by William King
“An ork,” he said, glancing at the skull. “The greenskin was the first off-worlder I ever killed. I took its skull as a trophy. I was going to use it as a drinking cup.”
Ragnar looked at the old man fascinated. He had never heard this tale before. He wondered at the age of the skull. Given Ranek’s age it must have been taken from its original owner centuries ago.
“Not a good idea. Wrong shape, really; the beer drains away through the eye sockets.” It took Ragnar a few moments to realise that the old man was making a joke. The priest bared his large fangs in a grimace that Ragnar knew was meant to be a smile. It vanished as quickly as it came. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Ragnar looked at him. “I think I have.”
Ranek shook his head. “You have spoken truth as far as it goes but you are not telling me all that you think.”
Ragnar smiled at the Rune Priest this time. Ranek was too difficult to deceive. He might lack the thought-reading powers of the Wolf Priests but his disconcerting cold eyes could see into a man’s heart with equal ease. Ragnar decided he would air his doubts. That was the way of his people.
“I have no real answer, lord. There is just something about these strangers that makes me uneasy. I don’t quite know why but I sense a wrongness about all of this. I am not sure the Great Wolf should have granted them permission to come here. I do not think he should let them examine our trophies.” Even as he dared say them, a part of him wondered whether he should voice these doubts. Who was he, a mere Blood Claw, to question the judgement of the Great Wolf? On the other hand, it was the enshrined right of every Fenrisian warrior to speak his mind, and the Space Wolves were nothing if not Fenrisian warriors.
To his surprise, Ranek was standing straighten His scent told Ragnar that the old priest was paying closer attention to him.
“You have doubts about the strangers?” Ranek asked.
“I know not, not for sure. Maybe about their mission. About something. There is something here that makes me uneasy.”
Ranek nodded, almost to himself. “I agree with you.”
Ragnar was not surprised. He could sense something of the old man’s moods from his scent. Reading scents was part of being one of the pack. It was what let the Space Wolves act with a co-ordination and precision that few other humans could match.
“Unfortunately the Great Wolf does not see eye-to-eye with me on this.”
Ragnar raised an eyebrow and altered his stance uneasily. Such dissension in the upper ranks was rare. No, he corrected himself; he did not know that. It appeared rare Perhaps it was always there and he just did not have the opportunity to see it. He was a Blood Claw and in training, and he rarely mixed with the Chapter’s mighty rulers. There were few opportunities to. They were out in the field for so much of the time; in comparison, he as yet had not gone much further than the Fang.
“Logan Grimnar mists Inquisitor Sternberg. The inquisitor saved his life long ago and there is a debt of honour there.”
“Are you saying you do not trust him?” Ragnar dared. It was a bold question for a Blood Claw to ask someone as senior as the Wolf Priest but somehow Ragnar knew he would get an honest answer. Ranek smiled, but there was no warmth in the man’s lined face.
“I trust him well enough,” he said. “I have no doubt of his loyalty to the Emperor. There is no taint to him or to any of his retinue… but he is not one of us. He is not one of the pack and there are mysteries within the Fang that are only for us of the pack to know.”
Ragnar thought he knew what the Wolf Priest meant. There was a bond between those who had been initiated into the Wolves, who had passed through the Gate of Morkai and bore the geneseed of Russ within their bodies. It was something that no one else could share. These off-worlders were outsiders and more. They were not of the pack. They did not share the sense of place and group identity that every one the Chapter members did. Then another part of what the Wolf Priest had said to him sank in and he almost laughed.
“I am only a Blood Claw,” Ragnar said. “I know very little of any mysteries.”
Ranek smiled back at him. “Then you cannot give them away, can you?”
This time Ragnar did laugh, suddenly appreciating the old Wolf Priest’s cunning. It was true: he could not reveal what he did not know. On the other hand, those who had progressed further into the Chapter would know more of the ancient mysteries, certainly — but was it really so likely that they would give them away to strangers? He voiced his question aloud.
“All too possible,” Ranek said. “Inquisitors are good at ferreting out secrets. They cannot help it. It is their great yet unenviable task in life. I would go as far as to say that it is their life. It would take a warrior of great cunning to converse with them and be able to keep secrets.” His tone changed again and became utterly serious. “And I have my doubts about what is going on here. I do not know why it should be, but I feel the same as you do. My instincts tell me that there is something dangerous afoot, something that threatens the Chapter. Ragnar, I want you to show these strangers about, and I want you to keep a real eye on them. Furthermore, I want you to come and tell me everything you see. You are quick and your senses are keen. This is why I have chosen you for the task.”
“Do you want me to report directly to you, lord?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody else? Not even the Great Wolf?”
“Only if he asks that you do so.”
“I will do as you command,” Ragnar said uneasily. He wondered what was really going on here. He sensed dissension within the high command, cross-currents in the sea of Chapter politics that he could only guess at. Perhaps the Wolf Priest was acting on instructions from the Great Wolf; perhaps he simply wanted Ragnar to believe that he was acting on his own initiative. Why that might be the case, Ragnar could not guess. Such speculations made his head spin, so he suppressed them. It was always easiest to stick with the simplest line of reasoning until that was proven wrong. Besides, in a way he was glad he had been chosen for the task. He was curious about the strangers… particularly the woman.
“Good,” Ranek said. “Be open with them. Show them around. Tell them what you know.”
“And tell you what they ask about?”
Ranek nodded and gave a wide, fang-filled smile. Ragnar wondered what he was letting himself in for.
The great wooden door swung back and Ragnar ventured warily into the chambers assigned to the inquisitor and his retinue. Already they had changed their surroundings. The air smelled different, full of the cloying scent of incense and odd, subtle off-world perfumes. From deeper inside the chambers came the sound of voices chanting. A litany was being recited in Imperial Gothic, the standard language of the Imperium and all its liturgy. Somewhere the praises of the Emperor were being recited, over and over. The ancient words echoed around the hallway.
Heavy crimson brocade drapes had been hung up to cover the bare stone of the walls. Ragnar wondered how the fitting could have been made so quickly, until he saw that each section of cloth hung from a suspensor globe floating on its own antigravity field. He ran his fingers over the cloth. It was thick and soft, of far finer weave than anything produced on Fenris. Each vast rectangular section was trimmed with gold and precious stones, and emblazoned with the symbol of the Inquisition. Before him two enormous braziers burned -and between them stood two black-robed men. Huge cowls hid their faces. Bolt pistols were held in their hands. The left-hand sentry extended his open hand in a gesture that told Ragnar he was to stop.
“What is your business here?” the right hand sentry asked, almost as if they were not in the depths of the Fang. As if Ragnar had no right whatsoever to be there.
“I am Ragnar of the Space Wolves. I have been sent to act as Inquisitor Sternberg’s guide to the Fang.”
The sentry spoke into a small brass device on a leather strap at his wrist. The words were framed in a language which Ragnar did not recognise, though that was hardly surprising; there were millio
ns of tongues in the Imperium, and he spoke only the language of Fenris and Imperial Gothic, which had been drummed into his brain by the tutelary engines of the Fang. The Wolf waited, studying the strangers closely, annoyed by their arrogance but determined not to show it. He breathed in their scent. It was human but held many faint alien taints. It was the scent of men who had grown up eating different foods, breathing different air, under a different sky from the one under which he had been born.
“You may proceed, Ragnar of the Space Wolves,” the sentry said. The pair turned on their heels to leave an opening between them for him to pass through. It was performed with a discipline and a precision that Ragnar found almost amusing. Part of his education had concerned the military training of other Imperial units. He knew that they were addicted to marching and moving in formation and all manner of shows of discipline that the Space Wolves rarely indulged in and considered pointless ostentation. Of course, he had been led to believe, they in turn thought the Space Wolves barbaric. To each his own, Ragnar thought, moving forward.
One of the sentries fell in behind him, Ragnar not sure whether this was to show him the way or to escort him as if he were a prisoner. Two more dark-cowled guards had already emerged from the inner chamber, as if produced by a machine to take their place, and they took over chaperoning duties. He could see how some visitors to an inquisitor might be intimidated by such behaviour. He might have been himself, had they not been in the heart of the Fang. Besides, he seriously doubted that these two warriors, well trained as they might be, could even slow him down when it came to a real battle. He was, after all, a Space Marine.
They arrived at the inner chamber and Ragnar saw that it had been partitioned off like the first with many drapes. It was like being in a huge multi-sectioned tent. It gave each person in the retinue some privacy; moreover, from a military standpoint, it altered the lay of the land, and might confuse any intruder for a few moments. Ragnar almost laughed at the thought. As if that could possibly stop the Wolves right in the middle of their own lair. He shook his head realising that he was being naive. This arrangement was simply a standard procedure for these people, not some special set-up for here in the Fang. Perhaps in other places, on other planets, it would serve its purpose admirably. He decided to withhold judgement.
He was led by the two guards through a winding maze of cloth corridors. It did not trouble him. He could find his way through the labyrinth from memory if need be and, even if that had not been the case, it would be a simple matter to follow his own scent trail back to the exit. He realised that the layout was another clue about these off-worlders. They thought in terms of mazes and puzzles, of deception and trickery. Their thinking was most likely equally convoluted and circuitous.
As they proceeded through the structure, Ragnar noted the activities around him. In some of the curtained chambers, men meditated. In others scribes scratched away with stylos on the parchment pages of huge librams. Ahead of him, he could hear the clash of blade on blade. It sounded as if two people were engaging in combat practice.
The three of them stepped through an entrance where the hangings had been folded back and Ragnar could see that he had been correct. The salt smell of sweat and the hard acrid stink of aggression struck his nose with an almost physical assault. He twitched his nostrils and watched carefully. Inquisitors Sternberg and Isaan were sparring with each other on a padded combat that. They were using a style he had never seen before, long cloaks held in one fist, knives in the other. They were using the cloaks as weapons, flicking them at each other to obscure vision, using them like nets to try and entangle the other. Ragnar watched in fascination.
They were both very skilled. Sternberg was larger and had the longer reach, but the woman was quicker and somehow she seemed able to anticipate the man’s movements better. Sternberg faked a slash and stabbed forward, but she was no longer before him. Her cloak lashed out to entangle his legs. Looking at the way it moved Ragnar could tell it was weighted, designed to be used as a weapon. That too told him something about these people. They thought to conceal weapons even within innocuous items of clothing. He imagined that the weights sewn into those hems, whipped forward at the end of a cloak, might be able to knock a normal man out, perhaps even break his head, though he doubted they would have any effect on the reinforced skull of a Space Marine.
Sternberg leapt upward, letting the cloak pass beneath him but that was a mistake, Ragnar could tell. Taking even one foot off the ground usually was in close combat. It put a man off balance. Leaping into the air was worse. You had no purchase on anything. Isaan proceeded to demonstrate this admirably. Her straightened arm slammed into Sternberg’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards. His fingers opened and the cloak tumbled to the floor. Ragnar thought him bested for a moment, but then realised that the truth was otherwise. As he hit the ground he rolled over, feet passing over his head, but even as he did so his newly freed arm slammed into the ground and his whole body rotated, bringing his feet into position to kick the legs from underneath the woman. She tumbled backwards onto the that, and the man moved forward with a turn of speed he had not previously demonstrated, to end with his knife at her throat.
“Yield,” he said smoothly.
“I yield,” she panted. “Good move, the last. I had thought you a little slow today.”
Ragnar studied them again, looking at Inquisitor Sternberg with new respect. He had obviously planned out the whole thing, lured his colleague into his trap and then swiftly implemented it. He had used his mind as a weapon as well as the knife and it was difficult to tell which was keener. Ragnar slapped his open hand against his breastplate in warrior’s applause. Sternberg turned at the sound, and bowed to him with a smile.
Ragnar took a moment to study the inquisitor. Close up, the man looked as hard as a Wolf Priest. His hair was so grey it was almost white but other than that he looked youthful. His skin was tanned and his teeth were white and even. His eyes were grey, calm and watchful. His smile was pleasant, even friendly, but that friendliness never quite seemed to reach his eyes.
“Greetings, my friend,” Sternberg said evenly, despite his recent exertions. “What brings you here?”
“I have been sent to be your guide and to answer any questions you may have about the Fang.”
“And about what I came here to find?”
“I know nothing about such things — but I can take you to those who may do.”
“Good,” the inquisitor said. “I am most keen to start. Lives are at stake and we do not have any time to waste.”
“Then let us seek out the archivists,” Ragnar said.
Matters were not going well, Ragnar thought. On the surface the inquisitors seemed relaxed and charming but Ragnar could tell by their scents that they were angry and frustrated. His nose never lied about such things. No Space Wolf would be fooled by their appearance, and the archivist, too, was a Space Wolf. He, in turn, seemed to be responding to the visitors’ suppressed impatience with an anger of his own.
To distract himself from the swirl of emotions, Ragnar gazed around this section of the Hall of Battles. One corner of the vast chamber was filled by flickering viewscreens and the huge brass and iron chassis of the ancient cogitation engine. The air smelled of ozone and machine oil. The hiss of pistons and the hum of capacitors reached his ears. In the walls were countless niches filled with smooth stone tablets. Ragnar knew that these were runestones, and that in some way known only to the Iron Priests they stored great volumes of information that the machine could read. The stones were a near-indestructible repository of lore from throughout the Space Wolves’ history.
“It will take some time to find out what you require,” Archivist Tal said testily. He was an elderly Wolf Priest, even older-looking than Ranek but far less burly. Age seemed to have pruned every fragment of spare flesh from his frame. His beard was long and straggly. His one good eye was sunk deep its socket. The green-tinged camera lens of a bionic device glittered in place of its t
win. Ragnar could see the inquisitor’s face reflected in its polished glass. When the archivist raised one hand the nails were so long they looked like talons.
“How much longer?” Sternberg asked him. His voice was calm, well-modulated. Had Ragnar not been reading the man’s scent he would have detected no trace of impatience in it.
The archivist shrugged and the raven hopped from his shoulder and began to scrabble along the desk, before it flexed its wings and took off. Ragnar watched the bird go. For a moment it looked like a scrap of shadow under the vast cavern roof, then it disappeared into the gloom. This part of the Hall of Battles was not well lit and it smelled fusty with age. “Who can say? I will notify young Ragnar when I come across the runestones pertaining to what you require. In the meantime it would be best if you returned to your chambers. Your presence here is merely a distraction.”
“The Great Wolf said that these people were to be given all the co-operation they required,” Ragnar said. He did not feel quite as calm as he sounded. The archivist was notoriously crotchety.
“It is not for you to remind me what the Great Wolf said, young Ragnar. My memory is quite good enough for that. I am the Keeper of Records. I can recall what he told me only yesterday. I am just saying that things would go quicker if I did not have people here asking me fool’s questions and goading me with fool’s statements.”
“I can see that,” Ragnar said tetchily.
“And I don’t need any of your lip either, youngling. I am not so old that I can’t administer a sound thrashing to any beardless cub that cheeks me.”