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 him 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 skraegrhunt, 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 got under way. 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.’
Redpelt could have been his twin were it not for the messy shock of auburn hair and straggling sideburns. His fangs were similarly short, not yet extended by the long working of the Helix. He had an iron ring in his lower lip which glinted from the glowglobes above them. When he let slip his savage smile, which happened a lot, it dragged against his teeth like scree clattering down ice.
‘Stop talking,’ he said, beckoning Helfist on. ‘And start fighting.’
Helfist darted left, then checked back and dragged the axe-blade up, aiming for Redpelt’s torso. The two weapons impacted in a shower of sparks, locking the shafts. Helfist pushed two-handed, throwing all his massive strength into the shove.
Redpelt held it for a moment, then stumbled back, knocked off-balance.
‘Ya!’ yelled Helfist, and pounced.
The axeheads clashed, then clashed again, each blow sending ripples of terrific force slamming into the defensive parries. Helfist was indeed the faster, and his uncovered arms moved in a blur.
‘Coming for you now...’ grunted Helfist through gritted teeth, his face a mask of concentration. Beads of sweat had formed on his temples, even though the fight-cages were winter-cold and glittering from the ice on the metal.
Redpelt didn’t reply, kept busy fending off the furious assault from his pack-mate. Both Blood Claws were out of armour, wearing leather tunics and greaves lined with exquisite knotwork. The axeblades were blunt for training, but were still capable of breaking bones and tearing flesh. That was the way the overseers arranged it, to instil the proper respect for the blade and to discourage reliance on battle-plate.
Redpelt slammed against the cage wall, feeling the unyielding iron press into his back. He rolled away as Helfist’s axe arced through the space where his chest had just been.
From outside the cage, a torrent of raucous laughter rang out.
‘Skítja,’ swore Redpelt, picking out the dark shapes of other Blood Claws standing out of the range of the glowglobes. He’d got an audience. A low jeering broke out as Redpelt evaded another swipe and scrambled to get out of range.
‘Slow, slow, slow,’ taunted Helfist, swaggering after him, breathing heavily, his face running with moisture. Redpelt took some satisfaction from the fact he wasn’t making this easy.
‘You’d fight better if you didn’t talk so much,’ Redpelt muttered, trying to regain balance and take the initiative back.
‘Think that if it makes you feel better,’ crowed Helfist, stalking after him, hefting the axe-shaft lightly. He had the superior smile of victory, and closed back into swing-range.
‘Yeah,’ growled Redpelt, coiling for the spring. ‘It does.’
He thrust suddenly upwards, hurling himself at Helfist’s advancing torso and barrelling him back. Helfist had come in too close, too confident, and couldn’t get his axe down in time. Redpelt wrapped him in a bear-hug and propelled him further, running him into the far wall of the cage. They hit it with a resounding clang.
Helfist’s axe dropped from his clutches and he balled his fist, poised to deliver the crushing blow that had given him his name. Redpelt was quicker, and head-butted him fu
ll in the face. There was a crack of bone against bone, and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Helfist’s head rocked back, and his glittering eyes went glassy. Redpelt let his own weapon fall and clubbed the reeling Blood Claw with a flurry of punches, hammering him down to his knees.
A roar of approval rang out across the iron cage, punctuated by whoops and howls. Weapons were dragged along the bars, echoing up into the roof-space and making the entire chamber reverberate.
The cacophony was so loud it almost obscured the gong that signalled the end of the fight. Feigning ignorance, Redpelt got in one more bone-crunching uppercut before the cage-doors were slammed open and Brakk lumbered in to break them up.
‘That’s enough,’ he snarled, pulling Redpelt off the reeling Helfist and hurling him back across the cage. Even out of power armour the Wolf Guard was far stronger than either of them. ‘This is blade-practice, not a brawl.’
There was a chorus of disappointed boos as Redpelt clambered back to his feet and Brakk hoisted Helfist up against the cage wall.
Redpelt’s whole body ached. A hot trail of blood ran down his face from where the skin over his forehead had broken.
He felt drained, bruised, battered, fantastic.
Helfist was beginning to come round, his head lolling and eyes still out of focus.
‘That was stupid,’ growled Brakk. ‘Am I going to have to beat the stupidity out of you, Blood Claw?’
‘You could try,’ drawled Helfist, punch-drunk against the iron.
Redpelt grinned, limping over to his adversary. Brakk spat on the floor.
‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ he said. ‘The Jarl wants reports on your combat readiness, and you’re going to have to work a whole lot harder.’
Brakk stalked off out of the cage, pushing his way through the crowd of spectators clustered outside. Redpelt caught Helfist before he could collapse to the floor again and pulled him back up roughly.
‘Like I said. Too quick for you,’ he said.
Helfist’s vision was clearing. The blood in his wounds had turned dark with clotting. It took a lot to knock him over, but even more to keep him down.
‘This time, brother,’ he replied, and grinned across blood-soaked teeth. ‘Only this time.’
Redpelt laughed, a throaty roar of feral enjoyment. The two fighters slammed their right fists together, and the bruised fingers clenched fast.
Wyrmblade slumped back in his throne, feeling bone-weary. The work was exhausting, even for one with his gene-forged physiology. Days at a time of testing, refining, testing again, splicing, looking for the hidden flaws, rooting out the false positives and bearing down on the secrets wound within the vials and vessels. All around him, the low hubbub of the laboratorium continued – thralls diligently poring over sample trays, cogitators chattering, vials of fluid gently bubbling at precisely controlled temperatures.
Nine days. Nine days since Ironhelm had left, emptying the Aett of the Great Companies and leaving the corridors sparse and home to whispers. In that time, almost nothing had been achieved, and much had been undone. Every step forwards was accompanied by many more backwards, sideways and down. It would be easy to despair, easy to lose hope.
Except, of course, that despair was as alien to a son of Russ as peace and stillness.
The secret eludes me only because I draw closer. Like prey on the ice, it can sense the hunter.
The analogy helped him. There had been times when intractable problems had been solved through the imagery of the hunt. The kill-urge could be sublimated, turned into a source of pure mental determination. That gave him hope, too. There was so much that he didn’t understand, but so much that he was beginning to see clearly. That the kill-urge had such origins was a positive sign.
Do I dare too much? Is this forbidden? Perhaps. But then we have never been ones for following the rules. Leave those to Guilliman’s sons.
He reviewed the evidence again. The pattern he’d been pursuing over the past few weeks was breaking down. Not irretrievably, but with severe consequences for the model he’d placed so much faith in. It would need another week of work to put right, to untangle the snarls. Not for the first time, he found himself in awe of the original architects, the ones who’d put the elements together, who’d forced the river of humanity into its new and lasting course.
Is this forbidden? he asked himself again, knowing the answer already.
Of course it was.
A rune blinked on his armour-collar, alerting him to Sturmhjart’s presence nearby. The Rune Priest, for all his power on the battlefield, was an unsubtle spy. Wyrmblade sighed, stowing the data-slate in the arm-recess of the throne. He gestured to a nearby thrall, and the leather-masked mortal nodded his understanding. The blast-doors deep in the laboratorium complex slid closed, masking the contents of the rooms beyond. Pict-screens of sensitive results cleared, replaced by standard-looking rows of runes.
Wyrmblade rose from the throne, wearily preparing to meet the scorn and suspicion of his brother.
He fears much, and guesses much, thought Wyrmblade, pacing through the interconnected tiled chambers in his awkward, age-corroded way. Let him. If he guessed more, he’d fear more. Only Greyloc sees the potential, but his soul is strange.
Wyrmblade neared the entrance chamber to the laboratorium and saw the hulking figure of the Rune Priest waiting for him, his rich, sigil-encrusted armour an odd counterpoint to the sterile realm of the fleshmakers.
I just need more time.
Wyrmblade forced the familiar hooked smile on to his wrinkled features and went to greet his brother with the expected irascible banter.
A little more time.
The Thousand Sons flotilla flagship Herumon began to slow, making ready to break the seal between the warp and the materium. All around it, the rest of the fleet matched pace, fifty-four blue-and-gold warships and troop carriers grinding down to translation speed.
On the bridge of the Herumon, Temekh and Aphael stood side by side, pyrae and corvidae. The other members of the senior command retinue – Ormana, Hett and Czamine – stood around them. All wore full battle-plate over their robes and their helms had been donned. Most of them had spent the long, boredom-filled hours on the Planet of the Sorcerers honing and altering their suits. The helms now bore crests and flutes of gold and bronze, and their greaves were engraved with florid scripts invoking long-forgotten epigrams.
Temekh regarded them tolerantly. Of his companions, only he seemed to see how far they’d fallen.
We have lost our taste. We are becoming parodies of ourselves.
His own armour was relatively unmodified Mk III, re-coloured sapphire to reflect Magnus’s orders, but otherwise much as it had been before the Betrayal. He still wore the neatly clipped beard he’d adopted on Prospero, still kept his white hair trimmed close. He found himself wondering whether Amon, Sobek and Hathor Maat had done likewise. Those who had joined Ahriman’s breakaway cabal had always been the most headstrong and those with the most power. The rump that had remained faithful to the primarch were the second-rate, the ones who had not dared to join the casting of the Rubric.
Not that it had mattered. The counter-sorcery had affected them all anyway, preserving less than a hundred of the Legion’s sorcerers and condemning the rest, the rubricae, to dust. Now the remnants of what had once been the Emperor’s most finely crafted weapons were scattered into petty bands of raiders, vengeance-seekers and knowledge-thieves. This grand fleet, this gathering of disparate forces, was the final gesture, the last echo of a disaster that had taken place over a thousand years ago.
‘Lord, we are preparing to make translation.’
The speaker was a shaven-headed crewman with heavy kohl around his eyes. He wore the robes of a senior watch officer, and must have served in the fleet for many years. Most of the mortal crew were much more recently drafted, the products of a long programme of cult-planting on a hundred Imperial worlds.
Aphael turned to Temekh.
; ‘And what do you see, prophet?’ he asked, his voice distorted by an elaborate vox-grille.
Temekh suppressed his irritation at being asked again, and cast his mind’s eye out on to the Great Ocean. The occult relations between warp-space and realspace unfolded before him like the branches of an equation, moving subtly against one another, falling in and out of balance.
He tracked the location of the fleet and traced it to its destination. The margins were slight. If they maintained their current orientation, they’d be coming in very close to Fenris.
‘You’re taking us in hard,’ said Temekh, snapping back into the present. ‘Too hard.’
Aphael laughed.
‘You want to give them time to prepare?’ The pyrae shook his armoured head. ‘Remember how our orbital stations were taken down? In seconds. That’s the way to burn a world. The Ocean has been calmed for us, smoothed apart to let us drop right in on top of their heads.’
Temekh could sense Aphael’s smiles under his helm, could feel his eagerness for the clash ahead.
‘There’s nothing to worry us in the warp, brother,’ Aphael continued. ‘If you looked yourself, you’d see the Dog-fleet is already days away and beyond recall. With speed we will do this thing.’
‘Fine. Just don’t hurl us into the heart of the planet.’
Aphael didn’t laugh at that.
‘Time to translation?’ he asked, turning to the officer.
‘Imminent, lord.’
‘Then activate the screen.’
Ahead of the command group, a curved mirror rose gracefully from the bronze-plate floor. The glazed surface swam with colour, shifting and breaking like oil on water. Temekh looked at it with distaste. It was a crude representation of the aether, the result of looking at it through machine-spirit eyes.
‘Begin,’ ordered Aphael.
Across the fleet, warp-drives powered down. The fifty-four ships acted in unison, their plasma realspace drives growling into life and their void shields rippling into place.
The shifting vision on the mirror sheared away, replaced by the void. Ahead of them, terrifyingly close, was a single ball of pearl-white. It rushed toward the approaching ships, growing larger with every second. The Thousand Sons fleet, guided by its peerless scryers, had emerged from the warp closer and faster than any mortal-guided ship could have managed.
War of the Fang - Chris Wraight Page 15
