by William King
‘I hope you did not let the side down,’ said Anton. ‘I would not want them thinking the boys from Belial cannot hold their liquor.’
‘Anton,’ I said, dry heaving for a bit before continuing. ‘Compared to a Space Wolf, a mastodon can’t hold its drink. One of them could outdrink an alcoholic ogryn and its inbred cousin, probably its whole alcoholic clan.’
I had flashbacks to last night’s drinking session, just images really, because after I had accepted Grimfang’s proffered glass my memory of things shattered into a thousand glittering booze-soaked pieces. I recalled the High Command of Macharius’s army drinking toasts to the Adeptus Astartes, sensibly using thimble sized shot-glasses of spirit, while the Space Wolves guzzled tankards of the stuff.
I remembered speeches being given and songs being sung, and over everything a looming sense of unreality hovering. It seemed so unlikely that we could be in the presence of these creatures of legend, that they would be present on the crusade. I remembered howling war cries and tales of battle and a skald singing something in an odd chant that told of ancient battles under bloody suns against foes worthy of Wolves.
I remembered Macharius reeling to his feet and speaking of the wars of his youth, not boasting, simply talking about old comrades, now gone and battles long won. I remembered Drake of all people toasting Macharius and their friendship.
Most of all I remembered what Grimfang had whispered, about the way Anna’s scent clung to me. The Great Wolf knew about the Imperial assassin. He suspected her. Not without good reason. The question troubling me was how right was he?
I pushed that aside as something to be worried about another day and lay there and groaned until it was time to take up my duties again.
The meeting chamber was large, but the Space Wolves made it feel small. They had a presence out of all proportion to their surroundings, bristling with an energy that was superhuman, studying us with eyes that were as alien as any xenos.
I looked at them and wondered what they had in common with us. They seemed to have stepped out of an earlier age, one more barbaric and heroic. I have spent most of my adult life fighting the Emperor’s wars, and I like to think that few things daunt me, but the Space Wolves did. It was not just their size and strangeness. It was the suggestion that at any moment they were capable of erupting into violence, and that it came as naturally to them as breathing. They made me nervous just by being what they were. Fine allies, I thought, but not people I would want to spend too much time around when I was sober. Now that I had had time to consider my actions I wondered at my temerity the previous day.
Macharius, of course, gave no sign of being intimidated. Of all the people in the room, he was the closest to the Adeptus Astartes. It was not hard to imagine that in a different time or different place he might have been one of them. He had something of their hair-trigger quickness, their supreme self-confidence, their savage capacity for violence. You looked at Macharius and you looked at the Wolves, and you felt their kinship. War was the element they had been born for. A man fights because he has been chosen or because he must. Macharius and those savage demigods would fight because they loved it.
He sat now on his dais and studied the Space Wolves. They studied him back. They did not need thrones to appear regal. Their natural presence made them seem greater than any noble or any general. Ulrik Grimfang had about him the aura of a particularly savage saint. He stood flanked by a Dreadnought, an ancient living war machine, and a selection of his captains. There was just Macharius and Drake and myself. I had no real idea why I was there. There was nothing I could do to protect Macharius from the Adeptus Astartes if they turned violent. Perhaps my willingness to intervene even with the Adeptus Astartes had impressed Macharius. The cynical part of my mind thought that perhaps they wanted to be sure that what I heard was reported to Anna.
Grimfang cast his eyes around the chamber. ‘It is sealed,’ he said. His harsh, rasping voice carried through the room easily.
‘It is sealed,’ said Macharius. ‘What is spoken here goes no further.’
‘That is well for we talk of ancient and sacred things. If what you say is true.’
‘Insofar as it is possible to be certain, I believe it to be true,’ said Drake. ‘We found the Fist of Russ.’
The Great Wolf looked at him with what might have been contempt. ‘Insofar as it is possible to be certain?’
‘Nothing in this galaxy is certain, save for the Emperor’s Grace,’ said Drake. ‘The Fist has been lost for millennia, stolen by xenos raiders from the Temple of the Storm Wolves on Pelius, sought for thousands of years by the faithful.’
‘And now you just happened to find it?’ said Grimfang. The irony dripped from his fangs. ‘A thing that seers have claimed was no longer to be found in this universe, that all thought lost forever.’
‘We had it in our grasp,’ said Macharius.
‘You had it in your grasp,’ Grimfang said. ‘That implies you lost it.’
‘Our ship made a false jump – we were attacked by the xenos eldar. When we drove them off, the Fist was gone. They have it.’
A frown crossed Grimfang’s brow. ‘If this truly was a relic of the time of Russ it must be reclaimed.’
‘It was ancient and it bore the runes of your order. I can see that just from looking at your armour,’ said Drake. He touched his data-slate. A hololithic image of the object hovered in the air. The Space Wolves looked at it. I could sense the intensity of their scrutiny.
‘It is of the ancient times,’ said the Dreadnought. Its voice was flat, inhuman. It was the sort of voice you would have expected a Titan to have if they could speak. The accents on the words were subtly wrong, as if the speaker had first learned the use of language in a time so ancient that the words were spoken differently. ‘I remember that model. It was fashioned at the time when the primarchs walked among men.’
‘It could be faked,’ said the Great Wolf. ‘There are many such false relics.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said the Dreadnought. ‘If there is even the slightest chance it belonged to the Founder it cannot be allowed to fester in the hands of the eldar.’
Grimfang made a gesture that indicated that so much was obvious.
‘Speak on, in the Allfather’s name! How did you find this Fist when so many others have failed?’
‘The trail was long and dark. We first heard rumours on Celene nearly ten years ago. They told of a lost ship and a mad crew emerging from the warp in a place called Demetrius. I found a codex that described the Fist as a lost artefact of the heroic age of man. We tracked it and we found it.’
‘I have heard such tales before,’ said Grimfang. ‘They have never turned out to be true.’
‘You have seen what we had. You must decide for yourself the course of action you will take,’ said Macharius.
‘If it is a relic it cannot be left in xenos hands,’ said the Dreadnought.
‘It will be found again,’ said Grimfang, coming swiftly to a decision. ‘We shall find it.’
‘I wish to help,’ said Macharius.
‘Help? Us?’ said Grimfang. He sounded as though he wanted to laugh.
‘There is a fleet of xenos, an indeterminate number holding the system. Even a company of Space Wolves cannot be entirely confident of overcoming them,’ said Macharius.
‘If it takes more than a company, I have more,’ said Grimfang.
‘Time is of the essence,’ said Macharius. ‘The world is isolated by warp storms. The eldar come and go as they will, by what means we do not know. Who knows how long they will be there. I have a ship ready now and I have an army. I have a Navigator who can make the jump. And I have a debt of honour that needs to be repaid.’
I think the mention of the debt of honour swayed them more than the military reasons. It was something they understood. Their whole way of life was built on it.
‘Very well,’ said Grimfang. ‘You may accompany us.’
It should have sounded colossally arrogant; h
e was allowing an Imperial general to accompany his small force, but it did not. It sounded right.
‘Anyway, this tale was merely a goat staked out to get our attention. You have other reasons for wishing us here.’ He looked directly at Macharius. The Lord High Commander looked back at him.
‘The Imperium has been shattered by schism and heresy. It is time to put an end to it and reunite the realms of men under the Emperor’s banner.’
‘And you are the one to do that, are you, little man?’
‘I am the one who has been chosen to perform the task.’
‘Others have tried.’
‘I have succeeded,’ said Macharius. He was not boasting. He was making a statement. ‘Everywhere I have fought, I have ended the strife of man against man, world against world, system against system. I have ended the wars of faith and I will add new worlds to the Imperium. I have done this without your aid. I can continue to do it without your aid.’
Grimfang sniffed. He was clearly not used to being talked to in this way. There was suddenly a dangerous tension in his manner. His eyes narrowed and he looked as if he were considering springing on the Lord High Commander. ‘And yet we are here, speaking.’
Macharius looked back calmly. ‘This will be the greatest war of the newborn millennium. The Adeptus Astartes are already gathered like eagles at the edges of the struggle. They intervene as they like, where they like, when they like. They are a law unto themselves.’
‘As they have always been, as they should be,’ said Grimfang.
‘Indeed,’ said Macharius. ‘But there are times when greater coordination between our forces might prove useful. There are times when an understanding between us would be helpful. Informally, of course.’
‘We do not need to understand you,’ said Grimfang.
‘I think you do. I think there will come a time when powerful people may come to you, and the other Adeptus Astartes, carrying tales of me. I wanted you to see me for yourself, to judge me for yourself. I want you to know that I am sincere in what I do, that I wish nothing more than to rebuild the Imperium into what it should be. I want there to be no misunderstanding between us.’
Grimfang looked at him. His nose wrinkled. He sniffed the air. His eyes narrowed. I wondered if Macharius had overstepped the mark.
‘There are those who have made fortunes from the chaos. There are those who hold power because of it,’ Macharius said. ‘They do not wish to see an end to the ages of schism.’
An odd smile twisted Grimfang’s mouth. Those monstrous fangs became visible. ‘You think we might be numbered among those, do you?’
Macharius shook his head, but for a moment I wondered if he really did think that. Was it possible he saw the Space Marines even as potential disruptions in his master plan? ‘No,’ Macharius said. ‘I do not. As I have said, I want you to understand what it is I do, and why I am doing it.’
‘I think you achieved that goal,’ said Grimfang. He sounded as though, in spite of himself, he were impressed by what he saw when he looked upon Macharius.
‘There has been an age of chaos,’ said Macharius. ‘It must be seen to be ended.’
Grimfang nodded. His head was tilted to one side in contemplation. ‘And it will be,’ said Grimfang. ‘I will send a company of Wolves to watch over you. Logan Grimnar will act as a liaison. He is young and needs seasoning.’
He rose and moved to the door. The meeting was quite clearly over.
Chapter Fifteen
Helicon Blight’s vessel, The Pride of Terra, was an enormous ship, a city floating in space it seemed when I saw it, a world unto itself in many ways. In orbit over Emperor’s Glory, it docked with a number of shuttles which carried elements of Macharius’s elite Lion Guard.
Vast hangar doors opened in its side to allow the shuttles entrance, and once we were within, tank after tank – Leman Russ, Baneblade, Shadowsword, Chimera – disembarked into the hold. I stood there watching as massive stowage lifts raised them into huge multi-level holding pens. Other cargo bays had been converted into impromptu barracks.
Macharius himself received quarters fit for a planetary governor, and the inner circle of his personal bodyguard such as Anton, Ivan, the Undertaker and myself were installed near him. There were a thousand battle-hardened troops on call. If we had needed to we could have taken over the ship, although what we would have done then eludes me.
The embarking of Macharius’s private army was not a quick business. Many shuttles needed to dock. We had most of the day to wait while it was happening. During that time, Macharius kept in touch with Sejanus over the comm-net, giving crisp orders for the disposition of the crusade’s forces long term.
He was taking no chances of things not going as he planned in his absence.
Of course, we had to be there to watch the company of Space Wolves arrive. Anton insisted. We stood on the platform over the docking bay watching their grey-blue Thunderhawks and transit-shuttles arrive. It had taken some quite spectacular feats of bribery on some of the ship’s crew to get us there, but we were known to be high in Macharius’s favour and that counted for something as well.
It was odd to watch the internal blast doors open and the small fleet of armoured vessels move into the holding chambers and be secured in metal cradles for the flight. It was even odder to watch the Space Wolves at a distance through the stained armourglass windows. In the vast interior of the ship, they lost some of the sense of scale they had close up. In some ways they were just armoured figures moving through routines familiar to all soldiers in transit. They emerged from their vehicles and looked around, studying their surroundings with watchful eyes. It took me a few seconds to realise what they were doing.
They were making sure they knew where every last piece of cover was. It was as if they expected that at any moment the interior of the loading bay might become a battleground and they were not going to be at a disadvantage on it.
By squad they moved to secure a perimeter. Their leaders did not seem to give any orders that I could see. They moved into their positions as if they already knew what to do, with an ease and a fluidity greater than any I had ever witnessed. In the Guard it would never have been so. There would have been confusion. There would have been sergeants bellowing orders. There would have been squads taking up the wrong positions and officers trying to organise the chaos and sometimes making it worse. With the Space Marines below, there was none of that.
Anton made a sour expression with his mouth. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Disappointed they haven’t killed anybody? There’s time enough yet.’
He shook his head. ‘I always wanted to see Space Wolves.’
‘And now you have. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll get to fight alongside them too.’
‘Yes but…’
His lips compressed and his jaw went tight as he struggled to find the words to express what he was feeling. He didn’t really have to. I knew him well enough to know. This was something he had been dreaming about all his life and had never really expected to happen. And now it had, and his life’s long list of things to be looked forward to had been shortened by one.
‘Lost for something stupid to say, Anton?’ Ivan said. ‘That is a first.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ His voice held a note of frustration as well as disappointment. ‘You think we’ll get to talk to them?’
‘What you want to talk with them about? You think you’ll exchange war stories? I have news for you, Anton, they might not be as impressed as your noble-born girlfriend by your tales of killing orks on Jurasik.’
He was frowning again, and I could tell he was still struggling with concepts that were not easy for a man like him to get to grips with. He really just wanted to make contact with them, to reach out and touch something greater than human, to speak with as close to a demigod as he was ever going to get. There was a religious component to his awe and his tongue-tiedness.
In the end, he simply turned and walked away, marching shoulders straight int
o the corridors of the vast starship.
‘I think you hurt his feelings,’ said Ivan, rather mean-spiritedly, I thought.
A few hours before we were due to depart, Helicon Blight himself came to pay his respects. He had greeted Macharius temporarily when welcoming him aboard, but this time he brought an invitation to the bridge of The Pride of Terra if Macharius wished to witness the ship depart. The Lord High Commander agreed to do so. I am sure he had seen such things before, but I guessed he wanted to see how Blight’s ship differed from others and to gain some insight into the way the rogue trader ran his vessel.
We accompanied the merchant prince to the enormous chamber. It had forward facing armourglass windows through which the blue and green surface of Emperor’s Glory was visible. Over all was a massive throne for the trader to sit upon and positions for his Navigator, astropaths and other senior officers on the ship. We were given pride of place beside the command throne. I was impressed by the way Blight took it for himself without offering it to Macharius. I am fairly certain this was the way protocol dictated, but there are those I have encountered who would have broken those rules in order to curry favour with the master of the crusade.
Macharius studied everything with his usual attention, and I followed suit. There were several massive control altars and lesser thrones for astropaths and other officers. Subalterns and messengers moved around the place. Tech-adepts made last moment checks on the altars.
The huge arched doorways swished open and Zarah Belisarius entered. Blight held one hand to his comm-net earbead and then said something quietly. It was picked up by the patch microphone on his throat. A few moments later klaxons sounded and warning lights flashed. With no sense of movement whatsoever we were on our way, the surface of Emperor’s Glory seeming to slide past through the viewport.
The Navigator strode up to where Blight stood, nodded to Macharius and looked out over the command deck. Once again I was struck by the fact that we were in a different world here, where Macharius’s rank and power counted for less. These people saw the world differently, were powers unto themselves, and I suppose it dawned on me then that once again we were, in a very real sense, in their hands. We would never get home without their good will.