“It is now or never,” Volt replied, fine-tuning the frequency. “You said it yourself. There is virtually no chance that any of us will return from this mission. I must set things in motion before we depart—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sternmark said. “It’s too premature to call for Exterminatus.”
Volt turned to face the dour Space Wolf. “Do you think I’m doing this lightly? I’ve been an inquisitor for a hundred and fifty years, and do you know how many worlds I have condemned? None. Not a single one.” The inquisitor took a step towards Sternmark, his bandaged hands trembling. “There was always another way to deal with the traitors and save the innocent, always. We… we always found a way.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “But not this time. The enemy was too well prepared. We worked for years, slowly penetrating the governor’s household and the PDF hierarchy, but they were aware of us the entire time. When the traitors finally revealed themselves my… friends… were the first to die.” Volt’s face grew haunted, his gaze turning inwards as he relived that bloody night in the capital. He shook his head. “Now… there’s nothing left. If we don’t succeed on the shadow world, then it’s only a matter of time before your positions are overrun.” Volt regained his focus with a start, like a man waking from a nightmare. “We have to be prepared for that eventuality.”
Sternmark tried to formulate a reply, but the inquisitor turned his back on the Wolf Guard and keyed the transmitter. “Holmgang, this is Citadel,” Volt said, using the code name for the planetary headquarters. “My authorisation is five-alpha-five-sigma-nine-epsilon. Please respond.”
For several long moments nothing emerged from the vox-unit except for the ghostly hiss of static. Then, faintly, a voice replied. “Citadel, this is Holmgang. Countersign is gamma-alpha-seven-four-omicron-beta. What is your message?”
The battle-barge and her surviving escorts had been hiding out in the asteroid belt for weeks, powered down and maintaining vox silence to avoid detection. Volt had insisted that the ships be held in reserve once it had become clear that losses were mounting against the Chaos fleet. The barge’s powerful barrage cannons and cyclonic torpedoes were a force of last resort in the event that the Imperial defenders on Charys were overwhelmed.
Volt took a deep breath and invoked the wrath of the Holy Inquisition. “Implement Tripwire,” he said. “Acknowledge.”
Silence hung heavy in the air as the signals crossed the void. Finally, the voice replied, “Tripwire acknowledged. Holmgang out.”
The inquisitor slowly reached up and switched off the transmitter. “Mark the hour,” he said to Sternmark. “From this day forward the all-clear code must be sent at exactly the same time.” He turned back to Sternmark, and his expression was bleak. “If you or Athelstane fail to send the code, the ship’s master will assume that the headquarters has been overrun, and by order of the Inquisition, Charys will die.”
ELEVEN
Into the Storm
The shells fell from orbit with a rumbling, clattering roar, passing high overhead and falling beyond the horizon to the west. White and yellow flashes lit the undersides of the thick clouds of billowing smoke above the capital, and a roll of man-made thunder sent a shiver through the ground beneath the Space Wolves’ feet.
An early dusk was coming on as the strike team finally began to board their ships and rendezvous with the Fist of Russ. Their departure had been delayed more than four hours by rocket attacks and a surprise air raid by a squadron of rebel Valkyries late in the afternoon. Fires were still burning out of control at the fuel depot on the other side of the starport, and several of the Guard’s aircraft had been damaged or destroyed. Rocket attacks had continued over the course of the afternoon as well, making repair work hazardous. It was clear to Ragnar and the rest of the Wolves that these were the opening stages of the coming enemy offensive.
The delays were further compounded by Shipmaster Wulfgar, who, upon receiving his orders from Sternmark, insisted on evacuating the cruiser of all non-essential personnel and transferring the ship’s supply stores down to the planet. The off-loading took more than three hours, during which time the battle cruiser’s surviving weapon batteries bombarded rebel positions in and around the capital. Wulfgar wanted to do as much as he could for the embattled defenders while he had the chance, and no one, not even Sternmark, sought to gainsay him. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew that once the Fist of Russ broke orbit and entered the warp, there was little chance the crippled warship would ever return.
A grim mood hung like a storm cloud over the Wolves of Harald’s pack as they queued up to board Thunderhawk Two. Thunderhawk One, where Torin had chosen to rest and recuperate from his wound, had been hit during the air raid and badly damaged by enemy bombs. Though the injured Wolfblade had managed to put out the fire raging in the assault ship’s fuselage, the damage was so extensive that the Thunderhawk had been put out of action. Smoke stains still smudged the older Wolfblade’s lean face, giving him a dark, glowering mien as he limped around the exterior of the Bellisarius shuttle on a pre-flight inspection.
There was a scent in the air, something thin and acrid that cut through the smell of burning petrochem and flakboard and set Ragnar’s hair on end. He could see by the hunched shoulders and hooded eyes of the rest of the Wolves that they felt it, too, all but Haegr, who seemed serenely oblivious of everything but the grox thighbone he had between his teeth. Something’s got under our skin, he thought, watching the Blood Claws climb aboard their waiting assault ship a few dozen metres away. Something’s burning in the blood. The thought perplexed him, but he found himself strangely assured that he wasn’t the only one in an ill humour. It’s not just me, not just the wolf inside. Surely the curse can’t be clawing inside each of us.
Gabriella seemed troubled as well, in her own way. She arrived at the shuttle silent and withdrawn, clad in partial carapace armour drawn from the Guard’s meagre stores. She walked with great care across the tarmac and up the ramp into the shuttlecraft, as though burdened by the unfamiliar weight of breastplate and greaves. Ragnar had stood at the bottom of the ramp, immobile as a statue, and she passed him without a word or a sideways glance. He’d long since gone over every argument he could think of to dissuade her from joining the expedition, and not one of them seemed sufficient. It was her right, indeed, her duty, to place her life in harm’s way for the good of the Imperium, and yet he could not help but feel as though he and his brothers had failed her somehow. It should never have come to this, Ragnar thought darkly.
Inquisitor Volt arrived, a short while later, disembarking from the armoured squad bay of a scarred Chimera APC. He emerged alone from the idling transport, carrying nothing more than a battered leather book case in one hand and a scabbarded sword in the other. Polished armour gleamed from beneath the folds of his dark, red robes, and the unmistakeable bulge of a bolt pistol rested upon his hip. Ragnar saw at once that the war gear had been made with Volt in mind, but the inquisitor bore it awkwardly. He reminded Ragnar of an aged veteran, long past his prime, who’d put on his old gear for the first time in a great many years. Another salvo of heavy shells rattled overhead as Volt strode across the tarmac, and he turned to mark their, passing as they fell upon the far-off capital. Ragnar watched the man stare contemplatively at the distant horizon for several long minutes. Then the inquisitor raised his hand, as though in farewell. With that, he straightened and resumed his course in a swirl of crimson robes and nodded wordlessly to Ragnar as he joined Gabriella inside her shuttle.
Torin completed his check of the shuttle’s thrusters, and limped over to Ragnar. His armour had been patched where the sorcerer’s hellblade had torn through his hip, but the pale line of the chemical weld showed how large the wound had actually been. His voice was a husky growl, no doubt from the clouds of toxic smoke he’d inhaled fighting the fire. “She took some fragments during that air raid, but she’ll fly,” he said, “providing Haegr hasn’t managed to put on any more weight since we’v
e been here.”
Haegr cracked open the end of the bone with his granite-like molars. “If I have, I can work it off in a few moments by giving you a good thrashing,” he said idly.
Torin gave his battle-brother a wolfish stare, and for a moment it looked as though he welcomed the chance for a fight. The sight startled Ragnar. “Head inside and start up the engines,” he said quickly. “I want to launch as soon as Harald’s men have boarded.”
The older Wolfblade nodded, almost sullenly, and then nodded at something past Ragnar’s shoulder. “Sternmark’s coming,” he rasped, and headed up the shuttle ramp.
Bemused and deeply unsettled, Ragnar turned to see half a dozen Wolf Guard striding purposely through the smoke towards the strike team. Sternmark led them, his helmet tucked beneath his arm and his long, black hair unbound. He seemed a different man, Ragnar thought at once. Gone were the troubled expression and the hunched, almost defeated look that he’d had inside the command bunker. Out in the open air, with guns pounding and enemy shells flying overhead, the Wolf Guard held his head high and there was a fell look in his dark eyes. He strode through the fury of war like a hero of legend, the true son of a hard and warlike people. Some of Harald’s pack caught sight of Sternmark and called out his name, raising their chainblades in salute. Ragnar did so as well, drawing his frost blade free and lifting it to the sky. Even Haegr tossed his splintered bone hurriedly aside and gripped the haft of his thunder hammer.
“Mikal Sternmark, lord and captain, hail!” Ragnar called in a deep, powerful voice.
Sternmark nodded gravely to the warriors and returned their salute with a raised fist. “There is no lord here but Berek,” he said, “I am only his sworn man, acting in his name.” He stopped before Ragnar and called out to the nearby Blood Claws. “Harald! Come here!” At once, the pack leader broke into a run, covering the few dozen metres between them in moments. He arrived with a clatter of armour and the faint whine of servomotors, bowing his head respectfully to the Wolf Guard. Ragnar lowered his sword, suddenly very conscious of the silent figure of Morgrim Silvertongue, the company skald, watching the proceedings from the rear of the group.
“I am heading for the front line soon,” Sternmark said without preamble. “The enemy offensive has begun, and every warrior will be needed to hold the traitors at bay.” He paused, a frown momentarily creasing his brow as he struggled for the proper words to say.
After a moment, he continued, “The survival of Charys depends upon you. If the Rune Priests speak true, the fate of the entire Chapter rests upon your shoulders as well. Whatever evil our foes are working you must somehow destroy it, no matter the cost.”
Harald’s expression turned sombre. This was the first time he’d heard of the priests’ dire predictions regarding the future of the Chapter. “No matter the cost,” he echoed. “You have my oath upon it.”
“And mine,” Ragnar said.
Sternmark nodded. “I am no priest, so I have no benedictions to offer you. Nor am I a lord, to gift you with gold rings or titles. I can only give you this,” he said, offering his hand, “and wish you good hunting.”
They clasped forearms in silence, warrior to warrior, as more rockets howled overhead. Ragnar was last, and Sternmark gripped his arm a moment longer. “Fight well,” he said quietly. “If we do not meet again, know that you are redeemed in the eyes of Berek’s company.”
Ragnar understood what Sternmark intended. He sends me off to die with honour, he thought, and was moved. Yet he shook his head. “No,” he answered, “not yet, not until the Spear of Russ is returned to Garm. That is my oath to the Great Wolf.”
The Wolf Guard smiled grimly and nodded. “So be it,” he said. “Russ will know your deeds, even unto the depths of the warp.” Sternmark took a step back and saluted the two Wolves one last time. “Until we meet again, brothers, in this life or the next,” he said. As he started to turn away, the Wolf Guard caught Haegr’s eye. “And if you get to the Halls of Russ before me, save me a sip of ale and a crust of bread, will you?”
Haegr watched the Wolf Guard and his retinue stride off, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Now what do you suppose he meant by that?” he mused aloud.
Not far from the starport’s command bunker, the warriors of Berek’s company had taken their fallen lord and laid him in state like a king of old, clad in gleaming armour and stretched upon a table of stone. His blond hair was unbound, and but for the deathly pallor of his face, Berek Thunderfist might have been sleeping, lost in red dreams of glory. His scarred power fist was laid across his chest, and his helm, which the Wolf Lord almost never wore, had been dug out of his arming chest and set by his side.
Twin braziers burned low inside the abandoned bunker, one at each end of the long table. When it became clear that the Wolf Priest’s salves and incense did nothing to rouse their stricken lord, Sternmark had the censers removed and the braziers put in their place. He’d lit the wood fires himself, as his people had done on Fenris for thousands of years. The orange fire threw martial shadows against the thick walls. In the weeks since Berek had fallen, his warriors had heaped their war trophies around their lord’s feet. Swords and axes, pistols and rifles, skulls of mutant and human alike filled the space around Berek nearly to ceiling height, and more were arriving every day.
A single Wolf Guard stood vigil over the fallen lord. It was all the company could spare in these desperate times. Old Thorin Shieldsplitter filled the doorway with his fearsome bulk, barring the way with his two-handed power axe. He had been the company champion before Mikal, and now he bowed his head and stepped aside as Sternmark approached to pay homage to his lord.
He entered the bunker alone, hard footsteps echoing strangely in the crowded space. The faint crackling of the fire and the smell of wood smoke reminded Sternmark of home, and for the first time in months he found himself thinking of Fenris, so many light-years away.
Sternmark approached the bier carefully, set his own helmet upon the floor, and slowly drew Redclaw. The ancient, rune-etched blade gleamed in the firelight as he rested its tip on the floor and sank to one knee. For a long time he stared at the blinking status runes flickering from an exposed access panel on Berek’s armour. The Wolf Lord still clung to life, so faintly that the armour’s powerful systems could only barely detect it. On Fenris, perhaps, something could possibly have been done, but here, on Charys, all they could do was wait, and they were nearly out of time.
The Wolf Guard cast his eyes downward, to the blinking red telltale of the melta charges set beneath the bier. If the starport perimeter was ever breached and the Imperial defenders overrun, then Thorin’s last duty was to hit the detonator and ensure that their lord would never become a trophy for the enemy.
A sense of inevitability hung over Sternmark. It was like riding a longship into the teeth of a storm and perching atop a towering wave, waiting for the moment when the prow would start to dip and the terrifying plunge would begin. Death comes for us all, sooner or later, but it was not death that the warrior feared. A part of him welcomed the coming foe and the brutal simplicity of battle. When the swords sang and blood flowed, a man’s decisions meant life or death for him alone, not uncounted thousands half a world away.
What Sternmark feared was the stain of failure, and the realisation that he was not worthy of the challenge laid before him.
“Why?” he said softly, his hands tightening on the hilt of his blade. “Why me?”
“If not you, Mikal Sternmark, then who?”
Sternmark leapt to his feet. For the briefest instant he thought it was Berek’s voice that he heard, but then he recognised the smooth, practiced tones of Morgrim the skald. Sternmark felt his cheeks burn with the shame of his confession. He whirled, teeth bared, and saw Morgrim standing silently just within the bunker’s entrance. His expression was unreadable as ever, but his eyes were sharp and clear.
Watching me. Marking my every mistake.
White hot rage boiled in Sternmark’s breast. T
he weight of the sword felt good in his hands, and then he saw that the two of them were alone. I could kill him now, he thought wildly. My shame will die with him.
He took a single step forward… and then realised what he was doing. “Blessed Russ!” he cried, wrestling with his revulsion and rage. He glared at Morgrim, furious at himself and the skald besides. “No wonder you skalds are called stormcrows,” he growled, “always sticking your beaks where they don’t belong!” With a conscious effort Sternmark slammed Redclaw back into its scabbard. “What will you say of this moment, I wonder?”
Morgrim cocked his head curiously. “I will tell of a hero and a dutiful warrior who spent his hour before battle paying homage to his lord,” he said. “What did you imagine I would say?”
“Don’t lie to me!” Sternmark roared, once again feeling the rage claw through him. A vision danced before his eyes of the skald thrashing on the bunker floor, his eyes wide and his hands pressed to the shredded ruin of his throat. The Wolf Guard shook his head savagely, trying to drive the image from his mind. Blessed Russ, he thought, what is wrong with me?
“Do you think I haven’t seen you these past few weeks?” Sternmark shouted. “Dogging my steps and noting every false move I’ve made? Do you think me blind to the way you judge every decision I make?”
The skald’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not my place to judge you,” he said carefully. “My duty is to bear witness, and remember the deeds of our company.” He spread his hands. “Do you think I do this out of spite, or for an evening’s entertainment? No. I remember all the deeds of our brothers so that when times are desperate and our leaders are in need of advice, I will be able to help.”
“And now you’ve got a fine tale of a man’s failure!” Sternmark shouted. “If you manage to survive my blunders here on Charys you’ll have a cautionary tale for the next lord who comes along.”
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 16