‘Thank you, that is–’
‘They kept coming!’ Velash shouted, dragging himself up to his knees. De Chatelaine saw the way his legs bent under the fabric, and winced. ‘They could not be stopped! The dead! The dead were eating the living!’
Delvaux motioned to his Sisters again. One of them cuffed Velash across the forehead, silencing him, before they both dragged him away. A trail of something liquid remained on the marble where he’d been.
‘You had no right,’ said de Chatelaine, her voice tight with anger.
‘Did he speak the truth?’ asked Delvaux.
‘He is a citizen under my protection. Under the protection of the Church.’
‘Did he speak the truth?’
‘How many others have been questioned?’
‘Did he speak the truth?’
The Cardinal’s face was a slack mask of superiority.
‘You know he did,’ said de Chatelaine, quietly.
Delvaux rubbed his stained fingers on his napkin. ‘This planet was nigh consumed. The Wolves were needed to save it. The Wolves. I have just spent time with this Stormcaller, and I have seen the way he behaves. I have seen how his trained beasts fawn over him. They believe in nothing. Their souls are the souls of animals. You should have done better.’
De Chatelaine looked about her, finding it difficult to believe such things were being said in her citadel. The red-armoured Battle Sisters of Delvaux’s entourage gazed back at her from the margins, their faces blank with steady hostility.
‘We… fought,’ said de Chatelaine, struggling to find the words. ‘We fought. My Sisters died. My… people died.’
Delvaux considered her as if she were something he had found lurking in the salty dregs of a ritual goblet. ‘You were appointed to make hard choices, canoness. The reward for success is a record of glory, the price of failure is penance. What would you say happened on this world? Did you succeed? Is that what you think happened?’
De Chatelaine could sense Callia on the cusp of intervening then, and spoke quickly to prevent that.
‘My lord, you were not here,’ she said, speaking as steadily as she was able. ‘If you had been, you would know that we did everything in our mortal power.’ She pushed her shoulders back, feeling her armour flex as she stood straight before the throne. ‘None could have worked harder. We were alone. We resisted, right until the end. We would have done so for as long as our bodies drew breath. You may conduct whatever investigations you wish. My conscience is clear.’
The Cardinal regarded her for a while longer, masticating. A thin trail of juice lingered on the pulpy underhang of his lower chin.
Then he stirred himself, reaching for a casket secreted within his robes. Just as before, he withdrew a pinch of powder and dabbed it under his nostrils.
‘So you say, canoness,’ he said. ‘And your word counts for much, even with me.’ He sniffed heavily, causing his eyes to water. He replaced the casket, adjusting his position on the throne, and a deep flush came to his cheeks. ‘Our investigations will continue. Those who remain faithful receive the benedictions of the Ecclesiarchy, those who fall short receive its castigation. You know to what I refer.’
De Chatelaine remained defiant. ‘I do,’ she said calmly.
‘Then let us hope that the testimony we uncover reveals a favourable truth.’
‘There can be no doubt.’
‘That is all, then. We understand one another. You may go.’
De Chatelaine stayed where she was for a moment longer. Then she turned to Callia, whose face was a tight mask of fury. ‘Come,’ she said.
The two of them walked back down the long nave, observed in silence by Nuriyah’s Sisters. The doors closed behind them with an echoing clang that took several seconds to die away.
‘He dares–’ Callia started, but de Chatelaine held up a warning finger.
‘He is the Hand of the Emperor,’ she warned. ‘Say nothing that will damn you.’ She looked up to the ceiling, her eyes roving for vox-detectors. Callia took the hint, and fell silent.
De Chatelaine sighed then, and smiled – a forced smile, but it was important to maintain appearances. ‘Have faith, Sister,’ she said. ‘This will be resolved.’
Then they started walking again, back along the corridors to their own chambers. As they went, de Chatelaine’s mind worked furiously, gauging how many of her troops would remain faithful, how many would speak against her, how many would be taken for the trials.
She remembered the last words she’d shared with Gunnlaugur.
It is still my city.
Back then, it had been.
Chapter Seven
The void was lit virulent green, like a spiralling glut of ink poured into the dark. The dust-cloud towered through the well of space, sending fronds arching in a slew of vivid translucency. Asteroids cycled past it in procession, ink-black against the swathe of colour, held in place by the distant pull of Ras Shakeh’s young star.
Vuokho ghosted in close, engines working on low burn. Jorundur steered it deftly, angling under a mammoth ball of tumbling rock before applying a little more power, sending the gunship skimming towards the central mass of asteroids beyond.
‘Getting anything?’ asked Olgeir, voxing from the forward hold below the cockpit.
‘Just as they said,’ replied Jorundur, tilting the Thunderhawk to starboard to dip below the field-plane. ‘Coordinates were perfect.’
Amid the stellar rubble, one asteroid loomed closer – a mid-sized rock, ten kilometres in diameter, as black and cratered as the others. Jorundur locked on to it, running a brief scan to confirm the target.
‘How does it look?’ asked Hafloí, also from the hold.
‘Like the rest,’ said Jorundur, noting the results of the auspex run and checking it against what he’d been told to expect. The asteroid showed no power readings and no more than a trace heat signature. If he had not been given the precise location by de Chatelaine’s strategos then he would have skimmed right on past. It was perhaps too much to hope that the enemy had done likewise.
He nudged Vuokho nearer, drifting to fifty metres over the asteroid’s pitted surface. Retro exhausts fired, and the gunship came to a semi-stop, pulled along for the final few metres by residual momentum.
‘I’ve got some damage on the outside,’ said Jorundur, peering down at the gently scrolling landscape. ‘Blast marks? Probably. Faint power readings. You might have gravity, might not.’
‘Understood,’ voxed Olgeir. ‘Just get us there.’
Jorundur angled the Thunderhawk to the left, dipping the nose. Vuokho skimmed a few metres above the ash-grey outer crust before coming to rest just above a jagged pit, five metres across and ringed with black. Metal glinted down in its maw, charred and broken.
‘This is it,’ voxed Jorundur. ‘Opening doors.’
The forward hold ramp bolts clanged back and the heavy armoured bow of the gunship swung open. Jorundur held Vuokho steady, making use of the retro thrusters to hold it in position.
He switched to the external viewers and watched Olgeir push himself down the ramp, still shackled to the gunship’s interior by a length of metal cabling. Hafloí edged down after him. It was impossible to look graceful in zero gravity, even with the reactions and poise of a Space Wolf, and they looked like lumbering giants.
Olgeir reached the lip of the ramp and ran a scan of the pit below. ‘Blast damage,’ he voxed. ‘Melta charges. All armour doors blown. You’re right – no power.’ He chuckled dryly over the comm. ‘Done much zero gravity work, whelp?’
Hafloí held the anchor cable loosely, balancing casually further up the gunship’s lowered ramp. ‘How hard can it be?’
Jorundur rolled his eyes. ‘Move faster,’ he voxed, watching the incoming patterns of space-rubble on the scanner. ‘I need to pull up.’
Olgei
r pushed himself out into the void, unlatching the cable as he drifted clear of the hold. Hafloí followed, going a fraction too fast and nearly hitting the edge of the ramp. Olgeir touched down ahead of him, just on the lip of the pit, bending his knees to absorb the impact and grabbing hold of a twisted-up sheet of adamantium to gain purchase.
Jorundur deftly pulled Vuokho higher, taking care not to blast the two Space Wolves with his thruster-fire. Then he powered further away from the rock, adopting a position away from the rolling clouds of debris. He ran a quick check on the gunship’s bolters, just in case, for all the help they would be. As soon as Olgeir and Hafloí dipped below the surface, they would be on their own.
‘Good hunting,’ voxed Jorundur, watching on the real-viewer as Olgeir dragged himself down into the shadow of the pit, followed by the jerkier movements of Hafloí.
Then he pulled Vuokho’s prow around, hovering above the asteroid like a jealous raptor over its nest, and stood guard.
‘Sister Bajola told me,’ said Ingvar. ‘She knew about Hjortur. His name was on a kill-list, and she claimed she’d seen it.’
Ingvar and Gunnlaugur were back in the apothecarion, one of the few rooms in the Halicon still off-limits to the Ecclesiarchy staff. The place looked oddly empty without Baldr lying on the slab.
‘Hjortur was killed by greenskins,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We were there, brother.’
‘None of us saw him die.’
‘What did she say killed him?’
‘She mentioned a group: the Fulcrum. Then she died.’
Gunnlaugur winced. ‘De Chatelaine told me she was strange. She was mortal. Dying does strange things to mortal minds.’
‘She said they were coming after the Chapter. She said there were others, powerful figures, targeting more of us.’
‘Any names?’
‘No, though she gave me this.’ Ingvar produced the golden cherub-face Bajola had given him, still spotted with her blood. ‘Some kind of icon.’
Gunnlaugur took the cherub from Ingvar and held it up to the light. He studied it for a while, then handed it back. ‘I’ve seen this before.’
‘Where?’
‘On every Cathedral, every Navigator house, on every inquisitor, and everywhere I’ve ever been.’
Ingvar smiled wryly, and stowed it back away. ‘I see.’
Gunnlaugur sighed. ‘Are you taking this seriously, brother?’ he asked.
‘We have a blood-debt.’
‘If she was speaking the truth.’
‘She had no reason to lie.’
Gunnlaugur’s expression became serious. ‘Give me a name,’ he said. ‘Just one name, and I’ll pursue it with you to the limits of the galaxy. Until then, we have war snapping on our heels.’
‘There is more hidden here,’ insisted Ingvar. ‘On this world. Bajola knew it, and she destroyed the archives in the Cathedral to hide it. Did you not wonder why the Church was so quick to get here? We were told there were no other defenders in this sector, but the Cardinal got here soon enough.’
‘So what are you going to do? Interrogate them?’
‘They’re lifting kill-teams out into the desert, moving ahead of Álfar’s packs. They say they’re taking back overrun outposts.’
‘They are.’
‘Yes, but what else? I could run with them. It would be good hunting.’
Gunnlaugur looked at him sceptically. ‘We will be moving off-world as soon as we have a spoor. Njal is itching to leave.’
‘Not until Vuokho returns. There is time.’
‘What are you going to find, brother? It is a wasteland.’
‘It can’t all have been destroyed. In any case, it will keep my blade sharp.’
Gunnlaugur drew in a weary breath, exposing his long fangs. ‘What if I said no?’ he asked. ‘What would you do then?’
Ingvar stiffened. The tension between them, almost dissipated since the last days of the siege, still lurked, ready to flare up again. ‘You are vaerangi.’
Gunnlaugur snorted out a harsh laugh. ‘True enough, but you’d defy me. I’d have to floor you myself to keep you leashed.’ Then he looked at Ingvar levelly. ‘Tell me you are certain. Tell me this is blood-debt.’
Ingvar returned the look, his face intent. ‘Hjortur was killed, and not by greenskins. Someone here knows why.’
Gunnlaugur studied him for a long time, then nodded. ‘So be it. Just find me a name.’
Ingvar looked fiercely grateful. ‘I will do it. The Ecclesiarchy is a den of secrets, but they can’t hide them all.’
‘And go quietly,’ urged Gunnlaugur. ‘They disgust me as much as you, but we need them. Njal wants the peace kept – he’ll need that Grand Cruiser, if nothing else. So we tell no one.’
‘And you?’
‘My duty is here. De Chatelaine and I need to speak again. Of all of them, I’d fight by her side again.’
Gunnlaugur was about to move away then, when Ingvar grabbed him by the arm. ‘They have struck at the heart of us,’ Ingvar said. ‘Whatever happens, once we have a name, we move.’
His tone was fervent. There was a fire there, one that had been missing for too long.
‘You have my word,’ said Gunnlaugur.
‘And Baldr?’
Gunnlaugur’s expression darkened. Baldr’s fate remained in the balance, and there were some paths even a Wolf Guard could not travel.
‘We are all Járnhamar, brother,’ Gunnlaugur said, shaking loose the hold. ‘When the time comes, the decision will be mine.’
The chamber was metal-lined, hammered with runes and bitter with the stink of ash. Animal skins hung from hooks in the flickering dark, some from the old ice, some from worlds as far-flung as the curve of the galaxy. Tall, narrow windows let in only a little artificial light, angled through iron lattices onto a floor of rough stone.
Baldr breathed deeply as he entered, drawing in the familiar aromas, the familiar sights. After Ras Shakeh, Heimdall’s air felt almost frigid, and he liked that. His grey shift, cloak and bound leggings did little to keep out the chill, just as his meagre furs had once done on Fenris itself.
He walked into the centre of the chamber, pausing before the great fire-pit at its heart. Embers glowed like angry stars, heaped high and raked with iron tongs. Each of the lining stones had a rune picked out on it – sfar, zhaz, rhozan. All of them, he knew, were wards against maleficarum, powerful symbols that dampened and dispersed the corruption of the underverse. Everywhere he looked he could see more spiky, angular etchings, half glimpsed amid the heavy shadows.
It was like being back in the Fang. When the Space Wolves took to the sea of stars they took their home world with them, carved out of the shell of their iron-boned ships and hammered into every surface.
Baldr rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. His muscles ached from the final stages of the Dream, as tight and wound hard as weather-stiffened leather. Spikes of pain still ran down his spine, his eyes still smarted and the flesh of his hands was raw and covered in scabs.
All things considered, though, he felt more himself now. Time would only heal further. He stood, alone, watching the coals crack and darken in the fire-pit. Old flames licked across them. The rest of the chamber, filled with instruments and items even his acute sight could not pick out, was shrouded in frigid darkness.
He considered his position.
Would I have permitted it, he wondered, if it had been another one of us? Would I have let him in, or cut his thread? I do not know.
The doors hissed open again, throwing a thin bar of yellow light across the stone. Baldr turned to face it, and for an instant saw the same pair of eyes staring at him as so long ago – twin globes of amber, crouching in the snow-thick briars, slavering but not moving. With a lurch, he was straight back there, alone and unarmed, facing the wolf in the darkness of the primeval woods, and
his hearts picked up in an involuntary threat-response.
Then the doors slipped closed, and the illusion faded, though the eyes remained. They were not the amber of most Fenryka, but ice-blue, like mortal eyes.
Njal stepped into the glow of the fire-pit. Baldr’s sense of raw intimidation didn’t fade. He was a seasoned warrior, used to facing every horror on the battlefield, but facing the Stormcaller in his own lair was something else. Njal wasn’t just a Rune Priest, he was the Rune Priest, custodian of the deepest lore of the Chapter and confidante of the Lords of Fenris. The air around him seemed to drop in temperature, as if ice were always on the cusp of forming across his thick runic armour. Every inch of his ancient battleplate was engraved in esoteric sigils, each one etched over decades by the finest loresmiths of the Hammerhold.
They said Njal was the greatest gothi of the Fenryka since Odain Sturmhjart. They said he had more sagas sung of him in the Aett than any but Grimnar himself, and that each told of the destruction of such maleficent foes that the skjalds struggled to find words to describe them. They said that he knew secrets dating back to the Age of Wonder, and that his own vaults in the Valgard contained artefacts carved in the childhood of the Imperium when the Allfather yet walked alongside Russ and the ways of the void were pure.
Looking up at him for the first time, Baldr could believe all those things. In the semi-dark, lit from below by the angry glow of brazier coals, Njal loomed like a shadow of a half-forgotten past, vast, mythic, and potent.
The Rune Priest took his place on the far side of the fire-pit. He stood there, studying Baldr silently. That scrutiny felt like knives pressed against flesh.
‘So,’ he said, finally. ‘You are the one. Here to be judged.’
Baldr lifted his chin. ‘I am, jarl,’ he said.
‘Then we begin,’ said Njal.
Olgeir drew his bolter. Sigrún had been left behind for this mission, replaced by a more practical standard-sized Asaheim-pattern weapon. He activated his helm’s night-vision, and it picked out a long circular shaft below him, a few metres in diameter, running straight down into the heart of the rock.
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