Nareth did not believe the Wolf King would go back on his word, so he gave Sanchez an order:
"Let him go to the Sixth Legion's flagship and collect his prize. After that, have him meet me aboard the Throne of Shadow Sovereignty."
Five hours later, the other duelist, Enoch, received word that Sanchez had completed the cleansing of the Seventh Planet.
As the Wolf Lord tended to his chain-axe, his hand slipped; the blade bit into his right index finger.
Drops of blood spattered the ground, drawing the stares of the wolves at his feet.
After a few seconds Enoch came back to himself. He snatched up a canister of med-spray and pressed it to the wound.
Rising to his feet, he addressed the pack.
"Move out. Until the last greenskin is dead, we do not stop."
Four hours later, Sixth Legion flagship.
A black Stormbird, its hull painted with seven crimson arrows, descended onto the embarkation deck.
Before the engines had even cooled, eleven Provoker disembarked.
Their very presence made the welcoming Space Wolves bristle.
Just seeing these outsiders made them restless, hands straying to their weapons. Even the thunderwolves at their side, creatures usually most dear to them, now seemed loathsome.
The veteran Wolves forced down the growl rising in their throats. They were not The Routs anymore. They were the Legion's finest: Wolf-guard, the Wolf King's chosen.
When Sanchez himself stepped off the Stormbird, clad in black armor, their eyes fixed on him.
They ignored the one-meter-long feline creature at his left, and instead measured the great thunderwolf at his right.
Some among the Sixth had tamed thunderwolves, but none so massive as this one, save for the pair bonded to Russ, Freki and Geri.
Bareheaded, wearing a beast-mask over his mouth, one Wolf-guard glared at Sanchez.
"Follow me."
"Lead the way," Sanchez replied calmly, feeling their smoldering anger but betraying no concern.
He had expected this. He followed the fur-clad warriors through the narrow corridor toward the Wolf Hall.
Ivory tusks lined the passage. The Wolf-guard gathered in small groups, loud as drunken brawlers. Their armor bore unique decorations, but all shared the same red howling-wolf sigil on the left pauldron, the new mark of the Sixth Legion.
Entering the hall, Sanchez felt the heat from fire-pits, smelled the animal fat burning in the flames, and saw soot layered on the ceiling.
Everything here was familiar, like an echo of the wolf-dens of Fenris.
'The Wolf King has stamped his image on both his Legion and his ships.'
The Provoker followed their lord, every step watched by the Wolves around them, anger barely restrained.
The power within the Provoker stirred, digesting further.
The Wolf-guard led Sanchez to where the Wolf King awaited.
"My lord!" the guard shouted. "I have brought him!"
As the Incendiary drew closer to Russ, he felt it, more than before.
It was like stepping into a storm. Shadows deepened, pressure weighed on his senses, and unseen dangers lurked.
Around the Wolf King, the world seemed more primal, as if one walked into humanity's distant past, when firebrands held back the beasts of the cave, and every stone had a name.
Sanchez met Leman Russ's eyes, cold as a frozen lake. Seconds dragged like centuries.
Then the Wolf King smiled suddenly.
"The Hunt welcomes you. You are a fine hunter."
"Enoch's defeat does not stain his honor."
At those words, Sanchez felt the mood shift; the Wolves no longer seethed as before.
"Bring him a chair! And mead!"
A chair was dragged out, and Sanchez sat. A bronze drinking-horn was pressed into his hand.
"Drink, hunter!"
Under Russ's urging, Sanchez took a swallow. As expected, the mead burned his lips, his throat, his gut, like a fire lit inside him.
He stifled a cough, and at Russ's insistence drank several more gulps.
Only then did the Wolf King turn and take up a helm from the rack beside him.
Sanchez rose. Russ placed the Wolf Helm of Russ into his hands.
"It is yours now. The All-Father's own artificer crafted it for me."
Through the slits of beast-masks, Sanchez caught the jealous glares of the Wolf-guard.
"You have won again," Russ said. "But you will not win forever. My sons will reclaim both sword and helm from you."
Sanchez felt the sharp gleam of their eyes, predatory, hungry.
He accepted the Wolf Helm. The moment he touched it, he felt the power within.
'The Emperor's personal artificer… this helm is no common item.'
Already he longed for the next hunt.
"I look forward to our next contest," he said calmly, and set the helm upon his head.
At once the Wolf-guard averted their eyes. With the Helm of Russ upon him, Sanchez inspired not hatred, but fear.
The Provoker looked upon their lord and saw him greater than ever, his presence towering.
When Sanchez left the Sixth Legion flagship, elsewhere, on the medicae deck, Jorin had just completed a neural implant for taste monitoring.
He grabbed a horn of mead, gulped it down, savoring it with the new organ in his throat.
As he reached for a second horn, his ears twitched.
"Damn it… Sanchez again. First he took the Wolf King's sword, now even the All-Father's gift."
"Aye," another growled. "I saw his guard. They're as loathsome as he is. I'd love nothing more than to smash them down and grind their vile faces into the dirt."
With that, his fist slammed into a keg, bursting it.
Jorin's eyes sharpened. He strode toward the surgery.
"Impossible," muttered the bearded Apothecary. "You only underwent one augmentation yesterday. You must wait until your body adapts before another."
"Too slow. I won't wait. I am a man of Fenris, Russ's sworn brother! I am Jorin. I will not fall!"
He swung his fist, voice booming with defiance.
Meanwhile, Thomas, having finished his handover with the new Ninth Chapter lord Szerszny, departed the Attack Moon with his Librarians.
With fifty-two psykers he reached the Librarium aboard the Throne of Shadow's Sovereignity.
To the lone Astropath, he said: "Take them around. Learn the lay of it."
Then he retired to his own chambers.
He filled a bath, poured in amber oils he had mixed himself, goldmint, aurantium, and more.
The Pryer had learned from many faiths that before a ritual, priests always washed, cleansing body and quieting mind. A sign of reverence to the divine.
His immense form sank into the specially-made tub. After eleven minutes, he rose, dried himself, donned a black robe instead of armor, and hurried to the lift.
Descending, Thomas arrived at sub-deck K-33.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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