Chapter 10 – Blasphemer

Their march took them to a slope just outside of the Aett. One of the omnipresent storms of Fenris had blown through, blanketing the slopes with deep snow drifts, virgin and unbroken. Only the newest Blood Claws and rawest kaerls shivered from the cold.

+This is good ground,+ the Fell-Handed said. +How do you test armor and recruits these days?+

"We run them," Logan said. "Chase them and see how they handle being hunted, and how they turn the tables on the hunter."

+A good way.+ Bjorn scanned the slopes. Thirty meters off, down a sizable slope, was a thicket of trees. They ran for another fifty meters, than thinned out as they climbed back up the slope.

+He'll run for the thicket,+ Bjorn said, pointing with his massive lightning claw. +and you'll shoot him with dummy rounds, see how well he can avoid being hit, and how well he takes being hit. Once in the forest, he'll have to kill several combat-fitted servitors, then run back up the slope where he shall fight you man-to-man.+

Logan smiled. Aevar could hear the Grey Hunters chuckling; no doubt they were already taking bets on how long he'd last against the Old Wolf. He knew Logan wouldn't pull any punches, no one would dare pull a punch, but going against the High King himself? The most Aevar could do would be to survive.

+Send the servitors into the woods, and begin arming yourselves. We're wasting precious daylight.+

The Vlka began spreading out, getting a good view of the battle to come, leaving Aevar alone with the Fell-Handed, his Cataphractii armor, and a team of servitors.

"You know they won't use dummy rounds, right?"

+Of course.+

"Is this more testing? I don't want to die at the hands of my own Chapter."

+It's all a test, and the more rigorous the test, the more they'll trust you when you win. You do plan on winning, don't you?+

"What Son of Russ would I be if I didn't?" Aevar snapped.

+There's the fire in the blood that you need,+ Bjorn laughed.

The servitor pulled apart the armor, and began the process of sealing him inside. The servitors worked fast, but the process still took nearly an hour. The armor was more like a second skin than metal plates, and it was all terribly heavy until the power pack was attached and activated. Aevar nearly fell over four times until the pack kicked in, activating the armor and engaging the servo-motors. It was like his strength was doubled, tripled even. He sprung up, suddenly very sure of his center of balance.

He bent at the waist, testing the range of motion he had. He stood, knelt, jumped and ran quick bursts of knee-highs. The armor responded wonderfully, just as it should.

+That armor seems different from my time. Quicker.+

"Much of the design were eroded. Ink was smudged, pieces were missing, rotted away from time. I had cannibalize much of our own armor designs to fill the gaps."

+Cunning; a true Son of Russ. Better than those who blindly follow so-called 'tradition' and the superstitious rot that infects us all.+

Instead of carrying a gun, Aevar had installed a storm bolter onto the forearm. He ran it through a pre-battle check; it spun up perfectly. A kaerl walked up, carrying a power sword for him. He examined the rusted blade; it seemed better suited for a half-speed sparring match with a servitor than a true battle for life. He sighed; the Chapter truly wanted him dead. He would have to prove them wrong.

"You'd better have a tough test ready for me," he said to the nearby Grimnar, pride and a snarl in his voice.

"We wouldn't insult you by going less than all-out," he grinned back. He stood, his trusty axe Morkai in hand. "Hope you're good at running. You've got a five second head start."

That was all that Aevar needed. He took off, crashing through the nearly waist-deep snow. The servo-motors of the suit made it as easy as a stroll, like there was nothing there at all.

Breathing deep and evenly, he almost missed the sound of a bolt flying over his shoulder. The next one landed squarely on his shoulder. If he were wearing simple power armor, he'd be thrown from his feet; instead, the thick plate took the hit without any effort. The bolt exploded, scuffing the paint he so painstakingly layered on. Then it was a true hail of bullets.

Aevar growled, turning to run in a serpentine pattern. Most of the shots turned up the air and snow around him as he sprang left, then right, then back again. He risked a look behind him. On the ridge where he began, standing next to Bjorn, was a team of Long Fangs. Two of them hefted heavy bolters and were raining down fire. His blood ran a little colder when he saw two others bring lascannons to bear. The fifth one was priming a plasma cannon.

"I know the bolts would be live, but this is insane."

He sprung right, rolling instead of lunging. The air snapped and boiled; two lascannons, lines of brilliant light, lanced over him. The helm darkened automatically to protect his sight, while simultaneously screaming at him. The armor's back mounted shield generator had spun to life, forcing the beams away, saving him from being bisected by one blast.

"Too damn lucky," he growled. He had to get to the forest. Then he'd at least break line of sight from the Long Fangs.

The ground exploded and the shield generator burst to life again. Plasma instantly melted the snow around him, throwing him a good meter forward. He pin-wheeled his arms, regaining his balance mid-air. He landed less than gracefully, but never broke stride. The Fangs were good; it was a solid hit from the plasma cannon.

At long last, he finally made it into the forest. The heavy bolters tore into the frozen, nearly petrified wood, turning them into splinters. The lascannons easily sliced through the woods, cutting down rows of trees. The plasma cannon lobbed a miniature sun towards him, but it impacted off of the many branches of the forest, exploding prematurely and showering the area with bits of superheated fluid. The shield generator didn't bother to activate; the occasional splashes were brushed off by the armor.

Aevar slowed his pace, but kept moving. There were supposed to be combat servitors in the forest, but he couldn't see where they were. Naturally.

The snow burst around him, and several servitors jumped from their hiding holes, no more than a fathom away. Whoever had hidden them had done a good job. Aevar roared, unloading the wrist-mounted storm bolter at the charging, mindless drones.

They wore simple armor slabs, less elegant than power armor but almost as effective. The bolts bit into the armor, detonating and harmlessly impacting them. Only one was gunned down when the round penetrated deeper than expected. Then they were upon him.

The servitors all had human arms that were heavily augmented; they could easily match a Sky Warrior's strength. And in those hands they carried axes, swords and knives. They all also had servo-arms that held power fists. They would be a problem.

He ducked away, drawing the power sword and flicking the activation switch. In one smooth motion, he lopped off two arms and half a head, but that didn't stop the servitors. They parried and ducked away. Two servitors keeping him pressed while the others circled. The swords and knives and axes clattered off the thick armor, but they were aiming for the joints, known weak points in the armor to exploit. Aevar ran another servitor through when he was thrown off his feet with an explosive crunch.

The shield generator had hummed to life yet again, just before the power fist connected with him. He rolled to his feet, storm bolter blazing, and cut down the offending servitor. The others mobbed him, trying to yank the sword from his grasp. Aevar swung and dodged, slicing and cutting the slower husks as if it was nothing. Whoever was controlling them was good, but servitors couldn't work miracles. They were still slow, and his quickness paid off. Only one servitor made it through his savage counter-attack, landing two glancing blows with its swords.

Aevar head-butted the last servitor, throwing it to the ground. He stepped on it, letting the weight of the armor shatter its spine. He took a moment to breathe deep, then ran onwards. The forest thinned, and he scanned the ridge for the Long Fangs. His helm found them, marking them with runes, but then the runes changed; their weapons were unloaded and hung at rest.

At the top of the ridge stood the Old Wolf. His hand gently rested on the plumb of his axe, the head planted firmly in the ground. He stood there, waiting, completely immobile in his armor.

"Well, who wants to live forever?"

He burst from the woods, running up the steep incline. The servo-motors growled as they amplified his strength, easily pushing the weight of the suit up the slope as he crested the ridge.

"Have to hand it to you," Logan said. "You finished that run faster than we'd expected."

"I aim to please." That got a bark of a laugh from Logan.

"Let's see how well you please us now." And with that, Grimnar was on him.

Logan Grimnar might be called the Old Wolf, but he moved faster than any Blood Claw. The axe Morkai swooped high above his head, whistling and splitting the air. Aevar was barely able to bring his borrowed sword to guard, and nearly lost his grip when the axe met it.

Grimnar continued his assault. He swept left, right, and then lunged, pushing Aevar back with frightening ease. Morkai bit into the armor at his shoulders and forearm, slicing and nicking parts of the plasteel like there was nothing there. His helm popped a read-out; his armor was still void-proof.

Aevar countered where he could and maintaining a solid parry. He leapt backwards, getting a few snapshots off with his storm bolter. Logan jumped aside, dodging a portion of the bolts while letting the others glance off his armor. Then he was back in Aevar's face, growling and roaring.

Morkai bit into his armor, but the shield generator pushed the fell axe's smile back. Aevar countered, landing a telling blow hard against Logan's side.

It only made the Old Wolf mad.

Letting loose a savage cry, the High King of Fenris hefted his axe high with two hands and brought it down with armor-splitting strength. Aevar moved to counter, but the old, nearly rusted practice sword snapped under the force, and he fell backwards. Grimnar chased him as Aevar rolled out of the way of each strike, turning killing blows to simple nicks and cuts. The helm tracked the damages, highlighting the armor sections that were in danger of failing.

He might not have had a weapon, but he still had his fists. Aevar jumped to his feed and landed blow after blow on Logan. They didn't stop the Old Wolf's assault, but he hoped that he might get lucky, or that Grimnar would remember his last defiance.

Logan's axe landed on the armor, only to be repulsed by the shield generator. Aevar took the moment to jump in close and land a heavy knee to the Old Wolf's side. With the heavier, stronger servo-motors to drive the kick, Logan definitely felt it; but he wasn't slowed by it.

Now good and truly mad, Logan stepped forward, ready to break Aevar like a troublesome foe.

+That's enough.+

Bjorn didn't talk fast enough, and Logan lashed out one last time. Aevar blocked it with his forearm, connecting with the shaft just below the axe's smile. He stopped it, but only barely.

+I think this test was a success.+

"A success?" That was the Blood Claws venting their rage. They spat at Aevar, hurling insults.

"Aye, that's a successful test," Logan said tightly. "Stop your mad barking, he went a solid round with me, and he's still standing."

+The armor holds up just as well as I remember it. Hel, even better than I remember it; the armor I knew of was as slow as petrified shit.+

"So what do we do now?" Aevar asked, weary of what the future held; Logan might have been stopped, but he still held his axe at the ready.

"Eldest, what is your ruling?" Grimnar asked.

+The armor is neither full of daemons,+ Bjorn said, walking forward, +nor is it turning him into some damnable creature. It's not eating his soul, and his mind is still his. I say we need more of this armor.+

"You can't be serious," Grimnar spat. "This, this blasphemer will damn us all!"

"Mighty Bjorn, you mustn't order us to do this." Aevar wasn't surprised to see Ulrik step forward to try and sway the oldest of them. "If other Chapters see us, they'll question where we found such relics. And if we tell them of this, this…"

+Imperial Truth.+

"Yes, of this Imperial Truth. We'll be branded heretics and be hunted from the face of the Imperium."

"The Inquisition doesn't like us as is," Logan said. "This would just push them over the edge."

+I won't stand by and let the greatest re-discovery of the Imperium be thrown to the wayside, all because we've become a pack of gutless, craven, superstitious cowards!+ Bjorn bellowed. Ever Grimnar shrunk back. +This armor had stood up to heavy ordinance, has faced a team of combat servitors and had saved it's wearer from one of the greatest killers Fenris could ever possibly produce. What more proof do you need that this is our salvation? What could possibly make you realize how important this discovery is? What do you need?+

The entire Chapter couldn't answer the Fell-Handed. Even Ulrik, so good with soothing words, was at a loss.

+Is it because you can't let it succeed? Is it because of this 'Creed' of yours, the 'faith' you're required to have?+ Bjorn sneered. He shook his chassis, clearly trying to shake his head. +What have we fallen to? How much further could we possibly degrade ourselves? Dammit all, for once I'm glad that Russ is no longer here! Just seeing what we have become would kill him. To see us be cowed by a book of words, of the threats of old, fat men entire sectors away…Only the Emperor should inspire such fearful obedience. Only him, and no one else.+

Bjorn looked out on the assembled chapter.

+You'll not like him; I don't expect you to. I expect you to hate him the way you hate a heretic. But you will let him live, and you'll use the wargear that he makes. Ironclaws, have you found more templates in the Emperor's library?+

"Y-yes, Bjorn. A few," Aevar mumbled, kneeling deep.

+Just a few?+

"I wasn't in the Emperor's library for long. But I got a few ideas I might be able to work with."

+Then work with them. Blaspheme to your heart's content.+ He shot a glare to Grimnar. +As long as you don't let the foul warp in, you can do no harm. Do you understand, Grimnar?+

"I do," the Old Wolf said through clenched teeth.

+Good. Then let's get back to the Aett, we have our old glory to reclaim.+

Aevar sat in his chambers, staring at the hulking suit of Cataphractii armor that he made. The armor was scored, with cuts and the odd dent here and there. Now it was battle-tested; now it had character.

But what did this mean? He had surely spelled the end of his Chapter; no one else in the Imperium held Bjorn at such a height as they did. No one else would take his word for law; no one would believe him over the High Lords of Terra. What would happen to them now?

Would they be branded renegades? Not since the Heresy has a First Founding Chapter fallen from the grace of the Emperor.

Would they have to face their fellow battle brothers, ones who would follow the Inquisition to the end of the known universe? Maybe those stiff-necked Ultramarines would finally be able to grin, to say that their precious Codex Astrtes is the writ word all should follow. That thought above all made him squirm.

There was a knock at his door, the first in hours. Aevar stood and walked to answer it. Now that Bjorn had made it explicitly clear that his life should not end any earlier than was fated, he could carelessly pull the door open without worrying about catching a bolt to the face.

"Well, this is a surprise."

"What, did you think I wouldn't visit?" Helfist said.

"No, I thought the first person I'd see would be Ulrik. Maybe even Arjac."

"Think they'd try to find wisdom or templates from the Allfather's library?"

"Possibly. I'm not sure; it was just a stupid bet I made with myself. So, what brings you to the Blasphemer's chambers?"

"Don't joke, that's what everyone's calling you," Helfist snapped.

"Does that change what I've done?" Aevar laughed.

"No," Helfist sighed, "I suppose not."

"So why are you here?"

Helfist turned and gestured. "Come on, no need to be shy."

"Thank ya, sire," a woman said, walking into Aevar's line of sight. She was a mortal kaerl, with long dark hair and light scars across her face. "An' beggin' yer pardon, I ain't shy." She said that with a snap, prideful like any Fenrisian.

"You were skulking outside of his line of sight. That sounds like 'shy' to me," Helfist said.

"Me Ma 'n Pa taught me ta be fearful a th' Sky Warriors, ta revere 'em as bringers of death," the woman said. "I know better 'n ta guess you'd like ta see a kaerl without askin' fer us, first."

"Wise parents. So why bring me a kaerl?" Aevar asked. "Worried I might get lonely down here?"

"No, I asked ta," the woman said. "Th' name is Maeva, an' I'd like ta work fer ya."

"You know how rarely we use kaerls in the forge, do you?" Aevar asked. "Why should I let you work with me when I can have a team of servitors?"

"'Cus I've worked with Iron Priests 'fore," Maeva said. "I was a helpin' hand with Blackmane's great company. Helped those priests make 'n mend war gear."

"Ah, so that's why your skin is darker than normal; you got a forge tan," Aevar said. "Been a while since I've seen a kaerl blacksmith. Why should I let you help me?"

"I know my way 'round a forge, I'm good at takin' instructions, 'n I won't get in yer way," Maeva said. "I was out there on th' ice with th' rest a th' Chapter. I saw wha' ya built, 'n I knew I wanted ta make gear as good as tha'. I can't explain it, but somethin' drew me in, like ya got some glow about you, yea?"

Slyly, Aevar traded looks with Helfist.

"So I got 'some glow about me.' That makes you want to work with me?"

"I know wha' I saw, 'n I know wha' I'm seein'," Maeva said. Like every Fenrisian, she stood tall as she spoke. "I wanna work with ya, names be damned."

"Your bravery is exceptional, kaerl," Helfist said, "but old man Ironclaws here is already in the shit, he doesn't need any—"

"Show up tomorrow, let's see how long you last."

"Oh, thank ya, ya won't regret this," Maeva said, a smile barely suppressed.

"Try to get some sleep, I'm working hard tomorrow."

The Fenrisian woman ran off, a spring in her step. Helfist waited until she was out of earshot before tearing into him.

"Why, in Russ' name, do you think you might need her?" He demanded. "You want to ruin her life, too?"

"She came here on her own free will," Aevar said. "Her life is hers to ruin."

"What could you even possibly use her for? Holding your hammer? Just ask for a team of servitors, or another Iron Priest."

"Who'd help me?" Aevar laughed. "Bjorn might tell them not to kill me in my sleep, but he can't make them love me, or get them to tell me what the weather's like." He spread his arms wide, a wide grin on his face. "Face it, Helfist, I'm the Blasphemer! I'm surprised I'm still sucking air as it is."

"So that's all it's about?" Helfist hissed. "Taking some kaerl down with you?"

"I hope it doesn't come to that," he replied. "I could actually use her. The way I'm doing things, any Iron Priest would just be getting in the way. She's a blank slate; I'll need to teach her, aye, but she'll be open to it. You can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"Said the greybeard."

"And it nearly killed me. Hel, I still don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how I got that damn thing to work," he jerked his thumb at the massive Terminator armor that stood behind him. "I had an idea, aye, but I ended up just throwing shit against a wall and somehow it stuck. I'm gonna need to get a lot better to live up to what Bjorn wants me to be. Having a bunch of stuck-in-their-ways Iron Priests will just slow me down."

"And this whole 'you've got a glow about you' thing?" Helfist said.

"You said I've got a glow about me."

"Aye, and I'm a druid," he said. "A trained, sanctioned, veteran druid. If she can talk to spirits like I can, and she's untrained, daemons might find a way to force themselves upon her."

"So watch her," Aevar said. "Don't worry about her channeling daemons to get to me, I can handle a few daemons."

"I hope you can," Helfist said, giving him a hard look. "I hope on Russ' blood that you can, because this still might tear us apart."

Aevar's grin fell a few notches. "Aye, it could." He looked at the floor, as if the events of the day were suddenly catching up to him. "Thank you, my friend."

"Anytime, brother," Vermund said. "So, what do you have planned for your next trick?"

Aevar's smile returned.

There was a knocking at Aevar's door. He looked up from the pict-scans he took in the Emperor's library and sniffed. He smelled a leather jacket and a mortal; his new help.

"You're here early," he said, opening his door.

"Beggin' yer pardon, but I wanna get an early start," Maeva said, a grin barely suppressed. "Say, we not goin' ta yer personal forge?"

"This is my personal forge," he replied. "I got a vent straight down to the heart of Fenris. Pick a spot, that'll be yours. You can start with making a sword."

"A…sword?"

"Aye, a sword. You know; long pointy thing, got an edge to it?"

"I know wha' a sword is," Maeva said, "but is tha' all ya want me ta do?"

"I need to get an idea of what you're capable of before I can really push you. Think of this as a test," Aevar said, going back to his desk. "There's the forge. You've got an anvil, power hammer, lathe, and more tools than you could possibly use. There should be plenty of metal here for you. Let's see what you make, and we'll work from there."

He tapped the servo-skull. It floated up and resumed showing the pict he had last looked at. It was on the creation of basic microprocessors, the logic-engines that drove every piece of tech the Imperium had. It was all lost on Aevar; he had barely understood enough of it to make the ancient armor, and most of that was cannibalized from past suits he made. If he were to make true weapons of war, killing and genocide, he would have to get better.

Across his room, the temperature spiked as Maeva began to work. He studied the pict of the scroll and started building a simple random number generator. Metal kissed metal as the kaerl worked. Aevar ignored her.

He had the schematics for the generator in front of him. Too bad three-quarters of it was moth-eaten, lost to the ages. He could make out some of the bits: the parts needed, the basic flow of logic, but none of it made sense.

He had simple logic gates, integrated chips and proto-boards, so he went to work to try and learn on the fly. He ended up taking it apart and re-made it again and again and again, but nothing came of it. Hours passed and he was no closer to making any progress.

Growling, he tore it all apart and put integrated circuits on the bread board based solely on looks from the ragged pic. If it looked like it was supposed to go in a certain place, he placed it there; the wiring was likewise haphazard. He connected it to the power supply, and stared dumbfounded at the little screen.

The damn thing was working, spitting out random numbers with a press of a button. He put it all together, and had no idea how or why it worked.

"Finished," Maeva said, exhaustion in her voice.

Picking his jaw from the ground, Aevar looked up. She held a short sword out to him. It was human sized, making it little more than a dagger to him. But it was well made, still warm from the fires of the Aett's furnace.

He took it, looking it over. The blade was straight, true and balanced, not bad at all for one blacksmith. He flipped the blade, looking for notches or imperfections; he found none. Finally, he gently ran his finger down the killing edge. He felt nothing; the blade had cleanly cut the first layer of skin on his thumb, leaving the second layer unharmed.

"Good blade you made."

"Thank ya, but beggin'—" Maeva shut her mouth, almost with an audible snap.

"If you're going to say something, go on and say it."

"I'm sorry, but it ain't appropriate."

"Oh, shove it, I'm just a glorified blacksmith."

Who doesn't have a damn clue what he's doing, he thought

"Do I look like some snot-nosed son of a chieftain? Stop worshiping the shit that drips from my ass. Now, you were begging my pardon?"

"I was wonderin' why yer havin' me make a sword," Maeva said. "I thought I'd be assistin' ya, yea?"

"You will be, but I have to see what you can do," he said. "We both know that talk is cheap; I can better gauge your talents by seeing what you can make."

"Does it impress ya?"

"Aye. It's good work for a human. You said you worked with a few other Iron Priests here; did they have you make anything big or special?"

"No, they didn't let me meddle with th' machine-spirits; just th' bodies a servitors," she said. Aevar could smell it on her; she wanted to do more work than the Priests let her. And it cut at her pride.

"That's good," he said, grinning.

"…Good?"

"Didn't know I had an echo in here. You know what I'm called now, right? The Mechanicus has had several millennia to get a pattern going, for traditions to be made. They have a certain way of doing things, and the work I'll be doing will fly in the face of those several millennia of patterns, traditions and every single thing they got set up. Every. Single. Thing. What I want is someone who doesn't have Mechanicus teachings drilled into their heads, who can see things from a new light."

"But don't ya have th' teachin' a the Mechanicus?" Maeva asked.

"That I do. Which is why I want someone like you even more: a fresh set of eyes can find something mine miss. You've got the talent, now let's see what we can get you to do."

"So we'll be doin' more work tomorrow, yea?" She smiled.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yea, th' sun set hours ago."

"Huh. Didn't notice."

"Stayin' inside this long ain't good fer anyone, even th' Allfather's chosen. Get out a bit, will ya?"

"Fat chance," Aevar chuckled. "With my new reputation, the Old Wolf put my Company on hearth duty. We're stuck here until Grimnar decides to let us out to stretch our legs. That means we got nothing but time to work on this and see what we can learn. Get some sleep, Maeva; tomorrow, we start seeing what you can learn."

And hopefully I can learn faster than you so you don't know how much of this shit I'm making up as I go.

"I ain't understandin' any a this!" Maeva hissed.

"Of course you're not," Aevar said. "We're not banging rocks together, we're trying to re-create lost technology."

"How can ya keep yer head 'bout all this?"

"I've had a standard year to get a head start on you. Not to mention centuries of working with the Mechanicus."

"I thought ya said tha' ya didn't need folks with Mechanicus trainin'."

"I did, but I still have the experience to put this all in context. The flow of the machine-spirit's blood isn't like learning about the flow of current or voltage, but they're similar enough that I can match them up and make heads or tails from it."

"I need ta get outta this room," Maeva groaned, one step away from gnashing her teeth. "Stayin' in here fer months on end just ain't good, yea? Need ta get outside, see th' sun. An my bed's been way too damn cold 'n empty."

Aevar had to agree with her. They spent nearly two great months in his chambers, teaching, learning and experimenting with the ancient texts, trying to figure out ways to make the forgotten patterns.

"You're right," he said. "The damn shame of it is that the Fell-Handed is getting antsy. Every time I poke my head out, I end up running into him and he asks what I've got to show for my work."

"We ain't got shit ta show fer it," Maeva laughed.

"We do have shit, it's just book shit. Bjorn wants results, things we can hold in our hands."

"So what'r we gonna do, oh mighty Blasphemer?"

Aevar ground his teeth. Results; Bjorn wanted results. But Aevar couldn't give him results without first learning what the fuck he was doing.

Then he looked over at the Cataphractii armor that stood in the corner, and he remembered how he made it: flying by the seat of his pants.

"Well, I do my best work when I give up and throw shit together to see what happens," he said. "How about we make a sword?"

"Another borin' sword?"

"Fuck no. I got a special sword in mind."

Aevar walked off, sorting through the printed schematics he made. One of the picts he had was of a Heresy-era sword, a Paragon blade. But the important part of the schematic was lost, kept on rotting parchment. The damn sword needed a generator, and he could barely wrap his head around the needed tech. He set it down in front of Maeva.

"Ooh, fancy lookin.'"

"That it is," he said. "Too bad half of its guts are missing."

"So what'll we do, eh?"

"We throw shit together and see what sticks," he said. "Learn as we go and make it up by the seat of our pants."

"Ah, good ol' Plan B! Tha's wha' I'm talkin' 'bout, yea?" Maeva smiled. "Hit th' metal 'till shit makes sense. So what'll fill th' gaps?"

"Well, it looks like a power sword, and I know how to make one of those in my sleep. But it's not your average power sword; it's gotta pack a punch. Kinda like this one."

He flipped through his list of schematics until he found the one for a force sword.

"See those circuitry patterns?"

"Yea, how could I miss 'em? Look like frost on glass. Pretty, eh?"

"Those are supposed to be powered by the spirits of Fenris and the fallen heroes buried in it."

"Mighty strong fer a rune priest, yea?" Maeva said. "So how does it work with this Paragon thingy?"

"Fuck if I know. How about we take the generator from this, stick it in the Paragon blade, kick the power up a few dozen notches and try make it not blow up?"

The mead hall, like everything in the Aett, was cut deep into the monstrous mountain. Pelts and trophies of fallen xenos, traitors and daemons hung from massive wooden rafters, and a dozen fires lit the massive hall with dancing shadows and radiant warmth. On the stone walls hung shields, swords, spears and axes from the various clans that Sky Warriors had fought for, prior to their recruitment to the Vlka Fenryika.

Bjorn Stormwolf's company ate in the warm hall. Normally boisterous, their jarl ate with seething, simmering hate, gnawing at the bones of his meal. His cloudy mood spread over the entire company, from the Long Fangs to the Blood Claws. All ate with painfully reserved silence. Instead of chatter, laughter, shouting and bosting, silence echoed throughout the stone chamber, with the odd tense talk breaking it.

Helfist sighed and took another shot of mjod. Another feast without Ironclaws.

"Greybeard likes to work too hard," he muttered.

"What was that?" the Stormwolf demanded.

"It's nothing, my jarl," Helfist said.

"Better not be," he growled. "Can't stand hearing that fucker's name right now."

The Claws grunted and mumbled their agreement. A Grey Hunter half-heartedly quieted them.

"Thirteen great months," the Stormwolf began.

"Oh, for the love of the Allfather, not this again," Helfist pleaded.

"Thirteen great months," Bjorn Stormwolf repeated. He wasn't yelling, but his voice filled the mead hall like he was. "Thirteen great months of sitting on our asses, watching the hearth while all the others are out there, on their own hunts! We're Sky Warriors, Angels of Death, bringers of ruin and the murder-make. Stuck. Here. Minding the damned hearth!"

The Stormwolf pounded the table, rattling cups and spilling drinks. The rowdy Claws bayed, and were half-heartedly silenced by the Hunters. They were all chaffing from Aevar.

"Never done this much sittin' on my ass," Bjorn grumbled. "Never in my life."

Helfist sighed. As a Rune Priest, he was supposed to be the sage council that talked sense to his jarl. He knew what he had to say, and he knew what was going to happen; he had said it many times before. But it had to be said anyways. So he went through the motions.

"But the Fell-Handed says…"

"The Fell-Handed says we need to treat him like some teething infant, suckling a teat!" Now the Stormwolf was yelling. "And the Old Wolf orders us to mind the damned hearth, and everyone treats us like we got the stink of the warp on us. Allied with the Blasphemer at the Fell-Hand's orders! Not ever Ulrik can keep the scorn out of his voice."

The Claws roared, nearly drowning out the sound of the mead hall doors opening. The mood instantly shifted as Ironclaws himself walked in.

"Don't mind me," he said, waving the attention away. "Just need a word with my jarl."

"What the Hel do you want, Blasphemer?" the Stormwolf snapped. "Think you can get back in our good graces just by eating with us?"

"With the kill-urge this thick?" Aevar said, sniffing the air. "Damn. It's nice and heavy now, isn't it?"

"Go back to you kaerl whore, Blasphemer," a Grey Hunter yelled. The Blood Claws jumped in, hurling insults at Ironclaws.

"Go back? So you don't want to go on a hunt?" He asked.

"What?" Helfist said. "What was that?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to go on a hunt," Aevar said. He walked to the end of the Long Fang's table and picked at the roasted carcass. "We just got word; a system is in trouble, and we're the closest ones there."

"We're on hearth duty, thanks to you," the Stormwolf sneered. "Egil Iron Wolf and the Young King are here, they'll take it for themselves."

"The Iron Wolf just got back from a hunt against the Dark Eldar, and his company is hurting. Besides, the Fell-Handed is getting very, very anxious. He's ordering us to take him into the fray, damn any hearth order from Grimnar himself."

"So what does that mean?" the Stormwolf demanded.

"It means you get to tell the Young King to take over hearth duty," Helfist grinned.

Bjorn shot a glare at Vermund. Then the massive Space Marine grinned. Then he began to laugh.

"Tell the Young King to mind the hearth?" He roared. "Oh, seven fucking Hels, that's a good one!"

"Thing is, the Fell-Handed has a demand," Aevar said.

"And what's that?"

"I need a few of your Guards," Ironclaws said, a grin barely suppressed.

The hall fell quiet.

"'A few' of them," the Stormwolf repeated.

"Aye, a few."

"For what?"

"To test what 'my mortal whore' and I have been building," Aevar said. "The Fell-Handed wants to see the fruits of our labors, and what better way that killing xenos?"

That got a grunt of approval from the Long Fangs. Seeing the true greybeards of the Company give their approval quieted the Grey Hunters and Blood Claws. Even the Jarl Guard bowed to the wise heroes.

Helfist realized he was holding his breath; between old man Ironclaws' sudden appearance and his 'request' for some of the Stormwolf's own Guards, the kill-urge was still thick. If Ironclaws was right about one thing, it's that everyone wanted his thread cut and his body left for the scavengers.

"Well, who wants to kill a few xenos with the Blasphemer?" the Stormwolf rumbled. "Come on now, don't jump at it all at once."

"Don't do it for me, do it for the Fell-Handed," Aevar said.

One pack leader, Thorgil, grudgingly stood.

"Stop yer barking, I heard it already," he rumbled.

"Thank you, brother," Aevar said, smiling gently.

Thorgil spat at that.

"Stop your messing around and finish eating," the Stormwolf said. "I want to get as far away from this damned hearth as fast as possible! Come on, there's a war out there and we're missing it!"