by Andy Smillie
A growl sounded from behind me. I turned, though not quickly enough. A monstrous creature, its mouth dripping acid-fire, barrelled into me. It mewled in pain as my fist struck its face, but continued to press me into the wall. Its claws, each as long as I was tall, tore into me. Yet I felt no pain as it pulled back from the embrace, bisecting me in one fluid twist. My parts thudded to the floor, like the spent shells of some mighty siege cannon.
My power cell is damaged. My brain function will soon cease. I shall not awaken from this final death, and I am glad.
the quickening
I am one, and they are many. But I will endure.
The bolt-round looms large as it pushes towards my head, sluggish as though traveling through water. I turn to the side and feel the heat of the shell as it scrapes past the flesh of my cheek. A half-step and the blade formed from my rage slices through the firer’s arm, shearing it off at the elbow. He is to blame for Spheris’s treachery. His lying tongue is the architect of the anarchy enveloping the world. I growl. The myriad faces worked into his baroque battleplate widen in anguish as my reverse stroke cleaves through his helm. I move past him as his corpse starts to topple.
Unarmoured, the human pawns of the Archenemy thought me easy prey. Pride granted me access to their innermost sanctum, a feat a thousand warriors could not have accomplished. I am no lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of a dark god, however; I am a beast twice cursed. I am Balthiel, Librarian of the Flesh Tearers.
The others are in motion, faces twisting to snarls, weapons angling towards me. Were I held in time’s embrace, they would kill me. Autogun shells would hammer into my body, blasting it apart as las-fire peeled away my flesh. I would be dead in moments. I am not bound by temporal law, however, my gifts setting me apart from the three dozen traitors crowding around me.
Thump… Thump…
I listen to the throb of their barely beating hearts, and to the sound of blood as it trickles through them. A sun gone nova, a pall of incandescent rage, I will their blood to burn hotter, to boil in their veins. I end them with a thought. The traitors explode in a hail of gore as arterial fluid bursts from their bodies. Their weapons spill to the floor, like leaves wilting from dying trees. A cloud of hissing droplets of blood drifts towards me, like a flurry of ghoulish snowflakes. I relish their touch as I press forwards, opening my mouth to savour them.
For weeks, I have been desperate to kill. The pain of longing has been like a needle in my mind, an itching thirst that no water will sate. The crew of the Wayward Lance, the trader vessel that delivered me to Spheris, the populace I’ve moved through, the ranks of this treacherous coven: all forbidden morsels, an indulgence victory would not allow. I rejoice at this release, the warm coppery tang of freshly spilled blood driving me to rapture.
Morchan’s corpse writhes as I pass it. The bastard psyker was the only one who could have divined my true nature, but his warning died on his lips as I summoned my gifts, pulling myself out of time. Without the strength to follow me into the future or root himself in the present, Morchan’s mind was torn apart, his body turned inside out by the psychic-temporal shift.
Only Governor Kadi Aren remains. His weakness has cost the lives of millions. He is the reason I am here. Beads of sweat begin to form on his brow as shock turns to terror. I taste his panic. His weapon is charged for firing. A blue halo rims its mouth as he grasps for the trigger. I snarl. He is too far away. Time is catching up with me. I will not reach him. Thrusting my hand towards him, I channel my rage into bolts of crimson lightening. They arc from my splayed fingers, flaying away the ablative plates of his jewel-encrusted armour, lancing into his flesh. A scream stretches his mouth as the eldritch tendrils peel the flesh from his bones and burn out his soul. The embers of Aren’s corpse flicker for a moment before vanishing. I gasp, salivating, my pulse building to a thundering crescendo as I drink the psychic backlash of his death.
Time pulls me close and I come to rest, panting. My enemies lie dead around me, but the battle is not yet over.
I have overused my gifts. I have drawn too long from the immaterium.
Dark smoke rises from my skin in waves. The din of distant battle is drowned out by the scraping sound of hungry claws.
‘By his blood am I made.’ I begin the catechism as the pain comes.
A thousand whispering voices threaten to engulf my mind. Creatures, daemons, nightmares made flesh, gnaw at the edges of my consciousness. Tongues of silk whisper idle promises and false truths. My flesh is ruined, flawed, yet it is all they ask in exchange for the end of all pain.
‘By his blood am I armoured.’
Blood, this time my own, runs from my mouth and nose.
I tense against the darkness enveloping my mind, feeling my bones break as the effort sends my body into spasm.
‘By his blood shall I triumph.’
I feel the warp creatures roar in anguish as my will pushes them away, armouring my soul against their touch.
I stifle a scream as stabbing pain splits my skin, tearing it apart like a tremor spearing through the earth. I collapse onto the blood-soaked cobbles. My eyes close as I drift into a sus-anic coma, trusting to the grace of Sanguinius that my brothers will find me before the daemons return.
I am one, and they are many. But I will endure.
the trial of gabriel seth,
act iii
‘You destroyed Aere to cover the sins of your brothers.’ Malakim’s voice was void-cold, his eyes full of scorn.
‘I destroyed Aere to stop the Archenemy,’ Seth snapped, about to raise his fist in anger. He took a breath and relaxed the limb, uncurling his fingers. Temperance. Appollus’s warning rang in his mind. If you are to prove we are more than the berserkers they believe us to be, you must show temperance. Seth hid a smile. It was rare the wrathful Chaplain offered such counsel.
‘Did you indeed?’ asked Sentikan. ‘And was it the only way to seize victory, or just the only one fitting enough to cleanse the stain from your honour?’
Anger strangled Seth’s tongue, his reply a guttural growl.
‘You miss the point.’ Dante spoke for him. ‘Even caught in the throes of the Rage, the Flesh Tearers have accomplished much. They have snatched victory even at the expense of their own lives.’ The chamber fell into discord as the other Chapter Masters responded to Dante’s unexpected position. A clamour of charged exchanges fought to be heard as they argued over his words.
Seth remained silent, nodding to Dante. He had not expected the Blood Angel to speak in his defence, but he welcomed the interjection. Still, he would give his sword arm to look past the unreadable death mask and peer into Dante’s eyes. The Blood Angel was a warrior almost beyond compare, yet his skill with a blade was as nothing compared to his skill as a leader. But he was also inscrutable. Being blind to the motive behind Dante’s support made Seth uneasy.
‘Silence, brothers. Silence and rumination,’ said Techial, reading aloud the axiom of closing. In response, the others settled, though a host of hateful glances lingered to betray the heat of the debate. ‘The time of judgement approaches.’ He nodded to Dante.
The Blood Angel folded his arms across his chest in the sign of the aquila, and recited the catechism of observance. ‘Numinous Father. On virtuous wings you rose above the falsehoods to see fate’s truth. With knowing eyes you faced your end upright and unbowed. Imbue us with your clarity, your graciousness, your selflessness. Guide us in our deliberation. Let that which we forge here be for the betterment of all of us, your sons.’
‘Blood guide us,’ the others ended the catechism, speaking aloud as one.
Seth stared up at the distant ceiling, and the visage of the Emperor. Is it not enough that You are bound to the Throne, Lord? Must more of our strength be shackled?
A cascading clang snapped Seth from his reverie. The sound echoed around the chamber as each of the Chapter Masters crashed their fists against their breastplates.
The din faded, to be replaced by silence
. A palpable stillness that held dominion over the Judicium for a hundred beats of Seth’s primary heart.
Techial spoke again. ‘Prepare.’
As one, the Chapter Masters drew their blades. The sound, a visceral rush of steel and adamantium, drew a smile from Seth. It was a striking sight: the greatest sons of Sanguinius armed and ready for war, each of them holding aloft a blade of the finest artifice, a relic as beautiful as it was deadly. Here was the greatest choir of the Emperor’s angels, and for the moment at least, he stood as part of them.
‘Give judgement.’ Techial barked the instruction, and planted his blade in the ground beside him.
There was no secret ballot or hushed congress in the Forum. Each of the Chapter Masters would account for his decision in open court, the truth of their inference ever known. As Chronicler, the honour of first petition was Techial’s. As first among them, Dante would vote last.
Seth glared at the sword standing beside Techial. Guilty.
Zargo could not move quickly enough, upturning his blade and planting it in the ground. A second guilty verdict. And so it continued as one by one the other Chapter Masters condemned him. Seth bit back a curse as even Malphas damned him. Only a handful of the Chapter Masters stood in his defence, tossing their blades to the chamber floor. The weapons clattered beside him. It was a symbolic gesture, a martial gift to help defend him from guilt.
All eyes turned to Dante.
‘Gabriel Seth, son of blessed Sanguinius. Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers.’ He paused, driving his sword down into the earth. ‘This council finds you unfit to bear such a title.’
Seth growled, the feral challenge of a cornered beast.
‘The Flesh Tearers will be broken up, a portion of their number subsumed by each of our Chapters and placed under the watch of our most steadfast Chaplains.’
‘What of me?’ Seth’s voice dripped with hatred.
‘You will remain here on Baal until madness or death claims you. You will–’
‘No. He will not.’
A startled hush fell over the chamber as a new speaker entered. Clad in blackest plate, dark-feathered pinions framing his back, Astorath was a figure of dread. The Blood Angels High Chaplain entered the chamber and stood shoulder to shoulder with Seth.
‘Astorath. You overstep your authority.’ Dante’s voice was a controlled growl, his every syllable cutting the air with menace.
‘No. I walk the line that is mine and mine alone to tread.’ Astorath turned his gaze over the assembled Chapter Masters. ‘I and I alone am the final arbiter of the curse and its victims.’
Seth watched Astorath as he paced the circumference of the Judicium, impressed by the Chaplain’s skill as an orator.
‘You are High Chaplain, Blood Angel, and nothing more,’ Zargo sneered.
‘Is that so?’ Astorath fixed the Angel Encarmine with a dead stare. ‘Then why do I detect hesitation in your voice?’
‘Your importance within our brotherhood is not in question, High Chaplain.’ Geron held up his hands in appeasement.
‘Your counsel is always welcome, Astorath,’ said Dante. ‘But you will not defy us in this.’
‘It is not defiance I bring, lord, but redemption.’
‘Redemption for whom?’ said Techial. ‘The Flesh Te–’
‘For all of you,’ Astorath snapped, his fist tightening on the haft of his axe. ‘I have come to stop you making a grave error this day.’
‘That is not for you to say.’ Sentikan spoke slowly, struggling to control his anger.
‘I am the Redeemer, Sanguinius’s chosen executioner. What is to say that I cannot find the darkness in your souls? Are you so certain that none among you should face my axe?’ Astorath levelled his weapon, panning it over the assembled Chapter Masters.
A chorus of angry retorts rippled around the chamber.
‘You would threaten us?’ Malphas seized the hilt of his upturned sword.
‘No, Exsanguinator. I offer only a reminder and a promise.’ Astorath spoke with a dead calm. ‘A reminder that in time the curse will take even the strongest among us.’
‘And your promise?’ Malphas kept his hand on his weapon.
‘That when it does, I will visit judgement upon you.’ Astorath’s eyes were as a starless night. Still, unfathomable and infinitely dark.
‘Why do you stand to Seth’s defence?’ asked Dante, his voice level. ‘He has troubled you, bloodied you, on more than one occasion.’
astorath the grim:
redeemer of the lost
It has been a long time since I killed an enemy. Too long. A torturous burden for any warrior to bear. Yet I have not been idle. I have spent my decades steeped in blood. I have bent my talents to killing my brothers. A dark duty that has brought me here to this ashen waste. Hamenlina, a librarium world. Burned to cinders by the forces of the Archenemy as they sought to secure the knowledge contained in Hamenlina’s datastacks and parchment-text archives. Its towering structures, crammed together like vast volumes stacked on too small a shelf, remind me of the cathedrals and reclusiams of holy Baal.
These, though, are blackened by battle, reduced to striated ruins. The charcoal landscape is as a painting, rendered in shadow by death’s artisans. I drag my hand through a pile of grey brick dust, watching as it sifts through the fingers of my gauntlet to leave a trio of teeth in my palm. A solemn smile stretches across my face and I feel myself nod. This is a fitting place for angels to fight their last, a graveyard worthy of their bones.
I look down from my vantage point. Muzzle flare sparks in the distant gloom as the final shots of the war are fired. I feel my soul reharden itself against what is to come.
This war had not even begun when I started my journey here. The citizens of Hamenlina had not yet succumbed to the seditious promises of the Dark Powers when I boarded my vessel. Despite the improbable foresight that such certainty would require, I knew then that war would find this place, and that my brothers would be called to end it. I always know. It is a blessing that numbers foremost amongst my curses. The damned call to me. They reach across the cold vastness of space and time and beg for their souls.
From up here, amongst the desiccated remains of the Grand Oracle’s chamber, I can smell the taint in the cursed blood of those below me. There are five of them left. The others are already dead, felled in battle as they waded waist deep through the entrails of their foe. When first I was set on this bloody path, I had thought, hoped even, that battle might claim all of the damned, that I would not be required to bring them peace. I was naive. A few always survive. For what in this universe can stand against their wrath, if not me? They are a terrible force to behold, killers to their core. I touch a hand to my jaw, feeling the distended canines beneath my gnarled lips. I have not looked upon myself in almost a century, yet I know that my skin is ghoulish white, and that my eyes are pinpricks of blackness. To best these beasts, to fulfil my duty, my body and soul have become terror itself.
Yet I am not alone. Even stripped of holy boltgun, and set apart from my warrior brotherhood, I march to war with another. The Executioner’s Axe, an unimaginative name for an unimaginable task; a weapon born for this purpose. Forged by hottest fire and ancient blood, its tip is as hard as my resolve, its edge as lethal as my fury. I straighten and tighten my grip on the weapon as the muzzle flashes below me fade into the gloom.
It is time.
Lord Emperor, Father Sanguinius.
We confess our unworthiness.
We are unfit to stand in your name.
Our blood is weak, our victories failures.
In death, we repent.
I pray for my brothers, dropping from the spire as the final syllable leaves my lips. I fall in silence, my jump pack unlit, my wings spread to slow my descent. A crimson ghost against a blackened sky, I fall.
The rockcrete of the roadway cracks underfoot as I land. One of the damned turns and snarls at me, a craven sound of lust and hunger. I cut his head from his sho
ulders, my axe passing through his neck before his blood can form on the blade. Then the others turn on me. Their boltguns growl. I react on instinct, catching the corpse of the first as it tumbles, pulling it to me. It shudders as explosive rounds hammer into it. I drive forward as they blast their dead brother’s corpse apart, showering me in fragments of armour and gobbets of flesh.
Dropping my corpse-shield, I spin around to slice my axe through a forearm, twisting to strike again and claim another. I hear the dual clatter as the limbs and the weapons they’re holding fall to the ground. The other two continue to fire.
A round strikes my pauldron and I drop into a roll, twisting my axe so that its blade is angled away and its butt faces forward. Rising, I swing out, letting my hands slide to the edge of the haft to extend my range. The weapon hammers into my attacker’s face. I hear his neck break an instant before his body flips backwards over itself.
I growl, stumbling to one knee as a round rips across my side. The ki-clack of an empty chamber saves me more pain. The fifth roars and tosses his gun away. Gripping his chainsword with both hands, he charges. I stay crouched as he closes, reading his movements. He means to split my skull from brow to chin. He raises his weapon, shifts his weight. I act. He dies before he can strike, my blade bisecting him from hip to shoulder.
The pair I disarmed earlier have rallied. I hear them at my back, pressing towards me, their chainswords screaming for blood. I turn and parry their blows. They are formidable, but I am better. It is not arrogance or conceit, but truth that lends strength to my limbs as I batter them back. I was birthed to this slaughter the way a sun was birthed to burn nova. Had I no body, my soul would continue to fight until my fallen brothers were naught but bloodied mulch. Igniting my jump pack, I use its thrust to spin through a tight arc, and tear my blade across their chests. They falter, staggered by the wounds. It is all the time I need to remove their heads.
Brother Elogis, Brother Uvall, Brother Haures, Brother Sitri and Brother Asag. I unfurl a length of the tapered parchments hanging from my armour, recording on it each of their names as I drag their corpses into a pile. It is now, in the moments between death and oblivion, that my duty hangs heaviest around my neck. Such warriors as these will never receive a proper burial, they will not be remembered in the annals of their Chapter and their names shall go missing from the Hall of Heroes. They are lost, and they must remain so. It is I, and I alone, who will remember them.