by Guy Haley
Loken had heard Leman Russ intended to leave within the week.
Tyrfingr took Loken further into the ship, and the damage became less apparent, though it was never entirely absent. They ascended damp stairways and lifters whose mechanisms struggled against shafts bent out of true. After a time they reached the spinal way, the great stem-to-stem thoroughfare that all grand starships possessed.
Even there, below the towering windows, where a transit monorail ran with shushing haste, and ornate gates led to the palaces of astrotelepathy, astrogation, weapons control, the enginarium and other vasty domains, the sense of a primitive settlement remained strong. Every few hundred metres carved menhirs, their bases still dirty with alien soil, stood sentinel in recesses which in other Legions' ships statues might occupy. Loken had seen few of Bror's brothers until they reached the spinal way, where they thronged in some numbers. Most wore segmented leather costumes and masks. They were similar to Bror's in the broadest sense, but no patterns were the same. Each was a unique expression of the warrior encased inside. The leather suits were more individual to each man than a human face. Fantastic beasts fashioned from hide stared at Loken as he walked by, and he felt out of place in his clean, grey power armour. Those few legionaries wearing their war gear were hardly less outlandish, for the storm-grey battleplate was decorated with twisting patterns, hammered runes, ropes of teeth, and the tips of wolf tails mounted in cast, angular brasses.
Bror took Loken aboard a crew train crammed with thralls. Many of them wore costumes as heavily decorated as those of their masters, and Loken guessed these were the higher ranking kaerls of the Chapter. The monorail accelerated mercilessly, turning the spinal way to a blur.
They reached the command spire soon after, and headed on towards the Wolf's Hall, Leman Russ' throneroom.
The long defensive corridor leading to the hall was lined solely with enormous sheets of ivory. The place was populated by the Varagyr, who other men called the Wolf Guard. These heavily decorated Space Wolves Veterans stood guard outside the hall, though Loken would have applied that term only loosely, because they did not stand at rigid attention, but congregated in clumps of two or three, talking with each other in the uncouth Fenrisian tongue as loudly as revellers, seemingly inattentive to their task. Not even their livery had any consistency to it. The Legion badge of a red, snarling wolf upon the heraldry plate of the left pauldron was the only commonality. In other places of prominence Loken saw double-headed wolves, rearing wolves, howling wolves and all manner of wolves besides.
'My lord does not stand on ceremony,' whispered Bror, seeing the look on Loken's face 'We don't do parades.'
'I see,' said Loken.
'Better to be loyal and a little rough than polished drillmasters with treacherous hearts, eh?' Bror said.
His words came across as a direct challenge until Bror elbowed Loken and grinned. His elbow thudded off plasteel. Even though Loken wore his own armour, he was glad Bror wasn't wearing battleplate.
'These here are the Wolf Guard of the Einherjar, the jarl's inner circle. They are here to honour you. All this is for your benefit,' Bror raised a hand and grinned at a fellow of his. The warrior was dressed in his power armour without his helm, and had his face covered by a leather mask like Bror's. He nodded in response.
'I am honoured,' said Loken.
'You should be,' said Bror.
Loken was sincere. He was honoured. Once he would have dismissed the force as savages, regarding his own Legion as far superior. That was before the Luna Wolves had become the Sons of Horus, and the Sons of Horus had become traitors. Russ' wolves, the true wolves, had proved the more faithful.
They passed through the throng of warriors, having to beg pardon so they could go between them. There was no sense of discipline to them at all, but Loken knew this concealed a terrifying prowess in war.
Braziers gave off a suffocating heat. Firebowls burned animal oils that furred the ceiling with fatty deposits. At the far end of the corridor huge, circular ivory doors barred the way. A serpent ran around the outside, framing in its circle of scales a tempestuous sea crammed with monsters and foundering wooden ships. The serpent's mouth was clamped firmly around its own tail. Loken recognised the ouroboros, the ancient symbol of eternity, but he had never seen a representation like this before.
'Bror Tyrfingr!' roared a bearded giant. He wore a leather suit like Bror's and smelled like the cave of a hibernating bear. He grappled Bror, a half-wrestle, half-embrace that had the pair of them staggering about the corridor. Loken was forced to step back to avoid their boisterous greeting. The men grunted as they pushed at each other, before collapsing into laughter and hugging fiercely,
'Ah, brother Loken,' said Bror, his arm hung around the shoulders of the warrior. 'This is Varagyr Kettril Modinsson, called Dourface, of the retinue of Hvarl Red-Blade, the Jarl of Sepp.'
Kettril gave Loken a massive, infectious smile 'The lone wolf,' he said. He held out his arm. Loken took it only to be pulled into an embrace he would rather have avoided. He got a mouthful of musty pelt before Kettril released him.
'It is a privilege to meet you, brother, wolf to wolf,' said Kettril.
'I have no brotherhood, not anymore,' said Loken, a statement that caused Kettril to pull him close again.
'Never say that again,' Kettril whispered. 'We are all wolves of the Emperor here. If you find yourself lacking in a good warrior to watch your back,' he nodded his head towards Bror in jest, 'you can call on me. This I swear by the fires of the world forge.'
'I thank you,' said Loken, unsure of what to say.
'The Einherjar have gathered to the Wolf King,' said Kettril to Bror. 'Speak clearly and with pride,' he said to Loken. 'And leave nothing out.'
Kettril whistled shrilly between his teeth. The doors opened. Beneath the ivory padding were standard adamantium blast doors, thick and proud as those of any ship. This epitomised the Space Wolves, Loken thought. The deception of iron hidden under primitivism.
'Go on then,' said Kettril. 'Do not keep the Lord of Winter and War waiting.'
The hall beyond was huge, but the number of warriors and the way they clustered in its centre made it seem small and intimate The heights of the ceiling were lost in smoky darkness. A few lancet windows let in enough of Terra's earthshine to reveal the carved monsters lurking at the tops of pillars. Loken wished they had remained hidden. They reminded him of unclean things he had seen aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
Firebowls and resinous torches were the sole sources of light.
Tiny lumen indicators on power armour blinked in the dismal hall, shifting like sparks as their bearers moved. Tyrfingr pushed his way to the front through two score feral warriors. There were lords there aplenty, and other Legiones Astartes sporting primitive bone charms over their power armour who could only have been Leman Russ' famed priests. Many of the company wore the Routs strange leather masks. A couple had helms fashioned in the shape of wolf skulls. The masks danced in the flickering light, making the hall appear like an underworld populated by lost gods. Only a handful of the warriors were barefaced, but they looked as uncanny and fierce as the others.
Upon a throne of bones sat the Wolf King. Bror led Loken towards the primarch without ceremony. Men were coming and going from various smaller doors in the sides of the hall, and the primarch paid no attention to his visitor until he was announced.
'My jarl!' Bror called, shoving past a black-armoured barbarian. 'I have him, I have brought you the last loyal Luna Wolf!'
Approaching the Wolf King was like striding towards a storm. The light changed. The air changed. Subtle pressures played upon little-used senses, those that warned of impending misfortune. They were the senses that told a woman her son was lost in battle, that alerted a child to the danger hiding in the dark. The world became a different place in the presence of Russ, less certain, more primal. Stepping close to him was to step back in time to man's distant past, when fire kept beasts from the cave, and every bould
er had a name.
Russ broke off his conversation with his advisers and surged to his feet.
'Fenrys hjolda!' he shouted. 'Garviel Loken, back from the den of the arch traitor himself. You are not as dim as I thought if you survived that expedition!' His taunt was delivered with a smile. 'Come to me, loyal son of the Emperor.'
To have Russ turn his full attention on you was like attracting the personal enmity of a storm. Barely less imposing were the enormous wolves flanking his throne, one black, the other silver, Their majesty beggared belief; it was hard to imagine creatures such as they existing at all outside the mind of a dramaturge. The head of the smaller - and it was only ever so slightly smaller - would have reached Loken's shoulders if it stood. They stared at him through narrowed yellow eyes. The black curled its lips, showing fangs more like swords than teeth. Upon its head was a bald patch of knotted pink scar.
He dearly wished it would not stand.
Though the name of his beloved, dishonoured Legion evoked creatures like them, Loken did not like these wolves.
On the wall behind Russ was hung a large spear. A haft as thick as a comms array's sounding pole terminated in a sculpture of a snarling wolf. From the mouth protruded a sword-long, leaf-headed blade of shining gold. Fine knotwork crawled all over the plated plasteel. Slung under the wolfs body was the vented box of a disruption field generator, the power transmission cabling and field dispersal studs cunningly hidden by the decoration. There were subtler technologies woven into the blade besides. It was a psy weapon, a thing of the Lord of Mankind, come out of His forges and suffused with His mastery of science and the warp. Even inactive, it gave off a particular feel, a resonant echo of the Emperor's presence, that bred unease and filled the hearts of men with dark foreboding.
Leman Russ hated it. Somehow, Loken could tell that. Russ leaned away from where it hung. It was situated too far from his throne for him to seize to defend himself, whereas his other weapons, his giant-sized bolter and monstrous frost blade, were close to hand. More than once the Wolf King glanced at it sidelong, as if he did not trust it to remain where if was Bror Tyrfingr knelt at the feet of his lord the sole true sign of deference Loken had witnessed thus far in his time upon the Hrafnkel. 'Get up, Bror,' boomed Russ, waving his hand widely. 'I won't have Loken here trotting back to the old man and describing my sons as grovelling wretches.' He grinned savagely at Loken. 'You will be reporting, won't you? That sly old hound has his eyes everywhere.'
'So do you, I think,' said Loken.
Russ smiled at Bror. 'We have nothing to hide in the Rout, eh, my sons? Tell Malcador what you like. Perhaps if you do he might stop bothering me with his questions.'
Shouts and mutters of agreement sounded from around the room. Loken estimated there to be a hundred or so warriors in the hall. Not only Russ' council of jarls and his priests, but the Legion's equivalents of Chaplains, Forge Marines and Apothecaries also. Without his helm display he could not be sure. He doubted he would have dared activate it even if he had his helmet on. The Wolves might have overreacted to the clumsy, unintended slight of a curious augur sounding.
'Someone get this man a seat!' said Russ. 'And some mjod!'
A chair was produced. Russ gestured that Loken should sit. A bronze drinking horn was passed into his hands. At Russ' urging Loken sipped the liquid. It burned his mouth, his throat and his stomach in succession with a flavour like engine oil mixed with acid. He stifled a cough. The drink would kill a mortal human.
'Good, yes?' said Bror. All the Space Wolves - the ones whose mouths he could see - were grinning at his discomfort.
'It is not to my taste, my lord primarch,' said Loken diplomatically.
'Ah, give it a few more sips,' said Russ. His accent was thicker than when Loken had last met him - the only time he had met him - in Malcador's Himalazian retreat. The primarch dropped back into his throne. He made a show of not caring what people thought of him, but it was a show. Malcador had told him that. 'It gets better the more you drink. It took the warriors of Fenris only a few years to develop a liquor that will intoxicate a legionary quickly, but we spent many years in perfecting it. Go on,' Russ raised his hand and waved it again. 'A big gulp this time. Mjod is not for sipping.'
Loken hid his misgivings and took a mouthful of the liquid. He suppressed a splutter. The burning was less pronounced this time. His adapted stomach clenched against the mjod, but he held it in, and after a moment a pleasant warmth spread through his belly.
'Good?' said Russ. His smile was all pointed teeth. They did not fit with the primarch's clean-shaven face. It was rarely commented on, but Russ was a handsome being, though his features tended to the blunt and he had many scars. All the primarchs were made to be perfect, but some of them, Fulgrim and Sanguinius in particular, were more beautiful than others to begin with. Leman Russ was handsome in his way, if one looked past his furs and his manner. Loken wondered how many people ever did.
'Well then, you know why you are here,' said Russ. 'Let's get on with it.'
'You wish to hear of our mission.'
'I do. All of it. Start at the beginning.'
'From the beginning?'
'That's what I said, isn't it? See, Bjorn,' said Russ to a saturnine, dark-haired warrior stood at the left of his throne. 'I told you this one was slow.'
'Forgive me, my lord, have you not had Bror and the others tell you of what occurred?' asked Loken.
Russ rolled his head until his neck cracked. 'Ach, he has, he has! They have! I made them all start at the beginning, and I want to hear your version of events the same way. It's important. From hearing all accounts, the skjalds! he pointed out a mixed group of standard humans and legionaries stood at the side of the room, 'will fashion a telling of events that will be sung into the sagas of the Legion. An Adeptus Astartes legionary might remember better than a human, but he is still fallible. In collective remembrance, a truer account can be found.' Russ kicked his feet out and sprawled further into his throne. 'So go on, speak. Tell me of your adventure.'
So Loken spoke. He told of how he and Malcador's Knights Errant had infiltrated Horus' flagship, the Vengeful Spirit, at the height of the Battle of Molech. With a heavy heart he relayed the tally of the dead, how one by one noble heroes had been snatched from life, until finally they had been captured, and taken before Horus himself.
'Five of eleven of us died, my lord,' he said. 'Three of the others were mortally wounded. If it had not been for Banu Rassuah's actions, we would all have died, or worse.' He looked down, unable to hold the eye of the primarch. 'We were caught before we could map the Vengeful Spirit fully. I expressed my regret to Bror that we failed the task you set us.'
'We did not fail,' said Bror. 'I have said this to you. A lot.'
'And I have said a hundred times, my brother, that I cannot agree.' Loken held up his hands apologetically. His pauldrons shifted back on their mountings with a soft hiss. Only in the silence of Russ' hall, where the assembled lords of the Space Wolves listened so attentively, could such a quiet little sound be heard. 'I am sorry, but it is true. How can we call what we did a success?'
Russ breathed heavily, deep in thought. 'Success, no success. Bah. Tell me more of my brother. Tell me how powerful he seemed.'
Loken stumbled over his words. He could not quite believe what had become of the Warmaster, and his tongue rebelled when he tried to put it into words. 'He has changed, my lord. Completely. The primarch Horus Lupercal has become an abomination. Something has happened to him. I… I have never been in the presence of such power.' He paused after that statement, fearing it might appear that he held some loyalty for the Warmaster. Nothing could be further from the truth.
'Do you believe my brother has been overthrown by some malign intelligence?' asked Russ. 'I have heard reports that he has been corrupted, and that his thoughts are not his own.' Was there hope in Russ' voice? That Horus the Great the Emperor's finest son, was not to blame for what was happening?
Malcador had conf
ided in Loken two things of import about the Wolf King. The first was that his barbarian king persona could be raised and lowered as easily as a visor; he was not the simple warrior lord he portrayed. The second was that he regretted what had happened on Prospero, and was stung at how he had been manipulated into it. It would be easier for him to accept that it was not his brother that had used him, but some other, eldritch thing. Russ might hope, Malcador said, that Horus could be saved, not only for Russ' love for his brother, but for his own vindication.
Maybe it was both, maybe it was neither. Loken tried to read the true intentions of the Wolf King, employing tricks of observation Malcador's agents had taught him, but he could not. He saw only a savage's face, with a hierophant's inscrutable gaze.
Loken quelled his frustration. He was destined to always be a blind weapon. It was not his place to judge a primarch.
'Regrettably, no,' said Loken, answering Russ' question. 'Whatever he has become, the Warmaster's mind still rules his body. Lupercal's ambition drives him on. When he spoke with me, it was Horus who tried to sway me to his side again and not some Neverborn abomination, though the Vengeful Spirit hosts such things now. It was Horus who killed the Half-Heard, as if he were nothing.' He looked into Russ' piercing blue eyes, and was struck again by the intelligence he saw there. 'We have seen so many things we thought could not be true. Daemons, creatures of the warp infesting human flesh, gods perhaps, toying with the lives of men. But Horus lives. He was corrupted upon Davin by that blade, but I knew him when I saw him again. He could not have become this way were it not for his failings. Pride. Hubris. I thought primarchs beyond reproach, but I have learned that none of you are perfect. If Horus is a cat's paw, he is more a willing one than not.' Russ shifted uneasily at Loken's words, like a wolf sensing something dangerous on the breeze. He could not deny the truths the Luna Wolf spoke, but even after all this, thought Loken, he still believes in the Emperor's infallible sons.