by William King
He looked up and was surprised to see that Torin was using a knife and fork in the local manner, and was carefully cutting his food into small bite sized portions before chewing on it. A translucent goblet the size of bucket contained wine. It was his only concession to the Fenrisian style of feasting.
He smiled at Ragnar. “Sensorin dreamwine. It contains some powerful hallucinogenic mushrooms. They have quite a kick. I like to test myself on such things.”
“Haegr let out a belch like a thunderclap. Torin has gone all decadent. I blame the influence of all these effete earthlings. Only my regular thrashings give him any semblance of true Fenrisian hardihood.”
“Watch your arm, Ragnar,” said Torin. “Haegr almost grabbed it by mistake. Several men have needed prosthetics after dining with him.”
“A scurrilous rumour spread by my enemies,” said Haegr, shredding the second sheep with his teeth. “I am no ork.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult to tell,” said Torin. “Did your mother know your father well? I am sure I detect a greenish tint to your skin sometimes.”
“The only greenish tint around here is on your skin and it comes from your envy of my manly prowess.”
“Actually, as I recall, you did look a little green after our last drinking session. You claimed that you should not have had that last alligator curry, although I suspect it was the two barrels of firewine that disagreed with you?”
“How could you tell?” asked Haegr complacently. “You were unconscious at the time. Which reminds me — you still owe me for that bet.”
Ragnar glanced around the room. The whisky had warmed his belly, and the food was going down well, but something made him uneasy. There was a faint prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He sensed that he was under hostile observation and tried to identify the source. Many people were looking at them now, but that could be because they were betting how much Haegr could eat. He could hear wagers being made at the other tables if he listened hard.
There was other talk too, about politics mixed in with the usual bar room gossip. Some of the strangers were talking about the death of Adrian Belisarius, and their discussion was becoming quite animated. It appeared the former Celestarch was not the only highly ranked Navigator to have died recently. Evidently there had been attempts on others too. Again and again, Ragnar picked up the word Brotherhood. He was about to go over and enquire about it, but a warning glance from Torin told him it would not be a good idea.
“It seems the death of Adrian Belisarius is common gossip,” said Ragnar. Torin shrugged.
“Men will talk about what men talk about.”
Ragnar considered what he had heard. “Did he really die in a flitter crash?”
“You could say that.”
Haegr grunted something but his words were incomprehensible through his huge mouthful of food.
Despite the friendly hustle and bustle, Ragnar began to feel more and more uneasy. A couple of people eyed him with hostile intent. When he cast his mind back, he recalled that several of those men’s friends had rushed out of the tavern earlier.
“It seems we are not popular here.”
“Space Wolves never are on Terra,” said Torin.
“Why?”
“Ask the locals not me! You’d think they would be grateful after all we have done for them.”
Ragnar swigged the ale and considered this. He could just go over and challenge the strangers. Seeing his look the men got up and ducked for the door. Maybe he had been wrong, Ragnar thought. Maybe they were simply curious or disliked off-worlders. On the other hand they could be zealots though they certainly had not shown any zeal for sticking around when he looked like he was about to talk to them.
More and more food was being heaped on the table but Haegr and Torin appeared to be having a drinking match, in order to warm up. Goblets of whisky and massive steins of ale filled their table, and both contestants appeared to be able to consume them with little trouble.
Ragnar slowed his own drinking to sips. The atmosphere of incipient danger had not changed — if anything it had increased. A glance told him that Torin, while appearing to drink as heartily as Haegr, was also covertly studying their surroundings. He was subtle about it, and if Ragnar had not been doing the same he would not have noticed it. When their eyes met, Torin winked surreptitiously. Ragnar felt reassured. If there was going to be trouble, he was not the only one expecting it.
A mountain of food appeared in front of Haegr. He smacked his lips and gestured for the waitresses to keep it coming. Loaves, sides of beef, and fish the size of small sharks continued to disappear along with a small mountain of butter and cheese. More men had entered. Some of them brought with them an odd stink of hatred and menace. It was sharp as a knife and as bitter as the soul of a miser who had lost a gold coin. The hackles on the back of Ragnar’s neck rose further, but aside from Torin he was the only one in the place who did not give off the odd scent or who showed any sign of unease.
All eyes were focused on Haegr now. Gasps of disbelief and cries of awe filled the chamber as the orgy of consumption continued. Haegr was chewing through whole bones now, grinding them in his teeth and swallowing them down. Torin had risen now to clap Haegr on the shoulder and congratulate him, but Ragnar caught him leaning forward and whispering in his comrade’s ear.
Haegr’s cheeks were red, and sweat dotted his brow. Although his whole concentration appeared to be focused on his eating orgy, he nodded imperceptibly and quaffed a huge mouthful of ale. Torin did not sit back down, instead he glanced around to seek the source of impending danger.
A man bumped into Ragnar. There was an angry expression on his face as if he resented being jostled. The anger was real, but the cause was not. Ragnar knew from his stink that he had already been on the verge of berserk fury before they had made contact. The man’s pupils were the size of pinpricks and a faint trail of drool dribbled from his mouth. Close up, Ragnar caught the acrid unhealthy chemical scent of his sweat. A vein pulsed in the man’s forehead. His lips were drawn back in a snarl revealing yellowing teeth.
“Out of my way, off-world pig,” he slurred. Most would have assumed the slurring was caused by alcohol, but Ragnar knew better. This was one of the many side effects of Fury, an alchemical concoction designed to goad men to berserker fits in battle. It had been banned by the Imperial military centuries ago because it made troops unreliable and increased their susceptibility to the influence of Chaos. Still, it had been used by heretics in several of the planetary rebellions that Ragnar had helped quash. He was shocked to discover it being used here on Earth.
He was not intimidated. A man in the grip of Fury could be erratic, incredibly strong and almost immune to pain but that would not make him a threat to a Space Wolf. The man obviously did not see things this way. He slipped something over his hand, and said, “I said, out of my way off-world pig. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Ragnar scented more men closing in on him. They all had the same tainted sweat. Ragnar grinned, showing his teeth. If the man was too far gone to back off after that, the consequences would be on his own head. The stranger swung at him.
The blow came in faster than it would have from a normal man but Ragnar blocked it with ease. He caught the man’s wrist in his hand. There was a stinging sensation in his arm as a blue electrical arc jumped from the band on the man’s fingers to Ragnar’s arm.
The man was wearing electric cestii, designed to enhance the power of a punch with an electric shock. If set to maximum, the blast of power could stun or even kill a man if his heart were weak. Ragnar smiled and casually backhanded his attacker. Teeth flew everywhere and bones broke as his foe was thrown across the room. He landed on a table, but immediately struggled to his feet, his resilience obviously enhanced by the drugs in his system.
One of the people at the table was annoyed to have a stranger suddenly strewn across his food. He showed his displeasure by breaking a wine bottle over the attacker’s head. That w
as a mistake — the berserker turned and lurched for his throat. Red wine and blood mingled as they ran down his face. Shouts, screams and warnings rang out as chaos spread and the brawl became general.
Ragnar made out more attackers closing in on him. They were a villainous looking bunch. Many had bionic hands or eyes. Some of their prosthetics had been enhanced with retractable daggers that emerged like nails from their finger tips. Some wore electric cestii, and others carried weighted truncheons. All of them threw themselves at Ragnar with an unhesitating fury that told of the drugs in their system. Ragnar caught the first by the throat, raised him high and then tossed him onto his friends, knocking three of them over.
Another came on in a rush, his claws extended to pierce Ragnar’s eyes. Ragnar caught him by his prosthetic arm, twisted for leverage, and pulled. He ripped the mechanical limb clean out of its socket in a shower of sparks, and used it as a bludgeon to knock his assailant from his feet. Then he kicked him in the head.
More blows rained down on him now. Electric cestii sparked against his armour. Sparks flashed and the scent of ozone filled the air as they connected. Ragnar’s armour was designed to take far heavier punishment than this, so he ignored it and concentrated instead on smiting his foes.
He lashed out around him with his fists. Each blow dropped a man but a surprisingly large number of them got back up again and instantly came back on the offensive. It seemed obvious that these men had been sent specifically to start this brawl and they were pulling no punches. The drugs left them incapable of hesitating. They would have killed him if they could. In fact, the treatment he had received would have killed a normal man ten times over. Fortunately, Ragnar was a Space Marine. His armour was almost part of his body and his bone structure and musculature had been heavily modified so he could absorb enormous amounts of damage. Still, he had collected a few bruises and cuts. He could feel his skin sting where his ultra-coagulant blood had congealed on them.
He glanced around to see what had become of his companions. Torin was swinging from one of the suspensor chandeliers. He planted his boot in the face of one assailant before letting go and flying into a mass of others. His every movement was swift and certain, every blow decisive. If anything he had less to worry about than Ragnar. He was moving so fast it would be difficult even for a man with a gun to draw a bead on him, and this was clearly his intention.
Then it happened. Up to this point Haegr had ignored the carnage about him as he concentrated on stuffing his face. One of the berserkers dived onto the table, scattering food everywhere, sending wine and whisky and ale splashing all over the place. Haegr looked at him for a moment as if he could not quite understand what had happened. A look of confusion passed over his face as he reached for food that was no longer there. Then his piggy eyes narrowed and he let out an enormous roar.
A sweep of his arm cleared the berserker from the table. Haegr reared to his feet, like a mammoth rising from a mudhole. He had the same mass and power, but suddenly he was even larger and more threatening. He picked up the metal table. The bolts holding it to the floor snapped as he lifted it free and tossed it into the oncoming mass of drugged fanatics. It bowled them over and left them sprawling beneath its weight. Haegr reached forward and picked two up, one in each hand, and then used them as clubs to batter their companions senseless. He raced through them like an out-of-control behemoth, unstoppable as a charging rhino. Within seconds he had left a trail of maimed and battered foes behind him. Any that tried to get to their feet were stamped on. Their hands and legs shattered along with bionics and bones.
Ragnar threw himself back into the fray, lashing out at his opponents, careful to select only those who stank of combat drugs. He found himself face to face with Torin. He was smashing a couple of berserkers’ heads together, until not even the drug could keep them awake. “Best grab Haegr and get out of here,” he shouted.
“Why?”
“It might embarrass the Celestarch if we thrash any of the Arbites who come to investigate this.”
“Fair enough,” said Ragnar, glancing at Haegr. He had picked up a side of beef on a spit and was bludgeoning those around him with it. Occasionally, he paused to tear some meat from its flanks, and gnaw at it. “But getting him out of here might be easier said than done.”
Torin nodded. “He’s enjoying himself, but this is for his own good. You get one arm. I’ll take the other.”
Ragnar nodded and they rushed at Haegr. Ragnar grabbed his left arm, Torin the right, and together they began dragging him to the door.
Distracted as he was by the side of beef, it was like trying to tow a bull. It took several attempts. Occasionally, they were interrupted by Haegr’s blows at the surviving berserkers. But they dragged him out into the night air and began to calm him down.
“Let me go,” said Haegr. “There are still foes to thrash!”
“We’d best be going. Those sirens you hear are the Arbites.”
“So? We can take them all out. You know we can.”
“Aye, but it might cause the Lady Juliana some problems if we leave the streets of the merchants quarter filled with dead or dying judges.”
Haegr was not convinced. Ragnar could see the running lights of many flitters coming closer. Ground cars too. “They are not our enemies,” he said. “They are merely doing their duty as they see fit. Besides, we will have to come back here anyway. We have a mystery to solve.”
“And what would that be?” Haegr asked.
“Why those men attacked us and who sent them anyway. The Arbites won’t help us do that if we put any of them in the healing tanks.”
“Very well. I can see that you and Torin have made up your minds. I will go with you and keep you out of trouble.”
Something moving on a nearby rooftop caught Ragnar’s eye. He glanced up and caught sight of a shadowy figure receding from view. He could not be sure that it was not a trick of the light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The toll of a distant bell dragged Ragnar from dreams of Fenris. He woke instantly and rose from his bed. As if summoned by his motion, servants appeared with bowls of elk stew and fish porridge — traditional Fenrisian food, or as close to it as he was going to get on Terra. He was more than a little startled by the way they had entered without being asked. “Who sent you?” he asked the eldest looking, a lean aquiline man with cold calm features and fine silver hair. He wore the uniform of Belisarius more like a soldier than a thrall.
“No one, sir. We assumed you would want breakfast as soon as you rose. Have we erred?”
“No,” The servant waited politely to see if he had anything else to say. Ragnar did not. It seemed like servants were invisible here, coming and going about their duties unbidden, changing their routines only if asked. They seemed to have access to most places as well. He realised the servants were still waiting. “Carry on,” he said, and they promptly resumed their duties.
Ragnar recalled the events of the previous evening. After they had dragged Haegr to the flitter, Torin had taken them over the nearest roofs. If there had been someone there, he had vanished in the few moments it had taken them to get aloft. Either that or he was camouflaged enough to baffle even the Space Wolves’ keen night vision. Ragnar knew that was not impossible, but they would have to be using military issue wargear. That was not impossible either, he had decided.
“Master Ragnar, I have a message for you, from Master Valkoth.”
“Yes?” said Ragnar.
“When you have finished your breakfast, you should report to him to have your duties assigned to you. It is not urgent, but he would appreciate it if you could be there before the ninth bell. That is in forty-five minutes and twenty-two seconds, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Ragnar, snatching up his food. “Plenty of time then.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he strode through the crowded section of the palace, Ragnar again pondered last night’s events.
He was certain that it had been no mere tavern b
rawl. Not unless men went out drinking here with Fury in their pockets and a desire to do violence. He supposed that scenario was not impossible. From what he gathered, the merchants quarter had a reputation as a wild place, at least by Terra’s standards. Many went there to blow off steam. Perhaps that was one way of doing it.
And perhaps Haegr would grow wings and learn to fly, Ragnar thought. He was surprised to find Torin had fallen into step beside him. He must have approached from a side corridor downwind.
“Morning,” he said. “Looking forward to today’s duties, are we?”
“I don’t even know what they are.”
“Well, you’ll find out soon enough. How did you enjoy last night’s little adventure?”
“It was interesting. Although I still wonder why those men chose to attack us.”
“Doubtless the Arbites report will be on Valkoth’s table by now. He’ll tell us if anything important has shown up, though I rather doubt it will.”
“Why? Who do you think those men were?”
“Could have been any number of people: zealot bully boys who don’t like off-worlders; agents of another House seeking to test us and embarrass the Belisarians; or young nobs trying to spice up a dull night.”
“Are they really stupid enough to attack three Space Wolves?”
“You’d be surprised what a man will do if he’s drunk enough or high enough on Fury.”
“I would be very surprised if he chose to attack three of us.”
“To be honest, I would too. It felt more planned than that, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” They passed a golden pleasure girl garbed only in diaphanous robes. She strode along as if she was not semi-naked. A whiff of pheromone attractants sailed on the air behind her and she was gone.