Prospero Burns : the wolves unleashed

Er zijn geen wolven op Fenris.

De reviews op Amazon zijn meer dan anders verdeeld: 33% vijf sterren, 24% vier, 12% drie, 14% twee, 16% één ster. Een goed teken, denk ik: door de band lijken de Warhammer-boeken voor tieners geschreven – weinigdimensionale karakters (behalve als er een chaos-dimensie aan zit, ah hah hah); rechttoe-rechtaan-verhalen, min of meer hetzelfde stramien, fascisten tegen fascisten. Verdeelde reviews is verwarring, en dus goed, denk ik. En Abnett heeft nog geen faramineus slechte boeken geschreven dat ik weet.

En dan zie ik de cover van het boek, en zucht ik. Jongens toch.

En dan lees ik de blurb, en zucht ik nog veel dieper:

The Emperor is enraged. Primarch Magnus the Red, of the Thousand Sons Legion, has made a catastrophic mistake that endangers the safety of Terra. With no other choice, the Emperor charges Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves, with the apprehension of his brother from the Thousand Sons home world of Prospero. This planet of sorcerers will not be easy to overcome, but Russ and his Space Wolves are not easily deterred. With wrath in his heart, Russ is determined to bring Magnus to justice and cause the fall of Prospero.

mooi

wight-loaned sword

The Hradcana took him and cut his thread: four or five enemy swords stabbing into him repeatedly, rehearsing the lesson in sword-work that Lern had delivered.

They littered the shingle. Most times, they were no longer in one piece once he'd done with them. Some lay as if they were sleeping. Others were crumpled in limp, slack poses that the living could not mimic. Some were split and steaming in the sleet.

Some were just portions and pieces scattered by the relentless axe. Blood ran between the ice-black beach stones, coiling, trickling, deep and glossy, thick red, meat red, or cooling into slicks of rusty brown and faded purple.

The daemon's axe was a massive thing, a two-hander with a long, balanced handle. Both grip and blade were engraved with complex, weaving patterns and etched chequers. It sang to itself.

Fith could hear it. The axe hummed and purred, as though the death-edge was privately chortling with delight at the rising tally of threads. A drizzle of blood droplets was flying off it, as if the blade was licking its lips clean.