'While I have been trailing after Russ like a whelp on Terra, our pack mates have already begun to form the warrior-bond with our new brothers.' Bjorn pitched his voice low so only Godsmote could hear.

'Gah, you old misery,' said Godsmote, holding Bjorn at arm's length. He smiled broadly, but his actions only made Bjorn conscious of his own missing limb.

'My brothers, this is Bjorn, our pack leader,' Godsmote said to the pack.

'That you have to say that says it all,' said Bjorn. Fith Godsmote had taken Bjorn's place in his absence, a temporary role that had the scent of permanence to it. When the new warriors greeted Bjorn, they looked to Godsmote for approval. Bjorn was a stranger, and his association with Leman Russ put more distance still between them.

'Sit down, drink. Tell us of your time with the primarch. You must have much to say,' said one.

'Not really,' said Bjorn. 'The Wolf King is as you would expect. He keeps nothing back from his sons. Why don't you tell me of your battles? There have been many I have not shared.'

They obliged, the younger ones eager to impress. Bjorn half listened. The hall of Tra was not so full as it once was. Every fire pit was lit, showing that many tables were empty. Those Vlka who remained alive were raucous, and filled the smoky chamber with their revelry, but though the feast was loud there was an emptiness beyond the shouted jests and the singing of the old songs. Echoes haunted them from places where more living noise should come but only wights lurked.

The Legion was deeply wounded. Bjorn could not imagine seeing all the benches full ever again. A quarter of Tra's strength was lost, and his Great Company had fared better than others. Onn had been particularly hard hit. Many had died with Lord Gunn. Russ had taken to speaking often with Bjorn, the unwanted confidence bringing him yet more discomfort. The primarch rued the jarl's recklessness, but so far as Bjorn could see, Russ was set upon a similar course of action. Two-thirds of the Legion had already died. Fyf's hall was funereal. Sepp's too. It was all too easy to imagine every one empty, and all feasting done. In the past when this had happened the hurt had been made good. Not this time. These were the end times, the days of the gods' war when Morkai would race through the heavens and reclaim his lost eye from the night.

'Bjorn?' said Godsmote. He rested a hand on Bjorn's shoulder. Bjorn blinked. The pack looked at him expectantly. Those that knew him well half smiled. The younger pack members stared. They had finished their stories. Bjorn had heard little of them.