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Wolf Hunt – Extract

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Yasu Nagasena stands by a window of the square tower at the north-eastern corner of his mountain villa, letting the cold cut into his face. Built on the flanks of a mountain known as Cho Oyu, the villa has been his home for fifty years, and memories surround him like restless ghosts. Mournful winds from the far corners of the world sigh through the tower, each bearing the sound of pounding hammers, a billion migrant voices and the fear of an entire planet.

The mountains crowd this continent, rowdy giants standing shoulder to shoulder as they reach to the heavens. Sunlight spills over them in a golden tide, gleaming from the exposed quartz and feldspar.

The mountains are saying goodbye, giving him a last sight of their glory.

The villa occupies a fortuitous position, looking out over the Palace at the crown of the world. Through the windows, he can see its triumphal processionals, its high towers and its fresh-wrought defences. Beyond the Palace walls, the Petitioners’ City. Once a place of pilgrimage, now an overcrowded slum of people desperately seeking protection.

Nagasena turns from the window. The wooden stretching frame still sits here, undisturbed since he last let his heart bleed out through his brushstrokes. The silk is still strung to the frame, still taut and bearing his painted image of the Palace.

It no longer looks like the Palace visible through the windows.

The Emperor is remaking the galaxy, but Rogal Dorn is remaking the Palace.

Once it was a thing of beauty, but it is ugly now, the craft of the engineer pasted over the vision of the architect.

‘It is not a harmonious union, Lord Dorn,’ says Nagasena, surprising himself by speaking aloud.

He has spoken little since the end of his hunt for the escaped warriors of the Crusader Host. What began as a hunt ended in sanctioned murder, and he does not yet know whether the truth was served by its execution.

Nagasena hears the slap of sandals on the marbled stairs, accompanied by the heaving breath of Amita. She has maintained his household for as long as he has lived here, and is as robust and solid as the mountains.

Amita reaches the top of the tower, her skin ruddy from the climb and strands of grey-streaked hair hanging loose over her face. She frowns at Nagasena’s clothes – a lacquered breastplate of black and bronze, reinforced canvas leggings tucked into leather-faced boots. But something has changed within him since his return from the Petitioners’ City and she lets his improper attire pass without comment.

‘You asked to see me?’ she asks.

He nods, looking back down over the sprawling immensity of the Palace. Far below, a towering siege Titan is lifting vast ouslite blocks from the Dhawalagiri elevation, the workmanship too precious to be destroyed or built over. He wonders if that stone will ever see the light of day again.

‘Yes, I have something to give you,’ says Nagasena.

‘Here?’ replies Amita.

‘No,’ says Nagasena. ‘In my private chambers.’

‘You couldn’t have summoned me there instead of making me climb all these stairs?’

‘My apologies, Amita,’ says Nagasena. ‘I lingered here longer than I intended.’

‘That doesn’t make my old bones feel any better.’

Nagasena smiles. In any other household, Amita’s brusqueness would see her dismissed, but her blunt honesty matches his adherence to the truth over all things.

‘Have I been a good master to serve?’ he asks.

Nagasena likes the fact that she takes the time to think about her answer instead of simply voicing a platitude.

‘You have always been courteous and grateful. The staff think you cold, but you are just sorrowful. More so now.’

Nagasena nods. It is a fair assessment.

‘Come with me,’ he says, moving past her to begin the long descent of the tower. Amita follows, and they emerge into the rose garden where he wishes he could have spent more time.

They follow the hypaethral around the garden and into the well-proportioned chambers of the villa. He cannot call it his home, not any more. Not now that Lord Dorn has charged him with this last hunt.

He opens the doors to his private chambers, and beckons Amita to enter. She reluctantly follows him within, barely registering the silk hanging scrolls depicting ancient maps of long-forgotten realms: Atlantea, Hyperborea and Dalriada.

Nagasena makes his way to shelves laden with papers and heavy textbooks. He pulls out a wax-sealed document and sits cross-legged behind his narrow desk. Writing implements are arranged neatly on its polished surface and he beckons Amita to sit as he breaks the seal.

Nagasena dips a sharpened eagle feather in a pot of ink and signs his name at the bottom of the document. He turns the paper around and holds the quill out to Amita.

‘Sign your name next to mine and you will be the owner of this villa,’ he says.

‘You’re giving me the villa?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘You have more than earned it.’

Amita does not reach for the quill.

‘You are going on another hunt?’ she asks.

‘I am,’ he confirms, placing the quill on the desk.

He rises smoothly and runs his hand over the wall behind him in a series of complex gestures. It slides back, revealing a deep compartment filled with gleaming armour and racked weapons. It is an armoury worthy of a Legion quartermaster.

‘Who is it this time?’

Nagasena removes a hand-tooled long-las and a silver-chased volkite pistol, weapons capable of harming the man he is to hunt. These are not implements of pursuit and capture, but execution.

‘A Luna Wolf.’

‘A warrior of the Legions?’

‘A warrior of Horus’ Legion,’ clarifies Nagasena.

He slings the long-las over his shoulder and holsters the pistol before reverently lifting a scabbard of lacquered wood, jade and mother of pearl from a rack of rich cherrywood. The sword’s handle is wound in leather of the palest cream and its blade was crafted with love and an attention to detail that no machine will ever replicate.

Nagasena knows the weapon as Shoujiki.

‘You do not expect to return,’ she says.

‘A reasonable expectation,’ he says.

‘Who gives you this hunt?’

‘Lord Dorn.’

She nods, knowing Nagasena could not have refused a primarch’s order.

‘If I am to die on this hunt, I do not wish to leave loose ends in my wake. The villa is to be yours. This is my wish.’

Amita pushes the document away. ‘If I am told you are dead, I will sign it, but not before.’

Nagasena is humbled by her fierce devotion and belts Shoujiki around his waist. His hand settles naturally on the textured grip.

‘Sign it,’ he says softly. ‘Even if I kill this man, I do not think I will return.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the mountains have said goodbye,’ says Nagasena.

Amita nods, accepting his cryptic answer.

‘This Luna Wolf, does he have a name?’ she asks.

‘His name is Severian,’ says Nagasena.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2016
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