by William King
He could see that a great deal of business was being conducted here. Niches in the walls led into halls from which came the sound of haggling and bargains being struck. Goods were traded for other wares. Future contacts were being exchanged. Agreements about the use of ships and fleets and Navigators were being made.
Thousands of scents filled the air: of man and beast, of spice, silk and animal pelt. Machine oil mingled with technical unguent and hallucinogenic incense. To a man with senses as keen as Ragnar’s it was a little overwhelming until he started to catalogue the stimuli and get a grip on his surroundings. He followed Torin across the mosaic floor, through one of the archways and into an elevator. Moments later, without experiencing the sensation of motion, they were a hundred floors below, surrounded by walls of armoured reinforced plascrete.
Torin led him through the suddenly quiet corridors. The smell of Space Wolves was much stronger here. This was obviously an area frequented by the battle-brothers. Ahead of them a door slid open and they entered another chamber. This had walls of panelled wood. Furs of the great Fenrisian wolf were strewn across the floor. Alcoves in the walls held scrolls and books. What looked like a real log fire, but which was, in fact, a cunningly wrought hologramic simulation, warmed the room. All of this Ragnar took in at a glance before his eyes came to rest on the man behind the desk who dominated the room.
In his own way, he was as impressive as Berek Thunderfist or any of the Wolf Lords. He was thin for a Space Wolf, almost cadaverous. His face was long and sad and seemed unaccountably mournful. There were dark bags under his eyes, and deep lines in his face. His hair was long and grey. His beard was clipped short and streaked black. His eyes were cold, blue and calculating. They seemed to measure him in a moment, and file their conclusion away deep within a chilly brain. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and more resonant than Ragnar had been expecting.
“Welcome to Terra, Ragnar Blackmane. And welcome to our small band of brothers. I am Valkoth, and I am in charge of the Wolfblade contingent here.”
Ragnar felt no urge to challenge him. “I have asked Torin to begin your briefing. He will take you to your quarters and see that you are settled in. If you have any questions do not hesitate to ask him. The Celestarch is busy at the moment, but as soon as she has time you will be taken to her to swear your oath of loyalty. Until then you should act at all times as if the oath were already sworn and in force. Behave as if the reputation of the Space Wolves rests on it - for it does.”
“Aye,” said Ragnar.
“I believe there was an attempt on the life of Gabriella Belisarius,” said Valkoth. “Tell me about it.”
Ragnar did so, and the older man listened carefully, without interruption. After Ragnar had finished, he said, “Be vigilant. There will be more attempts on Gabriella’s life and the life of everyone in our charge.”
Ragnar nodded and Valkoth turned his attention back to the open book in front of him and began to make marks on it with a stylo. It was clear that they were dismissed.
Torin led Ragnar back into the hallway and deeper into a labyrinth of corridors. There were far fewer servants and retainers here and no sign of any Space Wolves, save himself and Torin.
“That was the old man,” said Torin. “He’s something of a scholar but don’t let that fool you. He is as fell-handed a warrior as ever lifted a chainsword and as cunning as Logan Grimnar himself.”
Ragnar did not share the common Fenrisian prejudice against scholars. It was obvious to him that what Torin was saying was true. “Where is everybody else then?”
“You were expecting a welcoming feast, perhaps?”
“No. I just thought there might be more of us about.”
“Actually there are more Wolves in the palace than at any time I can remember, what with the new Celestarch taking her throne, but that is quite unusual. Normally we are scattered hither and yon about the Imperium.”
“Why?”
“Various assignments. Some train Belisarian troops. Some have covert missions to perform. Some are bodyguards to Navigators going into particularly dangerous situations.”
“People keep telling me about training Belisarian troops. As I understood it, the Navigators have no troops.”
“Yes, and no. They have no formal soldiery but they have security guards who perform the same function. And they have mercenary companies under permanent contract who have served them so long that they might as well be part of the House. They are House soldiers in all but a legal sense.”
Ragnar felt like spitting. “What is the point in having laws if people find ways of getting around them? Civilisation!”
“You sound just like Haegr. You two should get along.”
Ragnar was not entirely sure that he was as righteous as he sounded. At the moment, he felt completely out of his depth and he was retreating into the code of his homeworld. Once again Torin read his mood. “It’s not entirely a bad way to be!”
Just at that moment a huge figure emerged from an archway. He had a double-sized ale tankard stuck on one foot and a massive hambone that had been gnawed clean in one hand. He was quite the largest man Ragnar had ever seen, gigantic even by Space Wolf standards, and the only one who might conceivably be called fat. His tiny eyes were sunk deep above huge rosy cheeks. His armour seemed to have been modified to contain a massive belly, which made it something of a triumph of the smith’s art.
“Did I hear someone taking my name in vain?” He bellowed, in a voice that reminded Ragnar of an enraged bull moose. “Was it you, little man?”
Torin grinned at the giant. “I see you are trying to start a new fashion in boots.”
The hulking stranger looked down and blinked. “I left my tankard by the bed when I lay down for a nap. I must have stood in it when I sprang manfully into action to challenge any who mock my good name.”
Ragnar realised that the newcomer reeked of ale. Spots of food had settled in his beard. “You know I would not do that, Haegr,” said Torin. “I was merely remarking to our latest recruit that you and he have something in common.”
Haegr blinked owlishly, as if noticing Ragnar for the first time. “A newcomer from the blessed world of Fenris, where the cold winds scour the rugged earth of all pollution and corruption. I fear you have come to the wrong place, lad. This foul festering sinkhole of iniquity is anathema to our kind, to the manly virtues of the mighty Space Wolves…”
“Haegr is as windy as the world that birthed him,” said Torin.
“Do you mock me, little man?”
“I would not dare. I was simply admiring your new honour badge.”
“I have no honour badge.”
“Is not that the order of the gravy stain, used to mark the armour of the mightiest of trenchermen?”
Haegr reached down and touched the gravy spot on his armour, then licked his finger. “If I did not know better I would think you were taunting me, Torin. Only I know that no man would dare.”
“Your logic is impeccable as always, old friend. Now I must show Ragnar to his quarters and brief him on his duties.”
“Be sure you let him know that he will be surrounded by effete cowards without the least of the manly virtues. This world is not Fenris, lad. Don’t you forget it!”
“I don’t think I am likely to,” said Ragnar. “Everyone keeps telling me about it one way or another.”
“I will see you later then, and we shall quaff ale in the heroic fashion of the Sons of Fenris. Now I must see about removing this tankard from my foot,” He turned and stamped back into his room.
“That was Haegr,” said Torin. “He’s not the brightest man who the Choosers of the Slain ever picked to join our ranks, but he is perhaps the bravest, particularly when it comes to the consumption of ale and meat.”
“I heard that!” bellowed a muffled voice from behind the closed door.
“It was a compliment to your heroic prowess!” shouted Torin, lengthening his step suddenly.
“I would not want to have to beat you again,�
� shouted Haegr, his head sticking out of the door. His enormous bushy whiskers reminded Ragnar of a walrus.
“I am still waiting for the first time,” said Torin.
“What was that?”
“Go and take the tankard off your foot,” said Torin, as they ducked around a corner.
“He would not really beat you?” Ragnar asked. Torin raised an eyebrow.
“He wishes he could. Haegr is very strong but his bulk makes him fairly slow. I have yet to lose a bout to him in unarmed combat.”
There was a quiet confidence in Torin’s manner that was utterly at odds with Haegr’s bluster. Ragnar saw no reason to doubt his words.
“How did he get so heavy? I thought our bodies had been engineered to burn food efficiently. I don’t think I have ever seen an overweight Space Wolf before.”
“There is more muscle than fat in there, as you will find if you ever arm wrestle with him. As to his fatness, something went slightly wrong when Haegr made his ascension to Space Marine. It did not show up for a long time; the Wolf Priests merely thought he had a huge appetite. It was only after he piled on the pounds that they realised there was some sort of flaw in him. Not enough to turn him into a Wulfen or get him exiled into the Cold Wastes but one that made him what he is. You will find most Wolfblades did not exactly fit in back at the Fang. That’s how most of us ended up here.”
“What brought you here then?”
“I asked for it.”
“You wanted to see the Holy World?”
“Something like that. And here we have your new chambers. It’s not much, but it’s home,” he said.
Looking through the door, Ragnar could see that once again, Torin was mocking. The chambers were vast and singularly well appointed. They made his suite on The Herald of Belisarius look positively spartan. He could see that his gear had already been brought in and laid out for his inspection on a massive oaken table.
“It’s not quite what I expected,” he said.
“It comes with the job. The Belisarians like to keep us happy. They do not want anyone buying our loyalty so we get the best of everything.”
“They think someone could buy the loyalty of a Space Wolf? They do not know us very well,” said Ragnar. He resented the implied slur on the honour of the Chapter.
“Perhaps they know us better than we know ourselves, Ragnar. Or perhaps they simply project themselves onto us. Make yourself comfortable. You will be summoned to your duties soon.”
Before Ragnar could say anything, Torin had retreated and the door was shut behind him.
Ragnar moved through the suite of rooms, and tried to drink in the unaccustomed luxury. The fittings were of the finest quality. There were armchairs, couches and desks, a suspensor bed where it was possible to float above the mattress on a repulsor field. There was a wash chamber with a sunken marble bath.
There was a hologramic window which changed views when you passed your hand over a rune. He cycled through views of Fenris, a desert world dominated by massive ruins, the hall of merchants above, a huge structure that might have been the Imperial Palace with an endless queue of pilgrims about it. The air was filled with relaxing scents, low thrilling martial music was piped in.
Ragnar continued to look around for concealed surveillance devices. He unplugged cameras set within the plasterwork of the ceilings. He sniffed out sub-auditors beneath the beds. He found a camera eye in the poison snooper above the table. He did not like being watched and wanted to make sure that the person who had planted these things got the message.
After he had finished going over the room, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do. This place was not at all what he had expected. It reeked of suspicion and intrigue and everyone he met had warned him about it.
It seemed he was to assume everyone he met was treacherous, just as they would assume the same about him. It was no way to live, he thought, and then realised that he had no choice. Assassination was evidently a way of life here. People committed stealthy murder for their own advantage. And it appeared that anything could be bought.
Why was it so, he wondered? Surrounding him were riches beyond the wildest dreams of most of the subjects of the Imperium. All of the Lords of the Imperium, and all of the Navigators shared in that huge wealth. Why did they need more? Perhaps it was not riches they fought for. Perhaps it was power. He had seen what the desire for power could do even among the comparatively austere warriors of Fenris.
And what of his new companions? How trustworthy were they? Torin seemed a man of many secrets and his mocking manner was unlike any Space Wolf Ragnar had ever known. He seemed to have become more a Belisarian in his manner of dress, speech and thought. Haegr seemed simple, but Torin had spoken of some sort of flaw that had perhaps resulted in his exile to this place. Perhaps the flaw went deeper than that.
Ragnar forced himself to relax. He was in no position to judge his comrades. He was simply uneasy at having been torn from the routine of his life with the battle-brothers and thrust into the murky undercurrents of this place. He was like a fish out of water. He had been trained to deal with the hard realities of battle, where objectives and enemies were clearly defined. He hadn’t been trained in palace intrigue. Perhaps that was why he had been sent here. Perhaps this was something he needed to master. He knew that whatever happened here, he was being presented with an opportunity.
He was in a position to study the dark underbelly of the Imperial political system close up. He was going to do his best to learn from this, and master it. At this moment, Ragnar was alone and ignorant and vulnerable, but it was his task to see that he did not remain that way. He would take his destiny into his own hands. He would learn what was necessary, and he would triumph over his circumstances. This was a test he was not going to fail.
Coming to this decision made Ragnar feel better. He realised that ever since he had lost the Spear of Russ and learned that he must face trial at the Council of Wolves, he had been drifting, uncertain and unsure. That time was over now. Whatever challenges lay ahead he would face them like a true Son of Russ.
“There was a knock on the door. He opened it and found Torin and Haegr waiting for him. The Celestarch desires the pleasure of an audience with her newest Wolfblade,” said Torin, half-jokingly.
“She sent us to make sure you would not get lost,” said Haegr, licking his lips.
“Actually she sent me,” said Torin, “to make sure you both did not get lost.”
“You know I know my way about the palace better than any newly arrived cub.”
Ragnar smiled at them. “I am sorry. I did not recognise you, Haegr, without that bucket on your foot.”
“Are you mocking me, lad?”
“Would I do a thing like that?” said Ragnar.
“You’d better not,” said Haegr.
“I think you’re going to fit right in around here,” said Torin, leading them through the maze of passageways towards the distant elevator.
CHAPTER SIX
They emerged from another elevator in a different part of the palace. Ragnar’s head was spinning from all the new sights, sounds and stimuli as well as the sheer immensity of the place. But the process of adapting to the new environment had already begun. As they walked they were leaving a scent trail he could use to retrace his steps. The more ground they covered, the more marks they would leave. Even now, he could find his way back to his chamber blindfolded.
The people in this area were better dressed. There were more Navigators, and more ostentatious signs of wealth. Hologramic tapestries of spun golden thread covered the walls; the perspective on the scenes changing as you walked past in a manner that fooled the eye completely. Here were pictures of treaties, and ships against starry backgrounds, and landscapes of a hundred alien worlds. In each landscape the banner of Belisarius fluttered. On each ship the sigil of its power was painted. A Navigator in House uniform played a prominent part in every negotiation.
Most startlin
g of all was the picture of a Belisarian walking beside three haloed figures. One was winged like an angel, one had the long fangs of a Space Wolf, and one had a blazing aura. Ragnar gave it more than a passing glance. Unless he was completely mistaken, the picture showed one of the precursors of the current Celestarch walking beside the Emperor, Leman Russ and Sanguinius, primarch of the Blood Angels.
Ragnar flinched a little at the sight of the spear in Russ’s hand. He flexed his fingers. They too had briefly held that holy weapon. Looking at the accuracy of the depiction, Ragnar had no doubt that the artist had seen the weapon. The painting was a none-too subtle reminder of the ancient lineage and the mighty connections of the House of Belisarius.
He took time to study the people around him. The humans looked at them with a mixture of respect and fear, as they passed. Their nervousness was evident in their scent. The Navigators, as always, were much more difficult to read. There was something about them that was as alien and inhuman as an ork. Torin and Haegr gave no sign of being upset by it, but he supposed that they had had many years to get used to it.
Ahead of them loomed a massive archway. The support columns were formed by two starships, surrounded by angels with the third eye of Navigators — an image that some would think came close to blasphemy. In the centre of the arch was embossed the sigil of Belisarius, an eye flanked by two rearing wolves. The guards at the entrance saluted them and allowed them to pass directly into the presence room.
Here too was evidence of power and wealth. The domed ceiling of the chamber was a jewelled representation of the night sky. It was reflected in the black marble of the floor. On a raised floating dais of polished black stone, the present Celestarch rested on a throne of true silver. She was a tall woman, with an ageless beauty, garbed in a long black gown, belted at the waist with a girdle of silver. The buckle of the belt bore the sign of the eye flanked by two wolves, as did the diadem on her brow. In its case, the metal eye was positioned exactly so that the Celestarch’s own pineal eye was visible through it.