[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour

by Lee Lightner - (ebook by Undead)

  “What blunders are those?” Morgrim asked, and the sincere interest in his voice gave Sternmark pause.

  The Wolf Guard groped for the right words. “This… this looming defeat,” he said, clenching his fists. “Nothing I’ve done here has stemmed the tide one whit, and you well know it. We’re about to be overrun. Berek’s great company is about to die, and the blame is mine.”

  Morgrim did not answer at once, instead tugging thoughtfully at his beard. Finally, he said, “Do you imagine Berek could have done any better?”

  “Of course!” Sternmark snapped. “How many battles has he won? How many times has he led us against impossible odds and stood triumphant?”

  “Five hundred and thirty-seven.”

  Sternmark frowned. “What?”

  “You asked how many battles Berek’s won, and I told you, five hundred and thirty-seven. That’s major battles, of course. We don’t concern ourselves with skirmishes or raids unless they lead to something noteworthy.”

  “Are you mocking me, stormcrow?” the Wolf Guard asked, incredulous.

  “By the Allfather, I’m not!” Morgrim said with a laugh. “Think on this: in five hundred and thirty-seven battles, do you not imagine that Berek had occasion to feel the exact same way you do now?”

  Sternmark glowered at the skald. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Morkai’s black breath! Of course he did,” Morgrim replied. “Paxos VI; Manes Primus; the whole of the damned Lucern Suppression,” he said, ticking them off with his fingers. “And those are just the most recent ones. That’s the burden of command, Mikal Sternmark: holding the lives of your brothers in your hands and knowing that no matter what you do, they could still die. Sometimes the enemy is stronger, or more clever, or just luckier. You can only do the best that you can, and the rest is up to fate.” The skald walked past Sternmark and stood next to the bier. “Berek is a fine lord and a mighty warrior,” he said, “but he still walked into an ambush in the governor’s palace.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he would have done things differently, perhaps not. Every light fails in time,” the skald said. “Battles are lost. Heroes die.”

  Sternmark looked down upon his stricken lord. “I failed him, Morgrim.”

  “No,” the skald replied, “you never shirked from your duty. What man can do more?”

  The Wolf Guard considered this, and found he only had one answer. He bent and picked up his helmet, turning its battered shape over in his hands. “When the time comes we can fight and die like Wolves,” he said softly.

  “And so we shall, brother. So we shall.”

  The Fist of Russ limped away from Charys at half power, trailing a glittering stream of leaking air and coolant in her wake. Her augurs swept the void, searching for signs of danger, while the skeleton crew aboard prayed to the Divine Emperor that they would find none. Her shields were weak, only half her guns worked, and all but one of her port thrusters were out. The crippled battle cruiser wouldn’t last long against a determined group of raiders, but the young Navigator on board told them not to worry. The voyage, she assured them, would be a short one.

  Smoke still stained the bulkheads on the warship’s command deck, and the air still smelled of burned wiring and scorched flesh. Tech-priests walked in solemn circles across the deck, swinging censers and intoning damage control catechisms. Shipmaster Wulfgar was alone on the deck, save for a handful of his senior officers. Their faces were grim as they went about their tasks, calling out orders with an almost funereal solemnity. Every one of them had volunteered for the mission. Sailors down to their bones, they had refused to give up the ship.

  Shipmaster Wulfgar stood at the command pulpit, his hands gripping the lectern before him as he looked out over the bridge, below. He had been reading passages aloud from the Lexicanum lmperialis as the ship sailed on through the endless night, but he had fallen silent as Gabriella had climbed quietly inside the Navigator’s vault. Torin and Haegr took positions at either side of the vault’s adamantium hatch, as though their presence could somehow shield the Navigator from harm. Ragnar understood how they felt. The young Space Wolf caught Volt’s watchful eye, and the inquisitor gave him a nod. Ragnar took a deep breath and moved quickly to Wulfgar’s side.

  The ship’s master turned slightly at Ragnar’s approach. Despite the added height of the pulpit, the bondsman was still a few centimetres shorter than the towering Space Wolf. Ragnar saw a pair of faded picts laid across the illuminated pages of the Lexicanum: a young boy in a bondsman’s black tunic, grinning up at the imager, and a woman, tall and severe, wearing the armoured coveralls of an engineer. Wulfgar’s right hand settled protectively over them as the young Space Wolf approached.

  “The engine decks report ready,” Wulfgar said. “We are merely awaiting word from the Navigator to commence jump. The Geller field has been shut down.”

  Ragnar nodded slowly. “I understand your concerns, Shipmaster Wulfgar,” he said, “but I trust the Lady Gabriella with my life. If she and Inquisitor Volt say that there is a world on the other side, then there is.”

  Wulfgar began to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded instead.

  “She also says that there is little chance we’ll find any hostile forces above the planet’s surface,” Ragnar continued, “so our arrival should go unchallenged.” He looked Wulfgar in the eye. “So you should have no problem completing the jump cycle and returning back to real space as soon as the strike team is deployed.”

  The master of the ship turned fully about to face the young Space Wolf. “That would be your death warrant,” he said. “It takes many hours to recharge a warp drive under optimal conditions. You’d be dead before we could return to get you, providing we could even find our way back to the proper time and place.”

  Ragnar nodded. “But the ship — and her Navigator, our solemn charge — would be able to escape.”

  Wulfgar studied Ragnar for a long moment. “You’ve talked this over with the inquisitor?”

  “I have. We are all agreed.”

  The ship’s master sighed, and then nodded solemnly. “So be it. May the Allfather protect you all.”

  Ragnar nodded solemnly, secretly relieved that he’d at least found a way to place Gabriella out of harm’s way. The Thunderhawk carrying the strike team could deploy within minutes of reaching the shadow world. Gabriella wouldn’t even need to leave the safety of her heavily armoured vault.

  A red telltale began flashing on a screen set into the lectern. Wulfgar knew its meaning with a glance. “Signal from the Navigator,” he said, turning back to the pulpit. He drew a deep breath and cried out across the bridge. “All hands, stand by to jump!” As an afterthought, he glanced over his shoulder at Ragnar. “You’d best find something to hang on to. Russ alone knows what will happen when we engage the drive.”

  Ragnar looked dubious. “And holding on to a stanchion is going to help?”

  The ship’s master shrugged. A faint grin touched one corner of his mouth. “It can’t hurt.”

  Ragnar thought it over and shrugged. It was bad enough that they were going to leap headlong into the warp without protective shielding; there was no sense tempting fate any further. He stepped over to one side and closed his hands around the railing overlooking the ship’s bridge.

  Moments later the jump siren began its shrill cry. “Stand by!” Wulfgar shouted. “Stand by… jump!”

  Without warning a howling wind tore across the command deck, cutting deep into Ragnar’s bones. The massive battle cruiser pitched and yawed like a long-ship in the teeth of a gale, her massive superstructure groaning against the strain. Lights and strange, reflected shapes flowed like oil through the cathedrallike viewports of the bridge. The air curdled. Men screamed in terror, or ecstasy. Ragnar felt the unbridled desecration of Chaos crash over him like a wave and called out to the Allfather for deliverance.

  As if in answer, the howling, groaning storm simply ceased. Ragnar staggered, clutching desperately at the rail as his body tried t
o compensate for the sudden shift in motion. A sense of unreality passed through him. For a moment he feared that his hand might pass through the metal rail as though it were made of smoke. Just like Charys, he thought.

  The air tasted strange on Ragnar’s tongue. He looked around and saw men sprawled upon the deck. Two of the tech-priests were in convulsions, sparks flying from their augmented eyes and foam speckling their lips. Even Torin and Haegr were on their hands and knees, shaking their heads drunkenly from the shock of the brief transit. Inquisitor Volt was climbing slowly to his feet, his mouth working in a silent prayer.

  Red light flooded through the viewports, thick as congealed blood. Ragnar brought his head around and forced his eyes to focus on the realm beyond the stricken ship. He saw the dark curve of a world, like a sphere of ebon glass. Skeins of purple lightning ravelled across its surface, silhouetting vast, arrowhead shapes drifting like leviathans high above the shadow world.

  The sky was full of Chaos ships.

  TWELVE

  No Matter the Cost

  The last salvo of the rebel barrage landed right on target, bursting along the entire length of the Imperial barricades blocking the Angelus Causeway. Huge siege mortar rounds and Earthshaker cannon shells blew gouts of pulverised ferrocrete and structural steel dozens of metres into the air and turned human bodies into clouds of blood and vaporised flesh. Ten metres to Mikal Sternmark’s right, a bunker made of salvaged masonry and quick-setting ceramite compound took a direct hit and vanished in a cloud of grey smoke and razor-edged shrapnel. Guardsmen manning firing positions to either side of the bunker were tossed into the air like broken dolls, their armour melted and their clothes alight.

  Nearly three weeks of constant shelling had turned the once-prosperous commercial district that lined the causeway into a nightmare landscape of gutted buildings and smoking, debris-lined craters. The causeway itself passed through the centre of the Imperial lines. Fed by four major transit lines, the broad, six-lane road was made to ferry the produce of Charys’s sprawling agri-complexes into the arms of the mercantile syndicates at the nearby starport. Columns of local granite had been raised along the entire length of the causeway, topped by severe-looking angels bearing the scales of commerce or the upraised sword of war. Nearly all of the angels had been destroyed during the long weeks of combat: all save one, who seemed to tower defiantly over the right end of the Imperials’ defensive line, his sword raised to strike down the Emperor’s foes.

  The defenders had built their barricade from the carcasses of the bombed-out buildings that lined the causeway. Heavy slabs of ferrocrete had been dragged into place by cargo walkers brought up from the star-port, and engineering teams had gone to work constructing firing steps and gun pits out of masonry and layers of flakboard. The line of fortifications stretched for a full kilometre, from one side of the causeway to the other. An entire regiment, the Hyrkoon Grenadiers, one of Athelstane’s veteran units, had been ordered to hold the causeway at all costs. A full platoon of Leman Russ battle tanks had been assigned to support the defenders, their squat, blocky turrets rising threateningly from ferrocrete revetments built just behind the barricade. From their firing steps, the defenders could see for almost two kilometres down the wide, flat causeway. It was an ideal killing ground, one that any sane commander would dread having to cross, but it also stretched from the city like an out-thrust spear, reaching right for the heart of the Imperial forces on Charys. If the enemy forced open the causeway they could reach the star-port in little over an hour.

  Sternmark had no doubt that the causeway would be the traitors’ main objective. He and his Wolf Guard had joined the surviving members of Einar’s pack just as the first enemy shells had begun to fall. Now, amid the deafening thunder of the rebel bombardment, his enhanced senses detected a different timbre to the impacts landing on the far side of the barricade. Sternmark placed a boot on the firing step and raised his head above the lip of the stone embrasure. A thick wall of grey vapour was swelling silently across the concertina wire and tank traps laid before the barricade, fuelled by the bursts of dozens of rebel smoke rounds. At the same time, the roll of artillery blasts dwindled, and beyond the wall of smoke Sternmark heard the distant growl of petrochem engines and the war-shouts of the rebel host.

  A grim smile touched the corners of the Wolf Guard’s soot stained face. He keyed his vox-unit. “Here they come!” he called out, both for the benefit of his battle-brothers and for the platoons of Guardsmen huddled against the fortifications to Sternmark’s left and right. “Stand ready!”

  Shouted orders echoed thinly along the barricade as sergeants broke the spell of the enemy barrage with a shower of fiery curses and got the men onto their feet. The long, grey line seemed to swarm with darkly coloured beetles as the grenadiers scrambled onto the parapet and readied their weapons. The cries of wounded men rang shrilly through the air, mingled with angry shouts and the piping notes of officers’ whistles. Not far from Sternmark one of the Leman Russ battle tanks started its engine with a throaty roar, its turret tracking slowly from left to right as its gunner sought targets beyond the curtain of smoke.

  Frantic activity swirled about Sternmark’s towering figure. A priest staggered from a makeshift shelter no bigger than a penitent’s cell, furiously chanting the Litanies of Extermination. A young grenadier, barely old enough to serve, clambered over the debris behind the barricade and picked through the body parts of his dead comrades in search of spare power packs for his squad mates. A trio of soldiers grappled with a tripod-mounted autocannon, struggling to lift it back into position after it had been dislodged by a shell impact. More grenadiers raced past the towering Space Wolf from shelters further to the rear, and climbed awkwardly onto the firing step. Rifles were checked. Some men laid grenades on the chipped stone parapet where they would be close to hand. Bayonets were pulled from their sheaths and locked in place. A tall, cadaverous-looking sergeant strode quickly along the line, eyeing the grenadiers’ preparations with a practised eye.

  Volleys of crackling red las-bolts began lashing their way through the smoke, detonating against the stone barricades or buzzing angrily overhead. Bursts of shells kicked up puffs of dust or ricocheted crazily off the edges of the parapet. The roar of the engines was closer now, as well as the demented howls of the rebel infantry.

  Sternmark closed his hand around Redclaw’s hilt and drew the great blade from its scabbard. Sunlight played along the mirror finish of its edge and the runes carved along its length. He held the sword up and rested his forehead against the flat of the blade. Then he closed his eyes and offered up prayers to Russ and the Allfather. When he was done he thumbed the sword’s activation rune and felt the familiar hum of its power field sweep reassuringly up his arm. A sense of calm settled like a mantle onto the Wolf Guard’s shoulders. For the first time in almost a month, the anger and frustration that had gripped him at the command bunker receded from his mind. On the verge of battle, he felt whole once more.

  Looking left and right, he could just see Haakon and Snurri. His battle-brothers were a hundred metres to either side, and the Wolf Guard and Einar’s pack was stretched thin along the entire length of the barricade, ready to lend their strength to any breach in the line. Sternmark considered keying his vox and shouting words of encouragement to his brothers, but nothing came to mind. He had never been much good with words, and besides, what was there left to say? While he’d been driving himself mad with route maps and logistical tables they had been out on the front lines, doing the work of warriors. They knew what was at stake far better than he did.

  Ahead, the smoke was thinning. Sternmark could see the dark shapes of Chimera APCs heading down the causeway towards him, their multilasers and heavy bolters spitting fire. Platoons of infantrymen ran along in their wake, snapping off wild shots with their lasguns as they advanced.

  Bolts of energy tore through the air around Sternmark, and the Imperial defenders opened fire, unleashing a storm of energy bolts and dead
ly shells into the ranks of the oncoming enemy. A Chimera was struck by a lascannon beam and lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from its burst hatches. Men staggered and fell as lasgun beams or heavy stubber shells found their marks. The foe pressed on, drawing closer to the barricades with each passing moment.

  Sternmark raised his sword heavenward and began the battle chant of his ancestors. Looking up at the iron-grey sky he thought of Ragnar, and wondered if the young Space Wolf and his companions were still alive.

  The fleet of Chaos ships turned upon the Fist of Russ, trailing glittering arcs of grave-light from their thrusters as they broke orbit, and closed on the Imperial battle cruiser like a swarm of hungry sea drakes. Bolts of pulsing light stabbed from the weapon batteries studding the hulls of the Chaos ships, but their aim was wide and the first salvoes streaked harmlessly into the battle cruiser’s wake.

  “Helm, hard to port!” Shipmaster Wulfgar roared from the command pulpit. His voice was calm and assured, but the bondsman’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the lectern. “Ahead full! All batteries fire as you bear!” The master of the ship glanced at Ragnar, and then turned and fixed his engineering officer with a commanding glare. “Run the reactors at one hundred and twenty per cent.”

  The engineering officer paled, but nodded nevertheless. “Reactor at one-twenty, aye,” he confirmed, “but the containment wards won’t hold for long.”

  “Very well,” Wulfgar replied, as the battle cruiser started her turn. Deep, groaning sounds echoed aft from the engineering decks as the warship increased power, her tortured superstructure suffering under the strain. Thunder rang through the deckplates as the first of the enemy salvos struck home against the warship’s weakened shields.

  Ragnar’s mind raced as he studied the nearby plot table and studied the flashing lines marking the courses and positions of the Chaos ships. The Fist of Russ was turning its armoured prow to the oncoming enemy ships, but within moments the battle cruiser would be surrounded and vulnerable. His worried glance fell on the still-sealed Navigator’s vault. Then he addressed the ship’s master. “We can be at the hangar deck and launch our Thunderhawk in ten minutes,” he said. “Alter your course and open the range, Shipmaster Wulfgar. We can slip past the Chaos ships in the confusion and make planetfall.”