‘It bleeds, my brothers,’ he said, pointing an armoured finger at the creature. ‘And if it bleeds, we can kill it.’
‘You cannot kill it, Chaplain.’ It was Remigius’s voice. ‘It is a daemon. Unless you can banish it back to the warp, the best you can hope for is to… inconvenience it.’
‘Then inconvenience it we shall.’ At his words and with him in the lead, the Space Marines pounded down the corridor towards the beast. At the same time, the thing uncoiled its muscles and sprang at them. It struck one of the Blood Swords warriors, Kayan, in the chest with its bear-sized front paws and knocked him off balance. Before Kayan could raise his bolter and shoot, the daemon’s iron jaws had closed around his leg, and with a single bite it tore the limb clean off.
Kayan’s armour fizzed and popped at the thigh joint where his leg had been severed, and two other warriors grabbed him under the arms, preparing to drag him free. The daemon, however, had other plans. With a toss of its head it discarded the disembodied leg and reared up onto its hindquarters, lashing out with its front legs. The wickedly sharp claws at the end of each massive paw gouged into Kayan’s chest armour just above the midriff and cleaved through the ceramite. They pierced his ribcage and shredded his internal organs, and with blood bubbling from his lips, Kayan died in silence, stubbornly refusing to give voice to his suffering.
‘Korydon to Evander. Come in.’
Silence met his words.
‘Chaplain Iakodos, can you hear me?’
Static. Nothing but static. His vox was as good as useless to him. Korydon had walked the corridors of this unreality he found himself in and he had encountered nothing. No hostility, nothing. It was as though the whole of the ship was his and his alone.
As he moved, he became painfully aware of the dull ache across his chest where his fused ribcage had splintered. The scratches and gouges he had taken during the fight with Arion were already clotted and healing, but his chest hurt with every step he took. He cursed himself softly and took a moment of respite. His body felt hot, feverish as his implants kicked in to speed his healing and, despite its damage, his power armour infused his bloodstream with fresh stimms, alleviating the pain.
After a few moments, he loaded a fresh magazine into his bolter and loosened his combat blade in its scabbard. Allowing himself to move at a pace which would grant his physiology a chance to heal his wounds, he continued onwards in the direction of the bridge. It was the only thing he could think of to do. Perhaps he would learn something if he got there.
Three more times the beast appeared and disappeared. The ground beneath the Adeptus Astartes was littered with the spent casings of bolter shells and their weapons were trained on the daemonic entity. The thing’s torso was torn in several places, more of the tar-like ooze leaking from each wound struck by the Space Marines. It was snarling and its eyes blazed with a fury that would not be quenched. Its torso heaved, rising and falling in a bizarre parody of breathing despite it surely having no need to perform such a mortal act.
‘We must press on, Chaplain,’ said Remigius, pushing his way with great difficulty through the throng of Space Marines. ‘I told you. You can’t kill it.’
‘Can you help us or not, inquisitor?’ Iakodos’s reply came through clenched teeth. ‘Because if you have nothing practical to offer…’
As a reply, Remigius took a book from his belt. The tome was small, but thick with yellowing, dusty pages. As he flicked through it, Iakodos could feel his ire growing. Periodically, the sound of another bolter round being fired at the daemon interrupted the comparative silence.
‘In your own time, inquisitor.’
The sarcasm was lost on Remigius, he was sure, but Iakodos made the comment anyway. The inquisitor seemed in no hurry as he traced a spindly finger down the reams of text on the page. Then he smiled – not a pleasant smile – and pushed to the front of the group. Unsheathing the sword, he held it up in front of him. The daemon’s baleful stare moved to focus on it and once more, its powerful hind legs coiled, ready to spring.
In his musical lilt, Remigius spoke words that Iakodos could not understand and was almost entirely sure he would never want to understand. Stuttering syllables and guttural sounds burst forth from the inquisitor’s mouth and with a howl of fury, the daemon began backing up the corridor. Striding forwards in time with its retreat, Remigius was relentless. He spoke the banishment clearly and without stumbling. He knew, as did all of his order, that one mistake could prove fatal. There was a crackling nimbus of power, faint at first but building swiftly to a crescendo, around him. Jagged lightning sparked from the palms of his hands and he thrust one towards the daemon.
With a final howl of rage, the daemon seemed to suddenly contract, and then in a rush it exploded into nothing. No flesh, no blood… just nothing. It may as well never have been at all. Its fellows which had wavered between solid and insubstantial faded away as well.
Silence fell.
‘As I said,’ Remigius murmured, re-attaching the book to his belt and not even looking up, ‘we must press on.’
There was nothing to say in response to that and so nobody replied, until Iakodos finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous.
‘You are a psyker.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘And you did not think to tell us?’
‘Think of it rather as you did not think to ask, Chaplain.’
The Blood Sword died because that whoreson did not step in sooner and banish the daemon. Third Scale are dead, Evander. Gone. Remigius could have saved the Blood Sword, but he did not. He could have done that right from the start. But he waited. Too long. Much too long.
Third Scale are dead, Evander. Soon, you will join them.
Evander walked several paces behind the inquisitor, the voice in his head filled with loathing and anger. Occasionally, he would reach up and absently tap at the side of his helmet as though he could dislodge the treacherous thoughts that way. But whenever he tried, they just came back stronger than before.
‘Tylissus, this is Evander. Report.’
Static.
‘Tylissus, this is Evander. Are you receiving me?’ Despite himself, Evander could not help the rising tone of anxiety in his voice. ‘Tylissus, report back to me, now.’ Iakodos looked over at the sergeant, deeply concerned.
More static, but then, through the white noise, came the barely audible sound of Tylisuss’s voice.
‘…sage received. Und… ood.’
Evander drew a shuddering breath of relief but started when he felt Iakodos’s hand rest lightly on his shoulder.
‘Let your concerns go, brother,’ said the Chaplain. ‘We are all shaken by the loss of young Kayan, but we must keep our focus. We cannot afford to lose any more of our brethren due to our own distractions. What is troubling you?’
‘Nothing. I am fine.’ Evander shrugged off the Chaplain’s touch, an action that would in other circumstances have drawn grave censure. Iakodos merely withdrew his hand and moved slightly closer to Evander than he had been, all the while murmuring soft litanies of faith in an effort to keep Evander’s mind focused.
It really did very little to help, other than add to the noise that was worming its way through Evander’s skull. His helm lenses bored into the inquisitor’s back and he wondered what it would feel like if he were to reach out and take the man’s neck in his gauntlets and wring it until he heard the satisfying sound of it snapping.
It would be the most satisfying thing you have ever heard, Evander. He has lied to you. He has kept secrets from you. He has caused the death of a brother Adeptus Astartes. And he still lives. Where is the justice in that?
Third Scale are dead, Evander.
The sergeant stopped walking and held his hands up to his ears. Iakodos immediately moved to press him against the wall, bringing his skull-helmed face in close.
‘I hear voices, Chaplain!’ Evander’s words came out in a rushed, panicked babble of sound. ‘They are telling me… suggesting that I… things I canno
t let myself fall prey to. But it would be easy. So easy…’
‘Pull yourself together, Sergeant Evander.’ Despite the deep sympathy he felt for the unfortunate sergeant, Iakodos knew that he could not be compassionate. ‘There are no voices. This is all your imagination. The enemy are picking up on your weakness, on your failure to see past the darkness and feel the warmth of the Emperor’s light. See it, brother-sergeant.’
Iakodos turned his skull-helm away from Evander and reached for the strength of the God-Emperor. It came easily, as it always had. When he looked back, his voice had changed. The gently admonishing tone was gone, replaced by the hard practical Chaplain who had fought countless battles. ‘Cast off the daemonic witchery that binds you, brother. Cast it off with the purity of your faith. Take it. Mould it. Control it. Use it as your shield against this foul temptation.’
‘Third Scale…’
‘Third Scale are well. Tylissus reported back to you. Now show your spirit! Remind your men why it is that you above any other rose to take your current rank.’
The Chaplain’s words had a calming effect on Evander and he nodded slowly. He felt a faint whispering as though the voice would try to reach him again, but he used the mental image of the Emperor’s light as a focus. ‘Yes, Chaplain. Yes, of course. I apologise.’
‘Do not apologise, brother. Merely acquit yourself with honour.’
Releasing him, Iakodos let Evander shake himself down and resume his position at the head of the group.
‘We make speed for the enginarium,’ announced the sergeant. ‘We find this bastard daemon and we end this. For the Emperor. Fire and fury, brothers!’
IV
‘Evander, this is Korydon. Talk to me, brother.’
The futility of attempting to raise his battle-brother on the vox was beginning to exert its own pressure on the injured Space Marine. He did not understand what had happened to him but he had gone from believing he had somehow been separated from the others to believing that they had been separated from him. He didn’t know if he was alive and they were dead or the other way around.
He had retraced his steps to the crossroads and headed in the direction the other squad and the Blood Swords had taken. He thought once that he saw them in the distance and had moved gladly towards them. They had moved towards him too, and then had simply disappeared.
His frustration was growing. Whatever had taken him, plucked him from his own existence and dropped him in this netherworld, was toying with him. Everything was tinged faintly with a soft violet glow, an unreality that he could not start to comprehend. He had considered the possibility that he was unconscious somewhere and so badly injured that he had dropped into healing stasis and was merely suffering some sort of nightmare.
It felt real enough, though.
Since Korydon, like all Adeptus Astartes, rarely required what was termed as ‘True Sleep’, his experiences of dreaming were extremely limited. His mind was so filled with endless reams of texts on xenos biology or weapon maintenance that simple dreams had no place in his resting thoughts. As such, it was easy enough to assume that that was what was happening to him. Simple enough, and strangely comforting. Being able to write off his situation as a dream was actually helping his focus.
For Korydon, the corridors of the Accursed Eternity remained empty. He encountered no more of the dust creatures. He was completely alone. It was almost as though he were the only living, breathing thing aboard the dead ship.
His footsteps resounded in a dull echo as he moved onwards towards the enginarium. Every step he took thudded through his aching body giving him a fresh reminder of the pain he would have felt had he been denied his painkilling narcotics.
A sudden movement ahead caught his eye and he looked up eagerly. But it was nothing more than his own shadow. He uttered several expletives and took a moment to check the magazine in his bolter. He had one spare left.
He cast his eyes up and down the passageway he traversed even though he had long given up hope of seeing anything or anybody else. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing to be seen. He was quite categorically alone; something he had never been in the entirety of his service to the Golden Throne. He was not afraid, but it was definitely unsettling.
Whilst his attention was thus engaged, he entirely failed to notice the strange manner in which his shadow began to coalesce and reassemble itself. It was a thing of darkness: an inky blackness into which light fell, never to return, and it was tangible. It moved slowly towards Korydon and raised its shadow weapon, bringing it to bear on the unsuspecting Space Marine.
Things were no better for Evander and Ardashir. Their progress, impeded by the attack of the daemonic hound, or whatever it had been, was taking a turn for the extreme worse. The walls, no longer even attempting to look like a clinical ship interior, were quite literally alive. The tendrils that reached out and grasped at them were like lengths of sinewy muscle, tough and difficult to avoid. Whenever they were cut away, more of the black acid dripped from them.
Ardashir scowled beneath his helm as he hacked away yet another snaking vein and watched the pungent acid dissolve the blade of his combat knife into corroded, rusted metal. The second time he attempted to use the knife, it simply disintegrated into a thousand flakes of rust.
But the Space Marines were relentless and pressed onwards nonetheless. Every so often, one of the group would stop suddenly and turn to hack at another groping barb. Iakodos had insisted that the inquisitor walk in amongst the Space Marines rather than separately so that they could at least offer some kind of protection to him. His blessed blade was unsheathed and he had reluctantly conceded temporary ownership of it to the Chaplain. It seemed to be the only thing that made the tendrils recoil without releasing any more of their destructive bile.
The next attack came far sooner than any of them anticipated. Without warning, half a dozen figures stepped from the walls. Ardashir saw them first, and they were so repugnant and vile – such things of horror – that he hesitated before firing. As big again as the Adeptus Astartes themselves, the humanoid shapes were walking horrors. Ardashir had seen men flayed alive, skin peeling from their bodies to reveal the twitching muscle, sinew and bone beneath, but these abominations were worse. In his mind, a flash of memory came to the fore – the recollection of an anatomy chart of the human body he had seen during his earliest training. The creatures looked like that, blue veins and pulsing arteries covering them in a horrific, crawling network.
No longer insensible with disgust, Ardashir thumbed the activation stud on his chainsword and turned to face the closest creature. The tungsten teeth of his blade whirred into life at his touch and he brought the weapon down in a cross-stroke across its right shoulder. It bit into the daemon and chewed through to the breastbone. Blood and marrow spattered across Ardashir and several others who also turned to face this new threat.
‘Keep going,’ the Blood Swords sergeant urged across the vox. ‘We will deal with this threat. No more time to waste, Evander. Get the inquisitor to the heart of the ship!’
‘I hear you, brother. Join us when you are finished.’
Despite his misgivings about sanctioning another split to the group, Iakodos agreed with Ardashir. The Star Dragons set off at a swift jog and Remigius was hard pressed to keep up with the punishing pace. The Chaplain could see more of the flesh beasts forming from the walls of the ship. The foulness of them stirred his anger and hatred, not all of which was directed at the daemons. For a fleeting moment, he hated Remigius. He hated the inquisitor and all his kind. He loathed the fact that the Ordo Malleus had such a hold over the Star Dragons Chapter.
Hatred. It was his cardinal weapon. The Chaplain allowed the smouldering fury to raise his ire. He stoked the flames of rage that burned in his heart, fuelling his desire to deliver retribution to the enemies of mankind. Once the fire caught, it would spill over to his brothers and they too would burn with righteous anger. The familiar weight of his crozius gave him a focus as they reached yet anot
her locked bulkhead. His fingers closed around it and he drew it close to his chest. A litany fell from his lips and several of his battle-brothers picked up the words and spoke with him.
A calmness descended. The choice had been a good one. Iakodos could feel the tension ebbing away, but the sense of readiness did not leave the assembly.
Evander shouldered his bolter as the others readied more melta charges in order to get through the next bulkhead that blocked their passage. By his reckoning, they did not have much further to go before they came to the enginarium. Once they were there, the Emperor alone knew what would be waiting for them. If what the inquisitor had hinted at was even remotely correct, it would likely be the end of them all.
‘Ardashir, report.’ Evander used the temporary lull in proceedings to check in with the Blood Swords sergeant.
‘We are keeping them at bay,’ came the strained reply. Ardashir’s words were terse, his voice that of a man in the midst of battle. ‘They do not regenerate, but they keep coming. It is like the Accursed Eternity can produce an endless supply of these things. Whatever it is that you are doing, you need to do it faster, brother.’
‘Fine words, Ardashir. I am in complete agreement.’
Evander’s earlier urge to grab the inquisitor by the throat and squeeze the life out of the man’s body had subsided, but he still felt a gnawing hate in his gut whenever his eyes fell on Remigius.
You could snap his windpipe with no difficulty at all. The repercussions of murdering Remigius will be far less severe than what waits for you behind this door, Brother-Sergeant Evander.
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