Treacheries of the Space Marines

by Edited by Christian Dunn

  His armour would once have been bone-white, but now it was slick with filth and discoloured an unhealthy shade the colour of a rotting cadaver. His body was grossly swollen, and his armour was cracked and split, unable to fully contain his foetid bulk. Pustules and sores had ruptured across its surfaces, weeping foul-smelling blood and pus. Segmented cables, filth-encrusted and wet, protruded from his body like ropes of intestines, and bony spines protruded along the edges of his armour. It was difficult to say where his plate truly finished and flesh began. Enusat guessed that they had become as one.

  An array of rotten heads hung at his waist, their eyes, mouths, nostrils and neck stumps stitched and waxed shut. They hung alongside a mace, a barbaric weapon that had a corroded, curved blade protruding from its heavy weighted head. A double-barrelled combi-bolter was mag-locked at his side.

  It was only when the Death Guard reached for his helmet that Enusat noticed his mutation. A thick, segmented tentacle had sprouted from his left tricep, growing from a rupture in his armour. It was the colour of dead flesh and covered in a thick layer of mucus.

  With the aid of this grotesque tentacle, and accompanied by a sickly sucking sound of protest, Nargalax had removed his single-horned helmet to reveal his bloated corpse-face.

  On the Imperial mausoleum planet of Cerberus IV, the river Acherus had been choked with the bodies of dead Guardsmen. By the end of the siege there had been so many bodies there that it had been possible for the Host’s Rhinos and Land Raiders to cross the river and enter the prime city even though the bone-bridge had been destroyed. Nargalax’s face reminded Enusat of those drowned Guardsmen, both in colour and the manner in which it was bloated.

  His flesh was pallid and sickly, and the dark purple bruising of congealed blood spread like stains beneath his leprous skin. Most of his mouth and jaw were missing, replaced by a mass of tubes and pipes. His left eye was swollen and misshapen, filled with styes, milky, and leaking. As soon as he had removed his helmet, a cluster of tiny flies had settled there to feed upon that fluid. Movement rippled beneath his necrotised flesh. As Enusat watched, several wriggling maggots emerged from the corner of that eye, like pallid tears.

  More feeder pipes and cables were crudely drilled into his temples and at the back of his skull, and the flesh around their entry points was dead and foul. Patches of wispy grey hair still clung to the left side of his rotting scalp, hanging past his shoulders, perhaps a last concession to vanity. The Death Guard’s skin rippled with movement from within – maggots and worms fed upon his rotten flesh.

  Yet perhaps the most off-putting of Nargalax’s features was his right eye. It was the stark blue of flawless glacial ice, completely untouched by disease or taint. It was clear and bold, and offered an indication as to what he might have looked like before the touch of the Plague Father had claimed him

  It was not so much the eye itself that was disturbing, for it was perfect, but rather the contrast it represented, staring out from its sunken socket in the face of a bloated cadaver. Its perfection seemed to make everything else that much more foul.

  The only strange thing about it was its pupil, which looked more like three overlapping pupils joined as one. For all the misery that had afflicted Nargalax’s flesh, his one clear eye was always laughing, even if what was left of his mouth could not. Creases formed readily at its corner.

  There were seven legionaries of the Death Guard accompanying their foetid captain, rotting flesh in the shape of warriors of the Legiones Astartes. Enusat was certain that if their armour could be pried loose, they would collapse into a formless, rotting mass. Sores upon their rotten, fleshy armoured plates wept with pus, blood and oil. Their foul secretions pooled beneath their cloven-toed boots, spreading out onto the algae-slick floor. Insects and plant life fed upon the foulness they deposited.

  Each of them held a corroded bolter across his chest. Enusat was amazed the weapons still worked.

  Even before the Death Guard had given themselves over to Nurgle, they had a reputation as implacable warriors, able to endure punishment far beyond that of the other Legions. Relentless, unbreakable and as unstoppable as an incoming tide – that had been the defining characteristics of the Legion before they had thrown in their lot with the Plague Father, and his touch upon them had exaggerated these qualities even further.

  The seven were not alone. Mortals accompanied the Death Guard, creeping out from their shuttle in the wake of their immense masters. They were wretched, repulsive creatures, all of them in various stages of decomposition. The Word Bearers were shocked and disgusted that they did not appear to be slaves and servants, and that Nargalax spoke of them in fatherly tones. His flock, he called them; the afflicted. Dark Apostle Nahren made no attempt to hide his disdain. It was the way of the Word Bearers to look upon mortals as cattle, to be used and dominated, not to be treated as anything even close to approaching equal, which was how Nargalax seemed to regard these worthless meat sacks.

  There were a score of them, a ragged militia that bore a range of crude weapons. Most carried autoguns and lasguns in various states of repair, while others cradled little more than stub guns and cudgels. Many of them wore what were clearly Imperial-issue flak vests and helmets. Deserters, no doubt. All wore breathing apparatus, mostly full-faced black masks with circular goggles filled with a glowing green fog. They stared out through that mire with pallid, corrupted eyes filled with cataracts and cancers.

  All were human or a close approximation, but for one brute that stood taller than even the legionaries. It was a hulking mass of vat-grown muscle and brutality, bedecked with an oversized gasmask pulled over its disproportionately small head. One of its arms had been replaced with an immense rotator drill. The weight of the heavy machinery gave the creature an awkward, lopsided posture. Kol Badar stared at that one with narrowed eyes, and he flexed his power talons.

  Hor hor hor.

  It was a horrid wet sound akin to a death rattle, and Nahren’s grip on his holy crozius tightened at the sound. Enusat tensed, half expecting, half hoping that the Dark Apostle would lash out. He was a little disappointed when he did not.

  ‘Tell me where my Host is, Death Guard,’ said Nahren.

  Nargalax was still chuckling as he answered.

  ‘If it did not leave the ship,’ he drawled, his voice slow and ponderous, ‘then it is still here.’

  ‘You know more than you are offering, creature.’

  ‘The Chaplain does not listen, no,’ said Nargalax, still chuckling. His voice was hollow and painfully slow, croaking forth from a rusted vox-grille set into his throat. ‘This is not our work, I pray and confirm. Neither I, nor any of my brethren have stepped aboard this hallowed vessel, not until now. I can confirm that… urgh… and pledge my honour against the claim.’

  ‘Yet this is your patron’s work. You would not deny that, would you?’

  ‘So it would seem, so it would seem,’ drawled Nargalax, his good eye laughing. ‘The Grandfather’s pestilential touch is here, yes. But it is so wherever there is rot and decay. My brethren and I cannot… be held accountable for all His great works, no? We found your vessel abandoned, lifeless, drifting. It did not respond to our vox-hails. Hence… we merely sought to tow it to a safer location before we investigated further. There was a disturbance in the warp, and we were drawn through. And here we are, accused of piracy and worse.’ He laughed again, deep and slow, making his whole body shake. ‘I wish it were not so… but I have no more knowledge of the whereabouts of your kin than you.’

  ‘You lie,’ said Nahren.

  Nargalax shrugged. ‘You see what you choose to see, little Chaplain,’ he said. ‘But I do not lie.’

  Enusat believed him. He also believed that the Death Guard knew more than he was offering.

  ‘I must get to the bridge,’ Nahren said, turning away from Nargalax to speak to Kol Badar.

  ‘Why?’ asked Kol Badar.
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  ‘I must know the truth. This creature,’ said Nahren, gesturing contemptuously towards Nargalax, ‘will accompany me. It will be the first to die if it has spoken any falsehoods.’

  The Death Guard merely laughed.

  ‘The First Acolyte of the Thirty-Fourth will join me as well,’ added Nahren.

  ‘Me, Apostle?’ asked Enusat.

  ‘I would not have the Thirty-Fourth leave without me,’ said Nahren, still addressing Kol Badar, ignoring Enusat completely. ‘I trust that Marduk would not wish to have to find yet another First Acolyte…’

  They pressed forwards through corridors so filled with fungal life that it was easy to forget they were on a ship at all. They were completely cut off, and lost contact with those on the embarkation deck within minutes.

  Only a small group was pressing on into the infested interior of the Vox Dominus: Dark Apostle Nahren, his five mute Bloodsworn and Enusat, providing them with support in the form of his heavy autocannon. Lastly, the Death Guard captain Nargalax marched with them. Seven they were, in all.

  ‘An auspicious number,’ said Nargalax. ‘Grandfather Nurgle... would be pleased.’

  He was a hostage, little more, and Nahren had promised him a painful death if any evidence came to light of his involvement in the disappearance of his Host and the defilement of the Vox Dominus itself.

  The Death Guard captain had only laughed, deep and long – hor hor hor – and told him that there was no pain that could be inflicted upon his flesh that would cause him any discomfort.

  ‘You’d scratch an itch, and I’d thank you for it,’ he had said. Nevertheless, the Death Guard acquiesced to the Dark Apostle’s demand, willingly it seemed to Enusat.

  They walked single file, yet even so, the going was difficult and slow. In places their route was so overgrown that they had to cut a path, and soon their blades dripped with milky ichor and burning sap. Elsewhere they cleared their way with controlled bursts of promethium fire. Enusat had wondered if that would provoke a reaction from Nargalax, but it hadn’t. The Death Guard captain appeared unmoved, even as huge centipedes and crawling insects squealed and writhed in their death throes, flames boiling their innards.

  Their advance was all the slower for the presence of Nargalax. He would not be hurried. Enusat doubted he could be hurried. Each step was heavy and laboured. It reminded Enusat of the way the immense machines of the Collegia Titanica moved – slow yet powerful and unstoppable. Nargalax was heavy, ungodly heavy. Anything beneath his tread was crushed. His movement was as inexorable as an incoming tide. Fungus browned and withered wherever he trod, and Enusat was careful not to step upon any of the toxic secretions that he left in his wake.

  Enusat walked behind him, and was glad once again for his helmet. Bloated flies and biting insects hung around the Death Guard captain in a dense swarm, and he was certain that his stink would have been repellent. How Nahren and the Bloodsworn stood it was beyond him. Already the Bloodsworn sported a florid array of bites and sores upon their flesh.

  The minutes dragged into hours, and still they pushed on into the darkness, trudging through the overgrown corridors to reach their destination. It got hotter and more humid as they continued deeper into the interior of the Vox Dominus. It was obvious that Nahren’s patience was wearing thin at their ponderous pace, but there was little the Dark Apostle could do to hasten their advance.

  At last they reached their destination: the ship’s bridge. The immense blast doors leading inside were sealed.

  ‘That could be a good sign,’ said Enusat, though he didn’t believe his own words. The doors were almost completely concealed beneath moss and hanging lichen. Clumps of bulbous fungi protruded from their surface like tumours. The doors had been designed to withstand considerable attack from without in the event of a boarding action, and lacking las-cutters and seismic hammers, it would take some time for the party to gain access.

  They would have to make do with what they had. Thankfully, Enusat knew that these blast doors were nowhere near as thick as those of the vessels of the Imperial Navy, or xenos species. This was a ship that had been designed for use by the Legiones Astartes. Few would dare launch a boarding party against the Word Bearers, and if they did – and were successful enough to fight their way to the bridge – then the battle was already lost. The XVIIth put their trust in their bolters and blades, and their faith – not barriers of plasteel and adamantium.

  ‘Melta-charges,’ ordered Nahren. Several of his Bloodsworn began cleaning off the overgrowth of fungus and plant life from the blast doors’ surface, working to make crevices and joins visible. Others readied and primed the heavy melta-charges they wore at their hips.

  They fired in concert. Each had been carefully placed to knock out the locking mechanisms of the blast doors. Super-heated metal ran like lava. Even so, the doors remained shut. Though the locks had been blown, the portal still needed to be physically pried open.

  With an inclination of his head, Nahren set the Bloodsworn to work. Their forms suddenly shifted, their bodies blurring and flickering. For a fraction of a second, two beings seemed to inhabit the space where each of the Bloodsworn stood. In some cases, three or more stood as one, their images superimposed over each other. Mighty horns rose from their heads, and eyes filled with burning witch-fire stared forth from shadowy, daemonic faces as the human-skin drawn across their helmets came to life.

  Like wax figures before a flame, their bodies softened and changed. Toothy maws tore open upon breastplates, and burning eyes formed, blinking and staring out balefully, in the centre of the Bloodsworn’s foreheads. Bony spurs and spines pushed from shoulder plates, kneepads and elbows, curving and jagged. Arms bulged with newly formed musculature, and fingers fused together to form talons and claws, or elongated into whipping tendrils, studded with spikes.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Nargalax.

  ‘If I find any evidence in the ship’s log of your involvement in this, I will set them on you, Death Guard,’ promised Nahren. Nargalax merely laughed.

  Slender blade arms were thrust into the molten gap at the centre of the blast doors. Hooked claws appeared on either side, gripping tightly, piercing the solid metal skin. Unnatural musculature bulged as the possessed Bloodsworn hauled at the unsecured doors, straining with all their warp-given strength. Clawed talons that had grown from boots gripped the gridded plasteel flooring beneath the bed of lichen and algae underfoot, veins straining fit to rupture as the pack hauled the doors open.

  Enusat lowered his autocannon from his shoulder, holding it at the ready, covering the door. The gods alone knew what they would find within.

  With a grinding sound of protesting metal, the doors began to move. Shuddering and squealing, they were pulled back, the four-way aperture parting to reveal a glimpse of the bridge beyond. Yanking and pulling violently, the Bloodsworn managed to open the doors wide enough that they might enter.

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Nargalax.

  Like an assassin’s blade, the black-hulled shuttle closed in on the brutish Death’s Head, which was still attached to the Vox Dominus by an immense chain.

  Marduk rose from his meditative trance instantly, alert and ready. Sabtec and the others roused themselves also, running final diagnostics and weapons checks. It was almost time.

  The Dark Apostle released the restraints that kept him locked in place, and pushed himself gently from his seat. The artificial gravity had been suspended along with all other systems, and he propelled himself to the front of the ship, using hand-holds to guide his progress.

  Sabtec joined him in the cockpit. The Death’s Head loomed before them, growing larger with every passing second.

  ‘The calculations were correct, it seems,’ said Sabtec. ‘Thank the gods they did not change their course. They have not registered us yet.’

  As if on cue, the Death’s Head made a slight adjustment, turning almost im
perceptibly as it began to shift its position. No doubt its crew saw them as some fragment of wreckage or an asteroid, and they were shifting to avoid a collision.

  ‘They have now,’ said Marduk. ‘Let’s move.’

  They were less than a kilometre away when the Death’s Head finally realised what was happening. By then, they were far too close for anything to be done. All the Death’s Head could do was sit and wait to be boarded.

  Any hope that had remained that the bridge of the Vox Dominus might somehow have been spared the fate of the rest of the ship was shattered as the group clambered through the half-opened blast doors.

  ‘The spores must have spread through the air ducts before the bridge was sealed,’ said Enusat.

  Spindly mushrooms that glowed with pale, phosphorescent light lit the room. Vividly coloured mould and fungus covered every surface, and hairy strings of lichen hung down in great cascades, linking ceiling to floor. Enusat tracked his autocannon back and forth, seeking a target, but the only movement and life within came from the myriad of disturbed insect-life seething around the fungal growths. He eased his finger off the trigger. The bridge was as dead as the rest of the ship.

  Nahren moved straight for the command pulpit. Enusat moved cautiously, ducking beneath an outcrop of fungus the colour of congealed blood. He stepped over thick, rope-like roots, and moved to an overgrown lump that he judged to be a terminal. He brushed aside a metre-long, brightly coloured centipede with a sweep of his arm, and tore at the thick matting of moss. Brushing it away easily, he revealed a small, circular screen. More scraping revealed a control panel, and he began to flick switches and dials. It came as no surprise to him that the screen did not awake.

  Nahren was having similar results, it seemed. He swore, and pounded his fist into an oculus viewscreen, cracking it beneath his fury.