Sharr had just enough time to appreciate the irony before the Chaos Space Marine hit him. It was like being struck full on by a charging rhinox. The moment of collision saw one of the berserker’s chainaxes slam Reaper’s haft, driving the weapon down and exposing Sharr’s breastplate in time for the traitor’s shoulder-barge to connect. There was an ear-splitting crack of ceramite meeting ceramite. A normal human’s chest cavity would have been pulverised, his spine shattered. Sharr was slammed back two paces, but took the hit, the skull-and-lightning crest on his breastplate cracked down the middle.
There was no time for recovery – the berserker’s second chainaxe passed inches from Sharr’s helmet, narrowly clipping the side of his backpack. The Reaper Prime was inside the traitor’s guard, but too close to wield his own weapon effectively. He slammed the haft back against the World Eater’s breastplate, and for a moment their helmets were forced together. Sharr realised that one lens in the berserker’s battered visor was shattered. A yellow eye glared at him from behind it, bloodshot, dilated and riven with a butcher’s madness.
The connection lasted less than a second. The berserker headbutted him. Sharr went back again as another crack rang around the pit, only his genetic enhancements saving him from long moments of stunned concussion. He turned the backwards step into a short retreat, giving himself enough room to swing properly for the first time. Reaper went low and hard from left to right, its motor revving, but the adamantium-tipped teeth bit only Atargatis’ flame-torn night air. The berserker, showing reflexes every bit as sharp as Sharr’s, threw himself back to avoid the disembowelling strike. For all his drug-fuelled fury, the traitor’s movements were well-considered and honed. For a moment, Sharr was reminded of the sparring matches he and the rest of the command squad had once conducted with Akia.
Reaper passed the berserker by and he came back in, both axes a blur. Sharr managed to flick the butt of Reaper’s haft up in time to knock one of the strikes to one side, but the other connected, screaming as it hit his left pauldron and juddering over the bonding studs in a hail of sparks. Warning runes lit up on his visor as he threw his left side back, dragging the traitor after his weapon as it found purchase and bit into ceramite and plasteel. Sharr met the warrior once more with his haft, cracking the space between his two grips against the heretic’s visor. The berserker reeled away, and Sharr was forced to clench his sharpened teeth so as not to release a roar of effort as he swung Reaper back round with all his strength. Now it was the turn of the Carcharodon’s weapon to shriek as it connected, chewing off the upper curve of the traitor’s baroque pauldron and slicing off a piece of the caedere remissum mantle that adorned his battered helmet.
No pause, no hesitation. As Sharr’s attack swung wide the traitor was coming forwards again, raining down blows with both axes. Sharr just managed to bring Reaper back in time to parry one, two, three strikes, more fat sparks raining across the arena, the trio of weapons roaring and snarling at each other like primeval beasts. Sharr gave more ground, muscles burning with the strain of matching each madness-fuelled blow. The connection with his left pauldron had drawn blood – he could feel the wound clotting, the sting drowned out by anti-pain stimms and counterseptic. He had almost been forced back up against the pit’s sheer side. The World Eater was unrelenting, striking from every guard – overhead, underarm, scything cross-cuts, short-distance jabs designed to lock the axe’s snarling teeth onto Sharr’s gorget, breastplate, elbow joints. Always he was too close to bring Reaper’s full weight to bear, too fast for the bigger weapon to land the decapitating, limb-shearing hit that would have finished the duel in an instant.
Sharr could feel his own anger rising. It was something he was aware of, but it wasn’t something he could stop. It had been dragged up from dark, cold depths by the heat and speed of the combat, forced upon him by the savagery of the madman striking at him over and over. His throat caught with every breath, and his visor’s vitae monitor started to chime, tracking rises beyond the accepted norms of combat.
He was the only one to have beaten Akia, the only one to have bested him on the sparring mats. The traitor would fall the same way the last Reaper Prime had. Sharr jabbed his right foot forwards, going on the offensive. He opened his guard with a huge overhand blow. For all his own ferocity, the traitor’s parry wasn’t enough – Reaper sent one of the two chainaxes skidding from the heretic’s numbed fingers, the rotor shattered, dozens of wicked chain teeth scattering across the pit. The World Eater barely hesitated, bringing his second axe round in a wicked arc. If Sharr had attempted to recover from his blow with a parry using Reaper, he would have been too slow.
But he didn’t use Reaper. Leaving the two-handed chainaxe embedded in the gravel, he spun into the World Eater’s guard, taking the hit on his shoulder, forcing himself in close. He slammed his helmet into the traitor’s at the same time as he snatched the wrist of the arm still bearing a weapon, the crowd gasping with excitement at the cracking sound of ceramite on ceramite as it clapped out across the arena.
For a moment the two warriors struggled, pressed against one another, muscles bulging and servos grating. Sharr’s breathing rasped in his helmet’s filters as he grappled with the berserker, one hand keeping the remaining chainaxe to the side while the other punched over and over into the warrior’s plastron, the grey gauntlet ringing from the battered, blood-red armour. The heretic’s free arm had locked around Sharr’s back, snatching at his backpack. With bestial strength, he ripped away one of the armour’s exposed power cables. Red warning icons flared across Sharr’s visor, indicating energy shortages to his left side and rising servo temperature levels.
Another cable popped from its socket with a crack of released charge. The left side of Sharr’s armour locked entirely, servos jamming, leaving him unable to bend his arm. With a howl of fury the World Eater ripped his chainaxe from the Carcharodon’s grasp and raised the weapon to strike.
Sharr lowered his head and rammed it straight forwards. He did so with a roar of his own, driving every last ounce of his strength into the movement, shattering the silence he had maintained since the start of the combat. The jagged ceramite crest running along the top of his helmet ploughed into the shattered eye-lens of the traitor’s helm, crumpling as it carried on through flesh and bone, and pierced the World Eater’s brain. The warrior immediately began to spasm violently, the chainaxe tumbling from his grip to judder and twitch, like its master, in the gravel. The World Eater slumped back off the crest and fell to his knees, then onto his back, feet drumming the ground, fists clenching and unclenching.
Sharr raised his head, slowly, panting. Blood and torn cranial matter ran in thick rivulets down his helmet, its crest turned red. The crowd had gone silent.
For a moment, the only movements were the death-throes of the Chaos Space Marine, the only sounds his ceramite scraping in the dirt. Sharr’s fists were clenched, his whole body rigid and shaking. It took what felt like an eternity to bring his breathing down to an even level, to ease his twin heartbeats, pounding their furious tattoo in his breast.
He sought the silence, a canticle of oblivion running through his mind, but it would not do. The rage would not leave. He turned to Nev’s rocky throne and gestured towards him.
‘You wanted this?’ he barked. The Ashen Claw’s expression had turned dark. Sharr walked to where Reaper still lay planted in the gravel, dragged it free and lifted it high before activating it. The familiar, vicious roar once again filled the arena. He paced over to the fallen traitor, whose body still twitched with his ruined brain’s endless kill-imperatives.
‘You wanted this?’ Sharr repeated, and swung Reaper. The chainaxe’s roar rose to a howl as it bit ceramite, then flesh, then bone, blood spraying. The traitor’s head came away, separating from its shattered helm as it rolled in the gore-drenched grit. Sharr let Reaper’s roar drop to a throaty growl as he bent and retrieved the pallid, bloody trophy.
‘Then
you can have it!’ he roared, and flung it at Nev. There was an audible gasp from the crowd, followed immediately by the thump of flesh striking flesh. With reflexes that even most Space Marines would struggle to follow, Nev’s hand had shot out and caught the grisly trophy. An aftershock of blood whipped the master of the Ashen Claws, leaving a red spray across his dark power armour. His eyes hadn’t left Sharr, and remained fixed on him as he let the head tumble, bouncing across the black Atargatis stone.
Sharr said nothing more. He turned away from the arena and paced back down the tunnel he had entered through, mag-locking Reaper as he went.
Neither Te Kahurangi, Khauri or Sharr’s command squad said anything as they rejoined the Reaper Prime in the rock passage leading to the gladiatorial pit. Blood streaked the Carcharodon’s helmet, and had turned his gauntlets red. Eventually Dorthor spoke.
‘Strike Leader Nuritona reports that the White Maw has taken its first shipment of the tithe, Reaper Prime. The youths are currently being secured in the main hold.’
Sharr knew what those words meant – screaming, wailing, tears, eyes wide with terror. He had seen it enough times already, both before and after his ascension to command of the Third Company. While he had fought in front of Nehat Nev, the Ashen Claw’s enforcers had been prising children from their mother’s arms and dragging them to the black bellies of the cargo shuttles.
‘How long until the holds are full?’ he asked.
‘Two more hours, approximately.’
Sharr unclamped his helm, shook the blood from it and mag-locked it to his side. As he did so the scent of the heretic’s blood caught in the back of his nostrils – coppery, bitter, fresh with newly spilled vitality. It sent a surge of adrenaline through the Space Marine’s body. He suppressed the resurgent need to kill. He had failed in the pit, he would not do so again – not surrounded by his brothers.
‘Your work here is done, Reaper Prime,’ Te Kahurangi said softly, no doubt sensing the Reaper Prime’s internal struggle. It took a supreme effort to not snap at the Chief Librarian, to avoid cursing the Ashen Claws and their petty needs. Sealing a pact with an honour duel was one thing. Nev had taken it a step too far.
‘We return to Void Spear,’ Sharr said. ‘The sooner we leave this accursed place the better.’
‘Captain,’ Dorthor said, his tone shot through with warning. A moment later the reason became apparent. Someone was approaching down the tunnel. It was Nev. For the first time since Sharr had met him, he was alone.
Tane’s hand dropped to the void sword’s hilt, but froze when Sharr cast him an icy glance. Nev came to a halt amidst the Carcharodons. He was still armoured, but wore no helmet and was armed with nothing but a wicked dagger, sheathed at his hip. His expression was impassive in the shadows of the tunnel.
‘A moment more of your time, Carcharodon, before you depart,’ he said. Sharr remained silent, his command squad motionless around him.
‘Alone,’ Nev added, voice cold and echoing in the rocky passage. Eventually Sharr nodded.
‘Proceed to the gunship, brethren,’ he said, eyes not leaving Nev. The command squad departed reluctantly, casting lingering glances at the master of the Ashen Claws as they passed. Te Kahurangi was the last to leave, his eyes not on Nev but on Sharr. The Reaper Prime nodded to him, but said nothing.
For a moment, after the sound of footsteps and the hum of powered battleplate had receded up the tunnel, there was silence. Both Space Marines stood facing one another. It was Nev who spoke first.
‘My every instinct screams at me to kill you, monster,’ the Ashen Claw said.
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Sharr replied, the black eyes of both warriors locked.
‘How things change when the pretences and falsehoods of negotiation are stripped away.’
‘What did you expect to happen? I have provided my end of our deal. You will provide your end now, and in the coming weeks.’
‘The aspirants you can have,’ Nev said. ‘As for the rest, we shall see.’
‘You have forgotten yourself, brother. You have forgotten the purpose for which you were forged. You are lost out here.’
Sharr expected Nev to strike him. He didn’t. When the Ashen Claw spoke again, his voice was tight with emotion.
‘I am not naive. The Imperium does not show mercy. You are the living embodiment of that, Carcharodon. We will never be accepted back, and if we are discovered we will be annihilated. This is what we have been reduced to – exiles cowering on the edge of existence, afraid to ever step back into the light, afraid to take up arms and perform the deeds we were gene-bred for.’
‘The Imperium does not need to know of your deeds. Glory and honour breed weakness and arrogance. We have eschewed both. Our exile has made us stronger. It can do the same for you.’
‘Perhaps,’ Nev said, the cold arrogance of his expression replaced for once by a look of uncertainty. ‘But perhaps not. The ideals we each fight for are a far cry from their reality.’
‘And that is why you fell, Ashen Claw,’ Sharr said, turning to leave. ‘You allow yourself the luxury of ideals. We do not. A true predator has none.’
‘More than three thousand youths will be torn from their families for the sake of our old accord,’ Nev said as the Carcharodon walked away. ‘To reinforce a Chapter that will likely one day be used to destroy us.’
‘It is not our place to judge you,’ Sharr called back. ‘The Edicts will not permit it. The honour of deciding your fate belongs to the Forgotten One. And if it is his will, then we will wield the axe of execution.’
‘I suspect we shall meet again, Reaper Prime, if you survive the rising tide.’
‘We swim with it,’ Sharr replied. ‘Farewell, Ashen Claw.’
Salutations, fellow servant of the Golden Throne!
This communication is to notify you that on 3035885.M41 Lord Inquisitor Augustus Hagen called for a gathering of the Tri-Sector ordo conclave at the Black Court on Imperius. This request was approved by the Joint Ordo Situational Council on Telemon three weeks later, Terran standard. Because of this, all inquisitors of the Tri-Sector conclave are hereby notified that a general assembly will sit between 3650885.M41 and 3685885.M41. You, along with all Throne-ratified Inquisitorial operatives not currently conducting aleph-level investigations, are required to attend the assembly in person. More details will be forthcoming via encrypted astro-communique.
Signed,
Jozia Sol,
Conclave Equerry Praetor
+ + Thought for the Day: We are the fire that burns away all impurities. + + +
_________ Chapter VI
Imperius, Planet of Ten Thousand Pyres. Imperius, the Judgement Seat. Imperius, ordo headquarters for the Tri-Sector, the third largest and second most visible Inquisitorial base in the Segmentum Obscura. That was where Rannik found Nzogwu, four weeks after a mourn-carrier gave her transit off Hypasitis and its necropolis cities.
Imperius’ sprawling sky-hives were technically governed and administered by the local Imperial Commander, Hylecon Zain, and his elected cabinet. There were few places in the Imperium however, let alone the segmentum, where the Inquisition exerted more authority. From the gothic spires of the Black Court, representatives of the ordos conducted affairs that spanned all three neighbouring sectors. It was to Imperius that the most dangerous and notorious heretics were transported, and it was in the domed squares of their sky-cities that they met with the hungry fires of purification.
Rannik found Nzogwu at one such public display of Imperial retribution. The Arch Recidivist of Tyrain, a heretical cleric wanted in at least eighteen systems, was screaming out his final breaths at the centre of Saint Avrail’s Square, atop a twenty-foot pyre of blessed rustwood specifically shipped to Imperius for the purposes of immolation. A humming air purification filter set beside the pyre was dragging in the worst of the thick swirls of black smoke, stoppi
ng the clouds of the Arch Recidivist’s conflagration from darkening the city’s sky dome or choking its atmospheric ports. Crowds of thousands looked on, held back by black-and-red clad Inquisitorial guards, who surrounded the stack with readied lasrifles and lowered blast visors. Thousands more Imperial citizens packed the surrounding streets, watching the burning via giant viewscreens erected on gantries specifically raised for the purpose. The air vibrated with the heretic’s howls of agony, amplified and broadcast from gilt-edged vox-horns set up around the square. The sounds of agony were competing with the sonorous chanting of the Ecclesiarchy choir arrayed before the pyre, sweating in their white robes.
Rannik understood their discomfort. She was fully armed and armoured in her dark blue-and-black arbitrator riot-plate, complete with half-helm and the pin signifying that she was an operative seconded to the Inquisition. Appearances on Imperius meant everything, especially in the galleries of the pyre-deck. The floating platform played host to the dozens of Inquisitorial dignitaries come to view the execution, carrying them slowly around the square’s edges on its purring skimmer engines. Many of the thousands of spectators below were as interested in the platform as they were the pyre – its baroque, gold-ribbed flanks and fluttering prayer streamers made it look like a miniature Ministorum basilica or cathedral that had taken flight, shrouded in plumes of censer smoke from the flocks of cherubim that flitted over and around its engraved hull. Rannik had boarded it moments before it had taken off from the Black Court – it had required more than a little persuasion to convince the Tempestus Scion captain in charge of the security detail that she was indeed part of Inquisitor Nzogwu’s retinue. She doubted she’d have got on board at all without her full Adeptus Arbites equipment, rosette or not.
Carcharodons: Outer Dark Page 11