Fear to Tread

by James Swallow

  A ripple of voices moved through the assembled men, and Meros heard the familiar, arch tones of Annellus. ‘That name is for children’s stories, a relic of old mythology and legend banished by the Emperor’s illumination!’

  Amit rounded on the Warden, stabbing a finger at him. ‘Do not deny what you saw with your own eyes. These things we are fighting are not the nephilim, they never were! And they are not alien, they are beyond that.’ He looked around, glaring at the others. ‘Any one of you, I defy you to tell me you do not sense it too. Nothing spawned from our universe could encompass these horrors, and we forswear that to our cost!’

  ‘You have made your point, Amit–’ began Sanguinius.

  ‘No,’ he snapped, daring to speak over his master. ‘No, my liege. I have not.’

  The Sanguinary Guard Mendrion rocked off his stance at the primarch’s side and stepped up to chastise the captain, but Sanguinius’s hand held him in place.

  ‘I have more to say,’ Amit intoned. ‘And many will not wish to hear it, but in the name of Baal and Terra it must be voiced!’

  Meros felt his blood run cold as his primarch’s angelic visage became as hard as carved marble. ‘Speak then, my son.’

  Amit nodded, and Meros saw something in the captain that he had never seen before: a moment of doubt, of sorrow. ‘My fears about Signus Prime have been proven right. This place is a trap for our Legion. We have been assailed by lies and shadows since we first set sail.’ He shot a brief look at Kano, then away again. ‘And Kreed’s duplicity in leading us to it can mean only one thing. We have been betrayed.’

  ‘Kreed might lack courage,’ said Raldoron, breaking his silence. ‘But he has no reason to lead us to ruin.’

  ‘You limit your thinking, First Captain,’ Amit replied. ‘Tanus Kreed is not the architect of this. He’s a follower, not a leader.’

  ‘Erebus?’ Azkaellon said the name without thinking.

  Amit shook his head. ‘I say look higher still, brothers. Who sent us here?’

  ‘Choose your next words carefully,’ said the primarch, becoming very still.

  The captain gave a grunt of humourless laughter. ‘You know that is not my way, master. I must say what I believe, and I believe the Warmaster sent us here with a lie on his lips, with full knowledge of what he–’

  Gold armour flashed like lightning and Meros recoiled at the crackling shock of metal on ceramite, the deep rush of white wings snapping against the air. Suddenly Amit was sprawled on the hull with a new impact crater on his careworn armour and Sanguinius standing over him. The Angel moved so fast, the Apothecary had barely registered the movement, sweeping in and knocking Amit down with the pommel of his great sword. The red blade now came about in the primarch’s hands, and the tip rested upon the captain’s bared throat.

  ‘You will beg forgiveness for casting such aspersions on my brother Horus,’ he spat, his expression thunderous, ‘and then I will cut this armour from you and mark you for punishment.’ The icy rage with which the threat was delivered robbed Meros of his breath.

  ‘I-I will not,’ Amit managed, blood flecking his lips, his full measure of courage spent in that moment. ‘The daemons knew we were coming. Who told them?’

  ‘Kyriss knew your name, lord,’ said Raldoron quietly. ‘He knew us.’

  ‘My brother would not betray me!’ Sanguinius shouted the denial, and the wind caught the words. ‘A betrayal of one is a betrayal of all, and that would be an affront to our father! Horus is loyal, and Lorgar may be wilful but he would never defy the Emperor. None of us would.’

  ‘Not so, Great Angel.’ Redknife took a step forwards. ‘Such acts have already been committed.’

  The primarch turned, bringing his blade to bear on the Space Wolf. ‘No riddles, son of Fenris.’

  Redknife bowed his head. ‘My brothers came here to watch you, my lord. On the Wolf King’s orders, in the Sigillite’s name. To report if you were to stray, as others have strayed.’ He looked up. ‘As the Crimson King has strayed.’

  ‘Magnus?’ Complex emotions crossed the primarch’s face, and no warrior dared speak. A moment of disappointment flashed in Sanguinius’s eyes. ‘He broke his word.’ It was not a question.

  A palpable sense of shock washed over the Blood Angels at the enormity of such a prospect. It seemed impossible to comprehend: the fraternity of the primarchs should have been beyond the base human potency of such sentiments, and yet as Meros listened with his heart thudding in his chest, as he looked upon his master, he knew this was truth unfolding before them.

  Like a dagger of ice, an instant of perfect recall cut across the line of his thoughts. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been weeks since the battles on Nartaba Octus, since the eldar soulseeker-round in his gut that had almost cost the Apothecary his life. Meros’s hand fell to the place where the scar lay across his belly.

  In the near-death that had followed, inside a Legion sarcophagus as Meros struggled to survive against the telepathic alien poisons in his blood, a strange and powerful vision had come to him. Another Blood Angel, familiar and yet unknown, fighting at his side.

  The phantom’s final word to him had been a name, spoken like a warning. Like a curse of the darkest order.

  Horus.

  The Apothecary’s reverie shattered like glass and suddenly he returned to the moment. All around him, every warrior was speaking at once, arguing vehemently over the implications of Amit’s suspicions and the bleak possibilities of Redknife’s revelation. He saw Annellus and Cloten in fierce disagreement, Raldoron staring off into the distance as if bereft, Azkaellon denying it over and over, Nakir and Carminus in grave concord.

  Then thunder came on an angel’s wings.

  Sanguinius, his fangs bared in fury, gave a snarl and rolled his great sword around in an arc of shining metal that hummed through the heavy air. He brought the blade down with ground-shaking force, embedding the tip in the scarred and blackened adamantium of the Red Tear’s hull. The mighty weapon rang like a struck bell, releasing a clear and perfect chime that echoed over the wasteland. He released his hand from the hilt and let it stand there, vibrating with the force of the resonant blow.

  ‘No,’ he told them, and it was command enough that for one moment Meros felt it might stop the turning of the world beneath their feet. The Angel looked at each one of them in turn, and the noble splendour of his face was changed; the aspect of the seraph become the severe bearing of a warlord. ‘Whatever truth hides from us now, whatever truth has been hidden… It counts for nothing on this day, in this place.’ Sanguinius reached down and unlocked one of his gauntlets, casting the armoured glove to the deck.

  Raldoron and Azkaellon were the first to do the same, and within moments every warrior on the deck had followed the Angel’s gesture.

  ‘Draw your blades,’ he told them, pausing to offer his hand to Amit so the captain could regain his footing.

  Meros pulled his chainaxe from the mag-lock on his back, and all around him he saw Blood Angels drawing combat knives or unsheathing battle swords. An orchard of naked steel glittered in the dull sunlight.

  Sanguinius gripped the bared edge of his great sword and squeezed. Rich, bright crimson flowed from his palm and down the length of the blade. Meros nodded and gripped the razor-sharp tungsten teeth of his axe. His battle-brothers all drew blood, droplets of red spattering the hull, flowing together and merging. It was the tradition of the chalice, but writ large and held upon the edge of a killing blade.

  ‘This is our vow,’ said the Angel. ‘We will do what must be done here. Fight and win. That is all that matters.’

  For now. Sanguinius did not say the words, but every one of his sons heard them.

  FOURTEEN

  The Plains of the Damned

  To the War

  Bloodthirster

  Kano walked across the landing bay, picking his footing with care. He edited the pain of each step from his thoughts by the force of his will, taking the white heat and cont
aining it in an impregnable box. The figurative container was brimming, though, and all the actions of the neurochemical glands in his bio-implants and the drug philtres he had been dosed with did not stem the flow of agony. Kano was walking on blades, enduring it with stoic, iron calm.

  The fleshy hulk that had attacked him in the hull spaces had come upon him with sheer force of mass, cracking his armour and threatening to flatten him under its weight. His warplate, fractured from head-to-toe and near useless, had been stripped from him and sent to Metriculus’s metalworkers in vain hopes of repair – but the masters of arms had many other tasks to attend to and Kano doubted he would be garbed in anything other than duty robes for the foreseeable future.

  The armour had been ruined saving his life, but still it had not been enough to preserve him fully. The crushing bulk of the monster had strangled him like a giant constrictor, breaking many of his bones despite the dense metallic content of his gene-altered skeleton. Minor organs in his torso had burst, requiring surgery to excise and replace. By all rights, the Blood Angel should have been in the deep torpor of a recovery sleep, but he had refused to activate his sus-an membrane. He could not afford to be out of this war.

  And yet, as he walked through the masses of warriors preparing to disembark, he knew that he already was.

  ‘Emperor’s blood!’ He pulled back his hood and turned to find Meros advancing toward him from out of the shadow of a Phobos-class Land Raider. Sergeant Cassiel and the rest of the squad were assembled at the vehicle’s drop-ramp, preparing their weapons for deployment. His friend’s expression was severe. ‘Brother, have you mislaid your senses?’

  ‘I…’ His words died in his throat. Kano lost all momentum for what he was about to say.

  Meros saw it. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to lie to me? Tell me you are whole and well and ready to meet the foe?’ The medicae shook his head. ‘Perhaps others might believe you, but I know you best. I saw that fiend’s attack.’

  ‘I should be dead,’ Kano retorted. ‘I came to thank you for saving my life, but now I don’t think I’ll bother.’

  ‘We’ve paid and repaid that debt to one another more times than I can count,’ Meros shot back. ‘You’re not coming with us.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You don’t give me orders–’

  ‘I do now!’ The medicae almost shouted, drawing the attention of others. ‘I asked the Master Apothecarion about your injuries. He still thinks you’re lying at rest in the infirmary!’

  Kano’s gaze dropped to the deck. ‘I can’t stand idle,’ he hissed. ‘Meros, I just can’t. You don’t know what it was like, to be in physical contact with that warp-spawned thing.’ Venom laced every word. ‘I heard its voice. It sang to me.’

  Meros’s annoyance faded. ‘I heard nothing… But then, I imagine I do not have the ears with which to listen, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kano replied. He said nothing for a moment. The roar of Hawkwings landing out in the staging zones beyond the open launch doors echoed all around them. A troop of Terminators was marching into the haze outside, the deck resonating with the collective drumming of their armoured feet.

  ‘What did it say to you?’ Meros glanced up as a flight of Bullock-pattern jetbikes sped over their heads, the warriors in their saddles matching the crimson of their blunt prows.

  In that instant it knew my name. Kano closed his eyes. It told me it was one of the Gida’Ljal, the spawn of the Ruinous Powers. ‘It made promises to me,’ he told his battle-brother. ‘About how we would all die, unless we surrendered.’

  The other legionary snorted. ‘That’s all? If I had a single Throne gelt for each time that threat was aired, I could buy my own galaxy.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Kano said, through gritted teeth, trying to find the words to explain and failing. ‘I have to be there. Something is coming and I… We have to be ready to fight it.’

  ‘We?’ Before Kano could say more, Meros leaned in. ‘Brother, listen to me. I know you won’t take to your rest, not now, not at the very moment this battle truly begins.’ He prodded his friend in the chest. ‘Even if you are not fully mended. That’s why I vouchsafed you to the Master Apothecarion, told him you did not require the sarcophagus and sleep to heal.’

  ‘Ah.’ Kano gave a weak smile. ‘I had wondered. Thank you.’

  Meros’s expression became severe. ‘But if you do something foolish and perish, then don’t damn well thank me for it.’ He prodded him again. ‘You’re not coming with us. You’ll stay here, defend the Red Tear. Say it.’

  At length, Kano gave a weary nod. ‘I will.’

  Meros did the same and turned back toward the Phobos. He took two steps and paused. ‘You’re right,’ he said without turning. ‘We will need you in this fight. All of you. No matter what the edict says.’

  Raldoron was met by the sight of a ring of golden seraphs as he entered the arming hall. Azkaellon and the rest of the Sanguinary Guard stood at equidistant points around the low podium in the middle of the chamber, where the primarch was attended by his servitors. The duty gear the Angel had worn about the ship was being prepared for war, pieces of the ceramite being removed and replaced with battle kit tailor-made for this combat environment. As each element of Sanguinius’s armour was removed and refitted, so Azkaellon and the guards did the same, mirroring their master with solemn care.

  The First Captain did not have the luxury of such finely-wrought wargear. His was only a suit of Mark IV plate, and while it was excellently maintained it seemed simplistic compared to that worn by Azkaellon. Although he did possess ornate pauldrons and a winged armet for rare occasions such as blade-moots and exhibition wars, they had not seen use since the passing of the Legion at the Ullanor parade, and he wondered if they ever would again.

  The primarch’s armour was brass and gold, it was awe and majesty, cut and beaten into heavy sheets to be draped across a warlord. His angelic wings lay about his powerful shoulders in cowls, the curve of them resembling more the pinions of a gigantic hawk than a seraph. The decorative rings and chains that normally adorned the feathers were gone, leaving them unfettered and ready to spread wide.

  Amid the shimmering golden greaves and warplate, ruby discs cut through with carved droplets of black sapphire gave proud sign to the Legion’s chosen sigil. Laurels and engraved battle-markers hung from the Angel’s belt, and he had his carnodon cloak bound to him with ropes of threaded carbon-fibre and gold. Raldoron’s eyes were drawn to the red metal of his master’s great sword, which was presently being cleaned and prepared by a Techmarine.

  Sanguinius looked up and beckoned Raldoron with a nod as the last piece of armour snapped into place. ‘You are dismissed,’ he told the others.

  Without a word, the Sanguinary Guard led the procession out of the hall, and the captain felt Azkaellon’s questioning gaze on his back.

  ‘We are ready, then?’ said the Angel.

  ‘The Legion awaits.’ Raldoron nodded, removing a pict-slate from a pouch on his belt. ‘Captain Redknife requested permission to join us in the fray, and I granted it. The fleet elements in orbit report the situation is stable, but contested. We do not yet have void-superiority, but then neither does the enemy.’ He tapped the display to activate it. ‘Our scouts have reported in. We have located what appears to be a single, massive stronghold several kilometres to the north.’

  ‘A single stronghold,’ repeated the primarch. ‘Ral, the colonial agency census mentioned six settlements alone in this quadrant.’

  ‘Indeed. I sent scouts toward those coordinates. All gone, my lord. Not even ruins remaining.’ He offered the slate. ‘This is all that still stands.’

  Sanguinius took the device and studied it, paging through the aerial images of the enemy fortress. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why are these picts so poor?’

  ‘Interference with the optical systems of the monitor birds we sent to over-fly the target.’ He paused. ‘The drones came back… different. I had them put down and burned.’
>
  ‘Difficult to estimate the size,’ said the Angel.

  ‘The central spire is approximately three kilometres high,’ Raldoron explained. ‘Laser ranging refused to give a consistent estimate. It’s almost as if the building isn’t fully there.’ He had pored over the images himself, until a strange, creeping discomfort in his gut forced him to look away. The stronghold resembled an ancient cathedral of tall, narrow cones and massive chapel arches. Around the central tower, there were four smaller spires, then a ring of eight more. The high angle of the pict from the monitor bird showed a clear geometric pattern to the architecture, but the base of the structure was shrouded in a peculiar pale haze that glowed, illuminated by a reddish glow from thousands of misted windows. The construction of the great cathedral was odd, its surface mottled as if it had been built from improperly finished stones.

  ‘A lance cannon shot from orbit would test the reality of this place without question.’ Sanguinius spoke as if it were to himself.

  ‘They cannot see it from up there,’ Raldoron told him. ‘I voxed Galan on the Covenant of Baal, asked his gunners to make a sounding for possible bombardment. He returned contact asking me why I wanted a bald patch of desert turned to glass.’

  ‘It’s here,’ said the primarch, ‘as clear as…’ He stopped, frowning at the blurry images. ‘Well. Perhaps not.’ He handed the slate back. ‘This was never going to be a war about holding high ground and sniping from distance.’ Sanguinius’s face twisted in a sneer. ‘That’s not what we do, not who we are.’

  Raldoron swallowed and ventured a thought. ‘The creature Kyriss knows that. If this is a trap as Amit said, that place is a lure. They’re waiting for us in there.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Angel. ‘But a foe who thinks we do not see that is a foe we will break upon his own hubris.’ He walked to where the sword was resting and picked it up as if it weighed nothing at all. Sanguinius looked at his own reflection in the blade, and Raldoron saw a glimpse of his troubled eyes. ‘Once I step out of this room, we are committed, old friend. We march to battle again.’