'Fenrys hjolda!' he shouted. 'Garviel Loken, back from the den of the arch traitor himself. You are not as dim as I thought if you survived that expedition!' His taunt was delivered with a smile. 'Come to me, loyal son of the Emperor.'

To have Russ turn his full attention on you was like attracting the personal enmity of a storm. Barely less imposing were the enormous wolves flanking his throne, one black, the other silver, Their majesty beggared belief; it was hard to imagine creatures such as they existing at all outside the mind of a dramaturge. The head of the smaller - and it was only ever so slightly smaller - would have reached Loken's shoulders if it stood. They stared at him through narrowed yellow eyes. The black curled its lips, showing fangs more like swords than teeth. Upon its head was a bald patch of knotted pink scar.

He dearly wished it would not stand.

Though the name of his beloved, dishonoured Legion evoked creatures like them, Loken did not like these wolves.

On the wall behind Russ was hung a large spear. A haft as thick as a comms array's sounding pole terminated in a sculpture of a snarling wolf. From the mouth protruded a sword-long, leaf-headed blade of shining gold. Fine knotwork crawled all over the plated plasteel. Slung under the wolfs body was the vented box of a disruption field generator, the power transmission cabling and field dispersal studs cunningly hidden by the decoration. There were subtler technologies woven into the blade besides. It was a psy weapon, a thing of the Lord of Mankind, come out of His forges and suffused with His mastery of science and the warp. Even inactive, it gave off a particular feel, a resonant echo of the Emperor's presence, that bred unease and filled the hearts of men with dark foreboding.

Leman Russ hated it. Somehow, Loken could tell that. Russ leaned away from where it hung. It was situated too far from his throne for him to seize to defend himself, whereas his other weapons, his giant-sized bolter and monstrous frost blade, were close to hand. More than once the Wolf King glanced at it sidelong, as if he did not trust it to remain where if was Bror Tyrfingr knelt at the feet of his lord the sole true sign of deference Loken had witnessed thus far in his time upon the Hrafnkel. 'Get up, Bror,' boomed Russ, waving his hand widely. 'I won't have Loken here trotting back to the old man and describing my sons as grovelling wretches.' He grinned savagely at Loken. 'You will be reporting, won't you? That sly old hound has his eyes everywhere.'

'So do you, I think,' said Loken.