by Mark Clapham
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Garreon, audibly confused as to where such a corpse might have come from. ‘As you command.’
‘Garreon,’ added Huron, before the conversation terminated. ‘Do you know of an artefact held by the sorcerer Anto, the Cup of Blessings?’
‘I am aware of it, my lord.’
Huron paused, then decided. ‘Find it, have it destroyed,’ he said.
‘As you wish, my lord.’
Huron lifted his finger from the vox-button, terminating the conversation.
As Rotaka’s blood pooled on the floor behind him, Huron Blackheart sat, staring at things only he could see, the dead captain already forgotten.
The battle against those mortals tainted by contact with Chaos took Anju Badya across the Hollow Worlds and eventually to the city of Eridano on the outer world of Laghast.
A strike force of Tallarns and Lastrati had been engaged in a street-by-street struggle with a Huron-worshipping cult, the members of which welded metal plates over one side of their face as an act of devotion. What these fanatics lacked in peripheral vision they made up for in ferocity and numbers, and the fighting had raged across the city, criss-crossing bridges over the grey, polluted waters of Laghast.
Then the Space Wolves came, fighting their way into the heart of enemy territory, a path which the Tallarns and Lastrati followed, mopping up stray survivors fleeing the onslaught. Badya felt no pity as she felled the masked heretics, as they babbled about the brutality with which they had seen their fellows gunned down. They had allied themselves with the Emperor’s enemies, those who had brought the Hollow Worlds to their knees, and now they went to their deaths knowing the depth of their error.
It was in the aftermath that Anju found herself looking for survivors to finish off in the ruins of a desecrated cathedra, and crossed paths with Anvindr and Tormodr. She did not expect them to remember her, a mortal rider at the periphery of their battles.
‘Sergeant Badya,’ growled Anvindr Godrichsson. ‘Your wyrd brings us together once more.’
‘Captain, now,’ said Anju automatically, then regretted it. What did demigods care for her rank? ‘My lord,’ she added quickly.
‘Captain Badya,’ said Anvindr, with undue emphasis on the title. ‘I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it.’
Tormodr made a deep, amused grunt.
‘A captain, not a sergeant,’ said Anvindr. ‘And a rider without a mount. Much has changed for you, Anju Badya.’
‘As for us all, my lord,’ replied Anju. It was an impertinent response, possibly unwise, but Anvindr seemed… unburdened compared to how he had been before.
‘We have all had to change – we have lost pack members and brothers and comrades,’ said Anvindr. ‘But our wyrd takes us to strange places, captain. Some threads are longer than others, and it does us no good to fret about it. Those we have lost will go remembered in our sagas.’ He looked sharply at Anju. ‘As are you, Anju Badya.’
‘Me?’ asked Anju.
‘Yes, you. Not by name, not always, but in the accounts of this campaign the skjalds mention the mortal who accompanied Folkvar across the wilds of Hacasta, and who witnessed his last moments. Who brought the intelligence on Kerresh that allowed for the liberation of Tormodr and–’
Anvindr stopped himself from saying something, and a flash of the old regret passed over his heavy features. Tormodr gave Anju a nod of respect while Anvindr found his words.
‘Then on Exultance you struck down the sorcerer’s puppet in the final battle,’ said Anvindr. ‘These acts will be remembered in the accounts.’
‘Remembered?’ said Anju.
‘Remembered and retold, until the last Space Wolf draws his last breath and is unable to retell them any more,’ said Anvindr.
Anju was lost for words, trying to take in the scale of what Anvindr had told her, and what the correct response might be.
Then the sound of gunfire erupted nearby, and the Space Wolves were running once more, shouting their war-cries and raising their weapons, lost once more in the never-ending warfare that was their wyrd.
It was some days later that Huron Blackheart, as he had done on the eve of his invasion of the Hollow Worlds, drew together his officers on the Might of Huron, gathering them in the great hall once more. Then, they had known what the agenda was, as the battles ahead had been planned for many months.
This time, the purpose of the gathering was uncertain, and if the officers were not nervous – the Red Corsairs, even in the presence of their master, were hardly easy to intimidate – there was a muted uncertainty that lingered over the occasion. Why gather them now? The warband had suffered terrible losses, and they had yet to reach their home base in the Maelstrom to begin the recovery. Instead they were moving away from the Maelstrom, direction unknown.
The schism that had briefly risen within the ranks had been resolved definitively in Huron’s favour, with any potential doubters that had survived the Hollow Worlds disappearing in the long space flight that followed, but still the memory of betrayal, and of purging, left unease in their wake.
Valthex did not share these sentiments; he was simply irritated to be pulled away from his researches. The Tyrant had not summoned Valthex since they departed the Hollow Worlds, and the Techmarine had been lost in the data he had gathered in the Orrery, on Exultance, across all those worlds with their mysterious technologies. He was sure that the secrets of the Archways and the other technologies that kept those worlds moving would be his, given time, but progress was painfully slow.
His thoughts were interrupted by Huron Blackheart striding into the hall. He moved with a sense of purpose, drawing every eye to him, surveying the room of Red Corsairs with confident mastery. When he spoke, it was with total command.
‘I have gathered you here, my Red Corsairs, in the wake of our campaign in the Hollow Worlds, to tell you that although our enemies may think us defeated, we are not,’ boomed Huron. ‘Though we were driven from the Hollow Worlds, we have left them in ruins, and the residue of the power I touched at the heart of Exultance lingers within me still, and has ensured I shall lead you all for centuries to come. I assure you, Huron Blackheart will never die, and in exchange for your undying loyalty I will lead you to ever greater glories, and we will bring the Imperium and its dogs to their knees.
‘Yes, we have incurred losses, and betrayals from within our own ranks have cut deeper still. Yet we are stronger without those who harbour doubt, with the treacherous and the disloyal cut down and scourged from our ranks. Those who turned against me were not fit to be Red Corsairs, while those who still stand are the strongest. Fools may consider us moribund, but you, my Red Corsairs, my loyal servants, are the spine of a warband which will grow stronger than ever.
‘For though you serve me without question, as Red Corsairs we are all of us free, not just from the Imperium but from its endless history. And there will be others inspired to join us. Let it be known that any who join our ranks can cast off their own histories and forge themselves new glories, as a Red Corsair.’
Huron gestured to Taemar.
‘Look to Taemar, for example, he who once served different masters but now is as true a Red Corsair as any other. For his service in this last campaign, I name him my Champion.’
Taemar bowed deeply at this honour, seeming to drink in and savour the murmurs of discontent at his elevation.
‘Let Taemar be the exemplar,’ shouted Huron. ‘Let us draw into our ranks all those from other Chapters, other warbands who wish to take my mark, who believe that they have the greatness to stand amongst us.’
There was a roar of approval from the gathered Red Corsairs at Huron’s testament to their greatness.
‘Our ranks already begin to grow, bringing not just warriors, but intelligence,’ said Huron. ‘Step forwards, newcomer.’
Valthex watched with his enhanced
senses as from between the lines came a Space Marine, one still moving slowly after recovering from recent injuries. A diagnostic scan revealed that organs stripped from the body of Rotaka had been implanted into this newcomer, allowing his survival. His power armour too was mismatched and augmented with pieces from fallen Corsairs, but on the original pieces, beneath the scars and the red saltire, the markings of a Space Wolf could still be seen, prompting unease in the Corsairs around him.
‘What are you, Sindri?’ demanded Huron Blackheart. ‘A Space Wolf? A hound of the Emperor?’
‘I deny the Emperor and all the Imperium,’ spat Sindri in reply, his voice echoing across the chamber. In spite of his injuries he was defiant, energised with rage and hatred. ‘I renounce the Space Wolves and reject their inheritance. I am a Red Corsair, and I serve only Huron Blackheart.’
To a roar of approval, Sindri dropped to one knee and bowed before Huron.
The Tyrant tapped him on one pauldron with the tip of one of the Tyrant’s Claw’s blades.
‘Rise, Sindri,’ said Huron Blackheart. ‘Join your brothers, but first, tell them what you told me. Tell them of the ship that will be our next prize, through which we will seek revenge on these Space Wolves.’
‘It is a strike cruiser, a prize not just for the Space Wolves as a Chapter, but for one of the very companies that fought us on the Hollow Worlds,’ said Sindri, fulfilling Huron’s promise by rewriting even his own history as he spoke. ‘Its loss would bring great shame and dishonour on those Space Wolves.’ A cruel smile pulled at his mouth. ‘And I can lead you right to it.’
‘Are you ready?’ asked Huron Blackheart. ‘Are you ready to follow me to take this ship? To strike back at these damnable Space Wolves and the Emperor they serve?’
There was a tremendous tumult, and amongst the gathered Red Corsairs, Sindri roared as loudly as any of them.
‘Then we will seize this vessel and kill every Space Wolf on board,’ roared Huron, even his voice barely audible over the cheers.
‘Set a course for Parenxes,’ shouted Huron. ‘There we will find our prey, the Wolf of Fenris.’
About the Author
Mark Clapham is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novel Iron Guard and the short stories ‘The Siege of Fellguard’, ‘The Hour of Hell’, ‘In Hrondir’s Tomb’ and ‘Sanctified’, which appeared in the anthology Fear the Alien. He lives and works in Exeter, Devon.
An extract from The Red Path.
‘Who would you have me slay?’
Talomar Locq’s words were spoken with the confidence of a warrior who had proven himself in battle a hundred times over. His eyes burned with the same intensity as the myriad fires licking at the smashed remains of the Imperial citadel in which he stood, their whites shining brightly against the dried blood and filth encrusting his face. He stood before the Warmaster as a devoted servant, his chainsword still dripping with the blood of the enemy and his power armour freshly scarred from recent combat. Locq had, of course, been in the presence of Abaddon many times before and had even fought directly beside him on more than one occasion. But from today, this glorious day, he could speak of the time he was summoned by Abaddon the Despoiler to be tasked with the most glorious of missions and have his invaluable service to the Warmaster finally recognised. He would finally lead his warband as one of Abaddon’s chosen few, fighting by his side in the service of the Blood God. It was an honour he felt was not only deserved, but long overdue.
The call had come as he had led an execution squad to cleanse the last of the loyalist survivors. Between cries for mercy from wounded Guardsmen and the inevitable reply to their pleas from a bolt pistol, he had seen the looks exchanged between his warriors as the message had come through. Locq knew of many who had been summoned to the Warmaster’s presence and never seen again, but they had been foolish enough to make a mistake on the field of battle or displease him in some other way. He had done neither, and as he stood before the mighty form of his leader, he felt his time had truly come. His rewards for long and devoted service were mere seconds away.
The hulking form of Abaddon strode towards Locq, the sneer on his face thrown into dancing shadow by the fires surrounding him. It looked to Locq as if he was being given all the respect due to an irritating insect, and he fought to maintain his outward calm. The Warmaster’s eyes flicked over to Urkanthos and his face twisted into a scowl. Locq tried to think of what he and his commander might have done to merit such a greeting, and turned to look over to the Chaos Lord. He was surprised to see Urkanthos was looking down at the shattered ground, revealing the line of brass studs hammered into his exposed skull. The Lord Purgator was not usually one to hold his tongue, but something had silenced him. He was the commander of the Chaos fleets, feared and respected nearly as much as his Warmaster, but here he was clearly avoiding Abaddon’s burning gaze.
‘I would have you slay no one, Locq. And if you speak without permission again, I will kill you.’
Abaddon’s sonorous voice rumbled into the darkening sky, the texture of his words as ominous as their content. Locq immediately understood the scale of his mistake, and hid the realisation by biting down hard with his back teeth and clenching his hand around his bolter’s stock. Locq could feel Abaddon’s eyes boring into him, yet he dared not turn his head. Eventually, Urkanthos looked up. It was difficult to read his skeletal features at the best of times, but there was no support or encouragement to be found in the depths of his cadaverous eye sockets. Words began to form in Locq’s throat but before he could speak, Abaddon turned his back on him and moved away, crunching through the smoking debris that had been an Imperial stronghold only hours before. As the Warmaster barged his way past a broken plascrete column, Urkanthos moved after him, giving the merest flick of his hand to indicate Locq should follow. Without a word, Locq tucked his helmet under his arm and did as he was told.
Abaddon moved fast, and it took several seconds for Locq and Urkanthos to catch up with their Warmaster. By then he had exited the ruins of the hilltop palace and was striding down to the sprawling courtyard that had once housed gleaming marble monuments to the Emperor. Nothing now remained but chunks of rubble, and the fine mosaic floor was covered in a film of blood and oil. A ragged line of Black Legion drop-ships and transports squatted impatiently in the middle of the vast square, lines of slaves driven into some, tight formations of Chaos Space Marines and other forces trooping into others. Locq recognised Abaddon’s personal transport some five hundred yards distant, and calculated that the journey to its ramp was exactly as much time as he had left to make amends for his mistake. How he was going to do that without speaking eluded him.
Urkanthos strode forwards to Abaddon’s flank, leaving Locq to pick up the pace in order to hear what might be said. The Lord Purgator bowed his head as he spoke in a low, respectful tone, forcing Locq to strain his superhuman hearing.
‘Forgive Locq, my liege. He is an excellent soldier and has proven himself reliable over many campaigns. His impertinence comes from an eagerness to serve. It will not go unpunished.’
Abaddon stopped walking, and Locq stepped back to maintain a respectful distance. The Despoiler’s topknot swayed slightly, betraying the fact he was deigning to acknowledge one of his favoured commanders. Locq was surprised the Chaos Lord had intervened on his behalf, but was in no doubt there would be a price to pay. Nevertheless, he was relieved no one other than Urkanthos had witnessed his humiliation before the Warmaster. Even rumours of such an affront to Abaddon would be enough for members of his warband to challenge his right to lead them. He had fought plenty in the past to achieve and maintain his position, but he knew of several Hounds that would see any error he might commit as a sign of weakness and use it to their advantage.
Up ahead, two Thunderhawks roared into the purple-red sky, vortices of thick black smoke whirling in circles around their wing-tips from the fires raging on the ground. For the briefest of instants, h
e wondered if he was already condemned to die on this smashed planet. Abaddon strode over to the charred remains of a Leman Russ tank, its main turret missing and sponson cannons torn away. For long seconds the Warmaster looked around, breathing in the choking fumes and revelling in the scene of destruction laid out before him. Urkanthos waited patiently. Locq stayed exactly where he was.
‘Locq!’
The captain straightened to attention, bringing his bolter up across his chest and taking a step forward as Abaddon turned to face him. This time, the captain did not make so much as eye contact but instead stared straight ahead, fixing his gaze on the blood-encrusted brass skull centrepiece below Abaddon’s exposed head. In the gloom of his peripheral vision, Locq could see Urkanthos stiffen. Was an attack coming? He could not hope to win against Abaddon, but every instinct in his enhanced body readied him for combat. Fighting against the urge to strike, he concentrated on remaining absolutely still. The merest indication of defence would mean his destruction.
‘Is my Lord Purgator correct? Will you serve me in any way I see fit?’
Locq did not answer straight away. Instead he raised his chin slightly to expose his neck in a sign of contrition.
‘My skull is yours to take, Warmaster.’
The air was filled with the screaming of engines as several drop-ships hurtled overhead, fighting their way up towards the barely visible stars. Abaddon regarded him coolly, his left hand grasping and then releasing the grip of the daemon sword Drach’nyen, the tip of its vicious blade balancing on the decorative floor.
‘You will find the World Eater known as Khârn the Betrayer and bring him before me. Whether it is through persuasion or force, I care not how you accomplish it.’
Locq stared at Abaddon, astonished at his words. This was the great role he was to be entrusted with? A messenger? A tide of disappointment surged through him. The captain pursed his lips closed and gripped his bolter tightly. He did not know what to say or where to look, lest the anger rising in his breast betray him. Fixing his gaze on Abaddon’s daemon blade, he could see it shimmer to display skulls and faces twisted in perpetual agony. It was a deliberate and powerful reminder of the fate that would befall anyone who did not fulfil their duties, but such was the frustration Locq was feeling, the warning hardly touched him. His business concluded, Abaddon turned and began to walk away from Locq. Urkanthos stepped after the Warmaster and called after him, frustration and contempt colouring his words.