When the figure spoke, his voice was cold and hard as the glaciers of Fenris, full of power and old beyond reckoning. To the young Space Wolf it sounded like the voice of a god.
“You must be Ragnar Blackmane,” the warrior said. “We’ve been looking for you.”
FIFTEEN
The Company of Wolves
A battle cannon shell howled high overhead. The rebel tank gunner had been overeager and had fired too early, missing the fleeing Imperial troops by hundreds of metres. Grenadiers shouted and screamed at one another as they ran pell-mell down the debris choked causeway. Tracer fire from heavy stubbers and volleys of lasgun fire raked through the retreating soldiers. Men writhed, clutching at their wounds, or fell lifelessly to the ground.
Panicked grenadiers flowed in a dark tide around the impassive figures of Mikal Sternmark and his four Wolf Guard. The presence of the armoured giants was the only thing keeping the Imperial retreat from becoming a total rout. The Wolves moved at a stolid, measured pace, facing back the way they’d come and cutting down rebel squads that pressed too close.
“Haakon!” Sternmark called, levelling Redclaw at the rebel tank nosing its way among the squads of enemy troops a hundred metres behind them. The Terminator to Sternmark’s right stopped in his tracks, raising the targeting module in his hand, finding the range to the target, and then loosing one of his few remaining Cyclone missiles. The antitank round streaked down the causeway with a hissing spitting roar and detonated against the front of the battle tank’s turret. Concussion and shrapnel scythed through the infantry surrounding the tank, and the Leman Russ lurched to a sudden halt. A good shot, but Sternmark couldn’t be certain whether it had knocked the tank out or not.
They had held the barricade beneath the towering angel for much of the day, throwing back no less than ten bloody assaults before they had been forced to withdraw under a storm of tank and artillery fire. By pure, evil chance a shell had struck the defiant angel at the start of the last barrage, blowing it apart and showering debris on the weary defenders below. Superstitious to a fault, the beleaguered grenadiers had taken it as an omen.
Surrounded by hundreds of their dead comrades and facing an apparently inexhaustible tide of enemy troops, the surviving regimental officers ordered a general retreat just as the rebels renewed their attack. Sternmark watched helplessly as the first squads began to stream away from the mined barricade, but he knew from experience that there was no rallying the broken troops now that the withdrawal had begun. Instead, he formed the battered platoons around him into a rearguard, and sent Sven’s pack racing down the causeway as fast as they could to form a second line of defence ahead of the retreating Guardsmen. He’d had no contact with the young Grey Hunter since. Sternmark could only pray to Russ that Sven had been successful. They were less than a kilometre from the edge of the city. If the rebel troops made it into the open terrain beyond the city there would be no stopping them from reaching the starport.
Sternmark caught sight of a rebel lascannon team struggling to haul their weapon into firing position, and cut them down with a burst from his storm bolter. The rebels responded with a hail of wild lasgun fire that burst across Sternmark’s Terminator armour and pitted the ferrocrete roadway. The Wolf Guard ignored the flickering barrage, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to gauge the terrain along their path of retreat. Sternmark caught sight of a massive pile of rubble a hundred metres or so away. A building had collapsed onto the causeway, laying a natural barricade almost two-thirds of the way across the road. Armoured figures peered over the top of the debris pile, awaiting the approach of the rebel troops. They’d reached the second line of defence.
Mikal keyed his vox-unit. A shrill squeal of static filled his ears. The rebels had been trying to jam the Imperial vox-net since morning. “We’re holding here!” he called. “Fall back and take position behind the debris pile!”
The Terminators raised their swords or power fists to show they’d received the order as they continued to fire at the advancing rebel troops. The first grenadiers were already swarming over the rubble or running around the far end of the pile. Sternmark fired another burst at the traitors and turned to run for the barrier. His mind worked furiously as he studied the terrain and tried to work out the best way to organise its defence. He could put his Wolves along the rubble pile to keep the infantry at bay and keep the grenadiers behind the barricade, out of the line of fire but ready to hit the flank of any attackers trying to force their way around the far end.
There was a loud boom and a battle cannon shell crashed against the debris pile, blowing a deep crater in the jumble of ferrocrete and steel. The Leman Russ was back in action, its treads clanking as it resumed its advance. Sternmark grimaced at the sting of shrapnel along the side of his face, and clambered up the jumbled slope of stone blocks and twisted girders. As he reached the summit, the Leman Russ fired again, blasting another crater in the barrier and showering him with a rain of dirt and stone.
Sternmark leapt over the summit and skidded down the other side until he was out of the line of fire. He found Sven and the two remaining members of his pack crouching behind the largest pieces of stonework they could find. The young Grey Hunter had acquired a Guard-issue meltagun at some point, and Sternmark was startled to see the two warriors beside Sven carrying hellguns instead of their blessed bolters.
“Where are your weapons?” the Wolf Guard snapped.
Sven shifted position to show his bolter stowed in its travel clip beside his suit’s backpack. “Ran out of ammunition hours ago,” he said.
“Why in Russ’s name didn’t you report it?”
The Grey Hunter looked bewildered. “I did, lord,” Sven said, “back at the barricade, just before the eighth bloody wave hit! Don’t you remember?”
Sternmark shook his head angrily. The truth was that he couldn’t recall. Everything seemed to be blurring together in his mind, dissolving into a jumble of half-formed images. The red tide in the back of his mind washed everything else away.
“Never mind!” the Wolf Guard snarled, turning away angrily to survey the state of the barrier’s defences. He hoped to find at least a few hundred grenadiers and some heavy weapons dug into positions angling away from the barrier. With enough troops and a little luck, he thought, they could hold until nightfall, long enough to get some more ammunition sent up.
The only Guardsmen he saw, however, were the members of his rearguard, still retreating farther down the causeway. Sven and his two battle-brothers were alone on the barricade.
Shock and anger played across Sternmark’s bloodstained face. “Where are they?” he asked Sven. “Where are the grenadiers? I ordered you to form a second line—”
Another explosion cut Sternmark off, raining more debris down on the beleaguered Wolves. “We tried to form a line here,” Sven shouted back, “but the regimental commander received orders from his superior to fall back to the starport.”
“The starport?” Mikal said incredulously. As he spoke, his four bodyguards appeared around the end of the barrier, still firing at the oncoming troops. Heavy stubber fire from the advancing tank rang off their armoured breastplates, scattering glowing red tracers in all directions. Sternmark waved his warriors back around the end of the barricade and out of the line of fire. Then he skidded to the bottom of the debris pile and keyed his vox-unit once more. “Citadel, this is Asgard!” he shouted into the pickup. “Citadel, this is Asgard! Do you read me?”
Sternmark strained to hear a response over the screech of the rebel jamming signals. Several seconds passed before he heard a faint reply.
“Asgard? Where have you been?” Athelstane asked angrily. “We’ve been calling you for the past three hours.”
The Wolf Guard ignored the question. “Why did you order the grenadiers back to the starport?” he shouted. “We can’t hold the causeway without them.”
“The causeway is already lost,” Athelstane shot back. “The rebels broke through our lines four k
ilometres east of your position and have split our forces in two. If we don’t pull back to the starport now our troops in the city will be surrounded and destroyed. That includes you, Asgard.” It was hard to tell over the jamming but Sternmark thought the anger in Athelstane’s voice had subsided a bit. “There are reports that Chaos Marines have been sighted in the city, and we’ve lost contact with several of your packs scattered across the planet.”
Sternmark felt his blood run cold. “Lost contact? What do you mean?”
“I mean they aren’t answering our signals, much like you,” the general replied. “You need to get back here right away, Asgard. Things are getting out of hand.”
Cursing bitterly, Sternmark switched off the vox-unit. The rumble of the rebel tank engine and the squeal of its treads were very loud now, sounding as though it was just a few dozen metres away on the other side of the barrier. He could hear the hoarse shouts of the traitor Guardsmen and the gibbering cries of the mutants in their midst as they raced for the barrier.
Mikal checked his storm bolter. He was down to his last magazine, and it was reading half-empty. His fellow Wolf Guard stood close by, ever courageous and resolute, but he knew that they must be nearly out of ammunition as well. Nevertheless, he was tempted to remain where he was, to make a stand at the barrier and fight to the last.
If the rest of the line had held, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but what would it achieve now? Sacrifice was second nature to the Adeptus Astartes, but not without good reason. A final battle here would just be a waste of good men and precious wargear.
Still the red tide rose within him, demanding release. It promised nothing save spilled blood and dead foe-men, and Sternmark longed to surrender to its embrace. I am no leader of men, he thought angrily. I’m a warrior, a wolf wrought of ceramite and steel.
Atop the barrier, Sven and his battle-brothers nodded to one another, and then went into action. The three Grey Hunters moved as one. The warriors with hellguns popped up and rapid fired into the approaching traitors, while Sven took careful aim with his meltagun. There was a draconic hiss of superheated air as the assault weapon fired, and a thunderous explosion sent the rebel tank’s turret spinning into the air. Screams and shouts of alarm rang from the other side of the barrier as the Grey Hunters dropped back into cover and slid down the slope to the waiting Terminators.
“That took care of the tank!” Sven said with a feral grin. “There must be a few hundred rebels left, though. What shall we do, lord?”
Sternmark gripped Redclaw’s hilt and fought against the wolf inside him. “We retreat,” he said grimly. “We’re falling back to the starport. The battle in the city is lost.”
Ragnar blinked hot blood from his eyes and bared his teeth at the bearded giant looming above him. A chorus of lusty howls filled his ears and set his mind to reeling. He could feel the curse of the Wulfen responding to the throaty cries. “Who in the name of Russ are you?” he growled, letting the frost blade slide from his hand.
The giant narrowed his yellow eyes. “Who am I?” he said, his voice rough edged with menace. “I’m Torvald the Reaver, of Red Kraken Hold, and with this axe I’ve slain gods and men.” He raised the fearsome weapon in his hand and showed the gleaming edge to the young Space Wolf.
Ragnar could feel challenge in the giant’s voice, like a blade against his skin. His blood seethed, and the Wulfen gripped him, body and soul. This time, he didn’t try to stop it.
His empty sword hand dosed around Torvald’s ankle and pulled with all the wild strength of the Wulfen behind it. In the same motion, Ragnar rose up and drove his other hand against the side of the giant’s hip. The speed and ferocity of Ragnar’s attack took the giant by surprise. His heavy cloak flaring like dark wings, Torvald fell forward onto his knees. Swift as a shadow the young Space Wolf came up behind him, grabbing a handful of the giant’s hair and pulling his scarred head back to reveal the corded muscles of the Reaver’s throat.
Angry howls and bestial cries shook the air. Dark shapes rushed at Ragnar from all sides, and he glimpsed huge, swift forms in gunmetal grey armour with luminous, lantern yellow eyes. Lightning flickered across the empty sky, revealing shaggy heads and blunt, toothy snouts. Long, black talons glinted as the massive wolf-men lunged for Ragnar.
The world seemed to tilt beneath the young Space Wolf as the monsters closed in around him. These were the beasts that haunted his dreams and had fought the daemons in the command bunker at Charys! He let go of Torvald and staggered backwards, struggling to think. A low, animal growl rose in his throat, and the pack of wolf-men answered, snarling and snapping their fanged jaws.
“Be still!” shouted a clear, strong voice. “In the name of Russ and the Allfather, be still!”
The wolf-men paused, hanging their heads and sniffing the air cautiously. The voice echoed strangely in Ragnar’s head. He turned around, seeking its source, and his knees buckled beneath him.
A figure in familiar power armour was striding towards him through a press of hulking wolf-men, as a lord might move among his hounds. Lightning glimmered on the warrior’s golden hair and the iron wolf amulet hanging from a heavy chain around his neck.
Sigurd the Wolf Priest approached Ragnar, his crozius arcanum held high. “Remember your oaths, Ragnar Blackmane,” he said sternly. “Master the wolf within you and stay your hand. We are all brothers here.”
The words seemed to echo strangely, as though from a great distance. Ragnar blinked his one good eye and looked for Gabriella, but all he found was darkness.
Fiery pain bloomed in Ragnar’s head, dragging him roughly back to consciousness. He snarled, shaking his head, but an armoured hand closed fiercely around his jaw and held him fast.
Blinking furiously, Ragnar opened his crusted eyelids and saw Sigurd’s pale face looming above him. He was lying on his back, surrounded by crouching figures. Faces swam into focus. Torin and Haegr watched the Wolf Priest work, their expressions guarded. Gabriella’s face was bleak and etched with strain.
It was Haegr’s hand that gripped him. Torin leaned close. “Hold still a moment more,” he said to Ragnar. “He’s almost done.”
There was another bright flash of pain, but this time Ragnar was able to blunt it with the mental rotes he’d learned at the Fang. He felt a trickle of blood seep down the side of his head as Sigurd leaned back and inspected the blood-stained tip of a bolt pistol round. “You must have a head made of solid ceramite,” the Wolf Priest growled. “Still, you’re lucky the shot hit at an angle, or it would have blown your brains out.”
Torin chuckled. “No worries there, priest. That slug would have had to rattle around in Ragnar’s head like a dice before it hit anything important.”
Sigurd offered no argument, tossing the bullet aside with a frown and digging a couple of metal jars from a pack at his belt. “The shot hit you just above the left eye,” he said as he began applying the healing balms to Ragnar’s wound. “Are you having any trouble with your vision?”
Ragnar struggled to focus his thoughts. Visions of an axe-wielding giant and snarling wolf-men loomed like ghosts in his mind. “I had some trouble before,” he said absently, “but that might just have been the blood. I’m fine now.”
Sigurd nodded curtly, but his expression was dubious. He pressed a wound sealant to Ragnar’s forehead, and rose to his feet. “Watch him closely,” the Wolf Priest said to Haegr and Torin. “I expect we’ll be on the move very soon.”
Grimacing Ragnar rose to his elbows as Sigurd turned on his heel and strode away, picking his way over the broken bodies of Chaos Raptors that littered the ground between the towering granaries. He saw Harald and his pack mates a few metres away, crouching beside Inquisitor Volt, checking their weapons and speaking to one another in low voices. Hulking forms stalked silently around the edges of the open space, sniffing warily at the empty sky. Ragnar caught the scent of the wolf-men and felt his hackles rise.
Ten metres away, Torvald stood with his axe raised to the sky.
Lightning flickered upon his upturned face. The giant’s eyes were open, but they glimmered green, like Gabriella’s pineal eye, and Torvald’s face was set in an expression of grim concentration.
Ragnar struggled to make sense of the scene. “What in Morkai’s name is going on here?” he muttered.
“We’ve fallen into the pages of a legend,” Torin said reverently, “one that stretches back ten thousand years.”
The young Space Wolf scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t mind him,” Haegr said. “I haven’t understood a single thing he’s said since the battle ended. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he took the head wound instead of you.” The burly Wolfblade surveyed the scene of carnage and shrugged. “The Raptors ambushed us. I’m sure you remember that part. But before mighty Haegr could put them to flight, Torvald and his… warriors… raced out of the shadows and tore our foes to pieces.”
“But who are they?” Ragnar asked, still haunted by the images in his mind’s eye. “They are clearly sons of Fenris, but the armour and insignia—”
“They haven’t been seen since the Heresy,” Torin said, “not since Leman Russ descended on Prospero to wreak his vengeance on the Thousand Sons.” He shook his head in wonder. “They’re part of the Lost Company, Ragnar, the Thirteenth.”
Haegr let out a snort. “Listen to him. He thinks he’s a skald, now.”
“Perhaps I was, once upon a time,” Torin said archly. “There’s more to life than just eating and fighting, you shag-eared lummox.”
“But what are they doing here?” Ragnar interjected. “And how did Sigurd come to be with them?”
Torin shrugged. “You’d have to ask them, brother. Sigurd wouldn’t tell us a thing, and I gather Torvald is using his powers to hide us from our foes.”
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 22
