[Space Wolf 04] - Wolfblade

  He fumbled his sword and bolt pistol back into their holsters. They were Space Marine weapons; continued immersion should do them no harm. He had to grit his teeth and keep swimming, and get as far away from the explosions as he could.

  Charges were starting to fall near to him now. Ragnar considered making for the bank, but realised that would only make him more visible and more vulnerable. He needed to keep going and try to win his way free.

  He swam on, glad that he had learned to do so in the turbulent waters of Fenris as a boy. Even so, this was bad, like trying to negotiate the maelstrom at the centre of a storm while all around giant monsters bellowed and sought your life.

  Another tremor smashed through the water close by and sent Ragnar tumbling end over end. He became completely disorientated, unsure of which way was up and which way down. His head felt as if it was going to split. For some reason, the water tugged at him more strongly. The invisible fingers of the current were like those of the hag maidens of Fenrisian legend who were said to lie in wait for drowning mariners. Ragnar kicked out with the current, letting the flow carry him towards the far end of the chamber. As he did so, the impact of the quakes lessened as they travelled further through the water.

  All around the water bubbled and boiled. Another blast boomed through the water, and he felt himself suddenly hurled forward and out into space. All around him the water thundered and yet he felt clear patches of air around his flailing limbs.

  He knew now what had happened. The underground river had carried him all the way through the chamber and out of the other side. He was tumbling down some sort of exit sump, and falling towards incalculable depths below. As the water smashed against him Ragnar strove to straighten his body into a diving position.

  Vague terrors filled his mind. He had no idea how far he was going to fall, or what awaited him at the bottom. There might be jagged rocks or piles of broken metal waiting to impale him. There might be a swampy morass that would suck him down forever.

  Horror and doubt threatened to overwhelm him. Every moment stretched until it felt like an hour. It was not his predicament that scared him as much as the sheer impossibility of knowing what was going to happen. He almost wished he had emerged from the water and sold his life dearly in the slaughter that would have followed. That would have been a man’s death. Now he might fall far from where his comrades could find him and recover his gene-seed. It was possible that his remains might never be found.

  In those brief moments, Ragnar came closer to despair than he ever had in his whole life. The beast within him howled in rage and fear. His monkey mind gibbered and rattled the cage of sanity. But suddenly his long tumble ended and he smashed into blackened waters. The force of the fall drove him still further down.

  With powerful strokes, Ragnar swam out of the range of the current, and headed in the direction that his armour told him was up. It was possible that his sensors had been damaged and that they were malfunctioning but they were the only guide he had. Moments later his head broke the surface. He saw a beam of light spearing towards him and sensed splashing in the water near by. Haegr’s pain-filled voice called out: “I see you made it as well, Ragnar.”

  Relief filled him. He was still alive and had found his comrade. Or, more correctly, his comrade had found him. They had escaped from the deadly trap above and were alive. “Aye, Haegr it is me.”

  “I see Torin managed to avoid a bath once more.”

  “Let us hope that he got away with his hide intact.”

  “Do not worry about him. It will take more than a few hundred angry cultists and their pet wizard to put him down. If they wanted to lure him into a trap, they would have had to set up a corridor full of mirrors.”

  “This is hardly the time to be talking like this,” said Ragnar, swimming closer. “We need to find a way out of here ourselves.”

  “That should not be too difficult. Just keep heading upwards and we will get there eventually.”

  Ragnar did not bother to ask him why he had not suggested activating their beacons. Any enemy that knew they were coming would be able to locate them by it. It was only a matter of tuning in to the correct comm-net frequency and knowing the scrambled codes. A few hours earlier he would have said that was impossible. Now he was not so sure.

  “I think we were betrayed,” he said. Judging by the echoes around them, they were within a large cave or tunnel. The walls could not be too far. The only question was whether there would be dry ground there. There was only one way to find out.

  “Maybe,” said Haegr. “The self-proclaimed prophet was a psyker. Maybe he foresaw our arrival.”

  Ragnar considered this. It was possible, but he did not want to abandon his own theory. There was too much else that pointed to the presence of a traitor within the ranks of House Belisarius. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so, do you?”

  It must be written all over his scent, Ragnar thought. He began swimming towards the shore, with his head above water so they could talk. He did not fear the possibility of being followed down here. The Brotherhood members would have to be suicidal to cast themselves into the waterfall.

  “It is possible.”

  “But?”

  “There’s the assassination of Adrian Belisarius, and the attempt on Gabriella. Too much points to there being an insider.”

  “There always are insiders among the Navigator Houses, Ragnar. You are not on Fenris any more. Every House is filled with spies. Every one of them is compromised.”

  “But back there, you thought we had been betrayed.”

  “It was my first thought until I saw that blasted sorcerer at work.”

  There was something to what Haegr was saying. A psyker could predict their arrival and perhaps tell their number. Such feats were not beyond some of the Rune Priests of his Chapter. It beggared belief that other psykers would not also be capable of them. He did not know which idea he liked less: traitors in their midst or their enemies having recruited powerful psykers to fight for them.

  “A rogue psyker, right here on the holy soil of Terra,” said Ragnar.

  “Who says he is a rogue, Ragnar? There are many factions who might be pulling the strings of the Brotherhood. Some of them employ psykers.”

  Ragnar could only think of two off the top of his head. It seemed ludicrous that the Astropaths would want to get rid of all the Navigators except one. “Are you suggesting the Inquisition might be behind this?”

  “No. This is not their way. But Ragnar you forget many of the High Lords of Terra, and the organisations they represent have access to psykers as well.”

  The bank was ahead of them now. Ragnar could hear water lapping against rock. A moment later a sheer wall was picked out by the pen-beam on his shoulder-mounted light. He sensed a disturbance in the depths below him. Was there something living down there? Some mutated creature of the depths surfacing from below? Were hungry eyes watching him from the cold depths?

  He swam to the edge of the water and studied the wall of plascrete ahead. It rose sheer about three metres and above it there appeared to be a ledge. He unhooked a grapnel from his belt and tossed it upwards. It caught the first time and he tested its hold with a few sharp tugs. Moments later he had swarmed up the wall and lay on the edge, Haegr right behind him. He flopped onto the bank like a beached walrus. And not a moment too soon. Something large and luminous was rising from the depths, but it did not quite reach the surface. Sensing its prey had gone, it slowly receded into the deep dark waters.

  Ragnar listened carefully All around he could hear the sound of falling water. Not just from the nearby falls, but from a great distance as well. It seemed as if there were other sources feeding this vast reservoir, or whatever it was. He could not see the far side of the lake — for that was how he was beginning to think of it.

  He watched Haegr as the older Marine flopped down beside him. He was badly beaten up. His armour was cracked in many places and had been broken through completely around his
left shoulder and forearm. His whole face was horribly burned. His beard and whiskers had been singed on one side of his face. It was nothing that competent healers could not repair, but they were far away from medical help. Perhaps Haegr had internal injuries as well, he appeared to be moving slowly and favouring his right side. Things were not looking good. Any time a Space Wolf did that, it spoke of an enormous amount of pain.

  “You think one of the High Lords might be behind all of this? To what end?”

  “Don’t ask me, Ragnar. I am only a humble Space Wolf. Torin could doubtless tell you.”

  “There is nothing humble about you, and I am sure you have some ideas.”

  Haegr grinned wryly. “Who can tell anyone’s motives in the tangled weave of Imperial politics? A lord might be trying to curry favour with the Inquisition, or ride the wave of a jihad to supreme power. It’s been tried before, even here on Terra, and it has succeeded too.”

  Ragnar stood upright and almost offered to help his battle-brother to his feet, but a warning glance told him it would be unwise. A Space Wolf would have to be in his last throes before he would accept help of that sort.

  He took in their damp and unwholesome surroundings. How old was this place, he wondered? So old that even the gargoyles had crumbled and even the so-called “ever-burning” lights of the ancients had faded.

  The air smelled damp and fusty. There were currents in it that spoke of a recycler in action somewhere far off. If he concentrated he could hear the distant hum of machinery muted by the sound of falling water.

  They strode forward towards the direction of the air-currents. A few hundred strides brought them to a massive archway. A canal ran out through it, flanked on either side by a path. Hundreds of corroded metal pipes lined the walls. Water leaked from them and had discoloured the stone and brickwork. A gigantic mosaic depicting what might have been the Primarch Sanguinius, or one of the angels of the ancient’s religion, decorated the wall above the arch. The figure stood so that his legs bestrode the entranceway. Ragnar could make out one huge wing, but more became visible as he traced them with his shoulder light. Did Sanguinius ever carry a huge horn? Ragnar did not think so. Or a flaming sword with which he smote daemons? There was much here the artist had got wrong, Ragnar thought, as he followed the limping Haegr along the canal bank.

  “I sometimes wish I was back on Fenris. Life seemed much simpler there.”

  “Perhaps, but if you went back now I doubt you would still think the same way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Terra changes men, Ragnar. Once you get used to seeing scheming behind everyone’s actions it is very difficult to stop. You will take new eyes back to Fenris when you return,” There was a strange note in his voice and an odd glint in his eye. It was said that the closeness of death brought on the skill of foretelling in some men.

  “You seem very certain that I will.”

  “I am a good judge of men, Ragnar. I know you will. You have that look about you. You have been marked out for great things. That is your fate.”

  Ragnar considered Haegr’s words. “I have been marked out for great calamity. I lost the Spear of Russ.”

  “No, Ragnar. You used the Spear of Russ. You smote a primarch with it. It responded to you. Do you think that any man could cast such a weapon? Even a mighty hero such as I?”

  Ragnar did not consider himself blessed, rather accursed. But there was something akin to envy in Haegr’s voice. Ragnar wondered if there was any truth in his words. He couldn’t think of a response. Instead, another thought struck him. He should try and contact his companions. He patched himself into the comm-net, but caught only static, which was unusual. Haegr gave him a knowing smile.

  “The local relay must be down on this level.”

  “They need relays down here?” Ragnar was astonished. He had never encountered such a thing before.

  “Yes. Some of the levels were built with seals, or materials that somehow resist the net. You need to be near a relay to use the net and this one must be down.”

  “Down! That is criminal incompetence.”

  “But it happens. Maybe by accident, maybe by design. We’ll need to find another level, or a relay station.”

  “Come on then, we need to get back to the surface and see if we can smoke any conspirators out.”

  Ahead of them were lights. Ragnar moved forward cautiously. He gestured for Haegr to stay where he was. He was worried about his companion — he appeared slow. His wounds were bad. Normally a Marine would have begun self-healing by now, if he were capable. His system must be overloaded trying to keep him alive. Judging by his pallor it might even fail. Despite this, Haegr managed to grumble about the lack of food.

  All through the long weary trudge up from the reservoir, he had been uncharacteristically silent, moving slowly as if conserving his strength. The only time he had become animated was when some huge rats had scurried away from their lights. He had even made a half-hearted attempt to catch some.

  Ahead of them lay a large empty chamber. It looked as if it had once been an open square surrounded by high buildings. There were still walls and windows and doorways enough to give the illusion an air of reality. If this place had once been open to the sky, now it was roofed over with plascrete. Doubtless that was where the next level began.

  Ragnar could see many people. Some dwelled in what looked like huge over-turned metal barrels. Others were in translucent blisters that seemed stuck to the walls above. Some clambered up to the higher windows on towering metal ladders. A few seemed to have got into a vast metal pipe through holes in its side and had made their home there.

  In the centre of the square was a small building. On the roof towered an armoured figure representing the Emperor from before the time he was entombed in the golden throne. It was an early archaic symbol of the Imperial cult. Perhaps it was the sign of some branch of the Adeptus Ministorum he did not know. Perhaps it actually dated from a time when the Emperor walked the streets of this world.

  Ragnar wondered whether it would be best to skirt this community. After all, it might be allied with the Brotherhood. But if it were not, they might be able to find a healer. Haegr was in a very bad way. Any medical help, no matter how primitive, was critical now. Ragnar decided to risk it.

  Many robed and cowled figures moved through the underways. Methane gas recycled from sewage was used to light the whole area. Ragnar could smell both the gas and the processing works; neither was a treat to his sensitive nose.

  Doorways lined the tunnel walls; some were blocked by pieces of corrugated metal, others were hung with drapes. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the methane burners over which it was cooked.

  The people up ahead moved slowly. Every now and again, a skinny emaciated hand or face was visible. Whoever these people were, they were not thriving. Most of them were not armed either. This reassured Ragnar. This place had neither the look nor the smell of the Brotherhood camp.

  He moved forward through the gloom, certain that no one would detect him until he was really close, unless he wished it. Ahead of him he could see a small skinny man, moving along. His walk was a crooked waddle, as if his legs were bowed. He was helped by a long staff carved from bone. Ragnar tapped him on the shoulder, and was surprised when the man leapt into the air and shrieked. He would have bolted had Ragnar not restrained him.

  “Peace, stranger,” he said. “I mean you no harm unless you try to harm me.”

  The little man turned round to look at Ragnar. The light reflected on his round spectacles, turning his eyes briefly into circles of fire. “In the Emperor’s name, I doubt that is possible for the likes of me, sir.”

  “His voice was high-pitched and quivering, his manner shy and tentative. He sounded more like a scholar or a clerk than a member of the Brotherhood. And who are you?” Ragnar asked.

  “I am Linus Serpico the third, junior clerk third class at the Imperial sprocket works number six, like my father, and his father before him
.”

  He paused for a moment and considered his words. “At least I was. Until the sprocket works blew up.”

  “Blew up?”

  “An unfortunate industrial accident, sir. It does not reflect on the management in any way. Although I have heard it say that it would never have occurred if they hadn’t spent the entire safety budget on a gold-plated statuette of Saint Theresius for the high foreman’s retirement.”

  Ragnar cocked his head to one side, baffled as much by the speed of the man’s garbled speech as by his words.

  Linus took Ragnar’s silence the wrong way. “Not that I place any credence in such scurrilous rumours, sir. You can always find people who will read the worst into anything. Just because the high foreman, his wife and the under-foremen retired to their own private gallery on sub-level 5, it does not mean that they were illegally appropriating funds for their own use.”

  “If you say so,” said Ragnar. The little man let out a long sigh.

  “I do not say so, unfortunately. As junior clerk third class it was my misfortune to have to scribe and blot the great account books, and if I may say so I suspect — although I do not firmly accuse anyone — I suspect that there were certain irregularities.”

  “Do you indeed?” said Ragnar.

  “I do. And in time, once the evidence was suitably corroborated I would have been in a position to put the evidence before the auditor general of sprockets. It would have been my duty to do so, sir, and it was a duty from which I would not have shirked. Unfortunately, the whole factory was reduced to rubble by the unfortunate aforementioned blast. Had I not been abroad on an errand for Supervisor Faktus, sir, I would most likely have been blown to high heavens with it.”

  “Indeed. You are a resident here?”