'Don't mind him,' Haegr said. 'I haven't understood a single thing he's said since the battle ended. If I didn't know any better I'd say he took the head wound instead of you.' The burly Wolfblade surveyed the scene of carnage and shrugged. 'The Raptors ambushed us. I'm sure you remember that part. But before mighty Haegr could put them to flight, Torvald and his… warriors… raced out of the shadows and tore our foes to pieces.'
'But who are they?' Ragnar asked, still haunted by the images in his mind's eye. 'They are clearly sons of Fenris, but the armour and insignia—'
'They haven't been seen since the Heresy,' Torin said, 'not since Leman Russ descended on Prospero to wreak his vengeance on the Thousand Sons.' He shook his head in wonder. 'They're part of the Lost Company, Ragnar, the Thirteenth.'
Haegr let out a snort. 'Listen to him. He thinks he's a skald, now.'
'Perhaps I was, once upon a time,' Torin said archly. 'There's more to life than just eating and fighting, you shag-eared lummox.'
'But what are they doing here?' Ragnar interjected. 'And how did Sigurd come to be with them?'
Torin shrugged. 'You'd have to ask them, brother. Sigurd wouldn't tell us a thing, and I gather Torvald is using his powers to hide us from our foes.'
'He's a priest, too?' Ragnar asked dumbly.
'Not just a priest, Ragnar. Torvald was one of the first Rune Priests,' Torin replied. 'He fought alongside Russ during the Great Crusade. Imagine that!'
'And you pitched him into the dirt as if he was a bare-chinned aspirant,' Haegr said, slapping Ragnar on the shoulder. 'That was well done, little brother! He's lucky he didn't try to shake his axe in my face. I might have bitten it off and spat it at his feet!'
The young Space Wolf paid Haegr no mind, staring instead at the huge wolf-men patrolling around them. 'They're all wolf-bitten,' he said, 'even Torvald. He has the mark of the Wulfen in his eyes.'
'According to the sagas, Magnus and the Thousand Sons escaped our wrath on Prospero by retreating through a portal into the warp, but Russ wasn't about to let them escape so easily. He ordered the Thirteenth to give chase, and they disappeared into the fading portal, never to be seen again.' Torin shook his head ruefully. 'It's a wonder any of them are alive at all.'
'Ten thousand years,' Ragnar echoed, trying to make sense of all he'd heard. 'What does Torvald want of us?'
'Not Torvald, he's here at the bidding of his lord, Bulveye. Sigurd said we're to head up into the mountains to meet with Bulveye and the rest of his warband. I expert we'll learn more when we get there,' Torin said.
Ragnar met Torin's eye. 'How do we know we can trust them?' he asked.
The question surprised Torin. 'They're our brothers, Ragnar!'
'Even so, they've spent ten millennia at the mercy of the warp,' the young Space Wolf countered. 'Who can guess what their motives are now?'
Torin shifted uncomfortably. 'We'll know soon enough. Torvald and his Wulfen mean to take us into the mountains, and I don't think we have much choice in the matter.' The older Wolfblade rose abruptiy to his feet. 'Besides, we're not exactly unblemished ourselves.'
Ragnar watched, bemused as Torin stalked away. Haegr shook his head and rose to lumber after his long-time friend. The young Space Wolf turned to Gabriella, a questioning look on his face. 'What did Torin mean by that?'
The Navigator looked at Ragnar for a long moment, and then reached out and lightly touched his cheek. 'It's your eyes,' she said, a weary sadness in her voice, 'they're yellow-gold now, just like Torvald's.'
At the same moment, many leagues across the shadow world, a crescendo of pain and suffering rose within the walls of the crimson temple as the energies of the great ritual approached a critical mass. A thousand sorcerers and initiates knelt on the stone floor of the cavernous hall, their hands outstretched to the altar of black stone and the bloody scraps of flesh that lay upon it. Their lips were cracked and bleeding, their throats raw and their eyes seared shut by the awful energies emitted from the burning eye that hung like a blasphemous sun above the sacrificial stone.
Hellish light fell upon Madox. He could feel the terrible favour of his primarch resting like a fiery mantle upon his shoulders. The sorcerer lord stood before the great altar, leading the intricate ritual in a cold, implacable voice. In one hand he gripped the stolen Spear of Russ, and it was through this sacred icon that Madox channelled the force of his unholy spell. It was the fulcrum upon which the ritual would act. Without it, the great spell would have been for naught.
Madox felt the minds of the lesser sorcerers in the room, each one shaping a specific part of the malediction that he would channel into the spear. The elements were slipping inexorably into place, like the workings of a vast and terrible engine. He could sense the moment approaching and his voice swelled with triumph.
The Space Wolves had carried the seeds of their own destruction from the very beginning. Very soon those seeds would bear bitter fruit.
SIXTEEN
Red Tide Rising
Torvald the Reaver drove the Wolves hard, leading them out of the dismal fields of the agri-combine and towards the slate coloured mountains to the north at a dead run. Despite his age, the Rune Priest was fleet as a deer. Ragnar and the other warriors had to push themselves in order to keep up. During the first hour the dark green fields of the combine were just a faint line on the horizon, and the empty plains were giving way to low, rounded foothills of dark stone and lifeless earth.
Inquisitor Volt and Gabriella managed to keep the pace for the first half hour, but the exertions they'd endured after the crash of the Thunderhawk quickly took their toll. The older Volt faltered first, his pace slowing and his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stumbled, on the verge of collapse, but two of Harald's Blood Claws closed in on either side of the inquisitor and slipped their arms around his waist, carrying him along just as they would a crippled pack-mate. Gabriella lasted almost half an hour longer, but the sound of her pained breathing made it clear that she'd driven herself well beyond her physical limits. Before she could falter Haegr came up behind her and scooped the Navigator up in the crook of one arm, like a father might cany a child. Gabriella hung limp in the burly Wolfblade's embrace, too exhausted to manage much in the way of protest.
The Wulfen, no less than fifteen of them, Ragnar was shocked to discover, loped along easily beside the warriors. They moved with a swift, fluid gait, clawed hands swinging and shoulders hunched, their wolflike heads held low as if to sniff for signs of danger. Their armour was dented and scarred from centuries of hard use, and Ragnar saw that many of their suits had been patched with scavenged parts. He couldn't be certain, but some of the replacements looked to have been taken from the suits of slain Chaos Marines. Their strength and speed were incredible, but there was little intelligence in their golden eyes save for the fierce cunning of a predator. When Ragnar met their flat stares he felt his hackles rise with an instinctive challenge, and more, a sense of mutual recognition.
Is this my future? Ragnar brooded over the notion as they raced across the twilit plain. He thought of Torvald. The Rune Priest was wolf-bitten, but for all that he seemed capable of holding the curse at bay. There must be a way, the young Space Wolf thought. He couldn't bear the notion that he was a prisoner to his fate.
There was only one person he could think of who could answer his questions. Gritting his teeth, Ragnar picked up his pace and sought out Sigurd the Wolf Priest.
Sigurd ran in the midst of Harald's Blood Claw pack, just a few metres behind Torvald. The younger warriors had gravitated around the priest since his unexpected return, like iron to a lodestone, and they glared belligerently at Ragnar as he worked his way into their midst.
The Wolf Priest noted his approach with a single, forbidding glance. 'What do you want, exile?' he said.
Ragnar gave the priest a sidelong glare. 'All of us are exiles now, priest,' he retorted. 'Our ship was destroyed, so there's no chance of ever returning home to our Chapter and kin.'
Sigurd said nothing at first, although the priest's stiff, silent demeanour told Ragnar that his point had hit home. Finally he said, 'We saw the battle unfold above the shadow world, but could only guess at the outcome.'
'The Fist of Russ is gone, and many brave men are feasting in the Halls of Russ now,' Ragnar said gravely. 'We detected a signal as we tried to make planetfall. Was that yours?'
'Yes,' Sigurd said. 'Bulveye was against it, but I thought it worth the risk. Lookouts spotted the aerial battle and the fires of your crash, and Torvald volunteered to search for survivors.' The priest spread his hands. 'The Wulfen caught your scent and led us to the agri-combine just in time.'
'It seems that the Wulfen saved you as well,' Ragnar said thoughtfully. Memories of the confused melee in the rebel command bunker flashed through his mind. 'The last I saw of you, you were surrounded by daemons.'
Sigurd gave Ragnar a hard look, but reluctantly nodded. 'It was a grim battle,' he agreed. 'They came upon me all at once, rising out of the aether like ghosts. This world we're on lies across Charys like a shadow, allowing them to step between the two at will.'
'I know,' the young Space Wolf replied. 'Inquisitor Volt and Lady Gabriella unravelled the mystery, which is what led us here in the first place.'
The Wolf Priest nodded in understanding. 'The daemons seemed to take particular interest in me for some reason. Perhaps a priest makes a better trophy than a mere warrior,' he said ruefully. 'I struck down several of the abominations, but to my shame the rest of them overwhelmed me. They pinned my arms and somehow dragged me back across the threshold into this nether realm.' Sigurd nodded to the towering form of the Rune Priest just ahead. 'But the foul creatures didn't realise they were being hunted. Torvald and the Wulfen ambushed the Chaos sorcerer and his daemons even as they ambushed us.'
Ragnar remembered the sight of the towering Wulfen grappling with the Chaos sorcerer in the vault beneath the rebel command bunker. 'So Torvald and his warriors can cross between the worlds as well?'
Sigurd frowned. 'Were that possible, I would have returned to the battle straightaway,' he snapped. 'No, the crossing is affected by sorcery. Sometimes it's possible to be caught up in the spell and drawn across the threshold, but only for a moment.' He shrugged. 'The Wulfen pulled down the sorcerer and tore him apart, and Torvald turned his axe upon the daemons besetting me. When the battle was done I tended their wounds as best as I could, and they treated me as one of their own.'
'But how did they come to be here?' Ragnar asked. 'Torin says the Thirteenth Company was lost during the time of the Heresy.'
'Lost?' Sigurd seemed astonished by the notion. 'Bulveye's company was never lost, Ragnar. When a Wolf Lord is slain a new one is raised up to take his place. The same is true for the great companies, but a place for the Thirteenth remains at the table of the Great Wolf back on Fenris, as though they are expected to one day return. Think on that, Ragnar. The Thirteenth Company was sent into the Eye of Terror by Russ, and for ten thousand years they have continued their mission, regardless of the cost.'
The thought was a sobering one. Ragnar studied the grey, featureless mountains ahead and tried to imagine wandering them for ten thousand years, until Fenris was nothing but a distant memory. Unbidden, he felt the wolf within him stir. 'Their honour has cost them dearly,' he said.
'Honour always does,' the Wolf Priest replied.
For a while, they ran on in silence. The footfalls of the Wolves were like a heavy drumbeat across the sloping plain, beating out a war-song in time to the baleful lightning overhead. Ragnar considered his words carefully.