War of the Fang - Chris Wraight Page 6

  He reached into one of the caskets and withdrew a heavy arc of ceramite. It was a broken section of armour-gorget, chipped to the metal but still glossy with the enemy’s pale blue livery.

  Ironhelm smiled. ‘How did you–’

  ‘The guard was watchful, but I am a subtle thief. Now look.’

  He raised the fragment of armour to the flickering light, turning it to face Ironhelm. The same script was there, needle-thin, traced in gold along the rim where the helm-seals had broken.

  ‘Can you read it?’ asked Ironhelm.

  ‘Not yet. Not all. But mark the end.’

  The fragment terminated in a scorched break, where a bolt-round had exploded and shattered the ceramite link. Running up to the end of the piece were numerals, in a Gothic face, clearly readable.

  XVIII-XV.

  ‘Squad designation?’ asked Ironhelm. The style of the numerals was strangely different to others he’d seen. The figures were legible, but only just, giving away the two-thousand-year gulf between the maker of the marks and his readers.

  ‘Twenty-Eighth Fellowship, Fifteenth Legion,’ said Frei. He didn’t look triumphant, though the vindication was there. ‘These figures were drawn when Magnus lived. This was one of his warriors.’

  Ironhelm couldn’t take his eyes off the numbers. He found himself wanting more – what had the legionary looked like? How had he spoken? What had happened to him, to banish his body and turn his armour into an empty casket of ghosts?

  ‘This will sway the jarls,’ Ironhelm murmured, running the threads of the future through his mind. ‘They can ignore witches, but they will not turn away from traitors of our own kind.’

  Frei watched him carefully. The fires spat and smouldered, making the shadows under his eyes split and merge. ‘The first we have seen in two millennia,’ he said. ‘Can you find more?’

  Ironhelm shot him a wintry smile. ‘If they live, I will find them.’ He thought of his own chambers, hidden in the depths of the mountain, ringed by wards and stuffed with the panoply of augury. He would go back to the old paths, treading them like a beast on the scent.

  The Priests did not have a monopoly on the ways of the wyrd. He knew more of it than they supposed, more even than Sturmhjart guessed. The trail through possibilities would open. His scrying had led him to Arvion, and a dozen other worlds besides, and it would lead him to more.

  ‘And do not tell me to be watchful, Frei,’ Ironhelm warned. ‘Do not tell me that the Crimson King governs the fates, and that he lays webs around me and guides my feet towards him.’ He smiled again, just as bleakly. ‘I know he does. But fates can be bent.’

  He looked down at the armour fragment, and the alien shapes of Prospero moved under the lambent light.

  ‘Russ broke his back,’ Ironhelm said softly. ‘I will break the rest.’

  The squalls cleared, and the skies above the mountain were as clear as sapphires. More storms were predicted, though – violent ones, with the power to shake the granite foundations of the Fang itself – and so Greyloc went quickly from the great gates, out into the wastes alone, determined to hunt while the air was clear and a scent could carry.

  He took his axe, Frengir, with him, its edge sharpened to a monomolecular point, its bare steel thirsting for the blood of the kill. He travelled swiftly, following ways known to the Fenryka since before the time of Russ. The snow soon became knee-deep, and he crashed through it, relying on sheer strength to shove it aside.

  He reached the high passes leading to the shoulder of Asfryk, south of the Fang, and crouched down. The hairs on his arms pricked, and he focused. Ahead of him, where the land rose in steep cliffs of sleet-slicked rock, the horizon was broken by a single outline. It was waiting for him, fearless, beckoning the approach.

  Greyloc smiled. This was a foe far beyond him, but he had come to hunt, and so he loped up the steep incline, leaping from crag to crag. By the time he reached the lip of the pass, his quarry was fully visible.

  Arkenjaw had waited the whole time, leaning back against a pillar of rock. ‘Swift, still, then,’ the jarl observed.

  Greyloc was breathing heavily from the ascent, but his axe was still bared, ready to use. ‘If you had run, I would have caught you.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it.’

  Greyloc stowed his blade, looking around for others of the company. There were none; the two of them were alone. ‘I had hoped to find a throat to cut,’ he said.

  ‘You should not be out here. Rossek is not. He trains with the Claws, he keeps them sharp.’

  Greyloc felt his spirits sag a little. ‘Do you order me to do the same?’

  Arkenjaw shrugged. ‘I order nothing. But you and he – you care nothing for the race you are running?’

  ‘By my soul, no.’ Greyloc looked up at the blunt-edge peak soaring above them. Asfryk was gigantic, but still the shadow of the Fang fell across its highest pinnacle. Like all the summits of Asaheim, it was beautiful, spare, a colossus of distilled danger. If he could have remained in those places forever, relinquishing the firelit halls of the Fang itself, he would not have been sorry.

  ‘Then, fast as you are, he will outpace you.’ Arkenjaw started to walk, kicking through the snow and heading up through the throat of the pass. ‘Come with me.’

  The two of them ascended, negotiating the treacherous terrain with the preternatural skill of those born to it. As they crested the throat of the pass, the land dropped down before them, falling into a deep cleft. Sheer valley walls plunged on either side, bare and dark, delving into a glassy lake some two hundred metres down.

  They stood, gazing out at the vista. Asaheim’s southern country jagged towards the far horizon, broken and gleaming under the strong sun.

  ‘It will be him,’ Arkenjaw said, his scarred jaw jutting. ‘If you do not do more, it will be him.’

  Greyloc laughed. For so long the contest between them had been unremarked on, so it felt absurd now to bring it out into the open. ‘He may have it.’

  Arkenjaw turned to him. ‘Kjarlskar asked me which of you I favoured.’

  Greyloc lost his laugh. ‘And you answered?’

  ‘I gave him nothing.’ Arkenjaw looked unusually troubled; normally, his face was a mask of steady concentration. ‘But it made me think what my answer would be. My thread is already long. They desired to know who I would choose to take the Twelfth when it is cut.’

  ‘What does it matter? They will cast their own lots.’

  ‘It matters. My view will become known. There will be those who will vote only for what I wanted.’

  Greyloc sighed, not wishing to talk of such things. For a while, out on his own, he had been able to escape the claustrophobic talk of the Fang’s tunnels – the jealousies, rivalries, speculations. ‘Do not speak of this, jarl,’ he said. ‘It spoils my mood.’

  ‘Mood?’ Arkenjaw spat, irritated. ‘Mood? Then let me do nothing, Wolf Guard, that might ruin your delicate humours. That is, after all, why you were placed on this world – to preserve a mood.’

  Greyloc laughed again, but said nothing. Eventually, Arkenjaw spoke again.

  ‘It would be Rossek,’ he said, hesitantly, ‘but for one thing. By Russ, he slays. That is all some companies wish from their lords, and he would fulfil that. But my judgement has wavered. He reminds me of–’

  ‘–the Great Wolf. Then that should sway you further.’

  Arkenjaw nodded. ‘They even look the same, though one has flame-hair, the other black. It troubles me.’

  Greyloc pushed his long mane back from the ice-wind. The brush of it against his skin was unforgiving, and he could feel even his iron constitution stiffening in the cold. Fenris would kill the most precious of its sons without missing a heartbeat.

  ‘Why did you bring me here, jarl?’ asked Greyloc. ‘All the Aett knows the bad blood between you – this is not news.’

  Arkenjaw pursed his lips, pressed white in the cold. ‘He has called a council of war. This last hunt has brought him something he w
ishes to share, and I can sense the kill-urge in his every word. He will not sway them, not this time, for the weight of jarls remains against him, but with every passing year the balance moves. I cannot watch them, not all the time. We were created to wage war, not guard against each other like squabbling pups.’

  ‘Then you wish me to shadow his Guard.’

  ‘You could do it. No others in my company would do as well. Stay close to Trask, to Frei, to Wyrmblade – any in his confidence.’

  ‘What am I to listen for?’

  Arkenjaw laughed bitterly. ‘If I knew, I would have acted already.’ His expression hardened. ‘He brings secrets home with him. You will not get close to those, but they will dictate his actions. So when he moves, be at his shoulder. All I will need are his orders, the ones he gives his shieldbearers. If nothing else, I will know his course soon after he does. That must be enough, if there is nothing better.’

  Greyloc nodded. The tasking was anathema to him – slinking around the pits of the Fang, reinforcing the reputation he already had for cold blood – but Arkenjaw was right about one thing: he could remain in the shadows like no other.

  ‘Then it will be done, lord,’ Greyloc said.

  Arkenjaw nodded. The old lord’s satisfaction was tempered by barely concealed irritation.

  ‘Were Russ still here to see this,’ he murmured, ‘he would weep. What have we become?’

  ‘There is one living who could tell you.’

  ‘Ah, not yet. He will not be awoken, not for this. Will he ever be woken again, I wonder? Can he be?’

  Greyloc drew in a long breath. ‘If there is nothing else, lord…’

  ‘Go. I have kept you long enough.’ Arkenjaw looked down at him, and there was a searching look in his eyes, as if he were testing some decision he had made a long time ago. ‘It is still Rossek,’ he said at last. ‘I will not lie to you.’

  Then he started trudging back down through the heavy drifts, his body rocking as he waded.

  ‘But that fate is not yet written,’ he called out, disappearing over the crown of the pass, his voice already snatched at by the wind. ‘Nothing ever is.’

  Thar Hraldir, called Wyrmblade, waited for the arrival of the Great Wolf in his fleshmaker’s chambers. He had been waiting there since word came in that Ironhelm’s lander had been received at the Valgard. The laboratoria had been cleared, the thralls dismissed and the auxiliary rooms powered down. All that remained lit was the central cavern, from which all the others radiated. The smells of antiseptic and fresh blood hung in the air.

  The Wolf Priest looked down at the data-slate cradled in his calloused hands. A decade ago, he had been uncertain whether the idea was anything more than a diseased dream. Now, after the progress he had seen, there could be little doubt. The attempt could be made. Whether it ought to be, that was another question, and one over which his mind had turned fruitlessly for too long.

  I will not be the one to give the order, he thought. But it will be my name in the annals: Wyrmblade’s blasphemy. Wyrmblade’s glory.

  He stirred at the heavy tread of armoured boots. Ironhelm entered the inner chamber, alone, just as he always did when they met to discuss the hidden task.

  ‘Welcome back, jarl,’ said Wyrmblade, bowing.

  Ironhelm looked about him, failing to hide his discomfort. Rows of glass vials lined the tiled walls, each labelled with a different series of runes. Vast banks of machinery slowly cycled, ticking over as the centrifuges did their work.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Wyrmblade put the data-slate down, and crossed his arms. ‘Last time you were here, you asked for proof.’

  ‘You have it?’

  ‘It was an impossible command. There will never be proof, not like you demand.’ Wyrmblade felt the weight of fatigue on his back, shoulders and limbs. ‘But, for all that, I have seen enough.’

  The Priest stalked over to a long row of cogitators, each one a twisted mosaic of valves, tubes, Mechanicus purity screeds and grimy picter lenses. He ran a clawed finger down the polished edge of the nearest one.

  ‘If the fates allow, I can do more work,’ he said. He had been rehearsing what he would say for two days, but now that the moment had come he still hesitated over the words. ‘I know more than ever. More than any other soul now living, save the one who made us. That has settled certain questions.’

  Ironhelm listened, clearly impatient. With him, it was always a warrior’s demands: attack or retreat, advance or withdraw. He needed answers quickly, given under the barrage of shells and the onslaught of blades, but this was not warfare, at least not of a straightforward kind.

  ‘So,’ said Wyrmblade finally, his eyes meeting Ironhelm’s again. ‘Give me the order and I will commence the final phase.’

  ‘And? What does that mean?’

  ‘Preparation of the therapies. Then living subjects. Aspirants.’

  Ironhelm drew in a breath. They had both discussed this before. It had always been the end result, the goal. Now though, with the prospect lying before them at last, the scale of the transgression was impossible to ignore.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I do not know, not yet. But once we start…’

  Wyrmblade trailed off. Ironhelm knew the costs, at least in outline. Some of the other Wolf Lords had the sketchiest knowledge of the task, but in the end only Wyrmblade understood the full depths of what was planned.

  When did we start talking of ‘depths’? When we began this, we spoke of heights, of immortal renown, of renewal.

  Ironhelm sucked on his fangs, and limped heavily around the metal slabs. Wyrmblade could see the fresh damage on his armour and the scabs on his exposed face. The amount of damage the Great Wolf took was exceptional even by the standards of his calling – one day it would drag him down.

  ‘There will be no going back,’ said Ironhelm grimly. ‘We begin it, we see it out.’

  Wyrmblade nodded.

  Ironhelm drummed his fingers on the steel, pensive. His eyes were always moving, flickering from vial to vial, giving away the restlessness within. Was it more pronounced than in the past? Hard to say. There had been whispers about Ironhelm ever since he had taken command: most were motivated by rivalry, and only a few by foreboding.

  They said he was like Bjorn, at the start. How many still think that? Wyrmblade smiled inwardly. And what will he do to recover that praise?

  ‘I will think on it,’ Ironhelm said at last. ‘I am battle-weary, and this needs deliberation. You will have my answer before the next hunt.’

  Wyrmblade bowed. That, in its own small way, was a relief. He had more work to do before even his own mind was settled, and the hiatus would help clarify matters.

  ‘But there is something else,’ said Ironhelm, moving back towards the cogitators. He unwrapped something from a bundle of linen, and spilled it onto the metal slab-top. Wyrmblade pushed clear of the cogitator-bank and came over to look. Ironhelm righted the armour fragment from Arvion, showing him the inscription.

  ‘Tell me what you make of it,’ the Great Wolf said.

  Wyrmblade lowered his face in close, studying it carefully. ‘Adeptus Astartes armour,’ he said.

  ‘Half right.’

  Wyrmblade frowned, and looked again. He reached out, tracing along the edge of the torn ceramite. As he did so, he noticed the strangeness of the script. When his finger touched the surface there was a faint snap, as if static electricity had discharged.

  ‘Can it be–’

  ‘Trust your senses,’ said Ironhelm.

  ‘Legiones Astartes.’

  ‘And not any Legion.’

  Wyrmblade ran his eyes over the strange letters, and though he could not read the words, the shapes were unsettlingly familiar. ‘Prospero,’ he breathed. ‘Yet, not as we were told.’

  ‘They marched in crimson,’ agreed Ironhelm.

  ‘Then did you see this thing?’ asked Wyrmblade. ‘Alive?’

  Ironhelm laughed – a harsh, dark sound. ‘Aliv
e? I know not. It did not speak, but it could still wield a blade.’ He leaned on the slab’s edge. ‘Perhaps these things have existed since the Siege. Perhaps they were created in our own time. If the Inquisition knows of them, they have never told us. Whatever the truth, this much is evident: the Legion still lives. There will be more. We must root them out, slay them where they dwell. These are not just witches – they are the traitors themselves.’

  Wyrmblade felt a kernel of sickness in his stomach. He let the fragment fall, and it rolled face-up. ‘Sigils may be counterfeited. Armour may be–’

  ‘It was them, Priest. I was there, as was Frei and my company. Have I not been saying this, arguing myself hoarse in councils of the Stone?’ Ironhelm’s movements became agitated. ‘They will listen now. They will have to, even Oja and his bloodless Twelfth. This is what the wyrd has been showing me.’

  Wyrmblade regarded Ironhelm carefully. Too many possibilities were presenting themselves, too quickly. Often enough, he found Ironhelm’s certainties alarming. ‘So why show me this now?’ he asked. ‘The jarls–’

  ‘–will see reason. They will need to.’ Ironhelm’s mouth flickered in a half-smile. ‘Take it. You hold the keys to our annals. You know all the sagas. Study the script – the key to him is there, I am certain of it.’

  Wyrmblade almost laughed out loud. ‘You wish to gift this to me? Lord, you know my mind. I have no faith in this hunt, and I have told you so before.’

  Ironhelm nodded, undaunted. ‘True, brother, but you are loyal, and you are in thrall to knowledge. You will not pass up this chance.’ He reached out and nudged the fragment across the steel towards Wyrmblade. ‘There are secrets here. Voices, locked in the armour. You can sense it, and you will scry this better than any of us.’

  Wyrmblade no longer looked at the armour piece, but he could feel its malign presence pulsing away below his eye-line, like a heaviness in the air.

  Ironhelm shot another crooked smile, and clapped him on the arm with his gauntlet. ‘Forget the other task, for now. Do what you can with this. I need answers.’

  ‘There are no answers here worth knowing.’