They passed silently through the small camp and headed up to the far end of the canyon. Just off to the left, Ragnar was surprised to find a pack of huge, Fenrisian wolves stretched out in front of the entrance to a large cave. The wolves raised their shaggy heads as Torvald and the Wulfen approached, and the smallest of the pack rose onto its paws and loped into the darkness beyond the cave mouth. Torvald raised his axe, signalling for the party to halt, and went inside without a word. The Wulfen sank onto their haunches, some closing their eyes to rest while others dragged scraps of flesh from pouches at their belts and tore at them with their powerful jaws.
Harald’s Blood Claws lowered Inquisitor Volt carefully to the ground. The old man spent several long minutes fishing a metal vial from his pack. He opened it with trembling hands and drank its contents in a single swallow. A little further away, Haegr set Gabriella on her feet. Though obviously tired, the Navigator was studying the Wulfen and the grim little camp with wide-eyed interest.
Ragnar slowly turned in place, surveying the canyon and its strange, forbidding inhabitants. He reminded himself that despite the differences between them, they were bound by the same oaths and the same world. The Thousand Sons were still their implacable foes, and Ragnar had no doubt that they would be able to count upon Bulveye and his warriors when the time came to strike at the heart of Madox’s grand scheme. For the first time since crashing upon the shadow world, the young Space Wolf felt a spark of real hope.
Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed from the rocky walls. Ragnar whirled to see Gabriella stagger and fall to her knees, her hands pressed tightly to her face. Fierce green light from her pineal eye flared between her pale fingers.
“Lady!” Ragnar shouted, rushing to the Navigator’s side.
The young Space Wolf had nearly reached Gabriella when a wave of sorcery buffeted him like an unseen wind. Its terrible energies sank through his armour and deep into his flesh, setting blood and bones afire. A cry of terrible agony tore its way past Ragnar’s lips as he collapsed to his knees.
Dimly, he was aware that he was not alone. Harald and his Blood Claws had fallen too, and were writhing upon the ground. Even Haegr was down on one knee, his eyes screwed shut with pain.
Ragnar closed his eyes as another wave of agony wracked his body. His muscles roiled beneath his skin, and his flesh crawled. He tasted blood in his mouth, and then he was aware of nothing but a chorus of hungry, bestial howls filling the air and a red tide rising up to swallow his mind.
The air above the rolling plain hissed with bolts of lascannon fire, and rumbled with the thunder of heavy guns. Pillars of black smoke rose into the sky from the burning hulks of tanks and armoured personnel carriers, painting the western horizon the colour of old blood.
Rebel troops had reached to within half a kilometre of the Charys starport before their offensive ground to a temporary halt. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Imperial defenders had managed to retreat in good order despite constant artillery barrages and furious assaults. The causeway linking the capital city to the starport was choked with bodies and wrecked vehicles, testament to the desperate rearguard action fought by the Twentieth Hebridean Foot and the Tairan Irregulars, two of Athelstane’s veteran units. The tattered colours of the regiments fluttered in the rough wind blowing over the causeway, surrounded by the bodies of their fallen colour guard. Both units had died to a man, holding back the traitors’ armoured assault long enough for the rest of the Imperial units to reach the port’s fortified perimeter.
Now the frenzied rebel troops found themselves under the guns of the starport’s defenders, forced to march across hundreds of metres of open ground covered by mines, anti-tank guns and artillery batteries. After two bloody assaults, the traitors were forced to pull back out of range until their heavy artillery could be brought forward to pound the Imperial positions.
Just over a kilometre from the beleaguered defenders, the first batteries of rebel guns were being rolled into position by the light of the dying sun. Bare-chested gun crews strained and cursed as they unlimbered heavy, stub-nosed siege mortars and tried to roll them into position along the reverse slope of a low, treeless hill. Other crews took pry-bars to squat, wooden crates containing the massive high-explosive shells. Within the hour they would be ready to fire the first salvoes.
The gun crews were exhausted, and they’d grown careless with the promise of impending victory. No sentries were posted to watch the surrounding terrain, so there was no one to take note of the eight armoured figures observing the battery from a copse of trees a hundred metres to the west.
Mikal Sternmark flexed his armoured fingers around the hilt of Redclaw and tasted the scents of the enemy troops. “Ammunition?” he asked of his men.
Sven eyed his two packmates. “Jurgen and Bors can shoot those bloody flashlights for another month before they run dry,” he said, scowling at the hellguns in the Wolves’ hands. He checked the power meter on his meltagun. “And I’ve got one shot left.”
Haakon cleared his throat. Several pieces of shrapnel had lodged in his neck over the course of the afternoon, leaving him hoarse. “I’m out of rockets,” he grated. “Bjorn, Nils and Karl are down to five rounds each.”
“Grenades?” the Wolf Guard asked.
Sven shook his head. “Not since that fight back at the crossroads.”
Sternmark nodded, although he couldn’t honestly say he remembered which fight Sven was talking about. The day had blurred into one long, deadly pursuit. They would retreat a few hundred metres, lay an ambush for their pursuers, and then strike, kill as many as they could and retreat to the next ambush point further down the road. The Wolves had left hundreds of dead traitors and wrecked vehicles in their wake, until finally they’d eluded their pursuers inside the drainage network at the edge of the city.
They could have slipped into the low hills south of the capital, lain low until nightfall, and then crept past the rebel positions under the cover of darkness and into safety behind the Imperial lines, but Sternmark would be damned before anyone said he slunk back to camp like a whipped dog.
The red tide was rising. He could feel it pressing against the backs of his eyes, and he welcomed it.
“We’ll advance in standard skirmish formation,” he told his men, and then pointed with his bloodstained blade at a team of gunners who were fixing fuses to a trio of waiting shells. “Sven, when we’re in range, you put your last shot right there.”
Sven let out a low whistle. “Pull the trigger and eat dirt. Aye, lord.”
The Wolf Guard ignored the Grey Hunter’s impertinence. He was already moving, gliding swiftly from the shadows beneath the trees.
They raced across the low ground in moments, unnoticed by the labouring artillery crews. Sternmark measured the distance with a predator’s eye, and then nodded to Sven and sank to one knee. Without hesitation, the Grey Hunter raised the meltagun to his shoulder and fired.
The three heavy shells detonated in a single, earth shaking blast that staggered the kneeling Wolves, and pitched Sven onto his back. For a single instant, the slope of the hill was painted in fiery orange. Then a shower of earth and smouldering pieces of flesh fell in a dark rain around the rebel battery.
Sternmark was on his feet before the flash had completely faded, charging among the stunned and wounded artillerymen. Redclaw flashed and hummed, splitting torsos and severing arms. A handful of gunners staggered to their feet and ran, screaming curses. Hell-guns barked, and their smoking bodies tumbled to the ground. Within seconds, the slaughter was complete.
The Wolf Guard studied the guns. One of the mortars had flipped onto its side, but the rest seemed unscathed. “Sven, you and your brothers right that mortar,” he said. “Bjorn, Nils and Karl, fetch more shells.” He pointed to the summit of the hill. “Haakon, you’ll spot for targets.”
The Wolves leapt into action at once, realising Sternmark’s plan. Haakon strode swiftly up the slope while the other three Terminators pulled apart more crates and heft
ed mortar shells like oversized boltgun rounds. Within moments, they were being fed into the breeches of the six waiting siege mortars.
“Targets?” Sternmark called.
Haakon peered over the slope. “A motorised battalion between us and the starport,” he said, raising the targeting surveyor in his hand. “Range six hundred and fifty to seven hundred metres.”
Sven and his packmates raced between the mortar tubes, dialling in the range. When they were ready he raised his hand to Sternmark. The Wolf Guard smiled coldly.
“Fire.”
The mortars went off in a staggered volley, spitting half-tonne shells high into the air. They screamed like the souls of the damned, and Sternmark threw back his head and howled along with them. By the time the first shells burst among the unsuspecting rebels Sternmark had crested the slope and was charging towards the foe.
Haakon had guided the shells right onto their target. The rebel unit had been assembling behind another line of low hills, their trucks and armoured cars massed in a disorderly knot behind the highest ridge line. Now the vehicles were smashed to pieces or tossed around like children’s toys, spraying burning fuel across the blackened earth. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere, and wounded men tried to crawl or stagger away from the scene of carnage.
The Wolves raced among them, slashing and striking without mercy. Sternmark scythed his way through the screaming traitors, his teeth bared at the smell of hot blood. Las-bolts crackled through the smoky air. Once, an infantryman lurched upright, struggling to aim a meltagun with a pair of charred hands, but Nils blew him apart with the last of his storm bolter shells.
Sternmark found the battalion commander trying to climb out from under a pile of bodies, and struck off his head with a casual swipe of his sword. Enemy return fire was intensifying as the survivors recovered from the shock of the barrage. He spied almost a platoon of soldiers retreating farther south, firing wildly at the warriors of Fenris.
Snarling the Wolf Guard made to pursue the fleeing traitors, but Sven let out a yell. “The way is clear, lord!” he said, waving his chainblade from the summit of the next hill. “We’re fifteen hundred metres from the starport.”
Sternmark paused. For a moment he couldn’t make sense of what Sven was saying. His bodyguard rushed up to surround him, firing well-aimed shots into the retreating traitors. Mikal tasted the blood of his foes upon his lips and eyed the fleeing rebels hungrily.
Somewhere, off in the distance, he felt a tremor, like the fall of a heavy shell or the first drumbeat of a coming storm. It tugged at him, making his veins tremble like plucked wires and catching the breath in his throat.
Mikal turned, seeking the source of the thunder. Haakon gripped his arm. “What are your orders, lord?” he asked in his rough voice.
Sternmark struggled to focus on Haakon’s face. He could sense the rebel troops escaping, drawing further away with every passing moment, and longed to run them down. “We…” he began, struggling to pull the words from the red tide in his mind. Chase them. Drag them to the earth and tear open their throats.
Haakon frowned, worried. He, too, seemed to feel something strange in the air. “The men are waiting, lord,” he said.
“The men…” Sternmark echoed. He breathed deeply, and then nodded towards the slope. “Right. Let’s go.”
The Wolves fell in behind their leader as he marched stolidly up the slope. At the summit he saw the broad expanse of the starport spread before him and the killing ground littered with the dead. Energy bolts and tracer fire sped back and forth across the corpse choked field as Imperial troops and rebel forces along the causeway traded volleys.
Sven eyed the field warily. “A quick and easy run for once,” he said.
The Wolf Guard shook his head savagely. “I’ve done enough running for one day,” he growled. “From here, we walk.” And, raising his ancient blade to the sky, he started forward.
For ten minutes, the Space Wolves strode across the smoking plain, in full view of both sides. Redclaw caught the light of the setting sun and her blade shone like an evening star, drawing the eye of every soldier within sight. Almost at once, rebel gunners opened fire on the slowly marching warriors, but the las-bolts and stubber fire flew wide of their targets. Sternmark did not alter his pace in the slightest, his head straight and his stride measured. A chance shot cracked against his side, but his armour held and he missed not a single step.
By the time they reached the middle ground between the two sides, the Wolves could hear the cheering from the Imperial fortifications. Return fire stabbed out at the rebel troops, providing cover for the heroic Space Marines, and lone voices called out encouragement to Sternmark and his men. More shots flashed through the knot of bloodstained warriors. The rebels were firing grenades at long range, sending hot pieces of shrapnel ringing against the Wolves’ flanks. A missile streaked from a rebel position to the south, but its aim was poor and the shot fell short.
Three hundred metres. Two hundred and fifty. A shot from a heavy stubber smashed into Sternmark’s hip, shattering against the armour and sending splinters into his leg. Mortar rounds whistled overhead, smashing into the earth ahead of the Wolves like burning fists.
“Nice day for a walk!” Sven shouted into the din. A las-bolt cracked against his leg, and he brushed irritably at the scorch mark it left. “Pity about the bugs, though!”
They were climbing the long slope up to the first of the Imperial entrenchments. Sternmark could see the grimy, cheering faces of the troops, calling out to him from their firing positions. They were less than a hundred metres away.
He faintly heard the clatter of treads far off to the west, and a lusty shout went up from the rebel positions. Then, too late, he heard the hollow boom of a battle cannon.
The world seemed to slow to a turgid crawl. Sternmark’s senses grew supernaturally sharp. He could feel the rumble of displaced air as the heavy shell arced towards them. Pulverised rock and bits of dirt rang off his armour like tiny chimes as he turned, looking back towards impending doom.
The shell was a dark, thumb-shaped smudge in the air, spinning lazily as it fell. Next to him, Sternmark heard Sven draw in a sharp breath.
“Allfather protect us,” the Grey Hunter said, and the world vanished in an eruption of earth and flame.
SEVENTEEN
The Wolf King’s Hall
Shouts and bestial snarls shook the air of the narrow canyon. Fists and blades clashed against ceramite plate as warriors clawed at their breasts in rage and pain. Ragnar howled in helpless fury, his fingers digging deep furrows in the lifeless earth. It felt as though his body was tearing itself apart from the inside out. His muscles writhed like maddened snakes, constricting around his reinforced bones and bending them with the strain. His eyes burned and his teeth ached to their roots, and it felt as though a swarm of stinging insects was crawling hungrily beneath his skin. Ragnar pitched forward and smashed his forehead against the lifeless ground again and again, trying to drive out the awful sensations with jolts of pure, honest pain.
The Wulfen snarled hungrily within him, setting its teeth deep in his bones. Ragnar tore clumsily at his armour, as though he could reach in and rip the beast from his body. The tips of his fingers ached fiercely, and mindless with rage, he tugged at the gauntlets with his teeth, trying to pull them free.
Voices were shouting all around him, but he could not make any sense of the words. Wolves snapped and snarled, clashing their fearsome jaws. The air was thick with the acid reek of anger and the sweet, heady smell of blood.
Something small crashed against him, and soft blows beat at his chest and face. A thin, piping sound reverberated in his ears. Shaking his head savagely, Ragnar gripped the flailing object and heard a gasp of fear. Breath ghosted against his face, and his eyes opened in surprise.
Gabriella’s face was centimetres from his, her expression stern, but her eyes shining with fear. His hand was closed tight around her upper arm, hard enough to crack the ca
rapace armour she wore.
She drew back her hand and slapped him hard across the face. The gauntlet came away slick with blood.
“Ragnar!” she cried, her voice sharp and faintly trembling. “Listen to me! This is dark sorcery, and it feeds on conflict! The more you fight it, the stronger it grows! Don’t struggle. Do you hear me? Let it wash over you like a wave, and then it can’t affect you!”
The words echoed strangely in Ragnar’s ears. He tried to grasp them, but they slipped from his mind like quicksilver. Every nerve was aflame, and he felt as though he was coming out of his skin.
Gabriella struck him again, and he tasted fresh blood on his lips. Ragnar bared his teeth at the blow, and his hands seemed to move of their own accord.
He grabbed the Navigator by the hair and wrenched back her head, stretching the tendons of her pale neck.
“Ragnar, no!” Gabriella cried, her eyes widening in terror.
Fangs glistening, the young Space Wolf lunged for her throat.
A shadow fell over Ragnar at that moment, and an armoured fist closed around his neck like a vice. His lips scarcely brushed Gabriella’s skin before he was hauled into the air and shaken like a newborn cub. A powerful voice, deep and sonorous, cut through the cacophony around the young Space Wolf and snapped his tormented mind into focus.
“Forget those soft words little brother, and fight the beast for all you are worth! You must struggle against the wolf in all its forms, as the primarch himself commands. That is the first oath of our brotherhood, and without it we are lost!”
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 24
