“Just in the nick of time too,” said another. “The rebels were bad, but those daemon worshippers are the worst of all.”
“Daemon worshippers?”
“Aye. Sergius and his men. They have a temple in Ironfang Keep. How they kept it secret so long I will never know. They are down there performing some evil ritual night and day. The Gods of Darkness alone know what they are up to. Some say they are opening a way through the warp storms to the Eye of Terror. Others say they are summoning a legion of daemons.”
“A temple to Chaos?” Ragnar asked. The men all spoke in affirmatives.
“Then it shall be cleansed,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ragnar’s Blood Claws took up position among the local militiamen, positioning themselves as sentries so they could watch all the approaches. Ragnar could see Aenar and Torvald talking to the men reassuringly. Sven and the others kept watch on the crater’s rim.
Like children in the presence of protective parents, most of the Garmites lay down to sleep, possibly their first decent night’s rest in many days. Ragnar sat down near the oil stove, careful not to look directly at the flames. The officer sat opposite him. He fumbled inside his greatcoat, then removed a flask that smelled of strong alcohol and politely offered it to Ragnar.
Ragnar considered for a moment. He could smell no poisons, other than the usual toxins that filled the air and water here. It was still possible, he reckoned, for there to be some subtler narcotic within the flask, but the officer’s scent gave no hint of treachery. More important was winning the man’s trust and finding out what he knew. Ragnar realised that he was not doing this for purely military reasons. This was the first approximately friendly Garmite he had had any contact with, and he wanted to get the man’s views on what was happening here. He took the proffered flask and swigged away. The alcohol burned against the back of his throat, and he felt the usual flush of heat and faint wave of nausea as his body compensated for it. The officer took his flask back and helped himself to a generous mouthful before stoppering it and putting it back inside his coat.
“The real stuff,” he said. “Not made from brake fluid or vat alcohol.”
“Good,” Ragnar said, more because it was expected than because he agreed. He had tasted much better booze on his travels. If truth be told, he preferred Fenrisian beer.
“Jan Trainor, captain of the Iron Fang Industrial Militia,” he said, placing his hand over his heart in a gesture of greeting. “Ragnar of the Space Wolves.”
“I am very glad to have met you, Ragnar of the Space Wolves. You do not know how glad.”
Even over the thick cloud of fuel fumes and alcohol, Ragnar could smell the man’s fear. He did not judge Trainor a coward. The man’s bearing suggested toughness and courage. His scent spoke of weariness, and his bearing of a man who had been living with his nerves stretched to the breaking point for too long. “Why?” Ragnar asked.
Trainor looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, and lowered his voice as he replied. “These past few weeks have not been easy. There have been times when I thought we were all going to die.”
“We are all going to die,” said Ragnar. “Nothing in life is certain save death. It is how we choose to meet it that matters.”
Trainor gave him a bitter smile. “You are a Space Marine, and I would expect you to feel that way.” The Garmite raised his hand in a gesture of appeasement. “I mean no harm by that. It’s just that I am no more than half a soldier. I put in my time in the keep militia, and because I was born into one of the high clans I am an officer, but if truth be told, I am really a forge-machine supervisor who has been given a gun and sent out to fight.”
Ragnar considered this. He had enough schooling now to understand most of what the man meant. He realised how much he had changed over the past few years. The unlettered barbarian who had grown up amid the islands of the world sea of Fenris would not have been able to grasp the concepts, even if he could have spoken this man’s language.
“It looks like you have been doing your share of fighting,” he said, to encourage the man.
“There has been enough to go around.”
“Tell me about it.” Ragnar wanted to ask about Sergius but he also wanted a chance to judge this man and the worth of his words, so he moved towards his goal slowly.
“Even during the best of times there is always tension among the high clans who rule the keeps. Trade disputes, infractions of mining claims, arguments over transit tithes on merchant caravans, the usual thing.”
Perhaps for you, thought Ragnar. It all sounded outlandish enough to him. He tilted his head and considered for a moment. Perhaps not. Where resources were scarce, men always fought. He understood this well enough; even on Fenris it was the case, although there it was for possession of islands and fishing grounds. This place did not sound too different, in its own way.
“And there are always bandits, cultists and mutants. When I put in my basic two years in the militia we were forever hunting them down. Sometimes it was hard to tell where banditry started and politics began. Sometimes the bandits were financed by other keeps, or even disgruntled factions within our own, but you just try proving it…”
Ragnar realised the man was talking because he needed to talk. He had kept this to himself for too long, and could not share it with his troops, and now he was with someone he considered at least an equal, he wanted to get it off his chest. Ragnar nodded encouragingly and let him speak. He was learning more from the way this man spoke, from his attitude and his bearing, than he could ever learn from a hundred intelligence auguries, no matter how detailed.
“From time to time, the cartels, the tower leagues, would go to war to settle their differences. I fought in one. I saw thousands of men killed. I thought it was war. I had no idea. I had no idea…”
“Go on.”
“There have always been tensions among the keeps… Always. There have even been wars before that have ended up with Imperial intervention. Sometimes by your Chapter. I have studied these things; I know. It was that devil Sergius and his acolytes, always stirring things up behind the scenes while preaching peace and loyalty on the surface… When this all started I thought it was just going to be another one of those, bad enough in its way, but understandable. I was wrong. I don’t think anything could have prepared me for the ferocity of it.”
So far Ragnar had seen nothing that matched the ferocity of any of the engagements he had fought in during his career, but this young man was doubtless judging things by a different standard.
“It started with a trade dispute between those Bronzehelm bastards, and Ambershield. The two big regional cartels were drawn in. The League of the White Bear for Bronze-helm. The Fists of Garm for Ambershield. Then they called on their allies, and we all waited for war. That’s when we first started to hear the rumours.”
“Rumours?”
“Human sacrifice. Daemon worship. Cannibalism. Both sides were accusing the other. No one knew what to believe. Incidents grew worse. There were massacres of merchants, raids on outlying communities. People would be found with their hearts torn out and horrified looks on their faces. The old governor, Coriolanus, sent in his own men to investigate. They vanished. He announced he was sending off-world for the Inquisition, shortly afterwards he was assassinated. That was when the real trouble started.”
“Real trouble?”
“Father Sergius began preaching that the last days were here, that soon Chaos would come. At first, he told people merely to make peace with their souls, that the end was nigh. I heard the man speak on the comm-channels and his sermons were awesome. There is something in his voice that compels you to believe him, that dispels doubt. His charisma is incredible. And his cult had grown very strong amid all the anarchy. His preachers were everywhere, ministering to the wounded, aiding the poor and the sick. In the beginning we thought they were just another splinter sea of the Imperial cult— there are hundreds here, and they have always
been tolerated…”
“But?”
“But we were wrong. Sergius’s words spread more despair than you could imagine. Everyone believed that the final battle was nigh. Soon the Wolves would come, and Russ to lead them, and the last days would be on hand. Russ is not with you, is he?”
Ragnar laughed and shook his head but then studied Trainor intently. Obviously Sergius had made a very deep impression on him. He was quite a preacher indeed. Ragnar wanted to know more.
“No — the primarch has not returned,” said Ragnar.
“But the Wolves are here?” There was a feverish intensity about the man now.
“We came to free our shrine and aid the people of Garm. Sergius did not need immense powers of prophesy to foretell we would do that.”
Trainor looked relieved, although what Ragnar was saying was only common sense. It was a testimony to the compelling nature of this heresiarch’s words that he had not considered that fact for himself. Perhaps there was sorcery at work here. Or perhaps, in the atmosphere of mass hysteria surrounding this unholy civil war, all sight of common sense had been lost.
“Sergius’s followers changed their tune after that. Little by little, day by day, the message changed. Soon, it was inevitable that Chaos would win. After that it was folly to oppose Chaos. Then it was suicide. Then it was only sound common sense to side with the victor.
“The strangest thing of all was that so many believed him. There was power in his voice. Even if your faith in the Emperor was strong, it somehow compelled belief. There was such sincerity and passion and belief there. It was almost magical.”
“Perhaps it was magic, evil magic.”
“Aye, perhaps. Sergius’s followers went from aiding the poor to fighting their enemies, and they seemed invincible. It was said that bullets could not harm them, and that their cloaks turned blades, and when they were wounded they healed almost instantly. If I had not seen that myself I would not have believed it…”
“Tell me more,” Ragnar prompted. “You said Sergius is based in your home keep.”
“Aye, and has been for days. It’s supposed to be a big secret but he’s there.”
“That’s not just another rumour.”
“No — I saw him with my own eyes.”
Ragnar held his breath. Perhaps he was closer to finding the location of the Spear than he could have hoped. “When?” he asked, keeping his voice flat, calm, slightly disbelieving.
“Lord Koruna massed all the loyalist forces to drive the heretics out of Ironfang, nearly ten thousand men, all loyal to the Emperor.
“We drove downward from the upper halls, clearing them as we went. We would have succeeded too had it not been for Sergius. We drove them all the way back to the temple doors. The heretics were all but beaten when Sergius and his bodyguard appeared — and the things they had brought with them.”
“Things?”
“Daemons, monsters, mutants from the lowest depths, in their thousands. They used sorcery, they were unstoppable. I shot at Sergius myself but some evil spell turned my las-beam, just as it turned the bullets aimed at him. He killed Lord Koruna himself in hand-to-hand combat and that broke our morale and we turned and fled the field. No one wanted to face an invulnerable man in close combat.”
“After that?”
“The heretics hunted us through our own keep. We fought back, but it was hopeless. For every heretic we killed, two more took his place. They even laughed at us as they died. One prisoner spat in my face and told me that soon we would all regret choosing the wrong side. That Lord Sergius was performing a ritual that would bring Chaos to Garm and make all his followers immortal. That was when…”
Ragnar could smell Trainer’s shame. “That was when you killed him?” he asked gently.
“Aye, I killed a prisoner, an unarmed man. It was a dishonourable thing to do.”
“You did the right thing. The man was a heretic. Death was his inevitable fate.”
“I wish I could believe that. He seemed to think immortality was. The Emperor preserve us, what if he was right?”
“He was wrong!
Trainor looked at him doubtfully and then spoke. “After that we fought from tunnel to tunnel and hab unit to hab unit, until eventually we managed to get into the old transit network and make our way here. We encountered some patrols but I don’t think we were followed.”
“Could you get us back in?”
“Aye — I worked in the tunnels for years, doing maintenance. There are dozens of entrances if you know them, for transit and repairs on the geothermal power routes. I have the maps in my satchel. It’s how we got out.”
“Good — we will need them.” Trainor did not look too happy about the prospect of going right back to the place he had just fought his way out of. Silence fell between them. Ragnar knew that he had to get this man back to the shrine. The Rune Priests would want to talk to him and probe his mind, to verify the truth of what he had said. By Russ, if it was true. Suddenly a voice spoke over the comm-net.
+Sven here, your lordship. It looks like we’ve got trouble.+
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ragnar threw himself belly down beside Sven. Looking out from the crater’s edge, he could see what had his battle-brother worried. There appeared to be several hundred warriors approaching. They were accompanied by huge hounds, enormous mutated mastiffs with sharp teeth and long, lean bodies. The dogs sniffed at some sort of trail, and proceeded quietly.
“We’re downwind of them,” said Sven. “Take a sniff.”
Ragnar already had. His senses were keener than Sven’s. There was a corrupt stench to both the dogs and their masters that went beyond the basic pollution saturation common to everything on this world.
Ragnar knew the stink, he had smelled it before in other places and other times.
“Chaos,” he said.
“Nothing gets past you,” said Sven. “Looks like they came out of the big hole to the under-paths over there.”
“They might not be following our lads.”
“And I might take to drinking milk rather than beer,” said Sven. His expression showed exactly how likely he considered both eventualities. “That’s the way our militia friends came — no doubt about it.”
“What are we going to do?” Sven asked. “There’s too many of them for even me to fight with any hope of victory.”
“A realistic assessment of the situation,” said Ragnar dryly.
“There’s no need to be so bloody sarcastic.”
“I think it’s time to summon a Thunderhawk,” said Ragnar. “Maybe more than one.”
Sven nodded. Under the circumstances a hasty retreat, either on the gunship or under cover of its weapons, seemed like a good idea to him too. Ragnar patched himself into the comm-net.
“This is Squad Ragnar calling Castra Fenris. Position alpha-twelve-gamma-two. Requesting Thunderhawk cover. Position under pressure from approaching hostiles. Am accompanied by some locals with important information. Praise the Emperor.”
There was a delay of only a few seconds as he was patched into the company’s command core. The people at the other end knew that no Space Wolf would be making such a request frivolously.
+Castra Fenris. This is Brother Gundar. A Thunderhawk is on its way. Hold your position. Activate your beacons. Praise Russ.+
“Ragnar acknowledging. Out.” Ragnar switched channels, dropping to the squad level. “Ragnar to battle-brothers. Prepare for Thunderhawk pick-up. Switch on your beacons.”
A line of icons flashed on his field of vision letting him know that all of the squad had activated their beacons. The Thunderhawk would now be able to locate them. “Sven, get the Garmites back up here, weapons ready. We may have to fight our way out of here, and I want every gun on those mutants.”
Sven made no comment. All humour had disappeared. He moved to carry out his orders. As he did so Ragnar focused his magnoculars on the hunters.
In the bluish light of the ancient viewing lenses he
could make out their pursuers now. They were garbed in a manner similar to Trainor and his men, although they looked better fed and equipped.
The leaders wore ornate metal masks, moulded to resemble slightly distorted human faces. Instead of mouths they had grilles that indicated filtration systems. Ragnar had seen pictures of those masks before; these men were followers of Sergius. The men the cultists commanded were unmasked and their features were blotchy, as if they were suffering from the early symptoms of some hideous pox. Ragnar had seen that look before, on the faces of the followers of Chaos: the men were in the early stages of mutation. The hounds too carried the mark of the mutant.
He could see they did not quite resemble the hounds of his homeworld, for they looked more rat-like. Their tails were hairless, their features rodent-like. Hideous boils erupted through their mangy fur. Sores wept on exposed patches of skin. In spite of this, they appeared strong and hungry.
It was obvious that they were following Trainer’s trail for now they were moving directly towards the crater in which Ragnar and his companions were concealed. Mutants or not, the men were well armed and well equipped, and there were far too many of them for Ragnar’s liking. He glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the shrine, wondering how long it would be before the Thunderhawk arrived. Not too long, he prayed.
The scuff of boots and the scent of soldiers told him that Trainor and his squad were moving into position near him. Some shouldered las-rifles. Two men wheeled a heavy auto-gun into position. The weapon looked battered and badly maintained. Ragnar hoped it was in better condition than it looked. Such a weapon could wreak awful havoc on a large body of men approaching over relatively open ground. If it worked.
Ragnar looked over at Trainor. “Tell your men not to fire until the heretics are well within range. That way we’ll get more of them.”
Trainor nodded acknowledgement and gave the orders. Ragnar was already making calculations. It did not look as if the Thunderhawk was going to arrive in time. If that was the case, he wanted to make sure they killed as many heretics as possible. Their position was not a bad one. They held the higher ground, and they possessed a heavy weapon. The lip of the crater provided a natural parapet. The real problem was that there were so many of their opponents and so few of them. Ragnar had only his own small squad, and Trainor had about two dozen men, at maximum.