Leman Russ: The Great Wolf

by Chris Wraight

  Russ swung a heavy punch, missing the Lion's helm by a finger's breadth and driving deep into the wall beyond. The masonry shattered, the block imploding under the pile-driver impact. The lion went to seize his enemy, to swing him round into the wall. The two of them, locked close now, crashed into the rockcrete, sending whole sections sliding over the edge.

  Thunder cracked again overhead, and the rain came at last, seething through the fervid atmosphere and bouncing from every surface. The two primarchs battled on, demolishing more of the parapet and hurling debris out over the drop. Heedless of the danger, they were now utterly consumed, fighting like creatures possessed, driven no longer by any half-remembered grievance but by the purity of the snuggle, the need to prevail, the warrior instinct in its most complete and prideful form. They drove at one another blindly, grappling on the edge, their weapons locked together.

  The lion tried to pull back, tried to force his opponent down onto the parapet floor. He grappled with the blackened wolf-pelt, seizing it and ripping it clear from his brother's back. The rune-totems scattered, cut from their twine, and bounced over the stonework. Russ shrugged off the attempted hold, crouched down, spread his arms and pushed forwards, catching the Lion in the midriff and propelling them both out across the broken parapet's lip.

  The two of them teetered on the edge for a heartbeat, still lashing out at one another. Sword and axe dashed again, steel grinding against steel - the Lion fighting to hold position, Russ fighting to break it With a final shove of locked arms, their combined centre of gravity tipped over, and their footing gave out in a shower of broken stone.

  They plummeted, hurtling down the flanks of the fortress as the rain lanced with them. The outer walls of the Tyrant's redoubt sloped fractionally outwards as they dropped, and the primarchs slammed into it fifty metres down, gouging a long wound in the outer plating and driving deeper in. The Lion Sword was lost, then the axe, both thrown clear by the impact and sent sailing out into the abyss.

  With a sickening smack, both primarchs landed on a protruding balcony set further down. The stonework exploded as their combined weight rammed into it, and they ploughed on through, only coming to a stop when they hit another rampart-level below.

  Surrounded by a cataract of tumbling rubble, each primarch got shakily back to his feet, weaponless but still compelled by blind fury. They charged at one another, their gauntlets clenched, punching out in a flurry of fresh blows. The rain sleeted down around them, sending blood-thickened rivulets coursing over their dented battleplate.

  They were still high up, having landed on one of the topmost parapets of the east-facing wall. Far below, the lower levels spread out, smouldering and broken, resounding to the muffled booms of mortar-fire and the rumble of mobile armour.

  Russ swung the blow wild with exhaustion, catching the Lion on the temple and driving the curve of his helm in. The Lion staggered, pulling back to evade the follow-up, before launching a bludgeoning strike of his own. They closed in again, tearing at one another, slipping in the rain and the filth that swilled around them. Every impact was still incredible, propelled by the servos in their power armour, by their genhanced muscles, by their mutual and implacable anger.

  Russ finally gained purchase and struck out, sending a crack snaking down the length of the lion's already damaged helm. That seemed to trigger some fresh surge of rage in the Lord of Angels, and he hurled Russ aside, flinging him across the parapet's length. Russ snarled and powered back close, swatting away the Lion's enervated punch and reaching out to smash his fist into the fissure he had opened.

  He missed by a fist's width, and overbalanced, crashing into the floor and rolling over onto his back. As he did so, the sky above them erupted into thunderous light, the clouds bursting from within as lightning leapt down from the heavens. The Lion reeled away, panting hard, as bedraggled under the deluge as a Fenrisian dragonrat.

  For a moment, all Russ saw was the opportunity. That last impact had nearly taken his brother's helm clean off - he could leap to his feet, shove him back to the parapet's edge, press the advantage and beat him down to his knees.

  Every part of his body was hot with agony. Bones had been fractured, many of them. His armour was mined, his blade lost. The Lion looked no better - his cloak hung about him in greasy tatters, and his shoulders were slumped.

  Russ heard the laughter begin as if from far away, and took a while to realise it was he himself that was making it. His chest started to shake, and the mirth rose up in his gorge, burgeoning fast as the absurdity of the situation became truly apparent. They had commenced the duel as warrior-kings, superb and terrible, and had ended it as gutter brawlers, their finery smashed and their fury exhausted.

  'Why do you laugh?' slurred the Lion, staggering towards him, his fists still balled.

  Russ snuggled to right himself, wincing through his laughter as the pain speared across his ribs. 'Hel's teeth, brother,' he spat, blood speckling his vox-grille. 'What are we doing here?'

  The Lion swayed, standing over him, drowned in the heavy rain. Lightning crackled down the fortress' long sides, stained red by the fires.

  'You yield?' asked the Lion.

  'I… do I what?'

  'Do. You. Yield?'

  By then it was impossible to stop. The mirth became a torrent, as mighty as the cascades that now poured down from the fortress' flanks. He tried to speak, to blurt out something that would end the whole ludicrous episode, but nothing came.

  The Lion thought that this was still some kind of honour-duel. They had pummelled one another to the edge of consciousness, demolished half of the Tyrant's palace in their fury, and still the Lord of Angels was demanding satisfaction.

  It was madness.

  Russ roared his laughter out, throwing his head back against the streaming walls. He forgot it all - the hunt, the Crusade, the sickness in his Legion's soul, the politics of the fraternity of primarchs, the destiny of the species, and rocked in uncontrollable, puerile glee.

  So he never saw the blow that finally ended it all.

  He never tensed for it, never put up a warding arm, and never even watched for the Lion limping across to him, pulling his bloodied fist back and launching the punch that would crack open his skull and knock him as cold as the tombs of Caliban.

  V

  Before he woke again, Leman Russ dreamed deep.

  At first, those dreams were of Dulan. He remembered the long hunt to find that world, the gathering of his warriors in the void, and then the opening of the brief, terrible battle over the crimson plains. He remembered the face of the beast, the first that he had seen in the Legion's armour, and how that had haunted him, and maddened him, and made him ripe for the provocation to come. And then he remembered the fight, and losing Krakenmaw, and breaking his brother's helm.

  These things were in the past now, many long years ago, though the memory remained as solid and present as his heartbeats. Time's passage had made the events seem almost crazed, hyper-real, stretched across a surreal dreamscape that felt more like a skjald's embellished saga than the intact past.

  Perhaps it had not happened like that. Perhaps the Lion had taken his Stormbirds to the Tyrant's fortress, and he himself had teleported in. Perhaps it had not been Ogvai there, but Gunn, or someone else.

  Had Bjorn been there too? It was a long time ago, so doubtful, but Bjorn seemed to always have been there, right from the start, just waiting for his time to come to maturity.

  The feud with the Lion had been ludicrous, pointless, an avoidable collision of egos. His fury at the Tyrant was forgotten now, washed away by the thousands he had killed since, so many and so fast that the drive of vengeance had diluted and the art of murder lost its savour.

  Perhaps Dulan had been a test, after all. A test of the Lion, maybe. Or him. Or both of them. How for could the primarchs be goaded? Would they fight one another? How far would their fury take them? Which was the stronger?

  But those questions had been given different answers
now. He had found more terrible enemies to fight, but they were not the remnants of the old human scattering, but closer to the heart of the Allfather's domain, the brightest stars within His ordained firmament, the trusted souls, the ones charged with keeping the flame alive in the darkness.

  More dream-images came to him, memories and saga-fragments, tumbling and jumbled, one after the other. First Hawser had come, and he had known right from the start that the mortal's wyrd would be strange. Then came the events of Nikaea, and the gradual slide towards catastrophe had begun. Russ dreamed of the burning pyramids that he had cast into ruin, and the anguish of another brother he had fought, and then the howling tempest of the immaterium claiming its own.

  After that had come the blood-shoals of Alaxxes, and Gunn's thread cut, and then Yarant, and then so many dead that their ghosts still crowded both his waking and his sleeping.

  At the end, the horror had swamped them, overtaking them until all that remained was desperation. Even a primarch could despair, when all was taken from him. He had seen the ruins of Terra, after the siege and its lifting, too late to do anything but weep. He had walked through the ashes of the Palace, his boots sinking deep into the flaked remnants of the dead.

  He had known then, with the surety of the foresighted, that the guilt would never leave him. In life so much had been boasted, so much done, but in the final test he had not been there in time. Some wounds would heal, some would not In that time, in that place, few had dared approach him. Those who had survived Horus' world-ending assault wandered across the battlements in a kind of stupor. Fighting still raged across the fallen carcass of the hearthworld, and would do for months, but he could not stir himself to join it, for the greater contest had ended.

  He had never seen Dorn return bearing the Allfather's body. He had never seen them carry Sanguinius away. By the time he had made it to Terra, the damage was done; the halls were sealed, the last words of the Master of Mankind heard and acted upon. Now He was gone, locked within a mountain of His own devising, and even His sons could not reach Him again.

  Who could look on that prison of pain, that catacomb of half-life; and not despair? What soul, who had witnessed the greatest and the best of all creation, would not be destroyed by it?

  When Russ had discovered the truth, he had fled - fled, for the first time in his life - into the Palace interior, running from the sight, raging at the devastation that pressed down on him. The darkness crowded in, choking him, dragging the last flickers of awareness into oblivion. He was exhausted, burned out by Yarant and then the furious, desperate race to reach the hearthworld in time, then the horror of his discovery.

  And so he fell, deep in the Palace that he had failed to guard, and slept again, deep and cold.

  But before he woke again, Leman Russ dreamed deep.

  He dreamed he was back on Fenris, a lifetime ago. The snows were new-fallen, glittering under a cold, bright sun. The Fang, yet to be delved, rose up into the southern horizon, its shoulders streaked.

  He walked across fields of white, his leather boots sinking into the snow, his breath hanging in clouds around his face. A long journey lay ahead, trekking across the peaks, searching all corners of the realm he now must call his own for eternity.

  The Wanderer walked beside him, cloaked in coarse grey, his face hidden. That face was always hidden - you couldn't look right at it, or it would blind you, like the glare of the unbroken snow.

  He didn't know how long they had been walking together - perhaps moments, perhaps a lifetime.

  'Now is the time, Leman of the Russ,' the Wanderer said, in the voice that was both young and old, masculine and feminine, always soft, suffused with a patina of epochal sadness.

  'What time?' he answered, coming to a halt.

  The Wanderer turned, looking out into the highlands of Asaheim, where the peaks marched under a crystal sky, eternal and inviolate. 'For you to do what you were made for. Or let your grief end you. Your choice.'

  Russ didn't understand. 'I was made to protect you,' he said.

  'No. You were always wrong about that. You were made to protect what I created.'

  The Wanderer started to walk again, climbing higher, leaning on a staff of ironpine and stooping as he went.

  Russ watched him go. There were places he couldn't follow, not any more. The air chilled him to the bone, and so he turned, trudging back the way they had come. The Fang remained, the fortress that was yet to come, and which had been. Work lay ahead there, the great work of his life.

  But then the dream faded. The chill of the ice world became the chill of the empty Palace, and the sunlight faded to the dull grey of Terra's winter.

  Russ awoke. He blinked, shivered and pushed himself up from the floor.

  He remained where he had fallen. He had collapsed into exhausted slumber under the great fresco commemorating the Compliance of Dulan, 870.M30. He himself was depicted in it, idealised as the immortal primarch, along with his brother, wrestling with the dragon and casting it down. The statue was intact, though covered in a thick layer of dust, just as everything in the mined Palace was. The hall was dark, as cold as the Fenris of his dreams, and silent He was not alone. His brother stood over him, staring up at the images of them both. The Lord of Angels had always been pale; but now his skin had a cadaverous aspect edged blue in the faint light of a dying world.

  'You remember Dulan, then,' he said, and his voice was as bitter as gall.

  'I remember it,' said Russ, clambering stiffly to his feet. He still felt groggy, half lost in the dream. During the race to Terra he had not slept. They had been far away when word of Horus' final assault reached them. The two of them, the old adversaries, had both been absent when the killing blows were struck. So there was a final irony to crown them all.

  The Lion had his sword drawn, and its grey steel glinted in the cold. It was the same one that Russ had wrenched from his grasp in the Tyrant's throne-room, all those years ago. It was said that he had never let a weapon slip from his fingers since.

  'I thought I knew wrath, on Dulan,' said the Lion, eyes locked on the image. 'But I knew not then what wrath was.'

  Russ pushed his way past him, not wanting to do this. History would not remember why they had been delayed, only that they had been, and that would be enough.

  'Come back, Leman,' the Lion said, turning to follow him.

  Russ walked on, tasting the ash on his lips. 'What for, brother?' he asked. 'What more is there to say?'

  The Lion pursued him, catching up at the end of the gallery where more statues of old triumphs languished in the dust. He reached out and grabbed Russ by the shoulder, spinning him round.

  'It was never finished, that duel,' the Lion hissed, his grey eyes narrow with fury. 'We left it undone, year after year.'

  'You left,' said Russ. He had no stomach for sparring. 'When I woke up, you were gone.'

  'If I had stayed,' said the Lion, his voice shaking with fervour, 'truly, I would have killed you. But now I feel no such restraint, for all is ended, and all is madness, and nothing remains but vengeance for old scores.'

  Russ made no move to defend himself. He had torn his armour off a long time ago, and in his heavy robes was defenceless. The tip of the Lion Sword still hung over him, held aloft by the Lion.

  'All is not ended,' Russ said, defiantly, looking his brother in the eye. 'Not yet, not unless we let it be so, but our fight is over. Leave it on Dulan.'

  The Lion's face contorted in a fury, driven by his unspeakable grief. 'You never learned!' he cried. 'You should have been faster! It was your pride that kept you in the void!'

  Still Russ made no move, though the Lion's eyes were wild and dangerous.

  'And I am guilty, just as you are,' the Lion urged again, his grip on the sword tight. 'So fight me, and we will pass sentence on each other, the guilty slaying the guilty. I will not ask you again.'

  It was then Russ knew that his brother could never turn aside. The Lion looked as if he was barely seeing the w
orld around him. Perhaps he was back in the Tyrant's throne-room, incensed, his unimpeachable pride at stake.

  So Russ made no move. He left his chest exposed, held static under the blade's shadow, undefended, and shook his head.

  With a cry that was more pain than triumph, the Lion shoved his blade deep, carving through flesh, the steel shrieking as it bent against a primarch's bones.

  Russ roared out, his back arching, and felt the blackness rear up to cover him. He collapsed, the sword still buried in his chest, hitting the ashen floor with an echoing crack.

  His last vision was of the Lord of Angels standing over him, tall, terrible, shrouded in the madness of regret.

  Then even that passed. Once more, just as it had been on Dulan, awareness slipped away. He felt himself falling, falling further, until the uttermost depth was plumbed and he knew no more.

  VI

  After the tale was told, Russ smiled and sat back on his haunches. Haldor looked up at him from the stone floor, questions clustering in his mind, though he was not ready to voice them yet.

  'He knew he wouldn't kill me,' Russ said, grimly amused. 'He told me that afterwards. He turned the blade aside, right at the last moment. It still took a week to heal. That damned sword.'

  He chuckled mournfully. 'It needed to be done; though. It cured the bad blood between us. Drained it out We could speak again, after that.'

  Haldor could see the images in his mind's eye, for more vivid than when the skjalds told their tales. He could see the Palace in its downfall, and the surviving brothers stalking the shadows.

  'You are in mourning, lord,' Haldor said at last. 'Who has died?'

  'If you'd been listening, you would know.' Russ sighed, and pulled the furs about him. 'What is the count of years now? I forget We have built much since that day on Terra. We are a Chapter now, for our old sins. I never wanted that, but I did it, for I have grown weary of fighting with my own brothers, and there has been much to rebuild and remake.'