The mob filled the width of the large corridor, shouldering one another aside to be at the fore. At the rear blue smoke jetted from the hulking, armoured greenskin pushing the mass forward. In front of him Hyl and the last of the others were already in place, and with a last burst of energy Challis vaulted the metal beams that formed the front line of the defences as hands reached to haul him up the last stretch of barricade.
Cantle and his scouts were gone as well. Their plan had worked perfectly, using baits and fires to drive a stampede of gnashing beasts into the shafts where the orks fed ammo up to their turrets. The guns had soon fallen silent but Cantle and the others had been cut off and lost, unable to get to the rendezvous point they had fortified. Challis had bid them a silent farewell - he had no illusions that their liberators would have time to comb the tunnels for the missing. The message had left no doubt that the blessed Space Marines were going to have to fight their way in and out of even this one weak spot.
Challis dropped down the far side of the barricade and shots erupted around him: the deep chug of Hyl’s grenade launcher, the roar of the high-speed ork cannon that Luder and Korland had learned to work, las- and stub-bursts. Challis scrambled to his feet and added the last of his shotgun rounds to the fusillade.
Last stand, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the hull-wall behind them. If the blessed Astartes can’t find us soon, it ends here. His shotgun was empty and the orks were a mere dozen steps away.
They’ll not find us in time, not now.
The armoured giant was in the lead, shots bouncing off the metal plates riveted to its skin. Challis pulled his knives from his belt and readied himself, tears of rage in his eyes.
To have come so far to have it end like this!
In the last few moments of frantic gunfire the flash of light behind the orks went unnoticed.
The Emperor is my…
Until the shooting started.
A whoosh of flame incinerated the rearmost orks, the humans ducking down to avoid the wash of heat. The chieftain turned, roaring in rage, the motors on its armour rattling and smoking.
Challis lifted his head. Through the smoke and orks he counted ten great silver figures, stepping into firing poses and felling one greenskin after another with sweeping, methodical bursts. In a few moments of deafening gunfire the armoured chieftain was alone, green corpses piled to its knees, and the shooting ceased.
The ork revved its armour into a run and one silver figure stepped forward to meet it, racks of golden blades on each arm crackling with blue energy. The ork’s swing never connected; the blue-gold claws turned the creature into a cascade of blood, viscera and metal plates, until after another moment the silver being hoisted the carcass up and flung it aside. The remains flopped to the floor and lay oozing.
And in the silence that took the battlefield now, Challis could hear the explosions change note - no longer muffled and deep but nearby clangs and crunches that he guessed must be Astartes boarding torpedoes hitting home.
FROM BEHIND THEIR last barricade, the slave fighters came out, silent with awe, to meet their liberators over the gore-splattered deck. In the clearing smoke Challis took his first good look at the great Marines.
Their dull silver power armour had golden trim, the eyepieces of the helms lit with a green glow. Challis looked for a name or badge to identify his liberators, but saw none that he recognised. Korland, frowning, had hurried to catch up with him and opened his mouth to speak. Challis waved him to respectful silence. He was grateful for the boy’s brain, but a time like this needed no prattling, no matter how well-educated.
One armoured figure after another regarded his procession. None barred their way, but neither did they offer greetings.
It was the golden-clawed Space Marine, his armour glistening with ork blood, who stepped into Challis’s way. The captain’s helm was the same golden colour as his claws and the shoulders of his hulking suit were maned by long golden spines, decorated with skulls both old and new. Flanking him were massive figures in duller, baroque armour of a different design, the metal flowing from one plate to another in fluid, organic lines. Looking at them in delighted awe, Challis fell to one knee until the being gestured for him to rise.
Challis spoke first, using the formal High Gothic for addressing a superior.
‘Hail Astartes! Hail to our liberators! I am Challis, leader of the slave revolt. We hoped you would come to free us. The Emperor, praise to his name, has answered our prayers!’
Several of the figures around them began to laugh. The sound chilled Challis for a moment before he realised what it must be. The Astartes were showing the joy of victory too. Despite their frightening armour there was humanity in them still. Challis grinned back at them.
The voice was a deep, flat baritone, in an antiquated accent Challis had to pay close attention to.
‘And our greetings to you in return, Challis. I am Lord Sliganian, leader of this humble company you see before you. My praise to you, sir - you have led your warriors bravely and well. I have not seen the like for many a year.’
‘Thank you, Lord Sliganian. We are honoured by your presence and your words.’
‘Indeed you should be. Not many of your kind have gazed upon us this close in many ages.’ There was a boom behind them, and the faint sound of gunfire. Sliganian cocked his head for a moment, listening to something.
‘I would talk with you more, Master Challis, but now is not the time. Our position here is embattled, not a place to make conversation. The task at hand is your liberation.’
Challis bowed.
‘Of course, lord.’ He waved his soldiers forward. ‘Step forward, all of you. Give praise and thanks! How are we to board your craft, Lord Sliganian?’
‘Board? Why?’ The giant Marine sounded vaguely puzzled. ‘You, Challis, I may bring away with us - you, I have hopes for. But you must know that the liberation you have fought for has been brought to you - you need travel no further in search of it.’
‘Lord Sliganian,’ Challis began, hearing the puzzlement creeping into his own voice, ‘are you saying that you will board and keep this hulk? We must leave it otherwise. I mean, true freedom is in faith and spirit, sir, but…’ Korland was tugging at his sleeve, mouthing something. Challis shook him off.
‘We may take this creation, Challis, you are right,’ rumbled Sliganian, gesturing at the walls. ‘Ungainly as it is, perhaps it will be home for a little while. Perhaps it will yield up secrets to us, or perhaps we shall destroy it yet. Do not doubt that we can, now that your own actions allowed us our landing. A hulk is simply another fortress, Challis, and the fortress has not yet been raised that our skills cannot bring down. Our progenitors are ancient and noble. Our citadels are impregnable and our engineers unmatched.’
‘Challis!’
‘What, Korland? Show respect before the Astartes!’ But the boy was corpse-pale with fear, and Challis’s alarm deepened.
‘Ah, Astartes. We were Astartes once, young one, but no longer. We forswore the title the day the Iron Cage broke Rogal Dorn’s conceited puppies and we showed ourselves the masters of those who still clung to their old loyalties.’
Challis’s alarm dropped into outright terror. Fragments of forbidden legends, false histories whispered of around barrack-tables deep in the night. The Traitor Legions. Astartes who had - unimaginable thought! - turned from the light and brought blasphemous war against the Emperor. He could feel Korland’s hand on his arm, quaking uncontrollably.
‘But… you promised… you said you brought liberation…’
Sliganian came to attention and clashed his claws together in a handclap. There was more animation in his voice now, a hideous good humour.
‘You are right, young Challis, we must not delay You have earned your liberation ten times over, you and these brave warriors of yours. Why, your resourcefulness almost reminds me of myself in my younger days, before my time as an Iron Warrior.’
Iron Warrior. The words hit Chal
lis like a hammer. Beside him, Korland wrenched Hyl’s grenade launcher from her hands with a shriek.
‘Run! We are deceived! We are deceived!’
He never had time to fire. The machine-man forms beside Sliganian began to emit a crackling hum, and raised arms that changed before Challis’s eyes. Fingers stretched to become gunbarrels, metal gloves flowed backwards into shapes that hinted at weapon stocks, magazines. Each mutant gun-arm spat once.
Challis looked around. The head full of knowledge that Korland had spent his young life accumulating was burst open, the boy’s chest caved in. Blood pooled around the corpse.
Delirious with shock, all Challis could do was stare and whisper: ‘Liberation. You promised.’
‘And am I not a man of my word, Challis, whatever ingratitude your young companion insisted on showing? Theomandus, quickly, please.’
There was a cry from behind him and Challis spun about. Hyl was struggling in the grip of another armoured giant, this one wrapped in a cloak of spun silver, with eyes that gave off pale, twisting lights and a voice that was a soft, creeping whisper: ‘For is it not written that ‘‘the common man is like a worm in the gut of a corpse, trapped inside a prison of cold flesh, helpless and uncaring, unaware even of the inevitability of its own doom’’? Such a fate do we free you from as we bring your mortal flesh to glorious union with the stuff of Chaos.’
‘Yes, indeed it is most well written and right,’ Sliganian responded.
‘And hath not great Perturabo proclaimed: ‘‘The spirit is a machine that is unlocked by Chaos. The Flesh is a fortress that we shall overcome’’?’
Sliganian bowed slightly: ‘Thus sayeth the Warsmith above all.’
Hyl had time for one more cry before a hazy wave of energy tore through her and she began to change.
Her mouth dropped open and a threefold tongue tipped in bone barbs uncoiled from it. Her body ballooned into an obese mass that writhed with parodies of her own face as her arms and legs withered to fleshless sticks and dropped away. And her clear green eyes stayed fixed on Challis’s until, mercifully, the sanity left them and the sorcerer dropped the squalling lump of flesh onto the deck.
‘And so these proud warriors embrace their freedom,’ said Sliganian as the slaves were seized by the traitor Marines around them. His voice was soft, his tone not unkind. ‘Your liberation from your mortality, the liberation you so crave from the rusted chains of your Imperium. A gift that so few understand, a gift that the ignorant fear and flee from. There have been worlds, Challis, where the people have risen as one and fought us when we have tried to give the gift that you asked us for. But when I heard of your call for help I knew we had to make haste to aid you. Truly, this is the gift you have all earned, Challis, and it is my honour to be the instrument by which you will have your sweet, brief taste of freedom.’
The sorcerer moved among them, taking each slave by the arm. Luder became a writhing slug-thing with a crest of dripping quills; the man behind her sprouted lashing tendrils from his mouth and nose and choked on them as his muscles swelled and their convulsions broke his bones. By the time the last of them had had their humanity wrenched away, Challis was weeping freely with rage and despair. Sliganian’s hand took his shoulder.
‘I know, my young friend, it is a moving thing to witness. The corpse-Emperor has no sway over them now. But for you, my warrior, their leader and inspiration, a greater gift still. My flagship has need of slaves, Challis, the fighting with the greenskins has taken its toll. Be of good cheer, brave human - you have won the right to live out your days in the service of your liberator. Hold your head high, Challis. You need wait no longer.’
The servo-claws of the smiths closed about Challis’s limbs and the screaming, weeping human was carried away. As his warriors moved to their pickup points Lord Sliganian looked back at the clump of struggling, yammering Chaos spawn. Nearly half were dead already as their deformed bodies gave out; the rest thrashed and howled on the grimy metal floor.
‘It is good and generous work that we do, Theomandus,’ Sliganian declared, and his sorcerer bowed. ‘I am never so fulfilled as upon a Liberation Day.’
Liberation Day - Matthew Farrer Page 3