Bjargborn’s detachment were now on board and prepping the ship for launch. Vuokho had been lifted into the vessel’s lone hangar, fuel had been taken on, the engines given a final, though cursory, check.
They were good to go. For all that, Olgeir remained tense. Gunnlaugur’s orders had come with no warning, and though he guessed the reasons for it, that didn’t mean he liked them.
This will damn us. There will be no way back from this.
He heard a heavy series of thuds behind him, and turned to see Jorundur heading down the ramp after him.
‘You know what’s in there, don’t you?’ Jorundur asked.
Olgeir shook his head.
‘The Cardinal’s confessor,’ said Jorundur. ‘That’s our cargo.’
‘Skítja,’ muttered Olgeir.
He checked his chrono again. Any minute now, Thraid would be reporting for duty. He’d be looking up at his superior officer, confused that he wasn’t expected. Data-slates would be retrieved, and discrepancies would be noted. Then it would become apparent that he hadn’t been ordered to leave Hlaupnir at all, and Njal would be alerted.
All it would take would be a lock-command placed over the berth’s void-gate.
‘Where are they?’ Olgeir breathed. ‘If this doesn’t happen soon–’
His comm-bead blinked. The ident-rune was Rasek, Heimdall’s void-deck controller, one of many kaerl officers overseeing the movement of the various gunships and landers stowed in the cruiser’s hangars.
‘What is it?’ Olgeir asked.
‘Apologies, lord. I have word from Derroth, requesting your presence on the command deck. Did you receive it? The Stormcaller is waiting.’
‘I got the message. Tell Derroth we have a problem shutting down the drives on Hlaupnir. It will not take long.’
‘A problem? Do you have sufficient servitor cover, lord?’
Olgeir could sense the uncertainty in the man’s voice. There was no reason for him to oversee any repairs – he was not an obsessive like Jorundur, and there were many more pressing tasks for a Sky Warrior to undertake.
‘Tell Derroth five minutes.’ He cut the link. ‘He will start the process now,’ he growled to Jorundur. ‘The checks will begin.’
Jorundur chuckled darkly. ‘How long have we got?’
‘I’m going on board. We need to get those engines fired.’
Jorundur was about to join him when a set of cargo-lift doors in the nearside walls suddenly slid open. Both of them spun around, instinctively going for their weapons.
Ingvar, Gunnlaugur and Baldr emerged, hurrying across the hangar deck.
‘Let us leave, Heavy-Hand,’ Gunnlaugur ordered. ‘Now.’
Njal stood on Heimdall’s command bridge. Kefa Primaris hung in the forward viewer, far huger than it had been during the final living hours of the Festerax. Its dirty grey surface was clearly visible through the bands of drifting cloud, as were the looming silhouettes of Guard troop carriers steadily making their way back to orbital berth-points.
Wreckage of the destroyed plague-hulk still registered on the augurs. Every chunk was tracked and investigated lest it be carrying some vestige of spoor-matter. Even a tiny amount could still prove ruinous, should it somehow survive the entry into Kefa’s atmosphere.
He remembered the final moments aboard the Frostaxe. He remembered the horror, the chill grasp around his hearts. He remembered Baldr’s fury.
God-marked.
The law was immutable. It was the Chapter’s only lasting defence against corruption. It was whispered among the ignorant that no Son of Russ had ever fallen to the service of the Great Enemy, and that the Rout alone retained the purity of the early Imperium in its Helix-strengthened veins.
Njal knew the falsity of that. Wolves had succumbed, whether through lust for battle, or power, or via the cruel arts of the enemy. Njal knew the tally of such lost souls. He knew their names, and what their wyrd had become.
Vigilance had to be eternal, unbending and relentless. Njal had already failed in that regard once.
I recognise my error. Even I am not above that.
His gaze shifted, passing up from the curve of the hive world to where Vindicatus hung, magnificent even in the wake of the damage it had taken. Callia, its new commander, was a woman he could work with. They were both warriors, and that bred a certain understanding.
That was well, for the war had only just started. There would be more incursions, more contagion-fleets, each one designed to cripple worlds, to sap the strength from the sector defences, to strip the productive capacity of every system between the Shakeh worlds and the Cadian perimeter. More plague-ships were ploughing through the void, and more Imperial vessels were burning across the warp in response. With a ponderous, uncertain trajectory, the war-sphere was expanding. There was no telling how many more hulks had been roused from the heart of the Eye, or what strength of Death Guard still marched across the sea of stars.
And at the centre of it, somewhere, was the architect. The Traveller. The master of the Terminus Est. He was hidden for now, but it would not stay that way forever.
That would be the real test, the one besides which all others would pale.
‘My lord,’ came Derroth’s voice from close by. ‘Did you authorise a launch?’
Njal snapped out of his thoughts. ‘I did not.’
Derroth was standing amid the semi-functioning wreckage of a sensor station, surrounded by maintenance servitors. The forward scanners were only giving intermittent readings, and for the time being the bridge crew was relying on a range of short-scope real-viewers.
‘A docking berth is open. We have an unauthorised departure.’ Derroth looked up at him, shocked. ‘Hlaupnir.’
Njal swept down from his vantage and seized a pict-feed. The screen showed a clear departure vector. The ship was already moving fast.
‘Who is on that ship?’ he asked.
‘Unknown. I just tried to raise them.’
Foreboding suddenly kindled. Nightwing flapped agitatedly on its mount. Njal opened a comm-channel to Arjen, and the link seethed emptily.
Njal swore. He turned to Eir, the most senior of the Wolves still on the bridge. ‘Go to the apothecarion. Take others with you. If they are still there, pin them and keep them alive until I reach you.’
Eir stalked off. Njal didn’t watch him go – he guessed it was already futile. ‘Can we target the ship?’ he asked.
Derroth was already working on it. ‘We’ve barely any weapons left, lord,’ he said, apologetically.
‘Find some.’
By then, Njal could see Hlaupnir for himself through the main forward real-view portal. It was powering away at full speed, curving back round in the void. He didn’t need to run trajectory analysis to know where it was going – straight for the system’s Mandeville point.
‘I can give you a limited macrocannon burst,’ announced Derroth. ‘But the window is closing.’
As Njal watched Hlaupnir thrusting away from the planet, an incoming transmission came in from Vindicatus.
‘My lord Stormcaller,’ came Callia’s voice. ‘We are tracking a rapid acceleration from a ship in your flotilla. Is all well?’
It would not do to have the Ecclesiarchy alerted to division within his ranks. Njal indicated to Derroth to stand the macrocannon crews down. Heimdall was already running on uncertain power – loosing a broadside at his own craft risked plunging the ship deeper into crisis.
‘All is well, Sister,’ replied Njal, working hard to keep the fury out of his voice. ‘Chasing down a few stray scents.’
‘Understood. One other thing: we have received long-range signals from the Ministorum battle-group Rasumova. It will be here in two weeks. There are other markers, but the provenance is yet unknown.’ Her voice was triumphant, as well it might be, given her rapid elevation. ‘Praise the
Emperor. His armies gather.’
Njal’s eyes remained locked on the diminishing outline of Hlaupnir. He knew who was on it.
Their name will be stricken from all sagas.
‘So they do,’ said Njal. ‘We will confer again soon, Sister.’
Njal cut the link. Derroth was still waiting for an order.
‘I can divert power for a single strike,’ the shipmaster said. ‘One shot. I’ve inlaid targeting coordinates.’
Njal considered that. He envisaged the lone streak of energy, lancing through the void. He saw the explosion, tumbling through space just as the Festerax had done.
He almost gave the command.
He closed his eyes.
Hear this, Fjolnir,+ he sent, casting his mind-voice out after the wake of the fleeing system-runner. +You know the precipice on which you stand. You know the depths to which you can fall.+
He couldn’t tell if the message had found its target. Just making the attempt, though, at least gave a channel for his anger to run down.
I may have been wrong about you. We all may have been wrong. But if we were not, and if you fall – then I will hunt you. I will not let my laxity plague the stars.+
His words spilled into the uncaring void.
If the time comes, if the touch of corruption stirs, you know what to do. You still have that power, even when all others fail. Use it.+
The sending finished. All that was left of Hlaupnir on the viewer was a brilliant point of light in the far distance.
Njal watched it for a few moments longer. None of the crew dared interrupt him.
Then, finally, Nightwing extended its wings again, and cawed bleakly. That was enough to break the spell. Njal drew in a deep breath.
‘Enough of this. They are gone.’
He turned back to the command bridge, still in semi-disarray, and faced the thousand tasks that still awaited him. It would not be long before battle called again, and Heimdall would have to be ready.
‘Vox the governor,’ he said, wearily. ‘We have much to discuss.’
Epilogue
Hlaupnir ran smoothly through the warp. Just as they had said, the vessel was fast. Its lines were cleaner than the old Undrider, and it rattled and creaked less as the aether-gales thrust it further and further from Kefa Primaris.
Baldr limped towards the ship’s rather makeshift Annulus chamber – a cramped space set near the rear of the main structure. His body had made a swift recovery from the exertions on Heimdall, though it was hard to shake the images that still crowded his waking thoughts. Every so often, as he moved his head, or when he blinked, the shrivelled visage of the Mycelite would stare back at him. He still saw those dark, sympathetic eyes staring at him in the dark, and felt the clammy fingertips that had traced a line down his cheek.
He still wore the second collar that Njal had fixed on him, and had no wish to remove it. For as long as he wore it, the risk of his power creeping back was dampened. Perhaps, in time, that state would become permanent, allowing him to fight as he had once done – carefree, untrammelled, his mind locked on the physical and untroubled by thoughts of the immaterial.
Perhaps, he thought. In time.
Ingvar was waiting for him outside the low doorway to the Annulus chamber.
‘Recovered?’ the Gyrfalkon asked him.
‘You lied,’ Baldr said. ‘About Njal. I would not have come, if I’d known.’
‘Which is why we lied. The others are waiting.’
‘Why take the risk, brother?’ asked Baldr, staying where he was. ‘You have seen what I can do.’
‘You are one of us. That is reason enough.’ Ingvar pulled the door open, revealing the chamber beyond. ‘There will be a cure. The galaxy is full of secrets. I have seen more than any of you – have some faith.’
Ingvar’s voice betrayed the clarity of a certain mind. Baldr couldn’t share it.
The two of them entered the Annulus chamber. Gunnlaugur, Jorundur, Olgeir and Hafloí were already there, standing in a loose circle around the stones. Fires burned in alcoves behind them, dully illuminating the iron outlines of sacred runes.
‘Recovered?’ asked Gunnlaugur.
They all asked the same thing. It felt as if they’d been enquiring after his physical state ever since landing on Ras Shakeh. That would have to change – he was a warrior, cast in the image of Russ, not some sickly patient to be chaperoned through what remained of his service.
‘I am restored,’ Baldr said, taking his place.
The others all looked at him, each giving away his own thoughts as they did so.
Gunnlaugur had his pride back, no doubt earned in the fiery heart of the plague-hulk. He stood taller, adopting the unconscious swagger of a vaerangi, and the danger – that old, unmatchable danger – had returned to his eyes. Ingvar, too, looked more at ease than he had done. His place had been found again, one of the pack, one of the Rout, and the dark temper that had marred his return had retreated. The bad blood boiling away between them had ebbed, and the prospect of their blades being wielded together in unity was a vision for a hunter to salivate over.
Jorundur and Hafloí had changed little. The Old Dog had spent his time since launch in the repair bays, slowly reconstructing Vuokho and lamenting the paucity of tools at his disposal. Hafloí had been badly scarred by the fighting on the hulk, though he already looked stronger for it. Like a blade tempered in the fire, he was rapidly growing sharper. A few more battles like that one, and he’d be as battered and hard-beaten as the rest of them.
Olgeir was the only one not to meet his eye. Baldr knew the reason – he had ever counselled against Baldr’s return, and for good reason. There was no malice there, just belief in the law of the Chapter. The distrust would just have to be borne, until such time as one of them, Ingvar or Olgeir, was proved right over what had been done.
‘So the step has been taken,’ said Gunnlaugur, addressing them all. ‘We are on our own. Get used to Hlaupnir.’
‘Where are we headed?’ asked Hafloí, his voice giving away his unease. He still had the weakest ties of brotherhood with the others, despite all that had changed since his arrival.
‘Klaive will be our guide,’ said Ingvar. He extended his hand, turning it palm-up to reveal a small golden cherub’s head, less than a finger’s-width in diameter. ‘Soon we will have names, and locations, and access to the truth.’
‘What truth?’
‘The truth of the Fulcrum.’
Hafloí didn’t look satisfied. He turned to Gunnlaugur, as if the Wolf Guard were likely to order them back, undoing everything and seeking Njal’s rare forgiveness. ‘We’re running from the war,’ he said, disapprovingly.
‘There are many wars,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We have a new hunt, no less dangerous than the one we had before.’
‘This is blood-debt,’ said Ingvar. ‘We are bound to honour it.’
An uneasy silence fell. Olgeir said nothing. Jorundur, of all of them, seemed the most content. He had always liked running out on the margins.
‘It will be done, brothers,’ Ingvar went on. ‘Hjortur’s shade cries out for vengeance. It will be restitution. It will be–’
‘Absolution,’ said Baldr, realising at last what was being proposed. ‘A way back.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ingvar, defiantly. ‘If we take this to completion, then why should we not return?’
Again, silence fell. The only sounds were the faint crackle of burning coals and the low, ever-present grind of the warp engines.
‘Then we are resolved,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We hunt across the sea of stars, never resting, never halting, until we claim the head of Hjortur’s killer and bring it back to the Fang. I swear my soul to this, and may Morkai take it if I turn aside.’
Gunnlaugur drew his thunder hammer and extended it over the central stone. The others all did likewi
se, pulling axes or sword-blades from scabbards and joining them in a six-pointed circle. One by one, they swore the vow, binding their souls to the new hunt.
Baldr was the last. With the eyes of his brothers on him, he spoke the words.
‘I swear it,’ he said, feeling the weight of the other blades resting on his.
The weapons withdrew. The braziers continued to burn, the engines continued to growl. It was almost as if nothing had changed, but they knew, they all knew, that everything had.
Ingvar looked at him. ‘This is the beginning, brother,’ he said confidently. ‘This is the greatest test.’
Baldr nodded, trying to believe it. In his mind, though, Njal’s words still rang clear, the ones that he alone had heard, just before Hlaupnir had reached the jump-points.
If the time comes, if the touch of corruption stirs, you know what to do. You still have that power, even when all others fail. Use it.
‘The beginning,’ he replied, forcing a smile.
All around them, the walls of the Annulus trembled slightly as warp-gusts shook the ship. Hlaupnir powered onwards, forging a path deeper into the aether, leaving the Kefa system behind.
Ahead of them, vast and unknowable, stood the open void. Somewhere out there lay the object of the hunt.
For now, though, they flew blind – alone, adrift, and guided only by fate.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Wraight is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Scars, the novella Brotherhood of Storm and the audio drama The Sigillite. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written the Space Wolves novels Blood of Asaheim and Stormcaller, and the short story collection Wolves of Fenris, as well as the Space Marine Battles novels Wrath of Iron and Battle of the Fang. Additionally, he has many Warhammer novels to his name, including the Time of Legends novel Master of Dragons, which forms part of the War of Vengeance series. Chris lives and works near Bristol, in south-west England.
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