Ragnar folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Are you peering into my thoughts?” he asked gruffly. The Navigator Houses of the Imperium were some of the most powerful psykers humanity had ever known, and their psychic abilities allowed them to guide ships of all sizes safely through the maelstrom of the warp. Their powers made travel through the Imperium possible for its warships and merchant fleets, and it was the source of their families’ enormous wealth and power.
Gabriella let out a small sigh of exasperation. “Don’t be foolish,” she chided. “When it comes to your emotions you’re about as subtle as Haegr,” the Navigator said. “You’ve been in a dark mood for the last few weeks,” she continued. “What is it?”
She spoke calmly and carefully, as she always did, but Ragnar felt a flush of irritation at her persistent questioning. He started to snap at her, lips pulling back from his curved fangs, but caught himself at the last possible moment. What is wrong with me, Ragnar thought? He had sworn an oath to serve and protect House Bellisarius. For all intents and purposes Gabriella was no different in authority than Berek Thunderfist or even Logan Grimnar. The young Space Wolf tried to mask his consternation, but gave up with an explosive sigh. “Honestly, lady, I do not know,” he replied. “I’ve been troubled since our escape from Hyades, but my mood has only darkened since arriving on Fenris.”
“I would have thought that returning to your home would please you,” she said.
“Please me?” Ragnar said. “How could it? My Chapter is at war, and the more I consider it, the more I believe that I am partly to blame.”
“How? By casting the spear into the warp? Ragnar, if Madox had wanted that done, do you honestly think he would have needed your help to do it?”
Ragnar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, no, I suppose not, but it troubles me all the same.”
Gabriella sighed and folded her pale hands in her lap. “Ragnar, I understand what it’s like to feel obligated to the people around you, but what’s done is done. Be ashamed if you must, but don’t wallow in regret. It won’t change a thing.”
The young Space Wolf dropped his gaze to the tips of his armoured boots. “I see your point,” he said reluctantly, “but lately, I just can’t get the thought out of my head. I haven’t been sleeping well for days. Lately I’ve been having strange dreams. I think the spear figures into them, but I can’t quite remember what they were about when I awake.” He glanced up worriedly. “I think Madox may be in my dreams as well. Could he have put some kind of curse on me?”
Gabriella raised an eyebrow. “A curse? Unlikely,” she said. “It sounds more like guilt to me.” She gestured gracefully at the massive warship looming large in the shuttle’s forward viewscreen. “Ranek said there was a young Space Wolf Priest leading the Blood Claws we’re taking to Charys, perhaps he could help you.”
At the rear of the shuttle, Haegr let out a snort and straightened in his chair. “A Wolf Priest?” he said fuzzily, wiping drool from his chin. “I know him, a young lad named Sigurd.”
Ragnar glanced back at the burly Space Wolf. “How do you know him?”
“He was at the mead hall when those cubs of his stole my rightful share of the feast,” he said indignantly. “Tried to lecture me about discipline and respect! I’ve got scars older than that pup,” Haegr grumbled. “He’s got a stick shoved so far up his arse I could use him for a hand puppet on feast days,” he said, and then frowned. “Are we there yet? Mighty Haegr could use a bite to eat to keep at peak fighting condition.”
The rumble of thrusters ebbed as the Bellisarius shuttle began its descent into the battle cruiser’s hangar deck. Ragnar found he had one more reason to be concerned about the voyage to Charys.
FOUR
Devils in the Darkness
A low groan of tortured metal echoed hollowly down the length of the broad passageway, and Ragnar thought he felt the heavy deck beneath him tremble as the Fist of Russ was buffeted by energies beyond mortal ken.
They were three weeks out from Fenris, and more than four days past their scheduled return to real space at the edge of the Charys system. They had encountered the first warp storm more than a week ago, and the intensity of the ethereal winds had only grown more intense since then. At first, the storms were almost imperceptible to Ragnar and the rest of the Space Wolves, but over time the first creaks and groans began to reverberate through the hull. Now, the terrible sounds were nearly constant, rising and falling in volume as the unseen gale wracked the warship’s Geller field. There were already scores of hull breaches in still-damaged parts of the ship. The crew, overwhelmed by the simple day-to-day tasks of keeping the Fist of Russ operational, were forced to seal off entire sections of the warship rather than spend precious resources on temporary repairs.
The mood of the crew was tense. Unlike most Space Marine Chapters, which made extensive use of servitors to man secondary crew stations throughout their ships, the Space Wolves preferred human bondsmen to operate their starships. Many of these were former Space Marine aspirants that had fallen short of the enormous demands of training, but were still deemed worthy to serve the Chapter in another capacity. Others were chosen from among the peoples of Fenris specifically because of their skills as ship-handlers. They were among the finest shipmen in any Imperial fleet, but when Ragnar passed them in the corridors of the embattled ship he could smell the acrid scent of fear on their skin. If they didn’t find a way through the storms soon, the Fist of Russ might not reach Charys at all.
For their part, the Wolves had grown more restless with every day spent in the confines of the great ship. Despite the battle cruiser’s vast size, the individual rooms and passageways took on an increasingly claustrophobic feel, as though the warp storms had a physical weight that pressed in on the ship from every side. The Wolf Priest, Sigurd, kept the Blood Claw packs busy practising boarding drills and mock combats along the length and breadth of the battle cruiser, driving the young Wolves hard, but keeping their minds busy in the process. Ragnar could not help but approve of the Wolf Priest’s diligence and dedication, but Sigurd didn’t seem to know when to stop. Daylong battle drills would be followed by unannounced inspections or surprise attacks during sleeping hours. Packs were assigned complicated navigation problems to solve within the labyrinthine corridors of the warship, and were not allowed to eat or rest until they were completed. Tempers were growing frayed with each passing day, but the Wolf Priest would not relent. Even Ragnar was growing increasingly irritated about it, and he wasn’t even taking part in the training regimen. Torin had approached Sigurd early on in the voyage, offering the services of the Wolfblade, but the older Space Wolf had been coldly rebuffed.
The Wolfblade spent their hours tending their wargear and practising their close combat techniques when the Blood Claws weren’t using the training arena. Even Haegr had been persuaded to join, more from boredom and lack of food than anything else.
Sleep continued to elude Ragnar. It had been many weeks since he’d last managed a full rest cycle, and what little sleep he did manage was fraught with strange, fragmentary dreams. Although a Space Marine could function without proper sleep for months at a time if necessary, Ragnar could feel the strain beginning to affect his ability to think and react. He had contemplated approaching the ship’s Apothecary for help, or even entering the Red Dream for the duration of the voyage, but the thought of what strange dreams he might encounter in such a state gave him pause.
From time to time, he considered Gabriella’s advice about consulting the Wolf Priest for help. As the keepers of the Space Wolves’ sacred lore, the Wolf Priests were considered the spiritual heart of the Chapter, and sources of great insight and wisdom. Sigurd, however, was rarely available to anyone outside the Blood Claws, driving himself as hard as, or harder than, his charges, and the one request that Ragnar had left at Sigurd’s quarters had gone unanswered. These days, when sleep eluded him, he went to the battle cruiser’s bridge and stood watch over the armoured capsule where
Gabriella fought to guide the Fist of Russ through the warp.
Ragnar intended to return there after the evening meal, for he could already tell that he was too agitated to get any sleep. He had spent the entire day sparring with Torin and Haegr while the Blood Claws practised boarding drills near the bow of the ship, and his body ached in a score of places where his comrades had landed telling blows. He’d kept fighting long past the point of exhaustion, but while his body felt almost leaden with fatigue his mind was tense and agitated. Strangely, even Torin and Haegr seemed to echo the young Space Wolf’s mental state. They’d fought just as fiercely as him in the arena, hacking and slashing at one another with silent, murderous intent. Torin brought none of his cunning to bear, reverting back to simple, brutal blows, and even Haegr had little or nothing to say. They padded along silently in Ragnar’s wake as they made their way to the ship’s mead hall, drawing worried stares from every bondsman that passed by.
The raucous sounds of feasting rolled down the passageway as they approached the mead hall. Ragnar paused, biting back a surge of irritation. The whole reason he’d chosen this time to visit the hall was because normally the Blood Claws were elsewhere. Since the voyage began the Wolfblade had kept their distance from the young Wolves, and the sentiment had been returned in kind. Ragnar had little doubt that Sigurd had painted the Wolfblade as a pack of outcasts and exiles, as many other Space Wolves were wont to do.
“Are you going to stand there all day?” Haegr growled. “Can’t you hear that? The pups are eating our supper!”
Torin sighed, a little exasperated. “There will be more in an hour or so, you great fool.”
“Then they can wait their turn,” the huge Space Wolf rumbled. “Pups ought to learn their place, if you ask me. Here we are, three mighty heroes — well, one mighty hero and two fair to middling ones — who deserve their due, and those un-blooded younglings think to snatch the meat and ale from our very mouths. Well, I won’t have it!” Puffing out his chest, Haegr pushed past Ragnar and rolled like thunder into the mead hall.
Torin cursed under his breath. “I must be going mad,” he said. “Haegr almost made sense there for a minute.” He glanced at Ragnar. “He’s sure to start a fight, you know. On the other hand, I’m almost as hungry as he is. What about you?”
Ragnar almost turned on his heel and headed back to his cell. In the mead hall beyond, the clamour of young voices and the racket of plates fell into a sudden and tense silence. All at once, a surge of irritation washed over Ragnar, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. “Come on,” he growled, and strode swiftly into the hall.
The hall was full of Blood Claws. At first glance, Ragnar reckoned that all three of the young packs were taking their meal at the same time, something that hadn’t happened since leaving Fenris. Shaggy heads hung low over gnawed haunches of meat, and dark eyes surveyed Haegr and his brethren with open hostility. Low growls rumbled across the hall and the air was thick with the scent of challenge, setting Ragnar’s teeth on edge.
In older times the warship’s mead hall was the officer’s wardroom. Now three massive red oak tables were arranged in a rough Y-shape in a room capable of holding easily three times that number. Haegr stood between the two lower tables, his wide hands planted on his hips as he glared back at the Blood Claws. Heads turned to the high table, where the strongest pack typically sat, and the lesser packs would take their cues from them. The pack leader at the high table was a broad shouldered, blond-haired warrior with a hatchet face and hooded eyes. He picked a grox’s thigh bone from the debris on the table and cracked it between his powerful jaws, his gaze never leaving Haegr as he sucked out the sweet marrow.
“What in Morkai’s name do you want?” he asked with a raspy sneer.
Haegr glanced back at Ragnar and Torin, and gave them a wide grin. “Now there’s a stupid question if ever I heard one,” he replied, his rumbling voice low with menace. “This is the mead hall, isn’t it? We’re here to eat and drink our fill, as Wolves ought,” he said, turning back to the pack leader. “Only you dogs happen to be in our seats.”
More growls rose around the Wolfblade. Ragnar caught Torin, giving him a sidelong glance. He knew that he should say something a quick word of greeting or an offer to toast the coming battle, but he felt his body responding to the challenge, almost of its own accord. If the cub thought he was the toughest Wolf in the hall, Ragnar was eager to prove him wrong. In fact, he hungered for it.
A lean, red-haired warrior to the pack leader’s right gave Haegr a wolfish grin. “I think the walrus is ready for another beating,” he said.
The blond warrior’s sneer widened. “You want to eat? Here,” he said, and tossed the cracked bone at Haegr’s feet. “When you’re done you can beg for more. I expect we can find a few more scraps for a bunch of outcasts like you.”
Laughter filled the mead hall. A bone arced from the table to the right and bounced off Haegr’s shoulder. A crust of bread flew past, and then a fish head.
Haegr straightened to his full height, his chest swelling like a thundercloud, but by the time he’d opened his mouth to bellow his rage, Ragnar had swept past him in a dozen long strides and reached the high table opposite the pack leader. The blond warrior leapt to his feet, his eyes alight with the promise of battle, and Ragnar slapped him with his open hand hard enough to knock the warrior off his feet.
The pack leader crashed back into his chair and bounced back with a furious snarl, his face twisted with fury. He snatched a carving knife from the table and made to lunge at Ragnar, but the Blood Claw might as well have been standing still. Ragnar chopped his hand down on the pack leader’s wrist, breaking it with a brittle crunch of bone, and then backhanded the Blood Claw off his feet.
There was a shout from the pack leader’s right and the warrior’s red-bearded lieutenant lunged from his chair. The rest of the pack at the high table followed suit, shaking the air with howls of rage, and the mead hall erupted into a wild, wheeling brawl.
The Blood Claws came at Ragnar from every direction, swinging fists, steins or whatever else came to hand. A hurled plate buzzed past his head and a drinking cup shattered against his chest, spraying Ragnar with mead. The young Space Wolf took a step back from the table as the first of the Blood Claws reached him, spoiling the pup’s aim as he threw a wild punch at the side of Ragnar’s head. Ragnar smashed him to the deck with a bone-cracking punch to the jaw. Another warrior rushed in from Ragnar’s right, bent low and aiming to tackle him. The young Space Wolf laid the pup out with an elbow to the back of his head, and then two more warriors crashed into him from the left, driving him off his feet.
The three Space Wolves crashed to the deck with a thunderous clatter of ceramite. Fists rained down on Ragnar, hammering his chest, shoulders and face. One fist raked across his right cheek, opening a ragged cut all the way back to his ear. Snarling, Ragnar grabbed a handful of one Blood Claw’s hair and smashed his forehead into the pup’s face. The warrior rolled away, momentarily stunned, but the second Blood Claw drove his fist into the side of Ragnar’s head. A flurry of bright spots burst across Ragnar’s vision, but he shook off the blow with a savage growl and planted his foot against the Blood Claw’s chest. Another punch glanced across Ragnar’s forehead, and then the young Space Wolf kicked with all his strength and sent the Blood Claw flying backwards. The warrior hit the heavy oak table and flipped over it, scattering plates and bits of food in all directions.
A heavy chair spun through the air to Ragnar’s right and smashed a Blood Claw off his feet. The three packs were fighting the Wolfblade, and battering one another with wild abandon. Ragnar glanced over his shoulder and saw Haegr lift two Blood Claws by the scruff of their necks and knock their heads together. Two other warriors had their arms wrapped around the burly Wolfblade’s legs and hips, trying to pull Haegr down, but they might as well have been trying to pull down the Fang itself. Farther off to Ragnar’s left, Torin was weaving through the melee like a ghost, felling men with
swift, precise blows and picking choice morsels of food off the battered tables as he went.
Ragnar heard the whirring approach of the flung beer mug half a second before it struck. He ducked, letting it pass harmlessly overhead, and glanced back at the high table to see from whence it came. Instead, he saw the red haired Blood Claw just a few steps away, swinging a massive chair in an underhanded blow that was aimed squarely at his face.
Ragnar got his arms crossed in front of his head a split second before the blow struck home. Old oak splintered, driving his heavy vambraces into his face, and the force of the blow sent the young Space Wolf sprawling. He landed in a tangle of splintered debris, blinking blood from his eyes, and his attacker was upon him in an instant, swinging a thick chair leg like an improvised mace.
A heavy blow struck Ragnar high in the chest, and then another landed on his chin. Pain burst across the young Space Wolf’s face, and for a split second Ragnar’s vision went black. He kicked out blindly and connected with the warrior’s side. Then he drew back his boot and drove it against the Blood Claw’s left knee. The warrior’s leg gave out, dropping him into a painful kneeling position, but before he could react, Ragnar sent the warrior sprawling with a vicious kick to the side of his head.
Ragnar clambered to his feet, shaking his head to try and clear his vision. His keen senses detected someone rushing at him from the left, and he spun to meet the threat. A hand lashed out at him, angling in towards the side of Ragnar’s neck, and he barely managed to block it by grabbing his attacker’s wrist. With a cold shock, Ragnar felt the prick of a knife-point dig into the side of his throat.
The Blood Claw pack leader let out a wordless snarl and pressed his attack, swinging at Ragnar’s head with his free hand. Ragnar let the blow strike home, scarcely feeling the pain. A sudden wave of murderous fury washed over him, and he closed his right hand around the pack leader’s throat.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 7
