[Space Wolf 02] - Ragnar's Claw

  “What do you mean by that?” Ragnar asked, although he could already guess.

  “Sergeant Hakon said these quarters were the ones used by important guests—”

  “That’s bloody us, all right,” Sven said.

  “And important prisoners,” finished Nils. Ragnar caught on at once. He could see how useful it might be for the Inquisition to be able to overhear what went on in these chambers. Most people would be too wary to speak openly in them of course, but you never knew…

  “Of course, we’re honoured guests,” he said. “And we’ve nothing to hide.”

  “That’s bloody right,” said Sven. He banged his chest and belched.

  “Of course, to understand us they’d have to be able to speak Fenrisian.”

  “Hakon says some of the ancient Engines can translate any language.”

  “I wonder why old Hakon was telling you all this,” Sven said.

  Ragnar knew already. Hakon, too, was wary of what might happen here, and wanted them to be on guard.

  “This isn’t a ship, it’s a damn city,” muttered Sven, glaring around him moodily. Ragnar grinned sourly. Sven had done nothing but complain since Sergeant Hakon had sent them out to get a feel for the starship. Both of them understood that what the sergeant was really saying was: find out the lay of the land.

  Ragnar knew what Sven meant as well. They had wandered through seemingly endless metal corridors and chambers for hours and he had lost count of the number of people he had seen. The crew of this vessel must be numbered in the thousands, he thought. The large open plaza they stood in now was full of men toiling away on huge arcane engines. It smelled of machine oil and recycled air and the stink of stale sweat. Ragnar was reminded of the town of the Iron Masters back on Fenris, but this was on a far vaster scale. Looking at some of the men, he saw that they were chained to their machines. He glanced around, located a man in the ornate uniform of a ship’s officer and strode over to ask him why.

  The officer was a tall man, his hair dark beneath his peaked cap but his face unnaturally pale. He looked like he had spent a lifetime cloistered in the dim, unnaturally lit confines of the great starship. As he spoke his face was grim. “Indentured. Pressed into service. Dirtside scum, sir, most of them. Criminals sentenced to work ship. Minor traitors who are repaying their debt to the Imperium for their crime. Most of them will serve for twenty-five standard years. If they live that long. It’s a hard life. There are accidents.”

  Ragnar considered the man’s words as he glanced at the thin starved wretches, their legs chained and manacled to the machines they serviced. A lifetime unable to move more than two strides from the same place. If it were him he would most likely go mad, he thought. Or try to escape.

  The officer seemed to read his thoughts. “It makes mutiny difficult too. It’s difficult to communicate with anybody save those who work on their own machine. And if they get uppity they don’t get their portion of food until they calm down. Don’t spare any sympathy for them, sir. They’re criminals and they deserve what they get.”

  Ragnar wasn’t sure any man deserved this, but he held his peace. “And once they have served their sentence they are free to leave the ship?”

  “No, sir. They are free to move around it,” the man replied with a grin. “Provided they obey the rules and do what they are told. Most of these men are here for life. This is a prison as well as a starship.”

  “There must be a lot of desperate men aboard then.”

  “They soon learn to serve the Emperor with a will. They know what will happen if they don’t.”

  Ragnar waited expectantly to be told why. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “They can be lashed or chained or subjected to some of the experimental questioning engines the inquisitors keep up front. If they are incorrigible they go for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Ragnar asked, puzzled.

  “Through the airlock. Without a suit.”

  Ragnar was not sure he liked the relish with which the officer said these things, nor the way the man studied him, as if searching for a particular reaction to his hard words. Without further comment, he walked away and Sven followed. But the officer’s words stayed with him. This ship was a prison. It was designed so that there could be no escape. Not even for Space Marines.

  Ragnar and Sven continued their wanderings through the great ship. It seemed almost as vast as the Fang, an endless warren of metal corridors, snaking pipes, ventilators, toiling machinery and men. Ragnar’s earlier fears that they might be prisoners had proven groundless. No one interfered with their movements. No one had forbidden them to go anywhere. As far as he could tell, and he had exerted his very keen senses to the fullest to find out, no one was even following them. They were not watched and they were free to go wherever they wanted. Of course, it was likely the inquisitors had other means of locating them, if they wished, and there was no way off the ship now that the Thunderhawk had departed — unless they took the drastic step of seizing one of the shuttles. But then again, could any of them fly one?

  Sternberg had claimed there was a teleporter on his ship. If that was true, it was a sign of the regard the inquisitor was held in. Such devices were as rare and precious as they were temperamental. Only the Terminator companies of the Space Marine Chapters used them, and then only during missions of utmost urgency and importance. The mystical ancient devices allowed small groups and cargoes to be shifted between themselves and other areas without crossing intervening space, or so the knowledge placed inside Ragnar’s head told him. Maybe the device could be a way off this vessel, if the time came for it to be needed. If you knew the rituals to invoke its power. If they could find the chamber in which it rested. If… Ragnar found himself wondering why he was spending so much time planning an escape. Was he really so uneasy? He could not answer but his instincts told him he was right to be concerned.

  Ragnar pushed the thought aside. Why was he thinking like this anyway? The Inquisition was not his enemy. Its members served the Emperor the same as he did. They had the trust of the Great Wolf. They were honourable people. Perhaps he was just nervous about being trapped on this ship, about going on this immense journey, far from the Fang and his world. In many ways the ship reminded him of the Fang. But the Fang was anchored to the good solid rock of Fenris. This ship was anchored to nothing; it floated in the airless void of space. If certain important systems failed, they would all die. His armour could recycle oxygen and waste-products for him, keep him alive for weeks if need be, but it could not do so indefinitely, and from where they were there was no way to swim home. They were very far out on a dangerous sea, with no land in sight.

  The area through which he and Sven were striding was virtually empty. The lights were few and far between. It was a cavernous vault, a storage bay of sorts. Huge crates bearing the twin-headed eagle seal of the Imperium were stacked almost to the ceiling. Huge roaches scuttled up their sides into the shadows. Cunning-looking rats watched them from dark corners. Ragnar could smell their excrement and their foul, musty odour. He was not fond of rats.

  In the distance he could hear men moving. These were not prisoners. They could come and go as they pleased. Either they were freedmen, or officers, or maybe they were some of the real crew, trained starfarers rather than indentured prisoners of the Inquisition. Ragnar and Sven strode through the aisles. He could hear the men coming closer. They appeared to be on convergent courses. Ragnar wasn’t too bothered by that. He would be interested to meet more starsailors and talk to them. He wanted to understand all about this ship: the way it worked, the way its crew was organised, everything. Perhaps when he found the time, he would talk to the inquisitors about it. If they would talk to him now. This was, after all, their ship. They had duties here that might be too important to neglect.

  The Space Wolves emerged into an area more brightly lit than the rest of the bay. Men worked here on massive scaffolds, transporting the crates like ants bearing rocks. These must be rations, Ragnar thought, or
maybe machine parts or something else, he added. He became suddenly aware that he had no idea what they might be. The workings of the ship were indeed a mystery to him.

  Close by, on ground level, were a number of men. They worked a winch that lowered a small platform down the scaffold, bringing crates to the floor. Another group of rough-looking men supervised the work. As the two Space Wolves came into view, one of the men looked up. Ragnar sensed the tension in him. The man was ready to do violence. A near imperceptible change in Sven’s stance told him the other Blood Claw had detected it as well. Despite his knowledge Ragnar forced himself to look relaxed even though he was ready to spring at a heartbeat’s warning.

  “What have we here?” asked the man. He was wearing a uniform that marked him as part of the ship’s main crew. He carried no sidearm or any obvious weapon, but the heavy crowbar he held in his hand would be an adequate substitute, Ragnar thought. “Some of the Emperor’s chosen. Sacred Space Marines, eh?”

  The tone was scornful but Ragnar sensed fear in the man too. It intensified when he used the words “Space Marines’. It seemed the reputation of the Emperor’s finest preceded them.

  “Greetings. We are proud to be members of the Space Wolves,” Ragnar said smoothly, in Gothic. He sensed other members of the group were getting ready for a fight now. He was not quite sure why, but their hostility was obvious. And all of these men had crowbars in their hands.

  “And don’t you bloody well forget it,” Sven added truculently. Inwardly Ragnar winced. Tact and diplomacy were not skills in which Sven excelled. His tone made the men around them more hostile. What by Russ was going on here?

  “Cocky pups, aren’t you?” said the crew leader. “Maybe we should knock some of that cockiness out of you.”

  “You’re welcome to bloody well try,” Sven said, not at all bothered by the fact that they were outnumbered almost ten to one. Ragnar knew he had reason for his confidence. These were normal men armed with crowbars. He and Sven were Space Marines, and they carried bolt pistols.

  “Big words for a man armed with pistol,” sneered the officer.

  “I wouldn’t need it to deal with a cockroach like you,” Sven said. “Nor your dozen girlfriends neither. Ragnar, if you would step aside for a moment I’ll teach these thralls a lesson.”

  Arithmetic was not a skill that Sven had much time for either, Ragnar noted. Still he had to admire Sven’s style. The number of their enemies in no way daunted him.

  “Arrogant whelp!” another starsailor sneered. This one was a burly, brutal man. A white scar ran the length of his tanned face. Ragnar had enough experience of wounds to know a knife scar when he saw one. Ragnar felt a sudden surge of anger in himself, the beast struggling to free. Why were these men trying so hard to provoke them? They surely must know they had no chance in combat.

  Perhaps because he was concentrating so hard on the sneering sailors, Ragnar almost missed the major threat until it was too late. Only the whoosh of air and a shadow growing on the ground near him gave him the slightest of warnings. It was enough. Even as he dived to one side, pulling Sven with him, he glanced up and saw the falling crate. Two starsailors had pushed it down on them from the pile above. The anger within Ragnar turned to fury. These men must be punished. The crate smashed into the floor. Splintered wood flew everywhere and silvery cans of meat ration tumbled out onto the floor.

  Seeing that their ambush had failed the rest of the men advanced, brandishing their crowbars or vicious curved billhooks; they were intended to handle cargo but their sharp points looked as if they might pierce ceramite.

  Idiots! Ragnar thought. Well, they would soon learn their lesson.

  He surged forward, not even drawing his pistol. No need to waste precious bolter shells on these scum. He lashed out with his right fist at Scarface. The impact of the blow, driven by Ragnar’s mighty augmented muscles and the servomotors of his armour, mashed the man’s nose flat. The thug flew backwards as if hit by a battering ram. His falling body slammed into the men behind him and sent them tumbling. Ragnar reached forward, picked up one of the fallen men and effortlessly hoisted him clean above his head. The man’s feeble struggles availed him naught against the Space Wolfs awesome physical power. Ragnar tossed him headlong at a pair of his companions, bowling them over. Sven dived past Ragnar into the rack, striking left and right with his armoured fists. With every blow he downed another man. It was like watching a whirlwind tear through a field of barley; the sailors had no chance whatsoever. Sven was moving so fast Ragnar doubted that anybody else could even follow his motions. Only his own razor keen senses allowed him to see anything other than a blur.

  Bones cracked. Blood flowed. Men fell. Ragnar glanced up and around him, to see that more of the starsailors had grabbed the chains of the lift and, showing more bravery than common sense, were dropping into the fray. Ragnar snarled, showing his fangs, and let out a long ululating howl of battle lust. The sound of it so unmanned one of the dropping starsailors that he let go of the chain and dropped to the ground. From the way he flopped, like a newly landed fish, Ragnar could tell that his back was probably broken. His shrieks spoke of awful agony.

  To Ragnar’s surprise, his anguish did not cause his companions to reconsider their folly and flee, but seemed to spur them on to attack with redoubled fury. Ragnar ducked the swing of a crowbar, then plucked it out of its wielder’s hands, like a man taking a stick from a child. For a moment he considered using it as a weapon against his assailant, but then tossed it contemptuously aside. It buried itself in the thick wooden side of a crate and stayed there quivering.

  The man kicked at Ragnar. His foot connected with Ragnar’s armoured side with a crunch of breaking bone. The man’s mouth dropped open and he screamed in pain. Ragnar’s punch silenced him. The thug fell to the ground, blood and broken teeth dribbling from his ruined mouth. Ragnar glanced around him and noticed with some satisfaction that Sven had all but finished off the rest of their attackers. He had the uniformed leader by the throat and held him easily at arm’s length, one-handed. The ringleader’s feet dangled half a stride above the floor.

  Ragnar heard the last of the men from above drop to the ground behind him, and turned to face the new threat. He saw there were only five of them and dived into their midst, howling his war cry. His outstretched hands closed around the arms of two of his attackers. He closed his fingers and felt fragile human bones break. A kick with his right foot propelled another man ten strides and sent him smashing into a wooden crate. The man landed badly and then tumbled to the ground.

  The remaining two, seeing the way the fight was going, turned to run. Ragnar was not about to let that happen. He sprang forward and grabbed them by the necks and then knocked their heads together. The two men dropped at his feet unconscious. Ragnar turned to look back at Sven. He had dropped the stunned body of the ringleader at his feet. The Wolf gave Ragnar a sour look.

  “Not much bloody fight in this lot, was there?”

  “I haven’t even got a scratch on my armour.”

  “Weil, they messed up mine!”

  “How?”

  “By bloody well bleeding on it, Russ damn them! I’ll have to give it a good clean now.”

  “Two men dead! Fourteen men hospitalised. Five of them critically and four more temporarily unable to work because of their injuries. What do you have to say for yourselves?” Commander Gul demanded in a tone that brooked no excuses.

  “I thought we had killed more. We must be getting soft,” Sven said disdainfully, looking around the commander’s spartan rest chamber as if admiring the decor. He did not care for Gul’s tone, that much was obvious. “We will next time if they try and ambush us again.”

  “You say they attacked you?”

  “Are you implying that we are somehow mistaken?” Ragnar shot back. “They insulted us, then some of their companions tried to drop a crate of canned meat on our heads.”

  Gul had seen the site of the battle for himself: He seemed a little mollif
ied, and unclenched his fists. “Some of the crew are a little testy, it is true. The different work squads don’t like each other, let alone any strangers on the ship. There might be more of these attacks. Perhaps in future it might be better if you remained in your chambers unless summoned.”

  And was that, Ragnar thought, the whole point of this little exercise? His suspicions of this ship and its crew returned redoubled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ragnar watched uncomfortably. As part of the talisman’s honour guard, he was bound by chains of duty to be present at this moment but he wished it were not the case. Sorcery, even sorcery performed in the service of the Imperium, made him more than uncomfortable. He didn’t need to look around to tell that his battle-brothers felt the same way. Their scents told him all he needed to know about their concern.

  The chamber was deep in the hidden heart of the Light of Truth. All around them were thick steel bulkheads. The doors had been sealed, the lights dimmed. The heady smell of narcotic incense filled the air and made Ragnar’s mind swim until his body adjusted to the presence of the drag. The floor was bare metal; in the centre was a double circle inscribed in sanctified inks and salts. Between the outer and the inner rings were various symbols sacred to the Emperor and the Inquisition. A series of lines radiated out from the exact centre of the circle. Ragnar did not know why, but he knew that somehow the direction in which they pointed was significant. At the end of each line was a blazing copper brazier, the source of the incense.

  And at the exact point where the lines converged, Inquisitor Karah Isaan sat cross-legged on the cold steel floor. She was naked save for the talisman, which dangled from her neck. Ragnar could see the whitened scars that marked her dark brown skin. Badges of honour from old combats, he expected. The woman breathed deeply and rhythmically. She was gathering her powers for an attempt to psychometrically locate the next part of the amulet they sought. Ragnar had heard Sternberg and Hakon discuss this earlier. Apparently there was some sort of psychic link between all the different segments of the broken talisman, and these could be used to divine their exact position in relation to each other. Ragnar was not quite sure how this worked, but then psykers and their arts were a total mystery to him.