Age of Darkness

by Christian Dunn

  It wasn’t enough. More were coming. Tongues of fire spilled off their armour like bright vapour contrails. They brought autocannon and multi-lasers, Rapier and Tarantula guns.

  Brother killed brother in an endless firestorm that had yet to even reach its full fury.

  Now, the long turrets of the battle tanks made themselves known. It was easy to imagine skulls being crushed beneath their tracks, the slow and steady disintegration of civilisations under their massive bulk. Kill markings marred their hulls. How many would be attributed to the Salamanders Legion before this madness was done, Heka’tan wondered?

  The tanks were still manoeuvring into position when the Son of N’bel fell upon the line of iron, bending it to his will. A gleaming figure surged into the Iron Warriors, distant but still magnificent. Vulkan and the Pyre Guard slammed into the betrayers with unrelenting vengeance. The primarch’s hammer smashed a bloody wedge into the throng, slow to react to the flank attack.

  From below, Heka’tan found it hard to keep track of his father, but saw enough to know iron helms were sundered and chestplates crushed against his wrath. A spit of flame drove the traitors back up the hill, colliding with the advancing armour. Vulkan’s gauntlet engulfed them in a conflagration so intense that power armour was no defence against it.

  He reached the first of the battle tanks, a Demolisher that the primarch lifted with his bare hands and turned over. A second he punched through the hull with his hammer, wrenching out the crew within before the Pyre Guard, his retinue and inner circle warriors, followed up with grenades. The back of the tank blew out in a plume of fire, smoke and shrapnel.

  Then Heka’tan was running, back up the hill towards his father.

  ‘Forward in the name of Lord Vulkan! Unto the anvil!’

  The ring of three hundred took up the charge, ragged banners snapping defiantly in the icy wind. Snow turned to slush with the heat of their flamers, levelled at the crumbling line of Iron Warriors.

  ‘Perturabo!’ The voice shook the very ridgeline as deep and forbidding as a Nocturnean lava chasm. Vulkan was enraged, battering tanks aside like children’s toys. He was not the most gifted swordsman, nor was he a master strategist or a psyker of any note, but his strength and fortitude… in that, the Eighteenth Primarch was unrivalled.

  Had Ferrus Manus lived there might be cause for debate, but with the Iron Hands primarch’s head lying separate from his body in the shrinking snow that point was now moot.

  The low whine of a missile barrage cutting through the air at speed answered Vulkan and he looked to the heavens.

  Heka’tan followed his primarch’s gaze a second later and saw the danger too late.

  Fury lit up the ridgeline, ripping tanks and bodies the same, tossing Salamanders and Iron Warriors indiscriminately. The backwash boiled down the hill in a fiery bloom, thundering into Heka’tan just as Vulkan was obliterated from his sight. Then the world faded, darkening in every sense and–

  –he awoke.

  Something was scratching at the Salamander’s fingers. The efforts were frantic but ineffective. Heka’tan opened his eyes, still shaking. His hand was clenched around a woman’s throat. Eyes narrowed, he released her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He rose from his haunches but the artificer backed off when he tried to approach her. She massaged her throat, trying to breathe.

  The skin around her neck was already bruising and there were burn marks where Heka’tan’s fingers still carried the brazier’s heat.

  ‘Brother Arcadese…’

  ‘Should not have sent you.’ Heka’tan glowered.

  The artificer shook her head. ‘What did I do?’ She was raving a little now, afraid and a little incensed.

  Heka’tan rose to his full height, and loomed over her. ‘The rites of Nocturne are for Vulkan’s sons alone.’ There was obvious reproach in his voice. The artificer’s annoyance melted away with the sudden fire blazing in the Salamander’s eyes. They were red but stoked like a furnace. The effect, coupled with the warrior’s ebon skin, was disturbing. ‘Nor do we have use for artificers.’ He would speak to Arcadese later.

  ‘You’re my first Salamander,’ she admitted, mustering her courage in the face of the diabolic warrior.

  ‘Then you’re fortunate, for there are few of us left.’ Heka’tan turned away. ‘Now leave me. A Salamander must be fire-touched before battle.’

  ‘Battle? I thought this was a diplomatic mission?’

  The Salamander glared at her. ‘Do I look like a diplomat to you?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I am not your lord, I merely am. Now, go.’

  A sudden jolt through the chamber sent the artificer scurrying for footing. Heka’tan caught her. His grip was gentle this time.

  A vox crackle made them both turn towards the receiver unit on the wall. The frantic voice of the pilot quickly followed.

  ‘…vasive action… brace for… mpact!’

  ‘Huh–’ The half-formed thought was smothered by the explosion rocking the hull and the blast wave ripping through the ceiling.

  Heka’tan bore down on Persephia like the coming of night.

  Then came smoke and the scent of burning.

  Debris

  I

  The sleek vessel touched down with barely a tremor. Its long silver prow shone in the setting Bastion sun, slightly at odds with the functional grey and bronze of the docking towers. This was not a sleek, smooth shipyard; it was a place of hard edges, of logical, minimalist architecture, of sprawling technological megaliths and super-rigs.

  Servitors, haulers, deckers, overseers and foremen clogged companionways, thronged dizzyingly high gantries and lofty work platforms. This was industry. It was grind and solidity. This was Bastion.

  Cullis was its prime-clave. A hard city, full of hard men, not just workers and engineers but military men, and it was their might and native arsenal that had afforded them choice.

  No real opposition to a Legion, Bastion none the less represented an expenditure of time, a manoeuvring of resources – a surfeit that neither side was willing to commit. Armies were stretched the length and breadth of the galaxy as it was. Better to court its people with words and argument than risk turning Bastion into a wasteland that was no use to either faction.

  Ortane Vorkellen knew this as he stepped onto the gangramp of his cutter, shielding his gaze against the dipping sun.

  ‘Smells of oil and metal,’ muttered Insk, his scrivener. ‘Should’ve brought rebreathers.’

  ‘And risk offending the natives,’ Vorkellen returned in a quiet voice, his painted smile pitched perfectly for the greeting party.

  A gaggle of archivists, lex-savants and codifiers followed him and Insk down the ramp as they descended to the deck floor.

  ‘Greetings, travellers,’ uttered a moustachioed clave-noble. He towered over the visitors in a bespoke rigger, an exo-skeletal frame of bronze that added a metre to his height and bulked out his limbs with its chassis. Weapon mounts, ordinarily positioned at either shoulder and below the abdominals, were absent, a concession that this was to be a peaceful engagement. Likewise, the noble’s three marshals wore only ceremonial flash-sabres – no barb-whips, no rotor-threshers or other hand-held cannon. A high-marshal accompanied them, making five men in total.

  The Bastionites were a people that appreciated all things martial. Perhaps that was why compliance had been so easy to achieve here, despite the world’s obvious military might – they respected strength and knew its measure well. Certainly Perturabo’s Legion had experienced harder-fought, longer campaigns than the one to assimilate Bastion and its annexe-worlds. They had simply recognised the power of the Space Marines and sworn fealty then and there without the expected siege. A contingent of Iron Warriors had been left behind, presumably to garrison the planet, but had left prior to the outbreak of the wa
r with no reason given. Their primarch’s influence was still felt, however, in the statues of Perturabo that rose from the cities like spires.

  ‘Greetings from the clave,’ added the noble. His russet and silver jacket was pressed and pristine, perfectly accenting the polished bronze of his exo-rigger. His boots, fastened in the machine’s stirrups, were black and shining.

  Vorkellen had never been to Bastion, but he had researched the world and its customs. He knew the clave represented the socio-political-martial inner circle of the world’s infrastructure and that every one of Bastion’s nine continents, be they ice-plain, desert flatland or mountain fastness, adhered to the will and guidance of a clave. A naturally occurring thermo-nuclear resource provided light and heat, heavily shielded and stockpiled in underground silos that ran throughout Bastion like arteries. Cullis was the capital and the prime-clave, which was why Vorkellen had travelled there for the negotiations.

  ‘My lord brings you greeting and honours the clave,’ he replied, bowing at the foot of the gangramp in the custom befitting obeisance to a clave-noble of Bastion. ‘Lord Horus conveys through me his gratitude at this meeting.’

  The noble nodded. ‘It is received and noted by Cullis-Clave. Please follow.’ He turned then, his exo-rigger whirring with servos and pistons and pneumatics, and proceeded to clank across the dock towards a great mechanised gate. It was magnificent on account of its size and the inner workings, displayed like a body’s perfect organs on a mortician’s slab. But it was ultimately artless and cold.

  Vorkellen followed, his lackeys in tow. ‘You’ve prepared our petition?’ he asked Insk.

  The scrivener proffered the data-slate to his master.

  Vorkellen took it and proceeded to read. The guards, high-marshal and clave-noble paid them no heed, eyes front and marching to the rapidly approaching gate.

  The visitors were shown into a long gallery festooned with banners and laurels.

  ‘This is where you’ll await audience with the clave-nobles,’ the high-marshal said.

  As he was taking in the austere surroundings, Vorkellen asked, ‘Have the representatives from Terra arrived yet?’

  ‘They are delayed.’

  ‘Doubtless the Emperor would prefer a show of overwhelming force to bend the clave’s will.’

  The high-marshal scowled. ‘You will get your opportunity to present your case to the clave in due course.’

  ‘Of course, sire. I merely hope to settle this matter of allegiance quickly,’ he replied contritely. A pity we cannot unleash the World Eaters on this place and raze it, he thought behind a strong smile that spoke of his sterling character and honourable ideals.

  The high-marshal saluted – a gesture curiously similar to the old sign of Unification, a clenched fist striking the chest. ‘The clave convenes in two hours and thirteen minutes.’

  Horus’s iterator smiled again, this time it was thinner, like an adder’s lipless mouth.

  Even Erebus couldn’t pull this off as well as me, he thought, hubris overflowing.

  ‘We’ll be ready,’ he promised.

  II

  The Stormbird’s side hatch burst open with a well placed kick. The portal was drooling smoke as a broad, flame-limned silhouette filled it.

  Arcadese was wearing his battle-helm and had the pilot’s body slung over his shoulder. The human was blood-stained, his fingers and hair blackened by soot.

  The angle was wrong as he reached the hatch’s threshold. The Stormbird had hit nose-first, crumpling its cockpit and breaking off portions of wing. Fuselage and engine components lay scattered in the wake of their descent like entrails. A dozen fires ravaged the hull but they were burning out.

  Arcadese leapt from the hatch, landing squarely a few metres from the wreck. The ground yielded underfoot and the Ultramarine sank a few centimetres. The lights and industry of Cullis were pinpricks on the horizon, no more than an hour’s march away. In the distance he could see the stilts lifting the platforms and rigs above the grey-brown ash sump surrounding it. It was a petro-chemical mulch, redolent of power plant refuse and engine yard effluvia.

  He set the pilot down and returned to the ship.

  ‘Salamander,’ he called into the dissipating smoke. Emergency lighting flickered.

  A figure emerged from the smog, another smaller one in his arms.

  ‘I’m here.’ The artificer was cradled in Heka’tan’s arms. Her eyes were red-ringed and stinging, and she coughed.

  A word resolved in Arcadese’s mind when he saw her: Burden.

  ‘What of the others?’ Heka’tan asked, stomping into the light halo from the broken hatch.

  ‘One survivor. Outside. Where is your armour, brother?’

  ‘Within,’ said Heka’tan.

  Arcadese reached for the woman. ‘Give her to me. Go retrieve your armour and our weapons. We may not be on neutral soil after all.’

  Heka’tan handed the female over and headed back into the carnage of the ship.

  III

  An awkward silence persisted between Arcadese and the artificer.

  ‘How will we get back?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Were we attacked?’

  ‘It appears likely.’

  She glanced around the industrial sump fearfully. ‘Are we safe here?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Will we–’

  ‘Cease with your questions!’ The Ultramarine turned his steel gaze on her and Persephia shrank a little.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I was trained to question… when I was asked to remember.’

  Arcadese looked away, his face like stone. ‘Not any more,’ he stated flatly and resumed his vigil outside the broken ship.

  IV

  Arcadese was relieved when Heka’tan emerged at the hatch carrying two bulky munitions crates. Each was Legion-stamped, the Eighteenth and Thirteenth respectively. He tossed them onto the ground, one after the other, and leapt out.

  Heka’tan frowned when he saw Persephia. ‘Is she injured?’

  ‘She’s human, brother – that is all,’ Arcadese replied, busy with unlocking the crate. He smiled at the sleek, gunmetal stock, the spare clips cushioned in tight-fitting foam. Running his gauntleted hand across the bolter, he found the grip and tugged the weapon free.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Heka’tan asked the artificer.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, whirling to face him. She wiped at her tears. ‘I’m fine. Just let me do my work.’

  Arcadese was about to intercede when Heka’tan stopped him. ‘Leave her.’

  The Ultramarine snorted, shucking the bolter around his shoulder on its strap. ‘There’s no threat out here, brother.’ He pointed towards Cullis. ‘Our enemies are in there.’

  Heka’tan had started to pull on the mesh under-layer of his power armour. He allowed Persephia to assist with some of the rear-mounted joints and clasps. ‘These are peaceful negotiations, Arcadese.’

  ‘You of all people should know the falsehood of that.’

  Heka’tan didn’t answer.

  ‘We are forgotten sons, you and I,’ Arcadese continued, ‘you by the Imperium and I by my Legion. To be revived from a coma and faced with this… Nikaea, Isstvan V, our beloved Warmaster a traitor – it is beyond comprehension. I should be at Calth with my father and brothers, not on this backwater world, playing diplomat.’

  Heka’tan attached his greaves and chest plate in silence.

  An incredulous grunt from the Ultramarine made the Salamander look up.

  ‘Don’t you want vengeance?’ Arcadese asked.

  He was referring to Isstvan and the massacre.

  ‘I don’t know what I want. Duty will suffice for now.’

  Arcadese approximated a shrug and went to retrieve the prone pilot.

  ‘Lea
ve him.’

  The Ultramarine stopped, looking to Heka’tan for clarification.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  V

  There was a jagged tear in the fuselage, fringed by incendiary burns. ‘I’ve seen a lot of downed ships. This looks like outside in rather than inside out.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Heka’tan replied. With Persephia’s help he was fully armoured, a forest-green monolith.

  Arcadese was nearby and could barely contain his anger. ‘We were shot down.’ He wanted retribution.

  Heka’tan could relate to that. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now.’

  ‘What about her?’ Arcadese gestured to the artificer who stood a way back from the wreck, her head bowed.

  ‘She’s coming with us.’

  ‘She’ll slow us down.’

  ‘Then consider it a mercy that no one else survived.’ The rest of the small crew were all dead. ‘I’ll carry her if needs be.’

  With an all human crew, the Stormbird had been retrofitted and re-appropriated as a diplomatic vessel, shedding armour and weapons for private chambers, archives and sleeping quarters. Considering the condition of the wreck, Heka’tan wondered at the wisdom of those measures now.

  ‘This work,’ said Arcadese at length, ‘does not honour warriors.’

  ‘We are warriors no longer,’ Heka’tan answered, tired of the Ultramarine’s dissatisfaction, and traced his finger down the jagged blast gouge.

  Arcadese stalked off, ignoring the artificer. ‘Do what your conscience dictates, brother.’

  Heka’tan was no longer listening. He dwelled on the broken Stormbird. It reminded him of another damaged vessel, on another battlefield…

  …They were fleeing the landing zone, Stormbirds little more than armoured pyres with his brothers inside.

  He was being dragged. Lucidity eluded him, ears ringing with the sound of the blast.

  Burned into his mind, Heka’tan saw his father engulfed by fire and death. For a moment he panicked, and struggled against the two Salamanders hauling him.