PLANET: Fenris — Vanern ice-shelf

CLASSIFICATION: Death World

MISSION: Training mission — small force tactical combat.

Thorgeir’s breath misted in the chill morning air. He gripped his bolter firmly, as he scanned the ice flats one last time. His two pack-mates besides him looked calm, steady. He would expect nothing less of them, in any situation. His eyes settled on the older of the two. The power fist on Jarl’s left hand clenched and opened again. Thorgeir didn’t envy him. For all its might, the Fist was damn heavy, and Thorgeir much prefered the freedom of a bolter and chainsword.

Three days had passed since they left the outpost, and all night they’d been traveling. Stalking. But with this morning brought the prize. Behind that ridge stood Kveldulf. Thorgeir would know that scent anywhere. Fast friends they were, Kveldulf and him, but not today. Today was training. Today, Thorgeir would show Kveldulf what it meant to be a warrior of Fenris. Thorgeir’s position was downwind of his prey, but the wind was not strong. Soon, Kveldulf would know. Thorgeir started into a trot, his pack-mates following his lead. Snow crunched underfoot. They had the initiative.

Kveldulf was a mighty friend indeed, and a wolf-brother of the same Great Company as Thorgeir. He was newly-appointed to Thorgeir’s Grey Hunter pack, but they had known each other since they were Bloodclaws. And Thorgeir knew from experience that he would be a fearsome opponent. Even in training. He bore the Mark of the Wulfen. That special ‘talent’ which had given him his nickname. So much so, that no-one really remembered his real name. Or cared. For decades he had been known simply as Kveldulf – meaning ‘Night Wolf’, in the language of the native tribes – And he was rightly respected.

Thorgeir’s trio reached the rocks at the top of the hill and came to a halt. Immediately, he spotted Kveldulf. He was not alone. Two pack-brothers were with him. One was carrying a pack-banner. Thorgeir’s banner. Kveldulf had a flair for mockery. They were going straight for Thorgeir’s position, using the scattered boulders for cover.

“So much for surprise,” Thorgeir thought. “Damn he’s good.”

A handful of bullets zinged close past Thorgeir’s ear. He crouched slightly, gritted his teeth, raised his bolter to the cheek, and with silent determination he left the meagre cover and started down the icy slope. He squeezed the trigger of his bolter, hoping to convince his quarry to stay behind precious cover until he could get close. One of Kveldulf’s started for another boulder. Thorgeir’s bolter spat. A training round found its mark. The poor bastard’s power-armor seized up and he fell over, face first, into the snow. He was unharmed, but out of the battle for now. First casualty. He would be ridiculed in the mead-halls later. The next second, the wolf-brother on Thorgeir’s left grunted a curse and started tumbling down the hill, paralyzed. The odds were evened.

Thorgeir was not the quickest, nor the oldest, and certainly not the strongest of his pack, but his cool head, tactical intuition, and quiet determination, had earned him the trust of his wolf-brothers. He had been unanimously chosen for pack-leader by the lot of them, and today, he had taken six of them on this training exercise. Two of them at his side, running and gunning down this snowy slope, and the other three – Kveldulf included – dug in behind cover, not fifty feet ahead.

Thorgeir was close now. Fire from Kveldulf’s entrenched position kicked up the snow around him in compact explosions. Thorgeir switched to bolt-pistol and chainsword. As one, the two wolf-brothers broke into an all out charge, straight down the enemy’s line of fire. Jarl was behind him now, and hopefully still on his feet. Thorgeir’s surge of blood and adrenaline deafened him, and almost drowned out his battlecry. But the voice in his head was clear. It was his own, boasting to a hall full of young Bloodclaws, just eight days ago;

“You haven’t lived ’til you’ve charged a line of twenty bolters on full-auto!”

Today, it was only two, but Thorgeir knew that with Kveldulf, the worst would come after the bolter-fire ceased. Friends or no, Kveldulf would not hold back his fury.

Still only halfway through his battle-cry, Thorgeir mounted the boulder in one bound and fired a well placed round into the chest-plate of Kveldulf’s Bannerman. His face was a mask of frustration as he fell backwards, frozen, into the snow. The battle-lust was on him, but no sooner had he turned his weapon on Kveldulf, than he found himself lifted off his feet in a mighty embrace, accompanied by a bestial growl. Kveldulf had pounced on him, and Thorgeir was thrown to the ground. The split second it took for Thorgeir to get his bearings was enough for Kveldulf to have him pinned to the ground. Kveldulf’s face left no doubt in Thorgeir’s mind – the Mark had hold. Thorgeir knew that this was no longer training. He would have to fight for his life. Fending off a flurry of blows, he could only hope that his friend regained control before it was too late. His instincts and training took over. Lying on his back, it was all he could do to stay alive. Over Kveldulf’s shoulder, he saw Jarl deliver a well placed kick to Kveldulf’s abdomen that would have sent any other man sprawling. But not Kveldulf. Jarl jumped on Kveldulf’s back, but was immediately thrown off, hitting the ground hard. The battering contiunued, almost unabated. Thorgeir closed his eyes, summoning his strength even as he was fending off Kveldulf’s pummeling. Kveldulf’s slavering growl was close to his face now. When Marked, he was stronger than Thorgeir. When marked, he was faster than any other wolf-brother. Thorgeir was no match for him. His breath was snarling frantically through his yellow fangs. Thorgeir felt his not inconsiderate strength fading fast. His defenses were slowing. He tried to throw his attacker, but he was hopelessly trapped beneath the berserker-raged Kveldulf. His mind raced for a way out. Some small advantage.

Thorgeir had been relieved, proud and exhausted as he arose, still alive, after the grueling initiation. Finally, he had been able to call himself a Bloodclaw. A Wolf-Brother of Fenris. For decades, he had donned a set of Wolf claws, and charged headlong into countless enemy formations, tearing up anyone who stood in his way, even as his comrades fell around him. He had lost many friends. But he himself had, by the grace of the great wolf, survived. As a Grey Hunter, he was surrounded by pack-mates as competent, as fearsome, and as lucky, as himself. He had served his chapter well, and after his promotion to Grey Hunter, Thorgeir had started to wonder whether he might live to one day take a place among the long-fangs, or, Gods be willing, the mighty Wolf-Guards of his Great Company.

It is the sound that brings him back. A monstrous sound. He doesn’t recognize it at first. A rending shriek of metal upon metal. It takes a second before Thorgeir realizes; Kveldulf’s furious snarling continues to echo among the rocks, but the savage pounding has ceased. Then it dawns on him. The power fist! Sure enough. Jarl has delivered a mighty blow to Kveldulf’s back, grabbing him hard enough to tear the pack of his power armor clean off, and most of the backside of the armour with it. Thorgeir gathers his strength and pushes his still-crazed, but immobile, friend off. He lets his head fall back in the snow. He breathes deeply. And again. When he opens his eyes, he looks up into an overcast sky. Big, sluggish snowflakes are making their way towards him from the heavens. Thorgeir’s breath is misting the air. Jarl’s power fist materializes before him, extended. He accepts the offer.

Back on his feet he realized that Jarl, too, was sweating. Thorgeir licked his fangs.

“Thanks brother.” He looked down at Kveldulf. A fearsome sight, even in this helpless state.

“Give him a moment.” Jarl was stating the obvious.

“For a minute there…” Jarl’s voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed him as they flickered towards Kveldulf.

“I know. Me too.” said Thorgeir. “When the mark takes him… well, I’m glad I’m fighting on his side when it counts. He has control, Jarl, I know it.”

“You didn’t look like you knew it thirty seconds ago.” Jarl’s gaze was penetrating. The old wolf was cautious.

“Trust him, Jarl. Trust me. Even now. I would never have accepted him into the pack if I doubted him.”

Jarl spat.

“Yeah, trust me.” The voice was shaky, but strong. Both men looked down at Kveldulf.

“I’m only trying to teach an old man how to fight for his life!” Thorgeir was Kveldulfs senior by just twenty years.

Jarl looked back at Thorgeir without a word, then walked over to Kveldulf, disabling the suit-locks, and helping him to his feet. Jarl walked off to repeat the favor three more times.

“You had to open me up didn’t you!” Kveldulf shouted after him. “It’s gonna be cold as all hell walking back to base!” Jarl kept walking. “Old timer…”

“You’ll have to grow fur to match those fangs, then!” A smile started under Thorgeir’s beard, then faded. “Tell me you had control back there. ‘Cause I could have sworn…”

“I had control, Thorgeir. You know that! I would never hurt you! Well, not badly!” Kveldulf beamed. “Who would I have to drink with, if not you!” He stretched, groaning.

“That humorless old man over there, however…” Thorgeir shot him a glance. “Relax, my friend, I’m jesting!” Kveldulf’s smile turned sour as he noticed the falling snow. The wind had picked up slightly. “Come, First round’s on me when we’re back at the mead-hall.”

“You’re gonna remember this time?” Kveldulf asked.

“Hell, the thought of that first round is gonna be all that keeps me going for the next three days. Damn the bastard. It’ll be cold as the initiation! Remember that? Miss those days!” Kveldulf picked up his bolter from the snow where it had dropped, and started towards the east.