by Nick Kyme
‘Out,’ the other Salamander said, flatly.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, Leo. You’ll kill him if you stay in this room. I can see it in your eyes.’
Leodrakk’s eyes were burning with the heat of a firestorm. His knuckles cracked and for a few seconds he stood his ground before capitulating.
‘Apologies, captain. I forget myself.’
‘Yes, you do, Leo. Now leave us.’
Leodrakk did as ordered, prompting Domadus to guard the door behind him.
After watching his brother go, the other Salamander crouched down at Sebaton’s eye level.
‘You seem a little more civilised than your companions,’ said Sebaton without a trace of belief.
‘I am not,’ the other Salamander assured him. His voice was deep, cultured. It shared some commonalities with Leodrakk but possessed the authority of true command. ‘As you can see,’ he gestured to his visage, ‘I am a monster. Much worse than Leodrakk. He is more temperate than I.’
‘What about your psyker?’ Sebaton nodded to the Raven Guard, who had folded his arms and taken to watching quietly from a distance. Sebaton still detected some latent psychic activity, like a mental polygraph gauging his every response.
The Salamander looked askance at the other legionary.
‘No, his manners are worse than my own. Given his own way, you’d be dribbling the last dregs of your sanity into your lap right about now.’
‘I would prefer to avoid that.’
‘That’s up to you. We are now being hunted, just like you are. Our time here is finite before we’re discovered. Our enemy’s scouts have already tripped the first of our alarms. So, you can appreciate I would prefer this to be concluded quickly. My name is Artellus Numeon, and I lead this group. The lives of the men in it are my responsibility, which is why Leodrakk would not have killed you without my say so. It’s also why Hriak hasn’t cored out your head like a piece of fruit. I, however, answer to no one in this place and I will kill you in the next four seconds unless you give me a reason not to.’
Sebaton’s head still hurt from the psychic probe and between this maniac and the psyker preparing to eviscerate him mentally, he was running short of options.
Just like Nurth all over again. Stepping out of that airlock, he’d thought that was an end to it but they brought him back. Again. To do this.
I am a spy, not an assassin. And as for the mission… Well, that would require something incredibly special.
Sebaton knew he really had no choice. Trust this Numeon, or die here. But then would that really be so bad? Even if he did, would that really be an end to it? He suspected not.
‘We were excavating, that much is true. We found something. An artefact. It’s very old, very powerful, and your enemies want it.’
Numeon exchanged a glance with the others.
‘What kind of artefact?’
‘A weapon. Like a spear.’
‘Like a spear?’
‘To call it thusly would be overly prosaic, but it’s the closest word I can think of that still accurately describes it. It’s smaller, more like a spearhead with a short shaft.’ Sebaton indicated the approximate size with his hands.
‘Why were you looking for it? What is so important about this spear that the Word Bearers sent hunters after you to get it?’
Sebaton sighed. ‘May I at least sit down?’
Numeon backed off and nodded to the chair.
‘Before I tell you,’ said Sebaton, once he was seated, ‘there is something else you should know first. My name isn’t Caeren Sebaton. It’s John Grammaticus.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shattered
‘When brother fights brother, it is called rivalry. When brother kills brother, it is called succession.’
– Valdrekk Elias
Eighteen dead bodies cluttered the street below.
Fifteen of those bodies were Traoran, and were wearing black and red robes over their urban attire. Narek barely noticed them, but the three warriors clad in power armour that joined the cultists in death sent a tremor of consternation across his jawline.
The quiet hunt was over. Despite Narek’s misgivings, Elias had gathered his dogs from sects around the city and unleashed them without thought or knowledge of what fate he had consigned them to. Cultists were everywhere within Ranos. They had paved the way for the Legion’s arrival, softened the prey before the kill. It was a task well suited to their limited talents.
Against legionaries, however, they had come up drastically short.
One of the humans had tripped a hidden wire alarm, unleashing a chain of explosives embedded in the road. Flash bangs went off simultaneously, filling the narrow street that was crowded by buildings either side with light and smoke. A secondary group of incendiaries went live three seconds later, front and back of the patrol, effectively bracketing them into a kill box. In the last short minute that remained of their lives, the cultists panicked and the legionaries fell back on training, forming a defensive perimeter in the middle of the street. The saboteurs had factored this reaction into their trap as a pair of auto-slaved sentries cycled up.
Muzzle flash had cut into the smoke as heavy fire chugged relentlessly from the pair of Tarantula mounts secreted at either end of the street. The concealment of the guns was effective, as was the entire trap. Even Narek hadn’t seen the wire or the sentries and wondered privately if he was actually losing his edge.
Disorientated, some of their dead already lying broken before them, the cultists were ripped apart in seconds. Narek’s brothers didn’t last much longer. Power armour was staunch protection but even it couldn’t hold up against enfilading fire at close range from a pair of autocannons.
The end result was bloody and quick.
Narek and Dagon survived by virtue of the fact that they were above the metal storm, maintaining overwatch from a rooftop. Narek had been about to make contact with his brothers when the trap was sprung and death was unleashed.
As he looked down on the carnage, Narek scowled.
‘Beliah, Zephial, Namaah, all dead. Haruk also. Tell me, brother,’ he said, turning to Dagon, who had just returned from street level, ‘who must I kill to avenge them?’
‘The trap was good,’ Dagon replied. ‘Very good. Even on the ground, I would have had difficulty seeing the wire.’
‘Frag-belt?’ asked Narek.
Dagon nodded. ‘And some heavier explosives too. Armour-breaking.’
That would be the secondary burst they had seen and felt from the rooftop.
‘Naturally. And the sentry guns?’
The two tripod-mounted Tarantulas were spewing smoke. Tiny sparks erupted sporadically around the gimbal joint that linked the tripod mount to the gun stock. Narek had disabled them, but not before they had shredded Beliah, Zephial and Namaah.
‘Slaved to an automatic firing routine, based on motion detection,’ said Dagon.
‘So they had no intention of staying to watch the bloodshed.’
‘No, but I found this.’
In Dagon’s open palm was a small metallic device. It was disc-shaped and a red light in its centre winked rapidly.
A sensor.
Narek took it, examining the device in his hand.
‘They might be few but they are certainly well equipped.’ He glanced back down at the street. ‘And have a talent for disruption.’
‘Saboteurs?’ Dagon asked.
‘Definitely. The broken Legions have turned to guerrilla tactics to prosecute their war.’
‘They might just be a vanguard. How can you be certain?’
Narek’s eyes returned to regard the sensor.
‘Because it’s what I’d do.’ He paused, turning the sensor disc over in his hand as if scrutinising it would reveal his enemy’s secrets. Narek surveyed the urban skyline, payi
ng close attention to the nearest buildings.
‘What is it?’ asked Dagon.
Narek’s gaze lingered on the shadow of a cooling tower in the distance.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Watch the street, I have to tell Elias what we’ve found.’
Dagon nodded and headed back down.
When he was alone again, Narek activated the warp-flask. After a few seconds, Elias’s warp-form materialised. He was cleansing his ritual knife, preparing it for the next kill.
‘You interrupt me with good news, I hope. Sacrificing an entire city is painstaking and I have a lot of work to do yet before we’re done.’
‘Your reinforcements are all dead.’
‘A little profligate, don’t you think? Those were the only warriors close to your location.’
‘It wasn’t my decision to send them.’
Elias’s tone grew suddenly barbed. ‘Remember who you’re talking to, Narek.’
A vein in the hunter’s neck throbbed but he held back his anger.
‘You are my master, Dark Apostle.’
‘I gave you purpose, huntsman. Don’t forget that.’
‘It is a worthy one. I will not.’
‘What of the cults? They should have risen up by now. Use them. The city is in my thrall.’
‘The mortals are dead too.’
Elias looked displeased, but kept his agitation checked.
‘What happened? I thought you were just tracking the human.’
‘We were. But that “someone else” I mentioned decided to get in our way.’ His gaze went back to the cooling tower. ‘One of your worshippers sprung a trap our enemy had laid for us. They’re of the Legions.’
‘You’re certain of it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve seen them?’
‘No, but every sign points to our former cousins. No human kills Beliah, Zephial and Namaah like that. It just doesn’t happen. Not to them. Even I didn’t see the tripwire.’
Elias sneered. ‘You’re losing your edge.’
‘That is possible, I suppose.’
‘There are no Legion forces concentrated in this region of space. It’s precisely why Lord Erebus sent us here. We were supposed to be undisturbed. Who are they?’
‘Remnants, I think. Survivors banded together and performing their own operations.’
‘Dregs from Isstvan?’ Elias sounded nonplussed.
‘I believe so, yes. I want to take a closer look to be sure.’
Elias paused, as if weighing up the import of that.
‘Nothing can prevent what we’re doing here, Narek. The outcome of the war could hinge on the cosmological shift we effect here.’
‘It’s fortunate that I am not empty-handed, then.’
‘You have what they took from the catacombs?’
Narek held it up in his other hand.
‘It’s a spear. At least the tip of one.’
Elias’s eyes seemed to brighten. ‘Sharpen ours, blunt theirs…’
Narek frowned, confused.
‘Bring it to me at the ritual site,’ said Elias. ‘The rest of our brethren are returning with fresh mortals to blood, and I would examine it before they arrive.’
‘What should I do about the Legionary infiltrators? They still have the human we were tracking.’
‘They are of no consequence for the moment. Bring me the weapon, Narek. We will run down these broken wretches later.’ Elias smiled with self-indulgent malice. ‘We will make them wish they had died on the plains of Isstvan with the rest of their kin.’
‘Of course.’ Narek was about to sever their connection when Elias interrupted him.
‘What’s it like?’ he asked.
Narek turned the spear over in his hand. It was short, the spearhead not much larger than a combat knife in terms of its length and width, with a broken shaft that was roughly half that. To look upon it, it was unremarkable, a perfect mineral fossil fashioned into a single spear-like fork. Grey, almost metallically smooth, with a sharp edge. But when Narek held it, he could feel the thrum of power contained within and see the flash of energy coursing continually along its length as the light touched it.
‘Godlike…’
Communion ended and Narek was left alone with his thoughts. It did not anger him that three of his brothers were lying dead in the street below him; to call it anger was too simple a word for his emotional state at that moment. Even the death of Haruk, who he despised personally, required response. It was more like an itch, a sense of something unfinished, an imbalance to redress.
He decided he would not return with the spear straight away. It went against orders, but it was duty that motivated Narek, not the whims of the Dark Apostle. First and foremost, he owed something to his brothers. Besides, he wanted to see the face of his enemy.
Unsheathing his gladius and putting the spear in the empty scabbard, Narek opened a vox-feed to Dagon.
‘I tire of this rooftop, brother.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Beliah, Zephial, Namaah and Haruk are slain. We should honour the dead.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Let’s go hunting.’
Numeon looked unimpressed.
‘Is that name supposed to mean something to me?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Grammaticus. ‘Not to you. But what I am doing here should.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’
‘I think I know why the Word Bearers are here, and why you’re here too.’
Domadus twitched, his hand straying to a bolt pistol holstered next to his right hip before a shake of Numeon’s head stood him down.
‘Keep talking,’ said the Salamander.
‘Are we in danger here?’ Grammaticus asked. ‘Your… friend seemed agitated when he left.’
‘Immense danger, but I told you to keep talking,’ said Numeon. ‘What do you know?’
Grammaticus dragged his attention back, trying not to imagine what could present immense danger to a Space Marine, and said, ‘I think they are defiling this place. I think the Emperor came here long ago, and they are tainting that with their craft.’
Numeon came closer, until Grammaticus could smell the ash on his breath.
‘And what craft is that, John Grammaticus?’
‘Am I right?’
Numeon narrowed his eyes. ‘What craft?’
‘You know of what I speak. You want to stop them, don’t you? You are no longer Legion, that much is obvious from your battered weapons and armour. I doubt there are more than twenty of you. I saw your landers. How many can they carry? Enough for a ground war?’
‘Ninety men at capacity,’ Numeon replied, ‘but their holds were sparsely occupied when we made planetfall, you’re right about that.’
Numeon stooped to grab the scrap of parchment still wedged underneath the chair leg.
‘We are here to disrupt their efforts but have no plans to fight a war.’ He showed Grammaticus the paper. It was a propaganda poster, one denouncing the rule of the Imperium and citing Horus as the true Emperor of the galaxy. ‘Rebellion was festering here long before the Word Bearers came. We must prevent them from tainting it further.’
So Traoris was in the thrall of the enemy. But revolt was very different to willing service to the Primordial Annihilator. Grammaticus imagined secret cults, formed over years of Imperial rule, slowly chipping away at the foundations of society, and their sudden and terrifying rise when Horus defied his father’s will and embraced an old evil.
‘Rebellion is one thing,’ said Numeon. ‘Conversion to the dark power Horus now serves is another. I don’t understand it fully but I have seen some of what it can do. Turn men into monsters, and twist once noble hearts to baser instincts. Every world liberated during the Great Crusade is facing a bat
tle for its soul. Traoris teeters on the brink of an abyss. I am here to ensure it doesn’t fall in.’
‘That seems a difficult aspiration.’
‘And yet, here we are.’
Grammaticus was emphatic. ‘I need that spear.’
‘Even if I wanted to, there’s no going back for it now.’
‘Have you considered that you could serve a greater purpose?’
‘And help you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why, John Grammaticus, would I do that?’
‘Because what I’m doing here concerns your primarch.’
‘What did you just say?’ Numeon’s eyes narrowed.
‘Vulkan.’
The Salamander bunched his fists. ‘I know the name of my primarch. Explain yourself.’
‘The spear I found is not a spear as such. It’s a fulgurite, a fork of lightning crystallised in rock.’
‘I also know what a fulgurite is,’ said Numeon. ‘Tell me now what this has to do with Vulkan.’
Grammaticus licked his lips. ‘Do you believe that your primarch is dead?’
Numeon did not hesitate. Something akin to hope flickered in his eyes. ‘No.’
‘He lives, Numeon. Vulkan lives.’
‘How do you know this? Where is your proof?’
‘You said you believed he was alive.’
Numeon’s patience was ebbing and he snarled, ‘There is a difference between belief and fact. Why would you say this if you have no evidence?’
‘Because it is true, and because I am giving you my word.’
‘Which is worth what?’
Grammaticus held up his hand, as if surrendering.
‘Please. You asked for the truth and I am giving it to you.’
‘You would say anything to save yourself.’
‘True, but I am not lying to you. Have your psyker scry me again if you like – you will see I don’t speak falsely.’
Numeon looked like he was considering that, when he asked, ‘What does this spear have to do with Vulkan?’
‘I honestly don’t know. It is tied to his fate somehow. I was merely tasked with coming here to retrieve it.’
That was a lie; at least part of it was, but Grammaticus knew his masters had given him all he needed to shield his mind.