The wolftime, p.22
The Wolftime, page 22
‘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.
