Wolf's Honour Part 16

Pandemonium broke out as pack leaders leapt to their feet, shouting angry oaths or denouncing Volt as a liar and a blasphemer. Bulveye sat in silence, brooding darkly over the news. Finally Torvald rose to his feet and raised his axe high. Lightning crackled from the blade and a sharp thunderclap deafened everyone in the cavern. 'Sit down!' the Rune Priest commanded, and the pack leaders reluctantly obeyed. Then Torvald addressed Volt directly. 'What you are talking about would require enormous amounts of psychic power,' he said.

'Naturally,' Volt replied. 'That is why Madox and his lord had to perform the ritual here, in the Eye of Terror. They can draw upon the warp to fuel their sorceries, and then channel those energies through the sigil around Charys. No one, not even Grimnar himself, could resist such a spell for long.'

'And then?' Torvald asked.

Volt's expression became a mask of dread. 'Then blood will flow across a dozen worlds,' he replied. 'The Wolves will turn upon the sheep they once swore to protect. I expect millions of Imperial citizens will die, and that would be just the beginning. The Inquisition would declare the s.p.a.ce Wolves excommunicae traitoris, and then there would be war.'

Ragnar felt his guts turn to ice. Volt was right; the Inquisition would spare no effort to hunt the Wulfen to destruction. Virus bombs would fall upon Fenris, and those that did not flee to the outer reaches of the galaxy, or into the Eye of Terror, would be slain. Of course, the Wulfen would not go meekly. By the time the war was over, entire sectors would lie in ruins. The Imperium would need thousands of years to rebuild, provided its foes did not decide to take advantage of humanity's weakened state and move against it.

'Now we know why the Chaos cultists were taking the progenoid glands from dead s.p.a.ce Marines on Hyades,' Ragnar mused. 'Madox needed s.p.a.ce Wolf gene-seed for his ritual.' He frowned as another thought struck him. 'But what of the Spear of Russ? What does he need with that?'

Volt shook his head. 'I've been wondering about that myself, and I can only speculate at this point,' he said. 'I believe that Madox required a relic of great significance to bind the ritual to your Chapter. The spear - tainted with the blood of Berek Thunderfist, a Wolf Lord - is the fulcrum for Madox's ritual.'

Once again, the cavern erupted in wild shouts as Bulveye's warriors reacted to the news, and this time it took the Wolf Lord himself to end the tumult and bring the council back to order. 'It is no surprise that Madox would have chosen the spear for his diabolical spell,' Bulveye told Volt. 'For we Wolf Lords swore our allegiance to Leman upon that self-same weapon and formed the great companies of our Legion. The most binding oaths of our brotherhood were wrought with it'

The news stunned Ragnar. Did Logan Grimnar or the priests at the Fang realise the spear's importance, or had its true significance been lost over the course of thousands of years?

'But how did Leman lose his spear?' one of the pack leaders cried. 'It's inconceivable!'

'Morkai's black teeth!' Torvald swore, shaking his head. 'He was constantly losing the d.a.m.ned thing. You may not remember any more, but I do.' The Rune Priest pointed to Bulveye. 'Do you recall the time he drank all that stormwine on Sirenia and tried to throw the b.l.o.o.d.y spear at the moon? Took us four days to find it afterwards.' He chuckled ruefully and grinned at Ragnar. 'Truth be told, he hated that big boar-sticker, but the Allfather gave it to him as a gift, so he was stuck with it. He dragged it out for ceremonies, and then he'd stick it in a corner somewhere and forget about it. Drove his huscarls mad.'

'Never mind how he lost the spear,' Bulveye said, turning his attention to Volt. 'You said this sigil had to charge itself before it reached full power. Does that mean we can stop the ritual before it is too late?'

'Yes, I believe so,' the inquisitor replied. 'We must find a way to reach the temple at the centre of the city and wrest the spear away from Madox. Without that focus, the ritual energies will dissipate.'

Ragnar clenched his hands around Bulveye's iron dagger. He could feel his fingertips changing as thick talons began to take root. 'What about our brothers who have already succ.u.mbed?'

'If the ritual is disrupted before it causes too much corruption to the gene-seed, they may revert to normal,' Sigurd said, 'but every moment brings us closer to the point of no return.'

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf leapt to his feet. 'Then we must attack at once!'

Ragnar was greeted with loud roars of approval from the pack leaders, but Bulveye glowered at the warriors. 'Shut up, for the Allfather's sake!' he bellowed. 'We've been watching the enemy come and go from that city for a long time. It's more than a day's march away, and the streets are guarded by an army of cultists and Thousand Sons.' The Wolf Lord paced in front of the fire. 'If we had the whole company here we could just charge right down their throats and dare the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to stand in our way, but there is only us.'

'What can we do, then?' Ragnar asked.

The Wolf Lord studied the faces of his pack leaders, and then stared thoughtfully into the cold flames. 'We must bring the enemy here,' he said.

EIGHTEEN.

Wolf's Honour The first heavy sh.e.l.ls began to fall on the Imperial defences as Mikal Sternmark reached the command bunker complex. No barrage siren wailed this time as the earth shaking blasts pounded the fortifications to the east. The augur crews and communications staff were loading all the equipment they could cany on a trio of heavy cargo haulers as Sternmark came charging out of the twilight. Soldiers and technicians scattered out of the s.p.a.ce Wolf's path, intent on making good their escape from the impending rebel a.s.sault. The stink of defeat hung heavy in the air, stoking his rage even further.

No sentries remained to challenge Sternmark at the command bunker's entrance, but the narrow pa.s.sageway beyond was filled with a procession of near-panicked Guardsmen carrying boxes of doc.u.ments and crates of equipment. They recoiled before the grim, blood-spattered visage of the s.p.a.ce Wolf, flattening themselves against the ferrocrete walls as best they could to allow his armoured bulk to pa.s.s.

The burning beneath his skin had turned to a sharp, pulsing ache that reached down into his bones. Sternmark tasted blood on his lips, and a steady, agonising pressure was building behind his eyes. He lashed out like a maddened beast as he lurched down the corridors of the bunker, gouging craters in the reinforced ferrocrete with blows from his armoured fist.

A technician was hurrying out of the war room with a portable logic engine in his arms as Sternmark arrived. The man froze at the sight of the wild-eyed giant, and the Wolf Guard hurled him backwards into the chamber with a brutal shove. He hit the floor with a crash and a shout of pain, his arms still wrapped protectively around the precious machine.

Most of the equipment in the large chamber had already been removed, and a score of soldiers and staff officers were hard at work unhooking and packing up the rest. Heads turned at the sudden commotion, and the frenetic buzz of conversation in the room fell silent. Several of the Guardsmen took one look at Sternmark's horrific appearance and surrept.i.tiously laid their hands on their las-guns.

Lady Commander Athelstane was standing on the stage at the far end of the room, surrounded by half a dozen of her senior officers. The men were carrying despatch cases bulging with maps and data-slates, and looked ready to depart at a moment's notice. They all turned at the Wolf Guard's sudden arrival, hands drifting to the b.u.t.ts of their laspistols.

Athelstane scowled at the blood-stained Wolf. 'Have a care with my equipment,' she said coldly. 'Those logic engines are difficult to come by'

Sternmark bristled at the general's cynical tone. 'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded.

'I should think the meaning would be obvious!' Athelstane snapped. 'The enemy has driven us from the capital and is preparing for a final a.s.sault against the starport. Now, I must concern myself with preserving as much of my command as possible while there is still time. If you'd bothered to answer any of my vox transmissions you would have known about this hours ago.'

'You're fleeing from the enemy!' Sternmark roared. The savagery in his voice stole the colour from the Guardsmen's faces, but Athelstane was made of far sterner stuff.

'Have a care, sir,' she warned. 'I'm not in the mood for insults.'

Sternmark stalked towards the stage, his power blade gripped tightly in his hand. The pain in his head made it hard to think. It felt as though his very skull was being warped by the pressure. He lashed out with a clenched fist and smashed a table to pieces. Startled, the Guardsmen scattered out of his way and raised their weapons.

'Where is your honour?' Sternmark growled. The words were barely intelligible, as the Wolf Guard's lips stretched taut over prominent fangs. 'Our troops are dug-in. We have heavy weapons, and my men are well supplied-'

'How many of your men are left?' the general shot back. We haven't been able to contact anyone beyond the capital since mid-afternoon. My men are exhausted, and their vaunted heavy weapons are nearly out of ammunition. There's nothing more we can do here except die,' she said, 'and I won't waste the lives of good soldiers on a lost cause.'

Athelstane nodded curtly to her officers and checked her chronometer. 'It's almost time to check in with Holmgang,' she said. 'I was going to request that they return to Charys and cover our withdrawal, and then they can bombard the starport and the capital with everything they've got. We can at least make the enemy pay for ma.s.sing so many of their troops in one place.'

She led her officers down off the stage and approached the Wolf Guard. 'Now that you're here, I could use your help convincing the Holmgang to support the withdrawal plan.' As the general drew closer, her eyes narrowed and she studied Sternmark's face closely. What's happened to you?' she said with a curious scowl. There's something wrong with your eyes-'

'I cannot let you do this.' The Wolf Guard's voice was little more than a deep, liquid growl. Redclaw fell with a discordant clang to the war room floor as a wave of agony swept over Sternmark. 'Better death than this.'

His words gave way to a terrible howl. Sternmark pressed his hands to his face and felt the bones beneath his skin start to shift.

'Blessed Emperor!' Athelstane cried. 'He's suffering some kind of attack.' She turned to her men. 'Go and fetch a priest, quickly!'

'It is too late for priests!' the Wolf Guard snarled. Sternmark's head came up, his face distended into a toothy snout. Powerful jaws gaped at the stunned general and her staff. 'Cursed!' he howled. 'I am cursed!'

Guardsmen screamed at Sternmark's b.e.s.t.i.a.l transformation and brought up their guns. Bolts of energy detonated harmlessly against the Wolf Guard's Terminator armour.

Sternmark's body moved with pure, animal instinct, surging forward and smashing two of the Guardsmen across the room with blows from his powerful fists. Bones shattered. Men cried in mortal pain, and the scent of blood hung in the air.

Lady Commander Athelstane uttered a blistering curse and reached for the h.e.l.lpistol at her hip. She fumbled open the holster flap and pulled the weapon free just as the Wulfen's teeth closed around her throat.

Halfway across the Charys star system the Holmgang and her escorts drifted silentiy through the icy void. For weeks the battle-barge had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with Chaos ships in the asteroid field at the system's edge, but Holmgang's wily master reversed his course and slipped unnodced through the enemy cordon. Since then the s.p.a.ce Wolf ships had been gliding on a parabolic course back towards the embattled agri-world, growing closer with every pa.s.sing day.

The ship's master and his lieutenants gathered at Holmgang's signals room and eyed the minutes ticking away on the chronometer set above the vox station. Tripwire required at least three command officers present to confirm receipt of the scheduled signal. There could be no room for error with the fate of an Imperial world hanging in the balance.

The minutes ticked away. No one spoke. The silence in the signals room was broken only by the quiet hum of the vox-units and the ghostly whisper of stadc. At the appointed time the officers raised their heads to the crackling vox-speaker and listened.

They waited while the seconds pa.s.sed, and their faces turned cold and grim. A full minute pa.s.sed, and then another, until finally the ship's master could wait no more. With solemn ceremony he stretched out his hand and pressed a switch. The vox-unit fell silent.

Within the hour the orders were transmitted to the rest of the fleet. Thrusters glowed to angry life, and the s.p.a.ce Wolf ships put on speed. Belowdecks, Iron Priests garbed themselves in leaden robes and began the Rites of Atomic Redemption, unlocking the great seals that would waken the ship's cyclonic torpedoes. There was little time to waste.

The Holmgang would reach Charys in less than four hours.

Bulveye's plan was simple and direct. After issuing a few curt commands to Torvald, the Rune Priest left the cavern to set events in motion. Then there was nothing left to do but wait.

The Wolves pa.s.sed the time in the same way as their ancestors of old, telling tales of the campaigns they had fought and the foes they had bested. Bulveye and his warriors spoke of the Great Crusade and the battles they had fought alongside Leman Russ. Their stories were told in the old tongue of Fenris, shaped in the chanting cadences of the ancient sagas. Ragnar learned of lost civilisations and long-dead races. Bulveye was a gifted storyteller, and painted vivid tales of fiery combat drops and t.i.tanic land battles, of desperate struggles and heroic stands fought for the sake of a young and hopeful Imperium.

They spoke of Russ himself, not the blessed Primarch Russ, but the black haired, flame eyed warrior who was more wolf than man. They spoke of his rough manner and intemperate heart, of his wild oaths and petty rivalries, of his melancholy nature and his merciless rage. 'He drove us all to distraction,' Bulveye said ruefully. 'I remember one time when he'd got Horus so worked up I thought they were going to come to blows. The Allfather got between them, and Leman punched him full in the jaw.'

Ragnar's eyes widened. 'What happened then?'

Bulveye laughed. 'The Allfather hit Leman so hard he was unconscious for a month. Spent the rest of the campaign flat on his back aboard the battle-barge.'

One of Bulveye's pack leaders, a warrior named Dagmar, shook his head and chuckled. 'That was the quietest month we ever had,' he said, and his companions laughed along with him.

'Leman didn't speak to the Allfather for almost a year, but eventually they came around,' the Wolf Lord said with a grin. 'That was how they were, like a jarl and his sons, always squabbling about one thing or another, but they never forgot the ties of blood and kin.' Bulveye paused, and his smile faded. 'Well, not until the end.'

Torin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes shone yellow in the cold firelight, and there was a troubled look on his face. 'The legends say that Russ sent you into the warp to finish what was begun back on Prospero.'

'Is that so?' Bulveye replied conversationally, but there was a guarded look in his blue eyes. 'That sounds like an interesting story. You will have to tell it to me sometime.'

Silence fell around the fire. Ragnar glanced sidelong at the Wolf Lord. 'You came to this world because Torvald cast the runes and drew the Spear,' he said. 'What were you expecting to find?'

The Wolf Lord considered the young s.p.a.ce Wolf for a long moment. 'You've already answered the question,' he said carefully. 'I came looking for the spear, and now you've helped me find it.'

'It wasn't just the spear, though, was it?' Ragnar said. 'You had no idea that Russ has been lost for ten thousand years, and that he'd left his spear behind on Garm. You expected him to be here.'

Bulveye gave Ragnar a wolfish smile. 'Leman is no more lost than we were,' he replied. 'I don't know where he's gone, but I do know this: he swore an oath to us a very long time ago, and one day he will keep it.'

'How can you be so sure?' Torin asked.

The Wolf Lord chuckled. 'Because, little brother, Leman of the Russ was a scoundrel and an axe-bitten fool at times, but he always kept his word, regardless of the cost.' Bulveye held out his right hand. 'When last we met, he clasped my wrist and swore that one day we would meet again.' The Wolf Lord lowered his arm and stared into the ghostly flames. For a fleeting instant Ragnar saw the terrible weariness once again in the warrior's blue eyes. 'In time, that day will come.'

A faint clatter of armour drew the attention of the a.s.sembled warriors. Torvald had returned to the cavern, and now strode quickly into the firelight. 'It's done,' he said curtly, returning to his bench.

Ragnar scowled at the cold, blue flames. 'How can you be sure the Thousand Sons will take the bait?'

'Because we've been a dagger in their side for ten millennia,' Torvald answered. 'Their sorcerers are always sniffing at our trail, waiting for the slightest mistake that will give our presence away. Now I've given them one. I allowed the wards concealing the camp to go out, for the briefest instant, before energising them again.'

'But how can you be certain they noticed the lapse?' Ragnar persisted.

The Rune Priest let out a snort. 'Who do you think we're fighting here, little brother? Of course they noticed!'

'And they will send every warrior and daemon they can muster,' Bulveye added.

'Then why are we still here?' the young s.p.a.ce Wolf asked in exasperation.

'Why, to fight them, of course,' Bulveye answered. 'If their warband arrives and finds the camp deserted, they'll suspect a trick and return to the city as quickly as they can.' The Wolf Lord raised his ebon axe and laid it across his knees. 'So, we'll let them spring their trap, and keep the devils busy while you fight your way into the temple and get back Russ's spear.'

The news stunned Ragnar. He glanced quickly at Haegr and Torin, noting their looks of shock. He'd expected that Bulveye and his more experienced warriors would claim the privilege of confronting Madox and reclaiming the artefact. 'This is a great honour, lord,' he managed to say.

'It's nothing of the kind,' Bulveye replied irritably. 'I'd like nothing better than to tear Madox apart with my bare hands, but if I'm not seen here with my troops the enemy might still see through our ploy.' He stared appraisingly at Ragnar and his companions. 'As far as we can tell, Madox doesn't know any of you are here. That's why you're staying in this cave until the attack is well begun.'

Ragnar's brain was whirling trying to puzzle out the hidden elements of the Wolf Lord's deceptively simple plan. 'If we're still here when the attack begins, how in Morkai's name are we supposed to reach the city undetected?'

The Wolf Lord's eyes glittered with cold amus.e.m.e.nt. 'By the Allfather, you ask more questions than a Blood Claw!' he said. 'Suffice to say that we've got a few secrets that not even the Thousand Sons suspect.' He beckoned to Sigurd. 'Gather your charges, priest, and bring them here,' he commanded. 'We will not have much longer to wait,'

Sigurd nodded silently and left to find Harald and his packmates. After he had gone, the Wolf Lord turned back to his guests with a faint smile. 'Now, little brothers, speak to us of distant Fenris. Tell us tales of our home.'

Ragnar was taken aback by the sudden request. He'd never considered himself a storyteller, and as he felt the eyes of Bulveye and his pack leaders focus on him, his mind went utterly blank. An awkward silence hung in the air as the young s.p.a.ce Wolf groped for something worthwhile to say, but then Torin drew a deep breath and began to speak. At first his voice was rough and awkward, tainted by the beast inside him, but as he spoke of the tall cliffs and crashing salt waves of the islands, a change came over him. His tone grew stronger and more polished, falling into the smooth cadences of a skald, and the old warriors listened, rapt, as he told them of all that had transpired since the days of the Heresy.

Bulveye and the warriors were shocked to hear of all the changes that had befallen the Imperium in their absence. Their expressions turned grave as they heard how their glorious Legion had been reduced to a mere Chapter in the wake of Horus's rebellion, and they glanced thoughtfully at one another when they learned of Russ's departure. But the tales that gripped the warriors most of all had nothing to do with wars or strife. They wanted to hear of their homeworld, of the heaving seas and the tall mountains, of the Time of Ice and the Time of Fire. They asked how the fishing was off the Kraken Isles, of which clans had prospered and which had disappeared over the course of the centuries. They asked after villages and peoples that had vanished ages past, of legends that no one could now recall. Ragnar listened and watched the old Wolves, and saw the sense of loss etched on their faces.

Before long Sigurd returned, leading a shuffling pack of wary beasts that had once been men. Ragnar watched them gather around the priest a respectful distance from the fire, and heard the priest speaking to them in low, soothing tones. Inquisitor Volt and Gabriella had retreated from the circle, and sat cross-legged on a pile of rugs at the far end of the cavern. The Navigator's head was bowed and her eyes were tightly shut. For a moment, he considered going to her, but then he remembered the look of horror on her face when she'd glimpsed the Wulfen inside him. We are all of us forsaken, he realised bitterly. All of us have lost our way.

As Torin spun his tales, Haegr ran his wide hands over his whiskered face and glowered into the fire for some time. After a while he reached a decision and began rummaging quietly through the field bags attached to his waist. Slowly, carefully, he drew out a squat cylinder the size of a melta bomb and cradled it in his lap. Then he reached over his shoulder and drew forth his great ale horn.

Ragnar faintly heard the hiss of escaping air and thought nothing of it at first. Then he noticed a palpable change among the warriors sitting around the fire. The old Wolves were leaning forward, their expressions intent. Even Lord Bulveye had stopped listening to Torin and was watching Haegr's every move.

By this point Torin had noted the change as well, and his story came to a halt. Haegr, meanwhile, set the empty cylinder on the stone floor and started to raise the foaming horn to his lips.

'Is that ale?' asked Dagmar, licking his lips. His voice sounded almost reverent.

'Aye,' Haegr replied with a broad grin. 'Good, brown Iron Islands ale, tapped from the kegs in the Fang's deep cellars,' he said proudly. 'I've been saving this one for a special occasion, and this seems like the time! Bringing it all the way from Fenris was a saga all by itself, I can tell you.' He raised the horn to the warriors. 'Skoal!'

'We haven't had a drop of ale in six thousand years,' Bulveye mused, eyeing the ale horn appreciatively.

'Six thousand three hundred and twenty-two years, eighteen days, six hours and twenty-one minutes,' Dagmar said, 'give or take.'

Haegr froze, the rim of the horn touching his lips. His eyes flicked from one thirsty face to the next. 'Well, I suppose I could offer you a taste,' he said reluctantly, 'just a swallow, you understand-'

'That's fine!' Bulveye said, reaching eagerly for the horn. Prying it loose from Haegr's fingers, he raised it high. 'Drink deep, lads! The next taste we get will be in the Halls of Russ! Skoal!'

'Skoal!' the warriors cried, rising from their benches and crowding around their lord. Haegr watched the frenzy with a stricken grin frozen on his face.

m.u.f.fled thunder rolled down the winding tunnel, followed by the faint howl of wolves. Bulveye and the warriors froze, their celebrations forgotten. Then came another rumble, this one staccato and sharp edged, like the hammering of a heavy bolter.

'It has begun,' the Wolf Lord said.

NINETEEN.

The Forlorn Hope Sven crouched low and ran along the trench line, clambering over the twisted bodies of Guardsmen as bolter and missile fire crashed into the firing position he'd just left. Rebel artillery continued to fall, unleashing a storm of shrapnel and churning the earth behind the Imperial lines. The blasts strobed angrily in the darkness, painting the shattered fortifications in lurid colours and long, jagged shadows.