Fear to Tread

by James Swallow

  The emissary nodded, a sliver of black tongue appearing at his lips. ‘Signus Prime will be reborn. And you will all be a part of it.’

  FOUR

  Well Met

  Light-Bringers

  Angel of Pain

  The hull of the Storm Eagle resonated with the pulse of its engines, and reflected shards of alien starlight flickered across the viewports as the craft threaded its way through the Blood Angels warfleet. Standing free in the troop compartment, Brother Meros walked cautiously along the length of the gunship’s loading racks, listening carefully to the motivators in his power armour, to the low whine of the artificial musculature beneath the ceramite sheath. He was pleased to be clad in his battle plate once more; the repair work of the Legion’s Techmarines had fully restored his armour to combat readiness, and there was no trace of the point-blank impact of the eldar soulseeker round that had almost cost him his life. For the first time in weeks, Meros felt correct, his spirits lifted.

  The view through the portal did much to enhance his mood. Out in the blackness, as far as his augmented vision could see, there were starships. The majestic sight of them stirred emotion deep in his twin hearts.

  An armada of crimson steel and black iron hung in the void, floating there like the vast sculptures of a martial artisan. Huge battle-barges, bespoke creations built in the massive orbital manufactories of Foss, drifted past with stately menace. The size of cities, they bristled with galleries of weapons powerful enough to scour the surface of a planet, and their launch bays were packed with squadrons of attack fighters, bombers and landers. Towers covered their dorsal and ventral hulls, thousands of lights glittering on their flanks, and even at this distance Meros could make out the artistic flourishes of their grand designs – the metal statuary and ornamental forgings that decorated their wide hammerhead bows.

  Smaller capital ships moved in the shadow of the bigger craft, but their scale against the barges was deceptive. Many of the other vessels were three or four times the length of the Hermia – grand cruisers and battleships that were more than enough to project the fearsome power of the Imperium. Some were built around the spines of megaweapons, engines and crew compartments clustered about nucleonic lasers, particle bombardment arrays and lance cannon clusters. These in turn were flanked by their own companion ships, riding with escorts, gunboats or destroyers in close formation.

  The Storm Eagle banked as it passed over a group of Nova-class frigates in a staggered line-abreast formation, and Meros looked down on the red prows of the warships, the Legion’s sigil emblazoned proudly on their flanks. There were hundreds of ships out here, brought together under the glow of a lonely pulsar, in a region largely devoid of colonial systems – or indeed anything at all. The rendezvous was on the edge of one of the galaxy’s spiral arms, and if one faced in the right direction, the near-lightless infinity of intergalactic space filled the sky. Some might have felt humbled by that, but not Meros. All around him, he saw the living exemplars of the power of the Blood Angels Legion, and by that mark the power of humankind to hold back the night.

  These ships and the warriors aboard them were the scions of Baal and Terra, forever challenging the stars. To be part of that great endeavour was to be one among millions; and yet Meros never felt he was diminished because of it. Rather, the grand mission, this Great Crusade, elevated them all.

  With the arrival of the Ignis and her task force, the gathering of the Blood Angels host was now complete, and the grand fleet was in preparation to make space for their ultimate destination. The anticipation of the battle they were next to fight gathered in Meros as if it were a tangible energy, like a static charge across his skin. He knew that his brothers felt the same way.

  The Storm Eagle’s blunt nose was turning, and suddenly there was a wall of adamantium ahead of them. The heart of the fleet lay ahead: the Red Tear, flagship and chariot of the Angel himself.

  Meros took a breath. It was an effort to turn away from the spectacle of the mighty starship, but he did so. His eyes fell on a group of legionaries at the far end of the cargo compartment, their grey armour blending into the metallic hues of the decking.

  None of the Space Wolves reacted to his scrutiny, even though they must have noticed it. The sons of Russ spoke quietly amongst themselves, their captain busying himself with the sharpening of the combat knife he wore in a chest-scabbard. The weapon whispered along a whetstone, catching the light as it moved.

  Meros was unsure what to expect from the Fenrisians; he had never fought alongside them in battle, and what the Blood Angel knew of the Space Wolves’ reputation came from a mix of tales that painted them as barbarians and brutal lords of war. He was intrigued, though; the Apothecary believed that the measure of a man was best learned directly, not through the experiences of others. He wondered if he would have an opportunity to speak to the Wolf-kindred.

  ‘They say Russ’s Legion kill and eat their wounded.’ Meros’s squadmate Sarga appeared at his side, his narrow face and tight cowl of blond hair drained of colour by the harsh glow of the cargo bay illuminators. ‘I could believe it.’

  Meros eyed him. ‘What do you think they say about us?’ He showed his teeth, the hard light flashing off his canines. ‘That we drink the blood of our enemies? Which is true?’

  Sarga’s familiar crooked smile pulled at his lips. ‘Spend some time with Captain Amit’s company and you’ll have that answer, eh?’

  The Apothecary’s attention was drawn to the one called Stiel, the Rune Priest. His head was bowed and he was hard at work with a small, thin tool, busy with what appeared to be a length of jawbone. Stiel was carving tiny lines in the bleached surface of the bone, drawing runes and symbols. Clasped in the thick fingers of his battle gauntlet, the etching rod was a tiny thing, yet he moved it back and forth with great dexterity. Other, similarly carved fetishes and trinkets hung from leather cords draped around the Space Wolf’s neck, and Meros found himself wondering after the meanings of them. The Blood Angel’s armour had its own decorative items – campaign studs, the red device of the Prime Helix – but nothing so apparently fragile or impermanent as the bone.

  ‘Perhaps I should ask the Wolf,’ said Meros. ‘We are all brothers under the Emperor, after all. Legion badge makes no difference.’

  Sarga snorted softly, affecting the lightly mocking tone that seemed to be his default manner. ‘Azkaellon would not agree with that. You were there. You saw how Redknife refused to bend the knee to him. I think it true to say that the Guard Commander would have left the Wolves down on the bilge decks if he could have.’ He turned away. ‘Let them be, Meros. If they won’t be drawn on their reasons for joining us, so be it. They can watch us win this coming fight and then take that story back to the Fang. Perhaps we’ll teach the barbarians something.’

  Meros frowned, thinking of Stiel’s careful carving. ‘They’re not barbarians. One could use that word for the junkhunters and desert tribes on Baal, and be just as mistaken. If Azkaellon thinks that, he should reconsider.’

  ‘Tell him yourself, then.’ Sarga jerked a thumb at the bow. ‘He’s in the cockpit right now. I’m sure he’d appreciate your input.’

  ‘I’ll keep my own counsel,’ Meros replied, following him back down the length of the craft. ‘If the illustrious commander wants to hear from one as far down the ranks as me, I’m sure he knows where to look.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Sarga said wryly.

  Red lights flashed into life over their heads and a hooting klaxon sounded twice.

  From the acceleration frames, Sergeant Cassiel gave a shout that carried the length of the troop bay. ‘We’re landing! Take your places, make ready and be on your watch! This is the primarch’s flagship, and we will show it respect!’

  The Storm Eagle’s nose dipped and the smooth passage through vacuum became the shudder of atmospheric flight as the ship crossed through the Red Tear’s atmospheric envelope.

  Meros took a last look out of the viewport, and saw red iron flash past
him, swallowed moments later by the brilliant glare of service lamps.

  The crimson Storm Eagle was just one among many, flights of them hanging from maintenance racks overhead or nestled in arming pits where Legion serfs were loading rocket pods and missiles onto under-wing hardpoints. Its entrance would have gone unnoticed but for the high rank of one of its passengers and the delay in its arrival. Brother Kano was observing from the main gantry as Azkaellon marched down the boarding ramp to be met by Sergeant Zuriel, and the two Sanguinary Guard shared a terse greeting. Their gold armour stood out starkly against the steel of the landing platform. Azkaellon did not wait for the rest of the party on board to disembark, setting off swiftly with Zuriel, leaving the contingent of warriors from the Ninth Company to find their own way.

  Kano watched Azkaellon go, sensing the dark mood that trailed him like a shadow; but then he dismissed the thought as a smile crossed his lips. A familiar face appeared among the Blood Angels emerging from beneath the Storm Eagle’s fuselage, and he strode down to meet him. ‘Meros!’

  The Apothecary looked up and returned the same grin. ‘Kano! Well met, brother.’ They shook hands warmly, and Meros nodded. ‘I might have known I would see you here, in the heart of it all.’

  ‘The First Company,’ he replied. ‘We are ever the tip of the lance.’

  One of Meros’s squadmates eyed him. ‘Just tell your honoured captain to remember to save us some foes to smite, eh?’

  ‘This is Sarga,’ said Meros. ‘He saved my life on Nartaba Octus, and that’s made him hungry to be a hero again.’

  Kano raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure Raldoron will have work enough for Captain Furio and the rest of you.’

  Meros laughed. ‘You don’t change, brother.’

  His friend’s off-hand comment had an unexpected bite that the former Librarian didn’t expect, but he shrugged it off. ‘I’ve been known to. But that’s not the issue… Mark me, but I expected to see nothing but your gene-seed return from Nartaba. The eldar…’ He paused as he saw Meros’s expression darken. ‘We were told it was hard fought back there.’

  The squad sergeant came within earshot, nodding grimly. ‘Aye, that’s the fact.’ He gave him a look. ‘You’re Kano, then? I am Cassiel. I understand Meros would have been dead five years back if not for you?’

  ‘A minor incident on Brecht IX. I was just in the right place at the right time, sergeant,’ Kano said, dismissing the comment. ‘And I owe Meros as much as he owes me.’

  Sarga smirked. ‘For a medicae, our errant battle-brother has a marked tendency to put himself in harm’s way, don’t you think?’

  ‘I have no wish for death,’ Meros retorted. ‘Glory, though…’ He grinned. ‘In the Angel’s name, I’ll take all of that.’

  The good humour of the meeting waned a little as Kano considered his friend’s words. ‘There will be opportunity for both in equal measure, brothers, if the rumours through the fleet are to be believed.’

  ‘Never been one for shipboard gossip,’ Cassiel said with a grimace.

  Sarga cocked his head. ‘I could stand to hear it. Or has it escaped everyone’s notice that we are amongst a gathering of heroes so large that it blots out suns? How many of us are there here in this place? The entire Legion?’

  ‘There will be a small caretaker force back on the home world,’ said Meros. ‘But aye, Sarga is correct. I’ve never seen so many of our starships in one location before.’

  ‘It is happening,’ Kano agreed, ‘by the direct order of the Warmaster. He sent a cohort of Word Bearers to carry the command and accompany us.’

  Cassiel’s lip curled. ‘More outsiders?’

  ‘More?’ repeated Kano.

  Meros inclined his head towards the Storm Eagle, where a second group of legionaries were disembarking. Kano raised an eyebrow at the figures in grey, watching the Space Wolves as they were formally greeted by a black-armoured Warden. For an instant his glance caught the blank gaze of a warrior in a skull-helm at the back of the group. An old, recognisable sensation began to build behind his eyes, but he cut it dead before it could fully form, breaking away and bringing his attention back to Meros and the others. ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as ours,’ said Sarga. ‘Came out of nowhere, they did. With orders from the Sigillite to join the grand fleet.’

  Kano frowned. ‘The workings of the minds of the Council of Terra are not revealed in their deeds. I can’t help but wonder what decisions are made in the halls of the Imperial Palace that we are not privy to.’

  ‘We are Legion,’ said Cassiel. ‘Ours is to obey and trust in men elevated above us.’

  ‘We are, yes.’ Sarga glanced at the sergeant. ‘I’ll follow my primarch into the maw of a black hole if he wishes it. But Kano’s right – the Regent and his ilk? They are not of the Legion. Not like us, or them.’ He nodded at the Space Wolves, as they moved away towards one of the elevator platforms. ‘Or even the Word Bearers. Can politicians and legislators understand what it is we have done out here? That’s a long, long view from the halls of Terra.’

  ‘Their words are good enough for the Angel.’ Cassiel gave him a cold stare. ‘They are good enough for you, legionary.’

  ‘The question that occupies my thoughts remains closer at hand,’ said Meros. He glanced towards Kano. ‘How many of our battle-brothers are at this rendezvous? A hundred thousand?’

  ‘More,’ he replied, without hesitation. ‘Every one of the companies is represented here, aboard the barges and the command carriers.’

  ‘A considerable assembly, and one that I would warrant has seldom been repeated in the history of our Legion.’ The Apothecary nodded to himself. ‘Brothers, if we are gathered in such numbers, the question must be asked: what kind of foe are we to be ranged against?’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Sarga. ‘We could mount an entire crusade of our own with this army! Meros is right. What’s out there of such threat it needs a hammer this large to break it?’

  ‘That answer will become clear soon enough,’ said a stern voice. As one, the Blood Angels turned to see the black-armoured Warden approaching them, the bleak visage of his helmet sweeping across their faces. ‘You concern yourself with things beyond your remit.’

  Kano frowned. ‘You cannot expect a warrior to meet war and not wish to know why, Annellus.’ From the back, he hadn’t recognised the acerbic Warden’s armour. Now he wondered how much of the conversation Annellus had heard. ‘We are not automata.’

  ‘You are weapons,’ the Warden retorted. ‘We all are. Blades in the hand of the Angel, sworn to his commands.’

  ‘I never said otherwise,’ Meros challenged the Warden’s caustic tone. ‘And if I am to fight and die for Sanguinius, I will do so. But all I ask is to know what I face.’

  Kano watched as Annellus came up to study Meros, the ruby-tinted lenses of his helmet reflecting his battle-brother’s dark eyes. ‘Are you afraid of what you do not know?’ he demanded.

  Sarga let out a low snort. Meros glared back at the Warden. ‘Don’t doubt my resolve.’

  ‘I am a Warden of the Legion,’ Annellus told him. ‘Matters of resolve are my concern.’ Before anyone else could answer, the warrior turned away from Meros, his gaze dwelling on Kano for a moment before moving on. ‘If we question where we need not, we undermine, and in that the seeds of defeat are sown even before the first shot rings out.’ His hand fell to the crozius chained at his hip. ‘Trust your commanders. Know that their orders are true. All else is of secondary concern...’ He trailed off, cocking his head. Kano knew the gesture; he was listening to a vox-signal on a closed channel.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, Warden,’ said Sarga, ‘I’ll wait to hear it from the Angel’s lips.’

  Annellus looked up. ‘You won’t need to wait, brother.’ He pointed upwards. ‘See.’

  All across the Blood Angels battlefleet, golden vox-horns mounted in every wall sounded in a triumphant chorus. The first few bars of the Anthem Sanguinatus played d
own corridors and across decks; every being aboard the ships from Legion serf to company commander knew what those tones signified. The primarch was about to address them.

  For a moment, all activity came to a halt. Only mindless servitors and mechanical cogitator units went on about their tasks, oblivious to the great import of the lines of machine-call data reaching out invisibly from the Red Tear, lines of data bidding the other vessels in the fleet to pay heed. Pict-screens on billet deck bulkheads and in the open refectories became active. Intercoms went online automatically. Legionaries sealed in their armour found their vox-channels redirected and commandeered, and in spaces where hololithic projector heads were mounted, ghostly shimmers of light faded into being.

  One of the Red Tear’s many hololithic modules was fitted into the roof of the landing bay where Meros and the others now stood, hundreds of metres up above them. With a gleam of captured photons, the ghost of a great figure appeared, dwarfing the warriors who raised their faces to look up.

  Resplendent in glittering armour, shrouded in white wings that vanished as they passed beyond the sphere of the image projector’s radius, the Primarch Sanguinius appeared to his Legion with his expression set in a steady, watchful aspect. ‘My sons,’ he began, his voice echoing down kilometres of now silent corridors, ‘well met. My heart swells with pride to see such splendour in your numbers. The Great Crusade has never seen the like.’

  Proud and resolute, even in this virtual form he radiated a confidence so vital that any shadows of doubt among his sons were, for the moment, banished beneath his light. The detail of the primarch’s intricately-worked power armour was rendered perfectly, the sculpted edges of the golden plate visible along with the fine etching across the brassarts, shoulder guards and breastplate. On his chest was a heavy ornamental roundel carved from huge Megladari rubies. The central jewel was cut into the shape of a heart and set on a mount of gold flames, and it signified the burning spirit of the Blood Angels as expressed through their primarch. Atop it were four more ruby discs, each dedicated to one of the worlds where the Legion had drawn its numbers – Terra, in the first instance, then Baal and her two moons. Across one shoulder he wore a ceremonial war cloak, the black-dappled pelt of a carnodon; similar in form to the extinct snow leopards of old Earth but much, much larger, the ice stalker had been Sanguinius’s first kill during the pacification of Teghar Pentarus, his initial battle after reuniting with his father.