With the jarls were the higher Wolf Priests and other ranking Vlka Fenryka. Two dozen or so all told, hard-bitten warlords. Their warsuits, the pinnacle of the Imperial armourers' art, its existence possible solely through the most refined of human technologies, were draped with a barbarian king's wealth in gold, trophies, runes and furs. They were a contradiction in grey. Russ liked them that way.

The last of the lesser warriors and kaerls left. The armoured doors rolled shut. Firebowls guttered in the changing air currents. Atmosphere processors whined as they consumed the smoke.

'My warriors, my Rout,' said Russ fondly. 'My Einherjar. The finest warriors in all the Emperor's domains.'

He looked them over. The Vlka Fenryka were never truly still. There was an urge to action in them that nothing could quiet. Their wargear and personal effects were so different they could not be called a uniform. His command cadre was a coalition of kings. They were not a Legion in the same way that any of the others were. This too pleased Russ.

'Heed what I am about to say,' Russ said. 'I do not wish to repeat myself, and I do not wish my words to be repeated outside of this hall. I will work the murder-make on any who whisper what I will tell to you.'

His lords shifted and hunched, alpha pack leaders challenged by a wolf larger than they. They could submit, they could run, they could fight. Russ did not threaten warriors like them without good reason. He felt their unease.

'The Luna Wolf Garviel Loken spoke the truth. I cannot beat Horus Lupercal. If we attack now, he will kill me, and this Legion will die.'

Russ did not expect his men to react favourably to this statement, and they did not. Their alarm was mixed with anger. It pulsed from them and through the Wolf King. He felt an echo of their disquiet emanate from the spear on the wall behind him, as if it had gathered up all the bad thoughts in the room and turned them spitefully back upon the gathering. Russ did not like the spear. He did not like spears as a weapon in general. He preferred the nobility of swords. They were hard to make and hard to fight with well. In their laboriously forged edges and the skill required to use them was the legacy of kings. After swords, Russ favoured axes. The axe's smile was a warriors battle joy made manifest. Axes needed strength and cunning. They were heavy and slow. Timing with an axe was all. When handled poorly they were a death sentence for the wielder. When landed correctly they had power no other edged weapon did, breaking armour, carving flesh and smashing bones. They were a murder tool, uncompromising in their brutality. They were joyous, they were honest.