by Guy Haley
'So you spoke the truth of it, now see the truth of it,' said the false Russ. His teeth were flat and square like a normal man's. He had none of Leman Russ' fangs.
'What are you?' said Russ.
'Like this? I am you, as you named me. A version of you that could have been, were you not brought to the world of winter and wolves. I am you, shaped by another world and another father.'
'A Terran Leman Russ,' said Russ. He looked at himself in wonder. The man was the same as him, but utterly different. Only the cold light of his blue eyes, hard as a winter's sky, was the same.
'We both know that is not our name.'
'You are as I should have been,' said Russ.
The false Russ displayed his human teeth in a perfect smile, as if lecturing a student who had, in their naivety, said something foolish but amusing.
'I did not say that. I appear to you as you supposed you should have been, not necessarily as wyrd demanded. Has it never occurred to you that you are as you were intended to be?'
'I was stolen away,' said Leman Russ. 'I was taken from my father's laboratories along with my brothers.'
'Were you?' The false Russ smiled. 'The primarch-executioner arriving here on this harsh world of wolves? A being whose genetic gift meshes perfectly with the strain of mankind found here? This playground world of sagas and ancient stories made real, welcoming a hero to rule it?' He laughed softly, a guttural purr that remembered sharp teeth and claws and diets of hot, raw meat. 'Do you not think any of that is odd, or, dare I say it, convenient?'
'It is a saga-happenstance,' said Russ. 'All the tales of heroes are full of them. It is history shaped to fit the needs of story. Our lives are no different. Are we not the heroes of this age? My biographers will doubtless prune away the bits that do not fit.'
'You are dangerously arrogant.'
'So some have said.'
'I think you mock me. If you do, you mock yourself.'
'I do mock you,' said Russ, 'as I mock myself. I am a weapon, made by the Emperor. No more, no less. I am no demigod, no hero from a tale.'
'Later tales will remember you as such.'
'It is not my place to judge those who come after. A tloods speak for him. You cannot petition the myth-makers of the future to respect you, or acknowledge you existed at all. They will, or they won't.'
'So, all this is a coincidence? This world, your name, your Legion's habits, your manner?'
'If you like,' said Russ.
'There are no such things as coincidences,' said the false Russ.
'Someone I knew used to say that a lot. He came to a bad end. It is also said there are no wolves on Fenris. Neither of these things are true.'
'Yet both of them are.'
'Maybe,' said Russ, and shrugged.
'This does not confound you?'
'I am a man, raised by wolves and warriors in a world of ice and fire. I am a primarch, made by the Emperor to the patterns of forgotten science. Duality is part of my nature.'
The false Russ nodded as he circled around his other self, his high, black boots crunching in the snow. 'The civilised barbarian. The magic hater who surrounds himself with mumbling priests. The berserk thinker. The leashed hound who runs free. The Terran Fenrisian.'
'Aye,' said Russ. 'That's me. It does a man no favours to be straightforward. Now I believe you owe me a boon.'
The false Russ' face hardened. 'You should not have won.'
'You let me win,' said Russ.
'Maybe,' said the false Russ, and his shrug and mien were the exact replicas of Russ' own.
'You still owe me a boon,' said Russ.
'Very well. One question. One answer. This is it, ask wisely.'
Before the ritual, Russ had formulated his question carefully. He could not ask how to beat Horus, because he knew that was impossible. Similar questions would lead to similar results.
'You're wondering how you can beat Horus. You can't,' said the false Russ; reading his thoughts, or perhaps their thoughts were the same conceived simultaneously.
'That is not my question,' said Russ.
'Then speak the one that is.' The false Russ looked upwards at the sky. 'Time passes strangely here. You cannot afford to delay.'
Russ lifted his arm and pointed to the weapon impaling the earth. 'The spear. How can it aid me in beating my brother, Horus the fallen one, arch traitor and destroyer of my father's dream?'
'Are you sure it can?; said the false Russ with a mocking smile.
'It is a wyrd weapon, bound to me and I to it though I wish it were not so. I grasp it and dream darkly. I leave it behind me and it finds me wherever I am. Gifts from the Emperor have two edges that cut both ways. There must be a purpose to it or it would not be here. He would not have given it to me if there were no reason for it It is the key to all of this.'
'That weapon could be a projection, a false hope, a lie in this den of lies. You could have thrown away your chance to win. You could have asked the wrong question.'
'I do not think I have,' said Russ. 'And if I have, then that is my wyrd. Tell me of the spear.'
'So be it.'
The false Russ held up his arm. The spear shot out of the snow and into his outstretched hand with the slap of metal on flesh. Although it lacked the snarling wolf mount and the knotwork on the blade, and was altogether more sober in decoration than Russ' version of the spear, he was in no doubt that it was the same weapon in different guise Its golden blade shone with the same light. Its body emitted the same sensation of unease.
The false Russ brandished the spear above his head and shouted:
'I am the spear that sways, Gungnir am I!' His voice boomed. The spear blazed with light at the calling of its name. He stared triumphantly into Russ' eyes. 'An old name borrowed from an old god whose world was not so different to yours. This is the spear that cannot miss, that drives forever at the truth of things. It is the Wolfsbane. This spear was made by the Allfather. A portion of His might was beaten into its blade.'
'It has His strength?'
'It has more than that,' said the false Russ. 'Gungnir's great gift is wisdom. Your Emperor sees much. This spear contains a portion of His sight. Because of that it can show the truth to all men, no matter how great or meek, and no matter how painful the revelation. It is merciless in that regard. It speaks mostly of death. That is why you fear it.'
'I fear nothing.'
'That is a lie.'
The false Russ brought the spear around and held it with the point uppermost. He slammed the counterweight into the ice, cracking it. Thunder rolled over the horizon.
'How can it do so?' said Russ. His misgivings about the weapon grew.
'It is so because your father made it so, just as He made you the way you are. You have a role to play. The question is, will you perform it? At Alaxxes you swore not to be the unthinking weapon of the Emperor. At Terra you convinced yourself you could continue to serve under your own terms. But you can turn aside now completely, and forge your own path. Be a warlord the galaxy can respect. Not all generals need be tyrants. You can offer shelter to the innocent, for a while. Leave the war behind.'
There was a moment's hesitation, only a moment. Then Russ shook his head.
'I will perform my duty, as is my oath and my bond.'
'The loyal hound as always.'
'I do this freely, of my own accord.'
'Then know thyself, Leman Russ,' said the false Russ, 'and take possession fully of these gifts your father gave you.'
As fast as a striking lindorm, the false Russ drove the spear into Leman Russ' primary heart. Flesh baked in disruptor fires. Bones shattered. The organ was obliterated. Gungnir was not done, but continued on, bursting from Russ' back, transfixing him on the shaft. The leaf-headed blade was black with gore in the moonlight, steaming cooked blood.
'Wisdom hurts, doesn't it?' said the false Russ. His savage glee mimicked Russ' battle joy. 'Your brother was a wolf, so this spear is his bane, but you are also a wolf, and it will
cut you too, in the same way. As you said, His gifts cut two ways.'
The false Russ yanked the spear free. Russ sank to his knees. Somehow, he lived, though one heart was dead, and the other beat unsurely. A gaping wound had been punched through his body. Blood poured from his chest in red cataracts.
That was not the worst of the primarch's injuries. The most terrible wound had been cut into his soul and the burning salt of knowledge rubbed into it.
He knew. He knew what he was. He knew what all the primarchs were.
His face was numb. Cold crushed his limbs. With wide eyes he looked up into the face of his killer; so familiar, yet so different.
'What are we?' he said, though he knew full well, and his soul shrivelled in the fires of revelation. 'How could our father have brought us into this world? How could He have made us?'
'As your brother Magnus found, knowledge always has a price,' said the false Russ with a sneer. 'You wished to know, and now you do. The price for the spear's awakening is your own. This knowledge will forever torment you, and eventually it will chase you from your home. But know this, Leman of the Russ, you need only wound your brother with this spear to remind the Warmaster that he is Horus Lupercal, son of the Emperor, and not the puppet of Chaos. The rest will follow.'
Thus enlightened, Leman Russ fell dead in the snow.
Leman Russ howls for an audience in the hall of the Erlking.
Fourteen
The Testing Of Bjorn
Mountain silence fills the soul. It is a potent form of quiet. Through the absence of sound the animus of a place can be felt. In the mountains, the soul of the living can touch the soul of the earth, the sky, the rock.
Bjorn liked the silence and sought it out when not at war. No ale song or boasting sullied the mountainsides. They sang their own songs, of wind through trees and water on stone, of creaking ice and shifting rock. Trees groaned. Animals called. No man's voice could be heard in the mountains of Asaheim, and Bjorn liked it that way.
He did not like the silence of the Krakgard on that stifling summer's day. The chants of the gothi were done. The weight of the mountain at his back pressed on him, as if a warrior offered silent challenge, and waited for him to turn around to knock his head in with his axe.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. Wind blew around the collar of his leather suit, stirring them. He waited tensely in anticipation of the blow. There was nothing behind him. It was a fanciful thought. Too close to fear. Nevertheless, Bjorn felt him, the man who would end his life. He had the impression if he strained his ears only a little more, he would hear his heartbeat, his hungering breath. It was as if Morkai himself stared at his back.
The sensation fled at the first notice of Leman Russ' approach.
Footsteps rasped heavily in scree. Stones skittered down the slope behind the primarch's progress. He smelled broken stone and post-human sweat. He came from the left-hand side. Why did he not use the stairs?
'I have returned, Bjorn of Tra,' said Leman Russ.
'You are alone, my lord.'
'I am. Look upon me.'
'I cannot' said Bjorn.
'The gothi forbade it. I recall. Where are they?' asked Russ.
'The gothi are dead,' said Bjorn.
'How?' asked Russ.
'I heard,' said Bjorn.
'Then tell me what you heard.'
Leman Russ paused at the edge of the circle around Bjorn's sentry place. His presence was almost as awful as the non-thing that had been staring at his neck this last hour.
Bjorn stared straight ahead. This was important. He must formulate the words right.
'Eight times I heard the cries of the dead and the battle chants of lost tribes. Eight times I heard an attack. Eight times I heard the ring of steel on steel. And then it stopped. When the gothi's chant began again, Halvar Flintdrake's voice was silent.'
Russ crunched over the gravel to stand near him. Still he remained outside the circle of wolf skulls. Still Bjorn did not turn to look at him.
'And then what did you hear?' WOLFSBANE
'j heard the screams of fiends,' Bjorn said. 'Eight times, fell voices shrieking min. Eight times I heard them wail. Eight times I heard them fall silent. And when the gothi again sang the wyrd-make, Ake Akesson the Snowmaker did not speak.'
'What came after?' asked Russ.
Thereafter there were eight earthquakes, which shook the rock upon which I sit. Still I did not look back. The earth ground and rumbled. Eight times the gothi spoke their words of power. When the shaking was done, Wise Gimfulfor did not raise his voice.
Then came eight blasts of wind, so strong they lifted me from this rock, and I bloodied my fingers clinging to the boulder's skin. When they were done, Edun Balthunsbane was silent.
'To eight strikes of lightning, Gerrun Hros was lost. Eadrede to eight storms of laughter.'
'What of Kva?'
'Seven times I heard a great wolf howl. Each time it did, I heard the sounds of fighting, and tasted witchery on the breeze. Each time it stopped, I thought the world would end, and Morkai had ascended the slopes of the dead to run amok in the land of the living. Each time, when I thought it done, it began again. Maleficarum worked upon me, urging me to turn around. Voices whispered to me, pleading, that if I were to go to their aid I would save the two who remained.'
'You ignored them.'
'As I was ordered,' said Bjorn. 'So I remained. At the eighth howling, Kva cried out. The wolf was gone. Thandar Greymane was silent, but the chant began again.'
'Kva chanted still?'
'The Divided One was there until the end,' said Bjorn. 'Seven ice tempests he fought away, chanting all the while. The eighth ended him. After he was silent, something lingered, standing where you are now.'
'You have done well. I lift the ban of the priests. My task is done. You may turn around.'
So closely did the voice resemble Russ' that Bjorn almost obeyed. He was already turning when he stopped himself. Bjorn's hearts froze with foreboding. Why had the primarch not used the stair? Why did he not enter the circle?
'I was told not to look back into the glen,' he said warily. 'Under any circumstances. I gave an oath. You cannot make me break it, my jar!.'
'You would deny your primarch?' said Russ. The voice wavered, taking on an inhuman timbre.
'I would deny him this. You are not he.'
Russ moved around the outside of the wolf skull circle, only it was not Russ. Bjorn was sure of that. His scent was wrong. Everything was wrong.
'How dare you defy me, cripple,' said the voice. It cast aside all pretence, becoming a chorus of wet growls that mimicked speech.
'I am your primarch, your lord, your father.'
The heavy stink of fur crusted with old blood washed over Bjorn. A wolf smell, but sick. The being came within the circle then, and as it stepped over the low wall the wolf skulls exploded, peppering Bjorn with sharp fragments. It approached Bjorn from behind. A hand landed on his shoulder. It was barely human. Fur sprouted from its thick, short fingers. The thumb was too far back, diminished, halfway to a dewclaw.
'Turn and face your master.'
'You are not my master. You are not my father. You are maleficarum, and I will not turn to look upon you.'
The thing laughed, each exhalation dropping an octave until the stone Bjorn sat upon vibrated with subsonic resonance. Bjorn glanced down at the stub of his left arm. If he were in his battleplate, he might stand a chance. He could gut this thing with his lightning claw. He had seen the Neverborn killed. But he was not. He was in his ritual leather armour. All he had was his plain iron sword. His hand closed around the hilt and he prepared to sell himself dearly.
'Then you will die,' it said. The blunt claws scraped over Bjorn's shoulder, furrowing the leather. A rope of drool slid from the air over his head, and landed upon his cheek. Hot breath caressed his skin.
Bjorn tensed.
'One-Handed!' a voice bellowed from the steps below the vigil pla
ce. 'Down!'
Bjorn threw himself forwards as the beast struck at him. Something sharp opened the skin of his back. A blade thrummed into the circle. It hit the thing behind him with the meaty kiss of steel parting flesh. A disruptor field boomed. Bjorn choked on smoke of such foulness he thought he would die.
A daemonic howl of outrage echoed from the Volda Hammarki.
A second later he was being hauled to his feet.
Leman Russ had returned. He was singed, his hair burnt back and eyebrows curled. His face was red from fire and lips chapped from cold. He was bloodied, his clothes tom. A weapon slit parted the fabric and leather covering his chest over his primary heart and his gear was drenched in blood. But it was him.
Without thinking, Bjorn made to look at his assailant. Russ grabbed his shoulder. 'Don't look behind you, remember?' he said. He reached past Bjorn and pulled out the Emperor's Spear.
'What was it?' said Bjorn.
'Best not to see,' said Russ, looking past him. 'It is a non-thing, a corrupt wight. One of those beings referred to as the Neverborn. A daemon.' He was thoughtful. 'A word we must learn to take seriously.'
'You used the Emperor's Spear.'
'I did!' said Russ. He smiled as he hefted it. A crust of black blood had formed on the blade, baked hard by the weapon's power field. 'For all its bad wyrd, it is a well-balanced weapon. That was a good throw.'
'It was.' Bjorn took in Russ' wounds.
'You are injured.'
'In the Underverse. Kva said there was a price.' Russ waved his concerns away. 'I paid it, and now I know how to hurt Horus.'
Russ did not say beat. Bjorn noted that well. There was something about the primarch that was different. Bjorn's eyes flicked over his face. He was behaving as he always did, brash, carefree, bold, but under his eyes were new, purplish smears, and he looked…. How did he look? thought Bjorn.
Haunted, that was the only word that fit how he looked.