Ragnar slipped silently through a defile of broken stone, and settled onto his haunches near the burned-out shell of a small building. Moving only his eyes, he scanned along the length of the street, first to the left, and then right… and froze.
Just twenty metres away, crouched against a low, broken wall, lurked nearly a score of traitor Guardsmen. Ragnar saw at once that they were not recent converts, like the rebels on Charys. Their armour was very old, and scribed with layers of blasphemous runes, and their bodies bore signs of terrible mutations. They clutched strange-looking autoguns tipped with serrated bayonets, and searched the darkness with cold, calculating stares. For the moment, their attention was directed to the north, towards the writhing column of Chaos energy.
The hackles on the young Space Wolfs neck rose. Faintly, he sensed movement behind him. Ragnar turned his head and saw several of the Wulfen moving across the rubble field towards him, and then Torvald, Gabriella and Volt. He bit back a curse. The rest of the warband had missed his signal in the darkness.
Moving as quickly as he dared, Ragnar slid backwards until his position was hidden by the same low wall that hid the daemon pack. Thinking quickly, he waved to his companions to head for the wrecked building. To his relief, the Wulfen changed course and slipped into cover behind the building’s broken walls. Torvald and the others quickly followed suit, and Ragnar motioned for the Wolfblade to join them.
They made their way cautiously across the broken terrain and through a gaping window frame into the ground floor of the building. Part of the second storey’s floor was still intact, as well as two of the structure’s four walls. The warband crouched in deep shadow. Ragnar could hear the panting breath of the Wulfen, and saw the eerie glow of Gabriella’s pineal eye. They watched Ragnar intently as he crouched down and described quietly what lay in their path.
“We can try to work our way further down the street, cross over, and then work our way back towards the palace,” Ragnar said, “or we can wait and see if the patrol moves on.”
“Can’t we just kill them?” Sigurd replied. The Wulfen shifted on their haunches and growled, as though in agreement.
“Not quietly,” the young Space Wolf said. “We’re still more than half a kilometre from the objective—”
“Then we’ll cut our way through them and charge towards the palace,” Sigurd shot back. “As you said before, we’re wasting time.” The priest rose to his feet, and the Wulfen moved with him.
“Don’t be a fool!” Ragnar hissed, bolting to his feet and stepping into Sigurd’s path. Rage seethed within him as his body responded instinctively to the Wolf Priest’s challenge. The Wulfen picked up on the change and bared their fangs. One of them, possibly Harald, took a step towards Ragnar and let out a warning snarl.
The bestial sound echoed like the roar of a chain-blade in the confines of the ruined building. Sigurd hissed a warning at the Wulfen, but Ragnar waved him to sudden silence. Everyone froze as something sharp scraped along the ferrocrete above them.
Red light washed over the Wolves. Ragnar looked up and found himself staring into a pair of glowing augmetic eyes.
TWENTY
The Last Battle
It was no simple thing to turn a living world to ash.
Cyclonic torpedoes operated on the principle of igniting a planet’s atmosphere and creating a self-sustaining firestorm that spread across entire continents. Kindling such a fire was no easy task, however; the warheads had to be seeded in a complex pattern and their detonations synchronised in such a way as to ensure a proper chain reaction.
The calculations began while the Holmgang was still an hour away from Charys. Like pieces of a puzzle, data about the agri-world’s magnetic field, rotational speed and atmospheric density were computed, and orbital patterns for the bombardment took shape. This translated to manoeuvring orders for the fleet as the flagship choreographed insertion patterns for her attendant cruisers. Huge warships shifted positions with funereal grace, taking their places for the dreadful dance to come.
Holmgang’s master and her command officers watched the green orb of Charys fill the grand viewports along the command deck and listened as the ordnance officers determined landmass ratios and population densities, turning over the last pieces of the puzzle and fitting them carefully into place.
The red-eyed daemon reared back like a striking cobra, its leathery wings spreading like a black hood around its misshapen skull. A squeal of static issued from the battered vox speaker that passed for the creature’s mouth, and then it began a high, skirling wail that grew louder and more manic with each passing moment. More pairs of crimson eyes blazed to life in the shadows of the building’s second storey. By ill luck, the Wolves had sought refuge right underneath the lair of an entire pack of the flying daemons.
Ragnar snarled a curse and brought up his bolt pistol, but the daemons were already in flight, leaping from their roost onto the surprised warriors. They moved with preternatural speed, diving low and lashing at their victims with their barbed steel tails. One of the creatures flashed past Ragnar, striking sparks across his breastplate and left arm with its raking tail. It spread its wings and raced skyward, but the young Space Wolf spun on his heel and shot the daemon in the back of the head. The smoking corpse struck one of the ragged walls and crumpled to the earth.
Unholy wails and the thunderous beating of wings shook the musty air as the daemons pressed their attacks. Haegr let out a wild yell and swept his hammer through the air at the darting figures, blood streaming from a ragged wound along the side of his face. Torin ducked low as a daemon swooped overhead, and sliced away one of its wings with a neat stroke of his sword. Other daemons crashed to earth in a tangle of wings and fur as the Wulfen grappled with their swift moving attackers and ripped them apart. The feral Wolves were every bit as swift as their monstrous foes, and their armour was proof against the creatures’ barbed tails.
The surviving daemons fled skyward, circling above the ruined building and spreading the alarm far and wide. Bolt pistols barked, and within moments the last of the flying daemons crumpled and fell to the ground, but the damage had already been done. Ragnar could hear the sounds of armoured boots scrabbling across broken stone and heard the answering cries of other winged daemons approaching from every direction. There was only one thing left for the Wolves to do: fight their way to the palace, or die in the attempt.
Ragnar raised his keening blade. “Follow me, brothers!” he cried. “Our course is set, and the foe awaits. Let none stand against us. For Russ and the Allfather!”
Sigurd raised his crozius arcanum and began the Benediction of Iron. Torvald threw back his head and howled at the sky, and the Wulfen joined in, singing a hunting song older and more elemental than mankind.
Lightning raged overhead as the Wolves charged from the concealing shadows of the ruined building and crashed head-on into the oncoming platoon of traitor Guardsmen. Wild shots tore through the air, blasting craters from the rubble or ricocheting off ceramite plate. An indigo beam from Gabriella’s pistol burned a hole through one onrushing Guardsman and toppled him to the ground. Inquisitor Volt cried an oath to the Emperor and shot another Guardsman full in the chest. The sanctified bolt pistol shell punched through the traitor’s desecrated armour as though it were made of tissue, and the blessings carved onto the round’s surface consumed the man in a sheet of silver fire.
Ragnar leapt a boulder-sized chunk of masonry and shot an oncoming Guardsman point-blank. The traitor staggered, and he finished the man off with a sweep of his blade. Another traitor lunged at him from the left, slashing at him with dagger-like claws, but he spun beneath the blow and sliced off the soldier’s mutated arm at the elbow. Man-made lightning crackled as Torvald laid a traitor low with his rune axe, and Haegr smashed another apart with a furious blow from his thunder hammer.
“Forward!” Ragnar yelled, orientating himself on the distant palace. “Don’t stop for anything.”
Another Guardsman reared u
p in front of the young Space Wolf and they both fired point-blank. The traitor fell backwards, his head blown apart, even as the autogun shell ricocheted from Ragnar’s ancient armour. He vaulted the Guardsman’s bloody corpse and slid down a slope of shattered rubble, all but tumbling onto the debris choked street beyond.
A storm of shells criss-crossed over Ragnar’s head or dug furrows from the roadway as more enemy patrols fired from either end of the street. Ragnar ducked low and crossed the street at a run, firing aimed shots at the mob of Guardsmen to his right. Torin and Haegr added their fire moments later as they emerged onto the street and followed the young Space Wolfs lead. Torvald, Gabriella and Volt followed, surrounded by Sigurd and the Wulfen. The inquisitor’s armour and robes shone with burning silver runes, and the wards of protection seemed to confound the enemy’s aim long enough for the group to reach cover on the far side of the street.
By that point Ragnar was already charging ahead through the lightning shot darkness, stumbling leaping and scrambling over piles of rubble and twisted metal while listening to the sounds of pursuit approaching from the east and west. Shrieks echoed overhead as more of the flying daemons joined the chase. One swept low, angling for Ragnar’s back, but a shot from Torin’s bolt pistol sent it tumbling to the ground. Shouts, curses and feral howls shook the night. Shots from the traitors’ autoguns hissed through the air, but the broken terrain provided ample cover for the running warband. Ragnar couldn’t afford a single backward glance. He could only trust that his companions were still behind him.
Ragnar cut the most direct course over the ruins that he could, navigating by the twisting column of Chaos energy rising from the palace roof. The traitors continued to pursue the racing warband, sometimes drawing close enough for a brief exchange of fire with the Wolves. Once Ragnar clearly heard a howl of pain, and he knew that one of the Wulfen had been hit. Steeling himself, the young Space Wolf pressed on.
After several long minutes, the broken walls and piles of debris abruptly ended at the edge of a vast, open square that stretched before the palace gates. The square was pocked with craters and scarred with blackened furrows that were the hallmarks of an orbital bombardment. Ragnar fetched up against the remnants of a shattered wall and cursed under his breath. He ought to have expected a parade ground or marshalling field in front of the palace. This one, near as he could tell, looked to be a kilometre across. Faint signs of movement at the far end revealed mobs of traitor Guardsmen rushing into the square from the west, drawn by the wailing daemons overhead.
Far across the plaza, the palace’s tall gates stood open, but for how much longer, Ragnar wondered?
Torin and Haegr pulled up alongside Ragnar, their armoured forms coated in dust and splashes of ichor. Haegr was red-faced and breathing hard from the difficult run, but his expression was set in a determined scowl. Torin peered across the open square and shook his head. “I don’t like the look of that,” he declared. “We’ll be taking fire the whole way across.”
“Best get it over with, then,” Ragnar growled. He peered back over his shoulder, trying to ascertain where the rest of the warband was. He caught a glimpse of Sigurd and a few of the Wulfen, and then saw Torvald, Gabriella and Volt climbing over a pile of rubble just behind him. “We’ll stay close to the inquisitor and see how well those wards of his work. Let’s go!”
Ragnar leapt from cover onto the edge of the square. Moments later Torin and Haegr followed, and then Sigurd, Torvald, Gabriella and Volt. The dark, swift forms of the Wulfen flowed like shadows out of the rubble to either side. They were close to the southwest corner of the square. Ragnar could see more movement farther north, where a side street emptied into the square, and saw more pursuing mobs approaching from the north and east.
He didn’t see the traitors hidden in the rubble to the south until they rose from cover and opened fire.
A storm of shells tore through the surprised war-band, ringing off the curved surfaces of ceramite plate, and buzzing through the air. Two shells flattened against Ragnar’s armour; another clipped Haegr’s right leg, nearly dropping the burly Wolfblade to his knees. One of the Wulfen dropped without a sound, shot through the head.
Gabriella spun, raking the ruins with bursts from her xenotech pistol. Then a shell struck her high in the chest, knocking the Navigator from her feet.
Ragnar roared in anger and opened fire on the ambushers, knocking one traitor backwards with a shell through his helmet. More enemy shells hissed past the young Space Wolfs head as he leapt for Gabriella. “Head for the palace,” he cried. “Go!”
Torvald took up the cry, leading Sigurd and the Wulfen towards the palace. Still firing, Ragnar knelt beside Gabriella. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Fine… I’m fine,” the Navigator gasped. “It flattened against my armour. Help me up.”
A shell ricocheted from Ragnar’s left pauldron. Volt, Torin and Haegr stood their ground, trading shots with the ambushing Guardsmen. The young Space Wolf got his sword arm around Gabriella’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “Run!” he yelled, pushing her after Torvald. Holstering his pistol, Ragnar pulled a grenade from his belt, threw it towards the ambushers, and then loped along in Gabriella’s wake.
Shells hissed through the air from three different directions as the Wolves raced across the square. Traitor Guardsmen were charging at the warband, forming an armoured barrier across the warriors’ path. Torvald was hit again and again, skipping a single step when one of the shells found a weak spot in his armour, but the old warrior only redoubled his pace, his axe held high. The Rune Priest began a dreadful battle chant as he charged into the fire, a song of split helms and splintered shields, a merciless song of vengeance and red ruin.
If the traitors meant to bar the path to Madox, they would have to stand their ground before the Wolves of Fenris.
Torvald crashed into the enemy ranks like a battering ram, his axe reaping a terrible harvest among his foes. Armour plates split and smoking corpses were flung skyward with each upward sweep of the warrior-priest’s blade. The traitors slashed and stabbed at him with chainswords or jagged talons, but none struck more than once.
The traitors reeled from the priest’s terrible onslaught. Then the Wulfen struck. Having suffered a constant hail of shells since the battle began, the cursed warriors leapt at their foes with bloodthirsty howls and flashing, razor-edged claws. Sigurd charged alongside them, roaring out the Litany of Detestation and crushing skulls with his glowing crozius. The enemy line recoiled from the impact, its survivors pushed step by step back towards the waiting palace, and the mobs of Guardsmen along the flanks rushed forwards, trying to encircle the Wolves.
“Forward!” Ragnar shouted to his companions. “Break through and keep going.” As he spoke, he snapped a pair of shots into the swirling melee and brought down another foe. Then he wove past the snarling Wulfen and crashed into the line alongside Torvald. His frost blade howled as the young Space Wolf hacked open a traitor’s breastplate, and then severed another’s claw arm.
An indigo beam flashed past Ragnar’s shoulder and punched through two of the struggling foes. Then Volt appeared, brandishing a glowing silver falchion and shouting a prayer of detestation in a terrible voice. The traitors faltered before the furious inquisitor and his powerful wards. Many threw up their arms and staggered away, hissing curses at Volt and the Wolves.
Haegr rushed forward with a bear-like roar and smashed two Guardsmen aside with a sweep of his hammer. Ragnar saw the opening and shouted to Sigurd. “Forward, priest!” He pointed to the palace gates, just a few hundred metres away. “Keep moving!”
Sigurd blocked a traitor’s sweeping blade, and then glanced quickly at Ragnar and nodded. The Wolf Priest shouted something at a trio of Wulfen close by, and the warriors surged forwards. In moments they had broken through the encirclement and were racing across the parade field, drawing fire from several of the traitors as they went. More of the Wulfen caught sight of their comrades and broke free a
s well, and within moments the warband was on the move again, firing at the mob of Guardsmen closing ranks in their wake.
Shells chased after Ragnar and his companions, but the shots were poorly aimed and flew wide of their mark. The war band was widely scattered in the wake of the melee, with Sigurd and a trio of Wulfen well ahead, followed by Torvald, Volt, Gabriella and the rest of Harald’s pack. Ragnar, Torin and Haegr brought up the rear, firing shots at the pursuing traitors as they ran.
Ragnar saw that the palace gates were still open, and from what he could see there were no foes waiting on the pockmarked battlements. He turned his attention from the pursuing Guardsmen long enough to try and peer beyond the gateway into the courtyard beyond, but all he caught was a fleeting glimpse of flickering purple flame.
More traitor Guardsmen were racing onto the parade ground from the south and west, but they were too far away to reach the Wolves in time. Once past the gates it would be a short run into the palace, and the confined spaces would favour them rather than their foes.
The young Space Wolf turned to shout encouragement to Sigurd, and caught a flash of movement just beyond the palace gates. At first he thought it was a mob of traitors positioning themselves in front of the shifting flames, but then he realised that the flames were in motion, advancing implacably towards the gateway.
Ragnar’s eyes widened in realisation. “Sigurd!” he shouted, but his warning came a moment too late.
Sigurd half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at the young Space Wolf just as the Chaos Dreadnought lumbered through the gateway and opened fire, bathing the Wolf Priest and the trio of Wulfen in a blast of crackling plasma.
The crackle of small-arms fire echoed through the darkness across the Charys starport, punctuated by confused shouts and the cries of dying men. Flames billowed skyward from warehouses or refuelling nodes hit by enemy fire, illuminating large sections of the landing field while leaving others plunged into abyssal shadow. Sven and his companions kept to the darkness as they raced back to the command bunker, their preternatural senses alert for signs of danger.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 29
