Legacies of Betrayal

by Various

  ‘Repair crews – the enemy are closing in on the Aratan. I want void shields back online by the time we reach the cordon. Let us hope the Machine-God blesses us with a timely arrival.’

  Aquila drags himself up the broken rubble and is met by Septival on the floor above. He stands over Varinia and the child. The woman does not move.

  ‘She is dead,’ says Septival, looking down at the slender, tattered form at his feet.

  Aquila stoops to pick the baby from his mother’s dead grasp. Pexilius looks up at the Space Marine with a frown, tiny fingers clawing at Aquila’s gauntlets.

  ‘Gaius thought it our duty to protect them,’ says Aquila. ‘He gave his life for this infant.’

  ‘A one-sided exchange, I fear,’ replies Septival.

  ‘He was right. This child will grow up in war and turmoil, but what do we fight for, if not to protect the next generation? One that might know peace. There will be many orphans in the coming years, but we cannot abandon them.’

  ‘And one child will make a difference?’

  ‘If our lives are to be forfeit, it must be for good cause. Gaius believed that this child’s life was worth more than his. We owe it to his memory not to make such sacrifice a mere vanity. In time we all will die, but there must be others to bear witness to our deeds. Ithraca is a mass grave, but perhaps one day young Pexilius will know the truth of what happened here, and he will repay that sacrifice a thousand times over.’

  ‘So you have hope for the future of the Imperium after all?’

  ‘Hope is but the first step on the road to disappointment, brother. You can fight for hope if you wish. I will fight to bring honour to the dead. Now, no more delays – we head for the rendezvous.’

  Mikal has seen the might of Titans unleashed many times when a world has refused compliance, but the spectacle of two clashing Legions makes all other conflicts pale in comparison. Voids shields flicker as the battle rages, blue and purple glares in the smog of war. Shells rip into metal bodies, lasers rupture armour and missiles pound from above. Three Praesagius Warlords have fallen already, their burning wrecks like beacons in the gloom.

  Invigilator is just one amongst many, hurling everything it has into the fray. Behind the weakening line of Titans, the crew of the Aratan fight to free the main vault doors and see what can be salvaged.

  ‘It does not matter if we are defeated today,’ Mikal tells the battle group. ‘It is enough that we fight. The artifices of the Machine-God have been perverted to a traitorous cause and we cannot allow that to pass without response.’

  A volcano cannon sears into Invigilator from the left, blowing out a shield. The brief stab of pain in the back of Mikal’s skull subsides in a few seconds. He knows death is near. He is calm.

  ‘It brings to mind a tract from the Archaia Titanicus, from the dark days before the Omnissiah brought unity – “It was once held that there was nothing so pure as Man. From man came Artifice, and so Artifice was deemed pure also. When Man was found to be corrupt, that corruption spread to all that he had created, and all that had been learned was lost.” Princeps Maximus Arutis taught me that on the first day I was brought to the Legion. I never understood it fully until now.’

  A shower of rockets falls about the Reaver, blanketing the Titan with detonations, another void shield burning out as its energy is expended against the blasts. Mikal replies with the apocalypse launcher, sending his own hail of missiles at the Warlord that has targeted him.

  The line is being pushed back, retreating into the buildings around the wreck of the Aratan. Mikal looks at the charred hulk and sees swarms of red-robed tech-priests labouring at one of the massive boarding gates. Heavy-duty servitors with arc-cutters saw away at the tangle blocking the vault door.

  Two more Infernus Warlords and a Night Gaunt have joined the fight, moving in from the north. The battle group responds, Victorix and Firewolf striding out to meet the threat, hopelessly outmatched but still defiant. They are prepared to sell their lives dearly.

  Just a few dozen metres from Mikal’s position, warning beacons blaze into action on the hull of the Aratan, flashing red and orange. Klaxons sound as the great gate of the transport finally grinds open. Light streams from the transit bay within.

  Its war horn signalling the counter-attack, Immortalis Domitor strides from the hold.

  The Warmonger-class Titan dwarfs even the Warlords, its main weapons longer than a Warhound is tall. Shells the size of battle tanks are let loose, obliterating an Infernus engine in a single volley. Missiles that can level entire city blocks burst from the launchers of the Domitor, streaming out across the ravaged park. They detonate like a dozen miniature dawns.

  In the wake of the Warmonger stride four more Praesagius Warlords, fresh and ready for the fight. Cheers flood across the loyalists’ comm-net.

  Joy singing in his heart, Mikal embraces the manifold once more.

  ‘Get those void shields back online. Battle group, support the Princeps Maximus. Ithraca is not yet lost!’

  Before the primarch’s ascension, before his capture, the ship had carried a different name. In those more innocent days, it sailed as the Adamant Resolve, flagship of the War Hounds Legion.

  But time changes all things. Now, the XII Legion were the Eaters of Worlds, and their flagship bore the name Conqueror.

  It barely resembled the ship it had once been. Ridged by brutal armour plating, spiked by countless weapon batteries, the Conqueror had become a crude bastion beyond any other warship in Imperial space.

  At the vanguard of an immense battle fleet, it hung in space with its engines powered down, rank upon rank of weapons batteries aimed at a golden warship leading an opposing flotilla.

  The enemy ship had never changed its name. Beyond the desecration of the Imperial eagles that once lined its spinal battlements, it remained unchanged beyond battle scars earned in the name of rebellion. Here was the flagship of the XVII Legion, and along its prow, etched in High Gothic, was the name Fidelitas Lex – the Law of Faith.

  The Bearers of the Word and the Eaters of Worlds stood upon the edge of war. Hundreds of vessels, suspended in the cold void, each side awaiting the order to fire first.

  On the bridge of the Conqueror, three hundred souls were frozen in their duties. The only sounds were the background mutter of servitors droning about their work, and the omnipresent rumble of the ship’s reactor.

  Most of the souls, human and post-human alike, felt an alloy of emotion. In some, fear mixed with guilty excitement, while in others, anticipation became a rush of sensation not far from anger. Every set of eyes remained fixed upon the oculus view screen, bearing witness to the fleet that lay beyond.

  One figure towered above all others. Armoured in layered ceramite of gold and bronze, he watched the oculus with narrowed eyes. Where others bore a smile, he carried a slit of scar tissue and cracked teeth. Like all of his brothers, he resembled his father as a statue resembles the man it was raised to honour. Yet this statue was flawed by cracks and blemishes – a twitch in the muscles around his eye, a scarred ravine running along his shaven skull.

  He reached a gloved hand to scratch at the back of his head, where an old wound would never quite fade. At last, he drew breath to speak, in the voice of a man distracted by pain.

  ‘We could open fire. We could leave half their vessels as cold husks, and Horus would be none the wiser.’

  Behind him, seated on raised throne, Captain Lotara Sarrin cleared her throat.

  The statuesque warrior didn’t turn to face her. ‘Hnnh. You have something to say, captain?’

  Lotara swallowed before speaking. ‘My lord–’

  ‘I am no one’s lord. How many times must I speak those words?’ He wiped the beginnings of a nosebleed on the back of his hand. ‘Say what you wish to say.’

  ‘Angron,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘We can’t go through with this. We have to stand down.’

  Now the primarch turned. A tremor shivered its way along the
fingers of his left hand. Perhaps a suppressed need to reach for a weapon, perhaps nothing more than the misfiring synapses at the core of an abused brain. ‘Tell me why, captain.’

  The captain’s eyes flickered to the left. Several of Angron’s warriors stood by her throne, their helms turned to the screen, the very avatars of cold indifference. She eyed one of them in particular, imploring him to speak. ‘Khârn?’

  ‘Do not look to Khârn to argue on your behalf, girl. I asked you to speak.’ The primarch’s hands were twitching, the fingers shaking like serpents in spasm.

  ‘We can’t go through with this. If we attack their fleet, even if we win, we’ll be crippled behind enemy lines with a shadow of the force we need to carry out the Warmaster’s orders.’

  ‘I did not force this confrontation, captain.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, sir – yes, you did. You have pushed Lord Aurelian’s patience time and time again. Four worlds have fallen to us, and each one was an assault declared against our primary orders. You knew he would react eventually.’ Lotara gestured to the oculus, where the enemy fleet – dozens of warships that had been allies only hours before – drifted ever closer. ‘You forced this engagement, and both the crew and the Legion have obeyed you. We now stand upon the precipice, and it mustn’t go any further. We can’t cross that line.’

  Angron turned back to the oculus, his scarred lips curled into something like a smile. He wasn’t blind to the truth in her words, but therein lay the problem. He hadn’t expected his brother to react. He’d never imagined Lorgar would suddenly grow a backbone.

  ‘Khârn,’ murmured Lotara, turning to the assembled captains again. ‘Do something.’

  The primarch heard his equerry approach from behind. Khârn’s voice was softer than many of his kindred; not gentle by any means, but soft, low, and measured.

  ‘She’s right, you know.’

  Such informality would be anathema within the other Legions. The World Eaters, however, obeyed no traditions but their own.

  ‘She may be right,’ the primarch conceded. ‘But I sense opportunity in the winds. Lorgar was always the weakest of us, and his Word Bearers are no better. We could wipe this miserable Legion and their deluded master from the face of the galaxy right now. If you tell me that doesn’t appeal to you, Khârn, I will call you a liar.’

  Khârn removed his helm with a faint hiss of air pressure. Given his life so far, the fact that his face was unscarred seemed nothing less than miraculous.

  ‘Lorgar has changed, as has his Legion. They have traded naivety for fanaticism, and even outnumbered, they would bleed us.’

  ‘We were born to bleed, Khârn.’

  ‘Maybe so, but we can choose our battles. We’ve pushed our luck with the Word Bearers, and I agree with Lotara. We should rejoin the fleet, cease attacking worlds on a whim, and continue sailing into Ultima Segmentum.’

  Angron exhaled slowly. ‘But we could kill him.’

  ‘Of course we could. But would you win a battle and cost Horus the war? That doesn’t sound like you.’

  The primarch smiled. It was a slow, sinister thing – a curving of the gash where his lips had once been.

  ‘My detractors would say it sounds exactly like me.’ As he spoke, he rested his fingertips to his pulsing temples. His headaches never ceased, but they were always at their most vicious when his blood ran hot. Today, the primarch’s blood burned.

  Lotara ignored the warriors as they conversed. She had other matters to deal with, such as three hundred bridge crew caught between staring at Angron, awaiting his orders, and watching the enemy fleet growing in the viewscreen.

  ‘The Fidelitas Lex is matching us. She’s accelerated to attack speed, and crossed into maximum weapon range. Her void shields are still up, and her weapon arrays are primed. Her support squadron will reach maximum weapon range in twenty-three seconds.’

  Angron snorted blood onto the deck. ‘We won’t back down.’

  ‘Maintain all ahead full,’ Lotara called out. Then, quieter, ‘Sir, you have to reconsider this.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, human. Ready the Ursus Claws.’

  ‘As you wish.’ She relayed the order, and the shout was taken up across the bridge, officer to officer, servitor to servitor. ‘The Ursus Claws will be ready in four minutes.’

  ‘Good. We will need them.’

  ‘Incoming hololithic transmission from the Lex,’ Lotara called out. ‘It’s Lord Aurelian.’

  The primarch chuckled his bass rumble again. ‘Now let’s see what the serpent has to say.’

  The hololithic image appeared in the air before Angron, casting the master of the World Eaters with a flickering mirror image. Where Angron was broken, Lorgar was flawless; where one brother snarled a smirk, the other offered a cold, fierce smile. When Lorgar spoke after several long moments, he had only one question to ask.

  ‘Why?’

  Angron stared at the distorted, crackling image of his brother. ‘I am a warrior, Lorgar. Warriors wage war.’

  The image stuttered as interference took hold. ‘The age of warriors is over, brother. We need crusaders now. Faith, devotion, discipline...’

  Angron barked a laugh. ‘I have never failed to win a war my way. I buy my victories with the edge of my axe, and I am content with how history will judge me.’

  The image of Lorgar shook its tattooed head. ‘The Warmaster sent us here for a reason.’

  ‘I would take you more seriously if you did not hide behind Horus.’

  ‘Very well.’ The rasp of vox interference stole Lorgar’s voice for a moment. ‘I brought us here, and my plan stands on the edge of failure because you cannot control your rage. We will lose this war, brother. How can you not see that? United, we will take the Throneworld. Horus will rule as the new Emperor. But divided, we will fall. You may be content now, but will you be content if we lose? If history paints us as heretics and traitors? That destiny awaits us if we grind our Legions together out here in the void.’

  Lorgar hesitated, studying the other primarch as if he could glean some hidden answer. ‘Angron. Please, don’t force this battle, as you’ve forced so many others.’

  Angron’s hands began to shake again. He cracked his knuckles, to keep his fingers busy. The ache at the back of his head had become a rolling, tidal throb now – an unscratchable itch within his brain.

  ‘The Ursus Claws are ready,’ Captain Sarrin said softly. ‘Ready to–’

  Her words trailed away as the deck sirens wailed.

  They burst into the void in a silent storm. The violence of an Imperial arrival was nowhere to be seen: no vortices of howling light, no battlemented warships of dark iron spilling from wounds torn in reality. These vessels shimmered into existence, as if melting from the backdrop of distant stars. On they came, already cutting ahead at impossible speeds, each one a sleek paragon of bladed majesty.

  The Lex and the Conqueror came about first, each reacting to the new threat in their own way. The Fidelitas Lex lessened its thrust, slowing enough for its support squadron to keep pace. As the destroyers and escorts moved into attack formation, the Lex led them right into the enemy.

  Eldar raiders launch a surprise assault on the Conqueror

  The Conqueror powered ahead, heedless of the danger of going in alone. Gun ports rattled open, and the ship’s hull thrummed with the massing rise of its weapon batteries priming.

  The alien vessels swooped and rolled past the Imperial warship, not even bothering to fire. The faster ships, black against the infinite black, stirred the void around the Conqueror without committing a single volley. The World Eaters flagship was already unleashing its rage, spitting payloads in futility, consigning ammunition to the void. The deck guns shuddered as they fired, striking nothing.

  The alien vessels ghosted aside, as laser fire streaked the space between stars. More and more of the bladed warships joined the dancing formation, slicing around the surrounded Conqueror.

  And then, with precision th
at could never be born of Imperial technology, they opened fire in the exact same moment, in the time it takes a human heart to give a single beat.

  Hunting alone as she was, the World Eaters flagship lit up the darkness when her void shields caught fire. Pulsar streams lashed at the energy barriers, breeding violent colours across their domed surface, reflecting the flames back against the shadowed hulls of the alien raiders.

  The sirens still wailed on the strategium. The deck shook, as if at the mercy of great winds.

  Sarrin reviewed the ship’s tactical displays. ‘Shields holding,’ she called.

  Angron wiped his lips, grunting at the painful tics twitching the muscles in the left side of his face. When he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl.

  ‘Someone tell me why we are vomiting all our ammunition into the void and missing every single enemy ship.’

  ‘We’re firing blind.’ The captain sounded distracted, hammering in commands to the servitors on her throne’s keypads. ‘The enemy’s shields allow them to slip out of target lock.’

  ‘At this range? These bastard eldar are on top of us!’

  ‘The rest of our fleet is almost ready to engage from maximum range. The Lex is closer – she’ll be with us in under a minute.’ Captain Sarrin swore as her head cracked against the back of her throne. ‘Shields holding,’ she said again. ‘Though not for much longer,’ she added in a whisper.

  The primarch roared as he aimed his axe at the oculus screen. One of the raiders shivered past the screen, while the slower Conqueror struggled to turn and keep it in sight.

  ‘Enough! I’m tired of shooting at ghosts! Fire the Ursus Claws!’

  The Conqueror shuddered again, though not because of the assault raining upon its shields. From ridged battlements and armoured ports along the warship’s hull, a tide of what looked like spears burst out into the void. Each of the lances was the size of a smaller escort ship in its own right, and of the dozen fired, seven punctured home in the hulls of alien vessels. Once impaled, the immense spears came active, locking to their prey’s ravaged insides with magnetic fusion.