by Andy Smillie
Amit kept his gaze on the horde of humans. ‘And you, brother.’ He motioned for Manakel to stand. ‘Now, explain this.’
Manakel handed Amit the aquila talisman the barbarian had given him. ‘This planet was once under the Emperor’s dominion.’
‘You cannot assume the Emperor walked this earth simply because of this trinket,’ Barakiel snapped.
‘You are right, brother-captain.’ Manakel spoke slowly, his anger at the slight against his judgment tempered by his respect for the captain. He turned to face the barbarians. ‘Tamir, atta,’ he shouted, raising his left fist to the sky.
‘You speak their language?’ asked Amit.
‘A little. Its root is similar to a dialect of ancient Terra, though physical gestures seem to carry the bulk of the meaning.’
A single warrior rose from the kneeling horde and walked towards the Flesh Tearers. His left eye was swollen closed, and he moved like a man wading through quicksand. Dense bundles of muscle strained under the thick vines looped over his shoulders and wound round his torso, as he dragged an enormous sword towards the Flesh Tearers.
‘His name is Tamir. He is their mightiest warrior.’ Manakel answered the question before it was asked.
‘He doesn’t look like much,’ Tilonas sneered, casting his eyes over Tamir’s battered body as the warrior knelt before them, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
Manakel growled. ‘He has borne the weight of that blade for a full day’s march, and he stood unflinching before my wrath. Could you say the same, brother?’
Tilonas laughed. ‘Your wrath? I would sooner fear a child.’
‘Enough,’ Amit said, and stooped to examine the weapon. His retinal display flickered into life, casting a web of data over his vision. Enamel, dentin, cementum. Sharpened to an impossible edge, the blade was formed from a single giant incisor. It was longer than he was tall, far larger than anything he’d ever wielded. He clasped its hilt, a single piece of bone bound with scaled animal hide, faded and cracked with age. Even in Terminator armour, his fingers only just met. His armour’s servos whined in protest as he picked up the weapon in a two-handed grip. Grunting with effort, Amit turned the blade through a practiced range of horizontal and diagonal cuts. For all its size and weight, the weapon was perfectly balanced. ‘Where did they find this?’
Manakel gestured to Tamir.
The warrior grunted and traced a twig through the dirt, marking a crude outline. ‘Raktor,’ he said, pointing to the carcass of one of the monsters that had attacked the encampment. ‘Raktor,’ he repeated.
Amit nodded for him to continue.
Tamir pulled a long dagger from a sheath on his back. It was smaller but almost identical to the blade in Amit’s hands – its bone hilt wrapped in animal hide, the blade formed from a single incisor. He thrust the blade towards the monster’s carcass and then pulled on one of his own teeth. Tamir’s meaning was clear – his blade was fashioned from a tooth taken from a monster such as the one Amit and Grigori had slain.
Amit’s face hardened as he sensed what was to come.
Tamir drew another shape in the earth, a second bestial outline that dwarfed the first. ‘Raktoryx.’ Tamir pointed at the giant blade in Amit’s hands. ‘Raktoryx,’ he said again.
Purpose charged Amit’s blood as he stood with his commanders. It was like a drug, a burning euphoria he had not felt since the Chapter’s founding, since before the Curse had ravaged its numbers and made oblivion seem inevitable.
‘Brothers, there is a great beast that walks this earth. It is larger even than the god-machines of Mars.’ Amit paused, turning his gaze on each of the Flesh Tearers in turn: Zophal, Barakiel, Menadel, Bieil and Manakel. ‘We must kill it.’
‘To what end?’ asked Zophal.
‘We are bloodied but we are not broken.’ Amit gestured around him but he meant the Chapter, not the company. ‘If we can tame this land, defeat this beast, then we can conquer anything.’ Amit’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Even the Thirst.’
‘This is madness.’ Barakiel stepped closer to Amit in challenge. ‘This is not our mission.’
‘That is for me to decide.’
Barakiel ignored him and turned to face the others. ‘You have all heard Scout Cassiel’s report – the orks are dead, devoured by the creatures that roam this place. There is nothing left for us here. We must signal Neta and return to the fleet.’
‘And then what?’ asked Amit.
‘Then we rendezvous with the Star Phantoms and push into the Sakkara sector as planned.’
‘What then?’ Amit’s voice was a clipped growl.
Barakiel made to answer, but Amit continued. ‘What then, brother? What will we be when there is nothing left? When we have thrown ourselves into every battle, waged every war across this galaxy and the rest? Those that come after us will scour away our deeds and we will be remembered only for the Curse.’ Amit gestured to the ashen hull of the Mortis Wrath.
‘We are warriors, not scholars. Let others worry about what we have done and what we have not done,’ Barakiel snarled. ‘You serve your own bloodlust. I will not allow you to waste the lives of our brothers.’
‘You will not allow me?’ Saliva flecked from Amit’s mouth as anger boiled through him. A dry itch grew in his throat. He craved blood: Barakiel’s blood. It seemed so long since he had killed, since he had quenched his thirst. Emperor bless me with your temperament. Fill me with a righteous inferno that I may burn away my bloodlust. Emperor keep me from the darkness of my soul. He ran through the prayer in his mind, fighting to calm himself. He would not kill another of the Emperor’s loyal sons. ‘Barakiel, we cannot run from the Curse. If we are to survive, we must stay and face it.’
‘Run? I am no coward,’ Barakiel spat. ‘We do not all share your fea–’ the banner bearer staggered backwards, his nose ruined by Amit’s blow.
Barakiel wiped the blood from his mouth. ‘So be it,’ he said, and charged.
Amit shot forward, venting his pent-up range in a guttural roar, and threw himself at Barakiel.
The two Flesh Tearers collided. Clad in their heavy warplate and fuelled by rage, they were each at once an unstoppable force and immovable object. Neither gave an inch as they grappled, forgoing any form of defence as they rained blow after blow into one another. Amit’s attacks were powerful enough to kill a man, but Barakiel was faster, landing three blows for every two of the Chapter Master’s. Their suits of Terminator armour whined and spat as they pushed them to the limits of their tolerance and design.
The servos in Amit’s damaged chainfist sparked as they shorted out, ruined by Barakiel’s repeated blows.
Amit growled in frustration. Even with his considerable strength, he was unable to articulate the limb without the powered assistance. With his left arm hanging useless by his side, the fight grew ever more one-sided. He grimaced, feeling his nose break under Barakiel’s head, before a kick to the chest knocked him to the ground. Barakiel followed Amit down, seeking to grind him into the dirt.
Manakel moved to intervene but found himself blocked by Zophal.
‘It will be as the Blood wills it.’ The Chaplain’s hushed voice did nothing to lessen the menace in his eyes.
Amit felt his cheek break as he pushed up into Barakiel’s descending fist. ‘You forget who trained you.’ He spat the words through a mouthful of blood, pausing for a moment before stamping his boot down on Barakiel’s knee. The harsh snap of the bone competed with Barakiel’s anguished cry. Amit grinned savagely, glad his enhanced hearing allowed him to savour both. ‘You were always too eager to land the killing blow.’ Amit yanked Barakiel up by his gorget, and punched him in the face before he could collapse again.
Barakiel slammed into the ground, struggling to push himself up.
Amit advanced on him, blood ringing in his ears like the toll of some great bell. It was time
to kill.
‘Lord,’ Sergeant Menadel stammered. ‘The duel is over.’ He gestured to Barakiel but didn’t shift his gaze from the Chapter Master.
‘Not yet,’ Amit snarled.
‘It is done.’ Menadel met Amit’s gaze, his blade angled low, ready to bisect the servos in the Chapter Master’s legs.
‘That will not stop me.’
‘We will see.’
Amit smiled, impressed by Menadel’s resolve. A terrifying, brutal warrior, Amit had seen him fight on dozens of occasions. The sergeant used every advantage the Blood’s gifts lent him to butcher the enemies of mankind. Yet earlier, he had remained inside the Vengeance, orchestrating the defence, denying the call to battle and the urge to descend to the killing fields that burned in the blood of all Flesh Tearers. If they were ever to conquer the Curse, then they needed more warriors like Menadel.
‘I’m going to have to kill you one of these days, captain,’ said Amit.
‘As the Blood wills it.’ Menadel dipped his head, acknowledging the field promotion.
‘I would have thought you more in need of an Apothecary than a Chaplain,’ Zophal said without turning round, the broken murmur of Amit’s ill-kept armour unmistakable.
‘I would not give Barakiel the satisfaction.’ Amit joined the Chaplain on what remained of the southern parapet. ‘I need your counsel, Zophal.’
‘You have already decided what must be done.’
Amit nodded. ‘Yes, but what if I fail? What then for the Chapter?’
‘You have chosen your captains well. You have tested their strength and their resolve, and never have you found them wanting.’ Zophal paused to remove his helm. ‘Should the day come when you fall in battle, then the Chapter will live on. But we stand on the brink of an abyss, a broken road between madness and salvation. Our brothers cannot shoulder the sacrifice of their Chapter Master.’
‘Victory always requires sacrifice–’
‘Yes, a sad truth. But this time, I must be the one to make it.’
‘You?’ Amit gasped, blindsided by the unexpected turn in the conversation.
‘The Chapter’s spirit is mine to safeguard. You must return to them, Amit.’
‘I cannot ask you to sacrifice yourself in my stead. Only a coward would do so.’
‘Sometimes, brother, it is the braver choice to go on living.’
‘It–’
‘It is as the Blood wills it.’ Zophal cut Amit off, his patience worn, his tone brooking no further discussion.
Amit held the Chaplain’s gaze. The age lines scoring Zophal’s brow and framing his eyes were deeper than he remembered. In that moment of silent commune, the iron visage of the indomitable Chaplain slipped, allowing Amit to see him truly for the first time. The Curse had taken its toll on Zophal, robbing him of his vitality, and though his ancient flesh was unmarked by blade or brand, the Chaplain’s scars ran deep.
‘As the Blood wills it,’ said Amit, clasping Zophal’s vambrace.
The Mortis Wrath’s engines rumbled low as the gunship idled for takeoff.
Tilonas and Drual entered the transport. Its mag-harnesses were empty.
‘I hope Zophal knows what he’s doing. Even his lengthiest sermon won’t keep the damned from blood for such a march,’ Drual said as he secured himself.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Tilonas, darkly. ‘He took enough of the tribesmen with him to keep their Thirst at bay.’
Amit placed a hand on Barakiel’s pauldron, halting the captain’s ascent up the access ramp. ‘This mission is not yours to undertake.’
Barakiel turned to face him. ‘Have I not honour enough left to accompany you?’
‘You fought with conviction. There is no shame in that.’ Amit looked into Barakiel’s eyes. The beating he had inflicted on the captain’s body had done nothing to break his spirit. ‘But I need you to remain here.’
‘As you wish.’
Amit stepped past him up the ramp, and stopped. ‘Brother, if I do not come back…’ Amit paused. ‘Promise me you will return with the Chapter and conquer this place.’
Barakiel stayed silent.
‘You will not defy me in this, Barakiel.’
‘As you wish. But better that you return to do it yourself.’
Amit nodded and clasped his first captain’s vambrace in a warrior’s salute. ‘Blood willing.’
‘Sanguinius’s might...’
Amit activated the pict-viewer as Zadkiel’s voice stuttered over the comm. The screen flickered before revealing what had disturbed the pilot. Below them, the raktoryx loomed over the valley. It was as mighty a beast as Tamir had suggested, and far larger than Amit had imagined. Towering, irregular spines of bone jutted from its back, fused together by gnarled knots of muscle and sinew, giving it the appearance of a living mountain.
Determination set Amit’s jaw. For the Chapter to survive it needed a home, something more than bloodshed to bind it together. But first, the raktoryx had to die. ‘Take us in.’
Long-necked and with a winding tail that vanished into the forest behind it, the raktoryx was as broad as it was tall. Standing on its two hind legs, each a pillar of muscle and bone, it used its fore-claws to tear strips of meat from the carcasses strewn around it – the butchered remains of other, impossibly large creatures. Other than on its gut, which hung beneath it like a fleshy sack, the beast carried surprisingly little fat, its slabbed torso divided by thick trench lines of tendon that lent its smooth brown-green hide texture.
‘Two minutes to optimum attack range,’ said Zadkiel over the vox, his voice neutral.
Amit was not surprised by the pilot’s lack of fervour. His own pulse was steady, his heart scarcely beating in his chest. Though he was not calm, for he was never without anger, the beast inside growled low, camped at the edge of his consciousness, rumbling like distant thunder rather than barking like a quickening hammer thrusting him into battle. This was not a righteous charge or enraged attack. This was something else.
‘Open the hatch.’ Amit moved down the ramp as it lowered, his boots reverberating as he mag-locked them to the deck, and looked down at the beast. He stared into one of its ink-black eyes, trying to gauge its strength.
Once, Amit had heard Sanguinius talk of his reunion with his father. Where many of his brother primarchs had attacked the Emperor or doubted his intent, Sanguinius had known him to be his father. Some things, the Angel had said to Amit, a warrior knows as destiny manifest, his future made flesh. Only now, staring down at the raktoryx, did Amit fully understand his primarch.
‘One minute.’
Even over the roar of the Mortis Wrath’s engines, the whip of the wind and the hum of his armour, Amit could hear the beast’s heart. It throbbed slow and steady like the turning of the earth. The raktoryx had never known fear. Today, Amit promised himself, that would change.
‘Targe–’
‘Fire.’ The Chapter Master snapped the order before Zadkiel could finish. An acknowledgement icon flashed back on Amit’s helmet display in response, an instant before the Mortis Wrath’s hull shook under the clamour of weapons discharge.
Beams of lascannon fire hammered the beast. Each blade of charged light was powerful enough to cut through a tank’s hull, yet the burst did little more than score the beast’s skin. A spread of missiles impacted a moment later. Eight warheads exploded against the monster’s hide in an ineffectual firestorm.
The attack brought a roar from the beast. It snaked its neck around, following the Wrath as the gunship banked around for another pass. It roared again, a rumbling precursor to a smouldering gout of flame that gushed from its mouth to break over the Wrath’s cockpit and envelop the gunship. The white fire burned away the gunship’s heat shielding and stripped it of paint, leaving behind only the natural grey of the ceramite, and pockets of rust-black scorch marks.
Amit took a step back as the flame flashed over the doorway. ‘Zadkiel, status?’
‘No lasting damage, Chapter Master. As long as we stay beyond its reach we should... Incoming! Port and starboard. Another flock of those Emperor-damned avians,’ Zadkiel growled.
‘Deal with them.’ Amit turned to Drual and Tilonas.
Drual’s assault cannon was spinning to firing speed before he was even out of his harness. ‘About time we had something to kill.’ The Terminator pushed open the port hatch and opened fire. Spent shell casings clattered onto the deck in a brass rain as he tracked and killed a pair of the avian creatures. Behind him, Tilonas took up position covering the starboard side.
A stabbing beak forced Amit into a crouch as one of the creatures swooped onto the assault ramp. He growled, throwing an upper cut as he rose, driving his chainblade into the creature’s skull. The avian juddered in his grasp. Amit stared into its slick, black eyes, smiling as he saw the familiar flicker of terror. ‘Die.’ His voice was barely a whisper as he activated the chainblade. The weapon burred into life, churning the avian’s skull into fleshy paste and bathing him in gore.
‘Jammed,’ Tilonas snarled, striking his weapon in frustration. A piercing shriek filled the hold as one of the avians slammed into the starboard side, rocking the Wrath and knocking Tilonas off balance. The Terminator recovered too late, unable to defend himself as the creature reached in and plucked him from the hold.
‘Tilonas!’ Drual glanced over his shoulder but kept firing, unable to risk turning his back.
‘Worry not, brothers. I am avenged,’ Tilonas’s voice sounded over the vox. An instant later, the Terminator dropped through Amit’s field of vision, the avian’s crumpled form tumbling after him.
‘Sanguinius guide you, brother,’ said Amit, his voice strained with emotion.
‘I think even without his help, I’ll manage to hit the ground,’ Tilonas laughed, a throaty sound that mixed with the growing static of the comm until the two became indistinguishable.