by Various
‘So the orbital plate has cleared Palace airspace,’ Valdor confirmed.
‘Yes, sir,’ Stentonox said. ‘On its way to Illium, Emperor willing, with Captain Katafalque still on board.’
‘He’s a stubborn, humourless bastard,’ Valdor sighed. ‘Not unlike Dorn himself. That said, there’s no one from the Legiones Astartes I’d rather have manning our walls.’
Stentonox found himself forced to agree.
The shield-captain found himself lost in thought. The action on Arcus was behind him, but Stentonox had found it difficult to relax. It wasn’t just that the Palace was still at high alert; something had been gnawing away at the back of his mind, the niggling feeling that he had missed something important. Something he didn’t want to leave unattended for the next Master of the Watch to deal with...
He let his eyes drift from Constantin Valdor and across the glorious, golden plate of his Ares Guard. He looked up at the Terminators on the concentrica security gate, and at the sentry assigned to him as Master of the Watch. His gaze fell to the Custodian’s rank and testimonials. Lentum Foot Knight, Vega Eritreus Sengral Obispum.
‘Shield-captain?’ said Valdor.
Vega.
There was something about the way the foot knight carried himself – about the way he strode, tall and proud, with his guardian spear held before him.
‘Shield-captain,’ Valdor pressed. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Just one piece of outstanding business, sir,’ Stentonox replied.
The shield-captain spun upon his armoured heel. He went for the foot knight escorting him down the arcade, but the Custodian’s halberd was between them in a flash. Stentonox grabbed the haft and the pair wrestled for control of the weapon, prompting the Chief Custodian’s Ares Guard to surround their master in a protective formation.
Stentonox got a thumb over the ejection stud on the boltgun attachment’s breach, and the heavy magazine clattered to the ground as he and the foot knight circled, pushing each other back and forth across the arcade. Vega heaved the guardian spear forwards with a powerful shove, smashing Stentonox in the face.
As the shield-captain fell back against the wall, the Ares Guard levelled their own weapons at the foot knight. ‘Hold your fire,’ Stentonox managed, but Vega came at them, throwing the halberd like a javelin. The shield-captain went to grab the unarmed foot knight but found himself snatched around with lightning speed.
Vega used the shield-captain as a pivot to turn and propel Stentonox straight into the Ares Guard formation. The foot knight followed him, snatching a short sword from the scabbard of one of the veteran Custodians. The blade’s owner paid for its loss – Vega rammed it into the warrior’s back, then whipped it back to parry the spear thrusts of the others.
Stentonox came up between the foot knight and the nearest Ares Guard. He grabbed Vega’s sword arm, burying his shoulder in the foot knight’s armoured chest. Smashing down with his elbow, Stentonox knocked the weapon out of his opponent’s grip. As the blade clattered to the stone floor, the shield-captain turned to restrain him but was greeted with an armoured headbutt to the face.
Dodging the sweeping blade of a guardian spear, the foot knight snatched at the weapon, turning it in its owner’s grasp and disarming the Custodian. Heaving the warrior back into the opposite wall with a crack of golden battleplate, Vega found himself face to face with his true target: Constantin Valdor.
The Captain-General of the Legio Custodes had not been watching the unfolding chaos like some casual observer, waiting for his Custodians to defend him. He was primed. He was ready. His attacker’s moves had been blinding, his assault confident, but Vega had barely recovered his balance when the great fist of the Chief Custodian took him squarely in the faceplate.
The foot knight was propelled backwards by the sheer force of the blow. He tumbled back, his knees flying over his shoulders, and landing some distance up the passageway on his face and breastplate. Pushing himself to his knees, he shook the skull-rattling force of the impact from his helmet.
Sentries came from the concentrica gate, levelling the long barrels of their incinerators at the foot knight, and the Ares Guard surrounded the Chief Custodian once more. Stentonox stood beside the injured, wiping blood from his broken nose.
‘Enough,’ the shield-captain told Vega, ‘or I clear them to fire.’
The foot knight got shakily to his feet, looking back at the Terminators behind him and the concentrica gate to the inner Palace, then back to Stentonox and the Chief Custodian. He went limp, and nodded his surrender.
‘Report to the infirmary,’ Stentonox told the wounded Ares Guard, sending them on their way.
‘Captain Stentonox?’ Valdor put to the captain.
The shield-captain turned and presented himself. Similarly, Vega stood to attention.
‘Captain-General, may I present Custodian Belisarius,’ Stentonox said. ‘The final participant in the present cycle of the Blood Games.’
Constantin Valdor’s tired face broke into a grim smile of appreciation. The foot knight took off his ruined high helm, revealing the fresh face of a young and ambitious Custodian.
‘Impressive.’
‘That’s not the half of it, sir,’ Stentonox said. ‘I have deduced that Custodian Belisarius was also on board the orbital plate today – he had been hoping to gain access to the Palace as one of the indentured workforce.’
Stentonox looked to the young Custodian, who nodded slowly.
Valdor nodded as well. ‘I’ll wager he would have succeeded.’
‘Perhaps,’ the shield-captain replied. ‘Instead, he found his talents turned to... diplomatic sabotage, engaging the gravitic anchor from the orbital plate’s drive column, and thereby saving the lives of both Legio Custodes and Legiones Astartes. He also covertly alerted the Silent Sisterhood to our stalemate, thereby saving everyone else.’
‘You knew this at the time?’ Valdor asked.
‘No, sir – unfortunately I did not,’ Stentonox admitted. ‘Custodian Belisarius did not wish to compromise his performance in the games. Regrettably, I came to the realisation only a few moments ago. Belisarius must have left the plate disguised as one of our own, Custodian Vega. He intended to infiltrate the Palace defences as... well, as one of the Legio Custodes, sir. I fear he pushed his luck when he assigned himself as my sentry in the hope of achieving access to the inner Palace.’ Stentonox ran the forefinger and thumb of one gauntlet down his now crooked nose. ‘It almost smacks of hubris.’
‘And it almost worked,’ Valdor concluded.
‘Indeed, sir,’ the shield-captain said. ‘It seems to me that Custodian Belisarius was trying to make a point. As part of his infiltration, he clearly made you a target – I think that it would be wise to learn something from this. As principal among the Emperor’s protectors and the head of the Palace’s security, you are a target for our enemies.’
‘We all are,’ Valdor said. ‘All those who stand between Horus and the Emperor.’
‘Sir.’
The Chief Custodian looked at them both for a long moment. ‘We’ll talk more of this, though. We’ll talk about what else can be done.’
It had been a long day. Stentonox had carried the duty of Palace security for only twenty-four hours, and yet he felt completely drained. Exhausted, even. He found it difficult to imagine the strength it might take to carry such a burden with every day that dawned.
Pushing through his Ares Guard and walking up towards the concentrica gate, Constantin Valdor turned back to the battered Stentonox and Belisarius. ‘Know this – I sleep better knowing that there are Custodians like you within our ranks. For now, let us enjoy some well-earned rest. When the enemy is at our gates, there will be little time for such luxuries.’
Constantin Valdor and Enobar Stentonox review the matters of the day
I am dying.
&nbs
p; A flickering retinal display tells me that my cybernetics are functioning, but I cannot move them. Without flesh to impel it, the iron means nothing. Without an engine to drive it, what use is the machine? For all its ostensible fortitude and resilience, I now discover that iron is just as weak as flesh. It is ironic that only now does this revelation strike me.
Julius is walking away from me, the arrogant cur. It takes me a moment to realise why he is upside down and I see his armoured heels disappearing into the distance. My Tactical Dreadnought armour has failed. I’m on my back, trying to hold in my guts.
I am not alone.
The dead are everywhere, their ranks swelling with each passing second. Morlocks in funerary black surround me. I see snatches of iconography, a splash of blood. Their wounds are fresh, but the legacy of them, and the wounds against this Legion, will linger long after this battle has ended. I will not see its end, though. I feel no regret or sadness – anger fills me instead, a black well of hatred that I am slowly slipping into.
My head lolls to the side, and I see a face I recognise. I rasp a name.
‘Desaan...’
He doesn’t answer. My brother is already gone.
I try to suppress the sense of fatalism that seizes my mind, just as the chill of death begins to seize my body.
I want to believe that this can all end in victory, that we weren’t simply undone by a lie.
Then I see him, emerging through a cloud of smoke, shimmering in the heat haze from a thousand fires, and the one whom he faces. Death is close, its hands around my throat, digging through my innards with eager talons. Slit from abdomen to neck, the pain rivals anything I have ever felt before... But I must hang on. I have to see this.
Blackness crouches at the edge of my vision. I am content to let it, just as long as I can remain conscious.
Two brothers face one another amidst an ocean of war, the dead lapping at their feet.
One is stern – his eyes like pools of mercury, hair cut close to the scalp. Cold and unyielding, his face is as craggy and hard as a Medusan cliff. Black as coal, with arms of pearlescent silver, he is brawn personified with a fresh-forged vengeance.
Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon. My father.
The other is slender, even in his purple and gold armour. His unhelmed visage is handsome, the epitome of physical perfection, and long white hair streaks from his head like flashes of fire. He has my father’s weapon, the great hammer Forgebreaker. As he climbs to a spur of rock, this vainglorious yet deadly peacock, his movements are swaggering and arrogant.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician. My father’s brother.
Ferrus Manus will kill him for this affront. As he strides towards the spur with purpose, the living making way for this clash while the dead linger underfoot, he draws Fireblade. It burns like his anger, righteously.
Fulgrim’s smile remains. His arms are open as if to embrace the Gorgon. In truth, it is a mocking challenge. Below, my few surviving brothers of the Avernii Clan clash with the Phoenix Guard. Lightning claw meets halberd, and the death toll amongst the Morlocks and the Emperor’s Children rises.
I black out for a few seconds. My eyes are bloody and I witness the rest of the battle through a crimson filter that my retinal lenses cannot correct.
Forgebreaker looks heavy; too noble a weapon for Fulgrim’s ignoble hands, but he wields it deftly and I am reminded of his awesome prowess.
My father speaks words of accusation, but my hearing is fading and I fail to catch them. His teeth are bared in a predatory snarl. Fulgrim’s too, revealed in a liar’s grin.
From despair comes fury. Ferrus Manus charges the spur, his brother upon it.
My father is a brawler, brute strength and undeniable power, but Fulgrim’s technique is choreographed like a dancer’s. Even with Forgebreaker, he is swift and precise. He rains blows against my father’s defence, smashes him down time and again. Ferrus Manus will not be bowed. Anger fuels him, and Fulgrim feels the heat of it. His smile wavers, turning to an uncertain frown.
I am weakening; my body is shutting down. My mind clings on by the thinnest skein. I have to see this. I need to know...
They circle, two demi-gods surrounded by the last of my dying kin. My father’s pauldron is dented by a glancing blow. The return is quick and two-handed, and leaves a fiery split in the Phoenician’s war-plate. The Gorgon recoils, the haft of Forgebreaker smashed into his pugilist’s nose. He replies with a downward slash that Fulgrim dodges; a second cut clips the primarch’s cheek and he snarls. He thrusts out with the hammer, a jab that punches the air from my father’s lungs and leaves him gasping. A desperate cross-cut keeps Fulgrim at arm’s length as the Phoenician leaps back to avoid Fireblade’s sting. One-handed, Fulgrim loops the stolen hammer around for a murderous blow, but Ferrus Manus blocks it. Sparks cascade, lightning crackling from both weapons.
I hear thunder, and imagine the very earth trembling against the fury of this duel.
For a moment they are locked, brother versus brother, Fireblade grinding against Forgebreaker’s haft.
With a roar, Ferrus Manus throws Fulgrim off, but the Phoenician is quick to recover. He spins away from the thrust aimed at his chest and lands a punch against the Gorgon’s exposed jaw. He shrugs it off and draws a cut down Fulgrim’s flank. Hard to tell for certain – my vision is starting to blur and the pain has ebbed to a dull ache that will soon become an endless cold – but I swear that the Phoenician exhaled in pleasure at that last wound.
Truly, he is depraved.
Mocking laughter erupts from Fulgrim, his arrogance boundless even in the face of incandescent hatred. Savagely, my father lashes out and rips the shoulder guard from Fulgrim’s otherwise pristine armour. If I could make a fist in triumph, I would. With gathering momentum, the Gorgon turns inside the Phoenician’s guard and makes to thrust with Fireblade.
My eyes widen in anticipation of victory...
But Fulgrim counters, faster than any warrior has a right to, and turns the blow aside before crafting one of his own that strikes my father’s skull.
Anguish rises with the blood in my gorge, but I dare not look away. I could not even if I wanted to.
Ferrus Manus is staggered, bowed on one knee but resolute. Blood is streaming from his head, drenching him in a red shroud. Gritting his teeth, he finds a gap in the Phoenician’s otherwise flawless guard and cuts deep across his torso.
Fulgrim falls back, Forgebreaker no longer in his grasp as he clutches at his body. On their knees, they stare at one another, but I am struck by the Phoenician’s apparent melancholy. I suspect lucidity has already fled, for I look upon Fulgrim and see true sadness. It is usurped by acceptance as Ferrus Manus rises to his feet.
Fireblade hangs aloft like a frozen comet, burning.
I am about to commit myself to duty’s end. Death has stayed its hand and I am thankful for it.
But the fatal blow does not fall. I blink and wonder if I have missed some crucial moment.
A silver blade flashes in Fulgrim’s grip. It halts Fireblade mid-swing, but the burning sword is descending all the same.
A harsh flash of light hurts my eyes, but I no longer have the strength to look away. An aura, dark and eldritch, has enveloped both primarchs – I see Fulgrim on his feet and my father back on his knees, his armour parted as though it were parchment.
I want to cry out, to rage at the wrongness of it. Fate has been thwarted. As I near death, I see it, I see the thing inside the Phoenician. It is writhing and serpentine, yet the flesh-host around it is staggering, bereft of his usual finesse.
Fulgrim’s eyes widen, and as they meet my own, I see his terror. I see the desperate urgency in him that screams not to kill his brother.
The blow falls. I cannot stop it. Iron skin shears apart, cleaved by amethyst fire.
I detect the reek of something spoiled, rotten meat and old flesh.
Rolling over the slopes, surging from some unseen place come katabatic winds. They wash over me, over the dead, and I hear voices trapped within them.
They are screaming.
There are voices within the screams, beckoning me on. They come from the Land of Shadows, from Medusa, where the revenants of old, long forgotten lives still walk. They come for me, the slain warriors of the Clan Avernii, reaching out to take me with them, to grant me peace.
I recoil as their faces change, as noble Medusan sons devolve into wraithly phantoms. Fingers wither into talons, eyes shrink into orbless sockets. They seek to drag me into the darkness, and I have just enough will left to deny them their soul-feast.
Upon the Isstvan plain, a chilling tempest rages, with my dead father and his killers at the heart of it. I see the essence of life leaving the Gorgon through his severed neck. His head lies separate from it, glassy-eyed and etched with rage.
As the wind dies, I feel my torment just beginning.
Fulgrim stoops, although it isn’t the Phoenician. With one hand, he seizes my father’s cropped hair and presents the bloody head to me.
I do not see a primarch – I behold a monster. My closeness to death has gifted me that truth.
And in that moment, as my heart beats its last and a final breath saws painfully through my lungs, I realise what faces us. I can see it clearly. I see that we–
There are voices and words in the echoes. Some of the words are spoken by the voices, but not all. There are words born from no tongue. They are heavy with dark meaning, sharp with truth and coiling with toxins. And there are voices that say nothing, yet howl the void of madness. So many echoes shatter against each other, slithering down the slopes and bouncing off rocks with predator leaps. They do not travel on the wind. They are the wind.
And some of them have come for him.
Tsi Rekh stands on a bluff. He has left his acolytes at the camp. Before him is the plain. It is a vast expanse of dry, cracked mud. It looks like the flaking carcass of Davin itself. In the centre, half a day’s march away, a single conical peak rises – the Mount of the Lodge. Its silhouette darkens with the falling night. It becomes a shadow, one that reaches out to him with its absence and echoes.