Battle Of The Fang

by Chris Wraight

  He came up to Sturmhjart and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I do this because I can trust you, brother,’ he whispered, drawing his head close. ‘Most out of all my Wolves, I can trust you. Seek the truth in the wyrd if you want, and you will understand – the Tempering is our destiny.’

  Sturmhjart looked back into Ironhelm’s eyes. He was still not reconciled, but he would take the order.

  ‘So I have full sanction, lord?’ he asked.

  Ironhelm smiled grimly.

  ‘We always have full sanction,’ he said.

  The Fang was vast beyond compassing – a huge network of tunnels, shafts and chambers that riddled the highest levels of the peak. Even so, the fortress proper was dwarfed by the full bulk of the mountain, and only the very upper reaches had ever been delved into habitation. For the most part, the Wolves dwelt underground, their lairs hidden under kilometres of solid rock. Only at the very pinnacle, the terminus of the Valgard level, did artificial structures break the surface in any quantity. It was there that the mighty landing stages and docking berths had been constructed, clustered around massive towers that thrust from sheer cliffs hundreds of metres tall. Ancient drive mechanisms powered service shafts a kilometre deep, hauling materiel and wargear from depots in the heart of the mountain and delivering them to the transports waiting in the hangars. They were always busy, those places, testament to the restless spirit of the Wolves and their ceaseless voyaging into the sea of stars.

  Haakon Gylfasson stood on the edges of one such hangar, watching the scores of thralls and servitors crawl over the steaming hulls of ships like vermin on a corpse. Dozens of vessels had left already, and most of those that remained were earmarked for the war-fleet. The ships left to the Twelfth were few, and for the most part the slowest and least well-armed. Only a single strike cruiser, the Skraemar, would remain in orbit to defend the planet, and it would have fewer than a dozen smaller craft in its escort.

  That struck Gylfasson as entirely reasonable. What didn’t strike him as reasonable was the commandeering of the Nauro. That was personal, an affront, and in a way that most of his battle-brothers would struggle to understand.

  ‘I’m sorry, lord,’ said the kaerl for the third time, staring hard at the data-slate in front of her and trying to avoid eye contact with Gylfasson. ‘This is part of the requisition. The Great Wolf–’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ said Gylfasson in his dark, feline drawl. He didn’t speak like a typical Space Marine, and had none of the overt, bristling threat about him that they did. His colouring was dark, and his facial hair thick and matted. He was slighter than most pack members, even when kitted out in his full array of Scout’s carapace armour. Only his eyes truly gave him away, the circles of amber pinned with black. No one but a son of Russ had those eyes. ‘I’m not a nice person. I don’t have the generosity of my brothers. I don’t hang around them much, and they don’t hang around me.’

  The kaerl looked like she’d rather be anywhere else herself, but listened respectfully.

  ‘So don’t think I won’t take this personally. Don’t think I won’t find out who your rivenmaster is and get you placed on external patrol in Asaheim for a month. I need this ship. It’s my ship. It stays here.’

  The kaerl looked back at her data-slate earnestly, as if some new information on it could possibly help her. Fifty metres behind her loomed the Nauro itself, sitting on the hanger apron and steaming gently. It didn’t look like any of the other vessels waiting on the plascrete. It was jet-black, untouched by the gunmetal grey that coloured the rest of the fleet. Its classification was uncertain – too small to be a frigate, far too big to count as a transatmospheric craft, and just under five hundred crew. It sat low against the ground, narrow and unusually slender. Nearly a third of its length was taken up by plasma drives, a ratio that made it colossally fast. Which was exactly why Gylfasson liked it.

  ‘You won’t find what you’re looking for there,’ said Gylfasson patiently, watching the kaerl play for time.

  She looked up with a desolate expression on her face. The woman was built like most Fenrisians, heavy-boned and broad-shouldered. She’d seen combat, from the skulls woven into her uniform, so most things in the galaxy wouldn’t shake her. Bartering with a Sky Warrior obviously did.

  ‘Leave her be, Blackwing,’ came a metallic voice from behind the kaerl.

  His armour humming at a low, grinding pitch, the Twelfth’s Iron Priest Garjek Arfang came pacing across the apron. He had his ancient Mk IV helm on, but Gylfasson could sense the amusement emanating from him. Somewhere, under all those layers of plate and augmentics, he was smiling.

  ‘Stay out of this, Priest,’ warned Gylfasson. ‘This is my ship.’

  ‘You’re a Scout,’ said Arfang bluntly. The kaerl took advantage of the interruption to withdraw. ‘None of these ships are yours.’

  ‘No one flies her like I do.’

  ‘That is true. So be pleased that Jarl Oirreisson doesn’t want it. He’s taken a hlaupa instead. It will fall apart the first volley he fires, but when it comes to technology, he is a man of poor taste.’

  Gylfasson looked at Arfang suspiciously.

  ‘So it’s not been requisitioned?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Then what’s happening to it?’

  There was a grating sound from behind Arfang’s helm as the Iron Priest issued what passed for a laugh with him.

  ‘Jarl Greyloc wants you on system patrol. You and the rest of the Scouts. He doesn’t, I ascertain, like the Aett being under-manned.’

  Gylfasson smiled broadly.

  ‘Back on void-duty,’ he said, looking over at the Nauro with satisfaction and thinking of the long, empty hours away from the reek of the Fang. ‘You have no idea how pleased that makes me.’

  Greyloc stood in the Chamber of the Watch, bathed in a column of cold light descending from the roof. The summit of the space was lost in darkness. In the shadows, thralls hurried to and fro, handing over data-slates and speaking in low voices. Picts placed around the edge of the chamber flickered with rapid updates, marking the movement of the fleet to the jump-points. One by one, green indicators turned red.

  ‘Open a channel to the flagship,’ Greyloc ordered.

  Thralls scurried to comply. An icon-blink told him communication had been established.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, maintaining the deferential tone he’d adopted in the council. ‘We have muster-complete signals. You’re clear to break orbit.’

  ‘All confirmed,’ came Ironhelm’s crackling voice from the bridge of the Russvangum. ‘We’ll be gone soon, and the Aett’ll be nice and quiet. Just how you like it.’

  Greyloc smiled.

  ‘Indeed. I have hunting to catch up on.’

  There was a rough burst of static from the other end. It might have been a snort.

  ‘You’re missing the best of it.’

  ‘Maybe so. The hand of Russ ward you, lord.’

  ‘And all of us.’

  The comm-link snapped closed. Greyloc stood immobile for a few moments, his lean face pensive.

  Then the picts began to update with fresh data. Position trackers showed massed movement. The fleet was under way.

  A thrall approached the static Wolf Lord and bowed.

  ‘Orbital grid overview prepared, lord,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. ‘You may inspect when ready.’

  Greyloc nodded, hardly seeming to notice the figure before him. His white eyes were fixed on the rock walls beyond. The stone was still as bare and unadorned as it had been when first carved.

  The centuries had done little to adorn the Aett. It was the same size as it had been in Russ’s time, still cold, half-empty and sighing with the incoming ice-wind of Fenris. Sections of the lower levels had fallen into disuse, and even Wyrmblade didn’t know what had been left untouched in the deepest places.

  We have not evolved. We remain the same.

  The thrall hovered for a mom
ent longer before scuttling back out of the light. He was replaced by a larger figure, and the heavy tread of Rossek echoed across the chamber.

  ‘Tromm,’ said Greyloc, snapping out of his thoughts.

  ‘Jarl,’ replied the Wolf Guard.

  ‘You’ve kept the Claws busy?’

  ‘They’re knocking Hel out of each other in the cages.’

  ‘Good. Keep them at it.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Greyloc scrutinised his subordinate carefully. Rossek was normally so ebullient, so full of energy.

  ‘You don’t agree with my decision,’ he said.

  The Wolf Guard kept his expression level. ‘Someone has to guard the Aett.’

  ‘You don’t think it should have been us.’

  ‘Since you make me speak, no.’

  Greyloc nodded.

  ‘Say more.’

  Rossek looked him directly in the eye, as always. There was reproach there.

  ‘We do not have the trophies of the other Companies, lord,’ he said. ‘There are whispers that we lack spirit. They say your blood’s cold.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Just whispers.’

  Greyloc nodded again. The whispers had always been there. Since ascending to Blood Claw he’d had to fight for his honour against the slurs that he wasn’t a real wolf, that the Helix hadn’t taken properly, that he was more ice-wight than true flesh-warrior of the Rout. The days when such news would have concerned him were long gone.

  ‘They’ve said as much before. Why are you listening now?’

  Rossek held his gaze.

  ‘We need to be careful,’ he said. ‘The other Jarls–’

  ‘Forget about them.’ Greyloc placed a gauntlet on his Wolf Guard’s arm, and the ceramite clunked dully. ‘We have no reason to hang our heads, and there are more ways to fight than those recorded in the sagas. The galaxy is changing. We must change with it.’

  Greyloc felt the uneasiness stirring within Rossek. The Guard didn’t like such talk. None of the Wolves, with their reverence for tradition, did. Only the two warriors’ long brotherhood kept Rossek from speaking out more, from protesting against the manner of war Greyloc had imposed on the Twelfth Company.

  ‘Do you trust me, Tromm?’ asked Greyloc softly, maintaining the grip.

  A hesitation.

  ‘With my life, lord.’

  His amber eyes were unblinking. Greyloc took some satisfaction in that. There were doubts there, like ravens clustering around carrion, but his core was loyal. So it had ever been, even after Greyloc had narrowly beaten him to replace old Oja Arkenjaw as Jarl. If the vote were held again, he had no doubt Rossek would have the numbers. The old warrior had always claimed not to want the honour, but every mind could change.

  ‘Good,’ said Greyloc, releasing his hold. ‘I need you, Tromm. I need all of you. When Ironhelm returns from this mad skraegr hunt, things will have to change. We can’t let these shadows blind us forever, keeping us chasing after ghosts of the past. You will see the truth of it, if you look.’

  Rossek didn’t reply. Such talk made him uneasy, and Greyloc knew he couldn’t push too hard.

  Across the picts placed around the chamber walls, the last of the fleet signals dimmed as the rearguard departed for the jump-points. Greyloc felt a surge of satisfaction then, and some of his preoccupation receded.

  Ironhelm’s latest campaign had got under way. The Aett was his.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kyr Aesvai, the one they called Helfist, laughed hard, sending flecks of spittle from his semi-distended jaws.

  ‘Russ, you’re slow,’ he mocked, then leapt back into the attack. He whirled his axe round and hurled it down at his enemy’s shoulder.

  Ogrim Raegr Vrafsson, the one they called Redpelt, sprang away from the incoming weapon.

  ‘Quick enough for you,’ he panted, falling away and bringing his own axehead into play. He kept it out wide, making room to swing, watching for the momentum of his opponent.

  Crunches and impact sparks rang out further down the long row of iron training cages. The pair were not the only Blood Claws sparring in the pens – the entire infantry contingent of the Twelfth had been ordered into intensive drills in the days since Ironhelm’s fleet had left. Greyloc was a cold one, but no fool – he knew how frustrated his company would be at missing the action at Gangava, and made sure he kept them busy.

  Helfist pressed the attack, stepping warily. His jawline was still basically humanoid, though his facial muscles betrayed the gigantism common to all Space Marines. His cropped hair was a dirty blond, and stubble ran across his tattooed cheeks. He retained the brutal energy of a hmanni tribesman, and he carried himself with a strutting, confident menace.

  ‘Nope,’ he grinned, circling. ‘You’re too damn slow.’

  Redpelt could have been his twin were it not for the messy shock of auburn hair and straggling sideburns. His fangs were similarly short, not yet extended by the long working of the Helix. He had an iron ring in his lower lip which glinted from the glowglobes above them. When he let slip his savage smile, which happened a lot, it dragged against his teeth like scree clattering down ice.

  ‘Stop talking,’ he said, beckoning Helfist on. ‘And start fighting.’

  Helfist darted left, then checked back and dragged the axe-blade up, aiming for Redpelt’s torso. The two weapons impacted in a shower of sparks, locking the shafts. Helfist pushed two-handed, throwing all his massive strength into the shove.

  Redpelt held it for a moment, then stumbled back, knocked off-balance.

  ‘Ya!’ yelled Helfist, and pounced.

  The axeheads clashed, then clashed again, each blow sending ripples of terrific force slamming into the defensive parries. Helfist was indeed the faster, and his uncovered arms moved in a blur.

  ‘Coming for you now...’ grunted Helfist through gritted teeth, his face a mask of concentration. Beads of sweat had formed on his temples, even though the fight-cages were winter-cold and glittering from the ice on the metal.

  Redpelt didn’t reply, kept busy fending off the furious assault from his pack-mate. Both Blood Claws were out of armour, wearing leather tunics and greaves lined with exquisite knotwork. The axeblades were blunt for training, but were still capable of breaking bones and tearing flesh. That was the way the overseers arranged it, to instil the proper respect for the blade and to discourage reliance on battle-plate.

  Redpelt slammed against the cage wall, feeling the unyielding iron press into his back. He rolled away as Helfist’s axe arced through the space where his chest had just been.

  From outside the cage, a torrent of raucous laughter rang out.

  ‘Skítja,’ swore Redpelt, picking out the dark shapes of other Blood Claws standing out of the range of the glowglobes. He’d got an audience. A low jeering broke out as Redpelt evaded another swipe and scrambled to get out of range.

  ‘Slow, slow, slow,’ taunted Helfist, swaggering after him, breathing heavily, his face running with moisture. Redpelt took some satisfaction from the fact he wasn’t making this easy.

  ‘You’d fight better if you didn’t talk so much,’ Redpelt muttered, trying to regain balance and take the initiative back.

  ‘Think that if it makes you feel better,’ crowed Helfist, stalking after him, hefting the axe-shaft lightly. He had the superior smile of victory, and closed back into swing-range.

  ‘Yeah,’ growled Redpelt, coiling for the spring. ‘It does.’

  He thrust suddenly upwards, hurling himself at Helfist’s advancing torso and barrelling him back. Helfist had come in too close, too confident, and couldn’t get his axe down in time. Redpelt wrapped him in a bear-hug and propelled him further, running him into the far wall of the cage. They hit it with a resounding clang.

  Helfist’s axe dropped from his clutches and he balled his fist, poised to deliver the crushing blow that had given him his name. Redpelt was quicker, and head-butted him full in the face. There was a crack of bone again
st bone, and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

  Helfist’s head rocked back, and his glittering eyes went glassy. Redpelt let his own weapon fall and clubbed the reeling Blood Claw with a flurry of punches, hammering him down to his knees.

  A roar of approval rang out across the iron cage, punctuated by whoops and howls. Weapons were dragged along the bars, echoing up into the roof-space and making the entire chamber reverberate.

  The cacophony was so loud it almost obscured the gong that signalled the end of the fight. Feigning ignorance, Redpelt got in one more bone-crunching uppercut before the cage-doors were slammed open and Brakk lumbered in to break them up.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he snarled, pulling Redpelt off the reeling Helfist and hurling him back across the cage. Even out of power armour the Wolf Guard was far stronger than either of them. ‘This is blade-practice, not a brawl.’

  There was a chorus of disappointed boos as Redpelt clambered back to his feet and Brakk hoisted Helfist up against the cage wall.

  Redpelt’s whole body ached. A hot trail of blood ran down his face from where the skin over his forehead had broken.

  He felt drained, bruised, battered, fantastic.

  Helfist was beginning to come round, his head lolling and eyes still out of focus.

  ‘That was stupid,’ growled Brakk. ‘Am I going to have to beat the stupidity out of you, Blood Claw?’

  ‘You could try,’ drawled Helfist, punch-drunk against the iron.

  Redpelt grinned, limping over to his adversary. Brakk spat on the floor.

  ‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ he said. ‘The Jarl wants reports on your combat readiness, and you’re going to have to work a whole lot harder.’

  Brakk stalked off out of the cage, pushing his way through the crowd of spectators clustered outside. Redpelt caught Helfist before he could collapse to the floor again and pulled him back up roughly.

  ‘Like I said. Too quick for you,’ he said.

  Helfist’s vision was clearing. The blood in his wounds had turned dark with clotting. It took a lot to knock him over, but even more to keep him down.