‘Brother!’ yelled Tyrendian. ‘Fall back! We cannot lose you!’
Luko flung the last plaguebearer off himself and rounded on the greater daemon again. Too late, he saw the daemon had loped a massive stride closer, the mass of its belly like a solid wall of flesh bearing down on him. Luko turned and tried to run but the daemon moved faster than its bulk should have allowed, hauling its weight off the floor on its stumpy back leg and stamping down next to Luko, bringing its weight down onto the Soul Drinker.
Luko crashed to the deck, his lower half pinned under the weight of the daemon. The foul, oozing mass of muscle and flab was crushing down on him with so much weight Luko could feel the ceramite of his leg armour distorting under the pressure.
Luko twisted around as best he could, lightning claws held in front of him in the best guard he could manage. The greater daemon’s face loomed past the curve of its belly, and it was smiling. Luko could feel the deep rumble of its laughter as it saw its prey trapped beneath it.
‘Here!’ yelled Tyrendian. ‘Here! You want to eat?’ Tyrendian put his hands together, as if in prayer, and thrust them forward, a twisting bolt of electricity lancing into the greater daemon’s shoulder. It bored through the flesh, charred layers flaking away to the bone.
Tyrendian was walking forwards, every step flinging lightning into the greater daemon. He passed into its shadow, his face edged in hard white and blue by the power playing around his hands.
‘Tyrendian! No!’ shouted Luko, but Tyrendian did not back off. As the daemon’s gaze fell onto him he stood his ground, casting another lightning bolt up at the daemon’s face.
The greater daemon dropped the chain, and reached a massive flabby hand over Tyrendian. Tyrendian did not move. Tyrendian had never picked up a scar in battle - never, it had always seemed, even been afflicted by the patina of grime and blood that covered every soldier. He always appeared perfect, less a soldier and more a sculpture, a painting, of what a Space Marine should be. Framed by the battling plaguebearers and borne down upon by the greater daemon, there could be no more powerful symbol of purity facing the very embodiment of corruption.
The daemon’s hand closed on Tyrendian. Tyrendian gritted his teeth as the daemon lifted him off his feet, and the air thrummed with the power gathering around his hands. Crackles of it arced into the deck or into the daemon’s hand, but it did not seem to feel them. It licked its lips and its mouth yawned wide, showing the multiple rows of teeth that led down to the churning acidic pit of its stomach.
‘No!’ yelled Luko, his words almost lost by the force with which he shouted them. ‘Tyrendian, My brother. Do not do this, not for me. My brother, no!’
The greater daemon flung Tyrendian into the air, and the Soul Drinker disappeared into its mouth.
Luko screamed in anger, as if by doing so he could force the grief down and bury it.
The daemon laughed. So pleased was it by its kill, that it did not notice for a few seconds the blue glow growing in the centre of its belly.
Luko rolled back onto his front and covered himself with his lightning claws. He saw plaguebearers approaching to butcher him, or perhaps hack his legs off to free the rest of him so he could be fed to their lord. He had never seen anything so hateful as their one-eyed, horned faces split with rotten grins, gleeful at their master’s kill and the prospect of feeding him another Soul Drinker.
The rising hum from inside the greater daemon told Luko he had only moments left. That was all the plaguebearers needed to get to him.
‘Come closer,’ he shouted at them. ‘Let us become acquainted, my friends. Let me show you an Adeptus Astartes welcome.’
The hum turned to a whine. The greater daemon noticed it now. It groaned, and placed its hand to its belly, face turning sour and pained. It roared, and the terrible gale of it drowned out Luko’s voice as he yelled obscenities at the plaguebearers.
The daemon’s belly swelled suddenly, like a balloon inflating. The daemon’s eyes widened in surprise. It was the last expression on its hateful face – surprise and dismay.
The daemon’s belly exploded in the tremendous burst of blue-white power. Luko was slammed into the floor with the force of it. The plaguebearers were thrown backwards, battered by the wall of force that hit them. A great cloud of torn and burning entrails showered down, covering Soul Drinker and daemon alike. Lightning arced in every direction from the shattered body of the greater daemon, ripping into the plaguebearers surrounding it, lashing across the ceiling, boring through the floor.
In the old Chapter, some had speculated on just how much power Tyrendian could gather. If collateral damage and his own survival were no issue, it was guessed by the Librarium that their bioelectric weapon could detonate himself with massive force, as great a force of raw destruction as a whole artillery strike. They had never been sure, and never sought to find out, for Tyrendian was too valuable a weapon of war to risk him finding out how much power he could concentrate within himself.
Now, the question had been answered. Tyrendian could gather inside himself enough electric power to destroy a greater daemon of the warp. He had detonated inside the daemon’s belly with such force that all that remained, tottering above Luko, was a thick and gristly spine on which was still mounted the ragged remnants of the greater daemon’s skull. The shattered stumps of its ribs and a single shoulder blade, clinging by tattered tendons, alone suggested the bulk of its chest. Green-black brains spilled from the back of its ruptured skull, and across the front of it was stretched the daemon’s face, still wearing that expression of surprise.
The daemon toppled backwards, the ruin of its upper body slapping to the deck. The weight on Luko relaxed and he dug a claw into the deck in front of him, dragging himself out from under the daemon. He looked back and saw that only the lower portion of its once-vast belly remained, its legs connected only by skin, the many layers of entrails and organs now just a charred crater.
The plaguebearers nearby had been blasted back off their feet. Many had been burst apart by the lightning unleashed by Tyrendian’s detonation. The whole deck surrounding the daemon’s corpse was buckled and burned. Luko’s own armour was charred and bent out of shape, giving him only just enough free movement to walk away from the destruction towards the Soul Drinkers lines.
Luko’s ears rang, and the sound of gunfire barely registered through the white noise filling his head. He looked around, dazed, trying to blink away the fog that seemed to smother his mind. There was no sign of Tyrendian. Quite probably he had been vaporised by the force of the power he unleashed. There would be nothing to bury.
Sergeat Graevus ran forwards and grabbed Luko, dragging him away from the reforming plaguebearers and thrusting him behind a fallen pillar for cover.
Yellow-armoured figures came into view, approaching from the direction of the Imperial Fists centre. Without the greater daemon to anchor them, the plaguebearers wheeled in confusion, running in ones and twos into the bolter fire of the Imperial Fists, cut down and shredded into masses of stringy gore.
Graevus held his power axe high and yelled an order that Luko couldn’t quite make out through the ringing. The Soul Drinkers vaulted from cover and advanced, bolters firing, even as the Imperial Fists did the same. Caught in a crossfire, leaderless, the plaguebearers seemed to dissolve under the weight of fire, as if in a downpour of acid.
Luko’s senses returned to him as the whole flank of the daemon army collapsed, the servants of the Plague God ripped to shreds by the combined fire of the Soul Drinkers and the Imperial Fists.
The two Adeptus Astartes forces met as the last of the plaguebearers were being picked off by bolter fire. Luko found himself looking into the face of Captain Lysander.
‘At last, we meet as brothers,’ said Lysander.
‘Thank the Emperor for mutual foes,’ replied Luko without humour.
‘Vladimir has requested that we fight now as one. Will you take your place in the line?’
‘We will, Captain,’ s
aid Luko. ‘There are but few of us, and one of our best was lost killing that beast. But whatever fight we can offer, the enemies of the warp will have it.’
Lysander shouldered his power hammer, and held out a hand. Luko slid his own hand out of his lightning claw gauntlet, and shook it.
‘They’re falling back,’ came Vladimir’s voice over Lysander’s vox. ‘But in order. All units, withdraw to the centre and the Forge and hold positions.’
‘Abraxes would not abandon the fight,’ said Lysander, ‘even with their flank collapsed.’
Luko watched as the last few plaguebearers fled through the ruins of barracks and shrines, as if responding to a mental command to give up the fight. They were cut down by bolter fire, sharpshooters snapping bolts into them as they ran. ‘He has a plan,’ said Luko. ‘His kind always do.’
‘What are they doing?’ asked Kolgo.
Sister Aescarion, crouched among the ruins of the front line’s barricades, watched through her magnoculars a moment longer.
‘They are building something,’ she said.
The daemons had retreated a little under an hour before, but not all the way back to the cargo holds. Instead they had formed their own lines a kilometre away, almost the whole width of the deck. They had cut power to as many of the local systems as they could, resulting in the overhead lights failing and casting darkness across the battlefield as if night had fallen. Fires twinkled among the daemons’ positions, illuminating hulking shapes of iron with designs that could only be guessed at in the gloom.
‘Building what?’ said Kolgo.
Aescarion handed him the magnoculars. ‘War machines,’ said Aescarion. ‘At a guess. It is impossible to tell.’
Kolgo focused the magnoculars for himself. Daemons danced around their fires and tattered banners stood, fluttering in the updrafts, casting flickering shadows on the engines they were building. ‘Building them from what?’
‘Perhaps they are bringing parts through from the warp,’ said Aescarion.
The Imperial Fists had rebuilt what defences they could and were now holding their makeshift line again, watchmen posted at intervals to watch for any developments among the enemy. The Space Marine losses had been tallied, and they were heavy. Leucrontas’s command had almost been wiped out, only a couple of dozen stragglers now joining the centre. Most other Imperial Fists units were little over half-strength. Borganor’s Howling Griffons, in the Forge of Ages, had fended off skirmishing forces that tested their strength, and were mostly intact save for a few felled by shrieking flying things that swooped down among them, decapitating and severing with their snapping jaws. The Imperial Fists now holding the line in front of the Tactica were crouched, much as Aescarion was, scanning the daemon lines for the first signs of an assault. The sound of metal on metal drifted across, along with strains of a grim atonal singing.
‘Come,’ said Kolgo. ‘Vladimir has called a council of war. We shall not have to settle for sitting and watching for much longer.’
Aescarion followed the inquisitor through the darkness. On every side were Space Marines who had suffered wounds in the battle but returned to the fray. Many were missing hands or limbs, or had segments of their armour removed to allow for a wound to be cast or splinted.
The most severely wounded were laid out in the Tactica itself, on or around the map tables. Apothecaries worked on chest and head wounds, with healthy brothers rotated in to serve as blood donors for transfusions. As Aescarion and Kolgo entered, another Imperial Fist was lifted off a map table by two of his battle-brothers and carried towards the archways leading to the building’s rear, where the dead were being piled up. A lectern-servitor with a scratching autoquill was keeping a tally of the dead in a ledger.
Officers were gathered around one of the central tables, which represented the canyon walls and xenos settlement of some ancient battle. Vladimir was there, along with Lysander, Borganor and Librarian Varnica of the Doom Eagles. With them stood Captain Luko and Sergeant Graevus of the Soul Drinkers.
Aescarion stood apart as Kolgo joined them.
‘Lord inquisitor,’ said Vladimir. ‘Now we are all present. I shall dispense with any formalities as time is not on our side. We must decide our next course of action, and do it now.’
‘Attack,’ said Borganor. ‘I cannot say why Abraxes withdrew his army, for it is unlike the daemons’ manner of war, but it is certain that we shall not get any such respite from them again. We must lead a counter-offensive as soon as we can, before they finish whatever infernal contraptions they are building. Therein lies the only chance of defeating them.’
‘I agree, Chapter Master,’ said Lysander. ‘We have borne the brunt of their assault with greater fortitude than Abraxes expected. They regroup and perhaps reinforce as we speak. Attack them and destroy them. It is the only way.’
‘They outnumber us,’ countered Librarian Varnica. ‘A full assault will result in defeat for us, every tactical calculation points towards it.’
‘Then what would you have us do?’ said Borganor. ‘Wait for Dorn’s own return? For Roboute Guilliman to appear amongst us?’
‘Attacking would make the most of what advantages we have,’ said Luko. ‘We are at our best up close, charging into the face of the enemy.’
‘So are daemons,’ said Graevus.
‘True,’ said Luko. ‘Very true.’
‘There must be other ways,’ said Varnica. ‘We fall back to a smaller, more defensible part of the Phalanx and force them to attack on a narrow frontage. Lure them in and kill them piece by piece.’
‘That would give them the run of the Phalanx,’ said Vladimir. ‘Abraxes would do with this craft as he wished. His daemons could surround us and perhaps render the whole section uninhabitable by introducing hard vacuum or radiation. With Abraxes in charge they certainly would.’
‘The question is,’ said Varnica, ‘does such a scenario promise our deaths with more or less certainty than walking across the barracks deck and into their arms?’
‘So,’ said Vladimir. ‘We give Abraxes my army or we give him my ship. Any other suggestions?’
‘There is one,’ said a newcomer’s voice. The officers turned to see Apothecary Pallas. He was attending to one of the wounded nearby, using a cautery iron to sear shut the stump of an Imperial Fist’s severed left arm.
‘Pallas,’ said Luko. ‘I had not realised you let lived. I did not think I would speak with you again.’
‘Chapter Master,’ said Pallas, continuing to work on the wounded warrior. ‘What was to be our manner of execution?’
‘We have not the time to waste listening to this renegade,’ said Borganor.
‘Execution by gunshot,’ said Vladimir, ignoring Borganor. ‘Then incineration.’
‘On the Path of the Lost?’
Vladimir folded his arms and stepped back a pace, as if some revelation was growing in his mind. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You were to walk the Path.’
‘It is traditional,’ continued Pallas, ‘that the condemned among the sons of Dorn be forced to walk the Path of the Lost. It runs from the Pardoner’s Court, just a few hundred metres from this very building, and across the width of the Phalanx along the ventral hull. It emerges near the cargo holds, where our incinerated remains could be ejected from the ship. Is this not correct?’
‘It is,’ replied Vladimir. ‘You know much of this tradition. So few executions have been held on the Phalanx that few give it any mind now.’
‘I read of the ways in which we would die after I refused to join my brothers in their breakout,’ said Pallas. ‘It seemed appropriate for me to do so, that I might counsel my brothers when the time for execution came.’
‘And what,’ said Borganor, ‘is your point?’
‘My point is that Abraxes has at his command more than a mere army,’ said Pallas. The cautery iron had finished its work in closing the wound and Pallas now wrapped the wound in gauze as he spoke. ‘He brought his army onto the Phalanx somehow, and he brings
components for his war machines and no doubt reinforcements for his troops. He has a warp gate, a way into the immaterium, and it is stable and open. Only this explains his capacity to attack the Phalanx at all.’
‘And the Path of the Lost,’ said Luko, ‘leads from here to the region of the warp gate.’
‘Among the dorsal cargo holds,’ said Pallas. ‘A sizeable force could not make it through the Path, certainly not without alerting Abraxes to divert his forces to defending the portal. The majority of the force must stay here to face his army and keep it fighting. A smaller force, a handful strong, takes the Path of the Lost and strikes out for the warp gate’s location. As long as Abraxes possesses a gate through the warp any attempt to defeat him here is futile, for he will just bring more legions through until we are exhausted.’
‘Insanity,’ said Borganor.
‘Captain Borganor,’ said Vladimir. ‘I have no doubt that your hatred for the Soul Drinkers is well deserved, for they have done your Chapter much wrong. But what Pallas says has merit. It does not matter if we shatter Abraxes’s army, he still has a means to conjure a new one from the warp. Remove that, and we buy ourselves a thread that leads to victory.’
‘You are not seriously considering this?’ said Borganor.
‘I will go,’ said Luko. ‘The Soul Drinkers have suffered at the hands of Abraxes before. If we are to die on the Phalanx, then let it be in seeking revenge against him.’
‘And none but the Soul Drinkers have faced Abraxes before at all,’ added Graevus.
‘You will need a Librarian,’ said Varnica. ‘And since they are in such short supply, I had better go with you.’
‘Varnica?’ said Borganor. ‘You were among the first to condemn the Soul Drinkers!’
‘And if you are correct in your mistrust, I will be among the last to be betrayed by them,’ said Varnica. ‘But the Chapter Master is right. There is no other way. Thin as the thread is, unwholesome as the Soul Drinkers reputation might be, I must follow that thread for it is all we have.’
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