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  The men showed no sign of the Legiones Astartes dread as the legionary approached them. Instead they appraised him for weakness. They tracked his every movement with their eyes, hands loosely curled around axe throats and sword hilts. Powerful though they were, the Fenrisians were small compared to the armoured legionary. They did not understand the raptor head insignia and battle honours that marked Rathvin out as the master of the VI Legion, and a great warrior in his own right. Nevertheless, the barbarians were a threat to him. Like the wolves they aped, they were dangerous enough alone, but deadly in pack, even to much larger creatures like Rathvin.

  There were similarities between Horus' legion and the king's men, Horus was forced to admit.

  Between primarchs and legionary there was tension of a different sort. They could not help staring at each other. Like recognised like. Horus stifled a snort of derision. Was his barbarian kin actually sniffing at the air? Could he smell his gene-seed in this warrior? He shut down his contempt. Why should he assume this warrior would be the same as him exactly?

  The savage king grasped Rathvin by his shoulders, and looked him up and down. The vox pick-ups for the gallery emitters were inactive, and so the king's words to the man he would ultimately replace went unheard. The master of the VI nodded, and knelt, head bowed, at the foot of his primarch.

  The warriors did not laugh this time. They stood stock-still, wary as wolves at the forest's fringe when confronted with a bear.

  'Enoch Rathvin pays his fealty to his gene-father without a second thought,' said Horus. 'I expected more resistance from him. He is proud.'

  'Your sons were no different when I gave them to you,' said the Emperor. His golden eyes were fixed on the encounter playing out below.

  Rathvin stood. The Fenrisians and the Terran stared at each other with mutual suspicion. Rathvin left. Only after he had been gone for several minutes did they relax, and even then they did not return to their light-hearted state, but paced, primed for action.

  'So, Horus, will you meet your brother?'

  Horus glanced up at his creator.

  'Yes,' he said.

  'Then go to him,' said the Emperor, gesturing down at the hall.

  Horus turned back to the refectorum.

  His brother was looking right at him, grinning like the savage he was.

  The primarchs met alone in a stateroom. The savage king's escort were not happy at being separated from their lord, and it had taken some time to accomplish. In the end the king had half cajoled and half jested his men away. The production of a large vat of beer, dragged out of the ship's stores, had helped.

  The new primarch seemed less primitive without his clansmen. His clothes were the same, of course, and although his men were away from his side his wolves were not. But his bearing was different now he was unobserved by his warriors, so much so that his garb suddenly seemed like an elaborate costume for a masquerade.

  He was standing, facing the door, when Horus arrived.

  Ice-blue eyes locked with brown.

  Horus stood in the doorway a fraction of a second too long to convey complete confidence. He looked at the Wolf King, and the Wolf King looked at him.

  Horus' brother broke the impasse.

  'So you're the first, eh?' The lord of Fenris had a guttural accent that invested his Gothic with ridiculous snarls and growls, like a beast attempting speech. 'Our… father?' He said the word questioningly, as if he was new to the concept. 'He told me about you and all the rest of mine kin. He said we will be friending. What again was your name?' He smiled. He obviously knew the answer. Such an obvious probe annoyed Horus.

  Horus put aside his petty feelings. There was more to this man than met the eye. He would be an asset to the Great Crusade, if he could be properly tamed. Horus made himself see it and accept it.

  'I am Horus, primarch of the Sixteenth Legion, the Luna Wolves. Who are you?'

  'You are wolf?' said the warrior. Lips peeled back from sharp teeth.

  'We are both wolf, I am named Leman, King of the Russ.' Russ slapped his chest as if the title were noteworthy. 'But I am more than this, think I.' He became thoughtful 'I have always knowed I not of Fenris.'

  'Known,' said Horus.

  'Ja,' said the warrior king, 'Sorry, I learned your language only five days ago.'

  Horus raised an eyebrow at that. It was an impressive feat.

  'You know of the Crusade?' said Horus. The room had been set out for a meeting of minds. There were comfortable chairs in the room made for a primarch's stature. They both remained standing.

  'I do know of this war. The… Emperor?' he said, again slightly questioningly. 'He has told me what I am, and what I made for.'

  'Do you agree with His aims?' said Horus.

  'An empire in the stars? Who could not agree with that?' said Leman of the Russ. 'If I did not, I would come along for adventure. No one of the Russ make murder in the Uppland.' Russ held a cup he did not drink from, lightly gripping the rim with his giant's fingers. 'But I have no choice. It is written in my wyrd.'

  Horus' face expressed an unspoken question.

  Russ searched for an appropriate translation. 'My fate, though it is more than that.'

  'We do not believe in fate.'

  'This is the Imperial Truth? This the Emperor also says to me on our trip here. An interesting idea,' he said, as if he had evaluated and rejected the concept. 'The Imperial Truth,' he repeated, changing the emphasis as if trying out which way suited him best.

  'You do not believe it?' said Horus.

  Leman of the Russ shrugged. 'When gods come from the sky and tell you there are no gods, it takes little time to see what is true and what is not.'

  'And what do you think is true?'

  'I think a believer who ceases to believe when the truth of his world confirms those beliefs is a fool,' he said simply, 'It doesn't matter what gods say. We don't pay much attention to them. They are as drunk and stupid as we.' He grinned.

  The warrior knew exactly what Horus thought of him.

  Do not underestimate him. The Emperor's words came back to Lupercal.

  'That will change,' said Horus. 'You will see that the Imperial Truth is correct. The Emperor is a man, a great man, but He is a man. He is not a god.'

  Russ shrugged again and then he drained his cup. 'My people already call Him the Allfather - they believe Him the king of our gods. My warriors out there believe they are in the Oververse, in Uppland.'

  'Where?'

  'The afterlife,' said Russ with a feral glee, daring Horus to guess whether he believed this himself or not.

  'There is no afterlife,' said Horus. 'This place is as real as your world. I am glad to meet you, Leman, King of the Russ. We shall grow to be great comrades, I am sure.' He held out his hand.

  Russ grinned more widely. The meeting amused him. That annoyed Horus. He wanted this backwoods chieftain to show him more respect. But Horus had always hidden his feelings well.

  Russ grasped his hand hard. There was amazing strength in the grip.

  'We shall be brothers,' said the Wolf King.

  'I am sure you have much to discuss with our father. I shall see you soon.' Horus dipped his head and was about to walk through the door when the savage king called out.

  'Hey, Horus of the Luna Wolves! On my world, it is common for brothers to fight. Do you think, my brother, that we might fight?'

  'I will spar with you, if that is what you wish,' said Horus.

  'No! Fight!' said the King of the Russ. He mimed a bizarre wrestler's crouch, his hands clawed and teeth bared. 'Who would win, eh?'

  'We are brothers. We will not fight.'

  'Ah, go on,' said Russ. 'Think about it.' His bluff manner was already trying Horus' patience, so soon into their relationship. 'If we fought, who would win?'

  Horus smiled coldly at his foundling brother. 'I would.'

  Leman of the Russ smiled and nodded thoughtfully.

  'Perhaps you would,' he said. 'Perhaps one day, we shall se
e.'

  One

  A Company Of Wolves

  Of all the surviving members of Malcador's Chosen sent to Molech, Garviel Loken was the last to be called to the Wolf King's presence. Macer Varren and Proximo Tarchon had been summoned first. Ares Voitek had been woken for a while from his healing sleep to attend upon the primarch of the Space Wolves, and the human Rahua revealed reluctantly that even he had been to the Hrafnkel. His reluctance was understandable. A mere human was given such a great honour before Garviel Loken, agent Alpha-Prime of the Knights Errant. Loken was left on Titan and wondering if his lack of summons were a good or a bad thing.

  Loken spent the waiting time wisely. There were things to do. There were always things to do, not least submitting to endless interrogations by Malcador's agents. The questioning was understandable He had been in the presence of the Warmaster, his gene-father. As the interrogations occupied only a portion of his days, he was permitted to take up his duties between interviews. These occupied a portion more.

  He still had too much time on his hands.

  The mind of a legionary is capacious, and despite his allotted tasks, there remained plenty of space for doubt: why had he not been brought before Russ?

  When the call finally came it was a relief, although he knew there was a chance the meeting could end in his death.

  He came from Titan by fast ship to Terra's orbit. He rode on the command deck all the way, clad in his armour as if he were heading into battle, standing beside the command throne so motionless and stern he seeded disquiet among the small crew.

  The ship cut over the plane of the ecliptic. Mars and Terra were in opposition. The lights of the ships blockading the red planet made it seem that there were a dozen worlds attended by a hundred additional moons.

  Constant vox-chatter whispered from the comms stations. Sol's void space was crammed with starships. Activity in the system had reached a fever pitch. Now the warp storms had begun to abate, Dorn anticipated Horus would launch an attack soon, and so the home system of mankind prepared feverishly for battle.

  Terra appeared as a star at first, a singular albedo shine that split into dozens then hundreds of lesser lights as Loken's ship approached. Russ' ships were moored at the high anchor halo of resupply stations and dry docks, where the battered remnants of the VI and V Legions' once mighty fleets underwent hurried repairs.

  Codes were transmitted and received. Without slowing, the cutter headed directly for the largest ship, a Gloriana-class behemoth swaddled in mending frames, closely overlapped like bandages over its wounds.

  The Hrafnkel, Leman Russ' flagship and one of the most powerful vessels in the whole galaxy.

  They touched down on the embarkation deck. Loken was away before the engines had finished their cooling cycle.

  A clamour of industry roared into the cutter as the gang ramp descended. Clattering metal and machine tool whines and the grinding shrieks of blades cutting into plasteel assaulted Loken's hearing. The stink of burning metal filled the place end to end, vast though it was. Sparks fountained in arcs like geysers of lava. Sheets of plastek as tall as Titan banners wafted in hot breezes blowing from the ship's depths. Menials in the heavy environment suits of the Terran Stevedores and Shipwrights Guilds were at work everywhere, aided by barbarous-looking Fenrisian menials who wore primitive leather masks beneath their visors. Loken halted at the base of the cutter's ramp to avoid a heavy repair rig rumbling down the embarkation deck's central road. The servitor drivers wired into the cab stared blankly ahead. A group of Mechanicum adepts followed, directing the machine by means of a remote control box implanted into the chest of a vast brute who was linked to the cogitators aboard by a long, flexed umbilicus covered in rubberised plastek.

  The machine chugged past, and Loken set foot upon oily deck plating. The place was so gloomy he thought there was a malfunction in the lighting circuits, but as he looked into the cathedral spaces of the deck he saw chandeliers with every lumen globe intact. It was purposefully dim.

  As his eyes adjusted he saw how badly damaged the Hrafnkel was. Repair gangs and heavy plant took the place of gunships and drop pods in the landing circles. Men shouted. Metal scaffold poles were dumped by a hauler, clanging to the deck in a raucous bell peal. Since his return to Terra, Russ had not been idle. He had been out patrolling the Solar reaches beyond the outermost defence sphere. He had ventured beyond the system and fought the campaign at Daverant Reach and the battle at Vanaheim. If he did those things in this wreck, thought Loken, he must be as reckless as they say.

  A cohort of dry dock workers jogged in front of him, faceplates misted with breath, brass boots thudding on metal. When they had passed Loken saw a savage figure staring at him across the main roadway of the embarkation deck. He had not been there before. He was a legionary that much was certain, but so barbarously dressed only his size and his bearing separated him from the lesser men in their furs and leathers labouring alongside the Terran work gangs. A wolf pelt hung from heavy silver brooches set at his shoulders. The skin lay over a full suit of close-fitting leather that covered him head to toe. The dozens of expertly cut panels mimicked the exposed musculature of a flayed man. It was the brown of flesh left to desiccate in dry highlands. Armour was a generous word for it. The leather was hard, but too full of joins and easy holes for swords to find to offer real protection, and would give none at all against more advanced weapons. But it was impressive. Firelight caught on the edges, gleaming off the involute knotwork covering every part. A mask fashioned into a bestial muzzle hid the warrior's face. Eyes glinted in the darkness beneath. The flash of a hunting beasts eyes from the thicket before a furred weight bears you to the ground and hot breath heralds death.

  The figure approached. Loken instinctively braced for combat.

  The warrior's red beard parted to show fanged teeth, and he laughed.

  'My friend!' said the warrior. 'You are a little edgy today. I bid you welcome to the Hrafnkel, flagship and domain of Leman Russ, the Great Wolf, the Wolf King, the Lord of Winter and War!'

  Confusion overtook Loken.

  'Bror Tyrfingr, is that you?'

  'Aye, who did you expect?' Bror slapped Loken hard on his pauldron. 'The Allfather Himself?' Bror held out his hand, Loken took his forearm. Leather glove gripped ceramite plate. 'It is good to see you, Loken.'

  'When you left Titan, I thought you might never come back. I see I was right.' Loken gestured at Tyrfingr's leather suit. 'You are leaving us then,' he said. 'To rejoin your master.'

  'No, no, my friend,' said Bror. 'I was commanded by my king to join Malcador's private army, and there I will remain until told otherwise. My loyalty is to the regent now. He is my jarl,' he said, the foreign word a wet, guttural growl in his throat. 'But Leman of the Russ will forever be my primarch. He is my father. I visit with him to renew bonds of kinship and fealty, and to discuss the coming attack upon the Warmaster. I will return to Malcador's side soon enough. We shall fight together again, you and I, I swear it.'

  Loken suspected Bror had returned to report on his new master to his old. Russ had a hunger for intelligence that matched Malcador's. He refrained from saying so.

  'Why are you dressed in that way?'

  'Ha!' Bror slapped the leather panels covering his iron-hard stomach. 'Like a member of the Vlka Fenryka you mean?'

  'This is what Space Wolves wear?'

  'When we are among our own, aye.' Tyrfingr glanced up. 'My friend, I advise you, only those not of Fenris use the term 'Space Wolf'.'

  'I apologise if I disrespect you,' said Loken.

  There had always been bonds of brotherhood between the different Legions. The Space Wolves defied them in their oddness. They were a breed apart, as isolated as the Khan's White Scars, and more savage. They were made of the same raw matter, Loken and Tyrfingr, but the mould they were stamped from was so very different.

  'If I took offence at that,' said Bror, 'I would have to commit to feud with the entire galaxy. Just try not to say 'S
pace Wolf' aboard this ship. You will seem ignorant. The Rout does not take kindly to ignorance, and they will not take you seriously.'

  They left the embarkation deck by a set of large doors and headed upwards into the ship. Loken had been aboard many Gloriana-class vessels. They were all of a pattern, but the Space Wolves had made the ship their own as much as they possibly could, tearing it bloodily from the grasp of reason and refashioning it in their own, superstitious tribal image. Other Legions favoured polished stone, gleaming metal and glass to line their halls. The Space Wolves covered the metal walls with carved wood and bone sheets so large they could only have been harvested from monsters. The greater halls had elaborate interiors of wolf-headed posts and panelling decorated with entwined beasts whose contortions inevitably ended in the fanged mouths of their fellows. Even lesser ways too unimportant for wholesale decoration acknowledged the character of the Legion: mossy rocks in bubbling pools of water, bunches of dried herbs tied up in bundles hanging from the ceiling, primitive weapons chained to the walls, as if imprisoned.

  For all its size, the Hrafnkel had the atmosphere of a chieftain's hall. The air was scented with smoke and poorly preserved meat, herbs, burned fat, wet fur, and the hot, musky smell of animals sleeping in their dens.

  Its corridors were as likely to be lit by flickering torches as they were lumen strips or biolume panels. Fire bowls guttered in the suction winds of atmospheric recyc units, the walls behind them furred with soot.

  'You like it dark,' said Loken.

  'Too much light dulls the senses,' said Bror. 'If you think this is dark, you would hate the Aett.' Another phlegm-rich word, more growled than spoken. If the Fenrisian language had a relationship to Imperial Gothic, it was obscure.

  'The what?'

  Tyrfingr chuckled throatily. 'The Fang. They call it the Fang. Only don't say that either. It's the Aett, or nothing.'

  The illusion of a savage king's demesne would have been total had it not broken in many places, showing the technology beneath. Patchwork repairs made after Alaxxes had been undone by the ship's recent forays beyond the Solar perimeter. New scars piled atop old wounds; the ship was damaged through and through. Whole sections were sealed off. Drifts of wood ash intermingled with mortals' bones where fires had broken through bulkheads and torched compartments. In other sections, the Space Wolves' primitive cladding had been ripped out to enable access to the guts of the ship. Beating hammers had the Hrafnkel shivering with a fever's trembles. It was a giant beast, wounded close to death. It would be decades before it was brought back to its full capabilities.