Stormcaller

by Chris Wraight

  Wide smiles around the fire. The kaerls listened, just as they might have listened to a skjald as the ice-wind howled.

  ‘Some of us had come down close to cities,’ Bjargborn said. ‘At first, we thought we were the lucky ones. Then we found out what lived there. That was nearly the end of me, too.’ He looked over at the flames. ‘You don’t see it coming, not at first. You catch their eyes too late, see that they’re not really alive, and then they’re all over you.’

  ‘How many are left?’

  ‘Ninety of us, here.’ Bjargborn’s expression held a flicker of pride, an old stubborn arrogance that didn’t retreat easily. ‘If they didn’t catch you at the start, there were things you could do. They were careless. They could hardly see, and daylight made them slow. Once a few of us made contact, we could organise. At night we hunted for others like us, by day we hunted them. We got hold of guns, armour pieces. There was some food left – old ration packs, water. They didn’t touch it.’

  ‘Any others groups like yours?’

  ‘There might be, down past the big manufactories.’ He looked at the others, but they didn’t meet his gaze. ‘But I don’t know. Probably not.’

  Ingvar nodded. ‘Then your wyrd was a lucky one. You evaded the Ecclesiarchy, too, and they’ve landed thousands.’

  ‘We know. We saw them in action, before you got here.’

  ‘Storm troopers?’

  ‘Yes, and battle engines. They were heading west, going fast.’

  ‘You met them?’

  ‘No, not up close.’ Bjargborn looked contemptuous. ‘They weren’t here to take anything back. They were looking for something. By the time we’d worked out what was going on, they were gone, leaving us with all the plague-damned they hadn’t killed.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘No idea. They went through some of the old temples. They stripped one out – I saw them carting crates away. Not the big, grand ones. Just one or two, out on the edge of the desert. It was done quickly, then they were gone.’

  Ingvar pressed his gauntlets together pensively. ‘You didn’t see any more than that?’

  One of the other kaerls spoke up then. ‘I saw them leave,’ he said.

  ‘He is Aerold,’ said Bjargborn.

  ‘They were led by a man in black robes,’ said Aerold. ‘A priest. He was overseeing them all, even the Battle Sisters. I couldn’t get close, but I don’t think he wore any armour. He walked around unshielded, like he feared nothing. Like it was all his.’

  Ingvar stared into the fire and smiled wryly. ‘Maybe it is,’ he said.

  The kaerls waited for him to say something more, looking expectant. Ingvar suddenly thought of the halls under the Mountain, the fire-pits in the vaults, the weapons hanging on chains, the bone-breaking cold. He remembered the skjalds and the Priests declaiming the old sagas. He remembered the smell of it – the charred meat, the oil-thick mjod swilling.

  ‘You will come back with me,’ he said, reaching for more food. ‘All of you. The pack has no Aettguard – that needs changing.’

  Bjargborn bowed proudly. ‘We live to serve. We can still fight.’

  ‘So I can see.’

  ‘We remained Fenryka,’ said Bjargborn. ‘You can’t get the ice out of your blood, not even here.’

  Ingvar thought on that. He remembered how it had been just after rejoining the pack – a kind of madness. The desire had been there, to go back, to be again what he had been before, but the ability was not. His old self had become foreign to him, almost unintelligible.

  We have become mongrels, Callimachus had told him, in what felt like another life. As always, the Ultramarine had been right.

  Now, though, it felt different. The more time passed, the more Ingvar felt the half-buried savagery return. The fire-circle, the sharing of tales, the laughter in the shadows, it all slowly came back.

  You can’t get the ice out of your blood.

  ‘Lord.’

  Ingvar stirred to see Bjargborn looking up at him.

  ‘They say the Stormcaller is here,’ the kaerl said. ‘Forgive me, if this is forbidden, but we wanted to ask. You fought with him?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  Bjargborn turned to his comrades, smiling in vindication. ‘Then, if it is not too much… If it can be asked for…’

  ‘You want the tale.’

  They were hard-bitten soldiers of the Aett, survivors of the horrors of Ras Shakeh and veterans of a hundred battles, but they nodded.

  Ingvar unlocked his gauntlets. It had been a long time since he had been called to be skjald, and then only to battle-brothers of the Great Company. Other Chapters would scorn such rituals. He would have done himself, fresh from Onyx with the sarcasm of Jocelyn in his mind.

  But the wind had changed. It was fresher now, cleared of the filth that preyed on the soul and made it defensive.

  ‘This is how it was,’ he began.

  The Chamber of the Annulus was buried in Heimdall’s dark heart. It was a mere echo of the original, but still it soared up into the vaults of the starship. Its curved walls were hewn from granite, held aloft by rough pillars crowned with the heads of beasts.

  A single stone, six times the height of a man, stood at the heart of it, jutting up from the iron deck. The stone bore age-weathered runes on its rough surface. The hand that had carved those runes was long gone, for the stone had been old even before Russ first came to Fenris. It had been taken from Asaheim and lodged in the heart of a starship, surrounded by the creak and crack of metal rather than the eternal howl of the mountain gales.

  Njal stood before the stone. He felt like one of the old gothi of memory, gathered under the lee of ancient rock circles. The quiescent runes in his armour glimmered with fire-reflections.

  Others stood around him: Álfar of his retinue, Gunnlaugur of Járnhamar, Fellblade, Long-axe and Bloodhame with their packs. All wore their armour, fresh from the last of the hunts on Ras Shakeh, marked with new kill-tallies. The dust had not yet been cleaned away, though the stink of the planet had been replaced by the harder aroma of hearth-coals and weapon-oil.

  ‘Brothers, our fight on this world is over,’ Njal said.

  As he spoke, Nightwing preened itself absently. Every so often, the raven’s head would lift to stare at one of the warriors, then it would return to its work.

  ‘The Traitor spilled some truths before he died,’ Njal went on. ‘The Death Guard Legion is here. He mentioned the Traveller – his fell hand will be shown at some point. And he mentioned another: the Mycelite. I do not know this name. Perhaps some champion, perhaps one consumed by maleficarum. The name was repeated more than the rest, so he, if anyone, is master of these forces we have seen so far. And there is a ship: the Festerax.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Gunnlaugur.

  ‘The datacores your warriors brought back have been studied. We compared void-markers with those in the annals of the damned. Some were unknown, others too small to pose a threat. Then we found a match. The Festerax is known to the Imperium, and appears on the augur-logs. It is a legend of darkness, sighted on a hundred worlds across nine thousand years. Now we know where it is headed.’

  Njal raised his gauntlet, and a spinning star of energy formed in front of him. The nimbus resolved into a collection of star-system runes, glowing into a slowly rotating lattice. Carving its way through the heart of the network was a green slick – a jagged spear of lurid light-points. As it progressed, the slick split up, spreading out across the volume of the void and angling towards unconquered worlds ahead.

  ‘They are moving faster now,’ said Njal. ‘They know we are here. Half the subsector veers on the edge of desolation – if enough worlds are infected there will be nothing left to save.’

  Njal gestured, and the schematic zoomed out. Neighbouring star-systems swept into view, each identified with floating rune-m
arkings.

  ‘That is their aim,’ Njal said. ‘To scour these worlds. This takes strength away from fortresses closer to the real target.’

  The star-map kept zooming out. The fringes began to glow with curls of red matter, like licking flames at the edge of parchment.

  ‘The Eye,’ said Njal with grim finality. ‘Below the Cadian Gate. If they succeed in driving ruin this far, it will be one more wound to absorb on the flanks of the Praeses.’

  ‘They’re clearing the tribute subsectors,’ muttered Fellblade. ‘The ones that supply the front line.’

  Njal nodded. ‘They are.’

  Gunnlaugur studied the schematic. ‘Are these positions accurate?’

  ‘As much as anything is.’

  ‘We can’t run them all down,’ Gunnlaugur said. ‘We don’t have the ships.’

  ‘No. We have to make choices.’

  The star-map zoomed in again, cycling through subsectors, narrowing down to a single vector of the enemy incursion. The rune-markers spread wider and slipped off the edge of the projection. Soon only one remained.

  ‘Kefa Primaris,’ said Njal. ‘Hive world, significant forge capability, situated at the nexus of several warp-lanes. Take it, and the subsector is torn open. Hold it, and you have some chance of salvaging a remnant. They know this, and they know we’re on their trail, so they’ve sent forces ahead. Once they break that world, it’s over.’

  Njal watched the slowly spinning system-figure float into focus – a lone planet orbiting a giant red star.

  ‘Speed is not the issue,’ said Njal. ‘Only the Festerax itself is in range of Kefa Primaris, and both Heimdall and Vindicatus can overtake it. If this were a standard battleship, there might be little issue – Kefa is not undefended, and we have our own weapons – but the Festerax is not a standard battleship.’

  The projection narrowed down to a single ship – a vast, hunched, bloated ball of amalgamated hulls and prows, jumbled together like a gobbet of molten slag.

  ‘It is a hulk. A living hulk. Its origins are unknown, though they are ancient, maybe even pre-dating the Betrayal. It has been engaged by the Imperial Navy on seventeen occasions, each time destroying its attackers or evading capture. Its gunnery is meagre, but it can take immense amounts of damage. Seven hundred years ago, it was engaged by the Bellicosa Extremis, an Emperor-class battleship. The engagement lasted for seven days, during which Bellicosa hurled everything it had at it. By the end, its torpedo tubes were empty, its void shields burned away, and the Festerax had slipped into the aether.’

  Njal closed his fist, and the projection rippled out. ‘This is what heads for Kefa Primaris. This is what we must bring down.’

  Gunnlaugur let slip a low whistle. ‘A fine target.’

  Bloodhame laughed. ‘So it is. We are boarding, then?’

  Njal nodded. ‘If Bellicosa could not crack it, then nothing we have here will either. But we’ve seen monsters like this before, and we know how to slay them. Get into the heart of it, into the drive-halls, lock thermal charges. When enough of those go off, every methane chamber in the hulk will ignite.’

  The Wolves around nodded appreciatively. A low, barely audible growl ran around the chamber – pack-wide kill-urge taking root. It was all they ever asked for. A target.

  ‘We will need the Cardinal,’ said Njal. ‘The Festerax will have escorts, and his ships can take those on long enough to give us a way in. Heimdall will support. Apart from that, we will be on our own.’

  Fellblade snorted. ‘He’s busy scourging the planet below.’

  ‘He will see reason. But remember this: he loathes us. His creatures loathe us. They will provoke, they will protest. For now, it is up to us to keep the peace.’ Njal swept his gaze across them all, as dark as the vaults over the stone. ‘Do nothing to break faith with them. Nothing.’

  One by one, the Wolves bowed in submission.

  Nightwing cawed then, a thin sound like mocking laughter. Njal looked up, and extended his wrist. The psyber-raven flapped down from the chamber’s heights, landing heavily, its metal-pinned wings extended.

  ‘So we have our prey, brothers,’ Njal said, fangs exposed as he bared them in the old threat-gesture. Every spirit in the chamber kindled, quickening like flame on oil. ‘The wait is over. Now we take the fight to the enemy.’

  Chapter Ten

  Gunnlaugur left the Annulus Chamber as the others did. The atmosphere of Heimdall did him good. It smelt right, like a starship should, with its ritual skulls and rune-wards engraved on every panel. Still, he could feel himself on edge, unable to give in fully to the impending battle-joy.

  There was much to prove. He had failed against Thorslax. He had managed Ingvar badly. The pack under his watch was not the fluent weapon it had been under Hjortur. He knew it, and his brothers did, too.

  More than that, though, were the uncertainties. Was Ingvar’s suspicion founded on truth? Where was de Chatelaine? And, most of all, what was the judgement on Baldr, the one he had chosen to preserve, knowing the risks?

  ‘Vaerangi,’ came Njal’s voice from behind him.

  Gunnlaugur felt a chill run through him. He turned and bowed. ‘Something else, jarl?’

  ‘Come with me,’ said the Rune Priest, stalking off down the corridor.

  The two of them set off, heading up towards the next level. Njal’s boots clanged heavily as they hit the deck, weighed down by his thick Terminator plate.

  ‘How runs your pack?’ asked Njal gruffly, his staff-heel thudding as he walked.

  ‘They’re prepared,’ said Gunnlaugur.

  ‘But you had trouble.’

  Gunnlaugur bristled. ‘Nothing I couldn’t master.’

  Njal looked at him sidelong. ‘There’s no shame in it. You lead warriors. Some bad blood will flow.’ His cracked lips twisted in a thin smile. ‘On the ice, the warrior-kings were killed by their flag-bearers. That’s the world we come from. Nothing changes,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘Not under here.’

  Gunnlaugur kept his mouth shut, wondering where this was going.

  ‘I spoke to Baldr,’ Njal said.

  Again, the chill.

  ‘I found nothing,’ said Njal. ‘He will return to you, but be watchful. The first sign of any change, tell me. We have all lived too long to be unwary.’

  Gunnlaugur bowed his head, hoping the relief flooding over him wasn’t obvious. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, gruffly. ‘He was a good warrior.’

  ‘He is a good warrior. He will need to be, as I want him on this hunt.’

  ‘He’s ready?’

  ‘We will need every blade we have,’ said Njal. ‘More than that, I want him close. I want him back among us again.’ He shot Gunnlaugur a cynical look. ‘I want him away from this world, and I want him away from the Cardinal.’

  Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘By your will.’

  ‘This is what he was bred for, Skullhewer. His speed will come back once he’s got blade in hand.’

  The two of them kept going, clanking up a shallow metal stairway. Kaerls saluted as they passed, averting their eyes and clenching their fists against their chests.

  ‘So, can it be done?’ asked Gunnlaugur as they reached the next deck up.

  ‘The hulk?’ Njal exhaled a bleak laugh. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘They killed my blademaster,’ growled Gunnlaugur. ‘I’ve not yet slain enough to avenge him.’

  ‘You won’t be short of skulls to crack. Not in there.’

  They passed along a long, open gantry, flanked by crew-cells and refectory chambers. The life of the ship hummed around them, raucous and echoing.

  ‘The Cardinal is the key,’ said Njal. ‘We cannot break into that hulk without him, and he knows this. He’s powerful in his own kingdom, but powerful enough to refuse a request from a Lord of the Adeptus Astartes? In his theology, we are the Angels of the
Emperor.’ Njal shook his head, mystified. ‘If he practises what he preaches, he will not refuse.’

  They left the crew quarters behind and moved into a broad thoroughfare leading up to the flight decks. The smell of promethium and engine lubricants spiced the air.

  Njal paused before a barred iron door at the end of the passageway, its lintel carved with an elaborate knotwork bestiary of winged sky-wyrms. ‘I could choose to go to him in strength,’ he said. ‘But that would send the wrong message, so it will be just the two of us. You understand this?’

  Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘Perfectly.’

  Njal raised a finger and the doors slid open. Beyond them stood the antechamber to Heimdall’s primary shuttle hangar. Servitors clattered to and fro across a rockcrete deck. Through armourglass viewports Gunnlaugur could see into the cavernous shuttle-bay beyond, where a fleet lifter in slate-grey stood on the apron, surrounded by refuelling cables, its thrusters venting.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Njal said. ‘Let us make this as quick as we can.’

  Gunnlaugur followed him, reaching for his own helm as the blast-doors ahead started to grind open.

  ‘No argument from me,’ he said.

  Vindicatus was an immense vessel, only surpassed in void-displacement by the line battleships of the Imperial Navy. Its hull was ancient, laid down as an Exorcist-pattern Grand Cruiser millennia ago. Perhaps it had originally been intended for use in Navy patrols, taking its place alongside the thousands of war-vessels in the standing Imperial fleet. At some point, though, it had shifted purpose and found its way into the service of the Ecclesiarchy, who had taken it and changed it.

  Its exterior armour was covered in gold, from the jutting prow to the ranks of slab-sided weapon housings along the flanks. A mighty skull-device, a hundred metres across, had been carved into the hull, grinning out into the void and lit with a circlet of blood-red flood-lumens. The whole vessel hung in the well of space like a gaudy, opulent altarpiece, glinting from the light of Ras Shakeh’s vigorous star.