[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour

by Lee Lightner - (ebook by Undead)

  Strange, gibbering howls and blasphemous cries rose from all directions as packs of daemons stalked across the landing field after the fleeing Guardsmen. The regiments had all but ceased to exist. All that remained were isolated platoons fighting for their lives as they searched for some way to escape the slaughter unfolding around them.

  Men screamed in the night, calling to the Emperor to deliver them. Sometimes, their plea was answered by a low, savage howl. The sound made Sven’s blood run cold. He’d heard it often enough along the mountain slopes and ice fields of home as the Fenrisian wolves hunted their prey. After that there would be terrible, unnatural screams and savage cries as the daemons found themselves fighting a beast every bit as terrible as they were. Sven, Gunnar and Silvertongue shared uneasy looks at every wolf-like howl. Our battle-brothers have gone mad, the Grey Hunter thought dreadfully, feeling his skin crawl. His gaze turned to the north-east, where the company had laid Berek in state on a bier strung with melta charges. Sven pictured Thorin Shieldsplitter kneeling at Berek’s feet, his hands trembling as he lifted the access panel to the first charge and awoke its detonation runes. Not long now, Sven thought bleakly.

  As they ran the five kilometres to the centre of the landing field, Sven listened for the rising whine of engines, and scanned the dark skies for thruster flames. Nothing had taken off from the doomed star-port as far as he could tell. He feared that when they reached the command bunker they would find a burning, cratered ruin, blown apart by a salvo of powerful Earthshaker artillery shells.

  Instead, the three Wolves arrived to find the low, slope-sided bunkers largely unscathed. Three cargo haulers were parked outside the main entrance, their petrochem engines rumbling. The armoured doors to the bunker were open, but there was no one about.

  They surveyed the scene for a moment from the deep shadows beyond the bunker floodlights. “What do you make of this?” Sven asked, feeling his hackles rise.

  Gunnar shook his head. “No signs of a firefight. Maybe the Guardsmen lost their nerve and ran off?”

  “Perhaps,” Silvertongue said, but the skald’s voice sounded less than certain. “Let’s check out the back of those trucks.”

  The warriors spread out and approached the cargo haulers at a crouching run, their bolters trained and ready. Sven reached the tailgate of the first truck and swung around, aiming into the bed. “Logic engines, data-slates and a pair of generators,” he declared, lowering his weapon, “but no soldiers.”

  “Same here,” Silvertongue said from the back of the second truck. “Gunnar? What have you got?”

  “Crates and more crates,” the Long Fang said from the third cargo hauler. “Looks like they were emptying out the bunker. Except…”

  The skald looked back at the old Wolf. “Except what?”

  Gunnar nodded towards the bunker entrance, just a few metres away. “I smell blood,” he replied, “and it’s fresh.”

  Silvertongue looked over at Sven and indicated the bunker entrance. The Grey Hunter nodded and edged towards the open doorway, bolter at the ready.

  When he was within three metres, he could smell the blood as well, along with the stink of scorched ferrocrete and overheated power cells. Sven crouched low and tried to peer into the tunnel beyond the threshold. Most of the lights in the passageway were out, but the Wolfs keen sight picked out a body slumped on the floor just beyond the doorway.

  Another savage howl rose into the darkness off to the south. Sven took a deep breath and edged closer.

  The body was clearly that of a Guardsman, collapsed against the right wall of the tunnel and sitting in a pool of blood. The soldier’s left arm was flung out to the side. In the faint light Sven could see that it had been torn open from shoulder to elbow. More worrying, the soldier had been facing into the bunker when he’d been killed.

  Moving carefully, Sven stepped around the body and entered the tunnel. The Guardsman’s lasgun lay in his lap, covered in gore. A faintly blinking light on the weapon’s power cell showed that it was completely empty. Scorch marks from wild lasgun fire marked the reinforced walls all the way down the narrow passageway.

  Sven crouched low, aiming down the passageway. There was another faint scent in the tunnel, something savage and wild that set his nerves on edge. He was so intent on the strange smell that he didn’t hear Gunnar and Silvertongue creep up to the bunker entrance behind him.

  “What happened here?” the skald asked.

  The Grey Hunter started, his finger tightening on the trigger of his boltgun. Heart racing, he half-turned to his battle-brothers. “There’s something in here,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what it is, but I can smell it.”

  Gunnar looked down at the dead soldier. “Looks like daemon’s work,” he said grimly.

  Silvertongue nodded thoughtfully. “If so, they’re between us and the vox-units,” he said. “Sven, you’ve got point.”

  The Grey Hunter nodded, checking his bolter. Six rounds left, he thought. If there’s more than one of them in here, this is going to be a short fight.

  Weapons ready, the Wolves made their way into the bunker. Outside, a chorus of hunting howls rose into the fire-lit sky.

  The Chaos Dreadnought’s armoured hide bore the marks of ten thousand years of battle. Gruesome trophies from dozens of unholy campaigns hung from corroded spikes across its wide shoulders, and its scarred front hull was daubed with evil runes painted in the blood of the innocent. The war machine’s sarcophagus was wrapped in black iron chains, and strange charms had been affixed to its metal surface.

  Wreathed in a nimbus of multicoloured fire, the oculars of the Dreadnought’s pitted helm were as black as the depths of the abyss. Ragnar looked into those depths and knew that no living thing lay within that adamantine shell. The warrior within had been turned to dust by the sorceries of the Rubric of Ahriman, thousands of years past. All that remained was a hateful spirit that longed for nothing but slaughter.

  In the middle ground between Ragnar and the Dreadnought, an armoured figure staggered amid three blackened and melted corpses. Smoke rose from Sigurd’s armour, and the ceramite plates shimmered with heat, but the power of the iron wolf amulet had saved the priest from a gruesome death. The blast had left the Wolf Priest stunned, and for a moment he seemed unable to comprehend the peril looming before him.

  With a groan of ancient servo-motors the war machine took a ponderous step forward. An inhuman growl issued from the Dreadnought’s vox-unit as it reached for Sigurd with a huge, saw toothed power claw.

  “For Russ and the Allfather!” Ragnar cried, charging between Sigurd and the war machine, and leaping at the Dreadnought’s head. Purple and gold flames licked at him like deadly whips as he drew near, leaving long scorch marks across his shoulders and chest. His frost blade struck sparks as it rang from the war machine’s heavy armour, but with all his strength he could not penetrate the thick adamantine plates.

  Howling in fury, the Dreadnought turned at the waist and swiped its claw at the offending Wolf. Ragnar leapt backwards, just out of reach, but was struck with a hail of shells as a twin bolter in the war machine’s shoulder opened fire. Mass-reactive rounds smashed against the young Space Wolf’s breastplate, driving him to his knees.

  More of the Wolves rushed forwards. The Wulfen swept around the Dreadnought’s flanks, risking the deadly flames to leap in and rake their claws against the war machine’s armour. Enraged, the Dreadnought lashed out wildly against its antagonists, catching one of the Wulfen in its claw and cutting him in two.

  Then came a booming laugh, and Haegr strode towards the towering war machine with a berserker grin on his broad face. “Curse your false gods for your ill fortune, traitor,” he called, hefting his thunder hammer. “Mighty Haegr has been looking to give someone a good thrashing and he’s chosen you!”

  The Dreadnought let out another savage roar and pivoted again, bringing its plasma cannon to bear, but Haegr saw the move and rushed forward with surprising speed. His hammer crackled wit
h power as he swung it in a brutal arc, smashing the cannon’s projector to pieces. Sorcerous flames lashed at the burly Wolfblade, but Haegr kept moving, spinning on one heel and smashing his hammer into the war machine’s right hip. There was an earth-shaking detonation that sent pieces of torn metal spinning through the air, and the Dreadnought’s right leg bent at an awkward angle. The war machine was immobilised.

  However, the Dreadnought was far from finished. Howling in rage, it swung at Haegr with its power claw, striking the Wolfblade a glancing blow that hurled him through the air. Haegr hit the ground five metres away, his thunder hammer spinning across the paving stones.

  “Haegr!” Ragnar shouted. The big Wolfblade slowly rose to his hands and knees, shaking his head in a daze. A burst of bolter shells blazed across Haegr’s flank as the Dreadnought opened fire again. Other shells tore into the paving stones and buzzed through the air around the rest of the Wolves. The traitor Guardsmen and their daemon packs were drawing near, pressing in on the warriors from three sides. Ragnar looked back and saw Torvald, Torin, Volt and Gabriella standing back to back, blazing away at the oncoming foes.

  The young Space Wolf staggered to his feet, trying to think of some way to stop the daemon-possessed war machine. Suddenly, he caught sight of a swift figure charging the Dreadnought from the right. A Wulfen dashed beneath the daemon’s swinging power claw and leapt onto the machine’s left leg. Flames enveloped the warrior, burning away his blond fur as the former Blood Claw climbed nimbly onto the Dreadnought’s back. The war machine bellowed in fury, groping clumsily with its power claw at the bold warrior on its back, but the Wulfen crouched between the Dreadnought’s twin exhaust towers and tore at the engine’s power couplings with his charred hands.

  Burning like a torch, Harald turned and met Ragnar’s eyes. White teeth shone in a wolfish grin, framed by a blackened face. Then the Wulfen threw back his broad shoulders and heaved. Ensorcelled metal tore with a chilling shriek, and the Dreadnought’s power plant exploded in a dazzling white flash.

  The concussion flattened everyone within ten metres. Molten shrapnel rained down on the Wolves. The Dreadnought’s power claw spun end over end across the paving stones less than a metre from where Ragnar lay.

  The war machine was gone from the waist up, standing in a shallow crater melted in the stone. Beyond, the palace gates lay undefended. The young Space Wolf leapt to his feet. Shells buzzed past him as the traitor Guardsmen resumed their fire. “Let’s go!” he shouted to his stunned companions. “Follow me!”

  Ragnar charged past Haegr and the Wulfen and ran beneath the tall gateway. Beyond lay a long, rectangular courtyard, empty of life, and cloaked in deep shadow. The entrance to the palace was at the far end.

  With a heavy tread, Haegr, Sigurd and the four surviving Wulfen swept through the gate. Shots chipped stone from the arch and rang from the steel gates. The burly Wolfblade had lost most of his whiskers to the searing touch of the Dreadnought’s sorcerous flames, but other than that he seemed unharmed. Within moments the rest of the warband joined them, Torvald and Torin firing their bolt pistols at the daemons in their wake.

  The pillar of Chaos energy overhead shone upon the Wolves with a sickly, furtive glow as they ran along the length of the courtyard. Shots whipped past them as the traitor Guardsmen boiled through the gateway and gave chase, but they could not gain much ground on the fleet-footed warriors. Ragnar felt a sense of righteous rage swelling within his breast with every step. The moment of reckoning was at hand. Madox was finally going to pay for all that he’d done. Nothing could stop them now.

  Ragnar charged up the steps to the palace and put his shoulder to the doors. The dark wood smashed inward, revealing a silent, empty nave. Towering statues of daemon princes in ornate armour leered down at the Wolves as they raced inside.

  Cadmus Volt pointed to the doors at the far end of the nave. “The governor’s audience chamber lies beyond,” he said over the bark of bolt pistols and the buzz of ricocheting shells. “That was where Berek was ambushed. It must be the locus of the enemy ritual.”

  The young Space Wolf nodded. His heart was racing, and his blood was afire. “Whatever else happens, Madox must fall,” he said. “Nothing else matters. If we die here, so be it, but Madox and his ritual must die with us.”

  “Well said,” Sigurd replied solemnly. The young priest’s face was blistered from the plasma blast, and the brush with death had left a grim look in his eyes.

  “Enough talking,” Torvald said, hefting his axe. “Now, go—”

  Ragnar frowned at the Rune Priest. “What about you?”

  “I’m staying here,” he said. “Someone has to hold the door and keep our pursuers off your back long enough for you to deal with Madox.” The ancient warrior studied the doorway and nodded. “From here, I can hold those fiends at bay almost indefinitely.”

  “Almost?” Ragnar said.

  The Rune Priest smiled. “Go, little brother,” he said. “Fight well, in Leman’s name.”

  The young Space Wolf nodded. “And you,” he replied.

  Shots struck the doorframe and whipped around the darkened nave. With a nod of farewell, Torvald turned to face the onslaught. Ragnar and his remaining companions looked to one another and left the Rune Priest to his fate.

  They crossed the nave quickly, their skin prickling at the touch of unseen energies. Ragnar heard the Wulfen growl uneasily, and felt the curse within him respond. Beyond the audience chamber’s double doors, they could hear a chorus of wild, unnatural chanting.

  Behind them, at the far end of the nave, Ragnar heard the first blows being struck as Torvald faced the traitor horde alone. A grim and terrible wrath came upon the young Space Wolf, like a red tide rising up behind his eyes. With a howl, he raised his boot and burst the wooden doors asunder.

  Unholy light washed over Ragnar and his companions, along with a chorus of tortured shrieks from the souls of the damned. Scraps of tattered skin fluttered in on an unseen wind from the tall pillars lining the great chamber, drawn towards a whirling pillar of sorcerous energy that rose like a cyclone above the temple’s black altar.

  Upon the desecrated stone burned the stolen gene-seed of Madox’s victims, their precious genetic material spun free in a fine, red mist that rose in twisting tendrils into the heart of the psychic whirlwind. Scores of cult sorcerers filled the great hall, standing atop the charred remains of their peers as they stretched their hands to the obsidian altar and fuelled the workings of Madox’s great spell.

  The foul sorcerer stood behind that same black altar, gripping the Spear of Russ in his left hand. Madox’s right hand was outstretched, as though in greeting beckoning the Wolves to their doom. His eyes burned with hate from the depths of his ornate helmet, and his baroque armour glowed with unholy power. Patterns of runes carved into the ancient armour pulsed and writhed, radiating energy like heat from a forge, and foul energies leapt in arcs of lightning from the tips of his horned helm.

  Behind Madox, wreathed in the very energies of the warp itself, shone the glowing semblance of a single, terrifying eye. It glared at Ragnar with palpable malice and inhuman evil, piercing his armour and sinking invisible talons of despair into the young Space Marine’s soul.

  A lesser soul might have shattered before such an awful sight, but Ragnar Blackmane looked upon his old foe and felt only a savage, merciless joy. “Madox of the Thousand Sons!” he roared. “Your wyrd is upon you! By Russ and the Allfather, your death is at hand!”

  The chanting faltered with those fierce words, and the sorcerers spun around, hissing invocations to the Ruinous Powers. Howls shook the vaulted chamber as Ragnar led his companions into battle.

  Bolt pistols hammered, sending heavy shells smashing through the massed ranks of the enemy. Ragnar fired again and again into the press, scarcely marking where his rounds struck as he forced his way step by step towards his goal. Sorcerous energies flashed through the air, striking the armoured warriors, but the wards etched into Volt’s In
quisitorial armour seemed to turn aside the worst of the enemy spells.

  Haegr and Torin stood to either side of Ragnar, wreaking a terrible slaughter with hammer and blade. On the flanks, the Wulfen pulled cultists off their feet and tore them asunder with tooth and claw. Sigurd stood among the Wulfen on the left, bellowing out the Litanies of Hate and slaying the enemy with blows from his glowing crozius. Gabriella stood on the right, moving easily among the bestial Wulfen and slashing at the cultists with her curved power sword.

  The cultists fell back in disarray before the relentless assault. Scores died every moment, reaped like wheat before the Wolves’ iron fury. With every step, Ragnar drew closer to the black altar, but Madox made not a single move to stop him. The master sorcerer simply waited, his eyes gleaming and his hand outstretched.

  Within moments they had advanced almost two-thirds of the way across the chamber. Ragnar felt a hint of unease through the red currents of bloodlust. By then, however, it was already too late.

  Swift figures emerged from the deep shadows behind the parchment covered pillars: broad, powerful figures in blue and gold armour, wielding bolt pistols and chainswords of arcane design. Their armour was decorated with grisly trophies from countless battlefields, including the burned and broken helms of Space Marine champions, and the skulls of Imperial heroes. They moved with a speed and skill beyond that of even normal Chaos Marines. They were veteran warriors who had slaughtered tens of thousands of foes in their time, and were the chosen men of powerful lords such as Madox.

  “Look to the flanks!” Ragnar bellowed, but the veteran Chaos Marines were already pressing forwards, smashing the cultists out of their way in their eagerness to spill loyalist blood. Still more of the warriors were circling behind the warband, cutting off their retreat.