The Helwinter Gate
Author: Chris Wraight
Date: 2021-07-06T09:13:01+00:00

By the same author

• SPACE WOLVES •
Book 1: BLOOD OF ASAHEIM
Book 2: STORMCALLER
Book 3: THE HELWINTER GATE

• VAULTS OF TERRA •
Book 1: THE CARRION THRONE
Book 2: THE HOLLOW MOUNTAIN

• WATCHERS OF THE THRONE •
Book 1: THE EMPEROR’S LEGION
Book 2: THE REGENT’S SHADOW

THE LORDS OF SILENCE
A Death Guard novel

SCARS

THE PATH OF HEAVEN

BROTHERHOOD OF THE STORM

WOLF KING

THE SIGILLITE
A Malcador audio drama

LEMAN RUSS: THE GREAT WOLF

JAGHATAI KHAN: WARHAWK OF CHOGORIS

VALDOR: BIRTH OF THE IMPERIUM

BLOODLINES
An Agusto Zidarov novel

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Prologue

I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

II

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

III

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

IV

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

V

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Indomitus’

A Black Library Publication
eBook license

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind. By the might of His inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.

Yet, He is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so that His may continue to burn.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.

This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.

There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

PROLOGUE

It was a world of witches.

It had to be. You could see its sure corruption, even from far out in the void – a churn and a crash of devilish seas, seething, impossible, a place no mortal could live without making some kind of forbidden bargain. Even the most boastful warrior might do that, eventually, when death stared at him from every angle, crowding out the room for escape and giving the lie to talk of honour.

He stared at the viewers, watching the world turn, watching its hateful white glare in the darkness. If he could have reached out, stretched a hand through the ship’s hull and into the void, curling his fingers around it, crushing it, he would have done. When he had been a child, schooled by pious instructors who taught him eternal truths, he had imagined faith would give him that power. He had thought that if you believed strongly enough, your body would grow larger and taller, until you could tower above the spire-tops and extend a hand up for the stars themselves, gathering them like fistfuls of dust. He remembered staring into the green eyes of Sister Lukba and telling her, solemnly, that the day of power would come for him.

She hadn’t contradicted him. Children must have told her such things all the time – the pious ones, the ones who took things to heart. She had ignored it. Or maybe she had believed it too.

So he’d clung to the certainty, after a fashion, even when adulthood came and drove out most other childish conceits. It was true – you could reach out to clutch the stars and harvest them, albeit through the medium of voidships and battle cruisers. You could crush worlds, so long as you had sufficient arms and armour under command. These were the things that faith delivered – iron and adamantium, las-fire and bomb-blast – and they were not to be scorned, for they were His instruments.

But not all worlds were made the same. Some were holy, some were profane. Some were weak, some were strong. And some, like this one, were of their own kind entirely. A world of witches.

‘My lord,’ said the ship’s master, Buta Avelina, looking up at him in alarm.

He knew what she was going to tell him. He did not know why she kept on relaying it all out loud, as if he were not plugged into the same nodes as her, and could not see just the same dispositions and movements and destructions.

He narrowed his eyes, gripping the arms of his iron command throne. He felt fused to it, his sweat-soaked robes stuck to the metal. His eyes never left the high-arched realviewers ahead, the armaglass cracked into webs of silver by repeated impacts. He felt the deck under his boots shudder again. He saw debris fall from the bridge roof, clanking into servitor pits and sensor galleries.

‘My lord,’ Avelina said again, more urgently.

All she wanted was certainty. He could have ordered her into the Eye of Terror and she would have obeyed without hesitation, just as long as his voice was firm and his gaze remained solid. She was painfully young, for one given such heavy responsibility. Then again, she, like him, placed every store in the power of faith. Faith was evidenced by certainty. Let doubt in, just for a moment, and nothing at all could be relied upon.

Just then, though, and for the first time in his life, all he felt was emptiness. He stared at the distant ice-world, drinking in its wickedness, and knew that he would never set foot on it. He would never breathe in its tainted air, nor witness the mountains themselves, the ones that so much had been written about – the ones, it was said, that He Himself had carved open and raised into a fortress without peer, now desecrated by the degenerates that squatted in its halls.

To withdraw now, though, after so much had been sacrificed… well, that was not in his nature, and had never been.

‘Maintain assault,’ he said softly. ‘Maintain current positions, maintain pressure. Deploy the reserves.’

Avelina looked at him the whole time, rocking in her throne as the impacts rained in. ‘If we deploy–’

‘Deploy the reserves,’ he said insistently, not angry with her, just resolute.

So she did. She passed the order to the principal comms officers, who sent it out over the secure grid to the assembled ships’ masters and the squadron commanders and the three canonesses. Even amid all the destruction and the interference, the commands got through. The surviving operatives were still doing their duty, still processing orders and updating tactical summaries as their thrones fell apart under them and their rune-lenses fizzed and blew out.

He watched the results.

The cruiser His Scrutiny pulled away port-zenith, its flanks burning in jets of expelled oxygen, its torpedo bays emptying in dazzling scatters of light. The heavy assault carrier Sin of Compromise maintained its anchor point above the battle-sphere, still operating at something like half capacity, surrounded now by haloes of competing las-fire. Schools of void-fighters wheeled and plummeted, duelling between the giants amid puffs of explosive flame. The Order of the Wounded Heart’s flagship, Succession of Purity, pushed ahead, fully committing now, its spine blackened and its towers crushed but its gunlines still firing. The Order of the White Rose had occupied the port flank, and its clustered ships were taking a bad beating. The Fiery Tear’s squadrons were doing better out on starboard-nadir, but that would only attract more pain the longer this went on.

The reserves went in. Three cruisers sailed in the colours of his own diocese – violet and gold, with the chalice motif under a six-spiked coronet. Those were supported by nine waves of Furies and a smattering of Order Thunderhawks, plus the slower-moving hulks of twelve gunboats in anonymous dun-grey trim.

And then there was his own vessel, the centrepiece of the fleet, his magnificent barque, carved out of the blackness in curves of extravagant gold and crimson, its prow decorated with blindfolded angels, its keel underslung with a heavy lance battery that would have been the pride of any Navy line battle cruiser. The Righteous Flail it was called, and entire worlds had burned under its bombardments.

Not this one, though. For all the pomp and wrath, for all the diligence of the deckhands and the zeal of the Battle Sisters, this was a planet of madness and devilry, of beast-melded humanity, a stain on the conscience of the species. Its defenders came hard out of the void, howling and hammering. They flew their heavy voidcraft like lunatics, making reckless manoeuvres that, if they didn’t result in catastrophic self-destruction, caused havoc among the more orthodox Ecclesiarchy formations. They sent their boarding tubes smashing into the undersides of the capital ships, weaving through defensive las-grids before crunching deep into the decks within. Once inside, they clawed and hacked their way towards the engines, the shield-generators, the reactors, almost impossible to stop, hard even to locate. The Valorous Blade had already been crippled that way, its heart chewed out by the fanatics running rampant through its innards, its colossal hull fallen away and listing. Others were in the process of being devoured. Sooner or later the beasts would hit the Righteous Flail too.

They had too many ships, far too many for a compliant Chapter, spiralling out of the sun’s glare in flocks, offering yet more proof of their deviance. There was something unhinged about the exuberance of it. Other heretics fought with zeal, but these… he did not even know what to call them, now. They gave themselves a hundred names, he knew, each more prideful than the last, but he no longer had words for them himself. Maybe it was their perversions that made them mad – the energy of debased souls desperate to avoid being uncovered. Or maybe they were just baresarks after all, for all the legends spoke of deeper cunning lying under the surface of pelts and chain-hung fangs. Only monsters, self-damned monsters.

It couldn’t last. Always, always, he kept his eyes fixed on the ice-world in the viewers, the circle of blue-white against the dark, even as his fleet crumpled into ashes around him. Three Orders had not been enough. Maybe ten could not have done it. Maybe no force of any size could withstand this, head-on, in full view, arms openly displayed.

‘My lord,’ said Avelina, in just the same way as before, turning to look at him again, seeing the incontrovertible evidence of death tallies and damage reports.

He switched his private comm-feed to the sensor-vessel he’d sent in under the shadow of the burning Succession of Purity. For many hours now, this had been the most important vessel in the fleet, too small to attract attention, running dark, stuffed with augurs, a mote of pure black amid the roiling fires of the void.

‘Do you have it yet?’ he asked.

The response came back amid waves of distortion. Unmarked it may have been, but it was still blown about by the storms he had sent it into. ‘Scans are complete, lord. Analysis can begin on your command.’

‘You got everything? You’re sure?’

‘Everything. They do not seem to be… careful.’

That made sense. They would want the names to be discoverable. It was a matter of prestige to them – this adversary was slain by me; I did these things.

‘Very good. Withdraw immediately. Do not allow yourself to be detected. I shall maintain cover for the next standard hour.’ The link cut out. Immediately, he shifted in his throne, and turned his attention to Avelina. What had to happen next pained him – of course it did – but not as much as it might have done. A battle might last moments, or it might last decades, that was the lesson here. ‘Annomark,’ he said.

She blinked. ‘Annomark?’

‘You heard me. In full, please.’

She consulted her systems, just briefly, confused, but still obedient. ‘Local system 8-76-02. Imperial standard M41.886.’

‘Thank you.’ Then he stood. He gathered his robes about him, donned his mitre again. He switched his vox-emitter to broadband, splayed out not just to the thousands of crew on the Righteous Flail, but the hundreds of thousands across the entire fleet. ‘Remember this date, my sisters and brothers!’ he said. ‘You followed my order to come here, knowing the dangers. You have fought with faith and fury, just as He demands. We tested them hard, forcing them out, and now the prize lies within our eyesight. Many said we would never get this far. They were wrong. Your faith has proved that.’

The deck continued to bounce and buckle. More cracks wrinkled across the high balustrades.

‘And I know you would have fought to the end, had I commanded it,’ he told them. ‘But it is no true devotion to squander sacred resources on a quest that cannot be completed. Three weeks of toil we have already given to this, spilling both our blood and theirs, and still we come no closer to planetfall. They do not see reason – they do not understand compromise. To force the issue now would result in devastation, depriving the Imperium of servants who have duties elsewhere.’

He swallowed. This was hard to say. It was hard even to countenance.

‘So the order is to withdraw. I say it again, the order is to withdraw. All capital vessels assume positions for fighting retreat, all subsidiary vessels make for dock immediately or head directly for out-system muster.’

It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It didn’t make the decision any less bitter. He felt the damp weight of his robes, the things that gave him his authority, and their burden was like an accusation, the mark of his hubris.

‘But mark this,’ he said, his eyes never leaving that circle of bright white. ‘Names have been taken. His vengeance against the faithless knows no limit or exhaustion. I vow it here – a sanctified curse that shall never fade, never cease, never be undone. That, at least, is something they should understand.’

It was still failure. No defiance could mask that. Only the future could see salvation for this enterprise, for his reputation and for the sanctity of his greater mission. He would have to trust, of course, but he would also have to sacrifice. The road ahead, just as it had to be, was strewn with thorns.

‘We will return,’ he said, eyes fixed on the world he had come to sanction. ‘In whatever manner He ordains, and as the Immortal Throne is the witness to my words, judgement will be served.’

I

THE BLADE OF NAXIAN

CHAPTER ONE

The Blade of Naxian ran hard through the void. It was a good ship, one of the best Hera Soteqa had ever served on, and that was something to cling on to in such times. Everything else seemed to be falling apart, lost in the confusion of contradictory astropathic screaming. She could almost see the break-up in the chain of command unfolding before her eyes. It was hellish, unusual, something to keep you awake in the hot night. She’d spoken to the priest about it. ‘It will pass,’ he’d told her. She didn’t believe him. He didn’t seem overly sure, either.

Finally, though, some solid orders had come in. Someone, somewhere, had got a grip, and assets were being mobilised. The Blade of Naxian was one of them, and now it was racing towards the Klaat System’s Mandeville horizon, ready for translation out towards Admiral Freer’s muster at Coronis Agathon. The Defender-class light cruiser would be a small but useful part of what looked like a serious conglomeration – cruisers, battle cruisers, even a few line battleships, they said – that had been plucked and swiped from every Navy rotation in the subsector.

Something was up. No one said what it was. Probably no one, not even the Blade’s bridge-captain, Avilo, knew. Orders would be given at Coronis Agathon, they said, and then at least a few of them would know a little more.

Soteqa hurried down the long corridor, her boot heels clacking on newly cleaned panels. As comms officer senioris, her place was on the command bridge, but too many things needed attending to in the hours before they attempted the warp crossing, and most of those she preferred to oversee in person. She’d already spent too long down in the depths of the augur-coils, trying to get some sense out of lexmechanics, making sure that by the time the frenzy of incoming data started up the machine-spirits would be primed and ready. Mno-8, the tech-priest, had detained her for a frustratingly long time over some anomalies on the ranged scans, something the priest thought pointed to a sensor malfunction, but which looked to her like typical Martian fussiness.

Still, she’d raised a report and sent it up to the bridge augur-monitors. Then she’d headed back along the vessel’s central core transit route, taking a mag-train sternwards and disembarking at the fourth cargo hold. That still left a long walk down a series of high-vaulted corridors, all of them utilitarian, gleaming, scoured every rotation by hard-driven menial crews and servitor gangs. The entire ship was tightly run, but this section was given special attention. Soteqa passed three separate checkpoints before reaching her final destination, every one manned by squads of armsmen bearing lascarbines and siege-shields. As she went through each point, the atmosphere became colder by a few degrees. By the time she reached the last set of blast-doors, pocked with ancient scour-marks, she felt the cold sink into her bones.

A different breed of guard waited for her at the threshold – four sour-looking characters in nightshade robes carrying electro-staves. They had the eye-within-an-I icon of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica inked onto their foreheads, and their skin was the shade of translucent grey that told of lives spent within sealed cells without natural light.

‘By His grace, lieutenant-commander,’ the foremost of them said, speaking in that dry whisper that they all seemed to use. The speaker was a woman, stick-thin under her robes, with thin lips and dark shadows around her eyes. ‘You wish to consult him before we make the transition.’

‘That would be appreciated,’ Soteqa said.

The woman inclined her head, stepped aside and keyed in a code on the lock-panel. The heavy doors juddered open, letting strangely scented air waft out – something charred, or maybe spoiled.

The chamber on the far side had once been a storage area, capable of taking standard trade-modules or tethered vehicles on loading claws. The main deck was more than six hundred yards across, the roof ninety feet up. In normal times, it would have rung to the echoing clang of lifters on tracks, underpinned by the smells of engine oil and the glare of arc-lumens. Now it felt like another world – a mist-wreathed, fabric-enclosed echo of a fine Terran princeling’s apartments. Elaborate ironwork partitions had been raised, each of them decorated with glyphs in hard-to-discern patterns. The deck itself hummed, not from the buried thunder of the plasma drives, but from subtler harmonics, rhythms that few mortals found easy to endure. The cold became oppressive.

Soteqa picked her way through a tangle of cables, some as thick as her body, all of them rimed with frost. A maze of doorways led off in many directions, all bleeding a fine mist. Attendants in uniform black livery padded to and fro bearing scrolls, datatubes, brass siphons. A faint sound made the air throb – a murmuring, as if a thousand sleepers were mouthing something unintelligible as they dreamed.

The complex had been constructed four years ago, while the Blade of Naxian underwent a scheduled refit in the Naval dockyards of Mholo. It had since been refined, then further extended, until it had become as integral a part of the ship’s body as the engines, power plants or gun decks. Truth be told, the facility was now the principal reason anyone, Admiral Freer included, cared about the Blade of Naxian.

Soteqa pushed further in, reaching a basalt-clad chamber with a steep roofline and High Gothic inscriptions carved on the walls. The deck was hidden under stone flags, and candles flickered on metal sconces. They liked their little touches of home, did the choir.

Talek was waiting for her there, tethered to his throne, his dried-up face peering at her from under a heavy dark cowl. He wore the same black robes as his staff, though translucent tubes ran out from under his cuffs and squirmed their way into banks of instrumentation arranged in a wide arc around him. Lenses glowed in the murk, bleeding out a pale green light. Auto-quills scratched away on thick bundles of vellum, fed by slow, clunking machinery. He sat amongst it all, tethered by it, nourishing it.

‘Lieutenant-commander,’ said Lervio Talek, master of the ship’s astropathic relay node. ‘Welcome.’

‘Apologies for the disruption,’ Soteqa replied. ‘I know you’re busy.’

‘No need. You wish to check on our progress before we cross the veil.’

‘It’s been difficult.’

Talek let slip a sour chuckle. ‘That is one word for it.’ He shuffled in his throne, and the web of tubes jangled. ‘We lost another one, four hours ago. A promising astropath, one with a long future of service ahead of her. Burned out, burned up. Such a waste. I finalised her training myself.’

Soteqa could have told him similar stories from her own crew – ratings going insensible from fatigue, officers opening void-hatches and walking calmly out into the airlocks. Perhaps, though, those working in this strange place did suffer more than the rest. She could hardly imagine what they witnessed with their empty eye-sockets, lined up in their tight rows, bound with iron fetters, forced to dream the raw stuff of madness for hour after hour.

‘There have been storms before,’ she said. ‘But I need to know–’

‘If this is truly worse. If it is a different order. Yes, I believe so. I believe it is.’ He sniffed, and for a moment Soteqa caught a glimpse of a pale grey cheek under the cowl’s shadow. ‘We get fragments, only fragments, and they all tell me the same thing. It is like a tapestry, the warp. If it is calm, you see the pattern on its surface. If it is disturbed, the pattern is rumpled. If it becomes too disturbed, the only pattern is the disturbance.’

‘And now?’

‘I see things never taught me by my instructors on Terra. Maybe they never existed before. So, it is true, I think some great event is coming. Maybe just in this sector. Maybe in all sectors. That is the problem, of course – we cannot see far ahead of ourselves. We send our messages, and only get back faint echoes. I sometimes wonder if we are the only ship left. The only people left alive in all creation. Alone in the dark.’

Soteqa had little time for such talk. ‘With respect, that’s–’

‘Nonsense. I know. But I am an old man. My imagination runs away with me.’

‘So what are we heading into?’

‘A wall of fire. On the far side of it, I see nothing. On this side of it, I see hosts gathering, like crows flying ahead of the storm. I wonder that they can follow their orders, or that they can even hear them. Many will not make it. The structure of the warp will become more violent. Massed hull-translations will be extremely perilous.’

‘You know, then, what lies beyond the muster.’

‘I do not.’

‘But what is the gossip?’

He laughed – an amphibian croak. ‘Gossip? We are not schola students, commander. We are the soul-bound, the ether-scryers. When we confer, it is because we have something to–’

He suddenly broke off. He inclined his head to one side, as if listening.

Just as he did so, an alert throbbed at Soteqa’s collar. It was red – she would have to attend it.

‘We will speak again,’ she said. ‘But, for now, I emphasise the importance of this. The relay – your relay – was placed on this ship precisely because fixed planetary nodes were becoming unreliable. We cannot know for sure that the messages in your archive have been received by anyone else at all, and that makes me worried. They might be more valuable than we understand.’

He looked at her. Or, at least, she thought he looked at her – you could never tell just what was going on under that heavy fabric hood.

‘I understand perfectly, commander,’ he said. ‘But you are needed elsewhere. The danger has, I think, caught up with us.’

Mno-8 was angry. Few things made him angry. Much of his emotional life had been burned away when they had first delved into his skull and started to replace the folds of fleshy matter with more reliable wafer banks. After that, he’d learned to adjust to the muffled existence of a senior tech-priest, one close to the Omnissiah, a being of logic and cold calculation.

But it hadn’t all gone. Being disregarded, being talked down to – that still made him angry. Few people dared to do it. He knew, on some level, that Soteqa hadn’t meant it, either. She was stressed, her mind racing down a whole gamut of alleys, and she hadn’t wanted to spend her valuable time with him among the flickering augur banks. Still, she’d been curt. And, for some reason, whereas he could ignore or overlook a whole host of other human failings, that spiked his emotion-injectors.

So he clattered down the corridor, his mechadendrites flailing, his red cloak snagging on the metal grilles. The entire ship was racing, creaking, banging, flying along as if caught in a blast of real-world wind. Captain Avilo was clearly desperate to get into the warp, and yet – and yet – no one was listening to the real threat-indicators. On another day, there would be much less haste, but then this kind of madness was contagious, and the un-fixed humans suffered from it worse than his people. The armsmen needed to be dragged out of their garrison-units and training halls and sent to the deck intersections. It needed to happen now.

He burst into the chamber, squeezing his overextended bulk through the access hatch before emerging on the far side like an arachnid splaying out from its burrow.

The crew looked up, startled. Twenty of them, all in dark-blue Navy trim, half-buried among the analogue lenses of cogitator nodes. One of them got up from her station – the senior operator here, Calja Yui, just a level or two below Soteqa in the arcane hierarchy of the upper decks.

‘My lord tech-priest,’ she started. ‘Can I help–’

Mno-8 held up a warning dendrite, then slotted three of his power claws into input jacks lodged in a rack over the line of augur stations. One of his cortex-bundles negotiated with the gaggle of machine-spirits who squatted within the chamber network, while another took over the hololith projection unit.

‘Listen,’ he croaked, using the vox-emitter stuck just under his clavicle, since his jaw was long gone. ‘Observe.’

A schematic whirled into ghostly life, glowing eerily amid the gloom of the comms-chamber. Yui did as she was bid, and looked at it. A big blob of light traced a slender arc between two points. One was the hive world of Klaat, the nondescript anchorage they’d just spent three months at, pressing new crew, filling the cavernous promethium bunkers, dealing with a never-ending procession of dignitaries and officials trying to find out what was going on with their protection details and trade-route escorts. The second was the Mandeville limiter, a specific horizon marked with very old runes indeed – humans had given those phenomena the same basic names since their discovery, long before the dawn of the Imperial Age. The arc traced from one to the other, speeding away from Klaat and almost intersecting with the first rune.

‘Yes?’ asked Yui. ‘You show me only what every other lens in this place shows me.’

‘Observe,’ said Mno-8 again, rattling a serpentine dendrite with a turbo-hammer at its terminus. ‘The plasma-wake correction at 25-6-4. Observe.’

Realspace augurs used a number of techniques to give signals staff the data they required. Much of the actual knowledge behind their construction was buried in STCs so old that few truly comprehended them, but some use-factors were still well understood – that plasma drives operating at full burn created distortion fields that required compensation, lest the input retinas overload and blow into static. The hololith suspended between the two of them displayed all the telltale indicators of such compensation – lines of blocky image correction, flickering like faulty lumens in a storm.

To her credit, Yui did her best. She looked in the right places. ‘I see noth–’

‘At 25-6-4. This is chronomark minus four. We are accelerating into the present. Observe.’

She narrowed her eyes. Soteqa had done the same, though not for long enough. Her deputy lingered a little longer.

‘Just a sensor artefact,’ she said, eventually.

‘Negative.’

‘We see them all the time. It’s tracking our velocity and course exactly.’

Mno-8 swept up to her, elevating to his full height, which placed his gold skullcap near the iron-plate chamber roof.

‘Until chronomark minus two,’ he growled. ‘When it disappears.’

‘Which you’d expect. We are at preliminary translation approach – the shutdown cascade has started.’

‘Standard Naval procedure. Only, this is well known. A hostile, one with advanced scanner tech and extreme speed, could use that knowledge. They could use it to get in close.’

‘Anything coming in on that path would have to be tiny. And anyway, no pilot could fly the course.’

‘No human pilot.’ Mno-8’s cloak shuddered as his many limbs rearranged themselves under it. ‘The Archenemy is everywhere. We know this. We have seen the signs in every subsector. Why do you not see the danger? One of my fallen brothers, using some devious archeotech, could conceivably–’

He broke off. Yui looked up. The hull had just boomed, as if it had hit something solid, something unyielding. No alarms went off. The Blade of Naxian just kept running, bolting, haring along.

‘What was that?’ Yui asked, suddenly looking worried.

‘Maybe nothing,’ said Mno-8 grimly. ‘Or maybe, just maybe, your sensor artefact has now become strangely solid.’

CHAPTER TWO

Two hours before translation.

Armsman Sergeant Kaster was already running, his squad at his heels, some of them with their armour still only half pulled on. The klaxons had sounded just as he’d been preparing to stow his equipment for the veil crossing. They had come off rotation, and he had been looking forward to getting a few hours head-down in the bunk, just enough to ward off the worst of the warp sickness that would otherwise see him bilious for weeks.

Then the damned alarms had gone off, screaming out through the dorm chambers, startling those who had already hung their armour in the lockers and racked their lasrifles in the armoury and were halfway towards blessed unconsciousness. He’d started shouting as soon as he’d heard the first alarm, sent jolting right back into the old habits of command, his body reacting instantly, scrabbling for boots, tunic, jacket, helm, armoury access-wafers.

And now he was sprinting, still pulling at the clasps across his chest, feeling the lasrifle clang against his breastplate in its shoulder-strap. His mind was fuzzy, and he struggled to pull the data off his helm’s order-distributor. Smoke was everywhere, pouring out of vents, clogging the passages.

‘Enginarium!’ he shouted, passing on the little he’d managed to pick out clearly. ‘Deck forty-six, sector six! Something’s headed for the enginarium!’

The more he ran, the faster his mind worked. The Blade of Naxian had only been boarded three times during his time in service. The last incursion had been a nasty one – some kind of Traitor Guard rabble, launched from an Archenemy frigate that had proved stubbornly hard to kill. He’d never found out what they called themselves, but he still remembered what they’d done to their faces, how they’d screamed when they died, how they’d smelled. He thought of those faces sometimes, especially when they were into the warp, but never by choice.

Behind him, thirty-two troopers did their best to keep up. All over the sector, across every deck, hundreds more would be racing to station, trying to sort out where and what the garrison captains wanted them to do, looking for something to shoot at.

‘Hells,’ grunted Xasta, his corporal, her tunic half unbuttoned to reveal the flak armour beneath, her big boots slamming on the deck as she ran. ‘Two hours. They’ll be dropping the shutters any moment.’

‘Not if this is major action,’ Kaster panted. ‘And they’ve mobilised everyone. I think it’s a big one.’

Being an armsman on a light cruiser was often an exercise in drudgery. You manned your station, you kept your watches, you knocked heads together whenever the ratings got stir-crazy or gained access to an alcohol stash. By edict, Navy troops were forbidden from taking part in major planetary landings, an old tradition that wasn’t always well enforced, but it did mean they rarely got off the decks alongside their Astra Militarum counterparts. Their battles, when they came, were sudden and close to home – an insurrection in the bilge-quarters, an attack on a Naval anchorage, a boarding action. And then everything kicked off, in confined corridors and compartments, the las-fire flashing and the hull rattling around them.

The klaxons started to make his ears ring.

‘Sector bulkheads up ahead!’ Kaster shouted. ‘Verdian squad with me, Bolax squad – tie those access corridors down.’

Xasta’s squad peeled right, skidding down into positions along two separate incoming transitways, both scored with rail tracks and lit overhead with strip-lumens that barely pierced the smoky gloom. The armsmen hunkered behind what cover there was – two huge buffer stops, two lifter platforms for the incoming trains, a service trench running transverse under the rails. Kaster’s squad carried on, running past the railhead and into a larger chamber reinforced with heavy adamantium beams. At the far end of that chamber was a high wall, studded with blast-panels and warning chevrons. Alert beacons whirled red-amber overhead. Every exposed surface seemed to be trembling.

Beyond the wall, beyond more layers of steel and rockcrete ballast, was one of many approaches to the enginarium – that sprawling mass of chamber after chamber, hall after cavernous hall, all stuffed with ironwork monsters that bled plasma and thundered promethium. The entire complex was working at full tilt, making everything shudder and shake, steam and gout.

The bulkhead was intact – a heavy slide-door cast from a single slab of adamantium, locked down by six large bolts and covered with the flickering gauze of an impact field. Kaster barely had time to slither down into a narrow alcove in the left-hand wall before more frantic reports started to fizz into his earpiece. Alerts seemed to be coming from all over the deck-sector, from twenty different pinch points at once, but that had to be mistaken – nothing moved that fast, not with the entire garrison mobilised to repel incomers.

‘Ready weapons!’ Kaster ordered, swinging his own lasrifle into position, angling it back the way they’d come, covering the bulkhead approach. ‘Wait for my lead!’

The corridor stretched away, empty and vibrating. To Kaster’s left, where the railhead broke out, he could hear the clatter of Xasta’s troops drawing arms. His lungs ached, his heart was pumping. The corridor was getting smokier. The lumens flickered, the deck hummed, his earpiece buzzed with half-intelligible chatter.

He checked the vox-channel to Xasta, nestled the lasrifle’s stock into his shoulder and let his finger slip over the trigger. He could hear his own breathing, hot and fast inside his closed helm.

Then the lumens blew.

They all went at once, sending glass splinters cascading in a freeze-frame second of blinding light before darkness raced up the corridor. Kaster’s helm-visor adjusted a second later, and then he opened fire. Every one of his troops did the same, letting loose with unaimed las-beams, scoring the blackness ahead with hard lines of neon, lighting the darkness with overlapping flashes.

His breathing was now frantic – something was making him want to scream, to run away, but he couldn’t see anything yet, just the pure dark, the lattice of las-bolts, the boom of the engines, the churn of smog, the throaty roar of plasma hurtling down feeder lines.

Then there was another roar, an animal roar, swelling up out of the murk, louder than the engines, loosed by something sprinting up the corridor towards them, something huge, something horrifyingly fast, cloaked in trails of smoke and bleeding blackness. Kaster fired and fired, his finger sweaty on the trigger, hitting nothing, catching only a fractured outline, ragged, jagged, leaping from wall to floor, bounding up, eating the ground, before the shadow crashed headlong into all of them.

Kaster was caught on the side of his helm, a strike heavier than lead, hurling him hard into the wall. He bounced off the steel plate, black stars spinning, before hitting the deck. Blood splattered across the inside of his visor. He blinked it away, and saw one of his squad sail through the air, limbs flailing.

He tried to get up, but his arms wouldn’t straighten. The chamber seemed to lurch around him, churned by some dark clot at its centre, a raging singularity, making him groggy with motion-blur. He saw a fiery maw open up at the bulkhead, pouring flame and fury at the door, dousing everything in a blaze of light and noise, before the portal blew away, clanging from its shorn bolts then tumbling away into a pall of red-edged smoke. The ragged mass leapt through the gap, plunging inward, onward, burrowing down towards the engines themselves.

Xasta was shouting. Someone else was screaming. The lumens were still out. He could only vaguely see the outlines of his troops, slumped in the smog, prone.

‘Enginarium breached!’ he blurted out, over the open comm. ‘Deck forty-six, sector six! Bulkheads open, one hostile inside chamber!’

He tried to get up again, and failed again. He started to register the pain in his arms, then saw which way his left elbow joint now turned, and that made him suddenly nauseous.

Xasta dropped down beside him. She was panting. ‘What in the–’

‘Enginarium breach!’ he shouted, hoarse with frustration. He was terrified. Why was he terrified? ‘Hostile inside the chamber!’

‘What was that thing?’

‘No idea. No idea.’

She seemed to be the only one still standing, though her open jerkin was dark with blood. She swallowed, hoisted her lasrifle, and made to go after the shadow.

‘Don’t be a fool!’ he hissed. ‘We need support.’

‘The Emperor protects,’ she replied, before charging off into the shadows.

They were all shouting at him.

Bridge-Captain Avilo let them rant. He stayed seated in the command throne, hands folded in front of him, watching the tactical hololiths coldly. An hour and a half to go before they hit the jump-points. It was all very poor timing.

‘Two reports of enginarium breach!’ shouted his comms officer secundus, a jumpy man called Fygar Hoult. ‘No, three! Three reports of enginarium breach!’

It would have been good to have Soteqa up here with him, Avilo thought. She was good in a crisis. A little stressy, perhaps, prone to overthinking, but good when the augurs were playing up and everyone else was flying blind.

‘Another sighting!’ called out Ivi Hertha, another of Soteqa’s crew, stuck down in the sensor pits with a couple of milk-eyed servitors and a few scared menials. ‘Rear spine sectors, looks like heading down-level, sectors fifty-six to fifty-seven, going very fast.’

Avilo said nothing. The data was streaming in, flooding the cogitators, sent in by panicked squads all operating in the near dark. He could have panicked too, if he had chosen to, and roared out orders, pulling the ship out of its trajectory and aborting the warp jump. An inexperienced captain might have done that. Avilo himself might have done it, once, before he’d seen something of void-war and its many traps.

Something had got on board. Something fast, something capable of getting past the close-hull sensors, something that seemed to be chewing its way without much difficulty towards two distinct objectives – the enginarium, and the Geller field generators. That indicated that the enemy, whoever they were, wanted to keep him from making the jump. And that in turn made Avilo extremely disinclined to halt the countdown. Never give an enemy what it wants, not unless you have to.

The chrono was still running.

‘Do we have visuals yet?’ he asked calmly.

‘Negative,’ reported one of Hoult’s staff, a young woman with her wrist plugged into a whole cluster of augur-feeds. ‘They’re killing the power supplies, knocking out the lumens, then hitting their targets. I get armsmen shouting down the comm, then nothing.’

‘The further in they go,’ Avilo said, ‘the fewer places they’ll have to hide. Any troops yet to mobilise?’

‘Negative, captain,’ replied Kai Zort, the garrison commander, standing just a few feet from the throne in full armour and looking like he badly wanted to get into the action himself. ‘All forces now converging on reported enemy locations. We know where they came in, we know where they’re going. They’re cut off.’

Avilo smiled coldly. ‘You don’t seem to have had much luck in stopping them so far, though, do you? Throw the reserves in too, if you have any left.’ He turned his attention to Hoult. ‘How did they do it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Speculate, please.’

Hoult scratched his chin, looking harried. ‘There’s still nothing on the augurs. But then we’ve started the shutdowns. Our voids are up, so no teleports.’ He shook his head, mystified. ‘Something small? Locked to the hull now, maybe, inside sensor range?’

‘Why wasn’t it seen?’

‘It should have been.’

‘I know that. I asked why it wasn’t.’

‘Pre-jump is… difficult. Something might, ah, have been missed.’

Avilo shot him a withering look. The Blade of Naxian was a ship of the Emperor’s fleet. Its crew were trained in Navy scholas, then tempered by heavy-duty rotations. They made a significant warp jump every few months. If something had indeed been missed, then the punishments would be crushing.

The chrono ticked over. Every ranged augur showed the Mandeville sectors crowding in, racing towards them. There were tolerances in those calculations, grey areas. They could pull an early transition, leaving the materium before the scheduled moment. That carried risks, but if something alien was clamped to their hull, the sudden wrench would also smash it apart, stranding the boarders.

Avilo sat back, pressing his fingers together. The bridge was in turmoil, but, as ever, he remained calm. You had to remain calm.

‘Maintain course,’ he ordered. ‘Increase speed to one hundred and ten per cent of safe maximum. Begin shutter descent and Geller activation protocols.’ He stared up at the forward viewers. ‘One way or another, we’re breaking into the warp. If our guests decide to come with us, we will deal with them in there.’

CHAPTER THREE

Soteqa ran as fast as she could, but it was hard to pick a path with the lumens out and cables strewn everywhere. Whatever had come through this section had charged like a Taurox down the corridors, ripping up the panels and exposing the ironwork substructure underneath. She could hear muffled shouting – over the comm, up ahead, down on the decks below. Fresh smoke poured out of damaged air-filtration units, swilling over the decking before sinking down the grille-vents.

Mno-8 had left her a dozen messages, each one ruder than the last. None of what he said was helpful, just vindictive, so she concentrated on what she was getting from the deck watch-sergeants.

She’d pulled her laspistol out, but hadn’t had cause to use it so far. She ran past crew members either cowering in terror or prone on the floor, their uniforms bloody, none of whom had been able to tell her what was doing the damage or where it’d gone, so she just followed the trail of destruction.

She should have waited for backup, no doubt – called one of Zort’s squads to her side, worked out where she was best placed, got some direction from Avilo. Trying to get to the heart of things alone felt both stupid and necessary. Stupid, because whatever had hit them wasn’t going to be troubled by a lone woman with a laspistol. Necessary, because they were on the cusp of entering the warp, and it was hard not to feel this was her fault. She should have listened to the tech-priest. He was irritating, to be sure, and full of pointless blather, but she should have listened.

It got harder to breathe, even using her helm’s filters. The corridor ahead was choked thick, lit only by the sparking fronds of a few ripped power lines. She skirted the worst of the debris, chest tight, jaw locked. During her many years on the Blade of Naxian the ship had been boarded six times. The last one had been nasty – a proscribed cult called the Void Shards, the true nature and origin of which had been kept from the ranks. It had been bloody work to excise them, and she’d played her part. But now – now – Throne of Terra, she was startled by everything, her breathing was rapid and shallow, her skin was soaking. This was real fear. It was hard to say just why – some kind of foul magick? The enemy deployed such arts, she knew. The priests always warned of them. Or maybe just the evidence in front of her – the rank destruction, the casual demolition of structures designed to endure full-scale void-war encounters.

She kept running, swerving around a tight corner and heading down towards the outer skin of the Geller containment sector, where the air prickled with heavy static even in normal times. Avilo hadn’t changed course, and the chrono was getting dangerously close to marking the point of no return. From somewhere high up, she thought she even heard the chimes marking the cycle-up of the warp drives.

Madness. What was Avilo thinking? If they couldn’t get them out now, how were they going to do it when out of realspace? Was he that wedded to the muster timetables? For what reason?

She checked her position on her helm’s flickering tactical scanner. Something was blinking further ahead, in and out, as if the trackers were struggling to hold on to it. Panting now, she went after it, clambering up a ladder to the next deck and then racing down an access tube that stank from spilled oil.

She’d hoped to have encountered some armsmen squads by now, troops she could round up and drag along with her, but the few she’d come across had been in bloody heaps, knocked out or thrown aside like chaff in an agro-thresher. Not dead, though, she thought. Blasted aside, smashed out of contact, unconscious and battered, but not, as far as she could tell, shot or sliced open. It was as if a massive clenched fist had somehow rolled down the corridors, unheeding of everything but its target, grinding its way inward without thought of anything else. Amid all the sweat and fear of her pursuit, she could reflect on the eerie strangeness of it – no gunfire, no explosions, just the smoke, the damage, the clamour of the plasma drives and the trail of violence to follow in the dark.

She was deep in the Geller sector now. The walls crackled with displaced energy, the atmosphere was taut with static. Very few of the crew ever came down here in normal times. The sector had its own breed of enginseers, its own caste of tech-priests, its own menials in bottle-green robes and brass-chased rebreathers. All knew how essential it was – attempt to make a warp jump while the generators were offline or damaged, and you might as well have orchestrated your own suicide.

Then it came in again – the sensor-signal, ahead, static now, right on the cusp of the core itself, the regions protected with layers of adamantium plating and ether-dampening coils. The access tube led her straight to it – if she kept moving on her current trajectory, she’d get a shot at it.

She scampered down the cramped space, bent double, feeling her thighs burn. The end was blocked with a rickety-looking iron grille, and she shouldered it aside before skidding into the chamber beyond, slithering down to her haunches and swinging her laspistol up.

Everything sang. The air hummed, the surfaces reverberated, sparks fizzed and spat from smashed machinery. Ahead of her was the portal leading into the core itself, still barred and locked, marked with warning runes and overwatched with a brace of wall-mounted las-barrels, all gouged out. The chamber itself was deserted, though the three other access hatches were open, gaping into darkness.

For a moment, she was mystified – the signal had led her here, straight to one of the key Geller access points, an ideal place from which to infiltrate the sanctum beyond. She cautiously stood up, tracking slowly with her laspistol, jumping at every shift in the shadows that hung thickly against the chamber walls.

It smelled strange. Under all of the stinks of the ship, there was something else, something that fed her fear, made her want to run.

It was then that she looked up, only to see that the chamber roof was gone. Where there should have been a mass of struts and pipework, there was a gaping hole, sparking and gouting, going up and up until her helm’s visor gave up trying to penetrate the murk. It was a vertical column, carved through the decks, running arrow-straight, thick with that strange scent.

Whatever it was, then, it hadn’t penetrated to the objective. It had blazed a path straight towards the Geller core, blasting aside any resistance, and had then turned aside at the last moment and churned upward to…

Her stomach suddenly lurched with realisation.

‘Fools,’ she said to herself, speaking out loud, cursing herself for not realising it sooner. The invaders were causing extravagant amounts of disruption, setting off every tripwire and smashing everything they encountered, shouting out their presence and scaring the entire garrison witless. But the guards had been immobilised, not slaughtered. The Geller field remained intact. The plasma drives were still burning.

She turned on her heels, tracking back towards the centre of the destroyer, to where the fast transit conduits were, she hoped, still operating. As she ran, veering around more ripped-up deck-plates and spilled equipment lockers, she put an urgent vox-burst into Avilo’s channel.

‘Terminate translation!’ she shouted. ‘Repeat – terminate translation! They’re not here for the ship!’

Xasta had rarely been scared on duty before. She had grown up in the ganger warrens of Phoenox IX, and knew how to handle herself. She’d been hunting, and had been hunted, long before the Navy had pressed her, given her a gun and a uniform and made her natural inclinations more defined. She’d always known she had been made for her career, and also knew that she’d one day overtake Kaster in the chain of command. Maybe his injuries had been serious. Maybe she’d have to step up early.

Still, she was scared now. It was something about the smell, she thought – hard to pin down, hard even to detect, but there, like a pheromone, lodging in her nostrils, making her hands shake even as she gripped the lasrifle. She found herself murmuring prayers as she ran through the darkness, ones that she barely remembered the words to. It didn’t make her feel much better. She’d never been religious anyway, and this felt like a poor moment to start.

All around her, the outer enginarium regions churned and boomed. There were few true walls in this place, just giant masses of clustered pipes, roaring with coolants or hissing with confined steam. The decking was a metal mesh that exposed huge drops below, chasms that fell for level after level between the machinery piles. The air was hot, as were the surfaces around her. Most edges were tarnished with ancient smuts, all save the valves and the regulators, which gleamed as brightly as the first day they had left the production halls on whichever forge world had birthed the Blade of Naxian.

Signs of damage were fewer in here – whatever had gnawed through the outer layers of the ship had started going more carefully. Or maybe the structures were so solid that they had withstood the storm better – she couldn’t be sure.

It was up ahead. She couldn’t see it yet, not through the curtains of hot smog, nor detect its heat signature amid the furious energy wells around her, but she knew it was there, just out of eyesight, running in the dark.

She hesitated, coming to a halt, trying to keep her panting under control. She looked up, down, back the way she’d come, sweeping every inch of tangled machinery with her rifle’s muzzle. There were a thousand places to hide in here. But why would it hide? Nothing about this made very much sense, other than the fear, the raw fear, bleeding from every corner and from every deck-plate.

She almost turned back, then. Not because the panic had become too much – never that – but because she thought she must have taken a wrong turn, lost it amid the labyrinths of tubes and processors. She might be able to get a shot if she headed up a level or two, tried to angle down into some of those trenches.

Then she froze. Directly in front of her, half-lost behind curls of drifting smoke, something moved. She was staring at a wall of circuitry and valve-work, layered with brass sheaths and iron piston heads, a facade on a mighty through-conduit of some kind, one that thundered with shunting fuel. Now the wall was coming down at her, unravelling, ready to disintegrate and bury her.

But it wasn’t the wall – it was something within it, a portion of it, uncurling, dark grey and black, a creature that had been lodged deep within its complexity, burrowed like a void-beast and hidden perfectly within all the overlapping plates and pipes.

Xasta aimed her lasrifle and tensed her finger on the trigger, blinking hard to get a solid image. She almost fired. It wouldn’t have made much difference if she had, in all likelihood, though she still pulled back at the very last moment.

After that, she just stood immobile. There wasn’t much else to do. A hundred questions raced through her mind, none of them with ready answers.

The thing emerging in front of her was man-shaped, only greater, and clad in heavy armour. In its basic profile it was like the devotional images she’d been forced to pore over after being pressed, the ones with red- and blue-armoured warriors with the livery of ancient Chapters on their curved shoulder-guards. Those pictures had been presented on glistening colour plates, always in heroic poses, standing victorious against a backdrop of vast planetary battles. She could remember some of the High Gothic rubrics that had accompanied those pictures – Ad Gloriam Imperium Terra Adeptus Astartes, Angelus Mortis, Humanitas Superbus, Bellatores Extremis.

This thing was not like them. It was dirty, its armour stained. Once, its exterior might have been a mottled white, though it had darkened heavily with burns. In place of Imperial imagery, its thick plates were encrusted with crude scratchings, like the scrawls of a child. Once out in the open, it stood in a semi-crouch, as if poised to leap at her. It carried a double-headed axe in one enormous gauntlet. A bolt pistol was strapped to its belt in a leather holster. A strange, half-audible sound purred out from a long-sloped vox-grille, like thick-furred breathing, or maybe a scraped metallic laugh. It seemed to occupy all the space in front of her, swelling up, drinking it in, consuming every bit of it.

It could kill her without a thought, that she knew. It could destroy everything in the chamber, and all the ones beyond. It might take more than a hundred armsmen to bring it down. Coming after it had been as stupid as Kaster had told her. But, still – she found that her heart was pumping hard, as hard as it had ever done.

This was a fighter.

‘Come, then!’ she snarled, aiming at its throat, fighting to keep panic from making her voice rise. ‘If you wish to slay me, approach. But, by the Throne Eternal, I shall do my utmost to end you.’

And then, there could be no doubt about it – the creature was laughing. Not with scorn, though – more like an amused chuckle, buried under many layers of armour and vox-filters.

‘Good!’ it said. ‘Good. Tell me your name.’

The voice was something else. Gruffer than a mortal man’s, deeper, as if hauled up from the belly of the engines around her. She could almost hear the fangs clicking together under the helm, the snicker of a red tongue flickering around the words.

‘Corporal-at-Arms Xasta Delbacha, fighting complement of His voidship Blade of Naxian.’

‘That name shall be remembered. Now move aside – we stand on the edge of the veil. I like you, but I do not wish to traverse it with you.’

She stayed where she was. ‘I shall not permit you to harm my ship.’

‘We’re not here for your ship.’

Holding forth with this… thing was difficult. Part of her wanted nothing more than to sprint away from it, screaming. She had been drilled in the wiles of the Archenemy, as well as the sorcery its servants were said to employ. Now she felt it for real, making her skin crawl and her jaw ache. But this feeling wasn’t like it had been with that dross they’d cleared out back at the time of the last boarding, the ones who had sliced their eyelids off and shrieked with pleasure even when they were being cut down. It felt nothing like that. Foul, perhaps. Terrifying. But not like that.

‘Why are you here, then?’

It moved closer to her, towering over her, its armour running with tendrils of smoke. In the gloom, the lenses of its helm glowed murkily. She could see the damage on the plates, up closer – the hack-marks, the claw-scrapes.

‘Me? Just one false trail.’

‘Then you’re… traitors?’

Again, the laugh, this time with a harder edge. ‘Not really.’ It looked away from her then, up into the mass of cabling, where the engine-lines shook and hammered. ‘Just fools of fate. Like all of us, eh?’

It moved again, ready to shove its way past her, to lope off to wherever its strange mission took it. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Ludicrously, her lasrifle was still pointed straight at its chest. Not that it paid any attention to that.

‘You’ll have a name,’ she said, a last attempt to salvage something. ‘If you’re not the enemy, you’ll have a name. Something I’ll know.’

When it looked down at her, with that huge helm with its savage slant-eyes and snarl-muzzle, she had the distinct impression that something was smiling underneath, something wild and dangerous, something cut adrift, violent, cunning, but alive like very little else she had ever encountered.

‘Hafloí, of the Wolves of Fenris,’ it said. ‘Tell your daughters you met me in this place, that you stood up, didn’t run, then lend them some of that courage. I’ll sleep easier, knowing your breed guards the Allfather’s fleets.’

Then it was gone, brushing past her, slipping back into the smoke, going fast, going silent. She got a final whiff of that fear-fragrance, like a musk in the night, then nothing.

It took her a while to move again, after that. She stood in the hot darkness, trembling. The lasrifle remained pointed at the same spot, now empty, held rigid, two-handed.

Several seconds passed before she summoned the self-command to vox control.

‘Sector command,’ she said numbly. ‘Hostile sighted.’

‘Acknowledged, corporal. Maintain tracking – support incoming to your location.’

‘No point. It’s… no, he’s gone back the way he came.’

Silence. ‘Uh. Repeat that?’

But by then she’d holstered her sidearm again. She started walking. ‘He’s gone back the way he came. The engines weren’t the target. I think we’ve been played.’

Then she started to grin. A woman might live for a thousand years and not witness what she just had. She’d been right to keep going.

‘Magnificent, eh?’ she said. ‘Recommend… just letting them go. No sense more bones being broken.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Fifteen minutes until translation.

Every protocol had been activated, the shutters had clanged down, the plasma drives were burning themselves out, the warp drives were as hot as a sun’s surface. This was it.

And still they were shouting, still counselling him to pull out. Avilo wasn’t sure if that was possible now, but it would have made little difference even if it were. His mind had been made up two hours ago.

He sat forward in the command throne, clenching his fists. The lurch would come soon, the wrench out of the physical, the one that made every organ in your body feel like it had been rotated about its axis and stuffed back in again.

‘More sightings!’ shouted Hertha, clearly struggling to keep up with the frequency of reports. ‘Heading hullwards!’

‘Calm yourself!’ Avilo said sternly. ‘Tactical overview, if you please, or kindly hold your tongue.’

Hertha glared at him, stung by that, but then turned to the lenses. ‘Engine integrity at ninety-five per cent, Geller field at operational maximum. Damage containment squads spread across all affected decks.’

‘So where are our guests?’

Hertha took a while to respond. ‘It seems that… they’re gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘As I said, lord. Gone.’

He almost laughed out loud. Was this some kind of sick joke, played on him by the scanner crews? But then he’d heard the shouts of panic over the comm himself, seen the jumpy vid-captures of bloodied armsmen limping away from engagements.

The chrono kept cycling down. The Blade of Naxian’s approach velocity was far higher than it should have been.

‘So, can someone make sense of all this for me?’ he demanded. ‘Or are we going to break the veil in a state of madness?’

It fell to Hoult’s staff officer to give him something he could use. ‘Analysis of sightings indicates two lines of attack, moving swiftly towards the engines and Geller field generators,’ she said, speaking quickly and firmly. ‘Both attacks were successful, with all defences neutralised, including the reinforcements assigned once the trajectories were known.’

‘But we are still moving,’ Avilo noted. ‘Field integrity is still perfect.’

She looked up at him, her expression blank. ‘They have withdrawn, it seems. Back the way they came. No further damage reported.’

For a moment, he had nothing to say. It made no sense. Why board a ship, overcome its defences, and then leave it again? Unless…

‘Captain!’ came Soteqa’s frantic voice over the comm. ‘The target is not the ship! Repeat – the target is not the ship! Recommend full-stop, come about and resumption of soak-scanning till we run them down.’

Avilo glanced at the augur metrics. That would be difficult. The warp drives were already very hot.

‘Negative, commander,’ he voxed back. ‘Course is set, course will be maintained.’

‘Respectfully, captain, urge reconsideration! Whatever vessel they used must be tiny. We will have the power to disable it in the voi–’

Avilo cut the feed. As he had often observed, Soteqa was prone to outbursts, caused by the stress she seemed to carry with her at all times. That little example would have been overheard by others on the bridge. He would have to consider what punishment was appropriate. Maybe demotion.

He settled back into his throne. He could no longer see the stars through the realviewers, only the thick lead bars of the warp shutters. The chimes for veil-entry were already clanging. The priests were already praying. The lower-deck ratings were strapped in, no doubt mumbling prayers of their own.

‘Zort, as soon as we’re on the other side, oversee remaining operations,’ he ordered, calm as ever. ‘If any intruders remain, you know what to do.’

He would be at the muster. His reputation depended on it. He had promised as much to Freer, who had even deigned to make personal communication on the matter. Every macrocannon counted, he had been told. This was the big one, the one they had been predicting for years. Coronis Agathon was only the start. He knew where they would end up.

The chrono ticked down towards the translation point. Just seconds now.

‘By His will, we traverse the void!’ Avilo called out, just as he always did – a little superstition. This had been a distraction, a dangerous episode, one thankfully over. They could deal with the aftermath later. What counted now was keeping his promises.

The deck shivered, the chimes reached their zenith. More warning lumens flashed on, and copper-sunk runes engraved in the arches overhead suddenly blazed red.

And, with that, the Blade of Naxian crashed out of physical existence and went spinning hard into the eternal ether.

It took Soteqa a long time to reach the relay node again. The lumens were still down, every corridor seemed to be knee-high in wreckage. A few squads of armsmen lingered here and there, bloodied and stunned, though not many – Zort had redirected almost all of them to the enginarium and Geller generators. Now that the plasma drives had been powered down the decks shook a little less, but the warp drives had a resonance all of their own, one that sent subtler harmonics eddying through the ship’s structure.

No one liked being in the warp. Humanity didn’t belong there, Geller field or no, and it made everything a lot more difficult. Soteqa’s head was already beginning to thump, a hot wash of blood that got stuck in her eyes and wouldn’t leave her, she knew, until they reached Coronis Agathon.

Still, she was in better shape than Talek. When she finally picked her way through the smashed portals, stepping over the contorted bodies of the guards, and found him half sitting up against the flanks of his own cogitators, he grinned at her from a bloodied, toothless mouth. His cowl had been thrown back, revealing his scrawny white-grey pate ringed with a scraggly tonsure. One hand was clasped over a raised knee, the other looked to have been broken. A few cables still clung to their jacks, though most had been ripped out.

‘I tried to stop them,’ he said ruefully. ‘That may have been a mistake.’

She squatted down in front of him. ‘What did they take?’

‘Everything.’ He coughed up some more blood. He was a very old man, and they hadn’t been gentle with him. ‘I mean, the records. They left the scryers in place. That is something.’

‘Had the scrolls been interpreted yet?’

‘Some of them. Some were proving difficult. Others were awaiting our judgement. They took them all, though, complete or not.’

‘So, can they–’

‘Yes, I think so. Fleet movements, dispositions, orders. They’ll have it all.’

‘In cipher, I take it.’

Talek remained sufficiently self-possessed to look affronted. ‘Of course. Triple-lock standard Naval encryption.’

‘So it’ll be useless to them,’ she said. ‘Unless they know what they need to do to break it.’

Talek tried to raise himself higher, and Soteqa helped him, hooking her hands under his armpits. He weighed very little. ‘I know who they were,’ he said, wiping his split lower lip with the cuff of his sleeve. ‘They’d killed the lights, but we’re all blind in here anyway. I heard enough – whispers from the comm-beads inside their armour. It wasn’t Gothic. It was Juvyka. Only one Chapter in the Imperium uses that cant.’

‘So they weren’t the enemy?’

‘Come, now. If they had been the enemy, death would have been the very best outcome for us. They were just noisy, creating a mess to ease the path to their objective.’

Soteqa turned around and leaned wearily back against the wall. ‘This is confusing me, master. Everything about this is confusing me. If they were Adeptus Astartes, they would already have access to this material.’

‘Yes, you would think so, would you not? Very strange. But they were not in the mood to explain themselves, and time was short. They hit us at just the right moment, just when all eyes were on the translation.’

Soteqa winced. ‘I tried to halt that. The captain will not be pleased.’

‘Aye, he’s a cold one. But you were right to do it, commander – we might have got them, had we remained in realspace long enough to run out the guns.’

‘I don’t think he cares. I think all he’s worried about is stroking Freer’s lapels for him.’

Talek laughed, sourly. ‘That is the galaxy we are in now, commander. The walls are breaking. I told you that myself, not that you didn’t already guess it.’

‘Yet, when I asked you what was going on before, you told me nothing.’

Talek lost his gummy smile, and folded what remained of his hands in his lap. ‘Maybe because I do not wish to believe it myself,’ he said. ‘I see a single world, over and over again, the linchpin of all our hopes. And if we are going there, in such numbers, then I cannot believe it portends anything other than destruction, and on a scale that we have never yet seen.’

Soteqa said nothing. She had to get back to the bridge, report to Avilo, but something in the way Talek spoke made her linger.

‘I’ll know the name of this world, won’t I?’ she said.

‘All know it.’

‘And you’re sure of it?’

‘I feel it in the ether. That is not quite the same thing.’

‘Someone out there clearly trusted your scryings, though.’ Soteqa got up, looking around her at the wreckage. A few dazed menials were beginning to creep back into the chamber, flinching nervously as if the interlopers might still be waiting behind a slide-door. It would take a long time to get the ship back into shape and ready for combat again.

‘Don’t mind the tech-priest, will you,’ Talek told her. ‘I doubt much could have stopped them, even if we’d known they were incoming.’

‘Oh, I won’t,’ said Soteqa, making her way grimly back to the exit portals. ‘He’ll have more than sensor-protocols to worry about soon. If you’re right, and if we’re truly heading where you think we’re heading, then we all will.’

II

AMETHYST SUZERAINE

CHAPTER FIVE

Torek Bjargborn walked down the ship’s corridor, his leather boots soft on the steel decking. All around him, just as ever, were the noises of the vessel, the myriad sounds that permeated every part of it at every hour, never ceasing, rarely slowing – the grind of the deep drives, the hum of the lumen banks, the reverberation of the atmosphere processors. Some experienced void-mariners learned to mask those sounds out, over time. He had never done so. In his berth during the noctis-shift, he would lie on his bunk, hearing them all. There was a comfort in that. He had been in the void for so long now that he missed the noises when they weren’t there. Like a child in the womb, they surrounded him, giving definition to his life, to the phases of his duty-watches, to his sense of self.

The last time he’d been away from that environment was over a year ago, during the mission to Ras Shakeh. Back then, he had held an honoured rank in the Rout – a ship’s master, commander of a frigate-class warship decked out in the steel-grey livery of the Wolves of Fenris. He had commanded thousands, making use of a strenuous training that had lasted decades, an artisan of the deep dark. He had known how to coax just a little more from the plasma drives when in close combat. He had known how to resolve disputes between armed menials on rival decks, something that could easily spill over into bloodshed if not clamped down on. He had known how to speak to the lowliest cargo-handler as well as hold his own with the masters themselves, the sacred warriors from the storm-lashed Mountain, the greatest of his home world’s savage creations. This was his life, his gift, his duty.

And then, on Ras Shakeh, that had all been taken away. The ship he’d commanded had been destroyed, and he had only made it to the saviour pods at the very last moment, running ahead of a wall of fire the whole way. He’d plummeted from the tubes, whistling down through an atmosphere that just got hotter and hotter until he was thrown out on the baking sands of an arid, loathsome dust bowl. He could still remember the shock of breaking out of the capsule, his tunic bloody, his eyes streaming from the white sun. He had drawn in a breath of the air, tasted the dust at the back of his scorched throat, and thought that death was no more than a heartbeat away.

He had been wrong about that. Ras Shakeh had not been the end for him, though it had been for many of his crew, either lost within the wreckage of his vessel as it came apart, or sent crashing into the wastes of that harsh world, far from help or refuge. Somehow, he had dragged himself from one day to the next, one hour to the next, resting in the heat of the day, moving in the cool of the night. He had made his way into ruined cities, before discovering what had ruined them, then retreated back to the gasping desert, grabbing scant supplies where he could, always thirsty, always hungry. Eventually he had found other Fenrisian survivors, here and there, all as wretched as him, some with their weapons, some with little more than rags on their back. Once together again, they had been able to start to think about survival. They had told themselves over and over who they were, who had taught them, what their training demanded of them.

‘Ice and iron,’ they would say, marching under the cold of the stars. ‘The people of Russ.’

Even then, it had felt like death had only been postponed. The same forces that had killed his ship infested the planet below. They had turned the living of Ras Shakeh into a mockery of the dead, riddling them with disease, making them walk again even as their sinews rotted to strings and their muscles fell from the bone. Bjargborn had had to fight, just as everyone from the ship had done, husbanding scarce ammunition and power packs, taking care not to get bitten or spat on, staying together and watching out, every second, all the time, for the corrupted to come at them again. The only supplies were in the cities, but the only safety was in the wastes. So they had hung on grimly, treading that impossible razor edge, doing what they had to, to keep breathing from one day to the next, one hour to the next.

And they would have died, sooner or later, because the planet was almost entirely gone by then, sunk deep into contagion, more than halfway towards becoming nothing but a plaything for unspeakable powers. They had fought on because there was nothing else to do – despair had no meaning, and there was no bargaining with such degraded enemies. None of them had complained, not even Aerold, because they had been schooled from childhood to know that this was the way of a violent galaxy, that death in combat was the proper fate for the people of Russ, and that the only true victory was bravery and the only true failure cowardice.

But it had not come to that, at least not for him. The mortal crew from his old ship were not the only ones to have survived, it turned out. Seven others had done so, all of them members of that immortal breed, the sons of the primarch, clad in armour forged in the molten guts of the Mountain and bearing weapons marked with the runes of eternity. When Bjargborn had been found by the warrior called Gyrfalkon, that had marked the end of the worst terror. After that, the people of Russ had been able to fight truly again, with a victory within sight and carrying hope for more than just a noble demise. And so fight they had done, keeping every vow, staying at the side of those who had delivered them, bound after that by both the old ties of duty and a new, fiercer devotion.

Now Torek Bjargborn was back on a ship again, surrounded once more by the rhythms and the sounds of an iron-bound womb. He had been restored to his rank and function, taking command of hundreds, holding the power of life and death over the crew, bending them to his will and that of the masters he served.

Except that this was no slate-drab warship of Fenris, lean and rangy, manned exclusively by scions of the ice. It was called the Amethyst Suzeraine, and it was a bronze-and-crimson battle-galleon with a host of stories all of its own. Fate had been strange. After further battles, further struggles against corruption, they had all become fugitives again, both hunted and hunting, cast adrift into another wasteland, only one far vaster and colder than the plague world of Ras Shakeh. Bjargborn had never questioned the decisions his masters had made to bring them there, not even in his own heart. They had their reasons, and he trusted them. Even if he had not owed his life to the Wolves, he would still have obeyed their orders, and so they were renegades now, all of them, subject to no authority but their own, and guided by no purpose other than vengeance.

It would all come right in the end, though. The Allfather still watched over His servants. The Hand of Russ still protected his people. Only the details of that providence were unclear.

Bjargborn reached his destination – a heavy steel door lined with bronze. It had been kept polished to a high sheen by the ship’s old crew, who despite being a gaggle of rogues and outlaws still took a certain pride in their customs. He admired that, and saw no reason to prevent them keeping up appearances. He had even begun to find some aspects of the galleon’s interior appealing, in a gaudy, knockabout kind of way.

He pressed the access lever, and the locks clicked open. On the far side, through a safety airlock, one of the big internal hangars yawned away. Most of the other hangars held a ramshackle collection of sub-warp vessels in them, many in no fit shape to take to the void. This one had only two occupants. The first was a Thunderhawk gunship, blackened from repeated scorchings, looking serviceable but carrying some fearsome scars along its flanks. It bore the name Vuokho in silver runes scratched under the cockpit. The second was a system runner, a sleek-lined hunter-killer, more than six times as big as the gunship and with limited warp capability in its own right. It bore the name Hlaupnir.

The system runner stood silently, its engines cold, its armaglass portals under wraps and its intakes masked. Vuokho, by contrast, still steamed from its recent return from action. Its panels had been sprung open, its tanks exposed and plugged with tubes. Like some huge medicae experiment, it was splayed open for examination, prepped for full refuel, re-equip, refit and turnabout. Servitors limped under its hull, hangar menials pulled at panel-locks and plugged in remote augurs. This was a practised process, something that they had all done a hundred times before, but still they were overlooked the whole time by an exacting judge.

Bjargborn came to stand alongside that judge, the one his battle-brothers called the Old Dog – not a name he would ever have employed himself. The warrior’s birth name was Jorundur Erak, which he wore alongside the further title Kaerlborn. Almost all aspirants to the Space Wolves came from the open ice, from the tribes that battled for survival under hostile skies, though a few, now and again, through tortuous circumstances, might be born of the Mountain’s own mortal population.

Perhaps that explained his temper, which was darker than that of his brothers. Perhaps that explained his hollow-eyed face, sallower than the norm, the deep black circles under his eyes. Perhaps that explained his facility for the mechanical tools of his trade, particularly the sacred Chapter vehicles, which he nurtured with a care that bordered on the obsessional. Or perhaps all that was just the way the Allfather had made him, and his origins meant nothing much at all.

Now Jorundur was observing keenly, his armoured hands clasped atop the haft of a long-handled axe, his long grey hair hanging lankly over a time-worn breastplate. His hooked nose protruded, his angular, beardless chin jutted. His golden irises glinted, missing nothing.

‘A successful hunt,’ Bjargborn offered, folding his arms and studying the Thunderhawk’s battered chassis.

Jorundur grunted. ‘I feel like I’ve been keeping this damn thing flying since we left Fenris. At least it didn’t take much punishment this time – we were in and out of there before they knew much about it.’

‘That must be satisfying.’

‘It worries me, shipmaster, that’s what it does.’ He turned his piercing eyes to Bjargborn. ‘I’m a damned fine pilot. I have no illusions about that. But there are other fine pilots in existence, and if we can do that to a Navy ship, be sure that the enemy can too. It worries me. The Imperium has become as slack as an old gothi’s bag of bones.’

Bjargborn thought that was probably unfair. Jorundur was more than a fine pilot – the Grey Hunter was the best he had ever served alongside. In addition, previous raids had given the pack details of the Blade of Naxian’s precise scanner-harmonics, something that had been very hard won and gave them a huge advantage. In any case, the manoeuvre he had pulled – tracing the exact path of anticipated augur-resonances, then darting in at the hull just before the pre-jump cascades shut down the close-range sensors – was more than fine flying. It had been next to impossible. Perhaps the Imperial crew should have done better than they had done, but Bjargborn, knowing what he did of the warriors he served, was inclined to cut them a little slack.

‘They must have had other things on their minds,’ he said.

Jorundur looked away, nodding ruefully, remaining silent. It was hard to argue with that. In the months since the pack’s flight from the Chapter’s writ, things had become markedly worse. No volume of space was free of strife now, both from the increasingly significant incursions by warbands of the Archenemy and from those old scourges of the Imperium, xenos corsairs and human outlaws. No one could be in any doubt that this was not just an incremental deterioration – it was a build-up to something decisive. These were the ragged stormbirds flying ahead of the lightning, in greater flocks than anyone had ever seen before.

‘I came to ask if you required anything of me, lord,’ Bjargborn said, changing the subject.

Jorundur smiled sourly. ‘More servitors? I’d take those, if you had them.’ Then he shook his head, and resumed his vigil over the Thunderhawk’s refuelling. ‘No, but with my thanks, shipmaster. I have no idea at all where we are headed next, nor what our esteemed battle leader has planned for us, so I can’t think yet what I may require of you. When that changes, I’ll let you know.’

Bjargborn bowed. ‘The Hand of Russ, then,’ he said. ‘I remain at your service.’

He withdrew, going back the way he’d come. As he walked into the network of corridors again, he let slip a half-smile. This ship was a strange one, full of archaic devices and chambers he’d barely explored, even after over a year as its master. The pack was a strange one too, a jumble of misaligned warriors thrown together in defiance of Chapter custom, a mongrel bunch that had somehow managed to forge themselves into something that hunted with a lethal efficiency.

But hunted what? That was the real question, the one that, despite all the raids and all the void-strikes, he had no perfect answer to. The masters did not tell him all their secrets, nor did he often know the destination for the Amethyst Suzeraine before he was ordered to kindle the warp drives and lay in an immediate course.

And that was perfectly fine. Torek Bjargborn had been a dead man, to all intents and purposes, stranded on a world of eye-burning heat and endless plague, before fate had intervened. Everything after that, as far as he was concerned, was a gift from the outstretched hand of the primarch himself.

The tangle of the wyrd would unwind in good time. It always did.

Higher up, nearer the summit of the command bridge, another chamber had been locked fast. The single doorway was barred with heavy beams, and those were overlaid with motion-detector fields linked to auto-las-fire emplacements.

Inside, the place was as contradictory as any within that piebald ship. It had once been some kind of cartolith chamber, perhaps, or maybe an archive. The interior space was large, more than thirty yards long and twelve across, with white marble floors and walls lined with yard after yard of shelving. Bronze-bolted suspensors threw a warm light across dusty writing-slopes. Candles flickered atop skull-candelabras, their bone fixings streaked with lines of encrusted wax.

Amid all that dusty finery, the harder edge of Fenris could now also be found. Tattered war-standards hung at the far end of the long chamber, their leathery surfaces punched through with bullet holes and edged with scorches. A brace of ceremonial weapons hung from thick chains – axes, short blades, spears with knapped flint heads. Iron braziers had been set up close to the atmosphere filters, and now smouldered gently from a pile of whitened embers.

Ingvar Orm Eversson, the one they called Gyrfalkon, leaned his weight on the edge of one of several huge map-tables, and narrowed his grey eyes. Even out of armour, the pressure of his touch made the tabletops creak. Piles of vellum lay before him, ruffled through and sifted, some still bearing the security seals of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. The script on them all was, without exception, spidery and dense, running to line after line of handwritten observations and interpretations.

Ingvar had enviable powers of concentration and retention, but even for him, studying such material for hours became wearisome. The screeds of star-speakers were not meant to be read by those outside their secretive order. An astropathic engagement was not like a comm-burst – a purely mechanical transmission of sounds and images. It was more like a process of divination, a skilled interpretation of dreams. Only a soul-bound psyker could undertake such work in relative safety, for it plumbed the depths of the warp itself, a place where sentient nightmares waited for the unwary mind. Whenever those savants withdrew from their meditations, their souls bruised and their empty eye-sockets throbbing, they dictated their findings, which were then vetted, interpreted, subjected to esoteric cleansing rites, and cross-referenced with other testimonies from the same warp-duct. What emerged, eventually, was counsel fit for the ears of voidship captains and army generals, written in language even a mortal could understand.

The material Ingvar read was not like that. The sheets had been plundered from the records chambers of an astropathic relay node, plucked in some cases from under the noses of the working scribes. It was raw, unfiltered, like half-set rockcrete. Much truth was in the parchment sheaves, maybe more than would ever end up in the final products, but it was hard to get at, and the more you studied the tiny curls of black ink, the more it felt like you were staring into some after-echo of the ether itself, tugging at your sanity and making your mind sicken.

He sighed, and started to read again, only to be interrupted by the clunk of the locks deactivating outside. He turned as the door opened, and saw his pack leader stooping to enter.

Gunnlaugur, the one called Skullhewer, had trouble with many of the portals on the voidship. The vessel had been built and crewed for mortal dimensions, and in comparison to a Navy ship had few concessions to the Imperium’s larger breeds of defenders. Gunnlaugur was also out of armour, but still had to narrow his shoulders to squeeze through the door’s rim. Only Olgeir Heavy-Hand was greater in stature, and the entire ship had long since got used to hearing him swearing violently as he cracked into yet another bulkhead. Gunnlaugur was not so effusive – he only let rip when in combat, and until then his voice was a deep growl, held in check like a dam holding back a torrent. His thick grey beard, knotted and plaited, tumbled down a barrel chest, and his scarred face and bald pate glinted under the lumens.

‘How goes it, brother?’ Gunnlaugur asked.

Ingvar pushed the parchment away and straightened. He rolled his shoulders, flexing muscles designed to be in constant motion, not stuffed away in records chambers. ‘There’s something here. I get glimpses, things I don’t fully understand. But there’s something here.’

Gunnlaugur came over to look at the collected records. Stashes from earlier raids – Imperial outposts, Militarum convoys, even a few enemy warbands – were stacked up in messy heaps on other tables. It made the chamber smell musty, like confinement. He flexed his right hand, testing a wound he’d picked up on the Blade of Naxian. Not from a defender, mind – he’d punched through a security hatch made of thicker steel than he’d expected.

‘Jorundur was furious,’ Gunnlaugur said.

‘You amaze me. Why, this time?’

‘That it was all so easy. The sector is falling apart, and we can peel open a voidship like that. He thinks the enemy will do the same.’

Ingvar shrugged. ‘We had their schematics. They were distracted. Jorundur flies like a daemon. When it comes to real void-combat, they’ll handle it.’

‘They’d better.’ Gunnlaugur looked up at the arched roof, then down the long rows of bundled vellum. ‘You know, when we took this ship, I disliked it. I’m quite fond of it now. When this is all over, I think we should keep it.’

Ingvar chuckled. ‘And the crew?’

‘They’d get used to us. A lot of them already have.’

That was true. The Amethyst Suzeraine had belonged to a man named Rasmu Collaqua, a corsair of considerable skill and extravagant cruelty who had been the terror of a whole belt of worlds running across half the subsector. In normal times, his activities would have been tightly curtailed by Naval patrols, but they had been overstretched even before the recent incursions, and so his plunder had gone largely unopposed. He’d become very rich, then powerful, then daring. It had been his misfortune, and the subsector’s fortune, to detect a lone system runner deep in the void, dependant on short-range warp hops and crammed with a clearly desperate crew. As Gunnlaugur had remarked to Collaqua before he was executed under ancient laws against void-piracy, no one had forced him to attack a Space Wolves ship. If his knowledge of Chapter livery hadn’t been quite so poor, he might still be alive now, spreading his particular brand of misery a little further afield, and the Hlaupnir might still be hunting for another suitable vessel to take over.

Since the galleon had been taken, most of the old crew had come to terms with the change of ownership. They were driven harder than before, that was true, and the senior positions were all taken by Bjargborn’s kaerls, but the rations arrived on time now, and Collaqua’s old coterie of untouchable thugs had been culled. In the months since capture, the Amethyst Suzeraine had become a little bit more like a regular ship of the Adeptus Astartes – a rough place, still riddled with its own share of scarcity and violence, but effective, well maintained, alert. It had decent gunnery crews, and an enginarium that functioned well enough. It wouldn’t last too long against a proper battleship, but it had kept them all alive for a while now. Gunnlaugur wasn’t alone – most of them, even Jorundur, had started to like it.

Ingvar pushed his vellum pile to one side. ‘Then you don’t regret it yet?’ he asked.

Gunnlaugur grunted. ‘I regret plenty. But breaking him out of that cell? Ach, no. They’d have killed him, whatever was found. If running was the price of keeping the pack together, it was worth paying.’

‘It wasn’t just for Baldr.’

That was also true. There were two reasons that the pack, still calling itself Járnhamar despite everything that had taken place, had fled from the jurisdiction of the Chapter. The first was the presence within their number of a warrior named Baldr Fjolnir, a Grey Hunter who had begun to exhibit signs of psychic power on the world of Ras Shakeh. As a result of an attack by an enemy sorcerer, he had been briefly transformed into a vessel of malign energies, something that had nearly consumed him entirely. On his recovery, Njal Stormcaller, the greatest of the Chapter’s Rune Priests, had shackled him with a null-collar to dampen his powers, intending to take him back to Fenris for full examination. Believing that this would result in his inevitable death, Gunnlaugur and Ingvar had sprung Baldr from his cell aboard the Stormcaller’s ship and broken clear on the Hlaupnir, running into the deep void even as it was tracked by the Heimdall’s great guns.

If that had been the prime catalyst for the exodus, though, then there was also another one. Ras Shakeh had not only harboured fallen warriors of the ancient enemy. It had been a shrine world, one steeped in the institutions of the Holy Ecclesiarchy. Járnhamar had fought alongside members of the Sisters of Battle, all of whom had resisted the destruction of their sacred places with characteristic fury. And yet, that resistance had not all been about defiance. It had been about deception, too – the harbouring of secrets that should never have been left to moulder in the sands. Whether by fate or by chance, it was Ingvar who had stumbled across it – a list of names, all warriors of the Space Wolves, marked for destruction. Among those names was Hjortur Bloodfang, a Wolf Guard who had once fought with the pack, and who had been high in the favour of both Berek Thunderfist and the current lord of the Great Company, Ragnar Blackmane himself.

Much remained unknown. The Sister who had confided in Ingvar was now dead. All tangible records had been destroyed in the fighting. The scope of the list was unknown, and no physical copy of it survived. Had Járnhamar been annihilated on Ras Shakeh, as had looked likely more than once, then the document’s existence would never have come to light at all.

But the pack had not been annihilated. It lived still, it hunted still, and now it thirsted for vengeance. Knowing the danger of discovery, more forces from the Ecclesiarchy had landed on Ras Shakeh, determined to recover any scraps that might lead to incrimination. In the fighting that had followed, Ingvar had captured a man named Klaive, a confessor to cardinals and a servant of senior forces within the Church. Since then, this Klaive had been their prisoner, the only link they had with the shadowy organisation that had responsibility for the death of Hjortur, and their one hope of running it down.

Klaive, though, had not known very much. The minds behind the list, whoever they were, had been careful, keeping information carefully sequestered at the highest levels. Even those who worked on their behalf had known almost nothing about those they sent their reports to, only that they were perfectly capable of delivering summary punishment if things went wrong.

And so the hunt had become one that had stretched out across time and space on a stolen corsair’s galleon, a series of raids and infiltrations, slowly gathering hints and whispers, ones that only Klaive could confirm or deny were relevant, until a picture began to emerge in slowly solidifying detail, one that would lead to the architects, if only they could be reached before another tide of destruction carried all before it.

If that hunt might be thought indulgent, when whole sectors around the Amethyst Suzeraine were dissolving into ruin, then that meant little to the pack, who remained warriors of their unforgiving home world, where an oath was binding for life and the quest for vengeance against a wrong committed could last for all eternity. The stars themselves might burn out, the last fortresses might fall into ruins, and still that fire would burn, driving them, goading them, until either absolution was achieved or they died in the attempt to find it.

‘Tell me, then,’ Gunnlaugur said. ‘What have you got?’

Ingvar drew in a long breath: part weariness, part in acknowledgement that this might be, just as it had been so often before, something or nothing, or just another link in an endless chain. ‘A scrap to take to the rat,’ he said. ‘I was going to speak to him when I’m done here. You wish to come too?’

Gunnlaugur smiled grimly, a gesture that managed to convey far more danger than amusement.

‘Show me what you’ve uncovered,’ he said. ‘We’ll go together.’

CHAPTER SIX

Olgeir, the one they called Heavy-Hand, trudged back towards the rearward chambers. Those had been taken by the Space Wolves for their own soon after seizing the ship, and much of Collaqua’s old finery had been stripped from the walls, thrown into the furnaces where it belonged. Now the surfaces were plain again, though some marks from Fenris had appeared here and there – carvings and rune-etchings, made by the kaerls going about their duties. Give them long enough, Olgeir thought, and they’ll turn this creaking hulk into a proper ship of war.

He still wore his battleplate. During the raid on the Imperial cruiser, he’d stayed with Jorundur to guard the point where the Thunderhawk Vuokho had clamped itself to the hull. It had been his expertise with meltas that had got them inside, once the gunship had slipped beneath the void shields. After that, he’d maintained position inside the cat’s cradle of beams and molten struts he’d created, just in case the insertion position was pinpointed and swarms of armsmen had dared to try to take it back.

It hadn’t happened. Just as intended, the rapid incursions, all sent off in different directions, had kept the ship’s guardians pinned on the back foot. Gunnlaugur had carved a path towards the Geller field generators, Baldr and Hafloí towards the main engines, leaving Ingvar to slip more quietly towards the real prize of the astropathic relay node. The only mortals who had come anywhere near Olgeir were half-stunned bilge-filth, limping out of the fire-edged shadows to see what had rocked the foundations of their hidden kingdom. Once they’d seen him standing sentinel, motionless in the dark with his heavy bolter primed, they’d scuttled off soon enough.

The whole thing had taken almost no time at all. It had been a precision strike, thanks to Jorundur’s skills and the pack’s customary speed and power. And yet, Olgeir had had just enough time, alone amid the distant crashes and cries of alarm, to reflect on how many times they’d done this, on how many fortresses and starships. Sometimes the battles had been even more straightforward than that one. Sometimes the firefights had been vicious. One assault on an innocuous-looking frigate had uncovered a warband of Heretic Astartes from the Emperor’s Children Legion, and getting out of the place alive had taken every scrap of ability and luck they possessed.

This was all Imperial space, nominally controlled and protected by the Allfather’s limitless forces, and yet it felt like a trap lurked under every stone. It was a tightening, a narrowing, the unmistakeable shrinkage down to a singularity – a great contest for control.

And yet here they were – not on Fenris, being told where they would be sent by the lords of the Fang, but scratching around in a stolen vessel that still stunk of its past crimes, sniffing at dregs ripped from the archives of other vagabonds and oligarchs. Olgeir had no idea how things stood with Fenris. None of the pack did. Perhaps the High King had dispatched his Great Companies already, guided by the visions of the Rune Priests, for some great feat of arms yet to come. Perhaps the death world was even under assault itself.

But a vow was a vow. Olgeir had sworn it, just as all the others had. You never let a pack-brother’s fate lie in the hands of others. And if there was, as the Gyrfalkon told them, cause for blood-debt, then that had to be seen through. He knew that. He agreed with it.

Still, it remained the case that Baldr was far from cured. None of them knew what might aid him. Since leaving the Stormcaller’s ships behind them, all they had encountered was war, and ruined worlds, and an Imperium in increasing states of panic and collapse. If it had not been a warrior of the Rout who had sickened, then he would never have been taken back – he would have been left, like so many thousands of loyal Imperial fighters, to die alone, lest contagion infect those whose bodies were still pure.

And even then, after it had first happened, Olgeir had argued against it. Alone of his brothers, he had wanted the taint kept away, lest maleficarum find its way into the closed circle of brotherhood. He hadn’t done it lightly. Watching what had happened to Baldr on Ras Shakeh had been horrifying, a vision of corruption that still haunted his dreams. The Grey Hunter had been utterly changed, almost unrecognisable, riddled and sore-encrusted, overflowing with a crazed mix of storm-magick and deeper malignancy. He had killed unthinkingly, destroying everything that crossed his path, vomiting out raw ether and gazing blindly from eyes that saw nothing real. Amid the confusion and clamour of the final assault, he had struck out at enemy and pack-mate alike, throwing Olgeir aside with a blast of black-edged lightning that had left weals that still failed to heal, before loping off into the screaming night, more warp beast than mortal.

It had been Ingvar who had brought Baldr back from the edge of madness. It had been Ingvar who had argued most forcefully for his return, making the case to Skullhewer, convincing the others, until only Olgeir remained in doubt, just as he still was. Thus was the Law of the Chapter broken, exiling them all, risking damnation. All they could do now was see the matter out, hoping Gunnlaugur’s judgement would be proved right.

The thought of all that made him morose, which was not in his nature. He pushed it out of his mind. Better to concentrate on what they had retained, which was considerable. The tension between Ingvar and Gunnlaugur, once rivals in spirit as well as arms, had abated. Unity had returned, tempered by combat, something that mattered to this pack of misaligned individuals, drawn from all across the Chapter in defiance of convention – just one more sign of how desperate things had become. This was the path they had chosen, and only one course of action remained – to see it to its end.

Olgeir reached the chamber they had turned into a makeshift armoury. In place of the racks of lasweaponry used by Collaqua’s corsairs, there were now vaults for reverently maintained bolters, powerblades, combat knives. The pack had only been able to take what it could grab at short notice, so more equipment had been wrenched out from other places during other raids. Some of the survivors from the Undrider had been from the ship’s forge, and so the gaps in their capability had gradually been repaired, what had been damaged was patched up, what remained was maintained. Even so, they had to be careful. Their stocks of ammunition, grenades and power packs had to be eked out, used wisely.

He twisted his helm, breaking the atmosphere seals and letting the Amethyst Suzeraine’s air in. He lifted the armour-piece in both hands, turning its face towards him, and took a look at it. It was an old unit, scoured and marked from many mortal lifetimes of constant combat. In places, the slate-grey warpaint had been scraped off, revealing steely ceramite underneath. The runes he had first engraved on it were faded now, illegible in many places. He reached out with a finger, tracing the line of the lenses, remembering how he had felt when first given it by the Iron Priest, how untouched it had been then, glinting in the light of braziers, a harbinger of the destruction he would later wreak.

‘Taken damage?’ came a familiar voice from behind him.

Olgeir put the helm down, ran his fingers through his lacquered hair and beard, spilling the streaked grey mass of plaits out across his gorget-collar. ‘Not a scratch,’ he grunted. ‘You?’

Hafloí, who had yet to be given a pack-name that had stuck, stomped across the armoury deck, his own bleached-white helm carried under his arm, the rest of his battleplate smeared with lines of engine oil. The Blood Claw looked a little less raw than when he’d first made his introduction to the pack on Fenris. It might have been Olgeir’s imagination, but the messy thatch of red hair looked to have faded a little, his fangs to have lengthened.

Yes, probably his imagination. He hadn’t been fighting with them for that long.

‘Same. They were damned slow.’ Hafloí threw his helm down on a long bench and began to prepare for the removal of the rest of his armour. ‘One of them caught up with me, though. An armsman.’ He chuckled. ‘She just aimed her lasgun at me, daring me to run at her. I could have knocked her into the fuel intakes, and she just stood there. Morkai, but she had mjod in her veins. I’ll put her name in the annals, just like I said I would. Just stood there.’

The Blood Claw seemed to be in a good mood. He usually was – sometimes Olgeir had to remind himself how raw Hafloí was, how fresh from aspirant training. All he wanted to do was fight, burn off the aggression he’d been pumped full of, learn how to do it more completely and expertly. Olgeir had seen the way Hafloí studied the rest of them when they were in combat, and knew that after every raid he’d gone down to the training pens to hammer home the lessons. It was working, too – he’d always been dangerous, but the gap between what he could do and what the rest of them could was closing now.

‘You don’t ever get weary of this?’ Olgeir asked idly, exposing the nodules on his armour where the drills would go in.

‘The raids? I’d like some better prey. Something I can actually kill. But it’s better than combat-servitors.’

‘I just wonder, sometimes. You didn’t ask for any of it.’

‘Hja, what are you, my nursemaid now?’

‘A long time away from the Chapter, that’s all.’

‘Good.’ Hafloí grinned. ‘I like it. It’s proper hunting. I still remember what it was like, on the ice. You’re too old for that, but I still do.’ He pulled a chain of pelts from his shoulders, ones that had suffered badly and looked more like scuffed leather than fur. ‘You could go anywhere, you remember that? You just looked up at the white cloud, and the white snow, and the wind was clawing at your skin, and you could take on any horizon. All you wanted was a scent, and then you’d be running.’

‘Aye, I remember. And the hunger that gnawed at your guts, too.’

‘Kept you sharp, though.’

‘It did, that.’

Hafloí shrugged. ‘It’s just the same now. I don’t care why. I just like an open sky.’

‘Fair enough.’

A team of kaerls arrived then, trailed by a gang of armour-servitors. They carried heavy equipment with them – drills, ratchets, vials of sacred oils and lubricants. Removing battleplate properly could take a while, and was accompanied by quasi-mystical rites that derived from both Fenris and Mars. Olgeir stretched his arms out, activated the joint-unlocks, and made to move into the inner chamber, where the plates would be hoisted off, one by one, then taken to the forge decks for checks and reconditioning.

‘Don’t get sloppy, though,’ he said, walking off under the archway. ‘You’re still raw as all Hel.’ He left to the sound of more laughter – the kind of lung-deep chortling that said, for now, greybeard.

Three servitors, four kaerl menials and a lexmechanic were waiting for him inside, all looking up, tools out, expectant. This would be the highlight of their duty-shift, the chance to perform to the best of their ability. For him, it marked the end of another brief burst of activity, another flex of a body designed to do nothing but kill.

‘Begin,’ he told them, and let his mind zone out.

Baldr Fjolnir had removed his own armour as soon as he’d disembarked from Vuokho, and now wore robes of hard-spun grey with a heavy cloak thrown over his shoulders. He left the unrestricted decks, the ones where kaerls and the corsair crew mingled, travelling up guarded elevator shafts before emerging into another world of subdued lighting and unfamiliar fragrances. Unlike the rest of the ship, these chambers were decorated with both taste and extravagance, and bore neither the mark of a pirate captain nor a war-pack of the Adeptus Astartes. The metal decks were covered over with plush rugs, the pressed-panel walls hung with fine tapestries. Brass bowls smouldered with josticks, making the air in the walkways hazy. You could still hear the distant grind of the engines, feel the tremble underfoot, but in most other respects it felt like leaving a voidship altogether, and somehow stumbling into a Terran noble’s private apartments.

And that, in a sense, was exactly what he had done, for these chambers were within the purview of Mamzel Judit van Kliis, the Amethyst Suzeraine’s resident Navigator. She had served Collaqua, and after his execution had continued to guide the ship just as before. It turned out that her relationship with her previous employer had been less than cordial, based on an unspecified blackmail threat concerning some obscure crime committed either by her or by a related branch of her minor house. She had shed no tears from her human eyes when Collaqua’s death was reported to her, instead professing a perfect willingness to serve her new masters, which suited all concerned. It may have been true, of course, that no other ship would have taken her, but since the Hlaupnir had not carried a Navigator of its own, being too small for anything but the shortest and slowest warp jumps, Gunnlaugur had not attempted to be choosy. Since then, she had performed well. Navigators on Imperial Navy vessels were driven horrifically hard by the demands of their crews, burning out fast and often. Navigators for corsair princes, it turned out, had it slightly easier. Mamzel van Kliis certainly seemed in fine health and spirits.

No other inhabitant of the galleon had anything approaching a sensitivity to the warp. There were no astropaths on board, nor any psykers in the mortal crew. Only she, in her recondite and irritable way, had anything explicit to do with the realm of dreams. And so it had turned out that she and Baldr, for this reason and others, had spoken together often. For his part, he felt the need of it – the desire to find another soul whose only instinct was not to recoil instantly when any mention was made of maleficarum, psykerdom or witchery. What she got out of the exchanges was more of a mystery. It was probable, he thought, that she was merely lonely, stuck up in her isolated citadel at the summit of the galleon’s hunched spine, her only other company being a cadre of mournful-looking menials and the baleful gaze of the living ether itself.

So when Baldr appeared, opening a dark wooden door set in an iron frame and stooping to enter, she looked up from her writing desk, put down her quill, placed her hands in her lap, and smiled.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Back again, then?’

Baldr moved over to a long couch set beside her desk. Even in armour, he travelled more quietly than his brothers; out of it, he was like a grey ghost. He was leaner than they were. He was even leaner than he used to be, too. The null-collar sat around his neck now, the second one the Stormcaller had given him – a bone torc at his throat, capped with iron dragon’s jaws. It looked a fragile thing, something a Space Marine could shatter with a twist of two fingers, and yet it held the power of life and death over him as surely as the gravity of a sun holds its planet. To remove it was to end him. To retain it was to cripple him.

He sat heavily. ‘We ran it close,’ he said. ‘But you brought us in near enough, just before they made translation. Gunnlaugur sends his thanks.’

Van Kliis laughed. She stood up, and came to sit next to him. The mismatch in size was comical. Even beside an unaugmented human she would have been tiny, stick-thin, her withered old skin pulled tight and heavily rouged. She wore plentiful jewellery, some of it attached hard to the bone, and wore a silk gown with a crimson dragon pattern. She limped when she walked, and smelled strongly of both common incense and exotic alcohol. Her forehead was safely bound up with a lace-edged bandana of gold damask.

‘The angry one barely knows I’m up here,’ she said, patting him on the knee affectionately. ‘Only you come. Is good. I’d miss it, if you didn’t. How is it, now?’

Baldr placed his hands together. The flesh was calloused, greyer than it should have been. ‘The weight of it grows. With every journey we make, I feel the pressure gathering.’ He drew in a breath. ‘Like a storm front, behind my eyes.’

Van Kliis tutted. ‘Your rune-wizard built a dam. But you are a river. Which will prove stronger? That is question, eh? You never try to take it off?’

Baldr smiled wryly. ‘More than once. The last time, I woke up a day later, the floor of my chamber covered in blood. I didn’t think I had that much inside me.’ He shrugged. ‘He put it on me. For all I know, only he can take it off.’

‘Your brothers, they never thought of that.’

‘No, they did. They judged the risks – certain death, or an uncertain future. I owe them for the chance. Now I have to find a way to make it worth something.’

‘Not easy.’

‘No, not even if I knew what I was looking for.’

Van Kliis sniffed. ‘You make it harder, you know that? Ever since you come on this ship, I see it. You go on, and on, you talk of your ways, your ways. You pretend you are different, and so need something different to cure your sickness. You are no different. Not to me.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Mutants. What we both are. I am sanctioned. Are you? I don’t know. You don’t know. But admit the first step. Then, the rest will follow.’

Baldr looked down at his hands. ‘The enemy told me the same thing. Everyone says the same thing.’ He smiled again, the same dry smile. ‘All others tell the truth, so they wish us to believe. Only the Sons of Russ tell themselves lies.’

‘Ach, now you are pitying yourself.’

‘No, just stating the fact. It looks simple, from the outside. But from the inside…’ He struggled for the words. ‘What Njal does, I could feel it. The character of it. It was different, both to what the enemy does, and to what I can do.’

‘When your collar is broken.’

‘Aye.’

‘Then you’re something new.’

‘I’ve been told that too. Who knows?’

‘It is your problem.’

‘That it is.’ He clenched one hand into a fist. ‘But I will not let it weaken the pack. I must fight now, with them, on this hunt, whether or not the secret can be uncovered.’

‘Or until it kills you.’ She studied him carefully. ‘And it is killing you now, I see that clearly. If I opened my Seeing Eye now, I would perceive it all the more. The Seethe is at the edges of your soul. It is straining to get out, but it cannot. You are locked into your disease.’

He slumped into thought. ‘If I had a weapon, any other weapon, I would know how to use it. An axe, a blade, a bolter. I never doubt with them, not for a moment. But this – even if I could unlock it, should I?’

‘You talk to your brothers about this?’

Baldr chuckled. ‘Aye, we talk. They all saw me transformed. They know the dangers.’

‘What do they say?’

‘Just what you say. Just what I say. We are all in the dark.’

Van Kliis carried on looking at him. Her gaze was uncannily unwavering, like a small child’s. Perhaps they were all like that, the star-scryers, made that way by their occupation.

‘All right, then. If you have no useful counsel from them, take some from me. You will know. You will know when the moment comes, because there are no accidents with the Seethe. It found you, according to some design. Whose design? The enemy’s, maybe. Or maybe not, because they do not control everything. But here is the thing – you will not find this thing by looking for it. You will catch the truth, out of the corner of your eye. That is what we do. We see what is on the edge, and are content that we cannot bring everything into focus. Be like us. Do not be such a hunter.’

Baldr listened carefully. He had learned to do that, with her. ‘Everything I have ever been,’ he said. ‘Everything I ever wanted to be. It is to keep the prey in my sight. To run it down. To kill it, for myself, for the safety of my people.’

Van Kliis laughed, and patted him on the knee again. ‘I know! Maybe you’re capable of changing. Maybe not. But I tell you the truth of the Seethe. Take it, leave it, the choice is yours.’

Then she lost her smile.

‘But it will kill you soon,’ she said sternly. ‘Very soon. So make your choice, whatever it is, and hold fast to it.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Another chamber, further down now, buried between giant enginarium housings. It was always hot in that place – enough to make its occupant sweat, though not enough, probably, to cause serious damage. The walls were unadorned iron, the floor cracked tiles. A single lumen hung in the centre of the ceiling. It was noisy there – a grind of machine against machine that never stopped, and got worse whenever the Amethyst Suzeraine was in the void.

A single figure occupied the chamber, and had done for several months. Before that, he had been a prisoner in the brig of the Hlaupnir, an even more cramped existence. Before that, he had been confessor to Cardinal Delvaux, a powerful figure of intrigue in that man’s court. He had eaten well, drunk well, slept in rooms inlaid with gold on plush mattresses. So, things had changed.

In his earlier life, he had been feared. Delvaux had been a ruthless commander of considerable military power, a man who had given little thought to the destruction of entire worlds if it would further his prospects within the diocesan hierarchy. Ausrach Klaive had been at his side the whole time, offering counsel, gently suggesting policy, volunteering to oversee interrogations in the lightless depths of the cardinal’s many strongholds.

That was then. Now, he was skinnier. His exquisite robes had been taken from him, and he wore the same dirty shift as all the other bilge-level inhabitants. His skin, which had always been pale, was now as white as bone, tinged grey at the edges, under his eyes, around his thin mouth. His bare ankles had heavy manacles clamped on to them, connected to a length of chain that was fastened to a ring on the wall. He had a table, a single chair, a hard cot, a tray for food and drink. When he sickened, he was treated. From time to time, he was even taken out, walked around the lower decks on a tight leash, just to keep his muscles from wasting away. Other than that, this was now his entire world, three yards by three yards, far out into the void, surrounded on all sides by those who wished to see him dead.

It could have been worse. He could have been captured by a savage Chapter.

Ingvar and Gunnlaugur entered the chamber one after the other, squeezing their way in before unfurling those long, powerful limbs. Klaive shrunk back.

‘Greetings, rat,’ said Gunnlaugur cheerfully.

Klaive scowled, and said nothing.

Ingvar went over to the cot and sat on it, making the steel frame flex. Gunnlaugur reached out for the chain and gave it a yank. ‘You haven’t been interfering with this tether, have you?’

Klaive snorted. ‘With what?’

‘He’s an enterprising soul,’ said Ingvar to his pack leader. ‘Maybe we should have taken his fingernails out.’

Gunnlaugur chuckled heartily. ‘Don’t tempt me, brother.’

Klaive didn’t have the energy to look disgusted. At the beginning of his captivity, he had railed against his gaolers, cursing them as heretics and daemon-worshippers and genetic deviants. The Space Wolves had let him shout himself hoarse – it was nothing they hadn’t heard before – and gradually his fighting spirit had exhausted itself.

Perhaps that early bluster had been about bravado, about steeling himself for the excruciation he confidently expected would come. Klaive had been a torturer in Delvaux’s service, and like all such enthusiastic pain-givers, had assumed that all others would be like him, if given the chance. But it never had. The wounds he had taken during his abduction had been staunched – roughly, it was true – and he had been left to recover for a week or two. When the questions had come, they had been brought forcefully, relentlessly, giving him little rest, but no hands were raised against him.

Perhaps, if he had not chosen to give up what he knew, that would have changed. He never put it to the test – he knew there was no way out, no escape from his captors unless they got what they wanted. Klaive was a devout man, one who had always believed in the sanctity of the eternal Church, but he also wanted to live. In truth, his involvement with the Fulcrum had never been very extensive – it had been just one of a number of initiatives he had been party to – so telling them what he knew had carried little price. Just some communications he’d had, some documents he’d seen, meagre things.

‘So what is it this time?’ he asked sullenly.

Ingvar sat forward, placing his huge hands together and interlocking the fingers. Despite everything, Klaive had never got used to dealing with these outsized versions of the human – their ludicrous musculature, their permanent stench of violence. ‘We’re very close, now,’ he said. ‘Right on his tail.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You can take the credit, rat,’ Gunnlaugur added, leaning back against the facing wall. ‘Let’s see if I remember this right. The Ecclesiarchy codes you gave us led to the raid on Xeres IX, which got us the details of the sector fleet movements. And that let us hit the Tyrantian Eternus, which got us the first sniff of the Fulcrum’s location. Though that was wrong, or it had moved on, we still did some satisfying damage. Remember that?’

Klaive stared at his calloused hands. ‘I don’t even know that the Fulcrum is a single person,’ he mumbled. ‘I told you that.’

‘We know it’s a person,’ said Ingvar. ‘Everything we’ve intercepted tells us that.’

‘It’s how your people organise,’ Gunnlaugur added. ‘No one knows much, not individually, but it all stops at one single point. That’s a weakness.’

Klaive shot him a sour, mirthless smile. ‘And the Wolves of Fenris know all about organisation.’

‘We’ve been close to it since then, haven’t we?’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We know we have. You know it, too. It must give you warm feelings of joy, knowing we’re so near to the heart of it.’

Klaive shook his head. ‘It’s all pointless,’ he muttered. ‘You’re wasting your strength on something that doesn’t matter any more.’

‘It mattered to you, on Ras Shakeh,’ said Ingvar. ‘Why else destroy the records?’

‘Orders.’

‘From the Fulcrum?’

‘From my contact. Whoever that was.’

Gunnlaugur watched Klaive intently. ‘Someone thought it was worth sending you and Delvaux to that planet. Despite everything happening in this sector, they arranged to send you in force. And they had the power to do it.’

‘We had tracked the Archenemy fleet. We knew about the Festerax.’

‘You knew nothing of it, not until we did,’ Gunnlaugur replied.

‘You did Delvaux’s bidding, right up to the end,’ said Ingvar. ‘You would have destroyed an entire world, even after he was dead and the threat had been ended. I never understood that.’

‘Because they deserved to die!’ Klaive shot back. ‘Just as you deserve to die. All who do not cleave to sacrifice, when called on, deserve it. Delvaux was a pious man. A good man. He saw the threat to the sector, and moved to end it.’

Gunnlaugur let slip a low growl. ‘He was a monster. You could have held him back.’

‘You credit me with too much influence. Anyway, I had no wish to. I only wished to do my duty.’

‘You were using him,’ said Ingvar coldly. ‘He rose, you rose. Only, you got too close to the sun, and now you’ve been burned.’

‘So we come to your present situation,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘You gave us enough, a little here, a little there. The rest we did ourselves. And the Blade of Naxian was a good target. We have fragments of astropathic readings from across the entire subsector. Want to know what’s in them, rat?’

Klaive looked down at his knuckles again. ‘Is that a genuine question?’

‘You know some of it already,’ said Ingvar. ‘Major fleet build-ups, everywhere you look. You were just ahead of the curve. The Sororitas are mustering all their Convents between here and Ophelia.’

‘Just like the Militarum,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Just like the Navy.’

‘Just like the Adeptus Astartes,’ Klaive said acidly. ‘Those who remember their duty, anyway.’

‘They’re all heading one way,’ said Ingvar. ‘Coronis Agathon. Tallander. Mortijia. Lopax. Those are worlds on the approaches to the Cadian Gate, its feeder systems, the string of citadels running around the borders of the Eye itself. We saw it for ourselves at Kefa – the walls are crumbling out here. Now the Imperium is responding.’

‘We looked at the call signs for its fleets, and got an idea of where they’re going,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We can read a lot, rat, using the ciphers you were able to help us with. We gained a picture of a whole range of movements.’

‘But not everything,’ said Ingvar. ‘Some codes were new. There’s a single world, one that’s been calling for aid for months. Nothing’s coming. The last we could make out was that it had been marked as abandoned. It’s not the only one. They’re having to choose what they can defend, and what they can’t.’

‘All except one squadron,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘It’s using an Ecclesiarchy ident, and it should be heading for the muster at Mortijia. But it isn’t. It’s heading towards this world. The one that’s already been written off by everyone else.’

Klaive reached up to scratch the skin at the nape of his neck. ‘Then that’s something you’ll want to hunt down,’ he said wearily.

‘Definitely,’ said Ingvar. ‘We unlocked this using the same codes you used for your old transmissions, so someone on that squadron is picking up things you used to pick up.’

‘Do pass on my regards, when you find them.’

‘Oh, we will,’ said Ingvar. ‘But we need something from you first.’

‘We have everything but the name,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘There’s no standard void-locator, just a sequence in an embedded Ecclesiarchy code line. We know it’s not on a designated front line for the coming push, but that leaves a lot of void to cover. Wherever it is, this place isn’t important enough to register elsewhere.’

‘Except for this one squadron,’ said Ingvar, ‘who are taking a big risk to get there.’

Klaive shook his head. ‘We’ve been down this path before,’ he muttered. ‘A hint of something, a whisper of something. You run it down, you destroy what you find, and still we’re stuck out here, chasing shadows.’

Ingvar glanced at Gunnlaugur, and laughed. ‘He thinks this has been random.’

‘So he does,’ said the Wolf Guard, his mouth twitching with his own amusement. ‘Then again, I guess he doesn’t see much of what we do, from down here.’

‘Every hit we’ve made,’ said Ingvar, turning back to Klaive, ‘every raid, every ship taken, we’ve learned a little more.’

‘Jorundur likes to analyse patterns,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘He’s a strange soul, but he’s good at it. See, we all are – it’s nothing more than what we used to do, when we could smell our prey on the wind. You close off paths, you circle inward. Soon there aren’t that many places left to run to.’

‘They’re using your codes, rat,’ said Ingvar. ‘They’re heading into a gale that everyone else is running away from.’

‘My gut tells me this is the one,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Flushed out by the breaking storm, given to us by fortune. Only, fate is a wily old crone – she gives with one claw and takes with another.’

‘That world will be ashes soon,’ said Ingvar. ‘Hence the need for haste. You know the old cartograph coding. You can do just one more thing for us.’

‘We just need a name.’

‘Then all this will be over.’

Then they said nothing more. Then they waited.

Klaive stared at the floor. Despite what he’d said, he had a sense they were right. The Fulcrum, whatever it truly was, could not have remained hidden forever once the search for it became determined. Its hope had been to stay entirely secret, something that its targets would never even look for. That had been the reason he’d been ordered to that hellish desert world in the first place – to clamp down on any possibility of discovery, given the presence of old communications there that should have been destroyed a long time ago.

It would have been easy to become bitter. But for that oversight, he would no doubt still have been at Delvaux’s side, perhaps masterminding the diocesan contribution to this gathering warfront, with all its opportunities for advancement. Then again, the will of the Emperor was made manifest in unusual ways. He’d managed to preserve himself thus far. For as long as he lived, as long as he breathed, there still might be a route back to salvation.

He had outlived Delvaux. He had survived the assault on the plague ship when so many others, including some among the Wolves themselves, had not. So this wasn’t over yet. The closer this got to the end, the more chance of a change in fortune. He had some reasons to hope for that, after all.

So he looked up.

‘I’ll need to see what you’ve found,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll give you what I can.’

By the time Bjargborn reached the Amethyst Suzeraine’s command bridge, the place was a good deal less tense than it had been a few hours ago. While Vuokho had been out on the assault, augur operators had been glued to their lenses, watching for any sign that the Blade of Naxian might muster enough of a defence to repel its boarders, ready to train broadsides on a retreating gunship. The chance had been small, but the crew had been ready to light the plasma drives and move into gun range. No one had wanted that – the galleon probably would have suffered badly in the exchanges – so it had been welcome news when the Thunderhawk had speared back into sensor range, intact and with its full complement of interlopers on board.

The command throne was empty. Only Jorundur, or on occasion Gunnlaugur, occupied that seat, placed high up on a dais of marble and ouslite. All the sensor pits were occupied, though, mostly with officers taken from Bjargborn’s old command. They wore a decent approximation of their old grey tunics, patched up and mingled with other scraps of fabric they’d had to grab since leaving the Stormcaller’s protection.

The bridge-space echoed that sense of mingled origins. The ironwork was elaborate – a tiered series of carved galleries and balustrades in brass plate, all of it decked with statuary of a flamboyant nature. Those of the original crew who still worked the bridge were decked out in their old uniforms – crimson-sashed jerkins and polished leather boots – and a few of Collaqua’s old looted paintings still hung in the alcoves. With the warp shutters up, the full extent of the gaudy armaglass viewpane-array was visible, hanging over them like a collection of crystal bubbles edged in gold. That fixture alone must have emptied out a chunk of the old pirate’s treasury.

Bjargborn took his position in the shipmaster’s throne, set in the rank just below the command seat, and reviewed the bulletins waiting for him. Most were in a form he knew well enough – terse information bursts in the Fenrisian style.

The right arm of the throne held a lithcaster, and he activated a holo-projection of the final report he’d asked for, on the state of the macrocannon batteries. Those were the Amethyst Suzeraine’s best armaments, the ones Collaqua had no doubt paid through the nose for, and the one element of its offensive capabilities that matched up to a decent-sized military vessel. They had originally been kitted out for disruption shells – ideal for a commander who wished to disable his prey for boarding, rather than destroy it. That was less useful in a situation where you might want to punch holes through enemy armour plate, so the resident tech-cadres had been busy converting as many as possible to carry adamantium-core shells. The conversion work was demanding and difficult, and Bjargborn had kept a close eye on it. Given enough time, given enough effort, he’d turn the galleon into a proper warship yet.

‘I hope you’re pleased with what we’ve accomplished,’ came a voice at his shoulder.

He looked up to see Ejika Suaka standing there. As his operations chief on the bridge, she was wearing a close approximation of a Fenrisian uniform, but the impression only went so far. She was dark-skinned, with black glossy hair tied up in a sharp bun. The tattoo of corsair allegiance was still visible on her left cheek, and her fingers carried the gold rings of her previous occupation.

‘Four units ready for test-firing,’ Bjargborn said, glancing back at the hololith report. ‘Eight more undergoing conversion. That’s decent progress.’

Suaka bowed. ‘I’ve overseen it personally.’

‘My masters will only be pleased when they see the results.’

‘Give the word, and we can commence the tests. Hopefully make them happier still.’

Suaka was a dutiful officer. That was why she was still alive, and why she had been kept in service. The galleon was a big, old ship, with plenty of crannies and idiosyncrasies to catch out the unwary, and more than once her experience had been essential.

Bjargborn looked up at her. ‘Enjoy your labours, do you, lieutenant?’

‘Why do you ask, lord?’

‘We’ve been… demanding.’

Suaka shrugged. ‘I’ve served plenty of masters in my time. I worked on an Imperial merchantman before this, you knew that? The UV-56-A, a big hauler, out on the Gorgon Sounds. And before that, on a supply tender to a schola majoris. That wasn’t so different to this.’

‘But you were freer, before.’

‘Freer, but not safer.’ Her eyes flickered over to the silos, where the mixed crews were working hard. ‘It was a fearful ship,’ she said, her voice lower. ‘Some loved Collaqua, most hated him. The coin was good, when it came in, but that didn’t make up for the beatings. All in all, most are happy to see him gone.’

‘Including you.’

‘I was always one of the faithful, lord. I never liked what we were doing. Then again, you don’t have to like it, do you? Just keep your head down.’

Bjargborn grunted. That was probably true. She’d gone along with it, though, no doubt to keep herself alive. He couldn’t approve, even if he understood.

‘I’m waiting for our next set of orders,’ he told her. ‘The last I heard, the masters were entering conclave, so those may arrive soon. But know this – wherever we’re heading, this ship needs to be able to land a harder punch. That means faster gunline roll-out, faster plasma power-up. We’re not preying on the soft and slow any more, lieutenant.’

‘Understood, lord.’

‘So we’ll schedule those cannon tests for deployment in one hour, standard Terran. Can the crews handle it?’

‘I’ll make sure they can.’

‘Start at once.’

Suaka made the aquila, bowed, and headed off to start the process. Once she was gone, Bjargborn settled into his throne and reviewed the rest of the bulletins. Things were progressing more or less as he might have hoped, and even Jorundur would be pleased if the armaments work came in on schedule. But it would still be hard, if the fighting became more than sporadic. Even the Undrider, that universally disliked scrapheap of a Chapter frigate, had delivered more punishment than this vessel could, and that had been manned by an experienced void-war crew.

The hololith reports flicked across in front of his eyes, one after the other.

‘We’ll be ready, when the order comes,’ he murmured to himself, as much for reassurance than out of any conviction. ‘By Russ, we’ll have to be.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

The pack had done what they could to create an Annulus Chamber. The old trappings had been ripped out, the decking made bare, the lumens torn from their moorings. Stone slabs from the Hlaupnir had been hauled up from the hangars, mortared into place, lit with flame. The icon of the Chapter, the snarling wolf’s head, had been engraved onto the circular table at the room’s centre, and the warhammer battle-standard of the pack hung in the shadows. Six long spears stood behind each of the thrones, their shafts fastened to stone columns with lengths of leather, their blade-sockets bearing hunt-totems of the old ice.

At least the chamber smelled right – burning coals, ancient stone, the musk of long-weathered pelts. If the fires had been roaring higher, if the mix of aromas had included raw meat and mjod, then it might just have passed for one of the Mountain’s many deep-delved halls, the kind of place a battle company might meet to rake over past victories or plan future raids.

No menials were present at this gathering, only the Wolves themselves. Gunnlaugur had the place of honour, facing the chamber’s lone entrance from across the tabletop. Ingvar was at his right hand, Jorundur his left. Olgeir, Hafloí and Baldr occupied the remaining seats. In the flicker of brazier light, their features were as varied as their natures – the Blood Claw pale and vivid, the Old Dog as dark as the chamber’s deep recesses.

The centre of the table held a lithcaster, which bled out a deep red glow. A system schematic shimmered at eye level, each node marked with runes.

‘The rat knew just enough,’ said Gunnlaugur, placing his scarred hands before him on the tabletop. ‘He could unlock the codes we couldn’t, and gave us a name.’ He gestured towards the largest of the translucent spheres. ‘Ojada VII. Mining world, heavily populated, colonised some time in M36, very productive.’

‘How far?’ asked Olgeir.

‘A few days, if we flay the warp drives,’ Gunnlaugur said.

‘And it’s already under attack?’ asked Jorundur.

‘Everything in the subsector is. From what we know, it’s not being relieved.’

Jorundur pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘That’s a major world. A productive one. Hel, how bad have things got, if they’re letting it go?’

‘Maybe they judge it can hold out,’ said Ingvar.

Hafloí spat a laugh. ‘Not for long. You’ve seen what’s gathering out there.’

‘So you think the prey’s on that world?’ asked Olgeir, looking directly at Gunnlaugur.

The Wolf Guard nodded. ‘Everything we’ve learned, everything we’ve run down since leaving Kefa, has pointed us in this direction. The rat got us this close, and what we took from the astropath relay delivered the rest.’ He pushed his hands upward, sliding his elbows along the tabletop. ‘We knew it wouldn’t be a shrine world. The fragments we had from the Tyrantian told us that – if the Fulcrum had once used an Ecclesiarchy planet, it went underground a long time ago.’

‘But a mining world,’ said Hafloí.

‘Good cover,’ said Ingvar. ‘Big enough to hide a major facility. It has regular void traffic – heavy, frequent, mostly bound for forge worlds or hive worlds. There’ll be cities, cathedrals, plentiful tech, access to ships. And yet, who would go there looking for anything but ore?’

‘The enemy would,’ said Olgeir.

‘Ach, they’re burning everything between here and Lopax,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘And that makes this urgent – we delay now, and they’ll bury the secret.’

‘If the secret’s even still there,’ said Jorundur.

‘Aye, it may have run already,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘But we know how many others were caught out by the moving battlefronts, unable to retreat before the enemy overwhelmed them. The squadron that’s headed there – it has the look of something summoned to get them out.’

‘There’s always room for doubt,’ said Ingvar. ‘But, right now, we have nothing better.’

Olgeir laughed. ‘And nowhere better to be.’

Hafloí grinned back at him. ‘Sure about that? The Idelion Cluster is within spitting distance, and there’d be plenty of nice things to hit in there.’

Throughout the exchanges, Baldr had said nothing. He stared at the tabletop, ignoring the hololith. ‘So, what would be the plan?’ he asked quietly.

‘We attempt to overtake this squadron,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘If we can board it, we can find out what its tasking is. Though, if we’re right about where it is, we’ll be lucky to reach it before it gets to Ojada. In that case, we’ll just have to improvise.’

Jorundur shot a crooked smile. ‘Precise, as ever.’

‘Time is of the essence,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘If we do this, we do it now. So I need to know now if any of you wish to speak against it.’

No one said anything. Baldr kept his eyes locked on the table’s surface.

‘So be it,’ said Gunnlaugur, placing his hands apart and clenching his fists. ‘We light the engines. May the Hand of Russ guide us to the enemy.’

After that, things moved quickly. Orders were sent up to Bjargborn, and the countdown to warp translation begun. Alert klaxons began to sound, the crew hastened to their stations and the shutters slammed down across the viewports on every deck. Jorundur headed to the command bridge to take control of the ship once the word was given to cross the veil, while the rest of the pack made their way to the armoury. Once their battleplate had been reconditioned and given the necessary rites, it would all be clamped back on again soon enough. The warp was no place to linger unguarded.

Ingvar waited outside the Annulus Chamber until Baldr made his exit, after which he followed him down the corridor.

‘Brother!’ he called.

Baldr halted, turned and waited.

‘You said little, back there,’ Ingvar said.

‘What was there to say?’ Baldr replied, smiling wryly. ‘He just wanted to put a seal on it.’

‘Maybe. But if you have doubts…’

‘None.’ Baldr clapped a hand on Ingvar’s shoulder. ‘This is what we’ve been hunting for since we were on our own.’

‘It’s the route back to the Chapter. It’s what we need, to regain our honour and our place.’

‘I understand that.’

‘We root this corruption out, expose the poison. They’ll have to weigh our words. We give them this, then they–’

‘Then they let me live.’ Baldr laughed. ‘Maybe. I still don’t think they’d take back a witch, even if you’d saved Grimnar’s neck itself.’

‘You’re no witch.’

‘Sure of that, are you?’

Ingvar looked at him seriously. ‘If I thought it, for a moment, I’d be holding the blade at your neck myself.’

‘I have no such certainty.’ Baldr started to walk again, heading directly to his chambers and the arming menials. ‘You worry that all this has distracted from the search for a cure. Do not. We never knew where to look for that, only hoping that time and freedom would somehow deliver. This, though – this is before us, in our line of sight. We have to take it.’

Ingvar came with him. ‘I have not given up on finding one.’

‘I know you haven’t.’

‘And I believe them to be linked. Nothing happens except by fate. The desert world – the plague-bearers, the Sisters. We were positioned there to find these things.’

‘You think that, brother?’ He shook his head. ‘You’d make a better gothi than me. Not everything is scored out by the wyrd.’

‘This is. There has been a curse on us, an ill shadow hanging at our backs. I’d see it lifted.’

Baldr stopped walking. ‘The moment I saw that world’s name, read it in the runes over the table, I knew it was the place. I knew it. What does that tell you? That I can interpret your curse, or that it works through me? Either way, we have to go.’ He smiled again, coldly. ‘If these traitors exist, I’ll be glad to slay them alongside you. But do not expect it to lift the blight. That is too ancient, and we are just a part of it.’

‘It is the wyrd.

‘Believe that, if you want to.’

‘I do.’

And then he was moving again. Ingvar didn’t follow him. He watched the movement of bone-plates under the cloak, definition that should have been hidden under thick layers of muscle. The sickness could not be hidden now.

‘You’ll believe it too, brother, by the end,’ Ingvar called after him. ‘If a vow was ever worth swearing, I promise you that.’

III

Fire Over Water

CHAPTER NINE

It took more than a few days. The warp fought them, just as it always seemed to do now – pushing back, writhing away, dropping down into chasms with no base before rising into spiky clusters that risked dashing the ship’s prow into slivers.

The Amethyst Suzeraine had not been made for such arduous crossings. The orders given to van Kliis were specific, and she obeyed them to the letter, keeping the trajectory as close to optimum as she could. That meant the galleon ran into punishment quickly, straining the Geller field generators and making the entire structure crack, squeal and groan. The Fenrisians in the crew, used to tough runs through the ether, took it all in their stride, laughing to one another about the claws they could hear skittering down the far side of the hull-plates. The pressed menials took it harder, praying often, succumbing to warp-sickness, clinging on to railings and fervently wishing for the stage to finish quickly.

Gunnlaugur stayed in comms contact with van Kliis throughout, listening carefully to the bursts of information she emitted, studying every snippet of analytical data that slid down the lenses.

‘I can hardly see the Beacon,’ she’d reported at one stage, something that had given greater than usual cause for alarm. ‘It’s as if… no, that’s not possible. Ah, see. There it is again.’ A long silence. ‘Throne. But look at… what’s that? Behind it? No. But I don’t…’

She broke off after that, and never elucidated what she’d meant by it all. The comms bursts subsequently became less frequent, and when her few reports did come in, her voice was often strained, as if choked.

‘Are we going to have to drop out?’ Jorundur asked Gunnlaugur grimly, on the seventh day.

The Wolf Guard remained static in the throne, glaring at the warp shutters as they shuddered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

It would have to happen soon, though. Injuries mounted, particularly in the lower decks, and those injuries soon turned into casualties. Bjargborn had organised patrols after day four, then stepped them up, finally requesting assistance from the Wolves themselves to keep order. The ether had a way of seeping into a vessel, particularly one as leaky and ancient as the Amethyst Suzeraine. A Geller field kept the worst of its manifestations out, but it didn’t stop the dreams, or the visions, or the more prosaic effects of sleep deprivation and constant tension.

Out of all of them, it fell hardest on Baldr. The pressure behind his eyes, already intense, just kept building up. He volunteered for as many of the patrols as possible, knowing that sleep was impossible, wishing to keep his body moving, his mind focused on anything other than his waking nightmares. At times, when alone in the flickering darkness of the lower levels, he would reach out to the curve of the inner hull walls, pressing a finger against the ridged adamantium, feeling the distant thrum from outside. If you stayed there long enough, still enough, you might begin to think you could hear words, repeated, over and over again, spoken to you and no one else.

But it couldn’t last forever. The warp drives kept on thundering, pushing the ship through the waves and eddies, smashing its lumpen prow onward, ever onward, as if by force of will alone. Soon the chronometers began to align, and the reports from the Navigator’s sanctum started up again. The eighth day saw the worst of the resistance fade, and the orders to make ready for realspace given. The pack assembled, taking up combat stations. The armouries were thrown open, and Bjargborn’s troops equipped themselves. Then came the final few hours, the worst waiting of all, as the ship shook harder than ever and the seconds clicked down towards the wrench of realspace entry.

For that, Jorundur took his place in the command throne, assuming control of the galleon’s course and speed. Gunnlaugur and the rest of the pack assembled on the dais around him, fully armoured. Bjargborn, Suaka and the rest of the bridge crew assumed their stations in the lower levels, manning the augur banks and weapons arrays. Down in the hangars, both Vuokho and the Hlaupnir were prepped and made ready, their engines warmed up and tanks filled. The galleon’s gun-crews were placed on high alert – the Amethyst Suzeraine had no lance-level weapons, but its ranked macrocannon batteries now delivered a reasonable level of punishment at serviceable reload speeds, and the void shields were in good order.

‘Steady…’ murmured Gunnlaugur, watching the chronos clatter down.

‘All systems report ready for re-entry,’ intoned Bjargborn calmly, his eyes fixed on the battery of lenses around him. ‘Plasma drives keyed for ignition. Stand by for warp drive decoupling.’

‘Final notice – do you have anything for me?’ Gunnlaugur voxed to van Kliis, isolated in her sanctum high up on the galleon’s top ridge.

‘All obscured,’ the Navigator replied. ‘Nothing but shadows on the far side. We won’t be alone, though.’

Jorundur cursed under his breath, placing both hands on the arms of the throne, letting his fingers slot into the connectors from where he could deliver immediate course correction vectors. ‘How nice.’

‘Plasma drives fired up,’ Bjargborn reported. ‘Decoupling commencement on my mark.’

‘Here we go…’ growled Gunnlaugur, his hands curled around the shaft of his thunder hammer.

Routine translation alarms broke out, a screaming chorus that swept over the bridge balconies. The ship bucked, as if hitting a huge wave of solid material, before skidding around on its axis and making the grav-compensators shriek. Everything boomed, the decks vibrated, the engines spasmed.

And then they were out. The shift in momentum was immediate – a lurch into physical movement, something that felt completely different to warp travel, a resumption of an explicable state, the vice of natural laws reasserting themselves.

‘Shutters up!’ Gunnlaugur commanded, bracing himself against the swinging deck movements. ‘Full power to void shields, run out gunlines.’

‘Get me close augurs,’ Jorundur ordered Suaka, who was already working hard to calculate trajectories.

The cogitators blurted into life, filling the lenses up with cascades of runes and schematics. The warp shutters jerked open, spilling red-tinged sunlight across the deck canopies. From far below, the rhythmic thud of the warp drives gave way to the raw burn of the plasma drives. The hideous pressure of unreality lifted from every soul on the ship, as welcome as the emptying of thunderheads after a long drought. Realviewers sparked into life, generating magnified images of the spatial volumes around them, and the truth of van Kliis’ prediction swam into view.

The void ahead was full. It was jam-packed, choked up, rammed with movement and fire. Everything was whirling, spiralling, like the aftermath of some colossal explosion. Debris tumbled towards them, some of it clouds of micro-fragments, some pieces as large as hab-blocks.

‘Down, down, down!’ ordered Jorundur, sending the Amethyst Suzeraine into a steep dive, before kicking in a twist that made the ship’s structure lurch back the other way.

Wreckage hit the void shields with heavy smacks, exploding into smaller pieces as the barriers flexed under stress. Something absolutely massive – the exposed plasma-train of a starship, possibly – rolled overhead, narrowly missing taking the galleon’s topmost spires off. Jorundur pulled off more tight manoeuvres, sliding through the debris clouds, before feeding more power to the burners and sending the Amethyst Suzeraine surging straight ahead.

‘It’s not all wreckage,’ Bjargborn announced, diligently filtering through the riot of signals even as the ship plunged and tilted to avoid them. ‘We have incoming intact units, weapons powered, tracking our position.’

Gunnlaugur said nothing. He could see the same augur-readings, and could process them far faster. More than three hundred ships were threading their way through the confusion, running hard, a whole gamut of types and displacements. Many were system runners little different to the Hlaupnir – short-range craft with the bare minimum warp capacity. Others were absolute leviathans – mass conveyers, troop carriers, Chartist-registered haulers, even what looked like an ancient colony ship. They were all surging towards the Mandeville gates – the points of safe entry to the warp – but in such concentrations, with so many major gravity wells moving in such relative proximity, it was carnage.

‘Away, away,’ muttered Jorundur, hauling the galleon hard-starboard to bring them out of contact with a looming troop carrier. For a heart-stopping few moments they were running alongside the vast craft, barely a few hundred yards off its flanks, skidding across its vertiginous hull so close you could see the regiment sigils on the access portals.

‘Weapons discharge detected,’ Suaka called out over the increasing hubbub on the bridge. ‘Not aimed at us – range six hundred miles, bearing two-forty-five…’

‘They’re mauling each other,’ grunted Jorundur, working hard to bring the galleon up into a steep climb before it smashed headlong into another oncoming hauler. The volume of ships was thinning, but slowly. Three system runners shot past, tilting on their axes before haring down narrowing chasms of free space. Jorundur applied more power, nudging them up and out of the worst congestion.

Just as he did so, on the extreme edge of the sprawling ship-clusters, faster-moving blips appeared on the sensor grids.

‘Get me a look at those,’ Gunnlaugur ordered.

‘Void-fighters,’ Bjargborn replied. ‘Recognise nineteen Swiftdeath-pattern, thirty Fury interceptors, various call signs, coming in fast into starboard-ahead quadrant.’

‘Registering Imperial Navy attack wing idents from all squadrons,’ Suaka added.

‘They’re not Navy,’ said Ingvar, glancing at the incoming data. ‘Whatever they’re telling you.’

‘Aye, Archenemy presence confirmed,’ Bjargborn called out. ‘They’re going for the carriers.’

‘Moving to intercept,’ said Jorundur.

‘Belay that,’ snapped Gunnlaugur. ‘We’re not here for them – remain on course.’

Everything was moving rapidly, a vast orbital ballet of lumbering void-giants surrounded by darting small fry. From their vantage it all looked random and purposeless, until Jorundur succeeded in threading the ship further out from the Mandeville horizon and patterns began to emerge.

Almost everything was trying to get away. The carriers were packed with living souls, civilian and military. The biggest of them were heavily armed and escorted by gunships and fighter wings, but many more were fending for themselves with doubtful armaments and no support. A pitiful few Navy craft appeared to be attempting to impose some kind of order, but they were hopelessly overwhelmed. Amid all of that, predators had scented blood and closed in, strafing and lancing into the fringes of the vast conglomerations. Every few moments, a big hauler would break from the pack and go for the Mandeville horizon, calculating its position furiously to avoid proximal mass distortions. Those that got the gamble right would tear into the ether amid snarls of crackling warp energies. Those that got it wrong would blow themselves into scrap, their crews smeared across a half-formed mess of tortured physics.

The Amethyst Suzeraine was virtually the only ship trying to go in the other direction, to crunch its way through the spiralling shoal of desperate vessels and break clear for the planet itself. Anything else that wasn’t trying to get away was either sensor-blind and drifting, or was commanded by an enemy that grew stronger with each new arrival.

‘Additional incoming hostile targets,’ Bjargborn went on. ‘Signals indicate battle cruiser-class vessel on the cusp of materialisation.’

‘You heard the pack leader,’ said Jorundur. ‘Full burn, dead ahead.’

‘Can you pick up the target squadron in all this?’ Ingvar asked. ‘Any Ecclesiarchy idents?’

‘Negative, lord,’ replied Suaka, working hard at her station. ‘If they’ve not been destroyed already, they must be far ahead of us.’

‘Then keep running,’ ordered Gunnlaugur darkly. ‘We get to Ojada, then we fight.’

It felt hollow to leave a combat zone without firing a shot. Getting out of the engagement, once the initial shock of re-entry had been handled by Jorundur, hadn’t proved hard, but watching the embattled ships shrink in the realviewers, knowing that only a fraction of them would make it to their translation points, was unpleasant.

Olgeir hadn’t said a word during the engagement itself, and said nothing once Jorundur had found a path out of it and cranked up the galleon to its turgid top speed. He’d watched the firefights from a distance, like all the others, suppressing the urge to leap into a gunship and start taking out enemy void-fighters.

The same thing had happened to him on Kefa Primaris, where he’d been compelled to order an evacuation rather than help the planet defend itself. Every engagement he could remember since then had been a similar exercise in damage limitation – getting out before the enemy could come back at them, making compromises rather than unfurling their claws. This world, at least, promised to deliver a true confrontation, albeit one with an adversary who had remained elusive for too long.

He hefted his heavy bolter, cradling it two-handed. Just like every piece of equipment the pack used, it was battle-burned, chipped, scratched and worn at the edges. After each encounter, every time, he’d taken it apart, stripped it down, cleaned its sacred components and spoken the words of warding over them, just as the Iron Priests had taught him. The weapon had a spirit of its own, one that Olgeir respected, recognised and nurtured. Just like him, the bolter wanted to sing. It wanted to unlock its throat against an enemy worthy of its prestige.

Sigrún, it was called. It had been called that for longer than Olgeir had carried it, though it had been in his hands for so long now that he thought of it as his own. Many of those in the Chapter had inherited weapons – Ingvar’s blade was the most ancient that he knew of – and they all understood that, on death, they would be passed on to the next wielder. The Wolves of Fenris tended many threads of history that stretched back to the dawn of the Imperium. Some were sagas, memorised and recited by the skjalds in the firelit halls. Some were Dreadnoughts, including the most revered of them all, buried deep in the vaults of the Mountain in perpetual ice and shadow. And some were blades, bolters and storm shields, each one bathed in the blood of a thousand enemies of mankind, brought out of the armouries time and again, the loss of any of which was felt as keenly as the wielder’s.

‘Soon, now,’ he found himself mouthing, to himself as much as the weapon-spirit.

The run into Ojada itself was not long. The galleon’s sensors detected dozens more vessels streaming away from the system, all heading for the closest Mandeville geometry. Some of them even swept past in magnified visual range – a series of personnel conveyers in drab dark green, what looked like a gun-cutter with Arbites livery. Ranged augurs isolated many more lifeless hulks, powered down and drifting with puncture wounds along their flanks. Debris was everywhere, peppering the planetary approaches in steadily intensifying layers.

‘Getting first major signals,’ Suaka reported, just as the sensors locked on to the planetary mass and Jorundur adjusted the inward trajectory. ‘Several thousand in motion – siphoning now.’

Soon the augurs were locking on to the planet and magnifying it onto the lenses. Olgeir looked up at the images, just as the rest of the pack did.

It was a red world, an angry world, barred with dark cloud-streaks, looking as if it were on fire itself. The scopes zoomed and refined, picking out clusters of warships in high orbit, tiny black specks against the glowing atmosphere below. Pinprick flashes of light flickered across the globe – lances firing, or ship-cores igniting. Cords of debris spun around the tortured planetscape, coalescing into orbital rings.

‘Widespread fires on the surface,’ Bjargborn reported, hunched over the sensor-feed with the furthest reach. ‘Planet is an ocean world, it seems, but promethium pipelines have been severed, and the slicks are growing.’

Olgeir studied the feeds intently. ‘Those cities – are they… floating?’

‘Appear to be, lord,’ Suaka said, analysing more opening vid-feeds. ‘Or maybe rig-mounted.’

‘I’ve seen the pattern before,’ Jorundur said, his brow creasing with concentration as he boosted the galleon in closer. ‘Refinery-cities built over water, like on Atreus Aiaxa. If the sea’s on fire, though, that’ll test things.’

‘Get me more on what’s in orbit,’ Gunnlaugur ordered.

The sensor crews delved into the data, pulling sense out of the mass of signals. ‘Heavy damage to defence plates,’ Suaka reported. ‘Several downed, six still in position. Debris makes it hard to pinpoint vessel numbers, but lance-fire extensive. This battle is still very much in progress.’

‘Anything with an Ecclesiarchy call sign?’ asked Ingvar.

‘Plenty, but nothing matching the designation yet,’ said Bjargborn.

‘Could the squadron have been destroyed?’ asked Gunnlaugur.

‘No, they’re here,’ said Baldr quietly.

Olgeir turned sharply to look at his battle-brother, and saw only certainty on his face. For a moment, he wondered if Baldr had somehow got that damned collar off and unleashed his full, strange potential, but there it was, nestled between his breastplate and helm-seal, the iron tips glinting under the bridge lumens.

Everyone had become so… relaxed about it, as if the potential for harm had just gone away. But they’d all seen it – they’d all seen what he had become. Even now, on the cusp of battle, his doubts remained, nagging at him, just as they had since the first outbreak on Ras Shakeh.

No time to voice them now, though.

‘Bring us in closer,’ ordered Gunnlaugur. ‘If they’re in orbit, we’ll take them there. Concentrate all sensors on that signature – I want it found.’

‘Unless we’re very lucky,’ Olgeir said, ‘they’ll have made their landings already.’

‘We haven’t been lucky so far,’ said Ingvar.

‘Just get it into our sights,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Hlaupnir’s prepped – we’ll make planetfall if we need to.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine barrelled onward, smacking into thickening clots of wreckage, zeroing in on the distant point of light, which became a glowing disc, which became the uprushing arc of a world in its death throes.

Suaka gave a running commentary throughout the approach. The realviewers firmed up images as the distances shrunk, throwing out a picture of planetwide wholesale destruction. By the time they reached true-visual range, three of the beleaguered orbital plates swam into view, their hearts burning, their reactors venting, their pockmarked surfaces blistered and cracked apart. Ships buzzed around them – racing escorts, lumbering battle cruisers, darting tenders, a whole raft of unclassified minor warships with lascannons ablaze. About a third of those bore sigils marking them as Ojada’s defenders, with some arcane Mechanicus arks among them, but the clear majority wore the defaced aspect of traitor vessels – looted Militarum carriers, renegade galleons akin to the Amethyst Suzeraine, commandeered Navy ships hastily daubed with icons of proscribed factions, and – most imposing of all – the spike-ridged profile of true Chaos warcraft, bristling with brass-mouthed gunlines and spitting lurid energy-beams into the atmosphere below.

That atmosphere was burning. Up close, Olgeir saw the huge swaths of smoke ringing the planet’s hemisphere, swept across its face by superheated winds, spiked with crackles of lightning. Through ragged gaps in the choking mask, the surface could be glimpsed – underlit red from the fires, hissing with steam and smog, the lights of its huge cities still shining – just – amid the roiling darkness.

‘We are being targeted, lord,’ Bjargborn warned as they shot in closer. Weapons-lock detectors began to blink across a number of augur-lenses.

‘Let the void shields take the chaff,’ Gunnlaugur ordered. ‘Alert me if we get the attention of something serious. Where’s our damned target?’

‘Filtering signals, lord,’ replied Suaka. ‘The channels are overloading – working on it.’

‘Filter faster,’ growled Jorundur, pushing the galleon into a steeper approach vector. ‘This is going to get difficult quickly.’

The available paths ahead were silting up. Ojada’s ravaged hemisphere raced towards them, now filling the lower half of the viewers, the curve of its horizon flattening out. As it did so, the warships gnawing over its still-warm corpse spun into visual detail – racing wings of void-fighters, their thrusters flaring blue-white; formations of frigates and destroyers, their sides alight with coordinated las batteries; the lone shadows of major battleships, lit up with the brilliant flash of lances or lost behind the ripple of macrocannon broadsides. The scene was eye-watering in its intensity, the sheer black of the void backdrop sizzling with hard-edged flares and detonations.

‘We’ve got someone’s attention,’ Bjargborn confirmed, swinging his throne around to highlight an incoming warship.

Olgeir glanced at the lens. The pinpointed ship was big, ugly, skeletal, forged from night-dark iron with a raised spine of vivid silver. Its prow might once have been a regular Imperial ploughshare profile, but had been hammered into an immense death’s head, the eye sockets kindled with blue flame that streaked out into void as it turned. Its rangy flanks looked like the ribs of an emaciated canid, draped with heavy lengths of chain and studded with snarling cannon-mouths. Gaping thrusters left ink-blots of spidery pollution in its wake, lit from within by the final sparking of whatever foul discharge its infernal engines had created. Its precise allegiance was impossible to gauge – it carried no insignia, not even a sigil of the ancient Fallen Legions, just a mass of twisted metal tormented into a parody of mortal bone.

‘Can we kill that?’ Ingvar asked.

‘It looks slow,’ said Jorundur, burning the engines hard to keep the distance between them from shrinking. ‘Working on a targeting lock.’

‘There’ll be softer targets for it, if killing’s all it wants,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Keep moving. Hel’s teeth, where’s our target?’

‘I have something now, lord,’ Suaka reported. ‘Nine hundred miles, bearing twenty-four-four–’

‘Key it in,’ Gunnlaugur growled. ‘Get us into cannon range.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine kicked on, tilting steeply to port before boosting hard. Behind them, still a long way off, the death’s-head craft slipped into pursuit. Other ships began to pick up on their position, too, though the sheer volume of firefights all around them meant that few were able to do anything about it.

‘Getting true-visual-feeds now, lord,’ announced Bjargborn, his hands busy on the dials.

The deck rocked as something hit them. Amber alerts flashed on from the void shield read-outs.

‘Maintain course,’ Gunnlaugur ordered. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’

A brace of lenses mounted high above the first tier of sensor pits flickered into life, showing a zoomed-in segment of the orbital battle. Even with the cogitators working hard to improve the images, the depictions were grainy and dim, little more than a collection of blobs swinging and blurring.

Then they clarified, at least a little.

‘That’s it,’ Ingvar said, clenching his fists.

It had to be an Ecclesiarchy vessel. No other institution decorated their warships with such ludicrous sweeps of gold and crimson. It was a bloated thing, vaned and sparred, a serious battleship equipped with both ship-killing lances and ostentatious close-range batteries. It had waded into the warzone accompanied by a whole suite of escort craft, all of which were busy laying down a furious corona of las-fire. Even as Olgeir watched, the squadron was moving steadily northwards across Ojada’s surface, drawing heavy fire from the dozens of enemy ships within range.

‘Call signs confirmed,’ Suaka called out. ‘Description matches that given by the prisoner. Main vessel is the Immaculate Destiny. Supporting escorts Purity of Action, Obsidian Mitre and Merited Judgement identified – other idents incoming.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine rocked again, smacked in its midriff by what felt like a torpedo scatter. The lattice-prickle of las-fire began to spread across the realviewers, and more incoming sensor-blips clustered on the mid-range augur fields.

‘Target all weapons when in range,’ Gunnlaugur said. ‘Get a lock on the upper hull. We can ignore the escorts – they’re already busy.’

Olgeir looked at the lenses doubtfully. They were still a long way off, but everything he’d seen suggested that the Immaculate Destiny outgunned them easily. It would have been a difficult task to get in close at the best of times, and the full-scale orbital war raging around them made it even harder.

He was about to speak, suggesting another tack, when the images changed. The Immaculate Destiny briefly disappeared behind a huge flash of light, followed by a blistering column of energy spearing down to the world below. Anything caught in that burning column was smashed apart in a cascade of explosions, clearing a well of space all the way down to the surface. A split second after that, docking doors on the underside of the ship yawned open, and a brace of heavily armoured landers emerged, falling fast.

‘Can we lock on yet?’ Gunnlaugur asked.

‘Just a few seconds…’ grunted Jorundur, working frantically even as more impacts skittered the galleon’s viewfinders sideways. ‘Teeth of Russ – just a few seconds…’

The landers plummeted, dropping like stones through the tumbling void-wreckage, their undersides reddening fast until they looked more like meteors than manned vessels.

Gunnlaugur swore loudly, striding over to an augur-lens and wrenching it round to take a closer look. ‘Mark where they went! Get a clear fix!’

‘Aye, lord,’ Suaka acknowledged, hunching over her station, her fingers a blur of movement.

‘We can’t take that ship on, Skullhewer,’ said Olgeir, seeing his chance. ‘Not easily. But we can follow those.’

Gunnlaugur looked back up at him, his ragged mouth splitting into a wide grin. ‘Aye, Heavy-Hand, that we can. So start moving – I’ll want Sigrún with me too.’

CHAPTER TEN

Four of them ran from the command bridge to the hangars – Gunnlaugur, Ingvar, Olgeir and Baldr. By the time they reached the lower level, the kaerls had made everything ready. The fuel lines had been withdrawn from the Hlaupnir, the hangar doors were opening to the void, warning klaxons were blaring and the aprons were cleared of personnel.

Ingvar sprinted across the deck, his blade swinging at his belt. Hafloí hadn’t been happy about staying on the galleon with the Old Dog, but the whelp had learned to bite his tongue when given an order. In any case, things were unlikely to be uneventful on board – the hard-round impacts just kept coming in, clattering against the void shields, gathering in intensity. As soon as the system runner was away, Jorundur would be forced to fight his way clear, and that would keep the entire crew busy.

Ingvar reached the system runner and leapt up through the open crew hatch, seizing a handhold and throwing himself into the access berth. Gunnlaugur was a few paces ahead of him, charging up a ladder and making for the bridge. The Hlaupnir had felt absurdly cramped during the first few weeks of the hunt, but now was crewed sparsely – two dozen of Bjargborn’s troops, a few servitors, the four Space Wolves. That made it trim, lean, something that could react quickly and still pack a punch. You wouldn’t want to attempt a warp jump with that complement, but a planetary descent, hot and hard, that was a different matter.

Baldr was the last one in. The hatch slammed closed behind them, the locks spun tight and the atmosphere seals sucked rigid. The decks thrummed, then shivered as the manoeuvring thrusters ramped up. By the time Ingvar reached the bridge, the Hlaupnir was off the apron, swivelling around, making ready to boost clear of the hangar and out into the void.

The system runner’s bridge itself was small – room enough for twenty, maybe, if you stuffed them in. Gunnlaugur occupied the stone-hewn command throne; the remainder of the operational stations were taken by kaerls, strapped in and armoured up. A sloping armaglass canopy stretched away overhead, barred with iron and already glistening with hololithic tactical read-outs. The whole place was bare, stripped down, utilitarian, just like a Fenrisian ship should be.

Olgeir hauled himself up through the floor-level hatch just as the engines blasted into full pitch, and was nearly thrown back intothe rear bulkheads.

‘Watch your step, brother,’ Baldr said helpfully, coming up behind him.

The acceleration was wrenching, throwing them clear of the Amethyst Suzeraine’s side and deep into the orbital apocalypse. Gunnlaugur swung the nose down, and Ojada’s burning atmosphere swelled up in the forward viewers. Ingvar caught a final view of the galleon as it peeled away, its void shields swimming with energy discharge, before everything turned into a criss-cross splash pattern of las-fire and plasma impacts.

He grasped his way over to Gunnlaugur, staggering against the heavy pitch of the deck and gripping the handholds. ‘You still have the fix on them?’ he asked.

Gunnlaugur nodded, face hidden behind his full armour. ‘Interference heavy,’ he growled. ‘But they’re not getting away.’

The Hlaupnir blasted to its full velocity, screaming planetwards like a shivered spear, leaving behind a whole gaggle of gunships that had started to take an interest in it. It headed straight down, nose first, boosting hard through the smack and skid of las-fire impacts. Ingvar finally reached his throne and thunked into it, hauling on the restraints to keep himself from being hurled back across the steepling deck.

The view ahead was burning up – first in gouts of rippling flame, then streamers of it, then a solid curtain that roared and licked across the armaglass. The vessel bounced and shook as the atmosphere thickened, tearing at the void shields. Collisions continued to rain in, though it was impossible to tell whether they were debris or the last desperate shots from the orbital zone.

‘Hel! Signal lost,’ Gunnlaugur spat, grappling with the controls. ‘But I’ve got a rough lock – we’ll come down close.’

Even as he spoke, the Hlaupnir pulled out of its vertical descent, switching to turbines and sliding into a shallower atmospheric run. The hard pull of gravity tilted, vying with the colossal inertia of the engine switch, making every rivet and fitting on the bridge rattle in its housings.

‘Morkai’s teeth,’ breathed Olgeir, staring out of the realviewers as the vista cleared. ‘They’ve made a mess.’

Flames still gusted and ripped across the armaglass, which now offered the first, tattered glimpses of the world beyond. A vivid orange atmosphere bloomed above them, striated with thick palls of oil-fuelled clouds. The planetscape was a storm of turbulence – lead-dark oceans boiling into columns of steam, ranks of lightning crackling through the roil like dancing star fields. Rig-cities loomed up around them on every side, marching off to the smoke-thick horizon, towers of blackened iron marked by layer upon layer of lumens and marker lights, colossal artificial cliffs that belched and spat with industrial burn-off.

The water, slathered in heavy slicks of promethium, shimmered like magma. The rigs all bore huge gouges in their flanks, exposing the extravagant complexity of their innards. Many sections had come down entirely, sliding into the oily waters as they fell apart, sending out tidal surges that crashed into the next rig along in bursts of spark-laced spray.

Atmospheric craft, thick flights of them, zipped and swerved through it all, strafing, spinning, loosing barrages of missiles into any intact fortress walls. Some bore Imperial livery – the Ojada defence forces, sundry military orders – but they were outnumbered many times over by the bizarre craft of the invaders. These were like junkyard rejects, vomiting out smuts, clad in overlapping plates of rust, slapped with vivid icons of heretic warbands and crowned with broken horns, spikes and hooks. Further off, up in the ruined crowns of the mighty rigs, heavier landers were coming down from orbit, shielded by coronas of covering las-fire, their swollen bellies full of warriors ready to be disgorged into the seething torment.

‘This world is already dead,’ said Baldr.

‘Not quite,’ said Ingvar, studying the scanners keenly. ‘Just enough left for someone to come hunting.’

Olgeir’s senses were alive now, his skin tingling. Getting out of the warp and back onto a world of air and fire would always do that, kindling the instincts that he’d been born with. He could already sense them – the agents of the Ecclesiarchy, out there, lost to vision amid the fire and smog, but there nonetheless, amid the listing rigs, come to salvage something from the wreckage just as they had done on Ras Shakeh. He could almost taste their presence on the air, just as he had once tasted the presence of beasts on the ice, just a spear-throw away, just a sword-thrust, just the reach of a hand.

‘Target rig ahead,’ Gunnlaugur announced, bringing the Hlaupnir down three hundred feet from the boiling seas. ‘That’s where I lost them.’

The system runner screamed along at full speed, carving a deep furrow in the waters beneath and throwing up a wall of spray. Fighters latched on and tried to keep up, but were left far behind as they angled to fire. Ahead of them, vast as a hive city, the rig swelled into clarity, smoke-shrouded and bleeding, towering into the burning atmosphere like some sacrificial volcano. Its gigantic supporting piers were lashed with the storm-swell, half lost in a sliding torrent of foam and fire-flecks. Its lower decks billowed with ash. Higher up, enormous sections had been cut out, as if by a jagged knife, stripping out a bewildering landscape of tortured rebar and twisted scaffolding. The giant oil processors were still churning, sucking up fuel from the undersea crust and piping it to the refineries, even as the entire world around them sunk into ruin.

Gunnlaugur didn’t slow until the very last moment. The Hlaupnir careered towards the open flanks of the rig, finally pulling up just as it seemed he would crash them straight into the outer shell. The engines howled, the world swung on its axis, and for a second they were staring straight up the towering edge itself, gazing high into orange skies.

Then he killed the forward power and activated the manoeuvring thrusters, spinning the Hlaupnir over and sending the system runner dropping back sharply towards the rig’s edge. A huge supporting spar passed overhead, then another, and then they were inside, under darkness, slowing rapidly as the city’s structure swallowed them up. The retros activated, and Gunnlaugur zeroed in on a landing platform. The Hlaupnir, its hull steaming and scorched, hovered for a second, grinding to a halt, before he brought it down in a whine of turbines and thrown-up dust.

Gunnlaugur leapt out of the throne and onto his feet, hammer already in hand. Ingvar and the rest did the same, throwing off the restraints, weaponing up, ramming home magazines, kindling disruptor fields.

‘Follow me in,’ Gunnlaugur told them, his snarling voice alive with relish. ‘And let the murder-make begin.’

The death’s head kept on coming.

‘Skítja’, spat Jorundur, working to haul the galleon out of cannon range. ‘It’s got its jaws into us now.’

It wasn’t the only ship after them – a hundred lesser craft were zeroing in, loosing missiles, spitting las-batteries, trying to carve a piece of them off into the void – but the skull-faced cruiser was by far the most dangerous. Bjargborn’s gunners had started to return fire in earnest by then, loosing strikes whenever anything got too close. They were good, and Bjargborn had worked hard at training them. But still, the targets just kept mounting up, and after a while that pressure would become too much to handle.

Jorundur liked flying. He liked flying a Thunderhawk, and he liked flying a battleship. The principles were different, the techniques were very different, but you could still take the same pleasure in it. This, though – this hunk of heavy metal, gravid, wallowing – was nothing like pleasure. It was torture just getting it to move where you wanted it to move, like wading through quicksand. It had been built for preying on the weak, for feasting on the dregs of inter-system trade. It was big, to be sure, and its hull was as thick as grox-hide, but just then he’d have traded all that bulk for some more powerful drives, for some agility, for just a sliver of tautness.

‘Full spread, away port-nadir!’ Bjargborn ordered, speaking directly to the gunnery master down in the lower decks. ‘Clear us some space there, then keep the close cycles going.’

The rest of the bridge crew shouted over one another as the decks shook and banged, spraying orders down the comm-lines, their eyes fixed to the batteries of lenses that fizzed with the ship’s vital signs and sensor-spreads, their hands dancing across input-boards.

And through it all, the death’s head kept on coming.

‘Keep me something in the tubes for that monster,’ Jorundur told Bjargborn, struggling to get the Amethyst Suzeraine to roll around to where he wanted it. It felt like a stray hit had damaged the drives somehow, though most of the void shields were still holding. ‘We need some distance, we need some time.’

‘Ecclesiarchy squadron holding position,’ said Hafloí, standing beside Jorundur’s throne. ‘Its firepower’s rolling out now.’

‘So it is,’ mused Jorundur. He’d guessed the Ecclesiarchy battleship would withdraw once its landers had made planetfall, but instead it was staying put, hovering over the landing sites like a vast golden vulture, its escorts clustered around. The Immaculate Destiny was the largest ship in the immediate void-volume by some distance, and when it opened fire, it detonated an impressive amount of plasma. It hadn’t launched one of its orbital barrages again, but its regular broadsides were still huge enough to overload the realviewers when they went off, sending the lenses white and racing with static. ‘Keep at range from that thing,’ he ordered Suaka, feeding a slice more power to the plasma drives to kick out along the orbital zone. ‘Treat as just another hostile – track the macrocannons, and report if you detect a lock.’

All the time, the death’s head kept on coming. It was barging through the ship-clusters now, breaking a corvette across its prow as it advanced, heedless of the damage it took as the smaller craft’s spine cracked and disintegrated. The cruiser looked strangely withered amid all the carnage, like a skin-stretched cadaver, its profile limned with corpse-light, its bony flanks strewn with wreckage. Its gun decks were open and firing, gaping with silver-mawed cannons, spewing more of that ink-blot filth into the void as it came.

‘Analysis, shipmaster,’ Jorundur said, maintaining course but preparing to make a change.

‘Pattern unknown, lord,’ Bjargborn replied. ‘My guess – only a guess – Heretic Astartes, battle cruiser-class.’

Jorundur nodded. ‘Pain waiting for us on the inside too, then.’ He shot a series of commands down to the enginarium, and pulled up a hololith of the volume immediately below. ‘It’ll launch boarders, if we let it. Prepare hard drop to five-six, on my mark, then loose main volley aft.’

Suaka looked up sharply. ‘Lord, that will–’

‘Course laid in, lord,’ Bjargborn reported, giving her a hard glare. ‘Ready for hard drop.’

The death’s head picked up speed, shrugging off a raking scatter of solid rounds from a half-destroyed Ojada defence frigate before boosting clearly into transmit range. It was firing rapidly now, blasting a path through the tumbling debris with its forward batteries, making ready to strike.

‘Launches detected!’ Suaka cried. ‘Boarding torpedoes incoming, eight signals, hull-breaking speeds.’

‘Eight of them,’ murmured Hafloí dryly, hefting his axe. ‘They must rate us highly.’

‘Attempting to get a lock…’ reported Bjargborn. ‘Hel. They’re moving too fast.’

‘Don’t bother – they’ll outpace a tracking augur,’ Jorundur said. ‘Just keep the drop primed.’

For a few seconds more, the Amethyst Suzeraine raced along at near full speed, plasma drives burning hard, taking the ship skating across the cap of Ojada’s troposphere. The pursuing boarding torpedoes closed in quickly, corkscrewing through the firebursts. With its deadly cargo dispatched, the death’s-head cruiser pivoted, rolling around and upwards to bring its cannon batteries to bear. Any moment now, it would open fire, smashing the Amethyst Suzeraine’s void coverage open and clearing a path for the incoming boarding parties. All the while, the torpedoes scythed in closer, closer, closer…

‘Mark!’ shouted Jorundur.

Bjargborn hit the controls, and the ship’s power suddenly snapped out. Retros ignited, and the galleon smacked to a halt as if it had been stunned. It jolted, nose-down, then collapsed like a thrown anvil straight into the planet’s gravity well.

Jorundur was yanked forward in his throne, Hafloí nearly hurled into the servitor pits. A cable severed, lashing across the upper galleries in a welter of sparks, and a whole rank of cogitators smashed loose of their moorings, crunching across the deck in a steel-denting cascade.

The galleon dived, all forward momentum killed, its main thrusters cold. The torpedoes, locked in by their machine-spirits, swooped after it, homing in on the tumbling mass ahead of them. A second later, and the Amethyst Suzeraine hit the upper atmosphere, scraping along it like a plough thrust deep into frost-tight earth. A plume of fire blazed out from the lower hull, flaring up around its flanks and surging into the semi-void. The boarding torpedoes activated crisis protocols and tried to pull out, battling hard against the sudden gravity-wrench.

‘Torpedoes away aft!’ Jorundur roared, fighting to keep his seat as the entire bridge shook around him. ‘Full volley, maximum spread, away, away!’

Bjargborn had been hurled from his command seat by then, but scrambled back across a pitching deck and threw himself on the control lever, driving it open. The order sequence shot down to the launch bays, and the pre-targeted volley swooshed out of the rear tubes.

The torpedoes ignited as soon as they hit the wall of re-entry fire rearing up behind the plummeting galleon. As their warheads detonated, the torrent of flame bloomed into a gigantic plasma-field, a raging inferno that atomised everything within its rapidly expanding borders. The pursuing boarding tubes punched through the field, exploding into fragments as the extreme heat blew their casings apart.

‘Now pull up!’ Jorundur shouted. ‘Get me full burn now, pull us out!’

The drives whined, shaking the entire vessel down, popping rivets and shivering brace-beams. For a moment it felt like they’d gone too far, that the planet would swallow them up and break them up across its tortured skylines, but then the old ship’s thick hull came into its own, shielding them from the friction-burn just long enough, keeping the engines going, buying time for the wheezing old drives to propel them back into the true-void and hurl them up and out of danger.

Behind them, the plasma effect blew out almost as soon as it had started – a burst of intensity that had fried the galleon’s rear quarters in a flash of sun-hot energies almost as badly as the boarding torpedoes it had been kindled to take out.

‘Status,’ demanded Jorundur, adjusting position within the throne.

‘All boarding tubes destroyed,’ called out Suaka, gripping her vibrating station with both hands. ‘Heavy damage taken to keel sections and thruster arrays. Void generators blown on three sectors – attempting to compensate.’

Jorundur could see the alert runes for himself. ‘Keep us moving. Ready defensive broadside – that thing won’t have given up.’

It hadn’t. Through the haze of las-beams and plasma, it ground its way after them, diving fast now, keeping its ranks of guns trained on them the whole time. It might have been a trick of the flickering light, but it almost looked angrier, driven into some higher pitch of rage by the loss of its precious warriors.

‘Fire at will, master,’ Jorundur ordered, watching the death’s head rapidly gain ground. ‘See if we can knock the grin off its bony face.’

Bjargborn relayed the orders, and the Amethyst Suzeraine’s nearside batteries went off, kicking the ship with its recoil and sending a broad spread into the void. Most shells flew wide or high, but a scatter impacted, wreathing the cruiser in kaleidoscopic curtains of void-stress.

‘Counter build-up detected,’ Bjargborn warned.

‘Brace!’ Jorundur called out.

The response, when it came, was horrific. The battle cruiser’s arsenal was serious – adamantium-tipped shells, close-packed, well aimed and delivered. The sensors briefly registered the scale of the incoming pain, and then the volleys impacted, hammering across the rear void shields in a close sequence of crunching impacts.

The lumens blew, plunging them into darkness, before reserve units flickered back on. The bridge tilted crazily, thrown wildly as the entire structure listed. Warning klaxons blared, signalling systems failures across a whole range of decks, and half the lenses went dark.

‘Critical augur failures,’ Suaka called out. ‘Losing full spectrum, both close and ranged.’

‘Confirmed, lord,’ said Bjargborn, sounding groggy, as if he’d taken a hit himself. ‘We’ll be running blind in moments.’

‘Can you correct?’ Jorundur demanded.

‘Not from here,’ Suaka said, unstrapping herself from her throne and getting up. ‘Permission to take command in the sensorium – I could do something from there.’

‘Go.’ Jorundur glanced up at the realviewers, still clogged with ships and explosions, overshadowed by the looming orb of Ojada’s fiery atmosphere. One by one, his tactical lenses were going dark, robbing him of the spatial computations he needed. ‘As of now, I’m open to suggestions.’

‘The battleship,’ Hafloí said, gesturing through the realviewers towards the huge profile of the Ecclesiarchy vessel, still close in absolute terms and now wreathed in a furious firefight of its own. Enemy ships were streaming towards it like rats out of a sewer, but it was giving as good as it got, lighting up the void with blistering counter-barrages.

‘It’ll take us out itself,’ Jorundur muttered, ‘likely as not.’

‘Any better ideas?’ Hafloí countered.

The moment of indecision lasted just a fraction of a second. That was all Jorundur needed in order to assess the vectors, the odds, the likelihoods. Just as he did that, as if to ram home the message, a secondary salvo hit, slamming hard along the ship’s ventral spars, blowing the lumens a second time and reducing the bridge to combat-lighting.

‘Lay in an intercept course,’ he spat grimly. ‘I guess we’ll see just what grade of bastards are on that thing.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The air stank of oil, the metal decks stank of oil, the people stank of oil. Those who had survived the onslaught now thronged across the gantries and the gang-ramps to the waiting shuttles, their robes and tabards filthy with it, their skin caked, their fingers greasy.

Even in normal times, the rig-city was acrid from the processors, but now, with the smog in the skies and the fires coming up from the ocean itself, there was no escape. Throats were scorched, eyes burned, skin blistered. Fresh slicks oozed out from cracked pipelines and burning cataracts fell down hab-levels, sluicing through the access grilles before slithering out over the tormented seas.

It took only moments for the pack to discover the name of their site – rig-station U56, designation Augedes, part of the major chain of processor cities running along the deep submarine trench below. The place was gigantic, composed of level after level after level, rising up in a confused cat’s cradle of ironwork and steel-lattice, all spiralling about the huge central machine core. Like all the other stations, it had a single function – to suck promethium up from the planet’s crust, to shunt it into the giant refinery coils, to crack it and split it and send the various grades foaming out into the receiving tanks, all ready to be piped to waiting cargo lifters for transport off-world. The necessary appendages of human life – hab-blocks, refectories, chapels, morgues – were strictly secondary to that, clinging to the edges of the enormous machine like limpets, strung around it on scaffolds and extrusions, rising in dizzying terraces over the turbulent seas as the pumps wheezed and the chem-stations bubbled.

Once inside, Baldr felt the weight of desperate humanity about him keenly, pressing on his mind like a fog. Since touching down, the pack had moved fast, breaking out from the landing site and pushing inward and upward. Aside from the roar of both surf and flame, the dominant sound was screaming, from above, from below, from all around. The entire population of the rig was trying to get out now. Most large transports must have left already, and those that remained were the unlucky or the dutiful, who had either stayed at their stations voluntarily or had been too slow or ignorant to see the apocalypse coming.

The pack broke up into a narrow plaza, surrounded by steep layers of manufactoria, all still working, gaining a view both up and down. Below them, dizzyingly far below, was the churning sea, sending columns of steam and smoke surging up the chasms between the levels. Above them were the high eyries of the defence towers and the landing stages, all now under sustained attack. Even as he watched, a swell-bellied personnel carrier was cracked open just after take-off. Its human cargo spilled out into the hot air, tumbling like chaff into the distant waves.

Remnants of defensive perimeters remained intact, strung around the major command towers, but it was clear that these would be overrun within hours unless reinforcements arrived. The only ships that touched down now, though, were those of the enemy, eager for the slaughter that they had been promised. All that remained, for the pack, was to race through it all, seeking out a landing station big enough to take the drop-ships they’d spied from orbit, clearing their minds of everything but the objective.

Hard, though, to hear all those screams, echoing down the open shafts and access-wells. Hard to let them fight on, without standing beside them, even for a single hour of defiance, just as they had done at the Mandeville point. It eroded the soul, this constant evasion – the time to stand and fight could not come soon enough.

Gunnlaugur set the pace, leading from the front, charging down the clanging gantries with his hammer swinging around him.

‘Higher up,’ he voxed, crashing through a half-blown hatch and thudding up a steep flight of stairs. ‘Getting big clusters on the augur now, maybe twelve decks – could be them.’

They ran together, keeping tight, keeping close. The levels became claustrophobic – a maze of pipes and valves and thick girders, all hissing and overloading and threatening to burst apart with every heavy footfall. The decks were open mesh-metal, the roofs the same, so that one moment it felt like being buried inside an endless mountain of dark iron, and the next you were exposed to the tearing, howling elements, teetering on the edge of a sheer precipice with nothing but bowing steel plate between you and oblivion.

‘Heat signatures ahead,’ Ingvar reported, running just behind Gunn-laugur.

‘You’re getting a heat trace, in this?’ replied Olgeir sceptically, lumbering at the rear with Sigrún ready to unload.

‘Confirmed,’ rasped Gunnlaugur, reaching a cracked gothic arch at the end of a long corridor. ‘Our first taste of what’s still here.’

They moved out onto a long open gallery perched high on the eastern flank of the rig. Along the left-hand side ran a sheer cliff of criss-crossed steel plates, many blown open to reveal machine-entrails leaking smoke from within. An empty deck stretched away down the centre, gaping with holes and strewn with the wreckage of vehicles and refinery control-stations. The right flank overhung the ocean, three hundred yards down, and petered out into a tattered wilderness of sprung rebar and rubble.

A barricade comprised of bullet-riddled rockcrete blocks, burned-out tank chassis and scorched metal piles had been strung across the central deck, less than six feet high, overlooked by the squat hulks of three gun towers. Around two hundred Ojada defence force troops hunkered down in the debris, their backs pressed up against the barricade wall. They were dirty, ragged, their dun-orange uniforms torn, their helmets dented. A few Chimera transports huddled in the lee of the gun towers. Mortar teams were unloading shells, but they had the exhausted look of soldiers getting ready to repel another push, possibly for the last time.

The four Space Wolves burst in among them, prompting startled yells of alarm and a hasty clatter of raised lasrifles.

‘Do not be foolish,’ Gunnlaugur snapped at the nearest of them, a woman who looked about to panic-fire into his chest. ‘Get your commander.’

She blinked, froze for a second, then got her commander.

He proved to be a short, stocky man with a bloodied uniform and five-day-old beard on his blunt chin. He called himself Colonel-Inferior Jete Nefort, and was too fatigued to register more than a token surprise at four of the Emperor’s Holy Angels suddenly appearing in the midst of his unit’s engagement.

‘I didn’t know–’ he started.

‘You don’t need to,’ said Gunnlaugur, towering over him, his gauntlets still laced with the filigree snarls of Skulbrotsjór’s active disruptor field. ‘What’s your tasking?’

Nefort ran a weary glove through his thick hair. ‘Orders to hold the landing stages – there, up on the platform limit-ridge. We did it for three days, enough to get most of the carriers out intact, but then the enemy came through in numbers, and pushed us back. We’re to hold here for relief.’ He smiled dryly. ‘I don’t think that’s coming.’

‘And now?’

‘Nothing. Comms dead since last night. We’ll hold the line as long as we have a few power packs left. Nowhere else to go now but the sea.’

As the two of them spoke, Baldr and Ingvar both moved up to the barricade and peered through a wide rent at the summit. The long open central deck stretching away from them was disfigured with craters. A line of Administratum buildings had once run down the middle of it, fifty yards off, but all were roofless shells now. Beyond those, more wreckage, more shattered buildings, a severed pipeline, another burned-out gun tower, all overshadowed by the high uniform structure on the left flank. Baldr’s helm zoomed in, sweeping across the debris for targets. Eventually he found them – eight hundred yards out, clustering for the moment behind their own defensive lines: multiple infantry bands in unidentifiable livery, at least four battle tanks with old Militarum insignias scratched out, a couple of troop carriers idling, some tracked artillery pieces being loaded. The troops were shrouded in machine-fumes, but were clearly making ready to push up the central avenue.

‘We can take those,’ Ingvar reported over the pack vox.

‘There’s something else,’ said Baldr, without meaning to.

Ingvar looked at him sharply. ‘What, brother?’

He didn’t know. He didn’t even know why he’d said it. The pain in his head, at his neck, was vivid, and getting worse.

‘Nothing,’ he said, hefting his bolter, falling back from the barricade. ‘Forget it. This is the right path.’

Ingvar looked like he wanted to ask more, but Gunnlaugur came up to them with Nefort in tow, eager to press on.

‘What’s at the end of this deck?’ Gunnlaugur asked. ‘Your landing stages?’

‘Affirmative,’ Nefort replied. ‘This is – was – the evac point for this sector, but they’re using it now.’

‘Could it handle an orbital lifter?’

‘Doubtful. But three levels up, past the evac point, then you’ve got the main dock stage for the whole rig. That could, if it’s still there.’

Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘Get your troops together, load up all the kit you can carry.’ He motioned towards Olgeir and the others in battle-sign. ‘We’ll get you back up there – if there’s transports intact, we’ll get you on them too.’

‘Aye, lord!’ Nefort blurted, his weary face lighting up with sudden hope.

‘I want schematics, tac-readings, cartoliths – anything you’ve got for the next five levels up.’

‘You’re going further in?’

Gunnlaugur laughed. ‘Just show me what you’ve got. Then we clear out this filth.’

Klaive lay on the cot, his hands clasped across his chest, mouthing words from the catechisms. He knew them all, of course, but it was only recently that he’d begun to really believe them. You could go a long way in the Church without ever really believing very much at all, as long as you knew the right answers to the right questions, and always looked the part.

Now, though, he’d been forced to confront his own mortality, over and over again. He’d had time to think about the things he’d done, the bodies he’d trodden over, the tombs he’d sealed up. He didn’t regret much of it, not even now, except for the last few decisions he’d made – staying at Delvaux’s side once the decision had been taken to make an example of Kefa Primaris, underestimating how far the Wolves would go to avenge a perceived wrong.

Still, there was no changing the past. They’d kept him alive, and so he’d made use of the time, recalling everything he’d learned in the seminaries, putting it into a kind of order in his mind, attempting to make fresh sense of it. And it helped, after a while. For the first time ever, he began to see how the doctrines of the faith might appeal to the weak. He’d always despised the observant masses – their desperation, their clinging to relics and rumours of miracles – but, once put for a while in their position, he could understand a little more of how they thought.

He’d always believed in the Emperor, of course, and seen himself as doing the Throne’s work. Only now he could think of it as more personal, less about the grim calculus of world-death and sector-survival, more about divine intervention into the lives of His servants.

Now, his little world shook around him. Now, rust-flakes skittered across the metal plates of his cell as the Amethyst Suzeraine underwent its own form of purgatory. The ship had been attacked many times during his captivity. On some of those occasions he’d firmly believed death had come for him, and his mouthed benedictions had all been drawn from the Preparedness for Ascension manuals. This time felt different – more certain, more final. The impacts were so frequent, so close-packed, that it seemed impossible they’d last more than another hour or two.

This world, then, would likely be the one to end him. He’d even guided his captors here, so that had a kind of grim irony to it. Was there absolution for sins in life? Maybe, if there were, then this was his. He’d ended so very many souls, and been implicated in so very many exercises of dubious virtue, but perhaps this was a shabby kind of redemption, the only one he likely deserved.

And, of course, it looked probable that the Wolves were all going to die here, too. So that was doubly satisfying.

Then his cell door suddenly clanked. He raised his head – the bang had sounded nothing like the combat-noises from the hull, more like something set right outside.

He shuffled into a seated position, gingerly lowering his reddened ankles to the deck. If he’d had a weapon, he’d have reached for it.

Another clunk, then a high-pitched whine, then a flash of light under the door’s edge. The lock-panel – a hunk of iron the size of his head – emitted a puff of smoke and shunted open. The hatch creaked on its hinges, revealing a woman bearing the garb of Collaqua’s old corsair crew.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, shuffling back against the wall, guessing that they’d sent her to ensure he met his demise before the ship did.

‘Servant of the Divine Emperor,’ the woman said, hurrying inside and heaving the hatch closed behind her. Then she turned, made a fervent aquila, and bowed. ‘I’ve been waiting for a long time. Ever since I discovered who they’d brought on board with them.’

Klaive tensed. If she was going to kill him, he’d rather she just got on with it. ‘Oh?’

‘Bad enough to have to work for that pirate dog,’ she spat, with feeling. ‘Worse, to take orders from these strutting beasts. I used to work for the scholas, you see? That was honourable work. I’d always dreamed of getting out, doing it again. Of putting it all right.’

‘Forgive me, mamzel. I do not think I–’

‘I am Ejika Suaka,’ she said, speaking quickly, keeping her voice low. ‘Listen. We do not have much time. I have shut down the augurs, but they’ll be back up soon. There’s a saviour pod primed and ready on deck seventy-eight. Here’s a gun. Oh – your bonds. I’ve got the release here.’

She rummaged around in the backpack she’d pulled the autopistol from, and extracted a lock-breaker. It made short work of the manacles, and soon he was rubbing his ankles, trying to get blood back into them.

‘They wouldn’t understand the blasphemy they committed. I’d always wince, when they spoke about you, and they never noticed it. I’m sorry. For all of it.’

It was all so hard to process. It was all so totally unexpected. He hadn’t even prayed for something like this, not for months.

‘You have done well, my child,’ he said, feeling like he had to extemporise. What did she think he was, exactly? Some sort of saint? ‘I feel absolutely sure you were meant to do this.’

She smiled at him briefly, guiltily, handed him a ration pack, a set of overalls and a void-kit. ‘I don’t hate them. They’re ignorant, that’s all. But I had the chance, and I had to take it.’

Klaive got up, pulled the overalls on, checked out the weapon. ‘I sensed you coming for me. In my dreams. Even in our darkest moments, we are never alone. But, tell me, child – this is blessed, good work, but I confess that I do not see everything clearly. We are at war, right now, is that correct? What did you intend next?’

‘There’s an Ecclesiarchy squadron, static off the starboard quadrant. The Wolves will make for it now, because they have no choice. Launch now, the pod can make it across. It’ll be away before they notice a thing. You’ll be safe.’

Holy Throne. She’d worked it all out. Of course, he might be blown to atoms on the crossing, or annihilated by the Ecclesiarchy’s own guns before he got within range to hail, but it was worth a try. Anything was better than rotting in this corroding shit-heap while the Space Wolves’ own hubris saw it torn apart.

He reached for her, clasped her hand, squeezed it.

‘Perfect,’ he told her warmly. ‘But are you not worried, sister? For yourself, once they discover what you have done here?’

For the first time, she looked perplexed. ‘Why would they?’ she asked. ‘I’m coming with you.’

His heart sank. Why did the simpletons, the needy, the soul-weak, always need to cling to him like this? Why couldn’t they perform their service, and leave? What had he ever done to deserve this lingering, cloying company of fools?

Plenty, of course. He’d done plenty.

He smiled broadly, and squeezed her hand again.

‘Just what I hoped you would say,’ he told her. ‘So now, let us go – they will surely be on our heels in moments.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gunnlaugur liked this world. He liked the way it smelled, he liked its elemental violence. It would have been good to linger here, to make a stand, crack some skulls while the lightning fell and the fires burned. The whole place would fall soon, of course – that had already been decided – but the Space Wolves had always enjoyed a fate-filled stand, one that etched a worthy doom onto the sagas. It mattered not how you lived, but how you died – was it a good death? Were you standing, at the end, roaring defiance? Did your enemies lie in heaps at your feet? That was how Gunnlaugur intended to go, looking his foes in the eye, beckoning them to come again, to test claw against hammer one last time.

To be deprived of such an end was the only fate worthy of fearing. That was why this hunt meant so much. If Ingvar was right, and Gunnlaugur was sure he was, then many of his Chapter brothers had died for nothing, their threads cut by an enemy who had never showed his face. That had to be avenged, even if it cost the pack everything in the process. The name of Fenris might be hated, might be scorned, but could never be mocked.

He vaulted over the barricade, thudding hard into the deck beyond, immediately powering into the run that would bring him to the enemy. Behind him, Baldr followed close, running hard, shedding for a moment the stricken aura he’d taken on. They were both out on the right flank of the long deck, skirting the edge of the long drop into nothingness, speeding through a broken landscape of torn-up battlements and deck-plates.

At the precise same moment, Ingvar and Olgeir had broken out on the left flank, hugging the deep shadow of the rig’s soaring bulk. None of them had their disruptors kindled, and they went silently, keeping low, tearing across the ground like the smoke-gusts that went before and behind them.

Nefort had broken cover much earlier, and his troops were still advancing up the centre, racing between gaps in the plentiful cover, securing ground and regrouping before breaking out again. Their approach, though serviceably stealthy, had been detected by the enemy almost as soon as it had started. The renegades had responded instantly, cranking up their armour and trundling forward, each mobile piece flanked by jogging infantry platoons. The tanks moved up into shell range quickly, and started to pulverise the remains of the buildings in their path, angling their guns low and turning the deck into a maelstrom of flying masonry.

That suited the Space Wolves fine. The curtains of dust that surged up hid their advance. They tore past Nefort’s advance on either side, keeping well wide of their positions, before powering onwards towards the oncoming enemy.

Once they arrived, the traitors never stood a chance. Fully occupied with targeting the ranks of Ojada troopers ahead of them, the pincer movement from out of the smog caught them entirely unprepared. Gunnlaugur pounced first, setting Skulbrotsjór alight as he emerged from clouds of grey, blowing the dust apart as the energy field snapped into snarling existence. Baldr sprinted close at his shoulder, carrying his rune-carved power sword. Neither of them would waste a bolt on this calibre of enemy unless they had to. Ingvar and Olgeir broke out from the opposite side, similarly bearing blades. Given the signal, Nefort’s squads abandoned caution for a full-frontal advance, sweeping up through the wreckage to concentrate their las-fire into the centre of the enemy advance.

Gunnlaugur swung the hammer left to right, sweeping three startled enemy troopers from their feet and hurling them, broken, out over the rig’s edge. He opened his throat as he did so, roaring both hatred and challenge at them, making the debris shake underfoot.

Baldr darted ahead of him, slashing with what looked like wild blade-movements, but that were angled with optimal precision. He broke through a knot of cultist fighters, slaying them quickly and driving a path towards the closest of the tanks.

The enemy were dressed in Imperial uniforms, a mix of them, some that might once have been Militarum, others that were worker-drab or vehicle crew, motley and torn, defaced with stitched-on emblems of foul patrons. Their faces, where visible, were sore-encrusted or bloated, distorted and scar-crossed, mutilated with metalwork or carved open down to the bone. Their death cries were like bird’s calls, or abattoir beasts under the knife, and their stench penetrated even over the fug of spilled oil.

Gunnlaugur killed another fighter with a second swipe, then more, then more, taking pleasure in each cleaving of atrophied flesh. Skulbrotsjór flew freely around him, tracing heavy arcs, leaving streamer-trails of gore that cooked out on the crackling disruptor-flare.

He and Baldr reached the first tank at the same time, neither speaking to one another, just reacting the way they always did – with instinct, aligning around one another, blades blurred from speed and heft. A gunner in the high turret tried to angle his machine-cannon at Baldr, who leapt up, one foot on the chassis, wrenching the barrel from its mount and flinging it aside. Gunnlaugur slammed his thunder hammer into the nearside tracks, driving them inward, before reaching in with a free fist and hauling the segment-chain free of the housing, causing the entire vehicle to keel over on its axis.

They didn’t even need to use grenades. Baldr clambered across the tank’s roof, ripping open panels to get at the crew below. Gunnlaugur smashed his way down to the promethium tanks, using his thunder hammer’s energy field to ignite the reservoir. By the time the two of them were done, loping onwards to the next target, the tank had blown itself apart, sending heavy metal components spinning high into the air.

There was nowhere for the enemy to go. The deck was a mess of collapsed masonry, hindering a retreat. In any case, they couldn’t possibly move fast enough – when they tried, they were run down, hauled back, necks broken, spines snapped. Nefort’s las-barrage kept them pinned while the Wolves did the real killing, rampaging through the lines with a hunger born of long void-confinement. Soon the rubble was painted red, the artillery pieces reduced to scrap, the vehicles hollowed out, the avenue to the landing stages cleared.

Only at the end of it did the pack unite again, joining up on the far side of the apron, their armour glistening and their weapons sizzle-hot.

‘Hjá!’ cried Olgeir, flexing his powerful arms, throwing them wide and laughing savagely. ‘By my bones, that was fighting.’

‘Aye, you looked like you were enjoying yourself,’ said Ingvar, amused, shaking down his own blade.

Nefort’s forces caught up, marching gingerly across territory they’d recently conceded, looking shocked to see that it still existed at all. The landing stages appeared reasonably intact, though the corpses of Ojada troopers hung from the perimeter palisades in clusters, stripped of their uniforms, many showing clear signs of excruciation. A few atmospheric transports still stood on the far edge, enough to take what remained of Nefort’s command off the rig.

‘Now get out, colonel,’ Gunnlaugur told him, once he had made his way into their midst. ‘Get out, get off-world if you can.’

Nefort hesitated, as if trying to work out if that was some kind of trick – a test of devotion, the kind of thing a commissar might pull. But it only took a glance upward, out to where the rest of the burn-off spires thundered and the crowds poured, screaming, across the disintegrating viaducts and crosswalks, to see that the rig-city above them was already overrun.

He swallowed, stood as tall as he could, and made the aquila. ‘May the Throne preserve you, lord.’

Then his troops were running and hobbling towards the remaining transports, dragging their wounded and their ration-crates with them.

‘They’ll be lucky to get five miles,’ said Olgeir, watching them go.

‘Maybe,’ said Baldr. ‘But they’ve been lucky once already.’

Gunnlaugur stalked across the apron, towards the inner perimeter, where the jutting landing pads branched off from the main trunk of the rig-city’s bulk. He looked at the terraces of the main spire running up and up, all of them spewing smoke. Viaducts led inward, both up and down, connecting with the stacked terraces and platforms within. The haze of battle made it hard to pick out details, but the scale of the destruction was clear enough. Even as they watched, a big control nexus on the far side of the high spire imploded, its inner decks collapsing, the entire structure sliding down into the sea in a riot of flame and spewed-out dust.

‘The main terminals should be up ahead,’ said Gunnlaugur, his helm-lenses cycling through the filth, zooming and augmenting. ‘Five levels, northern sector, beyond that processor column.’

It was hard to imagine anything much remaining intact so high up, but then the Ecclesiarchy had sent down some heavy transports, with enough firepower, perhaps, to keep the hordes at bay for a few hours yet.

‘Running short on time,’ said Ingvar. ‘Do you have a clear path?’

Gunnlaugur did – Nefort’s cartoliths gave him a rapid ascent, one that took them right to the heart of the orbital receptor platforms. But he wasn’t looking at that – he was looking at Baldr, who had moved past the perimeter, going stealthily, his hackles up.

‘What have you seen?’ Gunnlaugur asked.

For a moment, Baldr said nothing. He stood, motionless, appearing as if he was drinking in the vista of ruin before him, soaking up the madness of it. Gunnlaugur half-expected him to start walking again, like some revenant, dream-stumbling onward. He almost reached for his weapon, just as Olgeir was already doing.

But then Baldr spoke – clearly, no slurring, entirely himself.

‘Quadrant five-six-three,’ he said. ‘I almost missed it.’

Gunnlaugur zoomed in on the coordinates, his armour-systems locking on and filtering the muck from the viewfield. Even then, it was hard to make out at first – a grainy mess of overlapping image-gauzes.

But then he got it. He saw what it was, where it was, where it was going, what it had already done. Within moments it would be between them and the objective, carving its way upward, the first, perhaps, of very many due to arrive here. It was as hateful to him as anything that drew breath, the breathing, walking embodiment of everything he had been schooled to loathe. Just watching it move – its glossy armour, its heavy tread, its sapphire lens-glow – made his fangs itch.

‘Just one of them, you think?’ said Ingvar, his voice a low growl. ‘It’s going our way,’

This made things harder. The longer they remained in this place, the harder they would get.

‘Heavy-Hand, Fjolnir, take it out,’ Gunnlaugur ordered. ‘Gyrfalkon, come with me. Let’s finish this.’

Bjargborn toiled as hard as he had ever toiled. Jorundur was pushing them all remorselessly, but then he needed to – this void-battle had turned into a bruising, grinding horror show in all directions. Every passing moment saw another ship either destroyed or withdraw crippled, most of them Imperial. The only reason the Amethyst Suzeraine was still alive was its late arrival to the carnage, and that meagre advantage was slipping away fast.

Jorundur shouted out orders from his throne while the bridge bounced and boomed around them all. The armaglass flashed from the detonations in the void, sending shadows swinging crazily across the cracked decks. Servitors carried on mutely, just as always, but the human crew were starting to lose their composure, yelling down order-tubes or slamming their fists in frustration on the control consoles.

Ahead of them, looming larger than before, was the Ecclesiarchy squadron, an island of stability in a turbulent sea of destruction. The warships were holding formation admirably, dishing out huge quantities of defensive las-fire. Their captain must have had nerves of steel to remain at anchor in such a frenzied warzone, but then they certainly had the guns to back up their position, at least for the time being.

Bjargborn had already implemented Jorundur’s principal orders, giving the ship what it need to bring them racing hard under the squadron’s shadow. The Amethyst Suzeraine’s plasma drives were still firing, albeit erratically, and their slingshot momentum from the troposphere manoeuvre had sent them barrelling along at a cracking rate, just enough to keep the pursuing barrage from their death’s-head pursuer from tearing the weakened aft hull-plates off. Now he was working furiously on the augur arrays, trying to coax more than rudimentary sensor coverage back.

And it was only then that he saw it. The impacts had been real, the damage to the void shields had been real, but – yes, he was sure of it – the disruption to the sensors hadn’t been.

‘Lieutenant?’ he voxed urgently.

Nothing came back. That wasn’t interference. She’d turned her comm-bead off.

Bjargborn ran a quick locator-trace, and got nothing back. Then he overrode the malfunction alerts she’d put into the grid, and the Amethyst Suzeraine’s augur coverage started to flicker back into life, one array after the other.

‘Thank the Allfather,’ Jorundur grunted, as the lenses relit around him. ‘Track for incoming major projectiles, but keep us boosting.’

But Bjargborn couldn’t do that. He had a sick, cold feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He had to find her. Deck by deck, he ran the anomaly checks.

‘Shipmaster!’ Jorundur called to him. ‘Acknowledge, then enact.’

Bjargborn stood up, twisting around so he could address the throne directly. ‘She’s taken him, lord. They’re headed for the saviour-pod decks.’

It was all he needed to say. Hafloí was running even before he’d finished the sentence, his heavy bootfalls making the decks shiver. Jorundur glared back, outraged, his voice instantly curdling with fury. ‘Hel’s teeth! Shut the launch decks down, then! Shut them all down!’

Of course, Bjargborn couldn’t do that, not immediately. Suaka had known more about the ship’s systems than anyone – that had been why they had kept her on – and every control-link on the bridge was disabled.

So he started to run himself, tearing after Hafloí, nearly losing his footing as the deck pitched and yawed, scrambling towards the rear archway and the maglevs down to the operations decks. His heart was already beating faster than before. Should he have suspected her? She’d never given any kind of hint of treachery – had she?

You don’t have to like it, do you? she’d said. Just keep your head down.

But why do it? Why do anything to preserve that rat? Why risk a life for someone so evidently odious, so unconnected with her life and duties, when she had been treated well – something she’d admitted herself?

The questions crowded in his mind as he coursed through the decks, piling into an elevator and sending it racing down the access shafts. Every corridor was crowded with bodies running from one station to another, calling out orders, hauling munitions or equipment from station to station. The lumens kept blowing as the power fluctuated, and the entire hull-structure felt just a hair’s breadth away from coming apart around him. The impacts kept landing – great booms that ran the length of the ship, testament to the continued pounding they were taking from outside. Bjargborn had seen the state of the surviving void shields before leaving his station, and dreaded to think how much longer they would hold out. Either Jorundur piloted them into some kind of refuge soon, or the rat might be the only one of them to get out of this thing alive.

The elevator clanged to a halt, the doors jerked open, and he was running again, sprinting along a narrow companionway before tumbling down into a wider corridor, one with twin rows of lumen-glowing hatches down the left-hand side complete with ladders, handholds and dispatch levers. The atmosphere-breach alarms were already going off, which gave him a further twinge of panic.

He reached an intersection and skidded around it, just in time to see Hafloí smashing his armoured fist against a bulkhead in frustration. A woman lay on the deck, the remains of her head blasted across the metalwork. Bjargborn didn’t need to recognise the features to know who it was.

You fool, Suaka.

One of the pods was missing, its tube’s access hatch sealed but whistling still from the decompression at its terminus.

Hafloí rounded on him. ‘Too late,’ he snarled.

Bjargborn grabbed a status-lens from the wall-panel and punched up a read-out. ‘One saviour pod launched. Coordinates set from here. It’s code-locked to the Immaculate Destiny.’

Hafloí mag-locked his axe to his thigh-plate, clunked his palm against a release-valve, and headed for the next pod along. ‘You can replicate that tasking, yes?’

Bjargborn stared at him. ‘Replicate that… I mean, yes. Yes, I can, lord.’

‘Do it.’ Hafloí wrenched open the tube’s hatch, and fresh warning alarms blared out.

‘Lord, there is no guarantee that–’ He stopped then. What was the point? The master would know the risks more than him – Bjargborn’s only function was to serve. ‘By your will.’

‘What in Hel, whelp?’ he heard Jorundur’s caustic voice over the comm.

‘I’m going after it,’ Hafloí replied coolly, clambering into the pod’s entry hatch before cutting the link. The last Bjargborn saw before the hatch rammed closed was the helm, still bleached pale, smeared with ash and rune-outlines, strobing under the interior lumens of the pod cockpit as it counted down to launch.

He returned to the control panel, ensuring that Hafloí’s pod had the same trajectory and machine-spirit taskings as the rat’s had. As he keyed in the instructions, he reflected that Suaka had probably done just the same thing, only moments earlier, the last action she’d ever taken.

He pressed home the final sequence, twisted the valves closed and hit the enact rune. The pod’s tube housing hissed wildly, the air inside the launch capillary venting rapidly, before the burners on the far side of the locked hatch ignited. With a thud of releasing clamps, the pod was loosed, thundering down the tube in a riot of thruster-flare and out of the hull.

Bjargborn drew in a deep breath. ‘The Hand of Russ,’ he murmured. ‘May it surely guard you.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The two of them ran swiftly from the evac-point, Ingvar and Gunnlaugur, climbing fast from the transport stage and heading up into the tangled maze of the rig’s interior. It didn’t take long to encounter more traitor fighters, kitted out much as the others had been, all in the process of looting or slaughter. The Space Wolves killed them where they found them, but did not linger over it. The levels passed in rapid succession – burned-out hab-units in bleak rows butted up against ferrocrete supporting columns, deserted pumping stations crammed with rows of chronos and pressure-valves, wind-blasted observer platforms ringed with thick pipe-runs and churning mixer-silos. They raced up creaking metal ladders, hand over hand, ever upwards, ever inwards, the salt-edged storm wind following them in and vying with the hot blasts from the inner fires.

Eventually they emerged high up on the northern edge of the rig-city. An open vista yawned away before them – an unimpeded view of the fire-edged ocean and its ranks of darkened platforms, all buffeted by the crash of wind-whipped waves, all surrounded by mixed columns of steam and smoke. The aerial combat had lessened in intensity as the defenders were winnowed out. Even as they watched, a pair of Ojada defence fighters ploughed into the water, exploding on impact and scattering wreckage across the glowing slicks. One by one, the rigs were becoming pyres.

Directly ahead of them was a far broader and more substantial set of landing platforms – octagons of raw ferrocrete more than three hundred yards across, overlooked by a brace of fortified control towers and ringed with high flaywire-tipped defensive parapets. Six heavy military-grade landers stood out in the open, still steaming from their orbital journey, tied down with cabling and guarded by several dozen soldiers in crimson armour with gilt detailing and high helms. Those guards looked well armed, carrying what looked like Militarum-issue lasrifles. A few of them had flamers, others projectile weapons.

About fifty more of them were occupied on the extreme far edge of the compound. Beyond those far walls, the screams and shrieks of onrushing traitors could just be heard over the engine-growl and gale-whine. To the left-hand side, the view of the open sky was blocked by the largest of the control towers – a many-tiered, blocky, slit-windowed bunker culminating in a mass of sensor vanes and twin-linked lascannons.

Ingvar slid down into cover, keeping his head low and his body pressed against a thick upright in the compound’s perimeter fence. Gunnlaugur did the same behind another column, scanning through the slats.

‘Frateris Militia?’ he said. ‘Or armsmen from the battle cruiser?’

Ingvar let his helm zoom in closer, cycling from one guard to the next. ‘Too well armed for militia. Unless they’re getting more brazen than ever.’

‘No one’s keeping an eye on them, this far out.’

Gunnlaugur glanced over to his left, to the main tower. The only obvious access was a broad gateway studded with guns, security lumens, hovering servo-skulls and more crimson-armoured guards. A series of troop carriers, also liveried in red and gold, lumbered under the arch, waved through by more of the guards. A brace of gun-servitors stalked jerkily in the lee of the sloping walls, their shoulder-mounted cannons tracking silently.

‘It’ll take some time to chew through all that,’ Ingvar said, his thumb shifting up to his blade’s energy field trigger.

‘I don’t see another way in.’

‘Agreed. So how do you want to run this?’

Before Gunnlaugur could answer, a huge explosion rocked the northern edge of the compound. The shrieks of the rampaging traitors grew in volume, and more detonations went off beyond the far gun towers. Ingvar craned to get a look, and saw the linked lascannons swivelling to get a shot away northwards. As the neon beams scythed out, orders were shouted, and personnel carriers swivelled around, rumbling straight towards the source of the disturbance. Several guard squads, including one that had been stationed under the shadow of the gates, broke from their patrol routes and raced northwards.

‘I guess we take what fate hands us,’ Gunnlaugur said, thumbing his thunder hammer into life and leaping to his feet.

Ingvar moved with him, taking two frag grenades from his belt and hurling them over the perimeter. They sailed past the moored landers and exploded some distance beyond them, rocking the deck and sending rolling balls of flame out over the rockcrete. That diverted the attention of the already-depleted compound guards, prompting more yelled orders and hurried redeployment, by which time Gunnlaugur was smashing his way through the fencing. Skulbrotsjór, its heavy head blazing, made short work of the defence-plates. Once the fixings were shattered, Gunnlaugur shouldered through the remains, pushing clear onto the far side in a shower of rubble and metal splinters.

They covered the ground rapidly to the gates. Servo-skulls detected them the instant they were through the perimeter, and a flurry of raking las-fire broke out in their direction, skipping and pinging off the deck. The Space Wolves veered between it, swerving around the worst before reaching the first of the gate’s defenders. Ingvar danced around a slow-moving gun-servitor, selling it a swerve before jinking back and smashing his gauntlet into its blank face. Gunnlaugur careered into two of the armsmen at once, breaking legs with a low swipe of his thunder hammer then swinging down to crunch through twin breastplates.

The remaining guards retreated, signalling the alarm and calling for backup. Their panicked las-fire couldn’t all be evaded, but it was too slow, too erratic, singeing their armour but never slowing them. Ingvar and Gunnlaugur had fought alongside one another for decades, and knew one another’s movements so perfectly that they almost became a single target for the enemy – a combined entity that moved in a dazzle-pattern of plasma-blur and whirling blades. Just then, they fought as they had done in the years before their long separation, free of any thought but slaying.

As they reached the gate, the guards attempted to lower the blast-doors. Ingvar switched to a brief bolter-blast to clear the approach while Gunnlaugur took out the panel operators. Then they were inside, sprinting through the dark, into a low-roofed interior that smelled, like everywhere else on that rig, of blood and oil in equal measure.

It wasn’t long before they saw the bodies. Crimson-armoured guards, just like the ones they were still fighting, sprawled out on the decks in bloody piles. Those still standing fought back, where they could, but in the dark confines of the interior the Wolves were ferocious and gave them no quarter. Strewn amid the bodies of the armsmen were other corpses, harder to spot in the gloom, wearing what looked like black, close-fitting carapace battleplate.

‘What is this, now?’ Gunnlaugur asked, lashing Skulbrotsjór into a squad of retreating guards before rampaging down a long antechamber after them. ‘Archenemy? Already inside?’

Ingvar returned to bladework, his sword flaring in the shadows. He stole a few glances at the flash-framed corpses on the deck. There were many fewer of the black-clad warriors, and their livery was strange – highly engineered plates, lined with thin edges of silver, evidence of unusual weapons in their gauntlets. There weren’t many of them. Had they been fighting alongside the armsmen? Against them? They didn’t look anything like the traitor rabble encountered so far, but you could never be sure – the enemy possessed warriors from a thousand worlds and a thousand warbands.

‘Something’s strange here,’ was all he said, driving onward, focusing his mind on the deadly movement of his blade, keeping the momentum going.

‘Aye, that it is,’ grunted Gunnlaugur, breaking through into an assembly area – a vaulted chamber riven with las-blast marks and blasted supporting beams – and racing onward towards a steep set of bloodied stairs. Light bled down from the level above, and the sounds of movement, and shouting, and guns opening up in desperate volleys. Nefort’s cartoliths identified the level above as the command centre, the heart of the complex. ‘Not far, now. We pick up the pace.’

Despite it all, Ingvar smiled to himself then. They were already tearing through the resistance at a truly blistering rate, streaking towards the location they had burned planetwards to find. Gunnlaugur’s impatience to end this, given the carnage they had already inflicted, felt almost obsessional.

But then Ingvar shared that obsession too. He had been the first to succumb to it, out in the hot sands of another doomed world, and it had been through him that the entire pack now shared it. Now, finally, he could dare to hope that they were drawing close to its source, to the fountainhead of it all, the place where the secret had started, and the place where it would be extinguished.

So all he said was, ‘Aye, vaerangi,’ a note of tight eagerness catching in his throat, and the rate of murder duly increased.

Olgeir charged down the gang-ramp, his boots resounding from the stressed metal, his shoulder-guards scraping under the low roof above him. Baldr came just behind, sprinting to keep up.

Neither of them spoke. Both had switched to bolters. They ignored those they witnessed on the way down, whether rampaging cultist or fleeing Imperial citizen. Only one living soul held their attention.

The release of combat had, for a time, been something like joy. To wield weapons, to slay the foes of the Allfather – this was why they had been made. They needed to exercise those muscles, to keep sharp, to kindle the war-spirits that had been fused deep into their blood and soul. The traitor rabble they had cleansed from the evac-point had been nothing more than that – an exercise, a way to stretch their limbs and loosen their joints.

This was different. Now, every movement was made with perfect deliberation. Their twin hearts both beat hard, flooding their systems with hyperadrenaline. When the moment came, there would be no joy now, only intense hatred, perfect concentration.

Olgeir swerved around the corner at the base of the ramp and careered along another enclosed corridor. A few mortals trying to go the other way were barged aside at speed, flung into the inner walls as if hit by a skidding groundcar.

‘I have a fix,’ Baldr voxed.

‘So do I,’ Olgeir replied, his voice a tight snarl. ‘It’s reached the bridge.’

They were so high up by then that the rig structure was like a crown of thorns around them – interlaced pinnacles of comm-spires and hab-towers, all strung together by a network of high-slung bridges and maglev tracks. Some of the interconnectors were flimsy, traversed only by chain-tethered servitors as the winds screamed around them, but others were heavy-beamed viaducts, crammed with ground traffic in normal times, their walkways stuffed with crowds of shuffling workers. One of these was the intercept point, the route leading from the burning interior out to the orbital landing platforms – a many-arched ferrocrete bridge, multi-laned, stack-tiered, overlooked by high towers and swathed in thick clouds of acrid smoke.

Now it was desolate, punched with craters, its asphalt surface broken up like choppy waves. Blackened vehicle chassis peppered the deck surface, some private units, some empty personnel carriers. A ruined tank was embedded in the viaduct’s structure some way down, teetering over the steep drop, its engine compartment still on fire. Warriors rampaged across the viaduct, scuttling in ramshackle units from cover-point to cover-point, all of them wearing ragged traitor uniforms. None of those were worth a damn – they were the chaff of this invasion, the disposable fodder sent down to overwhelm mortal defences.

But among them came a different proposition entirely. It was taller even than the Wolves, bloated upward and outward by long exposure to fell energies. Its armour plate was ancient, cracked and changed, but still bearing the surface colour of its long allegiance – turquoise, marred by discolouration, semi-glossy like antique shellac. The icon of the hydra was still visible on its thick shoulder-guard, picked out in faded white ink. It carried a fine-looking bolt pistol in one fist, embellished with ivory chasing and glowing from its heat-outtake. It carried a short-bladed power axe in the other, which crackled with a thick sleeve of disruptor energy. It advanced ponderously, its cloven hooves making the asphalt crease.

The mortal warriors kept well away from it – those in front ran harder, those behind hung back. The very air about it seemed charged, as if quickened with radiation or thickened with spores. Its movements occasionally blurred, not from speed, but from something uncanny in its aura – a shift, maybe, fractionally, into a shadow-realm of broken possibilities.

Olgeir charged straight at it, never missing a beat. Baldr switched out left, running just as hard as before. Both opened fire with their bolters, dousing it in a drum roll of hits and surrounding its armour in messy splash-patterns of blown sparks.

It fired back instantly, snapping off rounds that made both of them swerve and duck. Even while smothered in a rain of mass-reactive impacts, it somehow kept firing, never making any effort to evade, just marching onward. Olgeir saw the lacquer blasted off its armour, gouging lines of grey-silver ceramite, but still it waded onward, clad in a jump-cut cloak of interference. It looked to be half shifting in and out of existence – shrouding, stuttering, lurching a hand’s breadth to one side, then jerking forward, back, stooping or rising.

‘Blades,’ Baldr said, weaving his way through the vicious rain of bolt-shells.

‘Aye, make it bleed,’ Olgeir agreed, mag-locking Sigrún and drawing his own short-handled axe.

The gap between them shrank to nothing. The creature stowed its bolt pistol and brought up its own axe, a master-crafted piece that left a smear of heat-shimmer in the air behind it. The three blades clashed into a pyramid of explosive energy, throwing out a blast wave that sent the ash bouncing for twenty yards in all directions.

Olgeir put all his strength into the blow – two-handed, heavy as lead bars, aimed at the creature’s neck-joint. Baldr swiped in low, driving at the cabling under the breastplate. Impossibly, the enemy managed to block both, the outline of its arm flickering as if on a faulty vid-feed, before it threw them both off and came back at them.

The creature’s own blows were perfectly aimed, fast, just as heavy as theirs, surrounded in that corona of diffusion that made them hard to pick, hard to defend. Olgeir and Baldr hacked and parried, their limbs pumping, stepping back, leaning in, dropping to a knee before powering back up, going for the opening. The three of them created an enclosed vortex of movement, fast as thought, making the outside universe an irrelevance of sluggish ineptitude. This was pure Astartes combat, uncompromising, motivated by powerful and eternal hatreds.

The flurry of blows was titanic. The decks flew to slivers under them, the smoke clouds were driven into whirling threads. Two of the fighters operated purely on the physical plane, but the third had something else, something esoteric, something that made its orientation strange, its movements somehow superpositioned.

That gave it the edge. After a blistering exchange in which its armour was lacerated by a diagonal down-drag from Olgeir, it seemed to shift horizontally by a blade’s-width, adjusted posture in a microsecond, raised its arms, then crashed its axe-head down.

The blade hit Olgeir on the shoulder-guard in a cataclysm of released energy, throwing him backwards. Olgeir braced to kill the momentum, but the ground beneath him cracked open, riven by wriggling slivers of force. He teetered for a fraction of a second before an entire section of the deck collapsed, taking him down amid a billowing plume of thrown-out dust and flame.

Baldr had to shift fast to avoid being sucked down too, fighting all the while, keeping the creature at bay with a whirr of parries. The collar at his neck was burning now, searing through his armour as if it were made of silk rather than ceramite.

The creature fought on, hammering at him, slicing at him, pushing him back, step by step, manoeuvring him closer, closer to the looming edge. And then, for the first time, something other than ragged breathing came out of its slanted vox-grille.

‘Son of Russ,’ it said, the voice a bizarre mix of machine-grind and saliva-thick slurring. ‘You should not be here.’

Baldr fought back. His arms were flooded with lactic acid, his twin hearts thudding hard and fast. He was aware of the drop behind him, and felt the deck flex underfoot as the impacts weakened it. It was all he could to evade annihilation, let alone shift the contest back to firmer ground.

‘You must be lost,’ the creature said, musingly, its limbs still punching, scything, jittering. ‘You must have been lost for a long time.’

Baldr’s heels grazed up against the viaduct’s kerb, and he felt the whistle of the wind at his back. One more strike would send him over. He tried to resist the crushing weight, to find a way through, to turn the tide. As he did so, his vision began to shake, to rip away at the edges.

‘But I was not lost, Son of Russ,’ the creature said, giving away neither pleasure nor sorrow, just a kind of intoxicated slide of words over words, as if reeled from some infernal machine-feed. ‘I was there. On your mountains. On your ice floes. Would you like to see what we did to them?’

The collar went white-hot then, blotting out the light from all other sources, throwing out snaking whips of pale flame. Baldr had to fight to retain consciousness, let alone resist the flurries of incoming blows from the axe. Visions started to crowd in, pushing out the real world, overlapping and cycling in mad succession.

‘We did this, Son of Russ,’ the creature hissed, pressing in for the kill. ‘We did this.’

Baldr roared in pain and fury, kicking back, putting everything into one final, desperate push. His sword-blade shattered the visions, plunging through them like glass, finally biting deep. Thrown off balance by the unexpected breakthrough, he thrashed onwards, trying to press the advantage.

‘Ware your blade, brother!’ roared Olgeir, looming back up out of the vision-tendrils, covered in rubble-dust and with a half-severed shoulder-guard. ‘I’m not gone yet.’

Baldr didn’t have time to wonder how Olgeir was back, nor why he was back, so just fought on, angling his onrushing sword-edge so as not to take out his own battle-brother.

But it was Olgeir who did the real damage, crunching his gauntlet out and catching the creature full in the face, followed by a succession of close-range axe-strikes that tore clean into its witch-forged armour. That broke the spell, stilling the visions and banishing the strange dislocation effects, enabling both of them to pile in further, never giving it a moment to recover, ripping out cables, slashing through connective membranes, releasing gouts of the foul gases that fermented within its ruined shell, stamping on it as it tried to rise, hacking down, slamming down, again, again, until the blood ran black from its ravaged, exposed flesh and the last gurgled heaves for air gave out.

Finally, panting heavily, sheened in sweat, the two of them stood over the broken corpse. Olgeir dropped to one knee, hauling in breaths.

‘Eye of Morkai!’ he chuckled. ‘Just one hand-grip! That’s all I had. On another day, I’d still be falling.’

Baldr couldn’t laugh. His collar had stopped raging, but the pain remained, seared on the flesh of his neck. Worse than that, he could hardly see. The creature’s projections still crowded over one another in his mind, as vivid as if real.

He lowered himself down, leaning onto his hands, shaking his head from side to side, trying to clear them.

‘Brother,’ said Olgeir, suddenly serious. ‘Are you injured?’

For a few moments, he couldn’t speak. All he could see were the boiling seas, the silver lightning in ice-dark skies, the laughter on the frozen wind.

‘It is gone,’ he gasped, balling his fists, trying to recover, his nostrils full of the stench of the dead traitor that lay before him. ‘All gone. Ruins.’

‘What is?’

Baldr looked up at him, feeling sick with the horror of it, sick with the certainty that it was true. ‘Fenris. They’ve sacked Fenris.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

He had genuinely hesitated over killing her.

It would have been safer, probably, to keep her alive for the crossing, seeing as how she had known so much about the ship and its systems. Right at the end, as she’d completed the machine-spirit incantation and inputted the trajectory data, he’d stayed his hand, looking at the way she was concentrating so hard, her eyes bright with the certainty of what she was doing. From their brief snatches of conversation on the hurried route down to the saviour-pod banks, he’d learned more of her life and character. She had always been devoted, he discovered. She’d read the catechisms in private, learning them by heart, becoming convinced that one day she would find a way to put them into practice. It must have been hard to have lived that life under the corsair captain. It must have been almost as hard to have done so under the rule of the Space Wolves, who had never cared much for orthodox devotion. So that was all very impressive. He wasn’t blind to such considerations. He admired her. And, in all likelihood, he owed her his life.

In the end, though, you had to make the hard choices. Once he got to the Immaculate Destiny – assuming he made it – it would look strange to be in the company of a random, non-Ecclesiarchy officer. He would have to explain why she was with him. She might want to talk for herself. And that would make things complicated – he wasn’t sure yet how he was going to explain his presence in Ojada, or how it would go with the authorities on the battleship, who might have been drawn from any one of a hundred different factions within the labyrinthine Church hierarchy. It was too much of a risk to keep her, just in case she said or did something stupid.

Still, she had died for a just cause. Her soul was with the Emperor now, and all he had really done was hasten that process. It was a shame, of course, something he could genuinely regret a little, but unquestionably the correct thing to have done.

Right now, however, he had other things on his mind. The saviour pod was a tiny thing – a capsule of metal barely sixty feet long. He was strapped in tightly to a long ridge running down its centre, his limbs bound against metal clasps and his neck padded. Even so, the experience was horrendous – the centrifugal forces were colossal as the pod corkscrewed and twisted its way towards the objective, auto-avoiding explosions and incoming fire-lanes the whole time. It felt like his internal organs would be shaken loose, his teeth scattered across the low-grav interior, his knuckles rubbed raw. Months of confinement had eroded what little physical condition he’d originally possessed, and he felt like he might pass out at any moment, or vomit, or both.

He couldn’t see anything. There were no viewscreens, just a few tiny rune-displays telling him things he couldn’t understand. He could hear nothing but the roar of the directional thrusters, feel nothing other than the buck and slew of the pod’s progress. It was like being locked inside some uniquely awful sensory-deprivation chamber. For all he knew, the rest of the galaxy had ceased to exist, leaving only this echoing, vibrating, roaring hell-room.

In truth, though, the transit time was only short. Saviour pods travelled at impressive speeds for as long as their fuel cells lasted, aimed at making planetfall as quickly as possible. The void distance between the Amethyst Suzeraine and the Immaculate Destiny was, by the time of launch, not great. Though buffeted by proximal plasma-bursts, soon it was racing into contact with the battleship, all the while broadcasting the cipher-codes Klaive had given Suaka, the ones identifying the occupant as being a high-ranking Ecclesiarchy official in need of assistance. Without that, the certainty was that the saviour pod would have either been shot out of the void or smashed across void shields.

He tried to relax, to unclench his rattling teeth, to keep his fingers from fusing to the handholds. At any moment, he expected to feel the hot rush of flame, followed by the icy oblivion of space.

Neither occurred. The first he knew of the change was an alteration in engine-pitch – a huge rise in volume, as if the thrusters had passed through a narrow tunnel. Then came the shuddering, bone-jarring deceleration, followed by a crunching halt that sent his head driving back into the padding. After that came alarms, the muffled sound of shouts, boots clanging overhead, the whine of cranes and drills. He felt nausea rise up in his gorge, and struggled to keep from vomiting. He blinked hard, trying to remain fully conscious, flexing his aching muscles inside the restraints.

The hatch was twisted open, and two guards wearing crimson battleplate piled inside. One, dressed in a captain’s uniform, pointed a laspistol at his forehead, the other scanned the interior for other occupants.

‘Code-sequence,’ the captain ordered.

Klaive told him, trying to make his voice more than a strangled squeak, hoping he’d remembered it correctly. The guard paused for a few seconds, evidently sending a request for confirmation higher up, then nodded.

They pulled him out of his restraints, looking warily at his dirty overalls and general state of dishevelment. He was given something for his nausea, a cup of water, then moved onto a mag-train for transmission to the upper levels.

‘Your pod’s origin-point was unmarked,’ the captain told him as the unit rattled down the tunnels. ‘It was almost destroyed, even with the codes received. Where did you eject from?’

By then, Klaive was beginning to recover himself a little. The next few moments were important. He was a confessor of the Imperial Cult, a figure of heft and dignity, counsellor to cardinals and canonesses. If he was to survive, then chart a course to redemption, he would have to act like it.

‘I will speak to your commander only,’ Klaive said, not deigning to look at the man. ‘Until then, remain silent.’

The captain hesitated, and for a moment looked like he might press the issue. Eventually, though, he turned away, gazing stonily ahead, saying nothing. The mag-train juddered onward in silence after that. Habits of deference in the Ecclesiarchy ran deep.

Klaive was taken higher up, escorted at every stage by a platoon of armsmen. He took a look at their insignia when he got the chance – he didn’t recognise it, but that meant very little. This was clearly the personal ship of a cardinal, and there were thousands of those, all powerful in their own right, some commanding huge fleets and military assets. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said they were of the Terran Holy Synod rather than the Ophelian division, perhaps close to the Throneworld itself. The equipment he saw was good, and the forces mustered were significant. Unlike the Amethyst Suzeraine, which clanged like an empty censer every time it was hit, the Immaculate Destiny appeared to be weathering the storm well, with barely a sign of the riotous destruction going on outside penetrating to its cavernous interior.

That all changed when they reached the highest tier of the command bridge. The space was huge, thronged with hundreds of staff working in tight-packed ranks. A great armaglass roof yawned away above the operational decks, barred with lead and crystal, giving a panoramic view of the carnage over Ojada. Ships wheeled and dived before them, some burning, some discharging weapons, all surrounded with flashes and plumes of light. The stricken planet itself occupied the lower third, an arc of blood-blotched orange laced with black bars of soot and ash. The decks underfoot trembled at regular intervals as the battle cruiser opened fire, briefly outshining all other light-sources as its gun decks were unleashed.

Armsmen were everywhere, all decked out in the crimson and gold. Klaive was escorted up a wide flight of marble steps to where the whitestone command throne stood under a wall of gold-leaf statuary. Candles burned in iron stands, throwing warm, flickering illumination across the finery. Heavy embroidered drapes hung down from frames in the high vaults, all depicting scenes from the lives of saints and martyrs. Priests moved reverently among the crew, followed by hovering skulls and shuffling incense servitors, murmuring benedictions as they went.

Ahead of the throne stood the battle cruiser’s senior counsellors and commanders – more than thirty men and women decked out in absurdly elaborate ceremonial armour. His escort brought him into the heart of the group, presenting him to the one obviously in charge.

‘My lord cardinal,’ the armsman captain said, bowing low. ‘The occupant of the saviour pod. Confessor, this is Cardinal Axith Orquemond.’

The man he addressed was nearly a head taller than all those around him. He wore heavy golden armour, finely made and decorated, giving a bulk and presence only a little less than a Space Marine. A thick velvet cloak, trimmed with ermine, hung from broad shoulder-guards, and a longsword in an ebon scabbard hung at his belt. He went unhelmed, and his bald head was earth brown, with tight features and pale green eyes.

He was a warlike man, clearly; a man more at home in the thick of battle than the cloisters of a cathedral. Many cardinals were like that, given the times they lived in. Delvaux had not been. When this one spoke, his voice was calm, almost scholarly in its precision, but the self-command it betrayed was absolute.

‘Confessor,’ Orquemond said, inclining his severe head a little. ‘Throne be praised that we could preserve you.’

Klaive bowed low, just as the captain had done. He had to go carefully, here. ‘You are the veritable instrument of providence, my lord cardinal. I give Him thanks for it.’

Orquemond regarded him carefully. His eyes remained narrowed, as if gauging a possible threat. His gauntlet, encrusted with jewels, remained close to the hilt of his greatblade. ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘we are fully engaged here. I had to lower a section of shielding to bring you in, and that was not done lightly.’

‘My sincere thanks.’

‘Perhaps, then, you might tell me what you are doing here.’

‘Assuredly,’ said Klaive, beginning the charade. ‘I was sent here on the orders of Canoness Alexis de Chatelaine. My ship was detained in the warp for many weeks, losing a third of its crew. By the time we arrived, we were unprepared for what awaited us. We attempted to make planetfall, but sustained heavy damage. I was among those who attempted escape, once it became clear just how extensive the battle was becoming. I must assume that the ship that brought me – the Glorious Resolve – has been destroyed, and that the majority of saviour pods were also lost. I take it, lord, that mine was the only one you tracked?’

‘We briefly picked up another, but the signal was lost.’ Everything about the cardinal’s demeanour remained wary, suspicious. ‘So what was your business here?’

Klaive let a sorrowful droop colour his features briefly. ‘As it has been for many years, my lord – war. The canoness was preparing to mobilise her forces, but ran critically short of supplies. Her chamber’s promethium reserves were depleted. I was sent to negotiate a preferential rate of supply, making use of Cult prerogatives. It grieves me to observe that my mission was always destined to be futile.’

Orquemond’s eyes never left his. ‘You had no idea that war had reached this world.’

‘None, my lord.’

‘Yet you must have known that there was risk. The entire sector is in turmoil.’

‘There is always risk, my lord. The canoness knew it, too. I must hope that she has found a way to serve, in my absence. It seems that all worlds are engulfed, now.’

‘That they are. No generation of mankind has seen the like.’

Klaive glanced up at the armaglass panes again, seeing the battle raging beyond the void shields – a silent procession of ship-kills and orbital launches. The fury and scale of it was breathtaking. It was hard to imagine that the Amethyst Suzeraine could last long in its embrace. Perhaps it had already been annihilated, and his long nightmare of subjugation was definitively over. At any rate, even if the galleon somehow lasted a little longer, it could hardly trouble this magnificent battleship.

‘And, so, my lord,’ he ventured carefully, ‘can I assume that your presence here is of a similar nature? Are you here to turn back the tide of invasion?’

Orquemond’s mouth turned up a little – just a fraction, the merest hint of dark humour. ‘You are no strategist, I see. We are fighting at this moment for survival. If we do not leave Ojada within four hours, escape will become impossible. Everything we have is currently focused on keeping a path open, here, in this place.’

Of course, Klaive knew that already. He knew why they had come here, and what they planned to do. Only the names and the particulars were still a mystery. He decided to push his luck, and press a little more.

‘Forgive me, my lord. I do not understand.’

At that, the cardinal beckoned for him to move closer to the edge of the marble dais. His various counsellors and adjutants moved to make room, and soon Klaive was staring out at the view planetwards, unimpeded and in perfect focus. Targeting hololiths were imposed on the realviewer’s field, picking out a single location on the surface – a rig-city. Various picter lenses mounted all across the dais sent image-feeds from ground level.

‘Maybe it was providence that brought you here indeed, confessor,’ said Orquemond. ‘One of our brothers of the Church is on that world, under siege within his citadel – His Holiness Cardinal Astra Leon Chirastes, once commander of one of our finest battle groups, latterly given over to his own endeavours. We have come for him, risking destruction. In truth, we did not know what state Ojada would be in when we set off. Some believed it would have been spared desecration and that we would be free to reach him unimpeded. Others feared, rightfully as it turned out, that we would arrive to find it in flames. We have cut it fine, that is sure, but just on the right side of the blade. Throne willing, we shall leave here with our mission complete.’

Leon Chirastes. Klaive knew the name, if only by reputation. Once one of the greatest of the Synod, talked of as a possible delegate to the Council of Cardinals on Terra, a driven man with a reputation for decisive martial action. Decades ago, it had seemed possible he would come to dominate the politics of the Church, only for his flame to suddenly gutter out, as if extinguished by some vengeful, hidden fist.

‘Then I am glad to be here to witness your action, my lord,’ he said, not having to feign his eagerness this time. ‘Thank the Throne you have arrived to take him to safety.’

At that, Orquemond smiled again, though this time with even less evident humour. He stared up at the viewscreens, a hard expression on his hard face.

‘Take him to safety?’ he asked. ‘No, I do not think you understand, confessor. We are not here to evacuate him. Chirastes is a renegade, one who has jeopardised a century’s worth of careful labour in pursuit of his own private obsession. I am here to punish him. Even now my troops are closing in, preparing to bring him back to me in chains. I plan to look into his eyes as I pass judgement. I plan to discover the full extent of the damage he has done before I end him, here, on this ship.’

Klaive didn’t know what to say to that. He just stood, stupidly, following the cardinal’s gaze as the viewscreens ticked over with fresh evidence of combat. This was a surprise. It made things more precarious. He needed to think, to plan again, and hope he hadn’t incriminated himself already.

‘He is defending what remains of his kingdom,’ Orquemond went on. ‘The extraction is taking longer than I’d hoped, despite the resources expended on it. Still, there are only two outcomes now. Either my troops detain him within the current standard hour, enabling the Emperor’s Justice to be served in person, or I shall light the orbital lasers and destroy the city from here.’

Jorundur kept the drives at full burn, angling and tilting to evade the worst of the beating that he was being handed. Every passing minute brought another echoing smack that made the combat-lumens shake. His void coverage was down to minimal now, meaning that a solid hit from virtually anything would strip them of the last protection they could rely on.

He was so focused on the flight for survival that he barely noticed Bjargborn’s return to his station, reeling across the listing deck and throwing himself into his throne.

‘Close augurs back online!’ the rivenmaster shouted.

‘That fool’s launched himself out of a pod-tube, then?’ Jorundur asked.

‘He believed he could overtake the prisoner, lord,’ Bjargborn replied, swivelling on his throne’s supports and patching in a fresh tracker.

‘He’ll do nothing but blow himself to Morkai’s kingdom,’ Jorundur sighed. ‘Try to locate the pod, if you can.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine dived down steeply, heading towards the nadir of the battle-sphere, before pulling out and twisting away to port, barely evading the latest salvo from the death’s-head battle cruiser. The distance between the two ships was now very tight – soon they would be out of space to make any kind of useful evasions.

‘Broadcast Imperial idents on all open channels,’ Jorundur ordered to his comms staff, who were proving slow to react in the absence of Suaka. ‘I want that Church battleship to know just who we are.’

The Ecclesiarchy squadron was right up ahead now, ringed with its concentric circles of fire, rocked by the volume of incoming ordnance but still doling out plenty of its own. Despite everything going on around it, it hadn’t moved at all – just weathered the storm. That felt strange. Even if it was here for an evacuation, it could have pulled up higher, maintaining comms, keeping itself intact and ready for a fast system exit. For some reason, the captain was maintaining station, just where he had been when he’d fired the initial orbital laser barrage.

Still, that made things a little easier for him, at least. A few hundred miles less to survive before they put things to the test.

‘Gunnery deck, I need maximum spread, full complement aft,’ he voxed. ‘What can you give me?’

‘Reloading, lord!’ came the frantic reply from the lower decks. In the background, Jorundur could hear the echoing booms of the breeches closing. ‘Aiming to deliver volley within twenty seconds!’

That might well be too long. ‘Make it ten. Your target vectors have been dispatched.’

Jorundur glanced at the ranged tactical lens. The death’s-head battle cruiser was coming about again, aiming to cut them off from their escape route. It was going for broke now, flaying its drives to get into strike position. Ahead and above were the bellies of the Ecclesiarchy ships, dominated by the vast hull of the battleship itself. They were dark against the distant void, lit into silhouettes by the firestorms around them.

‘Old Dog!’ came the crackling voice of Hafloí over the comm. He was barely audible, his words a hiss of static amid the roar of interference.

‘You damned fool!’ Jorundur thundered. ‘Where in Hel are you? Get back on board before I–’

‘Too late,’ came the reply. ‘Managed to… lower decks, somewhere… no tactical, but flew blind for a… voids down, got inside, now… aim to get to bridge.’

Before Jorundur could reply, the gunnery master succeeded in launching his volley, and a brace of shells flew aft, targeted at the death’s head’s prow as it turned. The intention was not to cripple it – they had no power for that, now – but to signal to the observers on the Immaculate Destiny where their allegiance was.

The shells impacted, mangling the pursuer’s voids for a moment or two and jolting it off course by a mark.

‘You’re on the Church ship?’ Jorundur demanded, pulling up the damage reports as he reset the Amethyst Suzeraine’s trajectory again. Now it was about speed.

‘… lower decks, I think. Smells… yes, it’s bad. Going… main bridge level.’

‘All engines, maximum burst!’ Jorundur called out to Bjargborn. ‘Hammer them, everything we have, and ignore the tolerances.’

The ship responded instantly, leaping as if kicked. They surged up towards the Ecclesiarchy squadron, ignoring the hits they took, no time left for evasive action, just thundering to the goal as if all the hounds of Hel were on their heels. As they went, the tactical alerts all went red.

‘Massive power build-up reported!’ Bjargborn shouted. ‘They’ve got their shot!’

‘Outrun it!’ growled Jorundur, gripping the arms of the throne. The Ecclesiarchy ships were just spitting distance away – in a second the Amethyst Suzeraine would be beyond them, screened by their huge rows of active guns. ‘Blood of Russ, move!’

Then the void went white. The full barrage loosed – a colossal, rolling, eye-burning wall of neon that flooded every oculus and overloaded the few augurs that had staggered back up to full capacity. For a moment even Jorundur winced, his eyes closing, his fists clenching. The impact would be horrendous – it would crunch the hull inward and shear the last of the void shield units from their moorings, even if they were lucky.

But it never hit. The barrage had been real enough, but it hadn’t come from the death’s head – it had come from four of the Ecclesiarchy escorts, all firing in concert. The Amethyst Suzeraine slingshotted under their formation, darting like a thrown bolas across their displacement shadow.

Ice and iron, thought Jorundur grudgingly. That had been an incredible shot, exceptionally orchestrated.

‘Now bring us up, slow us down,’ he ordered, switching to the rear sensors. ‘Keep us on the far side of those gunlines.’

The traitor battle cruiser had been savaged, caught in a crossfire of expertly deployed lance strikes. Its spine was broken, the grinning skull-face across its prows cracked into pieces. Gas vented all along its blackened length, punctuated by internal explosions. Even as Jorundur watched, it began to lose power, falling away towards Ojada’s gravity well. Its hunt was over.

On another day, he might have thought of that as an unworthy kill, relying on the firepower of a doubtful ally rather than take on the enemy alone. But then, his ship was a stolen rust-hulk, a pirate’s plaything turned into a half-serious warship at best, and the real objective lay on the planet below, so there was a limit to how bad he could feel about it.

A coded hail came in to the throne’s private lens, shunted up from the ship’s main receiver matrix.

‘Unidentified privateer,’ it read, marked at the top with Ecclesiarchy runes. ‘Maintain your distance and heading, do not interfere with our deployment. Come within strike range, and the next volley will be for you.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jorundur said to himself, calculating the vectors to comply. All he wanted to do now was shelter for a moment in their shadow, using their bulk and prowess to keep them all alive just a little longer. ‘Shipmaster, ensure we maintain relative position. Inform me at once if you pick up another targeting lock.’

And then he was back to Hafloí, trying to raise his locator amid a welter of interference.

‘Whelp!’ he shouted down the link, not entirely sure he had been heard. ‘Do not attempt to locate the rat! You hear me? Stay where you are, or get off that damn ship! We need its guns, we need its eyes elsewhere. I don’t care about Klaive, just do nothing to make them angry!’

It wasn’t clear whether any of that had got through. Jorundur glanced up at the realviewers, over to where the vast shadow of the battleship hung in the void. He thought of Hafloí crawling around in its bilges, and shuddered. Damn Blood Claws – more bone in their heads than brains.

‘How are our augurs?’ he asked Bjargborn.

‘Partial recovery, lord,’ came the reply. ‘A few systems knocked out during the run in, but I’m working on them.’

‘Can you raise the vaerangi yet?’

‘Working on it, lord.’

Then Jorundur slumped back in the throne, watching the orbital battle rage around them. For the moment, he’d done what he needed to – they were in the lee of a greater power, shielded from the worst of the storm. He was under no illusion that the respite was anything less than temporary – more predators were out there, and in numbers that would overwhelm even the battleship above them – but all Gunnlaugur had asked for was a little time.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the Immaculate Destiny. It still hadn’t moved, not an inch, even as the tempest raged around it. That bothered him. And the more he looked, the more he was bothered.

‘Why so static, then?’ he murmured, drumming his fingers on the throne’s arm. ‘What am I missing, here?’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gunnlaugur broke into the command centre, vaulting up the last of the stairs and bursting through an already wrecked doorway. As he crossed the threshold, he seamlessly switched to his bolter, a move Ingvar silently echoed.

The centre was a large hexagonal space, more than forty yards in diameter, near the very summit of the observation tower, its walls floor-to-ceiling armaglass. A central column dominated, ringed with display lenses and clicking sensor banks. Spiral stairs led up to a higher level, screened by metal-mesh panels. The decking was thick ferrocrete, utilitarian and blast-resistant. The external firestorm howled around them, making the structure creak, pressing against the glass as if trying to force its way in.

Bodies were everywhere, broken across cogitator housings, twisting into the gaps between equipment racks. Most were in the crimson livery of the armsmen, a few wore black carapace plate. Las scorches marked every surface, leaving long streak-patterns across the glass and plasteel. Now there could be no doubt – they were fighting each other. The armsmen were trying to get to the foot of the stairs, the more heavily armoured troops were trying to stop them. Numbers were against the defenders – only four of them remained, crouching low on the screened inside curve of the stairwell, versus more than thirty of the armsmen, huddled in the lee of overturned desk-units and sensor stations, ready to burst out for the final push.

In the face of that, Gunnlaugur hesitated, just for a microsecond. He took in the pattern of the carapace-units on the defenders, the silver lining on every plate, the twin powerblades that they each carried, the close-faced helms that gave nothing away, the tiny golden-cherub icons lodged on their right breast.

‘Clear them all out,’ he growled, opening up with his bolter.

Ingvar joined him, and together they sprayed mass-reactive shells across the entire breadth of the chamber. The percussive stream blew the housings apart, punched through the armaglass, cut up the armsmen’s flak-plate, blasted the deck-plates into powdery chunks. The Space Wolves ran straight through the explosive blooms, making for the stairs amid the chorus of cut-short screams and secondary detonations.

Unprepared, the armsmen were cut down in the first wave. The exposed carapace-plate guards did little better – three were blown off their feet as the shells hit, smacked back into the central column before the explosions shredded them open. By the time Gunnlaugur reached the spiral stairs, only one remained, reeling from the shock waves and scrambling for shelter. Gunnlaugur snapped off a final shot, aimed at his head.

He evaded it. Somehow, moving faster than any of the others had, the sable warrior dropped to one side, letting the bolt fly past his helm to impact on the plasteel casing. Then he was up again, blades in both hands, launching himself at the Wolf Guard. Gunnlaugur swung the bolter at him heavily, aiming to crunch his helm-face inward, but the warrior moved too fast again, ducking under the swipe and flickering his blades up into Gunnlaugur’s midriff.

Gunnlaugur twisted away, out of the path of one cutting edge, but the second sliced into his armour, biting an inch deep as the energy field flared. He spun back to punch into the warrior’s face, but his helm blew apart as Ingvar’s bolt-shell speared through it.

‘Slowing down, vaerangi?’ Ingvar asked, amused.

Gunnlaugur, spattered with gore and armour-pieces, spat out a curse, shoving the headless body aside. In truth, he hadn’t been slow – the warrior had been fast. Extremely fast, more so than any unaugmented human body had a right to be. ‘What are these things?’ he growled, vaulting up the stairs.

‘I’ve seen their sigil before,’ said Ingvar, racing up after him. ‘When all this started.’

They ran up the spiral stair, boots clanging on the plasteel treads, before emerging into a large, high-roofed chamber, now right at the very top of the tower.

It was different to all the others, as dark as the interior of a chapel. The deck was circular, the windows narrow slits. The floor was thickly carpeted, the walls were hung with drapes. Its ceiling was vaulted in the Imperial gothic style, and granite statues of saints stood in shadowy alcoves, lit by the guttering light of racked candles. A huge altar stood on the far side of the room. It looked rare and expensive – the kind of thing you might find in the heart of a cathedral on a shrine world, not on an industrial planet on the edge of destruction. Bookcases lined the walls, each of them stuffed with reams of leather-bound tomes. Opposite the altar, close to where the Space Wolves had emerged, stood another statue – an idealised cherub, cast in pure gold, carrying a sheave of arrows in its youthful hand.

The place was bizarre. The internal fashioning was mostly orthodox Imperial cult, but interspersed with strange objects – xenos artefacts, archeotech held in glittering stasis fields, hololith recordings playing softly, over and over. Weapons hung in the gloomy recesses. Some of those looked very old. A disturbing number of them seemed to be of Fenrisian origin. Indeed, the more Gunnlaugur looked, the more artefacts from Fenris he saw – armour-pieces, nameplates from Chapter warships, rune-tablets and animal totems locked in glass cabinets. It was as if the place were some kind of esoteric collector’s den, a grim museum of plunder, all fused with the austere iconography of the Ecclesiarchy.

A man knelt before the altar. He was powerfully built, clad in robes of black and silver that pooled around him. A second figure, a woman in similar black-and-silver garb, stood next to him carrying a long ceremonial sword. Ingvar and Gunnlaugur trained their bolters, one for each, but neither fired. From below, the only sounds filtering up were the whine of the wind and the muffled crackle of distant fires. Fighting still raged in the compound outside, but for the moment the four of them were alone in the chamber.

‘Get up,’ said Gunnlaugur.

The woman looked at him. For a moment, the man didn’t move. Gunnlaugur edged to his left, getting a better view, and saw that he was praying, his lips moving soundlessly. Once the kneeling figure had completed whatever ritual he was engaged in, his eyes opened. He slowly got to his feet, placing a hand on the floor to steady himself, breathing heavily. He turned, adjusting his robes over his broad frame. When he caught sight of the two of them, his face registered a brief flicker of surprise.

‘You,’ he murmured, then smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps, though, it had to be.’

The woman looked old, or maybe ill. She had a slim figure that the black robes hung loosely from. Her long hair was pulled back from her face, making her profile severe. The sword she carried was more relic than weapon, and she did not look capable of wielding it in more than a token fashion.

The man’s skin was a dark bronze-brown, his eyes blue. His hair was cut short against his scalp, exposing old scars across his forehead, the back of his neck. He wore the chasuble and stole of a high priest of the Imperial cult, though not in any colours Gunnlaugur had ever observed before. Every piece of fabric in the place was glossy black and silver, a combination that shimmered strangely in the candlelight.

The man’s expression was manic. His jawline was far too tight, he was sweating, and the veins at his neck bulged. He didn’t seem to blink much, if at all. A cursory scan revealed that he wasn’t carrying a weapon of his own. Gunnlaugur lowered his, locking it against his armour. Ingvar kept his bolter trained on the woman.

‘Your name,’ Gunnlaugur ordered.

‘I’d have thought you’d know it.’ The man clasped twitchy hands together in front of his waist. ‘Leon Chirastes. Cardinal astra, for what that was ever worth, but I suppose they’ve taken that from me too, now. So it’s just Leon, now. Or Ser Chirastes. Take your pick.’

‘What has happened here?’

Chirastes gave a jerky shrug. ‘They caught up with me. You caught up with me. I’ve had hunters on my scent for so long now I’ve forgotten what it was like to live freely.’ He grinned at the woman. ‘Glad it’s over now, eh, Buta? You start a thing. You’re full of energy. The years go on, and it traps you, but you have to see it through, because you made an oath. Oaths, oaths, oaths. We said we’d do something, so that make us move, makes us work. Even the Archenemy has that disease, eh? Why else do they keep coming at us, century after century? I think some of them must be sick of it, too. Oaths, though. Oaths.’

Gunnlaugur ran a secondary scan. The man’s heartbeat was erratic, his vital signs were overloaded. He had augmetics riddled through his body, though most of them looked to be dormant or defective. ‘We came a long way to find you.’

‘I’ll wager you did.’

‘And now you’re coming with us.’

Chirastes shook his head emphatically. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘It was not a request,’ said Ingvar.

‘And that was not defiance,’ said Chirastes. ‘I’ll be dead in moments. Acherosa is a powerful poison, and I was sure to take plenty of it. I didn’t want Axith getting his grubby fingernails into me. You wouldn’t, either. All I wished for, in this place, was to complete the Rites of Ascendence, accompanied by Buta here. And I couldn’t even be left alone to finish that! So much for a lifetime of service.’

Ingvar let slip a snarl of frustration. ‘We will have our answers.’

‘Oh, you can have those now,’ Chirastes said, more sweat running down his forehead. ‘You can have as many of those as you wish – if, that is, the good Cardinal Orquemond lets this place linger intact for just a few more moments. If there’s time, I’ll tell you just whatever you wish to learn. I want to tell you. I’ve been burning to tell someone. Just look around you – you can see that it was always about you.’

He moved a little closer to Ingvar, limping visibly, the skin around his neck darkening as he moved.

‘And all because you have no soul, Son of Russ,’ he said. ‘You are a devil, a phantom. It matters not what you know, because you are not even human. You are a mockery, a mistake, a throwaway. As a confessor, you make a poor one, but you are all I have, so there we are. You are far too late, if you wish to halt what I have I done. All has already been accomplished. The oath is settled, and I can go in peace.’

The woman’s expression never changed during all that – it was hollow. Chirastes, on the other hand, looked exultant, his gaze feverish.

‘I beat you,’ he said, jabbing a finger up at Ingvar’s chest. ‘It’s all that matters now, and when the annals come to be written, that is what they’ll say. I beat you.’

‘What do you mean, sacked?’ Olgeir demanded. ‘How can you know that?’

The viaduct was still full of moving bodies – men and women scampering through the ruins, hunting either for plunder or sanctuary – but neither of the Wolves paid them any attention. The corpse of the traitor lay some way off, already beginning to degrade following the removal of whatever dark magicks had been keeping it together for so long.

Olgeir’s arm ached from the wrench of carrying his whole weight, even briefly. Catching the handhold on the edge of the sinkhole in the viaduct’s main deck had stopped him from dropping right down into the burning heart of the rig, but it had still taken all his strength to haul himself back up to the surface. His pulse was fast and hard still, his blood vessels throbbing.

Baldr’s collar was black, like an extinguished coal. Just like Olgeir, he’d taken damage from the creature – his armour was gouged and blasted, the steel-grey covering scraped away in patches. He was having trouble breathing. Eventually, though, he dragged himself up to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, panting.

‘I… saw it,’ he said bleakly.

‘You saw what it showed you.’

‘It showed me things it had seen.’

‘They lie.’

Baldr turned on him. ‘Aye, they lie. They lie and they lie, but this one… it was there.’

‘How can you know that?’

Baldr hesitated. ‘You know how.’

‘I thought that collar kept you from–’

‘It does. Most of the time.’ Baldr wearily reached for his blade, began to clean the filth off it. ‘But it grows weaker. And, somehow, stronger. It fights me, and one of us will break, in the end.’ He slid the sword back into its scabbard. ‘So I know things, whatever the Stormcaller might have hoped for, and I know now that Fenris is in ruins. You hear me, Heavy-Hand? Ruins.’

Contemplating such an image stretched the boundaries of the possible. Fenris was eternal. One of the Rout might die, his pack might perish, even Grimnar would go, one day, but the world would remain, the Mountain would remain, the fixed point around which the entire universe revolved.

Until, that was, the Time of Ending. Until the return of the primarch, when all would be cast into the proving fire.

‘So tell me everything,’ Olgeir said.

‘I do not understand it all,’ Baldr said haltingly. ‘Many forces were there, I think. I could see the stink of maleficarum on the storm. Imagery of our greatest enemy, it must have been, but they were not alone. Scraps of warbands, fragments of the old Legions, they were there with the one-eyed traitor. The seas were boiling, the Mountain was ringed with flame. I saw… maybe, I saw Midgardia cast into the sun. I saw it go, the weregild for the whole system. And then, when that was done, I saw black ships make planetfall, right down onto the ice, their bellies opened up. I saw the tribes marching into them.’

‘Never. Lies.’

‘How would you know, brother? We were not there.’

‘And neither was that thing.’

‘We were here.’ Now Baldr’s tone became harder. ‘Running down this stale spoor, heedless of anything else. And for what? Vendetta? Some cure for this damned hex-collar? You should have left me for Njal while you could.’

Olgeir snorted. ‘That was never an option. You’d be dead by now, and we’d be scrubbing off the meat-boards in the Aett, dreaming of getting off-world again.’

‘So you never even questioned it?’

‘Aye, I questioned it.’ Olgeir shook the blood from his own axe. ‘I asked from the very start – I told Gunnlaugur you’d infect us all. When I came back from Kefa, I told him the same thing. I was always worried. It matters to me, purity. It matters that we’re different to that… thing. It’s a long way to fall, brother. We all know how far.’

He remembered the unseeing eyes, then. The black-edged lightning, the glow of green around sickening flesh, the unbridled power that blasted and scoured through the hot night. Old wounds twinged under his armour, ones given him by the very warrior who stood before him now – or, at least, the thing that had taken his name.

Baldr looked him right in the eye. ‘Then maybe you were right.’

‘Ach, what does it matter now?’ Olgeir pulled the pelts around his shoulder. ‘We all made the oath, and that’s an end to it. Gods, quit your whining – we all had enough of it from the Gyrfalkon when he came back, but at least he grew out of it. Decisions were made. We stand by them.’

‘Fenris is laid waste. It’s where we should have been.’

‘Hah.’ Olgeir tied his axe back to his belt. ‘We are where we are. That’s what fate is. Couldn’t be otherwise. And never believe a word you hear from a traitor.’ He drew in a long breath, filling his lungs with oil-laced hot air. ‘Enough. We need to get back to Gunnlaugur.’

Baldr looked over at the corpse of the traitor. ‘So what’ll you tell him?’

‘That we did as he asked,’ Olgeir replied, starting to move out. ‘Nothing more to say.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The battle hadn’t stopped. New attack waves screamed in, driving under the bow waves of las-fire to streak up and into the defensive cordons. Fighters led the charge – Furies, mostly, refitted and defaced but still lethal. Those were followed by their escort-class mother ships, then the heavier gun-barques, and then, further out but coming closer all the time, the big beasts, the ones that could do the real damage.

Jorundur spent the whole time shouting orders out, making himself hoarse to ensure the crew were in the right places and doing the right things. The void shields needed to be restored across all hull sections, the fires in the aft bilge decks needed to be put out, the cannon decks needed fast reloading, the plasma drives needed to be rapidly cooled before they were stoked again. All the while, the las-batteries were kept busy, and the need for constant evasion remained acute.

‘Move us closer under that one – which is it?’ he called out.

‘The Purity of Action, lord,’ Bjargborn intoned, occupied with a dozen of his own tasks.

The Ecclesiarchy frigate, a high-prowed, capable vessel with longer than usual broadside-flanks, was rapidly becoming bogged down by the sheer volume of incoming strikes. A few more precision hits might start to give it serious trouble.

‘All guns, target that ship’s attackers,’ Jorundur ordered. ‘I want them to know we’re an ally.’

‘More hails from the Immaculate Destiny, lord,’ reported Tjade, Suaka’s replacement at principal comms. ‘They still want details of our complement and registration.’

‘Give them nothing,’ Jorundur snapped. ‘Fake a transmission blow-out, if you have to, and let me know the instant you get wind of a target lock.’

They were playing a delicate game. The Ecclesiarchy squadron, for all its prowess, couldn’t remain in its position for more than a couple of hours more before it started taking too much damage. If their commanders hadn’t had so much to deal with, no doubt they’d have been asking more questions of the unmarked galleon that had burst into their formation at such reckless speed. All Jorundur could do was help keep their attention on the main enemy, stay out of trouble, make himself the least of their many problems.

‘Raking spreads ready, lord!’ called out the gunnery liaison officer.

‘Good,’ said Jorundur. ‘Fire at will, sustained barrage.’

What was left of the Amethyst Suzeraine’s lascannons spat out against the Purity of Action’s attackers, taking down a wing of Furies and crippling what looked like some heavily modified torpedo-barques. The line guns kept firing after that, roll after roll of ship-crippling shells.

Once the attack-pattern had its momentum, he turned to the most urgent matter of all. ‘Anything yet from the surface? Anything at all?’

Bjargborn shook his head. ‘If they transmitted while we were augur-blind, it’ll be lost. I’ve been trying to track them, but the rigs are all on fire, there are sensor-baffles everywhere…’

‘I don’t need excuses – just any data you’ve got.’

‘Shunting raw vid-transmit from the vaerangi’s helm-feed, then,’ Bjargborn said. ‘Just a few seconds, picked up by the auto-scanners before they went dark.’

Jorundur swivelled round to one of the throne’s lenses as the data scanned onto the surface. It was hard to make out – a jumble of data-distorted phosphor that panned and jumped as violently as Gunnlaugur had been moving at the time. Jorundur narrowed his eyes, analysing what he could of it. He saw bodies, lots of them, their torsos bearing signs of laceration from powerblades. Some were in the uniform of Ecclesiarchy naval armsmen, the kind they’d become very familiar with over the past few months. Even amid all the interference, he could see that the Space Wolves hadn’t killed those troops – the cuts weren’t the kind of whole-body-severing slash that an Astartes swipe delivered, but shorter jabbing actions. He could see no cultists or renegade warriors at all.

The feed cut out. Jorundur sat back, his mind working hard. Something was wrong with the whole set-up down there.

‘Give me close visual on the battleship,’ he ordered.

Bjargborn complied, shunting a range of tactical profiles of the Immaculate Destiny over to the throne’s lens racks.

‘Absolutely motionless,’ Jorundur said, half to himself, half to Bjargborn. ‘Would you maintain that position, rivenmaster, in all of this?’

‘They have troops on the surface,’ Bjargborn offered.

‘With their own very capable transports. Get me a view of its underside, close as you can.’

Bjargborn complied, and soon Jorundur was staring at the empty funnels of six heavy orbital lasers, the ones that had been used to smash a path through the battlezone for the landers. The conical barrels were gigantic, protruding from the under-hull plates like iron volcanos. They were all active, too – their feeder mechanisms alight with lumen-points, their power plants clearly primed for maximum drain.

‘Skítja, that thing’s got a geo-lock,’ Jorundur muttered. ‘Rivenmaster – can you raise the pack?’

‘Negative, lord. Will keep trying.’

‘Tell them to get out. All of them, now.’ Then he was trying to get a fix on Hafloí. Three times, nothing came back but empty static. The fourth time, his transponder told him he had a weak tether. ‘Whelp – I hope to Hel you can hear this. If you’re still on that thing – if you’re still alive – forget about Klaive.’

He took a deep breath. This was going to be tight.

‘Here’s what you have to do.’

He still winced with every impact. It didn’t matter that the Immaculate Destiny was far bigger than the Space Wolves’ old galleon and far more capable of defending itself, he still jumped whenever he felt the deck underfoot jolt badly.

Klaive was not a warrior. He never had been. He’d been a functionary to warriors, sure, and had always been happy to inflict a bit of pain when it was necessary, but this, this – plunging right into the three-dimensional heart of a rampaging void-battle, with the rivets popping and the gantries buckling – this wore his nerves away.

He tried to concentrate. He was surrounded by dangerous people, people whom just moments earlier he’d thought of as certain allies. For as long as they had no idea of the true reason for his presence in Ojada, his safety remained precariously intact. All he had to do was keep the pretence going until he could get back out of the system, just long enough for him to jump ship again and make his way to somewhere his name wasn’t known and his rank might carry more weight.

But if they managed to somehow get this Chirastes up here alive, up to where he could look at Klaive, possibly recognise his face from a report, or a name, or a code word, maybe give the game away… well then, that would be difficult. Best to hope that the Wolves did his dirty work for him, prevented the man’s escape, necessitated the use of those cherished orbital laser banks to wipe all the evidence away before the world itself passed into the hands of the enemy.

It was ironic, to be so beholden to his old gaolers. On another day, with his blood pressure a little lower, he might have smiled at the chance.

‘So, my lord,’ Klaive said, opting to talk, to keep Orquemond’s mind occupied. ‘Are you permitted to tell me what this man has done? It must have been serious, to bring you halfway across the sector after him.’

Orquemond looked irritated. ‘To be sure, I do not wish to be here. Worlds across the Imperium are falling like leaves in winter, they say. The guns of this ship should be heading towards a fortress we may yet hold.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And yet. The law is the law, as is my responsibility to uphold it. Chirastes passed into madness a long time ago, and the deaths of many faithful souls lie at his door.’

Another shattering impact, somewhere off the port bows, made the bridge-deck drum. The lumens flashed, and indistinct crashes sounded from a long way up in the bridge-roof’s structure. Throughout it all, the cardinal remained almost entirely unmoved.

‘Chirastes was zealous,’ he said. ‘Too zealous. Not for the truth, mind, which is something to be commended, but he never learned that the prosecution of heresy is the patient task of years. To rush to judgement, taking no care whose houses are burned, jeopardises the very foundations of our order. He would run every sniff of impropriety down, wherever it led, heeding no advice and accepting no counsel. And so, when he learned of alleged forbidden practices of the ice-world of Fenris, he had to launch an investigation.’ Orquemond sighed. ‘He had to do it. He couldn’t have helped himself, even though it was always a fool’s errand, doomed to failure. The Wolves do not yield, they do not comply, and they do not forgive. When he pressed the matter, his ships were destroyed, his agents killed. And still he did not give up. He truly thought he could bring them to heel. Somehow – and I have to be impressed about this – he raised a fleet drawn from three separate Orders of the Sororitas, in addition to the power he’d built in his own name. He went to war.’ Orquemond chuckled darkly. ‘He went to war with a First Founding Chapter. If that is not the definition of madness, then I do not know what is.’

And just then, Klaive suddenly remembered where he’d heard the name. The Fenris Incident. They still spoke about it, in hushed tones, within the Ecclesiarchy conclaves and scholae. But that had been more than a century ago. The detailed records had been, as you would expect, thoroughly expunged, and what remained was sealed into the most exclusive of vaults. For himself, he’d never quite believed that it had happened, and had begun to think of it as some kind of instructional myth, a warning of overreach to give to the young acolytes.

‘If that had been the end of the matter,’ Orquemond said, ‘he’d have lost his reputation, nothing more. After three weeks of intense conflict, during which the assets of the Church sustained terrible damage, he made his escape. And after that, if you believe the official histories, he left the Ecclesiarchy altogether, forfeiting his position and privileges, a wiser yet much weaker man.’

‘Clearly, though, that was a lie.’

Orquemond gave him a sly look. ‘They say he’s operated within the Church’s structures ever since. That was why it took so long for us to find him. Most of those who still took his order never knew his history. They saw the cardinal’s badge on the vellum, and did what it told them. Even once we began to investigate him ourselves, we ran into the sand at every turn – no names were ever given, no chain of command. Operatives didn’t know the names or ranks of those they reported to, only the destination for their material. Even when faced with the instruments, they would insist on that ignorance. No one ever said that Chirastes was a simpleton. Only that he was a maniac.’

Klaive began to feel even more uncomfortable. That was exactly how it had been. The orders had come down from on high, using all the right passcodes and verification seals. No names, no details. It was why he had been of so little use to the Wolves, at least at the start of his captivity.

‘To what end, though?’ he asked. ‘All this?’

‘Continuing his war,’ said Orquemond. ‘Doing by stealth what he could no longer do openly. It has been taking place for decades, under our noses, under their noses. Indeed, if they ever learned what has happened, make no mistake – all our throats would be liable for the axe-edge.’

‘But, my lord… the Wolves. They are undeniably… extreme.’

‘Maybe so. I have no love for Space Marines myself, of any breed. But they are the Emperor’s creations, sanctified in the holy canon, and it does not fall to any one of us to undo what He has created. Fenris may be a haunt of monsters beyond reason for all I know, but unless we are given lawful instruction from the Throneworld itself, sanctified and examined by the highest authority, its denizens cannot be touched.’

‘Then how did you find all this out?’

Orquemond raised his eyebrows ironically. ‘With difficulty. Tracks had been covered well. The few static installations his cabal controlled were emptied even as we discovered news of their existence. As the current war grew worse, he must have sent out hundreds of his people, scouring it all, burning the order-trails, working hard lest the confusion of battle unearthed what he had worked to keep secret. But he was commanding entire armies, confessor. Even in an Imperium as vast as ours, even with so many eyes elsewhere, that was always going to be hard to conceal.’

Klaive felt another pang of unease. He had been one of those agents. His orders on Ras Shakeh had been just those – to destroy the identified archives before they were taken by either the enemy or the Imperials. He’d never even known what was in them, just that they had to go. You didn’t ask questions, in his position – that was the surest route to danger. Still, hearing it all laid out like that, it was hard to not feel foolish. Even guilty.

He was about to ask more, pushing his luck as far as it would go, when reports from the bridge operatives started to filter back in numbers. Orquemond held up a hand, silencing him, and listened carefully. As he did so, orders were shouted down the long crew-trenches, and several of the cowled counsellors bowed low before hurrying away to new taskings.

‘What is happening?’ Klaive asked, mostly to himself, but Orquemond glanced at him a final time before heading back towards the command throne.

‘I am afraid that we are out of time, confessor,’ the cardinal said, his voice heavy with disappointment. ‘My troops on the surface advise that resistance has been stronger than hoped, and that they are now under attack from elements of the enemy. It will either take more time to bring him in, or more landings, neither of which I am prepared to countenance.’

He climbed the low steps before settling himself in the throne, his hands falling across the control panels set in each arm.

‘We have done what we can,’ he said grimly. ‘You will miss the chance to meet Chirastes in person, confessor, but at least you will witness the final ending of his insurrection, which may give some satisfaction.’

More klaxons began to sound, not indicating damage this time, but instead the preparations for orbital strike, something that consumed colossal power and would require the diversion of supply from many other subsystems.

‘There’s no alternative?’ Klaive asked, attempting to sound more disappointed than relieved.

‘None at all,’ said Orquemond, flipping open the protective guard on the panel and readying the controls for firing. ‘This ends now.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It felt strangely deflating, to see him standing there, the object of so much long-cherished hatred – on death’s edge, unrepentant, gloating.

Ingvar studied Chirastes carefully as he spoke, watching for any sign of deception, a hook, something he could use to provoke the violence that he had always assumed he would unleash in this moment. He wanted to fight him, hurt him, avenge the deaths the man had caused. And yet here they all were, locked in a darkened chamber at the summit of a doomed refinery-spire, deprived of even that meagre satisfaction, condemned to listen only to more stories.

It reminded him of the deflation he had felt after his long service with the Deathwatch came to an end – not the realisation that the Imperium’s enemies were greater in number than anyone could imagine, but that the Imperium was one such enemy itself, like a serpent eating its own tail, consuming its brightest progeny before they could ever come to fruition. Every soul in the room, all four of them, had sworn oaths to the Allfather. They all still cleaved to those oaths, in all honesty, and yet here they were, their blades drawn but unused, rehearsing loathings that had been born more than a century ago, all in the sterile language of diplomats.

‘Tell us everything,’ Gunnlaugur said, his voice thick with his own suppressed fury.

And the man did. He wanted to. He could barely wait to spill the details, unravelling it all, listing the injuries he had done them. He wished to boast, whether to them or to himself. As Ingvar listened, he registered the other danger – the place was comms-blind, sealing them in, away from the reach of both Jorundur and Olgeir. They could not afford to linger in such a state for long, especially given the parlous state of the rig-city outside these walls. Still, they had come a long way for this – if knowledge was all they were destined to take away from it, that was a little better than nothing.

‘I am the knife in your side,’ Chirastes crowed. ‘The punishment for your many sins. The hidden thorn that tears your flesh.’

‘You ordered the death of Hjortur Bloodfang,’ said Gunnlaugur.

‘Hjortur Ageir Hvat, called Bloodfang, Wolf Guard. Yes, I made that happen.’

‘And others of the Chapter.’

‘Many others, yes.’

‘Why?’

Chirastes laughed, a fragile sound, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. ‘Because you all deserve death. You understand that? All of you. I know what you practise, on that hell-world of yours. I know what your shamans preach, and what heresies ferment in the stinking hovel you call your Mountain. It was the labour of a lifetime to learn it. When I told others, they were shocked. They all said the same thing – why is this tolerated? Why do we burn minor heretics in hive-sumps, when there’s a whole planet of the corrupted sitting in plain view! And, you know, I could never answer them. In the end, once you’ve run out of excuses, you have to act. So, a long time ago now, I came to your world.’

Ingvar listened, not just to the words, but to the things the man gave away with them. Chirastes wasn’t affecting this – he really believed that the exercise was over, and that he’d already won. His eyes were bright – too bright. And yet, there was a residual fear under the crazed bravado, a nugget of it, buried deep, something that had yet to emerge.

‘At first,’ Chirastes went on, the words tumbling out, ‘I came with nothing more than a delegate-fleet – the kind of thing the protocols lay down. That would have been enough, on most worlds. I’d have made planetfall with my entourage, and we’d have looked around for a while. Maybe we’d have left, satisfied. But you couldn’t even allow that, could you? You were so thirsty for a fight, so proud of your false sanctity, that my agents came back to me in body-capsules. Sending a message, I guessed. That you were above any authority, even one speaking on behalf of the Imperial cult itself. Clumsy. Brutal. And stupid. That kind of thing might work out in your undeveloped, forgotten slush-pools, but it doesn’t play well in more civilised climes. So we had to come again.’

Gunnlaugur looked at Ingvar. ‘The Incursion of Fools,’ he said.

‘Sounds like it.’ Ingvar’s gaze never left Chirastes. ‘This was 886, your calendar, yes?’

‘So that’s what you call it. Ha. I’m surprised you even keep records.’

‘We remember plenty,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘It was a petty war. None of those who fought it celebrate.’

‘No, they don’t, and no, they can’t!’ laughed Chirastes. ‘Because they’re all dead.’ Then he broke into coughing. By the time he stopped, panting hard, his chin was mottled with blood. ‘Three weeks of war. Three weeks, dashing ourselves into splinters on your defences. We soon realised we couldn’t win. We couldn’t even punish you. So what was left to do? Run off, our tails between our legs? No, we still had tools. We could take names. We could tap your comms, and find out who was there, who was doing this to us. So that’s how we used the time. We bled ourselves out, and all for that. By the time I left your world, my ships burning and breaking apart, I knew who had done this to us. I knew who the guilty were. And that wasn’t the end. It was just the start.’

‘How many?’ asked Ingvar.

‘All of them,’ said Chirastes. ‘Every battlefield commander, every squad leader.’

‘Impossible,’ said Gunnlaugur.

‘Really? You know the fates of all your brothers?’ He chuckled bloodily. ‘You die so very often, Space Marine. That is the problem. You are always at war, rushing from one world to the next. These times have been hard for you, I think. And you never turn down a chance for bloodletting. That’s your other weakness.’ He wiped his chin with the sleeve of his robe, leaving a dark smear. ‘So how do you think Hjortur died? Fighting against the greenskins? Yes, that was how it looked, but we were there, alongside him. And so you never questioned it, because how many hundreds of your kind have the greenskins killed over the centuries? Could you even count them?’ For a moment, the sardonic edge left his expression, and he looked momentarily thoughtful. ‘All that was left was deception. To come alongside you, fight with you. Until the moment came to give the real order.’

Ingvar could feel the weight of his blade in his hand, and the itch to use it was so strong now. ‘This could not all have been done in secret.’

‘It was very difficult,’ Chirastes admitted. ‘An entire administration kept in the dark as to its true purpose. Commands given without attribution, records cleaned up or destroyed, whole regiments of soldiers kept ignorant. But you forget that one thing we do so expertly in this Imperium is to follow orders. I learned that well in my old life – you could tell a cleric to saw his own arm off, if you had the right credentials, and he’d do it. We make it impossible to question, we make it a crime to doubt, and thus we till the ground for such hidden work.’

‘Even so,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We’re not easy to kill.’

‘No, you’re not! You’re damned hard to kill, every one of you! I had to spend my entire fortune to create an army capable of it. I could once count planets in my possession like another man counts ration-slips. They’re all gone now, all used up. Maybe you encountered one of my hunters before you reached me here. They’re good, aren’t they? As good as I could make them. They still die, of course. But even if a hundred of them are put down, it only takes one to get close enough. That was exactly what I built their units for – to get one close enough.’

And then Chirastes, staggered, falling to one knee, breathing heavily. The woman, the one he’d called Buta, reached out to take his arm. Neither of the Space Wolves moved.

‘You attacked us,’ said Gunnlaugur, almost incredulous. ‘You came to our world.’

‘It is a hell-world.’

‘You never set foot on it.’

‘What do you have to hide on it, then? Why keep it shrouded?’

‘We do not hide,’ said Ingvar quietly, contemptuously. ‘Wherever there is battle, we are there. We do not ask for understanding, let alone affection, only that our own realm remains in our own hands.’

‘There is no realm, save for His! That is the lesson! You tell yourself these stories, you make yourselves into the heroes of your own tedious sagas, and you never examine. You never look at what you believe, what you do. What is the point of preserving an Imperium at all, if its heart is rotten? None! You should all be excised! If I’d had the strength for it, I’d have done it myself!’ Chirastes’ invective came to a breathless halt, and he panted hard. ‘As it was, I struck a blow. A modest one, in the scheme of things, but a blow nonetheless. I beat you. I beat you.’

And that, for Ingvar, was the worst of it. To discover that the Fulcrum, which had seemed for so long like something put in place by powerful and malign forces of the Archenemy, was in truth the lone project of a bitter, damaged man, one who had squandered a system-spanning fortune just to gain a personal slice of revenge, cheapened everything.

‘And yet, we endure,’ Ingvar said. ‘You have wasted your time alive, cardinal. Fenris is unchanged. The Chapter still fights.’

Chirastes raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure of all that, are you?’ Then he coughed up more blood, the fingers of his planted hand splaying out across the deck. Buta knelt down, winding an arm under his chest.

‘Get away from him,’ Gunnlaugur told her, taking up his bolter.

She stared up at him for a moment, then stared at Ingvar.

‘Go, Buta,’ Chirastes rasped. ‘Let them do what they came to do. It is the kind of thing they understand. I suppose I have given them every reason to be angry.’

She finally let him go, limping away and sheltering next to the altar. From outside, back down the corridors, noises of voices being raised in alarm filtered up the stairwell.

Chirastes looked straight up at the muzzle of Gunnlaugur’s bolter. His flushed, drug-ravaged face twitched.

‘I guessed that one of you would find me, one day,’ he said. ‘What a blessing, though, to have it happen now, when all is already–’

Gunnlaugur fired once, putting the bolt straight through the man’s smile and into the decking beyond. Headless, Chirastes’ body thunked heavily over.

Ingvar aimed his bolter at the woman.

‘Wait,’ said Gunnlaugur, holding up a hand. ‘Did you take the same poison?’ She nodded. ‘What part did you play?’

It looked like she was trying to reply, but her words died in her throat. She stared at Ingvar, then back at Gunnlaugur, her hands shaking.

Ingvar moved in closer. ‘It wasn’t the whole truth, was it?’

Still she couldn’t answer. Her eyes widened, the veins on her temple throbbed. Gunnlaugur’s finger slipped from the trigger with a faint click of ceramite.

‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Take her. We’re leaving.’

The journey in the saviour pod had been exhilarating. Hafloí had barely used the shackle-restraints on the crossing, instead hanging on one-handed as the tube had pirouetted and spiralled through the maelstrom. His sensor loadout had been minimal – just a single lens with some rudimentary local-void schematics that flickered and scrolled madly. Bjargborn had done a good job, though, locking the machine-spirit on to the rat’s trajectory. After the long rush through the delivery tube, the saviour pod had shot through the bloom of exploding starships on all sides, screaming across the narrow gulf between the Amethyst Suzeraine and the Immaculate Destiny.

Still, it had always been a dangerous thing to attempt. Just on the wrong side of foolhardy, probably. If Hafloí had thought about it a little more, he might never have got inside. Klaive’s pod was no doubt able to broadcast Ecclesiarchy access codes during its passage, giving the receiving ship what it needed to lower a section of void shields and bring it inside safely. Hafloí had none of that – just the hope that he could ride fast within the rat’s trail, staying close enough to slip under the screens and somehow penetrate the hull when the moment came.

Of course, it hadn’t worked out like that. The rat had had too great a head start, and despite Hafloí overloading the pod’s thrusters to catch up, the lead capsule had vanished from the scopes just moments before he was was lined up to crash straight into the uprushing battleship. With its tether lost, the saviour pod had spun wildly off course. Hafloí had fought hard with the basic controls, pulling the tube out of its suicidal plunge and hauling it back onto something like a stable trajectory. The battleship’s towering sides had whirled around in the tiny realviewer, rapidly coming into focus and displaying its ranks upon ranks of active cannon-mouths.

For an uncomfortable few seconds, it had seemed inevitable that he’d be smashed against those gunwales. It had taken a huge effort to swing the pod’s nose under the closing void-aegis, tearing close in against the ship’s gilt-edged flanks, before he’d found enough power to boost clean between the physical bulk of the hull perimeter and the glittering energy field of the shields. His fuel counter had ticked away, the thrusters had started to cough, and still there was nowhere to bring it in – the hangar doors were all shut, and a saviour pod was far from having the forward armour to punch through the outer plates unaided. He’d swung it in as close as he could, scouring the artificial landscape as if it were an asteroid’s crust, pulled towards it all the time by unstoppable momentum.

And then, right at the end, the opportunity had come. An incoming las-barrage had smacked into the battleship, five hundred yards ahead, ripping through a damaged void shield sector and driving deep into the hull beyond. Solid plates had blown outward, kicked from their bracings by internal explosions. Hafloí had pounced immediately, diving into the heart of the explosion, yanking the control levels as far as they’d go. The viewscreens had gone a wild amber-red, overwhelmed by the firestorm, before the entire pod crashed to a bone-creaking halt, lodged within the crumbling remnants of the semi-demolished wall section.

Hafloí had moved out immediately, hauling the pod’s damaged hatch open and pulling himself upward into a world of howling, shrieking, streaming fire. His helm had gone instantly haywire in the extreme heat – a mix of jumping, static-laced half-images – and he’d clambered, semi-blind, in and through a disintegrating tangle of melting struts and brace-beams, going as swiftly as he could before the liquid flame-tide engulfed his armour completely. He had eventually spilled out into an internal corridor, blackened and smoking, hauling flesh-charring breaths through an overloaded vox-filter.

After that, he’d been able to run again, dragging himself away from the flames and the wreckage, eventually staggering to a working bulkhead, piling through it and locking it behind him. Smoke had been everywhere, pouring out of the air vents, pooling on the deck. Lumens had flashed, and he’d heard the drumbeat of the big guns firing from the decks above him. Soon he’d penetrated a long way down, deep within the bilge levels where everything stank of promethium, rust and human waste.

Sure enough, the first inhabitants he saw were the lowest level of rating, their uniforms little more than rags, their pale skin caked in dirt and grease. He emerged into a narrow feeder-route, the walls open to the coolant tubes that hissed and gurgled along its length. As soon as they saw him, they screamed and ran, falling over one another to scrabble for the nearest ladder hatch.

Hafloí roared out load, enjoying the sound of his vox-enhanced battle cry echoing madly in the confined space, going after them with his arms out wide, flames still flickering on his pelts, his armour a riotous mix of bleached white and burned black.

He didn’t make a serious effort to catch them, but one of them did drop a locator-slate in her hurry to get away, so he swooped to pick it up. He quickly pulled up a schematic of the decks above and below, and saw that he’d come in a long way down. That was probably a good thing, in that there wouldn’t be many well-armed guards, but also a bad thing, as it meant he’d have a long slog to work his way up towards the rat. For that, he’d need to get to the command levels, the kind of place you’d bring an honoured guest.

He started to run. He made his way upwards and inwards, working hard, driving the mortal crew ahead of him as he traced a direct route. None of them stopped to fight – they must have thought they’d roused some daemon of the outer hells – though he knew that once he was up into the main operational levels things would get trickier.

And then he heard from Jorundur. Somehow, despite the fire damage in his helm-unit and the ongoing las-storm raging between the ships outside, the Old Dog got a comm-burst through. Hafloí almost refused to take it, guessing that it would just be a barrage of curses and demands for him to get back to the ship.

‘Skítja,’ he breathed, eventually, and listened.

As soon as it was over, he turned on his heels, switching back, upping the pace from a jog to a sprint. He tore back through the gantries and the crawl-ways, his burned armour scraping and dinking against the close press of ironwork, his vision fogged with smoke, his boots slipping on the oily decks.

The locator-slate gave him the route he needed, but several of the access tunnels had collapsed or were blocked with dumped heavy machinery. The deep levels were like forgotten mine-workings – dark, clogged, treacherous. He quickly ran into more crew, some of them wearing blast-protection for emergency repair work, some armed and clearly looking for him. He smashed them aside quickly, brutally, not pausing to make sure of the kill, just to do enough to get past, to keep going, to speed up.

Soon both his hearts were pumping, his skin flushed. He skidded on the decks again, slamming into a press of bilge-pumps, before careering down a steep slope and swinging around a tight corner. The air was getting hotter again, and every surface was thick with vibration. From up ahead, he could hear the growing roar of something big, like an exchanger or a power convertor.

He ran into a chamber full of cowled technicians, and had to waste precious time smashing two against the hatch frame and knocking out a third before he could move on. Las-bolts snapped and whistled after him, aimed from some hidden vantage above, but he had no time to return fire, just to race further in, faster and faster.

By the time he reached his destination, he could already feel the colossal build-up of energy, making the hairs on his skin raise and static flickers zip from his armour. He plunged down a long goods-track and spun out straight into a whole gaggle of heavily armed ratings. He lashed out to cripple two of them before ploughing onward, charging into a high-roofed chamber painted with hazard stripes and echoing from numerous alarms. He fired his bolt pistol to shatter the far doorway’s lock-panel then shoulder-barged through it.

Las-fire zeroed in at him, from behind, from ahead, from balconies up above. On either side were sheer ironwork walls, all clogged with active devices encrusted with the Cog Mechanicus and shedding steam-tendrils like tears. Big lifter platforms hissed upwards, propelled by polished steel pistons bearing gangs of robed menials and servitors. Above them rose a mighty access shaft, soaring up through many decks, shimmering from imprisoned energies within tight bundles of black-rimmed cabling. The huge space was crammed tight with both crew ratings and armsmen. Some panicked as he crunched his way in among them; others fought back, dragging his momentum down.

The deck ahead gave way after about fifty yards, after which the floor dropped away to nothing – exposed to the void, the breathable atmosphere kept inside only through the use of stasis fields. The first of the giant orbital laser barrels protruded down into the well, a broad curve of pure adamantium that looked more like the outer skin of a hab-tower than a weapon. It was glowing already, its innards flaring blue-white behind heavy grilles, its control vanes flashing for imminent discharge.

The main barrel was far too huge for Hafloí to take out directly. The volume of las-fire aimed at him was starting to cause problems – he was exposed, and there were hundreds of armed troops in that cavernous space. Swerving to avoid the worst of the incoming bolts, he leapt up to one of the floor-level platforms, cleared out the deck with his bolt pistol pumping, then punched the release lever. The platform clattered upward swiftly as Hafloí reached for the krak grenades at his belt. He took two and set both to detonate at close to zero-count. As the platform reached the first stage of the access shaft, he leapt upward and outward, propelling himself across the wide chasm amid a hail of flying las-bolts.

He crashed heavily straight into the thick power cabling. It swayed drunkenly from the impact, and he stuffed the krak canisters into the thicker primary conduits, then shoved himself back away, dropping hard to the deck some twenty yards below. Even before he hit, the krak grenades went off, exploding in a wild snap of released energy and sending the severed cables flailing around him like whips. The breakage immediately set off emergency klaxons, and more tech-menials poured into the chamber from access hatches set high into the walls. The power-feed to the lasers stuttered, flickered, then blew completely, fusing a long line of tank-sized capacitors and sending shrapnel flying horizontally across the chamber.

Hafloí was now completely surrounded. Squads of armsmen advanced on him warily, firing steadily, scoring hits now that drilled into his armour and knocked him from side to side like a kicked marionette. Lexmechanics backed them up, bringing to bear strange weapons he didn’t even recognise. Behind them were gun-servitors, and right at the back of the whole lot came nastier creations – walker-cages carrying industrial lasers and spinning metal-cutters. All the while the severed cables kept thudding down before lashing across the desk and sending spark clouds flying.

‘Hel’s eyes,’ he grunted, spraying a wide scatter of bolts to send the nearest armsmen scurrying back into cover. ‘Far too many.’

He bludgeoned his way back towards the relative sanctuary of the nearest access tunnels, fighting through knots of armsmen and taking more las-hits across his battered plate. They scattered before his frontal assault, but then came after him in droves, trying to bring him down with dense flurries of ranged fire, much of which impacted and made him stagger.

Hafloí piled through the first hatch he reached, then scrambled up the narrow crawl-way. Once he was a few yards up inside it, he turned and emptied his bolt magazine back at the closest of his pursuers. While they were still screaming he slammed home a fresh magazine and picked up speed again.

They had a lock on him now. They’d just keep coming, squad after squad, and sooner or later the numbers would tell. He had to get out now – find a shuttle, find a boarding torpedo, anything.

‘I’ve bought the pack some time,’ he voxed to Jorundur as he ran, hearing with some satisfaction the continuing explosions from the power lines behind him. ‘But that’s all they’ll get – tell them to get out, and get out now.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The visions never left him. As he ran, Baldr was assailed by them – fantastical vistas of ice sheets melted by blue-tinged flames, of spectral daemons fighting with ghosts in the night skies, of the crusts of Midgardia tilting and erupting and bubbling into lakes of magma. He blinked furiously, determined to concentrate on the very real spectacle of ruin around him, but the dream-images just kept crowding in, jostling the real world aside.

Olgeir was right, of course – the enemy lied. And yet, the pack had been away from the Chapter for long enough. They had seen enough evidence of the erosion of Imperial control in every corner of the void, like an upheaved continent slowly slipping into the sea, fraying at the edges, boulder by boulder, until the land itself sighed under the waves. Maybe all citadels were broken, now. Maybe all worlds were on fire.

Some of his brothers might welcome that. Weary of the long grind, they would roar to greet the Wolftime, glad at last to be fighting in something decisive, something that promised to drown the greyness of reality in the blood of the brave. Baldr could not share that eagerness. For him, the fight had always been about more than prestige – it had been about the preservation of something, the cherishing of uniqueness. The enemy ushered in nothingness, annihilation, the disintegration of stable matter into a soup of screaming daemon-fodder. In the background of every heretical vision he had ever witnessed, that future was there, underpinning it, undermining it. The Heretic Astartes he had killed alongside Olgeir knew it, too – they all knew that truth. Every boast they made, every taunt, it was all empty, deep down, because that final goal could never be erased or forgotten. They were the heralds of emptiness, not just traitors to the Imperium, but traitors to their species, trading temporary glory for eternal extinguishment.

‘I can’t raise Gunnlaugur,’ Olgeir muttered breathily, running at his side, leaping up stairs three at a time to reach the ramps to the landing stages. ‘I don’t think the Old Dog has, either.’

Baldr said nothing, just ran. Ahead were the walls to the orbital drop-zones, now burning freely. One of the Ecclesiarchy landers was trying to take off amid a veritable storm of las-fire, its thrusters leaking smoke and its stabilisers already kicking it askew. Warriors swarmed over every ground-level surface, virtually all renegades of some kind or another, hunting the last few of the world’s defenders or merely seeking out plunder.

But then, just as they reached the gates, they caught sight of Gunnlaugur and Ingvar coming the other way. Gyrfalkon had a human female slumped over his shoulder, but it hadn’t slowed him down much – both of them were moving fast, loping over the rubble.

‘Vaerangi!’ Olgeir called out. ‘Word from Jorundur! He’s–’

‘I know,’ Gunnlaugur shouted back. ‘Just got through to us, too. Time’s up, it seems.’

Baldr swivelled to follow Gunnlaugur’s lead, and all four of them charged back down towards the rig’s eastern galleries, following the route they’d taken earlier. As they did so, explosions rocked the command tower above them, blowing out the armaglass in clouds of spinning crystal.

He looked up at the skies. The clouds were still racing, flecked with black and crimson, swirled by the firestorms and prickling with lightning, but now there was something else – a quickening, a greater stirring. The patch of storm-cover over the very apex of the rig’s pinnacles was darkening, thickening up. Something was affecting the atmosphere above it. He’d seen similar patterns on other worlds, and knew what was causing it.

Ingvar came up alongside him, running freely despite the extra weight on his shoulder. ‘You ended the traitor?’

Baldr nodded. ‘Heavy-Hand did,’ he grunted. ‘With some help.’

‘What was it doing there?’

In all the frenzy of activity, amid all the fighting, Baldr had not even thought about that. Most of the forces crawling all over the rig were routine mortal filth, and a true Heretic Astartes had once been a rare thing to encounter. Strange, perhaps, that it should have chosen this rig, out of all the possible other ones, on which to make its landing.

‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It won’t be going anywhere else.’

Ingvar stared at him for a moment, before turning his attention back to the chase. The decking felt looser underfoot now, as if the foundations of the city were disintegrating.

Baldr could have asked questions of his own just then. He could have asked if Ingvar had found the answers he sought in that tower, and who the woman was he’d brought out of its destruction, and if they’d discovered what so many Ecclesiarchy troops were doing among the ruins.

But instead he just glanced up again, briefly, to where the clouds had darkened again. The air was already heavier – a drawing of breath before the deluge, the sigh of the retreating surf before the tsunami.

‘We’re not going to make it, are we?’ he murmured, the words slipping out, despite himself.

‘We damned well are,’ Ingvar growled back. ‘Stop looking up, run harder.’

‘What happened?’ asked Klaive, who had expected to feel the jolt of the orbital lasers powering up, followed by the pillars of energy lancing down through the clouds below. Instead, the command bridge was in uproar, with menials shouting over one another and order-tubes clattering with fresh canisters.

No one was listening to him. Orquemond looked furious, and bellowed a series of invective-laced commands to his orderlies in the tiers below. Far above them all, the view from the armaglass fractured as repeated las-strikes stressed the void shields. Klaive bustled towards the cardinal, wondering whether he dared interrupt him, then decided that he didn’t. As the deck pitched, he teetered back across to a vacant terminal, and punched up a status report. Most of what he saw didn’t make much sense to him, but it was clear that a power drain had just knocked out the orbital batteries. From the way the crew was reacting, it didn’t feel like a mere equipment malfunction, more like a full-blown mechanical crisis.

He shuffled along to the adjacent terminal, occupied by an operative with lieutenant-commander stripes on her shoulder and a hard look of concentration on her face.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

She shot him an irritated glance. ‘Who in all the hells are you?’

‘Confessor to cardinals, little sister,’ Klaive replied coldly. ‘Watch your tongue and follow an order.’

He didn’t look the part, he knew, but he sounded it, and she wasn’t foolish enough to challenge him. ‘Something’s taken out a power-feed to the lasers. We’re rerouting, but it’s not an easy operation.’

‘Something?’

‘No one knows. Just… something.’

At that, Klaive suddenly felt a tight twinge in the pit of his stomach. They couldn’t have followed him over. It was impossible. The cardinal had closed the void shield aperture once his own saviour pod had been salvaged, sealing them in. And yet, if something else had hit the hull…

‘What ships do we have in close range?’ he asked.

She gave him a bewildered look. ‘I don’t see how–’

‘Answer the damn question. What ships are within strike range of this one?’

She switched to a local augur scan, which picked out a hundred vessel-idents, all rolling and swaying around one another. The largest displacements were the squadron’s capital ships, the smallest were the interceptor wings. Somewhere in between was a loose collection of intermediate vessels, most with Ojada idents, sheltering from the apocalypse for as long as they could. Only one of those had no definite name-descriptor – just a class identifier and some comm-hail protocol blips.

‘What’s that one?’

‘Unknown. It joined the defence of the Purity of Action, so it’s been left alone, but I can’t get more data.’ She shrugged. ‘Looks like a corsair’s old junk heap. Refusing all hails.’

The Wolves. They were still in close – he’d assumed they would have broken for cover elsewhere rather than risk taking a beating from the Ecclesiarchy’s guns. Klaive spun away from her, scrambling back to the command dais, now heedless of Orquemond’s disapproval.

‘You have to target that ship, my lord!’ he shouted, vaulting up the steps. ‘The galleon, two points down from the Purity of Action – you have to knock it out!’

The cardinal shot him an irritated glance. ‘Stand down, confessor,’ he warned. ‘This is not the time for–’

‘It is not an ally! By the grace of the Throne, target it!’

Orquemond’s face flushed. ‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Never again tell me what to do on my own bridge, or rank be damned and I’ll have you thrown through the void-locks.’ He turned his attention back to the control banks around him. ‘We are almost out of time. Gunnery-master – how stands the main array?’

A man seated at a bulky lens-terminal just below the throne, his face hidden behind a bulbous augmetic filter and his hands trailing impulse-cables, looked up briefly. ‘Restoration imminent, my lord. Final rerouting connections are being applied, then you may fire at will.’

‘Tell me the instant you get clearance. Any word on what caused the power drop?’

‘Nothing concrete, lord. All lower decks are now flooded with armsmen – we’ll isolate it.’

Klaive balled his fists, standing impotently on the dais amid the torrent of data streaming down the lenses. His palms were sweaty. This sanctuary no longer felt safe at all. Should he make another break for it? There was nowhere to go. If the cardinal managed to get a shot away soon, destroying the last remnants of the Fulcrum on Ojada as well as the Wolves on the surface, that was still the best chance of getting disentangled from this thing. Once the battleship was safely back in the warp, whatever had followed him on board could surely be dealt with. Surely. The main thing was to keep the charade going – he had lapsed badly by panicking.

Just as he was about to slink back away, though, the gunnery-master banged his cable-laced fist on the console in triumph.

‘We have it, lord!’ the man cried, relieved. ‘Full power restored – you may fire whenever you wish.’

Orquemond’s eyes lit up again, this time with relish.

‘Do it now,’ he snarled. ‘Turn that city to atoms.’

You could feel it before you saw it – a quickening, a downdraught of heat, a speckling in the cloud cover. A full orbital strike was such a stupendous expenditure of energy that even its targeting beams played havoc in the upper atmosphere. As Gunnlaugur tore along he could almost count the seconds trickling away. The tumult around him – the screams and shouts, the collapsing structures, the crackle of promethium fires – they melted into the background, just things to veer around or vault over. Everything was about speed, now – keep running, keep moving, get to the ship.

They had cut it too fine, but then this thing had always been a half-crazed quest, a deliberate race into the furnace with the hope that secrets could still be pulled from the ashes. He didn’t regret it. To pull the trigger on that man, even if it had been the most basic of kills, the most skill-free, had at least closed the loop. Never let a murder go unavenged – that maxim was older than the Chapter itself, something that the tribes of Fenris had held sacred even in the long, empty years before the Allfather had come among them.

So there was satisfaction there, amid everything else. A task complete, a debt settled. He’d taken some records from the chamber – a few scrolls and scrits grabbed before they’d had to get out – and that would no doubt throw further light on what Chirastes had done. Of course, reading those would only prove possible if he survived, and that was by no means certain.

He shot a glance at Ingvar as the two of them leapt from a derelict balcony and crunched to the deck below. Somehow he managed to keep the woman from snapping her spine as he landed – a deft manoeuvre at speed.

‘She’s awake?’ he asked, his boots echoing in the tunnel that enclosed them as they pushed on.

‘Out cold,’ Ingvar told him, his breathing heavy and rapid. ‘Alive, though.’

‘Tough.’

The four of them raced onward, recognising structures they’d passed earlier, or spotting fresh gaping holes in the decks where pillars had gone down. Eventually they reached the hall where the Hlaupnir had landed, still full of its cavalcade of wrecks and debris. A few gangs of desperate looters were attacking the ship, trying to force their way on board. The kaerls left to guard it had mobilised to drive them off, and even before the Space Wolves turned up were doing a good job of it. As soon as they saw the pack speeding towards them, they retreated inside and fired up the engines.

Gunnlaugur didn’t waste any time on taking out the looters. He charged through a bunch of them at the foot of the opening gang-ramp, backhanding one aside before thudding up and into the hull. From there, he hauled himself up through the access column, clambered rapidly up the short ladder, swept out through the hatch and dumped himself into the command throne.

‘Emergency launch, no delay,’ he snarled, hitting the atmospheric-seal lever and swinging the throne around on its column. As he did so, the kaerls already in position activated the main thrusters, flooding the hall with fire and immolating the few looters still trying to hammer their way inside. Olgeir and Baldr strapped themselves in for the ascent – Ingvar must have gone below with the female. Gunnlaugur assumed direct control, boosting the mainline power even as the ship swung around, aiming for the ragged exit in the rig’s outer flank.

The entire place started to shake. The rockcrete below them buckled, rippling up and down like threshed grain. Supporting girders snapped, pinging apart and showering the burning void with blown rivets.

‘Here it comes…’ murmured Olgeir, his fists clamped to the arms of his throne.

The air shimmered, first a blip, then a rapid acceleration, a ramping up of light and heat. The walls around them glowed red, then orange, then bright yellow.

Gunnlaugur levelled the Hlaupnir’s prow at the gap and smacked the lever up to full power. The vessel boosted forward, blazing up to maximum velocity as the walls around them burned white-hot. The cavern disintegrated, melting and popping and atomising into a seething gas-ball even as they raced through it.

‘Teeth of Russ,’ Baldr observed calmly. ‘Look at the hull temperature.’

Gunnlaugur didn’t look at the hull temperature. He kept the engines roaring, rocketing them out of the inferno and into a world of dazzling, coruscating, retina-searing light. The orbital laser-beam was hundreds of yards in diameter, a tremendous column of destruction that enveloped everything, obliterating all other sources of heat and energy and subsuming them within its exclusive and terrible embrace. The forward viewers went white, the augur-lenses went white, the atmospheric controllers screamed, the engines shrieked from overload.

And then they were out, shooting clear of the annihilation-horizon, the ship’s back aflame and streaming plasma like a comet. Only then did Gunnlaugur risk a quick glance at the rear viewers before powering the ship out over the open seas.

The heart of the laser-beam was impossible to stare at directly, even for Astartes eyes. Its edges thundered, jutting straight down into the oceans and kicking up vast columns of superheated steam. The rig-city’s structure could just be made out within its perimeter – blurred from heat-shake, a mere gauze of pale grey amid the liquid neon of the pure energy lance. It was crumpling, collapsing, sliding into ruin, melting and re-forming even as its terraces and decks and pumping stations toppled and imploded and dissolved. For an instant, its profile was shakily visible, wobbling like an apparition, still vast even in its state of dissolution.

Then the main reactor core detonated. A gigantic ball of flame flared up, fuelled and goaded by the laser-column, swelling like the heart of some earth-locked sun, racing out in a circumference of radiant energy. The Hlaupnir was caught up in the shock wave, hurled like a toy across the smouldering oceans, its compensators overloaded and its atmospheric turbines spluttering. It spun head over aft, whirling crazily. For a horrific moment its prow was aimed right into the promethium-slapped waves.

Gunnlaugur killed the power to all but the directional burners, swinging the ship’s axis back into line and sending it skating low against the waves like a flat stone. Furnace-hot winds howled past them, whipping up the ocean-burn and fanning the flames into sheets of raw effervescence.

He yanked the control lever, bringing the nose up just as the hurricane blew itself out and the laser-beam finally snapped out of existence. The Hlaupnir angled steeply, climbing fast, its outer plates still streaking with smoke but its hull intact. For a few moments the hellscape below remained visible – a seascape of churning fire, marked by the charred remains of the rig-city, now just a skeleton of metal struts tossed about by the turbulent foam. An enormous wall of water radiated out from its epicentre, the summit two hundred yards tall, already crashing into the closest rigs and threatening to bring them down in turn.

But then the Hlaupnir broke into the smog clouds, and the realviewers were obscured again. The ship rattled and shook, still racing, keeping the velocity high in preparation for the firing of the void drives.

Olgeir let out a long, low whistle, then chuckled heartily.

‘Fine flying, Skullhewer,’ he said.

Gunnlaugur didn’t smile. He kept both hands on the controls, poised for breaking cloud cover and re-entering the orbital kill-zone. Russ only knew what they’d find when they emerged into that.

‘Save it,’ he growled. ‘We’re not out yet.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Get a lock on the system runner!’ Jorundur bellowed, hammering out a series of secondary commands on his console. ‘The moment you see it, send a protective spread to nadir. And someone, anyone, get me a fix on the whelp’s position.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine was moving, ponderously, uncertainly, shifting for position among the crowded orbital ballet. The Ecclesiarchy ships were still in close proximity, though they were taking a dreadful battering by then, and the formation had started to fracture. The gigantic Immaculate Destiny, its work done, was beginning to come round, its prow and underside flashing from las-hits, its mighty plasma drives keying up for ignition.

He still had no precise lock on Hafloí. The Hlaupnir, for all he knew, had been destroyed in the orbital energy beam – everything coming out of Ojada was now a howl of empty static, and even the realviewers were blurred and shaky. The Archenemy ships, sensing blood, were flocking in now, targeting anything still headstrong or foolish enough to remain in orbit. The galleon had to get out, and get out soon, or nothing but wreckage would mark its brief presence here.

‘Hlaupnir sighted!’ Bjargborn announced triumphantly, flagging up the approach vector. ‘Keying in intercept course now.’

‘Very good,’ growled Jorundur, trying not to betray too much relief. ‘Maintain free firing, all flanks – it’ll get hotter before we’re clear.’

So it did. The Ecclesiarchy squadron was leaving now, pulling up and away, its escorts tilting over to gain an angle before boosting hard. Even as they completed their manoeuvre, one of the smaller destroyers was caught in heavy crossfire, its shields overloaded. Spears of las-fire slid under its hull-plates, buckling them and disabling the engines. It started to list back towards the gravity well, crippled and failing.

‘Keep us moving,’ Jorundur ordered, watching as half a dozen Archenemy vessels started to slide into strike range. It was hard to keep up with them all – every scope was crammed. ‘As soon as we get them, full burn out of here.’

Heavy hits started to come in – coordinated strikes that made the void-array shriek and threatened to pierce through to the hull. Jorundur kept things in motion, dropping down steadily before rolling away aft. The seconds counted down, each one grinding by turgidly, too slowly, agonisingly. At any moment, he expected to hear the crack and squeal of something major breaking.

And then he saw it – trailing fire, hurtling up out of the atmosphere, its sleek lines scorched black but its drives still firing.

‘Bring it in!’ he cried.

‘Lord, we are close to the–’

‘I know damn well where we are – bring it in.’

For the second time, the Amethyst Suzeraine dropped dangerously near to the roof of the world’s atmosphere, this time with its retro thrusters blazing furiously. A brace of enemy fighters, launched from a nearby gun-carrier, swooped down after it, but that couldn’t be helped. Jorundur kept his eyes locked on the augurs, trying to gauge the absolute last moment to effect the transfer. At the back of his mind, nearly out of sensor range now, he was aware of the Immaculate Destiny fighting its way clear of the orbital battle-sphere, dragging dozens of enemy ships with it.

‘Rear shields down on my mark,’ he warned, counting down to the moment, watching the hull temperature rise. ‘Hangar doors open, reception crews on standby…’

The enemy fighters tilted in close, raking them with hard-round fire, causing the entire ship to shake. He ignored them, leaving the response to the overworked gunnery crews. The chronos rattled down, the augurs tracked the incoming Hlaupnir, the damage counters ticked up, and up, and up…

‘Mark!’ Jorundur shouted.

Void shields crackled out across the hangar maws, immediately exposing the hull to fresh strikes. The Hlaupnir hurtled up towards the gap, rolling over at the last moment to line up with the cantilevered door panels, then blasting inside.

‘Away!’ roared Jorundur. ‘Shields up, full power to plasma-lines! Get us out of this Hel-damned system!’

‘Arvus-class shuttle incoming on starboard bow-sector,’ Bjargborn reported calmly, even as the Amethyst Suzeraine began to pick up speed.

‘From the Church battleship?’

‘Aye, lord.’

Jorundur swung round towards a ranged lens-feed to get a closer look. It was flying erratically, as if it had shipped some damage to its engines, and its cockpit was cracked and leaking oxygen. ‘Any hails?’

‘Comms unit seems to be down. No audex, but I’m getting a strange pattern from the lumens. It may be nothing.’

Jorundur took a look. The shuttle was flashing in semi-random patterns, as if its electrical systems were totally shot.

Except the patterns weren’t random at all – he suddenly recognised the Juvyka battle-cant sequences.

Op-en th-e do-ors y-ou pi-ece of skít–

‘Get it inside,’ ordered Jorundur, a wave of relief washing over him. ‘That’s the last one – then we’re gone.’

The galleon creaked around again, swinging up and away from the raging troposphere. The fighters followed it, dogging them like ragged crows, but the gunnery crews were still managing to pick them off here and there, limiting the carnage they could cause. The Ecclesiarchy ships had powered up to full escape velocity, leaving behind their own trail of wreckage in the void. There would be no reckoning with them, now – the galleon had no hope of catching them. The rat had got away, and despite everything they had achieved, that stung him badly.

A few seconds later, they caught up with the damaged Arvus, taking more las-strikes and projectile-hits all the while. Gunnlaugur hailed him from the hangar as soon as it was in visual range, ordering immediate system-exit, which was both a relief and an irritation, because he was already going as fast as he could. The Arvus limped in under the cover of a final massed volley from the rear gunners. The macrocannons were by then almost out of mainline ammunition, but they spat out what they had left in a display of impressive petulance, taking out four more racing fighters before having to switch to lascannons and heavy bolters.

‘Full speed, now!’ Jorundur thundered, swinging back around to gauge the congestion ahead. Even as the Amethyst Suzeraine lumbered up to its grinding straight-line velocity, he was counting the threats, judging the angles, trying to thread a path that would get them away from the doomed world. ‘All vectors set for Mandeville horizon, let’s stay intact for just a little longer, eh?’

He heard the tramp of boots from behind him. Before he turned to face the returning pack, his comm-line crackled open with a burst from Hafloí.

‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ he said, sounding breathless and annoyed.

‘Amazed you got out at all,’ Jorundur replied. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t track down the rat.’

‘No chance.’

‘Then he got away. Damn it all.’

The comm-feed hissed with what sounded like a chuckle.

‘Maybe, maybe not. I couldn’t leave without giving them something to chew over.’

He had made it. He had got away.

The Immaculate Destiny sailed through the warp, along with most of the escorts it had brought to Ojada. Klaive didn’t know what its course was now. He knew very little about Orquemond’s intentions, only that the cardinal had been deeply disappointed not to have had Chirastes brought to him in person, and regarded the destruction of the renegade from distance as close to a total defeat.

For Klaive, though, it was perfect. The Wolves, locked on their creaky, useless galleon, had been unable to get close enough to exact the revenge they surely wished for. One of them, it was true, must have somehow got on board the battleship and attacked the orbital lasers, but it was clear that the interloper had either been killed or had been forced to flee again – he’d heard it muttered that a shuttle was missing from the reserve pool. It had been a long time now since the ship had broken the veil, and the damage was steadily being repaired. Finally, he was able to relax, just a little. Finally, he was able to turn his mind to what came next.

He had to get off the Immaculate Destiny as soon as he could. His story had been constructed under duress, and wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny. He would speak to Orquemond, when he could, and explain that he needed to return to his previous duties. A shuttle to take him to the closest Ecclesiarchy facility would be quite sufficient, and after that he could make his own arrangements. Once back within the bosom of the Church, he would be able to draw on his private accounts again, make contact with his old network of associates. Some of Delvaux’s remaining allies would no doubt be willing to help, if he made it worth their while.

It would be best, he thought, to forget about the Fulcrum altogether. It was finished now, its last station wiped out and its mastermind dead. The Wolves had nothing more to hunt, and the Church had nothing more to fear. He would have to move on, to find new patrons and new causes. As soon as he was away from Orquemond, free of association with the whole damned business, things would get easier again.

They had already started to improve. The crew had found him new robes, had arranged for a cadre of menials to see to his needs, and had appointed comfortable chambers for him on the command levels. Since the ship had entered the warp, he had been left largely to his own devices. The time had been filled well – he had feasted on the exquisite meals prepared in the senior refectories, perused the fine collection of devotional books in the cardinal’s private library, started to plot out the course back towards greatness.

It was seven days before Orquemond paid him a visit again. Klaive had just finished another extensive supper, taken in his private rooms, and was pondering retiring for a period of rest. Orquemond arrived without warning, entering the chamber with four armsmen and a women in a black tunic and bodyglove.

‘By His immortal will,’ said the cardinal, inclining his head a little in greeting. ‘I see you are enjoying our hospitality, confessor.’

Klaive stood up, dabbing at his chin. Orquemond was a powerful presence even out of his battle-armour. The armsmen all had their lasguns drawn. The woman hung back, said nothing, but he didn’t like the look of her at all.

‘You have been most generous, lord,’ Klaive replied. ‘I trust that all is well?’

‘Perfectly. Though the damage in the lower levels was remarkable. It seems, contrary to all sense, that a single warrior must have got on board. Extraordinary. I am still uncertain how it was done, or even why. Do you have a theory?’

Klaive began to get uncomfortable. The tone of the man’s voice was unmistakable – he’d used it himself, many times, but only when interrogating a suspect. ‘None at all. Though the servants of the Archenemy can be powerful, their objectives hard to fathom.’

‘Quite so. It was for that reason that I ordered a forensic examination of the damaged areas. I had to be sure that I was not being somehow made a fool of.’ Orquemond held out his hand, and an armsman gave him a small piece of metal. Klaive only had to glance at it to see what it was – a dataslug, capable of holding hours of testimony. ‘This was the only thing we managed to retrieve. It was left in plain sight, just where we were likely to stumble across it. Curious, isn’t it? Left just where we lost that shuttle, amid all the wreckage of the outer blast-doors.’

Klaive couldn’t take his eyes off it. A sick taste was beginning to ferment in his mouth. He tried to think of something to say, but no words would come.

‘There is a lot stored here,’ Orquemond said. ‘Would you like to listen to a portion of it? Very well.’

He clicked a switch, and a crackling audex-feed began to play.

‘I don’t even know that the Fulcrum is a single person. I told you that.’

Orquemond clicked it closed. ‘There’s much more. It seems they recorded every conversation they ever had with you. And one of them, no doubt displeased that you tried to escape their care, felt obliged to leave a copy here.’

Klaive’s vision began to waver. He felt nauseous. He looked at the woman again.

‘This whole business has left me angry,’ Orquemond said. ‘It has soured my mood. And yet, just when all seems darkest, He has ways of rewarding the faithful. I wished to learn the truth of the Fulcrum, and thought I had been denied it. Now, though, I find that illumination was always waiting, handed to me, so to speak, on a plate.’

The nausea grew. ‘I know almost nothing, lord,’ he tried feebly. ‘You will see this, if you listen to what is on that thing. I could tell them very little.’

Orquemond nodded to an armsman, who shut the doors and locked them. The woman took a step towards him, withdrawing something metallic and barbed from her tunic.

‘Perhaps they didn’t press you hard enough,’ Orquemond said. ‘My servants are very diligent – they have a way of getting to the truth, no matter the… messiness encountered on the way.’

The woman began to unfold more instruments, never making eye contact with him. Two of the armsmen moved to stand beside him. They had shackles in their hands.

Klaive felt like weeping. He had been so close.

‘You don’t need to do this, my lord,’ he tried. ‘I could just… talk.’

Orquemond smiled at him – as cold and humourless a gesture as it was possible to imagine. ‘But you have already lied so completely to me, confessor. I do not like that. And, as I said, this thing has placed me in a foul mood.’

Klaive barely noticed as he was forced back onto the chair, the shackles closed over his wrists. The woman finished her preparations, and started to move the tip of the steel barb towards him.

‘I wanted Chirastes, but you will do,’ said Orquemond, fixing him with a final, acid stare before turning to the woman. ‘Interrogator, you may begin when ready.’

IV

THE DEAD OF FENRIS

CHAPTER TWENTY

Gunnlaugur had been right – the woman was tough. As Ingvar looked down at her, he found himself increasingly impressed.

She was old, by mortal standards – maybe more than a century old. The skin around her face was tight, as if she’d undergone rejuvenat on more than one occasion, though those effects were fraying now. She was thin, with signs of malnourishment, and had clearly not been in good health even before the suicide pact with her master. The poison she’d taken on Ojada was working its way through her body rapidly, shutting down her organs, turning her blood to gel, blocking up her lungs.

The two of them were alone in a private compartment of the Amethyst Suzeraine’s medical bay. The walls, deck and ceiling had been scrubbed clean prior to their arrival, and now gleamed whitely under twin strip lumens. The woman lay on a hard cot, her head propped up with a rough bolster. The ship’s medicae staff had done what they could when he’d brought her in, and Ingvar had briefly held out some hope that she might be revived. Eventually, though, the chief officer, a competent man from Collaqua’s old crew, had shaken his head.

‘Acherosa,’ he’d said grimly. ‘Horrible stuff.’

After that, they’d made her as comfortable as they could, and left the two of them alone. She had a morphex line inserted into her arm, as well as numbing agents prepped and ready in vials.

She should have died on the passage up from Ojada, by rights. Something was keeping her alive – force of will, maybe. Bajola had been the same, Ingvar remembered. There was something about the coming of the moment, the final moment, that did it to all of them. They always wanted to talk.

‘He didn’t tell us the truth, did he?’ Ingvar said.

There was so much he wanted to ask her. Everything about the discovery of Chirastes had been frustrating – that they’d been too late to properly enact revenge, that there was still so much they didn’t know. If time had not been so pressing, he’d have wished to extract every last morsel of information from her – the Fulcrum’s history, its modes of operation, its bases of operations.

The woman smiled weakly. ‘He didn’t lie,’ she croaked. ‘He never really lied. Not even to me.’

‘Then he left something out.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Why do you think there’s anything more to say? You are a devil. My life has been devoted to hurting you.’

‘His life was. Maybe yours was too, in the beginning.’ Ingvar watched her carefully throughout. ‘But I saw the way you were with him. I think you’ve been doing this for a very long time. Long enough to ask why your whole existence was wasted on one man’s obsessions. He kept the faith, right up to the end, because he had to. I’m not sure you did.’

The woman smiled, then opened her bloodshot eyes again. ‘Quite the philosopher. I hoped you were going to rage at me, barbarian.’

‘I can, if you want. Or you can use this time to salvage something.’

‘And give you what you need.’

‘Just the truth. Imagine it – you could go the Allfather with your soul eased.’

‘The Allfather.’ She shook her head, a dismissive movement, heavy with pain and contempt. ‘Blasphemy. All of it, blasphemy. That was what started this.’

‘Did you never think, just for a moment, that by harming us, you were harming the Emperor’s work?’

‘A work may be corrupted. Perhaps you were purer, long ago, when He first made you.’

‘We have never changed. That’s one thing even our enemies agree on – we were fighting His wars even before there was a Church.’

‘There was always a Church.’

Ingvar sighed. ‘You wish to debate history with me? Now?’ He stretched out, reaching to grip the edge of her cot, leaning on the frame. ‘What is your name?’

‘Buta Avelina.’

‘You were his deputy, yes? His most senior commander?’

‘By the end, yes.’

‘So how did you do it?’

Avelina’s expression flickered. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the blanket. ‘Like he said. We tried going to war, and failed. So we did what we had to, in secret.’

‘But you needed whole regiments. You couldn’t have hidden those.’

‘The regiments weren’t hidden. They were Astra Militarum, Navy, defence forces. They operated in plain sight, under normal chains of command. Most of their troops were untampered with. A few – sometimes dozens, sometimes hundreds – were ours. The ones we’d built and trained. They were inserted carefully, over decades. Even they didn’t know much, not until the imprint-commands were given.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘Then they only had one objective. One they’d die to reach. That was the pattern. In the heat of battle – always major engagements, the bigger the better – we’d work to place auxiliaries in the right position. Move alongside you. They’d only deploy when we told them, and only when the target was exposed. That was the hardest part of our work – monitoring, making the judgement on when to activate. Chirastes blew his entire fortune to build that predictive capacity. He could have been master of a whole diocese. Maybe master of much more. In the end, though, seeing you suffer was more important.’

Was there an edge of bitterness in her voice, then? Or just the pain having its effect?

‘A waste,’ he murmured.

‘Was it?’ She shrugged a little. ‘How long have you hunted us, in your turn?’

‘Wrong us, and we will surely come after you.’

‘And, as far as Leon saw it, you committed the original crime.’

Her voice was getting weaker. Debates over who had started the vendetta, and for what cause, seemed more futile than ever. ‘So the work was complete, was it? Your funds were all expended, your troops all gone?’

‘The coin was spent, yes. We made ourselves paupers, hunted eventually by our own people. I began to wonder who would reach us first – them, you, or neither. As fate would have it, you both did.’

‘But you haven’t answered me. Were all your armies extinguished?’

She hesitated. Her gaze shifted, almost like a schola girl caught in some minor wrongdoing. Ingvar wondered how much damage to her mind had been done over the long years of secrecy. Maybe she might have been genuinely impressive, once. Now she was ruined, burned out, and she must have known it.

‘Ojada was the last base,’ she said reluctantly. ‘The last place we had regiments under our influence. All the Hunters we still controlled, they were in those units, training there, waiting for the command to activate.’

‘Why? Chirastes said he’d reached the end of the list.’

‘He had. Or, at least, by the time you reached us. The programme had become harder to operate. We used to control an entire fleet. A huge fleet! It was all gone, used up. Everything was difficult – we were reliant on agents in the Ojada Administratum. Those regiments had been earmarked for the defence of that planet. They should have been present, when the enemy arrived. It took a lot of effort to get them posted off-world. You can imagine why.’

‘You moved them? To where?’

‘To where the last name on the list would be. The last one. Leon was adamant he had to get them all. So we got the regiments sent away, added to the sector musters. Once they did their work, everything would be accomplished. They’ve gone now. Maybe you even passed their troop carriers on your way in-system. Ha! Imagine that. You would have gone straight past them, thinking they were evacuating.’

She was fading quickly now. Her gaze was unfocused, her skin had turned grey.

‘Where were they going?’ he asked. ‘What was the name he gave them?’

‘You are devils,’ she slurred, smiling. ‘And you have been duly punished.’

Ingvar wanted to grab her then, to shake her by the shoulders, but that would have snapped her spine. He moved closer, not to threaten her, just to hear what she said. As her life slipped away, so did the last chance for information.

‘You can see me here in front of you,’ he said. ‘You can see truly that I am no devil. You know, in your soul, that you have made a terrible mistake, and that it has consumed your whole life. You have a chance – a last chance – to make partial amends, as your final breaths come, if you choose it.’

‘I never broke a vow.’

‘All I need is a name. The last one Chirastes wanted.’

She shot him a strange look then. ‘You and he are the same, I think. I might have served you the same way, had I been born on your witch-world. Think on that.’ The last colour bled from her cheeks. ‘Then I might have destroyed myself for another useless cause, and wasted my promise for another tyrant.’

Ingvar’s eyes never left hers. She was slipping away, and nothing he could say made much difference now.

‘Ah, I see him now,’ she murmured. ‘I see him amid the choirs of angels. I see the golden veil lifting.’ Then, strangest of all, she winked at him – a sly gesture, one that indicated there was still some spark there, some hint of the woman she had been a long time ago. ‘Not really. I don’t want to see him ever again. I just want to rest, now. I want it all to be over. It’s been a long time, consumed by this. And it wasn’t even my revenge. We all just followed orders.’

She looked at him directly, her expressions suddenly clarifying – the clarity of the moment before death, when the transition between worlds was imminent and visible, like a cliff-edge into oblivion.

‘Blackmane,’ she said, with some satisfaction. ‘Blackmane Thunderfist. That’s the last one. That’s the one he had to get.’

‘So, tell me how it was.’

Gunnlaugur sat in the throne in his quarters. It was a heavy stone piece, ripped out of the Hlaupnir’s innards and bolted to the deck of the Amethyst Suzeraine. The granite was carved with runes, some so old that the figures had almost worn away, though the Fenrisian knotwork would still be made out, snaking its way under the armrests and up to the crown. On either side, braziers burned low, making the walls shift and flicker.

The only other occupant was Olgeir. He’d removed his helm and scraped the lacquer out of his beard. His armour still bore the signs of combat – a blackened dent in his shoulder-guard – and would be removed soon for attention at the forge.

‘A dreg of the old Legions,’ Olgeir said. ‘It had some tricks. They didn’t prove sufficient.’

‘And Fjolnir?’

‘He was very helpful.’

‘He didn’t… waver?’

Olgeir looked at him carefully. ‘He has been master of himself since we pulled him out from under Njal’s nose. You know that.’

‘But still.’ Gunnlaugur shifted against the cold stone. He had to resist the urge to drum his fingers, to move again. He was restless. Impatience already tore at him, to be moving again, to shift to the next sniff of quarry. Now that they were back in the warp, every emotion was heightened. ‘The creature was corrupted. Proximity to that, well…’

‘Is that why you sent him with me? To see if he could handle it?’

Gunnlaugur raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. ‘You think I’d do that? No. It had to be removed, that was all.’

And that was true. At least, it was what he told himself was true. In battle, with the rush of events and the need for decision, it might have been a little different – you couldn’t always reconstruct, after the action.

‘So why was it there?’

‘Not much time to ask it questions,’ Olgeir said, amused. ‘Baldr might know more.’

‘I’ll speak to him, then.’

‘They’re everywhere, vaerangi. The old Legions. Like acid-spiders spilled from a nest. You know what I think? I think they’re going where they want to now, taking advantage of the collapse. It didn’t need a reason – it was just there, picking at the meat on the bones.’

‘Aye.’ Gunnlaugur drew in a long breath. ‘Aye, that seems to be the way. A time of trial. Maybe it’ll burn itself out, like all the others. Or maybe not, this time.’

Olgeir looked uncomfortable.

‘Anything else you want to tell me, Heavy-Hand?’ Gunnlaugur asked.

For a moment, it didn’t look like there was. ‘You really should speak to Baldr,’ he said, eventually. ‘But it… told him things. About Fenris. About fighting there.’

‘Fighting.’

‘It told him the home world had been ravaged.’

Gunnlaugur laughed. ‘It saw this with its own eyes, did it?’ He shook his head. ‘And then somehow ended up here, running down promethium caches on a random rig-city? Come, now. They lie, brother.’

‘That’s what I told him.’

‘But you’re not convinced.’

Again, the hesitation. ‘We’ve been away a long time. No tidings, no contact. I don’t know… You said it yourself – this feels like an acceleration.’

Gunnlaugur shook his head. ‘Aye, but some things are unshakable, at least until Russ returns. This creature hadn’t seen any sign of him, on its travels?’

‘We’ll have to go back at some stage,’ said Olgeir.

‘That’s the intention.’

‘So did you get enough? You killed the one you needed to, ended the hunt?’

Gunnlaugur smiled darkly. ‘We killed the one we needed to. As for the hunt, I don’t know. I need to study what we took from the chamber. Gyrfalkon’s speaking to the last survivor. He has a way with mortals – I’d put coin down on him finding something else.’ He sat forward in the throne, adjusting his weight over the stone, clasping his gauntlets together. ‘I know you wish to return, brother. I know what it means to you, to us all. And we will do it, when we have certainty. When I can bring something with us, to show them why we had to leave. Anything less, and they’d be within their rights to have our heads, no?’

‘But what might we find waiting, vaerangi, if we leave it too late?’

Gunnlaugur’s smile vanished.

‘I’ll make the judgement,’ he said. ‘When all is done, when all is known. Not before.’

If he was honest, Bjargborn hadn’t really expected to see Hafloí again. Even by the standards of his masters, launching a saviour pod on a ship-to-ship transfer during a void-battle had been ambitious. Once the galleon was back into the warp, he’d wanted to see the evidence for himself, just to check that there wasn’t some cruel trick being played on them all. Down in the main hangar, when the shuttle’s doors were opened up, he’d tensed, in case vengeful Ecclesiarchy armsmen had spilled out into the hangars. In the end, though, Hafloí had limped down onto the rockcrete, alone, his pelts sheared away and his armour looking like it had been for a spell in a blast-furnace.

The Blood Claw had pulled his helm off, shaken his red hair, and grinned.

‘Quite a ride,’ he’d said.

In truth, though, he’d been badly injured. A single lasgun posed little threat to a Space Marine, but hundreds of them, aimed at close quarters, could do real damage. When the menials got him out of his armour, the extent of that damage became obvious. Much of his plate had been carved up badly, with joints seared away and control cables severed. A few more well-aimed beams, and he’d never have made it back.

Jorundur had been pleased to see Hafloí return, greeting him with a slightly warmer grunt than usual. Gunnlaugur had ordered him down to the medicae bay to get himself patched up. Only once he was on his way, barely able to stay on his feet, did the Wolf Guard clap his hand on the warrior’s lacerated shoulder-guard.

‘You did well,’ he’d said, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. ‘When all this is over, maybe, we might not send you back.’

After that, Bjargborn was detained with duties on the command bridge – mostly clearing up the mess Suaka had created. Jorundur said nothing to him about that. It hadn’t been Bjargborn’s sole responsibility to keep an eye on her, or anyone else, but the chain of command did stop with him, at least with regard to the baseline-human tiers of the crew. Sooner or later the discussion would have to be had. Were there signs that were missed? How many others from the old corsair ranks were liable to snap under pressure? Could they still trust any of them?

Once he completed the urgent tasks on the bridge, he headed down to the medicae levels. After any engagement there were casualties to tally up, task-squads to reassign, assessments of worker fitness to be made. He travelled down the long mag-train track, disembarked at the medicae level and made for the sealed hatchway. Once inside, he worked his way along the rows of cots, noting whether each occupant was likely to pull through, keeping half an eye on the bustling medicae staff and checking how quickly they were burning through the scarce supplies. The cots were already fully occupied, and those unlucky enough to be brought in late were now lying on the deck-floor with drips pinned up on the walls or splinted limbs waiting for proper reset. It smelled bad, as all medicae wards did in such conditions – a mix of chems and bodily waste, poorly filtered by the overworked air processors.

Hafloí could have demanded a chamber to himself and they’d have given it to him. Instead, he stood in a corner next to a supply-gurney, stripped of his armour, surrounded by half-conscious invalids and bustling menials, doing his own repair-work. As Bjargborn approached, he seemed to be finishing up, snipping the last of the sutures from his self-sewn lacerations and dropping the heavy-duty needles back into the steel dishes. He smiled broadly up as Bjargborn approached.

‘Rivenmaster!’ he said. ‘Glad you came.’

Bjargborn bowed. ‘I am just glad to see you alive, lord.’

Hafloí shrugged, a gesture of magnificent ambivalence. The absence of any kind of fear, any kind of concern for physical safety – it could still take you aback, sometimes. ‘So what happened? With that officer?’

‘I do not know.’ Immediately, Bjargborn felt the guilt rush back, the acute sense of failure. ‘I have a team looking through her quarters, but I do not think they will find much. If there was fault on my part, then–’

‘Ach, forget that.’ Hafloí sluiced down the last laceration with some counterseptic, then flexed his arm, testing his stitching. ‘They’re not of the ice. You know what I mean? Not like we are. They’re weak. Gunnlaugur knows it. You’ve done a damned good job knocking some shape into them, and he won’t forget it.’ He reached for a length of bandage and wrapped it around his forearm. ‘Anyway, this won’t last forever. Given a bit of luck, we’ll be back on a proper warship soon. One you can take some pride in commanding.’ He tied the fabric off. The bruises on his skin were already looking less lurid. ‘How does that sound, eh? A real drekkar, one with a crew that knows how to follow an order.’

It sounded good. It was all Bjargborn wanted, now – to get off this creaking hulk and resume service in the way he’d been trained. At times, including just then, he yearned for it so badly it hurt. ‘When the moment comes,’ he said, keeping all that emotion in check, just as always, ‘I’ll give thanks to the Allfather.’

Hafloí laughed, limping back down the aisle between the cots, swinging his arms to shake off the last stiffness.

‘It’ll come, rivenmaster,’ he said. ‘I’m going to speak to Skullhewer now. If he got what he wanted down there, we’ll be headed home sooner than you think. I can see this being the last voyage we ever take in this rust-heap.’

Bjargborn watched him go. Then he looked around him, at the mix of kaerls and non-Fenrisians, crammed together in a gaudy chamber with more decoration than useful medical function.

‘One way or another, that may be true,’ he said to himself, before stirring, and getting back to work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

They met in the Annulus Chamber again, just as before. The fires had been stoked, making the walls glow a deep red. The distant thrum of the warp drives made the place echo, and from outside the walls the muffled clamour and clank of the starship’s many internal systems could be picked up.

Gunnlaugur waited for Hafloí to take his place, the last of the pack to do so, then leaned forward, elbows grazing the granite.

‘So, it wasn’t what we expected,’ he said. ‘Yes, there was a list. A list of those within the Chapter, all marked for assassination. And yes, they’d had some success with it. But it was a product of madness, not design.’

All of them listened, Ingvar most intently. He’d had a chance to look at some of the scrolls retrieved from Ojada, but only Gunnlaugur had read them all.

‘It’s been going on for decades,’ the Wolf Guard went on. ‘Ever since the Incursion of Fools. Remember that, from the sagas? I still remember them laughing about it in the Hall of Fire. Empty laughs, I thought. No one came out of that with much honour. I’m glad it was before my time.’

‘That’s what started it?’ Olgeir asked doubtfully.

‘Aye. Just one soul, humiliated by what we did to him, willing to kill his own prospects to get revenge. That’s who we killed on Ojada. Maybe he might have been more impressive, back when he controlled fleets, but down there he was just a ranter, curled up around his bitterness. Slaying him was like slaying a sickened dog.’

‘He didn’t have the support of the Church,’ Ingvar added. ‘No part of it, not knowingly. He was acting alone. Even they wanted it over, once they realised he was still active.’

‘They may be bastards,’ said Gunnlaugur, ‘but they’re not all insane. He was.’

Hafloí laughed then, a low cynical chuckle. ‘All this trouble. How did he do it?’

‘He was a cardinal astra, when he was anybody,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Once, he could build entire armies. We encountered some of his creations on the planet. They don’t look like much, but they can fight. Once he had those, he started putting them into Militarum regiments, getting them sent to warzones where we were active. They’d deploy as close as they could, right at the heart of the fighting, with a single name imprinted on their minds. Then, when everything was blurred by battle-confusion, they’d strike. Afterwards, their target was just one more casualty. Chirastes would move on to the next one.’

Jorundur frowned. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘The deaths would have been picked up.’

‘Who was looking?’ Gunnlaugur countered. ‘Only those in squad command during the incursion were targeted, and that’s from one hundred and fourteen years ago. How many warriors from the packs would you expect to make it that long? Hel, we’ve lost more warriors in single battles and never stopped to ask how they all died.’

‘Hjortur was one,’ said Ingvar. ‘They made it look like greenskins, and we never questioned it, because others did die that day to ork claws. Chirastes didn’t care whether we knew he was taking revenge – it only mattered that he did.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Olgeir. ‘How did they even get hold of this list?’

Gunnlaugur smiled grimly. ‘I scoured the scrolls for that. It seems they compiled it while in orbit about Fenris, the one and only time they were there. Some comms must have been intercepted during the fighting, and Chirastes hung around long enough to extract transcripts. My guess is that’s all they ever had. Everything else, everything they did, came from that.’

‘Those would have been in battle-cant,’ said Baldr.

‘Hard to break, but not impossible,’ said Ingvar. ‘If you had decades to work at it.’

‘But they didn’t get it all right,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘They were guessing about some of the data. See, I found a reference to Svengar Brokenaxe in the scrolls. They killed him, so the records claim, thirty years ago during a joint campaign in the Artaf Rho System. I don’t know if they really did kill him there. But I do know that he couldn’t have been part of the Incursion of Fools – he wasn’t even born then. So maybe they mistranslated a message, or got a name mixed up, or someone in their administratum just had to put something on a report. I don’t know. But don’t assume we’re dealing with all-powerful conspirators, here. This was a damaged man, crushing his own future to lash out at an enemy who barely knew he existed. It was a mess. A poisonous mess.’

‘But it’s over now, right?’ asked Hafloí. ‘You killed him, you got the records? The debt’s settled.’

‘Almost,’ said Ingvar. ‘Ojada was the only base they still used. Their final cache of warriors was there, saved up for the last name of all. If we’d got there a few days earlier, we’d have found them in place – members of the system Militarum garrisons, stationed to defend rig production.’

‘Chirastes got them sent off-world,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Gods only know how, but they’re all in the warp now. He lied to us, even at the end – he hadn’t finished.’

‘Just one name was left,’ said Ingvar. ‘Blackmane Thunderfist.’

Silence fell.

‘Who?’ asked Hafloí.

‘The old jarl, Berek?’ asked Olgeir.

‘Or Ragnar?’ asked Jorundur.

‘Like I said,’ said Gunnlaugur, a sour smile on his features. ‘A mess.’

‘That’s the name the survivor gave me,’ said Ingvar. ‘She died before I could ask her any more. She wouldn’t have known the whole truth, I guess, even if she’d lived – Chirastes was a master at telling his servants almost nothing.’

‘Berek was at the battle in 886,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘I remember him talking of it in the Hall of Fire, back when I was a Blood Claw. Hjortur was there too, before he made Wolf Guard. It was part of a whole recital of the sagas, and they didn’t dwell on that engagement, but they couldn’t just leave it out. I remember thinking that Thunderfist must have been instrumental in the defence, somehow. Maybe it was one of things that got him made Wolf Lord. I don’t know. He’d have preferred to have been remembered for other things, I reckon.’

Olgeir started to chuckle, a deep rumble in his thick throat. ‘So what are we supposed to think, now? That this man was behind Berek’s death, too?’

‘No,’ said Ingvar firmly. ‘The jarl’s body was recovered. We know who killed him – Ragnar heard the boasts from the killer’s own lips, and the death was avenged in the open, warrior to warrior.’

‘Then they are after Ragnar,’ said Baldr. ‘And that is another mistake – the Young King was not alive either during the Incursion.’

‘But he shares the name Thunderfist,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Something that could have been used on the battle-comms during the assault. It has always seemed a strange coincidence to me – one name given to a Wolf Lord after a bionic, shared with the tribal mark of his successor. Fate, maybe, but what could Chirastes know of that? All he had was battle-cant cipher, and he had to apply it to the Chapter as it stood. Berek has been dead for years. By the time Thunderfist came up on the list, maybe the name he was deliberately saving until last, the one he hated more than any other, it was borne by another.’

‘The deeds of Ragnar are talked of halfway across the galaxy,’ said Ingvar. ‘They know he is a Wolf Lord, honoured among us, just as Berek was. Mistaken or not, they have enough to find the one they seek.’

Jorundur leaned back in his throne. ‘Can you be sure, though? This seems like mistake after mistake.’

‘The regiments have been sent,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘I’ve read the manifests – five hundred thousand troopers of the Ojada Perennials, bound for the void. One unit within that, the Fourteenth Advanced Armoured, contains more than five hundred Fulcrum Hunters, virtually all they had left, all primed with the order to kill Blackmane Thunderfist.’

Olgeir exhaled loudly. ‘Five hundred!’ he snorted. ‘Morkai, that wouldn’t be enough. Not for Ragnar.’

‘Not in open battle, maybe,’ said Ingvar. ‘But that would not be how it would happen. They would be up close, fighting alongside one another. You know how it is, once things start. Comms get drowned, orders are forgotten. Any warrior may become isolated, and that is when they will strike, all at once, against a target unprepared for it.’

‘And they’re good,’ warned Gunnlaugur. ‘We got a taste of it down there. Given cover, given surprise, they’re dangerous. Chirastes knew his time was running out – he staked everything he had on this working, the last piece of his long game.’

‘So we go home, now,’ said Hafloí firmly, looking at his brothers for support. ‘We go back now, we take the proof. That’s what we wanted, was it not? A way back? Something to give them?’

‘Ragnar is not on Fenris,’ said Baldr quietly.

All eyes turned to him.

‘And how could you know that?’ asked Hafloí.

‘Because Fenris has already been consumed by this war.’ Baldr’s face, as so often, looked pained. He didn’t lift his gaze, but spoke to the stone. ‘There’s nothing left to fight for, there. So he has moved on, to where we were always destined to meet him again.’

Olgeir looked uncomfortable, Jorundur still sceptical.

‘We could take a safe guess at where Chirastes sent those regiments, even if we had no data,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We’ve all seen the pattern of violence growing.’

‘And yet, the creature even told me,’ said Baldr. ‘Not the one on Ojada – the one on the plague-hulk, months ago. It’ll start on Cadia, it said. And every night since then, I’ve been watching the hour come closer, feeling it turn slowly from prophecy into reality. That world is calling everyone, now.’

‘The Helwinter Gate,’ said Ingvar. ‘The fortress at the world’s end.’

‘It’s where the troops were dispatched,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘The very last item in the records, and the final piece of intelligence Chirastes’ agents collected before the Fulcrum was dissolved. We know how it works from here onwards – the orders are sent ahead, the bribes are already paid, the arguments already made. The Hunters end up deployed wherever the Blackmanes fight, right until the moment comes and the trigger is pulled. Chirastes never needed to be there – he just needed to put the pieces in place.’

‘Then we send that message,’ said Olgeir. ‘We go hunting, find an astropath relay, just like we’ve been doing all this time. Get tidings to the jarls.’

‘No message of ours would ever reach them,’ said Ingvar. ‘Who would be listening? The bloodtide has already broken – every ship heading towards the Gate will soon be overwhelmed. If we wish to stop this, we need to go after them.’

‘Those ships are ahead of us,’ said Jorundur. ‘The routes already plotted. You really think we can catch them?’

‘We can catch anything,’ said Gunnlaugur.

‘The warp’s in torment,’ said Hafloí doubtfully.

‘It can still be read,’ said Baldr. ‘Van Kliis is good.’

Hafloí turned to Baldr. ‘And what of you, then? We said we wouldn’t go back until we had both our targets accounted for.’

‘We’re not going back,’ Baldr replied calmly. ‘We’re keeping going. This is just another step on the road.’

‘So we have no choices here,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘If they land on Cadia, get to their destination–’

‘Vaerangi, you’ve seen the same things we’ve seen,’ said Olgeir wearily. ‘The fleets moving, the size of them, all in the same direction. This isn’t a brawl like the one we just crashed – this is the cataclysm the Priests have been muttering about for years. If we go there, if we even get there, we’ll be a pebble amid the landslide. This ship will last just a few moments in a real battle. And somehow, in those few moments, we’d have to locate these regiments, get down to the surface alive, overtake them, eliminate the hidden killers before the rest of the Imperial divisions in the warzone, Ragnar at their head, tear us apart for traitors.’

Ingvar smiled. ‘That’s the plan, aye.’

Jorundur shook his head. ‘Madness.’

‘Agreed,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘But necessary. You all know what the Young King means. You know what store the gothi have placed in him. Chirastes was working for himself, but the greater enemy won’t scruple to make use of such delusion. We have to try.’

‘Then this council is not about debate,’ said Olgeir. ‘You have your decision, and you merely wish us to ratify it.’

‘You can say your piece, Heavy-Hand,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘I’ll listen.’

‘But my vote is to go,’ said Ingvar urgently. ‘We risked everything to chase down this scent. We can’t turn aside now, just when we discover what it means.’

‘True,’ said Baldr. ‘The fates have been drawing us there since we left Fenris on the Undrider. Now that we know the truth, we have to be there.’

Hafloí laughed. ‘Aye, and it’ll be a real fight, something worth scratching over your grave-marker. What’s the matter, old one? Shying away from proper combat?’

Olgeir shot him a warning glare, but Jorundur spoke next. ‘If we did it, it’d have to be done fast,’ he said, grim-faced as ever, clearly working through the possibilities. ‘Heavy-Hand is right – this ship won’t last long in a major encounter. We’d have to use it to get to a drop-point, bail for Vuokho, trust to speed and luck to get us through the orbital kill-layer.’

Ingvar nodded. ‘The Hlaupnir might last a little longer. Bjargborn and the faithful deserve a chance to cut free, if they can take it. The rest of the crew… well, they’ve already proved their dubious value.’

‘All that can be determined later,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘For now, Heavy-Hand, speak. Speak openly.’

Olgeir frowned deeply, rubbing the flesh of his temples with his fingertips. He looked over at Ingvar, then at Baldr, as if gauging who to blame most. Then he stretched back in his throne, his huge shoulders uncurling, and smiled wryly.

‘I never turned down the chance to bear a blade,’ he said. ‘I’ll break the skull of any who say it, whether they’re in the pack or no. And if I could stand before Ragnar again, a warrior of his company with no shame, then I’ll take it. I’d cross the maw of Hel to be there.’

Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘You give the orders. We follow them. That’s the way of it, and I have no complaint. But, when this is done, and if any of us are still alive by then, I won’t pretend that I don’t wish to see an end to this.’ He never looked at Baldr while speaking. ‘We belong in the company, if they’ll take us back. We belong in the Rout.’

‘That’s what we all want,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘By doing this, we give ourselves the chance to make it happen.’ Then he turned to the others. ‘We know where this will end now. That is better. If we die there, we die as part of something important. If we live, we’ll tell of this deed in the Hall of Fire forever. What more could we wish for?’

He placed his hands together on the Annulus surface, a chink of ceramite against fire-warmed stone.

‘So be it – enough talking,’ he said. ‘We light the drives, and sail for Helwinter.’

Afterwards, once the others had left, Gunnlaugur and Ingvar remained behind.

‘I remember when you came back to the pack,’ Gunnlaugur said, after a while.

Ingvar smiled wryly. ‘When I’d drunk the spoiled beer of the Imperium. And thought it made me wiser than Ulrik.’

‘It might do us all some good, to spend time outside. Maybe we might understand a little more why these things keep happening.’

‘Let them hate, so long as they fear.’

‘One of your Ultramarine’s sayings?’

‘Callimachus spent a lot of time quoting. I think they drill it into the whelps, on Macragge.’

Gunnlaugur chuckled, then looked moodily at the makeshift Annulus. ‘I wasn’t jesting. It’s become ridiculous. Hjortur would never have recognised it – slay them all, he’d say – but we’re on the edge of doom, and still the Imperium finds ways to try to damage us. One day, someone will tally up just how many institutions we’ve infuriated, and begin to wonder whether it’s not them. Maybe it’s us.’

Ingvar shrugged. ‘The Dark Angel, the one I served with, he never failed to tell me that we’d be exterminated, one day.’

‘Ever fight him?’

‘Got close to it, a few times.’

Gunnlaugur looked rueful. ‘Shame you didn’t break his head.’

‘Ah, though, I started to believe it, after a while,’ Ingvar said. ‘I started to think we were the outliers. You can’t help it, when you’re surrounded by the Inquisition, all the time, and you see the way they speak about you, look at you. Hel, we’ve had inquisitors after us, too – greater powers than this cardinal.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘Coming back.’ Ingvar smiled. ‘An inquisitor is a twisted thing. A cardinal, much the same. Their blood’s thin, their arms weak. We think that we’re hated, because we think the whole Imperium is made of such creatures, but it isn’t. They’re the scum-layer at the surface. The billions and billions, the unnumbered, the ones who build the cities and crew the voidships, they’re different. They drink. They fight. They admire a good blade and laugh at the weak or the vain. They’re like us. We forget that.’

‘Maybe we do.’

‘I mean it. Talk to a Guardsman, sometime. Tell them to name the Holy Primarchs. They’ll know the name of Sanguinius. If they’re pious, maybe a few more. And they respect all those names. But then mention Russ, and see them smile. See them grin, like he’s looking down on them. And if you’re in the trenches with blood falling out of the sky, ask them who they’d rather have going over the top with them – a Blood Claw who’ll die roaring, or a Dark Angel who never said a word to them the whole time.’

Gunnlaugur thought on that. ‘Like I said. It would do us some good, to do what you did.’

‘Don’t envy it, brother. I lost a lot. I had to come home, to remember it.’

‘I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, at the time.’

‘Aye. And it’s led to all this, now.’

‘It was always going to.’

‘Sounds like something Fjolnir would say.’

At that, Gunnlaugur’s expression clouded. ‘And there’s the other riddle,’ he said. ‘We’re no closer to healing him. What did I think – we’d stumble over the Tree of Life, just waiting for us to pluck an apple?’ He shook his scarred head. ‘That’s the piece we need to solve, before we go back.’

Ingvar nodded. ‘But he wants to go. He wants to do all these things. Maybe it’s the road he needs to take – and if any of us knows the truth of that, he will.’

‘Every time we’ve encountered the enemy, ones who know true maleficarum, he’s been changed. That’s why we’ve kept to the shadows for so long. But here – Cadia – there’ll be witchery there like nowhere else in the galaxy. That troubles me.’

‘The strongest poison can be the most potent cure.’

‘Another one of your Macragge sayings?’

‘No. Just a slender hope.’

Gunnlaugur sighed. ‘Aye. That may be all we have left.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Once the course had been set, the Amethyst Suzeraine fell into its plotted warp route. The crew tensed on the first jump, ready for the hull to clang and the shutters to rattle. And yet, even though the transition brought the usual mix of nausea and disorientation at first, things settled down. Hours went by, and nothing important broke. Maintenance teams worked on the damage from the void-action, and were surprised to find that the welding took, and the lumens stayed on, and no one smashed their forehead into the hull-plates while screaming about the claws coming for them all.

The hours turned into days. Stages passed, one after the other, each without major incident. The ship’s forges stayed busy, repairing weapons and doing what they could to patch up the Space Wolves’ armour. Wounded crew members recovered, and went back to work. The ship’s complement was down, but not catastrophically so. Bjargborn’s teams even had some time to look at the gun-galleries again, using what they’d learned over Ojada to hone the systems further.

Each member of the pack used the time in different ways. Jorundur drew up battle plans for entry into the Cadia System, going over every angle obsessively. Ingvar, affected almost as much by warp transit as a mortal was, cleared his mind by studying the scrolls from Ojada. Olgeir and Gunnlaugur sparred for hours in the training-pens, hammering away at one another to keep their muscles sharp. Hafloí joined them often, but also spent time on his own, charging down the near-empty corridors in the bilge decks as if hunting invisible shadow-creatures. It was a time of waiting, of enforced calm before the storm, all locked within the narrow confines of the galleon’s creaking carcass.

For Baldr, the time passed surprisingly calmly. He’d expected to feel the usual pangs on entry to the empyrean – the augmentation of the pressure on his temples, the chattering of half-heard voices forever crowding out his thoughts. Instead, there was nothing but the physical environment around him, solid, unaffected, dependable.

‘You seem improved, brother,’ Ingvar told him.

And that was true. Though, given the circumstances, that was strange in itself.

Given the tranquillity of the passage, even van Kliis left her sanctum on occasion. Baldr knew when she was out of seclusion as soon as she withdrew to her private chambers. Inevitably, he made his way there in the end. When he entered her rooms, she gave him her usual smart, knowing smile, and gestured to the couch. She looked better than she often did, though the rigours of a long warp passage always took their toll, drying her skin, tightening it over the bone, deepening the wrinkles further.

‘You wish to know why the passage is so tranquil,’ she said, tottering to a sideboard where two pewter goblets stood on a salver with a decanter. She poured herself one, knowing better than to offer a goblet to her guest.

‘Maybe just luck,’ Baldr said.

‘Ha! A jest, I am guessing.’ She returned to the couches, and sat opposite him. She wore a turquoise gown this time, one that hung a little too loosely. She swirled the liquid in the goblet, then took a long swig. ‘Storms have been bad for so long, I wondered if they would ever go.’

‘Every passage we’ve taken since Fenris has been hard.’

‘Yes, yes. And getting worse.’ Van Kliis tutted. ‘See, though, they call the Seethe an ocean. And they’re right! It has currents, tides, swells. A ship can founder on them, if alone. The more alone, the worse it is. The Presences, they flock, come up from the depths. Like sharks sniffing blood.’ She took another draught. ‘Is not better, this way. Is worse. But, here it is. There are thousands of ships out there. Thousands. I see them, in the pinnacle. Like stars in the void, all with their trails of soul-fire. So many, so many. They are carving the Seethe up, splintering it. The Presences can’t track them all. There are wakes piled on wakes – it makes everything flat. Never seen anything like it before.’ She leaned forward, resting spindly elbows on spindly knees. ‘Went to Sol quadrant, once. Longest traverse I ever took. Saw the Throneworld itself, from a distance, only in the warp. Like a dirty pit, it was. Thought I’d never see so many warp-wakes again, all churning, churning, making it hard to gauge anything. But this. Ha! This. This is off the charts. They’re going fast, like we are, carving the ether into slivers.’

‘What can you tell of them?’ asked Baldr. ‘Imperial?’

‘Some. Most, from my viewpoint. But this on the right side of Eye. On the other side? Fagh. I suspect huge numbers. Huge. Maybe more than ever.’ She chuckled. ‘I was bored, before. Thought I’d die out here, tracking merchant convoys. I should thank you. If you could see it, you would like it. Thousands of trails, in the Seethe, like lines of pearls thrown across velvet. It is very beautiful.’

Baldr laughed, and a little of the weariness seemed to lift from his features. ‘So that’s what’s calming the warp. Too many ships, all going the same way.’

Van Kliis’ expression hardened. ‘Do not be fooled. Cannot last. Put all those souls in same place, at same time, and it’ll cause rupture. Enemy knows this. High Lords know this. If they still come, then things are desperate. We are heading into big storm.’

‘We know it.’

‘And you want to go faster.’

‘I could help you with that.’

For the first time, van Kliis looked genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I see them too. The ships. All of them.’ Baldr placed his hands together calmly. ‘I see the energies around them, and the vortex they’re heading into. I could help you.’

Van Kliis didn’t say anything. She took another swig, then stared at him quizzically. ‘Maybe your dreams are just strange. And anyway, is forbidden. I don’t care for much of the orthodox code, but some things are sacred.’ She tapped her forehead, just next to where her jewelled bandana concealed her Seeing Eye. ‘This alone. Everything else, very dangerous.’

Baldr shrugged. ‘As you wish. But maintain speed. Gunnlaugur wants us there ahead of anything else from Ojada.’

‘On this ship?’ Van Kliis laughed sourly. ‘I know why, though. Your only hope is that troop transports are slow. Maybe it’ll be enough. Maybe not. I can’t tell. So many lights, so many lights.’ She looked at him again. ‘So why you call it that, anyway? The… what is it? Helwinter Gate?’

Baldr smiled. ‘We are a people of sagas. That place has been in them since the days of Russ.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Helwinter is the end. It is the grip that never lets up, it is the strangling of life. The Gate is shut, holding it back. If it endures, then life endures. If it breaks, then the storm is all that remains. So the skjalds say, anyway.’

‘And you wish to go there.’

‘Aye. And if you get us there in time, you’ll have served us beyond all call of duty.’

She gave him a sidelong smirk. ‘My last work, eh? Before this sailing tomb is finally blown into pieces? I think so.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Baldr leaned in closer. ‘It’ll happen quickly. We may all be destroyed in the first few moments, but the system runner is being made ready for evacuation. You know where it’s berthed? Get down to the hangars, as soon as we break the veil.’

‘That thing you people arrived on?’ Van Kliis chuckled. ‘How would that help?’

‘It’s fast, it’s small. Rivenmaster Bjargborn has orders to take the Fenrisian crew, plus a few others who’ve given loyal service. That’s all it’ll be able to take. It has limited warp capability, enough to get you clear of the system, with some luck.’

‘A large slice of luck, I’d say.’ She shook her head, still smiling. ‘You have been a good friend to me, Baldr of Fenris. Better than any captain I’ve worked for. Imagine that! Perhaps I could get used to your stink, and your lack of taste. Perhaps I could ignore what you think about your rune-magick, and just forgive the ignorance. Perhaps all that could happen.’

Baldr shrugged. ‘You’d have to survive, first.’

‘As would you.’

‘There are worthy goals other than survival.’

‘And other perils, other than death.’

Baldr got up. ‘Make your preparations now. There will be no time once we arrive – just move, go swiftly, gather no possessions.’

‘Except my dresses. And the jewel-box from Hyperia.’

Baldr laughed. ‘Essential items.’

‘They are. To me.’ She looked up at him. ‘I will bring us in as tightly as I can. Sweet through the Seethe, as close as is possible. I’ll do it for you, as I wouldn’t have done for that old man. I’ll give you every chance.’

‘I know it. Thank you.’

‘And may His Eye be on us all.’

Baldr nodded seriously, then turned to leave. ‘It’ll need to be,’ he said.

The days counted down, a remorseless procession, marked only by the ship’s internal chronos. The closer they got, the more time Jorundur and Gunnlaugur spent preparing for the system entry. They’d huddle together up in the command bridge, sometimes alone, sometimes with other members of the crew, going over the sequence of events.

‘I’d have liked an astropath reading,’ Jorundur said, on the final occasion before they broke the veil. ‘Just one. Something to tell us what we’re running into.’

Gunnlaugur grunted his agreement. The activities of the bridge went on in the tiers below – the steady click and hum of the systems in operation – but on the command dais it was just the two of them, their faces underlit green from hololiths.

‘Aye. Still, we can make our guesses.’

Jorundur switched the throne’s lithcaster to an image of the Cadia System. ‘I spoke to the Navigator. She tells me the warp-wakes into Cadia are all still active, moving to the Mandeville horizon before dropping in sequence back to realspace. That indicates the Imperium still holds the ingress points. We should be able to translate intact, if nothing else. I’d be surprised if we weren’t able to run the gauntlet to the planet itself, too – everything’s going one way, and we’ll be no one’s principal target. It’ll be in orbit. That’ll be where we have our problems.’

‘Everyone’s primed,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘I’ll take the bridge, Gyrfalkon with me. Fjolnir will run augur sweeps to locate those troop carriers. Olgeir will tap into the Chapter comm-net, if we can still access it, to get the locator for Ragnar’s company. We’ll break for Vuokho together, once we get any kind of lock. In the meantime, you and the whelp will secure the hangars, ensure the Hlaupnir is primed for evacuation along with the Thunderhawk. Bjargborn knows his duty, and the kaerls are all prepared.’

‘The rest of the crew won’t be fooled for long,’ said Jorundur.

‘We can manage that. You’ll pilot Vuokho, once we break for the void. With any luck, we’ll at least have a geo-locator to follow by then. If not, we’ll just have to take our best guess.’

‘What do you know of the planet?’

‘Not much. Terran-sized, standard atmospherics, standard grav. The greatest fortress-world in the galaxy, they say.’

‘They say that about many places.’

‘And we don’t know what state it’ll be in.’ Gunnlaugur balled his fists, then relaxed them, as if flexing to grip his hammer already. ‘We don’t know what’s attacked it, save that every fleet between here and the Hearthworld has been mobilised to meet it. We don’t know why Ragnar was sent there. We don’t know who else went. Hel, we don’t know much.’

‘We don’t need to. Once we’re in the thick of it, everything will become clear. It always does.’

Gunnlaugur snorted a laugh. ‘You must spend time in different warzones to me.’

‘We only have one task. That simplifies things.’

‘True. Make planetfall, concentrate on that, then we can see how things look.’ He gazed up at the closed warp shutters. They were less noisy than usual, as if the forces raging past them were weakened, somehow. ‘Never known it so calm. Not going somewhere like this.’

Jorundur shrugged. ‘The gods like their games.’

‘Ulrik has been talking about it for decades. All the Priests have. You start to think they’re just addicted to gloom. You start to think that maybe they always talked that way. But now I think they saw this coming, and didn’t dare give it the name it deserves.’ Gunnlaugur’s expression hardened. ‘A Black Crusade? I wondered if I’d ever live to see one.’

‘Not something to aspire to, Skullhewer.’

‘But I wouldn’t want to miss it. I wouldn’t want it to be known that the Gate was breaking open, and I wasn’t there. I’ve had this dark hope in my soul, ever since we began this thing. That it was the time. That our age was the hardest one, and the greatest battles were for this generation.’ He laughed, low and self-aware. ‘You listen to the sagas, and all they tell you is that things were mightier in the past. The primarchs walked among us, the Emperor’s light still lingered. I want to think they’re wrong. I want to think that no battles were ever greater than these, and that we – we – face the hardest tests ever to come before humanity. And when I go to the Allfather at last, my battles over, I want to hold my head up, look the dead of Fenris in the eye, and feel I belong among them.’

Jorundur shot him a dry look. ‘You know what I think, vaerangi? I think you should leave the speeches to the skjalds. We get down there, we slay these skít-eating traitors, we somehow persuade Grimnar not to have our heads put on spikes, then we get back to how it’s always been.’ He stretched out his arms expansively. ‘Mjod and meat in the fire-halls. A little sleep. Then back to some other dirt-streaked war.’

Gunnlaugur laughed. ‘You’ll enjoy it when you get there,’ he said, getting up from the throne. ‘How long before we break in-system?’

‘Six hours.’

‘Good. I’ll give Heavy-Hand another bout in the pens. Don’t study the vectors too much up here – I want you to get at least some rest before this all kicks off.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

‘Aye. See that you are.’

They cut it fine, to prepare the last of the armour. The ship’s forges were ill-equipped for working with ceramite, and most of the heavy tooling had been hauled over from the Hlaupnir. No menials from Collaqua’s complement had ever been permitted to touch it – only kaerls, working alongside servitors and the scattering of lexmechanics that had been taken from the Fenrisian ship. They did what they could, honing, welding, scraping the worst of the grime from the plate and splicing replacement panels into the ground-out defects. Power armour was a sacred and complex thing, its systems only partially understood even by the greatest of the Iron Priests, and so to work in such a way was a kind of blasphemy in itself, made necessary by privation. Only the runework could be maintained as it was on Fenris, painstakingly repaired and embellished by the warriors themselves.

A long time ago, Hafloí had hardly seen the point of it. In his tribe, before ascension, the rudimentary runic scripts had all been etched by the gothi, while the warriors and hunters had barely troubled themselves to learn the basics of the craft. Once in the Mountain, all that had changed. The transformation of the body was accompanied by a transformation of the mind, and every Blood Claw learned the sacred marks, and their significance, and what they could do to a weapon, or a shield, or a ship. The runes ceased to be vague scratchings made to appease the gods of storm and murder, and became totems of a deeper magick – roots that penetrated down to the Underverse itself and tapped its power.

So he’d learned to make them himself, after a fashion. Not in the way that a true master would, labouring for years at the forge with hammer and chisel. Still, he improved with every attempt, marking the rims of his pauldrons, the curved panels of greaves, scoring the names of those he had killed, or the places where the wyrd had given him fortune. Now that his plate had been cleaned and rededicated, the marks were visible again, an angular necklace of glyphs that looped and jagged across the storm-grey surface.

He looked at each piece as it was hauled up by menials, ready to be hoisted and clamped into place. The firelight edged each mark with blood-red, a procession of names and places, plucked from battles and given a kind of immortality.

Ingvar stood beside him, his own armour being put into place, its surface even more encrusted with wounds. Like real bodies, battleplate picked up scars and defects over time, its surface pocking and coarsening. The Grey Hunter’s armour was darker, older, eroded, just like its wearer.

‘Feeling ready?’ Ingvar asked, face lit up with flashes from the drill-sparks.

On another day, Hafloí might have resented the question. Would Ingvar have asked Heavy-Hand the same thing? They all still saw him as the whelp, the new blood sent to bolster their numbers as the death toll wreaked havoc on the Chapter’s old customs.

And yet, maybe that was not what had been meant. They did address him differently, these days. The jibes were still there, but more guarded, hedged with a kind of respect. So perhaps he didn’t need to rise to them, aggressively defending his right to be there.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, feeling the sensor-bulbs on the underside of the armour-panel slide into his carapace jacks.

Ingvar looked at him. ‘You don’t know?’

Hafloí shifted his shoulder, letting the menials lower the pauldron down on chain-carries. ‘What do you want me to say? That all I can think of is covering myself in the blood of the enemy? No. I don’t know. I’ve seen many worlds. But this is… Cadia.’ He grinned. ‘You think I’ve got bone behind my eyes. But I know what it means. This one can’t be lost.’

‘That’s not up to us.’

‘It is, if we’re there.’

‘We’ll be a very small part.’

‘Only if we fail.’

Then it was Ingvar’s turn to receive his right pauldron, clanking on its chains, heavy as a mortal man. ‘Ever met Blackmane?’ he asked.

‘No. I mean, I saw him, in the Hall of Fire, at the gatherings, like everyone does. I watched him.’

‘What did you think?’

Hafloí thought on that. ‘That he was trying to be something. Or not be something. That he was carrying it, whatever it was, the whole time.’

Ingvar extended his hands, taking the gauntlets up and letting the menials slot the power-feeds into the under-skin nodes. ‘I spoke to him, just before leaving. I thought he looked tired. Maybe because I was tired myself. I’ve seen him fight, though. That’s a thing to witness.’ He chuckled in appreciation. ‘Skullhewer is the most dangerous Wolf Guard I’ve ever known. He’ll be jarl himself, one day. But he’ll always be older than Blackmane was, because Ragnar is something else, and that talent won’t come around again.’

‘They say that about a lot of warriors.’

‘Aye, maybe. But Ragnar is… the future. Snuff that out, and what do we have? The weight of our ancestors, judging us forever.’ He turned his fist, testing the connections, working one finger at a time. ‘Count yourself lucky, Grey Hunter. You’re in the greatest of the Great Companies, the one that’ll redeem us.’

Hafloí saw them lift his helm up, ritually, the lexmechanic sprinkling it with oils. ‘What did you just call me?’

‘Just what you are. We can stop pretending now, I think.’

Hafloí’s helm descended, a hollow crown, studded with fine archeotech, threaded with gold and iron. It settled into place with a faint hiss and click, immediately shrouding his vision with the filigree of combat awareness.

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Hafloí said. ‘It’s too quick.’

Ingvar’s helm was lowered next, masking his face behind the snarl-grille of armour. ‘It worked like that for Ragnar. We’re not under the Codex – what did rules ever mean to us, anyway?’ He stepped down from the mounting-cradle, ready for the final rivets and the last dousings of sacred unguents. ‘Your name, your deeds. They’re the same thing. If you didn’t deserve it, you wouldn’t be called it.’

Hafloí felt the minute shudder as the armour’s power systems completed their loops and kicked into action. It was always the same – a tiny flood of endorphins, knowing what you could do, now, with that which you had been given.

He almost pushed back again. He still felt young. His hair bore streaks of red. It could have been years, decades, before his designation changed. It was too soon. All too soon.

Before he spoke, though, an alert came through, pinging into his newly attached retinal-feed. Ingvar, who had just taken up his blade in a fresh-fitted gauntlet, evidently got it too. He looked up at Hafloí, his helm-lenses flaring.

‘So here it is,’ he said. ‘The world’s end.’

V

THE HELWINTER GATE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There was no smashing of lumens, no shattering of armaglass, no cracking of steel, just a kick and a slide, a shift from one register to another, like a heel skipping down a step before landing on solid earth. The Amethyst Suzeraine, racing at full speed, transitioned smartly from the otherworld to the real one, spinning out of the empyrean and boosting hard into the tangible void.

The augurs unfolded, the lenses started to clog with data, and Gunnlaugur immediately started issuing orders from his vantage on the command throne.

‘Down, down, starboard, then down again!’ he roared at astrogation, before swivelling around to tactical. ‘Activate all gun decks, unroll the gunwales, target at will.’

All across the bridge, voices quickly rose in urgency, shouting, calling over one another.

‘Shields up! Full spread, full power!’

‘Shut down Geller-feeds on my mark! Clear those lines for the plasma drives!’

‘Where are the ranged sensors, starboard-zenith? Get them up! Get them up!’

The oculus shutters furled in a rattle, showering the decks with rust-flakes. The steady rhythm of the warp drives gave way to the more staccato beat of the realspace engines. Positioned at crew stations across the high dais, Ingvar, Olgeir and Baldr each fell to their tasks, all of them presiding over a team of kaerls working furiously at machine banks. Bjargborn occupied his usual station, a semicircular pit just down from the main throne, speaking calmly and continually into vox-tubes while he adjusted the dials on his many consoles.

Ahead of the ship, picked out harshly in the light of Cadia’s near star, the void was speckled with ship-outlines. Most of those were hundreds of thousands of miles distant, but even so they mottled the deeps in swathes of grey and gold – whole formations, whole convoy-lines, spiralling fast towards a single unseen point. A nearspace void-volume flashed and tore open again, and another ship crashed into the realm of the senses, its flanks streaming with corposant. Then another, and another, all of them igniting plasma drives immediately, kicking on, blazing as fast as their engines would allow.

These things were not the rabble and scatter that had assaulted Ojada – these were main-sequence battleships, colossal and imposing, their spines crested with cathedrals and their flanks lined with armour-mauling guns. Just one of those craft would have been enough to subdue most worlds, at most times, but now there were hundreds of them, driving through the darkness like miniature planetoids in their own right, proud and majestic, bristling to their pinnacles with armaments and poised attack-wings.

‘Eye of Russ,’ breathed Olgeir, looking up briefly to get a better view of the gathering around them. ‘Never seen so many.’

‘Full burn, fast as you can,’ ordered Gunnlaugur. ‘Keep us out of range of those broadsides, and transmit Imperial-pattern marker-hails on all open channels. We don’t look legitimate, so we might as well sound it.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine boosted harder, its battered drives banging and roaring. It was soon outpaced by the gigantic Naval ships around it, all of which ignored the galleon off their prows in favour of the true target ahead. Everything was going the same way, a lone sweep of tremendous energy that tore and surged from the Mandeville entry points and barrelled onward. Even as the galleon throttled hard, another titan of the deeps burst into reality less than two hundred miles above it, crashing through realspace like an anvil thrust into water, its immense, cliff-like sides going on and on and on before the sun-hot thrusters finally appeared and the rift closed behind it.

‘Heavy grav-turbulence in all directions,’ reported the master of astrogation, working hard to compensate. ‘Mass-locators are off the scale – augurs overloading.’

By then Olgeir and Baldr were scouring carefully for signals, either for the Ojada carriers or for any sign of a Fenrisian deployment.

‘Nothing in Juvyka yet,’ Olgeir reported. ‘Hel, there must be a billion comm-lines operating – we’ll be lucky even to latch on to an Astartes code-sequence.’

‘No sign of the carriers,’ confirmed Baldr. ‘Widening scan range.’

Gunnlaugur glanced briefly at Ingvar. ‘As expected,’ he said.

‘More than I ever dreamed of,’ murmured Ingvar.

‘We’re not even that close yet.’

The galleon careered onward, scraping the top edge of its velocity range yet still regularly overtaken by the leviathans gearing up to full attack speed. The bigger ships were already shifting into formation, spreading out across the heavens in clusters of overlapping gunlines, expertly rolling and shifting to fall into preordained displacement-wells. Almost all of them bore the livery of the Imperial Navy, with ploughshare muzzles and high gothic bridge fortifications. A few had the blood-red hides of the Mechanicus, including some absolutely monstrous arks bearing arcane weapons that Gunnlaugur had no descriptions for. Right on the edge of the cavalcade, far out of visual range, were scarce sensor-blips indicating battle-barge-class ships, though those were all from recent-Founding, Codex-compliant Chapters.

‘First engagements!’ shouted a comms officer from below.

A few seconds later, and the reports started to pile in – radiation-sources, hundreds of them, then thousands, spreading across the forward quadrants like a cancer. The Navy vessels carried on regardless, clearly expecting the signals. Picter-lenses across the bridge flashed warnings as the sensor banks picked up lance-ignitions in apocalyptic quantities.

‘Stay low to the main plane,’ Gunnlaugur commanded, pulling up a schematic of the system run-in. ‘Those heavy concentrations at forty-five-six – keep well clear. Bring us in on a parabola, maintain full speed.’

The viewers ahead began to pulse with light, first blooms of angry red, then orange and yellow, spreading out, until a galaxy of false novas were igniting and flaring. A cluster of them spread like a ragged wound across the void, growing rapidly, a vortex of ignited plasma and las-beams with tendrils and clusters and spots of its own, like some miniature nebula rocked by the birth pangs of tiny stars.

The closer they got, the more the battle-sphere resembled some massive, inchoate sea of flame, rotating in stately procession around a hidden epicentre. The voidships were black spots against it, blurred by heat and distance, all of them unloading their fearsome batteries into the already raging conflagration.

‘Nothing from Fenris,’ repeated Olgeir.

‘We know they’re here,’ said Ingvar, checking his own scan-array.

‘We know they were due here,’ corrected Gunnlaugur. ‘That’s all.’

Now the ranges were diminishing rapidly, and things were coming into full, bloody focus. The ship-swarms were bewildering in size, stretching out in all directions, numbers and velocities straining the cogitator-counters. Everything was wrapped in curtains of gauzy weapons-fire – coronas of backwash and impact-flare, explosions that sent debris-plumes bursting through gravity-eddies and into crazily flung wreckage arms that had started to orbit in long straggling flails. The first hard impacts peppered the forward void shields – not shells yet, just flecks of annihilated adamantium plate.

‘Entering Cadian gravity well,’ Bjargborn announced calmly. ‘Major engagements now on realviewers with zero magnification, spread across all planetary zones. No designated targets located.’

The planet itself was still hidden, though more by the ferocious energies being unleashed than by distance. The viewers struggled with the intense luminosity of it, rendering jerky, broken-up images of broadside flashes and cannon-discharges. The lenses were tightly crowded, bursting, crammed. Every profile was enormous – veritable mountainsides of ship-metal, wheeling and plunging and unloading in a dazzling choreography of orchestrated murder.

‘Skate us over the polar regions,’ ordered Gunnlaugur. ‘The more ground we cover, the more chance we–’

And then it came in – the first smack of true ordnance, a jarring crack that sent the Amethyst Suzeraine reeling athwartships. That was followed by a dozen more, crashing lower down and stressing the void generators all across the main hull structure. Enemy vessels started to turn, to swivel, to gain better attack-lines.

‘Multiple weapon-locks!’ shouted a menial in the close-augur station. ‘Most angles, all angles, now closing at speed.’

‘Return fire,’ growled Gunnlaugur. ‘Anything that lights its guns, pay it back.’

The galleon’s broadsides started to retaliate, loosing in rolling bursts, surrounding the ship with a flimsy aegis of thrown projectiles. At the same time, the ship itself began to jink and dive, swapping straight-line speed for a more unpredictable flight pattern, doing what it could to mimic genuine evasion patterns. Amid the rolling blooms of fire, vast occluded shapes clarified into dark, jagged outlines – gigantic shadows against the flame, ridged and spiked and hanging with iron edifices, their cannons carved into screaming rip-maws, their backs hunched, their engines burning blood red. Those structures were ancient, designs that were old even at the birth of the Imperium, now corrupted and degraded by the long acidic effects of the Eye of Terror. Their weapons were hoary with senescence but also made maliciously effective by the daemon-craft bound up in the barrels. The ships’ bridge-lights shone like living eyes, hinting at the horrors contained within, all enclosed and contained and wrapped-up by dark pinnacles and towers and vanes, corroded and blackened by the dubious favour of cruel intelligences. Hangar doors opened, squadrons spilled out, yet more motes of black over the fiery abyss.

‘Drop further, drop harder!’ ordered Gunnlaugur, studying the pain they were already taking. ‘Those monsters can’t follow us all the way down.’

The Amethyst Suzeraine dipped again, spiralling hard into the Cadian gravity well until the bright edge of the planet itself swelled up, circled by streamers of smoke, its jewel-like visage marred by savage wounds. Overhead, more giant battleships crashed into close contact, hammering at one another with epoch-ending weaponry, vomiting clouds of smaller craft that buzzed and bit like insects. Three Retribution-class battleships slid magisterially into the void-volume, each one surrounded by dozens of escorts, liberally throwing out lance-fire, only to be met by four Despoiler-class opponents, themselves surrounded by cloaks of racing fighters. The two groups met, sending out tectonic shock waves as cores detonated and drivetrains overloaded, and yet it was only one of dozens of similar clashes across the planet’s tortured horizon-curve, just another region of ripped-up space. It was impossible to process it all, to focus on it – too overwhelming, too complete.

‘I can’t read a damned thing,’ growled Olgeir, smacking a fist on his console’s housing. ‘Augurs are half scrambled.’

‘Anything on the carriers?’ demanded Gunnlaugur, keeping half an eye on the fast-rising damage-counters.

‘Negative, vaerangi,’ reported Baldr. ‘There must be a hundred troopships still sending out landers in this sector alone, but nothing with the right idents.’

‘Ventral void-array close to failure,’ warned Bjargborn.

‘Incoming fighters!’ cried another menial. ‘Forty signals, more beyond them!’

The bridge rocked as another hard-round strike-sequence landed, punching up from below. Those had the heavy, thuddy feel of torpedo impacts, and the picter screens went briefly offline in static-hails before zigzagging back into shaky focus. The decks bounced, the bulkheads cracked open, and lines of corroded debris clattered down from the heights.

‘Evacuation vessels prepped and ready,’ came Jorundur’s voice over the pack-comm. ‘Hangars secured. For now.’

Gunnlaugur’s eyes narrowed. More impacts came in, flexing the void shields further, and the first of the fighter wings entered visual range. The volume of it all was ludicrous – beyond ludicrous. Far above them, something passed across the upper battle-sphere, so colossal that it briefly overwhelmed the augur grid and sent insane signals down to the processors.

‘Full spread fore,’ Gunnlaugur ordered. ‘Those fighters are the priority – take as many down as you can. Heavy-Hand – what do you have for me?’

‘Maybe something,’ Olgeir muttered, his hands dancing across the controls. ‘Over the terminator, reception poor, but it sounds like garbled Blackmanes battle-cant. Get me closer, I might be able to filter it.’

The ship shuddered again, slammed sideways by a sequence of strikes that shorted the shield generators and showered the lower tiers with sparks. For a moment it felt like they were plummeting, but then the inertial controls kicked in again, and the grav-generators coughed back to full power. An armaglass panel shattered, setting off blaring alarms before the auto-shutters rattled down and the airlocks slammed closed.

‘Get that geo-lock,’ Gunnlaugur growled. ‘We won’t make it much further.’

Ahead of them, part masked by other ships, a gaudy battle cruiser with golden chasing and a sapphire prow was turning, sliding through a hurricane of shell-hits to come about in front of them. Its gunlines crackled with blue-edged flame, and there was something decidedly unwholesome about the way it moved.

‘If that thing targets us…’ Ingvar began, but then his attention was abruptly taken up with another signal.

‘Fjolnir – anything?’ asked Gunnlaugur.

Baldr shook his head. ‘Either landed, destroyed, or out of range.’

‘Then we’re running out of time,’ said Gunnlaugur, getting up. ‘We’ll take Heavy-Hand’s geo-lock and trust to fate.’

The enemy fighters screamed into range then, spreading apart as they scored the void, and unloading at them. Bjargborn’s gunners took a few of them out, blowing them up into flying clouds of burning metal, but most fizzed past unscathed, smashing long wounds in the void shields as they went. The generators flickered, for an instant leaving the entire ship unprotected, and the bridge-lumens dimmed. More fighters cut in close, raking down the ventral lines, blowing up hull-segments and sending the wreckage spewing like spittle.

‘Auxiliary power!’ roared Gunnlaugur to all bridge stations, before switching to the pack-comm. ‘Prepare to evacuate.’

Ingvar’s gaze was still locked on the battle cruiser ahead, a lone static point amid the whirl and swing of ship-death. Its weapons were zeroing.

‘Vaerangi, that thing’s got our mark,’ he warned.

‘Aye, that’s why we’re leaving,’ said Gunnlaugur.

‘But it’s not the only one.’ Ingvar gestured to another ship, higher up in the galleries of voidcraft, holding position amid a raging circlet of plasma gouts. It was an Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser in the cobalt and bronze of Ultramar. It had already carved its way through a thicket of less capable craft and was holding station while hurling out a huge amount of las-fire. ‘I recognise the ident.’

‘And?’

‘Give me just a moment. One moment.’

Gunnlaugur hesitated, only taking a second to absorb the positions of the battle cruiser, the fighters, the strike cruiser, the hundreds of signals beyond. More impacts were coming in – streaming towards them across the scopes, each of them apt to crack the defences open and leave them ripe for instant destruction. The decks resounded again, shaken like drum skins, and very soon the last slivers of void-coverage would blink out.

‘You have it,’ he said. ‘Make it count.’

Brother-Sergeant Callimachus of Parmenio stood on the bridge of the Resolve’s Arrow, watching the carnage unfold.

The veteran sergeant was used to void-war. He’d spent much of his long service on the bridges of battleships, dealing out death from afar. For a few decades, it was true, his assignment away from the Chapter had meant that his combat record had become more a matter of close engagements, fought at squad-level, learning a fresh range of skills and honing them until he excelled at them all. On his return, though, his greatest pleasure had been to take the helm again, to feel the living heartbeat of a great ship underfoot, to marshal its strength in the cause of the Imperium and to witness the enemies of mankind burning up in the light of its vengeful fires.

It hadn’t been easy to return from the Deathwatch. Some of his brothers still maintained that he’d been changed by the experience. For a few of them, steeped so deeply in the Codex that any non-Ultramarine was halfway to a heretic already, that was enough to mark him as suspect forever. Perhaps that was why service in the Cadian Honour Company had appealed so much. Over time, the few furtive glances of suspicion had died away. He was, as he had always been, a true son of the primarch. His calmness under pressure had not altered, his manners had not been blunted, his effectiveness had never been called into question.

Now, of course, even such lingering doubts, insofar as they remained, had become entirely irrelevant – the entire Chapter had been mobilised, every asset was deployed, and the tactical squads were all at war, from Ultramar itself to the edge of the Eye and beyond. The neophytes were hurled into the thick of it, just as much as the veterans. No reserves were held back, no husbanding of resources could be made. That was just as the primarch had ordained in his writings – some situations called for prudence, others for unbridled aggression. Reality itself was under threat, now – Tigurius himself had warned of it – and so restraint had to be cast aside.

So it was that the Resolve’s Arrow had made for the void, one of the principal strike vessels of the Honour Company’s specialised arsenal. It had been a proud sailing, one that in normal times would have dominated almost anything it was sent against, but here, in this place, it was just a fragment of the far vaster forces already assembled.

‘By Terra’s Throne,’ his adjutant, Serro, had breathed on entry to the Cadian furnace. ‘This is the end of all things.’

Callimachus hadn’t replied. He was not in the habit of making small talk while in command of a strike cruiser. He had prepared diligently, and unfolded his careful plans as soon as they reached the raging battlezone. He had his orders – to effect the landings of the squads his ship carried, to shepherd the attack runs of the frigates that would secure the orbital strike-zones allocated to him, to keep the void-volume cleared of enemy vessels and support the main thrust of the Aurora Chapter battle-barge Artamenas.

All those things had been done, and were being done, or would soon be done, and yet now, rammed into the middle of the butchery, it was hard not to think that Serro was right. Surely, this was the end. Or maybe a beginning. Either way, when all these fires were finally extinguished, the galaxy could not possibly be the same again.

‘Final attack-squads securely on surface, lord,’ reported his master of signals, keeping her voice up to remain audible over the crashes and booms of the void-battle around them. ‘All vehicles and pods deployed as ordered, actions commencing.’

‘Very good,’ said Callimachus calmly, moving over to a hololith column to examine the tactical situation in the void. ‘You may relay that to Captain Echion, pass on the geo-locators for the landings, then open a channel to the Artamenas when it reaches the rendezvous locus.’

For a few seconds, perhaps, a hiatus had opened up. The strike cruiser would continue its barrage against the ships around it, reinforcing the Imperial lines and doing what it could to hurt the enemy advance, but until the battle-barge made contact, its primary tasking was dormant.

And then, almost as if ordained by some higher power, his comm-feed crackled. That line should never have opened again – it was a throwback, one that he had sworn never to speak of to another soul. The very fact that it still operated was something of a surprise to him. Then again, power armour was a marvellous thing, something to venerate and never take for granted.

It could have been any of them. The Dark Angel. The Blood Angel. The Angel Puissant, the Executioner or the Iron Shade. But of course it wasn’t them. It was the one who had caused him the most trouble, been the most difficult, and in the end had been the one he remembered more than any other.

‘Son of Russ,’ said Callimachus, speaking over the private channel. ‘You just can’t leave me alone, it seems.’

‘My apologies,’ replied Ingvar. ‘I know how much procedure matters to you. I’d ask how things were, if that weren’t already painfully obvious.’

‘Are you on that… ship?’

‘Not for long. We’re making planetfall. All we have is our Thunderhawk. We’ll never cross the orbital fire-lanes. So consider this a plea for aid.’

‘We’re somewhat busy.’

‘I can see that.’

Callimachus found himself smiling under his helm. The old accent, clipped by the Fenrisian ice. They never spoke Gothic very well, did the Wolves. ‘It will need to be now.’

‘Suits us fine. It’ll be another debt I owe you.’

‘One day I’ll ask you why you’re on that ridiculous vessel.’

‘If we make it through this, I’ll be pleased to tell you.’

Callimachus’ crew were looking at him. A series of queries had queued up on his system, all of them needing urgent attention. ‘If you can launch within the next thirty seconds,’ he said, ‘you’ll have a necklace of fire around you so close it’ll warm even your frozen hide.’

‘Thank you, brother. May Russ guide your hand.’

‘He won’t need to. This is a civilised ship.’

The link cut. Callimachus, still smiling, turned to face his master of ordnance, who failed to hide the disquiet on his grizzled face.

‘Do not look so dismayed, master,’ Callimachus told him. ‘Ready the orbital batteries, and listen carefully. I have a specific, and most interesting, task for you.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When the order came, they moved as one. The pack, the kaerls, the few members of Collaqua’s crew who’d merited a chance at survival. Every station was immediately abandoned, the occupants leaping up, reaching for stowed void-gear, running for the exit hatches.

Those not in on the plan stared up blankly at them, unable to process what was happening. The bridge was already failing by then, hammered and battered beyond tolerance, its panels crumbling and its cogitators fusing. By the time the brightest of them had realised that this was a full-scale evacuation, it was too late. The Space Wolves and their trained crew were too fast, too organised, racing through the hatches before spinning the locks closed behind them.

Once Gunnlaugur had given the word, Jorundur, Hafloí and the kaerls stationed in the hangars activated the outer door releases and shredded the last of the void-coverage over the exits. The Hlaupnir and Vuokho both powered up, engines roaring and access-ramps slamming down. The vacuum outside was as bright as magma, eerily lit up with the silent, blazing frenzy of the orbital battle. The kaerls arrived first, sprinting through the access hatches and stumbling across the rockcrete apron. They all piled inside the Hlaupnir, instantly taking up their allotted places at the guns or in the enginarium. The assortment of non-Fenrisians, van Kliis among them, trailing a rattling casket of her essential luggage, were bundled inside next, before the main doors cantilevered closed and the thrusters started spitting.

Bjargborn was last to take his place, running across the hangar floor alongside the pack. He paused at the base of the ladder leading up to the system runner’s cockpit, and turned to face his masters.

‘I’d go down there with you, if you’d let me!’ he shouted over the gathering whine of the engines.

‘Do not linger!’ Gunnlaugur shouted back. ‘Get clear of the system, make for safety! I’ll expect to find you on Fenris when we return!’

Hafloí saluted him. ‘Stay alive, rivenmaster! You’re too good to be wasted in this mess.’

And then Bjargborn was gone, clambering up inside the final hatch before the thrusters lifted the Hlaupnir up and pivoted it around its centre of gravity. Heavy hit-slams crashed in from outside, as the enemy fighters spat everything they had at the already-listing Amethyst Suzeraine. Sections of the outer hull splintered off just as the system-runner boosted clear, ducking hard-starboard to evade the tumbling debris, then spearing out into the maelstrom.

By then the Space Wolves were taking their positions inside the Thunderhawk – Jorundur in the pilot’s seat, Gunnlaugur beside him as co-pilot. Olgeir took the gunner’s position, with Ingvar on navigation. Jorundur swung them up and around, tilting steeply to avoid a collapsing support-column. Geysers of ignited promethium erupted from the storage tanks under the hangar floor, driving up the rockcrete slabs and sending girders flying. Several chunks hit the Thunderhawk’s undercarriage, knocking it hard to one side.

‘I really don’t want this ship to be my tomb…’ muttered Hafloí.

‘Curb your mouth, whelp, or I’ll make sure it is,’ spat Jorundur, before kicking up to full power and sending the Thunderhawk thundering out towards the hangar doors.

The lintel collapsed, blown apart by repeated las-strikes, but Vuokho just scraped under it, ducking down at the end before Jorundur pulled it into a vicious climb. Tongues of flame surged after them, before reaching the void shield limiter and gusting out. For a second, the heavily damaged Amethyst Suzeraine loomed large in the rear viewers before Vuokho rolled hard to starboard and plunged like a rock towards the atmosphere below.

The surrounding battleships, which had looked gigantic before, now seemed almost comically huge – great gods of the void, battling one another with arcs of lightning and flame while their minions scrapped and feuded in their shadows. The view from the Thunderhawk’s forward portals was congested – ship after ship after ship, all firing, all in motion, fuelling the curtains of plasma that shimmered across the debris-strewn void like the auroras of the frozen north.

A lone Thunderhawk was far below the attention-profile of a battleship, but presented a tempting morsel to the many smaller hunters prowling in the chasms between them. Almost immediately after blasting clear of the ravaged galleon, Jorundur’s console started to flash red with incoming target-locks.

‘You mentioned you had a plan, Gyrfalkon,’ Jorundur remarked dryly, throwing the gunship into a vertical dive and thrusting straight for atmospheric entry.

‘Keep to this trajectory,’ replied Ingvar, glancing at the sensor readings showing the Hlaupnir arrowing away from the battle-sphere at speed, as well as the Amethyst Suzeraine beginning to break up under sustained bombardment. He swept his ranged oculus-finder upward, scanning past a hundred other ships before locating the Resolve’s Arrow high up in the void-volume, still motionless, its heavy guns still unlit.

Then they were struck – las-bolts, raking across their flanks, jarring the gunship’s descent and pushing it out of kilter.

‘Fighters, coming in fast,’ Gunnlaugur growled, switching to the lascannons and sending a brace of beams back out at them. ‘Lots of them.’

Jorundur battled to keep them hurtling true, wrenching the controls to tilt the Thunderhawk around its longitudinal axis. His task was made harder by a flail of solid-round fire that scratched and dinked along the chassis roof, blowing a control cable and cutting into the armour plates. Torpedoes locked on, prompting warning alerts from every control station.

‘Where’s that damned fire-supp–’ he began furiously.

Then the realviewer scopes went yellow. All of them, all at once.

Ingvar laughed out loud. Callimachus had always been a fine shot, but this was almost too much, like he was showing off for old times’ sake.

The Thunderhawk shot down a hollow tube of raging las-fire, an empty column formed from the precise circular firing of planet-facing cannons. Everything caught across the energy perimeter – shells, missiles, even fighter-hulls – was ripped apart, cut into pieces with the precision of an industrial shaper-beam. Briefly cocooned from the inferno outside, Vuokho roared planetwards, free to boost up to full speed without making evasive manoeuvres.

The fusillade lasted mere seconds – anything longer would have risked a burn-out of even a strike cruiser’s batteries – but it was enough. Within moments, the Thunderhawk had cleared the worst of the orbital kill-zone and plunged hard into the outer troposphere below. The viewers turned red, fuelled this time by friction, dousing the hurtling vessel in crackling flame. Vuokho started to buck and kick, knocked about by the sudden rise in pressure, just as the Resolve’s Arrow’s las-beams guttered out.

‘Switching to turbines!’ shouted Jorundur, slamming the control lever over and preparing to arrest the dive. ‘This’ll be bumpy!’

It was no understatement – Vuokho hit the thickening atmosphere hard, slamming into it as if into solid earth. The entire structure creaked, and alarm-runes flashed across the cockpit ceiling. A panel blew, sending sparks bouncing across the cockpit, and one of the atmospheric drives started to gust internal flames.

‘Skítja!’ cursed Jorundur, killing the fuel lines to the engine and making the entire gunship list hard to the left. Cloud banks, themselves underlit with burning, raced up towards them before blundering across the prow and making the vessel shake jarringly. For a few moments more, there was nothing at all on the realviewers – just a dirty orange fog shot through with flying grit and shivered-metal slivers – before they plunged out of the other side, and then, for the first time, saw Cadia with their own eyes.

A wide plain opened up before them, stretching in almost unbroken uniformity towards a haze-hidden horizon. Maybe once it had been verdant, but now it was choked with dust, a drifting screen of brown-grey that rolled and boiled as if alive. For miles in every direction, armies marched. Whole divisions of mobile armour thundered across the dust-pans, throwing up high plumes in their wake. Infantry detachments laboured in their debris-shadow, just minuscule specks against the vista, but in such numbers that it seemed as if the earth itself were liquifying. Atmospheric craft shot overhead and around them, strafing and darting, while heavier assault carriers hung against the horizon, firing at targets below in steady burn-lines.

In the far distance, isolated artificial mountains could just about be perceived in the gauzy twilight, twinkling with faint lumen-beams and flash-lit with the constant drumbeat of explosions. These were the famed kasrs, the immense fortress-cities that dotted the entire planetary surface, and in which the majority of the population lived. All those within visual range were clearly under assault, the fixed points in the continent-spanning maelstrom that had hit this world. The long pipelines and causeways that linked the kasrs were the focal points of the plains conflict, grappled over by regiments and Chapters, pummelled by ranged artillery and stalked by hovering gun-platforms. Further off were truly monstrous war machines – Titans, marching against the burning horizon in attack-gangs, towering over all else on the battlefield, their outsized frames bracketed with constant weapons impacts.

‘I have that geo-lock,’ said Gunnlaugur grimly. ‘We’re a long way off.’

Jorundur brought the Thunderhawk down lower, steering away from the worst concentrations of fighting and aiming for a ridge of wind-sheared granite running north-east. Even as he did so, the volume of the clashes below ramped up further, vying with the booming roar of the engines to fill the cockpit.

‘Trying to make sense of the tactical data,’ reported Baldr over the vox. ‘Comm-channels overloaded, every scope hit with lag. It’s going to be hard to navigate in this.’

‘Weapons-lock detected,’ added Ingvar, shunting the vectors to Jorundur. ‘Our little descent didn’t go unnoticed.’

‘We’ve lost a lascannon, too,’ said Olgeir. ‘Burned out on the way down.’

Jorundur snorted in wry amusement, yanked the controls down, and sent Vuokho skimming rapidly towards ground level.

‘Shot-up, half burned to slag, badly outnumbered and already lost,’ he muttered. ‘This has started well.’

They came under fire almost immediately. Baldr felt the impacts down in the crew bay, surrounded by equipment taken over from the galleon – heaps of sensor-boxes wired together and bolted to the deck, crates of supplies and ammunition boxes, making the lower compartment cramped even with their small crew complement.

He ignored the booms from outside, and concentrated on the tactical lenses and their phosphor swirls. The problem wasn’t the lack of signals, but the overwhelming number of them. Every comm-line was clogged by a dozen incompatible feeds on the same frequency. Every so often he got a snatch of something coherent before another desperate vox-impression overwrote it. Some of the dialogue was Imperial, in a whole range of Gothic dialects and battle-codes, all distorted by distance and interference, not to mention cipher-overlays. Some was from enemy transmissions, which sounded like a glut of growling and bestial grunts. He painstakingly noted regiment names and positions where they were audible, gleaning what he could from the confused and overlapping bulletins. Hafloí worked at a terminal next to him, rocking with the swaying of the gunship, similarly trying to make sense of the hundreds of scans.

‘Hel, this is hateful,’ Hafloí muttered, punching the side of his lens-housing to clarify the image.

But it wasn’t. Not for Baldr. For the first time in an age, his mind was clear. The further they travelled across the Cadian landscape, despite the barrage of incoming fire and the noises of combat from outside, the more that clarity increased. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. His vision was no longer clouded by bloody visions, his thought-processes no longer slowed down by the constant pain behind his eyes. He operated faster than he had since awakening on the Hlaupnir, his fingers working more surely, his judgement steadier.

‘Still nothing from Olgeir’s fix,’ he replied, extending the augur ranges and trying to get a latch on to anything solid. ‘We could be hundreds of miles off course.’

‘If we’re lucky,’ said Hafloí.

As they travelled further, though, the broader picture emerged in greater detail. The battlezone was immense, stretching far across the straggling lowlands of the entire continental mass. The kasrs were numerous in all directions, though studded concentratedly along a ridgeline where the land started to rise towards a mountainous interior. Imperial and traitor forces alike had landed across the exposed landscape and were vying for advantage, trying to gain supremacy there and push on towards the strategic kasr networks. It was clear that the enemy was in the ascendant through all of that, mostly due to overwhelming numbers, particularly in the north-west, but the fighting remained at a pitch of furious intensity. This was total war – in the void, on the land, in the cities, out in the wastes.

Baldr studied the hololiths intently, his eyes scanning rapidly over the mess of glowing dots and vector indicators, backed up by the constant half-intelligible chatter over the vox-lines. Patterns emerged, first as vague tangles, then sharpening up. It felt as if there were visual cues in the scanlines, virtually perceptible but elusive, lurking out of the corner of one eye, only to fall into blurry indistinctness when you looked directly.

After a while Hafloí tired of the sensor work, and clambered up towards the command section. That left Baldr in the dark, absorbed, lost to his study. The Thunderhawk continued to take a beating, and the engine pitch changed from a steady thrum into something more throttled and broken. The deck swung around, almost throwing him from his seat, but he worked on through it, trying to unpick the truths that lay in the augur readings.

Eventually, after what felt a long stint in the air, Baldr felt the camber of the deck change, and the guttering engine-tone told him they were rising fast. The hard-edged noise of weapons-fire fell away, replaced by the howl of external winds. The gunship banked, then swung around, then banked again, then started its familiar descent-sequence.

Baldr got up from his station, staggered as a sudden gust hit them, then picked his way along the tight accessway towards the flank access-hatch. By the time he reached it, Jorundur had brought the Thunderhawk down onto solid ground with a dusty thump. The external lumens were doused, the engines powered down. Even the internal lighting reduced, turning everything a sullen red. As the stressed metal ticked and clanged, cooling rapidly, Gunnlaugur’s voice was the first over the pack-comm.

‘That’s enough for now. Fjolnir – tell me what you’ve got.’

Baldr opened the hatch. Cool night air wafted in, acrid with spilt fuel and burning. The gunship was perched high up, wedged onto a narrow ledge on the eastern shoulder of the ridgeline he’d scanned from the air. He jumped down from the metal foothold, his boots crunching on loose earth. The rest of the pack made their descent from the steaming hull of the gunship. Jorundur and Olgeir immediately busied themselves with repairs, cranking open panels and delving into the smoking engine bays. Baldr turned to look at the view east.

They had crossed the spine of the ridge, clearing the jagged summits and dropping hard into the lee of broken peaks. The patch of level ground they’d found was less than thirty yards across – Jorundur had performed a minor miracle to bring them down at all. The ground fell away steeply ahead of them, dropping hard into ravines cloaked in shadow. The darkness had crept across the landscape, though no stars were visible under the all-encompassing smog layers, and the far horizon was lit with flashes. The noises of combat – mortar crumps, engine growls – could be heard coming from all directions. When the northern sky erupted with a particularly vindictive set of rolling explosions, the distant silhouettes of the kasrs were briefly visible – stark black cones against a seething fabric of flame – before being swallowed by the darkness again.

Baldr breathed in the air. Despite the stink of battle, it had an invigorating edge to it. In other circumstances, at another time, this might have been a good world – one with clean winds and ice on the peaks.

‘It’s everywhere,’ he said, just as Gunnlaugur came to stand beside him.

‘The fighting?’

‘Aye. I’ve picked up signals from the southern polar region, the equator, out in the oceans. They’re not taking any chances.’

Gunnlaugur grunted, and stared moodily into the firelit distance. ‘We can’t stay here long. Old Dog took out four flyers, but more’ll be back.’

‘For just one gunship?’

‘Like you say. They’re not taking any chances. Pick up anything we can use?’

‘I’m not sure. Nothing from the Ojada ships – they might be down, they might not be. For a moment I thought I caught a mention of something from an Imperial set of dispatches. They spoke of Wolves of Fenris taking positions in one of the kasrs. I couldn’t catch a name – there are hundreds of them. Kasr Alloc? Kasr Revok? I don’t know. Our cartographs can’t be relied on. It’s something, though. A mention.’

Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘Olgeir’s geo-lock is north-east. That’s where we’re headed. You agree?’

‘Aye. The fighting’s heavier up there, the further you go. It’s where Ragnar would be.’

‘That he would.’ Then Gunnlaugur looked at him. ‘But… you. You sound different.’

‘I like the air here.’

Gunnlaugur snorted. ‘Smells foul to me.’

‘Foul enough. But, underneath it… well, there’s something strange about this world.’

Just as Baldr spoke, a whole raft of munitions went off along the eastern horizon, a long way away, vast enough to briefly expose a second mountain range. In one bowl-shaped valley between the peaks, a single slender stone pillar was briefly lit up, angular, artificial, isolated. Its flanks were black, and it rose up into the night like a giant needle.

Gunnlaugur saw it too. He grunted non-committally. ‘For as long as it lasts.’ Then he clapped his gauntlet-palm against Baldr’s arm. ‘But I’m glad it agrees with you, brother.’

Baldr kept staring into the dark, where the obelisk had been illuminated, just for a moment. ‘How long has the Imperium held this place?’ he asked thoughtfully.

‘Njal might know,’ said Gunnlaugur, turning away, not sounding too concerned. ‘But let us hope, for your sake, he’s not here.’

‘So we’re moving again?’

‘Within the hour. Old Dog needs to shore up some damage, then we’ll need coordinates.’

‘I’ll work on it.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jorundur was as good as his word – within the hour, they were airborne again, boosting from the narrow eyrie, pitching down the steep slope then angling upward. They went north-north-east, hugging the high shelf of land to their left, keeping as low as the terrain allowed.

Gunnlaugur remained as co-pilot, letting the Old Dog do what he did best. It was an impressive thing to witness, the way he shifted and slid the huge chunk of metal, over a hundred tons of solid armoured gunship, making it as agile as a konungur in the snow.

It had started to rain – not precipitation, but a dirty cloud of ash filtering down from the heavens. Jorundur kept Vuokho’s lumens doused, relying on his eyesight to guide him, and so the view ahead was almost completely dark, marred by the smudge and smear of grey flecks striking the viewscreen. Every so often an explosion in the distance would illuminate the cliffs on either side – stark white impressions of vertical rock-plates and scraggly pines, already beginning to die back as the atmosphere poisoned – and the extent to which Jorundur was hugging the mountainsides became briefly apparent.

‘This can’t last,’ Jorundur said eventually.

‘What can’t?’

‘Flying.’ He suddenly yanked on the control columns, and the gunship scraped past an outcrop in the dark, missing it by a yard or two. ‘We’ll be off the scopes in here, but once we hit open terrain…’

‘Aye, I know it. We’ll get as far as we can.’

‘And then what? Run the rest of the way?’

‘If we have to.’

Jorundur snorted.

‘You think this is a fool’s hunt,’ Gunnlaugur said.

‘Ach, no. I just want to find him again. The Young King.’ He chuckled darkly. ‘This has always been a mongrel pack, thrown together, the scraps discarded from the rest. It’d be nice to make it count. I’d like to be the ones that haul his gilded arse out of the fire.’

Gunnlaugur laughed. ‘Aye. That’d be good.’

More ash flew against the viewers, clogging up against the jerking wipers, leaving long grey streaks against the armaglass. Something big was on fire, somewhere. Maybe the entire world was.

‘Once we’re clear of these peaks, we’ll see kasrs,’ Gunnlaugur said. ‘If they’re still defended, we could set down, get access to come cartographs that tell us something.’

Jorundur glanced at the ranged augurs, most of which flashed error-runes. ‘Or maybe they’ll be as blind as we are.’ He adjusted some dials, and a few flickery ghost images blinked across the lens before juddering out. ‘Sensor-baffles, overlapping, some theirs, some ours. Orbital satellites down, a million ships coming in and out of the warp at once. It’s a miracle we can get anything. It’ll come down to snouts on the ground, soon enough. What we can see with our eyes, feel with our hands.’

‘Just like back on the ice.’

‘But dirtier.’

‘And if time wasn’t so pressing–’

‘You’d enjoy this. Aye, I would too.’

Gunnlaugur looked at him steadily. ‘First Fjolnir, now you. What’s happened to your mood?’

Jorundur laughed, just as bleakly as ever, but with some humour under it all. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s that damned whelp, shaking things up. Maybe Gyrfalkon getting his spirit back. Or maybe this is the end of all things, and we’re flying into it with a shot-to-pieces gunship, just to be there. All very amusing.’

Gunnlaugur shook his head, mystified. ‘Well. Glad it’s having an effect.’

They flew on, running hard, staying low, even as the crevices and ravines began to bottom out and the crags fell away. In the extreme distance, the skies began to lighten – they were approaching dawn, a grey, washed-out return of the light. As they left the cover of the mountains, the plains stretched away ahead of them again. It might once have been agricultural land – miles of open fields tended by industrial cultivator-haulers – but now the dust had swallowed it up, choking the irrigation channels and rolling in palls across the ruins of the buildings. Some gigantic pipelines were still intact, snaking their way alongside transport arteries, casting long shadows in the half-light.

The environment didn’t stay empty for long. A fortified bastion wall, already part destroyed, bisected the dust-fields running west-east, and beyond that the land started to climb again in terraces towards a cluster of three large kasrs. Columns of smoke drifted with the wind from multiple sources across those terraces, feeding the plumes of smuts and dirt that made the air filthy. Tiny against the vast landscape, massed columns of troop carriers were heading towards the lead kasr, rumbling along with their own smokestacks belching, flanked by trudging columns of infantry. The advance was ragged, strung-out, undisciplined. That alone would have given away the allegiance of the fighters, but the plethora of tattered banners, strung with skeletons and still-twitching corpses, removed any doubt. They limped and shuffled their way past the burning carcasses of vehicles, bombed-out gun emplacements, debris-stacked trenches. Heavy tracked armour ground its way alongside them, set a few miles north, escorted by more infantry phalanxes and gun-walkers.

‘Keep out of sight as long as you can,’ said Gunnlaugur, studying the formations carefully, trying to gauge numbers, possible warband-signifiers, whether anything was still resisting them.

The gunship dropped down even lower, taking advantage of the flattening landscape, skating across the dust-blasted fields of trodden wheat, almost brushing against the stalks with its descenders.

The lead kasr drew closer, its high walls lit by the first direct rays of grey sunlight. The fortress-city was as vast as they all were, a colossal pile of rockcrete turrets and interlocking retaining walls, all designed purely for defence, crusted with artillery and masked by the faint glitter of active void shields. Its skirts were aflame – a ruddy, ember-like glow that made it seem as if the earth was scored apart down to the lava. Defence lasers and wall-mounted cannons blasted a steady rhythm of defiance, carefully timed, well orchestrated. Something within that city was still operational, then, however desperate the situation was in its lower reaches.

The skies ahead started to fill – convoys of lifters hauling materiel up to the front, escorted by hovering squadrons of ornithopters and gunships. Flashes and blasts peppered the cloud bank beyond the kasr’s high profile, indicating ongoing aerial combat. A gang of fighter-bombers speared past close enough to register on the gunship’s tactical augurs, but seemed to ignore them, powering off towards the beleaguered kasr, leaving lines of smog behind them almost as thick as physical tails.

‘We’ll have to angle north soon, vaerangi,’ Jorundur warned, as the plains slipped below them and the worst signs of fighting began to slide out of scanner range. ‘Cartoliths show a transitway running back from that kasr-line, heading up-country. That’ll be a target, and we can’t avoid it.’

‘Understood.’ Gunnlaugur switched to the pack-channel. ‘Heavy-Hand – prepare yourself.’

‘As always,’ Olgeir replied from the gunner’s station, reaching up to activate the battle cannon’s power-feed.

As the kasr fell away to the west, Jorundur gently banked the gunship, bringing them around in a wide loop and dipping the left-hand wingtips. He applied more speed, gradually ramping the velocity up close to maximal, all the while skimming along as low as he dared.

The landscape became wilder, harder, scoured as much by the elements as by the ravages of the war. Nothing productive had ever grown on these plains, and the jagged thrusts of naked rock vied with filth-encrusted vegetation stands, stringy and hard-cased. The elevation began to drop again, steadily but surely, towards what looked like a wide river catchment.

Just as Jorundur completed his course corrections, the first alarms began to sound.

‘Damn,’ he said, punching in more commands and flicking a lens over to a more fine-grained sweep. ‘We’ve been picked up.’

Ingvar’s voice came over the comm from the navigation-station. ‘Three signals, matching course, gunship-class.’

Gunnlaugur glanced at the readings. ‘Storm Eagles,’ he muttered.

‘Aye – patterns match. They’re on our scent.’

Jorundur maintained his course and speed, pushing the engine-load a little higher, but the gap between them and the chasing gunships began to close quickly. All of the vessels had a similar top speed, but Vuokho had taken a beating during the descent and the turbines were still operating at below full capacity. ‘They’ll be on us in a few minutes,’ he said.

‘Pick your moment, then,’ Gunnlaugur replied.

For a few more tense moments, Jorundur blazed a course due north, thundering across the empty wilderness. Three blips on the scanner crawled closer and closer, boosting just as hard as they did, staying in close formation.

Right as the gap shrunk almost into gun range, Jorundur slammed on the air brakes and hauled the controls upward. The gunship lurched, its nose shearing up, before Jorundur restored full power and Vuokho shot higher, swinging round tightly and bringing the battle cannon to bear on the approaching gunships.

The Storm Eagles – painted in a lurid mix of red and black and daubed with profane sigils, their spines ridged and their chassis broken up with almost organic growths – instantly broke formation and fanned out three ways, blurting out noxious smoke as their engines whined.

Olgeir fired, launching a salvo from the battle cannon that almost blew the rear end of the lead Storm Eagle clean off. He followed up with lascannon fire, using the one that still functioned, and Jorundur corkscrewed after the prey. The first few las-salvos flew wide, but Jorundur anticipated a switchback from the enemy pilot and dived in close to give Olgeir a split-second perfect target. The gunner didn’t waste it, sending a vicious spitting flurry of las-bolts slamming into the smaller gunship’s cockpit, punching through metal and shattering the armaglass into flying clouds of bloody debris.

That finished it off, though by then the other two attackers had swept round and brought their own guns to bear. Heavy bolters opened up in unison, hurling mass-reactive shells in quadruple fire-lanes. Jorundur banked hard, but couldn’t evade them all, and the right-hand crew bay was mauled amid a long welter of sparks and chips, the plates driven in, dented and cracked.

‘Skítja!’ Jorundur cursed, killing the power again to lose altitude, then twisting up and around to give Olgeir something to aim at.

The pilots of the Storm Eagles stayed tight, using their superior manoeuvrability to spiral away from the las-bolts while raking with more bolter-fire. One of them launched a scatter of missiles that whistled in very close, and only a desperate jink by Jorundur prevented one from blowing its way straight into the crew bay.

By then Baldr and Hafloí were on the Thunderhawk’s own heavy bolters, both firing freely, swinging the barrels around to target the incoming gunships. All three flyers raced, ducked and spun across the empty landscape, duelling their way north as the valley walls dropped down further. The silver-grey of a large river glistened below, half a mile wide, locked between rockcrete embankments, now a mire of oil slicks and smouldering wreckage.

‘Imperial positions two miles due east,’ Ingvar reported. ‘Make those, we might get some cover.’

Jorundur plunged down towards the mist-wreathed surface of the water, driving hard along it, the bolt-streams thudding out behind, before shooting back up towards the north bank and tilting to give Olgeir another shot. The lascannon fired, nearly impaling the closer of the two gunships but failing to shake either one off.

‘They’re not giving up…’ muttered Gunnlaugur, peering through the drifting clouds, trying to see what lay ahead.

Jorundur piled on the straight-line power, streaking out of a rolling mist bank to expose a long bridge spanning the river. It was low-slung, wide and heavyset – eight lanes wide for ground-traffic and embedded rail, lined with artillery towers and monumental defence bastions. Both ends of the bridge terminated in a sprawl of buildings, refineries, river-docks and industrial complexes. The north side seemed relatively intact, if badly damaged, whereas the southern bank was a burning set of ruins. Artillery lances and mortar fire arced from one side to the other, the impact-flashes reflecting dully in the sluggish water below.

Just as the bridge came into view, the Storm Eagles drew alongside on either flank and launched a pincer-strike of bolt-shells. Jorundur climbed immediately, but a cluster of projectiles hit under the cockpit, blowing out a stabiliser unit and briefly sending the Thunderhawk careering towards the water. Jorundur righted with difficulty, still speeding towards the bridge, then jinked around and sent the gunship listing belly-up, rolling the lascannon wing right into the path of the further Storm Eagle.

Olgeir fired, striking true this time, and the bolt-stream blew clean through the gunship’s tail, sending it somersaulting through the air. The Storm Eagle hurtled onward and earthward, whining out of control, before colliding with one of the bridge’s support piers and exploding in a smear of ignited engine fuel.

But that left the other one. Closing in fast, it fired a second missile, and at that range it wasn’t going to miss. The missile cut straight into the rear engines, blowing the turbine from its housing and destroying the entire tail section of the Thunderhawk.

The gunship reeled, the remaining two engines screamed, and everything lurched crazily, almost upending and smashing into the northern embankment.

‘Hel’s eyes!’ Jorundur cursed, pulling with all his strength to arrest the dive. Just as he did so, the cannons on the bridge swivelled round and targeted the remaining Storm Eagle, blowing it out of the sky with a combined strike that sent debris smacking into the carriageways and tearing up the asphalt.

Vuokho was still out of control, though, slewing wildly, rotating around its axis with its damaged engines gouting. The G-forces in the cockpit became crushing, slamming the occupants against their restraints. Gunnlaugur, gripping his throne arms hard, got a snatched glimpse of the bridge’s edge flashing by before the river’s surface raced up to meet them.

‘Brace!’ he roared, just as the gunship’s own alarms reached a blaring climax. Jorundur attempted to pull up, but the momentum was too strong now. A panel in the cockpit blew in, flooding the interior with thick black smoke.

Then they hit. The Thunderhawk smashed sideways-on into a bridge column, cracking open down the middle before being dumped into the water and sending a thick, flotsam-crammed bow wave surging up to the embankments. The engines briefly went wild, churning the slurry into foam before their intakes clogged and the turbines blew out.

By then the Wolves were already moving, snapping out of the restraints and kicking hard against the fast-sinking structure. Gunnlaugur hit the emergency door releases, and every working hatch and gang-ramp blew open in a cloud of bubbles. They piled out, kicking upwards, using the rapidly descending gunship chassis as a platform to boost themselves before it dragged them down to the riverbed.

Ingvar managed to get a grip on a bridge support, hauling himself out of the churning muck. He grabbed hold of Olgeir, and the two of them clambered up onto a ledge, each covered in oil and slime. Hafloí and Baldr were both swept downstream, their heavy armour carrying them to the silty bottom, and had to drag themselves out on foot. Last of all were Jorundur and Gunnlaugur, caught up in the wreckage of the cockpit as it disintegrated, finally trudging up through the mud and grit like nightmares of the Fenrisian deep. As they staggered to the edge of the embankment, waist-deep in churning, greasy water, the bridge loomed up over them, dark against the steel-grey sky. The sound of engines revving and guns firing came from its upper levels, echoed by the ongoing fire from the cannons mounted on the carriageway’s rim.

Jorundur turned, staring at the wreckage of the Thunderhawk. If his helm had been off, his expression would have been distraught. He said nothing for a moment, just reached out with an empty gauntlet, as if he could somehow lift it back up. Then he let his arm fall, weakly, and shook his head.

‘Ach,’ he murmured. ‘So that’s that, then.’

Ingvar didn’t try to make him feel better. There weren’t any words, he knew. Jorundur would have an outlet for his rage soon enough, and it would only antagonise him to say something before that chance came.

He could feel the hot tingle of blood on the inside of his helm, and his ribs ached mightily. He strode up through the knee-high water, and took in the surroundings. The Thunderhawk had come down just under the bridge’s shadow. The water couldn’t be much more than ten feet deep at that point, so they’d be able to salvage much of their gear, the weapons, maybe some supplies. It’d be a big loss, though. Their ability to travel swiftly had been taken away, and there was still a long way to go to reach Olgeir’s cartograph reference. Maybe trying to travel any distance by air had always been reckless, but it would still slow them.

It wore at his patience. More than any of the others, he had pushed for this, and now that the hunt was underway, he wanted to complete it. Every setback, every delay, it chipped away at the chance for success.

He looked up. A silt and gravel beach piled up ahead of him, lapped by the dark water, beyond which was a high embankment pocked with bullet holes. Soldiers were already scrambling down to meet him, all in the grey-green of the Cadian standing army. Beyond them rose a series of fortified positions, and beyond those were the high walls of the industrial buildings, gradually lightening into pale grey as the sun grappled its way further up across an overcast sky.

Ingvar shook the slime from his armour and stamped through the receding water. The first of the Cadians made the sign of the aquila, stared briefly at the site of the gunship’s descent, and introduced herself.

‘Lieutenant Alys Mordova,’ she said snappily, a little wearily. ‘Do you require help?’

Ingvar was used to baseline humans being overwhelmed by his presence. Perhaps the sight of them all trudging up out of a river, battered and covered in straggling weeds, dented the aura a little bit. More likely it was that these were just Cadians, a warlike people fighting on their own world – they’d seen too much to be easily awed.

‘Ingvar of Fenris,’ he replied, making the same sign. ‘What is this place?’

‘Ninth Crossing,’ she said. ‘On the route from the lowlands to the Inner Coronet, across the Namuva. You picked a good time to arrive, lord.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘Fighting, that long?’

‘The whole time.’

‘Show me.’

By that time, the rest of the pack was emerging from under the bridge’s lee. Gunnlaugur and Jorundur stayed further back, lost in some animated discussion, probably about what could be salvaged. Hafloí looked a little dazed, as if he’d taken a big hit on the way down. Olgeir and Baldr seemed unscathed.

Ingvar allowed Mordova to lead him up a steep set of plascrete steps set into the embankment wall. They reached a crow’s nest outpost piled with sandbags and protruding anti-aircraft guns. From there, the ground level rose steeply away from the river until they were on a wide riverine path that ran for a few miles along the northern bank. In normal times it might have been empty and windswept – a place to walk after a shift at the manufactorum, or to stage parades for Sanguinala – but now it was crammed with bodies. Flakboard and cinderblock installations had created a makeshift township of medicae units, refectories, armouries, the whole panoply of facilities needed by an army in the field. Behind them rose the more solid walls of the many manufactoria, their hole-blown roofs occupied by snipers and portable augur-teams.

‘We were ordered to hold the bridge,’ Mordova said. ‘We occupied both banks until a few days back, when they overran the south side, right up to the crossing.’

‘They?’

Mordova smiled wryly behind her helm’s visor. ‘You want me to name them? Whichever set of soulless bastards it is this week. They’ve come across at us three times. Each time, they got a little further.’

They walked up another set of stairs, taking them up to the point where the bridge met the embankment. The majority of the Cadians were deployed at the intersection – a broad area over fifty yards wide, where the multi-lane highway met the transitways to the northern half of the settlement. Now the entire area, once a bustling junction, was dug up, fortified with long rows of heavy rockcrete barriers and pillboxes, overwatched by prefabricated gun towers and fixed artillery positions. Tanks, more than twenty of them, were set hull-down amid piles of sandbags, their long barrels pointing out at the empty crossing. The infantry squads, all holed up in cover, must have numbered several hundred, and Ingvar could see Sentinel walkers and reserve troop carriers waiting in the streets just beyond, ready to move forward when needed.

Three banners, all of them ripped and shot-at and ragged, hung from the high wall facing the crossing – the double eagle of the Imperium, the ivory standard of Cadia with a skull set against a blue background, and a black-and-purple cross with a death’s head at the centre – the sign of whatever regiment it was that had been stationed to Ninth Crossing.

Mordova took him to the officer in command, a colonel called Irisa Borsch, who might have been in his thirties but looked a lot older. His uniform was dirty but his armour and weapon were in good shape, just like those of his troops.

‘My lord,’ he said as Ingvar ducked under the lintel of his pillbox entrance. Every member of his staff in the cramped interior made a diligent, if cursory, bow in Ingvar’s direction. ‘We saw your transport take fire. Do you need anything?’

‘Your lieutenant already offered,’ said Ingvar. ‘What is the situation?’

The officers stood round a long table piled with physical maps and data-slates. A few battered cogitators, lithcasters and comms-boxes stood up against the far wall, connected to the power-jacks with a tangle of thick cabling. The lumens flickered, and it was cold.

‘This is the last crossing in the sector we still hold,’ Borsch said. ‘They’ve moved three divisions up towards the interior north of here, but it’s a long way round. So they’d like this one too. We were holding both banks fine. Until those… things came.’

‘Heretic Astartes,’ volunteered the regimental commissar, a thick-boned woman with a pale complexion. ‘I believe that is the correct term.’

Borsch looked at her distastefully. ‘Whatever they are. They’re hard to put down. We’re meant to have support, massive support, because this is supposedly a priority for sector command, but it’s two weeks late now, and we’re not going anywhere. So that’s the situation.’

As the colonel spoke, Olgeir walked into the pillbox, having to stoop lower to get in. Ingvar glanced at him, and voxed the question.

‘Skullhewer’s dragging some salvage out,’ Olgeir replied over the pack-comm. ‘But the gunship’s not coming back up.’

‘We’re due to meet up with our people,’ said Ingvar to Borsch, ‘but our augurs have been down since planetfall. Any intelligence on Adeptus Astartes deployments north of here? The Wolves of Fenris? Or our supporting regiments, from Ojada?’

Borsch leaned over to the comms officer, who shook her head, then went to rummage through a sheaf of code-books and order dockets.

‘We can look into it,’ Borsch said doubtfully. ‘But it’ll take time.’

As the words left his mouth, a distant crash sounded, far away to the south. A few trickles of dust fell from the pillbox roof, and alert runes blinked on across one of the cogitators. Vox-chatter immediately started up, and two of the guards in the room saluted and vaulted up the stairs to the exit.

‘And now they’re trying again,’ said Ingvar, feeling the perennial impatience start up again. He sent an urgent message to Gunnlaugur, then drew his power sword. ‘Which means, I guess, that we’ll be here a little longer.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

They came in a howling charge, stumbling over one another, the dross and the fanatics, driven ahead of the main advance to soak up las-fire and waste valuable bullets. The grey sun was fully up by then, illuminating a scrum of poorly armoured, poorly armed fanatics, their exposed skin punctured and stretched, their faces tattooed and stitched into tapestries of raw, ruddy flesh. They stretched across the entire width of the transitway, thousands of them, running wildly, their limbs flapping and flailing. Some carried little more than wrenches and power hammers. They screamed, throwing their hairless heads back and ululating crazily, hollering languages that they had not known until dark whispers from dark mouths taught it to them. The air itself seemed to recoil from their words, pressurising as they ran through it, making the whole ragged advance shake with a kind of heatwash.

The Cadians were well drilled, used to dealing with waves of such attacks, and didn’t throw ammunition away in speculative shots. The tanks opened fire once the crowds had rolled up close enough, sending shrapnel rounds into the front ranks. When those exploded, the carnage was prodigious, felling whole rows of cultists at once and making those behind topple over. That slowed them, but only until the frenzied press of bodies behind managed to trample the dying underfoot and continue the rampage.

Three more times the tanks fired, each time causing similar mayhem, and each time failing to do much more than winnow out the most reckless and least fortunate. All the while, the Cadian infantry waited behind their barricades, lasguns resting on the top of the sandbags, fingers on the triggers, listening for the order. Dust billowed up, shrouding the onslaught like an allied army of ghosts. It became hard to make out much beyond the first few ranks of the oncoming horde, but occasionally glimpses came of larger, slower outlines in the middle of that giant mass, jogging with ominous certainty amid the wild sprints of the slave-rabble around them.

When the command finally came in, the troopers opened up as one, flooding the bridge deck with targeted barbs of neon-white las-bolts. The volume and rate of fire were exemplary, and more cultists smacked to the deck, their chests shot through or their limbs winged. Closer still, and hard rounds joined the slaughter, fired by gunnery teams operating tripod-mounted cannons with ammo-loops churning through the mechanism. Closer again, and frag grenades were sent sailing high over the heads of the mob, set to explode as they struck the deck, blasting further holes in the wayward onward charge, spraying blood and armour-fragments across the already rubble-strewn asphalt.

Gunnlaugur heard it all. The rest of the pack heard it all. None of them saw it take place. It would have been hard to see anything much from their vantage, hanging underneath the bridge’s main deck, their limbs coiled around cross-braced steel supports, waiting for the drum of boots overhead to indicate that the vanguard of the assault had passed them. They were arranged on either side of the structure – Gunnlaugur, Baldr and Jorundur on the left, Ingvar, Olgeir and Hafloí on the right – hidden in the lattice of metalwork that supported the bridge’s heavy upper rockcrete blocks.

Gunnlaugur deactivated his helm’s auditory enhancements, placed the ceramite against the bridge’s structure so that the reverberations passed straight through, and listened. The rhythms were erratic, scattered, no coordination, broken up by the barrages from the defenders some four hundred yards back at the intersection.

He gripped the metal more tightly. Having to delay progress north was an irritation, possibly a dangerous one, but there was no real alternative – he didn’t want Vuokho being taken before they had stripped it out, and the defenders deserved a chance to hold their position. Besides, Jorundur was in a dangerous mood following the destruction of his beloved gunship – giving him the chance to work off some of that fury had its benefits.

Still, he could have ordered the pack to keep moving. They could have commandeered a vehicle from the Cadians and left the Imperial troops to it, no doubt saving time and certainly minimising risk to themselves. Would that have been the right decision? Perhaps, but it would have been shabby and craven. They’d ducked too many stands already in the cause of speed, and had always known they’d have to fight at some stage. This was as good a place as any to start.

Mention Russ, and see them smile, Ingvar had said. It’d be nice, if possible, to have that proven.

Suddenly the bootfalls changed in tone – slower, heavier, making the bridge-structure flex.

‘Now,’ he voxed, and sprang into motion.

The others reacted instantly, swinging up and round, climbing over the outer railings and vaulting across, activating blades and bolters. They plunged right into the thick of the horde, out of range of the defenders’ ongoing gun-volleys but close enough to the mob’s vanguard to cripple its onward momentum. Olgeir opened up with Sigrún, clearing a bloody swathe ahead of him and sending broken bodies flying in all directions. Baldr, Hafloí and Jorundur let loose with their bolters too, blowing lanes open through the press. Ingvar followed up with his power sword, crackling with its pale light. Gunnlaugur kindled the energy-arcs over his thunder hammer and joined in, smashing two traitors bodily over the bridge’s edge before launching into another knot further in.

The attacks caused panic in the cultists, generating screams of fear on top of the frenzy, but that was not why the Wolves had waited. Just ahead of them, advancing steadily through their cluster-shield of lesser fighters, were the real targets – five Heretic Astartes, blood-bronze giants steeped in ancient corruption, their armour stained and blistered, their weapons already snarling, their corrupted helms glowing with unearthly light. Their battleplate was cracked and befouled, but under all the hard-baked ichor and filth you could just about make out a deep crimson colouration, chipped and scratched to the ceramite, adorned with brass and gold and hung with clanking loops of bleached skulls. They spoke, but the words were unintelligible – just a bestial set of barks and spittle-thick grunts, mockeries of the humanity they had possessed in another age.

As soon as the Wolves emerged, those grunts changed – the warriors of the World Eaters bellowed with pleasure, crunching over their own lackeys to engage, revving their chainswords and pulling out daemon-bound blades. Their boots tore the asphalt up, their amplified vox-blasts made the air shake and unprotected eardrums burst. None of them used ranged weapons, preferring a brace of blunt-edged blades already slick with gore. They moved incredibly fast when they wanted to, like runaway juggernauts, but that swaggering power was matched by a raw battle-cunning – an instinctual awareness of everything around them, honed by many mortal lifetimes of endless combat.

The Space Wolves emptied their magazines at them, and Olgeir managed to blast one into a pulpy mess with his heavy bolter before the gap between them closed to nothing. After that, the combat became a matter of close-pressed bladework. Gunnlaugur crunched Skulbrotsjór into the churning chainblade of their champion – a colossal monster with arching horns over a brass-mouthed helm. The World Eaters and Space Wolves tore into one another, hacking and hammering, ripping up the bridge structure around them and throwing aside the broken bodies of cultists caught up in the carnage. Gunnlaugur smashed his hammer head down again, then again, its energy field spitting as the disruptor-charge splashed across his opponent’s crushing blade-swipes. He could hear Olgeir thundering away close at hand, and caught glimpses of Baldr and Ingvar fighting in tandem against a single raging World Eater, energy-scraps flying wildly around them as their blows struck home.

Now that they were close, he could smell nothing but the enemy – their burned-metal, coppery foulness, their corrupted breath stinking of death, their stimm-chem backwash that stuck in his nostrils. Their roars were animal roars, like maddened beasts, dredged up from throats thick with acidic spittle. They were phenomenally strong, their muscles boosted and twisted by corruption, their very armour screaming at him as fractured faces winked and flashed in what remained of the reflective lacquer. There was no trickery, no sham illusions. Just naked aggression, boosted and distended, bound up in bodies hammered into sacred weapons for a god of unbridled anger.

Gunnlaugur saw Hafloí whirl into the thick of things, whooping and spinning his blades, his youthful energy matching the sleet-cold hardness of the Grey Hunters around him. The pack had the numbers, now – the edge that should prove decisive, given the momentum of the ambush attack – but then he heard the cry, ahead of him, strangled with loathing and anguish, rawer than any other in the pack.

‘Old Dog!’ Gunnlaugur bellowed, driving forward with his warhammer and plunging it straight through the champion’s exposed gorget. The plasma-flare exploded, ripping the helm from its cables and sending the huge body crashing to the deck in a welter of boiling blood. Even before the corpse had thudded to the deck he was leaping across it, barging through a reeling clot of cultists. Ingvar had also broken free from combat, racing through the mob to where the cry had come from.

Jorundur had pushed ahead too far, driven by his own rage, caution forgotten. Gunnlaugur caught up, only to see a World Eater driving a pair of powerblades up through Jorundur’s chest, both of them emerging out the other side just under the shoulder blades. The old warrior roared in pain, blood suddenly gouting from his damaged helm-seal, drowning his cries. The World Eater withdrew his locked swords, and Jorundur’s lifeless body thunked to the deck, arms clattering limply among the other piled bodies.

Gunnlaugur screamed in wild anger, throwing himself bodily at the traitor. He slashed once, twice, blistering hammer-throws that had every ounce of his strength behind them. The World Eater, caught off balance, tried to parry and had both forearms smashed. Gunnlaugur crunched him backwards with a shoulder-barge, pulled the thunder hammer up and then hurled it down, sending the snarling head crashing into the traitor’s helm and driving deep into his chest.

Ingvar joined him, hacking in a berserk frenzy, lashing out as if he wished to carve up the entire bridge. Gunnlaugur heard Olgeir’s hurled invective, followed by a deafening barrage from Sigrún that mowed down the cultists for yards around. Baldr and Hafloí were still fighting, finishing off the final two World Eaters one apiece, but all Gunnlaugur could see just then was Jorundur’s broken body, as wrecked as Vuokho, ripe to be trodden down in the melee and lost amid the onward tide of combat.

He opened his throat, flying at the enemy ahead of him, carving them up, pummelling them back, spraying their broken corpses in all directions. He and Ingvar hacked a gore-streaked path right into the heart of the horde, backed up by a still-raging Olgeir’s tempestuous barrages from the heavy bolter. All he wanted to do just then was find more of them, more slaves to these Dark Gods, more faithless members of the Old Legions, warriors that he could break his fury across and douse it in their deaths. There were bound to be more of them somewhere in that mob, maybe a few, maybe dozens, and if he had to slaughter his way through every last benighted mortal to get at them, then he would.

The Space Wolves must have cut their way to the very centre of the bridge, maddened, unstoppable, slaying in heaps, before the war-horns blared. Even over the screams and the shouts of combat, even across the steady drum of the Cadian guns, those colossal vox-emitters boomed out, shattering the last glass in the windows of the buildings on either bank.

Gunnlaugur looked up, startled out of his rampage. A Titan was striding up the river, the waters boiling against its knee sections, its smokestacks pouring out black smog, its weapon arms slowly coming to bear on the southern bank. It was Imperial, Reaver-class, towering over the buildings around it. Its battle-standards swung heavily as its mighty piston-driven legs waded through the dirty surf. On the southern shore, making almost as much noise, came a support-pack of Warhounds in the same gold-and-blue livery. By their marks, they were of the Legio Gryphonicus, an old and storied Imperial icon. The distinctive helms of supporting skitarii infantry units could just be made out advancing at the feet of the god-machines, filtering through the ruins on the shoreline, making their way steadily towards the point where the bridge made landfall.

That was enough, finally, to break the resolve of the enemy, and the wavering advance became a frantic retreat. Cultists scrambled and twisted to fall back, running over one another in their desperation to get back to the ruins and break west, away from the advance of the Titans. The Warhounds were swiftly coming in range, and their mega-bolters were whining up to fire. The Reaver angled its colossal gatling blaster into the ruins, and its barrels clunked audibly into position.

Gunnlaugur heard cheers rising from the north bank, followed by the unrestrained discharge of Cadian weaponry. He knew he could push on, now, if he chose to. Under the cover of the Titans’ guns, the pack could slice through the retreating enemy like a dagger through fat, hunting down the true warriors in the heart of the rabble, the ones he burned so hard to slay. The rest of the pack were already moving, hacking running cultists down, thirsting for blood-vengeance.

‘Hold!’ he roared, lofting his thunder hammer high and sending the energy field flaring.

They turned to face him one by one, first Ingvar and Olgeir, then Baldr, then, last of all, the whelp.

Gunnlaugur felt wretched, as if the fire in his blood had turned to lead, weighing him down. Even as he spoke, the god-machines unloaded their weaponry, igniting the southern shore in fireballs of pure destruction.

‘That’s enough,’ he growled, dousing Skulbrotsjór’s disruptor.

Then he turned heavily, and stalked back to where the body of the Old Dog lay, his mood as black as the clouds that rose up, one after the other, over the ruins.

The forces of the Machine-God did not linger. They swept up along the southern bank, driving the enemy westward, striding after them and giving them no respite. The Reaver made landfall, lurching up onto the embankment before absolutely pummelling what remained of the buildings beyond. With its Warhounds flanking it, it strode out west, blaring all the time, its massive feet crushing the rubble and its heavy weapon-arms swivelling.

An emissary from the Legio did cross the bridge to speak to the defenders and pass on dispatches from the sector command before scuttling back to join the skitarii. The robed creature didn’t so much as glance at the Space Wolves as it passed them, its metallic-looking head hidden under a crimson cowl. Once it had departed, and the last of the Mechanicus transports had rumbled their way west, the entire place fell into an eerie quiet, still hanging with dust, the blood of the slain cooling against the rockcrete.

Ingvar didn’t meet Gunnlaugur’s gaze. He didn’t feel like meeting the gaze of any of the pack. Once the fighting had stilled, the Wolf Guard went over to Jorundur to salvage what could be salvaged – his weapons, his helm, any rune-tokens or totems that might be taken back to Fenris. Olgeir and Baldr remained with him. They would carry the body back to the north bank, though after that it wasn’t clear what could be done with it. It was impractical to take it with them, impossible to leave it to rot, its sacred gene-seed unharvested.

Hafloí just stood where he had been fighting, his blades still dripping, staring at the spot where Jorundur lay. Ingvar didn’t attempt to speak to him. He trudged north, back towards the Cadian positions. A kind of sickness settled in his throat, the dull grief that always came with the death of a pack-member. It had been the same with Váltyr, when he had been slain – the aching sense of removal, as if a part of himself had been hacked away, leaving the wound exposed and throbbing. In time, and soon enough, they would mark his passing into the Underverse. They would laugh, remembering his foul temper and acid tongue. They would mark down his saga for recitation, including as many occasions where he had tripped up or injured himself as they could.

But not yet. For now, it was just the grief, deep and potent.

By the time he reached the intersection on the northern embankment, the Cadians had finished the remaining butchery, and had advanced out across the bridge with flamers to clear the remnants away. Ingvar made his way back to the command bunker, but Borsch had already emerged. They met once more in the open, with the sun now lowering again, lengthening the shadows across the sluggish river.

‘My thanks, lord!’ Borsch said, pulling his helm off and smiling broadly. ‘You rendered us great service.’

Ingvar grunted, and wrenched his own helm from his head, running a gauntlet through his sweaty, dusty hair. His expression said all that needed to be said.

‘So, then, do you… require anything?’ the colonel asked haltingly, just as he had done before.

‘We’ll need to move now. As planned, without delay.’

‘Arrangements have been made. I have troops converting a Taurox for your… requirements. The work’s almost done – we’ve stripped out what we can, fuelled and serviced it. If you need more, then–’

‘No, I’m sure it will suffice. Did you find anything about the deploy-ments?’

‘Not much.’ Borsch looked apologetic. ‘Our main systems have been out for a week or more. The comms officer remembers chatter on the grid about a push north of Kasr Belloc, and there was mention of Adeptus Astartes being involved. Maybe your kind – he can’t be sure. Nothing on any regiments from Ojada.’

‘Fine. We’ll find them. Thank you.’

‘Thank you. Titans or no, if you hadn’t been here–’

Ingvar turned away. Out on the bridge, the rest of the pack was returning, Jorundur’s body hoisted on their shoulders. Borsch stared at it.

‘We won’t be able to take him with us,’ Ingvar said. ‘Do you have a medicae vault here, secure, something you can guard?’

‘We do.’

‘I’ll speak to my commander. We might have to leave the body with you. You said you were due to be relieved. When you are, if you are, it would have to be transported, protected, somewhere where the Adeptus Astartes have command posts. You understand? This is very important.’

‘I do, lord. If it is within my power, it will be done.’

Ingvar nodded, watching grimly as the pack marched across the bridge.

‘And then we’ll be gone,’ he said. ‘But Throne be with you, colonel – you fought well here.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Taurox had been stripped of all but its essentials, mostly to make room for the Space Marines to fit inside without hunching. It was a weather-beaten old machine, with its regimental insignias half blasted off the metal, but Borsch had clearly found someone decent to service it, so the engine ran true enough. Its turret had twin autocannons fitted, the barrels cleaned and draped with machine-spirit benedictions.

By the time they left Ninth Crossing, heading up the transitway through the Imperial-occupied section, the sun was low in the sky. As the cloud cover darkened, the booms of combat became more vivid against the horizon. Most of the major impacts came from the north, the direction they were travelling in, making the underside of the clouds flash and flicker with internal fire. For a while the road was decent, albeit strewn with burned-out groundcars and troop carriers. The buildings on either side were empty-windowed and de-powered, but the walls still stood, with their carved aquilas and urban-sector number designations. Ninth Crossing wasn’t much of a place – a semi-industrial outpost that was more checkpoint than true settlement – but it was still striking to see how completely the war had emptied it out.

Olgeir drove. After the Taurox left the city limits, the road got worse, pocked with mortar craters and transverse cracks, sending the transport bouncing and reeling.

No one said much. Ingvar stared at his clenched fists. Gunnlaugur still had a thunderous scowl etched across his scarred face.

For Baldr, the pain had begun to return. The further north they went, the worse it got. The fighting at the river had made little odds – he had been lost in the fury of it, that was true, but once it was over the pulse behind his temples had returned swiftly, incessant, nagging, impossible to avoid.

‘I mean,’ Hafloí said, after an hour or so. ‘He was a rancid-tempered old hog, when he wanted to be.’

Olgeir chuckled at the wheel, driving the Taurox as fast as he dared, having to work to keep them on the road. ‘Aye. That he was.’

Ingvar smiled thinly. Gunnlaugur remained silent.

They drove on into the night. Out in the wasteland, the dark became near absolute. A scrubland of dry brush and cracked earth ran away from them in all directions, flat, wind-scoured. More peaks rose up ahead of them, but they were a long way off. The only things to break the monotony were occasional tank-hulls, burned black and splayed open like ribcages, or the relics of downed flyers. The wind tore across them all, snatching at the tattered remains of straps and bindings and uniforms, fluttering in whispers against the blackened metal.

The pain got worse. Baldr sat with his back against the Taurox’s chassis, eyes closed, trying to focus. From what he remembered from the Thunderhawk’s scanners, they must be getting closer now, heading into whichever cauldron of combat Ragnar had opted to make his stand in. They would surely come across more enemy forces soon. All it would take would be for a flyer to spot them out in the open, lock on with an air-to-surface missile, and it would all be over.

Although, somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be like that. The worse the pain got, the more his certainty returned. He’d been as blind as any of them to Jorundur’s danger, back at the river where the heat behind his eyes had been easier. It all went together, it seemed – the pain, the foresight. The column must have had something to do with it – the pinnacle of dark stone he’d seen from afar. The further they left it behind, the harder things became.

Olgeir hit a divot, making the Taurox buck, smacking Baldr’s head against the steel frame. A wave of hot agony flushed down his neck, and he grunted. Ingvar turned to look at him, gave him a quick glance of concern, but did not speak.

It was growing, building, pressurising. He clenched his fists, and felt the soul-ward jangle against his chest, tinking off the ceramite as the Taurox moved. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his eyes again.

‘Brother…’ said Hafloí, after more agonising time had passed.

He opened his eyes, and saw the glow. It wasn’t intense, just a faint blush of pale light, like moonlight. It was coming from his neck.

All the others riding in the crew compartment were staring at it. In the night-dark, with the Taurox’s lumens killed, it was the only thing lighting up the interior.

‘Are you doing that?’ Hafloí asked.

Baldr didn’t know, not truly. But it felt unlikely. It felt that the null-collar was under stress, greater than it had ever been, trying to clamp down on the thing within him that just kept on growing, remorseless as gravity.

He began to feel nauseous, and the ache behind his eyes sharpened.

‘We… need to stop,’ he said.

He didn’t even know where those words came from. Gunnlaugur, who had been listening into any comm-traffic the scanners could pick up, turned sharply towards him. ‘We are running out of time,’ he said.

‘I know that. We have to stop.’

Ingvar checked his own handheld augur. ‘There’s something here. A mile off the road, over to the left.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Faint heat source. Strange pattern.’

Gunnlaugur hesitated for a moment, clearly unwilling to make a diversion. He let slip a low snarl of frustration, then looked quizzically at Baldr. ‘This is needful, brother?’

By then, there could be no doubt. The pain was becoming so bad that it was hard merely to move his jaw to answer. Baldr felt like he was caught in some giant invisible vice, simultaneously crushing, pulling and grinding him apart. Every second that passed made it worse, and he knew – in that same uncanny manner that marked all his certainties – that it had something to do with whatever Ingvar had detected out in the wilderness.

‘We have,’ he said again, forcing the words out, ‘to stop.’

Gunnlaugur shook his head, wearily. ‘Heavy-Hand – follow the signal.’

Olgeir did as he was ordered, swerving the Taurox off the transitway and sending it revving unevenly across the broken scrubland. The rest of them put their helms back on, silently, grimly, and reached for weapons.

It didn’t take long to reach the source of the signal. Olgeir pulled up a hundred yards ahead of it and killed the engine. The pack got out, hefting their bolters, and advanced slowly through the darkness.

By then, it was the deep of the night. The wind was cold and incessant, pulling at the scrub and the dusty soil. The landscape was still unremittingly flat, offering uninterrupted views in all directions. Aside from the occasional boulder or thorn-bush outcrop, nothing persisted in that strange place. The gusts of icy air eddied strangely, and lights glimmered and flickered against the scudding clouds. Some of those might have been reflective echoes of distant ordnance, but others were unusual – pearlescent, as fleeting as gas flares or starlight ripples over water.

Baldr had trouble focusing. He held his bolter two-handed, gripped ready to fire, but doubted he’d be able to do much good with it. In any case, this felt more for show than anything else – he sensed no great physical threat ahead, just something… strange.

They pressed on, keeping close together, treading carefully against the dry vegetation. Eventually, they reached a wide curve where the land fell away, as if gouged by a great ploughshare. The edges of the depression were crumbling and friable, but the descent was shallow.

‘This is the place,’ said Ingvar, putting the augur away. His voice was tight, just as it always became before sighting an enemy.

Gunnlaugur went ahead, peering down the slope. ‘There’s more up ahead,’ he said. Even with his eyesight, it was hard to pick up much in the murk without using helm-lumens. ‘Go watchfully.’

The pack edged down the scree, boots sinking into broken earth. It turned out to be a furrow rather than a crater, one heading north-west. As they moved along it, debris appeared – shards of some dull, non-reflective material. It looked like something broken off from a large vehicle, though not one used by either Imperial forces or the enemy.

Ingvar said it first, though they were all thinking the same thing. ‘Xenos.’

The main body of the wreckage lay at the terminus of the furrow, driven down below ground level by more than twenty yards. By then the furrow had widened, and the earth was hot. The wind whipped up hard-to-place smells – almost like flowers, or alcohol, or maybe some exotic chem-mix.

The detritus piled up there, long shards like broken glass, but in sweeps and curves. The surfaces were all matt-black, though jewels had been embedded in the structure, glossy as jet. As far as it was possible to tell, this was the wreckage of a single vehicle, something large enough to survive descent from orbit, but clearly atmospheric-capable. Some of its vanes and spars were still more or less intact, jutting into the night sky like extravagant sculptures, though its engines were dormant and the fires of its descent were out.

A single figure lay on the ground before it. The Space Wolves advanced warily, guided by silent battle-sign from Gunnlaugur. Olgeir fell back a little, scanning over the ship-ruins with his heavy bolter. Hafloí climbed a little way up the slope on the far side. The rest of them came to stand before the prone xenos, all guns aimed squarely at it.

By then, Baldr felt like screaming. It was virtually silent in that place, but inside his head a chorus of half-intelligible voices shrieked, over and over, a choir of madness. Every time he moved his head, the world blurred, breaking up into overlaid shards of translucence. Merely holding position was a challenge.

The xenos looked straight at him, of course, ignoring the others. He or she – it was always hard to tell – was clad in close-fitting flight-armour, as black as its ship, overlaid with oil-dark robes. Just like the ship, the armour was studded with what looked like jewels – ovals of polished stone, ringed with thin lines of silver. It lifted its slender head, helmless and long-haired, and gave a pain-filled smile.

‘Sons of the Wolf King,’ she said, the timbre of her voice indicating that she was female.

‘We should end it,’ said Ingvar, clearly itching to kill the creature. Baldr could feel the belligerence from the others, too, but Ingvar’s was the brightest flame.

‘Hold, brother,’ Baldr said. Then, to Gunnlaugur, ‘Let it speak.’

‘Only lies come from the mouth of a xenos,’ protested Ingvar.

‘It can do us no harm. Not like this.’

Gunnlaugur regarded the creature carefully. Baldr could see how close he was to opening fire. Everything in his body strained to do it. Only the circumstances, only Baldr’s word, was keeping the alien alive.

Even for him, it was hard to look at that oddly elongated face – like a human’s in so many ways, but utterly different in others – and not wish to break it open. Every part of his training, every part of the Imperial doctrines that he had been immersed in his whole life, urged him to extinguish the filth from existence. Perhaps the xenos felt the same way about them. Perhaps it, too, was holding off a last gasp of violence. Everything remained ratchet-tense, held in suspension, apt to explode at any moment.

Taking Gunnlaugur’s silence for consent, at least provisionally, Baldr gradually lowered his bolter. His vision was by then so cloudy that the weapon had become almost useless anyway. The only illumination in the entire place was still his null-collar, now glowing like a half-forged sword pulled from the fires.

‘Why are you here?’ Baldr asked.

The xenos looked to be suffering at least as much as he was. One of her limbs was twisted at an impossible angle, the left-hand side of her body was stained with blood. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her skin moon-pale. When she spoke, a thin black trickle ran from the corner of her mouth.

‘The same reason you are,’ she replied, the Gothic highly accented, but otherwise perfectly intelligible. ‘First movement of the Rhana Dandra. We all have our roles to play.’

‘Kill it,’ hissed Ingvar.

Gunnlaugur held up a warning fist, letting Baldr continue.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

The xenos smiled weakly. ‘Fate was cruel. As it has been, I see, for you.’ Then, as the audible words were heard by all, a pulse of mind-communication, for him alone. +You are at the doors of annihilation, warrior. You know the truth of this.+

‘I sensed you,’ Baldr said. ‘You were intended to be here.’

‘No, not all things are planned, whatever Ulthran might tell you. This is coincidence. Or, if it is not, then its provenance escapes me.’ She struggled to rise a little, but her arm gave out. She paused to control her breathing, then swallowed painfully. ‘What did you think? That you were somehow… special?’

Baldr’s collar twinged, almost making him cry out from the spasm of agony. ‘Hardly. I am cursed. I seek a cure.’

The xenos nodded, as if to herself. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a curse. Both a blessing and a curse.’ Then she looked suddenly dismissive. ‘But do not fool yourself. There is no cure. You yourself are under no particular curse, human. Or, rather, if you are, then your whole species is too. This is not about you. On every world of your dying empire, the kindling is already lit. Soon it will be a wildfire. Your kind are, at last, waking up.’

Baldr instantly recalled what Njal had told him. A thousand stories reach my ears. Some talk of awakening.

‘All the same,’ he said. ‘It is maleficarum. It cannot be used.’

He half expected the xenos to show off her species’ much-vaunted disdain then, as if that were a hopelessly simplistic complaint about a matter that was far too complex to couch in such terms. She didn’t. In fact, though it was hard to read non-human expressions, she almost looked sympathetic.

‘No, it cannot be used,’ she said weakly. ‘But, also, it must be. That is the great riddle.’ She shifted painfully, and her too-wide eyes flickered warily towards the others. ‘I know the struggle your kind have with… what do you call it? The warp. I know it. And you are wise to mistrust it. Some of my kind mock the efforts you make to keep it secret, keep it hidden. I do not. What right have we to laugh? We tried to answer the same riddle ourselves, and failed. Maybe there is no answer. Or maybe the answer changes. But the riddle itself – it is still spoken, every hour, with every living heartbeat, by all who draw breath.’

By then, the null-collar felt hot, even through his armour. He could feel his flesh searing, just one more spike of pain to add to the cacophony in his mind.

‘Then perhaps it is best if the curse stays around my neck,’ he said. ‘To prevent the greater harm.’

‘And so you will die,’ the xenos said. ‘Pointlessly, but that would be your choice.’ Then, with a change of expression as sudden and complete as the other shifts in emotion, her face filled with fear. ‘There are worse things than death, though. Many worse things.’ She managed then to push herself up a little, to shuffle towards them. The movements were crippled, pathetic, and all of a sudden she seemed more supplicant than sage. ‘You could help me, if you chose. Not to keep me alive – too late for that – but to… take something for me. Carry it with you, just for a little while, until it can be moved to a place of safety. You cannot imagine what that would mean, what agonies it would prevent.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because I can end your pain, too,’ she said, utterly seriously. ‘I can set you free.’

‘It cannot be trusted,’ said Ingvar.

‘Of course it can’t,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘That is not in question.’

‘But it is here, in front of us,’ said Olgeir doubtfully. ‘What did we expect to come across?’

Hafloí said nothing, but glanced at Baldr. For the time being, Baldr was silent.

The pack had withdrawn a little way from the xenos. Olgeir kept his weapon trained on it, and all the rest remained armed and alert. They spoke over the pack-comm, keeping their words locked within their helms. As they debated, the alien creature closed her eyes, placed her remaining good hand over her chest, and tried to breathe.

‘It is a warlock,’ said Ingvar. ‘A twister of fates. I’ve seen what they do to armies. To worlds.’

‘As have I,’ said Gunnlaugur, his growl giving away some irritation. ‘It’s not just the Deathwatch that fights xenos.’

‘There’s no strength left in it,’ said Hafloí. ‘Not that I can see. It’d say anything now, just to get what it wants.’

‘Its jewel,’ said Ingvar. ‘That’s what it wants you to take. Those things are more valuable than starships to them – I’ve seen them fight like daemons to retrieve them.’

‘Other things covet them too,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Or so it is said.’

‘So it’s in no position to demand anything,’ said Hafloí. ‘We could take what we want, if we chose, then walk away. When did we start making bargains with such filth?’

‘If we make an oath,’ said Baldr quietly, ‘we keep it.’

Gunnlaugur turned to face him. ‘Then you wish to take the chance,’ he said, almost accusingly.

‘I’ll do what you order, vaerangi,’ said Baldr. ‘But know this – I am dying, right now, right here. In the void, I can hold it back, just a little. For a little while, on this planet, the pain eased. But now it’s back, and I can feel it tearing me apart. Njal never intended the collar to be permanent – it was something to keep the power in check while he took me back to Fenris. It’s breaking up at the edges now. One of us will give out soon. Perhaps before we get to Ragnar. Maybe just after. I only say this to make the choice clear.’

Gunnlaugur grunted. He’d guessed at that for some time. They all had. Still, to hear it baldly stated, that was different. ‘We all saw you,’ he said carefully. ‘When you were… not yourself. That is the danger.’

‘Aye,’ said Olgeir. ‘It was always the danger, one we accepted at the time. We never knew what chance to end this would come our way, save that it would be just as perilous. It was always going to be.’

Baldr looked at him, grateful for the words. ‘I didn’t expect such counsel from you, brother,’ he said.

Olgeir shrugged. ‘Decisions were made. We stand by them.’

‘The creature is terrified,’ said Ingvar, his voice full of doubt. ‘Hafloí speaks the truth – it will say anything, just to get what it wants. They are powerful, those witches, but can it do what it promises? Only Njal himself had the power to remove the collar, you said – even the monster on the plague-hulk couldn’t, and that thing was steeped in sorcery.’

‘Njal is not here,’ said Baldr patiently. ‘Even if he is on Cadia, I would be dead before we found him, or any other Priests of the Chapter. The xenos may be lying or deluded, but I see no other chances.’ He turned back to Gunnlaugur. ‘I’m not begging. If you forbid it, I’ll offer my neck for the knife. But that is the choice. One way or another, time is up.’

Olgeir snorted. ‘Then that settles it. What have we been doing, all this time, but searching for a cure? Let him die now, when one stands before us, we might as well have stayed on the Heimdall.’

An uneasy silence fell. Beyond the crater’s ridge, the wind skipped and moaned.

‘Gyrfalkon?’ asked Gunnlaugur.

Ingvar didn’t reply for a moment. ‘I don’t know what I expected to find,’ he said, eventually. ‘Only that something would come, and we would know it when we saw it.’ He looked squarely at Baldr. ‘If it was anything but xenos… I learned to hate them more than all else. But then maybe that is my fault to remedy.’

‘It was you who made the argument on the Heimdall,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘And you who brought him back inside the walls on Ras Shakeh.’ Then he looked at Baldr. ‘But, both times, it was I who gave the order. So Heavy-Hand is right – what would be the point of that risk, now, if we spurned the chance when it came? Danger is what we were made for.’

Baldr felt the collar around his neck suddenly flare, driving a sliver of heat into his chest, as if it somehow knew the way the argument was going. He clenched his jaw tighter, stifling the cry, and said nothing.

‘Take the creature’s stone, and let it do what it can,’ Gunnlaugur said finally, his voice still betraying his deep uncertainty. ‘We’ll keep our weapons raised. Ruin or no ruin, death or vindication, we’ll have an answer before the sun is up.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

By the time they returned, the xenos was looking worse. Her pallor had faded, her eyes were ringed with grey. In places, her skin looked almost translucent.

Baldr stood before her. The rest of the pack resumed their original positions, guarding them both, weapons raised. It was a strange feeling, to sense the bolters of your own battle-brothers, aimed at you as much as they were on the xenos. Just in case.

‘We accept the bargain,’ Baldr said.

‘You will take the spirit stone?’ the xenos asked, her voice close to breaking. ‘Keep it safe, ward it at all costs?’

‘You have my word.’

‘And return it to my people?’

‘When we can.’

The xenos looked at him for a long time, as if her damaged eyes were capable of piercing through his mask and judging the truth of his words. ‘Remove your helm.’

Baldr reached up and twisted it free. The cold night air washed over his skin, offering some level of relief from the fizzing ache across his face and neck.

‘Tell me your name, son of the Wolf King,’ the xenos said.

‘Baldr, called Fjolnir.’

‘And I am Caerlainn, of the people of Ulthanesh Shelwe. A name is important. Both will be needed.’

The collar throbbed, twitching like a living thing.

‘So what needs to be done?’ Baldr asked.

‘Only contact.’ She smiled, a pain-filled grimace. ‘If it does not injure your pride too much, you will need to stoop.’

Baldr dropped to one knee. His bulk far surpassed the frail, slender creature lying before him, and he had to lower his head a long way before she was able to reach out for the collar.

‘It will hurt, of course,’ she said.

‘Just begin.’

Her fingers made contact with the bone torc.

And everything disappeared. Everything snapped out of existence, save for the agony, which sharply increased. Baldr tried to straighten, to throw his head back and howl, but he couldn’t move. It was as if his body had ceased to be entirely, save for a point of pain, a singular nexus. He saw nothing, heard nothing but the great roaring, like surf, or perhaps millions of voices, crashing onward, unending, merciless.

That might have gone on for hours, or just moments – he lost all sense of time and space, only the one reality of unbearable pain, ramping up, flooding his entire being, eating him up, destroying him.

+This is the end of all things,+ came a voice he recognised: an alien voice, hers. +The moment when a life ends, in this world, and lingers, for a moment, in the next. That is the pain you feel.+

He had no way to reply. Somewhere, on some plane of existence, he knew he had physical lips, locked apart in a rictus of anguish, but here, in the place he had been taken to, all he had was the kernel of himself, the spirit of fire, the soul he had always been, alone.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the agony cracked. A sound like ice grinding against ice shuddered through the darkness, and he had a sensation of falling, dropping fast, accelerating down a bottomless shaft into the depths of the Underverse, unable to reach out and grab anything to arrest it.

Slowly, the roaring died away, receding into a muffled silence. The sense of falling faded. Everything became cold, perfectly dark, perfectly still.

He looked down, and saw his hands, his body. He was not wearing armour. He was wearing furs, stitched leather, a ragged half-cloak, just as he had once worn when a hunter in the Ascurii. He was standing on a polished stone floor, featureless and black. Columns marched away into the darkness, cut from the same black stone. The place was frigid, echoing, empty.

He turned, and saw the xenos standing next to him. She didn’t appear to be injured now. Her robes were different, too – pale white, like bleached bone, and traced with a fine golden lattice of runes. She had a broken torc in her hand, as well as a pendant with a shattered animal skull hanging from it.

‘Both were destroyed,’ she said. ‘The first was killing you, the second was keeping you alive. This ward was on the verge of failing, so you had a day, maybe two, left.’

Her voice rebounded down the long, dark halls, before being swallowed up by the shadows. Out of the corner of his eye, Baldr thought he saw other things in the gloom, shifting, murmuring, but couldn’t get a clear view.

‘What is this place?’

‘You call it Hel, I believe. But I am guessing – I do not see what you see. Not here.’

‘Then, this is death.’

‘Not yet. A place between life and death, perhaps. Once, my people could move between these many worlds at will. Now even we cannot escape, when the hour comes.’

He looked down at himself. The clothes he wore were just the same as they had been. They smelled the same as they had done in another life – the dry smell of old, cold animal hides. He had his axe at his belt, the same axe he had carried the day the beast had come for him in the endless forest, the one that had hesitated, that had let him live.

God-marked.

‘So, it was easy to accomplish,’ he said. ‘In the end.’

The xenos laughed. ‘Easy? No, not easy. For you, it was the work of a moment. For me, it took rather longer – and exhausted what remained of my physical form. We count ourselves masters of this craft, and yet… I was dying already, of course, but this action has sealed the compact.’ She looked briefly haunted. ‘You were unlocked by the enemy, I think, in the first instance. That will leave a trace. I cannot erase that entirely, so you must guard against what you do with your gift. Or curse. Whatever you choose to call it.’

‘And you must stay here,’ he said, knowing the truth of it even as the words left his mouth.

‘My body is burned away. When you return, you will see nothing but a husk. I am the stone, now. The stone is me. Should you lose it, or see it destroyed, the pain you just felt will be mine to endure for eternity. Should you return it to my people, a chance remains to avoid that fate.’ The xenos smiled dryly. ‘Perhaps now you see why I was keen to strike the bargain.’

‘But you trust me.’

‘What choice do I have? But yes, I trust you. There is a certain kinship, amongst those who have been in such places.’

‘So I see now that this was always ordained.’

‘You see that, do you? Strange, that I do not. But maybe you were fated to be here for me, eh? You may not be the end in this, just the means. That is the great deception – to believe that we are the significant thing in any given nexus of events. Maybe you are, maybe you are not. My ability to tell has been… curtailed.’

Baldr felt no sorrow for the xenos. Ancient hatreds remained strong, whatever debt of honour now lay between them. ‘Your thread is ended.’

‘In this place, surely. But there are other worlds, human. Ones that you may glimpse soon, if you have the wit for it.’

Baldr’s eyes flickered, half catching one of the denizens of the shadows. He almost recognised what it was, but then it was gone, evaporating into nothing. He felt uncomfortable, as if he were being tricked or deceived, and yet his senses had never been clearer. All his old training, all his old beliefs… they would either be needed more than ever, or would have to be cast aside. He needed guidance. Or maybe that was the last thing he needed. He needed to return to the source. Or maybe he needed to keep running, forever, further and further away.

‘This is not an awakening,’ he said. ‘It is more like rebirth. I am a child again.’

‘Something the masters of your race understand.’

‘Hence their caution.’

‘The craft in your containment device was great. If you had not been fighting it for so long, perhaps it would have been too great to overcome, even for me. But you had been consuming one another for a long time, and I do not think it was ever meant to be employed for such a span.’ She looked down at the splintered bone pieces. ‘It is a valiant thing, to try to hold back the tide. I admire the ambition of it. But it must fail, in the end. More of you will awaken, growing in number with every generation, until what is rare now becomes as common as breathing. It cannot be stopped. Maybe this will be the blaze that consumes you, just as it was for us, or maybe you will find a way to master it, but every species must take the test, sooner or later.’

Baldr reached up to touch his face, pressing his fingers into the flesh. It yielded more than he was used to. His bone structure was less pronounced, his muscles less hardened. He had forgotten just how fragile it was to be a human, before the Test of Morkai had changed him, so long ago.

‘I will be an aberration,’ he said.

‘In the eyes of many.’

‘It will cause strife.’

‘Your Imperium already has plenty of that, I think.’

‘We call it maleficarum. The craft of witches. Only the way of the storm is permitted, the craft of the old gothi, and even that is hedged with peril. That has always been what we were taught.’

‘Then keep teaching it. I am not telling you it is false.’ The xenos began to fade, then, her robes becoming translucent, then gauzy, then spinning into flurries of dust. ‘All of it, all the way back to the origin, is stories. Endless stories, told and listened to by every mind and soul that has ever been. A story is neither true nor false, though it may be noble, or it may be base. Tell the story you must, either to yourself, or to those you encounter. Just be sure to believe in it, to live it, to act as if every word of it must have been, and could never have been otherwise. Nothing else exists. Nothing else remains. Just voices, speaking in the dark, building the worlds that we labour in, that we both destroy and preserve.’

She was almost gone now. In this place, she had no jewel at her breast, just a skein of golden light that spun and rippled in the murk.

‘Hel is the home of the unworthy warriors, is it not?’ she asked, her lips like snuffed candle-flames.

‘That it is.’

‘Then, when the time comes, Baldr of Fenris,’ she said, in a voice no louder than a child’s whisper, ‘ensure that you do not return here. Your soul belongs, I foresee, in the Halls of Fire.’

When he opened his eyes, he saw the world again, its emptiness, its cold wind and its racing, burning skies. He saw his brothers, all of them staring at him. He saw the body of the xenos, lifeless now, its skin already hardening, becoming brittle.

It was darker, now. His collar was gone, and the only remaining light came from the firelit distance, in addition to the wisps of refracted ghostliness that shimmered in the cloud cover.

He lifted his hands, turning them, trying to assess how he felt.

A weight had gone. The pain, for the most part, had gone. What pain remained was like that of a healed wound – more wholesome, speaking of recovery. He knew without having to look that scar tissue ridged along his collarbone.

Of the collar itself, there was no sign – it was neither in pieces on the ground nor in the xenos’ grasp. The soul-ward pendant, too, was gone.

‘Speak to me,’ said Gunnlaugur, aiming his bolt pistol at Baldr’s head. It was a command, not a request, and made from wariness.

‘I am myself,’ Baldr said, slowly turning to face him, keeping his movements slow and obvious. ‘Aye, I am myself.’

‘What happened?’ Ingvar asked.

‘Did you not see it?’

‘We saw nothing,’ said Hafloí, sounding almost cheated. ‘Just a flash of light, then you were standing again, and the creature was dead.’

‘But you can see that the collar is gone,’ said Baldr. ‘And that I am restored.’

‘And your… gift?’ asked Olgeir, still the most suspicious of all.

Baldr thought on that. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. It had been so long since he had lived without some nagging sense of wrongness, some cradled fear within him, that another way of being felt almost inconceivable.

What had changed? His body was the same. The corruption that had taken it over on Ras Shakeh, and then briefly on the plague-hulk, was burned away. Maybe those things had always been shams, or birth pangs, or something imposed by sorcery on top of a deeper change. The power that surged within him now felt colder, older, harder and more durable.

He let a pulse of it rise to the surface of his mind, and felt his fingers tingle in response. A faint blush of white-blue light spread across the palms of his hands, flickering for a moment, before he let it gust out.

He looked up. The world around him felt sharper, more defined, its depths deeper and its heights higher. When he moved his head, his hands, it felt as if he were moving through something more alive than air – something swimming with old thoughts and words and deeds.

All of it, all the way back to the origin, is stories.

And then, when he moved his attention further out, up past the wreck of the xenos ship and into the wastes beyond, he saw other things – souls moving, in anguish, being ripped from their bodies and sent screaming into the Underverse. They were like stars in galaxies, first thousands of them, and then, when he moved a little way beyond, millions. He could get lost in that vision. He could leave his body, move into that realm, immerse himself in the endless sea of consciousness, merge himself with it, forget everything but the wonder and the scope and the infinity of it…

He drew in a breath, blinked hard, clenched his fists. Physicality was his tether, his anchor.

‘I will have to be careful,’ he said, smiling dryly. He looked up at Olgeir. ‘Keep vigilant, brother.’

Still, they hesitated. He couldn’t blame them. He was now a source of almost infinite danger, a conduit into horror that they had been trained to revile and repulse since the first day of their ascended lives. Perhaps, at some level, they sensed it too – the fact that he had changed.

And yet, in truth, he had not changed. He had always been this way, ever since the beast in the woods had let him live. Like a shadow, this part of him had been following him ever since, stalking him in plain sight, waiting for the moment when it would rise up to embrace the rest of him.

‘Just give me your word,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘That must be enough, for now. Are you whole?’

Baldr looked him in the eye. ‘I am.’

‘Then can you see where he is?’ asked Ingvar. ‘Blackmane, the others? Do you know how to find them?’

Baldr smiled again. Maybe Njal could have done it. Maybe even the rawest aspirant in the Priests’ training halls could have done it.

‘Give me time, brother,’ he said. ‘I have only just woken up.’

They returned to the Taurox in silence. The last thing Baldr did before leaving the site of the crash was to take the black stone from the xenos’ armour, just as he’d promised. That took a while – the jewel was artfully held in place by a narrow clasp-rim, and it needed a deft twist of his knife to prise it out. When he held it up for the first time it looked perfectly black and inert. After a few moments, when looking carefully, you could just make out a faint glimmer from its heart, a twist of light that danced for a moment on the edge of vision. Baldr stowed it carefully away, and the pack moved out.

When they reached the vehicle again, Ingvar rode with Gunnlaugur in the cab. The rest remained in the crew bay, separated from the driver’s compartment by a single-skin metal wall. As they mounted up, Gunnlaugur voxed a private command to Olgeir.

‘Stay watchful,’ he said. ‘The first sign of maleficarum, do not hesitate.’

Then they were driving again, crunching over the scrub and heading back towards the transitway. It was still the dead of night, almost silent save for the muffled crunches of explosives from far off. Gunnlaugur steered them back onto the asphalt, and then they were gunning along again, lumens still out, rocked by the ceaseless wind.

‘So, what do you think?’ asked Ingvar, after a while.

Gunnlaugur snorted. ‘He hasn’t grown claws and tried to chew our throats out.’

Ingvar chuckled darkly. ‘Give it time.’

‘You?’

Ingvar stared ahead into the night. The faint lights in the sky were growing in number, writhing as the wind blew, outlining the bulk and motion of the clouds. ‘I want him to succeed. I’m aware of the danger of that.’

Gunnlaugur nodded. ‘But it feels clean, for now. You know what I mean?’

‘Aye. And he gives us another path to the target.’

‘Once he learns how to use… whatever he’s got.’ Gunnlaugur glanced down the augur-box bolted on to the Taurox’s serviceable dashboard. It was scanning through the frequencies, picking up a dozen new fixes at every sweep. None of them gave much information – just chatter from poorly encrypted streams, low-level stuff, or overlaid to the extent that the content was unreadable. ‘Until then, we’re relying on this rubbish. We’re still using Olgeir’s geo-lock to guide us, but even if it was correct from orbit, they’ve surely moved on now.’

‘Then we’re guessing.’

‘A little. Here’s what I can make out.’ Gunnlaugur flicked the augur-lens to a cartolith, one that flickered over the dashboard as he drove. ‘The line of kasrs on the high ground north of here – see? From what I’ve managed to pick up, I think they’re gone now, broken. Hel, we can see the flames from here. If he was there, he’ll have been pushed east.’

‘Kasr Aver. Kasr Belloc. Kasr Morgev.’ Ingvar scanned the cartolith. ‘And taking the river crossing would have speeded movements up from the south of them. What about that range?’

‘I’ve been tracking it. Sheer, if the scans are right. It’s like the whole planet is a fortress.’

‘A good place to defend.’

‘Look.’ Gunnlaugur pointed to a narrow gap in the range. Kasr Vasta had been sited there. ‘We’re getting intermittent Imperial signals from that location. Nothing from the others. If you wanted to halt an advance–’

‘You’d do it there. Aye, you might at that. But can we make it?’

Gunnlaugur grunted. ‘Maybe. But it’ll get tighter, the closer we get.’ He deactivated the cartolith. ‘We’ll still need him, I reckon. His… skills. I don’t want to lose another warrior.’

Ingvar hesitated before replying. ‘But you were right to support them. Back there.’

‘Maybe.’ His voice was sour. ‘We’ll have to do it again, but it’s all lost time.’

‘Time works against them, too. If the Hunters are there, they’ll have to wait for the moment. It’ll need to be perfect. They don’t know we’re coming for them. We have that.’

‘But still, we should climb. Take the southern route up the pass entrance, the one that loops around the peak, see? You couldn’t get Titans up there, no armour, even mobile infantry would struggle. This thing, though – it might just claw its way up, bringing us within a spit of the earthworks. And if it gives out, we can run.’

Ingvar laughed. ‘Run.’

‘What’s the problem with that?’

‘Nothing at all. It’ll be just like home.’

‘Less visible. Harder to track. Purer.’

Objects started to strike the forward viewscreen then – gobbets of blackness, like ash-flakes. Just a few to begin with, then more and more, as if it were raining. Some seemed to be semi-alight, like the drifting residue of some enormous fire. As the flecks fell in greater numbers, the sky began to lighten, not with the beams of the sun, but with something angrier, redder, closer to hand.

Gunnlaugur glanced at the Taurox’s scanners. ‘It’s a long way off, what’s doing that,’ he murmured. ‘Throne, though. It’s big.’

The western horizon kept getting redder and redder. With the auditory delay of a thunderstorm, the roaring came later, just as dull, just as vast. Ingvar looked out at it through the left-hand viewport – a bloom of colour, intensifying, spreading, leaking across the entire night sky until the mountains ahead were silhouettes of pure black against a seething, bloody screen.

And then it broke through the clouds, burning furiously, descending at what looked like a stately pace, but must have been in truth a dizzying plummet. Its outline was indistinct, just a skeleton of metal enclosing a raging heart of fire, but you could still make out the distinctive elements of the voidship it had been – the curve of its bows, the pinnacles of its astrogation towers. It was coming down a long way away – miles and miles – and yet it was still visible against the thunderheads, a falling star, cut from the heavens, outshining all other atmospheric fires, a spear hurled down by the gods from their ongoing orbital struggle.

The scatter and thump of ash-clots grew thicker, stirred up by winds that were no longer natural. An artificial heat surge swept across the plains, ember-mottled, gathering pace, thick with wreckage shed by the collapsing void-giant. Beyond the mountains, the ravaged hull itself broke up further, splitting apart into separate iron comets under the inexorable tug of gravity, spreading vivid flame-tendrils across the skies like ink dropped into water.

And then the bulk of it passed out of view, sinking below the line of the distant peaks, trails of fire lingering to mark its passage, the storm that it had provoked still building in strength, carpeting the scrubland in ash and engine-toxins. The wind howled, buffeting the Taurox, caking its viewfinders in dust, before the first cracking, echoing noises of ultimate impact.

After that, the rising dust-palls finally obscured the fires, looming up in colossal, churning towers across the hidden landing sites, rising into the skies like some immense supporting pillar-cluster for the cloud banks overhead. The earth shook, hard, and the wiry plants swayed wildly as the aftershocks resonated. The booms went on and on, the sky filling with ever more filth and grime, red replaced with black.

It took a long time for the glow to subside, masked by the airborne grime, replaced amid the darkness by the smaller fire-flares of ongoing fighting. The wind lessened its howl, though it still carried flurries of ash, and the rad-counters on the dashboard clicked up to dangerous levels.

‘A few more of those,’ Ingvar said, ‘and this world won’t be recovering, whoever wins here.’

Gunnlaugur drove on, peering into the ashen murk ahead. ‘I think we knew that,’ he said. ‘But this isn’t about victory, is it?’

‘Our own, it is.’

‘Aye, our own. But, for this place…’ He sighed deeply, a movement that made his huge chest rise and fall. ‘We’ll take the mountain road.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Taurox rattled and creaked as it left the marked road and began to climb up the scree-lanes and mountain tracks. A weak light filtered through the slit-windows of the crew compartment, but it never really amounted to much – the ash was now falling like rain, coating the gravel and rocks around them, turning everything a dirty black-grey. The wind remained turbulent, rocking the carrier as it laboured up the steep inclines.

Olgeir sat against the inner wall, watching it all through the slit-window. He watched the ash flakes stick to the outer armaglass panes. He watched the fuel tanks gradually empty and the engine temperature rise. He watched his brother Baldr, who sat opposite him.

No one said much. If Jorundur had been there, he might have offered some sarcastic remark about Skullhewer’s driving, but he wasn’t, and his presence was already missed. Hafloí was subdued, his body rocking with the Taurox as it moved. Eventually, he retrieved his axe and began to work on the haft, picking at the leather bindings with the tip of his knife and cleaning the muck from between them.

Olgeir wasn’t sure how he felt. It was good to have Baldr back, without that hex-collar, looking more like himself. Even under armour, you could tell that the sickness was gone, for now – he sat erect, no longer slouching from fatigue. On the other hand, if he succumbed again, would he be so powerful now that none of them could oppose him? Would it affect his mind, his willingness to serve within the pack? Rune Priests did not, as a rule, attach themselves to any particular pack, but served the Chapter as a whole. If Baldr left, that would leave them just four-strong, getting close to minimum strength. Maybe, if they survived this, more fresh blood would have to be introduced, just as before. But that had always been an experiment, a violation of the old traditions made possible by desperation, and Olgeir found himself hoping it would soon be forgotten.

Hours passed, and the cabin felt increasingly cramped and stuffy. The ceiling had been designed for baseline human dimensions, and despite the hasty refit, it was still impossible to stretch out in it. The daylight remained weak, and with the interior lumens out the compartment stayed shadowy. The wind outside kept picking up, more every mile, until it was a continual keening moan outside, pushing against the Taurox, wearing at its war-battered exterior.

The temperature dropped quickly, and the ash-flakes began to mingle with dirty flurries of snow.

‘So how do you feel, brother?’ he asked eventually, looking straight at Baldr.

‘Good,’ Baldr replied. ‘Better than for a long time.’

‘Good,’ said Olgeir, trying to keep the worst of the suspicion from his voice. ‘No… issues?’

The wind roared louder, searing across the carrier and making it tilt alarmingly. Gunnlaugur had driven them hard up a steep slope, and they were among the high cliffs now.

Baldr didn’t reply. He looked up suddenly, listening intently. ‘The wind,’ he murmured. ‘Listen to that.’

Hafloí chuckled, working on his weapon. ‘Never heard a gale before? Hel, you’ve forgotten where you came from.’

But it had become stronger now, raging. The ash-snow thumped against the exterior, almost like clenched fists banging. The moans became whines, high-pitched and whistling.

Baldr reached for the hilt of his sword, though didn’t draw it. ‘Axe ready, Heavy-Hand?’ he asked.

For a moment, Olgeir had no idea why he was asking. There was barely room in the compartment to sit, let alone swing a blade.

‘I don’t–’ he started.

But then, he smelled it. Smell was always first, the result of his enhanced physiology, the sense that kicked in ahead of all the others. The interior of the Taurox was full of smells – the heat of their bodies, the oils of the power armour, the rust of the panelling and the chem-traces from the promethium tanks and ammo boxes. But under that, subtle, almost totally masked, was something else – a musk, a stink, a breath of foulness.

He drew his axe, half stood, braced against the rocking of the carrier. ‘What in the–’

Hafloí looked up sharply, alarmed, grabbing his own blade out of instinct. The howls from outside rose in volume again, sounding almost like the fractured wails of children, lost out in the storm.

‘Those screams aren’t the wind,’ said Baldr, unclasping his axe. He got up as well, moving his head to one side, hunting for the source of the stink, the wrongness.

In the end, it came to find them. An arm, lissom, transparent, groping through the sealed access hatch. A mouth, opening in the midst of the chamber, split wide, then shimmering out of existence. The floor rippled, and another claw scratched its way in, scrabbling on the pressed-metal, skittering like a spider.

Olgeir stamped down on it, his boot passing through thin air and jarring against the panel. Hafloí swung at an apparition, striking it dead centre, and sailing on through, slicing into nothing.

The air inside boiled, spat, flexed. Body parts started to materialise, then collapse, then coalesce again. The Taurox’s armour plates vibrated, fizzing as if heating up, though the temperature outside was frigid.

‘Daemonkin,’ hissed Olgeir, whirling around to square up to the fleeting image of a leering, stretched-out face, before it popped out of reality.

Baldr made no attempt to strike them, seemingly frozen into indecision. The Taurox barrelled onward – if the cab was affected, Gunnlaugur was not slowing down – and the screaming became all-encompassing. Hafloí struck out again, a wild blow born of frustration, and sent his blade clanging against the forward bulkhead. Olgeir balled his fist, poised to reach out and grab the next vision to appear.

But there was nothing to seize, nothing to wrap fingers around – the creatures were trying to get at them, to instantiate, and failing. All that remained were impressions, snatches, like glimpses in broken mirrors. Another unreal face rushed into focus barely an arm’s length in front of Baldr – eldritch, purple-blushed, needle-toothed, black-in-black eyes, distorted as if trying to force itself through molten glass. When it screamed at him, reality flexed, pulled out of symmetry, popping and wobbling and refracting. The shrieks echoed and overlapped, coming from multiple directions at once, before being snuffed out almost as soon as they arrived. The words were almost impossible to decipher – maybe they were in forbidden languages, or were just too blurred by their state, or were just gibberish.

‘God-marked!’ Olgeir heard, a single intelligible phrase amid all the squawks and howls. ‘God-marked!’

Another translucent arm punched out of the reality-morass, going for Baldr’s throat, just where the collar had once been. Its fingers stretched desperately, scrabbling to find purchase, long nails raking, a howl of frustration coming with it. Olgeir went to grab it, to break its wrist, but once more his gauntlet clutched at nothing. As his grip closed, though, he felt a spasm of pure cold ripple through his flesh. With a last agonised shriek, the spectral arm blew into pieces, and vanished.

One by one, the rest of the ghosts were sent wailing back into their own realm, the final slivers of pseudo-flesh winking out like sunlight on ice crystals, leaving nothing but the stench of them, and patches of glittering frost on the metal.

Baldr had remained static throughout, staring at the place where the hand had emerged, his axe unused.

Olgeir swept over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him against the wall. ‘You did nothing!’ he growled. ‘What is it, brother? Have you learned to fear them? Or love them?’

Baldr shook him off, and sat heavily back on the bench. ‘I could have…’ he began, then broke off.

‘What were they?’ Hafloí demanded.

Baldr shook his head. ‘Just… fragments. They wanted to come in. They couldn’t.’

‘You could have fought them,’ Olgeir snarled. ‘At least tried.’

Baldr looked up at him. ‘And if I’d done it?’ His voice flashed with anger. ‘Shown you what I could do? Would that axe be at my neck, now?’

Olgeir glared at him for a moment longer, his blade still in his hand. He knew well enough that some of the anger was frustration, the desire to lash out, to hurt something, anything. Even so.

He turned away, his cheeks hot. ‘Skullhewer,’ he voxed. ‘Did you just see something?’

‘Aye,’ came the reply. ‘Only phantoms. We keep going.’

The snowfall was heavier by then, splatting and smearing over the slit-viewers, caking them with melting ash-clods. The Taurox had never so much as paused, grinding its way upward, onward, further towards the head of the pass.

‘They can’t break through,’ Baldr muttered, looking down at his hands. Olgeir noticed that the palms of his gauntlets were still hot, glowing faintly. ‘This world. There’s something here. Something holding them back. I felt it earlier, when we saw the pillar. It’s making them… furious.’

Olgeir gestured towards his gauntlets. ‘So, were you about to…’ he started.

‘Aye.’ Baldr pressed his hands together, hiding the evidence. ‘I didn’t know what it would do to you. To the transport.’

Olgeir stared at him a little longer, then backed down. He shackled his axe again, and stomped over to where a ladder led up to the gun turret station.

‘Well, they know where we are, now,’ he said, starting to climb. ‘Best we get ready for more.’

Gunnlaugur kept going. The Taurox was struggling now, a combination of the altitude and the terrain, but it had been built for rugged survivability and somehow managed to haul its way further up the steep mountainside, crunching its way through rubble-packed stretches, glossy with ice. The gale kept getting worse, wrapping the vehicle in whirling flurries of dirty snow. The linked tracks slipped and skidded where the gravel was churned up to slush, but Gunnlaugur kept pushing it, barging aside the ash-choked remains of landslips and pouring on the power to blast up the increasingly harsh cambers. For a long time they’d been following trails, relatively wide and well trodden, but now they were up above the snowline, lost in a grey-out that buffeted and bludgeoned from all directions.

‘Head of the pass approaching,’ Ingvar reported, checking his stalker bolter over as the dashboard augurs blinked and flickered. ‘Head for that ridge, ahead left, where the rocks divide.’

Gunnlaugur saw the place – a narrow cleft between giant shoulders of naked rock, choked with rubble. The snow flurries gusted and spiralled between them, as volatile as the dust clouds down on the plains. The Taurox would fit through the cleft, just, though beyond that the scanners didn’t penetrate very far. According to the sketchy cartolith data, Kasr Vasta should have been less than five miles north of the turn, perched across the summit of the greater pass entrance, its walls straddling the gulf between mountains, though until he laid eyes on it himself Gunnlaugur placed little faith in expectation.

It stank in the cab, the residue of the apparitions that had scratched and ripped their way through the front windscreen. They hadn’t done any real damage, being unable to make themselves fully physical, but their appearance had been so sudden that Gunnlaugur had almost sent the Taurox careering off the track and down into a snow-filled defile. Even after the initial shock had worn off, watching them try to instantiate, their claws raking at emptiness, their teeth glistening in semi-solidity, had been distracting.

‘You think it’s because of him?’ Gunnlaugur asked, wrenching the wheel to bring the Taurox rollicking up the incline towards the cleft. ‘That jewel he took? They were going for that?’

‘Maybe,’ said Ingvar, completing his checks and hefting the bolter in his right hand. With the other, he activated the release catch for the armaglass panel. ‘As you suspected – intermittent signals from beyond the gap.’

The terrain was ideal for an ambush, and if the enemy had already advanced up the maw of the main pass then they would certainly have dispatched outriders to plug the smaller feeder routes on either flank. Gunnlaugur’s hope was that any defences wouldn’t be established yet – just skirmishers peeled off from the advance – and that they could fight their way through without getting bogged down for too long. Either way, they weren’t going in blind, and Olgeir had already activated the autocannons on the Taurox’s turret.

‘Going in now,’ Gunnlaugur announced over the pack-comm. ‘We’ll keep moving, so clear me a path.’

The Taurox pounded its way through the blizzard, rocking on the uneven terrain before driving clear through the cleft mouth. It blasted through deep drifts, bounced heavily on a hidden hard outcrop, then revved down the slope beyond, emerging into a steep-sided valley that ran zigzagging down towards a dense forest of firs. On either flank, broken cliff-edges reared up, their summits hidden by the ashen sleet and their flanks blackened by the deluge. Visibility was low – no more than a hundred feet in the shadows – and the Taurox’s lumens were still out.

Gunfire broke out immediately, most from the right-hand flank, snapping and cracking against the Taurox’s armoured hide. Gunnlaugur never let up, sending the carrier kicking on faster, its exhausts coughing and its engine labouring. He heard what sounded like Hafloí’s weapon discharge, launching bolt-shells up at the source of the incoming fire. A microsecond later, explosions some forty feet off into the murk blew whole segments of the cliffside apart.

Gunnlaugur swung the Taurox around a knife-sharp ridge, before pushing it down a long straight. Slushy gravel kicked up against the tracks and clattered against the underside. More shots came in, this time from both sides of the gap, launched from positions both high above and closer to ground level. They were solid rounds, mostly, but a few las-bolts flashed out of the gloom, raking across the long engine housing and scarring the armour plates.

Ingvar returned fire, as did Baldr from further back, and soon the Taurox was careening its way along a widening passage, its side blazing with sparks, under fire and trailing smoke.

‘Heavy-Hand,’ voxed Gunnlaugur, wrestling with the wheel. ‘See those?’

‘Aye, vaerangi,’ came the deep voice over the comm. ‘Just keep us moving – I’ll handle the rest.’

Vehicles were emerging up ahead now, skating and sliding out of cover and across the broken rockfields. They were scout groundcars – light armour, bulky tires and roof-mounted guns, lone drivers, fast but fragile. They opened fire immediately, sending erratically-aimed volleys scything out into storm. Some shots hit home, cracking and denting the Taurox’s forward plates.

Olgeir replied, making the autocannons kick and roar. The barrels spat out twin lines of shells, blasting up the snowfields and causing the oncoming scout cars to tumble and cartwheel in a spin of mashed axles and blood-shattered windscreens.

More of them roared up the valley floor, driven wildly, sounding alert-klaxons to summon allies. They were sketchy things – metal frames hung together with chains and welded crossbars, their exposed engines leaking sparks and flame-gusts, gunners hanging off the rear, spiked bull-bars and bolted-on electro-packs. Their occupants had the look of every blood-cultist Gunnlaugur had ever slain – rampant crude tattoos, flesh-cutting, sutures and improvised body modifications. They all wore scraps and rags despite the perishing cold, their wide eyes staring under the influence of cheap combat drugs. Though they aimed poorly and drove like baresarks, there were lots of them, and more were on the way.

Gunnlaugur depressed the accelerator, using the momentum of the slide to power the Taurox even faster, ignoring the punishment it was taking from the uneven terrain. One of the scout-cars veered in too close, and he slammed directly into it, smashing it apart against the carrier’s heavy bumpers. The Taurox lurched heavily as it crunched over the wreckage, nearly losing its grip before the tracks bit deep and it ploughed onward again.

By then Olgeir was firing freely, blasting at the oncoming vehicles and chewing mechanically through his ammo belts. The rest of pack continued to fire their bolters, each shot aimed perfectly even amid the wild movement of their platform, taking out both dug-in snipers and onrushing groundcars. The wind whined down the valley, whipping up the smoggy discharge from overloaded engines.

‘They’ve blocked the route ahead,’ warned Ingvar, reloading calmly before getting back to it.

‘Of course they have,’ snarled Gunnlaugur, keeping the Taurox roaring.

The groundcars were swinging around now, scraping and tilting before bursting back along parallel to the speeding Taurox. They were far faster than the troop carrier, though fragile too – several of them hit obstacles and instantly exploded, their occupants flung through the air like paper dolls. The rain of fire rose in intensity – for every vehicle Olgeir took out, another would sweep into view, piling down the valley’s steep sides and letting loose with a lasgun or heavy stubber. The Taurox took more damage, its armour plates dinked and chipped, its tracks cut up and its smokestacks holed.

The line of tree cover whooshed up to meet them, a thick dark fence on either side of the depression’s floor. What passed for a track shot straight ahead, snow-sunk and scattered with loose stone. Where the track met the forest, a barricade had been constructed – a six-foot-high tangle of planks, trunks, girders and flaywire, hammered together across a width of forty feet and guarded by makeshift platforms stacked with fixed guns. The cultists were still constructing it, hauling up more beams to throw into the mix, preparing to drag more guns into place.

‘That looks quite solid, vaerangi…’ Ingvar observed, firing at an encroaching groundcar and blowing up its exposed fuel tank.

‘Not as solid as us,’ Gunnlaugur replied, keeping his boot solid on the accelerator.

Olgeir swung the turret around and sent a vicious barrage straight into the centre of the barricade, blowing apart the spars and metal plates. Return fire spattered back, gouging and sparking against the Taurox’s armour. A scatter of bullets found their way under the damaged engine housing, chewing through cables and gaskets and releasing bursts of steam from under the long radiator grille. The barricade raced up out of the gloom, some defenders leaping from their positions, others grimly staying put and emptying their magazines at the onrushing giant. More hits found weak spots – a track section flew crazily out of kilter, the side hatch was dented, the fuel tank was speared, an upper-forward armour plate was sheared straight off.

‘Impact!’ Gunnlaugur roared.

The Taurox crashed into the barrier, throwing it open and sending debris hurtling through the air. Something heavy smashed into the engine housing, ripping up the cover and sending it clanging off the cab front. The entire vehicle tilted, almost thudding clean onto its side, before Gunnlaugur somehow righted it, slewing through a secondary wall of piled mud and flaywire and directing it back on track. A crunch, a sickening skid, a neck-jarring slam, and they were out the other side, trailing heavy lines of smoke, the engine howling.

Olgeir swung the turret around rearwards and sent shells punching out at any pursuers, blasting apart more groundcars and gunners. Something flammable – an ammo store, maybe – was hit, and the entire structure ballooned with flame, soaring up into the trees and kindling on the overhanging leaves.

The Taurox snarled on, wheezing and shedding, its engines half-blown and its damaged tracks slapping against the drivetrain. The descending slope got steeper, and its huge momentum dragged it onward, grinding through disintegrating earth and sending divots kicking up in clods. Rune alerts flashed all across the dashboard – imminent engine failure, overheating, structural collapse, the lot.

‘That’s it!’ Gunnlaugur shouted, watching the signals slide beyond critical and feeling the controls stop responding. ‘Prepare to bail!’

But the machine was still barrelling fast, sliding and skiing like a wounded beast, its controls blown and its inertia remorseless. Branches whipped and smacked against the windscreen and scraped down the smouldering flanks, blurred with snow-load and ash-fall. Gunnlaugur smacked his fist against the emergency door release, and the rear hatch blew open. Olgeir, Baldr and Hafloí all scrambled out, plunging through the narrow aperture and landing heavily in the snow. Ingvar was next, breaking down the flimsy divide into the crew bay and leaping through the gap.

That left Gunnlaugur. Twisting awkwardly in the confined space, smacking his head and shoulders against the low ceiling, he somehow pushed out of the driver’s position and thudded heavily onto the Taurox’s floor. The entire vehicle was shaking itself to pieces by then, shuddering and shivering as the terrain broke its damaged structure up. It felt as if it was speeding up, or maybe dropping, as if the entire world had fallen away beneath it.

Gunnlaugur threw himself through the rear hatch and out into a world of flying slush and kicked-up earth. He crunched hard to the ground, rolled to evade a looming tree trunk and then scrambled back to his knees. Twisting around, looking out and up, he saw what had happened to the Taurox.

The slope had been steepening ever since they’d punched through the barricade. Twenty yards further down from where he’d landed, it gave out entirely, dropping over a vertical cliff-edge, one that boiled with cloud amid the ongoing blizzards. The Taurox went straight over the edge, its momentum carrying it well clear of the scrub and underbrush. The whole vehicle seemed to hang in the air for a split second before it dropped away, still leaking smoke and steam. A few heartbeats later, and a huge explosion blew the snow off the branches and made the trunks shiver.

By then, Ingvar and the others had caught up with him, loping through the trees.

‘Cut it fine, eh, Skullhewer?’ Olgeir remarked.

Gunnlaugur got up, shook himself down, reached for his mag-locked thunder hammer and strode closer towards the edge. The ground was churned deeply all the way, torn to pieces by the rampaging Taurox. As he got nearer, he saw just how steep the final drop was – the terrain fell away abruptly, a sheer rock face that carried on, unimpeded, for hundreds of feet before finally beginning to level out. The wreckage of the Taurox was distributed down the slope’s lower half, burning freely.

That did not catch his attention, though. His gaze had already moved further out, beyond the cliffs and out into the blizzard-obscured void beyond. A wide gulf opened up, the far side of which was barely visible in the grey-out. A pair of gigantic peaks reared up against the murky skies, one high up on Gunnlaugur’s right-hand side, the other across the gap. In between those summits, far below their current position, was a wide bowl-shaped depression, over a mile across. In normal times, it might have been a desolate place, eroded by the wind, the black stone rubbed raw. Now, it was crammed with movement – marching infantry columns, churning tank-lines, hovering gunships, the limping stride of Titans, artillery pieces being hauled by armoured tractors. The army filled the entire depression. Las-fire and bolter-blasts lit up the ranks at its heart, flickering in the daylight gloom of the storm, illuminating rank after rank of armoured troops, monstrous war-constructions, flame-filled battle-engines, hulking mutations. The wind shrieked and eddied over it all, snatching at the hundreds of battle-standards that swayed to the echoing beat of enormous, vox-distorted drums.

Most of them were already fighting. Higher up the valley, set hard under the shadow of the peaks themselves, was an immense earthwork, carved from the bones of the mountains and reinforced with rockcrete piers and adamantium strongpoints. Fires burned across it, many raging out of control, though through the palls of smoke las-fire still spat and flickered – not the slender bolts of individual lasguns, but the searing beams of fixed lascannons. The concentration and rate of fire was impressive – volley after volley, spiking and latticing into the oncoming horde.

Above the besieged earthworks rose the bulk of the kasr, its sloping walls crowned with armoured battlements, its gun towers, its landing stages and its comms spires. Kasr Vasta filled the entire valley’s width, blocking the path through the mountains. Every pinnacle of it was alight, either spewing defiant ordnance at the enemy below or raging with wildfires caused by incendiary strikes. Atmospheric craft of all kinds zipped and hovered through the turbulence, unloading missiles at ground-level targets or mobilising to engage in dogfights amongst the spires. The entire structure was semi-smothered in clouds of fumes, hissing walls of rapidly boiling slush, cascades of ash from the despoiled air, its vast promontories looming through the shrouds like the prows of ancient battle cruisers. Many of its long wall sections were still unbroken and fiercely defended, but others had been reduced to rubble. Infantry battalions surged across the still-hot stones, their armour glinting from the flames, stalked by heavier war machines that swaggered through the murk, ready to deliver their deadly payloads.

‘They’re inside the walls,’ said Gunnlaugur grimly.

‘Already,’ said Olgeir. ‘Those tunnels will be crawling.’

Baldr moved past them both, coming to stand on the very edge of the precipice. Ash fell heavily against his armour, darkening it and obscuring the sigils of both Fenris and the Imperium. He remained still for a long time, staring out at the wide vistas of destruction, completely silent.

‘What is it, brother?’ asked Gunnlaugur, eventually.

Baldr turned to face him.

‘I can sense him.’ He looked back, pointing towards the sprawling maze of the earthworks, the ruined terrain where attacker and defender struggled alike in the lightless shafts and warrens. ‘Ragnar. He’s there.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

They ran. Without another word being spoken, they activated their weapons and tore down the steep slope towards the walls.

Gunnlaugur carried his thunder hammer, its mighty head crackling with energy. Ingvar and Baldr bore their ancient power swords, similarly wreathed in ghost-like illumination, the edges of the runes glinting through the mass of plasma. Olgeir and Hafloí took up axes – short-handled, double-headed, the metal black against the snarl and spit of disruptor-flare.

The descent was precipitous – a series of near-vertical drops, two hundred yards down to the pass below, shadowed and crowded by the giant trunks of the pines. Fume-spoiled snow whirled and gusted around them, coating the naked rocks in greasy slime. The patches of open sky ahead were ablaze, throwing hard shadows back, lines of black that danced and swayed to the erratic rhythm of a million weapons being fired.

The sharp contrast – smoggy gloom, lit by the swing and flash of explosions – made the footing treacherous, but the pack ran as surely and swiftly as konungur, leaping from outcrop to outcrop, sliding down the scree-flumes, grabbing hold of branches and swinging down to handholds far below. Somewhere up in the tree cover there must have been the winding tracks the groundcars used to get up here, but they wasted no time trying to locate them, opting for the direct route.

Hafloí worked hard to keep up. Once spurred to action, a Grey Hunter was one of the fastest weapons in the Allfather’s armoury – untiring, gifted with preternatural senses, tempered by decades of combat experience. Whatever Ingvar had said, Hafloí didn’t feel like one of them, not just yet. Their footfalls were surer, their choices better. Where they crunched into snowfields then pounced onward, the whole manoeuvre virtually a single movement, he teetered and swerved to avoid being thrown headlong across the face of the drop. They were silent, single-minded, exacting, already totally lost in their expertise. He could feel his hearts pumping, his lungs aching from the frigid air. He wanted to whoop out loud, to howl at the coming enemy to fire his war-spirits, but that would have been a lone voice, snatched away by the wind, something to draw enemy fire before it needed to be drawn.

And yet, hard as it was, he kept pace. He concentrated furiously, gauging every drop, measuring every leap. The sensory overload was crushing – as hard as anything he’d undertaken on Fenris as an aspirant – and the firing hadn’t even started yet, but he gritted his jaw and worked, driving himself, on, on, on. There was always something to learn, always a new test, always something to remind him that he wasn’t quite there yet. He had wanted the others to treat him as an equal for a long time. Now that the day had come, he recognised the price of it.

‘End of cover,’ voxed Gunnlaugur, his thick voice panting. ‘Enemy sighted.’

‘Aye,’ confirmed Ingvar. ‘The Hand of Russ, brothers.’

They had raced down the slope terrifyingly quickly, dropping from the heights and down to where the steep valley walls began to level out across a cracked and exposed rock-floor. The trees thinned, their enormous trunks blackened from the fires, their foliage blasted away.

The point at which the terrain ended and the kasr’s structure began was not clear. The citadel had been sculpted out of the stuff of the world’s crust itself, raised over generations by terraformers and geomancers the likes of which no longer lived in the Imperium. The Space Wolves passed ventilation towers protruding from the ground long before they came into range of the enemy itself, edifices that demonstrated the extent to which the place sprawled and spread underground like some gigantic insect’s nest, worming its tendrils into every cranny and shaft of the mountain’s roots.

As the last of the trees swept past, though, and Hafloí finally emerged into the open again, the scale of what lay ahead became starkly apparent.

The kasr’s grey walls shot high up ahead and on their right-hand side, swelling out against the storm-blown skies, so vast that the ramparts masked the peaks on the far side of the pass. The first of those true walls – the colossal rockcrete parapets more than fifty yards thick – was still far off, above them now, rearing like a tidal barrier against the inchoate press of the enemy. Below those parapets was the earthwork layer, the straggling maze of masonry defences, spread out like crumpled skirts, a labyrinth of choke points, kill-zones, switchbacks and dead ends, studded with pillboxes and fire-lanes and gun-bunkers, designed to slow an enemy, bog it down and drag on its limbs, so that the mighty gunlines mounted on the high pinnacles could pick them off amid the rubble.

This enemy, though, had already been at work for many days. The ground was ankle-deep in a bloody mix of gore and gravel, the air stinking of copper, the bunkers blown open and the pillboxes ruptured. The pack soon found themselves charging straight into a horror-landscape of piled corpses and discarded vehicles, stinking, burning, lit up with crashes and blasts of neon, before sinking into a fire-flecked perma-night of smoke and fyceline-smoulder. Cadian uniforms mingled with cultist garb, Chimera transports lay in ruins beside the carcasses of baroque creations that still wheezed and glimmered as if partially conscious.

The walls were all gone, in that place – smashed apart, torn open, trodden down. The price paid for the advance had been high, evidenced by the catastrophic damage all about them, but now the enemy was marching into the deep places unhindered, processing in disordered lines under the lintels of the tunnels, jogging or running or limping, staring about themselves in either trepidation or battle-ecstasy or drug-delusion, goaded by electro-whips and roared injunctions from the monsters around them. They were a rabble, the lost and the damned, some of them Traitor Guard with snatches of their old uniforms still recognisable under layers of grime, some of them mutants with scaled skin, or horns, or extra eyes that jerked and swivelled uncannily. They were all yowling, though whether from fear or exultation, or both, it was impossible to say.

The Space Wolves smashed into the heart of those columns, breaking out of the night like steel shades, undetected until the last moment. They sprinted across the last of the natural landscape, hurling themselves into the enemy, spinning and lashing and flailing in an orgy of plasma-streaked violence.

‘Fenrys!’ cried Hafloí at last, the yell breaking from his throat, cutting through the roar of the battle like a knife into flesh.

He cracked his axe-head down onto the rusted helm of a hunched warrior, breaking her skull before she even knew what was upon her. Then he broke the ribs of a second, before slicing the arm from a third. All the time he was moving, dancing through them, slaying only to clear a path.

By then the others too had opened their throats, roaring out the war-curses of the old ice. Gunnlaugur was at the apex of the movement, a force of nature, gigantic and unleashed, his thunder hammer carving great swathes through the dross around it. Ingvar was a purer blade, moving so fast now that even Hafloí had trouble detecting where the next blow would come from. Olgeir was the most vocal of them all, hollering imprecations and denunciations like a gothi before a tribal enemy, his pelts flying about his armour as he slew.

Only Baldr was silent. Hafloí caught splintered glimpses of him as the fighting became complete – his helm, his blade rising, a fist punching, a boot treading down a shattered arm. The long shadows jerked around him like writhing daemons, wriggling across the blood-soaked mud as if desperate to escape.

Only moments later, as the pack surged towards the first of the blown-open tunnel-mouths, did Hafloí see why that was. As his head turned, as he shifted from lacerating a bestial goat-faced mutant towards a cowering cultist clad in a cloak of overlapping iron, he saw the shine, the glimmer, the afterburn. The entire battlefield was overlapped with light sources – the energy-weapons, the fires, the explosions – so you could miss it, if you weren’t looking hard, but now Baldr himself was a source of illumination. His gauntlets were shining, glowing from within like white-hot ingots. His helm-lenses had gone from blood red to ice white. His every movement was slurred with afterglows, resonances that swelled and glistered in the gloom. And they were getting brighter.

‘Brother…’ Hafloí voxed to Ingvar, the closest one to hand.

‘I see it,’ Ingvar replied, hacking his way through a gang of badly corrupted mutants, pressing on, racing for the underground passages. ‘Keep going.’

So they did. They crunched and bludgeoned and throttled their way through the enemy, slamming heads against the inside of the tunnel walls, trampling them, snapping limbs and spines under the heavy impact of their blades. They pushed on down, the greater battle around them closed off by the tunnel roofs, lost to the mayhem and struggle of the main overland thrust. Soon they were deep underground, burning a path through one of the many hundreds of subterranean channels, all of them clogged with enemy troops clawing their way through the stinking earth to get at the defenders. Here, too, were the signs of desperate combat – the burned-out strongpoints, the barricaded chambers, the embedded tanks with their broken barrels still aimed down the long, winding ways. The Cadians had fought like dogs to hold these places, and for every Imperial corpse there were four or five bodies from the enemy ranks. Some had been shot, others blown up, others torn into with fists, even fingers, prising open jaws or gouging into eye-sockets.

Gunnlaugur cleaved the road ahead, slaying with an almost feral abandon, but it was Baldr who guided them now.

‘This way,’ he’d vox, his manner strained, but controlled. ‘The left fork.’ Then, ‘The higher slope.’ Then, ‘It’s stronger now. Straight ahead.’

His voice was just as it had ever been – the quietest of them, the softest – but there was something else, now. Certainty? Anticipation? Hard to tell. Hafloí didn’t waste time trying to interpret, but carried on fighting. His axe-blade was heavy with gore, its energy field spitting from it, trailing acrid smoke with every swipe. The tunnels were cramped, narrow, with low roofs that kept them all stooping as they ran. The heat ramped up quickly, making the blackened masonry walls run with condensation. His breathing echoed within his helm, rapid and rhythmic, thudding out a beat as he killed again and again, punctuating every swing and thrust of his arms.

‘Hjolda!’ he hollered, lashing out to clear some space, to throw the filth from his presence, to send the faithless spinning back into the dark.

But more kept coming, slithering and skittering out of the cloying shadows, reaching for him now, to slow his axe-arm, to drag it down, to bury him under their screaming, shrieking weight. They were growing in stature and capability as the pack carved its way close to the real fighting, in numbers to weary him, to blunt his energy and drag him into the mire.

Onward, he said to himself, over and over, ignoring the burn in his muscles, the steady overloading of his axe’s power unit, the ever increasing numbers that had noticed the incursion and came to meet it. Onward.

They fought together – that was the essential thing.

The enemy were greater in number, hemmed in, desperate, but each one of them was an individual, with nothing more at stake than their own survival, for another day, another hour, another minute. They had long since ceased to care about anything but a debased form of sensory existence. Honour counted for nothing, nor did oaths, nor fealty, nor the prestige of a good death. They were isolated even in their throngs, and when they were sent screaming into the Underverse, they wept with the panicked tears of those who had nothing to show for how they had lived.

That was the difference. Ingvar could feel his brothers around him, fighting for him even as he fought for them. They had been doing this for so long now that it was instinctive, needing no commands or forward planning. He would move, and Baldr would move, and Olgeir would move, and it would be so seamless, so complete, so orchestrated, that every gesture and strike was multiplied and enhanced. Power armour was part of it, and their physical condition was another, but the unity they displayed, honed and tempered by the proving ground of endless battle, was what made them so perfectly deadly.

Even the Deathwatch had not been like this. They had worked so hard to integrate all the various doctrines and instincts over the half-century that Onyx Squad had been together, but even at the end, when they were as effective as they were ever going to be, there was never this – the unconscious sharing of battle-souls, merging and flowing like water over stone.

Jorundur should have been there, of course. His presence was missed – a hole in their formation, a cracked link in their shieldwall. The Old Dog had never been the fastest of them, nor the strongest, but his sheer cussed irascibility gave them something that could not be replaced. They missed Váltyr, too, even though he had been gone for a long time now. Every death, every removal from the pack, left its bitter trace. In the joy of fighting, you could forget that they were gone, for a moment, only realising it when the strike you had counted on wasn’t there, or the parry you judged was coming never arrived.

But they had the purpose still, the one great goal, standing ahead of them, somewhere in the heart of that dark maze. To fight towards it, to burn a path through the shadow – there could be nothing worthier.

The tunnels branched and meandered, made deliberately confusing to slow down an invading army, but Baldr never hesitated once. Ingvar glanced at him when he could, watching the way his gauntlets shone now, blazing as brightly as his power sword. At first, Ingvar had thought that was a trick of the dark, some reflected plasma-flare, but after a while there could be no doubting it – the warrior’s long-suppressed powers had risen to the surface, surrounding him in strands of wild corposant, flashing and crackling when his blade impacted. The kinetic effect was minimal – nothing like the pyrotechnics even a novice Rune Priest could summon at will – and yet it still lent Baldr a fraction greater killing-potential. It was impossible to ignore how much further the broken bodies of his victims flew when he struck them, or the greater damage his blows inflicted on their armour and helms.

‘Make use of him,’ Gunnlaugur growled, who had seen what the rest of them had. By now, the pack leader was fully immersed in combat, falling into his state of remorseless, rage-directed focus, flinging his thunder hammer in mighty parabolas that both crushed and severed.

So they did, allowing Baldr to guide them and take the brunt of the assault. They fell into a supporting formation, freeing him up, enabling his blade to whip across with greater abandon while they protected him against counterstrikes. The blood, mud and dust caked them all, splattering against their knuckles, vox-grilles, helm-lenses, but they just wiped it clear and carried on, never slowing, never pausing.

Soon, the earth-delved tunnels began to broaden out, to meet up with others, to enlarge. The roofs rose, supported by high arches and buttressed gates. They cut their way through the sites of what must have been ferocious battles – last stands at crossing-points and intersections, littered with vehicle wrecks and blasted-aside defence walls. The corpses became varied in their livery – many Cadian regiments, but others too from different sectors, their bloodied tunics crimson, blue, yellow, olive green, all trampled and ripped apart, dead hands clutching at spent lasguns and blunted knives. The noises of active fighting filtered down from ahead, echoing strangely in the confinement, a confusion of cracks and blares and the roar of hundreds of open mouths.

Ingvar had no idea where they were, only that they had been running for a long time, and must have traversed miles already, weaving in and out of the subterranean caverns and stone-bound arteries. He saw no Wolves lying amid the slain, nor any sign of the Ojada regiments there, just a motley collection of corpses taken from a hundred worlds, all brought to this single place to die.

The pack began to ascend again, fighting its way up a shallow incline. The ambient light grew, angry as lit coals, flickering against the raw-cut walls. Blurred shouting and percussive gunfire ramped up, flooding the routes ahead. Eventually, the pack broke into a high-arched chamber, still a long way underground, reinforced with thickset columns in marching ranks. The place appeared to be the meeting point of five other tunnels, out of which streams of cultists were pouring steadily, clawing at one another to break into the open and bring their knives into the faces of the hated defenders.

But here they were meeting resistance – the exit tunnel on the far side of the chamber was occupied by a mix of Cadian and other Militarum troops. These were dug in behind a row of rockcrete barriers, each a yard high and two feet thick, strung out across a gap roughly thirty yards wide. Las-fire spattered and flickered from all across the barricade, still in controlled volleys, punching into the onrushing mob. Heavier guns at either end of the redoubt chewed out a stream of solid rounds, mowing down dozens with every sweep. The body count in front of the barrier was piling up, though the first ranks of attackers were getting perilously close before the hail of fire knocked them down. Several of the defenders were already reaching for bayonets, anticipating the moment when the pressure would overrun them.

‘Clear them out!’ Gunnlaugur cried, plunging straight into the heart of the fighting.

Ingvar pounced after him, slicing and jabbing with his powerblade, cutting a bloody rift towards the Militarum position. The work was hard – there was precious little room to move, and in such confines even that rabble could do damage. Olgeir’s sheer power helped them, there – he heaved enemy fighters bodily aside when he couldn’t hack them down, throwing them back into their own ranks before launching himself at the next clutch. And, of course, there was Baldr, who blazed through it all like a star. He had become vocal over the vox by then, repeating the injunctions to keep moving, to take this or that junction, to increase the pace, and now he was repeating himself, saying things more than once, either to reinforce the message his senses were giving him, or because of the strain the headlong charge was placing on him.

‘Through this,’ he murmured, blasting a gang of cultists back into the rock walls and turning on more. ‘Through this, then up, then left. Through this, then up. Through–’

They ground out their way to the barricades, shrugging off the smattering of friendly fire that lanced their way. It was Gunnlaugur who leapt over the summit of the defence line, crunching heavily among the defenders, some of whom staggered away from him, others squaring up to fight him, their senses addled by the confusion of the melee.

Ingvar joined him, shouting out warnings in Gothic to stand down, exposing the Chapter symbols on his armour. The others piled over the barricades next. Hafloí and Olgeir immediately swivelled on their heels, drew bolters and sent shells cracking into the horde beyond. The defenders quickly seized the chance, took up positions and resumed the steady barrage of las-fire.

It wasn’t obvious who was in charge – prone bodies were everywhere, and more than seven different regiments were fighting on the front rank alone. Beyond the fortified position, a wide tunnel ran off into the dark, through which soldiers were either limping back to the front or away from it, depending on the severity of their injuries.

Baldr didn’t wait, but carried on running, shoving aside any who blocked his path. One luckless trooper was flung straight into Ingvar, and bounced off the Grey Hunter’s armour before twisting around to see what he’d hit.

‘What is this place?’ Ingvar demanded.

The trooper’s mouth fell open. ‘Section fifty-six, front line halt-point.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Lord.’

‘What’s up ahead?’

The man looked nonplussed. ‘I, er. More of… this.’

Ingvar turned, once again exposing the Wolf emblem on his armour. ‘Seen this sign in combat, anywhere close?’

At that, he nodded warily. ‘Yes. No. Not me. But they say the Wolves are fighting in the Third Gallery, holding the Undergate. I heard that.’

‘And regiments from another world – Ojada. Heard of them?’

The man looked bewildered. Ingvar was about to ask him again, when Gunnlaugur suddenly sent out a warning shout.

Ingvar looked up, out across the barricade, and saw why. The mob was coming on again, warily now, but advancing nonetheless. They looked almost cowed, as if they were more scared of what was goading them than what they faced. And that made perfect sense, because what was behind them had now come into view, stalking out from the tunnels, unafraid, belligerent and brazen.

Ingvar didn’t recognise their warband’s colours. There were a thousand different splinter-gangs of the enemy, many destroyed almost as soon as they were founded, others that were nigh as ancient as the Legions themselves, and even the Inquisition could not catalogue them all. These ones had donned armour of dark green, edged with gold, and their helms were cast into dragon’s heads and chimera-faces. Foul runes had been scratched onto the battleplate, dug in deep, and their pauldrons were hung with still-glossy skins that whispered and flapped as they moved. They carried bolters and chainswords – monstrous perversions of sacred weapons, twisted into animal-like forms by their fell warpsmiths. Their armour whined and shrieked, as if spirits of the slain were still trapped in the joints, and a cold stink of spoiled meat roiled ahead of them.

Olgeir and Hafloí immediately opened fire, ignoring the chaff to aim their bolt-shells at the real threat. The Heretic Astartes fired straight back, making use of the cover of the columns and the living shield of their mortal slaves, and soon the chamber was clanging again with the maelstrom of battle. Amid the dust and dark it wasn’t clear just how many of them there were – at least four, maybe double that. It was likely that reinforcements were not far away.

Ingvar pushed his way to the barricade, drawing his own bolter, but Gunnlaugur’s hand grabbed his wrist.

‘No, brother,’ he growled. ‘No time.’

The Heretic Astartes advanced steadily, coming closer amid a hail of las-beams and bolt-streaks.

‘They’ll break through,’ Ingvar protested. ‘Then come after us.’

‘Aye. I’ll hold them.’

For a moment, Ingvar didn’t think he was serious. He tried to move, to reach the barricade, to join the defence, but Gunnlaugur locked him fast. Gods, the Wolf Guard was strong.

‘Fjolnir needs to keep going,’ Gunnlaugur said. ‘Ragnar is close now, you have to get him there. That’s why we came here. Anything else… doesn’t matter.’

Ingvar stared at him for a moment longer. He almost resisted again. He almost asked whether this was some gesture – some kind of atonement for Jorundur, for not being quick enough then – but banished the thought as quickly as it had come.

Gunnlaugur was right. If not checked, the traitors would overrun the barricade and run them down, force them to fight. The pack would have to turn, sooner or later, in a place where there might be no cover, no support, no hope. Here, at least, there was a chance to stall them for a little while.

Ingvar looked to find Baldr, but he was already out of sight. The chamber rang to the echoing report of gunfire, a chorus of overlapping strikes and splinters, ones that blew chunks out of the masonry supports and gouged lines in the rockcrete walls. Olgeir and Hafloí would have to be ordered to leave – given the chance to face the Archenemy, they’d not want to cede an inch of ground.

Ingvar turned back at Gunnlaugur. There was something about the way the Wolf Guard was, just then. Eager, maybe.

He pulled his arm back, stowed his bolter, reached for his blade.

‘Aye, vaerangi,’ he said. ‘I’ll get him there.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

He was surrounded, all the time, up close. Not by physical bodies – by minds, by souls, crowding at him, clamouring for him, reaching out spectral hands to drag him down.

Baldr knew that his body was in motion. To some degree, he retained full control of it – his limbs moved as they should do, his eyes witnessed the clamour and destruction, his mouth spoke and his hearts pumped. And yet, the divide between the worlds had thinned, blurring into a mist of time-fractured impressions and ghost-images. The souls of those he slew were like hot coals in an empty brazier-pan, glowing faintly, apt to be snuffed out by a gust of air or a smatter of water.

He saw the structure of the fortress towering away in semi-translucence like some gigantic hololith. The walls and the floors were hard to pinpoint, but the souls within it were not – they were points of fire, flickering, moving, whirling like a star field. They were beyond counting, and more streamed into combat with every moment, fuelling the inferno that made the foundations of the fortress shiver.

Not all those fires burned equally brightly. Most were dim and easily extinguished. A few raged with intensity, looking as if they might resist the rigours of the storm ahead, even flourish in it. Many of those souls fought for the enemy, and their auras were edged with strange resonances. Others were clearly defenders of the kasr, leading desperate charges to shore up defences and claw back lost ground. Baldr could sense types, too – mortal humans, those corrupted by the daemonic, those who had lived for mere decades and those whose threads were centuries old.

Most intensely of all, he felt his own self, his own essence, raging at the bonds his body placed on it. He could feel the pressure of the forces within, struggling to escape, to unleash. He could do it now, here, exploding at any point of his choosing and sweeping all resistance away. The spirits of the ice were snarling and unravelling, ancient war-gheists that had always been there, just sleeping, just suppressed, now unfettered and lusting for violence. They bore raiments that he recognised – ravens, serpents, dragons of the deep, and, most salient of all, the monstrous wolves, their fur matted with blood, their teeth long and yellow, their eyes as red as the world’s end. Just keeping those avatars in check now took almost all his strength, pressing them down into the depths of his psyche, grasping them by the nape as they slavered and leapt.

‘Ahead now,’ he murmured, almost to himself, only dimly aware of Ingvar running at his side. His pack-brothers were like shades, their outlines lost in the darkness, only their souls strongly visible. Gyrfalkon’s was stark and vivid, a cold star that burned in the gloom, made colder by his long years of exile. Olgeir’s was huge and generous, though checked now by suspicion and doubt. Hafloí’s was the brightest, the hottest, but also the most brittle. And, far off, he could still just make out Skullhewer’s aura, the mightiest of them all, though obscured now, beset on all sides. How long could it last? Was it already on the road to annihilation, just to buy a little more time?

They were close, now. The vaults rose up around them, ever more immense, gathering themselves up towards the undergates and the mighty galleries, places where the fate of the kasr would be decided. He could feel Blackmane’s presence, sense the furnace of his existence, hotter and more striking than any other, though also surrounded, also obscured, as if smothered by a hundred lesser entities, all trying to sink their claws into him and bring him down.

The beasts within him growled, opened their eyes, exposed their teeth. They could not be held back forever, not in this place, where the fury of ancient powers had already been let loose and the warp itself lapped at the corpse-thick shore. They knew where he was headed. They knew what was taking place within the walls and under the earth.

He needed to hold out a little longer. Just a little longer.

Time was running out, space was running out.

Just a little longer.

Olgeir ran too, his chest aching, his limbs aflame, his hearts thumping fast. The tunnels ahead still offered plenty in the way of prey – the barricade had been an incomplete barrier, one around which roving bands of cultists had managed to infiltrate via any number of other routes. Brutal battles still took place in the dark – Militarum forces grappling with enemy fighters, taking back some chambers before losing others, locked in a grim struggle for every inch of ground. Sounds of combat came from high bridges above, glimpsed as the pack ran across the base of great shafts, or from below, when they skirted pits that seemed to descend into the bowels of the planet itself.

They could not pause, they could not hesitate to support the beleaguered Imperial positions, only keep going, driven onward by Baldr’s unerring other-sense. It sickened him to see the unravelling of the defences, the slow erosion of the entire kasr’s vast foundations. It sickened him, if he was honest, to do so in the pale glow of witch-light. For that was what it was, in all truth – an echo of forbidden power, one that should have been placed in rigorous bonds, marshalled by the Rune Priests and judged every day for all the long years of aspirant training. Just being close to it, unbound and clearly fluctuating in intensity, tore at him. More than once he’d hefted his weapon, not against an enemy, but close to Baldr, just in case, just in case. And each time he’d pulled back, seeing his pack-brother’s determination to master the power, his drive, the runes on his armour burning hard, one by one, just as they had done on Njal’s own sacred battleplate, just as they did with every gothi who had earned the trust of the Chapter.

Now it was Ingvar who led them, guided by Fjolnir’s increasingly obscure mutterings. Hafloí remained close, sprinting so hard Olgeir thought his hearts might burst, clearly determined not to slow them down in any way.

Olgeir tried not to think about Gunnlaugur. He’d seen how many traitors were coming for that redoubt, and how capable they’d looked, and how exhausted the mortal defenders were. Perhaps Skullhewer could hold it. Maybe he could hold it for hours. That had to be the hope – that it was the kind of choke point where a small band could keep the enemy at bay for long enough to be relieved. There must be many such places up ahead, down below, lost in the shadows.

So they had to find Ragnar. They had to find him soon, so they could turn and fight, look the enemy in the eyes, stand some ground. He had no idea if they were close. Every rock wall looked much the same to him, every turn and every drop. It got steadily hotter, steadily more humid, steadily louder.

He swung his axe, keeping his arm loose, itching to propel it properly in a killing stroke.

Keep going, he breathed to himself, jaw clenched, racing through the dark. Keep going.

They were only a little less strong than he was, only a little less powerful and a little less swift. He still didn’t know what their precise allegiance was, and nor did it matter much to him – they were the most hateful of a hateful breed, the ones who had been given everything and had thrown it away. They had been the best of the Imperium, its signal defenders and its champions, and now they had turned against their creators in the vain hope of getting something greater from their malicious patrons.

So Gunnlaugur fought harder, just then, than he had ever done. His blows were heavier, his strikes were aimed with more venom, his resolution was more complete. As he tore into them, he opened his throat, hurling imprecations and war-curses, roaring himself hoarse on them, declaiming the fate of the heretic in tones that would have made Ulrik himself proud.

At the start, he had done it to rouse himself, to fortify himself, to summon up that primal battle-rage that all sons of Fenris thrived on. The war-words had power locked in them, and had done for as long as the tribes had grappled with one another across the heaving floes. After the Allfather had come, and they had swapped their clinker-built warships for giant voidcraft, they had found the same words still resonated, still answered. Across a thousand new battlefields, the ancient hexes had been called out, lending heft to the axe-strike and precision to the sword-blow.

In the deep tunnels, his voice only boomed louder, echoing from the walls and roofs and swelling in volume. Skulbrotsjór’s hammer head whirled, strung-out with blood and gore, resonating to the drumbeat of his unlocked fury. He stood tall, scorning cover, striding out, shrugging off hits even as he smashed his way through ceramite and bone.

‘Heidur Rus!’ he bellowed, his vox-grille augmenting the sound and making it deafening. ‘For the honour of Fenrys!’

At the start he hadn’t noticed, so wrapped up was he in his own private onslaught, that the effect was not felt just by the enemy, but that the mortal troops at the barricade responded, too. One by one, they started to shout out their own battle cries, ones drawn from a dozen different regiments. Many of the cries were not even in Gothic, but came from whichever world the warriors had been plucked from. It was a cacophony, overlapping and discordant, almost impossible to hear over the strident bellows coming from the Wolf Guard’s vox-grille.

But it changed things. It generated resolve. The Militarum troops kept their discipline, using the cover of the barriers and the columns, but they no longer cowered. Their chants rose up, sending each las-bolt or bullet flying towards the mobs beyond with just a little more spite than before. With Gunnlaugur raging at their head, they held the line, concentrating all their fire on the lumbering Heretic Astartes, drowning them in las-beams, overloading them with emptied magazines before reaching for more. For a few brief, glorious moments, the entire traitor advance reeled against the combined zeal of the Imperial defenders.

It couldn’t last. As spirit-stirring as it had been, the numbers were still against them. True Space Marines, corrupted or no, were very hard to kill through mortal efforts, and with the near-limitless support of their slave-troops, the tide was always apt to turn. The green-and-gold monsters weathered the worst of it, then came straight back, wading through the hail of projectiles and moving inexorably into strike range. They weren’t mindless – they used cover too, where they could – but where that failed them their thick armour plates absorbed tremendous punishment, allowing them to lumber up to full speed and charge for the barricade.

And so, for all the bravery of the Militarum soldiers, it was Gunnlaugur who resisted the longest. He pushed back against the attackers, throwing his body into the lines of danger, spewing his death-oaths at the enemy and smashing their blades aside with the greater heft of his thunder hammer. His armour blazed with the ricochets of glancing bolt-hits, his pelts flickered with flames as the propellants ignited. He drove the hammer head through the helm of the first one to confront him, driving the creature’s breastplate inward and slicing the gold ornaments from the lacquer. The next one managed to blood him, sending a poison-edge blade arcing up under his outstretched arms. For that, the traitor’s torso was slammed down and his neck was broken.

More Heretic Astartes loomed up out of the flame-edged smog-mire, their advance a whisper of corroded servos, their twisted helms leering in the shifting light. The soldiers on the barricade were picked off by the hail of incoming fire, crushed by the toppling of the heavy blocks, overrun, overmanned. The diminishing cadre of survivors fought on through it all, cleaving to their champion, using his bulk and energy to shield them from the worst of the onslaught before darting out, when they could, to open fire or draw a desperate bayonet.

‘Fenrys hjolda!’ Gunnlaugur roared on, slaying another of the traitor monsters, carving him open before throwing the corpse down to the dirt. His arms flared with lactic feedback, his armour sloshed with blood. Sweat ran freely down the inside of his helmet, pooling around his neck. Another strike landed, driving the point of a powerblade into his collarbone. A bolt strike blew his knee-guard off, fracturing the bone beneath.

He felt no pain. Every muscle still strained, every strike was still full-hearted. He spun around, twisting on an ankle to generate kinetic force. He swerved away from a bolt-shell before driving back into close attack. More traitors came at him, one after the other, then in twos and threes, closing him down, shutting down his space to move.

His support died away. The Militarum positions were finally swamped, the cultist hordes rushing the last redoubts and hacking at the bodies of the Imperial dead. That left the tunnels beyond open, but none of the Heretic Astartes took the option – they came at Gunnlaugur, determined to bring him down before they moved further into the kasr’s underbelly.

The chrono in the inside of his helm ticked over, showing the time he had bought. It might not be enough. It might never be enough. Unlike Baldr, he had no precise idea of how far the pack needed to travel. All that remained was to fight on, to hold the portal, to defy the enemy.

‘For the Allfather!’ he thundered, his throat filled with blood now. ‘For Leman of the Russ!’

He saw them now, the dead of Fenris, judging him, weighing his valour in the iron scales. All eyes were on him, assessing whether he would pass into the Halls of Fire, worthy of a place at the long hearth-table.

His hammer shaft cracked, extinguishing the disruptor-field, so he used it as a club. His breastplate was blown open, his greaves dented. A fist reached out for his neck, to throw him down, but he smashed it away, knowing that to lose his footing would be the end.

He could no longer see how many were coming for him. He had no knowledge of how many he had already killed. All that remained was to keep going, to stay upright, to block their advance. Time blurred around him. Space dimmed into a blood-screen that washed everything in red. A great heaviness sank across his arms, and he felt a creeping coldness in his damaged leg.

And then came the blow that he knew he couldn’t evade – a mighty sweep from the enemy’s curved blade, aimed at his head, too low to duck beneath and too fast to pull away from. It raced out at him in slow motion, glinting in the darkness like a jewel.

Defiance remained. He bared his fangs, clenched his fists, and howled out his fury, his hatred, and his raw, elemental joy.

For the Allfather, he told himself as the impact came. For Leman of the Russ.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

He both hated and loved this world.

It was not beautiful. Not like Fenris was beautiful – violent, savage and ever-changing. This world was static, locked down by its mighty solidity, held in chains by its endless lines of fortresses and causeways. When he had first arrived, the air had still been clear, exposing a cold and wind-torn land of high veldts and plateaus. Even when the enemy had made planetfall in earnest, and the atmosphere was spoiled, there had still been plenty to admire. Its people, most of all, who fought like beasts to hold on to their home.

And yet, now that all was coming to its inevitable end, it was hard not to hate. The bone-weariness did that – the ache down to the marrow, caused by the long weeks of constant battle, bleeding into months, forever falling back, yielding ground, hurting the enemy but never defeating it. He had almost lost track of the names of the kasrs. They looked much the same from underground, where the worst of the infantry fighting always was. The tunnels had been created to slow the advance, and so they had, turning the blaze of kinetic warfare into the heavy grind of attrition. And that was hateful, too, in the end. When you saw your battle-brothers slain under piles of low-grade brawlers, or saw them buried alive by rockslides, or took orders from a distant high command that could only result in more disaster, it was hard to feel anything but loathing for the entire place, and a desire for this to be over, one way or another, whatever the outcome.

That feeling never lasted. He was too good for that, too wedded to combat. They all were. Olvec, and Alrydd, and the rest – his Great Company, his packs, his people. They shook themselves down, wiped the blood from their blades, swept the dust from their pelts and faces, and started again. The fires still burned. Even in defeat, even at the moment of death, you could still roar.

He remembered speaking to Ulrik, back when the Slayer was still fighting alongside them.

‘Which skjald called this place the Helwinter Gate?’ he’d asked.

‘No idea,’ the Priest had replied.

‘It’s a bad name.’

‘Tell me why.’

‘The Helwinter has an end. When its fury is gone, new life returns.’ He’d stared out at the burning shoreline, the pyres of the coastal kasr-line, watching the enemy landers fight their way to the lowland drop-points. ‘There will be no recovery from this.’

Ulrik had laughed. ‘So mournful, Ragnar. You’ll be singing a happier tune when you get your teeth into them.’

And so it had proved, at the start. The Blackmanes had charged into the fray with their wonted zeal, slaying heavily, blunting the assaults and driving the invaders back into the blood-foamed sea. Cadians had even started chanting their name, so they told him. Asking to be stationed alongside them. The Blackmanes. The war-dogs of Fenris. The mad ones.

They had been under-strength even before the first deployments. Every pack in the Chapter was under-strength – plenty had been annihilated entirely, or reduced to Lone Wolves stalking through the rubble in search of vengeance. The rot had been there for a long time, a product of the age of Endless War, forcing them to improvise, to make do, to cobble packs together from the remnants of others and throw them straight into the grinder. That alone was hard to preside over. A pack was a sacred thing – the best of them lasted for mortal generations, only slowly winnowing down until the greatest of their members eventually succumbed to Morkai’s axe. Now, though, they were burning too quickly through the ranks. With Fenris itself still smouldering, it wasn’t even clear where new aspirants would come from. The lords of the Chapter, Grimnar and Njal and Ulrik, they made plans and drew up stratagems and declaimed great speeches in the Halls of Fire, but even they must have felt the treads of doom coming up behind them.

‘All that counts is to fight,’ Ulrik had said.

‘So long as one of us remains,’ Ragnar had replied dryly.

They did that. They fought the long defeat, pulling back up from the coast and heading ever eastwards, up into the high peaks, the iron-and-stone barrier that offered the best chance to hold them. After a gruelling march, with the skies blackening and the rain of fire from orbit never ceasing, they had finally made their stand at Kasr Vasta, as ordered, where three Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes and thirty-two regiments had drawn together to keep the pass from falling.

The enemy had been hard on their heels the whole time. The packs had barely had time to re-equip and take up positions before the sound of the approaching armies rolled up the pass, heralded by the filthy snow that blew ahead of the coming storm. Initially the defence had been ordered and organised, but as the earthworks were steadily overrun the lines of control and communication began to falter. The forces of the Astra Militarum and the Navy were capable of handling the ranged conflict – the artillery lines and the airborne battles – but when the outer perimeter was breached and fighters started to infiltrate the tunnels then the Space Marines came into their own.

Ragnar had been hunting ever since. A familiar pattern emerged – the packs were split up, sent into battle at the head of separate Militarum regiments. That spread them thin, but made sure that no sections of the earthworks were without Astartes guidance. The underworld of Kasr Vasta stretched for miles in all directions, and soon tens of thousands of troops were fighting in the deep chasms, their resolve stiffened by the Blood Claws and Grey Hunters at their head.

One by one, as the hidden ways were bloodied and blasted, with controlled collapses and frequent counter-offensives failing to halt the remorseless onslaught, Ragnar had sent his own Wolf Guard to staunch the failing sections. One by one they’d left, loping off through the shadows to deliver reinforcements to distant sectors. With comm-links uncertain over any distance, and ever greater numbers of Heretic Astartes entering combat, the tactic had its dangers, but it made the most of their limited numbers and prevented total collapse among the mortal contingents.

By the time of the withdrawal to the Third Gallery, only a dozen warriors of the Rout remained physically at his side. The Cadian 457th and 56th they had been fighting with were exhausted, their ammunition gone and their morale shot. Promised reinforcements from other regiments never arrived – either destroyed elsewhere or diverted to some other battlefront within the kasr’s confines. The prospect of attempting to hold the vital Undergate approaches with such fatigued and shell-shocked troops was grim, and so he’d been forced to contemplate pulling the packs back, ready to make a stand where it could count for something.

In the event, he hadn’t needed to. A crackling, static-laced order had come in, straight from the sector command, announcing auxiliary battalions, fresh off the transports, heading his way. He didn’t recognise the name of the world in question, but that wasn’t surprising – a thousand different planets had sent their tithe of soldiers. Though unexpected, the news was welcome – it offered the chance, not just to hold the position, but to push further out, maybe even forge a path back towards the Second Gallery and the feeder tunnels up to the Outer Wall. He was being sent thousands of soldiers, with the promise of more on the way, all fully supplied and in combat-ready shape.

‘Maybe we can turn this thing around,’ he’d said to Alrydd, the last of his Guard still fighting at his side.

‘If they give us the tools,’ Alrydd had replied.

When they had arrived, his optimism had increased further. The battalions were well drilled, well armed, and looked up for a fight. Their Chimeras had rumbled down the tunnels, coming to a juddering halt amid the debris of the Third Gallery’s smoke-blackened chambers. Ragnar had gone to greet their commander, a man named Brinn, from a mining world out in one of the Cadian approach subsectors.

‘I wish to take the fight to the invader,’ Ragnar had told him. ‘Can you support me?’

Brinn had looked overjoyed. ‘We can, lord, and look forward to it. All units are ready for your order.’ And then he had paused, as if hesitant or embarrassed to ask for some kind of favour. ‘If I may, my own battalion, the Fourteenth Advanced Armoured, is built for this work. It would be an honour… it would be the honour, if we could accompany you in the vanguard. We have been blooded, we have been trained. You would not be disappointed in what we can do.’

Ragnar had smiled. It made a change, to be faced with enthusiasm, after so long having to cajole and bolster desperate fighters at the end of their strength.

‘Then fight with me, commander,’ he’d said. ‘And let us test that boast together.’

The Undergate was a colossal complex – a sprawling and semi-ruined underworld of steadily larger chambers, each connected to the other via a network of tunnels and bridges. The greatest of the halls were lofty and echoing, more than three hundred feet high and many hundreds of yards long. Those places had raged for days with some of the fiercest fighting. Large infantry divisions, mobile armour, even Scout-class Titans could be brought to bear in those places, and some of the engagements had been as brutal and extended as any battle pitched in the open air.

Almost all the terrain up to the Third Gallery had been ceded, with Ragnar’s forces the last to hold out. The subterranean halls were full of the enemy now, crawling up like rats in the gloom, gathering themselves for the push up into the kasr’s higher levels.

With reinforcements in play, though, Ragnar’s response could be direct. One central hall in particular, a vast domed space at the meeting point of five separate access-routes, was of critical importance to both the attackers and the defenders. Hold that, and you could hope to dictate terms. Lose it, and you had no control at all over the movements out of the tunnels. The place was situated half a mile from the Blackmanes’ command point and more than two hundred yards down, where the naked rock was still visible across the turbolaser-carved wall surfaces, hot and streaming with condensation.

A few hours was all it took to prepare – to dispatch the ravaged Cadian regiments back to their resupply stations, then refuel and arm the newcomers. Ragnar and the few remaining Space Wolves eschewed transports, preferring to lope back to the front on foot, but the Militarum regiments piled into their troop carriers and halftracks, slamming the hatches closed and filling the chambers with exhaust fumes as the engines spluttered back to life.

Then they were moving, going fast, needing to use both speed and surprise to have a chance of retaking the objective. Ragnar ran with Alrydd and three of the packs, dispatching the rest to spearhead other battalions. Each division of the mining world’s troops numbered several hundred, operating fairly autonomously, making them ideal for the confined world of tunnel-warfare. Their armour livery was pale grey with orange chevrons. Their infantry units wore close-fitting flak armour with closed-faced helms and carried standard lasguns. The 14th Advanced Armoured would have been better described as mobile infantry – they had use of Chimera transports, supported by a range of light tanks and tracked gun platforms – but they moved fast, and responded to orders promptly.

As soon as Ragnar started running, setting off down the slope as the carriers revved up to follow, he felt the old spikes of anticipation flare again. He could only be morose when standing still – when on the move, when his blood was pumping and his chainsword activated, the war-spirits kindled again, fuelling him, goading the latent anger that only ever slept lightly below the surface.

Alrydd began to chuckle, swinging his blade as he ran, his long limbs striding out. ‘Good to be on the front foot again, jarl,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ Ragnar snarled, narrowing his eyes, trying to pick out the first of the enemy. ‘For once.’

It did not take long to find them. The column vanguard swept into a large, derelict chamber dominated by a wrecked line-up of pumping stations and atmosphere processors. The place was occupied by cultists, some of whom were dug in, others intent on scavenging whatever they could from the shattered machinery around them. Even as Ragnar and his Wolves charged into the heart of them, lashing out with blade and axe-head, the Chimeras ground to a halt and discharged their occupants. The Ojada troops scrambled for cover, thunking down heavily across the rockcrete and opening up with las-bolts, surrounding the onrushing Space Marines with a wave of supporting fire. Caught between the ferocity of the close-range assault and the volume of las-impacts, the enemy fell back in disarray, cut to shreds then felled as they ran.

Even before the chamber had been cleared out, Ragnar found himself laughing – a release, a discharge of pent-up energy, a feral joy in the exercise of arms. He sent Frostfang whirling, biting deep into corrupted limbs, carving up armour plates, slicing through weapon-barrels and making the magazines explode.

‘Fenrys hjolda!’ he cried out, pushing on, driving the rabble into the tunnels beyond, sending them screaming and scampering and limping back into the dark.

From there, the ways divided, splitting up like blood vessels in a body, looping and curling, diving and rising. There would be no choke points to defend between there and the domed chamber – they would have to flush out every enemy from every tunnel, sweeping down them in one distributed movement, before coalescing again where the arteries gathered together. At every intersection, Ragnar would dispatch one of his own to lead a splinter charge, taking a battalion or two of the Ojada forces with him. The last to go was Alrydd, racing off at the head of a line of trundling Chimeras and calling out wild war-curses as he disappeared into the dark.

Brinn never missed a step. His troops were, just as he had promised, the best of the Ojadans, rapidly disembarking whenever ordered, moving on again swiftly when required. They were robust, surviving some shots that looked as if they might have felled a Cadian trooper, and aggressive to boot. They stuck together, used the terrain well, rotated their squads, pressed hard even without the command.

Half a mile to go. Ragnar checked his close-range tactical display, showing the split-up battalions snaking through the labyrinth. The tunnels ahead were filling again with enemy troops – mostly cultists, but he caught the telltale stink of deeper corruption among them: psykers, mutants, infernal war-engines, surely Heretic Astartes too, muscling their way to the front rank. This would be as hard as any pitched battle faced so far – getting to the dome intact would be a challenge, even if the rest of the pack all made their targets and the Ojadans continued to impress.

The walls narrowed, coming within thirty feet of one another, and the troop carriers began to struggle over the wreckage.

‘Permission to disembark, lord?’ came a vox-hail from Brinn in the lead Chimera.

Ragnar gave him the assent-signal without looking back, roving ahead of the lead carrier and trying to plot a route. He heard the vehicles shudder to a halt, one after the other, followed by the tramp of massed boots. The tunnel was speckled with the swinging light of helm-lumens, the slam and snap of power packs being replaced and activated. Twenty carriers had pulled up, with thirty more drawing up close behind, together holding more than five hundred warriors, all now on foot and advancing.

He felt the change, just a moment before it happened. The hairs on his neck went up, a chill ran across his spine. It was always the same – the uncanny awareness of threat, the sense that had saved his life a hundred times over.

He spun around, chainsword raised, and was hit by a hurricane of las-bolts. He deflected some, his armour repelled more, but his furs and totems were blasted off the ceramite, scoured away in a withering rain of well-aimed beams. Troopers were leaping towards him through the storm, lashing out with glowing combat-blades, surrounded by a glittering aegis of more las-fire from behind.

There was no time, no warning, no chance to demand answers. They were coming for him, fast, low, in numbers, racing up the tunnel floor like a plague of rats fleeing a sewer. Ragnar pulled his bolt pistol out and rapid-fired into the mob, downing ten of them before the magazine clicked empty. He lashed out with his chainblade, clearing a tight semicircle ahead of him, before scrambling back through the debris, reloading as he went.

They came after him, leaping over their own dead, firing in controlled bursts. Some on the front ranks had been wounded by the blade, their armour cut open to reveal a close-fitting mesh of black metal underneath. He shot more down, but the tide kept coming, spilling and rolling in a smear of limbs. Grapples shot out – long chains with snare-hooks and electro-shock fields – which he slashed out of the air, retreating all the while. More shots lanced in, some pinging off his battleplate, some drilling deep, burning through plates and searing into the flesh underneath. The volume of fire was intense, all of it carefully aimed from the flanks, leaving just enough space for advance troops to sprint up in close.

Shock turned to anger. Ragnar bellowed in wild fury, dropping his shoulder before crashing back into the heart of the onrushing mob. He swiped out again, cutting deep into the front rank and taking out three more fighters. He loosed bolts directly into the throat of a fourth, showering both of them in blood as the shell detonated. A lesser enemy might have broken under that charge, thrown back in disarray as the Wolf rampaged among them, but these were made of tougher material – they held their ground, maintaining the storm of las-bolts, sending more warriors racing ahead to engage up close, tying him down, closing out the space, suffocating him.

More strikes snapped in, cracking a helm-lens, scoring his right pauldron, shivering his torso-plate. Ragnar punched hard again, dropping a fighter before swivelling around and gunning his chainsword into the stomach of a second.

His rage didn’t blind him to the odds. There were too many of them. He could kill at twice this rate, and still come nowhere close to dropping them all before they found a weak spot and did more serious damage. They crowded the tunnel ahead, making it impossible to clear a path back the way he’d come. Disengaging left him open to those electro-grapples, and even if he outpaced them, the true enemy was surely advancing up the tunnels to meet them, closing off any escape. He opened a vox-line, only to hear the muffled hum of a jammer on the channel.

How had they known the frequency for that? For how long had this thing been planned?

‘Faithless!’ he spat, tearing into them with all his matchless anger, hurling a broken-backed trooper straight up into the rock-roof before cutting two more down with a savage backslash of Frostfang. ‘Honourless, soulless!’

They never replied. Not so much as a shout left their lips now. As if a switch had been thrown, they swarmed at him in silence, a single orchestrated movement that swept up out of the dark, ready to drown him. The las-bolts flew, the blades flashed, and a dozen gauntlets reached out, desperate to haul him down and finish the job. A chain-length whipped around his blade-arm, weighing it down. A power-knife plunged up into his armpit joint, puncturing the muscle, before he swatted its owner away.

As if in sudden premonition, Ragnar’s mind briefly flashed back to Fenris, to the night-storms of the wide oceans, the fury of the endless, frigid tempest where battles raged in an endless cycle between tribes forever on the edge of annihilation. He would have given anything just then to have his old companions at his side, even if the odds still counted against them, just to fight back to back in the ancient way, blades whirling in counterpoint, roaring out both defiance and denunciation.

‘Heidur Rus!’ he thundered, crashing anew into the traitors, smashing them aside in a last, final, bruising heave.

And, against all hope, the call was answered.

‘Hjá, jarl!’

The battle-shout came from more than one throat, a cry that echoed down the long tunnel. Four figures sprinted into view, grey against the black of the tunnel’s edge, fighting hard, laying about them with blade and bolter. One was huge, bellowing every war-curse known to the Chapter and opening up with a heavy bolter that shredded and pulverised. Another looked raw and pale for a Grey Hunter, but fought in their manner nonetheless, slaying expertly with a short-handled axe. The third moved faster and more surely than either of them, and his rune-carved power sword would have been recognised by even the rawest aspirant of the Chapter. All of them fought furiously towards Ragnar, hewing a path through the assassins, creating panic in the rearguard and breaking up their disciplined onslaught.

But it was the fourth who dominated. It was hard to lay eyes on him. Hard even to see what kind of thing he was, only that he carried the icons of Fenris along with him in a ghost-grey tide, flickering and shimmering, caught between the world of the senses and the world of dreams. He was greater in stature than he should have been, though still in the form of a Sky Warrior, his gauntlets snarling with ice-white lightning, his eyes flaring. Creatures bounded alongside him, spectral and fractured – clouds of ravens, as thick as curdled storm fronts, swooping and ripping with translucent beaks. Greater beasts roared within the miasma – all creatures of the Fenrisian bestiary, the hunters and the hunted, thick hides and snarling maws, loping, panting, ripping into the stunned warriors and mauling them apart. Some were shaggy and gigantic, others sleek and long-limbed, and at the forefront, as ever, was the greatest of them all – the hulking blackmane of legend, yellow-eyed, bloody-fanged, slavering through the carnage as if summoning the end of all worlds.

Ragnar recognised the pungent tang of the wyrd, the same tingling aura created by the gothi when they invoked the storm. Maybe it was rawer, a little wilder and more strident here, but it was the same basic thing. Njal himself might have been proud of the terror created in that tunnel, the screams and the growls, the wind-howl and the lightning-snap.

He took full advantage, launching back into the enemy and adding to the slaughter. Caught between the devastation of the gothi’s art and the physical fury of the Grey Hunters, the assassins’ discipline broke at last, making them easy prey. Frostfang whirled, carving into the reeling knots of a suddenly desperate enemy, while the looming blades of the Grey Hunters made quick work of those at the rear.

What followed was butchery – brutal and blunt-edged, swept up in the swirl of the gothi’s rampaging wyrd-beasts. Ghostly they might have been, but they were still capable of dealing out real damage. They swept up and around Ragnar’s own strikes, the ravens swooping in the lee of his flying pelts, the serpents coiled about his striding boots, the wyrd-wolves pouncing in the shadow of his chainsword. He felt as if he were immersed in magicks, his blood boiling with them, lending strength to his every blow and burning the pain from his wounds.

As the revenants swirled and dived, he fought his way to the side of the Grey Hunter, one whose armour-marks he recognised from a long time ago, and they slew together in the heart of the witch-light-flickered darkness.

‘Gyrfalkon,’ he panted, working his blade fast and hard. ‘It has been a while.’

The Grey Hunter carried on fighting, his movements unrestrained and lavish, as if energies held back for an eternity had suddenly been let loose.

‘You told me to keep the edge of my sword sharp,’ Ingvar replied, sending it whistling into the neck of an exposed traitor. ‘I did as I was ordered.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The fighting never truly stopped, after that. Five hundred trained killers took a while to purge from existence, even with the help of Baldr’s horde of storm-magicked allies. The noises of combat had drawn the attention of the real enemy, and while the Fulcrum Hunters still fought their desperate rearguard action, the first outriders of a greater invading army were already filtering up the winding tunnels towards them. Baldr’s wyrd-beasts tumbled through the dark like crashing waves, flushing out the last resistance in a surge of dream-cast fragments, just in time for the first of the Heretic Astartes to arrive.

Given all that, there was no time for explanations. Ingvar fought at the side of the Young King, and was soon given a reminder of just how deadly the jarl was when given freedom to move. Shadowed by the spectral beast-spirits, he was nigh-unstoppable – like a vision out of the ancient myths, pulled from a time before the Imperium had stamped its mark on the mountains. Ingvar had to try not to laugh out loud for pleasure, at times, seeing some of the truly ludicrous strikes, bleeding with force and speed, driven by arms that had no equal in the Chapter, save for Grimnar himself.

With the destruction of the Ojada Hunters, the comms-lines opened up again, enabling Ragnar to call for aid from the rest of the packs. Many of the Wolf Guard were still close by, advancing down adjacent tunnels or digging into proximate chambers, so sped back to join the fighting. They left behind their accompanying units of Ojada troopers, all of whom were likely as loyal as any other regiment, but there was no chance to make that judgement before fresh combat overtook them again.

As the enemy vanguard advanced up through the tunnels, Baldr plunged straight at them, his armour lit up from within and searing with a crown of white-blue flame. He had become unresponsive to orders by then, still surrounded by the translucent packs of dream-beasts, now consumed with the scent of a greater and more corrupted foe. The great blackmane-ghost prowled around him protectively, slavering and leaping up if any came close. Hafloí tried, and was driven back. After that, they left him alone, lost in his world of vengeance.

All thought of taking the Second Gallery was long gone. At best the objective was now to stay alive, summon genuine auxiliaries, try to keep a grip on the territory they still held, staunch the losses.

‘Skullhewer fights alone!’ Ingvar shouted to Ragnar.

‘Where?’ Ragnar called back, busy now with a Heretic Astartes in World Eaters colours.

‘Section fifty-six – if it stands.’

Ragnar didn’t reply at once. Ingvar understood why – they were barely surviving as it was, and splitting away to dart back into the deeper tunnels would scatter what little cohesion they had left.

‘We make for the Third Gallery!’ Ragnar shouted back, finally. ‘Hold that. After that, if fate allows, we’ll go for him.’

It was the best he was going to get. More invaders ground their way towards them, thirsting for blood and despoliation. More reinforcements arrived at their rear, running hard to answer Ragnar’s summons, and the fighting retreat began. There would be no respite now, no chance for glory or explanation, only more grim defiance, more weapon-work and desperate bloodletting.

But the pack was no longer alone – that was something. When they uttered their battle cries, their voices were matched with others of their kin now, all hurling the imprecations of the old ice into the faces of those destined to die under their sacred blades.

‘Fenrys hjolda!’ Ingvar roared, and the Wolves of Fenris, the blood of Asaheim, his sworn-kin and shield-brothers, roared it back with him.

Baldr could feel the tethers loosening, the ties binding him to the world of the senses stretching out like overworked sinews.

The beasts around him shook out the throats of the enemy, drank in the blood of the slain before pouncing on to their next prey. They were pure savagery – as pitiless as the world that had bred them. Every move they made found an echo in his own body – when they were struck, he felt it; when they killed, his soul rejoiced. It was exhilarating, a rush of power the like of which he had never experienced before.

But it was dangerous, too. With each fresh moment of soul-fury, Baldr’s core self became a little weaker, a little more distant. The spirit of the blackmane, that was the most powerful one – a truly dark and monstrous presence that swelled up with every kill, pregnant with rune-curses, swollen with hunt-magick. Would it devour him, too, if he let it? Would it carry on forever, if he failed to call it back?

He could still hear the war cries of his brothers, but now as if from underwater, lost among the growls and snarls around him. When he killed, it was almost without thinking, almost unconscious – a release of wild energy from a wellspring that could never now be blocked.

Just as before, his mind’s eye began to cut loose then, to see the entire citadel as it soared above them. He witnessed the souls within it, layer upon layer of them, all struggling with their own life-and-death duels, hundreds of them at every moment, the slain sent wailing off into dissolution, the living moving immediately to their next contest.

He didn’t hold back. He let his perspective rove further, higher up, beyond the kasr and the mountains and out across the burning wastes. He saw clashes that dwarfed this one – whole maniples of god-machines grappling amid raging electric storms, legions of unholy engines crashing into super-heavy formations as the ash-rain fell. He heard the yammering of the daemonkin as they pushed, pushed, pushed against the geometries that held them out, and understood the pattern of the enemy attack, and what they were trying to undo.

His perspective raced forward, reeling in time and space, accelerating towards the final event that could no longer be prevented. He even saw it happen, a glimpse of the future that drew in the threads of causality around it like a black hole – the great ship, the black star, the void-fortress of the Despoiler himself, sent crashing through the atmosphere and into the planet. He saw the world’s crust broken, the fractured mantle tilting up, the winds of a true Helwinter searing across the globe as blood-magma bubbled in the spreading wound.

The battle would be lost. The Gate would break. Any victories they achieved here – an enemy champion slain, a hero saved – would be set against that failure. And in the wake of that, a greater terror lay, one that would reach out across the entire galaxy before its rampage was halted.

‘Brother!’

The voice was tiny against the background roar of annihilation, coming as if from a long way off.

‘Brother!

His vision guttered away. In its place was the earth around him, the shadows and the blood and the screams of mortals. Gyrfalkon was calling out, just as he had done before.

Baldr looked down at his gauntlets. They were streaked with lightning now, crackling over the surface and slithering into the wrist-seals. Blood and corposant fizzed in pools across the rest of his armour. He was alive with magick, burning up from it, overloaded with it.

‘Hold fast!’ Ingvar cried, reaching out for him from across a wall of raging enemies. ‘We must withdraw!’

He could already see himself doing it. He saw himself banishing the beasts that prowled around him, clearing a path back to his shield-kin, ready to serve again.

But, then, he knew what was coming now. The orders would be given, gathering up those who remained, sending them back to the Chapter warships, ready to take them away from a breaking world. Nothing could prevent that, not even Grimnar. And once back within the Chapter, the old problem would still remain.

Baldr held his right hand higher, closed the fingers of his fist, and time slowed to a halt, grinding as if the keel of a dragonship had run into the silt. The clamour of war slowly echoed away, replaced by an eerie, frozen stillness.

‘Stormcaller hasn’t forgotten,’ he said, breaking the vice of quiet. ‘I am… not what he would make me.’

Ingvar tried to move, prompting more growls from the flickering blackmane. ‘This is what we wanted,’ he managed to say. ‘Return to us.’

‘No.’ When he spoke now, Baldr found himself marvelling at his own voice. It was deeper, more resonant, drawing on a lode that had been capped for a very long time. ‘You can go back. You, and the others. Maybe one day, I will too. Not this day.’

Ingvar started to remonstrate again. They needed to find Gunnlaugur, he said. They needed to gather with the rest of the Great Company, forge some kind of defence, find a way to keep fighting. They needed to explain, to earn their path back to the hearthside.

Baldr looked about him, out across the static scene of battle. Ragnar, Hafloí and Olgeir were all locked in combat. The enemy surrounded them, filling the tunnel from wall to wall. Some of those warriors were very great. They were already pushing back against the eldritch bonds he had placed on them – soon the hiatus in violence would be ripped away. He could stay, if he chose to, and aid them.

But it was no longer his fight. Eventually, Ingvar seemed to give in to the inevitable. He had brought Baldr back to the pack once before. Not a second time.

‘I am sorry,’ Gyrfalkon said. ‘Sorry that I doubted the xenos.’

Baldr nodded. ‘But you were right, Gyrfalkon, from the very start. I feel the wyrd, now. I feel it in every sinew.’ He made to turn back, then lingered for a final moment. ‘It is a new dawn, brother. A fiery one. Who knows what we will see of it, when the sun is full-risen?’

And, with that, he let the world back in, allowed the curtain to be ripped away, and he was running again, slaying again, sweeping down the tunnel and into the dark, his spectral packs loping alongside him, the lightning snapping and sparking at his heels.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Three weeks later, Kasr Vasta fell.

More battles followed, high up in the ice-flung peaks, then out across the exposed veldt, always falling back, always trying to salvage something before disaster overtook them. There was no want of zeal on the part of the defenders, only numbers, and only arms. The armada loosed upon Cadia was larger and more devastating than any force of conquest since the days of the Great Heresy, and there had only ever been the slightest chance of halting it. In the event, all their valour accomplished was a little delay, a brief window of time before the final apocalypse came. Armies were evacuated, weapon-hauls loaded onto cargo-haulers, treasures salvaged. That was something – a morsel of comfort to report back to Terra when the time came to tally the numbers – but in truth it was still a crushing defeat, the destruction of a bastion that had stood firm for a hundred centuries and which had no rival in either strength or prestige.

Had it not been for the Imperial Navy maintaining a tight grip on the void-lanes, that defeat would have been a rout. As it was, more ships arrived by the day, streaming into the Cadian battlezone from all across the Imperium, determined to prevent a single world’s loss from cascading into total sector implosion. The Adeptus Astartes were at the forefront, pulling ships from their many far-flung warzones to aid in the staunching of the wound at the Eye’s edge.

So it had been that the frigate-class warship Dawnrunner had entered the bleeding Cadian System as part of the final muster from the Space Wolves Chapter. It had been an auxiliary vessel for most of its short life, hastily refitted for full military service in the aftermath of the raids on Fenris. In normal times it would never have been pressed into active duty at all, but every asset was now being called on, however unsuitable or unready. Its crew were all kaerls, many of them taken from other, larger vessels, a few drawn directly from the already depleted ranks of the Mountain itself. Its weapons were untried, its engines temperamental. It was a disaster waiting to happen, from most points of view. From others, it was a blank slate – something to improve upon.

Ingvar had tried to convince himself of the latter approach ever since arriving on a war-battered shuttle, straight from the final planetary evacuations as the magma slithered over the battlefields and the continents broke apart. Ragnar had gifted the ship to Járnhamar in gratitude for what they had done. It was a typical jarl’s gesture – in other ages, he would have had a golden torc or a jewelled sword-hilt.

So fierce had the fighting been, and so relentless, that little was ever said about the quest, or of the Fulcrum, or of the long game played by Chirastes. It would all come out in due course. Right now, as the sector stood on the brink of anarchy, the Chapter had more to worry about than the last-gasp obsessions of a deranged cardinal.

There had been one exchange, though, near the end, just as the atmosphere had started to burn and the world’s strange protective aegis had finally begun to fail.

‘I find myself in your debt, Grey Hunter,’ Ragnar had said, grinning at him with bloodied fangs.

Ingvar had bowed. ‘I am only glad we were there in time.’

‘Aye. Just where you needed to be.’ He had looked thoughtful. ‘Any news of your gothi?’

Ingvar had shaken his head.

‘Maybe for the best. Njal found out you’d come back. He’d like to talk to you. I told him you were busy. It might be wise for you to stay active for a while. He doesn’t forgive easily.’

Ingvar had smiled dryly. ‘I don’t think we’ll have trouble finding things to do.’

‘No, I don’t think you will.’ He’d looked out at the skies of flame, the cloud banks that were now blood red and hurtling. ‘They’re calling this the end. The start of the final defeat.’

‘The xenos called it Rhana Dandra. The battle at the world’s end.’

‘So what do you think of that, Gyrfalkon?’

He hadn’t needed to consider his response. ‘The end will come when Russ returns. Until then, we fight for victory. For the honour of our jarl and the crushing of his enemies.’

Ragnar had laughed. ‘Well said. You know, when you first returned to Fenris…’

‘I know. I got better.’

And that had been it. They had parted soon after, Ragnar to his retinue, Ingvar to his. Now, off-world again, on the bridge of the Dawnrunner, feeling the thrum of void-drives, knowing that the world he had fought for was laid waste, he tried to collect his thoughts.

He was alive. The pack, what remained of it, was back home, under the protection of their liege-lord once more. More battles lay ahead, now given to them as orders to accomplish rather than as a quest they undertook for their own reasons. It was as it should be. Some things, at least, had been restored.

He moved into the Annulus Chamber, took his seat, resting his gauntlets on the cold stone. The old pack banner hung over the circular tabletop. It was good to see it again. Just as his gaze ran across the thick fabric, his comm-bead pulsed.

‘My lord,’ came Torek Bjargborn’s voice. ‘We are ready to fire the plasma drives, on your command. Mistress van Kliis awaits orders for warp transit at your pleasure.’

‘Understood. You have everything you need?’

There was a slight pause before the reply. ‘Absolutely everything, lord.’

The shipmaster had done well to escape the inferno of Cadia in one piece. The Hlaupnir had been taken off his hands soon afterwards, but he seemed satisfied with what had replaced it.

Ingvar cut the link, just as the doors to the chamber slid open. Olgeir and Hafloí entered, the latter limping heavily, the former with a new scar to add to the lattice across his cheeks. They took their places around the Annulus. Both were exhausted still, driven into deep weariness by the weeks of battle. They would recover, of course, given a little time, and given something fresh to hunt.

‘We have our orders?’ Olgeir asked.

Ingvar nodded. ‘We leave with the fleet. Regroup at Solar Mariatus. Grimnar’s already there, they say.’

Hafloí stared at his hands moodily. ‘Good for him.’

Ingvar knew how he felt. They had lost much. Váltyr first, then Jorundur, then Baldr – who was alive, he presumed, though far beyond their reach. It had been a grim tally, and that was before he even thought of–

The doors scraped open again, and a huge, ungainly melding of flesh and metal clunked inside, wrapped around with tubes and patched up with staples. Half of his frame was armoured in the usual fashion, half of it was still exposed bionics, provisionally powered with bolt-on energy units. Some flesh was exposed, especially above neck-level, though all of it was raw and scar-puckered. The body locked within the heart of all those augmetic pins and shackles should never have been let out of the apothecarion, not for months yet.

But Gunnlaugur, the one called Skullhewer, had never been good at following orders. As he came into the chamber, Ingvar and the others rose to their feet, causing him to growl in irritation.

‘I’m not a damned vaerangi now,’ he said, his voice a blood-wet snarl of overlapping vox-feeds. ‘Remember? Ragnar had to give Stormcaller something to smooth it all over.’

Ingvar chuckled, and even Hafloí twitched a half-smile. ‘Pack-leader, then,’ he said.

‘Aye.’ Gunnlaugur sat awkwardly. Blood was welling at this throat, where a series of poorly fitted iron threads jutted into the skin. ‘That’ll do.’

The four of them sat down around the Annulus, just enough of them to make up a pack, all Grey Hunters now, their old differences scoured away.

‘So, we did it,’ said Olgeir.

‘We came back,’ said Hafloí.

‘With Ragnar still alive, and as damned young and healthy-looking as ever,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘Consider it a victory.’

‘It was,’ said Ingvar. ‘We should remember that.’

‘It cost us,’ said Olgeir.

‘Aye, that it did,’ said Ingvar.

He looked over at the empty places. Of all of them, it was Baldr’s that was the keenest loss. They had laboured for so long to keep him from death, believing it to be important, and now there was nothing to show for it, not even a weapon to hang in the armoury. Maybe one day, they would live to see the fruits of the seed that had been sown.

‘Someone will need to fly the ship,’ said Gunnlaugur, ‘now that the Old Dog’s gone.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Hafloí, looking at them all, as if daring any to gainsay him. ‘I wanted Vuokho, but this’ll be something.’

Olgeir chuckled. Despite the fatigue that still weighed on his broad shoulders, the tightness in his manner had ebbed. He had got what he wanted, and the deceptions were over. ‘It’s a good ship,’ he said. ‘With a good crew. A long time, since we had that.’

‘And we’ll be using it soon,’ said Gunnlaugur. ‘We won’t linger at Solar Mariatus – the Despoiler’s moving again, and there’ll be fighting again before the month’s out.’

‘Good,’ said Olgeir, with feeling. ‘I have debts to settle now, more of them than before.’

‘We all do,’ said Hafloí.

Ingvar watched and listened. The unity of purpose was still there, deeper than ever now, forged hard by privation. The pack was smaller than it had been, but purer, like a diamond squeezed into shape amid the folds of the earth. One debt had been settled, but Olgeir was right – more vendettas had now been sworn. That story would never end – they would never run out of grievances to address, honour to be satisfied, oaths to be fulfilled. That was the way of them, and always had been, right from the very start.

‘So what say you, Gyrfalkon?’ asked Gunnlaugur, flexing his new augmetic fingers idly, scraping them over the stone. ‘Is your soul at ease, now that the secrets are exposed and you have no more mysteries to plague us with?’

It was hard to know what to say to that. In part, it was. He was where he belonged, with a clear sky ahead and the promise of battle to come. A canker had been excised, the poison bled out. And yet, the Imperium’s failure at Cadia would have repercussions. The Rune Priests were already speaking of a great chasm opening up amid the debris of the Helwinter Gate, a cleavage between worlds, one that risked casting a swath of the galaxy into darkness if it could not be staunched. Baldr’s awakening spoke of more ruptures in the carefully watched old order – of souls flaring up into new life and power, a process that carried more danger with it than any physical war.

There were no ends, not truly, only brief pauses before the struggle began anew. The wise had always known it, and the brave had always welcomed it.

‘My soul will be at ease when it feasts in the Halls of Fire,’ Ingvar said. ‘Until then, I have a blade, and a helm, and my pack-brothers at my side.’

He smiled.

‘It is enough. Glory to Russ, it is enough.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Wraight is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Warhawk, Scars and The Path of Heaven, the Primarchs novels Leman Russ: The Great Wolf and Jaghatai Khan: Warhawk of Chogoris, the novellas Brotherhood of the Storm, Wolf King and Valdor: Birth of the Imperium, and the audio drama The Sigillite. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written The Helwinter Gate, The Lords of Silence, Vaults of Terra: The Carrion Throne, Vaults of Terra: The Hollow Mountain, Watchers of the Throne: The Emperor’s Legion, Watchers of the Throne: The Regent’s Shadow and many more. Additionally, he has many Warhammer novels to his name, and the Warhammer Crime novel Bloodlines. Chris lives and works in Bradford-on-Avon, in south-west England.

An extract from Indomitus.

‘They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement.’ Praxamedes had spoken without thought, the words of the Codex Astartes coming to him unbidden and reaching his tongue before he could stop them.

‘Is that censure of a senior officer, Lieutenant Praxamedes?’ asked Aeschelus as he looked away from the command bridge’s main viewing display. The Ultramarines captain paced across the strategium of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, heading to where his second-in-command stood alongside the task force’s other lieutenant, Nemetus.

The polished blue of their armour danced with the amber-and-red glow of console lights, smudged by a bright plasma gleam shining from the tactical videolith that dominated the wall of the large command chamber. Tac-slaved servitors wired to terminals and augur banks grunted and chattered their dataflows to azure-robed overseers, who in turn compiled reports for their Space Marine officers. Behind them, Shipmaster Oryk Oloris, in heavy trousers that were tucked into knee-high boots and a crisp white shirt beneath his Ultramarines uniform tunic, prowled the deck with a watchful eye.

Praxamedes instantly regretted his momentary lapse.

‘As a scholar of the lord primarch’s teachings, you would know that the Codex Astartes has much to say on respect for the chain of command.’ Aeschelus came alongside his two officers and half-turned back towards the main screen. He opened his hand towards the screen, indicating the starship that drifted across the spray of stars, plumes of blue and white plasma ejecting haphazardly from a ruptured reactor. ‘Our preliminary surveyor reports indicate that we have disabled their weapons grid. The threat is minimal.’

‘My words, brother-captain, were in reference to Nemetus’ overly keen desire to lead the boarding,’ Praxamedes told his superior. ‘There are still enemy vessels in the vicinity.’

‘Two destroyers,’ scoffed Nemetus. ‘Too fast a prey to hunt on our own. As soon as we give chase, they will disappear into the asteroids and gas clouds on the boundary of the third orbital sphere. Would you follow them into that, knowing that they could turn on us under the cover of our overwhelmed scanners?’

‘That was not my suggestion, brother-lieutenant,’ said Praxamedes, frowning. It was an occasional fault of Nemetus to protest against an ill-thought strategy that had not, in fact, been raised, perhaps purely to show that he had considered and discarded such action himself. ‘Our primary objective is destruction of the enemy. Boarding brings unnecessary risk, at a time when the battle groups of Fleet Quintus must conserve their strength.’

‘That is a Hellbringer-class cruiser,’ added Nemetus. ‘Nobody has built one for eight thousand years. It is a piece of archeotech in its own right.’

‘The lord primarch would also favour heavily any intelligence we might glean from its cogitator banks,’ said Aeschelus. ‘We are at the forefront of the crusade, encountering foes fresh to the battle. This is a raider, an assault ship built for planetary attack. Perhaps this ship comes from beyond the Cicatrix Maledictum and could shed light on what is occurring in the Imperium Nihilus lost beyond the warp rifts.’

This time, Praxamedes was wise enough to hold his tongue, wishing the whole conversation would be forgotten. Aeschelus noticed his lieutenant’s reticence and continued.

‘You urge caution with a depleted resource, which is laudable, but I would not spend the lives of the lord primarch’s warriors needlessly.’ Aeschelus allowed his voice to travel a little further, carrying to other members of the command crew across the strategium. It was typical of Aeschelus’ fine touch of command that he would turn potential remonstration into a moment to inspire others. It was a knack that Praxamedes sorely lacked, nor had any idea how to acquire despite his efforts.

‘For near a decade, as ship-board chronometers reckon it, we have fought hard in the crusade of the lord primarch. At the outset there was treachery and catastrophe, losses suffered before the fleet had even left Terra. Our own task force lost its noble group master to the plague purges. Those here, and that came before, knew that there would be no easy victories, that a galaxy broken asunder by the witchery of our enemies would be an unwelcoming battlezone. Yet even the most pessimistic among us would not have countenanced the uncountable labours and obstacles that Fleet Quintus has found in its path.

‘Every victory has been hard-fought and we have met with more reverses than those in other fleets. Each foe must be overcome in turn – every opportunity to rise from the shadows of past setbacks must be seized. Before us lies a prize, won by our own endeavour, that may lift the fortunes of not just the Ithraca’s Vengeance or Battle Group Faustus, but perhaps bring heart to all of Crusade Fleet Quintus that our extraordinary travails have been to purpose.’

‘A prize that is even now trying to slip from our fingers,’ growled Nemetus, nodding towards the videolith. ‘See how they crawl towards the stellar flotsam, seeking sanctuary in its midst. We must seize the moment, brother-captain.’

‘And I stand ready to lead the attack, as always,’ said Praxamedes. ‘As the longest serving lieutenant it would be my honour to do so.’

‘I have no doubt that you would be determined and diligent in the execution of the attack, Praxamedes, but I think this operation is more suited to the temperament of Nemetus.’ The captain turned his full attention to the second lieutenant. ‘Assemble your boarding force swiftly. Take control of the enemy strategium and extract what you can from the cogitators.’

‘You’ll need charges, to scuttle the ship when you are done,’ said Praxamedes.

‘There will be no need for that,’ said Nemetus. ‘It looks as though their reactors are already descending towards critical state. A few hours from now there will be nothing left but plasma.’

‘All the more reason to fly swift and fight with narrow purpose,’ said Aeschelus.

‘If we’re set on the mission, I’ll review the augur data and calculate the approach vectors that will bring you most swiftly to your objective, brother.’ Praxamedes lifted a fist to his chest to salute the departing officer.

Nemetus returned the gesture of respect with a nod. ‘For the primarch and the Emperor.’

When the lieutenant had exited the strategium, Praxamedes turned to move towards the augur terminals. Aeschelus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke quietly.

‘I know that you think I undervalue you, Prax. I will give you battle command soon, I give you my word. It’s just…’

‘Nemetus is the more dynamic of us?’

‘Restless,’ Aeschelus replied. ‘Nemetus excels in direct action. In all truth, would you have him providing overview for the expedition while you were leading the squads? Is that truly the best use of his and your aptitudes?’

Praxamedes said nothing. He had spoken out too much already and did not wish to push his superior’s patience any further. In truth, he felt it was Aeschelus, in longing to prove his worth in the eyes of the primarch, that felt undervalued. Like many in the latest cohort of recruits pushed to the leading edges of the crusade, Aeschelus had not been in the fleet when those early disasters had occurred. He had not witnessed how the hope and excitement of the crusade’s potential had withered in a matter of months.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Praxamedes had enough self-awareness to admit, to himself if no other, that those early experiences had given him a more pessimistic outlook than his new commander. The captain hoped Nemetus would bring glory to the Ithraca’s Vengeance with some daring act, and Praxamedes was well aware of his own deficiencies in that regard. He was neither charismatic nor blessed with startling initiative. He was diligent and capable, and those were qualities that perhaps Battle Group Faustus needed right now when another serious setback might break the morale of the whole Fleet Quintus.

But Aeschelus was not interested in such thoughts and so Praxamedes kept them to himself.

‘As you will it, brother-captain,’ he said simply.

Aeschelus gave a nod of dismissal to set Praxamedes about his task, yet as the lieutenant moved away the captain felt the admonition in his formality. His second-in-command doubtless meant well but the last thing the command needed at the moment was negativity. There were finally reports of good news from the other battle groups, and while Faustus still laboured hard against warp storms and a ceaseless swarm of small but diverting traitor attacks, Aeschelus was determined that he would make a breakthrough soon.

Praxamedes tended to think in tactical terms, lacking the longer view of the strategic that had been inculcated into Aeschelus as part of his rapid training to the rank of captain. He and others like him had been despatched to the cutting edge of the Indomitus Crusade to bring some renewed urgency, particularly across Crusade Fleet Quintus.

Fresh blood, fresh energy.

Those had been the words of the lord primarch. Not heard in person, as Lord Guilliman was far from Terra leading the crusade when Aeschelus had been sent to his command. It wasn’t like the days when Praxamedes and the first torchbearer fleets had been sent out. No fanfare, no primarch. Just reinforcements and a renewed will to press into the darkness.

One day, perhaps soon, Aeschelus would have the honour. One day he would stand before the lord primarch in victory, recognised for an effort that changed the fortunes of the fleet.

The captain broke from his reverie to find Oloris standing close by, a dataslate in hand. The shipmaster raised a fist to his forehead.

‘Latest fleet dispositions, captain.’ The unaugmented human presented the dataslate and withdrew a step, brushing a wisp of blond hair from his pale face.

‘Anything of note?’ asked Aeschelus, knowing that Oloris could be trusted to review the information relevant to their current course of action.

‘We received word that Sword of Justice and the Vaputatian both broke warp to rendezvous with the support fleet.’

‘That leaves nobody on our starward flank. A little early for refit.’ Aeschelus scrolled through the report but Oloris provided the answer first.

‘They each had an unexpected encounter with a battleship-class enemy. They were able to break away but not before taking heavy damage.’

Aeschelus found the entry and accessed the engagement report. ‘No identifier. Possible traitor flagship. Heavy lance arrays outranged our ships.’

‘And us, captain,’ said Oloris. He hesitated, cleared his throat and continued, ‘Lieutenant Praxamedes wishes to know if we are proceeding with the boarding action.’

Aeschelus looked up. The lieutenant was at the augur console, ostensibly engaged in his preparations, though his enhanced hearing was more than capable of picking up the conversation between captain and shipmaster. It was protocol for any matters concerning the running of the vessel to come through the shipmaster, but it seemed peculiar on this occasion that Praxamedes had not delivered his question directly. It was likely that he was being more circumspect after his uncharacteristically outspoken moment.

‘You have concerns, Prax?’ the captain said, hoping informality would assure his subordinate that he was not in any way being censured. ‘You think there is a danger presented by this rogue battleship?’

‘It is a possibility, captain,’ said Praxamedes, turning from his work. ‘The engagement with the Sword of Justice took place within the last two days, only four hundred and fifty thousand miles from our current position. What if it’s the Desolator?’

‘I am surprised you put stock in such tales, lieutenant,’ said Aeschelus. He snorted, shaking his head. ‘The Desolator? Rumour and hearsay. The grumblings of reluctant Imperial Navy officers.’

‘You think there is no truth to the reports, captain?’ Praxamedes approached, darting a look towards Oloris that betrayed their conspiracy. ‘Seven vessels lost or driven off in the last thirty days, all within this sub-sector.’

‘There is no phantom enemy battleship striking with the speed of a frigate and disappearing.’ Aeschelus raised a finger to forestall Oloris as the shipmaster opened his mouth to speak. ‘And it certainly is not The Ninth Eye, that identification was based on the tiniest fragment of augur return and vox-scatter. Battle Group Command insist that there is no Alpha Legion presence in this whole sector. You want me to ignore the prize we have won based on the chattering of Navy officers?’

‘I wished to clarify our intent, captain,’ Praxamedes said stiffly. ‘Your will is clear.’

‘It is,’ growled Aeschelus, now irritated by the lieutenant’s intervention. ‘Ready your calculations for Lieutenant Nemetus as quickly as possible.’

Aeschelus turned his eyes back to the drifting ship on the main display. This equivocation and rumour-mongering was just one of the many symptoms of the fleet’s morale problems. He should not fault Praxamedes for falling prey to the same deficiencies as others caught up in the long tale of misfortune, but it was starting to affect his judgement. Despite his earlier words to the lieutenant, this kind of irrational behaviour, coupled with overfamiliarity to the non-Space Marine crew, made Aeschelus wonder if Praxamedes really was suited to any kind of battle command.

With the order for the boarding action given, the tone aboard the Ithraca’s Vengeance changed from one of pensive watchfulness to energetic activity. The crews of the gun decks remained alert, sensor stations poring over the broken flank of the heavy cruiser, seeking any sign of sudden life from their foe. From the command bridge came firing solutions, pinpointing breaches in the enemy’s armoured skin, selected to prepare the way for the incoming attack. In the flight bays the roar of plasma engines joined the thud of armoured boots, filling each launch deck with the noise of pending war. Red-clad tech-priests croaked and burbled sermons of the Machine-God to bless their charges before launch, lower adepts of the Cult of Mars anointing the gunships’ weapons and targeting arrays with unguents while nano-laced censer smoke drifted into idling intakes to cleanse engine feeds.

Squad by squad, the boarding parties assembled at the mustering deck between the two flanking launch halls. Nemetus paced the concourse at the hall’s centre, passing a critical eye over the thirty Space Marines as they came to attention. From the ship’s complement he had selected three squads of Intercessors, the backbone of the new Primaris formations. Standing to attention, weapons presented, an unmoving line of Ultramarines blue, they awaited the order to break rank and move to board the gunships.

Unsullied by self-aggrandisement.

The words of Praxamedes lingered in the thoughts of Nemetus while he readied himself for the battle ahead. Whether intended for Aeschelus or Nemetus, that softly spoken line from the Codex Astartes had carried the same vehemence as a shouted outburst from any other. Praxamedes was calm to the point of coolness and guarded in everything he said. To have spoken as he did was almost without precedent.

Helmet under his arm, Nemetus walked along the ranks, inspecting every warrior. Each was impeccably turned out, a credit to themselves and the dedication of the armourium. Sergeant Villina lifted fist to chest as Nemetus reached the front of the formation once more.

‘Most excellent, brother-sergeant, fit for a parade before the lord primarch himself!’

‘And ready for more than just a parade, brother-lieutenant,’ added the veteran sergeant.

‘I am sure of it, Villina. It is my honour to lead them again.’

The Codex Preparatory Statements on the Nature of the Adeptus Astartes continued, and it was from the following words of the lord primarch that Nemetus took inspiration.

They will be bright stars on the firmament of battle, Angels of Death whose shining wings bring swift annihilation to the enemies of man.

A bright star in the firmament of battle.

Bright stars were in short supply of late, with the Imperium beset by all foes, both ancient and modern. A relative latecomer to the Indomitus Crusade, Nemetus had learned from afar of its great reconquest whilst undergoing his transformation and training. He knew the power of the stories that returned from the exploits of humanity’s finest warriors. He had heard temple bells ringing the triumphs of the lord commander, listened to the cheers from hundreds of thousands of throats as great victories were read from the balcony-pulpits. As a Primaris Marine, he was to be the new exemplar of everything the Adeptus Astartes represented.

And yet the words of Praxamedes still bit deep.

Unsettled, he passed an expert eye over the next warriors – a squad of Eradicators, their melta rifles at the ready. They would be the breaching team once the expedition reached the enemy strategium. Nemetus’ gaze moved between them and the Intercessors, noting that most of their wargear was freshly issued.

Many of Aeschelus’ command had been sent as reinforcements to Fleet Quintus, as had he and Nemetus; only a few were longer-serving, having departed Terra at the crusade’s outset. Praxamedes was among those that had seen the earliest fighting, the most terrible wars and dogged campaigns. A member of Fleet Quintus since its inception, he had risen from the ranks while Nemetus and Aeschelus, and no few others, had been trained to their officer roles. Such had been the early casualties among the Space Marines – a force that lived by the creed of leading from the front – that deaths among the first Primaris officers had eliminated almost half the Adeptus Astartes leadership of Fleet Quintus within three years. Battlefield promotions and brevet ranks were good as a stop-gap, but as a longer term solution Nemetus and others had been command-trained from the outset of their inductions.

Was Praxamedes’ slight genuinely aimed at Aeschelus, a subtle admonition for a superior who had been promoted ahead of him?

That was an unkindness to Praxamedes, Nemetus decided. The very moments before battle were not the best time to weigh up the motivations of his brother-officers, and Nemetus had nothing but respect for his fellow lieutenant. Praxamedes had simply been urging his usual circumspect approach, nothing more.

Nemetus turned his attention to the remaining members of his expedition. A little apart from the Intercessors stood ten Incursors, two combat squads of dedicated close assault specialists under Sergeant Dorium and Sergeant Lato. Clad in armour incorporating the most sophisticated internal auspex systems, they would pave the way for the main force, their bolt carbines ideally suited to the closer confines of the enemy starship. It had been just days since they had last seen action, and their wargear told a different story to that of the Intercessors. Here and there the lieutenant spied bare ceramite over some recently suffered damage, and the paint of their livery was much scratched.

‘Is that blood?’ Nemetus demanded, directing an accusing finger towards the gauntlet of Brother Sennecus.

The Incursor lifted his hand and inspected it. He flexed the red-stained armoured digits.

‘Yes, lieutenant,’ Sennecus replied. ‘I ripped out the heart of a secessionist in our last engagement. The red mark is a trophy of our victory, brother-lieutenant.’

‘Yes, I have heard of this “battle paint”, brother.’ Nemetus took a step closer and was about to deliver his chastisement when a voice cut across the muster hall.

‘A fitting memorial to a traitor,’ rasped Judiciar Admonius.

Armoured all in back, the Judiciar cut a sinister figure. At his waist hung a great hourglass, filled with dark sand: his tempormortis. Each grain came from the debris of Callosi station, a renegade installation atomised in the first engagement of Battle Group Faustus. Admonius’ zealotry in that action had seen him recruited to the position of Judiciar, on the pathway to becoming a Chaplain.

The dedication that had drawn Admonius to the Reclusiam’s ranks had increased with his acceptance, as if he were afraid that his status as novice would count against him. Nemetus knew better than to gainsay the Judiciar and instead raised a fist in salute.

‘You are joining the boarding force, Brother-Judiciar?’

‘Of course. It is my duty to prosecute the war against the traitors with every fervour. Did you think I would pass on this opportunity?’

Recognising the rhetoric in the question, Nemetus returned his attention to the warriors under his command.

‘Brothers.’ He took a breath, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts that came to him.

Self-aggrandisement.

Was he guilty of that crime?

‘Brothers,’ he began again, taking inspiration from his own mood. ‘Some of you have raised your weapons beside me in battles before this day. Many of you have not, and indeed this is the first encounter with the foe since your preparatory missions. It matters not. We are all Adeptus Astartes. We are all sons of Lord Guilliman. We are all servants of the Emperor.’

He could not resist a glance towards Judiciar Admonius before he continued.

‘It is not for ourselves that we fight, though we owe our brothers our commitment. We were created to spearhead a war far greater than any single warrior. Our foes seem without limit, but we will find it. We shall slay as many as needed, until the galaxy is secured once more for the dominion of humanity.’

He took another breath, settling into himself, finding direction from his own words.

‘Remember that every blow you strike, every bolt you fire, is directed towards that single duty. Know also that at our backs stands the whole of the Imperium, its will bent to the reconquest of lost realms, the succour of enslaved worlds and the destruction of the dark enemy that has brought this wrath upon them. You are the implementation of that will. You are the Emperor’s strength given form. Fight well and you shall not die, for your names shall live on ever after in glory!’

As his triumphant shout reverberated across the hall, Nemetus signalled the embarkation to begin. He felt Admonius beside him and turned his gaze on the Chaplain-in-Waiting.

‘A fine speech,’ said the Judiciar. ‘Now let your deeds echo your words.’

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited - Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Marc Lee.

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ISBN: 978-1-80026-625-4

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To Hannah, with love.

With many thanks to Nick Kyme and Kate Hamer for their
editorial support, Rachel Harrison for the design work,
and Aaron Dembski-Bowden, John French and Gav Thorpe
for invaluable input on all things Space Wolves

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