by Various
‘Sir, the doors.’
Sedeca’s warning changed matters immediately. As Artorius watched, the entrance to the keep swung open. He balled his fist, waiting to see who would appear through the opening gap, that same sixth sense telling him that neither Vabion nor Ritan would step into the light.
‘Emperor’s teeth,’ Sedeca cursed quietly in his ear. Artorius shared the sentiment, his scowl increasing as a heinous figure lumbered from the tower. Its filthy armour was eaten away both by rust and the juices that ran freely from ulcerous growths that squeezed through every chink. Even from this distance, the sergeant could see a haze of insects buzzing around the solitary black horn that jutted up from its grimy helm.
The mark of the Death Guard.
The traitor wasn’t alone. Three more Plague Marines swaggered into the light, the largest wielding a War Scythe nearly twice its height, a severed head impaled on the weapon’s long spike. The discoloured skin was covered in welts and a bloody hole gaped where an eye should have been, but there was no mistaking the slack features.
Vabion.
Artorius vowed he would bring the Chaos Champion down himself.
The sound of las-fire cut through the air, first from Jerius’s direction on the wall and then around the fort as the other gun-turrets automatically began to fire. The Techmarine had done it.
In front of them, the Champion turned to a sorcerer with a devilish mass of teeth and eyes for a face. Artorius watched as the Plague Lord jabbed a finger towards the western ramparts. The sorcerer bowed low, before stalking off towards the sound of Jerius’s guns. Another command from the Champion sent the other two Plague Marines trudging off in the direction of the Eastern turrets.
That’s it, thought Artorius. Go and look for the Doom Eagles you expect to find behind the guns. Leave your master standing alone.
Power armour glinted across the other side of the courtyard. Perfect. Blasius was now in position, pressed flat against the wall of the keep. Artorius watched with satisfaction as the Doom Eagle expertly tracked one of the trudging Plague Marines with his bolter, waiting for the word.
‘Hold your position,’ the sergeant instructed into the vox. ‘Wait for the enemy to separate. Jerius, you’re about to have company.’
‘Understood,’ came the Techmarine’s level reply, accompanied by regular blasts of las-fire.
Artorius regarded the Champion, standing alone by the keep doors, scythe in hand.
What about you? Artorius wondered, his eyes narrowing. What are you waiting for? Defending the shrine?
Something splashed across Artorius’s vision, a foul stench pervading his helm. He glanced up, cursing as he locked eyes with a Nurgling that was peering down at him from the barracks roof, bile dripping down from its giggling maw. The fleshy demon tumbled forwards, dropping down onto Artorius’s face before the sergeant could even raise his bolter. It clawed at the Space Marine, stupidly trying to gnaw its way through his helm, needle-like teeth snapping off in the process. If any of those fangs found naked flesh they would deliver a multitude of poxes, but were thankfully no match for ceramite.
Artorius grabbed the foul creature’s flabby back, his armoured fingers sinking into its soft flesh, and smashed it against the wall. The second blow splattered the thing’s internal organs across the brickwork, but the demon’s shrieks had already betrayed him. Artorius heard Naracoth bark an order and the wall of the barracks began to disintegrate under an onslaught of plague-infused bolts. Shaking steaming blood from his fingers, Artorius waited for a break in the volley before dropping around the corner to return fire. His bolts found their target, fragments of corroded power armour and lumps of mouldering flesh leaping from the Plague Marine. The traitorous scum didn’t even slow. Impervious to pain, it merely lumbered forward, death blazing from the ancient-looking bolter pistols it held in both hands.
Across the courtyard, Sedeca had engaged another of the Death Guards, but to similar effect. The Marine spouted endless gouts of flame from a plasma-blaster, seemingly unaware that it was under fire from the Doom Eagle. No matter how many times it was hit, the traitor continued tramping towards Sedeca, horny scabs appearing over its wounds mere seconds after they’d been inflicted. This was impossible. How did you fight an enemy that didn’t feel pain?
‘I’m taking the Chaos lord,’ Blasius announced matter-of-factly across the vox, rushing towards Naracoth, chainsword held high. ‘For the Emperor!’
Artorius was forced back around the corner of the barracks, but didn’t need to see the outcome of the attack. Blasius’s war cry immediately degenerated into a cry of pain as the Champion buried his War Scythe into the Doom Eagle’s shoulder. For a second the terrible shriek of metal against ceramite shrieked through Artorius’s helm before the vox-line abruptly cut off.
The sergeant couldn’t respond to his battle-brother’s death, although he vowed he would personally carve Blasius’s name onto the obsidian Walls of the Fallen, back on Gathis II – if he survived the day himself.
With teeth gritted, he threw himself around the wall and fired directly into the Plague Marine’s path.
At the battlements, Jerius couldn’t prepare himself for the attack he knew was coming. All around him, lascannons fired, slaved to his own gun-turret, the air burning with the metallic ozone of every salvo.
All the time he muttered prayers to the dozens of machine-spirits who were working in unison to protect Kerberos. He was the line that couldn’t be crossed and nothing could distract him from his task.
With an inhuman bellow, a Rot Fly swooped down towards the Techmarine, spitting blazing skulls from its filthy proboscis. Jerius twisted the turret, a searing barrage of cobalt energy ripping through its putrid guts. The Plaguebearer on its back screamed in fury as steed and mount crashed down into the bulwark and tumbled away to the ground below.
Something clattered across the floor at his feet. Jerius glanced down, his eyes widening as he realised what he was looking at. A pulsing, mummified head grinned up at him, the mouth and eyes sewn shut, luminescent maggots wriggling free from its shrunken nose and ears.
‘Blight grenade,’ the Techmarine cried out, before the concussive blast knocked him from the turret. Jerius smashed against the battlement, choking as noisome fumes overcame his helm’s ventilator, spores from the grenade already eating their way through his power armour.
Another fireball blossomed at his feet, sending up a bloom of infected shrapnel and toxin-heavy smoke. Jerius reached for his bolter, but his cybernetic legs jolted, pushing him away from his weapon. Pain lanced through his body as his implants began to short out, his systems disrupted by the grenade’s corrosive forces.
Through the miasma, he could make out a figure. The sorcerer known as Pestilan stood, plague-spear in hand, half a dozen blight grenades spiralling around his skeletal form, held in the air by unaccountable power.
With a flick of the sorcerer’s hand, two of the death heads shot towards Jerius – but this time the Techmarine was ready. His plasma-cutter swept down, igniting both of the grenades in turn. At the same time, the Techmarine’s grabber arm jerked to the floor, knocking his bolter towards his waiting hand.
He might not be able to walk, but he could still fight. Ignoring the cramp shooting up his arm, Jerius grabbed his bolt pistol and raised it towards his attacker.
Six shots thudded into the sorcerer’s shoulder – but Pestilan didn’t fall. Instead he laughed – a noise like a knife on glass – as if the injuries had only tickled.
‘My turn,’ the Plague Marine hissed, balefire flaring in his multiple eyes. Dark energies crackled from his crooked fingers, slamming into the Techmarine’s chest.
Sedeca broke from cover and charged straight at the plasma-gun wielding Plague Marine. As Artorius continued swapping bolts with his own attacker, the Doom Eagle swung his chainsword, its teeth carving into the three skulls emblazoned on the Dea
th Guard’s pauldron.
The blade stuck fast and deep in the brute’s shoulder, giving the pain-insensitive traitor the opportunity it needed. Even as Sedeca slammed his fist into the Death Guard’s breached helm, struggling to pull his sword free, the Plague Marine brought the barrel of his plasma-gun to the Doom Eagle’s head. The traitor fired, Sedeca’s helm disappearing in the burst of flame. The fire, fuelled by unhallowed magic, melted the Space Marine’s helm clean away, burning through flesh and bone in seconds.
Sedeca’s body dropped and the Plague Marine turned, bringing his weapon to bear on Artorius, Sedeca’s chainsword still wedged deep in its shoulder. The sergeant twisted in time with the monster, aiming and pulling the trigger in a movement honed by centuries of combat. Across the courtyard, the bolts found their mark, the Plague Marine’s head dissolving into a cloud of bone and decaying brain matter – but still the fiend didn’t stop. It staggered forward three, maybe four steps before it finally realised it was dead and tumbled forward, landing in a loathsome heap beside Sedeca’s corpse.
The sergeant switched targets again, focusing on the ponderous Plague Marine that was traipsing ever nearer to his own position. The bolts punched deep, shattering the already chipped power armour and detaching the arm, bolter and all, just below the elbow. The traitor didn’t even flinch, continuing to fire from its remaining gun.
Artorius retreated around the corner, ready for another chance to attack, and came face-to-face with a hefty figure charging towards him.
Naracoth’s War Scythe sliced through the air, but Artorius reacted as if he’d been prepared for the attack all along. He feinted back against the wall, firing into the Plague Champion’s chest at point-blank range even as the crackling blade smashed harmlessly into the floor in front of him. Ichor sprayed from the wound, splashing over Artorius, burning through his armour.
Naracoth didn’t hesitate. Swinging up the Scythe, he smashed the foot of the staff into Artorius’s helm. The faceplate flattened the sergeant’s nose, blood bursting across his face like juice from squashed fruit.
A second blow, to his stomach, sent him pitching forwards, the dark energies that flowed through the staff shooting directly into his guts. His bolter skittering across the floor, Artorius crashed to his knees, expecting his head to be cleaved from his shoulders at any moment.
Fourteen
Jerius could no longer make out detail, only shapes, like shadows in the mist – but the pathogens from the blight grenade hadn’t affected his hearing.
He heard Pestilan’s cry of triumph, imagined the sorcerer charging forward, spear low like a lance. He had even calculated the exact moment the spearhead would pierce his chest.
While he couldn’t match the Plague Marine’s depraved tolerance, Jerius had lived with pain every second of every day since the Thunderhawk crash. He had used his own chainsword to remove his trapped legs, cauterised the stumps with his plasma-cutter. The bionic limbs, which he had fitted himself, burned with every step. What was Pestilan’s attack but one more torment to add to the collection?
As the spear burst from his back, the Techmarine brought down his servo-arm as he’d planned, the pincers closing tight. His implants immediately registered resistance and Jerius knew he had Pestilan’s neck in his grip.
The sorcerer responded by twisting the spear, but the pain barely registered anymore. Jerius knew he was going into shock, his system shutting down, but even now the Techmarine didn’t despair. This was more than a Doom Eagle’s acceptance of the inevitable. Jerius wasn’t just a Space Marine, he was a disciple of the Machine-God. The flesh was weak, but the machine was strong. His cold metal pincers turned, forcing Pestilan’s head over. There was a satisfying crack as the sorcerer’s vertebrae finally shattered, and the pressure on the spear lessened as Pestilan fell away.
Releasing the sorcerer’s body, the servo-arm found the spear and, closing around the shaft, ripped it free. This time Jerius did scream, the weapon inflicting more damage on the way out than it had caused going in. He sank back, exhausted, but he could still make out the sounds of the unclean hordes. They had started to scale the walls, avoiding the lascannons. Barely even able to draw breath, the Techmarine turned his plasma-cutter on the first Plague Zombie to scramble over the top of the battlements.
His sergeant’s order played through his clouding mind.
Do your duty. For Gathis II.
The stink of burning flesh filled the already pungent air.
For the Imperium.
‘Where is your relic of a god now?’ Naracoth jeered as he raised his scythe high for the killing blow.
‘Nearer than yours,’ Artorius screamed, twisting up and slamming his hand against the Plague Champion’s belt. The Chaos lord looked down, the skin around his empty sockets widening as he spied the krak grenade Artorius had magnalocked into place.
The sergeant was already rolling out of the way when the charge went off, throwing Naracoth back into the barracks wall.
Artorius didn’t wait to see if he had killed his foe. Retrieving his bolter, he sprung to his feet, straight into the path of the oncoming Plague Marine. Infected bolter-fire strafed his back as he barged headfirst into the traitor, his shoulders sinking into its entropic guts.
‘You may not feel pain,’ Artorius roared, the force of the impact causing the Chaos Marine to tumble back, ‘but you can still fall.’
The brute crashed to the ground, firing bolts wildly in an arc. Thudding a knee into its chest, Artorius punched down into the Marine’s face, the chainfist’s blades cutting deep into cancerous flesh. With supreme effort, the Doom Eagle dragged the whirring teeth down, through the Plague Marine’s neck, slicing its chest cavity open.
‘Get up from this, turncoat,’ Artorius snarled as bloated flies burst from the wound. They whined around the sergeant’s face but he didn’t swat them away. Instead he dragged the chainfist free and took the Plague Marine’s head off with a final flourish.
The corrupted warrior bucked beneath Artorius’s weight before finally falling silent, diseased blood oozing across the flagstones.
Jerius thanked the Emperor for sparing him the sight of the aberrations that were pouring into the fort. The noise and the smell was bad enough – perhaps his blindness was a blessing after all.
The Techmarine had managed to haul himself up, hanging desperately onto the turret. His bolter was back in his hand and he was spraying the side of the bulwark with indiscriminate gunfire, his plasma-cutter blazing above him. Hearing the unmistakable drone of a Plaguebearer, Jerius swung his servo-arm down. He grabbed the daemon and swung it like a writhing club, knocking its unholy brethren from the battlements. He would have smiled grimly if his features weren’t now permanently slack, paralysed by the diseases that were ripping his body apart.
Heat surged up his spine and for one glorious moment the stench of the damned was overpowered by the biting tang of burning wire. He tried to shift, but his right leg was completely frozen. He was immobile, incapable of even dragging himself forward. The end was now inevitable, but he had been dead ever since he’d endured the aspirant trails deep within the Razorpeaks. Memories flooded back involuntarily. The sound of his fellow candidates screaming as they plummeted into the lava-flows below the Eyrie, the numbing pain of the flesh flaying from his bones as he struggled through passages lined with thorns as sharp as butcher knives. Every Doom Eagle was born in a frenzy of pain – the fact they died in agony was proof that the universe was nothing if not consistent.
‘We are Doom Eagles,’ the Techmarine slurred, ‘We are dead alr–’
The chant was cut short by Pestilan’s plague knife slipping beneath Jerius’s helm and slicing through the Techmarine’s throat. Jerius gargled blood and gave up his spirit, slumping forward, his legs still frozen in place.
Pestilan pulled the knife free as Jerius fell, baying in victory, his vile head sat forevermore at an un
natural angle from the rest of its body. The sorcerer threw his arms up high, praising Nurgle as the zombie hordes surged over the battlements, scrambling towards the keep.
‘Praise the Lord of Disease, Death and Destruction,’ the Plague Marine exalted, looking sideways into the heavens and seeing two Stormtalons descending from blackened skies. The lead gunship’s cannons blazed like angry fireflies and Pestilan’s psalm was left unfinished, his virulent body ripped apart in a blitz of las-fire.
Artorius pushed himself up from the Plague Marine’s corpse as the Stormtalons roared above.
‘Kerna,’ he yelled, activating his vox, his eyes darting over the crowds of zombies clamouring towards him. ‘Clear the infestation. Do you copy?’
He received nothing but static. The Stormtalons had overshot Kerberos and were already pitching around. They didn’t need any further orders; the pilots would know what to do.
Casting his eyes around to catch a glance of Naracoth, Artorius sprinted towards the keep’s open doors. The Plague Champion was nowhere to be seen, but Artorius wasn’t naive enough to believe that it was dead.
The air filled with the rattle of the Stormtalons’ guns as Kerna and Meleki performed another fly past, the ground itself bucking beneath the bombardment.
Artorius was thrown from his feet. No, this was more than the Stormtalons’ attack. The tremors were too intense. It was as if something was forcing itself up from beneath the fort.
From the rift that ran through the planet.
From the warp itself.
Yelling in defiance, Artorius leapt towards the doors as the courtyard buckled. Shattered stones erupted into the air and the sergeant was thrown forward. He could see gigantic, rust-covered talons bursting from beneath the slabs.
With a crack, Artorius hit the heavy tower doors and slid dazed to the now uneven floor.