Ragnar Blackmane (Space Marine Legends Book 1) by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Author:Aaron Dembski-Bowden [Dembski-Bowden, Aaron]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Games Workshop
Published: 2016-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

I

Cretacia, Home World of the Flesh Tearers Chapter

The Year of the Red Iron and Rising Storms

961.M41

Weaponless, shackled in energy bindings with his wrists linked behind his back, the prisoner paced his cell. He was as one might expect from any Wolf: proud-eyed and draped in the furs of his home world, with his armour plating encrusted with runic markings that meant nothing to those outside of his Chapter and tribe.

From the levels beneath his boots, the resonant song of metal on metal rang eternally against walls of stone. The prisoner endlessly paced the cell, waiting only because he had no choice in the ­matter. In the way of those born under wide open skies, he rankled at any notion of captivity.

Not that his capture had come as a surprise, of course. The only surprise was that he was still alive.

He faced his captors when they came for him. One of them was a Chaplain, if the holy rosarius medallion around his neck was any indication, and his dark-skinned features were a visage of pockmarked ruination and cybernetic reconstruction. A ravaged hairline of receding stubble was blighted by badly healed tissue craters and the ugly pebbles of burn scarring.

‘You’re the most fantastically ugly man I’ve ever laid eyes on,’ the prisoner told him, ‘but by the Allfather, I bet you’re proud of those scars.’

The Chaplain deactivated the layered refractor fields around the prisoner’s cell, one by one. The kinetic-resistant barriers snapped out of existence with fizzing crackles of tormented air. As the Chaplain entered the cell, the prisoner stepped back from the iron doorway with no sign of ill intent in his gaze.

‘I seek the High Warrior of your Chapter,’ the prisoner said. ‘Gabriel Sawtooth, Lord of the Tearers of Flesh and this world’s master. Long have I waited to share words with him, face to face and eye to eye.’

‘Chapter Master Seth is far from here,’ the Chaplain allowed. ‘He wages war in the Emperor’s name. I am Brother-Chaplain Scarath. You already know Sergeant Vorain. He was one of the boarding party that brought you to me.’

‘Priest,’ the prisoner said in greeting. ‘Pack leader. Hail to you both.’

‘Our names will serve. My brothers and I rarely stand by titles. You’re the one named Blackmane, yes?’

‘To my kith and kin I am Blackmane. Outlanders more often use the name Ragnar. It is our way.’

‘Ragnar, then.’

The Wolf bared his teeth in a grin. ‘Do you bring thanks at last for the return of your warship? Many were the months we spent sailing it back to your skies. My jarl offered one of his own Navigators for the journey – a prize beyond any other. And you repay us by throwing us into bindings. Cold is the welcome on Cretacia.’

Scarath was more than used to the various dialects and variances in the common Imperial tongue encountered across the galaxy. He could understand Ragnar’s words, but they were plainly coloured by the Wolf’s culture.

‘I am not here to thank you,’ said Scarath. ‘I’m here to sentence you.

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