As the battle had progressed through the days, her fatigue had began to grow, slowing her down and making her aim less sure. Casualties rose as the lack of sleep and constant rotation ground the defenders down. The Prosperine infantry suffered too. After so long locked in a state of semi-constant fighting, the stone floor became ankle-deep in blood, gore and weapon coolant.
Freija had expected the Sky Warriors to look after the sharp end of business and let the kaerls take care of themselves. It would have been in character for them, she thought, to let the mortal support troops suffer the brunt of the firestorm, so long as they were free to close in to the hand-to-hand combat they lived for.
That didn’t happen. Once the real fighting began, the Wolves seemed to treat the kaerls almost as equals. It was as if the very act of combat brought them on to the same level. In the normal run of things, a Blood Claw would barely notice a thrall, let alone speak to him. And yet, once the bolter rounds started flying, the distinctions between them suddenly, strangely, ceased to matter.
As Freija had fought on, willing her body to resist the exhaustion that dragged at her muscles, she had found her attitude toward her masters begin to change. She’d seen a Grey Hunter charge headlong into a whole rank of Rubric Marines, his axe whirring, his bolter spitting out a hail of shells. He’d taken down three of them, barrelling one bodily to the ground once his ammo was gone, fighting with his fists once his axe had been knocked out of his hands. He’d kept attacking to the end, expert and brutal, never giving up until a glowing blade was shoved straight into the gap between helm and breastplate, nearly taking his head off.
No fear. No fear at all. He’d been magnificent, the perfect predator, living up to his breeding as the finest warrior archetype in the galaxy. Freija had found the single-minded arrogance of the Sky Warriors maddening in the past, but in combat she saw why it had to be that way.
They cannot doubt. Not even for a second. They must believe they are the Allfather’s keenest blades, his most potent weapons.
Now I see them in their pure state, I am awed by them.
The example had made Freija fight all the harder. She’d been stationed close to Aldr’s position, and the Dreadnought had been as immense in defence as his battle-brothers. The strange, almost childlike confusion that had made him seem so vulnerable after awakening had evaporated. Now, no doubt inspired by the peerless example of Bjorn the Fell-Handed close by, Aldr thundered into combat with all the extravagant assurance of his gene-heritage.
He was astonishing, a twin-handed dealer of death, and wherever he came the invaders fell back in disarray. Bolt-rounds clattered harmless across his heavy shielding like hailstones, and even the Rubric Marines had no answer to the mammoth claw blades he sent crushing into them. As with the other five Dreadnoughts in the defensive perimeter, Aldr had created islands of stability within the roar and rush of the assaults, islands that lesser warriors could crowd around and use to push out from.
Freija might have imagined it, but the Dreadnought seemed to pay particular attention to her pack. Once, when they’d been caught out of position and lacking in cover, he’d lumbered right between her and the advancing enemy, using his bulk to soak up the incoming fire and launch a vicious, whirling counter-assault single-handedly.
Once safely back under the lee of the barricades, her squad mauled but still cohesive, Freija had looked back at the rampaging war machine in mute admiration, watching as his fire-swathed shell barged into harm’s way with all the swagger of a new aspirant flexing his stone-hard muscles.
Freija kept watching, her gaze held by the thoughtless heroism on display. It thrilled her. For the first time, she felt proud. Proud of her heritage, proud that such gods of war were part of the fabric of her homeworld. Proud that the Sky Warriors stood alongside her in the trenches, fighting to preserve everything they’d built together on Fenris.
I am not afraid of you.
Freija slammed a replacement magazine into her rifle and prepared to lay down supporting fire. That was her role, her loyal part in the glorious defence of the Aett.
Now, at last, I understand what my father has been telling me for so long.
She looked round to check her squad was with her, then slammed the skjoldtar into the firing slot on the barricade crest. She rested her chin against the sights, watching with satisfaction as a line of charging Prosperine infantry came into range.
Father, forgive me.
The recoil of the hammering shoulder-stock bored into her armour plate, slamming against the bruised skin. A rain of covering fire screamed past Aldr, warding him in a mantle of ripping, tearing projectiles, augmenting his already devastating assault potential.
You were right.
When Wyrmblade spoke of the past, his voice took on a different rhythm and timbre. It was akin to the declaiming tone used by the skjalds. The Aett’s saga-tellers were all mortals, however, and the Wolf Priest’s gigantic frame lent his speech a resonance none of them possessed.
‘You know of the Allfather, the Master of Mankind, whom the ignorant venerate as a god, and whom we revere as the mightiest of us all and the guardian of the wyrd. In these darkened days, he dwells in Terra, watching over the vastness of the Imperium from his Golden Throne and contesting the measureless powers that seek to extinguish light and hope from the galaxy. In the past, it was not so. He walked among us, gifting his subjects a fraction of his power, marching to war with the primarchs and ridding the stars of the terror that plagued them.
‘It was the Allfather who created Leman Russ, the primogenitor of the Vlka Fenryka, and the Allfather who fashioned the Legion that served under his name. For every Legion he created, there was a purpose. Some were blessed with the power to build, or the skill to administer, or the capacity for stealth. Our gift was different. We were made to destroy. Our whole being is destruction. Such was the will of the Allfather. He made us not to construct empires but to murder them. We were bred to perform the tasks that no other Legion could, to fight with such extravagance that even our brother warriors would shrink from treachery in the knowledge of what we, the Rout, would do to them.
‘That power was exercised more than once. Most famously, as you know, against the enemy who now hammers at our doors. But, for all our zeal, we failed in the task of protection. Treachery came, falling like lightning from heaven, and the galaxy was consumed by the fire of betrayal. Though the blackest evil was staunched, much that was great and good was lost. The Imperium is a bleaker place now, and the visions of its founders languish, still-born and unrealised. We know this, we who preserve the sagas of old. Though many others who rely on the uncertain transmission of the written word and the recorded vox-pattern have forgotten those days, we, who live by the recitation of the skjalds, remember them all. We know what we were. We know what we were intended to be.
‘Now, a new age has dawned. The Age of the Imperium, they call it. The needs of mankind have changed. Instead of twenty Legions, there are many hundreds of Chapters. There are no primarchs to guide them. Instead, the Adeptus Astartes fight in the image of their gene-fathers, rehearsing the capabilities designed for a different future. That is the way of things now, a vision made reality not by the Allfather, but by one of his sons. Chapters no longer march in ranks of ten thousand or more. They create successors, off-shoots governed by the same gene-seed, so that their primarch’s legacy is maintained across the stars. The more successors, the greater the legacy. The sons of Guilliman are the ancestors of hundreds, as are the sons of Dorn, and so it is that the Imperium is modelled in their image.’
Wyrmblade paused. There was an edge of distaste on his words.
‘This is what has become important. Not prowess. Not danger. Stability. Reliability. Fidelity. Without these things, no Chapter lives to exert influence. Successors – these are what our brothers aspire to create, to ensure that warriors of their temper flourish and endure, and to exclude those forged from different metal.
‘And do you suppose, Morek Kare
kborn, that the Vlka Fenryka have followed this path? Have we let ourselves be divided into successor Chapters as the Ultramarines, the Angels, or the Fists have done?’
‘No,’ said Morek confidently. ‘We are different.’
Wyrmblade shook his head.
‘Not that different. We had a successor: the Wolf Brothers, led by Beor Arjac Grimmaesson. They were to have been as numerous as we were, and as powerful. They were gifted a homeworld, Kaeriol, a planet of ice and fire, just as Fenris is. They had half our fleet, half our armouries, half our Priests. They were to have been the first of many, a whole line of descendant Fenrisian Chapters – the Sons of Russ, capable of carving out a star empire the size of Ultramar. That was the vision: to be powerful enough to encircle the Eye of Terror completely, to prevent the Traitors from daring to leave it ever again. Thus, it was hoped, we would fulfil our destiny and find a new purpose in the Age of the Imperium.’
Morek looked up at the skull-mask of the Rune Priest. The visions he was being asked to absorb were coming too quickly. A glimpse of the galaxy was unfolding in his mind, radically different from the one he knew. Though he’d been off-world many times and seen many wonders, this version of reality was the strangest of them all.
‘What happened to them? The Wolf Brothers?’
‘They are gone.’
‘Destroyed?’
‘Not all. Some may yet live, though their wyrd is unknown. They were disbanded, scattered to the six points of the compass. ’
‘Why?’
Wyrmblade drew in a deep, grating breath.
‘For the same reason there can be no further successors to the Rout. The Wolf within. We are too dangerous to be copied. The heritage that makes us powerful also makes us unstable. The Brothers, located far from Fenris, fell quickly into the state of beasts. So it must be with any attempt to splice new growth from the gene-seed of Russ.’
Wyrmblade bowed his head. But then his eyes flashed in the dark, catching a stray flicker of light from the fire.
‘Until now.’
Redpelt was on his knees, firing from the waist, watching as the bolt pistol ammo-counter clicked down. His aim was precise, and no shot was wasted. Bolts slammed into the oncoming ranks of Rubric Marines, taking down some, exploding against the armour of others.
Then they’d come again, just as they always did, in remorseless waves, selling their empty souls to break the deadlock at the Fangthane stairway. Each time, there were more of them, some clad in the shimmering kine-shields of the witches, most relying on the protection of their sapphire battle-plate.
Redpelt exhausted the clip. He calmly knocked the empty container to the ground, grabbed a replacement and slammed it home. By the time he’d resumed firing, the enemy had come no more than two paces closer.
Heavy weapons fire streaked over his head from the Long Fangs, impacting amid the oncoming Traitor Marines. Much of it exploded against the kine-shields in glittering cascades of sparks and plasma-bursts, but some found a weak link and crashed amongst the armoured warriors, causing devastation.
Into those paths of ruin leapt the Wolves, chainswords thrumming, bellowing their litanies of hatred and defiance. Helfist was in the vanguard this time, his power fist rippling, the retrieved blade Dausvjer singing as it arced.
‘Contact close, brother!’ voxed Redpelt, powering into a sprint and racing after him.
Helfist dropped sharply, evading the stab of an oncoming Rubric Marine, before leaping back up and bringing his own blade to bear. The disruptor-laced edges clashed, sending an explosion of tortured energy out before the swords were withdrawn.
‘Fodder,’ spat Helfist contemptuously.
There was a strange undertow to his voice, rasping and blood-wet.
By then Redpelt was close at hand, his chainsword juddering and bolt-pistol pumping. Everything was moving at staggering speed. There were no mortals in this fight. Rossek’s Blood Claws did what they always did, fighting with abandon, relishing the unfettered exercise of their kill-urge, keeping Morkai a jaw-snap away and no more. The Traitors met them fearlessly, blocking and thrusting, waiting for the opening, seizing it with cold expertise, moving on to the next task. Both sides were fully committed, locked into a struggle that they knew would preserve or break the deadlock.
The Traitor managed to sweep his fist into Helfist’s face, knocking him heavily to the ground. Redpelt let fly with his pistol, throwing the Rubric Marine back several paces in a cloud of detonating rounds.
‘Careless, brother,’ he jibed over the comm, whirling round to meet the next threat. ‘Losing your touch?’
There was no reply from Helfist. Redpelt was soon occupied in hand-to-hand combat with another Traitor, and couldn’t look round to check on him.
Helfist hadn’t been hit that hard. What was wrong?
The next Rubric Marine slammed into contact, just one of the dozens that crowded into the narrow choke-point.
‘Traitor filth!’ roared Redpelt, punching out with his chainsword, aiming for the gap under the right shoulder-guard.
The Rubric Marine swung back, letting the whirring blades pass by before jabbing back with his own blade. The movements of both warriors were dazzlingly quick, each one weighted to perfection, each one capable of breaking through adamantium on connection. Redpelt pressed forwards, the kill-urge pulsing in his bloodstream. The blows rained fast, clanging from ceramite and rebounding back.
He had the momentum now. The Traitor fought well, but its weight had been pushed on to the back foot. Redpelt feinted left, then swept his blades up and across, aiming to catch the Rubric Marine under the thick breastplate.
He would have made it. The chainsword would have bit deep, tearing through the plate and into the hollow shell beyond. He would have had another kill, and his helm display would have registered another completion rune alongside the dozens that already lodged there.
He was prevented, not by the enemy, nor by the explosion of a long-range weapon, but by Helfist. The Blood Claw threw himself between the two duelling warriors, slamming into the Rubric Marine and rolling across the ground with it. There was something strange and unsettling about the speed of the manoeuvre. Before Redpelt had even reacted, Helfist had sprung to his feet, slammed Dausvjer into his victim’s neck-guard, pulled the blade free, grabbed the stricken Traitor’s helm with his power fist and wrenched it off.
His movements were terrifying, like the accelerated gestures of a nightmare. Helfist no longer spoke, no longer joked over the comm. As Redpelt backed away, watched warily for closing targets, he heard a thick, guttural wheezing coming over the comm.
‘Brother–’ Redpelt started, feeling cold.
Helfist wasn’t listening. He was fighting. Fighting like he’d never been able to fight before, not even on the causeways. Rubric Marines charged up to him, and were torn apart. Literally, torn apart. Helfist’s limbs passed into a blur of grey, a flailing pattern of devastation, tearing through battle-plate as if it were leather, punching it open and throwing it aside. He plunged into the oncoming ranks of the enemy like a predator let loose amid a herd of slow-moving herbivores, consumed with no thought other than downing as many of them as he could.
‘Kyr!’ shouted Redpelt, watching his brother move further out of formation.
None of the other Claws could follow him so far out. If they did, they’d be picked off by the Rubric Marines, unable to benefit from the cover of the fixed guns and supporting kaerl squads. Helfist was going to his death.
Redpelt charged toward him. He wouldn’t stand by and watch it. He crunched into an oncoming Rubric Marine, putting as much strength as he could into every blow, feeling frustration mount that he couldn’t just shoulder it aside like Helfist could. He fought with all the skill of his long conditioning, but it wasn’t enough.
They were isolated. Helfist had damned himself.
It was then, and only then, that words came over the comm. They were badly slurred, like a drunkard trying to remember how to speak. S
ome of Helfist’s old voice-pattern was in there, but it was almost gone. The phlegmy tones were more like beast than man, distorted by a mess of growling and slavering.
‘Go, brother,’ came the snarling, panting voice. ‘I cannot protect you.’
Protect me?
Then Redpelt understood. Helfist was killing everything that came close to him. He’d passed too far, and there was no way back. Even Rossek wouldn’t have been able to stop him then. The Wolf had taken Helfist, drawn him into its dark embrace and consumed what remained of his old humanity.
Redpelt finally dispatched his foe, but more were coming to take its place. Helfist was now deep within the ranks of the enemy, still fighting like a daemon, still carving them apart like a berserker of legend.
He couldn’t follow. No one could follow that path unless the Wolf chose them too. Helfist was a dead man, though in his death throes he’d slay more than many of his brothers would do in their whole lives.
Tears of rage started in Redpelt’s eyes. They’d fought together since the beginning, since the half-forgotten days on the ice, since the Wolf Priests had first come for them to turn them into immortals. They’d passed through the trials together, learning the way of the Wolves together, gloried in the murder-make together. For a short time, such a short time, it had seemed as if no force in the galaxy could match the raw potency of their combined blades.
I cannot follow. Too slow. Blood of Russ, I was too slow.
Then Redpelt howled, a howl of rage and loss, an all-consuming, skirling torrent of pure anger and misery. For a brief moment the bark and echo of the guns were overmastered, and his horrifying cry resounded down the long tunnels of the Aett. Prosperine soldiers looked up from their fighting, thinking some devil of the Fang had come alive to drag them into the dark. Even the kaerls, steeped in the rituals and ways of the mountain, felt their blood run cold.
War of the Fang - Chris Wraight Page 42
