Wolf's Honour Part 6

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf nodded thoughtfully. 'It's good for you then that we're here instead of the Old Wolf,' he said with a feral grin. We'll go in at first light.'

SEVEN.

Hit and Run The battle cruiser's bra.s.s and steel teleportation chamber rang like a swordmaster's forge as the s.p.a.ce Wolves made ready for battle. The Wolves of Harald's Blood Claw pack congregated in a tight group, checking their weapons and adjusting the heavy load of extra equipment they would be carrying with them on the raid. Most had their helmets off and were talking with one another in low, sullen voices. Ragnar had insisted that the warship's ancient teleporters were vital to the success of the raid, but the s.p.a.ce Wolves hated the thought of placing themselves at the mercy of such an arcane, unreliable device. A few metres away, Sigurd the Wolf Priest stood alone, both hands clasped on his crozius and his head bowed in prayer. Iron Priests and acolytes in full ceremonial vestments moved slowly around the perimeter of the room, checking and anointing the vast network of power couplings and matrix field collectors.

Ragnar stepped through the armoured hatch into the chamber just a few minutes before jump-off. They had returned to the Fist of Russ, in high orbit over Charys only a few hours ago, and he'd spent most of the intervening time meditating in his old quarters. A grim sense of foreboding dogged his steps. Although the sense of dislocation had ebbed since leaving the planet's surface, he could not ease the tautness of his nerves or banish the wisps of shadow that flitted at the corners of his eyes.

He could not afford to be distracted once the raid began. Even a moment's hesitation could mean disaster.

The a.s.sembled warriors paid Ragnar no heed as he strode across the chamber. He took careful note of Sigurd and the Blood Claws, and then caught sight of Torin on the opposite side of the room. The older Wolfblade was finishing an inspection of his chainsword as Ragnar approached.

'Where's Haegr?' Ragnar asked with a frown.

Torin slid his chainsword into its scabbard and grinned ruefully. 'Where else?'

'Morkai's black breath!' Ragnar cursed. 'If that overfed walrus is late-'

'Peace, brother,' Torin chuckled, raising a gauntleted hand. 'Haegr can be a fool sometimes, but I've never known him to shirk his duty. He'll be here when the time comes, probably clumping along with an ale bucket on his foot, but he'll be here nonetheless.' The older s.p.a.ce Wolf studied Ragnar carefully. 'What's troubling you? I've never known you to get a case of nerves before a battle, even one as risky as this.'

Ragnar shrugged. 'It's nothing,' he began, but stopped trying to pretend when he saw Torin's disbelieving glare. 'Nothing I can explain, at least,' he said grudgingly. 'I don't know, Torin. Truth be told, I haven't felt right since we returned to Fenris. My temper is on a hair trigger, and I feel like I could crawl right out of my skin.' He shook his head savagely. 'Even my eyes are playing tricks on me.'

Torin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'You, too?'

Ragnar froze. 'You mean you feel the same way?'

The older s.p.a.ce Wolf lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Since we arrived on Charys I've been seeing things, like shadows or wisps of smoke, flitting at the edge of my sight.'

'Yes! Exactly!' Ragnar whispered excitedly. He leaned close to Torin. 'Anything else? Did everything planetside feel... I don't know... unsettled, somehow?'

'Like nothing was solid or real?' Torin breathed a sigh of relief. 'Thank Russ. I was starting to think I was losing my mind. But wait, you said you were feeling like this back on Fenris?'

Ragnar frowned. 'Well, not exactly. I didn't start seeing things until later, once we'd set off for Charys. On Fenris it was mostly just strange dreams.'

'Dreams about what?'

'Monsters,' Ragnar answered. 'Monsters in the shape of men.'

Torin frowned. 'Monsters... or Wulfen?'

Ragnar felt his hackles rise. 'Does it matter?' he asked.

'Of course it does,' Torin answered. 'Have you talked to the Wolf Priest about it?'

'Even if I'd thought of it, there was no time to talk to Ranek,' the young s.p.a.ce Wolf replied. 'What about Sigurd?'

Ragnar snorted. 'Don't be stupid. We're just a bunch of nithlings as far as he's concerned. The only things I plan on sharing with him are my fists.'

The older Wolfblade shook his head. 'Don't be so quick to judge him, Ragnar. Yes, he's a bit of an idiot, but we all were at that age. He still thinks he's the son of a jarl, not a young priest who's just earned his crozius. He's unsure of his authority and overwhelmed by the role he's been thrust into. Basically, he's terrified of failure.' Torin looked pointedly at Ragnar. 'Sound like anyone you know?'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' the young s.p.a.ce Wolf growled.

'Fine, consider this instead: Sigurd wouldn't have been raised up unless Ranek and the other priests saw some potential in him. Talk to him about the dreams. Give him the benefit of the doubt, and perhaps he'll learn to do the same for the rest of us.'

Ragnar thought it over. Finally, he shrugged. 'All right,' he said, 'as soon as we get back, provided we don't get blown to pieces in the meantime.'

Torin grinned and clapped Ragnar on the shoulder. 'That's the cheery soul I used to know. Trust me on this, brother. I know what I'm talking about.'

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf turned and surveyed the chamber once more. 'Is that so? Then where is Haegr? We jump off in thirty seconds-'

A booming laugh rolled down the pa.s.sageway outside the chamber. Haegr's bristly, grinning face appeared in the hatchway, his ma.s.sive drinking horn clutched in one great fist. 'Mighty Haegr is here!' he roared, sloshing a bit of frothy ale onto the deck. 'Draw your swords and beat your shields, sons of Fenris! Battle and red glory await!'

For a moment, it looked as though Haegr wouldn't be able to force his bulk through the narrow hatchway. Iron Priests and acolytes hurried over to help, but the huge s.p.a.ce Wolf paid them no heed. First one foot, then the hand bearing the ale horn, then a hip the size of a boar's flank and a torso half again as large as a mead cask, and with a grunt and a creak of metal, Haegr squeezed sideways into the room. Still grinning, he took a long draught from his ale horn and licked the froth from his whiskers. 'Next time I see the Old Wolf,' he said to Ragnar, 'remind me to tell him we need bigger ships.'

Far below, on the surface of the embattled world, the first stages of Ragnar's plan were swinging into motion.

At Gorgon-4, an Imperial Guard firebase five kilometres east of the starport, a vox teletype began to clatter in the company commander's blockhouse. The sound jolted the vox operator awake, dragging him from a pleasant dream about a girl he used to know back home. Rubbing his bleary eyes, the young Guardsman read off the script as it printed and confirmed by the message header that it had been sent to the proper unit. Then he tore the flimsy copy from the machine and dashed out into the trenches to find the artillery officer.

The vox operator found the battery commander sipping lukewarm recaff from a tin cup as he watched the sun start to rise through the smoke-stained horizon to the east. The officer, a veteran of many campaigns, took the proffered script without a word and read the orders between sips. His dark eyes widened a bit as he saw the time stamp on the page, and he turned to rouse the gun crews with a stream of leathery curses.

Within minutes, the long barrels of Gorgon-4's Earthshaker batteries rose into the sky. Six hundred kilo sh.e.l.ls had already been fed into the guns' open breeches, and bare-chested Guardsmen were still blinking sleep out of their eyes as they wrestled pro-pellant bags from their armoured caissons.

Still watching the glow on the eastern horizon, the battery commander slowly raised his right hand. All along the line, the gunnery crews scrambled clear of the gun carriages. Each gunnery sergeant in the battery checked his gun, checked his elevation, checked his crew and then shot his right hand into the air.

The battery commander smiled in satisfaction. At that exact moment, the first rays of the sun broke through the haze.

'Fire!' he cried, dropping his arm, and the eight heavy guns roared. Thunder shook the earth to the north and south as five other firebases added their guns to the barrage.

Five kilometres west, the vox-units crackled in the c.o.c.kpits of Mjolnir Flight. 'Mjolnir Lead, this is Echo five-seven. Green light - repeat, green light. Good luck and good hunting.'

Ten pilots and their crews straightened in their jump seats and put away their pre-flight checklists. They had been wakened in the dead of night, briefed and taken out to their birds an hour before dawn. Now wide awake, they reached for the throttles and brought idling turbojets to a full-throated roar.

One by one, eight Valkyrie gunships and two Thunderhawk a.s.sault transports rose heavily from their revetments and headed off to the west. They would be over their target in just twelve minutes.

Back aboard the Fist of Russ, the Iron Priests and their acolytes filed one by one from the teleportation chamber. An unearthly hum began to fill the air, sinking deep into Ragnar's bones.

'Form up!' Ragnar ordered, drawing his bolt pistol and sword. The Blood Claws fell silent at once, separating into three teams as Ragnar had planned. Three of the Claws trotted over to join Ragnar, Torin and Haegr. Raising his crozius, Sigurd moved quickly to the head of another team of five Claws. Harald stood ready with the remaining six members of the pack. There were no dark looks, no challenges or recriminations. Whatever Sigurd or the Blood Claws thought of Ragnar and his companions, none of it mattered now. They went to war as battle-brothers, as their forebears had done since the dawn of the Imperium.

Sigurd the Wolf Priest turned to his brethren and began the Benediction of Iron. One of the Blood Claws clashed his axe against his breastplate and started his battle-chant, singing of salt waves and splintered shields in a low, rumbling voice.

Haegr threw back his head and drained his ale horn in a single draught. Foam dripping from his whiskers, he gave his companions an enormous grin. 'By Russ, these are the moments that make a man's blood sing!' he roared, laughing like a drunken G.o.d. 'Try to keep up with mighty Haegr if you can, little brothers, lest he claim all the glory for himself!'

Chainblades growled to life. Power weapons crackled and moaned. Bolt pistols rattled as sh.e.l.ls were driven home, and then the teleporter activated with a searing flash of light.

There was a moment of terrible, blind dislocation, and in the s.p.a.ce of a single heartbeat the s.p.a.ce Wolves found themselves near the southern edge of the sprawling rebel base, caught up in a storm of fire, thunder and steel.

Ragnar staggered and dropped into a crouch as the earth shook beneath the Imperial barrage. Heavy sh.e.l.ls howled overhead, falling across the rebel base with thunderous detonations and tall pillars of dirt and smoke. They were well within the base's defensive walls, perhaps two hundred metres from the broad ferrocrete bunkers of the tank park. The mangled wreckage of a staff car blazed brighdy nearby, its pa.s.sengers scattered in smoking pieces for a dozen metres around the impact site. No one else could be seen. The base's garrison had mn for the shelters the moment the barrage began.

Red-hot shrapnel rang off Ragnar's armour. He ducked his head and shouted at the top of his lungs. 'Go for objective one!' he shouted into the cataclysmic storm. 'Go!'

Without hesitation, the three teams of s.p.a.ce Wolves separated, charging off into the howling storm of sh.e.l.ls. They had to deal with the anti-aircraft batteries first. Their air support would be over the base in less than ten minutes.

It was General Athelstane's comment about bombarding the PDF base that had given Ragnar the idea. Despite his protestations, he knew full well that the Blood Claws stood no chance facing the base's garrison in a conventional fight. Dealing with them one element at a time, however, was another matter. One pack, he reckoned, would be enough for what they had to do. Any more and they risked taking unnecessary casualties from their own artillery fire. As it was, there was a good chance that some of them would be caught by an unlucky blast, but that was a risk Ragnar was willing to take.

There were three large Hydra anti-aircraft batteries situated around the base, consisting of four quadruple cannon mounts and a high-power auspex unit. Ragnar chose the battery furthest from the insertion point as his team's objective. The s.p.a.ce Wolves dashed through the pall of smoke and dirt, navigating more by memory than sight. Concussions smote at them with invisible fists, and steel fragments whizzed past their heads. Ragnar heard Torin grunt in surprise and pain, but a quick glance showed that the older Wolfblade was still running alongside him. Bright blood leaked from a shrapnel wound in his arm.

They covered the three kilometres to the battery in just over three minutes. The gun mounts were in concrete revetments arrayed in a diamond around the central auspex unit and barrage shelter. Ragnar signalled to his men, and the warriors peeled away and headed for the guns, leaving him to take care of the battery's crew.

He vaulted a slit trench connecting two of the batteries and ran to the low ferrocrete bunker in the centre. Pulling a grenade from his belt, he put his armoured boot to the bunker's steel hatch. The door crumpled and fell inward on the third kick.

Bolts of blue light snapped out of the interior of the bunker, detonating against his breastplate. One shot sizzled past his head, close enough to leave an angry welt on his cheek. Ragnar fired a pair of wild shots from his bolt pistol and ducked to the left of the door as he chucked the grenade inside. A chorus of shouts was silenced by a sharp bang as the grenade exploded. Moving quickly, the young s.p.a.ce Wolf dashed into the smoke filled bunker and made certain the occupants were dead before heading back outside.

By the time he was finished the four gun mounts were wrecked. Ragnar waved to his men and keyed his vox. 'Objective one-one clear,' he shouted.

'Objective one-two dear,' came Sigurd's reply 'Objective one-three clear,' Harald answered a moment later.

Ragnar nodded in approval. So far, so good. 'Go for objective two!' he called.

The s.p.a.ce Wolves converged on the centre of the base from three different directions, heading for the garrison's cl.u.s.ter of barrage shelters. Two and a half more minutes elapsed. According to the plan, the Imperial barrage was about to lift.

Ragnar and his men reached the first of the barrage shelters. Each one was a low, ferrocrete bunker capable of holding a hundred men, with a reinforced steel door and a set of narrow vision slits running along their flanks.

A hundred traitors versus five s.p.a.ce Wolves, Ragnar thought, taking cover to the right of the door. Those were odds he could deal with.

He motioned to a pair of Blood Claws. The Wolves ran to the door, one of them detaching a heavy melta charge from his backpack. Working quickly, they attached the charge's magnetic clamps to the door and keyed the timer.

The bunkers' ferrocrete construction made them strong enough to shrug off a direct hit from an Earth-shaker round. It also made them strong enough to channel the blast of a melta charge instead of bursting apart and dissipating it. Ragnar had seen what melta charges did to the crews of enemy tanks. He expected a similar result here.

With a hollow thump the charge detonated, vaporising the steel door and hurling it inwards as a plume of incandescent plasma. The concussion wave struck the far end of the bunker and rebounded through the open door with a thunderclap of superheated air. Grinning fiercely, Ragnar signalled his warriors, and they swept inside, hunting for survivors.

They didn't find many.

Ragnar's men cleared fifteen bunkers in just under four minutes. By the time the last Imperial sh.e.l.ls landed across the enemy base its garrison had been almost completely destroyed.

The three teams linked up again on the west side of the central bunker complex. A quick head count showed that three Wolves were missing. Two had been unlucky running through the barrage, and one Blood Claw had got over-eager a.s.saulting the bunkers and had stepped in front of a rebounding concussion wave. He lay inside a bunker awaiting extraction, deep in the Red Dream.

A chorus of petrochem engines growled off to the west, on the other side of the bunker complex. The tanks would be rolling out of their shelters soon. The faint roar of jet engines off to the east told Ragnar that the traitors were about to be in for a brutal surprise.

'Here's where the fighting begins in earnest,' Ragnar told the a.s.sembled s.p.a.ce Marines. 'We don't know how many troops are inside the central complex, but Russ knows they'll put up a stiff fight. Expect anything,' he said. 'You've all got maps of the complex loaded into your memory cores. If you get separated, fight your way to the vault or head back outside for extraction. Kill everything that gets in your way.'

The Blood Claws growled in a.s.sent. Ragnar glanced at Torin and Haegr and nodded. 'All right, let's go.'

They ran to the western side of the bunker, emerging like vengeful spirits out of the smoke and haze. Autogun fire and bolts of energy snapped out at them from the bunker's firing slits, but the enemy was too startled to draw beads on the fast-moving Wolves. Two Blood Claws ran ahead and started fixing their last demolition charge to the western bunker doors. They keyed the timer just as Ragnar and the rest of the force arrived.

The concussive blast buffeted Ragnar and his companions from ten metres away, checking his headlong charge for half a step. Then, with a howl, he plunged into the searing heat and smoke beyond the gaping doorway. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf found himself in a short narrow corridor, emerging after a few moments into a large, square room that reeked of hot metal and burned flesh. A squad of rebel stormtroopers had been formed up inside the room. At least three of them had been caught by the force of the blast and torn apart, while the rest were hurled like rag dolls against the stone walls. Ragnar burst upon them just as they were staggering to their feet. Their sergeant let out a yell and shot the young s.p.a.ce Wolf full in the chest with his h.e.l.lpistol. The crimson bolt cracked harmlessly against the ancient ceramite breastplate. Ragnar hacked off the sergeant's left arm and head with a backhanded swipe of his frost blade, and then shot two more troopers as they tried to flee from the room.

Another sharp concussion rang from the bunker walls as Haegr stepped to Ragnar's left and smashed two more rebels to bits with a swing from his thunder hammer. The last surviving stormtrooper threw down his h.e.l.lgun and raised his hands in surrender. Torin stepped into the room and shot the man in pa.s.sing. They were going to have enough trouble with prisoners as it was.

Two corridors led out of the entry room, heading left and right. Ragnar recalled the maps he'd studied of the bunker layout, looked to Sigurd and pointed left. The Wolf Priest, his pale face speckled with fresh blood, nodded and led his and Harald's teams down the corridor. There were two staircases in the complex that led down to the lower level where the vault was located. They would work their way across the bunker to the stairs on the west side, while Ragnar and his companions fought their way to the closer staircase. That way they could ensure that none of the rebel commanders got past them if they decided to flee.

Shots and lasgun bolts whipped through the entry room from the right-hand corridor as rebels opened fire on Sigurd's team. Ragnar pulled another grenade from his belt and hurled it down the pa.s.sageway. A second before it detonated, he nodded to Haegr, and the burly Wolf charged into the wake of the blast. Screams and brutal thunderclaps echoed down the corridor, punctuated by the s.p.a.ce Wolfs booming laugh.

Ragnar readied his bolt pistol and dashed off after Haegr, running past broken bodies and shattered weapons that littered the pa.s.sageway floor. The ma.s.sive s.p.a.ce Wolf was ploughing ahead like a stampeding mastodon, crushing any resistance in his path. Ragnar and his men charged, more than once, into a bloodstained room, and found themselves fighting stunned guardsmen, who Haegr had simply overrun and left behind.

They caught up to Haegr several long minutes later, at a four-way junction deep within the complex. The huge Wolf had his back against the wall near the corner of the junction, wrapped in swirling tendrils of smoke. The smell of ozone and shattered stone filled the air.

Haegr looked over at his battle-brothers as they approached. Ragnar saw that the right side of Haegr's face was red and blistered, and half of his unruly whiskers had been burned away. 'Mighty Haegr is unusually nimble for one of his heroic girth,' he grumbled, 'but these tight corridors make it hard to dodge plasma fire.'

'Like shooting fish in a barrel,' Torin said tightly. He glanced at Haegr. 'Sorry. More like spearing whales.'

'Must I do the foe's work and thrash you myself?' Haegr said. 'That would be tragic, would it not?'

'Where is the plasma gunner?' Ragnar said.

Haegr jerked his head to the left. 'Around the corner, about twenty metres,' he replied, 'and he's not alone. Looks like another squad of storm troopers is covering the staircase.'

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf nodded. 'Did you try any grenades?'

Haegr blinked at him. 'Grenades. Yes. A good idea,' he agreed.

Torin rolled his eyes. 'What did you do? Eat yours?'

The burly Wolf glowered at Torin. 'The mighty Haegr prefers to look the foe in the eye before ending his life, not cowering behind a cloud of shrapnel.'

'Meaning your thick fingers can't work the grenade dispenser,' Torin said drily.

Haegr shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes, well, possibly that, too,' he growled.

Ragnar couldn't help but chuckle. 'Now I know why the pair of you were sent to Terra,' he declared, shaking his head. He sheathed his sword and drew a grenade from Haegr's belt. Thumbing the fuse, he tossed it around the corner. Immediately, a hail of fire chewed along the length of the stone wall and ricocheted across the junction. Seconds later the grenade went off, and Ragnar spun around the corner, firing as he ran.

The young s.p.a.ce Wolf saw at once that Haegr had neglected to mention the barricade a few metres down the corridor.

A barrier of layered flakboard had been erected across the width of the pa.s.sageway, and his grenade had left a scorch mark at its feet. The stormtroopers taking cover behind it were just popping back up from behind cover as Ragnar started his charge. Scarlet bolts of h.e.l.lgun fire burst across his breastplate and pauldrons, leaving scorch marks across the ceramite plate. He saw the rebel plasma gunner pop up and level his weapon. Ragnar brought his pistol around and shot the man in the head.

Another bolt detonated against his thigh, and Ragnar felt a jolt of pain as the shot burned through his armour. He stumbled, and then redoubled his pace, charging headlong at the enemy barrier while he dragged his frost blade from its scabbard.

Two more shots struck his midsection as he leapt over the barrier. Ragnar's frost blade flashed and two storm troopers toppled in a welter of blood. He landed on a third rebel, driving the soldier to the floor before shooting him in the neck. Ragnar spun to the right, slashing downward with his sword and slicing another screaming trooper in half.

The remaining stormtroopers fell back, snapping off shots from their h.e.l.lguns as they went. Drunk with battle l.u.s.t, Ragnar stalked after them. He shot the closest man in the head. Then the crowd before him parted, and he was facing a sergeant with a glowing power sword in his hand, and a trooper with a hissing flamer levelled at Ragnar's chest.

There were two loud booms behind Ragnar, and a pair of heavy rounds hissed past the young s.p.a.ce Wolfs head. The first shot struck the man with the flamer in the shoulder, and the second tore through the trooper's throat. The stormtrooper spun to the right, his finger tightening on the trigger, spraying his comrades with a stream of liquid fire.

Ragnar dodged to the right, away from the flames, and the storm trooper sergeant rushed forward, slashing at the young s.p.a.ce Wolfs chest. Ragnar caught the glowing sword on the diamond-hard teeth of his frostblade and ripped open the rebel's chest with a back-handed blow. The survivors fled down the hall, firing wildly as they went, abandoning their post at the head of the staircase to Ragnar's right.