[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour

by Lee Lightner - (ebook by Undead)

  “Stand fast in the name of Russ and the Allfather!” shouted a furious voice from the far end of the hall. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Ragnar squeezed the pack leader’s throat hard enough to feel the reinforced cartilage creak beneath his fingers. He watched the veins throbbing furiously in the pack leader’s face and felt his pulse beneath his palm. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tear the fool’s throat open.

  Dimly, he heard Torin answer. “Your pups required a lesson in manners, Sigurd,” the older Wolfblade said coldly.

  The other voice replied with an iron note of command. “I think it’s the three of you who forget yourselves,” it said. “Unhand that warrior, Wolfblade, or suffer my wrath!”

  Ragnar whirled, dragging the choking pack leader with him. A young Space Wolf, not much older than Ragnar, stood at the far end of the room. He was a handsome youth, with a pale, square-chinned face and sharp, flinty grey eyes. His hair was white-blond, pulled back in a heavy braid that curved around the heavy wolfskin mantle on his shoulders and hung down across his breastplate. No scars marred his close-cropped beard, and his armour, while ancient, showed no sign of recent battle. A massive cross of gold inlaid adamantium, blazoned with a snarling wolfs head, hung from a heavy chain around the Wolf Priest’s neck. The crozius arcanum, sacred badge of the priesthood, crackled menacingly in the priest’s fist.

  The look of fury in the Wolf Priest’s eyes took Ragnar aback, extinguishing his rage almost at once. The priests of the Chapter existed apart from the great companies, and in effect were living embodiments of the Chapter’s history and traditions. They demanded deference and respect by virtue of their position alone. Even the Great Wolf treated them with the utmost respect. It was what they were trained to do from their first days at the Fang. Without hesitation, Ragnar let the pack leader go, but it was harder to let go of the insult he and his brothers had been dealt. Leaving the pack leader gasping for breath, Ragnar strode towards the young priest. “Blame the Claw,” he growled. “He thought fit to challenge his betters.”

  “Betters?” the Wolf Priest snapped. Young as he was, he had the look of a prince, and a manner that came from one born to authority. “Harald has no betters here save for me. This is a hall for warriors, not exiles like you.”

  Ragnar’s fists clenched. Haegr let out a threatening hiss, and even Torin stiffened at the insult. It was all Ragnar could do not to strike the high-handed priest. “It is an honour to serve in the Wolfblade, as anyone versed in the Chapter’s lore would know,” the young Space Wolf replied with care, “and we were treated as such in the halls of the Fang.”

  The young Space Wolf Priest was unmoved. “I do not speak of the Wolfblade,” he replied coldly. “I speak of the three men I see here before me, exiles and outcasts, one and all,” he said. Sigurd took a step closer to Ragnar. “I know your crimes,” he said. “I know how you lost the Spear of Russ, the self-same weapon used to strike down your former lord!” His grey-eyed gaze transfixed the young Space Wolf. “Do you deny it?”

  Ragnar trembled with the effort to hold his rage in check. He could not guess what would happen if he gave in to his fury at that moment, and he didn’t want the blood of a priest on his hands. “You know I cannot,” he replied.

  “That is so,” Sigurd answered with a grim smile. “You do not belong here. None of you do. If you would eat, take your meals in your quarters until we reach Charys. You do not belong in the company of true warriors,” the Wolf Priest declared. “Now get out of my sight.”

  For a moment, silence reigned in the hall. No one moved. Sigurd glared implacably at the Wolfblade, merciless and indomitable in his anger. Finally it was Torin who relented. “Let us go, brothers,” he said coldly. “Sigurd is right. This is no place for the likes of us.”

  The three Wolves filed silently from the hall, each one struggling to contain his rage. Ragnar turned at the doorway, and glared a challenge at the red-faced Harald and his brethren. When he met the pack leader’s eyes he saw equal measures of anger and doubt. The young Space Wolf bared his teeth in a snarl. Try me again and you’ll get more of the same, and worse besides, his look said to the Blood Claws. Then he closed the doors to the hall and stalked alone into the labyrinthine passageways of the warship.

  Ragnar dreamt of wolves that walked like men.

  The thick, hot air echoed with the snarling of beasts and the sounds of battle. Ragnar could smell spilt blood and the stench of death all around him, and bodies littered the stones at his feet. He saw men and women in bloodstained robes, their bodies torn by tooth and claw, and their lifeless faces frozen in masks of terror.

  The wolves wore armour like his own, but they had the faces of savage beasts. They struggled all around him, grappling and tearing at shadowy figures that writhed and lashed at the wolves like snakes. For every one the wolves tore apart it seemed two more rose to take its place. Howls of anger and despair smote Ragnar’s ears.

  He was standing in a vast chamber, like a ruined temple. Another armoured figure stood at the far end of the room, his face hidden behind a horned helmet. Ragnar didn’t need to see the tall spear clutched in the man’s armoured fist to know who the figure was. “Madox!” he snarled, and threw himself at his bitter foe.

  His veins turned molten with rage. A guttural growl rose in his throat as he slashed left and right with his keening blade. The ancient sword carved a deadly path through the shadow creatures, but Madox made no move to resist as Ragnar drew closer with each long stride. Ragnar could feel the power swelling in his limbs, his blood-lust quickening his steps until he was little more than a blur.

  Voices were calling out to him, shouting warnings he could not understand. None of it mattered; the spear was almost within reach. A howl of triumph rose to his lips as he reached for the sacred weapon, and then his legs seemed to buckle beneath him.

  Ragnar collapsed to the stone, his muscles writhing like snakes beneath his skin. The frost blade fell from his hands as his fingers contorted into claws. The only thing that remained constant was his anger, burning as bright as a hunter’s moon.

  Ragnar fell onto his belly, writhing. He threw back his head and howled in rage, feeling the bones of his face distend, centimetre by centimetre, into a blunt, toothy snout. Snarling, lashing at the air with his talons, he thrashed onto his side and snapped madly at the silent figure of the sorcerer just out of arm’s reach.

  As he did so, his gaze lit on a pale figure a metre to his right. She lay on the stones beside him, her alabaster face spotted with blood. As she spoke, vital fluids gushed from the terrible bite marks in her throat.

  “The beast waits within us all,” Gabriella said to him, and then he watched the life go out of her eyes.

  He awoke with a shout of dismay, lashing about wildly in the darkness with his fists. One hand rang off a thick metal pipe and the violent motion thrust him backwards, causing him to crack his head against a heavy steam fitting. Ragnar collapsed back into a heap, blinking stupidly into the blackness. He had no idea where he was, or how he’d got there.

  Asleep, he thought, struggling to make sense of the situation. I must have fallen asleep. Within moments his keen eyes adjusted to the gloom, and a second or two later he realised he was in some kind of narrow tunnel, deep within the bowels of the old battle cruiser.

  Still blinking Ragnar rubbed a hand over his face and tried to recall how long he’d been wandering through the ship, a great many hours; that much was certain. The rage he’d felt after the encounter with Sigurd refused to go away, no matter how hard he tried to master it. He’d stalked along the passageways, swearing every vile oath he could imagine to have his vengeance upon Harald and that upstart priest.

  The last thing he clearly remembered was deciding to head for the part of the ship where the Blood Claws were stationed, and to lie in wait for Harald’s return.

  Something like horror washed over the young Space Wolf. Slowly, dreading what he might find, he raised his hands to his
face. They were covered in a thick layer of grease and grime, but he smelled no fresh blood on them.

  “Blessed Russ,” he sighed. “What’s the matter with me?”

  Then a dolorous howl echoed down the conduit, sending Ragnar reaching for his weapons. It was a few moments before he realised that the sound wasn’t coming from a living throat, it was the ship’s battle klaxon, summoning the crew to their stations.

  That was when he realised that the battle cruiser’s litany of creaks and moans had fallen silent, and her deck no longer trembled with strain. The Fist of Russ had dropped out of the warp at last.

  They had arrived at the Charys system, and they were under attack.

  FIVE

  The Fist of Russ

  The old deckplates rang with the tramp of booted feet as the bondsmen crew of the Fist of Russ readied the battered ship for combat. The grey uniformed crew raced nimbly past Ragnar as they ran to their stations, but the Space Wolf could not help but see the strain on their faces or smell the fear on their skin. The battle cruiser was in no shape for a fight.

  It took Ragnar almost half an hour to find his way to the command deck, high upon the citadel-like superstructure near the aft end of the ship. Blood racing at the prospect of battle and his head still reeling from his strange dream, Ragnar charged past the two bondsmen standing guard at the armoured hatch. The command deck was dimly lit, and despite the high, cathedral-like ceiling the air felt heavy with tension. Officers and midshipmen stood at their stations, consulting brass etched logic engines, and conferring in low voices. Ragnar saw the hunched figure of the Officer of the Deck at the far end of the space as he gripped the edges of the command pulpit and bellowed orders to the bondsmen and servitors of the ship’s bridge, half a deck below. The young Space Wolf saw the green and grey orb of Charys filling three-quarters of the high, arched viewports along the bow end of the bridge. They were approaching the world from its night side, and his keen eyes picked out the scattered embers of farming settlements and trade cities burning sullenly across the planet’s surface.

  A handful of dark, angular shapes hung like cinders above the burning world, limned with pulsing green light from their plasma drives. Raiders, he thought grimly: traitor warships whose crews had sworn themselves to the Ruinous Powers. Some had once been vessels of the Imperial Navy, while others had been built at corrupted forge worlds at the edge of the Eye of Terror. Individually, they were less than a third the size of the Fist of Russ, but they were swift, agile craft, and in large numbers they were a threat to the largest battleship.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded, approaching a small group of senior officers who were standing around the rim of a large hololith table and speaking to Sigurd the Wolf Priest. Among the officers, Ragnar recognised Wulfgar, the ship’s master and, half-hidden by the shifting patterns of the holo map, he caught sight of Gabriella. The Navigator’s face was paler and more strained than Ragnar had ever seen it, and he could see that she was clenching her fists at her side to keep them from trembling. As near as he could tell, Gabriella remained standing by sheer willpower.

  The Wolf Priest whirled around at the sound of Ragnar’s approach. Sigurd fixed the young Space Wolf with a baleful glare. “Return to your quarters, exile,” he snapped. “The ship is at battle stations. This is no place for the likes of you.”

  Ragnar felt a rush of anger so intense that it was all he could do not to throw himself at the arrogant young priest. Several of the ship’s officers drew away from Sigurd, their expressions wary. The Wolf Priest’s eyes narrowed, his hackles rising in the face of the sudden threat. His gauntleted hand tightened around the haft of his crozius.

  Save your fury for the real foe, Ragnar told himself, forcing his body to relax and his fists to unclench. Like it or not, as the highest ranking Space Wolf aboard, Sigurd was the acting captain of the ship, and his word was law. He was bound to heed the counsel of Wulfgar and his officers, but little else. Ragnar wasn’t about to bare his throat so easily, however. “My place is with her,” he said, inclining his head towards Gabriella. “Where she goes, I go, especially during times of battle.”

  Sigurd’s aristocratic face twisted into a grimace. He glanced back at Gabriella, and then looked to Wulfgar and the rest of the ship’s senior officers as though gauging the strength of his authority. Finally he acquiesced with a curt wave of his hand. “Very well,” he growled, “but for the lady’s sake alone.”

  With an effort, Ragnar nodded curtly to the Wolf Priest and worked his way around the perimeter of the broad table to reach Gabriella’s side. As he did so, the young Space Wolf quickly took in the situation unfolding in the air above the hololith. The Fist of Russ was less than an hour from entering orbit around Charys, but no less than nine enemy raiders stood in their way. Flickering runes and directional icons on the hololith showed that the raiders were breaking orbit at high speed and heading their way.

  Ragnar saw no signs of Imperial ships anywhere in the vicinity. Where is Berek’s fleet? The Wolf Lord had brought a battle-barge, two strike cruisers and half a dozen escorts to Charys. What could have happened to them?

  Wulfgar and two other officers resumed a tense but quiet exchange with Sigurd as Ragnar stood beside Gabriella. The Navigator managed a weary smile. “You look terrible,” she said.

  The comment took him aback. “I might have said the same about you, lady,” he said quietly, his brows drawing together in a worried frown. “You suffered much to get us here, it seems. How long have we been in real space?”

  Gabriella took a deep breath. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, and Ragnar could sense her disquiet. “Less than an hour. I brought us in as close to Charys as possible,” she said after a moment. “It was… difficult. I can’t quite explain how.”

  “Warp storms?” Ragnar ventured.

  “No, nothing like that,” she said, her expression troubled. “The currents around Charys are fierce, though, like… a vortex, of sorts.”

  “A vortex?” the young Space Wolf asked. “You mean, like a whirlpool?” He knew them well from the craggy coastlines of Fenris, and understood the danger they posed.

  “Perhaps,” she said tentatively. She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. “I’ve never encountered anything like it. It took everything I had to guide the ship past the tidal forces. A lesser Navigator wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  Ragnar chuckled quietly. “My lady has spent too much time in Haegr’s company, methinks.”

  Gabriella smiled up at Ragnar. “Save the wry humour for Torin,” she said. “But what troubles you, my Wolf? There is a fey look in your eyes that I’ve never seen before.”

  Ragnar paused, recalling the wolf dream. What could he tell her? What would she believe? He didn’t understand it himself. Before he could answer, however, Sigurd’s angry voice brought Ragnar’s head around.

  “Flee? You expect me to turn tail and run from the enemy?” the Wolf Priest snarled. Sigurd loomed angrily over Wulfgar and his officers. “Where is your honour, Shipmaster Wulfgar?”

  Wulfgar’s men bristled at the insult. Though not Space Wolves, they were men of Fenris still, and such talk did not go lightly with them. But Wulfgar, the veteran shipmaster, was unmoved. “There were no reports of an enemy fleet at Charys,” he said. “The ship is not battle-worthy. Most of our repairs are temporary, lord. A single, well-placed hit could cripple us, leaving us almost helpless.” The old bondsman leaned forward, his expression intent. “We must disengage now, while we still can. The charts show an asteroid field nearby. We can hide there and try to come up with another approach to the planet.”

  “And spend days skulking like a whipped dog while the Thunderfist’s company is ground to pieces on the planet’s surface? No. I swore an oath to Logan Grimnar that I would deliver our reinforcements to Charys without delay, and I will do so if I have to fight my way through hell itself!” The Wolf Priest glanced coldly at Ragnar. “I’d sooner die than be called an oathbreaker.”

/>   Once again, Ragnar fought to contain a flash of murderous rage. This was not the time or the place to issue a challenge, but for a brief, dizzying moment he found that he did not care.

  His hand drifted to the hilt of the frost blade at his hip, but Gabriella gripped his fingers instead. The slight pressure was enough to shock him back to his senses. Ragnar took a deep breath. “The Wolf Priest’s words are ill-chosen,” he said to Wulfgar, “but nevertheless, he is correct. Our reinforcements are desperately needed on Charys, and even a single day could make the difference between victory and defeat.”

  Sigurd gave Ragnar a brief, appraising look, as though surprised at the young Space Wolfs backhanded show of support. Wulfgar listened, and his wrinkled face creased in a deep frown. “If we must fight our way through then so be it,” he said heavily. “Load your warriors aboard their Thunderhawks, lord. If our engines fail you may have to launch quickly and fly the rest of the way in.”

  The Wolf Priest nodded solemnly. “Russ is with us, Shipmaster Wulfgar,” he said solemnly. “Let us bare our blades and begin the battle song!”

  “I hear you. Wolf Priest,” Wulfgar answered, and seemed to draw strength from Sigurd’s iron conviction. He turned to the officer of the deck. “Ahead two-thirds!” he ordered. “Bring us two points to starboard and charge the dorsal mounts! Gun crews fire as you bear!”

  Thousands of kilometres distant, the black-hulled raiders shook off the grip of Charys’s gravity with a flare of plasma drives, and swung their rakish bows towards the oncoming Imperial ship. Their hulls were matte black, like dark iron, etched with foul runes that had been sanctified in blood and blessed by the dread hand of Chaos. Gargoyle figures of verdigrised brass crouched atop squat turrets or leered from the armoured mantlets of their towering superstructures, their mouths gaping hungrily. Their viewports gleamed balefully with pale, eldritch light. They leapt from their parking orbits like a pack of jackals and scattered into a loose arc in the path of the oncoming battle cruiser, scanning the void with uncanny augurs and looking for signs of weakness. Gun turrets squealed ponderously on their corroded mounts, training upon the Fist of Russ as the range between the two sides decreased.