Leman Russ: The Great Wolf

by Chris Wraight

  He looked back over at the stricken once-warrior.

  'Burn the dead,' he said. 'We still have fighting ahead of us.'

  He was about to turn away, when Helmschrot's voice suddenly crackled over the comm.

  'Lord, we have teleportations into the fortress summit,' Ogvai reported from the battlefront, his voice betraying his outrage. 'The Angels are attacking!

  Russ' head snapped up. The emptiness in his eyes switched into fury.

  'He gave his word,' the primarch said, disbelievingly. 'You must be wrong.'

  'We're fighting to reach him now. Believe me, there is no mistake - he is ahead of us.'

  Russ reached for his helm. 'He strikes at me now?' he cried, his strength flooding back. 'Hel's eyes, he has chosen the wrong moment to goad me.'

  Then he was moving, sweeping back down the length of the cathedral, gathering momentum with every stride, his true-wolves at his heels. Blackblood fell in alongside him, followed by the rest of the Einherjar. The thrumming sound of Stormbirds descending outside the cathedral swelled, making the ground shiver beneath their feet.

  Jorin hesitated, unsure whether he was summoned or not.

  'Lord, I—' he began.

  Russ turned his head. 'No,' he said. 'Take the body back to the fleet, then burn this place to the earth. I have had enough of this world - if you truly thirst for atonement, make the rest of them scream.'

  Then the Wolf King was gone, leaving the cathedral to the corpses. Jorin turned to Bulveye. They stared at one another for a moment. At their feet, the blood mingled and pooled.

  Then the Wolf Lord stooped to retrieve his axe.

  'You heard him,' he said. 'We're not done yet.'

  One sword-stroke was all it took - whisper-quiet, surgical in precision. The Tyrant's severed head hit the ground with a wet thump, then rolled along the length of the throne-room, leaving a thin trail of oily blood in its wake His dagger clattered from loosening fingers, his robes folding in on themselves. The Tyrant's body seemed to shrivel in death, coiling back on itself, as hard and fragile as a bird's pinions.

  The Lion prodded the corpse with his boot, as if testing to see if any life remained. Alajos moved silently to his master's shoulder, ready for the next order. The candles still burned beneath the mosaics, though the flames were struggling now, the tapers running low.

  'Was it necessary to end him, lord?' Alajos asked.

  The Lion stirred from his thoughts. 'As long as he remained alive, there would be danger.'

  'Surely. And yet—'

  'We have added to the tally of worlds. We end one empire; we bring them another. Do not ask for more.'

  Alajos nodded. 'As you will it,' he said, bowing. 'But I will not be sorry to leave this world. The dust of it sticks in my throat, and I am glad that our battles here are over.'

  Just as the words left his mouth, the heavy peal of Stormbird engines became audible, first from a distance, then coming closer and closer until it felt like the gunships were right on top of them and the walls would be shivered to their foundations.

  The Lion picked up the Tyrant's skull by its thin hair, then retreated to the throne dais.

  'No, Chapter Master,' he said, wearily. 'I do not think they are.'

  The doors at the far end of the chamber slammed open, booming through the linked rooms and gusting out the candle-flames. Russ emerged, brooding with incipient menace. His wolves were with him, his warriors were with him, and they spilled into the Tyrant's sanctum like beasts of the dark wood, stinking their hackles up and radiating distilled aggression. All were armed and armoured, their battleplate streaked with burn-marks and war-spoil, their weapons already crackling with energy. The primarch of the VI Legion carried his unsheathed chainsword, near the length of a mortal man and marked with runes of destruction. As he stalked towards the throne, his totems - skulls and bound teeth and rune-tiles - clanked and bounced from rain-grey armour.

  'My brother,' Russ growled icily, his voice purring with naked threat. 'Tell me, do the oaths of Caliban mean nothing to you at all? Or do you think it safe to jest with the Wolves of Fenris, for whom the word of promise is held faster than the clutch of death?'

  Inardin's paladins instantly fell into a defensive cordon around their lord, but the Lion gestured calmly for them to fall back. He waited for his brother to approach, the Lion Sword in one hand, the evidence of his kill in the other. Twists of acrid smoke rose from the charred stubs of candles.

  'You come too late, Leman,' said the Lion, his voice as proud and clear as always. 'We could not wait forever.'

  Russ was now halfway down the long aisle, his wolves padding at his side. His entourage was more than seventy strong all bearing signs of long combat. Some were helmless, exposing tattooed, pierced faces; others were masked by bloodstained vox-grilles. The warriors clanged their blades against shields as they stalked, swaying belligerently, a tide of raw disorder. The fifty Dark Angels ranged against them stood silent in disciplined ranks, blades held at guard.

  'You swore it!' roared Russ, his chainsword swinging about him in a heavy, sinister rhythm. 'You came between the Wolf and his prey!

  The Lion laughed sourly. 'And it was simple to do. No wonder you prefer to fight alone.'

  Russ closed in on his brother, his stride lengthening now, and the Lion remained where he was, standing exposed before the empty throne. The chainsword growled and whirred in the dark, a smear of killing teeth circling a chassis marked with death-runes.

  Then the Wolf King halted, just as he had done before his brother on the decks of the Invincible Reason. He glanced at the head of his enemy, the one he had sworn to take, then looked up at the Lion.

  The Lion was still and erect, his cloak dropping like water from his armoured shoulders, his stance proud. Russ was stockier, bulkier, his stance tensed for an explosion of movement. The pattern of blood and filth across his helm made him look murderous, a wight of the outer dark, a race-memory of predatory excess.

  'You should stand down now, brother,' said the Lion, quietly. 'These theatrics serve no purpose.'

  Russ laughed, a snagging, throaty rattle. 'Oh, but they do,' he snarled darkly. 'They are what make us. We are the beasts of your old fears, my noble lord. We are the frenzy that haunts your dreams. We are the destroyers and the creators, the purest, the wildest, and you envy it, for you can never match it.'

  There was something febrile in the air now, a kind of mania that hummed between them, flickering like the play of unnatural light.

  'Brother, I could never envy you,' said the Lion. 'I have seen too much of the company you keep.'

  Russ erupted into a howl of fury, swept up to the Lion with a sudden surge of speed and landed a huge, clenched fist into the heart of his brother's breastplate.

  The lion reeled backwards, sent slamming into the throne and the Tyrant's severed head flew from his grasp. Russ went after him, ready to strike again, but the Lion pushed back to his feet, his blade whipping into position.

  'So this is what you came for,' sighed the Lion of Caliban. 'How disappointing, yet how predictable.'

  By then Russ' warriors had formed up around their master. Neither side attacked the other, but all stood ready.

  'You have always called me savage,' spat Russ, leaving his chainsword out of guard, and keeping his free fist poised. 'Now you will discover what it truly means.'

  They faced one another, circling warily. Russ' anger was palpable, spilling out of him like heat from a fire, his breath coming in throaty hisses. The Lion was colder more remote, but now equally furious, his dignity dented in front of his warriors. This was not the formal duelling he excelled at - this was a brawl, kicked off by a barbarian, a hothead no better than the dogs he kept.

  'You do not have to play to this reputation, brother,' the Lion said. 'You can drop the pretence any time you choose.'

  'My warriors fight on below,' spat Russ. 'If you had aided them, I would have called you friend for it.'

  'Then go to them yourself,'
said the Lion. 'Do not blame me for doing what you would not.'

  Russ swept back into contact, this time swinging his chainsword across at his brother. The Lion met the strike two-handed, driving the blow back with his longsword in a blaze of sparks. For a moment they tried their strength, pressing the two blades hard, and metal screamed against metal. Krakenmaw's churning teeth ground against the immaculate edge of the Lion Sword, neither finding the advantage.

  At the sight of true fighting breaking out, Blackblood's warriors roared encouragement, slamming their blades, generating a wall of noise in support of their liege. The Dark Angels initially made no move; but finally responded, seeing what was unfurling. Let by Inardin, soon they were calling out in turn, vying with the Wolves to shout the louder, cheering for their liege as if on the tourney-field of old Caliban.

  'You have ever held yourself above the rest of us,' spat Russ, driving more power into his locked arms. 'Where does it come from? Were you damaged as a child?'

  The Lion pushed back, giving no ground. 'I never saw the point of you, that is true. No one could explain it to me, either.'

  Then he broke away, falling back. Russ went after him, and they traded heavy swings, their blades clanging together with bone-breaking force If the primarchs heard the roars of their retinues, they did not show it. Huge blows landed, propelled with utter commitment, fast and accurate fuelled by the mutual antipathy that had always been there gestating beneath the veneer of the Great Crusade and now erupting into open combat.

  'No, our purpose is evident,' said Russ, pressing furiously, driving his brother beyond the throne and back down the long hall beyond. You see it before you now, and you long to be its equal.' 'All I see is delusion, brother. So much energy, so poorly directed.' Russ was the stronger of the two by a fraction, powering Krakenmaw with the greater heft and momentum, but the Lion had the superior dexterity, angling his parries and thrust to catch Russ off balance. They hacked and drew at one another, circling, feinting, slicing through cloak and pelt, smashing the trophies from their armour. The impact of every strike echoed out through the throne room, fast and hard, gaining in speed and commitment.

  The cries of encouragement reached a crescendo, resounding down the long throne-room, swelling into every alcove. All legionaries present were seasoned fighters, used to the continual test of the practice cage and duelling-pit, and yet none had ever witnessed their masters stretched to the fullest. Russ and the Lion had been created by the Emperor, schooled in every stratagem known to the Imperium, made as strong and as fast and as guileful as physics and biology would allow. When they moved to strike, it was godlike - blurred by speed, locked into perfect precision, weighted to cause apocalyptic levels of damage.

  Finally, they broke apart, both breathing heavily, both carrying deep rents on their armour. Russ started to laugh, though it was a dark, add sound.

  'Too much for you yet, my noble lord?' he taunted. 'You can count the worlds you conquer, but you've never fought like this.'

  'No, it was never a game to me.'

  'Nor I.'

  The lion snorted. 'You treat all as a game. That is why they sent for me - Malcador cannot trust you. No one can trust you. Your Legion is a rabble that would brawl among themselves if you were not there to smack their heads together.'

  'If only they were more like yours,' said Russ, mockingly.

  'Yes,' replied the Lion, exasperated. 'Yes. Is that so hard to imagine?'

  Russ loosened his arms, letting Krakenmaw swing lazily before him. 'I know why you do this. I know why you conquer, world after world, driving your sons after every campaign Malcador finds for you. But our father won't do it, brother. He won't choose a favourite. And if He did, it wouldn't be you - it would be Sanguinius, or Rogal, or Horus. So you're wasting yourself, trying to be noticed. It doesn't work like that.'

  The Lion let slip a scornful laugh. 'Not all of us are so without friends in the Palace, Leman, and you have no idea who our father favours.'

  'Maybe so,' said Russ, advancing again, his chainsword revving. 'But He's not here now, is He? Just you, me, and the kraken's teeth.'

  'An ugly blade,' said the Lion, glancing at it warily. 'Much like its master.'

  Russ piled in again, sweeping the chainblade low and aiming for his adversary's legs, but the Lion Sword slammed down to block, propelled two-handed and held fast. Russ heaved upwards, aiming to overbalance the Lion, and they both staggered further down the hall, pursued by their cheering entourages.

  Then the Lion struck, hauling his blade around crossways, only to drive it up at the last minute. Russ' counter-strike came in too high, and Krakenmaw was wrenched, spitting, from his grasp. He reached out to pull it back, but the Lion had already sent it clattering away, and it tumbled, end over end, forcing the paladins to leap clear.

  Perhaps the Lion thought that this might have been an end to it, for he never followed up with the strike that would surely have driven deep into Russ' exposed chest, but the Wolf King had other ideas. Snarling with rage, Russ barged headlong into his brother, turning his entire body into a weapon, smashing the Lion back.

  The two of them careened into the nearest pillar - a column of pure stone a metre thick. The Lion thudded into it, sending cracks rushing out. Russ punched him again, then again, his fists furious and speed-blurred, breaking his brother's fine helm and denting the angel's wings at its temples. The Lion, reeling, swung his sword clumsily, but the blow was weak and did not bite. Russ grabbed him by the shoulders, and with a cry of rage and exertion, threw him bodily across the hall.

  The Lion hit the ground hard, toppling onto his back and dragging along the stone flags. Russ turned to pursue him, still weaponless. Krakenmaw had been thrown a long way, and as he made to retrieve it, Alajos moved to bar his way.

  For a moment the primarch hesitated, stunned by the defiance. Then he gave up on his chainsword and ripped an axe from the Dark Angel's grasp, before sending Alajos sprawling with a back-handed blow that might easily have ripped the Chapter Master's head off.

  'This'll do,' he snarled, racing back to his recovering brother.

  As the Lion leapt back up, the two of them collided again, axe versus sword, now two weapons of the First Legion set against one another. The blows came in quicker, more frenzied, tearing away at ravaged armour and biting into flesh for the first time. Blood as thick as engine oil flecked across the stone flags, marking their progress along the full length of the hall and out towards the antechambers beyond. The watching legionaries could only follow, captivated by the sustained violence of it.

  They fought. They fought with the conviction of brothers wronged, and of demigods roused to anger.

  'There is no place for you, Leman,' cried the Lion breathlessly, working to counter a new flurry of blows. 'You will always be shunned, and you made this fate yourself. When this Crusade is over, you will have nothing but your home world, nothing but your empty mountain to brawl in. Is that what you wanted?'

  'I asked for nothing,' said Russ. 'Nothing but what I am. We were all made for a reason, and we at least know what ours is.'

  'Ha! Some purposes were flawed. That you know. Legions can be sanctioned, their lords held to account. Perhaps yours will be one of those. Do you think so, brother? If the day ever comes, I will not be astonished at it.'

  'Speak not of things you don't understand, boy!' growled Russ. 'Gods, you are as ignorant as you are arrogant.'

  The two primarchs bludgeoned their way through a set of heavy doors, fighting all the while, leaving their pursuing warriors behind, barely conscious of their surroundings. Beyond the doorway was the open air, an observation platform built right at the pinnacle of the fortress for surveying the Tyrant's realm. As they burst into the open, the skies above greeted them with a low grind of thunder. Tortured by the heavy munitions loosed across the landscape below, the very air had become electric, thick with incipient rain and overborne by flame-lit cloud-banks.

  They pulled apart again, panting heavily now
, their shoulders lower.

  'I fear for you, my brother,' spat Russ. 'I see a time when your conquests are over, and then you will have to look at one another and see what you have become. I can see behind your mask, even if none on Terra can. We carry our curse in the daylight, free for all to see. Your poison is hidden, but it will come to light, sooner or later.'

  'We do not all carry curses,' said the lion.

  'We were all made the same way,' said Russ. 'How could we not?'

  Far below them, the wide plains were streaked with lanes of fire, pocked by smears of soot-black smoke, testament to the volume of punishment meted out by the two combined Legions. The citadels to the west were crumbling, reduced level by level by the Dark Angels. The industrial sprawl to the north was rocked by an endless chain-reaction of detonations, immolating whole plateaus of manufactoria in a raging inferno of neon fulguration. Below them, swooping down over the precipitous edges of the platform, the Crimson Fortress itself was being purged with fire and fury, the Wolves visiting dire retribution for their earlier trials.

  The wind shrieked around them, snagged by tendrils of flame. Lightning lanced down along the southern horizon, ushering in the deluge that nature seemed to have summoned to cool the furnace ignited across Dulan.

  'We are the First of the Imperium,' snarled the Lion, whirling into action again, powering across the platform's width and slamming his blade into the axe's block. 'We have nothing to hide.'

  So they fought again, on and on, neither relenting, neither holding back. The Lion's skin ran with mingled sweat and blood under his armour, his arms growing heavier with every sweep of his blade. Russ was suffering too, limping from a deep cut to his right leg, the engine of his fury guttering as even his superhuman body felt the pain of cumulative damage. The blows became wilder, more vicious, flying in with abandon. Their energy reserves bled away but hyper-adrenaline kicked in, flooding their secondary hearts, staining every muscle and wrenching just a little more power, a little more effort.