The wolftime, p.25
The Wolftime, page 25
‘The Great Wolf dispatched me with great urgency and volume,’ said Alrik as a crowd of veteran warriors parted to allow them down the passageway to the skjaldom. He raised his voice so others nearby could hear. ‘It seems that idle ears have heard the disturbance.’
They found Logan Grimnar in the main chamber of the command suite, dressed in his armour as though for battle, the Axe Morkai in hand. Save for the pair of Wolf Guard flanking him, the other Space Marines in the room were not geared for battle; neither were the kaerl attendants at the various monitoring and communications stations.
‘What’s happening, my lord?’ asked Njal as he bounded down a set of steps into the bowels of the dimly lit hall. ‘Why are you geared for war?’
‘Put him on again,’ said the Great Wolf, not turning around to greet his adviser.
A hololithic display sprang into life above a grey plate about a dozen yards in front of the Great Wolf. The blurred aura of image-capture beams played over him in return.
The reason for Logan’s warlike appearance was immediately clear when the three-dimensional image resolved into Lieutenant Castallor, helm under his arm as though he had not changed since their first and, until now, only audience.
‘Lord Grimnar?’ The officer was taken aback by the sudden reconnection.
‘My lord, I have something urgent and terrible to tell you,’ said Njal, turning his back to the projection of Castallor as though the image might read his lips, though the Runelord did not stand in the focus of the capture array. ‘A vision of great import!’
‘Oh really?’ Grimnar seemed in strange mood, not angry or excited, but agitated in some other way. Discomfited. Unsure. Njal had never seen anything of the like in the centuries he had served the Great Wolf. ‘Lieutenant, for the benefit of the Stormcaller, repeat what you just told me.’
‘Of course, Lord Grimnar.’ Castallor’s image was still fixed on Logan, which made his manner slightly odd when he started to address Njal. ‘Seeking guidance on how to proceed with the situation here at Fenris, I contacted my superiors at Battle Group Retributus. They escalated my concerns to Fleet Primus command and the issue has been discussed at the highest levels. Renewed ork aggression is not only sustained but growing more severe, and it has been decided that the only means to properly resolve this matter is for you to prepare to receive the Lord Commander in person.’
Njal listened to the words but for several seconds their meaning was not clear, until he remembered who the Lord Commander was. He looked at the Great Wolf and realised that the strained, shocked expression of his lord was now mirrored in his own face.
‘The primarch is travelling to Fenris?’ he said to Logan, who nodded, lips tight. Njal let out a pent-up breath. ‘That explains much. Guilliman the Legion-breaker is coming to the realm of the Wolf King.’
Mudire had become accustomed to the sensation of feeling small and inadequate, having spent much of the last three relative-years around Space Marines and the primarch, as well as the occasional Custodian. Despite that, it seemed that the bulk of Vychellan filled the passenger space of the shuttle. Wherever the historitor looked there seemed to be gold warplate. It was no help that his companion’s guardian spear was too long to be held upright, and so it was couched on the diagonal between one corner of the compartment and the opposite wall, like a barrier cutting across Mudire’s line of vision. It was small comfort that the confines meant that Vychellan would simply crush him with his hands rather than attempt to swing his weapon.
He was certain the huge warrior was standing closer than necessary, but other than raw intimidation – which was working – he could think of no reason why.
‘I don’t understand why we couldn’t drop in something a bit bigger,’ said Mudire, stretching his shoulders as best he could in the harness. The shuttle was too small for artificial gravity and while the Custodian stood with boots clamped to the deck floor, Mudire was only kept in place by the tightness of the straps. ‘Or why you didn’t travel alone.’
‘The Space Wolves fear that a craft of larger size may be used to smuggle in additional people,’ said Vychellan. ‘As for travelling alone, I thought this a good opportunity to speak with you. To get to know you better.’
From anyone else it would have seemed reasonable, but the way Vychellan said the words made it sound like a threat.
‘Do we need to know each other better?’ Mudire asked casually.
‘I can hear your heart speeding up,’ said the Custodian. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘You can probably smell the adrenal spike too,’ said Mudire. ‘I’m not responsible for my body’s reactions to your presence.’
‘True, it may be a simple physical phenomenon. Interesting that it occurred when I said I wished to know you better. Is that something you would rather avoid?’
Mudire did not want to answer, but figured it would be a long fifteen minutes to stay silent until they docked at the Fang. He tried to turn the conversation around.
‘You shouldn’t call them the Space Wolves,’ he said. ‘Everything I’ve read says that they don’t like the name. They call themselves the Wolves of Fenris.’
‘They can call themselves whatever they like,’ replied Vychellan with a dismissive snort. ‘It is irrelevant. They are in the annals of Terra as the Sixth Legion, the Space Wolves. Did Guilliman rename his Legion the Macragge Marines? Would you have the sons of Sanguinius known as the Baal Angels? The Sixth Legion do not belong to Fenris, they belong to the Emperor. They are Space Marines. They relish their wolflike qualities and named Leman Russ the Wolf King. Hence, the Space Wolves. Wolves that hunt in space. Even the symbol of their leader, the lupus rampant is called the Wolf of Space.’
Taken aback by Vychellan’s vehemence, Mudire tried to settle in his seat.
‘You think that is too extreme,’ said the Custodian. ‘You are surprised that a name rouses so much passion in me.’
‘It’s an odd topic to get vexed about,’ admitted the historitor. ‘If that’s your view, you really are going to have trouble dealing with… the Fenrisians.’
‘On the contrary, there is much to be admired about the descendants of the Sixth Legion. They are regarded as troublesome by Imperial authorities and other Adeptus Astartes Chapters. To me, their unorthodoxy is rejection of an artifice of the primarchs, in particular Roboute Guilliman. In retaining their independence and original organisation, they cleave closer to an ideal that was known to the Emperor.’
‘And that’s what matters? How close we are to the Emperor’s vision? He guides each of us, watches over humanity from the Golden Throne. Are we not enacting His will at every moment?’
‘It is a fallacy propagated by the Ecclesiarchy. We that have been created to be close to Him in body and soul know the truth of such a connection. It would sear the minds of lesser beings. You have seen astropaths? That is the consequence for humans of considerable psychic power. One such as you with no spiritual immunity would perish instantly.’
‘I thought the Space Marines were the Emperor’s Angels of Death, but you claim to be His real messengers, the bearers of the only truth. Typical arrogance.’
‘Typical?’
Mudire knew he had said too much and fixed his gaze on a blinking light in the bulkhead, determined not to answer.
‘You are angry, Deven. I did not think you such a man of faith that would be so easily offended by the truth.’
‘I have faith in the Emperor,’ protested Mudire, unable to hold his tongue. ‘The Ecclesiarchy, not so much. When one has seen the manoeuvring behind the halos and the hands clutching for the orbs and sceptres, it tarnishes the piety a little. But like you, I agree that the Ecclesiarchy and the Emperor are not the same. Unlike you, I have spent the last years hearing tales of all kinds, including testament of miracles and visions, holy acts by living saints, and the nightmares of the Abyss that the Emperor shields us from. I wonder if perhaps you refuse to acknowledge these truths because it undermines the Custodians as the Emperor’s special friends.’
‘You have little experience to come to such a conclusion,’ said Vychellan. ‘You know nothing of my order.’
‘I know enough.’
A silence followed, broken by the Custodian when Mudire was not more forthcoming.
‘Guilliman chose you as one of the Founding Four, so I must assume you have a much better grasp of academical learning, philosophic teaching and logical reasoning than you are displaying today. But that does not explain why you seem to dislike me so much.’
‘Not you, but what you are,’ Mudire confessed, shaking his head. Sadness became bitterness. ‘I know where you come from. I was born into the same high Terran nobility that throw their sons at the Ten Thousand hoping that one of their bloodline will be chosen to become a Custodian. Those bloodlines that the geneticists find so pure and inviting are nothing more than millennia of inbreeding. It is claimed that every Custodian is an artefact of the greatest minds of Terra, made to the designs of the Emperor Himself. What Custodians really are – what you are – is a product of concentrated privilege and alchemical advantage forbidden to all others. You are truly exceptional, because ancient lore dictates that you be the exceptions. But you are not real. Even Space Marines live as humans until their puberty. You were just carefully selected genetic tissue in the shape of a newborn, rebuilt into something else, with nothing of the experience or upbringing of even the most high-ranking family of Terra.’
This time it was Vychellan that did not know how to respond, silent after Mudire’s flood of words. After a minute he leaned forward and spoke quietly, with no hint of malice.
‘Your family were forbidden to submit you?’ he said. ‘Some past genetic misalignment, perhaps?’
‘Genetic?’ Mudire held up his hands and turned them around, and then showed first one side of his face and then the other to the Custodian. ‘Are these not some of the finest genes of the Sol System?’
‘So it was political opposition,’ said Vychellan. ‘I know who you are, your family, your relations. You speak of being among the highest ranks but the House of Mudire is no longer the power it was a few centuries ago.’
Mudire said nothing.
‘You resent that which you cannot be,’ the Custodian continued. ‘Simple jealousy, it seems. But you do not understand the gift you have been given.’
‘What gift?’
‘To be human. To be you, Deven Fracoi Esterant Mudire. Had you been sent to the Ten Thousand this person that you are would not exist, as you have already said. Your gene-data would live on as one of my order, to be awakened to duty at some time in the future. The Custodian you would have been would bear no resemblance to the being you are now. We are, as you say, constructed, not born and raised. From every piece of DNA to every fired neuron in our learning, we are conjured into existence from the techno-artifice left by the Emperor. The most fundamental part of us, the animus, the soul that bonds us to the universe and Custodians to the Emperor, cannot be made from a compound in a tube, any more than a cogitator can conjure psychic lightning. And so a child must be made with that animus, but that is all it is useful for. Had you been rejected…
‘We are not a Space Marine Chapter, we have no need of serfs and assistants made from our failures. Incompatible genetic material goes to the Adeptus Mechanicus for their vat-breeding. A thousand pseudo-Devens would populate the forges of Mars, but not one of them would grow to become you.’
‘That is…’ Mudire cleared his throat, choked with emotion. ‘I had never thought in terms of what I am. Only the anger of my family of what I would never be, could never be.’
Neither of them said anything. The hull started to rattle as they entered the atmosphere of Fenris. Mudire looked up at the golden statue of a warrior that filled the compartment, pondering the Custodian’s words.
‘If I understand you right,’ the historitor said slowly, ‘there is nothing random about your development.’
‘We are created within very strict parameters.’
‘Then that means someone, somewhere, actually thought it would be a good idea to make Stratarchis Tribune Colquan a total arsehole.’
Vychellan’s laughter was almost deafening as it filled the small chamber.
Chapter Fourteen
A VITAL MISSION
SAGA OF KORBJORN HAMMER-SMITE
OLD FOES
Ullr First-Shot was surprised to see the Great Wolf coming to the halls of the Drakeslayers; Krom Dragongaze had withdrawn them from active duty and the two lords were still at odds. Yet the evidence of his own eyes could not be ignored as he watched Logan Grimnar, alone and unannounced at the entrance.
‘What’s the Old Wolf want, do you think?’ asked Dethar. He had developed a habit of scratching at the join between the metal and flesh of his jaw, leaving the exposed skin raw and the metal slightly worn. So far he had refused attempts to send him back to the Wolf Priests to have the cybernetic inspected. ‘Seems to be nosing around for something.’
As he watched other packs venturing into the passage to greet their king, a thought occurred to Ullr.
‘Maybe he’s looking for the Primaris Marines,’ he said, stepping out of the dormitory.
‘Is that a bad thing?’ Garnr called, swinging his legs off his bunk. ‘Might be good for the Old Wolf to actually meet some of the newcomers.’
‘Do you want us to get reinforcements?’ said Ullr.
‘I think we need them,’ replied Garnr. None disputed Dragongaze’s right to replenish supplies, but numbers would be hard to come by without the Primaris Marines. The Wolf Priests had no more than a score of neophytes in their care and at least half would fail the Test of Morkai.
‘And do you think Gaius is going to impress the Great Wolf or put him off?’
Garnr grimaced and stood up. He gestured for the rest of the pack to follow.
‘Who cares?’ grumbled Sáthor, but he pushed himself from his bunk all the same.
‘You best keep Gaius away and we’ll see if we can direct the Great Wolf elsewhere,’ said Garnr.
Ullr hesitated. Was it really the best course of action? Rumours had grown with every returning Great Company that something was amiss, that something beyond the Indomitus Crusade was stirring. The Everdusk. Orks in numbers unseen for thousands of years. The Wolftime is here, they whispered. Guilliman had been returned to the world of the living. Russ would soon follow. Idle talk, outright speculation that the Lion had returned, or the Khan had been seen riding the star-skies above the Helwinter Gate.
Fanciful stuff, but Ullr couldn’t ignore the broader sense of hamarrkiskaldi, perhaps the connection between Fenris and the Wolf King stirring in the souls of every child of the world. Even disregarding the more outlandish claims, there were omens aplenty. The Wolf Priests that went across Fenris looking for potential Sky Warriors spoke of increasing numbers of folk with wyrdknak. Not a handful, but dozens. What if accepting the Primaris Marines into their ranks, weakening their link to Fenris with not-wolves, took them down the road to annihilation?
‘Quickly, First-Shot,’ said Forskad, looking southwards down the corridor. ‘If you cut through the east cavernwalk you’ll get to the Firstwolves before the Great Wolf.’
And then what? thought Ullr, as he set off at a run.
Gaius knew the book was little more than a totem now, its contents far surpassed by weeks of contact with actual Wolves of Fenris, but there was still a truth inside its pages he hadn’t yet captured from his fellow Space Marines. The damning words of Drogr Ploughblade nestled heavily in his thoughts each day: every time he spoke Juvjk or played a game of koenigsgard he heard the voice telling him he could never be a true child of Fenris.
What ate at him the most was the nagging feeling that Drogr was right. On the surface they could be Wolves of Fenris. Yes, there were language issues, and the Firstborn still kept switching to Gothic when the Firstwolves spoke Juvjk, but that was not because they weren’t understood. They spoke it like outsiders, but over time would lose the sharp edges, picking up the slang and nuance as if they were native speakers. The Space Marines speaking in their fluent Gothic were making a point, more of their gentle mocking. The kaerls were better, perhaps not so confident of their own language skills or unwilling to denigrate their masters’ speech.
The customs, names, finding their way around the Aett, all these things would come in time, just as they did for any novitiate brought into the fortress. Though they had not seen much outside the halls of the Drakeslayers, they would soon know their way to the docks, the armouries, the apothecarion, just as they had learnt their way around the various starships that had carried them.
It was the things that came from before being brought to the Aett that were the hardest to replicate. The intuition that bound the Fenrisians together, the wurgen that was individual to each warrior, yet followed a pattern recognisable to all. The experience of standing shoulder to shoulder with spear and shield, or hunting with bows, and translating that sensation to bolters and plasma guns. The hundreds of years spent as a Wolf of Fenris built on the twelve or thirteen as a child of Fenris. Could Gaius and the other Unnumbered Sons ever get that? Future generations raised from the world would benefit from the same upbringing and enhancements, but the Firstwolves and their generation would always be an aberration. Upplanders in wolves’ clothing.
Even though it was of little practical use now, Gaius still held the book as he spoke to the others in Juvjk, trying their best to translate the sagas they had composed for Heindal, Enforfas and the others they had lost in the last three years. Neiflur made notes of words for which they had no Fenrisian equivalent, writing on the back of a torn rations box. The Fenrisians used their runes rarely; anything of value was entrusted to memory. Though he had taken on the role of skjald, and had near-perfect recall, Neiflur did not yet trust himself to act as lorekeeper in that way.
