War Without End

by Various

  ‘I care not. My successors will fight for the torc.’

  Russ let the possibilities play out behind his eyes, liking none of them. But the warriors’ court had passed the point where it might end well. He went with his instinct, as he did in all things. Intuition always served him well.

  ‘Be it so. You will go with Howl of the Hearthworld.’

  Laughing Jaurmag pulled the torc open with a quiet whine of straining metal, and cast the ring to the ground before his primarch’s boots. Silence reigned for another few heartbeats.

  ‘This isn’t exile,’ Russ said once more. ‘You say this is no honour, and here at this warriors’ council we will speak the truth. You are right, kinsmen – it’s no honour at all. It’s nothing more than a gesture of the Sigillite’s diplomacy. He cannot have watch-packs following only some of the primarchs. It must be all, or none.’

  ‘Then it should be none,’ Laughing Jaurmag dared to say. Many of the gathered jarls nodded at his words. ‘The Allfather would not wish for us to do this. It is not our–’

  ‘The Allfather toils in the Terran catacombs.’ Russ’s voice became a grindstone growl. ‘The Regent governs in my father’s absence. Let that be the end of your refusals.’

  He softened his tone, fighting back the first touch of true anger. ‘The Sigillite’s wariness will pass in time. A handful of years on Terra, standing at my brother Dorn’s side. That is all I ask of you.’

  ‘Good, sire, because that’s all we’re giving you.’ Thirteen Stars Falling tilted his head back for a moment, baring his throat in subtle submission. His pack-brothers did the same. None of them took any pleasure from the primarch’s words, but as loyal sons they accepted them. ‘Call us back to war soon, my king. Don’t let us die peaceful deaths on Terra.’

  One of the Regent’s emissaries awaited them aboard the warship Damarchus. Prelate Quilym Yei was a small and slight man, robed in black and marked out immediately by Malcador’s stylised sigil worn as a gold amulet around his thin neck. His voice was toneless to the point of monotony, which amused and disgusted Howl of the Hearthworld in equal measure. He showed no fear of them, which would at least be understandable. Instead, he displayed little more than bland focus, considering it best not to antagonise the barbarians any more than necessary.

  It was his duty, he informed the Wolves, to record the minutiae of their rolls of honour to date, for detailed entry into the Terran archives. The Throne received full accountings from every one of the Imperium’s expeditionary fleets – including Legiones Astartes citations and casualty lists – but the flow of information was slow and unreliable at best, given the distances involved and the vast reams of data being transferred from one side of the galaxy to the other. For an actual return to the Solar System, with Legion warriors standing on precious Terran soil, a more immediate accounting was required.

  This was how he greeted them in one of the ship’s briefing chambers, shortly after they came aboard. In response, one of the pack spat onto the deck before him. Rather than feel any insult, Quilym was faintly charmed by the disrespectful gesture. He had studied the VI Legion and their primitive home world for many years, and knew many of the Fenrisian rituals and traditions carried through the Space Wolves’ ranks. Spitting wasn’t merely a dirty habit to them – to some tribes it was an old superstition to ward off ill-luck. To others, it was a way of showing displeasure, refusing to heed another’s words. In this case, Quilym suspected it might be a little of both.

  ‘How very hostile,’ he noted with nothing less than perfect politeness. ‘Am I to assume you would rather be sailing to Prospero with your Legion, than making this journey to Terra?’

  The Wolf that had spat now shook his head. ‘Already you show your ignorance, scribe. The Einherjar goes to hear the Warmaster first. Horus Lupercal wishes to speak with the Lord of Winter and War. Only then will the Rout sail onward to the court of the Crimson King.’

  Interesting, thought the prelate. Malcador would find that very interesting indeed.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Quilym, still absolutely neutral. ‘Forgive my dated information. Now, as to my duty, if you would list your names and ranks, we can get under way. I realise it seems a chore but the entirety of the Seventh Legion underwent the same rigorous–’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ said one of the other Wolves, ‘or I shall kill you.’

  The prelate hesitated. The cybernetic stylus in place of his left index finger hovered above the scratched surface of his worn data-slate. He observed them, these towering, hulking, unwashed warriors with iron rings bound into their braided beards and their faces marked by jagged, runic tattoos. They stank of sweat, of weapon oils, of old furs left out in the rain.

  He drew a breath to reply, then exhaled it softly as every pair of grey-blue eyes in the chamber stared into him with bladed intensity. Slowly, calmly, he put the data-slate down upon the central table. The Wolves ignored him at once, sharing bitter smiles and snarled words in their guttural fracas of a language.

  Quilym endured the indignity of being ignored for several minutes. He cleared his throat during what he hoped was a lapse in their growled and toothy ‘conversation’.

  ‘You’re still here,’ said one of the Wolves. This one had an axe over his shoulder – a weapon as long as Quilym was tall. ‘Why is that?’

  But the prelate had not risen to his admittedly modest rank by being easily cowed. He admired order above all, and his duty was to leave order in his wake, no matter where he went. He was, in his own way, just as responsible for bringing peace and stability to the galaxy as these ceramite-clad barbarians, and Malcador had not chosen him for this journey on a whim. The Sigillite trusted him, trusted his efficiency.

  ‘I require the details of your rolls of honour,’ he said, keeping his tone calm, the way one might speak softly to an untamed beast for fear of igniting its temper. ‘If you want me gone from your presence then cooperate with me, and I will leave with significantly more haste. Let’s begin with your names and ranks, if you please.’

  The first to speak was Laughing Jaurmag. He was a scarred old greybeard, his armour encrusted with bronze runes in one of the several dozen regional tongues of his hearthworld Fenris.

  He was warlord of Cry of the Grieving Dragon, respected jarl of Tolv, and once this foolish exile was a thing of the past he would fight for his place once again. He had been given his Fenrisian deed-name by smiling kinsmen who believed that his humour was as bleak and cold as the frost that clung to the Aett’s battlements. Before this day, he led six hundred men to war beneath alien suns and alien moons, shedding oceans of foeblood for the Russ and the Allfather. Now he stood with Howl of the Hearthworld, oath-sworn to them during the banishment they now shared.

  But he said none of this. These weren’t things for outlanders to hear.

  Instead, he gave a name and a rank that meant almost nothing to anyone within his Legion.

  ‘My name is Jaurmag,’ he said. ‘Chapter Master of the Grieving Dragon and commander of the Twelfth Great Company.’

  Prelate Quilym Yei licked his thin lips as he wrote the words down. He evidently missed the mocking smiles that the Wolves shared with one another.

  The next to speak was a whitebeard, where Laughing Jaurmag was merely greying. His beard was braided all the way down his breastplate, and his face was the leathery tan of old hide.

  He was Thirteen Stars Falling, thegn of Howl of the Hearthworld. He had been named for the night he first drew foeblood in his tenth winter, when the sky rained fire upon his tribe’s lands. He had been a boy in the Russ Tribe when Leman rose to rule, and he sailed with the primarch into the stars when the Allfather beckoned them to conquer all of creation at his side.

  But, like Laughing Jaurmag, he said none of this.

  ‘I am Kargir,’ he told the prelate. ‘Sergeant of Nineteenth Squad.’

  And on it went. One by one, Howl of
the Hearthworld gave the names they had carried as children, keeping their true names away from the ears – and the quill – of this outsider.

  The next to speak wore wolf pelts of dirty white, marked with filthy pinkish patches where blood had fallen, settled into the fur, and been scraped away far too late to ever look clean again.

  He was Echo of Three Heroes, named by his grandmatron, the elder of the Vakreyr Tribe, to honour the ancestors he so resembled. He heard the ghost-whispers of his forefathers when foeblood hissed on the melting snow.

  ‘I am Vaegr,’ he said. ‘I serve in the squad of Sergeant Kargir.’

  ‘And you?’ the prelate asked the next warrior in line.

  This Wolf’s hair was short, an unruly thatch of dull brown atop his head. His beard was cut short, but uneven, as though the warrior had done a barber’s work alone with a knife and no mirror.

  He was Kin to the Night, named for the blackness that sired him and the darkness that bore him. He hunted unseen. He killed unseen. He was the shadow that his brothers cast. He was the blade that guarded their backs. He was the knife beneath the shieldwall.

  ‘Ordun,’ he said. ‘I serve in the squad of Sergeant Kargir.’

  ‘And you?’

  The next Wolf bore more savage facial tattoos than the others. Runic lettering ran from the corners of his eyes like tears, telling a tale in a language too foreign for the prelate to read.

  He was Storm’s Son, named for the tempest that raged above his tribe’s wooden ships on the night his mother pushed him from her womb. He gave his first cry to the thundering heavens as his mother used her own sword to cut the life-cord that bound the baby to her body. No darker omen existed than to come into the world upon a stormy sea, and yet he had prospered in battle and in life. The rune-tears that ran down his cheeks were shamanic blessings to ward off the ill-luck of his birth. They had never failed him.

  ‘Brandwyn,’ he said with a liar’s smile. ‘I serve in the squad of Sergeant Kargir.’

  ‘And you?’ Quilym asked the next – the one that had threatened to kill him. Practically cowled in thick pelts and festooned with grenade bandoliers, the warrior grinned with metal teeth set in an augmetic jaw.

  He was Iron Song, named for his voice, so flawed in speech because of the injuries to his face, yet flawless in fireside songs and saga-tellings. His reconstructed jaw was a living lesson in taking care when headbutting a helmeted enemy.

  ‘Herek,’ he said. ‘I serve in the squad of Sergeant Kargir.’

  ‘And you?’

  The Wolf was black-haired, his long mane dragged back from his face and bound into a hunter’s sweep. His eyes were an emotionless, soulless blue, as pale as a summer sky. He was using a whetstone to sharpen the teeth of a chainaxe that didn’t need sharpening, and spoke in a voice softer than any of his kinsmen.

  ‘I am No Foes Remain.’

  The prelate looked up from his data-slate, his brow furrowing. ‘That isn’t a name.’

  No Foes Remain didn’t blink as he stared back, neither angry nor calm, simply distant.

  ‘It is a name,’ he said. ‘It is my name.’

  ‘And how does one come by a name like... that?’

  ‘One fights,’ the warrior replied, ‘until no foes remain.’

  Quilym licked his lips once more, unaware how openly he betrayed his irritated nerves with that particular tic.

  ‘Rykath,’ Thirteen Stars Falling interrupted. ‘His name is Rykath. He serves in my squad.’

  No Foes Remain turned his dead eyes towards his pack leader but said nothing. The prelate recorded the information, such as it was.

  ‘And you?’ Quilym asked the last of them.

  The warrior’s head was shaved but for twin long, thick braids by his temples, while the back of his head was enclosed in the cradling protection of an armoured, psychically sensitive hood. His wolf pelts were black – all others were grey, brown, or white.

  He was Fights the Final Winter, spirit-speaker and war-priest of the Runes, the Wind, the Frost, and the Bones. He was named for his first vision quest, when he dream-saw the end of all things in a future age when the Allfather’s triumph had turned to ash. He would die before he allowed that fate to come to pass.

  ‘Naukrim,’ he said. ‘I am what you would call a Librarian.’ A sense of stillness took form in the chamber in the wake of those words. ‘I notice you don’t write those words down like the others, little man. Is there a problem?’

  Quilym met the Wolf’s eyes, unflinching, unblinking. ‘The Edict of Nikea...’

  ‘Ah.’ Fights the Final Winter gave a slight bow, seemingly of respect. ‘Perhaps I should say I was a Librarian. Now I stand with my brothers, using nothing but bolter and blade. Is that answer more to your satisfaction?’

  The prelate touched his stylus to the data-slate’s surface, yet still made no mark. ‘You wear the wargear of one who still uses his powers.’

  ‘My shamans’ crown?’ Fights the Final Winter reached back to tap his armoured fingertips against the psychic hood. ‘To remove it would disrespect the spirit of my armour. It serves no other purpose.’

  Quilym swallowed and, with surprising dignity, he stood up straighter. ‘I will not be lied to.’

  The Wolves drew closer. Not in an armoured tide, not with weapons howling, but with the subtle leer of warriors who dearly wish to do what they do best. The servo-rich joints of their armour purred and snarled and growled.

  Laughing Jaurmag was the one to speak. ‘You’ve had all the truth we intend to give, scribe. Write it down and be gone from our sight.’

  Quilym narrowed his eyes, and for a moment it seemed he might hesitate.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I think that will do for now.’

  Iron Song keyed in the code to lock the bulkhead once Malcador’s preening little scribe was on the other side of it. He exhaled through his metal teeth, huffing a breath with canine irritation.

  ‘Three months,’ he said to his kinsmen. ‘Three months to Terra, and that’s only if the tides are fair. Three months of that entertaining little rodent.’

  Thirteen Stars Falling watched the sealed door as if he could stare a hole right through the plasteel. His thoughts were of the prelate, and those thoughts were troubled and dark.

  ‘He was lying to us even as we lied to him. He’s no mere scribe. Our runt of a prelate has the stink of Malcador’s inner circle about him. If he’s not a bonded part of it, he still walks in the same chambers as those who are. Be cautious around him, all of you.’

  Nods of assent answered his order.

  ‘Three months,’ Iron Song said again. ‘Three months, while the Einherjar sail to arrest Magnus One-Eye without us. What a story that would make. What a tale... and I am to miss it, to be chained up and shipped off in this worthless waste of time. Please, let this all be nothing more than a bad jest.’

  Kin to the Night was tossing a knife up and down, catching it perfectly at the end of each falling spin.

  ‘And I fear a cold welcome awaits us yet on Terra, kinsmen. Lord Dorn of the noble Seventh is going to be about as pleased to see us as we are to see him.’

  There seemed no immediate answer to that unwelcome truth. Storm’s Son looked to the sealed door, then back to his kinsmen. A slow grin dawned through his beard.

  ‘No Foes Remain,’ he said, his rough and oaken voice lifting in a fair impression of the prelate’s airy tones. ‘That’s not a name.’

  The pack, joined by their warchief, shared their first laugh since the Lord of Winter and War had first told them that they were to be banished to Terra. Even Laughing Jaurmag smiled – though true to his name, it was but the briefest of things.

  There is only one thing worth fighting for.

  He knows this, while his father languishes in the ignorance of false righteousness; while his brothers play gods t
o a godless universe; while heartless weaklings claim to be his sons, walking the coward’s path over the way of the warrior.

  But he knows – even if no one else will listen or understand – that there is only one thing worth fighting for.

  He crests the barricade, the axes howling in his hands. The dead city sends its finest against him time and again, and time and again the dead city’s finest fall back in screaming, hewed chunks of flesh and cera­mite. Some wear his brothers’ colours – the royal purple of preening Fulgrim, or the drab, pale hues of cadaverous Mortarion. They charge, dreaming of glory, and they die knowing nothing but pain and shame.

  Some of them wear the filthy white of his own sons. They die no differently from the others. They bleed the same blood, and cry the same oaths. They stink just the same when their bodies are ripped open, organs bared to the cold air.

  Flashes of insight come to him in the storm of swords – a name etched upon white armour seems familiar for the span of a heartbeat, or the angle of an axe reminds him of another fight, back in the age of the burning sun beating down upon the red sand.

  He kills every warrior that rises before him, and chases those wise enough to retreat. The former he breaks open with single blows from his straining axes. The latter he hunts in leaping pounces, the way arena beasts once hunted starved men and women.

  Glory?

  Glory is for those too weak to find inner strength, leaving them hollow parasites, feeding on the affection of even lesser men. Glory is for cowards, too afraid to let their names die.

  He stands upon their bodies now, grinding bootprints into their breastplates as he adds to their number. A monument to futility rises at his feet: each death means that he has to climb higher to welcome fresh meat. The hammer-blows of gunfire keep on pounding into his back and shoulders with bestial kicks. An irritation, nothing more. Scarcely even a distraction. This battle was won the moment he set foot in the dead city.

  He buries an axe in the chest of another son, but feels it slip from his blood-slick fingers as the warrior tumbles back. The binding chain at his wrist pulls taut, preventing the weapon’s theft, but he sees what they are trying to do – three of his own sons shouting, scrabbling to cling to the axe they stole, even as the blade is buried in one of their bodies. A warrior’s ultimate sacrifice, trading his life for the chance to disarm an enemy. Their united strength drags at his arm, turning his panting breath to a wet snarl.