'Bring us two points to port,' the ship's master ordered. 'Let's clear our wake and see where those raiders went.'
All starships were blind directly aft, where the roiling wake from their thrusters made sensor returns impossible. Slowly, ponderously, the battle cruiser swung around, streaming twisting ribbons of fire.
The seconds stretched upon the command deck as the ship's augurs searched for the Chaos raiders. Fire-fighting crews were hard at work on the bridge deck, and already the choking smoke was dissipating. Ragnar breathed slowly and evenly, allowing his enhanced respiratory system to filter out the worst of the fumes. He bent low over Gabriella. 'Are you all right, lady?' he asked. 'Shall I call for a medicae?'
'No, no,' the Navigator protested waving a soot stained hand. Her eyes were bleary from the smoke, but her expression was determined. 'The God-Emperor knows they've more serious problems to worry about.'
'Fire-fighting teams on the flight deck say they have evacuated the hangar and vented it to space,' the damage control officer reported. 'The fire is out.'
'Very well,' Wulfgar replied. 'Where are the enemy ships?'
The chief auspex officer looked up from his screen. 'No contacts aft,' he replied, his voice tinged with relief. 'The remaining enemy ships have shut down their augurs and gone silent. They've disengaged!'
A ragged cheer went up from the command crew. 'Belay that foolishness!' Wulfgar bellowed. 'We're far from safe harbour yet. Gun crews and augur teams will remain at their stations. All other crew will report to local damage control stations and lend assistance.'
The ship's officers scrambled to obey. Wulfgar stepped wearily down from the command pulpit and approached Sigurd and Ragnar. Neither of the Space Wolves had moved from their places. Barely four minutes had elapsed since the battle had begun.
Wulfgar bowed his head to the Wolf Priest. 'We've fought our way clear for the moment,' he said grimly, 'but I fear the Fist of Russ is crippled, lord. A Thunderhawk can reach Charys orbit in less than three hours. I suggest you and your warriors depart for the planet at once. The enemy could return with reinforcements at any time.'
Sigurd nodded gravely. The young Space Wolf Priest looked around the damaged command deck, apparently stunned by the devastation his orders had wrought. He slowly raised his crozius over Wulfgar's head. 'Praise Russ and the Allfather,' he intoned in a powerful voice. 'You and your crew are to be commended, Shipmaster Wulfgar. It was wrong of me to suggest that a man like you was without honour. The courage of you and your men shames me.' The priest placed his hand on Wulfgar's head and pronounced the Benediction of Iron, an honour normally reserved for members of the Chapter. When Sigurd was finished, Wulfgar looked up at the Wolf Priest in speechless awe, nodded respectfully to Ragnar and returned quickly to his station.
Ragnar watched as Sigurd looked around the damaged command deck one last time, dearly shaken by the fierce battle. When the Wolf Priest's gaze fell upon him and Gabriella, however, his expression hardened once more. 'We will leave for Charys at once,' he snapped at Ragnar. When he turned to Gabriella, his voice was far more moderate. 'Will you accompany us aboard one of our Thunderhawks, lady? It is no longer safe for you to remain aboard, I fear, and it will be some time before the Fist of Russ has need of your talents.'
'Your concern is noted, holy one,' Gabriella replied smoothly, 'but I and my Wolves will follow in my personal shuttle.'
'As you wish,' Sigurd replied with a curt bow. To Ragnar, he said, 'Report to headquarters as soon as you've made planetfall.' Then he strode swiftly from the command deck.
Ragnar watched the young priest depart, admiration mixing with outrage. Later, he vowed, Sigurd would answer for his insults to Ragnar's honour. For now, they had a war to fight.
SIX
Unto the Breach
By accident or a pernicious twist of fate, the enemy rocket attack began just as the landing craft from the Fist of Russ began their final approach. Two kilometres north across the cratered and smouldering expanse of the Charys starport, the barrage siren began to wail from the central bunker complex, the notes barely perceptible above the rising shriek of the Thunderhawks' turbines. Seconds later a salvo of rockets roared in from the rebel artillery positions to the east, just as the first assault transport raised its armoured prow and flared in for a vertical landing. The unguided warheads fell at random across the ten-kilometre square starport, detonating amid empty revetments, burned-out warehouses and blackened administration buildings. One came down on the other side of a storage shed less than two hundred metres from where Mikal Sternmark and the assembled honour guard were waiting at the edge of the landing field. The blast hurled chunks of burning flakboard and pulverised ferrocrete into the air with a thunderous explosion. Neither the Space Marines nor the armoured platoon of Imperial Guardsmen seemed to notice.
Roiling clouds of dirt and grit sped in a widening circle as the descending craft touched down in a rough diamond formation at the centre of the landing field, less than a hundred yards away. The hot wind tangled Sternmark's dark hair and pulled at the tattered ends of the black wolf pelt across his shoulders. Needles of pain stabbed along the length of the ugly, ragged wound that marked the left side of Sternmark's head, but the Wolf Guard grimaced stoically into the hot, stinging wind and tightened his grip on the haft of the power axe in his left hand. He'd had little occasion to carry it recently, and he drew comfort from its familiar weight.
He'd carried an entire world on his shoulders for the last three weeks, and now he could gladly set that burden aside. It was one thing to lead men into battle and come to grips with the enemy face to face, Mikal had done that for more years than he could count, and he was good at it. Directing a planetary campaign from a dimly lit bunker, with thousands of troops and tens of millions of civilians to contend with was something else again. Once upon a time, he'd dreamt of rising to the lofty rank of Wolf Lord and holding the fate of star systems in his hands. Charys had shown him the folly of his ambitions. He was a warrior, and a leader of warriors, and he longed to return to the front lines where he belonged.
The ferrocrete landing pad trembled as the transports touched down. Mikal saw with some bemusement that one of the craft wasn't a Thunderhawk at all, but a richly appointed shuttlecraft with the insignia of House Bellisarius emblazoned on its flank. Must be some kind of advance party, he thought, and waited patiently as the transports' assault ramps lowered with a clang and the first troops clattered out into the late afternoon sun.
Dust swirled around the legs of the Space Wolves as they loped onto the ferrocrete and formed up in ranks. Here and there the billows of dust seemed to mask larger, more hulking shapes that stalked menacingly at the corners of Mikal's vision. He shook his head sharply to try and clear it, which only set his wound throbbing again. The hellblade that had struck him during the frenzied retreat from the governor's audience chamber had not been poisoned as far as the company's Wolf Priest could determine, but the injury wasn't healing as it should.
Within moments, three large packs of Space Wolves were standing in ranks before their transports, heads held high and weapons ready at their sides. Blood Claws, Mikal noted with a slight frown. His expression of unease deepened when he saw that none of the warriors bore the heraldry of the Great Wolf on their shoulders.
Movement at the end of the line caught his eye. Mikal saw a Wolf Priest step forward and raise his crozius in salute to the waiting honour guard. The heavy mantle of wolfskin and the bulk of the priest's polished armour made the wearer seem almost childlike in comparison, like a son trying on his father's wargear. After a moment, he recognised the young, aristocratic face. Sigurd, son of a rich jarl in the Dragon Isles, young and unblooded, Blessed Russ, what is he doing here?
Off to the west, a heavy drumbeat shook the ground as the Earthshaker batteries of the Imperial Guard fired a counter-battery salvo against the rebel rocket launchers. Nearly a third of the Blood Claws flinched at the sound, weapons jerking in their hands. Sternmark's unease transformed to irritation.
He strode towards the Wolf Priest, lips curling back from his teeth. Silent as a shadow, Morgrim Silvertongue followed in Sternmark's wake, watching the scene unfold with a storyteller's eye. Marking my every mistake, noting every telling failure, the Wolf Guard thought sourly. Every king and hero wanted a fine skald at his side, but pity the warrior whose deeds were not worthy.
Sigurd watched Mikal approach and smiled, making the sign of the wolf. 'The blessings of Russ and the Allfather be upon you, Mikal Sternmark,' he intoned. 'All of Fenris knows of your deeds on Charys, and we have come to add our swords to your own—'
'Where is he?' Sternmark growled.
The Wolf Priest's smile faded. 'I don't… I don't understand,' he stammered.
'Where is the Great Wolf?' Mikal said, still advancing on the young priest. With his terrible wound and his battered Terminator armour, the Wolf Guard was a vision of war incarnate, looming over Sigurd and the front rank of the startled Blood Claws. 'When will he and his company make their landing? Has he been delayed by the space battle?'
Sigurd lowered his crozius, an apprehensive look on his face. 'He… he's not here, lord,' he answered.
'Berek is lord here, not I!' Mikal shouted, suddenly struck with anger. 'I am his lieutenant and champion, and control of this war zone must pass to Grimnar as soon as he arrives.' He took another step forward, teeth bared, his face mere centimetres from Sigurd's. 'Can you tell me when he and his company will make planetfall or not?'
The Wolf Priest blanched at Sternmark's palpable fury, but gamely held his ground. 'He won't,' Sigurd said flatly. 'He can't. The Great Wolf's company is scattered across the war zone, supporting the actions of the other Wolf Lords.'
His answer stopped the Wolf Guard in his tracks. The shock left him painfully aware of the spectacle he'd made of himself. Sternmark fancied he could feel the skald's dark eyes burning accusingly into the back of his neck.
'I don't understand,' he said, not quite able to keep the stricken tone from his voice. 'Did he not read my report? Berek has fallen. Madox is here, with the Spear of Russ. This is where the war will be decided.'
Sigurd nodded, more composed now, but still unable to conceal the look of resentment in his eyes. 'Even so,' he replied, 'the Great Wolf cannot come. We have been sent in his place to aid you in whatever way we can.'
Once again, a tide of anger and despair threatened to overwhelm Sternmark. He shot a look at the waiting Blood Claws and choked back the words that first rose to his lips. How am I to save our Chapter with three packs of initiates and a boy-priest? Why has the Old Wolf forsaken'me?
Instead, he drew a deep breath and struggled to push his feelings aside. As he did so, he caught sight of another small group approaching the ranks of newly arrived troops. Though distant, he recognised their scents at once.
Ragnar Blackmane, and the Navigator, Gabriella, with Torin the Wayfarer and Haegr the Mountain in tow. What in Morkai's name are they doing here? The answer suggested itself almost at once. It's the Spear. Grimnar's sent them to reclaim it somehow. Either the Old Wolf is truly desperate, or he knows something I don't.
Sternmark chose to believe the latter. He'd banked a great deal on the report he'd sent to Fenris, believing that once Grimnar understood how dire things were on Charys, the Old Wolf would gather his warriors and take charge of the campaign. Mikal had clung to that hope for days, knowing he was not up to the task that had been thrust upon him. Now he would have to see things through to the bitter end.
With as much dignity as he could muster, Sternmark turned to the assembled Blood Claws. 'Praise Russ!' he declared. 'Look upon blood-stained Charys, and know that your deeds here will be remembered in the sagas of our Chapter. Glory awaits you, in the Allfather's name!'
The Blood Claws didn't respond for a moment, still stunned by the Wolf Guard's earlier outburst. Then Sigurd raised his crozius and added his voice to Sternmark's. 'For Russ and the Allfather!' he cried. 'Glory awaits!'
Harald, leader of the first Blood Claw pack, took up the cry. 'Russ and the Allfather!' he roared, raising his axe. Within moments the rest of the Space Wolves had joined in, banging their weapons against their breastplates and howling at the smoke stained sky.
Mikal Sternmark listened to the shouts of his young brethren and fought to master his emotions. Ghostly images played at the corners of his vision: huge, leaping shapes that were neither beasts nor men, and strange, distorted sounds whispered in his ears. The wound, he thought despairingly. That damned hell-blade has laid a curse on me.
He looked to Silvertongue, and caught the skald staring at him with those unreadable eyes of his. Mikal could guess how his own saga would end. Not all the tales ended gloriously. Some ended in tears, or infamy. The thought shamed him, but he resigned himself to it.
Off in the distance, the barrage siren wailed.
The command bunker was red-lit and stank of unwashed bodies and bile. From what Ragnar could determine, the Guard commander in chief had chosen the starport bunker complex as her headquarters upon first arriving with her regiments on Charys, and what started out as a temporary post became permanent as the campaign wore on. Field cots and piles of empty ration tins in the corners of some of the low-ceilinged rooms suggested that Athelstane's general staff worked, slept and ate at their posts. Judging by the pasty faces and red-rimmed eyes he'd seen on his way inside, Ragnar thought that many of her staff hadn't felt the touch of sunlight in weeks.
That one observation told him all he needed to know about how desperate the situation on Charys truly was.