“I heard you calling out.”

“An interesting flight in the aether, Sobek, that is all,” said Ahriman, lifting the hood over his head. “Some predatory creatures thought to make me a morsel.”

“And yet you are venturing out?” asked Sobek. “You should be resting, my lord.”

Ahriman shook his head.

“No,” he said, “there is someone I need to see.”

THE LAIR OF the Wolves was on the edge of the mountain, in the shadow of the deadstones. Skarssen had set his warriors’ shelters in concentric rings, with his at its heart. Ahriman saw a great wolf-skull totem planted in the crystalline hardpan, hung with wolf tails as long as a mortal man’s leg and teeth like blades.

As he drew near, shadows bled from the twilight, sleek killers that put Ahriman in mind of the predators that had almost ended him earlier. Six of them padded towards him, their forms indistinct against the darkness, their hackles raised.

They halted and he saw the gleam of stars on their fangs. Their muscles were tensed and ready, like pistons ready to fire on the launch rails of an embarkation deck.

“I have come to see Ohthere Wyrdmake,” said Ahriman, feeling foolish at addressing beasts. The largest of the wolves threw back its head and loosed an almighty howl that split the faded evening.

Ahriman waited for the wolves to back away, but they remained where they were, barring him entry to their master’s domain. He stepped forward, and the wolf that had announced his presence bared its iron fangs with a threatening growl.

Another shadow moved behind the wolves, a tall warrior in granite grey armour who walked with a tall staff topped with an eagle of gold and silver. His beard was waxed, and he wore a plain leather skullcap over his shaven scalp. Ahriman recognised him immediately.

“Ohthere Wyrdmake,” he said.

“Aye,” replied the Space Wolf, tilting his head and regarding him carefully. “You are hurt, mistflesh hurt.”

“I was careless,” he said, not knowing the word, but understanding the meaning.

Wyrdmake nodded and said, “That you were. I watched you chase the wyrd, blind to the hunting packs gathering for the murder-make. How came you to miss them?”

“As I said, I was careless,” repeated Ahriman. “How did you find me?”

Wyrdmake laughed, the sound rich with genuine humour.

“That took no great skill,” he said. “I am a son of the Storm and I know the ocean of souls like the seas around Asaheim. When the Wolf’s Eye swells in the sky, the world forge turns and the dowsers seek the silent places, those places that are still amid the turmoil. I looked for stillness, and I found you.”

Much of what Wyrdmake said made no sense to Ahriman, the terms too archaic, the vocabulary expressing parochial understandings beyond one not of Fenris.

“That begs the question, why were you looking for me?”

“Come,” said Wyrdmake. “Walk with me.”

The Rune Priest set off towards the deadstones without waiting to see if Ahriman obeyed. The wolves parted to allow him through their ranks. Keeping a wary eye on the beasts, Ahriman followed Wyrdmake towards the deadstones, the menhirs like black teeth growing up from the ground.

The warrior walked the circumference of the stones, careful not to touch them as he passed. He turned as Ahriman approached.

“Anchors in the world,” said Wyrdmake. “Places of stillness. The Storm rages across this world, but all is still here. Like Asaheim, immovable and unchanging.”

“The Aghoru call them deadstones,” said Ahriman, as the wolves padded softly around the edge of the circle, each one with its eyes locked on him.

“A fitting name.”

“So, are you going to tell me why you were looking for me?”

“To know you,” said Wyrdmake. “Amlodhi came with a summons for your master, but I came for you. Your name is known to the Rune Priests of the Space Wolves, Ahzek Ahriman. You are star-cunning. Like me, you are a Son of the Storm, and I know of your affinity with the wyrd.”

“The wyrd? I don’t know that term,” said Ahriman.

“You are not of Fenris,” said Wyrdmake, as though that explained everything.

“Then enlighten me,” said Ahriman, losing patience.

“You would have me share the secrets of my calling?”

“We will have precious little else to talk about if you do not.”

Wyrdmake smiled, exposing teeth honed to sharp points. “You cut to the heart of the meat, friend. Very well. At its simplest, wyrd is fate, destiny.”

“The future,” said Ahriman.

“At times,” agreed Wyrdmake. “On Fenris we ken it as the turning of the world forge that continually reshapes the face of the land. As one land rises, another sinks to its doom. Wyrd shows us how past and present shape the future, but also how the future affects the past. The storms of time flow, weave together and burst apart, forever entwined within the great saga of the universe.”

Ahriman began to understand the words of the Rune Priest, hearing in them a debased echo of the teachings of the Corvidae.

“Fate goes ever as she shall,” quoted Ahriman, and Wyrdmake laughed.

“Aye, she does indeed. The Geatlander knew his business when he said that line.”

Ahriman looked up at the Mountain, feeling his hostility to Wyrdmake easing in the face of their shared understanding of the mysteries. As different as his teachings were, the Space Wolf had an insight Ahriman found refreshing. That didn’t mean he trusted him, not by a long way, but it was a start.

“So you have found me,” he said. “What do you intend now?”

“You and I are brothers of the Storm,” said Wyrdmake, echoing Ahriman’s earlier thought. “Brothers should not be strangers. I know the saga of your Legion’s past, and I know that nothing gets men’s murder-urge pumping like fear of what they do not understand.”

Ahriman hesitated before asking, “What is it you think you know?”

Wyrdmake stepped towards him, saying, “I know that a flaw in your heritage almost destroyed your Legion, and that you have a terror of its return. I know, for my Legion is the same. The curse of the Wulfen haunts us, and we keep watch over our brothers for wolf-sign.”

Wyrdmake reached up to touch the silver oakleaf worked into Ahriman’s shoulder guard.

“Just as you watch your fellow legionaries for the flesh change.”

Ahriman flinched as though struck, backing away from Wyrdmake.

“Never touch that again,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Ohrmuzd?” asked Wyrdmake. “That was his name, was it not?”

Ahriman wanted to be angry, wanted to lash out at this unwarranted picking of an old wound. He forced his mind into the lower Enumerations, casting off the shed skin of grief and regret.

“Yes,” he said at last. “That was his name. That was my twin brother’s name.”

AHRIMAN FELT THE sickness from the valley long before they crossed the ridge where he had first seen its titanic guardians. Only when he felt the bitter, metallic taste in the back of his throat did he realise that he could feel the ripple of aetheric energies along his limbs. It was faint, barely more than a whisper, but it was there.

How was that possible when it had been so conspicuously absent before?

As the ridge of the valley came into sight he felt that sickness more strongly, like the taste of wind blowing over a mass grave. Something foul had taken root in the valley.

Ahriman looked over at Magnus, seeing his enormous form as a haze of indistinct images, like a thousand pict negatives placed on top of one another: Magnus the giant, Magnus the man, Magnus the monster, a thousand permutations on the theme of Magnus.

He blinked away the afterimages, feeling sick at the sight of them. The sensation was unknown to him and he shook off his momentary dizziness.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” asked Phosis T’kar.

“I do,” he said. “What is happening?”

“The sleepers are waking,” hissed Uthizzar, one hand pressed to his temple.