Angel Exterminatus

by Graham McNeill

  ‘We swore no oath to Horus,’ spat Kaesoron.

  Perturabo hid his shock, but rather than pursuing Kaesoron’s remark with a logical follow-up question, he let its implication settle in the back of his mind.

  ‘Then listen to me, Julius Kaesoron, First Captain. This is my world and my amphitheatre. You are just an annoyance. Irritate me again and I will kill you.’

  Kaesoron stepped back, contrite but also appearing energised by the threat of death.

  Perturabo put Kaesoron from his mind and scanned the high reaches of the amphitheatre, his eyes coming to rest on the spot from where the assassin’s shot had been fired. A good position, with commanding views of all the major entrances to the amphitheatre. Plenty of shadows from which to shoot, and a convenient escape route at the rear. Whoever had taken the shot could not have wished for a better sniper’s perch.

  Perturabo found that he hated the Thaliakron now. Its grandeur was sullied and its function perverted. Once again, a wonder he had created as a thing of beauty had been tarnished by those he had once loved.

  Could nothing he raised up in glory be allowed even a moment to shine?

  Perturabo turned as a Land Raider in the purple and gold of the Emperor’s Children drove into the Thaliakron through the main gates, its bulk dominating the stage and crushing the flagstones beneath its heavy tracks. Its guns were ornamented in filigree and carved scrollwork had been embellished with garish smears of blood and other bodily fluids. A row of Legion helmets hung from butchers’ hooks suspended on iron chains from the upper track guards: Iron Hands, Salamanders and Raven Guard for the most part, but Perturabo recognised a World Eaters helm and a Death Guard rebreather amongst the battlefield plunder. If Fulgrim possessed an Iron Warriors helm, he at least had the sense not to display such a trophy.

  The Iron Circle disengaged from their defensive posture, straightening their legs and returning their shields to the locked position at their sides. Fulgrim stood proud in the centre of the battle-constructs, reborn from the ashes of his death. His features were still bloody, but where before Perturabo had seen the face of a martyr, now it was that of the resurrected.

  ‘Brother,’ said Fulgrim, coming forwards to embrace him again. ‘A miracle.’

  Perturabo shook his head and said, ‘You live.’

  Fulgrim lifted his hand to show Perturabo a long sliver of bloodstained steel, finely tapered and bent around its middle where its tip had flattened.

  ‘Barely,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Fabius had a devil’s job fishing that out. The angle of impact was just obtuse enough for it to deflect rather than penetrate. It travelled over the crown of my head and lodged on the opposite side.’

  Fulgrim swept his bone-white hair back to show the raw incision Fabius had made in his opposite temple in order to remove the needle. A vivid purple line traced the route the projectile had taken, an arcing path of graceful curves and whorls that linked the two wounds and which had a pleasing symmetry to it.

  ‘Just as well you have a thick skull,’ said Perturabo.

  Fulgrim laughed and said, ‘You have the truth of it, brother.’

  Safely ensconced in the underground sanctuary of the Cavea Ferrum, Perturabo poured two tankards of heavily spiced wine and passed one to Fulgrim, who made a grand show of testing its vintage and aroma before sipping like an ingénue at her first performance. A convoy of Land Raiders had brought them from the chaos at the Thaliakron to the heart of the circumvallation at speed, as whooping bands of Fulgrim’s lunatic devotees spread the word of his miraculous survival.

  ‘You tell a grand tale,’ said Perturabo, draining his tankard and refilling it. ‘How much of it was true?’

  Fulgrim grinned and shrugged. ‘Who knows? All of it, none of it. It does not matter how much is true and what is the sedimentary accretion of tale-tellers through the ages.’

  ‘If you’re looking for my Legion to join yours, then it damn well matters to me.’

  ‘You misunderstand, brother,’ said Fulgrim, idly scratching at the twinned wounds at his temples. ‘Gods and wars, ancient prisons… it is all mythic window-dressing. Yes, I may have… embellished some elements of the legend for dramatic effect, but the eldar bardic tradition is so dry it must be enlivened with a healthy dose of sturm und drang.’

  ‘So what is the truth of the legend?’ asked Perturabo, circling the plotting table piled high with his hundreds of architectural plans, knowing he would destroy them all when Fulgrim was gone. ‘Is there any at all?’

  ‘There is indeed,’ said Fulgrim, beckoning Karuchi Vohra to his side.

  Perturabo halted in his circling, and fixed the eldar with his cold gaze.

  ‘So tell me, Vohra,’ he said. ‘What is the truth? And spare me my brother’s embellishments.’

  ‘The truth is that these weapons are real.’

  ‘You infer a lot from legends.’

  Fulgrim put his hand on Perturabo’s shoulder. ‘Whether there ever was a creature known as the Angel Exterminatus means nothing at all. In all likelihood it is simply a constructed fantasy invented to conceal the darker truth of these weapons’ very existence,’ said Fulgrim.

  ‘Why would the eldar bother inventing such a fantasy?’

  ‘A terrible daemon god is a convenient way to excuse the creation of such dreadful things,’ answered Fulgrim. ‘Better for history to believe in its existence than the unpalatable truth that their so-called advanced species was capable of such destructive invention.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how you can say that their existence is fact,’ said Perturabo.

  ‘Because Karuchi Vohra has seen them,’ said Fulgrim.

  Perturabo turned to face the amber-eyed eldar.

  ‘You have seen them?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Vohra with a curt nod. ‘I have walked the spectral halls of the ancient citadel at the heart of what you know as the star maelstrom. A place called Amon ny-shak Kaelis.’

  ‘The city of unending night,’ translated Perturabo. ‘Sounds inviting.’

  Vohra ignored his sarcasm and said, ‘I saw its great vaults and the wards placed around the weapons. It is a fastness of such strength that only the greatest siege-master could defeat its defences in order to seize the weapons.’

  Perturabo ignored the blatant flattery and turned to Fulgrim. ‘Now I see why you want my Legion, brother. You need my warriors to break this eldar fortress open.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Fulgrim. ‘But that is not the only reason I come to you. This is your destiny, brother. Every path of your life has been leading you here. Why else would you alone have been plagued by visions of the star maelstrom since your earliest days?’

  ‘How do you know of that?’ asked Perturabo, suddenly wary and angry. ‘I told only Ferrus Manus, and he mocked my question.’

  ‘You forget, brother, I killed Ferrus,’ whispered Fulgrim with a conspiratorial grin that made Perturabo complicit in the act. ‘And there is no bond more intimate than murder. The Emperor saw to it that we primarchs are bound by ties of blood, Perturabo, blood and so much more. When Ferrus died, I drank down his thoughts and dreams – bitter and bland as they were – and learned something of his memory.’

  Fulgrim tapped the pommel of his sword and said, ‘To be frank, I did him a favour by cutting off his head. He was such a mono-directional fool, so shut off to all the myriad sensations life has to offer. His was a wasted life, one that did not appreciate that gift for the boon it truly was.’

  ‘I suspect he might have seen things differently.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ laughed Fulgrim. ‘But that is the past, and I waste no time there. Only the future concerns me, and our future lies together. This is where you are meant to go, to help me in obtaining these weapons for the Warmaster. Help erase the memory of Phall by seizing this opportunity to remind Horus of the Fourth Legion’s power. This is your moment to claim the glory you have always been denied!’

  ‘You’re forgetting these weapons are still in the hea
rt of a warp storm.’

  ‘Karuchi Vohra can guide us.’

  ‘How did you traverse the storm?’ asked Perturabo, rounding on Vohra. ‘You’re no Navigator.’

  The eldar nodded and said, ‘I have travelled the Paths Above, my lord.’

  ‘The Paths Above?’

  ‘A secret and stable route that leads right to the heart of the star maelstrom, known only to a handful of my people. It is one of our most closely guarded secrets, and I offer it to you freely, my lords.’

  Perturabo was sceptical, yet the prospect of such weapons lying in wait for someone to give them purpose once again intrigued him. The siege guns the Lion had handed over at Diamat were powerful, yes, but they were powerful in a mortally obvious way. They could level walls, decimate cities, but devices capable of toppling a galactic empire…

  ‘I don’t believe a lot of what you’ve told me, Fulgrim, but if there’s even a hint of truth in this, then we should act on it.’

  ‘The Emperor clearly believes in its truth,’ said Fulgrim, reaching up to tap the scar on his forehead. ‘He sends assassins to prevent me from harnessing your aid. A fraction of a degree higher and I would be as dead as Ferrus. We have to act now. If we don’t, our enemies certainly will.’

  Perturabo hated the feeling he was being railroaded by Fulgrim’s argument, but without instruction from the Warmaster, this would at least put his Legion to good use until such orders arrived.

  ‘Very well, he said. ‘If they exist then we need to take possession of them. They can end this war by the threat of their existence alone.’

  Fulgrim looked disappointed at his lack of imagination, but Perturabo hadn’t finished.

  ‘Of course, we’ll need to use them for that threat to be taken seriously, though the Emperor will have no choice but to surrender when he sees such awesomely destructive power.’

  ‘Surrender?’ said Fulgrim, his voice a low, seductive purr. ‘Horus does not look for surrender. Leave an enemy alive behind you and he will only turn on you. No, once the weapons are in our hands, we must use them to utterly annihilate the Emperor’s armies.’

  ‘Then you will do this without me,’ said Perturabo.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Fulgrim, setting down his tankard.

  ‘I will only join my Legion to yours if I take complete control over the weapons,’ said Perturabo with unbending finality. ‘I shall be their keeper and I will choose where and when they are used. The threat of their power must end this war before it gets out of control.’

  ‘Out of control?’ laughed Fulgrim with a mocking lilt. ‘We have long since passed that point. Please, brother, what is the point of having such weapons if we shrink from using them? Like your grand amphitheatre, that once existed only as a dream on wax paper. Look how wondrous it is. You would build it just to leave it empty and bereft of function?’

  ‘It has served its purpose, so I could tear it down without regret.’

  ‘Truly?’ said Fulgrim. ‘All that effort to raise it, and you could tear it down without a moment’s sorrow? You would not leave its legacy for others to chance upon and wonder at the genius of its creator?’

  Perturabo shrugged. ‘It was built for you, brother. Do what you want with it.’

  ‘I shall,’ snapped Fulgrim.

  Pain. It always came back to pain.

  Cassander’s eyes flickered behind their lids, gummed shut by blood and dust. His mouth was dry and his flesh was hot. He let out a soft sigh as he realised he was still alive. His genhanced biology was re-knitting his broken body, regrowing blood vessels, weaving dense organ tissue and extracting every last molecule of his bodily reserves to heal his wounds.

  Taking slow breaths, he appraised the biological messages his damaged flesh was sending him. He remembered a grazing shot to the head, and the throbbing tightness at his right temple told him that he would have a vicious scar to remind him not to lose his helmet. His breathing was laboured, most likely a lung collapsed, and the sluggishness of his limbs could only be the result of his secondary heart taking up the burden of his blood’s circulation.

  He was cold and lying prone, but beyond that he knew little else.

  His armour was gone, though he felt the invasive penetration of biometric trunking slotted home in many of his body plugs.

  Apothecarion?

  No, his last memory was the twin bloom of fire from a bolter’s muzzle, followed an instant later by searing pain in his chest. He’d been shot before, but never with such anger. It seemed a ridiculous notion – what did it matter how you were shot? – but the venom he’d felt from the Iron Warrior as he pulled the trigger was palpable.

  He’d hated Cassander, more than anything else in the galaxy.

  The citadel had fallen, that much was obvious, and a corollary to that was that he was now a prisoner of the enemy. Cassander tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. His wrists, ankles, waist, chest and neck were secured by heavy clamps of leather and steel. He grunted and pulled against them, feeling something tear within him as he strained to break his bonds.

  Conserving his strength, Cassander forced his eyes open, twisting his head around to learn of his surroundings. A domed ceiling of black bricks curved above him, and a bare lumen globe swayed in a cold breeze blowing through a low arch to his right. Water glistened on the tiled walls and banks of strange machines lurked in the shadows, bearing gurgling, hissing dewars of green glass. Strange scraps of flesh floated within each one, unknown things that defied any easy classification of form.

  He smelled blood and ordure, the stench of large animals and cold metal.

  The slab on which he lay was part of an arrangement of eight identical mortuary slabs arranged in a circular pattern around an encrusted drainage grille at the centre of the chamber. Several of the slabs bore opened bodies, the leavings of what looked like failed experiments in hideous transplant surgery, and a device of bronze and flesh hung suspended from the dome’s cupola. Its structure was a horrific meld of several combat servitors and surgical apparatus, a collection of withered scalpel limbs, drill appendages and cabling that looped around like intestines.

  ‘You shouldn’t struggle,’ said a voice. ‘He’ll hear you…’

  ‘Who’s that?’ demanded Cassander. ‘Locris? Kastor? Is that you?’

  ‘I don’t know those names.’

  As more of his senses returned to normal, Cassander realised that one of the other slabs was occupied by a living being. Though much of the speaker’s body was encased in a full-body splint cage, Cassander saw the voice belonged to a Legion warrior.

  And not just any Legion.

  ‘Imperial Fists,’ said Cassander, seeing the tattoo on the man’s exposed shoulder.

  Even within the immobilising cage of the splint, his fellow legionary flinched. ‘I was. I failed. I don’t deserve to bear the name.’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Cassander. ‘How did you come to this place? Where are we anyway?’

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘I’m no one. I should be dead. You shouldn’t talk to me.’

  ‘I am Captain Felix Cassander,’ he said slowly. ‘Identify yourself, legionary.’

  The immobilised warrior didn’t speak, and Cassander was about to repeat his order when he received his answer.

  ‘Navarra,’ he said. ‘Legionary of the 6th Company, weapon bearer to Captain Amandus Tyr of the Halcyon. En route to Isstvan III.’

  ‘Isstvan III? Then how are you here?’

  Again a long pause before answering. ‘We never reached Isstvan. Ambushed. I was taken. On the Iron Blood.’

  ‘An Iron Warriors ship?’ guessed Cassander.

  ‘Aye,’ said Navarra. ‘Captain Tyr led an assault onto Perturabo’s vessel. We were to kill the enemy primarch. We failed. Thirteen hundred warriors dead for nothing. We reached the bastard’s throne room. He killed Tyr with one blow. The rest of us didn’t last much longer.’

  Anger and guilt gave Navarra strength, but it wa
s fleeting and his tortured voice drifted into silence. Cassander looked closer, peering through the complicated lattice of steel pins and bone-drilled splints that covered his body. Navarra’s flesh was hideously scarred and Cassander saw his legs ended at mid-thigh. Numerous feed lines had been inserted into his arms and neck and the stumps of his legs, and whatever these were, it was clear they were not pain balms.

  ‘Are we aboard an Iron Warriors vessel?’

  ‘No,’ said Navarra. ‘Would that we were.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where are we?’

  ‘This is the lair of Apothecary Fabius,’ said Navarra, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  ‘Who is Fabius?’

  ‘Emperor’s Children,’ hissed Navarra, his eyes screwed shut and his entire body tensed.

  ‘Fulgrim’s warriors?’ said Cassander. He hadn’t expected that, but it made no difference which of the Traitor Legions held them. As Imperial Fists, it was their duty to try and escape and wreak as much harm on the enemy as possible.

  ‘How long have you been here? What do you know of the layout of this place?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Navarra. ‘I should be dead.’

  Anger flared in Cassander’s breast. ‘You have been grievously hurt, legionary, but you are not dead. You are an Imperial Fist, and you never stop fighting until they kill you. You disgrace the memory of your battle-brothers by giving up. We will find a way to fight back or we will die trying. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Navarra, and Cassander wondered what pain and tortures the Iron Warriors had inflicted upon him to so break his spirit. But hearts could be repaired, spirits mended and courage restored.

  ‘We are proud sons of Dorn, Navarra,’ said Cassander. ‘Our gene-father is the bulwark in our soul, the cold wind of Inwit that cools the reckless urges. We will either find a way to survive or we will make one.’

  ‘A noble sentiment,’ said a voice with the rasping dryness of a belly-crawling serpent. ‘But a misplaced one. There is no escape from my vivisectoria, Captain Cassander. Not alive anyway.’