Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

From his tower high on the flanks of the Jarlheim, Ironhelm watched the final preparations for the muster take shape. He could see the launch trails of the Thunderhawks, thin and graceful, as they broke atmosphere and headed to the muster-points. Around him, tactical displays showed the positions of the ships as they moved slowly into convoy formation. It would not be long before he too took his place on the flagship.

  So many of them. So much power. All in one place, all directed at a single point.

  A familiar thrill animated his gene-forged limbs. It would be days – weeks, even – before he’d be able to channel his eagerness properly into the battle-rage, and by then his whole being would be at a fever-pitch of readiness. Thinking of the carnage that he would unleash, a cold expression broke across his ragged face.

  They have forgotten just what we are capable of. Reminding them will give me much pleasure.

  All enemies of the Allfather engendered hatred in a son of Fenris, but Magnus was placed in a different category of loathing. It had always been that way with the Thousand Sons. The sagas still recounted in the caverns of the Aett told of the sorcerers’ betrayal, their condescension, and – worst of all – their escape. The Legion hadn’t been destroyed at Prospero, only crippled. That shame had hung over the Wolves for over a thousand years, staining whatever deeds they’d accomplished since and marking their failure like spoor-trails in the snow.

  Perhaps, if the traitor Magnus had disappeared into the Eye of Terror and never re-emerged, that shame might have been bearable. But he hadn’t. He’d returned over the following centuries, leaving devastation in his elusive wake. Precision strikes on Imperial worlds had continued, each aimed at retrieving some valuable piece of knowledge or esoterica. Despite the grievous damage Russ had inflicted on them, the Thousand Sons still had the potential to launch raids into protected space, and the knowledge of that burned at Ironhelm. It had burned at him for decades, until nothing else seemed important.

  Despite all the resources he devoted to hunting Magnus, the chase had always come up short. There were always signs left behind for them to find, mocking hints, challenges to catch the originator of the ruin and bring him in. On Pravia, on Daggaegghan, on Vreole, on Hromor. The Traitor had left his calling cards behind, taunting the Wolves who ever snapped at his heels.

  We have been patient. We have waited. And now the trap closes.

  Out of the corner of his eye a rune flashed over the doorway.

  ‘Come,’ he said, turning away from the view of the fleet.

  Sturmhjart stalked into the chamber. The Rune Priest’s eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  Ironhelm spread his hands expansively.

  ‘Odain,’ he started. ‘This is–’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  The Great Wolf sighed, and set the door to close with a flick of a finger.

  ‘You know Wyrmblade’s work. He needs watching.’

  Sturmhjart snarled, pulling back his lips.

  ‘Like a child? That’s more important to you?’

  ‘Only you can restrain him. He plays with forces that could destroy us all.’

  ‘You let him.’

  ‘Because he may succeed.’

  ‘Tell him to wait. Tell him to stop until the Rout is called back from Gangava. I will not be denied this honour!’

  Ironhelm shook his head.

  ‘This is a critical time. The whelp is his protégé, and I need a wise head to keep the Aett in line. You will not be coming with us.’

  Sturmhjart growled, and a flicker of yellow energy snaked across his chest. Ironhelm could sense the furnace of frustration hammering inside the Rune Priest’s body.

  ‘Do not do this,’ he insisted, his fist gripping his staff tightly.

  Ironhelm’s eyebrow rose. Sturmhjart had never defied an order.

  ‘You threaten me, Odain?’ he said, letting a challenge-note enter his speech.

  For a moment, Sturmhjart stood still, glaring at him, face contorted with anger. Eventually, reluctantly, he dropped his gaze, spitting on the floor with disgust.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘The witches. They take the elements and corrupt them. These are my enemies.’

  Ironhelm looked at the Rune Priest carefully. Sturmhjart was a warrior after his own heart, a bloody-minded, fearless cutter of threads, but he had to know who dominated the pack.

  ‘They are not. They are prey for all of us. Frei will be there, and the other Rune Priests, but I need you here.’

  Sturmhjart balled his fists, and fresh slivers of elemental power rippled over the gauntlets. He was reeling his anger in, but it pained him.

  ‘As Wyrmblade’s nursemaid,’ he spat bitterly.

  ‘No, brother,’ said Ironhelm. ‘Wyrmblade has delved deep, and he holds fate in both hands. If he falters, you must be there. You must watch over this.’

  Sturmhjart’s expression shifted awkwardly from frustration to surprise.

  ‘You heard me,’ said Ironhelm. ‘Whatever Greyloc thinks, you’re to be my sword arm here. We must remember the Wolf Brothers, their failure and the reasons for it. I will not see that path trodden again.’

  Sturmhjart’s eyes flickered in doubt.

  ‘You think he’s–’

  ‘Wyrmblade’s as loyal as Freki,’ said Ironhelm, relaxing as he saw the Rune Priest’s anger retreat. ‘But we have to watch for the future.’

  He came up to Sturmhjart and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I do this because I can trust you, brother,’ he whispered, drawing his head close. ‘Most out of all my Wolves, I can trust you. Seek the truth in the wyrd if you want, and you will understand – the Tempering is our destiny.’

  Sturmhjart looked back into Ironhelm’s eyes. He was still not reconciled, but he would take the order.

  ‘So I have full sanction, lord?’ he asked.

  Ironhelm smiled grimly.

  ‘We always have full sanction,’ he said.

  The Fang was vast beyond comprehension – a huge network of tunnels, shafts and chambers that riddled the highest levels of the peak. Even so, the fortress proper was dwarfed by the full bulk of the mountain, and only the very upper reaches had ever been delved into habitation. For the most part, the Wolves dwelt underground, their lairs hidden under kilometres of solid rock. Only at the very pinnacle, the terminus of the Valgard level, did artificial structures break the surface in any quantity. It was there that the mighty landing stages and docking berths had been constructed, clustered around massive towers that thrust from sheer cliffs hundreds of metres tall. Ancient drive mechanisms powered service shafts a kilometre deep, hauling materiel and wargear from depots in the heart of the mountain and delivering them to the transports waiting in the hangars. They were always busy, those places, testament to the restless spirit of the Wolves and their ceaseless voyaging into the sea of stars.

  Haakon Gylfasson stood on the edges of one such hangar, watching the scores of thralls and servitors crawl over the steaming hulls of ships like vermin on a corpse. Dozens of vessels had left already, and most of those that remained were earmarked for the war-fleet. The ships left to the Twelfth were few, and for the most part the slowest and least well-armed. Only a single strike cruiser, the Skraemar, would remain in orbit to defend the planet, and it would have fewer than a dozen smaller craft in its escort.

  That struck Gylfasson as entirely reasonable. What didn’t strike him as reasonable was the commandeering of the Nauro. That was personal, an affront, and in a way that most of his battle-brothers would struggle to understand.

  ‘I’m sorry, lord,’ said the kaerl for the third time, staring hard at the data-slate in front of her and trying to avoid eye contact with Gylfasson. ‘This is part of the requisition. The Great Wolf–’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ said Gylfasson in his dark, feline drawl. He didn’t speak like a typical Space Marine, and had none of the overt, bristling threat about him that they did. His colouring was dark,
and his facial hair thick and matted. He was slighter than most pack members, even when kitted out in his full array of Scout’s carapace armour. Only his eyes truly gave him away, the circles of amber pinned with black. No one but a son of Russ had those eyes. ‘I’m not a nice person. I don’t have the generosity of my brothers. I don’t hang around them much, and they don’t hang around me.’

  The kaerl looked like she’d rather be anywhere else herself, but listened respectfully.

  ‘So don’t think I won’t take this personally. Don’t think I won’t find out who your rivenmaster is and get you placed on external patrol in Asaheim for a month. I need this ship. It’s my ship. It stays here.’

  The kaerl looked back at her data-slate earnestly, as if some new information on it could possibly help her. Fifty metres behind her loomed the Nauro itself, sitting on the hangar apron and steaming gently. It didn’t look like any of the other vessels waiting on the plascrete. It was jet-black, untouched by the gunmetal grey that coloured the rest of the fleet. Its classification was uncertain – too small to be a frigate, far too big to count as a transatmospheric craft, and just under five hundred crew. It sat low against the ground, narrow and unusually slender. Nearly a third of its length was taken up by plasma drives, a ratio that made it colossally fast. Which was exactly why Gylfasson liked it.

  ‘You won’t find what you’re looking for there,’ said Gylfasson patiently, watching the kaerl play for time.

  She looked up with a desolate expression on her face. The woman was built like most Fenrisians, heavy-boned and broad-shouldered. She’d seen combat, from the skulls woven into her uniform, so most things in the galaxy wouldn’t shake her. Bartering with a Sky Warrior obviously did.

  ‘Leave her be, Blackwing,’ came a metallic voice from behind the kaerl.

  His armour humming at a low, grinding pitch, the Twelfth’s Iron Priest Garjek Arfang came pacing across the apron. He had his ancient Mk IV helm on, but Gylfasson could sense the amusement emanating from him. Somewhere, under all those layers of plate and augmetics, he was smiling.

  ‘Stay out of this, Priest,’ warned Gylfasson. ‘This is my ship.’

  ‘You’re a Scout,’ said Arfang bluntly. The kaerl took advantage of the interruption to withdraw. ‘None of these ships are yours.’

  ‘No one flies her like I do.’

  ‘That is true. So be pleased that Jarl Oirreisson doesn’t want it. He’s taken a hlaupa instead. It will fall apart the first volley he fires, but when it comes to technology, he is a man of poor taste.’

  Gylfasson looked at Arfang suspiciously.

  ‘So it’s not been requisitioned?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Then what’s happening to it?’

  There was a grating sound from behind Arfang’s helm as the Iron Priest issued what passed for a laugh with him.

  ‘Jarl Greyloc wants you on system patrol. You and the rest of the Scouts. He doesn’t, I ascertain, like the Aett being under-manned.’

  Gylfasson smiled broadly.

  ‘Back on void-duty,’ he said, looking over at the Nauro with satisfaction and thinking of the long, empty hours away from the reek of the Fang. ‘You have no idea how pleased that makes me.’

  Greyloc stood in the Chamber of the Watch, bathed in a column of cold light descending from the roof. The summit of the space was lost in darkness. In the shadows, thralls hurried to and fro, handing over data-slates and speaking in low voices. Picts placed around the edge of the chamber flickered with rapid updates, marking the movement of the fleet to the jump-points. One by one, green indicators turned red.

  ‘Open a channel to the flagship,’ Greyloc ordered.

  Thralls scurried to comply. An icon-blink told him communication had been established.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, maintaining the deferential tone he’d adopted in the council. ‘We have muster-complete signals. You’re clear to break orbit.’

  ‘All confirmed,’ came Ironhelm’s crackling voice from the bridge of the Russvangum. ‘We’ll be gone soon, and the Aett’ll be nice and quiet. Just how you like it.’

  Greyloc smiled.

  ‘Indeed. I have hunting to catch up on.’

  There was a rough burst of static from the other end. It might have been a snort.

  ‘You’re missing the best of it.’

  ‘Maybe so. The hand of Russ ward you, lord.’

  ‘And all of us.’

  The comm-link snapped closed. Greyloc stood immobile for a few moments, his lean face pensive.

  Then the picts began to update with fresh data. Position trackers showed massed movement. The fleet was underway.

  A thrall approached the static Wolf Lord and bowed.

  ‘Orbital grid overview prepared, lord,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. ‘You may inspect when ready.’

  Greyloc nodded, hardly seeming to notice the figure before him. His white eyes were fixed on the rock walls beyond. The stone was still as bare and unadorned as it had been when first carved.

  The centuries had done little to adorn the Aett. It was the same size as it had been in Russ’s time, still cold, half-empty and sighing with the incoming ice-wind of Fenris. Sections of the lower levels had fallen into disuse, and even Wyrmblade didn’t know what had been left untouched in the deepest places.

  We have not evolved. We remain the same.

  The thrall hovered for a moment longer before scuttling back out of the light. He was replaced by a larger figure, and the heavy tread of Rossek echoed across the chamber.

  ‘Tromm,’ said Greyloc, snapping out of his thoughts.

  ‘Jarl,’ replied the Wolf Guard.

  ‘You’ve kept the Claws busy?’

  ‘They’re knocking Hel out of each other in the cages.’

  ‘Good. Keep them at it.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Greyloc scrutinised his subordinate carefully. Rossek was normally so ebullient, so full of energy.

  ‘You don’t agree with my decision,’ he said.

  The Wolf Guard kept his expression level. ‘Someone has to guard the Aett.’

  ‘You don’t think it should have been us.’

  ‘Since you make me speak, no.’

  Greyloc nodded.

  ‘Say more.’

  Rossek looked him directly in the eye, as always. There was reproach there.

  ‘We do not have the trophies of the other companies, lord,’ he said. ‘There are whispers that we lack spirit. They say your blood’s cold.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Just whispers.’

  Greyloc nodded again. The whispers had always been there. Since ascending to Blood Claw he’d had to fight for his honour against the slurs that he wasn’t a real wolf, that the Helix hadn’t taken properly, that he was more ice-wight than true flesh-warrior of the Rout. The days when such news would have concerned him were long gone.

  ‘They’ve said as much before. Why are you listening now?’

  Rossek held his gaze.

  ‘We need to be careful,’ he said. ‘The other Jarls–’

  ‘Forget about them.’ Greyloc placed a gauntlet on his Wolf Guard’s arm, and the ceramite clunked dully. ‘We have no reason to hang our heads, and there are more ways to fight than those recorded in the sagas. The galaxy is changing. We must change with it.’

  Greyloc felt the uneasiness stirring within Rossek. The Guard didn’t like such talk. None of the Wolves, with their reverence for tradition, did. Only the two warriors’ long brotherhood kept Rossek from speaking out more, from protesting against the manner of war Greyloc had imposed on the Twelfth Company.

  ‘Do you trust me, Tromm?’ asked Greyloc softly, maintaining the grip.

  A hesitation.

  ‘With my life, lord.’

  His amber eyes were unblinking. Greyloc took some satisfaction in that. There were doubts there, like ravens clustering around carrion, but his core was loyal. So it had ever been, even after Greyloc had narrowly beaten h
im to replace old Oja Arkenjaw as Jarl. If the vote were held again, he had no doubt Rossek would have the numbers. The old warrior had always claimed not to want the honour, but every mind could change.

  ‘Good,’ said Greyloc, releasing his hold. ‘I need you, Tromm. I need all of you. When Ironhelm returns from this mad skraegr hunt, things will have to change. We can’t let these shadows blind us forever, keeping us chasing after ghosts of the past. You will see the truth of it, if you look.’

  Rossek didn’t reply. Such talk made him uneasy, and Greyloc knew he couldn’t push too hard.

  Across the picts placed around the chamber walls, the last of the fleet signals dimmed as the rearguard departed for the jump-points. Greyloc felt a surge of satisfaction then, and some of his preoccupation receded.

  Ironhelm’s latest campaign had embarked. The Aett was his.

  Chapter Three

  Kyr Aesvai, the one they called Helfist, laughed hard, sending flecks of spittle from his semi-distended jaws.

  ‘Russ, you’re slow,’ he mocked, then leapt back into the attack. He whirled his axe round and hurled it down at his enemy’s shoulder.

  Ogrim Raegr Vrafsson, the one they called Redpelt, sprang away from the incoming weapon.

  ‘Quick enough for you,’ he panted, falling away and bringing his own axehead into play. He kept it out wide, making room to swing, watching for the momentum of his opponent.

  Crunches and impact sparks rang out further down the long row of iron training cages. The pair were not the only Blood Claws sparring in the pens – the entire infantry contingent of the Twelfth had been ordered into intensive drills in the days since Ironhelm’s fleet had left. Greyloc was a cold one, but no fool – he knew how frustrated his company would be at missing the action at Gangava, and made sure he kept them busy.

  Helfist pressed the attack, stepping warily. His jawline was still basically humanoid, though his facial muscles betrayed the gigantism common to all Space Marines. His cropped hair was a dirty blond, and stubble ran across his tattooed cheeks. He retained the brutal energy of a hmanni tribesman, and he carried himself with a strutting, confident menace.

  ‘Nope,’ he grinned, circling. ‘You’re too damn slow.’