She nodded. “That was the ritual symbol establishing Hyades as an anchor point for this larger sigil,” she said, pointing to the blasphemous sign hanging before them. “Madox has laid the foundation for a sorcerous ritual of enormous proportions. If what you learned from Cadmus is correct, he now has all the elements he needs for the ritual to begin.”
The scope of the sorcerer’s plans staggered Ragnar. He looked to the Great Wolf. “A ship arrived from Charys, bearing news. What has Berek found?”
The Old Wolfs expression turned grim. “Berek has been gravely wounded,” he said, “and the Rune Priest Aldrek is believed to be dead.” Logan turned away from the window and stepped heavily to the table. “When Gabriella revealed the importance of Charys I sent Berek’s great company there to bring an end to this monstrous scheme. It appears that Madox was waiting for him. Berek and his men were lured into a trap.” The Old Wolf leaned forward, resting his scarred knuckles on the table’s glass surface. His lined face was grim. “Mikal Sternmark commands the great company for the moment, and he and the Guard regiments continue to fight against the rebels, but warp storms are growing in the region. Soon the system will be isolated altogether, and the Chaos uprisings have scattered our forces across the sector.” The Old Wolf banged his fist on the tabletop. “Madox and his one-eyed master must have been planning this for decades. They’ve outmanoeuvred us, and their teeth are at our throats.”
A low growl began to build in Ragnar’s throat. Suddenly he was very aware of the blood rushing through his veins and the pounding of his hearts. Every Space Wolf in the room sensed the change. Hands clenched and heads lowered as they caught the scent of the Wulfen.
“Master yourself, young one,” Ranek said in a low, commanding voice. “Save the wolf’s rage for our foes.”
Ragnar struggled to control his rising fury. “What of your company, Great Wolf?” he said in a choked voice. “Surely they can turn the tide at Charys.”
“My company is scattered across our domains, bolstering the efforts of the other Wolf Lords who are hard-pressed,” Grimnar replied. “Berek’s company was our reserve force.”
“Send the Wolfblade to Charys, then,” Ragnar snarled, unable to contain himself.
The Old Wolfs fists clenched. “What, the three of you?” he thundered. “Do you imagine you’ll turn the tide all by yourselves?”
“I’ll die in the attempt, if I must!” Ragnar shot back. “I’d rather lie on a field at Charys than live another day here.”
“Arrogant pup!” Grimnar roared. He straightened to his full height, his fierce presence seeming to fill the entire chamber. He crossed the space between him and Ragnar with a single step, and lashed out with his open hand, cuffing Ragnar on the side of the head. “I couldn’t have said it better myself!”
The Wolves roared with laughter. After a moment, Ragnar joined in as well. Gabriella studied the giants’ bloody-minded mirth with an expression of startled bemusement.
“You will have your wish, young Space Wolf,” Grimnar said, clapping Ragnar on the shoulder. “We are sending every warrior we have left to add their swords to the fight, and Lady Gabriella has pledged her skills to guide our reinforcements safely to Charys,” the Old Wolf said, nodding respectfully to the Navigator. “Report to Sternmark when you arrive. I’m sure he’ll be glad for every stout arm he can get.”
In a flash, Ragnar’s anger turned to a fierce, bloodthirsty joy. Death might wait for him on Charys, but so be it, he would face it as a Space Wolf, fighting alongside his battle-brothers. “The Spear of Russ will be ours once again, lord. On my life and on my honour, I swear it!”
“I hear you, Ragnar Blackmane,” the Old Wolf answered solemnly, “and Russ hears your oath as well. Spill the blood of our foes and return to us what was lost, and try to set a good example for the lads when you’re getting yourself hacked to pieces, eh?”
THREE
Darkness and Ice
The rumble of the Thunderhawk’s engines drummed soundlessly across Ragnar’s aching bones, rising inexorably to a punishing crescendo as the heavily laden transport clawed its way into the night sky. He dimly heard the approaching roar of the engines, the sound attenuated into a brassy rattle by the thin atmosphere, and the thick blanket of clouds below the rocky ledge began to glow a faint blue. The climbing spacecraft burst through the cloud layer like a spear, riding a column of cyan light into the purple vault of stars where the Fist of Russ awaited. Ragnar tracked its course through frozen, half-closed lids until it was nothing more than another fiercely burning speck in the firmament above the great mountain.
Within moments, the last notes of thunder faded, leaving Ragnar to his silent vigil. He had lost track of the hours since he’d climbed above the clouds and settled himself high atop the Fang. Clad only in his woollen clothes and wolfskin cloak, he had knelt in the snow and drawn forth his ancient frost blade. Resting the tip against the frozen ground and placing his hands upon its hilt, he had prayed to the Allfather and to blessed Russ, the First Wolf, until ice crystals clogged this throat and rattled in his lungs. All through the night he waited, his face upturned to the endless expanse of space, hoping for a brush with something he could not rightly name.
For a time after his brief audience with the Great Wolf, Ragnar’s spirits had been lifted. The chains of duty had been loosened at last, and fields of war beckoned. More importantly, the Spear of Russ had been spotted on Charys, and for the first time, Ragnar felt that he might have a chance to redeem himself and restore the honour of his Chapter.
However, as the day wore on, and he began preparing his wargear for the journey, his thoughts turned dark once more. The news of Berek’s fate at the hands of Madox was a terrible blow, and the picture that the Old Wolf had painted of the overall situation was woefully grim. Restoring those worlds already lost to Chaos would take centuries to complete, if it could be done at all. He’d heard of worlds scoured down to the bedrock by virus bombs and cyclonic torpedoes, once they’d been deemed too tainted to reclaim. Again and again, his mind turned back to that moment in the temple on Garm when he had held the Spear of Russ in his hand. I threw it away, he thought, and everything that came after is because of me.
He could not help but think of what the Old Wolf had said in the council chamber. Madox and his one-eyed master must have been planning this for decades. Could it be true? If so, hadn’t he been nothing more than a pawn, pushed and pulled across a vast, invisible board that only the Chaos sorcerer could see? The idea left him sick at heart. It was one thing to strive mightily and fail — at least that was a noble failure, pure in spirit and done with honour — but to dance to the bidding of evil powers… that could not be borne.
So, he had climbed to the highest slope of Fenris he could reach, far beyond the grasp of mortal men, to stare up into the heavens and seek… something a brush with holiness perhaps, such as he’d felt in the sacred shrine on Garm. He remembered the peace he’d felt then, the sense of Tightness that banished pain and weariness and doubt.
Not this time, however. Poised between heaven and earth, fire and ice, Ragnar Blackmane was left with nothing but silence and doubt.
Ice crackled faintly as the Space Wolf slowly bowed his head. His breath no longer left faint wisps of mist in the thin air, having slowed and cooled almost to the point of hibernation. He could hear the sluggish flow of blood through his veins, and the slow, alternating beats of his hearts.
It was several long moments before the buzzing sound of voices registered in his numbed brain. They were approaching from the thick cloud layer, several dozen metres below. Haegr appeared first, broaching the pearly mist like a grey flanked whale. His beady eyes spotted Ragnar at once. “Ha!” he exclaimed, his booming voice strangely distorted by the altitude. “I told you we would find him here! That’s three kegs of Ironhead Ale you owe me, Torin the Doubter.”
The barrel-chested Space Wolf plodded resolutely up the icy slope towards Ragnar, the heavy armour he wore lending weight and
power to his steps. Ice glittered along the shoulders of Haegr’s bearskin cloak and dragged down the bristles of his walrus-like moustache, and his cheeks were vivid red. Despite the climb, the huge warrior still carried his massive ale horn in his right hand. Behind him, lighter of step but no less burdened by the savage conditions, came Torin, helmet-less, but wearing an arctic hood that shielded his lean face from the worst of the cold. “It was two kegs of ale, not three,” the older Wolfblade replied, “but you won them fairly for a change. How did you think to look here?”
“Mighty Haegr’s muscles aren’t just in his arms,” he declared, tapping an armoured finger against his skull. “You saw the look in his eyes when he left the arming chamber this afternoon. When he’s in one of his black moods just think of the worst, most inhospitable place a Wolf can get to under his own power, and that’s where you’ll find him.” The burly Space Wolf climbed onto Ragnar’s ledge, and peered sternly at him. “Been up here all night, by the looks of him. His skin’s blacker than an inquisitor’s heart.”
Torin slipped past Haegr and knelt beside Ragnar. The older warrior studied him so intently that for a moment Ragnar wondered if Torin thought he might be dead. He took in a deeper breath and spoke, the words coming out in a raspy cough. “Needed time to think,” he said gruffly. He tried to give Torin a hard look, but his frozen eyes refused to obey.
The older Wolfblade glanced back over his shoulder at the vast sea of cloud below. “If you’d waited here a few hours longer you’d be watching our Thunderhawk take off and be thinking about how you were going to walk to Charys,” he said. “Gabriella is taking her breakfast, and wants to be aboard the Fist of Russ before daybreak. We tried to call you, but you switched off your vox-bead, or it’s frozen solid; I can’t tell which at this point.”
Ragnar forced his eyes to close and concentrated on his breathing for a moment. His pulse began to quicken, slowly increasing his body’s core temperature. Trickles of water ran from his eyes like faux tears, and froze upon his cheeks. The young Space Wolf clenched his fists around the hilt of the sword and felt ice crackle across his knuckles. When he opened his eyes again he saw that the skin of his hands was blue-black. He would be scraping the dead skin cells away for quite a while. Gritting his teeth, Ragnar climbed to his feet. Fierce pains stabbed through his joints, but he suppressed them with an effort of will. “I would have come down by dawn,” he grumbled, shaking still more ice from his shoulders.
“Perhaps a note to that effect next time would be helpful,” Torin observed.
Now Ragnar did manage a forbidding glare. “If I’d done that you would have come looking for me straightaway. I told you, I wanted to be alone.”
“What a bloody stupid thing to say!” Haegr barked. “A Wolfs nothing without his pack, Ragnar. Even you’re bright enough to know that.” He brandished his horn before the young Space Wolf. “Why, you missed a true hero’s feast in the hall last night! There was mead enough to float a long ship, and the eating-board groaned with all the food piled upon it!”
“Which Haegr tried to eat all by himself,” Torin said wryly.
The huge Space Wolf puffed out his barrel chest. “Don’t blame me for your faint heart,” Haegr replied, eyes wide with outrage. “You could have taken your share at any time.”
“Except that I like my fingers where they are,” Torin remarked wryly. “I’ve heard of battle madness before, but feast madness? Were you bitten by a goat at a young age, Haegr? I think you tried to eat the board itself between courses.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Haegr shot back. “I just needed a splinter to get a piece of venison caught between my teeth.”
“That wasn’t venison, that was Rolfi, one of the new Blood Claws,” the older Wolfblade replied. He glanced at Ragnar. “For a while, the cubs just sat and stared at everything that was going down Haegr’s throat, but finally Rolfi had enough. He reached for a piece of venison and this great fool tried to take a bite out of him. Started quite a fight. The Claws pulled Haegr down eventually, like a pack of wolves nipping at a bear.”
“And you sat by and did nothing!” Haegr growled, full of dudgeon.
“Not so. I saw my chance and had a fine dinner amid the debris,” Torin answered mildly, and then regarded the young Space Wolf again. “Did you find what you came here for?” he asked.
Ragnar raised the gleaming frost blade to the starry sky, inspecting the weapon carefully in the faint light. “No, I didn’t,” he said after a moment, and then slid the blade back into its scabbard. “Perhaps the answer lies elsewhere.”
“On Charys, you mean?” Torin asked.
“Perhaps,” Ragnar said darkly.
Haegr shook his head in exasperation, staring out across the cloudscape. “You’re a good lad, Ragnar, but you think too damned much,” he observed. “Still, you can pick some fine spots to brood.” The huge warrior spread his arms and sighed. “By Russ, it feels like we barely got here before we’re leaving again,” he said, a touch wistfully, and then chuckled. “See, now you’ve got me doing it. I’ll be moping about for years when we finally get back to Terra.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Ragnar said. “We have to win on Charys first.”
“Ha!” Haegr replied, his expression brightening at once. He clapped his hand on Ragnar’s shoulder hard enough to stagger the young Space Wolf. “That’s a good one, lad! Haven’t you ever heard the old saying? The wolf wins every fight he’s in!”
“Every fight but his last,” Ragnar added, his expression grim.
The burly Space Wolf threw back his head and laughed. “Then Mighty Haegr will live forever!” he roared, raising his ale horn to his lips. He paused, and then lowered the horn and peered into its depths. “Morkai’s black breath,” he cursed, “my mead’s frozen. Let’s get below quick. There may be just enough time to thaw it out and get a quick bite to eat before we lift off.”
Ragnar watched through the shuttle’s viewports as they began their approach to the Fist of Russ. The huge warship appeared out of the darkness like a battered fortress, her vast grey flanks bearing deep scars from enemy lances and cratered by salvoes of macro-cannon shells. Her imposing, armoured prow was scorched and pitted by weapon blasts, and her superstructure was a blackened, twisted ruin along nearly half of its length. Smaller repair tenders hovered around the enormous warship, using huge servo-arms and plasma blast torches to replace ruined sections of hull plating. Ragnar’s keen eyes picked out swarms of repair servitors climbing like ants over the warship’s massive dorsal lance turrets, working furiously to make sure they would be ready for action.
She had once been a Mars-class battle cruiser that had served with distinction alongside the capital ships of Battlefleet Obscuras, nearly fourteen centuries before. In those days she had been called the Resolute, but that name fell into infamy when the Arch-Hierophant Vortigern began the Alphalus Insurrection late in the 39th millennium. The petty officers and crew of the Resolute had sided with Vortigern and mutinied, murdering the ship’s officers and turning the battle cruiser over to the Arch-Hierophant’s forces.
For three hundred long years she served as Vortigern’s flagship, until Berek Thunderfist’s predecessor, the Wolf Lord Hrothgar Ironblade, captured her during the Battle of Sestus Proxima. Hrothgar claimed the ship for his own shortly thereafter, as his previous flagship had been lost, and Resolute returned to Imperial service as the Fist of Russ. She had fought many great battles since and earned a place of honour in the Chapter’s battle-fleet, and it grieved Ragnar to see her in such woeful shape. At Hyades the Fist of Russ had faced off against the heavy bombardment cannons of the Vinco Redemptor, a battle-barge of the Dark Angels Space Marine Chapter, and then later fought a small armada of Chaos warships summoned to assist Cadmus in the uprising on the planet’s surface.
Though she’d survived, and even triumphed, in both battles, the Fist of Russ had paid dearly for her victories. Ragnar could see that the warship needed months, perhaps years, to repair all
the damage she’d received, but that was a luxury the Space Wolves currently didn’t have. All the Chapter’s other great ships were already in action, along with their smaller escorts, so the Fist of Russ was needed at the battle line once more. Crews from Fenris would continue to make repairs up until the very last minute, returning to their tenders only when the battle cruiser was about to enter the warp.
Ragnar knew that there had been reports of Chaos warships lurking at the edges of the Charys system. He offered a prayer to the Allfather that the repairs would be enough.
“You seem troubled.”
Ragnar turned away from the shuttle’s porthole. Unlike the Thunderhawk transports that had ferried the new Blood Claw packs to the Fist of Russ during the night, Gabriella was coming aboard the warship on an elegantly appointed personal shuttle from her family’s cruiser, the Wings of Bellisarius. The young Navigator sat at ease in a curved, high-backed acceleration couch in the shuttle’s spacious passenger compartment, her face half-hidden in shadow.
The young Space Wolf cast a glance towards the pilot compartment, where Torin was guiding the shuttle to the warship’s starboard hangar deck. Haegr, true to his word, had dashed off as soon as they’d come down from the mountaintop and appeared at the shuttle, just moments before launch, with a huge haunch of meat clutched in one armoured fist. He’d eaten the whole thing bones and all, before the shuttle had even left the lower atmosphere, and now he sat in the back of the shuttle compartment snoring like an idling Land Raider.
Ragnar considered how to respond. “The ship has no business heading back to the battle line,” he said after a moment. “Are you certain you will not reconsider this?”
A faint smile touched the corners of Gabriella’s thin lips. “After everything that you and your Chapter have done for my House?” she replied. “This is the very least I can do. But you’re being evasive. It’s not the ship that’s bothering you.”
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 6
