Legacy of the Wulfen - David Annandale & Robbie MacNiven

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Things are going to get tight,’ Egil allowed, stepping over to where Skol had illuminated a patch of wall near the shaft entrance. A plastek-sheathed map had been hammered into the packed earth, along with a slew of yellowing output dockets, tariff chits and work progress schedules. Egil spent a few seconds scanning it all with his bionics, blink-saving the image and analysing its markings.

  ‘This tunnel will slope downward for just under a mile,’ he said. ‘At its end is a larger service intersection, Twenty-Nine B. From there we can pick up one of the highway transit routes that connect the underground hives.’

  ‘Where are we taking it?’ Orven, the last of the pack to drop down, asked.

  ‘The Great Wolf’s last recorded position,’ Egil said. ‘The uplink log had him entering Settlement Five Hundred and Twenty-Nine. The Midgardians call it Deepspark. It lies two miles to the south, and almost a mile deeper.’

  ‘Deeper,’ Moln growled. None of the Wolves enjoyed the claustrophobia of underworlds like Midgardia.

  ‘We must find Logan Grimnar,’ Egil said. ‘And as many of his Kingsguard as possible. It is inconceivable that they have all been lost.’

  ‘Then let’s tarry no longer,’ said Borgen Fire-eye. ‘I shall take point.’

  ‘With Skol,’ Egil said, a thought-impulse sending the servo-skull humming a few feet down the tunnel.

  ‘Keep your helmets on,’ the Iron Wolf cautioned as they set off. ‘These bodies can’t have fallen more than forty-eight hours ago, despite the stage of their decay. Even at this level the air is toxic.’

  ‘At least there’s a good reason to keep going down then,’ Bjorn Bloodfist growled. Low, grim laughter greeted his words, and Egil smiled briefly. Despite the ongoing fear over the Great Wolf’s whereabouts, he no longer felt the doubts that had plagued him above ground, amidst the spore jungles. His Great Company were clear of this hell, and he was doing all he could to find his lord.

  Even if they all died down here, alone and forgotten, that had to count for something.

  Its True Name was unpronounceable to tongues of flesh and blood, but mortals knew it as Sourgut. Phugulus was a great believer in addressing his Tallyband on a mortal-name basis, so it was Sourgut that the Herald of Nurgle called on as he gestured at the collapsed entrance of the mining outpost.

  The great beast of Nurgle dragged itself through the sumptuous pox-bog to the broken timbers, and emitted a pungent belch.

  ‘Give him room,’ Phugulus ordered, waving his plaguebearers back from the diseased beast. The words had barely left his split lips before Sourgut heaved like some monstrous slug, the daemon’s whole body tensing and contracting. With an ugly bellow, the beast spewed a violent torrent of green-grey sludge, writhing maggots and rotting offal at the shattered entranceway of the mine.

  ‘Fine work, Sourgut,’ Phugulus crowed, a trio of the puffballs pockmarking his back bursting with delight. The motion set off those members of the Infested Tallyband closest to their leader, swiftly filling the Midgardian jungle air with yet more daemonic spores. Sourgut warbled contentedly and belched again.

  The acidic contents of the bloated beast’s stomach worked quickly. In barely a minute it had eaten through the felled timbers blocking the entrance, burning a path into the mine. Phugulus waddled inside without hesitation. They’d need haste if they were going to catch up with their visitors. It really was inexplicable, just how fast the wolf-men in their metal boxes had left. Praise be to the Grandfather that at least a few had decided to stay. Why they’d chosen to go down the mine was beyond Phugulus, but he had no doubt that following them was the right thing to do. He’d heard much from his kin of Midgardia’s fabled underworld. It would surely struggle to match the fecund glory he and his spore clouds had brought to the surface jungles, but if he didn’t see it himself he’d never know.

  The interior of the outpost was empty, but the boot prints of the wolf-men in the mulch underfoot weren’t difficult to follow. They all led to a heavy-looking ladder shaft, its depths lost in darkness. As the Tallyband clustered into the mine behind him, Phugulus paused at the shaft’s edge, his peeling features contorted by a grimace. Almost absentmindedly, he fumbled beneath a greasy fold and plucked a squirming nurgling from his diseased flesh. The slimy daemonic mite tried to gnaw the Herald’s worm-like fingers, but his skin had long ago lost the ability to feel anything, for good or for ill.

  ‘How deep is it?’ he asked the creature. It stared at him for a second with wide, imploring eyes. Then Phugulus tossed it over the side. It squealed shrilly as it fell, its own spore-bags popping with fear. The Herald leaned forward, cocking one ear as the noise rapidly faded into the shaft’s depths. There was a distant splat. He leaned back, grinning.

  ‘Shallow enough! Down we go!’

  Wolftide, in high orbit above Midgardia

  Conran snapped his fingers at the nearest bridge huscarl and pointed at the open vision port. A swarm of spacegoing vessels filled the crystalflex glass, framed by the blotched, ugly purple orb of Midgardia.

  ‘Hail them again,’ the Wolf Guard ordered. The huscarl was no doubt thinking that they’d already tried a dozen times, but he clearly knew better than to question the filth-splattered, grim-faced Space Wolf. He bent to the vox bank, snapping commands at his scurrying kaerls.

  ‘How long have they been here?’ asked Kreg of the Ironjaws. The Long Fang pack leader had accompanied Conran to the Wolftide’s bridge as soon as their Stormwolf transport had docked. In truth Conran was thankful for the white-pelt’s presence. He had railed against Egil’s decision to give him command of the Ironwolves not simply because he’d wished to accompany his jarl on what would surely be a saga-worthy strike into the underworld, but also because of the pressures of command. The knowledge that the fate of the entire Great Company now rested on his actions gnawed at him. That, and the Great Company’s fleet, arrayed in a defensive spread around their flagship, the Wolftide.

  The last aerial transports bearing the evacuated Ironwolves had docked with the flagship minutes before, but what was he to do next? Simply sit and wait for word from Egil, even while Sven and Harald’s Great Companies fought the wyrdspawn filth on Svellgard and Frostheim? And what of Midgardia itself? He surely could not compound the shame of the Ironwolves’ retreat by having them break from orbit and abandon the world? He’d already ordered the Great Company’s ships to open all available holds, hangar bays and storage spaces to as many of the planet’s human refugees as could still be evacuated from the Magma Gates. Now that their protectors had left them, the last human settlements would surely fall to the tide of decay sweeping the jungles. The Sky Warriors had failed their vassals.

  ‘The system’s augur sweeps report that they broke from the warp a little over six hours ago,’ Conran said to Kreg, still glaring at the vessels beyond the vision port. There were dozens of them, great and small – bristling Imperial Navy capital ships, like the spires of great Ecclesiarchy cathedrals cast adrift in space, flanked by the sleek, armoured bulkheads of Adeptus Astartes strike cruisers and lumbering, grox-like Astra Militarum mass transporters. And in the midst of them all, the great spire-tipped planet-shard that was the Rock, the mobile, warp-capable fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels.

  The sight should have thrilled any loyal servant of the Imperium. Conran felt only uncertainty warring with his rising anger. They hadn’t asked for this, and his instincts told him nothing good would come of it. The presence of the Dark Angels alone was enough to make him distrustful. He spat onto the deck, warding off their evil with the old Fenrisian custom.

  ‘We’re reading activity among the crusade fleet,’ called one of the kaerls manning the Wolftide’s cogitator tiers. ‘Several of the Imperial Navy’s capital ships appear to be diverting power towards their weapon systems.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re preparing to fire,’ Kreg said. Even the old Long Fang sounded incredulous.

  ‘At what?’ Conran snapped. ‘Triangulate their likely tar
geting coordinates!’

  ‘There’s nothing…’ the kaerl trailed off. ‘Unless they’re locking onto Midgardia itself.’

  ‘Vox!’ Conran barked. The huscarl at the communications bank turned to him, face grim. He shook his head.

  ‘The crusade fleet is still refusing to acknowledge our signal.’

  ‘Gunnery, all weapons live,’ Conran snarled, turning to the weapons station. ‘I don’t care if you have to drop our shields to do it in time, I want our full arsenal online right now. Vox,’ he turned back to the huscarl, ‘contact the rest of the fleet and tell them to do the same.’

  ‘Do you have a target designation, sire?’

  ‘No, just get our weapons red and make sure those bastards see them.’ He snarled at the crusade fleet, fist clenched subconsciously around the hilt of his mag-locked chainsword. ‘This is one message they won’t be able to ignore.’

  The Rock, in high orbit above Midgardia

  For a rare moment on the primary command bridge of the Rock, nobody knew what to do. After giving orders to the fleet to prepare firing solutions for Midgardia, Azrael had retired to the fortress-monastery’s inner chambers with Asmodai, undoubtedly to deliver final commands to his captains. Normally Vox Seneschal Mendaxis would have spoken on behalf of the Supreme Grand Master, and communicated with him directly in the event of an emergency. But when the augurs reported that the Space Wolves fleet sharing Midgardia’s orbit was suddenly powering up its weapons batteries, there was no sign of the seneschal.

  Brother-Sergeant Naamiel, commander of the bridge’s security detail and the only Space Marine present, sent a flurry of vox messages to the Captain of the Watch, but had no authority to decide whether or not to start a civil war on his own initiative. Messages from the rest of the fleet began to light up the vox banks, reports of Imperial vessels being target-locked by Space Wolves ships sending the communication pits into a flurry of panic-laced activity.

  Just as it seemed someone somewhere was going to give the order to fire, Interrogator-Chaplain Elezar strode onto the bridge, skull helm glinting in the green light thrown by the cogitator screens, pict feeds and oculus vidscreens surrounding him.

  ‘Report,’ he said.

  ‘Brother-Chaplain,’ Naamiel said, bowing briefly to the grim figure. ‘Our scans show the Space Wolves have started to target elements of the crusade fleet. They are hailing us, however we are still complying with the Supreme Grand Master’s order not to make contact with them.’

  ‘Where is the vox seneschal?’ Elezar demanded.

  ‘We don’t know, Brother-Chaplain.’

  Elezar seemed to survey the nearest cogitator pews for a moment, inscrutable behind his leering helm. Then he gestured curtly to Naamiel.

  ‘Accept their signal. Vox only.’ Naamiel hesitated for a moment before nodding.

  ‘Yes, Brother-Chaplain.’

  Elezar strode to the nearest communications pit and accepted a brass-wired vox horn handed to him by a stooped Chapter serf. A feral voice snarled at him over the link.

  ‘What are you doing, Dark Angel? Why are your blades drawn?’

  ‘Who am I addressing?’ Elezar replied.

  ‘Ironguard Conran Wulfhide, acting pack leader of the Ironwolves. I demand you power down your fleet’s weapon systems immediately, in the name of Russ and the Allfather.’

  ‘The Wolf has no authority over the Lion,’ Elezar said. ‘You have abandoned Midgardia. We are going to purge its surface before the situation there degenerates any further. The warp rifts deforming the planet cannot be allowed to become any more unstable.’

  ‘My jarl Egil Iron Wolf is still planetside,’ snapped Conran’s furious, animalistic voice. ‘As is the Great Wolf himself. I swear by every oath ever uttered, if a single one of your ships fires upon Midgardia this fleet will tear you apart.’

  ‘We will not fire on you, Wolf, unless you fire on us first. But we have no evidence any of your lords yet live on Midgardia. We cannot wait any longer for them to re-establish contact.’

  ‘I am going to the surface.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am taking a Stormwolf to the surface, right now. If you fire-bomb Midgardia, you knowingly kill me, not to mention the tens of thousands of Imperial citizens still trapped there. Your vox banks will have recorded this discussion, as have ours. If you still fire on Midgardia your treachery will be known to all.’

  ‘Do as you wish,’ Elezar said. ‘Our duty is clear. The bombardment begins in approximately thirty minutes, and where you are then is of no concern to us. Should your fleet fire on ours we shall respond in kind. It should be clear from our relative strengths that if you pursue such a course of action you will end up losing your fleet as well as your planet.’

  The vox horn clicked. The serf who had handed it to him bowed at his feet.

  ‘Lord, they have broken the connection.’

  Elezar tossed the horn to the hunched slave and turned to Naamiel.

  ‘Do not accept any more signals from them, or any other Wolf forces in-system. The Supreme Grand Master will return shortly.’

  As it paced once more from the bridge, the Elezar-thing shuddered imperceptibly. Hidden behind its false helmet, as though mimicking the skull’s leering smile, the creature known as the Changeling grinned from ear to ear.

  Longhowl, Valdrmani

  Longhowl possessed few survivors. When the daemons had burst into reality on Valdrmani – within the sealed interior of the moon’s population domeplex – the human defence forces had been caught totally off guard. It had been murder in its purest and most unadulterated form. Men, women and children had been massacred by blade and fang, claw and warpflame, the habitation blocks running red, the screams echoing back for days off the domed roof high above. When Stern’s Grey Knights and Krom Dragongaze’s Fierce-eyes had finally banished the daemons back to the warp only a handful of Longhowl’s former inhabitants still lived, shuddering in basements and cellar tunnels, half mad with terror and despair.

  ‘They need to be quarantined,’ Stern said. He was watching the vid feeds in Longhowl’s command sanctum. Across the dozens of screens looped images of the domeplex’s interior played out in grainy black and white. The daemons had left the habitation a wasteland of corpse-littered streets and buildings with walls twisted and morphed by warpfire, warm human flesh melded with cold rockcrete. Into the nightmare left in the daemons’ wake, the survivors were only now slowly beginning to emerge.

  ‘I know full well what you mean by that,’ Krom said, his eyes on Stern rather than the screens. ‘You will kill all of them, rather than run the risk that even one may live and bear the taint of the wyrd elsewhere.’ Stern turned to Krom, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

  ‘You are correct.’

  ‘I will not assist you with murder,’ Krom said. ‘Are you going to do it all by yourself, Grey Knight?’

  Stern said nothing. The situation was clear enough to both of them. There were not enough of Stern’s knights to search out and corral Longhowl’s traumatised survivors, and nor was there any time. Those who yet lived weren’t going anywhere.

  ‘The Stormwolves are here,’ Krom said. ‘If you want to leave this moon I suggest you and your brethren board them with me.’

  ‘Lord Dragongaze.’ The voice of one of Krom’s Wolf Guard interrupted him. The warrior was standing by the command sanctum’s primary vox banks. ‘The Fang is hailing us.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ Krom said, taking the vox horn proffered by the Wolf Guard.

  ‘Lord, it’s Albjorn Fogel,’ crackled a voice over the link. ‘Your vox huscarl on Winterbite told me you were at Longhowl’s command sanctum. I thought communicating there directly would ensure a better connection.’

  ‘What is it?’ Krom demanded of the Fang’s chief communications officer.

  ‘I am receiving an urgent transmission from the Wolftide, Egil Iron Wolf’s flagship. Priority Black.’

  Krom felt his hair bristle at the words. Few situations wer
e dire enough to require the Chapter’s highest encryption level.

  ‘Is it the Great Wolf?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, jarl. I thought it best to patch you through direct.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Static flooded the vox horns mounted on the communications array. A voice drifted and wove through it, as though from a great depth, tiny but insistent. There was a louder squawk of distortion, and then the voice cut into audible focus.

  ‘Lord, it is Conran Wulfhide, of Egil Iron Wolf’s pack. I am currently transmitting from his flagship, Wolftide.’

  ‘Well met, Conran,’ Krom said, making an effort to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘What news?’

  ‘Lord, Midgardia is lost, and with it my jarl Egil and the Great Wolf. They are both beneath the Magma Gates, cut off from all communication. Do you know of the crusade fleet that has invaded our system?’

  ‘I have had the huscarls in the Fang and aboard my own ships try to communicate with them for hours,’ Krom growled. ‘They refuse all contact.’

  ‘I spoke with one of the Lion’s sons on the Rock not twenty minutes ago. They intend to fire-bomb Midgardia.’

  ‘Those treacherous fools,’ Krom spat. ‘I knew they intended some sort of madness. Have you tried reasoning with them?’

  ‘Yes, lord. They will not turn from their course. I have told them I am going to Midgardia myself, and if they intend to burn the surface they will burn me with it. I would rather die than abandon those still there to the flames of their own so-called protectors.’

  ‘Do whatever you can to buy time,’ Krom said. ‘I cannot abandon the Hearthworld, but Captain Stern of the Grey Knights will soon be on his way. He knows of the wyrdlings behind this trickery. He will talk the Lions out of their own stupidity.’

  ‘For the sake of us all, I hope so, lord.’

  A claxon suddenly began to wail throughout the command sanctum, and augur lecterns around Krom lit up with insistent lights.

  ‘What in the Allfather’s name is that?’ Krom snapped. The vox clicked. It was the Winterbite, overriding Conran’s transmission.