“You know you can’t just shoot me,” said Veq aloud. “I saw you on the bridge. You carry a stripped-down old-pattern boltgun with silenced shells and an ocular scope. No autofire, just one shot at a time. You are smart enough to know what little that will do to me. So what trick do you have?”
There was no answer. But Veq could smell the Word Bearer, the spices used in the armour rites and the chemicals of the backpack exhausts. He could feel the unwanted presence in the sanctum of the machine-spirit.
“I know what you have been through,” said Veq, almost conversationally. “I was like you once. Exactly like you. I was born with a strong body and a stronger mind. I wanted to be somebody, but the universe is so vast and there is always someone stronger. Was it a stranger, who told you there was something more? Some old book or a half-remembered rumour? Perhaps you sought it out yourself because you were convinced it had to be there. The Word Bearers found you willing, I would imagine. Maybe you found them. They told you about the power you could gain and they showed you, and you believed them. You’re stronger, you’re braver, you can face anything. The gods just asked that you forget a few of the things you never believed in anyway. Chaos is an unlimited source of power that you can tap into and they ask next to nothing.”
A suppressed shot coughed out from the shadows. Veq saw the rippling wake of the shell as it cut through the pattern of light and sidestepped it, letting it gouge an ugly scar into the floor.
“Nervous, Word Bearer? You can’t listen any more, can you? Not now there’s someone who might actually know the truth about what you are becoming.” Veq followed the path of the bolter shell but the shadows swallowed what little movement he could see. The Word Bearer was up on the power conduits that connected the memory stack towers, moving quickly and quietly, and would take a new position after every shot. It could go on until the Space Marine ran out of bolter shells, or decided to cash in his threat and shatter the Slaughtersong’s soul with a frag grenade.
Veq circled slowly. He had no gun, and the most truly powerful of his weapons were scattered and out of his reach. He would have to use the most powerful weapon he had.
The truth.
Makelo eased into position behind the grey-black tower, his well-oiled armour making no sound. He glanced around the side of the tower and saw Arguleon Veq scanning the chamber for him, sword held ready.
Was it time? Had they been pursuing Veq the legend rather than Karnulon the Word Bearer? It was insane. But then again, Makelo had listened to many of the legends of Torvendis in the preparation and execution of the mission to the daemon world, and never come across one telling of the death of Arguleon Veq. A champion of Chaos could live a life of unlimited years—Captain Amakyre had fought in the Heresy ten thousand years before. Maybe this really was Veq facing Makelo in the Slaughtersong’s spirit core.
Half of Makelo’s mind went through this conundrum. The rest of it, however, concentrated on the task at hand—it didn’t matter whether this was Veq or not. It was the enemy, and the enemy was to be defeated no matter who or what it was. That was the way in which the Word Bearers worshipped.
Makelo squinted down the sights of his bolter, its lightweight frame following his eyes as he followed Veq’s movements. Veq had been right—Makelo couldn’t take him with one shot as he would any other target. Not if he went for an obvious shot—head, throat, torso.
He could take him in the foot. The split-second of pain and confusion would let Makelo follow up with a more dangerous shot, perhaps to the artery in the wrist, or the kidneys. Then another, and another, each one more damaging until the cascade of shells ended in a fatal shot.
If he thought about it like that, Makelo had every advantage. Veq, he knew from the confused vox-traffic that marked the deaths of Phaedos, Skarlan and Feorkan, was without peer up close. But he had no ranged weapon and could not make use of destructive sorcery here when the masterpiece of the Slaughtersong was at risk. Makelo could keep Veq at arm’s length, and rattle shots into him until he was dead.
Makelo knew he was good. He knew he was one of the best the Chapter had, pure raw talent ready to be moulded into a great leader of the future. This was not a conflict with a terrible and deadly foe—this was conundrum to be solved, and Makelo knew the answer.
Veq was trying to put him off with heretical preachings about Chaos. It was desperation. Ever since he had first been found by the Dark Apostles of the Word Bearers and shown himself to be an avid student of the warp, Makelo had examined the Chaos within himself and never doubted it. Chaos was power, but it was an intelligent power, and did not give itself away lightly. It had to be studied, honoured, and sometimes obeyed, in order to exploit it and become greater than you were. It was as simple as that.
Makelo lined up another shot. Ankle, then knee, then shoulder, throat, head, and heart. Simple.
“If you were lucky, you would have died ignorant, never realising you had been used from the first day you looked up at the sky.” Veq’s voice sounded subtly amused and scornful. It was bluster, thought Makelo. The big talk of a man used to winning, who finds himself trapped. “But maybe you would have survived. You won great victories and thought you had won them for yourself. But everything you do is at the whim of the gods, filtered down through your commanders and up through your soul. They know how you will react in every situation. Nothing you do is your own.”
Makelo had never feared anyone, man, daemon or god. A legend held no fear for him either. The silenced shell slid into the breech, and Makelo let his finger squeeze down on the trigger.
Arguleon Veq stepped into the brightest part of the arena, lighting himself up in the Slaughtersong’s thoughts, making him the most inviting of targets.
“Then, one day,” he continued, “you realise that you fight because you have to. You’ve done it your whole life. It’s all you know how to enjoy You decide it doesn’t matter if Chaos is just using you. As long as you can keep on killing and drinking that power, you can tell yourself you have everything you want.”
Veq felt the bullet before he saw or heard it, sensing the subtle shift atmosphere as the shot disturbed the ship’s thoughts. He stabbed down with the tip of his sword and deflected the bolter shell before it thudded into his foot. An old trick amongst those who could pick any shot—distract with pain and shock with a shot to the foot or hand or knee, before going for the killing shot. It had been tried on him before. It had almost worked. Veq had determined a long time ago to learn as much as possible whenever anyone tried to kill him, which meant he had learned all the tricks.
“Eventually, you begin to understand. The power you have isn’t power at all. You could run a million kilometres and the gods would still own you. You could fight until everything in the galaxy was dead, and they would still find a war to chew you up.” Veq knew his voice sounded bitter. His bile rose every time he thought about it. “Is that power? No. That is addiction. Power is something you can use to win your own victories. But nothing you have ever done is your own.
“It is too late. The gods are laughing at you. They own your body and your soul, and what can you do? You can never live a normal life. You are filled with hate. The galaxy is barred to you. You are just a shell of a creature that kills on command. I am the greatest champion of the Maelstrom, Word Bearer, and it took me thousands of years to break free. Even now, I am nothing just a rogue, neither free nor enslaved. I am reduced to this, wanton slaughter in the name of revenge, because there is nothing else left. My life could have been worth something but all I achieved was a lifetime of death. The victory I have ever won is to find out the truth. Think about it, Word Bearer. What is Chaos? Chaos is a lie.”
The shot was swatted away easily. Too easily. Veq ducked instinctively as the combat knife carved through the air above his head and the dark scarlet form of the Word Bearer leapt down from the towers. The Space Marine hit the floor heavily, rolling and firing at close range.
Veq glanced at his attacker as he dived backwards from t
he suppressed blast. Younger than the rest, helmetless like the scout but with a youth’s face, sharp-nosed and cold-eyed. His skin was intensely pale, the hair white-blond and cut short. A snarling daemon’s head, the symbol of the Word Bearers Legion, was tattooed on each temple. His eyes seemed older than the rest of his face owing to the faint surgical scars that radiated out from them like an old man’s crow’s feet.
The Word Bearer dropped his bolter and drew two more knives from his belt. They were longer and heavier than the one he had thrown—brutal heavy-bladed weapons designed to be used in pairs and hack through armour.
The Space Marine slashed low and Veq parried quick as lightning, sweeping his blade over the Space Marine’s guard and slicing one of the exhaust vanes from his power armour’s backpack. Veq thrust but the Space Marine caught the blade between his knives, turning it aside and forcing Veq’s guard open to drive a knee up into the side of Veq’s abdomen.
The armour of the deep took the blow. But that wasn’t the point. The Word Bearer was fighting with the strength of a fanatic—Veq had drawn him into close combat by denouncing the Space Marine’s Chaotic masters, but it had also given him something more than just survival to fight for. The Word Bearers were insane in their devotion to the Chaotic pantheon, and they would push back the boundaries of their bodies to avenge any heresy against the warp.
Veq dropped low and swept out a leg, knocking one of the Space Marine’s feet aside, swivelling and slashing upwards. The starheart sword tore a white-hot gouge up the middle of the Space Marine’s abdomen.
The tip went deep enough to inflict an agonising, fatal wound on a mortal man. The Word Bearer, however, had the training of a Space Marine and the determination of a man fighting for everything he believed in. It would take more than that to bring him down.
The Word Bearer hacked again and punched a blade through Veq’s shoulder guard, pain flaring alongside the angry bolter wound from the hangar. Veq ducked forward and charged a shoulder into the massive barrel-chested breastplate of the Space Marine. The Word Bearer, still off-balance, stumbled backwards a step and Veq stabbed hard.
The starheart sword sheared through the Space Marine’s chest, through the internal breastplate of fused ribs, his lungs, and one of his two hearts, to tear out through the armour’s backpack. Veq twisted the blade, felt it lock in the thick bone, and used it as a lever to drag the Word Bearer towards him and headbutt him hard in the face.
The Word Bearer, nose burst in a bloody smear across his face, let his body slump and locked a leg round Veq’s knee, trying to drop him on his back. Veq rolled with the motion, pulled the Word Bearer beneath him, and fell on top of him as the Space Marine crashed onto the floor. Veq’s weight drove the starheart sword deeper, its broadening blade slicing further into his organs. The Space Marine was thrashing like a stuck animal, trying to throw Veq off the blade, but Veq held on grimly, face to face with his enemy.
Veq felt the ribcage splintering and the organs torn apart. The Word Bearer was dribbling blood.
“I don’t believe you,” he gasped, spraying red spittle. “I die not because you tell the truth, but because I will die fighting. Nothing I do will save me now. Chaos demands I fight.”
The Space Marine’s limbs were still. The starheart blade had passed through his spine. Veq stood up and slowly withdrew the sword, the blood crackling on its hot blade.
“How do you know you would die?” asked Veq. “You might have escaped. You might have shattered the machine-spirit and fled.”
The Word Bearer at his feet smiled, bitterly, blood running free from the corner of his mouth. “Nothing will survive,” he said. “You’re going to wake the Last.”
Veq stabbed down again, puncturing the Space Marine’s other heart. The Word Bearer spasmed as the life flowed out of him along with the blood spreading across the floor.
“Clever lad,” said Veq, cleaning his blade.
The shuttle was small and cramped, and it stank of slave-sweat and age. It was crammed with too much equipment, as if a larger ship had been crushed. Black wrought iron clashed with stained chrome, flickering holo-readouts with clouded flat screens. The bridge was a wedge-shaped cavity towards the nose of the shuttle, with thick black tubing dangling from the ceiling and painful runes carved into the pitted floor.
Captain Amakyre stomped across the bridge, head bowed as the ceiling lowered towards the front of the bridge where a slave was frantically working the complex navigation controls.
He threw the slave aside and took the navigation helm himself. The shuttle was still attached to the side of the Slaughtersong by an umbilical of ribbed steel through which the coven had entered the ship—it would take barely a flicker from the Slaughtersong’s weapons to turn Amakyre, Prakordian, and the shuttle into an expanding ball of plasma. It was time to leave.
“I can feel it,” Prakordian was saying from the back of the bridge. “I can feel it waking up.”
Amakyre glanced round from the navigation helm, into which he was hammering the coordinates that would take them back to the Multus Sanguis. “The Slaughtersong?”
“The planet.”
Amakyre rounded on the nearest slave, who was cowering in the corner of the shuttle’s cramped bridge trying to disappear. “Get the scope up! Now!” A kick propelled the slave into the sensor station, a sunken pit lined with ornately-wrought readout terminals.
The sloping ceiling lit up with an image of the deep Maelstrom, the hull of the Slaughtersong stretching out along one side. The view panned to take in the disc of Torvendis, and Amakyre could see what Prakordian meant.
The seas were boiling. Welters of scalding water were swelling up and pounding the coastlines with tidal waves. The Canis Mountains were gone, fractured webs of lava-filled fissures in their place. The southern islands were gone, too, replaced by fountaining geysers of steam.
The open wound of the city was ringed with teeth, like a morsel in a huge mouth. Strangely-coloured clouds scudded across Torvendis’s surface, leaving seething trails of acid-burned earth in their wake. The many moons of the planet were orbiting so fast they slid across the image as Amakyre watched, as if they were so excited by the unfolding destruction they couldn’t sit still.
Amakyre looked back towards the navigation readouts. The shuttle still had a lock on the Multus Sanguis, but it was dangerously weak. A tiny inset screen showed a composite image of the Multus, lit eerily from beneath by the light reflecting the Torvendis’s suns. Interference from the planet would soon overwhelm the ageing shuttle’s connection.
“Prakordian! Disengage us!” yelled Amakyre. The sorcerer, eyes glazed and moving as if in a dream, pressed the square panel in the console beside him. A shudder went through the shuttle as the docking charges detonated and the umbilical was blasted off the side of the shuttle, spinning off into space.
Amakyre reached up to the throttle slider above his head and gunned the shuttle’s engines violently. The grav-dampeners didn’t quite compensate for all the sudden thrust and the bridge heaved as the shuttle shot forwards.
“What has he done, Prakordian?” demanded Amakyre. “How is he making this happen?”
“I don’t think Veq did it himself, commander.” Prakordian seemed to be all but in a trance. His eyes were sunken, his skin sucked into his cheeks. The pressure of the psychic Shockwave from the planet must be telling on him. “I think he’s having it done for him. Someone on the surface is doing his will. They probably don’t realise it. He must have been planning this since he defeated the Last, he must have planted things on the planet that took thousands of years to pay off.”
“You sound like you admire the heretic.”
Prakordian smiled. “He would have made a fine Word Bearer.”
Amakyre ignored such blasphemy for now. Prakordian could be punished at the Legion’s leisure, if either of them survived to see it happen.
Amakyre switched the viewscreen to show the shuttle’s destination. The Multus Sanguis was a cruelly small bri
ght glint, almost drowned by the nebulae and red giants of the Maelstrom. Amakyre was under no illusions as to what would happen if Torvendis suffered a massive catastrophe, losing a section of its crust or being violently wrenched out of its orbit by whatever Veq was doing to it. At the very least, close orbit would be filled with debris too thick for any craft to survive. An escape via warp drive was the only possible option, and that meant getting to the Multus.
This mission was not a failure. The coven had been charged with finding out what had happened to Karnulon. Amakyre had satisfied this objective—Karnulon had been killed by Arguleon Veq, probably for his spaceship so that Veq could get to Torvendis in the first place. There was no defection from the Legion, and the honour of the Word Bearers was intact. This was what Amakyre would report to the Legion command, and he would be honoured for his duty to the Word Bearers.
There was a piercing shriek from the sensor station as the shuttle’s scanners picked up a massive power spike. Amakyre could see the cause right away. It was a searing bright streak tearing across the viewscreen.
A weapon had emerged from the side of the Slaughtersong’s hull, immense and shining, from which was leaping a solid beam of blue-white light.
“Status on the Multus!” yelled Amakyre at the slave in the sensor pit but the slave was already dead, brain fried by the massive feedback from the sensors.
If the Slaughtersong had been firing on them, they would already be dead. As far as Amakyre knew there was only one other target in orbit around Torvendis. The Multus Sanguis.
The searing beam cut off. In its place, a silent explosion of multicoloured flame bloomed against the darkness. Ruptured plasma generators sent blue tongues of flame out into space. The ancient, insane machine-spirit detonated in an orange flare of dying madness. Torpedoes exploded in cherry-red bursts.
“Veq! Heretic! Traitor!” yelled Amakyre.
[Warhammer 40K] - Daemon World Page 28