by Mark Clapham
‘Space Wolves!’ he shouted, raising his bolter to target one of the shadowy figures as they began to resolve, but his target was obscured by the great dark heaps collapsing into a tumble of bouncing, smaller shadows that rolled forwards, through the Archway and out into Kerresh in a cacophony of grinding and clashing metal.
Barrels. Burning barrels spilling a trail of liquid behind them, rolling out onto the surface of Kerresh. Dozens of barrels spewing oily black smoke.
Kruvan fired on the first barrel he saw, and it was torn to pieces before it got far, spilling its contents on the ground to burn harmlessly away. Others had opened fire now – a kill-box had been left around the Archway, and most of the barrels were destroyed without getting close to a Corsair or mortal. Smoking trickles of liquid began to pool on the ground and spread towards the Corsairs, but a little fire wouldn’t hurt Chaos Marines. Some of the mortals began to pull back as their boots caught fire, pulling on rebreathers to protect themselves against the spreading smoke, but were otherwise unharmed.
‘Nothing but smoke,’ said Skarrow, and Kruvan glanced across to realise he could no longer see the rest of his squad through the black clouds.
Then came a roar like Kruvan had never heard, a single word from many voices: ‘Holdja!’
For Anvindr, to step through the Archway to Kerresh was to step out of the drudgery of time and into the eternal now of battle that was the home and purpose of the Rout. Everything that had led him to this moment – the long march through the blizzards of Hacasta, the guerrilla attacks on the traitors at every waypoint or encampment on Hacasta – became distant, detached. The black smoke the Space Wolves had created by rolling dozens of burning barrels through the Archway clouded his vision, leaving him unable to see, unable to catch a scent of his pack or his enemies through the tarry acrid stench.
He was one of fourteen Space Wolves, one of the three packs that had set out across the snows of Hacasta, now one Space Wolf short having seen one of their number’s thread cut. They did not need to see or hear the others to act as they did, to run forwards to face unknown foes in the dark with lethal violence. This was who they were.
They were the Vlka Fenryka, and the thread of Anvindr’s own life was just one amongst many, intertwined into a greater wyrd that led back to Russ, to the time when the Emperor bestrode the universe and Anvindr’s ancestors fought in his long shadow to tame the universe itself.
Through the thick smoke he charged. Anvindr knew that in such low visibility he would not get the chance to use his bolter, so he wielded his chainsword, the blade silent so that he might hear his prey. He heard movement to his right and stopped running, swinging his chainsword around, squeezing the button on the hilt so the teeth began to turn. A Red Corsair emerged from the black smoke, raising his arm defensively. The chainsword had not fully powered up, and the teeth were moving slow enough that they caught on the vambrace of the Corsair as he defended himself, throwing out sparks as the chainsword ground against ceramite.
Even over the screech of his weapon Anvindr heard the sound of movement behind him. He stepped back and to the right, withdrawing his chainsword as he did. The Corsair who had been pushing back against the chainsword fell forwards as the resistance was taken away, rapidly regaining his footing but stepping between Anvindr and another Corsair who had been about to shoot him in the back.
Anvindr lunged, swiping around the chainsword to knock aside the second Corsair’s bolter. The chainsword caught the barrel of the bolter, doing no real damage but causing the shot fired to go wide. The black smoke was clearing now, and Anvindr could see their immediate surroundings: he was fighting the two Corsairs in the space between two transport containers, dirty great metal boxes that towered overhead. The bolt that missed Anvindr punched through the container wall behind him, exploding with a muffled whoomph somewhere inside. Beyond the container, the sound of Space Wolf fighting Red Corsair could be heard, gunfire and clashing metal.
In striking one Corsair’s weapon aside Anvindr had left himself open to attack from the other renegade, who kicked him hard in the torso. Anvindr’s power armour protected his body from the blow but the impact knocked him backwards, smacking into the wall of the container behind him. Already breached and weakened by bolter fire, the wall tore apart as Anvindr’s colossal mass crashed into it. He landed on his back, crushing crates loaded with medical supplies as he fell. He rolled sideways and up into a crouch, raising his chainsword to defend himself, but instead of pursuing him the two Corsairs had held their position, raising their bolters and opening fire.
As bolter fire exploded around him, Anvindr threw himself to the side, swiping his chainsword around to tear through the far wall of the container. He fell in that direction, rolling out into an open area where he found himself face-to-face with Gulbrandr, who fired over Anvindr’s shoulder at the two pursuing Corsairs, who disappeared back into cover.
The smoke was almost clear now, and Anvindr could see his wider surroundings. The Space Wolves were advancing through a transit area scattered with loading equipment and containers, exchanging fire with Red Corsairs and their mortal soldiers, both sides moving between cover. At the edge of the loading area a ridge loomed, a ridge runner currently docked in a station building with an unusual clock tower. From the top of the ridge to ground level ran a sloping track on which a large elevator platform could take cargo to and from the ridge to the loading area.
Anvindr instinctively considered the ridge station a target worth taking, but as the smoke cleared a more immediate problem presented itself: two heavy bolter emplacements at the far end of the loading area opened fire, heavy bolts ripping through the cargo containers and other cover.
‘Great Russ,’ said Gulbrandr, as they ducked behind the remains of the container Anvindr had smashed through. ‘No wonder these traitors were pulling back. They can drop hel on us from above now.’
‘Aye,’ said Anvindr. The emplacements were mounted high, firing down into the area in which the Space Wolves were corralled. ‘Though they have left their belly soft in doing so. Draw their fire, tell Hoenir to follow my lead. Then be ready to press the advantage, we’ll be swamped out there.’
‘What are you–’ said Gulbrandr, but as the nearest heavy bolter paused briefly to cool down Anvindr shoved him out of cover and back into the open. Gulbrandr uttered foul Fenrisian oaths as the heavy bolter opened fire and he ran towards more distant cover, where Anvindr could see the rest of his pack.
Anvindr charged back through the ruins of the container and out of the other side, using the distraction to head towards the heavy bolter. He zigzagged between containers and loaders, keeping out of sight, but as he got within fifty metres of the heavy bolter it swung towards him, opening fire.
His chainsword swinging on his belt, Anvindr threw himself forwards while still running, crouching like an animal to push ahead on all fours, ceramite-covered knuckles scraping against rockcrete as he did so.
The air over Anvindr was aflame with heavy bolter fire but none caught him as he scrabbled forwards – the heavy bolter was mounted too high to fire down at such a steep angle.
Red Corsairs opened fire with their own weapons as Anvindr ran into their defensive line, and he felt the explosion of a bolt against his pauldron nearly knock him off his feet, but he kept running. The base of the gun emplacement was surrounded by a red armoured barrier and Anvindr ran straight at it, grabbing the top of the barrier with both hands and hauling himself over the top to drop inside the cordon. Bolts exploded and las-shots scorched all around him as he scrabbled over the top, heavy boots finding brief purchase to boost himself over. The roar of the heavy bolter, firing just above him, was deafening.
Once inside the barrier, two Red Corsairs were immediately on him, attacking from both sides. Anvindr drew his chainsword, which roared into life as he swung it at one Red Corsair. Suppressing his rising kill-urge, he aimed his chainsword at the knee joint
of the Space Marine’s power armour, dealing a glancing blow that brought the Corsair to his knees. Anvindr then swung the chainsword around to the other Corsair, who was coming for him with a combat knife. He let the Corsair come in close for a swipe with the knife, falling back and catching his enemy’s wrist momentarily. Allowing the chainsword in his other hand to idle, Anvindr pulled the Corsair close to him and brought its pommel down hard on his helmet. The Corsair staggered back, stunned.
With both Red Corsairs briefly downed, Anvindr climbed the base of the weapons emplacement, a metal pillar embedded in rockcrete and surrounded by sandbags. The barrel of the heavy bolter was white-hot overhead, but Anvindr ignored it in favour of swinging his chainsword around to cut through the mass of cables and lines that trailed down from the underside of the weapon.
Anvindr saw the weapon satisfactorily splutter to a halt before the Corsairs below dragged him down from the emplacement.
Curse these Space Wolves, thought Kruvan – they were hard to kill. The same old Space Wolf with the chainsword that had eluded Kruvan and Skarrow amongst the containers then dodged their fire once more to destroy the heavy bolter.
Now, though, the Red Corsairs had him. Half a dozen of their number had seized the beast and dragged him down from the gun emplacement, wrestling him out into the open. The Space Wolf’s helmless head was a mass of white-tinged hair and beard that shook as he cursed and struggled, a Corsair holding each limb and Skarrow’s arm locked around the old Space Wolf’s neck.
Kruvan was left free to finish the job, and raised his bolter. To kill a Space Wolf was a memorable moment, one he would recount for many years to come.
‘Just kill him, Kruvan,’ said Skarrow, as the beast roared and struggled.
‘What is your name, Space Wolf?’ asked Kruvan. ‘Tell me, so that I can at least tell stories of how you fought.’
The old Space Wolf stopped struggling then, as if broken. Pathetic animal, thought Kruvan; all it wants is its name scratched on the same cave wall as its ancestors. Having removed his damaged helmet, Kruvan kept his contempt off his face as best he could. He wanted that name, to complete the story of how he had hunted the Space Wolf.
‘They call me Old Nose-Breaker,’ said the Space Wolf, snarling through clenched fangs.
It was a name one would expect from a primitive, but it was a name, so there was no need to keep the Space Wolf alive. Kruvan’s finger tightened on the bolter’s trigger.
The hail of bolts that exploded around the Corsairs came from behind Kruvan, one detonating near his right foot while another exploded on his left pauldron, causing his shot to go wide. The Corsairs who were holding on to the Space Wolf let go, moving swiftly to open fire on their enemies, all except Skarrow, who tried to use the Space Wolf as a shield, arm locked around the Space Wolf’s neck. ‘Old Nose-Breaker’ roared, lifting Skarrow up and staggering backwards until the Corsair holding on to him slammed into the armoured barrier around the base of the gun emplacement. The Space Wolf jabbed both his elbows back into Skarrow, and the Red Corsair let go. Then the Space Wolf charged forwards, pushing Kruvan’s gun arm aside and bringing his forehead crashing forwards into Kruvan’s face.
Kruvan felt his nose break.
The rage took hold of Anvindr as he shoved the Red Corsair over with his full body weight, landing on top of him and letting his fists continue the work his headbutt had started, pounding the stunned and bloodied Corsair’s face with his knuckles.
Around him, battle was joined. Hoenir and Sindri were standing back to back, Hoenir’s power fist deflecting blows from Corsairs with such force they were thrown back with the impact, while Sindri’s chainblade sliced back and forth with a precision that contrasted with his high laughter. Tormodr was favouring his fists over his flamer, gauntleted hands rising and falling like pistons, smashing into skulls, while even Gulbrandr was engaging the enemy hand-to-hand, twisting necks and punching throats.
The Red Corsairs were being driven back, and the lines of battle were moving on, away from where Anvindr was beating on the fallen Corsair. Anvindr was dimly aware of this in his ferocity, part of him warning that he was toying with the Corsair as unwisely as the Corsair had toyed with Anvindr.
In his frenzy Anvindr did not listen to the voice of his better nature, and kept punching right until the cold blade sunk into his neck and he lost control of his limbs.
Kruvan’s face was a crushed mass of agony, and he had temporarily lost consciousness from the blows.
He was brought back to full awareness by a red-hot pain in his neck, a fire that burned through his nerve endings. His hearts hammered in his chest, and his eyes opened wide to see the Corpsemaster looking down at him with contempt.
‘Get up and run,’ said Garreon. ‘This site is lost. We will take the ridge runner to the factorum, return and drive the Space Wolves out. There is nothing to be gained by staying here now.’
His body flooded with adrenaline, Kruvan was on his feet. His hand went to his neck. ‘What did you give me?’ he demanded.
‘A stimulant of my own devising,’ said the Corpsemaster, a cruel smirk twitching at his mouth. ‘I am curious to see whether you survive the experience.’
‘And the Space Wolf?’ asked Kruvan.
The one who called himself ‘Old Nose-Breaker’ lay static on the ground, eyes wide and mouth twisted in a rictus of pain.
‘A nerve agent, also my own,’ said Garreon, already walking away. ‘Now come, we must withdraw.’
Kruvan considered putting a bolt in the old Space Wolf’s head before following Garreon, then decided that the Space Wolf looked in too much agony to allow him the release of a quick death.
Tormodr knew that he was not a rapid thinker, that he would never have the fast strategic instincts to lead a pack. He did not have the sharp mind of Gulbrandr or Sindri, able to quickly switch between many targets. Tormodr knew these were not his areas of expertise as a warrior, but he also knew they were not failings to be corrected. His way of waging war was different, but served the pack well. He was slow but relentless, grinding down the enemy with flamer and fists. He saw the long objective and how to steadily reach it, and sometimes he saw patterns in the flow of battle that other, quicker wits could not.
‘The traitors are retreating,’ he said, inbetween bursts of his flamer.
‘For a retreat,’ said Sindri through gritted fangs, ‘this feels remarkably like a spirited defence.’
The front line of the battle between the Corsairs and the Space Wolves had moved to the base of the ridge that ran past the Archway to Hacasta. The two forces were exchanging fire, the Space Wolves getting in close to engage in the close-quarters combat at which they excelled. Their numbers were equally matched, but the Red Corsairs had mortal support while the Space Wolves did not – no kaerls would have survived the long trek through Hacasta’s snowy wastes. While the traitor Guardsmen and other mortals supporting the Red Corsairs were little direct threat to the Space Wolves, they proved a disruption, hanging back and firing on the pack from afar. Buildings had attached themselves to the ridge up to the station, and mortal las-fire rained down from narrow windows above.
‘They are withdrawing,’ said Tormodr, setting the ground floor of a building ablaze with his flamer, roasting the mortals within. ‘They leave their mortals to fight for them.’
He did not expect Sindri to understand. The fair-haired Space Wolf was alive to every threat around him, chainsword whipping back and forth and bolt pistol barking, but as ever Sindri was focused on the immediate threat; he could not see the slower, bigger picture.
‘They withdraw towards the ridge, to that runner,’ grunted Tormodr, looking up.
‘Then we should take the fastest route to join them,’ said Sindri with a vulpine grin. He elbowed aside a mortal and charged past Tormodr, towards the elevator platform, which was already beginning to rise slowly from ground level. Tormodr foll
owed.
The platform was loaded with cargo, half a dozen Red Corsairs firing defensively as it began to rise. Sindri was approaching the platform sideways, running the length of the ridge, and so he was hidden from view by barrels as he leapt onto the edge of the platform. He dropped to one knee, reaching an arm down to grab Tormodr’s hand.
‘I blame you entirely for this idea,’ said Sindri, straining as he pulled Tormodr up. Tormodr felt the toe of his boot catch the edge of the platform, and pushed himself the rest of the way. He did not reply beyond a grunt.
‘Your point is well made,’ said Sindri, responding to what he presumed Tormodr would have said. ‘But you inspired the idea, nonetheless.’
Tormodr remained silent.
‘Very well, I concede my failing and will endeavour to correct it,’ said Sindri, firing up his chainsword and drawing it back. ‘Now cease these relentless accusations.’
‘For Russ!’ shouted Sindri, his chainsword tearing through the barrels between him and the Red Corsairs on the platform.
Anvindr thought himself dead, to begin with. His eyes saw only darkness, he could hear nothing. His body would not move. He felt himself trapped in his own corpse.
No, he thought. In death there would be no pain, a carcass felt nothing. Whereas the rigor that gripped Anvindr came with a cold, heavy pain. Anvindr’s thread was not yet cut; he could dig himself out of this grave.
He started with his core, his hearts and lungs, focusing on drawing ragged breaths, concentrating on his heartbeats through the fog of pain. The more air in his lungs, the more blood pumped by his hearts, the quicker his enhanced body would fight off the poison in his system. His chest felt constricted, as if a tombstone lay upon him, but he forced it to expand and in doing so he became aware of further stabs of pain in his back and shoulder blades.
His senses were still lost to him, his extremities frozen, but his body was beginning to unlock, the cold heaviness replaced by a hotter pain spreading from his centre. He needed to move more, let that sharper pain course through him, burn out the foulness in his veins. He arched his shoulders, and felt something other than pain as his armoured elbows hit hard ground beneath. Hands and fingers still beyond his control, Anvindr forced himself up onto one elbow, then with a heave pushed himself over so that his face smacked into the ground, grit and dirt scratching against his cheek.