The wolftime, p.23
The Wolftime, page 23
There was little organisation to it. The docks at which he slaved were one of several such facilities jutting up from the mess of palaces, forts, hovels, racetracks, firing ranges and a warren of streets that gave him vertigo to look at. There was one feature that dominated all others, squatting like a brooding giant on a hill near the centre of the city. He assumed it was Orguk’s stronghold, the massive curtain wall topped with fang-like battlements of rusting iron, held by more than a dozen towers and a gatehouse large enough for gigantic war machines to pass through.
From the fortress and from workshops all over Orguk’s domain came the creations of the ork engineers: buggies and bikes and armoured walkers; transports with wheels and tracks, their open beds filled with baying and laughing greenskins; cannons on limbers hauled by teams of slaves or smog-belching armoured tractors; tanks by the score, of no consistent shape or size, from glorified armoured cars and self-propelled guns up to multi-turreted behemoths the size of buildings; and stomping giants of metal that ranged from three or four times a human’s height to monstrous machines that towered over the surrounding buildings, girded with curved armoured plates like rotund bodies, control stations fashioned as grimacing heads atop turreted shoulders, each an enormous mobile idol bedecked with weaponry.
This war industry filled the holds of the ships being built, quite often before the vessels were even finished – many seemed to be constructed around the larger engines, each purpose-built for a handful of gargantuan machines. Smaller attack craft streamed up from airfields on the outskirts, their smoke and contrails spiralling towards the glint of the space station that could be seen in the rare breaks in the downpours.
The summer and its scorching heat came next and lasted an eternity, at least a full year compared to the seasons of Orad’s birthworld, Norestsun. The traitor returned again in the blistering sunshine, moving among the slave parties with an entourage of orkish minders to keep her armoured transport safe. Now her vehicle was bedecked with address systems so that her voice carried over the crash and clamour of unceasing labour.
‘Your works for the mighty Orguk Worldmangle do not go unnoticed! Today you have become part of something far greater than any endeavour you have undertaken before. Orguk Worldmangle announces that his army shall fight alongside that of the Beast of Armageddon, the Prophet of Mork, the Fist of Gork, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka!’
At mention of this name there was cheering and roaring from all greenskins within earshot.
‘Be thankful for your lives, as the Great Green will again swallow the stars and the roars of Gork and Mork shall thunder across the strangespace. Upon their bellowing breath shall the war of Orguk and Ghazghkull be carried against the strangespace freaks and the warriors of the broken human empire.’
She let out a strange shout, a wordless war cry of pure aggression that her ork companions took up in a deafening bass holler. They fired their guns into the air and banged fists and blades against the side of the transport. Behind the woman several orks started making raucous music on metal drums and electrical instruments, their screeches and bellows causing the overseers and grots to nod their heads vigorously, pumping fists and joining in the fire of weapons with stamping feet and cracking whips.
This announcement was followed by an even greater swell of activity, though Orad had thought the slaves pushed to their limit already. There seemed no shortage of captives to build the engines of the orks: even as Orad saw familiar faces pale and then disappear, new ones replaced them, the ork conquest fuelling itself to greater and greater power as it prepared for the coming massive expansion.
For some it was not the physical toil that ended them but the mental strain. Each day a handful of those too broken to continue would cast themselves from the high scaffold, occasionally dragging a grot or sometimes even an ork overseer with them. Others threw themselves into whirring engines, hoping their bodies would clog the works. Some grabbed guns from the orks and went down in a hail of fire and lunatic screams of hate, or snatched shells from ammunition carriers and hurled themselves beneath the tracks of the embarking war engines, or dropped their loads into open generators and reactor pits, causing explosions and electrical storms to engulf dozens of orks and slaves. The orks showed no concern for these petty acts of sabotage.
Orad had considered following them into death, but he was haunted by his surrender on the ship and could not fail the Emperor twice. He would not submit again and risk damnation. Every few days the Voice of Orguk returned, reminding them of the power of the warlord and their privilege to labour under such a strong leader. Her appearances had the effect of motivating Orad, not to impress the turncoat or her greenskin master but to stay alive long enough to see them both destroyed by the wrath of the Emperor. It was a matter of time, nothing more, until the Imperial Navy and the Imperial Guard, perhaps even Space Marines or the Sisters of Battle, arrived to cleanse this world of the xenos that took so many of the Throne’s servants.
As his calloused hands healed with thicker skin and his body grew stronger with every burden, so his resolve was bolstered with each day of slavery. He greeted the whip-crack of morning call as another day that might bring the Emperor’s retribution, and as he told the ghosts of his crewmates – his gun crew now joined by nearly a score of others on his necklace – they just had to be patient.
Unlike the great halls and audience chambers of the lower levels, the wulfhalle of Logan Grimnar was a more personal space, one of several that had once been a suite of rooms for the Wolf King in the heights of the Aett. It was some distance below the wyrdhalle where Njal spent much of his time, difficult to reach directly, requiring one to traverse the width of the fortress to a working conveyor system or descend nearly a mile on foot by a series of uneven stairs. Going down was certainly better than the return journey, but even so when Njal paused before the closed doors he felt as though he had descended a mountain. Which, in a way, he had.
There were two Wolf Guard on duty, as was customary – Odyn Foe-Ruin and Hrothgar Frostskull. They seem surprised to see Njal approach.
‘The Great Wolf is busy, Runelord,’ said Odyn, stepping in front of the doorway, blocking it with his broad Terminator armour. Njal was in his furs, but no less imposing because of it.
‘My business is urgent.’ He drew himself up to his full height, red beard bristling, his shaggy mane sparking with golden flecks. ‘What occupies the Great Wolf?’
‘He holds council with the Rockfist,’ replied Odyn, standing his ground.
‘Even better, Arjac will benefit from hearing this news also,’ said Njal, stepping to the left.
Odyn moved slightly to stand between the runethegn and the door. Njal let out a sigh and took a step back.
‘At least tell the Great Wolf I am here.’
The two Wolf Guard shared a look before Hrothgar gave a nod. He pushed open the door to address the inhabitants, but quick as a serpent, Njal sidestepped Odyn and was at the threshold before he could be intercepted. Grimnar was at a side table pouring ale from a jug, while Arjac stood at the large window looking out over the clouds that surrounded the stronghold.
‘My lord, I must speak with you,’ said Njal. He felt the Wolf Guard moving behind him and raised his voice to a snarl. ‘If either of you lay a finger upon me, I’ll make lightning dance in your arseholes.’
Sounds of armoured movement ceased.
Grimnar turned around, jug in one hand, tankard in the other.
‘I only have two cups,’ said the Great Wolf.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ lied Njal, whose mouth was dry from navigating the endless stairways. ‘I have received communication from the Imperial vessel.’
‘I see,’ said Logan, pouring ale. He nodded to the door guards and Njal stepped onto the carpeted floor while the door banged closed behind him.
‘You do not, but you will,’ said Njal.
‘The lieutenant of the Ultramarines failed to persuade me to allow their mock Fenrisians closer so he tried to turn you, sensing you were more favourable to the idea.’
‘Not at all, and he would have failed, though you are right, I think you are making a mistake.’ Njal sat down in one of the large chairs around the fireplace, on the opposite side of the room to where the Great Wolf stood. Logan passed a cup of ale to Arjac and returned to where he had been standing to raise the other mug to his lips, waiting for Njal to continue.
‘I have granted audience to a small group from the vessel,’ the runethegn said. ‘They are called historitors and have been tasked with piecing together fragments of the past.’
‘They sound like the worst kind to let free around the Aett,’ said Arjac.
‘Which is why I won’t be letting them free to roam,’ snapped Njal. ‘As loremaster it is my right and responsibility, and as much as they wish to learn from us, we need to learn from them. We have scant report, secondhand from Krom, of this crusade and the return of Guilliman. If we wish to know what has happened on the Throneworld and what is happening afar, these historitors will be the ones to speak with.’
‘You should have travelled to them, in that case,’ said Grimnar, putting down his cup. ‘I think they have tricked you.’
‘The historitors are only part of the story, Logan.’ Njal leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘The request did not come from them but a Custodian.’
‘Someone guarding them? A Space Marine?’
‘A Custodian! A warrior of the Adeptus Custodes. I saw him on the vid-feed. Bigger than these Primaris Marines, clad in golden armour.’
‘The Custodians don’t leave the Allfather’s halls,’ said Arjac.
‘Until now…’
Logan Grimnar had a calculating look as he drained the rest of the ale and picked up the jug to refill the mug.
‘A Custodian has left the Throneworld and he has travelled to Fenris? I know that these are times like no other, but it has been ten thousand years since…’ The Great Wolf put both mug and jug down and turned his attention fully to the Runelord. ‘I am reminded of Prospero, when the Wolf King and the Custodians fought side by side against the Cyclops. Now Magnus returns to assail Fenris in revenge and a gold-clad warrior comes to call upon the Aett.’
‘Now you see why I extended the invitation,’ said Njal.
‘None of your visions included a gold warrior,’ said Arjac. ‘You didn’t see this coming.’
‘Wyrdsight is a gift from across the othersea, it is not a pair of magnoculars,’ grumbled the Runelord. ‘Things are not always straightforward. I have seen golden sunrises and sunsets, golden flames on the sea and golden stars above.’
‘It must be another sign,’ said Logan. ‘For a soldier of the Ten Thousand to leave Terra is an omen we cannot ignore, another mark that we pass into the Wolftime.’
‘I will meet with these visitors and guide them to what they seek,’ said Njal. ‘Because it is my invitation they have no good cause to see any more of the Aett than necessary.’
‘You think I shouldn’t have audience with this Custodian?’
‘Perhaps a greeting, but anything grander strains our customs of hospitality,’ said Njal.
‘And are we sure about this warrior and his cause?’ said Arjac. ‘What if he is an agent of the primarch? Letting him close to you could be a mistake, if the legends of their abilities are only half-true.’
‘You think a Custodian would come all this way to kill me?’ said Logan.
‘I think the Imperium would not want anybody stalling its crusade,’ said the Rockfist. ‘If you do not trust Guilliman, you cannot trust any that sides with him.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ said the Great Wolf. He looked disappointed. ‘We will keep the Custodian and the band of lore-scribes at arm’s length while we learn what we can from them. You did the right thing, Njal, though I wish you had spoken to me before agreeing to host them.’
‘If I had, it would have been by your agreement, not mine, and you would be host,’ replied Njal, shaking his head. ‘I thought it better to keep things simple.’
Nobody said anything for a few seconds and Njal remembered that he had interrupted the other two in conversation. He stood up.
‘I will let you continue your council,’ he said, stepping to the door.
‘Wait, you might as well hear this too,’ said Logan. ‘I don’t want to have everybody involved, but since it seems you’ll be busy with your visitors you should know what’s happening.’
‘This sounds ominous.’
‘I have recalled the Great Companies. When six others have arrived, we shall have enough to hold a council. I want to vote on removing Krom Dragongaze from command of the Drakeslayers.’ Logan grimaced, his hand forming a fist. ‘He refuses to answer any summons, skulking in his halls, and there is rumour that he has Primaris warriors here among his packs. Bringing the Imperial ship here was a mistake, but his behaviour since has been deliberate. It brings dishonour to his rank.’
‘He has fought hard and lost many warriors,’ said Njal. ‘There may be no replacement for him from within the Drakeslayers.’
‘No, I don’t think there is.’
The runethegn’s gaze moved to Arjac. The Champion met his stare with a belligerent glare.
‘You’ve not mentioned it to him yet?’ said Njal, guessing the Great Wolf’s intent.
‘Mentioned what?’ said Arjac. He thought for a moment and then his eyes widened. ‘No! No, I don’t want to be a Wolf Lord. No. Put it from your mind, my lord.’
‘Would you really refuse me?’ said Logan, eyebrow raised. ‘It is a great honour.’
‘So is being hearthegn, and that is good enough for me. You’d get good warriors killed. I’m no company commander.’
‘I think you underestimate yourself, but so be it,’ said Logan ruefully. ‘I may have to think of another.’
‘When the other Wolf Lords return, do nothing hasty,’ warned Njal. ‘The news of the Primaris Marines, the crusade, Guilliman, it will unsettle a great many things.’
‘And Krom may use that to his advantage,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘We cannot afford division, but I also cannot abide disloyalty.’
‘I will support you, whatever your choice,’ said Njal, raising his eyes to Arjac for a moment before concentrating on his lord. ‘Be sure of your mind before you speak to the other Wolf Lords.’
‘I always am,’ said Grimnar.
Arjac followed Njal as the Runelord left the chambers and headed down the corridor. After a short while – long enough to be out of earshot of the door guards, Njal realised – Arjac spoke quietly as they walked.
‘He has not been the same since the retreat on Gottrok. Impatient, for him. This business with Krom, he would have settled it by now rather than let it fester, or use the crutch of the lords’ council.’
‘He thinks these are the Days of Ending, the Wolftime. He’s preparing for the return of the Wolf King and the final battle.’
‘I don’t think he is wrong,’ said Arjac.
‘We shall see. The Wolftime is our ending. The death of the sons of the Wolf. I would rather we didn’t throw our lives away to fulfil a misguided notion of fate. What our allies need now are the warriors of Fenris, not the echo of our death howl.’
‘Would you follow him back to the Gottrok? If it was disappearing into the othersea?’
Njal stopped at the foot of the stairs that led their winding way back towards the wyrdhalle.
‘I cannot promise that I will,’ he said.
Arjac accepted that in silence and the two of them stood by the stairs for several seconds, lost in their own thoughts.
‘I’m heading back to the iron levels,’ said Arjac. ‘Don’t make me choose one oath over another. Leave me be.’
Arjac stalked off along the corridor, leaving Njal with the long ascent. He started up the first of many steps, telling himself that the more difficult road usually led to the better destination.
Chapter Thirteen
A VOYAGE BEGINS
THE FIREHOWLERS
THE LEGION-BREAKER
‘Provide no abode for maleficarum,’ Kjorfi intoned as he pushed the blazing brand into the remnants of the thegnhalle. It was little more than a cave now, but it had been filled with debris and waste from the rest of the village, sprinkled with a little oil so that the flame caught quickly.
Gytha stepped back as the fire grew, the heat washing over the gathered crowd, the orange light a counterpart to the smear of dawn rising over the hill through the ever-present clouds. Behind them Bjorti put a torch to the remnants of the forge, while axemen hewed through the last few piles of the wharf.
Three ships awaited the last of their cargo – people. Some of the folk knelt and paid respects to their ancestors, others thanked the spirits of the bay for watching over them since the distant spring. Bjorti came up the well-trodden path, a cloak wrapped about his shoulders against the cool morning breeze. Smoke coiled into the sky from where the forge had been.
‘That’s done then,’ he said with a smile.
Gytha nodded, fighting back the feeling of melancholy.
‘North,’ he said, a word that had been on many a breath the past days since the decision of the council.
The wind was strengthening off the sea, perfect for the first stage of the journey up the relatively flat plains of the coast. Korit and Lufa were already aboard with Agitta. Others were piling the last of their belongings and joining them. The sea was thick with crusting ice and within days would no longer be navigable by boat. Though they sailed north, into the cold, they travelled away from the first growth of ice along the coast. Tidebreaker said they would save many days by travelling on the last waves rather than over unstable ice.
Still she could not move.
‘I’m on the first shift at the oars,’ Bjorti reminded, gently encouraging her towards action.
