Praise for Book One
Dawn of Fire: Avenging Son
by Guy Haley

‘The beginning of an essential new epic: heroic, cataclysmic and vast in scope. Guy has delivered exactly what 40K readers crave, and lit the fuse on the Dark Millennium. This far future’s
about to detonate…’
Dan Abnett, author of Horus Rising

‘With all the thunderous scope of The Horus Heresy, a magnificent new saga begins.’
Peter McLean, author of Priest of Bones

‘A perfect blending of themes – characters that are raw, real and wonderfully human, set against a backdrop of battle and mythology’.
Danie Ware, author of Ecko Rising

More Warhammer 40,000 from Black Library

• DAWN OF FIRE •
Book 1: AVENGING SON
Guy Haley
Book 2: THE GATE OF BONES
Andy Clark
Book 3: THE WOLFTIME
Gav Thorpe

INDOMITUS
Gav Thorpe

• DARK IMPERIUM •
Guy Haley
Book 1: DARK IMPERIUM
Book 2: PLAGUE WAR
Book 3: GODBLIGHT

BELISARIUS CAWL: THE GREAT WORK
Guy Haley

THE HELWINTER GATE
Chris Wraight

ASHES OF PROSPERO
Gav Thorpe

LUKAS THE TRICKSTER
Josh Reynolds

• WATCHERS OF THE THRONE •
Chris Wraight
Book 1: THE EMPEROR’S LEGION
Book 2: THE REGENT’S SHADOW

RITES OF PASSAGE
Mike Brooks

• VAULTS OF TERRA •
Chris Wraight
Book 1: THE CARRION THRONE
Book 2: THE HOLLOW MOUNTAIN

Contents

Cover

Praise

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Dramatis Personae

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Epilogue

Appendix: Fenrisian Lexicon

Appendix: Notes on the Crusade

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Indomitus’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

It is the 41st millennium.

Ten thousand years have passed since the Primarch Horus turned to Chaos and betrayed his father, the Emperor of Mankind, plunging the galaxy into ruinous civil war.

For one hundred centuries the Imperium has endured xenos invasion, internal dissent, and the perfidious attentions of the dark gods of the warp. The Emperor sits immobile upon the Golden Throne of Terra, a psychic bastion against infernal powers. It is His will alone that lights the Astronomican, binding together the Imperium, yet not one word has He uttered in all that time. Without His guidance, mankind has strayed far from the path of enlightenment.

The bright ideals of the Age of Wonder have withered and died.
To be alive in this time is a terrible fate, where an existence of grinding servitude is the best that can be hoped for, and a quick death is seen as the kindest mercy.

As the Imperium continues its inevitable decline, Abaddon, last true son of the Primarch Horus, and now Warmaster in his stead, has reached the climax of a plan millennia in the making, tearing reality open across the width of the galaxy and unleashing forces unheard of. At last it seems, after centuries of valiant struggle, mankind’s doom is at hand.

Into this darkness a pale shaft of light penetrates. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman has been wakened from deathly slumber by alien sorcery and arcane science. Returning to Terra, he has resolved to set right this dire imbalance, to defeat Chaos once and for all, and to restart the Emperor’s grand plan for humanity.

But first, the Imperium must be saved. The galaxy is split in twain.
On one side, Imperium Sanctus, beleaguered but defiant. On the other, Imperium Nihilus, thought lost to the night. A mighty crusade has been called to take back the Imperium and restore its glory. All mankind stands ready for the greatest conflict of the age. Failure means extinction, and the path to victory leads only to war.

This is the era Indomitus.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

INDOMITUS HIGH COMMAND, FLEET PRIMUS

Roboute Guilliman, XIII primarch, the Avenging Son, the Lord Commander, the Imperial Regent

Maldovar Colquan, Stratarchis Tribune Actuarius, Adeptus Custodes

Hurak, Captain, Unnumbered Son of Corax

BATTLE GROUP RETRIBUTUS, FLEET PRIMUS

Lieutenant Astopites, Firstborn, Novamarines

Captain Veirsturm, Firstborn, Hammers of Dorn

THE FENRIS OUTRIDERS

Hastius Vychellan, Adeptus Custodes, Emissaries Imperatus Shield Host

Arlandus Castallor, Lieutenant, Ultramarines

Madam Caulderri Vertozikata, Astropath, Enduring Hate

Odys, Assistant to Madam Vertozikata, Enduring Hate

Petty Officer Maqoma, Surveyor Accordant-minor, Enduring Hate

Lieutenant Carmaichaz, Strategium Watch Officer, Enduring Hate

LOGOS HISTORICA VERITA

Deven Fracoi Esterant Mudire

Copla-var

Forgewelt Sparbend

λ-34-Eliptyka

Ahlek Threstinius

SQUAD LUPUS-SIX

Sergeant Gaius

Aegreus

Anfelis

Doro

Garold

Neiflur

THE DARKSTRIKE – NIGHT LORDS OF THE TERRORSTORM

Ektovar, Squad leader

Felskas

Serius

Nordra

Elizir

Lenthe

Keslos

DEFENDERS OF NOVIOMAGUS SUPERIOR

Colonel Gander, Commander, Noviomagus Superior defence force

Captain Orstanza, Dragonspears Chapter, Fourth Company

WARRIORS OF FENRIS

Wolf Lords and other Warriors of Renown

Logan Grimnar, The Great Wolf, Chapter Master of theSpace Wolves, Lord of the Champions of Fenris

Engir Krakendoom, Wolf Lord of the Seawolves

Ragnar Blackmane, Wolf Lord of the Blackmanes

Njal Stormcaller, Rune Priest, the Runelord, Chief Librarian of the Space Wolves

Engillr Walks-the-Sky, Rune Priest

Hrolf War-Tongue, Rune Priest

Ulrik the Slayer, Wolf High Priest

Aldacrel, Iron Priest

Bjorn the Fell-Handed, Venerable Dreadnought, former Great Wolf

Gammalr Jarl-Taken, Shipmaster of the Great Wolf’s flagship

Tyrnak and Fenrir, Fenrisian companions to the Great Wolf

Champions of Fenris

Arjac Rockfist, Kingsguard, Champion of Logan Grimnar

Skor Oft-Shot, Kingsguard

Torfin Daggerfist, Kingsguard

Hrothgar Frostskull, Kingsguard

Sven Halfhelm, Kingsguard

Herjolf, Kingsguard

Odyn Foe-Ruin, Wolf Guard

Ironfang, Wolf Guard

Horgoth, Wolf Guard

Alrik Doomseeker, Wolf Guard

Leifar Twice-Slain, Wolf Guard

Ancient Kryll, Venerable Dreadnought

Skvald Warbringer, Dreadnought

Svard Bloodfang, Dreadnought

Drakeslayers

Krom Dragongaze, Wolf Lord

Kraki, Wolf Guard

Brodd Winterstride, Wolf Scout

Drogr, Pack leader, Drogr’s Crimson Claws

Ordas Blacktail, Grey Hunter

Ullr’s Greypelts

Ullr, Pack leader

Sáthor

Dethar

Garnr

Forskad

Eirik

Hari

THE FOLK OF LANDSATTMAR

Gytha

Bjorti, Smith, husband of Gytha

Lufa, Son of Gytha

Korit, Daughter of Gytha

Ourilk the Tongue, Elder

Gotrin Tidebreaker, Aettjarl

Agitta, Elder, Bjorti’s mother

Faeras, Elder

Kjora, Elder

Kjorfi, Elder

Ydra, Elder

Artur Surebow, Huntjarl

Noraslov Fearbiter, Aettgard

Orin, Aettgard, cousin of Gytha

Hengla Chainsleeves

Fergas

Siggurund

Erkrand

ASSORTED SERVANTS OF THE EMPEROR

Crew of the Rigorous

Lieutenant Grier, Mistress of the Deck, starboard main gun deck

Ensign Cappagan, Officer of the starboard second battery

Rossi, Rating, Gun 4 captain, starboard second battery

Moaro, Rating, Gun 4 starboard second battery

Orad, Rating, Gun 4 starboard second battery

Cassonette, Rating, Gun 4 starboard second battery

Captain Bargoza, Commander, Heretics’ Reward

Lesaso Yaoic, Astropath, Heretics’ Reward

Captain Som, Tempestus Scions Commander, 394th Deltic Lions

Lieutenant Thaker, Lord Regent’s Defence force, 394th Deltic Lions

Urul Breakbough, Kaerl translator

Sergeant Coulas, Son of Russ

Kalum, Son of Russ

The sky is glass-clear beneath a rare summer sun and the wind fills the longship’s red-and-white sails. You feel the vessel lifting over the high waves like a buck in spring leaping across a glade. There is power there, every timber and rope and nail bound together for common purpose. A strength that can hold back the worst the elements will throw at you.

A tall man stands at the prow but you cannot see his face. The crew are ready around you but you do not look at them. Your eyes are fixed on the horizon and the thin stretch of green and white that marks a distant land. The sun has started to set, the crests of the waves aflame with oranges and reds. The sea is getting sharper, the wind shrill through the rigging, the mast creaking with fresh strain. Beneath your feet the deck starts to bend and the ship yaws heavily through the worsening troughs of water.

Still you sail on, fixed upon your goal. The man at the bow does not move. His bald scalp seems alight with sunfire. He turns his head ever so slightly, as if hearing something.

The sky darkens, becoming scarlet while black clouds billow up to throw a storm across your path. The sea seems thick, each wave hitting the hull with a thunderclap, red stains left on the painted planks. The howl of the wind nearly drowns the tear of canvas as the sail parts, flapping violently from its cables, the crack of its movement like a giant’s whip.

The warrior before you holds onto the dragon-headed stempost, now with an axe in his hand. Lightning crackles across the dark red heavens, briefly illuminating the lowest part of his face, his lips drawn back in a fierce grin to reveal canines that dig into his bottom lip, cheeks flowing with a braided, greying beard.

You hear the growls of the creatures around you. The crew are decked in furs, their faces hidden in shadow but for the glint of inhuman eyes and off-white fangs. You are not afraid, for you are one of them.

The sea boils, spitting hot over the gunwales, splashing like acid against the rows of round shields that line the edge of the longship. With no sail the wind roars over you, turning the boat one way and then another as it wallows dangerously beneath a rising wave. Taller than a tree the wave of red grows, glimmering with its own light to silhouette the warrior at the prow. He raises his axe in challenge and lightning springs from its head to disappear into the burgeoning wave.

Whether water or blood it is impossible to tell, as red liquid froths and rages, trying to swallow the ship. There are wolves around you, eyes like amber. Heads thrown back they howl as one. The storm lord riding the prow howls with them, but still his face is hidden, a figure of black with bared fangs against the ruddy backdrop of the devouring seas.

The red flow breaks, leaving nothing but a shore of sharp rocks and stinking mud. You are the wolf, leaping from boulder to boulder, the scent of your prey thick in your nostrils. The ship, the warrior, the crew have become the wolf with you. You are the beating heart, driving the hunter forward.

From the ground erupts a creature that towers up to the thick clouds, crowned with green lightning. Its flesh is the colour of jade. Its eyes are rubies that blaze with fire. Clawed hands reach down, seizing you by the throat. Sharp fingernails dig into flesh, drawing out your lifeblood, spilling it into the churned mud below.

A fanged maw, impossibly vast, opens like a dark cave ringed with teeth like the oldest icicles. The dark swallows you.

Prologue

Pain flared up Orad’s wrist as he put out a hand to stop himself hitting the meshwork of the deck. His foot tangled in his blanket and he wriggled free, half off the low bunk, skin on his chest tingling as it touched the cold decking. The siren was an ear-splitting presence a couple of inches inside his skull; it had jerked him from his slumber barely minutes after falling asleep. But it was not his own sudden awakening that had toppled Orad from his bunk – a sudden shift in the local gravity field had done that.

‘How the–?’

He saw the confused, half-asleep expressions on the rest of the gun crew that shared the dorm and knew he wouldn’t get any answers. Everything seemed normal now, but for a few seconds it had felt like the gravity plates had been almost at a right angle, like a seaborne ship on the brink of capsizing.

‘Brace for emergency warp translation!’ bellowed a warning voice across the intervox. ‘Five seconds!’

Coldins started praying. Lether added her voice as the two women knelt on the floor, holding hands, heads tucked to their knees. Orad assumed the position himself, hands clasped together over his head, his prayers silent instead. Emperor shield me! Let me live to serve another day! Short and to the point. The gunners, twenty of them, hunkered shoulder to shoulder in the bunk room, filling the space as a violent shiver throbbed through the hull of the Rigorous.

Orad felt the tremble in his soul as well as his bones, flashing back thirteen years to his first crash-jump, just a year into his life in the Imperial Navy. That had been a warp storm, narrowly avoided by the Navigator of the Rigorous. Just as then, he thought his mind was being turned inside out, hearing voices whispering from within while his bellow of fear was sucked away into nothing.

Then stillness, within and without.

Lieutenant Grier appeared at the door, her cap awry, greying shoulder-length hair not yet tied back in regulation style. Ensign Cappagan bobbed and ducked around behind the lower starboard deck gunnery officer, his young face plastered with sweat.

‘Realspace incursion, some kind of directed gravimetric wave,’ announced the lieutenant, though Orad only understood half the words. ‘Intervox is overwhelmed. Stand to your stations and prepare for firing by battery.’

The ageing officer stepped back, almost tripping over Cappagan, who doffed his peaked cap in salute and somehow melted past her into the dorm.

‘You heard the mistress of deck,’ he snapped, trying to sound confident. At fourteen years Terran standard he lacked the bass and gravitas of his seniors. However, he was the officer of the second battery, and this was clearly not a drill. The crew followed him out of the other door and to their positions, some only part dressed, to where the other watch was already waiting with Ensign Doyll, Cappagan’s senior by four years.

Orad took up position on the traversal lever for gun number four, the sleep now gone completely, his bare feet finding purchase on the plasteel of the gun rotunda.

‘Test your piece!’ The order rang down the gun deck.

The gun captain, Rossi, gave a thumbs up through the door, acknowledging the command from Cappagan.

Along with the other macrocannon crews, Orad and the others put their weapon through the drill, checking the elevation, traverse, autoloaders and firing mechanism in strict sequence. It was Orad’s job to haul on the controls that sent the turret and forty-yard-long gun swinging left and right, while Cassonette did the same for the vertical lever. Moaro was overseeing loading and priming, while as captain, Rossi held ultimate responsibility and oversaw the firing trigger – a heavy pull-chain painted a vivid red that hung from the side of the main breech, just below the autoloader feed.

When they were done, Orad threw himself against the brake lever, using his considerable weight to lock down the turret in the neutral position. The crunch of gears and whine of motors signalled other crews doing the same all along the mile of the lower gun deck. Twenty guns in all, quite a considerable punch for a vessel classed as a light cruiser. The Rigorous could spare the crew and space, though, lacking the torpedo tubes that were common to most Imperial vessels of its type.

The alert had fallen silent some time during the drill but the deck was still bathed in the dim amber glow of emergency lighting. Rossi’s face was lit from beneath by the bluish glare of the firing prompt, its small screen dormant for the moment, awaiting trajectory orders from the gunnery lieutenant, who in turn would receive target data and firing solutions from the main strategium.

Ensign Cappagan poked his head through the narrow doorway of the turret.

‘Fine work, crew four!’ he declared. ‘Fast and accurate, that’s what we like to see. Double rations of bellyfire for you when we see the other side of this fracas.’

The crew gave a hesitant cheer but Cappagan was already leaving, his querulous voice raised to berate crew three on their perceived tardiness. Lether’s apology drifted back down the deck.

‘What’s a frakker?’ asked Cassonette. She flicked a look around the others, confused.

‘You are,’ said Rossi, shaking his head.

‘I’d rather have that sup now,’ muttered Moaro. He flexed thick arms as he adjusted his grip on the loading pin, rough tattoos of void whales and anatomically exaggerated women bulging across his dark brown skin. ‘This doesn’t feel good.’

Orad had to agree. He wasn’t sure what a directed gravimetric wave was, but it sounded powerful and rare to affect a ship in warp transit.

They had just a few minutes to wait until the amber lights were joined by renewed sirens – clusters of three that signalled the stand-to-action across the ship. Elsewhere void shields were raised, engines powered, targeting augurs cast across the void. Processes Orad was only dimly aware of but nevertheless thankful for.

‘Target data incoming!’ The shout echoed down the gun deck from ensign to ensign, repeated a few seconds later across the crackling intervox by Lieutenant Grier.

Rossi cupped his eyes with his hands and focused on the flickering numbers and symbols that appeared in the firing prompt. He did not look up as he spoke, the words coming as a single monotonous train of syllables, little different to a servitor.

‘Aft thirty degrees lock decline twelve degrees lock load channel three thirty second fuse lock.’ The gun captain drew in a breath as the others moved to obey. Orad watched the traverse scope tumbler moving in the ceiling above his lever as he pulled aftwards. ‘Bastard’s coming almost straight at us, fast. Report.’

‘Locked thirty degrees aft,’ barked Orad as he leaned on the braking handle. He was always impressed by Rossi’s ability to visualise the target based on a bunch of numbers. The gunner had tried to pass the captaincy test three times but he didn’t have a head for translating the numbers into action. To him they might as well have been xenos gabble.

‘Locked twelve degrees declined.’

‘Loaded and locked from channel three, thirty second fuse confirmed. Firing primed.’

‘Clear for firing.’ Rossi’s order had them ducking into the sound-insulated semi-bunker at the front of the turret, away from the building-sized breech above and to the rear. The chain of the firing handle went taut in his grip through the door of the shelter-chamber. The gun captain’s eyes fixed on the unlit red lumen in the wall.

The firing lumen lit, bathing them all in its scarlet glare.

Rossi pulled the firing chain.

A chain reaction of mechanics and alchemy that Orad did not quite understand caused a thunderous boom to reverberate through the turret, magnified by others crashing across the gun deck. Only a few seconds separated the start and end of the cacophony, a near-simultaneous broadside. After a few seconds the walls stopped vibrating and they made their way back into the main turret room, Rossi letting go of the firing handle to return to the prompt screen, now blank.

Had they hit anything? They would never find out. Not only was it impossible to tell in the fierce maelstrom of a gun barrage which shell detonated where, there was nothing to be learned from it. If they were close enough, that was a credit to the targeting calculations. If they weren’t, then a servitor somewhere had gone awry.

‘Stand by for firing!’ the call came again.

The Rigorous managed one more volley before a rare but much more worrying order rang along the gun deck.

‘Report to weapons lockers, prepare for boarders!’

Ensign Cappagan’s voice was quite shrill as he passed this on to the gun crews under his watch. A squad of armsmen in blue carapace armour and helms, shotguns and boarding gaffes in hand, moved to the three weapons locker doors along the deck, while the gun captains and their seconds – Rossi and Moaro for gun four – queued up for the issue of two heavy laspistols and two shock batons, plus an energy cell for each.

Rossi kept one pistol and gave the other to Cassonette, while Orad and Moaro received the batons. The Rigorous was fast enough to elude most enemies bigger than the ship, but powerful enough to outgun anything smaller. It was only the fourth time Orad had held a weapon, and on previous occasions he’d returned it to the locker unused.

The ship was coming under fire but there was little sign of it in the lower gun deck, and the void shields seemed to be holding well. The occasional static fuzz in the air signalled a generator coming back online after failing, but there was no distinctive crash of munitions against the hull or the whine of pressure breach alerts.

‘Brace for impact!’ came the sudden warning followed by the double blare of the siren signal.

Rossi was first into the firing chamber, followed by Orad. Cassonette was just inside the door when the ship bucked madly, throwing Moaro hard against the autoloader. He fell to the ground with blood streaming from a cut across his temple, shaking his head groggily, even as Cassonette fell onto Orad and the two of them thudded into the padded sound-dampeners that lined the walls. Rossi had almost fallen to the floor, down on one knee.

‘Dark of the abyss, what was that?’ spat Cassonette, untangling herself from Orad.

Rossi pushed past to inspect Moaro, who was down on all fours, blood streaming from the cut.

‘Medi–’

Rossi’s shout was lost in an ear-splitting crash that sent them all tumbling across the gun turret to slam into the outer wall. Buckling metal shrieked not far away, accompanied by the shrill call of pressure drop warnings and the slamming of emergency doors. Orad caught the crackle of flames before the barriers came down.

The lights flickered red and amber, the circuits broken, pitching everything into a hellish strobe that made Orad dizzy as he tried to stand up. He looked behind him. Moaro was in a really bad way, vomit on the floor next to him. Rossi was holding his shoulder as though it was dislocated or broken. Cassonette met Orad’s gaze with a grim look and took his proffered hand to help herself up.

‘I thought I heard the lieutenant,’ she said. ‘Something about being rammed.’

‘Rammed?’ Orad laughed despite their situation. ‘Who would be stupid enough to ram a starship?’

The answer would be coming soon. Gunfire echoed down the deck followed by the screams of wounded gunners. Flashing lights threw long shadows across the doorway to the turret. Orad moved closer, flexing his fingers on the cudgel in his hands, thumb stroking the battery ignition stud in readiness.

Grunts and bellows – wordless or unintelligible – accompanied a fresh spate of gunfire. The shadows loomed larger and the tramp of booted feet grew louder. Orad stood trembling, caught between the desire to fight and the urge to hide. He pulled the baton over his shoulder ready to strike backhand, and gave Cassonette another look. She met his gaze with a nod and with unspoken agreement they both stepped out into the accessway.

Just half a dozen yards ahead of them was a green-skinned monster, about as tall as Orad but with long, heavily muscled arms and sloped broad shoulders. It had an elongated jaw lined with brutal fangs, a stubby flared-nostril nose and glaring red eyes. A clawed hand brought up a pistol, a wisp of black smoke drifting from the muzzle. The creature’s other hand held the bloodstained shirt of Ensign Cappagan, the bloodied mess of his remains dangling inside the garment, almost unrecognisable.

Cassonette screamed and jumped forward. The pistol boomed and her head disappeared, smearing greasily across Orad’s face, bits of bone scratching at his skin. He hollered wordlessly, the club falling from his fingers, legs buckling under him. Gasping and sobbing, he looked up just as a green fist swung down, bringing darkness and silence.

Chapter One

TERRORSTORM
DELAYED GRATIFICATION
OLD BLOOD, NEW BLOOD

The traitors brought the storm with them and the heavens were clad in midnight. The broken miles-high spires of Holkenved were swallowed by dark clouds billowing down from the void, descending upon the ruin of the hive city as a flock of carrion eaters on a corpse. And like a scavenging flock there was movement within the cloud, churning and twisting, pushing into broken portways and sliding along cracked viaducts.

Where the miasma came, suffocating blackness followed. The last fitful stutters of lumen globes and lightstrips were snuffed out by the encroaching shadow. The whirr of atmocirculators became mechanical stammers that sighed into silence, throttling the least movement, as though every molecule had been seized in a freezing grip. Dead air chilled by altitude sank through the levels of the city, piling down into great crevasses of metal and ferrocrete carved by a twenty-day onslaught of orbital wrath. Shadow and chill stalked the corridors of palaces and swept into slave pens. The umbra flowed over bloating carcasses; it caressed time-rigid corpses; inhaling dying breaths still hanging in the air.

Tendrils of icy dark quested through the broken spire heights, pushing blindly through the devastation until they sensed the first traces of life. Sluggishly, but with increasing purpose, the blackness slithered towards these knots of warmth: it was not the mortal radiation of breath or blood that it hunted but the immaterial heat of human souls.

The first prey the creeping fog discovered were scattered survivors, cut off from the rest of the hive by collapsed walls, ruptured hallways and miles-deep shafts cut by starship lance strikes. Such barriers penned in noble and servant alike. To the deadly cloud all were the same, too. Each was a flicker of nourishment that tasted as sweet whether it came from the descendant of three millennia of inbred Holkenved aristocracy or the child that cleaned out the waste pipes. Some perished of fright, their final screams cutting ripples through the cloud before being quenched. Many hurled themselves to the depths or dashed their heads out upon the jagged rubble, driven by the whispers that presaged the blackness, unable to bear the voices’ constant urgings of self-hate. Others suffocated in the cloying un-air that followed the advancing miasma, or had their blood turned to ice as wisps of voidmist passed through their hearts.

Barely sustained by the morsels of the spires, the hungering fog flowed onward. Miles down from the summit, life glowed like the embers of a fire, stoked to flame in places. Though no soul was stronger than any other, in togetherness there was a strength, a combined light that baulked the shadow. Here and there such flames wreathed as protective rings, centred on officers and priests. But for every castle of faith there were also gaps where terror reigned still. As though guided on a leash, the darkness flowed back and forth across the city levels, probing, exploring the boundaries between the vulnerable and the strong, filling chambers of the factories and dormitories of the peasantry while steering away from the blazing cathedra and shrines.

When all the upper reaches of the hive were invested with darkness, the storm writhed again. Lightning clawed down from the boiling cloud, scattering over the cracked skin of the ancient city, driving into the open wounds upon its mountainous body. Pulse after pulse of white energy split the skies until the summit of Holkenved was aflame with strikes and the blackness convulsed with immaterial power.

The screaming, twisting column of energy drove deeper and deeper into Holkenved, splitting and merging as it raced along halls, avenues and tunnels, speeding through the darkness but a part of it also.

A fresh wave of pure terror struck the companies arrayed in defence of the hive’s mid-layers. Despite the barked warnings of commissars, veterans and new recruits alike cast down their weapons and fled, to be rewarded by sharp las-bolts in their backs. Those that remained clung grimly to their weapons, tears streaking their faces as every nightmare remembered and imagined welled up in their thoughts. Some were physically sick with dismay, others fought back with mumbled prayers that sounded weak against the cloying silence that possessed the hive.

There were wings in the tempest, but not of crows and ravens. The scarlet flare of jump packs and gleam of eye-lenses fell with the storm; sparks within a darker shadow with teeth of explosive bolts and claws of plasma. As though birthed by the storm itself, figures woven from darkness and lightning erupted from the gloom, joyous screeches and laughter filling the void with noise. Encased in suits of armour older even than Holkenved, carried upon crooked wings and infernal power, the traitors burst upon the defenders even as the thunderous storm broke, its detonation scattering the upper reaches as ash and debris. Amid defiant las-fire and the bark of autocannons, the warriors of the storm replied with their own guns and, scant seconds later, with cruel blades and claws.

The Night Lords.

Terror heralded their coming and death rode the lightning.

Gaius had been commanded to ignore the screams, but it was hard. Enhanced hearing, boosted further by the auto-senses of his warplate, meant that the cacophony of dread-filled howls and panicked shrieking cut short was ever-present.

Even so, the Primaris Marine followed orders and remained where he was with the rest of the strike force. There were seven others in his Intercessor squad. They had landed on Caldon IV with ten. Heindal and Gestartas had died during the landing, blasted apart by defence guns once employed to protect the domains of the Emperor but now turned against His warriors.

The squad was one of six in the strike force, itself part of a deployment company of one hundred and twenty Space Marines. All were Unnumbered Sons – Primaris brothers that had yet to be formed into new Chapters or adopted by one that shared their gene-seed. When they had left Terra three relative-years ago there had been two hundred and fifty of them.

They might have been Unnumbered but Gaius hoped someone, somewhere, was counting the dead.

Against the urge of warrior pride it made sense to allow the Astra Militarum and the loyal defence regiments of Holkenved to take the brunt of the Night Lords’ counter-landing. Had the traitors been waiting for the warriors of the Lord Commander to attempt to retake Caldon IV? Or had the Night Lords been brought to a fortunate intervention by the vagaries of the warp – if indeed they were vagaries for servants of the Dark Powers?

Gaius did not overly concern himself with the grander affairs of the Indomitus Crusade. It was enough to be a part of it; to destroy the enemy before him and see their plans undone. To him the higher matters seemed abstract. Like pieces being exchanged on a game board, armies moved across the stars, fighting over worlds while fleets obliterated each other in the void. All that mattered was the singular purpose of the Lord Commander: to reclaim the Imperium from its foes.

‘Keep your focus, listen for the command,’ reminded Lieutenant Astopites. He spoke calmly and slowly. Though he did not move, his cadence matched the same tempo he used when pacing up and down the squad ranks during drill. Gaius pictured a ghost version of his superior moving among the strike force with deliberate strides and knew exactly where he would have been had he not remained standing by the great doors of the hall in which they were mustered. Astopites was a Firstborn warrior of the Novamarines, inches shorter and thirty decades older than Gaius and his Primaris companions.

‘Every cry you hear is a sacrifice. Just as He on Terra must endure for the Imperium to survive, so we too must endure this test now.’

Amid the noise of human suffering and desperate defence, Gaius caught the distant report of bolters and crackle of energy weapons. The Night Lords were butchering their way closer.

‘They must know we’re here, brother-lieutenant,’ said Sergeant Faulkstein in the Aggressor squad to Gaius’ left.

‘Of course they do, brother-sergeant.’

Imaginary Astopites was at the end of the second line, just in front of Sergeant Cormacca’s squad. Gaius pictured him without moving his head from parade ground straight-ahead or even a flicker of his eyes – a side-benefit of tactical visual mnemonic processes included in the Primaris psychodoctrination package. Possessing extended kinaesthesia that extended far further than a normal human’s senses, Gaius was instinctively aware of the proximity of his battle-brothers. There was a rumour that Astopites inloaded lens display feedback data to check whether any of his warriors ever faltered in their steady gaze during inspection. If he did, none of them had ever been faulted for it.

As he waited patiently for the coming confrontation, Gaius thought about the enemy force. A number of Night Lords flotillas and companies had been preying on worlds all along the Iron Veil – a boundary zone within reach of the Great Rift but not directly touched by it. More importantly, the worlds of the veil fell along a kind of political fault line, as Gaius understood it, surrounded by wilderness systems between the sectors historically aligned to Fenris and those patrolled by a Black Templars crusade. On top of that, it curved on the very fringes of the semi-official demesne of Ironhold and the Knights of House Kamidar. Before the arrival of the Iron Veil task force from Battle Group Retributus, the local Imperial commanders had suffered a lack of external allies to call upon.

At first Gaius had thought it remarkable that a few thousand Traitor Astartes had subjugated a dozen worlds. However, a communication from Lord Commander Guilliman had explained how so few could conquer so many. Not by strength of arms: that would have been impossible. Something far more devastating had been unleashed upon the Iron Veil: fear. Such was the terror of the Night Lords that the threat of attack was enough for each of the Iron Veil rulers to bow the knee to the Sons of Curze and pay tribute to stave off their arrival.

Fear had enslaved twelve worlds more swiftly than any occupying force.

Astopites continued, breaking Gaius’ chain of thought.

‘The Night Lords’ scans, perhaps even that filthy warp tech shadow they unleashed, must certainly detect our presence. It is to tempt us into premature engagement that the traitors are making such a show of slaughtering our allies.’ A sudden pause in the lieutenant’s tempo gave the impression of a similar pause in his steady tread, about three yards to Gaius’ right. ‘Remind me, Brother-Sergeant Faulkstein, why our allies are deployed to the front when we might hold the line ourselves?’

Astopites was as painstaking in his briefings as he was everything else. He firmly believed that his field-company, such as it was, would go on to be the glorious officer corps of the future. To that end he briefed them thoroughly on all strategic decisions and encouraged his Primaris Marines to tactically improvise when necessary.

‘The Night Lords rely upon morale-sapping attacks, swiftly initiated and moving from target to target,’ Faulkstein replied, repeating the lieutenant word for word. ‘The disposition of our allies will blunt the enemy’s momentum and draw them into a disadvantageous and divided position. We will counter-attack when they are at their most vulnerable.’

‘And not a millisecond before,’ Astopites concluded. ‘No matter how many of the Emperor’s servants fall. To act earlier jeopardises victory and would be a waste of their sacrifice.’

Planetary governors, ruling councils and Imperial commanders had been so terrified of the Night Lords bringing their warriors that they had willingly spread the fear themselves. They had reason to be fearful: the Night Lords were hated and dreaded almost as much as Abaddon, especially along the Iron Veil, which had been subjected to many raids over the millennia. Ten thousand years of murder and torture were warning enough that the Lords of the Night did not make idle threats. Every violence and humiliation they said they would visit upon dissenters was backed up by millennia of proof. Every capitulation had hastened the next, as each world sought to comply and pass the threat along the Iron Veil, on to their neighbour.

If that first world – Endlespin – had stood firm and called for aid the Night Lords might have been undone. But the lord regent had not blamed the Imperial commanders.

‘Selfishness is the companion of fear,’ he had said. ‘The cataclysm of the Cicatrix Maledictum has made every system feel as though it is fighting alone against the darkness.’

The battle group had been tasked with liberating these systems from the bloody-fingered grip of the Night Lords, to bring hope to the Iron Veil. Lord Guilliman had sent them off with sound words.

‘Fear multiplies when not confronted, gaining strength when unchallenged because its true potency is never tested.’

Gaius and his brothers were here to challenge that fear, just as thousands of others did likewise across the broken Imperium.

The energy of the terrorstorm flowed through Ektovar, filling him with vitality just as the stacked crystal reactor in his jump pack powered his warplate. He was the storm, feeding it the horror of his foes while it sustained him in return. Its flaring embrace caressed his armour; its driving hunger filled him with desire, stoking the emptiness of his soul until it was ignited by a fire of need that could only be sated with rapturous slaying.

As one of the Darkstrike it was his honour to be at the forefront of the attack, becoming the maw of the terrorstorm as it fed on the dread of the hive occupants. For too many days he and his midnight-clad companions had waited in orbit, poised to unleash their heavenly slaughter yet held back by the tight leashes of their masters. Day followed by endless day, dry and dusty, the life-thirst unslaked and growing. Every passing hour an agony of wanting, until he had felt the first hint of soulwash as the sorcerer Ke’Hiva channelled the misery of the Emperor’s lackeys, becoming the conduit for the terrorstorm.

At first the wave of sudden shock and panic had buoyed him up, sending jolts of pleasure through Ektovar even before his blade tip had pierced flesh to release the blood of his victims. The Darkstrike attacked like flesh-feeders in the underlakes of night-wreathed Nostramo. Striking quickly, they butchered without art, while their senses reeled with the influx of despair.

Once the edge of his desire had been taken off, Ektovar started to seek more particular morsels. Gifted the dreadtaste by his binding to Ke’Hiva, the Raptor followed the undulating curves of fear that rippled through the living fog that had carried him and the others to the hive city. Moans and sobs, the sickly sweetness of hormone release, the flicker of movement in his peripheral vision confirmed the presence of new prey.

A las-bolt glanced from his chestplate, the spark of it bright red among the white and pale blue energies coursing over the ancient ceramite. He retraced its trajectory, desire rising, but Felskas found the cowering woman first, the wings of his pack obscuring Ektovar’s view as her whimpering became a howl of despair that sent a quiver through the storm and Raptor alike.

Ektovar moved on, filtering one scent from another, following the strongest spoors of fear-hormones. In blackness he moved, forked tongue flickering at the air passing through the adapted vent of his visor.

With silent bounds, the Raptors sought their prey. With them came umbral companions, flitting along the ebony fog bank that forced its way through cracked ferrocrete and seeped along fractured pipes. From the questing fingers of the terrorstorm Ektovar caught a surge of synthetic hope – cortical stimms to improve reasoning, to quench the fear. Coming out into a broad, semicircular hall, the Raptors were met by a sudden hail of las-bolts and the slower, deeper thud of an autocannon. Just behind Ektovar, Serius cried out amid the cracking of armour and snapping of wings.

‘Ruinbrother,’ he wheezed across the vox as Ektovar ignited his pack and leapt towards the muzzle flare of the heavy weapon. ‘My flesh ails. Sustain me!’

Ektovar felt the spirit of his dying Darkstrike companion like fingernails scratching at a door, insistent and demanding. He swatted the psychic pulse away as if ridding himself of distracting flies. He had been starved too long, he would share his meal with no other.

A couple of seconds later Serius realised he would die, scorned by his ruinbrothers, alone in the darkness. His own fear spiked and within moments Nordra and Elizir fell upon their wounded companion, ripping his fear-tainted breaths from his lungs as snarling chainswords opened his armour and body, suckling on his last despair.

Firing his ornate pistol, Ektovar landed among the hive defenders, his boot-talons raking the face from one gunner, the pommel of his sword smashing open the head of another. The autocannon collapsed as he alighted, its tripod buckling beneath the weight of armour and occupant. Perched upon the crumpled metal, Ektovar allowed the fog to roll back, revealing himself before his true victim. The shrieks of the faceless gunner crackled across the Raptor’s senses and lightning flared over his armour in response. But the trooper’s fear was tainted with raw pain, innervating but not satisfying.

He turned on the officer commanding the defence platoon, bedecked in a long grey frock coat with a silver breastplate bound tightly over the thick fabric. Not a commissar, but still a worthy morsel. An Imperial aquila was moulded into the armour and Ektovar briefly wondered if the Corpse-Emperor enjoyed the same thrill of completeness from those He consumed.

Ektovar fixed the lenses of his helm upon his prey, letting the man see himself in their blood-red mirror. Defiant, the officer lifted a basket-hilted blade and pistol. The Night Lord allowed him a shot, a blast of blue careening from the side of his helm that brought a surge of hope from the Imperial lackey – a hope that made the spike of fear that much greater when the Raptor let out a shrill cry and pounced.

Gaius was not enamoured of strategic thought, beyond what he needed to know to kill traitors. As sergeant of his squad, his focus was more localised, trying his best to create an effective fighting unit for every situation. His task had become harder in the recent months of fighting against the Night Lords, with only himself and three other members of his squad as survivors of the unit that had originally deployed with Fleet Primus; over that time eleven other Space Marines had fought and died at his side.

The Night Lords had been unwilling to engage in a massed battle, but rather than abandoning their victim-worlds back to the Imperium they had instigated widespread uprisings, which had turned what should have been reconnection missions into bloody reconquests. Such was the hold they had on their prey, the vassal planets would rather face the wrath of the lord regent’s armada than a Night Lords punishment attack. The three Iron Veil worlds so far retaken had drawn away valuable fighting resources – Astra Militarum, Naval and Adepta Sororitas assets required to reassure the populations and their rulers that they were safe from Night Lords reprisals.

And then, after more than half a Terran year of evasion and raids, the Night Lords had come to Caldon IV in strength. That they had arrived while the task force landings from orbit were commencing could not have been coincidence.

‘Estimate one minute until counter-strike begins,’ Lieutenant Astopites informed the force, quiet and confident. ‘Final weapons check.’

As he revved the motor on his chainsword and slid his pistol from its holster, Gaius could feel the battle-eagerness growing inside him. Since the breakout from the landings he and his warriors had suffered enforced idleness, concealing their strength and conserving warriors and materiel.

Holkenved was the capital hive, seat of the Imperial commander, and had signalled its surrender to the Imperial forces even before they arrived in orbit. Yet it was an island among a sea of insurrection, the rulers of rival hive cities having thrown in their lot with the Night Lords and rebels to oust ancient adversaries. Now it seemed the Night Lords thought to crush all resistance, and reinforcement, with a single devastating attack. If Holkenved fell, Caldon IV would revert to the traitors and – as sure as snow fell on Fenris – the whole of the Iron Veil would be in open revolt again.

That could not be allowed to happen. The Lord Commander had been most adamant.

The people of Holkenved paid for their loyalty with their lives, as did any good servants of the Emperor. Ships were vital to the continuing impetus of Battle Group Retributus, while architecture and people were not. The command staff had feigned weakness, not wishing to scare away their enemies, dispersing the fleet as though fleeing attack. A predator acting like prey, playing dead. The gambit had meant less orbital support and Gaius could not help but wonder if Heindal and Gestartas would be alive if the landing zone had been targeted with a saturation bombardment prior to the drop.

Virtually unopposed, the Night Lords had targeted the hive from orbit. The void shields had failed on the second day, the defence lasers and missiles on the fourth. The further sixteen days that had followed served no military purpose but to ensure the total eradication of all life in the upper spires.

‘Bait,’ Captain Veirsturm had warned, when asked why the Night Lords were allowed to inflict such death and misery upon the hive city. ‘The hive is the young goat staked in the clearing, their assault companies are the arrow set in the bow poised to be let loose. They torture the people to draw our attack, and if we bare fangs too large for them, they will withdraw.’

The sergeant thought of the pict-grabs and vid-feeds that the lieutenant had used during the briefing. They had been intended for tactical assessment, but while Astopites had talked about the layout of passageways and damage absorbency reckonings of various materials, Gaius had fixed upon the hands jutting from rubble; the rictus grins on children’s faces covered with the ash of their parents; the walking wounded scrabbling at debris piles with bloodied fingers. The images both still and moving were silent, but cries for help, desperate moaning and noisy death had been the soundtrack of Holkenved for the past sixteen days, only drowned out by the thunder of starship shells and the irregular hiss of lance strikes wreaking more devastation.

Gaius’ grip on his chainsword tightened at the thought of bringing bloody reckoning. The idea that warriors created to be the cutting edge of the Emperor’s blade had been forced to hide behind a shield of civilians, Imperial Guard and defence troopers brought a bitter taste to his tongue.

Every day, every hour and every minute spent waiting would lend speed and strength to his arm when he was finally unleashed.

‘By squads, attack pattern alpha.’

The words the Unnumbered Sons had been waiting for issued across the vox from Captain Veirsturm.

The lead squads broke into a run, swiftly moving past Lieutenant Astopites. Gaius and his Intercessors were in the third line. Without a word they set off after another four seconds, fifty yards behind the squads in front. As he accelerated to combat pace, Gaius was aware of the smallest of weight differences at his hip, caused by the book he now carried in one of his ammunition pouches. Or perhaps it wasn’t the physical weight but the emotional burden that made him hyper-aware of his new acquisition.

A disruption to the routine of pre-drop doctrine caused a momentary ripple of disturbance across the muster deck. Gear checks and squad assembly perfected over thirteen previous drops suffered a second-long stutter as the gathered Space Marines each reacted to the foreign presence in their midst.

No remarks needed to be uttered for the intruder to be noted. An extra breath in the hymn. Movement where there should have been stillness and stillness where there should have been movement. Glances that caused split-second hesitation amid arming protocols. To anyone not a Space Marine, it would have been nothing at all of remark, perhaps not even felt. To Gaius it seemed like a sudden crash of unexpected percussion amid the pre-battle symphony; a discordance that grew as he realised it approached him.

A figure dressed in a simple grey military uniform, small amongst giants, picked his way over trailing refuelling pipes and charging cables that snaked across the muster hall floor. He glanced from one squad to the next, eyeing each carefully as though appraising a room of interesting antiquities, but to the transhuman senses of the occupants his nervousness betrayed itself in a dozen tiny ways.

The interloper stifled a flinch as Brother Kemi lifted a bolt rifle and sighted on him.

‘Just calibrating my targeter, historitor,’ the Intercessor said with a chuckle, lowering his weapon.

The adept smiled without humour and looked around, seeking his objective. He hurried forward as his gaze fell upon Gaius’ squad.

‘Historitor Mudire,’ the sergeant said with a nod of greeting. ‘What brings you to the muster? Are you going to be dropping with us?’

There was a hesitation as Mudire mastered an involuntary twitch.

‘As much as I appreciate the thrill of plunging towards a war-torn planet with my fate entrusted to a few inches of armour and the timing of a retro rocket, regretfully, no,’ the historitor said. He took a moment before continuing, blinking quickly as he regained his train of thought. ‘After Gelsepllan… When you… When that…’

He swallowed, eyes sliding past Gaius as memories took him elsewhere, lips forming a grimace.

‘When I saved your life, historitor?’ prompted the Primaris Marine.

Mudire nodded, focusing again on Gaius. His gaze flickered to the sergeant’s shoulder pad and Gaius recalled that it had been his pauldron that had taken the brunt of the fusillade when he had shielded Mudire during a heretic ambush on Gelsepllan.

‘You asked if we had anything about the world of your gene-father,’ the historitor said brusquely. ‘Something “authentic”, you said, which would link you back to those ancient times.’

‘Great Cawl gave us much during our long sleep,’ said Gaius, raising a gauntleted finger to tap the side of his head. ‘Facts and figures. Verified stories. Accounts and reports. Nothing…’

He could not find the words for what he sought: a connection beyond mere genetic manipulation and historical data. He spread his fingers and approximated a shrug that made his armour whine.

‘Spiritual?’ suggested Mudire.

Gaius nodded even as he heard the grunting laughs of a couple of his squad-brothers behind him.

‘It is not primary, as a source,’ said Mudire, reaching into a satchel. He brought forth a book that was small but thick, the pages yellowed and worn, the cover missing. ‘But it is almost contemporary to the time of the First Founding.. And though the tone is a bit convoluted and archaic, it requires no translation.’

‘I look forward to reading it on our return,’ said Gaius.

‘It’s for you,’ said Mudire, thrusting the book forward, suddenly awkward. ‘For… A gift. I have come to know myself a bit differently since Gelsepllan. Perhaps it will help you know yourself too.’

Gaius looked at the outstretched hand and the thin paper ruffling in the vent breeze.

‘This is unnecessary, historitor,’ he said. ‘I performed my duty, nothing more.’

‘I have some influence in the ranks of the historitors,’ Mudire said, straightening, his gaze hardening. ‘It took considerable effort to retrieve this for you, as a sign of my gratitude. It would be impolitic to refuse. Consider it an award, a commendation from my organisation.’

‘Impolitic, you say?’ said Heindal, moving up beside Gaius. ‘You’d best take it, brother-sergeant, or Mudire will complain to the Lord Commander.’

Mudire’s stare was unwavering. He still held the book out in a steady hand. Gaius took it and read the details on the frontis page.

He smiled.

‘It is perfect, historitor,’ he told Mudire. ‘Thank you.’

Fear was infectious, leaping from one weak mind to the next, coursing through unseen veins of mutual need. As one line of resistance toppled, the resolve of the next was weakened, the taint of dread followed swiftly by the assaults of Ektovar and his companions. The shrill death cries of the Emperor’s slaves, baying howls of the Raptors and unearthly keening from the storm-spirits carried the contagion of terror into the minds of those ahead.

‘Seldom has butchery been so easy,’ boasted Lenthe as he eviscerated a thrashing defence trooper. Unsheathing his claws from his victim, the Night Lord waved a hand towards the gutted and decapitated corpses littering the corridor. ‘Their defence seems ill-prepared and random. Had they met us in force, the challenge would have been greater.’

‘They are weak because they do not understand the nature of their foe,’ crowed Keslos, jump pack bright as he landed next to Ektovar. ‘They reckon not with the power of the terrorstorm.’

The defenders had indeed been sporadic in their placement and reaction, but Ektovar retained enough sense amid the thrill of the hunt to question whether it was incompetence or design. The terrorstorm – its concealing, demoralising miasma – was certainly something the hivers would never have encountered before, rendering their layered defence more vulnerable. But he hesitated as the others moved towards the half-closed security gate ahead of the squad.

‘It is not the humans that guide this, but the hand of the Misguided Son,’ he said to his companions. He felt the last juddering escape of the soul from the corpse at his feet and paused to feel its presence slide through the dark fog that permeated his flesh. ‘There will be a counter-attack.’

‘We should signal the main force to begin the assault,’ said Keslos. ‘Their sudden attack will crush the spirit from the survivors and dull the cut of the enemy’s riposte.’

‘We shall be the point of the blade driving deeper, with their weight to push us on, direct for the heart,’ said Elizir.

Ektovar knew of what his companions spoke. The terrorstorm could feel the cold knot of the Emperor’s Space Marines behind the lines, waiting for their moment. Greyness descended on his senses as the bodies cooled around him and the dread of their departure flittered away to be absorbed by the semi-sentient mist.

‘Do it,’ he decided, despising the emptiness in his soul, its gnawing at the edge of his awareness. ‘The Dreadmaster shall descend and we will lead the way.’

He cut open the ironwork of the gate with two swings of his glittering blade and stepped beyond, while his vox crackled with the effect of long-range transmission from Elizir. Just a few dozen yards ahead the next enclave of defenders waited, surrounded by the probing appendages of the terrorstorm. He felt discipline there, a solidity that had been missing from many of the defenders.

He would enjoy breaking it.

The corridor was too low for his jump pack so Ektovar swept forward with long strides, carried along by the warp miasma. His sword left a trail of pale blue energy in his wake, occasionally flickering into a bright arc as the energy earthed through an exposed lumen or power conduit.

Sharper than any auspex, the terrorstorm showed him the way, guiding him from the main passage to a smaller access corridor. His wings scraped sparks from metal-clad walls as he ran along the ducting, hunched slightly to avoid the cable-lined roof. The maintenance tunnel brought him out into the hall where the Imperials waited, several dozen yards above them.

Ektovar burst through a rusted grating amid a billow of blackness. His jump pack responded to his desire like the wings of a bat, spiralling him down towards the panicked defenders as tatters of the storm wreathed his descent.

More than fifty troopers manned makeshift barricades built across the hall, blocking two exits. A bellow from one of them drew his eye – a commissar in burnished carapace armour and peaked cap, a power sword in one hand and pistol in her other.

Ektovar’s bolt pistol barked, picking off the soldiers around his chosen target, isolating his prey. From behind him the others opened fire, explosive rounds illuminating the stunned expressions of the troopers with brief flares of yellow. The plunging warriors knew instinctively what their leader desired, and directed their own attacks to other parts of the defensive line, the wall of overturned furniture, dismounted doors and piled ration boxes no barrier against vertical assault.

Panic swelled like an undercurrent, rising to meet Ektovar as he swooped. His next bolt took the commissar in the ankle, turning booted foot and lower leg to a ruddy mess, toppling her with a sharp cry. Yet there was only pain there; the schola-ingrained stoicism of the commissar was like a fortress protecting a golden treasure just out of reach.

Her mind was not like that of a Space Marine. The iron will of the Emperor’s sons was cold and dry, bereft of nourishment. The commissar’s mental walls were thick but not impenetrable; prising them open would be a delight in itself, to eventually release the delicious morsel within.

Gaius’ squad turned east, heading towards the left flank of the counter-attack. The ferrocrete floor cracked under the pound of their tread, the plasteel-lined walls reverberating like an immense war drum. The sound of gunfire ahead had quietened but there were still screams of fear and cries of pain in plenty.

Gaius checked the auspex feed from the receiver in his forearm. ‘Multiple signals half a mile away,’ he confirmed to the squad.

‘Augurs confirm secondary enemy wave incoming. Respond as necessary but maintain strategic objectives,’ Brother-Lieutenant Astopites ordered over the vox.

‘This is it,’ said Gaius, looking at his companions. They ran so fast along the corridor, the lumens seemed to strobe across their blue-grey armour. He held up his chainsword and brought the teeth into snarling life.

He remembered a line from the book and gave voice to an old battle cry as the Sons of Russ charged into battle.

‘Vlka Fenryka!’

Chapter Two

HE PROTECTS
SACRIFICES
RIGHTEOUSNESS

The beetle was about the size of Orad’s thumb, long-legged and with a dull green shell. He had never seen one like it before, among the many different insects that made the ship home. It must have come across with the attackers. He watched it crawl out of a split between the bulkhead and the deck, pattering a few inches at a time, antennae twitching ferociously. Every now and then it found a morsel too small for Orad to see, its mouthparts working on something picked from the deck.

Orad wanted to reach out and flick the creature away but there was no strength in his body. Every muscle was past aching and into the realm of total numbness. His brain was in a similar place, dulled with fear and fatigue, to the point where it took all his effort to focus on the bug.

It skittered over dried blood and stopped next to the mashed face of Rossi. White bone poked through the mouldering flesh, pale maggots and ants stripping the dead meat one tiny mouthful at a time. Orad felt sick as he looked into the empty eye sockets of his former gun captain, trying to remember if Rossi had been blue-eyed or brown-eyed. He wanted to roll over but the discomfort would be even greater, and the view no better: the other side of the turret was where Moaro’s remains were slowly decaying.

It had been habit to come back here, and a mistake. Tired thoughts, exhausted limbs, had carried Orad back to the familiar. Except it was no longer familiar, but a horrifying nightmare twisted from his life before.

Lamposa from gun sixteen had said they were orks but Orad had shouted at her for believing in children’s stories. Now he was not so sure. The green-skinned monsters could well be the diabolis from the deep void that had plagued the likes of Lord Solar Macharius and the other Imperial Heroes, whose exploits Orad had listened to so avidly from the preacher when he had been growing up.

Orks.

If orks were real, then what of the witches of the eldar and the horrors of the tyranids? Were they real too? Just who had they been firing their guns at in those battles?

But if the wicked beasts were real, that meant the heroes were as well, right? Commander Dante and Commissar Yarrick, Herak Nhuson and Corvin Severax, Canoness Jasmine and General Creed.

And he had loved the stories about Great Wolf Grimnar and his Space Wolves. Those, at least, he knew were true. They had been told the Rigorous was on a special mission as one of the fastest ships in the Fleet Solar. They were on their way to fabled Fenris, carrying something that would help the Great Wolf in the war against the heretics.

Panic gripped Orad. They were not headed for Fenris any more. What of the treasured cargo they had been carrying? Two whole squads of Space Marines had been brought aboard to protect it, such was its importance. Coldness seeped through him at the realisation that the Space Marines were now dead. Had any survived, or the half-mechanical guards of the tech-priests, the orks would not rule the lower decks.

They had failed in their mission and whatever it was the Great Wolf needed would not arrive.

The main deck door opened with a noise of misaligned gears and scratching metal. It had been a matter of days, maybe a week, it was hard to tell, and already the orks – yes, they had to be orks – were having an effect on the ship. Nobody polished anything. Nobody oiled anything. Nobody ran the checks on the electrical systems or said the prayers of appeasement to the plasma conduits that ran from the aft reactors to the foredecks. The Rigorous was enslaved too and treated every bit as poorly as the humans that had once crewed it.

A whip cracked and a guttural bellow rang down the corridor.

Orad tensed, his body remembering the touch of that barbed thong on his shoulder. With a groan, he pushed himself up and stumbled out of the turret. Others, about three dozen of them, were down here with him, but this was just where they snatched a few hours’ sleep; most were from elsewhere on the ship. He really wished he had the strength to drag the bodies somewhere else, or the wit to find another place to collapse. Perhaps next break he would.

They fell into line, eyes downcast, none daring to meet the red stare of their enslaver. Smaller greenskins chattered and laughed and pointed at the gunnery crews as they shuffled out of the gun deck towards the midships stairwells. It was twelve floors up, just the first leg of a will-sapping trek to the main deck, where they laboured by hand with scores of others to remove the debris that trapped the brutal ram-prow of the ork ship in the spine of the Rigorous.

When they were done, when they were no longer needed to free the two conjoined ships, what then?

Orad hoped it would be death, because the alternative was just too sickening to contemplate.

‘Scream… Scream for your Corpse-Emperor.’

In Ektovar’s fist the commissar’s sword looked more like a knife. The point was lost in the thickness of the loyalty officer’s coat, but blood ran down the blade from where it pierced her side. Ektovar slid it a little further, pushing between the ribs towards the lung.

‘Scream for Him to save you.’

Her contempt hammered at the Raptor as ineffectively as her weakening fists beat against his lightning-coursed armour. Every blow, both mental and physical, was lit with a flame that only Ektovar could see. His stormsense flared with her touch.

‘A believer,’ he whispered, tongue flicking at the thought. ‘Your faith is strong.’

The commissar sneered, her gaze daggers from beneath the peak of her skewed cap.

‘I will break it,’ the Raptor growled, leaning close. The commissar’s resolve faltered, just for a heartbeat, rewarding Ektovar with a sliver of doubt. It was nothing, barely a taste in his mouth, a fragrance in his nostrils, but it served to reignite his hunger. He had been feeding on ashes until now. The need for satisfaction, to feast on the hot terror of broken faith, coursed through him. His warplate creaked as it tried to replicate the shudder of desire that gripped him.

‘He protects,’ growled the loyalty officer.

Ektovar pushed the commissar’s blade an inch deeper, eliciting a groan of pain. With his other hand he took off the woman’s cap and tossed it aside, revealing dark hair cropped almost to the scalp. A gauntleted hand caressed her exposed cranium, stroking the fuzz of hair. He tried to imagine the sensation but could not recall anything of softness, of warmth. There was only the need to fill himself with the dread of others, to serve the terrorstorm.

His fingers gripped her skull, pushing together with irresistible pressure.

‘You will die alone and unremembered,’ he wheezed through the vox-unit of his armour.

‘The Emperor protects,’ the commissar said, lips curling back from her teeth.

‘He is not here,’ Ektovar told her. He leaned closer still so that he eclipsed all of her reality, his batwing-flanked helm filling her vision, fingers of the terrorstorm coiling and sliding across her sharp cheeks and thin lips. ‘The Perfect One shall own this place soon.’

‘The Emperor protects.’ The woman’s words lacked her prior conviction, spoken in rote. Ektovar’s desire rose as her weakness grew. She was so close to breaking. So close to becoming his. His fingers tightened and bone started to fracture.

‘Scream for me,’ he said, ripping the sword from her flank. ‘I want to hear your terror. Scream for your corpse-god.’

‘The Emperor protects.’ Her eyes were dulling. Not from blood loss or brain damage, but catatonia. A surge of apprehension flooded Ektovar.

‘No, no, no,’ he growled, flinging away the officer’s sword. ‘Look at me. See me!’

‘The Emperor protects,’ muttered the commissar, the words coming softly.

Her walls were dissolving but the flame behind them, the dread Ektovar desired, was guttering as her sanity fled, taking away the fuel of her fear. The emptiness in his chest clawed at him, thrashing through his soul as it demanded sustenance. He was almost there. Ecstasy was just a heartbeat away if only he could stir one last surge of dread from the woman.

‘Scream, you craven filth!’ he shrieked, standing, picking up the commissar by the neck. She dangled without resistance, murmuring her platitude.

‘The Emperor protects…’

The moment was gone. Like a flood of cold water, his unsatisfied need tore away his breath, choking and painful.

With a wordless shout, Ektovar hurled away the offending wretch, her body spinning through the air before breaking upon the barricade. He stood for a moment, unfulfilled and dazed.

‘Talon leader!’ Keslos was insistent, as though he had been demanding attention for some time. ‘The enemy are coming.’

‘Let them come,’ Ektovar growled. There would be no more delicacies of dread. The Space Marines had no fear to give. A different feast was coming. Pure slaughter would have to assuage his desires now.

The gunship fuselage moaned and rattled around Gaius but he did not hear the strain of atmospheric entry. His attention was focused on the book Mudire had given him. His Cawl-created brain could assimilate data at a rate far faster than an unaugmented human, but instead he wanted to revel in every detail of his gift.

He stared at the frontis page. A scrollwork graphic marked each corner and his eye followed every curl, noting the tiny differences between them. It had been originally hand drawn, he realised, the artist’s fingers not quite tracing the same arc for each embellishment. A hair’s width of variation, but plain to Gaius’ eyes. Each minor deviation had later been replicated upon the printing press that had churned out these volumes.

How many? he wondered. Mudire had not said that the tome was rare, but it had taken him several months between Gelsepllan and Caldon IV to acquire. How many had been printed, and how many remained, over nine thousand years later?

He examined the print, the paper, the remnants of glue on the spine left from where the cover had fallen off. He felt its weight, almost nothing to his enhanced strength, and wondered whose hands it had passed through before coming to his. The historitors were tasked with not only unearthing the lost past of humanity but also recording the current history as it unfolded. The book was a link from then to now, and Gaius would be its conduit to the future.

Mudire had been right, it was not of his gene-father’s birthplace. The connection was not absolute, but the author of the book had been there, they had written these words and somehow, across the vagaries of the Age of the Imperium, while Gaius had slept in a methalon-induced coma, the volume had made its way from owner to owner and place to place until it had come to him.

He opened the pages at random, subconsciously noting the change in tone of the wind whistling past the dropping gunship, understanding that they were below the twenty-mile altitude mark now, give or take a few hundred yards depending on local atmospheric pressure. The rest of the squad were talking – Gestartas was leading them in battle-prayer – but Gaius barely heard them, repeating the words without thought.

‘Ten minutes to landing. Zone compromised. Combat landing protocols in effect.’ Lieutenant Astopites made his way between the seated Primaris Marines, speaking in time with each deliberate step. ‘Swift dispersal. Mark targets for each other. Secure perimeter without delay.’

In five seconds, the brother-lieutenant would be turning down the row of benches where Gaius sat. Personal effects were not contraband – several of his battle-brothers had taken kill trophies and campaign souvenirs from the previous battles – but Gaius felt oddly coy about Mudire’s gift. He read the frontis text again before slipping the book into the extra pouch he had hooked onto his belt.

Wolf Wildes
By Charles of Baden.
The People, Places and Customs of Fenrys;
The Fortress of the Russ-sons; Traditions of the Rout.

A drawn-out rumble announced the detonation of the seismic charges that had been placed within the upper mile of the hive by martyr teams during the Night Lords’ bombardment. Their positions had been pinpointed by the tech-priests using complex formulae, causing overlapping waves of disruptive energy to create rebounding energy cavitations in the molten slurry caused by initial melta blasts.

A structure the size of a hive city could not be brought down by munitions alone, but with the destruction wrought by the orbital attack, the upper spear had been sufficiently weakened. Tens of thousands of tons of rockcrete and plasteel shuddered apart as the bombs pulsed out their devastating waves. Just thirty seconds after the Imperial strike force’s Librarians had felt the second, main wave of Night Lords warp-jumping into the attack, the entire upper spire collapsed in on itself, sending streams of molten metal and avalanches of debris plunging another mile into the interior. The enemy were below the devastation but any route back to orbit was blocked. Naval and Space Marine ships that had been ghosting back towards the world on minimal power now erupted into full life, spearing towards the rear of the traitor vessels in orbit.

Opening fire on the first Night Lord he saw, Gaius felt the tremble of detonations and smiled with grim satisfaction. This time there would be no retreat for the Night Lords.

‘Squad Lupus-Six engaging enemy, sector four-delta,’ he reported, pulling the trigger again to send a second bolt slamming into the midnight blue armour of his target. The flicker of more shots from his companions and from Squad Ferritus to the right caught the traitors in a blaze of crossfire.

The traitor assault squad responded immediately, their jump packs coughing crimson flame as they launched themselves along the hall towards Gaius’ warriors. Darkness swirled with them, coiling around the leaping Space Marines. Gaius opened fire a third time, tracking his target as the depraved renegade reached the zenith of his leap about twenty yards up. The explosive bolt tore off a shard of wing, spinning the Raptor off course.

‘Purge them all!’ Gaius roared, firing again and again, his pistol following the plummeting traitor, chainsword ready in his other hand.

His brothers-in-battle shouted too, their righteous calls echoing from the high walls along with the snarl of jump packs and bark of bolt-rounds. Days – weeks – of frustration flowed away, Gaius’ pent-up rage becoming a white-hot energy that guided his limbs. Where the Unnumbered Sons fired, the darkness recoiled from the rounds, leaving vortices of clear air criss-crossing the large hall. The Night Lords fired in return, the muzzle flare of their weapons ruddy in the fog that concealed them. Gaius felt an impact on his right pauldron, the bolt deflected before it exploded. More hit Anfelis at his right, leaving a trail of cratered ceramite across the Primaris Marine’s chest and helm.

Shrieks and callous laughter added to the cacophony as the enemy assault squad descended, their voxmitters blaring hate like a weapon. Gaius’ auto-senses briefly squealed in protest and then dulled his hearing, moments before the lightning-wreathed traitors crashed into their attackers, pistols snarling and claws shining. Nasdr and Enforfas both went down in the initial attack, helms cleaved open, their attackers sweeping over their falling bodies to leap at those behind.

Armour charged with snaking infernal energy, a traitor thundered to the ferrocrete floor half a dozen yards in front of Gaius.

‘Target front,’ the sergeant barked, opening fire. Anfelis and Doro added their bolts to his, engulfing the enemy Space Marine with a barrage of detonations, shards of ceramite flying from the impacts. Another concentrated volley ripped apart the warrior’s breastplate as he tried to bound forward.

Gaius charged, matching his chainsword’s roar with his own.

A wayward shot from his target flared past his left shoulder. In the next moment the Primaris Marine was upon his foe, the churning teeth of his weapon plunging into the traitor’s exposed chest as he landed, barrelling him backwards with the momentum of the attack. Gaius raised a foot and stamped on the falling traitor’s helm, driving it into the hard floor. He stomped again even as he twisted the chainsword through hearts and lungs, ripping free its blurred blade in a spray that anointed his armour with the dead heretic’s thick blood.

A whine of alarm from Gaius’ warplate alerted him to an incoming threat – not a projectile but a Night Lord hurling himself full-thrust across the hall. Taloned boots ripped up chunks of ferrocrete as his landing became a sprint, sword arm crooked for the attack, baroquely ornamented pistol blazing bolts towards the Primaris sergeant.

Gaius was already moving to the left even as the new threat registered in his conscious thoughts. Everything was sharper than ever; every colour, sound and scent picked out with exact clarity. His savagery came with a feeling of elation he had not felt before. Rather than fight the battle-rage, he let it flow, throwing himself towards his new foe.

The Emperor’s new warriors were faster and stronger than any Imperial Space Marine Ektovar had slain before, but they were stilted and predictable in their movements. His ruinbrothers shared millennia of experience, working as a predatory flock more than a military unit, while the servants of the Misguided Son were a programmed pattern of interleaved aggression. Like the terrorstorm that carried them, his squad were a fluid mass, ever-moving, churning around their statuesque enemies as a wave breaks past pillars of rock, eroding with multiple flicks of blades and well-placed bolts rather than single killing blows.

Something caught his eye amid the blistering turmoil of close combat: a blur among the warriors in blue-grey that moved slightly differently. Backhanding his blade into the thigh of a warrior fending off the claws of Nordra, Ektovar powered out of the crash of blades and thunder of bolts, his jump pack carrying him quickly towards this new prey. He landed at a run, ready to slip aside from the incoming volley to drive his sword at the warrior’s throat. No bolts came: the Space Marine threw himself into a counter-charge, voxmitters thrumming with a bass growl like that of a hunting cat.

Taken aback, Ektovar barely skidded aside. The whirring teeth of his enemy’s chainsword flashed with pale energy as lightning flickered from the Night Lord’s storm-clad armour to crackle along the weapon, leaving scraps of ceramite from his helm flying in its wake. All hunger was gone, sharpened by the more sudden threat of his enemy. He saw himself reflected in the lenses of his opponent’s helm, a shadow of storm and lightning, red eyes gleaming.

For the first time in centuries he remembered himself as he’d been. A Night Lord. Raptor. He had stormed the walls of the Emperor’s Palace and been the death of thousands of foes.

The other Space Marine stood in a half-crouch, poised to attack, ready to defend.

‘Your time is over,’ said the Emperor’s lackey, taking a step.

‘You are too late,’ sneered Ektovar, circling left, watching for any hesitation. There was none. ‘The galaxy is already ours.’

With a roar, the upstart charged.

The warrior of the storm flowed like oil, as if becoming part of the shifting miasma. Gaius ignored the darkness and the creeping tendrils of energy within it, focused on two things: the pair of red eye-lenses and the sharp gleam of the power sword’s edge. The latter flicked out, teasing, trying to force him backwards, but Gaius would not be herded like livestock. He was a hunter, even more than this thing of shadow and lies that confronted him.

A snarl of irritation erupted from the billowing smog. Gaius’ training commanded that he prepare his defence but a deeper instinct overrode it, pushing him into the attack with chainsword raised.

The gleam of the traitor’s power sword was blinding as it speared towards Gaius, burning brighter than the lightning scrawling across his foe’s armour. It sheared through Gaius’ chainsword, scattering razor-edged teeth and ceramite housing. Even so, the parry was enough to deflect the blow onto Gaius’ pauldron, the curve of the shoulder guard sliced flat but no worse.

As he let the remnants of his blade fall from his fingers, Gaius’ other hand smashed the muzzle of his pistol into the faceplate of his enemy, just below the ruddy eyes, buckling the fang-like grille. His finger tightened and for an instant the red wings that splayed from the Night Lord’s helm were joined by a spray of crimson.

Dull warplate crashed to the floor, dark and inanimate, jump pack wings buckled. The fog receded like clouds in a strong wind, leaving nothing but ceramite, plasteel and dead flesh.

Ten thousand years had passed since the Night Lord had broken his oaths to the Emperor. Ten millennia of preying on the weak, of recanting on every ideal of the Legiones Astartes. No more. All the lies, the betrayal, the death and suffering had brought the traitor nothing. Any power he had possessed was gone, leaving nothing but a mortal’s carcass. There was nothing spiritual here, no higher purpose. Just selfishness given form, enslaved to insane powers bred of jealousy and fear.

Gaius felt a rush of exhilaration at the thought that an evil so long-lived had been ended at his hand. Through him and the many thousands of the Unnumbered Sons, the blight of the Traitor Astartes would be expunged forever.

Chapter Three

CHAMPIONS OF FENRIS
A HEARTHEGN’S DUTY
BETWIXT DEFEAT AND DEATH

‘By the Allfather, this place is filthier than a throggor’s drop hole,’ moaned Torfin. The Daggerfist lifted a bulky foot, the systems of his massive Tactical Dreadnought armour groaning as they compensated for the imbalance. Thick sludge sloughed off the blue-grey ceramite like a discarded snake skin. The air was thick with microscopic spores and the stench was enough to permeate the filters of Arjac Rockfist’s helm vents.

‘Keep moving,’ growled the Great Wolf’s Champion, pointing forward with the gleaming head of Foehammer.

The azure glow of the hearthegn’s thunder hammer met with jade bio-luminescence from thick patches of fungi that clung to the walls and floor of the broad corridor. The meshwork underfoot was nearly covered with spore-belching nodules and slick mulch while ropes of dripping, tendon-like growths hung from the ceiling, patterning the armour of the squad with lines of filth as they passed through.

Behind the warrior Skor – named Oft-Shot by his peers for his propensity to push forward into the enemy regardless of other considerations – the other five Space Wolves of Arjac’s tactical command followed in staggered double file, along a passageway nearly fifteen yards wide. The sickly light was no obstacle to auto-sense-augmented sight, through which Arjac could see his squad in stark contrast, highlighted in his vision by a distinct aura. Each was a hulking mass of transhuman created by the alchemy of the Allfather and clad in an armoured suit equivalent to a battle tank. Though he could not see the blue-grey of their livery, the runes of their weregost and honours were clear as dark sigils on their sloping shoulder plates. Against a black pauldron each bore the glyph of the Wolf that Stalks Between Stars, the Upplandr Vathulf of the Great Wolf’s own company. Elsewhere, each wore a talisman bearing the sign of the Champions of Fenris, for such name had they borne before Logan Grimnar had been voted to command of the Chapter.

Even clad in half a ton of machine, the Fenrisian Space Marines walked with poise and purpose, weapons at the ready; the heaped furs and totems upon their armour made it easy to picture them in hunting garb tracking through broad ironoaks rather than advancing along a rusted, fungi-choked starship passage. They covered the ground at speed, using the momentum of their suits rather than fighting it. Passing openings, each trained their weapons towards any potential attack in turn, so that there was never any moment when their flanks were not covered by a warrior’s gaze. They moved constantly, like broken ice on a stream, one or another momentarily pausing to take up guard position or check the rear quarters while the rest moved on; never needing to utter a word of command or compliance.

‘Hold,’ warned Skor from the front of the line of Terminators. They assumed their defensive posture in a second. ‘Spore-pile.’

His heavy flamer added bright yellow to the illumination for several seconds. Alien things squealed and writhed in the promethium fires before turning to ash and grease. Cinders whirled around the Wolf Guard as he turned to move on.

The corridor they followed ran roughly north-west to south-east, with operational north having been established at the start of the mission as a point on the rim of the space hulk. Likewise, ‘up’ and ‘down’ had been designated at right angles to the general plane of the mass of crushed starships. By such reckoning, the squad advanced through the upper part of the colossal debris-beast, close to an outcrop in the eastern region formed by the jutting remains of an ancient bulk hauler. The rest of the space hulk comprised nearly two dozen ships, some of them completely lost within the interior, all encrusted with millions of tons of random stellar debris and bearing the scars of comet impacts and asteroid hits.

‘More orksign this way,’ declared Hrothgar, the beams of his suit lamps disappearing through an open silo door, swallowed by the massive cargo bay beyond.

Using the sensorium link of their Terminator armour Arjac could see through Hrothgar’s auto-senses. Wet boot prints led across the ferrocrete floor of the storage bay, and almost as many barefoot, dozens of them overlapping each other. Whatever cargo the ship had once held, it had long since been looted or disintegrated with age. As yet they had no clue where or when the ship had been lost to the tides of the wyrdverse before being caught in some cosmic storm and crushed into the rest of the space hulk. It didn’t show up on any registry accessible to the Chapter and they were still looking for a component vessel that might be recognised – a warship preferably.

‘Switch to thermal,’ Arjac told Hrothgar. A moment later the view turned into a swirl of dark reds and a few smudges of orange. The lighter colours followed the general trail of greenskin footfall but there was no other sign of heat sources within line of sight.

‘Hours old. We move on to the rendezvous.’

There was still three-quarters of a mile to go before the passageway met up again with its mirror on the starboard flank of the hauler, somewhere close to what had been the living quarters. Surveyor scans by the fleet had identified the area as a hotspot of life signs, along with several others. Being closest to the perimeter and surface of the hulk, the hauler had made an ideal breach point for the assault, but as yet the most dangerous foe the squad had encountered had been rat-like vermin the size of hunting dogs. Despite their grotesque growth, they had been easily crushed by hammers and cut apart with blades.

A burst of gunfire, immediately recognisable as storm bolter shots, echoed from somewhere to the left. Arjac listened to the report over the vox.

‘Heimdr’s squad,’ he passed on to the others. The shooting continued for several seconds, joined by unfamiliar reports and bangs. ‘Several dozen orks encountered.’

‘Lucky bastards,’ grumbled Torfin. ‘We’ve had nothing but skitja and vermin.’

‘Perhaps Heimdr needs help?’ Skor suggested expectantly.

‘Yes, let’s find out,’ said Arjac, much to the surprise of the others. ‘I’ll let you explain to the Great Wolf why we left our attack route and missed the link-up.’

Their enthusiasm audibly waned at the prospect. For several more seconds the only sound was the thud of footfalls and whine of heavy-duty servos. The sensorium link gave off a constant pip-pip-pip pip-pip-pip in Arjac’s ear, sounding like a heartbeat monitor. Gunfire rattled and rumbled infrequently, muffled by distance, while the murmur of the command vox filled his subconscious with a stream of updates.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say the orks were afraid of us,’ said Skor. ‘I thought they relished a good battle.’

‘More than enough fighting to be done yet,’ Arjac replied. ‘Stay watchful.’

Ninety seconds later, Arjac’s prediction proved true and Skor’s wish was granted.

‘Multiple signals, incoming fast,’ warned Sven Halfhelm, who was bringing up the rear, as the sensorium came alive with augur returns. ‘Thirty… Forty… Fifty or more!’

‘Movement. Flanking on our left,’ added Arjac, teasing out more sensor readings from the background miasma of life signs that crowded his sensorium display.

‘Trying to cut us off,’ said Herjolf, pausing to turn to the rear so that Sven could move up to the squad. His storm bolter targeter feed flickered across Arjac’s vision but there was nothing within a hundred yards save the fungal gloom.

His attention was drawn to a voice across the company vox-channel, all other sounds dulling as the hearthegn focused on the words of the Great Wolf.

‘This is the attack, brothers! This is the moment we have waited upon. Give them the bolt-greeting and the blade-welcome with such hospitality as you have proven in our many years together.’

‘Not coming for us,’ said Arjac, pushing his suit to move faster. ‘Going around us, heading for the Great Wolf.’

He growled in frustration, inwardly cursing his armour for its slowness though he would never voice such discontent for its spirit to hear. Even as he forced stride after stride, he could see the mass of the orks to the left outpacing the Wolf Guard squad, while those behind were rapidly catching up.

Like a chunk of wave-battered cliff falling to the seas, a fragment of the sensorium smudge broke away, heading directly for Arjac’s warriors. It was clear they meant to intercept the Space Marines and delay them until the much larger force behind the squad could engage.

‘Arjac!’ Herjolf’s call drew the hearthegn’s attention to the other warrior’s view in a sensorium sub-display. Dozens of orks piled along the passageway behind the squad, many of them darting into the cargo holds to either side. ‘There must be access through the bay walls not shown on the scans.’

‘Like gnawing rats in the grain hall,’ snapped Skor. ‘Burrowing and digging holes everywhere.’

The sparkle of muzzle flare followed a moment later, followed almost immediately by the crash of crude guns and the rattle of bullets careening off the walls and ceiling, a few clattering from Herjolf’s armour as he stood rearguard.

The others had not been so headstrong in their advance and some twenty yards had opened up between Arjac and his companions when the ork interception force fell upon him.

‘Keep up,’ snarled Arjac, still pushing towards the blue icon in his display that marked the rendezvous with Logan Grimnar, the Lord of Fenris. ‘Full assault.’

The hearthegn’s first glance revealed twenty or thirty scrawny aliens running into the passage ahead, some of them stopping to skulk at a cross-junction about seventy yards away. Gunfire pattered down the tunnel, sporadic and ineffective, while a group of larger green-skinned xenos lumbered into sight.

Superimposed over the orks were the views from his squad-brothers, like ghostly after-images of the unfolding combat behind him. Skor turned aside into one of the shipping halls, his display whiting out as his heavy flamer engulfed the greenskins trying to break past. Flares of storm bolter fire lit up the views from Herjolf and Hrothgar, beyond which ork body parts tumbled from each other amid the welter of detonating ammunition.

‘Arjac!’ Anger threaded Skor’s tone as he backed into the main corridor, firing again. ‘You’re stretching us out.’

He ignored the other Wolf Guard and lumbered into a charge, the Anvil Shield raised before him to ward away the increasing torrent of bullets and energy bolts screaming down the corridor towards him.

‘We have to reach the Great Wolf,’ he snarled, sharply conscious of the spreading mass of signal returns around the rendezvous point.

‘We’ll not help him from the Upplands,’ Skor snapped back. ‘Do you think he would have us all dead in his place?’

It made no difference. Arjac was already at the first mob of orks, punching into them like a boarding torpedo hitting the side of a ship. The first went down under shield and boots, barely slowing the giant Space Marine. A second blasted away with its crude automatic weapon, spraying bullets from the gleaming storm shield before the hearthegn crushed it against a bulkhead. He swung Foehammer in a wide arc, smashing aside a third, the blazing field of the hammer head disintegrating thick studded jerkin, green flesh and alien bone.

More orks poured into the main thoroughfare between him and the other Wolf Guards, opening fire even before they had settled their aim. Las-blasts and solid rounds flared wildly in both directions, but Arjac’s armour was as thick to the rear as the front, the bulky power pack unharmed by the few shots that found him.

Lightning snaked from Torfin’s claws as he ploughed into the aliens. Well earned was his title of Daggerfist, each stroke to the left and right eviscerating or decapitating an alien. Against such wounds even the legendary hardiness of the orks was no defence. Beside Torfin arrived Sven Halfhelm, armed with thunder hammer and storm shield like Arjac, though his battle gear was smaller and of less renown than that of the Great Wolf’s Champion. Side by side, he and Torfin cleaved a path through the greenskins, splitting to hold a doorway to each side of the corridor while the other Wolf Guard passed between them.

The corridor was thick with foes around Arjac, such that it needed little skill to strike them down. A green flare among the press of alien attackers drew his eye to a larger xenos beast shouldering its way forward, left hand encased in a thrumming powered claw. Though he believed the Anvil Shield would be the match of the disruptive field, Arjac decided not to risk the confrontation. Batting aside the lesser orks around him, he lunged forward and met the oncoming monster with the head of his hammer, crushing its skull into a pulp.

After a last volley of storm bolter fire from Herjolf and Hrothgar, Skor filled the corridor with a wide sweep of raging promethium, forcing back the greenskins and barring further attack. Torfin slashed through the door controls with a claw, slamming a breach-barrier onto the orks trying to clamber over the bodies of their dead companions.

All of this burned through Arjac’s subconscious, the Champion aware of his companions’ actions and positions just as he was the placement of his feet as he smashed aside another ork, or the weight distribution across his armour as he powered forward again. The lethal rhythm of parry-sweep-stride that carried him onward was a product of instinct, training and decades of experience rather than conscious decision.

The hearthegn’s thoughts were filled with a singular concern, dismissive of his own safety or that of his Wolf Guard. Like a storm gathered around a mountaintop, the greenskins massed about the other detachment, thickening with every passing moment. At the centre would be Logan Grimnar. Chapter Master. The Great Wolf.

The warrior Arjac had sworn grand oaths to protect, and upon whose shoulders the future of the whole Chapter currently rested.

His saga doesn’t end, he told himself. Not today. Not like this. Not because of me.

Tyrnak prowled around the upper strategium deck of the Allfather’s Honour with all the air of an officer, watching over the many kaerls and servitors attending to the dozens of stations situated there. The immense wolf, as high at the shoulder as the heads of many of the mortals past which he softly padded, stopped and sniffed at a leak of fluids from a servitor casing. The half-machine was oblivious to the beast’s attention, eyes wired into the sensor arrays, all other nerves deadened by the attentions of the tech-priests that had created it. Other crew members paid Tyrnak no heed, stopping or moving around his erratic patrol without comment.

The other thunderwolf, Fenrir, sat beside his master’s command throne, head cocked to one side as the Great Wolf idly scratched behind an ear with thick fingers. Logan rested his chin on the fist of his other hand, elbow upon the arm of the throne as he regarded the image projected onto the screen before him. Upon his shoulders he wore a great pelt, its grey-and-white fur almost blending with the lord’s beard.

Around him were his senior counsellors. More distant were members of the Kingsguard, clad in Terminator armour, their weapons dulled for the moment. Completing his tour, Tyrnak stalked over to the line of veteran warriors, looking and sniffing at each in turn as if inspecting a parade in his honour.

Arjac moved to the other side of the throne to Fenrir so that he could see the vid-feed from the frigate approaching the space hulk. Like the Lord of Fenris, he was not in his armour, but dressed in a hide tunic and leggings, his arms banded with leather totem cords hung with fangs and bones, his thick belt riveted with iron honour badges. His freshly shaved scalp shone with the speckled starlight from the display. He dragged his fingers through his thick, newly trimmed beard.

‘It’s big,’ said the hearthegn.

Grimnar laughed. ‘They’re all big.’

‘Bigger than most,’ agreed Njal, he that was known as the Stormcaller. The wide collar of a heavy vest and long strands of red beard and hair framed sigil tattoos and branded wyrdmarks on his chest, more of the same coiled and knotted along his arms. Rune-scribed beads and fangs hung on thongs from a belt of twisted golden cord, rattling and tapping against the thick leather of his kilt as he moved. He held his staff to one side, its wolf-skull top serving as a perch for his psyber-raven. The modified creature stared at Fenrir with the ruby lens of a bionic eye while the Stormcaller regarded the view on the vid-projection with a solemn expression.

Scans had put the mishmash of compacted ships and cosmic flotsam in the region of seventy miles long, fourteen miles wide and nearly four and a half miles at its thickest. Surveyor feeds from the Ironjarl scrolled across the grey-and-black mass, flickering patches into orange life as reactors, engines and other active systems were detected.

Yet it was not these technical readings that drew the eye, for Arjac could see just as clearly what had caught the attention of his lord. Here and there plasma discharge was visible, as were several dome-like force field emissions of flickering green energy. The space hulk was certainly occupied, if not entirely under the control of its inhabitants. And the nature of those was revealed by large red glyphs, daubed nearly a hundred yards high along the nose plate of an embedded starship close to the approximate front of the interstellar vagrant. Though their exact meaning was unclear – blades, skulls and haphazard lines and crude faces – their import was immediate.

‘Orks,’ said Arjac, earning himself another look from the Great Wolf for speaking the obvious. It did not deter him from continuing, his gaze moving to Njal, who was watching the unfolding scene with furrowed brow. ‘This is the green monster that haunts your wyrd-dreams, Stormcaller?’

The Rune Priest simply grunted, lost in thought.

‘It is what we expected to find,’ said Logan, a finger stroking down one of his long canine teeth. ‘What we wanted to find.’

‘It is good to have the reports confirmed, all the same,’ added Gammalr Jarl-Taken, the ship’s non-Space Marine master.

A former aspirant to become one of the Wolf King’s gene-sons, Gammalr had once been a tall, proud youth. Now he was a twisted, bent-backed veteran, his bones slowly warping with the effect of the genhancements that should have strengthened them. Were it not for the exoskeletal supports the Wolf Priests had fused into his flesh, his chin would have been below his waist. As it was, his creased face was etched with the pain he felt every moment, yet the willpower that had endured – though his body had not – meant that he never uttered a word of complaint.

Though he could not serve the Allfather as a Space Marine, he had found his place among the fleet. His quarters were free from the artificial gravity of the rest of the ship; the weightlessness granted brief times of respite for his tortured bones. He had risen to master of the Gylfarheim over the many years of his thralldom and when the Great Wolf had transferred his standard to the Allfather’s Honour, Gammalr had been the only officer he had brought across.

‘The last sighting was by a deep Naval patrol at the Aelheim Gap, but before then it drifted through the Navinundum and Bryas systems,’ he continued. As he spoke his bony fingers manipulated the display controls, replacing a quarter of the screen with a star map of the surrounding systems. ‘That was twenty days and forty-three light years ago.’

‘It is slipping into and out of the Everdusk,’ said Njal, grimacing as he turned to face the Great Wolf. Golden motes glittered in his eyes and his breath came in a light mist as the temperature dropped around him. ‘This is the edgespace of the Rift, its grip weak and inconsistent, the rippling end of a tendril extending from the wyrdsea into our realm. I can feel it, but there is a power in the hulk that is responding. Something the orks have created or found is keeping them from being dragged deeper and deeper into the wyrdsea, like a wreck that keeps surfacing.’

Arjac was well aware of the swirl of unnatural energy that pulsed into and out of focus at the edge of the star system. At the moment it seemed nothing more than a heat haze that blurred the distant stars, but it was pregnant with terrible energy, likely to burst forth as a wyrdstorm without warning.

‘You mean they are steering this thing?’ said the Great Wolf, his hand falling to the arm of his throne as he leaned forward to stare at the growing stellar monstrosity on the display.

‘Perhaps “steer” is not the word,’ said Njal. the wyrdsign around him dissipating as he spoke. ‘Influence? Just as those engines we see burning can do only a little to alter its trajectory in realspace, the device I have felt is nothing like a warp engine. More a drag anchor, pulling the whole mess back into the universe, stopping it from straying too far into the wyrdsea.’

‘Even so, that marks them as a greater threat than most,’ said Logan. He wagged a finger at Gammalr. ‘Project a course from the previous sightings.’

‘Give me a moment, Great Wolf,’ said the shipmaster, turning to the controls. None spoke for a minute and more while servitors babbled the computations required. Gammalr directed their attention to the display. ‘These are very rough estimates, without any consultation with the astropaths or Navigators about warp conditions.’

The stellar schematic swelled to half the display, almost obscuring the drifting space hulk as it wallowed against the backdrop of half-seen energy. A broadening cone of deviation extended to the galactic east, towards the core. Grimnar stood up, fingers laced together as he took a pace to the left and then to the right, head slightly tilted as he examined the detail.

The Great Wolf cleared his throat.

‘Further south,’ he said, pointing. He indicated half a dozen previous star systems. ‘See, there’s almost a loop here, as if they were coming to a new heading each time.’

‘Heading somewhere on purpose?’ said Arjac.

‘Maybe,’ said Gammalr. He adjusted the controls and a new rune appeared – the symbol for Fenris, several thousand light years to the south-west. It seemed to be at the hub of the arc indicated by the Great Wolf.

‘Going around us?’ Grimnar laughed with incredulity. He turned to the master with a raised eyebrow. ‘You think they are avoiding Fenris?’

‘I couldn’t say, Great Wolf,’ confessed Gammalr. ‘Just an observation.’

A figure that had been silent for the whole council now stepped forward. Ulrik the Slayer, eldest and sternest of the Chapter’s Wolf Priests regarded the map with a curled lip, revealing a thick fang.

‘Like raiders keeping clear of the fort,’ he growled. ‘Picking off prey on the boundary.’

‘This is the limit of our reach,’ said Njal. ‘Unless you wish to plunge into the Everdusk itself, we cannot follow them further.’

‘We can, if we choose,’ said Ulrik. ‘If the Great Wolf commands it, it shall be done. This is not the only ork that crosses our territory. Whole fleets, not just raiders, and there will be more hulks that we haven’t found. Some are heading westwards, towards the traitors, probably to start wars. Others have been pushed eastwards and towards the core stars.’

‘The Ironhold bars their route to the west,’ said Gammalr. ‘House Kamidar and their allies guard that area of space.’

‘Oh, and you’ve received word from Kamidar, have you?’ Logan said quietly. ‘Some astropathic message that wasn’t brought to me?’

‘No, Great Wolf,’ replied Gammalr, casting his gaze down at the deck. ‘We’ve heard nothing.’

Fenrir whined in sympathy and lay on the deck, head on paws.

‘No. No word from the Black Templars that left to crusade along the Aerrfold Drift. Nothing from Kamidar. No clear message from the Palace of the Allfather.’ The Great Wolf’s wrinkles deepened as he frowned and he lifted a hand, examining his fingers as they closed into a fist. ‘All we have is what we see and touch. A handful of companies from scattered Chapters, no more than a score of Naval ships that have put themselves at my command, less than a dozen Imperial Guard regiments likewise. And ourselves.’

‘And if that is not enough?’ said Arjac. ‘Our fiercest and bravest are upon this ship, but even we have limits. Just as you cannot make a sword from an thimbleful of steel, you cannot defeat a foe with warriors that don’t exist.’

‘We have no choice,’ Ulrik snapped. ‘This is our battle.’

‘What guardians would you set at your wall, knowing they would let any foe past and instead trust to the gates of the keep?’ said Grimnar. ‘And standing at that wall, not knowing if the keep was held, would you do anything less than give your life to bar all attack?’

‘We cannot be everywhere,’ said Arjac. He looked at the space hulk, full of misgiving. ‘Our brotherhood, the word of our continuing fight that spreads hope and resistance, is all that stands between a hundred worlds and surrender to the enemy. We are one Great Company–’

‘We are the Champions of Fenris,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘We do not shirk battle. It is clear these orks meant to elude us, but they have failed and will now learn why they had good cause to wish us ignorant of them.’

‘There is not a foe I would not crush gladly at your side, but my concern is not for the enemy,’ the hearthegn insisted. He thrust a finger out, not towards the command display but the main oculus, a rectangle of yards-thick armaglass that framed the glitter of stars and the spark of the distant engines of the Ironjarl. The unnerving half-hue of the warp rift that had torn apart the galaxy fluttered across the distant starfield. ‘The Everdusk is right there. It could swallow the whole hulk in minutes, with us aboard. You want me to go and hit it with my hammer, perhaps?’

Rather than showing amusement, the Great Wolf’s expression soured further.

‘Death stalks us in many forms, my hearthegn.’

The way his lord inflected the title was like acid in Arjac’s chest. It was the first time his position as Champion had felt like a weapon used against him. Shamed, he could say nothing.

‘A laser blast, a shell, the claws of a tyranid screamer-killer,’ growled Ulrik. ‘Every time we breach the wyrdsea we risk an eternity of howling insanity. It is the duty of every Space Marine to put themselves between death and others. It is an honour as sons of Russ that we may do so!’

More than on any battlefield, with enemies uncounted coming to cut his thread, Arjac wished he was in the forges, working hammer and anvil alone. Yet what needed to be said had fallen to him, and to be afraid of the consequences of those words would make him more of a coward than fleeing battle.

‘I do not wish to appear craven, and I certainly mean no insult to the bravery of the Great Wolf,’ he said slowly, picking his words as he might select ingots of iron, examining each for any flaw that might cause it to later fail. ‘But it is not only my duty as your hearthegn to guard you against all peril, it is my honour to stand between you and catastrophe. Never have so many looked to the Great Wolf for leadership. There is not one among us that can bear that weight as well as you. We are the guards at the wall, there is nobody behind us, no keep, and you are our captain. I believe, I know, that if you fall, darkness will take everything we have sworn to protect.’

‘Yet still I must go, for if I do not face this battle, I can face none,’ Logan said, his gaze distant, as though seeing something beyond the display on the screen. ‘The Imperium is breaking, but our bonds to it, our oaths to those we fight alongside, must hold to the last. If I relent now, I am not the leader you claim I need to be. I will not let others fight my battles, whether the Queen of Kamidar… or my Champion.’

As he listened to the Great Wolf’s declaration, Arjac said nothing, accepting his lord’s judgement. He fixed his eyes upon Logan Grimnar to mask his discontent as the Lord of Fenris continued.

‘Night has fallen and I am the Wolf that Stalks Between Stars.’ His hand moved to the grip of the red-bladed weapon by the side of his throne – the Axe Morkai, forged of a traitor’s weapon and now turned against those that betrayed the Allfather. As though giving an oath, the Great Wolf stood, the axe held in both hands before him. ‘We stand upon the brink of the bottomless abyss. I hear the howling in the darkness. The Wolftime comes. When the Wolf King returns, I will stand proud in his presence for I will know I have been a worthy heir.’

And so plans had been laid, with Arjac placed in the flank force as a reminder that Logan Grimnar needed no Champion to fight for him.

Arjac smashed his hammer to the left and right, but trying to carve a path through the orks was like forging upriver in a firstspring flood. Notch-edged blades crashed and clattered from his armour while chugging engines powered ripping teeth that screeched over the curves of ceramite. The power stack inside the Anvil Shield grew hotter as near-constant scrawls of energy burned across its surface, flaring amid the blows. For every step Arjac pushed forward, half a dozen foes had to fall.

The scrum of combat barely registered in his conscious thought, the ebb and flow of snarling bestial faces secondary to the hovering blur of sensorium readings massed around the Great Wolf’s signal. Arjac checked the range meter. A quarter of a mile stood between him and Logan, yet it might as well have been a thousand for all the chance of him reaching the Great Wolf. While his hammer arm rose and fell without hesitation, as though beating upon the anvil in the forges of the Aett, Arjac surveyed his surrounds for some means to break free of the greenskins.

His attention fell on the sensorium subview of himself from one of his companions behind. For a split second, Arjac saw himself like a jutting rock in a frothing wave of broken ork bodies and swinging cleaver blades.

‘Skor!’ The hearthegn lunged sideways, crushing an ork against the bulkhead with his shoulder plate. ‘Burn me a path!’

In the display, Skor’s gaze panned left and right, scanning across the corridor. Arjac’s suit gleamed bright in the augmented view.

‘I have no clear target,’ the Wolf Guard replied.

‘My armour will protect me. The orks’ armour won’t!’ Arjac bludgeoned a pair of foes with a wide swing, giving himself room to turn. ‘Do it now!’

Swinging his shield towards the rest of the squad, Arjac braced himself. A heartbeat later a sheet of burning promethium washed past him, lapping at the Anvil Shield amid fronds of blue energy. The inferno splashed across the orks, igniting armour, melting flesh down to charred bone. For several seconds, Arjac’s view was nothing but the whiteout of his auto-senses, armour warnings shrieking as the temperature continued to rise.

But his warplate had been forged to withstand the fury of a plasma blast and did not yield to a heavy flamer. Bursting from a heap of smouldering alien corpses, Arjac powered into a run. Streams of molten ceramite slipped away into cooling droplets that rattled on the deck behind him.

Ahead of him more orks opened fire, their crude guns spitting such a hail of bullets that their lack of accuracy was no impediment to their effectiveness. Still superheated from the flamer burst, his armour cracked and splintered with impacts while heavier blasts from outlandish energy weapons scored deep wounds in its artificial skin.

The other konigard had abandoned any attempt at a formed withdrawal and were hurrying after Arjac, fifty yards behind. More projectiles, arcs of greenish lightning and sputtering rockets pursued them.

Still he was not fast enough. The corridor between the storage bay gave way to a cluster of wide hallways flanked by smaller chambers, thronged with alien foes. Everything was a clamour of overlapping noise, but through auto-senses and transhuman hearing Arjac could pick out the distinctive bark of bolters and the battle cries of his Chapter brothers.

A missile detonated on his chest, bringing his focus back to his immediate surroundings as pieces of shattered ceramite sprayed, the impact forcing him back a step. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up the Anvil Shield against another burst of fire. Pain speared along his left side as torn muscle extended. It was gone a moment later, washed away by a flood of war-plate-injected anaesthetic and his augmented body’s hormonal pain suppressors, but it was a stark reminder that he was not invulnerable.

Another came as a high-calibre shell struck the side of his helm from the right, with enough force to have snapped a lesser warrior’s spine and punctured their skull. Arjac rocked as more hits slammed into him while another missile burst against the Anvil Shield.

‘Keep going!’ bellowed Halfhelm, arriving beside Arjac with his own storm shield raised, catching the next volley of explosive shells on its broad surface.

Scything fire from Herjolf and Hrothgar snarled past the pair, cutting down a handful of orks in the vestibule between the Wolf Guard and the hall where the rendezvous point had been set. Torfin plunged forward on the left, armour alight with sparking ricochets as he hit the ork line like a harpoon piercing the skin of a whaler’s prey.

Heartened by his companions’ arrival, Arjac advanced with them. His body and armour was stiff on the left side, giving him a slight limp, but the hearthegn kept pace with the rest of the squad, pushing into the lessened enemy fire.

‘Going to rename you Arjac Rockhead,’ growled Hrothgar.

‘Stormcaller’s prophecy,’ said Arjac. ‘The green ogre devours the wolf. I can’t let that happen.’

‘We know,’ said Skor. ‘We know.’

Arjac caught a glimpse of himself in the other Terminator’s vid-feed. His helm was nearly cracked open, congealed blood sealing the rent along the side of his head. The rest of his armour was heavily marked by welts and craters, the adamantium skeleton showing in places.

So close to death. So close to failure.

Bullets flared from Sven’s shield beside Arjac. There was still time for both to find him.

Chapter Four

THE GREENSKIN MENACE
HORDES IN THE DEEP
WEIRDLORD

At times Orad wondered if he had died in the battle and this was the punishment the preachers had warned about. He had been dutiful, served without complaint, had said his prayers. But he could not shake the memory of his moment of surrender, reliving it over and over again. Perhaps the orks had chopped him up or blown holes in his body with their crude pistols after that fist had fallen.

It certainly felt like eternity. There was no day or night – not even the fake cycle of the Naval routine. Nobody spoke. The crack of whips, the crunch of debris, the shouts of the greenskins and the moans of the slaves were the only sounds. Even at the end of their labours everyone was too busy scoffing down mush given to them by their captors that made Navy-issue gruel seem like the height of officer cuisine, drinking cups of water that tasted of rust and piss. And then sleep. A few hours sometimes. The dreams – nightmares – hadn’t lasted long. Mental and physical exhaustion took such a toll that sometimes a person wouldn’t wake up. Comatose or dead, the orks didn’t care.

There were no chains and there were even a few iron bars, bracing rods and other implements lying around that could be improvised into weapons. Nobody even tried. It was clear there would be no escaping this hell. They were in the void: where could you escape to, even if you didn’t get killed straight away?

The warptime had been like nothing Orad had experienced before. The Geller fields had been working, but not very well. Even the orks didn’t disturb their captives during that part of the trip, leaving them to their screaming and bloody suicides. Orad had repeatedly dashed his head against the turret wall, trying to crack open his skull, but he had simply knocked himself out. When he had come round again the visions of screeching baby-faced crows and flaming symbols still tormented him, but he had no more strength to defy them and simply sat in the dark corner of the turret, cradling the decaying remains of Rossi for comfort, rocking back and forth, eyes shut. He must have drunk something somehow, driven by base animal need, but the gnawing in his stomach warned that he had not eaten. Having been well proportioned before the attack he fared better than lots of the remaining crew, many of them little more than bones wrapped in lesion-marked skin.

Leaving the warp had seemed like a blessing, but it only meant a return to the back-breaking labour. The ork ship had been set free but the huge wound had to be patched while wearing bulky environment suits, watched over by captors in heavy sealed armour. Other orkish alterations that made no sense were carried out around them, much of it just for the look, it seemed.

One day the routine changed. The orks forced them aft and down, towards the shuttle bays. There were shouts of anger and pain ahead and when he reached the bay Orad found small greenskins with smoking brands marking each of the slaves on chest, back or shoulder as they passed. Orad gritted his teeth as the mark – a crude glyph that looked something like a rocket – was seared into his left pectoral. He was thrust forward by an ork, into the bay. There were still Naval craft here as well as orkish landers. The slaves were herded upon these with more whip-cuts and crackling livestock prods, filling the holds of the atmocraft until no more could be fitted in. Orad found himself wedged next to the port of a former supply lighter, his neck crooked to the left, hand trapped against a bulkhead.

‘I hope these things are still sealed,’ muttered someone behind him. ‘If they’ve broken the atmolocks, we’re all dead.’

The clanking of the Rigorous’ outer doors drew the attention of those that could see. The massive plasteel shutters moved out of sight, revealing a starfield half-hidden by an orange-brown world. Quite clearly, just a few miles away, a grotesque moonlike space station hung above the planet.

The drop-ship lifted away, yawing too fast, rolling to one side as thrusters erratically spat plasma, throwing the living cargo towards the back of the compartment. Someone yelled in pain, bellowing that their ankle was broken amid growled complaints and threats. As the craft swung towards the station, Orad had a view of the Rigorous. He could see the gouge in the dorsal decks where the ork attack ship had slammed into the light cruiser – the same ship was actually attached to the Imperial vessel by hundreds of cables near the prow, acting as a tow-craft. Orad wouldn’t have believed it, once, but now he was so emotionally broken it barely registered as a surprise. More small craft like their own swarmed from the docking bays.

They passed the station and continued planetwards, glimpsing the artificial moon through the viewports, ork cruisers and escorts docked with dozens of gantries extended from its poles. Those that could watched the orb of the planet growing until it filled the viewports and flames of re-entry crackled across the fuselage. Fear had been crushed along with every other feeling in the long journey, but now it returned strongly as the touch of gravity started to pull on the packed slaves and a bright star shone through the viewports. Craning his neck, Orad could look below with one eye pressed against the armaglass as they passed through a thick bank of smog. They were only a few miles up and a huge city sprawled across ochre hills, ten or more miles across. Black smoke billowed from hundreds of works, and dust clouds choked the streets and rose from roadways and tracks leading out past the city limits. The rising sun glinted on metal battlements and half-built war engines that towered over the city.

Then the view was gone, obscured by cranes and immense quay-like platforms where blunt-nosed starships took shape and orbital craft landed in a stream.

The doors opened and the former crew of the Rigorous stumbled blinking onto the ork world, utterly lost and bewildered but welcomed by the familiar crack of whips and hoarse voices.

The beast will rise and the wolf will howl its rage.

Words softly spoken that would echo for centuries. Njal knew better than to think of prophecy as anything more solid than a stirring in the wyrd, a shifting of possible fates. Even so, such predictions had a different kind of power, to shape the wyrd itself so that outcome mirrored expectation.

There was a risk to those who followed the calling of the runethegn to delve deeper and deeper into the mysteries of wyrd, thinking that knowledge could bring greater control; that to understand a thing was to gain power over it. True wisdom, Njal had learnt from bitter experience, was to know that the wyrd was no more than an echo of things that might be, and to listen too intently was to drift from the here and now of the Verse. Here, where words were spoken and actions taken, that was where wyrd could be shaped. By forcing reality to their will a great person could forge their own wyrd, or at least nudge the vagaries of fate to their favour.

There was no better example of this than the township the orks had ripped into the bowels of the ancient starship. The orks did not synergise, did not reach compromise, did not attain symbiosis with their surroundings. They brought their orkishness to everything, bending and breaking the mould of a place until it suited them. Njal was the Stormcaller, a master of the elements, and recognised another elemental force writ on a galactic scale. Like a storm or tidal wave or earthquake, the orks tore down everything they encountered and left nothing but ruin behind. But while they lingered they were the centre of power and about them all other things revolved, including wyrd.

The orks had built a shanty fort with a curtain wall topped by a serrated-toothed rampart, amid a great void gouged into the hulk. In brutal cross-section the ragged ends of access pipes and upper decks, maintenance passages and crew dorms surrounded the artificial cavern, giving the place the air of a cathedral to destruction. It stretched credulity to find this fortress heaped upon the ruin in the midst of a starship, but to the orks it was as natural as if they had settled upon a world or moon.

A few hundred yards ahead of Njal, his psyber-raven, Nightwing, swept through the darkness unseen, its eyes showing the Stormcaller what lay beyond mortal sight. All around the former reactor and engines of the bulk hauler, the orks had ripped down walls and torn up decks. The wreckage of smashed bulkheads and plates of looted plasteel had been fashioned into new abodes to the preference of the aliens. Old power systems had been torn out and replaced with smog-belching generators so that the air was a fog of oily stench, lit through with sparks that cascaded from haphazard power lines and flickering pylons. Screeches and grunts mingled with a machine pounding and the bellows of the orks, echoing back from the broken walls of the cavern in unpredictable ways. Daubed in dried blood and oil-black glyphs, with ragged banners and fetish-hung icons standing proud, the fortress was their domain, an extension of the warlord that dwelt within.

Nightwing flitted above streets and roofs which teemed with orks and scores of smaller greenskins. Cannon blasts and energy beams greeted the company of the Great Wolf as they broke from the maze of corridors and chambers around the fortress cavern. The intent behind the orks’ forays into the passages beyond became immediately clear – to circle around and trap the intruders against the defences and prevent retreat.

Coming upon this stronghold, the squads of the Great Wolf slowed. Their uncertainty was like a haze in Njal’s thoughts, spreading across the force as each warrior reacted to the hesitation of his neighbours. The Great Wolf needed no wyrdsight to detect the subtle faltering and his vox-call carried his voice across the din of guns and orkish shouts.

‘Our foes have raised themselves an aett!’ he cried, laughter in his voice.

He thrust the Axe Morkai towards the ramshackle construction, its red-steel blades glinting as though freshly slicked with blood. Njal could sense the hungry spirit of the weapon bound within the runic metal, straining at its bonds, demanding its thirst be slaked with violence. Logan seemed unaffected by its pulsing desire and continued his mockery even as he headed towards the orks. The rest of the force came with him as though he was a beast pulling a chariot, the squads drawn forward by his unwavering advance.

‘Look upon that fearsome wall! Surely no other defence has ever borne such vicious fangs. Careful, sons of Fenris, this beast may bite!’

It was impossible to be sure of the orks’ numbers. Just as the ships’ augurs had not detected the fort through the mass of the hulk, so the density of fungal growths and sub-sentient orkoid creatures mocked any attempt at life scans. Fungal blooms larger than battle tanks encrusted the ragged walls, years old. Feral hunting things with snapping jaws launched themselves at the oncoming Space Marines, met with blades and chainswords to conserve ammunition for the greater challenge ahead.

Ulrik the Slayer strode alongside his lord, weapon coughing bolts, the winged wolf skull of his crozius blazing with disruptive energy. He lifted up the symbol of unity between Fenris and the Imperium, its gleam bright in the gloom of the ork domain.

‘Across the realm of the Allfather, the orks seek to prosper and breed again,’ he bellowed, using the external address rather than the vox, voice booming back from the fortress walls and the enclosing hulk. ‘They have issued forth from their starless lairs and squat in the ashes of their conquests on worlds that belong to the Allfather. Their grunts echo in our halls and their filth stinks in streets of human cities. These were worlds we swore to protect. This is a foe we swore to slay. Now the time is upon us to see those oaths fulfilled! This is the time of the great reckoning when we become the fire that burns down the old so that the new may grow. It is we, the Wolves of Fenris, that will be the ruinbringers today!’

Ork weapons at the battlement spat energy beams and shells. Returning fire, the warriors of Grimnar continued to advance, splitting their line to divide the enemy’s attention. Faced with heavier weaponry they used the remains of torn walls and heaped masonry to guard their approach, their progress through the dark-shrouded perimeter heralded by the flare of storm bolter fire and the gleam of power weapons. Terminators with their own heavy weapons were called to the fore and set up counter-fire. Streams of Cyclone missiles burst along the ramparts with blossoms of fire and iron, while screaming volleys of assault cannon rounds scythed down the aliens skulking beyond.

Having established a foothold in the fortress’ surrounds, the Great Wolf brought forth the strongest of his battle-brothers. Their tread pulverising ferrocrete spoil, resounding from exposed plasteel deck-beams, a trio of Dreadnoughts took the point of the attack. The fortress space rang with their war shouts, edged with the metal voice of their voxmitters.

‘Let the battle-reckoning be counted by the score!’ Skvald Warbringer led the charge, the thick plates of his war machine shrugging off hits with splinters of ceramite. As he passed close by, Njal caught the thoughts of the old warrior within the sigil-sealed machine: flashes of tossing waves and a sprawling battle across a wooden deck. Whatever foe the old Dreadnought believed he faced, it was not green-skinned xenos. ‘Ruddy your blades and work up a thirst fit to drink dry the king’s hall!’

The crashing guns of Svard Bloodfang and Ancient Kryll tore along the much-battered rampart, forcing the orks back while Skvald approached the gate. The veteran war engine lifted its helfrost cannon. Chilled mist churned around the weapon. A single blast like the icy howl of Morkai struck the metal gates, covering them in rime and cracking the rusted metal. Roaring a battle cry Skvald launched himself at the frosted barrier, his claws carving apart the fractured structure with a single blow.

Cheering praises to the venerable warriors and the glories of the Wolf King, Grimnar and his troops pushed towards the gate, the Great Wolf close on the heels of the Dreadnoughts, the Stormcaller not far behind.

The ork fortress had a greater defence than battlements and guns. Njal could feel that same wyrd energy that had brought him here coursing through the minds of the ork horde that thronged the vast space. The power to change the future by belief alone.

The storm of blood will break the stars.

Everything was closer, heavier, since the Everdusk had fractured the void. It had been coming for some time, building for many days, and Njal – like so many other psykers – had been helpless to stop it. Fenris sailed the cosmos with the Gannstrom, what the Imperials called the Eye of Terror, staring down upon its people from the heavens. Always a bad star had been a tiding for ill, foretelling of invasion or calamity. When the forces of the Underverse spewed forth, the Gannstrom waxed bright and fearsome, surrounded by a halo of bad stars. In the time before the breaking of the void the sky had been alight day and night with such portent.

Charging towards the gate behind Logan and Ulrik, flanked by other great fighters, Njal should have felt confident of victory. He felt apprehension. It was not a pleasant feeling, snagging against his pyscho-conditioning like a thorn beneath a fingernail, stinging and impossible to remove.

Njal’s staff flared with power, the runes hammered into its length flickering with blue fire, those set within his Terminator plate likewise agleam. While around him the Wolves of Fenris fought with bolter and plasma, blade and chainsword, he waged a different battle. To him the scene was bathed in ruddy hues, where spears of gold and a fog of green thrashed and pulsed from the minds of the combatants. On the edge of his othersense was the deep thrum of the Everdusk: a gut-churning bass presence of death and misery fuelled by the torment of countless billions sacrificed to its creation. The raucous storm of pure orkish violence swayed and billowed around the aliens, swelling where the fighting was fiercest, empowered by the exuberance of conflict. Here and there it channelled into vortices of wild energy, sparking and spinning, drawn to the crude minds of ork wyrd-chanters.

‘All is not as it seems,’ Njal warned.

Logan, always mindful of his war council’s advice, slowed his pace, those close by following suit.

‘You scry something, Runelord?’ asked the Great Wolf.

‘Can you not feel it? The air is awash with orkish power, hammering at my thoughts, choking my mind with its brute alien presence.’

‘It will lose its potency when we have thinned the horde,’ said Aldacrel, Iron Priest to the company. He raised an axe that was half long-bearded blade and half a cog sigil of the Adeptus Mechanicus. ‘That’s how it works, yes?’

Ahead of them, two squads of Wolf Guard Terminators had reached the wall and were tearing at it with power fists and lightning claws while their brothers provided covering fire. From the left another squad arrived, one of the flanking forces. Arjac Rockfist led them, his armour showing much damage, pauldrons and breastplate coated with his blood and alien filth.

‘What of the threat?’ Logan demanded of Njal. They were twenty yards from the broken gate, the Dreadnoughts a vanguard just beyond, their weapons in constant ire against unseen foes. ‘Speak plainly.’

‘No specific threat,’ Njal admitted, unable to share anything but vague foreboding. ‘Just wyrdsign.’

‘There are plenty enough foes to fight without imagining new ones,’ grunted Ulrik.

The moment passed as Arjac and his warriors met with Logan’s a dozen yards from the fortress.

‘You’re alive,’ said Arjac, raising his hammer haft to his chest in salute as he fell into step beside his lord.

‘Of course,’ grunted Grimnar. ‘We’ve only just got started on the real fight. You look like you’ve had your fair share already, though.’

‘Like a battering ram, he was,’ said Torfin Daggerfist from behind. ‘Couldn’t hold him back.’

‘I see,’ said Logan. ‘Well, no need for battering rams here, we’ve broken the gate already.’

Njal increased his stride to join Arjac. ‘Stay close, Champion, I have ill feeling about this place,’ he told the hearthegn, but knew his words were unnecessary. Arjac’s thoughts burned like a ward around the Great Wolf, greater than the glow of his shield.

‘Time to loosen your arms,’ said Grimnar as they came upon the gateway.

The ork town within was a shamble of basic buildings much like any other Arjac had seen: one and two storeys high, linked with crude cable bridges, rope ladders and metal walkways, graffiti and banners proclaiming ownership and dominance everywhere. The footing was treacherous, pounded rubble broken up by the remnants of the original walls and bulkheads. Orks fired and hollered from the rooftops, laying down fusillades into the breaches made by the Wolf Guard. Those that had been at the gate were all dead, slain by the Dreadnoughts, their bodies dangling over the improvised ramparts above or heaped in the streets at the feet of the war machines.

Sensorium readings were patchy, broken up by flares of static.

‘Unshielded reactors,’ warned Aldacrel. ‘Shut down your sensorium links to reduce feedback.’

Arjac cut off the invisible connection with his squad-brothers. It was startling at first to look upon a view that was just his own, without the tracery of data from his companions and the ghost images of the secondary feeds. The sensation of clarity was quickly replaced by wariness. Without the scanning function of the Terminator suits they had to fall back on their own senses – eyes, ears and nose.

The latter was hard-pressed to determine anything out of the stink of the orks. The stench was on everything as the Fenrisian warriors entered the town, undisturbed by any filtration or artificial circulation. Having grown used to hunting with the aid of his enhanced olfactory sense, it felt to Arjac as bad as being blinded in one eye. Worse still, after the blow to his helm, he almost was: blood crusted the brow and no amount of blinking or grimacing could remove the scab that impeded his peripheral vision to the right.

Without any comment, he eased himself across behind the Great Wolf so that his lord was on his left-hand side where he could fully see him. The rest of the squad fanned out ahead, watching for ambush.

Barely a hundred yards further on, the buildings gave way to a vast space, bringing the attackers to an abrupt halt at its perimeter. Here the orks had not built, but mined. Deck after deck, far past the extent of the bulk hauler and into its compacted neighbour, at least half a mile almost straight down. The delving formed a vertiginous semicircle criss-crossed with pulleys and ladders, wires and pipes. As with the decks open to the fortress hall, so the lower levels were plain to see, as though some mighty hand had torn out a chunk of both ships.

The floor resumed some two hundred yards away on the far side of the broken chasm. Here a construction that was part keep and part immense statue rose almost to the distant ceiling, its foundations lost in darkness below. The effigy was of a squatting orkish figure, made of chunks of rockcrete and dung, so that it had a grey-green hue. Upon this were fashioned plates of armour from corroded metal and bent plasteel, garbing the bestial warrior in breastplate, shoulder guards and vambraces. Slit-like windows pierced much of the construction, lit from chambers within, and from these orks started to shoot, though with poor fields of fire and even worse aim. Arjac’s gaze continued higher and higher to the summit, where a broad-jawed head sat. The eyes and open mouth were alight with a green glow.

‘They’ve built around the reactor!’ said Aldacrel, looking at his auspex-piece. ‘They took the shielding off…’

Hundreds of smaller thrall-greenskins swarmed over the edifice, many still building and patching, though others were now staring at the Space Marine intruders or scrambling to safety. In the decks below, thousands more laboured, carrying baskets and crates filled to spilling with broken rubble, broken stanchions and shards of plasteel. Lines and pulleys swayed across the gorge to carry their loads to the base of the idol. Among them were much larger figures, orks that were pushing their way upwards to join the fight, snarling and shouting.

Thousands of orks. Tens of thousands.

The emerald giant shall seize the wolf’s jaws and silence its ire.

Stormcaller could not wrench his gaze from the immense orkish effigy. It looked nothing like the green giant of his visions, and yet in the flickering of muzzle flare and the fire of the ork town, alight from promethium, there was something primal and alive about it.

Around him a firefight erupted, the Dreadnoughts and Terminators blasting down into the depths of the delved city, targeted in return by the orks. He barely registered the renewal of the fighting, his thoughts drawn to the beastly god set upon its dais of broken starship. Advancing around the gap, Logan and his varangard seemed small against its bulk.

The wolf before the green giant.

The ork counter-attack was gaining numbers and momentum. The psychic field generated by the aliens thickened and hardened. In the swirl of power, shadows cast the impression of brutish faces and clawing hands, accumulating and combining into one monstrous being. The Stormcaller felt the growling of the wolf that lived in his soul, its fierce nature pushing to be released. Across the stars, light years from Fenris, he still felt the fires of the deephearth burning brightly, filling him with its energy. Wyrdfir streamed from his runes, swathing him with a blue-and-purple flame, while in the plane beyond mortal sight he sent bolts of power snaking through the growing apparitions, shattering them with his mind.

+Lord of Runes!+ The thoughts of Walks-the-Sky, named Engillr at birth, speared into the Stormcaller’s thoughts, full of urgency. +Look upon the idol’s face.+

Casting his gaze towards the height of the monstrous effigy, the runethegn could not at first find that which Walks-the-Sky wished him to see. Torrents of ork wyrd power streamed up the idol like waterfalls reversed, coalescing into a tumult of crashing power.

+A figure, within the jaws.+

The mouth of the false god was wide open, the lower jaw projecting from a large archway like a balcony. Now prompted, Stormcaller saw a strange figure capering upon what would have been the deity’s tongue. Like other ork shamans it was clad in bands of copper and stone, and ork psychic energy fizzed from its eyes as visible sparks. It was around this alien psyker that the orkish manifestation was gathering, channelled into its growing form by the shaman’s will. Usually such accumulations of orkish power were released in barely controlled explosive bursts, but somehow this xenos was able to shape the wyrd with far greater focus.

When Njal’s gaze took in the other orks around the platform, this control was not the only thing that marked the psyker as different.

‘Great Wolf,’ he said, pointing with his staff. ‘Their wyrdkast is larger than its companions by some margin. I have never seen a shaman as large as a warlord. Something strange stirs the wyrd of this place.’

‘Good, I was starting to think this battle might be too easy,’ snapped the High King of Fenris. He lifted the storm bolter built into the vambrace of his armour and fired across the chasm. Njal saw the fusillade cut down a pair of orks clambering up the opposite side, their bloodied remains spinning into the depths, accompanied by fragments of ladder.

‘The wyrd is yours to rule, Runelord,’ said Ulrik, standing beside Logan. ‘We cannot aid you.’

Njal gritted his teeth at their misapprehension while he struggled to contain the surging wyrd force that circled around the base of the effigy. He could feel the spirits of the runejarls trying their best to drag the power away from the ork shamans but the bestial wyrd-lord at the statue’s summit was irresistible.

‘The Everdusk, it is giving them more power than can be undone,’ the Runelord explained. He gripped his staff in both hands, its haft and head blazing with immaterial fire that streamed up towards the distant ork leader. Following its spiralling path his eye came upon another staff, held in the clawed grip of the shaman-lord. It was topped by a crudely carved skull of dark stone, surrounded by a nimbus of jade energy. ‘The more the orks fight, the stronger it will get. We must withdraw, Great Wolf.’

‘Withdraw?’ said Ulrik, turning his skull-clad helm towards the Stormcaller. ‘The fight is as fresh as a newborn. We will swiftly thin their numbers.’

‘Logan!’ Using the Great Wolf’s given name drew his attention sharply. The strain of maintaining any kind of balance in the wyrd was agony but Njal managed to spit out the words. ‘We cannot win this battle.’

‘Listen to your runejarl, Great Wolf,’ said Arjac. ‘There might be a victory yet, but not this way.’

To the left and right the warriors of the Chapter held their ground, pounding fire down into the ork horde. Though the xenos dead carpeted the broken decks and walkways it was nothing compared to the greater mass surging upwards. Grimnar moved his eyes from Njal to the depths and then up to the head of the effigy. The Stormcaller followed his gaze to see the shaman-lord at the extent of the balcony, standing between two massive stalagmite-like fangs built from faceted steel.

The alien’s eyes were deep pits of green fire, like holes into a burning realm. The ork pointed a claw downward, staff raised in the other hand. Emerald power swirled in Njal’s othersight, forming a monstrous fist that swung down towards the Wolf Guard to his right.

A swirling rune sprang up to meet it, becoming the boss of an immense, insubstantial shield centred on Engillr Walks-the-Sky. The fist struck the wyrd barrier with explosive force, hurling the Rune Priest like a missile through his Wolf Guard protectors. Though dissipated, the godly hand continued its blow, crushing the armour of a Terminator as though it were a tin tankard. Engillr’s spirit barely flickered through the Stormcaller’s wyrdsense and the other Rune Priest, Hrolf War-Tongue, was almost lost in the gale of psychic energy. The wolf howl of Fenris was drowned in Njal’s ears, swallowed by the alien bellow of the orks. The flash of power was almost blinding and Stormcaller was forced to pull back from the wyrd before an inferno was set in his thoughts.

The looming shadow of orkish destruction grew again each moment, flowing over the dung-clad effigy like a skin of half-seen green fire. Even without his wyrdsight Njal could see the power gathering, as could those around him.

‘Fall back by squads, cover your flanks,’ bellowed the Great Wolf, needing no further persuasion. ‘Runelord, can you take back our wyrd?’

Despite the thought of opening himself up again to the raging torrent of raw orkishness, Njal’s reply was immediate and emphatic. Sparks of gold crackled along his red hair and beard, earthing through his staff.

‘They’ll hear our howl on the Hearthworld, even if it is our last.’

Chapter Five

RUNELORD
STRATEGIC REASSESSMENT
OATHS SWORN

For a few seconds more the warriors of Fenris poured fire down into the chasm as a single concerted volley, clearing the uppermost walkways, bridges and ladders. Orks and lesser creatures on the temple statue continued to shoot with desultory effect. The break in the counter-attack gave Grimnar opportunity to signal for the withdrawal to begin, starting with his own council, who were closest to the orkish effigy.

Njal withdrew with them for a few yards and then stopped, planting his runestaff before him. Though the gouged ravine was broad, it was not so vast that it did not create a bottleneck for the orks’ swelling attack. However, the psychic gestalt generated by their thirst for battle suffered no such physical constraint, bubbling ahead of the surging horde.

Through the tide of alien power Njal felt the approaching presence of Hrolf War-Tongue. The Stormcaller did not need to turn his eye from the idol to know that his fellow Rune Priest had arrived at his side.

‘You are the Stormcaller but I fear there is no tempest to match this foul beast,’ said Hrolf.

Njal glanced to where the unmoving form of Walks-the-Sky was being carried from the battlefield. He was not alone: more than a dozen other sons of Fenris limped back or were borne by their brothers. Those that could still fire their weapons did so, proud to fight on for their king.

‘Three had no better chance than two of overcoming the sheer power of our foe. Guile must serve where strength will not,’ he told War-Tongue. ‘When caught in a storm, do not mark where the rain falls, only where the lightning strikes.’

A sudden pulse of power drew their attention back to the shaman-lord atop the effigy. A fresh figure of orkish destruction swelled immaterially around the monster, fangs glinting with wyrdfir fists forming from emerald energy.

‘You mean to attack the wyrdkast directly?’

‘In a manner,’ replied Njal. ‘See how the staff projects its own wyrdfir? I would wager a king’s trove that thing was made by no ork hand. Break the link and the shaman will lose its favour. A warship without a rudder is more danger to its crew than the foe.’

‘And you have a plan for that?’ War-Tongue could not keep the doubt from his tone. He kept looking to the left and right, seeking support from warriors that were no longer there.

‘There’s just us,’ Stormcaller said quietly. ‘We will be the patient hunters. Trust me. Trust the power of the Hearthworld.’

He lifted his staff and started back towards the nearest ork building, never taking his eye from the gigantic idol. The first of the next ork wave started clambering out of the delve-hole, hesitant in expectation of ruinous fire from their enemies. When no such volleys greeted them, they poured out from the lower decks.

‘Stand beside me,’ said Njal, stepping into a space between two hovels. Now that they were further from the effigy he could feel the link with the Hearthworld again, warmed by its presence.

‘In the darkness between stars,’ he intoned lightly, lips barely moving. ‘Out of the deepest caves. From the shadows of the moonless forest.’

As he spoke, he pictured himself and his companion as nightwolves with pelts as black as midnight, padding across a lightless void. From beside him he felt Hrolf’s power flowing into his, and the two became one, a single hunting beast obscured from the eyes of their prey.

The lead orks, having established that their foes were retreating, bellowed enthusiastically to those behind, gesturing wildly for them to follow. Many made gesticulations of fealty to the distant figure of the shaman-lord, bowing their heads and waving a hand across the face in a display of obscuring their sight even as they looked towards the wyrdkast. When more than two score of the aliens had clambered from the pit’s edge they started into the settlement, judging their numbers now sufficient to tackle whatever they encountered. They did not move towards Njal but headed for another street, while in the following moments dozens more started to leap off the ladders and pour after the warriors of the Great Wolf.

Unmoving, Njal turned his attention back to the shaman while mobs of orks hurried past, not giving a second glance to the two massive armour-clad figures. Xenos grunts and baying rang from the further part of the settlement and soon gunfire roared again not too far away as the orks ran into the rearguard of Fenrisian warriors.

‘We must act now,’ declared Njal, seeing that the ghost-god around the shaman was almost fully realised. It flexed clawed fingers, reaching out towards its enemies beyond the view of the Rune Priests. ‘Follow where I go and be ready to strike.’

The image of the shadow wolf melted from the Stormcaller’s mind and he passed his thoughts into Nightwing, becoming one with the psyber-raven. The augmented bird took wing from the corpse of an ork it had been pecking, in seconds passing into the gloom beyond the stuttering lights of the ork buildings. Bionic eye fixed upon the thermal waves flowing from the orks atop the effigy, Njal steered through the sudden updraught of heat emanating from the massive mine workings. As silent as the night breeze, the psyber-raven circled closer. Upon meeting the fluctuating silhouette of the orkish psychic manifestation there was a sense of resistance, as though he were pushing into frothing water.

‘With me, brother,’ the Stormcaller growled, his spirit linked between body and bird, syphoning runic power directly into the heart of the wyrd giant. War-Tongue released his soul power as a burst of fire that climbed along the path of the raven’s ascent, spiralling up through the greenish apparition towards its head. As raven and fire met, Njal let forth his full potential, while far below the runes of the psykers’ armour blazed with golden flame.

A thing of physical and psychic power, the psyber-raven struck, spearing across the remaining space like a thunderbolt. Through its eye, Njal could see the head of the ork’s staff like a hole in reality, edged with green energy, turning the crude psychic might into something far sharper, like a forge hammer that was somehow edged like a blade.

Thinking to snatch the staff from the beast’s hands, Njal set the psyber-raven to alight upon it. Before its claws touched the black material an arc of concentrated power leapt from its tip, striking the bird. Njal let out a roar of pain, drawing the eye of several orks who had been lumbering past. Far above the Rune Priests, Nightwing stalled, trailing feathers as it plunged over the side of the jaw-balcony.

It was War-Tongue’s spirit that soared to the rescue, a white-plumed owl that swept out of golden flames, momentarily shielding Nightwing, the slow beats of its wings giving the falling bird respite to regain control of its descent. Through its beady raven eye, Njal saw that the attack had done enough to distract the shaman. The unexpected flare of energy became a constant bright arc that leapt between the shuddering staff and the ork psyker’s eyes. The shaman struggled to wrest back control, sharp teeth bared in a grimace of effort.

Sending Nightwing a last imperative to return to its master, the Stormcaller crashed back into his body just in time to raise his staff to ward away a descending chainblade. Metal teeth skittered along the length of rune-studded ekka wood.

Runeaxe leaving trails of gold fire, War-Tongue stepped forward and lopped off the ork’s head with a curving sweep. A growing crowd of greenskins was gathering around the alleyway.

Njal felt the detonation of psychic power first as an unheard rumble and then a keening wind, which tore at the pennants and banners on the ork buildings and dragged at his beard and hair. Sensing something amiss, the greenskins turned as one towards the effigy, which was hidden from the Space Marines but for the rounded shoulders and head. Spirals of green fire and lightning whipped back and forth around the shaman-lord, who cavorted and screeched amid the whirlwind, its anger carving slashes of darkness from the unruly energy.

‘Ward yourself,’ barked Njal as Nightwing landed upon his forearm. He held up his staff, a ring of blue fire springing up around him. Gold gleamed against the walls as War-Tongue threw up his own defences, just two heartbeats before the shockwave of unchecked psychic power struck.

Howling and moaning, the orks dropped their weapons and clasped their hands to their heads, some falling to their knees. Others were lifted up as though by an invisible hand and flung against the rubble-built structures of the settlement, heads cracked open, bones breaking. The force wave lifted the two psykers, hurling them through the air with green fire burning at their wards like new flame springing from stirred embers. Stormcaller hit an outcrop of metal rampart, punching through the rusted iron to skid along a flat rooftop beyond. War-Tongue continued on for another dozen yards before striking a rickety pylon, bringing the structure down in a welter of snapped struts and snarling power cables.

Regaining his feet, his wards dissipated, Stormcaller dropped down to the packed rubble floor, pulverising more masonry with his landing. Amid the clatter and clang of falling girders, War-Tongue righted himself, axe hewing away power lines that entangled like the limbs of a flailing kraken.

All around the Rune Priests the orks were in disarray. Many were dead, broken bodies littering the settlement like flotsam on the shore after a storm. Others wandered with pained howls, banging fists into their eyes and heads, clawing at the ground in the grip of alien madness.

‘A temporary respite,’ grumbled War-Tongue, looking past Njal.

Stormcaller turned back to look at the ork idol. The eyes were alight with emerald flames, creating a flickering backdrop to the silhouette of the shaman-lord standing tall, staff again lifted above its head.

Without another word between them, the two Rune Priests broke into lumbering runs, Nightwing taking flight ahead to scout the path to the rest of the force.

Despite the damage to his armour and the injuries to his body, Arjac felt lighter of step and mood than when he had arrived on the space hulk. Corridor by corridor, squad by squad, the Kingsguard fought their way from the fort-cavern back towards the insertion zone near the prow of the bulk hauler, where gunships could land and the Allfather’s Honour could track them with its teleport chambers. Not one to shy from battle, Grimnar was often in the rearguard to hold back the pursuing orks while others withdrew further through the abandoned starship. Arjac was always at his lord’s side, or as near as tactical necessity allowed, the Anvil Shield as much a protection for the Great Wolf as it was the Champion.

About a mile from the grotesque ork idol, Arjac found himself with Skor, holding a broken doorway against a mob of raging greenskins. Behind them the rest of the squad and Logan’s companions secured other entry points while the Dreadnoughts pulled back a hundred yards to create a supporting firepoint. Arjac swung with the methodical force of a piston hammer, pulping several foes before stepping back, allowing Skor to open fire with the heavy flamer. The promethium would burn for half a minute or more, giving both warriors respite – not even the hardy greenskins could dare the cruel flames.

‘You seem happy for a man retreating,’ said Skor. ‘Was that a laugh I heard as you crushed the skull of that ork? You take joy in this inglorious defeat?’

‘Defeat?’ Rockfist powered down his hammer and banged the haft on the wall a few times, flaking off ork flesh and blood flash-charred by the disruptive field. ‘We’re still alive and so is the Great Wolf.’

‘Survival is no test of victory,’ grumbled Skor.

‘Ask the spear-stag that on your next hunt.’ Arjac directed his suit to restart the sensorium links, broadcasting feed requests to the rest of the squad. ‘It is fine to give your life to victory, but I find it easier to win a fight when I am still alive.’

A burst of storm bolter fire from behind announced renewed pressure on the left flank. The din increased as one of the Terminators’ assault cannons snarled into action.

‘Something will kill him one day,’ said Skor.

Arjac said nothing. The promethium was starting to go out and through the heat haze he could see the orks massing again. Pushed by the growing numbers, an ork stumbled into the fires, igniting from boots to horned helmet in seconds, its wails of agony lost as the aliens behind started shouting their battle cries.

‘I’ll be dead before it happens, one way or the other,’ Arjac eventually replied, stepping forward into the passage again. He raised the Anvil Shield and readied his hammer.

‘When his thread is cut, there’s nothing you nor any mortal will be able to do about it,’ Skor insisted. ‘Perhaps not even the Allfather.’

‘As Space Marines we wake every day with the thought that it may be our last. I am the hearthegn, every day my next thought is that it may be the day my lord dies. But he’s been around seven hundred years and more already, so it doesn’t overly bother me.’

A few of the braver greenskins leapt through the guttering fire, firing wildly with their pistols, serrated blades and wicked cleavers gleaming in the promethium’s last light. At the edges of Rockfist’s view, other feeds crackled into life as members of the squad joined the sensorium data-well. Daggerfist was busy carving apart an armoured ork even taller than himself, and through the views of others Arjac could see a fresh attack was building.

The hearthegn met the next ork with the rim of the Anvil Shield, smashing apart jaw and skull with a swing. His hammer flung the mangled corpse of the next into those following. The vox hissed for a moment before he heard the voice of the Great Wolf.

‘The path is clear back to the landing zone. Kaerls and armourers are waiting with replenishments to hold the perimeter while the gunships take us off this Allfather-cursed place. Kingsguard will hold to the last and extract by teleportation.’

Another two orks died to Arjac’s hammer before he withdrew again, Skor once more turning the corridor into a charnel chamber.

‘Fall back, we’re leaving this heap of skitja,’ Arjac told his squad.

The gut-palpitating sensation of teleportation had almost subsided by the time Arjac reached the jarlsdeck with Logan and the other councillors. Gammalr was waiting beside the throne as if he had not moved since their departure – which was entirely possible. Fenrir bounded to greet the Great Wolf with excited jumps, playfully biting at his armoured hand with fangs that could pierce steel. Tyrnak was more aloof, watching his master’s return from the area of the gun control stations.

‘He’s sour because we left them behind,’ said Logan, moving to the great throne. He raised his voice. ‘I’ll take you next time, Tyrnak, you hear?’

The immense wolf seemed mollified by this and lay down beside the steps leading up to the main command dais, massive head on his front paws, yellow eyes watching Logan and the others.

‘Well that was a waste of everybody’s time,’ growled the Chapter Master. He propped the Axe Morkai against the throne and sat down, his strategic display springing into life with no need for the order to be spoken. The hulk hung against the stars just as before, save for a few fires around the landing zone where the pre-assault bombardment had fractured energy and gas lines. He turned to Njal, an eyebrow raised. ‘What is the Everdusk doing?’

‘Growing slowly,’ the Stormcaller replied. He twisted free his helmet and thick red hair fell about his face and upon his chestplate. There were tiny icicles amongst the ruddy strands, quickly turning to droplets in the heat of the ship. Nightwing hopped from the Rune Priest’s shoulder to a loop of cable closer to the hovering display. ‘It is almost impossible to predict, but now that we have seen the enemy I have a notion what we must do.’

‘So there is something we can do?’ said Ulrik. His black armour was crusted with dried ork blood, the long wolf cloak hanging upon his back matted with more filth. He had also removed his helm to reveal hair as white as the snow of Asaheim and fangs reaching nearly to his chin. His face was deeply lined and scarred but his remaining eye was bright and active. ‘We can destroy this affront to the Allfather’s dominion?’

‘I know what we must do, but also what I think we can, with the forces we have at hand,’ Njal said slowly. ‘The monster that leads these orks, I have not seen the like before. I do not know if it’s one of their psykers grown to unusual size or a warlord that has unlocked psyker powers. Regardless, its staff is the source of the control it has. Without it, and without their leader, the orks and their hulk will be dragged back into the Everdusk like any other space hulk.’

‘That’s the plan?’ growled Ulrik. ‘Kill the leader and hope the wash of the othersea does not throw this menace against some other system?’

‘We cannot destroy the hulk, not even if we had all the bombs and missiles and shells of the Aett,’ said Arjac. He stood with the Anvil Shield propped against his leg, both hands gripping the haft of his hammer across his thighs. His grip tightened as he saw Ulrik’s scowl deepen. ‘We have not the warriors nor time to cleanse Allfather knows how many thousands of orks.’

‘We are fighting too many wars, and have been for years,’ said Njal. He shook his head sorrowfully but kept his eyes on Logan. ‘Not all victories can be glorious. Some must be practical, temporary.’

‘No,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘A victory only for a time is not a victory at all. An enemy is not defeated until it can strike no more. I would sooner turn my back on a snow serpent than leave this lair of fiends to drift the void.’

He stood up and took a stride towards the display, fierce gaze fixed on its contents.

‘We might cripple them for a while, if what you say is true, Stormcaller, but it is not enough. We are not the only ones hard-pressed by events. Others may not have the strength to face what is left. What guardians would we be to learn a year hence, a decade, even a century from now that this foe returned and laid waste to those we had sworn oaths to protect?’ He turned back to them, his eyes wide and intense, as though what he had suggested pained him. ‘I name this curse Gottrok, and until its inhabitants have been crushed the Wolves will not know peace. If it takes until the last breath of our last warrior, we shall live and die by our oaths!’

Chapter Six

AN EMPIRE REMEMBERED
IN SEARCH OF MYSTERIES
ENSLAVED

The hallucinatorium was a chamber no bigger than thirty yards square, fitted with complex psycho-visual projectors and thought amplifiers set upon the hexagramatically warded walls, floor and ceiling. It was essentially a black box that allowed no other thoughts to intrude while making those of the occupants a living reality.

Hastius Vychellan stepped over the threshold as he had done many times before, though this was his first such occasion to do so within the special facility aboard the Dawn of Fire. The stratarchis tribune, Maldovar Colquan, stood waiting for the Custodian, also garbed in simple robes of grey-white, loose about the legs and arms, tight across the torso. Unlike Vychellan, whose tattooed skin was visible beneath his robe, Colquan wore a red synskin suit that concealed his flesh up to his jawline, giving his bullet-shaped head the appearance of being stuck atop a hillock of skinned muscle. He stood utterly immobile as the warrior of the Emissaries Imperatus Shield Host stopped in front of him.

Vychellan was taller than his superior by several inches, broader of chest and thicker of limb, his beard short-cropped, his shoulder-length hair held back by a band at the nape of his neck. Vychellan knew that his greater mass did not intimidate Colquan in the least. Custodians never used size alone as a scale of threat. The tribune appeared relaxed, but the warriors of the Adeptus Custodes always did, right until the moment they burst into violent action. More than that, Vychellan read the intensity in the other man’s eyes. The pale gaze managed to both look at Vychellan and through him, as though he were simultaneously the centre of the tribune’s attention and an utter irrelevance.

The door swung shut, plunging them into total darkness and silence, save for their beating hearts and slow breaths. Though his eyes were blind, Vychellan’s other senses – hearing and touch, primarily – were so honed that he could still tell that the tribune had not moved. He was, momentarily, grateful not to be subjected to the unwavering stare of the former Companion.

Several seconds passed before Vychellan spoke, realising that Colquan would not do so.

‘I am sensing antagonism. We have not spoken in many months, since my return from Gathalamor, in fact. Has something occurred?’

‘One of our own is dead and the main perpetrators of the plot against the Emperor’s servants escaped Gathalamor, and remain free to continue their scheming.’ The barest rustle of cloth betrayed Colquan crossing his arms. ‘I regard that as a failure. I dislike failure.’

‘The threat to the fleet and the primarch was averted. Achallor’s sacrifice was unfortunate, but not in vain. It seems counterproductive to resurrect any displeasure now.’

‘It was you that assumed this was about Gathalamor.’

The room shimmered around the pair, bringing both into view of each other whilst conjuring a scene inside their thoughts. Vychellan felt the subtle mental hiss of his mind being read and represented in his projection, but the surrounds were pure artifice of the tribune and machinery.

After several seconds that felt as though he were a painting being created, Vychellan found he was with Colquan in a well-furnished office, resplendent with dark wood-panelled walls and an ornate parquet floor. The size of the furnishings immediately betrayed the purpose of the chamber: the primarch’s quarters. Guilliman stood at one of several aquila-adorned lecterns of the same material, alone and frozen in time. As always he was armoured, sustained by the systems of his warplate.

‘We were not dispatched by the captain-general to protect a primarch.’ Colquan spoke the title with venom, as though the word was acid on his tongue. ‘Cawl has raised legions of warriors that Guilliman can use as bodyguards.’ His volume increased. ‘Our duty, our only duty is the defence of the Emperor. I think Achallor understood this, and if he was still with us I would have a mission for him. As I cannot send him, I have a mind to dispatch you, since it is related to the incident on Gathalamor. To ensure I am understood, I have refined my method of instruction.’

Colquan strode across the tableau towards the giant form of Guilliman. As he neared, his image shimmered to one clad in auramite armour, a long-handled Custodian blade appearing in his hands.

Guilliman now lived, also. In a split second the lectern was parrying Colquan’s blade, sending sparks and tomes flying in all directions. The force of the counter threw Colquan back a step and in the next moment Guilliman attacked, a massive armoured fist back-handing the tribune across the chest.

Though he knew in a distant part of his brain that both he and the tribune were immobile, Vychellan winced in sympathy. Psychosomatic feedback in the hallucinatorium meant that Colquan would have felt the full force of the blow had it been real. It did not slow Colquan, who spun, ducked a punch and slashed his blade up towards the primarch’s extended arm, severing the wrist with a flex of his shoulders.

The blow came at a price as Guilliman’s elbow smashed into the back of Colquan, forcing him to dive into a forward roll, spinning on his heel as he rose. Unperturbed by the loss of his hand, the primarch used the fused stump to slam another hammer blow to the tribune’s chest, cracking open the auramite.

It was supposition, of course – how hard the primarch hit in the simulation was purely Colquan’s belief, informed by experience and research. One would never know unless a true Blood Game was enacted. The fight continued for several more seconds before Colquan slammed through another lectern, crushing it beneath his bulk as he skidded to the floor. Guilliman stopped in the air, mid-leap, fist raised ready to drive the tribune’s skull into the unrelenting floor.

Vychellan knew exactly why the scene had paused. Colquan recognised that any chance at victory had passed. Any further simulation would simply be to see how long he could extend his own survival.

The scene bled away to leave the black and silence again.

‘What was the risk?’ Colquan demanded. His breathing and pulse had increased by a small margin, which only added to the appearance of impatience. ‘The death of the primarch?’

New surroundings morphed into manufactured reality, depicting the large Chamber Astartes from which Roboute Guilliman occasionally addressed the great and the good of Fleet Primus, and more rarely those from other parts of the Indomitus Crusade. It was the nature of the Lord Commander’s role that the Dawn of Fire often attached to other battle groups for liaison or command reasons. The flagship had probably committed half again as many warp jumps as the battle group it led, rendezvousing with others for updates more precise than those that could be conveyed by astropathic means.

Colquan was at the spot he usually occupied during such audiences, just behind and to the left of the primarch. A facsimile of holographic attendees populated the stepped seating of the amphitheatre around them. Feeling disembodied, Vychellan allowed himself to drift closer.

‘It has always been made clear that the Emperor is not the Imperium,’ he said to the tribune. ‘It is also the will of the captain-general that we strike further afield, intercepting more existential dangers than those that directly threaten the Master of the Golden Throne.’

He paused as motion arrived, followed a second later by sound. Guilliman was speaking of redeployments in light of the losses to a battle group in Fleet Tertius. It was a replay; Vychellan had read the transcript.

‘I did not tell you to stop,’ said Colquan.

‘The Indomitus Crusade is the surest way to restore the structure of the Imperium and the support it gives to Terra.’ As he spoke, the Custodian placed his mind’s eye view to where he could see both Colquan and the primarch in sharp focus, almost directly in front of the tribune. ‘Guilliman is uniquely able to–’

For an instant, the primarch leaned forward a fraction further, eyes cast down towards Cawl in front of him. At the same moment, Colquan stepped forward, the tip of his blade plunging towards Guilliman’s neck. The primarch twisted just before the gleaming spear broke skin, diverting it with his pauldron. Less than a second later the entire scene dissolved into the roar of bolter fire as Space Marine bodyguards blasted Colquan apart.

‘Too soon,’ said Vychellan, materialising as a ghostly apparition of himself while the flicker of bolt-rounds converged on his superior.

The din and brightness became a mist, and then nothing.

‘There was no later opportunity,’ growled Colquan. Vychellan could only guess how many times the scenario had been run, with the same or worse result.

‘Did you think this would shock me?’ the Custodian asked. ‘It is no secret that you consider the primarch a threat. What I don’t understand is why you think he is more of a threat out in the wider galaxy than when he was on Terra? Was not that the time to strike?’

‘Remind me, Custodian. When Horus turned, was he standing upon the Throneworld?’

‘I concede that point,’ Vychellan replied quickly, regretting his simple error.

Colquan said nothing. His heart rate had increased again and Vychellan could smell the biochemical residue of the tribune’s pain suppression system.

‘I trust you have not set the pain threshold to lethal.’

‘Of course not. This is practice, not a grading test.’ Under Colquan’s mental guidance a sourceless light suffused the chamber, but both of the Custodians were rendered fully armoured and armed. ‘I think I shall give you the next attempt.’

‘Paranoia is not the same as preparedness,’ argued Vychellan, shaking his head. ‘We are not assassins.’

‘Do not be a fool, Custodian,’ snapped Colquan. ‘We are everything we are needed to be. Nothing less.’

The darkness lessened but only enough to create a ruddy twilight, pierced here and there by a glimmering star of green or blue. Vychellan immediately recognised the silhouettes of other Custodians, and before him was a stair.

The next instant a throb like the bass tremor of a ship’s engines rumbled through his skull – from the inside, rather than the vibrations of an external sound wave. Like a man trying to shout into thunder, his thoughts were drowned by the constant pressure.

The Indomitable Presence, it was called among the Custodians. The mind-burning leak of raw potential emanating from He that they protected.

He was inside the Throneroom. At least, the best facsimile the hallucinatorium could replicate from Colquan’s knowledge and assumptions from contact with former members of the Hetaeron Guard. Even second-hand the psychic might of the Emperor made Vychellan’s vision quiver. It was no shame to not be selected to serve as a Companion, and the Custodian instantly understood why he had not been asked. Among a cadre of superlative warriors, only perfection could survive for long in that role.

At the foot of the steps a gigantic figure had lowered to one knee. Vychellan realised that this was speculation by Colquan, as nobody but Trajann Valoris had been present at Guilliman’s prior visit to his creator. The primarch started to straighten, in his hands a sword with burning blade proffered to the Master of Mankind.

‘Too late,’ whispered Colquan.

Guilliman was half a dozen yards up the steps in one stride, accelerating faster than Vychellan could follow, bolt-rounds from Custodian spears sparking from his powered plate.

‘Try again.’

The scene reset itself. Again the primarch broke into a sprint from nothing, blade in hand a stride later. Vychellan ground his teeth, wondering why Colquan wanted to humiliate him.

‘Again.’

This time Vychellan acted the moment the primarch started forward. Still he was not quick enough, reflexes deadened by the effect of the Indomitable Presence.

‘Not nearly close enough.’

Thrice more Colquan forced him to run the scenario, and yet no matter how well prepared he thought himself, even when he positioned himself within blade’s reach Vychellan could not land a blow upon Guilliman before his ascent began.

‘What is your point?’ demanded the Custodian. He flexed his thoughts, pausing the simulation in the face of Colquan’s attempt to restart it.

‘What is yours?’ countered the tribune. ‘Why do you hesitate to do what must be done?’

The scene moulded itself afresh, with Colquan where Vychellan had been. The tribune’s blade whirled a split second after the scene started to replay. Guilliman’s head tumbled from his neck, severed neatly along the same line where the scar from his previous mortal wound had been dealt. The armoured body collapsed loudly upon the lowest steps.

‘You struck before he presented a threat!’ said Vychellan. ‘A pre-emptive blow.’

The image of the Throneroom faded from experience, leaving Vychellan’s words drifting in emptiness.

‘There are other commanders that can lead armies and fleets.’ Colquan spoke softly but during the simulation had somehow moved his physical body beside Vychellan without him being aware of it, so that his voice came quietly into his right ear from close at hand. It took every fibre of control not to lash out. ‘None of them pose the same threat as the primarch.’

‘In that you are wrong. No mortal could command the loyalty that Guilliman does. A world full of logisters could not duplicate his knowledge and experience. Remember that he created the Five Hundred Worlds in the time it took many of his gene-brothers to wrest control of a single planet.’

‘And now Macragge can protect less than a dozen,’ said Colquan with a snort like a disturbed bull. ‘The Emperor in His wisdom placed Horus as Warmaster for his achievements, and yet the cold truth was too much for His favoured creation.’

Vychellan considered this, and what he knew of the civil war unleashed by Horus. Much was maintained in the archives, but just as much was speculation and hearsay from the interrogation of traitors since taken captive.

‘Horus saw the end of his usefulness and rebelled,’ said Vychellan. He looked at the simulacrum of headless Guilliman. ‘You think that when the Indomitus Crusade is finished, the lord regent will have no further purpose. Just as Horus was unwilling to surrender his role to the adepts of Terra, so Guilliman must see himself as the natural ruler of the renewed Imperium he has created?’

‘History is littered with the disloyalty and mistakes of the primarchs, even those that did not fall wholly to the greatest enemy,’ said Colquan. ‘You know this as well as any that have studied in the Vaults of Obedience.’

‘I am yet to be convinced that Guilliman has any ill intent,’ Vychellan declared, turning away from the decapitated corpse. The rest of the projection dissipated like a mirage. The blackness was a comfort. ‘Your act was not pre-emptive but based upon the notion that you knew the primarch would attack. All of your scenarios are predicated on that same notion, that we will not have the time to respond.’

‘Blows landed in hindsight are worthless,’ said Colquan.

The door opened, letting in the harsh actinic glare of lumens. Vychellan’s eyes adjusted instantly, seeing again Colquan in his robe and undersuit. A vein throbbed at his temple, his pulse not yet recovered. Something other than the stimulation of the hallucinatorium was at work.

‘Those that escaped Gathalamor are still at large and pose a threat to the Emperor,’ said Colquan. ‘They could not know that Guilliman would present a target for their weapon, so it is right that we assume it was opportunistic. Historitors have articulated some kind of connection with the apostate Cardinal Bucharis. We have taken such records as might be pertinent to further research, but much has been destroyed by the Ecclesiarchy of those times, to try to obliterate their shameful past.’

‘Such purging is not uncommon, but also Gathalamor is far from Terra and records of the Library Sanctus will be equally disjointed,’ said Vychellan, teasing his beard into a slender tip.

‘The historitors are the creation of Guilliman, we cannot direct them ourselves,’ said Colquan. He stepped towards the door. ‘I have arranged a meeting with the primarch in just under one hour. As one of the participants in events at Gathalamor I want you present, should first-hand recollection prove valuable.’

The tribune left before Vychellan could reply.

The tribune’s antipathy towards Guilliman was the reason Trajann Valoris had placed him in his ascended position, and it was not a Custodian Guard’s role to question the decisions of his superiors. It was inconceivable that Colquan would directly endanger the crusade by killing Guilliman just as a precaution, but the level of provocation required for the tribune to act was set low.

And yet he had a point. The demonstration in the hallucinatorium made it clear that to take down a primarch one had to strike swiftly and surely, without hesitation or doubt. As much as he loathed the idea that it would be necessary, Vychellan and every single Custodian in Fleet Primus had to acknowledge the fact that it might fall to them to do the unthinkable.

The terrorstorm had broken, but the pall of destruction hanging over the remains of Holkenved was every part as dark and foreboding. The spires of the capital had been toppled, leaving the miles-wide base and mutilated central city like a broken tooth on the landscape, lit from within by fires that would rage for weeks to come.

‘Seventeen million souls,’ said Doro. ‘Seventeen million more servants of the Emperor taken by the enemy.’

Gaius looked up from his book with a grunt. ‘More of our brothers with them,’ said the sergeant.

He cast his gaze around the improvised landing pad – an acre of packed ash and dirt about four miles along the main highway between Holkenved and its neighbour to the north. His squad – six of them now – waited along with the rest of the survivors of Astopites’ command. Others were arriving along the elevated road and more had lifted to orbit previously.

‘Gestartas, Heindal, Nasdr and Enforfas. We shall account them!’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Anfelis. The company had been resupplied with ammunition but had not yet had their other gear attended by the armorium serfs. Anfelis’ chestplate was held together by a crude patch of quick-spray fixative and he was missing his left pauldron.

‘It’s a tradition on Fenris,’ said Gaius, lifting the book Mudire had gifted him.

‘Ah, from the book,’ sighed Aegreus. It was not the first time Gaius had made reference to the guide’s contents.

‘This is important,’ Gaius replied, finding the page he had studied the day before. ‘To give account is to remember the valiant dead. It is to relate their saga. We should give account of our fallen brothers.’

‘I’ll begin,’ said Doro. He held a hand to the bolt-scarred aquila on his chest. ‘Heindal was a generous warrior, who would share his blade and bolts with his enemies without hesitation. An armour-piercing shell ended him.’

‘Accurate, but lacking poetry,’ said Neiflur. He cleared his throat like a dramaturge about to narrate a scene. When next he opened his mouth, the words came as deep and mellow with a songlike quality. ‘From sunless night he came, Nasdr named by Cawl, son of Fenris’ king and no other. Into the Dawn of Fire reborn as Unnumbered Son, loyal battle-brother. In battle he was unforgiving and he made many foes lament, but the traitors he abhorred the most and on his blade made them repent. But it was serpents of the storm that cut his thread, and now Nasdr passes into memory with the other honoured dead.’

The rest of the squad stared in silence for several seconds, until Neiflur let out a self-conscious laugh.

‘Sergeant Gaius loaned me the book this morning and I read some of the sagas in the back,’ the Space Marine admitted. ‘I like them. Much better than, “Brother Nasdr gave his life against the foes of the Emperor. Requia Un Imperator Rex. In his death his duty has ended.” A way to celebrate the life, not mourn the death.’

‘We have a skjald among us,’ declared Gaius, slapping a hand to Neiflur’s shoulder. ‘I do not think that came from Cawl’s teaching machines.’

‘Do Gestartas next,’ said Garold, who had shared a close bond with the dead Primaris Marine. ‘Say something about the time he pulled the head off that cultist on Hertexia.’

The next few minutes until the gunship arrived for them passed with a mix of laughter and solemn memory, and when they boarded, Gaius noticed his squad were more relaxed around each other than before. The Space Wolves of Fenris were famed for their savagery but also their loyalty, and the guidebook made it clear this came not only from their Chapter customs, such few as the author could share, but also the culture of Fenris. Gaius knew almost nothing of the place where his gene-father, Leman Russ, had been raised, but if the book could help unlock some of that innate brotherhood it would be a grand gift indeed.

They continued to speak about their dead brothers and past battles while they lifted to orbit. It was the first time in three years that they did so in a way that was not purely a post-battle analysis. The twenty minutes to the Enduring Hate passed swiftly.

When the gunship docked, the Sons of Russ disembarked to find Captain Veirsturm waiting on the landing apron. He was another of the ‘Firstborn’ pre-Primaris Marines, clad in black armour trimmed with bronze, as dictated by the code of the Hammers of Dorn. Next to him stood a Primaris officer, his rank of lieutenant denoted by the markings on his Ultramarines livery. The newcomer beckoned to Astopites as the ad hoc company disembarked and a short conversation between the officers ensued. It was impossible to read Astopites’ expression as he nodded and looked back at his charges impassively.

While this occurred the Unnumbered Sons fell into line by habit, the gaps in their ranks not yet redressed, open like untended wounds.

‘You have fought with sterling effort and bravery on Caldon Four,’ said Veirsturm. ‘You have made me proud as your commanding officer, and though I wish perhaps a more glorious campaign ended our relationship I have received order to pass your command to Lieutenant Arlandus Castallor of the Ultramarines.’

The Primaris Marines accepted this news with customary silence. Veirsturm stepped back, leaving Castallor to address his new troops.

‘Lieutenant Astopites will continue to be your drill and training officer,’ the Ultramarine announced. ‘For the time being. You have been separated from the rest of your formation and will join with other Sons of Russ from across Fleet Primus for special duty. A great honour, in fact. You will be sent by spearhead flotilla to bring word of the Indomitus Crusade to the Space Wolves Chapter, joining with a torchbearer ship that is transporting the secrets of the Primaris programme to them. On arrival I will pass you to their Chapter command, for integration as they deem appropriate.’

Even in the face of such momentous news, discipline was maintained and not a sound uttered. Gaius wanted to release the sudden surge of feeling with a shout but kept it under control, his hearts thundering for a few seconds as adrenal chemicals flooded his system.

Veirsturm stepped forward again.

‘Continue to remember the deeds of the primarchs and emulate their greatness,’ he said. ‘Make the Lord Commander proud.’

The two officers lifted fists to their chests in salute, returned by the assembled company with a crash of ceramite on ceramite. As the pair turned away, Castallor gave a nod to Astopites.

‘Enduring Hate will continue to be our home vessel for the journey, and we will be joined by other elements at rendezvous in the Norga System,’ the lieutenant informed his troops. ‘Report for post-battle armour placation and maintenance as normal and then assemble on the primary gun deck for revised berthing and schedule arrangements. We will make all speed to the translation point. That is all. Dismissed.’

Gaius turned to his squad, bursting with energy.

‘Fenris,’ he said, slamming a fist into his other hand as a release for some of the power that roiled inside. ‘We are going to Fenris!’

Every time he received one of the primarch’s summons – couched as invitations, not that anybody would ever decline – Deven Mudire felt a tremor of excitement and a full-bodied earthquake of apprehension. That he had suffered not a single remonstration, directly or indirectly, in the last three years only served to increase the latter, because his experience of life suggested he would undoubtedly disappoint at some stage, sooner or later.

It had taken fourteen days to return to the Dawn of Fire. Mudire had spent the time reviewing all of his submissions and revising his current avalanche of notes, suspecting there was something within that had caught the eye of Roboute Guilliman. No matter how much he scrutinised his own work, Mudire was well aware of the gaps he could not fill, and despite being lauded as one of the Founding Four of the Logos Historica Verita he knew that some of the newer recruits to the burgeoning organisation were both better placed and more diligent than he.

An early life among the orbital balls and council chambers of the Sol System’s finest and most powerful people had given Mudire an impeccable facade. No few sessions gambling with his discretionary funds, risking amounts that could have lifted ten thousand workers out of servitude on the casting of bone dice, had refined his self-control to a razor’s edge. All of that was brought to the fore upon entering Guilliman’s chambers to find himself met by not only the primarch but also Stratarchis Tribune Actuarius Maldovar Colquan, along with another Custodian and several Primaris Space Marines. Mudire maintained his mask of absolute serenity despite the fact that he almost soiled himself at the sight. It was a purely physical reaction and he smiled it away with pure bravado.

It was Colquan, he decided as he crossed the wooden floor with a smile still attached and measured tread. The tribune looked like he would disembowel Mudire with one of the letter openers on Guilliman’s lectern-desks if he so much as breathed the wrong way. The other – Mudire wracked his brains for a name but could only come up with Victor or Vassily, neither of which seemed right – had a slightly more affable air, if that could ever be true of a Custodian. The beard gave him a softer look.

Guilliman stood behind one of the high desks, as he always seemed to be, a hand raised to beckon Mudire closer when he stopped a good ten yards distant from the group. The historitor took another step, trying to appear deferential rather than reluctant.

Why in all the Seven Glittering Cities were two Custodians there?

‘Lord Commander, I trust that everything is well,’ Mudire said out loud.

‘What do you know about Gathalamor?’ said Colquan before Guilliman answered. The primarch lowered his hand but said nothing, his face as much an exercise in placidity as Mudire’s.

‘Cardinal world, very rich and important within the hierarchy of the Ecclesiarchy,’ Mudire replied, trying not to speak too hastily. ‘Some say a rival to Ophelia, even, but for the quirks of history. That history being, of course, that the Ophelian Schism was during the end of the Reign of Blood and the Conclave Bellicorum somewhat overshadowed by events on Terra.’

Mudire’s gaze was drawn to Colquan and he fell silent in the face of the tribune’s antipathy. Swallowing hard, he continued.

‘The Ecclesiarchy has been a speciality of mine since before my time with the historitors,’ Mudire said quietly, wrenching his gaze back to the no less formidable but slightly more familiar stare of Guilliman. ‘Plus, it’s been less than four years since the fleet was at Gathalamor.’

The primarch watched Mudire for a few more seconds and then looked over at Colquan.

‘Your man, not mine,’ said the tribune, folding his arms. ‘Your judgement.’

Guilliman nodded and gestured towards one of several chairs that had been set before the lecterns. They were on a platform, reached by a couple of steps, to reduce the imposing effect of mortal-sized attendees addressing their demigod master. For Mudire it only served to accentuate his physical insignificance among these giant warriors.

‘The traitors that invaded Gathalamor were after something specific, an artefact within the catacombs,’ said Guilliman. ‘They created a psychic weapon with terrible power and used it against our ships. We believe their intent was to attack the Dawn of Fire, but thanks to the sacrifices of many Imperial servants they were thwarted. The perpetrators escaped in the aftermath and close scouring has discovered nothing of the artefact, so we must presume they took it with them.’

‘We need to know everything about Gathalamor, particularly the renegade, Bucharis,’ said Colquan.

‘They called the weapon the Gift of Bucharis,’ added the second Custodian as explanation. His jaw tightened at mention of the device. ‘It was not just an honorific, but linked to the ancient tyrant in some fashion.’

‘I have a few texts with me–’

‘You are going to Fenris,’ said Colquan, cutting off Mudire. ‘The sons of the Sixth clashed with Bucharis and will have records unseen by any Imperial scholar. If there was a weapon he developed during his attack on them, we will learn of it.’

‘Fenris?’ Mudire said the name breezily, heart thudding. ‘Freezing, deadly Fenris? The world of the Space Wolves, where unknown numbers of Imperial agents have never been heard from again? I did not think anyone had heard news of the world for… Well, since everything happened. Is a journey really necessary? It’s probably been swallowed by the Cicatrix Maledictum.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Colquan, expression implacable. ‘Let us know if it has.’

‘You will not be going alone,’ said Guilliman. His smile was not encouraging. He turned slightly, drawing Mudire’s attention to the Space Marines who had been observing the exchange from one side. ‘A Primaris torchbearer ship and a contingent of Cawl’s Sons of Russ will take you.’

‘I will act as escort as well,’ announced the other Custodian. Colquan turned his head sharply and the Custodian’s next words were directed at the tribune. ‘I was in the heart of matters on Gathalamor. I may see something that other eyes miss.’

Colquan gave a single nod, like the fall of an axeman’s blade.

Guilliman handed Mudire a sheet of paper with a list of seventeen names. Twelve of them Mudire recognised as fellow historitors. There would be over two hundred of them by now, each trained by an existing historitor, and Mudire no longer knew them all.

‘These are members of your order stationed within the immediate battle group and available to depart,’ the primarch explained. ‘I will have their records made available to you. Please pick four as your team.’

‘The top four,’ Mudire replied immediately.

Guilliman straightened, his expression flashing concern.

Mudire added the paper to the sheaf of notes he was already carrying. ‘If they have been accepted into the Logos Historica Verita they are all good enough. It doesn’t matter which four.’

‘Of course,’ said the primarch, expression softening. ‘You and the other Founding Four set a high example.’

The exchange heartened Mudire, reminding him of a simple fact.

‘You chose us, lord regent, and you are a genius.’ The realisation that he was being sent off in a relatively tiny flotilla to the very edges of the Great Rift came crashing back, dulling his momentary self-congratulation. Mudire stood up, legs trembling.

‘If you would excuse me, I must begin preparations for my departure.’

Guilliman signalled for him to go. Mudire felt the daggers of Colquan’s gaze on his back for the entire walk to the great doors. As they closed behind him, the historitor took a few more steps, breathing deeply as he used his spare hand to straighten his uniform coat.

‘Fenris,’ he muttered. ‘Emperor protect us all.’

The humans occupied a particular niche in the lower hierarchy of the orks. Like the smaller greenskins – ‘grots’ was the orkish word for them – they were slaves in as much as they could be beaten, robbed, forced into work by cudgels and whips at any moment, but there were no chains or fences, and they did not seem to have a particular owner. A succession of orks sporting elaborately coloured hair-crests and chin-wigs seemed to take possession of them for a variety of tasks, but there were no slave markets or auctions, no visible transactions to mark their passage from one overseer to another. Quite often they had access to tools that might have easily been turned into weapons, even las-drills and other technological devices that could feasibly take down an ork, but thought of insurrection was far from anyone’s plans. Drudgery made dull minds of all of them, but also if the thought of there being no hope of escape had prevailed on board the Rigorous then living amongst teeming thousands – hundreds of thousands – of greenskins curtailed any idea that insurrection could have a successful conclusion.

Aside from feeding them in great troughs and providing water in communal vats, the orks were content to leave the humans to run their own affairs between shifts in the mines, or at the breaking yards where stolen ships, tanks and other loot were torn apart down to their basic components. They mixed with captives from ships and worlds many light years from where the Rigorous was seized, but if there was a common story it was that most of those enslaved had been taken in the years since the Great Rift had torn the Imperium asunder, swept up by a terrifying resurgence of orkish aggression. Those from ships bore variations of the rocket brand, others were marked with circles – planets, it was guessed – or spanners, knives or other specialist symbols. The markings seemed to make no difference to their labours.

Sweltering sun quickly gave way to a freezing winter, with little shelter for slaves other than what they salvaged for themselves from the spoil piles and each other. There was no stoppage in the industry of the greenskins, and for a time the hard labour provided useful distraction and warming activity when the elements would have claimed the idle. Around guttering fires, wrapped in rags and plastek sheets, Orad and the others huddled together for mutual heat. Those that had been around longer traded edible fungus they had foraged, getting weapons, protection, tools and knick-knacks in return.

Being bigger than most Naval personnel – the cramped conditions did not suit those of above average height – gave Orad a ready superiority over some of his companions now that there were no ranks to keep them apart. He did not like to intimidate others, but it had quickly become clear that those not prepared to defend themselves and their mates would be preyed upon by those readier for violence. The orks certainly provided no kind of law and order. The Rigorous’ crew managed to keep together, much like a herd surrounded by predators, and in this way they survived day-to-day. None of the officers had survived – a testament to their loyalty to the Navy, Orad guessed. He didn’t like to think about his moment of surrender, and had he known then what awaited him the gunner would certainly have followed Cassonette into the bullets of the orks.

Orad envied his dead shipmates. He had a finger bone from each as a reminder of them, strung on a thong around his neck. When he had procured himself a small knife he carved their names into each bone so he could remember them, and on the worst days Orad talked to them as if his companions were still with him.

Chapter Seven

ULLR’S GREYPELTS
THE GREEN ROAR
GYTHA

The wall of Gardpoint was not particularly high, but the outpost had been well placed atop a rise and commanded a good field of fire over the surrounding countryside. Debris carpeted the uneven ground for many miles out: the fractured remnants of highways and satellite settlements in the orbit of the city of Venisium. Bodies both human and ork littered the approaches to the keep; like the ruins themselves, a smaller counterpart to the slaughter that had taken place around the city. Gardpoint itself had not survived unscathed, raked by air attack and stormed by the orks several days earlier. But the aliens were not interested in controlling a strategic feature and had moved on to the main attack hours later, leaving the outpost free for Ullr and his pack to reoccupy now.

Their presence had not gone unnoticed by the enemy, and several dozen green-skinned warriors were picking through the remnants of a farmstead that had been part demolished by ork tanks. They were trying their best to provide no target to the Space Marines, but stealth was not reckoned among an ork’s most notable abilities. One greenskin, clad in a padded red jerkin and wearing a helm painted with flames of the same colour, pulled itself onto the roof of an old stable block. A second later, a bolt penetrated the alien’s eye and ripped out the back of its head. The corpse slid to the ground, one of more than thirty that had become grisly decoration for the ruined farmstead.

The wind carried the sound of laughter from the bastion.

Grunting to each other, the orks did their best to fire back, using toppled walls and fence posts to help steady their poor aim. The snarl of their guns echoed from the farm walls and impacts ripped along the parapet of the outpost, showering chips of rockcrete and dull blue paint. The blue-grey armoured figures at the wall top remained unmoving in the face of this erratic fire.

Another single bolt-round split the air with its propellant whine, slamming into the chest of a greenskin kneeling at a splintered gate. It fell back with a shout, but moments later pulled itself back up again, fingers groping its weapon from the tyre-churned dirt. A second bolt tore out the ork’s throat a few seconds later.

On the outpost wall, Sáthor snarled and stepped back.

‘Blizzards of Engrir,’ the Grey Hunter grumbled, enduring the jeers of his companions. ‘It moved. You saw it move, yes?’

‘Hand it over,’ insisted Dethar, hand outstretched. ‘Come on, a bet’s a bet.’

Sáthor reluctantly pulled at the leather thong around his neck, tugging away the cracked wooden wyrdleif token that hung on it. Rubbing his thumb over the rune burned into the pale wood one last time, he dropped it into Dethar’s palm.

The pair turned to the pack leader, along with the others of Ullr’s Greypelts. His left shoulder pad was painted in black with the famed Wolf of Fenris imposed against a symbolic sun, the weregost of the Drakeslayers, Great Company of Krom Dragongaze. His right bore their pack marking, the Fenrisian wolf reversed against a red chevron on a pauldron of black. Like the others he was decked in amulets, wyrdleif badges and totems, with a band of leather pierced by ork fangs holding back his dark brown and grey hair, thongs of the same bifurcating his beard and long moustaches. He stood smoothing his beard with his left hand, bolter casually held in the right while he stared at the incoming orks.

‘The one by the large chimney breast,’ he said, not turning to them.

The pack looked. Disappointed groans and mumbles greeted the view.

‘Too easy!’ claimed Dethar.

‘Even Forskad could make that shot,’ said Garnr.

‘Hey!’ Forskad rounded on Garnr. He pulled back his lips, revealing fangs past his bottom lip.

Garnr’s own lip curled as he glared back. Forskad’s expression slid into a half-smile.

‘I know you still have that canteen of mjod, the one you won by wrestling Kjarti Irontrews in Strokir’s pack,’ he said. ‘Wager that I can’t make the shot?’

Called out, Garnr stepped back, eyes roving over the fang necklaces, pelt, trophies and talismans that adorned his fellow Grey Hunter, deciding if something caught his eye. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want any of your skag-pile belongings. If you can’t make the shot, you have to compose a skjaldvers in praise of me!’

Forskad groaned while the others laughed and slapped his shoulders. With a snaggle-toothed grimace he held out his hands and the two Space Wolves banged fists.

‘In the eyes of Russ,’ called out Ullr, marking that the wager had been observed. He could hear a deep rumble growing in volume from the west. ‘Take your shot.’

Forskad moved to the rampart. Renewed ork fire pinged from the stonework to greet him and an occasional bullet struck his armour, but he settled down without flinching. Ullr split his gaze, eyes moving between the Space Marine, his target at the side of the main farm building, and the pall of oily smoke appearing behind a shell-cratered rise about three-quarters of a mile to the west.

‘Elbow loose!’ Ullr snapped as his attention momentarily returned to his pack-brother. ‘Russ’ teeth, you’d think you’d only seen ten summers, not a hundred.’

The Space Marine adjusted his stance.

The muzzle of a large bore cannon and blunt nose of an armoured vehicle pushed over the rise, the heavily riveted hull painted in coarse dags of yellow and red. A large flag flew from a pole secured to the massive engine block, while smokestacks on either side belched fumes.

‘Better hurry now,’ said the pack leader.

After unleashing another wild spray of fire the ork moved back into cover, an empty magazine tossed into view. Forskad growled but remained as still as a statue. Tracks churning in opposite directions, the ork vehicle turned towards Gardpoint’s hill.

The ork by the farmhouse edged back into sight, gun pressed against the side of the jutting chimney breast.

‘Got you,’ declared Forskad.

‘Too late,’ muttered Ullr.

The rampart to the squad’s right exploded into pieces of flying masonry, the bark of Forskad’s bolter lost in the shell’s detonation. Rockcrete and dust showered Ullr but he unerringly followed the trail of his pack-brother’s shot until it hit between two bricks beside the ork’s head. The warhead ignited a moment later, spraying the ork’s face with splinters and dust.

‘Balka!’ yelled Forskad. Flames licked along the parapet but the Space Marine ignored them, firing again as the ork stumbled forward, face torn to ribbons by brick shrapnel. The second round tore open the side of its head. ‘Balka, balka, balka!’

Ullr reviewed the damage to the fortress wall. A crater about three yards across had been carved into the ferrocrete, opening a gap in the crenellations. It was just one of many such scars that now marked the outpost. In the distance the ork self-propelled gun moved again, coming closer to improve its aim.

A larger smog cloud followed it and soon a second vehicle hove into view, much larger and decked with three independent turrets. A trio of halftrack bikes flanked the battle fortress, pennants whipping back and forth as the vehicles bounced over uneven ground. The clatter of gunfire from the farmstead intensified as more orks pushed forward, emboldened by the approach of armoured support.

‘We’ve done enough here,’ said Ullr, signalling the squad to withdraw around the curtain wall.

On the south side, away from the orks, a Rhino transport waited. Ullr stood atop the wall while the others jumped down onto the roof and then to the ground, hearing the raucous cheers of the orks as they surged forward in what they thought was victory. The hatches growled open and Ullr followed his warriors inside, Sáthor moving to the driver’s position while Garnr took the controls of the roof-mounted storm bolter.

Not more than a second after the engine had roared into life, Sáthor had them accelerating across the charred remains of a cereal field, heading for the nearest gate of the city. Ullr spun open the command hatch lock and pushed out to look to the west. Smoke smudged the whole horizon but in the sky above he could see the fire of orbital entry like shooting stars falling to the ground.

The Wolf Lord and the captain of his allies from the Dragonspears Chapter had been warned by the local astropaths that a much larger second wave was on its way to Noviomagus Superior. It looked to Ullr that it had arrived.

Caulderri Vertozikata never hurried anywhere. Even in the years directly after her soul-binding to the Living Beacon of Terra, when her muscles had still been limber and her organs those she had been born with, Vertozikata had always enforced a life of sedate ambulation upon herself. To rush was to clutter one’s thinking and obscure the Truth of the Imperial Light. As her third decade had arrived and the psytumours had expanded, her superiors had seen fit to replenish her body with replacement parts. She did not know the identity or even nature of the donors, nor cared, and they neither improved her gait nor her longevity but simply provided a continuing functionality so that the Adeptus Astra Telepathica might make use of her prodigious psychic talents.

Accustomed to not hurrying, Vertozikata ambled along the companionway towards the astrotelepathy hall with her young assistant Odys bobbing back and forth at her side like an agitated terrier. An entirely unremarkable and psychically dull woman, Odys nevertheless still possessed her sight, making her of obvious use to the blinded astropath. Many of Vertozikata’s peers had developed othersense to help navigate their surrounds but it was a talent that had passed her by. She liked to think that such detachment from the realm of the physical was due to the far greater attachment she had to the warp.

‘Maester Hergoul said it was urgent,’ Odys said, for the third time, tugging at the draping green sleeve of her mistress’ robe to encourage her onwards. ‘He says the message is fleeting, likely to disappear. It could be from Fenris!’

‘Maester Hergoul is the finest broadcaster in our flotilla,’ replied Vertozikata. ‘But he has the receptivity of a brick. He can barely detect his own farts. That is why we work well together.’

They continued for another hundred yards, until they reached the door embossed with the sigil of the Adeptus Terra and – struck upon it in silver, so Vertozikata had been informed – the symbol of their own branch of it. It grew warm at the touch of her crooked fingers, recognising her soulprint. Arcane locks wheezed open and the door swung away, allowing Odys to guide her within.

The moment she crossed the threshold, Vertozikata knew something was wrong. The air was far colder than normal. Odys shrieked, letting go of the astropath’s arm, her feet pattering away across the tiled floor of the choir chamber.

Vertozikata felt only herself and Odys’ minds. Hergoul was dead.

‘He’s dead, mistress,’ said Odys. ‘How?’

‘Bring me to him,’ the veteran astropath said sharply, holding out her arm. ‘Quickly!’

For the first time in many years, Vertozikata hurried, guided a dozen steps by her aide. Feeling a pull downward, she crouched, her hand finding the rough weave of the other astropath’s robe.

‘Step back. Outside the door.’

‘Is it dangerous, mistress?’

‘A man is dead. Of course there is danger. More if you do not step outside the wards.’

Odys’ footfalls withdrew. ‘I am outside, mistress. What are you going to do?’

‘Share his last vision, of course.’ Vertozikata moved to straddle the limp body, one hand either side of his head, leaning forward to press her brow against his, feeling the clammy skin against her own. Her empty eye sockets were inches from his, as though staring blindly into the depths. ‘You tried too hard, didn’t you? Wouldn’t wait for me, you impatient fool.’

She licked her lips, surprised how dry her mouth felt. The longer she waited, the harder it would be as the residual psychic energy faded.

Gathering her potential, she pushed her mind into the fleeing memories of the dead man.

A jade-domed palace looks out over bountiful gardens filled with immaculate lawns, marble fountains and exquisitely arranged flower beds. Birdsong and tinkling water fills the air and a warm, gentle breeze carries sweet blossom scent. About the gardens are walls of light grey stone and beyond them streets of red brick and white tile roofs. A more severe edifice of black and grey, topped with turrets and walkways patrolled by sentries in blue and gold. The precinct of the arbitrators.

The city continues until it reaches a ring of high wall, windows and doors set within it, steps and rampways ascending to reach the broad top, where a market stretches for several miles. Three immense gatehouses break the circumference, each gate open to a steady stream of powered wagons while wall-borne elevated landing platforms play host to flying visitors. Past the wall are endless fields, golden and green to the horizon, arranged in geometric precision around clusters of villages and farmsteads, criss-crossed by elevated highways that lead to aerial stations. Aerostats with massive gondolas laden with goods power towards the waystations a mile up, where stellar cargo haulers await their next burden.

The view becomes a pinprick situated close to the dome and then expands outwards. Everything is in flames, broken, while gunfire lights the smog-choked air and the screams of the dying resound from toppled walls. The fields burn incessantly, creating a pall that stretches across everything.

A tide of green aliens surges through the destruction. They chant, getting louder and louder. A guttural, wordless noise repeated over and over, over and over, over and over. It is drums. It is thunder. It is the boom of cannons. It is the voice of devastation.

The fire burns green. All is green. All is war. All is victory.

Again, again, again the chant rings back and forth, echoing from time immemorial to the end of the universe. A primal shout that must be heard, that must be joined.

You mutter. Just a grunt. Then another. Again, with more force. The pounding, irresistible thud of inevitability takes hold of you. It is a rage, anger born in delight of destruction. You roar, part of its voice, sharing the thunder in your soul, letting it drive you, every exclamation a hammer upon the universe’s coffin lid.

Waaagh! Waaagh! Waaagh!

‘This is how we found them, Custodian,’ explained the armsman. His silvered visor hid most of his face but his lips were thin and pale, and Vychellan could smell that he had vomited recently. The armsman’s knuckles were white where he gripped his shotgun too tightly and he barely glanced at the Custodian, attention riveted to the scene beyond the door.

‘Dismissed,’ said Vychellan. The man did not run, to his credit, until he was out of sight, but not out of earshot.

Vychellan paid him no more heed and turned to Lieutenant Castallor.

‘I accept that my experience in these matters is limited, but I gather this is… remarkable,’ said the Primaris officer. The Space Marine stepped aside and Vychellan had a clear view for the first time.

The first body, the astropath called Hergoul, lay on its back near the centre of the astrotelepathy chamber. Other than some slight bruising to the forehead the Custodian could see no mark on him. Closer to the door were the other two. The second astropath was absent most of her head, though the missing portion was spread across the floor just beyond. The aide was face down beside her, face and skull mashed to an unrecognisable mess. There was blood all over the astropath’s hands and forearms, and the front of the robe was also spattered with gore: not from the armsman’s kill shot.

To the left, the headless astropath’s right, the floor was swirled with red, finger traces clearly drawn through it. Vychellan stepped into the chamber and past the pair so that he could turn and observe the ruddy scrawl from the opposite angle. He bent to one knee and leaned even lower, coming down to the eye level of the astropath where she had been kneeling over the crushed skull of her assistant.

He could make out letters. Standing, he looked at Castallor.

‘Noviomagus?’

‘A star system about eighteen light years away,’ replied the Ultramarine. He regarded the bloody writing for several seconds. ‘It does not take us far from our current route to Fenris. I shall instruct fleet command that a diversion to our course will be coming.’

Vychellan sighed as he stared at the dead bodies.

‘A poor irony. We lost so many thousands of their order when the Great Rift tore open the stars and their minds burned with warp fire. To survive that and then to suffer this…’

Castallor’s expression was unmoving. ‘I shall also inform fleet command that we require two more astropaths.’

A repeated banging woke Gytha. She sat up, red-blonde hair clinging to the sweat-soaked pillow as well as her cheeks. For a moment she looked around the small room, not recognising anything, expecting to find drums. Sunlight from the shuttered window pushed back the fog and the pounding resolved into the ringing of hammer on anvil in the forge next door. Both sight and noise meant it was well after dawn.

‘Skitja,’ she swore, flinging off her blankets. She swung her bare feet to the floorboards, reaching for the dress casually hung from the bedstead beside her.

‘Another dream?’ Sat in the chair by the empty fireplace, half in shadow, her mother-in-law Agitta shook her head. ‘Or too much of Bjorti’s mead?’

Gytha winced as she stood, a flare of pain pushing in through the temples. ‘Both,’ she replied as she dragged on her clothes.

Her boots followed while Agitta opened the door to the main room, the draught of air bringing the smell of old cooking fat and damp straw. Gytha ducked through after her husband’s mother, tightening her belt.

‘It was Lufa’s year-day,’ she said, finding a tin ewer upon the table. She scowled as she discovered it was empty. ‘My eldest, your grandson, is nearly of age.’

‘I got so drunk I fell asleep too near to the fire when Bjorti turned of age,’ said Agitta, pressing a clay cup into Gytha’s hands. It was water with a bitter tincture that she recognised as Agitta’s ‘cure-all’ mixture. ‘I woke up with a red face and half my hair singed away!’

Gytha went to the door and stepped outside, downing the contents of the cup in one draught so as not to taste it. The aftertaste was not so easily avoided and she doubled up with a choking fit.

Through tear-fogged eyes she saw two figures appear from the depths of the forge.

‘A fine example you are, ma,’ said Lufa, the straggly mound of brown hair for which he was named streaked with soot.

‘Was it the same dream?’ asked Korit, her daughter, one hand on her mother’s arm as a fresh wave of coughing hit. ‘The troll and the wolf?’

‘No,’ Gytha managed, gasping and straightening. ‘Not this time. Never mind that, it’s just a dream. Go back and help your father, I’ll be there after I’ve refilled the buckets.’

After checking her one more time, Korit ran back to the open forge. The hammer blows stopped and her high-pitched voice took their place as she explained what was happening.

‘Just a dream,’ said Lufa. His deep brown eyes watched her thoughtfully. He was too sharp for his own good, destined to be a skjald one day, she was sure.

He smiled and followed his sister. The hammering resumed soon after. Gytha listened for a while, taken back to the vaguest memory of the dream. Banging. Thunderous pounding.

Just Bjorti at the anvil, and too much mead. That’s all it was.

A shell took out a supporting wall of the ruined manufactorum, collapsing five storeys of plasteel and ferrocrete. Machinery and corpses rained down with the debris. Hurak dodged left, plunging through the dust cloud as bricks and chunks of mortar bounced from his armour.

‘Circle left, engage on the right,’ the lieutenant voxed to his squads. ‘Push down the street and then hold the junction.’

Four squads of Primaris Marines advanced around him. They and the rest of the assault force were part of a test formation, created by the command of the lord regent. Their armour was a mix of liveries in dark green, black, and silver: Sons of Vulkan, Sons of Corax and Sons of Manus. Ten Inceptors led the way, the pair of squads bounding forward with pulses from their jump packs, assault bolters chewing through a crowd of deranged cultists massing in the street ahead. The Intercessors followed, twenty in all, picking off targets in the upper floors, targeting heavy weapons teams as they tried to set up lascannons and autocannons on the rooftops.

Until their drop just a few minutes before, the Space Marines had not been the target of the ‘Idolis Free Army’, and the enemy were reacting slowly to the sudden counter-attack from behind their lines. Hurak listened to the vox-chatter as he advanced and fired.

‘Tank column mobilising in the east, sector four-delta. Six Leman Russ, two Demolisher class. Moving to engage now.’

‘Gunship insertion at sector seven-extreme successful. Eliminating artillery batteries designated Alpha and Beta.’

‘Outrider reports confirm presence of Traitor Astartes on-world. Fast-moving column spotted in sector thirteen-extreme. Interception force dispatched from orbit.’

This last communication caught Hurak’s attention. It had been unclear how the rebellion had managed to overcome the defence force of Idolis, but the involvement of renegade Space Marines explained much. Hurak used a sub-vocal to open up the command vox.

‘Identify Traitor Astartes.’

It took a few seconds for the reply to come back, during which Hurak reloaded and shot two more rebels trying to swing their autocannon to bear on the Inceptors. One toppled out of the broken window, head missing, causing a ripple of alarm through the mob ahead.

‘Livery and iconography is unconfirmed, but consistent with a World Eaters faction.’

‘Understood.’

Hurak switched back to his company address channel. It was unfortunate that their Firstborn officer, Captain Acumanu, had been hit by a sniper with armour-piercing ammunition just after landing, but so far Hurak felt confident he had risen to the demands of his sudden command responsibilities. He realised that with the loss of Lieutenant Hostenreik in their last battle yet to be made good, they were down an officer. It had been seven minutes since landing and Hurak chided himself for not thinking about it sooner.

‘Sergeant Talamakia, you have seniority. Adopt secondary command protocols.’

‘Affirmative, lieutenant. Let’s drive these bastards into the river.’

‘My intention entirely, sergeant.’

Rebels scattered like vermin as the Inceptors leapt into their midst, gunning down anyone that remained in sight. They were about a hundred yards ahead now, separated from the main body of troops.

‘Hold pursuit for five seconds, then extend cordon to seventy-five yards,’ Hurak commanded. The roofs were clear of enemies and the Intercessors pounded along the road at speed, just a few dozen yards from the Inceptors when they broke into their two squads, one left, the other right, bounding after the fleeing renegades.

The objective of the enemy attack now being crushed from three directions was a battered Adeptus Arbites precinct building that dominated the city’s central plaza. The buildings all around the other edges of the square had been almost levelled by bombing and artillery, sprawls of rubble choking the other streets and much of the plaza, but the gleam of power fields shimmered around the remaining bastion of Imperial rule. An immense aquila, pocked with las-scars and bullet holes, dominated the front of the precinct. The windows were narrow and barred, the roof crenelated, lined with armoured troopers, each corner bulging with a gun turret that could track downward to the foot of the wall. Mounds of rebel dead were piled across the bloodied flagstones right up to the steps to the massive armoured portal of the courthouse. A solitary banner flew from a window just above, bearing the symbols of the Idolis Defence Force.

Hurak was about to broadcast an all-vox demand for entry when a siren sounded from ahead and the huge double doors swung open. A score of figures in blue coverall uniforms dashed into view, their carapace armour, heavy boots and helmets dark red. All had shotguns or bolters at the ready. Hurak could see most bore signs of recent fighting – torn uniforms, cracked helms, bloodstains. One wore a cloak and held a crackling power maul. It was towards her that the lieutenant headed while the Intercessors spread out into positions across the plaza to the left and right.

‘Praise the Emperor!’ the arbitrator provost cried, looking up to the heavens. Her lip trembled, the only part of her face visible, the rest hidden by a black visor. ‘The astropath said that the Great Eagle of Terra had spread its wings above us, but we did not dare hope.’

‘Who is in command?’ Hurak asked, slowing his pace as he arrived. Behind him the Primaris Marines created a ring defence, while the bolt salvos of the Inceptors continued to echo from the surrounding ruins.

‘Magister-Captain Nerol,’ the arbitrator told him. Hurak continued forward without stopping, the provost hurrying alongside him. The Imperial enforcers fell back towards the door in their wake, as though pulled along like the train of a long cloak.

‘Perimeter secured, lieutenant,’ reported Talamakia just as Hurak stepped into the shadow of the great aquila.

The provost, who revealed her name was Herminia Logas, led the lieutenant up through the floors of the precinct, passing hallways and rooms filled with defence troopers and a scattering of more arbitrators. The Idolis troopers wore once smart uniforms of dark blue jackets and grey trousers, but all were stained and torn. A few former clerks’ chambers had been turned into medicae facilities, and wounded lay in row after row on blankets or the bare floor. The smells of blood, gun discharge and the ozone of the power field were everywhere.

The main courtroom had been turned into a command centre, with tables laden with vox and scanning equipment lining the walls, and a tri-D projector fitted in front of the judgement throne. That esteemed position was occupied by the magister-captain, surrounded by a handful of scribes and a couple of defence force officers. Nerol was younger than Hurak would have expected, barely middle-aged, with black carapace armour underneath his scarlet robes of office, a defence force officer’s helmet wedged onto his head.

‘Thanks to the High Throneworld!’ declared Nerol, standing up, arms raised in praise. Hurak waited, having experienced this kind of event several times already since the crusade had begun. He had discovered it was better to give everybody a few seconds to get it out of their system, otherwise they never quite expunged their religious agitation. ‘A shame that Preacher Fostro died but four days ago, though he knew our prayers had been answered even as he choked a rebel to death with his last strength.’

Hurak kept silent for another couple of seconds, ensuring there were no more outbursts to come.

‘Might I know the name of our saviour?’ the magister-captain asked, stepping down from the chair platform. The clerks and defence force officers followed close, agog at the Primaris Marine in their midst.

‘I am Lieutenant Hurak, but we have something more important and urgent to discuss,’ the Primaris officer replied. He looked at the gathering of people around Nerol. ‘Please bring a vox and whichever communications officers and aides you require.’

While Nerol addressed this, Hurak turned back to Logas. ‘I need roof access.’

‘Of course,’ said the provost. ‘It is this way.’

It took another two minutes for the small entourage to secure a portable vox and all to reach the roof.

‘You have my admiration for holding out,’ said Hurak, leading them to the battlements at the north side. A broad highway led from the plaza to the city outskirts, misted by distance and dust. ‘Three years, is it?’

‘Five by our reckoning, three since the skies were torn apart,’ replied Nerol. ‘But we did not lose faith. Even as more and more cities fell, we knew that if we resisted and prayed, we could keep this world for the Emperor.’

‘Many, many others have not. When I say I admire you, it is because I have seen what happened to worlds that were overcome. You have achieved something remarkable, to remain a glint of light in a galaxy of darkness.’

‘Then it is true, the Imperium is on the brink of destruction,’ whispered Logas.

‘It still teeters on that precipice, but every battle keeps it from plunging into the abyss. The armies and fleets of the Emperor have gathered their strength and reach out again across the void, to bring His rule back to those worlds that have fallen. You have played a part in that, and may be required to do so again, for it may take a lifetime and more of fighting and sacrifice to rebuild a semblance of what stood before.’

‘It sounds miraculous,’ said one of the defence force officers.

‘Close,’ said Hurak, suppressing a smile. ‘The Indomitus Crusade. Grand warfleets and new armies push back the shadows. Every reconquest weakens our foes and strengthens our armies. More fleets will pierce deeper and deeper, to break the veil of the Cicatrix Maledictum itself and bring succour to those that have lived in the benighted realms beyond.’

‘I am thankful that you arrived on Idolis when you did,’ said the magister-captain. ‘I do not know if we could have lasted much longer. All but ourselves and two other strongpoints have fallen.’

‘It is not quite done yet,’ Hurak told them. He pointed north, to where he could see blocky shapes approaching through the dust and smog. ‘The World Eaters are coming for the final attack. They know the campaign has turned and will stop at nothing to break open your defences and slaughter all of you before they die.’

This remark caused some consternation among those that heard it, but Hurak kept his attention on the incoming shadows. The blocky shapes resolved into a transport column of black-and-red vehicles decked with skulls, bones and other grisly trophies. Hurak picked up voxmitters projecting demented shouts and howls, though they were too distant yet for the others to hear.

‘How many of you are there?’ asked Nerol. ‘We must stand-to the whole defence and send out the remaining companies.’

‘They will be butchered,’ said Hurak. ‘You were wise to stay within the walls, the heretics found easier sport across the rest of the city and beyond.’

‘How many warriors did you bring?’ Nerol said again.

‘I have a demi-company directly with me,’ said Hurak, moving his gaze from the World Eaters to the yellowish sky. He could see the spark of more drop-ships.

‘That’s barely fifty warriors,’ said the magister-captain. ‘Our intelligence suggests there are more than two hundred Skullrippers.’

‘That’s what the heretics call themselves,’ Logas added unnecessarily.

‘My mission was simply to locate and secure your position,’ said the lieutenant. ‘We are not the only servants of the Emperor to have come to your city.’

The others followed his gaze, gasping as they saw what looked to be a meteor storm at first. Plunging sparks resolved into drop pods tearing groundwards to objectives in the distance. Three heavy gunships followed, leaving plasma trails across the ochre heavens.

‘They’re nearly here,’ said one of the clerks, and Hurak realised she was talking about the Skullrippers. Warriors with baroquely decorated armour decked in blades and spikes spilled from the open hatches of Rhinos and Land Raiders. There was no gunfire wasted on the power field, but a single roar of rage echoed across the highway and rang from the plaza buildings.

‘Hold the south and east,’ Hurak voxed his troops. He did not want his squads caught up in close fighting with the berserkers. Not yet. ‘Pursuit elements return to the battle line.’

He knew he should be down with his warriors but remained for a little longer, knowing the vantage point atop the precinct gave him an unparalleled view of what would happen next.

Missiles streaked from the descending gunships, hitting the enemy transports and the handful of Predator tanks that had come forward in support of the assault. Armour-piercing warheads shattered ceramite and punctured plasteel, turning vehicles to blazing wrecks, cutting off any means of escape. Not that an offshoot warband of the World Eaters Legion would ever retreat from an enemy. Lobotomised with brain implants and driven insane by their dedication to a bloodthirsty deity, they hungered for battle like no other enemy Hurak had encountered; more even than the savage orks.

Gunfire followed, targeting the traitor warriors as they pounded along the highway towards the plaza. One of the Predators had survived and las-blasts snapped into the air to greet the incoming attack craft. Two of them peeled away, heading west; the third banked hard amid a furious blaze of retro thrusters, its wing-mounted cannons tracing explosive fire across the squads of renegades.

‘Are these the reinforcements?’ asked Logas. Like all of the others, her attention was fixed on the gunship, gaze following its course across the cityscape from the south.

It roared to a stop just a hundred yards away, dropping ahead of the incoming enemy as side hatches and the front assault ramp slammed opened. Fifty feet up, Inceptors dropped from the sides on gleaming jump packs while a Storm Speeder swooped out of a docking clamp slung underneath the gunship. Its Hammerstrike missile volleys and meltacannon blasts cleared a swathe of Skullrippers from the landing zone, but within seconds the traitors had redirected their attack, drawn away from the precinct building by the presence of the Emperor’s chosen warriors. Battle cries that had echoed within the Imperial Palace ten thousand years earlier rang from the walls.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

‘They’ll be surrounded,’ gasped Nerol. He turned to one of the vox-bearers. ‘Sound the general attack.’

‘Belay that,’ snapped Hurak, reaching out to grab the vox-phone from the aide’s hand. ‘We don’t want you in our fire zones.’

‘But–’

‘Watch,’ said Hurak, knowing full well what was about to happen.

A bulky shape eclipsed the light streaming from the front assault door, moments before an armoured figure bigger than any Space Marine stepped into view. Garbed in blue ceramite chased with pale gold, a flaming sword held in one fist, a demigod entered the battle.

Guilliman leapt from the ramp, the bolt weapon built into his left gauntlet spewing rounds as he fell. He landed on a heretic, crushing the Space Marine beneath armoured feet, cracking the ferrocrete under both of them. No sooner had he touched the ground, the primarch was in motion, the blazing sword hewing through his enemies. It was as though the blade was leading him like a vanguard, seeking targets with a will of its own while the bearer followed and fired again and again, every shot finding its mark.

The carnage was impressive, but there was something more to Roboute Guilliman, an aura that surrounded him. Logas and the others fell to their knees around Hurak, voices raised in hallelujahs and dedications to the Emperor. The lieutenant resisted his own urge to bend a knee, having hardened himself to the sensation over the last few encounters with the primarch. The adoration of the Emperor’s servants was the same wherever they went. Hurak had been amused by it at first, but now he found it reassuring – proof that it was not some tampering from Cawl that made him adore Guilliman, but the essence of the primarch himself.

Nerol was almost prostrate, head craned to look out at the ongoing battle.

‘We are delivered,’ he moaned, hands quivering as he held them up, tears streaming down his cheeks. Hurak could not imagine the toll on a mortal mind from five years besieged in this place, but it was all given vent now. There were cheers and hollered prayers from the windows below. ‘Praise to you! Praise to the Emperor!’

‘Praise the Avenging Son,’ Hurak said, looking out as his lord cut down more of the traitors, striding deep into their company like a bolt piercing flesh before exploding.

Chapter Eight

WOLF SCOUT
IN THE MOUTH OF THE BEAST
UNEXPECTED ALLIES

The smell of the Rhino’s combuster exhaust was lost amid the general pall of pollution surrounding the ork landing site, as was the growl of the engine when the transport came to a stop beside the pillar of a broken transit hub line. The area immediately around the drop-port seized by the orks was one of the few patches of wilderness on the whole planet, a few square miles of woodland and heath punctured at the centre by the ferrocrete aprons and warehouses of the shuttle facility.

Ullr climbed out of the top hatch for a better look. His helm’s auto-senses gave him instant magnification, bringing into sharp focus the stepped landing pads rising a few storeys above the surrounding trees and low hills. Though the facility covered at least ten square miles, it was nothing compared to some of the major launch sites he had seen. It had been built for the use of the Imperial commander, Adeptus Terra and other dignitaries for personal transport, priority deliveries and luxury consignments. Far larger sub-orbital platforms handled Noviomagus Superior’s massive agri-exports to other systems.

It was still sufficient for the orks’ needs, and where it wasn’t they would soon rectify the deficiency. Crude scaffolding surrounded most of the western side of the largest platform, a ramp of crushed rubble built up to its height so that a procession of war engines too large for the conveyors could reach the ground. A drop-craft that owed more parentage to an asteroid than a starship squatted on the apron, disgorging a pair of battle fortresses from its cavernous interior. Smokestacks belching fumes, they rumbled down the ramp surrounded by a crowd of hollering orks.

‘I’m more worried that they’re still building.’

Ullr whipped round, bolter in hand at the unexpected voice. The figure that stood by the front of the Rhino was partially clad in power armour, of lighter design than the fully enclosed plate of the Grey Hunters. His hair was swept back into thick spikes and his beard plaited into a single knot beneath his chin. He wore a dark pelt across his shoulders but the inside was made of a chameleonic fabric that shifted through greys and browns and greens. A long-barrelled rifle hung over one shoulder. Like Ullr and the rest, his livery was obscured by painted markings and talismans, and he bore the weregost of Krom’s Great Company, but his other shoulder was blazoned with a simple letter rune rather than a squad marking.

A Wolf Scout.

‘Teeth of Russ, Winterstride, I nearly shot you!’ snapped Ullr, lowering his weapon. He turned to the other pack members stood around the lowered rear ramp of the vehicle. ‘Are any of you actually keeping watch down there?’

Cries mixed of delight and dismay greeted their discovery of Brodd Winterstride. The Wolf Scout backed away as a couple of his former pack-brothers approached to greet him.

‘The Dragongaze thought it appropriate that I lead my old pack to the target,’ said the Wolf Scout. ‘I couldn’t really argue.’

‘It’s Ullr’s Greypelts now, Brodd,’ said Dethar, one of the Grey Hunters who had joined after Brodd’s departure.

‘It’s a pup’s fart in the north wind to me,’ replied Brodd. ‘I mean to guide you, not take command. I’d rather piss in my own boots than lead a pack again.’

‘Right,’ said Dethar, realising his error. ‘Lead, like show the way, not lead.’

‘Less talking, more walking,’ said Ullr, leaping down from the Rhino. Ash from huge fires in the orkish camp fluttered down like snow, coating their blue-grey armour with flecks of black. ‘Show us the way, Winterstride.’

The Scout unslung his marksman’s rifle and stalked off into the woods, as silently as a breeze blowing across a snowdrift. Though not silent – it was impossible to fully mask the weight of their armour – the pack were all experienced hunters and followed carefully, disturbing no branch or fallen stick.

‘What did you mean about the orks still building?’ said Ullr as he pushed to catch up with Brodd.

‘They’ve brought down half a dozen battle fortresses already, but they’re still widening and strengthening the ramp,’ said the Wolf Scout.

‘Something even bigger is coming.’ Ullr considered the implication. ‘Titan-mass war engines?’

‘That would be my thought.’

They advanced another hundred yards or so, the shadows lengthening as the sun rapidly dwindled towards twilight.

‘You told the Dragongaze… That’s why we’re attacking now.’

‘Better to stop them landing whatever is coming than to fight once it gets here,’ said the Wolf Scout. He held up a hand. The squad halted immediately, weapons pointed to cover every approach. Shouts and the noise of construction carried with the blare of horns, drone of engines and crackle of flames. Even against the background din it was possible to hear the crack of twigs underfoot not too far away.

‘They’re not being stupid.’ Winterstride’s voice was not even a whisper but to Ullr’s enhanced hearing it was as audible as a howl on a still night. ‘Patrols of the small ones. They loosed packs of fanged hunt-monsters, though most of them have scattered now.’

The pack waited for another two minutes, as still as the pale tree trunks around them. A handful of small greenskin creatures, none of them taller than waist-high to the Space Marines, came into a view about two hundred yards away. They were clearly unhappy at their duty, hissing and snapping at each other, barely looking around as they hurried through the woods.

Ullr motioned cutting his throat with a thumb. Brodd shook his head.

‘Somebody might actually miss them and get curious.’

They gave the patrol another minute and continued on, circling slightly to the north to keep their distance. The closer they came to the starport the greater the industrial din and the stench of the orks’ occupation. The roar of thrusters shook the treetops as another lander descended through the smog.

After another two minutes the edge of the woods was within sight, a line of hacked stumps left along the outskirts of the port area. Brodd halted the squad again. He knelt, dipping his fingers into an oily residue left on the scraped bark of a tree. The air was heavy with exhaust fumes.

‘Bike-mounted,’ said the Wolf Scout, pointing to peculiar wheel-and-track markings cutting across the moist ground ahead. He looked around, glancing up at the leaves and then back to the mud. ‘At least half an hour ago. The orks are more active. Something else is arriving soon.’

‘Perhaps we should warn the Wolf Lord,’ suggested Hari. The plasma gun in his hand was dormant to avoid the gleam of its energy chamber betraying their presence. He had a bolt pistol in the other, for quick response to a threat. ‘We could be throwing ourselves in front of a stampeding curlhorn herd.’

‘No, the plan has been agreed,’ Ullr said quickly. ‘No distractions.’

‘You seem very sure of that,’ said Brodd.

The pack leader looked at the other Space Marine, remembering he had once been in Ullr’s position. If the roles were reversed, he was sure he would want an explanation.

‘Our allies from the Dragonspears Fourth Company were not keen,’ said Ullr. ‘News like this might put them off entirely.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Twenty yards perimeter watch,’ Ullr told his pack-brothers. They moved off without question. When they were further away, Ullr continued in a whisper. ‘All is not well between Lord Krom and Captain Orstanza. They fell to bad words over what to do about the orks. This attack was the desire of the Dragongaze.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Winterstride. ‘Orstanza of the Dragonspears wanted to reinforce the city defence?’

‘Just so.’ Ullr grimaced. ‘Lord Krom saw that as a challenge to his mettle and said as much. Orstanza took it as accusation against his own courage.’

‘I’m sure the Dragongaze was suitably humble and cleared up the matter with modesty and respect,’ said the Wolf Scout with a chuckle.

‘Exactly. He said the captain was the type of commander who had no blood to clean from his blade at battle’s end.’

Winterstride winced as though struck. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? He went that far?’

‘In defence of our commander, Orstanza suggested the Dragongaze had the strategic understanding of a feral dog.’

‘So, no help from the Dragonspears?’ The Scout looked towards the setting sun, shielding his eyes. ‘That is a pity.’

‘Fortunately blood cooled a little when Colonel Gander of the militia arrived. He’s brought seven thousand more troops to the city. That gave Dragongaze opportunity to convene the council again. With more soldiers to hold the city, Orstanza agreed to partial support. He’s sending his armour – three Predators, a Vindicator and a Land Raider – to attack the flank of the ork army.’

‘So we’re assaulting the landing site on foot while the orks deal with the armour,’ finished Winterstride. ‘Makes sense. My orders were to bring you as close as possible then join with the other Scouts to infiltrate to the north. Attack at last light?’

‘That’s when Dragongaze will give the signal,’ said Ullr.

‘Right.’ The Scout turned back to Ullr. ‘Hand of Russ.’

‘Hand of Russ, hunt-brother.’

The pack leader watched Winterstride head away from the dropsite for a hundred yards and then disappear to the north. Sunfall was predicted in eighteen minutes. Ullr pulled off his helm, checked the vox-channel was connected to his earpiece, and pulled a strip of cured meat from his belt to chew while he waited.

The landing site was awash with orks and light vehicles, but most of their heavier weapons and tanks had moved out to meet the armoured thrust of the Dragonspears. Roaring their battle cries, the Wolves of Fenris burst from the trees and gulleys, lighting the landing platforms with flamer, plasma gun and bolter. From the treeline the handful of Long Fangs that remained in the Great Company lay down fire with missile launchers and heavy bolters, while Blood Claws bounded forward with bursts of jump pack flare and chainswords snarling alongside their howls.

Ullr and his squad advanced through the broken remains of a thruster retention wall and across the lowest landing pad. Between the seven of them they kept up a hail of deadly fire, some moving while the others stopped and aimed their shots. They coordinated with intermittent, sharp exchanges of wurgen, a mix of snarled words and throaty growls. If a foe was not eliminated by a hit, a second from another pack member followed moments later, and on rare occasions a third. Now and then Hari’s plasma gun burst forth a pulse of energy to blast apart a more heavily armoured target. This combination of motion and accuracy cut down everything in front of them, leaving the path open to a fuel-processing station near the south side of the complex. Stalking past dozens of mangled ork corpses, they ignored the careening bikes and ork mobs to either side, trusting their companion packs to protect their flanks just as each warrior guarded his pack-brothers.

‘Greypelts on target in thirty seconds,’ Ullr transmitted to the Wolf Lord. He expected no reply and there was none – everything was going to plan.

A pair of Thunderhawks plunged down through the smog banks, stubby wing tips tearing vortices through the oily smoke. Their cannons thundered for several seconds, shells slamming down into the ork column moving towards the Dragonspears’ armoured vehicles. Missiles screamed after, their hits throwing up pillars of fire from ruptured fuel tanks and exploding engines.

‘Ready melta bombs.’ Ullr pulled one of the bulky charges from the mag-clamp on his thigh. Along with Asgerd’s pack – heading for the support struts of the main platform – the Greypelts had been issued with the last of the Great Company’s demolition bombs. It had been over two lived-years since they had left Fenris. They had been returning to the Hearthworld before diverting to Noviomagus Superior and everything was running low.

‘Pick your spots well, there’re no second chances here.’

The pack was just a few dozen yards from their objective when Ullr’s vox crackled.

‘Greypelts, new orders.’

It was Kraki, the lone remaining Wolf Guard of Dragongaze’s entourage. In other circumstances Ullr and a few others would have been elevated to the vacant positions, but the unrelenting demands on their Great Company had left no luxury for such adjustments.

‘Place charges but do not detonate.’

‘Received, vaerengr.’

‘Good, Ullr. Hold until you get the command to blow it. Look up.’

The link severed with a hiss and Ullr followed the Wolf Guard’s last command. His auto-senses pierced the fog of campfires and exhaust, picking up the gleam of heat blast from atmospheric entry. The rangefinder estimated the distance to be about four miles up, approaching.

‘First-Shot, the orks are massing to the south,’ warned Eirik, pointing past the tanks and control building of the processor plant. Several large walkers and scores of orks congregated by the remains of a half-toppled building. Many wore heavy armour, some of it apparently crudely powered judging by the thermal plumes they gave off.

‘They’ll be coming right through here, I reckon,’ said Garnr.

Ullr agreed but it would be a waste of time and breath to confirm what everyone could see. The pack slowed as they reached the cracked ferrocrete ground around the plant. There had been a fence, but all that remained were a few broken twists of iron. Nothing showed up on the auto-senses within half a mile. The orks had not paid much attention to the refinery, and a quick examination revealed two of the three tanks were still full of processed fuel.

‘Place the bombs and then find defensive positions,’ Ullr announced. ‘We’re holding here.’

‘Counter-attack in front, enemy landing behind, sitting on tanks of muspelfyr,’ said Forskad, striding past the pack leader with a primed melta bomb in his hand. ‘What could go wrong?’

Dethar was down.

‘Cover my position, Garnr.’

As the other Grey Hunter took Ullr’s place, the pack leader knelt to search through Dethar’s belt. An armoured hand tapped at his arm insistently before fumbling at the flap of a pouch at the wounded Space Marine’s waist. Ullr rolled Dethar over to pull a magazine from beneath him, trying to ignore the pool of thick blood congealing under his pack-brother. The ruddy glow from Ullr’s eye-lenses danced across the slick puddle amid the yellow flash of bolt launches. Bullets from the orks whined out of the flame-lit night and cracked from the ironwork walkway, a few ricocheting from Ullr’s armour as he let Dethar drop back down.

The Grey Hunter tried to pull himself up to sit with his back against the wall of the control building. Lower jaw missing, half his throat torn out by an ork rocket, Dethar was a mess, but when Ullr pressed a reloaded bolter into his hand the Fenrisian took it in a firm grip and nodded, blood oozing from the ruin of his helm. He propped the bolter on his knee and took aim out through the struts of the walkway.

‘Eirik!’ Ullr stood, tossing the spare bolt magazine to the other Space Marine. ‘Hari, south flank, that second walker’s almost here.’

The wreckage of the first ork war machine burned fifty yards away, lighting the space between the processing plant and the blast-proof trenches that cut perpendicular across the nearest landing pad. Scattered patches of burning fuel spread the illumination, the brutish faces that popped up over the lip of the crew ditch picked out in flickering yellow. On the opposite flank a clanking, four-armed machine lumbered forward, two of its limbs spitting a fusillade at the trio of Space Marines still holding the south side.

Having seen the lack of effect of their bolts on the first, and with the orks not yet ready to mass behind the machine as they had on their first attack, Ullr, Garnr and Eirik saved their ammunition and waited. Bolter fire resounded from the opposite side of the main building, where the rest of the pack kept the orks from circling around to the east and north. The fuel tanks stood to the west, the blinking of primed melta bombs lighting the supports and undersides; Ullr had decided it was better to give the orks nothing to shoot at in that direction, and so far even the poor aim of the greenskins had concentrated on the control building.

An azure glow preceded the arrival of Hari and his plasma gun. Boots ringing on the metal, he took up a kneeling fire position at the far end of the walkway.

‘First-Shot, movement in the trench,’ reported Garnr. ‘Armoured orks climbing out.’

The plan was obvious – for the heavy fighters to attack while the plasma gunner tackled the war engine. For all it was simple, the basic principle was sound. If they did not try to destroy the walker it would be on them within the minute, but the last had taken four shots to take down and the plasma gun had to cool and recharge between each, plenty of time for the other orks to cross the open ground.

‘Skitja, these greenskins think too much,’ said Eirik.

‘Target?’ asked Hari as the accelerator hum of the plasma gun became a whine of readiness.

In the dark by the trench, Ullr could see the crackling power of savage claws and spiked fists where the ork’s best warriors stomped up the steps to the ferrocrete. A couple of their suits had built-in guns that gleamed with a baleful green energy, others sported machine guns trailing long belts of ammunition or bulky with drum magazines. There was an unhealthy possibility that they had some kind of armour-piercing rounds, given what had happened to Dethar from a burst during the orks’ retreat a few minutes before.

‘West approach?’ Ullr asked. The report of bolters from the other side of the building was almost rhythmic.

‘Busy,’ replied Sáthor. ‘Forty dead enemy. About another hundred on their way, doubled back through the woods where we came from.’

Even at their most efficient, that was barely one bolt-round per ork and despite the brag of his title, Ullr knew that even the best hit sometimes wasn’t enough to take down one of the resilient aliens.

‘Take out the walker,’ Ullr told Hari.

A blue flare lit the night a second later and a ball of raging plasma hit the mechanical behemoth square in the front. Paint and metal exploded, showering molten droplets and sparks, and the machine was rocked for a few seconds, swaying on its bandy legs.

‘Lord Krom, this is Ullr. We need to withdraw and detonate.’

Ullr could hear the plasma gun ticking as it cooled, but his eye was on the five heavily armoured figures stomping through the firelight of the broken walker. Eyes reflecting the flames, dozens more orks followed them, gaining courage from their leaders’ display.

‘Nowhere to withdraw to, First-Shot,’ came the Wolf Lord’s voice. ‘Orstanza’s trying to push through to relieve the pressure from the east. Thunderhawks have reloaded and are on their way to engage the ork drop-ship, but it’s a big bastard. If you fall back the orks will be all over the main landing area and we’ll be surrounded.’

‘Understood,’ said Ullr. There was nothing else to say.

The ork walker had started forward again, about seventy yards away. Its guns tracked left and right, rattling fire off the ferrocrete wall just to Ullr’s left, striking sparks from the metal around Hari. A crackling bolt of green fire raced across the dark from further away as one of the ork heavies tried its luck. The energy blast flew over Hari’s head by several yards but it wouldn’t be long until the range was so close the orks could hardly miss.

Ullr’s instinct was to open fire but there was no point; the walker was too well armoured and for any chance against the heavy fighters they needed them close enough to pick out weak spots. Another ball of plasma spat from Hari’s gun and ripped through one of the walker’s arms, scattering broken pieces over the pitted ferrocrete, the claw snapping of its own accord as it spun away.

‘Teeth of Russ!’ snarled Ullr, his frustration breaking like a spring flood on a dam. ‘Get a kill shot!’

Steam vented from the plasma, coating Hari’s helm with droplets as he turned his head to his pack leader.

‘Power pack at thirty per cent,’ the warrior said, unflustered by the situation and his leader’s rebuke. ‘Even if I take this bastard down, I’ll have nothing left for those heavy orks.’

‘Focus on the walker,’ Ullr told him.

Another sweep of the surrounds did not improve the situation. A flickering light bathed everything from above. Ullr glanced up again. The fiery belly of the drop-ship was just half a mile up, filling the sky like an incoming star. It was coming almost directly down, heading for the broad elevated apron at the centre of the dock. The blue-spark engines of the Thunderhawks circled up towards it, their wings alight with the flare of firing missiles. There were other lights, further up, bright stars of yellow that Ullr assumed were more ork craft of some kind.

If it lands, we’ll break out towards the woods and blow the charges, Ullr told himself. The Dragongaze will understand.

‘Can you stand?’ he asked, checking the cracked plate of Dethar. His blood had become an almost solid scab from armpit to waist.

Dethar reached up his empty hand and Ullr pulled him to his feet. The rags of his throat quivered as he tried to reply.

‘If we go, we’re going east,’ Ullr told the squad. ‘Rapid exit.’

Another green blast flared from the armoured orks in front of Ullr, crackling past Garnr close enough to leave sparks crawling across his helm. A concerted roar of fire erupted from two others, riddling the walkway and wall with high-velocity rounds, shrieking from ironwork and gnawing chunks of ceramite from the Space Marines’ warplate. As pieces of his shoulder pad scattered like woodchips from a saw blade, Ullr turned to present his more intact pauldron to the enemy, switching his firing grip from his right to his left hand. Hari fired again at the war machine, putting his shot into the damaged spot he had hit before. The plasma ball speared through the weakened armour plate and out of the back of the machine to spew white-hot metal, burning oil and charred flesh from the exit hole.

The armoured orks were just thirty yards away. Ullr could see the gleam of bionic eyes – targeter lenses, perhaps – and the small arcs of power throbbing from batteries and power packs.

‘Better go now, First-Shot,’ said Forskad from the other side of the building. ‘Forty or fifty more greenskins coming from the north. I see rocket launchers too.’

The pack leader could hear the rumble of tortured air from the drop-craft’s approach. If his pack stayed to engage the heavies they might not have a chance to pull back at all. But what was the point of retreating only to face a strengthened enemy tomorrow?

‘Hunt-brothers, waste no bolt,’ he snarled, coming to a decision. ‘This is our aett, we die to–’

A crash of noise that rivalled the greatest storms of Asaheim engulfed Ullr and the squad as a shockwave almost threw him from his feet. A ripple of blue flame washed out across the ferrocrete from behind, passing over the armoured orks, turning a dozen of those following to charred husks, hurling even more greenskins bloodily through the air trailing flames.

‘Vahk meh!’ cursed Forskad. Ullr turned to see what had happened.

The sky was as bright as day, the ork drop-ship now a thousand burning meteors plummeting groundwards. Ullr saw what he thought was lightning at first, but a second later realised had been a column of blue light pulsing down from orbit.

The lance strike of a starship.

The flares beyond the descending debris resolved into two large craft, each like a double-hulled Thunderhawk. As they powered surfacewards the quadruple-gleam of plasma jets reflected from pieces of broken ork landing craft. Missile launches rippled from their wings and heavy cannons strafed fire through the orks thronging across the landing pads.

The closest gunship banked hard, the shriek of its jets piercing against the continued rumble of the falling ork vessel’s demise. Pieces of jagged rock and lumpen metal smashed into the ferrocrete, throwing up even more debris that scythed down orks by the dozen.

Jubilant, welcoming howls erupted across the battlefield as the gunships roared over. Ullr’s voice was among them.

‘Ullr!’

Hari’s shout had the pack leader’s attention returned front and centre in an instant, any questions about the strange gunships swamped by a more immediate concern. The armoured orks had broken into a charge, firing madly as they pounded through the swirling ash of their minions. They were a matter of seconds from the stairs leading up to the gantries.

Ullr opened fire and the others followed. Bolt detonations rocked the incoming aliens but each was at least twice the mass of the Space Marines and their armour was just as impervious as theirs.

‘Pick your shots,’ he said, reminding himself as much as his pack-brothers.

He sighted on the snarling face of a monster just forty yards away. It was swaying from side to side, and as the hulking ork lumbered closer, Ullr found himself gently rocking in unison, his aim unwavering. He needed no magnification to see the creature’s red eyes glaring back, momentarily hidden by muzzle flare as the ork opened fire. Bullets screamed past but Ullr paid them no heed. If one was to cut his thread that moment, he would not go to the halls of the Wolf King ashamed.

Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, the ork’s head exploded. The bolt flared through an expanding cloud of vaporised flesh and dissipating blue energy to explode against the armour’s power pack. The headless corpse remained standing, the armour locked in its stride.

Plasma bolt. From where?

Another salvo of blasts screamed in from Ullr’s right, accompanied by a scything volley of bolts into the following orks. All but one of the armoured orks was down, cut to pieces by the plasma fusillade.

‘With me!’ First-Shot bellowed, vaulting over the remains of the rail to drop five yards to the ground. He launched himself towards the orks as his feet hit ferrocrete. ‘For Russ and the Allfather!’

The charging ork mob faltered, some tripping over the sudden pile of corpses, more trying to slow or turn back in the face of their devastated leaders and the counter-charging Wolves of Fenris. Around Ullr the Greypelts opened fire, bolters held single-handed, knives or axes readied. More shots hissed past from Dethar on the walkway.

‘Fenrys Hjolda!’ shouted Garnr, arm straight as he fired again.

Some of the orks fell to more shots from behind, as well as a fresh volley of plasma blasts from the pack’s unknown saviours. Leaping over the twitching remains of an armoured ork, Ullr fired a bolt into the chest of the nearest enemy. It fell back, pistol falling from its grip as it stumbled into another green-skinned alien. Sáthor leapt past, the curve of his hand-axe opening up the second ork from brow to throat.

The pack slashed into the orks with the same ease, bolts and blades parting the mob before them. Needing to reload but with no time in the press of foes, Ullr used his bolter as a club, smashing it into the horned helm of an ork to his left. He flipped his knife grip and drove it backhanded into the creature’s exposed shoulder, the point digging deep into the chest and organs within. Pulling free his weapon, he kicked the dying creature aside.

With no opponent at hand, stepping past the falling ork, Ullr found himself squaring off with a figure in blue-grey armour. Not quite face to face, for the other warrior was taller than Ullr, who since becoming a Space Marine had physically looked up to no man except Arjac Rockfist.

It was clearly a Space Marine, and the colours were those of the Wolves of Fenris. Rather than a pack mark, the Space Marine bore a more traditional Codex squad symbol, but on the Chapter pauldron was the Fenrisian wolf, just as on Ullr’s; it was partly obscured by a grey chevron painted over it.

There were five more like it behind.

Other than the colour, there were no totems, badges, runes or other paraphernalia Ullr would have expected on a brother wolf. The weapons the warriors held looked like bolters, in the same way the wielder looked like a Space Marine – larger and yet somehow leaner by proportion.

‘Vlka Fenryka!’ the newcomer bellowed, lifting a chainsword thick with ork viscera, the words bizarre to hear in a standard Imperial Gothic accent.

Ullr stared at the stranger.

‘Vahk meh…’

Chapter Nine

WOLVES OF FENRIS
HARD DECISIONS
FENRIS FORBIDDEN

It was a moment Gaius had wanted for three years, now become reality. Three years of battle, of being at the knife-edge of Fleet Primus’ advance had brought him close to death several times; his demise had never caused him pause but he had feared his soul would feel the regret of never meeting the Wolves of Fenris before his time was ended. The book from Mudire had turned that vague hope into a much-imagined moment as he pictured the great warriors of the Wolf King, and here he was striding amongst them in the midst of battle.

The Grey Hunters’ squad leader – Gaius knew the markings on sight – said something in Fenrisian that hadn’t been included in the gazetteer’s glossary and dictionary. There were orks all around them and no time to check whether the Space Wolf had issued a command or a greeting.

‘Hjolda!’ said Gaius, grinning inside his helm at the thought of speaking Juvyk in the presence of these famed warriors.

A bellowing ork lunged at the pair, forcing the other sergeant to turn with knife held up to the parry. Gaius fired his pistol at others coming behind, putting three bolts into each ork as he had been taught – the xenos were ridiculously difficult to put down permanently.

The two squads parted naturally as the brutality of melee engulfed them both, neither wishing to impede the other. Knowing that Sergeant Godan’s Hellblasters were behind him, Gaius threw himself into the fight, chainsword chewing through padded armour and flesh, its rending teeth gnawing at blades and bones. The orks were surrounded by the arrival of the Primaris Marines and fought with the same savagery as cornered animals, breaking claws and tusks against ceramite armour when cleavers and clubs proved ineffective.

Though he did not allow himself to be distracted from the foe at hand, Gaius found himself looking over the thronging aliens to catch glimpses of the Fenrisian squad. From all that Cawl had implanted into his autolearning, and the few asides on the warriors of Russ in his book, Gaius hoped to see an incarnation of feral savagery unleashed upon the enemy. What he witnessed was a much more controlled ferocity. Every Space Wolf fought as part of the squad, protecting the others, striking when opportunity presented, so that rather than a handful of wild fighters they were a viciously efficient killing team.

Deflecting an axe blade with a swinging arm, Gaius raked the teeth of his chainsword across the chest of another ork. His squad had fought together for three years, and spent nearly every waking minute not on campaign in combat drill or learning improved battle doctrine. Even so, the moment he saw the Fenrisian squad in action Gaius realised that he and his warriors fought like a machine, more than a creature. Effective, but lacking an indefinable quality of togetherness.

The sprawl of the combat brought the two squads near each other as more Firstborn of Fenris followed from the building they had been guarding, pursued by several score of orks.

‘I am Sergeant Gaius,’ he called to the other squad leader a few yards away, breaking open the face of an ork with the guard of his chainsword. He spoke in Gothic, confidence in his Fenrisian dented by his lack of understanding in their first exchange.

‘Ullr, of the Drakeslayers Great Company under Lord Krom Dragongaze,’ replied the Space Wolf in the same tongue, his accent marking the words but not obscuring them. He ducked a crackling cleaver blade and swept away his attacker’s legs with his bolter. He drove the point of his knife into the back of its neck as it fell. ‘I am known as First-Shot.’

Gaius had no title, and the company attached to the torchbearer fleet had no other official designation yet. He improvised, not wanting to appear rude.

‘We are the Sons of Russ, commanded by Lieutenant Castallor.’ Close-range fire cracked against Gaius’ breastplate. He hacked off the clawed hand holding the pistol and the ork stumbled back, snarling. Aegreus strode past, knife cutting the wounded xenos’ throat.

‘Sons of Russ are you?’ The other sergeant’s face was hidden but the question was laden with doubt. ‘How do you figure that?’

Doro arrived, shooting his bolt rifle between the two of them. Gaius cut down an ork that tried to grab his battle-brother’s arm, pushing the chainsword into its chest and sawing it through the creature’s spine as it buckled. He wasn’t sure where to start – the return of Lord Guilliman, Cawl, the Indomitus Crusade… He was sure there were protocols for the officers to introduce these profound concepts to the sons of Fenris.

‘What gives you the right to that name?’ Ullr demanded while Doro pushed onward to support Aegreus. ‘What are you?’

That was a much easier question. Gaius smashed his pistol into the skull of an ork raising its weapon towards the Space Wolf. The xenos was knocked sideways, its shots slamming into ferrocrete rather than ceramite. Ullr rammed a knee into its face as it staggered forward, snapping its neck. Gaius stepped on the creature’s head, crushing it to a paste to be certain of its demise. This brought him back to the other squad leader.

‘Space Marines, Ullr First-Shot.’ Gaius grinned as he said it, filled with the joy of one bearing a happy truth. For a second Gaius wondered if this was another of the simulations; it seemed too good to be true. ‘Primaris warriors. A new kind of Space Marine, but from the gene-seed of Leman Russ the Wolf King. We’re here to help you.’

As Arjac considered his surroundings, it was not lost on him that the folk of Fenris were almost as adept at changing their environment as the orks. Aside from the view out of the armoured windows, he could have been standing in one of the many halls of a Chapter starship or even back at the Aett. The walls were heavy-gauge plasteel on top of the native decks of the bulk hauler and it was nearly impossible to tell where the ancient starship stopped and the newly raised defences of Grimnar’s Great Company began. Just as the orks had constructed a township out of the starship’s guts to recreate their ingrained settlement pattern, so Arjac and others had hung banners, trophies and wyrdleif-marked badges throughout the new fortification and the chambers of the ship below.

Although the orks had secured much of the inner reaches of the space hulk, keeping it protected and intact with fluctuating tractor beams and force fields, they had neglected most of the surface. In the absence of any serious void-directed firepower and anti-aircraft defences, the ships of Grimnar’s Great Company had stationed themselves within a few hundred yards of the slowly moving conglomeration. A brief bombardment had accomplished little but had depleted supplies already limited by the extended campaign, while energy weapons fire taxed plasma reactors that had not received extensive ministration from the Iron Priests for many years.

The orks would have to be slain from within the hulk.

The insertion point chosen for the first assault had become the site for the keep, but now the established breachhead delved down several decks to provide more than a dozen sortie routes for patrols or massed counter-attack. Two large bunker-like complexes nestled into the hauler’s upper decks were the foundation of a tower that reached back to the void and extended to a makeshift dock, where gunships were able to make rapid drops – or equally swift extractions should the Gottrok start to fall back into the Everdusk.

To guard against this, Njal or one of the other surviving Rune Priests stood constant vigil on the Ironjarl, away from the psychic noise caused by the orks and their sorcerous warlord. Twice in the last few days the Great Company had been put on evacuation alert by command of the runethegn, but the fluctuations of the othersea had dissipated before laying their grip on the space hulk again.

Arjac’s view looked out along the storage bays of the starboard side of the old freight ship, each knocked through to the next to create a field of fire half a mile distant and a quarter of a mile wide. To either side of this kill-zone was a maze of half-broken corridors and chambers, some of them belonging to the old crew decks, others from impacted neighbouring vessels. The orks held much of the maze-like ruin but had learnt from repeated attacks that the armoured line of Grimnar’s keep would not be easily taken.

In return, there had been little opportunity to press home any attacks against the idol-town and its strange ruler. The Great Wolf had instructed the Rune Priests and Imperial astropaths to send messages calling for assistance from any that could, and to demand the attendance of any other Chapter forces in the vicinity. So far the void had been clear of reply.

Until now.

Njal had requested the council gather, saying that he had received fresh vision regarding the fate of the Chapter and the deeds of Logan Grimnar. So it was that Arjac waited with Lord Grimnar, Ulrik the Slayer and the most senior Wolf Guard pack leaders.

Although the war-aett had been partly decorated to resemble the households of Fenris, nothing that would hamper a withdrawal had been brought down. Furnishings had been left behind, bar two large work tables from the armoury, now home to a hand-drawn map of the immediate surrounds, based on a few surveyor’s scans and much embellished by information from the excursions of the Great Wolf and his warriors. At the centre was a drawing of what could be remembered from the battle in the ork settlement. The chart was drawn on a large piece of canvas found in the holds of the Allfather’s Honour, an old jarlship sail someone had stowed in years or centuries past for reasons unremembered, held down with runestones, tankards, fresh ork skulls and other ephemera.

‘If I had just fifty more warriors we could push forward to these choke points here.’ Grimnar picked up an ork fang and drove it into the map as he explained to two arrivals just back from the perimeter, Ironfang and Horgoth. Ork blood was still drying on their armour as they leaned over the map table to see where the Great Wolf indicated. ‘With the orks pinned back, we could move our entire force into the chambers around the hauler’s command bridge, within half a mile of the reactor.’

‘Let’s hope Njal has news of reinforcements,’ said Ironfang.

‘Hope is just willing blindness to the truth of the present,’ said Ulrik. ‘The hopes of mortals thrum only lightly on the threads of fate. Bold action plucks them more strongly!’

The Slayer had not removed his wolf-skull helm since the attack had begun. A grim, unyielding figure marked by death itself. As much as Arjac admired the Great Wolf’s former mentor, Ulrik’s growing aggression through repeated insistence to attack the orks was starting to wear thin. Though the old Wolf Priest seemed as unkillable as ever, of late there seemed to be an unquenchable battle lust in him, as if he sought some last great victory for his saga before the inevitable caught up with him and his thread was severed.

In this matter, though, Arjac was in agreement.

‘You cannot forge steel out of air,’ he said, turning away from the window. ‘And we cannot summon fifty warriors from the empty heavens.’

‘I do not plan in idle hope, if that is your accusation,’ growled Logan, looking up from the map. Arjac had meant no accusation but did not waste breath in denial – the Great Wolf was understandably frustrated. ‘I do not vainly plead the uncaring heavens to put a sword in the empty sheath. When aid comes we will be ready to strike.’

‘Keep that thought alive, Great Wolf,’ said Njal from the doorway. ‘But be not foresworn to a single course of action.’

The Runelord stepped within the hall, his face sheened with the sweat of effort, eyes wide and bright beneath the thatch of his ruddy hair. His staff had a soft nimbus of gold, and shadows danced around the runethegn though the lumens were constant in their light. Arjac felt the creep of wyrd along his skin, prickling it within his heavy plate.

‘I have seen across the wyrdsea and bring news of the greatest import and urgency,’ declared the Stormcaller, striding to the map table. ‘Portents the like of which we have not seen since the Everdusk fell upon the stars!’

‘Then be swift in your recounting,’ said Ulrik. ‘Save the skjald theatrics for later retelling.’

Njal glared at the Slayer, stalled by the interruption. After a few seconds he swung his gaze across the room and his eye fell upon the Great Wolf. The Stormcaller stretched out a hand, towards him.

‘An immortal king bestrides the stars, born of the Allfather, delivered to us from the dawn of time,’ the Rune Priest continued. ‘In the king’s wake is an army whose marching tread shakes the heavens. The light of their eyes is brighter than the stars, piercing the darkness, breaking the shadows. They are seeking us. Seeking the Great Wolf. The calls fade in the deep void, echoing to nothing, unheard. Calling, seeking. The wolf rises against a red moon, answering the call with a howl that shatters the gathered storm. Sons unnumbered come upon the Aett and raise their clamour to demand entry. Death walks with them but from Hel’s grip Fenris is prised, brought into the Allfather’s light again.’

He slumped, as best his Terminator suit allowed, eyes cast to the floor, the glow of his staff fading. He continued in a whisper.

‘But there are bad stars, too. The green giant will feed upon the sons of the Wolf ere it is slain. A king must kneel and threads will be severed by the score. Fierce will be the murder-make, and crimson shall be the smiles of wolf and foe alike. A single misstep will see all fall to the rage of the green giant, the wolf lost and alone, cast from the pack and hunted by its brothers.’

Silence followed for several seconds, broken by Horgoth.

‘Does that mean we are getting reinforcement?’ asked the Wolf Guard.

‘It means we cannot stay here,’ Logan said softly, watching Njal with narrowed eyes. ‘Am I right, runethegn?’

‘Great history stirs, and it does not turn about this place,’ answered the Stormcaller.

‘You do not see the content of your own vision,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘There is only one immortal king that can be returned to us, a son of the Allfather. Look around! The Imperium is failing, the Everdusk consumes all. Are these not the last battles? Is not the red sun the twilight of mortal life?’

Ulrik spoke, his deep voice issuing from his helm as though from another place, reciting words that every warrior of the Aett knew by heart.

‘Listen but closely, my brothers, for my life’s breath is all but spent. There shall come a time far from now when our Chapter itself is dying, even as I am now dying, and our foes shall gather to destroy us. Then, my children, I shall listen for your call in whatever realm of death holds me, and I shall come no matter what the laws of life and death forbid.’

Ironfang added his voice to the next line.

‘At the end I will be there.’

The others joined, Arjac saying the words without effort, as though they sprang from his tongue of their own will.

‘For the Final Battle.’

And then Grimnar spoke alone.

‘For the Wolftime.’

Silence filled the room, broken by the beating of double-hearts and the distant chatter of gunfire.

‘The Wolftime,’ Arjac said, saying the words with awe.

‘Perhaps,’ said Njal, straightening. His abrupt manner broke the spell that had bound them. ‘Perhaps not. Visions are never that simple.’

‘What else could it be?’ said the Great Wolf. ‘Are we not upon the brink of the abyss? The Wolftime is upon us and Russ shall return!’

‘Not so,’ said Ulrik. ‘You heard but did not heed. The Wolf King listens for our call, but it is not the pleas of weak and defeated men that will draw his ear. We are sons of Fenris! Space and time will break to our battle howl!’

Grimnar nodded, staring at the wolf mask of the Slayer. He nodded again, more decisively, as though reaching a decision. His fist curled about the haft of the Axe Morkai propped against the table, but he did not lift the weapon. His next words were spoken quietly, but with no less force and conviction than a command roared across a battlefield.

‘The Gottrok shall be our test,’ he announced. ‘We shall not end with mewling complaint, but with blades in our hands and battle cries upon our lips. Our threads have been parted to many fates, but no more. It is time to snatch them up in our fist and bind them in a knot that cannot be undone. As one we shall fight, and as one our thread will continue or be cut.’

Njal smoothed his beard. ‘The call shall be sent,’ he said. ‘The howl that will bring all back to the Hearthworld, heard across the void. Perhaps beyond.’

‘I’ll tell Gammalr to ready the ships for return to Fenris,’ said Arjac.

‘I need someone to stay with the Ironjarl, to keep watch on this brute of a rock,’ said Grimnar.

‘If my name is the next from your lips, I will hit you, my king or not,’ warned Arjac. ‘I am your hearthegn, not a watchdog.’

A half-smile curled Logan’s lip as he considered his next words, and the sincerity of the Rockfist’s threat.

‘My pack will stand watch,’ offered Ironfang, breaking the impasse. ‘Somebody without stones in their skull should remain.’

Logan regarded Arjac for a few more seconds but the furrows of his brow were shallow compared to his expression of late. If Arjac was to guess at his lord’s thoughts, it seemed he was pleased to have reason to quit the Gottrok for a time. Perhaps he had come to regard his oath as a folly, but he could not renege upon it.

‘We will return,’ the Great Wolf promised, banging a fist against Ironfang’s shoulder. ‘For glory or death, like the Wolf King, we will return.’

‘There are still thousands of orks on the ground.’

Colonel Gander did not cut an imposing figure, being no more than five feet tall, middle-aged and with a paunch that pushed at the fabric of his drab green shirt. Sweat patches marked under his arms and across his chest, the stubble on his cheeks a few days old. His camouflage fatigue trousers were haphazardly tucked into scuffed boots thick with mud and blood. A lho-stick burned between his fingers, forgotten but not discarded with the others whose heel-scrunched butts littered the floor of the command pavilion.

‘Maybe tens of thousands,’ he continued.

Ullr did not judge him by his lacklustre appearance, but by his deeds, and for those he deserved to stand in the company of mighty leaders like Krom Dragongaze and Captain Orstanza. When others, his superiors included, had retreated before the ork landings, Gander and his regiment had stood their ground, holding off the aliens long enough for the Imperial commander to evacuate and the nearby civilians to seek shelter within the wall of Venisium. Even after the arrival of the joint Space Marine force he had continued to lead his part-time defence troopers out on raids against the ork lines. He was, however, distraught at the news that Krom was taking his Great Company away.

‘We’re not abandoning you, colonel,’ the Wolf Lord insisted, his spiked hair brushing the canvas of the pavilion’s roof as he paced back and forth. ‘The Dragonspears are staying, and a ship from the Indomitus flotilla will remain to give orbital support, plus fresh assistance from tech-priests and others.’

‘Although I do not agree with his decision to leave immediately, I concur with the assessment by my companion,’ said Orstanza.

The captain from the Dragonspears – the name had amused Krom constantly since they had joined forces – had the look of an Imperial hero chiselled from stone. Square-jawed, short hair, patrician features. Everything that Gander was not, Ullr realised.

‘The main thrust of the ork second wave has been broken, all that remains is to prevent the fractured armies uniting again. Lieutenant Castallor has agreed to thirty of these new Primaris Marines reinforcing my company on a temporary basis, including new armoured vehicles that frankly I would not have believed existed until I saw them myself.’

‘Aye, and the rest are coming back to Fenris with me!’ declared Dragongaze with a grin. He glanced at Ullr, Wolf Guard Kraki and the three other surviving senior pack leaders, Thorvel Bloodfist, Asveri the Swift and Drogr Ploughblade. ‘All sworn in, yes? Oaths made. Sons of Russ no more, now they’re Drakeslayers.’

‘Yes, lord, all two hundred and eighty of them,’ replied Kraki, who had spent most of the morning swearing oaths of fealty with the Primaris Marines. ‘Technically they’re all Blood Claws, but that Lieutenant Castallor is a stern one and I didn’t feel like suggesting they change their markings yet.’

‘But with so many Space Marines, the orks will be wiped out all the faster!’ protested Gander. It was unusual for unaugmented humans to show such resolve in front of the intimidating warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, but Ullr figured that the colonel had seen far worse over the last weeks and had nothing to lose.

‘My astropaths tell me their minds are still ringing with the wolf call, even through the roar of the ork noise,’ said Krom. ‘The Great Wolf has let forth the howl that calls us to the Aett and we must return. Even if not for the command to return to the Hearthworld, the news of Guilliman’s resurrection and his war cannot wait. And the Primaris gift, it must be escorted to Fenris without delay.’

‘And with the largest Great Company of all, I’d wager,’ said Ullr.

‘Indeed!’ grinned the Dragongaze. ‘Imagine arriving in the Hall of the Great Wolf with so many fine warriors. Blackmane, Redmaw and the others will choke on their mjod to see it.’

It had been Ullr’s point that the reinforcements would be sorely needed, but he thought it better not to correct his lord. Lord Krom’s competitive streak had seen the Great Company plunged headlong into the fiercest battles at times but it also meant they were steeped in glory for their many victories.

‘With your leave, Lord Krom, we should be preparing to depart for orbit,’ said Asveri. ‘The newcomers are already embarking on their drop-ships.’

‘Oh yes, the Overlord gunships,’ crowed Dragongaze, flexing his fingers as though he could feel them, his eye moving to Orstanza. ‘Did you see them? Big. So many guns. We’ll be making good use of those again before long.’

‘These new creations of the archmagos, Cawl, are remarkable,’ agreed Orstanza, for once sharing the Wolf Lord’s enthusiasm. ‘I hope that it is not long before our Chapter is blessed with one of these torchbearer fleets as well. By the Golden Master, we need every assistance available.’

Kraki turned away, signalling for the others to leave as well while the two commanding officers continued to discuss the virtues of Guilliman’s return and the arrival of the Indomitus Crusade.

Outside the large tent Ullr found Gaius waiting, his squad a little further away. The camp had been made near the reconquered starport, one of the outer pads serving as a muster ground while gunships sat with engines idling on the upper aprons. The Rhino of the Greypelts was parked a short distance from the colonel’s pavilion, the rest of the pack sat atop it or waiting inside for their leader.

‘Sergeant Ullr!’ Gaius called, striding forward to intercept him. ‘I wanted to tell you it was an honour to fight alongside you.’

‘Right,’ replied Ullr, not sure what to say. Gaius had taken off his helm, revealing gaunt features covered with a fuzz of hair. ‘Growing a beard are you?’

The other Space Marine rubbed his hand across his chin with a half-smile. ‘Better to start late than never,’ he said. The Primaris sergeant looked as if he would continue but stopped himself. He glanced over Ullr’s shoulder towards the waiting gunships, expression sour for a moment before returning his attention to the pack leader. ‘Good travels. May the Emperor watch over you.’

Ullr was about to walk away but there was something about the Son of Russ’ earnest expression that held him in place. It reminded Ullr of the faces of the other children when they had sat around the fire listening to tales of the Sky Warriors from Skjald Ellina, enraptured by their mythical exploits. These Primaris Marines were Drakeslayers now, company brothers.

‘The Allfather,’ he said. ‘Alfathir. That’s what we call Him.’

‘Of course,’ said Gaius, nodding. ‘I knew that. Alfathir. The creator. Lord of Kings.’

‘And we say Russr handr when we part.’

‘Russ’ hand?’ guessed Gaius.

‘Yes. May Russ’ Hand protect you on your journey,’ explained Ullr. He looked at the other squad and then back to his own pack. ‘What’s your role? Your pack?’

Gaius thought for a moment, deciphering the question before he shook his head in defeat.

‘We are Grey Hunters,’ Ullr said, pointing to his pack marking. ‘What are you?’

‘Intercessors.’

‘Intercessors?’ Ullr tried out the unfamiliar word a couple more times. ‘I don’t understand. How do you intercess?’

‘Our lieutenant, Astopites, said we’re like the Firstborn Tactical squads. That’s our role. A battle-line unit.’

‘Tactical squad, that I understand,’ said Ullr. He banged knuckles against his chestplate. ‘That’s what the Codex readers try to call us sometimes. We ignore them.’

The two stood in silence. Ullr felt an affinity for the stranger even though he was obviously an upplander in Wolf colours.

‘Russr handr,’ said Gaius, shifting his weight but not yet leaving. ‘Lieutenant Castallor has called for the force to embark.’

Ullr reached a decision with a final look back at the Rhino.

‘Krom Dragongaze is your lord now. You’re a few warriors down and we’re not full strength. You’re all a bit tall, but if you don’t mind riding the roof, maybe you could come with us instead?’

Gaius smiled but the expression quickly faded, replaced by a frown of consternation. ‘I think that would be failure to obey a superior’s command.’

‘I’m ten times as old as you, Gaius,’ Ullr explained. ‘I’ll be made varangeir when we get back to the Aett. If that doesn’t make me your superior, what does?’

He could see the war being waged within the newcomer.

‘If you want to be part of the Great Company, you’re going to have to learn our ways. Loyalty is iron. It is our bond and our strength. If you are ever disloyal I will hunt you down and slay you like vermin. Obedience…?’ Ullr waggled his hand in a gesture of ambivalence. ‘Obedience isn’t the same as loyalty.’

‘I think I understand,’ Gaius said slowly. Ullr heard the hiss of a vox-connection before the Intercessor sergeant spoke again, turning towards his squad. ‘New squad orders. We are now riding with Ullr’s Greypelts. Cultural assimilation.’

Ullr could see the Space Marines’ reactions, a mixture of surprise and disbelief. He half-heard their politely framed questions over the vox-link; mild compared to what his pack was going to say.

Mudire arrived early to the audiatus hoping to make use of the large table to arrange his current works in progress; all other chambers of any comparable size were being used for the Primaris Marines and their combat drills. When the wooden double doors opened on hissing pistons he was disappointed to find that three of his fellow historitors had had the same idea, the glassite tabletop already covered with books, papers and plexisheets of various proportion. A robe-clad serf was busy at the vox and vid-projection stations, preparing them for the coming conference.

Copla-var looked up from his notes, pushing strands of tightly curled black hair behind his ear. A mnemonic tracker was fitted into the left side of his brow, a blinking blue light at its centre like a third eye. Like Mudire and the others, he was dressed in the greyish-blue officer uniform of the Logos Historica Verita, though he wore a red sash across the chest. It seemed like an odd way to draw attention to oneself planetside, Mudire thought, but he was not going to waste his time trying to dictate others’ sartorial choices.

Mudire looked at the other historitor and then the pile of work filling the space in front of the neighbouring seat and then back to Copla-var.

‘Sorry,’ Copla-var said, trying to pull some of his scattered work into a smaller space. His elbow bumped that of his neighbour, Forgewelt Sparbend. She growled in annoyance but did not look up from the rows of tiny script on the page in front of her.

Mudire had barely exchanged a dozen words with the former Adeptus Terra compilator majoris, for which he was quite grateful given her generally aggressive demeanour. The finger that followed the writing was flat from time at a stenograph, and her records showed that she had spent years as a low-grade duplicator. The untimely, unexplained death of a superior had seen her begin to ascend the ranks, first as interlocutor and then with the overseer privileges of compilator rank. She was in her late thirties, Terra-reckoning, but had the look of a woman twenty years older. Hers was a face that had lived a hard life, creased and dry, flaking around the nose and at the temples, where blonde hair was turning to grey. Her record said she had resisted rejuvenat treatment so far, but if she was to continue in her service she would have to submit to it at some point.

That she had moved up seven grades within her own lifetime was testament not only to her superior analytical skills and data-mining expertise but also an awakened ambition and ruthlessness Mudire had rarely seen in any raised in such low-born circumstance. The drudgery of infancy in an Adeptus Terra scholam expunged any sense of higher purpose from the clerk classes, and if it didn’t then a few years apprenticed to a menial stock counter or cubicle rote-worker usually finished the job.

The third occupant was λ-34-Eliptyka, a lexmechanic seconded from the Departmento Munitorum. On the surface the tech-priest seemed mostly human but Mudire knew better than to judge by appearances. Occasionally he noticed a jarring movement when she walked or turned, as though something more like cogs than muscles was beneath the scarlet robe she always wore over her historitor garb. Like most of her former order, she was accompanied by the fragrance of incense mixed with greasy lubricant, and a faint electrical discharge. Her pattern-recognition skills, augmented no doubt by internal metriculators and other Martian secrets, had been moved from strategic analysis to documentation collation, able to highlight contradictions and gaps in the historitors’ accounts and research after just a few minutes of study. She seemed personable enough but Mudire recognised his resentment of her role, reminded too much of his childhood tutors’ scrutiny of his work.

Mudire sat opposite Copla-var, carefully sorting his books into three piles – initial notes and observations; assimilated text; compiled and edited manuscript. He also had everything on a data-crystal which he kept in a thumb-locked case on his belt, but he much preferred working with paper and pen. Another holdover from his noble Terran schooling, in which penmanship was seen as far superior to typotheticals and stenography.

‘Nearly time,’ said Copla-var, fingertips tapping a rapid beat on the glassite.

‘Yes, we’re almost in the Fenris System,’ replied Mudire.

‘Yes. Translation. Warp jump.’ Copla-var sniffed and then gently coughed, a tic Mudire had first observed when the Enduring Hate had been preparing to leave the main fleet.

‘Custodian Vychellan wishes us to be ready to record everything that happens,’ said Mudire. ‘We may be looking for historical documents but our other role is to continue to observe the history unfolding around us.’

‘There has been no certified contact with the Space Wolves Chapter since the Cicatrix Maledictum arrived,’ said Eliptyka. ‘We may be the first to document their demise.’

‘A less-than-thrilling thought,’ said Mudire. He laid out three styluses beside a sheaf of fresh paper. ‘If the Space Wolves have been destroyed I have no desire to run into the foe that achieved such a feat.’

‘Our mission requires us to investigate Fenris in the absence of its protectors,’ said Eliptyka. ‘We have more than a company of Primaris Marines to aid us. I am confident of success.’

An irritated grunt from Forgewelt silenced Mudire before he spoke again. Instead, he looked at the styluses he had laid out. All three had started out identical, nondescript cylinders of silvery metal with a soft plastek grip and slide-switch on the side. Now each had a personality; each was like a companion with a shared history. The veneer worn away by thumb and finger on his favourite, the one slightly reddened from when it fell in a pool of blood on Archetria, and the near-pristine one he kept for signing off his finished accounts. The last now had a scratch down the side from where one of the others had banged against it in his carryall during a turbulence-beset drop over Spiridos III; Mudire fancied one of the others had done it out of jealousy of the third stylus’ lofty role. Not that he had mentioned such whimsy to anyone else, of course. They were his pens, not friends. Things, not even technical enough to have spirits. He didn’t really believe that the bloodstained one seemed to flow better when he was writing battle accounts.

‘It’s a pleasure to work with one of the Founding Four,’ said Copla-var, interrupting Mudire’s errant train of thought.

‘You said already.’ As well as having trained half a dozen of their order, Mudire had worked alongside several more and seen three of them die. It was better to not get attached.

‘To have been there right at the start–’

‘Stop,’ snapped Forgewelt, slamming a hand to the table as she straightened. She glared at Copla-var, her blue eyes piercing. Her voice was husky, almost raw, as though she suffered from some kind of infection or other ailment. ‘If you must babble constantly, at least have some modicum of self-respect and awareness. I cannot comprehend how you were selected for this important duty. We are to witness and assimilate all history. It is a continuum from the past to the future and we have been chosen as guides on that route. There is no moment that is more or less important. Every beginning arose from circumstances beforehand and will lead to new beginnings. Ours is not the place to make judgements but to observe, assess and record.’ She took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. ‘And that is what I am trying to do, amid your chattering.’

She returned her attention to her work, not waiting for any response. Copla-var gave Mudire a mock-chastened look the historitor recalled himself employing in many tutelage sessions with Master Pardanious.

Mudire spent the next few minutes revising his entries for the Noviomagus Superior campaign. He had hoped to speak with Sergeant Gaius for a warrior-level view, after seeing his name among those squads that had made first contact with the Space Wolves. Regretfully, Gaius and his squad had not returned to the Enduring Hate but had instead embarked on the Fenrisian vessel Gmorli Hjammar. The official documentation put this down to ‘Administratum Erratia’ but Mudire wondered if something else was afoot.

He was just deciding whether to include this titbit of information in his account when the doors hissed open behind him. The thud of boots and increase in air static immediately betrayed the arrival of power-armoured troops. Vychellan entered first, followed by Castallor and Astopites. At the same moment one of the main viewscreens crackled into life to show a grey-and-green image of Shipmaster Herkel on the main strategium deck. Mudire could see that all strategium external screens were blanked for warp transit, the main port closed with an inches-thick blast shutter.

Movement at the edge of the scene caught Mudire’s eye and he watched for it again. A stocky man with short, raven-black hair appeared, data-slate in hand, dressed in a historitor uniform. Mudire recognised the last of the team, Ahlek Threstinius. It looked as though he had decided the strategium was a better position from which to record the occasion of the vessel’s arrival at Fenris.

‘Translation in eighty seconds, my lords,’ Herkel told the Space Marines and Custodian. A small team of tech-adepts and functionaries followed them in, dwarfed by their masters, and took up places at the control consoles.

Mudire tidied his papers away, clearing the glassite table and the projector beneath, as did Eliptyka and Copla-var. Oblivious to the new arrivals, Forgewelt continued writing until a shadow fell over her paper. She looked up, lips peeled back ready to deliver a remonstration, when she laid eyes upon Custodian Vychellan. The muscles in her face went slack like an animatron suddenly devoid of power, her hand falling to the table, pen nib breaking on the glassite.

Vychellan leaned past her and with surprisingly gentle movements stacked her books and papers on the side of the table, away from the projector plate. Forgewelt’s disbelieving gaze moved from the Custodian to the pile of books. She laid a reverent hand upon the top, her expression one of rapture.

Neither Space Marines nor Custodian sat, and it was Lieutenant Castallor that took position next to the feed from the strategium. The expedition was still under Adeptus Astartes leadership, Mudire recalled. Though potentially vital for the historitors as an advisor, Vychellan was a supernumerary in regard to the fleet’s main purpose of delivering the Primaris knowledge to Fenris, outside the military hierarchy.

‘The Dragonroar and Gmorli Hjammar should already be in-system at Fenris,’ said Castallor, addressing the historitors directly. ‘Lord Krom will have passed on knowledge of our mission to whatever Chapter assets are also in the system. We are expected.’

The scene from the command bridge became one of sudden activity, signalling the start of translation. An alarm blared its wordless warning, sending a shiver of apprehension through Mudire. Copla-var had his eyes closed, hands clasped tight to his chest in prayer. Eliptyka watched the strategium display while Forgewelt’s eyes were locked on to Vychellan like a missile’s machine-spirit on its target.

Hot nails rammed into Mudire’s eyes and ears at the moment of translation, sending a spasm of pain down his spine that almost tipped him from his chair. He swore as he gripped the edge of the table, tears welling in his eyes. It hadn’t been like this with the main fleet and it was getting worse, he was sure. There seemed to be some truth to the idea that Lord Guilliman’s presence had a calming effect on the warp.

Vychellan was at his side, a hand close but not quite grabbing the historitor.

‘I’m fine,’ Mudire managed, pushing himself upright. ‘Just… a thing. I’m fine now.’

Vychellan eyed him suspiciously for a few more seconds and then returned to his place by the Space Marine lieutenant. Everything on the strategium looked calm, and after the checks and counter-checks were announced the main shutter slid open. The link was poor for an internal feed, but Mudire could make out a large star while the orbits of its planets were picked out in dotted lines marked with coordinate numbers.

‘Resurrecting communication proto…’ Herkel tailed off as a sub-officer said something to him. He looked down to a vid-screen on his right and then directly to the audiatus capture unit. ‘We are already being hailed, my lords. Space Wolves ciphers. Preliminary survey reports five or more vessels of significant mass in our vicinity, all broadcasting correct Imperial identification codes.’

‘Establish direct feed, shipmaster.’ If Castallor was at all taken aback by this turn of events he showed not the least sign of it. ‘Answer with our own cipher details.’

‘Yes, Lieutenant Castallor.’

A serf attending to a screen beside Lieutenant Astopites raised his hand to attract their attention and a second later the display crackled into life. The screen was almost filled with a heavily lined face, framed by brown and grey hair. Sharp canine teeth protruded past the bottom lip.

‘I am Engir Krakendoom, lord of the Seawolves, Gloried Son of Fenris, Jarl of the Old Wolf,’ the warrior declared, staring directly into the feed with amber-irised eyes. ‘I have been chosen as the mouth of the Great Wolf and from my tongue hear his words. Heed them or it will go ill for you. This is Fenris, the sovereign realm of the Wolf King. None enter except by invite. None leave except with permission. You are to approach no closer to the Hearthworld. If you do, the sons of Fenris will consider it an attack and it will be to your heavy cost. If you attempt to leave we shall pursue you to your destruction. All who enter our domains submit to the judgement of the Great Wolf. Await it at peace and all shall be well.’

‘I am Lieutenant Castallor, detached from Battle Group Retributus of Fleet Primus in the Indomitus Crusade. My command–’

‘We know well who leads your fleet,’ Krakendoom cut across the lieutenant. ‘Krom told us all that he was told. The Legion-breaker returns and he sends you with a gift in one hand, a blade in the other. Heed the warning, usurper. Come no closer to Fenris.’

The screen filled with static and then went dead at the serf’s attention. Castallor frowned, the first time Mudire had seen any sign of perturbation on the officer’s face. The scratch of nib on paper drew his attention to Copla-var, reminding him that they were supposed to be recording these events.

Mudire looked at his styluses, slightly disjointed from his surroundings. He put it down to a residual effect of warp translation, but part of him argued that it was fear. Of the many foes the crusade would face, he had not expected the Space Wolves to be among them. His eye was drawn to the red stylus, the one that longed to describe battles. He had thought he would not be using it again quite so soon.

Chapter Ten

NAMING THE PACK
THE GREAT WOLF’S REBUKE
THE WEIGHT OF OATHS GROWS HEAVY

Gaius held the brush over the pot of black paint to make sure nothing dripped onto the deck; he held out his pauldron in his left hand, now red inside its blue-grey rim. The other was drying on the bench, the newly applied icon of the Drakeslayers where the symbol of the Sons of Russ had been. The rest of his squad stood at other worktops with expectant gazes fixed on him.

‘Is this really how it works?’ Gaius turned to Ullr, who was standing at the door of the armorium cell, one shoulder leaning against the metal frame, chewing a piece of cured meat. ‘There should be a catalogue of designs to choose from. Or maybe I should wait for Lord Krom to assign a marking?’

‘It’s your pack, you choose the marking,’ growled Ullr. He was out of his armour too, but unlike the grey robes of Gaius and his companions he wore hide breeches tied with thongs from ankle to knee and a fur-lined jerkin that left arms and chest exposed. Gaius could see a tattoo on the left breast that matched the dag-marks that adorned the shoulders of the Greypelts’ warplate. ‘Most are ancient tribal marks, everyone would know what they mean. You’ll think of something different, from another heritage.’

‘What if I pick something that’s similar to another squad?’

‘Pack,’ said Ullr, for what seemed the thousandth time. He did so without thinking, just as when he corrected ‘sergeant’ to ‘pack leader’. Neither Gaius nor his warriors had dared repeat the name ‘Space Wolves’ since Ullr’s invective at its use when they had boarded the Gmorli Hjammar. ‘You won’t pick the same as another pack because you’ll be drawn to something else. Stop thinking about it and just feel the pattern.’

The concept pleased and confused Gaius in equal measure. The guide had spoken of the individualistic nature of Fenrisian tribes and speculated that this was carried into many traditions and customs of the Space Marines stationed there. The thought that he could name his squad whatever he wanted was daunting, but the sense of freedom felt unmistakably of his gene-sire. Russ’ successors had infamously refused the organisational teachings of Roboute Guilliman’s Codex Astartes, and embracing that nature was part of what Gaius’ brothers had to become.

It was the same with their billeting situation aboard the ship. On arrival with Ullr’s pack they had been left to find dormitory space for themselves, and did so close to the other packs on the main barracks deck. Not one challenge had been forthcoming, with the Wolves of Fenris simply assuming that Gaius’ warriors had permission to be there, their very presence self-evident of this fact. It was not so much a laxity of security but more a confidence that nobody would dare to intrude where they were not welcome.

Their space was their own and the other packs interacted with them very little, save for Ullr, who had taken it upon himself to mould the newcomers into something more approximate to the idea of a warrior of the Aett. It was Ullr that had taken them to the armoury to repaint their gear and also Ullr that had introduced them to the Great Company’s Wolf Priest, an imposing warrior name Hrak Iron-Will. A few days later Iron-Will visited each pack, asking for account of their fallen and reciting the sagas of those that had died in other packs. Neiflur had been dubbed Skjaldtongue by the Wolf Priest after reciting the accounts of their recent lost, a subject of a little jealousy on the part of Gaius, who longed to earn a given-name.

He contented himself with the knowledge that his pack would bear his name while he remained its leader.

‘I do not think it’s the sort of thing you can get wrong,’ said Doro. ‘It isn’t a test.’

‘No, but it will be how we are known from this moment on,’ said Gaius.

‘I still like “Far Fangs”,’ said Aegreus. ‘The fangs from afar.’

‘And I still think that sounds like a heavy weapons team,’ countered Anfelis.

‘And that does not make us unique among the Sons of Russ,’ said Gaius. ‘We will all be from afar when the rest of the company arrives.’

Translation back into realspace – in the Fenris System, Gaius could scarce believe – had brought urgency to the matter of the pack’s name and symbol. Within ten days he could be presented to Logan Grimnar and the other worthies of the Fang – the Aett, he kept reminding himself if he did not want to be thought of as an upplander.

‘New Wolves?’ suggested Garold.

‘Makes you sounds like Blood Claws,’ said Ullr.

‘I have plans to be fighting many years from now,’ said Gaius. ‘We won’t be “new” wolves then.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Neiflur. ‘We are a bit special. The first of the new breed, even if that new breed will grow old.’

Gaius thought about this and then fished the guidebook from the pouch at his robe belt. He found the page he wanted at the first attempt – the runic lettering and numbering system of Fenrisian tradition. Setting the pauldron on the workbench, he started to paint. It took only a few confident strokes before he set the brush aside. He leaned back to appreciate his work, the rune equivalent of ‘G’ with a single, longer vertical cross stroke.

Gaius’ Firstwolves,’ he declared, turning the shoulder pad for the others to see.

‘Good,’ said Ullr. ‘Good enough to stand before the Great Wolf.’

‘We’ll stand out, for sure,’ said Gaius, putting the pauldron back down while the others started on theirs. ‘The others will be in their crusade iconography, I can’t imagine anyone on the Enduring Hate has suggested they change their markings.’

‘They’ll not be there for the comparison,’ said Ullr, standing up.

‘What do you mean?’ Gaius passed the paint and brush to Aegreus. ‘Who won’t be there?’

‘The other Primaris Marines,’ said Ullr, surprised by the question. ‘Did you not hear? I guess not. The Great Wolf has ordered that your companions and their ship remain at the system edge. He does not trust their intent, thinking that Guilliman will replace our Chapter with…’

Ullr waved a hand towards Gaius and his warriors.

‘Does not trust them…?’ Gaius started towards the door. ‘I must speak with Lord Krom about this.’

‘Why?’ Ullr seemed genuinely bemused by Gaius’ reaction. The question stopped Gaius just a few strides away. ‘Do you think he’s going to argue with the Great Wolf? And why do you spend breath on the fate of the others? They are not your concern.’

‘It is an affront to their honour, and an accusation against the whole crusade.’

‘Is it right? Is that the primarch’s intent?’

Gaius scowled, angry that he even had to answer such a question. ‘Of course not!’

‘Then it’ll get put right,’ Ullr said calmly. ‘Remember that you’ve sworn oaths now. You are not part of Guilliman’s war, you are fighters of Krom Dragongaze’s Drakeslayers. The Firstwolves. Don’t forget what I told you about obedience and loyalty.’

Gaius clenched his fists but stepped away from Ullr, his anger punctured by the pack leader’s words. The independence of the Space Marine Chapters was well known to him, and the Wolves of Fenris counted highest in their disregard of Imperial control. However, there was something else that nagged at Gaius.

‘Guilliman serves the Allfather Himself,’ he said, swinging back to Ullr. ‘How can the Great Wolf distrust him?’

‘Ask him yourself, I am not his mouth,’ said Ullr. ‘I am a fist, a blade, nothing else.’

‘We will end up back on the Enduring Hate too if we draw attention,’ said Anfelis, looking up from admiring his handiwork on his shoulder pad. ‘Ullr’s right, these are matters for Chapter Masters and captains to resolve.’

Gaius looked at the symbol on the shoulder pad, unlike anything in the Codex Astartes, the marking of a Grey Hunter of Fenris. If the Great Wolf did not trust Guilliman and Cawl, Gaius and his brothers would be the perfect demonstration of why that distrust was misplaced. They would be exemplars of loyalty and dedication, and prove the worth of every Primaris Marine on the Enduring Hate and beyond.

‘Oh well, we tried,’ said Mudire, stretching out his legs while he cracked his knuckles.

Vychellan shook his head in disgust. He was used to the inclement moods of mortals but Mudire was one of the Founding Four and his attitude was a poor reflection of the whole order of historitors.

‘Our mission does not cease to be at the first setback,’ said the Custodian, holding out a hand as Mudire made to stand from the projection table. The other four in the audiatus were quiet, either absorbing the news or, in the case of Forgewelt Sparbend, still overwhelmed in the presence of one of the Emperor’s closest guardians. ‘All of you have travelled through warzones to do your duty, the imposition of a brief furlough is a small obstacle.’

‘It’s the Space Wolves,’ said Mudire, sitting down again. ‘They are a law to themselves. Even on Terra we knew that. They deal with a handful of Navigator Houses, take a few hundred astropaths every decade or so. I have aunts and uncles in the upper echelons of the Adeptus Terra that know more about the wilderness of the Eastern Fringe than what transpires on Fenris.’

‘Some say the Inquisition don’t even try to go there,’ added Ahlek, who had joined the group in the audiatus, in the hushed tones that everybody used when mentioning the so-called ‘left hand’ of the Emperor. The analogy offended Vychellan, as a member of the ‘right hand’; like all Custodians he was an artifice of the Master of Mankind’s ancient genius, while the Inquisition were nothing more than self-appointed intellectuals and firebrands guessing at the Emperor’s Will. It amazed him to think that the legendary Constantin Valdor had ever allowed their predecessors to gain any kind of influence or power.

‘I am one of the Talons of the Emperor, I go where my duty takes me,’ said Vychellan.

‘Pretty sure that’s what the inquisitors say too,’ said Mudire. He pulled out a slim notebook and held it up as though it was some kind of holy book. ‘I’ve gathered everything we have in reference to Bucharis and the Space Wolves. There were other forces involved. Starships. Militia. Frateris Templars. A complete account of the mad cardinal’s invasion of Fenris.’

‘I have inloaded pertinent resources as well,’ said λ-34-Eliptyka. ‘The forge worlds of Baas-Mem and 50-Aguna made alliance with Gathalamor during the latter decades of the Age of Apostasy.’

‘None of these sources contain any information from the Space Wolves themselves,’ said Vychellan with gritted teeth. ‘Your reluctance to visit Fenris is not reason enough to circumnavigate the purpose of our mission. This is not a matter of cataloguing history, it is a search for an insight into a present threat to the Indomitus Crusade and the future of the Imperium. A threat that extends to the Throneworld. Do not entertain for a second the thought that I will give anything less than my utmost effort to destroy that threat.’

He picked the book from Mudire’s trembling fingers and let it fall open at a random page. He read the first few sentences, about the Chiros uprisings led by Confessor Dolan.

‘As fascinating as this may be, we already know it contains nothing pertinent to the Gift of Bucharis, because we have looked.’ He discarded the book to the table and focused on Mudire. The historitor’s last shreds of bravado evaporated under the Custodian’s stare, and he fidgeted on his seat. ‘You may have been appointed by the lord regent, but I answer to the stratarchis tribune. Would you care to have a conversation with him when we return in failure? I do not wish to tell him that we were thwarted at such a simple obstacle.’

Mudire suddenly had the appearance of a man in the throes of a terrible ailment, his pallor drained, an arm clasped to his stomach as though in pain.

‘The ban of the Great Wolf seems very deliberate, but quite specific,’ said Copla-var, leaning forward with his elbows on the glassite tabletop.

‘“None enter except by invite. None leave except with permission.” That was the edict related from Logan Grimnar.’ Vychellan walked around the table but did not approach too closely to Copla-var for risk of intimidating him into silence. ‘I see no means to turn that to our advantage.’

‘We only need an invite,’ said Copla-var. ‘The ban does not specify from whom it must be.’

‘The Great Wolf, of course,’ said Mudire. ‘The Space Wolves are a “spirit of the law” type of people. I don’t think we can wriggle our way past this one.’

‘On the contrary, accepting your seniority, but you are wrong, honoured founder,’ said Eliptyka. ‘The records I have accessed show that interactions with the Fenrisian Chapter were governed by very specifically worded pacts. The roles, responsibilities and penalties were clearly laid out.’

‘That doesn’t help,’ said Mudire. ‘Grimnar’s decree will be known to all of his warriors. We’re not going to trick our way into an invitation.’

‘Your negativity is starting to sound like desperation,’ said Vychellan. ‘Why do you think trickery will be needed? There may be one among the Great Wolf’s retinue that is willing to engage with our mission. If we do not approach in subterfuge there is less cause for the Space Wolves to suspect our intent.’

Mudire opened his mouth to make another comment but shut it again as Vychellan’s stare hardened.

‘You must all remain prepared to depart when required,’ Vychellan told the group. ‘I will find a way to get us to Fenris.’

‘Who’s in the shit?’ Arjac asked Njal quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on the doors at the far end of the thegnhalle.

‘What do you mean?’ the Rune Priest replied.

Arjac leaned back and turned slightly so that his bulk was out of the way, allowing Njal to look across his chest at the Great Wolf. Logan was sitting on the throne, the Axe Morkai held in his hand to one side, his two wolves sitting attentively like sculptures. Ulrik stood at his right shoulder, divested of his warplate and the Helm of Russ, dressed now in heavy hide trousers and jerkin. A thick cloak of deep red hung to the floor from beneath the wolf pelt that covered his broad shoulders. The Slayer wore a leather mask that obscured the top half of his face and bald head, trimmed beard hiding most of what was beneath. The mask had a hole only for the right eye, from which the icy gaze of the Wolf Priest was fixed on Logan.

The Great Wolf’s expression was thunderous, brow knotted, fist clenched tight beneath his chin.

‘He only summons people here when they’re in the shit,’ Arjac explained.

Njal thought about this for a few seconds.

‘You’re right. I hadn’t noticed that.’ Stormcaller turned his eye back to the doors. ‘It’s Krom.’

Arjac nodded, there was no need to spend any more breath on speculation.

The doors opened at the command of the two Wolf Guard stationed outside, parting to reveal the Wolf Lord of the Drakeslayers in full battle gear. He strode down the hall with his bearded axe in hand, wolf-pelt cloak flowing behind him. But for the throne and the banners hanging from the rafters, the hall was empty of furnishings, the Wolf Lord’s footfalls on rune-carved flagstones echoing in the silence until he came to a halt, half a dozen yards from Grimnar.

Krom grinned, flashing fangs.

‘My king,’ Krom declared loudly. ‘The Dragongaze has looked far indeed, into the gulf of the Everdusk and the eyes of alien beasts, and returns with news of what his sight beheld.’

‘Make proper fealty to your lord,’ snapped Ulrik, stepping forward from the throne.

‘Really deep shit,’ muttered Njal as Krom dropped to one knee, head bowed and axe presented haft first.

Krom stayed for a few heartbeats longer and then rose, his face a mask of confusion. He looked at Ulrik and then to the Great Wolf.

‘For more than two years the Drakeslayers have waged war against damned oathbreakers, filthy greenskins and the worst the galaxy can spew forth, and this is my welcome? I bring great tidings, of allies unknown and warriors reborn! You treat me like a dog that treads muck across your hall.’

‘A fitting analogy, perhaps,’ said Ulrik. Somehow he managed to look even more fierce with a plain mask rather than the full skull-helm. ‘You bring these strangers to our threshold and expect the Great Wolf to throw open the gates of our fortress to them?’

‘Strangers? No!’ Krom addressed Logan rather than the Slayer. ‘They are blood-kin now, sworn to my Great Company. Sworn to your lordship. They have brothers that fell beside mine.’

‘So did the Dragonspears,’ said Ulrik, every word laden with disdain. ‘Are they to be warriors of the Wolf King too?’

Dragongaze opened his mouth to defend himself but the crash of the Axe Morkai’s haft-pommel on the stone cut off all retort.

‘They saved your arse!’ bellowed Logan, standing up. Tyrnak and Fenrir bared their teeth in agreement with their master’s anger. ‘You nearly shamed us in front of the Dragonspears and now you bring these Imperial deceivers to Fenris.’

Krom’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You question my command? Do you also doubt my loyalty?’

‘I doubt that if I gave you a blow to the head with the Axe Morkai you would have less sense because of it,’ growled Logan. ‘Did you think this would be a return in glory, your foot wedged in the door of our keep so that Guilliman and his lackeys can prise it open?’

The Wolf Lord opened his mouth but shut it again, jaw clenched tight.

‘You spoke of our weaknesses to these Ultramarines-in-wolves’-clothing, asked them to send warriors to replace our dead. Warriors sworn first to you! How dare you!’

Krom’s lip curled and one hand moved to the blade of his axe, as though comforting it, perhaps restraining it. Arjac felt Njal tense but he knew there was no danger to the Great Wolf. Even if Krom was mad enough to swing the blow, and though fully plated for battle, Logan already had the Axe Morkai in hand and that was a surer defence than Arjac could offer from ten yards away.

And Krom would not attack. His loyalty questioned, it would be the last thing on his mind. He was a competitor, always eager to prove he was the bravest, strongest, fastest and deadliest. Challenged, he would now try to prove he was the most loyal.

Krom vented a deep breath through flaring nostrils and lowered his axe.

‘They are my company, Logan. The same as all the others. You have no right to keep them from the Aett.’

‘Perhaps you are right, I do not have that power,’ said Grimnar. ‘But the heavens above it are mine. Their ship will come no closer. By my command, as is my right and so I declare now, no vessel of Fenris will approach within ten thousand miles of the Imperial ship unless to board it for battle. Your new brothers can join you as soon as they learn how to swim the void.’

Nodding slowly, Krom absorbed this without his eyes leaving the Great Wolf.

‘So be it.’ His voice was quiet, calculating. ‘It has been hard wars and a long journey, too much time since my warriors last set foot in the Aett. I and they will be in our quarters, but I fear we are not able to answer any call for battle. We are but a quarter of our full complement, and as decreed by the laws of the Aett only by the will of its Wolf Lord can a Great Company of a third or less strength depart for battle. You are my king, my commander, my axe-brother, and I will die for you and the Aett. But not when ten thousand and more ready warriors are to be cast aside.’

Krom raised his axe in salute, turned on his heel and exited with the same proud stride that brought him.

Njal watched Krom depart, his heart heavy. The Wolf Lord’s invitation to the outsiders had been delivered out of loyalty to the Chapter, and concern for its future. The return of the primarch Roboute Guilliman touched upon wounds ten thousand years old, but it was no cause for the Great Wolf to turn his fangs upon his own.

There was something else amiss, beyond the starship full of foreign warriors waiting at the Mandeville point; something they and Guilliman represented that had caused a soreness in Logan’s soul. The Stormcaller needed no talent of reading another’s wyrd to feel the anger washing from the Chapter’s commander. It was not the time to broach sensitive subjects, but there was a pressing matter now that the Dragongaze had, for the time being, been dealt with.

‘My lord, I received fresh tidings from Ironfang.’ The runethegn stepped past Arjac without a glance at the Champion, eyes fixed on Grimnar. The Great Wolf stared at the door where Krom had departed, hands tight on the haft of the Axe Morkai. ‘A short but clear vision-dream of the Everdusk.’

‘No giants?’ said Arjac. ‘No wolves with slavering jaws or knights of metal?’

‘Just a reflected experience, sent across the othersea,’ said Njal, still watching his lord closely. There was still no reaction and he glanced across to Ulrik to see if he held similar concern, but the Slayer was looking at neither of them, seemingly deep in thought.

‘The Gottrok, Logan,’ Njal said with a harsher tone, stopping just a couple of yards away.

‘Mmm? What of it?’ The Great Wolf turned, letting the Axe Morkai swing in one hand, the other moving to his temple as though he was pained.

‘The Everdusk. It is swelling again, my lord.’

Logan’s eyes finally met his Runelord’s, focus and recognition returning. He stroked his beard as he returned to the throne, Fenrir and Tyrnak following him.

‘How quickly? How soon will the Gottrok be swept away again?’

‘You ask questions you know cannot be answered,’ said Njal.

Ulrik returned from whatever musing had occupied him. His expression, what could be seen beneath the leather face mask, turned grim.

‘Weeks, months?’ snapped the Slayer. ‘Days?’

‘The closest tendrils of the Everdusk are weak and retracted for some time, stranding the hulk,’ said Njal, ‘I do not wish to cause alarm, but there is reason for concern. It is not that we cannot reach the Gottrok from Fenris should we need to, but more that we may have no time to stop its departure, with or without us aboard.’

‘We are going back,’ said Ulrik. ‘You heard the oath of the Great Wolf.’

‘And we will be carried into the Everdusk upon it if needed,’ added Grimnar, hands resting on his knees. He appeared relaxed again, which seemed in contradiction to what he had just suggested.

‘Remain upon a hulk in the warp without Geller fields,’ Njal said dully. ‘That is your intent?’

‘The orks survive, so can we. We will find a way.’

Having just witnessed the Great Wolf’s current mood with those he thought disloyal, Njal was reluctant to spend more breath on his worries in case it looked like accusation rather than comment. He heard Arjac stepping up close behind him and turned to find the hearthegn looming at his shoulder.

‘If we’re done, I’m going to head to the forges,’ said the bulky Champion, fingers flexing as though he already imagined the smithy hammer in his hand.

‘I think we are finished,’ said the Great Wolf. He looked at Njal with a raised eyebrow. ‘Are we?’

There was no avoiding a simple truth: over successive wars the Wolves of Fenris had taken losses not seen for thousands of years. Two invasions of the Hearthworld by the traitor primarch Magnus had soured their recruiting population, perhaps intentionally weakening them before the deprivations and attacks unleashed by the Everdusk. Even those Great Companies that had not been mauled over years of constant campaign, since the fall of the Helwinter Gate at Cadia, bore the scars of attrition. If Grimnar would not take reinforcements, something else had to change.

‘One more thing, my lord,’ said Njal. ‘Guilliman’s crusade has an unseen benefit. The othersea nearby is not as tempestuous for communication, as though a hand stills its worst storms and quells the noise of the greenskins. By your command I will send astropathic messages to the Dragonspears Chapter. They have already proved themselves willing allies. Even if they cannot commit to the attack on Gottrok, they may be able to shoulder some of our other burdens. We have also received communication from the Night Raptors, who arrived in some force from the inner segmentum and are attacking several ork-dominated worlds a few hundred light years from here. Their master may be amenable to some direction before we depart again.’

‘Have others fight our battles?’ growled Ulrik.

‘We have tried to fight all foes that come before us but we cannot continue,’ said Arjac. ‘The Great Companies are scattered, our numbers thinned, yet our enemies seem undiminished by the effort.’

‘And our recruitment has been slow of late,’ added the Runelord.

‘Would you have us remain on Fenris to lick our wounds?’ snapped Ulrik. ‘How much stronger will our enemies grow if left unopposed? If not for our efforts perhaps the Allfather’s realm would have already fallen.’

‘Or any of dozens of other fighting forces,’ Njal said quietly, splitting his attention between the Wolf Priest and Grimnar. ‘We stand apart from the Imperium but we cannot exist without it. When battle is hardest-fought the most slender of margins defines who wins and loses, who dies and who lives. What unseen sacrifices have held back foes from our doors? Perhaps it is time to guard them with what we have left.’

‘The worst of enemies has already twice befouled our world, I think the time for minding the gates has passed us,’ said Arjac with a sigh.

‘We are hunters, not the hunted,’ Ulrik argued.

‘A boast, no longer a reality we can claim,’ Njal replied with a shake of his head. ‘So easily we will become prey. One bad defeat. One reversal of our wyrd. Perhaps enough for the Cyclops to strike a third and final time…’

‘We will not be oathbreakers!’ roared Ulrik, fist raised.

‘No, no,’ said Logan, lifting a hand to the senior Wolf Priest, before Njal could reply. ‘The Stormcaller is right, we must make preparations with others, not just for ourselves. The Imperial Guard and the Imperial Navy, if we can contact any place of authority, may also be ready to take up the war in our absence.’

‘Absence, my lord?’ Njal rubbed his thumb along the grain of his staff, trying to ask the question with nonchalance.

‘Guilliman has been brought back from the lip of the abyss, the Wolf King will surely follow out of the darkness if we guide his way. We gather as a Chapter to attack Gottrok. This is the Wolftime. The final battle for the Wolves of Fenris.’

Chapter Eleven

GAIUS COMES TO THE AETT
PORTENTS OF DESTRUCTION
EMBASSY

A good proportion of the time that Gaius had not been in battle had been spent waiting instead: waiting on a wall for the enemy to come; waiting aboard ship for the command to board gunship or drop pod; waiting for the countdown to translation; waiting for return-to-orbit transportation after the killing had finished.

And, like now, waiting in a gunship ready for launch.

Unlike many of those other occasions this wait did not precede deadly battle of any fashion, yet it seemed to take the longest. His internal timesense was accurate to within a half-second in every hour, the calibration of the chrono-display in his helmet visor was immaculate, and yet every second seemed to drag by longer than the previous one. He refused to open the book as he had several drops before, not wishing to risk heightening his anticipation any more. Instead it was in the spare pouch at his belt.

The others talked, but Gaius found it hard to follow their conversations. He remembered the descriptions in the book, of towering mountains and endless ice fields. He checked the chronometer again, thinking he had lost track of time. He had not. Ullr and his pack had been due to embark thirty seconds before, yet there was no sign of them.

‘It’s not a combat drop, brother-sergeant,’ Doro said to him, making Gaius realise he was staring at the open entry ramp. ‘I don’t think precise timing is their thing when it doesn’t have to be.’

‘You would think they would be eager to return to the Hearthworld,’ said Gaius. ‘And it’s pack leader, not sergeant.’

‘We’ve seen it before,’ declared Sáthor from the bottom of the ramp. ‘It’ll stay around a minute or two longer.’

The other Greypelts followed him up into the Thunderhawk, each with weapons slung, rough-woven sacks in their hands. Ullr was still not to be seen as the Wolves of Fenris stowed their weapons, sat down and secured their drop restraints. Sáthor headed to the pilot chamber while the others opened their sacks and brought out a variety of different trophies acquired over their battles away from Fenris – skulls, fangs, pieces of alien technology, shiny rocks and crystals, pieces of shrapnel and debris.

‘What’s that?’ Gaius called across the aisle when Dethar pulled out an awkwardly shaped bit of bone.

‘It’s mine,’ said the warrior, his voice a metallic approximation of his old tone, pointing to the right side of what had become of his chin. ‘From just about here.’

The Iron Priest artisans of the armoury and the Wolf Priests in the apothecarion had combined their skills to make his ruined visage a work of art. His lower face had been rebuilt with bronzed plasteel and ceramite so that his nose and jaw had been replaced with a wolflike muzzle, complete with shaped snarl and exposed metal fangs. The mechanics of his helm had been built into it, linking windpipe and vocal cords to the voxmitters while a cunningly wrought seal meant that the rest of his modified helm, complete with wolf-mane crest, fitted over the rest of his head to form a whole.

‘It was stuck to Ullr’s greave,’ explained Garnr. He did not have his helm on either, against normal gunship protocol, and grinned at his pack-brother. ‘Gonna win that off you one day!’

‘Never!’ Dethar held the piece of bone to his chest in mock protectiveness. ‘You have nothing worth as much as a lord’s chin bone!’

The pack continued swapping stories about their trophies and Gaius’ gaze slid back to the open assault ramp. He didn’t want to ask the Greypelts where their pack leader was in case it caused offence.

Ullr appeared after another ninety-three seconds, which Gaius had spent mentally rehearsing some of the Fenrisian greetings he had learnt from Ullr and the others, to be deployed when he met the Great Wolf or other lords of the Chapter. Some bore enough similarity to words from the guidebook that he believed them to be earnest, but others seemed highly suspicious and likely intended to cause him embarrassment. The Firstborn of Fenris had spent the three relative-weeks of travel from Noviomagus Superior with a seemingly endless appetite for pranks, misdirections and outright lies with which to gently mock their new gene-cousins.

The pack leader slammed his hand onto the ramp control. As the armoured portal whined closed behind him, he headed for Gaius. With effort, the sergeant held back any question of why Ullr was late, but explanation was immediately forthcoming.

‘I had to remind the Dragongaze that you were coming down with us. It’s one thing to be on the lord’s ship, another to set foot in the Aett without permission. We’ll be heading to the Drakeslayers’ haunt, and staying there, but better that there’s no confusion.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gaius. Ullr nodded and turned towards his pack. ‘How long until we will be presented to the Great Wolf?’

The pack leader stood still for a couple of seconds before turning back. He gently shook his head.

‘I told you, that’s not going to happen. Not for a while. The Wolf Lord and the Great Wolf… There have been harsh words spoken, breath spent on dispute. Remember that you’re supposed to be back on your ship with the rest of the new ones. Don’t invite any difficulties, like you agreed.’

Gaius nodded, silence his only defence against voicing disappointment.

These glum thoughts occupied him for some time, while the Thunderhawk took off and headed down to sub-orbital altitude. Just under five minutes after leaving the dock of Gmorli Hjammar, Ullr let himself out of his restraints and clumped towards the pilot chamber above the assault ramp, gesturing for Gaius to accompany him. He opened up the restraints, which had undergone improvised modification to allow for the greater height of the Primaris Marines, and followed.

As soon as he mounted the steps to the cockpit Gaius saw Fenris. In fact, they were already too close to see anything but the arc of its atmosphere against the glow of the local star – the Wolf’s Eye. The northern continent, Asaheim, glittered at its edges, the rest of the planet swathed in darkness. Less than a minute later they were entering the upper air, flares of heat spreading across the canopy around them. The Thunderhawk creaked and groaned as pressure increased, but with his boots firmly clamped to the deck with their magnetic soles Gaius had nothing to fear from the occasional buffeting that rattled through the dropping gunship.

‘It’s so dark,’ Gaius whispered, the world below nothing more than shadow. ‘No cities. No highways.’

‘Twenty-four degrees, about thirty degrees down,’ Sáthor said.

Gaius turned his gaze to the right, following the instruction. A silver glimmer lit the sky where the pilot had directed him, illuminating an unbroken veil of cloud about twenty miles down. But above the cloud layer a jagged mountain spire pierced the darkness, lit from within, casting its gleam into the night.

Gaius let out a long breath.

‘Landing in seven.’ The pilot interrupted his moment of awe. Sáthor glanced at Ullr. ‘We’re in the pressure zone, and through the cloud in two minutes if you want a better look.’

‘Good idea,’ the pack leader replied. ‘Gaius, get your pack.’

They reunited next to the assault portal in the nose of the gunship. After a check with Sáthor, Ullr activated the controls, lowering the portal to let in a raging wind that tore at his wolf pelts and talismans. Through the night Gaius saw the fortress at Asaheim’s centre spearing up from a vertiginous mountain range, its surface lit by thousands of windows of gold, silver and blue. Larger openings glowed like hearth-gleam, the swirl of snow visible against the light; the upper reaches were lost beyond the permanent storm. It was hard to make out details but parts of the mountain were as nature had shaped, others carved by artifice into great wolf heads or rune shapes, studded with gun turrets and smaller fortifications. The plasma trail of another gunship circled around to the far side of the fortress, suddenly giving it scale.

‘Vahk meh,’ gasped Gaius, who had seen the starports of Terra and the orbital platforms of Mars. Neither compared to the thrill that coursed through him at that moment, as though he could feel the world reaching out to the genhanced blood pumping through his body; deeper, into his soul.

‘Spoken like a true Fenrisian,’ Neiflur said.

‘Welcome to the Fang, home of the Space Wolves,’ said Ullr, followed by the laughter of his pack.

‘I thought we were never to call it that?’ said Garold.

‘He’s messing with you,’ said Anfelis.

Gaius ignored them, absorbing every detail of the Aett, hearth-keep of the Wolves of Fenris, stronghold of the Rout.

There is no wind, no sun, just the stillness of dark clouds frozen across the sky. A fork of lightning is caught as it arcs down, captured in one brilliant moment. Snow hangs in the air, thick clusters of white crystal as far as the treeline before you.

There is darkness under the pines. Shadows move through it, visible only where they pass in front of the trunks further into the forest. A single pair of red eyes glint. A hunter’s eyes. Not the amber of a wolf, but something more monstrous. While everything stands still it is in motion, moving beneath the boughs.

The forest rises up the slopes of an impossible mountain, becoming a black peak that pierces the heavens themselves. Starlight flows like meltwater down its flanks. A corona of fire encircles its summit, a thousand wolf’s-head banners fly from battlements carved of bare rock.

The wolf prowls within, a massive beast that stands at the open gates and bares its fangs to all that approach. But the forest lies beyond; immeasurable, unnavigable, inhospitable. The abode of the beast with red eyes, a lair-wood so vast it covers a continent. Yet it is not all-consuming, for other peaks break its green canopy and fire-burnt clearings mark its undulating spread.

There are yet places the red-eyed beast cannot go.

Bars of dull iron spring up at the gate, imprisoning the wolf. It lashes at them, fire from its fangs, lightning from its claws. Its snarls and growls echo through the mountain but it cannot howl.

You must cross the forest and climb the mountain. The trail ahead is a golden path, winding beneath the trees. The red eyes watch but you must overcome your fear. Ravens circle over the tall trees, cawing to each other their distant messages, bringing word from far-flung outposts beneath the leaves. The flock grows every heartbeat, becoming a mass of black feathers and shrieking, swirling higher and higher to the windows of the mountain-castle. They sweep through the windows, crashing through glass, prising open shutters, pushing themselves through murder holes. The halls, passages and chambers are filled with their fluttering mass, their calls becoming a single noise that falls to your ears as a word, repeated over and over.

Doom.

Beyond the peak of the mount a wolf leaps from star to star, its fur alight with flames, bringing light to the dark, movement to empty void. A pack follows, silver-sleek and deadly, becoming one with the leader so that it swells in size, swallowing the stars themselves. A wolf of another place; a wolf of the moon. A name rings inside your head.

Morkai.

The Wolf that Devours, the Deathwolf, the End of Worlds.

As each star is swallowed the heavens fade, become a twilight where once there was bright noon. In the darkness the shadows lengthen. The red eyes stare out from beneath the trees, emboldened by the growing gloom. Soon the darkness will cover everything and the monster will venture forth, free to roam the worlds of mortals.

Opening her eyes, Gytha found herself lying in a pile of dead leaves in the Low Woods, just a short distance from the homes of Landsattmar. She could see the turf roofs on the hillside below. Movement drew her attention to Lufa crouched at her side. Beside him was the empty bucket for collecting windfall and the long switch for rounding up the swine that had been left to roam the woodland since the end of summer.

‘Where’s Korit?’ Her voice was a croak, her mouth drier than Horthnar’s cured bacon. She couldn’t muster even the slightest spit to wet her lips.

‘Gone for help,’ said Lufa, nodding back towards the village.

‘Help?’ said Gytha, sitting up. She brushed dead leaves and dirt from her sleeves. ‘I just fell over.’

‘You collapsed, ma,’ said her son, holding out a hand to stop her when she tried to stand. ‘Rest for now.’

There was a strange look in his eye. Fear. Gytha had never seen it before, not even when a frost bear had come down the hills and settled down outside the forge for an afternoon.

‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What happened?’

Lufa’s eye strayed up to the trees. They were silver-barked, slender and young, the branches bare save for a few lingering red and yellow survivors.

‘There were words, too,’ said Lufa.

‘I was talking? How long since I fell?’

‘No, your lips didn’t move, but we could hear words,’ said Lufa. ‘Or see them. It’s hard to explain. A wolf and an ogre, and the sky becoming dark.’

Gytha’s fingers grabbed her son’s sleeve in a tight grip as nausea swept through her gut, but nothing followed.

‘As for how long…’ Lufa continued. ‘There’s Korit coming back.’

Along with a handful of people, including the lanky form of Gytha’s husband, Bjorti. There was Agitta too, with another of the elders, Faeras, and two men in studded hauberks and steel caps from the aettgard. They carried spears, the tips bright in the morning sun reminding Gytha of the dream. Something about the stars disappearing.

That was not new, nor imagined. The Everdusk had spread across the stars from the Gannstrom to leave what sky broke the cloud cover an eerie red during the day and a swirling darkness at night. Stars had already been swallowed.

Despite Lufa’s attempts to prevent her, Gytha stood up, one hand against the trunk of a tree while she regained her equilibrium. She eyed the group coming up the hill, watching Agitta and Faeras exchanging cross words. They stopped a few paces away except for Bjorti and Korit, who ran the last gap. The girl put her arms out for a hug and Gytha crouched, catching her in one arm, almost toppled back to the ground by her daughter’s eager momentum. She stood, Korit still clinging tightly to her waist. Bjorti laid a hand on her arm, his strong fingers reassuring but not tight.

‘Are you well?’ he asked, face lined with concern. ‘Little Squeak said you were asleep.’

‘I’m fine. Just dizzy.’

‘More than that!’ said Faeras, taking a step and then waving the two aettgard forward. They did so reluctantly. Gytha saw that one was Orin, a cousin, and the other was Noraslov Fearbiter, a close friend of Bjorti. Faeras followed them, pointing to the dead leaves. ‘Wyrdsign! I heard it from Angersas the Breakjaw that there has been wyrdglimr on these hills since the Everdusk came. And look here!’

He hurried past, furs clasped tightly though it was only early autumn and the wind had no bite. He pointed to a muddy patch a few paces away from where Gytha had fallen. There were marks in the mud: the print of a deer, but two of the four marks had three toes not two.

‘There was talk that the Sky Warriors fought the Burning Ones here and there’s been wyrdkine seen by hunters,’ said Orin. ‘We shouldn’t have stayed here, not for a whole season.’

‘We weren’t going to,’ said Bjorti. He put an arm across Gytha’s shoulders, the exposed skin sheened with forge sweat. ‘But it’s been a clear summer, no ground motions or heavy storms.’

‘Might still be good for winter too,’ said Agitta. She eyed the tracks suspiciously. ‘Least it would be if it’s not kast-marked.’

‘Something is kast-marked,’ said Faeras, glaring at Gytha. ‘Angersas says their gothi has felt the kast and the wyrd both flowing strong.’

‘The gothi of Sigurheim spends more time with the wyrdshrum and mead than he does reading runes,’ snapped Bjorti.

‘No, Faeras is right,’ said Gytha, pushing herself out of his embrace. She held a hand to the side of her head where it felt a vein as thick as a sail cable pulsed under her skin. ‘These are not dreams. I cannot ignore them any longer.’

‘What’s going to happen?’ demanded Lufa.

‘Ma, what does that mean?’ Korit started to cry. Agitta came forward and pulled her from her mother’s leg, hoisting her up onto a hip.

‘The council will decide,’ said Gytha, looking at Lufa and then Bjorti. ‘I trust the council.’

‘Aye, we’ll see this is done right,’ said Faeras. He motioned again for Orin and Noraslov. ‘She can stay in her own home, but she’s not to leave. Bring her to the thegnhalle at dusk.’

‘I’ll see to this,’ said Agitta, stooping to pick up the dropped bucket with her free hand. ‘Come on, Lufa, time’s wasting.’

Gytha’s son darted a pleading look towards his father but received a silent shake of the head in reply. Sighing, he headed into the woods after his grandmother and sister.

‘I’ll fix some broth for you,’ said Gytha, waving for the aettgard to follow as she headed down the hill. But her lightness of voice was a stark contrast to the emptiness in her stomach, facing a truth she had avoided since the spring.

She was touched, but was the vision wyrdknak sent from the Verse to help, or had she become wyrdkast, tainted by maleficarum?

Arjac stepped out onto the bridge leading to the upper-south landing dock and the wind hit him like a tank shell. As he was clad in his full Terminator armour that was not an issue, but it did raise further questions about why he had been called back from the domains of the Iron Priests.

The landing pad itself was one of the smallest of the Aett, barely big enough for a supply lighter. That was intentional, limiting the envoy from the Imperial ship to an unarmed shuttle, which had been transported from the system limits to Fenris’ orbit sealed inside the victualling bay of a frigate. If it had been orchestrated by anyone other than Logan Grimnar, Arjac would have thought it an exercise in pettiness – a deliberate attempt to humiliate and dominate his coming visitor. That it was the Great Wolf, backed by his many centuries of tempered leadership, meant that the cited issues of security justifying these measures were likely his genuine concern, even if perhaps sliding towards paranoia.

The bridge became a tunnel after it crossed a deep ravine to the outcrop on which the upper-south dock had been built, lined with flickering lumens, the entrance banked with snowdrifts. A few strides further brought the end of the howling wind, and after another twenty yards the passage passed into an arch linking to a bunker-like control chamber. It was usually the domain of kaerls, but like all rooms of the Aett had sufficient head room for the Space Marines. Even so, Arjac was surprised to find the full Chapter leadership waiting within: Grimnar, Njal, Ulrik, as well as Leifar Twice-Slain bearing Logan’s personal standard, which barely fitted into the chamber. An overwhelmed-looking kaerl manned the comms and surveyor station, more used to dealing with supply runs than a full diplomatic engagement.

‘We’re all here now,’ said Grimnar, glancing at Arjac as he addressed the Chapter-serf at the controls. ‘Send the final descent signal.’

‘Why am I here, my lord?’ Arjac asked, using what little patience he had left to keep his tone civil.

‘To greet our visitor,’ said Logan, without any hint of humour. ‘I thought a full display of unity would assure him that I have the full backing of my council.’

‘This is a lot of effort just to tell him to piss off,’ said Arjac.

Grimnar rounded on Arjac, brow furrowing. ‘I’ll be giving the lieutenant every chance to speak his case, as I would any other petitioner,’ growled Logan.

‘What case? I don’t even know why you let him come at all.’

‘He invoked the right to petition,’ said Ulrik, staring out through the slit of a canopy looking over the blizzard-swept landing pad.

‘There was not a chance of an audience if they came offering aid, but instead Lieutenant Castallor requested a meeting to ask for the Chapter’s help in Guilliman’s crusade,’ said Njal.

‘I am bound by my rank as an Imperial commander.’ Grimnar almost spat the last two words, as though they tasted bad on his tongue. ‘The lieutenant has a right to a personal audience. So, this…’ Grimnar’s hand waved to include everything inside the chamber.

‘I think Krom put him up to it,’ grumbled Ulrik. ‘Castallor phrased everything so precisely. There’s no way we could turn him down and not be oathbreakers.’

‘And why are we meeting him in the arse end of nothing?’ said Arjac. ‘Do you honestly think one lieutenant will single-handedly storm the Aett?’

‘If you were bound and blindfolded, and carried bodily through the halls and chambers, would you be able to retrace your steps?’ the Great Wolf asked.

‘Pretty well,’ Arjac conceded. ‘Do you really fear Guilliman’s intent that much?’

The glower that twisted Logan’s face warned that Arjac’s choice of words had been poor.

‘For ten thousand years I and my predecessors, back to Bjorn himself, who first held this rank, have prised away every finger of the Imperium that has tried to throttle Fenris. What if these ambassadors had not answered the call on Noviomagus? They would have come to Fenris and found it empty but for those few tasked with watching our Hearthworld. Cloaked as friends they would await my return, but by then they would be encamped upon our territory, privy to our secrets.’

‘Others have been allowed onto Fenris,’ said Njal. ‘You make it sound as though we have stood inviolate for a hundred centuries.’

‘Each concession is a freedom relinquished, an imposition forced upon us by the Adeptus Terra,’ said Ulrik. Still he watched through the window. Flashing lights charted the descent of a lander outside, its jets lost in the wind. ‘Each admitted reluctantly.’

‘So we’re going to listen to everything Lieutenant Castallor has to say, weigh our opinions carefully, and then tell him to piss off?’ said Arjac.

‘Seems likely,’ replied Grimnar.

They awaited the arrival of the Ultramarine in silence. Amid steam and fire the lighter landed on the platform, bucking heavily through the winds as it dropped the last dozen feet. Landing claws screeched sparks from the ferrocrete as it slid to an ungainly stop.

The main hatch opened and an armoured figure stepped out. He glanced around for a few seconds before heading towards the door of the control chamber.

Russ’ Teeth, he’s tall, was Arjac’s first thought as Lieutenant Castallor ducked his helmed head through the doorway. He’s even got a hand’s breadth over me.

The short flurry of snow did nothing to obscure his Ultramarines livery, a strong blue with details in white and gold. A double-headed aquila adorned his breastplate, gilded like the scabbard at his waist. An empty scabbard, Arjac noted. Castallor had arrived unarmed, as instructed, but with the sheath still. Perhaps that was meant to be a message of sorts.

‘My lord, Great Wolf Logan Grimnar,’ said the lieutenant. He unsealed his helm with a hiss of escaping air and tucked it under his left arm as he bowed, eyes only briefly leaving the face of his host. He had a narrow chin and hollow cheeks, both of which were covered with short, black hair, as was the top of his head, like a crest. His skin was pale – a sign of months of confinement within a helm, starship or fortification – and Arjac wondered which it was, if not all three.

‘Lieutenant Castallor?’ said Logan Grimnar. ‘That is a rank that has not been used by the Adeptus Astartes since the Legions were broken.’

If he was taken by surprise by the comment, Castallor hid it well.

‘There have been a lot of changes, Lord Grimnar. Many overseen by the same mind that wrote the Codex Astartes when that rank was retired.’

Ulrik laughed, more of a bark, and slapped a hand to his chest. ‘You’re a good one, I can see why they chose you,’ said the Wolf Priest, his fangs catching the light of the command console as he grinned. ‘Just slipped it in there, a reminder that your primarch is back from the dead.’

Castallor’s expression remained inscrutable and he made no immediate reply. After allowing a few seconds to pass, weathering the intent stare of the Great Wolf, the lieutenant spoke again.

‘Your Chapter’s participation would be an enormous boon to the Indomitus Crusade, Lord Grimnar. Your expertise, the knowledge of the enemy you have gained in these last difficult years would be invaluable.’

‘Flattery?’ said Arjac. ‘Is that all you bring to us?’

‘He can carry on if he wants,’ said Logan, smiling softly. ‘For a minute or two.’

Still Castallor showed not the least sign of being impatient or insulted. He turned his attention to Ulrik.

‘You are head of the Apothecarion, Lord Ulrik? Have you studied the Primaris data I dispatched?’

‘I looked at it,’ replied the Slayer. His next words were directed to the Great Wolf. ‘Impressive. Well, you can see for yourself with the lieutenant here. Bigger, stronger. All of the usual pieces we put in.’

‘The Canis Helix?’ Njal asked quietly. ‘Is it really the gene-seed of Russ?’

Ulrik nodded. ‘Seems so to me.’

‘How many are there of you?’ Grimnar demanded. ‘How many Primaris Marines does Guilliman have?’

‘I do not have the answer to that question,’ said Castallor. ‘The Lord Commander–’

‘Lord Commander?’ interrupted Logan. ‘He flaunts the title he stole from Rogal Dorn.’

Arjac knew the Great Wolf was making a point, because Roboute Guilliman’s role as Lord Commander of the Imperium’s forces had already been communicated by Dragongaze; he wasn’t sure what the point was.

‘Lord Commander Guilliman directly leads Fleet Primus. There are other crusade fleets commanded by different officers. Current estimates of the Primaris strength of Fleet Primus is between eighteen and twenty-two thousand operational warriors.’

Arjac took in a sharp breath while Logan mouthed the number silently to himself.

‘How many Sons of Russ?’ asked Ulrik.

‘Three or four thousand, I think. We have only two companies with us in the torchbearer fleet. We thought it better to bring you the Primaris foundry materials as swiftly as possible rather than waiting to gather more existing troops. They will be on their way soon, if you honour us with accepting their command.’

‘What’s our current strength?’ Logan said, looking at Njal and then Ulrik.

‘Less than seven hundred at last muster,’ replied the Stormcaller. ‘When the Great Companies return, probably even fewer.’

Logan’s jaw worked as if he actually chewed over this information, his beard swaying.

‘Our arrival is timely, it seems,’ said the Ultramarines lieutenant. ‘Many Chapters are hard-pressed.’

‘You came for our aid, remember?’ said Arjac.

‘Three thousand? Did Guilliman rip up his rulebook?’ said Grimnar. ‘What happened to Chapters of a thousand Space Marines?’

‘The situation, the predicament of the Imperium, requires new thinking,’ Castallor explained. ‘New Chapters have been founded to replace losses over the last ten thousand years, and more will come. But for the immediate future, necessity overrules hierarchy. They will be your warriors, Lord Grimnar.’

‘And I need to come to Guilliman for more when they are dead,’ growled the Great Wolf.

Castallor looked confused, his eye passing to Ulrik. ‘Were my communications not clear?’

‘They were clear, I just haven’t told the Great Wolf everything yet,’ said Ulrik.

‘Told me what?’ Logan said heavily.

‘The technology for creating the Primaris Marines will be brought to Fenris.’

‘We’ll be able to make…’ Grimnar waved at the lieutenant, eyes widening. ‘An army of these?’

‘It doesn’t solve the problem of suitable aspirants,’ Arjac said. He directed his next question to Castallor. ‘Still need the right raw materials to work with, yes?’

‘Genetic suitability is still paramount,’ said the lieutenant. ‘As well as whatever personality traits you seek in your recruitment. We are Space Marines, more similar to you than we are different.’

Logan stroked his chin and for a few seconds Arjac wondered if the Great Wolf would accept the Primaris Marines.

‘These gifts you proffer seem magnificent,’ said Grimnar. ‘Warriors and tanks, as many as we desire! But they are not gifts, are they? This is a trade, a barter. What do you require in return?’

‘There is no price set on the delivery of these technologies,’ said Castallor. ‘There are prerequisites though, to ensure they are not misused.’

‘Ah, pre-requisites,’ said Ulrik. ‘Now the scorpawyrm shows its tail.’

‘Nothing beyond the practical,’ claimed the lieutenant. ‘Cawl’s modified gene-seed, and the equipment used for its implantations, requires new training for your Apothecarion. Tech-priests and others experienced in its handling accompany the materiel.’

‘I see,’ said Ulrik. ‘Upplanders given free access to one of the most sacred areas of the Aett, where the Wolves of Fenris are created.’

‘Unless you could create facilities in orbit or elsewhere,’ suggested Njal. ‘For a period until we have our own expertise.’

Ulrik nodded in agreement, contemplating the possibility, but Grimnar was less convinced.

‘There are other conditions?’ he said.

‘Only that you agree to coordinate efforts with the forces of the Indomitus Crusade.’ Castallor shifted his helm from under one arm to the other, the first movement of any note since he had entered. ‘The Imperium is on the brink of falling apart, every effort must be made to stop that happening, and the lord primarch has devised the best way to achieve that goal.’

‘So we have to answer to Guilliman,’ Grimnar said with a heavy sigh. ‘At last he gets to command the Wolves of Fenris, ten millennia after his first attempt.’

‘All Chapters retain their autonomy,’ argued Castallor, finally showing a moment of frustration. ‘But it would be anarchy if we set loose tens of thousands of Space Marines without some strategy to guide their deployment.’

‘So Guilliman doesn’t trust me?’

‘Trust is not an issue. I cannot speak for the Lord Commander’s personal opinion, but if he did not deem your Chapter suitable for these reinforcements, he would not have sent them. As it is, Fenris has been marked as a priority and my flotilla has deviated considerably from the main thrust of Fleet Primus to come here.’

‘Oh, now we’re supposed to feel special,’ said Grimnar. ‘Be thankful for the generosity of the great Guilliman.’

‘Logan, this is not an act of wisdom,’ warned Ulrik. ‘Do not conjure enemies where allies stand.’

The Great Wolf stepped back from his mentor, head to one side.

‘The Slayer sides with the Ultramarine? Of all here, I thought I could count on your support the most! You are our heart, the soul of the Wolves of Fenris. Everything that is great about this Chapter is written in your flesh, is guided by your words. Seven hundred true warriors of Fenris remain. What of our traditions, what of our spirit when we are swamped by ten times that number of worldless facsimiles?’

The Great Wolf spun to turn his words on Njal next.

‘And I hear the desire in your voice too, Stormcaller. You think this bodes well for us? You are master of the lore, guardian of our wyrd. Are we meant to confront our foes or shield ourselves with the lives of others?’

‘We likely have no future without the Primaris warriors,’ Njal said bluntly. ‘We will all die and then there will be nothing left of the Sky Warriors of Fenris. Is that what you want?’

‘Want?’ growled Logan. ‘What I want is nothing. I lead. I fight. I win. I do not want, I strive. But it has long been foretold that we cannot endure forever. From the lips of the Wolf King came the gmorlr morkai, the telling of the Wolftime. You should know better than I do that we cannot break our wyrd. The Wolftime may be our last battle, but it is our greatest. Perhaps we die so that the Allfather’s domains survive. Perhaps not. You know it is not our place to care about these things, but to trust to the Allfather and the wyrd He has laid for us.’

‘Only disaster follows the folly of refusing the swaying course of wyrd,’ said Arjac, addressing the Stormcaller. ‘You once told me wyrd was like the ekka of the deep forests. The wood can be bent, moulded even over time, but try to change it too much, too quickly and it will break.’

Arjac realised that they had switched to their native Juvjk and Castallor was watching the exchange with a bewildered expression.

‘We are discussing the proposal,’ the hearthegn said, switching back to Imperial Gothic with a half-smile.

‘We are not,’ said Grimnar, also in the tongue of their visitor. ‘Matters of fate and tradition require thought and counsel, and I will speak more with Ulrik and Njal on them. The fact of command resides with me alone, and on that I cannot accept these warriors. I am the Great Wolf, heir of the Wolf King. I would shame myself and the Chapter if I were to bend my knee to your primarch before swearing oaths to my own. The Wolves of Fenris have always lived by our own code and I am bound by it.’

‘I do not understand, but I will argue no further right now,’ said Castallor, bowing again. ‘I will seek guidance from my superiors.’

‘If you want to,’ said Grimnar. ‘But our laws are not changed to suit our mood.’

The others nodded and raised their fists in salute to the departing officer, who left in the howling wind. The shuttle rumbled into life and disappeared into the swirling snows. Arjac watched until the flare of jets was lost.

‘That was a long-winded way of saying pi–’

‘Not now, Arjac,’ snapped the Great Wolf.

Logan Grimnar left alone, carrying more weight on his hunched shoulders than when he had arrived.

Chapter Twelve

WYRDKNAK
A BEAST RETURNS
BAD OMENS

The babble of voices from inside the thegnhalle fell silent when Gytha stepped past the door held open by Orin. The two aettgard followed her in, closing the door before barring her exit.

Most of the hall was cut into the side of the hill, with only the front built out of wood and plastered stone. A shaft dug directly up from the centre provided a chimney for the firepit, though at the moment there were only fitful embers to complement the light from the torches in sconces on the walls.

The hall was half full, with the council of elders gathered on felled log benches at the far end, twelve of the most respected members of their community. Other worthies and the unashamedly curious were scattered about on rugs and low stools, smoking their pipes, eating and drinking.

All eyes were on Gytha as she continued forward. She saw sympathy in many, curiosity in more, and a few glances of suspicion, but not outright hostility. She relaxed a little, letting out a breath that had gathered on the walk from her house along the valley to the thegnhalle. She walked around the firepit and faced the elders, hands clasped behind her back. Agitta and a few others looked solemn, Faeras was clearly sulking; the rest greeted her with a mixture of smiles or indifference.

‘We have reached a consent,’ declared Ourilk, the current Tongue of the Council. She was only a handful of summers older than Gytha but was the most intelligent person in the settlement. Her gift for words leaned more to summary and negotiation than skjaldvers and so she had been made an elder, though she was not particularly old. Her dark brown hair was cut scalp-short at the sides and fell to her waist from a topknot, braided with golden thread and colourful beads. Like the other elders she wore a shawl of black-dyed wool over her hides and furs, clasped at the throat with the sigil of the Tongue – a fingernail-sized ruby set into a silver rune of juvi, the Word.

Faeras and another, Kjora, made grumbles at the Tongue’s declaration, but Ourilk ignored them and continued.

‘There is no doubt that you have discovered a wyrdknak and that your dreams have visionary potential. We have sought sign of bad stars upon this event but there is no evidence of maleficarum and we must believe that these visions come from the soul of Fenris, glimpses through the door of the Uppland. They have been sent to you for a reason, and we must divine that purpose and choose a course of action.’

‘We have had no gothi for generations,’ said the most senior of the council, Gotrin Tidebreaker. ‘Not since before the Burning Ones first came and the Sky Warriors made red snow of the invaders. It cannot be coincidence that these visions come to you now. It is with pleasure that the council welcomes you into their circle as our gothi, our messenger of the wyrd.’

Gytha laughed in surprise, eliciting a few frowns.

‘I don’t know anything about being a gothi! I can barely read the lower runes, not to mind casting the wyrdleif. Am I not meant to learn these skills by the hand of another gothi?’

‘If that’s what you want, Gytha, we shall have it arranged,’ said Agitta. She glanced at the other council members. ‘You must help us decide what is to be done, that is the point of giving you the chance to spend breath in the council.’

Gytha had no idea what to say. She stood in front of the wise and the serious feeling like she was a little girl, trying to excuse why she had stolen honey from the hunters’ traps. Anything she said would be ridiculed and she would be exposed as a fraud.

‘It’s a warning,’ she said, voicing the first thing that came to mind. She kept talking, letting the words spill out like spring melt. ‘I mean, they’re warnings. The visions. Even though I’m in no danger, the threat’s always there. And it’s been growing. The beast, the ogre, the monster of the red eyes is getting stronger. Whatever it is. But that isn’t the danger. It feels to me like it’s not just the giant, but the shadow of the giant that is hiding something worse.’

‘A warning for whom?’ said Faeras. ‘Are we in danger?’

‘You think we’d be a giant wolf locked in a fortress?’ snapped Agitta. ‘It’s the Sky Warriors, of course. Some big battle they’re fighting in the beyond.’

‘The Everdusk,’ said Ourilk. ‘The broken heavens. We know a war rages between the Uppland and the Underverse, tearing the sky apart. The Burning Ones came here and the Sky Warriors drove them off, but the Underverse, the maleficarum, keeps breaking through now.’

‘Why warn me and not one of their mighty gothi?’ said Gytha, choking back a sudden rise of sickness. The thought that she carried some message vital to the Sky Warriors made her stomach heave and her mouth dry, much like the visions themselves. ‘What can I do?’

‘Do?’ said Faeras. ‘What makes you think you have to do anything? Like you say, this wasn’t a vision for you, perhaps you just heard an echo. The runethegns of the North Fortress will act on it.’

Gytha wasn’t settled by the thought, though she wished she could just ignore the visions and carry on as normal.

‘I need help,’ she said. She found an empty stool and sat down, suddenly aware that the crowd in the rest of the hall had grown in number since she had arrived. Nearly four dozen folk sat in audience now, rapt as though listening to a skjald weave tales of the old heroes, like the Wolf King and the Red-Handed Son. She felt nothing like any of the people from those tales. ‘Maybe I should speak to one of the other gothi about this?’

‘If that is your need,’ said Ourilk.

She was interrupted by a shout from the far end of the hall.

‘Pa said the gothi of Sigurheim spends more time with the wyrdshrum and mead than he does reading runes! What use is that?’ Gytha saw Lufa near the door, without his father or sister. ‘What if the vision was meant for the Sky Warriors but came to you instead, ma? It’s been since spring, not just today. That’s not an accident.’

‘Only the council may speak,’ barked Kjorfi, banging his staff on the packed earth floor. The elder signalled to the two aettgard close to the boy. ‘Hish, away with your bad manners, child!’

‘Wait!’ Gytha stood up sharply and looked at her son. He seemed so earnest, staring at her from beneath his mop of unruly hair. ‘Lufa, what do you mean? Why are you here?’

‘We were collecting windfall in the woods, and Korit kept missing the basket and dropping the fruit, which rolled down the hill. So I was staying downhill of her to get them, and it made me think – what if the gothi of the Sky Warriors were too busy fighting their war, or lost in the Underverse maybe, and couldn’t catch the messages and so they were rolling down the mountain to you instead?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Kjora, and Faeras scoffed too. Both were silenced by a sharp word from Ourilk.

‘We know nothing of these matters,’ said the Tongue, looking at the other members of the council. ‘I must agree that the gothi of other places, other people, may have their own reasons for not helping us, or worse. Can we trust them with this gift?’

Gytha looked around the expectant faces, all looking to her to say something important. The title of gothi, though just imparted, immediately lent mystical weight to her every word.

‘This is…’ she whispered.

What? she asked herself. Stupid? Selfish? Across the hall she saw her son looking right at her, imploring with his eyes. She felt so small, but in that gaze she recognised the same look as when Lufa had listened to the old tales, back when he had been on her knee and first heard of the War of the Eye and the Breaking of the Wolves, when the Underverse and Uppland had been split asunder by the might of the old gods.

He looked on her as though she was a legend already. The implication of what she knew she had to do made her heart ache. Even so, she knew her thread had been tangled by this wyrdknak, and staying where she was would only knot the other threads around hers. This was wyrd at its most obvious.

‘I must warn the Sky Warriors.’

Gytha caught her breath after making the declaration, slightly surprised she had spoken the thought out loud. She expected laughter. Everyone’s attention made her want to shrink and disappear out of a crack in the wall. Instead she spoke again, coming to terms with her own thoughts even as she shared them.

‘I believe there’s a purpose behind these visions, whether from the sender or from the soul of Fenris itself, giving me this gift here and now. If the Sky Warriors fall in their war it would be a disaster for all the people of Fenris. The Burned Ones would come again and tear us from the gaze of the Allfather and into the Underverse, where they would make slaves of our souls.’

‘How will you warn them?’ said Faeras. ‘Walk all the way over the Icelands, swim the Death Seas, scale the Impossible Cliffs of Asaheim and knock upon the door of the North Fortress itself?’

Gytha laughed to hear the task described in that fashion.

‘Yes,’ she replied, undaunted by the thought. Why not? The moment she had declared her intent, she had felt calmer, as though her body had been at war with her spirit. ‘Yes, if that’s what I have to do. And perhaps I’ll kneel before the Great Wolf and tell him myself!’

Some of the watching folk laughed with her and she spotted a sly smile cross the lips of Agitta. Her mother-in-law’s expression quickly turned sombre, with a glare at Faeras.

‘It isn’t impossible, just difficult,’ said the old woman. ‘And we’re going to help her.’

‘We are?’ said Faeras.

‘Where our gothi goes, my spear goes too!’ called out Orin, raising the weapon in his hand.

‘You’re not leaving us behind,’ shouted Lufa, pushing forward as the crowd rose to their feet, some offering their company, others arguing against.

‘Oh, Bjorti…’ Gytha said, the sight of her son a reminder of her husband. She looked at Agitta. ‘I should have spoken to him first.’

‘He’d follow you to Hel with a smile if you go,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you worry about him.’

‘But it’ll be dangerous,’ said Gytha, turning back to the other people. ‘Helwinter is coming fast. Lufa, no, I can’t take you away from here, not to drag you to a fool’s death in the Icelands. No! This is madness.’

There was a fresh clamour, ended by the thud of Kjorfi’s staff.

‘Silence!’ he bellowed. ‘The elders are speaking.’

Cowed, the crowd retreated, some returning to their seats. Lufa arrived at his mother’s side, smiling.

‘You’d rob us of our smith and our best fighters?’ said Kjora.

‘I ask nobody to come with me,’ said Gytha. She pulled Lufa closer. ‘But… I don’t think I can make it alone.’

‘Then you’ll need all the help we can give,’ announced Gotrin. The Tidebreaker pushed himself to his feet, his body wracked with age but his eyes bright and fierce. He’d been aettjarl for a decade and had led them well. ‘And all the help we can give is to be your company. You are the messenger, but I hear it too. The message is for all of us. We have stayed here in some peace for more than a season, but it is the way of Fenris that nothing lasts. This is our call. Perhaps this Helwinter will be our last, but we should spend it seeking a better life. Since the Burning Ones brought their kast to these lands it has been poisoned. Asaheim… Asaheim stands beneath the shadow of the North Fortress. There a people can rest awhile from these troubles. Grow again, maybe prosper as we did before the Everdusk and all that brought it.’

‘It is not your decision alone,’ said Kjora.

‘No,’ conceded the Tidebreaker. ‘I am aettjarl, but the council’s will is the law.’

‘I vote nay,’ said Faeras.

‘My will is known,’ said Kjora. ‘This is madness.’

‘I’m with Gytha,’ said Agitta. ‘We make for Asaheim, or the Uppland, whichever we reach first.’

Gytha realised the others were waiting for her to speak, now that she was a member of the council. Every measure of good sense told her it was a terrible idea to leave, especially at the end of summer. It was a grave neglect to take her own children and the infants on such a dangerous journey. It was the way, as the Tidebreaker had said, moving from place to place as the lands broke and rose, but to trek into the far north would mean no return, as Agitta had claimed.

‘You’re gothi now,’ said Ydra, another of the elders. She and the others divided their attention between Gytha and the other folk in the hall, gauging their moods. ‘Speak.’

‘We head for Asaheim,’ Gytha said. There were cheers from the crowd, though not from all. Attention moved to the elders that had not voted. Their votes would settle the matter.

‘Aye,’ said Ydra. ‘When the wind-voices call, do not waste breath arguing with them.’

The others voted in favour too, their decision leaving a poignant silence for several heartbeats as the reality settled. Stools scraped on the floors as people stood and muttered conversation began.

‘It’s decided,’ said the Tongue quietly. Some people were already leaving, eager to begin their preparations. ‘We head north.’

Gytha felt fingers entwine with hers. Lufa smiled down at her, reminding Gytha that the world was not the wind-blasted wastes, the cloudy skies and the storm-wracked seas. That was just Fenris. It was temporary, always breaking and changing. This was her world – her family – and it went with her wherever she travelled, in this Verse or the next.

The noise still surprised Gaius, though he had been to the company halls several times already. Just three packs gathered around the trestles and benches, but songs, jokes and the clatter of eating combined to create a din equal to any battlefield. The Primaris Marine’s enhanced hearing allowed him to filter out much of the racket to isolate individual voices, or to hear the bang of platters on wood or the snap of logs burning in the great firepit at the centre of the hall. It didn’t come with a general volume control.

His squad followed beneath the dark beam of the main door – a thick plank of ancient wood that Ullr said had come from Leman Russ’ own kingship when he had sailed to Asaheim to seek the Aett. Everything had a history, from the tiles around the firepit, made from clay brought to the halls by one of Dragongaze’s predecessors, to the spoons made from iron melted down from ork helmets taken in battle two centuries ago. Just to walk from the threshold to one of the empty tables was to pass artefacts a thousand years old, to stride across history and Chapter memory.

Each pack had its place – not codified in any way, of course, but Ullr had taken Gaius to a trestle and bench on the left side of the hall as they entered, nearly fifty yards from the firepit. It pained Gaius to hear some of the Firstborn still refer to it as ‘Jaggi’s Corner’ after the pack that had previously inhabited it, but that was better than the ‘Pups’ Basket’, which he had heard more than once. He knew he had no right to their immediate respect, but three years of constant war against the traitors of the Great Rift was no training exercise. But, if the Wolves of Fenris had not witnessed it, it did not count. The worth of the Firstwolves would yet be earned in the eyes of their peers.

‘Drink with us, Firstwolf!’

Gaius turned, surprised to hear the name from another. It came from Drogr, named as the Ploughblade for the way he cut through his enemies like tilling soil, leader of the Crimson Claws. He lifted a hand to beckon to Gaius, one of his pack slapping the bench in the gap next to him.

‘Come tell us of the wars in the Everdusk,’ another called.

There was room for both packs around the enormous table, the Firstwolves gathered slightly to one end, Gaius on the right of Drogr. The pack leader gave a shout to the kaerls bearing platters and pitchers up from the company kitchens, and within minutes a feast of roast meats, honey-slab and steaming vegetables was on the table boards. Several large pitchers of mjod joined them, along with metal cups for everyone.

The meal began in near silence, as the hungry Space Marines gorged themselves to the exclusion of conversation. For all their lives since waking in the bowels of one of Cawl’s gene-arks, Gaius and his squad had known only ship fare and battle rations, and it was a stark contrast to find that almost every meal in the Aett was a banquet.

‘Doesn’t all the rich food and drink make it harder to eat protein gruel and ration packs?’ Aegreus asked, tearing open a thickly crusted loaf with his hands. He offered half to the Firstborn next to him.

‘It’s not normal to spend more than a few days here,’ confessed the Crimson Claw. ‘We celebrate while we can, to make the most of the bounty of Fenris.’

‘And it’s surprising what you can get onto the ship when you leave, and not spoil for a week or two!’ added another before popping a whole boiled egg into his mouth.

‘And you have to keep your strength up when you can,’ said a third. He pulled back the sleeve of his fur jacket to expose a massive bicep. A face had been tattooed on the side and as the Grey Hunter flexed, its mouth and eyes seemed to open and close in astonishment, much to Gaius’ amusement. ‘You don’t get these drinking water and eating gruel!’

‘It cannot be easy to grow and hunt this much food,’ said Gaius, looking at the discarded carcasses of fowl and game littering the platters. ‘I thought that life was harsh on Fenris, every season a battle against starvation and the elements.’

‘Asaheim isn’t so bad,’ said Drogr. He picked up a haunch of boar and dropped it onto Gaius’ plate. ‘And a hard place breeds hard people. Those that fight, those that protect, get the choice of the food. No jarl would let his vaerengr go hungry while the fishwives grow fat bellies.’

There was nodding and table thumping in approval of this sentiment. Gaius had some issues with this simplification, but thought better of voicing it. Instead he tore off a chunk of the pork and gave it back to Drogr.

‘Don’t be a fishwife,’ he said in his best Juvjk. ‘Eat up!’

Drogr glared at him with such ferocity Gaius thought the pack leader was going to strike him; the rest of the Crimson Claws exploded into laughter. Gaius fought the urge to apologise, not wishing to concede anything to the other pack leader in case it was taken as weakness.

After a few heartbeats, Drogr’s temper calmed and he leaned closer, dropping his voice.

‘Don’t return a gift to the giver, even as a joke,’ said the pack leader. He carefully placed the meat back in front of Gaius. ‘It’s an insult to their generosity.’

Gaius nodded and accepted the advice in silence.

The mood stifled by his mistake, Gaius tried to lighten it again. He grabbed his cup of mjod and lifted it to the others around the table.

‘Skjoal!’ he declared, the toast called back to him by the others. He tried some more crude Juvjk. ‘Paint your blades red!’

This was received much better than his previous attempt, with various phrases shouted back at him, many of which he did not follow very well but took to be suitably martial or bloodthirsty by the vehemence of their declaration.

Other toasts followed, to battle, to honour, to brotherhood, and the mjod flowed too, along with much greater quantities of regular ale, mead and fortified wine. These lesser drinks were quickly cleansed of alcohol and other toxins by his modified internal organs, but the mjod had been brewed for millennia for the exact properties to bypass those systems and Gaius found himself getting merry.

‘Do you know how to play?’ asked Ordas Blacktail, clearing space for a koenigsgard board and pieces.

‘Ordas is the pack expert,’ warned Drogr.

‘I played Ullr and the others on the ship,’ said Gaius. ‘I think I’ll be fine.’

Even as he spoke the pack leader’s name, he spied Ullr and his warriors entering the hall. First-Shot looked surprised to see where the Firstwolves were seated and led his pack to a neighbouring bench in place of their usual haunt.

‘What are you up to, Ploughblade?’ Ullr asked as he sat down.

‘Teaching the Firstwolves how to drink!’ Drogr replied with a grin.

Gaius laughed and lifted his cup, spilling some mjod over the lip as he tried to toast Ullr. He blinked, surprised at the accident. Something strange had happened to his coordination.

‘They’re big, but they can’t take their mjod,’ laughed another of the Crimson Claws.

Prompted by Ordas, Gaius turned his focus to the game board. The other Space Marine held out two massive fists, a piece from each side concealed within. Gaius picked one and the king was revealed. The board was arranged and Ordas took the first turn, moving one of his ambushing warriors towards the king and his aettgard pieces in the middle.

Gaius responded with a non-committal move. There were two main strategies for the king, Ullr had explained: escape the attack or fight back. Ordas’ opening moves were highly aggressive and Gaius spent several turns avoiding having too many pieces captured immediately, while his opponent almost deliberately left a path open towards a corner of the board where the king could escape.

‘You’re full of farts,’ said Gaius, repeating something he’d heard Ullr say. He stopped trying to be so protective of his pieces and started a counter-attack.

Ordas smiled and retaliated, but Gaius was convinced that his opponent had overplayed his attack. Both packs were banging the table in approval of each move by their player, or jeering the opponent’s turns, but Gaius pushed all of that out of his thoughts and concentrated on the pieces. Taking a few seconds longer to check what Ordas could do, he slid his king forward, capturing an attacker.

Ordas frowned, but from confusion rather than dismay.

‘Played before? A child wouldn’t make a mistake like that in their first game,’ said the Crimson Claw. He picked up one of his pieces and moved it over two of his own, into a position that threatened Gaius’ king.

‘You can’t do that!’ the Primaris Marine gasped. ‘That’s not a legal move!’

‘Shield jump,’ said Ordas, looking at the others in his pack. He lifted his hands and shrugged. ‘Jump over two of your own pieces if they’re next to each other. Perfectly normal.’

‘No, no, no,’ growled Gaius. He fumbled the book from the pouch at his belt and found the page that explained the game of King’s Guard. He scanned the writing but knew it by heart already. ‘That’s not in the rules.’

‘Not in the rules?’ Ordas’ voice went up in pitch as his anger grew. ‘That sounds like you’re saying I’m a cheat.’

‘It’s not in here,’ said Gaius, thrusting the book towards the Crimson Claw. ‘These are the rules of the game.’

Ordas slapped the book out of Gaius’ hand as he shot to his feet. ‘Your stupid book doesn’t tell us how to play, whelp,’ snarled the Firstborn.

‘Now, let’s not–’ began Neiflur.

‘Shut up,’ snarled Gaius, fishing the book from a puddle of gravy. He met Ordas’ stare with his own, determined he would not back down. ‘Call me “whelp” again.’

‘Your lips are still wet with your mother’s milk,’ said Ordas.

Gaius swung his fist, faster and stronger than any enhanced human, but Ordas was expecting the blow and caught Gaius’ wrist in both hands. Releasing the grip with one, he pulled Gaius forward into his own punch, which connected with the point of his opponent’s chin, stunning him. Gaius lashed out with his free hand, scattering the board and plates, but failing to hit.

Wrenching his arm out of Ordas’ grip, Gaius vaulted over the table, foot connecting with the other Space Marine’s chest. Shouting and howling surrounded him but all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears as he raised his fist for another blow.

It did not land. Rolling as he hit the ground, Ordas brought his foot up, hitting Gaius in the face again, sending him sprawling. As he fell back, Gaius’ head crashed into the leg of the trestle, almost upending the whole table. He lay there dazed while Ordas swept a hand across the table, scattering King’s Guard pieces onto the fallen Primaris Marine. Gaius moved to stand as Ordas turned away, but hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him down. He turned his head to see Ullr on one knee behind him, fingers gripping tight.

‘Don’t make it worse,’ hissed the pack leader. ‘He beat you fair, in the game and in the fight.’

‘I didn’t ask you for help,’ Gaius snarled, twisting out of the other Space Marine’s grip.

He sat up but did not stand. The Crimson Claws all moved away, some with scowls, others with smirks. Drogr loitered a few seconds longer, shaking his head before following his pack. The brawl had lasted moments and barely caused a ripple in the chatter and noise across the hall; everybody was continuing their meal without paying any regard to the altercation.

‘Forget this,’ said Ullr, dropping Gaius’ book on the floor between his legs. The pack leader tapped a finger to his ear and then to the corner of his eye. ‘Use these instead.’

He turned away, motioning for the Greypelts to relocate to their usual haunt. Gaius felt the gazes of the rest of the Firstwolves on him but could not look up. The mjod fog was clearing and the shame burned in his chest and flushed his face.

Gaius got to his feet, picked up the guidebook, checked there was no further damage. Placing it carefully in its pouch he headed for the door, eyes fixed firmly on the uneven slabs at his feet.

‘Those were the astropath’s exact words?’ Guilliman balled his hand into a fist, gripping it with the other.

Though the primarch was not pleased, Hurak almost laughed, turning his grin into a grimace at the last moment before his master saw his mirth. A Son of Corax, it was expected that he would be dour, but for all the grave myths and dark tales surrounding the Raven Guard and their descendants he found irony, satire and gallows humour in most of what occurred in the crusade. In truth, much of what he had learned about his Chapter and his gene-father was depressing, so he felt it his role to bring a little light into a dark world. He liked to believe that Corax had displayed more humour than had survived in his teachings ten thousand years later. Generations of sombre-faced editors had removed the witticisms.

‘Yes, Lord Commander.’ The Astra Militarum ensign that had been tasked with relaying the message was clearly uncomfortable, eyes fixed on the data-slate in his shaking hands. He was of low rank for such a duty and Hurak could picture the message getting dropped down the chain of command faster than a primed grenade. ‘He said, “A squatting wolf drops its faeces upon the tattered scroll.” Much of everything else is standard cipher and identifier imagery.’

Guilliman’s expression darkened to the point that the envoy looked like he would bolt. Hurak could see that the primarch was already thinking past the present situation.

‘You can go, Ensign Lao,’ the captain said, gesturing towards the door. He watched the young officer leave at haste and turned his attention to the primarch, repressing his amusement. ‘I think the wounded wolf is the metaphor from the broadcast that is more telling, Lord Commander. Lieutenant Castallor obviously thinks the Chapter is in dire need of the assistance.’

‘It is, which makes their refusal of the Primaris Marines even more reckless,’ said the primarch. His expression remained grim. ‘The Space Wolves are prideful, but nothing in my studies suggests they are self-destructive.’

‘Reports of ork fleets and invasions are still increasing, as you feared.’ His amusement dissipated, Hurak’s gaze flicked to the latest reports of xenos attacks sitting on the corner of Guilliman’s desk. The pile was several inches thick. ‘The whole rear of Fleet Secundus and the flank of our advance are threatened if the xenos cannot be controlled, or their spread halted at the least.’

‘A task for which the Space Wolves are perfectly placed,’ replied the Lord Commander.

‘But why them, Lord Guilliman?’ It was a question that had occurred to Hurak several times in the months since being promoted to one of the Lord Commander’s aides, his prime equerry. ‘The torchbearer fleets race through the galaxy carrying enough warriors and Primaris technology to raise a hundred Chapters and more. If the Space Wolves die, we have the means to replace them.’

‘Let them die?’ Guilliman relaxed his hands, moving to one of his desk-lecterns. His massive fists gripped the edge. ‘We cannot let a First Founding Chapter die out.’

‘I don’t doubt your wisdom, my lord, but I fail to see the military need. You have spoken of how urgent it is that we support the Firstborn and have made great efforts to ensure the White Scars, the Iron Hands and other Legion-born Chapters received reinforcements. You never explained why.’

As soon as he finished speaking, Hurak realised how incredibly presumptuous he was, to cast doubt on the motives of the Lord Commander. Roboute Guilliman had chosen him and a handful of others as his close aides, to learn at his hand so that they might go on to teach others; to follow the likes of Messinius, Oskari and, in the last year, Henderix and Ghastol. Each that felt the hand of the primarch upon them had taken that wisdom into the other fleets.

Guilliman did not seem angered, but was animated instead, tapping his hand on the top of the lectern with resounding thuds.

‘There are three things that are required for the Indomitus Crusade to succeed,’ he said, lifting a trio of fingers on his other hand. ‘Firstly, that it is conceived and conducted by me. It is not arrogance to accept that I have a unique ability, and unfortunate personal experience, to prosecute this war in a way unmatched by any other in the Imperium. This is not a boast, for I cannot claim credit for the gifts my first father gave me, honed in the senate and on the battlefield by the second. Not even were they of single purpose and the greatest minds of their organisations could the High Lords of Terra conduct the Imperium’s military might with the same capability, for they are not of a single mind, encompassing it all.

‘Yet, as my second point, I can do nothing without them, or more importantly their institutions. I can be in but one place at a time, and so I must put plans into motion and trust that my will carries them onward, instilled into the minds of others. For one chance, one brief glimmer of history in the vast spread of the Imperium’s arc, I have managed to set a great part of humanity forward in a common direction. It will not last, but the longer we can sustain that momentum of purpose, the better our chances of saving the Imperium.

‘In order for that to happen, the third of our list is required. Trust. Not in my abilities, but in my goals. From Terra and Mars, from Cadia to Fenris, there can be no doubt that this crusade serves all and not just one. If I am ever seen to be guilty of serving myself, it all falls apart. I can offer assurances until ears are deaf to them, so I must instead demonstrate every time I act that my purpose, my desire, is not to change anything but to restore the powers and principles of the Imperium as its people know it. My vision must be all of their visions. Not to bring about a new Imperium from the ashes, for that was a folly I will not repeat. But to hold together the last parts of this Imperium, fighting this war and guiding our people’s course, as the Emperor did. To do so just long enough for it to grow stronger than it was before, and then, with the completion of my Codex Imperialis, to relinquish it to the hands of mortals once more, as I have always intended.’

The primarch’s words swept up Hurak, carrying him across the vastness of the stars, as though for an instant he shared the majesty and darkness of the galactic war as Guilliman saw it. He knew it was just a fantasy, that his mind could encapsulate only a sliver of what the primarch held in his thoughts every second. He also realised that his lord had not answered the question, and was sharp enough to know that Guilliman never left out anything by oversight. He expected Hurak to follow his thinking and resolve the issue of the First Founding Chapters for himself.

‘Do you want my thesis straight away, my lord?’ the Space Marine asked, with candour being preferable to second-guessing. ‘Or can I think about it for a time?’

Guilliman cupped his chin in his hand for a few seconds.

‘When you are ready, you will tell me,’ he said. He regarded Hurak for longer than was entirely necessary, and then smiled. ‘Thank you for the diversion, captain. It has taken the sting out of Logan Grimnar’s retort and now I can think clearly. Please be ready to discharge summons and messages.’

And that was it, the lesson had ended and Hurak returned to his duties as a glorified postmaster. It was a position of both great insight and the utterly mundane. He realised that in itself was something Guilliman was teaching him.

About a quarter of the slaves died during the blizzards and long nights, but the seasons changed quickly, and soon spring came with strong winds and slashing rain. Orad was among a group of several hundred slaves given new work and moved to the shipyards, or more precisely the scrap caravans that brought the shipyards a constant source of raw materials. Most were from the Rigorous, but not all. It was the last he saw of many crewmates but he had no time nor thought to lament this. From before dawn to after dusk they unloaded cargo of wiring and pipes, sheet metal and plasteel blocks, entire reactor systems, buckets of bolts and nuts, and much more that had been stolen and salvaged across dozens of star systems. Hauling these loads to the highest gantries was dangerous work, the nimble grots weaving in and out of their legs with smaller bundles, sometimes tripping the humans on purpose, cackling as they watched the unfortunate plunge to their deaths a hundred and fifty feet down. Retaliation in the form of swift kicks ensured that the grots gave Orad a wide berth.

At dawn on the second day of this intensified labour a newcomer appeared. She was human, dressed in an elaborate light blue frock coat and officer’s cap, both heavy with frayed gilt stitching and frogging, accompanied by long mock-leather gloves and knee-high boots, like a parody of the ship commissar. She carried a vox-hailer with which she addressed the humans in Low Gothic.

‘The great lord Orguk Worldmangle, ruler of Orguk’s World, conqueror of Snikrag and Kragsmak, today announced the commencement of the fightiest war in all of orkdom. You have been favoured to work for the greatness of this endeavour, a tiny part of the great victories that lie before Orguk Worldmangle. By summertime you shall build a fleet that will darken suns and bellow through the dreams of the weaker races.’

This announcement brought with it even greater brutality from the ork overseers, their whips becoming constant companions, their shouts echoing through Orad’s mind even when he slept. Toiling up the haphazard scaffolds gave him a view of the ork settlement he had not seen since they had landed, and in that time – despite the harsh winter – it had nearly doubled in size.

There was little organisation to it. The docks at which he slaved were one of several such facilities jutting up from the mess of palaces, forts, hovels, racetracks, firing ranges and a warren of streets that gave him vertigo to look at. There was one feature that dominated all others, squatting like a brooding giant on a hill near the centre of the city. He assumed it was Orguk’s stronghold, the massive curtain wall topped with fang-like battlements of rusting iron, held by more than a dozen towers and a gatehouse large enough for gigantic war machines to pass through.

From the fortress and from workshops all over Orguk’s domain came the creations of the ork engineers: buggies and bikes and armoured walkers; transports with wheels and tracks, their open beds filled with baying and laughing greenskins; cannons on limbers hauled by teams of slaves or smog-belching armoured tractors; tanks by the score, of no consistent shape or size, from glorified armoured cars and self-propelled guns up to multi-turreted behemoths the size of buildings; and stomping giants of metal that ranged from three or four times a human’s height to monstrous machines that towered over the surrounding buildings, girded with curved armoured plates like rotund bodies, control stations fashioned as grimacing heads atop turreted shoulders, each an enormous mobile idol bedecked with weaponry.

This war industry filled the holds of the ships being built, quite often before the vessels were even finished – many seemed to be constructed around the larger engines, each purpose-built for a handful of gargantuan machines. Smaller attack craft streamed up from airfields on the outskirts, their smoke and contrails spiralling towards the glint of the space station that could be seen in the rare breaks in the downpours.

The summer and its scorching heat came next and lasted an eternity, at least a full year compared to the seasons of Orad’s birthworld, Norestsun. The traitor returned again in the blistering sunshine, moving among the slave parties with an entourage of orkish minders to keep her armoured transport safe. Now her vehicle was bedecked with address systems so that her voice carried over the crash and clamour of unceasing labour.

‘Your works for the mighty Orguk Worldmangle do not go unnoticed! Today you have become part of something far greater than any endeavour you have undertaken before. Orguk Worldmangle announces that his army shall fight alongside that of the Beast of Armageddon, the Prophet of Mork, the Fist of Gork, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka!’

At mention of this name there was cheering and roaring from all greenskins within earshot.

‘Be thankful for your lives, as the Great Green will again swallow the stars and the roars of Gork and Mork shall thunder across the strangespace. Upon their bellowing breath shall the war of Orguk and Ghazghkull be carried against the strangespace freaks and the warriors of the broken human empire.’

She let out a strange shout, a wordless war cry of pure aggression that her ork companions took up in a deafening bass holler. They fired their guns into the air and banged fists and blades against the side of the transport. Behind the woman several orks started making raucous music on metal drums and electrical instruments, their screeches and bellows causing the overseers and grots to nod their heads vigorously, pumping fists and joining in the fire of weapons with stamping feet and cracking whips.

This announcement was followed by an even greater swell of activity, though Orad had thought the slaves pushed to their limit already. There seemed no shortage of captives to build the engines of the orks: even as Orad saw familiar faces pale and then disappear, new ones replaced them, the ork conquest fuelling itself to greater and greater power as it prepared for the coming massive expansion.

For some it was not the physical toil that ended them but the mental strain. Each day a handful of those too broken to continue would cast themselves from the high scaffold, occasionally dragging a grot or sometimes even an ork overseer with them. Others threw themselves into whirring engines, hoping their bodies would clog the works. Some grabbed guns from the orks and went down in a hail of fire and lunatic screams of hate, or snatched shells from ammunition carriers and hurled themselves beneath the tracks of the embarking war engines, or dropped their loads into open generators and reactor pits, causing explosions and electrical storms to engulf dozens of orks and slaves. The orks showed no concern for these petty acts of sabotage.

Orad had considered following them into death, but he was haunted by his surrender on the ship and could not fail the Emperor twice. He would not submit again and risk damnation. Every few days the Voice of Orguk returned, reminding them of the power of the warlord and their privilege to labour under such a strong leader. Her appearances had the effect of motivating Orad, not to impress the turncoat or her greenskin master but to stay alive long enough to see them both destroyed by the wrath of the Emperor. It was a matter of time, nothing more, until the Imperial Navy and the Imperial Guard, perhaps even Space Marines or the Sisters of Battle, arrived to cleanse this world of the xenos that took so many of the Throne’s servants.

As his calloused hands healed with thicker skin and his body grew stronger with every burden, so his resolve was bolstered with each day of slavery. He greeted the whip-crack of morning call as another day that might bring the Emperor’s retribution, and as he told the ghosts of his crewmates – his gun crew now joined by nearly a score of others on his necklace – they just had to be patient.

Unlike the great halls and audience chambers of the lower levels, the wulfhalle of Logan Grimnar was a more personal space, one of several that had once been a suite of rooms for the Wolf King in the heights of the Aett. It was some distance below the wyrdhalle where Njal spent much of his time, difficult to reach directly, requiring one to traverse the width of the fortress to a working conveyor system or descend nearly a mile on foot by a series of uneven stairs. Going down was certainly better than the return journey, but even so when Njal paused before the closed doors he felt as though he had descended a mountain. Which, in a way, he had.

There were two Wolf Guard on duty, as was customary – Odyn Foe-Ruin and Hrothgar Frostskull. They seem surprised to see Njal approach.

‘The Great Wolf is busy, Runelord,’ said Odyn, stepping in front of the doorway, blocking it with his broad Terminator armour. Njal was in his furs, but no less imposing because of it.

‘My business is urgent.’ He drew himself up to his full height, red beard bristling, his shaggy mane sparking with golden flecks. ‘What occupies the Great Wolf?’

‘He holds council with the Rockfist,’ replied Odyn, standing his ground.

‘Even better, Arjac will benefit from hearing this news also,’ said Njal, stepping to the left.

Odyn moved slightly to stand between the runethegn and the door. Njal let out a sigh and took a step back.

‘At least tell the Great Wolf I am here.’

The two Wolf Guard shared a look before Hrothgar gave a nod. He pushed open the door to address the inhabitants, but quick as a serpent, Njal sidestepped Odyn and was at the threshold before he could be intercepted. Grimnar was at a side table pouring ale from a jug, while Arjac stood at the large window looking out over the clouds that surrounded the stronghold.

‘My lord, I must speak with you,’ said Njal. He felt the Wolf Guard moving behind him and raised his voice to a snarl. ‘If either of you lay a finger upon me, I’ll make lightning dance in your arseholes.’

Sounds of armoured movement ceased.

Grimnar turned around, jug in one hand, tankard in the other.

‘I only have two cups,’ said the Great Wolf.

‘I’m not thirsty,’ lied Njal, whose mouth was dry from navigating the endless stairways. ‘I have received communication from the Imperial vessel.’

‘I see,’ said Logan, pouring ale. He nodded to the door guards and Njal stepped onto the carpeted floor while the door banged closed behind him.

‘You do not, but you will,’ said Njal.

‘The lieutenant of the Ultramarines failed to persuade me to allow their mock Fenrisians closer so he tried to turn you, sensing you were more favourable to the idea.’

‘Not at all, and he would have failed, though you are right, I think you are making a mistake.’ Njal sat down in one of the large chairs around the fireplace, on the opposite side of the room to where the Great Wolf stood. Logan passed a cup of ale to Arjac and returned to where he had been standing to raise the other mug to his lips, waiting for Njal to continue.

‘I have granted audience to a small group from the vessel,’ the runethegn said. ‘They are called historitors and have been tasked with piecing together fragments of the past.’

‘They sound like the worst kind to let free around the Aett,’ said Arjac.

‘Which is why I won’t be letting them free to roam,’ snapped Njal. ‘As loremaster it is my right and responsibility, and as much as they wish to learn from us, we need to learn from them. We have scant report, secondhand from Krom, of this crusade and the return of Guilliman. If we wish to know what has happened on the Throneworld and what is happening afar, these historitors will be the ones to speak with.’

‘You should have travelled to them, in that case,’ said Grimnar, putting down his cup. ‘I think they have tricked you.’

‘The historitors are only part of the story, Logan.’ Njal leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘The request did not come from them but a Custodian.’

‘Someone guarding them? A Space Marine?’

‘A Custodian! A warrior of the Adeptus Custodes. I saw him on the vid-feed. Bigger than these Primaris Marines, clad in golden armour.’

‘The Custodians don’t leave the Allfather’s halls,’ said Arjac.

‘Until now…’

Logan Grimnar had a calculating look as he drained the rest of the ale and picked up the jug to refill the mug.

‘A Custodian has left the Throneworld and he has travelled to Fenris? I know that these are times like no other, but it has been ten thousand years since…’ The Great Wolf put both mug and jug down and turned his attention fully to the Runelord. ‘I am reminded of Prospero, when the Wolf King and the Custodians fought side by side against the Cyclops. Now Magnus returns to assail Fenris in revenge and a gold-clad warrior comes to call upon the Aett.’

‘Now you see why I extended the invitation,’ said Njal.

‘None of your visions included a gold warrior,’ said Arjac. ‘You didn’t see this coming.’

‘Wyrdsight is a gift from across the othersea, it is not a pair of magnoculars,’ grumbled the Runelord. ‘Things are not always straightforward. I have seen golden sunrises and sunsets, golden flames on the sea and golden stars above.’

‘It must be another sign,’ said Logan. ‘For a soldier of the Ten Thousand to leave Terra is an omen we cannot ignore, another mark that we pass into the Wolftime.’

‘I will meet with these visitors and guide them to what they seek,’ said Njal. ‘Because it is my invitation they have no good cause to see any more of the Aett than necessary.’

‘You think I shouldn’t have audience with this Custodian?’

‘Perhaps a greeting, but anything grander strains our customs of hospitality,’ said Njal.

‘And are we sure about this warrior and his cause?’ said Arjac. ‘What if he is an agent of the primarch? Letting him close to you could be a mistake, if the legends of their abilities are only half-true.’

‘You think a Custodian would come all this way to kill me?’ said Logan.

‘I think the Imperium would not want anybody stalling its crusade,’ said the Rockfist. ‘If you do not trust Guilliman, you cannot trust any that sides with him.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ said the Great Wolf. He looked disappointed. ‘We will keep the Custodian and the band of lore-scribes at arm’s length while we learn what we can from them. You did the right thing, Njal, though I wish you had spoken to me before agreeing to host them.’

‘If I had, it would have been by your agreement, not mine, and you would be host,’ replied Njal, shaking his head. ‘I thought it better to keep things simple.’

Nobody said anything for a few seconds and Njal remembered that he had interrupted the other two in conversation. He stood up.

‘I will let you continue your council,’ he said, stepping to the door.

‘Wait, you might as well hear this too,’ said Logan. ‘I don’t want to have everybody involved, but since it seems you’ll be busy with your visitors you should know what’s happening.’

‘This sounds ominous.’

‘I have recalled the Great Companies. When six others have arrived, we shall have enough to hold a council. I want to vote on removing Krom Dragongaze from command of the Drakeslayers.’ Logan grimaced, his hand forming a fist. ‘He refuses to answer any summons, skulking in his halls, and there is rumour that he has Primaris warriors here among his packs. Bringing the Imperial ship here was a mistake, but his behaviour since has been deliberate. It brings dishonour to his rank.’

‘He has fought hard and lost many warriors,’ said Njal. ‘There may be no replacement for him from within the Drakeslayers.’

‘No, I don’t think there is.’

The runethegn’s gaze moved to Arjac. The Champion met his stare with a belligerent glare.

‘You’ve not mentioned it to him yet?’ said Njal, guessing the Great Wolf’s intent.

‘Mentioned what?’ said Arjac. He thought for a moment and then his eyes widened. ‘No! No, I don’t want to be a Wolf Lord. No. Put it from your mind, my lord.’

‘Would you really refuse me?’ said Logan, eyebrow raised. ‘It is a great honour.’

‘So is being hearthegn, and that is good enough for me. You’d get good warriors killed. I’m no company commander.’

‘I think you underestimate yourself, but so be it,’ said Logan ruefully. ‘I may have to think of another.’

‘When the other Wolf Lords return, do nothing hasty,’ warned Njal. ‘The news of the Primaris Marines, the crusade, Guilliman, it will unsettle a great many things.’

‘And Krom may use that to his advantage,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘We cannot afford division, but I also cannot abide disloyalty.’

‘I will support you, whatever your choice,’ said Njal, raising his eyes to Arjac for a moment before concentrating on his lord. ‘Be sure of your mind before you speak to the other Wolf Lords.’

‘I always am,’ said Grimnar.

Arjac followed Njal as the Runelord left the chambers and headed down the corridor. After a short while – long enough to be out of earshot of the door guards, Njal realised – Arjac spoke quietly as they walked.

‘He has not been the same since the retreat on Gottrok. Impatient, for him. This business with Krom, he would have settled it by now rather than let it fester, or use the crutch of the lords’ council.’

‘He thinks these are the Days of Ending, the Wolftime. He’s preparing for the return of the Wolf King and the final battle.’

‘I don’t think he is wrong,’ said Arjac.

‘We shall see. The Wolftime is our ending. The death of the sons of the Wolf. I would rather we didn’t throw our lives away to fulfil a misguided notion of fate. What our allies need now are the warriors of Fenris, not the echo of our death howl.’

‘Would you follow him back to the Gottrok? If it was disappearing into the othersea?’

Njal stopped at the foot of the stairs that led their winding way back towards the wyrdhalle.

‘I cannot promise that I will,’ he said.

Arjac accepted that in silence and the two of them stood by the stairs for several seconds, lost in their own thoughts.

‘I’m heading back to the iron levels,’ said Arjac. ‘Don’t make me choose one oath over another. Leave me be.’

Arjac stalked off along the corridor, leaving Njal with the long ascent. He started up the first of many steps, telling himself that the more difficult road usually led to the better destination.

Chapter Thirteen

A VOYAGE BEGINS
THE FIREHOWLERS
THE LEGION-BREAKER

‘Provide no abode for maleficarum,’ Kjorfi intoned as he pushed the blazing brand into the remnants of the thegnhalle. It was little more than a cave now, but it had been filled with debris and waste from the rest of the village, sprinkled with a little oil so that the flame caught quickly.

Gytha stepped back as the fire grew, the heat washing over the gathered crowd, the orange light a counterpart to the smear of dawn rising over the hill through the ever-present clouds. Behind them Bjorti put a torch to the remnants of the forge, while axemen hewed through the last few piles of the wharf.

Three ships awaited the last of their cargo – people. Some of the folk knelt and paid respects to their ancestors, others thanked the spirits of the bay for watching over them since the distant spring. Bjorti came up the well-trodden path, a cloak wrapped about his shoulders against the cool morning breeze. Smoke coiled into the sky from where the forge had been.

‘That’s done then,’ he said with a smile.

Gytha nodded, fighting back the feeling of melancholy.

‘North,’ he said, a word that had been on many a breath the past days since the decision of the council.

The wind was strengthening off the sea, perfect for the first stage of the journey up the relatively flat plains of the coast. Korit and Lufa were already aboard with Agitta. Others were piling the last of their belongings and joining them. The sea was thick with crusting ice and within days would no longer be navigable by boat. Though they sailed north, into the cold, they travelled away from the first growth of ice along the coast. Tidebreaker said they would save many days by travelling on the last waves rather than over unstable ice.

Still she could not move.

‘I’m on the first shift at the oars,’ Bjorti reminded, gently encouraging her towards action.

‘This is all my fault,’ Gytha said quietly. Not with tears, just acceptance. ‘This is because of me.’

‘The lands break. The skies turn. People move.’

Gytha felt powerful fingers interlacing with her own and comfort flowed from the touch. She allowed herself to be gently pulled into her first step and then the second.

It wasn’t the fear that she was wrong that made her reluctant to go. If the dreams were nothing more, that would be disheartening, but she could bear that. Remembering the beast of the forest and the silenced wolf, the main reason she didn’t want to set out was because the visions might prove to be true.

Stepping left, Gaius pivoted to the right to get the crossfire, sending two bolts squarely into the chest of his target. As he took another step back, Aegreus fired across his front while Garold moved forward to counter Gaius’ brief retreat, his bolter held ready.

The squad advanced several yards. Triggered by watching servitors, more target dummies sprang into view from the floor and ceiling, or were pushed from ports in the distant walls, heralding a roar of fire for several seconds. In the quiet that followed Gaius heard footfalls and talking from the door to the firing range. Raising a fist to signal the halt of the drill to the servitors, he turned to see who had disturbed their practice.

‘What’s this?’ Drogr Ploughblade strode across the chamber with his pack, all fully armoured. His beard was forked into two long, medallion-bound locks, each tipped with a skull-shaped golden weight that clattered on his breastplate. ‘Live fire?’

‘Combat drill,’ Gaius replied, lowering his bolt rifle. He was annoyed by the pack leader’s manner and the interruption was a breach of firing range protocol. ‘What of it?’

‘You think we have bolts to spare on plasfoam dummies?’ growled Drogr, waving a hand at the remnants of exploded targets. ‘The whole Verse is against us and has plenty of battles waiting, the armouries and forge worlds can’t cope. Each shot should be for a real enemy.’

‘It never occurred…’ Gaius glanced at his squad, feeling out-flanked by the admonishment. ‘Supplies have not been an issue during the crusade.’

‘Now you know,’ said Drogr.

‘What are we supposed to use?’ asked Doro. ‘How do we know it’s a kill?’

‘Did one of you point a bolter at the target? That’s a kill.’

‘I don’t understand,’ admitted Doro. ‘How can you be sure?’

Drogr laughed and half-turned to his pack, who were listening to the exchange with amused looks.

‘Want to answer that one, Vargar?’ asked the pack leader. One of the Crimson Claws nodded and stepped forward, his bolter in his hands.

‘If I shoot at something, I intend to kill it. If that takes one shot or ten, it’s my kill.’ Vargar jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at another pack member, who was carrying a flamer, the fuel tank missing. ‘If it’s a job for Asgred, I leave it for him. If it’s going to take a lot of bolts, I tell the pack.’

Gaius tried to picture this with his own squad. ‘I cannot call shot allocations all the time,’ he said.

‘Then don’t,’ said Drogr. ‘Battle drill is about fighting together, knowing each other’s style.’

‘Style?’ laughed Aegreus. ‘This is battle, not beard trimming!’

Drogr frowned and approached the Primaris Marine, fixing him with an angry stare.

‘Do you miss?’ said the pack leader. ‘Would you leave a pack-brother’s back unguarded?’

‘Of course not,’ Aegreus snapped back.

‘And you trust your brothers to do the same?’

Aegreus looked at the other squad members and nodded.

‘So do that,’ said Drogr. ‘Know each other. Trust each other. Fight as one.’

He motioned for Gaius and his squad to retreat to the rear, out of the firing line. Reluctantly, Gaius complied, withdrawing from the other squad. Drogr and his warriors looked at ease, as though lounging in the company hall waiting for their food and drink.

Drogr’s arm rose and he clenched his fist, signalling to the servitors to begin. The squad snapped to alertness round him, weapons levelled, covering every angle. Gaius heard a wet growl and realised it came from the Ploughblade, an instant before the pack started off towards the far end of the hall.

As before, targets appeared around them. The sons of Fenris responded, bolters moving one way and then another, sometimes combining lines of fire, weaving in and out of each other without ever passing across another’s firing zone. Occasionally a sub-unit would form, pausing to simulate cover fire while the others broke left or right, and then the two would meld together again a dozen yards later. Only the whine of armour and thud of boots broke the still, mesmerising in the continual movement, like watching an elegant dance. Devoid of the crash of bolt-rounds there was a beauty to the display, an organic flow that was nothing like the industrial killing machine of the drill Cawl had instilled into Gaius and the other Primaris Marines. That was killing by rote; this was slaying on instinct.

After a minute, during which the pack had travelled nearly three times as far as Gaius’ squad, Drogr lifted a fist to halt the practice. Neiflur and Anfelis broke into spontaneous applause beside Gaius.

Leaving the pack to resume without him, Drogr rejoined Gaius and the rest of the Firstwolves.

‘How do you learn to fight like that?’ Neiflur asked breathlessly. ‘That was incredible.’

‘That’s how Fenrisians fight,’ the pack leader replied. ‘Sword and shield or spear-brothers, or bowmen hunting the bears and deer. We grow up together against a world that would kill us alone. That is why the pack lives together, eats together, trains together.’ He looked at Garold. ‘You know how to shoot straight?’

‘Yes,’ replied the Primaris Marine.

‘And how to use that long knife?’ Drogr pointed to the combat blade at Garold’s waist.

The other Space Marine nodded.

‘Of course you do, you’re a Space Marine. You don’t need to scatter plasfoam across a room to know that when you shoot you will hit, and if you don’t then you’ll shoot until you do. You need to believe that is going to happen and act like it. You’re all too defensive when you attack.’

‘What was that sound you made?’ asked Doro.

‘This?’ Drogr made the low growl again, reverberating from deep in his broad chest. ‘That’s my hunt signal. Wurgen. Quicker than orders.’

He made several other noises, each similar but distinct. He then held up a hand before the others spoke and imitated listening to the pack at drill in the hall. Gaius focused past the sounds of the armour and heard snarls, growls and cough-like barks. It came in bursts rather than being continuous; brief exchanges that heralded changes in formation, direction or speed.

‘Styles, like I told you,’ Drogr continued. He gave thought to his next words, scratching his cheek. ‘Ulfknaki. Maybe you call them drills, or stances? The hunt. The shield. The dragon. Seven in all. Each is a way of thinking. Attack, defence, mobility. Not hard-and-fast rules, but we know how each other will respond.’

They watched the Crimson Claws for a few more minutes, occasionally with comment from Drogr explaining a particular set of actions or answering a question from the squad. As the Firstborn ended their practice, Gaius led Drogr to one side.

‘Thank you,’ he told the pack leader. ‘For sharing your wisdom. For this guidance.’

‘All good,’ said Drogr.

‘I’m glad there’s… I’m glad my poor behaviour a few days ago has not soured us to one another.’

‘Why would it?’

‘I read about ut-geld, the owed debt. Feuds that escalate into tribal wars. I thought there might be bad blood between us.’

‘Ut-geld?’ Drogr was as amused by the idea as he was surprised. ‘Ut-geld gets settled quickly in the Aett. You called Ordas a cheat. He put you on your arse. There’s no more ut-geld to settle. Just be careful what you say around folks in future.’

‘Thank you anyway,’ said Gaius, lifting his fist to his chest.

‘Stop trying so hard,’ Drogr said.

Gaius smiled, acknowledging the truth of the pack leader’s advice, but his smile faded as Drogr continued. There was no accusation or rancour in what he said, but the words were like a fist closing around Gaius’ hearts, all the more devastating for the matter-of-fact manner in which they were delivered.

‘Stop trying to be something you can never be. The genes, maybe they’re from the Wolf King, maybe they even have the Canis Helix, so you can be sons of Russ for all I care. But you’re not Fenrisian. You never formed a shield wall in a blizzard, or stood the deck of a jarlship heaved over by a kraken tentacle. Never tasted the air or felt its wind on your cheek. You weren’t raised by this world. Ease your burden. You can’t be Wolves of Fenris, no matter how much you practice.’

Gaius did not trust himself to speak, but nodded stiffly and turned away quickly.

‘Let’s go,’ he snapped at the rest of the squad, stalking past them towards the doors.

The Aett had a way of carrying news beyond vox-links and word of mouth. Though it was immense, carved from the tallest mountain on Asaheim, it was still a single community: a massive ecosystem and society bound together, Space Marines, kaerls and all others. For much of their time on Fenris, little as that was, the Great Companies and even the packs within them kept themselves apart. But the place was steeped in the fabric and the soul of the Chapter and its halls resonated with ten thousand years of history, giving it a character and atmosphere that could be read by one that was attuned to its ways. The hamarrkiskaldi or ‘spine story’ it was called, coming from the bones not the brain.

A change in the airs, a distant echo, a sense of wrongness urged Ullr to gather the pack one evening, just as they were about to head to the feasting hall. The hairs on the nape of his neck were on end, and he was not the only one to feel a sudden frisson.

‘Bad star passing,’ grunted Garnr as they roused themselves to the door of their chamber.

‘I heard Aldacrel tell of a warpwash detected a few days ago,’ said Dethar, his mechanical jaw glinting in the firelight.

‘I feel the hearth-howl,’ Ullr told them. ‘Come, let’s see what’s occurring.’

Others drifted out of their dorms, by unspoken consensus heading upwards and north, towards the cloud-dock levels. More than a score of Drakeslayers converged without a single message being sent, gathered quietly in the passageways leading to the second and third cloudyards. Others joined them from the opposite side of the fortress, warriors from the Champions of Fenris. No words were exchanged. Though the docks’ massive security portals were closed, the thud of landing drop-ships could be heard, accompanied by the tread of booted feet.

With a long grinding, the doors opened to reveal a line of Space Marines in the blue-grey of the Chapter. There was something amiss at first glance: shoulders sloped, eyes downcast. This was not the return of a company in triumph; every warrior that passed the gatehouse bore some mark on armour or flesh. Half were missing parts of their plate or had scavenged replacements in other colours, many still bore obvious wounds by display of bandage or crutch.

The packs were massed together, Blood Claws alongside Long Fangs, Grey Hunters mingled with Wolf Scouts, as though they had become a single entity. A sole Wolf Guard marched as vanguard for the arriving Space Marines, bearing a banner emblazoned with the same weregost upon their shoulders.

The Firehowlers. Great Company of Sven Bloodhowl.

There was no sign of the Wolf Lord and Ullr heard others from his company asking after him.

‘We found no sign, though we scoured the stars,’ growled the Wolf Guard. ‘We made the Allfather’s foes pay.’

‘Damget,’ swore Ullr, watching the trudging line of brothers, unable to catch the gaze of any. He looked along the column and swallowed hard. ‘So few, where are the others?’

‘All have come to answer the Great Wolf,’ said a Grey Hunter with his arm in a sling, bolter in his left hand. There was plasma burn on his greaves and his helmet bore signs of chainsword lacerations. He straightened a little, more defiant. ‘Our saga has not ended, nor has that of our lord. We will pass back through the Gate of Endless Storms and we will find him.’

‘And you return to us on the eve of Helwinter, from its own gate in the stars,’ said Eirik. He looked at the line too, assessing their number. ‘No more than forty? The woes of the Firehowlers have heaped upon each other of late.’

‘Aye, but fresh strength lies–’

Ullr silenced Garnr with a raised hand.

‘Let us not make promises unspoken by the Great Wolf,’ the pack leader said quickly. ‘Nor lessen the weight of this saga with untimely news. Speak, brother.’

‘What is there to say else that we fought the traitors where we found them, and other creatures of the Underverse and the abyss. Yet stranger signs did our Rune Priest see, before the bidding of the Great Wolf summoned us back to the Aett.’

‘We walk on dark shores, beneath an unknown sky,’ said Ullr. ‘It is not our place to say, but you will hear much news very soon.’

The Grey Hunter passed on, falling in alongside others who were passing at the time. Ullr searched the Great Company for the Grey Hunter’s pack marking but saw no other bearing it.

The quiet pricked at Ullr more than anything else. No voices raised in welcome, none given in greeting to those that waited. It was as if their tongues were held by too much accounting of the dead, or perhaps wished to speak of things that no others would understand.

The Drakeslayers had been at the Helwinter Gate when it fell to the forces of the Despoiler, but once that battle had been lost there was need for them elsewhere. The Firehowlers had refused to leave, pushing into the Everdusk to seek sign of their missing lord.

‘I feel that their search will not end until they all share Sven Bloodhowl’s fate,’ said Forskad.

‘The Verse is not short of battles, let them pick where they wish to die,’ replied Ullr. ‘Their wyrd was spun at the Helwinter Gate.’

Despite his words, Ullr could not look at the battered company of wolves and not think that but for the appearance of Gaius and the other Primaris Marines the Drakeslayers would have shared that fate on Noviomagus. The thought brought a sudden anger. Where had they been, this hidden army, when Abaddon had broken the Helwinter Gate and countless thousands of soldiers – billions of the Emperor’s servants – had lost their lives? It was not Gaius’ fault, by his telling of events he was in a long stasis like all of the Primaris Marines, but to think that Cawl had kept this host asleep through all the troubles of the Imperium made Ullr wish he could find the archmagos and break open his face.

He hoped dearly the Great Wolf would one day be in a position to demand answers of their Imperial allies.

The wolf stands atop a mountain at dawn, bathed in the light of a new day. A wind tousles its long fur, bending the grass and rustling the leaves of the distant forest. Amber eyes gaze into the distance across the dark canopy.

Twilight turns a golden glow and where the sun would rise there appears a crown, blazing in burnished glory. As the crown rises the wind grows stronger, warming. The crown brightens and the wind becomes a gale, forcing the wolf to flatten itself against the ground. Flames ripple across the treetops and the wind before them is hot, burning leaves and grass, singeing the wolf’s fur. Still it does not run, nor close its eyes, but remains to bear witness to the burning dawn.

The wind rips away grass and dirt to reveal the mound is a great pile of bones and skulls, dried blood streaking its flanks like painted rivers. The wolf stands at the summit in defiance of the incinerating wind, claws scratching ivory-coloured skulls as they fight for purchase, teeth bared against the coming conflagration.

Such is the wind’s strength the wolf cannot draw breath and is left voiceless against the roar of the flames.

Closer and closer, the fire engulfs the woodlands, driving many monstrous beasts before it. They begin to scale the bone mountain, scurrying, crawling, bounding and stomping towards the wolf. Red eyes surround the hunter at the summit, waiting for the moment to strike. From the forests comes a ghastly bellow of rage and the jade-skinned giant lumbers forth, a great club of blackness in its grasp.

As he stepped out to the main conveyor yard in the eastern halls, Njal found himself face to face with Alrik Doomseeker, one of the Great Wolf’s vaerengr. Alrik stopped in his tracks as Njal moved to go past, then turned on his heel.

‘Runethegn, I was sent to find you,’ he said, out of sorts. ‘I thought you were in your chambers, you have not been seen for days.’

‘Not now,’ Njal replied, holding up a hand as he continued to stride towards the winding stair that led to the next level of conveyors below. ‘I have to see the Great Wolf.’

‘Then my task is done,’ called Alrik. ‘It was he that sent me to fetch you.’

‘Fetch me?’ Njal stopped and rounded on the Wolf Guard. ‘A trifling errand for one of your rank.’

‘He wanted to be sure you would come, runethegn,’ explained Alrik, heading after Njal. ‘He is in the skjaldom waiting for you.’

Njal adjusted his course in light of this information, heading towards the westward bank of conveyors that would take him to the haunt of Logan’s Great Company. Why he was there and not in the wulfhalle was a question that would be answered later.

‘It is fortunate we crossed paths, Stormcaller,’ said Alrik, matching Njal’s pace as he caught up with the Runelord.

‘Or wyrd,’ said Njal gruffly. ‘Everything is down to wyrd these days, it seems.’

They carried on down another half mile to the great command and communications rooms that neighboured the Champions of Fenris’ halls. There were more than the usual number of Wolf Guard around.

‘The Great Wolf dispatched me with great urgency and volume,’ said Alrik as a crowd of veteran warriors parted to allow them down the passageway to the skjaldom. He raised his voice so others nearby could hear. ‘It seems that idle ears have heard the disturbance.’

They found Logan Grimnar in the main chamber of the command suite, dressed in his armour as though for battle, the Axe Morkai in hand. Save for the pair of Wolf Guard flanking him, the other Space Marines in the room were not geared for battle; neither were the kaerl attendants at the various monitoring and communications stations.

‘What’s happening, my lord?’ asked Njal as he bounded down a set of steps into the bowels of the dimly lit hall. ‘Why are you geared for war?’

‘Put him on again,’ said the Great Wolf, not turning around to greet his adviser.

A hololithic display sprang into life above a grey plate about a dozen yards in front of the Great Wolf. The blurred aura of image-capture beams played over him in return.

The reason for Logan’s warlike appearance was immediately clear when the three-dimensional image resolved into Lieutenant Castallor, helm under his arm as though he had not changed since their first and, until now, only audience.

‘Lord Grimnar?’ The officer was taken aback by the sudden reconnection.

‘My lord, I have something urgent and terrible to tell you,’ said Njal, turning his back to the projection of Castallor as though the image might read his lips, though the Runelord did not stand in the focus of the capture array. ‘A vision of great import!’

‘Oh really?’ Grimnar seemed in strange mood, not angry or excited, but agitated in some other way. Discomfited. Unsure. Njal had never seen anything of the like in the centuries he had served the Great Wolf. ‘Lieutenant, for the benefit of the Stormcaller, repeat what you just told me.’

‘Of course, Lord Grimnar.’ Castallor’s image was still fixed on Logan, which made his manner slightly odd when he started to address Njal. ‘Seeking guidance on how to proceed with the situation here at Fenris, I contacted my superiors at Battle Group Retributus. They escalated my concerns to Fleet Primus command and the issue has been discussed at the highest levels. Renewed ork aggression is not only sustained but growing more severe, and it has been decided that the only means to properly resolve this matter is for you to prepare to receive the Lord Commander in person.’

Njal listened to the words but for several seconds their meaning was not clear, until he remembered who the Lord Commander was. He looked at the Great Wolf and realised that the strained, shocked expression of his lord was now mirrored in his own face.

‘The primarch is travelling to Fenris?’ he said to Logan, who nodded, lips tight. Njal let out a pent-up breath. ‘That explains much. Guilliman the Legion-breaker is coming to the realm of the Wolf King.’

Mudire had become accustomed to the sensation of feeling small and inadequate, having spent much of the last three relative-years around Space Marines and the primarch, as well as the occasional Custodian. Despite that, it seemed that the bulk of Vychellan filled the passenger space of the shuttle. Wherever the historitor looked there seemed to be gold warplate. It was no help that his companion’s guardian spear was too long to be held upright, and so it was couched on the diagonal between one corner of the compartment and the opposite wall, like a barrier cutting across Mudire’s line of vision. It was small comfort that the confines meant that Vychellan would simply crush him with his hands rather than attempt to swing his weapon.

He was certain the huge warrior was standing closer than necessary, but other than raw intimidation – which was working – he could think of no reason why.

‘I don’t understand why we couldn’t drop in something a bit bigger,’ said Mudire, stretching his shoulders as best he could in the harness. The shuttle was too small for artificial gravity and while the Custodian stood with boots clamped to the deck floor, Mudire was only kept in place by the tightness of the straps. ‘Or why you didn’t travel alone.’

‘The Space Wolves fear that a craft of larger size may be used to smuggle in additional people,’ said Vychellan. ‘As for travelling alone, I thought this a good opportunity to speak with you. To get to know you better.’

From anyone else it would have seemed reasonable, but the way Vychellan said the words made it sound like a threat.

‘Do we need to know each other better?’ Mudire asked casually.

‘I can hear your heart speeding up,’ said the Custodian. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘You can probably smell the adrenal spike too,’ said Mudire. ‘I’m not responsible for my body’s reactions to your presence.’

‘True, it may be a simple physical phenomenon. Interesting that it occurred when I said I wished to know you better. Is that something you would rather avoid?’

Mudire did not want to answer, but figured it would be a long fifteen minutes to stay silent until they docked at the Fang. He tried to turn the conversation around.

‘You shouldn’t call them the Space Wolves,’ he said. ‘Everything I’ve read says that they don’t like the name. They call themselves the Wolves of Fenris.’

‘They can call themselves whatever they like,’ replied Vychellan with a dismissive snort. ‘It is irrelevant. They are in the annals of Terra as the Sixth Legion, the Space Wolves. Did Guilliman rename his Legion the Macragge Marines? Would you have the sons of Sanguinius known as the Baal Angels? The Sixth Legion do not belong to Fenris, they belong to the Emperor. They are Space Marines. They relish their wolflike qualities and named Leman Russ the Wolf King. Hence, the Space Wolves. Wolves that hunt in space. Even the symbol of their leader, the lupus rampant is called the Wolf of Space.’

Taken aback by Vychellan’s vehemence, Mudire tried to settle in his seat.

‘You think that is too extreme,’ said the Custodian. ‘You are surprised that a name rouses so much passion in me.’

‘It’s an odd topic to get vexed about,’ admitted the historitor. ‘If that’s your view, you really are going to have trouble dealing with… the Fenrisians.’

‘On the contrary, there is much to be admired about the descendants of the Sixth Legion. They are regarded as troublesome by Imperial authorities and other Adeptus Astartes Chapters. To me, their unorthodoxy is rejection of an artifice of the primarchs, in particular Roboute Guilliman. In retaining their independence and original organisation, they cleave closer to an ideal that was known to the Emperor.’

‘And that’s what matters? How close we are to the Emperor’s vision? He guides each of us, watches over humanity from the Golden Throne. Are we not enacting His will at every moment?’

‘It is a fallacy propagated by the Ecclesiarchy. We that have been created to be close to Him in body and soul know the truth of such a connection. It would sear the minds of lesser beings. You have seen astropaths? That is the consequence for humans of considerable psychic power. One such as you with no spiritual immunity would perish instantly.’

‘I thought the Space Marines were the Emperor’s Angels of Death, but you claim to be His real messengers, the bearers of the only truth. Typical arrogance.’

‘Typical?’

Mudire knew he had said too much and fixed his gaze on a blinking light in the bulkhead, determined not to answer.

‘You are angry, Deven. I did not think you such a man of faith that would be so easily offended by the truth.’

‘I have faith in the Emperor,’ protested Mudire, unable to hold his tongue. ‘The Ecclesiarchy, not so much. When one has seen the manoeuvring behind the halos and the hands clutching for the orbs and sceptres, it tarnishes the piety a little. But like you, I agree that the Ecclesiarchy and the Emperor are not the same. Unlike you, I have spent the last years hearing tales of all kinds, including testament of miracles and visions, holy acts by living saints, and the nightmares of the Abyss that the Emperor shields us from. I wonder if perhaps you refuse to acknowledge these truths because it undermines the Custodians as the Emperor’s special friends.’

‘You have little experience to come to such a conclusion,’ said Vychellan. ‘You know nothing of my order.’

‘I know enough.’

A silence followed, broken by the Custodian when Mudire was not more forthcoming.

‘Guilliman chose you as one of the Founding Four, so I must assume you have a much better grasp of academical learning, philosophic teaching and logical reasoning than you are displaying today. But that does not explain why you seem to dislike me so much.’

‘Not you, but what you are,’ Mudire confessed, shaking his head. Sadness became bitterness. ‘I know where you come from. I was born into the same high Terran nobility that throw their sons at the Ten Thousand hoping that one of their bloodline will be chosen to become a Custodian. Those bloodlines that the geneticists find so pure and inviting are nothing more than millennia of inbreeding. It is claimed that every Custodian is an artefact of the greatest minds of Terra, made to the designs of the Emperor Himself. What Custodians really are – what you are – is a product of concentrated privilege and alchemical advantage forbidden to all others. You are truly exceptional, because ancient lore dictates that you be the exceptions. But you are not real. Even Space Marines live as humans until their puberty. You were just carefully selected genetic tissue in the shape of a newborn, rebuilt into something else, with nothing of the experience or upbringing of even the most high-ranking family of Terra.’

This time it was Vychellan that did not know how to respond, silent after Mudire’s flood of words. After a minute he leaned forward and spoke quietly, with no hint of malice.

‘Your family were forbidden to submit you?’ he said. ‘Some past genetic misalignment, perhaps?’

‘Genetic?’ Mudire held up his hands and turned them around, and then showed first one side of his face and then the other to the Custodian. ‘Are these not some of the finest genes of the Sol System?’

‘So it was political opposition,’ said Vychellan. ‘I know who you are, your family, your relations. You speak of being among the highest ranks but the House of Mudire is no longer the power it was a few centuries ago.’

Mudire said nothing.

‘You resent that which you cannot be,’ the Custodian continued. ‘Simple jealousy, it seems. But you do not understand the gift you have been given.’

‘What gift?’

‘To be human. To be you, Deven Fracoi Esterant Mudire. Had you been sent to the Ten Thousand this person that you are would not exist, as you have already said. Your gene-data would live on as one of my order, to be awakened to duty at some time in the future. The Custodian you would have been would bear no resemblance to the being you are now. We are, as you say, constructed, not born and raised. From every piece of DNA to every fired neuron in our learning, we are conjured into existence from the techno-artifice left by the Emperor. The most fundamental part of us, the animus, the soul that bonds us to the universe and Custodians to the Emperor, cannot be made from a compound in a tube, any more than a cogitator can conjure psychic lightning. And so a child must be made with that animus, but that is all it is useful for. Had you been rejected…

‘We are not a Space Marine Chapter, we have no need of serfs and assistants made from our failures. Incompatible genetic material goes to the Adeptus Mechanicus for their vat-breeding. A thousand pseudo-Devens would populate the forges of Mars, but not one of them would grow to become you.’

‘That is…’ Mudire cleared his throat, choked with emotion. ‘I had never thought in terms of what I am. Only the anger of my family of what I would never be, could never be.’

Neither of them said anything. The hull started to rattle as they entered the atmosphere of Fenris. Mudire looked up at the golden statue of a warrior that filled the compartment, pondering the Custodian’s words.

‘If I understand you right,’ the historitor said slowly, ‘there is nothing random about your development.’

‘We are created within very strict parameters.’

‘Then that means someone, somewhere, actually thought it would be a good idea to make Stratarchis Tribune Colquan a total arsehole.’

Vychellan’s laughter was almost deafening as it filled the small chamber.

Chapter Fourteen

A VITAL MISSION
SAGA OF KORBJORN HAMMER-SMITE
OLD FOES

Ullr First-Shot was surprised to see the Great Wolf coming to the halls of the Drakeslayers; Krom Dragongaze had withdrawn them from active duty and the two lords were still at odds. Yet the evidence of his own eyes could not be ignored as he watched Logan Grimnar, alone and unannounced at the entrance.

‘What’s the Old Wolf want, do you think?’ asked Dethar. He had developed a habit of scratching at the join between the metal and flesh of his jaw, leaving the exposed skin raw and the metal slightly worn. So far he had refused attempts to send him back to the Wolf Priests to have the cybernetic inspected. ‘Seems to be nosing around for something.’

As he watched other packs venturing into the passage to greet their king, a thought occurred to Ullr.

‘Maybe he’s looking for the Primaris Marines,’ he said, stepping out of the dormitory.

‘Is that a bad thing?’ Garnr called, swinging his legs off his bunk. ‘Might be good for the Old Wolf to actually meet some of the newcomers.’

‘Do you want us to get reinforcements?’ said Ullr.

‘I think we need them,’ replied Garnr. None disputed Dragongaze’s right to replenish supplies, but numbers would be hard to come by without the Primaris Marines. The Wolf Priests had no more than a score of neophytes in their care and at least half would fail the Test of Morkai.

‘And do you think Gaius is going to impress the Great Wolf or put him off?’

Garnr grimaced and stood up. He gestured for the rest of the pack to follow.

‘Who cares?’ grumbled Sáthor, but he pushed himself from his bunk all the same.

‘You best keep Gaius away and we’ll see if we can direct the Great Wolf elsewhere,’ said Garnr.

Ullr hesitated. Was it really the best course of action? Rumours had grown with every returning Great Company that something was amiss, that something beyond the Indomitus Crusade was stirring. The Everdusk. Orks in numbers unseen for thousands of years. The Wolftime is here, they whispered. Guilliman had been returned to the world of the living. Russ would soon follow. Idle talk, outright speculation that the Lion had returned, or the Khan had been seen riding the star-skies above the Helwinter Gate.

Fanciful stuff, but Ullr couldn’t ignore the broader sense of hamarrkiskaldi, perhaps the connection between Fenris and the Wolf King stirring in the souls of every child of the world. Even disregarding the more outlandish claims, there were omens aplenty. The Wolf Priests that went across Fenris looking for potential Sky Warriors spoke of increasing numbers of folk with wyrdknak. Not a handful, but dozens. What if accepting the Primaris Marines into their ranks, weakening their link to Fenris with not-wolves, took them down the road to annihilation?

‘Quickly, First-Shot,’ said Forskad, looking southwards down the corridor. ‘If you cut through the east cavernwalk you’ll get to the Firstwolves before the Great Wolf.’

And then what? thought Ullr, as he set off at a run.

Gaius knew the book was little more than a totem now, its contents far surpassed by weeks of contact with actual Wolves of Fenris, but there was still a truth inside its pages he hadn’t yet captured from his fellow Space Marines. The damning words of Drogr Ploughblade nestled heavily in his thoughts each day: every time he spoke Juvjk or played a game of koenigsgard he heard the voice telling him he could never be a true child of Fenris.

What ate at him the most was the nagging feeling that Drogr was right. On the surface they could be Wolves of Fenris. Yes, there were language issues, and the Firstborn still kept switching to Gothic when the Firstwolves spoke Juvjk, but that was not because they weren’t understood. They spoke it like outsiders, but over time would lose the sharp edges, picking up the slang and nuance as if they were native speakers. The Space Marines speaking in their fluent Gothic were making a point, more of their gentle mocking. The kaerls were better, perhaps not so confident of their own language skills or unwilling to denigrate their masters’ speech.

The customs, names, finding their way around the Aett, all these things would come in time, just as they did for any novitiate brought into the fortress. Though they had not seen much outside the halls of the Drakeslayers, they would soon know their way to the docks, the armouries, the apothecarion, just as they had learnt their way around the various starships that had carried them.

It was the things that came from before being brought to the Aett that were the hardest to replicate. The intuition that bound the Fenrisians together, the wurgen that was individual to each warrior, yet followed a pattern recognisable to all. The experience of standing shoulder to shoulder with spear and shield, or hunting with bows, and translating that sensation to bolters and plasma guns. The hundreds of years spent as a Wolf of Fenris built on the twelve or thirteen as a child of Fenris. Could Gaius and the other Unnumbered Sons ever get that? Future generations raised from the world would benefit from the same upbringing and enhancements, but the Firstwolves and their generation would always be an aberration. Upplanders in wolves’ clothing.

Even though it was of little practical use now, Gaius still held the book as he spoke to the others in Juvjk, trying their best to translate the sagas they had composed for Heindal, Enforfas and the others they had lost in the last three years. Neiflur made notes of words for which they had no Fenrisian equivalent, writing on the back of a torn rations box. The Fenrisians used their runes rarely; anything of value was entrusted to memory. Though he had taken on the role of skjald, and had near-perfect recall, Neiflur did not yet trust himself to act as lorekeeper in that way.

‘What’s the word for “Titan”, do you think?’ said Neiflur, writing on the rough cardboard.

‘Irn-ent, iron giant,’ said a voice from the open door.

Gaius turned with a smile to greet Ullr. The pack leader looked slightly flushed, as though he had been running hard. Gaius stood up, hand extended, and Ullr took it in a strong grip.

‘It’s been a while,’ said Gaius. ‘I thought you were embarrassed to be seen with us.’ He forced the humour, using it to disguise a truth.

‘You’ve done a few things that would shame a Blood Claw, but I’ve not been avoiding you,’ replied First-Shot. He looked around the room, taking in everything. ‘Settled in well, I see.’

‘Are you alright?’ said Gaius. ‘You seem… energetic.’

Ullr nodded, distracted, and glanced back towards the door. The gesture was swift, unthinking, but it brought Gaius’ attention to a distant sound of voices.

‘The company are rowdy today,’ said Gaius, stepping past Ullr to look. The pack leader grabbed his arm and stopped him.

‘It’s like that sometimes.’ Ullr moved away from the door, his gaze shifting from one Firstwolf to the next. Gaius would have sworn he was counting. ‘You’re all here? Good. Good. I thought we could head to the practice hall, maybe exchange some ideas.’

‘I would appreciate that, but we returned from drill at the start of the watch, no more than half an hour ago.’ Gaius started towards his bunk. ‘Perhaps you could help us with our Juvjk, though?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Ullr with unnecessary enthusiasm. ‘A great idea. Why don’t we… head outside! I can explain more about Fenris when you feel the bite of the wind, hear its voice in your ear.’

‘Krom has us on the watch list, we can’t leave the halls,’ said Gaius. Though Dragongaze had withdrawn the company from active duty, they were still bound to provide defence of the Aett and the Hearthworld. ‘It’s a sign that he’s really accepting us as part of the company.’

‘Yes, that’s good,’ Ullr said, distracted. ‘We’re on watch too, come to think of it.’

The voxmitter panel in the wall opposite the door crackled into life, bringing the familiar voice of the Dragongaze to the halls of his Great Company.

‘Greypelts and Firstwolves, gear for battle and come to my chamber.’

‘Thank Russ,’ exclaimed Ullr, rather more from relief than excitement it seemed. The pack leader clapped Gaius on the arm while the rest of the Firstwolves roused themselves. ‘I’ll take you to the iron levels, my Greypelts will meet us there.’

‘Battle readiness, what could that be for?’ Gaius asked.

‘Could be any number of things.’ Ullr seemed very quick to leave. He stepped out into the passageway. ‘Come on, we’ll talk about it on the way.’

Gaius tried to temper his eagerness. It was likely some custom or ceremonial duty that required them in full wargear, but he couldn’t stop himself thinking that this could be the first time he went to battle as a true Wolf of Fenris.

Pushing himself through the howling wind into the cramped reception chamber, Mudire realised how skewed his perception of people had become. Two Space Wolves in broad Terminator armour waited for them in the interior, each far bigger than Mudire and capable of bludgeoning him to a paste without breaking a sweat. Yet they seemed out of proportion somehow, compared to the Custodian at his side, the Primaris Marines that he had followed into battle and, not least, the overwhelming presence of Roboute Guilliman.

The two introduced themselves in accented Gothic. Mudire was used to names of all conventions by now, and the grandiosity of the Adeptus Astartes, but he was not quite prepared for the sheer bellicosity of being confronted by Torfin Daggerfist and Nilskar Heart-Thrust. Thankfully Vychellan felt no need to compete by reciting his litany of honour names. The following shuttle landed a few minutes later and the group were assembled. With little ceremony, the Wolf Guard, for such Mudire guessed their escorts to be, took them into the halls of the Fang.

They passed into a long, high hallway with banners hanging from the ceiling – banners depicting flowing, jagged symbols on a strange silken plastek. Trophies. Heading up a stairwell at the end, the historitors and Custodian stepped beneath an arch decorated with a wolf skull easily as big as Mudire’s torso. Eliptyka was looking in every direction, trying to take it all in, while Copla-var already had a notebook in hand, stylus moving so fast his writing had to be little more than scrawl.

‘What are you doing?’ Mudire said.

‘This is a historic moment,’ Copla-var replied. ‘The first emissaries of the Indomitus Crusade to set foot on Fenris.’

‘Firstly, we’re not, because Lieutenant Castallor has already been here. Secondly, we are not emissaries of the Indomitus Crusade. We have no remit to treat with the people here, other than to find out what they know of Bucharis and Gathalamor. Thirdly, we are historitors, we should place ourselves aside from what we view. We unearth lost history, we record its unfolding events, but we do not create it.’

Copla-var looked momentarily ashamed but did not put away his note-making tools. Mudire heard Ahlek gasp behind him and turned to find the historitor staring out of a narrow window, peering through the thick glassite.

‘It’s incredible,’ whispered Ahlek.

Mudire glanced through the pane. They were looking from a spur or outcrop back towards the main spire of the Space Wolves’ fortress-monastery. It was easy to forget the snow-shrouded sides were more artifice than natural mountain, but hundreds of lit windows glimmering back through the constant blizzard acted as reminder. Armoured keeps and defence turrets the size of city blocks nestled among boulder-strewn valleys and poked from patches of pine forest clinging to the steep slope.

‘No waiting,’ one of the Wolf Guard called back from a doorway ahead. ‘Another mile and more to go.’

The room to which the historitors were conveyed was small in comparison to the many grand halls and long passages they had already traversed, but it did not want for decoration. Furnished in the same manner as much of the stronghold they had already passed, with chairs and tables fitting to the build of Space Marines, the walls were clad in ancient planks, darkened almost to black by smoke from a broad pit to one side. Shields painted with devices of many kinds hung on the walls, as did a great many horns, golden talismans and lumen-lanterns.

‘These are the symbols of the Great Companies,’ said Forgewelt. She pointed a stubby finger at the closest shield. It depicted a howling wolf head against a black moon. ‘This one is the Champions of Fenris, the Great Wolf’s own warriors. And this one, with the dark wolf head sinister against a corona is the icon of the Drakeslayers that we met, the company of Krom Dragongaze.’

‘They are called weregost, the talismans of our people. They predate the Wolf King’s arrival.’

At first Mudire could not see from where the voice issued. As he peered through the smoke from the pit his eyes fell upon a great chair at the end of the hall, faced by others, some of them scaled for normal humans. There was a figure upon the chair swathed in furs, almost indistinguishable from the upholstery of the throne itself but for the dark red splay of hair and beard of the same. The historitor caught a flash of gold and glimmer of ice.

‘You must be the one they call Njal, the Chief Librarian,’ said Vychellan, advancing swiftly across flagstones strewn with woven mats depicting scenes of ships at sea, battling serpents, and shield-and-spear-armed bearded warriors at war with each other.

‘That is the title the Imperium would give me,’ the Space Marine replied. ‘In these halls I am known as the Storm that Walks, or simply Stormcaller. I am runethegn here, and loremaster. This is the skjaldhalle, the Hall of Tales.’

‘Your archives are here?’ gasped Ahlek, hurrying after Vychellan, his data-slate gleaming in his hand. He brandished a cable with an elaborate two-pronged plug at the end. ‘Do you perhaps have an alphanomic port I could access them with?’

‘I do not,’ replied Njal, smiling. He gestured to the chairs in front of him. ‘Food will come soon, and drink, but let us take the time to speak on recent deeds and acquaint ourselves in this difficult time.’

‘We are gathering as much as we can about the Plague of Unbelief that spread from Gathalamor, and the tyrant Bucharis that perpetrated it,’ said Vychellan. There was a much larger chair clearly intended for him, with a gleam of fresh lacquer that suggested it had been newly fashioned. Though bigger than Njal’s throne, it was of far plainer design. The Custodian ignored it and stood to one side, his spear held easily in his hand. ‘Your assistance would be very welcome.’

‘And it will be forthcoming, but in your communication you said you bore news from the Allfather. I would hear these tidings first.’

Mudire caught Forgewelt’s eye as she glanced in confusion at the Custodian. It seemed Vychellan’s assertion to eschew trickery did not extend to his own actions. Copla-var raised an eyebrow and also shared a look with Mudire, who gave a gentle shake of the head to discourage any comment.

‘I said I bore messages from Terra, not the Emperor,’ said Vychellan, bowing his head slightly. ‘Had He communicated directly with any living soul I expect a psyker as powerful as you would have felt its gilded ripple through the warp.’

‘I see,’ said Njal, and his frown showed that he really did, straight through the Custodian’s dissembling. His expression lightened a second later. ‘A misunderstanding, it would seem. Still, tell me of these portentous times and I will furnish you with stories of ones almost as dark.’

He looked beyond them and said something in Fenrisian, dismissing the two Terminator escorts. Mudire had forgotten they were there, so mesmerised had he been by the loremaster. He wondered if there was something else at play, a mind-trick, but he assumed Vychellan would not only be immune to such manipulation but alert to its possibility.

‘Come, let us talk!’ insisted Njal.

So talk they did, for many hours. The historitors did what they could to furnish Stormcaller with a broad view of the Indomitus Crusade, while Vychellan was quite open about events on Terra – the traitor and Neverborn attack, the purge by Guilliman and the subsequent politics and campaigns. For his part Njal supplied information about the Space Wolves’ latest battles, from Cadia back to Fenris, including tumultuous and confusing wars unleashed by the fallen primarch Magnus the Red and his Thousand Sons, involving somehow the Dark Angels Chapter and other forces fighting in the Fenris System itself. Njal also spoke of orks, flooding through the sectors they guarded in ever-greater numbers.

‘At first we thought that they were being driven here by the Everdusk, what you have called the Great Rift. As the abyss swallows suns and worlds, the orks would be pushed further and further into the territory under our protection.’ His face took on a grim aspect and he shook his head. ‘Now we are not so sure. News from afar, from Armageddon and elsewhere, tells that the Beast Ghazghkull is abroad again, feeding on the bloodshed as much as our traitor cousins. It may be that the orks are not moving from something but to it, drawn by Ghazghkull as they have been in the past.’

‘The breach in the warp has accentuated many things that before have been dormant,’ said Vychellan. ‘The Adeptus Astra Telepathica report unparalleled amounts of energy spilling into realspace.’

‘Yes, the othersea is a tumult and its waves wash deep over the shore. The orks feel it too, just as the aeldari and all other creatures with a soul are pulled and pushed by its tide.’

As promised there was food and drink, and despite some accusations he had read previously there seemed no attempt by their hosts to inebriate the visiting group. A spicy, stimulating drink called fyrkaf completed the repast and saw the conversation continue for many more hours.

Just as sleep was again creeping over Mudire, Njal finally alighted upon the topic of Bucharis and the Plague of Unbelief.

‘The Saga of Korbjorn Hammer-Smite, vanquisher of the Lying Priest.’ Njal nodded to himself in recollection, cracking his knuckles. ‘Now, before I can begin, you must understand that priests of Terra, those you now call the Adeptus Ministorum, came to Fenris in the aftermath of the War against the Fallen Wolves, and they tried to tell us that what we knew of the Allfather was wrong. As you can already guess, that did not end well, but they kept coming, and we kept sending them away. There was no love between Fenris and the Ecclesiarch’s minions from before their Church was even given a name. So even were it not for the evil in Bucharis’ heart and the Unbelief, as you call it, another man of selfish zealotry would eventually have come to settle the score during the Age of Apostasy, which we call the Time of the False Fathers.’

Njal continued, recalling without hesitation many transgressions of the Imperial Church against the Space Wolves and their beliefs; so many that Chapter-serfs came in with fresh drinks and a lighter meal, informing them that it was dawn of the next day. Before any other mention of Bucharis and the war on Fenris, Njal bid the historitors to rest at quarters he had set aside, and promised he would return that dusk.

The others had already filled memory crystals and notepads, but Mudire, trusting to their craft, had made not a single stroke with his nib. He was still waiting for the story of the cardinal, but as he slept in the cot in a dorm he shared with the others, his last sight of Vychellan standing immobile close to the door like a sculpted guard, his dreams were filled with wolf hunts and snarling ork faces.

The wind shrieking past the hull of the Thunderhawk and the constant roar of its engines meant the Space Marines had to use their voxmitters to speak to each other over the noise. The Firstwolves sat on one side of the compartment with the Greypelts opposite, except for Sáthor, who was in the piloting chamber. Nothing but whiteness whipped past the viewing ports.

‘Where is this defence station?’ Gaius asked as he pulled out the magazine from his bolt rifle and inspected it again. The Iron Priests had assured him that the bolts within were exactly the same as those manufactured elsewhere, but Gaius was convinced the magazine weighed lighter in his hands.

‘The Broken Valleys, at a place called Kraken’s Jaw on the coast of the Iron Sea,’ replied Ullr. ‘There’s only about twenty different places outside Asaheim that are stable enough to put down orbital defences. Now and then, they aren’t so stable. It’s probably been taken out by an earthquake or volcano.’

‘Problem is, if a place is secure enough for a defence post, it attracts other things,’ added Garnr. ‘Creatures, people. With Helwinter coming, any safe nook or peak is heavily contested. Something big might have moved in, perhaps smashed the comms array.’

‘What about humans?’ said Doro. ‘Would they interfere with it?’

‘Like I said, plenty of people around,’ said Ullr. ‘There are Ordassons, Geldmathr, the Fire-breakers, Landsattmaringi, Icewalkers and Shoreweavers, plus any other groups that have arrived in the last few years. But folks tend to stay away, there are defence systems to encourage a wider path. If they were taken down, the surface control building would make a sturdy home. But most folk won’t go near anything to do with the Sky Warriors.’

‘I heard that Aersorings turned a defence laser into a shrine to the Allfather a few decades back,’ said Eirik. ‘Painted moorboar’s blood all over the targeting lenses and hung iron talismans on the traverse gears.’

‘And a peak serpent made its nest in a thermal generator hall, under the Stonecaps,’ said Garnr.

‘But it’s probably just a broken transmitter,’ growled Ullr. ‘Nobody should get excited.’

‘You’re Geldmathr, right, Ullr?’ said Eirik. ‘You came from here.’

‘Further south,’ the pack leader replied. ‘The fjord-set Geldmathr, not these forest folk. My grandfather was Ursinking though, from the Stormwaters. When they crossed the churning seas they lost hundreds, ended up having to join the Geldmathr.’

‘That Ursinking blood is strong,’ said Hari. ‘My great-uncle was Ursinkingr too. Plenty Wolves of Fenris come from them down the years.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ said Garold.

‘When the land falls apart, the only thing that is constant is family, your tribe,’ said Eirik. ‘Can’t be loyal to rocks that will sink, waves that will drift away. You need to know who to have at your back, and who to put to your front. You’d know that if you were Hearthworlders.’

‘I remember nothing from before I was woken by Cawl,’ said Garold, his tone defensive. ‘I am a Primaris Marine, a Son of Russ, and that is what is important. Bonds of the past are nothing to the bonds of the present.’

‘How do you know what you are fighting for?’ asked Ullr. ‘What are you protecting?’

‘The Emperor,’ said Garold. ‘The Imperium He built. We defend all worlds, not just one of them.’

‘That’s places,’ scoffed Dethar in his modulated voice. ‘What about ideas? Traditions? Truths?’

‘The Emperor’s Truth,’ said Doro. ‘We are united in His service. All else is second to that.’

The Firstborn did not reply and silence fell between the two squads for several minutes. Gaius could still see nothing but white outside, and the timbre of the wind and engines had not changed at all. There was still over an hour of flying until they neared their destination.

‘You said Helwinter is coming, what’s that?’ asked Anfelis.

‘Fire and ice!’ Forskad laughed. ‘Starstorm!’

‘A periodic phenomenon,’ explained Gaius, recalling the description from his guide. ‘At the aphelion of orbit, Fenris passes through a dense asteroid field, so while at its coldest there are also extreme meteor storms.’

‘You make it sound so dull,’ said Forskad. ‘The blizzards will strip the skin from your face and freeze your eyes, and the seas are frozen ten feet thick around the coasts. The skies burn and though the Wolf’s Eye is distant, the night is banished by heavenfire.’

‘The Wolf King arrived during Helwinter and survived as an infant,’ said Ullr. ‘The first to pass the Test. He walked with Morkai at his side, it is said, and when even his strength failed he rode upon her back.’

‘No, you have it wrong,’ said Garnr. ‘It was in the lair of Morkai that he found refuge, curling among the bloodstained hairs that fell from her back, on the threshold of Hel.’

The Firstborn started arguing, each according to their own upbringing and belief. After some time, it was agreed that perhaps the Wolf King had ridden Morkai back to her lair and there he had slept in her bloody fur, where he was discovered by the folk of Fenris after Helwinter had passed.

Again Gaius was reminded of Drogr’s words. He could never know what it was like to be raised with those stories, to have them encapsulate the universe for him. He could act the skjald and learn every single one, word-perfect, but he would never experience them as a truth the way Ullr and his companions did. Cawl had filled his head with lore, so that he had facts about Fenris and its people, even before the nuance of the guidebook, but he was not part of it.

Lost in his melancholy for some time, it was a jolt when the battle siren sounded and Sáthor spoke over the vox.

‘We’ve got trouble. Augurs detect multiple life signals and the station point defences have just locked onto us.’

‘Crash assault,’ said Ullr. ‘Sáthor, circle and support if you can when we’re down, but don’t damage the station or risk the gunship.’

‘I’ll sweep the surrounding area.’

‘Crash assault?’ The lights went out as they approached and Gaius could feel the gunship rolling and pitching steeply now, trying to break the target lock of the defence systems. ‘That sounds dangerous.’

‘That’s because it is,’ said Forskad.

‘Not as dangerous as getting shot down,’ snarled Ullr. ‘Just stay on our heels.’

‘Understood,’ said Gaius, releasing his harness to stand up, boots mag-locked to the deck. ‘Firstwolves, prepare for assault.’

They were allowed back in to the skjaldhalle but no further, and spent the day collating notes and devising questions they hoped to ask, to clarify certain points about the string of names and ancestry, or the titles of the involved parties. Njal returned as he had said, accompanied by serfs and food, and after they had dined once more and drunk enough fyrkaf to set Mudire’s ears buzzing, the Stormcaller launched into the meat of his tale.

He spoke of the armies of the apostate cardinal and the fleet that brought them, of heroes that fought in the void and upon the mountain slopes, of bombardments and boarding actions. Not a warrior’s name was missed, so that soon Mudire gave Eliptyka the sole duty of recording them, and their positions and relationships, so that they might be properly investigated later.

Njal had spoken eloquently before, but now his gift as an orator shone brighter than the flames of the fire stoked by the serfs. Perhaps it was a subtle form of his powers at work, but Mudire could picture the attacks through heart-stopping blizzards and the countless waves of the cardinal’s frenzied terror-troops. Strange machines looted from a conquered forge world left alchemical fires burning Asaheim while the sons of Fenris raced back from their distant wars to protect their home against former allies.

There was a moment when Ullr was sure that his thread had been cut.

The Thunderhawk dropped like a stone, breaking from the low cloud with the Greypelts already arrayed on the lowered assault ramp. From this precarious vantage point Ullr saw the sparks of two launching missiles and watched the dark blur of the incoming projectiles, perfectly silhouetted against their own engine flare.

‘Pitching,’ announced Sáthor with the same tone as he might tell them the mjod had been brought. A second later, the Thunderhawk’s nose dropped, pointing almost vertically as the pilot aimed towards the metallic gleam of the defence station a mile below. The clamp in Ullr’s left boot was not secure and he fell forward, foot slipping away as the gunship dived, twisting as he did so.

Just a moment before the weight became too much for his remaining clamp and he plunged over the edge, Dethar was next to him, arm wrapped about his own. For two seconds he dangled in the half-embrace of his brother, both legs swinging freely as the Thunderhawk nosedived. The first missile hissed close, passing Ullr less than a yard away over the top of the gunship.

The second missile’s spirit tracked the change, a small jet of course-correction swinging its warhead back towards Ullr. The ground rushed at him almost as fast as the missile, one from directly ahead, the other at head height.

‘Rolling left.’

This time Ullr was better prepared, using Dethar as leverage to clamp both feet midway along the ramp even as the gunship spun violently about its axis, wind screaming past, attitude jets screeching. Something – someone – crashed across the opening of the assault ramp, and he heard an impressive chain of curses in Juvjk from one of the Firstwolves.

There was no time to wonder who it was; the other missile was seconds away from impact, twisting tightly to follow the turning gunship. Ullr unslung his bolter and took aim with one hand. He opened fire, his bolt accompanied by the flicker of half a dozen more from around him. Sparks awoke briefly across the casing of the missile but nothing penetrated.

‘Impact!’ snarled the pack leader, swaying sideways as best he could, warning indicators blaring and flashing as the missile streaked past and hit the underside of the assault hatch. The Thunderhawk lurched as fire swept over the pack, heat indicators spiking across Ullr’s vision. Metal shrapnel and pieces of ceramite struck his armour, chipping away slivers of blue-grey.

‘Sáthor!’ he bellowed, the tops of the trees no more than two hundred yards away, snow cascading from them in the shockwave of the missile’s detonation.

The pilot made no reply but hit the retro thrusters while he pulled the nose up sharply. Even with his armour Ullr felt like a forge hammer had hit him in the chest, almost throwing him from the ramp again. Part of the hull was on fire and flame licked over Ullr in the sudden backwash of the gunship’s hard brake.

The defence station was a jutting structure of ferrocrete and plasteel set into the side of a steep mound nearly eight hundred yards from the top, clear of the surrounding forest by a belt of rockcrete about two hundred yards wide. The great pines were scores of feet tall, too high even for a Space Marine to leap clear without risk. Sáthor guided the Thunderhawk between the wind-bent tops and turned to the right, bringing the craft almost sideways down into the barren area.

There were figures on the array gantry – metal steps and walkways about a dish-like communications link pointing north – and more emerged from a door in the flat roof of the complex built into the ground. Blue las-bolts zipped towards the Wolves of Fenris as the Thunderhawk roared to a hover just ten feet up.

Though the men and women at the station were clad in furs and hides like natives, Ullr could see blue and purple beneath, and no Fenrisian tribe had las weaponry.

‘Prosperines!’ growled Garnr behind him.

‘How can they be here?’ said Forskad, but Ullr did not care. Memories of Fenris ablaze with war and the servants of the Cyclops laying waste burned through his thoughts.

‘Redden the snow!’ The pack leader leapt from the gunship, sinking to his thighs in the snow as he landed, bolter aimed at the figures around the station. ‘Send them back through the gates of Hel!’

Chapter Fifteen

TARGET ACQUIRED
DEADLOCK
IMMINENT LAUNCH

Surveyor Accordant-Minor Maqoma suppressed a yawn and looked around the quiet strategium. At standard alert half the stations were still monitored, but three days since moving into low orbit for a shuttle run the routine was very ordinary. Lieutenant Carmaichaz was on watch, youngest of the officers, and was standing beside the command throne inspecting his fingernails. The servitors continued their usual subdued burbles and murmurs, regurgitating reports that nobody but the stenograph-servitors would read.

She eased her weight from foot to foot. Still two hours until the end of the watch. She glanced sideways, enviously looking at Ensign Sebrez’s empty stool just a few yards away. A privilege of rank denied a petty officer like Maqoma.

The surveyor screen was a blank slate of grey, crossed by three almost-straight red lines. She checked the chronometer. Four more minutes until she had to conduct the next active pulse check. Maqoma looked around again as she slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket and surreptitiously pulled out a small, round piece of sweetloaf. Crumbs fell on the plasteel of her station and she briskly swept them away with her other hand, keeping the contraband biscuit close to her body.

She could feel the crumb texture between her fingers and gave herself the thrill of anticipation for a few seconds more – she had been delaying gratification since coming on watch four hours earlier. Imagining the honey-sweet taste was too much and her hand crept up her body, staying close like a gunship hugging hills and ridges on a surprise attack run. The illicit nature of the treat was even sweeter than the biscuit itself, and Maqoma had to take a slow, quiet breath just before her hand made the final leap from chest to mouth.

An alarm sounded just as she bit off a nibble of grainy sweetloaf, causing Maqoma to flinch and spit soggy pieces of biscuit on her screen.

The middle line had turned into a bifurcated squiggle, almost symmetrical as it split nearly halfway across the screen and reconnected at the right-hand edge. A flashing amber light drew further attention to her station and she rammed her hand into her trouser pocket, feeling the biscuit crumbling to pieces within.

‘Report, surveyor four.’ Lieutenant Carmaichaz had a deep voice despite his youth and slight body, and it carried across the strategium without visible effort.

Maqoma drew her hand out of her pocket, rubbing greasy crumbs from her fingertips, and then keyed in a code using the runepad next to her slate. The middle line wavered and disappeared, but next to her a servitor scribbled the readings on a ribbon of paper issuing from a slot in the console.

Referring to the paper, she made some adjustments to her display, while half a mile away on the underside of the ship a scanning array turned seven degrees outwards. The line reappeared briefly, more dramatic in its spike, then disappeared.

‘Calibrating, sir,’ she told the officer of the watch, cursing the deposits on her fingertips that left fatty spots on the keypad.

Another surveyor pulse brought the signal back onto the screen for a second, slightly flatter again. Even so, there was no mistaking the artificial nature of the signal intercept.

Maqoma turned to the lieutenant, heart racing and not from the illicit snack lingering in her pocket.

‘Sir, I am detecting an attempted weapons lock-on,’ she announced. Carmaichaz stiffened as he moved towards the command throne. ‘The source is on Fenris!’

Njal spoke as in a trance, recalling not the words like a skjald, but reliving the shared memories passed to him by previous loremasters. He did not remember the tale as much as relate it, feeling the bite of the wind on his face, hearing the snap of lasguns as soldiers of the Astra Militarum, corrupted by Bucharis’ words, spilled from immense landers onto the snow and ice of Asaheim while starships burned in orbit. He heard the roar of the guns as the defences of the Aett opened fire and felt the heat of missile detonation and shell explosion.

All of this he shared from tongue and mind, though the ironclad thought of the Custodian was like an annoying barb in the corner of his awareness. He led the historitors down the valley of the Grey King, as Blood Claws with jump packs sprung down from the rocky cliffs onto the roofs of heretic tanks driving in column. The belch of smoke from their engines polluted the crisp Fenrisian air, but soon it was the smog of their burning wrecks that choked the sky. Dreadnoughts waded through deep snowdrifts, their mechanical bodies guarded by native oils and special insulation against the extreme weather, while the far larger gun walkers of Bucharis foundered and froze, easy prey for the ancient veterans of the Great Wolf.

Njal felt the prayers of hate as though he had been there, his mind battered by irrational faith, just as Runethegn Mathin Firefist had felt it. To the Rune Priest his predecessor was at his shoulder, a ghostly figure whispering in his ear, his words taking form on Njal’s breath. Mathin told the tale of how a village shrine to the Allfather was toppled and a golden statue of Bucharis as a living saint was raised in its place. This affront stirred the wrath of not only the people of Fenris but its spirit, and quakes shook the hillsides where usually there were no such tremors. Raised to the wayward moods of their world, the Fenrisians fell upon the idol worshippers amid the ground movements and butchered them with axe, arrow and spear while Firefist and another rune-brother rained down lightning from dark clouds above.

A small settlement of hide tents and leaf-roofed bivouacs had been erected under the trees that split the defence station from the missile silo half a mile away at the top of the peak. It was empty but smoke drifted lazily from old fires, indicating it had not long ago been occupied.

‘Here!’ Doro called their attention to tracks through the snow, made by frequent passage winding back and forth up the mountainside. There were footsteps in the fresh fall.

‘If we had one of the Firstborn with us, I bet he’d know how long ago these were made,’ said Neiflur.

‘We don’t, and it doesn’t matter,’ replied Gaius. ‘They head up the hill, it makes no difference if it was two hours ago or thirty minutes. We kill any enemy and seize control of the launch silo, just as agreed.’

They set off directly towards the summit, long legs and powered armour easily coping with the steep slope that had forced the humans to zigzag their path. They had covered two hundred yards from the camp when the vox chimed a warning of an incoming transmission on the command channel.

‘This is Lord Krom,’ the Company Master snarled across the link. ‘By the ghost of Russ, what’s happening out there?’

‘Prosperine survivors, my lord,’ replied Ullr. ‘They’ve been here for some time, and now they’ve managed to break the security ciphers and get in.’

‘They’ve activated orbital targeting,’ Krom told them. ‘And it happens that the vessel they are attempting to lock onto is the Imperial envoy ship.’

‘Our battle-brothers are aboard the Enduring Hate.’ Gaius pictured dozens of his fellow Sons of Russ, shut away for the last months, now about to be blown into the void by servants of the Dark Powers before they even set foot on Fenris. ‘We have to prevent the launch.’

‘Next you’ll tell me how to track a mammophant,’ snapped Krom. ‘Your previous commander is threatening to fire bombardment cannons at the site if it locks on. Can’t say I blame him. And the Great Wolf says if the Enduring Hate opens fire on our world, we will retaliate.’

‘How long until the ship moves out of range?’ asked Ullr.

‘I can see the silo ahead of us,’ Gaius said, spying two vast ferrocrete walls beyond the trees. ‘We’ll be there in seconds.’

‘The Enduring Hate was under orders to power down after reaching low orbit for a shuttle launch,’ said Krom. ‘It’ll be some time before they can get the engines fired and start pushing out of the gravity well. You have to stop the launch.’

‘What about evacuation?’ said Gaius.

‘The Great Wolf isn’t going to let hundreds of Guilliman’s followers drop all over the Hearthworld,’ said Krom.

‘It’s just some cultists,’ said Gaius. ‘We found a camp. Maybe thirty people, no more.’

‘We found a camp too, another forty or fifty,’ said Ullr. ‘And we’ve fought Prosperines before. They’ll not be so zealous without their sorcerous masters, but watch out for maleficarum and special weaponry.’

‘I’m going to see if I can get the Great Wolf to calm down. Keep the channel open.’ Krom’s link became a buzz before it fell silent.

‘We’ve secured the outside and have got them pinned down, but we’ll need to get to the control room to shut off the launch unless you secure the missiles,’ said Ullr.

‘No sign of the enemy here, they must all be skulking in…’

Gaius was interrupted by a drawn-out rumble that shook snow from the branches and caused a minor avalanche to flow past the ascending Space Marines. Ahead, the pale sky darkened as four massive slabs of ferrocrete angled upwards from the mountain summit.

‘Ullr, we have a problem.’

Although she had duties to occupy her, Maqoma was close enough to the upper part of the strategium to hear the exchange between Lieutenant Castallor and the Chapter Master of the Space Wolves. Even if she could not, the anger on the face of the normally passive Space Marine was warning enough that all was not well.

‘I have no option but to defend my ship and crew,’ Castallor said, not for the first time since he had arrived a few minutes earlier. ‘It does not matter whether the source of the threat is deliberate action, a faulty targeting system or, as you claim, insurgents dedicated to the service of the Traitor Astartes.’

‘This is senseless,’ the Great Wolf replied, his voice a bass rumble through the vox-speakers. ‘You have to know that I’m equally bound to respond to any attack on the world under my protection. I am Imperial commander here, and I will respond with force if you open fire.’

‘We are attempting to power up reactors for void shields and manoeuvring, but we are vulnerable, due to your insistence that we cut power to minimal output. I know I cannot hope to defeat the might of the Fenrisian fleet, but I will survive long enough to inform the Lord Commander of your betrayal.’

‘I’ve had weeks to blow you out of the stars, why would I wait until now?’

Maqoma thought it a good question but dared not look up to see her commander’s reaction. Her hands trembled as she adjusted the surveyor frequencies again. The targeting signal was intermittent, as though scanning a wide area, and the intensity fluctuated every few seconds. It was impossible to trace it back to a point on the ground, but they had narrowed down the region of origin to a hundred square miles. Once it achieved lock-on, back-tracing the signal would take several more seconds, during which the defences could open fire and potentially rip the ship apart with a single salvo.

‘Speculation is counterproductive,’ said Castallor. ‘I must deal with the present and obvious threat. One of your defence stations is trying to fix on our position so that it may open fire.’

‘Yes, and we lost communication with it a day ago. There are two packs there who will regain control in the next few minutes.’

‘We may not have minutes, nor a second chance. We are virtually defenceless. The only chance we have of survival is a pre-attack strike. The moment we have a confirmed lock and targeting solution we will open fire with our main battery. I have hundreds of Primaris Marines aboard, Lord Grimnar. Your troops, by right. Why are you willing to sacrifice them rather than allow me to act?’

‘You don’t understand,’ replied the leader of the Space Wolves. ‘Our defences are interconnected. If you open fire, other systems will take it as an attack and counter-fire. It is out of my hands.’

‘That may be true, Lord Grimnar, or it could be seen as reasonable grounds for doubt. Are you striving as hard to assuage the spirits of those systems as we are to stoke the spirit of our reactor? It seems you risk little but demand much, Lord Grimnar.’

‘No target lock detected, sir,’ announced Maqoma, hoping to reassure Lieutenant Castallor that the danger was not yet imminent. ‘The targeting signal is highly erratic.’

Maqoma turned her attention away from her screen for a few seconds, to check the main display for reactor readiness. The plasma load was at twenty per cent and rising but the preliminary power surge had been directed to the surveyors and main battery, as Castallor had instructed. It would require at least another twenty per cent power for the void shields, perhaps fifteen per cent to start to push out from low orbit. Neither was a sure defence. Which would the lieutenant choose?

The drifts were so deep against the side of the blocky station that the charging Greypelts sprayed white fans ahead of them like longship prows slashing through surf. Every few strides one of them would fire, putting a bolt through the door at the top of the steps ahead. No Prosperine dared show head or limb; the bodies of seven others dangled over the railings and littered the steps that led up to the entrance, blown apart by bolt impacts.

‘Bridge me,’ Ullr shouted, slowing his pace a few yards from the wall beneath the ferrocrete steps.

Forskad surged past, dropping to a knee just ahead of the pack leader. Pushing maximum power to his war-plate’s legs, Ullr placed a foot on the shoulder of the crouching Space Marine and bounded high, combat knife stabbing into the wall ahead at the apex of his jump. He was high enough to haul himself up to the ice-clad metal railing and swing over, pulling his bolter free as he came face to face with a hooded woman inside the doorway, a grenade in her hand.

Ullr’s hand flicked out, the knife burying itself to the hilt in her chest, pinning her to the back wall. Shouts echoed from the passageway as the grenade dropped from her dead fingers and rolled along the floor. Two seconds later, the woman’s corpse was flung sideways by the blast.

‘Good idea,’ growled Ullr. He plucked a frag bomb from his belt, primed it with his thumb and tossed it so that it bounced off the far wall and went right. Another followed a second later to the left.

The crash of boots behind him heralded the arrival of Garnr, followed by the others vaulting over the rail or pounding up the steps. Forskad was the last, given a hand up by Eirik, who half-hauled him over the rail behind the pack leader.

Ullr went through the door as the grenades went off, turning down the passage to the right as he headed for the control room. He knew without looking that Dethar followed, going left, and the Greypelts would alternate without any word spoken. The pack leader stepped past body parts, the walls smeared with a spray of blood and pitted with hot shrapnel, the smell of explosive hanging heavy in the air.

Steps led down just a few yards ahead, but there was a door on the landing, half-open. Ullr snapped a warning, bolter aimed at the door while Garnr went past, heading for the stairwell. His pack-brother took the whole flight in two strides, turning at the next landing. Garnr’s wurgen growls indicated that the stairs were clear of foes and he was holding position.

Ullr opened fire through the gap at the door, registering a split second later that there had been a flicker of movement. The crack of the bolt detonating was accompanied by a cry of pain and something slumped against the metal door, slamming it closed.

A deep snarl from behind announced that Eirik was going to breach. Ullr adjusted position, giving the Space Marine room to reach full speed before his shoulder hit the door, buckling the metal as it ripped from the hinges. In the passage beyond were a handful of fur-coated figures, las-spears levelled towards the Wolves of Fenris. Ullr saw an arm flail from beneath the door as another Prosperine was crushed by the weight of Eirik falling flat. The Greypelt opened fire from prone while Ullr put a bolt into the cowl of another enemy. Just a moment later the stairwell echoed to the boom of Garnr’s weapon, joined by the higher-pitched zip of las-blasts.

Foes in front and below. Ullr activated the vox.

‘Gaius, tell me you’ve secured the launch silo.’

Nearing the summit of the mound, Gaius and his companions disturbed a flock of black-feathered birds that shrieked away into the sky, while the snow was criss-crossed with animal tracks both large and small.

‘Rotting meat,’ said Garold just as the smell passed the mask filters of Gaius’ helm.

The source became obvious just a few seconds later: a ridge to the left was strewn with carcasses of birds, animals and Fenrisians in various states of decay and dismemberment. Gorged beasts and birds staggered away at the approach of the Space Marines. Looking closer, Gaius picked out las and blade wounds on every carcass. Rats and other small scavengers, slick with bodily fluids, unperturbed by human presence, pushed through ribcages and broken skulls, chewing at sinew and gnawing bones.

‘Trapped,’ announced Neiflur, pointing his bolter to the right and behind. ‘Corralled into a killing ground.’

The snow hid much of the earthworks, and to the Space Marines the small cliffs and ditches that had funnelled the other animals into the open had been no hindrance. Glancing behind, Gaius could see the path now, steadily heading up and to the left, culminating in the charnel pile.

‘Movement!’ Aegreus brought up his bolt rifle and fired as hooded heads appeared at the summit, blasting one apart with his first shot. A flurry of las-blasts answered, melting snow and punching through the low canopy to shower the Space Marines with water and pine needles.

The longer muzzle and barrel of a lascannon slid into view from behind a barricade of woven tree limbs and packed snow.

‘Heavy weapon, thirty degrees left,’ Gaius warned, stepping to his right to get a better angle on the crew. The barricade was more like a gun pit, perfectly situated about forty yards to the flank to guard against frontal assault. Gaius fired anyway, putting two rounds into the slit, but he could see their flicker against the huge doors of the silo beyond, having sped harmlessly past the weapon and crew.

The pack split, Neiflur, Aegreus and Doro charging up the hill into the increasing las-fire, while Gaius led Anfelis and Garold towards the lascannon.

‘Keep moving,’ the pack leader barked, dodging to the left and then the right, presenting no easy target as he powered across the snowdrifts.

A ruby beam speared down towards the Firstwolves. The shot was too high, slashing through the canopy above Anfelis’ head. Gaius opened fire one-handed, trying to spoil the aim of the gunners as he closed the distance. Bolts thudded into the snow ramp and cracked through the woven branches, exploding prematurely. For a split second Gaius found himself looking directly into the focusing lens of the weapon, seeing a small, inverted image of himself in the convex glass. Red brightness replaced the view, an instant before a ruddy flash struck him in the chest. He staggered, expecting to feel lancing pain a moment later, but nothing came. He glanced down to see a neat hole of molten ceramite an inch across and the same in depth, but nothing more.

‘Praise the Emperor!’ he cried, plunging forward again, now a couple of strides behind the others.

‘Praise cold weather for draining their energy pack,’ replied Garold with a laugh. ‘This permanent frost sapped the coils.’

Figures rose from the pit, glimpsed as purple hoods and furs. They disappeared beyond the gun pit before Gaius could shoot. He spared a look to the right in time to see the other Firstwolves mounting the last few yards to the flattened summit. About a dozen foes with spearlike las weapons shot a final volley point-blank, the blasts having as much effect on his companions’ Mark X armour as the depleted lascannon. In the following seconds, the Prosperines turned their weapons so that a small thicket of crackling spear tips confronted the Firstwolves. Neiflur paid them no heed, crashing through the improvised schiltron with knife in hand, breaking and buckling shafts.

Gaius vaulted over the front of the gun pit and landed next to the abandoned lascannon as cries of desperation and fear rang across the hilltop. Fresh tracks led across a short concourse of snow-covered ferrocrete, straight to a small outbuilding with a metal door. The pack leader opened fire at the last of the figures disappearing within, but his bolt hit the door as it swung half-closed, shrapnel exploding from the metal. A fur-wrapped hand reappeared to drag the door closed and Gaius fired again. The bolt detonation tore the wrist apart, leaving the door unsealed with a hand hanging from the lockwheel.

Reaching level ground, Gaius accelerated for the doorway, realising that he had total faith that his pack-brothers would deal with any foes behind him.

Every saga came easily to Njal’s lips, the slightest incident recalled without effort. He spoke of a group of kaerls, no more than fourteen years old, rejected by the first tests to become Wolves of Fenris. They allowed themselves to be captured by Bucharis’ soldiers, feigning interest in their false doctrine, twenty-two of them. Seeing them so pliant of will, and being ignorant to the skill and savagery of Fenrisian youth, the traitors escorted the kaerls into one of their camps. Presented to a preacher, one of Bucharis’ lieutenants, they threw off their sheepish guise and slew their captors, taking up their dead foes’ weapons to kill more. They slit open the body of the false priest and left him to die in the freezing snow before they were overwhelmed by the preacher’s followers. This the Wolves of Fenris learned from traitors who surrendered when Bucharis and his generals fled the Hearthworld.

With the spectres of his ancestors speaking through him, Njal understood why his wyrd had brought him to this point, and why it was important for the Imperials to hear this tale. He spoke of the spirit of the Fenrisians, of the power of the Wolves of Fenris, and how they would die to the last to defend their aett – not just the fortress of the Sky Warriors but the planet, its people, its star system. The tribes were rivals but they were also a great family spread across the planet, and would come together as one against any foe from without.

He relished the details of how the invaders were butchered; how their ships were boarded by returning Space Marines and their guns turned on those they had brought; of rivers running red through the following summer from the slaughter in the peaks; of nightraven flocks like storm clouds feasting on the dead.

The warning was made clear. There was no conquest of Fenris that would leave it anything but an empty rock. Not even the might of Guilliman and all of the Indomitus Crusade would break the Wolves of Fenris to their will by force. And no Great Wolf would shame himself and the memory of the Wolf King by bending knee to a false god.

Gaius had wondered why the Prosperines had been living in the forest, with all the perils of the elements that entailed, and found the answer as he descended the third flight of stairs into the bowels of the launch silo. The steps brought him out into the main missile chamber about fifty yards down from the open silo doors: a space a hundred yards square filled with forty-eight missiles, each capable of reaching orbit in less than two minutes. Olfactory sensors in his suit picked up the reek of promethium fuel – muspelfyr – and the lower reaches of the chamber, another hundred yards down, were swathed in billows of steam.

It was not the defence system that caught the eye but the changes wrought by the Prosperines. Makeshift bridges of cable and rope hung between the warheads, the tip of each missile decorated with a grotesque arrangement of bones and blood. Gaius saw human parts among the remains that had been wired to the nose cones, along with large predators, birds and other species he could not identify. Lines of angular symbols were painted down the sides of each missile, the blood dark against their unpainted metal skins.

More fetishes and talismans decorated the walkways around the walls and the stairs that linked them, criss-crossing the vast space with chains of body parts. Even the steps were marked with heretical symbols, vaguely reminding Gaius of the warding signs used on the Geller field generator chambers and warp drive engines aboard the Enduring Hate. But this was pure superstition. There was no sense of suppressed power here; no queasiness his superhuman physiology could not compensate for, or pressure in the back of his head and behind his eyes. This was a child scribing the contents of the Liber Ecclesiarchia in the hope of speaking directly with the Emperor.

Blue flashes of las-power crackled from below, flaring along the thin metal railings that lined the walkways.

‘Watch your fire angles,’ he told the pack. ‘We have warheads and fuel lines in here.’

‘Somebody going to tell them?’ replied Aegreus, pointing to more than two dozen figures below.

‘Gaius, tell me you’ve secured the launch silo.’ Ullr sounded impatient, understandably so.

‘Ongoing,’ Gaius replied. ‘I cannot say if we can prevent launch from here, even if we gain control. Missiles are active.’

‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ added Doro. ‘If they lock on from the main control chamber the Enduring Hate is going to turn this place and everything within a mile into a crater.’

‘Do what you can, we are closing on the launch control chamber.’

‘Perhaps ground detonation might be better,’ said Neiflur. The Space Marine leaned over the gantry rail and fired a shot as he spoke. Garold and Anfelis had advanced to the next set of steps and were shooting bolts into the depths too.

‘While we’re still standing here?’ said Doro. ‘That’s an interesting concept.’

‘Neiflur’s right,’ said Gaius, realising what his pack-brother meant. ‘It’s more important that we stop the Enduring Hate from opening fire and starting a war.’

‘We’re almost ready to breach the control chamber,’ Ullr interrupted quickly. ‘Don’t do anything rash.’

Gaius didn’t reply, his eye drawn to the web of amulets and cable bridges between the missiles.

‘If one explodes, chain reaction will take care of the rest,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘No melta charges though.’

A fresh volley of blue flashed upwards, sparking from the cable-ladders and ferrocrete. Whatever they were going to do, it had to happen fast. Gaius realised that Neiflur, Garold and Anfelis had moved further down on their own initiative, the detonations of their bolts lost amid the gloom of the depths. He swept his gaze over the rest of the silo, switching visual register to penetrate the bank of steam.

‘Push on, secure the lower levels,’ he told the rest of the squad, pointing to the clusters of las-fire slashing up towards the pack.

Increasing magnification, Gaius examined the steam itself. Smell told him there were fuel droplets in the air. If there were promethium vapours escaping from somewhere, an unsealed valve most likely, there might be a much simpler way of destroying the missiles. He found it a few seconds later: a swirl of cooled air escaping from a fuelling point close to the bottom of the ferrocrete silo, about ten yards to his left. He traced it to a hose lazily coiled against the wall. If he could ignite the fumes, the flame would travel back to the storage tanks beneath the facility. That would be enough of a blast to cripple the rockets, if not outright destroy them.

The downside was that it could take off the whole top of the mountain.

Chapter Sixteen

MISSILES AND MYSTICISM
REVELATIONS FROM THE PAST
GAIUS ALONE

Ullr waited for affirmation from Hari, though he could hear the plasma gun cycling back to full charge. The other pack member stood on the opposite side of the passage so that the two of them flanked the junction leading to the last door between them and the control room. There couldn’t be more than a dozen Prosperines left, but time was a greater enemy. Magnus’ soldiers had locked the door from within, determined to fight to the last and prevent the Wolves of Fenris from gaining access. It was an attack out of pure spite, but it was impossible for the cultists to know they had the power to start a war between the Space Wolves and the Imperium, which would costs tens of thousands of lives if allowed to erupt.

‘I have a last-resort solution,’ Gaius announced over the vox. ‘Lord Krom, can we monitor whether the system is close to target lock on the Enduring Hate?’

‘We were alerted by loss of signal, no way of tracking from afar,’ the Wolf Lord replied.

‘Can’t you persuade the Great Wolf not to retaliate?’ said Ullr. ‘What difference does it make if we’re killed by bombardment or our own hand?’

‘Why should your lives be counted lesser to those aboard the Enduring Hate?’ Krom countered. ‘They can power up their shields and pray to the Allfather.’

Ullr heard the purr of the plasma gun recharge finishing. His gaze was fixed on Hari.

‘I have to do it now,’ said Gaius. ‘If the renegades achieve target lock, we’re dead anyway.’

‘We’re breaching now,’ snarled Ullr. ‘Give me thirty seconds.’

‘We might not have thirty seconds,’ said Gaius.

‘Hari!’ Ullr barked the name, but his pack-brother was focused on his weapon. It was a painful two more seconds until he lifted his head, lensed gaze meeting that of his pack leader. A brief nod followed and he turned the plasma gun on the door.

A blast as bright as starburst filled the corridor. Ullr did not wait for it to dissipate, hurling himself along the short passage as his auto-senses recovered, hunt-sense telling him exactly how far he was from the door. He thrust out a boot at full speed, half expecting to smash bodily into the mass of metal, the lock having held against the plasma shot. Thankfully the door gave way and he crashed through, bolter steady even as he thundered over the threshold.

A maze of stripped wires strung with decapitated heads hung across the control chamber like celebration lanterns. Ullr saw forest animals but also the rotting faces of tribesfolk – men, women and children. Panels in the control consoles had been prised open, their circuitry on view and daubed with symbols he did not know, holes dug out of the plastered walls to expose power lines and comm-network cables.

Ullr had no idea what they had done to activate the system, even less how to stop it.

His bark warned Hari not to use the plasma gun. There was too much circuitry exposed to risk gunfire. The pack leader brought down his bolter and raised his knife as he leapt at the closest enemy. Ullr’s arm snapped the man’s las-spear as he brought it up, and the blade plunged into the Prosperine’s chest.

Boots thudded behind as the others arrived.

‘Gaius, clear your position, I have a firing angle,’ Sáthor announced across the vox. ‘I can light this fire for you.’

‘No time, take the shot now,’ the Firstwolves’ leader replied.

Ullr’s snarl forbade firing as he backhanded another Prosperine out of his path and hurdled a mound of bones to reach the closest console. Sounds of focused violence continued behind him but he trusted to his brothers to watch his back while he studied the missile controls.

‘I’m not an Iron Priest,’ he muttered, looking across gauges and displays, seeing cracked screens daubed with bloody runes. None of it made sense. He turned back, eyes scanning across the crazy mess of cables and bloody remains, trying to work out how they linked together. Understanding glimmered in his mind. More precisely, lack of understanding.

‘It’s not going to launch,’ he announced over the vox, taking a step back.

‘What do you mean?’ Lord Krom replied.

‘They got lucky activating the target-seeking spirit, but they haven’t got control of anything. It’s just nonsense. They can’t fire the missiles.’

‘If you’re wrong?’ said Gaius.

‘Missile spirits have target lock,’ Sáthor updated them. ‘Do I fire?’

Ullr and Gaius shouted ‘no’ and ‘yes’ at the same time.

Ullr raised his bolter and fired, putting an explosive round into the back of the head of a man trying to bring his las-spear to bear on Hari. As he did so the pack leader slashed his knife through a twist of wire in the opened control panel. The headless corpse fell, furs parting to reveal the Prosperine guard uniform below. The display darkened.

‘Soldiers, not tech-priests. These fools don’t know how any of this works.’

The vox went silent. So did the control chamber as the last of Magnus’ followers slid to the floor, their blood pooling beneath them and upon the consoles. Ullr expected to hear Sáthor announce missile launch.

A heartbeat passed.

And another.

After the third, Ullr let out his breath. Another few seconds and the walls were still standing.

Snow swirled from landing jets as Sáthor brought down the gunship, more sedately than its last descent. Ullr dropped another Prosperine corpse onto the pile behind the control centre, each body stripped of its weapons. As well as Prosperine las-spears they had carried curved daggers that were wickedly sharp, the insides of their scabbards cleverly fashioned to whet the blade every time it was pulled free. Apart from the purple robes stitched with the symbols of their traitor master’s Legion, all else they had was scavenged from Fenris – furs and hides both crafted by tribespeople and taken raw from their prey, as well as some shields, axes and swords of obvious Fenrisian origin. These reclaimed items had been carried up to the summit, where Garnr was supervising the Firstwolves preparing the tribal dead for a pyre. They would be reunited with their battle gear and burned properly, even though they had suffered much indignity already.

A transport with a workforce of kaerls was on its way to clear the missile station and, once reconnected to the communications network, the Iron Priests would power down the damaged systems from the Aett. High above, the Enduring Hate was moving into upper orbit.

After a few minutes of grisly work, Ullr’s pack were joined by Gaius and the others. At the summit, thick smoke billowed into the snow-laden clouds.

‘Fetch the flamer from the weapons rack,’ Ullr told Eirik, nodding a head towards the Thunderhawk.

‘Another pyre?’ said Gaius, making his way across the bloodied and muddied ferrocrete surrounds of the station. ‘Why would you honour these renegades with Fenrisian funeral rites?’

‘No honour, just a precaution,’ replied Ullr. He gestured to the axebeak crows that waited in their scores on branches at the treeline. ‘We have to guard against wyrdrot. Mutation. These Prosperines can be filthy with maleficarum even when they look normal. Birds and beasts eat them, get the wyrdrot, go bad and attack people, or worse, get eaten by tribesfolk and give them the wyrdrot. I’ve seen whole regions burned to the ground to stop the spread.’

Eirik returned. With a few curses on the souls of the enemy dead he fired the flamer onto the corpses. Burning promethium caught furs and flesh instantly, turning the bodies into a conflagration that registered immediately on the heat sensors of Ullr’s armour.

‘To Hel,’ he muttered, turning away from the dishonoured dead.

‘Might as well mount up, we’re not to wait for the kaerls.’ Ullr started towards the gunship. He looked at the Firstwolves, their armour bloodied and ash-stricken. Doro had one of the Prosperine knives scabbarded on his belt and Neiflur carried a head by its long hair. ‘Taking some souvenirs, are you?’

‘Our quarters are bare,’ said Gaius. ‘I know it is not much, but a few trophies of our first battle as Wolves of Fenris will make it seem more like it belongs to us.’

‘You certainly look more the part,’ admitted Ullr.

‘Acted the part too. Fighting as a pack, trusting each other, acting as one. Not everything, but I can feel the difference.’

‘That’s good,’ said Ullr. ‘If you can do it, then maybe those others on the ship we just saved might also one day.’

‘I got this for you,’ called out Forskad. He tossed something to Gaius, and when the other pack leader held it up, Ullr saw that it was a piece of metal marked with Fenrisian runes, broken from one of the Prosperines’ las-spears, threaded onto a cord made from the purple of one of their robes.

Gaius looked at it, letting it dangle from a finger.

‘Hang it on your bolt rifle,’ said Ullr. ‘It’s your first wyrdleif.’

Ullr could see nothing of Gaius’ expression but could hear the grin in his voice when he thanked Forskad for the gift.

They reached the foot of the ramp and Ullr stopped, putting a hand to Gaius’ chest to halt him too. He waited until all the others had boarded and then pulled off his helm, taking a deep breath of the frigid mountain air. Gaius did the same, closing his eyes for a moment.

‘You can act like sons of Fenris, but you can’t feel like one,’ Ullr said quietly. ‘You were too close to choosing that starship over your company brothers.’

‘They are my company brothers!’ said Gaius. ‘Our company brothers.’

‘Not according to the Great Wolf, and not according to what I saw today. You’d have killed us all for what? You said Guilliman’s got thousands more like you. There aren’t a thousand more like me. Like Dethar, or Forskad or Eirik.’

‘If you had been wrong, Fenris would have been at war with the Imperium,’ said Gaius, leaning closer. ‘I would spend all of our lives to stop that.’

‘Why?’ growled Ullr. ‘Why would you even bend to that idea? War is war, battle is battle, death is death. If it is in our wyrd to die, do not fight it. But you don’t understand that. Because you’re not from here. You can’t see what it means to be part of this place. It shares a soul with the Wolf King and we share our souls with the world and the Verse. It’s in us from when we are born, and it is that shared soul that is awakened by the Test of Morkai and makes you a Wolf of Fenris. Fengr, the spirit of the wolf that lives in us, wakened by the Canis Helix, gifted us by the wisdom of the Allfather.’

Gaius stared at Ullr for several seconds, anger flashing in his eyes. Ullr was not trying to be cruel, but neither would he spare his companion the truth.

‘The way they made you is a marvel, it’ll be used to make our warriors in the future,’ said Ullr. ‘The Great Wolf bares his teeth but he’ll see sense. New Primaris Marines made from the folk of Fenris, with the breath of Morkai in their lungs and the spirit of Russ in their hearts. Fengr. That’s a good thing that you’ve done, to bring it to us, to give us this chance to grow strong again. But you cannot be that, it is not a gift to yourself. Wanting to be what you cannot, to break your wyrd, that’s another sign that you travel a different road to me, Gaius.’

‘The strongest men bend wyrd to their fortune,’ said Gaius, fixing his gaze on Ullr. ‘Call it skjald-wisht but I know that I belong here.’

The Primaris Marine kept his eyes fixed on Ullr’s for a moment longer, his anger seeping away, replaced by a look of determination. Without further word he stomped up the ramp, the talisman dangling from his massive fist.

A bear dressed as a wolf is still deadly, but it’s not a wolf, thought Ullr.

Flames crackled as starships fell like bad stars.

It took a few seconds for Mudire to realise that it was actually the fire in the pit that he heard. He felt numb all over, chilled to the bone, and glanced down at his fingers in expectation of seeing them blackened with frostbite. The others moved slowly, with similar unease, glancing at each other as they blinked away confusion.

The scraps of another meal on the table and empty fyrkaf cups stood testament to time passed, but he did not remember taking a break. He did recall, however, sitting around the fires in the mountains as Bucharis’ siege train bombarded the fortress of the Space Wolves. The taste of flame-roasted venison lingered in his mouth.

Mudire looked down at his notes. They finished mid-sentence, sometime after the first hour or so.

‘Damn,’ he muttered. He shook his head, feeling like grit had clogged his brain. ‘Ahlek, did you record all of that?’

The historitor checked his data-slate and grimaced. ‘The crystal was full about three hours ago.’

‘I remember it,’ announced Vychellan.

‘All of it?’ Forgewelt’s near-constant gaze of amazement around the Custodian returned.

‘I will repeat it verbatim for your records when we return to the Enduring Hate.’ The Custodian, as far as Mudire could tell, had not moved throughout the whole day and night. ‘Unfortunately, I do not think it sheds any light on the matter that concerns us.’

‘Really?’ Copla-var was slouched in his chair, as though almost asleep. He pulled himself up, downed the contents of a cup and shuddered. Even cold, the effect of the fyrkaf was swift and within a couple of seconds Copla-var regained his normal animation. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’

‘A good question,’ said Njal, stirring on his throne. For a split second Mudire thought he saw other figures crowding around the Rune Priest, faces both bearded and clean-shaven, old and young, women and men, like wisps of lace that disappeared. Moisture glistened in Stormcaller’s ruddy beard as though ice had melted there. ‘If I knew what you hoped to find, I could guide you closer to your goal.’

‘And if we knew what we were looking for, we would have already found it,’ growled Vychellan. He stepped back, boots thudding harshly on the stone floor. ‘It was a slim hope. Not even a hope, a wish.’

‘Do not dismiss your wyrd so easily, Custodian,’ said Njal as he stood up. Though Vychellan was clearly taller and broader, and fully armoured, the Stormcaller’s presence swelled greater, drawing the eye away from the golden warrior. A half-seen tempest clouded the air behind him. ‘It has brought you here and we are not yet exhausted. Tell me, not the answer you seek, but the question you ask. What are you hoping to find?’

Vychellan hesitated and then replied, speaking of what had transpired on Gathalamor – the Neverborn, the Traitor Astartes, the warp weapon they had unleashed. Perhaps drawn on by the Rune Priest’s sagas, Vychellan related his experience below the cardinal palaces, losing his companion to a sorcerous foe, arriving too late to apprehend the other traitors. Mudire had not heard the full account before and shuddered at how close disaster had been for the battle group approaching Gathalamor.

‘The weapon is some cursed warp tech, that much is clear,’ the Custodian said. ‘We may never understand its workings, but it is dormant now. We were too late, yet it did not fire again, when the primarch’s ship was inbound and ripe for destruction. If that was not their goal, something even worse is planned. We have fragments to study, pieces of the Despoiler’s scheme, but no purpose. That the device is called Bucharis’ Gift is the only real lead we have, and so we followed the trail to this world hoping for… something.’

‘I am afraid I have little else to help you,’ confessed Njal.

He strode between them, wolf-skull-headed staff banging on the floor. Mudire didn’t remember him picking it up. The historitors stood and followed as the Rune Priest headed along the hall towards the door. Vychellan caught them up with long strides. As though inaudibly summoned, two Wolf Guard entered, different to the pair that had escorted the party from the shuttle dock.

‘You will have to remain in your quarters for a while,’ said the Rune Priest. ‘The Great Wolf does not wish any ships in low orbit.’

‘For how long?’ said Vychellan.

‘Until the Great Wolf declares otherwise.’ Njal shrugged and continued out of the doors while Mudire suppressed a groan.

Gaius took off his armour with the aid of the two kaerls aboard the Thunderhawk, holding the pauldron with the symbol of the Firstwolves for some time after he had stripped down to his undersuit.

Like Drogr, Ullr had not been personal in his choice of words, but it felt like an attack all the same. To add to the injury to Gaius’ pride was the barb that one day there would be Primaris Marines that the Wolves of Fenris recognised as their own. He would not be one of them. Not a Son of Russ under Cawl and Guilliman. Not a Wolf of Fenris under Grimnar. An oddity. A curiosity of the Drakeslayers, a point scored by Krom Dragongaze.

If he fought well, and he would, he might live another five hundred years and more. The thought of five centuries of this between-state felt like dragging a battle tank through a bog, its weight pulling him back again and again. Could he carry on putting one step in front of the other, continuing in the limbo of being no real thing?

He felt the eyes of the Greypelts on him as he rejoined the others. Some still wore their armour, others had come out of their gear like Gaius.

‘Where’s your amulet?’ asked Garnr. ‘Don’t want to lose that.’

Gaius had stowed it with his bolt rifle. He realised that Garnr was right and retrieved it from the weapons locker, the cord wrapped around his fingers. He sat on the bench for some time, looking at the light through the ports catching on the circle of metal as it spun.

‘I don’t recognise the rune,’ he said to Forskad. ‘What is it?’

The Greypelt glanced at his companions with a half-smile.

‘It means “wind-help”,’ said the Firstborn. ‘I carved it for you.’

Gaius accepted this with a nod, not quite understanding. There were chuckles and some looks exchanged between the Greypelts. Ullr was quiet, fully armoured but for his helm, not taking part, staring out of a port. Something about the other pack’s behaviour irked Gaius, the leader more than the others.

‘Ullr!’

The pack leader turned his head. ‘Yes?’

‘What does wind-help mean?’

Ullr sighed and pulled himself fully around, hands on knees.

‘An old story, told round the fire by hunters when the wind bites like a she-wolf,’ said the Greypelt pack leader.

‘So, it’s a hunter’s talisman?’ said Gaius, causing Forskad to laugh sharply, punching Garnr on the shoulder as he did so. Gaius ignored him, glaring at Ullr. ‘Tell me. What does it mean?’

Ullr shook his head in reluctance, throwing an angry glare at his pack as they settled themselves.

‘In the dawn time there was a young hunter who could never get a kill. She hunted darkwolf and frostbear, jumphorn deer, rendtuskers and giant walrus, but never was her spear or arrow the one to slay. For a year this continued, vexing her greatly, and the lord of her aett. One day, frustrated that she brought nothing to his table, her jarl told her that if she did not return with a fine crowned stag she would be exiled.

‘The hunter set out and for three days she tracked a stag, through forest and snow, never quite getting the opportunity for the kill. When she finally came upon it against the foot of a cliff she fired her bow but the shot went wide, scaring the crowned stag away. For half a day more she followed it, but again her aim was off and the stag ran free.

‘Desperate, she continued by moonlight, walking the silver ice, until she found her quarry once more. This time she did not loose her shot but instead stood for a moment, whispering a prayer to the wind. She asked that the wind did not push her shot astray and in return promised the wind she would dedicate food and drink to its spirit ever after.

‘Soft-footed, her breath held in her chest, she crept upon the stag and loosed her arrow. To her horror she saw its arc was wide and going to miss. But the wind had listened to her prayer and heeded her promise. A gust caught hold of the wayward arrow and guided it into the beast’s heart. It fell dead and she dragged it back to her aett, where she presented it to the people. The jarl called for a feast, and true to her word she offered a cut of flesh to the wind, tossing it from a clifftop into the seas.’

Gaius listened enraptured to the tale, as he had all the myths and legends of Fenris, and any lore of the Aett he could uncover. He pictured the huntress and her quest, the determination to put right what was wrong, to overcome the threat of shame.

He held up the token, and then looked at Forskad, who was still fighting his amusement.

That was when Gaius realised the talisman was not a token of perseverance but a joke. Wind-aided. An amulet for his bolt rifle. The insult was clear: he was a poor shot and required the help of the wind to hit his mark.

Had he not just fought next to these warriors, had he not been burning from Ullr’s words, Gaius might have taken the jest in good mood, as he had numerous taunts before.

He shot to his feet and flung the amulet at Forskad.

‘Son of Fjorulalli!’ It took all his restraint not to follow the projectile with his fists, but he knew his reaction was reward for the Greypelt and a fight would be more. ‘What do you want? Perhaps I should put a bolt in your eye and then you would know about my marksmanship.’

He turned his ire to the Firstborn more generally, fending off Doro with a stiff arm as his pack-brother tried to grab hold of him.

‘You’re all vain, empty beasts. You talk of honour, of accounting the dead, of glory in battle but you are just inbred hounds rolling in the filth. You would all be ork-dead by now, if not for me and my brothers, but that’s not enough. I could bleed my last drop of blood for you, watch it freeze on your Emperor-abandoned drop-hole of a world and still you would not call me a Wolf of Fenris.’

‘Gaius…’ Garold’s conciliatory tone earned him the next tirade.

‘It’s all a joke to them. You think they will even give us account when we fall? Do you think they would make us vaerengi or jarls? They want nothing to do with us. The Great Wolf shuns the primarch and his crusade. We had more in common with brothers from Dorn and Corax than the entitled, preening sons of the Wolf King.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ growled Ullr, standing up. ‘Perhaps the joke was sour, but you tread on thin ice now.’

‘You are nothing to the Rout of old,’ snarled Gaius. ‘A spent force, throwing yourselves at your enemies, shouting empty cries, bleating like sheep about Russ returning at the end. He would be shamed to see what had become of his sons!’

‘It is just as well you are not a true Fenrisian,’ snarled Eirik, joining his pack leader. ‘You do not understand ulfwyrd or the insult you do us. You would bleed for those words.’

‘Truth is, your blood is no different to mine,’ snapped Gaius, rounding on the rest of the Greypelts. ‘There is nothing special about you or your world. Cawl took apart what makes a Space Marine and put the pieces together again in something better. Primaris. Me. The Firstwolves. He found no Fenrisian magic dust, no sprinkles of wyrd. The Test of Morkai is just a barbaric ritual intended to massively elevate physiological responses to trigger gene-seed adoption. There’s nothing spiritual about it.’

‘You are like the worm that speaks of flying above the clouds,’ said Forskad, baring his fangs.

‘It’s nothing, and I’ll show you,’ said Gaius. He turned towards the cockpit. ‘Sáthor, take us down!’

‘We’re over the Riven Forest, I can’t land,’ the shout came back.

‘Just get us lower,’ said Gaius, hitting the side hatch activation rune. Freezing wind swirled into the compartment with a flurry of snow.

‘Do as he says,’ growled Ullr.

The treetops came closer through the open assault hatch and Gaius felt the scratch of ice on his face and exposed arms and legs.

‘You’ll die, and your shade will be lost in the forests,’ warned Ullr, stepping closer.

Gaius reached out and snatched the dagger-tooth charm from around the pack leader’s neck. Ullr took a step to seize it back and Gaius thundered his fist into the Space Marine’s face, knocking him back a step.

‘If you’re right, about everything, I’ll be waiting for you in Hel.’

Gaius turned and jumped from the descending Thunderhawk, plunging into whiteness.

‘Turn the gunship around!’ demanded Aegreus. ‘Go back!’

The Firstwolves were on their feet, crowded around the open hatch, while Ullr stood to one side.

‘No,’ said the pack leader.

‘Why not? He’ll die down there,’ said Garold.

‘You’re right, he’ll die.’ Ullr turned away and rejoined his Greypelts, who were eyeing the other pack carefully in case they followed their loud demands with a more physical type of coercion. ‘But I respect him enough to give him that death.’

‘What do you mean?’ rasped Aegreus, pushing past the others.

‘Do you think he can come back, after what he said? After what he swore? Would you heap that shame onto him? Could you carry that weight of geldfut?’

The Firstwolves settled their tempers, exchanging glances.

‘Perhaps he’ll make it,’ suggested Neiflur. He looked back towards the hatch. ‘He’s stronger and faster and smarter than any initiate taking the Test of Morkai.’

‘It is a false hope,’ said Ullr. ‘The Test of Morkai is not just one of physical strength, but mental power. Of connection to Fenris. And those aspirants are dropped on Asaheim, a harsh place, but it is tame compared to the outer wilds. A thousand miles of mountains separate Gaius from a sea of ice, and that will take him only to the ocean another five hundred miles from the cliff faces of Asaheim.

‘In a few days Helwinter will begin. Fire will fall, the land and seas will freeze. No man not born of Fenris, without fengr inside, can hope to survive.’

He returned to the side of the compartment and hit the hatch rune, closing the door. The sudden loss of wind noise made the quiet even more intense until Ullr spoke again.

‘Account his passing. Choose a new pack leader. Gaius will not return.’

The fall was twenty feet further than Gaius had hoped due to a steep slope, but fortunately the thick pine canopy slowed his descent for much of the way, so that he arrived to the ground at speed but not enough to cause serious harm. Unfortunately, the same steep slope that had eluded his perception also foiled his balance, so that on landing in the snow, he pitched sideways down the near-vertical cliff, surrounded by white.

This second descent was less pleasant and culminated in his arrival at a tree trunk even broader than he was, almost dislocating his shoulder. Dislodged snow showered down on him in intermittent lumps as he lay at the bottom of the tree, the point of Ullr’s talisman digging deep into his palm, though not enough to draw blood from his thick skin. Birds unsettled by his meteor-like arrival shrieked their displeasure, but through their cawing and croaking Gaius could hear the engines of the gunship. They slowly faded, with no change in pitch to indicate a turning manoeuvre. After a minute or so the sound had disappeared and the birds returned to their perches.

He was glad the others were not coming back, because it meant they realised he was serious.

It was cold, and despite his enhanced physiology he knew the dangers of hypothermia were real. He had to get moving, find a food source and some way to fashion clothes. He was as fast and strong as many of the animals he would encounter, but Gaius was well aware that he knew next-to-nothing of this landscape or the local elements. Snow was falling thinly from an all-encompassing cloud layer and the mountains were thick with tall pines. Water would be no problem. He guessed that a game trail or tracks would not be hard for his superior eyesight to find.

A voice at the back of his thoughts nagged through these musings.

Arrogant fool, it said. You will prove nothing except that you were a vain idiot.

He looked around and found the vaguest spot of brighter sky that he took to be the Wolf’s Eye. The chronometer had read mid-afternoon before his departure so the star was heading towards dusk, past its zenith. If he kept it to his right, he’d be heading north in some fashion. Asaheim was a large continent and the Aett virtually at the pole, so direction was not an issue as long as he could keep heading north.

And you will cross mountains and slay thunderwolves too, I wager, said his doubts. A saga greater than the Wolf King’s? More likely Morkai will hunt you down and swallow you whole before you see another ten days.

The words did nothing to dent his anger, because they were nothing compared to those spoken by Drogr and Ullr: tame accusations in light of the shame of the Great Wolf and the choice of Krom Dragongaze to sacrifice hundreds of Primaris Marines rather than a squad of Grey Hunters. Every smirk and sideways glance, every laugh, taunt and well-meaning piece of advice was a clamour compared to the reedy whining of his self-doubt.

Why do you crave their respect so much? You said it yourself – they’re savages masquerading as Space Marines. Why do you want to be one of them?

Gaius felt the dagger-tooth of Ullr’s talisman in his hand.

‘It’s not for me,’ he said out loud, pushing himself to his feet. He reached up and snapped a branch a little thicker than a normal man’s wrist. The end came away already sharp and all he had to do was strip off the smaller twigs. He had a couple of practice thrusts.

Gaius thought of the brothers he had fought alongside for three years, some of them trapped aboard the Enduring Hate, others flung across the Indomitus Crusade, perhaps never to see this world or a Firstborn Wolf of Fenris. Some would never be part of the Chapter.

‘This is for all Firstwolves,’ he declared, raising his voice. He lifted the improvised spear, making a fist of his other hand around the fang, holding it to his chest in oath-make. ‘I will show the Fenrisians that we are sons of Russ, that we are their equals. Vlka Fenryka!’

Chapter Seventeen

THE WOLF BARES ITS TEETH
GUNSLAVE
ADMINISTRATIVE ERROR

The Aett was astir when Ullr entered the halls of the Drakeslayers. Hamarrkiskaldi had told him something was amiss since Sáthor had brought them back to the Great Company’s docks, but he had seen nothing but kaerls and servitors on the journey across the fortress. The pack leader figured that perhaps he sensed the aftermath of the tense affair with the Enduring Hate, or something connected to the news he had transmitted of the loss of Gaius of the Firstwolves; he could see how letting one of the Primaris Marines throw his life away might cause issues for Lord Krom.

It was the Wolf Lord that he first came upon, passing his hall to reach the dormitories beyond. Kraki stood guard at the doors and, on seeing Ullr, called the newly returned Space Marines to attend the Company Master. Both rendered equal in their ignorance, the two packs hurried into the hall and found the Wolf Lord upon his chair, fully armoured. The expression of Dragongaze was a perfect example of how he had gained his name, and Ullr started speaking as soon as it fell upon him.

‘If I have erred, lord, I will make amends,’ he began. ‘I handled the situation as I saw best, but I await instruction.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said the Wolf Lord.

‘The fight at the weapons station, and my disagreement with Gaius of the Firstwolves.’ Ullr turned, indicating the Primaris pack, the absence of their leader.

Krom glanced at the Firstwolves, brow furrowed. ‘If there is ut-geld between you, it can wait. I have ordered the whole Great Company to stand ready.’

‘You’ve resolved the disagreement with the Great Wolf, lord?’ Ullr wasn’t sure if that made the situation with Gaius better or worse.

‘No, not really,’ said Krom, shaking his head at the reminder of Grimnar’s displeasure.

‘Why are you mobilising the company? Our term at guard ends tomorrow.’

‘Every Great Company is being mustered,’ said Krom, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘I don’t think we can sit this one out. Roboute Guilliman’s fleet is about to break warp.’

Alone in his runehalle, surrounded by lead-scribed hexagrammatic wards and swirling lines of inscribed wyrdleif, Njal allowed his mind to escape the bonds of flesh. He felt the agitation in the ghosts of the Aett, vibrating through the minds of the living. Predecessors from thousands of years ago called his name, demanding to know why they had been brought forth from the Upplands by this disturbance.

The warp-wake of the fleet was like nothing Njal had felt before, even when the Chapter had assembled for war. The othersea echoed to the howls of wolves unleashed against an ever-present roar in the background, but now both were cowed by a domineering presence, like a wild horse broken to the will of an unflinching master.

Guilliman.

But it was not clear if the effect was some energetic power of the primarch himself that quelled the storms, or a bubble of belief that surrounded the fleet. As strong as the Howl of the Hearthworld, nearly as bright as the Torch of Gold that shone from Terra, yet made of unbreakable steel. Discipline and faith moulded the minds of the fleet into a blade with which to cut through the tides of the warp.

Njal’s thoughtself approached closer, sensing the presence of astropaths and other psykers, almost alighting upon the minds of the wyrd-touched within the warp. Yet he dared not cross the barrier to penetrate the Geller field lest his intrusion create a weakness that allowed the worst of the othersea to flood through.

Instead he watched, as one might think it, and listened to the thrumming of a billion threads being pulled taut by their overlapping wyrd. A singular moment was coming. The othersea danced to the possible futures, showing glimpses of fire and ice, pillars of ash made of human hives, and a shadow cast across a deserted wilderness as the last of the stars were swallowed. Yet also a beacon of hope, a light springing from world to world, growing stronger, igniting fires in the vast reaches of the darkness to renew guttering sparks before they died completely.

A group of ships broke warp almost simultaneously, which was practically unheard of since the arrival of the Everdusk. The displacement of the largest made it plain that Guilliman’s flagship led the flotilla, both by dint of its size and importance, but also by the power of the ripples it left in its wake from the personality aboard.

Njal continued to examine the emerging fleet, from destroyers and frigates to troop transports and battleships. Vessel after vessel crashed upon the shore of realspace from the othersea until their weight upon the outskirts of the system was like a chain of iron hanging from Njal’s neck. It took all of his effort to remain observing the last few ships, bringing the complement to scores of vessels. Now he felt the tendrils of their psykers reaching out again, signalling amity and alliance. The minds of astropaths scoured the churning waves of the othersea, trying to discern any signal they could, hours before a mortal transmission would be detected.

It was to these human receivers that Njal now bent his thoughts, letting the images of his mind leap from wave crest to wave crest until it was a glittering vista that even the least of talent could absorb. It was a particular message, created from the words of the Great Wolf himself.

A giant wolf stood guard, teeth bared, hackles raised, claws gleaming and bloody. At its back a thousand others of its kind waited, silver and black, grey and white, all with red eyes ablaze. Behind rose a spear of gold, its tip catching the last rays of twilight while stars populated the heavens above.

Here in the light of the Wolf’s Eye, in confrontation to the returned primarch, Njal reminded all that arrived that they were now in the realm of the Wolf King.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since the Rigorous had fallen to the orks, at least one Terran year and probably more. Orad had been ground down to a nub of thought by the routine of slavery, though his tasks had changed at times, from acting as a simple beast of burden to the pounding of great rivets inside the ship carcasses, or the shovelling of fuel – wood, coal, bodies and other detritus – into massive furnaces. The larger attack craft and smaller starships took shape, and one by one lifted from their gantries on blinding, deafening engines, criss-crossing the skies with columns of stinking pollution.

Then came a day when the overseers moved among the company of slaves that included Orad, separating out about half of them to stumble and shamble along rickety bridges and zigzagged ramps into one of the brutish ork landers. Before the doors clanged shut and plunged them into darkness, the reason for their segregation became clear – they all bore the rocket brand of void craft crew.

There were no harnesses or other safety equipment, so when the craft lifted off and accelerated hard towards orbit the slaves were thrown towards the rear of the vessel. Cries from the hurt were lost in the noise of jets. The floor was hot, unshielded against the plasma below, and those at the back struggled as best they could to avoid the heated metal plate. Weightlessness came soon, then after a few more minutes a strange pull of gravity plates, inconsistent and nauseating compared to the systems of the Rigorous. The craft landed heavily, skidding sideways, again tumbling the helpless occupants against each other and the metal compartment walls. With a clang the side fell away to reveal a greenish gleam of lumens. Shouts and whip-cracks, fewer than before, guided them out of the hold, along with several dozen more slaves from a second lander.

Orad and the others were on a broad landing pad, one of many that projected as an equatorial ring from the orkish space station. There were no walls, only a bright green energy dome through which ships passed back and forth, energy crackling along their hulls as they moved into and out of the field. As he followed a small fighter jet’s course out of the dock, muttering drew Orad’s attention to something behind him. He turned, able to see over the heads of most of his companions.

He stared with slack expression at the sight that met him.

Less than a mile away, linked by a handful of metal umbilicals, the Rigorous was anchored. But the ship was barely recognisable, having been modified by the orks to something much more to their liking. The sleek, eagle-head prow had been replaced with a ram that more closely resembled a massive fist, and the entire fore section from strategium to bow was painted a fierce red that became immense flames trailing towards the aft. The main decks were armoured with extra plating and Orad could tell that the turrets could no longer move, presenting a fixed broadside instead. They had been supplemented with another mass of guns on struts above the dorsal deck, and more turrets had been built on top of and around the strategium, which was now almost lost among massive faceted towers like those on Orguk’s fortress.

The whips sent them moving on again, headed towards the opening of the closest umbilical.

The inside of the Rigorous was just as orkified as the outside. Painted glyphs and metal icons hammered into the walls marked different areas, the walls themselves a mix of bare metal or plain plasteel or brightly coloured paintwork, mostly blue and yellow. Orad found himself herded with about a hundred others towards the gun decks. The conveyors had been ripped out and replaced with immense ramps, and much of the interior had been gutted, the bulkheads torn away to create large open areas. These were thronged with orks and grots, many of the former heavily armed and armoured, and it became obvious that the Rigorous had been turned into a transport. The structure was far weaker than that of a light cruiser but now housed upwards of a thousand greenskins.

They had no time to view these changes in detail as they were driven down into the gun batteries. For the first time in over a year Orad was thankful for something – the corpses had been cleared away, though the stench of death and greenskin musk was condensed within the close confines. The guns remained but, as he had seen from outside, the turrets were welded and braced in place, all trace of the targeting systems removed. There were orks lounging around the guns, eating, fighting and laughing, each massive weapon decorated with scrawls, talismans of bone and metal pictograms. The purpose of the slaves became clear when Orad saw that the autoloaders were gone too. The massive breeches of the macrocannons were open to view, like metal-lipped mouths, cranes of chain and girder erected between them, dangling into the magazine below. Slave power would serve where before motors had laboured.

Orad knew then his fate, so close to the meagre life he had known, and yet so much worse.

Coming upon the Space Wolves’ lexicographers felt surreal to Mudire, as though he had suddenly discovered that beneath Terra there was secretly an army of rats running the whole Imperium.

Several days had passed since Njal had related the saga of Bucharis’ attack, and his kaerl messenger had been a surprise arrival at the historitors’ dorm. They had resigned themselves to weeks of incarceration, so the invitation to join the Runelord had been quickly accepted. Mudire had certainly not expected to find a whole hall of the Fang dedicated to compiling the tales of Fenris.

The comparisons and contrasts to Administratum ledger-hives were stark. The hall was filled with several hundred kaerls dressed in Fenrisian gear, sat at scribing stands with quills scraping and scratching. The sound alone gave him shivers of recollection from a tour of the scribe-works on Terra. But here there were no overseers, no alertness-inducing incense burners, no maul-armed watchfolk. The kaerls seemed – and this disturbed Mudire more than anything – happy at their labours. Younger serfs brought in pieces of parchment, sometimes stacks of it, and gave them to a long-bearded servant, who then distributed this work onto the desks of idle scribes. Meanwhile several kaerls with obvious injuries – missing limbs, twisted backs, limps and other impairments – pushed small trolleys around the scribes, collecting finished manuscripts. Some of these collectors had improvised prosthetics and crutches, others boasted quite sophisticated augmetics, while a few had adapted trolleys they could push around from wheeled chairs. All disappeared through one distant archway and returned with empty trolleys a couple of minutes later from another.

The sound of voices echoed from an adjacent hall and it was towards these that Njal led the team. Some of the scribes looked up at the intrusion – a punishable offence among the Administratum’s ranks – smiling or just staring in curiosity at the Custodian and his companions.

‘This is where we record the sagas,’ explained Njal, stopping at a broad archway into the next hall. There were more than a score of tables, half occupied by kaerls, a few with Space Marines sitting at them. ‘We make written record of the sagas in our runes and then they are transcribed into Imperial Gothic.’

‘And then taken to the archives?’ said Ahlek, pointing towards the archways where the collected manuscripts disappeared. ‘This is quite the endeavour, Lord Stormcaller! The principals of Terra would be proud to see such erudition and labour.’

Njal looked at the historitor for several seconds, perhaps trying to translate what he had said.

‘We think it is good that our bondsfolk learn the language of the Imperium as well as our own, fluent in speech and writing. So, each spends a few days here every year to improve or refresh their skills.’

‘They are not permanent scribes?’ said Forgewelt. ‘A rostered, part-time system?’

‘Why would we waste a good kaerl sat at a desk for their whole life? They all learn to cook, to fight, to scribe, to keep our Aett, to drive and fly, to assist the Iron Priests in the armoury and the Wolf Priests in the bludhalle. Sometimes vylkar come here and take an hour or two, to practice their Gothic lettering.’

‘Sorry, who?’ said Copla-var.

‘The Wolves. Our warriors. They are quite literate. Some appreciate the artistry of the Gothic form, and the colourful illuminations that your Administratum officials append to many things.’

There was silence from the group for several seconds as they processed yet more unexpected information. Mudire felt a little dizzy and wondered if he’d had too much fyrkaf, or perhaps not enough.

‘What sagas are being told today?’ he asked, intrigued by the whole system.

Njal cast his gaze over the pairs and small groups in the hall, lips pursed. His keen hearing would pick out individual conversations that the historitors could not.

‘The vylkar are newly returned warriors, pack leaders from the Blackmanes. They give account of their fallen. Ragnar himself will come soon to pass on his own reports of his campaigns, after he has shared them with the Great Wolf.’

‘And these others?’ said Vychellan. ‘They look like common folk.’

‘Kaerls that live beyond the Aett and have heard tale and rumour from Asaheim and beyond. We record not only the sagas of the Vlka Fenryka but all that come our way. Most of it is mundane – feuds between tribes, raids, kraken hunts. Occasionally we hear of warp-tainted beasts or survivors from the invasions of Magnus and judge whether we need to hunt them down.’

‘Lord Njal!’

They all turned as a Wolf Guard clad in power armour disturbed the peace of the scribe hall.

‘Yes, Hallar?’ The Rune Priest left the group to speak quietly with the newcomer. He glanced back at the historitors once during the conversation, his eyes lingering a little longer on Vychellan, Mudire thought.

‘A problem?’ asked the Custodian when Njal returned to the group.

‘Not a problem, but there is an unexpected task I must perform,’ said the Rune Priest. ‘Please remain as long as you desire, listen to the sagas if you wish, speak to any here. If I cannot return soon I will send someone.’

‘What do you make of that?’ said Copla-var when the Runelord had departed. ‘A bit strange, I think.’

‘I could not hear all that was said, for they concealed their voices well, but the summons was from Logan Grimnar,’ said Vychellan.

‘Well, let’s dig around and find out what the Chapter has been up to recently,’ said Mudire, turning back to the rows of scribing desks. ‘Even if we can find nothing about Gathalamor, this would be a good use of our time.’

‘Unprecedented, I would say,’ said Forgewelt, almost smiling. ‘To examine records of Fenris first-hand.’

Mudire’s enthusiasm was mostly for show. Njal had been so open about this place there was unlikely to be anything beyond academic interest. The Fang was chilly, smelled like an animal den and as soon as Njal or anybody else decided the historitors’ mission was over they would be returned without ceremony to the tedium of the Enduring Hate.

Yet, as Vychellan had admitted, the team did not know exactly what they were seeking and would only know it when they found it, so it was worthwhile to keep looking. Failure would not go down well with Colquan, even if the task was impossible, and Mudire had no desire to be on the wrong side of the tribune.

Any complaint about being disturbed from his labours in the forges died on Arjac’s lips the moment he entered the wulfhalle. A council awaited the arrival of the Great Wolf. Njal, Ulrik, and the Wolf Lords currently on Fenris, a list that would grace only the greatest of sagas: Krom, the lord with the Dragongaze, He That Would Be First. The youngest of their number, Ragnar, slayer and wearer of the Blackmane. Lord Bran, the Redmaw, also called the Beast-Heart. Foresighted leader of the Grimblood’s Great Company, Kjarl. Bjorn Stormwolf the Laughless, his face a single livid scar. The Death in Silence, Erik Morkai. Gunnar Red Moon, the Bard-Tongue. Ship-swift Engir Krakendoom, the Skylord.

With them stood a Dreadnought, a slab-sided walking war engine with claws like swords and a multi-barrelled assault cannon. The ancient machine was draped in trophies, furs and wyrdleif, marked with gold, iron runes driven into the ceramite armour. Feet thudding on the stone floor it turned to see the new arrival. Arjac immediately recognised the sarcophagus at the centre of the armoured torso. One whose saga eclipsed any other in the hall.

Bjorn the Fell-Handed.

The most ancient of the Chapter’s warriors, first Great Wolf after the loss of the Wolf King. Beside Grimnar, the only other living being in the Imperium to have defied Guilliman.

‘Lord Bjorn, it has been a time since we have seen you,’ said Arjac. For several seconds he dipped half to a knee with head bowed.

‘Overdue, this call from Logan.’ Bjorn’s voice reverberated through voxmitters, heavy with bass and mechanical influence. Even so, Arjac could hear his archaic accent and form of speech. ‘Had I known the Legion-breaker returned I would have saved you all much breath.’

‘Best case I see is Guilliman turns round and carries on with his crusade, and we get back to our wars,’ said Krakendoom. He took small paces in constant expenditure of energy, his words as swift as one of his aerial assaults. ‘Nobody wins from this stand-off except our enemies.’

‘Our many, many enemies,’ added Ragnar with a brief laugh. ‘As if the traitors and orks weren’t enough, now we pick a fight with the Imperium.’

‘Not the Imperium, with Guilliman.’ The Great Wolf’s voice boomed down the hall as he entered. ‘And I did not “pick a fight” with anybody, Ragnar. Guilliman chose to come here, I did not ask him.’

‘Is his fleet as big as they say?’ said Grimblood, his face a mass of tattoos in elaborate Fenrisian knotwork.

‘But a portion has come, not even all of his immediate battle group,’ answered Njal. ‘Only the tip of the Legion-breaker’s sword pierces Fenris’ skies and yet they outnumber us fivefold and more.’

‘The Indomitus Crusade has at least three great fleets sailing across the void, each with half a dozen such battle groups,’ said Krom, eager to share information to remind everybody that it was he that had first contacted the newcomers. ‘Who could tally so many ships?’

There was a flurry of conversation around this point until Bjorn’s speakers crackled into life.

‘Like a warrior that has never left his hearth, the Legion-breaker flexes his arms to impress us. So many ships he brings away from needed battle to intimidate, to overpower the soft-minded.’

‘It is claimed he commands more Space Marines than the Legions you faced down, Ancient One,’ Bran Redmaw said quietly. His eyes were a deep amber, his fangs more pronounced than his companions’, eyebrows thick with black hair.

‘The number is unimportant,’ growled Logan Grimnar as he reached the crowd. He spared Arjac a nod of welcome, the two of them having not crossed paths for several weeks. ‘Outnumbered two-to-one or fifteen-to-one, the message is the same.’

‘Which message do you read?’ asked Njal.

‘Enforced compliance,’ replied the Great Wolf. ‘Guilliman has a plan and we must be part of it.’

‘As it was when the Legions were splintered,’ rumbled Bjorn. ‘Back then he brought a book that we all had to obey. No longer does he hide behind its pages.’

‘We could not hope to win a war against the primarch,’ said Njal. ‘We have waged our share of battles against Imperials before, but those have been isolated incidents. Iconoclasts and renegades. If we strike against the Avenging Son he will have to crush us.’

‘Under guise of negotiation, he will attempt to command,’ warned Bjorn. His heavy tread crunched as he turned slightly, lifting a glittering power claw. ‘Do not underestimate the primarch’s voice, Logan. The Allfather created him to command, and us to obey. His words, his aura, enforce his will. Give no chance for Guilliman’s lying breath to settle in your ears. Bid him gone!’

‘I cannot dismiss the lord regent,’ Grimnar said heavily, settling into his throne. ‘I would end my saga in shame if I cast offence at the brother of the Wolf King. He is a primarch and he is the chosen leader of the Allfather’s Imperium. But I will guard myself against his powers.’

‘He will replace us,’ Bjorn said. ‘He could scour us from Fenris and place his usurpers in the Aett.’

Arjac found himself nodding in agreement. To ignore the warning of one that had trodden this road before seemed unwise, even if he had walked it at the shoulder of the Wolf King.

‘When he wished to break the Legions, Guilliman could have used force,’ said Njal. ‘He did not.’

‘It was not just the Wolf King whose discontent was given voice. Dorn and Sigismund, Amit of Sanguinius’ kin and others rejected Guilliman. War almost came to us then, and the Legion-breaker offered no terms to prevent it, no choice but to accept his decree. Only when Dorn showed lack of character was the divide settled and the other Legions forced to bend knee to Guilliman as feal-lord.’

‘They would say it different,’ said Ulrik. ‘Perhaps they were right to avoid another costly war between the Legions.’

‘And we should do the same now?’ said Grimnar. ‘Of all, I thought you would understand this threat to our culture, our future.’

‘You see it only as a threat to the coming of the Wolftime,’ Ulrik said heavily. ‘You see a primarch returned and yearn for the Wolf King.’

‘Careful with the words that cross your breath,’ said Logan. ‘You raised me as Blood Claw and I will always be thankful, but I am Great Wolf now.’

‘It is through division that Guilliman’s rule will come to pass!’ Bjorn’s shout was deafening, ringing back from the high walls for several seconds. The barrels of his cannon spun in agitation. ‘You do not understand what is at stake. The Wolf King risked his soul for us, so that we can become one with Fenris. You cannot throw that away with these false sons.’

‘Those “false sons” fought like brothers,’ declared Krom hotly, eyes on Grimnar rather than the ancient Dreadnought. ‘Just this past day, Primaris Marines of my company were willing to die to protect this world.’

‘You have them among your Great Company already?’ growled Blackmane. ‘What misbehaviour is this?’

Dragongaze defended his actions but in doing so accused the younger Wolf Lord of being overly ambitious, wishing to see his elders and betters succumb to the attrition of too many wars. Arguments broke out between the council members, voicing support and discontent in equal measure. Arjac tried to calm them, reminding them of their oaths to the Great Wolf, but his voice went unheard. Bjorn said nothing, his silence its own unheeded rebuke.

‘Hjolda!’ roared the Great Wolf, cutting through the din as he rose to his feet, slamming the haft of the Axe Morkai on the stones.

His subordinates fell quiet, cowed, as he glared at them all.

‘Enough,’ he murmured, voice barely audible, forcing the council to pay attention to heed him. ‘That is enough squabbling. No more.’

He sat down, axe across his legs.

‘The Wolves of Fenris are not yet assembled in full,’ he continued. ‘When the rest of the Great Companies have arrived we shall hear the voices of all and choose our path. It is a waste of breath before then.’

It was clear that several of the Wolf Lords wished to express disagreement, but they held their tongues. It would be some time before the last of their number arrived at the muster and doubtless each company leader would impress their views upon the Great Wolf in private.

‘To the vaults I shall not yet return,’ Bjorn told them. He swung away, thudding down the hall, magnified voice drifting back. ‘If you wish to call upon me, I remain your servant, Great Wolf.’

They watched him go without word. Arjac always felt a mixture of shame and pride when he spoke to Bjorn. It seemed strange that he lived yet did not, succeeded by more than a dozen Great Wolves after his reign yet, bar Logan, had outlived them all. He had relinquished all authority and passed into the state of Ancient within his sarcophagus, but any Wolf of Fenris knew that he was the greatest among them until the Wolf King’s return.

The hearthegn looked at his commander, trying to judge his mood. Logan seemed relaxed as he watched the Dreadnought depart. Ulrik was next to leave, with curt words of fellowship for his former pupil, followed by Njal. Grimnar barely spared them a glance before he started speaking, giving orders for the disposition of the Great Companies and their ships to guard against any further encroachment by the vessels of Guilliman.

Arjac wanted to return to the forges, for such business was not for him; yet he did not take his leave, choosing to remain with his lord so that he knew that his hearthegn was at his side in body as well as in spirit.

Chapter Eighteen

LETTER FROM A PRIMARCH
THE LOST ARCHIVE
HELWINTER’S FIRST BREATH

The Imperial Regent Roboute Guilliman, last loyal primarch to the Emperor of Mankind, waited in his personal chambers for a report from the command staff of the Dawn of Fire. Hurak found his restraint remarkable. He could have been in the strategium, at the heart of the ship’s operations, assimilating every data-feed and sensor return as it happened. It was another admirable trait of Guilliman that he was not, recognising that his position as Lord Commander put him in charge of every single Imperial military asset across the galaxy but did not make him individual commander of each. He would be superlative as a transport pilot, a scow captain, a lieutenant-commander of an outrider flotilla, or admiral of a fleet. Better than any human or transhuman could be. But if he was to be one of those things, then he would have to be all, and that was impossible.

So Guilliman sat at his desk, writing his Codex Imperialis while half of Battle Group Alpharis of Fleet Primus stared down the guns and torpedoes of the assembled Space Wolves armada, as calmly as if it were ten thousand years ago and he was drafting laws for the worlds of Ultramar.

There were certainly events enough to keep the lord regent occupied. Hurak was the shadow in many of the briefings and heard his lord’s dictation for responses and orders. The lord regent had even delegated some of the lesser issues to Hurak – all came with a purely military authority, but Hurak knew he was learning as much about diplomacy and statesmanship as command and logistics.

Most pressing were preparations to create another hub-fortress at Kamidar. The war at Vigilus was drawing in more and more resources as the primarch’s forces and allies pushed to gain control of the Nachmund Gauntlet and access to Imperium Nihilus. Meanwhile Fleet Secundus battled to keep back the traitor armada flowing from the Eye of Terror, ensuring no easy route to the Throneworld. The region behind Secundus had to be secured and reinforcement made swifter, which necessitated a muster point the equal of Lessira, Gathalamor, Vorlese. Kamidar would be a solid foundation, ideally placed, but the unprecedented growth of the ork threat to the west put that in jeopardy.

The lord regent’s strategy, his reputation, the crusade and perhaps the future of the Imperium hung by a thread being frayed by the rasping of ragged ork blades. Not that the primarch showed any sign of strain as he reviewed his latest work, head slightly tilted to one side.

What upheaval he had seen. Hurak considered Guilliman the immovable rock around which everything else was anchored, and he surmised that to the primarch the universe must seem an existence of constant turmoil. He had been born into civil strife on Macragge and helped quell it. He had conquered the Five Hundred Worlds and created a nascent empire. He had seen the Emperor’s achievements, and his own, burnt to cinders in the fires of the Horus Heresy. He had given his life – so it had seemed – fighting traitors who would have overthrown the remnants of Imperial rule. Now, given rebirth, he found the galaxy still aflame, the foes the same yet stronger than before.

Hurak knew he would not be able to continue in the same circumstances. To see one’s achievements torn down time after time, to find the will to start building them again, was beyond him. Was that why the First Founding Chapters were so important? Perhaps it was more personal than Hurak had thought – an unbroken connection between the present and the past for the Lord Commander?

He looked at the primarch – brow slightly furrowed, electro-nib paused as he considered a particular word choice – and the Son of Corax realised how Guilliman coped. He was able to lose himself in the details, to break down the most incredibly vast problems into a series of simple tasks to be achieved. He kept the massive expanse of it all in his mind and yet simultaneously focused on every single element within; the virtually impossible seemed achievable when seen from that point of view. Now, part of his massive undertaking to reconquer the galaxy for humanity required him to sit down and write a letter, and so that occupied him for another few minutes.

Hurak’s vox chimed, alerting him to an arrival at the doors. He signalled for them to enter and greeted Lieutenant Onyxhal. An Imperial Navy officer, formerly a liaison at the recently liberated forge world of Cortanax VII. Her time among the tech-priests was evident from the bionic arm in place of her right, as well as several scars from neural implants around the right ear.

She stopped as Hurak raised a hand, data-slate half-raised as she was about to speak. The officer and Space Marine waited another minute until Guilliman sat back, eyes still on the plexisheet on which he had been writing. The primarch rolled it up, used a heat seal and his thumb to bind it, and then set it to one side. Finally, he looked up, ancient eyes betraying no impatience, though he had to be burning to know the latest communications.

Onyxhal stepped forward, data-slate held out, but Guilliman shook his head.

‘Your summary please, lieutenant. I will review the details later.’

Onyxhal was ready for this and stood at ease, data-slate held in both hands in front of her, screen blank.

‘The Space Wolves have moved two frigates and a cruiser towards the elliptic perpendicular above the fourth world,’ she said smoothly. ‘This correlates with warp patterns detected over the last few days that suggest more incoming ships.’

‘They have summoned their remaining companies, if our appraisal of their current in-system assets is correct,’ said Hurak.

Guilliman gave him a stern look, a rebuke for the interruption. It felt worse than an hour-long chastisement from any other commanding officer and Hurak dropped his gaze.

‘Apologies, Lord Commander.’

‘To be arriving now it is likely the ships were summoned before our intervention, not in response. There are other expected fleet movements, but nothing that changes the general status quo, Lord Commander,’ Onyxhal continued. ‘Would you like more details?’

‘No, I accept the admiral’s assessment,’ said Guilliman. ‘They are still protecting the inner system but the route to the Mandeville boundary is left clear, as is the subtext.’

‘Lord?’ said the lieutenant. Guilliman nodded to Hurak to answer.

‘We can leave whenever we want.’

The primarch’s fingers drummed loudly on the desk for several seconds. ‘Has there been any communication from Fenris?’

‘Only standard repeated messages asserting the authority of the Great Wolf,’ said the Naval officer. ‘The wording has not changed, Lord Commander.’

‘I see.’

More finger-drumming. Hurak hadn’t observed such behaviour before. It concerned him. The lightning-fast cogitations of the primarch never took such a long time. Whatever dilemma he was wrestling with, it was likely moral rather than logistical.

The regent lifted the rolled plexisheet and held it out. ‘Please contact the Space Wolves and request that they receive a written message for the Great Wolf.’

The lieutenant understood what was required and stepped forward to take the letter. ‘I shall deliver it personally into their hands, Lord Commander.’

‘That will be all. Thank you.’

The liaison officer saluted and left. Hurak waited for a couple of minutes, enduring the wordless attention of the primarch, struggling to keep his silence.

‘A request,’ Guilliman said after what seemed like an age. ‘A personal message from me to Logan Grimnar.’

‘What if he refuses to see sense?’ said Hurak. ‘No Chapter can continue to fight as required without reinforcement. The orks are thicker here than anywhere else, and it seems the Space Wolves have been hurt heavily of late. They cannot cover their losses with normal recruitment levels. If they do not take the Primaris reinforcements they will die out and there will be no core of defence across dozens of sectors.’

‘Or they take the Primaris Marines but decide to refuse the task I require of them, to preserve their numbers,’ said the Lord Commander.

‘I had not considered that possibility, but it is equally damaging to the grander strategy. The ork surge through this part of the segmentum has to be checked, or we will be cut off from Fleet Secundus and the engagements at the edge of the Cicatrix Maledictum. So far, eight battle groups have been drawn off their missions by escalating war with the xenos.’ Hurak took a breath, knowing that Guilliman was well aware of everything he had said, but unable to stop himself voicing his concerns. ‘Fleet Primus and even the whole crusade could stall because the Space Wolves cannot, or will not, do what is asked.’

‘Dispersal of the fleets is an inevitable consequence of retaking territory,’ said Guilliman. ‘That is not the same as unintended fracture, and you are correct about the ork menace being greater than anticipated. We must continue with forceful expansion through the Great Rift into Imperium Nihilus, or the gains we have made will be reversed. Not only that, there is increasing discontent among the elite of Terra, which I cannot return to address, so instead we must ensure that their arguments are quietened with tales of our continuing successes. If I cannot convince the Space Wolves to join us I will redeploy Battle Group Alpharis itself to hold the systems along the boundary of the Ironhold until the situation at Vigilus is settled.’

Hurak said nothing for several seconds. He had thought himself abreast of the strategic situation but the summary of the primarch laid out even more how precariously balanced the entire Indomitus endeavour had become. The captain had seen nothing of dissent from the political hierarchy of Terra, but that was as much a threat as a traitor armada. If anything, the realisation hardened Hurak’s opinion.

‘There are other forces, more reliable than the Fenrisians. I still haven’t worked out why the Space Wolves are so important. Militarily speaking, they are almost an irrelevance.’

‘Disappointing,’ said Guilliman and Hurak felt the word like a blow to the abdomen. The primarch picked up a data-slate and looked down, its screen lighting his face with a green glow. ‘But you still have time to work it out.’

For two days Vychellan had watched the historitors at their work, impressed by the diligence and patience they displayed. They performed their own interviews with kaerls and Space Marines, all of whom seemed happy to share their tales with the upplanders. It was obvious that they had been selected not only for their abilities but also aptitude. Despite the seeming clashes of personality and exceptional differences in background, they all shared a common belief that there was an objective truth to be discovered.

That had been Guilliman’s purpose, as Vychellan understood it, but it was a folly as far as the Custodian was concerned. He had read many of the records kept in the depths of the Imperial Palace and each held a truth, even if it was revealed only by the lies contained within. The primarch did not seem naive, and so Vychellan had to wonder if there was some deeper agenda to Guilliman’s creation of the Logos Historica Verita. Certainly it reminded Vychellan of the archives concerning the Imperial Truth, the propaganda of the Great Crusade and Age of Enlightenment that had been used to cover up the existence of Neverborn and the Dark Powers that commanded them. A version of that, the Imperial Cult, had been used to suppress all similar knowledge – in fact nearly any knowledge at all – for the last ten thousand years. With the Great Rift tearing apart the void and the forces of nightmare amok on thousands of worlds, there had been little option but to allow the stories to spread, the terrifying truth slowly leaking across the Imperium along with the growing power of the warp entities themselves. Would Guilliman’s truth be used to combat alternate philosophies presented by the Ecclesiarchy or the Inquisition?

His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Njal Stormcaller, who nodded greeting but said nothing until the approach of the historitors, who gathered around the pair of transhuman warriors clutching their books and recording devices.

‘Another productive day?’ the Stormcaller asked. He turned towards the doors and they all moved with him, Njal keeping his pace sedate so that the historitors could keep up. ‘I know that some of our tales can be… domestic?’

‘Our time hasn’t been wasted,’ announced Mudire, looking at his companions. ‘We have collected a valuable history, one that has probably never been shared beyond these walls.’

‘Yes, fascinating,’ said Ahlek. ‘On the main matter, it is a pity we have nothing from those that sided with the heretic cardinal, to complete the history.’

‘An inquisitor came and extracted confessions,’ Njal said, offhand, stopping the group in their tracks. The Rune Priest halted and turned on his heel, eyebrow raised. ‘Did you not know this?’

‘We should send messages to Terra as soon as possible,’ said Mudire.

‘I am sure Colquan has already ordered the great libraries to be scoured,’ said Vychellan, who knew that if such records existed he would have been made aware of them. ‘I will ensure that the Inquisitorial representative to the crusade fleet is asked to examine their repositories too.’

‘I don’t want to go back to Terra,’ Forgewelt said softly, eyes downcast. ‘Never.’

‘There are probably copies in the Himhertha archive,’ said Njal, again eliciting a stunned silence from his visitors.

‘The what archive?’ said Mudire.

‘You said…’ Ahlek trailed off, holding up his data-slate and cable.

‘The Wolves of Fenris have our accounting, and few sagas written down. I speak of the Imperial archivists.’ Njal waved to draw their attention back to the trolleys of documents that were taken out of the hall. ‘Where did you think these are sent?’

‘Who are they?’ asked Mudire, who appeared slightly dazed. ‘Where…?’

Njal took a breath, gently shaking his head.

‘It was about five hundred years before the bloodletting with Bucharis–’

‘Four and a half thousand years ago,’ said Copla-var.

‘Yes. The Great Wolf at the time, Horist Make-War, had to foster strong union with our allies in the Imperium. It matters not why, but in order to forestall certain accusations he agreed to allow a contingent of Imperial archivists to be stationed on a moon of the fourth world of the Himhertha System, about one hundred and seventy light years from Fenris. It’s technically territory of the Chapter after the mess with… Well, it doesn’t matter why, that was even longer ago. They send a messenger ship to the edge of our system every few centuries and the kaerls send them the reports of what we have been doing. I assumed they sent on copies to the Adeptus Terra. Now that I think about them, it has been some time since we last had a visitation. Their ship is overdue by several centuries.’

This caused a ripple of consternation through the historitors.

‘There’s been an Imperial archive from Fenris for the last four and a half millennia,’ said Mudire, seemingly trying to grasp the enormity and the absurdity at the same time. He turned to Vychellan. ‘Why have we not heard of this?’

‘I expect the relevant papers are on a scribe’s desk somewhere in the Administratum hives,’ the Custodian said heavily. ‘Awaiting approval, perhaps.’

‘You should probably visit them,’ said Njal, encouraging them towards the door with a sweep of his hand. ‘I’ll have a shuttle readied for your immediate departure. Helwinter is coming but the firestorm has not yet begun.’

‘The Great Wolf will permit a craft to enter orbit?’ said Vychellan.

‘No,’ said Njal. ‘But I am certain something can be arranged.’

It was more luck than judgement that brought Gaius down to the edge of an ice sea, out of the mountains. A scent upon the air, the slightest hint of something other than snow and pine resin, had led him slightly eastwards on his course. The mountainsides plunged steeply into what would have been water but was now a frozen waste, stretching flat to the horizon to the east and south. The rugged coastline more or less continued north-west, giving him a choice: continue through the rough terrain or head directly north across the ice plains. The first had already proven tiresome but had provided opportunities for hunting, as attested by his full stomach, grey bear fur cloak and untanned leggings stitched with sinew. The plains were flat but that would be problematic, providing no shelter against the winds, and there would be no forest in which to locate more prey.

Gaius decided to follow the coast for a day or two more, putting off the real choice. He had read that most Fenrisian settlements could be found on the shifting coastlines, as the seas, though dangerous in themselves, also provided easy escape should the lands break and volcanoes birth nearby.

It was hard to imagine such a life as he strode along the long snowdrifts, his fur stinking of dried blood, feet numb inside their crude wrappings, using his bloodstained spear to probe at the ice and drifts when he thought they might conceal crevasses. The entire mountain range may not have existed when Cawl had woken him from his sleep; might not be standing by the next Helwinter. Since the coming of the Great Rift – the Everdusk – even the stars could not be relied upon for navigation, in the few scattered moments the clouds broke to allow sight of them. Instead a ruddy smear coloured the heavens, stretching from the wound in reality that was the Eye of Terror.

The wind picked up as the day wore into evening, the dull light of the sun swallowed by the clouds until a last rosy hour of resistance before nightfall. After the first couple of nights he had grown to appreciate what a difference the meagre warmth and light made. The snow stopped but the air itself carried an icy touch, freezing the breath on his face and coating the furs with frost. He pushed onward, untouched by fatigue but aware that soon its grip would start to cramp muscles and deaden his limbs. He had felt his third lung coming to life just after dawn, bringing more oxygen for his double-heartbeat to push around his body, fighting the effect of the unending chill.

The darkness was profound. He had experienced utter blackness in the void, sealed inside his armour, but at midnight when the clouds were thick and the stars hidden he could have been walking across nothing. His transhuman eyes were as sharp as any nocturnal beast’s but not a glimmer on ice or in the sky could be seen. He was accompanied only by the crunch of the snow underfoot, as steady as he could make it, and the irrepressible rhythm of his breathing.

Before daybreak a storm came and battered him with winds that would stagger a normal man, the snow turning hard, slashing at exposed hands and legs. Gaius pulled his cloak up around his head like a hood, to protect his eyes from ice coming at him almost sideways.

The effort of working against the wind, eyes closed for much of the time, eyelashes frozen together, started to strain Gaius’ legs. His joints ached and he had no warplate to introduce analgesics to supplement his considerable biological pain management system. As the smudge of lightness that was dawn painted the mountains he realised that he had overcompensated against the wind and had drifted east, onto the ice shelf. It simplified the decision about his route – if he remained exposed like this for a few more days his body would fail.

The thought of scaling another mountain weighed heavily but Gaius turned left, north-west with the sun on his shoulder, and set off for the half-seen peaks again.

By midday the footing had become ice-crusted rock again, the shoreline he had been previously following. A smell carried on the wind from ahead – not the freshness of the pine forests or the lingering salt from the frozen sea. Following it like a tracking hound he came upon the answer – the charred remnants of a pyre that had once stood on the shore. Thick wooden planks had burned down but not been turned to ash completely, in the lee of a bay so that although remnants were scattered about, the greater part of the heap was still intact.

He saw a cave in the mountain slope that led to the shore, and headed for it. There lingered still the smell of burnt wood and cooked meat. He could not tell how long ago the place had been abandoned but the cave was a welcome find. Sheltered from the snow for the first time in two days, Gaius sat down with his back against the wall, which showed signs of being shaped by simple tools. He followed the pick marks with his fingers, wondering who had hefted the tool and where they were now. Why had they left? Attack? Helwinter?

He dared not sleep. The shelter he found would be attractive to other creatures and though he had bested the rockbear whose fur he wore, he had no desire to repeat such an encounter just roused from slumber. Instead he drifted into the half-sleep brought about by activating his catalepsean node.

While part of his brain rested, the other kept watch.

‘To Hel with Guilliman,’ snarled Grimnar. ‘He’s trying to pull the same trick as Castallor. How dare he?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Njal, sipping his fyrkaf as he watched the Great Wolf devolve into wordless frustration again. In the many years he had known Logan Grimnar he had very rarely seen him lose his poise. In battle he was a terror of rage but in his dealings with others, save for the occasional snarl, he was always measured. To see him so discomfited by the letter from the primarch worried the runethegn. ‘What is the problem again?’

Grimnar grabbed the rolled plexisheet and threw it towards Njal. It unfurled mid-air and flopped to the floorboards before reaching him. Njal stood up and retrieved it, pacing to the fireplace with the letter in one hand, fyrkaf in the other.

He skimmed the words, expecting some kind of pompous demand or perhaps even calling upon the authority of the Allfather. Instead he read an exceptionally cordial request to have an audience with the Great Wolf, at his earliest convenience, no less. To pay respects to the great warriors of Fenris.

‘How dare he indeed,’ said Njal, crossing to the table to return the missive. Logan glared at it like a primed grenade. ‘Requesting an audience when he is only the single most powerful individual in the whole Imperium. He is shameless.’

‘He knows I can’t refuse,’ growled Logan, his angry stare moving to Njal. ‘And less of that tone.’

‘I fail to see the problem.’ Njal downed the last mouthful of fyrkaf and placed the mug back with its companions next to the fireplace.

‘I can’t meet him in some freezing control chamber like Castallor. Whatever we think about it, he’s the Lord Commander of the Imperium and a damned brother of the Wolf King. There has to be feasting, celebration. Welcome. Half of my Wolf Lords are calling for me to attack, the other half want the Primaris Marines as soon as possible. He’s deliberately dividing the Chapter against me.’

‘I’m not sure he can do that, except by proxy,’ said Njal heavily. ‘You’re worried that he’ll upstage you?’

‘You heard Bjorn. Primarchs have a way of getting what they want. If we let him come to the Aett he’ll try to use his presence to sway me.’

‘So you think you’ll surrender to Guilliman’s slightest whim if you come face to face with him?’

Njal hadn’t realised it before, but the nature of the primarch rattled Logan to his core. His desire to prove himself worthy to the Wolf King, and for Russ himself to return to confirm that worth, sprang from his fear that Guilliman would show him to be inferior. There was no other warrior in the Imperium, not even another Chapter Master, that could humble the Great Wolf of Fenris.

Logan’s silence was the confirmation needed. Now that he could see the issue more clearly, Njal was annoyed that he hadn’t spotted it before. It was something far more dangerous than the Great Wolf’s ego at stake – it was his confidence. The times, and the primarch, were challenges unprecedented even in Grimnar’s long life.

‘Follow through with it,’ announced the runethegn. ‘If he is trying to manipulate you with this subservience, then use it. The firestorm of Helwinter is nearly upon us and no ship can be left in orbit. It would be wise for the primarch to delay his arrival until afterwards. Make him wait. Limit his entourage so that he cannot impress with the scale of his power. We already know he has near-limitless resources but what would he really be willing to expend to bring us into line?’

‘I thought it was your opinion that we should just accept the Primaris Marines and be done with all of this,’ said Grimnar. ‘Now you are telling me I should delay and humiliate Guilliman?’

‘Not humiliate. Grant him every honour he is due. But do not forget who you are. If he wants you to measure yourself against him, do so. You will not be found wanting.’ Njal leaned forward, his words chosen carefully. ‘And yes, I think you are wrong for refusing in the first place. I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. It is my duty to give you the best advice that I can, and that I will do. Nevertheless, neither I, nor Ulrik, nor any other that has spoken against your choice will undermine you before the primarch.’

‘Obedience is not loyalty,’ muttered Logan, stroking his hands together, his gaze distant. ‘Perhaps I need to remind Guilliman of that fact.’

‘And do you think he will convince you, when all else is in balance, to do something you genuinely believe is not in the best interests of our people and our Chapter?’

Logan’s expression hardened and Njal recognised his master of old.

‘He will not.’

Vychellan was conflicted as the Fenrisian intrastellar ship neared the vessels of Battle Group Alpharis and he received word of a vid-link communication from the Dawn of Fire. The signal originator was identified as ‘Gilded Blade’, the personal channel of Tribune Colquan. The Custodian was unsure whether his report about an archive facility at Himhertha counted as a success or failure. He was equally unaware of his superior’s attitude to the current stand-off between the Space Wolves and Guilliman’s ships. The tribune was more likely to see it as Guilliman’s power-hungry nature than disloyalty to Terra’s chosen leader by Fenris. Vychellan felt that he was stepping into a situation every bit as dangerous as the storm of asteroids through which he and the historitors had rapidly departed Fenris.

Vychellan accepted the vid-link in the ship’s cramped communications chamber, keying in the decryption code as he found a way to angle his spear that did not obstruct his view of the screens. Nearly two minutes passed before the link was established at the other end, a static-fuzz face appearing where grey glass had been.

‘You are to accompany the historitors on the second part of the mission,’ announced Colquan without any hesitation.

‘That seems wasteful,’ replied Vychellan. ‘Given the tensions in the immediate vicinity–’

‘You can serve the Emperor better in the Himhertha System, Custodian. We need to be sure whether Mudire and his file-robbers find anything concerning the Gift of Bucharis weapon. The only way to guarantee that is if you are present and monitoring the situation.’

‘You think Guilliman would hide the knowledge from us?’ Vychellan said. He thought for a moment longer, ascertaining his superior’s real intent. ‘You are worried that the historitors would supply the primarch with this information in secret, allowing him to construct a version of the weapon for himself.’

‘It is a possibility we must consider,’ said the tribune.

‘The lord regent commands a fleet vaster than anything the Imperium has seen since Macharius, what difference one weapon, powerful or not?’

‘To wield a fleet requires consent from many minds. The power demonstrated on Gathalamor was unleashed by a relative handful. We must know everything that Guilliman knows, to counter any threat, should it arise.’

Vychellan offered no further argument. It would serve no purpose, Colquan had already issued him a command and would not retract it. The Custodian focused on the bigger issues around them.

‘There is division among the Space Wolves regarding the Primaris reinforcements,’ he told the tribune. ‘However, I think the harder Guilliman pushes Grimnar, the more the Great Wolf will resist. The Chief Librarian, Njal Stormcaller, seemed quite amenable and I have established a relationship with him. He may be able to exert more pressure on Grimnar.’

‘No, you are mistaken. If Logan Grimnar feels betrayed from his own ranks he will react very poorly. Guilliman is waiting for any provocation that would allow him to respond more forcefully, but we should ensure he is not presented with any.’

‘Speculation!’ said Vychellan. ‘If Guilliman was to turn on the Emperor then the Space Wolves would be one of his first opponents. The history of the Ten Thousand with the Eleventh Legion is a reminder of that. Why would Guilliman be so keen to arm and expand such an obstacle to his ambition?’

‘We do not yet fully know what Cawl has implanted into the minds of the Primaris Marines,’ snapped Colquan, his face moving closer to the vid-capture. ‘Who knows what controls he seeded into their minds as his educator machines fed their brains during their long sleep? And, as the history you refer to proves more than anything, loyalty to the Emperor can be directed to ill ends by manipulation and lies.’

Vychellan had no answer to this, but thought the logic built on uncertain foundations. Now was not the time to engage in such debate. Colquan took the Custodian’s silence as acquiescence and continued, receding from the vid-capture by a few paces.

‘The Heretics’ Reward has been tasked by Guilliman to conduct you to the Himhertha System to complete your mission. Docking details are being transmitted to your craft’s command crew at present. You will accompany Mudire and his companions and secure all materials they recover.’

‘A cruiser to carry a handful of historitors? Surely the primarch has a smaller vessel to spare.’

‘It is his assessment that there are unaccounted enemies across this whole region. The orks in particular have a habit of turning up where they are not expected. Himhertha could be overrun, especially given the absence of any recent contact with Fenris. The cruiser is also carrying a complement of Tempestus Scions in case of undesired encounters. A measure of the primarch’s desire for your success. You will impress upon Mudire and the others to share nothing of the mission, not even the nature of your destination. Remember that the archive contents are your only concern, any other matter is secondary.’

Vychellan accepted his orders and cancelled the link. He stood in silence for a while, breaking down the exchange. It was certain that Colquan did not trust Guilliman, but the concern for the weapon seemed disproportionate, despite the tribune’s assertions. The entire mission felt like something more suited to the Inquisition rather than a Custodian, but Colquan seemed as suspicious of them as the primarch.

On that count Vychellan was of the same mind. The lack of Inquisition involvement was itself cause for concern, given the nature of the threat posed by the Gift of Bucharis. That their efforts to tackle the threat were not obvious likely meant the Inquisition was working in an even more clandestine way. It felt as though he and the mission might be used in some way against Guilliman and his enterprise, a type of politicking of which Vychellan wanted no part.

The three ships formed a snowy wedge against the worst of the blizzard, their windward sides banked deck-high with drift, the Landsattmaringi sheltered in the lee. Gytha woke from a dream of golden giants and howling wolves, easing back into consciousness as occasional snowflakes landed on her face.

Huddled together, the tribesfolk were asleep and had been for the better part of the last twenty days. It was a habit of many tribes from the Icelands, to conserve food and energy during the harshest weather, much like many other animals spent Helwinter deep in their caves or buried under the earth. A few were always on watch, a couple of days at a time spent perched in protected locations on the ships, or out of the wind by the large boulder that formed a smaller fourth side to their improvised settlement.

Gytha had not been so fortunate, waking every few days from her dreams, but she felt as rested as any time since the arduous journey had begun. Glancing to her left she assured herself that Bjorti and the children were still fast asleep. She watched them for a little while, breath barely making a mist from their lips, chests nearly immobile beneath coats of fur and goat wool shirts.

Her back was stiff and she eased herself up slowly, careful not to disturb those that were packed close – Agitta on the other side to Bjorti. Her movement caught the eye of one of the watchers above, and with a whispered request Gytha got him to help her up onto the sloped deck of the ship. It was Noraslov Fearbiter, his beard cased with ice, face pale in the grey fur of his hood.

‘Can’t sleep, gothi?’ he said, crouching down by the gunwale, out of the wind.

Gytha still wasn’t used to the title; it made her feel as though she should have a much better idea what was going on and what would happen. There was little wisdom in her head to share.

‘The sky stirs,’ she said, squinting up through the wind and snow. A flicker of light passed through the cloud above, a brief corona of yellow. A few seconds later, another, brighter than the first.

‘Helwinter’s heart,’ said Noraslov. ‘The Skyfires are here.’

Gytha watched as a burning spark fell through the clouds near the horizon, flashing into greater light for a moment as it hit the ice field. Then another, and another, until the night had turned to twilight and the skies were ablaze.

Chapter Nineteen

HEAVENFIRES
WYRDKINE
THE SEA ROAD

The forest burned and Gaius ran.

He ran to keep ahead of the flames, to keep the smoke from his lungs. He ran because the animals ran and that was what he had become. Predators and prey all united in their flight from the all-consuming fires.

Gaius had no sense of time. The sky was alight and yet swathed with the smog of a burning continent, so night was like day and day was like night. Meteorites continued to rain like hail, many no bigger than gravel, but with the explosive power of a bolt-round. Some were much larger, fist-sized chunks that exploded like artillery shells as they hit the cold snow. Now and then the sky would turn white with light and heat as something larger entered the atmosphere. These usually broke up into showers of smaller but no less deadly projectiles.

As he ran, eastward and northward when he could, he knew that he was as likely to head into more fires as he was open ground, but the same wild instinct that drove the creatures of the mountains pushed him on.

Gaius was tired. He had not slept properly since leaving the Aett, instead relying upon his catalepsean node to keep him alive. He dreamed as he ran, the automatic action of lifting his legs and pumping his arms a monotonous reality, just like his laboured breathing and thundering hearts.

As parts of his brain lay dormant, others reigned. Sometimes he saw the world in crystal clarity, smelled the scent of beasts, the taste of ash heavy in his mouth. Other times it was drab, monochrome swathes of vague shapes around him; a mass that seemed to move while he remained still. In more lucid moments he tried to recall what the book had said about Helwinter. His usual precise recall was an early victim of degrading mental ability. The peak of the fires lasted around twenty or thirty days. Had it already been six or seven now? Perhaps only four or five…

He had also read that some animals burrowed through the snow and layered needles and dirt, letting the fire pass over them. Trees and plants were renewed by the devastation, so that even in the chilling aftermath the forest would briefly erupt with seed pods popping onto the freshly fertile ground, to await the real spring still half a Terran year away. Gaius considered the idea, of becoming a burrowing rat or germinating seed, but he could not shake the feeling that to stop moving was to bring a loss of momentum that would end his entire journey.

There were other times when rational thought was gone, dragged into somnolence by the catalepsean node. He laughed and cried as whim took him, sometimes shouting at the bad stars that continued to fall. The howl of Morkai carried on the crackle of flames, always just behind him. One night he snarled and snapped deliriously and gave chase when he saw a crowned stag leaping majestically past, its eyes wide with fear.

The trees themselves took on life, supping deep from Fenris’ spirit. The boughs of the trees grimaced and stared in cruel delight as he ran and ran. It was not only creatures of mortal origin that fled the devastation. Small half-insect, half-humanoid winged creatures flitted from branch to branch overhead. Some glowed like the falling rocks, others were brief glimpses of shadow. In the depths of the valleys, giants trampled trees into firewood and long-armed arboreal hunters with blood-matted fur swung through the branches ahead of them. Creeping, shambling, climbing and stomping, eyes of red or amber, teeth like steel, claws of fire, the near-mythical denizens of the deepest forest fled. Their voices chattered and screeched, lowed and hollered. Gaius heard the curses of swamp hags carried on the wind, listened for the crunching footfalls of ogres or the crack of trunks broken by the progress of towering godbears.

Every tale from the Aett and the book came to life, painted across the forest by their words, returning from Gaius’ memory to become living experience. And all the while he felt the wolf growing stronger. Not Morkai, though her growls made the ground shake under his feet. Fengr, the wolf within, the spirit of Fenris that Ullr claimed resided in the bodies of all Fenrisians.

But was any of it real or conjured from his fatigued brain?

Coming upon a craggy break in the trees, Gaius looked for some way to circumnavigate the mount rather than to climb its ice-slicked slopes. He was cogent again, brain fully active, and the sky was the dark of night-time, he was sure. The visions of the previous days were just a memory of mad imaginings. Hallucinations. Turning, he saw that the forest was still afire, about a mile behind him, resin burning as hot as promethium, iron-cone firs exploding like grenades.

No rest yet.

The terrain made him slow, forcing him to pick a way past boulders and over smaller rocks. About a hundred and fifty yards out from the trees, a terrible stench assailed his nostrils. Forcing himself to locate the source he discovered a large pile of faeces in the lee of a boulder. He had no idea what creature had dumped such a terrible mass but he could see shards of bone among the spoor: a predator. Given the strength of the smell and the subtle heat still emanating from the excretion he had to assume the beast was somewhere nearby.

Rounding the southern side of the peak, away from the worst of the wind, he was brought up short by the sight of a large figure. It seemed to be sitting on the slope of the crag, a thick body of grey with patches of moss like hair on the back and arms, its skin partially stratified like the nearby rock formations.

It looked so much like a giant person, shoulders hunched, round head low between them. Half-remembering his dazed encounters with mythological creatures, no doubt products of his imagination, Gaius knew that he was just making a pattern out of the natural features.

‘Begone, creature of the mind!’ he shouted with a laugh, thrusting his spear towards a buttock-shaped rock.

The boulder pile shifted with a terrible moan, rising to reveal that it was in fact a living thing. Gaius retreated several steps, astounded, while the monster rose to its full height, twice that of the Primaris Marine. It turned its oval head to regard him with lava-fire eyes. The moss was indeed hair, populating a broad chest and between the rocky thighs. Club-like fists rose in defence.

The thing growled and spoke, the words deep and rumbling like rocks falling down a chasm, its intent hostile. Gaius did not wait, but leapt forward, thrusting the spear again with more lethal purpose. The point, now hardened in fire, pierced the red maw of the creature, plunging upwards into the skull. A hammer fist swung even as it toppled, smashing Gaius sideways, hard enough that he felt something in his left arm break.

Held in his fist and stuck in the mouth of the troll, the spear snapped as the Space Marine and his foe both fell. His ribs crashed into a jutting stone, and a cry of pain ripped from Gaius’ lips.

The monster folded, collapsing backwards to tumble a short way down the slope.

Gaius lay on his front gasping for several seconds, eyes fixed on the mound that had been the troll. He had a recollection of phenomenal regenerative abilities, and the throb in his arm, now accompanied by a similar ache in the left side of his chest where he had hit the rock, told him that another bout, this time unarmed, would not end well.

Gritting his teeth, Gaius forced himself to his feet and limped down the slope, casting glances back to ensure the creature did not follow. Smoke drifted past from the fires as he descended to the forest again.

No time to stop, he had to keep running.

The memory of the fires ending was lost amongst the numbing ice, locked away somewhere in Gaius’ mind but swamped by far more immediate needs. His catalepsean node was no longer enough, keeping him in a permanent state of fatigued half-wake that was neither restful nor allowed him to be aware of the dangers around him.

It was a subconscious, animal need that forced him to burrow through snow with his hands. Through the ice layer and into frozen dirt, he used an entrenching tool he had fashioned in more coherent times out of a bone taken from a kill. Once out of the wind, he stopped, curled in the bottom of his hole with what little remained of his own body heat. Even this did not halt the plunging core temperature that would soon cause irreparable and then fatal damage to organs and muscle. His physiology took over where conscious thought could no longer operate.

As Gaius welcomed coming oblivion, his body refused – he was a Space Marine, and the Allfather’s design would not allow him to die easily. His sus-an membrane flooded his blood vessels with biostasis-inducing chemicals, shutting down cellular activity. He was all but oblivious as it happened, knowing only the tunnel he had dug, and the ring of whiteness above, slowly fading to red.

The ships were now more useful as firewood, piled onto sleds with runners made from the oars. They moved during the brief daylight, such as it was, and built up the bonfires to ward away the worst of the long nights. Though the firestorm had passed, they had not yet breached the crest of Helwinter and Frostnight was yet to come.

Normally they would have dug into shelter, but Gytha’s dreams kept returning, sometimes of the golden giant, often of the green ogre and the wolf at each other’s throats. She knew she would not find peace until she had spoken to the gothi of the Sky Warriors.

There was little chance to speak to the others about her visions. The wind tore the words from her lips and the labours of staying alive left everyone exhausted in mind and body. Lufa tried his best when they were finally warmed at the campfire; despite the hardships he still felt the entire expedition was a grand adventure.

‘We will see the Tower of the North?’ he asked, hands clasped under his arms, hood pulled tight so that only nose and mouth could be seen.

‘Perhaps, if the Sky Warriors do not stop us first,’ replied Gytha. That part gave her grave doubts. She knew there were a few tribes that lived on Asaheim but would hers be allowed to enter? Would the Sky Warriors permit strangers close to their fortress?

If any of us make it at all, she thought.

‘Do you think they will be there?’ he asked next, tilting his head back to look at the sky. ‘Or have they gone to the Upplands again?’

She knew what he meant. The sky was covered with rags of cloud torn by the strong winds, and between them the red wound across the heavens was visible.

‘Someone will be there.’

Unless the wolf has already fallen to the ogre.

Gytha was about to say something to lift her own spirits but was stopped by a shout from the darkness. A moaning roar followed that roused everyone even faster: the distinctive noise of a bear.

In the light of the fires the grey-furred beast lumbered from the treeline, pursuing one of the lookouts. The man stumbled on the ice and fell, and within moments the bear was on him, great jaws clamping down on his head. The rockbear swung the still-screaming warrior to one side then the other, silencing his cries.

Already armed and armoured, the aettgard on watch dashed to confront the beast while others scrambled for their weapons. Rearing up on its hind legs it dwarfed the warriors, its paws large enough to crush them with a single swipe. One of the aettgard dashed forward but was met with swiping claws that sent rings of chainmail and drops of blood flying, Chest opened, the warrior threw himself back, scrambling away in the snow as the bear dropped back to all fours.

‘It’s wyrdkine!’ shouted Gytha, noticing an odd gleam in the eyes of the beast, a diseased tinge to its fur.

‘Arrows!’ bellowed Faeras, bow already in the elder’s hand. ‘Flame!’

The aettgard retreated, forming a small wall of spears and shields a dozen strong, while behind them bows flexed and brands were snatched up from the bonfire.

The rockbear bellowed again. Gytha couldn’t help but think there was something plaintive in the noise, but the blood on the jaws and claws was real enough to dispel any sympathy. Korit was crying and tried to bury her face in Gytha’s furs. She pushed her daughter away.

‘Never take your eyes from the enemy,’ Gytha snapped, pointing towards the creature. ‘Never hide from your fear, look it in the face and defy it!’

The archers loosed two dozen arrows, some going astray, others finding the creature’s huge flanks. Pricked by their iron tips it moaned and broke into a run, heading straight towards the shield wall. The aettgard lowered their spears but the rockbear was too maddened to fear them, charging directly through their points with a splinter of wood and the panicked shouts of the soldiers.

The wall parted rather than be crushed beneath its bulk, though one aettgard fell under the rampaging beast, body pulped into the snow by broad paws. Gytha sensed Lufa moving forward, drawn towards the ring of archers and other fighters.

‘Wait!’ she called, but Bjorti already had matters in hand, lunging forward with strong fingers to grab the youth’s coat and drag him back. The blacksmith strode on, dragging his longsword from its scabbard as he did so. He discarded the sheath and took the weapon in both hands, reaching the line of archers as they loosed again. Though they were hurried, the range was much shorter and several arrows hit the bear about the face and chest, but not enough to pierce thick muscle and fat.

Yelling madly, one of the aettgard dashed from the dark behind the beast and hurled a throwing axe. It stuck deep into the bear’s shoulder, causing it to stumble. It turned at this new attack, away from the camp. From the other side the aettgard, now reformed, drove forward with shields and axes, shouting and cursing as they laid into the beast. It swung a massive paw and snapped the shield of one of its attackers, but rather than follow up this attack it bunched its muscles and fled, disappearing into the night.

‘It must have been starving, to come so close to a fire,’ someone said.

Other speculation followed but Gytha didn’t listen. Entrusting Lufa and Korit to their grandmother she drifted forwards, drawn by the muted conversations closer to where the fighting had been.

Three warriors had been slain, another two gravely injured. The helm had been torn from one by the bear’s blow and she looked into the dead eyes of Noraslov Fearbiter. The blow had left his face unmarked, though the top of his skull was missing.

They were not the first whose threads had been cut on the journey – some lost to violence, some to the elements. They would not be the last. Their wyrd had crossed with Gytha’s and she had brought them on this expedition. They might have lived long lives had she not spoken at the council, but they might have died in a raid with their neighbours, or drowned at sea, or been cut down in a fight over ut-geld. The only wyrd that linked them all was that one by one, Morkai’s jaws would swallow them.

She would mourn, they would burn the bodies and they would move on. Their next leg would be out onto the ice sheet to the north and there would be no turning back.

After that they would reach Asaheim, or die.

Pain worse than anything Gaius had encountered ripped him from darkness. This was not wakening from the long sleep Cawl had induced. Blood that had been ice sent daggers into every part of him, from brain to heart to lungs to gut, jagged nails tearing along the arteries, every muscle turned inside out. So arid was his body that he could not move jaw nor tongue nor breath to cry out his pain.

He blacked out again.

Eventually the agony subsided to a level with which his physiology and hardened mind could cope. Now his Primaris body proved itself superior to those that had come before. The Belisarian Furnace burned into life – that modification that gave healing above that of even a Firstborn. Other sensations returned. They brought with them the merest notion of survival and self-awareness.

Urgent need filled him, pushing him out of his burrowed shelter without thought or plan, simply to bask in the weak but beneficial rays of the Wolf’s Eye again. He lay like this for several days, dimly aware of the lightening and darkening above. His body recovered slowly, like an ancient starship whose systems were being brought back online one at a time, until he could make out the clouds above, the welcome feel of coldness again, though it was a burning across his skin. Water melted from hair and beard into his mouth like the blessed lubrication of tech-priests restoring movement to corrosion-fused gears.

Gaius roused, human thought replacing animal need. He had survived the worst of Helwinter. Daybreak showed him the way north, towards the Aett.

For days there had been nothing but ice, so to see an upthrust of rock in the distance was something of a surprise to Gaius. It seemed a sensible landmark to head towards and he adjusted his route, invigorated by the appearance of a tangible objective.

His arm was healing, as were his ribs, but his feet were starting to show the wear of poor protection, the soles more a thick scab than skin, his ankles also worn into raw flesh by the flapping bindings. His bones ached where they had been inlaid with augmetic sinew coils. His body craved energy to finish the healing process and he could sense it getting ready to cannibalise itself.

He hadn’t felt his skin for some time and assumed much of it was dead cells. He had taken pains to ensure the circulation to toes and fingers kept them intact – he needed to walk and needed to fight. Where implants for his warplate pierced his flesh the muscle was atrophying, the metal contacts conducting the freezing chill into his body. Sometime before he’d fallen into sus-an biostasis he’d smeared venison fat around the areas as an improvised sealant and now stank of dead crowned stag.

The upthrust revealed itself to be an island, more peaks coming into view over the course of the day. As the sun was setting, as best Gaius could judge by the ruddy smudge in the distance, he came upon furrows in the snow, straight and deep, half a dozen of them.

Sleds.

There were footprints too, showing that the sled-haulers were heading in the same direction. Buoyed by this thought even more than sighting the peak, Gaius pressed on and continued through the night. Before dawn he saw the flicker of firelight in the distance.

The island resolved into something even bigger, the shore of a land formation that stretched to the horizon. Come the Fire Season and the gravitic upheaval of passing close to the Wolf’s Eye, the entire land mass might sink beneath the waves or be sundered into an archipelago but for the moment it existed. It was quite new, young pines dotting the jagged mountainsides in small copses, the summits with the telltale jagged edges of volcanic calderas.

The sled-folk had made a camp in a valley mouth, having turned their transports into a temporary windbreak. Gaius kept a sharp eye on his environs. He could smell cooked meat on the breeze, which meant other creatures would too. They had sentries out, stamping their feet on snow packed by the passage of their companions, waving their arms and blowing clouds of mist that shone like ruby fog against the firelight.

He heard something he had thought he might not hear again: laughter. Deep and long, a miraculous sound amid the bleakness. Gaius made his way closer to the mountainside looking down onto the camp, and there he saw men and women and children, gathered about three huge fires, eating and talking.

There were pots near the fires, and a carcass on a spit. Gaius watched the grease drop from the rendtusker – he had caught and skinned one himself many days before – hissing as it hit the flames. There seemed to be a celebration of some kind, perhaps at having reached land after the wastes of the ice shelf. Jugs were being drunk from and passed around. To remain liquid at this temperature the contents had to be alcoholic.

Gaius had the taste of mjod in his mouth, a memory rather than a scent from the camp. Like honey and sunrise, followed by a hot cup of fyrkaf. He caught himself drooling, thick saliva dribbling down into the beard that had grown since his leap from the gunship. It hissed as the acid tracked a line down the rock on which he stood. That moment, his parting with the others, seemed a lifetime ago, and just a day earlier he had despaired of ever seeing Asaheim or the Aett.

Gaius’ hunger drew him closer, approaching at a crouch to hide behind a tree, halting before the sentries set eyes on him. He heard another laugh. It did not come from the tribesfolk but originated inside his head.

Let the mortals feed you, mocked Garnr.

Can’t survive a few days in the wilds, sneered Ullr.

Pathetic.

Shameful.

No son of Fenris.

You’ll never be a Wolf, growled Drogr.

Gaius caught himself even as a bellow of frustration welled up inside. He had been leaning against a tree and looked to see that his fingers had thrust their way into the young wood as his grip had tightened. He carefully pulled his hand out, flicking bark and sap from his fingers.

Weak, whispered the wind.

Foolish, rasped the leaves.

Upplander, creaked the trees.

‘I am stronger,’ he hissed, turning his back on the camp, hunger like knives in his gut.

Gytha’s mood had improved over the last couple of days. The unexpected landfall amid the wastes had lifted everyone. There was game to hunt, wood for fires and the mountains provided cover against the scouring winds of Helwinter. She could sense that the others felt the same, though the going was tough, dragging the remaining sleds over broken ground, up valleys and over ridges. The sky no longer burned and the wind scudded the clouds swiftly past, sparing them the worst snowfall.

As they roused from camp, Ourilk the Tongue found Gytha while the hunters and guides started out towards a sparse forest in the distance. The mountain pass they followed led down to a broad plain, not as flat as the ice shelf but more exposed. The day would be cold.

‘Have you sense of our wyrd, gothi?’ the elder asked, walking alongside. Like most of them, she used a staff to help her stride. Fur-lined mittens of hide enclosed her hands, a coat of the same covering all but a circle of her reddened face.

‘I dream only of the great wolf of the sky and the golden giant,’ replied Gytha. ‘I am not a soothsayer. I don’t feel like a gothi.’

‘Perhaps that is because you do not act like one,’ said Ourilk.

‘And how am I supposed to act?’ said Gytha sharply, regretting her tone a moment later when Ourilk turned a beady gaze on her.

‘My wyrd brought me to be the Tongue, but that is not the same as being born to it,’ she said, returning her gaze ahead to the uneven ground. ‘My father was a fisherman, my mother a tanner. Neither was ambitious or imaginative, but they were good at what they did. I turned out to be cleverer than some, but when I was younger I was flippant with my thoughts, and that did not seem like wisdom. Only when I started listening to others, to the council in particular, did I find that I could help these people understand each other better – to help craft their breath to speak the words they could not find for themselves.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the same as having visions,’ said Gytha.

She saw that Korit had wandered away from her brother, seeking some startling blue flowers poking out from the snow a couple of dozen strides from the trail. Gytha called her to return and her daughter reluctantly slouched back through the snow.

‘It’s all wyrd, whether you like it or not,’ said Ourilk. ‘You don’t choose it, and if you fight it you’ll come off worse. You’re gothi now, so you have to act like a gothi and maybe you’ll start to think like one.’

Gytha considered this. ‘Our folk have not had a gothi in a lifetime and more. I don’t know what one is supposed to act like.’

Ourilk leaned closer and chuckled.

‘That means nobody else does either…’ She stepped away and became serious again. ‘People have shown their faith in you, you have to show some faith in yourself. And reward that trust by giving them a gothi worthy of respect.’

‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Gytha. Her entire horizon had been set at Asaheim, but if they reached the tower of the Sky Warriors and she passed on her warning, would her visions end? Would they change? Her life was more than just this journey, and she had to work out what that meant. ‘Ask me again.’

‘What is our wyrd to be, gothi?’

‘It is to be successful,’ replied Gytha. ‘Our wyrd has brought us to this island salvation when we needed it most, and that is a good sign. The bad stars fell and we have lived through it. Our wyrd is setting us on course for Asaheim – if we have the strength to pursue what we know we must do.’

Saying the words, Gytha believed them. She almost laughed, but kept the humour to herself as Ourilk swung her face towards her again, nodding thoughtfully.

‘A timely message that I shall pass to the council,’ said the Tongue. ‘We shall need that sense of hope.’

Gytha wasn’t sure what Ourilk meant until she turned her gaze ahead. The trail had brought them up a last ridge before the plains and forests, and from this higher point Gytha could see past the swathe of young trees. The glitter of ice was patchy, interspersed with a flicker of light that she did not recognise first. Only when a cloud break allowed the pale sun to shine down did she realise what she was looking at.

The end of the ice. The beginning of the northern sea.

Chapter Twenty

THE LEGION-BREAKER ARRIVES
GRIMNAR’S WELCOME
A DEADLY HUNTER

It pained Arjac to see so many gaps at the benches of the Great Companies. When the hall of the Great Wolf had been dug it had been capable of housing many times the warriors of a full Chapter, in the days when the Wolves of Fenris were a Legion. Rarely did the Chapter assemble in full, split across the hall into each Great Company. At the centre was the Great Annulus, a disc of stone segments depicting the weregost of each Great Company’s lord, and the blackened stone of the Thirteenth. It also marked out the areas of the hall occupied by each company, with the Wolf Lord and his vaerengi at the head table and the packs gathered close by. They were arranged in a circle to indicate that each was equal, even the Great Company of Logan Grimnar.

On this occasion a special exception had been made to accommodate the Lord Commander and his retinue. It was considered ill manners to seat anyone within the section of the Thirteenth and so a stage had been erected opposite the main doors and the visiting primarch hosted there.

His entourage consisted mostly of Primaris Space Marines. It was strange to see their colours in a hall of the Aett, but Arjac had noted livery from each of the loyal First Founding Chapters. Guilliman was making a point, though, and the only Primaris warriors in the blue-grey of the Wolves of Fenris were those that sat with Krom Dragongaze. A Custodian clad in golden armour – of sour disposition, Arjac had found on greeting the entourage – sat at the Lord Commander’s right hand. There were several magi of the Martian order as well, who were on hand to answer any questions about the Primaris Marines or the process to create them.

Suitable celebration had been made, once the dangers of the Helwinter firestorm had passed and the primarch’s ship had been able to approach orbit. Starships had escorted them to Fenris and flights of Chapter craft had accompanied the descending shuttles as honour guards. Guilliman’s own gunships and warriors, as well as Naval interceptors and a force of Tempestus Scions of the Astra Militarum had accompanied the retinue – the bare minimum extra security demanded by Guilliman’s captains.

Several Space Marines, a mix of Primaris and so-called Firstborn, stood guard in the hall, though what threat they thought they might face had been a matter of debate. Just as the Chapter could not hope to prevail against the might of Fleet Primus, so even a primarch and fifty Space Marines were no match for the assembled wrath of the Wolves of Fenris.

Events had passed amicably, with introductions and speeches from Ulrik and Njal. Arjac had served in place for his lord, who had not yet emerged from his quarters to greet the Imperial ambassadorial group.

His instructions to Arjac had been quite clear.

‘I’ll come to the feast but I’ll not see the primarch before,’ insisted the Great Wolf as a kaerl revisited the itinerary agreed between the liaisons of each leader. ‘Arjac, as Champion, will fill my place.’

‘I will?’ answered the Rockfist, now understanding why his latest stay in the forges had been curtailed. ‘And why’s that, my lord?’

Logan dismissed the kaerl and moved to the window, staring out at the night sky. His face was reflected in the dark glass, brow furrowed.

‘Because when I first see the primarch and he first sees me, I want it to be done properly. Guilliman is coming to my halls by my permission, and it is by my will alone that we shall meet, and where.’

‘Mind games.’ Arjac picked up a long iron shaft and poked at the ashes of the fire, turning the embers to yellow flames. He loved flames, mesmerised by their transformative power, to create and to destroy. He almost missed his lord’s reply in his reverie.

‘Not for the primarch, but for me,’ Grimnar admitted. ‘If I have to wait for him, I’m not sure my nerve will hold. And if it does, I cannot stand the thought of the tedium of such an official visit. Even with a retinue a tenth the size he deserves there’ll be endless introductions and talk, and I don’t think even my reserve can hold that long. Best we keep apart until the feast.’

‘And then?’ Arjac turned from the now raging fire, gratified by the wash of heat on his face.

The Great Wolf smiled, showing his fangs.

‘And then proper introductions will be made.’

Arjac checked the chronometer and found that his time was upon him. The Great Wolf’s instincts were impeccable. The feast was in full swing and voices were raised, as were horns and tankards.

Seated at the far end of the table from the primarch, with Ulrik and Njal flanking him, the hearthegn had been spared too much conversation through the feast – the closest Imperials were a Son of Corax called Hurak and an Ultramarines Firstborn called Paladius. The former was quiet but good humoured, and spent most of the meal speaking with Njal about his psyber-raven, while Paladius had passed the time with Ulrik in short bursts of conversation about recent battles.

The chronometer turned to the hour and Arjac stood up, drinking horn in hand. He stepped to one side of the throne he had occupied and let forth a loud howl that rang across the hall, stilling sound and movement.

‘Skjoal!’ the hearthegn shouted, lifting the horn to Guilliman, who sat on a great chair that had been installed by the tech-priests. He was in full armour, as they had been warned he would be at all times, and had barely touched his food. However, he lifted a tankard in response, smiling warmly.

‘Skjoal!’ bellowed the assembled Wolves, the toast-cry echoing for several seconds. Kaerls hurried around the benches refilling ale and mjod, knowing what was to come.

‘Behold the great Roboute Guilliman,’ Arjac continued in full voice. He had asked Njal to supply a list of titles and the runethegn had been thorough. ‘King of Macragge. Lord of Ultramar. Founder of the Five Hundred. Regent of the Domains Obscurus. Protector of the Eastern Fringe. Primarch of the Thirteenth. Master of the Ultramarines. Preceptor Primus. Lord Commander. Imperial Regent. Avenging Son.’

‘SKJOAL!’

The shout was even louder than before, the Chapter showing their respect to the legendary commander. There were smiles from most of the Imperial contingent, and a nod of appreciation from the primarch. He looked as though he was about to return the toast.

The huge doors slammed open and all eyes turned towards them. There stood the Great Wolf in full Terminator plate, flanked by his Wolf Guard and followed by twelve standard bearers, each carrying an icon of a Great Company.

Logan’s eyes were fixed on Guilliman, grim and determined. He carried the Axe Morkai in his right hand and as the group advanced in step, the haft beat upon the floor.

All else fell still and silent, everybody in the room captivated by the spectacle. After a dozen axe-beats, Arjac raised his voice again. While the hearthegn spoke, the Great Wolf continued his deliberate stride across the hall, counting the time with his axe falls. The assembled companies knew well what to do, their bellowed responses short but intense.

‘Logan Grimnar, bloody-handed warrior,’ began Arjac.

‘SKJOAL!’

‘He piles the skulls of his enemies!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘He builds a mound of the fallen!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘His foes weep rivers of woe.’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘Logan Grimnar, the strong wolf of the pack!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘His sword hungers for red flesh!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘His guns thirst for battle!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘He laughs amidst the battle-din!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘Logan Grimnar, father of wolves!’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘His sons hunt his enemies.’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘Slay them where they falter.’

‘SKJOAL!’

‘And bring their pelts to Fenris!’

Hundreds of howls and wordless shouts filled the hall, a crescendo of noise just as Grimnar stepped upon the stage, facing Guilliman. Even seated the primarch towered over the Great Wolf, but Logan did not relent in his intensity, eye to eye. This was his world, his fortress, his hall, and had been for many decades. His gaze, the set of his jaw, the straightness of his back spoke of hundreds of years of pride and glory, and of ten thousand years of Fenrisian tradition stretching back to the Wolf King. Logan’s two wolves sat at his sides, as obedient as his own body, and the standard bearers fanned out. The entire approach was belligerence personified.

Arjac’s gaze flicked to Guilliman, who watched the affair with a sober expression. The primarch stood, looking down at the Chapter Master. Logan did not flinch. For a moment it seemed almost comical, like a dog pup staring down a thunderwolf.

And then Roboute Guilliman did the unthinkable, an act that would echo for centuries after.

He lowered to one knee before the Lord of Fenris.

It had been risky, taking a whole day and night to sleep properly while his body digested the hulking rendtusker he had killed, but Gaius felt much stronger for it. Having climbed into one of the trees, he had been confident that he would be woken by any creature of size enough to threaten him. He replaced his foot bindings and cut some more hide with Ullr’s dagger-tooth to fashion a pair of vambraces, using sinew as thread and a sliver of bone as a needle. He likewise spent some time affixing a sturdy lining to his cloak and made a belt to tie it about his waist. Plaited gut joined a boar tusk to a tree limb, to replace his lost spear. The wood was too springy for his liking, likely to bend, but at least it would not snap.

Gaius had woken late and it was almost midday by the time he set off again, but he felt it had been time well spent. There was nothing more he could do about sores or wind-chapped skin, having lathered his exposed flesh with fat to protect it, so he headed through the woodlands again, as northward as he could figure.

By mid-afternoon, at least twenty miles later, he knew he was being stalked.

At first he had not noticed but now it seemed clear that his hunter had picked up his trail near the site of the rendtusker kill; though he had drunk his fill of it, the boar-like creature’s blood would have been detected miles away by any scavenger or predator. Gaius cursed himself for forgetting to bury the remains under the snow as the guide had explained.

His suspicion had first been raised by the birds falling silent. Now that he loped along at a more manageable pace the avian inhabitants, what few there were, did not scatter in shock but fell silent at his approach. They resumed their calls after he passed, but he had noticed a second occurrence of the quiet, about twenty minutes after he had left a given area. On the third occasion he was convinced something else was in the woods with him.

At first he considered that it might have been the Fenrisians, but they could not have matched his pace over the last two days even with the time he had spent hunting and sleeping. To be sure, he started to zigzag his route, using his peripheral vision to check the rear quarter, stealing glances back as he turned.

Nothing. Other than the lengthening shadows of the trees he saw no pursuer.

Twenty minutes at his current speed was about four miles distance, so it was not surprising that he could not glimpse a sign of his hunter. He had considered it might be a hunting party from another group, perhaps native to this area, but they would have been running hard to keep up with him for two hours and now he was almost certain it was an animal. That would mean it was following a combination of his scent and tracks, perhaps closing on a more direct route as he switched back and forth every half-mile or so.

There were three options that Gaius considered: hide, fight and flight.

Hiding seemed the least likely to succeed. The Primaris Marine was large and smelly. He could not afford to divest himself of the clothes he had made; it was simply too cold in Helwinter, even for his physiology. Even if he somehow cleaned himself off, he could not mask his own body odour for long.

Fighting would mean an ambush, confronting the hunter or hunters on his terms rather than theirs. Again, this would require masking his position in some way. It was possible he could outmatch his pursuer physically, but better weaponry would be preferable. Twenty minutes was not long to set this up, given his current resources. Gaius decided fighting would be his plan if he happened to find an ideal location, given that he did not know whether it was one beast or a pack that followed.

That left flight as the best option.

So, to rely upon speed, stamina or a combination of the two? He could carry on at his present pace for another day and more, but the hunter might close for the kill in that time. Gaius could accelerate and run full sprint for two hours, until about nightfall, hopefully covering enough miles that the hunter gave up. Or he could run at about ten miles an hour faster than he was now and press on through the night.

He was aware that he was full of energy now but that would not last long, and there were many miles to go, and a sea to cross, before he reached Asaheim. A short, intense burst would not overly drain his reserves but might put off his pursuer.

Gaius ran hard for the next hour, not trying to mask his progress, intent on simply covering ground. His long legs swiftly passed the miles, crossing streams for the first time in many days, seeing patches of dead leaves where snow had melted. The Primaris tried his best to listen for the sound of the following creatures disturbing the birds, but did not stop to do so. Speed. The crowned stag that cannot be caught. That was Gaius’ driving thought as he bounded beneath the pine canopy.

He had covered a little over half the distance he wanted when he was brought up sharply. Coming out of the treeline he found himself on a stony shoreline covered in patches of shining ice. Floating bergs and smaller floes broke the stretch of water ahead.

The ocean.

Gaius had run as far as he could, but it was not far enough. Night was coming fast, and he would have to fight.

The hunter was as dark as the night shadows and Gaius recalled a single word, spoken in hushed tones even among the warriors of the Aett: Blackmane.

As much as he had tried to think of a better plan, there was simply no better place to face it than on the rocks of the shoreline, where the footing was better, the meagre starlight a boon. Given that necessity, against the imagined taunts of Drogr and others, he was not stupid enough to think he could take on a Blackmane thunderwolf head-on. He knew such beasts had been killed by others on their Trials of Morkai, and he was bigger and stronger than any aspirant, but it would take cunning as well as brawn.

The wolf, as tall at the shoulder as Gaius, came forward slowly, amber eyes catching the faint light on the very edge of the treeline. He could hear it sniffing the air, drawn to the pile of small carcasses and blood smears on a pile of rocks ten yards away; placed close enough for Gaius to strike and to mask his own scent, far enough away that the thunderwolf would not see him crouched behind the largest of the boulders on the shore. He heard the pad of feet, slow and deliberate, the huff of breath as it sniffed again.

Crouched behind the rock, Gaius relied on his ears and nose. He had gathered scores of smaller stones and created a spread of shallow shingle around the ambush site, so he could hear the clink as the wolf came within. He could smell the wolf through the tang of blood, and hoped that being downwind of the lure masked his scent. The Blackmane had a powerful odour, reminding him of the Aett.

He held the spear at an awkward diagonal to hide it from view, his muscles twitching, already taxed by his previous exertions. Gaius pictured the attack, trying to position the wolf by smell and sound as more pebbles scraped on each other. He could hear its heart beating, fast and strong as it smelled blood. It would be alongside the first of the rocks concealing the bait, its head level with the large boulder. The strike would need to be perfect, behind the shoulder and through the ribcage into the heart. Gaius would have to go round the boulder rather than over to get a low enough angle. The wolf would turn at the noise, baring its chest more. He would have to angle to the right and thrust left so that the boar-tusk would strike laterally through the thinnest muscle.

Gaius mentally practised shifting his grip as he sprang forward, even as he had physically drilled over and over while the sun had set and he had conceived the plan. Gaius had strengthened the shaft of the spear as best as he could but had no idea whether it would take the force of an impact. If it bent or broke it might not penetrate the ribcage at all.

The whisper of the trees and the sluggish, ice-laden sea were the only sounds. The shingle was still.

Gaius felt something drop onto his cheek, like a bead of thick sweat rolling down his face. He looked up at the moment the wolf atop the boulder looked down, its hot, charnel breath washing over him, saliva drooling from its jaw.

He swung the spear.

The wolf leapt.

Neither Blackmane nor Gaius hit their mark as they wished. The spear struck its shoulder, not mouth or neck, but the blow deflected its jaws away from the Space Marine’s face, snapping on air as the claws on its right forepaw raked across the cladding fur of his cloak.

The spear came free as the beast landed and spun. Gaius drew back for another strike but the wolf was fast, pouncing again before he could thrust the weapon. Gaius dodged instead, losing the chance to attack as he flung himself past the boulder, gaining a vital second to gather his wits and assume a proper fighting stance.

It didn’t help. The Blackmane’s leap was like being hit by a speeder, spinning Gaius to the ground. He lost his grip on the spear and felt claws ripping through hide, underskin and then flesh. With fists that could bend steel the Primaris Marine battered at its head, but the skull was thick, the jaw muscles taut and unyielding beneath his prising fingers. Teeth sank into his left shoulder, punching deep into the trapezium muscle and locking tight. Gaius bellowed in pain, changing his attack to drive his fingers into its eyes, the other hand snatching at its throat, vice-grip augmented by artificial sinew coils foiled by thick fur and corded neck muscles.

The Blackmane scrabbled for footing, back feet pushing them across the shingle, foreclaws opening up Gaius’ abdomen even wider, jaw worrying at his shoulder, almost down to the bone now. The wolf released its jaw-grip for a second, arching its head back, Gaius’ thick blood congealing on fangs and gums. It had never tasted Space Marine before and spasmed as it swallowed down the rich life fluid.

Gaius thought to grab the jaws and prise them apart but stopped himself, suddenly seeing himself defenceless as they snapped shut, severing his fingers between long fangs. The thought brought to mind Ullr’s pendant, still around his neck. Gaius ripped it free as the wolf lunged again, its jaw aimed at the Space Marine’s throat.

Two fangs found their mark. The pendant plunged through the eye mangled by Gaius’ fingers and into the brain beyond; the Blackmane’s canine sank into the side of its prey’s throat, tearing flesh.

Gaius felt the weight of the wolf falling onto him while his vision swam. Blood spilled down onto the pebbles from his ruined throat and the eye socket of his foe. He tried to lift a hand to the wound, to sit up and stem the flow, but the dead weight of the wolf pinned him down.

Strength failing fast, Gaius fell back to the stones, the last of his lifeblood ebbing away.

Chapter Twenty-one

HURAK’S ANSWER
A DETOUR TO ORKS
THE GREAT WOLF’S JUDGEMENT

Hurak had been on plenty of battlefields in the bloody years since he had been woken by Cawl but he had never experienced an atmosphere quite like the one that permeated the Wolf Hall the day after the feast. Guilliman and a few selected advisors sat at one side of an immense table, including Stratarchis Tribune Colquan, who had invited himself. Opposite was Logan Grimnar and his counsellors, including Ulrik the Slayer and Njal Stormcaller. Hurak was surrounded by legends, but he felt nothing to celebrate. The only way the Space Wolves could have created a more confrontational air would have been to draw weapons.

Though the Great Wolf and Guilliman sat opposite each other, both said very little. The same had been true at the feast, not only by inclination but as a consequence of being at opposite ends of the long head table. After the primarch’s astounding display of humility they had exchanged greetings and little else. Now, their officers carried most of the discussion. Hurak had little to say and kept his eye on Colquan, who had insisted on joining the expedition just before it had left the Dawn of Fire. The tribune had barely said a word beyond introduction to the Space Wolves and it was unclear why he had wished to attend what Hurak had hoped was going to be a formality.

That hope proved premature.

It was a bellicose meeting. The main point of contention from the Space Wolves seemed to be the effect of so many recruits not from Fenris, and how that would change the customs and character of the Chapter. They argued in Imperial Gothic but occasionally switched to their own tongue to debate among themselves, which seemed not only impolite but also impolitic: airing their internal disagreements, even if the substance of them was unknown, was surely unwise – Guilliman had not admitted whether he understood Fenrisian or not and the Space Wolves clearly assumed he was ignorant of their language. There were undertones of accusations of authoritarianism regarding the arrangement between the Space Wolves and the Indomitus Crusade. Lieutenant Castallor had warned as much in his reports, and had been invited to join the proceedings as the most experienced counsellor in this regard.

Hurak made an error of judgement when he declared that the previous recipients of their Primaris reinforcements and accompanying technology had been grateful for the assistance. At this, the Great Wolf roused himself.

‘So we are to be thankful for handing over our sovereignty?’ he growled, addressing the point raised by Hurak but looking at Guilliman. ‘When it means nothing to be Fenrisian, when the blood of our Chapter is not chilled by our world, we should sing our gratitude from the highest peaks? Who will they listen to? Me? Or the Lord Commander? Or this magos, Cawl, that hid them from us when all the galaxy was burning?’

Nobody else spoke, realising that it was for the primarch to address the issues. All except Colquan, that is.

‘Your independence is your most notable trait, Chapter Master,’ said the tribune. ‘Several times in the past it has been more highly prized than the chances of your survival.’

‘A threat?’ said Grimnar, voice dropping low.

‘The opposite,’ said Colquan, leaning forward. ‘A warning, perhaps.’

‘This innuendo does nobody any favours,’ said Guilliman, looking at the tribune. ‘I have no intent to command the forces of the Fang, nor replace them. I wish only to coordinate the efforts of the Chapter with the ongoing objectives of the Indomitus Crusade.’

He switched his gaze to Grimnar, who had been about to speak but remained silent under the primarch’s stare. ‘You will be part of no battle group, answerable to no fleetmaster. When I have departed it is unlikely we will exchange words again.’

‘The chains that will keep us in bondage will be invisible,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘Duty. Oaths. Necessity.’

‘No different to those that bind you to the Imperium now,’ Guilliman assured him. ‘I require you to swear no new promises to me or the Throneworld.’

‘You’re just going to give us several thousand warriors, and the process to make more of these new Space Marines, and then hope we use them well?’ asked Grimnar.

‘Trust, not hope,’ said the primarch. ‘I trust the Great Wolf of Fenris to do what is right, what is needed. I trust you, Logan Grimnar, because you have earned it with deeds for over half a millennium. I have need, a very great need for that leadership. It is no exaggeration to say that the choice you make now will steer the course of the Indomitus Crusade more than any other since I left Terra.

‘I need you to fight orks, to quell their incursions and seek out whatever drives this unprecedented surge in attacks. Only you can make that decision because I will not be here to enforce it. I trust you to do the right thing. No laws or contracts can replace that.’

‘Trust must work both ways,’ said Njal Stormcaller. ‘If you give us these warriors you will call upon us, and the debt may remain unspoken, but it is there. We have a tradition on Fenris. Ut-geld. Unpaid gold, but it is not about coin. We have another. Geldfut. Task not yet done, a duty to be fulfilled. You place a great deal on our side of the scale, it is possible that it will never be balanced.’

‘Clearly you would rather cease to exist as a Chapter than accept such charity,’ said Colquan. ‘That much has been made clear.’

‘And why is that your concern?’ said Grimnar, still looking at the primarch. ‘You have enough warriors to replace us a dozen times over. Make your own Chapters, you don’t need us.’

‘Some of my advisors think that is the case,’ said Guilliman, prompting mutters and growls from the Space Wolves contingent. ‘I disagree. It is vital that you and your heritage survive because there will be more Chapters raised from Leman Russ’ gene-seed. Captain Hurak will explain.’

The Son of Corax kept the shock from his face – he hoped – and nodded with a smile while his mind raced. Why had the primarch put him in this position?

Irrelevant, he told himself. Concentrate on the question.

Hurak didn’t have the answer. The stares of the Space Wolves were intense but he pushed them from his thoughts.

‘It’s straightforward when you think about it,’ Hurak began while the rest of his brain sifted through everything the primarch had said.

He’s confident because he’s already told you the answer.

When?

All the time! Just say what you think the primarch would say. Think like him.

‘The Imperium faces its greatest threat since its inception,’ the captain continued, looking from one Space Marine to the next on both sides of the table, trying not to glance at the Lord Commander for reassurance. ‘It is broken, split by a barrier through which we can see and pass only with the greatest effort. Traitors and heretics burn worlds and enslave countless others, and now terrible armies of xenos assail us in numbers not seen for millennia.’

It was a good start, they had settled down and so had Hurak’s thoughts. He needed to add substance, but first the stakes had to be made clear.

‘The Indomitus Crusade is the single most important endeavour since the Great Crusade forged the Imperium, and as then, so now. All arms of the Imperial military, all servants of the Emperor, must come together in single purpose. Under the banner of the Master of Mankind and led by one of His primarchs, we must reconquer the galaxy, or else the Imperium will be no more. This is a fight for the existence of the Imperium, the war we all have sworn oaths to wage in protection of the Emperor’s domains and the preservation of all of humanity.’

The reminder that in the Great Crusade the Legions had fought alongside each other had come to him in the moment. Hurak was pleased with himself so far but was still feeling out the answer. He couldn’t obfuscate for much longer.

‘Even with this endeavour gathering momentum, even with every Chapter and regiment, squadron and order militant fighting in common purpose, the threat faced and the obstacles to overcome are beyond us.’

It was an astounding admission, and the first time Hurak had made it. He allowed his gaze to move to the Imperial attendees so that he could look at the primarch’s reaction. He saw approval and encouragement in Guilliman’s expression. The sensation was like coming before a warm fire after enduring the cold outside.

‘Every servant of the Emperor must fight. They must bite and claw to resist the enemy, they must give their lives for every inch of soil lost. They must allow homes to be destroyed, families to be wiped out, and sell their own lives in defence of nothing, against impossible odds.’

Grimnar growled, but it was not out of anger but consternation. The words were a reminder that Fenris was not an island alone but one of a million worlds united under the service of the Emperor. Hurak now fixed his gaze on the Great Wolf, not challenging but enthused.

‘They fight on because they believe. They believe in the Emperor’s salvation. They believe in the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, the Angels of Death. They hear that a primarch has returned but can dismiss that as rumour, legend, a distant and unknowable figure. Many will have never seen a Space Marine, but all will have heard a name. And the name will have been one handed down for generations, since the time of the Imperium’s founding. Other Chapters may rise to fame, may be known in stretches of the void and in the deep hives, but only a few can be named across the Imperium.

‘The Ultramarines. The Salamanders. The Blood Angels. The Dark Angels. The White Scars. The Imperial Fists. The Iron Hands. The Raven Guard.’ He paused, remembering their dislike for the name, but continued anyway. ‘The Space Wolves.

‘Names that have endured alien invasion, insurrection, religious cataclysm, civil war and every other horror imaginable. Names that have their own mythology, that carry more weight than a dozen oaths of protection. To know that those warriors are fighting, to believe that those legendary Chapters are coming, is to have something to fight for. So many call “For the Emperor”, and to His duty they sacrifice themselves, but when they think of the Emperor’s protection, it is the Space Marines that make it manifest.

‘To even contemplate the removal of one of those names from that ancient roll of honour… The disaster to morale and loss of hope should even the rumour spread that one of those Chapters is no more…’

It was better left unsaid, and Hurak shook his head and trembled at his own words, filled with a sudden and deep desire to travel to Deliverance and pay homage to Corax on the world of his Chapter’s raising. He wanted to belong to that brotherhood of warriors that had stood upon the same brink of annihilation and yet had fought back, never surrendering to the hopelessness, always determined to wage war no matter the odds against them.

Logan Grimnar’s expression was hard to read. He stared at Hurak but was not really looking at him. His jaw was clenched tight, hands making fists on the tabletop.

‘Food is coming,’ Grimnar announced tersely, standing up. The other Space Wolves followed, surprised by his action.

And without further ceremony the Great Wolf led his companions from the chamber.

For a few minutes after Logan Grimnar had left, Guilliman did not speak and nobody else broke the silence, including Hurak. No one was sure what the abruptness of the Great Wolf’s departure signified.

‘That did not end so well,’ said Colquan, standing.

‘On the contrary, that was perfect,’ said Guilliman, leaning closer to Hurak. ‘You did excellently.’

‘I fear the tribune is closer to the mark,’ said Hurak. His body was flushed with stimulants as though he had been in battle. It was almost euphoric, but the edge had been taken off by the sudden exit of the Space Wolves.

‘Not at all.’ Guilliman stood up but motioned the rest of the delegation to remain seated. ‘None of us likes to be reminded of our failings nor the expectations of others. Grimnar will see the truth, sooner or later.’

‘And if he chooses to die for his own version of truth, everything Hurak says will come true,’ said Colquan.

‘You forget, I have had this conversation before,’ said the primarch, expression hardening as he turned towards the tribune. ‘The more we push them, the more they will resist. If they do not come to this decision by their own unfettered choice they will not be coerced into it by any means.’

‘They will never trust you, Guilliman,’ said Colquan, perhaps projecting a little too much of his own belief. Hurak had been warned by his predecessors that the head of the Custodians in the fleet had a deep antipathy for the Space Marines, and the primarch in particular. ‘For ten thousand years your sons have grown and prospered, spawning successors and foundings. Your gene-seed has become one of the standards to which the Space Wolves have been measured and found lacking. They have no heirs, no brothers, no legacy. Even if they do not recognise it, they are jealous and they hate you for that.’

‘It is fortunate that I have a higher opinion of them,’ said the primarch.

Hurak felt uncomfortable, as he always did when his lord was displeased, and particularly when he and Colquan were at odds with each other, an occurrence nearly every time they shared a chamber. He had faith that the primarch knew best, but at that moment he wished he had more than just hope to rely on.

There was little personal space aboard a cruiser at the best of times and the Heretics’ Reward was even more cramped with one hundred and fifty storm troopers of the Tempestus Scions aboard. Despite this, Captain Bargoza had evicted a few junior officers from their bunks and wardroom just aft of the main dorsal lance turrets. Mudire and the others found themselves entertaining their host every few days as repayment for this concession, feeding her insatiable hunger for news of the crusade, slaking a thirst for knowledge in general. She had proudly shared with them her personal library, numbering seventeen books, of which six were not related to starships or void travel in some way.

Bargoza was relatively young for command of a cruiser but she was quick to learn, had a sharp wit and an easy-going manner – at least with the historitors. The crew called her ‘Bulkhead’ Bargoza because of her unyielding nature. Mudire liked her, more than most military officers he had met. He refrained from making his attraction known to Bargoza, despite sensing it was reciprocated, the conditions aboard ensuring there was little privacy and certainly no chance of such a relationship going unremarked.

Though Himhertha was not far from Fenris in galactic terms, the warp was a mess of conflicting tides and currents. The ship’s Navigator had to frequently request drops out of warp space for reorientation and rest, and so even after two weeks of relative-time they had covered only half the distance. The historitors filled their time easily enough with collating old notes, redrafting their texts from the Hall of Sagas and general administration. Vychellan was often away from the wardroom, and Mudire heard from one of the officers’ stewards that the Custodian spent most of that time in one of the supply halls that had been emptied to make a training chamber.

Mudire found himself alone as artificial evening began when Vychellan returned – the others were in the officers’ mess, but his hunger had been eradicated by a recent warp translation.

‘This must be quite boring for you,’ he said to the Custodian. ‘Playing chaperon to some file-delvers.’

‘On the contrary, your company is more stimulating than standing watch over the same deserted five square miles of the Imperial Palace. Though we are created for combat, routine and repetition do not vex us nor dull our wits.’

‘I suppose–’

Mudire stopped as the steward knocked at the door and quietly announced the approach of Captain Bargoza. Mudire and Vychellan looked at each other and then the door; Bargoza had joined them only the night before, and her visit now was unexpected.

‘Historitor, Custodian,’ she said, nodding to each as she stepped through the doorway. The steward shut it with a click behind her. The two greeted her in kind and Mudire saw in her expression that this was not a personal visit. ‘Lesaso Yaoic, my astropath, has detected images of need and distress from a nearby system. He says there is a considerable amount of ork-noise in the area.’

‘How far is this system from Himhertha?’ said Vychellan.

‘Without any other delay, diverting to Korshak would add about four relative-days to our journey time. As near as Navigator Loschoul can estimate. Korshak is a transfer point into the Ironhold territories, there is a warp beacon there with a strong signal. Without it we may have not caught the distress message at all.’ She pulled herself up to her full height – a few inches shorter than Mudire, dwarfed by the Custodian. ‘This is a ship of war and I came to inform you that I intend to issue orders to redirect to the Korshak System.’

Mudire could forgive her the assertive tone – no captain wants to lose command of their ship – but the truth was that Guilliman had assigned the Heretics’ Reward to his authority – not even Vychellan could overrule his decision. As much as he was prepared to allow Bargoza some pride, he would not be pressed into action he did not desire.

‘I understand your wish to respond as a military officer,’ he said smoothly, not smiling in case he appeared insincere. It was a curse of his usual disposition that it often made people think he was smirking when he was not. ‘I must think in broader terms, and in particular of the importance of the mission we are undertaking, in context of the whole Indomitus Crusade.’

‘If you explained what it is in Himhertha–’

‘We cannot,’ Vychellan said sharply, causing Bargoza to flinch. His manner reminded Mudire of Colquan, and he wondered if perhaps more Custodians were like the tribune but he was the only one that chose not to erect a facade to hide it.

‘Regretfully, my golden companion is correct,’ said Mudire. ‘And even if I were to explain a little of our need, it would still not convince you that there is not a greater good to be done at Korshak.’

‘Battle Group Alpharis is close at hand, there must be other ships free to investigate this situation,’ Vychellan continued, his tone moderate. ‘Have your astropath rebroadcast with a specific call for action.’

‘It has taken us almost fifteen days to get this far,’ the captain argued. ‘Any help will be that many days behind us.’

Her shoulders slumped and her gaze fell to the side, hands clasped in front of her.

‘Too often we arrive late,’ she said quietly. ‘To avenge rather than protect.’

‘I understand,’ said Mudire. He waited until she looked up at him. ‘Could you please allow Vychellan and me a few minutes to discuss this?’

She straightened, her renewed formality as stiff as the creases in her uniform. ‘The warp current is favourable for a new bearing on the Korshak beacon, please do not take too long.’

When she was gone, Vychellan spoke first.

‘Why are you considering a diversion from our mission?’ His tone conveyed surprise more than argument. ‘It is quite possible that we may run into more trouble than the Heretics’ Reward can handle.’

‘It’s unlikely that we will become embroiled without first having opportunity to consider options,’ Mudire replied. ‘Perhaps the captain is right, this is an opportunity to do something useful.’

‘And not a chance to impress her or make her feel indebted to you?’ said Vychellan.

‘What reason…?’

‘I hear your pulses quicken, see the lingering stares, taste your biochemistry.’

‘That sounds disgusting,’ said Mudire, grimacing. ‘What would you know of it, anyway?’

‘I know that under the influence of certain hormones, decision-making can be compromised. Are you sure of your reasoning?’

‘If there’s any strange thought process influencing me, it’s guilt,’ rasped Mudire. ‘I’ve seen enough carnage these last years to know that a warship and one hundred and fifty storm troopers is a lot of firepower for protecting a handful of historitors. I don’t care how dangerous… It doesn’t matter how urgent or important our mission is, this would be a better use of their time.’

‘You could die.’ Vychellan tilted his head slightly. ‘You are not a man strong on the ideal of self-sacrifice. Would the others agree to lay down their lives and call for this?’

‘Like I said, if it looks too rough, we turn the ship around and jump out of there. Orks aren’t going to chase us through the warp. The only coin we spend by taking a look is time, and the archive will still be in Himhertha in ten days rather than five.’

Vychellan rubbed his bearded chin, regarding Mudire for some time.

‘It is your choice, the primarch gave you authority.’

‘I know,’ said Mudire, moving towards the intravox panel beside the door. That was why he had not replied to the captain immediately, otherwise it would have looked as though he was being forced into a course of action. He buzzed the steward and the door opened.

‘My regards to the captain and she is free to alter course as needed.’

‘Leave me,’ said the Great Wolf, standing at the window in his main chamber. The words were quiet but filled with intent. Njal turned away with Ulrik and the Wolf Lords but felt a hand on his arm stop him. It was Arjac, his face full of concern. Ulrik noticed that the two of them did not follow and looked back, as did a couple of the others. The Slayer waved them to continue and shut the door, leaving the Great Wolf with his Champion and two highest-ranking priests.

‘Did I not make myself clear?’ said Logan, still gazing out of the window.

Njal had never seen him so angry. He needed no psychic power to feel the rage emanating from the Great Wolf even though the words were calmly spoken. It was the placidity that worried the Rune Priest. Had Logan raged and swore and thrown things he would find outlet for his pent-up emotion. Instead, it was channelled inward, stoking a storm that was destroying him from inside.

The chamber was adjacent to the wulfhalle, hence sharing its name, but the walls were thick and the doors sealed; it had been built by Space Marines and was enough to thwart even their superior hearing. Njal could hear nothing of what was being said in the hall and they would know nothing of what passed in the chamber.

Logan gripped the stone of the windowsill, fingers whitening. It was light outside, one of the shortest days of the Fenrisian year as it started the long sweep back towards the Wolf’s Eye and the near-endless days of the Season of Fire. No reflection could be seen, only the whiteness of the fortress mountains. The Great Wolf shook his head, answering some internal debate.

‘Empty promises,’ he whispered. ‘A cage of sentences without meaning. Honour. Tradition. Heritage. He thinks to trap me in my own sense of duty.’

‘Our oaths are to the Allfather,’ said Ulrik. ‘That has not changed.’

‘The Allfather did not just sit opposite me and look me in the damned eye!’ roared Logan, turning. He bared his fangs, fingers flexing as though longing to grab something. ‘A year from now I will not receive a message from the Allfather telling me of an incident in some star system at the edge of the galaxy. Innocent. The demand unspoken. A request perhaps, to send some warriors. Or to dispatch a few ships to ally with a battlefleet. A suggestion that a Sisters of Battle force comes to aid us in the campaign.’

‘Ulrik is right, my lord,’ said Arjac. ‘How does the presence of the primarch change things now?’

The Great Wolf drew in a long breath, his stare moving from one companion to the next.

‘Do you not remember what Bjorn warned against?’ he said. ‘Guilliman is the Legion-breaker. He would never let another wield the power of one of the Legiones Astartes, yet now he controls all the forces of the Imperium. Bjorn reminded me there was an older title for that. Warmaster. Guilliman was thwarted when the Allfather chose Horus, and so broke the Legions so that none would lead where he had failed. Now he returns and does the very thing he swore none could do.

‘The High Lords of Terra were bickering and ineffectual, but that meant that none of them ruled alone. Better no power than corruption. Bjorn remembers a time when the Wolves of Fenris were the guard against that threat. The loyal hunters. Did you see Colquan? He trusts the primarch even less, and perhaps for good reason. He said he brought warning, and maybe he does.’

Njal felt the ebbing and flowing of rage, dissipated as the Great Wolf spoke, building again as he lapsed into silence. As a Wolf Priest sometimes had to break an old bone to reset it, or lance an infected wound to allow the impurity to be excised, so Logan’s anger needed release.

‘Would you allow the Imperium to fail?’ asked Njal.

‘You agree with their doom-mongering?’ said Logan. ‘Fall in with the primarch or humanity will die? An ultimatum disguised as a forecast, but we have something stronger. We have the Wolf King’s own words, nearly as old as Guilliman.’

‘The Wolftime,’ said Ulrik.

‘Just so,’ said Grimnar. He stalked from one side of the chamber to the other. ‘If we do not believe in the truth of the Wolftime then we do not believe in anything. Even if we take everything Guilliman’s puppet raven said for him, perhaps the Wolftime is the end we need. Our death is not the final knell for the Imperium but the spark for the pyre that will ignite a new age of glory for humanity. What name carries more legend than that of Leman Russ, the Wolf King, Spear of the Allfather?’

It was hard to listen to, but the Great Wolf spoke a different truth, one less comfortable than the version offered by Guilliman.

‘To fight the coming of the Wolftime is to defy the wyrd we have known for the last ten thousand years,’ said Ulrik with a nod. ‘Bjorn was right to be wary. Even if Guilliman’s intent is pure today, what can we say of tomorrow? Is he stronger than Horus, to resist the temptations of power he has taken for himself? The Wolf King entrusted the safekeeping of his sons to the Fell-Handed and ten thousand years later he is still here to abide by that wyrd.’

The words should have felt like betrayal to Njal, coming from one that had been an ally in the desire to receive reinforcement. Instead, they sounded like wisdom. Was it fear that had prompted Njal to seek the solace of the Primaris Marines? As runethegn he knew the perils of taking the shorter route. To avoid pain was to seek the easy way. Fear of death, for oneself or for all of humanity, was the surest path to seek a fake immortality from the Dark Powers. The Wolftime had been taught to all from their earliest time with the Chapter, its message clear: fight now, fight hard.

All things end.

‘I see that my words have taken root in barren lands,’ said Logan, much calmed by his outburst. He looked at Arjac. ‘Deliver these words to the primarch and then, with my cordial thoughts, bid him gone.’

Logan paused, eyes closed for several seconds.

‘Our wyrd awaits us at Gottrok. We will make the companies ready to depart as soon as possible.’ He opened his eyes and they reflected the glimmer of firelight. ‘Without the Primaris Marines.’

Chapter Twenty-two

GYTHA’S DISCOVERY
FEVER DREAM
GELDFUT

‘Keep in sight of the clifftops!’ Gytha shouted as Korit ran ahead. The gothi turned to check that she could see the small lookout shelters constructed atop the grey cliffs, from which a long stretch of the shore could be seen, and far inland. If there was trouble a fire would be lit. A low headland hid the bulk of the temporary settlement at the water itself and the rising frames of two longships.

The sound of axes rang from the woods but Gytha wanted to get away from the rest of the tree-felling group, just for a little while. Lufa stayed with the others, but Agitta had decided to come along. Gytha didn’t mind the old woman’s company: they had lived together, and in comparison to the small hut back in the last village, sharing the same stretch of coast was like being continents apart.

‘Gytha!’ The shout from Bjorti’s mother disturbed her thoughts as she gazed out across the ice and sea. She turned to see the older woman hurrying back across the snowy stone from where she had been collecting firewood at the treeline. ‘Call her back! Get her back!’

‘She’s always been one to…’ Gytha silenced herself as she saw what was bothering Agitta. Some way along the shore, about the same distance again as Korit had run ahead, there was a darker patch among the rocks. The coast was thick with nightcrows and other carrion eaters, some circling above, others waddling away along the shoreline.

‘Korit, come back,’ Agitta shouted, hobbling ahead. Gytha hurried after, skin prickling as though hot, despite the cold wind that came off the early morning sea. ‘Come back right now!’

Korit stopped and look back, her inquiring call lost on the breeze.

‘It’s just a beached whale, I think,’ said Gytha, striding to catch up with Agitta. ‘What has got you so frightened?’

‘It’ll not just attract crows and withergulls, will it? The sea’s almost up to high tide, sawjaws could come out, and there could be anything in those woods. It isn’t safe!’

Gytha unslung her bow just in case and beckoned for Korit to return. The girl came running back, annoyed more than concerned.

‘What? I was playing!’ She stopped about twenty paces away, fists clenched, almost lost inside her thick fur coat.

‘Come on, let’s away,’ said Agitta, moving to grab the girl’s wrist. Korit jumped back, laughing, almost falling over a stone. ‘Get here, you silly girl.’

‘Could be blubber and bone left, if it’s fresh,’ said Gytha, peering past the pair to the commotion among the rocks. They were about seventy paces from the cawing flock. She thought she saw blood on their beaks, which meant the corpse couldn’t be too old. ‘Maybe even some meat.’

‘We’ll send a sled for it later,’ said Agitta. Korit’s laughter finally brought a smile from the old woman. ‘Time to head back.’

‘We’re here now,’ said Gytha. She didn’t know why she was so curious but she wanted to see what had attracted the carrion eaters. She left the bowstring loose but nocked an arrow as she advanced. There was something odd about the stones around the rocks, as if they didn’t fit in with their surroundings. ‘Might as well check before going to all that trouble.’

The birds lazily scattered at her approach, revealing a mass among the stones. There were bird droppings everywhere, but the red of blood stained the boulders and pebbles beneath. Gytha heard Korit and Agitta not far behind, her daughter asking hushed questions, the grandmother telling her to be quiet.

There was a heap of fur, black in colour.

‘Thunderwolf!’ gasped Korit.

‘Careful, Gytha.’

There was movement, but it was only a few straggler birds plucking at the carcass. Gytha took another couple of steps closer, about to turn away, resolving to send the hunters to skin the wolf properly. Then she caught a glimpse of a different sort of hair, which at first looked like a rendtusker, but as she took another step she saw the unmistakable features of a man lying beneath the wolf, face and body caked in blood.

‘Morkai’s breath,’ she cursed, confused by what she saw. It was clearly a man, beard and all, but he should have been dwarfed by the carcass of the thunderwolf. Instead he was almost equal in size. She turned back to take-mother and daughter, eyes wide. ‘It’s a Sky Warrior! They must have killed each other!’

Korit pulled her hand free and dashed forward to look, shrieking as she saw the dead man. Agitta followed after, brow furrowed.

‘He has no battleplate,’ said the old woman.

‘Look at the size of him!’ Gytha took two more cautious steps forward. The scavengers were regaining confidence, hopping and slinking towards the corpses. ‘That’s no ordinary man.’

‘I hear tales that sometimes the Sky Warriors come down to battle the beasts and explore the changed lands,’ said Agitta. ‘This one found something as deadly as himself.’

Gytha wondered what the warrior’s name had been. She could see the wound on his throat that had slain him, a dagger-like tooth still sticking from the eye of the wolf that had killed it in return.

‘Warning’s still the same, my love,’ said Agitta. ‘More dangerous things will be drawn by the blood.’

Gytha had to agree. If the thunderwolf had a mate nearby it might well catch the scent as the sea breeze took it into the woods. Looking at the fearsome beast she knew her small bow and arrows would barely hurt it, if she could bring herself to draw and loose at all.

She had seen dead bodies before, but never a Sky Warrior. She looked more closely, seeing the Fenrisian likeness in the features, though flatter and stretched out, it seemed. The hair was light without the blood. He looked young. The blood at the throat was strikingly red, brighter than any she had seen. A small droplet rolled down from the rag of flesh.

‘He’s alive!’ Gytha shouted, rearing back as though she had been attacked. She checked the wound on the wolf to be sure; there was no flow at all. But the Sky Warrior’s blood was a trickle of liquid. ‘He’s bleeding, which means his heart is still pumping!’

‘Leave him be, this is not a good omen,’ said Agitta.

‘Are you gothi now, to tell me how to read the wyrd?’ snapped Gytha.

‘Foolish woman, you’ve not been gothi for a season yet.’

‘But I am gothi, and I am telling you that this is a sign that our wyrd is good. A Sky Warrior in the death’s embrace with a wolf! How much clearer could it be? Go! Fetch others. I’ll guard him here.’

Agitta looked as though she might argue, but a fierce glance from Gytha forestalled any debate. The old woman found Korit’s hand and the two of them started back along the shore at a brisk walk.

Gytha looked down at the Sky Warrior, wondering what to do. That he was not dead already was amazing, but the wound was terrible and it was possible his thread would snap any time. His eyes were open but seeing nothing, staring up at the sky. She took out her knife, cut a strip from the boar hide he wore and used it to bind his throat, pulling it as tight as she dared, a wad cut from her coat cuff used as a dressing on the wound itself.

With that done she took up her bow again and perched on a nearby boulder, eyes moving between the trees, the Sky Warrior and the sea.

It took six people to carry the Sky Warrior, using two tree limbs and many furs as a bier so as not to jolt him too much. It was tough work transporting this precarious load along the rocky shoreline, but by dusk the giant had been deposited on a bed of pine branches and furs, away from the breaking ice at the sea’s edge.

‘Waste of time,’ said Kjora, arms crossed tight as he watched the giant being lowered with some effort. ‘We need to finish what the wolf started.’

‘He is a Sky Warrior,’ said Ourilk, emerging into the light of the fire. ‘You would kill one of our protectors.’

‘Not one of ours, not from the North Tower,’ said Faeras, who had shadowed the group along the shore and back but not lifted a finger to help. ‘Look at the terrible garb, no son of Fenris ever wore anything so badly made. It’s upplander. One of the Evil Eye’s monsters.’

‘And you have seen every man and woman that walks the world?’ Gytha snapped at the pair of elders. They still resented the whole expedition and missed no chance to let that be known. ‘You, who’ve travelled no further than the Black Ridge and never sailed beyond the Cliffs of the Wyrm tribes before now?’

‘And neither have you,’ said Faeras. ‘Just because you found it does not make it yours. It is not a pet to bring home and feed scraps.’

Gytha felt someone beside her and glanced around to see Bjorti had come up from the other part of the camp. He looked down at the giant.

‘Big fellow,’ he grunted.

Ydra and several other elders gathered at the sound of raised voices, Kjorfi bringing up the rear of the group with slow strides. Gytha had wondered if the elders would survive the trek, but so far they had proven themselves less frail than they looked.

‘He is a stranger,’ said Kjorfi. ‘He may live or he may die, as his thread has been laid. The gothi vouches for him and that is enough for now.’

There were words of disappointment from Kjora and Faeras but they did not spend their breath arguing the matter. When the others had dispersed, Kjorfi approached Gytha and Bjorti.

‘I hope you are sure, Gytha,’ said the elder, not unkindly. His brown eyes met hers and he reached out a calloused hand, laying it on her arm. His gaze moved to the comatose giant. ‘I trust you, but if we are wrong in this, it could end our journey and we shall not deliver your warning.’

He walked away and Gytha felt Bjorti’s fingers tighten on her shoulders from behind, pushing into the tense muscle.

‘What do you want to do?’ he asked quietly.

Gytha looked down at the wounded man, face drained of blood, eyes staring like the dead. Even in such a stricken state there was power there, and not just physical size. She could feel it radiating like warmth. Was this what it meant to be gothi?

‘It is another piece of the thread spooling before us,’ she said. ‘Our wyrd made real.’

‘You’re starting to sound like a gothi,’ he said, turning her around. There was no mocking in his expression. ‘How do you feel?’

Gytha reached up a hand and stroked his face, letting her fingers comb through his beard a little. She did not think about the question but let her heart answer.

‘I feel ready,’ she said. ‘I feel as though I am following my wyrd and don’t have to fear it.’

Bjorti nodded and stepped back with a reluctant smile.

‘I have more nails and braces to make,’ he said.

She watched him head across the firelight and then into the darkness towards the glow of the small furnace. Turning her attention back to the giant, Gytha was reminded of a babe swaddled tight, though there was nothing innocent about the scarred face swathed in the furs. She sat down next to him and started to sing: a song her father had sung to her as a child. Not a lullaby but a saga, of the Wolf King and the time he outwitted Morkai.

It seemed the gothi thing to do.

The Sky Warrior lay by the largest fire, covered in furs and blankets, while Gytha and a few others took turns to watch over him. They had tried to stitch the wound in his throat but Hjorki, who was their most experienced needleworker and herbalist, and other hands less delicate that had mended many a torn sail, couldn’t get the point through the giant’s thick skin. They dared not prise away the thick scab that had formed, but Hjorki assured her that the huge warrior was healing in his own way.

The gothi slept for a few hours and returned to her vigil midday. Others had salvaged meat, fur and blood from the thunderwolf, and from a cup kept warm by the fire she dribbled some of the latter into the giant’s lips every now and then.

The chop of axes and rasp of saws sounded across the shore, accompanied by constant hammering. To keep herself busy Gytha plaited lengths of cord made from sea-tusk hide that would become cables for the longships. She pictured the sails in full wind, taking them across the sea on the next stage of their journey, billowing and flapping as her people followed their wyrd to Asaheim. A whisper broke her thoughts.

‘Gothi!’ Her companion was Erkrand, a little younger than Lufa, who had hurt his arm the day before. She followed his gaze to the giant.

The Sky Warrior’s eyes were moving but there was no sense there, a roaming gaze that saw nothing. His lips parted a few times and whispered words issued. She did not understand them, though a few sounded familiar.

‘He speaks the Uppland tongue,’ said Erkrand in amazement, leaning closer. ‘He must have fallen from the heavens.’

‘Be careful, he is a warrior and strong beyond reckoning,’ warned Gytha, pushing the youth back by an arm’s length. ‘Should he wake suddenly he may strike out from instinct. That fist would break your skull open with a single punch.’

She recognised a word as she sat back and, despite her caution to Erkrand, leaned a little closer to hear better. The eyes briefly met hers, flicking across her face before reverting to their uncomprehending stare.

‘Valkjyr,’ the giant muttered. ‘Uppland… valkjyr…’

‘What’s that?’ asked Erkrand.

‘A legend from the east,’ said Gytha. ‘I heard a trader tell it when I was little. There are tribes across the dawnwaters that believe warrior maidens arrive to carry the spirits of the valiant dead to the halls of the Allfather. It’s strange, he doesn’t look like an eastlander to me. He must have heard it from one of the other Sky Warriors.’

The giant fell silent again, lips parted. There was more colour in his skin and his eyes fluttered closed. No valkjyr will claim him while I stand guard, Gytha swore silently.

‘Go fetch Artur Surebow,’ she commanded the youth, pointing past the fire to the tents in the lee of the cliff. ‘He’ll need to lead the hunt out again.’

‘They brought back a broadstag and half a dozen rabbits only two days ago,’ protested the boy, standing up. He dusted ash off his breeches, wincing as he forgot about his injured arm.

‘I think we’re going to need more food when this one wakes up.’ Gytha looked at the immense mound of warrior beneath the furs, two heads taller than the tribe’s largest fighter, Hallidar Ironarm. ‘A lot more food.’

Unarmed.

Warplate compromised.

Physical injuries severe.

Blood pressure low.

Pulse weak.

Gastric functions limited.

Blood in the mouth.

Smell of smoke.

Crackle of flames.

Guttural voices.

Dark shapes on the edge of vision.

Battle ongoing.

Vulnerable.

Conclusion: Self-extract.

Gytha’s scream was cut short by the giant’s fingers around her throat, lifting the gothi from the ground. One moment the Sky Warrior had been asleep, lying on his back. The next…

He was looking at her, brow furrowed. The grip was not tight, she could still breathe. It was painful to hang by her neck and she gripped the thick wrist to take some of the weight. Clear of the furs, his body was a human-shaped mass of muscle and rags, marked with scars and strange metallic lesions. A viscous layer sheened every bulge, more like molten wax than sweat. Even though he looked as pale as a corpse, his arm was as rigid as a roof beam. The other hand was bunched into a fist. She remembered the warning she had given Erkrand.

The giant’s eyes flickered from her to the surroundings, reflecting the waning sunlight. There were other shouts of alarm.

‘Stay away!’ Gytha called out. ‘I’m not hurt! Stay back!’ If the warrior had wanted her dead she would already be a corpse.

He spoke but she didn’t understand the words. The warrior shook his head and tried again, his words thick with effort and accent.

‘Who you?’

‘Gytha,’ she said. ‘You are safe. The thunderwolf is dead.’

He lowered her to the ground but did not remove his grip. Others approached, keeping their distance. There were aettgard among them in their coats of scale and chain, spears and swords in hand. The sky warrior’s eye passed over each in an instant, assessing the danger.

He took away his hand. A hint of a smile played across the giant’s bloodless lips.

‘I killed a Blackmane?’

Gaius’ furs and rags had been torn to shreds – the thunderwolf’s claws had even shredded his armour undersuit. Gytha promised clothing would be provided but urged him to stay by the fire to keep warm, swathed in furs and blankets woven from goats’ wool.

He stared at the flames, cerebral processes quickening as he ate another haunch of venison, using fingers and teeth to rip the flesh from the bone. A small child – he could see a family resemblance with Gytha, presumably a daughter – moved to take the bone but he had not finished. He snapped the leg bone, splintering it between his fingers to get at the soft marrow within.

‘Good eating,’ he told the child, but she shrank back behind her mother, terrified. Gaius slurped down every scrap of protein, fat and gristle he could find, gnawing at the bone to get the last of it free. He was ravenous and despite the injury to his bowels he would need to eat a lot more to help the Belisarian Furnace power through this difficult phase.

Nearly the whole tribe must have come to look at him by now, most sating their curiosity before heading back to their beds, some still lingering at the edge of the firelight, peering from the darkness. Gytha had said little except to explain how he had been found, and he had shared nothing of his story. Now that he felt his immediate hunger satisfied he needed to work out what to do next.

‘I have failed,’ he said quietly, dropping the bone back to its wooden platter, eyes staring at a log falling to ash within the flames. The pride of killing the Blackmane had been replaced by the hollowness of knowing he would have died without the help of Gytha and the other tribesfolk. ‘The Test of Morkai, I failed.’

‘If you live, you have thwarted Morkai,’ Gytha replied. ‘That is all any of us can do.’

‘My thread was cut, my wyrd was met. I should have died.’

‘It was my wyrd to find you, and my thread that knotted yours so that it could continue. It was not meant to be.’

He looked at her, eyebrow raised.

‘Trust me, I am the gothi,’ she said with a half-smile.

Gaius nodded. ‘Very well, I will not argue with a gothi. Even so, I cannot return to the shame of my failure. I should be dead and now I am not. I am between lives, living on your thread.’

‘There is much you can still do with this life you have,’ Gytha told him. She pulled the daughter onto her lap and the girl snuggled into the furs, eyelids drooping. ‘Perhaps even restore your honour before the eyes of your companions.’

‘How so? I could not survive alone in the wilds of Fenris. I meant to prove that I was as good as any son of this world – better than a son of this world.’

‘I have a calling too, something I have to do.’ Gytha stroked the girl’s hair. It was the most natural and gentle thing Gaius could imagine, like nothing he could remember. Such tenderness seemed at odds with the determined look in the woman’s eye, the harshness that she must have lived through. ‘I must reach the Tower of the North and warn the Sky Warriors of a terrible danger.’

‘What danger?’ asked Gaius.

‘I have a vision, of a green beast attacking the wolf of the stars. Of a golden king. I do not know its meaning but perhaps your gothi might understand it.’

If what she said was true, Gytha was a psyker. On any other Imperial world she would be reported and taken for study by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Since the start of the Indomitus Crusade many tens of thousands had been seized by the Black Ships that followed the battle groups like nightcrows followed wolf packs.

But this was Fenris. She was gothi, and that made her sacred. Either way, the Rune Priests would want to know of her visions.

‘There is a sea and a continent between you and the Aett,’ he said.

She laughed and he realised the word sounded very domestic for a place wreathed in legend and glory.

‘You were also heading there, to prove yourself,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘Were you going to swim all that way?’

Gaius felt a stab of shame. He had no idea how he was going to cross the great seas, now that the worst of Helwinter was over and Fenris’ long journey back towards its star had begun.

‘Help us to build our ships,’ Gytha said, moving her gaze from the camp to the Space Marine. ‘Help us get to Asaheim so that I can speak with the gothi of the Sky Warriors.’

Gaius thought about this. He had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. He was, by the law of the Chapter, a deserter. Worse, he had failed to prove himself worthy of being one of their number. He was no Wolf of Fenris. Yet Cawl had given him a body that would survive centuries, possibly millennia, unless ended sooner by some further trauma visited upon it. Could he really spend hundreds of years in the wilds, with no purpose but to survive?

‘Alright,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘I will get you to the Aett.’

As much as he wished her success, Gaius could not deny to himself that part of him hoped he would die in the attempt and end his purgatory.

Chapter Twenty-three

BREAKING STORM
CUNNING RAIDERS
THE SEA DEVOURS

The Landsattmaringi were not renowned sailors and had survived for generations by only sailing close to the shore, moving inland when the great upheavals of the fire season shook Fenris. Gytha had no saltwater in her veins, had never spent more than a few hours on a deck before their current trials, but despite that, the sound of the wind in the ropes and the crash of the waves was a song in her heart.

Perhaps it was because she felt that, now they had been freed of the snow and ice, they were winging their way towards her destiny. There was certainly an air of freedom that came with scudding across the open waves rather than plodding through drifts of snow, face numb to the continual blizzard. Not that conditions were any better: the spit still threatened to freeze in her mouth and the wind was as sharp as a Geldmathr raider’s axe.

‘Tidebreaker says you best get down from there,’ called Bjorti. ‘Wind’s getting stronger and stronger.’

Gytha looked back from the prow and saw that the others were huddling closer to the mast and oar benches, abandoning the outer deck. Just beyond the stern the other ship followed, rising and falling on steep waves. Both longships had their sails heavily reefed against the strong winds, almost half their cloth gathered up by knotted rope. Tidebreaker stood beside the steerboard, which was in the sure grip of Fergas, running an experienced eye over sail, sea and sky.

There was a black smudge to the west, approaching fast, and even with her lack of experience Gytha could tell it was going to be a rough one. Flickers of lightning played through the cloud bank as it rushed onwards. A wrath-sky it was called, and Gotrin Tidebreaker had warned them that such storms were common in the north in Helwinter.

One figure stood apart – Gaius. The Sky Warrior rode the deck more comfortably than the most seasoned sailors, though he claimed to have never been on a longship before. His Allfather-gifted physique made him an invaluable help: in the days before launch he had carried loads normally reserved for ox-drags, and almost single-handedly fitted the masts. Even those that were still afraid of him, and there were some, had to admit that the giant was a handy person to have around.

‘Check all the straps and ropes,’ Gotrin commanded. ‘And find something to hold onto yourselves, if you can. This is going to be a real spine-hammer.’

The chief was not wrong and by mid-afternoon the sky was as dark as night, lit only by the lightning that leapt along the clouds. The sail was taken down and the spar stowed, with men at the oars to keep the boat underway enough for the rudder to bite. Along with most of the others, Gytha peered out from a shelter of tarred cloth that drummed with rain, Lufa, Agitta and Korit beside her. The rowers bent their backs, sure and steady to the shout of Bjorti, who kept up the rhythm with the same measured pace with which he wielded the hammer at the anvil.

The fore oars, both left and right, were held by Gaius. He had taken off his coat and his sleeveless jerkin revealed arms as big as the chests of the other oarsmen. Gytha almost believed he could row them to Asaheim by himself.

The wind came again and the rain became hail, hitting the mast and deck like arrowheads. Many of the rowers cried out as they were struck, but none left their position. Shields had been mounted on the gunwales to provide as much protection as possible; those rowers on the lee side suffered worst. Balls of ice started to build up on the deck, slowly at first but increasing as the hailstorm continued. The boards creaked more and more with each wave that hit, and Gytha could feel the ship wallowing in the troughs.

‘We are taking on too much weight,’ warned Tidebreaker. The aettjarl had tied himself to the mast, a shield in one hand raised against the hail. ‘The ice!’

‘We’ll clear it!’ said Lufa, plunging out from under the tar-cloth.

A few others his age, not big enough yet to row, followed him as he grabbed a shield and used it as a shovel, scooping the ice towards the lee side of the ship as it heeled over in the wind. Gytha watched with her heart in her throat, thinking that every crash of the wave on the bow, every surge of the deck beneath them, would send her son flying over the ship’s side. But her heart also burned with pride to see him: red-faced, almost crying with the stinging pain of hail strikes, battling alongside the others.

The rowers were finding it harder and harder to keep time. Bjorti’s voice faltered as thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky directly above the ship.

‘We’re weathering!’ shouted Tidebreaker. ‘We’ll be prow to the wind and lose the mast if we don’t stop!’

‘Stay here with Korit,’ Gytha told Agitta.

She rose from the shelter, wincing as ice struck her lip and cheek. Saving her breath, she ran over to Bjorti, almost losing her footing in the coating of ice that now sheened the deck. He looked at her in surprise as she grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the stern.

Seeing Fergas struggling, Bjorti understood what was needed, throwing his weight behind the man at the steerboard. Gytha stumbled to the weather side, almost falling on the last row of oarsmen as the ship pitched suddenly. Snatching up one of the shields she made her way back to the steerboard to protect the two while they guided the ship.

‘Go forward.’ Gaius strode along the deck, oblivious to the eyeball-sized hail bouncing from his arms and face. ‘Take the oars.’

Bjorti and Fergas relinquished the steerboard to his command and hurried to take up his place. Gaius pulled the steering oar over hard and Gytha could feel the ship twisting beneath her, smoothing its passage through the tossing waves. She hunkered down near the stern rail, which was better than trying to make her way back to the tar-cloth.

‘Where’s the other ship?’ Gaius called, his voice carrying easily over the tumult of the storm.

Gytha rose to peer over the gunwale. She could see barely seventy or eighty paces across the foam-flecked waves, but in the next flash of lightning, she saw much further. Nothing but knife-edged waves and storm clouds.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, shouting to burst her lungs, slumping back. ‘If you can’t see it, I never will.’

‘That’s true,’ said Gaius, looking aft again.

‘Any wreckage? A sail or boards?’

Gaius shook his head. ‘Nothing on the water. I think they are being driven leeward, they didn’t hold their course. Let’s hope there are no rocks or bergs out there.’

Let’s hope, thought Gytha, though hope was a scarce commodity. She had known some wouldn’t make it to Asaheim, but to lose half their people to the devouring seas was a hard blow to take.

It was impossible to say when day passed to night and into day again but Gaius kept his place at the steerboard throughout, when even the largest men at the oars had abandoned their fruitless task and sought shelter in the midship deck. He felt every shudder of the waves pounding at the hull, the lash of the ice rain slashing at his face and arms, the swell of the seas that threatened to tip the ship over. He quickly learned how to ride the gusts, to steer into the waves so that they broke along the prow rather than across the beam. Lightning crackled overhead and strange flame-like gleams danced about the mast-top – Breath of Fyrmirdra, the Tidebreaker called it.

At last the storm blew itself out, the clouds lightening until they became grey rags across a pale sky. Gaius had not seen the heavens since arriving. Looking up he saw the dark spot that was the Eye of Terror, and the pall of shifting mist that spilled from it – the Cicatrix Maledictum. The sight sent a pang of guilt through him: a reminder that he should have been out in the stars waging war for the lord regent.

In the light of day, he searched the horizon but saw no sign of the second ship, intact or otherwise. He told Gotrin Tidebreaker.

‘Sea’s a strange place,’ said the aettjarl. ‘You can be just a spit away from each other and one’ll be gripped in a current and another won’t. That was a ferocious blow last night, they might be halfway back to land or ahead of us.’

Others had slowly roused themselves as the conditions improved, fixing damage, rigging the sail, taking over from Gaius at the stern. Gytha joined them.

‘Can we wait for them?’ she asked.

‘While we make ready,’ said Tidebreaker, scratching his chin through his grey beard. ‘These are storm waters, though. We don’t want to linger.’

‘How long until another storm brews?’ asked Gaius, gazing up at the swirling clouds.

‘A day, maybe two at most.’ Gotrin flexed stiff fingers and twisted his head one way then the other, loosening his neck. ‘We’ll give them two days if we get it, then we have to carry on.’

As best as they could manage they sailed east and west, keeping an eye out for the second vessel. They looked for flotsam in the water or sign of birds that might be circling over any wreckage. Conditions began to worsen, the wind picking up towards dawn of the second day, the clouds bringing cold rain. Gaius could feel the energy sapping from the tribesfolk as he paced the deck, his superior eyes scanning their surrounds in the worsening light.

‘Is there some way to signal?’ he asked Tidebreaker as the blanket of night fell from horizon to horizon. ‘Some kind of fire or beacon so that they know where we are?’

‘We’ve got some firedust kept dry, but in this weather it’d be out before it was lit. Could rig up a storm lamp at the mast-top but it’s not very bright.’

This gave Gaius an idea and he sought out the smith, Bjorti, to acquire a sheet of metal. After some discussion Bjorti cut open a helm from one of the aettgard and with swift hammer blows Gaius smoothed it to a parabola on the anvil. Gaius then set Bjorti to polishing the curved inner side while he climbed to the masthead and lashed the lamp fast. The polished metal was passed up to him and with his legs braced around the spar he was able to reflect the light of the lamp. By leaning left and right he panned the metal back and forth, shining the lamp light from north to south and back again.

It wasn’t much, but Gaius felt it was better than nothing. He passed the night at the masthead, but by the time the first fronds of daylight were creeping over the waves there was still no sign of the other ship.

The last of the preparations were made and Tidebreaker was ready to steer the ship northwards. Gaius had remained at the lookout position, the lamp abandoned, gaze cast into the mists of distance. He felt the ship turning as they caught the east wind, picking up speed as the sail filled below him. Gaius decided to have one last look, staring at the horizon in every direction.

Just as he was about to give up and climb down, he saw a flicker of red to the south-east. He thought it a reflection of the dawn on a wave, but concentrating on the area revealed the speck was above the sea. It disappeared but reappeared a couple of seconds later.

‘Sail!’ he cried, pointing. ‘A sail!’

When he returned to spy the red dot again it was gone, and none below could see it, but Gaius was adamant and Tidebreaker ordered the ship about. After a few minutes the sail appeared again, bright in the sun against the backdrop of pale grey cloud.

By mid-morning the two ships were alongside. Ropes were thrown across and the two brought next to each other. There were shouts of joy from both and thanks offered up to the spirits of the sea. It pleased Gaius that he had brought them back together. Without his keen eyes the other vessel would have been lost.

The second ship had taken a pounding, the mast almost split in two and bound with rope, steerboard and aft planks showing signs of heavy repair. It was lower in the water, nowhere near as seaworthy as Tidebreaker’s ship.

‘There’s not enough room for all of us,’ Tidebreaker warned when some of the folks on the second ship wanted to come across.

‘We’ll be left behind again within two days,’ said Hengla Chainsleeves, who was captaining the second ship. She paced the mid-deck as she shouted over the strengthening wind. ‘We have to take time for proper mending.’

‘There isn’t the time,’ said Gotrin. ‘If you have your mast down, there’ll be a storm on us before you get it back up. You’ll be tossed over like a leaf in a waterfall.’

‘We can’t leave them behind,’ said Faeras, appearing from aft, a thick cloak wrapped about his narrow shoulders. ‘We need to find shelter. A bay to beach the ships and make repairs.’

‘There’re no islands in sight,’ said Gytha. ‘And the longer we take to get to Asaheim, the more chance our warning will be too late.’

‘You’d just abandon them?’ said the elder.

Gaius loomed over them, shadowing the group with his bulk.

‘There’s got to be another way,’ Gytha said. ‘If we can work together.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Faeras, though his body language didn’t match the vehemence of his tongue as he backed away from Gaius. ‘Is he going to drag us all to Asaheim?’

‘Some of the oars are broken,’ Gaius said, ignoring the man’s barbs. He knitted his fingers through each other, holding out his hands to show them. ‘Use them to lash the two ships. They’ll be more stable together.’

‘And slower,’ said Tidebreaker, casting a look at Gytha. Clearly he meant to defer the decision to her, but Gaius intervened.

‘Not by much, with two sails to catch the wind,’ he said.

‘Nobody has sailed like that,’ protested the aettjarl. ‘Two sails? Guided by two steerboards?’

‘I’m sure it can be done, with some practice.’ Gaius would do everything in his power to ensure their success. His honour now depended on it. ‘Do you not appreciate a challenge?’

Gotrin didn’t look happy but gave a nod anyway. ‘Aye, right, it might work.’

‘And risk us all?’ snapped Faeras.

‘Yes, all together,’ growled Gaius. ‘The one needs the other.’

‘Both ships make it or none,’ declared Gytha.

Logan Grimnar had barely been seen since his declaration. Njal had tried several times to speak with the Great Wolf but Logan was not prepared to entertain any argument. Ulrik, who had adopted the Great Wolf’s edict as though it was a command from the Allfather Himself, was similarly unable to get audience.

Instead the two senior warriors of the Aett found themselves several times in the company of Captain Hurak as they figured out what would happen next. They met in one of the upper chambers close to the halls given over to the primarch and his entourage, but saw no sign of Guilliman. The primarch had chosen to remain in the stronghold and make use of its facilities with permission of the Great Wolf, as elements of Battle Group Alpharis arrived and departed the Fenris System according to his latest requirements. Njal wondered whether this was an excuse to linger for some time, to give Grimnar a chance to reverse his decision. Hurak argued otherwise, reminding the Runelord that Fenris had stable warp transition compared to many other nearby systems and made a sensible mustering point.

At their fourth miniature conclave, over cups of fyrkaf, which Hurak had taken an obvious liking to, they discussed the mission at Gottrok and the immediate future of Battle Group Alpharis.

‘Logan won’t have it,’ said Ulrik in response to an offer from Hurak to send some of the Unnumbered Sons to assist with the space hulk. ‘And he’d be right. There are plenty of other battles for them to fight, without the risk of being drawn into the othersea for eternity.’

‘I know the Great Wolf is not a fool, but this seem foolish to me,’ confessed the captain. ‘This talk of the Wolftime, the return of Leman Russ, is not a solid base for a strategy.’

‘Not everything about war is rational,’ said Ulrik. ‘Not more than ten days ago you spoke of how the name of our Chapter is a rallying cry on the lips of our allies. We are just a few hundred Space Marines but we have that effect. The Wolf King, the Wolftime he foretold, is part of who we are, more than just a gene-father. It is to earn glory in his eyes and the Allfather’s that we have fought so hard for ten thousand years. To know he will return, has sworn to do so even from beyond death, is to understand that we are part of something greater, that our wyrd will carry us through all turmoil to be united with him again.’

‘I understand some of that,’ said Hurak. ‘Corax, my gene-sire, disappeared into myth as well. I would give my life to see him returned to the Imperium in its greatest time of need. But I must also understand that he is not here, and in his absence it is upon my honour to do what is right in his place. The orks are massing. Not randomly, but with purpose. Something that has not happened for thousands of years. The Indomitus Crusade is an incredible undertaking, but I am not so proud that I cannot admit we need leadership. The Unnumbered Sons are formidable, and we have swiftly gained experience in fierce battle, but it takes decades, centuries to make captains and Chapter Masters worthy of commanding such forces. It is only right that all Chapters, especially the First Founding legends, are part of that leadership.’

‘Hope has no meat on it, as we say,’ said Ulrik. ‘We’ve shown you where Gottrok is, and what we plan to do, the rest is up to your strategos and whatever.’

Hurak shook his head and downed the last contents of his mug. He regarded the empty vessel with a sad look.

‘Our wyrd is tied with the orks, I have seen it,’ Njal said, trying to reassure the captain. ‘Though I have warned against the dangers I do not think this will be our last battle, though that may be fast coming. Since the Everdusk tore open our skies I have heard its cacophony behind everything, but of late it has been eclipsed by another thunder. A roar, bestial and wordless, unceasing for breath to be taken. Not the rage of the bloodmonger but the bellow of ork gods, challenging the power of the Allfather. Sometimes the howl of the wolf is lost in the clamour, but still it is there. It is quite simple. Either the Wolf King returns for the last battle, or this is not our last battle. Either would be good news for the Imperium.’

Though he looked unconvinced, Hurak said nothing else. As the Primaris captain stood, he patted a pile of documents and maps that charted the next movements of the battle group and other nearby forces, but Njal doubted the Great Wolf would look at them. Hurak’s last glance was at the empty mugs.

‘Perhaps if we meet again I might try some mjod.’ He smiled and raised his hand in salute. ‘We are destined for lives of war and bloody deaths, but it would be good to meet again in circumstances less dire.’

‘This is the best time for a warrior to be alive!’ declared Ulrik, following the Primaris Marine to the door with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Plenty of foes and glory to share.’

When the heavy wood of the door thudded back into its frame, the Slayer turned around, his expression grim.

‘I think our fate is more closely tied to the actions of Guilliman than our own,’ said Njal. ‘Even if we survive Gottrok there are too many orks, too many foes of all kinds.’

‘You said it yourself,’ said Ulrik. ‘We cannot die until the Wolftime.’

Njal sighed and stood up, taking his staff in hand.

‘I was offering reassurance. There are many that have become undone by doing nothing and simply wishing their wyrd to carry them to a foreseen victory. As one that has cast the runes and seen the boiling othersea, I would not set so much store by prophecy.’

‘Whatever happened here, I think we may be too late,’ said Captain Bargoza.

The central viewport focused on a field of debris and plasma residue a few hundred thousand miles from the translation point. Further in-system, perhaps a million miles, an intermittent glint betrayed the position of the warp relay station that had guided the Heretics’ Reward to the Korshak System.

‘At least three vessels, all attacked within hours of each other.’

‘Ambush,’ said Vychellan. He stood between the captain and Mudire. On the other side of Bargoza was Captain Som, head of the detachment from the 394th Deltic Lions. She was shorter than Bargoza but broad in shoulder, her physique emphasised by the carapace breastplate and shoulder pads that were part of her uniform armour. Her helm mask and goggles were clipped to her belt, revealing a flat face with brown, active eyes. The puckered scar of a wound marked her right cheek.

‘Not just the Navigators drawn to the beacon,’ said Som. ‘The orks must have found merchant ships gathering for convoy. Separated from their escorts.’

‘If they even had escorts,’ added Bargoza. ‘Too many duties, not enough ships, even before the losses we’ve suffered the last few years.’

‘I am still detecting the broadcast from the beacon outpost.’

They all turned at the quiet voice of Lesaso Yaoic, the ship’s young astropath. Young being a relative term, given that he was in his twenties Terran-standard, but the Soulbinding had already aged him at least two more decades. His green hood had fallen back to reveal shoulder-length, greying black hair, a short-cropped beard of the same.

‘The orks have not attacked the station.’

‘That seems wrong,’ said Mudire. ‘Not like orks to leave survivors, unless someone else got here before us and scared them off.’

‘Our Navigator detected no evidence of recent warpwash and the battle debris is no more than ten days old,’ said Bargoza. She looked at Som. ‘Are your squads ready to land on the beacon station to check all is well?’

‘Ready and willing,’ replied the Tempestus Scions captain. ‘We’ve been stuck on your ship for weeks now. A leg-stretch would be welcome. Maybe even a fight. Just a small one.’

‘We have already delayed our arrival at Himhertha, is there any reason to remain here longer?’ said Vychellan.

‘My counterpart on the beacon station has continued to repeat his call for assistance,’ said Lesaso. ‘If the threat has passed, he seems unaware of it. At the least we need to make sure there is not a contingent of orks abandoned on the station, and besieging the defenders, don’t you think? If not, others may respond in error to their continued distress messages.’

‘We’ll have to decelerate hard to deploy the troop carriers, but it shouldn’t take more than a day to reach the station and back to the Mandeville point that’ll take us towards Himhertha,’ Bargoza told Mudire.

Vychellan knew it was not his order to give and a delay of perhaps another day was acceptable, but he did not like the idea of their mission being considered secondary to other military needs. Every battle risked failure. Like the crusade itself, an accumulation of small adjustments could end up drastically altering its purpose.

‘We might get some idea of what happened,’ said Mudire. ‘Himhertha can wait a little longer.’

‘Will you be joining us, Custodian?’ Captain Som asked.

Vychellan was fully armoured, as always, so preparation was no issue. Like the Tempestors it had been some time since he had experienced battle. As he had told Mudire, he was conditioned to be patient, but that was not the same as enjoying the tedium of inaction.

‘Yes, I would like that,’ he told Som, though he thought there would be little challenge for him, accompanied by a hundred and fifty of the Astra Militarum’s finest storm troopers.

Sailing north took them out of the storm belt, though the wind grew chiller and the first floating ice isle appeared. Their lower portions extending far out from what could be seen on the surface, moved by the same winds and currents that carried the lashed ships, the city-sized icebergs were surrounded by flotillas of smaller floes and sheets. Gaius kept constant watch, looking for telltale darkness in the water, shouting instructions to the pilots at the steerboards while Gotrin and Hengla trimmed the sails together.

It was painstaking, draining work for the crews, made the more difficult when the wind rounded northerly, forcing them to tack back and forth every few miles to keep on course towards Asaheim. Each manoeuvre threatened to pull the ships apart, foul the steerboards or break one of the masts, and the watch crew were changed and rested frequently. The routine became settled with practice but both captains kept a sharp eye to make sure there was no laxness or presumption that put the ships at risk. Gaius remembered Drogr’s squad operating together in the same way, utterly at ease with each other, but communicating non-stop to ensure all was well.

Fortunately the increasingly frequent snow provided water to catch in emptied barrels, and there was plentiful food from the last hunt on shore – despite Gaius’ prodigious appetite and the energy-sapping labours of the crews.

The night skies sometimes cleared, revealing the baleful gaze of the Eye of Terror and Great Rift, a scarlet-and-purple wound on reality that waxed and waned by the hour. Gaius could not see well enough by its dim light to warn of underwater hazards and so the sails were taken down and the dual-ship crawled forward under the power of a few oarsmen, with others at the front poling the water to check for obstructions.

Before midnight, the Tidebreaker called for a halt, sending all but a handful of folks to their sleep, himself included. Gaius had recuperated with snatches of sleep during the day and so stayed awake with the men and women stationed fore, aft and at the mastheads to watch for icebergs. The Space Marine kept a slow, steady patrol from ship to ship, letting his gaze wander over the rippling waters, trusting to periphery vision to warn of incoming dangers.

It was this that alerted him to the stream of effervescence about one hundred and fifty yards off the starboard bow. Striding over the lashed ships, he looked closer, picking out the bubbles as they caught flickers of starlight. They were now a hundred yards away and heading straight for the ships.

‘Arise, arise!’ he bellowed, stamping a massive foot on the deck planks. ‘Wake up! To arms!’

The crews roused around him, yelling in shock and inquiry. He saw a long, thick body sliding through the water, a frond of growths around a serpentine head. Gaius judged it at least a hundred feet long before it sank out of sight about forty yards from the ship.

‘Back from the water!’ Gaius warned, waving the lookouts to retreat. He glanced up at the watchers on the masthead. ‘Hold tight!’

He had raised the alarm just in time. A few seconds later something smashed into the bottom of the rightmost ship – Hengla’s vessel. The impact lifted the prow from the water, sending people falling along the deck. Aettgard and others struggled forwards, their spears and axes at the ready as the ships righted themselves.

‘It’s beneath us,’ called Hengla, standing at the base of the mast, one arm wrapped about the wood, a short sword in the other.

Gaius felt the ships rising on the swell of water caused by the beast’s passage. He strode aft, taking up a spear and a double-bladed axe. A froth of bubbles erupted under the stern, moments before the two men at the steerboard were flung sideways into the water by a sudden impact.

A fanged maw erupted from the waters, swallowing one of the struggling men. As the serpent snapped at the other, it became entangled in the cable that had linked the steerboards. The terrified sailor dragged himself up the mass of broken wood and rope, hauled the last few yards by the hands of others. The sea creature pushed out of the waves, parted rope dangling from its curved teeth.

Gaius threw the spear with all of his strength and weight behind it. The iron tip pierced scaled flesh around the mouth, cutting a deep gash along the sea serpent’s face. The wave of its emergence lifted the ship, and Gaius almost lost his footing. Around him others fell again, filling the night with cries of pain and the thud of armour as they bounced along the deck boards. Gaius felt icy water washing over his booted feet.

‘We’re holed below the water,’ cried Hengla, discovering the cause.

The serpent reared out of the spume, its head almost as high as the top of the mast, jaw wide. Like the tentacles of a squid, the growths that fringed its head lashed forward, swiping at Gaius and others, one coiling about the remains of the steerboard. The creature thrashed sideways, tearing at timbers, lifting men and women screaming into the night air.

‘To the other ship!’ bellowed Gaius, snatching up a second axe. He hewed at the tentacles clinging to the stern and mast, parting each with a single blow. ‘Get to the other ship!’

Hengla and others took up the call, taking crew and children across the precariously lashed poles and planks while waves dashed over the prow of the stricken ship and surged along the decking. Knee-deep in water, Gaius hacked at the ropes binding the craft together.

‘What are you doing?’ bellowed one of the men from Tidebreaker’s ship. ‘We’ve no room for all!’

‘This is the only way!’ Gaius shouted back, slashing through a wrist-thick cable that tethered the remnants of the steerboards to each other. Splintered wood bobbed up on the next wave.

A fresh round of bellows and screams turned Gaius back to the serpent. It had one of the aettgard in its jaws, raining broken mail links and blood. Two others, soaked with water, laden by their armour, swiped and stabbed at the creature with little effect, their axes slicing scales but finding no deeper purchase; they did not have the reach to land a meaningful blow across the gap between ship and serpent.

Gaius slammed his axe blades into the deck. With his hands now freed, he grabbed one of the fighters by his coat, turning to throw the warrior across to the other ship. He landed hard but alive. The second turned in surprise and swiftly followed, propelled by the Primaris Marine’s powerful arms, her shout short-lived as she tumbled heavily on the other deck.

Now alone on the sinking vessel Gaius took up his axes and slashed the beard of one across the jaw of the serpent as it swept down towards him. Blood splashed and the thing reared back, tentacles flailing in pain.

Gaius took the moment to hack again at the bindings holding the ships together, splintering wood and parting rope with each blow. As he cut the ships apart he caught the eye of someone on the other vessel staring at him. It was Gytha, almost obscured by the dark and spray.

‘It’s going!’

Gytha turned around at a shout from Bjorti, one hand still holding tight to Korit’s arm. Lufa was with his father, dragging at a piece of rope holding the two ships together. People were shouting and screaming, some trying to organise the work, others terrified by the monster that loomed over the other boat.

Her gaze drifted across to the adjoining vessel as the crowd parted for a few seconds. Gaius stood on the capsizing ship, axe in each hand. His fierce gaze met hers and words flooded back: The one needs the other.

How quickly that sentiment had proven false.

She watched as the last of the ropes parted beneath the fall of the Sky Warrior’s axe, even as the sea serpent slid higher, its bulk heaving onto the tilting ship. She saw every detail as Gaius turned, blood drops flying from the beard of one axe and falling from the serpent’s descending fangs. Lamplight flickered from the blade edge as the axe swept upwards, while Gaius seemed to fall, the ship breaking in two as the full weight of the sea beast crashed down upon it.

A few arrows and axes flew across the widening divide, missing or bouncing harmlessly from the serpent’s scales. Her last view of Gaius was of one axe buried haft-deep in the serpent’s neck, the other pulled back for another blow. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, coating his face and chest as he slid down the breaking planks.

The serpent dived, dragging debris and the Sky Warrior with it, a huge froth of red bubbles and broken timbers spraying upwards from the remains of the ship. Aft first, the vessel slid down into the water, air escaping to wash red froth over the side of the surviving ship.

Mudire found himself called back to the strategium just half an hour after he had returned to tell the other historitors what was happening. Vychellan was already there, or perhaps had never left, but Captain Som was organising her troops in the modified hangar bays in the lower portion of the ship. She was there in spirit, via an intervox link.

‘At closer range we detected several larger masses among the debris field,’ Bargoza reported. ‘Two merchant ships and the remains of an Imperial light cruiser.’

‘So they had an escort after all?’ suggested Mudire. ‘And the orks were strong enough to take them out.’

‘But there’s no evidence of an attack on the beacon, as far as our surveyors can detect,’ added the ship’s captain.

‘So the landing is off?’ Som sounded disappointed.

‘It would seem so,’ said Vychellan. ‘I am surprised that you have not been able to contact any of the station inhabitants to tell them the threat has passed.’

‘I did,’ said Bargoza. ‘They have ceased their distress signalling.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mudire, remembering how despondent the captain had been at the thought of arriving too late to help. ‘We came as quickly as we could, but we weren’t close enough.’

‘If we hadn’t gathered at Fenris…’ The captain’s expression turned to anger. ‘Patrols would have swept through here weeks ago.’

‘Also not your fault,’ Vychellan told her.

Mudire looked at the artificially rendered clouds of gas and plasma on the oculus, three red runes depicting where the Imperial vessels had been.

‘Was the light cruiser one of yours?’ asked Mudire. ‘From Battle Fleet Alpharis or another part of Primus?’

‘We picked up an identifier, not one of ours.’ Bargoza turned to a subordinate, who passed her a hard copy of the surveyor reports. ‘No void shield operating, there seems to be a reactor leak, all comms dead. Nothing in our registry, so we had to decode the name. The Rigorous.’

Mudire turned, his attention moving from the oculus to Vychellan. ‘Why does that name seem familiar? I must have read it or heard it somewhere recently.’

‘The first vessel dispatched to Fenris carrying Primaris gene-seed was named the Rigorous,’ the Custodian answered without hesitation. ‘It was believed lost in the warp.’

‘Nearly three years ago!’ Mudire stared at the display. ‘Why is it here, now, attacked by orks?’

‘Captain, stand to, battle orders,’ snapped Vychellan.

‘We’re at ready quarters already, but there’s no point going to full alert. There’s nothing to engage.’

‘Scan the Rigorous again,’ insisted Mudire, moving towards the lieutenant beside Bargoza. ‘Something is wrong. Full surveyor report.’

‘It’s crippled, historitor,’ the officer protested. ‘Drifting in the void.’

‘Sir, the latest sweep indicates a possible power surge in the engine decks,’ a petty officer reported from the lower deck of the strategium. She glanced uncertainly at her superior before continuing. ‘We thought it could be a system failure or another reactor shield collapsing.’

‘The Rigorous was not the escort, it was the attacker,’ growled Vychellan. ‘The beacon was a lure for us as well.’

‘Orks do that?’ Bargoza looked from the Custodian to Mudire. ‘That seems–’

‘The Rigorous is powering up,’ the surveyor lieutenant gasped, reading the scroll of data on his screen. ‘And heading straight for us.’

Chapter Twenty-four

THE EMPEROR’S VENGEANCE
SURVIVOR
ASAHEIM

The banging of drums and blare of horns was accompanied by a very different kind of shouting, but to Orad and the other former Naval crew the meaning was immediately familiar: battle alert. It was the second time since they had dropped from warp and Orad knew what came next. The orks grunted, snarled and bellowed in their bestial language, fangs flashing in the half-light of the gun decks. Grots exploded into activity around them, cackling and shrieking as their larger companions kicked and swiped at them. The biggest orks – the ones bedecked in heavier armour and extravagant coats – stomped back and forth, roaring out orders that added to the general mayhem rather than stilling it.

Orad felt sickened by the sight, to see xenos filth in the heart of the once noble Rigorous, likely about to again unleash the guns once sworn to the service of the Emperor against the Divine Throne’s servants. There was a chance that the orks attacked heretics or other xenos, but it was impossible to know from the depths of the vessel.

For the most part, the last few weeks had been relatively calm for the slaves. There had been three nightmarish trips through the warp, but this time, rather than the haunting incursions of the abyssal denizens, Orad’s waking dreams had been brutal visions of green conquest. He had heard the names of the ork gods in his sleep over and over – Gork and Mork, Mork and Gork – and had sometimes woken to repetitive, guttural chanting from his captors. If he had to guess he would have said the Geller fields had been removed, replaced by some kind of orkish equivalent, powered by their own war-hungry souls, their mobbed orkishness enough to keep the predators of the warp at bay.

The deck rumbled and a crash shook the ship as the upper guns fired. They were longer-ranged even than the macrocannons of the main decks, but Orad couldn’t imagine how the orks would discharge them with any kind of accuracy without the cogitators and firing solutions from a strategium. One answer was a sharp increase in the constant vibrations from the engines, setting everything shaking as the orks powered through the void at increasing velocity, charging towards their target, as they had the Rigorous. Orad and everybody aboard knew that despite appearances, it could be a terrifyingly effective tactic, and his thoughts drifted back to the modified ramming-plough mounted at the ship’s bow.

But the ex-Rigorous was not laid out like the ork-built ships the humans had slaved to build, with a profusion of front-mounted weapons perfectly suited for a headlong charge. The former light cruiser was strongest to the flanks, favouring the Imperial Naval tactic of the line and broadside. Orad felt himself grow lighter and the tug of changing momentum as ork mechanics diverted power from the gravity plates, activating the turning thrusters whilst the ship thrashed forward.

Though Orad couldn’t pick out a particular order from amongst the ork bellows, the main guns to starboard erupted into a sudden thunderous life, shellfire booming haphazardly along the deck. It took nearly thirty seconds for all of the guns to finish, leaving Orad and the other ex-gunners shaking their heads in disgust. It was not just an affront to the spirit of the Rigorous, it was an insult to every man and woman that had been fined rations or flogged for tardiness on these same decks. Part of Orad wanted to show the orks how it was meant to be done, but soon any such thoughts were lost as the overseers descended on their charges, whips biting, barking unintelligibly but their meaning clear enough. The slaves set to the chains, heaving on the thick links, working by their own rhythm to hoist up shell-loaded mesh cradles from the magazines below.

There were not enough of them to load every gun simultaneously and so the orks worked them along the deck while flank thrusters turned the ship hard to the other side, letting the port-side guns have a look at the target. The slaves had finished loading perhaps a third of the guns when the crash of impacts rang out from above, sending dust and debris raining down into the deck space from the ceiling.

‘Hits!’ someone cried out. ‘We’re taking fire.’

The orks’ whips silenced any further speculation, but another resounding salvo slammed into the Rigorous before the port guns roared back.

There’ll be no warning of a breach. The thought came to Orad as he hauled on a chain, pulling the shell above him towards the open breech of a macrocannon. The next salvo could end you right now. You are going to die here.

Is this how you want to die?

He stopped, letting go of the chain. The others around him continued on, dodging his immobile form to drag the shell into place. An overseer snarled and pulled back its lash. Orad turned and held out an arm as the whip slashed forward. He took it on his forearm, the barbs biting into muscle even as he flicked his wrist and grabbed the whip, seizing it in both hands. The ork was unprepared and Orad’s thick muscle was its equal, dragging it from its feet and across the decking with a flex of whip-scarred shoulders and chest.

The ork fumbled for a pistol but others saw what was happening and reacted, spurred by the impossible suddenly seeming possible. A loop of chain smashed into the ork as it tried to stand, and then another was slung about its neck, half a dozen humans hauling it sharply to snap the greenskin’s spine. Grots yammered warnings and other slavers lumbered towards the commotion, not as swiftly as the spirit of resistance rippled out through the slaves.

‘For the Emperor!’ bellowed Orad, snatching up the dead overseer’s pistol in both hands.

As he charged, surrounded by a knot of dozens of slaves baying and shouting for ork blood, crying prayers to the Emperor, the starboard hull exploded into burning metal.

‘Wait!’ Mudire almost grabbed hold of Captain Bargoza as she raised her hand towards the officer at the gunnery station, about to give the signal to open fire again. ‘It’s not firing back!’

‘An ideal opportunity to finish them off,’ the captain said, staring at him. He realised he was too close and stepped back. ‘Their shields are down, we have clear shots along the broadside. We can break them with a few more solid hits.’

‘This ship went missing on its way to Fenris, carrying prized Primaris Marine technology,’ Mudire explained, clasping his hands to prevent himself gesturing too aggressively. ‘We need to find out where it has been and how it arrived in this state. If its auto-logs are still functioning we might learn something about where the orks have been. Where the orks are based…’

‘It could return to full capability at any moment,’ Bargoza said with a shake of the head. ‘I’d be a fool not to finish them off while we have the chance.’

‘Look, I know my authority doesn’t extend to military action, and I’m not a Naval officer. I have, however, seen enough void battles in the last years to know when an enemy is crippled.’ He looked at the listing, burning light cruiser slowly turning in the oculus lens. ‘That ship is half our mass and its functioning guns are on the other side, if it has any at all. At the first sign of trouble we can blow them out of the void.’

‘So what do you propose? Boarding?’

‘Exactly that,’ said Mudire. He lowered his voice, appealing rather than demanding. ‘We need to seize that ship and find out where it has been. It could lead us to one of the ork strongholds from where they’ve been attacking this region. Captain Som and her detachment are ready for action.’

‘When we have forces over there, we can’t engage.’

‘It’s her troopers that will risk their lives,’ said Mudire.

Bargoza stared at him for a few seconds and then gestured to her vox-officer. ‘Hail Captain Som.’

It took a few seconds for the Tempestus Scions commander to respond.

‘I have Historitor Mudire requesting a boarding manoeuvre,’ Bargoza said heavily, eyes fixed on him. ‘He thinks you could recover valuable information about the ork threat.’

‘We have the ability to conduct a void assault if you give us preparatory fire,’ Som replied. She sounded quite keen, though Mudire admitted that may have been wishful thinking on his part.

‘We can coordinate for full gunnery support,’ Bargoza confirmed.

‘We got dressed up for a fight, we might as well have one.’

Filling all three lungs just before the water swallowed him, Gaius allowed himself to be pulled down by the debris and serpent, relaxing rather than fighting a battle he could not win. The monster was entangled in rigging and planks, its movements slower beneath the waves as it swung its head from side to side trying to dislodge the mass. Neck-tentacles splayed out, prising away snapped beams and tugging at snarls of rope.

Smaller than his foe, Gaius was able to kick clear, heading from beneath the sinking ship into clearer water. Plate-size eyes followed him, the serpent bleeding from the wounds to its face and flank. A tentacle lashed out, coiling about Gaius’ ankle. His waterlogged furs pulled at him even more than the serpent. With a careful slice he cut the rope belt holding them on, letting them slip down into the darkness.

Beast and man continued to sink until the tiny spark of light from the ship lantern was gone. In this lightlessness Gaius relied on smell and taste as much as memory-sense of where the serpent was; its blood on the water was bitter and strong. The axes were poor weapons for submarine fighting, their strength being the gain of momentum from the swing of their heavy heads, but they were better than bare hands. He altered his grip as another tentacle swung around his waist out of the gloom, grasping each weapon just below the head so that the blades ran along the line of his knuckles.

As he expected, he did not need to find the creature; he felt the coiling limbs dragging him closer – presumably towards the waiting maw. The taste of blood in the water was almost overpowering and he judged himself just a foot away from swordlike fangs closing on his flesh, piercing limb and organ with ease despite augmented muscle and bone.

Gaius slashed, not quite blindly, one axe from left to right, the other in the opposite direction. The blade in his right hand hit something enough to bite, snagging as a new spurt of blood billowed through the taste of salt, filling his nostrils, hot on his tongue. He attacked the same spot again with the second axe, pulling the first free. He hewed and punched again and again without pause.

Sharpness tore along the outside of his left thigh even as a fang pierced his shoulder. The serpent couldn’t locate its prey properly either, the eyes on the side of its head unable to see the warrior almost inside the span of its jaw. Twisting, Gaius avoided the closing teeth from penetrating his body any deeper, blocking out the pain that flared from both injuries. Oxygen in his lungs was getting low, even with a gene-seed-grown third organ to drain every molecule of it from his last breath.

Sudden weight pulled him down, frond-limbs tight about his wrist and waist. Gaius thought the serpent intended to drag him to the bottom to drown, but he felt a tooth scrape along his cheek, the jaw flapping without strength beside his head. Lack of pressure waves indicated the beast was not moving.

The serpent was dead. In his fury Gaius had severed a vein or artery perhaps. That did not mean it would not be his doom. Its corpse sank Gaius towards his demise.

He would run out of air long before the pressure of the deep sea crushed his body. It would not be pleasant, but it would be an end. He had saved the ship, though perhaps not for long given its bad state, and the fact it was now also overladen with people. But it was a fitting conclusion to his saga. Should Gytha or one of the others give account for him, they would have a tale to tell, if a little incomplete in its origins.

Word might also reach the Aett if they survived. Drogr and Ullr and all of the others would know they had been right. But they would also know that he had done more than attempted the Test of Morkai. Gaius had, for a short time at least, found a place on Fenris. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with the brave inhabitants and ridden a storm-tossed deck. He had tasted the blood of a Blackmane and the salt of the seas.

Balka, said a voice deep inside his thoughts. You cannot fight your wyrd but you can turn it to your glory.

It was not in him to accept death. Whether pushed by his own spirit, the teachings implanted by Cawl, or the thought of leaving Gytha and the others to finish their quest alone, Gaius could not simply allow himself to die.

His chest hurt, his head pounded like a rock subjected to all the waves of the ocean. He managed to focus long enough to use the axes to slice through the coiled tentacles, freeing himself from their death grip. Letting the weapons fall, he kicked, pushing out and pulling back his long arms to propel himself with his last strength.

Yard by yard he ascended, eyes aching, heart bursting.

Like a leviathan of the deep Gaius breached the surface, taking in a great draught of air as his head crashed from the waves. He went under again briefly but returned to take another breath seconds later, treading water as he surveyed the ocean.

Pieces of rope and plank, tatters of cloth and empty barrels littered the sea, bobbing up and down on ripples of water. The wind was calm and the clouds had gathered close, filling the sky with darkness. He looked for any sign of the ship. Eventually he spied a spark in the distance, rising and falling with the waves. A lantern still alight at the masthead.

Would they wait for him?

Probably not. The wind was fresh and strong, veering to the east again, driving them northwards.

With long, deliberate strokes of his aching shoulder, his pain-filled legs kicking through the choppy water, Gaius set out after the distant gleam.

‘…but I knew that I could redeem myself if only I could find something that was the equal of my sin, and so that was why I couldn’t take it any more knowing that we were probably firing on the Emperor’s servants, and that was the worst but there’s more to come – and we saw the starships, not just the ones that they took from the Emperor but the ones we helped build, and I wished I had died and had never carried a single rivet because that blood is on my soul just like the blood of those that died when the guns opened fire, as much as if I had fired them, and if I had been brave enough to fight them I would have been killed, and not there, and in death duty ends as the ensign used to say – but they tore him apart, bloody rags of his shirt, and broke his bones, and so many others broke and I didn’t break because I knew I had to atone, and the beast is coming back but we didn’t see the beast, but the traitor said that Ghazghkull has returned, and I wish I had been strong like Yarrick and fought them but I was not, and this is my punishment for letting that blood spill onto my hands rather than letting my blood spill onto the deck, because…’

Mudire quietly shut the door to the officers’ shrine, closing off the man’s monologue. ‘He’s been like this since you found him?’

‘Not immediately,’ replied Vychellan. ‘He was silent, in shock. Almost attacked us when we heaved the ork bodies off him.’

‘And no other survivors?’

‘It was pretty much a miracle he was still alive. As you can guess, he hasn’t been very useful with the details of how that happened. Sifting through the madness of anguish and guilt, I would say the slaves started fighting the orks on board the ship during the battle.’

‘That was when they stopped firing back?’

‘It seems so. He was at the front of the uprising and broke out of the main gun deck before our broadside hit and a bulkhead closed between him and the void. All the others were slain by the orks or perished of void exposure. The xenos in other parts of the ship butchered others where they were, once the assault boats were on their way.’

‘Have you been able to ask him direct questions?’ The pair started down the passage towards the historitors’ quarters, and Mudire gave a nod to Preacher Thanius as the shrine’s master turned the corner ahead. It was into his care that the stranger had been passed, on being brought to the Heretics’ Reward.

‘It was asking what had happened that triggered this reaction,’ said Vychellan. ‘Like breaking a dam.’

‘But what he is saying is the truth, just jumbled up?’ Mudire had seen the transcript created by the Custodian and some of it seemed to slide into the realm of pure fantasy. ‘Or is that part of his madness? He talks about a traitor commissar and Ghazghkull returning in a grand alliance with other warlords. Orks building starbases the size of moons and an advanced weapon that ripped the Rigorous out of the warp. And ork gods!’

‘Whether he can tell fact from fiction is impossible for me to say,’ said Vychellan. They reached the conveyor that would take them up to the wardroom. ‘Other than the mania, he seems earnest. He’s been compliant, even passive, able to perform rudimentary functions without effort. It is difficult to accept everything he relates as being a true account, rather than distorted by his mental breakdown. It is clear the orks showed more cunning than we gave them credit for, capturing an Imperial vessel and using an Imperial beacon to lay their ambush. Against this we have tales of a grand alliance between warlords, armadas being raised, gods being worshipped. Perhaps there was a starbase but his memory has exaggerated its size, along with the scale of the industry undertaken by the orks.’

The conveyor arrived and Mudire stepped aboard. Vychellan did not follow.

‘Are you not returning to quarters?’

‘Captain Som lost forty-eight of her Tempestors in the assault on the Rigorous, she has asked if I would attend their memorial.’

‘Perhaps I should…’ Mudire stepped towards the door of the conveyor but Vychellan held up his hand.

‘I do not think that would be wise,’ said the Custodian. ‘It was your idea to send the storm troopers aboard. Her soldiers fought well but we gained little profit from their deaths. You wear a uniform but you are not a soldier.’

‘Som made the decision!’ Mudire felt the guilt like a pain in his chest, betraying the lie. Vychellan’s stare did not waver and Mudire’s gaze dropped to the floor of the conveyor cage. ‘She wouldn’t have had the decision to make if I hadn’t insisted on stopping the bombardment.’

Vychellan closed the conveyor door with a clatter and Mudire felt the lurch of the motors dragging the lift up. He regarded his fingernails, trying not to think about what else he had been responsible for, knowingly or not. How many lives to secure a temple, palace or library that could have been flattened from orbit? What price was worth paying for the truth?

It was with this morbid thought that Mudire entered the wardroom and found the other historitors gathered around the plain metal table that swung down from the ceiling when the room’s four bunks were not in use. They all stared at him as he stepped over the threshold.

‘Were you intending to keep these to yourself?’ said Copla-var, lifting up a sheaf of papers that Mudire recognised as the transcript of the survivor’s ‘testimony’.

‘It was my intention not to distract you from other work,’ the senior historitor replied. ‘It seems I failed.’

‘This kind of evidence is almost priceless,’ said Ahlek. ‘An actual witness from an ork-held world that survived to speak of their experience.’

‘A man driven insane by torture, near starvation and isolation, coupled with crippling survivor guilt and religious mania.’ Mudire sat down, one hand to his brow. ‘That is not a witness, and this is not evidence.’

‘Are we to pick and choose what counts as the truth?’

Mudire was warp-fatigued, his mood all the worse for the conversation with Vychellan and Forgewelt’s question felt like an accusation.

‘Truth?’ he snapped. ‘We pick the truth every time we compile a report or collate testimony. We shape everything we write, consciously or not. History is not a truth, but a plurality of stories, an interleaving texture of experience with very few facts and a lot of assumptions and conjecture.’

‘But–’ began Ahlek.

‘Where’s the truth here?’ shouted Mudire, snatching up a handful of papers to throw them at Ahlek. ‘Where are the facts here? I’ll tell you! The Rigorous was captured by orks. Fact! The orks enslaved the crew and modified the ship. Fact! We encountered the Rigorous and boarded. Fact! One survivor from a complement of one thousand, five hundred and thirteen that set out to Fenris. Fact! That’s one thousand, five hundred and twelve dead or missing servants of the Emperor. Fact! Do we know what happened to them? Where they are? Where they died? How they died? We don’t even have all their names in the registry, and the ship’s logs have been obliterated by the orks, so we learned nothing. Forty-eight more people died for this nonsensical charade!’

Their stares were a mix of horror and anger. Mudire’s face flushed with a rage born of shame. He could not bring himself to return the look of any of them, least of all Ahlek, who seemed on the verge of tears. It felt like a lifetime of war and destruction. Three years, out of how many to come? Compiling a history. It sounded so simple. Recording stories. Listening to tales to select a few gems of truth from the endless slurry of death, desperation, misery and horror.

And then suddenly there was the memory from Gelsepllan. The one he had avoided for over a year. The blaze of the gun muzzle, occluded by the body of Sergeant Gaius. Mudire felt splinters of ceramite scratching his face. Blood on his hands. The taste on his tongue. His blood.

So close to dying. Dying for what?

Mudire realised he had his hands to his cheeks, eyes buried behind his fingers. He dropped them to his sides and lifted his chin, eyes cast towards the curtained doorway that led to the cots. He could see the other historitors at the edge of his vision. Copla-var half-stood but stopped himself from saying anything. Ahlek stared at the table, jaw clenched. Forgewelt regarded him without any obvious emotion while Eliptyka had an expression of pity that struck Mudire like a knife in the chest.

‘I need to sleep,’ he said stiffly. ‘Damned warp dreams.’

He pushed through the curtain and threw himself onto one of the empty bunks, atop a sheet and blanket freshly tucked in and turned down by the steward. The soap smell of the laundry rose from the bed – such luxuries were reserved for the officers, of course. Petty officers and below washed what they could as best they could. It reminded Mudire of the life he had before. Privilege, status, comfort. How meaningless it all seemed.

He lay there for a few seconds more before pushing himself back to his feet and into the wardroom.

Stepping through the doorway his gaze fell upon the papers on the table. He read a few lines of half-gibberish, seeing phrases he had heard the man say just a few minutes earlier. Mudire pushed the transcript towards Ahlek, forcing himself to look at the other historitor until Ahlek looked up and met his gaze. The nervousness – fear – hurt even more than Eliptyka’s pity.

‘Read it, catalogue it, analyse for repetition and shifting perspective. Spend time with the survivor to see if you can get him to answer specific inquiries. Take more transcripts to see if anything changes.’ Mudire took a deep breath. ‘That’s how we’ll do this. If there is any truth here, we’ll find it.’

‘And then?’ said Forgewelt, her stare unflinching.

‘We put it with everything else we have for the primarch and get ready for the archive at Himhertha.’

Mudire took up his pen case and book from the top of a cupboard and sat down next to Copla-var. Selecting his favourite pen, he pulled one of the transcript copies in front of him and started reading.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lufa, making Gytha realise she had been singing to herself as she looked out over the waves. It was the same saga she had sung over Gaius when he had been at the gates of Hel.

‘An old song,’ she replied. She motioned for her son to sit next to her and he did, using a coil of rope as a seat. With so many people on the one vessel there was barely room for all of them and most of the time they were huddled in the mid-deck. Gytha had come aft for some space. She turned her gaze back to the waves.

‘I don’t remember you singing it before,’ said Lufa.

‘I had forgotten about it, until I saw the Sky Warrior,’ she admitted. The swell was high, slapping against the side of the ship, and she could see quite far when there were no ice floes or bergs obstructing the view. These had increased in number overnight and during the day, which Tidebreaker said was indication they were getting close to the ice sheet around Asaheim.

‘It’s been a night and half a day. He isn’t coming back. If the serpent hadn’t got him, he’d be frozen to death in this water.’

Gytha sighed but said nothing. She felt his hand slide into hers.

‘He got us this fa–’ Lufa began, then stopped and pointed with his other hand, standing again. ‘What’s that?’

She rose, her gaze following his finger to something pale against the dark of the water. Shielding her eyes against the sparkle from nearby ice she saw the shape moving, recognising an arm rising and falling in a long swimming stroke.

‘He’s here!’ she cried, turning to the rest of the ship. Tired, wounded, dispirited expressions lightened as the people roused to her call. They were too weak to cheer but a few managed smiles. ‘Gaius is still alive!’

‘Land ahead!’ came a cry from the masthead, causing everyone to turn the other way, towards the bow. A smudge on the horizon stretched from east to west, the glint of ice and the speck of birds flying above.

‘Praise the Allfather,’ croaked Gotrin Tidebreaker. The old man had taken a blow in the skirmish with the serpent and was bundled in furs close to the masthead, face pale except where a dark bruise marked his cheek. He tried to stand but others gently held him down for his own good. ‘We’ve found Asaheim.’

Chapter Twenty-five

GAIUS’ DILEMMA
THE FERAL WOLF
GYTHA’S PROMISE

It was an effort for Gaius to put one foot in front of the other, and not because of fatigue. This approach to the Aett was the opposite of the first time. Reluctance weighted every step.

Less than a day after he’d caught up with the ship they had brought the vessel up onto the ice shelf, nearly fifty miles of it between them and the cliffs that girded Asaheim like a wall. Having traversed this barren ground and ascended the precipitous barrier with much aid from Gaius, they had beheld the great cloud-wreathed pinnacle of the Wolves of Fenris in the distance. To the Landsattmaringi it was a place of myth and glory but to Gaius it was a symbol of failure and shame.

The fortress was so tall that it distorted perspective; what seemed like only a few hours’ travel away was days of trekking. The mountains that ringed the edifice were terrible peaks in their own right, made to look insignificant by their sky-piercing king. Every night Gaius saw the glimmer of jets as craft came and went from the docks; every dawn revealed the spire still glaring down at him. There was movement in the sky and mountains, much greater activity than when Gaius had left on the mission to the defence station. To his eye it looked as though the Wolves of Fenris were preparing to leave, adding even more urgency to Gytha’s mission.

It was decided to split the group. Now that they had found Asaheim, there was no need for the sick, wounded and infirm to make the journey through the savage mountains. In the shelter of the first valley they settled, hoping to make a new home for the Landsattmaringi while Gytha, Gaius and a few others continued on through the lands of the Sky Warriors.

Gaius had watched Gytha part with her family. The daughter cried, the son tried to hold back his tears, succeeding until his mother put her arms around him and any pretence of adult poise was lost. Bjorti, the smith, held her a long time and promised to keep the children safe, as did his mother.

When they left, Gaius noticed that Gytha did not look back.

It took several more days to traverse the pass into the inner regions of Asaheim, through snowdrifts and pine forests, across half-frozen rivers and along windswept ridgelines. Gytha was a woman possessed of incredible urgency now that she was parted from her family, her goal in sight; Gaius met every day with greater foreboding than the last.

Fewer and fewer craft could be seen lifting from the fortress to the clouds and Gaius feared the Chapter had departed to their next campaign. With the immense mount of the Aett within reach, he gathered the band one morning before they broke camp. There were a few of the aettgard as well as three of the best hunters from the Landsattmaringi, none of them with spouse or children. The thought of getting any closer to the source of his shame was like a physical ailment, a gnawing in his gut more painful than when the Blackmane had nearly disembowelled him.

‘We part ways today,’ he told Gytha and the others. ‘I have delivered you to your destination, but I will approach no closer.’

‘We are not yet safely at the gates to the North Tower,’ said one of the guards, Artur. ‘Anything might happen yet. We need you to keep the gothi safe.’

‘There is nothing I can do that you cannot do yourselves,’ Gaius told them.

‘We would be dead many times over without your strength and endurance, your quick mind and keen eyes,’ said one of the hunters. ‘Some of our families you literally carried on your back at the cliffs.’

‘And I would be dead once, which is enough, without your gothi,’ said Gaius, looking directly at Gytha. ‘Now the debt is repaid in full, the ur-gelt spent.’

‘This was about ur-gelt to you?’ Gytha looked angry. ‘If I had known you thought it was a blood debt I would have released you from any bond long ago.’

‘What else could it have been?’ said Gaius.

‘That you believe me. That you think I have a message for the Sky Warriors.’

Gaius put a massive hand on her shoulder and she did not flinch.

‘I believe you, that is why I came all this way. I did not mean the ur-gelt was enforced, only that it has weighed on my mind as I struggled with what this place means to me. If I go with you all the way I must meet with pack-brothers I abandoned for nothing.’

‘You have spoken of this before,’ said Gytha. ‘Why so ashamed? You slew the Blackmane.’

‘And without your aid, help from others, I would have died.’

‘Needing help is not a weakness,’ said Artur. ‘Wolves hunt as a pack.’

Gaius smiled at the sentiment, but it faded as he looked at the towering form of the Aett.

‘They do, but some packs have room only for the very best. The strongest.’

‘I am glad our threads were knotted,’ said Gytha. ‘But it is clear that your wyrd and mine run their own courses from here. No debt is owed, no oaths have been sworn, and I am grateful for everything you have done.’

Gaius had spent enough time with the gothi to notice the change in her tone. This was her way of saying farewell without using the words. She wanted to spend no more breath on the matter.

‘Ask for Njal the Stormcaller, or Arjac, the hearthegn of the Great Wolf,’ he said, stepping back. He looked at them all and nodded, fist to his chest in salute. ‘Russ’ Hand.’

‘What does that mean?’ shouted one of the aettgard as Gaius turned and strode away.

‘Ask the Sky Warriors when you see them,’ he called back with a smile.

He plunged into the trees, turning his back on them and the Aett.

It had been Gaius’ intention to leave Gytha and the others to their wyrd. He had no intention of getting any closer to the Aett and risk meeting one of the Chapter. Yet no more than an hour after parting company with the Landsattmaringi the Primaris Marine found himself at a loss, devoid of any notion what he should do next. Just as before he had decided to help Gytha, he was now faced with the same emptiness of purpose.

In absence of anything better to do, Gaius turned around and followed her.

He told himself it was just to make sure she was safe, to ensure her message reached Njal and the others. He had seen some of the aircraft circling the Aett and they were of designs not used by the Chapter. Something had happened, very separate to his own turmoil, and he did not want that to embroil Gytha.

He circled back through the forest, keeping his distance as he tracked the small group out onto the glacier valley that led to the approaches of the Aett. Using what cover he could, Gaius followed at a distance, assuring himself that when the Wolves of Fenris showed up he would be content to slip away without confrontation.

A docking cradle that looked like a hybrid of crane and claw was the only sign of the moon’s habitation. Mudire and the other historitors left the drop-ship in a sealed umbilical and came to a single large conveyor shaft. There had been no sign of another starship or recent use. A pale patina covered everything and dust hung in drifts in the corners. Ahlek pulled the lever to summon the cage, the screech and rattle of the workings echoing from the shaft a few seconds later.

Mudire looked up at Vychellan, wondering why the Custodian had insisted on coming along.

‘I’m not sure why you want to be here. It’s an old archive, we could be here for several days.’ He glanced back to where the assault ship from the 394th Deltic Lions sat at the other end of the umbilical. ‘You could keep the storm troopers company.’

‘I am part of this team, I go where you go,’ Vychellan replied. A hint of a smile ghosted across his lips as he put on his helmet. ‘Perhaps I can reach books on high shelves for you.’

The conveyor clattered into view and Forgewelt hauled open the door. Mudire waited, encouraging Vychellan to step aboard first.

‘Don’t complain to me when you get bored.’

Dark shapes moved against the cloud like waiting drakes, their drones ever-present even when they were out of sight. Gytha had seen sky sleds before, when the Lord of the Evil Eye had brought the Burning Ones to the world and the Sky Warriors had fought them. Just as then, she did not feel their watchfulness as a comfort but an intrusion, an unnatural presence in the sky.

Gytha let Artur Surebow lead the way, a few dozen paces ahead as they picked a path along the edge of a forest that covered the slopes of the glacial valley leading north. Although she was keen to arrive at the North Tower, the gothi’s nerves tingled with apprehension. She was pleased that the trees kept them from prying eyes, even though she knew that very soon she would have to make herself known to the inhabitants of the forbidding stronghold.

‘There’s a break ahead,’ reported the huntjarl. ‘Looks like the ice field cuts down from the ridge to the left. No cover except rocks until we reach the other side.’

They discussed the route a little longer but it was clear that any attempt to remain hidden would involve a long deviation from their current path. As much as it unsettled Gytha, she decided to step out beneath the gaze of the circling sky sleds.

The group had covered less than two hundred paces when a whine from the skies drew their attention. One of the sky sleds dived down towards them, its stubby wings unmoving as it stooped.

‘How does it fly with such small wings?’ asked Artur, as though his gothi knew anything about such things. ‘It should fall like a stone.’

‘We should run,’ said Orin, who had insisted on accompanying his cousin on the last leg of the journey though he had lost the fingers of his left hand to frostbite; he had his shield strapped to his arm with a special brace that Bjorti had made for him.

Gytha felt the urge to flee as the grey shape descended, but she held her ground.

‘This is why we have come, to speak to the Sky Warriors. If we run they may think we are enemies.’ She saw Artur reaching for an arrow. ‘Lower your bow! We’ll provoke nothing. Axes and swords must stay in your belts.’

‘We just wait here and then hope they do not use their skjoltdtar to pierce us from above?’ said Artur.

‘Or destroy us with machine-breath of fire?’ added Siggurund, another of the hunters.

Gytha said nothing while the roar of the sky sled grew louder. She saw blue flame beneath and a billow of hot air flowed over them as the metal-bodied flyer landed in a cloud of vapour and smoke just a few dozen yards away.

Its side opened with a hiss, the door hinging downward to make a ramp. Twenty figures in red and gold came running out, holding fire-staves. They formed a semicircle around the group, weapons levelled. They wore chestplates and helms of gold and stood shivering in the snow while their leader stepped through the line, his hands behind his back. He had a thick coat on over his armour. A woman followed at his shoulder, with longer hair braided in Fenrisian style, clad in well-made hide and furs.

The leader said something in a tongue Gytha did not know and the other spoke after him, in the accent of one of the southern people.

‘These are jarlgard from the Upplands,’ the woman said. ‘They are here with a great king of the Upplands and have sworn to protect him. This man is their thegn and I speak his words on our wind. My name is Urul Breakbough. The thegn wishes to know why you are here in the forbidden region.’

‘I am Gytha, of the Landsattmaringi. We did not know it was forbidden to enter,’ said Gytha. ‘We are not a people of Asaheim but have travelled here to seek the Sky Warriors.’

The woman turned her words into the language of the guards and a brief conversation ensued.

‘The Sky Warriors are not taking visitors,’ said the woman. ‘Return to your people.’

‘These are not Sky Warriors,’ declared Orin. ‘They cannot speak for the people of the tower. Our gothi has a vision to share with their gothi.’

‘Keep your breath,’ said Gytha, not wanting to discuss her gift or mission with strangers.

‘Gothi?’ said the thegn, looking at the others and then Gytha. He said something to the woman and she shook her head, and then the thegn said something more insistent. The woman looked afraid.

‘What does he say?’ said Gytha. ‘Tell me.’

Urul looked uncomfortable but forced herself to reply, darting a look at the soldiers.

‘They do not understand wyrd as we do. They think it is all maleficarum and that you are runekast.’

‘They can eat shit!’ shouted Artur, stepping towards the thegn.

The soldiers opened fire, missiles of red light slamming into the chief hunter. He fell to the snow, furs smoking, eyes glazed with death.

‘Stop!’ screeched Gytha, turning to hold up her hands to her other companions even as they reached for their weapons.

Seconds later the snow exploded around Gytha and the soldiers started to scream.

Gaius hit the end of the storm troopers’ line at full speed, his fist pulping the face of the first, the impact throwing the twitching corpse into a neighbouring Tempestor. He snatched the lasgun from the next, crumpling it in his hand as his shoulder hit the trooper with the power of a freight hauler.

Another scream split the air as the fourth Imperial soldier went skidding across the ice, neck snapped. Through the pounding of his hearts, Gaius recognised the voice of Gytha shrieking for him to stop.

He halted with bloodied fist pulled back.

The lieutenant in charge of the patrol was bellowing for his men to hold fire, the kaerl translator shouting in his ear. Gytha had snatched the bow from one of her companions and threw it to the ground, calling to her companions to disarm themselves.

Gaius remained poised to strike, within leaping distance of the officer. The lieutenant was trembling, his voice unsteady as he gave the order for the troopers to lower their weapons. Reluctantly they did so.

‘Enough!’ Gytha cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, wetting the furred collar of her hood. She stumbled forward, putting herself between Gaius and the lieutenant, hands held up. ‘Gaius, what are you doing?’

‘Protecting you,’ he replied. ‘If you go with these people, you won’t see the Sky Warriors.’

‘Identify yourself!’ the officer demanded in a quivering tone.

‘He’s a Wolf,’ growled one of the troopers in Imperial Gothic. She glared at Gaius, her face splashed with the blood of her squad mate. ‘Look at the feral bastard.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ the officer snapped.

‘Wise advice,’ replied Gaius, speaking Gothic. The trooper that had spoken went pale, swaying as though she might faint. He did not know what to say. Was he still a warrior of the Chapter?

‘This woman is under my protection,’ he said instead. ‘She has an important message for the Chief Librarian.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Gytha.

‘You confirm that she is a psyker?’ said the lieutenant.

‘You have no authority here. These lands are sovereign territory of Fenris, and I am answerable only to the Great Wolf.’

‘I am here by the personal orders of the Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son,’ the officer replied, drawing himself to his full height, shoulders back.

‘Personal orders?’ laughed Gaius. ‘The primarch does not give personal orders to platoons of Imperial Guard, even Tempestus Scions.’

‘You’re Primaris, aren’t you?’ said the lieutenant, incredulous. ‘One of the ones they sent ahead?’

‘Answer my question,’ said Gaius. ‘Why do you take the primarch’s name?’

‘My storm troopers are part of his protective retinue,’ he said, chin jutting, chest out. ‘We have been authorised to ensure there is no threat to the lord regent, with the agreement of the Great Wolf.’

‘He’s here?’ Gaius’ hearts thumped harder at the thought and he had to resist the urge to move, conscious that it could spark fresh violence. ‘Guilliman is on Fenris?’

‘Getting ready to depart, which is why we have the patrols. The woman must be assessed by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. That is Imperial Law.’

As he spoke, the lieutenant looked at Gytha. He was right. Talk of gothi and runes and wyrd was a mask for psychic potential. The Chapter believed it came from the spirit of Fenris, a different power to that of the warp. Gaius had spent three years Terran-standard fighting the followers of the Dark Gods and had seen first-hand the temptations and dangers of unchecked psykers. Sorcerers had slain his companions and laid waste to worlds.

Never mind the lieutenant’s authority, did Gaius have the right to bring such a person close to the Aett?

‘What is he saying?’ Gytha demanded. ‘What does he want?’

Seeing her suppressed fear, he was reminded of Gytha’s strength of will, the determination that had brought her this far. He had to trust the beliefs of the Fenrisians. If he did not, how would he ever be at peace here?

‘He will take you away from Fenris and you will never see the Great Wolf,’ said Gaius. He switched back to Imperial Gothic. ‘I vouch for this woman. She is no threat to the Lord Commander.’

‘Who are you to vouch? Give me your name!’

Gaius shut his mouth firmly, refusing to speak.

‘He killed half a squad, sir,’ hissed one of the troopers, shaking with anger and fear.

‘I’ll go with him if he agrees to let me speak to the gothi of the tower first,’ said Gytha. She said the words to the translator rather than Gaius.

‘You cannot,’ said Gaius. ‘You will not return!’

The translator hesitated but received a nod from Gytha, so she passed on what the gothi had said. The lieutenant nodded.

‘What about your family?’ said Gaius. ‘You’ll not see them again. Even if these people think you have strength enough to control your powers, you will be sent to Terra. If not…’

How could he explain that she would never be allowed to leave? Once aboard a Black Ship she was dead, to all intents.

‘I said my farewell,’ said Gytha, now stony-faced. She looked at the Imperial Guard leader. ‘Do I have your oath?’

The translator acted as intermediary again while Gaius looked on, helpless to stop what was happening.

‘I can accommodate that,’ the officer said, stepping to one side, leaving the way clear towards the patrol ship ramp. ‘My word as an officer of the Emperor.’

Gaze following Gytha as she stepped past the lieutenant, Gaius caught sight of the body of a trooper he had felled. The anger had flowed through him so easily. He looked at the snow reddened by his hands and wondered how he had sunk to this level? The rage was not the fault of these soldiers. It was nothing to do with Gytha and her quest.

His shame burned, now deepened by the deaths of the troopers. He could not end his own life and could not live with what he had done. Gaius knew that he could not stay away from the Aett forever. Sooner or later he would have to face the Wolves of Fenris. It would be a release to find justice at the hands of the Allfather’s servants.

Gytha was almost at the ship and the lieutenant signalled for his platoon to follow.

‘I’m going with her to make sure you keep your word,’ growled Gaius, fixing the officer with a stare that made him visibly tremble. The Primaris Marine broke his gaze, eyes downcast. ‘And to face my wyrd.’

Chapter Twenty-six

URGENT MESSAGES
THE PRIMARIS TEST
SALUTATIONS AND FAREWELLS

While he watched the procession of the primarch back to the great dock, Arjac tried to remember when he hadn’t felt misgivings. Perhaps it had been before the arrival of the Gottrok, or before news of the Primaris Marines. It mattered little; every choice made by the Great Wolf seemed fraught with drawbacks and dangers. Even though Guilliman had shown not the slightest resentment towards Grimnar’s refusal, there was talk among the council of Wolf Lords that the primarch would try something – it had even been suggested that he would found a new Chapter called the Space Wolves and simply place them as usurpers. The rest of the talk revolved around the signs of the coming Wolftime. Each leader was keen to see omens in their wars, calling on the oldest legends and tatters of myth to justify why the signs they had seen were of import.

Arjac’s concerns were far simpler. They were returning to Gottrok and he could not avoid the feeling that Logan Grimnar would die there. Wyrd had given the Great Wolf a loop to run with the primarch’s intervention but now he was set back on that course. Warnings from Ironfang said that the space hulk was slipping back towards the Everdusk. Weeks, not months, to remove the threat. All fate seemed to be hinging upon the space hulk.

So Arjac was here in place of the Great Wolf, as it was at the beginning, while Logan made plans for the Chapter to depart as soon as Guilliman had left the system. It had been mentioned that the whole Chapter being absent was an opportunity for the primarch to impose Imperial rule on Fenris, but Grimnar would not spare a single battle-ready Space Marine from the task ahead. The other Wolf Lords were in attendance, paying respect to the departing lord regent.

A discordant movement from the edges of the procession drew Arjac’s eye, as well as the attention of the force of Wolf Guard flanking the parade. An officer of the Tempestus Scions broke across the line and hurried towards Arjac, presumably drawn by the banner of the Great Wolf held by Alrik beside him.

‘My lord, I need to speak with you,’ said the lieutenant, bowing stiffly. ‘It is an urgent matter.’

‘It always is,’ muttered Alrik.

‘Well, you’re speaking to me,’ said Arjac.

The lieutenant looked to weigh up his words for a few seconds before continuing.

‘I have two prisoners of interest to you,’ he said. ‘One is a Primaris Marine who killed some of my men. He says his name is Gaius.’

Arjac and Alrik exchanged a look before the Rockfist told the man to continue.

‘I would have him taken before a court for what he has done, but my captain tells me I should hand him over to you for justice to be meted out.’

‘Right,’ said Arjac, not sure what was expected of him. ‘So where is he?’

‘In my patrol carrier. The other is the more urgent case. She is a native here, a psyker she claims, and says she has a warning for your Chapter. Gaius said to tell you or Njal the Stormcaller.’

‘And what do you expect me to do?’

‘I gave my word that she would be able to deliver her message before I take her to the Adeptus Astra Telepathica for testing.’

‘I see,’ said Arjac, rubbing his chin. ‘Sounds complicated.’

‘Gave your oath?’ said Alrik.

‘Yes,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And she gave hers to return to me.’

‘Fine,’ said Arjac. ‘Show me where she is.’

Time spent in the company of Gaius had not inured Gytha to the spectacle of the Sky Warriors’ stronghold. Flanked by two of the giants in warplate that more closely resembled tower walls than any armour Bjorti had ever made, she half-ran to keep up with their long strides.

There were torn and stained banners on the walls, and columns decorated with shields hammered with rune-metal, while the faint sun slanted down through tall, narrow windows whose sills were above her head. Every archway was like a keep gate, every corridor a hall worthy of a jarl.

Her escorts brought her to a pair of great doors, high mountain ash bound with gilded metal, reinforced with rivets the size of fists. Gytha read the runes nailed into the wood:

Friends welcomed for ever. Foes cursed for eternity.

After an exchange with the pair of guards, the doors swung open and Gytha was led within. She hoped she was a friend.

Inside was vast, almost bigger than the whole of Landsattmar. At first it seemed wooded, with great trunks holding up a ceiling of boughs and leaves, but as she hurried along with her escort Gytha saw they were ornately carved, not the real thing. Birds and animals seemed to hop and scurry through the branches along with imp-spirits and gnomish creatures of legend. The columns had gnarled half-faces, ygdras tree giants of the oldest myths.

The floor was a stone unlike anything Gytha had seen, a single mass that covered the whole hall but made to look like grey flagstones. Three large firepits glowed with embers, supplemented by storm lanterns giving off a soft, constant light in the false branches above.

A council of giants waited near the centre of the hall, surrounding another sat on a throne that dwarfed any chair Gytha had seen. She stopped in her tracks as she saw two immense wolves lying either side of the throne, their amber eyes fixed on her.

‘You’re safe,’ grunted the giant that had come for her, who had introduced himself as Arjac Rockfist.

He stopped and gestured for Gytha to continue, but she could not take another step forward.

‘It’s alright,’ said the Sky Warrior on the throne. He leaned forward, intrigue written in his thick features. ‘I am the Great Wolf, Logan Grimnar. You have a message for me.’

Gytha trembled despite the Great Wolf’s attempt at warmth. There seemed very little difference between him and the beasts at his side, and though there was humanity in his gaze, Gytha could not ignore the fangs that creased the bottom lip and the wolf-stench that filled the hall.

‘I…’ She almost fainted. Taking a deep breath, she forged on. ‘Your greatest pardons, Great Wolf, but I need to speak to your gothi.’

‘My gothi?’ He seemed amused by the word.

Another enormous figure stepped forward, the thud of a staff accompanying him. A wolf’s skull was bound to its top and runes that glittered with their own light hung on thongs from it.

‘I am the Stormcaller. I am gothi here.’

Gytha felt a wave of relief wash through her like heat, bringing tears to her eyes when even the parting from her husband and children had not. This was the end of her travels, the labour that had consumed her this past season, the unease that had filled her dreams since even earlier.

Her wyrd.

‘I bring warning,’ she said, barely finding her voice. ‘I have visions to share with you.’

As he listened to the woman, Njal sent Nightwing to flight. The bird circled the hall while the Stormcaller watched her from in front and behind, in this world and the other.

There was definitely power in her, untamed. It was one-way, like a voxcaster set only to receive; he sensed no ability to broadcast. Instead he used his othersight to reach into her mind and draw forth what was within, giving vision and smell and touch to her words.

What he found was astonishing. Some elements he recognised, the giant wolf and the golden figure, but there were many details that had not been shown to him, messages and clues that would have remained hidden had the woman not come. He had assumed the wolf was the Chapter, or Logan, never quite believing that the Wolftime could really be coming now. As bleak as the galaxy’s circumstance was, Njal had to hold out the hope that there would be a way to survive.

Now he was not so sure and the thought troubled him deeply. As he had warned Logan on the hulk, the Wolftime was definitive and final. Russ had sworn to return in the last days of his sons, to die with them in final battle.

As he tried to find more information, Njal touched upon other recent memories. He unearthed scenes from the immediate past, of a giant warrior killing Imperial soldiers to save her; the same warrior fighting a sea serpent and lashing ships together; lying dead in the embrace of a thunderwolf.

‘Who is the warrior?’ Njal asked, cutting across the woman’s faltering oration. ‘The one that brought you here?’

‘Gaius,’ she said. Suddenly she looked as if she had misspoken, one hand moving to her mouth. ‘I should not speak of him, he feels a deep shame that is not mine to share.’

‘He’s a Primaris Marine,’ said Arjac. ‘One that came back with Krom. Jumped from a Thunderhawk on the way back from the incident at the defence station, presumed dead.’

‘Why is this news to me?’ the Great Wolf said with a frown.

‘He survived,’ said Njal. ‘Killed a Blackmane and was found nearly dead by this woman. I’ve seen what he did through her eyes, a saga worthy of any fireside.’

‘A Primaris survived the journey from the Broken Valleys back to the Aett,’ said Ulrik, chewing over the words and their meaning. He stepped forward and Gytha started to shake at his attention. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He protected me, killed those soldiers,’ said the woman, taking a deep breath. ‘He said he had to confront his wyrd here.’

‘The Imperials are holding him after he went through half a squad of Tempestors,’ added Arjac.

‘Half a squad?’ Grimnar rubbed his chin, unimpressed.

‘He stopped and gave himself up when he realised what he was doing,’ explained Njal.

‘I saw it in his eyes,’ said Gytha, looking at Ulrik and then Grimnar. ‘The same as I see it in yours. The heart-fire. The spirit of the Wolf King.’

Grimnar stroked his beard and looked deep in thought.

‘Fengr,’ he muttered.

‘We will make sure that you are safe,’ Njal told the gothi. ‘Your gift is very valuable.’

‘I promised I would return to the upplanders,’ she replied. ‘Gave my oath.’

‘And you made your oath in full knowledge of what it would mean? They will take you away.’ Njal was uncertain about her future but sensed enough power in her that she might pass the Imperials’ tests. It was rare for a Fenrisian to be subjected to them.

‘I did. Gaius explained.’

‘In that case we must help you honour it,’ said Ulrik. ‘In return, it is not for the Imperials to judge what a warrior of the Chapter does on Fenris. They have no jurisdiction.’

‘It might cause trouble with the primarch,’ said Arjac. ‘Blood spilt.’

‘There will be no trouble with Guilliman,’ declared Logan. By his sides the wolves sat up, alert to a change in his mood. The Great Wolf looked at Gytha, a smile on his lips. ‘Your bravery is incredible and your will is to be respected, as is your oath. Your wyrd has brought you to perform a great service for us. I can see you know that there is a price to pay for what you have done, so let it be a comfort to you that your people will be allowed to settle in Asaheim under our gaze, joining the kaerls of the Sky Warriors. You will be returned to the Scions for travel to the Imperial fleet and their judgement of your powers.’

‘I understand,’ she said, looking at the Great Wolf. Njal was impressed at how steady her gaze was. ‘Thank you for your welcome. I have done as I swore, and I shall not fear Hel.’

‘Indeed not.’ Logan flashed a look to Arjac, who turned and with a gesture escorted Gytha from the hall. When she was gone, the Great Wolf cracked his knuckles and directed his attention to Njal. ‘All the signs point in the same direction. Gottrok. I was right. I’ll need you to break the grip of the warlord-sorcerer.’

‘My rune-brothers will be equal to the task,’ said Njal. ‘I have another labour I must attend to.’

‘What task could be more important?’ demanded Logan. ‘I need my runethegn at my side.’

‘The woman’s visions have revealed to me gaps in my own sight. Recent events have clouded my mind and my eyes, and I must look again with fresh thought. I have become too detached, I think. This woman and her story remind me that I must be at one with our place. I am leaving the Aett to seek the spirits within the world, as the Wolf King once did when the galaxy was split by war.’

‘To what purpose?’ asked Ulrik.

‘I do not know yet. For our salvation, maybe. Or to see the doom we cannot avoid. Perhaps even to hear the call of the Wolf King from across the othersea.’ Njal turned and started down the hall, staff tapping on the ferrocrete. ‘Do not look for me. I will only return when it is the right time.’

‘You shall be missed on the Gottrok,’ Logan called out.

‘I think not,’ Njal said with a smile. He turned his head and met the Great Wolf’s eye. ‘You will be far too busy to miss me.’

Logan grinned and there was no weight on him; the centuries flowed from his face as he showed his fangs.

‘True,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of battles ahead before we reach the Wolftime.’

Gytha recognised the hall that connected to the sky wharf where Lieutenant Thaker’s ship had landed and knew that she was about to see her world for the last time. Arjac stopped and from a doorway another Sky Warrior appeared, slightly smaller but more scarred and aged.

‘I’m Ullr First-Shot,’ said the newcomer. ‘I’ll take you the rest of the way. I have business with Gaius.’

Arjac turned and left them for the last hundred paces to the mechanical gateway.

‘How do you know Gaius?’ she asked, to keep her mind from what lay behind the sealed portal. ‘Are you brothers-by-sword?’

‘We were,’ said Ullr. He walked slowly, matching his pace to hers as though equally reluctant to cover the short distance ahead. ‘There is ut-geld between us.’

‘He did not speak of you, but his geldfut weighs on him like a yoke.’ Ullr simply grunted in reply and Gytha felt that she needed to say more. ‘Without him we would have not fulfilled our wyrd to come here. I think it was his wyrd too, but he doesn’t accept that. He thinks he failed your test.’

‘The Test of Morkai?’

‘Yes, he thinks that because I healed him that he is not worthy of being your sword-kin.’

Ullr halted and gently held her arm to stop her too, turning her towards him.

‘He would have died, after slaying the Blackmane, yes?’

‘He thinks so. I don’t know for sure. The wound was barely bleeding. We fed him the wolf’s blood and bound his wounds, but he is a Sky Warrior and his body healed itself more than our bandages and salves.’

Ullr accepted this with a nod, gaze flicking away. ‘The other feats, the sea serpent and steering the ship through the storm, that’s true as well?’

‘I would think him a legend if I had not seen myself, and who knows what other feats before we found him?’

A glimmer of a smile moved the bearded face of the Sky Warrior. He set off again, far quicker in stride.

‘Good,’ he said.

Every step brought Gytha closer to the darkness after her visions. Another Sky Warrior gothi had come to her, Hrolf War-Tongue, sent by the Stormcaller. He had said that she was strong, the spirit of Fenris flowed in her if she allowed it. He had taught her a few words, verses to recite that would strengthen her mind, and shown her three runes of protection she could draw in the air or with her thoughts if she needed them. That was all he could give, he had said, but it would be her own strength that would see her pass the tests of the upplanders. If she could do that, she would live.

His lessons had fed her fear rather than allayed it, and with each stride she knew she could call out and ask for protection, or tell Ullr that she had changed her mind, she would not go with the upplanders.

But she could not face her family like that, just as Gaius had not been able to return to his aett. It would be a no-life of misery and doubt. She had brought him back to face his geldfut and now her wyrd had to be faced. If what the upplanders said was true, if she was a danger because of her gift, it was better to be away from here, from the Sky Warriors and her people.

‘Ready?’ asked Ullr, standing by the gate, his hand clasping a long lever beside it.

Gaius waited at the foot of the boarding ramp, a new squad of Tempestus Scions to guard him – those whose companions he had slain had returned to the Dawn of Fire. Even their famous discipline would have been tested by the handover. The dock doors opened with a flash of red lights, revealing two figures that tore his mood in opposite directions.

Gytha. She had saved his life but brought a different damnation upon herself. She smiled as she saw him and hurried forward.

Ullr. Also responsible for the twists in wyrd that had brought them all here, but with him came the taste of bitter memories. The pack leader stayed back, allowing Gaius and Gytha a moment of reunification.

Gaius looked at Gytha’s face and saw the doubt flow away as she came closer, replaced by the resolution he had seen so often in the past weeks. She was as stern as the stone of the mountains and as relentless as the waves that had brought them north. Fenrisian to the core. Everything that Ullr had said Gaius was not. She said nothing and Gaius found himself likewise without words on his breath. They shared a long look, recounting their exploits, their warnings, the weaknesses they had seen in each other. But it was strength that flowed into Gaius more than anything, pushing away regret. Her inspiring example, her utter implacability to do what had to be done. A gift he would keep for as long as he lived.

Seconds passed that felt like hours.

‘Stay strong,’ she whispered, and stepped past him, followed by the clump of boots as the Scions flanked her up the boarding ramp.

Gaius did not turn around to watch her embark. His gaze moved to Ullr, who had been prowling by the door. Now he came forward and Gaius met him halfway to the drop-ship, the two stopping a few yards apart.

This time Gaius knew what to say; he had rehearsed it many times in the hours since his return to the Aett.

‘This is yours,’ he said, handing over the dagger-fang pendant by its cord. ‘It’s tasted more blood since you last saw it and through it I owe you my life.’

‘No ur-gelt in the Aett,’ said Ullr, taking the talisman. ‘Seems you put it to good use so the favour is paid.’

Gaius nodded but said nothing.

‘I have something for you as well,’ said Ullr. ‘Hold out your wrist.’

Gaius had been expecting this moment, though had hoped they would not have taken him in chains. It was a statement more than a physical precaution. His word was worthless, so no oath he could swear would bind him. He held his hands out, ready for the manacles.

‘Just one,’ said Ullr, presenting a metal torque inscribed with a single repeated symbol, the Fenrisian runes for ‘oath’. The pack leader slid it over Gaius’ hand and squeezed it around his wrist.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the Primaris Marine, looking at the band of metal. ‘Is this some kind of badge of shame?’

‘No, it is a reminder,’ said Ullr. ‘A totem of your name.’

‘My name?’

‘Yes.’ Ullr stepped back. ‘Word has already spread of what you did for Gytha, how you bent wyrd to come back to us and conquered the elements doing it. I spoke with your pack and Krom, and we have a name for you.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘You are not Gaius,’ he said. ‘That is an old name, of a warrior that no longer exists, an upplander name. He was a fool that leapt from a gunship and is no more. A warrior the Imperials would see punished for doing what he was created to do. We thought “Kjarg” would suit, but you can choose another.’

Kjarg. Gaius knew the name from his book. The largest wolf of legend, said to have faced down Morkai herself.

‘And this?’ said Gaius, lifting his metal-bound wrist.

‘Iron-Oath. You said you would return to the Aett, and you did.’

A name for a Sky Warrior. A son of the Wolf King. A child of Fenris.

Chapter Twenty-seven

RETURN TO THE GOTTROK
FRESH BLOOD
CHOSEN OF THE SLAYER

In his centuries of fighting as a Wolf of Fenris, Ullr could think of no experience that compared to the exhilaration of a gunship assault. He stood fully armoured at the starboard hatch of the Thunderhawk as it swept low over the jagged surface of the ‘eastern’ sector of the Gottrok. The gunship slipped sideways to roar past the broken remains of a command tower that jutted at an angle from fractured ferrocrete and warped plasteel dock gates. In the hard vacuum it was difficult to get any sense of speed, but he knew that the grey-and-black mass was rushing past at three hundred miles an hour as the gunship slowed to attack velocity.

He leaned out, no gale of wind to tear him from his perch, looking ahead to the blocks of the engine housings four miles away, approaching fast. There were lights coming from within, proof that the orks’ settlement reached this far out.

Their orders were clear: seize the engines and protect the Iron Priests and tech-adepts while they reactivated the systems.

Beyond the dormant engines swirled the maw of the Everdusk, sickly yellow and purple at the moment, both incredibly distant and yet vivid enough that Ullr thought he might reach out and pull it down from the sky like a ribbon. It almost filled the view, tentacle-like fronds streaming out towards the vastness of the hulk that lay beyond the remains of the bulk hauler. The engines were perfectly placed to push the hulk’s trajectory away from the warp rift but time was short. Within a day, maybe less, the lip of the rift would engulf this ship and the chance would pass. Anybody aboard would experience the warp unshielded. This was the first and last opportunity to avoid that fate.

The thought made Ullr shudder. He was incapable of feeling mortal fear, but the prospect of spending his last moments in the mouth of Hel was something beyond physical dread.

‘Thirty seconds,’ announced Krom Dragongaze from inside the compartment. Ullr pushed himself back from the hatch.

The rest of the squad were there with Krom and Kraki, as well as twenty others from across the Firstborn of the Great Company. It was strange to see Dethar, Garnr, Forskad and the others with their new markings – they still bore the weregost of the Drakeslayers but in place of pack markings each now bore personal runes, as befitted Krom’s latest vaerangi. Ullr’s own shoulder plate bore a picture of a skull with a jagged red slash across its forehead. He was quite proud of it.

‘On your feet,’ Krom snapped, standing up. He gave a signal to one of the other Wolf Guard and the front ramp opened. It was strange to feel no wind, to hear no rush of air into the troop compartment.

At the same time, gunships opened fire on the strike zone.

Lascannon beams punched down through the hull of the bulk hauler, opening rents hit by machine-spirit-guided missiles just seconds later. Blossoms of silent fire and shredded metal ballooned outward to birth silver-and-grey dust clouds across the smear of the Everdusk. More fire followed, cannons and rockets pounding at the tortured hull, smashing through from deck to deck as the gunship wave pitched steeply for their final landing run. Plasma shots flared past, igniting escaping gas in a great ball of blue flame that disappeared as quickly as it birthed.

The thrust of retros made artificial gravity for a few seconds, but Ullr barely felt the pressure. He checked his bolter one last time and took position at the front of his squad.

‘Down in five,’ Sáthor told them from the cockpit.

Krom, always competitive, did not want to be second onto the hulk and sprinted forward. His Wolf Guard followed, leaping the last few yards after him, falling slowly before the Thunderhawk pushed away amid jets of fire and glittering dust-fog.

For a second, Ullr could see nothing, the particles obscuring both normal and auto-senses. He blindly ran forward, the silhouette of Krom appearing a few strides later as they burst from the debris cloud. The gaping wound in the hulk’s skin was just a few dozen yards ahead. Ullr glanced back to witness the full spectacle of the assault.

Beyond the Wolf Lord’s rising Thunderhawk two more were landing, spewing their occupants like blue-grey fire from a wyrm’s maw. The last of Krom’s Firstborn. Past them the massive shapes of the Overlords slammed down, their turrets panning for targets as they disgorged hundreds more battle-brothers, all clad in freshly painted Mark X armour. A thousand more were breaching from below with Ragnar Blackmane’s company. The rest, many thousands of them, were with the Great Wolf’s attack.

Beyond the gunships was the fleet, their engines like great cyan stars above the horizon of the hulk’s surface. Transports and warships in numbers the Chapter had not seen for an age.

Primaris Marines.

Unnumbered Sons of Russ no more.

Wolves of Fenris.

‘The lazy bastards haven’t tidied up, I see,’ said Daggerfist, proving the accuracy of his name by spearing his lightning claws through the face of an onrushing ork. He twisted wrist and body, slashing the claws out of the falling corpse and into the chest of another greenskin.

Arjac stepped forward, smashing his hammer into the chest of the next foe. Skor pounded past, taking down the next with his power fist. As keen as a blade edge cuts skin, the squad hewed into the mob of orks that had spilled from a side gate of the Gottrok stronghold.

This time the Great Wolf had struck directly for the ork fortress-city. Three Rune Priests accompanied Logan at the forefront of the attack, the glow of their ward-shields illuminating the armour of the surrounding vaerangi. Bjorn advanced with the other Dreadnoughts on the far side, Logan’s right, while Arjac’s koenigsgard charged on the left, supported by other squads moving in from the flanks and long-range fire from Primaris battle-brothers that had entered the battle from the upper decks.

This was a full attack, not a probing strike. It took barely two minutes to break through the walls and reach the gaping pit to the undercity. The orks counter-attacked as before, but now there were far more bolters, flamers and frag missiles to meet them, as well as the new guns of Cawl, wielded by the Primaris. Howling their battle cries, Fenrisian squads leapt forward boosted by their jump packs, dropping into the depths of the shaft to take the fight to the enemy.

Arjac fought without concern, rockets glancing from the face of his shield, his hammer smashing green bodies from his path with relentless ferocity. There was no need to look back – more battle-brothers followed the assault force, clearing out any surviving orks and protecting against encirclement.

A break in the melee as they came before the towering ork idol gave Arjac a few seconds to look at his lord. The Axe Morkai was a flash of light and blood red, weaving effortlessly around the Great Wolf. Fenrir and Tyrnak leapt and snarled around him, tearing out throats and ripping apart ork bodies.

From the summit of the ork idol green fire flared down, but this time a ring of blue flames leapt up to meet it. Psyber-familiars circled and prowled around the Rune Priests, eyes flaring gold with wyrd power as the orkish fireball splashed harmlessly against the warding dome. Uttering their skjald-like chants, the Rune Priests retaliated. Wolves of white fire with lightning for fangs raced up through the air, falling upon the capering sorcerer-warlord.

The Great Wolf and his koenigsgard reached the base of the effigy tower and continued upwards, gunning down and hacking apart everything that lay in their path. Up ramps and twisted stairways they battled maddened orks that frothed at the mouth and gibbered like mindless beasts. The greenskins wore rings and torques of copper, and had wire of the same linking armour and weapons into their flesh. The metal gleamed with its own light as though conducting a current.

The Wolves of Fenris paved their route with dead greenskins and came upon the summit. The duel between the warlord-psyker and the Rune Priests continued. Thrashing orkish shapes brawled with phantom snow bears while blue fire burned the air. Alert to blasts of maleficarum arcing from the ork leader, Arjac slowed for a second.

Grimnar showed no hesitation, pounding out of the mouth-arch to confront his foe. The ork warlord spun, its staff sending a blast of black lightning crashing into the Great Wolf. It crackled across his armour as he swung the Axe Morkai, cleaving the shaman from scalp to chest.

Barely alive, the warlord staggered back, clutching the staff tight to its chest as sparks of energy cascaded from the mortal wound. Grimnar followed up, a booted foot assisting the warlord on its last journey over the end of the tongue, falling as a green-wreathed comet to the floor far below. The Rune Priests converged, seizing the broken staff, incinerating the body with wyrdfir.

‘Logan Grimnar, bloody-handed warrior!’ Arjac bellowed, joy in his heart and voice.

‘SKJOAL!’ his shieldbrothers roared around him.

The Great Wolf turned and raised his axe in salute, his voice ringing across vox and air.

‘Vlka Fenryka! This war has just begun, but we will fight it to every end. Free your howls and let the upplanders hear us. The Rout has returned!’

Mudire felt that they had arrived at the primarch’s chamber early, even though Captain Hurak allowed him and the other historitors to enter. Roboute Guilliman was in conversation with Colquan.

‘Why would I not push forward now?’ the primarch was saying, frowning at the Custodian tribune. ‘Now that the Space Wolves have accepted the Primaris reinforcements the sectors east of the Ironhold will be far more secure against the orks. I have already sent messages to Queen Orlah that she should deploy the forces allied to Kamidar ahead of our advance.’

‘Grimnar made it very clear that he accepted the Primaris Marines without any oath to you,’ said Colquan, pacing the chamber with his eyes fixed on the primarch. ‘You overestimate his loyalty to you.’

‘I overestimate nothing,’ said Guilliman, darting a glance at the new arrivals and flicking his hand towards a cleared table on the other side of the room. Hurak guided them towards it. ‘He has no loyalty to me. I trust the Space Wolves to protect the area around Fenris, to fend off this fresh attack from Ghazghkull, and any other threat. Fleet Secundus will continue to fight the traitors from the Eye of Terror. All is as I could comfortably desire, given the circumstances.’

‘What little is left beyond the storms will be overrun before you get there,’ said the tribune. ‘Why do you insist on breaking through the Rift? Your goal is to secure what remains of Imperium Sanctus.’

‘I saw worlds that had survived the Long Night, cut off for far longer than those in Imperium Nihilus. Enclaves will support each other and find a way to hold on. Dante of the Blood Angels is one such leader of resistance. There are others, their deeds unsung and unremembered.’

‘Do not confuse Dante with Sanguinius.’ Colquan’s laugh was bitter and his eyes flashed disdain that made Mudire feel even more uncomfortable in his presence. ‘You cannot set up another kingdom beyond the storm this time.’

Guilliman did something Mudire had never seen before. He flinched, looking away, fingers flexing in anguish. Whatever it was that Colquan referenced, it had found its mark.

‘Tell me your findings,’ said the primarch, his starlike intensity suddenly focused on the historitors. ‘What did the archives of Fenris reveal?’

Mudire checked with Vychellan, who gave a nod.

‘Very little, I am afraid, Lord Commander,’ the historitor confessed. He took a breath, recalling the denizens of the archive and the fraught time amongst them. ‘Possibly not worth the price we paid. Much that we knew already. Cardinal Bucharis rose to power on Gathalamor during the period known as the Age of Apostasy. His conquests were called the Plague of Unbelief after his fall, a heretical conquest of nearby worlds accompanied by his own corruption of Ecclesiarchy teachings.’

‘A telling title, it seems,’ said Copla-var, spreading out a map of the surrounding galactic region. Several sectors were marked with dates. ‘The Space Wolves were not wholly ignorant of what was happening but chose to view it as an Imperial affair – a Church schism that did not involve them unless they were called upon to intervene. The Inquisition, to their shame, were mostly of similar mind until it was too late for them to do anything. The most pertinent point is that the outer ring of worlds’ – he pointed on the map – ‘fell very shortly after the inner conquests.’

‘Too soon for military forces to have reached them,’ said Guilliman, examining the labels in a glance. ‘Something else made them capitulate.’

‘Belief,’ said Mudire. ‘Well, sort of. Some of it might have been pre-emptive surrender to the quickly expanding power base of Bucharis, but we’ve looked at other records and many worlds subsequently falling into Bucharis’ grip experienced religious turmoil in the previous years. A rise in ecstatic visions, unorthodoxy in the Church, that sort of thing.’

‘A bow wave, spreading before the actual invasions,’ the primarch said quietly. ‘Perhaps something warp-based?’

‘Nothing conclusive, Lord Commander,’ Vychellan added quickly. ‘And possibly some concepts were mistranslated or exaggerated by Fenrisian mysticism.’

There was a pause while papers were rearranged and Forgewelt took over the presentation, showing large printouts of several portraits.

‘Nothing conclusive, however, our findings have provided the basis for some reasonable conjecture. These are cardinals of Gathalamor from the late thirty-sixth millennium.’ She laid them out in a row facing Guilliman. Colquan arrived next to the primarch, cold eyes taking in everything. Forgewelt pointed to one in the middle. ‘This is Bucharis.’

‘And these are from before his reign,’ said Colquan, indicating the pictures to his left.

‘And these after,’ finished Guilliman.

‘Yes,’ said Forgewelt. She spoke with confidence but could not look up at either of the majestic beings that watched her. She busied herself with pict-captures of close-up views. ‘The cardinal’s ring changes. After Bucharis, it is similar but not quite the same.’

Both the tribune and primarch leaned closer to examine the pictures.

‘The artists did not do a good job,’ said Colquan. ‘That is all. The rings are identical.’

‘It is a bit more complex than that,’ said Mudire, earning himself a glare of irritation from the tribune, the sort of glance that would have eviscerated the historitor had it been a blade. He forced himself to continue despite the sudden upheaval in his gut. ‘You are right, in a way. There was condemnation from certain experts in Ecclesiarchy art at the time, saying that the artist–’

‘Therodorous von Ghestleberg,’ said Forgewelt.

‘–had indeed made a mess of the ring. The artist defended himself by saying he painted the ring as he saw it.’

‘The ring is made of noctilith,’ said Vychellan. He looked directly at Colquan. ‘What we call blackstone, after the ancient Terran prison.’

The tribune’s expression grew more severe, which Mudire had not thought possible.

‘A ring of blackstone on the finger of a cardinal,’ Colquan said slowly, as though examining the weight of each word.

‘But not on those that succeeded him,’ Forgewelt ventured, still looking at the portraits. ‘If our assumption is correct. What is clear from texts from the time is that the next cardinal, Asclomaedas, had a profound fear that the soul of Bucharis would cling to the unholy empire he had forged. Asclomaedas had the body buried in a psy-vault, vestments and ring included. From what we can gather, a small band of Bucharis’ followers later destroyed the records of its location and collapsed the surrounding catacombs to prevent the remains of their anti-saint being unearthed and permanently destroyed, or otherwise desecrated by a more vengeful successor.’

‘And that is what the traitors unearthed on Gathalamor,’ finished Guilliman. ‘You believe that they dug up the grave of Bucharis for the blackstone ring, not his corpse.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mudire. ‘Maybe both were needed, it is impossible to say, or the ring isn’t what we think it is. There is no solid evidence because we don’t know anything about noctilith. Interrogations of captured heretics say that their superiors called the psychic weapon on Gathalamor the “Gift of Bucharis”, but none of them understood its true workings.’

‘Seems a lot of effort to get the ring, given that they abandoned their weapon rather than finish their attempt on your life,’ Colquan said to Guilliman. ‘And we know that the traitors have taken blackstone from the pylons on Cadia. A ring is a small amount in comparison.’

‘But the ring was important enough to invade Gathalamor and rip up half the tombs to look for it,’ said Mudire. He swallowed as Colquan glared at him. ‘Maybe.’

‘The ring was not a source of psychic energy, we know that noctilith does not generate the kind of power we saw unleashed at Gathalamor.’ Guilliman seemed deep in thought, staring at the picture of Bucharis, but had also been paying attention to the conversation. ‘There was something particular about this piece, the ring and Bucharis, that gave it the kind of capability unleashed by the traitors.’

‘And also we believe that the, um, weapon was just a test of a principle,’ said Copla-var, hesitant before his superiors. ‘Some greater purpose we couldn’t tease out. We’ve tried various hypotheses and nothing else makes as much sense, judging by interrogations of the few survivors, that is. Ah, maybe the primarch’s arrival was opportunist and really the, um, first firing was successful accomplishment of the traitors’ purpose. The escape of the enemy leadership was prioritised over reactivation of the weapon.’

‘Given how close they were to defeat, the enemy had no guarantee that you would arrive before they were overrun,’ Mudire explained to Guilliman. ‘Or that you were even heading to Gathalamor. Too many variables for a cogent plan.’

‘Unfortunately, our enemies have access to knowledge that we do not, of movements and potential fates,’ the primarch said with a sigh. ‘What we might consider impossible to predict or know cannot be applied to our adversaries. But I accept your conclusions.’

Guilliman slid the galactic map back in place and took up one of Mudire’s pens. The reddened one, he noticed. It was tiny in his armoured fingers but he wielded it with deft strokes. The primarch drew swift lines on the map and Mudire immediately recognised the general extent of the near edge of the Great Rift. There was a cluster of new warp storms that followed the general route of Bucharis’ original expansion.

‘Sites of historical vulnerability,’ said the primarch. ‘A Plague of Unbelief lying dormant. The ring was a fulcrum. Perhaps the lever could be moved in the other direction.’

Mudire had no idea what that might mean and it was his opinion that some cobbled-together half-stories did not amount to a proper historical account. However, Colquan had stopped staring daggers at him and had moved away, lost in his own thoughts, and he did not want to attract the tribune’s attention again.

‘You have done well,’ Roboute Guilliman told the historitors. Copla-var grinned in relief and Forgewelt glanced up at the primarch’s face for a split second, face sheened in sweat. Guilliman’s expression softened. ‘I understand that the retrieval from Himhertha was not straightforward.’

Mudire shuddered. A creeping cold along his spine brought memory of scraping on stone and a questing shadow.

‘There were complications. We lost Ahlek.’

‘You have my condolences for the loss. Please know that what you have brought back is very useful to me and their death shall be remembered along with that of other heroes of the crusade.’

Mudire nodded, touched by the primarch’s words. Nobody said anything for several seconds until Vychellan broke the silence.

‘I think that means you can depart now,’ he told them softly.

‘Leave your documents,’ Colquan commanded, not turning round.

Mudire gave the pictures, map and texts a last look, but in Bucharis’ face saw Ahlek’s agonised death mask. Ears ringing to his last screams. Another death bargained for the truth. The price paid for that piece of information.

A hero, yes, but one he wished he could stop remembering. One among many.

Vychellan was surprised to receive a summons to Guilliman’s quarters no more than an hour after he had left, and on arriving found Mudire at the doors too, equally nonplussed.

‘Only you?’ said the Custodian.

‘What?’ Mudire was preoccupied, inspecting his fingertips. There were red ink stains on them. Vychellan caught the smell of amasec on the historitor’s breath. ‘Oh, yes. The others were not mentioned. What does he want to see us for?’

‘I have not been told,’ said Vychellan. ‘Perhaps there is something in the Bucharis evidence we overlooked, or some conclusion we missed.’

Mudire did not look happy at the prospect.

The doors opened a few minutes later to reveal Captain Hurak. Past him the chamber was empty but for Guilliman. No Colquan, Vychellan noted, his suspicion prickling.

‘The lord regent is ready for you,’ said Hurak.

When they stepped inside the equerry left the room, closing the doors behind him. Vychellan’s blood raced as he realised there was no witnesses save for one of Guilliman’s historitors. Nothing happened in these quarters that Guilliman had not prepared, and Vychellan had to wonder to what end the current arrangement had been engineered.

‘The survivor from the Rigorous,’ the primarch said, moving one of the piles of reports on his lectern. He gave it a glance and then looked at Mudire before turning his gaze on Vychellan. ‘This paints a picture worse than I had anticipated, and confirms that Ghazghkull Thraka is actively making alliances in the region.’

‘You cannot believe everything in that packet,’ said Mudire. ‘We did our best, but some of the things he was most convinced about were the most outlandish.’

‘What if I told you the man did not speak a word of a lie?’ Guilliman fixed his stern eyes on Mudire again. ‘I have seen its like before, and read of it since. One war wreathed in glorious victory called the Ullanor Crusade. Another shrouded in the deepest secrecy two thousand years later.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’ said Mudire, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘You want us to believe there is an ork weapon that can rip starships out of the warp–’

‘Whole fleets,’ said Guilliman, implacable.

‘And a starbase the size of a moon…’

‘Probably more than one.’ Guilliman stepped out from behind the lectern and his expression relaxed. ‘I assume you know what a palimpsest is, being a historitor?’

‘Yes, it’s a manuscript, crystal or data file that gets used over and over, erased and then written with new contents each time,’ said Mudire.

‘History is a palimpsest, not a singular unchanging truth but a page that gets written and rewritten constantly. Even the works of the Logos Historica Verita cannot avoid this process. As new evidence comes to light, old assessments must be re-evaluated. Sometimes even removed.’

‘I agree.’ Mudire shrugged.

‘My apologies, lord regent, but I don’t see the connection,’ said Vychellan. ‘What is the relevance of the survivor’s testimony to this concept of historical recovery?’

‘I shall explain.’ Guilliman paced slowly to a desk and sat behind it. ‘The Indomitus Crusade must succeed in breaking through to Imperium Nihilus without delay, or we risk losing everything that lies beyond. The resurgence of the orks has threatened that, as has internecine strife in the Terran elite. It is not hyperbole to say that the future of the crusade, of humanity, rests in our hands, and what we do next will have implications for decades, if not centuries. We cannot be distracted from our current course by perceived threats behind us.’

‘You are referring to the War of the Beast,’ said Vychellan.

‘I’ve not read anything about that in the histories of Ghazghkull,’ said Mudire.

‘A different Beast,’ explained Guilliman. ‘The first one. A much older war. One that the orks brought to the steps of the Imperial Palace itself.’

Mudire laughed, edged with drunkenness.

‘Orks have never invaded Terra! I’m Terran, I would know.’ The colour drained from his face as understanding took hold. ‘Really? Orks on Terra? But if they attacked before…’

‘They could attack again,’ finished Vychellan. ‘The Senatorum Imperialis would be very keen to avoid a repetition of those bloody times.’

‘Which is why they cannot learn of what is happening here, not yet,’ Guilliman said sharply. ‘We can defeat the traitors and hold the orks at bay now that Grimnar has chosen to accept his role. If forces were to be drawn back to Sol for the purposes of guarding against an unlikely ork attack, it would be a disastrous act of cowardice.’

‘And completely in line with the mindset of the High Lords,’ said Mudire. His laugh died in his throat.

Guilliman turned his focus to something on his desk.

‘I trust I make myself understood,’ the primarch said without looking up.

Vychellan met the glance from Mudire.

‘Hearsay is not history,’ said the historitor. ‘I will make it clear to the others as well, though perhaps in slightly different terms.’

Vychellan was uncertain. He was included in this small conspiracy because he was privy to the evidence from the survivor, but what other secrets was Guilliman keeping to himself? He suspected the unspoken ban on this knowledge included Colquan, who would make much of an attempt to misinform the High Lords. Too much perhaps, given his attitude to Guilliman, as dangerous as the other threats listed by the primarch.

Vychellan had a choice to make.

‘I understand,’ said the Custodian.

‘…and then they said they had no more questions so I used the time to pray and ask the Emperor to give me another chance to strike for his servants, and I spoke to the preacher and asked him if the Emperor answered prayers like that, but the preacher was busy and needed to work with others and he sent me with the storm troopers back to the troop ship when we rejoined the fleet and it was like being on the Rigorous, except I had nothing to do except visit the chapel and speak to the Emperor, and that’s when I started hearing the voices of the saints, but they looked like my old crewmates except I have their souls with me, never let them go, and now I brought them back I should give them…’

Orad stopped talking and looked at the plastek object that had been thrust into his grip. From the depths of his memory he dragged out a word: lasgun. With a grind of huge gears, massive doors unsealed ahead of him and as the horizontal join became a widening gap he saw, as if for the first time, hundreds of other men and women in the drop-ship. They all had their heads shaved as he did, tattooed with the Emperor’s aquila. Orad glanced at his chest to where the ork brand had been, but there was nothing except acid burn tissue where the medicae had removed the offending mark.

Light – sunlight – streamed through the opening doors. The roar of other drop-ships and the fume of their landing swept into the alighting bay. In the distance Orad saw a pall of smoke, and beneath it jagged ramparts. He caught his breath, thinking it was the stronghold of Orguk, but the layout was wrong and he let the air escape slowly between gritted teeth. It was an ork fortress though, that much was obvious. Tanks and other vehicles spilled down the broad mountainside before it, and orks and grots covered the grey rock like a stain.

‘Welcome to the Forty-Fourth Martyrs.’ A tall man with a conical helmet and heavy coat limped onto the ramp formed by the lowered door. ‘You all have the honour of being the first troops to storm this xenos hovel and earn glory in the eyes of the Emperor. Most, if not all of you, will fall in the attack, but be lifted by the thought that you give your lives for the Emperor’s endeavour! Upon your graves the future of the Imperium will be built!’

He stood to one side and the troopers pushed out from the drop-ship. Mortar bombs, artillery shells, rockets and strafing runs split the landing zone while anti-aircraft batteries unloaded their rage and Navy fighters screamed past on intercept missions.

Orad looked at the lasgun again and then up at the massive fortress. His fingers moved to the forty-three small bones that made up his necklace.

‘For the Emperor!’ he bellowed and joined the charge. ‘I am the Emperor’s vengeance!’

The wind brought shouts and clashing metal up the valley, and Ulrik the Slayer followed it, drawn to battle like a nightcrow. The weather was worsening, a blizzard brewing at the mountaintops that would swathe everything in fresh whiteness before night fell.

The din of conflict brought him to the lower slopes, where ten children were fending off a handful of raiders – grown men and women with scale armour and sharp swords. One was a short distance behind on the ground and Ulrik’s keen sight picked out the sharp stones in the snow around him that had been his downfall. The other four advanced together, shouting at the herd guards to move aside. Milk and beef was not worth dying for, they claimed. The frozen ground was pitted with bovine tracks leading down into the woods at the valley mouth.

The adolescents stayed close to the largest of their number, who wore a coat of mail and had a sword in hand too. Still an adolescent despite his size. The smaller children all had knives bared and did not step back as the raiders advanced.

The herders’ leader took the initiative, attacking just as the closest raider lifted back her sword to charge. Ulrik smiled as the youth’s sword point found the raider’s throat, splashing blood.

The youth’s victory was short-lived as a sword struck him in the back. His peers charged forward, one of them losing a hand as they tried to grapple the remaining three to the ground, fended off with sword swipes and kicks. The eldest was not to be stalled and attacked again, the edge of his blade catching a helmed head, knocking down the wearer. The raider stabbed from below as he rose, driving the point into the youth’s side, splitting iron rings and flesh.

Not to be undone, the youth pushed forward until the blade jutted from his back, his own sword hacking down into the face of his foe. The last two backed off then, while the youth pushed himself up and pointed his sword in their direction. Grabbing their companion, still dazed by the stones, the raiders fled back up the valley.

For about a minute the youth remained standing, swaying like a sapling in a strengthening wind. Without a sound he fell sideways, sword falling from his grasp. Ulrik watched intently and breathed a sigh as one of the younger herd guards put the blade back into their leader’s grip. Two stayed while the others ran back into the woods for help.

The light from the hall pooled into the darkness from the open doorway. It had been dug into the mountainside so that only the front was constructed out of broad logs. Swathed in a cameleoline cloak, Ulrik passed the forge and other buildings unnoticed, skirting round a crowd that had gathered by the smithy, their talk hushed and respectful. A young girl sat beside the wide doorway of the hall, swathed in a blanket.

She gasped and stood up as Ulrik allowed the cloak and hood to fall back, revealing his furs and wolf-skull helm. She was surprised but not afraid.

‘You are a servant of Morkai. Have you come for my brother?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps,’ said Ulrik, stepping past into the light of the hall.

There was a broad man by the table on which the youth was laid, a bloodied mess of rags in his hand. His muscle and callouses gave him away as a smith while his expression identified him as the father. He had only eyes for his son even as the others noticed Ulrik and drew back, whispering praises to the Allfather and the spirits.

Ulrik examined the boy, pale and lifeless, yet still breathing. He was old, but not too old. The Canis Helix worked beyond the maturity limit of other gene-seed. The youth would bleed to death before morning, despite the healers’ attention.

Even now there was no pain or fear in his face, relaxed in half-death.

‘What is his name?’ the Slayer asked.

‘Lufa Gythasson,’ the father said.

‘You gave him his mother’s name… Of course,’ said Ulrik. ‘Strong blood. Strong will.’

‘Will he live?’ asked the father.

Ulrik lifted the boy from the table and took him away, turning at the threshold, a skull-faced incarnation of death. He remembered doing the same more than half a millennium before. A brave, sincere youngster called Logan.

‘Do not mourn for him, for he shall be reborn a hero.’

Epilogue

‘I have no idea where we are, or why,’ Sergeant Coulas told the squad in reply to Kalum’s question. ‘This is where the transport brought us and this is how we were to be dressed and armed.’

The ten Sons of Russ had thick pressure suits with goggle-visors and removable rebreathers instead of their normal Mark X armour, and their bolt rifles had been left behind too, leaving them only with their combat knives. Kalum had trained with his battle-brothers many times, both armoured and without, but the bulky environmental suits hampered his movements as he turned to the others.

‘Maybe some kind of decontamination procedure,’ he suggested.

He could feel forward motion from the conveyor, which was about the size of a Land Raider but had no viewing ports. It clattered to a halt and the doors opened. Sergeant Coulas led the squad out into a chamber walled on three sides by thick, angled armaglass. A binary star burned in the distance, the bulk of two worlds visible in the periphery of their glow. Illuminated by these celestial bodies was a vast expanse of rock and metal, crushed together by the tides of the warp.

A space hulk.

They turned at movement from beside them, to see a Space Wolf who had been standing beside the conveyor door. Kalum felt slightly foolish that he had not noticed the Space Marine immediately, but his gaze had been drawn by the spectacle beyond the armaglass.

As it was meant to, he realised, feeling even more foolish.

The warrior was Primaris, his armour painted in the full colours of the Chapter, much scarred and pitted, his plastron Imperial aquila almost lost beneath necklaces of fangs, claws and other fetishes. He carried a bolt rifle, the weapon of an Intercessor, but his squad markings were nothing like those of Coulas’ warriors. He wore no helmet, his hair and beard a riot of blond that framed his weathered face.

‘You are on the Garmr, named after the great hound that hunted across the ice of Fenris in the first days,’ said the Space Wolf. ‘It is a space hulk, as you can see, but we have control of it. Mostly. Sometimes it slips its leash.’

The Space Wolf strode across them and pointed out through the armaglass to their right.

‘Over there is the Chapter enclave. It is about ten miles away. Not far as the nightraven flies. It’s about three times that distance through the guts of Garmr, which is how you will be going.’

‘It’s a navigation exercise,’ said Sergeant Coulas. ‘To find the enclave without auspex.’

Kalum was put off by the Space Wolf’s laugh, short and brutal.

‘Finding your way is the easy part,’ the warrior said. ‘You see, although we can control where the hulk goes, pretty much, we haven’t really finished clearing out the orks, renegades and assorted scum that make it their home. Probably some other xenos in there that none of us have heard of before. If you see any, bring their skull back as a trophy, we’d all like to see it.’

He stepped back to the conveyor, the doors still open, and motioned for the squad to enter.

‘The shaft takes you down into the first staging area. You have sixty seconds to leave. If you attempt to return to the staging area it will be flooded with plasma and you will be killed. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ said Sergeant Coulas, who had a strange look in his eye as he turned to the squad. It could have been distortion from the pressure suit goggles. ‘No drill, no mistakes. The moment we enter this conveyor unit we are in combat mode. Fall in.’

The squad trooped back to the conveyor. Kalum shared their bemusement but could feel his body starting to react to the call to battle. Heat washed through him, hearts quickening.

‘There is air, artificial gravity and tolerable pressure in much of the Garmr, but not all, so be aware at all times. Trust each other and your senses. Those that make it to the enclave can call themselves Wolves of Fenris. I hope to see all of you there.’ The Space Wolf smiled, showing pronounced canine teeth. ‘Count your wyrd blessed that you’re not being tested on Fenris, but don’t think that Garmr is any less forbidding than Morkai.’

‘Who are you?’ Kalum asked as he stepped past the Primaris Marine.

‘Kjarg Iron-Oath,’ the Space Wolf replied. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

Appendix: Fenrisian Lexicon

General note: Fenrisian language is rarely written in Imperial Gothic, while local physical records are in Fenrisian runic script of which there are many varieties, several of which are used by the Space Wolves Chapter depending from which area of Fenris a Space Marine was recruited. Spellings are therefore approximate and there are several accepted variations in Imperial records for many Fenrisian words and terms.

FENRISIAN (JUVYK / JUVJK) LEXICON

Juvjk – Translation – Notes

Adjarr – Lifeblood – The Rune of Blood

Aelfkid – Wood sprites

Aett – Clan-home – The Fang (Space Wolves only) / hearth/ den

Aettgard – Leader’s chosen warriors – Alternate name for Wolf Guard

Aettjarl – Settlement leader

Aett-rune – Home rune – (Great) Company sigil

Aett-skjald – Lorekeeper of a settlement

Aett-vater – Home-father – Commander or captain

Alfathir – The Emperor – The Allfather

Balka – Testicles Lit. Bollocks

Bludhaer – Hour of Blood – Battle or war

Bludhalle – Medicae / apothecarion

Damget! – Children of Damnation! – A curse or epithet

Drekkar – Fenrisian longship

Ekka – Fenrisian pines

Felhird – Beastmen

Fengr – The wolf within

Fenrys Hjolda – “Fenris Forever” – Battle cry

Fenryka – Of Fenris

Fenrys Hjammar Koldt – “Fenris’ Hammering Cold” – Battle cry

Fja vø – Go now

Fjorulalli – The Seal-mother

Fyrbrod – Gun – Lit. Fire-rod

Fyr-ent – Fire giant

Fyrkaf – Firedrink – Restorative beverage

Fyrmirdra – Fire serpent – A wyrm or dragon

Fyrstrom – Firestorm – Explosion

Gann – Death – The Rune of Death

Geldfut – Outstanding task / purpose – Mission

Geldwhal – Species of whale

Gmorl – Fate – The Rune of Fate

Gothi – Witch / Rune Priest / Shaman

Hamarrki – Spine

Hamarrkiskaldi – Instinct, intuition – Lit. Spine story

Hearthegn – Champion – The Great Wolf’s Champion

Hel – Damnation – A place beneath the ice for those that die badly

Hja – Yes

Hjammar – Hammer

Hjolda – Exclamation of surprise,welcome or frustration

Hould – The Hold

Husjarl – Trusted adviser or second-in-command – Lieutenant

Huskaerl – Soldier – Armed servant

Ja hjøld – Statement of approval

Jarl – Lord or Wolf Lord

Jarl-deck – Command deck orstrategium

Jarlhalle – Lord’s hall

Jarlship – A moderately sized warship – Equivalent to light cruiser

Jøva – Look, behold?

Juvi – Spokesperson, truth – Lit. The Word

Juvjk – Hearth cant

Juvykka – Fenrisian language

Kaerl – Mortal servant, thrall

Karlship – A larger-than-normal longship – A cruiser

Koenigsgard – King’s Guards – Retinue of the Great Wolf

Koldt – Cold

Maleficarum – Bad magic – Also bad luck / bad omen / bad spirit

Mjod – Space Wolves beverage

Morkai – The Deathwolf

Ragnarok – Ending – The Rune of Ending

Riven – A unit of 500 kaerls

Rivenmaster – Kaerl captain of amilitary unit

Runejarl – A Rune Priest – A Space Marine Librarian

Runekast – A sorcerer – A wyrd practitioner not to be trusted

Sálskjoldur – Soul-ward totem, worn as protection

Skjaldom – Vox-centre

Skjaldroot – A Fenrisian narcotic

Skjaldvers – A poem or chant – Warding prayer

Skjald-wisht – Daydreaming – Lit. Poet-wishing

Skaldwyrdfeyn – Protective chant to ward away ill wyrd

Skítja, Skítnah – Shit

Skitlbad – A Fenrisian game of skill

Skjald – Lorekeeper – Storyteller

Skjoldtar – A kaerl long gun

Skjoal – A drinking toast – Drinking without pause

Skold – Name

Sturmwyrm – Storm dragon

Thegnhalle – Council chambers

Tra – Three

Trysk – Ice – The Rune of Ice

Ulfnaki – Squad tactics – Hunt-style

Ulfwyrd – Lit. Wolf-fate – Power derived from ancestral magic, accumulated wisdom and respect

Under – Down

Underverse – Afterlife (negative connotations)

Upp – Up

Uppland – Afterlife (positive connotations) – Also the void, outer space

Upplander – One from the heavens – Stranger

Ut-geld – Owed debt – A favour or obligation

Utlander – Outsider

Vaerangi / vaerengr – Wolf Guard

Vahk / Vahk meh – Exclamation of surprise

Valkjyr – Angels – Choosers of the Slain in battle

Varg-Ulf – A wolf driven mad by wyrd

Verse – The cosmos

Vlka – Wolves

Vlka Fenryka – “Wolves of Fenris” – Legion / Chapter name

Volda – The world

War-aett – Base / command centre

War-skelt – Battle hymn

Weregost – Talisman, likeness – Each Great Company’s symbol is also its weregost

Wight – Corpse ghost

Wulfhalle – Wolf Hall – The Great Wolf’s personal chambers

Wurgen – Battle cant

Wyrd- – Of Fate – Or magic or the warp

-flesh – Daemonic or mutant remains

-fulk – Daemons

-fir – Warpflame

-glimr – A warp glow

-halle – Hall – House

-hex – A magical curse

-jarl – A mid-level psyker

-kine – Mutant

-knak – A warp-born ability – Intuition

-leif – Sigils or runes

-lit – Emanating power of the warp

-lode – A source of warp power

-lore – Knowledge of the warp – Psychic mastery

-midons – Mermaid / siren-like creatures – Tempters

-rot – Flesh made toxic by mutation

-sense – Awareness / detection

-shrum – A psychedelic fungus native to Fenris

-skaldr – A mystic chant

-stok – Residual power after a warp breach – Power of mutation

-storm – Psychic attack

-thegn – A high-level psyker

-ward – Psychic protection – A rune of the same

Wyrm – Dragon

Ygdras – Tree-giant

Ymir – Earth – The Rune of Earth

TERMS AND EXPRESSIONS

Blood of Russ – Expression of anger

For Russ – Battle cry

For the Allfather – Battle cry

For the Wolftime – Battle cry

God-marked – Psyker

Hand of Russ – Expression of protection – Used as a farewell

Morkai’s Teeth – Expression of surprise – Usually in face of imminent danger

Teeth of Russ – Expression of frustration

Until next winter – Farewell to the dead – Also used in face of certain death

Ward of Russ – Expression of protection – Also used as an expression of amazement

Accounting – Telling someone’s saga – Usually told by a skjald

Bad Star – Ill omen

Morkai – The Death Wolf – One of the twelve Wolves of Fenrisian legend

Murder-make – The act of fighting – Also meaning a battle depending on usage – Also: Murder-time

Red snow – Killing - to shed blood on snow

The Aett – Clan-home – It is the name the Chapter has for the Fang

The Fang – It is the name the Imperium has for the Chapter fortress-monastery. Considered derogatory by the Wolves

The Rout – A name the Chapter occasionally uses for themselves, though fallen out of general use since Legion times

Thread, the – Life of a person / a person’s lifeline or fate – Also: Cutting a / his / her thread – Taking a / his / her life

Wolftime – The end of all things and return of the Wolf King – See also: Morkai

Appendix: Notes on the Crusade

Despite early Imperial successes, by the fourth year of the war a number of problems had arisen that slowed the initial rapid advances of the crusade. The emergence of xenos threats in several places increased the burdens placed on the crusade fleets, adding to the threat posed by the forces of Abaddon the Despoiler. Meanwhile, certain strategos responsible for the warzones around Terra awaited the traitors’ push on the Throneworld, but for a long time it did not come. There has been a great deal of speculation as to why this was the case. At the time, the prevailing theory was that the delay was caused by internal divisions within the Chaos hosts; this resulted in an expectation that the war might be brought to a swift conclusion.

This was not to be. A stalemate descended upon the galaxy. While the endless, grinding war of attrition conducted by Fleet Secundus, towards the galactic north of Terra, held back Abaddon’s fleets, a number of equally large warzones were forming elsewhere, and these increasingly drew in numbers of battle groups, sapping the stamina of the crusade as much as they did its manpower. So many were the threats, and so overtaxed the Imperial forces, that the Dawn of Fire, Guilliman’s flagship, is said to have made untold numbers of warp jumps as the last primarch raced from front to front providing his personal guidance.

Despite the circumstances, Guilliman was far too great a commander to be purely reactive, and stuck to his strategy where possible. The crusade was slowed but not stopped, and although it happened less quickly than the primarch might have liked, large tranches of Imperium Sanctus were being brought back under direct Imperial control. Behind the front-line fleets smaller forces came: many to enforce the Imperial Tithe and the Imperial Exacta on worlds still reeling from conflict, but there were many reconstruction fleets also, delivering food, machinery and manpower. With remarkable rapidity, the astropathic network was restored to something approaching its pre-Rift state, even if astropaths were to remain in short supply for years afterwards, while the establishment of fortress hubs and bastion worlds stabilised many sectors as well as providing anchor points for further reconquest.

However, it was clear by then that the nature of the war was changing, as areas of instability emerged, consuming more and more resources with every passing month. Although lightning-fast gains continued in some sectors, the balance of conflicts were tipping inexorably towards long, grinding holding actions across multiple theatres of war.

THE ANAXIAN LINE

The most important of all these early conflict zones was undoubtedly that held at unimaginable cost by Fleet Secundus. The third fleet to depart, ordered to travel towards the remains of the Cadian Gate before suitable warp currents had been rediscovered, Secundus’ difficult Road of Martyrs ended in unrelenting warfare against fleets of the Traitor Legions supported by infinite hordes of daemons.

It took many years for Secundus to finally make its way close to the Eye of Terror. As the war dragged on, a whole section of Imperium Sanctus was given over to preventing Abaddon’s advance on Terra and supporting Fleet Secundus. Dubbed the Anaxian Line, this hemisphere of systems, all quickly fortified, provided a new defensive position to replace that lost by the fall of Cadia. Many light years deep, the web of defences ensured that no world or fleet could be isolated without reinforcement, while a constant stream of ships and bodies poured into Fleet Secundus as it fought its endless battle.

VIGILUS

Holding one end of the Nachmund Gauntlet, at the time the only known stable route across the Great Rift, Vigilus was of key importance to the Imperium. Losing this bastion would effectively cut off the newly re-contacted Imperium Nihilus from Terra. Vigilus was therefore contested from the very start of the war, with successive forces of orks, genestealer cultists and Chaos warbands assailing the system.

ULTRAMAR

For Ultramar, Calgar’s absence could not have come at a worse time, as Mortarion’s Death Guard continued their escalating series of assaults upon Guilliman’s personal sub-empire. These attacks, later named as the First, Second and Third Plague Wars, would devastate much of Ultramar, and ultimately led Guilliman to go home in order to reform and reinforce his domain. As it was, for much of the early period, the Ultramarines and their allied Chapters found themselves stretched to breaking point containing the sons of Mortarion, preventing their fuller involvement in the wider conflicts breaking out elsewhere. Though in nearly all cases the Ultramarines attempted to fulfil their obligations, much of the Chapter was tied up defending their home ground, and they rarely ventured out above company strength.

NEPHILIM SECTOR, ULTIMA SEGMENTUM

By the fourth year of the Indomitus Crusade, the Lord Commander had been made aware of growing concerns by commanders in the south of the Ultima Segmentum, around an area originally dubbed the ‘Nephilim Anomaly.’ Though it was not rare for fleets to cease communication for long periods, several in the region had gone missing in their entirety and enemy intervention was the only explanation. A battle group despatched from Fleet Primus was rapidly reinforced, with more ships drawn from all over the southern galaxy as the true scale of the threat became clearer: potentially hundreds, perhaps thousands of star systems cut off from the warp by xenos artifice. Fighting as much against the soul-deadening effect of horrifying technology as against the xenos themselves, Imperial forces were forced to switch from an offensive reconquest to containing the armies of the foe. Even so, the true gravity of the situation in the south was not to emerge for some time.

SEGMENTUM SOLAR

Biding his time until the first of the fleets had set sail and, crucially, when Roboute Guilliman himself was absent from Terra, Kor Phaeron of the Word Bearers launched a large attack across the Segmentum Solar. His targets were primarily shrine and cardinal worlds, with the first major action taking place at Talledus. Here, as at Gathalamor, the Iron Warriors joined forces with the Word Bearers in a system-wide invasion. It was to be only the first. The aims of the Word Bearers were primarily religious in nature, concerned as they were with undermining the faith of the Imperial populace and replacing it with their own. So great was the despair prevalent in the post-Rift Imperium, the Word Bearers’ dark priests found ready listeners on even the most devout of planets, and the number of rebellions they provoked quickly spiralled, while dedicated hunter-fleets actively sought out and destroyed the Black Ships of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica to starve the Emperor of sustenance.

Recognising that such uprisings often preceded full-scale war by the Word Bearers, and suspecting that the destabilisation of the Segmentum Solar by Kor Phaeron was the beginning of a two-part strategy to attack Terra itself, the high command of the Imperium diverted multiple battle groups to deal with the threat, negatively affecting progress elsewhere. Led by elements of fleets Tertius, Quartus, Quintus and Sextus, these forces were unable to prevent the situation rapidly degenerating into chaos. Despite many Imperial victories, each pacification of a rebellious world was followed by another uprising, in a pattern that was hard to predict.

OCTARIUS SECTOR AND DIVERSE ENVIRONS

Of greatest concern to Roboute Guilliman was the scale of ork activity within the Ultima Segmentum and the Segmentum Solar, revealed as Fleet Primus worked its way towards the Rift, where Guilliman hoped to find a second stable route across to Imperium Nihilus.

Orks were expected in the region. They had plagued that part of the galaxy since time immemorial, yet the sheer number of them proved a rude shock. Ghazghkull Thraka had provoked the largest ork Waaagh! since the War of the Beast, and orks flocked by the million to the sectors around Fenris, Ryza, the Maelstrom and Elysia. Mired in constant, small-scale wars against uncountable ork warlords, the battle groups of Fleet Primus were slowed to a crawl, suffering a constant depletion of men and materiel as they fought their way to what now seemed unattainable targets.

A key part of Guilliman’s strategy from the beginning had been to use the Primogenitor Chapters of the Space Marines as focal points for Imperial resistance and reconquest. Already, he had handed great powers to his own gene-son, Marneus Calgar, as he would in later years to Commander Dante of the Blood Angels. Guilliman’s aim had always been to co-opt Logan Grimnar, Great Wolf of the Space Wolves, to his cause, and leave him in charge of clearing out the ork threat devilling Terra’s right flank.

As events detailed in this tome attest, Guilliman’s task was far from easy, not least because the Space Wolves were, for a time, feared destroyed. After Guilliman convinced Grimnar to join his cause, and leaving the division and assignment of the many Primaris Space Marines of Russ’ line to the Great Wolf’s wisdom, the role Grimnar was given was an arduous one. Years of warfare spearheaded by the Space Wolves were to follow as Guilliman turned his attention elsewhere, while Grimnar and his Fenrisians joined a growing list of Imperial heroes intent on hunting Ghazghkull down.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels The First Wall, Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, and several audio dramas. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Indomitus, Ashes of Prospero, Imperator: Wrath of the Omnissiah and the Last Chancers series, including the most recent title, The Last Chancers: Armageddon Saint. He also wrote the Rise of the Ynnari novels Ghost Warrior and Wild Rider, the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Warhammer Chronicles omnibus The Sundering, and, for Age of Sigmar, The Red Feast. In 2017, Gav won the David Gemmell Legend Award for his novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from Indomitus.

‘They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement.’ Praxamedes had spoken without thought, the words of the Codex Astartes coming to him unbidden and reaching his tongue before he could stop them.

‘Is that censure of a senior officer, Lieutenant Praxamedes?’ asked Aeschelus as he looked away from the command bridge’s main viewing display. The Ultramarines captain paced across the strategium of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, heading to where his second-in-command stood alongside the task force’s other lieutenant, Nemetus.

The polished blue of their armour danced with the amber-and-red glow of console lights, smudged by a bright plasma gleam shining from the tactical videolith that dominated the wall of the large command chamber. Tac-slaved servitors wired to terminals and augur banks grunted and chattered their dataflows to azure-robed overseers, who in turn compiled reports for their Space Marine officers. Behind them, Shipmaster Oryk Oloris, in heavy trousers that were tucked into knee-high boots and a crisp white shirt beneath his Ultramarines uniform tunic, prowled the deck with a watchful eye.

Praxamedes instantly regretted his momentary lapse.

‘As a scholar of the lord primarch’s teachings, you would know that the Codex Astartes has much to say on respect for the chain of command.’ Aeschelus came alongside his two officers and half-turned back towards the main screen. He opened his hand towards the screen, indicating the starship that drifted across the spray of stars, plumes of blue and white plasma ejecting haphazardly from a ruptured reactor. ‘Our preliminary surveyor reports indicate that we have disabled their weapons grid. The threat is minimal.’

‘My words, brother-captain, were in reference to Nemetus’ overly keen desire to lead the boarding,’ Praxamedes told his superior. ‘There are still enemy vessels in the vicinity.’

‘Two destroyers,’ scoffed Nemetus. ‘Too fast a prey to hunt on our own. As soon as we give chase, they will disappear into the asteroids and gas clouds on the boundary of the third orbital sphere. Would you follow them into that, knowing that they could turn on us under the cover of our overwhelmed scanners?’

‘That was not my suggestion, brother-lieutenant,’ said Praxamedes, frowning. It was an occasional fault of Nemetus to protest against an ill-thought strategy that had not, in fact, been raised, perhaps purely to show that he had considered and discarded such action himself. ‘Our primary objective is destruction of the enemy. Boarding brings unnecessary risk, at a time when the battle groups of Fleet Quintus must conserve their strength.’

‘That is a Hellbringer-class cruiser,’ added Nemetus. ‘Nobody has built one for eight thousand years. It is a piece of archeotech in its own right.’

‘The lord primarch would also favour heavily any intelligence we might glean from its cogitator banks,’ said Aeschelus. ‘We are at the forefront of the crusade, encountering foes fresh to the battle. This is a raider, an assault ship built for planetary attack. Perhaps this ship comes from beyond the Cicatrix Maledictum and could shed light on what is occurring in the Imperium Nihilus lost beyond the warp rifts.’

This time, Praxamedes was wise enough to hold his tongue, wishing the whole conversation would be forgotten. Aeschelus noticed his lieutenant’s reticence and continued.

‘You urge caution with a depleted resource, which is laudable, but I would not spend the lives of the lord primarch’s warriors needlessly.’ Aeschelus allowed his voice to travel a little further, carrying to other members of the command crew across the strategium. It was typical of Aeschelus’ fine touch of command that he would turn potential remonstration into a moment to inspire others. It was a knack that Praxamedes sorely lacked, nor had any idea how to acquire despite his efforts.

‘For near a decade, as ship-board chronometers reckon it, we have fought hard in the crusade of the lord primarch. At the outset there was treachery and catastrophe, losses suffered before the fleet had even left Terra. Our own task force lost its noble group master to the plague purges. Those here, and that came before, knew that there would be no easy victories, that a galaxy broken asunder by the witchery of our enemies would be an unwelcoming battlezone. Yet even the most pessimistic among us would not have countenanced the uncountable labours and obstacles that Fleet Quintus has found in its path.

‘Every victory has been hard-fought and we have met with more reverses than those in other fleets. Each foe must be overcome in turn – every opportunity to rise from the shadows of past setbacks must be seized. Before us lies a prize, won by our own endeavour, that may lift the fortunes of not just the Ithraca’s Vengeance or Battle Group Faustus, but perhaps bring heart to all of Crusade Fleet Quintus that our extraordinary travails have been to purpose.’

‘A prize that is even now trying to slip from our fingers,’ growled Nemetus, nodding towards the videolith. ‘See how they crawl towards the stellar flotsam, seeking sanctuary in its midst. We must seize the moment, brother-captain.’

‘And I stand ready to lead the attack, as always,’ said Praxamedes. ‘As the longest serving lieutenant it would be my honour to do so.’

‘I have no doubt that you would be determined and diligent in the execution of the attack, Praxamedes, but I think this operation is more suited to the temperament of Nemetus.’ The captain turned his full attention to the second lieutenant. ‘Assemble your boarding force swiftly. Take control of the enemy strategium and extract what you can from the cogitators.’

‘You’ll need charges, to scuttle the ship when you are done,’ said Praxamedes.

‘There will be no need for that,’ said Nemetus. ‘It looks as though their reactors are already descending towards critical state. A few hours from now there will be nothing left but plasma.’

‘All the more reason to fly swift and fight with narrow purpose,’ said Aeschelus.

‘If we’re set on the mission, I’ll review the augur data and calculate the approach vectors that will bring you most swiftly to your objective, brother.’ Praxamedes lifted a fist to his chest to salute the departing officer.

Nemetus returned the gesture of respect with a nod. ‘For the primarch and the Emperor.’

When the lieutenant had exited the strategium, Praxamedes turned to move towards the augur terminals. Aeschelus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke quietly.

‘I know that you think I undervalue you, Prax. I will give you battle command soon, I give you my word. It’s just…’

‘Nemetus is the more dynamic of us?’

‘Restless,’ Aeschelus replied. ‘Nemetus excels in direct action. In all truth, would you have him providing overview for the expedition while you were leading the squads? Is that truly the best use of his and your aptitudes?’

Praxamedes said nothing. He had spoken out too much already and did not wish to push his superior’s patience any further. In truth, he felt it was Aeschelus, in longing to prove his worth in the eyes of the primarch, that felt undervalued. Like many in the latest cohort of recruits pushed to the leading edges of the crusade, Aeschelus had not been in the fleet when those early disasters had occurred. He had not witnessed how the hope and excitement of the crusade’s potential had withered in a matter of months.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Praxamedes had enough self-awareness to admit, to himself if no other, that those early experiences had given him a more pessimistic outlook than his new commander. The captain hoped Nemetus would bring glory to the Ithraca’s Vengeance with some daring act, and Praxamedes was well aware of his own deficiencies in that regard. He was neither charismatic nor blessed with startling initiative. He was diligent and capable, and those were qualities that perhaps Battle Group Faustus needed right now when another serious setback might break the morale of the whole Fleet Quintus.

But Aeschelus was not interested in such thoughts and so Praxamedes kept them to himself.

‘As you will it, brother-captain,’ he said simply.

Aeschelus gave a nod of dismissal to set Praxamedes about his task, yet as the lieutenant moved away the captain felt the admonition in his formality. His second-in-command doubtless meant well but the last thing the command needed at the moment was negativity. There were finally reports of good news from the other battle groups, and while Faustus still laboured hard against warp storms and a ceaseless swarm of small but diverting traitor attacks, Aeschelus was determined that he would make a breakthrough soon.

Praxamedes tended to think in tactical terms, lacking the longer view of the strategic that had been inculcated into Aeschelus as part of his rapid training to the rank of captain. He and others like him had been despatched to the cutting edge of the Indomitus Crusade to bring some renewed urgency, particularly across Crusade Fleet Quintus.

Fresh blood, fresh energy.

Those had been the words of the lord primarch. Not heard in person, as Lord Guilliman was far from Terra leading the crusade when Aeschelus had been sent to his command. It wasn’t like the days when Praxamedes and the first torchbearer fleets had been sent out. No fanfare, no primarch. Just reinforcements and a renewed will to press into the darkness.

One day, perhaps soon, Aeschelus would have the honour. One day he would stand before the lord primarch in victory, recognised for an effort that changed the fortunes of the fleet.

The captain broke from his reverie to find Oloris standing close by, a dataslate in hand. The shipmaster raised a fist to his forehead.

‘Latest fleet dispositions, captain.’ The unaugmented human presented the dataslate and withdrew a step, brushing a wisp of blond hair from his pale face.

‘Anything of note?’ asked Aeschelus, knowing that Oloris could be trusted to review the information relevant to their current course of action.

‘We received word that Sword of Justice and the Vaputatian both broke warp to rendezvous with the support fleet.’

‘That leaves nobody on our starward flank. A little early for refit.’ Aeschelus scrolled through the report but Oloris provided the answer first.

‘They each had an unexpected encounter with a battleship-class enemy. They were able to break away but not before taking heavy damage.’

Aeschelus found the entry and accessed the engagement report. ‘No identifier. Possible traitor flagship. Heavy lance arrays outranged our ships.’

‘And us, captain,’ said Oloris. He hesitated, cleared his throat and continued, ‘Lieutenant Praxamedes wishes to know if we are proceeding with the boarding action.’

Aeschelus looked up. The lieutenant was at the augur console, ostensibly engaged in his preparations, though his enhanced hearing was more than capable of picking up the conversation between captain and shipmaster. It was protocol for any matters concerning the running of the vessel to come through the shipmaster, but it seemed peculiar on this occasion that Praxamedes had not delivered his question directly. It was likely that he was being more circumspect after his uncharacteristically outspoken moment.

‘You have concerns, Prax?’ the captain said, hoping informality would assure his subordinate that he was not in any way being censured. ‘You think there is a danger presented by this rogue battleship?’

‘It is a possibility, captain,’ said Praxamedes, turning from his work. ‘The engagement with the Sword of Justice took place within the last two days, only four hundred and fifty thousand miles from our current position. What if it’s the Desolator?’

‘I am surprised you put stock in such tales, lieutenant,’ said Aeschelus. He snorted, shaking his head. ‘The Desolator? Rumour and hearsay. The grumblings of reluctant Imperial Navy officers.’

‘You think there is no truth to the reports, captain?’ Praxamedes approached, darting a look towards Oloris that betrayed their conspiracy. ‘Seven vessels lost or driven off in the last thirty days, all within this sub-sector.’

‘There is no phantom enemy battleship striking with the speed of a frigate and disappearing.’ Aeschelus raised a finger to forestall Oloris as the shipmaster opened his mouth to speak. ‘And it certainly is not The Ninth Eye, that identification was based on the tiniest fragment of augur return and vox-scatter. Battle Group Command insist that there is no Alpha Legion presence in this whole sector. You want me to ignore the prize we have won based on the chattering of Navy officers?’

‘I wished to clarify our intent, captain,’ Praxamedes said stiffly. ‘Your will is clear.’

‘It is,’ growled Aeschelus, now irritated by the lieutenant’s intervention. ‘Ready your calculations for Lieutenant Nemetus as quickly as possible.’

Aeschelus turned his eyes back to the drifting ship on the main display. This equivocation and rumour-mongering was just one of the many symptoms of the fleet’s morale problems. He should not fault Praxamedes for falling prey to the same deficiencies as others caught up in the long tale of misfortune, but it was starting to affect his judgement. Despite his earlier words to the lieutenant, this kind of irrational behaviour, coupled with overfamiliarity to the non-Space Marine crew, made Aeschelus wonder if Praxamedes really was suited to any kind of battle command.

With the order for the boarding action given, the tone aboard the Ithraca’s Vengeance changed from one of pensive watchfulness to energetic activity. The crews of the gun decks remained alert, sensor stations poring over the broken flank of the heavy cruiser, seeking any sign of sudden life from their foe. From the command bridge came firing solutions, pinpointing breaches in the enemy’s armoured skin, selected to prepare the way for the incoming attack. In the flight bays the roar of plasma engines joined the thud of armoured boots, filling each launch deck with the noise of pending war. Red-clad tech-priests croaked and burbled sermons of the Machine-God to bless their charges before launch, lower adepts of the Cult of Mars anointing the gunships’ weapons and targeting arrays with unguents while nano-laced censer smoke drifted into idling intakes to cleanse engine feeds.

Squad by squad, the boarding parties assembled at the mustering deck between the two flanking launch halls. Nemetus paced the concourse at the hall’s centre, passing a critical eye over the thirty Space Marines as they came to attention. From the ship’s complement he had selected three squads of Intercessors, the backbone of the new Primaris formations. Standing to attention, weapons presented, an unmoving line of Ultramarines blue, they awaited the order to break rank and move to board the gunships.

Unsullied by self-aggrandisement.

The words of Praxamedes lingered in the thoughts of Nemetus while he readied himself for the battle ahead. Whether intended for Aeschelus or Nemetus, that softly spoken line from the Codex Astartes had carried the same vehemence as a shouted outburst from any other. Praxamedes was calm to the point of coolness and guarded in everything he said. To have spoken as he did was almost without precedent.

Helmet under his arm, Nemetus walked along the ranks, inspecting every warrior. Each was impeccably turned out, a credit to themselves and the dedication of the armourium. Sergeant Villina lifted fist to chest as Nemetus reached the front of the formation once more.

‘Most excellent, brother-sergeant, fit for a parade before the lord primarch himself!’

‘And ready for more than just a parade, brother-lieutenant,’ added the veteran sergeant.

‘I am sure of it, Villina. It is my honour to lead them again.’

The Codex Preparatory Statements on the Nature of the Adeptus Astartes continued, and it was from the following words of the lord primarch that Nemetus took inspiration.

They will be bright stars on the firmament of battle, Angels of Death whose shining wings bring swift annihilation to the enemies of man.

A bright star in the firmament of battle.

Bright stars were in short supply of late, with the Imperium beset by all foes, both ancient and modern. A relative latecomer to the Indomitus Crusade, Nemetus had learned from afar of its great reconquest whilst undergoing his transformation and training. He knew the power of the stories that returned from the exploits of humanity’s finest warriors. He had heard temple bells ringing the triumphs of the lord commander, listened to the cheers from hundreds of thousands of throats as great victories were read from the balcony-pulpits. As a Primaris Marine, he was to be the new exemplar of everything the Adeptus Astartes represented.

And yet the words of Praxamedes still bit deep.

Unsettled, he passed an expert eye over the next warriors – a squad of Eradicators, their melta rifles at the ready. They would be the breaching team once the expedition reached the enemy strategium. Nemetus’ gaze moved between them and the Intercessors, noting that most of their wargear was freshly issued.

Many of Aeschelus’ command had been sent as reinforcements to Fleet Quintus, as had he and Nemetus; only a few were longer-serving, having departed Terra at the crusade’s outset. Praxamedes was among those that had seen the earliest fighting, the most terrible wars and dogged campaigns. A member of Fleet Quintus since its inception, he had risen from the ranks while Nemetus and Aeschelus, and no few others, had been trained to their officer roles. Such had been the early casualties among the Space Marines – a force that lived by the creed of leading from the front – that deaths among the first Primaris officers had eliminated almost half the Adeptus Astartes leadership of Fleet Quintus within three years. Battlefield promotions and brevet ranks were good as a stop-gap, but as a longer term solution Nemetus and others had been command-trained from the outset of their inductions.

Was Praxamedes’ slight genuinely aimed at Aeschelus, a subtle admonition for a superior who had been promoted ahead of him?

That was an unkindness to Praxamedes, Nemetus decided. The very moments before battle were not the best time to weigh up the motivations of his brother-officers, and Nemetus had nothing but respect for his fellow lieutenant. Praxamedes had simply been urging his usual circumspect approach, nothing more.

Nemetus turned his attention to the remaining members of his expedition. A little apart from the Intercessors stood ten Incursors, two combat squads of dedicated close assault specialists under Sergeant Dorium and Sergeant Lato. Clad in armour incorporating the most sophisticated internal auspex systems, they would pave the way for the main force, their bolt carbines ideally suited to the closer confines of the enemy starship. It had been just days since they had last seen action, and their wargear told a different story to that of the Intercessors. Here and there the lieutenant spied bare ceramite over some recently suffered damage, and the paint of their livery was much scratched.

‘Is that blood?’ Nemetus demanded, directing an accusing finger towards the gauntlet of Brother Sennecus.

The Incursor lifted his hand and inspected it. He flexed the red-stained armoured digits.

‘Yes, lieutenant,’ Sennecus replied. ‘I ripped out the heart of a secessionist in our last engagement. The red mark is a trophy of our victory, brother-lieutenant.’

‘Yes, I have heard of this “battle paint”, brother.’ Nemetus took a step closer and was about to deliver his chastisement when a voice cut across the muster hall.

‘A fitting memorial to a traitor,’ rasped Judiciar Admonius.

Armoured all in back, the Judiciar cut a sinister figure. At his waist hung a great hourglass, filled with dark sand: his tempormortis. Each grain came from the debris of Callosi station, a renegade installation atomised in the first engagement of Battle Group Faustus. Admonius’ zealotry in that action had seen him recruited to the position of Judiciar, on the pathway to becoming a Chaplain.

The dedication that had drawn Admonius to the Reclusiam’s ranks had increased with his acceptance, as if he were afraid that his status as novice would count against him. Nemetus knew better than to gainsay the Judiciar and instead raised a fist in salute.

‘You are joining the boarding force, Brother-Judiciar?’

‘Of course. It is my duty to prosecute the war against the traitors with every fervour. Did you think I would pass on this opportunity?’

Recognising the rhetoric in the question, Nemetus returned his attention to the warriors under his command.

‘Brothers.’ He took a breath, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts that came to him.

Self-aggrandisement.

Was he guilty of that crime?

‘Brothers,’ he began again, taking inspiration from his own mood. ‘Some of you have raised your weapons beside me in battles before this day. Many of you have not, and indeed this is the first encounter with the foe since your preparatory missions. It matters not. We are all Adeptus Astartes. We are all sons of Lord Guilliman. We are all servants of the Emperor.’

He could not resist a glance towards Judiciar Admonius before he continued.

‘It is not for ourselves that we fight, though we owe our brothers our commitment. We were created to spearhead a war far greater than any single warrior. Our foes seem without limit, but we will find it. We shall slay as many as needed, until the galaxy is secured once more for the dominion of humanity.’

He took another breath, settling into himself, finding direction from his own words.

‘Remember that every blow you strike, every bolt you fire, is directed towards that single duty. Know also that at our backs stands the whole of the Imperium, its will bent to the reconquest of lost realms, the succour of enslaved worlds and the destruction of the dark enemy that has brought this wrath upon them. You are the implementation of that will. You are the Emperor’s strength given form. Fight well and you shall not die, for your names shall live on ever after in glory!’

As his triumphant shout reverberated across the hall, Nemetus signalled the embarkation to begin. He felt Admonius beside him and turned his gaze on the Chaplain-in-Waiting.

‘A fine speech,’ said the Judiciar. ‘Now let your deeds echo your words.’

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

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