by William King
“Bloody hell, Ragnar,” he said. “You might have left some for us.”
Ragnar realised that the sounds of shooting in the distance had stopped. Did this mean the Wolf Lord and his bodyguard were dead or triumphant, he wondered? Hakon seemed to sense his mood. They began moving around the huge metal structure, back in the direction they had last seen their company’s leader.
As the battle site came into view, Ragnar saw that the Wolf Guard had wreaked even more havoc than he had. Dead mutants lay sprawled everywhere. Berek Thunderfist sat atop a pile of corpses inspecting the severed head of the Chaos leader. The mutant’s face looked more daemonic than human. Curved ram’s horns emerged from the forehead. The lobeless ears were pointed. Sharp fangs filled the wide mouth.
Several more squads of Wolves had entered the power core and had obviously moved in support of their leader. High atop the various metal towers, Wolf Guard magnetically clamped their demolition charges into place.
Berek looked up. “Just in time, Hakon,” he said. “We’re almost done here. It’s time to head back to the Fist!
The Wolf Lord rose to his feet and discarded the mutant’s head without a second thought. He looked over his assembled troops, as if gauging their level of injury. “You’ve done well, men,” he said. “But this was the easy part. It took us twenty-seven minutes to fight our way in here. But now we know the way out, I think we can get back in around half that time.”
He gazed up and saw that all of the Wolf Guard had finished and were coming down from their perches. “We have fifteen minutes to get back to the Fist. Don’t get bogged down in any firefights. Don’t get carried away killing any heretic scum. Don’t stop for loot. The Fist of Russ will make its withdrawal in exactly fifteen minutes from when I activate the detonators. I am giving the signal now. Let’s go!”
Berek pushed a command button on the back of his armoured fist. Ragnar heard a weird eerie cry echo over the comm-net. Everybody knew it was time to be on his way. As one, the Wolves turned and raced from the power core of the doomed ship.
Ragnar glanced at the chronometer superimposed on his vision by the systems within his armour. It was set on a countdown now, ticking off the minutes and the seconds till the charges detonated and the Chaos cruiser was blown to pieces. Thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds to go.
“What happens if the mutants find the bloody charges we left behind? Think they can defuse them?” Sven panted next to him.
“No. First they will have to work out what we were doing. Then they will have to find all the charges. Since they were proximity shielded that means they’ll have to carry out a visual search — they won’t show up on sensors. Then they will have to defuse them all. I doubt that can be done in the remaining thirteen minutes or so.”
“Let’s hope so, and let’s hope that they don’t set a few off trying to disarm them either. That will cook our goose as nicely as any Chaos bloody ambush!”
“You’re just full of good cheer today, Sven.”
“Somebody has to bloody well keep morale up around here.”
Ragnar looked around. Aenar looked a little pale and he weaved as he ran. Perhaps his wound was worse than it appeared.
“You all right?” Ragnar asked. Aenar grinned weakly.
“He will be fine,” said Hakon. “Just you keep your eyes peeled for any mutants. Last thing we want is to be cut off in this metal maze when the Fist of Russ breaks free.”
“But sergeant,” said Sven, “we are Space Wolves. Shouldn’t we be seeking a hero’s death?”
“Nothing heroic about getting yourself blown up, boy. Stupid, yes. Heroic, no. Not that I would expect you to be able to tell the difference.”
Sven grinned cheerily. If it was not for his scent, Ragnar would never have guessed that he was as nervous as he himself. From up ahead came the sounds of battle.
“Ambush!” said Hakon.
“Good, a bloody battle,” said Sven.
Nine minutes and forty-five seconds. Ragnar wasted a second inspecting the corpses. They lay sprawled everywhere, mingled with the dead bodies of a few Wolves. The mutants were an odd bunch. Most looked normal save that their flesh was covered in boils or warts or their hair had fallen out in clumps. Some had scaly skin or fur. Some were more bestial with bird-like talons instead of hands and feet. Some had faces where the flesh had ran together like melted wax.
Ragnar saw a couple of the Wolves collecting gene-seed from the fallen, driving the armoured punches into the chests of the dead, twisting the collar on the top of the punch to open and close the grabbing claws, ripping the tiny tentacled egg from the chest cavity. Even as he watched, the punch’s claws enfolded the gene-seed completely and sucked it into a stasis tube, to be hooked onto the collector’s belt. Another ten seconds gone, he thought. Best be moving.
Morgrim Silvertongue had broken comm-silence. He had hooked himself into the Chaos net and was translating orders from the enemy leaders as they passed down the command chain.
“Most of the mutants are scouring the ship for us. It looks like they are thin on the ground in this area because they think we’ve already passed through it. No — Some of them are reporting they have sighted us here. Sounds like their leader is ordering his troops back to meet us. I don’t think they have quite worked out what we are doing yet. We’ve confused them.”
“From what I have seen, that’s pretty easy to do,” said Sven.
“Don’t underestimate them,” said Ragnar. “They may look stupid, but they are fierce warriors. A bit like yourself actually.”
“Ha bloody ha!”
Eight minutes and fifteen seconds.
“We’re not going to make it,” muttered Aenar. “Leave me. You’ll make better time without me.”
“We are not going to do that,” said Hakon. Ragnar could see that Aenar was right though. Their progress was slower than they had anticipated. Chaos patrols were everywhere and more seemed to be appearing by the second. Even if they had no idea what was going on, the mutants were still capable of getting them all killed by simply being in the way. Right now, Berek’s bold plan was not looking quite so good.
In his mind’s eye, Ragnar saw the demolition charges exploding, vast yellow fireballs ripping through the hull, incinerating everything that got in their way. He saw his own life ending in fire and pain and terror. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the task at hand. He could smell mutants ahead. Within his skull, the trapped beast howled with bloodlust. If it was going to die, it wanted to take as many foes as it could with it.
Ragnar did his best to fight down the impulse. Charging headlong into battle now might be satisfying but it would not save them. It would be better to avoid a confrontation unless there were so few mutants they could rash right through them.
“Take the fork to the right,” he heard Berek say. The heretic stench came from the left. It seemed that the Wolf Lord was thinking the same way as he was. “And pick up the pace, we don’t have all day.”
The steel plates beneath their boots rang as they ran faster. Five minutes and fifteen seconds to go.
“You think Lord Berek can defuse the bombs the same bloody way as he activated them?” asked Sven nonchalantly. Ragnar thought he recognised this corridor, thought he could pick up the scent trail of their earlier passage on the way in coming from somewhere nearby.
“Why? You thinking of asking him to pause the countdown for a few seconds so you can have a rest?” Ragnar responded, sniffing the air. Yes, they definitely had passed near here before. How much farther could it be to the Fist of Russ? He checked the locator on his armour. The signal said it was only five hundred metres, but with all the twisting and turning of the ways, who knew how long that would take?
“I might. I may need my strength for the last sprint at this rate.” From somewhere behind them came the sound of bolter fire, heavy and hard.
“Your powers of prophesy are greater than I thought,” said Ragnar.
A signal cut in on the c
omm-net.
+ This is Hef here. Looks like the mutants are about to overtake us, and in force. Must be several hundred of them coming up this corridor.+
Ragnar looked at Sven. His ugly face showed dismay. Hef’s squad were the rearguard. If the enemy had made contact with them then they were not too far behind. Perhaps they were going to have to turn and make a stand here. Once again the vision of those searing yellow flames licking through the corridor leapt into Ragnar’s mind.
+Do you need support?+
Berek’s voice was calm and full of confidence even with the flatness the comm-net imparted. He might as well have been asking whether they wanted a beer.
+No, Lord Berek. We can hold them here for a minute or so, I am certain.+
Even over the net, Ragnar could hear the bolter shells whizzing around Hef. He heard the stutter of the Marine’s answering fire. It was eerie because a split second later, like an echo, he could hear the weapon’s original roar. The signals on the comm-net travelled faster than sound.
Moments later came the sounds of explosions and the death howl of a Space Wolf. It sounded like Hef and his squad were achieving the heroes’ deaths they sought. Another image flashed into Ragnar’s mind, of an onrushing, irresistible horde of Chaos worshippers, racing to overtake them, brushing aside Hef and his pitiful few as if they were not there. He dismissed it even as the sounds of combat receded behind them.
Three minutes and thirty seconds to go.
“This does not look good,” said Sven, looking at the twisted wreckage of the corridor around them. Someone had been using heavy weapons here. Part of the roof of the corridor had come down, leaving only a crawlspace, barely wide enough for one man. It was impossible to tell how far it might run, or whether it would become too narrow for them to pass through. Ragnar wondered whether it would be worth seeking an alternative route. Maybe they could double back and find another corridor. They had thought this would be the easy way. It was definitely the route they had come by. The scent trail was unmistakeable.
Not that the decision was his to make. The rest of the squads had already disappeared into the dark maw. Only Varig’s squad was behind them. The distant sound of fighting had stopped. Ragnar could sense the mutants coming inexorably closer.
“Move, Ragnar!” commanded Hakon, putting his hand on Ragnar’s shoulder and forcing him down to his knees. Briefly and instinctively Ragnar resisted, and then realised that by his hesitation he was putting more than his own life in jeopardy, he was endangering his comrades too. He dropped to all fours and crawled forward into the steel lined tunnel.
Two minutes left. The thought was chilling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ragnar dived headlong into the narrow tunnel of wreckage. He felt instantly claustrophobic; the walls seemed to press in all around him. He felt their steely embrace constricting the shoulder pads of his armour. Ahead of him, he caught the reassuring scent of his pack, and could make out the movement of men crawling swiftly towards their destination. Behind him he could hear Hakon encouraging the remainder of the force into the tunnel. He guessed the sergeant was going to go last.
Far off in the distance Ragnar thought he could hear the sounds of battle erupt again. Perhaps a few of the rearguard yet lived and had managed to spring a surprise on their attackers. A huge explosion, like a cluster of grenades all going off at once, mingled with the death howl of a Space Wolf, told him this was true. After that there was quiet for a heartbeat and then the triumphant roars of the enemy. The sense of darkness and impending doom increased.
Ragnar crawled on. The walls narrowed around him, scraping against the sides of his armour. It was as if they were gripping him tighter, trying to prevent his escape. He knew this was an irrational fear. He could hear the sounds of men moving ahead of him, some of whom were far larger than he. The tiny daemon of fear whispered at the back of his mind though. The walls were unstable — what if they collapsed further? What if they were collapsing even now? He was going to be trapped, unable to move further. Unable to shift at all and in exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds the whole ship was going to explode. Part of him wanted to simply freeze and huddle down in fear, to cover his head with his arms and wait for the inevitable end.
He fought back, using his own thoughts to fight his fears, as if they were a chainsword and terror was a monster. Even if the walls were collapsing he must go on. That was the only way he was going to get out. The Emperor would not aid him if he would not help himself. He needed to move, not cringe. He was no coward. If he did not do so, he was dooming not just himself but his battle-brothers.
He had never felt anything like this clawing claustrophobic fearfulness before. Perhaps it was because the tunnel was so dark and dank and narrow. Perhaps it was because they were in this alien ship. Perhaps it was because of the pressure of the clock constantly ticking towards death. Perhaps it was some flaw in his own psyche, unrevealed at the Gate of Morkai, or developed since his transformation into a Space Wolf. Perhaps it was some combination of all of these factors. He knew that what he was doing now was far more difficult than fighting those mutants earlier had been.
He forced himself to crawl on, to put one hand in front of the other. He ignored his accelerating heart-rate and the sweat that broke out on his brow.
One minute and ten seconds to go.
Suddenly, blessedly, there was light ahead. He heard the soft movement of men raising themselves to their feet and stretching their limbs into a run. He virtually sprang forward the last few remaining metres, emerged into the light in a half crouch, and sprinted forward towards the welcoming hatchway of the Fist of Russ.
Thirty seconds to go.
All around him he could hear the familiar welcoming scents of the company’s own ship.
Twenty strides took him there. He sprang through and looked back over his shoulder to see that Sven and Torvald were moving forward, supporting the reeling Aenar. Sergeant Hakon and Varig’s squad were racing closer. He could hear Berek shouting into the comm-net, giving orders for their departure. Already the great doors in the bow were swinging shut. Ragnar wanted to shout out “No!”. It seemed unfair that the others should be cut off now. He wanted to try to hold the gateway open with his bare hands, but he knew that even his superhuman strength reinforced by the hydraulic systems of the armour would not be enough.
Then suddenly Sven and the others were through. Sergeant Varig was last, leaping through a gap that was only just wide enough for him to get through and which snapped closed an instant later. He was strangely aware of the consummate judgement Berek had exercised when giving his orders. The Wolf Lord had left just enough time and no more for the rest of the squad to get through. What if something had gone wrong, Ragnar wondered? Nothing had, praise be to the Emperor.
There was a grinding, tearing noise. The Fist of Russ shuddered and shook as if in the grip of some giant daemon’s claw. Fear surged back into Ragnar’s mind. What if they were trapped? What if the Fist could not break free? What if the strain of trying to get away tore the ship apart? Then there was nothing he could do now except Pray.
Twenty seconds to go.
He pressed his face against one of the reinforced portholes and looked out. For a moment it was misty; droplets of moisture congealed, hardened then vanished on its surface. He could see that the enemy ship had already receded a hundred metres behind them. Ten seconds.
Were they far enough away, or would they be caught up in the blast? What if the charges malfunctioned? What if the Chaos ship was not destroyed?
He recognised these thoughts as the last remnants of his claustrophobia-induced terror. He knew that there was nothing he could do now, that if death came all he could do was face it like a true son of Fenris. He pushed the phantoms from his mind and watched the receding vessel. He noticed the vast chasm in its hull that represented the point of impact with the Fist of Russ.
Five seconds to go.
As they pulled faster and faster away, Ragnar realised tha
t compared to the huge size of the enemy cruiser, the impact rent was not quite so large. The Chaos ship seemed as large as a floating iceberg, an indestructible mountain of armoured metal. Even as he watched he saw the enemy vessel’s turrets, bristling with enormous weapons, begin to swing to bear on the Fist of Russ. They were moments from being blasted into eternity.
Time slowed. The tension was almost unbearable. It seemed to be a race between whether the heretics’ weapons or the explosion of the power core would send them to their fates. Ragnar fought down the urge to close his eyes and pray to the Emperor. Whatever happened, he wanted to witness it.
Four seconds to go.
Looking back, he saw humanoid figures being swept out into space. Their eyes bulged. Their mouths opened in silent bellows of rage and fear. Of course, when the Fist of Russ had pulled away, they had left a huge gap in the walls of the cruiser. It was decompressing. The air was being sucked out into the vacuum and anything that wasn’t strapped down was going with it, and that included any mutants in the area. Doubtless, bulkheads were even now being slammed closed within the ship.
Three seconds.
One of the largest turrets seemed to be pointing directly at the Fist of Russ. Was it his imagination or was there a hideous infernal glow visible deep within the barrel of the weapon? He felt the lurch of the ship as the Fist of Russ continued to accelerate away.
Two seconds.
It was not his imagination. The hellish weapon system really was activated, and it was pointing their way. He knew that there was no way the Space Wolf vessel could take a hit from such a thing at this close a range and in its crippled state. He bared his teeth in a snarl of rage and defiance, at one with the wolf spirit within. All around him he smelled the fury and rage and tightly controlled fear of his battle-brothers.
One second.
The Fist of Russ lurched to one side as the pilot took evasive action. An enormous beam of coruscating radiance flashed past in the darkness of space. It had missed by mere metres, a hairsbreadth in terms of space combat. Ragnar’s gaze strained out into the darkness, waiting for the explosion his whole body had become keyed up to expect. As far as he could tell, nothing was happening. He could see nothing. Had the demolition charges failed to go off? Had there been some mistake with the timer? Had the mutants against all odds discovered and disarmed them? What was going to happen now?