The wolftime, p.30
The Wolftime, page 30
‘Desperate, she continued by moonlight, walking the silver ice, until she found her quarry once more. This time she did not loose her shot but instead stood for a moment, whispering a prayer to the wind. She asked that the wind did not push her shot astray and in return promised the wind she would dedicate food and drink to its spirit ever after.
‘Soft-footed, her breath held in her chest, she crept upon the stag and loosed her arrow. To her horror she saw its arc was wide and going to miss. But the wind had listened to her prayer and heeded her promise. A gust caught hold of the wayward arrow and guided it into the beast’s heart. It fell dead and she dragged it back to her aett, where she presented it to the people. The jarl called for a feast, and true to her word she offered a cut of flesh to the wind, tossing it from a clifftop into the seas.’
Gaius listened enraptured to the tale, as he had all the myths and legends of Fenris, and any lore of the Aett he could uncover. He pictured the huntress and her quest, the determination to put right what was wrong, to overcome the threat of shame.
He held up the token, and then looked at Forskad, who was still fighting his amusement.
That was when Gaius realised the talisman was not a token of perseverance but a joke. Wind-aided. An amulet for his bolt rifle. The insult was clear: he was a poor shot and required the help of the wind to hit his mark.
Had he not just fought next to these warriors, had he not been burning from Ullr’s words, Gaius might have taken the jest in good mood, as he had numerous taunts before.
He shot to his feet and flung the amulet at Forskad.
‘Son of Fjorulalli!’ It took all his restraint not to follow the projectile with his fists, but he knew his reaction was reward for the Greypelt and a fight would be more. ‘What do you want? Perhaps I should put a bolt in your eye and then you would know about my marksmanship.’
He turned his ire to the Firstborn more generally, fending off Doro with a stiff arm as his pack-brother tried to grab hold of him.
‘You’re all vain, empty beasts. You talk of honour, of accounting the dead, of glory in battle but you are just inbred hounds rolling in the filth. You would all be ork-dead by now, if not for me and my brothers, but that’s not enough. I could bleed my last drop of blood for you, watch it freeze on your Emperor-abandoned drop-hole of a world and still you would not call me a Wolf of Fenris.’
‘Gaius…’ Garold’s conciliatory tone earned him the next tirade.
‘It’s all a joke to them. You think they will even give us account when we fall? Do you think they would make us vaerengi or jarls? They want nothing to do with us. The Great Wolf shuns the primarch and his crusade. We had more in common with brothers from Dorn and Corax than the entitled, preening sons of the Wolf King.’
‘Watch your tongue,’ growled Ullr, standing up. ‘Perhaps the joke was sour, but you tread on thin ice now.’
‘You are nothing to the Rout of old,’ snarled Gaius. ‘A spent force, throwing yourselves at your enemies, shouting empty cries, bleating like sheep about Russ returning at the end. He would be shamed to see what had become of his sons!’
‘It is just as well you are not a true Fenrisian,’ snarled Eirik, joining his pack leader. ‘You do not understand ulfwyrd or the insult you do us. You would bleed for those words.’
‘Truth is, your blood is no different to mine,’ snapped Gaius, rounding on the rest of the Greypelts. ‘There is nothing special about you or your world. Cawl took apart what makes a Space Marine and put the pieces together again in something better. Primaris. Me. The Firstwolves. He found no Fenrisian magic dust, no sprinkles of wyrd. The Test of Morkai is just a barbaric ritual intended to massively elevate physiological responses to trigger gene-seed adoption. There’s nothing spiritual about it.’
‘You are like the worm that speaks of flying above the clouds,’ said Forskad, baring his fangs.
‘It’s nothing, and I’ll show you,’ said Gaius. He turned towards the cockpit. ‘Sáthor, take us down!’
‘We’re over the Riven Forest, I can’t land,’ the shout came back.
‘Just get us lower,’ said Gaius, hitting the side hatch activation rune. Freezing wind swirled into the compartment with a flurry of snow.
‘Do as he says,’ growled Ullr.
The treetops came closer through the open assault hatch and Gaius felt the scratch of ice on his face and exposed arms and legs.
‘You’ll die, and your shade will be lost in the forests,’ warned Ullr, stepping closer.
Gaius reached out and snatched the dagger-tooth charm from around the pack leader’s neck. Ullr took a step to seize it back and Gaius thundered his fist into the Space Marine’s face, knocking him back a step.
‘If you’re right, about everything, I’ll be waiting for you in Hel.’
Gaius turned and jumped from the descending Thunderhawk, plunging into whiteness.
‘Turn the gunship around!’ demanded Aegreus. ‘Go back!’
The Firstwolves were on their feet, crowded around the open hatch, while Ullr stood to one side.
‘No,’ said the pack leader.
‘Why not? He’ll die down there,’ said Garold.
‘You’re right, he’ll die.’ Ullr turned away and rejoined his Greypelts, who were eyeing the other pack carefully in case they followed their loud demands with a more physical type of coercion. ‘But I respect him enough to give him that death.’
‘What do you mean?’ rasped Aegreus, pushing past the others.
‘Do you think he can come back, after what he said? After what he swore? Would you heap that shame onto him? Could you carry that weight of geldfut?’
The Firstwolves settled their tempers, exchanging glances.
‘Perhaps he’ll make it,’ suggested Neiflur. He looked back towards the hatch. ‘He’s stronger and faster and smarter than any initiate taking the Test of Morkai.’
‘It is a false hope,’ said Ullr. ‘The Test of Morkai is not just one of physical strength, but mental power. Of connection to Fenris. And those aspirants are dropped on Asaheim, a harsh place, but it is tame compared to the outer wilds. A thousand miles of mountains separate Gaius from a sea of ice, and that will take him only to the ocean another five hundred miles from the cliff faces of Asaheim.
‘In a few days Helwinter will begin. Fire will fall, the land and seas will freeze. No man not born of Fenris, without fengr inside, can hope to survive.’
He returned to the side of the compartment and hit the hatch rune, closing the door. The sudden loss of wind noise made the quiet even more intense until Ullr spoke again.
‘Account his passing. Choose a new pack leader. Gaius will not return.’
The fall was twenty feet further than Gaius had hoped due to a steep slope, but fortunately the thick pine canopy slowed his descent for much of the way, so that he arrived to the ground at speed but not enough to cause serious harm. Unfortunately, the same steep slope that had eluded his perception also foiled his balance, so that on landing in the snow, he pitched sideways down the near-vertical cliff, surrounded by white.
This second descent was less pleasant and culminated in his arrival at a tree trunk even broader than he was, almost dislocating his shoulder. Dislodged snow showered down on him in intermittent lumps as he lay at the bottom of the tree, the point of Ullr’s talisman digging deep into his palm, though not enough to draw blood from his thick skin. Birds unsettled by his meteor-like arrival shrieked their displeasure, but through their cawing and croaking Gaius could hear the engines of the gunship. They slowly faded, with no change in pitch to indicate a turning manoeuvre. After a minute or so the sound had disappeared and the birds returned to their perches.
He was glad the others were not coming back, because it meant they realised he was serious.
It was cold, and despite his enhanced physiology he knew the dangers of hypothermia were real. He had to get moving, find a food source and some way to fashion clothes. He was as fast and strong as many of the animals he would encounter, but Gaius was well aware that he knew next-to-nothing of this landscape or the local elements. Snow was falling thinly from an all-encompassing cloud layer and the mountains were thick with tall pines. Water would be no problem. He guessed that a game trail or tracks would not be hard for his superior eyesight to find.
A voice at the back of his thoughts nagged through these musings.
Arrogant fool, it said. You will prove nothing except that you were a vain idiot.
He looked around and found the vaguest spot of brighter sky that he took to be the Wolf’s Eye. The chronometer had read mid-afternoon before his departure so the star was heading towards dusk, past its zenith. If he kept it to his right, he’d be heading north in some fashion. Asaheim was a large continent and the Aett virtually at the pole, so direction was not an issue as long as he could keep heading north.
And you will cross mountains and slay thunderwolves too, I wager, said his doubts. A saga greater than the Wolf King’s? More likely Morkai will hunt you down and swallow you whole before you see another ten days.
The words did nothing to dent his anger, because they were nothing compared to those spoken by Drogr and Ullr: tame accusations in light of the shame of the Great Wolf and the choice of Krom Dragongaze to sacrifice hundreds of Primaris Marines rather than a squad of Grey Hunters. Every smirk and sideways glance, every laugh, taunt and well-meaning piece of advice was a clamour compared to the reedy whining of his self-doubt.
Why do you crave their respect so much? You said it yourself – they’re savages masquerading as Space Marines. Why do you want to be one of them?
Gaius felt the dagger-tooth of Ullr’s talisman in his hand.
‘It’s not for me,’ he said out loud, pushing himself to his feet. He reached up and snapped a branch a little thicker than a normal man’s wrist. The end came away already sharp and all he had to do was strip off the smaller twigs. He had a couple of practice thrusts.
Gaius thought of the brothers he had fought alongside for three years, some of them trapped aboard the Enduring Hate, others flung across the Indomitus Crusade, perhaps never to see this world or a Firstborn Wolf of Fenris. Some would never be part of the Chapter.
‘This is for all Firstwolves,’ he declared, raising his voice. He lifted the improvised spear, making a fist of his other hand around the fang, holding it to his chest in oath-make. ‘I will show the Fenrisians that we are sons of Russ, that we are their equals. Vlka Fenryka!’
Chapter Seventeen
THE WOLF BARES ITS TEETH
GUNSLAVE
ADMINISTRATIVE ERROR
The Aett was astir when Ullr entered the halls of the Drakeslayers. Hamarrkiskaldi had told him something was amiss since Sáthor had brought them back to the Great Company’s docks, but he had seen nothing but kaerls and servitors on the journey across the fortress. The pack leader figured that perhaps he sensed the aftermath of the tense affair with the Enduring Hate, or something connected to the news he had transmitted of the loss of Gaius of the Firstwolves; he could see how letting one of the Primaris Marines throw his life away might cause issues for Lord Krom.
It was the Wolf Lord that he first came upon, passing his hall to reach the dormitories beyond. Kraki stood guard at the doors and, on seeing Ullr, called the newly returned Space Marines to attend the Company Master. Both rendered equal in their ignorance, the two packs hurried into the hall and found the Wolf Lord upon his chair, fully armoured. The expression of Dragongaze was a perfect example of how he had gained his name, and Ullr started speaking as soon as it fell upon him.
‘If I have erred, lord, I will make amends,’ he began. ‘I handled the situation as I saw best, but I await instruction.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said the Wolf Lord.
‘The fight at the weapons station, and my disagreement with Gaius of the Firstwolves.’ Ullr turned, indicating the Primaris pack, the absence of their leader.
Krom glanced at the Firstwolves, brow furrowed. ‘If there is ut-geld between you, it can wait. I have ordered the whole Great Company to stand ready.’
‘You’ve resolved the disagreement with the Great Wolf, lord?’ Ullr wasn’t sure if that made the situation with Gaius better or worse.
‘No, not really,’ said Krom, shaking his head at the reminder of Grimnar’s displeasure.
‘Why are you mobilising the company? Our term at guard ends tomorrow.’
‘Every Great Company is being mustered,’ said Krom, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘I don’t think we can sit this one out. Roboute Guilliman’s fleet is about to break warp.’
Alone in his runehalle, surrounded by lead-scribed hexagrammatic wards and swirling lines of inscribed wyrdleif, Njal allowed his mind to escape the bonds of flesh. He felt the agitation in the ghosts of the Aett, vibrating through the minds of the living. Predecessors from thousands of years ago called his name, demanding to know why they had been brought forth from the Upplands by this disturbance.
The warp-wake of the fleet was like nothing Njal had felt before, even when the Chapter had assembled for war. The othersea echoed to the howls of wolves unleashed against an ever-present roar in the background, but now both were cowed by a domineering presence, like a wild horse broken to the will of an unflinching master.
Guilliman.
But it was not clear if the effect was some energetic power of the primarch himself that quelled the storms, or a bubble of belief that surrounded the fleet. As strong as the Howl of the Hearthworld, nearly as bright as the Torch of Gold that shone from Terra, yet made of unbreakable steel. Discipline and faith moulded the minds of the fleet into a blade with which to cut through the tides of the warp.
Njal’s thoughtself approached closer, sensing the presence of astropaths and other psykers, almost alighting upon the minds of the wyrd-touched within the warp. Yet he dared not cross the barrier to penetrate the Geller field lest his intrusion create a weakness that allowed the worst of the othersea to flood through.
Instead he watched, as one might think it, and listened to the thrumming of a billion threads being pulled taut by their overlapping wyrd. A singular moment was coming. The othersea danced to the possible futures, showing glimpses of fire and ice, pillars of ash made of human hives, and a shadow cast across a deserted wilderness as the last of the stars were swallowed. Yet also a beacon of hope, a light springing from world to world, growing stronger, igniting fires in the vast reaches of the darkness to renew guttering sparks before they died completely.
A group of ships broke warp almost simultaneously, which was practically unheard of since the arrival of the Everdusk. The displacement of the largest made it plain that Guilliman’s flagship led the flotilla, both by dint of its size and importance, but also by the power of the ripples it left in its wake from the personality aboard.
Njal continued to examine the emerging fleet, from destroyers and frigates to troop transports and battleships. Vessel after vessel crashed upon the shore of realspace from the othersea until their weight upon the outskirts of the system was like a chain of iron hanging from Njal’s neck. It took all of his effort to remain observing the last few ships, bringing the complement to scores of vessels. Now he felt the tendrils of their psykers reaching out again, signalling amity and alliance. The minds of astropaths scoured the churning waves of the othersea, trying to discern any signal they could, hours before a mortal transmission would be detected.
It was to these human receivers that Njal now bent his thoughts, letting the images of his mind leap from wave crest to wave crest until it was a glittering vista that even the least of talent could absorb. It was a particular message, created from the words of the Great Wolf himself.
A giant wolf stood guard, teeth bared, hackles raised, claws gleaming and bloody. At its back a thousand others of its kind waited, silver and black, grey and white, all with red eyes ablaze. Behind rose a spear of gold, its tip catching the last rays of twilight while stars populated the heavens above.
Here in the light of the Wolf’s Eye, in confrontation to the returned primarch, Njal reminded all that arrived that they were now in the realm of the Wolf King.
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since the Rigorous had fallen to the orks, at least one Terran year and probably more. Orad had been ground down to a nub of thought by the routine of slavery, though his tasks had changed at times, from acting as a simple beast of burden to the pounding of great rivets inside the ship carcasses, or the shovelling of fuel – wood, coal, bodies and other detritus – into massive furnaces. The larger attack craft and smaller starships took shape, and one by one lifted from their gantries on blinding, deafening engines, criss-crossing the skies with columns of stinking pollution.
Then came a day when the overseers moved among the company of slaves that included Orad, separating out about half of them to stumble and shamble along rickety bridges and zigzagged ramps into one of the brutish ork landers. Before the doors clanged shut and plunged them into darkness, the reason for their segregation became clear – they all bore the rocket brand of void craft crew.
There were no harnesses or other safety equipment, so when the craft lifted off and accelerated hard towards orbit the slaves were thrown towards the rear of the vessel. Cries from the hurt were lost in the noise of jets. The floor was hot, unshielded against the plasma below, and those at the back struggled as best they could to avoid the heated metal plate. Weightlessness came soon, then after a few more minutes a strange pull of gravity plates, inconsistent and nauseating compared to the systems of the Rigorous. The craft landed heavily, skidding sideways, again tumbling the helpless occupants against each other and the metal compartment walls. With a clang the side fell away to reveal a greenish gleam of lumens. Shouts and whip-cracks, fewer than before, guided them out of the hold, along with several dozen more slaves from a second lander.
