The Space Wolf Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘It’s nice to know I’m appreciated,’ said Ragnar. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Sven, how about passing me some more of that ale.’

  ‘Yes, my liege,’ Sven smirked, handing it to him in such a way that most of it went over Ragnar.

  ‘And how about some more food,’ added Nils, tossing a hunk of cheese at him. Within seconds food and ale were flying everywhere, amidst gales of raucous laughter.

  Ragnar stood on the bridge of the starship and gazed around in awe. The place was huge, the size of a chamber in the Fang. The ceiling was vaulted like that of an Imperial chapel, and a huge stained glass dome in the roof depicted scenes of inquisitors plying their trade, fighting monsters and heretics, scourging the unrighteous, breaking unbelievers on the autorack.

  All around robed and cowled Initiates of the inquisitor’s retinue performed their tasks. At long benches, numerists of the Machine God fed endless streams of data into their consoles. At a high central lectern the astrogators checked their calculations and made minute alterations to the ship’s course. Figures more machine than man, communed directly with the ship’s central data-core. The air smelled of the purification incense liberally distributed by censer-swinging initiates. Such things were done differently on the ships of the Space Wolves and by the uniformed officers of the Imperial Fleet, but this was an Inquisition ship, and it was run in the Inquisition manner.

  It occurred to him, for the first time, just how vast and variegated the Imperium was. Each of the great departments of the Ecclesiarchy was a world unto itself, with its own rules, codes, and functions. They stood apart from each other as well as the mass of humanity they ruled in the Emperor’s name. It was only the core of shared faith that bound them, and the million worlds of the faithful.

  On a massive central holo-screen a three dimensional replica of the system they had entered had just appeared. It flickered into being in response to the chants of the initiates and the technical prayers they offered up, seeming to float in the air above all of their heads.

  Ragnar could see half a dozen worlds each the size of a fist circling round a small, dark star. They moved at differing speeds in their orbits. A tiny pulse of blue light in the shape of an Imperial eagle indicated the position of the Light of Truth. A red skull showed their eventual destination.

  ‘That is Korealis,’ Inquisitor Sternberg said, his resonant voice filling the chamber and echoing away into the gloom beneath the vaults. ‘It is a dead sun, burned out, but not collapsed. Its surface is a cold shell of dust. Somewhere in its depths, fires still flicker but not enough to give light and heat.

  ‘It was mapped by the Great Surveys of the 30th millennium when they passed this way, and it was mostly forgotten. According to our records, there is some evidence of heretical pre-Imperial civilisation on the planetary surface of the fourth world, but the place was deemed too remote to merit cleansing, and no threat to the Imperium itself. Now and again there have been reports of prospectors passing this way, and at one time it harboured a colony of pirates. The pirate station was destroyed in a combined action between the Inquisition and the Blood Angels, in the 39th millennium. There is little else to tell about the place of any interest.’

  ‘What is it exactly we are looking for, inquisitor?’ Sven asked. ‘I take it we didn’t come here just so you could give us a history lesson.’

  Sternberg laughed. ‘No. Indeed not, Master Blood Claw. Indeed not. Perhaps Inquisitor Isaan would be good enough to answer your question.’

  Karah moved to her fellow inquisitor’s side and looked down on them from the lectern. ‘I have performed the Ritual of Divination once more, using the two pieces of the talisman we have so far acquired. It told me that this was the place to come but little else. I saw a space hulk in my vision, a thing vast and old that has drifted in the warp for many centuries – but that is all I have seen. There is something about the influence of this star, or perhaps about the hulk itself which clouds the seeing. In any case, I know that what we seek is on the hulk and all that remains is for us to go and get it.’

  ‘Will there be any fighting,’ Strybjorn said flatly.

  ‘Who knows?’ she replied with a shrug. ‘Hulks are notorious for harbouring malefic denizens. Once we are in range of it, we will run all the standard sensor divinations for life forms, which will give us a clearer idea of any threats that may be lurking within the craft.’

  ‘Who will be going in?’ asked Ragnar.

  ‘As if you don’t already know the answer,’ Sven muttered from his side.

  ‘The Space Wolves will spearhead the assault, accompanied by Inquisitors Sternberg, Isaan, and their bodyguards, led by myself,’ said Gul.

  ‘Within visual contact distance,’ one of the initiates interrupted loudly. ‘Summoning image to view.’

  The plainsong of the technical acolytes changed tone and a new picture shimmered into being. Ragnar shivered at the very sight of it. If it was possible for any space going vessel to look haunted and accursed, it was this one.

  At first sight it did not even look like a ship, more like a graveyard of ships. It was a vast agglomeration of debris, united by some strange force around a central core. It looked like a vessel built of scraps of dead ships by some insane artisan. Ragnar could see now why orks were so attracted to hulks. There was something about the jury-rigged nature of these vessels that would appeal to their crazed technologies.

  But, in the name of Russ, the thing was vast. As he watched it swell into view, Ragnar saw that each of the individual ships that made up one small component of the structure was as large as the Light of Truth. The hulk was bigger than most islands of the Worldsea on Fenris. There must be more miles of corridor in there than in the Fang. Finding the third part of the talisman was going to be quite a task.

  ‘Coming into range of sensor divination, my lord inquisitor,’ said the Chief Initiate.

  ‘Begin the ritual invocations,’ Sternberg replied calmly.

  Ragnar could smell the man’s tenseness even over the mildly hallucinogenic aroma of the incense. The chants changed tone once more and the chamber dimmed. Beneath the image of the space hulk odd technical runes began to appear. They shimmered and danced, and Ragnar was aware that they contained a goldmine of information for those who could read them; unfortunately he could not.

  ‘Interesting,’ he heard Sternberg murmur. ‘Continue with the divination.’

  As Ragnar watched, a shimmering glow settled on the image of the hulk. Small red and green dots drifted over its surface. Then without warning the whole image became distorted, shimmered and winked out of existence. A stillness descended on the bridge of the Light of Truth. Ragnar was not at all sure what had happened, but he could tell from the scents of those around him that it was not good.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Those lights we saw just before the image was nullified tell us that there are living creatures aboard the hulk,’ Karah said quietly.

  ‘And the fact that our sensor sweep was interfered with tells us that they don’t like prying eyes,’ Sternberg finished for her. ‘Chief Initiate Vosper, what happened?’

  The Chief Initiate studied the monitor on the bench before him. ‘It appears our sweep triggered some sort of automatic shielding device, my lord inquisitor. It will take several hours to work out exactly what type. I suspect from the auguries that it was not a product of any human technological ritual, but rather something alien.’

  ‘Could it be that we have triggered some sort of automatic system on the hulk that has nothing to do with those life-forms aboard?’ Karah asked.

  The initiate bowed his shaven head and steepled his fingers. ‘Yes, Inquisitor Isaan. That is within the realms of possibility. Although it’s probably wisest to assume some form of hostile intent for the moment.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely,’ Sternberg said.

  Privately Ragnar agreed with him. All of the knowledge placed in his memory by the tutelary engines led him to believe that if a creature
was alien, it was undoubtedly hostile. So far nothing he had encountered had caused him to doubt the wisdom of those teachings.

  ‘Ready your weapons,’ Inquisitor Sternberg said grimly, turning to regard them all. ‘It looks like we’ll be going in armed.’

  There was a strange sense of acceleration as the shuttle fell away from the Light of Truth. Ragnar studied his companions. This time it was not just him and the other Space Wolves. There were over thirty armed men of the inquisitors’ bodyguard. They were garbed like Imperial Guard but were wearing full face helmets and oxygen tanks to protect them against any decompression, lack of air or poison gas in the hulk.

  It was chilly inside the shuttle and the air smelled of peculiar chemicals. The confined space within the small chamber made him feel just a little claustrophobic. Ragnar glanced over at his comrades. They all looked more relaxed than he felt, but he could smell the tension in the air. They checked their weapons with the concentration of men who knew their lives would soon depend on them. He himself felt oddly reluctant. He wondered why?

  His hearts were beating faster and he was controlling the urge to sweat only with a massive effort of will. Something inside his stomach felt loose. He realised that he was actually afraid, and afraid in a way he had never been before. He actually feared for his life.

  What was going on, he wondered, gazing over Sven’s shoulder and out the porthole? The stars winked coldly back at him. This was not like him. He had been nervous before a battle before, but he had never felt this sense of near paralysis.

  He tried to work out where it had come from, and the answer was blindingly obvious. It came from being so severely wounded and from witnessing the death of Lars on Galt. Ever since he had been resurrected by the sorcerer-scientists of the Fang, he had possessed a sense of his own immortality that had amounted to a feeling of near-invincibility. He had been hurt before now, but never so badly. He realised that he had not believed that he could actually die. He had known it intellectually. That had been drummed into his head often enough during his training back on Fenris, but he had not actually believed it.

  He was, after all, one of the Chosen. His fallen body had been lifted from among the dead by the Wolf Priests and they had brought him back to life. He had been one of the lucky ones, a favourite of the gods, and so had his comrades.

  Yes, he had seen people die before, even Space Wolves, during the battle with Chaos Marines at the Temple of the Thousand Sons. But they had not been people he had known that well. He had shared a history with Lars; they had come through the time of choosing together, and trained and fought alongside each other. They were almost the same age.

  The connection had been made in his own head, he realised, between Lars dying and his wounds. He had suffered a great deal of pain at that time which had driven home the lesson of mortality in a way that nothing else could. He knew now that even though he was a Space Marine, and one of the Emperor’s chosen champions, there was no special dispensation for him. A bullet could still kill him. A chainsword could still cut him down. His life could be ended like anybody else’s. For a warrior that should not have been a frightening thought, and yet he had to admit that it was for him.

  And now a new fear was growing in his mind, that his courage would be tested and found wanting, and that he would disgrace himself. Was it possible that if they were attacked he might be paralysed with fear or even turn and flee? He hoped not, but it was a possibility. He prayed to Russ and tried to dismiss the thought, but it stayed on and niggled at the back of his mind. Had his offer of surrender back on Galt been, on some level, a genuine one? Had he merely been voicing what his spirit was really thinking, instead of trying to trick the ork warlord?

  He was aware that Sergeant Hakon was looking at him thoughtfully – and somewhat disapprovingly too, it seemed – and he wondered if the old Wolf could somehow read his thoughts. Did his doubts show in his scent? Were all of his comrades only too aware of his weakness? He hoped not, but how could he be sure? That was the curse as well as the blessing of the Space Wolf’s pack awareness.

  He felt another set of eyes fall on him, and glanced over at Karah Isaan, sitting surrounded by her armoured and helmeted bodyguards. She, too, seemed to be picking up some of his conflicting feelings. But she just smiled at him reassuringly, and he felt something like warmth flooding into his mind. Unconsciously he fought against it. He wanted no one else privy to his secret thoughts. He did not want to have to rely on any external help, from her or anybody else. It would be a true weakness, and not just some phantom conjured up by his own dark thoughts.

  Somewhere within him, the beast stirred. He felt a growl of rage begin deep in his throat. It was not afraid. It was angry and was desperate to confront any foe. He knew that it would relish bloody combat with any threat that presented itself. It was good to know that it was there, and could be counted on to aid him. That was help that he was prepared to take, from something that was part of him, bonded to his spirit.

  Slowly his fears subsided to a manageable level, but he knew that they were still there, and might return in a moment of stress. He let out a long, slow breath, and offered up a fervent prayer to Russ.

  ELEVEN

  There was a deep metallic clang, like the mournful tolling of some vast unseen bell, and a sudden bone-shaking vibration, as the shuttle came to rest alongside the space hulk. Ragnar sensed the change in mood as the Blood Claws rose and followed Sergeant Hakon to the front of the ship. Already the auto-borer in the nose of their ship was at work, chopping through the ceramite of the hulk’s hull and preparing a way for their entrance. Soon it would pierce the hulk’s side and expand like a flower blossoming to allow a boarding tunnel to pass through.

  Ragnar’s chainsword and bolt pistol were ready in his hand. He doubted that there would be immediate trouble but you never knew, and Space Marines always went in as if combat were mere moments away. There was a hiss of air as the pressures equalised between the boarding tunnel and the hulk’s interior. Ragnar immediately tested the scent of the place. He did not like what he caught. The air was stale and cold and fusty, and held the taint of many subtle poisons.

  Whatever systems kept the air pure here were working imperfectly, he could tell. And there were other things, the trace scents of living beings of many different types. Some of them were so old as to be barely discernible. He doubted that in any other place they would have lasted so long but here, with constant but flawed recycling, who could really guess at their age?

  Gravity within the hulk was less than he was used to. He felt light and constantly had to fight to control his movements and keep his balance to prevent himself from floating upward towards the ceiling.

  Sven and Nils moved ahead, one moving left of the tunnel’s entrance, the other moving right. It was their job to scan the corridor and make sure there were no nasty surprises. Ragnar waited for the signal and then moved clumsily to join Sven. Strybjorn strode off to partner Nils.

  Ragnar did not know quite what to expect but what he saw was anti-climactic. He was looking down a long metal corridor. The floor was covered in a sort of corroded mesh of mottled steel. Ancient-looking glowglobes flickered feebly in the ceiling. There were hatches lining the corridor and not too far off he could see a ladder that descended from above to disappear into a hole in the floor. There were tattered remains of ancient posters glued to the wall, written in some old human script he could barely understand. Long masses of exposed cables ran the length of the corridor, as if some long-dead engineer had jury-rigged a power circuit along it.

  Sensing movement from behind him, Ragnar knew that the inquisitor’s bodyguards were starting to make progress along the tunnel. He made a quick check to see if there was anything Sven had missed, saw nothing and began to move off down the corridor to make room.

  ‘Interesting place,’ Sven whispered ironically. ‘I’ll bet there’s even less good stuff to eat here than there was in the bloody jungle.’

  ‘I’m sure if you look you
’ll find a nice fat mutated cockroach,’ Ragnar hissed back. ‘You always find them on ships like this. The ancients used to carry them to eat the flakes of dead skin their bodies constantly shed.’

  ‘Thank you, oh sage one,’ said Sven, ‘I knew that. The tutelary engines put the same knowledge in my head as they did in yours.’

  ‘Yes, but you need a brain to be able to use that knowledge. It just echoes around in all the empty space inside your skull.’

  ‘Ha ha. You missed your true calling, Ragnar. You should have been a bloody jester.’

  As they paced carefully along, they surveyed all of the shadows for threats. Despite their banter, Ragnar could tell that Sven was just as keyed up as he was. He knew that both their senses were stretched to the absolute edge. No enemy was going to take them by surprise.

  Ragnar flared his nostrils and opened his mouth to catch any random scents. Nothing threatening. He kept moving to the junction where the ladder entered the corridor. ‘Down or up?’ he asked Sven.

  ‘Up!’

  Ragnar nodded. Sven would look up and cover the ceiling at the ladder. It was now Ragnar’s task to see that nothing surprised them from below. As he approached he kept sniffing, and he fell silent. He was all too aware of the chatter of the guardsmen behind him, and the scent of their armour and weapons. He still caught no hint of a threat.

  Standing at the edge of the metal ladder and looking down he saw that it descended a very long way, vanishing into darkness far below. In his gut the beast writhed and growled. It did not like the look of that long drop at all.

  ‘Which way?’ he called quietly into the comm-net.

  ‘Down,’ came Karah’s clear precise voice. Sven was already moving in response. He holstered his chainsword so that he would have a hand free for the ladder. The bolt pistol was still held firmly in his right hand. He swung himself out and began to climb.

  ‘How far?’ he asked.

  ‘Until I tell you to stop,’ the female inquisitor replied.