The wolftime, p.24
The Wolftime, page 24
‘This is all my fault,’ Gytha said quietly. Not with tears, just acceptance. ‘This is because of me.’
‘The lands break. The skies turn. People move.’
Gytha felt powerful fingers interlacing with her own and comfort flowed from the touch. She allowed herself to be gently pulled into her first step and then the second.
It wasn’t the fear that she was wrong that made her reluctant to go. If the dreams were nothing more, that would be disheartening, but she could bear that. Remembering the beast of the forest and the silenced wolf, the main reason she didn’t want to set out was because the visions might prove to be true.
Stepping left, Gaius pivoted to the right to get the crossfire, sending two bolts squarely into the chest of his target. As he took another step back, Aegreus fired across his front while Garold moved forward to counter Gaius’ brief retreat, his bolter held ready.
The squad advanced several yards. Triggered by watching servitors, more target dummies sprang into view from the floor and ceiling, or were pushed from ports in the distant walls, heralding a roar of fire for several seconds. In the quiet that followed Gaius heard footfalls and talking from the door to the firing range. Raising a fist to signal the halt of the drill to the servitors, he turned to see who had disturbed their practice.
‘What’s this?’ Drogr Ploughblade strode across the chamber with his pack, all fully armoured. His beard was forked into two long, medallion-bound locks, each tipped with a skull-shaped golden weight that clattered on his breastplate. ‘Live fire?’
‘Combat drill,’ Gaius replied, lowering his bolt rifle. He was annoyed by the pack leader’s manner and the interruption was a breach of firing range protocol. ‘What of it?’
‘You think we have bolts to spare on plasfoam dummies?’ growled Drogr, waving a hand at the remnants of exploded targets. ‘The whole Verse is against us and has plenty of battles waiting, the armouries and forge worlds can’t cope. Each shot should be for a real enemy.’
‘It never occurred…’ Gaius glanced at his squad, feeling out-flanked by the admonishment. ‘Supplies have not been an issue during the crusade.’
‘Now you know,’ said Drogr.
‘What are we supposed to use?’ asked Doro. ‘How do we know it’s a kill?’
‘Did one of you point a bolter at the target? That’s a kill.’
‘I don’t understand,’ admitted Doro. ‘How can you be sure?’
Drogr laughed and half-turned to his pack, who were listening to the exchange with amused looks.
‘Want to answer that one, Vargar?’ asked the pack leader. One of the Crimson Claws nodded and stepped forward, his bolter in his hands.
‘If I shoot at something, I intend to kill it. If that takes one shot or ten, it’s my kill.’ Vargar jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at another pack member, who was carrying a flamer, the fuel tank missing. ‘If it’s a job for Asgred, I leave it for him. If it’s going to take a lot of bolts, I tell the pack.’
Gaius tried to picture this with his own squad. ‘I cannot call shot allocations all the time,’ he said.
‘Then don’t,’ said Drogr. ‘Battle drill is about fighting together, knowing each other’s style.’
‘Style?’ laughed Aegreus. ‘This is battle, not beard trimming!’
Drogr frowned and approached the Primaris Marine, fixing him with an angry stare.
‘Do you miss?’ said the pack leader. ‘Would you leave a pack-brother’s back unguarded?’
‘Of course not,’ Aegreus snapped back.
‘And you trust your brothers to do the same?’
Aegreus looked at the other squad members and nodded.
‘So do that,’ said Drogr. ‘Know each other. Trust each other. Fight as one.’
He motioned for Gaius and his squad to retreat to the rear, out of the firing line. Reluctantly, Gaius complied, withdrawing from the other squad. Drogr and his warriors looked at ease, as though lounging in the company hall waiting for their food and drink.
Drogr’s arm rose and he clenched his fist, signalling to the servitors to begin. The squad snapped to alertness round him, weapons levelled, covering every angle. Gaius heard a wet growl and realised it came from the Ploughblade, an instant before the pack started off towards the far end of the hall.
As before, targets appeared around them. The sons of Fenris responded, bolters moving one way and then another, sometimes combining lines of fire, weaving in and out of each other without ever passing across another’s firing zone. Occasionally a sub-unit would form, pausing to simulate cover fire while the others broke left or right, and then the two would meld together again a dozen yards later. Only the whine of armour and thud of boots broke the still, mesmerising in the continual movement, like watching an elegant dance. Devoid of the crash of bolt-rounds there was a beauty to the display, an organic flow that was nothing like the industrial killing machine of the drill Cawl had instilled into Gaius and the other Primaris Marines. That was killing by rote; this was slaying on instinct.
After a minute, during which the pack had travelled nearly three times as far as Gaius’ squad, Drogr lifted a fist to halt the practice. Neiflur and Anfelis broke into spontaneous applause beside Gaius.
Leaving the pack to resume without him, Drogr rejoined Gaius and the rest of the Firstwolves.
‘How do you learn to fight like that?’ Neiflur asked breathlessly. ‘That was incredible.’
‘That’s how Fenrisians fight,’ the pack leader replied. ‘Sword and shield or spear-brothers, or bowmen hunting the bears and deer. We grow up together against a world that would kill us alone. That is why the pack lives together, eats together, trains together.’ He looked at Garold. ‘You know how to shoot straight?’
‘Yes,’ replied the Primaris Marine.
‘And how to use that long knife?’ Drogr pointed to the combat blade at Garold’s waist.
The other Space Marine nodded.
‘Of course you do, you’re a Space Marine. You don’t need to scatter plasfoam across a room to know that when you shoot you will hit, and if you don’t then you’ll shoot until you do. You need to believe that is going to happen and act like it. You’re all too defensive when you attack.’
‘What was that sound you made?’ asked Doro.
‘This?’ Drogr made the low growl again, reverberating from deep in his broad chest. ‘That’s my hunt signal. Wurgen. Quicker than orders.’
He made several other noises, each similar but distinct. He then held up a hand before the others spoke and imitated listening to the pack at drill in the hall. Gaius focused past the sounds of the armour and heard snarls, growls and cough-like barks. It came in bursts rather than being continuous; brief exchanges that heralded changes in formation, direction or speed.
‘Styles, like I told you,’ Drogr continued. He gave thought to his next words, scratching his cheek. ‘Ulfknaki. Maybe you call them drills, or stances? The hunt. The shield. The dragon. Seven in all. Each is a way of thinking. Attack, defence, mobility. Not hard-and-fast rules, but we know how each other will respond.’
They watched the Crimson Claws for a few more minutes, occasionally with comment from Drogr explaining a particular set of actions or answering a question from the squad. As the Firstborn ended their practice, Gaius led Drogr to one side.
‘Thank you,’ he told the pack leader. ‘For sharing your wisdom. For this guidance.’
‘All good,’ said Drogr.
‘I’m glad there’s… I’m glad my poor behaviour a few days ago has not soured us to one another.’
‘Why would it?’
‘I read about ut-geld, the owed debt. Feuds that escalate into tribal wars. I thought there might be bad blood between us.’
‘Ut-geld?’ Drogr was as amused by the idea as he was surprised. ‘Ut-geld gets settled quickly in the Aett. You called Ordas a cheat. He put you on your arse. There’s no more ut-geld to settle. Just be careful what you say around folks in future.’
‘Thank you anyway,’ said Gaius, lifting his fist to his chest.
‘Stop trying so hard,’ Drogr said.
Gaius smiled, acknowledging the truth of the pack leader’s advice, but his smile faded as Drogr continued. There was no accusation or rancour in what he said, but the words were like a fist closing around Gaius’ hearts, all the more devastating for the matter-of-fact manner in which they were delivered.
‘Stop trying to be something you can never be. The genes, maybe they’re from the Wolf King, maybe they even have the Canis Helix, so you can be sons of Russ for all I care. But you’re not Fenrisian. You never formed a shield wall in a blizzard, or stood the deck of a jarlship heaved over by a kraken tentacle. Never tasted the air or felt its wind on your cheek. You weren’t raised by this world. Ease your burden. You can’t be Wolves of Fenris, no matter how much you practice.’
Gaius did not trust himself to speak, but nodded stiffly and turned away quickly.
‘Let’s go,’ he snapped at the rest of the squad, stalking past them towards the doors.
The Aett had a way of carrying news beyond vox-links and word of mouth. Though it was immense, carved from the tallest mountain on Asaheim, it was still a single community: a massive ecosystem and society bound together, Space Marines, kaerls and all others. For much of their time on Fenris, little as that was, the Great Companies and even the packs within them kept themselves apart. But the place was steeped in the fabric and the soul of the Chapter and its halls resonated with ten thousand years of history, giving it a character and atmosphere that could be read by one that was attuned to its ways. The hamarrkiskaldi or ‘spine story’ it was called, coming from the bones not the brain.
A change in the airs, a distant echo, a sense of wrongness urged Ullr to gather the pack one evening, just as they were about to head to the feasting hall. The hairs on the nape of his neck were on end, and he was not the only one to feel a sudden frisson.
‘Bad star passing,’ grunted Garnr as they roused themselves to the door of their chamber.
‘I heard Aldacrel tell of a warpwash detected a few days ago,’ said Dethar, his mechanical jaw glinting in the firelight.
‘I feel the hearth-howl,’ Ullr told them. ‘Come, let’s see what’s occurring.’
Others drifted out of their dorms, by unspoken consensus heading upwards and north, towards the cloud-dock levels. More than a score of Drakeslayers converged without a single message being sent, gathered quietly in the passageways leading to the second and third cloudyards. Others joined them from the opposite side of the fortress, warriors from the Champions of Fenris. No words were exchanged. Though the docks’ massive security portals were closed, the thud of landing drop-ships could be heard, accompanied by the tread of booted feet.
With a long grinding, the doors opened to reveal a line of Space Marines in the blue-grey of the Chapter. There was something amiss at first glance: shoulders sloped, eyes downcast. This was not the return of a company in triumph; every warrior that passed the gatehouse bore some mark on armour or flesh. Half were missing parts of their plate or had scavenged replacements in other colours, many still bore obvious wounds by display of bandage or crutch.
The packs were massed together, Blood Claws alongside Long Fangs, Grey Hunters mingled with Wolf Scouts, as though they had become a single entity. A sole Wolf Guard marched as vanguard for the arriving Space Marines, bearing a banner emblazoned with the same weregost upon their shoulders.
The Firehowlers. Great Company of Sven Bloodhowl.
There was no sign of the Wolf Lord and Ullr heard others from his company asking after him.
‘We found no sign, though we scoured the stars,’ growled the Wolf Guard. ‘We made the Allfather’s foes pay.’
‘Damget,’ swore Ullr, watching the trudging line of brothers, unable to catch the gaze of any. He looked along the column and swallowed hard. ‘So few, where are the others?’
‘All have come to answer the Great Wolf,’ said a Grey Hunter with his arm in a sling, bolter in his left hand. There was plasma burn on his greaves and his helmet bore signs of chainsword lacerations. He straightened a little, more defiant. ‘Our saga has not ended, nor has that of our lord. We will pass back through the Gate of Endless Storms and we will find him.’
‘And you return to us on the eve of Helwinter, from its own gate in the stars,’ said Eirik. He looked at the line too, assessing their number. ‘No more than forty? The woes of the Firehowlers have heaped upon each other of late.’
‘Aye, but fresh strength lies–’
Ullr silenced Garnr with a raised hand.
‘Let us not make promises unspoken by the Great Wolf,’ the pack leader said quickly. ‘Nor lessen the weight of this saga with untimely news. Speak, brother.’
‘What is there to say else that we fought the traitors where we found them, and other creatures of the Underverse and the abyss. Yet stranger signs did our Rune Priest see, before the bidding of the Great Wolf summoned us back to the Aett.’
‘We walk on dark shores, beneath an unknown sky,’ said Ullr. ‘It is not our place to say, but you will hear much news very soon.’
The Grey Hunter passed on, falling in alongside others who were passing at the time. Ullr searched the Great Company for the Grey Hunter’s pack marking but saw no other bearing it.
The quiet pricked at Ullr more than anything else. No voices raised in welcome, none given in greeting to those that waited. It was as if their tongues were held by too much accounting of the dead, or perhaps wished to speak of things that no others would understand.
The Drakeslayers had been at the Helwinter Gate when it fell to the forces of the Despoiler, but once that battle had been lost there was need for them elsewhere. The Firehowlers had refused to leave, pushing into the Everdusk to seek sign of their missing lord.
‘I feel that their search will not end until they all share Sven Bloodhowl’s fate,’ said Forskad.
‘The Verse is not short of battles, let them pick where they wish to die,’ replied Ullr. ‘Their wyrd was spun at the Helwinter Gate.’
Despite his words, Ullr could not look at the battered company of wolves and not think that but for the appearance of Gaius and the other Primaris Marines the Drakeslayers would have shared that fate on Noviomagus. The thought brought a sudden anger. Where had they been, this hidden army, when Abaddon had broken the Helwinter Gate and countless thousands of soldiers – billions of the Emperor’s servants – had lost their lives? It was not Gaius’ fault, by his telling of events he was in a long stasis like all of the Primaris Marines, but to think that Cawl had kept this host asleep through all the troubles of the Imperium made Ullr wish he could find the archmagos and break open his face.
He hoped dearly the Great Wolf would one day be in a position to demand answers of their Imperial allies.
The wolf stands atop a mountain at dawn, bathed in the light of a new day. A wind tousles its long fur, bending the grass and rustling the leaves of the distant forest. Amber eyes gaze into the distance across the dark canopy.
Twilight turns a golden glow and where the sun would rise there appears a crown, blazing in burnished glory. As the crown rises the wind grows stronger, warming. The crown brightens and the wind becomes a gale, forcing the wolf to flatten itself against the ground. Flames ripple across the treetops and the wind before them is hot, burning leaves and grass, singeing the wolf’s fur. Still it does not run, nor close its eyes, but remains to bear witness to the burning dawn.
The wind rips away grass and dirt to reveal the mound is a great pile of bones and skulls, dried blood streaking its flanks like painted rivers. The wolf stands at the summit in defiance of the incinerating wind, claws scratching ivory-coloured skulls as they fight for purchase, teeth bared against the coming conflagration.
Such is the wind’s strength the wolf cannot draw breath and is left voiceless against the roar of the flames.
Closer and closer, the fire engulfs the woodlands, driving many monstrous beasts before it. They begin to scale the bone mountain, scurrying, crawling, bounding and stomping towards the wolf. Red eyes surround the hunter at the summit, waiting for the moment to strike. From the forests comes a ghastly bellow of rage and the jade-skinned giant lumbers forth, a great club of blackness in its grasp.
As he stepped out to the main conveyor yard in the eastern halls, Njal found himself face to face with Alrik Doomseeker, one of the Great Wolf’s vaerengr. Alrik stopped in his tracks as Njal moved to go past, then turned on his heel.
‘Runethegn, I was sent to find you,’ he said, out of sorts. ‘I thought you were in your chambers, you have not been seen for days.’
‘Not now,’ Njal replied, holding up a hand as he continued to stride towards the winding stair that led to the next level of conveyors below. ‘I have to see the Great Wolf.’
‘Then my task is done,’ called Alrik. ‘It was he that sent me to fetch you.’
‘Fetch me?’ Njal stopped and rounded on the Wolf Guard. ‘A trifling errand for one of your rank.’
‘He wanted to be sure you would come, runethegn,’ explained Alrik, heading after Njal. ‘He is in the skjaldom waiting for you.’
Njal adjusted his course in light of this information, heading towards the westward bank of conveyors that would take him to the haunt of Logan’s Great Company. Why he was there and not in the wulfhalle was a question that would be answered later.
‘It is fortunate we crossed paths, Stormcaller,’ said Alrik, matching Njal’s pace as he caught up with the Runelord.
‘Or wyrd,’ said Njal gruffly. ‘Everything is down to wyrd these days, it seems.’
They carried on down another half mile to the great command and communications rooms that neighboured the Champions of Fenris’ halls. There were more than the usual number of Wolf Guard around.
