The wolftime, p.37
The Wolftime, page 37
‘That did not end so well,’ said Colquan, standing.
‘On the contrary, that was perfect,’ said Guilliman, leaning closer to Hurak. ‘You did excellently.’
‘I fear the tribune is closer to the mark,’ said Hurak. His body was flushed with stimulants as though he had been in battle. It was almost euphoric, but the edge had been taken off by the sudden exit of the Space Wolves.
‘Not at all.’ Guilliman stood up but motioned the rest of the delegation to remain seated. ‘None of us likes to be reminded of our failings nor the expectations of others. Grimnar will see the truth, sooner or later.’
‘And if he chooses to die for his own version of truth, everything Hurak says will come true,’ said Colquan.
‘You forget, I have had this conversation before,’ said the primarch, expression hardening as he turned towards the tribune. ‘The more we push them, the more they will resist. If they do not come to this decision by their own unfettered choice they will not be coerced into it by any means.’
‘They will never trust you, Guilliman,’ said Colquan, perhaps projecting a little too much of his own belief. Hurak had been warned by his predecessors that the head of the Custodians in the fleet had a deep antipathy for the Space Marines, and the primarch in particular. ‘For ten thousand years your sons have grown and prospered, spawning successors and foundings. Your gene-seed has become one of the standards to which the Space Wolves have been measured and found lacking. They have no heirs, no brothers, no legacy. Even if they do not recognise it, they are jealous and they hate you for that.’
‘It is fortunate that I have a higher opinion of them,’ said the primarch.
Hurak felt uncomfortable, as he always did when his lord was displeased, and particularly when he and Colquan were at odds with each other, an occurrence nearly every time they shared a chamber. He had faith that the primarch knew best, but at that moment he wished he had more than just hope to rely on.
There was little personal space aboard a cruiser at the best of times and the Heretics’ Reward was even more cramped with one hundred and fifty storm troopers of the Tempestus Scions aboard. Despite this, Captain Bargoza had evicted a few junior officers from their bunks and wardroom just aft of the main dorsal lance turrets. Mudire and the others found themselves entertaining their host every few days as repayment for this concession, feeding her insatiable hunger for news of the crusade, slaking a thirst for knowledge in general. She had proudly shared with them her personal library, numbering seventeen books, of which six were not related to starships or void travel in some way.
Bargoza was relatively young for command of a cruiser but she was quick to learn, had a sharp wit and an easy-going manner – at least with the historitors. The crew called her ‘Bulkhead’ Bargoza because of her unyielding nature. Mudire liked her, more than most military officers he had met. He refrained from making his attraction known to Bargoza, despite sensing it was reciprocated, the conditions aboard ensuring there was little privacy and certainly no chance of such a relationship going unremarked.
Though Himhertha was not far from Fenris in galactic terms, the warp was a mess of conflicting tides and currents. The ship’s Navigator had to frequently request drops out of warp space for reorientation and rest, and so even after two weeks of relative-time they had covered only half the distance. The historitors filled their time easily enough with collating old notes, redrafting their texts from the Hall of Sagas and general administration. Vychellan was often away from the wardroom, and Mudire heard from one of the officers’ stewards that the Custodian spent most of that time in one of the supply halls that had been emptied to make a training chamber.
Mudire found himself alone as artificial evening began when Vychellan returned – the others were in the officers’ mess, but his hunger had been eradicated by a recent warp translation.
‘This must be quite boring for you,’ he said to the Custodian. ‘Playing chaperon to some file-delvers.’
‘On the contrary, your company is more stimulating than standing watch over the same deserted five square miles of the Imperial Palace. Though we are created for combat, routine and repetition do not vex us nor dull our wits.’
‘I suppose–’
Mudire stopped as the steward knocked at the door and quietly announced the approach of Captain Bargoza. Mudire and Vychellan looked at each other and then the door; Bargoza had joined them only the night before, and her visit now was unexpected.
‘Historitor, Custodian,’ she said, nodding to each as she stepped through the doorway. The steward shut it with a click behind her. The two greeted her in kind and Mudire saw in her expression that this was not a personal visit. ‘Lesaso Yaoic, my astropath, has detected images of need and distress from a nearby system. He says there is a considerable amount of ork-noise in the area.’
‘How far is this system from Himhertha?’ said Vychellan.
‘Without any other delay, diverting to Korshak would add about four relative-days to our journey time. As near as Navigator Loschoul can estimate. Korshak is a transfer point into the Ironhold territories, there is a warp beacon there with a strong signal. Without it we may have not caught the distress message at all.’ She pulled herself up to her full height – a few inches shorter than Mudire, dwarfed by the Custodian. ‘This is a ship of war and I came to inform you that I intend to issue orders to redirect to the Korshak System.’
Mudire could forgive her the assertive tone – no captain wants to lose command of their ship – but the truth was that Guilliman had assigned the Heretics’ Reward to his authority – not even Vychellan could overrule his decision. As much as he was prepared to allow Bargoza some pride, he would not be pressed into action he did not desire.
‘I understand your wish to respond as a military officer,’ he said smoothly, not smiling in case he appeared insincere. It was a curse of his usual disposition that it often made people think he was smirking when he was not. ‘I must think in broader terms, and in particular of the importance of the mission we are undertaking, in context of the whole Indomitus Crusade.’
‘If you explained what it is in Himhertha–’
‘We cannot,’ Vychellan said sharply, causing Bargoza to flinch. His manner reminded Mudire of Colquan, and he wondered if perhaps more Custodians were like the tribune but he was the only one that chose not to erect a facade to hide it.
‘Regretfully, my golden companion is correct,’ said Mudire. ‘And even if I were to explain a little of our need, it would still not convince you that there is not a greater good to be done at Korshak.’
‘Battle Group Alpharis is close at hand, there must be other ships free to investigate this situation,’ Vychellan continued, his tone moderate. ‘Have your astropath rebroadcast with a specific call for action.’
‘It has taken us almost fifteen days to get this far,’ the captain argued. ‘Any help will be that many days behind us.’
Her shoulders slumped and her gaze fell to the side, hands clasped in front of her.
‘Too often we arrive late,’ she said quietly. ‘To avenge rather than protect.’
‘I understand,’ said Mudire. He waited until she looked up at him. ‘Could you please allow Vychellan and me a few minutes to discuss this?’
She straightened, her renewed formality as stiff as the creases in her uniform. ‘The warp current is favourable for a new bearing on the Korshak beacon, please do not take too long.’
When she was gone, Vychellan spoke first.
‘Why are you considering a diversion from our mission?’ His tone conveyed surprise more than argument. ‘It is quite possible that we may run into more trouble than the Heretics’ Reward can handle.’
‘It’s unlikely that we will become embroiled without first having opportunity to consider options,’ Mudire replied. ‘Perhaps the captain is right, this is an opportunity to do something useful.’
‘And not a chance to impress her or make her feel indebted to you?’ said Vychellan.
‘What reason…?’
‘I hear your pulses quicken, see the lingering stares, taste your biochemistry.’
‘That sounds disgusting,’ said Mudire, grimacing. ‘What would you know of it, anyway?’
‘I know that under the influence of certain hormones, decision-making can be compromised. Are you sure of your reasoning?’
‘If there’s any strange thought process influencing me, it’s guilt,’ rasped Mudire. ‘I’ve seen enough carnage these last years to know that a warship and one hundred and fifty storm troopers is a lot of firepower for protecting a handful of historitors. I don’t care how dangerous… It doesn’t matter how urgent or important our mission is, this would be a better use of their time.’
‘You could die.’ Vychellan tilted his head slightly. ‘You are not a man strong on the ideal of self-sacrifice. Would the others agree to lay down their lives and call for this?’
‘Like I said, if it looks too rough, we turn the ship around and jump out of there. Orks aren’t going to chase us through the warp. The only coin we spend by taking a look is time, and the archive will still be in Himhertha in ten days rather than five.’
Vychellan rubbed his bearded chin, regarding Mudire for some time.
‘It is your choice, the primarch gave you authority.’
‘I know,’ said Mudire, moving towards the intravox panel beside the door. That was why he had not replied to the captain immediately, otherwise it would have looked as though he was being forced into a course of action. He buzzed the steward and the door opened.
‘My regards to the captain and she is free to alter course as needed.’
‘Leave me,’ said the Great Wolf, standing at the window in his main chamber. The words were quiet but filled with intent. Njal turned away with Ulrik and the Wolf Lords but felt a hand on his arm stop him. It was Arjac, his face full of concern. Ulrik noticed that the two of them did not follow and looked back, as did a couple of the others. The Slayer waved them to continue and shut the door, leaving the Great Wolf with his Champion and two highest-ranking priests.
‘Did I not make myself clear?’ said Logan, still gazing out of the window.
Njal had never seen him so angry. He needed no psychic power to feel the rage emanating from the Great Wolf even though the words were calmly spoken. It was the placidity that worried the Rune Priest. Had Logan raged and swore and thrown things he would find outlet for his pent-up emotion. Instead, it was channelled inward, stoking a storm that was destroying him from inside.
The chamber was adjacent to the wulfhalle, hence sharing its name, but the walls were thick and the doors sealed; it had been built by Space Marines and was enough to thwart even their superior hearing. Njal could hear nothing of what was being said in the hall and they would know nothing of what passed in the chamber.
Logan gripped the stone of the windowsill, fingers whitening. It was light outside, one of the shortest days of the Fenrisian year as it started the long sweep back towards the Wolf’s Eye and the near-endless days of the Season of Fire. No reflection could be seen, only the whiteness of the fortress mountains. The Great Wolf shook his head, answering some internal debate.
‘Empty promises,’ he whispered. ‘A cage of sentences without meaning. Honour. Tradition. Heritage. He thinks to trap me in my own sense of duty.’
‘Our oaths are to the Allfather,’ said Ulrik. ‘That has not changed.’
‘The Allfather did not just sit opposite me and look me in the damned eye!’ roared Logan, turning. He bared his fangs, fingers flexing as though longing to grab something. ‘A year from now I will not receive a message from the Allfather telling me of an incident in some star system at the edge of the galaxy. Innocent. The demand unspoken. A request perhaps, to send some warriors. Or to dispatch a few ships to ally with a battlefleet. A suggestion that a Sisters of Battle force comes to aid us in the campaign.’
‘Ulrik is right, my lord,’ said Arjac. ‘How does the presence of the primarch change things now?’
The Great Wolf drew in a long breath, his stare moving from one companion to the next.
‘Do you not remember what Bjorn warned against?’ he said. ‘Guilliman is the Legion-breaker. He would never let another wield the power of one of the Legiones Astartes, yet now he controls all the forces of the Imperium. Bjorn reminded me there was an older title for that. Warmaster. Guilliman was thwarted when the Allfather chose Horus, and so broke the Legions so that none would lead where he had failed. Now he returns and does the very thing he swore none could do.
‘The High Lords of Terra were bickering and ineffectual, but that meant that none of them ruled alone. Better no power than corruption. Bjorn remembers a time when the Wolves of Fenris were the guard against that threat. The loyal hunters. Did you see Colquan? He trusts the primarch even less, and perhaps for good reason. He said he brought warning, and maybe he does.’
Njal felt the ebbing and flowing of rage, dissipated as the Great Wolf spoke, building again as he lapsed into silence. As a Wolf Priest sometimes had to break an old bone to reset it, or lance an infected wound to allow the impurity to be excised, so Logan’s anger needed release.
‘Would you allow the Imperium to fail?’ asked Njal.
‘You agree with their doom-mongering?’ said Logan. ‘Fall in with the primarch or humanity will die? An ultimatum disguised as a forecast, but we have something stronger. We have the Wolf King’s own words, nearly as old as Guilliman.’
‘The Wolftime,’ said Ulrik.
‘Just so,’ said Grimnar. He stalked from one side of the chamber to the other. ‘If we do not believe in the truth of the Wolftime then we do not believe in anything. Even if we take everything Guilliman’s puppet raven said for him, perhaps the Wolftime is the end we need. Our death is not the final knell for the Imperium but the spark for the pyre that will ignite a new age of glory for humanity. What name carries more legend than that of Leman Russ, the Wolf King, Spear of the Allfather?’
It was hard to listen to, but the Great Wolf spoke a different truth, one less comfortable than the version offered by Guilliman.
‘To fight the coming of the Wolftime is to defy the wyrd we have known for the last ten thousand years,’ said Ulrik with a nod. ‘Bjorn was right to be wary. Even if Guilliman’s intent is pure today, what can we say of tomorrow? Is he stronger than Horus, to resist the temptations of power he has taken for himself? The Wolf King entrusted the safekeeping of his sons to the Fell-Handed and ten thousand years later he is still here to abide by that wyrd.’
The words should have felt like betrayal to Njal, coming from one that had been an ally in the desire to receive reinforcement. Instead, they sounded like wisdom. Was it fear that had prompted Njal to seek the solace of the Primaris Marines? As runethegn he knew the perils of taking the shorter route. To avoid pain was to seek the easy way. Fear of death, for oneself or for all of humanity, was the surest path to seek a fake immortality from the Dark Powers. The Wolftime had been taught to all from their earliest time with the Chapter, its message clear: fight now, fight hard.
All things end.
‘I see that my words have taken root in barren lands,’ said Logan, much calmed by his outburst. He looked at Arjac. ‘Deliver these words to the primarch and then, with my cordial thoughts, bid him gone.’
Logan paused, eyes closed for several seconds.
‘Our wyrd awaits us at Gottrok. We will make the companies ready to depart as soon as possible.’ He opened his eyes and they reflected the glimmer of firelight. ‘Without the Primaris Marines.’
Chapter Twenty-two
GYTHA’S DISCOVERY
FEVER DREAM
GELDFUT
‘Keep in sight of the clifftops!’ Gytha shouted as Korit ran ahead. The gothi turned to check that she could see the small lookout shelters constructed atop the grey cliffs, from which a long stretch of the shore could be seen, and far inland. If there was trouble a fire would be lit. A low headland hid the bulk of the temporary settlement at the water itself and the rising frames of two longships.
The sound of axes rang from the woods but Gytha wanted to get away from the rest of the tree-felling group, just for a little while. Lufa stayed with the others, but Agitta had decided to come along. Gytha didn’t mind the old woman’s company: they had lived together, and in comparison to the small hut back in the last village, sharing the same stretch of coast was like being continents apart.
‘Gytha!’ The shout from Bjorti’s mother disturbed her thoughts as she gazed out across the ice and sea. She turned to see the older woman hurrying back across the snowy stone from where she had been collecting firewood at the treeline. ‘Call her back! Get her back!’
‘She’s always been one to…’ Gytha silenced herself as she saw what was bothering Agitta. Some way along the shore, about the same distance again as Korit had run ahead, there was a darker patch among the rocks. The coast was thick with nightcrows and other carrion eaters, some circling above, others waddling away along the shoreline.
‘Korit, come back,’ Agitta shouted, hobbling ahead. Gytha hurried after, skin prickling as though hot, despite the cold wind that came off the early morning sea. ‘Come back right now!’
Korit stopped and look back, her inquiring call lost on the breeze.
‘It’s just a beached whale, I think,’ said Gytha, striding to catch up with Agitta. ‘What has got you so frightened?’
‘It’ll not just attract crows and withergulls, will it? The sea’s almost up to high tide, sawjaws could come out, and there could be anything in those woods. It isn’t safe!’
Gytha unslung her bow just in case and beckoned for Korit to return. The girl came running back, annoyed more than concerned.
