Through the shoaling press of ships around Terra, mighty predators sailed. Their steel-grey livery, adorned with snarling wolfs heads, their decoration was simultaneously intricate and primitive. The ships of the Space Wolves slunk obliquely away from the main marshalling nexuses. The capital ships, the Niddhoggur, Fenrysavar, and Russvangum were the core of the fleet, the alpha mothers and fathers of the pack. Around them sailed a few dozen lesser ships, ranging in size from grand cruisers to small, swift torpedo boats.

Then there was the Hrafnkel, Leman Russ' grand flagship. The others were the lords of the star packs; Hrafnkel was their god. Battered grey cliffs of plasteel slid past the other vessels with the stately presence of an iceberg afloat on Terra's prehistoric seas. Once the possessor of a whole lesser fleet's worth of firepower, the injured wolf had had many of its teeth pulled. Gaping holes marked every surface. Where its grey livery was not scarred black it was pocked with damage not a hundred years in dry dock could erase. Wounds that deep should have seen it retired from front line duties. But it moved away from the safety of high anchor, its prow intent on ploughing fields of stars again.

The Hrafnkel and its mates moved like wolves through herds gathering after a hard winter. They were battered by their experiences, but alive, their pack coherent and still dangerous despite their injuries.

Astropathic messages radiated out from the Throneworld by the thousand. Broadcast spires made silent by the Ruinstorm sang again. So many went uncertainly, flung out to worlds that may not exist anymore.

No messages came for Leman Russ as he withdrew his Legion. Forty thousand Space Wolves left the Solar System, all that were left in all the Imperium. Prospero had been the grave of many. Alaxxes took thousands to the grasp of Morkai's jaws. More had bled into the unforgiving earth of Vanaheim, or floated frozen in their battle suits amid the voidal wreckage zones of Daverant.

The VI were a diminished force in every way. Even so, they remained potent enough to turn the tide of any battle. Dorn had made no secret that he would prefer that battle to be at Beta-Garmon.

The Praetorian's last orders to the Wolf had turned to pleas. All went unanswered.

Bypassing the Martian blockade, the fleet of the Rout flew with all engines burning to the edge of the Solar System, and to the jump point there.

Eight

Eight

The Domina's Guest

Cawl came around with a headache so pronounced he seriously considered replacing the whole of his brain with an augmetic. The inside of his head felt scorched, a sensation he had not thought possible before experiencing it. His brain throbbed with the painful insistency of a scalded hand. His skull felt like an eggshell. He avoided moving for some time for fear it would break, and spill the matter that housed his soul over the table.