‘Fight me, witch!’ he roared. ‘Raise those hands and fight me!’
For a moment, it looked like Magnus had lost the will to. He absorbed the punishment, his back arching against the cliffs. Trails of fire still clung to his ravaged outline, the residue of his tortuous ascent through the Jarlheim. His eye was open, staring with pain. He looked lost, cast adrift on the summit of the deathworld he had sworn to ruin.
But then, just as before, he began to remember himself. From somewhere deep within, a new flame kindled. The primarchs had been bred, above all, to survive, to endure all that an immeasurably hostile galaxy could throw at them. Their residue of power was near-inexhaustible, a well on to the deep ocean of the Emperor’s matchless potency. Even now, even after enduring so much, having absorbed so much pain, his essential strength, the core of fire that fuelled him, remained inviolate.
His back straightened up. Magnus caught one of Ironhelm’s incoming punches with his palm, clutching at the power fist and holding it in fingers of fire. With his free fist, he lashed out, catching the Great Wolf full in the face. Ironhelm reeled, and staggered backwards.
Magnus raised himself up higher. The wounds on his body flared crimson as they healed themselves. Aether-born lightning crackled where his feet trod. The single eye burned again, an ingot of molten iron amid the ice. He opened his fist, and a neon deluge burst from his palm, dousing Ironhelm in consuming, wracking electric fire. The Great Wolf was driven back toward the edge and beaten down to his knees, wrapped in the raw quintessence of the immaterium.
The torrent broke off. Ironhelm rocked to the ground, his armour charred and smoking. He didn’t get up.
Order had been restored. The demigod looked down at the broken challenger, the last of the many Wolves who had stood up to face him.
‘You should have stayed on Gangava,’ Magnus rasped, his fractured voice playing across insubstantial vocal cords like the fingers of Hel’s harpist. To the extent he still resembled a human at all, he looked exhausted.
‘Gangava no longer exists,’ coughed Ironhelm, tasting cloyed blood in his mouth as he tried to rise. ‘Orbital bombardment. Atoms now.’
His bolter-arm had been twisted out of shape, and hung limp. His power fist smoked from the ruinous touch of the primarch, and the ceramite cover was blistered and cracked. All he had left was his native strength. They both knew that would not be enough. He clambered to his feet with slow, agonising effort.
Magnus drew closer. The patterns on his warp-wound flesh were gyrating faster, spinning into new and strange formations. Something was changing within him again. His brief sojourn into physical space was coming to an end.
‘Gangava served its purpose,’ he said.
Then the primarch launched himself at Ironhelm, sweeping at him like a vengeful bird of prey. His arms stretched wide, bursting with more neon blades of aether-matter.
Ironhelm had nothing left to counter the assault with, and no time to evade the embrace. He stood up to the onslaught, and when it hit him his fangs were bared under his helm, his fists clenched, raging in defiance.
The world disappeared in pain. Ironhelm felt his armour torn open, cut into ribbons by the rending power of the warp. Dimly, he was aware of his organs breaking open, bursting with hot, wet pops. He could hear the sound of cracking across his chest, and only half-knew it was his own ribcage. His vision swam out of focus, replaced by a white wall of searing, writhing witchlight. The hurricane of power, the full and final expression of the primarch’s mastery, tore through him like a tempest of the Helwinter, terrible, frigid and inexorable.
He didn’t fall. Somehow, he maintained his position on the edge of the drop, dug into the shattered stone and beaten down across it. When the agony ended, he was on his back, broken open, prone before the wrath of the Emperor’s son.
One eye still worked to see his death come for him. In that sense, if in no other, the two of them were equal.
Ironhelm coughed a gobbet of something slimy and hot from his mouth. From far below he could hear the distant thunder of his Chapter’s war machines. Already he knew they must have penetrated the Aett. His Wolves would hunt down every invader in those halls, one by one, driven by the remorseless focus that had always been their badge of honour. The fact that they would come too late to save him was unimportant.
‘The Aett endures,’ he rasped, his voice a wet scraping whisper. ‘You ran out of time. I’ll take that victory.’
Magnus’s body loomed over him. The patterns on his flesh were still moving, still whirling. He was less than opaque now, and the wind snatched at him. For the moment, he held back from the killing blow. He looked death-cold.
‘What victory?’ he said. ‘You wished to kill me. Such as you could never kill such as me, Harek Ironhelm – I am beyond your vengeance now.’
Then Ironhelm laughed, despite the fact it made his punctured lungs flare with fresh agony.
‘Kill you? No. I failed in that.’ The choking laughs died out. ‘But I hurt you, Traitor. We hurt you here. We cut the threads of your sons and broke your witches’ sticks. We tore that smile off your face and ripped the skin from your back. And I have lived to see it. That’s worth losing some bottles in a fleshmaker’s tray for. Blood of Russ, you bastard, I lived to see you howl.’
Then Magnus spoke no more, but pulled his fist back. By the time he released the blow that would kill Harek Ironhelm where he lay, the Great Wolf was laughing again, hacking up blood against his vox-plate, strung out on the spikes of pain all over his body, crushed against the side of the mountain with no hope of recovery, but laughing like old Russ himself in the morning of the galaxy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Forty days.
From the first arrival of the Thousand Sons in orbit over Fenris to the slaying of the last Spireguard mortal within the Aett, forty days had passed. That number was given to the skjalds, who implanted it into the sagas. Those sagas were declaimed, and the Dreadnoughts took them down into the cold vaults of the Underfang with them so they were never forgotten.
Alongside that number were the names. Vaer Greyloc, the White Wolf. Odain Sturmhjart and Lauf Cloudbreaker. Thar Ariak Hraldir, the one they called Wyrmblade. Tromm Rossek, Sigrd Brakk, Hamnr Skrieya and the other Wolf Guard. Garjek Arfang of the Iron Priests, and eight Dreadnoughts of the Revered Fallen.
Of the Grey Hunters, Long Fangs and Blood Claws of the Twelfth Great Company, twenty-two lived. Twenty-one of those had been in Borek’s Seal, still fighting when the relieving forces arrived at the portals. The only survivor in the Valgard was a Blood Claw, Ogrim Raegr Vrafsson, the one they called Redpelt. When Egial Vraksson of the Fifth broke into the Annulus Chamber with his Wolf Guard, Redpelt was standing over the central stone, surrounded by Rubric Marines, guarding the sacred image with his own body. He had been long in the Red Dream after that, but lived.
Countless kaerls had given their lives in the defence of the Aett. Their names were not recorded.
It was not known by what means the Traitor Marines escaped vengeance. Many did not, it is true, and were killed in the tunnels. But others, including most of the sorcerers, disappeared from Fenris at the same time their fleet achieved the in-system jump-points. The Wolf Priests speculate that Magnus himself departed in the same manner, though there were no witnesses to his leaving. When Harek Eirek Eireksson’s body was discovered, there were some who believed the Great Wolf had indeed killed the primarch. Though the rumours persisted for many years, the wisest among the Rout knew that it was not in Ironhelm’s wyrd to do such a thing, and prepared for the day when evidence of the Crimson King would emerge once again.
None of the mortal soldiers brought to Fenris by the Thousand Sons were saved by their fleet. When the returning Wolves made planetfall, the troops were slaughtered in their thousands. The fires of their destruction darkened the air of the planet for a month, so that the tribes out on the ice cowered in their shelters and cried out against the coming of Morkai.
But the d
arkness passed. In time, the Sky Warriors came among them again, taking the best and bravest to fight for the Allfather.
So it had ever been. So it would ever be.
The fires of the Hammerhold had never gone out. Now they roared more angrily than ever, working hard to replace the weaponry that had been destroyed.
Aldr stomped across the long bridge in convoy with his brothers. He had no wish to return to the dark. None of them did. But the long task of driving the enemy from the last recesses had been completed, and the sagas had been memorised. There was nothing left for them to contribute, and so the Revered Fallen went back to the Long Sleep.
They went alone, unaccompanied by the living. In time, an Iron Priest would come to read the rites and prepare the tomb-cradles. For now, the fellowship of Dreadnoughts was left alone, given a little time to reflect on their sojourn in the world of vital flesh before leaving it again. The living respected that, knowing how important the niceties of ritual were.
All except one. Freija Morekborn walked with Aldr, seemingly unwilling to leave him even as the Underfang portal beckoned.
Aldr couldn’t say he was sorry about that. It had been irresponsible of him to pick her from the floor of Borek’s Seal and carry her from danger. She had failed in combat, and such weakness was habitually met with execution on the field. But he owed her for other things, and debts were important on Fenris.
What will you do now?
Freija gave a weary smile.
‘I’ve been given penance. For the moment, I still serve in the kaerls. I prefer it in the ranks. I didn’t cover myself in glory at the Seal.’
It was weak.
‘I know. I recognise my weakness, and will strive to correct it. I believe I can overcome my flaws.’
Your mind wanders where it should not. You are made to serve.
In the past, Freija would have balked at such words. Now, she merely bowed her head.
‘That is a lesson I will learn,’ she said. ‘I have the example of my father.’
She looked back up at Aldr then.
‘Morek never doubted. In the face of that horror, he never doubted. His faith in the Sky Warriors was complete even at the end, and I will work to match it.’
Aldr said nothing, and they walked together for a while in silence.
The Dreadnought knew that, next time he awoke, he would recognise no faces. It was a sober thought. Perhaps the second awakening would be easier. Perhaps it was something that became less excruciating the more one did it.
He doubted it.
The portal to the Underfang drew closer. He kept walking, though each step was harder to make.
‘I know I’m too curious,’ interjected Freija, just as they reached the point where she couldn’t follow. ‘I know it’s a weakness. But tell me one thing.’
Aldr halted.
‘The beasts, the ones who fought with us at Borek’s Seal. What were they? You said they were weapons, but who made them?’
Aldr hesitated. For a horrible moment, he realised how fully he would miss their conversations. He would miss this mortal’s endless questioning, her bluntness, her lack of poise. It was beneath him, to feel that way about a thrall, but he would miss her all the same.
You said you would strive to improve yourself, he replied. Start now. Cease your questions. That knowledge is not for you.
Freija broke into another weary smile.
‘You are right,’ she said. ‘I have offended you again. I will leave.’
At that, Aldr made to move off, to follow his brothers into the tunnels. His powerful leg-motors whined as he stepped across the portal. Freija fell back, at last respecting the sanctity of the occasion.
You never offended me, he said, his voice thick, before stalking off back into the dark.
By the flickering light of the hearthfires, two voices echoed in the chamber. Both were impossibly deep, resonating from ancient armour. One belonged to Jarl Arvek Kjarlskar, who would soon be elevated to Great Wolf in place of Ironhelm. The other belonged to Bjorn the Fell-Handed, who had been Great Wolf before and had since passed beyond such titles.
The venerable Dreadnought had been recovered from the mountainside a day after the last fighting had been completed. His life-sign had been so faint that no auspex had picked it up. Only a visual scan of the Valgard slopes had marked his final resting place. He’d torn half the pinnacle down in his fall, grinding a huge wound in the bare rock before lodging in a deep crack between two mighty spurs. Retrieving him had taken two days, and his physical recovery had taken many more. Even now, his sarcophagus bore the signs of battle, and the Iron Priests still had much work to do before he could rejoin his brothers in stasis.
There were Wolf Brothers on Gangava?
‘Yes, lord. A Great Company, or something close to it. They’d been corrupted, and were wholly given over to the enemy.’
So you destroyed them.
‘Lord Ironhelm wished to finish them himself, but we had tidings of the siege here, and I persuaded him to break from combat. The city was destroyed from orbit, and a squadron left behind to ensure the devastation was complete.’
Bjorn grunted with grim satisfaction.
It sickens me. What purpose did the Traitor have in this?
‘He meant to detain us on Gangava. He knew Ironhelm would not refuse combat with corrupted brothers. He was right. Had news not come of the battle here, we would have hunted the last of them for many days, and the Aett would have fallen in our absence.’ The Jarl’s voice was speculative. ‘But that could not have been all. We were shown the weakness of our successors in that place. With all that has transpired here, I do not believe that could have been an accident.’
You speak of the Tempering.
‘I do not know the details. Only Ironhelm and Wyrmblade did. Possibly Jarl Greyloc too, since he was close to the Wolf Priest. But we all knew the goals of the programme. It cannot be chance that the fleshmaker chambers were destroyed before the Chamber of the Annulus was assaulted.’
It should never have been done. It was a betrayal of the primarch.
Kjarlskar shrugged, his massive shoulder-guards moving only fractionally.
‘Perhaps. In any case, it cannot be restarted. None now live who understand Wyrmblade’s work, and the equipment is destroyed. We will remain alone, the sole inheritors of Russ’s mantle.’
As it should be. If I’d known of the work, I’d have destroyed it myself.
Kjarlskar had to suppress a smile. He could well imagine the Dreadnought doing just that.
‘Then you should be content, lord. You have fought a primarch and lived, and the Aett was defended. Soon the sagas will be full of your deeds and no one else’s.’
Bjorn gave no indication of a smile.
Not my deeds. Greyloc held out the longest, and this is his victory.
‘So it will be recorded,’ said Kjarlskar. ‘But I do not think it will be remembered that way.’
A fire burned on the pinnacle of Krakgard, the dark peak overlooking the Fang where the dead had been honoured since the age of the primarchs. The summit of the mountain was flat and smooth, having been carved out in the days of the Allfather and hallowed in the long years since. The entire Chapter was assembled across its expanse, standing in rows of grey, their heads bare and exposed to the biting elements.
The sun was low in the sky, and the shadows were long. The flames leapt, red and angry, sending sparks floating high into the dusk.
Kjarlskar stood before the blaze, the heat of it pressing against his back. The Rune Priest Frei was with him, as were others of the Lords of the Wolves.
‘Sons of Russ!’ he cried, and his voice carried far across the wind-whipped heights. ‘As is the way of our kind, the bodies of those who died in the defence of Fenris are now committed to fire. Here lies Jarl Vaer Greyloc, and the Rune Priest Odain Sturmhjart, and the Wolf Priest Thar Ariak Hraldir. So do we reverence them for their sacrifice. As their mortal bodies burn, it kindles our everlasting h
ate for the ones who did this. Remember your hatred. Keep it vital, and forge it with malice into one more weapon in the Long War.’
The rows of Space Wolves listened intently, each one of them as silent as stones. In the front rank stood twenty-three warriors, removed slightly from their brothers. They were the survivors of the Battle of the Fang, the last of Greyloc’s company. Redpelt was there, his face still badly scarred. There were few Blood Claws left to stand alongside him. It hadn’t been decided how best to reconstitute the packs yet, but many believed Redpelt would not serve in one again, instead choosing the path of the Lone Wolf. The death of his comrades had hit him hard, and such a path was an honourable response.
As Kjarlskar spoke, he stared into the flames, watching as the bodies of the fallen turned to ash. He carried Brakk’s force-blade Dausvjer at his belt, the last weapon his battle-brother Helfist had taken into combat. Though none assembled there knew it yet, the sword had a powerful wyrd set upon it, and would find a place in the sagas millennia hence. For then, though, it was merely a weregild, and a reminder, and a warning.
‘The Great Wolf, Harek Eirek Ereiksson, does not lie here,’ said Kjarlskar. ‘His body has been taken to the place where he fell fighting the great enemy. I have ordered that a shrine be built there, a place of pilgrimage to test the endurance of the faithful. Let it serve as a memorial to his unwavering devotion. And let it also serve as a memorial to his blindness. Never again will we allow ourselves to be drawn into a war not of our own making. This is the lesson we will draw, and we will use it to improve ourselves further.’
Set aside from the twenty-two veterans of the siege, shunning as ever the company of his brothers, was Blackwing. The Scout had recovered much of his poise on the journey back from Gangava. He’d since been assigned with the task of rebuilding the Twelfth’s void-war capability, though few expected him to last long in the position. He’d already fallen out with the Chapter’s armoury over requisition plans for new fast-attack frigates, insisting on an engine-heavy design that most thought of as wildly impractical.
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