Leman Russ: The Great Wolf

by Chris Wraight

  'Finish this,' snarled Jorin, clenching his fist.

  The Dulanian had fired back by then, a rolling wave of interference that snagged across the Aesrumnir's forward void shields and pushed them hard against the underlying hull-plates. The real-viewers dissolved into a hail of static, and the bridge bucked, but the storm was weathered. Further hits from the smaller hunt-packs on either flank did little to halt the onward charge. Jorin drove his ship hard and straight, shrugging off the incoming strafes, clearing space ahead for the final lance-strike. The Aesrumnir pulled wide, tilted on its central axis, emptied its powercells, then fired for a third time.

  This time the distance was so slight that any shot would have hit square, and the lance-beam scythed straight through the Dulanian ship's forward fusion shields, scattering them into a supernova of discharged matter. Immolation followed, kindling on the blown shields and driving deep into weakened hull-sections.

  The Aesrumnir followed up with a vicious starboard broadside as it came about, hurling wave after wave of shells from its banks of heavy macrocannons. The Faash battleship drowned in the hits for a few seconds, rolling onto its flaming back and venting plasma in straggling plumes. It fired back, driving las-beams through its own cloak of gaseous discharge, but cobwebs of angry red had already snaked across its hull - portents of the eruptions within. 'Away!' commanded Jorin. 'That's enough!'

  The Rout battleship pulled up and to high-starboard, straining every engine to generate distance between it and its victim. With less than twenty kilometres between the two ships, the Dulanian reactor core ignited, blowing the ship out from the inside and shattering the chassis into a burning haze of shrapnel. A tide of distortion ripped out, screaming across the flaming void, destroying the countless smaller vessels caught up in its wake in a rapid-fire sequence of overloaded drive-trains.

  The Aesrumnir was hit in the rolling impact wave and tilted hard over, straining its gravity generators and blowing lumens all across the tumbling bridge-vaults. Blasts echoed up from the lower decks speaking of ruination down in the enginarium.

  'Maintain course and speed!' roared Jorin, rocking in the throne as the ship suffered the blowback of its own kill. 'Prime lance for repeat fire, and give me another target!'

  The burning corona of the Dulanian ship's demise passed over them, tearing at their void shield coverage but not penetrating. Solid debris, much of it still on fire, smacked and scraped across the hull, glittering brightly as the shields took the impacts.

  The Wolves began to whoop, rejoicing at every crack of spinning wreckage, and the mortals joined them. They had learned how to kill the enemy - full-frontal application of overwhelming force, too fast to counter, too immense to withstand. There was no room for finesse with such a foe, only the savage vengeance of Fenris.

  Suddenly, the bridge bucked again, hit harder this time. The voids flexed in a cascade of multi-hued stresses, and many of the crew lost their footing.

  'That did not come from the enemy,' said Bulveye.

  Jorin rose from the throne, scanning the local proximity augurs. 'Where in Hel—'

  A second hit came in, far stronger, rocking the entire hull and dissolving three void shield sectors in a welter of dissolving ions. Warning klaxons kicked off, followed by a red rash of alert runes. The Aesrumnir lost loft, falling away towards the planet's gravity well before emergency power boosted its subwarp thrusters.

  The crew scrambled to compensate, swinging the main axis around and diverting power from the warp drives to get the void shields back up. More incoming alerts flashed across the sensor-lenses, one after the other, a whole barrage of projectile volleys.

  For a moment Jorin could make no sense of it - the Dulanian ship had been alone, and the nearest vessel beyond it capable of dealing out such punishment was the…

  'Blood of the Allfather,' he said, realising the truth. 'It's the Blade of Numarc.'

  'Where did that strike come from?' demanded Russ, striding to the edge of the command platform, unwilling to believe the evidence of his senses.

  'First Legion battle cruiser the Blade of Numarc, lord,' came Haelgrim's reply.

  'You're sure?'

  'Positive And they're powering up to fire again.'

  'Get us there,' snarled Russ. 'Now.'

  Local space around the Nidhoggur was already clogged with the crashing ruins of burned-out starships. The Faash attack wings were still coming in hard, spearing through the drifting clouds of toxic plasma-burn and launching volleys of shield-shredding interference Three Wolves destroyers had been demolished by such attack runs, their forward arrays blinded and pummelled until the void generators blew, leaving them open to being cut apart by las-fire and shell-hits. The planet's great defence halo was still intact - a vast ring of iron studded with shipkiller silos - and until its protective fleet was knocked out then it would not be seriously damaged.

  The initial Wolves charge had driven a huge hole between the enemy ranks, breaking apart their interwoven defence structures and leaving individual ships isolated and vulnerable. The Nidhoggur had already accounted for the destruction of two massive Dulanian cruiser-class ships, and had been gearing up to take on a third. The Valkam had swung under the battlesphere's lowest point, dragging a score of defenders with it before powering up under the shadow of the halo to engage a cluster of Faash gunboats. Throughout it all, the First Legion capital ships had remained static, maintaining their long-range fire-ploy while offering no support to the onrushing Wolves vanguard.

  Until a few moments ago, that was. The Blade of Numarc had suddenly lurched forwards, blasting its way in close and launching its main lance at the Aesrumnir. Other Dark Angels warships were closing in behind it, and even the colossal Invincible Reason had ignited its main drives.

  Most of them were now bearing down on the Faash formations, but the shot from the Blade of Numarc had been no accident - readings indicated it was already angling to fire again.

  'Get me the Lion!' raged Russ, as his own ship raced to close the distance down. 'And make sure he knows who wants him!'

  The comms-crew scurried to comply, though in the midst of a frenzied void battle with hundreds of urgent inter-ship vox-bursts flying through the vacuum, securing the link would take a few more moments.

  Meanwhile, the Aesrumnir was coming about, pulled hard from its onward rush into the enemy's central detachments and trying to respond to the sudden attack from its rear.

  'It won't make the turn,' murmured Blackblood, watching the battle cruiser slew in the wake of its previous kill.

  'Bring us in between them,' ordered Russ. 'All secondary power to void shields.'

  The Nidhoggur roared into range, physically ramming aside a wing of darting gunships before bursting into a clear patch and barrelling to intercept the Aesrumnir. Jorin's ship had been badly damaged by the first lance-strike, and a second hit risked crippling it.

  The Blade of Numarc's prow glistened as the lance-energies spat and writhed, ready to be unfettered.

  'Faster!' Russ bellowed, raising his arms as if he could physically flay the ship into a final surge of speed.

  The Dark Angels cruiser opened fire, and its blinding lance-beam speared into the darkness. Now hurtling at close to maximum velocity, the Nidhoggur roared into the gap between the two ships, taking the full force of the strike.

  The lance impacted amidships, over the Nidhoggur's spine. At such velocity, at such close range, the impact was horrific, sending the Wolves battleship careening and making every spar and strut scream. Four void shield sectors blew instantly, stripping the protection from the ship's back, and the internal power supply disintegrated, leaving only combat lumens to stave off utter darkness.

  'I have the Invincible Reason, lord,' reported Haelgrim, looking up from his sparking comms station.

  'My brother!' cried Russ, using the open channel. 'You are firing on your own kind. What madness is this?'

  There was a crackle, a hiss of empty static, and then the voice that he had
ever hated - rich, measured, cultivated. Every word of it seemed dripped in sourness, coloured with a cool disdain.

  'So you are here yourself, Leman,' came the lion's response. 'Now get your dogs on their leashes, or I shall bring them to heel myself.'

  The Nidhoggur was turning now, swinging back to hold position between the Aesrumnir and the oncoming Blade of Numarc. The odds had evened, but the Invincible Reason was not far out of range, and its firepower dwarfed that of all others.

  'Have you lost your mind?' Russ roared. 'The enemy stands before us!'

  'And you did not think to wait, did you?' came the lion's cool reply.

  'Straight in, just as always, right for the jugular. You did not think to note that my ships had held back for a reason, since you never hold back. Perhaps you cannot.'

  The Blade of Numarc was readying for a third strike, but now Jorin's ship was also capable of striking back. Ludicrously, in the face of the swirling void battle around them, four of the finest Legion battleships in the engagement squared up to one another; readying to unleash their full payloads in an orgy of mutual destruction.

  'My jarl killed that ship, since you would not engage it,' responded Russ. 'How can that grieve you?'

  'Because, my brother, we had boarded it. Ten squads of my finest, all of them nearing the bridge, ready to take it and turn its guns on the halo beyond. Now they are dead, their labour wasted. The commander of the Blade of Numarc sent them into battle, and was forced to watch as you condemned them, heeding no attempt to warn you off. Now he will have his vengeance, and how can I prevent him? If the situation were reversed, would you?'

  Russ froze. In an instant, everything changed. That was why the warships had been standing off. That was why only the escorts had been committed.

  The comm-link hissed emptily. Blackblood waited. Russ' retinue waited. The bridge crew continued to ready for the assault, targeting weapon systems, organising running repairs, developing contingencies for another direct hit.

  Jorin had now completed his manoeuvre and was in sight of the Blade of Numarc. Energy build-ups on his ship spoke of an imminent counter-attack, and the Dark Angels were doing likewise.

  No Legion could suffer the humiliation of being stabbed in the back by one of its rivals. The insult was deadly, the risk to prestige mortal. They would have to fight In the midst of the carnage around them, they would have to settle this, wasting their resources, their manpower, the precious opening already secured by the Lion's initial approach. In the blood and fire, all would be lost, and the Tyrant would still be laughing when the lances had emptied themselves.

  'Stand down,' ordered Russ, hissing the order through gritted teeth.

  Blackblood whirled to face him. 'Lord, they fired on—' Helmschrot, racing to join them, voxed over him. 'We must blood them before—'

  'I have a shot! confirmed Jorin, his voice distorted in fury. 'Lord, let me—'

  'Silence!' roared Russ, his voice making the suspensor-lumens shake. 'Defy the order and I'll break you all.' He switched his vox-channel back to the Lion's. 'Brother, you have been wronged. Call off the attack, and I will come before you myself to make amends.'

  Blackblood stared at Russ, lost for words. All those in earshot stopped what they were doing, looked up, bewildered, as if they had been bewitched by some false spectre of their true liege lord.

  I will come before you myself.

  Neither the Aesrumnir nor the Nidhoggur opened fire. The Blade of Numarc had an open shot, a chance to slice through Jorin's ship and condemn him to death in the void, just as he had done to the Dark Angels boarding parties. The pause lasted for mere seconds, a tiny blip in the otherwise unrelenting slaughter around them. Lesser craft still engaged the true enemy, though in the absence of the greatest Imperial vessels their chances of survival were narrowing fast.

  Waiting for the response, Russ curled his hands into tight fists, feeling the blood thump in his temples. Every second passing made the situation more intolerable - he would have to fight, he would have to defend the honour of his jarl, right or wrong, just as they had done on the mortal ice.

  Then the Blade of Numarc suddenly turned, swinging hard on its central axis and launching a fusillade at an approaching phalanx of Faash interceptors. The Invincible Reason switched course too, more ponderously, turning its attentions to a looming formation of Dulanian battle cruisers.

  'I will hold you to it,' came the Lion's voice at last, as cold as before. 'But for now we have greater issues - that halo will end us if it cannot be disabled, and my ships are now drawn into combat You have already destroyed my first attempt to neutralise it - perhaps you can suggest an alternative?'

  The sardonic words burned in Russ' ears. To be spoken to like that, in the hearing of his warriors, was an insult almost beyond parody, and his brother knew it. For an instant a flash of fury rose up within him, and he saw himself countermanding the order carving his way into the Invincible Reason and hammering a little fraternal courtesy into his haughty ally.

  But the Lion was right. The delay in the onslaught had given space for the planet's defence grid to truly open up, and now a steady rain of las-beams and interference bolts was thudding out into the massed fleets, taking out ships with callous indifference.

  Russ cut the link. 'Damn him,' he muttered, turning his gaze to the halo.

  Its nearside curve ran away from the Nidhoggur, an immense sweep of iron and adamantium that circled the entire globe below. Tiny lights glinted on its darkened bulk, and rank upon rank of cannon batteries fired in a rolling sequence, pulverising any ships rash enough to expose themselves to its undiluted power.

  Russ studied it, scanning the outlines, taking in the complexity and the symmetry, and looking for any sign of weakness. The Lion was right: the halo held the key to the planetary defences - without it, the joint Legion fleets would hold the decisive advantage. Reducing it from the void, though, would take time, and all the while its gunnery was whittling away at their numerical superiority.

  'All ships,' Russ announced, his mind made up. 'Withdraw from engagement and concentrate fire on the halo, coordinates to be transmitted.'

  The fleet responded instantly, with every dark-grey vessel in the battlesphere pulling away from combat and readying to launch its payload. Russ calculated the fire-angles from sight, converting the displacement and making adjustment for the movement of the halo, then gave the coordinates to Haelgrim for transmission.

  'Lord,' said Blackblood, warningly, 'We cannot knock it out quickly, not from here.'

  'No, we cannot,' snarled Russ, striding from the throne and beckoning his warriors to follow. 'But we can punch a hole in those Hel-forged shields, and after that it's up to us.'

  As he walked, he sent a second command, this time directed at the Legion garrison commanders rather than the ship-crews.

  'Prepare yourselves,' he told them. 'On my mark, we go in.'

  Jorin stormed down to the gunship hangars, his honour guard in train, their weapons unsheathed and swinging pendulously alongside their furious gait.

  'So he left us to hang,' the jarl growled, his breathing heavy, his blood up.

  Ulbrandr stalked beside him, his crow-black armour glistening from the corridor's lumen-strips, his crozius maul already beginning to simmer with energy.

  'He had no choice, Bloodhowl. Save your anger for the enemy.' They reached the hangar and saw the brace of Stormbirds already primed and streaming out on the rockcrete apron. Servitors clustered around their void drives, making final preparations before the chamber was depressurised and the void-lift would begin.

  'I never saw it before,' Jorin went on, undeterred, striding out into the open towards his transport, the Stormbird Heilmark. 'He never stood down before a challenge.'

  'He didn't stand down,' said Hemligjaga, wearily. 'He chose the true enemy, and ignored a pointless one. Gods of ice, jarl, you moan like a thrall-whelp.'

  None but a priest, outside the strictures of the Great Company's rigid hierarchy,
would have spoken thus to a Wolf Lord, but even then Jorin turned on him, bristling with barely contained battle-hunger. 'They near-crippled this ship,' he said in a low voice. 'There will have to be payment for that, one way or the other.'

  By then the rest of the Aesrumnir's complement had found its way to their ships, and the servitors were withdrawing, dragging their fuelling-cables and grav-locks with them. The gunships whined into primary lift-stage, their atmospheric engines readied, after which the outer shields of the hangar would slide open and the void drives would take over.

  Hjalmar, Bulveye and the other warriors tramped up the embarkation ramps and into the bays within, reaching for the restraint harnesses. For all the sudden confusion caused by the Blade of Numarc's attack, they were now doing what they had been conditioned for.

  'Settle the debt when the fighting's done,' urged Ulbrandr. 'For now, channel that rage where it belongs.'

  Then he departed for the smaller craft Aelgar with Hemligjaga, and Jorin took his place at the head of the Stormbird's crew-bay.

  'Take us out,' he commanded, and the gunship began to push upwards even as the pistons closed the hull around them.

  Massive blast-doors opened out at the hangar's entrance, exposing a vista of destruction in the open void beyond. A destroyer rolled past the aperture, its broken carcass leaking atmosphere, only to expose the immensity of the iron halo beyond.

  Up close, its sheer size was daunting. At such range, its arc was barely detectable, and it presented as a gigantic wall in space, half a kilometre wide and nearly as deep. Its flanks were already a riot of cannon fire and incoming lance strikes, all concentrated at a single point where the rows of artillery gave way to what looked like a command station.

  In the shaking crew-bay, warriors began to chant sagas of Fenris in thick, fervent voices. Others banged on the metal restraint cages, a rhythmic hammer to resemble the smacking of sword blades against shield-edges that had once marked the outbreak of the charge. The habitual pheromone-haze of kill-urge was laced with a darker trace-musk - that of an anger that went beyond the norm of battle preparation.