The wolftime, p.9
The Wolftime, page 9
‘Three had no better chance than two of overcoming the sheer power of our foe. Guile must serve where strength will not,’ he told War-Tongue. ‘When caught in a storm, do not mark where the rain falls, only where the lightning strikes.’
A sudden pulse of power drew their attention back to the shaman-lord atop the effigy. A fresh figure of orkish destruction swelled immaterially around the monster, fangs glinting with wyrdfir fists forming from emerald energy.
‘You mean to attack the wyrdkast directly?’
‘In a manner,’ replied Njal. ‘See how the staff projects its own wyrdfir? I would wager a king’s trove that thing was made by no ork hand. Break the link and the shaman will lose its favour. A warship without a rudder is more danger to its crew than the foe.’
‘And you have a plan for that?’ War-Tongue could not keep the doubt from his tone. He kept looking to the left and right, seeking support from warriors that were no longer there.
‘There’s just us,’ Stormcaller said quietly. ‘We will be the patient hunters. Trust me. Trust the power of the Hearthworld.’
He lifted his staff and started back towards the nearest ork building, never taking his eye from the gigantic idol. The first of the next ork wave started clambering out of the delve-hole, hesitant in expectation of ruinous fire from their enemies. When no such volleys greeted them, they poured out from the lower decks.
‘Stand beside me,’ said Njal, stepping into a space between two hovels. Now that they were further from the effigy he could feel the link with the Hearthworld again, warmed by its presence.
‘In the darkness between stars,’ he intoned lightly, lips barely moving. ‘Out of the deepest caves. From the shadows of the moonless forest.’
As he spoke, he pictured himself and his companion as nightwolves with pelts as black as midnight, padding across a lightless void. From beside him he felt Hrolf’s power flowing into his, and the two became one, a single hunting beast obscured from the eyes of their prey.
The lead orks, having established that their foes were retreating, bellowed enthusiastically to those behind, gesturing wildly for them to follow. Many made gesticulations of fealty to the distant figure of the shaman-lord, bowing their heads and waving a hand across the face in a display of obscuring their sight even as they looked towards the wyrdkast. When more than two score of the aliens had clambered from the pit’s edge they started into the settlement, judging their numbers now sufficient to tackle whatever they encountered. They did not move towards Njal but headed for another street, while in the following moments dozens more started to leap off the ladders and pour after the warriors of the Great Wolf.
Unmoving, Njal turned his attention back to the shaman while mobs of orks hurried past, not giving a second glance to the two massive armour-clad figures. Xenos grunts and baying rang from the further part of the settlement and soon gunfire roared again not too far away as the orks ran into the rearguard of Fenrisian warriors.
‘We must act now,’ declared Njal, seeing that the ghost-god around the shaman was almost fully realised. It flexed clawed fingers, reaching out towards its enemies beyond the view of the Rune Priests. ‘Follow where I go and be ready to strike.’
The image of the shadow wolf melted from the Stormcaller’s mind and he passed his thoughts into Nightwing, becoming one with the psyber-raven. The augmented bird took wing from the corpse of an ork it had been pecking, in seconds passing into the gloom beyond the stuttering lights of the ork buildings. Bionic eye fixed upon the thermal waves flowing from the orks atop the effigy, Njal steered through the sudden updraught of heat emanating from the massive mine workings. As silent as the night breeze, the psyber-raven circled closer. Upon meeting the fluctuating silhouette of the orkish psychic manifestation there was a sense of resistance, as though he were pushing into frothing water.
‘With me, brother,’ the Stormcaller growled, his spirit linked between body and bird, syphoning runic power directly into the heart of the wyrd giant. War-Tongue released his soul power as a burst of fire that climbed along the path of the raven’s ascent, spiralling up through the greenish apparition towards its head. As raven and fire met, Njal let forth his full potential, while far below the runes of the psykers’ armour blazed with golden flame.
A thing of physical and psychic power, the psyber-raven struck, spearing across the remaining space like a thunderbolt. Through its eye, Njal could see the head of the ork’s staff like a hole in reality, edged with green energy, turning the crude psychic might into something far sharper, like a forge hammer that was somehow edged like a blade.
Thinking to snatch the staff from the beast’s hands, Njal set the psyber-raven to alight upon it. Before its claws touched the black material an arc of concentrated power leapt from its tip, striking the bird. Njal let out a roar of pain, drawing the eye of several orks who had been lumbering past. Far above the Rune Priests, Nightwing stalled, trailing feathers as it plunged over the side of the jaw-balcony.
It was War-Tongue’s spirit that soared to the rescue, a white-plumed owl that swept out of golden flames, momentarily shielding Nightwing, the slow beats of its wings giving the falling bird respite to regain control of its descent. Through its beady raven eye, Njal saw that the attack had done enough to distract the shaman. The unexpected flare of energy became a constant bright arc that leapt between the shuddering staff and the ork psyker’s eyes. The shaman struggled to wrest back control, sharp teeth bared in a grimace of effort.
Sending Nightwing a last imperative to return to its master, the Stormcaller crashed back into his body just in time to raise his staff to ward away a descending chainblade. Metal teeth skittered along the length of rune-studded ekka wood.
Runeaxe leaving trails of gold fire, War-Tongue stepped forward and lopped off the ork’s head with a curving sweep. A growing crowd of greenskins was gathering around the alleyway.
Njal felt the detonation of psychic power first as an unheard rumble and then a keening wind, which tore at the pennants and banners on the ork buildings and dragged at his beard and hair. Sensing something amiss, the greenskins turned as one towards the effigy, which was hidden from the Space Marines but for the rounded shoulders and head. Spirals of green fire and lightning whipped back and forth around the shaman-lord, who cavorted and screeched amid the whirlwind, its anger carving slashes of darkness from the unruly energy.
‘Ward yourself,’ barked Njal as Nightwing landed upon his forearm. He held up his staff, a ring of blue fire springing up around him. Gold gleamed against the walls as War-Tongue threw up his own defences, just two heartbeats before the shockwave of unchecked psychic power struck.
Howling and moaning, the orks dropped their weapons and clasped their hands to their heads, some falling to their knees. Others were lifted up as though by an invisible hand and flung against the rubble-built structures of the settlement, heads cracked open, bones breaking. The force wave lifted the two psykers, hurling them through the air with green fire burning at their wards like new flame springing from stirred embers. Stormcaller hit an outcrop of metal rampart, punching through the rusted iron to skid along a flat rooftop beyond. War-Tongue continued on for another dozen yards before striking a rickety pylon, bringing the structure down in a welter of snapped struts and snarling power cables.
Regaining his feet, his wards dissipated, Stormcaller dropped down to the packed rubble floor, pulverising more masonry with his landing. Amid the clatter and clang of falling girders, War-Tongue righted himself, axe hewing away power lines that entangled like the limbs of a flailing kraken.
All around the Rune Priests the orks were in disarray. Many were dead, broken bodies littering the settlement like flotsam on the shore after a storm. Others wandered with pained howls, banging fists into their eyes and heads, clawing at the ground in the grip of alien madness.
‘A temporary respite,’ grumbled War-Tongue, looking past Njal.
Stormcaller turned back to look at the ork idol. The eyes were alight with emerald flames, creating a flickering backdrop to the silhouette of the shaman-lord standing tall, staff again lifted above its head.
Without another word between them, the two Rune Priests broke into lumbering runs, Nightwing taking flight ahead to scout the path to the rest of the force.
Despite the damage to his armour and the injuries to his body, Arjac felt lighter of step and mood than when he had arrived on the space hulk. Corridor by corridor, squad by squad, the Kingsguard fought their way from the fort-cavern back towards the insertion zone near the prow of the bulk hauler, where gunships could land and the Allfather’s Honour could track them with its teleport chambers. Not one to shy from battle, Grimnar was often in the rearguard to hold back the pursuing orks while others withdrew further through the abandoned starship. Arjac was always at his lord’s side, or as near as tactical necessity allowed, the Anvil Shield as much a protection for the Great Wolf as it was the Champion.
About a mile from the grotesque ork idol, Arjac found himself with Skor, holding a broken doorway against a mob of raging greenskins. Behind them the rest of the squad and Logan’s companions secured other entry points while the Dreadnoughts pulled back a hundred yards to create a supporting firepoint. Arjac swung with the methodical force of a piston hammer, pulping several foes before stepping back, allowing Skor to open fire with the heavy flamer. The promethium would burn for half a minute or more, giving both warriors respite – not even the hardy greenskins could dare the cruel flames.
‘You seem happy for a man retreating,’ said Skor. ‘Was that a laugh I heard as you crushed the skull of that ork? You take joy in this inglorious defeat?’
‘Defeat?’ Rockfist powered down his hammer and banged the haft on the wall a few times, flaking off ork flesh and blood flash-charred by the disruptive field. ‘We’re still alive and so is the Great Wolf.’
‘Survival is no test of victory,’ grumbled Skor.
‘Ask the spear-stag that on your next hunt.’ Arjac directed his suit to restart the sensorium links, broadcasting feed requests to the rest of the squad. ‘It is fine to give your life to victory, but I find it easier to win a fight when I am still alive.’
A burst of storm bolter fire from behind announced renewed pressure on the left flank. The din increased as one of the Terminators’ assault cannons snarled into action.
‘Something will kill him one day,’ said Skor.
Arjac said nothing. The promethium was starting to go out and through the heat haze he could see the orks massing again. Pushed by the growing numbers, an ork stumbled into the fires, igniting from boots to horned helmet in seconds, its wails of agony lost as the aliens behind started shouting their battle cries.
‘I’ll be dead before it happens, one way or the other,’ Arjac eventually replied, stepping forward into the passage again. He raised the Anvil Shield and readied his hammer.
‘When his thread is cut, there’s nothing you nor any mortal will be able to do about it,’ Skor insisted. ‘Perhaps not even the Allfather.’
‘As Space Marines we wake every day with the thought that it may be our last. I am the hearthegn, every day my next thought is that it may be the day my lord dies. But he’s been around seven hundred years and more already, so it doesn’t overly bother me.’
A few of the braver greenskins leapt through the guttering fire, firing wildly with their pistols, serrated blades and wicked cleavers gleaming in the promethium’s last light. At the edges of Rockfist’s view, other feeds crackled into life as members of the squad joined the sensorium data-well. Daggerfist was busy carving apart an armoured ork even taller than himself, and through the views of others Arjac could see a fresh attack was building.
The hearthegn met the next ork with the rim of the Anvil Shield, smashing apart jaw and skull with a swing. His hammer flung the mangled corpse of the next into those following. The vox hissed for a moment before he heard the voice of the Great Wolf.
‘The path is clear back to the landing zone. Kaerls and armourers are waiting with replenishments to hold the perimeter while the gunships take us off this Allfather-cursed place. Kingsguard will hold to the last and extract by teleportation.’
Another two orks died to Arjac’s hammer before he withdrew again, Skor once more turning the corridor into a charnel chamber.
‘Fall back, we’re leaving this heap of skitja,’ Arjac told his squad.
The gut-palpitating sensation of teleportation had almost subsided by the time Arjac reached the jarlsdeck with Logan and the other councillors. Gammalr was waiting beside the throne as if he had not moved since their departure – which was entirely possible. Fenrir bounded to greet the Great Wolf with excited jumps, playfully biting at his armoured hand with fangs that could pierce steel. Tyrnak was more aloof, watching his master’s return from the area of the gun control stations.
‘He’s sour because we left them behind,’ said Logan, moving to the great throne. He raised his voice. ‘I’ll take you next time, Tyrnak, you hear?’
The immense wolf seemed mollified by this and lay down beside the steps leading up to the main command dais, massive head on his front paws, yellow eyes watching Logan and the others.
‘Well that was a waste of everybody’s time,’ growled the Chapter Master. He propped the Axe Morkai against the throne and sat down, his strategic display springing into life with no need for the order to be spoken. The hulk hung against the stars just as before, save for a few fires around the landing zone where the pre-assault bombardment had fractured energy and gas lines. He turned to Njal, an eyebrow raised. ‘What is the Everdusk doing?’
‘Growing slowly,’ the Stormcaller replied. He twisted free his helmet and thick red hair fell about his face and upon his chestplate. There were tiny icicles amongst the ruddy strands, quickly turning to droplets in the heat of the ship. Nightwing hopped from the Rune Priest’s shoulder to a loop of cable closer to the hovering display. ‘It is almost impossible to predict, but now that we have seen the enemy I have a notion what we must do.’
‘So there is something we can do?’ said Ulrik. His black armour was crusted with dried ork blood, the long wolf cloak hanging upon his back matted with more filth. He had also removed his helm to reveal hair as white as the snow of Asaheim and fangs reaching nearly to his chin. His face was deeply lined and scarred but his remaining eye was bright and active. ‘We can destroy this affront to the Allfather’s dominion?’
‘I know what we must do, but also what I think we can, with the forces we have at hand,’ Njal said slowly. ‘The monster that leads these orks, I have not seen the like before. I do not know if it’s one of their psykers grown to unusual size or a warlord that has unlocked psyker powers. Regardless, its staff is the source of the control it has. Without it, and without their leader, the orks and their hulk will be dragged back into the Everdusk like any other space hulk.’
‘That’s the plan?’ growled Ulrik. ‘Kill the leader and hope the wash of the othersea does not throw this menace against some other system?’
‘We cannot destroy the hulk, not even if we had all the bombs and missiles and shells of the Aett,’ said Arjac. He stood with the Anvil Shield propped against his leg, both hands gripping the haft of his hammer across his thighs. His grip tightened as he saw Ulrik’s scowl deepen. ‘We have not the warriors nor time to cleanse Allfather knows how many thousands of orks.’
‘We are fighting too many wars, and have been for years,’ said Njal. He shook his head sorrowfully but kept his eyes on Logan. ‘Not all victories can be glorious. Some must be practical, temporary.’
‘No,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘A victory only for a time is not a victory at all. An enemy is not defeated until it can strike no more. I would sooner turn my back on a snow serpent than leave this lair of fiends to drift the void.’
He stood up and took a stride towards the display, fierce gaze fixed on its contents.
‘We might cripple them for a while, if what you say is true, Stormcaller, but it is not enough. We are not the only ones hard-pressed by events. Others may not have the strength to face what is left. What guardians would we be to learn a year hence, a decade, even a century from now that this foe returned and laid waste to those we had sworn oaths to protect?’ He turned back to them, his eyes wide and intense, as though what he had suggested pained him. ‘I name this curse Gottrok, and until its inhabitants have been crushed the Wolves will not know peace. If it takes until the last breath of our last warrior, we shall live and die by our oaths!’
Chapter Six
AN EMPIRE REMEMBERED
IN SEARCH OF MYSTERIES
ENSLAVED
The hallucinatorium was a chamber no bigger than thirty yards square, fitted with complex psycho-visual projectors and thought amplifiers set upon the hexagramatically warded walls, floor and ceiling. It was essentially a black box that allowed no other thoughts to intrude while making those of the occupants a living reality.
Hastius Vychellan stepped over the threshold as he had done many times before, though this was his first such occasion to do so within the special facility aboard the Dawn of Fire. The stratarchis tribune, Maldovar Colquan, stood waiting for the Custodian, also garbed in simple robes of grey-white, loose about the legs and arms, tight across the torso. Unlike Vychellan, whose tattooed skin was visible beneath his robe, Colquan wore a red synskin suit that concealed his flesh up to his jawline, giving his bullet-shaped head the appearance of being stuck atop a hillock of skinned muscle. He stood utterly immobile as the warrior of the Emissaries Imperatus Shield Host stopped in front of him.
Vychellan was taller than his superior by several inches, broader of chest and thicker of limb, his beard short-cropped, his shoulder-length hair held back by a band at the nape of his neck. Vychellan knew that his greater mass did not intimidate Colquan in the least. Custodians never used size alone as a scale of threat. The tribune appeared relaxed, but the warriors of the Adeptus Custodes always did, right until the moment they burst into violent action. More than that, Vychellan read the intensity in the other man’s eyes. The pale gaze managed to both look at Vychellan and through him, as though he were simultaneously the centre of the tribune’s attention and an utter irrelevance.
