The Silent War

by Various

  The headbutt slammed home but, even as it did, Sigismund dropped and turned, Khârn’s wrist caught between his sword hilt and arm.

  Khârn’s momentum flipped him over and into the air. He twisted as he fell and landed on his feet, tensing to lunge back. Sigismund nudged the sword tip against the back of Khârn’s neck.

  Khârn bared his teeth. He was trembling, face twitching. He took a long, slow breath, and then nodded, once. Sigismund raised his sword. Blood clotted on his face; a deep gash marked the cheek under his left eye, and his nose was a mashed ruin.

  ‘Now at least it looks like you have been fighting,’ said Khârn.

  ‘That was a foolish move. You committed too much.’

  ‘I heard it worked for that bastard Sevatar. Besides, it is our way – when we are losing we make sure the other side bleeds more than us.’

  ‘You are holding back. You always do.’

  Khârn shook his head, face still twitching, and gestured at the circle of sand beneath their feet. ‘No, brother. I am just not very good at… this…’

  ‘I have stood with you in battle, Khârn. I have seen how you fight. Or have you forgotten?’

  ‘I have not forgotten. But this is not a battlefield.’

  ‘Your brothers fight here as though it is.’

  ‘No, they do not. And neither do you. True war is not control, brother. It is not bound by a fighting pit’s walls. It is the whirl of chance and fury, where there is nothing for you to cling on to. You fight because you must, because certainty drives you. Without that, what would you be?’

  Sigismund stiffened. ‘I will forgive the implication of your words, brother.’

  Khârn shrugged, though there was a brittle edge to his voice. ‘Always so sure. Always so much control, even in anger. But if the pillars of your world shook, if duty took you down a path where nothing was certain…’ Khârn reached up and ran his hand over the Butcher’s Nails bonded to his skull. ‘What then?’

  ‘I would be nothing,’ said Sigismund.

  ‘I will forgive the implication of your words, brother. And I don’t think you would be nothing without your chains of certainty. I think that, then, I truly would not want to face you. Even here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, because then I really would have to try and kill you.’

  They advance down the corridor, armoured feet echoing in the still air.

  ‘They died too easily,’ says Morn. Sigismund does not need to look at her to see the contempt on her face. In truth, he agrees with her and the implication of what she says worries him, but the atmosphere inside the comet shrine worries him more. The air has become thicker. Static crackles along the bone-lined walls as though it were lightning earthed from a growing storm.

  Then there are the shadows. Sometimes they seem to move. Sometimes Sigismund is sure that they grow when he looks away. It feels unnatural, like nothing he has felt before.

  It concerns him. It concerns him very much.

  Rann does not seem to notice. ‘What do you mean, “they died too easily”?’

  Morn is about to reply, but Sigismund cuts her short.

  ‘They would have known that someone would come for them,’ he says. ‘The treachery of the Word Bearers must have been long in the making. Yet they met us in the outer halls with at least half their strength, died, and then melted away. Tell me, brother, does not that worry you?’

  ‘They resisted,’ Rann shrugs.

  ‘But not enough,’ says Morn.

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Sacrifice,’ she replies, after a heartbeat’s pause.

  Sigismund feels something shiver across his skin. Morn’s word disturbs him, and he does not know why.

  ‘Sacrifice?’ asks Rann. ‘Like the followers of gods, before the coming of the Emperor’s truth? You can’t mean it.’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean.’

  ‘This is the Imperium. Even in rebellion those ways are long dead.’

  ‘This is no longer the age we thought it was, brother,’ Sigismund warns him. ‘Its truths are not the same, and neither are its weapons.’

  ‘But why?’

  Sigismund raises his hand, his Templar brothers falling in silently behind him.

  A set of doors lies ahead of them. Twice the height of a Space Marine, they gleam with bronze and polished bones. Sigismund blinks. There is a sudden and growing pressure behind his eyes as he looks at them. At the edge of his sight, the shadows seem to twitch again.

  ‘Because this is a trap,’ he replies. ‘A trap whose dimensions we cannot see or fully understand. That is what you are thinking is it not, Lady Morn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Morn steps closer to the doors, her bodyguards close in her wake. The plates of their armour hiss and click as they move. Rann follows, his fingers flexing on the haft of his axe.

  ‘Then what would you suggest we do?’ he asks.

  Morn turns back to them. Behind the crystal of her visor, she is smiling. For a second, Sigismund almost smiles back.

  ‘Why, the same as you have been itching to do since you saw those doors, Seneschal Rann,’ she says. ‘Kick them open.’

  She runs at the high doors, pneumatics shuddering across her exoskeleton as she moves. She moves faster than Sigismund thought she ever could. The pistols in her hands are glowing as they gather charge. He launches after her, sword flashing with lightning as its energy field ignites.

  Rann lets out a bark of laughter and annoyance, then follows, Templars and shield bearers closing around them.

  Morn hits the door. Fragments of bone inlay and bronze spin through the air. They buckle open, ringing like a struck gong. Then Morn is out and into the flame-lit space beyond, her bodyguards at her shoulders, armoured plate flaring as it flows with their strides. Sigismund and Rann are only two paces behind. This is madness, but now it has begun there is only one way, and that way is forwards.

  Sigismund crosses the threshold of the chamber. Red threat markers boil across his helmet view, his momentum driving him into a flat sprint.

  He sees it then, waiting behind the translucent target runes.

  Dozens of Space Marines ring the central point of the chamber. They are kneeling, heads bared and bowed. Each of them has a knife in his hands – spikes of black glass, iron or clouded crystal. At their centre a figure stands alone. His armour is black with crawling script. A casket of grey stone lies before him. Shadows and unclean light smoke from it. The air vibrates, pulsing to the drone of chanting voices.

  The bodyguards’ heavy cannons spin to firing speed. Morn strafes sideways, her clawed feet clacking on the stone flags. Fire spits from the spinning rotor cannons. Rann’s axe is high above his head. Morn’s pistols are keening, circles of red energy blooming around their barrels in each instant before they fire.

  The closest Word Bearers explode where they are kneeling. Their blood fizzes as it hits the polished floor. Corposant dances in the eyes of the skulls that line the ceilings and walls. The air is darkening, crawling with shadows cast by no light, but Sigismund has his gaze fixed upon the lone, standing figure.

  The gunfire stops.

  The blackened warrior looks up. The words inked across his face coil around his eyes like snakes. His mouth opens and he speaks a single word.

  ‘Peace.’

  The sound rolls through the twisting air. As one, every Word Bearer plunges his dagger up under his chin.

  The world freezes. Light becomes dark, and dark turns to blinding day.

  A single high note echoes out, extending endlessly, growing and obliterating all other sound. There is a long moment, a sickening, soft instant stretched like a sinew.

  Then the Word Bearers are rising from the floor. Blood and smoke spray from their mouths. They are juddering, standing as though pulled up by wires. Their ar
mour splits. Shapes step out from the cracked ceramite. Their flesh is pale and blood-slicked. Eyes, mouths, and scales form and dissolve across their bodies as these unnatural things take their first, shuddering steps in reality.

  This… This is like nothing Sigismund has ever seen, like nothing that should be seen.

  Only the warrior at the centre remains unchanged. His eyes are sunken and cold. They are the eyes of sorrow, not triumph.

  Sigismund feels voices rattling inside his skull, pulling at his thoughts. The air is thick. He can taste acid in his mouth. Time has fled.

  He can feel thoughts, and doubts, and memories bubbling against the force of his will.

  He sees the face of his father, Rogal Dorn. The trust in his eyes.

  He sees…

  He sees only the path ahead of him. There is only the sword in his hand, only the enemy before him. There is only one feeling that he will allow.

  Pure and bright, like a torch kindled in the darkness.

  Fury.

  He blinks. The world snaps back into place.

  He is running forwards, aware that the Imperial Fists shield wall has broken, aware that this battle is now a whirling storm of blades, gunfire and claws. In spite of himself, he thinks of Khârn, of the World Eater wading into battle with rage stabbing at the back of his skull.

  The creatures leap at him, claws extending at the ends of their limbs. His sword strikes the top of a half-formed head. It bursts apart, blood and pus misting the air. He can smell offal and incense even through his helm. Gunfire is roaring close by. The creatures’ howls rise as they spin and leap forwards.

  He sees Rann throw his axe, sees it spin end over end, sees the still-active power field drag lightning in its wake. It strikes the nearest beast and the thing staggers, black cracks spreading across its flesh. It shrieks. Rann unslings his second axe and runs to meet it.

  But the creature is not dying, and neither are those that swarm back at him, clawing his shield down even as he fights to keep it steady.

  Sigismund sees a talon of bone flash out and split Rann’s faceplate effortlessly. Blood, bright and sudden, flicks into the air. Rann staggers.

  Sigismund is a blur as he slices towards his brother. Something has wrapped around Rann’s axe arm, something that rolls and glistens like chewed meat. He is falling now. The creatures surge forwards, blood and acid drooling from distended jaws.

  Sigismund cleaves through the last circle of creatures. The cut is backhanded, left to right, like a scythe reaping corn. He feels his blade tremble as it passes through flesh and bone. A space opens before him, and he is stepping into it, stepping over the fallen shape of Rann. He sweeps his sword back, and the creatures shriek at him again as they recoil.

  He glances down. Rann is a ruin of streaked armour and clotted blood. Red bubbles are foaming from the split faceplate of his helm.

  ‘Get up,’ says Sigismund.

  Rann pulls himself to his feet. His axe and shield are still in his hands. ‘I deserved to die to that…’ He sways for a moment, then shakes himself, scattering blood like a dog shaking water from its fur.

  The creatures part before them, pulling back like a retreating tide of unwholesome flesh. The din of battle still sings in the air, but for a second it seems more distant.

  The blackened Word Bearer stands before them. Smoke peels from him as he steps forwards, and the surrounding creatures chitter and moan like curbed animals.

  The warrior’s voice slides over the words like blood over broken glass. ‘It was not supposed to be you, Sigismund, First Son of Dorn. You were not supposed to be here. Another death waited for you.’ He pauses, turns, his hand extending towards the open stone casket on the dais.

  ‘Be silent, traitor!’ Rann spits, and lunges forwards, fresh blood scattering from his wounds as he charges. Sigismund begins to move an instant later.

  Something is moving inside the casket, something that writhes like snakes in black oil. The Word Bearer’s hand closes around it. Grey lightning whips up his arm, the marks upon his armour crawling as the edges of his body blur.

  Rann raises his shield, and hacks down with his axe. Sigismund hears the grunt of effort, and sees the puff of blood on Rann’s breath. The blow is not neat, not elegant. It is the oldest of the cuts of war – a killing stroke, swift and direct.

  The Word Bearer turns, outline and shape blurring with speed. Something strikes Rann’s shield.

  But the shield does not break. It simply becomes nothing.

  Rann slumps back with the force of its unmaking, folding like a cut rope. The dark warrior sweeps the weapon back – its form is changing, flowing between shapes, solidifying and dissolving. It hisses as the Word Bearer brings it up to deliver the death blow. Rann is motionless on the floor, wisps of darkness now seeping from his wounds.

  Sigismund’s sword blocks the cut. White light splinters the air. The two weapons grind against each other.

  ‘The fire and wind spoke of your end, Templar,’ hisses the Word Bearer.

  Sigismund pulls away. The dark warrior drags his weapon back. Its shape congeals into a long serrated sword, blood weeping from its toothed edge.

  ‘Your death was ordained. A grave of stars waited for you. But here you are.’

  The jagged sword whips forwards. Sigismund steps past and the Word Bearer’s cut follows him. He twists to avoid it, and sees that his opponent’s guard is open.

  He lunges. All his intent, all his being and years of training are carried in that thrust.

  The Word Bearer blinks aside, his shape and form skipping between moments as though he had not moved. A black silhouette remains where he was, fading in the air like a bruise.

  He ripostes. The sword changes as it descends – it is a black mace now, heavy-headed and barbed, a frozen explosion of night, trailing fire after it.

  Sigismund’s sword catches the blow, but too late. The impact lifts him from his feet. He feels bones grinding in his sword arm as the shock reverberates through him. He lands on the floor, spinning quickly to rise.

  Creatures skitter out of his way, cackling in countless voices. Damaged servos howl in his armour joints. Red warnings light his helmet display. Inside his head, he is fighting to hold on to his focus, to hold on to the shackled fury that is his fire.

  The Word Bearer is less than five strides away, the mace held in his hands, the dark pits of his eyes unmoving. He rolls his neck and shoulders, slowly, casually. The movement reminds Sigismund of Khârn.

  ‘Have you told your father?’ the Word Bearer croons, and a chill flicks through Sigismund as he straightens, painfully. ‘Have you confessed to him why you forsook your duty to return to Terra?’

  The words echo through him. It has been months since he encountered Keeler on the Phalanx, since she had shown him what was to come – since he had demanded to return to Terra with Rogal Dorn.

  And in all that time, her words have not left his thoughts.

  But he has shared them with no one.

  ‘There are no secrets in the warp,’ says the Word Bearer. ‘I see your heart, and I see your fate. I am shriven, and the gods have placed your ending in my hands. You will not leave this place alive. You will not live to see your primarch fail. You will not live to see this false Imperium fall. The witch lied to you, Templar. She lied.’

  Sigismund feels cold winding through his limbs. He is stepping forwards, his sword rising, but it feels separate from him, like a dead limb chained to his hands. He hears Keeler’s voice, distant, calm, speaking to him from the corridors of memory.

  ‘You must choose your future and the future of your Legion, Sigismund, First Captain of the Imperial Fists.’

  Sigismund feels the blood beat in his veins. The Word Bearer is moving, so fast that it seems unreal. Shadow and oily smoke drags again in his wake. The voices come then, thrown from the blank night of the
past.

  ‘Duty. It binds us, it keeps us, it guides us.’

  ‘A blade is freedom, son of Dorn. Chain it, and you chain yourself.’

  He remembers the question that he had asked Keeler on the Phalanx.

  What is the other path?

  Sigismund raises his sword, but the black mace crashes into his chest.

  ‘Death, Sigismund,’ Keeler had said. ‘Death and sacrifice.’

  Blood, and darkness.

  The world is crumpling around him – becoming small, becoming a pit of pain to drown in.

  He cannot see, and the only sound is the thunder in his ears.

  One of his hearts has stopped. The other beats on, slicing his life away with every slowing pulse. He cannot feel the sword in his hand, cannot feel the shattered plates of his armour.

  ‘We exist to serve.’

  ‘And there is nothing more?’

  ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘No matter where it leads us, or to what end.’

  ‘But is it true that he has never been defeated, never lost a duel, never failed?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But if the pillars of your world shook, if duty took you down a path where nothing was certain… What then?’

  And then the world roars at him in colour and sound, deafening, blindingly bright.

  He can see.

  A warrior stands above him, the black stains upon his armour crawling away into the air. The mace in his hands is flickering, jumping to other forms and then back. Creatures with flayed-beast faces sway and spin behind him. The strobing fire of battle lights a domed roof. The warrior’s mouth cracks open, smoke breathing from between pale teeth. His lips are burning as he speaks.

  ‘Peace.’

  He swings the black mace above his head.

  Sigismund’s hand closes on the sword chained to it. Wounds are open across his body. Muscles shudder. His lone heart hammers in his chest. The mace howls as it rushes down to meet him.

  In that moment, he stabs upwards.

  The tip of the sword strikes the Word Bearer just beneath the breastplate. The blade shivers in Sigismund’s grip as it slices through armour, flesh and bone, and jabs into the power plant on the Word Bearer’s back.