How had they been left behind in the Hould? Did the barbarians of Fenris care so little for their own young that they abandoned them to the enemy? Or had some terrible mistake been made?
In either case, it gave Aphael a rare chance to exercise his skills in the cause of genuine pleasure. Their deaths would be lingering, a fitting punishment for all the hurt inflicted on his Legion by the Dogs of Fenris.
‘Feel free to scream, little ones,’ purred Aphael, withdrawing his blade and picking his first victim. ‘There’s plenty of ti–’
Something hit him hard in the helmet, thrown with astonishing accuracy and poise. Then it exploded, rocking him back on his heels.
‘Fekke-hofud!’ yelled one of the whelps, darting past him and scampering into the dark.
Aphael roared with rage, and swung his sword down quickly, aiming to scythe the little horror down as he ran. The stroke was knocked off-course by another grenade going off, this time hurled at his midriff.
They’re armed! They were left here – with weapons!
‘Kill them all!’ shouted Aphael, whirling round and reaching to grasp one of the fast-moving brats. He grabbed the bolt pistol at his waist and pulled it free. By then the Rubricae had swung into action, grasping for the children as ineffectually as he did.
They were as fast as rats, and just as at home in the tunnels. More grenades were discharged, including one that actually took down a Rubric Marine, detonating a flurry of frag-discharge into his face and dumping him on to the ground.
Then they were gone, darting down the corridor beyond like whelp-ghosts, leaping and laughing into the echoing dark.
Aphael swept his pistol up and released a torrent of rounds into the tunnel entrance. None of them connected. The urchins of the Fang, bred to a lifetime of darkness and survival expertise, were too fast, too wily, and too well prepared.
The laughter died away. The downed Rubricae regained its feet, looking all the more ridiculous for its very lack of embarrassment. It took up position again, as silent and serious as before.
There was no real harm done. For all their stealth and speed, the tunnel-rats had no means of hurting a Space Marine.
But it was humiliating. Deeply humiliating.
‘I loathe this world!’ roared Aphael, whirling round to the ward-pillar and letting his anger ignite his staff.
The shaft of iron exploded into ruinous, terrible light, banishing the darkness and sending flickering beams of aetheric electricity shooting in all directions. The blazing inferno crackled against the ward, sucked towards it as if by magnetism. The symbol resisted for a moment, glowing an angry red, soaking up the horrific amount of energy pouring from the sorcerer’s staff.
Then, inevitably, it broke. A hairline crack ran down the image, shattering the unity of the device and interrupting the runic text beneath. The frigid air rippled with a sudden, searing heat, and then sank back into cold darkness.
Aphael let the power drain back into his staff, panting heavily. All around him, the Rubricae looked on inscrutably.
The ward was broken, and Aphael felt his power instantly magnify. The sense of relief was fleeting. He was humbled, angry and frustrated. There were kilometres of tunnels still to work through, all of them riddled with traps for the unwary.
This was menial work, fit for acolytes, not for commanders. If any of his subordinate Pyrae had been skilled enough to take his place, he’d happily have drafted them into ward-destruction instead of him.
But they weren’t, and in any case the greater mass of sorcerers were needed to shepherd the Rubric Marines into combat.
Damn Ahriman. He’s made us into a Legion of fools, stumbling around with our puppets in tow.
‘Follow,’ he muttered, striding out of the chamber and into the next tunnel. The Rubricae smoothly moved to comply. As he went, Aphael could feel the flesh-change accelerating, encouraged by his outburst of anger.
Time was running out, slipping like sand through his fingers, racing towards the horror he knew was waiting. It would not be long now. Not long at all.
Wyrmblade led Morek far away from the stairway, across the broad floor of the Fangthane and under the feet of the Russ statue. As they went, the air was filled with the trundle of supply transports, the cries of huskaerls ordering their troops back into position, the distant thud of fighting elsewhere in the massive expanse of the Aett. No one gave the Wolf Priest and his mortal hanger-on a second glance.
Morek felt slightly aggrieved about that. If he was going to his death, it would have been nice for someone, just one person, to have cast a sympathetic look in his direction. But, of course, they had no way of knowing what Wyrmblade’s business with Morek was. And even if they had, would it have changed anything? Was the power of the Wolf Priests so absolute that there were no sanctions, at all, on what they did with their mortal charges?
That was what I thought, too, and not long ago. Back when my faith was unconditional. The way it ought to be.
The two of them went beyond the statue, out of the Fangthane and into the dark, cold corridors beyond. The noise of fighting at the defensive barricades died away, leaving the chill and isolation of the Jarlheim in its place. Wyrmblade strode powerfully, and Morek had to trot to keep up. As he did so, he felt his exhaustion begin to return – there was only so much fear could do to keep it at bay.
Eventually, Wyrmblade paused before a slide-door in the tunnel wall. He gestured to open it, and ushered Morek inside. Once the door had closed on them, they were alone and entirely sealed off. They stood in a narrow, high-roofed chamber, unfurnished aside from a single wooden stool and a small fire pit. A collection of bones was suspended on a length of rope hung over the flames, twisting gently in the heat. Though modest, the place had the look and feel of a fleshmaker’s abode. Perhaps a rite-chamber of some sort. Or maybe an executioner’s.
‘Sit,’ ordered Wyrmblade, motioning toward the stool.
Morek did so, instantly feeling even smaller and more insignificant. The Wolf Priest remained standing, gigantic and threatening, less than two metres away. He kept his helm on, making his voice, if possible, drier and more unearthly than usual.
For a moment, Wyrmblade simply looked at him, saying nothing. Morek did his best not to betray his trepidation. In normal circumstances, he’d probably have managed it, but after so many days of constant fighting the task was difficult.
And he was old. Too old, perhaps. That in itself was a cause for shame. Not many Fenrisians died from their age, and it had never been something he’d aspired to.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ asked Wyrmblade at last.
The voice wasn’t kind, but neither was it unduly harsh. It was matter-of-fact, stern, authoritative.
‘I believe so, lord,’ replied Morek.
There was no point in evasion. Wyrmblade nodded, as if satisfied.
‘Then we need not rehearse what brought you to my chambers. I know why you were there, and what you saw. Since I discovered your name, I have been watching you. Perhaps you have noticed. I did not feel the need to hide it.’
Of course not. The Sky Warriors never had the need to worry what a mortal might think of them.
‘It has taken me many days to decide what to do with the name Tromm Rossek gave me. As the enemy wears us down to our limits, I can no longer delay. And yet, even now, my mind is still undecided. Your fate has become a burden to me, Morek Karekborn.’
Morek said nothing, but tried to keep his eyes on the skull-mask above him. He’d always told Freija the same thing.
Look them in the eyes. You must always, always look them in the eyes.
That was still the case when the eyes in question were hidden behind the long ivory skull of a slain beast and locked within blood-red, glowing lenses.
‘So,’ said Wyrmblade, still adopting his chilling, rather prosaic tone of voice. ‘What did you think of what you saw?’
‘I was shocked, lord.’
Tell the truth. That is your only chance.
‘Appalled.’
Wyrmblade nodded again.
‘You have been raised in the Aett. Everything you believe in is here. We have made you in our image, lesser versions of ourselves. You were not schooled to question the order of things, nor should you have been.’
Morek listened, still working hard to control his breathing. He could feel his pulse, heavy in his veins. The fire behind him was uncomfortably hot after the privations of the barricades.
‘What you saw was forbidden. In different circumstances, your very presence in that room would have been death. The Lord Sturmhjart has been trying to get in there for weeks and without success. If events had not conspired to make the watch laxer than it should have been, the contents of the room would still be secret. So now I have to decide what to do with you.’
Though it was impossible to tell, Morek felt as if the terrible old face behind the mask was smiling – a hooked grin, exposing yellow teeth.
‘And as you have been truthful with me, I will be truthful with you, Morek Karekborn,’ said Wyrmblade. ‘I had resolved to cut your thread. The danger of the work we are doing leaking out has always been so great, and that, you must understand, will never be allowed to happen.’
The prospect of the Wolf Priest ending his life had strangely little effect on Morek. He had already prepared for it. He had been prepared for it every night since the mission to the fleshmakers’ chambers. Only the Wolf Priest’s strange indecision had postponed the moment longer than it had needed to be.
‘If that is my wyrd,’ said Morek, even managing to sound half-convinced by it.
‘I believe you mean that. You have commendable faith, Karekborn. Though I sense your devotion has been diminished in recent days, which is also not something to be surprised about.’
The Wolf Priest let out a long, whistling sigh.
‘Do not think that I have somehow lost my resolve for killing, mortal,’ he said. ‘I have killed for this work before, and, Allfather providing, will do so again. But I will not kill you. Your wyrd does not end here, locked in this room. That, at least, I can see clearly.’
Morek knew he should feel some kind of relief at that. He didn’t. Perhaps it was the fatigue, perhaps it was the loss of faith. Whatever the cause, he found himself wishing for nothing more than sleep, for respite from the endless dark, the endless cold, the endless combat. For as long as he could remember, the Wolf Priests had been an inspiration to him, a tangible link between the mass of humanity and the awesome example of the eternal Allfather. Now, towered over by this near three-metre high behemoth, so close he could see the blade-bites on the ravaged armour and hear the rattle of the breathing through the helm filters, he could summon up none of that lifelong awe. The spell had been broken.
I am not afraid of you. Now, at last, I understand what Freija has been telling me for so long. Daughter, forgive me. You were right.
‘But you must be punished, mortal,’ Wyrmblade continued. ‘If the Heresy taught us anything, it is that transgression must always be met with reprisal. And so I will give you the most terrible gift in my possession.’
The Wolf Priest’s helm lowered slightly, bringing the red eyes more on a level with Morek’s. They shone dully amid the scorched bone, like rubies set in old stone.
‘What you witnessed is called the Tempering. It will change the face of the Chapter forever. Listen, and I will explain how it will destroy and remake all that you have ever been taught to hold sacred.’
Chapter Nineteen
Borek’s Seal rang with the sound of barking gunfire, the thunder of war-engine treads and the spit of oil-furnaces. The Thousand Sons pushed forwards again, ranks of them moving in unison, laying down a close wall of bolter-fire.
Thanks to Bjorn and Greyloc, the enemy had been held at the portals. None of them had yet crossed into the Seal chamber itself, and the many fixed gun positions there were silent and still. The battle raged, as it had done since Bjorn had met up with Greyloc, in the entrance arches, where the Dreadnoughts and Long Fangs had dug in. Just as at the Fangthane, barricades and trenches of adamantium provided cover for the defending infantry. The pattern of battle was simple – endless, repeated attempts by the invaders to storm the perimeter and break into the space beyond, shattering the advantage given to the defending forces by the narrow choke-point.
They had been unsuccessful in that objective so far, but the cost had been high. The kaerls stationed in the barricade zone had suffered under bolter fire, and whole squads had been wiped out in single thrusts. The Sky Warriors weren’t immune either, despite their superior armour and weaponry. Aside from the command group, who looked almost invulnerable in their Terminator battle-plate and power weapons, the Hunters and Claws had taken serious casualties going up against the Rubric Marines.
Freija had done her part during the repeated actions, leading her squad of kaerls in support operations, laying down covering fire to allow the Wolves to enter close combat. It had been the hardest, toughest fighting she’d ever been part of. At a given signal from a Sky Warrior, she and her troops would dart from the relative safety of the barricades and lock sights on any Prosperine infantry within range. The skjoldtar rifles were more powerful than the enemy’s lasguns and inflicted heavy damage, but the kaerls were still vulnerable once out of cover. Dozens had been brought down in previous sorties, caught by las-beams or ripped apart by Rubric Marines before the Wolves could race to assist. Freija had almost had her own thread cut more than once, only saved by her reflexes, her armour, or a good slice of luck.
As the battle had progressed through the days, her fatigue had began to grow, slowing her down and making her aim less sure. Casualties rose as the lack of sleep and constant rotation ground the defenders down. The Prosperine infantry suffered too. After so long locked in a state of semi-constant fighting, the stone floor became ankle-deep in blood, gore and weapon coolant.
Freija had expected the Sky Warriors to look after the sharp end of business and let the kaerls take care of themselves. It would have been in character for them, she thought, to let the mortal support troops suffer the brunt of the firestorm, so long as they were free to close in on the hand-to-hand combat they lived for.
That didn’t happen. Once the real fighting began, the Wolves seemed to treat the kaerls almost as equals. It was as if the very act of combat brought them on to the same level. In the normal run of things, a Blood Claw would barely notice a thrall, let alone speak to him. And yet, once the bolter rounds started flying, the distinctions between them suddenly, strangely, ceased to matter.
As Freija had fought on, willing her body to resist the exhaustion that dragged at her muscles, she had found her attitude toward her masters begin to change. She’d seen a Grey Hunter charge headlong into a whole rank of Rubric Marines, his axe whirring, his bolter spitting out a hail of shells. He’d taken down three of them, barrelling one bodily to the ground once his ammo was gone, fighting with his fists once his axe had been knocked out of his hands. He’d kept attacking to the end, expert and brutal, never giving up until a glowing blade was shoved straight into the gap between helm and breastplate, nearly taking his head off.
No fear. No fear at all. He’d been magnificent, the perfect predator, living up to his breeding as the finest warrior archetype in the galaxy. Freija had found the single-minded arrogance of the Sky Warriors maddening in the past, but in combat she saw why it had to be that way.
They cannot doubt. Not even for a second. They must believe they are the Allfather’s keenest blades, his most potent weapons.
Now I see them in their pure state, I am awed by them.
The example had made Freija fight all the harder. She’d been stationed close to Aldr’s position, and the Dreadnought had been as immense in defence as his battle-brothers. The strange, almost childlike confusion that had made him seem so vulnerable after awakening had evaporated. Now, no doubt inspired by the peerless example of Bjorn the Fell-Handed close by, Aldr thundered into combat
with all the extravagant assurance of his gene-heritage.
He was astonishing, a twin-handed dealer of death, and wherever he came the invaders fell back in disarray. Bolt-rounds clattered harmlessly across his heavy shielding like hailstones, and even the Rubric Marines had no answer to the mammoth claw blades he sent crushing into them. As with the other five Dreadnoughts in the defensive perimeter, Aldr had created islands of stability within the roar and rush of the assaults, islands that lesser warriors could crowd around and use to push out from.
Freija might have imagined it, but the Dreadnought seemed to pay particular attention to her pack. Once, when they’d been caught out of position and lacking in cover, he’d lumbered right between her and the advancing enemy, using his bulk to soak up the incoming fire and launch a vicious, whirling counter-assault single-handedly.
Once safely back under the lee of the barricades, her squad mauled, but still cohesive, Freija had looked back at the rampaging war machine in mute admiration, watching as his fire-swathed shell barged into harm’s way with all the swagger of a new aspirant flexing his stone-hard muscles.
Freija kept watching, her gaze held by the thoughtless heroism on display. It thrilled her. For the first time, she felt proud. Proud of her heritage, proud that such gods of war were part of the fabric of her home world. Proud that the Sky Warriors stood alongside her in the trenches, fighting to preserve everything they’d built together on Fenris.
I am not afraid of you.
Freija slammed a replacement magazine into her rifle and prepared to lay down supporting fire. That was her role, her loyal part in the glorious defence of the Aett.
Now, at last, I understand what my father has been telling me for so long.
She looked round to check her squad was with her, then slammed the skjoldtar into the firing slot on the barricade crest. She rested her chin against the sights, watching with satisfaction as a line of charging Prosperine infantry came into range.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 164