A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
SONS OF FENRIS
Space Wolf - 05
Lee Lightner
(An Undead Scan v1.0)
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred
centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne
of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the
gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his
inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly
with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the
Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are
sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his
eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested
miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their
way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the
Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on
uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the
Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-
warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial
Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant
Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to
name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely
enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens,
heretics, mutants — and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold
billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody
regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.
Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has
been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of
progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future
there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars,
only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the
laughter of thirsting gods.
PROLOGUE
Splashes of colour painted the clouds with a swirl of reds, oranges and yellows, silhouetting the black and grey towers of Saint Harman, the once great capital city of Corinthus V. Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane found a sense of satisfaction in the ability of instruments of Imperial justice to duplicate the dawn of a new day in the middle of the night. Every explosion from the Imperial artillery, every bombardment from the fleet above, left its own mark on the tapestry of the sky.
Ragnar took an extra moment to commit this battle to memory. So many wars on countless worlds could make a Space Marine forget. The wars never ended for humanity’s defenders. They constantly went forth to do the will of the Emperor of Mankind and battle the enemies of the Imperium. The Imperial Guard had fought the Chaos incursion for almost a year. After only a month, Ragnar and his great company of Space Wolves had turned the tide of the campaign.
Once Corinthus V had produced munitions and vehicles for the Imperium’s vast armies, and the populace took pride in their work, too much pride in fact, looking to the glory of the machine instead of keeping their faith in the Emperor. While the citizens had performed their duties making ammunition for the Space Marine Chapters and the Imperial Guard, including Ragnar’s own Space Wolves, the taint of Chaos had slipped onto Corinthus V. Every one of the Space Marines, the ultimate warriors of the Imperium, knew the dangers of Chaos. Daemons from the warp whispered twisted thoughts, corrupting even the most dedicated. Only faith in the Emperor could protect one from Chaos. When Corinthus V lost its faith, Chaos gained its hold. Now, the Space Wolves had almost reached victory.
Ragnar made a point of trying to remember each campaign before its end, and it was time for the end. The time was right for his Space Wolves to make their final assault. The treacherous enemy, rebels and worshippers of the ruinous powers of Chaos, were all but destroyed. One last strike and this campaign was won.
Ragnar stood alone on top of the rocky heights overlooking the city. He enjoyed this time the most. Just before battle, the world seemed different, quiet and tranquil. Moments of quiet were rare in a lifetime of constant warfare. He knew that the moment would not last. His job was not yet done. He caught a familiar scent on the air, and knew it was time.
Powerful strides brought Ranulf, a member of the Wolf Guard, Ragnar’s own elite bodyguard, to the top of the hill to stand next to his Wolf Lord. Ranulf was the largest Space Wolf that he had ever known, gifted by the spirit of Leman Russ, primarch of their Chapter, with unparalleled strength. Ragnar thought that if Leman Russ returned to lead the Space Wolves, this Wolf Guard might be able to look the ancient primarch in the eye. More important than his size, Ranulf was one of Ragnar’s oldest and dearest friends and the most trusted of his Wolf Guard, holding the title of battle leader, giving him command if the Wolf Lord should fall.
“Are the men assembled?” Ragnar asked.
“Yes, Lord Ragnar, your Wolf Guard awaits you,” Ranulf replied.
Ragnar turned and clapped Ranulf’s shoulder. “As well they should. I’d hate to have them finish the war without me. Ranulf, let’s finally be rid of this Chaos filth.”
“What’s the current status?” asked Ragnar.
“For the most part, the heretics are scattered and disorganised, but some of them have fortified small strong points within Saint Harman. The Imperial Guard has kept them at bay, but they need us to break the final strongholds.”
“Good. The Imperial Guard commander remembered my instructions from the beginning of the campaign. He’s saved the last for us to face in the assaults. Starting a war is easy, finishing it is hard.”
“We’ve got the hard part to do. These heretics have one last push in them.”
“M’lord?” asked Ranulf.
“My instincts tell me that they are luring us into a false sense of security. They haven’t fought nearly as hard this time. We haven’t even moved into the combat in Saint Harman. Our Space Wolves had to help the Imperial Guard to even gain a foothold in the other cities. On every other location on this planet, the Chaos worshippers fought tooth and nail, but here in the capital as their last stand, they are routed? I don’t think so. They are in trouble, but a cornered animal is always dangerous. Of course, so are Wolves,” Ragnar grinned, exposing his long and sharpened canines. The gene-seed, which transformed Space Wolves from men to superhuman warriors, gave them many gifts. Besides their stature, standing half a metre taller than any man, the most outwardly visible sign was their extended canines. The older a Space Wolf was, the longer they grew. For a Wolf Lord, Ragnar was rather short in the tooth, but no one dared mention it to him.
The Wolf Guard stood ready. Three of Ragnar’s finest warriors, Tor, Uller and Hrolf, awaited him. Unlike other packs, Ragnar’s Wolf Guard each carried their own individual arms and weapons. The most experienced and reliable of all of his Space Wolves, they had proven themselves a hundred times over. Now, they would have to prove themselves once more, and each one relished the chance.
“You’ll break up and go to the packs for this one. Each one of you will lead a pack. Ranulf, I want you and Tor to take Grey Hunter packs near my flanks.”
“Lillet, you’ll move your men parallel to Tor. I’ll be with the Blood Claws.”
Ragnar preferred to fight alongside the Blood Claws, the youngest and most restless warriors, newly initiated Space Wolves. They possessed a wild abandon, a raw desire for victory that required strong guidance.
Ragnar unfolded a map. “Tor, you
r pack will flank my right. You will enter the city here and move north towards the Administratum sector. Ranulf you’ll flank my left, on the edge of the merchant sector. We’ll be spread thin, so stay alert.”
Ranulf, Tor and Uller took command of their Grey Hunters, the Space Wolves’ tried and true veterans. Ragnar watched them leave. He had fought alongside all three countless times. However, Ragnar had just granted Tor the honour of joining the Wolf Guard. Ragnar knew he was ready for it. He just wondered if Tor knew it.
“What would you like me to do, m’lord Ragnar?” The sarcasm in Hrolf’s voice was so thick that a frostaxe could cut it.
“Hrolf, I’m sorry I thought you were dead,” Ragnar stated. The two men shared a long running joke, as Hrolf was by far the oldest member of the great company and Ragnar was the youngest of the Wolf Lords. Despite the difference in rank and age, Hrolf and Ragnar shared a strong bond of brotherhood.
“Haven’t found the war big enough to kill me yet, Ragnar, and once I do, you’ll have the Iron Priests wire me into the next available Dreadnought, because you hate going to war without me.” Both men burst into laughter.
One look at Hrolf’s face said everything about the old Space Wolf. It was a map to his past, riddled with scars like landmarks from centuries of war, while his storm-grey eyes reminded Ragnar of the worst hurricanes on their home world of Fenris. Ragnar could see countless horrors and wonders reflected in those eyes. However, his huge smile stood out in contrast to his rough face.
Ragnar threw an arm around his oldest Wolf Guard. “Old friend, once again I need you with your Long Fangs. Who else can best handle the heavy support? I’m assuming that you’ve scouted the best place to position your pack?”
“Aye sir, up on the ridge where you spent the morning admiring Saint Harman, and the ruins of the old spaceport shuttle pad there.” Hrolf pointed to the south-east ridge, which jutted from the tree canopy, and then to the south-west.
“Looks perfect, Hrolf, in fact you’re in luck, someone positioned my Long Fangs at both locations.” Ragnar admired Hrolf’s initiative. “Should anything unexpected arise you’ll have enough firepower to shift the balance back in our favour.”
The Space Wolves moved into the city on foot, making their way first through the burning industrial sector. The air held the scents of blood, decay, smoke and death, along with burning toxins from destroyed machinery. Beneath it all, Ragnar could separate one scent from the others: the sickly sweet taint of Chaos. The enemy was here. The hairs on his neck rose.
The Space Wolves spent the next few hours in silence, communicating through hand gestures and body language. The packs knew each other and each individual covered his battle-brothers. There was no resistance, even though the Imperial Guard had reported fire from several of the buildings that the Space Wolves cleared. Ragnar found access tunnels and entrances to sewer pipes large enough for a man. The enemy was moving. He suppressed a low growl. Stories of Commissar Yarrick’s defeat of the orks on Armageddon came to mind. Surrounded and left for dead, the commissar had rallied a hive to hold out against the ork horde using pipes and tunnels to ambush the greenskins. If the heretics intended to defeat Ragnar that way, they’d learn that he was a wolf, not an ork.
The packs had spread out, seeking resistance. Ragnar worried that they had moved out too far. His Space Wolves had a little of their Wolf Lord in them, and confidence was not something he lacked. He activated his comm.
“Ranulf, report your position and situation.”
“We’ve moved along the merchant sector and entered what looks from the ruins to be the workers’ housing area. We’re just to the north of you. Everything is quiet, Wolf Lord… too quiet.”
“Agreed. Stay cautious and hungry. We’re in a bombed-out intersection on the western edge of the Administratum sector, near the library. If they are going to strike, it will be soon. Pass the word,” Ragnar replied.
The Administratum sector of Saint Harman was once the heart of the city. Holding elements of the vast bureaucracy meant to enforce the Emperor’s will, the area dictated the ebb and flow of Corinthus V. Reports flowed freely on every aspect of the citizens’ life. Like many worlds in the Imperium, freedoms were strictly controlled to protect humanity from outside influences. Administration buildings, mediator precincts, and Imperial chapels were everywhere, all designed in the architectural style of the same structures on Holy Terra, home of the Golden Throne, eternal resting place for the Holy Emperor. They served as a constant reminder that it was from Terra that the Emperor of Mankind launched his holy crusade to reunite humanity in the hopes of protecting them. They hoped to protect them from exactly what had happened on Corinthus V.
Ragnar turned to the Blood Claws around him. The pack was restless. Arik, one of the youngest, kept activating his chainsword, causing the blade to growl like a hungry beast. Ragnar shook his head. “Steady lads. Keep your senses keen and your minds focused,” he said quietly.
Suddenly, Ragnar heard a crash from inside the ground floor of the Imperial library to the east. It was a tall monolithic building, which put Ragnar in mind of a colossal crypt. Before the war, servitors and aged scholars would have moved quietly through stacks of scrolls, books and datapads within its walls. The tall windows of the library were dark, giving no signs of life, but Ragnar and his pack had definitely heard a crash.
Arik broke into a run, waving his chainsword, and howling his desire for combat. “There, Wolf Lord, in th—”
Those were the last words that Arik would ever speak. A bolter shell tore through the Blood Claw’s head, spreading fragments of his skull in front of his body. To Ragnar’s surprise, the shot had come from behind. It was an ambush.
A barrage of fire echoed from behind the pack, and Ragnar felt a bolter shell ricochet off his power armour.
“Ranulf, ambush, we’re pinned in crossfire! Hold your ground and be ready for a rapid fire drill.” Ragnar growled in anticipation, feeling more like a Blood Claw than the Wolf Lord he was. “It should be a full-scale counter-attack.”
Suddenly shards of reinforced rockcrete and ceramite exploded all around the pack. The hot wind of plasma fire vaporised stone and reinforcing steel. The Blood Claws howled, more like wolves than trained Space Marines, circling for a target, looking for someone to attack. “Find cover,” ordered Ragnar, but the violent explosions drowned his words. The air was rank with smells, so much so that it was hard to isolate and identify them. They were surrounded. Quick glimpses of targets were all they could see, like smoke in a strong wind, almost visible for a second and then gone.
Then Ulrik, Bori and three others stopped. Ragnar knew they had a target, he also knew…
“Ulrik, Bori, stop.” Ragnar shouted. It was too late. They had committed themselves in the direction of the library. He had lost control and his pack was going to charge into that dark vault. Ragnar had no choice. “In the Emperor’s name…” he cursed.
“Charge!” Ragnar howled, drawing his frostblade and charging at the library.
The Blood Claws all heard their leader’s command. Charging replaced confusion, as the rest of the pack joined Ragnar, screaming out their battle cries as one, “For Fenris, for Russ, for the Emperor!”
The Space Wolves unleashed a hailstorm of bolt pistol shots into the library as they charged. Chainswords growled to life, and power weapons flashed with energy, hungering for the blood of their unseen foes. The huge Space Marines raced each other, each one hoping for the first strike.
Before the Blood Claws could reach the enemy the ground rippled and exploded as a missile strike stopped them short, shredding two of their number and sending Ragnar flying. Melta guns lashed out into the pack, instantly incinerating even the Space Marines’ ancient power armour. Ragnar watched his own symbol melt away with the arm of one of his Blood Claws, and realised that he and his Wolf brothers were not facing a mere group of Imperial citizens corrupted by the foul powers of Chaos. Their hidden enemies were too well equipped and far too accurat
e. The Space Wolves were in trouble. Ragnar had only seconds to regain control. He moved through the cover, trying to get a better view. Taking up a position against a large section of collapsed wall, a cold chill enveloped Ragnar’s hearts as he realised who they faced — Chaos Space Marines!
Ten thousand years ago, a terrible civil war nearly destroyed the Imperium. After the fall of the rebels’ leader, Horus, the traitors fled into the warp, the nightmare realm beyond space and time. Living in a realm of daemons for ten thousand years, they had honed their skills and fuelled their hatred. Their armour and weapons had changed, fusing with the daemonic energies of Chaos. In all ways, they were better warriors than the Space Wolves, with age-old experience empowered by millennia-old hatred.
Chaos Space Marines lacked only one thing that the Space Wolves possessed: faith in the Emperor. For Ragnar’s Space Wolves, they would have to hope that their belief in the Emperor was greater than the Chaos Space Marines’ desire for revenge. That was their only advantage.
Ragnar saw one of the Chaos Marines stride forth from the swirling smoke of battle. The giant figure wore glittering dark armour that reflected the light as if it was wet with slime — a Night Lord. A halo of burning fire leapt between the traitor’s mutant horns. He swung a black flail that howled like the winter winds of Fenris in one hand, while a skull covered bolter spat death from his other hand.
Ragnar felt the wave of hatred and anger lash out as the servant of Chaos fired his bolter, each shot striking a Space Wolf as if the ancient warrior willed his shells into his victims.
The Wolf Lord raised his gun to return fire, but the Night Lord stepped to the side, avoiding the shots instinctively. For a second, Ragnar thought the smoke of battle poured from the Chaos Marine’s armour. If it did, then it served the traitor well. The veil enshrouded him once more. When it cleared a second later, Ragnar’s giant enemy had moved. He felt the beast howl in rage within, eager to give chase and destroy his treacherous enemy.
[Space Wolf 05] - Sons of Fenris Page 1
