Battle Of The Fang

by Chris Wraight

  His violet eyes gazed down on the script. He knew what was written there. He knew what was written in all the books still possessed by the Legion. Only Ahriman, perhaps, had delved deeper, and he was gone.

  ‘You should not have strayed, brother.’

  Temekh spoke aloud, feeling the shape of the words slip around his cultured lips. He spoke in Telapiye, the xenos language of the book’s long-dead authors. Even with his superhuman control of musculature, he couldn’t recreate the full range of sounds necessary – for that, he’d have needed two tongues, each with more prehensile range than his own. Still, that even his rough approximation was heard in the universe was something. Since the last of the telap had been exterminated, it was entirely possible that Ahmuz Temekh was the only speaker of the million-year-old dialect left.

  A faint chime rang out from the corridor outside Temekh’s private lexicanum. He felt a flicker of irritation, quickly quelled. Aphael was only doing his job.

  ‘Come.’

  As he spoke, a panel in the darkened chamber withdrew silently and slid open. The prakasa swelled into more light and their beams swept around the room, showing up the eclectic contents. A hauxx writing desk from Karellion, an aquarium of feldspar crystal populated with sparkling cichlids, a wraithbone sword-holder from the extinguished Saim-Arvuel craftworld.

  So many trinkets. On ancient Terra, they’d have called him a jackdaw.

  ‘Still reading, brother?’

  Herume Aphael ducked as he entered the lexicanum. He was arrayed in full battle-armour, which made him a half-metre taller than Temekh. His plate was deep blue, decorated with bronze swirls at the joints; only his bald, smooth head was exposed. The pyrae sorcerer-lord spent much of his time in armour these days, and Temekh couldn’t recall when he’d last seen him without it.

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ Temekh replied, putting the book down on the desk in front of him.

  Aphael grunted, and stood opposite him. He was emanating impatience. There was no surprise in that – they were always impatient, his kind. That was the gift of their order, and what Magnus continued to value them for.

  ‘Why are you here, brother?’ asked Temekh, not wanting to waste the precious days before system-fall made anything but thoughts of combat impossible.

  ‘What are you reading?’ countered Aphael, looking at the book with distrust.

  ‘Nothing of value to the current campaign. The authors’ light has been taken from the universe. By Angron, I believe – one of his many exercises of tolerance.’

  Aphael shrugged. ‘He’s as barbaric as the Dogs, but keep your mind focused on the matter at hand.’

  ‘It is, I assure you.’

  ‘You would do well to assure me. You’ve become distant.’

  ‘If I have, it is in your imagination.’

  Aphael smiled without humour. ‘And you’d know all about that.’

  The pyrae shook his head. As the flesh moved against the interface nodes in his armour’s neck-guard, Temekh could see the puckering, the slight reflectiveness. Was that an early sign, a giveaway symptom?

  Oh, no. Not you too.

  ‘In any case, the assault plans are now advanced,’ Aphael said. ‘You should join the command group, or your absence will cause more comment among the conclave.’

  At that, Temekh let his mind detach briefly from the physical, abstracting himself into a local vector within the immaterium. From his privileged vantage he saw the fleet around them as it powered through the warp. Strike cruisers, bristling with weapons, readied for the orbital war to come. Behind them, vast troop ships, crammed with thousands upon thousands of mortals bearing the single eye on their breastplates.

  And in the holds of the great battleships were the rubricae, Ahriman’s creations. They waited, silently, animated by nothing but the wills of those who led them. They would feel no hate against the Dogs as they killed them, the ones who had reduced them to their state of eternal, silent horror. For them, the years since the Betrayal were a nothing. Even for Temekh and the others who had retained their souls, mere decades had passed since Prospero had been sacked, whatever else might have happened in the universe of mortals. For Magnus’s children, the wounds were still raw, still weeping.

  He relaxed, and his soul snapped back to its physical bounds.

  ‘The fleet is in good order,’ he said. ‘You are to be congratulated.’

  ‘I don’t need your approval. I need you on the bridge.’

  Temekh bowed his head.

  ‘I will come, then. And we will refine the instruments of our revenge together.’

  Aphael frowned at Temekh’s weary tone.

  ‘Do you not wish to see them burn, brother? Do you not relish the pain we will cause them?’

  Temekh almost replied with the words he had been reading a few moments ago.

  There is a symmetry of pain in revenge. When a man will not withdraw his emotion from those whom he wishes to destroy, then even in victory he destroys nothing but a part of himself.

  ‘Causing them pain will not bring back Tizca,’ he said, gazing absently at the cichlids as they darted through the weeds of the aquarium. ‘But if we have been so diminished that our only remaining satisfaction is in their destruction, then it will have to do.’

  His violet eyes flickered back up to look at his comrade.

  ‘So they will burn, brother,’ he said bleakly. ‘They will burn in ways they do not even begin to comprehend.’

  Only to himself, silently and within the privacy of his psychically shielded mind, did he complete the sentence.

  And so will we.

  Freija Morekborn had the Blood Claw by the throat, and she wasn’t letting go.

  ‘Damn you,’ she spat, before landing her knuckles on his slabbed, stupid face, breaking teeth and splitting skin. The Sky Warrior looked up at her blearily, arms limp. ‘Show. Some. Respect.’

  ‘Daughter!’

  Freija heard the voice from far away, interrupting her dreaming. Somewhere deep in her subconscious, irritation stirred. She was enjoying this one.

  ‘Daughter!’

  This time, her shoulder was grasped. Unwilling, grudgingly, she was shaken awake. Her last dream-image was of the broken Space Marine sinking to the floor, beaten in combat, humbled and humiliated in a way that could never happen in the waking world.

  She opened her eyes, seeing her father leaning over her. Her bedchamber was still dark, lit only by a wavering tallow candle set high into the rock walls.

  ‘What is it?’ she mumbled, shrugging off his rough hands. She could make out the familiar line of his shoulders, feel the calloused flesh on hers.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, turning from her and looking for more light.

  Freija pushed herself up from the disarranged furs of her bunk. Her sand-blonde hair fell in unruly clumps around her face. The tiny chamber was ice cold, but she ignored it. Everywhere on Fenris was ice cold.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Morek Karekborn managed to find a working glowsphere and sent it spinning up into the air. A thin grey light flooded across the untidy space. His blunt, honest face was thrown into stark relief, and the worry lines around his eyes looked deeper than ever.

  ‘Change of plan,’ the old warrior said, running a tired hand over his cropped head. ‘The Eleventh has been called off-world. We’re back on duty.’

  ‘Skítja,’ Freija swore, rubbing her eyes and trying to banish the heavy weight of sleep. ‘Again?’

  ‘Don’t question it. Just get into uniform.’

  Freija looked at her father with concern. Morek was a rivenmaster, leader of five hundred kaerls of the Aettguard. His duties drove him hard, and he drove himself harder. He had the shadows of long-term fatigue in his face.

  They’re killing him, she thought. And they don’t even know it.

  ‘We’ve just come off rotation,’ she protested, swinging her legs from the hard bunk and staggering over to the grey tunic thrown across the floor. ‘There are other
detachments that could do this.’

  Morek leaned against the wall.

  ‘Not any more. The Twelfth is the only one staying. Get used to it – we’ve got weeks of this to come.’

  Freija still felt thick-headed from sleep as she pulled her tunic over her head and tried to pull the worst of the tangles from her hair. Weeks of being driven into punishing defensive exercises by the Sky Warriors, of being ordered around by whooping Blood Claws who’d forgotten what it was like to have a mortal body and mortal weaknesses.

  ‘Great,’ she said coldly. ‘Bloody great.’

  ‘Freija, my daughter,’ said Morek. He came up to her and put his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Be careful this time. Think about how you act, think about what you say. They’ve been patient with you because of me, but it won’t last forever.’

  She almost shook him off. She hated his lectures, just as she hated his blind faith in his masters. He worshipped them, even though he knew that they’d all been mortal once. The Sky Warriors barely knew mortals such as he and she existed, even though without the loyal service of the Aettguard they’d be unable to keep even half of the Fang’s huge maze of chambers in operation.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, dropping her fledgling defiance. ‘I can fight. That’s all they care about.’

  Morek gave her a hard look. She knew how he felt. Like so many fathers, he wanted to protect her all the time. She was the only thing left for him. Part of her wanted to give him some kind of reassurance, some kind of certainty that she’d follow in his path, diligently doing her duty to Russ and the immortals. There were times when indeed that was all she wanted, but they made it so damned hard.

  ‘You show your feelings too much,’ he complained, shaking his head.

  ‘And what do you want me to do?’ she blurted, shaking free of him and reaching down for her boots. ‘If they wanted meek, shrinking servants, they’ve got the wrong planet. Fekke, I’m a daughter of Fenris, and my blood runs hot. Mortal blood, at that. They can drown in it.’

  She looked up then, suddenly worried she’d overstepped the mark, only to see her father gazing at her with an odd expression.

  ‘Aye, you’re a daughter of Fenris all right,’ he said, and his brown eyes shone. ‘You make me proud, Freija. And sick with fear.’

  He pushed himself from the wall and made to leave.

  ‘Get into armour quickly, and get your squad together. We have an hour to take over from the Eleventh. I don’t want to look bad in front of that bastard Lokkborn.’

  ‘So what’s going on?’

  Morek shrugged.

  ‘No idea. No idea at all.’

  High up at the summit of the Valgard, ships blasted off from launch platforms like crows leaving a roost. Thunderhawk gunships mingled with the chapter’s few remaining Stormbirds, forming an endless stream of jagged shadows against the nightshade-blue sky. Among them were the much larger hlaupa-class escorts, heavily armed variants of the Imperial Navy’s Cobra destroyers. Vessels of such size would not normally have been able to dock within a planetary atmosphere, but the sheer altitude of the Valgard landing stages made it possible for them to make planetfall on Fenris. Twelve of them had left already, and the fabled hangars were swiftly emptying. Only seven days had passed since Kjarlskar’s discovery on Gangava and already the fleet muster was drawing near to completion.

  Far above the procession of surface-capable vessels hung the spacegoing fleet. Each warship buzzed with activity on all decks as the thralls prepared the plasma drives to power them to the jump-points. Some ships were new arrivals at the muster, having been recalled by Ironhelm only days before from long-range duty. Others had been held above Fenris in readiness for many months, waiting for the Great Wolf’s call to arms. The serrated outlines of the strike cruisers glided amongst the swarms of lesser ships, each of them marked with the symbol of a Great Company and the black wolfshead of the Chapter.

  At the centre of the muster, picked out by steady columns of gunships waiting to enter the cavernous launch-bays, was the pride of the Chapter, the colossal Russvangum. Built to a design now lost in the cataclysm of the Heresy, the massive vessel hung motionless in the void. Strike cruisers, themselves capital ships, passed under its shadow and were utterly obscured. It dominated local space just as the alpha-beasts of the plains dominated their packs. Like all such Space Marine vessels, it was designed to do one thing only – unleash overwhelming, morale-destroying, nerve-burning fury onto the surface of a recalcitrant world from high orbit. It had done such work many times, and its drop-pod and torpedo arrays were charred black from heavy use. All the Vlka Fenryka were predators, but the Russvangum was perhaps the most potent expression of their awesome reach and power. Only the legendary Hrafnkel had carried a heavier punch, and that was now just a memory in the sagas.

  From his tower high on the flanks of the Jarlheim, Ironhelm watched the final preparations for the muster take shape. He could see the launch trails of the Thunderhawks, thin and graceful, as they broke atmosphere and headed to the muster-points. Around him, tactical displays showed the positions of the ships as they moved slowly into convoy formation. It would not be long before he too took his place on the flagship.

  So many of them. So much power. All in one place, all directed at a single point.

  A familiar thrill animated his gene-forged limbs. It would be days – weeks, even – before he’d be able to channel his eagerness properly into the battle-rage, and by then his whole being would be at a fever-pitch of readiness. Thinking of the carnage that he would unleash, a cold expression broke across his ragged face.

  They have forgotten just what we are capable of. Reminding them will give me much pleasure.

  All enemies of the Allfather engendered hatred in a son of Fenris, but Magnus was placed in a different category of loathing. It had always been that way with the Thousand Sons. The sagas still recounted in the caverns of the Aett told of the sorcerers’ betrayal, their condescension, and – worst of all – their escape. The Legion hadn’t been destroyed at Prospero, only crippled. That shame had hung over the Wolves for over a thousand years, staining whatever deeds they’d accomplished since and marking their failure like spoor-trails in the snow.

  Perhaps, if the traitor Magnus had disappeared into the Eye of Terror and never re-emerged, that shame might have been bearable. But he hadn’t. He’d returned over the following centuries, leaving devastation in his elusive wake. Precision strikes on Imperial worlds had continued, each aimed at retrieving some valuable piece of knowledge or esoterica. Despite the grievous damage Russ had inflicted on them, the Thousand Sons still had the potential to launch raids into protected space, and the knowledge of that burned at Ironhelm. It had burned at him for decades, until nothing else seemed important.

  Despite all the resources he devoted to hunting Magnus, the chase had always come up short. There were always signs left behind for them to find, mocking hints, challenges to catch the originator of the ruin and bring him in. On Pravia, on Daggaegghan, on Vreole, on Hromor. The Traitor had left his calling cards behind, taunting the Wolves who ever snapped at his heels.

  We have been patient. We have waited. And now the trap closes.

  Out of the corner of his eye a rune flashed over the doorway.

  ‘Come,’ he said, turning away from the view of the fleet.

  Sturmhjart stalked into the chamber. The Rune Priest’s eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  Ironhelm spread his hands expansively.

  ‘Odain,’ he started. ‘This is–’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  The Great Wolf sighed, and set the door to close with a flick of a finger.

  ‘You know Wyrmblade’s work. He needs watching.’

  Sturmhjart snarled, pulling back his lips.

  ‘Like a child? That’s more important to you?’

  ‘Only you can restrain him. He plays with forces that could destroy us all.’

  ‘You let him
.’

  ‘Because he may succeed.’

  ‘Tell him to wait. Tell him to stop until the Rout is called back from Gangava. I will not be denied this honour!’

  Ironhelm shook his head.

  ‘This is a critical time. The whelp is his protégé, and I need a wise head to keep the Aett in line. You will not be coming with us.’

  Sturmhjart growled, and a flicker of yellow energy snaked across his chest. Ironhelm could sense the furnace of frustration hammering inside the Rune Priest’s body.

  ‘Do not do this,’ he insisted, his fist gripping his staff tightly.

  Ironhelm’s eyebrow rose. Sturmhjart had never defied an order.

  ‘You threaten me, Odain?’ he said, letting a challenge-note enter his speech.

  For a moment, Sturmhjart stood still, glaring at him, face contorted with anger. Eventually, reluctantly, he dropped his gaze, spitting on the floor with disgust.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘The witches. They take the elements and corrupt them. These are my enemies.’

  Ironhelm looked at the Rune Priest carefully. Sturmhjart was a warrior after his own heart, a bloody-minded, fearless cutter of threads, but he had to know who dominated the pack.

  ‘They are not. They are prey for all of us. Frei will be there, and the other Rune Priests, but I need you here.’

  Sturmhjart balled his fists, and fresh slivers of elemental power rippled over the gauntlets. He was reeling his anger in, but it pained him.

  ‘As Wyrmblade’s nursemaid,’ he spat bitterly.

  ‘No, brother,’ said Ironhelm. ‘Wyrmblade plays with powerful forces, and he holds fate in both hands. If he falters, you must be there. You must watch over this.’

  Sturmhjart’s expression shifted awkwardly from frustration to surprise.

  ‘You heard me,’ said Ironhelm. ‘Whatever Greyloc thinks, you’re to be my sword arm here. We must remember the Wolf Brothers, their failure and the reasons for it. I will not see that path trodden again.’

  Strumhjart’s eyes flickered in doubt.

  ‘You think he’s–’

  ‘Wyrmblade’s as loyal as Freki,’ said Ironhelm, relaxing as he saw the Rune Priest’s anger retreat. ‘But we have to watch for the future.’