Chapter 22: War Zone Fenris: Part 2
War Zone: Fenris:
A Saga of Spite and Vengeance- Part Two
Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known
Knowledge is a deadly friend
If no one sets the rules
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools
War has come to the Fenris System, home of the mighty Space Wolves. For millennia, the Sons of Russ have protected the galaxy from the nefarious schemes of the Thousand Sons and the forces of Chaos. However, suspicion and distrust have turned their allies against them, and now the forces of the Imperium under the command of Lord Inquisitor Fyodor Karamazov seek to bring the Wolves to heel. As those who ought to be brothers in arms against the forces of darkness battle amongst themselves, the forces of Ahriman, Osirian Lord of the Fifteenth Legion, have gathered their strength, preparing to destroy the Sixth Legion once and for all. The unprepared worlds of the Fenris System have become the targets of Chaos like never before as daemons and traitors come to despoil everything they hold dear. Now with the destruction of Midgardia already accomplished, the rest of the Fenris System hangs in the balance as the Space Wolves, the armies of the Inquisition, and the forces of Chaos strive for victory in the grim darkness at the end of the 41st Millennium.
Chapter Five: The Young Wolf, The Trickster, and the Laughter of Angels
From the heart of a nine-sided spire soaring high above the icy orb of Fenris, the ancient warrior known as Ahriman observed the fires of change spreading the home of his ancient foes, and found himself well-pleased. Long had the Osirian Dreadnought Lord watched with satisfaction as his ancient enemies danced closer to the edge of oblivion with each passing day. All the people of Fenris would suffer, an ironic reversal of Prospero's fate: where the barbarian Russ had struck directly at the head in his assault on ancient Tizca, now the Thousand Sons would destroy all of Fenris. Threats on all fronts ensured barely ten thousand Astartes were present the moment when Warp rifts opened in the Fenris System itself. The product of great sorceries, these portals spewed forth the daemonic armies of the Infernal Tetrad, a warband ruled over by four Daemon Princes, one from each Choir of the Neverborn, onto worlds of the Fenris System.
On the barren moon of Valdrmani, daemons of Slaanesh unleashed a carnival excess, while on the water world of Svellgard, the butcherhordes of Khorne poured out a red tide in the ocean deeps. Upon the cavern-cities hidden beneath the sweltering jungles of Midgardia, pestilent Nurgle sought to claim a new world for his Garden, while the treacherous schemes of Tzeentch were revealed as heretics and daemons claimed the fortress of Morkai's Keep on the icy wastes of Frostheim. Calls for aid soon echoed out across the system and beyond, and reinforcements on both sides began to pour in as the Space Wolves responded with fury at this desecration of their home.
To the defense of Midgardia came High King Grimnar and Thegn Jarnulfr. It was there that they battled with the putrid forces of Mordokh the Rotted, who sought to claim the underground hives in the name of Nurgle, and it was there the High King fell amidst the lightless caverns, entombed by the final malice of the Daemon Prince even as the Grey Knights and Raven Guard liberated Frostheim. However, what these brave warriors who reclaimed Morkai's Keep did not know was that their battle had been recorded and altered, transmitted to the ships of Inquisitor Lord Fyodor Karamazov, who had mustered his fleets in the outskirts of the Fenris System. The sight of his soldiers dying at the hands of what appeared to be Space Wolves enraged the Puritan Inquisitor, who pronounced the Sixth Legion renegade in accordance with an ancient decree of the original Warmaster, Horus Lupercal.
As Karamazov's forces spread across the Fenris System, the Inquisition unleashed judgment on Midgardia, releasing the dreaded Exterminatus to destroy Midgardia and all that were upon it. From the loyal Imperial soldiers battling to defend their homes to the daemons of Nurgle that they fought, the Lord Inquisitor had judged them one and all to be guilty, renegades and outlaws no longer under Imperial Law to be destroyed at any cost. The Judgment of Midgardia thus marked the first turning point of the Fenris Campaign. The battles were far from over, for Fate held moments of great heroism and unmitigated disaster in store for those gathered to witness the devastation of Fenris. Deep below the surface, many of the hives of Midgardia had been sundered by the apocalyptic fury hurled down upon it from the skies, but not all. The mighty void shields of the nova cannon array located on the northern pole had not been sufficient to protect the powerful guns, but they had stood long enough to ensure the survival of the hives located directly beneath them. Within these few hives that still remained, fierce battles raged as the Imperial forces sought to root out the remaining daemons of Nurgle infesting their home. From their positions inside the Abbey of the Emperor's Judgment, Thegn Jarnulfr's forces straggled back above the planetary crust, where they were stunned to witness the aftermath of Karamazov's judgment, which had rendered the surface and everything upon it naught but ash.
As Jarnulfr and his men arrived on the surface, they came back into vox range of their vessel in orbit. Allfather's Honor was a mighty battleship, but against the assembled might of Karamazov's fleet, they had judged it more prudent to wait for the High King's order before attempting to engage vessels bearing the sigil of the Emperor's Inquisition. However, none had expected Karamazov to lay waste to one of their worlds on his own authority, and the wrath of her captain had been fierce indeed. Coming back around above the now-gray surface of Midgardia, Allfather's Honor unleashed a series of warning shots across the bow of Innocentia Nihil Declarat. Their pride affronted, the comparatively-tiny vessel had actually fired back, and the two were on the verge of open conflict as Jarnulfr made his way back on the flagship with barely a third of the Astartes that had set out to rescue Midgardia. Accompanying them were just as many Sororitas of the Valkyria, many of them nearly catatonic at the loss of their sisters, friends, and their very world.
In orbit directly across from the imposing spires of the Allfather's Honor, Karamazov's temper was beginning to boil. Though his desire to destroy the renegade Astartes filled his thoughts, he recognized the tactical deficiency he found himself in. In addition, the destruction of Midgardia was far from complete, for he was aware of the hermetically-sealed hives deep below the ashen crust. To allow even a single iota of heresy to remain would be to shirk his duty, but to unleash the second wave would expose his vessel to retaliatory destruction. Thus in order to overcome this impasse, Karamazov ordered Mendaxis to issue an encrypted transmission summoning his fleet. Always happy to provoke internecine conflict, the false Vox Seneschal quickly complied with the order, and thus Karamazov settled into his command throne to await his reinforcements.
Karamazov's fleet soon responded to his call, and gathered menacingly in the void opposite. As the balance of power shifted firmly in his favor, Karamazov's satisfaction grew in direct proportion. Returning to the bridge, the Lord Inquisitor was on the verge of ordering his fleet to fire upon Midgardia once more, when he found himself interrupted by the return of Brother-Captain Arvann Stern, one of Grand Master Aurikon's lieutenants. When the venerable Stern arrived on the command deck, Karamazov was astonished and infuriated to see the Grey Knight was accompanied by a Space Wolf. Looking every inch the tribal savage with his runic totems and his black wolf pelt strewn across his armor, Jarl Ragnar Blackmane gazed impudently up at Karamazov, no hint of fear in his eyes as he beheld the man who sought to destroy his legion.
After arriving in the system, Brother-Captain Stern's forces had been tasked by the Grand Master to cleanse the Ramilies-class starfort Mjalnar, which had suffered a daemonic incursion at the same time as the rest of the Fenris System. As his forces prepared to land upon the starfort, Stern was contacted by Jarl Blackmane, who had just returned from his years-long hunt for the Okinnugr. From Warp storm to Warp storm he and his Great Company had traveled, seeking out the Lost Ones and capturing them to return to Fenris. Though their true purposes had remained concealed from the worlds they saved, Blackmane's exploits in countering daemonic incursions had won him great renown. Thus when Jarl Blackmane demanded to accompany the Grey Knights in cleansing the Mjalnar, Stern had been inclined to listen.
The Sons of Titan and Fenris thus fought side by side, forging a bond of unity as they delivered the mighty starfort from its invaders. Afterwards, Blackmane's company returned to Fenris to deliver their mysterious cargo, while the Jarl himself accompanied the Grey Knights to Midgardia as a show of trust. However, as they stood upon the bridge, Stern revealed he had not come to plead their case before Karamazov. If the High Inquisitor was correct in his suspicions, the Brother-Captain explained, he would not hesitate to step aside and allow him to judge and execute the Emperor's Executioners. Yet even as he vouched for the purity of Blackmane and his men, Stern denounced the company Karamazov kept with stern gravitas. With utter certainty and righteous condemnation, Brother-Captain Stern pointed an accusing finger at Vox Seneschal Mendaxis, naming him for the daemon that he was.
With a piercing screech and the stench of sulfur, the Changeling's glamor vanished, its lies torn away with the painful clarity of truth. Infuriated by the loss of its disguise, the Horror screamed out a foul curse at its accuser, but its malediction washed off of Stern's warded armor. Blackmane was the next to act, far quicker than the stunned Inquisitor and his bridge crew, who watched helplessly as the Space Wolf riddled the vox-console with rounds from his bolt pistol. However, the daemon was far too protean to be wounded by such a prosaic plan, and the shots changed in mid-air, transmogrified into as many butterflies. The Changeling began to live up to its title, swelling in a billowing cloud of Warp energy as another set of blue arms clutching a staff emerged from beneath its long robes. Its face remained hidden, a small mercy for the blight upon sanity that was a Daemon of Tzeentch.
The Trickster waved its staff, slashing a rent in reality through which spilled a dozen Pink Horrors, laughing and capering. His initial attack stalled, Ragnar spat, drawing his mighty chainsword and sweeping it through the closest daemon. However, as his blade split the Pink Horror in two, it let out a cackle. Its bisected flesh began to bubble, and two sullen Blue Horrors clawed their way out to assail the Jarl. Ragnar slashed these as well, gritting his fangs as Horrors split once more, this time into whimsical yellow creatures of flame. The Brimstone sprites fled, skipping away from the Son of Russ, spitefully hurling magical flames into the nearest consoles. Soon half the room was ablaze, filled with cackling, groaning, and babbling from the menagerie of Horrors, who delighted in the kaleidoscope of multicolored smoke and flames as they sought to burn Karamazov's bridge.
However, for many of these daemons, their rampage was short-lived. Even as the panicked mortal crew struggled to put out the magical blaze while retaining their sanity, Brother-Captain Stern was on the move. His storm bolter roared as it unleashed a hail of blessed bolts into the mass of Horrors, and his Nemesis Force Sword crackled as it slashed them to ribbons. The Neverborn who perished at the tip of his blade vanished as they fell, prevented from splitting by the Grey Knight's holy aura. As he chanted litanies of detestation, Stern moved methodically across the bridge, undoing the spells of the Horrors before putting them down as he pursued the Changeling. Noticing its defenders beginning to vanish, the Changeling began to hurl spells directly at the Grey Knight, from mutagenic bolts of change to agile flights of screamers that bit and clawed as they wheeled about.
Yet the Undaunted Brother-Captain refused to slow his march, his ironclad faith in the Emperor protecting him from the daemons who assailed him. Elsewhere, Karamazov's acolytes had joined Ragnar in putting down the Horrors, and would soon turn their attention to it. Thus with a mocking laugh, the Trickster waved its avian-tipped staff, and began to fold in on itself. As Stern swiped his blade toward it, the last of the daemon vanished from reality, teleporting away to the realms of madness once more. Though none who were not present would have dared believe it, the Changeling's assault had managed to render Fyodor Karamazov momentarily abashed. However, his expression had quickly assumed its customary scowl of repugnance, and it was this aspect that was evident as he spoke with Stern and Blackmane. Though he was not willing to give up his quest to bring the Space Wolves to justice, the Lord Inquisitor was practical enough to shelf it for the time being, until the daemons had been purged from Fenris and order restored.
As Chaos reigned upon the Lord Inquisitor's bridge, the Space Wolves were far from idle. It was Thegn Jarnulfr who recognized the precipice his legion stood upon at this moment. To destroy Karamazov's vessel would bring the Space Wolves into open war against the Inquisition, a decision with unimaginable consequences. Such a choice was the duty of Jarls and Har-Fylkirs, not a simple Thegn such as he. However, there was precious little time, and thus Jarnulfr made his choice. While the two voidcraft stood with their guns armed and aimed at each other, the Thegn descended into the depths of Allfather's Honor, making for the quarters of the Rune Priests. Consulting with the wise ancients, Jarnulfr explained his plan to find the missing High King. The gothi seemed doubtful that such a thing would work, but in lieu of a better plan, they agreed to lend their aid.
Thus the Thegn and the Rune Priests hurried to the ship's teleportarium array, where they were joined by the Iron Priests. Though he himself was no psyker, Jarnulfr had a way of working with machine-spirits, and had nearly become an Iron Priest. Despite the situation, the Thegn could not help but be fascinated by the team of Iron Priests slowly and painstakingly working their ritual, offering up oil and amber as they coaxed the irascible machine-spirit of the King's Crown to the fore. As they did so, the Rune Priests sought to connect the silver threads between the broken helm and its master, between it and the rest of the ancient armor that hopefully still protected the High King, wherever he may be.
After many tense minutes, the ritual came to its conclusion, and Jarnulfr let out a resounding whoop of triumph. It seemed the Allfather in his golden halls on Holy Terra smiled upon them this day, for the King's Crown was now linked with a macro-class teleport homer. Even as the stand-off between the Space Wolves and the Inquisition continued, Thegn Jarnulfr descended back to the surface of Midgardia, braving the fires and unstable caverns as he led a desperate search at the High King's last known location. Their desperate search soon yielded dividends when auspex sensors picked up faint but regular vibrations deep below the surface. Making their way to the source of the disturbance, Jarnulfr had discovered a battered but very much alive Logan Grimnar and his Kingsguard.
It seemed Mordokh the Rotted had failed to kill the Old Wolf, whose thick terminator armor had protected him from what would have been certain doom for a regular Astartes. Since his disappearance, less than two days but now a lifetime ago, Grimnar and his companions had been slowly digging their way back toward their surface using nothing but their power weapons. Battered and bruised, the High King was still imposing, even though the hololith projector. He seemed unsurprised to find Ragnar aboard the Inquisitor's ship, his dust-etched features briefly lifting up from their scowl lines into a smile as he listened to Blackmane downplay his latest exploits. Turning his attention to Karamazov, Grimnar shocked all gathered by announcing his intent to destroy Midgardia.
"Midgardia, beloved world though she is, is lost to us. The daemons have infested her to the core. However, I will not let her fall to an outworlder." Grimnar rumbled. Ragnar glanced at the other Space Wolf, Thegn Jarnulfr. However, the captain remained silent, no doubt as awed as he was by the Old Wolf's demeanor.
"But how will you accomplish such a feat?" asked Brother-Captain Stern, bracing his hands upon the strategium dais.
"Morkai's Tooth, we call it. In my holds is a warhead capable of sundering an entire world. Little did we think we'd have to use it within our very home system." The Old Wolf sighed, his weariness evident even through the hololith. "I will give the order myself." At this, Karamazov could no longer remain silent.
"Be done with it already. The guilty must be judged."
Their course settled, the ventral hangar doors of Allfather's Honor began to retract. All around them, the Inquisition fleet began to move away so as to avoid any shockwaves or debris from what would come to be known as Firemark +2. On the vessels of the Space Wolves, the Sons of Russ began to chant a funerary canticle, an ode to Midgardia as they prepared to burn her. With a shudder that rocked the entire vessel, the thrusters of Morkai's Tooth ignited, sending it rocketing downward into the tortured crust of the planet. With bated breath, the Imperial forces watched from orbit, for the death of a world was, despite the Inquisition's reputation to the contrary, quite the rare occurrence. The burning nose cone of the missile careened through the atmosphere, down and down until it finally struck the ash dunes, plowing through the fractured crust to strike its target, the vast generatoriums that had once powered the hives.
For a moment, all was still. Then Midgardia vanished. Those who gazed upon the Judgment of Midgardia unshielded were instantly struck blind. Subject to the speed of light, the worlds of the system were briefly illuminated as the ball of flame turned all night into day. The death of a planet hurled a shrapnel blast of a million million meteors in every direction, a lingering curse which would affect the worlds of the Fenris System for years to come. Midgardia died in fire and violence, and she inflicted her suffering on her sister worlds, subjecting them to tidal waves, firestorms, and volcanic eruptions from the waves of forces rippling out to smash into everything around them. It was a small mercy that the many millions of souls, who had survived the surface-level Exterminatus only to be bombarded once more, perished instantly, wiped from existence along with the rest of the Daemons of Nurgle that lurked in the caverns.
Yet even as this cosmic pyre lit up the void of space, as Midgardia met her final end, there was to be little time to appreciate the spectacle. In the lightless depths of the Warp, the sleek black hull of the dreaded Invincible Reason knifed through the Sea of Souls. The mighty Gloriana-class battleship, once the personal chariot of the Archtraitor Lion El'Jonson, was now the flagship of one of his descendants. A mighty shark surrounded by a shoal of minnows. Upon a darkened bridge, the unmistakable figure of the Angel Who Laughs crouched atop the ancient command throne where the Everchosen of Chaos had once sat, living up to his title as soft guffaws escaped his mouth every so often that were rendered into harsh bursts by his helmet. Every so often, Azrael would mumble to himself, speaking to the daemon Azazel that had been bound into his flesh so long ago, while around him, trembling mortals carried out their tasks of ensuring the flagship did not drop too deep into the Warp, for the powers of the Warp were about as merciless and unpredictable as their Half-Daemon master.
In ages past, the self-titled Supreme Grand Master had carried a merry crusade across the galaxy, inflicting torment and slaughter as he sought to satisfy his urges. Thus it was in the course of his rampage that he found himself approached by agents of Ahriman, Osirian Lord of the Thousand Sons. Though he had of course initially attempted to slaughter Ahriman's emissaries, the wards protecting them had proven too much, and thus Azrael heard them out. What the Sorcerous Master promised a madman like the Angel Who Laughs is unknown, but a dark pact was forged that day. Thus the Star Phantoms, Azrael's personal warband, found themselves entering the Fenris System. Their task was a simple one: delay and destroy all Imperial forces present in the system. Joining them in this endeavor were the forces of Svane Vulfbad.
Svane Vulfbad, the Blood Wolf
Most traitors hailing from the lineage of Russ come from the ranks of those cast into the Warp during the Leonine Heresy, the so-called Okinnugr. Over countless eons in the Warp, they were tortured into betraying their oaths. However, there are those outside of the Thirteenth Great Company who turned their backs on the Imperium for other reasons, and of these treacherous dogs, Svane Vulfbad is the most feared. Disillusioned by the constant assault on his legion in the aftermath of the First War for Armageddon, Thegn Vulfbad loosed his forces against an Inquisition task force without permission, slaughtering both the Inquisition and those of his Sveit who would not follow him into rebellion.
Over the centuries, Vulfbad nurtured his hatred of Imperial bureaucracy and the Inquisition in particular. In time he and his men fell to worship of Khorne, the Blood God, painting their armor bronze and incorporating blasphemous symbols in place of their totems. Since then, the Blood Wolves has butchered a dozen Imperial installations, reveling in filling satellites and research stations with the oceans of blood poured out in the name of their dark god. Such is their grudge with the Inquisition and their former brethren that the Blood Wolves willingly allied with sorcerers such as the Tzeentchian Thousand Sons of Ahriman and the Slaaneshi Azrael and his Star Phantoms.
Azrael's bridge crew had learned long ago never to question their master, and so when the Half-Daemon had ordered them to drop into the Fenris System beyond the normal Mandeville Points, they did not question it. As one the mighty flagship and her attendants lurched out of the Warp, resurfacing into reality from amidst the rubble of Midgardia. The destruction of the daemon-tainted world, less than an hour before, had rendered the fabric of realspace more permeable than usual, a fact Azrael took advantage of just as Ahriman's forces had. However, such a translation was far from safe. An Iconoclast-class destroyer emerged in the heart of an asteroid, its inhabitants killed instantly. A trio of Infidel-class raiders found themselves conjoined together, their long centipede of a craft now utterly dead in the void until its crew could figure out how to regain control.
However, the Invincible Reason herself was unharmed, and in a prime position to begin their assault immediately. The Imperial Navy fleet was caught utterly by surprise, unprepared for a fleet of warships to appear so close to them, much less one containing a Gloriana-class battleship. The Chaos fleet's first salvo knocked out a dozen ships, mostly lesser cruisers and destroyers that were on the outside of the picket. At the heart of the clustered Imperial warships, the mighty Allfather's Honor was quick to react, for her High King was at the helm. Karamazov's temper was nearly as fast, resurfacing like a volcano at the sight of Chaos ships. The Lord Inquisitor roared out a series of commands at his unready acolytes to annihilate the intruders. As the Innocentia Nihil Declarat swung in the direction of the enemy fleet, Brother-Captain Stern and Jarl Ragnar made for the hangars, eager to return to their own vessels and join the fight.
On the Invincible Reason, a kaleidoscope swirl of flames briefly lit up her darkened bridge, and as they faded away, the hooded figure of the Changeling was revealed. The daemon performed a mocking bow to Azrael before pointing three of its four arms toward the viewscreen, which showed the disorganized fleets of Imperial warships. At the sight of his unprepared enemies, who still had their guns pointed at each other, Azrael clapped his armored hands. Their bargain upheld, a trembling mortal brought forth an ancient tome, whose skin-bound cover blinked as it stared upwards with reptilian eyes. The Changeling quickly grabbed the book, no doubt eager to learn whatever it may have contained, and vanished once more, leaving the hapless cultist to look at the tentacles that had once been his hands.
Chapter Six: The Fires of Change
A stellar battle of epic proportions had begun in the smoldering rubble of what had once been Midgardia. This was no set-piece engagement, of two sides lining up in good order to unleash their broadsides: this was a brawl. Such was the preference of Azrael, which was, as suited his nature, pure chaos. After unleashing their initial shots, the fleet of the Star Phantoms had hurled themselves into the midst of the Imperial fleet. The servants of the Ruinous Powers were thus free to fire in every direction, utterly fearless of hitting their own as the Imperial fleet greatly outnumbered them in terms of ship numbers. The hidebound Imperial Navy was thus immediately at a disadvantage, for their doctrines meant orders needed to come from the top-down, for no captain would dare act on his own in the presence of an Inquisitor-Lord.
Luckily for the Imperium, the Space Wolves were under no such restrictions. The battle-group of the Sixth Legion immediately responded, for rather than servitors or criminals impressed into service, the Space Wolves employed legion serfs, free men who had not passed the Astartes trials for one reason or another but still wished to serve the High King. Aboard the mighty battle-barge Holmgang, Jarl Blackmane was among the vanguard, pushing his ship to the forefront to make up for lost time. Ragnar was eager to face the sons of the Lion once more: long ago, he had faced them upon the jungle world of Hyades. The invasion of a company of Dark Angels upon a world protected by the Sons of Russ had turned out to be a precursor to a massive offensive by the Thousand Sons across a dozen planets, and Blackmane had won great glory by retrieving the legendary artifact the Spear of Russ from the wicked sorcerer Madox the Undying.
However, the Holmgang found itself blocked from engaging the Star Phantoms by the equally-imposing Garmr. The traitorous Vulfbad's hatred for the Inquisition was surpassed only by his desire to shed the blood of his former brothers, and he had no shortage of targets this day. To Vulfbad, Blackmane and his men were merely obstacles in his path, a prelude to his true target: the Allfather's Honor. The Chaos Lord desired more than anything to offer up Grimnar's skull to the Skull Throne. Until that time though, he would continue to let the blood flow, for rather than direct his forces from the bridge, Vulfbad and his retinue were already in their boarding craft. As the ships of the line battered at each other with lance and macrocannon, boarding teams of bloodthirsty traitors had already cut their way into the sides of a dozen loyalist craft.
Intent on slaughtering everyone they could find, the bronze-armored Blood Wolves were nightmares incarnated. The legion thralls, brave though they were, stood no chance against the murderous intruders, who slaughtered their former kin without regard to past loyalty. The Blood Wolves had no fear of dying themselves, fearlessly matching their strength against their loyalist counterparts in the name of letting the blood flow. The savage fury inherited by every son of Russ was unleashed upon the warriors of Fenris, and soon half a dozen craft drifted listlessly in the void, their engines and guns silenced from within. Their tally of kills was matched only by the Invincible Reason herself, a god of death among mortals. Heedless of the plane of battle or who was on the receiving end of its firepower, the mighty battleship corkscrewed through the scrum, launching port and starboard broadsides one after another.
Before long, dozens of warships were dead in the void. This was a battle of annihilation, for both sides knew turning their backs on the enemy would only warrant a summary execution. The Imperial Navy commanders knew full well the Lord Inquisitor would not hesitate to carry out the deed himself should any of his commanders even suggest retreat while heretics lay before them. Despite his age, Karamazov was no naval commander, and spent most of the battle filling his bridge with invectives as he yelled out his fury at those ships which had already fallen, cursing them for failing to do his will. Thus it was less than an hour into the battle that his advisors administered calming serums to keep the elderly Inquisitor from apoplexy.
The fury of Grimnar on the other hand stemmed from another source. As High King, he knew full well even had he not been wounded that he needed to stay on the bridge and command his fleet. Grimnar had full faith in his men and in young Ragnar, but he was irritated nonetheless. The High King knew full well they were being delayed, for Ulrik's calls for aid had reached him. The Rune Priests aboard the Allfather's Honor could sense the disaster even now unfolding on Fenris, and yearned to return to defend the Fang. However, to abandon the fight would doom them all, for without the mighty flagship, there wasn't a single vessel that could stand up to the Invincible Reason. In truth, Grimnar doubted his vessel could either, but it was his duty to give his all, and he would not let his men down.
Aboard the Holmgang, Jarl Ragnar also knew they were being delayed. However, he had much more pressing concerns, for his vessel had been boarded by the Chaos Lord Vulfbad himself. The traitorous master of the Blood Wolves was a hulking brute bedecked in bronze terminator armor, rattling with skulls and symbols of the Blood God in place of the Fenrisian totems he had once worn. If Svane recognized Ragnar as a Jarl, he gave no sign of it, for he fought like a madman, his long gray beard a testament to his veteran status. It took every bit of the Young Wolf's skill to survive his initial onslaught, for Vulfbad's strength was enhanced by both his ancient armor and the blessings of his foul god. Blackmane focused on avoiding his foe's strikes, slashing at cables and joints in the brief moments when Vulfbad's axe buried itself in walls and bulkheads.
Ragnar ducked another slash of his foe's Frost Axe. It had been beyond difficult to retain his focus, for Vulfbad's aura called to the fury latent within him, urging him to give in to the same bloodlust that dominated his enemy. He knew full well to do so may well spell the end of him, for there was no guarantee it would be enough to overcome the traitor's brute strength. Svane was nearly as large as Haegr the Mountain, his old friend and companion on the Wolfblade, though far less jovial. However, against a foe such as Vulfbad, even this momentary distraction cost Ragnar dearly, and the young Jarl threw himself to the ground, losing only a good portion of his topknot instead of his head to Vulfbad's blow.
Enough of this, Ragnar thought. I've got better things to do than die. Baring his teeth in a savage growl, the Jarl gave into the Red Tide, tapping into the deepest instinct inherent to all Sons of Russ that he had suppressed until now. Ragnar pulled his bolt pistol, unleashing its full payload in Vulfbad's exposed face. Such a move was on the surface futile, for all of the rounds rebounded harmlessly, for the traitor was protected by both his armor and his patron.
However, the intent had not been to wound. Vulfbad flinched, an involuntary reaction even deeper than his blood-rage as his instincts forced him to protect himself. The Chaos Lord brought his arm up to shield his face, but Ragnar had already moved on. Dropping the now-spent bolt pistol to the ground with a clatter, he rose to one knee, gripping Frostfang in both hands as he drove the chainsword upwards into his foe's now exposed torso with all his strength.
In response, Svane Vulfbad let loose a bellow of agony, a deafening sound even amidst the clamor of the roaring chainsword. The traitor dropped his blade to the ground, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to recover, arms swinging downward in an attempt to seize Ragnar's unprotected head. But his wounds proved too much, and with a resounding clang, the traitor fell backwards onto the deck, Frostfang protruding from his gut as Ragnar panted above him. For a moment, his latent fury threatened to overwhelm him, his instincts screaming at him to attack and attack again. But the moment passed, and Ragnar forced himself to regain control once more, retrieving Frostfang before the traitor's blood could corrupt it.
The duel of the Young Wolf and the Blood Wolf had reached its climax unaware and uncaring of the larger battle around them. The fleets of the Space Wolves and Inquisition had taken heavy losses in the initial strike, but as the minutes turned into hours, the tides slowly began to turn in their favor. This shift was compounded by the arrival of the fleet of the Grey Knights and Raven Guard from Frostheim. The Imperial reinforcements had taken heavy losses on the ground, but their ships were unscathed, and inflicted a punishing barrage on the traitor fleet. The fleet of Titan in particular was a boon for Grimnar, as their sanctified ships would make short work of the daemonic-enhanced vessels, and with this in mind, he made his move.
With a sudden lurch, the Allfather's Honor bulled its way through to finally break free of the scrum, sailing away from the battle in the direction of the Wolf's Eye, the mighty sun at the heart of the system. There were no traitor ships to bar her path any more, for this heading was the opposite direction of Fenris. Using the gravity of the star, Grimnar's vessel slingshotted itself back around, straining its engines to the max to add to its momentum. Even as the Imperial and Chaos fleets continued to battle it out, Allfather's Honor soared high above them, making for Fenris itself. The High King's desperation had become palpable, for the calls for aid from Ulrik the High Priest had begun to arrive, scattered voices shouting in the darkness. For too long they had been stifled and slowed by enemy interference both sorcerous and technological, but now the true damage inflicted upon Fenris became clear.
Upon the icy slopes of the Fang, reports of the battle that continued to rage as the Space Wolves and the armies of the Inquisition reaped a heavy toll upon each other. The pristine snows were now a vivid crimson, slicked with pools of blood that had frozen into icy sheets in the frigid climate. Across the slopes, thousands of Valhallans now lay strewn in various positions of death. Commander Chenkov had lived up to his single-minded reputation, ordering wave after wave of men to exhaust the defenders' ammunition, and had marched nearly halfway up the slope before he had been eliminated by a stray artillery strike. A blackened crater marked what remained of Chenkov and his headquarters, the snow around it covered in the footprints left behind by the decimated Ice Warriors who had fled after their insane commander had finally died.
The Space Wolves did not pursue, instead shifting their forces to eliminate the Adepta Sororitas. The fanatic Sisters of the Order of the Divine Lamentation had fought to the last, utterly convinced they were serving the God-Emperor by destroying mutants and their allies. It had taken dozens of Kill Teams many hours to uproot them from their positions, and many brave Valkyria and Space Wolves had paid the price to obtain victory. The Forge Hills were now utterly wrecked, their foundries laid low by detonations as the Sisters destroyed everything in order to deny the Space Wolves anything other than a pyrrhic victory.
It was in this frenzy of self-harm and treachery that the legions of the Warp finally appeared upon the hearthworld. Across Fenris itself, initially spared from the ravages of the Infernal Tetrad, the power of Tzeentch foretold doom to the homeworld of the Sixth Legion. Tectonic forces, normally only felt during the Season of Fire, convulsed the continents as volcanoes erupted, but their magma was an unnatural pink. Vast tsunamis swept over entire islands, drowning villages and leaving only those out to sea as homeless survivors. From cracks in the ground and from the insides of volcanoes, hordes of gibbering daemons had clambered forth. Glaciers cracked and splintered to reveal a trillion eyes which drove those who gazed upon it to insanity.
Daemons of Tzeentch beyond count had come to bring Change. Cackling horrors hurled mutagenic fireballs with glee, while high above, flocks of Screamers knifed through the skies. Croaking Lord of Change, those avian-headed Greater Daemons who carried out the will of Tzeentch, unleashed spells and hexes beyond that of any mortal psyker. Those tribesmen unfortunate enough to face the denizens of the Immaterium found themselves forever changed by the experience, haunted by the sanity-stretching nature of the Court of Change. Such was the curse inflicted upon the tribes of Fenris, for those who may one day have joined the ranks of the Sky Warriors now bore a lingering penalty that would hurt the Space Wolves grievously in the years to come.
In the skies, the swirling lights of the Fenryka Borealis intensified, hues of green and blue changing into hideous oranges and reds. Those children unfortunate enough to be born beneath it were malformed abominations, mewling freaks of nature that attacked their parents and the midwives that had delivered them. Entire tribes began to mutate as baleful clouds pouring out of the volcanoes blanketed them in radioactive ash. The lucky ones perished; those less fortunate souls chosen by the Architect of Fate changed, their bodies sprouting animalistic features and supernumerary limbs in an agonizing process that damned them to a short life of pain before they were put down by their kin. Such was the will of Ahriman, a contrapasso of the mutations Russ's sons had condemned Prospero for so long ago.
Yet these lights were but the beginning, for from swirling portals to hell, Nine terrible Towers manifested. From these floating bastions poured forth the armies of the Thousand Sons, eager to bring suffering to those villages not yet touched by Change. Wary of the Fang's mighty batteries, the Silver Towers of the Thousand Sons had emerged far away to wreak havoc without fear of retaliation. Content for the time being to allow the Space Wolves and the Armies of the Inquisition to battle, Ahriman's brethren focused their attention on the helpless villages. Where Russ and his men had performed a decapitation strike on Tizca, the denizen of Old Prospero sought the reverse, unleashed catastrophe everywhere else as both an irony and to avoid the Fang's defenses.
Thus the Silver Towers floated serenely through the skies, disgorging hosts of Thousand Sons and their auxiliaries to slaughter everything below. Wherever the armies of Sortiarius walked, mutation, death, and change followed. Packs of howling Shogaal, the monstrous jackal-like mutants that had once been noble Astartes, butchered village after primitive village. Brave Fenrisians, equipped with nothing but iron age weaponry, put up a valiant but futile defense, torn to shreds by maddened beasts that feasted on their flesh. Alongside them, their handlers unleashed devastation upon the landscape by their sorcerous acumen. With but a wave of a hand, ancient forests burst into flame; a closed fist crushed town halls that had stood for centuries; a whispered curse tore the breath from the lungs of whimpering children, who fell silent as they asphyxiated in their hiding places.
Amidst the smoldering ashes left by the daemons and Shogaal, the true threat emerged. With all resistance swept away before them, the Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons emerged from portals and stepped down from Discs of Tzeentch. Surrounded by the slain, for the transition from life to death was a source of great Change, the Arcana Astartes began to lay the groundwork for a dark and terrible ritual. High above, the Silver Towers floated serenely into positions of geomantic significance, aligned with soaring volcanoes and the leylines beneath them. At some signal known only to them, the Towers unleashed coruscating beams of raw madness into the pyroclastic fissures below, torturing the land and corrupting Fenris as mutagenic force burrowed into the planet's molten core.
Ahriman's own tower was located above the Firebreather, the greatest volcano in all of Fenris located just off the coast of Asaheim near the Yrokja Glacier. From its summit, the Osirian Lord observed his forces, the conductor of a vast orchestra now in a rare good humor. Though he had long since lost the physical faculties to laugh, the Osirian Lord nonetheless gave it his best effort, his tower shuddering in response to the foul sound as the souls of the damned echoed in hateful sympathy. Yet Ahriman's mirth was not the true cause of this quake, but rather the result of the prisoner bound within. Even without looking, Ahriman knew it had been the insane thrashing of his father, Magnus the Red, unable to escape the enchanted chains which bound him in a jail of Ahriman's own design.
The state of the Mad Cyclops was the price exacted for the power the Ipissimus wielded during the Great Crusade, the hidden toll exacted by Tzeentch from a bargain whose terms were known only to the Changer. The Great Deceiver had played all of the Thousand Sons false, including Ahriman, whose visions had proven false. Never during the glory years of the Great Crusade had he suspected he would spend ten millennia entombed within a dreadnought sarcophagus, unable to properly wield the Warp in any meaningful way.
However, as the servants of the god of hope and ambition, Ahriman had come to believe this state of affairs would not last forever: all he needed was the right bargain to make the fickle Changer of Ways alter the deal. Yet to bring Magnus to Fenris would require great sacrifice and reagents of the rarest kind. The Osirian Lord had planned for this day for centuries, and thus even as the Towers unleashed their arcane might into the volcanoes, Ahriman's chosen elite now marched through the portals onto the very slopes of the Fang itself.
Order of the Jackal
As Ahriman himself could attest, even the mightiest of sorcerers can still fall in battle. However, dreadnought bodies of cold adamantium lack a strong natural connection to the Immaterium, driving any of weak will attempting to connect with the Warp utterly mad, a fate worse than death to the intensely-psychic sons of Magnus. Thus shortly after joining the Great Crusade, their brilliant father Magnus the Red devised a solution to this problem. Utilizing a psychometric crown wrapped around the fallen Astartes's brain, along with a modified Contemptor-dreadnought sarcophagus, the Crimson King created the Osiron-Pattern Dreadnought.
Though typically armed with a melee weapon on one fist and a heavy weapon on the other, the Osiron's greatest weapon was its ability to interface with the Immaterium. In battle, this can be observed through their use of force weapons, empowering their blades into conduits of deadly Warp-energies, as well as minor feats of precognition and telekinesis. When Ahriman fell in battle, it was into one of these sarcophagi that he was entombed, earning him the title of Osirian Lord. Other sorcerers have undergone this process willingly, embracing the certainty of steel and the power of the machine to enable them to wade into the heart of battle unthreatened by small-arms fire. Such warriors, and the attendants and thralls who oversee the entombment process, are part of the cabal known as the Order of the Jackal, and are some of the toughest and heaviest weapons that the Thousand Sons can bring to bear.
Protected by mighty kine-shields, a talon of dreadnoughts in the unmistakable blue and yellow of the Fifteenth Legion began their march up the snowy slopes of the Fang. They were accompanied on their endeavor by a snarling pack of Shogaal, the bestial creatures instinctually racing to join the assault still covered in the gore of their victims. Such an overt assault normally would have been easily picked off by automated defensive batteries, but the turrets had fallen silent. In the depths of the mountain, many of the generatoriums responsible for powering the weapons platforms fell victim to treachery and sabotage, and only a desperate defense by the Space Wolves had prevented the same fate befalling the thick void shields. Up and up the mountain they marched, a living battering ram of adamantium, steel, and cold hatred. Dark blessings and their powerful shields protected them, deflecting what few handheld anti-tank rounds were sent their way with contemptuous ease.
However, the Space Wolves were far from helpless. From deep beneath the Forgehold, down and down beneath the cliffs and hills of rough-hewn rock, an iron door creaked open. Upon this ancient aperture, a carving of the twin-headed wolf Morkai, guardian of the dead, snarled silently as the subterranean vaults of the Underfang opened at the command of Ulrik the Slayer. The ground began to shake as rhythmic echoes, like that of drums in the deep, resounded forth. Up and up, through ancient tunnels spanning the length of the Fang marched the Honored Dead: the Ancients were marching to war. Awakened by the Iron Priests by arcane technomancy, nearly seventy mighty walkers from every era of the Sixth Legion's ten thousand year history smashed into the Thousand Sons with the fury of a meteor.
All chaos broke loose as the Thousand Sons' sudden incursion was stopped dead in its tracks by a living blue-gray tide. The air was filled with a hurricane of assault cannon shells; drifts of snow were superheated into bubbling puddles as melta shots and plasma fire streaked overhead; and great chunks of flesh were torn by scything lightning claws and pulped by huge fists. At the head of this mighty column was Bjorn the Fell-Handed, the most venerable hero in the entire legion, for it was he who led the legion in years gone by, and it was he who had repelled the Thousand Sons at the last Battle of the Fang in M32. None could match his fury as his mighty lightning claw, the legendary Fell-Hand for which he was named, slashed through one foe after another.
Though he voiced only bellows of fury, in his heart Bjorn felt deeply troubled. In the olden days, his Primarch Leman Russ had singled him out to remain behind, departing with the rest of his companions for parts unknown. Since then, the former legion master had wondered when his master would show up again. Though firmly a believer in the forgotten Imperial Truth which rejected all notions of divinity and superstition, Bjorn could not help but ponder on the prophecies his legion descendants seemed to hold so dear. The idea that Russ would not show up until Ragnarok, the fabled End Times, was both promising and disturbing.
However, the Fell-Handed's ancient mind soon turned back to the task at hand, for this would no doubt go down as one of the greatest battles since the Leonine Heresy itself. The Thousand Sons had lost none of their prowess as Astartes, and they inflicted a gruesome toll upon the Sons of Russ in this battle of the ancients. Many dreadnoughts were pulled down by snarling packs of Shogaal as the horse-sized abominations stripped them open to devour the Astartes inside. Others suffered all manner of gruesome ends from their Osiron counterparts: blasted off the narrow causeway by gales of psychic force, struck by lightning, crushed like refuse in a compactor. The inventiveness of the Thousand Sons was matched only by their cruelty, and they made many Space Wolves suffer heinously before enduring their final death.
Yet the weight of numbers had begun to prevail. One by one, the Osiron dreadnoughts were eliminated, torn apart and hacked to death by mighty frost axes. Inspired by the presence of mighty Bjorn, the Space Wolves thrust deep into the enemy formation, where they discovered Ahriman himself was amongst his dreadnought brethren. The Osirian Lord had sworn vengeance against the Fell-Handed eight millennia prior, and had now come to claim it.
The two juggernauts smashed into each other with all the fury they could muster, a rivalry in which only one could survive. Through a portal, another snarling pack of Shogaal launched themselves at the other Space Wolves, a distraction to ensure none would interfere with their duel. The two metal giants hacked and clawed, smashing each other as they voiced sentiments of hatred and fury through vox speakers. The entirety of the Battle of Fenris hinged upon this battle between the two former legion masters. All knew if Bjorn could overcome his ancient foe as he had before that the assault would buckle and collapse, for without Ahriman to pull the strings, the tapestry of lies and treachery he had woven would unravel.
Yet even Bjorn did not suspect the true depth of the Osirian Lord's schemes. During the Great Crusade, Ahriman had been Magister Templi of the Corvidae Cult, the master of the masters of precognition. Where his other gifts had atrophied after his entombment, Ahriman's foresight had only increased, and thus every moment leading up to this had been carefully plotted out and accounted for, from the destruction of the generatoriums to the arrival of Bjorn at the head of the honored ancients. Thus Ahriman began his endgame. Exposing his right flank in a manner too tempting to pass up, the Osirian Lord allowed his foe to slash a gaping rent in his side.
As the crackling lightning claw of the Fell-Hand pierced Ahriman's armored flank, it shredded an ancient tablet, a reagent whose function Ahriman had purposefully not utilized in ten millennia. With the caustic smell of a promethium fire and the crash of a collapsing hive, the daemonic known as Aaetpio manifested in all its terrible glory between the two combatants. The daemonic tutelary, an ever-shifting collection of eyes and wheels of light, immediately lashed out at Bjorn, severing the Ancient One's arm at the wrist before blasting him with psychic force.
With a shuddering crash, the venerable Fell-Handed fell backward into the snow, bereft of his namesake, which Ahriman snatched up. Leaving his mortal enemy to the non-existent mercy of the Shogaal, Ahriman retreated through the portal, not waiting to watch the outcome as he returned to the safety of his Tower. As the rift snapped shut, the Osirian Lord mentally called out to his daemonic allies and sorcerous brethren, informing them the time had finally come. Fully aware of the larger battle, Ahriman sensed his Star Phantom mercenaries had successfully engaged the Inquisition fleet. The escape of Logan Grimnar, while unanticipated, would not matter much now, for the Osirian Lord was ready to begin his end game.
Across Fenris, Reality shivered as the Flux Cairns contained within the floating Silver Towers thrummed with arcane force. Ritual offerings of Space Wolves gene-seed stolen over the course of centuries was mingled with the blood of sacrificed Astartes, poured out onto the soil of Fenris as a curse. At the center of the enneagram, Ahriman offered forth the severed arm of the Fell-Handed, upon which the congealed ichor of a god began to bubble. As the ancient blood joined with the other sacrifices, reality was wrenched open with all the force of an animal bursting out of a cage.
In the shadow of Ahriman's Tower, amidst blood-soaked drifts of tainted snow, twin horns were the first to appear, ivory and bone wreathed in circlets of gold and bronze. Next came a pair of wings that shimmered and shifted across a prismatic spectrum of colors so vivid it hurt the eyes to behold. The dull red of the gore-slicked snow transformed into a vivid crimson that coalesced into a towering giant, armored and chained by ancient panoply. Magnus the Red, Crimson King of Prospero, bellowed his mindless fury up at the nearby heights of the Fang, for somewhere in his animalistic mind he recognized the home of his ancient foes.
A/N: Things have gone from bad to worse for the Sons of Russ. However, their tale is far from over, so tune in next time for the stunning conclusion of War Zone Fenris! As always, thank you to all my readers, and please leave comments, thoughts, and suggestions, I love to read them. Sharrowkyn, out.