Scratched into Mikaelus’ armour was a crude mark. It looked like it had been carved with the tip of a dagger, or gnawed with a claw. In a vulgar way, it resembled an eight-pointed star.
“This is not the work of orks, Gabriel,” said Isador, giving voice to the feelings of everyone. This is a mark of the ruinous powers. It is a mark of Chaos.”
“He is right, captain,” added Corallis. The others were killed by bolter fire, not by slugs or cleavers. Boltguns are the weapons of Marines, not aliens.”
“Perhaps, Corallis,” said Gabriel.
“And the burns, Gabriel. They are warp burns, of the kind unleashed by sorcerers of Chaos. This looks like the work of a squad of traitor Marines,” concluded Isador reluctantly.
“The documents you found about Tartarus, Isador, did they say anything about what happened to it during the Black Crusades? Is there any history of Champions of Chaos bringing war to this planet?” asked Gabriel, still unwilling to make the logical leap.
“The great book does not mention these things, Gabriel, but I suspect that the tome is incomplete. I have a number of curators investigating the archives already,” replied Isador.
“Isador, can you sense anything unusual in this place?” asked Gabriel without daring to look the Librarian in the eyes, but willing to trust the senses of his old friend.
The Librarian concentrated for a moment, opening his mind to the eddies and energy flows of the glade. Instantly a flood of voices crashed into his head, screaming and shouting of pain and death. But there, hidden behind the Shockwaves of the slaughter, was a careful, delicate whisper, trying to slip unnoticed into his soul. He had heard that voice before, and he hesitated slightly before replying.
“No. No, Gabriel, I have sensed nothing since we arrived. But if there is a sorcerer of Chaos with the enemy, he may be able to mask their presence, especially with all the background static caused by the battles and the uncouth aliens.” Isador looked away into the trees, as though looking for someone.
“There is something else you should see, captain,” said Corallis, leading Gabriel to a point on the other side of the glade, pointing out the burns left by the thrusters of a drop-ship.
“This,” said Corallis, picking up a fragment of ceramite from the grass. This is not Blood Ravens armour, and it was not shot by a bolter.”
The shard of ceramite looked as if it had been punched out of the armour of a Space Marine, but it was a dull, acid green. Moreover, it was perforated by a series of tiny holes, barely a couple of centimetres across.
“It looks to me, Corallis,” said Gabriel, “like our friends the Alpha Legion are on Tartarus, and that we are not the only ones who are not pleased to see them. These are shuriken marks, are they not? It seems that the orks are just a distraction from the main game.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FOREST SHUDDERED and rippled, sending Shockwaves of green pulsing across the canopy. A couple of seconds later and the Thunderhawk dropped slowly down through the trees, its engines roaring and whining as they fought for a soft landing. The gunship came down just outside the busy clearing, crushing trees and plants like blades of grass.
Gabriel and Isador watched the vessel descend in silence. They already knew who was waiting for them inside, but they were not sure why he had come to Tartarus. The Litany of Fury had not been sent any warning of his arrival, but the crew had managed to get a message down to surface before the inquisitor could requisition one of the Chapter’s Thunderhawks and make planetfall himself.
The two Blood Ravens cast their eyes around the scene of carnage in the glade, and shook their heads. There were dead Marines strewn over the ground, and one that had apparently been ritually sacrificed across a rock in the centre of the clearing. It didn’t look good.
“What do you think he wants?” asked Isador, voicing the worry of everyone. “Do you suppose that he suspects one of us of heresy?”
“He is an inquisitor, Isador, protector of the Emperor’s divine word and will. He suspects everyone of heresy,” answered Gabriel flatly. That is his job.”
“Perhaps he has sensed the taint of Chaos on this world?” offered Corallis, looking back towards the ruined figure of Mikaelus.
“Yes, perhaps,” replied Gabriel, as the hatch hissed open on the Thunderhawk and its boarding ramp lowered slowly.
Isador took half a step back as Inquisitor Mordecai Toth strode down the ramp towards the group of Marines, and Gabriel stood forward to greet him. Despite the absence of a Space Marine’s suit of power armour, Mordecai was an imposing man. He was tall and well muscled, and his dark skin glistened under the dappled light of the forest. His armour was elaborately etched with runes and sprinkled with purity seals. Emblazoned on his chest was the Imperial “I,” marking out the inquisitor’s almost limitless authority in the realm of the Emperor. A great book of law, sealed with locks and runes of binding, was chained around his waist, and an ornate warhammer swung casually from his right hand as he strode down the ramp.
“Inquisitor Toth,” said Gabriel, drawing himself up to his full height in front of the newcomer. “Welcome to Tartarus.” The captain spared a quick nod for each of the two Blood Ravens who had accompanied the inquisitor from the Litany of Fury, and he noticed that a nervous-looking curator from the librarium was still hovering in the hatchway behind them clutching a package of papers.
For a moment, Mordecai looked Gabriel up and down, the movements of his one human eye not quite matched by those of his augmented bio-monocle, which seemed to take in the rest of the glade. “Thank you, captain, but we have no time for welcomes or courtesies. The Blood Ravens must leave Tartarus immediately.”
THE GUARDSMAN PRODDED the stonework gingerly, pressing his gloves up against the intricate carvings, tracing the forms of the runes. They seemed to slip and slide under his touch, as though striving to avoid his fingers. But the man’s eyes gleamed with a long forgotten magic, as though something primal were gradually seeping out of his pupils. The runes on the stone were reaching into his soul, even as they danced and swam around his fingertips.
Behind him, he could hear the voices of his comrades, each barely a whisper as they jostled for better positions. One or two of them were getting impatient, and he was certain that they were complaining about how long it was taking him to decipher the symbols. Up on the rim of the crater, a row of men stood guard, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of movement in the surrounding wilds.
The stone was roughly cut, but slick with recently let blood. It was stained a rich, deep brown where countless trails of blood had caressed the sides of the altar, streaming their way into the fertile earth below. Tavett could almost feel the energy pulsing along the stains, as though they were themselves veins. Even through his gloves, the rock altar seemed to throb with inorganic life.
Firing a quick glance over his shoulder to check on his comrades, Tavett sprung from his kneeling position, launching himself onto the surface of the stone altar. He could hear his companions shriek as they saw him jump, and their rapid footfalls filled his ears as he spread himself across the cold stone tablet. They are so pathetically slow, thought Tavett. That’s why I was chosen, because I’m better than they are. My blood burns, and they are nothing more than cold husks.
By the time Sergeant Katrn had reached the altar it was already too late. Tavett lay on his stomach with his arms and legs outstretched to the corners of the tablet, as though struggling to embrace its huge form. His uniform was ripped to shreds, and his back was a web of lacerations and carved symbols. Blood poured out of him, coasting over his skin and gushing down the wriggling runes on the sides of the altar. His head was pushed round, so that he was looking awkwardly to the side, as though his neck was broken. And he was chattering incoherently as trickles of blood seeped out of his open mouth, a grotesque smile etched into his emaciated cheeks.
Katrn watched the ruined trooper with a fixed expression, staring with a mixture of hatred, anger, revul
sion and jealousy. Why had that wretch Tavett been gifted with this glorious end? The little runt wouldn’t even have been here if it wasn’t for Katrn’s leadership. He had shown no understanding of the true nature of combat and war until Katrn had skewered him with his own bayonet on the walls of Magna Bonum. Only then, as Katrn had stared down into his streaming face, had a flash of realisation seared into Tavett’s stricken mind: blood for the Blood God—that’s what war was for.
The sergeant looked down at the bloodied form of Tavett and saw the last flickers of ecstasy dying in his eyes. There was still blood in him, still some life left to be bled before his soul would be sucked from him and cast into the unspeakable realms of the immaterium, where it would be enveloped in the ichorous embrace of the daemons of Khorne. Katrn shook his head in disgust and drew his pistol, firing directly into Tavett’s temple. This wretch was not a fit sacrifice for the Blood God, and he was certainly not deserving of such a glorious end.
As the shot passed straight through Tavett’s head and ricocheted off the stone beneath, something else stabbed into Katrn’s shoulder. He spun on his heels just in time to see the rest of the Guardsmen rack their weapons, some of them already diving for cover behind the altar and others wailing into shredded deaths as hails of shuriken rained down from the rim of the crater. A lance of pleasure fired through his shoulder as a trickle of blood started to soak into his tunic. Instinctively, he pressed a finger into the tiny wound and drew out more blood, letting it drip to the ground in great globules.
Thrilled, Katrn levelled his pistol as he ducked behind the stone of the altar and fired off a couple of rounds, but the figures around the pit were constantly moving and he could not target them. They flicked and fluttered with incredible speed, almost dancing around the crater, but constantly loosing hails of fire into the pit. Despite himself, Katrn found himself marvelling at the grace of his assailants. Compared to the orks and even to the Blood Ravens, these were enchantingly elegant warriors.
“Bancs! Let’s have some grenades up there,” called Katrn, as the trooper came flying over the altar into the pocket of cover behind.
“Yes, sergeant,” replied Bancs, instantly rummaging into his pack for frag-grenade ammunition for his shoulder launcher. “What are they, sergeant?”
“I’m not sure, Bancs. I’ve never seen anything like them. Could be eldar,” answered Katrn, still gazing in wonder at the attackers as they ducked and bobbed their way around volleys of las-fire from Katrn’s Armoured Fist squad.
“I’m sure that they’ll bleed just like the rest of us,” answered Bancs enthusiastically, ramming the ammunition stock into his weapon and bracing it against the edge of the altar.
“Yes,” said Katrn. “I’m sure they will. All the same, I think that it’s time to leave this place. We will be missed. We have to get back to camp.”
The clunk and hiss of the grenade launcher was followed by a series of explosions around the rim of the crater, which sent mud and rubble sliding down into the pit in miniature avalanches. The eldar seemed to vanish, and it was impossible to tell whether any had been hit by the blasts. After a few seconds, another rain of grenades shot over the lip of the crater, detonating over the open ground beyond. There was still no sign or sound of the eldar.
“Let’s move out,” said Katrn, waving his bloody arm like a banner for the rest of the squad.
The Armoured Fists squad and the ramshackle assortment of other troopers that Katrn had recruited from the regiment during the battle for Magna Bonum scrambled up the walls of the crater on their hands and knees. Peering over the rim, Katrn could see the pockmarks left in the ground by the grenades, but there were no bodies and no blood had been spilt. Scanning his eyes quickly through the tree-line, he waved a signal to his men, and they all pulled themselves clear of the pit, readying their weapons as they ascended onto the level ground. But no shots came.
“I don’t like this,” said Bancs, his head twitching nervously from side to side. “Maybe they don’t bleed like us… I think I preferred fighting the orks.”
“Shut it, Bancs,” hissed Katrn, silencing the anxious trooper with a powerful authority that even surprised himself.
“S… sergeant—” started Bancs, unable to control himself.
“I said shut it, Bancs. What are you…” Katrn followed the trooper’s horrified gaze and saw his own blood seeping out of his wounded shoulder and wrapping itself around his right arm. The blood was congealing and solidifying, as though sculpting muscles out of blood on the outside of his body. A rush of power flooded into his mind as he watched the awful mutation of his arm. A mark of Khorne, thrilled Katrn, turning to gaze back down on the altar, still bedecked with the tattered remains of Tavett.
“Bancs, give me your cloak. Now, let’s get back to the camp.”
THE GRENADES EXPLODED around the rim of the crater, but Flaetriu’s rangers had already withdrawn into the trees. The farseer had told them to prevent any bloodshed in the pit, not to slaughter the humans, and Flaetriu was as good as his word. How was he supposed to know that the weak-willed mon-keigh would butcher themselves, even without the help of the Biel-Tan?
From the shadows of the forest, Flaetriu watched the second rain of grenades and scoffed quietly. A blind ordnance barrage was no way to fight eldar rangers, and he laughed inwardly as the scrambling, crawling mon-keigh flopped over the lip of the crater, confident that they had dealt a deadly blow to their foes. The fools.
“Flaetriu,” said Kreusaur, appearing at his shoulder and pointing a long slender arm. “What is happening to that one?” The eldar’s keen eyes could make out the grotesquery that was squirming around the mon-keigh’s shoulder and enveloping his arm. “Should we kill him?”
“No, Kreusaur. The farseer was very explicit—there is to be no bloodshed here. We must let them leave,” answered Flaetriu, fighting against his nature. “We should fetch her now, before this commotion attracts the attention of the orks.”
The two rangers took one last look at the group of humans, who were making ready to leave. Then they flashed a quick signal to the rest of their party, turned, and vanished back into the forest.
“YOU MUST LEAVE, and that is final,” said Mordecai without raising his voice. His manner was infuriatingly calm, as though he was asking Gabriel to do the most natural thing in the world.
The men had retired into the Thunderhawk in order to conduct their conversation in privacy. Gabriel and Mordecai were on opposing sides of the uncomfortable drop-bay, sitting into harness fixings usually used by Marines in rough descents. The Thunderhawk was not designed with conferences in mind, and neither man was happy with the inappropriate surroundings for their important discussion. Standing in the hatchway that led into the cockpit was Cams Brom, who had insisted that he should be included in any decisions that might effect the defence of Tartarus.
“You will need to give me a better reason than that, inquisitor,” replied Gabriel, teetering on the edge of composure.
“I need give you nothing of the sort, captain,” countered Mordecai, leaning back in mock relaxation, hiding his face in the shadows, and letting the light reflect off the insignia on his breast plate.
“I am well aware of the powers and function of the Emperor’s Inquisition, inquisitor. You may well have the authority to evacuate every last civilian and Guardsman off this planet,” said Gabriel with a casual nod towards Brom. “But you are very much mistaken if you think that I will cede command of the Blood Ravens to you. The Adeptus Astartes are not common soldiers, inquisitor, and I will thank you to show us the appropriate respect.”
The inquisitor leaned forward again, bringing his face back into the light, and gazing levelly into Gabriel’s keen green eyes. He nodded slowly and then leant back into the shadows. “Very well, captain, I realise that you have had experience of the Inquisition before.” He watched Gabriel smart slightly, and then continued. “If you must have a reason, then I shall give you one: a giant warp storm is sweeping through this sec
tor of the galaxy, wreaking turmoil and havoc on each world that it touches. It is pregnant with the forces of Chaos and it is unclear what fate might befall any life-forms touched by its wrath. It will arrive imminently, and it could trap us here on Tartarus for more than a century, raining the terrors of warp energy into our souls each moment. We must evacuate the planet, and we must do it now. Would you like me to explain that again, so that we can waste some more time, captain?”
“The Imperial Guard can attend to the evacuation, inquisitor. We have already given them the use of some of our transport vessels to assist with the wounded civilians. The matter is already in hand, and I am sure that Colonel Brom here is more than capable of ensuring the success of such a logistical exercise. The Blood Ravens, however, are not logisticians, inquisitor. We are Space Marines, and we have more pressing issues to attend to,” replied Gabriel, conscious of Brom’s eyes from the cockpit.
“More pressing issues?” asked Mordecai, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
“Yes, inquisitor. I have reason to believe that there are forces of Chaos working on this planet,” answered Gabriel simply.
The inquisitor said nothing for a few moments, and Gabriel could only vaguely see his face in the shadows. Then Mordecai leant forward, pushing his face towards Gabriel, his eyes dancing in the sudden light.
“Strange that I sense no taint here, captain,” he said, almost whispering. “In any case,” he continued in a more casual tone, “if there were a Chaos presence on Tartarus, it would be better for us to leave it here with the orks, rather than wasting any more lives trying to combat it. Believe me, captain, we could not dispense any fate worse than that which will be dealt out by the storm itself—these forces of Chaos and the orks will not be able to stand against each other and the storm.”
“What if they do not need to stand against each other? I suspect that the orks and the Chaos powers are in cahoots on Tartarus, inquisitor. Could they not stand together against the storm?” asked Gabriel, his voice earnest and firm.
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