by William King
He forced his attention back to the task at hand, pushing forward to the best cover at the front of his retreating force. He waited for the scouts to return. Urlec hunkered down beside him and waited too. There was still a look of challenge about him, but he said nothing. Ragnar wondered whether the man was right to doubt him. He doubted himself, and Urlec would sense that weakness and pounce on it. It was the Wolves’ way.
He caught the scent of the scouts returning. They caught his and moved towards him, sure-footed in the darkness. Swift, confident and full of the blood lust of the Space Wolves.
“What have you seen?” he asked.
“The enemy are there, lord. They have moved to encircle us with at least two companies of heretics. Some of the accursed Thousand Sons are there too, at their head. They have set up wards, and work evil sorceries. The place stinks of them.”
That did not sound good, Ragnar thought. Ordinary infantry men would be easy to overcome with speed and surprise, but the Thousand Sons were Space Marines like his own men. No — that was not true, they were very different in important ways.
They were Marines who had betrayed the Imperium at the dawn of its history and sworn themselves to the service of the Dark Gods of Chaos. They were ensnared by the subtle sorceries of the daemon god Tzeentch and were given over to the study of his dark spells. They were ancient, inimical and steeped in the most profound and subtle evil. And they were deadly fighters. Ragnar had fought them on dozens of occasions, and it seemed that he was destined to cross their paths throughout his career. Some of those encounters had changed the course of his life.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“There are gaps in their line. I do not know if they are aware of them, or whether it’s a trap,” said the scout. He sketched out a map in the dirt, perceptible by the scent trace of his finger more than by the lines drawn. “Here and here are gaps where their patrols have no line of sight. I could crawl between them and not be noticed.”
“Unless they have some spell waiting to be triggered by our presence.”
“Such was my thought, Wolf Lord,” said the scout, squatting.
Ragnar considered his words. It did not matter if it was a trap. They were caught between hammer and anvil. They could not wait where they were, for the dawn would reveal them to their foes. They could not go back, for soon their old position would be over-run. They needed to push through the gap and try to make it back to the safety of their own lines.
“The slaves of Horus,” Ragnar asked. “Do they look towards us, or towards the Guard regiments behind?”
“They seemed to be mostly concerned with us, milord.”
Not surprising, Ragnar thought. They would not want to leave a fortification full of Space Wolves behind them when they moved on. That would leave the chance of a break out, or having their supply lines harassed. They would want their foe dead if they could achieve it.
“It was odd, my lord. I know nothing of such things, but I sensed that they were concentrating their spell energies in our direction. Certainly their witch lights flickered towards us.”
“I think if they were targeting us, we would have known it by now,” said Ragnar. He was surprised when both Urlec and the scout nodded agreement. “Whatever evil they work, no doubt it is aimed at our former position,” Which we abandoned just in the nick of time, thought Ragnar. He offered up a prayer to Russ that the rearguard had already vacated the strongpoints. Whatever the Thousand Sons were planning it would not be pleasant, he was sure.
He thought about the darkness in his thoughts. He recognised it now: it was the effect of an evil spell cast in the vicinity, the seepage of wicked energies filtered into the sane and normal world by the forces of dark magic. It affected the mood of any living thing around it, sometimes so subtly it was not noticed until it was too late. The realisation raised Ragnar’s mood. If you knew what you were fighting, you could resist it much better.
Another thought occurred to him. If the feeling was intense here, what would things be like in the abandoned strongpoint? Far more intense, no doubt.
“How many Thousand Sons?” he asked.
“I counted a dozen, wolf lord, but there may be more.”
“Not many,” said Ragnar. “For a full company of Wolves.”
If the mages were wrapped up in their ritual and did not even know they were there, there was a chance they could strike a heavy blow before the enemy was aware of it.
How swiftly things change indeed, thought Ragnar. One moment feeling beaten, and the next considering swift attack. Such were the fortunes of war.
“I need to know where every one of those bastard offspring of Magnus are,” said Ragnar. He sensed he had the full and undivided attention of the scout and Urlec now. “I want them all dead before dawn.”
Approval radiated from them now, albeit reluctantly from the sergeant. “Pinpoint them all. Urlec, spread the word among the men. When I give the signal we’re going to remind the Chaos loving scum of the Scouring of Prospero.”
Both men nodded and set about their business. Ragnar considered his options. If the Thousand Sons were lost in evil rituals, his men could have the upper hand. What they needed was to destroy the mages, and then cut through the enemy along the line of least resistance. If things went well, they could interrupt the ritual and make it back to their own lines. If things went badly, they would at least drag some worthy foes down to hell with them.
Was he doing the right thing? Perhaps it would be best to try and find a gap in the enemy lines and go through it. He shook his head. No, this was the bold way — the Space Wolf way. The enemy obviously did not know they were here. Surprise was too great an advantage to throw away. The wait for the scouts to return seemed interminable. Every minute brought dawn closer. Every heartbeat increased the chance of discovery. Ragnar forced himself to relax, to wait, and let go of things he had no control over. He checked his weapons lovingly, a ritual that never failed to ease his mind. He fingered the pommel of his frostblade, which brought back memories of Gabriella and the Navigators and his long ago stay on the heart world of Terra.
He let his mind drift towards those ancient events for a moment, and then he snapped back. The scouts were returning. “A dozen, wolf lord, I am sure of it. They seem to be standing in some evil arcane pattern unless I am mistaken. Lines of witchfire leap between them, and they chant in some foul tongue.”
Ragnar nodded, and spoke swiftly, giving orders to the scouts to pass to the squad leaders. No sense in using the comm-net, even locally, at the moment. It might well be compromised. Word would have to ripple through the dark in the ancient ways, carried by sight, sound and smell. He sniffed the air, testing it. He could catch the change in the pack’s scent. Word was being passed, men were readying themselves for the advance. In his mind’s eye, Ragnar could picture them moving closer to all those thirteen points. Suddenly there was a flicker of light overhead, not as bright as a flare but intense nonetheless. Ragnar recognised it as a starship’s shields going into overload and its power core going nova. High above them a ship full of men had died. He would have given a lot to know which side they belonged to. Irrelevant, he told himself. Keep your mind in the here and now.
The warriors of his bodyguard were close around him now. They were the best of the best. He had put himself at the spearhead of the attack for he knew it would make little difference now whether he lived or died. He had done all he could with the plan. Now it was a matter of fight or die.
Swiftly and silently, they slithered through the dark, bypassing sentry devices, stepping over tripwires. Most men would not have spotted them, but for Ragnar and his warriors, the stench of Chaos gave away their position. Suddenly up ahead, through a gap in the undergrowth, he caught sight of a glowing object. He paused and raised his hand. Immediately his men halted.
He studied what he could see, taking it all in with a quick glance. There was a tall, pale staff of yellowed bones, fused together at the joints. At its tip was a skull li
ke that of a horse, only it was horned and had a faint suggestion of the humanoid about it. The skull glowed faintly and lines of fire sprang from it, speeding off to other places where no doubt similar staffs stood. On the bones, crimson runes glowed. The staff radiated an aura of power but what stood beside it commanded most of Ragnar’s attention.
He could see a tall man, garbed in glowing armour that was like an ancient baroque copy of Ragnar’s own. Every centimetre of the armour was either etched with runes like those of the staff or sprouted tiny cast metal daemon heads which leered and moved with a will of their own. The warrior’s arms were spread wide, and Ragnar’s keen ears caught the words of some ancient spell being chanted in the tongue of daemons.
All around the man stood Chaos cultists. They were normal men, though some were marked with the stigmata of mutation. All wore the patched uniforms that indicated they had once, in a better day, belonged to the Planetary levies. They looked gaunt and filled with fear and exaltation, but their weapons were serviceable. Their leader, wearing the shoulder markings of a lieutenant, looked as if he wanted to say something to the Chaos Marine but did not dare. The wicked warrior dwarfed normal humans just as Ragnar or any of his men would have done. The mage’s voice droned on, almost imperceptibly rising, the words tumbling out faster now, as if nearing a dark climax. The air was charged with alien presence and a feeling of dread began to fill Ragnar.
He had no idea what foul ritual was being worked here, but the time had come to stop it. He sprang up and aimed a shot at the sorcerer. The bolter shell smashed into his armour sending him tumbling headlong into the dirt. Ragnar thought he caught sight of a faint flicker of chain lightning along the armour after he pulled the trigger, but did not let it bother him.
“Charge!” he bellowed, gesturing with his unsheathed frostblade. The men of his guard rushed forward. All along the line he could hear the sporadic sound of bolter fire as other squads engaged the enemy.
Ragnar let out a howling war cry that echoed in the woods around them, magnified a hundred-fold. He emerged from the bushes, cleaving at the nearest enemy and separating him from his head with one mighty blow. Moments later he was among the cultists, hacking and chopping, sending another soul to greet its dark masters in hell with every blow.
His men all did the same. They emerged from the tree-line like a thunderbolt, and cut through the enemy as if they were mere children armed with wooden swords. The initial engagement was not a battle; it was a massacre. Ragnar could see their lieutenant frantically demanding that his troops stand their ground. He put a bolter shell through the man’s brain, and his attempts to rally his men ended forever.
“Ah, I might have known the fabled Wolves would show up and spoil everything,” mocked a beautiful voice that carried across the field of battle. “It has always been your way.”
Ragnar glanced around to see that the Chaos warrior had risen from the ground and had unsheathed a darkly glowing runeblade. When he lashed out Ragnar saw Red Eric, one of his bodyguard, go down. The Chaos blade had cut right through his armour as if it were not there.
It was an impressive feat, for Eric had been a seasoned warrior of no little skill. The Chaos warrior’s next strike cleaved through Urlec’s chainsword, and then, with a blow from his armoured fist, he managed to knock the sergeant from his feet. Now the Chaos warrior stood over him, aiming a downward thrust. “I suppose I should thank you for interrupting the tedium of the ritual, and for letting me offer up some half-way worthy souls to my patron. You are certainly more worthy than the mewling, puking defenders of this paltry planet, although if truth be told that is hardly a recommendation.”
Ragnar turned and raced towards the Chaos warrior, intercepting his downward arcing blade with his own. “I don’t care what you think,” he said. “I don’t care what your patron thinks. I just want you dead.”
“Spoken with all the arrogance of a Wolf! But you are no match for the High Mage Karamanthos,” said the Chaos warrior. He spoke with a dramatic flourish, like an actor, and appeared to expect recognition. Even if Ragnar had known him, he would not have given the daemon worshipper the satisfaction.
“It’s a pity you don’t have the strength to match your overbearing ego,” Sparks flared as their blades clashed. The red runes brightened. They fought over the prone body of the dazed sergeant.
“Don’t I?” said Karamanthos mockingly. “Perhaps it is you who doesn’t.”
Ragnar’s weapon grated down the runesword with a terrible scream of tortured metal. As it reached the guard of the Chaos warrior’s blade it stopped, locked in place. The two mighty warriors stood breast to breast, their strength equally matched for a moment. Ragnar noticed the strange reek of ozone and hot metal coming from the visor of the Chaos Marine. Who knew what lay within that armour, he thought, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t anything remotely human anymore. His muscles ached from holding his opponent in place. Perhaps this creature of sorcery had no sinews left to tire. Perhaps it did not feel fatigue. Perhaps it had the unfailing strength of a daemon.
“No, dear boy, you don’t,” the Chaos warrior said and made to move its weapon. Ragnar held it in place. His breath was coming in gasps now. The sorcerer seemed to change his mind and began chanting something — a spell no doubt. With an effort of will, Ragnar extruded the claws in his boots. He stepped back and lashed out with his foot, catching the Chaos warrior behind the exposed knee, where the armour’s thigh and calfguards met. He felt the blades bite home and saw Karamanthos begin to tip over. Seizing his opportunity he sprang forward, avoiding the Chaos warrior’s desperately flailing blade, and buried his own weapon deep in his foe’s throat. The chant cut off completely.
Sparks flared at the point of impact and rose into the night sky, accompanied by a dreadful smell of molten metal, corrosion and rot. Vapour, hot as steam, but far more corrupt, rose too. It was as if the spirit of the ancient sorcerer was fleeing its host body. Ragnar lashed at it, but his blade passed through and the thing began to dissipate for a moment. Then it started to cohere and flowed towards the skull tipped staff.
Ragnar howled in defiance and struck the staff. For a moment the vitrified bone, product of alien sorcery, resisted his blade, but then it snapped. The glow faded. The lines of fire winked out as if they had never been. From various points in the distance Ragnar heard screams like those of lost souls in torment. He guessed that disrupting the focal point of this dark ritual had had no good effect on the sorcerers weaving it. He felt no sympathy. Those who trafficked with dark powers deserved what they got.
He brought his boot down on the glowing skull, and smashed it to smithereens. Immediately the sense of dark presence vanished. He howled triumphantly and his men echoed his call. Then he dived forward into the roiling mass of Chaos cultists cleaving them asunder with renewed vigour. He drove them from him like a hero from some primitive saga unleashed once more into the world. His men followed him forward to victory. Howls of triumph along the line told him that the Wolves had overcome.
Ragnar sat in the main camp of the Imperial forces. The walls had taken a pounding but he could see fresh troops gathering, ready to drive back the Chaos worshippers. The comm-net had been restored. It seemed the Chaos fleet had been driven off and the reinforcements they had been sending down to the planetary surface had let up. His men were encamped below, talking softly among themselves. Casualties had been mercifully light but they did not know about the rearguard, who had yet to report in.
Ragnar knew he would have to send out a search party for them, but now was not the time. The support barrage from the Imperial artillery was already pounding the earth around them. Soon, he would requisition some Thunderhawks and begin the search. He would either find the men, or collect their geneseed to be returned to the Chapter. Such was the way of the Wolves.
Ragnar stretched his legs and relaxed while he could. Soon it would be time for battle again. He caught the scent of Urlec approaching, and looked up, wondering what the sergeant wanted
this time. Urlec gave him a shame-faced smile and said, “I wish to thank you for saving my life, Wolf Lord.”
“It was nothing, sergeant. You would have done the same for me.”
“I doubt it, wolf lord. I doubt that I could have overcome the Chaos sorcerer.”
“Perhaps not today, Urlec, but you will learn.”
“I doubt that on the best day of my life I could. He was the chief of the Chaos lovers. None of the others gave our men such problems. I have never seen anybody so fast or strong as you, my lord. And his blade was stepped in evil magic! No normal weapon would stand against it. I am surprised that even yours could.”
Ragnar inspected the blade. “I am not,” he said.
Urlec stared at the blade as if seeing it for the first time. Of course, he knew of the weapon, but knowing of it and seeing it in action were two different things.
“That is a fell weapon,” he said eventually. “And no forge on Fenris produced it.”
“You are the right,” Ragnar replied.
“How did you come by it then?” The sergeant asked.
“It was a gift,” he said.
“A gift worthy of a primarch then,” said Urlec.
“And yet it came from no primarch.”
“From whom then, lord? And why would someone make such a gift?”
“From a woman whose life I saved, although there was a price. It is a long story,” said Ragnar studying the position of the sun. “And now is not the time to tell it.”
But as Urlec moved away, he could not help but recall it.
CHAPTER ONE
“By Russ, I cannot believe that they are bloody well doing this to you,” said Sven. His blunt, honest, but ugly face was angry. He slammed his new prosthetic fist against the palm of his still-human hand. “There are a million reasons for sticking your head on a spear shaft: vanity, ugliness, brute stupidity and your sheer lack of heroism and charisma, but this is daft!”
