by Gav Thorpe
‘Legendary! Count me in!’
All eyes turned to the newcomer. He was dressed in the Space Wolves battleplate. Its markings were those of a Blood Claw, though the wearer was clearly of a greater age than would be expected of such a novice position. His hair was a violently auburn mane, with a short, narrow beard and flowing moustache of the same. His nose was pointed, his cheeks and brow craggy. Most prominent was the insincere grin smeared across his features.
‘Allfather help us,’ growled Njal. ‘Lukas.’
CHAPTER 5
THE ROGUE’S CALL
Stepping into the hall, Lukas gave a brief nod of respect to the roused veterans, and another for the Great Wolf. He walked towards the Stormcaller, who stared at the newcomer with a deeply creased brow, though whether in confusion or annoyance, Lukas could not guess.
‘It seems this sort of endeavour… mission… quest needs every pair of capable hands.’ Lukas turned, put fingers to his lips and whistled sharply, twice. The clump of boots resounded from the corridor beyond the great doors and several seconds later a cluster of seven young Space Wolves appeared. Their beards were short, hair worn in complex braids and spikes in honour of their adoptive pack leader’s flamboyant style. The markings on the grey armour were of Blood Claws, the lowest rank of warrior after receiving their black carapaces to become full Space Marines. ‘I have brought some friends, which should count in my favour, yes?’
‘Where did you find these men?’ demanded the Great Wolf. He thrust a finger towards the Blood Claws, indicating the Great Company symbols on their pauldrons. ‘These warriors are of the Ironwolves! Does Egil know they are with you?’
‘I have borrowed them,’ Lukas replied with circumspection. ‘Egil Iron Wolf probably hasn’t yet noticed their absence. Besides, I fear we stray from the point of my timely intervention. My friends, formerly of the Ironwolves, and I find ourselves absent of an assignment. This jaunt to Prospero sounds ideal.’
‘Jaunt?’ growled Njal.
Lukas continued hurriedly, looking at Logan. ‘Unless you would prefer that we came with you to rendezvous with the Nightwolves, Great Wolf?’
The look of horror and then indignation that clouded Logan Grimnar’s face was reward enough, but the offer – or threat – had the desired effect.
‘The Trickster is right, Njal. All warriors are a boon to your cause.’
The Stormcaller had not broken his stare. He strode down the hall, strides measured. By some trick of acoustics or perhaps subtle wyrdplay his steps rang like thunderclaps, while it seemed the lumens and torches dimmed, casting long shadows from the approaching Rune Priest. When Njal stopped before Lukas, the Trickster felt a chill across his skin as though standing in the shadow of an eclipse. The Stormcaller’s eyes were lit with tiny pinpricks of fire as they bore down into Lukas’ skull.
‘I accept your offer, Jackalwolf.’ Njal’s words reverberated strangely around Lukas’ head. ‘Even if I forbade it, I think that you would come regardless. If you become the slightest vexation, if your presence disrupts our preparations or waylays our plans for your own devices, I will lay a doom upon you so dire that the Wolf King himself would pale at the thought of it.’
‘Of course,’ replied Lukas, forcing back another smile. He tried his best to look and sound sincere, but nature had gifted him a face and tone that lent itself to the sarcastic no matter how hard he tried. ‘I wish only to serve the Allfather in the way I know best.’
Njal quickly lifted a finger, causing Lukas to flinch. Wyrdfyr played about its tip, forming a tiny portrait of Lukas, features contorted in agony.
‘The gravest wyrd-doom mortal mind can devise, Jackalwolf. Am I clear?’
Lukas nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The Stormcaller turned his grave attention on the Blood Claws still clustered at the gates. Their high spirits dampened beneath his glowering eye.
‘You are young and enthusiastic, and that is to be expected,’ Njal told them. ‘But you carry the burden of duty the same as any warrior here. You are Space Wolves, Sons of Russ, Lords of Fenris. Your honour is the honour of our brotherhood. Stain it and we are all stained. I will not ask you to forsake this fool champion you have latched onto. I know his ways seem appealing to young and impressionable minds. I will warn you that the geas I have laid upon him, you will share. Fight well and you shall be legends. Wrong me and I will be your ruin.’
Cowed by these words, the Blood Claws turned their eyes floorwards and shuffled their feet. Lukas could feel their spirits ebbing, and it wounded him to see their enthusiasm so cruelly curbed instead of harnessed. He sidled to the closest table and snatched a tankard from the nearest warrior, darting away as the scowling Space Wolf made a lunge for his ale.
‘Let us praise this endeavour, and the newest members of the Stormriders!’ Lukas declared, raising the tankard towards his Blood Claws. Their mood brightened as the other Stormriders, faced with dishonouring the toast if they did not echo it, lifted their own tankards with grunts and growls. Many regarded Lukas with the same tired patience he had become used to, but several stared at him with unabashed distaste, baring their fangs, while their eyes daggered threats every bit as dire as Njal’s warning.
‘We have preparations to make,’ he told his pack, before downing the tankard’s contents in one draught. He tossed the empty vessel back to its owner, who caught it with a rude glare. ‘We need paint, and ammunition! To the armoury, my Blood Claw brothers!’
He ushered them out of the grand hall with sweeping hands, before anything amiss occurred. At the threshold he paused and turned, casting a low bow to the Great Company. His eyes roamed across their faces, seeing apathy and antipathy written there. Lukas’ attention briefly caught Grimnar, who watched the Trickster with the expression of one monitoring the erratic passage of an invading swampfly. Lastly, he met the unblinking stare of the Stormcaller.
He wanted to return the look with sincerity, to assure him with a glance that he would not jeopardise the mission, and that the goal of the Stormriders was his goal also. Lukas wanted to do this as he knew it could be done, having seen others exchanging such looks, their wordless meaning known in an instant.
Instead, he winked, lip curled mischievously.
Lukas fixed his smile, despairing at his own behaviour, and left quickly, without daring to register the Rune Priest’s reaction. He sped after his departing Blood Claws.
‘It’s a curse, I swear,’ he muttered to himself.
A ship was found, improving Njal’s mood considerably. The Longclaw was a rapid strike vessel that had been left in orbit over Fenris for a lack of suitable crew following the invasion by the Thousand Sons. It had a warp drive, drop pod cascade, a few weapons turrets and little else, but that was sufficient for the needs of the Stormriders.
Overseen by Valgarthr and the Stormcaller, embarkation by shuttle began to lift the squads into orbit. First was a small complement of void-experienced thralls sent to prepare the way for the others. Store barges took what could be spared to fill the magazines and hold, with the greater part of the space given over to weapons and ammunition rather than comforts or provisions.
Njal’s spirits were further lifted when he received a visitation from Aldacrel. The Iron Priest came to the Stormcaller as he watched another shuttle of veterans take off from the flight apron.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said the Iron Priest, in such a manner it was clear he had decided there would be no argument. ‘Someone’s got to maintain your wargear and settle the spirit of the ship.’
‘Three tech-priests journey with us,’ replied Njal. ‘You would serve better with the Great Wolf’s campaign.’
‘You need an Iron Priest, he doesn’t,’ said Aldacrel, and that was that. He marched away – the attendants and servitors set into motion by a silently transmitted order, while their master called out to commandeer the next drop-ship going into orbit.
The Iron Priest’s assertion reminded Njal of another individual he would need. He quit the
dockside and headed back into the Fang, quickly making his way to the quarters set aside for members of the Navis Nobilite.
Across a wide bridge that spanned one of the Fang’s many internal gorges, a gate barred entry. The portal was guarded by a squad of soldiers loyal to the Navigators. They wore highly ornamented powered armour, wrought with gold in imitation of the auramite of the Emperor’s Custodians, though the occupants were normal men and women raised from the hive slums of Terra, their families bound to the dynasties of the Navis Nobilite by ancient pacts. They had been trained by battle-brothers of the Chapter before being allowed to ship to Fenris, though their loyalty was first and foremost to House Belisarius.
Like the wyrd-halls and the pilaster of the Astropaths, the Navigators’ quarters were heavily shielded against the warp. Njal could feel the oppressive force of the psychic wards built into the towers and chambers beyond the gatehouse, pressing down towards him like the weight of a mountain.
+I feel it also, an itch behind eyes I do not possess.+
The Navis guard raised power spears in salute to the approaching Space Wolf. Their officer stepped forward with a respectful bow, her face half-hidden behind the black visor of her tall helm. She swept a purple cloak before her as she lowered, her other hand on the pommel of the stabbing sword sheathed at her waist.
‘Welcome, Lord of Fenris,’ she said as she straightened. ‘The precincts of the Navigators are closed to visitors at present.’
‘Who resides within, Dorria?’ asked Njal, pulling the officer’s name from little-used memory.
‘The Navigator Remeo and Navigator-elect Majula,’ San Artis Dorria Lex Vinduleus replied. ‘They are indisposed.’
‘I require a Navigator. We leave at dusk.’
Dorria shifted her weight to her other foot, uncomfortable.
‘Is there some problem with my request?’
‘The Navigator Remeo made it known to me before you came that he would not assist in your journey to Prospero. You cannot demand that a member of the Navis Nobilite risk their life needlessly.’
‘I see.’ Njal held his temper. There was no benefit to getting angry at Dorria; she was merely the herald of this news, not its source. ‘Convey to the Navigator Remeo my insistence that he holds to the terms of the agreements between House Belisarius and the Space Wolves. If he is unwilling to be my ship-guide, perhaps he has overstayed his welcome on Fenris.’
To her credit, Dorria did not react to the implicit threat, but merely nodded her head.
‘I shall impress upon the Navigator Remeo your desire for his company on the voyage ahead.’
‘Then I ask nothing else of you, Dorria. You do your duty well.’
And with nothing more to be said on the matter, Njal left, his mood much soured.
‘The Great Wolf wants you, Arjac.’
There was nothing amiss in the words of Alrik Doomseeker as he stood at the threshold of the thegnhalle, his Terminator armour lit by the flickering of the immense hearthfire. He wore his helm and nothing of his face could be seen. Similarly, his Tactical Dreadnought war-plate masked anything but the most obvious body language.
Yet the terse summons – not request, as was usually Logan’s choice when dealing with his champion – came at an ill time. Arjac had not returned more than an hour from his trek into the hinterlands and even now waited on the remaining, much-overworked armoury thralls to divest him of his war-plate.
‘The Stormcaller has need,’ Alrik added, explaining much with just four words.
‘Aye, well I best go, then,’ said Arjac, standing up from the reinforced bench and table where he had been picking clean a broad platter. He swilled down the last mug of ale and headed for the door.
‘The wulfhalle,’ Alrik corrected him as Arjac turned left out of the door towards the Hall of Kings.
‘I see,’ said Arjac. It was rare that Logan spoke to him in the privacy of his personal chambers. Arjac was his champion, and only rarely counsellor. His dealings with his feal-lord mostly took place in plain view at audience or open muster. To attend the Great Wolf alone spoke of something more personal than his duty as head of the Nightwolves’ Wolf Guard.
By long stride and clanking conveyor, he traversed the storeys of the Fang, heading up from the halls of the Nightwolves. It was an inconvenience that the Great Wolf was quartered in what had once been the domain of the Wolf King, while his Great Company shared hearth in another part of the Fang. It made being a bodyguard difficult, but despite entreaties from Arjac, Logan refused to break tradition and lodge his veterans in the inner keep-halls.
Arjac saw Baldin of the Red-Sea and Odyn Foe-Ruin on duty. They wordlessly admitted their pack leader into the presence of the Chapter Master.
Logan sat to one side at a great desk strewn with transparent plastek sheets and parchment sheafs. He scowled at the logistical reports and submissions from the Astropaths with a ferocity usually reserved for the most dire foes on the battlefield.
‘How was Elsinholm?’ he asked, standing up from his broad chair, his look one of relief at being freed for a moment from the more onerous duties of command.
‘Cold,’ replied Arjac. Everywhere on Fenris was freezing. An old joke, but one that allowed them to share a smile. Arjac’s mood sobered. ‘A mutant sturmwyrm, now deceased.’
‘Good work.’
‘Not really.’ Arjac knew that he had permission to speak his mind at all times. As champion he was expected to speak truths only, to defend his feal-lord’s honour as well as his person. ‘Before Magnus… Before the invasion, the Elsinholma would have hunted it down without help, even though they were few in number. Everywhere, the people are hurting, not just in their losses but in their hearts. They have suffered so much. More even than Fenrisians can bear.’
‘Then perhaps they need a fresh saga to bolster their flagging spirits. A story that shows that the Space Wolves and Fenris are not cowed.’
‘You have news of victory?’ It was typical of Logan Grimnar, seeing to the morale of his people as much as their physical need. ‘Our expedition forces fare well?’
‘Some,’ said Logan. He moved across to the heavily leaded window and looked out at the whiteness, his form silhouetted against the pale light. ‘But I’m not talking about that.’
‘A vision from the Stormcaller?’
‘Yes.’ Logan seemed hesitant to answer, which was unusual. He was weighing his words as carefully as a storemaster counted ammunition issued to the companies. ‘A development. An opportunity.’
‘It is not common for you to mask your words, Great Wolf. Speak plainly.’
Logan turned around, his features screwed up with concern.
‘What I tell you must be passed to no one else. It is for you alone to know.’
‘By my honour,’ agreed Arjac, though his heart sank. He disliked secrets. Rarely did any good come of them, though he knew that some knowledge – the threat of Chaos, for instance – was itself harmful.
‘I do not understand it fully, but Njal Stormcaller has snared a fragment of another being in his thoughts.’
Arjac’s next breath caught in his throat, his hands becoming fists at his side. Having so recently faced the prospect of daemonic activity, it was a shock to discover the threat in the heart of the Fang.
‘What manner of being?’ He could scarce believe he had to ask the question and his doubts voiced themselves. ‘What manner of creature could possess the Stormcaller?’
‘A sorcerer of the Thousand Sons.’ Logan rubbed his chin. ‘It was gross error by Njal that has led to this dire situation.’
Logan waited, gauging Arjac for a sign of understanding. Rockfist nodded for the Great Wolf to continue.
‘We might yet salvage good from bad. Njal is returning to Prospero, to the warp-crazed labyrinth that snared Bulveye and his Old Guard of the Thirteenth Company.’
‘More Wulfen?’
Logan shrugged. ‘We will have to wait and see. Njal thinks that he can open the maze and free our
lost brothers with the aid of this wyrd passenger, and I have granted him leave to collect volunteers for the effort. You are going to volunteer, Arjac.’
‘I’m damned sure I’m not,’ argued Rockfist. ‘I am your champion, your hearthegn, and your bodyguard stays with you. You are rejoining the Nightwolves soon, so my place, the duty of my pack, is by your side.’
‘This is more important.’
‘I disagree.’
‘I didn’t ask,’ snapped the Great Wolf, losing his temper for the first time Arjac had seen in several decades, and never before with him. The champion stepped back as though assaulted, wounded by his feal-lord’s intemperate remark.
‘I am sorry,’ said Rockfist. He bent slightly, eyes to the floor in apology. ‘I overstep my duty, Great Wolf.’
‘Yes you do, Arjac,’ said Logan, his anger losing its edge. ‘I need Njal in these dark times. You must protect him as you would me.’
‘Of course.’ There was something else, a hint of an unfinished sentence in the Great Wolf’s manner. ‘If he is so important, why do you not command him to rid himself of this sorcerer?’
‘We need every warrior. If we can bring back more of the Thirteenth we can fight other battles.’
‘But you also hope for something more?’
Grimnar sighed.
‘It is a foolish hope,’ he admitted, moving back to his desk, fidgeting with the papers there. He lifted an ork skull paperweight, turning it in his thick fingers. ‘Perhaps… perhaps something of the Wolf King might be found. The warp has vomited forth daemons and released the Wulfen after ten thousand years. Is it madness to hope that the Wolftime is upon us and that Russ might return to lead again?’
‘Not madness,’ said Arjac. He approached to within a couple of paces. ‘But unnecessary. Self-doubt should be a stranger at your hearth, Logan. You are the greatest leader this Chapter has seen in millennia. If anybody can steer us through these dark times, it is you.’
