War of the Fang - Chris Wraight Read online

  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 onRussvangum 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.

  ‘Jarl,’ 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.’
<
br />   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.

  Man is a rope, tied between beast and overman – a rope over an abyss.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  Thus Spake Zarathustra

  PROLOGUE

  Strike cruiser Gotthammar powered smoothly through the void, its vast engines operating at less than half capacity, its wing of escorts keeping pace comfortably across the ten thousand kilometre-wide patrol formation. The cruiser was gunmetal-grey against the deep well of the void, its heavily armoured flanks emblazoned with the head of a snarling wolf. It had translated from the warp only hours earlier, and the last residue of Geller field shutdown still clung, glistening, to the exposed adamantium of the hull.

  The Gotthammar’s command bridge was located near the rear of the gigantic vessel, surrounded by towers, bulwarks and angled gun batteries. Void shields rippled like gauze over metres-thick plexiglass realspace viewers, under which the bridge crew laboured to keep the ship on course and with all its systems working at their full pitch of perfection.

  Inside, the bridge was a huge space, over two hundred metres long, a cavern carved out from the core of the vessel. Its roof was largely transparent, formed out of the lens-like realspace portals arranged across a latticework of iron. Below that were gantries ringing the edges of the open chamber, each of them patrolled by kaerls hefting skjoldtar projectile weapons. Further down was the first deck, across which milled more mortal crew. Most were clad in the pearl-grey robes of Fenrisian ship-thralls, though kaerls moved among them too, stomping across the metal decking in blast-armour and translucent face-masks.

  The floor of the first deck was broken open in several places, exposing deeper levels below. Bustling tactical stations clustered down there, and rows of chattering cogitators, and half-lit trenches filled with half-human servitors. Many of these were hardwired into their terminals, their spines or faces consumed in a mass of pipework and cabling, with exposed patches of grey skin the only reminder of the humanity they’d once enjoyed. Their service was different now, a demi-life of lobotomised servitude, shackled for eternity to machines that kept them alive only as long as they performed their numbing, mechanical tasks over and over again.

  Above all those levels, set back at the very rear of the bridge cavern, was the command throne. A hexagonal platform jutted out from the vaulted walls, ten metres in diameter and ringed with a thick iron rail. In the centre of that platform was a low dais. In the centre of the dais stood the throne, a heavy, block-shaped chair carved from solid granite. It was far larger than a mortal man could have sat in comfortably, but that didn’t matter much because no mortal man ever ventured on to that platform. It had been empty for many hours, though as the Gotthammar closed in on its target, that was about to change. Giant doors behind the throne hissed as brace-pistons were withdrawn. Then they slid open.

  Through them walked a leviathan. Jarl Arvek Hren Kjarlskar, Wolf Lord of the Fourth Great Company of the Rout, massive in his Terminator armour, strode on to the dais. His battle-plate hummed with a low, throbbing menace as he moved. The ceramite surface was covered in deep-scored runes, and bone trophies hung from his huge shoulders. A bear-pelt, black with age and riddled with old bolter-holes, hung from his back. His face was leathery, glare-tanned, and studded with metal rings. A distended jawline was encased in two night-black sideburns, lustrous and predator-sleek.

  With him came other giants. Anjarm, the Iron Priest, clad in forge-dark artificer plate, his face hidden behind the blank mask of an ancient helm. Frei, the Rune Priest, in sigil-encrusted armour, his stone-grey hair hanging in plaits across the neck-guard. The doors slid closed behind them, isolating the trio on the command platform. Below them, the decks hummed with unbroken activity.

  Kjarlskar grimaced as he surveyed the scene, exposing fangs the length of children’s fingers.

  ‘So what do we have?’ he asked. His voice rose rattling from the vast cage of his chest like a Rhino engine turning over. He never raised it, so they said, even in the heat of battle. He never had to.

  ‘Probes have been launched,’ said Anjarm. ‘We’ll see soon.’

  Kjarlskar grunted, and took his place on the
throne. For such a giant, nearly three metres tall and two across, he moved with an easy, contained fluidity. His yellow eyes, locked deep within a low-browed skull, glistened liquid and alert.

  ‘Skítja, I’m bored of this,’ he said. ‘Hel, even the mortals are bored of this.’

  He was right. The whole Fourth Great Company fleet was buzzing with frustrated energy. Thousands of kaerls, hundreds of Space Marines, all chasing shadows for months on end. Ironhelm, the Chapter’s Great Wolf, had kept them all busy pursuing the target of his obsession across the fringes of the Eye of Terror. Every system in the long search had been the same: abandoned, or pacified, or home to conflicts too tedious and petty to bother with.

  Running after ghosts was crushing work. The hunters needed to hunt.

  ‘We’re getting something,’ said Anjarm then, his head inclined slightly as he checked his helm’s lens-feed. As he spoke, a semi-circle of pict-screens hung around the command platform flickered into life. The incoming data from the probes emerged on them. A brown-red planet swam into view, growing larger with every second. The probes were still closing, and at such vast range the image was broken and distorted.

  ‘So what’s this one?’ asked Kjarlskar, not showing much interest.

  ‘Gangava system,’ answered Anjarm, watching the picts carefully. ‘Single world, inhabited, nine satellites. Final node in the sector.’

  Images continued to come in. As he watched them, the Jarl’s mood slowly began to change. The thick hairs on the exposed flesh of his neck stiffened slightly. Those yellow eyes, the windows onto the beast, sharpened their focus.

  ‘Orbital defences?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  Kjarlskar rose from the throne, his gaze fixed on the picts. The visual stream clarified. The planet surface was swaying into view, dark-brown and streaked with a dirty orange. It looked like a ball of rust in space.

  ‘Last contact?’

  ‘Before the Scouring,’ said Anjarm. ‘Warp storm activity recorded until seventy standard years ago. Explorator reports list as desolate. We had this one low on the list, lord.’