[Space Wolf 04] - Wolfblade

by William King

  Just as the thought occurred to Ragnar, the preacher suddenly touched his ear and glanced up. It was not possible he could have seen them, Ragnar thought. But somehow he had detected them. He gestured with his right hand, and pointed an accusing finger towards the shadows in which the Wolves lurked.

  Torin’s finger tightened on the trigger of his heavy bolter. A hail of fire tore the preacher in two. It took his appalled followers a moment or two to realise what was happening. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” said Torin. “Looks like the munitions are over there! Frag them!”

  “Good, I like these odds,” said Haegr. In that moment, with surprising agility, he vaulted over the makeshift banister and landed on the corrugated roof of a hut below. Ragnar glanced at Torin, then shrugged and followed him. Doubtless the big man would need someone to watch his back as he carried out his insane assault.

  Moments later, they advanced into the tight mass of fanatics. Ragnar’s bolter kicked in his hand as he took out first one man and then another. His chainsword sliced through skin, muscle and bone, splattering those around him with blood. Haegr’s monstrous hammer did even more damage as it pulped the flesh of anyone who got in his way. The big man raced through the crowd like a runaway mastodon. It was all Ragnar could do to keep up.

  The fanatics had not realised how few attacked them. Many broke and ran for cover. Others snatched up weapons and let fly into the gloom. Muzzles flashed and lasbeams lit up the gloom, adding to the confusion. Before they knew it, groups were engaged in combat, each believing the other to be some deadly enemy. Others had fled unthinking into the darkness.

  Ragnar proceeded forward, first giving cover to Haegr, then being covered in turn by Torin, as he advanced towards their goal. He rested for a moment in the shadow of one of the huts, when he heard a mighty voice bellowing orders. “Stand firm! There are but three of them. Ready yourself for battle. The righteous shall prevail.”

  Ragnar was astonished. How could this newcomer know the exact number of attackers? There was only one way. They had been betrayed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Bones of Russ,” Ragnar cursed. He glanced around. He could see enemies entering from all sides. They were heavily armed and obviously prepared. They must have been waiting outside the Wolves’ line of approach. In their need for speed and surprise, they had not done a complete reconnaissance of the area. They were going to pay for that now.

  “They knew there was going to be only three of us,” said Haegr.

  Ragnar’s keen hearing could make out his voice despite the background roar of heavy weapons. At that moment their foes were concentrating their fire on the balcony where Torin stood. A glance showed Ragnar that the Wolfblade had already dropped out of sight.

  “They knew when we were going to attack. That means someone informed them - and recently,” Ragnar could see Haegr nod as he checked their foes’ weapons. Those heavy flamers and bolters out there were capable of penetrating even their armour. This was not going to be easy. There was one consolation: in the maelstrom of conflict the enemy could not get an exact fix on them. They might still get away.

  “They are over there, amid the bubble-water shanties,” bellowed the same commanding voice.

  “He has good eyesight,” said Haegr.

  “Or some other means of knowing we are here,” said Ragnar.

  “The holy light of the Emperor’s sanctity will smite the mutant lovers!” As the deep ranting voice spoke, a wave of white light flashed overhead. Ragnar’s hiding place began to glow. “Hear me, I, your prophet, the Prophet of Light, call upon you, blessed Lord, to smite these sons of Darkness.”

  “Look out!” Ragnar shouted, throwing himself forward. Haegr moved, not a heartbeat too soon. Moments later their flimsy shelter exploded in a shower of shrapnel. It was like nothing Ragnar had ever seen, but that did not surprise him. He already had a good idea of what had caused it. A glance confirmed it — a halo of light surrounded a figure of glowing whiteness. It would have dazzled Ragnar had his protective second lid not dropped into place to protect his sight.

  “Psyker!” he shouted, snapping off a shot as he continued to roll. The bolter shell flew true but was repelled by the aura around the cultist. It ricocheted off at right angles. Things are going from bad to worse, Ragnar thought.

  “See how the light of the Emperor’s holy brilliance smites his foes,” the psyker shouted. There was a thrilling undertone to his voice that Ragnar recognised as one of compulsion. No need to ask why these mutant haters helped the person they avowed to despise. Ragnar had seen and heard of a hundred instances like this. Doubtless the psyker claimed that his powers came directly from the Emperor, and they were proof of his holiness for his credulous followers. An aura of compulsion would aid their weak-willed credulity. Knowing how the trick was done would not help him survive it. They needed to find a way out of here, and fast.

  Whips of blazing light smashed through the flimsy structures in which the Space Wolves had taken cover. Tendrils of whitish golden ectoplasm sought them like probing limbs of some giant beast. It was only a matter of time before they made contact.

  As the tendrils moved like great oily serpents of brilliance through the wreckage, hundreds of bolter shells, bullets and lasbeams criss-crossed the air above his head. Ragnar hunkered low, knowing that their enemies believed them to be pinned in place by the crossfire. He glanced at Haegr, who nodded to show he understood. There was only one thing for them to do: attack.

  Ragnar threw himself onto his belly and writhed forward towards the psyker. Ghastly ghostly limbs passed overhead, seeking him out. They looped around, apparently knowing where he was.

  Ragnar tapped his belt dispenser and caught the grenade that dropped into his gauntleted palm. A quick touch set the fuse, and he lobbed it at the psyker. A moment later the explosion smashed into the man.

  Not even his powers could fully shield him. He was tossed backwards off his feet and the glow around him flickered. The ectoplasmic tentacles momentarily became misty. Acting on the instinct that allowed them to coordinate without even speaking, Haegr charged.

  The enormous power hammer connected before his glowing shield could spring back entirely to full luminescence. The psyker let out a groan of pain but gained control once more. Ragnar smelled blood. The glow sprang into place once again although its brilliance varied and strange veinous seams of red ran through it. The tendrils returned and continued to loop down, fumbling for Haegr. It was as if their owner were no longer able to concentrate on two targets at once. So, thought Ragnar, they had managed to do some damage.

  A second later the sorcerous limbs found their target, wrapping themselves around the giant Wolfblade. There was a strange sputtering sound as the ceramite of his armoured carapace began to bubble and melt. Haegr grunted and attempted to break free but even his massive strength was ineffective against the psyker’s power. Snarling, he was pushed inexorably away from his foe. Ragnar wondered how he could help, but realised all he would do was get caught like a fish on a hook. However, if the psyker was killed, then his ectoplasmic tentacles would no longer be a problem.

  Ragnar moved closer to study his target. He was in no doubt that the man was badly wounded. Another grenade would most likely do the trick. He lobbed it forward and it flew true to its target before detonating. This time, however, its effects were less than Ragnar had expected. The blast made the shield dim momentarily, but it had somehow adapted to protect its owner against this form of attack. The psyker did not even flinch this time.

  So much for that idea, thought Ragnar. This heretic was powerful. “There’s more than one way to skin a dragon,” he said, and continued forward, springing from a crouch and launching himself directly at the psyker.

  The man had bodyguards but they were all standing back from him as he used his unholy powers. They were concentrating their fire on the balcony where Torin had been. Ragnar suspected that the Wolfblade had most likely already slipped away.

&
nbsp; Ragnar offered up his thanks to Russ for the distraction, as it enabled him to get a clear leap at his prey and to keep out of the line of fire. His chainsword was in one hand, his bolter in the other. As he flew forward, he fired, pumping shell after shell into the false prophet of the Brotherhood. The glowing shield repelled them all except one. They impacted where the glow was at its faintest, and where the red veins of light were at their thickest.

  One of his shells passed into the glow. He heard a faint, muffled scream. It appeared that the Prophet of the Light was not used to pain. Ragnar intended to show him a lot more of it. He aimed his chainsword at the darkest blotch on the shield and thrust. For a moment he thought it would pass right through, but it met resistance and the glow brightened once more. No matter, Ragnar thought, bringing his bolter to bear on the area of the glow where a human head should be. Even if the shield repelled the shells, he hoped the effect would be like a blow to the helmet. Perhaps the shock would stun and disorientate his target.

  Once more he was rewarded with a groan. The tentacles snaking over him to hold Haegr began to pulse and flex. Ragnar sensed their approach behind him. He sprang to one side as a tendril of ectoplasm passed through the space where he had been. As an experiment he lashed out at the thing with his chainsword. The whirling blades passed through it, severing it, but moments later the thing had congealed together again. Ragnar abandoned this ploy and returned to smiting his original target. He smashed blow after blow into his prey.

  Although their reflexes were mortal, the Prophet’s bodyguards finally reacted. Some of them opened fire. Ragnar writhed. Even the most glancing impacts felt as though his armour had been struck with a heavy hammer. He had hoped the cultists would have withheld their fire for fear of hitting their leader, but he realised that they believed him to be protected by the glow. He sprang to one side, putting the body of the Prophet between himself and the rabble, and was rewarded with the impact of a dozen weapons on the glowing screen.

  “Cease and desist, brethren!” said the Prophet, his voice like thunder. “The power of the Emperor’s light is all that is needed to slay this mutant loving degenerate. See to it that his companions are cleansed from this area. I will deal with this one myself,” Ragnar could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that he intended to make him pay for the pain he had inflicted. At that moment, the Prophet’s followers swept past him, intent on reaching Haegr. The huge Wolfblade had slumped to the ground as the tentacles withdrew. Was this psyker really so confident of overcoming him, Ragnar wondered?

  The glow around the man flickered, dimmed then intensified. This time the tendrils came straight at Ragnar with unbelievable speed. Not even Ragnar’s superhuman reflexes could carry him out of the way. His armour sizzled where they hit him, and worse than that waves of pure agony passed through him from the points of contact. The pain was not the product of the heat, rather of the touch. He was amazed that Haegr had been able to endure it without shrieking. Ragnar resolved to do the same.

  He clamped his lips shut and offered up a prayer to Russ. He sensed a far off, distant supernatural presence. Perhaps it was only a figment of his pain-wracked imagination but instantly his agony diminished. Furthermore he noticed that the glow surrounding the Prophet had dimmed and that a bright red area had appeared over his heart.

  With his chainsword free he stabbed forward. The angle was awkward and he could not get much leverage, but this time his blade successfully passed right through the glow. He could feel it rip through flesh and grate on bone. A snarl of triumph twisted his lips as the glow faded to reveal a man in blood-spattered white robes. A sweep of Ragnar’s blade separated the Prophet’s cowled head from his shoulders and sent it bouncing and rolling into the nearest open sewer. Another sweep of the blade carved the carcass in two.

  A heartbeat later he was amid the bodyguards, attacking them from behind as he came to Haegr’s aid. His blade flickered with electric speed, killing and maiming with every blow. His bolter could not help but find targets amid the closely packed bodies. Step by step he carved a bloody path to his companion. Haegr looked bad. His armour was fused and rent in a dozen places, the ceramite cracked and blistered by the power of the Prophet’s psychic onslaught. Worse still, he appeared tired and drained by the pain he had endured. Even so, he reared to his feet and began lashing about with his hammer. His speed and power were greatly reduced, but at least he was fighting.

  Ragnar hewed his way forward, chainsword carving flesh from bone and severing tendons and veins. He felt a surge of glorious berserker rage begin to take hold of him. A fierce unholy joy in blood and battle surged through his veins. He fought it back. Now was not the time to give in to bloodlust. He needed to keep a clear mind to get out of this desperate situation. It was difficult, but he fought the beast within him, until it was under control.

  He risked another glance up at where he thought Torin was. No sign. He hoped his battle-brother was not on the balcony awash in a pool of his own blood.

  With a savage kick sideways, he collapsed one man’s ribs like rotten twigs, sending him tumbling back into his friends, with blood pouring from his mouth. He drowned in his own blood. A vicious swipe of the butt of his bolt pistol smashed the skull of a man who was clinging to his legs into jelly. He lowered the gun and fired point-blank into the face of another, decorating the surrounding area with a splatter of blood and brain. He found himself back to back with the reeling Haegr, defending him from the onrushing horde.

  All discipline seemed to have been lost by the mob now, which was to the Wolves’ advantage. Had the heretics held their ground and maintained a steady stream of fire, they would have won, thanks to their sheer weight of firepower. However, their desperate desire to rescue their Prophet had undone them. They were engaging in a melee with two men who were physically superior and their casualties were immense. Still, thought Ragnar, it was only a matter of time before their greater numbers told, or someone realised that they should fall back into a firefight again. Meanwhile, before they had the chance to do so, he needed to think of a plan to extricate himself and Haegr from this trap.

  A heavy built man slammed into his chest. He had barrelled through the fanatics and launched himself forward in a mighty bound. He was huge — at least as big as Ragnar and he was obviously used to overbearing his foes through sheer bulk. But it was a mistake this time.

  Ragnar absorbed the impact with a flex of his knees, his armour’s internal gyros compensating for the force of the impact. The warrior reached for Ragnar’s throat, but failed to find the windpipe and so he gripped his neck with both hands. He made a twisting motion obviously intending to snap the Marine’s neck. Idiot, thought Ragnar, as he brought his bolt pistol up to the man’s belly and pulled the trigger. The reinforced vertebrae of his neck could withstand far more stress than any mere mortal man could bear. Ragnar realised there was no way the man could have known about this, just as he would not know that Ragnar’s altered lungs could keep him alive far longer than a normal man, even with the air to his lungs cut off.

  In a blinding flash of inspiration Ragnar knew how they could escape. It was obvious. “Haegr,” he shouted. “Head for the water.”

  The giant Wolfblade nodded groggily, seeming to understand. Immediately he began to smash his way towards the smell of the polluted stream. Ragnar watched his back, all the while whirling and striking to left and right, constantly on the move to prevent anyone drawing a bead on him. Within seconds Haegr was at the bank. He paused, looked back and swung a blow that took down the men closest to Ragnar. Then he tumbled backwards like a man shot into the water. The waves closed over his head and he disappeared from sight. So far, so good, Ragnar thought.

  He angled towards the bank himself. A hail of las-fire was flashing out of the darkness now. Hundreds of tracer bullets seared across his line of sight. Overhead were men obviously intent on killing him at range. They no longer seemed to care whether they hit their fellows, because the fire pouring into the area took a te
rrible toll on the men around Ragnar. Lasfire splashed his armour. A heavy bolter shell smacked into his chestplate and he felt it crack. It was time to go.

  Just then, two more men flung themselves forward, oblivious to the sleet of death about them. They grabbed Ragnar and attempted to restrain him, all the while howling curses and death threats at the man who had slain their prophet. Vengeance was the only thing on their minds.

  Ragnar did not care. He continued to dive forward carrying them with him by sheer force of momentum. Instinctively, he took a huge lungful of air. Moments later wetness engulfed him and the horrid clammy waters closed above his head. He kept a grip on his weapons as he began to sink towards the bottom. The weight of his armour was pulling him down, while the force of the flow carried him away. His skin tingled from the pollutants and poisons. A trail of bubbles overhead guided his eye to where the two men he had grabbed were making their way towards the surface.

  The membrane protecting his eye from chemical irritants allowed him to see fairly well in the murk and gloom. Unless they were using filters, the men above had lowered their life expectancy by drinking the foul water. Ragnar doubted that these death-seeking fanatics worried about such things.

  He looked around for Haegr. There was no sign of him, but Ragnar was not concerned. Unless his armour was damaged to the utmost extremity, its locator beacon would enable Ragnar to find him if need be. It looked as if they had avoided the ambush after all.

  Just as the thought swirled through his mind, there was an enormous tremor, and a wave of incredible force and violence drove him through the water. It took him a heartbeat to realise what was going on. The fanatics were lobbing grenades into the water. Unless he did something quickly, they would kill him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Once more, enormous quakes set the water roiling. Contrails indicated where more munitions were going to fall. They had all been aimed at points from which he had disappeared. None had thought to blast towards where he might be going. But that would soon change. The concussions caused Ragnar a great deal of pain, as changes in pressure smashed into his sensitive eardrums. It affected a Space Wolf a great deal more than it would a normal man.