Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  The savage rhythm of war changed in an instant. Khoradal Furio, at the head of his host, reclaimed the overrun extent north of shattered Katillon, and blunted one prong of the traitors’ thrust. Rann, with Halen and Aimery and both of their brigades, drove in through Katillon’s lower floors, stones tumbling from the trembling tower, and stormed the ramps of the siege belfries the foe had drawn up to storm their wail. They broke the Iron Warriors back down the shafts and ladders of their scaling towers, and heaped them dead upon the earth in piles seven deep. They burst out of the wall-foot ditch in a counterstrike that cracked the iron perseverance of the IV, fractured their mettle, and scattered them towards the third circuit ruins, leaving tower frames and broken petraries and upturned sows behind them, the instruments of their cruel warfare discarded in flight.

  A scouring began, chasing the traitor host towards the third circuit. Sparks flurried like autumn leaves across the banks of enemy dead.

  ‘Brother Fafnir.’

  Sanguinius descended to him, spear in hand.

  ‘We thought you’d gone,’ said Rann, his axes wet. ‘Our wounds seemed so deep, and close to killing us.’

  ‘Wounds heal,’ said the Great Angel. ‘I was wounded.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘My mind,’ said Sanguinius, ‘beset by scenes of horror that brought me to my knees. I’m sorry. I could not fight or fathom them, or see light anywhere.’

  He looked down at Rann.

  ‘Fear not, though we still have much to fear,’ he said. ‘The horror is real, and looms upon us. Our greatest tests await us. I saw such cruelty being done, Fafnir, such atrocities… My brother Angron, rage incarnate… A totality of violence…’ He sighed. ‘Angron has done things no man should see or speak of. Things that history would best forget. But in the pitchest depths of his foul darkness, I saw something. I think I was supposed to. I think that’s why I was made to endure such abominable visions of heresy. So I could see.’

  ‘See what, lord?’ Rann asked.

  ‘Hope,’ said Sanguinius. ‘There is still hope. Know that. Tell everyone. Hold it close to your heart.’

  ‘I will,’ said Rann. ‘But these visions-‘

  ‘Fled now, brother,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Gone for good, I hope. The mysteries have passed, and the truth has shown its face. There are no more masks, illusions or disguises. No more veils, no more lies. It’s just us and the monsters, eye to eye.’

  He took up his spear.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Ormon Gundar and Bogdan Mortel?’

  ‘Key warsmiths, both of them,’ said Rann, ‘the architects of ruin who seek to bring down Gorgon Bar.’

  ‘Emhon told me their names as I carried him to the Apothecaries,’ said Sanguinius. ‘He said you had marked them. That to hold the Bar a little longer, they must be foremost on our list of foes.’

  They are,’ said Rann. ‘But they have fled behind the third circuit to recompose their host. I cannot reach them-‘

  ‘I can,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Rann, what say you we win third circuit back?’

  * * *

  Madius beheld it all. Propped up against a broken pillar, he watched his Praetorian’s wrath unleashed.

  ‘Your pretty wall is broken, Rogal!’ Fulgrim declared. He lashed his blade into Dorn’s shield, and drew splinters. ‘Your famous fortress is undone! It-‘

  Dorn’s blow knocked the next words out of his mouth. Fulgrim stumbled. Dorn’s greatsword tore into his ribs. Fulgrim struck back, but found only shield again.

  ‘You are a man in a broken tower!’ Fulgrim taunted, and spat out blood. ‘You stand so proud, and so defiant, ignoring the fact the tower is falling around you! It will-‘

  Another blow. Fulgrim staggered away, then spun, head lowered, hair billowing, keeping his distance. Dorn lunged anyway, driving his shield into body and face. Fulgrim threw him off, and leapt aside.

  ‘So silent, Rogal,’ he crooned. ‘No words of denial? No pleading for me to change my foolish ways and come back to you? You can tell me it’s not too late. You can promise me sweet forgiveness-‘

  Dorn blocked into him, broke his guard with his shield, buried his blade in Fulgrim’s shoulder meat, then body-smashed him across the platform.

  ‘Deeds are my words,’ Dorn said.

  Fulgrim nodded, and spat blood again.

  ‘Always,’ he agreed, licking blood off his teeth. ‘You were never the wit. Never one for fine conversation. Just hard at work and-‘

  Dorn broke his guard again with another lunge, carving a chunk of plate from Fulgrim’s flank. Fulgrim surged, and hammered out nine rapid blows, each one a master kill-stroke. Dorn blocked each one. Their blades flew, ringing against each other, drawing sparks.

  Fulgrim danced backwards. Dorn advanced.

  Fulgrim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smeared blood across his cheek.

  ‘Are you really not going to try and convince me,’ asked Fulgrim, ‘that I have made a mistake? Talk me back into the fold, where I can make amends?’

  Dorn surged, and threw two rapid blows that Fulgrim only blocked with effort.

  ‘No,’ said Dorn.

  He struck again, a low slice that Fulgrim parried, then a high back-cut that tore through Fulgrim’s gorget, and scattered broken rings of golden mail.

  ‘I’m just going to kill you,’ said Dorn.

  The Phoenician growled, and charged two steps. Dorn met his first slash with his shield, and countered his second with his blade. A third, he parried; a fourth, he turned aside in a squealing slide of steel that threw off sparks.

  Fulgrim backed off, arms spread, circling.

  ‘Are you, now?’ Fulgrim said. ‘How bold. How empty. Look around.’

  Dorn’s glare remained fixed on Fulgrim. He feinted a step, a bait Fulgrim took, then rammed the Phoenician with his shield, and hammered two blows into his ribs with his pommel before they broke contact again.

  ‘I said look around!’ Fulgrim snapped. Blood was streaming from his wounds, rolling down his gashed armour. Some had got in his hair. He tossed his sword from hand to hand, then seized the grip with both, and hacked down at Dorn. Dorn blocked with a raised shield, turned out, and raked his blade deep across Fulgrim’s chest. Fulgrim stumbled clear.

  ‘Look around! Look around!’ Fulgrim screeched. ‘See what’s happening, Rogal dolt! Your tower is tumbling down! No more running to daddy crying, “Look! Look what I’ve built!” It took you years to make this, and in one night, I roll down upon you, crack your shield and build a foothold-‘

  Dorn stamped at him, and they traded four swift blows that chimed like bells.

  ‘Look?’ said Dorn. His gaze did not shift from Fulgrim’s face. ‘I don’t have to. I see it all.’

  ‘All what?’ snarled Fulgrim. He swung. Dorn turned the blade aside.

  ‘I see your siege machines burning at the foot of the wall,’ said Dorn ‘I see your sonic weapons silenced. I see your host, foolishly committed in its entirety, pouring into a run of wall that can be held by a force a tenth that size.’

  Their blades flashed and rang again. Dorn lost a chunk of shield. Fulgrim took a laceration to the shoulder.

  ‘And is held by a force a tenth that size,’ said Dorn calmly. ‘Imperial Fists, now bolstered by the two hundred Legiones Astartes veterans I brought with me. Two hundred veterans who are skilled in every doctrine of war. Who have rallied this garrison and this wall stretch, and are now slaughtering the vanguard you so wantonly committed. They thank you for giving them such a wealth of bodies to reap. You have no foothold.’

  ‘I have!’ Fulgrim roared. He smashed his blade at Dorn, a series of furious strokes. Dorn parried them away. Only one got through, and gouged his shoulder guard.

  ‘No,’ said Dorn, as they circled again. ‘You’re a fine fighter, but a poor strategist. You committed everything against a gap that could be held. You’ve burned the cream of your host for nothing. Made them cannon fodde
r. Nine thousand dead and counting. I know, Fulgrim. I know everything.’

  ‘You know nothing!’ Fulgrim cried. He railed in, and his gleaming blade sliced the flesh above Dorn’s right eye. Dorn caved his ribs with the edge of his shield, punched him in the face with his sword’s guard and kicked him backwards.

  ‘You’ve let yourself be used as a distraction,’ said Dorn, keeping his gaze on his adversary, ignoring the blood pouring down his face. ‘You’ve let your host be decimated. For nothing. The Saturnine ruse – I know about that too – has failed. Perturabo played his move, and lost his piece. You’re just a pawn. Was it the Lord of Iron who fooled you into this? Lupercal? Abaddon? You must have been willing. Were you getting bored with it? The spear-tip is broken. You’re holding a gate for no one. You’re just an idiot standing on a wall.’

  Fulgrim’s eyes widened very slightly.

  ‘It failed?’ he whispered.

  Dorn lunged. Fulgrim leapt back. Dorn sliced, and Fulgrim capered clear.

  ‘I’m not trapped here’ said Dorn. ‘I’m not under siege today. You are. And that’s why I’m going to kill you.’

  The Praetorian swung. Fulgrim parried. Dorn followed in, and the greatsword tore Fulgrim’s cheek open. The Phoenician stabbed frantically, splitting armour, and lacerating Dorn’s side. Dorn struck out, and severed Fulgrim’s left wrist so the hand was left hanging by a shred of flesh.

  Dorn drove the entire length of his blade through Fulgrim’s belly.

  They stood for a moment as though embracing, the length of Dorn’s sword spearing out from Fulgrim’s spine, steam rising from the blade.

  Fulgrim rested his bloody cheek on Dorn’s shoulder, and sighed. Dorn ripped the sword out, and stepped clear.

  ‘Well,’ whispered Fulgrim, blood spattering out of his mouth. ‘What a mess.’ He straightened up, gore running from his torn face and broken plate. ‘It really failed, then? The Mournival plan?’ he asked.

  ‘It did. They are all dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fulgrim smiled as much as his butchered face would allow. Teeth were visible through the slash in his cheek. ‘You do fine work,’ he said.

  ‘I wanted a scalp,’ said Dorn. ‘I wanted his head. Lupercal. But you came instead. A Traitor primarch. I’ll make do with you.’

  ‘All these things you know,’ said Fulgrim. ‘So very able and informed. But there are things you don’t.’

  ‘Name one,’ said Dorn.

  ‘One,’ said Fulgrim. ‘I can’t die.’

  He stared at Dorn. His wounds closed, the skin re-knitting without a scar. His dangling hand re-fused. His armour fixed itself and regained its lustre. His blood dried up, and blew away as dust.

  ‘Two,’ he said. ‘I am sick of all of this. All of it. The others can find a way to grind you down and bring your fortress low. I cannot die, but I feel the pain, and I won’t take any more of it.’

  He sheathed his blade. His form began to grow, stretching its dimensions with an unearthly inner light. His legs fused like flowing wax, and he became, from the waist down, a gigantic serpent. The thick loops of his snaking lower body coiled out across the stonework, scales gleaming like mother-of-pearl. He rose up, his lammia-form towering over the Praetorian. There were scales around his eyes and cheek, and his tongue was forked.

  Dorn stared back up. He did not take a step backwards, but his eyes narrowed and his grip on his sword tightened. There were no words for the impossibility of what he was seeing with his own eyes.

  ‘Three,’ Fulgrim said, no longer smiling. ‘I hope our father burns when the time comes. I hope Lupercal turns Him into a screaming corpse. But you won’t see that, Rogal. You’re the one who dies here.’

  The Phoenician turned, and his huge form glided away towards the parapet. He surged off the edge. Black rose petals opened in the air, swallowed him, and vanished.

  Dorn turned slowly.

  They had formed a ring around him. Eidolon, Von Kaida, Lecus Phodion, Jarkon Darol, Quine Mylossar, Nuno DeDonna and fifty other gleaming warriors of the Emperor’s Children elite guard.

  Dorn shook out his shoulders, and raised his sword and shield.

  ‘Try me,’ he said.

  They rushed him.

  * * *

  The battle in Kappa and Lambda zones never left the limits of those joined killing chambers. It lasted thirteen minutes. It was close, tight-packed, immediate, with no cover and no room for evasion: the Justaerin, regarded as the most mercilessly able of the Sons of Horus, a legacy that had been remarkable even in the time of the Luna Wolves, against the Praetorian’s two hand-picked kill teams.

  There was no quarter. No limit. No hope that any of them would walk away unscathed. The kill teams fought for Terra, and for honour, driven by a deep hatred and long-held yearning for vengeance against those who had betrayed them. Abaddon and the Justaerin personified that.

  The Justaerin and their First Captain abandoned any dreams of glory or famous victory within nanoseconds of arriving. They could plainly see their gambit had failed. The loyalists had outplayed them, and were waiting for them. The exhilarating promise of their ruse had evaporated.

  They fought for nothing more complicated than survival.

  Mutually assured surprise. Mutually assured destruction. An instantaneous orgy of raw and savage killing.

  There was no range of any sort. Warriors found themselves pressed together, face to face. Weapons blazed anyway, in circumstances that the doctrines of any Legion, no matter their methodology, would have ruled for close-quarter combat. Bolters roared, point-blank, detonating men whose physical debris injured those around them like shrapnel. Plasma weapons and bulk lasers blasted against plate, their scorching beams passing through two or more bodies at a time. Assault cannons were pressed to faces or the sides of heads, and fired. An entire quarter of Kappa was filled with fire, as a flamer gouted in the thick of a throng. Space Marines died standing up, Cataphractii plate locked out, frozen like smashed statues. Space Marines died explosively, burst apart with such force only scraps of them remained.

  The Justaerin quickly tried to dominate through the brute power of their Terminator exo-plate, swinging demolishing fists and scything blades at anything and everything, overpowering and smashing legionaries in more conventional suits of warplate. Heads crushed, limbs snapped, bodies tore. Some warriors died from three or even four simultaneous blows from as many opponents.

  But the kill teams had the likes of Garro among them, with Liber-tas, which could cut anything, and Haar, whose size and power fist wrecked Terminator panoply like foil. They had Bel Sepatus, and his avenging Katechon Paladins, who did not flinch, and who had longed for a worthy combat.

  Bel Sepatus, in the thick of everything, believed he had found the glory his genesire had predicted. He killed two Justaerin Terminators in the first second and a half with the gleaming edge of Parousia.

  Abaddon killed with astonishing speed and meticulous efficiency. For the first minute of the fight, he merely tried to centre his thoughts and reconcile the sudden reverse of fortune. For the next three, hebegan to believe the Justaerin could prevail. They were the Justaerin, after all. They were the best of the best, Angels of Death beyond compare. They had never failed. They had never been overcome. There was no stage of war on which they could not triumph. He began to calculate the logistics: how they would break out, where they would go, how they would secure, what the next step would be. Into the Palace, into the Sanctum Imperialis. Divide up, run terror strikes to damage the citadel. Conduct solo missions. It would take time for Dorn and Valdor to run them all to ground in a maze like the Palatine. Perhaps the original spearhead mission was doomed, for none of them could reach the Throne Room alone, but there were other plans they could improvise. Other targets. The Sigillite. Valdor. Dorn. Bhab and the Grand Bastion.

  By the fourth minute, he had decided on the aegis. There was no question. That should be their target. They would break clear, leaving this rabble
dead in their wake, and bring the aegis down. That would be enough. That would end the Siege of Terra. The Palace would be open to bombardment from the fleet. Great Lupercal would raze it from orbit. The Vengeful Spirit would send down monumental beams of high energy, and annihilate the Palatine and the Throne within.

  In the fifth minute, Urran Gauk was decapitated by one of the Katechon. Abaddon quickly hacked the killer apart, but the loss was psychological. His schemes seemed to recede, like ghosts, like dreams departing at sunrise. His vision of the Palatine bombarded and ablaze grew distant, and smaller, and out of reach.

  In the sixth minute, killing without pause, Abaddon began to re-evaluate. The skill and tenacity, the rationally brilliant approach to warfare that had carried him every step of his long career, and made him First Captain of the finest company in the finest Legion, the first among firsts, a name taken seriously by even primarch genesires, centred him like an axis. They were cornered. They were trapped. They were being killed by the dozen. Not even the Justaerin, not even they, could prevail. Loyalist reinforcements would be coming. Even if they killed every last bastard in the chambers, their hope was dashed.

  He voxed retreat to his surviving men. Activate homing beacons and get out. Pull back to the Mantolith. Retreat now.

  Yes, the Sons of Horus were not above that. They were wise warriors, not fools. They knew to read the flow of a fight and act accordingly. They were no good to anyone dead. Damn the Imperial Lists and their simplistic ‘no backward step’. Only a fool never took a backward step. The Sons of Horus were more like the barbarian White Scars. Those heathen primitives got that much right, at least. ‘Withdraw to advance’. There was always another day, and that other day might bring victory instead. If you stood your ground like a yellow-armoured fool, you couldn’t live to see it.

  By the seventh minute, Abaddon realised he was going to die.