The wolftime, p.19
The Wolftime, page 19
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!’
