‘Primus inter pares,’ Ryarus repeated and turned his head briefly to the four Silver Skulls he now stood with. It was the right of every Space Marine to die gloriously – and they would hold here. Enough of their brothers would survive to regale their tale, an ending worthy of the favourite stories of Varsavia.
‘Primus inter pares,’ the Apothecary said again, his words echoed by the others. ‘We are the Silver Skulls. We are first amongst equals.’
The smile behind his helm grew wider as he held his axe aloft. ‘Time to die,’ he said.
With a deep, bestial bellow, he rejoined battle with renewed vigour. He was filled with a determination to annihilate as many of the enemy as he possibly could before death finally caught up with him and claimed him for the Emperor.
The two strike cruisers were built to an ancient design and despite the differences in their colours and external livery, not to mention the very obvious damage that the Wolf of Fenris had endured, they were to all intents and purposes an equal match.
The Dread Argent was intact. She was well-crewed, robust and in peak condition. It would take a single word of command to obliterate the crippled Space Wolves vessel. Just one. But Arrun could not give it. Not until they either received word from the squads who had travelled across to secure it or if the Wolf fired on them.
Everything happened simultaneously. The Silver Skulls Thunderhawk burst out of the launch bay and began a hasty journey back towards the Dread Argent. A crackle of static broke through the bridge vox-operator’s console and Sergeant Matteus’s voice delivered the news Arrun had been waiting to hear. For once, the young warrior did not attempt to pretty up his words or indulge in unnecessary verbiage. That alone told of the gravity of the situation.
‘Vessel is not salvageable. Red Corsair raiders. Clear Dread Argent launch bay, we are coming in fast and furious.’
Over the years, the Silver Skulls and the Red Corsairs had shared many encounters. The Gildar Rift had seen incursions from the would-be raiders many times but each had been successfully thwarted. But this was something new and untried. The sheer magnitude of what had happened to the Wolf of Fenris was devastating.
‘Incoming munitions from their prow cannon and port-side batteries! All hands brace for impact! Repeat, all hands brace for impact!’
At this proximity, it would take next to no time for the Wolf’s attack to reach them. Arrun barked out an order to return fire, but never quite got the full sentence out. The opening salvo from the Wolf of Fenris crashed over the Dread Argent’s void shields, sending a rippling shudder through the hull of the vessel.
‘Damage report!’
‘Void shields are holding steady.’
‘Is the Thunderhawk back on board?’ Arrun turned to one of the servitors. ‘Has it landed? Is it out of the firing zone?’ He fired off the questions rapidly and the servitor responded in kind.
‘Confirmed. Thunderhawk Delta Four has docked.’
The ever-present rumble of the far-distant engines was joined by the deep, throaty sound of the bombardment cannon preparing to spit her destructive load back at the enemy.
Arrun clenched his hand tightly, then unfurled his finger to point at the image of the Wolf of Fenris before him. ‘Return fire. Blow her out of existence.’
A coppery tang flooded his mouth as his body emerged from temporary stasis. The myriad wounds that lacerated his body beneath the power armour throbbed as his gene-enhanced physiology worked to knit together broken bones and seal wounds that had been caused by the blades tearing into him.
Breathe, Ryarus.
Like all of his kind, fear had been bred out of him. But that did not mean he couldn’t experience other negative, detrimental emotions. He was in pain and although neural blockers kept the worst of it from consuming him, he knew it was impairing his judgement. He was confused and he was anxious. These were strange and unwelcome sensations. They were unfamiliar to him and he did not like it. Not at all.
Breathe, Ryarus. Steady yourself. Balance your humours.
They were familiar words. They were words that he spoke to those put into his care. From a habit borne in decades of service as an Apothecary, he allowed himself to remain calm, not to let the rage at his enemy consume him. For once, he practised what he regularly preached to others. It was a strange feeling to be giving himself such advice, but he took it.
It was good advice, after all.
Slowly, Ryarus. Let it come back to you in good time. Just breathe. Concentrate on the breathing. Feel each inhalation fill your lungs. Cherish each time you exhale another breath with which to fight the enemies of the Imperium. That’s good. Just keep breathing.
It would have been the advice he would have given to any injured brother and he heeded it well. His breathing steadied and the pounding of his twin hearts began to stabilise. Clinical detachment took over. The fact that both hearts were beating gave a measure of the extent of his internal injuries. If he was wounded enough that his secondary organ was functioning, things were dire.
Utilising the skills of self-control, he regulated his breathing for a while longer until the soft thud of his second heart slowly faded to a barely perceptible rhythm. His Apothecary skills moved onwards, working outwards as he assessed himself with calm, methodical processes. The familiarity of the process was soothing.
His senses gradually came back to him one at a time, tuning him into his surroundings. He realised that his helm had been removed. A flood of scents tickled his olfactory receptors. Soft, acrid chemical smells that were well known to him. Antiseptic smells. Medical smells. He was in an apothecarion. He was not restrained. There had been little need to. He was injured enough that any attempt at escape would be futile. Even if he tried, he would not get far. The Wolf of Fenris was an Adeptus Astartes ship. The traitorous crew on board would know all the escape routes he might have tried.
Ryarus turned his head, taking in more of his surroundings. To his left were two other Silver Skulls warriors in similar situations to his own. He couldn’t tell from this angle whether their chests rose and fell. He had no idea if they were conscious or if they were even still alive. He had a sense that they were; the thought of why the Red Corsairs would choose to keep them living sickened him to the very pit of his stomach.
Better they were dead than this indignity. None of the Silver Skulls would ever turn traitor against their own. Their loyalty ran too deep. They would find some way to escape, or they would die fighting off their captors.
But there were unknown variables here. Perhaps they were being kept alive for the Emperor only knew what reasons. An Apothecary’s concern for his charges welled in him and he let it take him. He tried to sit up, to go to their aid, but he could not. He murmured a string of curses.
‘You’re awake, then.’
The voice was deep, richly accented and came from somewhere over in the corner. The Apothecary lifted his head with concentrated effort, letting his enhanced optic sensors adjust to the murky darkness. A hulking figure stepped forwards from the shadows. It was the same Space Wolf he had fought in the corridor.
‘What is your name, Apothecary?’
‘I have no words for traitors. Do not presume to speak to me.’
The Space Wolf let out a humourless bark of a laugh and moved close enough so that he was in Ryarus’s full line of vision. He was still clad in his blood-splattered armour and moved with an easy lope. His blue eyes were piercing and horribly devoid of all emotion. Ryarus’s eyes were automatically drawn to the Chapter symbol on his shoulder where red paint besmirched the wolf’s head. He focused on it as his captor encroached into his personal space.
‘Are you not even interested in whether your brothers live or are dead?’ The question seemed genuine.
‘Better for them to be dead if you feature anywhere in their future.’
The traitor laughed, a huge boom that tore into the otherwise-silence o
f the room. Despite his efforts to retain his dignity, Ryarus flinched slightly at the noise. The former Space Wolves warrior ran a hand over his jaw, his fingers combing through the scruffy beard. The brief glimpse of humour dissipated as swiftly as it had come and his dispassionate gaze met that of Ryarus.
‘My name is Vollsanger,’ he said. ‘There was a time when I spoke the very same words you utter now. At the beginning, when I was first brought here, I was loyal to my former masters. You will change your mind.’ There was absolute certainty in his voice. Ryarus still said nothing, staring instead up at the ceiling. Vollsanger loomed over him.
‘Your silence will win you no respect. Not here, Silver Skull. There is a way that you can garner that respect, though. A way that you can keep your life – and the lives of your battle-brothers – from being snuffed out... Ah! You look at me now. I found your weak spot, yes?’
‘Tell me what I must do so that my brothers may live,’ Ryarus demanded, his teeth clenched. ‘Tell me what I must do so that they may be freed and together, then we will kill every last one of you where you stand.’
‘What you must do? Ah, a simple thing, really.’ Vollsanger leaned down and murmured the answer to Ryarus’s question in a low voice. The Silver Skulls Apothecary let his eyes widen in shock. His expression rapidly moved to one of disgust and rage.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘You may as well kill us now. That isn’t ever going to happen. I won’t ever serve the Tyrant. And I will never give up my birthright voluntarily.’ He turned his head to the side and spat a mouthful of acidic bile at the mention of the name. It came out stained red with his own life’s blood.
An expression flitted across Vollsanger’s face that startled Ryarus. It was pity, a reluctance there that surprised the Apothecary simply by its existence. A wild hope flared in him that even if the Space Wolves of this ship were lost to the evils that had brought them low there was a spark of their former nobility. But Vollsanger’s words held no such pity.
‘You will change your mind. In time. And if there is one thing the Corpsemaster can do well, it’s persuasion.’ Vollsanger’s hand went unconsciously to his chest and Ryarus could only imagine what tortures the other Space Marine must have undergone, what horrors he must have been subjected to that had led to him committing the ultimate betrayal.
Something almost like sympathy rose in his gut, but the Apothecary quashed it instantly. He could not afford to feel sympathy, never for dissidents and betrayers. He had heard of the Corpsemaster, of course. All Apothecaries knew of Lord Apothecary Garreon of the Astral Claws. His research scrolls and early documentation were lauded for their extraordinary insight and understanding of Space Marine physiology. Even Ryarus had studied Garreon’s earlier works.
The idea of meeting such a legendary figure might once have filled him with interest and reverence. Now it filled him with nothing but revulsion.
‘I will leave you to ponder your options, Silver Skull. The Corpsemaster is presently engaged on the campaign, but I have no doubt he will be delighted that we have captured him another Apothecary. We need all we can get.’
‘Go and crawl back to your fallen master. Go wallow in his debased heresy. I will never serve the Tyrant of Badab.’
A smile flickered over Vollsanger’s face and almost absently, he patted the Apothecary’s shoulder. He nodded, as though expecting such a response. ‘If it counts for anything, your brothers live still.’ The former Space Wolf moved away from Ryarus’s sight. ‘We killed none of them. You are all worth far more to us alive than dead, but dead will do if necessary.’
With those words, he turned and strode from the apothecarion. Ryarus could feel the reactions of his body, striving its hardest to swiftly bring him to fitness. He touched a moment of despair. He couldn’t imagine that even if he healed quickly there was a lot he could do about his present situation.
All the Apothecary had left was his free will and it was likely that the Red Corsairs would do their best to rob him of it.
6
Betrayal
Time seemed to slow to a crawl from the moment Arrun gave his command to return fire on the Wolf of Fenris right up to the moment it was carried out. A hesitation lingered unpleasantly in the air as the bridge crew exchanged confused glances. There had been little time to fully explain the situation and all they could see was that they were firing on a ship belonging to another Chapter.
‘I said, return fire!’ Arrun’s temper flared in the split moment of hesitation. In six short strides, he had crossed the bridge deck to the unfortunate young man he had directed the order at. ‘Why are you not obeying my orders? I–’
‘Wolf of Fenris is increasing speed. All current cogitations suggest that the Wolf of Fenris is setting herself on a likely collision course with the Dread Argent. At current speed and bearing, the Wolf of Fenris...’ A servitor’s dull tones began to report the situation and Arrun spun to stare at it.
‘Be silent!’
The captain’s voice carried across the bridge with considerable power and command. His bellow was the single loudest thing at that moment. Coupled with his sheer presence, every soul on the bridge stopped what they were doing and paid attention to the huge warrior standing at their very centre.
Then, as was a fundamental part of its programming in the wake of its lobotomy, the servitor broke the momentary silence that had fallen in the wake of Arrun’s fury to acknowledge his order.
‘Compliance.’
It bowed its head and resumed silent duties at its station. Arrun’s eyes and focus flicked immediately to the viewscreen and the indolent human who had not carried out his orders was temporarily forgotten. The young man breathed an unchecked sigh of relief at the servitor whose timely words may have just ensured his head remained attached to his shoulders. He need not truly have worried. The sight of the other ship’s thrusters firing now held everyone’s attention.
As the servitor had so correctly observed, the ship was powering up to run towards them. It didn’t take a lifetime’s naval experience to predict that they were rapidly approaching ramming speed.
‘My lord?’ The young officer at the console spoke tentatively, reluctant to bring the captain’s gaze back on him for fear of what retribution that may bring with it. ‘Your orders?’
Evasion would be impossible. A vessel the size of the Dread Argent was not going to move swiftly out of the collision course that the Wolf of Fenris had set.
‘Right now, I would prefer to unload every single weapon that we have at them. But… no. For now, hold our position.’ Arrun’s expression darkened. ‘I will not turn tail and flee. We can tear into them well enough with the prow bombardment cannon. Be prepared to engage weapons on my command.’
Several chimes of acquiescence rang around the bridge and Arrun stalked back to his command throne. The Prognosticator was watching him carefully. Arrun’s brow furrowed. Brand was not really watching him at all. He had a strangely detached look about him. He was staring through the captain, his inner sight locked on something only he could see.
‘Brand?’
The psyker was apparently lost in some sort of trance. Arrun felt his stomach lurch. A Prognosticator’s conduit with the Emperor could occasionally keep them ensnared for longer than usual, leaving them in a blessed state of semi-awareness. Arrun’s frustrations increased. This was not the best of times to lose his advisor. He glowered at nobody in particular. To jolt Brand from his state could be dangerous. He would have to wait until the psyker came back to him.
It was not long before Brand displayed awareness once again. The Prognosticator’s green eyes blinked rapidly as he shifted his thoughts back into the same timeline and reality as his captain.
‘Did you see something?’ Arrun’s temper had already dissolved at the look on Brand’s face. A shivering thrill of anticipation ran through him. Had his Prognosticator received an Emperor’s Gift? A true moment
of foresight that could ensure the difference between loss and victory? Such moments were considered amongst the greatest of a Silver Skulls Prognosticator’s service – and the service of those with whom he shared his visions.
‘I see many things, Captain Arrun.’ Brand’s voice held a strange, almost dreamy quality. Gone was the steady baritone that normally accompanied his words. In its place was something slightly higher-pitched. A beatific little smile quirked the Prognosticator’s lips upward. ‘In this instance...’ He stared off into the middle distance again. ‘Those who have forsaken their colours. And I see dawn. Midnight. Sunset. These three will bring much strife in their wake. They seek to destroy. There is no room for compassion in the battle that lies ahead. Ultimately, you will have to override your thirst for vengeance.’
He focused back on Arrun. ‘You must keep your head, Daerys, or the price will be considerably greater than anything you can imagine.’
Arrun absorbed everything that Brand said with an insatiable hunger. The psyker delivered his vision in a series of barely comprehensible riddles, but where would the challenge be if the Emperor lay down a path of destiny in plain words? The Silver Skulls held tightly to the belief that whilst the Emperor’s will guided them, they retained free rein in the interpretation of the dreams and visions.
There had been times during the Chapter’s long and illustrious history when that interpretation had proved to be incorrect… but such errors of judgement were few and far between.
‘Is there any more that you can tell me?’
‘I see... three. Three of them. I do not quite have the measure, the scope of the vision… its very shape eludes me.’ Brand’s voice gradually returned to normal as he prised himself away from the psychological constraints of his meditation. ‘That is all I have for you right now. I would need to divine the matter further to give you a full answer. The overwhelming sense I felt is that of betrayal, however.’
Arrun nodded. It went with the territory. The Red Corsairs, guided by a leader whose lust for power and greatness had spelled his own downfall, were traitors to a man.
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 42