Vengeful Spirit

by Graham McNeill

  Company colours said Fifth; Little Horus Aximand’s lot.

  They rolled on the deck, grappling. Fighting like the murder-gangs of Cthonia in the pits. Knees, elbows, heads; weapons all. The forge lord had more than him and his were harder. Claws tore chunks from Severian’s battleplate. A plasma cutter seared a fire-lined groove in the deck plate a finger breadth from his head.

  Severian rammed his helmet into his opponent’s visor. Lenses cracked. Not his. The blade skittered over the armoury floor, its edge fading without a grip.

  He rolled. A boot crashed into his helmet. He rolled again.

  Ignition flare. A blur of blue-edged light.

  Pain and blood. Lung burping itself empty through his plastron.

  Severian hooked an elbow around the forge lord’s flesh and blood arm and twisted. Pain shot through to his spine, but the arm snapped with a satisfying crack of tinder.

  The forge lord grunted in momentary pain. A manipulator claw slammed into Severian’s face. He ripped the knife from the broken manipulator arm and hacked the claw from the harness. Black oil and lubricant sprayed him. It tasted of malt vinegar.

  The forge lord’s spewing binary made the muscles in his armour spasm. Severian shoulder checked his opponent, stabbing the hissing blade into his neck and chest. He cut connector cables and mind impulse unit links. The servo-arms went limp, dead weight now. A bolter shell impacted on the underside of his shoulder guard. Fired from the floor. He spun around and stamped down on a helmet, crushing it like an ice sculpture.

  The forge lord came at him again, but without his threshing, clawed arms he was no match for Severian. Too many hours in the armoury, not enough in the arming cages. Severian spun around the clumsy attack and twisted one of the limp servo-arms. He jammed it in the small of the forge lord’s back and manually triggered the plasma cutter. Blue-hot light exploded from the forge lord’s helm lenses. He screamed as superheated air burned its way out of him.

  Severian dropped the smoking corpse in time to take a bolt-round in the chest. Thousands of fiery micro-fragments stabbed into his chest through the wound torn by the energised blade. The impact and explosion hurled him back against a rack of bolters. They clattered around him, fresh-oiled and pristine.

  He grabbed one. Unloaded, of course. No quartermaster ever stored his weapons fully loaded. Severian tried to stand, but the bolt shell had punched him empty of breath. A traitor legionary swung his bolter to bear while drawing his chainsword.

  Efficient, thought Severian as the bolter fired.

  Severian was looking down the barrel and even in the moment of seeing the muzzle flare, he knew he should already be dead. Then he saw the spinning round hovering in the air before him. A web of pale lines, like frosted spiderwebs, coated the round.

  +Move!+ hissed a voice in his head. Rubio.

  Severian dived to the side and the round blew apart the weapon rack behind him. His would-be killer stared in astonishment and took aim again. An explosion lifted him from his feet. Blood misted the air, arcing in a fan from his shattered chest. Gunfire suddenly filled the armoury, multiple sources and directions. The deafening roar of a chainaxe. Severian grabbed a fallen magazine and slammed it hard into his new bolter.

  ‘Clear!’ shouted a voice. Tyrfingr.

  ‘Clear!’ Qruze.

  ‘Grenades, Iacton? Really?’ Tubal Cayne.

  Severian grinned. Breath sucked back into his remaining lung and secondary organs. Pain came with it and he pursed his lips.

  ‘You lot took your bloody time,’ he said as Ares Voitek approached and offered him a hand up. Severian took it and hauled himself to his feet. Gunsmoke fogged the armoury, the stink of bolter propellant. Armoured bodies opened like cracked eggs lent their meaty, metallic, oily odour to the space.

  ‘Only four seconds from your breach,’ said Ares Voitek.

  ‘That all?’ said Severian, gratefully putting his arm around the former Iron Hand’s shoulders. ‘Could have sworn it was longer.’

  ‘That’s combat for you,’ said Voitek. ‘Unless you’re an Iron Hand with internal chrons. Then you know exactly how long has elapsed since the commencement of an engagement.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Nohai!’ shouted Qruze. ‘Quickly, Zaven and Varren are down!’

  They sealed the armoury and carried the wounded from the site of the battle. Nobody would miss the signs of fighting, but at least they could keep the bodies from being discovered for a while. Cayne swiftly navigated forgotten passageways and corridors in search of somewhere isolated and secure.

  They tried not to leave a trail of blood.

  The chamber Cayne led them to was filled with wrecked tables and chairs, its walls covered in water-damaged murals and obscene graffiti. Some seemed oddly familiar to Loken. The scale of the furnishings and its abandoned nature told him it had once been a retreat for mortals, but he could think of no reason why he might have come to a place like this.

  Nohai went to work on Varren and Zaven. Rubio offered his aid, and Nohai gratefully accepted it. Both fallen warriors were badly hurt, but of the two, Zaven’s wounds were the more serious.

  ‘Will they make it?’ asked Qruze.

  ‘In the apothecarion, yes. Here, I don’t know,’ said Nohai.

  ‘Do what you can, Altan.’

  Loken sat with his back to a long bar, toying with a set of mildewed cards marked with swords, cups and coins. He’d known someone who’d played an old game of the Franc with such cards, but couldn’t focus on the face. A man? Yes, someone of poetically low character and unexpectedly high morals. The name remained elusive, frustratingly so for a transhuman warrior with a supposedly eidetic memory.

  He felt eyes upon him and looked up.

  Tubal Cayne stood beneath an obscene mural rendered in anatomically precise detail – thankfully, time and water damage had obscured the offending portions. Cayne sat with one hand on his device, the other resting on the grip of his bolter.

  ‘What?’ said Loken.

  ‘You are finding it onerous being here, Loken,’ said Cayne.

  ‘Is that a question or a statement?’

  ‘I have not yet decided. Call it a question for now.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ admitted Loken, slipping the cards into a pouch at his waist. ‘But there’s little left of the ship I knew. This vessel bears the same name, but it’s not the Vengeful Spirit. Not the one I knew. This is a twisted reflection of that proud ship. It’s unpleasant, but no more than I’d expected.’

  ‘Truly? I had concluded you were experiencing significant psychological difficulties. Why else would you not take part in the fighting at the armoury?’

  Loken was immediately on guard, but forced down an outright denial. He stood and brushed water droplets from his armour.

  ‘This used to be my home,’ he said, walking slowly towards Cayne. ‘Those Sons of Horus used to be my brothers. It shames me that they are now traitors.’

  ‘It shames us all,’ added Qruze from a booth across the room where he was cleaning his bolter.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Severian, who sat on the long bar etching kill-notches into his vambrace with his newly-acquired photonic combat blade. The punctured lung made his words breathy.

  ‘No,’ said Cayne. ‘That is not it. If it were, I would expect to see the same psychological markers in Iacton Qruze and… wait, what is your full name, Severian?’

  ‘Severian’s all you need to know, and even that’s too much.’

  ‘You did not fire a single shot, Loken,’ said Cayne. ‘Why not?’

  Loken was angry now. He rose to his feet and crossed the chamber to stand in front of Cayne. ‘What are you saying, that I’m not up to the task? That you can’t rely on me?’

  ‘Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,’ answered Cayne. ‘You are showing all the hallmarks of severe post-traumatic damage. I have been watching you ever since we boarded the Vengeful Spirit. You’re broken inside, Loken. I urge you to r
eturn immediately to the Tarnhelm. Your continued presence is endangering the mission and all our lives.’

  ‘You need to back off,’ said Severian, spinning his combat blade around to aim its glittering tip at Cayne.

  ‘Why? You of all people know Loken is unfit for this mission.’

  Loken slammed Cayne back against the mural.

  He pressed a forearm hard against Cayne’s throat.

  ‘Say that again and I’ll kill you.’

  To his credit, Cayne was unfazed by Loken’s attack.

  ‘This only further proves my point,’ he said.

  Qruze appeared at Loken’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Put the gun away, lad.’

  Loken frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He looked down and saw he had his bolt pistol pressed against Cayne’s chest. He had no memory of drawing the weapon.

  Bror Tyrfingr eased Loken’s arm from Cayne’s throat.

  ‘Hjolda, Loken,’ said Bror. ‘There’ll be plenty more people trying to kill us soon enough without you doing the job for them.’

  ‘Do you regret leaving the Sons of Horus?’ asked Cayne. ‘Is that it? Is that why you came on this mission, to return to your former master’s side?’

  ‘Shut up, Tubal,’ snapped Bror, baring his teeth.

  ‘I do not understand why you all wilfully ignore Loken’s damage,’ said Cayne. ‘He attacks Qruze at Titan, he fails to fight against his former brothers, potentially costing the lives of two of our team. And now he holds a gun on me. We are at a mission-critical stage of our infiltration, and Loken cannot continue. I am not saying anything the rest of you haven’t thought.’

  Loken stepped back from Cayne and holstered his pistol. He looked around at the rest of the pathfinder team.

  ‘Is he right?’ he demanded. ‘Do you all think I’m unfit to lead this mission.’

  Qruze and Severian shared a look, but it was Varren who answered, limping over from where he’d been patched up by Altan Nohai. The former World Eater’s chest was a perforated mass of bolter impacts and bloodstains. Skin packs and sealant grafts were all that kept his innards where they belonged. His skin was oily with sweat as his genhanced body burned hot with healing.

  ‘We have a leader,’ said Varren. ‘I shed blood with Nathaniel and Tylos to bring Loken back from Isstvan. Any warrior who lived through that slaughter deserves our respect. He deserves your respect, Tubal. Malcador and the Wolf King thought Garviel Loken fit for this mission, and I’ll not gainsay them. Nor should you.’

  Cayne said nothing, but gave a curt nod.

  ‘Is this the will of the group?’

  ‘It is,’ said Bror Tyrfingr. ‘If any man deserves a chance to strike back at the Warmaster, it’s Loken.’

  ‘You are making a mistake,’ said Cayne, ‘but I will say no more.’

  Altan Nohai appeared at Varren’s side, his arms slathered in blood to the elbows.

  ‘Zaven?’ asked Qruze.

  Nohai shook his head.

  The Battle of Lupercalia began, as the industrialised wars heralding the first collapse of Old Earth once had, with a pre-dawn barrage. Fifty-three newly-landed artillery regiments with over twelve hundred guns between them shattered the day with thunderous fire from upraised Basilisks, Griffons and Minotaurs.

  Heavier guns waited in artillery depots for the general advance, the Bombards and Colossus, the Medusas and the Bruennhilde. Their guns were unsuited for long range barrages, and would follow the mechanised infantry to pound the Imperial ridge in the moments before the final escalade.

  Army regiments sworn to the Warmaster advanced in wide convoys behind a creeping barrage of high explosives and a glittering screen of shroud bombs. Tens of thousands of armoured carriers daubed with the Eye of Horus and bearing icons of unnatural provenance roared towards the enemy. Battle tanks bore hooked trophy racks of corpses, and one glacis in five bore a chained prisoner from Avadon.

  Hideous Mechanicum constructs of dark iron, clanking legs, spiked wheels and bulbous, insectile appearance marched with feral packs of skitarii keeping a wary distance.

  A tide of armour and flesh roared over the wide expanse of the lowland agri-belts. The continent’s breadbasket of arable land, gold and green from horizon to horizon, was churned to ruin beneath their biting tracks. Totem carriers on flatbed transporters bore beaten iron sigils on swaying poles amidst hundreds of robed brotherhoods.

  Self-anointed with bloodthirsting titles, their chants and rhythmic drumbeats were carried on unnatural winds to the waiting Imperial forces.

  Perhaps half of the Titan engines of Vulcanum, Mortis and Vulpa followed the dread host. The Interfector engines were nowhere to be seen. The battle with Legio Fortidus had cost the Warmaster dearly. His Legios held the advantage of numbers, but the Imperials had an Imperator Titan and scores of Knights. A Knight was no match for a Titan, but only a fool would ignore their combined strength.

  Tyana Kourion watched the advance of the Warmaster’s army from the flattened crescent ridge fifteen kilometres away. She leaned back in the cupola of her Stormhammer superheavy, panning her magnoculars from left to right. Eschewing battle dress, she wore her ceremonial greens. Though they were uncomfortable and hot, her entire regiment had chosen to emulate her defiance to keep her from standing out to enemy snipers.

  ‘A lot of them, ma’am,’ said Naylor, her executive officer. He sat in the secondary turret at the rear of the vehicle, scrolling through reports coming in from the flanking observation posts.

  ‘Not enough,’ she said.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Naylor. ‘Looks like plenty to me.’

  ‘Agreed, but where are the Sons of Horus?’

  ‘Letting the poor bloody mortals take the brunt of it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kourion, unconvinced. ‘More than likely getting us to expend munitions on sub-par troops. It galls me to waste quality rounds on turncoat dross.’

  ‘It’s either that or let them roll over us,’ pointed out Naylor.

  Kourion nodded. ‘The Legion forces will show themselves soon enough,’ she said. ‘And until then we’ll make these scum pay for their lack of loyalty.’

  ‘Is the order given?’

  ‘The order is given,’ said Kourion. ‘All units, open fire.’

  Yade Durso kept the Stormbird low, hugging the mountain rock of the Untar Mesas. Imperial fighters from the mountain aeries of Lupercalia duelled the vulture packs in screaming dogfights at higher altitudes, but nap-of-the-earth fighting was Legion work.

  Little Horus Aximand sat alongside Durso in the pilot’s compartment at the head of fifty Sons of Horus. They were oathed to the moment and eager to fight.

  Ten Stormbirds held station with Aximand’s craft in a staggered echelon. The drop-ships of Seventh Company flew above, their weapons already in acquisition mode.

  ‘They’re eager,’ said Aximand.

  ‘Rightly so,’ answered Durso.

  ‘Too eager,’ said Aximand. ‘The Seventh Company were mauled at Avadon. They don’t have the numbers to indulge in pointless heroics.’

  The threat auspex trilled as it sniffed out the unmistakable emissions of weapons fire. Flickering icons appeared on the slate, too many to process accurately. The Imperial host became a red smear blocking the way onwards to Lupercalia.

  ‘So many,’ said Durso.

  ‘We do our job there’ll be a lot less soon,’ said Aximand. ‘Now look for gaps in the line.’

  Aximand hooked into the various vox-nets, parsing the hundreds of streams in discreet synaptic pathways, sorting the relevant from the inconsequential. All they needed was for just one enemy commander to let hunger for glory overcome tactical sense.

  Company level vox: tank commanders calling in targets, spotters yelling threat warnings and enemy attack vectors.

  Command level vox: pained orders to abandon damaged tanks, pick up survivors or overtake laggardly vanguard units.

  A screaming wall of encrypte
d scrapcode howled behind it all. Dark Mechanicum comms screeching between the towering battle-engines. He turned it down, but it kept coming back. The sound was grating on a level Aximand knew was simply wrong.

  ‘No machine should sound like that,’ he said.

  Aximand listened to the streams of vox-traffic long enough to gather the information he needed; unit positionals, vox-strengths and priority enhancements. Taken together it painted a picture as vivid and complete as any sensory simulation. As the Stormbird broke through the clouds, Lupercal’s voice broke through every Legion channel.

  ‘My captains, my sons,’ he said, ‘Warriors’ discretion. Engage targets of opportunity. Withdraw only on my command.’

  ‘Take us in, Yade,’ ordered Aximand.

  ‘Affirmative,’ responded Durso, lifting the golden Eye of Horus he kept wrapped around his wrist and putting it to his lips and eyes. ‘For Horus and the Eye.’

  ‘Kill for the living and kill for the dead,’ said Aximand.

  Durso pushed the Stormbird down.

  The pain of his failed Becoming was nothing compared to the agony he suffered now. The neural interface cables implanted in Albard’s scabbed spinal sockets were white-hot lances stabbing into the heart of his brain. They’d never properly healed from the day they’d been cut into him.

  Banelash was fighting him. It knew he was an intruder and sought to throw him off like a wild colt. The spirits of its former masters knew that Albard was broken, knew that he had failed once already to bond with a Knight.

  The dead riders did not welcome the unworthy into their ranks.

  Albard fought them down.

  For all their loathing, he had decades of hate on his side. He felt the echo of Raeven’s presence in Banelash’s machine heart, but that only made him more determined. His stepbrother had violated everything that Albard had once held dear.

  Now he would return the favour.

  The Knight’s systems glitched and continually tried to restart and break his connection. The modifications his Sacristans had made kept them from shutting him out. The heart of the Knight was screaming at him, and Albard screamed right back.