The wolftime, p.17
The Wolftime, page 17
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.
