Legacy of the Wulfen - David Annandale & Robbie MacNiven

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Mendaxis!’ Azrael barked. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Stern’s blade rasped from its scabbard, and the air was suddenly full of static charge. Mendaxis didn’t look back, but darted through the doors, far faster than any human being should have been able to move.

  ‘Daemon,’ Stern snarled.

  Svellgard

  Like the Wolf That Stalks Between Stars, the Redmaws fell from the void upon Svellgard. The vox thrilled with howls and snarls, and the words of Bran himself.

  ‘Hold firm, brothers. The Lost have returned.’

  Drop pods struck the seabed to the south of what should have been the site of Sven and Harald’s last stand. Wulfen burst from them as soon as their flanks dropped, driven into a maddened frenzy by the confined spaces. Four Murderpacks ripped into the daemons north of the warp rift, their howls echoing up to their embattled brethren.

  The rest of Bran Redmaw’s Great Company – those who had resisted the curse – followed. They fought their way from their pods with savage efficiency, bolters hammering the knots of daemons not already broken apart by their sudden, brutal arrival. Thunderhawks sped low overhead, raking the lesser daemons with more bolter fire, their forward cannons blasting apart the larger engines and writhing spawn. Within minutes the drop zone was secure.

  Sven and Harald had no need to confer, either with Bran or each other. Together they ordered their bloodied packs forward, fuelled by the wild strength of warriors who had learned their immediate deaths were not yet inevitable. They led from the front, trying to outpace each other, frost axes an icy blur in the cold, ichor-saturated air. Darkness was falling, and the last gleam of the Wolf’s Eye touched upon the tarnished armour of the three Great Companies as they came together near the rift’s swirling, churning edge.

  The killing did not end there. The daemons flung themselves at the Wolves with even greater fury than before, heedless of their fate, desperate to rip flesh and shed blood before they were thrown from the material universe. But they found their fury outmatched. Bran’s Wulfen – almost half his Great Company – were savage even for their cursed kind. They fought on despite the gravest of wounds, seemingly sustained by the purity of their hatred. The legions of the Dark Gods could not stand before them.

  As the circle finally tightened around the last rift, the ships of the Wolves’ three fleets combined their armaments, raining fire down into the hellmaw. Together Sven, Harald and Bran hurled the wyrdspawn back into their watery abyss, while the colossal tear of weeping flesh and bone that had burrowed from the darkest dimension into Svellgard’s reality was unmade by orbital annihilation. On the Wolves fought, killing now on instinct, exhaustion driving out conscious thought and leaving room only for the swing of blade and the slash of claws.

  And then, suddenly, Sven found no more wyrdflesh for Frostclaw’s slick edge. He spun, snarling, expecting to be struck from behind, fearing some fresh maleficarum.

  Instead he realised he was staring back at the remains of his pack – ragged, panting, bloody in twilight’s last light. The anger and the hatred that had sustained him was suddenly gone, and he fell to his knees amid the surf, head bowed.

  It was over.

  And yet, in truth, it had barely begun.

  The Rock, in high orbit above Midgardia

  The Changeling laughed freely as it fled. It darted down the bridge’s main access corridor and then right, through a sub-shaft, the doors sliding open with a flick of the Mendaxis-thing’s hand. Around it Chapter-serfs scrambled to get out of the way, wide-eyed with shock.

  Throughout the Rock, warning claxons began to wail. The vox piece still fitted to the Mendaxis-thing’s ear was alive with frantic chatter. Through it all, the furious voice of Azrael boomed.

  ‘Stop that thing!’

  The Changeling managed to control its mirth long enough to spit a string of arcane syllables, grotesquely distorting the Mendaxis-thing’s mouth in order to utter the unnatural words. The vox-link clicked and went silent, the channel killed as assuredly as if the transmission stud had been flicked. The daemonic entity bound to the scrapcode virus the Changeling had uploaded from the primary communications pit had awoken. It would take weeks of machine-psalms and recoding before it was banished and the Rock’s internal communications systems were functioning again.

  The giggling daemon vaulted down a plasteel stairwell and knocked a serf out of the way. At the daemon’s touch the man screamed and convulsed, flesh breaking out into hideous, bloody growths. The Changeling didn’t even notice, barging through one door and then down another flight. Around it reality was a blur, a haze of multiple possibilities overlaying and interlocking with each other. Its goal lay down, deep down, amidst the stygian darkness of the Rock’s forbidden crypts and vaults.

  Soon the distant ritual would be complete, and its master’s plan one step closer to glorious, irresistible, ever-changing fruition.

  They found Mendaxis in a long-disused venting shaft for a reserve thermal coil. His neck had been snapped and he’d been stripped naked, his wizened body hung upside down from a coolant pipe and carved bloody with dark sigils. The corpse was weeks old.

  Interrogator-Chaplain Elezar was there too. He’d been struck so hard that his skull helm had fractured. He still lived, but his sus-an membrane had forced his body into a regenerative coma, and he was immobile. Azrael snapped orders at a train of anxious Chapter-serfs to have him taken to the apothecarion. The hunt resumed.

  ‘This way,’ Stern said. He pounded down a flight of stairs, ceramite ringing off steel, the air heavy with the static charge of his force blade’s disruptor field. Azrael and Ragnar were right behind him. The Wolf Lord had Frostfang out, its rotor idling throatily, while Azrael had drawn the Sword of Secrets, the power weapon’s ancient obsidian blade crackling with its own energy field.

  Asmodai and de Mornay followed, the inquisitor in front, struggling in his whirring battle-suit. Having the Master Interrogator-Chaplain stalking directly behind him set the inquisitor’s whole body on edge, and with every step a part of him expected to feel the Dark Angel’s ignited crozius arcanum slam into his back.

  Below, Stern pushed deeper, through another set of blast doors that, until recently, had been firmly warded and sealed. There were few warp entities capable of penetrating the psychic defences of a fortress-monastery as ancient as the Rock, and even fewer capable of surviving there for any length of time. Whatever the thing was, it had left behind a trail. Its passing would have been invisible to untuned mortals; Stern, however, had the witch sight.

  A cloud of spores, glowing with a luminous, sickening light, hung in the air before the Grey Knight, marking the corrupting influence of Chaos. Azrael had commanded his Librarians to attend him, but the whole of the Rock’s hardwired vox-network had unexpectedly shut down, undoubtedly evidence of further daemonic tampering. The corridors of the Rock would need to be thoroughly cleansed once the threat had been removed, but until then the passing taint was the only way of tracking the daemon.

  That, and the scattering of hideously mutated, mewling bodies it left in its wake. Ragnar killed each deformed horror with a swift thrust of Frostfang, while Stern and Azrael pressed on. They could hear the thing’s laughter echoing up from the levels below, mocking and childlike.

  ‘It’s headed for the vaults,’ Azrael said. ‘We can’t let it reach them.’

  ‘What is it trying to achieve?’ de Mornay called after him.

  ‘Let’s stop it before we find out.’

  ‘Lower your blocking shield, Supreme Grand Master,’ Stern said. ‘Allow my brethren to teleport aboard. We could cut it off.’

  ‘No. We will find this trickster eventually, with or without your help.’

  The trail led them through the Rock’s gloomy structures, out into a processional way lined with graven statues of hooded, skeletal angels. The great force shield crackled and spat lightning overhead. At the far end of the way vault doors loomed, just one of a number of entrances lea
ding deeper into the fortress-monastery’s hidden depths. The doors themselves were carved in the likeness of more angels, features hidden by their cowls, broken swords in their fleshless fists. Two Deathwing Terminators, looking for all the world like two more towering, bone-carved statues in their off-white Tactical Dreadnought armour, stood either side of the heavy doors. They raised their storm bolters as the party approached.

  ‘Lower your weapons,’ Azrael snapped. The Terminators hesitated before doing so.

  ‘Lord, you… only just passed this way,’ said one of the hulking Deathwing.

  ‘We have been compromised,’ Azrael replied. ‘There is a shapeshifting warp entity on the loose. He could be any one of us. No one is to enter or leave here alone, is that clear? Only when there is more than one of us. Even if the Lion himself demands passage, you are to halt him.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ The Terminator’s red lenses swung across Ragnar, Stern and de Mornay, lingering on the inquisitor. ‘And what of these three?’

  ‘They are with me,’ Azrael said. ‘For now.’ The Dark Angel pulled his cowl back, stepping up to the door’s retinal scanner. It blinked, and there was a gentle hiss as the great Angel-crafted slabs of adamantium rolled smoothly back.

  Beyond, darkness. It took a second for even Ragnar’s advanced senses to adjust. Below, a stone stairway led to a second set of great doors, similarly inscribed with the Chapter’s angelica mortis heraldry.

  Azrael hesitated at the top of the stairs, a hand snatching Stern’s pauldron before he could descend. He looked back at Stern, Ragnar and de Mornay, his dark eyes holding each gaze in turn.

  ‘Down here, you must stay by my side at all times. There are places you cannot go.’

  ‘Wherever the warpspawn are found, there shall I smite them,’ Stern said, reciting one of his Ordo Malleus canticles. Azrael said nothing, but removed his hand. Asmodai leaned in close to de Mornay, words hissing from the shadows of his cowl.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you, inquisitor.’

  Into the darkness they went.

  Soon.

  The realisation thrilled the Changeling. To an immortal such as it, time was everything and nothing – the warp made it eddy and shift in inconceivable patterns. And to the Changeling, the past century of painstaking preparation had felt like an aeon.

  It slid through another ward gate, its muttered incantations burning away the hexagrammic seals. It no longer laughed. Matters had become serious. The games were over. Fate, the very essence of the future, was writhing about it like a great, slippery sea creature. It had to snatch onto it, grasp it, latch its yawning maw to the present, so that its silver tail became the future, stretching out into infinity.

  It was deep down now, so close to the core of the Rock that even the throb of the mobile fortress-monastery’s engines was a distant, tiny tremor, fainter than the last beat of a dying man’s heart. The air around it shivered, as though the musty, ancient place found its presence repellent.

  It was directly below the Tower of Angels. It passed through mouldering, lightless crypts and ancient armouries, the blades and battleplate thick with cobwebs. Even the Angels dared not tread here, bound up in their own superstitions. The Changeling could sense the revulsion Azrael felt as he accompanied a trio of outsiders into the most sacred depths of his home, twinned with his fear. He knew exactly what the daemon’s intentions were.

  A cavernous, bare rock tunnel took the daemon back up a level, out of the Angelicasta’s depths. The sweet, slow-burning taste of lingering pain and despair lured it on, filling its warp-flesh with vigour. It would be their salvation. And through them, it would take despair from these few, and give it to the many.

  A cluster of dungeon vaults lay ahead, just some of those that pierced the Rock’s cold heart. The green ceramite and white cloth that encased the Changeling were serving it well. None dared doubt the veracity of the Supreme Grand Master himself.

  More guards fooled. With the entire vox-network disabled it was impossible for Azrael to get news of the imposter to travel ahead of the daemon itself. By the time they realised their mistake, it was already outside the first reinforced hatch. Outside the very first of the cells holding the Fallen. The dungeon’s anteroom was circular, two-dozen heavy, barred doors each leading off to an individual holding block. Each one was flanked by graven statues, their broken swords inscribed with active warding runes. To the Changeling’s warp-sight, the very stonework bled despair, agony and regret, the tendrils of emotion a delicious aroma to the hungry daemon. Its borrowed hand reached for the gene-lock of the first hatch.

  Where it stopped. A shudder – a rare sensation – ran down the Changeling’s borrowed spine, the shadow of an instinctive reaction born from its time wearing mortal flesh. Skin prickled and the servos in the illusion of its power armour whirred as its fists clenched. Around it, for the first time since it had set events in motion, Fate buckled.

  There was something at the far end of the cell corridor. The Changeling could not so much see it as sense the absence of the aether around it. To the daemon’s warp-sight, the thing was really an un-thing, a black void without tangible thoughts or emotions to define it.

  The daemon tried to look upon the un-thing with Azrael’s flesh-eyes. It was diminutive in size, its form hidden beneath the thick folds of a bone-coloured cloak, as though in imitation of the Lion’s sons. The shadows beneath its deep cowl were utterly impenetrable, as dark to mortal eyes as its soul-presence was to the Changeling’s warp vision.

  It did not move. It did not have to. The Changeling found itself taking a step back, the daemon’s flesh quivering. Fear was something the Changeling could not feel, only feed upon, but the sight of the un-thing watching him from the shadows caused the daemon an indefinable, icy discomfort.

  The Changeling could not stay here. It could go no further. This part of the wider plan was unnecessary anyway, a mere addendum to the ritual that would carry the daemonic trickster away, and drag the Lions with it. The Changeling doubled back the way it had come, the cells untouched. Fate’s weave morphed, the future a newborn, fresh entity.

  Behind it, the Watcher in the Dark remained silent and unmoving. It was still there, unseen, when back within the Angelicasta’s depths the Lion, the Wolf, Knight and Angel Hunter finally caught the Changeling at bay.

  Svellgard

  The madness was gone. The skies above Svellgard no longer blazed with firepower, and the ocean’s remains lapped at their new shores, tides calm once again. The great tracts of barren, exposed former seabed steamed in the evening light while the tundra of the islands – now hilltops – gleamed coldly.

  ‘Well met, Redmaw,’ Harald said. His fellow Wolf Lord nodded, face and forearms streaked with wyrdling ichor.

  ‘Likewise, Deathwolf. It is good to finally bloody the Murderpacks.’

  ‘The curse has struck you hard, brother.’ No comment had been made of Bran’s savage appearance. The Wolf Lord merely nodded, looking out over his packs. They still prowled with hungry intent around the crags and shoals of Svellgard’s former seabed, their wyrd-hate unsated.

  ‘It was a long voyage here, Deathwolf,’ Bran said eventually. ‘I am just thankful we made it at all.’

  ‘Our companies owe you life debts,’ Harald said, glancing over to where Sven was pulling himself back onto his feet with the assistance of his Bloodguard, Olaf. The vox in Harald’s ear clicked.

  ‘It’s Arro,’ said the Shadow Haunter. Last the Wolf Lord had seen of the sinister descendant of Corax, he and his sole remaining Initiate had been battling alongside Feingar and his Coldeyes Wolf Scouts. ‘The crusade forces have been ordered to evacuate the surface immediately. You may wish to do the same. I suspect another bombardment is imminent.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ Harald said, fighting to keep the weariness from his voice. ‘After all this, they couldn’t now strike us from orbit.’

  ‘I cannot claim to know their minds, Wolf Lord. But your Chapter are the executioners of old.
Tell me, if you were loosed upon mutants, would you stop anywhere short of total annihilation?’

  The Rock, in high orbit above Midgardia

  ‘Brothers,’ said the Stern-thing.

  ‘Daemon,’ Stern replied, raising his force sword. Ragnar, Azrael, Asmodai and de Mornay came up short behind the Grey Knight, staring at his twin, a perfect reflection dominating the far end of the corridor.

  The Stern-thing’s face twisted with a wild grin, an expression that looked utterly unnatural on the Knight’s graven features. Ragnar activated Frostfang at the same time that Azrael and Asmodai brought up their own blades.

  ‘Stay back,’ Stern said, pacing towards the waiting daemon. ‘There isn’t room enough for all of us.’

  As much as it pained him, Ragnar saw the daemonhunter was right. The corridor was a narrow one, the paladin’s silver pauldrons almost scraping its stone walls. The grin on the opposing Stern-thing’s face remained fixed.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if you would ever catch me, brothers. It was getting lonely down here, amidst the–’

  Stern struck. If any of them had expected the daemon’s trickery to unravel, they were to be disappointed. The Stern-thing met the real Grey Knight blade for blade, and both weapons flared with equal force, bolts of lightning arcing and snapping at the surrounding walls. The two warriors drew back as one, the movements perfectly mirrored. The daemon’s mimicry was sickeningly accurate.

  ‘Begone, foul warpspawn!’ the Stern-thing bellowed, abandoning its grin in favour of a theatrically grim expression. ‘Back to the black pit from whence you crawled!’

  ‘I have not come here to be mocked,’ Stern snarled, and slashed. Again the blades clashed.

  ‘Speak not unto the daemon,’ the Stern-thing said, all fake earnestness as the two parted once again. Ragnar was thankful the narrowness of the corridor prevented them from circling one another. He doubted he’d have been able to keep track of the true Stern.

  And then, the thing changed. There was a blaze of light, diffracted and kaleidoscopic. Ragnar snarled and averted his eyes. When he looked again, Madox glared back at him over Stern’s shoulder, baroque armour gleaming in the glow of the lumen orbs.