Infurnace - Robbie MacNiven by Warhammer 40K

Infurnace - Robbie MacNiven by Warhammer 40K

Author:Warhammer 40K [40K, Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781785722103
Published: 2016-05-13T09:22:03+00:00


Boarding Torpedo Fifteen-B, approaching Mjalnar

Ragnar flexed his arms and shoulders. He felt the servo bundles that gave life to his power armour whir in response to the motion, while the true flesh and muscle of his transhuman physique stretched. He had been trapped in the voidborne prison of his flagship for too long. The hunt called to him. He could already feel the wyrdling scum snapping in his grasp, shrieking as he sent them back to the empyrean. He realised his gauntlets were clenched, and let out a long, slow breath. The chrono display counting down in his visor’s top-right corner still read over a minute before the boarding torpedo impacted into the star fort’s flank.

He finished recounting the names of his dead pack-brothers. It was a ritual he had observed for a long time, and he knew it gave comfort to his Great Company as well as to himself. To know their jarl valued their lives, counted them as true kin whether amidst the fires of battle or the feasting halls of the Fang, hardened the bonds of pack loyalty. The Blackmanes were all as one.

He drew Frostfang. The ancient chainsword felt like an extension of his physical form, his fist closing with familiar certainty around the worn handle. His fingers itched to flick the activation stud. Hidden beneath his helmet’s faceplate, he grinned.

‘You’re grinning, aren’t you?’ said Tor Wolfheart.

‘And you’re not?’ Ragnar replied. ‘I have ached for this, brother. At last we will join the other Great Companies in the defence of our home worlds.’

Twenty seconds. He knew he needed to say nothing to the Blackpelts, his Wolf Guard. They understood what was coming. Like the Allfather’s burning warspear, they would plough into the diseased heart of wyrdspawn infestation, banishing it from the material universe, utterly wiping away the taint of their existence.

Five seconds. The boarding torpedo shuddered as it impacted into Mjalnar’s flank, latching on with razor limpet clamps. There was a muffled whoosh of heavy meltaguns, followed by the thud and whir of disengaging locks. The pod’s assault bay was bathed in bloody red light. Ragnar released his restraint, feeling his adrenaline spiking, breath coming in pants through his armour’s filtration systems.

The blast doors opened, revealing a circular hole that dripped with molten steel, the edges still glowing from the melta blasts. Ragnar triggered Frostfang, his vox-amplified howl blending with the chainsword’s savage roar. He leapt through the boarding hatch, fangs bared. Straight into a deserted service corridor.

And not a daemon in sight.



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