The wolftime, p.11
The Wolftime, page 11
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.
