The Hunt for Magnus - Chris Wraight

by Warhammer 40K

  As the Wolves ran, the air screamed. Every gust of wind shrieked like a thousand voices, ripped from their authors’ throats and set loose on to the gale. Amid the screams were laughs and manic yells, whole fractured choirs of demented rage. The Wolves largely ignored them, racing across the rock-plates towards the first of the teetering buildings. Some roared back with war-cries of their own – curses from the storm-seas of Fenris, strangely at home amid the skirling atmosphere of Ark Reach.

  Ironhelm’s pack was first to hit the perimeter, pushing under the shadow of the distorted edifices and making for the city’s heart. Above them the clouds ripped and twisted and contorted, glowing violently as if lit from within. Shapes formed – momentary faces, or eyes, or mouths – before rippling away before the outline could be made out.

  In Ironhelm’s wake, the attacking formations firmed up. Sundered packs joined together as they reached the straggle of outer structures, shepherded by low runs from the Thunderhawks. Behind them, orbital lifters brought down the last of the Chapter’s armoury: Predator tanks, Land Raiders and tracked artillery pieces.

  Amid all of that, no enemy was sighted. The world howled at them, but the streets were empty and the avenues echoed. A fine dust coated everything – dove-grey and churned by the winds – and the Wolves became coated by it as they loped. The residue sparkled, catching the light of the glowing clouds, making the invaders glisten like an army of the diamond-clad.

  Ironhelm did not push onwards heedlessly. Though he and his Guard kept up the pace, packs peeled off from the main charge to secure the ground won. Strategic points were locked down and ranged weapons set up. Augur-sweeps were run back and forth across the echoing ground, searching for something – anything – to tackle.

  Soon a central cluster of spires loomed before them – a soaring collection of sheer needles, each one glass-smooth and illuminated from within by the dance of spectral aurorae. The screaming intensified, becoming deafening even over the Wolves’ helm-compensators, though the faces of the towers themselves gazed down on them blankly, devoid of life and movement. They seemed then like empty monuments to the race that had built them, builders whose name had been erased from history.

  Finally, Ironhelm drew to a halt. Three packs of Hunters fanned out ahead of him, running hard and keeping low. The vanguard had reached a circular open space, bordered on the far face by the first of the high needles. The ground was now ankle-thick with the dust, which skipped in the wind, whipping up into dunes and serpentine figures.

  Ahead of Ironhelm the city’s landscape rose sharply. Tight-knit alleyways and thoroughfares cut through a thicket of ever-higher edifices, all built atop the rising rock-towers. Drops opened up – crevasses between the greater spires, some plunging down seemingly all the way to the foam below. The Wolves were running out of solid land, and if they pushed on much further they would reach the edge of the cliff itself.

  ‘You sensed them,’ snarled Ironhelm, turning on Frei. ‘Where are they?’

  The Rune Priest had kept pace with his master, together with Trask and the company’s Wolf Guard. Others of his order ran with the rest of the packs, bolstering them against the sorcery they knew they would encounter.

  ‘The place was teeming,’ said Frei, sounding strangely disorientated. Bone-totems clattered against his breastplate, swung by the wind. ‘Teeming.’

  Ironhelm flexed his Terminator gauntlets. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No, these are the souls,’ Frei murmured, gesturing to the screams that ran through the air like wildfire. ‘These are the ones whose light was cut from the universe. They hate us. The hate is what keeps them alive.’

  Ironhelm turned away in disgust. The screams meant nothing to him – they could not be hurt, and they could not hurt him. ‘The light, then. Where is it coming from?’

  Trask pointed up ahead, past the immediate clusters of needles and to where the city’s expanse ran up to the cliff-edge. One final rock tower stood isolated from the rest, cut off by a precipitous chasm bridged by a single causeway. Atop that tower stood a wide plaza, followed by the ruins of a great pyramid, its sides mottled with verdi­gris and its gaping roof home to the snap and dance of lightning.

  ‘If the city once had a heart,’ Trask said, ‘that is it.’

  Ironhelm nodded. ‘So be it. We burn it.’

  He began to move off. As he did so, something in the yammering air suddenly changed. The screams picked up in pitch, and a noise like a great ceremonial gong echoed across the roofs of the misshapen city.

  The dust underfoot stirred, shaken into new patterns. Flagstones in the circular courtyard erupted, pushing up like geysers. The glass edges of the buildings cracked, spilling clusters of lightning across the ground like thrown sparks from an anvil. Every facet of the crystal city turned in on itself, rearranging, reconfiguring, falling in and thrusting out. Beams of red light shot out from a thousand newly exposed emitters. Each beam found its terminus in an answering lens array, and a single image, repeated over and over, blazed out from the needles, pyramids, shards and domes.

  There was the Eye, in its every form and from every world the Wolves had ever laid low. It glared at them, baleful, mournful, spiteful, expectant.

  And yet Ironhelm hardly saw those emblems, nor did any of his army, for the dust had stirred up more than shafts of light. Clambering out of the shifting soils, their armour gleaming just as in the hour when it had been recast by forbidden spells, Rubric Marines emerged. Moving as silently as they had done on Arvion, they pulled themselves clear of the shattered land, took up blades and activated ancient energy packs. Old icons were displayed as the dust slipped from the curve of pauldrons, ones that the universe had long forgotten to fear – the symbols of the corvidae, the athanaeans, the raptora and the pavoni.

  Vast arcs of lightning, now cycling with all the colours of the spectrum, lashed down from the topmost pyramid. The storm raged more fiercely, whipped into cascades of turbulence by the racing winds.

  For once, Ironhelm had no words. The Rubric Marines were there in hundreds, not the mere handful they had been on the forge world, all ranked in silent squads and silent companies. Aether-strands played across them, licking at the battleplate and worming across their ornate armour decoration.

  Then, with no audible command, they began to move, first haltingly, then with all the fluidity of their old flesh-and-blood selves.

  It was Frei who broke the vice of shock. He raised his staff, and caused the shaft to burn fiercely with the witch-light of Fenris.

  ‘Fenrys Hjolda!’ he cried, swinging the skull-tip as wildly as a mace.

  That released the flood. The Wolves, now given an enemy, charged as one, racing to engage with the automata that had risen from every sector of the storm-racked city. Claps of arcane thunder pealed out, followed by hammering rain that bounced and sprayed from the earth.

  And amid it all, his voice greater even that the screams of the cursed air, Harek Ironhelm charged into battle and brought his blade among the enemy at last.

  Bloodmane was a fast ship – a strike cruiser built for rapid response. It had only been hours behind Ironhelm from the start, and Arkenjaw had flayed the warp-drives to make up time. By the time the Navigator brought them out of the warp he was bleeding from his mortal eyes and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  The ship burned hot across the Ark Reach Secundus, immediately locking on to Russvangum’s ident and laying in a pursuit trajectory. Even before they reached the planet, Arkenjaw’s company was battle-­arrayed and ready for the drop. Down in the bowels of the strike cruiser, ranks of pods were hoisted into their dispatch-shafts, each one filled with packs of warriors eager for the hunt to commence.

  The jarl himself, flanked by Sturmhjart, Rossek, Greyloc and others of the Wolf Guard, remained on the bridge until the last moment.

  ‘He’s already made planetfall,’ said Arkenjaw, shaking his hea
d in disbelief. ‘Just went straight in, right for the throat.’

  ‘Heavy fighting all across the impact sites,’ reported Greyloc, studying the incoming augur-feeds. ‘They are outnumbered. More signals emerging all the time – where are they coming from?’

  Arkenjaw reached for an angled picter lens and pulled it towards him, summoning up tactical data from the battlefield far below. Runes denoting Ironhelm’s and Kjarlskar’s deployments glowed across the schematic, flickering as positions were updated.

  ‘He made no attempt,’ murmured Arkenjaw. ‘No attempt to avoid encirclement.’

  The tactical display exposed the full recklessness of the charge. Ironhelm’s company had broken into the heart of the city from the east and had driven almost up to the very centre. Kjarlskar’s forces were further behind, bogged down across the southern edges. The two companies had not yet joined up, and were now separated by enemy formations, who were able to use their greater numbers to outflank both invading spearheads.

  Arkenjaw ran the numbers, checking them against the rate that traitor forces were appearing across the city’s expanse. Even the addition of his own company would not match up the odds, and as time went on the disparity would grow. There were many hundreds of enemy rune-signals already, and with every second another few more blinked into life.

  ‘He has outpaced Kjarlskar,’ observed Greyloc. ‘He must pull back.’

  Arkenjaw snorted. ‘He will never pull back. Kjarlskar must get to him. If the companies can link up, this thing can yet be saved.’ The Wolf Lord reached for his helm and pulled it on. All the others did likewise. ‘Take us down ahead of the Fourth Company’s position,’ he ordered. ‘We will break the enemy that stands between them.’

  ‘There is something strange about those signals,’ said Sturmhjart, his gaze still fixed on the schematics. ‘I sense too little from them, almost as if they weren’t there at all.’

  Rossek laughed. ‘They’re there,’ he growled. ‘And if they’re there, they’ll die.’

  ‘Be wary,’ warned Arkenjaw, turning to address all of them. ‘Ironhelm has roused forces he should have known to leave alone. These are not the rabble we are used to – they are the embers of a Legion, just as we are.’

  ‘And they are foul,’ added Sturmhjart. ‘That at least I can see clear.’

  ‘Then let us ease their path to oblivion,’ said Arkenjaw, striding off to the drop pod chambers. ‘It will be a mercy for us both.’

  ‘For Russ!’ Ironhelm thundered, swinging his frostblade as he had done on Arvion.

  The blade bit deep into the torso of the approaching Rubric Marine, cracking the ceramite from side from side. The traitor staggered, but kept its feet. Ironhelm had to hack a second time to shatter the creature’s armour-shell clean open. A snap rang out, the air shuddered, and the automaton finally slumped to the earth, its helm-lenses going dark.

  Fighting had now spread to every street leading up to the causeway, and the city’s narrow spaces were clogged with hand-to-hand combat. The Rubric Marines advanced with their eerie lack of fervour, blocking every route in and out of the city sector. Most carried close-combat weapons that crackled with fell energies, but others still bore ranged weaponry, and the skies were scored with the tracks of missile fire. Shells smashed into the overhanging eaves of the crystal buildings, making them totter and bringing some down.

  Progress was possible – the Rubric Marines were not invincible – but they were incredibly strong and incredibly dogged. After an hour of solid fighting the Wolves were still pinned back below the approaches to the causeway, unable to break the defensive line of sapphire guardians that barred the path. Ironhelm himself had led two charges up through the tangled streets towards the arched gate, but each one had been repulsed with losses, kicked back down the slope with the rain slamming on their backs and mingling with the blood.

  Of all of the Wolves, perhaps Frei fought the hardest. The Rune Priest never ceased crying out ritual curses against the outer dark, his staff singing with raw energy and his pelts flailing. He was convinced that the infantry they faced required the guidance of a master sorcerer, and so sought it out across the crowded battlefield, desperate to find it and put it to the test.

  For the rest, there was just the contest of arms, and with every passing hour Ironhelm’s frustration at not forcing the passage of the causeway swelled further.

  ‘One more charge!’ he roared, driving the mute enemy before him. ‘This shall crack their spine. To me! To me!’

  His Wolf Guard came with him, close-ranked, loosing bolters and lashing out with axes and spears. The Grey Hunters pushed out to the left flank, trying to open up another front for the enemy, while the energy of the Blood Claws was spent in the centre. Ironhelm had long since called up all the artillery of the company, which meant surrendering swathes of territory and ceding ground at their backs. However, it was clear that nothing else would suffice to break the deadlock. The armour was late to arrive and no comm-signal had got through. The infantry slogged on alone, unable to shatter the stalemate.

  A Rubric Marine leapt in front of him, this one carrying a serpent-headed staff. Ironhelm jabbed his frostblade across hard, catching the stave on its disruptor-snarling edge. The Rubric Marine pushed back, aiming to drive him off-balance. Ironhelm released the pressure, causing the enemy to stumble by a fraction. Trusting to his more powerful armour, he let the staff find its mark before whipping the frostblade back up, catching the enemy in its stomach. The killing edge burned in deep, tearing through cables and plating, before finally slipping through to the void within.

  ‘And back to Hel,’ snarled Ironhelm, shoving the blade upwards and breaking the Rubric Marine in two. Once again, the air shook and an actinic crack radiated out from the stricken corpse. Then it fell, toppling emptily to the dusty earth and rolling still.

  The fighting did not let up – others took the place of the fallen, just as implacable, just as hard to put down. Ironhelm heard screams of agony among the battle cries, and knew the sounds of death among his own. His battle-brothers were dying, more than he would have dreamed possible, and still the objective remained untaken.

  ‘Kjarlskar,’ voxed Trask to him, breathlessly. The Wolf Guard was fighting just metres away, locked in a brutal hand-to-hand struggle. ‘He is not closing. Fall back?’

  Ironhelm looked up towards the final tower of rock. The broken pyramid was tantalisingly close. ‘Not again,’ he rasped, barrelling into another Rubric Marine and trading lightning-swift blows. ‘Push on.’

  Trask made no acknowledgement, which sent its own message. Every metre of ground was being won at terrible cost. The Wolves were fighting as they had always done – with full commitment, hurling themselves into the faces of the enemy, aiming to overwhelm with the psychological shock just as much as the physical threat. Here, though, that weapon was denied them. The enemy seemed to feel nothing, not even anger, and the howls of the planet’s wrath outmatched even the most strident roars of the Fenryka.

  Ironhelm was rocked back, bludgeoned by a sickening blow to the throat by his foe’s longsword. He withdrew, parrying hard, feeling his hearts labouring. Trask might have been right. They were making no headway. Soon what little tactical cohesion they possessed would be lost, and in a prolonged melee there was no guarantee they would endure for long. Falling back was an option – to rendezvous with Kjarlskar, rally and form a proper defence before considering how to take on the causeway guardians.

  Slowly, faced with the worsening odds ahead, Ironhelm grudgingly saw the necessity of it. Another hour of this, and there would be little left to rendezvous with.

  Then a massive boom rocked the courtyard, and the air was lit by a sharp flare of white. Another blast followed, then another. Two enemy positions up the slope disappeared in whirling explosions as massive shells crashed into their targets.

  Rendmar’s armour had arrived at last – two Preda
tors rolled into the courtyard’s eastern rim, and the tell-tale grind of Land Raider engines was not far behind. With them came the last of the Long Fangs, hauling their heavy weapons and planting their boots for more ranged firing.

  Ironhelm laughed. His momentary doubt left him, and he cut down the warrior before him with four brutal down-swipes, making sure to sever the neck cleanly before treading the empty cadaver into the dust. The Predators loosed again, and a wave of burgeoning fire erupted amid the ranks of sapphire infantry ahead.

  Even then, they gave no reaction. Their battle-brothers were broken apart, their detachments torn open, but those in the front rank still fought on as before, with no sign that they had even registered the carnage at their backs.

  ‘This is the moment!’ bellowed Ironhelm, forcing his voice to rise above the tumult. Kjarlskar would have to do what he could – there was no time to postpone the assault on the summit. With the armour in place, it could be done. It would be done. ‘To me, vlka fenryka! To the ending of all worlds! To the gates of death!’

  They roared back, buoyed by the firepower now streaking overhead in their support. The Thunderhawks, busy strafing the Rubric Marines between the two companies, would be brought up too, and they were capable of delivering even more devastation.

  Ironhelm fixed his eyes on the broken pyramid and grinned.

  ‘Nothing else matters,’ he snarled, then charged back into the inferno ahead.

  Kjarlskar had reached a high position less than a kilometre south of the city’s heart, and had drawn up all his forces around it. Two Thunderhawks continued strafing runs to the north of them, thinning out the approaching enemy vanguard, but even with that support they were hard pressed. Rubric Marines were now coming at them from every side, alternating bolter-volleys with sudden charges of a speed that belied their ponderous appearance. Far from forcing a wedge northwards in order to join up with Ironhelm’s forward positions, it was all the jarl of the Fourth could do to keep his company from being driven back.