The wolftime, p.31
The Wolftime, page 31
Orad and the others were on a broad landing pad, one of many that projected as an equatorial ring from the orkish space station. There were no walls, only a bright green energy dome through which ships passed back and forth, energy crackling along their hulls as they moved into and out of the field. As he followed a small fighter jet’s course out of the dock, muttering drew Orad’s attention to something behind him. He turned, able to see over the heads of most of his companions.
He stared with slack expression at the sight that met him.
Less than a mile away, linked by a handful of metal umbilicals, the Rigorous was anchored. But the ship was barely recognisable, having been modified by the orks to something much more to their liking. The sleek, eagle-head prow had been replaced with a ram that more closely resembled a massive fist, and the entire fore section from strategium to bow was painted a fierce red that became immense flames trailing towards the aft. The main decks were armoured with extra plating and Orad could tell that the turrets could no longer move, presenting a fixed broadside instead. They had been supplemented with another mass of guns on struts above the dorsal deck, and more turrets had been built on top of and around the strategium, which was now almost lost among massive faceted towers like those on Orguk’s fortress.
The whips sent them moving on again, headed towards the opening of the closest umbilical.
The inside of the Rigorous was just as orkified as the outside. Painted glyphs and metal icons hammered into the walls marked different areas, the walls themselves a mix of bare metal or plain plasteel or brightly coloured paintwork, mostly blue and yellow. Orad found himself herded with about a hundred others towards the gun decks. The conveyors had been ripped out and replaced with immense ramps, and much of the interior had been gutted, the bulkheads torn away to create large open areas. These were thronged with orks and grots, many of the former heavily armed and armoured, and it became obvious that the Rigorous had been turned into a transport. The structure was far weaker than that of a light cruiser but now housed upwards of a thousand greenskins.
They had no time to view these changes in detail as they were driven down into the gun batteries. For the first time in over a year Orad was thankful for something – the corpses had been cleared away, though the stench of death and greenskin musk was condensed within the close confines. The guns remained but, as he had seen from outside, the turrets were welded and braced in place, all trace of the targeting systems removed. There were orks lounging around the guns, eating, fighting and laughing, each massive weapon decorated with scrawls, talismans of bone and metal pictograms. The purpose of the slaves became clear when Orad saw that the autoloaders were gone too. The massive breeches of the macrocannons were open to view, like metal-lipped mouths, cranes of chain and girder erected between them, dangling into the magazine below. Slave power would serve where before motors had laboured.
Orad knew then his fate, so close to the meagre life he had known, and yet so much worse.
Coming upon the Space Wolves’ lexicographers felt surreal to Mudire, as though he had suddenly discovered that beneath Terra there was secretly an army of rats running the whole Imperium.
Several days had passed since Njal had related the saga of Bucharis’ attack, and his kaerl messenger had been a surprise arrival at the historitors’ dorm. They had resigned themselves to weeks of incarceration, so the invitation to join the Runelord had been quickly accepted. Mudire had certainly not expected to find a whole hall of the Fang dedicated to compiling the tales of Fenris.
The comparisons and contrasts to Administratum ledger-hives were stark. The hall was filled with several hundred kaerls dressed in Fenrisian gear, sat at scribing stands with quills scraping and scratching. The sound alone gave him shivers of recollection from a tour of the scribe-works on Terra. But here there were no overseers, no alertness-inducing incense burners, no maul-armed watchfolk. The kaerls seemed – and this disturbed Mudire more than anything – happy at their labours. Younger serfs brought in pieces of parchment, sometimes stacks of it, and gave them to a long-bearded servant, who then distributed this work onto the desks of idle scribes. Meanwhile several kaerls with obvious injuries – missing limbs, twisted backs, limps and other impairments – pushed small trolleys around the scribes, collecting finished manuscripts. Some of these collectors had improvised prosthetics and crutches, others boasted quite sophisticated augmetics, while a few had adapted trolleys they could push around from wheeled chairs. All disappeared through one distant archway and returned with empty trolleys a couple of minutes later from another.
The sound of voices echoed from an adjacent hall and it was towards these that Njal led the team. Some of the scribes looked up at the intrusion – a punishable offence among the Administratum’s ranks – smiling or just staring in curiosity at the Custodian and his companions.
‘This is where we record the sagas,’ explained Njal, stopping at a broad archway into the next hall. There were more than a score of tables, half occupied by kaerls, a few with Space Marines sitting at them. ‘We make written record of the sagas in our runes and then they are transcribed into Imperial Gothic.’
‘And then taken to the archives?’ said Ahlek, pointing towards the archways where the collected manuscripts disappeared. ‘This is quite the endeavour, Lord Stormcaller! The principals of Terra would be proud to see such erudition and labour.’
Njal looked at the historitor for several seconds, perhaps trying to translate what he had said.
‘We think it is good that our bondsfolk learn the language of the Imperium as well as our own, fluent in speech and writing. So, each spends a few days here every year to improve or refresh their skills.’
‘They are not permanent scribes?’ said Forgewelt. ‘A rostered, part-time system?’
‘Why would we waste a good kaerl sat at a desk for their whole life? They all learn to cook, to fight, to scribe, to keep our Aett, to drive and fly, to assist the Iron Priests in the armoury and the Wolf Priests in the bludhalle. Sometimes vylkar come here and take an hour or two, to practice their Gothic lettering.’
‘Sorry, who?’ said Copla-var.
‘The Wolves. Our warriors. They are quite literate. Some appreciate the artistry of the Gothic form, and the colourful illuminations that your Administratum officials append to many things.’
There was silence from the group for several seconds as they processed yet more unexpected information. Mudire felt a little dizzy and wondered if he’d had too much fyrkaf, or perhaps not enough.
‘What sagas are being told today?’ he asked, intrigued by the whole system.
Njal cast his gaze over the pairs and small groups in the hall, lips pursed. His keen hearing would pick out individual conversations that the historitors could not.
‘The vylkar are newly returned warriors, pack leaders from the Blackmanes. They give account of their fallen. Ragnar himself will come soon to pass on his own reports of his campaigns, after he has shared them with the Great Wolf.’
‘And these others?’ said Vychellan. ‘They look like common folk.’
‘Kaerls that live beyond the Aett and have heard tale and rumour from Asaheim and beyond. We record not only the sagas of the Vlka Fenryka but all that come our way. Most of it is mundane – feuds between tribes, raids, kraken hunts. Occasionally we hear of warp-tainted beasts or survivors from the invasions of Magnus and judge whether we need to hunt them down.’
‘Lord Njal!’
They all turned as a Wolf Guard clad in power armour disturbed the peace of the scribe hall.
‘Yes, Hallar?’ The Rune Priest left the group to speak quietly with the newcomer. He glanced back at the historitors once during the conversation, his eyes lingering a little longer on Vychellan, Mudire thought.
‘A problem?’ asked the Custodian when Njal returned to the group.
‘Not a problem, but there is an unexpected task I must perform,’ said the Rune Priest. ‘Please remain as long as you desire, listen to the sagas if you wish, speak to any here. If I cannot return soon I will send someone.’
‘What do you make of that?’ said Copla-var when the Runelord had departed. ‘A bit strange, I think.’
‘I could not hear all that was said, for they concealed their voices well, but the summons was from Logan Grimnar,’ said Vychellan.
‘Well, let’s dig around and find out what the Chapter has been up to recently,’ said Mudire, turning back to the rows of scribing desks. ‘Even if we can find nothing about Gathalamor, this would be a good use of our time.’
‘Unprecedented, I would say,’ said Forgewelt, almost smiling. ‘To examine records of Fenris first-hand.’
Mudire’s enthusiasm was mostly for show. Njal had been so open about this place there was unlikely to be anything beyond academic interest. The Fang was chilly, smelled like an animal den and as soon as Njal or anybody else decided the historitors’ mission was over they would be returned without ceremony to the tedium of the Enduring Hate.
Yet, as Vychellan had admitted, the team did not know exactly what they were seeking and would only know it when they found it, so it was worthwhile to keep looking. Failure would not go down well with Colquan, even if the task was impossible, and Mudire had no desire to be on the wrong side of the tribune.
Any complaint about being disturbed from his labours in the forges died on Arjac’s lips the moment he entered the wulfhalle. A council awaited the arrival of the Great Wolf. Njal, Ulrik, and the Wolf Lords currently on Fenris, a list that would grace only the greatest of sagas: Krom, the lord with the Dragongaze, He That Would Be First. The youngest of their number, Ragnar, slayer and wearer of the Blackmane. Lord Bran, the Redmaw, also called the Beast-Heart. Foresighted leader of the Grimblood’s Great Company, Kjarl. Bjorn Stormwolf the Laughless, his face a single livid scar. The Death in Silence, Erik Morkai. Gunnar Red Moon, the Bard-Tongue. Ship-swift Engir Krakendoom, the Skylord.
With them stood a Dreadnought, a slab-sided walking war engine with claws like swords and a multi-barrelled assault cannon. The ancient machine was draped in trophies, furs and wyrdleif, marked with gold, iron runes driven into the ceramite armour. Feet thudding on the stone floor it turned to see the new arrival. Arjac immediately recognised the sarcophagus at the centre of the armoured torso. One whose saga eclipsed any other in the hall.
Bjorn the Fell-Handed.
The most ancient of the Chapter’s warriors, first Great Wolf after the loss of the Wolf King. Beside Grimnar, the only other living being in the Imperium to have defied Guilliman.
‘Lord Bjorn, it has been a time since we have seen you,’ said Arjac. For several seconds he dipped half to a knee with head bowed.
‘Overdue, this call from Logan.’ Bjorn’s voice reverberated through voxmitters, heavy with bass and mechanical influence. Even so, Arjac could hear his archaic accent and form of speech. ‘Had I known the Legion-breaker returned I would have saved you all much breath.’
‘Best case I see is Guilliman turns round and carries on with his crusade, and we get back to our wars,’ said Krakendoom. He took small paces in constant expenditure of energy, his words as swift as one of his aerial assaults. ‘Nobody wins from this stand-off except our enemies.’
‘Our many, many enemies,’ added Ragnar with a brief laugh. ‘As if the traitors and orks weren’t enough, now we pick a fight with the Imperium.’
‘Not the Imperium, with Guilliman.’ The Great Wolf’s voice boomed down the hall as he entered. ‘And I did not “pick a fight” with anybody, Ragnar. Guilliman chose to come here, I did not ask him.’
‘Is his fleet as big as they say?’ said Grimblood, his face a mass of tattoos in elaborate Fenrisian knotwork.
‘But a portion has come, not even all of his immediate battle group,’ answered Njal. ‘Only the tip of the Legion-breaker’s sword pierces Fenris’ skies and yet they outnumber us fivefold and more.’
‘The Indomitus Crusade has at least three great fleets sailing across the void, each with half a dozen such battle groups,’ said Krom, eager to share information to remind everybody that it was he that had first contacted the newcomers. ‘Who could tally so many ships?’
There was a flurry of conversation around this point until Bjorn’s speakers crackled into life.
‘Like a warrior that has never left his hearth, the Legion-breaker flexes his arms to impress us. So many ships he brings away from needed battle to intimidate, to overpower the soft-minded.’
‘It is claimed he commands more Space Marines than the Legions you faced down, Ancient One,’ Bran Redmaw said quietly. His eyes were a deep amber, his fangs more pronounced than his companions’, eyebrows thick with black hair.
‘The number is unimportant,’ growled Logan Grimnar as he reached the crowd. He spared Arjac a nod of welcome, the two of them having not crossed paths for several weeks. ‘Outnumbered two-to-one or fifteen-to-one, the message is the same.’
‘Which message do you read?’ asked Njal.
‘Enforced compliance,’ replied the Great Wolf. ‘Guilliman has a plan and we must be part of it.’
‘As it was when the Legions were splintered,’ rumbled Bjorn. ‘Back then he brought a book that we all had to obey. No longer does he hide behind its pages.’
‘We could not hope to win a war against the primarch,’ said Njal. ‘We have waged our share of battles against Imperials before, but those have been isolated incidents. Iconoclasts and renegades. If we strike against the Avenging Son he will have to crush us.’
‘Under guise of negotiation, he will attempt to command,’ warned Bjorn. His heavy tread crunched as he turned slightly, lifting a glittering power claw. ‘Do not underestimate the primarch’s voice, Logan. The Allfather created him to command, and us to obey. His words, his aura, enforce his will. Give no chance for Guilliman’s lying breath to settle in your ears. Bid him gone!’
‘I cannot dismiss the lord regent,’ Grimnar said heavily, settling into his throne. ‘I would end my saga in shame if I cast offence at the brother of the Wolf King. He is a primarch and he is the chosen leader of the Allfather’s Imperium. But I will guard myself against his powers.’
‘He will replace us,’ Bjorn said. ‘He could scour us from Fenris and place his usurpers in the Aett.’
Arjac found himself nodding in agreement. To ignore the warning of one that had trodden this road before seemed unwise, even if he had walked it at the shoulder of the Wolf King.
‘When he wished to break the Legions, Guilliman could have used force,’ said Njal. ‘He did not.’
‘It was not just the Wolf King whose discontent was given voice. Dorn and Sigismund, Amit of Sanguinius’ kin and others rejected Guilliman. War almost came to us then, and the Legion-breaker offered no terms to prevent it, no choice but to accept his decree. Only when Dorn showed lack of character was the divide settled and the other Legions forced to bend knee to Guilliman as feal-lord.’
‘They would say it different,’ said Ulrik. ‘Perhaps they were right to avoid another costly war between the Legions.’
‘And we should do the same now?’ said Grimnar. ‘Of all, I thought you would understand this threat to our culture, our future.’
‘You see it only as a threat to the coming of the Wolftime,’ Ulrik said heavily. ‘You see a primarch returned and yearn for the Wolf King.’
‘Careful with the words that cross your breath,’ said Logan. ‘You raised me as Blood Claw and I will always be thankful, but I am Great Wolf now.’
‘It is through division that Guilliman’s rule will come to pass!’ Bjorn’s shout was deafening, ringing back from the high walls for several seconds. The barrels of his cannon spun in agitation. ‘You do not understand what is at stake. The Wolf King risked his soul for us, so that we can become one with Fenris. You cannot throw that away with these false sons.’
‘Those “false sons” fought like brothers,’ declared Krom hotly, eyes on Grimnar rather than the ancient Dreadnought. ‘Just this past day, Primaris Marines of my company were willing to die to protect this world.’
‘You have them among your Great Company already?’ growled Blackmane. ‘What misbehaviour is this?’
Dragongaze defended his actions but in doing so accused the younger Wolf Lord of being overly ambitious, wishing to see his elders and betters succumb to the attrition of too many wars. Arguments broke out between the council members, voicing support and discontent in equal measure. Arjac tried to calm them, reminding them of their oaths to the Great Wolf, but his voice went unheard. Bjorn said nothing, his silence its own unheeded rebuke.
‘Hjolda!’ roared the Great Wolf, cutting through the din as he rose to his feet, slamming the haft of the Axe Morkai on the stones.
His subordinates fell quiet, cowed, as he glared at them all.
‘Enough,’ he murmured, voice barely audible, forcing the council to pay attention to heed him. ‘That is enough squabbling. No more.’
He sat down, axe across his legs.
‘The Wolves of Fenris are not yet assembled in full,’ he continued. ‘When the rest of the Great Companies have arrived we shall hear the voices of all and choose our path. It is a waste of breath before then.’
It was clear that several of the Wolf Lords wished to express disagreement, but they held their tongues. It would be some time before the last of their number arrived at the muster and doubtless each company leader would impress their views upon the Great Wolf in private.
‘To the vaults I shall not yet return,’ Bjorn told them. He swung away, thudding down the hall, magnified voice drifting back. ‘If you wish to call upon me, I remain your servant, Great Wolf.’
