All was chaos. The bulk of the pilgrim ship’s hull was wedged in the blinded eye socket of the dome, but it had split open along the lines of its hull plates and was spewing torrents of burning wreckage into the dome. Sarpedon couldn’t see Reinez or Lysander, the two Space Marines who had been closest to him, and his body instinctively fought against his restraints.
One part of him was screaming that he had no air, and that even a Space Marine’s three lungs could not hold out for long in hard vacuum. The other part fought to escape. Sarpedon had never tested his bonds in the pulpit properly, for there had never been any chance of him escaping beneath the sight of so many Space Marines. Now he pulled against the manacles and shackles with strength he was not sure he still had.
The structure of the pulpit gave way. Hardwood and steel broke under the force. Sarpedon ripped his manacles off and grabbed the struts of the shackles that held his six remaining legs in place. They broke away, too, and Sarpedon, though still dragging his restraints behind him, was free.
He ran for the nearest exit. A sheet of steel, a section of the pilgrim ship’s deck, fell like a giant guillotine blade, and he skidded to a halt just before it sliced him in two. He scrambled up it, almost as nimble over a vertical surface as a horizontal one, and saw ahead of him the blast doors closing. A klaxon was blaring, the sound transmitted through the floor and his talons, explosions like dull thuds all around, the whole chamber vibrating as metal tore. He saw a dying Howling Griffon, one side of his torso opened up, organs trailing from his torn armour. His eyes were rolled back and he was convulsing. Sarpedon could not help him.
Sarpedon jumped and skidded through the blast doors. A tangle of wreckage was blocking them from closing completely. He hauled the twisted metal free and the doors boomed close, air howling around him and screaming in his ears as the corridor beyond repressurised.
Sarpedon took a breath. It felt like the first in a lifetime. His throat was raw as he gulped down air. His mind, tight and dull in his head, seemed to flow back to full capacity with the return of oxygen.
Sarpedon looked around him. He was in a tech lab, with benches heavy with verispex equipment and banks of datamedium racked on the walls. It was where Techmarines and their assistant crewmen would conduct experiments on captured tech, or craft the delicate mechanisms of bespoke weapons and armour. The walls were inlaid with bronze geometric designs and a cogitator stood against one wall like an altar, its brass case covered in candles that had half-burned away. The floor was scattered with broken equipment and the detritus of their work, thrown about by the gale of escaping air.
Sarpedon paused. He did not know the layout of the Phalanx. He remembered the way back to his cell well enough, but he doubted there was any point in returning there.
What point was there in doing anything? He could not escape the Phalanx, surely. The Imperial Fists would be hunting him down as soon as they had counted their own dead. He was free, but what did it matter?
It had to count for something. He fought the fatalism that had weighed him down since his capture. While he still lived, he could still fight, he could still make his life mean something…
‘Sarpedon!’ yelled a voice that he recognised with a lurch.
Reinez, his pilgrim’s tatters even more ragged and his face scorched, limped from a doorway into the lab. He had been caught in the flames and the edges of his armour were singed, but he had not lost his grip on the thunder hammer that served him like an extension of his own body.
‘Captain Reinez,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I see that neither of us is easy to kill.’
‘You are not free, traitor!’ barked Reinez. ‘There is no freedom under my watch! I sought your execution, and it will happen this day!’
Sarpedon was unarmed and unarmoured. He had not fought for what was, by his standards, a long time, and his lungs and muscles still burned. But he was still a Space Marine, and the moment did not exist when a Space Marine was unprepared to fight.
Reinez charged, yelling as he held his hammer high. It was a move of pure anger, reckless, unthinking. Wrong. Sarpedon scuttled up one wall, talons finding purchase in the raised designs, and Reinez’s hammer slammed into the wall behind him. The hammer ripped a deep dent in the wall, wires and coolant pipes spilling out as he wrenched it free.
Sarpedon clung to the web of lumen-strips and wires that covered the ceiling. Reinez yelled in frustration and swung up at Sarpedon, but he dropped down onto a lab bench in front of him and kicked a complex microscope array into Reinez’s unprotected face. Dozens of lenses and sharp brass struts shattered and Reinez stumbled back, blinded for a moment.
Sarpedon pounced on him, front limbs striking down, back limbs wrapping around. Reinez fell back with Sarpedon on top of him, fighting for the hammer which was the only weapon between them. Sarpedon tore it from Reinez’s hands and threw it aside, the power field discharging like caged lightning as the weapon tumbled across the room.
Reinez punched up at Sarpedon. Sarpedon batted Reinez’s fist aside and followed up with a punch of his own, his knuckles cracking against Reinez’s jaw. With his armour on, a gauntleted fist would have broken the jaw – as it was Reinez was merely stunned for a moment, long enough for Sarpedon to roll him over, lift him up off the floor and drive him head-first into the cogitator against the room’s back wall.
Power flashed. Components pinged out of the ruined machine, valves popping, cogs firing out like bullets. Reinez pulled himself free, blood running down his face and the pitted surface of his tarnished breastplate.
‘You are no executioner!’ yelled Sarpedon. ‘You failed! You have become this unthinking, hating creature, because you cannot accept that you failed! If you killed me your failure would still stand and your life would mean nothing! You should be grateful I never gave you the chance!’
Reinez coughed up a gobbet of blood. He was still standing, but he wavered as if his legs wanted to give way. ‘Heretic,’ he slurred. ‘Vermin. You were never any brother of mine. The warp took you long ago. Your whole Chapter. Stained… tainted… down to your gene-seed… Even Dorn’s blood rejects you!’
Reinez’s hand flashed down to his waist and a bolt pistol was in his palm. He raised it in a flash.
Reinez was a fast draw. Sarpedon moved faster. He crouched down onto his haunches, behind one of the lab benches. The bolt pistol barked and hit the lab bench, blasting sprays of hardwood and bronze shrapnel. Another few shots and it would come apart.
Sarpedon dropped his shoulder and barged into the bench. It came off its moorings and he powered it towards Reinez. The bench crunched into Reinez, pinning him against the wall and trapping the wrist of his gun arm.
Sarpedon reached over the bench and tore the pistol out of Reinez’s hand. As quickly as Reinez had drawn it, Sarpedon had it against Reinez’s temple.
‘I let you live,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Remember that, brother.’
Sarpedon smacked the butt of the pistol into the bridge of Reinez’s nose, crunching through cartilage and stunning Reinez again. The Crimson Fist’s head lolled, insensible. Sarpedon let go of the bench and Reinez clattered to the floor. Sarpedon left him there, scuttling from the tech lab into whatever paths the Phalanx had laid out for him next.
The liquid explosive with which Brother Sennon had replaced his blood ignited, and incinerated him in an instant. The door to Daenyathos’s cell was ripped off its mountings. The Imperial Fists accompanying Sennon were blown off their feet and hurled down the corridor of the Atoning Halls, their armoured weight crushing the rack that stood at the intersection.
Luko was knocked senseless by the shockwave. When his senses returned, his vision shuddered and his ears were full of white noise. He did not hear the footsteps of the Dreadnought emerging from the smouldering hole, but he saw the rubble-strewn ground shaking. Soul Drinkers stumbled from their cells, for the walls of the Atoning Halls had been forced out of shape and cell doors had sprung open. One or two of them had used shrapnel to lever their restraint
s open, and helped their fellows in neighbouring cells do the same. Two of them were on the Imperial Fists, who were still stunned and could not fight back as the Soul Drinkers grabbed their boltguns, combat knives and grenades.
Luko kicked against his own cell door. It was still held fast. A shadow fell over him, and silhouetted in the hazy light was Daenyathos. The Dreadnought body, even disarmed, was a powerful and terrible thing. Luko, still deafened, did not speak. The Dreadnought looked at him, the dead eyes of its mechanical head focussing, and then it walked on, disappearing into the swirl of dust and smoke.
Sergeant Salk appeared in the Dreadnought’s wake. He had a pair of shears for cutting through chain or bone, likely taken from one of the cases of torture implements with which past generations of Imperial Fists had purified themselves. Salk shouted something that Luko could not make out, then worked on the hinges of the cell door until Salk could wrench it free.
Salk then cut the manacles holding Luko to the back wall, and helped him to his feet. Salk’s words were getting through to him now, dulled by the ringing inside Luko’s head.
‘… have to go now! The Fists will be here in moments!’
‘Who… who is dead?’ said Luko. His own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.
‘Four or five of us, I think. Maybe dead, maybe hurt. There is no time to be sure. There is a way out through the far end, towards the archives.’
Luko saw Apothecary Pallas emerging from the dust and rubble, together with several other Soul Drinkers. Two more were forcing the door off another cell and Luko saw it contained Librarian Tyrendian, the inhibitor collar still clamped around his neck to quell his psychic powers.
‘What of Daenyathos?’ said Luko.
‘He is not in his cell.’
‘I saw that. Where did he go?’
‘I do not know, brother. I have not seen Chaplain Iktinos, either. We must gather and find somewhere we can defend, brother. We are free, but not for long if we cannot make a stand.’
‘Yes. Yes, brother, I agree. We must move.’
‘What of justice?’ said Pallas. The Apothecary was standing just outside the cell, Soul Drinkers gathering around him. His hands were slick with blood – he must have tried to save Soul Drinkers who had been wounded in the blast.
‘Justice?’ said Luko.
‘We are renegades. We were brought here to face justice. Is it right to flee from it? And what will we do after we have fled? Fight all the Space Marines on the Phalanx? We have less than a company’s worth. There are three companies of Imperial Fists on this spaceship, and Throne knows how many from other Chapters. What does one more battle mean to us when the outcome will be the same? None of us is getting off this ship, captain. You know that.’
‘Then stay, Apothecary,’ said Luko. ‘While there is freedom left for us, I for one will grasp it. There may not be much left for us, but to die free is worth a fight, I think. Come, brothers! We need to leave this place. Follow!’
Luko and Salk left the cell. Luko saw what remained of the Soul Drinkers Chapter – unarmed, bloodied, they were still marked by the manacles and shackles. But they were his brothers, and for one final time they would fight side by side. The Emperor only knew why Sennon had killed himself to buy this freedom for them – this was not the time to ask such questions. It was enough that they had the chance.
Luko was a man who seized his chances. He took the bolter offered to him by one of the other Soul Drinkers, and led the way through the Halls of Atonement towards his final moments of freedom.
Grail Knight
Anthony Reynolds
I
Twilight deepened, slowly giving way to dusk. As the sun slipped over the western horizon, its last rays reflected off Calard of Garamont’s armour. Then it was gone, and darkness descended over the land.
The ground was rough and overgrown, and a creeping mist hung low over the land. Patches of snow resisted the encroachment of spring, yet blooming wildflowers spoke of its imminent arrival. There were no roads in this wilderness, and Calard’s progress was slow. Ten miles behind him the rolling landscape gave way to the verdant pastures and farmlands of Quenelles, but here on the borders, the land was left untouched by human hand. The early ancestors of the Bretonnians had learnt that lesson well in centuries past.
Calard guided his armoured warhorse up a steep ridge, picking a path through the heather and scratching gorse. The sides dropped off sharply, and the sheer slopes were strewn with rocks before disappearing into mist.
His hair was long and unkempt and his cheeks unshaven, yet he radiated an undeniable nobility, and his battle-worn appearance demanded respect. His right hand rested on the pommel of the ornate sword at his hip, a priceless family heirloom said to have been blessed by the Lady herself. A second, much larger sword was strapped across his back. It was a practical blade, heavy and devoid of ornamentation, and was quite capable of cutting a man in half with a single blow.
At the peak of the hill, Calard reined in his dappled grey destrier, staring to the east. From his vantage atop the ridge, the land spread out before him like a map.
His gaze was drawn to the vast tract of primal forest dominating the view, now less than a mile distant. It extended before him like an endless dark ocean, its fathomless depths harbouring untold secrets and hidden dangers. Even this far off he could feel the power of the forest, a strange and ethereal miasma that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
This was the Forest of Loren, a place of nightmare and dream, magic and mystery.
Its densely wooded edge resembled the soaring wall of some grand arboreal fortress, extending north and south as far as the eye could see. No tree strayed beyond its stark border, not even the tiniest sapling, as if an invisible force held it at bay. He knew that eventually the forest gave way to the foothills of the Grey Mountains, but from here it looked as though it went on forever. Low cloud obscured the highest treetops, and the canopy disappeared into haze only a few miles in.
Impenetrable, dark and heady with ancient magic, the Forest of Loren had long resonated in the hearts and minds of every son and daughter of Bretonnia. From childhood they were raised on stories of the fabled realm, tales of capricious beings of inhuman beauty and trees that came to life, of mischievous trickster spirits and malicious forest creatures that ensnared the unwary. On any given night one could hear the stories of the fey being told in hushed tones across Bretonnia, from the campfires of the lowliest peasants, to the grand halls of the king himself.
Few dared breach the borders of the ancient forest, and of those that did, fewer still returned. Those that managed to find their way out were more often than not discovered wandering its edges come dawn, babbling incoherently, their sanity shredded.
Indeed, if even a fraction of the tales surrounding these wildwoods were true then it was a place to be approached only with great caution.
Nevertheless, Calard felt no fear, for it was the will of the Lady, the patron goddess of Bretonnia, that he was here.
The first stars were appearing, like tiny pinpricks in the roof of the world. Brightest of all was the evening star, hanging low in the eastern sky above the forest. Known as the Lady’s Grace, it was the first star to appear and the last to depart come morning.
‘As you lead me, Lady, so shall I follow.’
For a moment longer Calard lingered atop the rocky bluff, breathing in the full spectacle before him. He could see a slender pinnacle of stone on the threshold. The evening star blinked above it, like a beacon.
‘Forward, Galibor,’ he said, urging his steed with a gentle kick. He rode down the ridge, towards the guiding evening star and the looming Forest of Loren.
Twenty feet high and carved with elegant, spiralling runes, the waystone marked the very edge of the forest. Ivy clung to its smooth surface, and Calard felt a strange tingling sensation on his skin in its presence.
Galibor stamped the ground, nostrils flaring. Calard could feel the warhorse�
��s powerful muscles tensing, and he gripped the reins firmly.
Calard had ridden the destrier’s grandsire, Gringolet, as a young knight errant, and so knew the horse’s pedigree. The warhorse was feisty and bellicose in nature, and though she had only recently come into his possession, he had been assured that she was fearless in battle. He had no reason to doubt this, and knew that it was unusual for the destrier to display such unease as she now did.
‘Be calm, brave one,’ he said, stroking its neck.
The warhorse relaxed under his trained hands, though he could still feel her agitation. Indeed, he felt a measure of it himself.
As a boy, Calard had been taught never to stare directly at a deer or boar when hunting, for the animal would instinctively feel a hunter’s gaze upon it. Calard felt that same odd sensation of being watched now, a crawling feeling in the back of his mind. He felt vulnerable, like prey locked in the sights of some unseen predator.
Tearing his gaze away from the waystone, he scanned the treeline. Shadows lurked within, but he could see no threat. Mist coiled from the gloom, insubstantial tendrils reaching out towards him. It wound around the legs of his destrier, which pawed the ground again, snorting.
‘There’s nothing there,’ said Calard, as much to convince himself as his horse.
He dismounted, and took a few steps towards the waystone. Mighty oaks towered over him, their thick branches straining to breach whatever force held them at bay. It was cold in the shadow of the forest; an icy chill seemed to radiate up from the dark soil underfoot. A vague feeling of menace pulsed from within the forest depths, as if it resented his proximity to its border. Since he was a boy he had dreamed of the day when he would see the fabled realm, but standing now in its presence as night drew in, he wondered if his desire had been a foolish one.
The previous night he had been a guest in the halls of Lord Eldecar of Toucon, an elderly nobleman of Quenelles, and a feast had been laid on in his honour. His quest precluded him for lingering though, and the entire hall had fallen silent when Calard had spoken his intention.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 81