[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour

by Lee Lightner - (ebook by Undead)

  Ragnar leapt forward, stomping down hard on the inside of Torin’s right thigh to pin him in place, and then pressing the blunt tip of his blade into the hollow of his opponent’s throat. “This dance is over,” he growled, his hand tightening on the grip of his sword. “Next time you fight me, try something other than a toy sword.”

  Blood flowed in thick streams down Torin’s ragged cheek and into his thin moustache. He regarded Ragnar coldly. “The fight ended five seconds before my sword broke,” he said. “I killed you, but you were too thick-headed to realise it.”

  Ragnar let out a bark of laughter. “What? That bee sting?”

  Torin pushed Ragnar’s blade aside and climbed slowly to his feet. He pointed at the spot where his last blow had fallen. “Femoral artery,” he said. He then pointed to the cut along the inside of Ragnar’s sword arm. “Brachial artery.” Torin jabbed at a fading red mark on Ragnar’s abdomen. “Main pulmonary artery. Even with the clotting factor, I’d have bled you white about two minutes ago.” He turned away and limped over to the broken half of his blade, sticking up from the sands a few metres away. “You should have paid more attention, my friend. Half a dozen minor blows are just as deadly as one big one.” Torin bent and picked up the battered shard of iron. He frowned, turning it over in his hands. “I had to have this specially made, you know.”

  Torin’s cold dissection of the battle drained all the heat out of Ragnar’s blood, leaving the younger Space Wolf vaguely shamed. “You’re right, of course,” he said heavily, tossing his notched sword onto the sand.

  “Forgive me, brother,” Ragnar said, holding out his hand. “Give me the pieces of the blade and I’ll beg a boon from one of the Iron Priests to have it remade.”

  The older Space Wolf shook his head, waving Ragnar’s hand away with the broken shard of iron. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” he said. “The fault is as much mine as yours. I prodded you on purpose, trying to draw out some of the melancholy that’s gripped you these last few months.”

  “Much as it pains me to say it, Torin’s right,” Haegr said, worrying at a piece of gristle with his fangs. “Here we are back on Fenris, the land of heroes, and all you’ve done since we got here is mope.”

  Scowling, Ragnar turned away, heading for the bench where the rest of his clothes were laid. “The Chapter is at war,” he said darkly, reaching for his wool and leather tunic. “We should be out there, fighting alongside our brothers.” Ragnar thought of Sven, his old pack mate, fighting with Berek Thunderfist’s great company on Charys. No doubt they were celebrating their victory in the governor’s palace even now, while he haunted the stone halls of the Fang like some nithling.

  “Our place is at Gabriella’s side,” Torin said evenly. “We have a sacred duty to House Bellisarius, Ragnar, now more than ever, after the losses we suffered at Hyades.”

  “I hear you, Torin,” Ragnar replied, sitting on the bench and reaching for his dragon skin boots. They were members of the Wolfblade, bodyguards assigned to the Navigator House of Bellisarius by the Great Wolf, in keeping with an ancient pact that was as old as the Imperium. There were never more than two dozen Wolfblade at any given time, and most of those were stationed on Holy Terra, guarding high-ranking members of the Bellisarius line and training their House troops.

  Ragnar, Torin, Haegr and six of their brothers had left Terra more than six months ago to accompany Lady Gabriella, one of House Bellisarius’s highest ranking Navigators, on an inspection of the House’s holdings on Hyades, a jungle world valued for its promethium mines. Once there, however, they had been caught up in the machinations of a Chaos tainted warlord named Cadmus, who had sworn himself to the service of Tzeentch and to the Space Wolves’ ancient foes the Thousand Sons. Cadmus’s schemes orchestrated a violent battle between Berek Thunderfist’s great company, which was patrolling in the region, and a contingent of Dark Angels. The Dark Angels were one of the most secretive of Space Marine Chapters, and nursed a bitter rivalry with the Space Wolves that stretched back thousands of years. The fight that ensued — and Cadmus’s own treachery — claimed the lives of their fellow bodyguards, leaving only Torin, Haegr and himself to keep Gabriella safe. Though Cadmus had ultimately been defeated and the Thousand Sons driven off, Hyades was the first spark in the conflagration sweeping across the Space Wolf domains.

  Ragnar rose from the bench and reached for his sword belt. The ancient frost blade, a relic borne by the Wolfblade for thousands of years and given to Ragnar by Gabriella was settled comfortably on his hip. “It’s just… if Gabriella isn’t safe in the Fang of all places, she isn’t safe anywhere. The Old Wolf needs every stout sword-arm he can muster and we’re being wasted here.”

  Torin gave Ragnar a probing look as he settled a heavy bearskin cloak around his shoulders. The months on Fenris had changed Torin somewhat. On Terra the Space Wolf had adopted many of the fashionable airs of the local aristocracy. When Ragnar had first met him, his hair was cut short and his moustache trimmed pencil-thin, in the Terran fashion. Now, his hair was growing out again, and bore none of the scent of perfumed pomade he’d favoured among the Imperial elite. His ability to read people, however, was just as sharp as ever. “This isn’t about doing your duty as a Space Wolf. This is about the Spear of Russ.”

  The observation stung Ragnar. Though assignment to the Wolfblade was ostensibly a posting of great honour, most Space Wolves saw it as a form of exile, far from the glory of the battlefield. Ragnar could not see it any other way. He had been sent to Terra by Logan Grimnar after he had lost one of the Chapter’s most sacred relics: the Spear of Russ. Once wielded in battle by the primarch, in the glory days of the Great Crusade, it had been kept for millennia at a sacred shrine on the planet Garm, waiting for the day Russ would return for the Last Battle. But an arch-heretic named Sergius had stolen the spear during a bloody uprising on Garm, and Ragnar, then a Blood Claw in Berek Thunderfist’s great company, had been among the warriors sent to crush the revolt. After numerous battles, Ragnar came face-to-face with his old nemesis Madox, who had manipulated Sergius into taking the spear in an effort to summon Magnus the Red, his Legion’s infernal primarch, into the physical realm.

  The foul sorcerer nearly succeeded, but just as Magnus began to cross the threshold from the depths of the warp, Ragnar seized the spear from Sergius and hurled the legendary weapon at the fearsome primarch. The spear struck Magnus like a thunderbolt and the daemon prince was hurled back into the raging maelstrom of the warp. Garm had been saved, but the Spear of Russ had been lost, possibly forever.

  He’d had no choice. Ragnar knew this. Even the Old Wolf had once told him that he would have done the very same thing had he been in Ragnar’s place. That didn’t change the fact that he’d betrayed a sacred oath that the Chapter had sworn to their primarch nearly ten millennia ago. To the people of Fenris there were few things more terrible than an oathbreaker, and the realisation haunted him.

  The young Space Wolf shook his head, dragging blunt fingers through his tangled mane of black hair and probing at the cut on his scalp. Unlike Torin or Haegr his square chin was clean-shaven, in the custom of the Blood Claws. A Space Wolf grew his beard only after being accepted into the Grey Hunters or the Wolf Scouts, and those avenues had been closed to him when he’d been sent away to Terra.

  “The spear is gone, Torin,” Ragnar said at last. “I know this. It’s just… I haven’t been sleeping lately. That’s all.”

  “Ha! Clearly you haven’t been drinking enough,” Haegr interjected, raising his massive ale horn. “A cask of ale and a good brawl is what you need, Ragnar my lad! Why don’t we go to the mead hall and see what we can find, eh?”

  Ragnar stole a glance at Torin. The older Space Wolf seemed unconvinced by Ragnar’s clumsy evasion. “I’ve had enough of waiting, brothers,” he said gravely. “I’m going to speak to the Old Wolf and demand he send me to the battle line.”

  “Demand?” Haegr repeated, his expression incredulous. The massive Space Wolf
threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Did you hear that, Torin? The cub thinks to command Logan Grimnar!” Haegr’s huge face split in a ferocious grin. “The Old Wolf will hit you so hard Russ himself will feel it!”

  Ragnar felt a flush of anger rise to his cheeks. Before he could reply, however, the vox-bead behind his right ear hummed, and Gabriella’s calm, quiet voice filled his head. “Ragnar, I would have you attend upon me, please.”

  The young Space Wolf paused, mastering his temper. He reached back to the vox-bead. “As you wish, my lady,” he answered grimly. Perhaps for the last time. “Where will I find you?”

  “In the Great Wolfs council chamber,” Gabriella replied. “A ship has arrived from Charys bearing grave news, and there is much to be discussed.”

  A cold sense of foreboding prickled the hairs on the back of Ragnar’s neck. “I’ll be there at once,” he replied.

  Torin watched the change in Ragnar’s expression. “What’s happened, brother?” he asked.

  The young Space Wolf could only shake his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I fear it’s something terrible.”

  White sunlight flooded the Great Wolfs council chamber. The armoured shutters had been drawn back from the tall windows that dominated the east side of the large room, providing a panoramic view of the cloud wrapped Asaheim range and the distant, iron-grey sea. Fenris was swinging close to the Wolf’s Eye once more, ending the harsh winter and heralding the even harsher Time of Fire. The rising temperatures had banished the heavy overcast and the clinging mist that enfolded the Fang for much of the year, and for a short time Ragnar knew that the seas would be mild and relatively free from storms. The kraken would rise from the deeps, and the people of Fenris would take to the sea in their long ships to hunt and to fight. The Iron Season, Ragnar recalled, a time of feasting and of battle, of betrothals and births: a time for offering sacrifices to the gods who watch from the clouds.

  Logan Grimnar was standing before one of those tall windows as Ragnar entered the room, his wide hands clasped behind his back as he brooded upon the unsuspecting world below. The Great Wolf was in his armour, his shoulders wrapped in a cloak of sea-dragon scales. Runic charms and wolves’ teeth were woven into the thick braids of his iron-grey hair, and parchment ribbons from hundreds of major campaigns fluttered like raven’s feathers from his scarred grey and yellow pauldrons. Old and fierce, as indomitable as the Fang itself, some said that Logan Grimnar was the greatest living warrior in the Imperium, and Ragnar could not help but feel awed by his presence. Nearly a dozen other Space Wolves stood around the council table, mighty priests or members of Logan’s Wolf Guard, each one a towering figure in his own right.

  At once, Ragnar caught a familiar scent among the fearsome Wolves and searched among the crowded warriors for its source. Lady Gabriella, Master Navigator of House Bellisarius, sat in a high-backed wooden chair at the far side of the table, studying the assembly over slim, steepled fingers. She wore the dark dress uniform of her House, ornamented with epaulettes and polished gold buttons fashioned with the wolf-and-eye symbol of Bellisarius. Medals and ceremonial braid covered the front of her jacket, proclaiming her personal achievements and the great deeds of her household, and a small pistol and a gracefully curved sabre hung from a belt around her narrow waist. Her long black hair had been bound up in glossy braids that hung about her narrow shoulders and framed her severe, angular face. A scarf of black silk covered the Navigator’s high forehead, concealing the pineal eye that was the source of her psychic talents.

  Gabriella turned her head slightly as Ragnar’s gaze fell upon her and nodded a curt greeting. Then she rested her hands in her lap and turned her attention back to the Great Wolf.

  Ragnar stepped forward and knelt before Grimnar. “Lady Gabriella said a ship has come from Charys bearing news,” he said without preamble. “What has happened? Why didn’t the astropaths—”

  “According to the Lady Gabriella, you encountered the Chaos sorcerer Madox on Hyades,” the Great Wolf said, cutting Ragnar off. “What did he say to you?”

  The question took the young Space Wolf aback. “We did not meet face to face,” he replied. “He only revealed himself through one of his minions, just as we were about to leave the planet.”

  “And?” Logan growled.

  “He said his men were going to kill us,” Ragnar said with a shrug.

  Grimnar turned, fixing the young Space Wolf with an icy gaze. “What of the Spear of Russ? Did he say anything about it?”

  Ragnar frowned. “No, lord, he didn’t. The traitor Cadmus, however, claimed that Madox was seeking a relic that was a crucial component of a ritual he sought to perform, a ritual that also depended upon Space Marine gene-seed.” A chill raced down Ragnar’s spine. “This was all in my earlier report. What is all this about?”

  “Madox has been sighted on Charys, lad,” spoke a voice beside the council table. Ragnar turned to meet the gaze of Ranek, the great Wolf Priest. “He has the Spear of Russ with him.”

  Ragnar leapt to his feet, startled by the news. “The Spear!” he said, forgetting himself. Russ be praised, he thought, perhaps all is not lost.

  “This is hardly a cause for celebration, lad!” Ranek snapped. “Now the full scope of the Chaos incursion becomes clear.”

  “How so?” Ragnar asked.

  Ranek reached down and touched a rune at the edge of the council table. A hololith mounted in the table-top glowed to life, creating a detailed star map of the sector. Fenris lay near the centre of the map. Systems currently under attack or in revolt shone brighter than the rest. Minor attacks or incursions were coloured yellow, while major attacks were red. Ragnar was shocked to see that more than thirty systems were affected.

  “We have been studying the pattern of the Chaos incursion since it began,” the Wolf Priest said, “trying to ascertain their ultimate objective. Many of the initial uprisings made sense from a military standpoint: forge worlds, industrialised hive-worlds and trade centres, attacks designed to sow confusion and cripple our ability to respond. But many others confounded us.” He pointed to a pulsing red system. “Ceta Pavonis, an airless rock occupied by gangs of pirates and slavers. Or here: Grendel IV, an old world all but abandoned three centuries ago when the last of its radium mines played out. Even Charys is nothing more than a minor agri-world, with little strategic value other than its proximity to Fenris. Yet, in each of these places there are major uprisings and reported sightings of Chaos Marines.”

  Ragnar considered this. “Diversions,” he concluded, “meant to draw our attention from the true objective. What else could they be?”

  Ranek gave the young Space Wolf an appraising look. “What, indeed? We wondered much the same thing.” The Wolf Priest shrugged. “If they were meant as diversions, then our foes chose poorly. There are far more important systems that require our protection. But we know that our enemies are not fools, however much we would like to believe otherwise. There was a plan at work here, but we could not see it at first.” Ranek gestured at the collection of Rune Priests standing quietly around the table. “The runes were consulted, and they suggested we seek a new point of view on the problem.”

  The young Space Wolf turned, pensive. “Well, I’m not sure how much help I will be, but if you think I can be of use—”

  A melodious laugh rose from the far side of the table, and in moments the assembled Space Wolves joined in, breaking the tension in the room. Gabriella covered her mouth with one pale hand, her human eyes twinkling with mirth. “Ranek was referring to me,” she said, not unkindly. “He and the Great Wolf thought I might see a pattern where a warrior might not.”

  Ragnar fought to control the flush rising to his cheeks. “Ah, of course,” he said quickly, “and were you successful?”

  Gabriella’s angular features turned sober once more. “Unfortunately, yes,” she said. She turned to Ranek. “If you will permit me…”

  “Of course, lady,” the Wolf Priest said, stepping away
from the table.

  Gabriella rose from her chair and stepped over to the hololith controls. “The problem was that everyone was viewing the incursion as a military campaign, not unlike a Black Crusade,” she said. “As Ranek said, nearly all of the minor targets had military value, but if we just focus on the areas with a major Chaos presence, we are left with this.” She touched a rune and the yellow indicators faded from view, leaving thirteen systems scattered in a roughly spherical arrangement around Fenris.

  Ragnar studied each of the systems in turn. “None of these are major military or industrial targets,” he said, a puzzled look on their face.

  “Indeed,” she said, “but, being a Navigator, another prospect suggested itself to me: what if the systems weren’t important because of what they were, but rather, where they were?”

  Gabriella touched another rune. The hololith drew blinking red lines connecting each of the systems together. Ragnar watched them converge, and his eyes went wide. “It’s a symbol of some kind.”

  “Not a symbol per se,” Gabriella replied. “It’s a sorcerous sigil, and Charys lies at its centre.” She glanced up at Ragnar. “Do you remember what the city of Lethe looked like when we left for the Fist of Russ?”

  Ragnar nodded. “Fire from the burning promethium lines stretched all across the city. It looked like… well, I remember thinking it looked like a ritual symbol of some kind.”