‘They know we are faster once we reach full speed,’ advised Yesugei. ‘They will not let us pull away. Talk to them.’
Lushan turned on him. ‘And say what?’
Another lance-burst screamed across the void between the two vessels. This time it hit, slamming directly into the Sickle Moon’s engines and making the void shields shriek and crackle.
The frigate bucked wildly, corkscrewing away from the impact. Banks of warning lights, already blinking red from the damage taken in the warp, went into overdrive.
‘Can we get a broadside away?’ demanded Lushan, rocking in his command throne as the bridge decking shook.
‘That will not help,’ observed Yesugei. ‘They outgun us handsomely. I suggest another course of action.’
‘Broadside prepared,’ reported a gun-servitor flatly.
‘Fire at will,’ Lushan ordered it. He looked up at Yesugei. ‘Believe me, if you have something to add, I will take any suggestion.’
More las-bolts and lance beams criss-crossed the void, flickering and dancing in the strange, ruinous silence of inter-ship batteries. The Sickle Moon took another direct hit, making the strained void shields shimmer like oil flung across water.
Yesugei’s eyes narrowed beneath his sloped visor. He could sense something unusual from the vessel, something strange in the collection of psyches locked within its adamantium hull.
‘This will not be solved by lances,’ he said, his mind working to decipher what he had sensed.
More impacts rang out. A spar from one the bridge’s upper galleries came down in a crash of broken steel struts, weakening the dome above them and sending cracks shooting out across the armourglass. A second later and the void shield over the bridge shattered in a rain of sparks. Warning klaxons blared, accompanied by the blood-glow of emergency lighting at floor level.
You are not sure about us yet, thought Yesugei, beginning to understand part of what he had felt. You, too, are uncertain.
‘Teleport loci detected,’ announced Ergil.
Lushan pushed himself to his feet, hefting his bolter. The six other White Scars stationed around the bridge did likewise.
‘No, not this way, commander,’ ordered Yesugei, planting his feet firmly and bracing the heel of his staff on the deck. ‘We need answers – let them come.’
Lushan hesitated for a moment, weapon ready, torn between his psycho-conditioning and a direct order from a Stormseer.
‘Multiple void shield failure,’ came Ergil’s voice again. ‘They are inbound, commander.’
‘As the zadyin arga commands,’ voxed Lushan to his troops, his voice thick with reluctance. Then he looked at Yesugei, as if to say, over to you.
Twelve ozone-bangs radiated blast shocks through the bridge atmosphere, crackling and solidifying into Space Marines in dark power armour. They swung out of their teleport zones and scattered across the deck with their weapons trained.
‘Stand down!’ roared a monstrous voice from a war-helm, deafening in its artificial amplification. ‘Surrender the ship!’
‘Do not be foolish,’ replied Yesugei calmly in Gothic. ‘Please, put weapons away.’
Twelve muzzles immediately locked on to him.
‘Storm-witch!’ shouted one of the boarders.
All twelve weapons opened up in that instant: a drum of bolt shells, followed up by the furnace-rush of a flamer’s discharge.
Yesugei raised his staff, and the projectiles exploded in front of him in a shower of spilled force. For a brief moment he was wreathed in a wall of noise and seething fury, then it ripped away.
‘This is foolish,’ he said, his voice as placid as if he were still alone on the Altak.
The twelve invaders charged toward Yesugei, leaping across balcony-rails and swerving around console stations, firing all the while.
He slammed his staff down and spears of lightning burst along its length, outshining the weapons fire and bathing the bridge in gold. He closed his free fist and the enemy’s boltguns shattered. The flamer exploded with a vast, booming roar.
The bridge swelled with the roll and crack of thunder. Gathering stormwind surged over the gantries, tearing mortals from their feet and sending even the power-armoured legionaries staggering.
One of the invaders managed to get within fist-range, fighting through the swirl of gold-laced gusts. Yesugei gestured with a finger and the Space Marine – tonnes of thick ceramite, muscle and dense mechanics – hurtled away and slammed into the far wall, crunching into the bulkhead stonework.
Another fought his way close, gripping a glowing sword and bracing to swing. Yesugei gave him a tolerant look, as if indulging the enthusiasm of a child, then inclined his head by a fraction.
The sword-bearer’s head snapped back. Spikes of gold lightning cracked into him, knocking the Space Marine to the deck and locking him down.
By then only one of the boarding party remained on his feet – a huge figure in ornate artificer armour carrying a crackling thunder hammer. He pushed his way through the maelstrom, leaning against the swathes of coruscation and making progress towards Yesugei by sheer force of will.
He got within three metres. Then Yesugei turned on him and opened his fist.
More lightning, as vivid and earth-breaking as the storms of Chogoris, snaked into the hammer-wielder’s chest. He flew backwards, crashing through a balustrade and collapsing down into a servitor-pit with his entire body enclosed in spitting, spidery energy.
Yesugei rose into the air, gently floating upwards, buoyed by swirling aether-summoned winds. His cloak snapped and rippled around his armour, his totems and bone-tokens clattering against his breastplate. Tongues of elemental fire licked at him from the deck below.
By now the entire bridge was a picture of destruction – White Scars legionary and enemy alike cowered behind whatever cover they could find, their weapons useless.
Yesugei descended smoothly over the hammer-wielder, dipping like some mythical angel of Terran legend towards the prone figure. The howl of the wind died, shimmering away as suddenly as it had been summoned. The twelve Space Marines of the boarding party remained locked in place, tied down by glowing strands of aetheric energy.
Yesugei stood over his victim.
‘Perhaps you explain colours of your armour,’ he said.
Now that the storm had passed, things were a little clearer. The Space Marine at his feet was no son of Horus: his massive battle-plate was dark green and trimmed with bronze. Sigils of fire ran around his breastplate, curling up to an artfully-designed gorget of iron and ceramite. His voice, even filtered by a gilded vox-grille, was unusually sonorous.
‘If you wish to kill me, witch,’ the Space Marine growled, ‘then do so. I shall not plead for my life.’
Yesugei frowned under his helm. The words troubled him, though not as much as the manner in which they were spoken.
‘Have no intention of killing you,’ he said. ‘If eyes do not deceive, you are Salamander. I know of no quarrel between your Legion and mine.’
A pain-tight laugh broke from the Salamander’s helm. ‘You know of… Are you serious?’
Yesugei looked out across the bridge. Nine of the aether-shackled Space Marines were Salamanders, all of them wearing heavily battle-damaged war-plate. The others looked like Iron Hands – their night-black armour and obvious augmetics gave them away.
Yesugei fell to one knee, lowering his head closer to the Salamander. The aether-webs dissipated, freeing the captives. Lushan’s White Scars edged into the open, their bolters still functional and trained on the newcomers.
‘There is much you do not know, Salamander,’ said Yesugei softly. ‘I sense it before you attack – if you are certain we are enemy, you would destroy us in the void. You risk boarding action. For some reason, you take your vessel from Warmaster’s Legion, and you try to do same to ours. Perhaps you are mad, but I sense nothing but confusion in your mind.’
Yesugei reached up to his own helm, twisting it free and locking
it to his belt. The unfiltered air of the bridge tasted like ashes.
‘I am named Targutai Yesugei,’ he said. ‘That is beginning. Tell me your name, and we make progress.’
A hesitation. The big Salamander breathed noisily through his battered helm, evidently still in pain from the forces that Yesugei had unleashed upon him.
‘Xa’ven,’ he said at last. ‘Captain, Thirty-Fourth Company.’
Yesugei nodded. ‘Good. Listen, Xa’ven – everything I tell you will be truth. Every word. You extend same courtesy to me. We have been blinded, hidden from galaxy. What has happened to you? Why is aether in agony?’
Xa’ven didn’t respond at once. He seemed to be trying to decide just where to start.
‘You know nothing of the Massacre?’ he asked, warily, as if the question were so stupid that he was opening himself to ridicule.
Yesugei extended a hand to him, offering to help him stand.
‘The Massacre?’ he asked. ‘No, we do not. Please, now, tell us everything.’
‘Thoughts, Khagan?’ asked Qin Xa.
The Khan grunted. He had plenty, though few he wished to share.
The Alpha Legion cordon remained intact, its smooth unity broken only by minor adjustments to the twin defensive lines. Every move that the Scars had made had been reflected by Alpha Legion warships in what had become a bizarre game of mirrors.
The Khan stood on the command bridge of the Swordstorm with his keshig around him. His dao felt heavy at his belt.
‘They seem to want us to move first,’ he said.
Qin Xa turned to the viewscreens. Dancing locator-runes reflected in the slanted lenses of his Terminator helm. ‘They are between us and the nearest jump-points, but we can break out if we choose. A zao, enacted at speed, prepared with a limited full-front engagement to draw them in.’
The Khan nodded in agreement. ‘I detect weakness there,’ he said, gesturing to a position two-thirds of the way along the largest Alpha Legion formation. ‘They have attempted to bolster it with bigger ships, but that does not disguise the problem.’
‘It would have to be rapid,’ said Qin Xa. ‘Just as we did on Eilixo.’
The Khan pondered the options. ‘And then what? We break the line, disrupt their patterns, and then what do we do? Destroy them?’
‘Of course.’
‘They have offered no threat.’
‘These are not the actions of a friend, Khagan.’
That could not be denied. Despite that, the Khan still resisted making an order. Mere hours ago, the shape of the reported rebellion within the Imperium had been simple: Russ and his savages defying orders once more. Now it had become complex. Far more complex.
He remembered his last words to Horus on Ullanor. He remembered the Warmaster’s winning smile, the easy manner.
You call, I answer.
Every fibre of him screamed for an alternative. The Warmaster had been wronged, somehow driven to desperate actions that had earned him the censure of jealous brothers. If Horus had indeed been forced to take up arms against Russ, then the Alpha Legion were clearly his allies. Were they waiting, to see if the White Scars would give them some sign? If so, what would that be? Was there a hidden signal, shared by the rest of his brothers but somehow hidden from him? It would not be the first time that such a thing had happened.
His mistress of star-speakers, a bone-thin Chogorian woman named Jian-Tzu, approached.
‘Khagan,’ she said, bowing low.
‘If there is nothing new to report, do not trouble me,’ snapped the Khan, his gaze remaining on the hololiths. ‘I grow weary of rumours.’
The star-speaker did not hesitate; like all her kind, she was used to delivering uncomfortable truths to warrior-kings. ‘I have orders from Lord Dorn.’
The Khan turned to her. ‘And?’
‘I interpreted them myself,’ she replied. ‘The meaning is clear, its origin unambiguous. We are ordered to return to Terra. We are ordered to ignore all other claims to our fealty, in particular those of the Warmaster, who has been declared traitor along with any Legion answering his summons. We are commanded to make the swiftest possible passage to the Throneworld where further instructions and further explanation will be given.’
Qin Xa nodded, satisfied. ‘At last. Something concrete.’
The Khan remained unmoved. ‘When did you get these visions?’
‘Less than an hour ago. More are coming in all the time, and they are of the same nature.’
‘The interference has cleared, then.’
‘It appears so.’
‘Then, my Khagan,’ offered Qin Xa, ‘we have our orders.’
The Khan shook his head. ‘No, we don’t.’
His keshig guard said nothing. They would not have dared.
‘Do you not see what has happened here?’ the Khan said, walking over to the lip of the command balcony and staring coldly up at the real-view blisters, beyond which the XX Legion ships waited. ‘Do you not see why those ships have been hanging there, saying nothing, doing nothing?’
He felt the old stirrings of resentment again, the chill anger of the unregarded son. A price had to be paid for his inclination to freedom, for skirting along the edges of communication. The Scars were always the last to know.
‘They do not want to fight us,’ the Khan said. ‘Nor do they want to join us. They want to cause us doubt. They want to keep us here and to tie us up in questions. And why? Because they know the veil is lifting and that messages are only now getting through the aether.’
He turned back to his lieutenants. Clarity had finally dawned – some welcome certainty in the wake of so much doubt.
‘They are the manipulators,’ he said, his voice growing in strength. ‘They wanted us to hear from Dorn. They kept us here until they could be sure we picked up his message. The Alpha Legion desire us to return to Terra. That is their purpose.’
For a moment, no one responded.
‘Even so,’ said Qin Xa, haltingly. ‘Should we not–’
‘No!’ roared the Khan, long-burning anger suddenly bursting free. ‘I will not take direction from anyone, not even from a Throneworld that only now, now that its Legions are tearing one another to pieces, deigns to remember that it has eighteen warrior-sons at its service.’
He whirled around to face the startled bridge crew, his cloak rippling.
‘You are nobody’s slaves,’ he said, his voice low but firm. ‘You are the ordu of Jaghatai. We take orders from no one. We take no one’s word. We are on our own, just as we have always been, and if there is truth to be found in this, then we will find it for ourselves.’
He turned his gaze on Qin Xa. ‘Give the order,’ he said. ‘Zao, just as we discussed.’
Then he turned back to the void, peaceful for now, but about to be lit up by the unified blaze of starship engines.
‘Take your stations,’ he said grimly. ‘It is time we reminded our brothers just what we are capable of.’
VI
Torghun slipped into the meeting chamber in the bowels of the Starspear, going as quietly as his recently refitted power armour would allow. He had not had time to make the preparations that he would have liked, but the sudden flurry of orders and deployment plans had left no time for anything else.
He activated the lumens, lighting up the only other occupant of the chamber.
‘Torghun Khan,’ said Hibou, bowing.
‘Hibou Khan,’ Torghun replied in the Chogorian manner, closing the door behind him.
‘A strange time to do this, brother,’ said Hibou.
‘Did you know about Russ?’ asked Torghun. ‘Tell me if you did – we should have no secrets.’
‘I did not. We knew it would be something, though, and the Wolf King was as likely as anything else.’
Torghun shook his head. ‘I never would have… I didn’t think it would be them. Something told me it would start with one of the others. Curze, perhaps.’ He drummed his fingers together, trying to still the agi
tation he felt. ‘We should go after them now. I don’t understand the delay.’
Hibou chuckled, tinny through his helm-vox. ‘Look out of the viewports. We have guests.’
‘That worries me. Are they with the Warmaster? Are they with the Wolves? What the hell are they doing?’
‘The Alpha Legion has engaged the Wolves. I do not think the encounter was friendly.’
‘Then we must leave the system!’ blurted Torghun, whirling to face Hibou. ‘This is the moment. Why else were we meeting, if not to force this?’
Hibou reached out, resting a gauntlet on Torghun’s forearm. ‘Calm yourself. Your agitation is unseemly.’
‘Unseemly! This is a delicate time – you do not seem to appreciate quite how delicate.’
‘I appreciate it more than you, I think.’ Hibou’s voice was firm. ‘When the time has come, we will know it. I will be told of it.’
‘How?’ demanded Torghun. ‘How are you getting this information? We do not discuss it in the lodge. You need to be more open with me.’
‘When this is over,’ said Hibou, ‘when we have negotiated this difficulty, I will show you. I have been meaning to in any case. But listen to me – this is not the time. These are the stone-slips that start the avalanche. If we move too soon, the position will be ruined. Tell me, do you love Terra? Do you love the Imperium?’
Torghun could have struck him. ‘You know I do,’ he said, shaking off Hibou’s hand.
‘Then show some discipline.’ Hibou looked at him levelly. ‘For now, we make no move. We follow orders, we coordinate just as we always have done. In the meantime, you could spend some time with more Chogorians – you stick out like an ogryn in a beauty parlour.’
Torghun fought to control his irritation. ‘I was not meant for this Legion,’ he muttered.
‘Horseshit,’ snapped Hibou. ‘You told me the story before, and I said the same then.’ He drew closer, his voice lowering. ‘There is no fate – you are a White Scars legionary. You can accept that and play your part in what is to come, or you can sulk in the margins and accomplish nothing.’
Scars Page 13