Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  Bolter-fire from the supporting Tactical Marines on the deck of the Lakonia thudded into the spasming magician's body. He was ripped apart until all that remained of him were shreds of shadow drifting feebly on the wind, and dark charred stains on Tellos's blades. With a glance of acknowledgement at the Marines on the Lakonia, Tellos vaulted back down into the fray.

  Graevus allowed himself a smile and swung his axe back into the iron-clad warriors, knowing that with every blow another of the Emperor's most hated foes would die.

  Every Marine was brimming with the fire of battle, the white-hot glorious surge that made men into heroes and Marines into something more. Graevus felt himself becom­ing lost in the glare of battle, and knew that the Soul Drinkers would not take a step back until every single Chaos-loving piece of filth was dead.

  ZAEN WAS BACK-TO-BACK with Chaplain Iktinos. The deck beneath them was slick with the blood of Squad Vorts, of whom not one Marine survived, mingled with the steaming foulness that poured from the Chaos spawn. The beast had extruded a huge club-headed limb which arched over their heads - from its tip barbed whips of sinew were lashing. Ikti­nos was parrying them with his crozius, sending showers of sparks cascading, while Zaen kept up the stream of flame into the side of the monster.

  They were cut off, surrounded by walls of flesh. They had to fend off the beast themselves, for they could not rely on the battle-brothers cutting their way through to rescue them.

  Zaen had been in awe of Iktinos as a novice and some of that still remained - to think that anyone could be picked for their piety and strength of mind from amongst such devoted men as the Soul Drinkers fascinated him. Now, Zaen would die alongside the Chaplain who had so mesmerized him dur­ing his novicehood, and he was proud.

  He could barely tell what was happening elsewhere on the Ultima. The deck was smashed to pulp and the spawn's grow­ing bulk had poured into the hull. Gunfire came from all directions, sometimes in massive walls of shrapnel, some­times single shots from battle-brothers trapped or stranded by the beast's always-changing limbs. The vox was a mess, with only Karraidin's booming voice cutting through the yells of the dying and me howling battle-oaths.

  'We will go to the Halls of Dorn together, Chaplain.' said Zaen breathlessly as he blasted at the limb arching over them with Griv's bolter, pausing to slam his last fuel canister into the flamer.

  'There is no place there for me yet, Brother Zaen.' replied Iktinos, slicing through a writhing spear of tendon. 'When my task here is done, then I can die.'

  The spawn reared up over them, a wave of flesh. It roared like nothing alive could, and crashed down on them like a landslide.

  The flabby slabs of fat and slippery loops of entrails closed over Zaen as he tried to dive out of the way, a massive liquid weight slamming down onto him and driving him into the wood of the deck. Everything was black and hot, and foul ichor was forced through his helmet's pre-filter. His arms were pinned down, one leg folded under him in a gunshot of pain, he felt the plasteel of his armour's backpack fracturing and his breastplate bending out of shape. His shoulder pads split and there was a white-hot shock as his skull fractured.

  His trigger finger spasmed and bolts from Griv's gun spun into the pressing mass of flesh. It would do no good. He tried his flamer hand but the pilot light had been smothered.

  It was a rare Space Marine who retired from combat duty. In many ways they existed to die in battle. Brother Zaen had not just been trained and altered to fight the Emperor's foes across the stars - his purpose was also to give his life to the fires of war, so that his death would form a part of that monolithic legend of the Chapter, which would inspire its future Marines to their own feats of arms and sacrifice.

  This is what Zaen told himself as his abdominal armour gave way and his organs began to burst under the spawn's weight.

  A blue-white gash opened in front of his eyes and a black-armoured hand reached in, grabbing the lip of his shoulder pad and dragging him out onto the deck. Pain ripped through him as his mangled leg was twisted further, but he was alive - the huge inspiring form of Iktinos was bent above him, hauling him from the sucking flesh.

  A thick leathery mass shot out and caught Iktinos square in the chest, hurling him backwards. Zaen glanced round and through the gauze of pain he saw a cavernous orifice opening in the wall of flesh. It was a mouth, and he was staring down the wet quivering tunnel of the spawn's throat. Iktinos had been batted aside by the beast's tongue, a thick leathery stalk tipped with a knotted club of meat.

  The blubbery mass of its body slid underneath him and Brother Zaen was washed towards its mouth. He tried to brace himself with his hands but the skin was slippery and the shadow of the spawn's jaw passed over him. Past his shat­tered foot he could see the ribbed shaft of its throat convulsing as it swallowed, hungry to contract around him and squeeze him to crimson paste.

  Teeth slid from the pulpy gums as Zaen slipped over the threshold. One speared into his groin and out through the small of his back, and another stabbed down from above through the top of his shoulder, ripping through one of his lungs and deep into his guts.

  He had his left arm free. Everything else was broken. In that hand he held his flamer but he needed another hand to flick on the nozzle's pilot light. He tossed the useless weapon into the maw of the spawn, which was darkening as the mouth closed behind him.

  He reached round to where his right hand dangled feebly. His hand had clenched as the nerves were severed and it still held Griv's bolter. But it was too far away. His left didn't reach.

  Come on, novice Zaen. What are you? A child! A weak, useless child! So there is pain? You have had pain before. You survived. Survive it again. Move your hand, novice. Move your right hand and stop complaining like a scolded stripling.

  Zaen moved his right hand and snatched Griv's bolter from it with his left before the tendons snapped. Was Griv still alive? Would he ever know how his weapon met its end?

  Zaen could just see the dull glint of the flamer's fuel canis­ter in the failing light, lodged in the throat of the spawn.

  The jaws closed and the monster's teeth sliced through Zaen's body. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the right side of his body flopping away. A knee was forced up into his throat.

  Everything went black as the jaws closed.

  Zaen fired.

  SARPEDON SAW THE collar of flame that burst out through what must have been the beast's throat. The Hellblade was closing fast - he was close enough to see the Soul Drinkers on the Ultima's deck illuminated in the flame, still spitting gunfire into the rearing spawn that now took up about three quarters of the ship mass. Already Sarpedon's men were pulling Soul Drinkers out of the sea and hauling them gasping onto the deck of the Hellblade. Many of them had discarded most of their armour to stop them from sinking into the black depths, and some were completely unarmoured.

  They said that the whole of Squad Vorts was dead, and maybe thirty others, either torn apart by the spawn or pitched into the sea to drown.

  The Marines cheered as the head of the beast was all but torn off by the explosion, burning fuel streaming from the huge wound. Sarpedon's Soul Drinkers, and those from the Ultima who still had their weapons, formed a three-rank fir­ing squad in the prow of the Hellblade. Sarpedon took his place amongst them, bolter drawn. 'Captain Karraidin, this is Sarpedon.' he voxed. 'Tell your men to get their heads down and hold tight. We'll get them out of there.'

  'Yes, lord!' came the reply through a haze of static and gun­fire.

  'Soul Drinkers!' yelled Sarpedon to the Marines around him. 'The beast is hurt! It is blind and confused. If we hit it now we can kill it!' He took aim at the rearing bulk of the Chaos spawn, which was now belching smoke from the mas­sive charred wound. 'Open fire!'

  This time the monster had no hope. Its nerve centre was shattered by the explosion, and all it could do was sit there on the deck of the Ultima and take the hail of gunfire. Before, it had been sheltered by the hull of the enemy ship or fired at by sca
ttered opponents. Now it bore the full weight of sus­tained bolter-fire from nearly one hundred and fifty Space Marines, each one thirsting for revenge against the good men they had lost.

  Its skin blistered and cracked against the heat from within and without. Chunks of bloody fat were thrown into the air and fountains of ichor spurted as its organs ruptured. It lost what little shape it had and reared up in its death throes, scat­tering storms of muscle and ragged skin, before it toppled back and dragged its massive semi-liquid bulk into the sea. The Ultima yawed violently with the beast's weight, the Marines still on board clinging desperately, but as the spawn's body poured into the water it righted itself and stayed firm.

  Sarpedon's Marines cheered the spawn's death even as Varuk gunned the Hellblade's engine to sweep in and rescue what they could.

  THE SHARK-SHIP KNEW its crew were dying and it was starting to thrash, its massive tail sending sheets of filthy water into the air, its huge mouth biting at the air.

  The Chaos dead were two bodies deep on the deck, and the Soul Drinkers had effectively taken half the ship. The Chaos survivors had closed ranks and were keeping the Soul Drinkers' chainswords at bay with halberds and hooked spears. The Space Marines were replying with pistol fire, keep­ing the Chaos warriors pinned and wearing them down. Tellos was up close, stabbing into the black-armoured mass, weaving between the thrusting blades. He was red to the shoulders in blood, and had a score of Chaos dead to his name.

  'Marines, prepare to fall back! We've got to kill this thing!' called Graevus over the vox. The Chaos troops might be beaten but they were now riding on the back of a huge and angry sea monster. The Lakonia was locked to the side of the shark-ship and could easily be brought down if the monster dived.

  Graevus pointed at the three closest Marines. 'You! Give me your frags, now!' They handed him their frag grenades and, gesturing for them to follow, he ran towards the head end of the ship, where a wall of leathery muscle pulsed. Graevus's power axe flashed and a gash opened in the thick membrane, exposing the roiling pink mass of the shark's brain stem beyond.

  'Soul Drinkers, disengage and cut the ship free! Now!'

  Instantly, the Marines were falling back, keeping up fire. Tellos had to be physically dragged away from the slaughter and hauled back onto the Lakonia.

  Graevus took the bundle of frag grenades in his altered hand and thrust it deep into the shark's brain stem.

  'Fire in the hole!' he yelled and ducked to the side. The explosion was deep and muffled and sent a shower of pink blubber raining down over the deck. The shark spasmed vio­lently, throwing two of the Marines off their feet. Graevus looked up and saw the Lakonia was free but still close and sprinted towards it, lashing out with his axe at the Chaos sol­diers who stood in his way and cutting them down in short order. The shark thrashed as it died, its brain stem destroyed, Graevus kept his feet and reached the edge of the deck.

  He leapt, and found the solid wood of the Lakonia's deck under his feet. He turned in time to see the shark-ship rolling over, exposing its mottled white belly, before it slid under the waves.

  He looked round at the Marines who were watching the monster die. He didn't think they had lost any of them. Every one of them was spattered with gore, and Tellos was thick with it, shocking red against his pale skin. Graevus looked down at himself and saw he was spattered with clots of brain matter.

  'Graevus to Sarpedon.' he voxed. 'Enemy ship destroyed. No losses.'

  'Understood, sergeant. The Ultima is lost. Return to assist.'

  So it had not all gone well. But they knew it would be bad here - they knew they would be fortunate if any of them got off alive. Now they had lost their first battle-brothers on this world.

  'Acknowledged, commander. Graevus out.'

  Chapter Eleven

  ARCHMAGOS KHOBOTOV KNEW she was here. He could hear the machines whispering to him. The rogue Tech-Priest Sasia Koraloth had chosen a poor place to hide, for there was noth­ing in this place but machinery, and the machines here were like his children. The forge world of Koden Tertius was falling under the archmagos's mantle, like the 674-XU28 before it, to the extent that when the Omnissiah was with him he could hear the generatorium depths like old friends telling him their secrets.

  She was down here. She was wounded - the walkways tasted the blood where she had stood. She was desperate, for the coolant regulators heard her sobbing. And most impor­tantly, every system in the sector told him that she had with her an item of such power that the energy readouts spiked wherever she went. That could mean only one thing: Sasia Koraloth had the Soulspear.

  The mechadendrites slid back from the generatorium read­out console and the mundane world swam back into view. Khobotov and the tech-guard strike team he commanded were at the top of the generatorium stack - a massive turbine sunk vertically into a cylindrical pit in the rock of Koden Ter­tius. The great silvery bulk of the turbine was bounded by a spindly network of walkways and control centres where tech-priests, menials and servitors would keep the generatorium at optimal power output. All those personnel had been evacu­ated, and the only living things in this area now were Khobotov's men and Sasia Koraloth.

  Even powered down, the turbine's latent energy output was massive. It swelled Khobotov's iron heart to be in the pres­ence of such power.

  Captain Skrill adjusted the readout on his auspex and turned to the archmagos. 'We've got biomass, sir, but not much of it. Probably dead. Think it could be her?'

  'Unlikely. Tech-Priest Koraloth had very limited augmenta­tion, her bio-readings would be higher. It is likely your auspex sensors will be blinded by the artefact when we get near, in any case.'

  'Understood. Shall I have the squad begin the sweep?'

  'Proceed.'

  Skrill was a good man. Blunt, simple, with an acceptable head for logic and little compassion. He and his dozen-strong tech-guard unit were clad in heavy rust-red flak-armour and carried high-calibre autogun variants. Khobotov had witnessed the effectiveness of the unit's mass-reactive ammunition in police actions against wayward menials. When Sasia Koraloth's gene-signature had been flagged up by a servitor cleaning up a bloodstain in the gen­eratorium sector, Khobotov had personally selected Skrill's squad for the search. His tactics were crude but well-suited to the mission. There was little fear that Koraloth would be left alive, which suited Archmagos Khobotov very well.

  'Vilnin, cover us with the longrifle,' ordered Skrill. 'And don't fire until I give the word. I don't want you wasting any more servitors, we're the ones have to pay for 'em.' The thin-faced Vilnin nodded, uncased a long, slim sniping rifle, and took up a vantage point at the edge of the gantry.

  'The rest of you, with me. There's only one of her but she's cornered, so you stay alert. Move!'

  Khobotov skimmed just above the walkway on his grav-dampeners, drifting down the spiralling gantries after the advancing squad, watching the fractals they formed as they spread out through the web of walkways. Their angles of fire were good, he noted. Most mathematical. Skrill would go far. In fact, the 674-XU28 had lost a number of security compo­nents in the unfortunate altercation off Lakonia. The ship was still short-handed, and Khobotov resolved to have Skrill and his men transferred to the 674-XU28 as soon as Koraloth was apprehended.

  A gunshot rang out, sharp and illogical. Not one of Skrill's squad - it was a las weapon, power setting high.

  'Shots fired!' voxed Skrill as his men dropped down. 'Any­one hit?' Eleven beacon pulses sounded. The shot had missed. 'Vilnin! Target, now!'

  'Think I saw a las-shot.' replied the sharpshooter. 'Some­where underneath us.'

  Skrill waved a hand and the squad split up, scattering quickly to approach the target area from a number of angles. Below them the generatorium output had created a dim fuzz of smoke and shadows, where the exposed inductor coils bled the light out of the air. It would have been a good place to hide, reflected Khobotov, if there had been a way out other than through the advancing tech-guard.

  'Fou
nd our biomass, sir.' voxed one of the troopers. Khobotov's vision zoomed in to where the trooper was standing over a pathetic bundle of rags. A thin, stringy hand reached out feebly.

  Ah, El'Hirn. Of course. There had been rumours the old ghost was still alive. He had been a promising magos in his day, before he fell victim to some insane heretical notions about the Omnissiah and had been cast out of the tech-priesthood. Without the support of his Mechanicus brethren his augmentations would have failed and his flesh withered until there was nothing left. Khobotov wondered how El'Hirn had survived this long and had the energy to team up with Koraloth in her schemes, but it was of little matter. Evi­dently the two had had a falling-out as they fled, judging by the high-energy las-burns on his robes.

  Khobotov reached out with his hyper-augmented senses and latched on to the emergency vox-caster system. 'Tech-priest Koraloth.' he said, his voice booming from a score of speakers dotted throughout the generatorium structure. 'You are surrounded and alone. Escape is a logical impossibility. Give yourself up to us, Sasia Koraloth, deliver up the artefact you have stolen, and we will not have to risk damaging the holy machinery of this place in a firelight.'

  Another shot, hitting the trooper who had found El'Hirn's corpse and throwing him onto his back. His torso armour fizzed with the heat of the shot, as bursts of auto-fire rattled down from the troopers on the gantries around him. Koraloth fired again from somewhere in the darkness below, hot las-bolts lancing up at the tech-guard.

  'Suppression fire!' called Skrill, aiming his own autogun over the gantry railing and spraying fire downwards. 'Krik, you alright?'

  'Think I took a lung shot, sir.' groaned the wounded trooper. Khobotov saw another tech-guard scurrying along the walkway to help him. Skrill's men might be tough, but there was still far too much flesh in them for Khobotov to truly respect them. If he had taken a wound like that he would just have shut down one pneumo-filter and switched to another one. This man would probably die, because the Omnissiah had not touched him with the same metallic blessings.