Wolf's Honour Part 3

'I'll die in the attempt, if I must!' Ragnar shot back. 'I'd rather lie on a field at Charys than live another day here.'

'Arrogant pup!' Grimnar roared. He straightened to his full height, his fierce presence seeming to fill the entire chamber. He crossed the s.p.a.ce between him and Ragnar with a single step, and lashed out with his open hand, cuffing Ragnar on the side of the head. 'I couldn't have said it better myself!'

The Wolves roared with laughter. After a moment, Ragnar joined in as well. Gabriella studied the giants' b.l.o.o.d.y-minded mirth with an expression of startled bemus.e.m.e.nt.

'You will have your wish, young s.p.a.ce Wolf,' Grimnar said, clapping Ragnar on the shoulder. 'We are sending every warrior we have left to add their swords to the fight, and Lady Gabriella has pledged her skills to guide our reinforcements safely to Charys,' the Old Wolf said, nodding respectfully to the Navigator. 'Report to Sternmark when you arrive. I'm sure he'll be glad for every stout arm he can get.'

In a flash, Ragnar's anger turned to a fierce, bloodthirsty joy. Death might wait for him on Charys, but so be it, he would face it as a s.p.a.ce Wolf, fighting alongside his battle-brothers. 'The Spear of Russ will be ours once again, lord. On my life and on my honour, I swear it!'

'I hear you, Ragnar Blackmane,' the Old Wolf answered solemnly, 'and Russ hears your oath as well. Spill the blood of our foes and return to us what was lost, and try to set a good example for the lads when you're getting yourself hacked to pieces, eh?'

THREE.

Darkness and Ice The rumble of the Thunderhawk's engines drummed soundlessly across Ragnar's aching bones, rising inexorably to a punishing crescendo as the heavily laden transport clawed its way into the night sky. He dimly heard the approaching roar of the engines, the sound attenuated into a bra.s.sy rattle by the thin atmosphere, and the thick blanket of clouds below the rocky ledge began to glow a faint blue. The climbing s.p.a.cecraft burst through the cloud layer like a spear, riding a column of cyan light into the purple vault of stars where the Fist of Russ awaited. Ragnar tracked its course through frozen, half-closed lids until it was nothing more than another fiercely burning speck in the firmament above the great mountain.

Within moments, the last notes of thunder faded, leaving Ragnar to his silent vigil. He had lost track of the hours since he'd climbed above the clouds and settled himself high atop the Fang. Clad only in his woollen clothes and wolfskin cloak, he had knelt in the snow and drawn forth his ancient frost blade. Resting the tip against the frozen ground and placing his hands upon its hilt, he had prayed to the Allfather and to blessed Russ, the First Wolf, until ice crystals clogged this throat and rattled in his lungs. All through the night he waited, his face upturned to the endless expanse of s.p.a.ce, hoping for a brush with something he could not rightly name.

For a time after his brief audience with the Great Wolf, Ragnar's spirits had been lifted. The chains of duty had been loosened at last, and fields of war beckoned. More importantly, the Spear of Russ had been spotted on Charys, and for the first time, Ragnar felt that he might have a chance to redeem himself and restore the honour of his Chapter.

However, as the day wore on, and he began preparing his wargear for the journey, his thoughts turned dark once more. The news of Berek's fate at the hands of Madox was a terrible blow, and the picture that the Old Wolf had painted of the overall situation was woefully grim. Restoring those worlds already lost to Chaos would take centuries to complete, if it could be done at all. He'd heard of worlds scoured down to the bedrock by virus bombs and cyclonic torpedoes, once they'd been deemed too tainted to reclaim. Again and again, his mind turned back to that moment in the temple on Garm when he had held the Spear of Russ in his hand. I threw it away, he thought, and everything that came after is because of me.

He could not help but think of what the Old Wolf had said in the council chamber. Madox and his one-eyed master must have been planning this for decades. Could it be true? If so, hadn't he been nothing more than a p.a.w.n, pushed and pulled across a vast, invisible board that only the Chaos sorcerer could see? The idea left him sick at heart. It was one thing to strive mightily and fail - at least that was a n.o.ble failure, pure in spirit and done with honour - but to dance to the bidding of evil powers... that could not be borne.

So, he had climbed to the highest slope of Fenris he could reach, far beyond the grasp of mortal men, to stare up into the heavens and seek... something a brush with holiness perhaps, such as he'd felt in the sacred shrine on Garm. He remembered the peace he'd felt then, the sense of Tightness that banished pain and weariness and doubt.

Not this time, however. Poised between heaven and earth, fire and ice, Ragnar Blackmane was left with nothing but silence and doubt.

Ice crackled faintly as the s.p.a.ce Wolf slowly bowed his head. His breath no longer left faint wisps of mist in the thin air, having slowed and cooled almost to the point of hibernation. He could hear the sluggish flow of blood through his veins, and the slow, alternating beats of his hearts.

It was several long moments before the buzzing sound of voices registered in his numbed brain. They were approaching from the thick cloud layer, several dozen metres below. Haegr appeared first, broaching the pearly mist like a grey flanked whale. His beady eyes spotted Ragnar at once. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, his booming voice strangely distorted by the alt.i.tude. 'I told you we would find him here! That's three kegs of Ironhead Ale you owe me, Torin the Doubter.'

The barrel-chested s.p.a.ce Wolf plodded resolutely up the icy slope towards Ragnar, the heavy armour he wore lending weight and power to his steps. Ice glittered along the shoulders of Haegr's bearskin cloak and dragged down the bristles of his walrus-like moustache, and his cheeks were vivid red. Despite the climb, the huge warrior still carried his ma.s.sive ale horn in his right hand. Behind him, lighter of step but no less burdened by the savage conditions, came Torin, helmet-less, but wearing an arctic hood that shielded his lean face from the worst of the cold. 'It was two kegs of ale, not three,' the older Wolfblade replied, 'but you won them fairly for a change. How did you think to look here?'

'Mighty Haegr's muscles aren't just in his arms,' he declared, tapping an armoured finger against his skull. 'You saw the look in his eyes when he left the arming chamber this afternoon. When he's in one of his black moods just think of the worst, most inhospitable place a Wolf can get to under his own power, and that's where you'll find him.' The burly s.p.a.ce Wolf climbed onto Ragnar's ledge, and peered sternly at him. 'Been up here all night, by the looks of him. His skin's blacker than an inquisitor's heart.'

Torin slipped past Haegr and knelt beside Ragnar. The older warrior studied him so intently that for a moment Ragnar wondered if Torin thought he might be dead. He took in a deeper breath and spoke, the words coming out in a raspy cough. 'Needed time to think,' he said gruffly. He tried to give Torin a hard look, but his frozen eyes refused to obey.

The older Wolfblade glanced back over his shoulder at the vast sea of cloud below. 'If you'd waited here a few hours longer you'd be watching our Thunderhawk take off and be thinking about how you were going to walk to Charys,' he said. 'Gabriella is taking her breakfast, and wants to be aboard the Fist of Russ before daybreak. We tried to call you, but you switched off your vox-bead, or it's frozen solid; I can't tell which at this point.'

Ragnar forced his eyes to close and concentrated on his breathing for a moment. His pulse began to quicken, slowly increasing his body's core temperature. Trickles of water ran from his eyes like faux tears, and froze upon his cheeks. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf clenched his fists around the hilt of the sword and felt ice crackle across his knuckles. When he opened his eyes again he saw that the skin of his hands was blue-black. He would be sc.r.a.ping the dead skin cells away for quite a while. Gritting his teeth, Ragnar climbed to his feet. Fierce pains stabbed through his joints, but he suppressed them with an effort of will. 'I would have come down by dawn,' he grumbled, shaking still more ice from his shoulders.

'Perhaps a note to that effect next time would be helpful,' Torin observed.

Now Ragnar did manage a forbidding glare. 'If I'd done that you would have come looking for me straightaway. I told you, I wanted to be alone.'

'What a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid thing to say!' Haegr barked. 'A Wolfs nothing without his pack, Ragnar. Even you're bright enough to know that.' He brandished his horn before the young s.p.a.ce Wolf. 'Why, you missed a true hero's feast in the hall last night! There was mead enough to float a long ship, and the eating-board groaned with all the food piled upon it!'

'Which Haegr tried to eat all by himself,' Torin said wryly.

The huge s.p.a.ce Wolf puffed out his barrel chest. 'Don't blame me for your faint heart,' Haegr replied, eyes wide with outrage. 'You could have taken your share at any time.'

'Except that I like my fingers where they are,' Torin remarked wryly. 'I've heard of battle madness before, but feast madness? Were you bitten by a goat at a young age, Haegr? I think you tried to eat the board itself between courses.'

'Don't be stupid,' Haegr shot back. 'I just needed a splinter to get a piece of venison caught between my teeth.'

'That wasn't venison, that was Rolfi, one of the new Blood Claws,' the older Wolfblade replied. He glanced at Ragnar. 'For a while, the cubs just sat and stared at everything that was going down Haegr's throat, but finally Rolfi had enough. He reached for a piece of venison and this great fool tried to take a bite out of him. Started quite a fight. The Claws pulled Haegr down eventually, like a pack of wolves nipping at a bear.'

'And you sat by and did nothing!' Haegr growled, full of dudgeon.

'Not so. I saw my chance and had a fine dinner amid the debris,' Torin answered mildly, and then regarded the young s.p.a.ce Wolf again. 'Did you find what you came here for?' he asked.

Ragnar raised the gleaming frost blade to the starry sky, inspecting the weapon carefully in the faint light. 'No, I didn't,' he said after a moment, and then slid the blade back into its scabbard. 'Perhaps the answer lies elsewhere,'

'On Charys, you mean?' Torin asked.

'Perhaps,' Ragnar said darkly.

Haegr shook his head in exasperation, staring out across the cloudscape. 'You're a good lad, Ragnar, but you think too d.a.m.ned much,' he observed. 'Still, you can pick some fine spots to brood.' The huge warrior spread his arms and sighed. 'By Russ, it feels like we barely got here before we're leaving again,' he said, a touch wistfully, and then chuckled. 'See, now you've got me doing it. I'll be moping about for years when we finally get back to Terra.'

'You're getting ahead of yourself,' Ragnar said. 'We have to win on Charys first.'

'Ha!' Haegr replied, his expression brightening at once. He clapped his hand on Ragnar's shoulder hard enough to stagger the young s.p.a.ce Wolf. 'That's a good one, lad! Haven't you ever heard the old saying? The wolf wins every fight he's in!'

'Every fight but his last,' Ragnar added, his expression grim.

The burly s.p.a.ce Wolf threw back his head and laughed. 'Then Mighty Haegr will live forever!' he roared, raising his ale horn to his lips. He paused, and then lowered the horn and peered into its depths. 'Morkai's black breath,' he cursed, 'my mead's frozen. Let's get below quick. There may be just enough time to thaw it out and get a quick bite to eat before we lift off.'

Ragnar watched through the shuttle's viewports as they began their approach to the Fist of Russ. The huge warship appeared out of the darkness like a battered fortress, her vast grey flanks bearing deep scars from enemy lances and cratered by salvoes of macro-cannon sh.e.l.ls. Her imposing, armoured prow was scorched and pitted by weapon blasts, and her superstructure was a blackened, twisted ruin along nearly half of its length. Smaller repair tenders hovered around the enormous warship, using huge servo-arms and plasma blast torches to replace ruined sections of hull plating. Ragnar's keen eyes picked out swarms of repair servitors climbing like ants over the warship's ma.s.sive dorsal lance turrets, working furiously to make sure they would be ready for action.

She had once been a Mars-cla.s.s battle cruiser that had served with distinction alongside the capital ships of Battlefleet Obscuras, nearly fourteen centuries before. In those days she had been called the Resolute, but that name fell into infamy when the Arch-Hierophant Vortigern began the Alphalus Insurrection late in the 39th millennium. The petty officers and crew of the Resolute had sided with Vortigern and mutinied, murdering the ship's officers and turning the battle cruiser over to the Arch-Hierophant's forces.

For three hundred long years she served as Vortigern's flagship, until Berek Thunderfist's predecessor, the Wolf Lord Hrothgar Ironblade, captured her during the Battle of Sestus Proxima. Hrothgar claimed the ship for his own shortly thereafter, as his previous flagship had been lost, and Resolute returned to Imperial service as the Fist of Russ. She had fought many great battles since and earned a place of honour in the Chapter's battle-fleet, and it grieved Ragnar to see her in such woeful shape. At Hyades the Fist of Russ had faced off against the heavy bombardment cannons of the Vinco Redemptor, a battle-barge of the Dark Angels s.p.a.ce Marine Chapter, and then later fought a small armada of Chaos warships summoned to a.s.sist Cadmus in the uprising on the planet's surface.

Though she'd survived, and even triumphed, in both battles, the Fist of Russ had paid dearly for her victories. Ragnar could see that the warship needed months, perhaps years, to repair all the damage she'd received, but that was a luxury the s.p.a.ce Wolves currently didn't have. All the Chapter's other great ships were already in action, along with their smaller escorts, so the Fist of Russ was needed at the battle line once more. Crews from Fenris would continue to make repairs up until the very last minute, returning to their tenders only when the battle cruiser was about to enter the warp.

Ragnar knew that there had been reports of Chaos warships lurking at the edges of the Charys system. He offered a prayer to the Allfather that the repairs would be enough.

'You seem troubled.'

Ragnar turned away from the shuttle's porthole. Unlike the Thunderhawk transports that had ferried the new Blood Claw packs to the Fist of Russ during the night, Gabriella was coming aboard the warship on an elegantly appointed personal shuttle from her family's cruiser, the Wings of Bellisarius. The young Navigator sat at ease in a curved, high-backed acceleration couch in the shuttle's s.p.a.cious pa.s.senger compartment, her face half-hidden in shadow.

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf cast a glance towards the pilot compartment, where Torin was guiding the shuttle to the warship's starboard hangar deck. Haegr, true to his word, had dashed off as soon as they'd come down from the mountaintop and appeared at the shuttle, just moments before launch, with a huge haunch of meat clutched in one armoured fist. He'd eaten the whole thing bones and all, before the shuttle had even left the lower atmosphere, and now he sat in the back of the shuttle compartment snoring like an idling Land Raider.

Ragnar considered how to respond. 'The ship has no business heading back to the battle line,' he said after a moment. 'Are you certain you will not reconsider this?'

A faint smile touched the corners of Gabriella's thin lips. 'After everything that you and your Chapter have done for my House?' she replied. 'This is the very least I can do. But you're being evasive. It's not the ship that's bothering you.'

Ragnar folded his arms tightly across his chest. 'Are you peering into my thoughts?' he asked gruffly. The Navigator Houses of the Imperium were some of the most powerful psykers humanity had ever known, and their psychic abilities allowed them to guide ships of all sizes safely through the maelstrom of the warp. Their powers made travel through the Imperium possible for its warships and merchant fleets, and it was the source of their families' enormous wealth and power.

Gabriella let out a small sigh of exasperation. 'Don't be foolish,' she chided. 'When it comes to your emotions you're about as subtle as Haegr,' the Navigator said. 'You've been in a dark mood for the last few weeks,' she continued. 'What is it?'

She spoke calmly and carefully, as she always did, but Ragnar felt a flush of irritation at her persistent questioning. He started to snap at her, lips pulling back from his curved fangs, but caught himself at the last possible moment. What is wrong with me, Ragnar thought? He had sworn an oath to serve and protect House Bellisarius. For all intents and purposes Gabriella was no different in authority than Berek Thunderfist or even Logan Grimnar. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf tried to mask his consternation, but gave up with an explosive sigh. 'Honestly, lady, I do not know,' he replied. 'I've been troubled since our escape from Hyades, but my mood has only darkened since arriving on Fenris.'

'I would have thought that returning to your home would please you,' she said.

'Please me?' Ragnar said. 'How could it? My Chapter is at war, and the more I consider it, the more I believe that I am partly to blame.'

'How? By casting the spear into the warp? Ragnar, if Madox had wanted that done, do you honestly think he would have needed your help to do it?'

Ragnar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Well, no, I suppose not, but it troubles me all the same.'

Gabriella sighed and folded her pale hands in her lap. 'Ragnar, I understand what it's like to feel obligated to the people around you, but what's done is done. Be ashamed if you must, but don't wallow in regret. It won't change a thing.'

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf dropped his gaze to the tips of his armoured boots. 'I see your point,' he said reluctantly, 'but lately, I just can't get the thought out of my head. I haven't been sleeping well for days. Lately I've been having strange dreams. I think the spear figures into them, but I can't quite remember what they were about when I awake.' He glanced up worriedly. 'I think Madox may be in my dreams as well. Could he have put some kind of curse on me?'

Gabriella raised an eyebrow. 'A curse? Unlikely,' she said. 'It sounds more like guilt to me.' She gestured gracefully at the ma.s.sive warship looming large in the shuttle's forward viewscreen. 'Ranek said there was a young s.p.a.ce Wolf Priest leading the Blood Claws we're taking to Charys, perhaps he could help you.'

At the rear of the shuttle, Haegr let out a snort and straightened in his chair. 'A Wolf Priest?' he said fuzzily, wiping drool from his chin. 'I know him, a young lad named Sigurd.'

Ragnar glanced back at the burly s.p.a.ce Wolf. 'How do you know him?'

'He was at the mead hall when those cubs of his stole my rightful share of the feast,' he said indignantly. 'Tried to lecture me about discipline and respect! I've got scars older than that pup,' Haegr grumbled. 'He's got a stick shoved so far up his a.r.s.e I could use him for a hand puppet on feast days,' he said, and then frowned. 'Are we there yet? Mighty Haegr could use a bite to eat to keep at peak fighting condition.'

The rumble of thrusters ebbed as the Bellisarius shuttle began its descent into the battle cruiser's hangar deck. Ragnar found he had one more reason to be concerned about the voyage to Charys.

FOUR.

Devils in the Darkness A low groan of tortured metal echoed hollowly down the length of the broad pa.s.sageway, and Ragnar thought he felt the heavy deck beneath him tremble as the Fist of Russ was buffeted by energies beyond mortal ken.

They were three weeks out from Fenris, and more than four days past their scheduled return to real s.p.a.ce at the edge of the Charys system. They had encountered the first warp storm more than a week ago, and the intensity of the ethereal winds had only grown more intense since then. At first, the storms were almost imperceptible to Ragnar and the rest of the s.p.a.ce Wolves, but over time the first creaks and groans began to reverberate through the hull. Now, the terrible sounds were nearly constant, rising and falling in volume as the unseen gale wracked the warship's Geller field. There were already scores of hull breaches in still-damaged parts of the ship. The crew, overwhelmed by the simple day-to-day tasks of keeping the Fist of Russ operational, were forced to seal off entire sections of the warship rather than spend precious resources on temporary repairs.

The mood of the crew was tense. Unlike most s.p.a.ce Marine Chapters, which made extensive use of servitors to man secondary crew stations throughout their ships, the s.p.a.ce Wolves preferred human bondsmen to operate their starships. Many of these were former s.p.a.ce Marine aspirants that had fallen short of the enormous demands of training, but were still deemed worthy to serve the Chapter in another capacity. Others were chosen from among the peoples of Fenris specifically because of their skills as ship-handlers. They were among the finest shipmen in any Imperial fleet, but when Ragnar pa.s.sed them in the corridors of the embattled ship he could smell the acrid scent of fear on their skin. If they didn't find a way through the storms soon, the Fist of Russ might not reach Charys at all.

For their part, the Wolves had grown more restless with every day spent in the confines of the great ship. Despite the battle cruiser's vast size, the individual rooms and pa.s.sageways took on an increasingly claustrophobic feel, as though the warp storms had a physical weight that pressed in on the ship from every side. The Wolf Priest, Sigurd, kept the Blood Claw packs busy practising boarding drills and mock combats along the length and breadth of the battle cruiser, driving the young Wolves hard, but keeping their minds busy in the process. Ragnar could not help but approve of the Wolf Priest's diligence and dedication, but Sigurd didn't seem to know when to stop. Daylong battle drills would be followed by unannounced inspections or surprise attacks during sleeping hours. Packs were a.s.signed complicated navigation problems to solve within the labyrinthine corridors of the warship, and were not allowed to eat or rest until they were completed. Tempers were growing frayed with each pa.s.sing day, but the Wolf Priest would not relent. Even Ragnar was growing increasingly irritated about it, and he wasn't even taking part in the training regimen. Torin had approached Sigurd early on in the voyage, offering the services of the Wolfblade, but the older s.p.a.ce Wolf had been coldly rebuffed.

The Wolfblade spent their hours tending their wargear and practising their close combat techniques when the Blood Claws weren't using the training arena. Even Haegr had been persuaded to join, more from boredom and lack of food than anything else.

Sleep continued to elude Ragnar. It had been many weeks since he'd last managed a full rest cycle, and what little sleep he did manage was fraught with strange, fragmentary dreams. Although a s.p.a.ce Marine could function without proper sleep for months at a time if necessary, Ragnar could feel the strain beginning to affect his ability to think and react. He had contemplated approaching the ship's Apothecary for help, or even entering the Red Dream for the duration of the voyage, but the thought of what strange dreams he might encounter in such a state gave him pause.

From time to time, he considered Gabriella's advice about consulting the Wolf Priest for help. As the keepers of the s.p.a.ce Wolves' sacred lore, the Wolf Priests were considered the spiritual heart of the Chapter, and sources of great insight and wisdom. Sigurd, however, was rarely available to anyone outside the Blood Claws, driving himself as hard as, or harder than, his charges, and the one request that Ragnar had left at Sigurd's quarters had gone unanswered. These days, when sleep eluded him, he went to the battle cruiser's bridge and stood watch over the armoured capsule where Gabriella fought to guide the Fist of Russ through the warp.

Ragnar intended to return there after the evening meal, for he could already tell that he was too agitated to get any sleep. He had spent the entire day sparring with Torin and Haegr while the Blood Claws practised boarding drills near the bow of the ship, and his body ached in a score of places where his comrades had landed telling blows. He'd kept fighting long past the point of exhaustion, but while his body felt almost leaden with fatigue his mind was tense and agitated. Strangely, even Torin and Haegr seemed to echo the young s.p.a.ce Wolf's mental state. They'd fought just as fiercely as him in the arena, hacking and slashing at one another with silent, murderous intent. Torin brought none of his cunning to bear, reverting back to simple, brutal blows, and even Haegr had little or nothing to say. They padded along silently in Ragnar's wake as they made their way to the ship's mead hall, drawing worried stares from every bondsman that pa.s.sed by.

The raucous sounds of feasting rolled down the pa.s.sageway as they approached the mead hall. Ragnar paused, biting back a surge of irritation. The whole reason he'd chosen this time to visit the hall was because normally the Blood Claws were elsewhere. Since the voyage began the Wolfblade had kept their distance from the young Wolves, and the sentiment had been returned in kind. Ragnar had little doubt that Sigurd had painted the Wolfblade as a pack of outcasts and exiles, as many other s.p.a.ce Wolves were wont to do.

'Are you going to stand there all day?' Haegr growled. 'Can't you hear that? The pups are eating our supper!'

Torin sighed, a little exasperated. 'There will be more in an hour or so, you great fool.'

'Then they can wait their turn,' the huge s.p.a.ce Wolf rumbled. 'Pups ought to learn their place, if you ask me. Here we are, three mighty heroes - well, one mighty hero and two fair to middling ones - who deserve their due, and those un-blooded younglings think to s.n.a.t.c.h the meat and ale from our very mouths. Well, I won't have it!' Puffing out his chest, Haegr pushed past Ragnar and rolled like thunder into the mead hall.

Torin cursed under his breath. 'I must be going mad,' he said. 'Haegr almost made sense there for a minute.' He glanced at Ragnar. 'He's sure to start a fight, you know. On the other hand, I'm almost as hungry as he is. What about you?'

Ragnar almost turned on his heel and headed back to his cell. In the mead hall beyond, the clamour of young voices and the racket of plates fell into a sudden and tense silence. All at once, a surge of irritation washed over Ragnar, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. 'Come on,' he growled, and strode swiftly into the hall.

The hall was full of Blood Claws. At first glance, Ragnar reckoned that all three of the young packs were taking their meal at the same time, something that hadn't happened since leaving Fenris. s.h.a.ggy heads hung low over gnawed haunches of meat, and dark eyes surveyed Haegr and his brethren with open hostility. Low growls rumbled across the hall and the air was thick with the scent of challenge, setting Ragnar's teeth on edge.

In older times the warship's mead hall was the officer's wardroom. Now three ma.s.sive red oak tables were arranged in a rough Y-shape in a room capable of holding easily three times that number. Haegr stood between the two lower tables, his wide hands planted on his hips as he glared back at the Blood Claws. Heads turned to the high table, where the strongest pack typically sat, and the lesser packs would take their cues from them. The pack leader at the high table was a broad shouldered, blond-haired warrior with a hatchet face and hooded eyes. He picked a grox's thigh bone from the debris on the table and cracked it between his powerful jaws, his gaze never leaving Haegr as he sucked out the sweet marrow.

'What in Morkai's name do you want?' he asked with a raspy sneer.

Haegr glanced back at Ragnar and Torin, and gave them a wide grin. 'Now there's a stupid question if ever I heard one,' he replied, his rumbling voice low with menace. 'This is the mead hall, isn't it? We're here to eat and drink our fill, as Wolves ought,' he said, turning back to the pack leader. 'Only you dogs happen to be in our seats.'

More growls rose around the Wolfblade. Ragnar caught Torin, giving him a sidelong glance. He knew that he should say something a quick word of greeting or an offer to toast the coming battle, but he felt his body responding to the challenge, almost of its own accord. If the cub thought he was the toughest Wolf in the hall, Ragnar was eager to prove him wrong. In fact, he hungered for it.

A lean, red-haired warrior to the pack leader's right gave Haegr a wolfish grin. 'I think the walrus is ready for another beating' he said.

The blond warrior's sneer widened. 'You want to eat? Here,' he said, and tossed the cracked bone at Haegr's feet. 'When you're done you can beg for more. I expect we can find a few more sc.r.a.ps for a bunch of outcasts like you.'

Laughter filled the mead hall. A bone arced from the table to the right and bounced off Haegr's shoulder. A crust of bread flew past, and then a fish head.

Haegr straightened to his full height, his chest swelling like a thundercloud, but by the time he'd opened his mouth to bellow his rage, Ragnar had swept past him in a dozen long strides and reached the high table opposite the pack leader. The blond warrior leapt to his feet, his eyes alight with the promise of battle, and Ragnar slapped him with his open hand hard enough to knock the warrior off his feet.

The pack leader crashed back into his chair and bounced back with a furious snarl, his face twisted with fury. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a carving knife from the table and made to lunge at Ragnar, but the Blood Claw might as well have been standing still. Ragnar chopped his hand down on the pack leader's wrist, breaking it with a brittle crunch of bone, and then backhanded the Blood Claw off his feet.

There was a shout from the pack leader's right and the warrior's red-bearded lieutenant lunged from his chair. The rest of the pack at the high table followed suit, shaking the air with howls of rage, and the mead hall erupted into a wild, wheeling brawl.

The Blood Claws came at Ragnar from every direction, swinging fists, steins or whatever else came to hand. A hurled plate buzzed past his head and a drinking cup shattered against his chest, spraying Ragnar with mead. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf took a step back from the table as the first of the Blood Claws reached him, spoiling the pup's aim as he threw a wild punch at the side of Ragnar's head. Ragnar smashed him to the deck with a bone-cracking punch to the jaw. Another warrior rushed in from Ragnar's right, bent low and aiming to tackle him. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf laid the pup out with an elbow to the back of his head, and then two more warriors crashed into him from the left, driving him off his feet.

The three s.p.a.ce Wolves crashed to the deck with a thunderous clatter of ceramite. Fists rained down on Ragnar, hammering his chest, shoulders and face. One fist raked across his right cheek, opening a ragged cut all the way back to his ear. Snarling, Ragnar grabbed a handful of one Blood Claw's hair and smashed his forehead into the pup's face. The warrior rolled away, momentarily stunned, but the second Blood Claw drove his fist into the side of Ragnar's head. A flurry of bright spots burst across Ragnar's vision, but he shook off the blow with a savage growl and planted his foot against the Blood Claw's chest. Another punch glanced across Ragnar's forehead, and then the young s.p.a.ce Wolf kicked with all his strength and sent the Blood Claw flying backwards. The warrior hit the heavy oak table and flipped over it, scattering plates and bits of food in all directions.

A heavy chair spun through the air to Ragnar's right and smashed a Blood Claw off his feet. The three packs were fighting the Wolfblade, and battering one another with wild abandon. Ragnar glanced over his shoulder and saw Haegr lift two Blood Claws by the scruff of their necks and knock their heads together. Two other warriors had their arms wrapped around the burly Wolfblade's legs and hips, trying to pull Haegr down, but they might as well have been trying to pull down the Fang itself. Farther off to Ragnar's left, Torin was weaving through the melee like a ghost, felling men with swift, precise blows and picking choice morsels of food off the battered tables as he went.

Ragnar heard the whirring approach of the flung beer mug half a second before it struck. He ducked, letting it pa.s.s harmlessly overhead, and glanced back at the high table to see from whence it came. Instead, he saw the red haired Blood Claw just a few steps away, swinging a ma.s.sive chair in an underhanded blow that was aimed squarely at his face.

Ragnar got his arms crossed in front of his head a split second before the blow struck home. Old oak splintered, driving his heavy vambraces into his face, and the force of the blow sent the young s.p.a.ce Wolf sprawling. He landed in a tangle of splintered debris, blinking blood from his eyes, and his attacker was upon him in an instant, swinging a thick chair leg like an improvised mace.