‘We are to be the anvil,’ Xaphen voxed to the gathered Word Bearers as they waited by the barricades. ‘We are the anvil, while our brothers form the hammer yet to fall. The enemy will stagger back to us, exhausted, clutching empty bolters and broken blades, believing our presence to be a reprieve. The Iron Hands have damned themselves by remaining in the field, but you see the survivors of two Legions coming to us even now. The Salamanders. The Raven Guard. We must hold them long enough for our brothers to annihilate them from the flanks and the rear.’
Argel Tal had tuned out already. He watched the battle breaking apart, seeing the defiant Iron Hands contingent ringing their primarch at the heart of the battlefield. The righteous indignation that kept them there would see them slain before any others.
The forest-green of Salamander ceramite formed a withdrawing mass scrambling its way back uphill to the Iron Warrior barricades over to the east, while the battered black armour of the Raven Guard warriors came towards the unified Night Lords and Word Bearers force. The loyalists’ shattered unit cohesion was already beginning to reform, reshaping around bannered sergeants as they marched up the incline.
Argel Tal swallowed a mouthful of something that tasted like poisoned blood. He couldn’t keep himself from salivating.
Raum, he said silently, but there was no answer. In a bizarre moment of clarity, he realised he could feel the wind against his skin. Not the focused feeling of pressure from a puncture in his warplate, but all over – a faint breath of wind against his flesh, as if his wargear had grown dull nerves capable of recognising external sensation. His hands began to ache again, and this time the pain brought something new: the sense of swelling, stretching, the torture of his own body-meat rendered as malleable as clay, with the brittle creaking of bone still inside.
Targeting circles that he hadn’t activated started to spin before his eyes, flickering across the blue lenses in search of prey.
Beneath them the Raven Guard in their thousands marched up the rise of land. Not a single one had escaped with his armour unscarred from the battle below. Despite their distance, Argel Tal’s vision was keen enough to make out how individual warriors marched with their bolters slung, out of ammunition, and oaths of moment reduced to burned, flapping parchment rags in the wind.
‘Sixty seconds,’ he growled into the vox.
‘By your word,’ chorused three thousand warriors in the ranks alongside him.
Dagotal sat in his saddle, looking over the barricades. The repulsor drive built into his jetbike’s chassis hummed in sympathy with his movements, whining louder as the rider leaned forward to watch the withdrawing Raven Guard draw nearer.
His task was to skirt the battle’s edges, cutting down any stragglers that sought to escape from the main melee. Although only five of his outriders had survived the transition into the Gal Vorbak so many years before, they sat at his side now, gunning their engines in readiness for what they were committed to do.
He blinked burning sweat from his eyes, breathing in laboured rasps, trying to ignore the voice howling in his mind. The pain in his throat had been building in intensity for hours to the point where swallowing caused excruciating pain. Now, even breathing was a trial. Venom dripped down his chin, bubbling hot, from his overworking saliva glands. The acidic poison dripped over his lower teeth every few seconds, and he could no longer bear to swallow and neutralise it.
‘Thirty seconds,’ came Argel Tal’s order.
Dagotal murmured meaningless syllables with a wet voice, as acid hissed from his helm’s mouth grille.
Torgal thumbed a gear-rune on his chainaxe’s control, shifting settings from soft tissue to armour plating. A thicker second layer of jagged teeth slid forward alongside the first. In truth, a chainbladed weapon would always struggle to do more than strip the paint from layered ceramite, but it would chew through fibre-bundle armour joints or exposed power cables with ease.
He had been weeping blood, without feeling sorrow or any emotion at all, for an hour. Had he been able to remove his helm, Torgal was certain the scarlet tracks would be stained across his cheeks by now, darkening the skin with a tattoo’s permanence. Each time he blinked, his tear ducts flushed more of the watery blood-fluid down his face. When his tongue moved in his mouth, it slid along a maw of jagged teeth that cut his tongue open, and he tasted coppery pain for the few seconds it took the little slice wounds to seal.
Blood, thick and dark, was leaking from the knuckle-joints of his gauntlets, cementing his fingers to the haft of his axe. He couldn’t open his hand. He couldn’t release the weapon, no matter how he tried.
‘Twenty seconds,’ said Argel Tal.
Torgal closed his eyes to blink them clear, but they wouldn’t open again.
Malnor’s breath sawed in an out of his vocaliser grille. A chorus of voices assailed him, and for the briefest moment, he believed he was listening to the sounds of everyone he had ever met in his life. There was a tremor in his bones that he couldn’t suppress.
‘Ten seconds,’ came Argel Tal’s voice. ‘Stand ready.’
Malnor’s twitched head turned to the advancing ranks of the Raven Guard. Distance markers flashed across his retinal display, flickering as it recognised individual squad sigils on their shoulder guards.
Malnor grinned, and clutched his bolter tighter.
‘Brothers,’ the voice crackled. ‘This is Captain Torisian, 29th Company, Raven Guard.’
At the vanguard of the marching Astartes, a cloaked captain raised his hand in greeting. A spent bolter was mag-locked to his thigh, and a gladius glinted in his left hand. The captain’s cloak, once a regal blue, was a ragged ruin. Argel Tal raised his own hand in response, and replied over the vox.
‘This is Argel Tal, Lord of the Gal Vorbak, Word Bearers Legion. How goes the battle, brother?’
The Raven Guard leader laughed as he came closer. ‘The traitorous dogs already flee the field, but they fight like bastards, each and every one. In Terra’s name, it is a blessing to see you. Our primarch has ordered us back for resupply – but Lord Corax is an unselfish man. He would not wish us to steal all the glory on this day of days.’
Argel Tal could hear the smile in the other warrior’s voice as he continued. ‘Good hunting down there, all of you. Glory to the Word Bearers. Glory to the Emperor!’
The commander of the Gal Vorbak didn’t reply. The advancing Raven Guard were almost at the barricades. He felt his muscles bunching and twitching with sick need.
‘Brother?’ asked Torisian. The captain’s armour was an older Mark III Iron-class suit, blocky and heavy, almost primitive compared to the Maximus-class armour worn by the XVII Legion. ‘What are your plans for assault?’
Argel Tal took a breath, and prepared to speak damnation.
Without knowing why, he couldn’t keep from thinking of Lorgar’s words to him, spoken so long ago. ‘You are Argel Tal. You were born on Colchis, in the village of Singh-Rukh, to a carpenter and a seamstress. Your name means ‘the last angel’ in the dialect of the southern steppes tribes.’
He thought, briefly, of his parents – two hundred years dead now. He had never visited their graves. He wasn’t even sure where they might be.
His father had been a quiet man with kind eyes, who had round shoulders from a lifetime of devotion to his craft. His mother was a mouse of a woman, with dark eyes and black hair in the ringlets preferred by the southern tribes. She had smiled a great deal. It was his abiding memory of her.
How far he’d come, in distance and time, from their riverside hut of packed mud and straw. He could almost feel the river water on his hands now, cooling to the touch even as it sparkled in the oppressive Colchisian sun.
He had four older sisters, each as distant and dead as his parents. They had wept when the Legion came for him, though at the time he couldn’t understand why. All he could see was the adventure, the joy, in being chosen by the holy warriors. The youngest – Lakisha, only a year older than he was – had given him a ne
cklace of desert-dog teeth that she’d made herself. He felt it now, tied around his wrist, bound there each dawn upon rising and completing his meditations. The original string had long since rotted away, but he threaded the jackal teeth onto a new cord with the passing of every few years.
His oldest sister, Dumara, had spent every day telling him that he was good for nothing but getting underfoot. But she had no unkind words that day, and instead brought him a blanket of goat’s wool to take with him.
‘He will not require that,’ the massive grey warrior had declared in a machine-voice.
Dumara flinched back, clutching the blanket to her chest. Instead of offering it to the boy, she kissed his cheek instead. She was crying, too. He remembered how her tears made his face wet, and he hoped the warrior didn’t think it was he who’d been crying. He had to look brave, else the warrior might not choose him after all.
‘What is the boy’s name?’ the warrior demanded.
His mother had surprised him with a question of her own. ‘What is your name, warrior?’
‘Erebus. My name is Erebus.’
‘Thank you, Lord Erebus, this is my son, Argel Tal.’
Argel Tal. The Last Angel. He’d been born as a sickly little thing, during a year of blight and drought, and was given a name to mark him as the last child his mother would ever bring into their dry, thirsty world.
‘Forgive me,’ he whispered now. He hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, but didn’t regret doing so.
‘Brother?’ Torisian’s voice crackled. ‘Repeat, please.’
Argel Tal’s grey eyes hardened to flint. ‘All Word Bearers,’ he said. ‘Open fire.’
TWENTY-SIX
Dropsite Massacre
Hull Breach
In the Shadow of Great Wings
Torisian shoved the body of his sergeant aside and scrambled forward. His ammunition counter flashed up the moment he touched a hand to his bolter, and it told a stark tale indeed. Among the clattering, crashing carnage, he drew his combat blade and charged.
‘Victory or death!’ he cried the call of his Legion. ‘We are betrayed! Attack!’
Bolt shells hammered into his chest and pauldrons as he ran, throwing him off-balance and breaking his armour apart. He sustained damage faster than his retinal display could track it. Torisian staggered, feeling fluid in his throat. A dense wetness was drowning him behind his ribcage.
The flash of blue hit him from nowhere, brighter than staring into the sun, tipping him back down to the ground. There he died alongside so many of his brothers, bisected by lascannon fire and dead from his wounds before he could drown in the blood filling his lungs.
The Raven Guard front ranks went down as if scythed, harvested in a spilling line of detonating bolter shells, shattered armour and puffs of bloody mist.
Black-armoured Astartes tumbled to their hands and knees, only to be cut down by the sustained volley, finishing those who fell beneath the initial storm of head- and chest-shots. Seconds after the first chatter of bolters, beams of achingly bright laser slashed from behind the Word Bearers as the cannon mounts of Land Raiders, Predators and defensive bastion turrets gouged through the Raven Guard and the ground they stood upon.
Argel Tal saw precious little of the bigger picture. Beams of ice-blue, as thick as his arm, slashed and burst overhead as they carved furrows in the soil and sliced cleanly through bodies. At his side, the Gal Vorbak stood in silence, clutching their axes and blades. The Iron Warriors and Word Bearers around them were variously reloading, opening fire again, hurling grenades, and preparing to fall back.
In the eye of this storm, Argel Tal looked on with hooded eyes. The vox-link to Torisian remained open long enough for him to hear the warrior die, wordless gurgles transmitting over the channel as the captain crashed to the ground.
Kor Phaeron licked his yellow teeth.
The wind howled around them, funnelled through the Urgall Depression in a noisy roar that challenged the battlefield’s thunder for supremacy. It was an unclean wind, carrying the bowel-smoke of tank engines in its breeze.
‘I cannot see,’ he confessed. ‘It is too far.’
The Word Bearers Legion had taken up landing positions on the west of the field, ready to sweep down and engage the Raven Guard from the flank. Three figures stood atop the roof of an ornate command tank, the Land Raider’s bronze and grey armour decked out with flapping banners and etched with fingernail-fine scripture over every visible surface.
Kor Phaeron, Master of the Faith, watched the distant dropsite through a desperate squint. He was unhelmed, and his massive Terminator warplate gave him the appearance of a hunched, armour-plated giant.
Erebus stood at his side, watching without effort, his Astartes vision keen enough to offer clarity.
‘We are winning,’ he said. ‘Nothing else matters.’ Only a flicker of emotion in his eyes betrayed his humour. Erebus was a dry soul, right to his core. ‘But already, the Raven Guard attacks the barricades. Far to the other side, the Salamanders fall to the guns of the other Legions. In the centre of it all, the few remaining Iron Hands encircle their doomed lord.’
Lorgar towered above both of them, but had no attention to spare for the treacherous opening salvoes against the warriors of the Raven Guard and Salamanders Legions. He stared into the battlefield’s heart, his eyes wide even in the wind, his lips gently parted as he watched his brothers killing each other.
Fulgrim and Ferrus, the fading sunlight flaring from the edges of their swinging weapons. The wind stole the clash and clang of their parries, but even in silence the duel was beyond captivating. No senses but a primarch’s could have followed such instant, liquid movements. The perfection of it all almost brought a smile to Lorgar’s lips.
Lorgar knew them both, though never as well as he’d wanted to. His approaches to Fulgrim had always been rebuffed with diplomatic grace, but his brother’s ire was clear: Lorgar, among all of the Emperor’s sons, was the failure that just wouldn’t remain silent. Even in the fifty years since his humiliation in Monarchia, as the Word Bearers had conquered more than any other Legion, desperate to match the tallies of the Sons of Horus and the Ultramarines. Fulgrim still wished nothing to do with him. The Lord of the Emperor’s Children – and oh, how proud he was that his sons alone among the Astartes could wear the Emperor’s aquila on their armour – had never voiced his distaste in express terms, but Fulgrim’s feelings were transparent enough. He was a being that valued nothing but perfection, and Lorgar was irrevocably stained by his flaws.
Ferrus, Lord of the Iron Hands, was an open book where Fulgrim was a closed one. Lorgar’s passion was ever on the surface, as was the passion of his Legion on the battlefield. Ferrus contained his wrath beneath a dignified facade but never buried it, and asked the same of his warriors. While Ferrus treasured those times on Terra he had spent working at the forge, shaping metal into weapons worthy of gifting to his demigod brothers, Lorgar had sequestered himself in the palace itself, debating philosophy, ancient history and human nature with Magnus and the Emperor’s more cerebral courtiers, advisers and viziers.
The closest they’d come to an accord was still a memory barely worthy of any family. Lorgar had come to find Ferrus in his forge, working at the construction of something molten, dangerous and undoubtedly destined to be a weapon of war. It seemed all the Iron Hands primarch was capable of.
Knowing the spiteful thought was petty, Lorgar had sought to temper it. ‘One wonders if you are capable of making anything that creates, rather than destroys.’ He tried to smile, hoping it would rob the accusation of any venom as he stood uncomfortably in the heat blaring from the open furnace.
Ferrus had cast a glance over his dark-skinned shoulder and watched his fey brother for a moment, not returning the smile. ‘One wonders if you are capable of creating anything worthwhile at all.’
Lorgar’s golden features had tightened, the smile now etched on rather than worn with any sincerity. ‘You summoned me?’
‘What? Why?’
‘I won’t call it a rescue,’ said Ferrus, ‘for my warriors wouldn’t stand for that. But I owe you thanks for the “reinforcement” at Galadon Secondus.’
‘You owe me nothing, brother. I live to serve.’
Ferrus grunted, as if doubting even that. ‘Be that as it may, here is a token of my appreciation.’
Ferrus’s Legion was named for the primarch himself. His arms were metallic, but not robotic, as if formed from some alien compound of organic silver. Lorgar had never asked about his brother’s unique biology, knowing that Ferrus would never explain it to him.
As he reached a nearby table, he lifted a long weapon with a sure grip. Without a word, he tossed it to Lorgar. The Word Bearer caught it neatly with one hand, though it was heavier than he’d expected and he winced under its sudden weight.
‘It’s called Illuminarum,’ Ferrus was already working back at his anvil. ‘Try not to break it.’
‘I... I do not know what to say.’
‘Say nothing.’ Already, the falling ring of hammer-hand upon yielding steel. Clang, clang, clang. ‘Say nothing, and leave me be. That will spare us any halting attempts at conversation when we agree on
nothing, and have nothing but awkwardness to share.’
‘As you wish.’ Lorgar had forced a smile to his brother’s back, and left in silence. Such was the extent of his closeness to Fulgrim and Ferrus.
Lorgar stared at the two of them now, awe paling his features as their weapons cracked off each other, shedding sprays of power-field lightning.
The First Heretic Page 36