Ice and Steel

271.M37

The killing fields of Redjac's Folly were piled high with the dead. Mountains of Guardsmen lay everywhere, strewn over the muddy ground in various states of dismemberment. As far as the eye could see burned-out tanks smoked, their wrecks arranged in long lines. Dead cultists and Traitor Marines were amongst them, left grappling in death with the foe they had challenged in life. Long would this day be remembered, but there would be no celebration today. The victory had come at too high a cost for those who had fought it.

Over the bloody wastes a Dreadnought glowered. It was an older model, the nigh-mythical Contemptor pattern. It was humanoid in shape but twice the height of a Space Marine, its mechanical limbs able to rip a man in half and its reactor shimmered with heat. Its form was far smoother and more elegant than the brutal Castaferrum patterns favoured in this lesser age, yet shorter and sleeker than the awesome bulk of a Leviathan pattern and less lethal to the pilot as well. This Dreadnought's carapace was engraved with lightning bolts and storm clouds, making it beautiful to behold. Its right arm was comprised of the multiple barrels of a Kheres pattern assault cannon and its left was a mighty power fist, able to tear through a Tank's hide. Within the life-support sarcophagus a scrap of flesh hung in a web of feed-lines and neural connections, a warrior held one inch from death for two thousand years. His name was Honourable Ajax and he was angry.

"CASUALTY REPORT," Ajax growled in a mechanical snarl.

Beside him a shorter Transhuman in the white armour of an Apothecary managed not to cower as he replied, "Too early to say."

"GUESS," Ajax snapped.

The Apothecary swallowed nervously and stammered, "Estimate, quarter-of-a-million Guardsmen laid down their lives. Two tank regiments were obliterated, one Titan and two hundred and eight Storm Heralds were killed."

"TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHT," Ajax growled, "THIS DAY WILL NOT LIVE IN THE STORM HERALD'S LITANIES OF HONOUR."

The Apothecary protested, "But Honourable Brother, they died in victory over the Black Legion, surely that is worthy of note."

Ajax's torso turned slightly on its gimbal mount as he pressed, "LISTEN CHILD, IT SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN NECESSARY. THE BLACK LEGION WARBAND WERE ON THEIR LAST LEGS, THEIR DEFEAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ACCOMPLISHED WITH MINIMAL LOSSES."

The Apothecary protested, "My name is Intego, and I know well the Codex Astartes. Losses were higher than anticipated, but within acceptable ranges. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman wrote in Vol XII, chapter VI, verse XXVIII: 'Sacrifice…'"

"DO NOT QUOTE THE CODEX TO ME," Ajax rumbled, "I WAS READING IT TWO MILLENNIA BEFORE YOU WERE BORN."

Ajax turned his attention from the Apothecary and cast his vision-lenses over the battlefield. Grainy and hashed by distortion he yet saw into ranges beyond human perception, sensory input downloaded into the meat of his brain by the arcane Machine Spirits of the war machine that was his tomb. Ajax saw the piled dead strewn over the worthless fields of this pathetic planet, located deep in Segmentum Solar. He saw the bodies of his fallen kin, mixed with the hated black ceramite of the Traitor Legions.

These Storm Heralds were strangers, not one had been born the last time he was awake, but they were his kin and his comrades. They shared blood and honour, the same training regime had forged them and they looked to their Dreadnought brethren to lead them. Among them stood a dead Castaferrum, Glorious Zanthar, he and Ajax has been fierce rivals for two millennia, only for their competition to be cut short in the most inglorious fashion. The knowledge that he had failed to protect his kin made Ajax angry but what truly stoked his ire were the slab-grey bodies mixed among them. They were wearing a different breed of Ceramite, an icy hue that spoke of winter snows and freezing glaciers, covered in furs, teeth and runic totems. A mere handful of dead compared to the Storm Heralds but they were unmistakably Space Wolves.

Ajax's anger bubbled over and his legs began to walk. Behind him Apothecary Intego shouted, "Honourable Brother, where are you going?" Ajax ignored him, striding forward with grinding sweeps of his mechanical limbs. His every step carried him over dead brothers and his anger grew and grew. He passed teams of Chapter Serfs, struggling to find the lost and recover their gear, without comment. He steered around burned-out tanks and hateful Black Legion corpses without looking, seeking one soul in particular.

At the heart of the battlefield he found his goal. A scrum of Space Wolves gathered together, hoisting one warrior on their shoulders as they cheered in victory. Ajax's eye-lenses zoomed in and he saw the leader in exacting detail. His armour was replete with fetishes and barbaric tokens, Wolf teeth and runes of ice and hell. His face bore the distinctive fangs of Leman Russ's line and his red hair was braided into long plaits, that hung over his ice-grey armour. This was Wolf Lord Jtor, leader of the Great Company that had come to the defence of Redjac's Folly and he had good reason to be celebrating. One of his hands was encased in a lightning claw, stained red with Traitor blood and the other bore aloft the severed head of Sorgadon the Reviled, lackey of Abaddon the Despoiler.

Ajax stormed up to the crowd of Space Wolves and they turned in surprise as his booming footsteps rang loud in their ears. "MOVE," Ajax snarled, scattering the sons of Fenris as he made straight for Jtor. The Wolf Lord saw him coming and grinned as he waved his Marines to drop him. His boots hit the stained earth and he looked up at the Dreadnought bearing down on him and called, "Hail, cloud whisperer."

Ajax ground to a halt as he snarled, "STORM HERALD!"

Jtor sniffed, "Of course, of course. Have you come to celebrate my victory?"

"VICTORY!" Ajax bellowed, making the Space Wolves reach for their weapons, "YOU CALL THIS VICTORY?!"

Jtor didn't look intimidated as he replied, "The Traitor filth is dead. What else matters?"

"YOU ABANDONED YOUR POSITION!" Ajax yelled, "YOU HARED OFF SEEKING GLORY AND LEFT THE CENTRE OF THE ARMY TO COLLAPSE IN YOUR WAKE!"

Jtor chucked the Traitors head aside as he retorted, "I saw the filth with my own eyes and went for the throat."

"WE TRUSTED YOU!" Ajax growled, "WE GAVE YOU THE CODEX-POSITION OF HIGHEST HONOUR, IN RESPECT TO YOUR LEGACY. YOU LEFT US TO DIE, YOU LEFT TWO HUNDRED OF MY KIN TO BE GUTTED."

Jtor sneered, "Don't blame me if your quill-pushers couldn't keep up with true warriors."

"YOU CARE FOR NOTHING BUT YOUR OWN GLORIFICATION," Ajax growled, "YOU ARE NOT SOLDIERS, YOU ARE A GANG OF KNAVES AND BRAGGARTS."

"Those are fighting words," Jtor snarled as his lightning claws flaring to life as his Marines reached for their weapons, "Insult me again and I shall…"

He didn't get to finish for Ajax's fist lashed forward. With starting speed his huge arm slammed into Jtor and mechanical digits closed around the Wolf Lord. With no more effort than lifting a bag of flour Ajax heaved the Wolf Lord high, Ceramite armour creaking under the strain of his servo-motors. Jtor snarled in fury but his arms were pinned, he was helpless to fight back and his troops stood dumbfounded as their lord was snatched away. Ajax felt hatred surge through him, the urge to snuff out this life building in his withered hearts. He could close his fingers and squeeze the life out of Jtor, activate the power field of his fist and rend him apart or throw him into the ground so hard his neck snapped. It would be so easy and he almost did it, but then another mechanical voice blared, "Put him down!"

Ajax turned and beheld another Dreadnought lumbering nearer. This one was a Castaferrum, its slab-sided armour marked with runes of eldritch power. A wolf's skull was mounted on its front, besides the icons of a Marine wrestling a dread serpent and the Wolf That Stalks Among The Stars. Its right arm was an assault cannon and the left a mighty lightning claw, a wondrous relic reforged to fit a Dreadnought's frame. Ajax recognised this one, how could he not, it was Bjorn the Fell-Handed, oldest and most revered Dreadnought in the Imperium Entire.

"KNAVE," Ajax snarled as he tossed Jtor aside, "YOU WILL ANSWER TO ME FOR THE BLOOD LOST THIS DAY."

Bjorn slowly closed, every step laced with menace as he growled, "I do not answer to weak sops like you."

Jtor rolled to his feet and called, "Mighty Fell-handed, this one…"

"Shut your useless mouth pup," Bjorn snarled, "The grown-ups are talking."

Ajax however yelled, "THE HONOUR OF THE STORM HERALDS DEMANDS SATISFACTION!"

Bjorn's retort was a simple, "Your unworthy life ends here."

With a mechanical roar Ajax threw himself at the Fell-Handed, his assault cannon roaring. Solid shots rang off the Space Wolf like rain, scratching his glorious raiment but doing no harm. It was merely a warm up however, for Ajax's fist powered forward, hurtling right for his rival's amniotic coffin. Yet Bjorn twisted his torso away and he suffered no worse than a glancing blow. Golden icons shattered as Ajax's fist bounced off, marring the heraldry but the armour remained intact. In return Bjorn's lightning claw flashed and struck Ajax's right shoulder. Ancient talons, older than the Storm Heralds Chapter, cleaved through armour like parchment, ripping out cabling and tearing apart servo motors. Ajax was horrified to witness his right arm fall off, shorn from his frame to crash into the bloody mud. Damage reports rang loud in his mind but the Fell-Handed was only just hitting his stride.

As Space Wolves scattered Bjorn smashed forward and his claw ripped through the armour on Ajax's waist, shredding servo motors. The Contemptor struck back, ramming his fist into Bjorn's side but his blow barely made an impact. Back and forth the two Dreadnoughts fought, exchanging terrible blows. Ajax fought furiously but Bjorn's armoured hide was wrought by sciences lost unto the Imperium, fashioned by cunning tech-wights and Iron Priests whose like had not been seen in millennia. Ajax's mightiest blows were shrugged off like they were nothing and in return his systems were rent and torn. His oils leaking out of gaping wounds and his vox-caster cracked.

"Pathetic," Bjorn sneered.

In return all Ajax could muster was, "YOU… shall not… BEAT ME."

Once more the Dreadnoughts closed, tearing and battering at each other. Ajax fought with all his skill and strength but was horrified to realise Bjorn outmatched him. The Fell-handed's strength was remarkable, his ferocity unparalleled and his resolve unbreakable. He was as scornful and cruel as a blizzard, his attacks an unrelenting flurry of blows. He brought the fury of the winter world with him, carrying icy wrath in his heart that could not be denied. In two millennia Ajax had never seen the like, never met a foe so furious and implacable and he suddenly grasped how Bjorn had survived seven thousand years of war. His hate sustained him and his anger was a fire that could not be quenched. Ajax had nothing that could stand before such wroth and he saw that unless he could summon the same fury he was about to die.

Throwing caution to the wind Ajax dropped his guard. He unlocked his waist gimbal and spun his torso right. In a manner no living soldier could match the war machine spun about, exposing the reactor on his back. It was a most dangerous move, leaving his back open to a final blow, but for all his might Bjorn was a hair too slow and missed the chance. Ajax's torso spun and as it did so his power fist hurtled around, bringing the power of a wrecking ball right into the Space Wolf's sarcophagus.

Thunder rolled as fist met armour, power fields flaring like crackling lightning, and Ajax smote the front of the Dreadnought with every drop of his strength. It was a blow that would have cracked a Fortress gate, upturned a Baneblade and killed a Daemon and it actually made Bjorn step back with an immense dent driven into his front. The Dreadnought staggered away but Ajax was not elated, the Fell-Handed yet stood, withstanding a strike that should have cracked wide him open. Ajax was aghast at the sight, his mightiest blow had merely irritated the ancient war machine and he knew Bjorn's counter would finish him once and for all.

He braced himself to die but to his surprise the Fell-Handed merely stood still, utterly unmoving, then a grinding rasp of gears and mechanisms leaked from his frame. He was laughing, Ajax realised, the mechanical stutter of a Dreadnought trying to laugh. He was mystified as to what was happening until Bjorn declared, "By the All-Father, you have a punch that would make Russ himself proud!"

Ajax stood still, leaking oils and crackling with sparks as his broken vox-hailer wheezed, "YOU… didn't do… TOO BAD… yourself."

Bjorn laughed, "Look at us, two old sots bickering like Blood Claws. Our Primarchs would shake their heads at our brawling. Let's call it a draw, eh?"

Ajax was stunned by this sudden reversal, he didn't know why the Space Wolf had called off their fight. Yet the farce of their situation did tickle him. Two veteran warriors, lauded and revered by the mewling babes that called themselves Space Marines, fighting like drunks in an alleyway.

Bjorn's strength and ferocity had been phenomenal and despite everything Ajax realised he respected this warrior not only as a peerless fighter, but also for the deep wisdom hidden behind that armour. The Fell-Handed had shown Ajax there were only two options: fight until a warrior of the Emperor lay dead, or laugh. Despite himself Ajax chuckled, his gears grinding as he spluttered, "YOU ARE… still a braggart and a knave, but… YOU HAVE METTLE."

"Proud of it!" Bjorn laughed, "You gave me a good fight. If only we could drink some Mjod together and feast on a roast ox, then we could end our day properly."

Ajax snorted, "Maybe not but… THERE'S STILL SOME TRAITORS… drawing breath. We could rip a few apart..."

"Yes!" Bjorn laughed, "Come my most worthy friend, let us spill some Traitor's blood as comrades-in-arms!"

The dumbfounded Space Wolves made way as Bjorn and Ajax turned and strode from their ranks. Ajax walked beside this most fearsome of warriors and found the odd sensation of respect creeping over him. Despite their different ways and histories they were closely matched in purpose and resolve and it was an honour to be standing beside him. They had tested each other in spirit and in strength and neither had been found wanting, honour was satisfied. Yet one thing yet rankled him. As they walked Ajax lifted the ruin of his right arm and said, "YOU OWE ME A NEW ASSAULT CANNON."