“First Claw reports, master, that Lord Talos is incapacitated. He has suffered another… malady.”
“Order them to leave him and proceed to the surface at once.”
The officer relayed the order. As he listened, he managed to swallow on the third attempt. “Master…”
“Speak.”
“First Claw has refused the order.”
“I see.” The Exalted’s claws gripped the handrests of his exquisite throne. “And on what grounds do they refuse to prosecute the enemy in this holy war?”
“Lord Cyrion said, master, that if you are so worried about the surface battle, you are free to borrow their Thunderhawk and take a look down there yourself.”
The fact the officer relayed all of this without more than a minor tremor in his voice impressed the Exalted considerably. He valued competence above all.
“Fine work… mortal. Inform First Claw their treachery has been noted.”
The officer saluted and did exactly that. The response, from the Astartes known as Lord Xarl, was immediate and obscene. The mortal decided not to relay that part back to the Exalted.
More voices buzzed in his ear. The Astartes of First Claw again.
“Lord?”
The Exalted turned, intrigued by the rising unease in the man’s voice. “Speak.”
“Lord Cyrion wishes a direct link to you. It’s a most grave and urgent matter.”
“Open it.”
“Vandred,” Cyrion’s voice echoed across the bridge. “Recall the claws from the surface immediately.”
“And why would I do that, Brother Cyrion?”
“Because we do not have three weeks before the Blood Angels arrive.”
The Exalted tongued its lipless maw, feeling the veins under its cheeks ache in sharp pulses. “Your belligerence grows tiresome, First Claw. I will listen to this and this alone. Link me to Talos’ vox.”
“…breaching the hull. I kill him. He recognises my sword as he dies…”
The Exalted listened in silence for over a minute. When his next words came, they did so with savage reluctance.
“Open a channel to the Vengeful Spirit. I must speak with the Warmaster.”
Malcharion trudged through the cavernous chamber of the under-mountain citadel. The siege had been grinding on for over an hour, and although Malcharion’s forces from 10th Company were charged with entering as part of the second wave, the reforming resistance in the early caverns was punishing the Chaos advance.
Flanking his hulking form, yet giving him respectful—and prudent—distance with which to fire his weapons, two Night Lord claws advanced, their bolters spitting into the disorganised ranks of the enemy.
The resurrected warrior knew them by name, knew their individual suits of armour even through the scars earned in the many battles each of them had survived and suffered without him.
Yet with the passion of battle-lust rendered cold in this immortal shell, he felt little connection to the brothers he once commanded as captain of the 10th.
They fought because they still hated with a ferocity he no longer shared. They shrieked curses with a bitterness he no longer tasted.
Dark thoughts, these. Dark thoughts that threatened his focus.
The Dreadnought’s armoured feet, splay-clawed and ponderous, crushed bodies beneath his weight. The double-barrelled cannon that served as his right arm boomed over and over, ripping vicious gaps in the skitarii’s lines. On they came, drawn by the blasphemy of his existence, desiring nothing more than to end the unlife he suffered because of warped Mechanicum lore.
Perhaps a part of him was tempted to let them succeed. A small part. A part that remained silent and dead while battle raged. This was not joy—war had never been joyous for the war-sage—but the immersion allowed him to focus elsewhere, to concentrate upon the external. Such focus diminished his awareness of his true form, husk-like and cold within the sarcophagus.
A skitarii with four shrieking saw-blade limbs battered itself against the Dreadnought’s front. Malcharion clutched it from the ground, squeezing it with the unbreakable strength of his power fist. Lightning flared into life as the dying tech-guard’s blood spurted onto the electrified metal claw that crushed him. Malcharion fired his arm-mounted flamer unit, bathing the man in liquid flame, roasting the skitarii’s flesh-parts even as the soldier was crunched into death. This organic wreckage he threw into the soldiers before him, lamenting their lobotomised indifference to such magnificent slaughter. Blood of the Ruinous Ones, what a foul waste of the Legion’s talents this war was.
“Malcharion,” said a vox-voice.
It was significant effort to tune into speaking within the vox-network instead of transmitting his voice to the speakers mounted within his armour. The battle raging in the caverns hardly helped.
“It’s Cyrion.”
His autocannon hammered shells into a towering skitarii—a champion or a captain, surely. The cyborged warrior fell into the teeming horde in pieces. The shouts of thousands of soldiers locked together rang around the arching cavern.
“You are supposed to be here, are you not? You woke me to kill everything for you?”
“Sir, you have to pull back from Seventeen-Seventeen. Lead the claws back to the Thunderhawks.”
Ghost-pain travelled through him in an acidic rush. Malcharion—his true form—screamed within the coffin of sustaining fluids. He felt the silken play of ooze across his ravaged face. Psychostigmata bruised his corpse’s pale flesh.
The skitarii drilling into the Dreadnought’s knee joint was pulped into a wet smear a moment later. Malcharion spun on his waist axis, power claw outstretched. Several other skitarii about to besiege his towering body flew back into their fellows, bones smashed to shards.
“We are within the cave city,” Malcharion boomed, his pain flooding his vox-voice. “We cannot retreat. The day will be ours.”
“Talos is being wracked by another vision. He says the Imperial relief fleet isn’t weeks away. It’s barely even hours away. The Blood Angels are coming.”
“What of Vandred?”
“He has apprised the Warmaster, but will not recall our forces. Likewise, the Hunter’s Premonition has been ordered to keep its troops on the surface.”
Malcharion panned his power claw in an arc before him, unleashing streams of fire from the mounted flamer. Next to him, in orderly formation with bolters and blades striking, two squads of 10th Company’s Night Lords advanced in his shadow.
The Dreadnought halted. Slowly, he turned. Watching.
Noise erupted around him. Noises previously unheard over the snarling of his own joints and the rage of his weapons. Solid shells clanked and clinked from his armour. Bizarre. Almost like rainfall.
“The Black Legion and their mortal slaves are engaged alongside us. Are we to abandon them? The Soul Hunter’s second sight is not without flaw.”
“Malcharion, my captain, what do you believe?”
The Dreadnought’s power plant thrummed louder as Malcharion re-engaged the enemy, fist crushing, cannons firing. The speakers on his hull blared loud as he shouted in Nostraman.
“Night Lords! Fall back! Back to the ships!”
Aboard the Covenant, the Exalted watched blurry pict feeds of the surface battle. The creature cycled through views—the helm picters of each squad leader and image-finders mounted on the hulls of 10th Company’s tanks. Orbital imagery was worthless with the battle now taking place in the opening chambers of the Omnissiah’s Claw. It was left to this series of juddering, frenetic scenes out of necessity. It offended the Exalted’s tactician sensibilities.
On its left stood Malek, on his right, Garadon.
“Do you see this?” The Exalted focused on the crimson view displayed by one Astartes’ vision lenses.
“Yes, lord,” both Atramentar warriors said.
“Intriguing, is it not? Why would all of our squads be moving back through the Warmaster’s forces? One has to wonder.”
“I ca
n guess, lord,” Garadon said. His fist clutched the haft of his double-handed hammer tighter.
“Oh?” The Exalted allowed a rare smile to split its face. “Indulge me, brother. Share your suspicions.”
Garadon growled before speaking, as if dredging up enough bitterness to put into the words. “The prophet is making his move to usurp your leadership of the warband.”
Malek shook his bullish helm. “Talos is incapacitated by his second sight. You are seeing conspiracies in guiltless corners, Garadon.”
“None of us are blind to your support of him,” Garadon replied. “Your ardent defence of his every failure.”
“Brothers, brothers,” the Exalted no longer smiled. “Peace. Watch. Listen. I suspect any moment now—”
“Incoming message, my prince,” the vox-officer called from his station.
“Delicious timing,” the Exalted breathed. “Put it through.”
“This is Captain Halasker of the 3rd,” crackled the bridge speakers. All present knew the name. Halasker, Brother-Captain of 3rd Company, commander of the Hunter’s Premonition.
“I am the Exalted, lord of the 10th.”
“Hail, Vandred.”
“What do you wish, Halasker?”
“Why are your squads falling back to the landing site? Blood of the Father, the war-sage is ordering a retreat of all VIII Legion forces. What the hell kind of game are you playing?”
“I did not order the withdrawal. Malcharion is acting according to his own maddened will. The Warmaster has demanded we continue the war’s prosecution.”
“You cannot control your own forces?”
The Exalted breathed through its closed fangs. “Not when the war-sage is on the surface, acting as if he ruled the 10th.”
“And why are you not on the surface, Vandred?”
The edge of derision in Halasker’s voice rankled more than anything the Exalted had endured in a long, long time… until the other captain’s next words.
“Vandred, where is the prophet? Malcharion and your claws are voxing news of a new prophecy. I must speak with the Soul Hunter.”
“He is incapacitated,” the Exalted managed. Its teeth were clenched so forcefully that one cracked like porcelain. “Our father’s ailment has befallen him once more.”
“So it’s true?”
“I did not sa—”
“Fall back!” Halasker cried to his squads over the vox. “Fall back with the war-sage!”
The Exalted roared at the ceiling of the command deck, loud enough to send the mortal crew cowering.
He opened his eyes. The sight of bright, proud armour faded from before him, replaced by the dark red of his visor display. Flickering, tiny runes streamed across his vision. His hearts slowed. He swallowed the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.
Targeting reticules locked on familiar aspects of his own chamber. A quick glance at the digital chron reader in his lens display told him exactly how long he’d been lost to sense.
It could have been worse.
“Cyrion,” he voxed, and the door to his chambers opened the moment he spoke.
“Brother,” Cyrion said. He was still in full war-plate.
“Cy, the Throne’s forces are coming. The Marines Errant, the Flesh Tearers. The Blood Angels, first of all. They are almost here.”
“You’ve been out three hours, Talos.”
“I know.”
“The Exalted has called a war council.” Cyrion moved away from the door, gesturing for him to follow. “The Blood Angels are already here.”
XIX
FOR THE LEGION
The war room was being used for its intended purpose for the first time in decades.
Banks of monitors and consoles stood active, attended by servitors—many of whom were reprogrammed by Tech-Priest Deltrian following their capture on the asteroid chunk of Nostramo. A huge occulus screen showed the open link to a similar chamber on the Hunter’s Premonition, though that room was far grander and larger than even this, the largest room on the Covenant of Blood. The battle-barge was built to carry three entire companies, whereas the strike cruiser housed only one.
A huge central table projected a distorted green hololithic display of Crythe and the dozens of ships surrounding it. In angry red blurs, a second fleet a short distance from the planet was depicted. They wavered in jagged, flickering detail.
The pict link to Hunter’s Premonition showed Captain Halasker in his Terminator plate, unhelmed as he stood at the head of his own holoprojection table.
“They are holding off, then.”
The Exalted dragged its spiked bulk closer to the projected display, and gestured with a swollen, pale claw. “Two battle-barges, three strike cruisers. This represents overwhelming force. Perhaps two-thirds of the entire Chapter.”
“We are aware of numbers. What we are not aware of is why they arrived so soon.” Malcharion stood opposite the Exalted, dwarfing the daemon-twisted former captain. The division in the room was obvious for all to see.
“The Warmaster lied to us,” Halasker insisted. “He must have known.”
“Why would he lie and endanger his own forces on the surface?” the Exalted countered.
“Maybe so. But can that many seers truly be wrong?”
“Did not your own astropaths agree with the Warmaster’s declaration?” the Exalted asked. “The wake of that many ships casts great waves through the sea of souls. Your astropaths confirmed the judgements of the Warmaster’s own. The tide should not have broken upon us for another month.”
“The seers are mortal.” Halasker wouldn’t concede the point. “I placed no overt trust in them at all.”
Talos spoke from his place close to Malcharion. “A larger fleet is still incoming. We are dealing with nuances in the immaterium—a dimension none of us understand. Can you, Captain Halasker, look into the warp and see which waves are natural tides in an unnatural realm? Can you, Captain Vandred, see whether the war-wake of one fleet is masked by the tidal wave caused by another? Everything we do is guesswork compounded by inexperienced estimation.”
The Exalted met Halasker’s black eyes over the screen link. “If the Blood Angels will remain at bay, they can be ignored while Crythe falls. We can recommit our forces and avoid the Warmaster’s further displeasure.”
“You are free to commit the 10th wherever you wish,” the other captain replied. “I am done with this fool’s errand. A fine concept in the simulation displays. A fine concept that has bled us dry when it came to the moments of bolter and blade.”
“The Warmaster has carelessly spent our blood,” Xarl snarled low. “We owe him nothing.”
“I agree,” Talos said. “We should disengage from the fleet as soon as all of our forces have been recovered from the surface.”
“Agreed,” said Halasker.
“Agreed.”
“I am enjoying this display of supreme naivety.” The Exalted’s tongue bled as it licked its fangs. Eyes as black as dead stars turned upon Talos and Malcharion. “But the Despoiler will not allow this. He has the strength to prevent us breaking away, and he will never forgive such a betrayal.”
“Enough, Vandred.” Halasker shook his head. “Your loyalty to the Old War is commendable, but Abaddon is a fool. Yet again, he has committed too much, too hard, too far from support. He holds tenuous lordship over Legions that are greatly-enamoured of endless infighting. This is just one of many betrayals he will forgive because he will need allies again in the future.”
“Hear, hear,” the Dreadnought rumbled.
“The last of my forces will be on board the Premonition within the hour.”
“And how are we supposed to placate the Warmaster? I promise you, Halasker, he will fire upon us if we run.”
“Cripple his ships.”
All eyes turned to Talos.
“What did you say?” the Exalted asked, softer than he’d spoken in years.
“When we break from the fleet, we cripple the Vengeful Spirit, or any
other vessel that challenges us.” Talos met the Exalted’s stare.
“And leave them at the mercy of the Angels?”
“Do I look as though I will shed any tears over that?”
“Nor will I,” Halasker added. “Abaddon is hardly short on ships. Even without us, he outnumbers the Blood Angels eleven to five.”
Chatter began to pick up around the room as the gathered Astartes discussed the imminent treachery.
“No,” the Exalted growled. “This cannot, and will not be.”
“And why not?” Halasker narrowed his eyes.
“Almost all of the Warmaster’s forces are engaged upon Crythe. If the Blood Angels strike—if they board the Black Legion’s cruisers—the Warmaster will struggle to escape with any of his fleet intact. There might be as many as six hundred Blood Angels waiting on their ships on the other side of this world! They will sweep through any resistance on board the Black Legion’s vessels.”
“Then he should have begun the recall of his men hours ago, as the prophet’s vision suggested. Warnings were sent. You sent them yourself. Abaddon chose to leave them unheeded.”
“Malcharion,” Halasker addressed the Dreadnought now. “Are the 10th’s full forces back on board the Covenant?”
“Yes, brother.”
“Then make preparations to leave. I still have fifteen squads on the surface, with armour support. They were deep in the caverns, and their fighting withdrawal is taking lamentably long. Vandred?”
“Yes, ‘brother’?”
“Even after all this time, you are still a worm,” Halasker finished. Then the screen went dead.
The Exalted looked at its shattered company, with no more than thirty Astartes remaining. They watched him from where they stood around the table. Their armour was pitted and cracked. Their bearing remained strong and tall despite this pointless war. How had it come to this? Betrayal after betrayal. The erosion of trust. The death of brotherhood.
[Night Lords 01] - Soul Hunter Page 30