“Hold it together for another few minutes,” the pilot shot back. Another blast hit the nose of the attack craft just beneath the cockpit, limning the pilot’s helmeted head in lurid green light. “I’m going to increase our angle of descent and see if I can get the bastards to back off. Hold on!”
The Thunderhawk steepened its dive, coming into the planet’s turbulent atmosphere at a sharper angle and increasing the speed of its re-entry. At once, the leading edges of the hull began to glow red with friction build-up. The Imperial vessel trembled like a ship in a summer gale, but her reinforced superstructure held against the strain. Several of the enemy fighters sharpened their dives as well, but their hunger for destruction proved their undoing, as the heat and turbulence tore their hulls apart. The rest of the swarm fell back, unable to match the assault ship’s dangerous descent.
“Well, that bought us a minute or two,” the pilot shouted over the thunder of re-entry. The heat inside the cockpit was intense, and the assault craft shuddered violently as it plunged towards the planet’s surface. More and more warning icons flashed an insistent red on the tech-priest’s display.
Ragnar held on for all he was worth. It was clear that the pilot was pushing the Thunderhawk to the edge of its performance envelope and possibly beyond. “Will this get us on the ground any faster?” he shouted.
To the young Space Wolfs surprise, the pilot threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, aye, lord! One way or another, it surely will.”
They were close enough to the planet’s surface for Ragnar to make out dark oceans and broad continents studded with mountain ranges. There were no lights that he could see, but the shape of the land masses was a perfect reflection of Charys as near as he could tell. All this just to facilitate a single ritual, Ragnar thought with a terrible sense of awe. He truly grasped the sheer scope of Madox’s plans, for the first time, and felt something akin to dismay. He thought of the handful of Space Wolves in the troop compartment behind him and wondered how they could possibly challenge something so vast. Who are we to overcome an entire world?
The answer was obvious. We are sons of the Allfather, Ragnar thought, just as Madox once was. Whatever the traitor can bring to bear against us, we are its equal.
The Thunderhawk flashed past a rocky coastline, plunging towards the dark surface of the world like a fiery comet. Vast plains stretched beneath the descending craft. Ragnar was amazed to see the outlines of enormous agri-combines, their subdivided crop zones radiating like the spokes of enormous wheels more than a thousand kilometres across. The young Space Wolf could just make out the towering granaries and equipment hives at the hub of each combine, where legions of farm servitors would shuttle back and forth like bees to tend their carefully monitored crops.
Within minutes, the fierce shuddering began to subside as the assault ship passed through the upper atmosphere and dived through a dark sky empty of clouds. A torrent of green bolts slashed downward from high and to starboard. The daemon ships were closing the range once more. Ragnar eyed the multitude of warning runes flashing on the tech-priest’s screen to his left. “How long?” he asked.
“Otto?” the pilot said.
“Surveyor shows the city dead ahead at five hundred kilometres,” the augur operator replied. Then, suddenly, he straightened in his seat. “Wait — I’m getting something—”
Bursts of green energy bolts howled down around the Thunderhawk from high and to starboard. The pilot muttered a curse. “Never mind, Otto. I see them.”
“No! There’s something else!” the operator exclaimed. He fumbled for a set of dials and adjusted them carefully, his head cocked intently to one side. “I… I’m getting a signal on the vox. It sounds like one of our recovery beacons.”
The pilot looked back over his shoulder at Ragnar. “How is that possible?”
Bolts impacted across the assault ship’s wings and fuselage in a string of sharp detonations. The Thunderhawk shuddered beneath the blows and seemed to plummet downward for a vertiginous instant before coming under control. Ragnar leaned close to the augur operator. “Can you get an identity code from the beacon?”
Otto shook his head. “I can barely hear it at all,” he said, pressing a hand to his headphones. “There’s a lot of atmospheric interference—”
Another thunderclap smote the aft section of the transport, throwing the crew against their restraints. An alarm buzzed shrilly on the tech-priest’s panel, but Ragnar was oblivious to everything but the signal that the augur operator was receiving. “Can you isolate its location?” he asked.
The bondsman shook his head. “I can get a bearing and an approximate distance,” Otto replied, shouting over the explosions battering the Thunderhawk. “It… it looks like three-five-five degrees at about eighty to a hundred kilometres. That’s deep in a range of low mountains on the far side of an agri-combine right ahead.”
Before Ragnar could ask further, the sound of the assault ship’s engines changed pitch and the Thunderhawk slewed violently to starboard. The tech-priest let out a sharp cry. “Number one engine’s failed!” he said.
There was another stomach clenching drop as the assault ship fell like a stone. Both pilot and co-pilot wrestled with the controls. “Increase power to number two,” the pilot ordered, his voice tense with strain. “Can you restart number one?”
“No chance,” the tech-priest shouted back, “turbine’s seized!”
Ragnar was thrown forward as the Thunderhawk’s nose dipped into a steep dive. The pilot was trading altitude for speed, trying to keep his ship in the air for as long as possible. The young Space Wolf clung to the stanchions and watched the ground rushing towards them through the cockpit viewports. He could see the pale ribbon of a transit route crossing the plain below them, pointing to the outskirts of the agri-combine that Otto had mentioned.
The Thunderhawk began to shudder violently. “Controls are getting sluggish,” the pilot grated. “Where’s my hydraulic pressure?”
A flurry of energy bolts surrounded the diving assault ship, and multiple hits slammed into the Thunderhawk’s tail and wings. The wingtip heavy bolters returned fire with a roar, but then there was a loud explosion aft and the world seemed to spin out of control.
“Number two engine’s hit!” the tech-priest cried, and then lapsed into a desperate prayer to the Omnissiah.
“Well, that’s it then,” the pilot said, his voice surprisingly calm as the horizon spun beyond the cockpit viewports. “Cut power to number three! Hurry!”
The co-pilot threw himself against his restraints, reaching desperately for the throttle levers. Ragnar saw that the Space Wolf wasn’t going to make it.
Praying to Russ, the young Space Wolf pulled himself towards the pilots’ controls. Fighting hard against the G-forces pinning the crew into their seats, he pushed his armour’s systems to the limit and strained forward with his right arm. The tips of his fingers brushed the steel throttle lever and drew it back far enough to get a solid grip. Ragnar wrapped his fingers around the lever and pulled back with all his might, nearly tearing it from its housing.
The howling wail of the engine fell silent. All Ragnar heard was the whistling wind and the impassioned prayers of the tech-priest in the few seconds before the assault ship slammed into the ground.
Another wave of flesh and steel bore down on the Imperial positions at the Angelus Causeway. Clawed feet scrabbling for purchase, a huge mutant heaved itself up the shifting mound of bodies at the foot of the barricade and reached for Mikal Sternmark. Beady red eyes glittered with hate from within thick, pasty folds of fat, and the entire lower half of the creature’s doughy face was nothing but a massive set of powerful jaws and a lashing, serpentine tongue. One clawed hand gripped a shock maul, of the type that Arbites riot troopers often carried, and its bloodstained tip crackled with lethal energies. A pack of lesser mutants swarmed behind the massive creature, armed with a collection of laspistols, slug throwers and gory chain-blades. They howled encouragement to their l
eader and scrambled along in its wake, eager to sweep over the Imperial defences and slaughter the soldiers on the other side.
Sternmark met them with a bloodthirsty shout, smoke curling from bolter and blade. His bare face and ornate armour were covered in blood and grime, and his fangs shone red in the fading light of day. The traitors had hurled wave after wave of assaults against the barricade over the course of the day. Burning vehicles and the bodies of the dead stretched for almost a full kilometre down the causeway, but each attack had brought the rebels a few hundred metres closer to the Imperial positions. Four times the enemy troops had attempted to scale the barricade, and four times the Space Wolves had driven them back.
The Wolf Guard levelled his storm bolter at the oncoming creature and fired a burst into its chest. Mass-reactive rounds punched clean through the mutant and felled a pair of gibbering monsters behind it, but the lantern jawed monster only roared in bloodlust and kept coming. It swung its shock maul at Sternmark’s head, but Redclaw blurred through the air to meet it. There was a sharp crack of electrical discharge and a blue-white flash as the ancient power weapon cut the maul in two. Teeth bared, Sternmark brought the heavy blade down in a diagonal cut, slicing through the mutant’s shoulder and deep into its chest. Ichor flowed thickly from the wound. The creature snarled and snapped at the Wolf Guard, still trying to climb onto the top of the barricade, but its strength failed it all at once and it collapsed onto its face just short of its goal. The mound of dead now rose half a metre higher than it had before.
More of the mutants climbed over the corpse of their fallen leader. Las-bolts detonated across Sternmark’s chest and shoulders, and a slug left a crease along the side of the Wolf Guard’s right cheek. Sternmark tore his sword free of the mutant’s corpse and split one of his attackers from groin to chin. Another tried to scramble past him, dragging a grenade from its belt, and he shot it point-blank in the chest. An arm came up, levelling a laspistol at his face. With a backhanded swipe of his blade, he severed the limb, and smashed the screaming foe off the barricade with a blow from the butt of his storm bolter.
Sternmark whirled in place, seeking more enemies to slay, but after a few moments he realised that he was alone among the dead and dying. Looking out along the causeway, he saw figures in tattered Guard and PDF uniforms retreating back into the smoke, chased by las-bolts and bolter fire from the Imperial defenders. The last of the mutants who’d tried to challenge him had stumbled back down to the base of the mound and were running for their lives.
The Wolf Guard threw back his head and howled at the red-stained skies. All along the line, a ragged chorus of voices joined his, celebrating the glory of the kill. The enemy had been broken for a fifth time and hurled back in disarray. Watching their fleeing figures, Sternmark felt the blood burn in his veins, and his mouth gaped in a wolfish grin. The urge to give chase, to fall upon the terrified enemy and tear out their throats was almost too much to bear.
He took a step down onto the slippery mound of corpses, then another. Sternmark could almost feel the rushing wind of the chase against his skin.
There was a buzzing in his ears, like the whine of a biting fly. Sternmark frowned, pressing a hand to his ear. Belatedly, he realized that he’d dropped his empty storm bolter, and he was tottering uneasily atop the shifting mound of the dead.
The last of the retreating traitors disappeared into the smoke. Slowly the tide of bloodlust ebbed, flowing restlessly into the back of his mind, and the buzzing in his ears resolved into words. “My lord! What are you doing?”
Sternmark turned, as though in a dream. One of Einar’s pack members stood a few metres away atop the barricade, a bolter and a bloody chainsword hanging loose in his hands. The warrior’s silver-blond hair was braided, as was his bloodstained beard. It took a moment for Sternmark to dredge the young warrior’s name from the red surf pounding in his brain. “Sven?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
The young Space Wolf shifted uncomfortably. “I’m here to report, lord.” He raised his bolter. “My pack fired off the last of our ammunition in the last wave, even the rounds we gathered from Einar and Karl.”
“Einar? Karl?” Sternmark glared at Sven, trying to make sense of what the Grey Hunter was saying. “What’s happened to them?”
The question took Sven aback. “Karl was killed during the third attack,” he said. “A mutant with a meltagun got too close to the barricade.”
“And Einar?”
“Deep in the Red Dream. An eviscerator took his right arm and most of his shoulder, but he bloody well killed the traitor that did it.” Sven eyed the Wolf Guard with concern. “We reported this over the vox. Is your system malfunctioning?”
“You tend to your wargear, brother, and I’ll attend to mine,” Sternmark snapped. “Who is in charge of the pack now that Einar is down?”
Sven paused, unsettled by the vehemence of the Wolf Guard’s rebuke. “By rights, that would be Freyr—”
“But Freyr isn’t here making the report, is he? You’re acting pack leader now, Sven. Return to your brothers and prepare for the next attack. I’ll speak to headquarters about resupply.”
“I…” Sven’s eyes widened. “Lord, are you certain you are well?”
“Well enough,” Sternmark growled. His eyes narrowed in challenge. “Do you think I’ve chosen poorly, brother?”
“No, lord!” Sven took a step back, clearly uncertain how to proceed. After a moment, the young Grey Hunter bowed his head in submission and backed away, his expression troubled.
Sternmark turned away, searching for his storm bolter among the dead. He found the weapon atop a trio of fallen grenadiers and bent to retrieve it. It felt clumsy and awkward in his hands. He fumbled with the magazine release for nearly a full second before he managed to drop the empty clips. Only the iron conditioning of many decades of campaigning kept him from hurling the weapon away in frustration.
The temptation stunned the Wolf Guard. Sternmark shook his head fiercely, as though trying to break the grip of a terrible dream. Shadowy forms flitted at the corners of his vision. He whirled, trying to focus on them, but saw only the bodies of the dead, stretching as far as he could see along the length of the barricade. The battle tanks that had supported the defenders were blackened hulls, destroyed by rebel suicide attacks or artillery strikes over the course of the long day.
He realised, dimly, that he had no idea how many of the Guardsmen were still alive, or where their commander was. He’d last spoken to their commander… was it after the second attack, or the third? Sternmark couldn’t be certain. The regiment could be on the verge of retreat, leaving him and his battle-brothers to hold the causeway alone.
Sternmark looked left and right, searching for the Wolf Guard who’d accompanied him to the barricade. Rage and shame boiled inside him, making it difficult to think. “Cursed,” he growled bitterly. “This damned world has cursed us all.”
Rebel artillery howled overhead, crashing behind the Imperial positions. A chorus of battle cries rose from the rebel lines as the traitors resumed their attack.
Ragnar awoke to the dull ache of broken bones. Lines of pain pulsed across his forehead and down his face, almost as far as his jaw, and he tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.
Lightning flashed beyond his closed eyelids. Ragnar blinked, and then carefully opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, staring up at a dark sky devoid of stars. The air smelled dry and musty as a tomb, tinged with the acrid stink of burning synthetics.
Two shadowy figures loomed over the young Space Wolf. One knelt closer. Lightning flickered across the empty sky, revealing Torin’s angular face. The Wolfblade peered with worry at Ragnar’s face, and then broke into a wry grin. “See? I told you he was still alive,” Torin said to the second figure. “Lucky for us his face absorbed most of the impact.”
With a deep breath, Ragnar pushed up onto his elbows. The fractures across his face and skull caused him to grimace in pain, but he could tell
that the bone was starting to knit together already. He glanced up at the second figure and realised it was Harald. The Blood Claw pack leader scowled disdainfully at Ragnar and turned away.
The Thunderhawk was a twisted pile of wreckage a few dozen metres away, half-buried in a furrow of scorched earth that stretched for nearly three-quarters of a kilometre behind the mangled wreck. Somehow, the pilot had managed to crash-land the assault ship along the grey ribbon of roadway that he’d spotted during their descent. Twisting columns of black smoke rose from the wreckage. The cockpit of the Thunderhawk was burst open, its viewports shattered and the metal bracings peeled apart. The assault ship’s port wing had been torn away during the crash, and the starboard wing jutted crookedly from the wreckage. Three warriors from Harald’s pack were attempting to disassemble the remaining wing’s heavy bolter hardpoint under the watchful gaze of the Thunderhawk’s tech-priest. Four other figures in heavy flight suits were unloading a number of small packs and other survival gear from an open hatch on the assault ship’s fuselage.
Torin followed Ragnar’s gaze. “We had to tear open the cockpit with Harald’s fist to get you out,” he said.
“The pilot and co-pilot died in the crash, and the augur operator was dead by the time we pulled him out.”
Ragnar nodded painfully, realising sadly that he’d never learned the heroic pilot’s name. “Any other casualties?” he asked.
“Not yet, thank Russ,” the Wolfblade said, glancing up at the empty sky. “We heard the enemy fighters fly overhead a few times as we were trying to cut our way out of the ship, but they were gone by the time we made it outside.”
“Lady Gabriella?” Ragnar inquired.
Torin indicated a spot off behind Ragnar with a curt nod of his chin. “Haegr is watching her,” he replied gravely. “She’s not doing too well.”
His pain forgotten, Ragnar clambered quickly to his feet. Gabriella was sitting just a few metres away, her legs drawn up and her head resting on her knees. Haegr loomed protectively over the Navigator, his thunder hammer held at the ready. Inquisitor Volt knelt beside Gabriella, speaking to her in low tones. The rest of Harald’s Blood Claw pack formed a security perimeter some way off, diligently scanning the surrounding terrain for signs of danger.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 19
