Legends of the Dark Millennium: Space Wolves

by Ben Counter, Steve Lyons, Rob Sanders

  ‘You can smell the stink of the warp even over the reek of the furn­aces,’ the Rune Priest growled in disgust.

  ‘A curiosity I came upon rather recently,’ Sathar said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to study it properly, but you must agree it is unique.’

  Leoric was peering closer at the glass now. ‘There are... things moving inside,’ he muttered. ‘I can almost...’

  The traitor laughed. ‘It is dangerous to peer into the abyss unless you know what to look for. You can never be certain what might be looking back.’

  Ulrik drew the Rune Priest away from the dark prism. At his touch, Leoric shook his head, as though stirring from a stupor. ‘I came to hear about the Great Wolf, not abominations from the warp.’ His face contorting into a lupine snarl, he drew his pistol and aimed it at the tainted relic.

  ‘That might be unwise,’ Sathar warned. ‘I have taken great pains to prevent a doorway to the warp from opening in this city. Shoot the prism and you may accomplish in a heartbeat what the slaves of Chaos have been trying to achieve for months now.’

  Ulrik gripped Leoric’s arm, pushing the bolt pistol downwards. ‘Leave the prism for now,’ he told the Rune Priest. ‘I need your talents focused upon the traitor. I need to know how much he says is lie and how much is truth,’ he elaborated over their private vox channel.

  Ulrik’s eyes glared from the depths of his skull-helm as he turned towards Sathar. ‘Speak quickly, traitor. Balthus is waiting.’

  Sathar leaned against one of the plinths. ‘Again you call me “traitor”, but I tell you I serve the Emperor more completely now than you could possibly understand. A profound revelation came to me, an epiphany. It is this – to destroy monsters, you must become a monster. To defeat the enemy, you must turn its weapons against itself. There can be no measure afforded for honour and morality. All that matters is victory, however it is achieved. Turn Chaos against itself. Use the instruments of heresy to destroy the heretic.’

  A low, threatening growl rumbled from behind Ulrik’s mask. ‘For such madness you abandoned your heritage?’

  The runic talismans chained to Leoric’s armour shivered with eerie energies as his psychic powers reached out to probe Sathar’s thoughts. ‘The vermin’s mind is consumed by his delusions. Even now he imagines himself a servant of the Allfather.’ The Rune Priest’s voice seethed with revulsion over the vox.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Sathar repeated. ‘It is beyond your ability to understand. You have deluded yourselves with conceits of honour and morality. You couldn’t possibly appreciate what it means to–’

  Ulrik sprang forwards, seizing Sathar by his robe. ‘I’ve heard enough of this madness. Tell me about Logan Grimnar. Where is the Great Wolf?’

  ‘The key to that information isn’t so easy. You will have to work for it,’ Sathar pointed at Leoric. ‘Your Librarian will tell you I don’t lie when I say that I am not responsible for the ritual murders afflicting this city. I have fought against those responsible, but now they are driven to an outrage of such scale that it may be beyond the abilities of my resources to overcome. We need your strength,

  the ferocity of the Space Wolves, to guarantee victory.’

  ‘You’re not only mad, but a fool to think we would aid you,’ Ulrik snapped. He tightened his hold upon Sathar, dragging the traitor towards him. ‘There can be no compromise with a heretic.’

  ‘Wait!’ Leoric’s voice crackled with hate, his eyes shone with bloodlust. ‘I have seen into his mind. The enemy he would loose us against. The leaders controlling this cult. They are of the brood of Magnus!’

  Ulrik felt the blood pumping through his hearts blaze with a vengeful fury as he heard the traitor primarch’s name. There were no foes in the galaxy the Space Wolves despised and hated more than the murdering sorcerers of the Thousand Sons. The old Wolf Priest could feel the savagery of the Canis Helix rippling through his flesh, responding to the magnitude of his rage. By an effort of will, he subdued the primal energies, forcing them to recede back into the darkest corners of his being.

  ‘This is why you were certain we would help you,’ Ulrik seethed. He felt like a beast lured into a trap, baited by his own instincts. How deep did Sathar’s machinations go? Had he intentionally lured the Space Wolves here so that he could exploit their hatred of the Thousand Sons?

  ‘No. You will help me because it is the only way to find your Chapter Master,’ Sathar said. ‘The Thousand Sons command House Morvane, an entire merchant guild corrupted and sworn to the Ruinous Powers. Their leader, a sorcerer called Medeb, has crossed paths with the Great Wolf. My spies have kept me informed of the cult’s activities for some time now. So far the cult has attempted only minor rituals, lesser obscenities to test the waters. Tonight, however, they intend a far greater abomination.’

  ‘Convenient timing,’ Ulrik told the traitor.

  Sathar nodded. ‘It is because Medeb knows you are here. I was able to hide my presence from the sorcerer, but the same cannot be said of you and the Dark Angels. Medeb intends to open a doorway to the warp, a channel between Stratovass Ultra and the Eye of Terror. Medeb was cautious before, uncertain that the doorway could be stabilised. Now he has cast aside such reserve. Whether the door remains or not, he will open it all the same.’

  Ulrik looked over at Leoric. The Rune Priest shook his head. ‘It is what the traitor believes to be true,’ he said. ‘But that is only perception, not reality.’

  ‘Would you lose the chance to find the Great Wolf because you will not believe me?’ Sathar asked. ‘If you need further convincing, let this speed your thoughts. I trusted to the honour of the Space Wolves to allow me to speak with you, but I knew there could be no such compact with the Dark Angels. So to gain their aid, my associates have laid a false trail for Balthus. The Dark Angels will follow that trail thinking it will lead to me, but instead they will find the cult. They will be destroyed if they fight alone. Only by combining our forces can victory be assured. If the Space Wolves don’t fight, then the Dark Angels will meet their fate. It is in your power to spare them an ignoble doom.’

  ‘You scheme without honour,’ Ulrik snarled at Sathar. ‘You offer a despicable choice and then explain that it isn’t a choice at all. Save Eyriax, save the people, save the Dark Angels, but only if you cooperate.’ The Wolf Priest slapped his hand against the plasma pistol holstered at his side. ‘Whatever happens, you will be beside me. The first sniff of deceit, the first hint of betrayal, and you can be certain of one thing. I will burn a hole though that scheming brain of yours big enough to fly a Thunderhawk through.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less from Ulrik the Slayer,’ Sathar said. ‘But do not be too keen to make an enemy of me. There will be foes enough for all of us where we are going.’

  Thrusting out from the side of Eyriax, many miles above the surface of Stratovass, the spire of House Morvane was a soaring tower of plasteel and crystal rivalled only by the residences of the planetary governor and the High Ecclesiarch in magnificence and extravagance. Masts of meteoric iron bound in electro-runes of the Adeptus Mechanicus defended the spire from lightning and discharges of the polar aurora. Chemical misters sprayed solutions across wall and roof to combat the ravages of smog and pollutants. Leering gargoyles fashioned from lunar granite shielded the tower from psychic and spiritual malignancies.

  It was this last defence that had failed in its purpose. Blessed and sanctified by all the saints, the gargoyles couldn’t protect a place that freely welcomed corruption, that invited the powers of darkness into its halls. What had driven House Morvane to swear themselves to Chaos was unknown. Fear, ambition, revenge – it didn’t matter what had lured the merchant guild into heresy. All that was of consequence was that they had been tempted and they had failed the test.

  As the Space Wolves prowled along the darkened service corridor, stealing down the maze of passages that wound their way between the opulent galleries and chambers used by the merchants themselves, the hair on Ulrik’s arms
bristled. Whatever cause had led them to this defilement, it couldn’t justify such obscenity.

  Ulrik glanced over at Sathar, feeling even greater disgust for the traitor. Sathar had been chosen to transcend humanity, to receive the greatest gifts the Emperor could bestow upon his servants. He had become a Space Marine, superhuman in body, mind and spirit. To him had been bestowed a legacy of honour and courage that was beyond the grasp of common man. He had been entrusted with relics steeped in the blood and bravery of heroes, sacred wargear that had led his battle-brothers to victory in a thousand wars. All of it had been thrown away, cast aside because of a delusion, a madness that through heresy Sathar could find still greater purpose. If not for the oaths he had sworn, if not for the information he might have, Ulrik would like nothing better than to end Sathar’s perversion here and now.

  The smell of blood drew Ulrik’s attention away from the cloaked traitor. A quick click across the inter-squad vox told him that Lopt’s scouts had encountered guards in the corridor. Patrolling well ahead of the Drakeslayers, the scouts were thorough in their elimination of any resistance they found. The main body of Krom’s warriors would find the remains slumped against the walls, tunics and surcoats stained with gore. Sometimes there was the slash of a knife, other times the bodies bore the marks of tooth and claw. Lopt was too cautious to allow his pack to risk the report of a bolt pistol and too swift to give their victims a chance to fire a shot of their own.

  ‘Your scouts are to be commended,’ Sathar remarked. ‘I don’t think a rat could slip past them.’

  Krom ignored him. ‘How long have you been watching this place?’ The Wolf Lord gnashed his fangs in a fierce display. ‘You seem to know all its secrets, all the hidden trails. Just remember this, heretic – if this is a trap, you die first.’

  ‘It won’t be a trap,’ Ulrik said. He glared at the traitor. ‘A trap would be almost honourable. No, he waited for us. He waited for someone to run this risk so he wouldn’t have to. He’d try to contain the cult, keep them from going too far, but actually destroying them was a task he intended to leave to others.’

  Sathar shook his head, the optics of his helm focusing on the Space Wolves all around him, each warrior seething with loathing for the traitor in their midst. ‘You forget, I share the same risks as you,’ he reminded Ulrik.

  ‘Yes, and that worries me even more than whatever evil the Thousand Sons have been conjuring,’ Ulrik said. ‘At least they make no pretence about who and what they are.’

  The traitor laughed. ‘There is a saying from ancient Terra – the enemy of your enemy is your friend.’

  ‘There is a Fenrisian custom that a broken sword is never reforged,’ Ulrik said. ‘It is thrown into the sea, a dead thing. There is no trust for something that has already betrayed one master.’ He looked across the Drakeslayers, appreciating far better than Sathar how greatly they were struggling to restrain the instinct to destroy the traitor. ‘Do not tempt your doom,’ he warned. ‘It will find you soon enough.’

  ‘Perhaps all of us,’ Sathar said, gesturing to a mark hidden in the gilded scroll work that adorned the sides of the corridor. ‘A sign left by my spies. We are near to the Grand Arcade overlooking the Chancellery of House Morvane. Your brothers need hold back but a little longer. Soon they will have foes enough.’

  Almost as Sathar spoke, muffled sounds reached the keen senses of the Drakeslayers: a dolorous, reptilian susurration of many voices raised in a grisly chant. Beneath the chanting, more vibration than sound, was the clamour of primitive drums and woodwinds. Ringing out above the ghoulish cadence was an invocation, an inhuman appeal that raved and shrieked with piteous horror. Every Space Wolf felt his hair crawl in agitation, felt his hearts quicken in response to the abject threat laced within the noise. The cult had started their terrible ceremony, their profane appeal to the powers of Chaos.

  Lopt slipped back down the hallway. He stopped before Krom and Ulrik, giving the leaders a hasty report.

  ‘We’ve found a door in the wall ahead,’ the scout sergeant said. ‘It opens upon an arcade overlooking a hall the size of the Ironpelt’s docking bay.’

  ‘Enemy numbers?’ Krom asked, fingering the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Hundreds,’ Lopt answered. ‘A dozen or more Thousand Sons among them.’

  ‘Just as I promised,’ Sathar stated. ‘It would seem you have your work cut out for you.’

  Ulrik rounded on the traitor. ‘If the Allfather wills us to be victorious, I will yet deliver you to Balthus. Until then, you remain in my keeping.’ The last was uttered in a low growl, a reminder not just to Sathar but to the other Space Wolves. The Chaos Space Marine was Ulrik’s responsibility and he intended to carry that burden through.

  The Drakeslayers hurried up the corridor. Lopt’s scouts were deployed around a door hidden in the wall, fashioned so that it merged seamlessly with its surroundings. Part of the scrolling slid down at Lopt’s touch, revealing a hidden recess and an angular nub of ivory projecting slightly from the exposed panel. At a gesture from Krom, Lopt pulled the ivory nub, drawing out a rod-like shaft of metal. In response, the concealed door receded into the wall.

  The instant the door slid open, the sounds of the ritual swelled to an almost deafening fury. Smells of boiling fat, smouldering offal and singed hair struck the sharp noses of the Space Wolves. A slimy, insidious chill pawed at them, sinking through their ceramite armour with an intensity that had nothing to do with physical temperature. It was the icy clutch of sorcery, the frigid emanations of the warp itself, a malignant pulse that offended the soul. Leoric Half-ear winced in momentary pain, fingers tightening around his rune staff with such force that the ancient relic groaned beneath his touch.

  ‘They must... be stopped,’ the Rune Priest whispered as he tried to shake off the psychic emanations. He waved away the Grey Hunters who moved to offer him aid, pointing a commanding finger towards the Grand Arcade.

  The Drakeslayers began to filter out onto the arcade. It was a broad, colonnaded hallway overlooking the vast expanse of a courtyard below. Tier upon tier of arcades rose upon three sides of the court while the far end was given over to a colossal sheet of crystal. Tinted with a crimson lustre, the crystal looked out upon the storm-swept skies. Strange lightning crackled and flashed beyond the panes, ribbons of electricity snaking out to crash against the iron rods projecting from the walls.

  The Chancellery itself had been designed for the obscene rites of House Morvane. Broad enough to accommodate the immense throng of cultists, the centre of the court was dominated by a raised platform cut into a nine-sided wedge. From each angle of the nonagon a smouldering brazier of brass and bone rose, the impaled husk of a butchered sacrifice slowly roasting above the chemical flames. A macabre pattern of indentations cut into the floor allowed blood from the victims to flow through the hall, pouring down the gutter-like slits to form weird patterns and arcane symbols. In the middle of the platform, a ring of rough stones was arrayed, their pitted surfaces aglow with eldritch harmonies. It was here, among the stones, that the despicable priesthood of the cult performed their abominable rites and a grinning hierophant shrieked the inhuman invocation that dominated even the clamour of the chanting thousands who filled the courtyard.

  Ulrik glared at the vile scene, feeling the abhorrent energies the cultists had evoked. His eyes locked upon a clutch of towering figures who held themselves away from the main throng – observing rather than partaking of the ritual unfolding around them. There was no mistaking the fluted vanes that fanned out from the sides of their helms or the golden accents that adorned their ancient armour. At their head stood a sorcerer carrying a staff.

  They were the children of Prospero, the archenemy of Fenris. The Thousand Sons.

  ‘They’re here,’ Krom snarled, hate dripping from his fangs. ‘And here they die,’ he vowed. The Wolf Lord started to swing around to snap orders to the Drakeslayers.

  Whatever deployment Krom intended for his warriors, whatever strategy
he planned to seal off the courtyard and prevent the heretics from escaping, it all came crashing down in an instant. Far below, beneath the tier that flanked the arcade on which the Space Wolves stood, the steel doors sealing the entrance were ripped from their fastenings, blown inwards by powerful explosions. The huge portals careened across the hall, mutilating scores of cultists as they tore through the throng, crushing dozens more as they came smashing down. The grisly chant exploded into a cacophony of alarm and outrage; the eerie drums and flutes fell silent. Only the diabolical invocation persisted, somehow rising louder and more malignant than before.

  Through the shattered doors huge warriors in bone-coloured armour rushed. The Dark Angels had arrived, pursuing the trail Sathar had left for them. The Space Marines, confronted by the obscene spectacle of the massed cultists, exhibited no mercy.

  ‘Purge the traitor’s flock!’ Interrogator-Chaplain Balthus’ voice boomed, joining his battle-brothers in righteous fury.

  ‘A bit ahead of my projections,’ Sathar grumbled, as he watched the Dark Angels cutting down robed cultists with flaring power swords and the explosive shells from boltguns. Still, the traitor had a dour tone when he turned to Ulrik. ‘They will need your Wolves if they are to survive.’

  Before Ulrik could comment, he saw the cultists begin to react to the attacking Dark Angels. From beneath their robes, the heretics produced a motley array of weaponry. Stubbers growled while slender laspistols sent beams of energy searing across the hall. Crazed worshippers threw themselves at the hulking Space Marines, knives and hatchets clenched in their fists. A few cultists, amok with their obscene devotion, reached into the braziers and scooped the blazing chemicals onto themselves. These living torches, tortured screams ripping from their lungs, hurled themselves upon their attackers.