The wolftime, p.12
The Wolftime, page 12
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.
