The Space Wolf Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer 40K

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Think this could possibly be a trap?’ asked Sven sardonically, as they rushed through the darkened tunnels, following Berek and the rest of the company. They were close to the temple now. The way had been all too open. It was as if all the enemy in the area had been told to let them pass.

  Judging by the scent, every heretic in this sector of the keep had passed this way, en route to the temple. What was going on?

  What massive ritual was about to be performed, and what had the daemon meant when he talked of Red Magnus? He could only have meant the primarch of the Thousand Sons, the arch-enemies of the Wolves. If that Chapter of traitorous Space Marines were involved something terrible was about to happen.

  ‘The daemon all but told us it was,’ Ragnar replied.

  ‘And yet old Berek is racing in there anyway. Makes you bloody well wonder, doesn’t it? Not even waiting for the rest of the Chapter to gather.’

  ‘If Skalagrim is right, we don’t have time! Berek has broadcast the alarm. They will come as quickly as they can.’

  ‘Aye, just in time to see Berek heroically recover the Spear of Russ, or so our beloved bloody leader is thinking.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘You don’t seem too bothered.’

  ‘I notice you’re right beside me.’

  ‘I’m not going to let a couple of thousand heretics stand between me and becoming a Grey Hunter.’

  ‘An admirable thought.’

  All around them ran the Wolves of Berek’s company. Ragnar could sense them; the smell of the vast pack was perceptible even through the filtered air of the keep, and the toxic taint of corruption swirling all around. He wondered how it had been possible for the men of Garm not to notice it. The stench of Chaos was so blatant that even a normal human nose ought to have been able to pick it up. Ragnar pushed that thought away. There was no comparison between the sensitivity of what his nostrils could detect and what a normal man could smell. It was too easy to forget that sometimes, which was alarming considering there had been a day not too far in the past when he himself could not have followed a trail by scent or picked out a faint outline in darkness.

  It was strange what one could get used to. There had been a time when his sensory impressions had been so vivid and overwhelming as to be painful. Now they were merely the way the world looked to him. He sometimes wondered what things would seem like if he could be returned to his old mortal perceptions. He suspected that the world would seem flat and grey and dull. He did not want that. It occurred to him that he would not trade places with his old self even if he was given the opportunity, even if it meant he could get back Ana and his father and the whole Thunderfist tribe. That thought seemed disloyal to the ones he had lost, but it was how he had felt. Time had dimmed the pain of his memories and let him adapt to his new life. Even faced by the prospect of imminent death, and confronted by the possibility of conflict with the forces of Chaos, he realised he was happy.

  Perhaps even because of those prospects. He suspected, not for the first time, that the changes wrought within him went beyond the alteration of his organs and his muscles. He suspected that his brain had been warped too, changed so that he took pleasure in danger, and thrilled to the siren song of battle.

  He glanced around and saw the same expression written on the face of his squad. They too were filled with expectation as they moved forward through the dark, crouched down ready for action as they bypassed the empty strongpoints and guardposts of their enemies. He suspected that a similar expression would be etched on the features of every man in the Chapter from Berek Thunderfist on down. Another thought occurred to him. Maybe the reaction had nothing to do with the process that had turned him into a Space Wolf. Maybe it was simply one sane response to a lifetime committed to war in the Emperor’s service. If you were going to fight constantly, you might as well enjoy the process.

  The more cynical part of him felt that it was not likely that a thousand men would all respond in the same way without some encouragement. Even amid his old tribe there had been those who loved battle, but there had also been those who fought only when they had to, who had actually disliked it despite all the encouragement of the hero sagas. Many of them had not been numbered among the worst warriors either. Some of them had been stalwart men with an axe when they had to be.

  Of course, they had not been surrounded by an organisation that encouraged them to be dedicated to warfare. They had not been chosen to fight the enemies of humanity. They had not known that the fate of worlds, and more than worlds, might rest on their shoulders. And they had not gone through the long process of selection and hardening, tempering and training that the battle-brothers had. Most of them would not have survived it.

  Perhaps that was where it came from. Perhaps the process of becoming a Space Wolf was like salmon swimming upstream to spawn in the highlands of Fenris. There, only the strongest and the most determined survived to reach the breeding pools.

  Perhaps with the Space Wolves the process of selection winnowed out all those who could not thrive on a steady diet of battle.

  Perhaps that was where the similarities came from. Only those who actually thrived on the challenge of warfare, and enjoyed the thrill of combat could survive that long deadly process. Perhaps that was one reason why the training camps were so cruel and unforgiving and why the survival rate was so low. Perhaps that was where the real difference between Ragnar and men like Trainor came in. Perhaps it was that the Wolves really were chosen from among the most natural and fiercest of killers. No one else could survive their training. It was worth thinking about. Ragnar wondered how the guardsman was able to keep going. The Wolves would have left most men behind hours ago, unable to keep up with the killing pace set by the Marines.

  All around them, the air was getting thicker and more polluted. It was not just the stench of Chaos. Even though the temple was located in an area served by different power cores than those the Wolves had destroyed, the air was still nasty. It seemed that all over the keep, the air filtration systems worked close to their capacity, and in many cases far beyond tolerable safety limits. The destruction of one part of the system caused an increased burden to the rest of it, causing polluted air to flow from one part of the building to the other. The keep was not quite as hermetically sealed as it was supposed, as the Wolves’ passage through airshafts and other communicating tunnels was proving. It occurred to Ragnar that with the right sensors, it would probably be possible to trace all the breaches in the system’s integrity simply by following the flow of polluted air.

  Trainor and his men, reunited as their old unit now, were showing signs of wear and tear. Constantly having to live in filter masks was proving a strain even for men who had grown up under the strict air disciplines of the keep. They had to sleep in their masks, and squeeze food pastes into their mouth pieces through the same long metal straws they used to suck in the vile stagnant water. Still, they were keen to come and take the fight to those who wrecked their home.

  Ragnar did not blame them. He felt the same way about taking the fight to the Thousand Sons who had desecrated the sacred soil of Fenris and who had now stolen one of his Chapter’s most sacred artefacts.

  ‘Not much longer now,’ he told them in a cheery voice. ‘We’ll soon cleave a path of ruin through these Chaos worshipping bastards.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ muttered Sven. ‘And by the way, Ragnar, you sound like you’ve spent too much time talking with Berek Thunderfist and his skald.’

  Ahead of them the way opened into what looked suspiciously like an Imperial temple.

  They entered a vast atrium, larger than some of the islands in the world sea of Fenris. In the days before the insurrection, it must have been a place for monks to meditate and perform mass rituals. It was littered with the bodies of men, and the shattered remains of machines. Even as Ragnar watched, the crumpled shell of an aircar emitted a stream of blue sparks and consumed itself in a halo of blue fire. Ragnar
could see the corpses of the men within vanish in the eerie flames. An energy pistol still dangled from the fingers of one man. His arm had been thrust out through the open window of the vehicle to allow him a better shot at his targets. Now his fingers burned black and withered. There was a dazzling flash of light as the magazine exploded, its internal energies interacting explosively with those of the damaged aircar.

  Ahead of them, Berek and his Wolf Guard were already vanishing into the temple’s mighty maw.

  The temple was more vast than he would have believed and the deeper they went the more convoluted it became. Massive bridges carved with hideous leering gargoyles leapt across chasms where industrial sludge flowed lava-like a hundred metres below. Enormous vaulted ceilings depicted scenes that parodied the interiors of Imperial temples and mocked Imperial dogma. Gigantic statues of cowled and masked men loomed out of the clouds of steam from the heating vents. How much of this was merely a product of monumental Garmite architecture and how much a product of the warped and feverish minds of heretical cultists Ragnar could not guess.

  The air stank of Chaos. Ragnar knew that an enormous number of heretics had come this way. Why? What could be so important as to drag them down here while an Imperial army invaded their city. Why were they not up above fighting? Why were they not opposing the Space Wolves now?

  Ragnar knew he was not going to like the answer when they found it.

  The temple had become a maze. Archways pierced most of the walls, leading off into vast hallways full of collossal architecture. The tide of heretics had flowed this way, passed through many of the entrances. They had separated into different groups for some reason, Ragnar could not guess why. Just looking at the entrances, he sensed something sinister. It felt like bad things waited down there, that something unpleasant was just waiting its moment. He was not the only one to view them suspiciously.

  ‘Ragnar, you and those Blood Claws check out those vestibules,’ ordered Berek. ‘Make sure no unpleasant surprises are going to come from there.’

  Ragnar moved to obey the order, as Berek commanded other packs to check out other archways.

  ‘I’d say we’ve come to the right place,’ said Sven as they passed into the vestibule. Already most of the Wolves had gone ahead. The Blood Claws had been dispatched to check out the side passages and make sure Berek and his Wolf Guard were not ambushed, en route to their date with destiny.

  Ragnar saw at once what Sven meant. Intricate and disturbing murals covered the walls. Mosaics of shattered, multi-coloured glass glittered in the light of the glow-globes. It took more than one glance to appreciate their evil. They appeared to be nothing more than normal religious scenes such as might be depicted in any temple of the Imperial cult, showing men performing the normal rites of prayer and worship, wielding the usual censers, reading from the usual volumes.

  But when Ragnar looked closer he saw that the faces of the mass of the congregation were twisted in blank idiotic expressions of stupidity and malice. Peering closer still, he could see the intelligent-looking ones leading the rituals had horns and hooves and the stigma of mutation. Some of the altars depicted leering daemonic faces visible only when viewed from a certain angle.

  It appeared to be a commentary on the Imperial religion, a parody, suggesting that behind the façade of truth lurked the madness of Chaos, and that all of mankind’s most cherished beliefs were merely a veil behind which daemons lurked, a fact that the clever ought to be able to perceive. A subtle and devious genius had gone into the production of these works that invited the viewer to join in its cleverness, to share the joke, and so be seduced to its point of view.

  Ragnar could see, as he glanced at the works from the corner of his eye, how easily the Imperium could be misrepresented by its foes. After all, its mightiest organisations worked behind a veil of mystery. Its most sacred rituals were hidden from the view of the mass of its citizenry, most of whom were shielded even from the knowledge of the evil from which the Emperor’s servants protected them. Was not what had happened here a subversion of what already existed?

  If heretics penetrated a temple, how easily they could pervert the whole apparatus of Imperial ritual to their own foul ends. The shattered glass glittered hypnotically. Something in the pattern caught Ragnar’s attention and lodged within his mind. He paused to contemplate the mural once more, stopping in his tracks, knowing from the sound of the footsteps all around him that the others were doing the same. An idea surged into his mind, stunning in its significance, near overwhelming in its profundity.

  Was there not an element of truth in what was being suggested by the murals? Was not the whole Ecclesiarchy a charade? Were not all the mysterious rituals designed simply to bamboozle the ignorant and cow the credulous? Were not those brave souls who saw the truth right to fight against the corrupt organisation that claimed to represent the Emperor, an Emperor whom no one had ever seen, and who it was claimed had been imprisoned in his golden throne for ten thousands years? Surely by now the Emperor was dead? If he had ever existed at all. Was it not possible that he was simply a convenient fiction created by those who wanted to rule in his name, a promise of protection and salvation that was counterfeit?

  Ragnar contemplated these truths, wondering why he had never seen them before. Like the sheep depicted in the picture he had been duped. He had been lied to by those who would use his strength and courage to further their own ends, by those who were unworthy to lick his boots, and who by all rights should grovel before him. Perhaps those who believed in these childish lies deserved to be ruled over by their superiors. Certainly those who knew the truth were more worthy to rule, had proven their superiority and fitness.

  Pride in his own intellect, in the power of his own perceptions, filled Ragnar. He was a natural leader, a natural ruler, a man destined for great things, a man who could see the underlying pattern of existence, who saw the vast scheme of reality in its entirety. He should forge his own destiny. After all, everything changes. The corrupt old regime would be swept away, and something new, pure and shining and good would replace it, a true of commonwealth of humanity ruled over by the elect, the greatest of whom would be him…

  All he had to do was acknowledge the profound truth that the Changer of Ways ruled over all, and he would be given dominion. His realms would be vast, his power great as a god. He need only kneel before Tzeentch and praise him and his reward would be eternity. Kneel, thought Ragnar, the spell suddenly slipping from his mind. Why kneel to any power? He was Ragnar, mightiest of warriors, greatest of leaders. He would kneel to no one.

  Suddenly Ragnar laughed. As swiftly as the madness had come over him it passed. He saw the thoughts for what they were, a snare set by Chaos to appeal to the vanity that lurked in the hearts of all men. There was a spell worked into this glowing glass that reinforced the pride of proud men and used their strength against them. It praised the clever and so sought to win them over. It was a thing of daemonic subtlety, and in his case had been too subtle for its own good. It had puffed up his pride to the point where he would not give way to anyone, or acknowledge anything to be his superior, and then the spell had been broken, burst like a bubble, seen through like a cheap conjurer’s trick. He turned to look at the others, to explain it to them, to share the joke, when he noticed by their expressions that they were taking it seriously. Hostile eyes glared at him. Weapons levelled.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘It’s a spell,’ shouted Ragnar, glaring at the rest of his squad. ‘The mural is cursed!’

  He could see a look of glazed comprehension entering Sven’s eyes and by their scents he thought he was getting through to the rest of his battle-brothers. He was not so sure about Trainor and his men. He knew he had mere heartbeats to act before everything exploded into violence.

  Acting on instinct he threw himself to one side and lashed out at the mural with his chainsword. The blade screeched as it hit the glittering glasswork. There was a high-pitched screeching noise and then a wail like that o
f a lost soul in torment. Everything slowed. He sensed resistance to his attack from the enchanted mural, a powerful daemonic will pressing back against his own, resisting his blow with a force that was as much mental as physical. The strain was near intolerable: a bone-deep ache that settled on his body and made it vibrate in time with the glass, that echoed the stress he placed on it and amplified it.

  Gathering all his willpower he forced his arm to straighten despite the excruciating pain, and drove the blade into the wall with as much force as he had ever used against a foe’s body. For an instant nothing happened but then cracks appeared in the mural with a sound like a glacier breaking apart. An enormous explosive force pushed outwards, sending individual bits of coloured glass flying like shrapnel. They pinged off his armour and forced him to cover his eyes with his forearm. Even so bits cut his cheek drawing blood, causing a stinging, tingling pain that reminded him of poison. With every cut, images flickered through his mind like snowflakes in a storm.

  He caught flashes of memory, saw scenes of an unspeakable ritual in which souls were offered up to the Lord of Change leaving a concentrated psychic residue in the glass from which the unspeakable mural drew its power. He saw cowled figures chanting around octagonal altars. He saw warriors in over-elaborate Space Marine armour that could only belong to one group: Chaos Marines of the Thousand Sons order. He saw daemons dance and caper in sealed and unholy chambers far from the sun. He saw evil rituals enacted to sanctify this place with unholy power. Once more he caught glimpses of a vast and intricate pattern, a scheme concocted by a Prince of Schemers, a lie told by a Lord of Untruth. His mind seemed to expand under the impact, consciousness streaming away into an awareness of his surroundings that was almost cosmic.