The only way left was to go forward. Redoubling his efforts, Ragnar threw himself at the cultists in front of him, severing limbs and splitting torsos with fearsome sweeps of his blade. He was less than three metres from the steps leading to the altar, and only about a dozen cultists stood in his path.
Ragnar heard the shriek of a chainblade biting against armour, and then heard Torin grunt in pain. A Chaos Marine had darted in alongside the older Wolfblade and struck him hard across his left vambrace, leaving torn armour and a deep cut above his elbow. Then Haegr let out a yell as a pair of enemy warriors attacked him from the right. The Wolfblade crushed one of the Chaos Marines with a downward stroke from his hammer, but the other drove his chainsword into Haegr’s midsection with unnatural strength, and inflicted a bloody wound.
Anger and desperation drove Ragnar on. Madox had to die. The future of the Chapter depended upon it. He slashed left and right with his blade, killing every cultist he could reach. Then, without warning, the remaining sorcerers turned and fled from the berserk Wolf, scrambling for their lives up the stone steps.
For a fleeting instant, Ragnar felt a surge of triumph, but then a pair of Chaos Marines charged at him from each side, their swords flashing.
Ragnar howled in fury as he parried a blurring cut to his head, and then dodged a stop-thrust aimed at his midsection. A sword flicked out and struck his leg, the chainblade scoring the armour, but failing to penetrate. Another sword struck at his shoulder, biting deep into his right pauldron. The young Space Wolf struck back, aiming a feint at one warrior’s head, and then switching to a back-handed cut that he buried deep in another Chaos Marine’s chest. The enemy warrior staggered, and then surged upright, slashing his sword deep into Ragnar’s forearm. The chosen warrior’s unnatural vigour drove the Chaos Marine onward despite the terrible wound.
The young Space Wolf pulled his weapon free just in time to parry another blow arcing in from his left side. Suddenly he found himself entirely on the defensive, ringed by a semicircle of flashing blades at the very foot of the altar steps. He snarled with wild rage, feeling the red tide pounding in his veins as he slashed and hacked at the deadly warriors.
A bolt pistol barked just past Ragnar’s shoulder. Without warning the Chaos Marine to the young Space Wolf’s right screamed as his body was wreathed in silver flames. Inquisitor Volt darted past the burning form and set his foot upon the stone steps, his eyes blazing with murderous hate. Raising his pistol, he fired a shot at Madox. The blessed round rang from the sorcerer’s ancient armour, but the inquisitor took another step and fired again. Each time he pulled the trigger, Volt cried out a name.
“Gunter Mault. Kyr Sirenus. Mattieu Van Dorn. Yrian Kar’Doma. Issedu Orban.” Each shot struck Madox square in the chest, a relentless, punishing barrage that caused him to stagger with each hit. Volt kept coming his face twisted into a mask of rage. “Edwen Barone. Jedden bir Gul. The souls of my friends cry out for vengeance, you bastard. And now—”
A bolt pistol cracked from the shadows behind the altar, and Volt staggered as an armour piercing shell tore through his side. The old inquisitor reeled, blood pouring from the exit wound in his back, but he straightened and took another step. He raised his pistol, but another enemy shell tore through his left shoulder. The glowing falchion clanged onto the steps as it fell from Volt’s nerveless hand.
Figures were gliding from the darkness to either side of Madox: fearsome sorcerers in ornate armour, bearing dreadblades and aiming bolt pistols at the struggling inquisitor. Their guns hammered, and Volt’s body twitched as the heavy slugs riddled him from neck to hip. The old man swayed, for an instant, on his feet, his pistol still raised. With a final effort, he squeezed the trigger, gouging a crater from the front of the stone altar. Then his lifeless body crumpled, sliding in a trail of blood back down the stone steps.
Ragnar bellowed a savage curse, and cut a warrior’s leg out from under him, dropping the veteran Chaos Marine to the ground. Cries of rage and pain echoed around him as his friends were beset from all sides. A blade bit into his hip. Ragnar growled like a wounded wolf and shot his attacker point-bank in the face. There was only one enemy warrior left, but the Thousand Son sorcerers were gliding like snakes down the bloodstained steps, their black blades poised to strike.
A wave of blinding pain speared through him as the last veteran warrior slipped past Ragnar’s guard and drove his chainblade into the young Space Wolfs chest. He felt one of his hearts stop beating, and pure, animal rage took hold. Dropping his bolt pistol, he grabbed the warrior’s sword wrist and hacked off the Chaos Space Marine’s helm with a single swipe of his blade.
Ragnar pulled the foe’s chainsword free and fell to his knees. He could feel his muscles writhing like snakes beneath his skin, and his mind was afire. The young Space Wolf looked up the steps, past the oncoming sorcerers, to the altar and the towering figure of Madox. The spear was right there, just out of reach.
A pure, wordless cry of anguish tore through Ragnar’s throat, and he felt his body begin to change. His frost blade clattered to the floor as he tore madly at his gauntlets. By the time he pulled them free, the talons were already starting to grow from his fingertips.
Ragnar looked back at Torin and found the older Wolfblade on his knees as well, writhing painfully in the grip of the curse. The Wulfen continued to fight, snapping and slashing at any foe that came within reach. Sigurd was still standing, fighting two veteran Chaos Space Marines at the same time. What he lacked in skill he made up for with pure, animal ferocity. His eyes shone yellow-gold, and his curved fangs were bared.
Howls filled the air as the curse took hold. At the top of the blood-soaked steps, Madox threw back his head and laughed, savouring his triumph.
Then a furious bellow shook the rafters, like the roar of a wounded bear. A shadow passed over Ragnar, and the ground shook beneath the tread of heavy, armoured feet. Haegr reached the foot of the stairs at a dead run, charging right at the line of sorcerers with his hammer ready to strike.
Streaming blood from half a dozen wounds, the burly Wolfblade swung his thunder hammer in a fearsome arc, smashing two of the sorcerers from his path. “That was for Russ!” Haegr bellowed. Another sorcerer lunged in from the right, stabbing his sword into the Wolfblade’s thigh. Grunting, Haegr slew the Chaos Space Marine with a swift, overhand blow. “That was for Torin!” he said, and continued up the steps.
Another sorcerer darted in from the left, thrusting his sword deep into Haegr’s side. The huge Space Wolf staggered, and then brought down his hammer and crushed the sorcerer’s skull. “That was for Gabriella,” he said grimly.
Haegr took another step. Then he drew back his hammer and swung it with all his strength, smashing the obsidian altar to bits with a deafening thunderclap. Madox reeled backwards, spitting curses as the Wolfblade reached for him with one broad hand.
“And this, you black-hearted bastard, is for my brother Ragnar!” Haegr cried, raising his fearsome hammer.
The Wolfblade closed his hand around his foe’s throat, but as he pulled Madox towards him, Ragnar saw a glimmer of black metal as the sorcerer drew the hellblade at his hip.
Haegr and Madox crashed together. For a moment, neither figure moved. Metal creaked as Haegr’s hand tightened around the sorcerer’s throat, but then he slumped, falling to one knee as Madox pulled his sword free from Haegr’s chest.
The thunder hammer fell from the Wolfblade’s grasp. Still gripping the sorcerer’s neck, Haegr lunged forward with the last of his strength and seized Russ’s spear. Madox shouted a curse, struggling to keep hold of the relic. Desperate, he drew back his hellblade and buried it in Haegr’s shoulder, right at the base of the neck. Blood fountained from the wound, but the Wolfblade would not relent. With a final, wrenching heave, Haegr tore the spear from Madox’s grasp and cast it down the steps behind him.
Madox shouted with rage as the Spear of Russ plunged amid the surviving Wolves. It arced past Ragnar’s head and landed, poin
t-first, right behind Gabriella. The Navigator, fighting alongside one of the Wulfen, turned away from the Chaos sorcerer in front of her and ran for the weapon. Her xenotech pistol fell from her hand as she grabbed the haft of the ancient relic and closed her eyes, as though deep in concentration. Her pineal eye flared like a newborn star.
Abruptly, Gabriella’s eyes opened again. She looked at Ragnar, just a few metres away. The Navigator’s mouth opened, but no sound escaped her lips. Then her gaze fell to the black blade jutting from her abdomen and she sank slowly to the floor.
TWENTY-ONE
The Spear of Russ
High above the war-torn world of Charys, the dance of death began.
At a signal from Holmgang, the seven strike cruisers of the Space Wolf fleet broke away from the flagship on divergent courses, setting up orbital insertions that would carry them over their designated bombardment zones. The fleet’s eight surviving escorts quickly fell behind the onrushing cruisers. Standard procedure for the Hunter and Falchion escorts was to provide a cordon in high orbit to protect the capital ships while they were locked into their attack runs.
Aboard the battle-barge, orders were passed to the helm, and Holmgang came about, setting up her own bombardment run. Her track would carry her over the capital city and the planet’s starport. It wasn’t the ideal placement for the cyclonic torpedoes, but the ship’s master wanted to give the lost warriors of Berek’s company the heroes’ pyre that they deserved.
Across the command deck, the chief ordnance officer tapped a rune above his control station. A timer whirred and ticked, counting down the minutes remaining until launch.
The command bunker was as silent as a tomb.
Sven moved through total darkness, sliding forward a step at a time, and tasting the scents in the air. He could hear the faint sounds of Gunnar and Silvertongue following a few metres behind him, and feel the pulse drumming in his temples, but little else. The Grey Hunter navigated by memory, working his way through the narrow, maze-like tunnels towards the war room at the bunker’s centre.
They’d found no more bodies since entering the site, but the scent of blood hung heavy in the stale air. Sven could smell patches of it beneath his feet, the scent turning sickly sweet as it cooled and congealed. He couldn’t make sense of it at first, until he realised that the spots appeared at regular intervals down the passageway. They were bloody footprints, left by whatever killed the soldier at the bunker’s entrance, and they led in the direction that the Wolves needed to go.
Typical, Sven thought grimly. Never see a daemon hiding out in a supply closet or stalking the lavatories. No, they always seem to find the one place where they can cause people the most trouble, like cats, only with thumbs.
Sven grinned in the darkness and continued on. Faint light shone around a sharp corner just ahead. The Grey Hunter paused, consulting his memory. If he remembered rightly, the war room was just around the corner, and the signals room about ten metres beyond that. Nearly there, he thought.
Just short of the corner, Sven paused and took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed as he tasted the charnel reek of a slaughterhouse.
The Grey Hunter swung around the corner, bolter ready. A single light strip glowed from the ceiling right outside the door to the war room, revealing a scene of carnage.
Bodies and pieces of bodies littered the ferrocrete passageway in a tremendous pool of dark blood. Broken weapons, crushed helmets and torn pieces of carapace armour were scattered among the remains, and scorch marks on the walls revealed that the victims had put up a brief but doomed fight before they’d been overwhelmed.
“Blessed Russ,” Sven whispered, studying the slaughter. There were at least six bodies lying on the ferrocrete, one of which was stretched across the threshold leading into the war room.
Gunnar and Silvertongue slipped up quietly behind Sven and took in the awful scene. “Looks like a bomb went off,” the Long Fang said softly.
“Just claws and teeth, like the soldier at the entrance,” the Grey Hunter said. “Those two would have been the sentries posted outside the war room,” Sven said, indicating the savaged remains of two men splayed against the wall opposite the doorway. “The rest are logistics troops, I think.”
Silvertongue nodded thoughtfully. “If there were still sentries here, then Athelstane hadn’t left the bunker yet.”
The Grey Hunter nodded. “See the body across the threshold? He’s face-down, legs pointing into the room. “He was trying to escape the war room when he died. Whatever happened,” he said, nodding at the doorway, “started in there.”
“I agree,” the skald replied, drawing a deep breath. “We have to check it out,” he said. “If there’s even a chance the lady commander is still alive, we need to find her.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sven replied. Stepping carefully and keeping low, he picked his way through the charnel scene and cautiously entered the room.
As bad as it was in the passageway, the war room was worse.
Blood and bits of torn flesh were everywhere, splashed on the floors and sprayed across the walls. Heavy tables had been splintered or hurled across the room, and pieces of wrecked logic engines gleamed like polished coins amid the gore. More scorch marks could be found almost everywhere Sven looked, suggesting a wild, desperate fight. Whatever it was the Guardsmen tried to stop, it was clear that they hadn’t stood a chance.
Sven worked his way further into the room, peering closely at the bodies he came across. There were at least a dozen, as near as he could reckon. Gunnar and Silvertongue entered the room in the Grey Hunter’s wake. Though they were veterans of scores of brutal campaigns, the sight of the vicious slaughter left them stunned. The Long Fang paused, just inside the door, while the skald picked his way carefully through the piled wreckage.
The Grey Hunter reached the far end of the chamber. “Large group of bodies here,” he said, kneeling among the savaged corpses. He lifted a scrap of dripping cloth and studied the blood-smeared medals pinned upon it. “Looks like senior regimental officers,” he mused. “I guess now we know why no one got the withdrawal order.” Sven tossed the cloth aside and studied the bodies carefully. Frowning he reached down and shifted one of the victims aside to reveal another body underneath.
“Morkai’s teeth,” Sven hissed. “Here she is. What’s left of her, at least.”
Silvertongue made no reply Worried, the Grey Hunter looked back and saw that the skald was kneeling beside a toppled table. Sven frowned. “What is it?” he asked.
The skald reached down, pushed the table aside, and picked up a long, blood-stained power sword. “It’s Redclaw,” Silvertongue said grimly, holding the ancient blade up to the light. “Blessed Russ,” the skald said in a bleak voice. “Sternmark, what have you done?”
Sven felt a chill run down his spine. It was the same sensation he’d felt as a child, walking through the pine forests close to home and knowing that there was something watching him from deep within the wood. He felt his mouth go dry as he caught the same, feral scent he’d smelled at the bunker entrance. Then he saw the hulking figure just outside the war room door.
Gunnar caught the look in Sven’s eye and whirled, bringing up his bolter, but the move came half a second too late. With a deep, liquid growl, the beast that had once been Mikal Sternmark lunged through the doorway and smashed the weapon from Gunnar’s hand. Then it struck the Long Fang across the face with bone-crushing force. Sven heard the crunch of Gunnar’s skull from clear across the room, and the old Wolf flew backwards onto a pile of broken furniture.
“Mikal Sternmark!” Silvertongue shouted. “Stay your hand, lest you be labelled kinslayer, and forever damned.” The skald took a step forward, Redclaw held at the ready. “Submit yourself into the keeping of your brothers, and save your tormented soul.”
The terrible beast grew still, its dripping claws poised over Gunnar’s unconscious form. Sternmark had been transformed into a creature born of nightmare. His once
glorious armour was drenched in dark blood and scraps of torn flesh, and his clawed hands were matted with gore. Slowly, the wolf-like head turned to regard the angry skald. Yellow-gold eyes regarded Silvertongue coldly, and then drifted to the sword in the warrior’s hand. Thin lips drew back, revealing bloodstained fangs, and the Wulfen let out a predatory snarl.
Silvertongue drew a deep breath. “I’ll hold him off,” he said calmly. “When he attacks me, you slip past and make for the signals room. Do you understand?”
Sven looked from the skald to Sternmark and back again. “There’s got to be another way,” the Grey Hunter said, feeling a cold fist of dread settle in his stomach. “Together we could subdue him, or perhaps—”
“Do as I say!” Silvertongue snapped, taking his eyes off Sternmark just for a moment to give Sven a commanding glare.
That was all the time Sternmark needed.
The Wulfen was a blur as he charged at the skald with a bloodthirsty roar. Silvertongue’s head snapped around and on pure instinct he dodged left, slicing low at the beast’s right leg. The ancient power sword glanced from Sternmark’s Terminator armour, but the skald’s swift movement carried him beyond the reach of the Wulfen’s fearsome claws.
Silvertongue fell back before the Wulfen’s fierce attack, drawing the creature deeper into the room. Sven saw the skald’s plan and started to move, skirting wide of the desperate battle and heading for the door. Shame stung him. Despite the skald’s command, the young Grey Hunter knew he was abandoning both of his battle-brothers to a terrible fate. Though the skald fought skilfully and with great courage, he was no match for Sternmark’s prowess. Silvertongue was going to die.
Sven was well past the fight, and his path from the room was clear. Still, he hesitated, his hand tightening on the grip of his bolter. Six rounds left, he thought.
The skald feinted at the Wulfen’s face, and then swung low, aiming at the beast’s right knee. It was a swift, crippling blow, but the Wulfen was swifter still. The creature caught the skald’s wrist and pulled Silvertongue off his feet, drawing him within reach of the beast’s gaping jaws. Snarling, the Wulfen sank his teeth into the skald’s throat, and then felt the cold edge of a boltgun barrel press against the side of his head.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 31
