Ostorius took in all this information in the space of single heartbeat, and before any of the Word Bearers could lift their bolters, he was sprinting forwards, power sword singing in his hands.
Burias-Drak’shal roared his frustration as the Thunderhawk lifted off. His scowl turned to a vicious grin as he saw the immense shape of a Reaver Titan rear up from within the shell of a ruined building one street down.
The monstrous war-engine’s weapons fired, glancing the Thunderhawk and shearing off one of its stabiliser wings. The shuttle began veering sharply in an uncontrolled nose-dive.
Burias-Drak’shal roared again, this time in triumph, and set off once more through the ruins.
“Master,” said Ashkanez, pointing.
Marduk followed his First Acolyte’s gaze, and saw a White Consuls Thunderhawk in the distance. It was spewing smoke and going down fast.
“Let’s go,” said the Dark Apostle.
Ostorius was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but he felt no pain. He knew he was not going to live beyond this fight, but it didn’t matter. All he cared about was that he completed his mission.
The bodies of three Word Bearers lay upon the floor behind the Proconsul. He spun gracefully, and killed another of the enemy warriors, impaling his head on the blade of his humming power sword. The sword penetrated the Word Bearer’s skull and burst through the back of his helmet. Ostorius slid the blade clear and the warrior crashed to the deck floor.
Two more of the White Consuls battle-brothers that made up his kill-team were down, but there was only a handful of Word Bearers now standing between Ostorius and his goal. The Apostle was still seated motionless in his high-backed throne atop the dais, apparently lost in a trance.
A bolter came up and Ostorius threw himself into a roll, the bolt pistol clasped behind his combat shield booming. His shot hit the Word Bearer in the arm, throwing his aim off, and Ostorius felt the passage of displaced air as a bolt round accelerated past his ear. He came up to his feet in front of the Word Bearer, spinning his power sword up as he came, hacking into the Traitor’s groin. The blade cleaved through power armour and flesh, lodging itself halfway up the Word Bearer’s abdomen. Kicking the body away with the flat of his boot, Ostorius freed his weapon and spun ever closer towards the device.
A power axe sliced in for his neck, but he turned it aside with his combat shield and beheaded his opponent with a powerful sweeping blow.
“Cover my back!” he roared, seeing a gap appear through the melee. His battle-brothers closed in behind him as he darted towards the spinning device atop the tracked crawler unit.
The corrupted tech-magos heaved itself between Ostorius and his goal. As wary as he was of this one now, having seen it tear one of his battle-brothers apart, he needed to end this fight quickly.
Servo-arms snapped towards him, but Ostorius was already moving at speed. He ducked the first of them and leapt over the second, his sword carving an arc through the air.
He took the tech-magos in the throat, his power blade shearing through altered flesh and arterial cabling. Milky blood and oil spurted, and Ostorius swept past the hulking robed adept as he reeled.
The Proconsul hauled himself onto the back of the crawler. He could feel the rush of displaced air over him, and he drew back his sword, preparing to thrust it between the spinning arcs and impale the silver device at its centre.
“For Boros,” he said.
At that moment, the Apostle seated upon the skeletal throne atop the dais rose to his feet. “Enough!”
An invisible force struck Ostorius, lifting him off the crawler unit and slamming him to the deck floor.
The Apostle was descending the steps of the dais now, throwing off his robe.
Ostorius straggled to rise, but there was a numbing pain in the back of his mind and his vision was wavering.
The other White Consuls were down, their precious lifeblood leaking out across the deck.
The Apostle descended to the floor of his inner sanctum. He approached Ostorius as he straggled to his knees.
“Lower your weapon, Kol Harekh,” the Apostle said to a Word Bearer aiming a bolter at the White Consul.
Ostorius understood his words, though the Traitor’s guttural accent was thick and archaic.
Like a blade of fire, a piercing pain jabbed into his mind and he clutched at his temples in agony.
“I could kill you with a thought,” said the Dark Apostle, twisting the invisible psychic needle inside the Proconsul’s head, “but that would not placate my rage. Get up.”
The pain suddenly left Ostorius, and he rose to his feet, holding out his power sword. The unarmed Apostle marched on him. With a gesture, the Word Bearer ordered his minions back. A space developed between him and the White Consul.
Without ceremony, Ostorius leapt forwards to cut down the apostate.
The Word Bearer caught the humming power sword between the flat of his hands, halting its descent centimetres from his face. Ostorius had not even seen him move.
The blade was pushed to the side and released, and the Word Bearer slammed the palm of a hand into the grille of Ostorius’ helmet, which cracked and crumpled inwards.
The White Consul tore his helmet free and tossed it aside, eyeing his foe with newfound respect.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” said the Word Bearer, closing in on Ostorius.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Upon the steps of the Temple of the Gloriatus, Titus Valens made his final stand.
The temple-fortress was one of the largest and most impressive structures in the south-eastern quadrant of Sirenus Principal, and it dominated the landscape. The expansive victory square before it was almost five kilometres across, and titanic columns lined its approach. Not a single one of the mighty marble pillars still stood intact, however, and the defiant statues of Astartes heroes that had stood atop them were in ruin.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that Aquilius had stood on this square inspecting the ranks of the Boros 232nd.
The smoking carcass of the Thunderhawk lay in the middle of the square behind them. It had been brought down by a glancing blow from a gatling blaster, fired from a feral Reaver-class Titan lurking in the streets. Nine battle-brothers, including its pilot, had perished as the devastating fire ripped through the assault shuttle as if it were made of tinfoil. More had died as it had fallen from the sky like a bird with its wings clipped and ploughed into the square, smashing through colonnades in its spiralling descent.
Nevertheless, there had been only a handful of survivors. Chapter Master Titus Valens, Librarian Epistolary Liventius and six Sternguard veterans had crawled from the wreckage, along with Coadjutor Aquilius. Against all odds, Verenus of the Boros 232nd had also survived along with three of his soldiers. “Status report,” growled the Chapter Master as he stomped up the steps of the temple.
“We are cut off and completely surrounded,” said one of the Sternguard veterans, accessing an auspex built into his bionic left arm. “Captain Decimus of 5th Company is moving on our position, coordinating Guard platoons and armoured companies. A Thunderhawk is inbound to pick us up.”
“We move into the temple and hold out for reinforcements,” said the Chapter Master. “Now.”
Supporting their injured, the cluster of Space Marines and Guardsmen began hurrying across the open square towards the steps leading up to the Temple of the Gloriatus.
“Any word of Proconsul Ostorius yet?” said Titus Valens.
“Not yet,” came the reply.
“The enemy,” warned Librarian Epistolary Liventius.
Aquilius lifted his gaze towards the top of the stairs to see Word Bearers marching into view, blocking their access to the Temple of the Gloriatus.
Chapter Master Titus Valens called a halt, and the cluster of Space Marines readied themselves, slamming fresh clips into bolters and unsheathing chainblades. The Chapter Master activated his thunder hammer, and the sharp odour of ozone reached Aquilius’ nostrils.
&nb
sp; “Aquilius, you must not fall,” said Chapter Master Valens. “The White Angel is all that is holding Boros together. We have to buy Ostorius the time to finish his mission. All else is of secondary concern.”
“My lord,” said Aquilius. “What are you saying?”
“Liventius, get him to safety,” said the Chapter Master.
At the top of the stairs, the Word Bearers gave way deferentially, bowing their heads and stepping aside. A savage-looking warrior-priest appeared atop the stairs. The Word Bearer wore a skull-faced helmet and bore a profane mockery of a Chaplain’s crozius arcanum in one of his armoured fists. The Traitor’s plate was bedecked in unholy oath papers and insane scratchings. Aquilius felt a surge of hatred and revulsion. This foul warrior must have been who they were waiting for.
“A Dark Apostle,” Aquilius spat.
“Listen to me,” said Chapter Master Valens. “There is a fortified landing pad within the golden dome of the Temple of the Gloriatus. It is accessible via subterranean tunnels. There are service elevators less than two kilometres south-south-east of here.”
Librarian Epistolary Liventius raised an eyebrow.
“I trained here as a novitiate,” the Chapter Master said in answer to the unspoken question. “I am target-marking the location for you now.”
“My lord, you are coming with us?” said Liventius, frowning.
“It has been an honour to lead you, my brothers,” said the Chapter Master.
“My lord,” said Liventius. “Titus! You cannot be considering this!”
“I am giving you an order, Epistolary,” growled the Chapter Master. “All of you. I will hold them here. Keep Aquilius alive.”
Aquilius’ eyes were wide. He looked between the Chapter Master and Librarian Epistolary Liventius.
“I cannot—” said Liventius.
“I am giving you an order!” barked the Chapter Master, beginning to climb the stairs towards the waiting Dark Apostle. “Go!”
Aquilius and the other battle-brothers stood in silence, indecision clawing at them.
“Go!” boomed their Chapter Master. “Liventius! I am ordering you to lead these men to safety.”
Marduk smiled behind his skull helm as he watched the Chapter Master of the White Consuls climbing the stairs to meet him. The Space Marine was garbed in gold-edged Terminator armour and rivalled Kol Badar in size.
He wore no helmet, and his face was broad. As he drew closer, Marduk could see the shadow of the primarch Guilliman within the Chapter Master’s features, and hatred swelled within him.
The Chapter Master carried a thunder hammer and storm shield, and his ornate armour was hung with a blue, battle-scorched tabard. Several of his pathetically small retinue of veterans moved to interpose themselves between their lord and Marduk, but they were ordered curtly back by their Terminator-armoured commander.
“Do we shoot him?” asked Kol Badar, at Marduk’s shoulder.
“No,” the Dark Apostle said. “Let him approach.”
At Marduk’s urging, the Word Bearers backed away, forming a wide semi-circle at the top of the stairs. Warily, the White Consuls stepped into the circle, gaze locked on Marduk’s.
“Burias!” barked Marduk, not taking his eyes off the White Consuls. The slender Icon Bearer, having recently regrouped with the Host, stepped forward instantly. “You want him?”
Burias smiled broadly in response, and handed the Host’s icon to Khalaxis. He allowed the change to come upon him and became one with the daemon within.
The circle of Word Bearers stood in silence as Burias-Drak’shal and the White Consul circled each other. Daemons looped overhead.
The White Consul was easily three times the Icon Bearer’s weight, and he stomped around heavily, keeping his storm shield between them. Burias-Drak’shal stalked around him, moving in a low crouch. He bore no weapon. He needed none. His fingers had fused into elongated talons easily capable of punching through ceramite, and his distended jaw erupted in a savage display of tusks.
He loped left and right, bestial head low, seeking a weakness in his enemy’s defence. The White Consul kept his storm shield up, his thunder hammer held at the ready.
When the possessed warrior struck, it was with all his preternatural speed and strength. With a roar, he flew at the White Consul, little more than a blur. The storm shield sparked, and the Icon Bearer was thrown backwards, landing heavily. He was on his feet again in an instant, leaping at the Chapter Master with talons extended.
He landed on the White Consul Terminator’s storm shield clawed feet first, and clutched at the top of it with the talons of his left hand. Barbed claws hooked around the edge of the storm shield, dragging it low even as the stink of scorched flesh filled the air. With his free hand, the Icon Bearer slashed at the Chapter Master, thirty-centimetre talons raking across his gorget.
The White Consul slammed the haft of his thunder hammer into Burias-Drak’shal’s face with staggering force, dislodging him from his shield. The Icon Bearer dropped to the ground, landing on all fours. The Chapter Master moved after him, hammer crackling with arcs of electricity.
Burias-Drak’shal leapt backwards, talons scratching deeply into the marble slabs beneath him as he scrambled to avoid the hammer blow. The head of the White Consul’s weapon slammed into the marble slab with a sharp crack of discharging power. Stone splintered beneath the strike.
Burias-Drak’shal caught the next blow with a taloned hand, halting it mid-swing, his warp-spawned musculature straining to keep the weapon at bay. The Chapter Master smashed his storm shield into him, knocking him backwards.
Moving with surprising swiftness, the White Consul followed up on the momentarily stunned possessed warrior and struck a brutal blow towards his chest. Burias-Drak’shal tried to sway aside, but the hammer caught him on the shoulder. There was an explosive, percussive shock, and he was thrown to the ground. When he came back to his feet, his left arm was hanging uselessly at his side. His shoulder pad had been torn loose, and his plate armour underneath was sundered and leaking red-black ichor that hissed as it dripped onto the marble underfoot.
Within seconds the possessed warrior’s arm was healing, but he was in considerable pain.
When it came, the end of the fight was brutal and abrupt. A hammer blow ripped one of Burias-Drak’shal curving horns from his head, and hot daemon-blood sprayed from the wound. A droplet struck the Chapter Master in his left eye, burning into the retina, and for a fraction of a second the White Consul turned his head away, eyes closing reflexively. That was all the opening that Burias-Drak’shal needed.
Ducking beneath the Chapter Master’s backhand swipe he leapt in close, talons ramming into the warrior’s side. He could not penetrate the thick armour, but using the momentum of the blows, he swung his mutated body up around the heavier Marine’s back like an ape, coming to rest in a crouch atop the White Consul’s broad shoulders, the claws of his feet digging deep.
Stabbing downwards with all his might, he punched the talons of his left hand through the top of the Chapter Master’s skull, killing him instantly. With a tremendous crash, the warrior fell.
Burias-Drak’shal mounted the Chapter Master’s chest in an instant, pounding at the already dead warrior’s face over and over. The White Consul’s skull collapsed beneath his blows, even super-hardened Astartes bone unable to withstand the sheer brutality Burias-Drak’shal unleashed upon it.
“Enough,” said Marduk, finally.
Breathing heavily, the Icon Bearer rose to his full height. The blood liberally coating his face matched the colour of his armour. He lifted both arms high into the air and threw his head back, howling his victory to the heavens, that the gods might witness his triumph.
Aquilius and the other White Consuls heard that cry as they reached the bottom of the temple stairs. The young Coadjutor made the sign of the aquila. Atop the stairs, the hateful silhouette of the Dark Apostle could be seen. More than one of the veterans seemed ready to run back, but Librarian Ep
istolary Livendus forestalled any such rash move.
“More Traitors moving in,” warned one of the veterans. Rhinos and Predators were rolling up the boulevards and causeways leading into the square, threatening to box the White Consuls in.
The Librarian held for a moment and put his hand to his face. He pulled it away to find splashes of crimson coating the fingertips of his gauntlets. Trickles of blood flowed from his nostrils.
“Liventius…?” said Aquilius.
“I sense something.”
“More of the enemy?”
“No. This is something… new. I’ve never felt a presence like this before. Let’s move. Now, brothers,” said Liventius.
Aquilius cast one last glance up towards the top of the stairs.
“Let him not have died in vain,” he said. “Everything rests with Proconsul Ostorius now.”
Any lesser man would already have been dead.
Ostorius was a bloody ruin, his body broken and his face unrecognisable. One eye was swollen shut, and his nose had been broken in three places. His left cheekbone was fractured and splinters of bone pressed through his flesh. His skull was cracked and leaking. Blood and spit dribbled from his mouth, and he spat a handful of teeth out onto the deck floor as he pushed himself unsteadily back to his feet once more.
His left arm was broken and hanging useless at his side. Nevertheless, he still clasped his power sword in his right hand. He lunged at his foe, the tip of his sword stabbing for the Word Bearer’s heart.
With a dismissive backhand slap, his attack was knocked aside. A thunderous open hand strike hit Ostorius square in the face. A chopping blow to the side of the White Consul’s neck sent him crashing back to the floor.
Grand Apostle Ekodas was completely unscathed, though his hands were covered in blood. He stalked back and forth as he waited for Ostorius to pick himself up.
Again and again, Ostorius got up, attacked and was knocked down. The circle of Word Bearers watched impassively as their lord dismantled the White Consul piece by piece, breaking bones and rupturing organs at will.
[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed Page 24