“Strap yourselves in,” he said. “We’re taking off.”
Ten heartbeats later, the shuttle shuddered into the air, and headed for the distant sky. What waited for them beyond it, Ragnar wondered, feeling an ominous sense of foreboding.
CHAPTER THREE
Ragnar watched the approach of the Fist of Russ, Berek’s ship, through the porthole of the shuttle. On first inspection, it was a disappointment. Seen from close up it was smaller than the Light of Truth, the first starship on which he had travelled, though it looked more densely armed and armoured. Around the ship, shuttles and Thunderhawks came and went. Judging by the loops and flare of landing jets, many of the gunship pilots were merely testing their vessels, performing shakedown trials before hurtling into the docking bays of the mothership.
Briefly Ragnar considered whether, when he finally made the rank of Grey Hunter, he would apply for pilot training. He found the idea attractive, and mentioned it to Sven.
“Does this mean you want to bloody well skive off from hand-to-hand fighting? Typical.”
Ragnar considered this for a moment, as he watched a Thunderhawk hurtle by so close that he could make out the pilot’s features through the armour glass windows.
He must be doing that deliberately, Ragnar realised, matching velocities exactly so that there were only a few dozen metres per second difference in the speeds of the two vessels.
“No. I still want to be in the front line. I just quite fancy being able to fly one of those things.”
Sven looked at him as if he were mad. “If the Emperor had meant us to fly, we would grow wings along with our second hearts.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sven. That’s like saying if He meant us to be able to fly between the stars we would make warp jumps instead of farting.”
Sven laughed. “There are some people I wish could do that.”
The Fist of Russ came ever closer. The rune sign of Berek’s company was visible on the side, a massive silver hand clutching a lightning bolt. “Do you think our lord and master could have had that painted any bigger?” Sven’s tone was affectionate, but showed an awareness of their captain’s besetting sin.
“Not without having the ship made bigger,” Ragnar replied.
“I wager he would do so if he could.”
“Or if he thought Sigrid Trollbane was having it done,” added Strybjorn. Ragnar looked over at the Grimskull. His former enemy must be a little excited. He did not usually take part in Sven and Ragnar’s good natured mocking of their chieftain.
There was a faint sense of motion as the shuttle rotated for docking. Ragnar saw massive dish antennae rotating on the side of the Fist of Russ. Above it, on the jutting tower where the ship’s bridge was situated, was another symbol. It was not in the familiar runic script of Fenris but showed flowing Imperial characters surrounding a winged man.
“What is that?”
“Don’t know,” said Sven. “I thought you were the scholar around here.”
Sergeant Hakon overheard them, as he made his way down the steel corridor. “It’s the sign of House Belisarius.”
“Who are they?”
“Navis Nobilitae. Navigators.” Ragnar remembered the two slender foppishly garbed figures he had seen with Logan Grimnar back in the Fang.
“How come they have their sign on our bloody starships?” asked Sven.
“Because without them these starships would not be going anywhere,” responded Hakon curtly. “They guide us through the immaterium. Without them—”
“I know what a Navigator does, sergeant. I am curious to know why our ship bears their sign. Does it not belong to the Chapter?”
“I sometimes wonder whether the teaching engines managed to drive anything into that thick skull of yours, Sven. Ragnar, did they do any better with you?”
Hakon was being unfair, Ragnar thought. The teaching machines had placed enormous amounts of information within their brains but that did not mean you instantly had access to all of it. Sometimes, trying to find what you needed to know was like being lost in a great library, looking for a single volume. And, of course, sometimes the information was simply lost, forgotten or never transferred at all. Like most of the ancient machines owned by the Chapter, the tutelary engines were not entirely reliable.
Still, it was worth a try. Ragnar closed his eyes and invoked the mnemonic prayers he had been taught, concentrating on the image of the winged figure, the name Belisarius, and the concept of the Navis Nobilitae. As if from a great distance concepts drifted up, like half-forgotten memories suddenly recalled by the stimulus of a scent or a song.
“They are our allies,” he said eventually. “Our pact with them dates from the time of Russ, from the Dawn Ages, before even the founding of the Imperium.”
“Very good, Ragnar,” said Hakon. Sven grimaced sourly at this. Obviously his grasp of the process of mnemonic prayer was not quite so good as Ragnar’s. “They are sworn to guide our ships and to provide twenty-four of their best pilots to serve the Great Wolf. In return we are sworn to come to their aid should they summon us, and to provide sanctuary in times of need. Their chieftain has a bodyguard of Space Wolves, just as our lord has a retinue of Navigators.”
“Why do we need twenty-four bloody Navigators?” said Sven. “The Chapter has only fifteen great ships. One for each company. Three in reserve.”
“Slow as ever, Sven,” said Hakon. “Replacements and reserves are always needed — with Navigators as much as with ships. More so, for there are times when men need to rest and ships do not.”
As Hakon and Sven talked, other images and ideas flowed into Ragnar’s mind. He realised he had never given consideration to a lot of things before now, to the level of support that stood behind every Space Marine. It was not just thralls and mechanicians they needed, but Navigators and crews. For he realised that the crews must be raised from the folk of Fenris and trained by those who preceded them on the great ships. In a moment, he became conscious of the fact that he and his battle-brothers were merely the tip of a great spear, the cutting edge of a huge organisational structure intended to send them into battle anywhere in the Imperium.
Out of the porthole he caught sight of glittering lights, so distant as to be little brighter than stars, each in reality a huge ship. In another moment the giant sphere that was Fenris came into his field of vision, remained there for a moment, and then vanished as the shuttle entered the vast metal cavern that was the hangar deck of the Fist of Russ.
As they moved through the ship to their assigned cells, Ragnar could not help but contrast his experience on the Space Wolf ship with his first experience of an Imperial star-ship, the Light of Truth, and with that of the transport which had eventually brought him back from Aerius to Fenris. On those ships most of the crew had been conscripts and convicted criminals, either sentenced to serve punishment for some crime or press-ganged by a naval shore party. Most of them had been chained to their machines, and harshly disciplined by their officers.
The folk of the Fist of Russ were free men, proud to serve the Chapter, permitted to come and go as they pleased. They looked on Ragnar with awe but no fear. They did not expect the lash for the slightest infringement of discipline, real or imagined. They were an elite among spacefarers and knew it. All of them showed the mark of Fenris. They were tall men, mostly blond, rangy and fierce-looking. They wore grey tunics that bore the sign of the wolf, and went armed and ready to do battle, if need be, in defence of their ship. They moved with a purposeful stride, certain of what they were doing.
The Fist of Russ smelled different too: cleaner and more efficient more like the air of Fenris. There was no taint of pain and torment in it. Obscurely, Ragnar felt proud of his Chapter. This ship was just another one of the myriad of small but important things that separated his people from the other arms of the Imperium like the Inquisition. The thought stayed with him as he marched to the cell he had been assigned.
His cell was small and steel walled. It had a porthole t
hat looked out into space, and a small terminal that allowed access to the ship’s datacore. There were racks for his weapons, and stands for his equipment. A hard bed filled one corner. He tossed his kitbag into the chest bolted to the floor and stowed his wargear before making his way over to the terminal altar.
It was slightly different from those he was used to in the Fang but still recognisable. A small cube of metal topped by a circlet of hologems surrounding a small brazier for the machine incense. A long brass umbilical connected the machine to the data cavity in the wall. Two rearing metal wolves, bolted to the tabletop, flanked it and held it in place.
Ragnar squatted cross-legged before the altar. He lit the small block of machine incense, tapped the ivory keys and spoke the words of invocation. His fingers worked through the invocation sequence to summon the knowledge spirits of the datacore. In answer, the altar shuddered, the air shimmered and a glowing sphere of light sprang into being over the glowing hologems.
Ragnar’s fingers flickered over the keyboard. In answer, the ectoplasmic nimbus of light before him swirled and a picture of the Fist of Russ came into being. It was a small but perfectly accurate facsimile of the mighty vessel he had seen from the shuttle. In answer to another catechism, the machine spirits showed images of the other craft. To Ragnar’s surprise they were all different.
Logan Grimnar’s Pride of Fenris was similar to the Light of Truth, a grim warship far larger than the Fist of Russ. Egil Ironwolf’s was of the same type, if marginally smaller. The others ranged from one half to one third the size of those ships, and showed many subtle differences. In answer to his questions the spirits whispered facts about the fleet. Most of the ships were old. The Chapter had captured many of them in battle during ancient actions millennia ago. Some had become Chapter property more recently.
The Iron Wolf for instance, had been taken during a battle against a rebel fleet when Egil’s own ship, the original Iron Wolf, had been crippled. The Chapter had claimed the battleship as plunder, and refused to return it to the Imperial fleet, an act that apparently still caused problems in certain quarters. Ragnar could not for the life of him understand why. On Fenris these things were simple: when you captured an enemy’s ship it belonged to you or your liege lord. It did not matter if your foe had stolen it or claimed it in battle with someone else.
Apparently, certain factions within the Imperium thought differently. Ragnar was worldly wise enough to know that strangers had strange customs, and that not everybody held to the law as it was adhered to on Fenris, but he could not help but feel sorry for anyone who sought to claim the Chapter’s spoils back from it.
Ragnar wondered what it must be like to have command of your own ship, to be a Wolf Lord like Berek Thunderfist?
To be in charge of your own company, to be considered a hero by your Chapter, and a legend in your own time, particularly by yourself. To a Blood Claw like himself it was an almost unimaginable position. Aside from becoming Great Wolf, it was the highest position anyone in the Chapter could aspire to.
Of course, it was rumoured that Berek was not content with it, that he desperately wanted to be Great Wolf. Ragnar wondered if that was one of the things that made him a Wolf Lord with his own company. Would anyone with the drive to reach such heights be content to stop there, one rang below the ultimate achievement?
It did not seem likely that Logan Grimnar would die soon. At least not of old age, but then few Great Wolves had ever died in their beds. There was always the possibility when the Chapter went into battle that even the highest ranking could become a casualty. If that were the case, perhaps Berek would achieve his ambition.
As a lowly Blood Claw, Ragnar was not privy to all of the scuttlebutt that passed around the ranks, but even he had heard discussions of Berek’s ambition and his rivalry with Sigrid Trollbane, who was seen as his chief competitor for the Wolf throne. Ragnar had also heard of brawls and duels being fought between men of the two great companies, a shadow of the tension that lay between their chieftains.
A shadow fell across the altar. Ragnar looked up to see Sven standing in the doorway of his cell. “You never bloody well stop, do you! You’ll go blind if you spend all your time staring at a hologlobe.”
“At least I’ll know something about what’s going on.”
“You think that’s important? All a Space Wolf needs is a foe in front of him and a weapon in his hand.”
Ragnar considered his friend, knowing that Sven was serious. Sven had many virtues but imagination was not one of them. Now that he had adjusted somewhat to the changes wrought by his transformation into a Space Marine, he seemed genuinely content to be one of the rank and file. He had no ambition greater than becoming a Grey Hunter, and no desire stronger than to cleave the foes of the Chapter. Ragnar was suddenly aware of the difference between the two of them.
He did like to know what was going on around him. He did want to be more than a sword in the fist of the Great Wolf. Was he ambitious himself? Was part of the reason for his ambivalent feelings towards Berek Thunderfist, that the Wolf Lord’s ambition reflected his own? Ragnar did not know. He just felt that in some way he was growing up into someone different from the vast majority of the Blood Claws around him.
“Maybe so. But it never hurts to know why and more importantly how you are going to get to your foes.”
“You think too bloody much, Ragnar. You need beer.”
“Is there any on this ship?”
“This would not be the Fist of Russ if it did not have a stein of beer in it.”
“Hopefully there is more than one.”
“As fate would have it, while you were weakening your eyesight communing with the spirits of knowledge, I was performing a vital reconnaissance mission. I have located the feasting hall and uncovered the location of a barrel at least.”
“Then like true Space Wolves, let us boldly seek our objective.”
“Best be prepared. Doubtless there are several scurvy knaves who will seek to stand between us and our prize.”
“Then we shall teach them the folly of their ways! Lead on!”
The feasting hall lay deep within the bowels of the ship. Around the tables was a scattering of Blood Claws. It seemed that they were the only ones without duties to perform before the ship made its jump through the immaterium; the crew and the rest of their brethren were busy. Ragnar and Sven helped themselves to steins of ale.
Ragnar sat down on a bench next to Aenar, Torvald and the hulking Troll, along with several other members of their pack.
Ragnar felt a little envious. Most of his early comrades had gone to the “grave”. He pushed that dark thought away. Doubtless soon these bold lads would know the feeling too. The rate of attrition among Blood Claws was terrible. By the time they made Grey Hunter it was likely that only half of the young warriors in front of him would still be alive.
Sven took a place opposite them. Overhead in an ancient cogitator a countdown tolled off the minutes and seconds before the ship would be on its way. There were several hours yet to go.
“Have you heard anything about where we are going?” Aenar asked. Torvald was leaner and shaven headed with a bleak but humorous face.
“Ask Ragnar,” said Sven. “He is the scholar around here.”
“That’s because it takes a brain to be a scholar, and Sven is hampered by his lack of one,” said Ragnar, before sharing his knowledge.
“It would be just my luck for it to be some hellhole or other. I was cursed at birth, you know.” Torvald was given to complaining bitterly about some curse that had been placed on him at birth. His mother had offended a witch or something. Ragnar was not entirely sure. The tale changed a little every time Torvald told it.
“I hear that a full ten companies are being sent out,” continued Aenar.
Ragnar nodded. The maximum number of companies ever deployed in the field at once was eleven. One company always had to be left out of a campaign, so if all the others were wiped out it meant the Chapter wo
uld continue. Such an event had happened only three times in the Space Wolves’ history, but happen it had. To have ten companies dispatched to the same place at the same time was most unusual indeed.
“Garm is an important place,” said Ragnar. “The shrine there is almost as sacred as those in the Fang.”
A familiar scent told Ragnar of the arrival of another old companion. “Look who has finally decided to join us,” said Sven. Ragnar looked round to see his old rival and comrade Strybjorn Grimskull approaching their table. He seemed even broader and more muscular than ever, and his deep-set eyes studied them all with a habitual wary, appraising look.
“I thought I would give you the pleasure of my company,” said Strybjorn, without cracking a smile.
“When does that start then?” said Sven. “I’ve known you for years and it’s never been a pleasure.”
“Very funny,” said Strybjorn grimly. He nodded at Ragnar. There had been tension between them since before they became Space Wolves. Strybjorn had been part of the raiding party that had wiped out Ragnar’s entire clan. Not even the fact that they had saved each other’s lives and fought together against deadly foes since then had entirely removed it.
“All ready for Garm?” he asked. The younger Blood Claws roared enthusiastic affirmatives. Sven nodded. Ragnar shrugged.
“You don’t seem all that keen, Ragnar.”
“I’m keen enough. I just want to learn more before we go in.”
“What is there to know?” Sven asked.
“What sort of foes we will be fighting, for one thing,” said Ragnar.
“How many of them there are,” added Strybjorn.
“How well equipped they are—”
“That’s easy,” interrupted Sven. “Our foes will be flesh and blood, just like us only less tough. There won’t be enough of them to go around the rest of you by the time I am finished with them. Their equipment will be like ours but less destructive since we are Space Marines, and have the best bloody gear in the galaxy. If you have any other questions, I will be pleased to answer them.”
[Space Wolf 03] - Grey Hunter Page 4
