A lone Space Wolf Scout against an icy wilderness full of renegades...
HUNTED
(part 3)
Volstag surveyed what gear the traitorous PDF troopers had
carried. About useless, he thought.
Even if he could fit into the flak armor uniforms, even if his pride
would allow him to degrade himself by doing so, it offered far less protection
than his usual Astartes scout armor. No,
he’d rather go bare-chested than stoop to that.
Praise Russ, if he only had his old suit of power armor and a boltgun,
he’d walk right down the fairway of Tundra Station, meting out the blessing of
the bolter as he went. He’d have no fear
of injury in the grey ceramite hide of a Space Wolf. But that was not an option either. For now, all he had was the leathery cloaks
of wooly grox hide. It offered little
protection beyond that from the wind.
But just as it occluded the vision of his victims, it would hinder his
own eyes, and the trailing cape of it could snag on branches or make him more
visible. His own pale flesh was better
camouflage than a dark wooly cloak moving through the snow. No, his tattered duracloth trousers were all
he’d wear.
Lasguns and bayonets were poor
weapons but they were better than nothing.
Against the corrupted power armor of Chaos Space Marines they might only
be effective at point-blank range. He’d
use them only in desperation. The crack
of a lasrifle was quiet compared to the bark of a bolter, but it might still
give him away to nearby enemies. Volstag
slung one rifle fixed with a blade over his shoulder and tucked the other two
bayonets into a stolen belt. He ate what
rations the bodies had on them, though his stomach felt strangely satisfied, as
if he’d eaten during the fugue of his escape.
I hope I didn’t swallow any mutant
flesh in rage, he thought. That kind
of tainted meat would give even a champion of the mead hall a stomach ache.
Now better equipped for combat, he
found his twin hearts torn in different directions. The lupine hunger in him, the thirst for
revenge and justice and honor, demanded that he avenge his fallen wolf brothers
and die gloriously if need be to achieve it.
Alone on this backward cattle farm of an outpost, what mattered more than
a valiant death in which he took as many traitors with him as possible? But as a veteran Space Wolf with nearly a
century of experience in warfare, he knew that if he, too, died in this frozen wilderness,
the Night Lords and the heretical troopers in their thrall would ultimately out
live him. Though the fury of Russ surged
through his veins, he was but one warrior, the last of his pack, and though he
might take a dozen heretics down to Hell with him and even avenge himself
against their depraved apothecary, he couldn’t kill them all. Not alone.
Strategically, he knew that a total victory would require help. His life would be better sacrificed getting a
signal back to the Jaws of Morkai so
that his great company would know the fate that had befallen their scout
expedition. But he also knew that a
long-range vox wave would take days to reach the distant cruiser. My
honor won’t wait quite that long, he told himself. Once the signal was out, however, Volstag
Dragonclaw need not wait for a reply. After
that, the Space Wolves could come sanitize Tundra Station whether he was still
alive to see it or not.
He would have his vengeance and a
glorious death, he decided, but not until he’d ensured an even mightier
retaliation would follow. No matter how many
heretics remained after the lone wolf had died in battle, no Night Lord or
traitorous mortal would survive the wrath days later that came in the form of
fire from the sky. Volstag imagined the
scene of drop pods raining down, bursting on the ground to release savage packs
of Blood Claws and disciplined waves of Grey Hunters. Perhaps they’d even find enough of “Old Man
Dragonclaw” left over to entomb in the heart of a mighty dreadnought so that he
could fight along side them on the next bloody battlefield.
This comforted him.
Among the other scavenged
belongings of the dead troopers—which included lho sticks, a chapbook of
heretical rants, a comb and hair oil, and a flask of amasec liquor—there was only
one item that interested him: a voice-corder.
It had belonged to the one called Bleakman, the talkative cultist with
the lightning-painted helmet. Recorded
were general complaints about Tundra Station, self-appeasing boasts, and
profanity-colored critiques of his PDF superiors. But Volstag imagined a better use for it. When he found a long-ranged vox transmitter,
it’d be quicker to plug in the voice-corder and let it tell his story, rather
than lose precious time talking into the machine with his back to the door.
He dragged off and hid the bodies of
his victims and buried their remaining gear in the snow, then hunkered down
among the brush to record his whispered message:
“This is Space Wolf Volstag
Dragonclaw.
“Days ago, I know not how many, the
Space Wolf cruiser Jaws of Morkai intercepted
a distress call from the Planetary Defense Forces of Tundra Station. The Station is a small Imperial outpost on
Theta-Crom IV, an icy agri-world used for raising herds of long-haired grox. It has little other value. Perhaps that’s why the bored PDF troops turned
from the Emperor’s light to the temptations of Chaos.
“The distress call stated that a rogue
space vessel was refusing to answer hails and preparing to land on-planet. Tundra Station was concerned about who might
be aboard.
“An hour later, an abrupt follow-up
message declared that the call was a false alarm and anyone listening should
disregard.
“Wolf Lord Scarred-Eye, master of
the Jaws of Morkai, as wise as his
teeth are long, dispatched a pack of nine Wolf Scouts aboard the recon shuttle Void Stalker. My pack landed in secret and discovered the
renegade space vessel was indeed on-planet and home to a roving band of Night
Lord Space Marines. We were confident
that by taking command of the local PDF garrison we could handle the situation
ourselves. What we didn’t know was that
chaos worshippers within the ranks of the PDF had already usurped control. When we made our plans with them, we’d unknowingly
exposed ourselves to traitors and were later ambushed by their Night Lord
masters. Eight Space Wolves have
died. Shamefully, not all went in battle,
nor on their feet.
“Lord Scarred-Eye, I pray to Russ this
reaches your pointy ears and that you bring the full wrath of the Space Wolves
to the traitors of Tundra Station. I
shall do what damage I can, then see you in the mead halls of the afterlife.”
* * *
More tomorrow!
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