ASHES OF PROSPERO

by Gav Thorpe

  Even so, Njal had spent a long life in self-examination, forever analysing his thoughts and motives for sign of corruption or external influence – an irony now – and he knew himself better than anyone. Starting down the corridor towards the chambers of the Great Wolf, the damning truth was that he was happy to defer such a terrible decision to another.

  The passages here owed more to an aett of the Fenrisians than a Space Marine fortress-monastery. The high corridors were hung with shields in clan colours – a profusion of dragons, many-armed kraken, knotwork and serpents. Between them hung the dracon pennants of chieftains and champions.

  Every item of tribute was kept, with the most ancient and valuable in stasis storage. The purpose of this was not lost on Njal as he advanced along the passages towards Logan’s personal halls. Fenris was in the blood of every Space Wolf, figuratively and, through the Canis Helix of their gene-seed, literally. For the Space Wolves, the link was not just one of sentiment, custom and genetics, but symbolic of their bond to all of humanity.

  To lose touch with one’s origins, to believe oneself above the very people that made up the Imperium, was the gravest dishonour a Space Wolf could suffer.

  Duty, respect, brotherhood. All things he owed not just to Ulrik, but to the missing warriors of the 13th Company.

  The Fenrisian trappings were not only a potential admonishment, they were also a comfort. They assured those that ventured into the domain of the Great Wolf that they were among allies, companions at the hearth.

  The confrontation with Ulrik faded the closer Njal came to the chamber of the Great Wolf. He knew Logan was within not only by the wyrd spoor of his thoughts, even guarded as they were, but also by the presence of the customary pair of Wolf Guard at the large oak doors of the wulfhalle.

  This time the duty had fallen to Odyn Foe-Ruin and Baldin of the Red-Sea. The two veteran warriors stepped aside even before Njal had announced himself.

  ‘He’s expecting you, Stormcaller,’ said Baldin.

  Odyn shook his head sombrely, expression hidden behind the fang-painted muzzle of his helm.

  ‘You’ve been stalking the Fang like a wrath-badger with a thorn up its–’

  ‘Go straight in.’ Baldin cut across his companion, grabbing the ring upon one of the doors to thrust open the portal.

  The interior was far smaller in scale than either the King’s Hall or the Hall of the Great Wolf, but was nonetheless impressive. There was no mistaking that a King of Fenris occupied the chamber, its arrangement and contents all positioned to direct attention towards the occupant of the throne at the far end, whilst surrounding any visitor with trophies of his conquests and geld-honours from his allies.

  Some Chapters recorded their battle honours in scrolls or on datachips, tried to encompass their achievements with heraldry and icons or raised great statues, monuments and commemorative palaces to their victories. The Space Wolves lived amongst the past of their personal and collective efforts. So great were the lives of their oldest warriors that, as with Logan’s chambers, entire halls were required to contain their trophies. Their battles lived in the sagas too, written nowhere, but held on the tongues of the Rune Priests and Wolf Priests, sung by the squad-brothers from one generation to the next.

  There were skulls in abundance, of heretics and aliens, and a profusion of their wargear also, artfully arranged so that the walls focused the eye on the figure in the gigantic lord-chair. Banners from Imperial regiments presented as campaign awards lined the back wall. At their centre was an Imperial Aquila wrought in bronze, its outspread wings hung with medals and talismans earned across hundreds of warzones.

  Every item in the chamber had been taken by or given to Logan Grimnar, his personal record of war. Each skull was a foe he had slain, each banner or medal awarded to him for his fighting, his leadership, or both.

  And the owner of these many tributes and honours sat in his Terminator armour upon a throne of great stone engraved with the symbols of the companies under his command. He scowled at his visitor, in stark contrast to his manner at their last parting.

  ‘Ulrik sent word.’

  The short statement stopped Njal mid-stride, the thump of the door closing behind him suddenly like the sound of a trap closing.

  ‘I could gather little from his inarticulate rage, other than that you have disgraced yourself and the Space Wolves,’ Logan continued. ‘Accursed Magnus was mentioned, and Prospero also, but all else verged on ceaseless ranting.’

  ‘I will offer ut-geld when he has calmed,’ said Njal. ‘I was wrong many times in my dealing with the Slayer, but I will make right this error.’

  Logan’s expression softened a little and, as much as was possible clad in heavy armour, he relaxed. Njal took a breath and sank to one knee, earning a raised eyebrow in surprise.

  ‘Not since you took your oaths of office have you bent fealty to me, Njal. That you do so now is worrying.’

  ‘I made a terrible mistake, Great Wolf.’

  And with those words he began again to explain his predicament. Unlike his confession to Ulrik, this time the events seemed to verge on the ridiculous. The telling of the tale made Njal feel even more foolish for his laxity, his mood that of a child before a grim but fair parent.

  When he finished, Njal could not meet Logan’s eye but left his gaze fixed to the glassy beads in the eye sockets of a bearskin rug beneath the Great Wolf’s armoured boots. He knew there would be judgement in Logan’s stare, as much as he might try to mask it, and it would be a reflection of the self-judgement Njal inflicted upon himself.

  ‘Look at me, Njal.’

  ‘I… cannot, my feal-lord.’

  ‘Then you are no use to me, Njal. Must I command you?’

  The Stormcaller forced his gaze upwards, a physical effort to meet the icy eyes of his Wolf Lord. Logan’s face was stern, his hands fists upon the arms of the throne.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ said Logan.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ ventured Njal, though the word sounded so small and meaningless when held against the magnitude of his transgression.

  ‘I don’t give a damn for your apologies, I want answers!’ boomed the Great Wolf. ‘What is your plan? What can we do? Stand and act like the warrior you are meant to be.’

  The chastisement cut to the core of Njal’s hesitation, unearthing the cause of his friction with Ulrik. ‘I want to go to Prospero, but I do not know if that is the best course of action. The risks are many and the rewards… uncertain.’

  +We both know what you mean by that! I understand that you think I am a traitor and my word is worthless, but I consider you little more than a vagrant of history that lauds the warriors who destroyed the greatest collection of knowledge in the galaxy. Do not take it lightly when I say that upon my name, Izzakar Orr, I swear that I will aid you in the return of your lost brothers if you can free me from this psychic prison!+

  ‘And the alternative?’ asked Logan. ‘If I choose that you should rid yourself of this encumbrance? Can it be done?’

  ‘It can,’ Njal admitted, fingers stroking his beard as he stood. ‘There are wyrd-castings that can free a spirit of possession. I think they could be turned to my current predicament.’

  ‘And you have the resources for this? You are the only wyrd-brother not on campaign.’

  ‘The thralls of the wyrdhalle and my own powers would be sufficient.’

  +Not if I choose to resist, I think.+

  ‘They all try to resist, none of them remain after.’

  ‘Your words are not for me, are they? Do you hear this sorcerer like a voice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he hears what you hear?’

  Njal waited, unable to answer the question himself.

  +Yes.+ The admission was reluctantly made, but Njal was not sure if it was truthful. Only if he could catch the sorcerer out would he know for sure. +Your thoughts are hidden from me but words and sight, taste and touch are mine to share. Unfortunate, given that these furs r
eek of your recent labours and the fat of your barbarian cooking.+

  ‘He can see and hear you.’

  ‘Then answer me this, wyrdthegn of Prospero.’ Logan stared as though he could see the spirit inside Njal’s head. ‘This maze of yours, the portal gates, they reach into the Eye of Terror?’

  +The Portal Maze extends into many places, beyond time and space, and through the depths of the warp. The Eye of Terror is but a yawning chasm bridged by the great artifices of Prosperine knowledge.+

  ‘He says they can,’ said Njal.

  +Wait! More than that, I feel there has been great disruption in the warp, and tumult not recorded since before the eldar fell and the Emperor rose upon Terra.+

  ‘It has been called the Great Rift, a storm of such magnitude it has sundered the galaxy,’ the Stormcaller explained to his psychic stowaway. ‘Wyrd rituals and immense sacrifices broke the barriers that separate realms.’

  ‘What does he say?’ demanded Logan, hands clasping and unclasping in frustration. ‘What is he telling you?’

  +The maze is more fractured than ever. Prospero burns with power untrammelled by crystal or nodeway. And Magnus! I feel the burning bright sun of his mind close at hand.+

  ‘Magnus has returned to Prospero?’ asked Njal. The Great Wolf looked as though he would speak again, but the intense look on the Rune Priest’s face dissuaded interruption.

  +He is not upon our ancestral world, but close to it.+

  ‘Rumour abounds that the Crimson King has dragged the Planet of Sorcerers free from the grip of the Othersea,’ said Logan, guessing the content of the sorcerer’s words. ‘Is that so?’

  +I understand your lord’s words, but not the meaning. Of what planet does he speak?+

  ‘That is a conversation too long in the telling, sorcerer. For now at least.’ Njal fixed his gaze on the Great Wolf. ‘What is your command, feal-lord? Do we dare the labyrinth of Prospero or shall I seek to repel this intrusion?’

  Logan rubbed his brow, deep in thought. His gaze fixed on the eyes of the Rune Priest as though trying to see inside his mind, to look upon the fragment of sorcery embedded there. His jaw worked slowly, as if he were chewing over the thoughts running through his head. When he spoke, his words were measured, kingly. Gone was the desperation and eagerness, replaced by wisdom and calm temperament.

  ‘You will go to Prospero. We vowed not to abandon one brother of the Thirteenth Company and we stand true to that oath. And also…’ The Great Wolf paused. His expression became almost apologetic. ‘And also, if there might be some means to use this maze to seek the Wolf King…’

  +What does he mean by that? Where is Russ?+

  ‘I shall look and listen with full intent, Great Wolf,’ promised Njal. ‘But you speak as though I will travel alone. You won’t support me?’

  ‘You have my fullest support,’ said Logan, ‘but my might is stretched thin and I can spare little for this quest. I have sworn troops to another cause, such that remain, but if there are those that are willing to travel with you, I release them from other duties to do so.’

  Njal sagged a little, but knew not to complain. Such small favours were more than he deserved. He nodded in thanks.

  ‘Then let it be known across the Fang that Njal Stormcaller desires company for a mission that will one day become legend,’ declared Logan Grimnar. ‘The Space Wolves return to the ashes of Prospero!’

  CHAPTER 4

  A COMPANY ASSEMBLES

  The Great Wolf’s intent was known across the Fang within the passing of the hour. As the long-standing Wolf King, Logan’s word was bound by a code stronger than iron as was the duty set upon the shoulders of his companions. The same words that had left his lips echoed along the hallways, whispered from thrall to thrall and crackled over vox-casters in the distant watch posts. In the forges his command blared out over the din of beating hammers and the snap of arc welding.

  The Space Wolves were always at war, somewhere in the vast galaxy, but each pronouncement of forthcoming engagement was met the same. Just as in the days when the tribes of Fenris had drummed spear on shield and unsheathed blade from scabbard, a single phrase passed the lips of all that heard Logan’s call.

  Bludhaer.

  The Hour of Blood. War-time. A call to arms as old as the language from which the word came.

  The message passed quicker than Njal, so that on returning to his rune chamber he found the Iron Priest Aldacrel waiting for him outside the doors, accompanied by a coterie of thralls and arming servitors. Njal and Aldacrel exchanged silent nods of greeting, decades of this same ritual eclipsing any need to speak. The Iron Priest affixed an eyeless helm to his armour, the war-plate stained red in honour of his bonds with the Adeptus Mechanicus of Mars. Likewise, the armoury bondsfolk obscured their sight with masked hoods. Aldacrel signalled his readiness and Njal opened the runelock, stepping back to allow the Iron Priest and his assistants to enter. The servitors dumbly thudded after him, their senses already surgically inured to the psychic emanations that flowed through the room.

  Njal sealed the door behind him after entering, while Aldacrel and the thralls made ready at the armour stand, moving effortlessly despite their obscured vision. By rote and touch, they knew every rivet, segment and seam of Njal’s war-plate. A servitor moved behind him, taking his furs and hood as he disrobed, revealing scar-etched flesh bounded by thick muscle. Beneath waxy skin was the dark layer of his black carapace, the last of the surgical insertions that had turned him from a tribal warrior to a Space Marine worthy of the Adeptus Astartes. Sockets and interfaces for his armour broke the flesh in puckered rings, the glint of metal alien against the colour of his skin.

  He hauled off his boots and left them. Striding to the war-plate, he turned about so he was facing the bone-chair where he had encountered the shard of Izzakar Orr. The sorcerer’s presence flared. He seemed closer, clearer in this place. Flickers of golden energy sparked along the runeways, while the arming team continued, oblivious to the psychic activity around them.

  +All that we endeavoured to expose now shrouds everything we built.+ Njal could feel the disgust welling up inside, though it did not originate from his thoughts. +Superstition and ritual has replaced studious practice and precise ceremony. You are as blinded to what you manipulate as these puppets that dress you.+

  Njal said nothing, not wishing to speak in front of the Iron Priest’s thrallfolk. The hiss of detaching plates behind him dragged his thoughts back to the present. He raised his arms to the sides and the cladding of the interior plates began, first sheathing abdomen, thighs and upper arms.

  +You can armour your body but your mind remains vulnerable, you fatuous shaman. I heard the accusations of your predecessors, the hypocrisy in their criticism of our lore. Bone-rattlers and dream-mumblers, all of you. No better than the witchfolk of the orks.+

  Njal continued to hold his tongue. He would not allow Izzakar the satisfaction of his anger. Thinking of the ruin that had been brought to Prospero for its transgressions made it easier to ignore the sorcerer’s insults.

  The main parts of the war-plate attached to his socket-punctured flesh. The sharp pinch of connectors sent a sting through his nerves. An ache simmered behind his eyes while his ears buzzed. Autosenses flared static through sight and hearing, not yet connected to the full sensory array of the powered armour, a confliction of artificial and natural senses. He bared his teeth as grating tinnitus rang in his ears.

  ‘Auditory input is operational,’ he whispered.

  ‘Sorry, Stormcaller. It must not have been deactivated properly when we last removed your suit,’ Aldacrel hurriedly apologised, his fingers manipulating a control within the open back of the war-plate. A second later, the piercing sound ceased.

  +What is it like, to peer into the warp and see only hazy mysteries? To see nothing of the majestic warpscapes and worlds of possibility that the Crimson King unearthed? With Magnus as our guide, we crossed the rainbow bridge of your firelight fables and explored th
e nine realms and beyond. From Prospero, the Thousand Sons gazed into a universe of wonder while the sons of Fenris read entrails and cast bones. What you believed myth, we made reality.+

  Yet you did not see us coming, Njal thought, lips tightly sealed against any word escaping them. Izzakar did not react to this damning slight. Proof, perhaps, that he could not see into the Rune Priest’s thoughts. But the Stormcaller’s distraction was evident, his timing with the attendants out of kilter. A servitor croaked in confusion, seeking a forearm to enclose with a vambrace but finding it out of position. Njal quickly raised his arm, not realising he had dropped it.

  +You think you can shield your thoughts from the perils of the Empyrean, yet you barely have the discipline to armour your body. It is no wonder my soulself was drawn to the vacuum within your thoughts.+

  The ritual was as much about connecting with himself as his armour and the interruptions of Izzakar disrupted that. Njal started to chant the battle-odes he had learned in his first days after coming to the Fang, bringing clarity and timing to his movements and thoughts.

  His voice took on a bass tone, below the hearing of the thralls, though Aldacrel stiffened slightly in recognition. Njal subvocalised several verses, remembering himself back at the tiller of a drakeship, steering through the peaks and troughs of a heavy sea. The rhythm of the words was the pounding of the waves on the hull. The Iron Priest added his voice, pitched slightly higher, like the keening of the wind against mast and rope.

  +I cannot conceive the detrimental effect of combat on your mental acuity. If you…+

  The memory drowned out the prattling of Izzakar and for the first time since discovering the sorcerer’s invasive presence, Njal felt a moment of calm and solace.

  ‘What ails the mind troubles the body,’ said Aldacrel.