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They had been warned. Abaddon, being Abaddon, had rushed into it regardless; Torgaddon, being Torgaddon, took that as the signal to charge ahead as well. Loken and Aximand exchanged resigned looks before they ran after them. Snow was falling faster with every passing moment, and their white cloaks only made it harder to see each other in the weak light.
“Over here!” Loken heard Torgaddon shout. The thick-falling snow muffled the sound, but his genhanced ears were more than up to the task of discerning Torgaddon’s location. He grabbed Aximand’s hand and tugged him along, veering left. A dark, looming shape became visible between the blizzard’s barrage.
“Here, Loken! Aximand!” Torgaddon appeared out of the white, his black hair covered in snow. “Come along,” he said, taking Loken’s hand and striding toward the shadow in the sky, which resolved into a rustic wooden structure raised high on stilt legs.
“A cabin,” Loken said in surprise, and he regretted opening his mouth as a chunk of ice slammed into his face, slicing open his lip. Blood smeared down his chin, freezing into red icicles as the trio climbed up the steep stairs to the entrance.
Torgaddon pulled them in and shut the door. After the constant howling noise of the rising snowstorm outside, the insulated quiet was like going deaf. Loken shook snow out of his ears.
“A shack, more like,” said Torgaddon, reaching out to brush ice from Loken’s hair. He frowned and switched to wiping the blood marring Loken’s face.
“Well it’s something,” Aximand said, stomping his boots. “It’s warm, at least.”
“It only feels warm after being outside in that,” Abaddon said from the other side of the room. He had stripped off his cloak and tunic, leaving them in a wet pile with his boots by the door, and was searching through a rusted metal cabinet, clad only in the white breeches of their diplomatic uniforms.
The new uniforms had been introduced under the advisement of the diplomat from Terra. Their ceremonial armour had been deemed too warlike, too imposing, for what were supposed to be peace talks with planets being brought into the fold of the Imperium. They had grudgingly worn the uniforms to the summit on Canada, a tentatively welcoming ice world.
Before they disembarked, a Canadian told them of the incoming winter storm and suggested they wait for the covered sleds to bring them to the city. Abaddon had scoffed, jumped off the lander ramp, and had not gone five steps before being swallowed up in a flurry.
“We wouldn’t be having this problem if we were wearing our power armour,” Abaddon continued sourly.
“They did warn us,” Loken said.
“This will prove our point to Lupercal about the uniforms, if we survive,” Aximand said.
Torgaddon laughed, kicking off his boots. Aximand sniffed and removed his with more care, lining them up at the door and hanging his dripping cloak on one of the pegs fixed to the wall near the entrance. “We are without armour, without weapons or vox-casters, at an unknown location on a potentially hostile world in the middle of a winter storm we were informed could last anywhere from three hours to three weeks. We need to think seriously about our options, Tarik.”
“We can always count on Horus to look on the bright side,” Torgaddon said, removing his tunic and throwing it at Aximand’s head. Aximand dodged with a smile.
Loken stripped off quickly to avoid involvement in the wet tunic wrestling match. It was an intimate privilege to see Little Horus’s mercurial shifts of mood, from his usual melancholic state to a playful humour on par with Tarik’s. But as it was with Tarik, it was best to stay out of the way when it happened. Loken joined Abaddon on the other side of the room.
“Ezekyle, what have you found?”
Abaddon pulled out a folded piece of cloth. “Help me with this,” he said.
It was a large blanket, made of a soft woven fabric and dyed in a mute striped and checked pattern.
“That’s my sleeping arrangement sorted, what about the rest of you?” Torgaddon said coming over, Aximand not far behind, and both of them flushed from their scuffle.
“It’s big enough for all of us,” Loken said mildly.
“Garvi,” Torgaddon said with a purr. He slumped over Loken’s back and grinned at Abaddon. “Dibs on the middle.” Abaddon rolled his eyes. “Fight you for it,” Torgaddon said. Abaddon considered, then bared his teeth. Aximand snickered.
After some hard elbows and knees in soft places, they settled down under the blanket, which soon turned warm. They talked as the world outside roared and the roof creak alarmingly. To conserve energy until the storm passed or until they were found, they slipped into half-sleep using their catalepsean nodes.
Loken was the last to close his eyes. Torgaddon had tucked his head into the curve of Loken’s neck, while Aximand was curled comfortably behind Loken. From behind Aximand, Abaddon slung a long arm around them all. Contentment eased through Loken. With his brothers at his side there was no danger they could not destroy together, no challenge they could not overcome. A cold winter in barely adequate shelter would not dare to end them.
As Loken slipped into unconsciousness, certainty and trust in his battle-brothers suffused his thoughts. The future before them was bright, and they would face it together.
THE END