Stormcaller

by Chris Wraight

  Gunnlaugur peered out of the shuttle’s viewports on the way over, watching the baroque flanks slide closer, wondering just how much blood and treasure had been squandered to give the cruiser its skin.

  The interior of the cruiser was no less extravagant. The two Wolves were greeted by an honour guard of Battle Sisters, led tersely by the half-bionic Sister Nuriyah. They passed through halls of polished mirrors and crystalflex domes, all filled with devotional items encased in golden reliquaries and guarded by white-masked gun-drones. Heavy fabric drapes hung from ceilings fifty metres up, dusted by the meandering flights of incense-cherubim. The air was thick with cloying fragrance. Unlike on Heimdall, there were no mortal voices raised in laughter or cursing. The entire interior echoed to the low drone of endless chanting, piped through vox-emitters hung from gothic arches like battle-trophies.

  Delvaux received them in his private audience chamber, which was large enough to house an entire Guard company. He wore thick crimson robes lined with ermine, and his pudgy fingers were studded with jewelled rings. A lone column of gold-tinged light shone down on him from a lumen-cluster directly above his throne; otherwise the room was heavy with darkness. On either side of the dais stood two huge Penitent Engines, their motors idling and their smokestacks fouling the drapes around them. Stranger creatures flitted around in the gloom – servo-skulls dragging litanies of duty with them, cowled priests muttering benedictions and supplications, penitents shuffling on bleeding knees amid the velvety splendour.

  ‘My lord Rune Priest,’ said the Cardinal, lounging casually.

  ‘Lord Cardinal,’ replied Njal.

  ‘So there is a hulk. The Festerax. You think it possible to destroy it.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘You are mistaken.’ Delvaux shifted slightly on his cushions, lifting a thick arm and hitching up the sleeve. ‘We analysed the data you sent, and that hulk cannot be destroyed, not by the power we have here.’

  ‘Not by our ships,’ agreed Njal. ‘But I command thirty-seven warriors. Get us close enough, and we can disable it from the inside. Its skin is thick, but its heart is rotten.’

  ‘Very bold,’ said Delvaux. ‘But there is a thin line between boldness and delusion. There is a better way.’

  Gunnlaugur studied the surroundings silently as the two conversed. The chamber was soaked in hostility, as if the sanctified stones themselves protested over the boots that trod on them.

  ‘We know what they are doing,’ Delvaux went on. ‘They infect worlds with mass spore landings, causing waves of contagion that turn defenders into plague-bearers. On a hive world, that canker will spread even faster than it did here. If a hulk that size releases its spores, there will soon be nothing left to fight over. Better to starve the beast.’ He placed his hands together on his lap, pressing the fingers together as if in contemplation. ‘This vessel is equipped with nucleonic torpedoes. We can overtake the Festerax and wreath Kefa Primaris in holy fire. The sacrifice will buy us time, and deprive the damned of the prize they seek.’

  Njal said nothing for a moment, taken aback. When he next spoke, it sounded as if he were struggling to process the suggestion. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Very,’ said Delvaux. ‘They are here for recruits. Once the contagion latches onto Kefa Primaris, they will add billions to their army. We can prevent that.’

  ‘The planet can be saved,’ insisted Njal. ‘We can destroy the hulk before it makes orbit.’

  ‘And if you fail?’

  ‘It will be done.’

  ‘Well, yes. So you say. But you would, wouldn’t you?’

  In the face of such studious sarcasm, Njal remained implacable. ‘What you propose is forbidden. Only the Inquisition may launch Exterminatus, and even they wouldn’t try it with us around.’

  Delvaux smiled tolerantly. ‘Give it a different name, if that makes you feel better. Quarantine, perhaps.’ His expression became serious. ‘My lord, you have seen what is at stake here. Ras Shakeh is one thing – a world we cherish, but home to fewer than a million souls. A core planet is another. It must not be allowed to be claimed.’

  ‘Billions will die,’ said Njal, softly. ‘All able to take up arms. All healthy.’ His eyes held the Cardinal’s. ‘I will not allow it.’

  The Cardinal’s face did not flicker. ‘This is not a question of allow. We are discussing options. Or did you come to my ship to give me orders?’

  ‘All we need is the firepower to get us in,’ said Njal. ‘The hulk will be shielded. This ship, working with mine, can crack those shields, just for an instant. We can do the rest. That is all I ask.’

  Delvaux smiled coldly. ‘I never thought I would live to see it – the Wolves of Fenris asking for help. That is what you are doing, is it not? Tell me, just so I am sure.’

  Gunnlaugur tensed, feeling Njal’s frustration emanating like kill-pheromone from his armour. When the Rune Priest replied, his voice was like a rusty axe-edge being dragged across stone.

  ‘I am asking for your help.’

  Delvaux left the words hanging, enjoying them. ‘Well, then,’ he murmured. ‘We must accommodate what we can. Here is my proposal. We will intercept the hulk together, just as you suggest. Our weapons will be used with yours to break the shields, and we will get you on board the vessel.’ He spoke casually, as if setting out the orders of promotion in a Cathedral. ‘But the price for my agreement is this. My ship will overtake the Festerax once Kefa Primaris comes into strike-range. If the hulk reaches orbit, even if on the edge of destruction, I shall launch my quarantine. I will give you all the time necessary, but no more. This is the condition of my assistance.’

  Having said his piece, Delvaux placed his hands back on the armrests of his throne. His face took on a satisfied, almost beatific glow.

  Njal waited a long time before replying. ‘I have your word?’ he asked eventually. ‘No deployment of your payload before the hulk reaches orbit.’

  ‘If it makes you feel better, yes, you have my word,’ said Delvaux, amused. ‘Saints, I am a cardinal of the Emperor’s Holy Ministorum. I will swear on the relics of the saints in our keeping, if that will seal things for you.’

  ‘Your word is enough,’ said Njal, weighing the words deliberately. ‘On Fenris, the oathbreaker is lower than a beast. He is hunted unto the ends of the world.’

  ‘How charming.’ Delvaux leaned back. ‘Then we have an agreement. Time is pressing, if your augur-scans are to be trusted. My ships will be ready to break for warp within the hour. Yours?’

  ‘Heimdall is prepared. My warriors on the surface are being recalled.’

  ‘Good,’ said Delvaux. ‘I will leave a garrison from the Fiery Tear on Hjec Aleja. They can carry out the work of restoration in our absence.’

  ‘What of the canoness?’ asked Gunnlaugur.

  Delvaux turned to him, surprised that he had spoken. ‘The canoness comes under my jurisdiction, Wolf Guard. Her part in this does not concern you.’

  ‘She fought with me,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘She wished to form part of the crusade. I would welcome fighting alongside her again – she was a fine warrior.’

  ‘You thought so?’ Another wintry smile flickered across Delvaux’s lips. ‘But see, we have a rigid code in the Ecclesiarchy. De Chatelaine knew it, just as all the Sisters in my service know it. There are prices to be paid for failure, and her leadership was found wanting on Ras Shakeh. I have made arrangements. The Order of the Wounded Heart will be folded into the Order of the Fiery Tear. The rites can be completed once we are in the warp. A change of leadership will do this world good. A new governor will be found, one more amenable to taking the hard decisions necessary in a fallen galaxy.’

  The hairs on the back of Gunnlaugur’s neck rose. ‘Then the canoness is on this ship?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I would speak with her,’ he said. Then, from grudging lips, ‘
If you allowed it.’

  Delvaux spread his hands magnanimously. ‘Of course. You may speak to her whenever you like. Though whether she will able to reply to your satisfaction is another question.’

  He clapped his hands together. One of the Penitent Engines behind the throne hissed, sending gouts of steam from its reverse-jointed legs, then lurched into the pool of light. Its massive feet clanged on the marble floor, and it towered over the two Wolves at the centre of the lumen-beam.

  Gunnlaugur looked up to see a woman’s body suspended amid the gears and electro-shackles. Her head was covered with a white cloth, obscuring her features. Two muscled arms had been clamped wide, locked into the mechanisms of the Engine’s giant weapon-limbs. The rest of her body was half lost in a tangle of implants and cables, the tendrils swaddling more bloodstained robes. From under the cloth drape, the soundless howl of a permanent scream could be made out, imprinted on the fabric.

  Gunnlaugur’s hand swept to his hammer. He unlocked it in a single movement, activating the crackle of the energy field.

  ‘You dare…’ he began.

  He didn’t get anything else out. His limbs locked, his jaw froze. He stood, half poised to strike, raging against inertia.

  Only then did he realise the situation. Njal had lifted his staff, pulling him back, enclosing him in a vice of power.

  Delvaux looked on, unsettled and unamused. ‘This is my place, Space Wolf. Raise a weapon in here again and I will end you.’

  Gunnlaugur felt his muscles straining against Njal’s bonds, and a ball of agonised frustration rose up in his gorge.

  Stand down,+ came the Rune Priest’s voice in his mind. +Strike him, and I will slay you myself.+

  The vice lifted. Gunnlaugur staggered, catching himself before falling. The Penitent Engine stood over him, its infernal machinery ticking over. He looked up at it, his thunder hammer growling. If de Chatelaine retained anything of her self, she was not capable of responding to him any longer.

  Gunnlaugur swept a heavy-lidded gaze up towards Delvaux, keeping his hammer raised. He took no step towards him, made no threatening move, but the Cardinal still blenched.

  ‘Deactivate your weapon,’ Delvaux said, a little quickly, his voice rising.

  Slowly, deliberately, Gunnlaugur clicked the energy field off. Then he withdrew, keeping his black-pinned eyes fixed on the Cardinal the whole time. Delvaux shifted agitatedly in his seat.

  ‘Is this what we can expect from your warriors, my lord Rune Priest?’ Delvaux asked, rearranging his robes in a pretence at nonchalance.

  ‘It is,’ said Njal, his voice stony. ‘That is why I remain proud to be one.’ The Rune Priest looked up at the Penitent Engine, sharing Gunnlaugur’s disgust. ‘We have said all we came to. I will send word when we are ready to make for the veil.’

  ‘I shall wait with eagerness.’

  Without saying more, Njal turned on his heel and stalked down the chamber’s central aisle. Gunnlaugur relocked his thunder hammer, never releasing Delvaux from his stare as he did so, before doing likewise. The two Wolves strode down the length of the audience chamber, their footfalls echoing.

  ‘He is mad,’ voxed Gunnlaugur as they cleared the threshold.

  ‘Not mad,’ replied Njal, sweeping through the glistening finery.

  ‘She did not deserve–’

  Njal whirled on him, grabbing him by the throat. Even for one of the Rout, the movement was incredibly quick. ‘Never lose control like that again,’ he hissed. ‘Did nothing I said register in your mind?’

  Gunnlaugur clenched his fists instinctively, shocked by the sudden move. ‘I recognise my failing,’ he said.

  Njal released him, but remained furious. ‘Let him run rampant,’ he voxed, ‘and he will do to whole sectors what he has done here. We must tie him to our will.’

  Gunnlaugur nodded, humbled. ‘I see it.’

  ‘She did not deserve it,’ Njal said, his voice quieter. ‘None do, who end up in those things, but put your wrath aside. There will be targets for it soon enough.’

  ‘But when this is over–’ Gunnlaugur began.

  ‘Hel, when this is over,’ said Njal, starting to walk again, his staff-heel striking the floor harder than it had done, ‘I will hand you the hammer myself. Until then, keep it locked.’

  Gunnlaugur bowed. The stink of the incense felt even more repugnant in his nostrils, and the chanting even more offensive. As he walked, he couldn’t get the image of de Chatelaine’s agonised face out of his mind. His hearts felt sick.

  She did not deserve it.

  That she didn’t. For the time being, though, Gunnlaugur swallowed his fury, kept his fists closed, and followed his master back to the shuttle-bays.

  Once the order was given, things moved quickly. Those wolf-packs still on the surface were brought back to Heimdall by a succession of lifters and gunships. Ingvar had already made contact, passing on the news of the recovered units of kaerls, and a series of shuttles was sent down under Álfar’s supervision. It took some persuasion before Bjargborn’s troops were accepted – all were aware of the possibility of contagion, a lesson that had been learned the hard way at Hjec Aleja. In the end, quarantine chambers were isolated on Heimdall and medicae-sealed shuttles were allowed to head off-world with them. They were Sons of Fenris, and had fought for too long to be abandoned.

  Ingvar came up with them. As the planet’s rust-orange landscape fell away in a hail of dust, the sky intensified into a deep blue, and the desert dropped down into the haze of distance. As the shuttle rose higher and the colours bled away to darkness, the trails of other voidcraft scored the starfield. Most bore the red livery of the Ecclesiarchy, some with the Fiery Tear on their hulls, others with the skull device of Delvaux’s diocesan command. Ingvar watched a cluster of vapour-lines arcing out from the deep wasteland, and remembered what the kaerls had told him of black-robed officials moving out from temple to temple.

  Then the shuttle rolled over, angling for the docking run. The slate-dagger profile of Heimdall swooped closer. The Wolves’ ship was far smaller than the majestic Vindicatus. Its towers were close-clustered, its lone forward lance nestled sharply amid jowls of ice-white armour-plate. Though nominally Gladius-pattern, Heimdall was substantially larger than most ships of that class, and had an old and proud pedigree. It was fast, and tough, and brutally aggressive, just as it should be for the transport of the Stormcaller.

  Once docked, the kaerls were greeted by armed medicae teams in environment suits and led away to their observation cells. Ingvar headed down to his assigned quarters, pulling his helm off and freeing his ash-blond hair, rubbing the last of the oil from it as he went.

  The whole ship was in the throes of pre-launch activity. Kaerls ran down the corridors, seemingly chasing the klaxons that burst into life at every intersection. Bulkheads were pulled closed, hatches hammered down. Sub-warp engines were keyed up, sending growls juddering from the lower levels. Battle-brothers of the Rout passed him on the way to their own musters and he saluted them, clasping his fist to his chest.

  He reached his destination, and pulled open a heavy blast-door. The rest of them were waiting for him, standing in a loose circle in the chamber beyond. Jorundur somehow looked hunched even in his battleplate. His hollow eyes lifted as Ingvar entered. Hafloí acknowledged awkwardly; Olgeir was effusive.

  ‘We send Gyrfalkon to the desert and he returns with kaerls,’ the big warrior said, chuckling. ‘Give him longer, and he’d find Russ.’

  Ingvar smiled. ‘Good void-hunting, Heavy-hand?’

  Olgeir shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It proved useful.’

  Ingvar turned to Gunnlaugur and bowed in acknowledgement. ‘Vaerangi,’ he said.

  ‘Gyrfalkon,’ said the Wolf Guard, looking amused. ‘Last back, as ever.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint.’

  It was then that Bald
r moved into the light of the lumen. He looked drawn, his armour bulky around a thinned-out body. His eyes still had deep black rings under them, and his lips were grey. For all that, he moved much as he used to – compact, economical. His face had lost some of the tightness it had carried on the last warp jump. If anything, he looked… healthier.

  Ingvar regarded him warmly. ‘So you can hold an axe again, brother?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ said Baldr.

  ‘And Njal pulled your mind apart?’

  ‘Feels like it.’

  Gunnlaugur looked at them all, one by one. ‘Reunited.’ He bared his fangs in a savage smile. ‘As it should be.’

  The smile was infectious. From that point the savagery would only grow, building up over the short warp-stage as they trained and sparred and drove themselves into the full pitch of combat readiness.

  ‘Our course is set, our prey is marked,’ Gunnlaugur went on, setting up for the briefing to come. ‘Now. Here’s what he wants us to do.’

  Two hours after the pack’s war-council, with Heimdall running deep in the warp, Ingvar and Gunnlaugur met on their own in a chamber down in the darkened lower decks. Gunnlaugur stalked over to the dormant fire-pit at the centre of the chamber and poked at the coals. Ingvar hauled the hatch closed behind them and sealed it.

  ‘What did you find?’ asked Gunnlaugur, getting a weak flame to shiver over the embers.

  ‘They were active on the surface,’ Ingvar said. ‘At least three teams, all led by the Cardinal’s man, Klaive.’

  ‘Active. What does that mean?’

  ‘They went ahead of the main purge-squads, striking into enemy territory before it was cleansed. They were hunting for something – targeting the temples, then moving on.’

  Gunnlaugur grunted. ‘And you think?’

  ‘Datacores, just like the ones in the Cathedral.’

  ‘You didn’t find any?’

  ‘They worked fast.’

  Gunnlaugur kicked his boot through the coals again, raking up a guttering tremor of fire. ‘I’d like to rip their throats out,’ he snarled. ‘I’d like to gut them all, one by one, and hang the corpses from their own spires. De Chatelaine’s been put in to an Engine. You know that? If he can do that, he can do anything, and he wants to burn that planet. I could see the look in his eyes. Give him a cause, and–’ He took a deep breath. ‘Njal isn’t stupid. The Cardinal’s word means nothing. He wants to send Olgeir ahead of the battle-group, to the planet, just in case. There’s a system-runner docked in Heimdall’s berths. There’s no time to evacuate the entire world, but the Guard regiments at least must be saved.’