Wolf's Honour Part 9

Harald was sitting with a pair of packmates, cleaning and checking their weapons when Ragnar appeared. The pack leader glanced up and his face darkened into an angry scowl. 'What in Morkai's name do you want?' he snarled.

Ragnar strode purposefully into the bunker. The two Blood Claws to either side of him closed in quickly, intending to bar his way, but he stopped them in their tracks with a steely glare. 'I bring tidings from Mikal Sternmark,' he declared. 'We're going back into action.'

He sketched out the planned expedition quickly and concisely, entertaining no questions from Harald or his packmates. As he spoke, the Blood Claws shared disbelieving looks that only turned grimmer as the inquisitor's plan took shape.

When he was done, Ragnar turned back to Harald and planted his hands upon his hips. 'If you have something to say, pack leader, now is the time,' he said. He could see the challenge building behind Harald's eyes, and part of him hoped that the Blood Claw would try to do something about it.

'Who is commanding this expedition?' Harald asked. 'The last time you led us, we lost our Wolf Priest and a third of our pack. Surely Sternmark isn't about to place us in your hands again.'

The rest of the Blood Claws were silent, glaring angrily at Ragnar. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf bared his teeth. 'There's an inquisitor on the planet, a man named Volt. He'll be leading the force.'

Harald snorted in disgust. 'First an exile, then an inquisitor. By Morkai, we're an ill-fated bunch,' he told his men. They growled their agreement. The pack leader sneered at Ragnar. 'Next thing you know, that d.a.m.ned three-eyed maid of his will try her hand at us.'

'Get up,' Ragnar said coldly.

The pack leader smiled. 'Well, well,' he said. 'Struck close to home, did I?'

'I said on your feet.' Ragnar took a step forward. 'Take your beating like a man, not grinning up from the floor like a dog.'

Harald leapt off the floor with a snarl, blue fire crackling between his fingers as he activated his power fist. Startled shouts filled the bunker as the rest of the pack threw their bodies between the two men and tried to push them apart.

'Enough!' yelled Harald's second, the red-haired warrior called Rolfi. He grabbed Harald by the front of his armour and shook him. 'No challenges during war time! That's the Old Wolfs law!'

Harald pushed himself away with a snarl, but anger still smouldered in the pack leader's eyes. 'When we return to Fenris, then,' he declared, pointing at Ragnar with his crackling fist. 'You're going to answer for Sigurd, exile. That I swear.'

Ragnar shook off the men gripping his arms like a bear shakes off a pack of hounds. 'Let Sigurd speak for himself,' he shot back. 'I for one choose to believe he still lives.' He glared savagely at the a.s.sembled Wolves. 'Muster for battle at Thunderhawk Two in an hour,' he said. 'We're going to go and get him.'

Ragnar turned and headed for the doorway. He paused at the threshold, and looked back over his shoulder at Harald. The pack leader was still surrounded by his men, gazing angrily at the young s.p.a.ce Wolf's back.

One fight at a time, Ragnar thought, and stepped out into the sunlight.

The Guard's powerful vox transmitters were only a short walk from the bunker's situation room. Inquisitor Volt led the way, with Sternmark pacing only a few steps behind him. The stormtroopers stationed at the door shouldered their h.e.l.lguns and admitted them without a word.

Inside, Volt surveyed the crowded room. Half the s.p.a.ce was given over to humming vox consoles, where soldiers hunched over flickering cathode screens and read off messages from sheets of flimsy parchment pa.s.sed from the war room across the hall. The rest of the dimly lit room contained rack upon rack of transmitters, receivers and power supplies. The stink of ozone hung heavy in the cramped s.p.a.ce. Nodding in satisfaction, he dismissed the on-duty vox operators and tech-priests with a murmured command. When the door had shut on the last of the men, the inquisitor walked over to the central console and began adjusting the frequency controls on the system's...o...b..tal relay.

Sternmark put his back to the door and folded his arms. For once he was glad not to have the watchful eyes of the skald boring into his back. A sense of despair gripped him. He could not shake the feeling that the situation was spiralling out of control and nothing he did could alter its course. 'You don't have to do this,' he said grimly.

'It is now or never,' Volt replied, fine-tuning the frequency. 'You said it yourself. There is virtually no chance that any of us will return from this mission. I must set things in motion before we depart-'

'That's not what I meant,' Sternmark said. 'It's too premature to call for Exterminatus.'

Volt turned to face the dour s.p.a.ce Wolf. 'Do you think I'm doing this lightly? I've been an inquisitor for a hundred and fifty years, and do you know how many worlds I have condemned? None. Not a single one.' The inquisitor took a step towards Sternmark, his bandaged hands trembling. 'There was always another way to deal with the traitors and save the innocent, always. We... we always found a way.' He took a deep, shuddering breath. 'But not this time. The enemy was too well prepared. We worked for years, slowly penetrating the governor's household and the PDF hierarchy, but they were aware of us the entire time. When the traitors finally revealed themselves my... friends... were the first to die.' Volt's face grew haunted, his gaze turning inwards as he relived that b.l.o.o.d.y night in the capital. He shook his head. 'Now... there's nothing left. If we don't succeed on the shadow world, then it's only a matter of time before your positions are overrun.' Volt regained his focus with a start, like a man waking from a nightmare. 'We have to be prepared for that eventuality.'

Sternmark tried to formulate a reply, but the inquisitor turned his back on the Wolf Guard and keyed the transmitter. 'Holmgang, this is Citadel,' Volt said, using the code name for the planetary headquarters. 'My authorisation is five-alpha-five-sigma-nine-epsilon. Please respond.'

For several long moments nothing emerged from the vox-unit except for the ghosdy hiss of static. Then, faintly, a voice replied. 'Citadel, this is Holmgang. Countersign is gamma-alpha-seven-four-omicron-beta. What is your message?'

The battle-barge and her surviving escorts had been hiding out in the asteroid belt for weeks, powered down and maintaining vox silence to avoid detection. Volt had insisted that the ships be held in reserve once it had become clear that losses were mounting against the Chaos fleet. The barge's powerful barrage cannons and cyclonic torpedoes were a force of last resort in the event that the Imperial defenders on Charys were overwhelmed.

Volt took a deep breath and invoked the wrath of the Holy Inquisition. 'Implement Tripwire,' he said. 'Acknowledge.'

Silence hung heavy in the air as the signals crossed the void. Finally, the voice replied, 'Tripwire acknowledged. Holmgang out.'

The inquisitor slowly reached up and switched off the transmitter. 'Mark the hour,' he said to Sternmark. 'From this day forward the all-clear code must be sent at exactly the same time.' He turned back to Sternmark, and his expression was bleak. 'If you or Athelstane fail to send the code, the ship's master will a.s.sume that the headquarters has been overrun, and by order of the Inquisition, Charys will die.'

ELEVEN.

Into the Storm The sh.e.l.ls fell from orbit with a rumbling, clattering roar, pa.s.sing high overhead and falling beyond the horizon to the west. White and yellow flashes lit the undersides of the thick clouds of billowing smoke above the capital, and a roll of man-made thunder sent a shiver through the ground beneath the s.p.a.ce Wolves' feet.

An early dusk was coming on as the strike team finally began to board their ships and rendezvous with the Fist of Russ. Their departure had been delayed more than four hours by rocket attacks and a surprise air raid by a squadron of rebel Valkyries late in the afternoon. Fires were still burning out of control at the fuel depot on the other side of the starport, and several of the Guard's aircraft had been damaged or destroyed. Rocket attacks had continued over the course of the afternoon as well, making repair work hazardous. It was dear to Ragnar and the rest of the Wolves that these were the opening stages of the coming enemy offensive.

The delays were further compounded by Shipmaster Wulfgar, who, upon receiving his orders from Sternmark, insisted on evacuating the cruiser of all non-essential personnel and transferring the ship's supply stores down to the planet. The off-loading took more than three hours, during which time the battle cruiser's surviving weapon batteries bombarded rebel positions in and around the capital. Wulfgar wanted to do as much as he could for the embattled defenders while he had the chance, and no one, not even Sternmark, sought to gainsay him. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew that once the Fist of Russ broke orbit and entered the warp, there was little chance the crippled warship would ever return.

A grim mood hung like a storm cloud over the Wolves of Harald's pack as they queued up to board Thunderhawk Two. Thunderhawk One, where Torin had chosen to rest and recuperate from his wound, had been hit during the air raid and badly damaged by enemy bombs. Though the injured Wolfblade had managed to put out the fire raging in the a.s.sault ship's fuselage, the damage was so extensive that the Thunderhawk had been put out of action. Smoke stains still smudged the older Wolfblade's lean face, giving him a dark, glowering mien as he limped around the exterior of the Bellisarius shuttle on a pre-flight inspection.

There was a scent in the air, something thin and acrid that cut through the smell of burning petrochem and flakboard and set Ragnar's hair on end. He could see by the hunched shoulders and hooded eyes of the rest of the Wolves that they felt it, too, all but Haegr, who seemed serenely oblivious of everything but the grox thighbone he had between his teeth. Something's got under our skin, he thought, watching the Blood Claws dimb aboard their waiting a.s.sault ship a few dozen metres away. Something's burning in the blood. The thought perplexed him, but he found himself strangely a.s.sured that he wasn't the only one in an ill humour. It's not just me, not just the wolf inside. Surely the curse can't be clawing inside each of us.

Gabriella seemed troubled as well, in her own way. She arrived at the shuttle silent and withdrawn, clad in partial carapace armour drawn from the Guard's meagre stores. She walked with great care across the tarmac and up the ramp into the shuttlecraft, as though burdened by the unfamiliar weight of breastplate and greaves. Ragnar had stood at the bottom of the ramp, immobile as a statue, and she pa.s.sed him without a word or a sideways glance. He'd long since gone over every argument he could think of to dissuade her from joining the expedition, and not one of them seemed sufficient. It was her right, indeed, her duty, to place her life in harm's way for the good of the Imperium, and yet he could not help but feel as though he and his brothers had failed her somehow. It should never have come to this, Ragnar thought darkly.

Inquisitor Volt arrived, a short while later, disembarking from the armoured squad bay of a scarred Chimera APC. He emerged alone from the idling transport, carrying nothing more than a battered leather book case in one hand and a scabbarded sword in the other. Polished armour gleamed from beneath the folds of his dark, red robes, and the unmistakeable bulge of a bolt pistol rested upon his hip. Ragnar saw at once that the war gear had been made with Volt in mind, but the inquisitor bore it awkwardly. He reminded Ragnar of an aged veteran, long past his prime, who'd put on his old gear for the first time in a great many years. Another salvo of heavy sh.e.l.ls rattled overhead as Volt strode across the tarmac, and he turned to mark their, pa.s.sing as they fell upon the far-off capital. Ragnar watched the man stare contemplatively at the distant horizon for several long minutes. Then the inquisitor raised his hand, as though in farewell. With that, he straightened and resumed his course in a swirl of crimson robes and nodded wordlessly to Ragnar as he joined Gabriella inside her shuttle.

Torin completed his check of the shuttle's thrusters, and limped over to Ragnar. His armour had been patched where the sorcerer's h.e.l.lblade had torn through his hip, but the pale line of the chemical weld showed how large the wound had actually been. His voice was a husky growl, no doubt from the clouds of toxic smoke he'd inhaled fighting the fire. 'She took some fragments during that air raid, but she'll fly,' he said, 'providing Haegr hasn't managed to put on any more weight since we've been here.'

Haegr cracked open the end of the bone with his granite-like molars. 'If I have, I can work it off in a few moments by giving you a good thrashing,' he said idly.

Torin gave his battle-brother a wolfish stare, and for a moment it looked as though he welcomed the chance for a fight. The sight startled Ragnar. 'Head inside and start up the engines,' he said quickly. 'I want to launch as soon as Harald's men have boarded.'

The older Wolfblade nodded, almost sullenly, and then nodded at something past Ragnar's shoulder. 'Sternmark's coming,' he rasped, and headed up the shuttle ramp.

Bemused and deeply unsettled, Ragnar turned to see half a dozen Wolf Guard striding purposely through the smoke towards the strike team. Sternmark led them, his helmet tucked beneath his arm and his long, black hair unbound. He seemed a different man, Ragnar thought at once. Gone were the troubled expression and the hunched, almost defeated look that he'd had inside the command bunker. Out in the open air, with guns pounding and enemy sh.e.l.ls flying overhead, the Wolf Guard held his head high and there was a fell look in his dark eyes. He strode through the fury of war like a hero of legend, the true son of a hard and warlike people. Some of Harald's pack caught sight of Sternmark and called out his name, raising their chainblades in salute. Ragnar did so as well, drawing his frost blade free and lifting it to the sky. Even Haegr tossed his splintered bone hurriedly aside and gripped the haft of his thunder hammer.

'Mikal Sternmark, lord and captain, hail!' Ragnar called in a deep, powerful voice.

Sternmark nodded gravely to the warriors and returned their salute with a raised fist. 'There is no lord here but Berek,' he said, 'I am only his sworn man, acting in his name.' He stopped before Ragnar and called out to the nearby Blood Claws. 'Harald! Come here!' At once, the pack leader broke into a run, covering the few dozen metres between them in moments. He arrived with a clatter of armour and the faint whine of servomotors, bowing his head respectfully to the Wolf Guard. Ragnar lowered his sword, suddenly very conscious of the silent figure of Morgrim Silvertongue, the company skald, watching the proceedings from the rear of the group.

'I am heading for the front line soon,' Sternmark said without preamble. 'The enemy offensive has begun, and every warrior will be needed to hold the traitors at bay' He paused, a frown momentarily creasing his brow as he struggled for the proper words to say.

After a moment, he continued, 'The survival of Charys depends upon you. If the Rune Priests speak true, the fate of the entire Chapter rests upon your shoulders as well. Whatever evil our foes are working you must somehow destroy it, no matter the cost.'

Harald's expression turned sombre. This was the first time he'd heard of the priests' dire predictions regarding the future of the Chapter. 'No matter the cost,' he echoed. 'You have my oath upon it.'

'And mine,' Ragnar said.

Sternmark nodded. 'I am no priest, so I have no benedictions to offer you. Nor am I a lord, to gift you with gold rings or t.i.tles. I can only give you this,' he said, offering his hand, 'and wish you good hunting.'

They clasped forearms in silence, warrior to warrior, as more rockets howled overhead. Ragnar was last, and Sternmark gripped his arm a moment longer. 'Fight well,' he said quiedy. 'If we do not meet again, know that you are redeemed in the eyes of Berek's company'

Ragnar understood what Sternmark intended. He sends me off to die with honour, he thought, and was moved. Yet he shook his head. 'No,' he answered, 'not yet, not unl the Spear of Russ is returned to Garm. That is my oath to the Great Wolf.'

The Wolf Guard smiled grimly and nodded. 'So be it,' he said. 'Russ will know your deeds, even unto the depths of the warp.' Sternmark took a step back and saluted the two Wolves one last time. 'Until we meet again, brothers, in this life or the next,' he said. As he started to turn away, the Wolf Guard caught Haegr's eye. 'And if you get to the Halls of Russ before me, save me a sip of ale and a crust of bread, will you?'

Haegr watched the Wolf Guard and his retinue stride off, his brow furrowed in consternation. 'Now what do you suppose he meant by that?' he mused aloud.

Not far from the starport's command bunker, the warriors of Berek's company had taken their fallen lord and laid him in state like a king of old, clad in gleaming armour and stretched upon a table of stone. His blond hair was unbound, and but for the deathly pallor of his face, Berek Thunderfist might have been sleeping, lost in red dreams of glory. His scarred power fist was laid across his chest, and his helm, which the Wolf Lord almost never wore, had been dug out of his arming chest and set by his side.

Twin braziers burned low inside the abandoned bunker, one at each end of the long table. When it became clear that the Wolf Priest's salves and incense did nothing to rouse their stricken lord, Sternmark had the censers removed and the braziers put in their place. He'd lit the wood fires himself, as his people had done on Fenris for thousands of years. The orange fire threw martial shadows against the thick walls. In the weeks since Berek had fallen, his warriors had heaped their war trophies around their lord's feet. Swords and axes, pistols and rifles, skulls of mutant and human alike filled the s.p.a.ce around Berek nearly to ceiling height, and more were arriving every day.

A single Wolf Guard stood vigil over the fallen lord. It was all the company could spare in these desperate times. Old Thorin Shieldsplitter filled the doorway with his fearsome bulk, barring the way with his two-handed power axe. He had been the company champion before Mikal, and now he bowed his head and stepped aside as Sternmark approached to pay homage to his lord.

He entered the bunker alone, hard footsteps echoing strangely in the crowded s.p.a.ce. The faint crackling of the fire and the smell of wood smoke reminded Sternmark of home, and for the first time in months he found himself thinking of Fenris, so many light-years away.

Sternmark approached the bier carefully, set his own helmet upon the floor, and slowly drew Redclaw. The ancient, rune-etched blade gleamed in the firelight as he rested its tip on the floor and sank to one knee. For a long time he stared at the blinking status runes flickering from an exposed access panel on Berek's armour. The Wolf Lord still clung to life, so faintly that the armour's powerful systems could only barely detect it. On Fenris, perhaps, something could possibly have been done, but here, on Charys, all they could do was wait, and they were nearly out of time.

The Wolf Guard cast his eyes downward, to the blinking red telltale of the melta charges set beneath the bier. If the starport perimeter was ever breached and the Imperial defenders overrun, then Thorin's last duty was to hit the detonator and ensure that their lord would never become a trophy for the enemy.

A sense of inevitability hung over Sternmark. It was like riding a longship into the teeth of a storm and perching atop a towering wave, waiting for the moment when the prow would start to dip and the terrifying plunge would begin. Death comes for us all, sooner or later, but it was not death that the warrior feared. A part of him welcomed the coming foe and the brutal simplicity of battle. When the swords sang and blood flowed, a man's decisions meant life or death for him alone, not uncounted thousands half a world away.

What Sternmark feared was the stain of failure, and the realisation that he was not worthy of the challenge laid before him.

'Why?' he said softly, his hands tightening on the hilt of his blade. 'Why me?'

'If not you, Mikal Sternmark, then who?'

Sternmark leapt to his feet. For the briefest instant he thought it was Berek's voice that he heard, but then he recognised the smooth, practiced tones of Morgrim the skald. Sternmark felt his cheeks burn with the shame of his confession. He whirled, teeth bared, and saw Morgrim standing silently just within the bunker's entrance. His expression was unreadable as ever, but his eyes were sharp and clear.

Watching me. Marking my every mistake.

White hot rage boiled in Sternmark's breast. The weight of the sword felt good in his hands, and then he saw that the two of them were alone. I could kill him now, he thought wildly. My shame will die with him.

He took a single step forward... and then realised what he was doing. 'Blessed Russ!' he cried, wrestling with his revulsion and rage. He glared at Morgrim, furious at himself and the skald besides. 'No wonder you skalds are called stormcrows,' he growled, 'always sticking your beaks where they don't belong!' With a conscious effort Sternmark slammed Redclaw back into its scabbard. 'What will you say of this moment, I wonder?'

Morgrim c.o.c.ked his head curiously. 'I will tell of a hero and a dutiful warrior who spent his hour before battle paying homage to his lord,' he said. 'What did you imagine I would say?'

'Don't lie to me!' Sternmark roared, once again feeling the rage claw through him. A vision danced before his eyes of the skald thrashing on the bunker floor, his eyes wide and his hands pressed to the shredded ruin of his throat. The Wolf Guard shook his head savagely, trying to drive the image from his mind. Blessed Russ, he thought, what is wrong with me?

'Do you think I haven't seen you these past few weeks?' Sternmark shouted. 'd.o.g.g.i.ng my steps and noting every false move I've made? Do you think me blind to the way you judge every decision I make?'

The skald's eyes narrowed. 'It's not my place to judge you,' he said carefully. 'My duty is to bear witness, and remember the deeds of our company' He spread his hands. 'Do you think I do this out of spite, or for an evening's entertainment? No. I remember all the deeds of our brothers so that when times are desperate and our leaders are in need of advice, I will be able to help.'

'And now you've got a fine tale of a man's failure!' Sternmark shouted. 'If you manage to survive my blunders here on Charys you'll have a cautionary tale for the next lord who comes along.'

'What blunders are those?' Morgrim asked, and the sincere interest in his voice gave Sternmark pause.

The Wolf Guard groped for the right words. 'This... this looming defeat,' he said, clenching his fists. 'Nothing I've done here has stemmed the tide one whit, and you well know it. We're about to be overrun. Berek's great company is about to die, and the blame is mine.'

Morgrim did not answer at once, instead tugging thoughtfully at his beard. Finally, he said, 'Do you imagine Berek could have done any better?'

'Of course!' Sternmark snapped. 'How many battles has he won? How many times has he led us against impossible odds and stood triumphant?'

'Five hundred and thirty-seven.'

Sternmark frowned. 'What?'

'You asked how many battles Berek's won, and I told you, five hundred and thirty-seven. That's major battles, of course. We don't concern ourselves with skirmishes or raids unless they lead to something noteworthy.'

'Are you mocking me, stormcrow?' the Wolf Guard asked, incredulous.

'By the Allfather, I'm not!' Morgrim said with a laugh. 'Think on this: in five hundred and thirty-seven battles, do you not imagine that Berek had occasion to feel the exact same way you do now?'

Sternmark glowered at the skald. 'Why don't you tell me?'

'Morkai's black breath! Of course he did,' Morgrim replied. 'Paxos VI; Manes Primus; the whole of the d.a.m.ned Lucern Suppression,' he said, ticking them off with his fingers. 'And those are just the most recent ones. That's the burden of command, Mikal Sternmark: holding the lives of your brothers in your hands and knowing that no matter what you do, they could still die. Sometimes the enemy is stronger, or more clever, or just luckier. You can only do the best that you can, and the rest is up to fate.' The skald walked past Sternmark and stood next to the bier. 'Berek is a fine lord and a mighty warrior,' he said, 'but he still walked into an ambush in the governor's palace.' He shrugged. 'Perhaps he would have done things differently, perhaps not. Every light fails in time,' the skald said. 'Battles are lost. Heroes die.'

Sternmark looked down upon his stricken lord. 'I failed him, Morgrim.'

'No,' the skald replied, 'you never shirked from your duty. What man can do more?'

The Wolf Guard considered this, and found he only had one answer. He bent and picked up his helmet, turning its battered shape over in his hands. 'When the time comes we can fight and die like Wolves,' he said softly.

'And so we shall, brother. So we shall.'

The Fist of Russ limped away from Charys at half power, trailing a glittering stream of leaking air and coolant in her wake. Her augurs swept the void, searching for signs of danger, while the skeleton crew aboard prayed to the Divine Emperor that they would find none. Her shields were weak, only half her guns worked, and all but one of her port thrusters were out. The crippled battle cruiser wouldn't last long against a determined group of raiders, but the young Navigator on board told them not to worry. The voyage, she a.s.sured them, would be a short one.

Smoke still stained the bulkheads on the warship's command deck, and the air still smelled of burned wiring and scorched flesh. Tech-priests walked in solemn circles across the deck, swinging censers and intoning damage control catechisms. Shipmaster Wulfgar was alone on the deck, save for a handful of his senior officers. Their faces were grim as they went about their tasks, calling out orders with an almost funereal solemnity. Every one of them had volunteered for the mission. Sailors down to their bones, they had refused to give up the ship.

Shipmaster Wulfgar stood at the command pulpit, his hands gripping the lectern before him as he looked out over the bridge, below. He had been reading pa.s.sages aloud from the Lexicanum lmperialis as the ship sailed on through the endless night, but he had fallen silent as Gabriella had climbed quietly inside the Navigator's vault. Torin and Haegr took positions at either side of the vault's adamantium hatch, as though their presence could somehow shield the Navigator from harm. Ragnar understood how they felt. The young s.p.a.ce Wolf caught Volt's watchful eye, and the inquisitor gave him a nod. Ragnar took a deep breath and moved quickly to Wulfgar's side.

The ship's master turned slightly at Ragnar's approach. Despite the added height of the pulpit, the bondsman was still a few centimetres shorter than the towering s.p.a.ce Wolf. Ragnar saw a pair of faded picts laid across the illuminated pages of the Lexicanum: a young boy in a bondsman's black tunic, grinning up at the imager, and a woman, tall and severe, wearing the armoured coveralls of an engineer. Wulfgar's right hand settled protectively over them as the young s.p.a.ce Wolf approached.

'The engine decks report ready' Wulfgar said. 'We are merely awaiting word from the Navigator to commence jump. The Geller field has been shut down.'

Ragnar nodded slowly 'I understand your concerns, Shipmaster Wulfgar,' he said, 'but I trust the Lady Gabriella with my life. If she and Inquisitor Volt say that there is a world on the other side, then there is.'

Wulfgar began to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded instead.

'She also says that there is little chance we'll find any hostile forces above the planet's surface,' Ragnar continued, 'so our arrival should go unchallenged.' He looked Wulfgar in the eye. 'So you should have no problem completing the jump cycle and returning back to real s.p.a.ce as soon as the strike team is deployed.'

The master of the ship turned fully about to face the young s.p.a.ce Wolf. 'That would be your death warrant,' he said. 'It takes many hours to recharge a warp drive under optimal conditions. You'd be dead before we could return to get you, providing we could even find our way back to the proper time and place.'

Ragnar nodded. 'But the ship - and her Navigator, our solemn charge - would be able to escape.'

Wulfgar studied Ragnar for a long moment. 'You've talked this over with the inquisitor?'