Chapter 4- Long Conversations
Bran stalked through the great stone halls of the Fang; the wulfen clawing at the back of his conscious, ready to break free for the first time in many years. Bran snarled and shook the beast from his mind. It had been too long since he had succumbed to the temptation of his primal form, too long since he felt the raw power and hatred that flowed through him as all his movements and thoughts became feral and instinct.
He entered a large square room with many large rectangular holes in the floor. These chasms were used by the Vlka Fenryka as quick modes of transportation from each level of the Fang. The immense size of the great fortress often times called for such crude, yet efficient methods. But that’s what the Wolves of Fenris were known for; their savage ways often misinterpreted as crude by enemy and ally alike; but none could deny the cold efficiency with which they practiced their trade.
Bran approached the edge of one of the chasms and plunged into darkness. Other chapters of the Adeptes Astartes would have replaced such barbaric shafts with the more sophisticated grav-chutes or even teleportation devices. These and other such luxuries were absent from the Fang; the Space Wolves preferring to embrace the raw and primal conditions of the planet that shaped them into some of the most feared warriors in the galaxy. The temperatures in the Fang would freeze the blood of a mortal, but was accepted as a daily reminder to the Space Wolves of their Fenrisian heritage.
Bran landed with a resounding thud, as his amour’s endoskeleton absorbed the shock of a fall of more than two hundred feet. Without missing a step, Bran continued off down a dim hallway.
As he stalked down the dark hallway, Bran inspected the large rent in his armor. It was deep, so deep that it went all the way to the black carapace, the layer of his armor that bonded with the many implants in his body. Another inch and Kodran’s blade would have severed half his arm. Bran shrugged, this was just one more scar his ancient armor had obtained over its millennia of service. Grom would be able to repair this latest addition as easily as all the others.
Bran was headed for the Hammerhold, the location of the great forges of the Vlka Fenryka, where Grom would most likely be. Even with the use of the shafts, it took Bran over an hour to descend all the way into the bowls of the fortress.
He strode through a great archway known as Borek’s Seal and into the furnace-like bowls of the Hammerhold. The entrance to the Hammerhold was wide enough for twenty of Bran’s people to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was carved from the ancient stone of the mountain. As he descended deeper, Bran could feel the heat of the forges through the rock. A steady thrum, thrum, thrum could be heard as great and ancient machinery kept the forges burning. With the steady beat of the machines air as hot as dragon fire rushed into the tunnel.
Bran strode through the much smaller archway at the end of the tunnel into a cavern so large the ceiling was not visible even in the bright light. All around him great pools of fire burned. Ancient machinery worked tirelessly to mold and shape the raw ore into powerful weapons and armor. The largest pools and machines were used to build tanks and aircraft. Tech-servitors and their attendant Iron Priestscould be seen busying themselves with maintaining the complicated machinery.
Bran ignored all of them and strode to a much smaller forge that was set aside from the others. While not meant to produce hundreds of weapons a day, this forge was set aside for the leader of the Iron Priests to practice his more subtle crafts. There Grom sat on a stone seat, his armor removed. In the harsh red light of the forge, his implants looked like the eyes of some terrible beast that dwelt in the darkness.
Grom’s huge muscles flexed in perfect harmony as he hammered something on an anvil. His strikes were perfect and the rhythmic peal of his blows echoed through the cavern. As Bran approached, Grom ceased his hammering and slowly turned to face him. Though still seated, Grom was an imposing figure, nearly as tall as Bran, who was standing in his armor.
“Bran,” Grom stood and stretched his back, a look of surprise playing across his face, “What brings a Wolf Lord down to the depths of the Hammerhold? Hell must have frozen over.”
Bran greeted Grom with a smile, “It is always frozen on Fenris Grom, you know that. Friendship and a humble favor are what bring me to the forges today.”
“Well if that be all then come, come, have a seat,” Grom bellowed, “What can I do for you?”
“I have much to do, so I will stand.” Bran said as he pressed several controls on his armor. His right pauldron unlatched itself with a hiss and Bran handed it to Grom. “I need this repaired if your skills can manage it.”
Grom inspected the pauldron for some time; turning it over in his hands, testing the shell with probing fingers. He scowled and handed it back to Bran. “I’m sorry to say that this is beyond my skill. The cut is deep, and was made by a powered blade.” Grom paused for a moment and then continued. “By the looks of it, a blade I forged myself.”
“Shame,” Bran said, looking at the pauldron, “It was indeed a blade of your making.” He said absentmindedly, moving his fingers over the ruined piece of armor.
“Have you and Kodran had another one of your disagreements?” Grom chuckled.
“We have, though this was far more interesting than the others.” Bran said, still staring at his lost piece of armor.
Grom knew better than to pry into the arguments of Wolf Priests, especially if the particular Wolf Priest was Kodran. He asked no further questions but instead went over to his personal collection of work and withdrew a fine piece.
“Well we can not have you and Kodran getting into any more disagreements without this.” Grom chuckled again as he placed a new pauldron on Bran’s shoulder. The armor fit perfectly and latched firmly in place.
“My thanks Grom,” Bran handed him the ruined armor and strode back into the dim tunnel, heading for his chambers. He needed time to think and to plan.
“Careful around that one Bran,” Grom shouted after him, “It would be a shame if we could no longer have our long conversations.”
Bran raised his hand in farewell and disappeared into the gloom. Grom shook his head and returned to his forge. He had an uneasy feeling about Bran’s dealings with Kodran, but they were soon lost as he once again got into the rhythmic motions of his work.
Far above the Hammerhold in a dark place of the Fang known as the Hall of the Fleshmakers, Kodran and Eldgrim stood together in silence. Kodran had retired there shortly after his confrontation with Bran, and Eldgrim had followed a while after. Kodran hated having any Rune Priest, but especially Eldgrim, in his laboratory, but tolerated it. He had always been suspicious of the psykers, who trusted in the strength of their sorcery far too much for Kodran’s liking.
But his suspicions were well founded, for if he allowed it, Eldgrim could easily slip into his mind and discover things that were not meant to be discovered. As Kodran worked on some trivial calculations in order to appear busy, Eldgrim stood behind him, silently admiring the equipment Kodran used to turn mortals into demi gods.
Eldgrim broke the silence with a casual observation, “You should be more careful around him you know.” Eldgrim waited in silence for Kodran’s response. Knowing his comment had angered the Wolf Priest.
“Why is that Rune Priest?” Kodran said through gritted teeth, indeed angered by Eldgrim’s implication of his weakness. “Do you not think he who trained him is capable of besting his old student?”
“It isn’t the old student I’m speaking of.” Eldgrim answered. “You know of what I speak Kodran, you more than anyone should know.”
Kodran whirled around, anger flashing across his face. “Do not think I have forgotten that failure! It is mine to bear and I bear it every day!”
“Perhaps I spoke out of turn.” Eldgrim replied, unfazed by Kodran’s outburst.
“Perhaps you did.” Kodran growled, returning to his work.
In the darkness vials and tubes bubbled with green liquids. The movements of small, intricate machines could be heard, along with the steady beeping of a life monitor. Byorik lay somewhere in that darkness; he was unconscious, completely unaware of what was going on.
“I’ve sensed it becoming stronger within him.” Eldgrim broke the silence once more. “He fights for control but he can not fight it for eternity.”
“If he can not fight it then he is weak; unworthy of the title of Wolf Lord!” Kodran snapped.
“Worthy or not, the Redmaw must be contained. If it were to become known amongst us all, or even spread further, the chaos would destroy us. Bran may no longer be your youngling, but the Redmaw is still your burden to bear as much as it is his.” Eldgrim said solemnly.
“Again you remind me!” Kodran clenched his fists. “You think I have forgotten. But I have devoted my life to its cure; and a cure for us all!”
“The Tempering…” Eldgrim replied, his face darkening as if remembering some grave tragedy. “You’ve made progress?”
“I have.” Kodran replied his anger once again in check. “I may be on the brink of unlocking the canis helix. I only require more time. And that my work go un-interrupted.” He said these last words with a biting forcefulness.
Eldgrim ignored the subtle hint and pressed further. “And what of Bran?”
“What of him?”
“You no doubt have plans for him. His malediction being the keenest expression of the helix we’ve seen in our history.”
“To fully control the canis helix, we must first examine it when there is no control. Yes, I have plans for Bran. Nothing overzealous I assure you.” Kodran turned to face Eldgrim. He wore a mask of perfect calm. “Now if you please, I have much work to do, and Russ as my whiteness, little time to do it.”
“I trust you will do what is best for us all.” Eldgrim bowed slightly. “May Russ keep you blade sharp and your mind sharper.”
“You as well,” Kodran replied quickly.
Eldgrim left without another word. Finally Kodran was alone. He could continue his true work in peace. Kodran approached the table that held the unconscious human. Lights flickered to life, bathing him in an eerie pale glow. Despite his contempt for the arrogant mortal, Kodran did have to admit that he was impressed by his bravery. The mortal’s body was as fit as any others for the augmentation process, save for his right hand, he had proven his determination against insurmountable odds, perhaps this one could show promise.
Kodran’s memory flashed back to when he had an equally impressive mortal on his table. Bran had been far more controlled and cunning than the other warriors of his group. It was his iron will that had given Kodran hope for his experiment. Out of all the initiates, he had chosen Bran to be the future of the Space Wolves. Kodran shuddered to remember the hope he had possessed and the utter defeat he felt when his greatest work transformed into his greatest shame.
He took one last look into the face of the mortal before him. “Perhaps you shall be the one to conquer the wulfen.” Kodran left the table and the room was plunged into darkness. “Or perhaps the lineage of Russ was never meant to be controlled.”