The Hunt for Magnus - Chris Wraight

by Warhammer 40K

  He whirled, driving his muscles as fast as the crushing weight would let him, only to see a towering figure standing before him. Unlike the mute Rubric Marines, this one was clad in flowing robes that shifted and reflected the burning light of the skies. His helm was crowned with a rearing serpent, and he carried a long staff, bound with gold.

  The sorcerer bowed to him, and inclined the staff by a hand’s breadth. The Rubric Marines now circled around Arkenjaw, moving as one, their blades wreathed in fresh tongues of sorcerous flame.

  Arkenjaw roared out his fury, and met the charge. The deadening mass of sorcery pulled on his arms, but still he swung the axe. The traitors were smashed apart, their armour-plates flying clear as the force that knit them was ripped apart. Two were annihilated, a third was crippled. Then two more felt the cut of the axe, their helms cracked open. With every kill, Arkenjaw cried out aloud, defying the fell cantrips that pulled him ever earthwards. More Rubric Marines were shattered, until the empty armour ringed him, heaped knee-high. Arkenjaw slew like a chieftain of old, his axe flying, his voice cracking with denunciations.

  It was glorious, but it could not last. The sheer numbers told in the end – a blade broke his guard, another sliced across his back, a third jabbed in at his legs. With the first strikes landed, the end came quickly – the sapphire automata piled in, smothering him, dragging his arms down and pushing their own blades into his hearts.

  With his last breath, Arkenjaw finally heard Ironhelm coming for him. The Great Wolf’s voice was wild, and the sounds of combat were close by, but he had not given himself enough time.

  Arkenjaw’s helm was wrenched off, and his head slammed against the ground. More swords pierced his armour, shoved deep into his flesh, before the final killing blade was raised over his neck.

  Arkenjaw twisted around, determined to watch it as it came in. With the foresight of those about to die, he finally realised the true folly of all that had taken place. It had not just been Ironhelm who had been blind – he had been too. The poison introduced by the Crimson King had infected them all. He should never have followed the Great Wolf – the obsession had overtaken even those who disavowed it. With his voice silenced, there would be nothing now to prevent Ironhelm mobilising the council to even greater heights of mania.

  ‘But even in this,’ Arkenjaw hissed, spitting blood through his broken fangs, watching the golden sword-edge whistle towards his throat, ‘even in this, I shall yet be avenged.’

  Then the blade connected, and he knew no more.

  V

  ‘You did not see his death?’ asked Sturmhjart.

  Ironhelm did not answer at once. Outside his chamber, the clear sun of Fenris beat down on pearlescent fields of snow. The beauty of it sat ill with his mood. Since returning from the doomed raid he had been in a black slough, as had all those who had survived.

  The nightmares had not gone away. Now he had another voice to add to the choir of those who damned him.

  ‘I saw nothing of him at all,’ said the Great Wolf eventually. ‘Neither did his brothers. He was hidden, shrouded in some deception.’ Ironhelm looked down at his hands. ‘I called for him. I called out his name. In the end, there was but one ship left. I was the last. I could not remain.’

  Sturmhjart nodded. That tallied with what the others had said. Right up until the end, Greyloc, Skrieya and Rossek had all believed Arkenjaw to be with them. It was only once the retreat was over and the survivors had mustered on Russvangum and Bloodhame that the truth had become clear. Many great warriors had died, but the loss of the jarl was the cruellest blow.

  Some of the lifters had never made it off the ground. Others had been brought down in midair, and no more than two-thirds made it back to the hangars. The cost in blood of the expedition already ranked with the darkest of disasters in the Chapter’s history, and the pall of it hung over the mountain like smoke from a pyre.

  ‘At least the city was destroyed,’ said Ironhelm.

  With the ground war lost, the two battleships had sent down massive orbital strikes. The city’s energy shields had protected it at first, but eventually the dome had imploded and the needles of glass were shattered. The bombardment had continued for a long time after that, smashing the ancient cliffs and sending them cascading into the sea below. Only when Russvangum’s arsenal was depleted had the fury relented, leaving a huge, smoking scar open on the face of the cursed world.

  Sturmhjart said nothing, and Ironhelm knew why. Few of the Fang’s lords believed that the Fifteenth Legion had perished in the barrage. The place had been so thoroughly soaked in sorcery that both Sturmhjart and Frei were convinced a portal had been open, one through which the Rubric Marines could pass freely. Many of the mutes had died in the fighting beforehand, but who knew what rites could be enacted on those inert suits of ruined armour? Maybe they could replenish their losses, or maybe the wounds were permanent. All that could be certain was that the Thousand Sons were more than alive – they were deadly, and they had won the first significant encounter since the Battle of Prospero.

  ‘So are they calling for my head now?’ asked Ironhelm, smiling grimly, looking up at the Rune Priest.

  Sturmhjart shook his head. ‘You are the Great Wolf. They remain loyal. But…’ He struggled for the words. ‘This curse must not consume us. The wound is open – do not let it fester.’

  Ironhelm gave no reply. He knew that nothing could be done now, not for many years. The Chapter’s losses would take time to make good, and all the while there were other wars to fight.

  But the voices would return. The yearning would return, creeping across him in the long nights. Vengeance demanded it, for Arkenjaw and the others who had died. Until now, all he had possessed were his own visions, demanding action, driving him to the extremes that had ruined him. Now the whole Chapter had seen the damnation of their ancient enemy, and that blood-debt could only be settled one way.

  ‘I recognise my error,’ said Ironhelm, bowing his head. ‘I will do penance. I will suffer the judgement of the jarls.’

  Sturmhjart looked satisfied, for the moment. He made no more demands.

  Ironhelm left unspoken the thoughts that clamoured in his mind, pushing them down, but knowing that they would return in time, and even now dreading the day when they did.

  We were outnumbered. If we had travelled there as I had said, with the whole Chapter, we would have caught him. It would have been a victory. Arkenjaw was wrong – he was wrong to restrain me. This thing cannot be done half-heartedly. We must maintain the hunt. When the spoor re-emerges, we must run it down. This is not the end. This cannot be the end.

  He looked up, out of the open window, to where the eternal peaks of Asaheim crowded the horizon.

  When the Crimson King is found, he thought, we must empty the Fang to bring him down.

  The summits were immaculate, just as they had been for eternity. Their solidity gave him comfort – in the place, at least, was security.

  No half-measures, ever again.

  Greyloc walked through the tunnels of the Fang, fresh from the halls where the sounds of feasting still rang. He did not know how to feel. Grief for the jarl was still strong, tempered with anger at the manner of his passing. All of those who had returned from Ark Reach felt the same guilt, though many of his brothers hid it better than he.

  For Greyloc, all he could think was that he should have been beside his lord at the end. Perhaps he would not have changed the outcome, but at least Arkenjaw would not have died alone. All that had happened since returning to Fenris had not changed that, and he knew with perfect clarity that the death would haunt him, whatever other compensations had come his way to leaven the blow.

  He turned a corner, entering one of the many caverns where fire-pits were kept smouldering. Rossek was there waiting for him, crouched by the meagre flames. When he caught sight of Greyloc, he stood and saluted.

  ‘Ja
rl,’ he said, bowing.

  Greyloc winced. It was still hard to get used to. ‘Not that,’ he said.

  ‘But you are,’ said Rossek, grinning. ‘That is the way of it.’ He rubbed his thick hands against the fire’s glow. ‘Brother, I am relieved, believe me. They made the right choice.’

  Greyloc did not know if he agreed. The Twelfth could have gone with the Red Wolf and become more like the others. If Ironhelm had not led them to such a defeat on Ark Reach, perhaps the result would have been different. In the light of that, however, the company had seen how an Ironhelm could behave, and had opted for the cold-blooded choice. Perhaps they would live to regret this, perhaps not – only time would tell.

  ‘The jarl wished it to be you,’ said Greyloc, joining him by the fire.

  ‘He had not made up his mind.’

  That could have been true. Even in their last discussion, up in the passes with the storm gathering to break, Arkenjaw had not seemed certain. His choice might have changed again before the end.

  But it mattered little, not now. Oja was gone and there was nothing more to be gained by obsessing over his spectre.

  ‘I will not lead like he did,’ said Greyloc.

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘I will need you.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘And the council will miss his voice,’ said Greyloc. ‘Ironhelm must dominate it now.’

  ‘Then you will have to learn to speak like a jarl,’ Rossek said. ‘You will have to sway them.’

  It was hard not to smile. Greyloc would never command them as Arkenjaw had – he was young, an outsider. They were already calling him ‘the whelp’ to his face, something Oja would have cracked their bones for.

  If he thought about it too hard, the weight of expectation became crushing. He was callow, and now part of an order which had once had the venerated Bjorn at its head. Arkenjaw had gone too soon, and he had been among the last of the great ones, whose eyes had witnessed the final acts of the Scouring.

  ‘But there is nothing for it,’ Greyloc said, speaking to himself as much as Rossek. ‘The burden must be carried. They can have my service, my blade, my life if they demand.’

  He smiled wryly.

  ‘Let us hope that is enough.’

  The world of Qavelon was a poor imitation of Fenris, but it had mountains, and it had the cold. For the thousands of mortal troops who trained across their heights, it would approximate. It might not prepare them for the punishing terror of the elements there, but at least they would go somewhat prepared.

  From a distance, Temekh watched the Ninth battalion of newly raised Spireguard being put through their paces. They were doing well enough, but there was still a long way to go. Thousands more would need to be raised, equipped, trained. The Rubricae were a precious resource, and there were no longer the numbers left for them to shoulder the assault alone. The mortals would be their shield, at least at the start.

  Temekh found that thought depressing. Everything about this enterprise he found depressing. At times it was only duty that kept him shackled to the great cause, but that did not explain the whole of it. He was not immune to hatreds – no part of the Legion was.

  The Wolves would suffer. All of them would suffer. The baser part of him could not help revelling in that.

  They are not yet ready,+ came the mind-voice of Aphael. The pyrae was a long way away, busy with the fleet commanders on preparations for the armada, but he was adept at knowing all that passed on Qavelon.

  They will be ready,+ sent Temekh. +Look to your ships – I will look to the armies.+

  And you know the tidings from Heliosa? They are still singing of it in the Eye.+

  Of course he knew. Heliosa had been years in the preparation, and had expended the entire strength of the Legion to accomplish. Even then, so many had died – not all had been able to escape at the end, and losing Rubricae was always a bitter blow.

  Do not let it make you confident yet, brother,+ Temekh sent. +It was but the first step on a long road.+

  Aphael laughed. +I will enjoy it, though,+ he sent. +And I will enjoy it when we bring the fire to them again. Tell me, do you not find it humorous, that they expend so much energy on hunting that which cannot be found? Even we cannot bring him into the universe without much labour, and yet they believe so easily that they can meet him in battle, to be slain just as any beast may be slain.+

  Temekh sighed. That, of all things, was the aspect that grieved him the most. To fight, to slay, that was one thing. To offer these shams and trails, that was another.

  It will not always be this way,+ he said.

  Indeed not.+ Aphael was still euphoric. +But we will be there when he comes. We will give them everything they wish for.+

  Temekh nodded. Ahead of him, the vanguard of his new army was struggling to scale a rockface fast enough. The Wolves would have done it in moments.

  He will be there,+ he said. +They may hunt as much as they like, but in the end he will only return to one world.+

  Temekh tasted the air of the peaks on his tongue, and wondered how closely Fenris would resemble it. It was hard not to let that thought dominate all else – the home of their enemy, ringed by fire, its walls laid low and its treasures scattered.

  May the day come soon,+ sent Aphael, ever-eager.

  So you say, brother,+ replied Temekh, and cut the link.

  About the Author

  Chris Wraight is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Scars, the novella Brotherhood of the Storm and the audio drama The Sigillite. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written the Space Wolves novels Blood of Asaheim and Stormcaller, and the short story collection Wolves of Fenris, as well as the Space Marine Battles novels Wrath of Iron and Battle of the Fang. Additionally, he has many Warhammer novels to his name, including the Time of Legends novel Master of Dragons, which forms part of the War of Vengeance series. Chris lives and works near Bristol, in south-west England.

  An extract from Blood of Asaheim.

  Blood rose in his gorge, foaming and flecked with bone, spilling from split lips and over cracked fangs. He stumbled down the walkway, feeling metal struts flex and snap under his limping tread. Gunfire, tinny and echoing, rang down from the airways above him. The noise was an irrelevance by then – a cluttered fury that signified nothing but the slow death of the drifting Arjute-class heavy troop conveyer. The Imperium would not miss it; it could spare a million of them and never notice.

  He coughed up more blood, feeling the flesh of his throat constrict. He tried to smile, and the corner of his mouth ripped where the burns latticed against softer flesh.

  It would miss him. The Imperium would miss Hjortur Ageir Hvat Bloodfang, Wolf Guard of Fenris, vaerangi of Berek Thunderfist: blood-shedder, beast-slayer, tale-teller. Sagas would mark his passing, declaimed in the icy vaults of home by skjalds who had feared and loved him, just as all in the Rout had feared and loved him.

  He started to chuckle as he limped, and blood bubbled down his chin and into his clumped and matted beard.

  He’d caused hell. He’d done some damage. He’d do some more before they brought him down, too. Blood of Russ, he’d make them all bleed a little more.

  He stumbled, falling to his knees and feeling the mesh of the metal floor grate against his fractured poleyn-guard. He heard his breathing scrape and wheeze within the flickering mess of his helm’s interior.

  Above him the roof was a jumbled mass of burned-out pipelines, hanging like vines from the darkness. Somewhere up ahead a red light rotated in rhythm with a superfluous warning klaxon. He heard crashes from further back, further down: the resounding clang of iron-edged boots against metal, the hard clunk of magazines being loaded.

  Hjortur pushed himself back to his feet. The enclosed corridor ran away from him, plunging down steeply, winding into the bowels of the conveyer’s enginarium. The metal around him was hot
. He staggered along it, reeling from the walls, breaking off shards of steel as his armour snagged against them. He felt enclosed, hemmed in, cornered.

  He sensed a movement – twenty metres behind, stealthy like the others had been.

  Not stealthy enough.

  Hjortur twisted at the waist and squeezed a round away, watching the projectile streak off into the dark through blood-screened eyes. He couldn’t make out his victim but heard the sounds of his death: the crack of breaking armour, the wet schlick of flesh parting, the stifled boom of detonation.

  No screams. The hunters that closed on him didn’t scream. He didn’t know what they were. Human, perhaps. If so, they were heavily augmented and stuffed with bionics, for they moved liked he did and hit almost as hard. That was worrying. It shouldn’t have been possible.

  He started to limp off again, and the bestial phlegm-growl of his broken breathing hummed in his ears. His retinal display screamed at him, detailing pedantically just how badly he’d been torn up: two lungs gone, chest cavity flooded, seventy minor fractures and six big ones. His skin was a mess of partly-clotted plasma and slowly knitting tissue, all seething with a contradictory mix of stimms and pain suppressors.

  Pretty bad. He was breaking up, just like the ship around him.

  He heard more footsteps clattering down the corridor, then silence as the hunters crouched down into firing positions. He broke into a sprint, wincing as lances of white-hot pain shot up his shattered shins.

  A second later and the corridor filled with solid rounds, crashing and cracking from the walls and filling the narrow space with spinning clouds of metal. He felt the heavy bang of projectiles thudding into his back, tearing fresh gouges in the weakened ceramite and burrowing down towards the flesh beneath.