Wolfsbane

by Guy Haley

  Once properly arrayed, they trekked inwards to the system core, where Fenris neared the end of its orbital track, and the beginning of the end of the Season of Fire.

  Fenris turned beneath the ships' keels in the blazing light of the Great Year's summer.

  'Bring us home!' the primarch ordered. 'Take us into the Aett.'

  There was an energy to the command deck. The Legion was pleased to return to their den.

  Few mountains like the Fang existed in the galaxy. Geography proclaimed it part of a chain of mountains, the Volda Hammarki, the World Spine, whose uplift raised the continent of Asaheim out of the world's crust so far it was beyond remaking. But the Fang was more than simply another peak.

  Seven mountains made up the World Spine massif. Sprawling foothills piled up to the ring of six surrounding the Fang. They were giants in their own right that scraped the underside of space with their summits. Any one would have been crowned the king of mountains on another world, but the Fang was of a different order, a conical mass of black granite as tall as the heavens. The summit broke through the planet's atmospheric envelope sure as a sword thrust. The smaller mountains guarded it, like Legion veterans protecting their lord. In the same way the Legiones Astartes could not compare to their primarchs, so was the Fang immeasurably greater than the other peaks of Asaheim. The others were linked to it by ridges and treacherous snow bridges, but all their efforts to embrace the Fang ceased halfway to the peak.

  Bjorn was on the bridge with his betters, trying to stay out of the way. To his disquiet Kva had taken to following him about watching him.

  'We return home when Fenris is at its most violent temper,' Bjorn said, for the sake of something to say.

  'It is glorious. A time of power,' said Kva. Conversation made his scrutiny no easier to bear. Bjorn issued a noise by way of reply.

  Fenris was a hard place that bred hard men and hard women. It was famous across the Imperium for its winters. The short summer was lesser known, but just as bad, if not worse. The Wolfs Eye shone at its largest in the sky. The northern dawn filled the horizon from side to side with white fire. Imperial astronomers opined that if Fenris' solar apsis were a few hundred thousand kilometres closer, or if its orbital pass were a few days longer, the world would have been uninhabitable. The sun's furnace beat against the rock of the planet, melting the sea ice, and stirring the atmosphere into cataclysmic storms. While the heat of the Wolfs Eye burned the surface, its gravity tugged at Fenris' heart. Volcanoes awoke and spat their molten blood in broad rivers. As night's terminator cut over them, they glowed in the dark as orange patches and lines that picked out the sutures in the planet's crust. The sky boiled with clouds of soot and ash that flickered with lightning. Higher still, the planet was encased in dazzling aurorae brought forth by the merciless force of the solar wind.

  The ground shook. Islands sank into steaming seas, pulled down into the world forge. New lands of black stone were born to replace them, carried to the surface on upwellings of magma. Seas boiled, sending scalding fogs rolling across titanic waves and tides that swamped the highest land.

  The Hrafnkel sailed northwards, over the open seas and plains.

  'We return at the time of life,' said Kva. 'The wakefulness of Fenris will aid us.'

  Tracts of lands buried beneath white snows for two Terran years turned a dazzling green, and though fires burned wildly across dry forests, they were too vast to die. Upon the plains of Asaheim herds of animals thousands strong moved across fruitful plains. Antlers dashed in the run. Predators grew fat on stolen calves.

  The sea was stained with rusty brown streaks where billions of tons of kryll fed, bred and died. The water churned with monsters snatching millions of these tiny creatures up in cavernous mouthfuls. As on land, where the sea herds went, there were also things with teeth and claws.

  'It will not last,' Kva went on. 'The solstice is days away and the short road to Helwinter beckons. We must be quick.'

  Fire and frenzied life ravaged the surface, and through it all mankind struggled. In this hellish maelstrom men and women lived and died, competing with each other for the limited space in which to settle. As their home islands sank they took to the sea in wyrm— and wolf-boat. If they survived the water and the weather, if they evaded the monsters that swam the oceans, if they managed to overcome the rival tribes, they might find a new place to raise their halls. They might survive, they might live, but they would never prosper. Never that.

  The struggles of the populace meant little to the Vlka Fenryka. The Fenrisians were heated by winter, hammered by storm, quenched in Helwinter ice, hardened for service in the Legion. So it had always been. For the Sky Warriors, this was but the natural cycle of things. The Rout descended to their lofty halls with greater things on their minds than the ordeals of mere men.

  Nothing was left unsettled by the summer, not even the domain of Leman Russ. Not even the days and nights, for though Asaheim was athwart the pole, it could not rely on regular portions of dark and light. The Wolfs Eye tugged and pulled, tearing at the earth as a wolf tears at its victims, rocking it on its axis. A summer night at the Fang might last for a week, the next for a few hours. But the mountain stood firm in the face of the sun, defying it to break its stone and soften its roots, to pull it down and melt it in the world's troubled core.

  As the Legion arrived, one side of the Fang was lit by the sun's harsh white light. On the far side pitchy shadows lurked. Altostratus clouds sped around either side thousands of metres below the summit. The pearly shine of the stratosphere gave way to the glow of diffuse gases and tortured aurorae long before the top. The upper reaches, where the last gasps of atmosphere clung to the Fang's peak as gleaming frosts, were occupied by the fortress of the Space Wolves, called the Fang by other men, and the Aett by themselves.

  Docks for smaller warships reached from the stone of the upmost levels. The part that projected into the void, the Valgard, had yet to be completed, and only half the docks were operational. Work had begun at an astonishing pace after the Wheel of Fire, but the war against Horus had slowed progress to a near standstill. Bjorn wondered if the Aett would ever be finished. Little appeared to have been accomplished since his last visit.

  Half made, it was already the greatest fortress outside of the Imperial Palace itself, a vast castle conceived and begun before any other Legion had established bases on their own home worlds, and mightier than any that had followed.

  The smaller ships descended directly to the summit-berths girding the Valgard. The rest took up station at high anchor, their passengers leaving aboard gunships and lighters that streamed into hangar slots like bats returning to the roost.

  Ships scudded into the hangars, the thin blue line of atmospheric barriers painting cross sections over their hulls.

  Russ' Stormbird slewed into its bay, turned its aggressive approach into a brief hover before slamming down. This was the Rout's way. The rockcrete landing apron was cracked by repeated hard landings.

  Equally as hard, the boarding ramp slapped into the false stone.

  No kaerls came to greet their returning lords. The air forced up the Aett's atmospheric circulation tubes was too thin. Servitors, their organic components enclosed completely against the cold and the lack of oxygen, formed Leman Russ' welcome party. With them was a single Space Wolf, helm sealed. He waited for his master to emerge while other ships performed similar manoeuvres, filling the hangar and others like it nearby with screaming engines and the crash of abused landing gear.

  Four Wolf Guard in Cataphractii armour clumped down the ramp of Russ' transport into the landing bay. They paced outwards, alive to threat even in the heart of their primarch's fortress.

  Leman Russ followed after. Alone of all the others spilling from their craft into the Aett, he went helmless.

  His breath wisped in the rarefied air. 'Fritvilj!' he said. He strode over to the lone legionary and hauled him up into a bear's clasp, then held him at arm's length. 'Good to see you. I trust
you've kept the fires lit and the wights away while we've been gone.' The primarch panted lightly as he spoke. The air was so thin it tested even his lungs.

  'All is as it should be, my lord,' said Fritvilj. His voice crackled out of his helm. The last place in the hangar was taken, and Fritvilj raised his hand. Doors closed over the apertures. The sighing of atmosphere pumps raising the air's pressure became audible as the whine of engines spooling down died. 'The feasting halls are prepared. The Aett welcomes back the warriors to their den. It is too long since the sons of Fenris returned to hearth and home.'

  Russ' good humour fled. 'Aye,' he said. 'If only more had come back alive. Best alert the fleshmakers before the feast masters. Too many of our brothers are sleeping on the red snow. There's a bitter take of frozen gene-seed to be harvested.'

  He abruptly pushed past Fritvilj, leaving the hearth watcher stunned at the sudden shift in his humour.

  The Wolf Guard clumped past him, wolf pelts swaying from their broad armoured shoulders.

  A warrior of Tra followed the primarch. Fritvilj did not recognise him, but his markings showed him to be pack alpha, and his name to be Bjorn. His left hand was encased in a fine lightning claw. Russ was not in the habit of being accompanied by such lowly warriors. His presence puzzled Fritvilj.

  The warrior, this Bjorn, tapped Fritvilj on the shoulder with the tip of an inactive claw blade. Metal squealed on metal.

  'Don't be aggrieved, watch master,' he said. 'There is a bad wyrd on the Lord of Wolves.'

  'Who are you to tell me this?' said the watch master, who outranked Bjorn by several degrees and was irked by the pack master's manner.

  'It is simple,' said Bjorn dolefully. 'I share it.'

  * * *

  Bjorn hung back before joining his brothers at the Moot Feast. He might not have joined them at all, had Fith Godsmote not spotted him at the edge of the firelight's circle.

  'Bjorn!' Godsmote called out. 'Bjorn! By the Allfather!' Godsmote rose up and engulfed Bjorn in a crushing hug, pulling him into the pack's feasting space.

  'Ah, it's been too long, my old friend,' said Godsmote. 'I thought the primarch would never let you go.'

  'I have been away from you for only a while, but much has happened. It has proved too long.' Bjorn looked over Godsmote's shoulder. The pack's losses from Prospero and Alaxxes had been filled by men whose masks Bjorn did not know well.

  'While I have been trailing after Russ like a whelp on Terra, our pack mates have already begun to form the warrior-bond with our new brothers.' Bjorn pitched his voice low so only Godsmote could hear.

  'Gah, you old misery,' said Godsmote, holding Bjorn at arm's length. He smiled broadly, but his actions only made Bjorn conscious of his own missing limb.

  'My brothers, this is Bjorn, our pack leader,' Godsmote said to the pack.

  'That you have to say that says it all,' said Bjorn. Fith Godsmote had taken Bjorn's place in his absence, a temporary role that had the scent of permanence to it. When the new warriors greeted Bjorn, they looked to Godsmote for approval. Bjorn was a stranger, and his association with Leman Russ put more distance still between them.

  'Sit down, drink. Tell us of your time with the primarch. You must have much to say,' said one.

  'Not really,' said Bjorn. 'The Wolf King is as you would expect. He keeps nothing back from his sons. Why don't you tell me of your battles? There have been many I have not shared.'

  They obliged, the younger ones eager to impress. Bjorn half listened. The hall of Tra was not so full as it once was. Every fire pit was lit, showing that many tables were empty. Those Vlka who remained alive were raucous, and filled the smoky chamber with their revelry, but though the feast was loud there was an emptiness beyond the shouted jests and the singing of the old songs. Echoes haunted them from places where more living noise should come but only wights lurked.

  The Legion was deeply wounded. Bjorn could not imagine seeing all the benches full ever again. A quarter of Tra's strength was lost, and his Great Company had fared better than others. Onn had been particularly hard hit. Many had died with Lord Gunn. Russ had taken to speaking often with Bjorn, the unwanted confidence bringing him yet more discomfort. The primarch rued the jarl's recklessness, but so far as Bjorn could see, Russ was set upon a similar course of action. Two-thirds of the Legion had already died. Fyf's hall was funereal. Sepp's too. It was all too easy to imagine every one empty, and all feasting done. In the past when this had happened the hurt had been made good. Not this time. These were the end times, the days of the gods' war when Morkai would race through the heavens and reclaim his lost eye from the night.

  'Bjorn?' said Godsmote. He rested a hand on Bjorn's shoulder. Bjorn blinked. The pack looked at him expectantly. Those that knew him well half smiled. The younger pack members stared. They had finished their stories. Bjorn had heard little of them.

  'Good tales, brave actions,' said Bjorn earnestly. 'Your courage will give the skjalds much to sing of.' He stood carefully. 'I thank you for the drink and for your stories. Now I must away. I have matters to attend to.'

  Godsmote looked at him in concern. 'Aye, more dealings with our Lord Leman Russ, no doubt!' he said to the others, with an enthusiasm his eyes could not match. He embraced Bjorn again, 'I understand your need for solitude,' he whispered in Bjorn's ear.

  'But do not be a stranger, my brother. Come back to us soon. This is your pack, not mine.' Godsmote's sympathy burned at Bjorn as keenly as any insult, and he left with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Bjorn hunted out a quiet spot away from all others. There he drank mjod until his head spun.

  While in his cups, a powerful melancholy overcame him. With the tip of his long black fingernail, Bjorn scratched a symbol into the stone tabletop: one as old as humanity, the warding eye.

  Bjorn had never been completely at one with his fellows. The hearty mockery that passed between the Vlka Fenryka came hard to him. The others thought him dour. If he had his way he would lead his pack in battle with honour, and be left in peace when not fighting. The close-living of the Aett grated at him. He hated to be enclosed. Give him the open skies and the cold, keen wind laced with prey scent. His nose twitched in memory of his solitary hunts. Alas, there would be no time for stalking. The Legion's stay at the Aett was to be measured in days. Above the unfinished Valgard, the forge-kaerls and blademakers raced to effect further repairs to the battered warships of the Wolves.

  The stump of his left arm itched. He sank further into his private miseries, his glowering countenance hidden by his leather mask.

  Soon, Bjorn was drunk. When he gulped his mjod it spilled into his beard. He didn't care.

  Jarl Ogvai Ogvai Helmschrot held court from the high table. His manner towards Bjorn had cooled in recent months. Bjorn didn't blame him. How was a jarl supposed to treat a warrior so unconventionally elevated? There were customs and hierarchies in the Vlka Fenryka as there were in all societies: Russ had defied them. Ogvai had taken to ignoring him, though not from envy. Bjorn's favouring had the smack of wyrd to it. Fated men were ill-omened, for they brought death to others as they followed their bloody thread to its end. 'Hawser. I've become like Kasper Hawser,' slurred Bjorn. He truly Las a bad star. I should have let him die on the ice, Bjorn thought glumly. 'Ever since I shot down his ship and decided to rescue him, my thread has been snarled,' he added aloud.

  Bjorn called a kaerl to him and bade him fill his horn to the brim. The kaerl's mask was that of a saenyeti. Bjorn squinted at him. The leather was pale grey rather than red-brown, and furred, like the beast it represented. The mask wavered. The few mannish features the mask allowed him to see melted away. The beast was real. The kaerl was a varutfing, a shape-shifter. Bjorn started, knocking his horn and startling the kaerl, who once more became a man in a mask. The illusion vanished. Bjorn sent him away with an angry stare, watching him until he disappeared into the smoky gloaming. His gaze dropped to his horn. Mjod shimmered in the well of the vessel, dark as blood. He dr
ank again.

  In the space before the high table axe games were underway, and the spear catch, and other violent sports. Ogvai whooped and hammered his mjod horn harder than all the others upon the tables as a warrior fumbled a catch and the spear point opened up his forearm. The revelry seemed a sham to Bjorn. Helmschrot was trying too hard. The clash of empty lanxes and horns was similar to the funeral racket performed to drive the wights of the newly dead down into the Underverse where they could not harm the living.

  'All wrong,' he muttered into his drink. 'It's all bloody wrong.' In Bjorn's body the Allfather's gifts fought a losing battle with the mjod. Bjorn's eyelids drooped.

  'Bjorn the Fell-Handed!'

  Bjorn came back to wakefulness, spilling his drink in his haste to reach the short iron sword he wore at his side.

  Only one called him by that name.

  A figure in grey battleplate had appeared in front of him, as uncanny as a wight emerging from the night. Two others lurked nearby, their white armour giving them the appearance of phantoms. All three were armoured and armed for war.

  Bjorn woozily looked up at the haggard face of Kva Who-is-Divided. 'Kva,' he said.

  'Stay your hand,' said the Rune Priest. 'Do not draw your blade.' A cloak of quiet enveloped them, drawing in the shadows like blankets, so the dark seemed sharper around Bjorn's hiding place. The noise of the feast faded and deepened, like a vox record played too slowly. The dance of the fires lost its vitality. The flicker of flame became a soporific strobe. Ogvai and the rest continued their feasting with arrested motion, slowed by the shaman's trick. The kaerls that moved among the Vlka changed. Like the server who had brought Bjorn his drink, they became animals that walked upon two legs and held their pitchers of mjod in fang and claw.

  'Maleficarum,' he said. He did not draw his sword, but his hand remained upon the hilt.

  'No witchcraft. The soul of Fenris works upon our threads,' said Kva.

  'What do you want, bone shaker?' said Bjorn. He could not keep his eyes from the beast people drifting like mist from table to table.