The wolftime, p.33
The Wolftime, page 33
The wind picked up as the day wore into evening, the dull light of the sun swallowed by the clouds until a last rosy hour of resistance before nightfall. After the first couple of nights he had grown to appreciate what a difference the meagre warmth and light made. The snow stopped but the air itself carried an icy touch, freezing the breath on his face and coating the furs with frost. He pushed onward, untouched by fatigue but aware that soon its grip would start to cramp muscles and deaden his limbs. He had felt his third lung coming to life just after dawn, bringing more oxygen for his double-heartbeat to push around his body, fighting the effect of the unending chill.
The darkness was profound. He had experienced utter blackness in the void, sealed inside his armour, but at midnight when the clouds were thick and the stars hidden he could have been walking across nothing. His transhuman eyes were as sharp as any nocturnal beast’s but not a glimmer on ice or in the sky could be seen. He was accompanied only by the crunch of the snow underfoot, as steady as he could make it, and the irrepressible rhythm of his breathing.
Before daybreak a storm came and battered him with winds that would stagger a normal man, the snow turning hard, slashing at exposed hands and legs. Gaius pulled his cloak up around his head like a hood, to protect his eyes from ice coming at him almost sideways.
The effort of working against the wind, eyes closed for much of the time, eyelashes frozen together, started to strain Gaius’ legs. His joints ached and he had no warplate to introduce analgesics to supplement his considerable biological pain management system. As the smudge of lightness that was dawn painted the mountains he realised that he had overcompensated against the wind and had drifted east, onto the ice shelf. It simplified the decision about his route – if he remained exposed like this for a few more days his body would fail.
The thought of scaling another mountain weighed heavily but Gaius turned left, north-west with the sun on his shoulder, and set off for the half-seen peaks again.
By midday the footing had become ice-crusted rock again, the shoreline he had been previously following. A smell carried on the wind from ahead – not the freshness of the pine forests or the lingering salt from the frozen sea. Following it like a tracking hound he came upon the answer – the charred remnants of a pyre that had once stood on the shore. Thick wooden planks had burned down but not been turned to ash completely, in the lee of a bay so that although remnants were scattered about, the greater part of the heap was still intact.
He saw a cave in the mountain slope that led to the shore, and headed for it. There lingered still the smell of burnt wood and cooked meat. He could not tell how long ago the place had been abandoned but the cave was a welcome find. Sheltered from the snow for the first time in two days, Gaius sat down with his back against the wall, which showed signs of being shaped by simple tools. He followed the pick marks with his fingers, wondering who had hefted the tool and where they were now. Why had they left? Attack? Helwinter?
He dared not sleep. The shelter he found would be attractive to other creatures and though he had bested the rockbear whose fur he wore, he had no desire to repeat such an encounter just roused from slumber. Instead he drifted into the half-sleep brought about by activating his catalepsean node.
While part of his brain rested, the other kept watch.
‘To Hel with Guilliman,’ snarled Grimnar. ‘He’s trying to pull the same trick as Castallor. How dare he?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Njal, sipping his fyrkaf as he watched the Great Wolf devolve into wordless frustration again. In the many years he had known Logan Grimnar he had very rarely seen him lose his poise. In battle he was a terror of rage but in his dealings with others, save for the occasional snarl, he was always measured. To see him so discomfited by the letter from the primarch worried the runethegn. ‘What is the problem again?’
Grimnar grabbed the rolled plexisheet and threw it towards Njal. It unfurled mid-air and flopped to the floorboards before reaching him. Njal stood up and retrieved it, pacing to the fireplace with the letter in one hand, fyrkaf in the other.
He skimmed the words, expecting some kind of pompous demand or perhaps even calling upon the authority of the Allfather. Instead he read an exceptionally cordial request to have an audience with the Great Wolf, at his earliest convenience, no less. To pay respects to the great warriors of Fenris.
‘How dare he indeed,’ said Njal, crossing to the table to return the missive. Logan glared at it like a primed grenade. ‘Requesting an audience when he is only the single most powerful individual in the whole Imperium. He is shameless.’
‘He knows I can’t refuse,’ growled Logan, his angry stare moving to Njal. ‘And less of that tone.’
‘I fail to see the problem.’ Njal downed the last mouthful of fyrkaf and placed the mug back with its companions next to the fireplace.
‘I can’t meet him in some freezing control chamber like Castallor. Whatever we think about it, he’s the Lord Commander of the Imperium and a damned brother of the Wolf King. There has to be feasting, celebration. Welcome. Half of my Wolf Lords are calling for me to attack, the other half want the Primaris Marines as soon as possible. He’s deliberately dividing the Chapter against me.’
‘I’m not sure he can do that, except by proxy,’ said Njal heavily. ‘You’re worried that he’ll upstage you?’
‘You heard Bjorn. Primarchs have a way of getting what they want. If we let him come to the Aett he’ll try to use his presence to sway me.’
‘So you think you’ll surrender to Guilliman’s slightest whim if you come face to face with him?’
Njal hadn’t realised it before, but the nature of the primarch rattled Logan to his core. His desire to prove himself worthy to the Wolf King, and for Russ himself to return to confirm that worth, sprang from his fear that Guilliman would show him to be inferior. There was no other warrior in the Imperium, not even another Chapter Master, that could humble the Great Wolf of Fenris.
Logan’s silence was the confirmation needed. Now that he could see the issue more clearly, Njal was annoyed that he hadn’t spotted it before. It was something far more dangerous than the Great Wolf’s ego at stake – it was his confidence. The times, and the primarch, were challenges unprecedented even in Grimnar’s long life.
‘Follow through with it,’ announced the runethegn. ‘If he is trying to manipulate you with this subservience, then use it. The firestorm of Helwinter is nearly upon us and no ship can be left in orbit. It would be wise for the primarch to delay his arrival until afterwards. Make him wait. Limit his entourage so that he cannot impress with the scale of his power. We already know he has near-limitless resources but what would he really be willing to expend to bring us into line?’
‘I thought it was your opinion that we should just accept the Primaris Marines and be done with all of this,’ said Grimnar. ‘Now you are telling me I should delay and humiliate Guilliman?’
‘Not humiliate. Grant him every honour he is due. But do not forget who you are. If he wants you to measure yourself against him, do so. You will not be found wanting.’ Njal leaned forward, his words chosen carefully. ‘And yes, I think you are wrong for refusing in the first place. I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. It is my duty to give you the best advice that I can, and that I will do. Nevertheless, neither I, nor Ulrik, nor any other that has spoken against your choice will undermine you before the primarch.’
‘Obedience is not loyalty,’ muttered Logan, stroking his hands together, his gaze distant. ‘Perhaps I need to remind Guilliman of that fact.’
‘And do you think he will convince you, when all else is in balance, to do something you genuinely believe is not in the best interests of our people and our Chapter?’
Logan’s expression hardened and Njal recognised his master of old.
‘He will not.’
Vychellan was conflicted as the Fenrisian intrastellar ship neared the vessels of Battle Group Alpharis and he received word of a vid-link communication from the Dawn of Fire. The signal originator was identified as ‘Gilded Blade’, the personal channel of Tribune Colquan. The Custodian was unsure whether his report about an archive facility at Himhertha counted as a success or failure. He was equally unaware of his superior’s attitude to the current stand-off between the Space Wolves and Guilliman’s ships. The tribune was more likely to see it as Guilliman’s power-hungry nature than disloyalty to Terra’s chosen leader by Fenris. Vychellan felt that he was stepping into a situation every bit as dangerous as the storm of asteroids through which he and the historitors had rapidly departed Fenris.
Vychellan accepted the vid-link in the ship’s cramped communications chamber, keying in the decryption code as he found a way to angle his spear that did not obstruct his view of the screens. Nearly two minutes passed before the link was established at the other end, a static-fuzz face appearing where grey glass had been.
‘You are to accompany the historitors on the second part of the mission,’ announced Colquan without any hesitation.
‘That seems wasteful,’ replied Vychellan. ‘Given the tensions in the immediate vicinity–’
‘You can serve the Emperor better in the Himhertha System, Custodian. We need to be sure whether Mudire and his file-robbers find anything concerning the Gift of Bucharis weapon. The only way to guarantee that is if you are present and monitoring the situation.’
‘You think Guilliman would hide the knowledge from us?’ Vychellan said. He thought for a moment longer, ascertaining his superior’s real intent. ‘You are worried that the historitors would supply the primarch with this information in secret, allowing him to construct a version of the weapon for himself.’
‘It is a possibility we must consider,’ said the tribune.
‘The lord regent commands a fleet vaster than anything the Imperium has seen since Macharius, what difference one weapon, powerful or not?’
‘To wield a fleet requires consent from many minds. The power demonstrated on Gathalamor was unleashed by a relative handful. We must know everything that Guilliman knows, to counter any threat, should it arise.’
Vychellan offered no further argument. It would serve no purpose, Colquan had already issued him a command and would not retract it. The Custodian focused on the bigger issues around them.
‘There is division among the Space Wolves regarding the Primaris reinforcements,’ he told the tribune. ‘However, I think the harder Guilliman pushes Grimnar, the more the Great Wolf will resist. The Chief Librarian, Njal Stormcaller, seemed quite amenable and I have established a relationship with him. He may be able to exert more pressure on Grimnar.’
‘No, you are mistaken. If Logan Grimnar feels betrayed from his own ranks he will react very poorly. Guilliman is waiting for any provocation that would allow him to respond more forcefully, but we should ensure he is not presented with any.’
‘Speculation!’ said Vychellan. ‘If Guilliman was to turn on the Emperor then the Space Wolves would be one of his first opponents. The history of the Ten Thousand with the Eleventh Legion is a reminder of that. Why would Guilliman be so keen to arm and expand such an obstacle to his ambition?’
‘We do not yet fully know what Cawl has implanted into the minds of the Primaris Marines,’ snapped Colquan, his face moving closer to the vid-capture. ‘Who knows what controls he seeded into their minds as his educator machines fed their brains during their long sleep? And, as the history you refer to proves more than anything, loyalty to the Emperor can be directed to ill ends by manipulation and lies.’
Vychellan had no answer to this, but thought the logic built on uncertain foundations. Now was not the time to engage in such debate. Colquan took the Custodian’s silence as acquiescence and continued, receding from the vid-capture by a few paces.
‘The Heretics’ Reward has been tasked by Guilliman to conduct you to the Himhertha System to complete your mission. Docking details are being transmitted to your craft’s command crew at present. You will accompany Mudire and his companions and secure all materials they recover.’
‘A cruiser to carry a handful of historitors? Surely the primarch has a smaller vessel to spare.’
‘It is his assessment that there are unaccounted enemies across this whole region. The orks in particular have a habit of turning up where they are not expected. Himhertha could be overrun, especially given the absence of any recent contact with Fenris. The cruiser is also carrying a complement of Tempestus Scions in case of undesired encounters. A measure of the primarch’s desire for your success. You will impress upon Mudire and the others to share nothing of the mission, not even the nature of your destination. Remember that the archive contents are your only concern, any other matter is secondary.’
Vychellan accepted his orders and cancelled the link. He stood in silence for a while, breaking down the exchange. It was certain that Colquan did not trust Guilliman, but the concern for the weapon seemed disproportionate, despite the tribune’s assertions. The entire mission felt like something more suited to the Inquisition rather than a Custodian, but Colquan seemed as suspicious of them as the primarch.
On that count Vychellan was of the same mind. The lack of Inquisition involvement was itself cause for concern, given the nature of the threat posed by the Gift of Bucharis. That their efforts to tackle the threat were not obvious likely meant the Inquisition was working in an even more clandestine way. It felt as though he and the mission might be used in some way against Guilliman and his enterprise, a type of politicking of which Vychellan wanted no part.
The three ships formed a snowy wedge against the worst of the blizzard, their windward sides banked deck-high with drift, the Landsattmaringi sheltered in the lee. Gytha woke from a dream of golden giants and howling wolves, easing back into consciousness as occasional snowflakes landed on her face.
Huddled together, the tribesfolk were asleep and had been for the better part of the last twenty days. It was a habit of many tribes from the Icelands, to conserve food and energy during the harshest weather, much like many other animals spent Helwinter deep in their caves or buried under the earth. A few were always on watch, a couple of days at a time spent perched in protected locations on the ships, or out of the wind by the large boulder that formed a smaller fourth side to their improvised settlement.
Gytha had not been so fortunate, waking every few days from her dreams, but she felt as rested as any time since the arduous journey had begun. Glancing to her left she assured herself that Bjorti and the children were still fast asleep. She watched them for a little while, breath barely making a mist from their lips, chests nearly immobile beneath coats of fur and goat wool shirts.
Her back was stiff and she eased herself up slowly, careful not to disturb those that were packed close – Agitta on the other side to Bjorti. Her movement caught the eye of one of the watchers above, and with a whispered request Gytha got him to help her up onto the sloped deck of the ship. It was Noraslov Fearbiter, his beard cased with ice, face pale in the grey fur of his hood.
‘Can’t sleep, gothi?’ he said, crouching down by the gunwale, out of the wind.
Gytha still wasn’t used to the title; it made her feel as though she should have a much better idea what was going on and what would happen. There was little wisdom in her head to share.
‘The sky stirs,’ she said, squinting up through the wind and snow. A flicker of light passed through the cloud above, a brief corona of yellow. A few seconds later, another, brighter than the first.
‘Helwinter’s heart,’ said Noraslov. ‘The Skyfires are here.’
Gytha watched as a burning spark fell through the clouds near the horizon, flashing into greater light for a moment as it hit the ice field. Then another, and another, until the night had turned to twilight and the skies were ablaze.
Chapter Nineteen
HEAVENFIRES
WYRDKINE
THE SEA ROAD
The forest burned and Gaius ran.
He ran to keep ahead of the flames, to keep the smoke from his lungs. He ran because the animals ran and that was what he had become. Predators and prey all united in their flight from the all-consuming fires.
Gaius had no sense of time. The sky was alight and yet swathed with the smog of a burning continent, so night was like day and day was like night. Meteorites continued to rain like hail, many no bigger than gravel, but with the explosive power of a bolt-round. Some were much larger, fist-sized chunks that exploded like artillery shells as they hit the cold snow. Now and then the sky would turn white with light and heat as something larger entered the atmosphere. These usually broke up into showers of smaller but no less deadly projectiles.
As he ran, eastward and northward when he could, he knew that he was as likely to head into more fires as he was open ground, but the same wild instinct that drove the creatures of the mountains pushed him on.
Gaius was tired. He had not slept properly since leaving the Aett, instead relying upon his catalepsean node to keep him alive. He dreamed as he ran, the automatic action of lifting his legs and pumping his arms a monotonous reality, just like his laboured breathing and thundering hearts.
As parts of his brain lay dormant, others reigned. Sometimes he saw the world in crystal clarity, smelled the scent of beasts, the taste of ash heavy in his mouth. Other times it was drab, monochrome swathes of vague shapes around him; a mass that seemed to move while he remained still. In more lucid moments he tried to recall what the book had said about Helwinter. His usual precise recall was an early victim of degrading mental ability. The peak of the fires lasted around twenty or thirty days. Had it already been six or seven now? Perhaps only four or five…
