He turned away, his soul gone cold. This was a dream, not a memory. That was the only rational explanation. He tried to will himself awake, but the dream held firm.
‘No, it is both, Father. A dream, a memory, a prophecy, all in one.’ A new voice intruded on his vision, slicing through the dull haze of memory. A voice at once soft and harsh.
He made to turn, but strong hands gripped him, holding him in place. ‘Now is not a time for eyes, Father, but ears. Enemies gather before you, and fiends stalk behind. You must hold firm, or risk destruction.’
‘Melusine…’
‘Fulgrim loves you, Father. He has said so, often. He loves you best, for in you the soul of the Legion is manifest. You seek the most elusive prey, and are never satisfied.’
‘That may be, but I do not love him,’ Fabius croaked. ‘I do not need his love. I do not need any of them. I will complete my work, whatever obstacles they set in my path.’
‘You misunderstand, Father. You do not see the forest, for the trees.’
‘Speak plainly, or be gone.’
‘I do, but you refuse to hear. And that is why they love you. There are none so blind as those who will not see.’ A pale finger pointed. The mice were gone. In their place, human bodies writhed, slit open and pinned to his board. To his eyes, they were unfinished. Imperfect. He could improve them. Make them stronger, more resistant to pain. They had to be perfect. Once they were perfect, he could stop.
He reached for his scalpel.
His eyes snapped open. The dream faded to nothing. Key released him, as the tendrils of wraithbone retracted. ‘The boarding torpedoes,’ he whispered. Key nodded silently and he stepped back. His face was bleeding from multiple small wounds.
‘Chief Apothecary?’ Arrian asked. He held his blade, as if he had been preparing to cut away the wraithbone. Thankfully, he hadn’t attempted it. Fabius shuddered slightly, wondering what sort of damage that might have caused.
‘I’m fine, Arrian. It was nothing.’ He waved aside his assistant’s concerns. Whatever the purpose of Melusine’s message, it had been for him alone. ‘The boarding torpedoes are being expelled, but some of our guests will yet remain.’
Arrian nodded in understanding. ‘I will see to their removal.’
‘I want one alive, Arrian. It has been almost a thousand years since I last had the opportunity to examine what the Imperium has made of our legacy, and I am eager to reacquaint myself with the Emperor’s handiwork.’
Arrian nodded again, turned and loped out of the garden, growling orders into his vox. Fabius looked at Key. The experience had been as unnerving as it had been unexpected. He stroked the eldar’s cheek, as it gazed at him blankly. ‘What were you trying to tell me?’ he murmured.
In the shadows of the wraithbone, there was a sound like a sigh. Fabius turned, but saw nothing. Annoyed, he stood. ‘Whatever it was, it makes no difference. Play your games, by all means, child. I will not be swayed from my purpose.’ His voice echoed strangely in the grove. ‘I will persist,’ he said. Then, more softly, ‘I must.’
Alkenex parried the blow, guiding the sword point into the hull-plating. Sparks burst from the point of contact. Before the crimson-armoured Space Marine could recover, Alkenex buried the tip of his blade into the black seal between his opponent’s helm and gorget. Blood burst from the wound, as he twisted the blade, severing bone and muscle. As he jerked the sword free, the warrior’s head came with it.
‘A fine blow, brother,’ Palos roared. His axe rose and fell like a woodsman’s, separating red limbs from twitching bodies. The last of their opponents succumbed to their wounds. ‘They make good hunting, these whelps.’ He shuddered slightly as the endorphin pumps in his armour went to work. ‘Yes, good hunting.’
Alkenex shook his head and handed his sword to Palos. ‘For a given value of good.’ He sank to his haunches and pried the head of his opponent out of its helmet. Then, with careful movements, he peeled the dead warrior’s scalp from its skull. Once, such a thing wouldn’t have occurred to him, especially during a battle. But it had become second nature now. A warrior was judged on his victories, and if one was to be found worthy, one needed to keep a proper tally.
He stared down the smoke-filled corridor, a song in his heart. Here, now, in this moment, he was satisfied. Other scalps slapped wetly against his hip, torn from the heads of those who’d sought to take what he’d already claimed. And more would be added, before the end. He rose to his feet and reclaimed his sword with bloody fingers. ‘Keep moving.’
Palos and the rest of his warriors fanned out behind him, some peeling off into side corridors without a word. They didn’t need him to tell them what needed doing. It was as instinctive as breathing. They were all veterans of the Legion Wars, their skills shaped to a killing edge by thousands of boarding actions and orbital drops.
Combat squads of two to three warriors would move to the designated choke points, and bolster the efforts of the Vesalius’ crew in repelling boarders. Merix was leading the remains of the 12th Millennial in similar actions on the lower decks.
Their enemies had not got far from the breach points, as if the ship itself were resisting their efforts to penetrate its internal defences. Thus far, they had been contained to the outer tiers of the ship. Alkenex suspected that state of affairs would change rapidly, if Fabius failed in whatever scheme he was implementing.
Mutants clad in ill-fitting void-suits flooded past him as they reached a transit point, hooting and gibbering as they surged towards the next bulkhead. Many of them chanted the Manflayer’s name as they loped into battle. Alkenex felt a flush of frustration at that. Such creatures were only fit for chattel, or sport. But they absorbed the firepower of the enemy well enough, as they showed a moment later. Bolt-rounds painted the corridor red, and the mutants fell screaming.
‘More prey,’ Palos growled.
‘Let’s hope these prove to be more sport than the last.’ Alkenex didn’t slow, and he crushed the wounded beneath his tread. His warriors moved up around him, boltguns raised. They fired into the smoke and flame ahead, picking their targets with disciplined care. Red-armoured shapes sought what cover there was to be had in the corridor ahead.
The passageway was wide and lined by pipelines and conduit bundles. Lumens flickered amid the smoke of the boarding torpedo’s arrival. The deck plating was bent and crumpled outwards from the corridor frame in places, and the floor plates were bent and broken. Exposed power cables dangled, dripping sparks into puddles of spreading petrochem and lubricant. These were the source of the flames that crackled throughout the corridor, filling the air with heat and smoke.
The environmental controls for this stretch had been damaged, and the artificial gravity fluctuated suddenly. Alkenex’s battleplate compensated automatically, but the surviving mutants weren’t so lucky. Several of them were caught out by the enemy as they floated helplessly. One or two were drawn screaming through the narrow aperture between the torn edge of the hull and the disembarkation ramp of the boarding torpedo.
The Emperor’s Children advanced through the shoal of floating corpses, firing as they went. Alkenex led the way, eager to get to grips with his next opponent. He wished to add a few more scalps to his bundle. They had such fine hair, these warriors. His slaves could make something beautiful from it.
Crimson forms moved forward to meet them. No disciplined defenders here, but aggressive raiders. Alkenex smiled as he spotted the leader – an older mark of armour, red save for the places where it was marked with lines of illegible script etched into it. The sword he carried was curved and marked with more script. As if it and its wielder were stories given form. Alkenex slid forward, aided by the lack of gravity, blade raised.
Their weapons connected with a ringing shriek, metal against metal. Alkenex moved swiftly, but his opponent was equally quick. Their blades met again and again, wherever the one went, the o
ther was waiting. The swords intertwined for a brief moment, like long-separated lovers, and Alkenex hissed as his opponent matched him, strength to strength.
‘I am Arsaces, Saha of the–’ the Space Marine began, his voice boosted by the emitters on his helmet. Alkenex laughed. They always liked to announce themselves, these children. As if by shouting their names, they might make victory certain.
‘I know who you are,’ he shouted. ‘You are a shadow of great warriors past. A mongrel, made out of battlefield leavings. Do not sully this moment by pretending to have a name that is worth remembering. Because I surely will not, come tomorrow.’
The Loyalist laughed. A moment later, one of his hands sprang from the hilt of his sword and he drove a piston-like punch into the side of Alkenex’s helm. Alkenex’s visor-feed sputtered for a moment, and he staggered off-balance. Their swords broke apart with a wail, and then his foe drove a boot into his side, driving Alkenex against the corridor wall. Quicker than thought, the red-armoured Arsaces was on him, slashing.
Alkenex staggered back, and back again, the edges of the hole in the hull scraping the paint work from his battleplate. His opponent fought like a dervish, as if his every limb were a weapon – not just the blade in his hand, but his elbows, knees, feet, even his head. Alkenex’s boots crunched on broken hull-particles, and the void clawed at him from behind. Slowly, steadily, he was being driven back, towards the aperture. Frustration bubbled up, and he launched a terse thrust, trying to buy some breathing room. His opponent floated backwards, out of reach.
Angrily, Alkenex shoved himself forward. But his opponent was ready. He pivoted, and a knee shot upwards, catching Alkenex in the midsection. He rolled back, and a second blow struck his head. He dropped to the deck for a moment, skull ringing. A kick caught him in the chest and he was tumbling backwards into the narrow hole the boarding torpedo had made, out towards the dark between the stars.
He caught hold of a heat-warped shard of hull plating, stopping himself from hurtling out into the void. The edges of it scraped against him – the hole was wider than his shoulders, but not by much. A red bullet shot towards him, blade extended. The hull plate bent and snapped as his foe slammed into him. A moment later they were both scraping along the outer hull, torn away from one another by the force of their own momentum.
‘Flavius?’ Palos’ voice echoed down the vox frequency.
Alkenex responded to his second-in-command as he clambered to his feet, his boots mag-locking to the surface of the hull. ‘Still alive, old friend. See to the battle. I’ll be back shortly.’ Frost crept across his armour as he straightened. His armour’s gyroscopic stabilisers activated, and his auto-senses automatically compensated for his new surroundings.
The outer hull of the ship resembled the grounds of a cathedral, overgrown with a forest of sensory apparatus and signal-amplification dishes. Past the crenellated battlements, he spied the lengths of high-tension cable that connected the two ships across the immensity which separated them. At the end of each cable, a boarding torpedo burrowed into the Vesalius’ hide like a tick seeking blood. Fabius had claimed that he had a way of ridding the ship of the intruders, but so far they didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
A warning rune flashed across his visual feed, and he looked around to see his opponent stalking towards him. The Space Marine raised his blade in silent salute. ‘A sideways duel, amidst a void-battle,’ Alkenex muttered.
These wretches were insane – it was as if, knowing themselves inferior to previous generations, they sought absolution in a grandiose death. Punctures of light tore at the hull some distance away, as the enemy vessel spat fire across a vast distance. The hull shuddered beneath him and the Vesalius’ defensive batteries roared, and the glare of them momentarily blotted the red-armoured warrior from sight.
The warrior was on him a moment later, power blade slashing. Alkenex responded in kind, parrying when he could, avoiding when he had to. He could not hear the ring of metal against metal, but he could feel every blow. It was disorientating, fighting like this. He felt the cold heat of the stars beating down on him, though he knew it was impossible. Like the eyes of the gods themselves, watching him at their work.
The rhythm of combat was broken suddenly. Something bright slashed across his vision. His opponent whirled, as if in surprise. Alkenex did not hesitate. He drove forward, blade leaping out. He felt the impact in his shoulders. His blow sent Arsaces’ head tumbling away from the hull. His body remained where it stood, pinned to the hull by the mag-clamps in his boots. Blood trailed from the neck stump, making strange shapes as it floated away in rippling globules.
Alkenex mourned the loss of the warrior’s scalp, even as he wondered what had distracted him. He turned as the deck shuddered beneath his feet. Something was happening. One by one, the boarding torpedoes were being forced from their entry points. The hull around them squirmed like living flesh as each tube of metal was expelled and sent hurtling away, into the void. Red figures floated, caught in the rush of ejection. He laughed harshly, enjoying their predicament.
His laughter stuttered to a halt as he caught sight of strands of pallid matter stretching, anemone-like, across the wounds in the ship’s hull. It was as if it were healing itself, somehow. A thrill of repulsion shot through him as he realised that it could only be wraithbone, and he hurried back towards the hole he’d been knocked through. He didn’t want to be trapped on the wrong side of the hull when the breach sealed itself.
Savona shrieked in joy as her maul slammed down against a crimson helmet, crumpling ceramite and the enhanced skull within. She twisted, driving a hoof into a second attacker’s hip, dislocating it. He staggered, and she caught him a looping blow. She leapt on him as he fell, and smashed her maul into his chest-plate with both hands. He struggled futilely against her as she battered him into a bleeding mass. When he fell limp, she drew her combat blade and began to pry open his shattered armour.
She could practically smell the untainted gene-seed within him. A true delicacy, in these austere times. It had been a century or more since she had tasted one, untouched by the warp. As she set to extricating her prize, boltguns thundered around her, filling the corridor with sound and fury. Purple battleplate crashed against red in a savage melee. She gave it little thought. The battle would not be won or lost, here. This was nothing more than a skirmish. Already, the intruders were falling back to more defensible positions. Let them go. She had what she wanted.
As she freed the pulpy mass of gene-meat from the ruptured body, she caught sight of Merix, moving through a nearby hatch. He was rasping orders to the warriors behind him – her warriors. ‘Octavian, take four warriors and head to the next choke-point,’ Merix said. ‘Bellephus, I want bulkheads AA-six-two-seven and AA-six-two-nine sealed.’ He spoke briskly, all sign of his normal languor forgotten. Here, at this moment, he was the consummate professional. A leader. A sudden surge of fury drove her hand down, to the bolt pistol on her hip.
One shot. That was all she needed. Just one.
The pistol was in her hand, even as the thought crossed her mind. Just one shot, and Merix would no longer be a problem. He’d been useful, for a while, but now he was a liability. Once he was dead, she would be the last of the Joybound. She would salvage something from this farce, even if the Manflayer had no intention of doing so.
She caught Bellephus’ eye. He twitched his head, but she ignored his warning.
She pulled the trigger. The deck shuddered violently as she did so, throwing off her aim at the last moment. Merix spun around as the shot tore a groove across his shoulder-plate. He saw her, his eyes widening. She cursed and rose, forgetting the gene-seed, forgetting everything save the need to finish him off.
Before she got more than two paces, however, the deck shuddered again. Bodies stumbled in the crowded confines of the corridor. Something was happening. The whole vessel was twisting and heaving as if it were in agon
y. Then Bellephus was there, pushing her back, down a side corridor.
‘Bad timing, my lady,’ he murmured, ignoring her curses. ‘Such impatience does none of us any favours. He’ll be on his guard now, if he wasn’t before.’
‘Why did you stop me?’ she snarled.
‘The field is not in our favour, my lady. Look – see.’ He gestured behind him. Over his shoulder, she watched as the boarding torpedo that acted as the centre of the assault shuddered its way free of its position, as if something were plucking it loose. Strands of pallid, feathery wraithbone bristled about the edges of the hull. The pale filaments pressed against the intruding mechanism, and slowly but surely began to work it loose from its position. A moment later, it was gone, and the air howled past her, as it was drawn out into the void. Bodies tumbled past her as the rupture began to seal itself.
‘The Chief Apothecary’s doing,’ Bellephus said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She shook her head, seeking Merix. But there was no sign of him. ‘He’s gone. Fool – you let him get away.’ She struck Bellephus in the chest, knocking him back against the hull. He laughed.
‘You’ll just have to kill him later, my lady. Denial makes pleasure all the sweeter.’
As the breach sealed itself, the red-armoured warriors who remained began to fall back, attempting to consolidate their forces. She grinned and hefted her maul, forgetting all about Merix. They could run all they liked. There was nowhere for them to go.
‘Maybe so. But a bit of indulgence never went amiss.’
Arrian strode through the carnage, the vents of his helmet open. He inhaled the bouquet of slaughter, and let it wash through him, dampening the fire within. But only for a moment. Only ever for a moment. He could feel the thrum of the frigate’s engines through the deck, and knew that they were once again moving at full speed. They would outpace their pursuer soon enough, and leave the sting of its weapons batteries behind.
Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 27