The Devastation of Baal

by Guy Haley

  Dante smiled coldly. ‘I shall take your other eye, and then I shall kill you.’

  In return the leader beast shrieked, a psychic assault that channelled the polyphonous voice of the hive mind into a concentrated mental blow. Dante reeled under the combined sonic-psionic blast. Something gave inside him. He tasted blood at the back of his throat. His mind suffered more than his body, and he staggered back, dazed, his axe dragging through the sand.

  The Swarm Lord seized the opportunity and ran at the commander again. Dante blasted backwards, but even as it charged the Swarm Lord assailed Dante with fresh ­psychic attacks, sending out a lance of psionic energy that cut through his armour into his leg and knocked Dante wheeling from the air. He slammed into the ground with bone-jarring force. His face slammed into his helm, breaking his nose. The terror field halo around Sanguinius’ golden mask buckled and gave out in a skittering crawl of psychic energy. His iron halo’s energy field failed with a bang.

  The thing screamed again. Dante’s being was deadened from the soul outward. His vision swam. The energy his thirst gave him was stolen away. The Swarm Lord thundered at him, head down, three swords back, ready to strike. Dante regained enough of his wits just in time, activating his jump pack while he was still on his back. The jets sent him scraping across the ancient rockcrete and sand of the landing fields at high speed, drawing a shower of sparks from his armour. Alarms wailed from every system of his battleplate.

  A second, brain-rattling impact shook him as he connected with the wreck of a Land Raider. The systems diagnostics for his jump pack wailed at high alert, red danger runes blinking all over his helmplate. With a thought, he jettisoned his jump pack, rolling free of the stuttering jump unit as the Swarm Lord barrelled into the tank wreck with such force it lifted from the ground. The Swarm Lord turned on him quickly, grinding Dante’s jump pack into a pool of fire and sundered metal under its broad hooves. The Land Raider slammed back down.

  More alarms rang in Dante’s helm. On standard battle­plate, a jump pack took the place of a Space Marine’s reactor pack, replicating most of its functions as well as providing limited flight capability. Without it, Dante was left in a suit of armour with only residual power.

  He had seconds left of combat effectiveness at the most. Emergency battery icons clamoured for his attention, bars sliding quickly down to red emptiness.

  The Swarm Lord screamed. Psychically induced horror buffeted Dante’s mind, tormenting him with dread. Dante roared back, unafraid.

  ‘I am of the Lord of the Blood,’ he said, as he broke into a run, the alarms of his dying armour wailing in his ears. ‘What I do, I do for he who made me. No personal ambition is mine. No glory do I seek. No salvation for my soul or comfort for my body. No fear do I feel.’ The Swarm Lord swung at Dante hard. Dante retaliated with a counter blow, shattering the bone sabre. Thick alien fluids pumped from the broken blade. The eye set into its hilt rolled madly, and it began to shrill. ‘By his Blood was I saved from the selfishness of flesh.’

  The Swarm Lord was unmoved by the death of its symbiotic blade. The stroke continued downward, the remains of the sword catching Dante below his breastplate and penetrating his plastron. A combination of Dante’s impetus and the Swarm Lord’s immense strength punched the bone fragment deep into his body, penetrating his secondary heart, scraping on his spine, and exiting the other side of his torso.

  The creature snarled in what would have been triumph in any other species. Dante’s formidable progress was arrested. Hissing deeply, the Swarm Lord lifted Commander Dante off the ground, armour and all.

  Warm blood ran down inside Dante’s bodyglove. Toxins leaked from the Swarm Lord’s weapon, sending spiders of agony crawling along his nerves.

  ‘By his Blood was I elevated.’ It was over. He began the Mors Votum.

  The Swarm Lord lifted him high, screaming in victory, and swung its arm down to flick Dante from the blade’s shard so it might finish him on the sand.

  Reactive foams bubbled from Dante’s armour, bonding him firmly to the remnants of the Swarm Lord’s blade.

  ‘By his Blood do I serve.’

  The beast hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. As it was raising its remaining two blades to cut Dante in two, the commander raised the perdition pistol. His armour died on him, its systems starved of power, growing heavier with every second as his life ran from his body. His aim did not waver.

  ‘My life I give to the Emperor, to Sanguinius, and to mankind,’ he intoned. The Swarm Lord’s face was reflected in the dulled metal of Dante’s mask.

  Sanguinius’ face shouted silently at the hive mind.

  Dante disengaged the weapon’s failsafes with a flick of his thumb.

  ‘My service is done. I give thanks. My life is finished. I give thanks. Blood returns to blood. Another will take up my burden in my stead. I give thanks.’

  He fired the perdition pistol at point-blank range into the Swarm Lord’s face. Its flesh liquefied and boiled off as superheated steam. Its first bonesword bounced from Dante’s armour, ripping long scratches into its decoration. Bloodstones fell from their mounts. Still Dante held his aim true. The pistol’s power pack grew so hot with thermal feedback it blistered his skin through his ceramite. Still he did not relent. The fusion beam bored through the creature’s organic armour. Thermic biogels bled from cavities in the chitin, but they could not stay the perdition pistol’s beam. The weapon glowed with white heat. The Swarm Lord reared backwards. Its cries became gurgles as its tongue cooked in its head. Desperate to be free of Dante, it severed its own wrist with a clumsy strike. Dante blacked out for a moment from the pain of the bone shard jarring his organs as he hit the floor. When he came to he was lying on the ground.

  The Swarm Lord slumped to its knees alongside him. Its movements were feeble. Keening quietly, it fell forward, chest heaving. Air whistled through its breathing spiracles, then ceased. Dante rolled his head to one side. One of the boneswords lay close to his face. The eye set into its hilt stared hatred at him before dimming. The pupil dilated. The sword, too, was dead.

  Dante took a painful breath. Fluid bubbled in his lungs. His body ached all over from the tyranid’s poison.

  He was dying.

  Dante’s rage bled away with his vitae, leaving him with his pain and clear thoughts.

  The sky was clearing. The red and golden involutions of the warp storm dissipated like smoke, revealing a cold night full of stars. Baal Primus and Baal Secundus pursued their relentless cosmic chase, one falling behind the horizon as the other rose. He noted with satisfaction that the sky was empty of war. There were no ships visible behind the retreating fronds of the storm, only stars, and the bright, glowering slash of the Red Scar. Peace reigned.

  His breathing hitched. His hearts were slowing, his body was cold. The sword splinter of the Swarm Lord ground against his ribs with each breath. Blood ran from him in a trickle too persistent for his Larraman cells to staunch. As his body failed, his battleplate gave out finally, the helmplate display winking out. His dying armour was a cooling tomb, but he was calm, calmer than he had been for centuries.

  This was how fifteen hundred years of service ended. He had given a score of lifetimes to the Imperium, and he begrudged it not one day. He smiled. He had done his best. By his efforts had the tide of evil been kept from mankind’s door a few extra years. That had been his ambition, and he had fulfilled it a hundred thousand times.

  Darkness crept into the corner of his eye. He remembered similar times in his life when he had faced death, the first as he lay dying of thirst in the Great Salt Wastes of his youth on his way to the trials. There had been many other occasions since then, but this was the last. He was sure this was the last, and he was glad.

  He knew for certain that he was not the golden warrior prophesied in the Scrolls of Sanguinius. He wondered, in an idle, unconcerned way, who the prim
arch had meant.

  For the last hundred years, he had kept himself going with the idea that it was he Sanguinius spoke of, and that he had one final important duty to fulfil. Now it turned out not to be true. How deluded he had been.

  His blood soaked into the sands of Baal. Dante laughed.

  Darkness rushed at him.

  He welcomed it with open arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Great Angel

  Dante lost consciousness. The way he jerked awake, breath sharp in his lungs, suggested that his hearts had stopped beating for a time.

  That was the most likely explanation for the lambency which replaced the dark. He was cocooned in the false warmth of death. The pain had gone from his chest.

  A glorious armoured warrior stood over him. His helm was fashioned in Sanguinius’ image, the same face Dante himself had worn these long years. Five months earlier after Cryptus, Dante had looked into that mask and felt shame. He felt that shame no longer.

  The Sanguinor had come to him at the end of his service.

  ‘You came,’ he said. His throat was dry, his lips numb. The beautiful voice that had inspired millions was a harsh whisper. ‘You came after all.’

  The Sanguinor kept its silence, but stood back and flung an arm wide to indicate a greater presence behind it.

  Dante’s breath caught in his chest. Once again, he saw the face of Sanguinius, but this was no metal representation. The face was of flesh, the wings that spread either side of his body were white feathers, not cold sculpture. His body was as real as his sorrow. He shone like a desert sun in the full glory of noon, a bringer of light dangerous in its incandescent power.

  ‘My son,’ Sanguinius said. ‘My greatest son.’

  The primarch reached out to him. Dante was on his back, but at the same time it was as if he floated in an immense void, and Sanguinius hovered in front of him. And yet, when the primarch cried, his tears fell forward onto Dante’s face. All reality’s order was disturbed, but this felt like no dream or vision. When Sanguinius’ glowing fingers traced the line of Dante’s cheek, they were solid and warm, and they brought into him a sense of peace and holy joy.

  ‘You have suffered greatly for mankind’s sake,’ said Sanguinius. His voice was beautiful. ‘You have won your rest a thousand times. Rarely has one man given so much, Luis of Baal Secundus. You have been a light in dark times. I would give you any reward. I would take you to my side. I would free you from strife. I would release you from pain.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Dante. ‘Please. I have served so long. Grant me the freedom of death.’

  Sanguinius gave Dante a look of profound sorrow.

  ‘I cannot. I regret that I can do none of those things. I need you, Dante. Your suffering is not done.’

  Sanguinius gripped Dante’s face in both hands. Strength flowed from the primarch, driving out death’s comfort and replacing it with pain. The scene rippled. He heard the shouts of Space Marines, felt the ghostly touch of living hands upon his armour. Sanguinius faded.

  ‘Please, no!’ Dante cried out. ‘My lord, I have done enough. Please! Let me rest!’

  The light was dying; Sanguinius’ smile carried with it the sorrows of ten thousand years. Darkness was returning. The Great Angel disappeared into it, but his glorious voice lingered a moment.

  ‘I am sorry, my son, that you cannot rest. Not yet. Live, my son. Live.’

  Dante returned to life screaming for the mercy of death.

  Hands were all over Dante, holding him down. Sharp pains intruded via his neural shunts.

  ‘No, no, no! No more! Take me with you! I beg you!’ Dante shouted.

  He lashed out with his fist. Metal hit metal.

  ‘Hold him! Hold him down! He is coming round!’

  Dante’s vision focused with stubborn slowness, resisting his attempts to see. A Sanguinary priest leaned over him, framed against a predawn sky. It was not the pristine heavens of his vision, but nor was it the domain of war. The bio-vessels of the hive fleet were gone. In their place were thousands of lights, picking out the shapes of hundreds of Imperial ships at low anchor. He had no time to process this sight. His mind buzzed with pain and stimulants. The priest had his right hand pressed hard against Dante’s chest. Clear lines ran from his narthecium into the hole in Dante’s battleplate, conveying blood and drugs directly into his primary heart. The blade had gone from his body, but the wound was wide open; he could feel the wetness of his exposed organs chilling in the cold of Baal’s night.

  ‘For the love of the Great Angel! Hold him down!’ shouted the priest.

  A face loomed over his. ‘Dante! Commander! It is I, Captain Karlaen. Calm yourself, please, my lord. You are gravely wounded – let Albinus do his work.’

  Dante steeled himself against the agony enough to stop thrashing. ‘K-Karlaen?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the captain. He wore power armour instead of his customary Terminator plate, and his usual dourness was replaced by happiness. Tears ran freely down his bare face. ‘We found you. We have found you!’

  ‘Good, good!’ said Albinus to someone at Dante’s side. ‘That is right! Hold them there. I have repaired the damage to his secondary heart and almost have the wound closed. I have it stapled, but it is too deep for it to shut itself quickly. It requires a little help.’ A plasma spike jetted from Albinus’ narthecium. ‘My apologies, Lord Dante. Your battleplate pharmacopoeia is inactive, so this may sting.’

  In the manner of doctors throughout history, Albinus played down the hurt. Dante roared with pain as Albinus cauterised Dante’s wound.

  ‘Steady, steady!’ Albinus said. His brow knitted with concentration, he played the plasma torch along Dante’s chest, liquefying the skin, making it run together. ‘Nearly there!’

  Dante bucked involuntarily. His secondary heart restarted to pound alongside his first. His gifts flooded his system with synthetic chemicals but they could not staunch the pain without the help of his pharmacopoeia.

  The jet shut off. Albinus sprayed a cooling, healing mist over his wound. The pain receded, leaving a hot throbbing.

  ‘That hurt,’ gasped Dante.

  ‘Will he live?’ asked Karlaen.

  ‘He will live,’ said Albinus. He got up. His white and red armour was covered in blood, much of it Dante’s.

  ‘Can he stand?’ asked Karlaen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dante.

  ‘No,’ said Albinus at the same time.

  Dante ignored him, gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself upright to discover the world had new surprises for him.

  Firstly, the body of the giant hive tyrant was being enthusiastically sawn up by a clade of Magos Biologans. Secondly, strange Space Marines stood guard over them.

  They wore red and gold, and all the colours and trappings of the Blood Angels themselves. Save in one regard their livery was identical – a pale grey chevron cut through the Chapter emblem upon their left pauldron. They were unusually large, being taller and broader than normal Adeptus Astartes, and their armour and weaponry, though of Imperial make, were of unfamiliar patterns.

  ‘My lord, you should rest. Wait for a bier. We will take you to the command centre,’ said Albinus. ‘Lie down. Rest.’

  Dante shook his head. ‘Karlaen, how do you come to be here? Who are these warriors?’ He peered closely at his First Captain. ‘And you? You have aged! What is going on? What is the news from Cadia?’

  Albinus thrust a canteen of water at Dante. The commander accepted it and drained it. His thirst was great.

  ‘The answers to these questions are not easy to give. It is best you see, my lord. As for these others, they are like us, yet not like us,’ said Karlaen. He smiled broadly, the look of a man privy to a profound, joyous, metaphysical truth. ‘They are a new breed. The saviours of the Imperium.’

  ‘These in
our colours are not the only ones,’ said Albinus. ‘There are others, of differing gene lines.’

  ‘Differing gene lines? What do you mean?’

  One of the strange warriors came forward. He wore codex standard sergeant’s insignia. In every superficial way he was a Blood Angel. He removed his helmet, and Dante found himself looking upon the familiar countenance of a man reworked by Sanguinius’ gene-seed. ‘We are the Unnumbered Sons of Sanguinius, my lord Dante,’ said one. ‘We are Primaris Space Marines, and we have come to your aid.’

  ‘Primaris Space Marines? Where have you come from?’ Dante’s bewilderment overcame his injuries. ‘Whose is that fleet?’

  The sergeant looked to Karlaen. ‘Captain, might I? I could perhaps explain.’

  ‘Wait, Anthus,’ said Karlaen. ‘I said it is best you see, lord commander. It is a wonder words cannot express. We will take you there, to see him. Can you walk?’

  Dante gave Albinus a defiant look. ‘Yes.’

  Albinus gave a resigned look. ‘Very well. Someone bring him a backpack. Let his armour aid him, as best it can.’

  Karlaen helped Dante to his feet. An intact reactor unit was retrieved from a corpse and fastened to Dante’s armour. Power surged back into it, and the alarms began to toll again. He silenced them.

  ‘This way, my lord Dante,’ said Sergeant Anthus. ‘Our lord awaits you.’

  They led Dante gently by the arm. He limped, his broken armour grinding upon itself. Blood leaked from his wounds, but he would not allow any to help him, and they went slowly because of it. The sky continued to clear, so little of the warp storm’s writhings remained. Morning was coming in the pink and blue of Baal’s natural hues. Imperial fighters roared through the dawn. Guns pounded far away, Imperial artillery, not the shrieking horrors of the hive fleet, yet it was all dreamy sounding, quiet as harvesting machinery in the summer distances of an agriworld. The incessant chittering and screeching of the tyranids had gone, as had the immense, mind-flaying pressure of its psychic presence. Instead of a sea of monsters, Dante saw Legions of the tall, unfamiliar Space Marines, many in the colours of his own Chapter. The Sons of Sanguinius, Karlaen called them. Dante’s thinking was confused, the thirst still nipped at his heels and his brain was starved by lack of blood. When he looked to his side to see the person helping him he saw Albinus sometimes, but at other times he saw the Sanguinor, and once his own, long-forgotten father, his amber eyes perfect in a rad-ravaged face. Dante had those eyes himself, the sole reminder that he was another man’s son besides the Great Angel’s.