Ragnar considered Sven’s words. They sounded suspiciously plausible and they fit the facts. Or maybe it was just that he wanted to believe them.
Like the rest of the company, he was getting a little fed up with being cooped up on the ship. After the excitement of their battle with the mutants, the past few days had been anti-climactic.
‘I heard something interesting at breakfast this morning,’ said Aenar. His hand was hovering over the dragonship again. Ragnar could not believe he had missed the obvious trap.
‘Are you going to jump the thrall?’ Sven asked.
‘What did you hear?’ Ragnar prompted.
‘I heard that the Great Wolf sends twenty-four Wolves as thralls to the Navigator’s House in return for her services.’
‘What?’ Ragnar almost laughed. The tale sounded ludicrous. No Great Wolf could do such a thing. There would be a rebellion if he even hinted at it. Sven did laugh.
‘Sounds like Strybjorn or one of the others was having you on again,’ said Ragnar.
Aenar looked up at him.
‘Again?’ he asked.
‘Like the time he told you that all new Blood Claws had to polish the armour of a Wolf who had been initiated at least a year before them.’
‘You mean we don’t have to?’
Sven groaned. ‘And Ragnar says I’m dumb.’
‘No – I know you are. But where did you hear this nonsense about thralls and Navigators?’
‘From Sven’s friend, Tremont.’
‘I never said he was my friend.’
‘What did he tell you exactly?’
‘That every time a new Great Wolf is chosen he must send two dozen Wolves to Belisarius in repayment of some ancient debt.’
‘That can’t be true,’ said Ragnar.
‘It is true,’ said Sergeant Hakon striding across the room. ‘At least in part.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Like everybody else, our Chapter needs Navigators to guide our ships through the immaterium. If we did not have them we would be reduced to jumping blind.’
He paused to let his words sink in. All of them knew exactly what that meant. Jumping blind into the immaterium meant a good chance of never coming out again. Only Navigators had the skill to guide ships through the void and bring them safely out the other end. And even they made mistakes sometimes. Ragnar had known this since the tutelary engines had placed the knowledge in his brain, but he could see now that he had never fully assimilated it or thought out the consequences. He had simply assumed that the Navigators were sworn to the Chapter’s service down through the generations just like the ships’ crews. Thinking it through he could see the error in his thinking.
He reviewed the facts the teaching machines had placed at his disposal. Like Space Marines, Navigators were unique, their origins dating back to a time before the Imperium. They were gifted with unusual powers – their psychic talents – available only to themselves. The Emperor and his primarchs had possessed that gift too, but the primarchs had vanished long ago and the Emperor was entombed within his life-giving throne. In effect, the Navigators controlled all commercial and military travel within the Imperium. Were it not for the fact that they were divided into a number of mutually antagonistic houses, they would have a stranglehold on the human realm.
The thought deeply worried Ragnar. It was all very well having Space Marines, but it would all stand for nothing if the Chapters could not reach the worlds to which they were assigned or travel where they pleased, and when. Ragnar realised that it was possible to wield power without wielding a gun.
The control the Navis Nobilitae had over space travel had made them rich and powerful beyond the dreams of most planetary governments. They had ensured that without them, the Imperium and possibly even the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, would be helpless.
‘Does the Great Wolf really send human tribute to the Navigators,’ Ragnar asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Hakon contemptuously. ‘Such foolish words are unworthy of a Wolf. The tale is an old and complicated one, reaching back to before even the founding of the Empire. We have an alliance with House Belisarius of the Navigators that was forged by Russ himself…’
‘An alliance,’ said Sven, his tone showing that he, like Ragnar, found this far more acceptable and understandable.
‘Aye. There is a pact between us. They provide us with the means to sail our ships between the stars. In return, we provide the Celestarch of Belisarius with a bodyguard.’
This too sounded only fair. For priceless as the service of a Navigator might be, surely the service of a Space Marine must balance it in the scales.
‘The Navigators swear to obey the Great Wolf as they would obey their own ruler. The Wolves, for the duration of their service, obey the Celestarch as they would their own leader, and protect him with their lives if need be.’
‘No one has ever told us any bloody such thing,’ grumbled Sven.
‘Doubtless, when Logan Grimnar feels the need to discuss every aspect of the Chapter’s business with a Blood Claw, he will call upon you,’ said Hakon tartly.
‘I think what Sven meant was that the tutelary engines never taught us this,’ said Ragnar, attempting to drag his friend out of hot water. Sven’s expression told Ragnar that he had meant no such thing, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. Hakon looked at him.
‘The machines are ancient and no one, not even the Iron Priests, entirely understands their workings. They are intended to teach what it is needful for a Marine to know. They cannot fill your head with every detail of our Chapter’s history. Not even Sven’s skull is empty enough to hold all of that. And sometimes there are gaps; the transfer of knowledge is imperfect. That is why people like me are here, to teach what the machines leave out.’
Ragnar considered this for a moment. He could see that there was sense in the sergeant’s words. Moreover, he could see a problem he had never considered before. He would never know if the machines had missed out important knowledge until it was too late. He did not have the ability to know if anything was not there. How could he? Most of what he knew came from the engines themselves.
Hakon’s nostrils flared. Once more he seemed to be able to read Ragnar’s thoughts.
Ragnar wondered whether, if he lived to be as old as the sergeant, he too would be able to read his comrades’ moods and thoughts and feelings so accurately by scent alone? Perhaps Hakon’s ability was a product of age and wisdom more than of his senses.
‘Sometimes the learning is there,’ said Hakon, ‘but it is like a scroll left on a shelf in a library, rather than an epic learned by a skald. If you do not read a scroll, how will you know its contents? And sometimes there are problems with the transfer of knowledge and it lies dormant for many years before it is fully assimilated. The brain is a peculiar thing.’
‘Sven’s certainly is,’ said Ragnar and seeing the sergeant’s expression, wished he had not been so facetious. Hakon seemed unusually communicative today, not his usual taciturn self.
‘Forget my brain, and this talk about machines. How are these heroes who go to the Navigators selected?’
‘Doubtless you will find out if you ever need to know,’ said Hakon.
‘You mean you don’t know?’
Hakon shrugged. ‘Who said they were heroes?’
Sven fell silent for a moment while he considered this. Ragnar wanted to ask another question, but Aenar chose this moment to put the chess piece down and ask a question of his own.
‘When will we be landing on Garm?’
‘We are in orbit over the world now, as you would see if you chose to look out one of the portholes,’ said the sergeant. ‘My guess is that we will be on the surface within hours. The Great Wolf will not want to waste any time in recovering the Spear of Russ or freeing the shrine from malefactors. And we must collect the gene-seed of our brethren.’
‘The gene-seed of our brethren?’ spluttered Sven.
‘Aye, you do not think we
would leave our most sacred shrine outside Fenris undefended?’
‘I would have thought that there are few enough Wolves,’ said Ragnar sharply. ‘The Emperor must have more important things for us to do than guarding shrines.’
‘There is a base here, Ragnar. A transit camp. A way station. Garm is an important crossroads and trade route. We have a presence here to repair our ships, to let our troops rest and recuperate. The place was commanded by an old comrade of mine, Jurgen Whitemane.’
Ragnar could tell from the sergeant’s tone that he did not believe his old friend was still alive.
‘If he is dead, we will bloody well avenge him,’ said Sven.
‘Aye, that we will,’ said the sergeant grimly. Ragnar looked at the sergeant. There was something strange about him. He was in a fell mood. Ragnar was reminded of all the tales he had heard of men whose wyrd had come upon them, who had walked out to their inevitable doom. He shivered, hoping that this was not a premonition.
The doorway opened. Morgrim Silvertongue stood there. He spoke quietly and with authority. ‘Ragnar, you are to come with me. The Wolf Lord would have words with you.’
As he followed the skald through the metal corridors of the starship, Ragnar wondered what was going on. Morgrim’s face was expressionless and gave him no clue. When he tried to speak, the singer brushed him off, not rudely, but like a man who has other things on his mind. Had he been a fellow Blood Claw, Ragnar might have persisted, but the man was one of the Wolf Guard, and you did not intrude on their thoughts unless asked.
He hoped that nothing bad was about to befall him. Perhaps Berek Thunderfist’s vanity could not stand the tone Ragnar had used when he had been cut off back on the Chaos ship. Perhaps he meant to call him out and have vengeance. Ragnar tried to dismiss these thoughts as foolish. There was no honour for a warrior as renowned as Berek in fighting with a Blood Claw, and Wolf Lords brawled with their followers only on the rarest of occasions. The thought was simply ridiculous.
And yet, he was nervous. It was not every day a Blood Claw was singled out for the attention of the Wolf Lord. Perhaps he intended to reward Ragnar. Perhaps he intended to promote him to Grey Hunter at last. Ragnar’s heart leapt at the prospect. If that were so, as far as he could tell, he would be the youngest Blood Claw in generations to be elevated so swiftly.
Immediately he tried to throttle the hope. It was his youth that made just such a promotion unlikely. Who did he think he was, to be singled out so?
They passed two officers of the ship’s company, resplendent in their grey tunics with the wolf’s head emblazoned above the sign of the thunder fist on their breasts. They returned the men’s salutes absentmindedly and strode on. Ragnar realised he was in part of the ship he had never visited before, the chambers assigned to the company’s leader and his Wolf Guard.
A terrible thought occurred to him – perhaps his cowardice had been noticed? Perhaps his fear at entering the corridor of collapsed metal back on the Chaos ship had come to the attention of the Wolf Lord. Perhaps he was about to be punished for this flaw, or ridiculed or… he told himself that this too was a ludicrous concept. He took a deep breath and schooled himself to calmness. Whatever Berek Thunderfist wanted would be clear soon enough. He would just have to wait a few more moments to find out.
They strode into a long, narrow chamber in which warriors of the Wolf Guard worked on their suits of Terminator armour. Ragnar wished that Morgrim would pause for a moment, so that he could inspect these ancient revered artefacts. This was the first time he had ever come so close to one. Like all young Space Wolves, he aspired to wear this armour one day. Only the best of the best, the most trusted and most able of a Wolf Lord’s retinue, ever achieved such heights.
As it was, all he managed was a quick glimpse of a suit of armour, far larger than a normal Marine’s carapace, powered by the most potent of hydraulic systems, emblazoned with attachments for the heaviest of weapons.
Ragnar caught the smell of ancient ceramite and the overlay of ten thousand years of technical unguents. He felt a sense of near overwhelming power. A feeling of simple reverence filled his heart.
Even as it did so it occurred to him that perhaps the bard had been instructed to lead him this way. By all accounts, Berek was something of a showman and quite capable of arranging something like this to create the right impression. Again, Ragnar told himself he was being ridiculous. Berek was Wolf Lord; he did not need to do anything to impress a lowly Blood Claw. Ragnar considered this. Perhaps that was true, but Berek was also a great leader, and went to great lengths to secure the loyalty and respect of his troops. Perhaps this only showed his attention to detail.
Ragnar forced himself to relax. He wondered why he had been selected and not Sven or any of the others. Perhaps he was not unique. Perhaps Berek would see them all separately. He was at once disappointed and relieved by this thought. Part of him wanted to be singled out, to stand apart from his companions in the pack. Part of him felt guilty about this, as if he were somehow being disloyal to his friends and companions. Well, whatever it was there was nothing he could do about it now. Matters were out of his hands.
They strode into another larger chamber. A great deal of expense had gone into fitting this one out. The walls were covered in wooden panels; massive wooden beams gave the illusion of supporting the ceiling. In one corner burned a fire, or rather a flickering holospherical illusion. A great trestle table sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by carved chairs of real wood. A barrel of ale stood ready in one corner. On the walls were various tattered banners, battle honours taken on a hundred fields on a hundred worlds. It was these alone that kept the place from being a near perfect counterfeit of some rich lord’s hall, back on the islands of Fenris.
Sitting on a great throne, on a raised dais at the end of the room, was Berek Thunderfist. He was flanked by Mikal Stenmark and another Wolf Guard. Berek’s leonine head rested on his massive metal hand. He looked up as Ragnar entered.
‘Welcome, Ragnar Blackmane,’ he said. ‘It’s past time that you and I had words.’
TEN
‘What do you want of me, Lord Berek?’ Ragnar asked.
‘First I want to thank you for saving my hide back on the Chaos ship, lad. That was quick thinking and it got me out of a tight spot. If it weren’t for you I might not be sitting here, quaffing ale and toasting my victory.’
‘I am sure you would have fought your way clear anyway, lord,’ said Ragnar. Berek’s answering smile told him that this was exactly what the Wolf Lord thought.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Thanks to you I did not have to try my luck. Just as well. It’s best not to test the fates too often.’
Ragnar waited to see what Berek would say next.
‘It seems to me that you should be rewarded,’ said the Wolf Lord.
‘Doing my duty was reward enough.’
‘I see old Ranek taught you well. That was the sort of answer I would have expected from one of his pupils.’
Once again Ragnar was silent. No words seemed expected of him. The Wolf Lord appeared quite capable of speaking for two. He took one of the golden arm-rings from his bicep. He gestured for Ragnar to stretch out his arm and then clamped it into place himself. Ragnar could see that the torque coiled like a serpent. Its spring-like tension held it exactly in place. He smiled. This was exactly the gesture a Fenrisian chieftain would use to reward a faithful follower. In the old tongue another word for jarl was ‘ring-giver’.
‘Thank you, Lord Berek. I am honoured.’
‘By accepting it, you do me as much honour as I do you,’ said Berek ritually. It was obvious that he was merely mouthing the ancient form of words, but still, it was a princely gift.
Ragnar did not know quite what to say.
‘I am honoured, lord.’ Ragnar said.
‘Of course you are. And rightly so. And now, you will accompany me to the Great Wolf’s ship. The Wolf Lord’s gather. There we will make our final dispositions for the drop o
n Garm. I mean to see Berek’s company has the place of honour.’
Ragnar was a little shocked. Why was he being singled out for this honour? He felt out of his depth. Was this some sort of test? Did the Wolf Lord want to see how he behaved in front of other great captains, if so why? ‘Surely that is the Great Wolf’s decision, Lord Berek.’
For a moment only, he felt like he had said the wrong thing. Berek was obviously not a man to admit that anyone was his superior. His face grew frosty for a second, then a moment later he grinned and laughed. ‘I am sure even Logan Grimnar can be persuaded, young Ragnar.’
Ragnar realised that he had passed some sort of test. He had been spoken to by name. He was no longer just a lad. He was glad that Berek felt this way, for it was the right and duty of every Fenrisian warrior to speak his mind to his chieftain, and Ragnar intended to preserve that privilege, no matter how intimidating his liege lord was. Fortunately Berek had responded like the clan chieftain he styled himself to be. Despite his initial misgivings, Ragnar found himself warming to the Wolf Lord.
Morgrim grinned. It seemed that the skald thought he had done the right thing. Mikal Stenmark’s cold glance told him a different story. It said, you got away with it this time, lad, but don’t make a habit of it.
The shuttle sped closer to the Pride of Fenris, the Great Wolf’s massive flagship. Berek stood at the massive armour-glass window, gazing covetously at the old warcraft. It was a Retribution-class battleship of ancient design, its hull pitted and scarred by a hundred battles. It dwarfed the shuttle like a sea dragon would dwarf a sprat. From where Ragnar stood it looked like the maw of one of its weapons could swallow their whole craft. Obviously this ship would not have had any trouble defeating the Chaos cruiser, one to one. He voiced his thought to Morgrim Silvertongue. Quietly as he spoke, the Wolf Lord still overheard him.
The Space Wolf Omnibus - William King Page 67
