Eroking
patreon
Chapter 174: The Muscle Arrives
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:38:46 +0000 UTCChapter 174: The Muscle Arrives
New guests had arrived on the Silent Vow.
Chasing a Thousand Sons psychic illusion, the pack of Space Wolves had successfully boarded the relic-class cruiser, whose design was a stark departure from the Imperial mainstream, just before the fleet entered the Immaterium.
However, before they could even begin their investigation, they were struck by the sheer scale and complexity of the vessel's interior. Elite human auxiliaries, Sisters of the Ecclesiarchy, Magi of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and even a cadre of Culexus Assassins composed of soulless pariahs...
But it was more than that. These were not just token individuals representing their factions; they were fully integrated organizations, each a component of a much larger, more intricate whole.
True to their nature, the Space Wolves quickly began to mingle with the mortal soldiers who had once fought alongside them. One Wolf Guard clapped a nearby auxiliary on the shoulder, laughing boisterously as he asked about the origin of the mysterious ship, only to be met with silence. Another sidled up to a Magos, curiously observing the streams of blinking data, though he clearly understood none of it. The Battle-Sisters offered resigned smiles at the boisterous Astartes, while the Culexus Assassin remained silent, offering only the barest nod of acknowledgement.
Ostensibly, the Wolves could only learn from the mortals that these disparate elements were all part of the ship's comprehensive educational structure. From the age of six, children aboard underwent six years of foundational education. During this period, the fleet covered all costs for the child's upbringing, focusing on instilling a complete and coherent worldview. Afterwards, they would be streamed according to their aptitudes into academies run by the various organizations, where they would learn to become warriors, tech-adepts, or administrators. Those who were not Blanks even had the chance to become Astartes.
During their brief tour, the ship had already shown them teaching scenarios from different colleges. Cadets in the College of Battle ran tactical drills in mimic-cages, apprentices in the College of Technis gathered around a disassembled engine in heated debate, and preceptors in the Departmento Administratum stood before a hololithic sand table, analyzing resource allocation for a distant planet.
For now, however, this grand educational project was only just beginning. It would be a long time before the first generation of students graduated, and the upper-level curricula were mainly focused on the continuing education of existing fleet personnel.
"I feel we have come here for nothing."
At a feast hosted by the First Phalanx of the Pierdra Ever-sworn Garrison, Wolf Guard Alm Iron-oath sat astride a beautifully carved, yet understated, stone pillar. The amber liquid in the heavy flagon in his hand sloshed gently. He turned to the Wolf Priest beside him and spoke in a low voice, his words lost in the surrounding din of cheerful conversation and clattering tableware.
Everything was in order. He had scryed the fate-threads of these mortals; they would sail the seas of their remaining years on a fair wind.
"Everything is under our cousins' control," the Wolf Priest nodded slowly, his rough fingers rubbing the wolf-tooth icon hanging from his neck. Not far away, several young Space Wolves were laughing as they clinked flagons with auxiliary soldiers, not caring as froth splattered their armour.
This was why they had allowed their pups to drink with the mortals.
Their mysterious cousins were using them as muscle.
A meaningful smirk touched Alm's lips. He tilted his head back and drained his cup, his throat working as he swallowed. Of course, words spoken in drink were often true, and it was an essential part of gathering information. It was from this that he had sensed the ship's quiet confidence.
"But the pups are still eager," the Wolf Priest said, stroking his crozius. The sharp, crude runes carved into it pulsed with a constant blue glow. It was a weapon he had forged from the armour and blade of a Thousand Sons sorcerer he had slain. "This is enough."
"During the Great Crusade, our duties kept us far from the heart of the Imperium and from those cousins of ours. Perhaps it has been so for ten millennia. But the changes of the last century... even one as wise as the Great Wolf must admit that the Imperium is no longer the same."
The internal reasons for the Months of Shame on Fenris, following the Wars for Armageddon, were complex. In essence, it was an attempt by the High Lords of Terra to seize control of a First Founding Chapter. After the Heresy, and especially after the Black Templars had twice brought their blades to Terra's doorstep, the High Lords had constantly sought to tame the power of the Astartes. The Cursed Founding had succeeded in giving them the Minotaurs Chapter, a force they could wield "for their own ends." The Space Wolves, with their culture so at odds with the rest of the Imperium, were seen as the weakest link among the First Founding.
Of course, everyone knew how that ended. The affair concluded with the head of the Inquisition being sent flying, and the various Imperial factions' attempts to control the Astartes Legions ended in total failure. Yet, the event left a deep, unhealing wound on the Space Wolves, and it made them realize that if the Imperium relied on them alone, there was little hope for its salvation.
"Now, a new structure is being forged outside the Imperium's old grasp. In the past, such work could only be done by mortals. But this time is different."
Dark Angels, Blood Angels, Ultramarines, Thousand Sons.
The Dawn Crusade had four leaders, though only two were known by name. Compared to Romulus and Karna, the other two were complete enigmas to the galaxy at large, and those who could guess their identities tactfully ignored the matter. But the changes they had wrought upon the future of countless lives were etched into the very fabric of the Warp.
Sensing the shifting threads of fate in the empyrean tides, the Wolf Priest spoke. "This is a revolution. We cannot be left behind. We must find our place within this new order."
The Wolf Priest's words were very Tzeentchian. Indeed, to scry the future is to touch upon the power of the Changer of Ways. The Warp is ever thus; the more one uses its sorceries, the closer Tzeentch draws, especially after the emotional entities within it have grown so strong.
But Alm merely nodded nonchalantly. Fenrisian reverence for the power of the Immaterium predated even the arrival of Russ. Their mastery of various "rune-magics" far surpassed the Librarius of other Legions. It was a fact that their savage appearance concealed well. Few would ever connect a pack of barbarians who knew only how to hack with axes and tear at throats with their teeth to the precise manipulation required for Warp-craft. Not everyone was like those Thousand Sons, waving their powers around like a child with a poison gas grenade and trying to force them upon everyone else.
"Hmph. A pack of fools trapped in a cage they cannot see. Why did the Allfather not choose Russ?" Alm slammed his flagon down. Spilled Mjod splashed onto a nearby female soldier, drawing laughter from those around them. Understanding the situation was one thing; being unhappy about it was another.
What, is my Primarch not the equal of these four?
The first three, he could stomach; they were loyalists, at least. But the last one? Even a Thousand Son!
His fist crashed down on the table, knocking over several empty bottles. The sound of shattering glass was sharp in the suddenly quiet hall. A few sleeping mortals twitched unconsciously.
The mortals in the feast hall had, at some point, fallen asleep. Their faces were an unnatural shade of red as they slumped over the tables, breathing heavily.
The Space Wolves had naturally brought drink to the feast, and the brew potent enough to affect an Astartes was no common vintage. The Space Wolves and the people of Fenris shared a tradition of drinking Mjod, a liquor brewed from the tissues and fluids of various local beasts, much of it containing a certain toxicity. They would share it with great enthusiasm, but also carefully control the dosage to prevent mortals from dying. The intoxication brought on by the toxins, however, was something no mortal could resist.
Bodies lay strewn everywhere, yet the sons of Fenris remained standing.
"Oath-father!"
Ulvam Red-mane shot to his feet, the marble bench behind him crashing to the floor. A bloody mist escaped his lips, his chest heaving as if a fire raged within him. In the dim light, his amber beast-eyes narrowed to slits, fixed on the doorway.
He had long been unable to suppress his urge to crush his enemies. Especially after the humiliation at the hands of the Dark Angels, he was desperate to find a flaw in his arrogant cousins and repay them in kind. The young warrior's knuckles were white from his grip, the haft of his power axe creaking in his palm. This young Blood Claw was still in a stage of his life dominated by the Canis Helix—impulsive, quick to anger, prone to error. But it was precisely this spirit that drove a warrior's rapid progression.
"Hahaha! Then let's go!" Alm laughed, a booming sound. The corded muscles of his thick arms bunched as he snatched up the power axe leaning against the wall. The runes on its blade flared with a sudden, crimson light.
In an unnoticed corner, Yulia, who had been splashed with Mjod and passed out, lay slumped on the floor. Her dishevelled hair covered half her face, but her fingertips twitched rhythmically with her steady breathing. This was no coded message, but each twitch rhythmically obscured the background from a specific angle, providing a steady stream of information to a trained observer.
CLANG!
The Space Wolves all raised their weapons, gently placing their unfinished flagons on the table. They would drink the rest when they returned.
"For Russ and the Allfather!"
The Wolves left the feast hall. Then, with a speed that caught everyone off guard, they charged directly toward the deep, shadowed corridors ahead.
The entire warship was divided into sections. The area near the public docks belonged to the mortals. The central section was a mixed zone where Angel and mortal could interact face-to-face.
And the Astartes' sanctum was strictly forbidden to all outsiders.
Because it contained no secrets.
Yulia's fingertips stopped twitching. Her hand went limp, and she fell into a deep sleep.
It had to be said, the Mjod of Fenris...
...was an excellent sleep aid.
