by William King
Ragnar considered this for a moment. He could see that there was sense in the sergeant’s words. Moreover, he could see a problem he had never considered before. He would never know if the machines had missed out important knowledge until it was too late. He did not have the ability to know if anything was not there. How could he? Most of what he knew came from the engines themselves.
Hakon’s nostrils flared. Once more he seemed to be able to read Ragnar’s thoughts.
Ragnar wondered whether, if he lived to be as old as the sergeant, he too would be able to read his comrades’ moods and thoughts and feelings so accurately by scent alone? Perhaps Hakon’s ability was a product of age and wisdom more than of his senses.
“Sometimes the learning is there,” said Hakon, “but it is like a scroll left on a shelf in a library, rather than an epic learned by a skald. If you do not read a scroll, how will you know its contents? And sometimes there are problems with the transfer of knowledge and it lies dormant for many years before it is fully assimilated. The brain is a peculiar thing.”
“Sven’s certainly is,” said Ragnar and seeing the sergeant’s expression, wished he had not been so facetious. Hakon seemed unusually communicative today, not his usual taciturn self.
“Forget my brain, and this talk about machines. How are these heroes who go to the Navigators selected?”
“Doubtless you will find out if you ever need to know,” said Hakon.
“You mean you don’t know?”
Hakon shrugged. “Who said they were heroes?”
Sven fell silent for a moment while he considered this. Ragnar wanted to ask another question, but Aenar chose this moment to put the chess piece down and ask a question of his own.
“When will we be landing on Garm?”
“We are in orbit over the world now, as you would see if you chose to look out one of the portholes,” said the sergeant. “My guess is that we will be on the surface within hours. The Great Wolf will not want to waste any time in recovering the Spear of Russ or freeing the shrine from malefactors. And we must collect the gene-seed of our brethren.”
“The gene-seed of our brethren?” spluttered Sven.
“Aye, you do not think we would leave our most sacred shrine outside Fenris undefended?”
“I would have thought that there are few enough Wolves,” said Ragnar sharply. “The Emperor must have more important things for us to do than guarding shrines.”
“There is a base here, Ragnar. A transit camp. A way station. Garm is an important crossroads and trade route. We have a presence here to repair our ships, to let our troops rest and recuperate. The place was commanded by an old comrade of mine, Jurgen Whitemane.”
Ragnar could tell from the sergeant’s tone that he did not believe his old friend was still alive.
“If he is dead, we will bloody well avenge him,” said Sven.
“Aye, that we will,” said the sergeant grimly. Ragnar looked at the sergeant. There was something strange about him. He was in a fell mood. Ragnar was reminded of all the tales he had heard of men whose wyrd had come upon them, who had walked out to their inevitable doom. He shivered, hoping that this was not a premonition.
The doorway opened. Morgrim Silvertongue stood there. He spoke quietly and with authority. “Ragnar, you are to come with me. The Wolf Lord would have words with you.”
As he followed the skald through the metal corridors of the starship, Ragnar wondered what was going on. Morgrim’s face was expressionless and gave him no clue. When he tried to speak, the singer brushed him off, not rudely, but like a man who has other things on his mind. Had he been a fellow Blood Claw, Ragnar might have persisted, but the man was one of the Wolf Guard, and you did not intrude on their thoughts unless asked.
He hoped that nothing bad was about to befall him. Perhaps Berek Thunderfist’s vanity could not stand the tone Ragnar had used when he had been cut off back on the Chaos ship. Perhaps he meant to call him out and have vengeance. Ragnar tried to dismiss these thoughts as foolish. There was no honour for a warrior as renowned as Berek in fighting with a Blood Claw, and Wolf Lords brawled with their followers only on the rarest of occasions. The thought was simply ridiculous.
And yet, he was nervous. It was not every day a Blood Claw was singled out for the attention of me Wolf Lord. Perhaps he intended to reward Ragnar. Perhaps he intended to promote him to Grey Hunter at last. Ragnar’s heart leapt at the prospect. If that were so, as far as he could tell, he would be the youngest Blood Claw in generations to be elevated so swiftly.
Immediately he tried to throttle the hope. It was his youth that made just such a promotion unlikely. Who did he think he was, to be singled out so?
They passed two officers of the ship’s company, resplendent in their grey tunics with the wolfs head emblazoned above the sign of the thunder fist on their breasts. They returned the men’s salutes absentmindedly and strode on. Ragnar realised he was in part of the ship he had never visited before, the chambers assigned to the company’s leader and his Wolf Guard.
A terrible thought occurred to him — perhaps his cowardice had been noticed? Perhaps his fear at entering the corridor of collapsed metal back on the Chaos ship had come to the attention of the Wolf Lord. Perhaps he was about to be punished for this flaw, or ridiculed or… he told himself that this too was a ludicrous concept. He took a deep breath and schooled himself to calmness. Whatever Berek Thunderfist wanted would be clear soon enough. He would just have to wait a few more moments to find out.
They strode into a long, narrow chamber in which warriors of the Wolf Guard worked on their suits of Terminator armour. Ragnar wished that Morgrim would pause for a moment, so that he could inspect these ancient revered artefacts. This was the first time he had ever come so close to one. Like all young Space Wolves, he aspired to wear this armour one day. Only the best of me best, the most trusted and most able of a Wolf Lord’s retinue, ever achieved such heights.
As it was, all he managed was a quick glimpse of a suit of armour, far larger than a normal Marine’s carapace, powered by the most potent of hydraulic systems, emblazoned with attachments for the heaviest of weapons.
Ragnar caught the smell of ancient ceramite and the overlay of ten thousand years of technical unguents. He felt a sense of near overwhelming power. A feeling of simple reverence filled his heart.
Even as it did so it occurred to him that perhaps the bard had been instructed to lead him this way. By all accounts, Berek was something of a showman and quite capable of arranging something like this to create the right impression. Again, Ragnar told himself he was being ridiculous. Berek was Wolf Lord; he did not need to do anything to impress a lowly Blood Claw. Ragnar considered this. Perhaps that was true, but Berek was also a great leader, and went to great lengths to secure the loyalty and respect of his troops. Perhaps this only showed his attention to detail.
Ragnar forced himself to relax. He wondered why he had been selected and not Sven or any of the others. Perhaps he was not unique. Perhaps Berek would see them all separately. He was at once disappointed and relieved by this thought. Part of him wanted to be singled out, to stand apart from his companions in the pack. Part of him felt guilty about this, as if he were somehow being disloyal to his friends and companions. Well, whatever it was there was nothing he could do about it now. Matters were out of his hands.
They strode into another larger chamber. A great deal of expense had gone into fitting this one out. The walls were covered in wooden panels; massive wooden beams gave the illusion of supporting the ceiling. In one corner burned a fire, or rather a flickering holospherical illusion. A great trestle table sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by carved chairs of real wood. A barrel of ale stood ready in one corner. On the walls were various tattered banners, battle honours taken on a hundred fields on a hundred worlds. It was these alone that kept the place from being a near perfect counterfeit of some rich lord’s hall, back on the islands of Fenris.
Sitting on a great thron
e, on a raised dais at the end of the room, was Berek Thunderfist. He was flanked by Mikal Stenmark and another Wolf Guard. Berek’s leonine head rested on his massive metal hand. He looked up as Ragnar entered.
“Welcome, Ragnar Blackmane,” he said. “It’s past time that you and I had words.”
CHAPTER TEN
“What do you want of me, Lord Berek?” Ragnar asked.
“First I want to thank you for saving my hide back on the Chaos ship, lad. That was quick thinking and it got me out of a tight spot. If it weren’t for you I might not be sitting here, quaffing ale and toasting my victory.”
“I am sure you would have fought your way clear anyway, lord,” said Ragnar. Berek’s answering smile told him that this was exactly what the Wolf Lord thought.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Thanks to you I did not have to try my luck. Just as well. It’s best not to test the fates too often.”
Ragnar waited to see what Berek would say next.
“It seems to me that you should be rewarded,” said the Wolf Lord.
“Doing my duty was reward enough.”
“I see old Ranek taught you well. That was the sort of answer I would have expected from one of his pupils.”
Once again Ragnar was silent. No words seemed expected of him. The Wolf Lord appeared quite capable of speaking for two. He took one of the golden arm-rings from his bicep. He gestured for Ragnar to stretch out his arm and then clamped it into place himself. Ragnar could see that the torque coiled like a serpent. Its spring-like tension held it exactly in place. He smiled. This was exactly the gesture a Fenrisian chieftain would use to reward a faithful follower. In the old tongue another word for jarl was “ring-giver”.
“Thank you, Lord Berek. I am honoured.”
“By accepting it, you do me as much honour as I do you,” said Berek ritually It was obvious that he was merely mouthing the ancient form of words, but still, it was a princely gift.
Ragnar did not know quite what to say.
“I am honoured, lord,” Ragnar said.
“Of course you are. And rightly so. And now, you will accompany me to the Great Wolfs ship. The Wolf Lord’s gather. There we will make our final dispositions for the drop on Garm. I mean to see Berek’s company has the place of honour.”
Ragnar was a little shocked. Why was he being singled out for this honour? He felt out of his depth. Was this some sort of test? Did the Wolf Lord want to see how he behaved in front of other great captains, if so why? “Surely that is the Great Wolfs decision, Lord Berek.”
For a moment only, he felt like he had said the wrong thing. Berek was obviously not a man to admit that anyone was his superior. His face grew frosty for a second, then a moment later he grinned and laughed. “I am sure even Logan Grimnar can be persuaded, young Ragnar.”
Ragnar realised that he had passed some sort of test. He had been spoken to by name. He was no longer just a lad. He was glad that Berek felt this way, for it was the right and duty of every Fenrisian warrior to speak his mind to his chieftain, and Ragnar intended to preserve that privilege, no matter how intimidating his liege lord was. Fortunately Berek had responded like the clan chieftain he styled himself to be. Despite his initial misgivings, Ragnar found himself warming to the Wolf Lord.
Morgrim grinned. It seemed that the skald thought he had done the right thing. Mikal Stenmark’s cold glance told him a different story. It said, you got away with it this time, lad, but don’t make a habit of it.
The shuttle sped closer to the Pride of Fenris, the Great Wolfs massive flagship. Berek stood at the massive armour-glass window, gazing covetously at the old warcraft. It was a Retribution-class battleship of ancient design, its hull pitted and scarred by a hundred battles. It dwarfed the shuttle like a sea dragon would dwarf a sprat. From where Ragnar stood it looked like the maw of one of its weapons could swallow their whole craft. Obviously this ship would not have had any trouble defeating the Chaos cruiser, one to one. He voiced his thought to Morgrim Silvertongue. Quietly as he spoke, the Wolf Lord still overheard him.
“Aye, lad, true enough, but then we would have missed out on that glorious boarding action.”
The ten men of the Wolf Guard accompanying them laughed agreement. Ragnar turned his glance back to the Pride of Fenris. He did not necessarily agree — if they had not boarded the ship many Space Wolf lives would not have been lost, and Aenar would not have been wounded.
Thrilling as the fight had been, and glorious as the destruction of the Chaos craft was, Ragnar was not convinced it was worth the price. He was enough of a man of Fenris to relish the glory of what they had done, and to be glad he had earned a place in the legend-maker’s chants, but at the same time, another part of him counted the cost. It was an unnatural thought for a Space Wolf, he knew, but he could not help entertaining it.
The shuttle moved closer to the flagship. Ragnar felt someone watching him and turned to see the Navigator. She was a tall woman, pale, slender and exotically beautiful, with long silver hair and eyes like chips of ice. A scarf was draped around her forehead covering the disturbing pineal eye. He smiled at her. She nodded back calmly. He shrugged and looked away.
“Why is the Navigator with us?” Ragnar asked Morgrim.
“Shayara is with us because Lord Berek wants her to be,” replied the skald. There was an undertone of amusement in his voice. “Her insights are often useful.”
“Is that so?”
“Navigators don’t think like we do. They do not see reality the same way either. It is surprising how often they see things we don’t. And sometimes Shayara has the gift of foretelling, powerful as any Rune Priest.”
“That could be a useful gift,” said Ragnar.
“And a terrifying one,” Morgrim replied and said no more.
The council hall on the Pride of Fenris was like Logan Grimnar’s chambers back in the Fang, a little smaller, a little less ornate, but nonetheless they belonged to the Great Wolf just as recognisably as Berek’s belonged to him.
As Berek and his men entered they were greeted by a great roar of approval from the assembled Wolf Lords and their guards. Even Logan Grimnar and his entourage of priests banged their chestplates with their fists in warriors’ applause. It was obvious that all had heard and greatly approved of Berek’s destruction of the Chaos warship. All. that is, except Sigrid Trollbane. He applauded but his face was twisted, his expression that of one who has swallowed a lemon.
This was Ragnar’s first opportunity to study his liege lord’s great rival and he took advantage of it. Sigrid was a tall man, spare and thin. All excess flesh seemed to have been burned from his face. His hair was dark and straight, his features sallow, his lips thin and unsmiling. His eyes were large and cold and glittered with a chilly introverted intelligence. The overwhelming impression he gave was of concentration. He looked like a racing hound straining at a leash. For a moment his eyes met Ragnar’s and there was a shock of contact. Ragnar felt he was the focus of all the Wolf Lord’s attention. It was like feeling a searchlight play over him, or suddenly knowing that he was in the sights of a sniper’s rifle.
Sigrid tilted his head to one side, and considered Ragnar as if he was an interesting new form of insect life. A faint frown of puzzlement graved itself on his brow. He was obviously trying to work out who the newcomer was and why he was here.
Ragnar refused to be the first to look away. A cold smile played across Sigrid’s lips and he turned and said something to the chieftain of his bodyguards, a huge bear of a man with a bristling beard and a shiny bald head. The giant laughed loudly at whatever his lord said. Ragnar could not help but feel he was being made the butt of some joke, but here, under the eyes of the Great Wolf and his retinue, was not the time or place to do anything about it.
“Welcome, Berek Thunderfist,” boomed Logan Grimnar. “Your presence gives us honour.”
“And we always appreciate the drama of your entrances,” said Sigrid. His voice was deep, resonant and surprisingly powerful. There w
as a sadness to it, and an ironic mockery as well as a touch of hatred. “Last to arrive, as always.”
Logan Grimnar cast a warning look at Sigrid. He obviously did not appreciate having his speech of welcome interrupted. Was the Trollbane’s dislike really so intense that he would risk the lord of the Chapter’s ire, Ragnar wondered?
“You know what they say: first in battle, last in council,” said Berek, smiling amiably. Ragnar studied his chieftain closely. There was a change in his manner again, doubtless for this new audience of influential lords. Now he was the picture of the bluff Fenrisian warrior, his natural intelligence hidden behind an ingenuous manner. If he was deliberately contrasting himself with Sigrid’s sneering intelligence he could not have done a better job. Ragnar saw the room respond. Many of the other Wolf Lords looked at Berek approvingly, and at Sigrid with something like disdain.
“Well spoken,” said Logan Grimnar, smoothing over the obvious rift. “And now that we are all here it is time to discuss the drop on Garm.”
Ragnar felt a thrill of excitement pass through him. The drop was going to go ahead soon. He stood now at the hub of things. This was where the decisions would be taken that would affect the lives of himself and his comrades, and he would be among the first to know of them. It was a heady feeling.
“I have had a request from the Imperial field commander for our Chapter to spearhead the drop…”
A roar of approval greeted this news. It was after all only appropriate that Space Marines be called upon to lead the Imperial attack. Surprisingly Logan Grimnar raised his hand for silence. At once, the Wolf Lords went quiet. The Great Wolf gestured again. Some technical adept was obviously working his wizardry for at once a glowing sphere, recognisable as Garm, appeared in the air above them. It was twice as tall as a man. Ragnar could see the blue-black of the seas, the white of the clouds, and snow-fields, the multicoloured blisters that were the cities.