Quicker than the eye could follow, Berek spun on his heel, his power fist reaching for the source of the voice, but the gauntlet closed on empty air.
A fearsome impact struck Berek in the chest. Terrible pain, cold and black as the abyss, spread beneath his ribs.
The Chaos sorcerer stood just out of reach. His ornate power armour was wrought with blasphemous sigils of power, and decorated with the writhing skulls of serpentine gargoyles. Terrible, inhuman intelligence burned from the eye slits of the baroque, horned helmet.
With a single, fluid motion, Madox drew the Spear of Russ from Berek's chest. The Wolf Lord felt his strength leave him all at once. His legs failed him, and the Space Wolf fell to his knees.
Madox raised the tip of Russ's spear to Berek's face, showing him the blood dripping from the point of the sacred relic. 'The fate of your Chapter is sealed, Berek Thunderfist,' the Chaos champion said, as darkness filled the corners of the Wolf Lord's vision. 'When you go to stand before your false emperor, tell him that you are the one to blame.' As the sorcerer spoke, his armoured form blurred before the Wolf Lord's eyes, fading from view as if he were a ghost.
The last thing Berek heard was the sound of triumphant laughter, as cold and cruel as Old Night itself.
A moaning wind keened ceaselessly in the crimson temple that Madox had built. Ruddy light seeped from the very stones, and the unnatural wind plucked at the corners of the bloody scraps of skin nailed to the temple columns. The runes inscribed on their surface were black as the void, drawing in the energy that surrounded them.
The blood of the Wolf Lord ran in thin rivulets down the haft of Russ's Spear and across the sorcerer's knuckles. As Madox watched, the insubstantial figures of Berek's Wolf Guard withdrew from sight, dragging the body of their lord through the piled bones and skin that littered the chamber in the physical realm.
Where the governor's throne had stood in the audience chamber, Madox had placed his temple's altar, a single block of black stone carved with runes of power. Offerings covered its surface, gleaming like rubies in the hellish light.
A trio of sorcerers approached Madox, dragging the body of the Rune Priest. The Space Marine still clung to life, despite his terrible wounds. The Chaos sorcerer smiled. 'Hold him up,' Madox commanded.
With inhuman strength the Traitor Marines lifted Aldrek nearly to his feet. Madox placed a taloned gauntlet over the rent in the Space Wolf's breastplate and thrust it within. The Rune Priest stiffened. Pure agony focused Aldrek's gaze on the sorcerer.
Flesh ripped, and Madox tore his hand free. The Rune Priest slumped, eyes glazing in death as the sorcerer showed Aldrek what he held in his hand. 'Now the circle is complete,' he said, and laid the progenoid glands on the altar beside nearly a dozen more.
Aldrek's body fell to the bleeding stones with a lifeless clatter as the sorcerers raised their hands and began to chant. Madox felt the power of the great ritual begin to take shape, and turned to face his master.
Madox held up the Spear of Russ to the blazing eye that hovered in the air before him. 'The end of the Space Wolves is at hand,' he said, showing the Wolf Lord's blood to his dreadful master.
TWO
Alarums and Excursions
The narrow blade scored a thin cut across Ragnar's powerfully muscled chest as he pivoted to avoid the killing thrust. Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he brought his iron sword around in a blurring arc and chopped down hard on Torin's exposed neck.
It was a blow that would have hacked a normal man's head clean off. Instead, Torin pivoted on the ball of his right foot, nearly too fast for the eye to follow, and Ragnar's heavy blade rang against the Space Wolf's reinforced collar-bone. The dulled sword split the skin in a pressure cut a quarter of a metre long across Torin's chest, drawing a hiss of pain from the older warrior, and filling the air of the practice arena with the coppery scent of blood. At virtually the same instant, Torin's sword swept down and struck lightly at Ragnar's left thigh before the Space Wolfs lunge carried him past his opponent, opening the distance across the sandy training ground.
Dried blood crackled faintly along Ragnar's brow. The enhanced clotting factor in his blood had already stopped the bleeding from the scalp wound Torin had given him seconds before. Both warriors were bare-chested, clad only in loose fitting breeches, torn and stained from dozens of blows. Most Space Marine Chapters preferred to practise their close-combat skills with automated sparring drones or combat servitors, but the Space Wolves kept to the old ways of their home world: man to man and iron against iron.
Both Wolves were covered in angry red weals and shallow cuts. They grimaced at the pain from torn muscles and wrenched ligaments. The wounds sharpened their wits and tested their wills in a way no mindless combat servitor could.
Turin continued to give ground, gliding effortlessly across the black volcanic sand. His iron sword was a little longer and thinner than the heavy broadsword in Ragnar's hand, lending the warrior a slight advantage in speed and reach. The weapon suited him. Torin was tall and lean, almost lithe compared to Ragnar's broad-chested bulk. His blade flickered back and forth through the air, more often than not avoiding directly blocking the younger Space Wolf's more massive blade and leaving Ragnar swinging at empty air. The older warrior's blows were fluid and precise, striking sharply along leg or arm and withdrawing again, as though intended to goad Ragnar into anger rather than strike a killing blow.
If that was Torin's plan, Ragnar had to admit it was working.
The young Space Wolf lowered his head and charged at Torin with a furious bellow. Gauging the distance carefully, he aimed a fierce blow at the older Space Wolfs temple, and then checked the feint at the last moment and reversed the angle of the blow, slashing hard at Torin's thigh. Quick as he was, Torin was still faster. Instead of trying to parry Ragnar's blade or turn aside, he leapt forward and past Ragnar's right side. The sleek blade scored another shallow cut on the inside of Ragnar's right arm.
Snarling furiously, Ragnar spun and lunged for Torin's retreating back, jabbing the blunt tip against his opponent's shoulder blade hard enough to draw a painful grunt from the older Space Marine, but not enough to translate into a killing blow. Torin threw himself forward into a shoulder roll across the black sand, coming up facing Ragnar a few metres away with his sword at the ready. The older Space Wolf's lean face quirked into a faintly mocking grin. 'Good, but not good enough,' he said.
'I came down here to fight, not dance,' Ragnar growled. 'If you'd sit still for half a second you'd be dead.'
Torin's mocking grin deepened. 'A compelling reason not to sit still, don't you think?' he replied.
'Morkai's frozen bollocks,' boomed a thunderous voice from the edge of the arena, 'will you two quit yapping and get on with it?' A massive figure rose ponderously from a stone bench near the arena entrance, brandishing a gnawed leg bone in his knobby fist like a greasy, gristly club. Rich, honey coloured ale sloshed from an enormous drinking horn clutched in Haegr's left hand and splashed over his thick fingers. 'If I were in there I would have killed the both of you and be halfway back to the mead hall!' The huge warrior's bushy red whiskers and bristly eyebrows lent Haegr the appearance of an enraged walrus.
Torin laughed. His voice was light, but his dark eyes never left Ragnar's face. 'Iron sword against ice mammoth haunch? I think I'd like to see you try.'
'Bah!' Haegr exclaimed, pausing to lick the spilled ale from his scarred knuckles. 'The mighty Haegr doesn't play at fighting Torin. What he fights, he kills. You should know that by now. And if I killed the two of you, who would be left to guard the lady Gabriella besides me?'
The older Space Wolf rolled his eyes in mock disdain. 'Who can argue with wisdom like that?'
Ragnar nearly had him. Just as Torin spoke, he lunged forward, his blade slashing in a blurring figure of eight. For a fraction of a second, Torin appeared to be caught off-guard. He blocked one cut with a ringing blow that sent sparks flying from his sword and barely ducked aside a brutal cut from the opposite angle. Again, his swift blade flicked out, biting painfully at Ragnar's groin, but this time the young Space Wolf kept right on coming, hammering at Torin's head, neck and shoulders. The older Space Wolf back-pedalled furiously, his face growing taut with strain. He was forced to block one blow, and then another. Then a third stroke snapped the thinner blade with a discordant clang. Ragnar's sword continued along its arc and cracked hard against Torin's left cheekbone, knocking the Space Wolf onto his back.
Ragnar leapt forward, stomping down hard on the inside of Torin's right thigh to pin him in place, and then pressing the blunt tip of his blade into the hollow of his opponent's throat. 'This dance is over,' he growled, his hand tightening on the grip of his sword. 'Next time you fight me, try something other than a toy sword.'
Blood flowed in thick streams down Torin's ragged cheek and into his thin moustache. He regarded Ragnar coldly. 'The fight ended five seconds before my sword broke,' he said. 'I killed you, but you were too thick-headed to realise it.'
Ragnar let out a bark of laughter. 'What? That bee sting?'
Torin pushed Ragnar's blade aside and climbed slowly to his feet. He pointed at the spot where his last blow had fallen. 'Femoral artery,' he said. He then pointed to the cut along the inside of Ragnar's sword arm. 'Brachial artery.' Torin jabbed at a fading red mark on Ragnar's abdomen. 'Main pulmonary artery. Even with the clotting factor, I'd have bled you white about two minutes ago.' He turned away and limped over to the broken half of his blade, sticking up from the sands a few metres away. 'You should have paid more attention, my friend. Half a dozen minor blows are just as deadly as one big one.' Torin bent and picked up the battered shard of iron. He frowned, turning it over in his hands. 'I had to have this specially made, you know.'
Torin's cold dissection of the battle drained all the heat out of Ragnar's blood, leaving the younger Space Wolf vaguely shamed. 'You're right, of course,' he said heavily, tossing his notched sword onto the sand.
'Forgive me, brother,' Ragnar said, holding out his hand. 'Give me the pieces of the blade and I'll beg a boon from one of the Iron Priests to have it remade.'
The older Space Wolf shook his head, waving Ragnar's hand away with the broken shard of iron. 'There is nothing to forgive, my friend,' he said. 'The fault is as much mine as yours. I prodded you on purpose, trying to draw out some of the melancholy that's gripped you these last few months.'
'Much as it pains me to say it, Torin's right,' Haegr said, worrying at a piece of gristle with his fangs. 'Here we are back on Fenris, the land of heroes, and all you've done since we got here is mope.'
Scowling, Ragnar turned away, heading for the bench where the rest of his clothes were laid. 'The Chapter is at war,' he said darkly, reaching for his wool and leather tunic. 'We should be out there, fighting alongside our brothers.' Ragnar thought of Sven, his old pack mate, fighting with Berek Thunderfist's great company on Charys. No doubt they were celebrating their victory in the governor's palace even now, while he haunted the stone halls of the Fang like some nithling.
'Our place is at Gabriella's side,' Torin said evenly. 'We have a sacred duty to House Bellisarius, Ragnar, now more than ever, after the losses we suffered at Hyades.'
'I hear you, Torin,' Ragnar replied, sitting on the bench and reaching for his dragon skin boots. They were members of the Wolfblade, bodyguards assigned to the Navigator House of Bellisarius by the Great Wolf, in keeping with an ancient pact that was as old as the Imperium. There were never more than two dozen Wolfblade at any given time, and most of those were stationed on Holy Terra, guarding high-ranking members of the Bellisarius line and training their House troops.
Ragnar, Torin, Haegr and six of their brothers had left Terra more than six months ago to accompany Lady Gabriella, one of House Bellisarius's highest ranking Navigators, on an inspection of the House's holdings on Hyades, a jungle world valued for its promethium mines. Once there, however, they had been caught up in the machinations of a Chaos tainted warlord named Cadmus, who had sworn himself to the service of Tzeentch and to the Space Wolves' ancient foes the Thousand Sons. Cadmus's schemes orchestrated a violent battle between Berek Thunderfist's great company, which was patrolling in the region, and a contingent of Dark Angels. The Dark Angels were one of the most secretive of Space Marine Chapters, and nursed a bitter rivalry with the Space Wolves that stretched back thousands of years. The fight that ensued – and Cadmus's own treachery – claimed the lives of their fellow bodyguards, leaving only Torin, Haegr and himself to keep Gabriella safe. Though Cadmus had ultimately been defeated and the Thousand Sons driven off, Hyades was the first spark in the conflagration sweeping across the Space Wolf domains.
Ragnar rose from the bench and reached for his sword belt. The ancient frost blade, a relic borne by the Wolfblade for thousands of years and given to Ragnar by Gabriella was settled comfortably on his hip. 'It's just… if Gabriella isn't safe in the Fang of all places, she isn't safe anywhere. The Old Wolf needs every stout sword-arm he can muster and we're being wasted here.'
Torin gave Ragnar a probing look as he settled a heavy bearskin cloak around his shoulders. The months on Fenris had changed Torin somewhat. On Terra the Space Wolf had adopted many of the fashionable airs of the local aristocracy. When Ragnar had first met him, his hair was cut short and his moustache trimmed pencil-thin, in the Terran fashion. Now, his hair was growing out again, and bore none of the scent of perfumed pomade he'd favoured among the Imperial elite. His ability to read people, however, was just as sharp as ever. 'This isn't about doing your duty as a Space Wolf. This is about the Spear of Russ.'
The observation stung Ragnar. Though assignment to the Wolfblade was ostensibly a posting of great honour, most Space Wolves saw it as a form of exile, far from the glory of the battlefield. Ragnar could not see it any other way. He had been sent to Terra by Logan Grimnar after he had lost one of the Chapter's most sacred relics: the Spear of Russ. Once wielded in battle by the primarch, in the glory days of the Great Crusade, it had been kept for millennia at a sacred shrine on the planet Garm, waiting for the day Russ would return for the Last Battle. But an arch-heretic named Sergius had stolen the spear during a bloody uprising on Garm, and Ragnar, then a Blood Claw in Berek Thunderfist's great company, had been among the warriors sent to crush the revolt. After numerous battles, Ragnar came face-to-face with his old nemesis Madox, who had manipulated Sergius into taking the spear in an effort to summon Magnus the Red, his Legion's infernal primarch, into the physical realm.
The foul sorcerer nearly succeeded, but just as Magnus began to cross the threshold from the depths of the warp, Ragnar seized the spear from Sergius and hurled the legendary weapon at the fearsome primarch. The spear struck Magnus like a thunderbolt and the daemon prince was hurled back into the raging maelstrom of the warp. Garm had been saved, but the Spear of Russ had been lost, possibly forever.
He'd had no choice. Ragnar knew this. Even the Old Wolf had once told him that he would have done the very same thing had he been in Ragnar's place. That didn't change the fact that he'd betrayed a sacred oath that the Chapter had sworn to their primarch nearly ten millennia ago. To the people of Fenris there were few things more terrible than an oathbreaker, and the realisation haunted him.