The wolftime, p.32
The Wolftime, page 32
They watched him go without word. Arjac always felt a mixture of shame and pride when he spoke to Bjorn. It seemed strange that he lived yet did not, succeeded by more than a dozen Great Wolves after his reign yet, bar Logan, had outlived them all. He had relinquished all authority and passed into the state of Ancient within his sarcophagus, but any Wolf of Fenris knew that he was the greatest among them until the Wolf King’s return.
The hearthegn looked at his commander, trying to judge his mood. Logan seemed relaxed as he watched the Dreadnought depart. Ulrik was next to leave, with curt words of fellowship for his former pupil, followed by Njal. Grimnar barely spared them a glance before he started speaking, giving orders for the disposition of the Great Companies and their ships to guard against any further encroachment by the vessels of Guilliman.
Arjac wanted to return to the forges, for such business was not for him; yet he did not take his leave, choosing to remain with his lord so that he knew that his hearthegn was at his side in body as well as in spirit.
Chapter Eighteen
LETTER FROM A PRIMARCH
THE LOST ARCHIVE
HELWINTER’S FIRST BREATH
The Imperial Regent Roboute Guilliman, last loyal primarch to the Emperor of Mankind, waited in his personal chambers for a report from the command staff of the Dawn of Fire. Hurak found his restraint remarkable. He could have been in the strategium, at the heart of the ship’s operations, assimilating every data-feed and sensor return as it happened. It was another admirable trait of Guilliman that he was not, recognising that his position as Lord Commander put him in charge of every single Imperial military asset across the galaxy but did not make him individual commander of each. He would be superlative as a transport pilot, a scow captain, a lieutenant-commander of an outrider flotilla, or admiral of a fleet. Better than any human or transhuman could be. But if he was to be one of those things, then he would have to be all, and that was impossible.
So Guilliman sat at his desk, writing his Codex Imperialis while half of Battle Group Alpharis of Fleet Primus stared down the guns and torpedoes of the assembled Space Wolves armada, as calmly as if it were ten thousand years ago and he was drafting laws for the worlds of Ultramar.
There were certainly events enough to keep the lord regent occupied. Hurak was the shadow in many of the briefings and heard his lord’s dictation for responses and orders. The lord regent had even delegated some of the lesser issues to Hurak – all came with a purely military authority, but Hurak knew he was learning as much about diplomacy and statesmanship as command and logistics.
Most pressing were preparations to create another hub-fortress at Kamidar. The war at Vigilus was drawing in more and more resources as the primarch’s forces and allies pushed to gain control of the Nachmund Gauntlet and access to Imperium Nihilus. Meanwhile Fleet Secundus battled to keep back the traitor armada flowing from the Eye of Terror, ensuring no easy route to the Throneworld. The region behind Secundus had to be secured and reinforcement made swifter, which necessitated a muster point the equal of Lessira, Gathalamor, Vorlese. Kamidar would be a solid foundation, ideally placed, but the unprecedented growth of the ork threat to the west put that in jeopardy.
The lord regent’s strategy, his reputation, the crusade and perhaps the future of the Imperium hung by a thread being frayed by the rasping of ragged ork blades. Not that the primarch showed any sign of strain as he reviewed his latest work, head slightly tilted to one side.
What upheaval he had seen. Hurak considered Guilliman the immovable rock around which everything else was anchored, and he surmised that to the primarch the universe must seem an existence of constant turmoil. He had been born into civil strife on Macragge and helped quell it. He had conquered the Five Hundred Worlds and created a nascent empire. He had seen the Emperor’s achievements, and his own, burnt to cinders in the fires of the Horus Heresy. He had given his life – so it had seemed – fighting traitors who would have overthrown the remnants of Imperial rule. Now, given rebirth, he found the galaxy still aflame, the foes the same yet stronger than before.
Hurak knew he would not be able to continue in the same circumstances. To see one’s achievements torn down time after time, to find the will to start building them again, was beyond him. Was that why the First Founding Chapters were so important? Perhaps it was more personal than Hurak had thought – an unbroken connection between the present and the past for the Lord Commander?
He looked at the primarch – brow slightly furrowed, electro-nib paused as he considered a particular word choice – and the Son of Corax realised how Guilliman coped. He was able to lose himself in the details, to break down the most incredibly vast problems into a series of simple tasks to be achieved. He kept the massive expanse of it all in his mind and yet simultaneously focused on every single element within; the virtually impossible seemed achievable when seen from that point of view. Now, part of his massive undertaking to reconquer the galaxy for humanity required him to sit down and write a letter, and so that occupied him for another few minutes.
Hurak’s vox chimed, alerting him to an arrival at the doors. He signalled for them to enter and greeted Lieutenant Onyxhal. An Imperial Navy officer, formerly a liaison at the recently liberated forge world of Cortanax VII. Her time among the tech-priests was evident from the bionic arm in place of her right, as well as several scars from neural implants around the right ear.
She stopped as Hurak raised a hand, data-slate half-raised as she was about to speak. The officer and Space Marine waited another minute until Guilliman sat back, eyes still on the plexisheet on which he had been writing. The primarch rolled it up, used a heat seal and his thumb to bind it, and then set it to one side. Finally, he looked up, ancient eyes betraying no impatience, though he had to be burning to know the latest communications.
Onyxhal stepped forward, data-slate held out, but Guilliman shook his head.
‘Your summary please, lieutenant. I will review the details later.’
Onyxhal was ready for this and stood at ease, data-slate held in both hands in front of her, screen blank.
‘The Space Wolves have moved two frigates and a cruiser towards the elliptic perpendicular above the fourth world,’ she said smoothly. ‘This correlates with warp patterns detected over the last few days that suggest more incoming ships.’
‘They have summoned their remaining companies, if our appraisal of their current in-system assets is correct,’ said Hurak.
Guilliman gave him a stern look, a rebuke for the interruption. It felt worse than an hour-long chastisement from any other commanding officer and Hurak dropped his gaze.
‘Apologies, Lord Commander.’
‘To be arriving now it is likely the ships were summoned before our intervention, not in response. There are other expected fleet movements, but nothing that changes the general status quo, Lord Commander,’ Onyxhal continued. ‘Would you like more details?’
‘No, I accept the admiral’s assessment,’ said Guilliman. ‘They are still protecting the inner system but the route to the Mandeville boundary is left clear, as is the subtext.’
‘Lord?’ said the lieutenant. Guilliman nodded to Hurak to answer.
‘We can leave whenever we want.’
The primarch’s fingers drummed loudly on the desk for several seconds. ‘Has there been any communication from Fenris?’
‘Only standard repeated messages asserting the authority of the Great Wolf,’ said the Naval officer. ‘The wording has not changed, Lord Commander.’
‘I see.’
More finger-drumming. Hurak hadn’t observed such behaviour before. It concerned him. The lightning-fast cogitations of the primarch never took such a long time. Whatever dilemma he was wrestling with, it was likely moral rather than logistical.
The regent lifted the rolled plexisheet and held it out. ‘Please contact the Space Wolves and request that they receive a written message for the Great Wolf.’
The lieutenant understood what was required and stepped forward to take the letter. ‘I shall deliver it personally into their hands, Lord Commander.’
‘That will be all. Thank you.’
The liaison officer saluted and left. Hurak waited for a couple of minutes, enduring the wordless attention of the primarch, struggling to keep his silence.
‘A request,’ Guilliman said after what seemed like an age. ‘A personal message from me to Logan Grimnar.’
‘What if he refuses to see sense?’ said Hurak. ‘No Chapter can continue to fight as required without reinforcement. The orks are thicker here than anywhere else, and it seems the Space Wolves have been hurt heavily of late. They cannot cover their losses with normal recruitment levels. If they do not take the Primaris reinforcements they will die out and there will be no core of defence across dozens of sectors.’
‘Or they take the Primaris Marines but decide to refuse the task I require of them, to preserve their numbers,’ said the Lord Commander.
‘I had not considered that possibility, but it is equally damaging to the grander strategy. The ork surge through this part of the segmentum has to be checked, or we will be cut off from Fleet Secundus and the engagements at the edge of the Cicatrix Maledictum. So far, eight battle groups have been drawn off their missions by escalating war with the xenos.’ Hurak took a breath, knowing that Guilliman was well aware of everything he had said, but unable to stop himself voicing his concerns. ‘Fleet Primus and even the whole crusade could stall because the Space Wolves cannot, or will not, do what is asked.’
‘Dispersal of the fleets is an inevitable consequence of retaking territory,’ said Guilliman. ‘That is not the same as unintended fracture, and you are correct about the ork menace being greater than anticipated. We must continue with forceful expansion through the Great Rift into Imperium Nihilus, or the gains we have made will be reversed. Not only that, there is increasing discontent among the elite of Terra, which I cannot return to address, so instead we must ensure that their arguments are quietened with tales of our continuing successes. If I cannot convince the Space Wolves to join us I will redeploy Battle Group Alpharis itself to hold the systems along the boundary of the Ironhold until the situation at Vigilus is settled.’
Hurak said nothing for several seconds. He had thought himself abreast of the strategic situation but the summary of the primarch laid out even more how precariously balanced the entire Indomitus endeavour had become. The captain had seen nothing of dissent from the political hierarchy of Terra, but that was as much a threat as a traitor armada. If anything, the realisation hardened Hurak’s opinion.
‘There are other forces, more reliable than the Fenrisians. I still haven’t worked out why the Space Wolves are so important. Militarily speaking, they are almost an irrelevance.’
‘Disappointing,’ said Guilliman and Hurak felt the word like a blow to the abdomen. The primarch picked up a data-slate and looked down, its screen lighting his face with a green glow. ‘But you still have time to work it out.’
For two days Vychellan had watched the historitors at their work, impressed by the diligence and patience they displayed. They performed their own interviews with kaerls and Space Marines, all of whom seemed happy to share their tales with the upplanders. It was obvious that they had been selected not only for their abilities but also aptitude. Despite the seeming clashes of personality and exceptional differences in background, they all shared a common belief that there was an objective truth to be discovered.
That had been Guilliman’s purpose, as Vychellan understood it, but it was a folly as far as the Custodian was concerned. He had read many of the records kept in the depths of the Imperial Palace and each held a truth, even if it was revealed only by the lies contained within. The primarch did not seem naive, and so Vychellan had to wonder if there was some deeper agenda to Guilliman’s creation of the Logos Historica Verita. Certainly it reminded Vychellan of the archives concerning the Imperial Truth, the propaganda of the Great Crusade and Age of Enlightenment that had been used to cover up the existence of Neverborn and the Dark Powers that commanded them. A version of that, the Imperial Cult, had been used to suppress all similar knowledge – in fact nearly any knowledge at all – for the last ten thousand years. With the Great Rift tearing apart the void and the forces of nightmare amok on thousands of worlds, there had been little option but to allow the stories to spread, the terrifying truth slowly leaking across the Imperium along with the growing power of the warp entities themselves. Would Guilliman’s truth be used to combat alternate philosophies presented by the Ecclesiarchy or the Inquisition?
His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Njal Stormcaller, who nodded greeting but said nothing until the approach of the historitors, who gathered around the pair of transhuman warriors clutching their books and recording devices.
‘Another productive day?’ the Stormcaller asked. He turned towards the doors and they all moved with him, Njal keeping his pace sedate so that the historitors could keep up. ‘I know that some of our tales can be… domestic?’
‘Our time hasn’t been wasted,’ announced Mudire, looking at his companions. ‘We have collected a valuable history, one that has probably never been shared beyond these walls.’
‘Yes, fascinating,’ said Ahlek. ‘On the main matter, it is a pity we have nothing from those that sided with the heretic cardinal, to complete the history.’
‘An inquisitor came and extracted confessions,’ Njal said, offhand, stopping the group in their tracks. The Rune Priest halted and turned on his heel, eyebrow raised. ‘Did you not know this?’
‘We should send messages to Terra as soon as possible,’ said Mudire.
‘I am sure Colquan has already ordered the great libraries to be scoured,’ said Vychellan, who knew that if such records existed he would have been made aware of them. ‘I will ensure that the Inquisitorial representative to the crusade fleet is asked to examine their repositories too.’
‘I don’t want to go back to Terra,’ Forgewelt said softly, eyes downcast. ‘Never.’
‘There are probably copies in the Himhertha archive,’ said Njal, again eliciting a stunned silence from his visitors.
‘The what archive?’ said Mudire.
‘You said…’ Ahlek trailed off, holding up his data-slate and cable.
‘The Wolves of Fenris have our accounting, and few sagas written down. I speak of the Imperial archivists.’ Njal waved to draw their attention back to the trolleys of documents that were taken out of the hall. ‘Where did you think these are sent?’
‘Who are they?’ asked Mudire, who appeared slightly dazed. ‘Where…?’
Njal took a breath, gently shaking his head.
‘It was about five hundred years before the bloodletting with Bucharis–’
‘Four and a half thousand years ago,’ said Copla-var.
‘Yes. The Great Wolf at the time, Horist Make-War, had to foster strong union with our allies in the Imperium. It matters not why, but in order to forestall certain accusations he agreed to allow a contingent of Imperial archivists to be stationed on a moon of the fourth world of the Himhertha System, about one hundred and seventy light years from Fenris. It’s technically territory of the Chapter after the mess with… Well, it doesn’t matter why, that was even longer ago. They send a messenger ship to the edge of our system every few centuries and the kaerls send them the reports of what we have been doing. I assumed they sent on copies to the Adeptus Terra. Now that I think about them, it has been some time since we last had a visitation. Their ship is overdue by several centuries.’
This caused a ripple of consternation through the historitors.
‘There’s been an Imperial archive from Fenris for the last four and a half millennia,’ said Mudire, seemingly trying to grasp the enormity and the absurdity at the same time. He turned to Vychellan. ‘Why have we not heard of this?’
‘I expect the relevant papers are on a scribe’s desk somewhere in the Administratum hives,’ the Custodian said heavily. ‘Awaiting approval, perhaps.’
‘You should probably visit them,’ said Njal, encouraging them towards the door with a sweep of his hand. ‘I’ll have a shuttle readied for your immediate departure. Helwinter is coming but the firestorm has not yet begun.’
‘The Great Wolf will permit a craft to enter orbit?’ said Vychellan.
‘No,’ said Njal. ‘But I am certain something can be arranged.’
It was more luck than judgement that brought Gaius down to the edge of an ice sea, out of the mountains. A scent upon the air, the slightest hint of something other than snow and pine resin, had led him slightly eastwards on his course. The mountainsides plunged steeply into what would have been water but was now a frozen waste, stretching flat to the horizon to the east and south. The rugged coastline more or less continued north-west, giving him a choice: continue through the rough terrain or head directly north across the ice plains. The first had already proven tiresome but had provided opportunities for hunting, as attested by his full stomach, grey bear fur cloak and untanned leggings stitched with sinew. The plains were flat but that would be problematic, providing no shelter against the winds, and there would be no forest in which to locate more prey.
Gaius decided to follow the coast for a day or two more, putting off the real choice. He had read that most Fenrisian settlements could be found on the shifting coastlines, as the seas, though dangerous in themselves, also provided easy escape should the lands break and volcanoes birth nearby.
It was hard to imagine such a life as he strode along the long snowdrifts, his fur stinking of dried blood, feet numb inside their crude wrappings, using his bloodstained spear to probe at the ice and drifts when he thought they might conceal crevasses. The entire mountain range may not have existed when Cawl had woken him from his sleep; might not be standing by the next Helwinter. Since the coming of the Great Rift – the Everdusk – even the stars could not be relied upon for navigation, in the few scattered moments the clouds broke to allow sight of them. Instead a ruddy smear coloured the heavens, stretching from the wound in reality that was the Eye of Terror.
