by Paul Kearney
The Chapter Master of the Dark Hunters looked down from the heights of the tower to the wide flagged courtyard at the heart of Mors Angnar below. It was blowing hard from the mountains, flurries of snow speeding on the bitter wind, and the Argahasts were tall, looming titans on the horizon, blinding bright at the brim of the world. The fleeting sun was passing over them, and under it the ragged shadows of clouds sped before the gale, like banners on a battlefield.
‘It would have been better,’ the Reclusiarch said, settling his hands deep in the folds of his black habit. ‘With his survival, he tainted the victory. And now a captain of the Chapter is to be…’ he trailed off.
‘The Inquisition had no choice, Brother Malchai. Once what he had done became common knowledge, it was inevitable.’
‘I agree. His decision baffled me at the time, and yet it may have saved the planet. Without the help of the eldar it is possible we might not have held on as long as we did.’
‘That sounds very strange coming from a Reclusiarch of the Adeptus Astartes, Brother Malchai.’
‘I know. I have thought on this and prayed on it many times in the last year, my lord, and I cannot come to any other conclusion. Jonah Kerne committed heresy, yet by doing so, he preserved Ras Hanem long enough for you to pull it back from the brink. We must give him credit for that, at least.’
‘Indeed. But it was Diez and the Arbion who brought us word of the second invasion, let us not forget. Preparations for the relief were already well under way when Brother Vennan received the message from the eldar. Jonah Kerne was outwitted, betrayed by the xenos he chose to help. He kept his word, but theirs was never worth anything.’
‘They paid for it,’ Malchai said with a snarl.
‘We executed their leader, all those who stayed behind. But the artefact which was the cause of it all has escaped us. For that, Captain Kerne must pay a heavy price.’ Kharne Al Murzim shut his eyes a moment, his face gnarled in pain.
Then he collected himself. ‘Your reports were invaluable – they have all been forwarded to the Inquisition of course. Not that it will do any good. His guilt has always been undeniable.’
Al Murzim paused, and sighed. ‘There he is.’
Below them, a solitary figure in a midnight-blue habit was walking across the flagstones of the courtyard. Its hood was up, and the wind tugged at the robe. The figure came to a halt near the centre of the open square, and looked up.
Al Murzim turned away from the sight, walking across his chamber with his head bowed.
‘He should have died,’ the Chapter Master whispered.
Jonah Kerne was gazing upon the towering heights of the Argahast Mountains which loomed over Mors Angnar. They had caught the sun, and were bright as silver in the rare brilliance of the light. He smiled. He was glad he had been able to see them like this one last time.
Footsteps on the flagstones made him turn around. It was Fornix, his hood thrown back and his bionic eye bright as a glede in the cold sunlight.
‘You shouldn’t be here, brother,’ Kerne told him.
‘I had to come,’ Fornix said simply.
‘You are captain of Mortai now. You cannot allow yourself to be tainted by my misdeeds.’
‘Let them go to hell, if they think I will let you make the walk out of here alone, Jonah.’
Kerne reached out a hand. It was metallic, a composite of alloys and wires and cabling. Fornix took it in the warrior grip.
‘Well, brother-captain, let us be on our way. I hear they are waiting.’
They marched out of the square together, unaware that Brother Malchai was watching them all the way from the tower above, his face clenched in grief and regret.
‘Goodbye, Jonah,’ the Reclusiarch whispered as the two disappeared.
Out on the landing pad, the shuttle was waiting, and beside it stood two figures, power armoured and with their cloaks billowing in the wind. There was no emotion on their faces as Kerne and Fornix approached. They were so similar in their impassive brutishness that they might have been twins.
‘You are Jonah Kerne, of the Dark Hunters Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes,’ one of them said.
‘I am,’ Kerne replied.
‘We are brethren of the Ordo Xenos of the Emperor’s Inquisition, and are here to take you into custody for trial on charges of heresy and xenos taint. Are you ready?’
‘I am.’
Kerne turned to Fornix. ‘Look after Mortai for me, my friend.’
Fornix could only nod.
Then Kerne followed the Inquisitors up the ramp to the open hatch of the shuttle. As the ramp came up he turned round one last time to look at the shining mountains of his home, to breathe in that chill air and feel the wind of Phobian on his face.
Then the hatch closed shut upon him.
About the Author
Paul Kearney‘s Warhammer 40,000 work comprises the short story ‘The Last Detail’ from Legends of the Space Marines, the Dark Hunters novel Umbra Sumus and the accompanying short story ‘The Blind King’. He studied at Lincoln College, Oxford and has been widely published, as well as being longlisted for the British Fantasy Award. He lives and works in Port Glenone, Northern Ireland.
An extract from ‘Dark Hunters: The Blind King’.
‘I never knew that ice could catch fire,’ he said, and his words betrayed some of the wonder that remains in the neophyte. There is still a little of humanity’s weakness and credulity even in those of us who are close to attaining the full brotherhood.
But as I turned to look at his face, I will admit that I felt some of that same wonder myself; I, Mauron Aekin, who has walked and bled upon worlds without count.
Brother Rausa caught my stare and frowned. He bent in the trench and retrieved his helm. The starlight caught the dark lenses, each a momentary, tiny universe in itself. Then he set it upon his head and became faceless, one battle-brother among many others.
‘The plasma cannon it bears will burn up anything. It will make magma out of solid stone. What you see is the glare as it engages our forces on the glacier, brother.’
‘Yes, brother-sergeant. It is just…’ Again, that human hesitation. ‘I have never seen a Titan in battle before.’
I grunted at that and stared out across the icefields again, blue under the stars, winnowed by a chill gale that sped drifts of granular snow across it in bitter clouds.
‘Not many have.’
Perhaps some thirty kilometres away, in the foothills of the mountains, there burst and flared a light show fit to make shame of any planetary aurora. Bolts of yellow, red and green snaked through the thin atmosphere. Flashes went up and died. And in their wake, there carried across the intervening plains a low rumble, like the ominous chuckle of some twisted god.
Mortai Company was out there now, fighting the desperate fight, dying for their brethren in the other companies. Buying time with Adeptus Astartes blood.
Aekin bowed his head a moment, thinking of his friends in Mortai. Already, the Dark Hunters Third Company was coming to be seen as unlucky. The Fated Ones, they were called, and they seemed to take a grim satisfaction in the title.
Throne watch over them, he prayed silently. Let their deaths be worthy.
A vast, horizon-spanning flash of light sprang up for a second and then died almost as instantly. There was a bright glow that smouldered under the stars. The light show abated somewhat.
‘That was the end of a Titan, or I know nothing,’ Aekin said softly. Seconds later, they heard the dull roar of the explosion, and a wind went past them, lifting the snow into the air to shroud them in dancing ice crystals.
‘No Warhound either. That was a Reaver, maybe even a Warlord. Rausa, what of the auspex?’
His fellow Space Marine was already consulting the device, its green light flickering upon him, like sunlight seen through deep water.
‘So much interference it’s hard to say, brother-sergeant. But the base readings have dipped. I’m seeing lower energy levels.’
Ae
kin blinked on the Chapter-wide vox. ‘Mortai, this is Ansar. Report, brothers.’
Silence, then a brief garbled crackle, then more silence.
Aekin’s face tightened. His lips drew back from his teeth inside the beaked corvid helm. He blinked up the Company vox.
‘Brother-captain.’
‘Report, Aekin.’
‘Large detonation in Mortai’s lines. Possible Titan destruction. Vox with Third Company is difficult to impossible.’
‘I read you, Aekin. Hold position.’
He wanted to say more, to ask his captain for a portion of the bigger picture, but he knew better. The vox was not for gossip, or facile enquiry.
‘Acknowledged. Aekin out.’
‘This is the Haradai’s task we are fulfilling here,’ Brother Rausa said, staring out at the dying apocalypse on the horizon. Impatience and a kind of doubt coloured his tone, even over the medium of the vox.
‘Our brethren in the Scout Company are either dead or scattered all over the glaciers to the south, keeping watch, brother. We fulfil our orders, and we do so without question, complaint or query. Do I make myself clear, Rausa?’
‘Perfectly clear, brother-sergeant.’
‘You are a neophyte, brought into the line companies ahead of your time because we are cruelly understrength. This is your chance to redeem that act of faith. Do not let me or Ansar Company down, Rausa.’
‘Never, brother-sergeant. I would rather die than fail my brethren and my Chapter. By the Throne I swear it.’
Aekin smiled a little at the heat in the young Space Marine’s voice.
‘Would you like to speak to Brother-Chaplain Nurif?’
‘That will be not be necessary, sergeant. His sermon on leaving the fortress was inspiration itself.’
They watched the horizon again, concealed in the trench that they had scooped out of the ice and stone with their own hands. There was no room to turn around in it, and their jump packs were on the lip of the trench behind them, concealed in a mound of snow.
Rausa is right, though, Aekin thought. This is no job for Assault Marines. But when war explodes out of a clear sky, and the Chapter is caught as badly by it as we have been, then many compromises must be made.
Click here to buy ‘Dark Hunters: The Blind King’.
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
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