The Space Wolf Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer 40K

  A shadow fell across the altar. Ragnar looked up to see Sven standing in the doorway of his cell. ‘You never bloody well stop, do you! You’ll go blind if you spend all your time staring at a hologlobe.’

  ‘At least I’ll know something about what’s going on.’

  ‘You think that’s important? All a Space Wolf needs is a foe in front of him and a weapon in his hand.’

  Ragnar considered his friend, knowing that Sven was serious. Sven had many virtues but imagination was not one of them. Now that he had adjusted somewhat to the changes wrought by his transformation into a Space Marine, he seemed genuinely content to be one of the rank and file. He had no ambition greater than becoming a Grey Hunter, and no desire stronger than to cleave the foes of the Chapter. Ragnar was suddenly aware of the difference between the two of them.

  He did like to know what was going on around him. He did want to be more than a sword in the fist of the Great Wolf. Was he ambitious himself? Was part of the reason for his ambivalent feelings towards Berek Thunderfist, that the Wolf Lord’s ambition reflected his own? Ragnar did not know. He just felt that in some way he was growing up into someone different from the vast majority of the Blood Claws around him.

  ‘Maybe so. But it never hurts to know why and more importantly how you are going to get to your foes.’

  ‘You think too bloody much, Ragnar. You need beer.’

  ‘Is there any on this ship?’

  ‘This would not be the Fist of Russ if it did not have a stein of beer in it.’

  ‘Hopefully there is more than one.’

  ‘As fate would have it, while you were weakening your eyesight communing with the spirits of knowledge, I was performing a vital reconnaissance mission. I have located the feasting hall and uncovered the location of a barrel at least.’

  ‘Then like true Space Wolves, let us boldly seek our objective.’

  ‘Best be prepared. Doubtless there are several scurvy knaves who will seek to stand between us and our prize.’

  ‘Then we shall teach them the folly of their ways! Lead on!’

  The feasting hall lay deep within the bowels of the ship. Around the tables was a scattering of Blood Claws. It seemed that they were the only ones without duties to perform before the ship made its jump through the immaterium; the crew and the rest of their brethren were busy. Ragnar and Sven helped themselves to steins of ale.

  Ragnar sat down on a bench next to Aenar, Torvald and the hulking Troll, along with several other members of their pack.

  Ragnar felt a little envious. Most of his early comrades had gone to the ‘grave’. He pushed that dark thought away. Doubtless soon these bold lads would know the feeling too. The rate of attrition among Blood Claws was terrible. By the time they made Grey Hunter it was likely that only half of the young warriors in front of him would still be alive.

  Sven took a place opposite them. Overhead in an ancient cogitator a countdown tolled off the minutes and seconds before the ship would be on its way. There were several hours yet to go.

  ‘Have you heard anything about where we are going?’ Aenar asked. Torvald was leaner and shaven headed with a bleak but humorous face.

  ‘Ask Ragnar,’ said Sven. ‘He is the scholar around here.’

  ‘That’s because it takes a brain to be a scholar, and Sven is hampered by his lack of one,’ said Ragnar, before sharing his knowledge.

  ‘It would be just my luck for it to be some hellhole or other. I was cursed at birth, you know.’ Torvald was given to complaining bitterly about some curse that had been placed on him at birth. His mother had offended a witch or something. Ragnar was not entirely sure. The tale changed a little every time Torvald told it.

  ‘I hear that a full ten companies are being sent out,’ continued Aenar.

  Ragnar nodded. The maximum number of companies ever deployed in the field at once was eleven. One company always had to be left out of a campaign, so if all the others were wiped out it meant the Chapter would continue. Such an event had happened only three times in the Space Wolves’ history, but happen it had. To have ten companies dispatched to the same place at the same time was most unusual indeed.

  ‘Garm is an important place,’ said Ragnar. ‘The shrine there is almost as sacred as those in the Fang.’

  A familiar scent told Ragnar of the arrival of another old companion. ‘Look who has finally decided to join us,’ said Sven. Ragnar looked round to see his old rival and comrade Strybjorn Grimskull approaching their table. He seemed even broader and more muscular than ever, and his deep-set eyes studied them all with a habitual wary, appraising look.

  ‘I thought I would give you the pleasure of my company,’ said Strybjorn, without cracking a smile.

  ‘When does that start then?’ said Sven. ‘I’ve known you for years and it’s never been a pleasure.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Strybjorn grimly. He nodded at Ragnar. There had been tension between them since before they became Space Wolves. Strybjorn had been part of the raiding party that had wiped out Ragnar’s entire clan. Not even the fact that they had saved each other’s lives and fought together against deadly foes since then had entirely removed it.

  ‘All ready for Garm?’ he asked. The younger Blood Claws roared enthusiastic affirmatives. Sven nodded. Ragnar shrugged.

  ‘You don’t seem all that keen, Ragnar.’

  ‘I’m keen enough. I just want to learn more before we go in.’

  ‘What is there to know?’ Sven asked.

  ‘What sort of foes we will be fighting, for one thing,’ said Ragnar.

  ‘How many of them there are,’ added Strybjorn.

  ‘How well equipped they are–’

  ‘That’s easy,’ interrupted Sven. ‘Our foes will be flesh and blood, just like us only less tough. There won’t be enough of them to go around the rest of you by the time I am finished with them. Their equipment will be like ours but less destructive since we are Space Marines, and have the best bloody gear in the galaxy. If you have any other questions, I will be pleased to answer them.’

  ‘Thank you, Sven,’ said Ragnar ironically. ‘It’s hard to understand why you haven’t been made a Wolf Lord already, seeing as how your confidence must inspire the men.’

  ‘He inspires me,’ growled Strybjorn sarcastically. ‘Inspires me to wonder how it’s possible for anyone so thick to be a Space Marine.’

  ‘I didn’t think intelligence was a requirement,’ said Sven too quickly to realise what he was saying. ‘I thought it was courage and ferocity.’

  ‘I think all three might prove useful,’ commented Ragnar.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Sven. ‘Once the shooting starts all the knowledge in the world won’t make any difference, it’s down to skill with chainsword and bolter.’

  Sergeant Hakon strode into the hall. He looked at them and said, ‘It’s nice to see that some folk have nothing better to do than sit around and drink beer and boast.’

  ‘It’s a great life being one of the Emperor’s chosen, sergeant,’ said Sven.

  ‘The Emperor chose you to fight in his name, not sit around like drunken farmers. Get back to your cells and check your gear, then strap yourselves in for the warp jump.’ His words were fierce but his tone belied them. He knew as well as they did that their gear was already stowed and checked.

  ‘Any word on what we can expect when we get there, sergeant?’ asked Aenar.

  ‘War,’ said Hakon. ‘Now off to your cells. Move!’

  FOUR

  The echo of the warning klaxon faded. They had left the immaterium. Ragnar shook his head. This time the disorientation of emerging from the warp was greater than any he had experienced. His whole body tingled and his senses shrieked. He felt as if he had been stretched on a rack. He had heard that no two warp jumps were ever the same, but this was the first time he had ever received such definitive proof of it. The whole ship had shivered like a whipped beast for what seemed like days. The hull had shuddered as if some evil god had smote it wit
h a hammer.

  Here and there he could make out new dents in the armour plate of the walls. He had no idea what could have made them, and he was not sure he wanted to find out. He was just glad they had arrived.

  The ship suddenly shook once more. He was tossed forward and had it not been for his restraining harness, he would probably have fallen, Space Wolf reflexes or no. What was going on? The alarm horn sounded, a long ululating blast that every fibre of his being responded to. The ship was under attack!

  What had happened? Had some monster followed them out of the immaterium? Had they encountered pirates or a Chaos fleet? Even as these thoughts flashed through his mind, the air above the terminal altar flickered and the face of the Navigator, the tall slender woman he had seen earlier with Logan Grimnar, appeared.

  ‘All crew: we are being attacked from vector alpha-alpha-twelve by enemy craft, presumed to be traitors. They are attempting to prevent us achieving orbit around Garm. In His name, they will be denied.’

  Despite the pounding of his hearts, Ragnar forced himself to keep calm, unhooked himself from the restraint harness of his bunk and hurried across to the altar. This was his first real opportunity to witness a space battle, and he was determined not to miss it. After all, it might easily also prove his last. He might die here in an instant, the ship surrounding him vaporised by the terrible destructive energies being unleashed all around them.

  Ragnar crouched before the altar terminal and made the invocations. The holosphere shimmered and became a three dimensional representation of the space around the Fist of Russ. Blue teardrops represented the ships of the Space Wolf fleet. The red points of light must be the enemy vessels. Other distant points in a lighter blue were, doubtless, ships belonging to another Imperial force.

  The lights flickered and an eerie booming sound vibrated through the air. It was either the ship’s shields absorbing an attack, or a power drain caused by the primary armaments being activated. His hands danced across the keyboard runes, his invocations to the spirits of information came so fast as to be almost garbled. Suddenly he achieved what he was aiming for, a pure unfettered communion between himself and the machine. Ragnar hooked himself into the flow of information passing through the ship’s central nervous system. This was the same tide of data that the pilots, gunners and Navigators responded to. In his case, there was nothing he could do to alter the flow. He could only watch enthralled, his eyes riveted to the holosphere, as the Fist of Russ raced into battle.

  He could see that the sky was filled with ships. A monstrous red sphere represented a space hulk. Amazement filled him. Those evil structures got everywhere, drawn to battle and war as inevitably as vultures to carrion. How did they manage it? Did some daemon god guide them? He dismissed the thought and concentrated on the work at hand, plucking information out of the datastream.

  He could see that the Chaos ships were mostly huge battleships and cruisers. Massive, heavily armed, not particularly manoeuvrable, but then they did not need to be. They relied on the terrifying hitting power of their weaponry. Superficially they bore a resemblance to the Imperial warships they had once been, but over the millennia they had altered and mutated just like their crews. One of the Chaos ships had peeled off and was closing determinedly on the Fist of Russ. Other enemy cruisers appeared to be doing the same with the remaining Space Wolf craft. It was a challenge to which there could only be one response, although Ragnar was not sure it was the correct one.

  Had he been in charge of the Fenrisian fleet, he would have grouped his ships in order to concentrate their fire power against a single foe and engaged the enemy one at a time, picking them off individually. Instead, the great ships were responding like Fenrisian warriors challenged to single combat, pairing off with their chosen foes, and making ready for battle. It was like watching a battle of dragon ships back home on the world ocean of Fenris.

  Ragnar smiled savagely. It was all very well coming up with a superior plan, but a field commander has to work with the troops he has available, and take into account their likely response. In the case of the Space Wolves, this was entirely predictable. They would fight their duels, and only then, with victory achieved, would they go to each other’s aid. Ragnar shook his head. The pride of a Fenrisian warrior was a great strength as well as a weakness. Fortunately it appeared their foes felt the same way. Either that or their captains were so insane that they no longer had a grasp of sound tactics.

  He studied the oncoming ship as more details became available. The image expanded to fill the holosphere. It was incredibly large, a massive structure of metal and ceramite, crudely riveted together. Massive cables snaked across its side, spitting sparks as they overloaded. It reminded Ragnar of the carnivorous fish of the Fenrisian sea: a barakuda or a ripper. Massive turrets lined the upper dorsal spine. Some of those weapons already belched fire although the range was too great for them to do much damage. The heretics were not ones for conserving energy.

  At this range, the Fist of Russ had superior weaponry. Its nova cannon was capable of doing huge damage. Ragnar could tell that their pilot’s strategy was to keep as much distance as possible between the two ships and use the Imperial vessel’s superior ranged capability to pummel the foe into submission.

  For the moment, as far as he could tell, it appeared to be working. Energy bolts chipped away at the screens surrounding the enemy vessel. Whenever they made contact, the shields flared and brightened. Sometimes a pale blue glow spread across the energy barrier like ripples on a pond. Sometimes huge thunderous sparks of energy danced along the side of the heretic ship, turning armour to cherry red, molten slag.

  It was a thrilling sight but somehow dissatisfying. This was not how combat should be. A Space Wolf should be in the thick of battle, smiting his foe, not watching the discharge of mountain-shattering energies on a holosphere.

  It appeared that the heretic captain was not about to sit still for the Fenrisian’s tactics. He turned his vessel head on towards the Space Wolf ship, and suddenly the sensors recorded an enormous discharge of energy from the rear of the vessel. Readouts raced into the red. For a moment, it looked like one of the Fist’s shots had hit the reactor or done some other critical form of damage. Any second, Ragnar expected to see the enemy ship fly apart, wracked by a terrible explosion.

  It did not. Instead it began to lurch forward, moving with ever-increasing velocity, closing the gap between the vessels with a speed that the Fist of Russ could not match. The heretic crew were overloading their engines, taking an awful risk with their drives in order to close with their foe. Mouth dry, Ragnar watched as the gap closed. Surely soon the Chaos cruiser would be in range to annihilate the Fist of Russ with one blast of its awesome batteries.

  The Fist’s pilot had anticipated the enemy’s move, and the Imperial ship veered erratically on an evasive course, which only let their opponent close the distance quicker. The enemy ship opened fire. The Fist of Russ shuddered under the impact of multiple blasts.

  Red warning lights blazed on the cell wall, a klaxon sounded loudly. The steel of the deck vibrated beneath Ragnar’s feet. He could hear bulkheads slam shut and the hurricane roar of air being sucked out into the void of space. He felt the ambient temperature leap as a whole section of the hull must have been reduced to slag.

  The holosphere winked out. The lights flickered and died. For a moment, the only sound was the twisting of metal and the eerie whine of the great fans that circulated air within the ship spinning to a halt. Darkness filled the cell. Ragnar could smell panic in the air. If the Fist of Russ lost power, they were dead, a sitting duck to be reduced to their component atoms by the enemy’s next blast. This was not the way he had expected to meet his death.

  He bounded to his feet and made ready to race into the corridor. He was not sure what he was going to do, but every instinct in him revolted against sitting quietly and awaiting doom. Every fibre of his being demanded that he do something, anything, in the face of inevitable death. The beast within
him howled its protest against such a fate.

  A heartbeat later the lights flickered back on, dimmer, partially extinguished in places. The holosphere glowed and returned. In it, Ragnar could see that the Fist of Russ had swung around and was arcing towards the enemy ship. Its image looked very damaged. The heretics continued to fire, although sporadically, without the super-violent intensity of their opening salvo, and, even as Ragnar watched, that firing ceased, like the last few raindrops of a storm pattering sullenly into the ground. Even so, the Fist of Russ boomed and echoed and shuddered under the impact a few seconds later.

  What was going on? An instant later the answer smacked Ragnar in the face. The Chaos worshippers were going to board them. They were going to try and take the crippled Imperial vessel as a prize. Ragnar found himself thanking Russ for the savagery and greed of the heretics. They were offering him a chance at a warrior’s death, rather than a simple annihilation. An instant later, a broadcast across the comm-net made him even more grateful. It was the booming jovial voice of Berek Thunderfist, filled with confidence and a wild joy in being alive.

  +All Wolves report to the forward bore-tube. We are going to teach these Chaos-worshipping scum a lesson.+

  Ragnar paused for a last glance at the holosphere and saw exactly what he expected. The Fist of Russ was now driving directly towards the enemy cruiser, moving at full speed, ramming velocity.

  Sparks of light lit the corridor as a crewman frantically tried to weld closed a blazing power conduit. Ragnar raced along, to be joined by Sven. The other Blood Claw had a chainsword in one hand and a bolt pistol in the other. He looked ready for trouble.

  ‘Well, Ragnar, are you ready to teach the heretics a bloody lesson?’ Sven asked jovially. He sounded for all the world like a man engaged in some enjoyable recreation, not one trapped on a crippled starcraft racing towards an inevitable collision with a much larger foe.