Redeemer - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Are they daemons?’ asked Artemos.

  ‘I know little of daemons, but I don’t believe so,’ said Fidelius. ‘They are easy enough to kill, though they are stealthy. They’re psychically able, they cloud the mind, they’re never where you think they are, but they are of flesh and blood. There’s not very many of them. Dangerous to unmodified humans, but little threat to us. I can imagine how easy it was for them to wreak havoc on a planet this sparsely populated, but we would have had this continent secure and been on our way to the other hemisphere if it weren’t for…’ He paused again. Disquiet showed in his eyes. ‘If it weren’t for this.’

  ‘What became of Aelus’ gene-seed?’ asked Artemos.

  ‘It was lost. We tried to save it, but we could not. We have no Priest with us. I apologise. Perhaps it could have been retrieved, but I do not have the skills.’ Fidelius turned his attention back to Astorath. ‘If you have responded to our message, then the worst has happened. I didn’t believe it was possible. Erasmus was so noble.’

  ‘You thought it something else?’

  ‘I am no expert, and hope deceived me, perhaps, but I hoped so. If you are here, it is not some other thing. It is the Black Rage.’

  ‘It is,’ Astorath confirmed.

  ‘I am surprised you arrived so swiftly. I sent word only days ago.’

  ‘I did not get your summons,’ said Astorath. ‘I require no message. The music of torment called me, so I came.’

  ‘It happened here,’ said Brother Caspion. They were in a house built around the topmost trunk of the arrow-like trees. The spongy wood, slender as a man at that point, made a central pillar around which all else was constructed. Broken pots lay about, and a smear of blood darkened the wall. ‘Brother-Sergeant Erasmus had been behaving erratically all day, but we did not know what we were seeing. If we had, we would have acted.’

  ‘Be calm, young brother. This is not your doing,’ said Astorath.

  Caspion nodded gratefully. ‘They were giving us a feast in our honour when Erasmus turned. He ate the meat, then something happened, and before we could react he had killed two of the mortals, shouting as he did about traitors and being trapped. We tried to restrain him but his strength was too great and he escaped. The natives have not returned here since it happened.’

  ‘Relations seem good otherwise,’ said Astorath.

  ‘Fidelius convinced them Erasmus was influenced by the creatures. They were shocked a Space Marine could be so affected, but they believed it,’ said Edmun.

  ‘I do not like to trade in falsehood,’ said Fidelius. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘A lesser evil. Let them continue to believe it is so,’ said Astorath. ‘It would be for the best if that remains the story they tell after we are gone.’

  ‘Better they fear the alien than their protectors, brothers,’ said Artemos.

  ‘Better still that the twin curses of our gene-line remain secret,’ said Astorath.

  ‘They feared that their meat offended us, and triggered his behaviour somehow,’ said Edmun. ‘Is that how it happens?’ he asked tentatively.

  Astorath watched the Primaris Marines closely. Though the new Space Marine breed seemed resistant to the flaw, they were still taught the rituals and the severity of the curse. To little effect, it seemed. So many had been inducted so quickly that they’d had no time to learn properly.

  ‘The women, Srana, she mentioned this ordes meat. Was there anything unusual about it?’

  ‘They said it was a delicacy. They were excited. The animal has to be hunted, and they have not been able to hunt since the creatures came. It was bloody, and tough, but of good savour,’ said Fidelius. ‘Could it have been the cause?’

  ‘It is most unlikely,’ said Astorath. He paced around the room and stopped by the bloodstain. ‘Whose blood is this?’

  ‘Brother Erasmus’,’ said Caspion, ashamed. ‘I injured him.’

  Astorath pulled a strip of spongy fungus wood from the wall. He chewed on it, letting snatches of experience be teased from the coagulated blood. There was little genetic material, and therefore little could be gleaned. Beneath the ponderous thoughts of trees, Astorath got impressions of bewilderment and fear, then the anguished tune of Erasmus’ soul played loud and drowned out all else, and he spat the chewed wood out. ‘The Rage comes unannounced. You all partook of the meat?’

  Fidelius nodded.

  ‘Then it was not the cause. You are unaffected? No increase in your thirst?’

  ‘None, my lord. It does not affect us the same way,’ Fidelius said, almost apologetically.

  Astorath looked around the room. ‘And Erasmus burst out of the door? After you wounded him?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Erasmus then dropped to the forest floor,’ said Fidelius.

  ‘One hundred and thirty feet,’ Edmun said disbelievingly.

  ‘He had his battleplate,’ said Fidelius. ‘No weapons except his combat knife. He vanished. We’ve combed the area thoroughly, grid by grid. Edmun is a good tracker.’

  ‘I lost him,’ Edmun said. ‘We followed his trail to the bounds of the next settlement, where the trail gave out. The enemy tried a sortie against us there, and we were forced to fight. When it was done, I could not find his tracks again.’

  Astorath nodded, still examining the room.

  ‘I am finished here. Tell the people of this village they have nothing to fear. Soon you will be able to complete your mission, for the greater glory of the Emperor. First, you must direct me to where the greatest concentration of enemy are.’

  ‘But why?’ said Fidelius. ‘They are to the north, Brother-Sergeant Erasmus ran south.’

  ‘He will be where the enemy are,’ said Astorath. ‘We are warriors. We suffer a warrior’s curse. Though they may be violent towards their own, those under the influence of the Black Rage are still servants of the Emperor. They fight for Him until the end, however misguidedly.’

  Astorath prepared for the giving of mercy. He had stripped the top portion of his armour off, and sat cross-legged in a habitat yet to be reclaimed by the planet’s depleted people. Artemos held out his bare arm for Astorath to cut, and with the Sanguinary Priest’s blood Astorath anointed his skin. He lapped at Artemos’ wrist twice to blunt his Red Thirst, and, through the vitae of Sanguinius running through Artemos’ veins, to remember the sacrifice of their primarch. The curse music sang in Astorath’s mind as the blood filled his mouth.

  ‘You can’t go alone,’ Artemos said. He wiped his arm and clad it in ceramite again. The ritual was a businesslike affair. Under such circumstances, the armouring of the soul was done with the same practical battlefield efficiency as the reloading of a boltgun. ‘The settlement to the north is full of the enemy. We should all go.’

  ‘I have fought some of the most celebrated heroes of the Blood, brother. These creatures are feeble. They will not slow me, and when I find Erasmus I will best him.’ The blood symbols were drying on Astorath’s skin. He sheathed his blade, and began to collect his armour pieces.

  ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘This is my duty alone, brother.’

  Artemos helped him don his back-plate and breast-plate, holding them in place while Astorath bolted them together with a sanctified power driver.

  ‘Then take some of Erasmus’ Primaris brothers with you, as a precaution against mishap. We cannot afford to lose you, when we have lost so much already.’

  Astorath looked over his shoulder into Artemos’ eyes. ‘Are you seriously suggesting a mere sergeant might get the better of me?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  He returned to his armour. ‘There will be no mishap. The Primaris Marines will remain here. It is inevitable that they will see the effects of the Black Rage first-hand one day, for we all do, whether as witnesses or sufferers. I would prefer them not to yet. The Primaris brethren brought hope to our Chapter.
It is best if as few of them as possible see the curse that afflicts the rest of us. The Chapters of the Blood have been through much these last centuries. Allow us a moment of resurgence before we must face the monsters within again.’

  ‘The truth will out.’

  ‘Truth always does. However, it will be many years before these Primaris Marines return to Baal. They have done good work here, but this entire world must be freed. They may die before they can pass the information on to others of their kind.’

  ‘Are you sure I cannot accompany you?’

  Astorath ran his thumb lightly down the edge of the Executioner’s Axe. Blood beaded on his skin.

  ‘I go alone, Artemos.’ He pushed his still-bleeding hand into his gauntlet and locked it into place. ‘Do not ask again.’

  The forest of Asque was silent. So dominant were the fungiforms and moulds that animal life was scarce. Astorath walked roads high over the ground choked by fungal growth. Symbiotic relationships with the fungi were common in the few animal species which thrived, and ever adaptable humanity had taken their lead. The road was carried on buttresses encouraged to grow from nearby fungus-trees, but the network required maintenance; in the years since the rift the sky-roads had buckled and the marks of human habitation everywhere were vanishing.

  It took so little to erase humanity’s efforts from existence. Astorath’s duties, though obscure, were ultimately a part of the fight against that, to prevent mankind vanishing from history like so many hundreds of species before it.

  The town rose in delicate towers high above the canopy. Once he had passed under the shadow of the first, he encountered the enemy.

  A pallid, bloated shape disentangled itself from the shadows and leapt at him. Astorath’s head buzzed with psychic interference. He could not see it clearly at first, but the efforts undertaken to improve a Space Marine’s mind were as great as those that went into rebuilding his body. He shook the thing’s influence off, and its form was revealed to him.

  It was vaguely humanoid, mushroom-pale, bloated, disgusting as so many xenos were. Hooked claws in its wrists squealed off his armour. The mouth snapped at him, every bit as hideous as Srana had said.

  ‘Surprise is your chief weapon, creature,’ said Astorath. He grabbed it by the throat and held it aloft. It was surprisingly strong, and would easily slay a mortal man. ‘But you have little else, and nothing that can do harm to me.’

  In his grip the beast was helpless. It thrashed about and hissed until its breath was spent and it was dead.

  He dropped the pasty thing. It sank bonelessly into itself and began to emit clouds of yellow spores from its body.

  Astorath strode on, following strains of a funereal tune only he could hear.

  ‘Brother Erasmus!’ he shouted. His amplified vox echoed down silent streets, scaring up rare aviforms and startling parasitic growths into shedding slimy seeds. ‘Brother-Sergeant Erasmus! Return to us! Return to your Chapter! Return for the Emperor’s mercy!’

  His shouting attracted the creatures. En masse they clouded his mind more effectively, but he aimed his blows at the blurred shapes and cleaved them down anyway. They sought to bury him under a weight of their bodies, and did, but they could not penetrate his armour. Soft fingers pried at his seals. Sharp claws scraped at his ceramite. The Emperor’s armament held firm against their efforts and they died by the dozen.

  ‘You do not learn,’ he said, striking them down. ‘You cannot harm me.’ He paced his blows to preserve his strength, weathering the soft drumming of their alien fists on his battleplate and chopping them down with a forester’s steady rhythm.

  Killing all the way, he passed into the inner districts of the town, where grand squares were upheaved by the unchecked movement of living supports. Towers were choked by the rubbery vines, great tangles of them bursting from every window. The further he went the more creatures appeared, all attacking without consideration for their feebleness. His boots crunched on human bones made soft by decay. Thousands had died here, and it sorrowed him.

  Finally, a rune flicked into being upon his helm-plate. A chime announced his true quarry was near. He activated his jump pack and burst from a knot of the creatures.

  Black wings spread, prolonging his short flight. He directed himself to a broad platform overlooking a further square, and there he found Brother Erasmus.

  The fallen sergeant raged and screamed, shouting imprecations at enemies ten thousand years dead. The blood red of his armour was obscured by milky alien blood and brilliant smears of yellow spores. His knife had broken halfway along the blade, but he wielded it as if it were the finest sword. A hundred of the fungoid creatures swarmed him. Astorath wondered how long Erasmus had fought. It was not unusual for a brother gripped by the Rage to fight until his hearts burst, the ferocity of the affliction being enough to overtax a Space Marine’s body, but if Brother-Sergeant Erasmus had fought since the day he had fallen, he showed no signs of fatigue, and still killed with great efficiency.

  Astorath watched awhile. Though the Black Rage was a terrible curse, those afflicted displayed an echo of the primarch’s martial glory when they fought, and the sight never failed to move him. The music of Erasmus’ suffering sang loudly in his mind.

  ‘Terrible, and glorious,’ Astorath said, then called out, ‘Brother! I am coming to you. Stand fast! Soon your suffering shall be done.’

  He ignited his jets, and thundered down into combat.

  They fought side by side, purging the town of its infestation. Astorath’s axe buzzed through the xenos trailing lightning, and in short time the battle was done.

  The High Chaplain faced the lost brother.

  ‘Father!’ Erasmus cried, his voice choked with spiritual pain. ‘Have you come? Is Horus dead?’

  ‘He is long dead,’ Astorath said calmly. He held his axe across his body in both hands. ‘Come to me, and know an end to suffering.’

  ‘If he is dead, why do I see him, standing over me? Why does my blood leave my body? Oh father, why have you forsaken me?’

  The lost brother threw himself at Astorath, and the day’s real fighting began.

  Erasmus was possessed by the death memories of Sanguinius, and full of desperate strength. Astorath judged Erasmus too strong to grapple, so took his time, softly singing the hymns of ending as he struck away pieces of the warrior’s armour and bled away his might with gentle cuts. There were quicker ways to end one of the lost, but Astorath would do so only in extremis; the warrior must be comforted, and blessed. The final rites of death were as important as the rites of apotheosis and must be correctly observed.

  Astorath fought to preserve the secrets of his Chapter. He fought to end the rampages of those who could not find a noble end in battle, but most of all he fought to save their souls. Kindness guided his axe above all things.

  ‘You are a traitor, a betrayer, a worm in the eye of father,’ shouted Erasmus. ‘You consort with evil for your own benefit while the Imperium burns! Why? Why? Why?’ Erasmus directed a flurry of blows at Astorath. The High Chaplain stepped back, mindful that even a broken blade propelled with such strength could break his armour.

  ‘I am not Horus, brother,’ he said softly. ‘I am your redemption.’

  He stepped back and around, swinging his axe with the motion, and took Erasmus’ leg off at the knee.

  The Space Marine fell face forward and howled piteously with sorrow. He tried to rise.

  ‘I die! I die! Slain at the hand of my brother!’

  Astorath stepped in, kicked the knife from the Space Marine’s hand and with another blow shattered his armour’s power plant, expertly deactivating the battleplate without triggering an explosion. A good part of Erasmus’ strength was thus denied him.

  ‘Why?’ sobbed Erasmus. ‘Why does it have to end this way?’

  Astorath squatted down, rolled Erasmus over onto his back and pulled
free his helm. The warrior’s face was swollen with vitae, his eyes blooming with burst blood vessels. His eye teeth were at their fullest length. But there was yet nobility in him. There always was in the lost.

  Astorath rested his palm on the warrior’s brow. ‘Peace, brother. Be at peace. I am not Horus. I am not the Emperor. I am High Chaplain, and you are Brother-Sergeant Erasmus. The wars you speak of were over ten thousand years ago. Now your fight is, too.’

  Erasmus’ eyes cleared a little.

  ‘What… what has happened to me?’

  ‘The Black Rage. Our father’s death, echoing down time.’ He gave the Space Marine a solemn stare. ‘Now, listen to me. We are Space Marines, we do not pray. We hold no person to be a god, and all gods to be monsters. We give praise to no one but mortal heroes, and we thank the Emperor as a man and not a divine being. But we will pray now, you and I, for peace in death.’

  Astorath spoke sacred words. Through the fog of the rage, Erasmus repeated them, and a little more lucidity returned.

  ‘Our lord’s anguish…’ Erasmus said. Tears spilled down his cheeks. ‘I feel what the Angel felt. I can’t stand it. He is sorrowing for me, for all of us. End it swiftly, please!’

  ‘Fear not, my brother, mercy is my purpose.’

  Astorath rose. The Executioner’s Axe descended.

  The music stopped, and a new weight was added to the High Chaplain’s burden.

  He recovered Erasmus’ head, and voxed Artemos.

  Artemos performed his grisly work back in the village. The Primaris Marines guarded the habitat door. The people kept away. They knew something sacred was happening within. Reductor blades sawed though bone, and ribs cracked wetly to give up precious gene-seed.