Space Wolves Adeptus Astartes strike-cruiser Krakenbane, Fenris System [910.M41]

"You're getting slower the older you get, Sovjorn – slow and sloppy." Valdir Icemane's smile was a flash of fangs as he taunted his pack-leader even as he deftly parried the strikes of Sovjorn's training sword, "Soon we'll have to start called you 'Oldtooth' instead – ha! What do you say, Grimtongue? You think it a more fitting name?"

Higard Grimtongue gave a noncommittal grunt as he watched his kinsmen spar, "It's no better or worse than any other." He was a dour, quiet man with blunt, battle-scarred features and a shaved scalp inked with runic tattoos who seldom smiled or boasted. The largest of the pack, he stood with his massive arms folded across his barrel chest, his coarse black beard as tangled and unkempt as ever. Jesting and laughter were equally foreign to his somber nature, and as Garmund Stormbear's condition continued to worsen he had grown even more withdrawn as the Krakenbane drew closer to Fenris.

Sovjorn – known to his kith and kin as Swiftfang – bared his own teeth as he struggled to breach Valdir's lightning-quick defenses and score a line of livid red across the other warrior's ice-pale skin. Though Valdir was the pack's second-in-command, he never tired of baiting and insulting his leader with affectionate mockery; such interactions had always been their way, ever since their days as heedless, headstrong Blood Claws, and Sovjorn had never failed to give back as good as he received.

"Ah, Valdir, how cruel the passing of time can be! If I'm already this slow as a Grey Hunter then just imagine how doddering and decrepit I'll be when I become a Long Fang! Why, soon you'll have to carry me into battle on your back and we all know your fragile spine will shatter beneath my weight long before we reach the enemy lines. A warrior as scrawny as you could never handle the strain of bearing such a burden; alas, I shall have to seek out a stronger, more resilient brother for aid."

"Well, it isn't going to be me, you can be certain of that," said Efor Nighthowl as he came to stand beside Grimtongue's hulking form. The dark-skinned, amber-eyed Space Wolf was twirling his drake-fang dagger in his dexterous fingers, slicing incomprehensible patterns in the air without once drawing blood. Efor was the pack's keenest tracker and once he had a trail to follow no foe could escape his tireless pursuit. "Here's a better idea – once Sovjorn gets to be so old his teeth are all worn down to useless nubs we'll put him on a sleigh and have a Thunderwolf pull him across the battlefield; the sight will fill the enemy with such despair that they'll all break and flee and he'll have no need to exhaust his waning strength attempting to smite them. A more tactically sound plan all around, I think."

"Nay! Nay, brothers! Make our good packmate Nagling here do the pulling – he's got nothing better to do now!" laughed the jovial Svenfinn, known to his kith and kin as Sunseeker on account of his golden locks and his relentlessly cheerful personality. He and Nagling Stonejaw had been locked in fierce wrestling match since before Sovjorn and Valdir had started to spar and an undisputed victor had finally emerged after an hour of cursing and straining. The two Space Marines paced up to the dueling cage, sweat-soaked and covered in ugly bruises; like the rest of the pack they were both barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in wolfskin loincloths, their scars standing out starkly in the light of the lumens. Nagling was limping slightly and scowling, his chestnut brown hair plastered to his neck and shoulders. Svenfinn was smiling in triumph, his green eyes bright with boyish mirth.

"I'm not pulling anyone about on a damn sleigh, even if the Allfather stood up from His Throne and commanded it," Nagling said with a snarl, glaring sullenly at Svenfinn, "Unlike this immature pup who treats war as a game and who would be far more suited for the task since he seems fated to find everything so insufferably funny."

"See, Swiftfang?" Valdir said tauntingly as he wove with consummate skill around Sovjorn's attacks, always allowing the Space Wolf's sword to come within a hair's width of marking him, "We are all in agreement that your advancing old age is becoming a liability; nonetheless, we are still willing to accept you as pack-leader, so you can't complain about it too much – now, when are you going to start putting some serious effort into bloodying me? This is starting to get boring."

The watching Grey Hunters ceased their bantering as Sovjorn redoubled his efforts. Unlike the majority of his transhuman brethren Valdir was lean of build, with a sharp, intelligent face and a wealth of white-blond hair that lent him a fey, youthful aspect. In contrast to many Space Wolves he kept his cheeks and chin clean-shaven, preferring to honor his birth-tribe's tradition of carving ritual tally-marks denoting his most significant kills into the smooth skin of his face. A skilled swordsman and a cunning tactician his position as Sovjorn's second had never once been challenged. Sovjorn had nothing but respect for the white-maned warrior, in spite of his frequent jests and insults, and knew when the time came for him to sleep upon the bloodstained snow the pack would remain in capable hands.

Not that his respect was going to stop his fist from rendezvousing with Valdir's face in the next thirty seconds.

"Forget about the stirring, blood-drenched saga of how I took the head of that rampaging ork chieftain during the storming of Kerskec Ridge while you were off elsewhere picking frost fleas out of your arse-hairs," Sovjorn said as he prepared to move in for the kill, "When we sit in the Great Hall of the Fang once more and the boasting begins anew I'm going to tell the other packs the side-splitting tale of how you and Sunseeker managed to get yourselves stuck in a –"

The vox-bead in his ear came to life with a whining static-laced hiss, then the words of Battle Leader Esgir Bladebreaker pierced Sovjorn's mind with all the force of a harpoon being driven into the hide of a breaching kraken. Valdir saw the stunned expression spreading across his pack-leader's face and immediately put up his sword, all thoughts of the duel cast aside. The other Grey Hunters looked on expectantly, shifting restlessly like agitated wolves as they awaited the news.

Esgir did not speak long, for he was a man of few words and many duties. Sovjorn stared at Valdir, torn by conflicting emotions, "It's the Deathwatch," he told his pack-brothers, "The Deathwatch has finally come for me after all this time."

It had been Jarl Bran Redmaw himself who had put Sovjorn forward as a potential Deathwatch candidate; this had occurred not long after Sovjorn's elevation to the ranks of the Bloodmaws' Grey Hunters, for he had won much acclaim among his brethren for saving the life of his Wolf Lord by uncovering and thwarting an Aeldari ambush that would have seen Redmaw slain during one of his solitary forays into enemy territory. At the time, the mere thought of serving within the hallowed ranks of the Imperium's preeminent alien-hunters had filled Sovjorn's young hearts with elation, and he had spent many months eagerly awaiting the day when an ebon-hulled void-ship would appear in the skies and spirit him away to slaughter exotic aliens and win further renown beneath strange suns.

Now, some thirsty-seven Terran-standard years later, the arrival of a Deathwatch battle-frigate in Fenrisian space was not as entirely welcome as it might have otherwise been. The burdens of command, the loss of good brothers, and the victories and defeats he had experienced over a lifetime of unrelenting war had forced Sovjorn to mature and adapt; Deathwatch service no longer held the same glamorous appeal, especially now, when he had finally returned to the Fenris System after being absent from the Hearthworld for well over two decades.

As he stood within the Krakenbane's gloomy strategium, his pack-brothers arrayed in a loose semicircle at his back, Sovjorn removed the torc from his neck and cast it upon the deck at the ceramite boots of Esgir Bladebreaker as he stood before a hololithic projection table beneath a company banner depicting the wolf totem of the Bloodied Hunter.

"Hear me, battle-leader."

Esgir's predatory wolf-yellow eyes did not flicker from the endless screeds of condensed data he was reviewing. "I listen, Grey Hunter."

"I will not shirk from taking my place in the Long Vigil," Sovjorn said, "for I have not forgotten the great honor our jarl bestowed upon me all those years ago; nonetheless, I would beg a boon of you, sire, ere I depart."

"Speak it."

"I have not set foot on Fenrisian ice in over twenty Terran turnings; I long to breathe Fenrisian air and to run freely beneath Fenrisian skies once more. I ask that you allow my pack to hunt together one last time for a single day and a single night. We will run down our prey like true wolves and feast upon fresh meat as oathsworn Einherjar brothers before we are parted and Valdir Icemane assumes the leadership. This is my request, Battle Leader Bladebreaker."

Esgir said nothing for a long moment as he considered the Grey Hunter's words. Sovjorn's brothers maintained a respectful silence, though their collective eagerness could not be hidden. "And what of your brother, Garmund Stormbear?" the battle-leader asked, "The Wolf Priests tell me his body still resists the toxins that are destroying him from within, though they believe he should have been granted the Allfather's Mercy weeks ago. Will he also accompany you to the surface despite his condition?"

"It is true brother Stormbear is dying, however, that is all the more reason for him to join us in the hunt," Sovjorn said, "Our packmate has clung to life with all the unyielding tenacity of his namesake and we will not abandon him even if we must bare him along on our backs."

"You have a bard's way with words when speaking to your superiors, Swiftfang," Esgir said with little humor. "Very well, I give you my blessing: a single day and a single night. Your brothers will be provided with assault bikes for the hunt. Yet I forbid you from setting sail upon the worldsea; the pack will stalk the mountains and glaciers of Asaheim within sight of the Fang. You can go kraken-hunting when you return to us covered in the acclaim of your Deathwatch brethren – if you are fated to return at all."

Sovjorn saluted and retrieved his torc. "My thanks, battle-leader."

A tight smile touched Esgir's bearded lips. "You seem to have forgotten what a spiteful old crone Mother Fenris truly is. Do not thank me just yet."

Garmund Stormbear was combat-ineffective and all the Einherjar aboard the Krakenbane knew it. The eight Wolf Priests attached to Esgir's task-force had each made a differing prediction on how long it would take for the insidious Drukhari poisons to kill him, yet when the Grey Hunter continued to defy their predictions it was soon whispered amongst the packs that he would not succumb nor allow the Allfather's Mercy to be administered until he had looked upon the skies of Fenris for a final time. Then, eight day-cycles ago, he had staggered from the apothecarion under his own power and secluded himself in a solitary meditation cell deep within the ship, leaving his pack-brothers to languish in an emotional limbo they were ill-disposed to endure. Because Garmund was not yet dead they could not mourn him properly nor to swear bloody oaths of vengeance against his killers; yet he was no longer truly alive, for he was unable to train or fight or feast as a true son of Russ should, and was thus cut off from the life of the pack as if death had already claimed him.

Still, Garmund remained one of Sovjorn's packmates all the same, combat-effective or not, and he had no intention of going aboard the waiting Deathwatch frigate until he had spilled hot blood upon the snow with his kinsmen in a final gesture of farewell. As he drew near to the last cell at the end of the empty corridor, Garmund's canine companion, Herja, a black Fenrisian she-wolf the size of a stocky Terran horse, rose to her paws, her ears flattened, a warning growl rumbling deep in her throat.

"Peace, wolf-sister," said Sovjorn softly, "You know me, my voice and my scent. I mean your brother no harm. It is time for the pack to hunt as one once more." Stiff-legged, Herja sniffed him over from nose to groin; satisfied, her tail wagged tentatively and her growls ceased. Sovjorn stepped around her and hauled open the heavy bulkhead door, grimacing as an unwholesome stench washed over him, causing his hackles to rise. This was not a sickroom playing host to a convalescing brother – this was a plasteel den a wounded predator had crawled into seeking to hide itself as it died. Herja whimpered in distress. Craving the air purifiers of his battle-helm, Sovjorn quickly stepped inside and pulled the bulkhead shut behind him.

The cell-turned-death-chamber was bare and unadorned. Garmund Stormbear lay naked and shivering on a bed of soiled animal pelts, his chest heaving with each tormented breath. As his enhanced vision adjusted to the lightless space, Sovjorn suppressed a shudder upon seeing how wasted and frail-looking his brother had become; the cruel alien toxins had done their work well despite the efforts of the Wolf Priests to excise them from his system; the Grey Hunter's thick red hair was now lank and lusterless and his fair skin had taken on the sickly pallor of a corpse. A slick sheen of foul-smelling sweat drenched his withered muscles, indicating a severe fever had only just recently broken. Garmund's eyes moved rapidly behind his half-closed eyelids. He was dreaming. Sovjorn doubted it was a good dream.

"Garmund," he said as he crouched down beside his stricken packmate; the Space Wolf's gray eyes snapped open, bloodshot and unfocused; convulsions tore through his body and he arched his back in agony. Sovjorn looked on stoically; he could do nothing to alleviate his brother's suffering. Air hissed between Garmund's clenched teeth as he fought to keep from crying out, refusing to shame himself in the presence of his pack-leader. The fit soon passed and he fell back, panting with pain and exertion. "Sovjorn…" he murmured weakly, "Brother…"

"Do you know where you are? Do you remember how you got here?" Sovjorn asked.

Garmund frowned and blinked, still not entirely lucid. "I left the apothecarion…" he said haltingly, "The Priests tried to stop me…I punched one in the face…I'd gotten tired of them fussing about me like fretful nursemaids…tired of the needles and the tubes…the bright lights and the monitoring machines that wouldn't stop beeping and wailing…I wanted some solitude and quiet…wanted to rest without anyone watching me…" Garmund blinked again and his hand closed about the ivory amulet of a white bear he had worn around his neck for as long as Sovjorn had known him. "I was having an unpleasant dream before you came…"

Sovjorn sat back on his haunches. "Was it a dream about the Drukhari attack?"

Garmund shook his head. "No…I dreamed about a boy, somewhere on Fenris…a young red-haired boy who was running through a forest at night…running towards the light of a distant fire high on a hill…death and bloodshed lay behind him; the boy was afraid…I felt his fear…I think it was a memory…a childhood memory of when I was mortal…and afraid…" Garmund grimaced and turned his face away. "Why are you here, Swiftfang?"

"We have returned to Fenris and a ship of the Deathwatch waits in high orbit, ready to whisk me away to some watch-fortress at the other end of the galaxy," said Sovjorn, "Esgir has given permission for the pack to hunt the wilds of Asaheim for a day and a night before I depart. I want you at my side, Stormbear; I want to run with all my brothers one last time. Not every Space Marine seconded to the Deathwatch survives to return to their homeworlds again."

Garmund sat up and looked down at himself in disgust, "Skitja…I can't hunt in this state…I don't think I can even walk…"

Sovjorn glowered, baring his fangs. "Was that an admission of weakness, brother, or a desperate plea for me to cut your fraying thread here and now?" The pack-leader drew his combat knife from its leather thigh-sheath and pressed the tip of the blade against the Space Wolf's throat. "I don't want to leave you behind to die on your back like some toothless old man, Garmund; we've both bled for one another too many times to bother counting. One last hunt, brother – without you the pack will be incomplete; you will be missed."

Garmund snarled and pushed away the knife, his eyes fever-bright with determination and defiance. "A day and a night spent roaming Asaheim in winter? I can manage that, if nothing else…"

Sovjorn stood, relieved. "Good – this excursion isn't for milk-pups." He took his brother's hand and helped him to his feet; Garmund sagged against him, exhausted. "I'll need my armor… and an extra supply of combat-stimms, and –"

"…a bath, or else you'll scare off all the prey worth pursuing."

"I'll just pretend I misheard that…"

"It's true," Sovjorn said as he shoved the bulkhead open, "You smell like –"

Herja sprang without warning; Garmund's unsteady legs buckled as the huge she-wolf wrapped her forepaws about his shoulders and bore him backwards to the deck, whining with excitement as she nipped and licked his face. Sovjorn swore violently and seized her by the neck-scruff, intending to pull her off; with a terrifying swiftness that outmatched his own transhuman reflexes Herja turned and tore his wrist open to the bone before resuming her mock-attack on her hapless packmate. Garmund pushed her head aside just long enough to grin wickedly up at his bleeding, cursing commander.

"She's coming with us too, brother…"

"Fenrys Hjolda!" Sovjorn's exultant warcry rose above the wailing winter wind, flooding the hearts of the Grey Hunters with a fierce, feral delight, "Ojar va Russ, va Leman Russ!"

"Fenris endures!" the pack roared together in response, "Glory to Russ – to Leman Russ!" As if to partake in their joy, shafts of weak sunlight stabbed through the pall of threatening storm clouds to glint briefly off the Space Wolves' mist-gray power-armor. Sitting proudly in an open armored sidecar the Iron Priests had jury-rigged to Grimtongue's assault bike, Herja threw back her head and howled in lupine jubilation. Sovjorn sucked in another a great lungful of icy Fenrisian air, feeling as if his twin hearts were about to burst with ecstatic joy as the bitter wind stung his unhelmed face and lashed at the wolf pelts adorning his battleplate. The Bloodmaws had come home. He had come home.

The Season of Fire was over. Winter now held the world fast in its merciless jaws. To their left lay the vast forested slopes of the Asaheim Mountains where the few mountain tribes of Fenris dwelled. To their right stretched a jagged expanse of grinding glaciers and frozen fjords that reached to the far horizon. The pack raced along at delirious speeds parallel to the mountain range in a long staggered line, with Efor Nighthowl ranging ahead at the vanguard. Too weakened to handle his own mechanical steed, Garmund sat behind Higard Grimtongue; Svenfinn Sunseeker and Nagling Stonejaw brought up the rearguard, a barrel of mjod secured fast behind the seat of Nagling's mount.

"I can't wait to sink my fangs into the bloody haunch of a carnyx," said Valdir as he drew his bike up alongside Sovjorn's. "Drooling over anything in particular, Oldtooth?"

"I'm more in the mood for mammoth meat myself," Sovjorn said, "Though in truth, I'm simply glad to be home. Even if we bring down nothing on this hunt I'll still be able to leave the Rout with lighter hearts. Try not to get my pack killed while I'm away – it'll put me in a foul mood if I return with exciting new sagas to tell only to find there's no-one left to appreciate them."

Valdir nodded in mock solemnity. "I promise you that everyone will be dead by the time –"

"Contact!" Efor called from up ahead; the tracker had felt the vibrations under the ice before the others and his shout alerted his kinsmen three seconds before their bikes' auspex-sensors chimed in collective warning. "Ice-wyrm!"

The Space Wolves immediately scattered. The ice split as a massive serpentine creature burst into their midst. The ice-vyrm was a fully-mature male and it was as thick as a Rhino assault carrier. Hyper-aggressive and fiercely territorial, ice-vyrms burrowed under the glaciers, hunting their prey through vibration and attacking any creature that moved across the ice above them. Mammoths and Fenrisian great elk were their preferred prey, but roving bands of human hunters and packs of wolves often found themselves targeted whenever they ventured too far from the shelter of the forests.

"Mind the mjod, Nagling!" cried Svenfinn as the two Space Wolves sped away in opposite directions, "The first cast is mine!" The ice-wyrm heaved itself fully onto the ice, its long white-furred body coiling and contorting as it swung its bullet-shaped head from one Bloodmaw to the next, puzzled by the strange prey-creatures that were circling it fearlessly instead of fleeing for the safety of the tree line.

The Grey Hunters had equipped themselves with their favored melee weapons before making planetfall: Svenfinn and Garmund with their lightning claws, Higard with his thunderhammer, Sovjorn, Valdir, Efor and Nagling with their kraken-toothed frost blades. Each warrior had also brought along a bundle of iron-bladed javelins, each sized for a Space Marine's grip but otherwise identical to the ones they had carried as boys when hunting with their former tribes. No son of Fenris survived to see his fifth Great Year without becoming a superlative spear-caster. None of the pack even considered drawing their bolt-pistols; they would make this kill in the traditional way, in honor of their tribal roots.

The ice-vyrm struck at Svenfinn first; the golden-haired warrior laughed as the serpent's fanged jaws parted to swallow him alive and hurled his javelin with all the force his armor-augmented strength could muster. Yet the evasive maneuvering required to keep him out of the monster's reach spoiled his aim and instead of bursting out through the back of the wyrm's throat the javelin pierced the creature's snout instead.

Enraged at the sudden pain the wyrm reared up, whipping its head back and forth and scattering blood droplets the size of frag grenades across the ice. "Too high, brother!" Sovjorn mocked as he cast his own javelin, only to hit the beast just below its right eye. "Too low!" Valdir jeered; a second later he was forced to abort his cast to avoid being knocked off his bike by the wyrm's lashing tail. "Damn pups," Higard muttered as he veered in close enough for Garmund to lean out and rake his energized lighting claws along the wyrm's side, opening up a long gash that spilled more blood upon the snow in a great crimson wash. If the creature could not be killed directly the pack would bleed it to death with a thousand cuts, unless it chose to retreat, whereupon the hunt would begin anew.

The ice-wyrm had no interest in retreating; hissing, it attacked Svenfinn again and the Space Wolf's next javelin punched clean through its upper jaw. The serpent kept on coming and rammed its head into Svenfinn's bike, sending both man and machine skidding sideways across the ice. Svenfinn leaped to his feet and extended his own lighting claws just as the pursuing wyrm's jaws closed around his body; the wyrm flung back its head and its entire length gave a great, convulsive shudder as it swallowed the ceramite-clad warrior whole.

"Skitja!" Nagling roared in frustration as he drove his javelin deep into the underside of the wyrm's exposed throat. Throwing tradition to the wind, Efor emptied the entire magazine of his bolt-pistol into the wyrm's head while the rest of the pack harried it at close quarters, veering in and out to slash at its neck and sides with claw and chainblade, desperate to bring the beast down before it decided to burrow back beneath the ice with Svenfinn still trapped within its gullet.

"He wanted this to happen!" Nagling raged as he swung his shrieking chainaxe, heedless of the hot blood spraying across his face, "That stupid piece of piss-soaked gristle! He probably missed his casts on purpose! He wanted this to –"

A muffled detonation sounded midway down the wyrm's neck, followed by a cascade of gore that exploded outwards, drenching the nearest Space Wolves in bloody gobbets of shredded flesh. The ice-wyrm went into its death-throes, writhing and spasming in erratic convulsions; the pack quickly peeled away, but not before a thrashing length of coil struck the side of Higard's bike with enough force to send it crashing over; Herja sprang swiftly from the sidecar even as it was falling; Higard vaulted from his seat, pulling Garmund along with him; the weakened Space Marine stumbled and fell to his knees. Cursing, Higard ran up to the wyrm's bloodied head and began bludgeoning its skull in with his thunderhammer. The rest of the pack dismounted at a distance and fell upon the serpent with renewed vigor, tearing at the gaping death-wound in its neck. Even as the ice-wyrm died Svenfinn emerged from its carcass in a grotesque display of rebirth, his lightning claws held aloft in victory.

"Good thing I thought to bring along a few grenades," he said with a satisfied grin. "What was Nagling yelling about? He sounded quite angry. Did the mjod get spilled?"

The Grey Hunters all laughed except for Nagling. Garmund rejoined his brothers, leaning against Herja for support. "A good kill…" he said wearily as he looked the dead wyrm over, "a shared kill…"

"A pack-kill," said Valdir, and this time his solemnity was genuine, "a wolf-kill."

Sovjorn raised his chainsword to the stormy sky; fighting against the wind the ravens and gyrhawks were already beginning to circle the killing-ground. He met the elated faces of the gore-stained warriors before him and none looked away. Pride filled him, but now it was intermingled with a profound sorrow as piecing as a knife to the hearts. Sovjorn realized he did not want to be parted from his pack, from these brothers he had fought alongside for so many years across so many worlds – yet knew he could not convey this newfound sense of sorrow to them outright, not without diminishing it in some fundamental way. He was a son of Russ: a leader of men and a slayer of monsters. The risk of appearing weak was too great.

"It is our kill," he said. The Space Wolves' feral eyes gleamed. They smiled as one, exposing their fangs.

"Our kill."

The pack feasted well and hunted no more that day. As the dusk deepened and the night shadows stretched out their dark claws across the pale ice the seven Space Marines climbed a rocky knoll near the edge of the forest and built a bonfire using promethium siphoned from their bikes' fuel tanks and dead branches gathered from fallen fir trees. The pack did not require the fire's warmth, for their genhanced bodies were impervious to the elements, nor did they need its light to see by, for their eyesight was as keen as any night-prowling predator's – yet now the time had come to drink and recall the ancient sagas of the Chapter and they all knew that the stories of the past should never be told beside a cold and barren hearth.

Nagling broke open the mjod barrel and passed around the drinking cups. The Grey Hunters hunkered down in a circle, alternating between guzzling their ale and tending to their wargear. The winter wind warred against the flames, as if seeking to extinguish their warmth. Snow fell in fitful flurries. The distant peak of Mount Tror loomed above them like a silent, eternal watchman. Sovjorn allowed his eyes to drift half-shut as he listened to the gruff voices of his men as they spoke of legendry battles and sang the sagas of brothers long dead. Herja lay with her head resting contentedly on Garmund's armored knee. Despite being surrounded by countless hostile creatures, the Space Wolves enjoyed the fleeting moment of respite, taking quiet comfort from one another's presence as men sitting around fires have done since the earliest days.

"At toast to pack-leader Sovjorn Swiftfang," said Valdir, lifting his cup, his tally-scarred cheeks flushed with ale. "May he cut down every xenos abomination that stands against him and may he return to us in triumph with his fangs as sharp as ever."

The other Space Wolves laughed and raised their own drinking cups in salute. "I pray you don't end up having to take orders from a Dark Angel or a Flesh Tearer, brother," said Svenfinn as he polished off his ale, "Not that I wouldn't find it amusing."

"Or an inquisitor," said Efor, "Can you imagine being ordered about like a slave by one of those insufferable little rodents? It could happen; the Deathwatch has strong ties to the Ordo Xenos."

"I'd sooner eat ork shit than allow an inquisitor to tell me what to do," Nagling said with a scowl, "then again, it might be somewhat better then having Svenfinn as pack-leader." Svenfinn smiled and promptly poured the rest of his mjod over Nagling's head. "The feeling is mutual, little brother." Nagling punched him in the jaw and they fell away from the fire in a tangle of kicking legs and flailing fists.

"You two are utterly hopeless," said Valdir, "still acting like rival Blood Claws after all this time. Enjoy being away from it all, Sovjorn; have some fun, if it's allowed – Hel, take some mjod with you and throw a victory feast with your new squad mates after every successful mission; that should make the Long Vigil a bit more bearable."

"It will be fine…as long as you don't change, Sovjorn…" said Garmund softly; the others glanced at him curiously – it was the first time he had spoken since the fire had been lit.

"What do you mean 'don't change?'" asked Sovjorn, setting aside his empty cup, "Why would I want to change, Garmund?"

"Because you'll be under pressure to do so…for the sake of survival…" Garmund explained as he absently stroked Herja's fur. "We hail from a unique world and we have unique ways of looking at things…ways not understood by most other Space Marines; you will need to give up parts of yourself in order to find your place and be accepted by your new brothers…you will have to adept, to see things with new eyes…but whatever happens, you must not change…"

"Why?"

"Because you must return to Fenris as a true son of Russ…no matter what may transpire during the Long Vigil…adept and overcome, as need demands…but you must never forget who and what you are, Sovjorn…"

"And what am I, brother?"

"A Space Wolf, first and always…not some inquisitor's tamed and collared hound…"

Silence reigned; the bonfire hissed and spat. Sovjorn looked Garmund dead in the eye. "I give you my promise, Stormbear."

Garmund nodded and got slowly to his feet, drawing his bearskin cloak tighter about his pauldrons as if chilled. His face was deathly white. He gazed at each of his pack-brothers in turn, then turned his back on them and strode down the knoll, heading towards the forest. Herja followed at his heels, as silent as a second shadow. No one spoke. No one moved. Something sharp twisted within Sovjorn's soul and something inside his hearts cried out. He stood.

"Let him go, brother," said Higard quietly, "He has run and spilled blood with his brothers for the last time; this is the ending of his saga. Let him go. Let him die."

"No," Sovjorn said, "He is not a Lone Wolf; we are still a pack – I will not allow it." He started off down the knoll; after a moment's pause the others took up their weapons and followed him.

Garmund had not gone far. With each passing hour his failing body continued to betray him. The pack found him on his hands and knees at the edge of the trees, vomiting up the mjod he had drunk, along with partially digested chunks of ice-wyrm meat. Herja stood protectively beside him and she snarled fiercely at Sovjorn's approach.

"A day and a night, brother – that was our agreement," Sovjorn said, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "A Thunderhawk will retrieve us at first light; until then the hunt continues."

Garmund raised his head; blood-tinged froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth. "I won't live to see the dawn," he rasped, "Go…let me remain here…I was the son of a mountain tribe…my people – the Bear Chargers – hunted these forests and fought against all manner of predators…if I wait, a great white bear or an ice troll will seek me out, scenting my weakness… then I can die with blood on my claws…without shame…"

"Then we will wait with you, brother," said Sovjorn as Higard bent down and hauled Garmund back to his feet; he gasped in pain and pushed his packmate away, glaring at Sovjorn furiously. Sensing a possible challenge, the others tensed and drew back, their hands tightening instinctively about their weapons. It was within Sovjorn's power to grant Garmund's final request, yet the thought of abandoning a brother for any reason sickened his hearts, for it went against all instinct – no Space Wolf should die alone, not while any of his kinsmen still drew breath.

"Someone's coming," said Efor. The tension eased and the Space Marines peered into the forest, their eyes easily penetrating the darkness. A tribe boy swathed in pelts was running through the trees, slipping and sliding through the snow as he raced towards the tree line, drawn by the light of the bonfire. He cried out in shock as he caught sight of the Sky Warriors and lost his footing, falling to his knees. His wolfskin hood fell back as he looked up at the armored giants, revealing a pale, frightened face framed by thick red hair. Garmund drew in a sharp breath. "It's the boy…" he said in astonishment, "The boy I saw in my dream…"

"Are you certain?" Sovjorn asked as the others exchanged puzzled glances; Garmund nodded and took a step towards the boy, who stood up and backed away, drawing a short throwing axe from his belt as he did so. Garmund raised his empty gauntlets in a placating gesture and said something in a Fenrisian dialect unfamiliar to the rest of the pack; the boy's eyes brightened and he pulled an object out from under his cloak, holding it up for Garmund to see. It was an ivory amulet of a white bear – identical in every way to the one Garmund had always worn. The boy began to talk very rapidly and urgently, pausing once to point back up the mountain; as he spoke Sovjorn's enhanced mind automatically pieced together a working translation of the boy's language into the Low Gothic hearth-cant used by all Space Wolves when not in battle.

"…you must come!" the boy finished, his desperation plain for all to see, "If you don't my father and the other hunters will all be killed! Please, great lord, we are tribe-kin – you must come!"

Garmund's lightning claws slid free of their gauntlet-housings and flashed in the night air as the disrupter-fields activated. Herja howled. The boy screamed in terror and flung himself at the Grey Hunter's feet.

"Rise, kinsmen…" the Space Wolf commanded, "and do not be afraid. I will come…" He turned to the packmates and they saw the fires of purpose burning in his eyes once more, "One last hunt, then, brothers…"

The Space Marines bounded up the mountainside, glad to be on the move once more. Herja and Efor loped ahead, following the tribe boy's trail by sight and by scent as the snow began to fall more thickly. Svenfinn followed close behind, carrying the exhausted human in his arms; Nagling and Higard brought up the rear, their bolt-pistols drawn as they scanned the trees for lurking threats. Sovjorn and Valdir kept pace on either side of Garmund; several times he fell, and each time they would drag him upright again, and he would run on in a surge of desperate strength, panting and snarling like a deranged wolf as he forced himself to keep moving even as his tortured body screamed for release, his indomitable warrior-spirit refusing to be subdued by the pain or the threat of imminent death.

The pack scented fresh blood and heard the war-cries and the screaming long before the first signs of battle were encountered. Entering a wide clearing they found the dismembered corpses of five tribesmen strewn across the bloodstained snow, their exposed entrails already frozen solid in the subzero temperatures, shattered spears and broken axes still gripped in their gloved hands. The rank musky stench of the creature that had slaughtered them teased the Space Wolves' olfactory senses and they bared their teeth in anticipation.

"Ice troll, just as the boy said…" Efor growled as he studied the signs, "and a big one; this is where they first encountered it." Garmund paused just long enough to don his helmet for the first time since setting foot on Fenris. "The prey is mine!" he cried as he raced onwards, "this kill is mine!"

The reinforced wooden stockade the Bear Chargers had erected about the huts and longhouses that protected their food-stores and sheltered their families from the killing cold had been built well, but it had been not enough to deter the ice troll. Standing taller then a Dreadnought, its massive paws tipped with scythe-like claws, it had broken through the southern wall and was rampaging amongst the tribe's hunters, leaving a bloody trail of mangled bodies in its wake. Light cast by waving torches threw frenzied shadows against the log buildings; women wailed as their kinfolk were torn apart; children ran and screamed. Axes and spears pierced the troll's shaggy hide and men fell to the ground writhing in agony as the creature's acidic blood splashed across their exposed faces and ate into their flesh.

Garmund did not hesitate, did not even break stride – commanding Herja to wait, he charged straight through the gap in the stockade, roaring threats and insults in the Bear Charger dialect at the troll through his vox-amplifiers; taken unawares, the tribesmen scattered before the Sky Warrior, as terrified of him as they were of the troll. Sovjorn and the others did not follow him in; instead the pack hung back, keeping to the shadows of the forest, waiting, their bolt-pistols held loosely in their fists. This was not their fight. They had come not to lend aid, but to bear witness.

Garmund leapt at the ice troll from behind and slashed it savagely across the rump with his lighting claws; the troll bellowed in fury and whirled around, one huge paw lashing out, and Garmund sprang back just quickly enough to keep from being decapitated. Having secured the troll's attention, the Space Wolf turned and fled; the troll dropped down on all fours and chased him back through the settlement, ignoring the shouting humans, intent only on mauling the larger prey-creature who had challenged it.

Garmund exited the stockade with the beast hard on his heels and raced back into the trees, leading the enraged troll away from its intended prey. Still, the pack did not engage; they kept to the peripheral, grim and silent spectators to the death-struggle playing out between their brother and his tribe-kin's most ancient foe. Mindful of the boy still nestled in the crook of his arm, Svenfinn broke away from the others, putting distance between his fragile human charge and the bedlam that was about to be unleashed.

Both Garmund and his adversary were weakened – the troll through injury and blood loss, the Space Marine by a fatal slow-acting poison – yet an ice troll was an apex predator on a planet containing nothing but apex predators and its stamina was undiminished. Reaching the clearing where the first tribesmen had been attacked, Garmund turned at last to face down the monstrous beast. The troll struck him with the force of a Land Raider, hurling him through the air and smashing him against the thick trunk of an ancient fir tree. Ceramite cracked and bones splintered. Snarling, Herja lunged at the troll's throat, her jaws agape. With a casual swipe of its paw the troll sent the she-wolf crashing to the snow, broken-backed and gutted. Ignoring the blood streaming through the cracks in his shattered chestplate, Garmund staggered to his feet and plunged his lightning claws deep in the troll's stomach even as the creature wrapped its arms about the Astartes in a swift, bone-crushing embrace, lifting Garmund clean off the ground even as the Grey Hunter's claws ripped open its belly, spilling loops of stinking intestines down its trunk-like legs.

"Now, brothers," commanded Sovjorn from the shadows as the troll opened its jaws wide to bite into Garmund's skull. Five bolt-pistols barked in unison and the thunderclap of their discharge echoed across the mountainside; the ice troll's head came apart in a spray of pulverized bone and brain matter and it toppled backwards, still clutching Garmund to its chest.

The Space Wolves gathered about the fallen troll and together they lifted their brother and laid him down in the snow alongside his wolf-sister; with the last of her strength Herja raised herself up and laid her head and forepaws upon Garmund's bloodied chest. Higard knelt and carefully removed Garmund's helm so the Grey Hunter could gaze upon the skies of Fenris with his own eyes. In that moment the storm clouds parted and Valdrmani, the Hearthworld's lone satellite, shone down, bathing the clearing in pale moonlight and filling Garmund's eyes with molten quicksilver.

"Your tribe-kin are preserved and your claws are stained red, Garmund Stormbear," said Sovjorn, "Go now to the Allfather's feasting halls and take your place without shame alongside the heroes of old. Your saga has ended in glory and Russ himself smiles upon your deeds. It was a fine hunt, brother."

Garmund coughed up more bloody froth and shuddered, his face a rictus of agony. "The boy…" he whispered urgently. Svenfinn soon reemerged and set the trembling human down beside the Space Marine's head. Garmund's armored fingers groped inside his split gorget and pulled out the ivory bear amulet by its leather lanyard. He tore it from his neck and held it out to the boy.

"Go…give this to the tribal elders…" he said, "Tell them the son who was taken from the Bear Chargers is now returned; tell them…tell them that Garmund Stormbear has come home…"

"I will," the boy promised, bowing and touching the amulet reverently to his forehead. With the eyes of the pack upon him he ran from the clearing, disappearing into the swirling snow.

"Brothers…"

Sovjorn looked down at Garmund; the Grey Hunter had risen to his knees but the light in his eyes was fading as he cradled Herja's lifeless head in his hands. Sovjorn did not know what else to say; most Space Wolves suffered sudden, violent deaths in the heat of battle and it often fell to the Wolf Priests to preside over a fallen warrior's final moments. None of Sovjorn's packmates had ever taken so long to die; as leader he knew he should say something, but no words would come.

"I have made my kill…and found it good…" Garmund gasped, "I am not ashamed…but I am tired…I must rest for a while …will you wait for me…while I rest?"

Sovjorn's hearts twisted. "Yes. The pack will wait, brother. Rest." Garmund closed his eyes with a sigh and slumped to the ground, his last blood-flecked breath stolen away by the freezing wind.

As the boy came within sight of the stockade, clutching the Sky Warrior's ivory amulet tightly in his hand, a howl sounded from somewhere behind him. Another howl joined in, then another, and another. The boy felt no fear, only an aching sense of loss as he listened to the Wolves Who Stalk the Stars mourning for Garmund Stormbear.

The Fang's primary docking bay was a place of controlled chaos and unending activity even when every Great Company was away upon crusade, yet the thousands of servitors, menials, enginseers and techpriests who saw to the maintenance, refueling and rearming of the Rout's Thunderhawks and Stormwolf gunships still gave the black Deathwatch shuttlecraft a wide birth, providing the pack with enough space to conduct their short leave-taking ceremony in relative peace.

Valdir Icemane knelt before Sovjorn. Higard, Efor, Svenfinn and Nagling stood side-by-side behind him at parade-ground rest. Sovjorn was unarmored, dressed in simple woolen clothing, his favorite wolf pelt draped over his shoulders. His battleplate had been left in the care of the Fang's Iron Priests and he would not be clad in ceramite again until he had completed his training and sworn the binding oaths of allegiance to the Deathwatch. Only his frost sword would accompany him. Sovjorn did not know when he would return. He knew there was a strong chance he would never return.

"The pack-leader goes where the pack cannot follow," he said, addressing Valdir directly, "Who then shall lead his brethren in their leader's long absence?"

"Valdir Icemane shall lead the pack," answered Valdir, "To glory and to death in the Allfather's name he shall lead them."

"The pack-leader goes where the pack cannot follow," Sovjorn said again, now addressing the others, "Who then shall follow his successor during their leader's long absence?"

"The pack shall follow Valdir Icemane," they responded in unison, "To glory and to death in the Allfather's name they shall follow him."

Sovjorn motioned for Valdir to rise and the two Grey Hunters embraced so that all who bore witness to the transfer of authority would see that no animosity existed between them. Valdir faced his brothers and the pack knelt as one before him, baring their throats in ritual submission while the two Space Wolves of Bran Redmaw's Wolf Guard tasked with observing the proceedings clashed their frost blades against their chestplates, acknowledging Valdir's leadership.

The shuttlecraft's rear ramp was lowered. Twelve barrels of mjod had already been loaded aboard. Silver-masked attendants in black hooded robes stood waiting to receive Sovjorn. "The pack is yours," Sovjorn said, feeling his throat grow tight, "Take good care of my men, Valdir." The white-maned Space Marine smiled. "We shall get into all kinds of trouble and when you return we shall see who has the more exciting saga to tell."

"As long as you don't return changed – or tamed," Higard said somberly, reminding them all of Garmund's words by the fire, "We are Space Wolves, first and always." The pack growled in agreement, their feral eyes dancing.

Sovjorn Swiftfang strode up the ramp; the black-robed attendants bowed low. He turned and gazed upon the faces of his battle-brothers for the last time. Grinning, he raised his frost blade. "For Fenrys!"

The pack's answering warcry was nearly loud enough to shake the entire mountain, and it would echo in Sovjorn's hearts for the remainder of his days, forever reminding him who and what he was.

"For Russ and the Allfather!"