by Unknown
JEBEZ AUG WAS not dead. The strike on the bridge had taken his right arm and leg, and ruptured several organs. But he had survived.
'He will make recovery in time,' the Apothecaries told Shadrak, 'but it will be months, and he will be more fleshspare by the end of the process.'
Shadrak sat at the Iron Father's bedside, watching the vital monitors flicker.
Aug stirred.
'Shadrak…' He smiled weakly. 'Did you bring me the head?'
'I failed to do that, warleader,' Shadrak replied. 'Another time.'
'We tasted some vengeance today,' murmured Aug.
'Too little, and at a terrible cost. But it is a start and, if nothing else, we have learned what we must do from here on.
We have learned what it means to be shattered, and the path we must follow if we are to achieve our vengeance.'
'Singular focus of command,' said Aug.
'Yes, that. For this force, and for any broken unit like us. But more than that. We must learn to pace ourselves.
Tactical restraint. To hit and run, and not to be greedy and trust in overwhelming power as of old. We must learn the tactics and techniques of those thrown in with us and respect them. We must take our iron and alloy it with the mettle of the others who were shattered alongside us. We must mix our broken strength with other broken strengths to forge a new, unbroken edge.'
'Spoken like a warleader,' whispered Aug.
'I am Captain of the Tenth Company, my lord, and you are living yet.'
'In some degree,' Aug smiled. 'Shadrak, I will not be fit for command for a long while yet. These days are too crucial.
The line of authority must be constant and unwavering. There must be continuity.'
'Yes, but—'
'You know this is the truth of it, Shadrak. You have always been sharper on tactics than me. See the truth of it now, and do not fight me on this. I am too tired to beat you into submission.'
Shadrak smiled. It was the first time he had truly smiled in a long while.
'I see the truth of it,' he replied. 'But I want it recorded that this is not something I ever asked for.'
Aug nodded.
'That will be recorded. Shadrak, those who aspire to command are seldom the ones best fit to take it. Since Isstvan, you have proven yourself to be the most clearsighted of us all. The right hour chooses the right man. The right man emerges in the right hour. This is your time, Shadrak. The Tenth Legion needs you. Consider it destiny, if you will. And it may be unwanted by you, but you are the one who must seize it. You are not presuming to take the Gorgon's place the void he left has called you to this duty. No one will oppose you, or they will answer to me. Help me up.'
Shadrak eased Aug a little more upright with his good hand.
'Witness this!' Aug called out.
Dalcoth, Nuros, Lumak and Mechosa entered from the outer chamber.
'My last act as warleader is to name Shadrak Meduson as warleader of this battle group. Bear witness, and honour him with your loyal service.'
They nodded and slapped their fists to their chestplates.
'I will need a good Hand Elect,' Shadrak said, rising. He looked at the others. 'I will need the finest force captains too.
I want the four of you, and any men, officers or line troops, that you choose to recommend. This is a moment to trust on experience, not the rote of seniority.'
He raised his fist in the old salute of Unity.
'My first act as warleader is to name Iron Father Jebez Aug as my Hand Elect. If you will serve, brother, and suffer the indignity of our reversal.'
'No indignity, but I am not fit,' said Aug.
'You will be. Until you are on your feet again, these four will jointly serve in the role of Hand Elect as a… What is it they call it again?'
'A Mournival,' said Dalcoth.
'Ah,' said Shadrak. 'Just so. But I dislike that term. You are the four quarters of this whole, until Jebez Aug is remade.'
THEY LEFT THE chamber to let Aug rest.
'Go to the bridge,' Shadrak said to Mechosa. 'Open the wideband comms, and send a direct signal. Iron Tenth cipher. For the attention of Tybalt Marr, son of Horus. Let the message read, ' Days will pass. Years perhaps. But know this, traitor. I will raise the storm, and I will find you, and I will take your head. This I swear by the blood of the Iron Tenth and the memory of my genesire. Shadrak Meduson, warleader.'' Understood?'
'You would put your name to this?' Mechosa asked. 'Why?'
'Because a shattered Legion of survivors inspires no dread,' Meduson replied. 'So we will give them a name to fear.
Each strike we make, each blow we deliver, we will leave my name in blood until it breeds in them a terror for their very souls. The Sons of Horus are no match for the wronged sons of Medusa.'
GORAN GORGONSON CLEANED the ruptured stump and began his repairs. Ceiling fans breathed cold air into the apothecarion chamber.
'Is there pain?' Gorgonson asked.
'None at all,' replied Shadrak.
The Apothecary showed him the new bionic he was about to graft in. 'A better design. Superior function and strength. If you let it bed in this time.'
'I can't promise anything,' replied Shadrak.
Gorgonson lit the surgical laser to excise splintered bone. He had alloy mixed ready to remodel the bone ends and make them fit to receive the graft.
'What was your name?' he asked as he worked.
'What?'
'Your birth name, earthbrother. From before. Before you were Meduson, before you and I were made Terranborn Storm Walkers.'
'Smyth,' said Shadrak.
'Smyth?'
'You were from Solar Stellax as I recall, Goran. Smyth is a name all too common in Old Albia where I was raised.'
'But you appreciate the deeper meaning? A worker of metal? A craftsman with a forge?'
'I do I seem to have a fondness for symbolism.'
'You've forged something powerful today, Shadrak.'
'I will forge better tomorrow, BrotherApothecary,' said Shadrak Meduson, 'and the day after, and, even better still, the day after that. Give me my hand, Gorgonson. Make me whole and give me my hand, so that one day soon I might close my fists around the throat of Horus Lupercal and choke him until his filthy light goes out.'
AFTER THE REPAIR was finished, Gorgonson left Shadrak alone.
His arm bound to his chest, the new warleader rose from the surgery cot, and walked to one of the chamber's thicklensed ports.
He stared out. He saw only infinite blackness.
He knew that somewhere in its enfolding embrace, lost and scattered in the darkness, were the souls of the ones that had lived, souls that he would struggle to unite until death claimed him.
And out there too, blacker than the void by far, were the treacherous souls of the ones he would destroy.
UNFORGED
GUY HALEY
'IT'S DEFINITELY DOWN there?' asked Jo'phor.
Hae'Phast checked his handheld auspex. The screen displayed the topography of the area in tightlybunched lines.
Where the ravine split the land, the lines gathered into one thick band. A red dot pulsed at their centre, a Salamanders Legion designation screed hovering over it.
'The reading is clean, Jo'phor. A Stormbird, designation Warhawk VI. One of ours. All the codes are correct.'
'How far down?'
Hae'Phast removed his helmet and scratched at his face. The lines of his coalblack features were etched with pale grime, and his beard reached past the lip of his plastron. The last weeks were a blur of frantic escapes, scavenging, furtive dawn marches. Time had become a meaningless value that their suit systems enumerated. Their armour was battered, the colours unrecognisable, stripped down to dirty metal, or scorched black.
'Hard to tell,' he said. 'There might be a ledge down there, could be on that. It might be down at the very bottom that's two kilometres.'
'We have to ask ourselves, assuming it is whole, then how did they get it down there?
'
Hae'Phast grunted. 'It's not that narrow. I knew a veteran pilot attached to the Twelfth Chapter. He could thread a needle with a Thunderhawk. I don't see many places that are any better to put down without alerting the traitors.'
Jo'phor stared into the ravine. Noon had passed three hours ago. The bottom was lost in shadow. Midnight lurked there, unconquered by the sun.
'It is a suitable place to hide a Stormbird.' He blinked several times, his eyes gritty with tiredness. They had gone past the point where the gifts of the Emperor could help them. Not since his transformation had he been so sorely pressed. He knew it was even harder on the neophyte, Go'sol.
'I don't see how it matters,' Jo'phor said. 'Either it is an extraction team, or it is a trap. We can go down there or we can walk away. A simple choice.'
Hae'phast slid forward on his belly to gain a better vantage, but he saw no more than Jo'phor did.
'We might die if we do, or we will die if we don't,' Jo'phor continued. 'Is that our choice, between probably and certain death? Or are we losing focus, brothers. Are we giving up?'
Hae'Phast's face set. The light of his eyes, low as embers these last days, flared angrily. 'Never,' he said.
Sulphurous winds blew out of a grim sky. Mountains of black granite stretched away in every direction, the land between faulted by gaping chasms. Somewhere to the south was the Urgall Depression, although where exactly Jo'phor was no longer sure. That was a good thing. The chaotic terrain baffled their auspex and armour systems. If they found the mountains difficult, so would the traitors.
They had seen no one else for days. Jo'phor sometimes entertained the idea that they were the only living things on the planet. At other times, when the sorrow overwhelmed him and the world took on a distant, brittle quality, he thought that they might all be dead.
There were similarities between Isstvan V and his home world of Nocturne. Both were landscapes crafted by volcanic upheaval, but Nocturne heaved with furious vitality. Isstvan's heart was cold and still, its surface nigh on lifeless. Up in the mountains, the air was so bitter that even the world's meagre apportionment of low order vegetation would not grow.
If Nocturne were to die, it would be like Isstvan V. Jo'phor could not imagine a more fitting hell for his Legion.
Away to the south, a straight line gave away the location of one of the ancient xenos highways. Who they were and what had happened to them was lost to prehistory. They were dead too, their works mere monuments to the futility of existence.
Jo'phor looked away from the canyon to the rest of his pitiful squad. 'I can't make this decision. Brothers?'
The four of them looked at each other. Hae'Phast curled his lip.
'I say let's do it. Better a slim chance than no chance at all.'
'Go'sol?'
The Scout thought a moment. 'Hae'Phast is right,' he said. He had abandoned the honorifics due to the others several days ago. He had proven himself to them time and again. In their eyes at least, he was a neophyte no longer. 'What choice do we have?'
'Donak?' said Jo'phor.
The last of their number was silent. His features were so tense they were like a clay model that had been carelessly crumpled before firing. He did not speak. As far as the others knew, he was unable. Only Donak could have told them, but he had not uttered a single word since he had joined them. His eyes flickered as they danced from face to face. He nodded once, and drew his knife.
'Then we are decided,' said Jo'phor, sliding back from the edge. 'We go down.'
THE DESCENT WAS arduous. The ravine's side was a twisted mass of boulders and grotesque rock formations. The mountains were young; their rock had been rapidly formed and was as fragile as glass. The trek took hours. The weight of their armour caused seemingly solid rock to give way beneath them. Several times they doubled back to find a safer way, until they came to a place where they had no alternative a vast scree cone, high as a mountain itself, the far side blocked by a cliff that prevented them from skirting the top.
'I don't like the look of it,' said Jo'phor. 'The material looks unstable.'
'It is unstable,' said Hae'Phast. He threw a rock into the centre of the scree. It stuck fast, but a portion of the slope slipped dangerously around it.
Loose rock and sand mantled the slopes as far as they could see downwards. The execresences of lava that made up the upper slopes were buried beneath it.
'We're not turning back,' said Hae'Phast. 'We're almost there.'
They stood precariously, legs locked against the treacherous black stone.
'I'm lightest,' said Go'sol. 'I don't have full battleplate, so I'll take a line.'
'You don't have to do this, brother,' said Jo'phor.
'Yes, I do.'
From their utility pouches, the Space Marines pulled out emergency rappels fifty metres apiece of stringthin high tension cable. Go'sol linked them together, then bound one end around his waist. Hae'Phast drove his combat knife into a cleft in the rock and tethered the other end to its hilt.
Cautiously, Go'sol crabbed his way across. Shattered stone skittered away from his feet as if startled. The Scout froze, his fingers spread, ready to grab for any purchase he could. He looked as though he were trying to placate the mountain itself.
BUT the debris moved no further, and Go'Sol went on. Shortly after he made the other side.
Hae'Phast tested the rope after Go'sol hauled it taut. 'That's as good as it'll get.'
'I'II go next,' Jo'phor offered.
A hand grabbed his arm. Donak shook his head and pushed past him.
His great, armoured weight sent miniature avalanches slipping down the mountainside. He slid on the material all the way across, almost losing his footing towards the end. Only the line saved him.
He announced his arrival with a single voxclick.
'Now me,' said Jo'phor. He checked the knife.
'It will hold, or it will not,' said Hae'Phast gruffly. 'Cross, brother.'
Jo'phor gripped the line. It seemed ethereally slender, almost impossible to feel through his gauntlets. The drop below was staggering. The slope was so steep that its integrity must have been at the utmost limit of material tolerance.
He went slowly.
By the time he joined Donak and Go'sol at the foot of the cliff, it was dark.
'Hae'Phast,' he said, risking the vox.
'On my way.'
The line twanged with Hae'Phast's every step. The light from his helm became steady as he fixed his eyes on his destination.
He paused. 'Brothers. There is—'
He never finished.
The line went slack. Jo'phor switched to light amplification in time to see Hae'Phast fall, his arms windmilled. He toppled backwards, tumbling head over heels, dislodging rolling curtains of stone as he tried to dig in with his hands.
But he could not hold on, and slithered away into the dark.
A rumble heralded the avalanche. Hundreds of tonnes of rock sheared away. Hae'Phast's helm lenses flashed once more in the gloom, far below, and the mountainside followed him.
As the thunder of the fall subsided, Jo'phor searched the night.
'Do you see him? Could he have survived?' Go'sol whispered desperately.
In the greentinted, staticladen view that Jo'phor's helm provided, he saw nothing but settling dust. Hae'phast's vital signs were flat.
'No,' he said. 'He is gone.'
From there, the way was easier.
JO'PHOR PUT HIS head around the corner carefully. He had his boltgun in his hands. The ravine floor proved wide enough to take a gunship, bringing the slippery rush of hope. They were close enough now for his battleplate's shortrange sensors to pick up the locator signal. He had a thumbnail map active in the top right of his vision plate, the beacon there pulsing red. A bight floored with black sand greeted him. On the other side was a crag. He pulled his head back in.
'Is it there?' asked Go'sol hopefully.
'There's a spur of rock. The signal's coming from behind
that,' said Jo'phor. 'Even if someone's watching, we should be able to get across without being shot at.'
'We should try signalling them. We should turn our identification markers back on. If there is someone here, and they're friendly—'
'We have few friends left on this rock,' interrupted Jo'phor. 'Chances are it's a trap. We'll have to risk it.'
'And if it's not?' said Go'sol.
Donak, as always, said nothing.
They ran across the sand, eyes upon the cliffs and scree around them. As they rounded the corner, Jo'phor's hearts sank.
There was no gunship.
The locator beacon was genuine, but there was no sign of the Stormbird that once housed it. The apparatus was propped up against the rock face. Above it three words were scraped onto the rock, almost luminously white in the dark: WELCOME TO PURGATORY.
The air cracked gently the characteristic report of a legionary sniper rifle. Jo'phor spun around. Go'sol collapsed, shot cleanly through the head.
A second shot caught Donak in the arm. He fell sideways, sprawling for cover.
Jo'phor threw himself to the side as a third shot spacked into the ground exactly where he had been standing. The Emperor's gifts came alive, supercharging his metabolism. Time slowed. Conscious thought receded. What little was left of his humanity was submerged.
The alterations to his mind bypassed his frontal lobe, reaching under for the more primitive, efficient systems it overlaid. Before he knew it, he was running, his body and armour working in tandem, he functioned optimally despite his weariness. He was a weapon, forged to the Emperor's design. His helm's autosenses switched to thermal and highlighted three heated paths through the cold night, still coherent though warped by air currents.
A lasweapon's discharge track.
Another round flared across his lenses. He had his bolter up to his shoulder, laying down a suppressive burst as a figure moved to engage him from behind another boulder. The warrior was forced to duck back.
He could see them now five traitors betrayed by plumes of hot air vented by their armour's cooling plants. They were visible to him as writhing columns that flattened themselves out sixpointfour metres up against a cap of cooler air, their tops dragged into cirrus shapes by sluggish laminar flow at the thermal boundary. His racing mind tracked them all. He fired on fully automatic the moment he saw a cooling vent protrude over a rock.