by Nick Kyme
‘And we have to let them,’ Scipio replied. ‘Unless you can kill that many greenskins?’
Vandius looked as if he were considering whether he could when he relented and sheathed his weapon.
Scipio gripped Scarfel’s shoulder. ‘We can do nothing for your comrades now, only avenge them later.’
There were tears in the old campaigner’s eyes but he nodded.
As if sensing the end and the futility of fighting against it, the prisoners had stopped wailing. They looked on with dead eyes, numb to their fate but accepting of it anyway.
The chieftain raised his club and the horde felt silent. It was this, the demonstration of absolute dominance, that disturbed Scipio more than what happened next. With a blow that echoed through the gorge, the chieftain struck the obelisk. It tolled metallically, like a bell. Like a death knell. The resonance washed over the horde but still they kept their silence, the piggish eyes enrapt. He struck again, releasing a second tolling that overlapped the first like a heart pushing out its final beats before it arrested. A third blow and the generator hummed to life, as energy uncoiled across its surface. The men screamed as the energy touched them, setting their bodies afire and burning their bonds to ash so that their blackened skeletons slid to the ground in a crumpled heap and broke apart.
The ork chieftain threw back his head, roaring his exultation to the gods. The horde roared too, a clamour so deafening and so primal that Scipio gritted his teeth.
‘We will avenge them,’ he said.
‘How can you kill that many?’ asked Scarfel, wiping a thin trail of blood from his nose.
Scipio’s gaze took in the high sides of the gorge. ‘I think I know of a way.’ He turned to Vandius and told him of his plan.
It took almost another hour before they were finished, Scarfel keeping watch the entire time as the greenskins hooted and fought and ate.
When the Adeptus Astartes were done they slipped back into the night, leaving the orks to their revels.
DEFENCES
It had grown dark over Farrodum and light slowly flared into being across the city from dozens of braziers. It bled in long trails, and the aroma of woodsmoke and burning coal lay thick on the air. Wreaths of flowers and wicker effigies of the knights had been left in the streets. For one night at least, the people would sleep soundly in their beds.
‘They honour you,’ said Vedaeh, joining Sicarius where he stood upon a wall overlooking a small square. The feast hall was below, though empty of its guests.
‘I see as much fear in their eyes as reverence,’ said Sicarius. ‘And blood in the streets.’ Though sluiced by endless buckets of water, the dark stains remained along with the other detritus of battle, the pieces of a broken arrow haft, the cheekplate of a helmet, a shattered sword missing its hilt.
He saw something else, though he would not confide in Vedaeh what that thing was. Sicarius felt his jaw harden just at the sight of it.
‘You think you have let these people down like those aboard the Emperor’s Will?’ Vedaeh laughed. ‘Quite the feat, Cato, given you have only just arrived. You can’t win every battle.’
‘We did win, and still we lost.’
‘You are melancholic this evening.’
‘I am eager to be away from this place. Did you find anything?’ he asked, choosing not to be baited. She wanted him to talk, to gain some insight. He felt no guilt for the befallen people of Farrodum, only a desire to return to the Emperor’s Will and get back to the crusade.
‘There are no scholars here, to speak of. No historians either. I found no evidence of an archive, nor books of any merit. It is almost as if they are without history. But then again, Farrodum is hardly open to me. The city is not large but it is a warren.’
Vedaeh had spent the last few hours touring the defences with Fennion. He had his duty, and she hers.
‘How do you think they can speak Low Gothic?’ Sicarius asked.
‘I had been wondering that,’ Vedaeh confessed. ‘Perhaps they are an old colony, somehow regressed to a more primitive culture.’
‘That could be true. I’ll think on it.’ He turned to her. ‘You look tired. You should rest.’
‘And what about you, Cato? Won’t you also rest?’
‘Daceus will be here soon enough to relieve my watch. I heard there was a problem with your companions?’ he said, shifting the dialogue back to Vedaeh.
She grew sombre. ‘Something happened to Vanko, Corporal Gerrant. It was during the attack. He was injured. Lieutenant Reda is keeping an eye on him.’
‘They are close, the armsmen?’
‘I believe they are.’
Sicarius looked back out into the city, at the flickering flames and the shadows they drew. He saw Daceus tromping up the stairs, his gait heavy in his armour.
‘Whatever you see out in the dark,’ said Vedaeh as she took her leave. ‘You will have to confront it sooner or later.’
She passed Daceus on the stairs, who grunted in reply before he came to Sicarius’ side.
‘Iulus is still tightening our defences,’ he said by way of report. ‘I left Pillium with the medicus. He is a stubborn bastard, that one.’
‘He believes Helicos is punishing him.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘Pillium is punishing himself.’
‘Why do you think Helicos did it, sent one of the Primaris Marines?’
‘Why do you think he did it?’
‘To remind us they are there. To have representation on the mission. You are still his commanding officer, he would want to show willing.’
Sicarius had come to the same conclusion and nodded. ‘How are Pillium’s injuries?’ he asked.
‘Severe, though he is made for severe. He was being held together by meshweave and ceramite. For now he sleeps.’
‘Does he need a watch placing upon him?’
‘The medicus has not left his side, it would seem. I doubt he would appreciate a guard.’
Sicarius rapped his armoured fingers against one of the stone merlons. ‘We are spread thinly, and not exactly in optimum condition either.’
‘You’re worried?’
‘About threats we can and cannot see, yes I am.’
‘Perhaps we should fetch Haephestus,’ suggested Daceus. ‘He could assist with the fortification efforts.’
‘No. He has more important duties. The city will have to make do with us. In any case, how would we explain his presence? Did you feel all that fear in the hall of triumphs?’
‘The baron?’ Daceus scowled. ‘I could almost smell it on him. I noticed he has kept a cadre of warriors at his side, though the rest of the army is made up of boys and old men. He spends his days being afraid. I do not trust him, Sicarius.’
‘Nor I, but I won’t leave these people to be slaughtered by greenskins. If he tries to betray us, we will deal with that. For now, we stay vigilant.’
Daceus arched an eyebrow. ‘You really are worried. What threat are these primitives to us?’
‘A blade is a blade, and when it’s a hundred blades or a hundred arrows… No, I’m not concerned about that. We could take the city if we wished, and I think the baron knows it deep down or else he would have done something already.’
‘If I might be plain, why don’t we?’
Sicarius turned to him. ‘Are you serious, Retius?’
‘I mean only to impose military order. We have subjugated cities before.’
‘In the Imperium’s name, and in service of a greater goal. This is not the same.’
‘Conceded, but at some point we may have no other choice. Once the orks are dead and the threat removed, what do you think will happen then?’
‘I promised Vedaeh we would not harm these people, either directly or indirectly.’
‘And what of those aboard the Emperor’s Will, servants of the Imperium who we are sworn to protect?’
‘I can’t fail one people to rescue another, Retius. I won’t. Guilliman made us warriors but he also
gifted us with the intelligence and foresight needed for diplomacy. We follow that path, at least until it reaches an end. Then we’ll have no choice.’ His eyes went back to the darkness and the sense of looming threat he felt, either real or imagined. ‘Then we’ll go to the sword.’
Reda had left the feast hall with food and blankets. She bundled up what she could, tucking it beneath her arm, and hurried through the streets. She kept her head low and her hood up. The victory against the greenskins had given the Ultramarines as well as those in their charge a certain leeway, but these were still strange lands and she felt the air of tension in every ceramite-armoured body. They were preparing, all of them. She didn’t need to be a part of their unknowable brotherhood to realise that. But she had greater concerns. No one else knew about what had really happened with Vanko. She had begged the medicus to keep this confidence and Cwen had agreed, but only if Reda allowed Vanko to be taken somewhere safe whilst his injuries could be assessed.
She approached the old keep now. It was not so far from the infirmary and acted as an armoury but also a gaol for Farrodum’s wayward citizens. A gate admitted her, the watchman barely interested in her presence as he waved her on. From there she took a short walkway to a corridor. It looked deserted and there were precious few weapons left in the armoury. The odd spear or sword glimpsed through barred apertures. The soldiers were always armed, and fear followed them like an invisible fog, dulling their senses and good judgement. She hadn’t seen the green thunderhead that had manifested in the sky during the battle, but she had been told about it. Several men had been driven mad by the sight of it and left gibbering. They too, like Vanko, were being held here for their own safety and that of the wider populous. As Reda moved inside the cloistered halls, it was not unlike stepping into an asylum for the damned and the insane. Desperate moaning emanated from every corner, sobs echoed through the dark. There were those who scratched at the doors, not to escape – each cell was locked behind stout wood and iron bolts – but out of some maddened repetitive instinct.
She reached Vanko’s cell. Little light penetrated the gloomy confines of the keep and the torches were kept low so as not to agitate the inhabitants. Vanko sat on a hard-looking cot, his back to her. The bars of the door’s viewing slit dissected him in three strips of wan light. It was dark, but she could tell he was gently rocking and murmuring. He had some cuts to the back of his neck, the side of his face, and his arm was bandaged, but he looked in better condition than she expected. But it wasn’t his physical injuries that worried Reda.
‘Vanko…’ she began, crouching down to slide the food and other items under a hatch at the bottom of the door.
When she returned to the viewing slit, he had stirred and was facing her.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘Better, I think.’ He sounded tired, unfocused.
‘You look better. Healed. I’ve brought you some food. More blankets in case you are cold.’
‘Thank you, Arna,’ he said.
As he was stooping to retrieve them, Reda said, ‘Vanko. Let me see you up-close.’
He stopped what he was doing and like a servitor ordered to task straightened up, took a step forwards and looked back at her through the bars.
‘Holy Throne, Vanko…’ Her voice was barely a whisper at this point. He looked gaunt to the point of cadaverous in the light, the combined effects of fatigue, malnutrition and psychological trauma. He needed proper medicines, nutrients.
He frowned. ‘You are crying, Arna.’
‘Only a little,’ she said, wiping away an errant tear.
‘Are those tears for me?’
‘I think you know that they are.’
He smiled, and for a fleeting moment reminded her of the man she knew. And loved. War had been hard on them both, but they had lived and found a way to express a feeling not born out of anger or fear or retribution, but something far rarer in such a benighted age. She wished then that they were back aboard the Emperor’s Will. She knew the ship, its bones and blood. Fighting insurgents in full gear, boarding shield and all, was preferable to this. Something of herself had been lost since they had come to this place. Her sense of purpose and position. On the ship, she had wielded authority. Not the authority of the Adeptus Astartes, but some, and it was hers. Now she only had Vanko, and was powerless to do anything about his condition or her situation. Silently, she cursed Vedaeh for ever forcing them to come here. None of that really mattered now though. All that mattered was Vanko. But she had to know.
‘Why did you do it, Vanko?’
He looked away, and his face in profile appeared even more skeletally thin. Shrapnel wounds from the explosions were also glaringly apparent.
‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘It was…’ he struggled to find the right words to describe it, ‘it was as if I were no longer truly in my body but something else had taken over.’ He scrubbed agitatedly at his hair. ‘It’s difficult to explain. It was still me, but I needed to show you what was inside.’
‘Inside?’
‘Inside me. Inside you.’ His voice had softened to a whisper, and he started weeping.
‘Throne, Vanko…’ She felt the blade of his anguish slide deep into her own chest. ‘You could have killed yourself. You could have killed me.’
‘I know, I know…’
‘Where did you even get the grenade from?’
‘They have a cache,’ said Vanko, drying off his tears as some composure returned. ‘The Adeptus Astartes.’
‘Holy Emperor, I thought we’d run out of munitions.’
‘Apparently not.’
Reda looked away for a moment, but quickly snapped out of these new thoughts. She couldn’t worry about this now. Vanko needed her full attention.
‘Did you see something?’ she asked, looking at him again. ‘In Barthus’ chamber? Back in the infirmary you said “the eye demands”. You meant the eye of the warp, didn’t you?’
‘Truthfully, I don’t know what I meant,’ he replied, his eyes downcast.
‘Look at me, Vanko, damn it!’
He did, turning to Reda, who was trembling with anger and half-understood grief.
‘What did you see?’ she asked, more quietly. Almost pleading.
Vanko opened his mouth to utter something but stopped. Eventually he said, ‘I don’t know. I glimpsed… something.’ He brightened then, just for a moment, ‘But I haven’t seen anything since the infirmary or felt an urge to do anything violent. You have to believe me, Arna.’
‘I believe you,’ she said, hoping that was actually true.
Reda poked her fingers through the bars for Vanko to take. His touch was cold, but she held on to his hand as if she were dangling over an abyss and it was the only means of hanging on. She wondered if that actually was not so far from the truth, when she abruptly let him go and edged back from the slit.
He frowned again, hurt. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s… it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. I can’t stay, that’s all. Just a fleeting visit. I have other things I need to do,’ she lied. ‘For Vedaeh, you understand. I’ll come back later.’
Vanko nodded dully and backed away. He didn’t take the food or blankets Reda had left, and she didn’t wait to see if he would. As he had leaned forwards to grasp her outstretched fingers, she had happened to glance over his shoulder and see the back wall of his cell. He had drawn on it using some chip of coal or loose stone he’d found. He had drawn an eye, a blazing warp eye, over and over and over again.
ABOMINATION
The loss of power to the war-plate had been egregious. Haephestus still had no answer for it. He had postulated a theory that whatever phenomenon had depleted the generators and almost critically disabled the ship would abate once they had broken warp, but something of the machine ague had remained like a dam with an undetected leak.
Although unpowered, each suit of armour would still yield protection to its wearer – its materials were both durable and res
istant to most martial and elemental conditions – but the increased strength, servo-enhanced manoeuvrability and all automated systems would cease to function. Combat efficacy would significantly diminish. Mag-locks would also disengage, meaning weapons would need to be holstered or strapped to make carrying them outside of battle feasible. Bearing such a mass would have been impossible or at least highly debilitating to any unaugmented baseline human, but the Adeptus Astartes had the genetic advancements to overcome such issues. To them, it would be like wearing a heavy suit of armour.
Whatever the cause, the armour generators could not be restored until the starship lying in high anchor in the void was restored also, or until they managed to dock at some Imperial station with the means to refit and repair Adeptus Astartes armaments, but that scenario had an extremely low probability. With so many of the other tech-priests and adepts slain during the numerous attacks, it had been all Haephestus could do to maintain the strike cruiser’s basic systems. Reinvigorating the entire ship, relighting its dormant engines and restoring both void shields and weapons would require power. A lot of it. The augurs had detected an enormous energy spike, its exact origin point unknown but evidently dormant given the medieval state of the world and ready to be reawakened. His brothers had only to find it and secure it, and then Haephestus would devise a way to realise it.
The crash at least had been unrelated to the warp siphoning, and many of the other gunships aboard the Emperor’s Will were still functional, if in short supply, but this too presented its own series of questions. Haephestus had managed to attribute the cause of the engine failure to a dampening field, projected over the majority of the planet and undetectable via conventional augur or sensorium. Unlike the warp siphon, whose effects were slow, continuous and pervasive, the dampening field had simply triggered a brief but violent loss of power as the gunship had passed through it. Why the field had been deployed and by whom remained a mystery. It was potent. Vox was non-responsive and even his own, enhanced sensors had become increasingly unreliable and reduced to such extreme short range as to be almost worthless.