‘You do not look quite as I expected.’
‘How did you expect me to look?’
Temekh found comfort in the familiar dialectical speech. He’d learned a long time ago not to place much faith in visual appearances. The way a man spoke, however, was hard to imitate.
‘Much like you appear in the Tower. I’m not sure the Wolves will find this aspect... threatening.’
The boy smiled, and the skin around his closed eye creased.
‘And what makes you think my image on the Planet of Sorcerers has any special veridicality? You are corvidae, Ahmuz. You know that what we see depends, in large part, on what we want to see.’
‘Maybe. In that case, I wanted to see some reflection of your true power.’
‘Look harder.’
Temekh concentrated. Perhaps this was some kind of test. If it was, he didn’t understand it. The child looked as unassuming as milk, though the steady, single eye and adult mode of expression were disconcerting.
‘I think you are only a fragment, lord,’ he said at last. ‘A possibility. Despite my work, you represent only the first steps on a journey.’
‘Very good,’ said the child. ‘Much of me remains on Gangava. It must be so, or the illusion will fracture.’
Temekh frowned.
‘I do not understand this, lord. I have tried, but the fundamentals elude me.’
The child didn’t look perturbed by that.
‘Ahriman was the same. For all his gifts, he chose the wrong solution. There is no succour in remaining static, in trying to fight the power of the Ocean with spells. What has he brought us? Empty husks, slaved to sorcerers. There is a higher truth about our transformation, one that we need to learn to embrace.’
‘To be everywhere, and nowhere.’
‘I’m glad you remember.’
‘I remember the terms you use. I still don’t understand them.’
The child shrugged.
‘There is time for you to learn. And for Hett, and Czamine, and the others. Once the distractions of this episode are over, we shall have the leisure to begin again.’
Temekh paused then, struck by an unwelcome thought.
‘You do not mention Aphael.’
‘Why should I?’
‘He is the greatest of us, the most powerful of those who refused Ahriman.’
‘And he will become more powerful still, more than he can possibly imagine, but I did not reach this level of emergence to discuss his fate.’
‘No. I didn’t think so.’
‘I came to encourage you. I have invested much in you, Ahmuz Temekh. The fleet and army we have assembled will wither away soon enough – this is its only purpose, and after that our goals will be different.’
The child smiled. The gesture was simple, but it conveyed a whole host of subtle emotion. Pride, perhaps, and recrimination, but mostly regret.
‘Do not fail me, Ahmuz,’ said Magnus softly. ‘It is a grave matter, for a son to fail the father.’
‘I will not, lord,’ said Temekh, knowing to what his primarch referred and speaking earnestly in his turn. ‘That lesson, at least, has been well learned.’
Over Gangava, the hour finally came, and comm-signals were sent throughout the fleet. Seamlessly, without fuss or fanfare, the shields over the launch portals of the warships flickered out. Waves of drop-pods flew out of the launch tubes, hurtling down into the atmosphere and blazing like comets. Thunderhawk gunships followed in arrow-shaped squadrons, spiralling down at phenomenal speeds, their angular prows dipped steeply at they plunged through the ever-thickening air. Behind them came heavier drop-ships, falling fast and manoeuvring with the aid of jetting thrusters. All were decked in the grey of the Space Wolves, bearing black-and-yellow banding and the crest of the snarling muzzle on their flanks.
There were dozens of deployment zones, all beyond the shielded perimeter of the city. Ironhelm had overwhelming force at his command and had allocated his troops accordingly. There were three principal targets. Massive power generating facilities had been detected in the north-west quarter of the urban sprawl, and two Great Companies had been assigned to their destruction. Another two Companies had been deployed to strike at the city’s void shield projectors, situated in the south-west and surrounded by heavy defensive formations.
The centre of the giant city, though, was the main prize. A whole district, many tens of kilometres across, had been constructed in the image of Tizca, with pyramids rising high into the dust-thick air. They weren’t the gleaming silver edifices that had glittered under the pale skies of Prospero, though. On Gangava, the industrial filth clung to their sides, turning the surfaces the same dirty red as the rest of the planet. From space they looked almost organic, like strangely geometric mountains looming above the chaotic tangle of hab-blocks and manufactoria around them.
Magnus was in those pyramids. Frei had confirmed it again. All the Chapter’s Rune Priests could sense it, could feel the terrible presence lurking under the greatest of the structures, polluting the wyrd like a slick of oil on water. Ironhelm led the assault on that central target, taking five whole Great Companies and the majority of the Chapter’s Rune Priests in a spearhead of colossal firepower. Their landfall was directly to the east of the void shield fringes, a hundred-kilometre slog away from the heavily defended heart of the city.
The fleet Tacticae had estimated that hundreds of thousands of troops, possibly millions if the civilians had all been armed, were hunkered down behind extensive fortifications and protected by gun emplacements. Augurs had picked up the movement of mobile artillery pieces moving through the streets in convoy, clogging choke-points and blocking passage along the main highways. Whatever forces Magnus had been assembling were clearly well-armed and ready for action, despite their lack of orbital cover.
Intercepted comms traffic had given some idea of the defensive strategy. The orders had been encoded, but many of the ciphers had been cracked during Kjarlskar’s blockade and little remained unknown to the attacking commanders. From the interceptions, it was clear that the Gangavans knew full well the fury that awaited them. Their only response lay in numbers. Huge numbers. They couldn’t hope to take on the Wolves in combat, but instead planned to wear the invaders down through sheer inertia, dragging them into tar-pits where thousands of dug-in mortars and lasguns would present – so they hoped – a whole series of killing-zones.
The Gangavans also talked, in hushed tones of horror and fear, of what was in the pyramids. Over and over again, the vox chatter had referred to the Bane of the Wolves. The expression had brought a wry grin to Ironhelm’s battered face the first time he’d heard it.
‘Bane of the Wolves? He’s gone in for melodrama in his old age.’
That had brought a laugh when he’d said it, up on the command bridge of the Russvangum surrounded by his Jarls, but the time for laughing had now passed. Every warrior in the first wave had gone about his purpose with a cold, clear attention to detail. Rites of hatred were performed with close attention, manes of unruly hair were lacquered down ready to take battle-helms, bolters were carefully checked and reverently stowed. There were no smiles, no raucous banter from the Blood Claws, no casual joking from the Long Fangs. All of them knew what this prey was worth.
And then the drop-pods had begun to fall, scything down through atmospheric turbulence and sporadic anti-aircraft fire from the glittering suburbs beneath.
Ironhelm’s own drop-pod, christened Hekjarr, was one of the first to come down in the eastern landing zone. It threw up a giant cloud of red muck as it made planetfall, the adamantium structure still furnace-hot from the atmospheric descent. With a hiss, the hatch bolts blew, sending the outer shell-segments slamming down against the impact-crater sides. Bolters descended from the roof-space and barked into action even as the restraint harnesses flew up and cracked back into their cradles.
As the bands of metal that held Ironhelm were withdrawn, the Great Wolf thundered down the ramp and on to the soil of G
angava. The night sky was the colour of old blood, striated with the dark tracks of his Chapter’s vehicles plummeting into range. There were buildings all around him, huge black spires of iron that jutted upwards, linked with bridges and mass transit tubes. Spotter lights whirled, trying valiantly to give the defensive gunners something to aim at, and there were wailing klaxons somewhere far off. Already the broken hammering of heavy weapons fire had started up close to his position, echoing from the precipitous flanks of the structures around him.
Ironhelm breathed deeply, enjoying the familiar sounds and aromas of war as they filtered through his helm. Kill-urge was already pumping around his system, priming him for the extreme and sustained violence to come.
‘So we come to it at last, brothers,’ he growled, hefting his frostblade and thumbing the energy field into life. ‘Let the killing begin.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Fangthane rang with activity. The sacred space was filled with the hoarse cries of thralls as they hurried to do their masters’ bidding. Ever more crates of armour-piercing shells were unloaded from rattling transports and stacked neatly behind the heavy bolter turrets and box-guns. The barricade across the western end of the gigantic hall edged closer to completion.
Morek looked at it grimly. He’d heard the reports of the enemy, and had a rough idea of their powers. Such barricades and gun-lines would do little but slow them down. In the past he’d have trusted the Sky Warriors to hold almost anything back, but they’d already been bloodied twice. In the light of that, he wasn’t sure what he knew any more.
Morek shook his head, trying to rid himself of the depressive emotions that had clutched at him since the journey to the fleshmakers. All around him, a makeshift field hospital had been organised. At the east end of the hall, under the gaze of the huge statue of Russ, lines of metal beds had been laid out in rows.
Just like the vials on Wyrmblade’s table.
The beds were reserved for mortals; the Space Marines were taken into the dedicated surgeries high up in the Jarlheim. As he walked down the aisles, Morek saw the twisted expressions of agony on the faces of the wounded. Fleshmaker thralls worked quickly and expertly, stitching and cauterising. Their methods were effective, but made few concessions to pain relief. Morek saw ice-tough Fenrisians, hardened to trial and deprivation, weeping in agony as they were carved open by the steel blades.
One man was in the process of losing a leg just below the hip. If he survived it he’d have a basic augmentic limb attached in time, but he’d play no further part in the battle. Morek watched the man grimace as the knives went in. The patient was groggy with numbing agents, but still conscious enough to know what was happening. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscles strung out. As the fleshmakers did their work, he gripped the sides of the bed, knuckles bone-white and shivering.
Morek looked away. There were moans and low, wracking sobs everywhere. Hundreds had been prepped for the knives. Hundreds more still lay out on the causeways, their bodies already frozen. For the first time since the battle had started, Morek found himself glad that Freija had been taken down into the Underfang by the Iron Priest rather than thrown into the first rank of the battlefront
The two of them had only spoken once since her return from the lower levels. Duty had called them both away after that, so the time together was short.
Morek recalled the embrace they’d shared. He’d clutched her tight, feeling her stocky body safe in his arms again. He’d been unwilling to let her go.
Did she need me then? Or did I need her?
‘Are you well, father?’ she’d asked, looking into his eyes with concern.
‘As ever, daughter,’ he’d replied.
‘Something has happened?’
Morek laughed.
‘War has happened.’
They’d exchanged a few words after that, a mere handful before she was called back by the Dreadnought that shadowed her.
‘I’m assigned to him now, father.’
It almost sounded like she was proud of that. She’d never been proud before, not to work for a Sky Warrior.
‘What need can he have of mortals?’
Freija shook her head.
‘I don’t know. But he does. They are strange. Some things they remember like a skjald does. Other things they forget. I help him with those.’
Morek looked into her earnest, blunt face. Her blonde hair had fallen over her eyes, just as it used to do when she was a girl. He had to stop himself smoothing it back. Her mother had always told him not to. He found words tumbling, unbidden, into his mind.
You are all I have now! My only link to her, who was so beautiful and fierce. Be careful, my daughter – watch what you say, watch what you do. Preserve yourself. Let the Aett and all its chambers be consumed by fire, if only you are preserved!
But he didn’t say that. He kissed her on the forehead.
‘Stay in vox-contact, when you can.’
‘I will, father. The Hand of Russ ward you.’
‘May it ward us all.’
And then she’d gone, trotting after that Dreadnought, the one they called Aldr Forkblade.
Morek sighed and looked up at the statue rearing above him, trying to banish the memory. The massive image of Russ was there as it had been before, feet braced, face contorted into a snarl. His features were those of a true Wolf – distended jawline, pronounced fangs, pinned pupils.
It had been ten days since Jarl Greyloc had stood beneath that mighty frame and roused the Aett into defiant fury. Above it all, Leman Russ had stood, his spirit watching over them.
Do you know? Do you know, lord, what is being done here to your sons? Does your gaze penetrate to the halls of the Priests? And do you condone it?
The stone gave no answer. There was nothing but a grimace of kill-urge on those immobile features.
Then, from the far end of the hospital, a commotion. A huge warrior in coal-black plate had returned from the front. His armour was scorched and dented, the pelts ripped from it. He stormed past the rows of beds, and a gaggle of thralls struggled to keep pace with him.
Wyrmblade had returned. He was bare-headed, and his golden eyes blazed in their sunken sockets. He strode toward the elevator shafts, back to his lair in the Valgard, the place where his work was done.
Morek’s eyes followed him. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t know whether he was looking at the guardian of all he held dear or the destroyer of it.
Suddenly, Wyrmblade seemed to sense something. He stiffened, and stopped walking. His mournful face, marked by that severe, hooked nose, swept round.
The eyes, those predator’s eyes, locked on Morek. For a moment the two men were looking at one another.
Morek felt his heart hammering. He couldn’t turn away.
He knows! How can he know?
Then Wyrmblade grunted, and resumed his course. His retinue swept after him.
Morek felt light-headed, and leaned against a bed. He stared around him guiltily. The hospital orderlies carried on working as if nothing had happened. No one had noticed. Why should they have done? He was just a kaerl, a mortal, an expendable.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He was beginning to jump at shadows. Morek pushed himself away from the metal frame and resumed his patrol. There was much work to do, and he had a whole riven of kaerls to keep in line. Trying to ignore the screams and moans, he picked up the pace.
He needed to keep busy.
It was then that he found himself wishing the invaders would breach the defences and come quickly. At least they were enemies he knew how to fight.
Twenty-four days after Ironhelm had called the Council of War that had authorised the mission to Gangava, the Chamber of the Annulus was opened once again. It was as grim and shadowy as ever, though the torches burned a little lower in their iron grates this time, and the mood of the gathered commanders was sombre rather than anticipatory.
Only seven figures stood around the huge stone circle, heads bare but otherw
ise in full armour. Greyloc was there, as were Sturmhjart, Arfang and Wyrmblade. Of the Wolf Guard, Skrieya and Rossek were present. The flame-haired warrior looked half-wild still, and his mane was tangled and unkempt.
At the head of the circle, the position of honour, stood Bjorn. When he’d entered the hallowed place nearly an hour ago, he had remained unmoving for a long time, staring at the floor-mounted stone plaques in silence. None had dared disturb him while he reminisced on the past, and none had taken their place until he had recovered himself.
As the Council got under way, Greyloc looked up at the massive facade of the Dreadnought carefully. The ceramite sarcophagus was decorated with extraordinary care. Gold-plated images of wolves and snarling beasts’ heads were embossed on the heavy front panels. An iron skull with crossed bones had been mounted on the long face-plate. Runes had been engraved everywhere, each of them placed in the proper position by long-dead Rune Priests and bound with complex rites of warding.
Bjorn was magnificent, more so than any living Space Wolf, and more so than most of those who had died.
Do you know how much care has been lavished on your living coffin? Do you care?
Bjorn stirred himself then, as if Greyloc’s thoughts had somehow transmitted themselves to him.
So now we plan our survival. Jarl, your assessment.
‘All accessible entrances to the Aett have been collapsed,’ reported Greyloc. ‘The explosives were a mix of melta and fragmentation devices. Some were placed to remain intact, ready to detonate when further disturbed. Allfather willing, that will slow the excavators.’
‘How long have we got?’ asked Skrieya.
Greyloc shook his head.
‘Depends on what toys they have. A week. Perhaps less.’
A low, grinding noise came from Bjorn’s innards.
Sealed in, he growled. Not a noble way to conduct war.
Greyloc bristled a little. He had made the choices he’d had to, faced with an invading army over twenty times the size of his defending force.
‘You are right, lord,’ said Greyloc. ‘It is not noble. But the portents are against us. We have eighty-seven brothers of my company still capable of fighting, not counting the twelve Revered Fallen. We have a few thousand kaerls – enough to man the defences, but little more. We need a period of time to recover what strength we can. When the enemy enters the Aett again, we will have to fight continuously until completion, however long that takes.’
Battle Of The Fang Page 22