Infurnace - Robbie MacNiven Page 2

  It had long been feared that evidence of the instability of the Canis Helix within the genetic code of the Space Wolves could be used by other Imperial factions to damn the Chapter. Now just such a scenario was playing out, with the Lions occupying the system. What had brought the Wulfen back? Had they returned to combat the daemons infesting the system, or were they in fact a part of the Dark Gods’ schemes, unwitting pawns in a plot to annihilate the Rout once and for all?

  ‘Lord,’ said Vox Huscarl Fogel, transmitting from the Fang’s communications hub. Krom started, taking a step back from the casket. His vox had re-established a connection. Sudden anger flushed through him. What had he hoped to achieve by coming down here? There could be no insight into the curse. The Wulfen were animals, pure and simple.

  ‘Speak,’ he ordered Fogel.

  ‘Lord, Captain Stern is on the long-range vox. He has urgent news.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  He looked down one more time into the Wolf Brother’s eyes. They glared back at him. He wondered for a moment whether, in truth, his own gaze was any less unsettling. Then he hit the sealant rune, and watched the casket’s heavy lid lock back into place. The thud of the internal clamps echoed through the chamber. Krom refastened his gauntlet, picked up the lumen orb, and left.

  The Fang’s primary communications array was hushed when the Wolf Lord arrived. He was handed a vox horn and receiver by Fogel.

  ‘Stern,’ Krom said into the horn. ‘Report. What’s happened?’

  ‘Grim tidings,’ the Grey Knight replied. ‘I am aboard the star fort Gormenjarl. We have recently discovered a full-scale daemonic infestation. My brethren and I are too few to purge it, so we are currently bombarding the fort from afar. The infestation has disabled the structure’s weaponry and shield capabilities.’

  ‘Has Shipmaster Ranulf consented to this?’ Krom demanded.

  ‘No,’ said Stern. ‘That was the second matter that needed to be discussed. Your shipmaster has succumbed to your genetic… curse. I’ve had to confine him to his own ship’s brig. His two crewmates also turned, at the same time. We had no choice but to slay them.’

  Days earlier news that the Grey Knights had killed his brethren – Wulfen or not – would have sent spikes of rage stabbing through Krom’s thoughts. Now though, he felt nothing. He had fought tooth and nail alongside Stern’s silver paladins, saved the soul of his Chapter with their help. The blank, feral glare of the Wolf Brother had held nothing of the Vlka Fenryka’s martial upbringing and nobility, only its darker, more bestial side.

  ‘We need more men,’ Krom said. ‘If what you say is true, Stern, then we must ensure control of Gormenjarl’s twin, Mjalnar. We cannot afford to leave it infested with wyrdlings.’

  ‘Aren’t all forces engaged, besides your own?’

  ‘Not all,’ Krom said. ‘Not quite.’

  The Void, Fenris System

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  Ragnar sneered. ‘I’d as soon trust one of the wyrdlings. He’s a member of the ordos. He exists to persecute and lie. Have you ever heard of one of his breed who didn’t despise our Chapter, and all because we strive to protect mankind? Because we dare to honour the reason for our very existence?’

  Olvec the Wise, Ragnar’s Wolf Guard Battle Leader, nodded. ‘He seemed open enough with his motives though. If his tale was true, he despises the Lions. He would use us as a weapon against them.’

  ‘And well he may, if they burn Midgardia. If they want a war, they’ll have one.’

  The two Wolves were conferring privately in Holmgang’s shrine to Morkai. The place of worship, like much of the ship, recalled the Chapter’s primal roots – though the decks and ceiling were plasteel plate and iron mesh, the walls were clad in rugged, dark grey stone, mined from the flanks of Asaheim. The lumen strips, running down the length of the room’s edges, were dimmer in this less-visited part of the ship, with much of the power rerouted to the plasma drives. They threw long shadows over the pelt-heaped stone altar, and cast the features of the two Wolves into jagged contrast. Ragnar’s eyes gleamed coldly.

  ‘Do you believe the inquisitor’s tale,’ Olvec asked, ‘about Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai?’

  ‘There are many such stories about the sons of the Lion,’ Ragnar said. ‘They are a dark brotherhood. It is little surprise that they should clash with the ordos. And now the ordos have come to us. Clearly this de Mornay knows the value of his enemy’s enemy.’

  ‘He was a warrior once,’ Olvec said. ‘He has the bearing still, despite his age. I smell blood and steel about him.’

  ‘That is at least to be commended,’ Ragnar allowed. ‘Regardless of whether he intends to use us or not, any who wield a blade in the Allfather’s name are useful at a time like this.’

  ‘We are beset,’ Olvec agreed. ‘And the packs are hungrier than ever. Wyrdspawn or the Lions, whoever we next bare our claws against will suffer.’

  The Holmgang’s intercom command channel clicked in Ragnar’s ear. Olvec watched as his jarl received the vox huscarl’s message.

  ‘To the bridge,’ he said after breaking the link.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Dragongaze is hailing us again. Perhaps he’s grown bored, sitting alone in the Fang.’

  The half-jest fell flat. They hurried to the command deck. Krom greeted them from the static-washed display of its main vid feed.

  ‘It’s the Grey Knights,’ he said.

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘Captain Stern has just sent me a transmission. Our Ramilies star fort, Gormenjarl, has been infested by wyrdlings. His Brotherhood is too few to purge it, so he’s destroying it from afar with one of my ships. We believe Mjalnar may also have been overrun.’

  ‘Have you hailed Mjalnar?’ Ragnar asked.

  ‘There’s been no contact made with it since the incursions began,’ Krom said. ‘I fear the daemonhunter is correct, and if he is we cannot afford to leave a mobile warp rift open in the heart of the system.’

  ‘My fleet is the nearest to Mjalnar’s current location,’ Ragnar said, glancing at one of the bridge’s glowing holocharts. ‘But it would delay our arrival at Midgardia.’

  ‘We have no choice, Blackmane,’ Krom said. ‘There is still no word from Bran Redmaw, and all our other forces are fully engaged. You alone can meet this threat.’

  Ragnar grimaced, but nodded. ‘Very well, Fierce-eyes. My packs will purge Mjalnar. Pray to the Allfather its communications have simply failed, and our brethren yet garrison it.’

  ‘I shall,’ Krom said. ‘But there is other news from Stern. He discovered Gormenjarl’s plight after he went there seeking repairs. Apparently Shipmaster Ranulf, of the Star Drake, succumbed to the curse along with two others. They damaged the ship before they could be stopped.’

  ‘Are you telling me not to trust my own Wulfen?’

  ‘I’m telling you to be mindful of those who have not yet turned, Young King,’ Krom said. ‘Whether we accept them into our ranks afterwards or not, having experienced warriors devolving into half-beasts only weakens us.’

  ‘I have more than just the curse to be mindful of, Dragongaze,’ Ragnar said. ‘Have you heard of a Hereticus inquisitor by the name of Banist de Mornay?’

  ‘I have not, why?’

  ‘His ship has joined my fleet en-route to Midgardia. He seeks to enlist my help in bringing the Lions to heel.’

  ‘The last thing we need now is the Inquisition’s meddling,’ Krom growled.

  ‘He claims to believe our Wulfen are free of warp taint. That could make him a valuable ally.’

  ‘Or he could turn on us as soon as he’s used us to settle whatever grudge he has with the Dark Angels,’ Krom said. ‘Tread carefully, Blackmane.’

  ‘Don’t I always, Dragongaze?’ Ragnar smiled grimly. Krom didn’t respond. The transmission ended.

  ‘Get me the inquisitor’s ship,’ Ragnar ordered his vox huscarl. ‘Tell him I am changing course.’

  Svellgard

  Wrath had arrived. It burst into existence in the depths of Svellgard’s oceans, tearing itself free of one of the warp rifts that had pierced the moon’s seabed. For the first time since creation, it brought light to the icy deeps. It burned white-hot, the fury of its god made manifest. Blood and screams and war-steel had drawn it here, a memory of the fury of Wolves, and now it would do its god’s bidding.

  The waters around it began to churn and boil. Already billions of gallons from Svellgard’s seas had plummeted through the warp rifts and into the madness of the immaterium. The islands that housed the Claws of the World Wolf were growing steadily larger, the waters receding from the shores and exposing fresh, jutting rocks, gleaming like bone spiking out from desiccated corpses. Through the flushing tides the monstrosity known as Infurnace blazed. Ahead of it lay the World Wolf’s Lair, and a fight worthy of the Blood God.

  The Void, Fenris System

  Mjalnar was transmitting. It was not, however, an intelligible signal. The Wolf fleet circled the unresponsive Imperial star fort like a pack sniffing at a frozen corpse, hackles up and fangs bared, wary.

  ‘Boost the audio,’ Ragnar ordered from Holmgang’s bridge throne, leaning towards the vox array. The noises emitting from Mjalnar came through more clearly. Except they were not really noises at all. The Wolf Lord was reminded of being plunged underwater, and having crushing pressure reduce everything to a sort of constant, muted rumble. It set his hairs on end and sent a strange, icy chill creeping along his shoulders.

  ‘Cut the link,’ he said. ‘And pull alongside. I want to board immediately.’

  Mjalnar filled Holmgang’s viewing ports, a mountain of silent adamantium threat. Transmission lights and guidance beacons still winked from its crenelated masts and spires, and the star fort’s great guns had been run out. Of actual life, however, there was no sign.

  ‘Lord, Inquisitor de Mornay is hailing us,’ a vox kaerl said.

  ‘Speakers,’ Ragnar ordered.

  ‘What happened to our need for haste?’ de Mornay demanded.

  ‘There are some duties even the Inquisition cannot countermand,’ Ragnar replied. ‘Mjalnar is a mighty battlestation. If it has fallen, it must be retaken. If it is overrun, it must be destroyed.’

  ‘Every second we delay, Midgardia burns,’ de Mornay said.

  ‘Do you think I don’t realise that?’ Ragnar snarled. ‘Do you think I don’t ache to close my fist around the throats of those threatening my Chapter’s worlds? My Wolves have waited too long to pass this kill by. If you wish to face the Lions alone then by all means, carry on to Midgardia. But my packs are my own, and we are boarding Mjalnar. Are you still with us, inquisitor?’

  There was a long pause. Ragnar sneered. Then the reply crackled over the vox, heavy with finality.

  ‘I will see you onboard the star fort, Lord Blackmane.’

  The World Wolf’s Lair, Svellgard

  The seas were retreating. Sven watched them rather than the Thunderhawks and Stormwolves of Harald’s Great Company as they landed amongst the bunkers, bastions and turrets of the World Wolf’s Lair. He had already transmitted data links pinpointing where his lines were weakest. Harald’s warriors would fill the gaps accordingly, Firehowlers and Deathwolves manning the parapets and fire slits side by side. But the joy such a gathering of Wolves would normally have brought Sven was eclipsed by the mystery of Svellgard’s receding seas.

  ‘The wyrdling rifts must be widening,’ Olaf Blackstone said, pointing at the expanse of sodden wet sand that now stretched away from the Lair’s shingle. ‘The water is disappearing into the immaterium.’

  ‘At least we’ll see the bastards coming,’ Sven growled. He pointed to a patch of ocean further out, a choppy channel that ran between two of the Lair’s neighbouring islands. It looked as though a bank of fog or steam was rising from the waves, creating a swirling cloud on the near horizon. ‘And what about that?’

  ‘Russ only knows,’ Olaf replied. ‘Send the Godspear?’

  ‘Agreed. Have the area scanned. We’ve enjoyed enough wyrd-damned surprises.’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Lord, I’m getting movement,’ said Yngfor the Long Fang over the vox. ‘Contacts coming ashore from the south.’ Sven opened a channel to Harald.

  ‘Are your packs in position, Deathwolf?’

  ‘They are, Bloodhowl. Let the wyrdlings come.’

  ‘We’ll make them regret the day they sought to claim Svellgard,’ Sven said, switching to the company-wide channel.

  ‘All packs, fire at will.’

  Boarding Torpedo Fifteen-B, approaching Mjalnar

  Ragnar flexed his arms and shoulders. He felt the servo bundles that gave life to his power armour whir in response to the motion, while the true flesh and muscle of his transhuman physique stretched. He had been trapped in the voidborne prison of his flagship for too long. The hunt called to him. He could already feel the wyrdling scum snapping in his grasp, shrieking as he sent them back to the empyrean. He realised his gauntlets were clenched, and let out a long, slow breath. The chrono display counting down in his visor’s top-right corner still read over a minute before the boarding torpedo impacted into the star fort’s flank.

  He finished recounting the names of his dead pack-brothers. It was a ritual he had observed for a long time, and he knew it gave comfort to his Great Company as well as to himself. To know their jarl valued their lives, counted them as true kin whether amidst the fires of battle or the feasting halls of the Fang, hardened the bonds of pack loyalty. The Blackmanes were all as one.

  He drew Frostfang. The ancient chainsword felt like an extension of his physical form, his fist closing with familiar certainty around the worn handle. His fingers itched to flick the activation stud. Hidden beneath his helmet’s faceplate, he grinned.

  ‘You’re grinning, aren’t you?’ said Tor Wolfheart.

  ‘And you’re not?’ Ragnar replied. ‘I have ached for this, brother. At last we will join the other Great Companies in the defence of our home worlds.’

  Twenty seconds. He knew he needed to say nothing to the Blackpelts, his Wolf Guard. They understood what was coming. Like the Allfather’s burning warspear, they would plough into the diseased heart of wyrdspawn infestation, banishing it from the material universe, utterly wiping away the taint of their existence.

  Five seconds. The boarding torpedo shuddered as it impacted into Mjalnar’s flank, latching on with razor limpet clamps. There was a muffled whoosh of heavy meltaguns, followed by the thud and whir of disengaging locks. The pod’s assault bay was bathed in bloody red light. Ragnar released his restraint, feeling his adrenaline spiking, breath coming in pants through his armour’s filtration systems.

  The blast doors opened, revealing a circular hole that dripped with molten steel, the edges still glowing from the melta blasts. Ragnar triggered Frostfang, his vox-amplified howl blending with the chainsword’s savage roar. He leapt through the boarding hatch, fangs bared. Straight into a deserted service corridor.

  And not a daemon in sight.

  The World Wolf’s Lair, Svellgard

  This time, the creatures of Chaos assaulting Svellgard’s beaches struggled. With the addition of Harald’s packs to Sven’s defences, the weight of firepower had doubled. The receding tides had left the dark cohorts with more open ground to cross before they could reach the outermost defences of the Lair. Squealing and roaring wyrdlings were cut to pieces even as they dragged themselves, dripping, from the icy waves. The Earthshaker artillery added their firepower from the nearby islands, their strikes sending up great plumes of water and brine as they shelled the gradually expanding southern edge of the Lair. Fifteen minutes into the assault Sven’s biggest concern, watching from the ramparts of the Lair’s central keep, was monitoring ammunition expenditure.

  That all changed with a message from Godspear.

  ‘The island channel is experiencing a huge temperature spike,’ the pilot voxed. ‘Something in the water is giving off an energy signature. And it’s moving towards the Lair.’

  ‘What fresh maleficarum is this?’ Sven growled. ‘Keep tracking it.’

  ‘Lord, it seems to be rising to the surface. I–’ the pilot got no further. The water beneath the vapour fog heaved. Something vast powered from the sea and into the steam-wreathed air. Great, bat-like pinions unfurled, and black coal-flesh that smouldered with hate-fuelled heat burst into white flames.

  With a roar that shook the rockcrete beneath Sven’s mag-boots, a burning Bloodthirster lunged upwards at Godspear.

  Sven could only listen to the pilot’s startled, frantic oaths as he tried to evade the Greater Daemon. He watched the Thunderhawk bank desperately, but the fire-wreathed monstrosity was infinitely lither in the air. The huge axe it wielded inscribed a fiery arc through Svellgard’s grey sky, and smashed into one of the Godspear’s wings. The single blow cut clean through its armour plating, throwing out a spray of fat sparks. The gunship immediately lurched to one side, its servitor-controlled bolters blasting wildly into the air in all directions. It started to spin out of control amidst a plume of fire and black smoke.

  ‘Infurnace,’ Sven breathed. He recognised the Greater Daemon. All the Wolves did. Its crude, fiery likeness could be found carved across the saga knotwork in four of the great halls of the Fang, recounting the epic battle between it and the Wolf Lord Kjarl Stormpelt, many millennia past. Infurnace was a tale every Blood Claw knew, one of the near-mythical monsters that reared its head from the depths of the Chapter’s glorious past. And now it had returned, to help write new sagas with fresh blood.

  The Greater Daemon had only just begun. It lashed out with a chain-whip grasped in its other fist, the heavy, white-hot links snagging the damaged Thunderhawk’s remaining wing. With a roar like a forgesmith’s hammerstrike, it twisted its mighty body in mid-air, directing the Godspear’s erratic plunge towards the shoreline of the closest island.