Gunnar stole a look over the lip of the trench, and ducked back as another volley of shells tore into the parapet. “We’ll wait until they hit the trench line and give them a taste of our blades,” the Long Fang declared.
Morgrim Silvertongue shook his head. “We three aren’t going to stop this,” he said. “The Guard regiments are in full retreat and our brothers have been isolated. We need to regain command and control or we’re going to be cut off and slaughtered!”
“How?” Sven growled. “The vox-units are being jammed.”
Silvertongue stared across the smoke wreathed star-port and reached a decision. “Head for the command bunker!” he declared. “We can use the long-range vox system to rally as many troops as we can and form a rearguard.”
Sven eyed the distant bunker and nodded grimly. “Let’s go,” he growled. “It’s as good a place for a last stand as any.”
A squadron of Chaos raiders picked up the Holmgang on their scopes halfway to Charys, and swung about on an intercept course. Augur operators studied the unknown contacts, struggling to divine their identities as gun crews raced to their mounts and torpedo crews hauled at the loading chains of their rune-etched missiles. Commanders invoked the blasphemous names of their gods and ordered their ships to flank speed. Vast rewards had been offered to the first crew to find the hated Wolf ships and bring them to bay.
The Chaos ships fanned out in a broad arc across the Holmgang’s path, casting a deadly net for the oncoming vessels. Converging at maximum speed, the two forces reached extreme weapons’ range within moments. The augur operators muttered desperate incantations and brooded over the icons glimmering on their screens, but they were taken by surprise when the unidentified ships were obscured behind a cloud of flickering energy readings.
Upon command, the remaining Thunderhawks of Holmgang’s battle group rammed their throttles forward and streaked from the sensor shadow of their parent ships. By the time the Chaos commanders realised what had happened the strike craft were already starting their attack runs.
Fifteen seconds later the Wolf ships passed through the expanding debris clouds of the Chaos raiders. Hours later the light from the violent explosions would reach the hunter-killer squadrons stalking through the asteroid fields, but by then it would already be too late.
The fate of Charys was sealed.
Another loud blast reverberated down the curving tunnel, stirring the air of the cavern and causing the flames to gutter and spark. The scent of smoke and burned flesh reached the Space Wolves, causing the Wulfen to lower their heads and growl deep in their throats. Sigurd moved among the former Blood Claws, murmuring prayers in a firm, quiet voice.
At a nod from Bulveye, the pack leaders raced from the cavern, teeth bared and weapons ready. The Wolf Lord passed the ale horn back to Haegr and took up his ebon axe. A strange, deadly calm settled like a cloak over the ancient warrior as the sounds of war echoed faintly in the valley beyond. When he turned to the Rune Priest his eyes shone like bale fires. “Get them as close as you can,” Bulveye said, “and stay with them until the last.”
“Until the battle’s done, lord,” Torvald promised. “In victory or in death. You have my oath upon it.”
Bulveye nodded and clasped the Rune Priest’s arm in farewell. Then he turned to Ragnar. “Your destiny awaits, little brother,” he said. “There’s no telling how many of the foe we’ve drawn from the city, but I don’t need to cast any runes to know you’ve a grim battle ahead of you.” He held out his hand. “Fight well, Ragnar Blackmane, and hold to your oaths. The honour of our brotherhood, nay, the survival of Fenris itself, rests in your hands.”
Ragnar gripped Bulveye’s wrist. “The spear will be ours again, lord,” he said fiercely, “regardless of the cost.”
The Wolf Lord’s eyes narrowed at Ragnar’s grave oath. “Even at the cost of all you hold dear?” he asked. “Even unto your very soul?”
Bulveye’s words chilled the young Space Wolf, but he answered without hesitation. “Even so, lord.”
With a rattle and a wheeze of hydraulics, a servitor limped from the shadows, bearing a polished silver helmet fashioned in the shape of a snarling wolfs head. Bulveye took up the helm and studied its scarred face for a moment. “Remember all that I told you,” he said to Ragnar. “War within. War without.”
Then the Wolf Lord’s face disappeared behind the snarling mask, and he was gone, striding swiftly from the cavern towards the sound of the guns.
“War unending,” Ragnar answered softly, and felt the Wulfen swell within his breast.
As soon as Bulveye was gone, the Rune Priest turned to the assembled Wolves. “It is time,” he said, raising his axe. “Gather round, brothers.”
Ragnar turned to Torin and Haegr. The older Wolfblade was already on his feet, weapons ready, while his burly companion stared disconsolately into the depths of his empty ale horn. Murmured verses echoed across the cavern as Sigurd summoned the Wulfen with the stern tones of the Benediction of Iron.
Inquisitor Volt touched Gabriella on the arm, and the Navigator’s eyes blinked open. They spoke softly to one another, and then climbed slowly to their feet. Ragnar watched them approach, concern etched deeply upon his face. “Are you well?” he asked as they approached.
Gabriella looked up at the young Space Wolf and summoned a resolute smile. “Of course,” she said coolly. “Don’t concern yourself about me.”
The distant tone in the Navigator’s voice struck Ragnar like a blow. A bewildered frown darkened the young Space Wolf’s face, but before he could reply the old inquisitor spoke. “I asked Lady Gabriella to try and contact Lady Commander Athelstane or Lord Sternmark and warn them of Madox’s plan, but with no success. Though Charys and the shadow world are extensions of one another, the turbulence in the aether is too great for her mind to penetrate.”
“I need a physical link to them that I can focus upon,” Gabriella said. “That would make all the difference.”
The young Space Wolf thought it over, but finally shook his head. “I can’t think of anything here that would help,” he growled, irritated at the idea of failing Gabriella yet again. “I’m sorry.”
Volt sighed. “No matter,” he said, although there was a look of concern in the old inquisitor’s eyes. “We will have to trust that they will endure until we can set things right.”
Ragnar nodded gravely. With a last glance at Gabriella, he turned to the Rune Priest. “We stand ready, Torvald,” he said. “Tell us what we must do.”
The old Rune Priest surveyed the assembled warriors and drew a deep breath. Pale blue arcs of power crackled along the length of his axe, and Torvald’s bearded face split in a fearsome grin. “Hearken to my voice, brothers,” he said in a booming voice. “Hearken well, and follow me.”
Then the priest threw back his head and began to chant, the words ringing like hammer blows in the echoing space. Arcs of psychic power leapt from axe to priest and back again, growing more intense with each passing moment. Ragnar felt unseen energies crawl across his skin. The Wulfen snarled and snapped at the charged atmosphere, their yellow eyes narrowed in fear.
Lightning radiated outward from the Rune Priest, the arcs merging into a blue-white haze that surrounded the warriors in a nimbus of near-blinding light. Ragnar heard Gabriella let out a startled cry, and then the cavern floor seemed to tilt, propelling the young Space Wolf into the building storm.
Ragnar felt a dry, desert wind on his face and heard the cries of his companions echoing through the haze. He felt the first stirrings of panic as he tried to comprehend what has happening. His mind struggled to keep a mental image of the Wolf Lord’s cavern, but his steps didn’t match what he remembered. The faster he walked, the more the ground beneath him seemed to tilt, until it felt as though he were running downhill. Through it all, Torvald’s voice rolled like thunder. Ragnar focused on the Rune Priest’s chant and kept running, hoping that the old warrior’s imposing form would take shape out of the whirling maelstrom a
t any moment.
Then, just as it seemed that the storm would go on forever, the white haze parted like mist and Ragnar found himself reeling like a drunkard down a rubble-choked street. The open sky stretched above him, dark and empty, hemmed by the jagged bones of burned-out buildings. His boot struck a large chunk of broken masonry and he went down on one knee, cursing fiercely under his breath. Wisps of grey smoke curled from the surface of his armour.
More cursing and startled shouts rang out behind the young Space Wolf. Ragnar heard Torvald let out a warning hiss. “Quiet!” the Rune Priest warned. “Not a sound.”
The young Space Wolf leapt to his feet, weapons ready, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Ruins stretched away from him as far as he could see. The road ahead of him was cratered by shell holes, but there were no vehicles or bodies that he could see. Off in the distance, Ragnar could see a broad, fortress-like structure brooding over the kilometres of devastation.
A column of shifting, pulsing energy rose from the dark palace, apparently woven like a burning thread into the night. Even from such a great distance the sight of it filled Ragnar with dread.
He knew where they were. Torvald had brought them to the very edge of the shadow city.
“How?” he gasped, turning to the Rune Priest. “What manner of sorcery is this?”
Torvald was wreathed in vapour, like a blade drawn from the quenching barrel. His grin turned fierce, and tiny arcs of lightning flickered through his iron grey beard. “We’ve learned a few of the enemy’s secrets on our long hunt,” he replied. “A keen mind and a bold heart can accomplish much, even in this terrible place. I can cross leagues in but a few steps, so long as I can see the destination in my mind.” The Rune Priest winked conspiratorially. “Soon we’ll be able to walk between the worlds as well as our enemies can.”
Inquisitor Volt stepped from the shadows across the street from Torvald. “Pride goes before the fall, priest,” the old man warned. “What you speak of dances upon the edge of damnation.”
Torvald gave the inquisitor a flinty stare. “We’ve spent the last ten thousand years here, Volt. We’ve forgotten more about damnation than you will ever know.”
Dark shapes glided swiftly around the Rune Priest. The Wulfen recovered swiftly from the shock of the sudden transit, and whatever else had become of their minds, their training still held true. Sniffing the air, the former Blood Claws slipped silently into the shadows along both sides of the rubble-strewn lane, followed closely by Sigurd. Haegr and Torin paced into view behind Volt, warily eyeing the lightning-shot sky. Gabriella walked between them, her pineal eye blazing like a brand.
“We’re at the south-east edge of the city,” Torvald continued. He pointed further east. “A few hundred metres that way is the city’s main transit route, but there’s not much cover to shield our approach.”
Ragnar nodded, breathing in the crypt-like air and trying to clear his thoughts. He could still feel the curse clawing at his insides. Focus on the mission, he thought. “What are we likely to encounter from here?”
The Rune Priest shrugged. “I cannot say. This is as far as any of us has ever come.” His yellow eyes surveyed the ruined city blocks. “The place is much changed since I was last here, and there are no signs of patrols. Bulveye’s plan appears to have worked.”
“Or the Imperial troops on Charys have been driven from the capital,” Volt said, looking to the east. A look of horror leached the colour from the inquisitor’s face. “Blessed Emperor,” he said, fumbling for his chrono. “What is the hour? Does anyone know? My timepiece isn’t working.”
Torvald let out a grunt. “Time is fickle in this place, inquisitor.”
“But not on Charys,” Volt whispered. “If the Imperial forces have been forced back to the starport and Sternmark has been affected by Madox’s ritual…” He gave Ragnar a stricken look. “Before we left I ordered the Holmgang to destroy the planet if they didn’t receive a signal from the planetary commanders at a set time each day. If Sternmark and his warriors have fallen under the sway of the curse, the surviving defenders will have been thrown into disarray—”
“Morkai’s teeth!” Ragnar snarled. “Have you gone mad, inquisitor?”
“Perhaps I have,” Volt said shakily. He ran a trembling hand across his face. “We must be swift,” he said, thinking quickly. “If we can disrupt the ritual in time, and Sternmark regains his senses, perhaps he can contact the battle-barge and stop the bombardment.”
“And if he can’t?” Gabriella asked. “What will happen here if Charys is destroyed?”
Volt turned to the Navigator. “I don’t know,” he said. “Look around you. The shadow realm changes to reflect the reality of the physical world. If Charys burns…”
“Oh, damnation,” Torvald snarled. “Not only have you put Charys in danger, but Bulveye and his warriors as well. You risk more than you know, Volt!” The Rune Priest took a step towards the inquisitor, his hand tightening on the haft of his axe.
“That’s enough!” Ragnar snapped, stopping both men in their tracks. “What’s done is done. Our only chance to set this right is to get to Madox and recover the spear, and the sands are running from the glass as we speak.”
Torvald glared at Volt for another moment, and then relented with a curt nod. “You’re right, little brother,” he said. The priest pointed his axe in the direction of the palace. “Lead on,” he said, “but be careful. I’ve shielded us from sorcerous detection, but there may still be patrols guarding the streets.”
The young Space Wolf nodded, considering his options. “Very well,” he said. “Sigurd, take charge of the Wulfen and cover our flanks. Torin, Haegr, you’re on point with me. Lady Gabriella, Inquisitor Volt, stay close to Torvald.” He locked eyes with each of the Wolves in turn. “No shooting unless absolutely necessary. We can’t risk being discovered before we get to the palace.”
Each of his companions nodded their understanding. Ragnar felt a welcome calm settle over him at the prospect of battle. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”
Torin and Haegr joined Ragnar without a word, and the Wolfblade set off at a swift, stealthy pace through the ruins. He breathed deeply, tasting the air for the scent of his enemies, and his eyes roamed the wasted landscape ahead for telltale signs of movement. The young Space Wolf bared his teeth in the darkness, glad to be back on the hunt once more.
They moved through the rubble wherever possible, avoiding the easier but more exposed roadways and charting a direct course for the distant palace. Ragnar caught multiple scents covering the broken stones, and thought he glimpsed distant movement in the direction of the palace, but the lightning made it difficult to discern truth from illusion.
It was Torin who saw them first. A warning hiss sent Ragnar scrambling for cover behind a toppled section of wall. His eyes darted warily left and right, but there was nothing to see.
Then he heard it, a thin, whistling sound, like wind over broken stones, approaching slowly from the north. Ragnar pressed closer against the stone and looked back along his line of march, hoping that everyone else had gone into cover as well.
Twin beams of lurid red light swept across the ruins from overhead, sweeping back and forth across the rubble. The whistling turned into a faint wail, and a strange, bat-winged figure glided swiftly overhead. Ragnar caught a glimpse of glistening, leathery wings and corroded metal ribbing, a long tail made of steel barbs and a pale, misshapen head. The creature’s fleshy mouth was distended around the rusted grille of a vox speaker, and the crimson beams shone from its augmetic eyes.
Still searching, the figure swooped off to the south, until the light from its eyes was lost in the distance. Ragnar waited a full five minutes before he rose slowly to his feet. “What was that?” he mused softly.
“Some manner of daemon,” Torin muttered, still crouched low and scanning the dark sky. “If we’re spotted they’ll draw every patrol in the city down on us.”
“Let them,” Haegr growled, gripping
the haft of his thunder hammer. “I haven’t had a bite of food or a drop of ale in twenty-four hours. Someone is going to get a good thrashing.”
Ragnar tried to gauge the distance left between them and the palace. As near as he could reckon, they still had five kilometres to go. “We’ll have to take that chance,” he declared. “It’s in the hands of the Fates now.”
They signalled to the rest of the warband and resumed their pace, dividing their attention between the path ahead and the skies above. As they drew closer to the centre of the city they saw more signs of movement along the shadowy streets. Ragnar’s keen sight picked out the shapes of men, traitor Guardsmen like the foes they’d fought on Charys, lurking in the rubble at every intersection along the main routes leading to the palace. More of the flying daemons circled and swooped above the broken ground in between, painting the rocks with their bloody gaze. More than once, Ragnar was forced to call a halt and try to find a way through the net of flying sentries. Fortunately, their movements were predictable enough to create gaps that a small party could slip through if they were careful.
The trek into the city seemed to last for hours. Ragnar’s earlier calm had melted away, leaving his body tense and his nerves raw. Each passing moment was like a weight piling onto his shoulders. Every flash of pale lightning caused his heart to skip a beat as he imagined the Holmgang unleashing her cyclonic torpedoes and setting the agri-world afire.
They were within a kilometre of the palace when they came upon a cross-street that intercepted their line of march. By this point they were close enough for the pillar of coruscating fire, towering over the ritual site, to cast strange shadows across the ruins, sending shivers along Ragnar’s skin. He could see a pair of flying daemons searching a bombed-out district further off to the north, but sensed no other movement ahead. Signalling for his companions to halt, he crouched low and crept closer to the street.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 28
