by Nick Kyme
Issak laughed. It was a warm, genuine sound that smacked of his natural beneficence.
‘Had I not walked these treacherous roads for years before your arrival, and not ventured from Sturndrang’s surface to this sub-strata, I might find a warning note of caution in those words, Agatone. Alas…’ he concluded, and opened his arms wide as to suggest the decision was already made.
‘Well then,’ said Agatone, first seeing Exor then Zartath emerge at the summit of the stairway, but his eyes falling on Issak last of all. ‘Seems your duty to the Throne is not yet done. Take us to Seven Points.’
Seven Points, or the ‘cross’ at it was sometimes known on account of the seven interlocking and divergent paths that led to this nexus point, was in ruins. Granted, most of Molior’s underhive had a broken down, dilapidated appearance but even for an arena this was a war zone.
‘A battle was fought here…’ hissed Zartath. He stated the obvious, not with the intention of drawing his companion’s attention to it but rather as part of his internal process of deconstruction. The four of them, three Adeptus Astartes and one missionary-turned-medicus, approached the battlefield along one of the seven paths. Stretching out in front of them was a scene of carnage, but of a battle already fought and ended. Judging by the amount of bodies, it was a conflict with few victors.
Zartath went on ahead, weaving amongst the corpse-strewn wreckage and still-smoking fires. He kept low, even though there were no obvious signs of life. More than once, a careless scout had toured the aftermath of a battle believing all threat ended, only to find enemies alive with their blades still sharp, their desire for vengeance even sharper.
‘Five distinct groups fought here…’ Zartath went on, beckoning the others as he stopped at intervals to examine any sign or spoor.
Smoke hugged the ground in a thick veil. Broken limbs and weapons stuck out from it, breaching the surface like flotsam on a beach exposed by retreating surf. Heat haze still wavered the air from conflagrations that had diminished into mere blazes since their ignition. The shells of burned-out buildings hung open like old, blackened wounds yet to heal.
‘I see only four,’ Exor replied. He moved tentatively, without the confidence of full fitness, but was as battle-ready as Issak could make him. To Agatone’s mind, it would have to do.
‘As do I, Zartath,’ the captain agreed with his Techmarine.
Exor had said little during the journey from Kabullah to Seven Points, which had been made mercifully short thanks to Issak’s knowledge of these depths. The Techmarine had kept a wary eye on his auspex at all times, which Agatone deemed as normal behaviour for one schooled by the Martian adepts, so left him alone. Exor’s anvil would come later when he was pressed into the fires of battle again. Then Agatone would see the true measure of his readiness. But as of right now, all they had was the hunt and that was Zartath’s area of expertise.
The ex-Black Dragon scurried through the ruins, amongst the bodies. Some he stooped to examine, others he left alone. His level of scout-craft was, admittedly, a mystery to Agatone.
‘Where is the fifth, brother?’ Agatone called, eyeing the high gantries above where the smoke was rising with suspicion. Below, the dead were all underhivers, variously gang affiliated.
‘Close and few in number,’ Zartath answered cryptically. ‘There are many signs.’
Some of the bodies had the trappings of gladiators, escapees from the arena or perhaps even unleashed by their masters. If what the alderman had told Agatone was true, then two gang lords ruled this quarter. Their men would be amongst the dead.
With Zartath so engrossed in his task, Agatone turned to Issak. ‘You know the markings of the local gang lords here?’
Issak nodded, pointing to a corpse wearing thick factorum overalls and a grey bandana tied around his neck.
‘Junkers,’ he said pointing to another, this one thickly muscled and squeezed in dark fetish leather. ‘Hel-kytes.’
There was a third gang, Agatone noticed. These wore red hoods with heavy smocks, almost akin to robes. Cultists.
‘Them I don’t know,’ Issak admitted, having followed Agatone’s gaze.
‘Can’t see him amongst the dead,’ said Exor. He was kneeling by the body of a gladiator, a chrono-slave who had been gutted by a heavy blade. Nearby was an abhuman, classification ogryn, its head separate from its body and a heavy cannon, still fully loaded, in its rigor-mortised grip. ‘This one was evidently for security,’ offered Exor, before running a scan with his auspex.
‘Seven Points looks far from secure,’ murmured Agatone, as he delved further into the carnage with the others. ‘Any sign at all of Tsu’gan?’ he called out to Exor.
‘Nothing from the bio-scan, but we might have better luck deeper into Seven Points.’
Agatone nodded, and they pressed on. ‘Stay by me,’ he growled at Issak. Wisely, the missionary obeyed.
By the time they reached the middle of Seven Points and its infamous arena, Agatone had counted more than a hundred dead and that was just at the periphery. Many bore the trappings of the Junkers and the Hel-kytes but there were red hoods too. Amongst the slain, they found the gang lords, Silas Krebb and Otmar the Brute. Issak seemed genuinely disturbed to see both men killed so casually, not because he carried any regard for them but on account of the fact that their power had seemed absolute in this quarter. He remarked as much to Agatone.
‘A sudden break in their alliance, perhaps?’ asked the captain.
Exor shook his head. ‘Judging by the position of their bodies, they were fighting side by side against a common enemy. Releasing their slaves suggests they were desperate too.’
‘You know of anyone who wanted their territory, medicus?’ Agatone asked Issak. ‘For if my errant brother is not with either of these men’s organisations, then he might well be with the victors.’
‘I’ve never seen these red hoods before, nor heard any talk about them. If someone was planning on muscling in on either Silas’s or Otmar’s territory then I would have heard something. This doesn’t look like a turf war, though…’
‘That’s because it’s not,’ rasped Zartath, having appeared silently at Issak’s side who started at the hunter’s sudden return. ‘It’s a sacrifice. This is a place of Ruin.’
The arena was close, the nexus of where the crosses intersected – the heart of Seven Points. Sunken into a deep manmade depression, the floor of the arena itself had been excavated, potentially even after the battle as the bodies inside had been dragged to its periphery. Underneath the dirt and grime and blood were the archaeological remains of the paths from which Seven Points had derived its name. Only there weren’t seven, not originally. Exposed by the excavations of the victors was an eighth.
‘An eight-fold path…’ said Exor, his voice low and resonant with mechanised reverb.
Issak muttered a quiet benediction to the Throne as Zartath and Exor descended into the arena. Six bodies had been cut up and laid upon the eight divergent paths, blood, limbs and entrails. The naked flesh was etched with arcane symbology, carved there indelibly.
‘Search this entire arena,’ said Agatone, his face a mask of grim discomfort. ‘Make it fast. You stay with me, medicus, and tell me what you can about this atrocity.’
Issak slowly shook his head as Zartath and Exor went to their duties. Peripherally, Agatone noticed they did not make eye contact and went to opposite ends of the arena. They might have just been intent on their duty, or there might be some residual distemper between them. Like much of what had happened in Molior, there was little Agatone could do about it now but he resolved to confront it later. When Tsu’gan was in his custody.
‘I am of the Ecclesiarchy not the Inquisition,’ Issak confessed. ‘I have little knowledge about the rituals of Chaos, let alone what any of this means.’
‘Just tell me what you see.’
Issak half turned
and for the first time since Agatone had met him looked unsure of himself. Many mortals had such a reaction when confronted by the evidence of Chaos desecration up close.
‘But how does this help you find your quarry?’ he asked, wiping sweat off his brow, even though the air around Seven Points was chill as hoarfrost and Issak’s breath ghosted from his mouth.
‘He either fought and killed them or was killed in turn. Since I can see neither a body, nor evidence of this cult’s destruction since the ritual site is intact, I have to assume he fought, killed and then escaped or was captured,’ said Agatone. ‘We find the cult, we find our quarry.’
Issak nodded, still obviously uncomfortable, but examined the bodies more closely.
‘It’s a blood ritual, that much is clear,’ he said, careful not to actually touch anything but getting close enough so he could scrutinise the individual elements. ‘The cuts are precise, measured. I’ve seen surgeons with inferior blade-craft to this, good ones.’ He skirted around the ring of sundered flesh. ‘Each piece was arranged meticulously, and with purpose.’
‘To what end?’ asked Agatone, watching the medicus keenly.
‘I have absolutely no idea, but I see no evidence of summoning. I cannot see any taint, detect it through my olfactory senses or otherwise.’ He looked back at Agatone. ‘Perhaps an attempt at some form of communion?’
‘They were sending a message?’
‘Yes, possibly, but I don’t know. Like I told you, I am a missionary, a medicus before that, not a daemon-hunter. Please…’ Issak added, ‘I would like to leave this place now.’
Agatone nodded. The others were returning anyway.
Exor brought news.
‘He was definitely here,’ said the Techmarine. ‘There is a lower level, cells by the look of them, a sort of barracks to house the gladiators between bouts. I found markings carved into the wall. Agatone, it was Nocturnean sigil-dialect, akin to the symbols we use to brand our flesh.’
‘What did he carve, brother?’
‘The anvil and the hammer, over and over again,’ said Exor. ‘He is punishing himself. Tsu’gan wants to suffer.’
Agatone knew that Tsu’gan had always had a masochistic streak. He supposed all Salamanders did to an extent, the Promethean Creed demanded it of them, but there were rumours about Tsu’gan’s addiction to pain that had never been proven one way or the other. His disappearance after the rescue mission into the Volgorrah Reef that had yielded Zartath as well as its intended targets, Chaplain Elysius and Sol Ba’ken, had prevented any meaningful enquiry. The fact was, no one had spoken to Tsu’gan since that moment except for Dak’ir, and he was dead or presumed so.
‘One of us fought here,’ Zartath confirmed. ‘I found transhuman blood, whether from this battle or another in the arena…’ He shook his head, scowling. ‘Impossible to determine. There are tracks, footprints that radiate from the ritual site. Their gait is uneven, drunken.’
‘Perhaps they fell into some kind of torpor after whatever they did here?’ suggested Agatone.
‘It’s likely,’ said Zartath, appearing to be more lucid and focused than before, the hunt seeming to have done him some good. He offered something to Agatone in his open hand, a small silver dagger. ‘I doubt they would have left this, otherwise.’
Agatone regarded it but did not touch it. Issak made the sign of the aquila.
‘It’s not the weapon they used to cut up these sacrifices.’
‘No,’ Issak agreed, finding his voice again at last. ‘They’d need a saw or at least something with a serrated edge to get through bone. The athame was probably used to cut the sigils into their flesh, a spiritual icon more than a weapon. I am surprised they didn’t come back–’
Zartath’s raised fist interrupted Issak.
‘Who says they haven’t?’ he hissed.
Zartath hurried away from the ritual site to the arena wall and pressed flat against it, prompting Agatone and Exor to do the same. Issak belatedly followed their example.
‘That fifth group,’ Zartath muttered to Agatone. ‘They are here.’
‘Auspex reads nothing’ said Exor.
Zartath faced him savagely. ‘They will not appear on any scanner, brother. But I can smell their scent.’ His lips drew back into a snarl. ‘And I hear them. Listen!’
Exor had to bite back his anger, but did as he was told.
‘Four of them?’ guessed Agatone, frowning as he strained to pinpoint the enemy’s exact numerical strength.
‘Five,’ Exor confirmed, his augmetic hearing surpassing even that of Zartath’s, though the ex-Black Dragon did nod to confirm.
‘Tread’s heavy,’ Agatone whispered, then addressed Issak. ‘You stay here, medicus. Keep your head down whilst we engage.’
Issak nodded. Though he could not hear as well as the Space Marines, he paled with fear. ‘No arguments here.’
Zartath was already scaling the arena wall, driving his bone blades into patches of exposed earth. His upper torso rippled with effort, describing the muscles in his lithe frame. Saliva drooled from his open mouth, fangs glistening with it, as one of those above drew close to strike.
‘Get ready…’ he hissed to the others, and lunged.
It began with a wet slurrch of flesh and ended in a low grunt of pain. Zartath roared, and heaved a body almost as large as he was over his head. Initially impaled in its heart, the bone blade slipped out, tearing flesh and cartilage as Zartath brought the body down into the pit.
Issak barely had enough time to take in the monster’s grotesque appearance – its swollen musculature and physical mutation, the blood-stained robes and battered armour underneath, its array of bizarre weaponry, the strange tubes attached to its back and neck – before Exor had launched something into the air, a spherical object, dark in colour and blunt of design. Issak saw it winking, three second-long pulses, and caught the warning from the Techmarine just in time.
‘Hide your eyes!’
The flare from the blind grenade was intensely bright. Even turned away, hands clamped over his face, Issak still found his vision was impaired afterwards. He heard a scream, though, and knew it had surprised the ones above.
Agatone was climbing from the pit, bolt pistol in hand. Exor lingered a fraction behind him, but was soon lost beyond the captain’s peripheral vision. Zartath had already engaged, using the momentum of his earlier kill to spring up and out onto the battlefield. Three sharp booms echoed from Agatone’s sidearm as the mass-reactives found purchase in living tissue and subsequently detonated. He had made a mess of the creature’s left arm, but it had two of them on that side alone so its combat efficacy was barely diminished.
It was brutish, heavily gene-bulked and mutated. Something pumped into its carotid vein, some kind of adrenal philtre or chem-shunt. Hunched, still mewling from the sting administered by the Techmarine, the monster was only a little shorter than Agatone. Raised to full height it would dwarf the Salamander. A glaive had been surgically grafted to one of its remaining arms and the blood spouting from the region Agatone had ruptured with his three-round burst was rapid-healing, which meant it had some kind of regenerative cocktail in its system. Nerve pain had been shut down too. It should have been in shock from a wound like that, but instead it came for him with the glaive.
Though it might once have been human, now it was an aberration bent on murder. And even with the one Zartath had gutted and thrown into the pit, it was one of four. Gritting his teeth, Agatone drew his gladius and fired his pistol as he moved to engage.
Exor struggled over the lip of the arena wall, slowed by his injury. Pain knifed into his side, his back, anywhere the machine did not touch him. He was cursing his flesh-weakness when he noticed he was in the crosshairs of a mutant’s bow-caster. It looked crude, almost rudimentary, but the barbs on its ammunition were sharp. The crossbow jerked and Exor screamed as the bolt
quarrel thunked into his upper torso.
The medicus went to move to his aid, until Exor shouted him back. Then he was moving, dragged up and over the lip of the pit wall and across the ground as the firer retracted its harpoon bolt on a length of high-tensile cable.
Agony spreading through his chest and back, Exor fumbled for a plasma-torch, even his knife, but he was being thrown around too fiercely and could not reach them. Glimpsing a blade in the mutant’s meaty hand, he let out a frustrated roar of pain. It had staved the bow-caster into the ground and was reeling in the Techmarine remotely.
Forgetting the knife or the plasma-torch, Exor went for his sidearm. That too, he struggled to reach. His hands slipped against the holster clasp, his fingers trembling as his body fought the intense strain it was under to prevent him from passing out again.
Then the cord went slack, cut abruptly at the source. Exor rolled on his back in time to wrench the barbed hook out and see a welter of blood shoot up from his assailant’s slit throat.
Zartath hunted without pause. Every cut, every feint and counter was chained together. From the first to the last motion, he fought with utter kinaesthetic awareness and acuity. Out of the death of the first opponent, he blended into his attack on the second. It was fluid, deadly. Like art, only bloody. In a skirmish at close quarters, momentum was everything. Keep your enemy off balance, hit him where he’s unprotected and unprepared. Make him react to you. Zartath epitomised this credo. He was born to it. Experience had honed him to become this. On the Volgorrah Reef, in the xenos death-labyrinth, it was a way of life.
Two more remained. Zartath had already discounted the one against Agatone, confident the captain would despatch it.
The first opponent jabbed at him with a spear. A heavy, powerful thrust but one Zartath easily dodged. He cut open the warrior’s shoulder, severing a vital nerve cluster in its deltoid region that made the arm go limp. With his enemy debilitated, Zartath proceeded to weave aside from another wild retaliatory strike and cleave through its neck. The blow wasn’t clean, just as Zartath had intended, and the head hung back as the neck opened in a grotesque yawn of ruddy flesh.