His breath wisped in the rarefied air. 'Fritvilj!' he said. He strode over to the lone legionary and hauled him up into a bear's clasp, then held him at arm's length. 'Good to see you. I trust you've kept the fires lit and the wights away while we've been gone.' The primarch panted lightly as he spoke. The air was so thin it tested even his lungs.

'All is as it should be, my lord,' said Fritvilj. His voice crackled out of his helm. The last place in the hangar was taken, and Fritvilj raised his hand. Doors closed over the apertures. The sighing of atmosphere pumps raising the air's pressure became audible as the whine of engines spooling down died. 'The feasting halls are prepared. The Aett welcomes back the warriors to their den. It is too long since the sons of Fenris returned to hearth and home.'

Russ' good humour fled. 'Aye,' he said. 'If only more had come back alive. Best alert the fleshmakers before the feast masters. Too many of our brothers are sleeping on the red snow. There's a bitter take of frozen gene-seed to be harvested.'

He abruptly pushed past Fritvilj, leaving the hearth watcher stunned at the sudden shift in his humour.

The Wolf Guard clumped past him, wolf pelts swaying from their broad armoured shoulders.

A warrior of Tra followed the primarch. Fritvilj did not recognise him, but his markings showed him to be pack alpha, and his name to be Bjorn. His left hand was encased in a fine lightning claw. Russ was not in the habit of being accompanied by such lowly warriors. His presence puzzled Fritvilj.

The warrior, this Bjorn, tapped Fritvilj on the shoulder with the tip of an inactive claw blade. Metal squealed on metal.

'Don't be aggrieved, watch master,' he said. 'There is a bad wyrd on the Lord of Wolves.'

'Who are you to tell me this?' said the watch master, who outranked Bjorn by several degrees and was irked by the pack master's manner.

'It is simple,' said Bjorn dolefully. 'I share it.'

* * *

Bjorn hung back before joining his brothers at the Moot Feast. He might not have joined them at all, had Fith Godsmote not spotted him at the edge of the firelight's circle.

'Bjorn!' Godsmote called out. 'Bjorn! By the Allfather!' Godsmote rose up and engulfed Bjorn in a crushing hug, pulling him into the pack's feasting space.

'Ah, it's been too long, my old friend,' said Godsmote. 'I thought the primarch would never let you go.'

'I have been away from you for only a while, but much has happened. It has proved too long.' Bjorn looked over Godsmote's shoulder. The pack's losses from Prospero and Alaxxes had been filled by men whose masks Bjorn did not know well.