryly. ‘The confessor, brother. I have him.’
Gunnlaugur raised an eyebrow. ‘They let you take him?’
‘We did not ask.’
Ingvar radiated zeal – his hunt-sense was palpable. Ever since Bajola’s death he’d been obsessed with this quest.
Gunnlaugur couldn’t match the euphoria, not any more.
‘What is it, brother?’ Ingvar asked.
‘Come with me,’ Gunnlaugur said, turning and walking towards Heimdall’s interior. Ingvar fell in alongside him.
‘You heard what happened?’ Gunnlaugur asked.
‘We detected the Festerax’s destruction.’
‘After that?’
‘Nothing. Vuokho’s instruments barely function.’
‘Baldr lives. Njal retrieved him.’
‘He’s… How?’
‘I do not know. Njal discovered him at the hulk’s heart. Baldr used the way of the storm.’ Gunnlaugur shot Ingvar a bleak look. ‘It happened again.’
Ingvar shook his head furiously. ‘He was recovered.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Did he use sorcery? Was it corruption, like before?’
Gunnlaugur shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’
‘It means everything.’ Ingvar stopped walking, and gripped Gunnlaugur’s arm. ‘We knew he had changed. It was bound to come back, but what was he like? Was he corrupted?’
‘I know not. Njal has ruled, brother.’
‘I do not care what Njal has ruled! Damn you – he is one of us. What do you rule?’
Gunnlaugur shook his head. The certainties that had flooded back to him in the heart of combat were now dissipated. He knew nothing of the ways of the runes, and that blunted his instincts. ‘I do not know.’
‘We brought him back.’ Ingvar’s voice rang with certainty. ‘We made him whole again. Njal should never have taken him on the hulk. It was too soon, and we both knew it.’
Those words had the ring of truth to them – Baldr had recovered. Whatever had been done to him on that ship might have affected any of them.
‘Maybe so, but it is over now, brother,’ said Gunnlaugur, unwilling to follow the path this was leading down.
‘Where is he held?’
‘Do not even think that.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘The apothecarion,’ said Gunnlaugur, angrily. ‘And when he wakes, judgement will be served. He is guarded.’
‘Where is Heavy-hand?’
‘Inbound on Hlaupnir.’
Ingvar started to walk again, his strides full of purpose. ‘We cannot let this go, brother,’ he said. ‘You brought him back in. He was restored.’
Gunnlaugur went after him. ‘There is nothing we can do.’
‘You said it yourself: he’s one of us. He’s Járnhamar.’
‘Then say it, brother,’ said Gunnlaugur, feeling both cornered and shamed by Ingvar’s fervour. ‘What do you propose?’
Ingvar turned to face him. His grey eyes glittered with fresh purpose.
‘Just listen,’ he began.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bjargborn stirred as the locks to the chamber clicked. Others around him looked up, roused from whatever torpor they had sunk into.
For hours there had been no contact. Heimdall’s structure had continued to creak and crack, though the worst of the impacts had ceased a long time ago. Bjargborn had been pleased enough just to be alive to hear it – the cruiser had evidently weathered a hard period of void-combat. In the dreary hours that followed, however, when no word came down to them of any change in their status, his spirits had flagged. A dour mood had descended across the chamber as his warriors did their best to keep occupied.
The enforced inactivity was enervating. There must have been things they could have done on the ship – repairs to be made, gun-stations to man. They were all experienced soldiers, many of them drawn from
Undrider’s specialist ranks, and they were withering away.
But when the lock clicked, Bjargborn snapped back into old habits immediately.
‘Prepare,’ he ordered, pulling his tunic straight and brushing down his grey fatigues.
By the time the doors opened, the entire space had resumed a semblance of military order, with troops standing to attention alongside the ranks of still-warm bunks.
Ingvar entered, and sought out Bjargborn. ‘Rivenmaster,’ he said. ‘You have been patient.’
Bjargborn bowed. His pulse was racing. He found himself praying for a combat mission. ‘We’re needed?’ was all he said.
Ingvar closed the door behind him. The Space Marine was as brutally massive as ever, but something about his movements was almost… furtive.
‘You should never have been kept here,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Forgive us. The fighting has been hard.’
‘Anything,’ said Bjargborn. ‘We’ll do anything. Just say the word.’
‘How many of you are primary ship-crew?’
‘Most. Between us, there isn’t a starship-system we can’t cover.’
‘A warp-runner will soon be docking in berth two. Its designation is Hlaupnir, and it requires a full crew replacement. It is smaller than Undrider, but burns well enough through the void. We will be travelling on it for some time.’
Bjargborn nodded. ‘I can organise the work details. How long do we have?’
‘Under an hour,’ said Ingvar. ‘Work details can wait. I want your troops armed and combat-ready, then make your way to the hangar straightaway. We launch as soon as the engines are primed.’
Bjargborn hesitated. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Can I ask–’
‘Do you trust me?’
Bjargborn thought back to Hjec Falama. He had been raised and trained to obey the orders of a Sky Warrior without question, and before him stood the one who had delivered them from a slow death in the plague-wastes.
‘It wounds me that you would ask, lord,’ he said.
‘I need that trust,’ Ingvar said. ‘You will answer to Járnhamar, just as before. We are going to be out on our own for a while. There may be other mortals on Heimdall who do not see things the same way. You understand me?’
Bjargborn did. Such things were, and always had been, the way of the Fang. Wolf Lords left for hunts, Lone Wolves split from the Great Companies. The outrider was a part of the Canis Helix’s heritage – the urge to charge off across the ice alone, splitting from the herd and pursuing whatever wyrd had fallen upon him.
‘I understand you.’
‘Olgeir will bring the ship in. Do whatever he commands. We will be loading Vuokho. That will be difficult – manpower will be required. Do not attempt the enter the gunship – it contains sanctioned cargo.’ Ingvar fixed Bjargborn with a significant look. ‘You will be a shipmaster again. That suits you better than…’ He looked around him. ‘This.’
‘By your will,’ grinned Bjargborn.
‘Hlaupnir’s current crew will be discharged. You will replace them. If there is any confusion or resistance, you will end it. No deadly force unless necessary – these are our people. But we will leave on that ship.’
‘Understood. Weapons?’
‘I will see to it the armoury is unlocked within ten minutes. You will do the rest. Take only what is necessary – we are not here to weaken Heimdall. Anything else?’
Bjargborn looked at his fellow kaerls. There was nothing but enthusiasm in their expressions, and that was reassuring. They had survived amid a living, boiling nightmare with nothing but saviour-pod rations and a blind faith that their masters would, sooner or later, come looking for them. That faith had been rewarded, cementing a bond of loyalty that was stronger than adamantium.
‘Nothing at all, lord,’ said Bjargborn, flexing his fingers in anticipation. ‘We live to serve.’
Gunnlaugur strode down the corridor towards the apothecarion. The conduits were not busy this far down – most of the crew were engaged in urgent repair work or the recovery of weapon systems. Njal had ordered a quick turnaround prior to entering orbit alongside Vindicatus. He had much on his mind: the re-establishment of a working relationship with Ecclesiarchy forces in-system, proper contact with the Guard regiments on Kefa, a restoration of Heimdall’s fighting capability.
That was fortunate. If things had been less frenetic, a chance of slipping through the net would never have presented itself.
He rounded the last corner. Arjen, a Hunter of Bloodhame’s pack, stood guard outside the doors. He was helmless, but two kaerls in full combat-gear were with him, each bearing an autogun. The doors were locked and braced, cutting off access to the cell beyond.
Gunnlaugur emerged into the open.
‘No closer, vaerangi,’ said Arjen warily, raising his bolter.
‘Does he live still?’ asked Gunnlaugur, keeping his hands well away from his weapons.
‘No idea. Leave, now. Njal will–’
Gunnlaugur held his ground. ‘He is my warrior.’
‘Not any more.’
Gunnlaugur took a step closer. ‘Just a look, brother. A final word. You would wish for the same, if he were of your pack.’
Arjen aimed straight at Gunnlaugur’s chest. ‘One more step.’
Gunnlaugur held Arjen’s gaze. They had fought together for a long time in the depths of the hulk, but he had no doubt at all that Arjen would fire.
He backed off, slowly, keeping his hands in the open. ‘So you say.’
Just then, there was a crash from inside the apothecarion, steel clanging heavily on steel. Arjen’s head snapped round. He reached for the door release.
Gunnlaugur responded instantly, whipping his bolter from his belt and opening up. Bolt-rounds hit Arjen’s shoulder, throwing him back against the doors with a heavy crash.
The kaerls fired back, and a rain of projectiles pinged and ricocheted from Gunnlaugur’s armour.
Arjen recovered quickly, sweeping his own bolter back into a firing angle. Just as he did so, the doors slid open from the far side, revealing Hafloí standing under the lintel with his bolt pistol already aimed.
He fired twice, sending Arjen slamming towards the far corridor wall. Gunnlaugur pounced after him, switching to fists. As the wounded Arjen tried to right himself, Gunnlaugur hammered him hard – once, twice, then a third time.
Still he wouldn’t go down. Snarling, Gunnlaugur thumped down both balled fists, nearly taking his head clean off.
That finally did it. Arjen slumped to the floor, his face a mask of blood. By then one of the kaerls had already been immobilised by Hafloí, but the second had managed to flee, running down the corridor, firing behind him erratically.
He ran straight into the emerging grey cliff-face of Ingvar’s power armour, and bounced painfully from the unyielding ceramite. Ingvar swung out with a half-strength backhand swipe, throwing the mortal to the deck. He didn’t get up.
‘Swiftly,’ said Gunnlaugur, moving into the apothecarion.
Baldr was restrained on the metal slab, just as on Ras Shakeh, shackled at the ankles, wrists and neck by thick adamantium loops. He was still unconscious, though he showed none of the signs of the Red Dream, nor of the deep sickness that had plagued him on Ras Shakeh. A rune-totem hung from the ceiling above him, no doubt left by Njal to stifle any recurrence of maleficarum, and a new collar had been fitted around his neck to dampen his innate powers.
A lone ceiling panel rested on the floor where Hafloí had dislodged it. In the hole above, ragged edges of cut metal still glowed red from where he had used a melta-blade to gain access from the chamber above.
Ingvar followed Gunnlaugur in, drawing dausvjer as he came. ‘This will be quickest,’ he said, activating the blade’s energy field.
Hafloí moved to cover the open doorway, keeping his bolter trained on the co
rridor outside. Ingvar worked quickly, slicing through the bonds without cutting into the flesh below. As he did so, Baldr stirred.
‘Remain calm, brother,’ said Gunnlaugur.
Baldr looked like he barely understood. As Ingvar severed the last of the shackles, he looked around himself groggily. ‘What happened?’ he muttered.
Gunnlaugur grabbed him by the arm and roughly hauled him from the bunk, righting him to prevent him crashing face-first to the deck. Ingvar seized his other arm, propping him up. The three of them stumbled back into the corridor, supporting Baldr’s armoured weight between them.
Hafloí went ahead, scanning for movement.
‘You need to stand,’ said Ingvar, trying to right Baldr. ‘Can you do that?’
Baldr swayed a little, but kept his feet. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, his speech still slurred.
‘Now walk. Our orders are to take you to Hlaupnir.’
‘Stormcaller…’ started Baldr, frowning in confusion.
‘They are his orders,’ snapped Gunnlaugur. ‘We have little time.’
The habit of pack-command kicked in, and Baldr started to shamble forwards. With every step, a little more fluency returned. By the time he’d reached the end of the first long corridor, his gait was more or less normal.
As Gunnlaugur strode along beside him, he reflected on the risk they were taking. There was no possibility of stealth – they had to brazen it out, trusting to speed, to the servility of the kaerls, and to the fact that anyone likely to recognise Baldr’s armour markings was either on the bridge or engaged in fresh combat preparation.
If that assumption proved wrong, punishment would be swift, merciless, and unavoidable.
‘Keep moving, brother,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to push Baldr along or pick up the pace. ‘It is all you have to do. Keep moving.’
Olgeir strode down Hlaupnir’s main embarkation ramp and onto the floor of the docking berth.
It was still active with refit-teams and servitors. The turnaround he’d been asked to make had been ludicrously tight, even without the added complication of a full crew-switch. Thraid and the rest of the ship’s complement had obeyed without question, of course – they were used to sudden redeployments across the Chapter vessels as the needs of war dictated – but the numbers involved were a challenge.
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