Two years had passed since Logan Grimnar himself had handed
him this burden, despite the time it felt heavier than ever…
“Jarl, the packs are assembled and ready to receive your
wisdom”.
Jarl, a title that he still felt unfit to bare. Hrulf
Wyrdmane had been one of Ragnar Blackmane’s inner circle, his wolf guard, when
Grimanar had summoned him to lead a splinter task force of Blackmane’s great
company across the sea of stars to search for his quarry. The Rune Priests had
foresworn it, it was written in the bones of scrying that Bronn Stonehide of
the 13th Great Company walked amongst the living again and with him the
greatest chance in millennia of knowing the fate of their lost brothers and
perhaps even Russ himself.
Hrulf waved a dismissive hand to his Second. “I will
illuminate them soon”.
He sighed as he looked out across the vast and empty expanse
of the stars that lay beyond his chambers viewport. The aptly named Strike
Force: Marauder would be gathered in the Fjornshanks’s main deployment hanger
below in loose unruly bunches, settling their quarrels with fists rather than
words. The packs that make up his force are new by the Rout’s standards, some
had never even tasted battle yet by the time they were assigned to his Strike
Force, the years that followed would highlight their inexperience as their
bodies and minds struggled with the Canis Helix bestowed within them. Only now
were they beginning to hunt as packs, understanding that they are stronger
together rather than seeking glory as one.
Hrulf turned and strode out from his chambers, bones, teeth
and charms clattered off of his scarred battle plate as he stalked the
corridors to his assembled troops, human bondsmen jumped out of his way as he
passed them in the corridor and slammed their fists into their chest in respect
of him.
Hrulf stepped out onto the gantry overlooking the hangar,
below him loose circles formed around warriors settling scores of honour
besmirched with fists or partaking in contests of strength. Jeers and laughter
filled the hollow chamber to an almost deafening crescendo, he sighed. Beside
him stood his Second, Gunn Threadcutter, Wolf Priest and his closest confidant
the past few years.
Gunn struck his Crozius Arcanum once hard down onto the
floor, moments passed as the crowds fell silent and turned to the gantry.
Hrulf cleared his throat. “Krillion, the planet drawn from
the dying lips of the Witch Seer of Jultraan III, the next stop – or perhaps
the final destination in our hunt for our lost brother Bronn Stonehide and
perhaps the key to finding the 13th and the Primarch”.
Any muttering or whispers from amongst his men ceased at the
mention of their Gene Sire Leman Russ.
Hrulf left a pause to allow his last words to sink into his
audience’s mind. “Krillion, an uninspiring world by any standard. Perhaps by
chance, or perhaps by fate is currently in the clutches of a foul Greenskin
invasion…”
He raised his hand to silence the immediate uproar from his
warriors with bared fangs and drawn weapons.
“We will make planet fall, we will assist where we can but
our only objective is to find Stonehide or any evidence of his past presence on
this planet. Be mindful, other forces are at play on this planet if the augurs
are to be believed… some may be friends, many will be foe. I will see the pack
leaders in my chambers later this day for specific orders – for the rest of
you, sharpen your blades and have murder in your heart – the Rout is marching
to war”.
The roar was deafening.
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