Chapter 192: The Closest I'll Get to Bunking with Luther
The relationship between the Dark Angels and the Space Wolves is a curious one.
To say it's good would be a stretch; they square up for a fight the moment they meet, giving the impression that they can't stand each other. An outsider might think they were about to engage in a battle to the death.
To say it's bad would also be inaccurate. Both sides have a remarkable sense of proportion. Aside from their initial posturing, they rarely do anything truly extreme. Beneath the tense, blade's-edge interactions, there is always a kind of unspoken understanding.
The origin of this strange bond can be traced back ten thousand years, to the time of their Primarchs.
During the Dulan Campaign of the Great Crusade era, Leman Russ and Lion El'Jonson came to blows over a disagreement in strategy. Afterwards, in a fit of pique, the Lion laid the Wolf King out with a single punch, leaving him unconscious for a considerable time. What's worth noting, however, is that the two eventually reconciled.
From that day forward, the "friendly" rivalry between the Lion and the Wolf was passed down through their Legions in the form of an honour duel. The duel is typically to first blood; whoever draws the first wound on their opponent is declared the victor. The combatants are always the champions of their respective forces, regardless of any disparity in rank. This led to the famous incident during the Imperium Secundus when the Lion himself, as the "Legion Champion," accepted a duel challenge from a Wolf Lord.
So, the relationship between the two Legions is not as poor as many imagine.
To the Dark Angels, it is a matter of honour, and the competition fosters growth.
To the Space Wolves, it is a ritualistic form of communication, a way for brothers to bond.
Of course, a win is still a win. Victory itself is a matter of great glory for both sides. Neither a Space Wolf nor a Dark Angel wants to hear a saga or a coded message being passed around the feasting-halls or secret conclaves, recounting how 'so-and-so, on this day, in this year, lost an honour duel to what's-his-name'.
"So, you are asking us to use your people in an honour duel fought in our name?"
At a private table, Alm Iron-oath's voice was a low, rough growl, like the wind blowing from the depths of Fenris's frozen tundra. His sharp wolf-eyes were fixed on the two men opposite him: Gareth and Cypher.
Gareth sat across from Alm, his expression calm. He displayed neither the usual cold detachment of a Dark Angel, nor did he make any effort to be overly friendly. While he didn't fully grasp the ideological differences born from their cultures, nor did he care much for so-called honour, he chose to be respectful. It was what his mother had taught him in his youth: to respect others, just as she had respected him.
Cypher, on the other hand, was a complete mismatch for the Dark Angels' aesthetic. He was blunt, his speech flamboyant. Most Dark Angels thought he would have been better off as an Emperor's Child. The Wolves, however, found him surprisingly agreeable. With his talent for spinning a tall tale, on Fenris, he would have been a famous skald.
These two were the Dark Angels who had gotten along best with the Space Wolves during their time aboard the ship. Most of the others were not fond of the Wolves' ways. Even after someone had spread the 'Three Savages' jokes around the ship and the Dark Angels had seen through the 'barbarian' disguise, they still felt that the Wolves' uninhibited wildness made them feel like they were dealing with a pack of beasts in power armour.
"It is a request. And merely one option," Gareth added, sensing the dissatisfaction in Alm's tone.
Alm listened in silence, his rugged face unreadable, but the sharpness in his wolf-eyes softened slightly. If this request had been made in public, even as a mere suggestion, he would have refused without hesitation. For the honour of his Great Company, he would never tolerate any proposal that could be seen as an insult.
But here, they were at a private table. Only he and the Wolf Priest were present. No outside witnesses, no extra ears. More importantly, the Dark Angel's tone and phrasing were impeccable. There was no arrogant condescension, no overbearing pressure. Instead, there was a rare... respect?
The recent battles had been too easy, a series of steamrolls. There had been no fierce struggles, no glorious sagas to be sung, only one anticlimactic victory after another. The Wolves were actually getting bored. And yet, after every battle, the Dark Angels would host a celebratory feast for them. The Mjod was plentiful, the wargear was theirs for the taking. They had even allowed the Iron Priests and Wolf Priests to tour their armouries and study their surgical augmentation techniques.
This group of Dark Angels... they were genuinely trying to make friends.
And that made things very awkward for the civilized men of the Sixth Legion.
The people of Fenris had always responded to kindness, not force. Faced with a provocation, they would unhesitatingly answer with a savage punch. But faced with sincere goodwill, with a request made with mutual respect, they were at a loss. To refuse would seem unreasonable.
Hsss...
I feel like we're being played.
This group of Dark Angels was not right.
Alm narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of his drinking horn. The Space Wolves' barbarian act should have been convincing enough, but before these guys, it was as if they were completely transparent. They couldn't even generate a shred of intimidation.
Gareth didn't seem to notice the subtle shift in Alm's expression. He continued in that same calm, earnest tone, "As cousins, I do not believe I should interfere in your great affairs. However, we do need an opportunity to make contact with these... Fallen Angels. In terms of our official standing, we are enemies. I can explain—"
"Stop!" Alm suddenly raised a hand, nearly knocking over his horn. He had reacted on pure instinct, as if Gareth was about to utter a secret that could blow up all of Fenris. As a Wolf Guard poised to one day take up the mantle of Great Wolf, Alm already knew enough secrets. For example, the "empty Dreadnoughts" of the Iron Hands. The Legion had lost an excellent Wolf Priest over that affair, and relations between the two had been strained for a time. But in the end, the Space Wolves were in the wrong and had to swallow their pride and let the matter drop.
"Let me guess," Alm said, taking a deep breath and staring at Gareth, his eyes screaming, 'Don't say another word.' For the safety of his pups, he felt it was better not to know too much. Some things, once known, could never be unknown.
"Alright," Gareth said, a single, short word.
A brief silence fell. Alm's fingers tapped a dull rhythm on the metal table. The dim tavern light cast deep shadows on his rugged face, making him look like an ancient stone idol.
"As I understand it," Alm began slowly, his voice low and cautious, "your existence cannot be known to the current Dark Angels. For certain reasons, you are enemies." He knew these guys were most likely old-timers from ten thousand years ago. The sons of Dorn weren't even trying to hide it anymore, so a new group of Dark Angels popping up wasn't that surprising.
Gareth nodded slightly. "Yes."
Alm's brow furrowed imperceptibly. He decided not to press the issue, which could easily lead to a one-way trip through the warp. "And," he continued, "an encounter between you could lead to a larger conflict. You want to use us as a bridge to communicate with the Consecrators, to cover your tracks and to achieve certain objectives?"
The seemingly brutish Wolf Guard had guessed the situation almost perfectly.
"Yes."
This was the way of the Space Wolves. Beneath a boisterous and wild exterior lay a sharp and perceptive mind. The surrounding Dark Angels exchanged a hidden glance, a silent sigh of admiration in their hearts. They had underestimated them.
That was enough. Alm's fingers stopped tapping. He stared at Gareth, his gaze sharp. "You will not involve any other Imperial forces in this conflict. And there is no Chaos involved."
"Of course," Gareth replied without a hint of hesitation. This was their internal affair. No matter how opposed the knights were, they were still one. 'Betrayal' was a real thing, and it was not something for outsiders to know. If the Prince had not conducted a complete review of the Great Heresy for all the Dark Angels, proving that the Lion had not turned, that the vast majority had not turned, and in doing so, eliminated a suspicion that had festered for ten thousand years, this pack of Space Wolves would have likely been 'made loyal' for stumbling upon such a secret long ago.
"I cannot agree to give our Company's honour to you," Alm finally said, shaking his head. He could not accept an honour duel being fought by a third party wearing their armour.
The noise of the tavern seemed to recede in that moment. The air between the three grew heavy.
"However," a meaningful smile suddenly touched his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I don't know who is on this fleet. I only know that this ship contains only Space Wolves, and the mortal warriors they have invited as their guests. The people of Fenris only stand with honest heroes."
A promise, and also a warning.
"Thank you for your understanding," Gareth said with a smile.
"Thank you for your respect," Alm replied, a slight upward curl of his lip revealing a sharp canine. He definitely preferred these black-armoured Angels to the green ones. They had proven with their actions that they were worthy of their innate pride. The thought suddenly sparked an idea in Alm's mind: he genuinely wanted to meet the Primarch who could bring about such a change in these Dark Angels. In fact, after their time together, he had basically figured out which two Legions the two mysterious Primarchs belonged to.
Alm raised his horn in a toast to Gareth. "Then I wish you a successful hunt, cousin."
This group of Dark Angels suited them. No Chaos influence, and they were straightforward in their dealings. That was enough. As for a Legion civil war... Alm scoffed internally. They had killed a Grey Knight Grand Master, and their own Great Companies had shed each other's blood before. What was a little internal strife among the Dark Angels? As long as Chaos wasn't involved, he couldn't care less.
In the corner of the tavern, several Wolves were loudly singing an ancient saga, their rough voices echoing off the metal bulkheads. Alm tilted his head back and drained his horn, his throat working as he swallowed.
A good bunch.
THUD!
The heavy horn slammed onto the table. The sharp sound silenced the entire tavern. The eyes of every wolf-pup snapped towards him. Alm stood up, laughing, and snatched up the frost axe leaning against the table.
"Let's go," he roared. "Let's go and welcome our cousins!"
The surrounding warriors understood immediately, erupting in a deafening war cry. Some pounded their chests, others smashed their flagons on the floor. The tavern instantly exploded into a frenzy.
The Wolves rose as one, the clang of their power armour like a war drum. They laughed as they strode towards the shuttle bay that led to the Dawnlight.
This was the way of the Vlka Fenryka. The sons of Fenris would only do what they felt was right. They would only fight the right fight.
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