Ragnar approached the Navigator carefully and sank down into a crouch next to Inquisitor Volt. The inquisitor paid the young Space Wolf no mind. His head was bowed and he was reading from a small book resting in his bandaged hands. With a start, Ragnar realised that Volt was praying, reciting a litany in High Gothic that he’d never heard before. He sensed it was being done for Gabriella’s benefit, but he could not follow the specifics.
Leaning forward, Ragnar spoke softly to Gabriella. “Lady? Are you well?”
At the sound of his voice, the Navigator raised her head. Gabriella’s pale face was smudged with soot and grime, and her expression was one of pure anguish. Her scarf was gone and her black hair hung loosely about her face. In the centre of her forehead the Navigator’s pineal eye burned like a tiny star, stunning Ragnar with its intensity.
“I can feel it,” she said in a stricken voice, “lines of terrible power stretching into the physical realm, anchored by the suffering of millions. The fabric of space turned inside out, warped by the will of…” A look of horror passed across her face. “I cannot say it! I dare not say it! Blessed Emperor preserve us!”
“The Emperor is with us,” Volt told her, his voice trembling with conviction. “His sacred light shields us, and he has set his Wolves to watch over us. Be strong, Gabriella of Bellisarius,” he said, and laid a hand gently on her arm. “What can you tell us of the ritual our foe is planning?”
“Planning?” Gabriella said. “No, not planning, performing. It has been going on for some time. I can hear their voices in my head, whispering terrible things. Whatever the ritual portends, it is nearing its culmination.”
Volt squeezed her arm compassionately and glanced at Ragnar. “It is worse than I feared,” he said quietly, but it was unclear if he was speaking about the ritual or the effect it was having on Gabriella. “There isn’t much time left.”
Ragnar nodded gravely. “Lady, we need to get moving,” he said, as gently as he could. “Can you walk? One of us can carry you if need be—”
“I can walk,” Gabriella said forcefully, though the strain of what she was feeling was painfully apparent in her eyes. “I can do whatever I must.”
“Then rest for a few moments more,” Ragnar replied, and turned to Volt. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
Volt closed his book of devotions and nodded, surveying the dark plain that surrounded them. “We’re about a hundred kilometres due south of the capital,” he said, and then pointed to the roadway. “This is one of the main transit routes linking the southern agri-combines. It leads right into the heart of the city.”
Ragnar scowled at the news. Time was of the essence. The Space Wolves could cover a hundred kilometres in less than seven hours at a forced march, but there was no way that Gabriella, Volt or the bondsmen would be able to manage such a pace. “The roadway is too exposed,” he said to the inquisitor. “The enemy fighters have gone for now, but I expect that something will arrive to search the wreckage before much longer.”
Volt nodded. “I fear you’re right.” He put away his book and then gestured to the north, where the grey stripe of the roadway bisected a dark green band that stretched across the horizon. “We’ll head for that agri-combine. It’s much smaller than most, but the crops will give us some cover for at least twenty kilometres.”
Ragnar shook his head, bemused. “What does a shadow world deep within the Eye of Terror need with crops and agri-combines?”
“It’s the law of correspondence,” Volt said. “The shadow world has to be an exact geographical copy of Charys for the co-location to work.”
“All right,” Ragnar said. “What about the mountain range beyond the combine? If we follow it instead of the roadway, how close will it take us to the city?”
Volt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “We could follow them to within ten kilometres of the city’s south-west districts,” he said, “but it would be rough going.”
Ragnar nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll have to do.”
“What’s this?”
Ragnar and Volt looked up at the sound of Harald’s voice. The pack leader had arrived with his three Blood Claws and the surviving Thunderhawk crew in tow. Two of the warriors carried the heavy bolters stripped from the assault ship on improvised shoulder slings. The tech-priest and the assault ship’s gunners were carrying stubby lascarbines in their hands and had bulky survival packs on their shoulders.
Harald glared down at Ragnar. “You’re not in command here, exile,” the pack leader said. “No one’s taking orders from you.”
A shadow fell across Harald as Haegr leaned forward, his hands tightening around the haft of his hammer. “Shall I thrash some sense into this pup, brother?” he asked.
Harald bristled at the threat. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, baring his fangs.
“That’s enough,” Volt snapped, rising to his feet between the two warriors. The Wolves stood head and shoulders above the old man, but the inquisitor’s tone was hard and unyielding. “Ragnar isn’t in command of this expedition, but I am, and we’re heading for the agri-combine. Harald, assemble your men. I want two of your Wolves on point and one covering each flank, understood?”
The pack leader stared down at Volt for a long moment, and Ragnar thought for an instant that Harald was going to challenge the inquisitor. Then, just as suddenly, he nodded an acknowledgement and began calling out orders to his men.
Volt began to gather up his gear without comment, as though nothing had happened. Haegr held out a hand to Gabriella and helped the Navigator to her feet. Torin appeared quietly out of the gloom. Only Ragnar noticed the older Wolfblade sliding his pistol back into its holster. The two warriors shared apprehensive looks.
“Not a good beginning,” Torin said softly, as the band prepared to move out. “Harald’s only barely holding it together.”
Ragnar glanced thoughtfully to the north. “Aren’t we all,” he replied.
FOURTEEN
The Lost
Distances were deceiving on the vast, dark plains of the shadow world. When they’d set out from the crash site, Ragnar had reckoned they were only a few dozen kilometres from the edge of the agri-combine, but an hour later they still seemed no closer to their objective. The Space Wolves loped along at a tireless, ground-eating pace, their eyes restlessly scanning the horizon for signs of enemy activity. The bondsmen, accustomed as they were to the physical regimens of the Fang, kept up the pace without complaint. Inquisitor Volt and Lady Gabriella did the same, but Ragnar could tell that they were beginning to tire. Their scents were bitter, laced with crippling fatigue poisons. Gabriella in particular was suffering greatly after the difficulty of the warp transit, yet she held her head high and never slowed. Ragnar followed along in her wake, waiting for her to ask for help or to catch her up in case she should stumble.
He could hear the labouring beats of her heart, drumming a desperate counterpoint to the rhythmic cadence of her feet. When he breathed, he could taste the warmth of her skin and feel the heat of her blood on the tip of his tongue. Since he’d set foot on the shadow world his senses had become incredibly sharp. An almost electrical charge galvanised his blood and banished the weariness from his limbs. It felt as though he could run forever under this starless sky, pacing along in Gabriella’s wake and listening to the beat of her heart, waiting for her to stumble.
The surge of pure, soulless hunger that gripped him nearly took Ragnar’s breath away. For a fleeting instant he could imagine her throat within his jaws and taste the hot rush of her blood. He staggered, bile rising in his throat, and fell out of step with his brothers.
The rest of the pack loped past Ragnar, all except for Torin, who slowed his pace and came up alongside the young Space Wolf. The older Wolfblade’s expression was full of concern, but Ragnar waved him away with a savage sweep of his hand. “Keep your distance brother,” he said hoarsely. “I… am not myself.”
“I know, brother,” Torin replied quietly. “I can smell
it. Your scent is changing as the Wulfen grows in strength.”
“Russ preserve me,” Ragnar said, his hearts clenching in horror. He looked out across the featureless plain and for a fleeting instant he was tempted to run as fast and as far from his brethren as he could. “I can’t believe Harald or the others haven’t noticed.”
“The reason is simple,” Torin replied, his voice grim. “They can’t tell the difference because it’s happening to all of us.”
Ragnar scowled at Torin, thinking for a moment that he was being mocked, but then he saw the look in the older Wolfblade’s eyes. Behind the concern there was a cold, desperate glint, hinting at the inner struggle going on inside the warrior. Ragnar suddenly noticed the tension gripping Torin’s lean frame and caught the older Wolfs scent. There was a musky undercurrent that immediately set the young Space Wolf’s teeth on edge. Instead of his battle-brother, Ragnar saw only another predator and a potential rival.
The sudden realisation struck Ragnar like a physical blow. He reeled away from Torin, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl.
Before he could react further, Torin’s voice pulled Ragnar back from the brink. “Peace, brother!” he said quickly, stepping forward and gripping Ragnar’s wrist. “Master yourself, or all of us are lost.”
Ragnar clenched his jaws and fought against the beast that threatened to suborn him. He focused on Torin’s unwavering gaze and the steadying grip of his hand, and after a moment the fire in his blood subsided. When he could speak again he asked, “How can this be, Torin? How is this possible?”
The older Wolfblade could only shake his head helplessly. “I do not know,” he said. “I’ve sensed the changes ever since we landed here. Even Haegr is being affected to some degree.” Torin grinned fleetingly. “If we’re not careful he might try to eat us all.”
The attempt at humour was lost on Ragnar. “I’ve never heard of so many Wolves succumbing at once,” he said.
“Nor I,” Torin replied. “At first I thought that the planet was affecting us - we are somewhere in the Eye of Terror, after all — but you were feeling the curse when we were still on Fenris.” The older warrior’s shoulders slumped. “I should have seen it then and brought it to Ranek’s attention, but you can be so damned melancholy sometimes.” He sighed. “Forgive me brother. I failed you.”
Ragnar shook his head ruefully. “This is no fault of yours, Torin. You told me to speak to Sigurd aboard the Fist of Russ, but I was too stiff-necked to seek him out when I had the chance.” A thought occurred to the young Space Wolf. “Could it be me?” he asked. “Could I somehow be affecting the rest of you?”
Torin’s brows knitted thoughtfully. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but who knows? Perhaps that’s why the priests cull the Wulfen from the companies and isolate them.” After a few more moments’ thought, he shook his head. “No, if that was true then Haegr and I would have been affected ere now. Something else is causing this.”
Ragnar thought it over, and was forced to nod in agreement. “That’s a pity,” he said grimly. “If I thought I could stop this by putting a bolt pistol to my head I would do it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Torin snapped.
“You wouldn’t say that if you felt the same way I do,” Ragnar said. “I’m becoming a danger to Gabriella, Torin. The thoughts that are going through my head…”
“I can guess,” the older Wolfblade replied. “Don’t worry, brother. I won’t let you harm her. You have my oath upon it.” He sighed. “Honestly, it’s the younger ones I’m worried about. Harald and his packmates don’t have the experience we have. They could succumb to the Wulfen and never know it until it was too late.”
Ragnar nodded gravely. “I hear you, Torin. We can only pray to the Allfather that our oaths will sustain us long enough to deal with Madox and his infernal master. After that…” he shrugged.
“Aye,” Torin said. “The rest is up to the Fates.”
The two Wolfblades had fallen several dozen metres behind the rest of the group. Ragnar nodded to Torin, and they began to pick up the pace. As they did so, Ragnar caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye. With a flash of irritation and a shake of his head he dismissed the phantom image, until he saw it again, streaking across the starless sky from the east.
“Hostile aircraft,” Ragnar bellowed. “Take cover!”
The Chaos fighters howled across the plain less than fifty metres above the deck, opening fire the moment the Space Wolves began to scatter. Streams of green energy bolts raked along the dark ground and left melted craters in the surface of the roadway. The Space Marines reacted with blurring speed and years of experience and training, seeming to dance effortlessly among the streams of fire. One of the bondsmen wasn’t so lucky, however. Two bolts took him high on the chest and shoulder, blowing the gunner apart.
Ragnar caught a glimpse of Haegr pushing Gabriella and Volt to the ground and placing his considerable bulk between them and the attacking ships. The two enemy fighters streaked overhead and split up, arrowing skyward on pillars of ghostly fire. An arc of red tracers fanned the air behind the southerly fighter as one of Harald’s Blood Claws opened fire with his salvaged heavy bolter. The Chaos ship made a tight roll, avoiding the explosive shells, and disappeared into the darkness.
“Move, move!” Ragnar yelled, rising to his feet. The dark green border of the agri-combine appeared to be only a few hundred metres away. It wasn’t much, but it was the only cover he could see for kilometres. “Run for the fields! Go! Haegr, get Gabriella moving.”
The Blood Claws started moving at once, heavy bolters sweeping from horizon to horizon in smooth, controlled arcs. Haegr lifted Gabriella bodily to her feet, and then Volt as well, sending both running full-tilt down the roadway with the surviving bondsmen close behind. Torin fell into step beside Ragnar. “Scout flight, you reckon?” he asked.
“Scouts or escorts,” Ragnar said, searching the sky. “We’ll know for sure in the next few minutes.”
The Chaos fighters made their second pass from the north-east, appearing without warning over the fields ahead. As bolts of energy tore through the pack of Wolves, Harald’s gunners stopped in their tracks and filled the air with tracer fire. A burst of shells stitched a line of small explosions along the length of one of the attack craft. It roared overhead, trailing a ribbon of smoke and flame, and then went into an uncontrolled spin and crashed into the earth half a kilometre away.
Las-bolts chased vainly after the second fighter as the bondsmen vented their rage at the enemy ships. Ragnar gripped his bolt pistol and was tempted to loose a few pointless rounds, just for spite’s sake. One of the Blood Claws was reeling, clutching at the melted stump of his left arm and cursing at the sky.
Ahead, Harald and his packmates had come to a halt before a knee-high barrier of pale metal that marked the outer boundary of the combine. Volt and Gabriella stood in their midst, staring motionless at the rustling fields beyond.
Ragnar charged past the smoking heavy bolters and made straight for Gabriella. He could almost feel the second fighter rolling in for a third pass, straight down the roadway behind them. “What in the Allfather’s name are you waiting for?” he snarled. “We’ve got to get under cover—”
Gabriella turned to him, and the look of horror on her face stopped Ragnar in his tracks.
A dry, whispering sound rose from the dark fields as the vast fields of the agri-combine rustled in the wind. Except, Ragnar suddenly realised, there was no breeze blowing against his face.
The tall, dark green stalks ordered in neat ranks beyond the barrier looked like gene-crafted com at first glance. Long drooping leaves, dozens of them on each stalk, trembled and whispered against one another, as though fearful of the Space Marines’ presence.
Lightning split the sky to the east, painting the glossy leaves in pale, green light. Each leaf bore a human face, distorted into a mask of terror and pain. As Ragnar watched, the lips of each face moved in a silen
t scream or a plea for release.
“Blessed Russ!” Ragnar hissed. “What in the Allfather’s name is this?”
“A harvest of damnation,” Volt said gravely. “These are the sacrifices that made this dark world possible. Field after field of them, stretching for thousands of kilometres all across the planet.”
“We have to burn them,” Harald said hoarsely. “Our flamers—”
“Our flamers are not enough,” Ragnar said, “and right now we need them.”
Then the heavy bolters began to roar again, and streaks of ghostly fire hissed past the stricken Blood Claws. Ragnar whirled and saw a stream of green bolts marching up the roadway towards him. “Into the field!” he roared. “Now!”
Raising his bolt pistol, Ragnar began walking towards the oncoming fighter, aiming and firing one shot after another as the Blood Claws began to scramble over the barrier. If the enemy fighter pilot wanted a target, he was going to give it one.
The attack ship was low and level, just a few dozen metres above the roadway. It plunged through a web of tracer fire, its cannons blazing. The two Space Wolf gunners blazed away at the Chaos ship just ahead of Ragnar. One of the Blood Claws was struck full in the chest by one of the energy bolts, blowing a hole the size of Ragnar’s fist clean through the young warrior. The gunner staggered, and then sank to one knee, but the Blood Claw kept firing.
A volley of bolts filled the air around Ragnar. One glanced off his left pauldron and burned a molten furrow through the ceramite plate. The blow knocked the young Space Wolf back a step, but he continued to fire until his pistol’s magazine was empty.
“Ragnar! Get back here!” Torin called from the combine’s metal barrier.
The mortally wounded Blood Claw toppled forward, his hand still closed around the firing lever of his heavy bolter. Hits were beginning to register across the hull of the oncoming fighter however, as the surviving gunner found the range. Howling his defiance, the gunner stepped into the middle of the roadway, right into the attack ship’s path.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 20
