Variel’s grunt was patently noncommittal. ‘I sense you bring news, master.’
‘I do. And it is tied to your wastrel ways.’ The edge of a lecture dwelled within those words, Variel knew. ‘Our lord desires gene-seed. A great genetic harvest, to swell our ranks with fresh blood. He will commit to the siege soon – a battle two years in the making. He bids all of his fleshsmiths to be ready.’
Variel shook his head. ‘I find it difficult to believe Lord Huron would truly commit to this undertaking. He would not spend the Corsairs so frivolously.’ He gestured at the fleet of cruisers drifting around the station. Many bore the black and red armour of the Tyrant’s Own, while others displayed the hues of allegiance to other disgraced Adeptus Astartes Chapters. By far the greatest number were Imperial Navy vessels, their hulls desecrated and branded with the Pantheon Star. ‘Lord Huron’s forces could break the back of any armada in the Holy Fleet,’ Variel added, ‘but this is not enough to lay siege to a fortress-monastery. We would be obliterated the moment we entered orbit. Imagine, master – all these beautiful ships becoming burning hulks, screaming down through the atmosphere.’ Variel snorted without an iota of amusement. ‘Such a graveyard they would make.’
‘You are not a general, my boy. You are a bone-cutter, a flesh-crafter. When the lord desires your perception of his crusades, I am sure he will ask for it.’ Garreon’s sneer pulled tighter. ‘But do not hold your breath in expectation for that day to ever come.’
Variel inclined his head, meeting his master’s eyes at last. ‘Forgive me. My humours are in flux today. What do you require of me, master?’
Garreon forgave his apprentice with a wave of dismissal, casting the topic from his mind. ‘Lord Huron has not summoned us, but we will go to him before he does.’
Variel knew the purpose even before he asked. ‘He suffers?’
‘He always suffers.’ Garreon licked his lips again. ‘You know that as well as I. But come, let us ease it again for a time, if we are able.’
Lufgt Huron sat in his ornate throne, armoured fists clutching at the armrests. The great Gothic chamber stood empty but for the Tyrant himself; all of his courtiers, attendants, bodyguards and beseechers sent away while his Apothecaries worked their trade. Variel had seen the expansive hall play host to hundreds of warriors at any given time, despite the fact that this deep-void station was far from the Tyrant’s largest or most opulent bastion. Now, the vast chamber echoed with the sounds of Huron’s ragged breathing and the tri-hum of the three renegades’ war plate.
‘Garrlllmmmnnnuh...’ the Tyrant drooled. ‘Garrelllmmnuh.’
‘Hush, Great One,’ the Apothecary Lord replied, knuckle-deep in Huron’s skull. ‘I can correct the synapse relays,’ he sighed. ‘Again.’
Variel crouched by the side of the iron throne, his scalpel and micro-forceps picking at the Tyrant’s throat. With each crackling breath, the reinforced hydraulics that mimicked Huron’s neck muscles clicked and clanked. What little flesh remained was atrophied and almost nerveless, lumpy with scar tissue too degraded to bond with synthetic skin. The Tyrant had long ago endured injury to the very edge of destruction, and the mechanical repairs that kept him alive were crude, hideous, loud... but ultimately functional.
They were, however, temperamental.
Variel’s memory, like most of the humans elevated into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes, was as close to eidetic as mortality would allow. By his reckoning, this was the seventy-eighth instance he had been summoned to tend to his liege lord’s augmetics, not including the initial surgeries performed with Garreon and two Techmarines in order to save the Tyrant’s life.
Those first instances had been closer to engineering than surgery. A third of Huron’s body was reduced to molten meat and burned bone, and in cutting away the ravaged flesh, a great deal more of his mortal frame had to be sacrificed to prepare attachment ports for extensive bionics. The right side of his body no longer existed beyond the clanking grind of Machine Cult ingenuity – all fibre-bundle muscles, piston joints and metal bones fused to the warrior’s armour.
Variel had seen the bio-auspex readings at the time, just as he’d seen them each time since. The degree of pain registered within Huron’s mind was far beyond the realms of human tolerance. Each time Lord Garreon or the Flayer burned out the synaptic relays, dulling their master’s perception of his own agony, it would only be a matter of months before his enhanced physiology compensated for the damage, repairing the nerves enough to transmit pain again. Short of invasive lobotomising surgery that would risk what little brain tissue remained, there was nothing his healers could do to offer a permanent solution.
So he endured. He endured, and he suffered, and he channelled the torment into his piratical ambitions.
The Tyrant’s throat and chest were bare now, his breastplate pulled away to reveal internal organs that bore closer resemblance to the filthy, oily innards of an engine than the organs of a human being. What was left of Huron’s face – the grey, dead-fleshed parts that weren’t given over to exposed bionics – twitched in response to unintentional tics as Garreon worked inside his lord’s brain.
Huron hissed in a breath, recapturing some of the saliva trickling over his lips. ‘Better,’ he growled. ‘Better, Garreon.’
Variel used a steel scalpel to peel back a layer of nerveless skin from where it was caught and mangled in the iron workings of the Tyrant’s throat bionics. With patience and flesh-sealant, he reworked the flap of flesh, bonding it back in place. His eyes flicked upward, locking in place when he saw Huron’s own gaze had dropped to meet his. The Tyrant’s eyes blazed with the force of his ambition: each moment was lived in the path of pain, and every day saw him lording over an empire in the heart of madness.
‘Variel.’ The lord’s voice was a bass rumble. ‘I heard K-Kallas Yurlon died on your t-table today.’ The spasms in his speech came with each probe of Garreon’s scalpel.
‘This is so, my lord.’
Huron bared his teeth in a savage smile. Variel stared back, seeing a warrior that should have died long ago – a creature held together as much by hate as by augmetic implantation. In any other living being, he’d have considered such a notion an idiotic attempt to forge a legend through hyperbole. But Lufgt Huron, the Tyrant of Badab, known by the names Blackheart and the Blood Reaver, needed little assistance in turning his deeds into legend. The empire he ruled assured him of infamy; his conquests assured him of his place in history; and biologically speaking, the Flayer struggled to see how the Tyrant maintained a grip on life, let alone still displayed such prowess in battle.
The answer was as unpalatable as it was mythical: the Astral Claws only survived to become the Red Corsairs because Huron sold their souls to hidden masters within the warp. At the Chapter’s darkest hour, he pledged them to the Unknown Pantheon, swearing them to an eternal crusade against the Imperium they’d once served.
After the Chapter’s remnants fled here to the Maelstrom, mutation and instability began to settle into their gene-seed with corrosive rapidity. Variel had studied the changes, as had Lord Garreon and the other remaining Apothecaries. In mere centuries, many of the Red Corsairs were as victimised by genetic disorder as the Traitor Legions dwelling within the Eye of Terror for millennia.
Such a pact, Variel thought now. Survival, at the price of corruption.
‘Kallas was close to taking the champion’s mantle. You could have saved him, Variel.’
The Flayer didn’t waste time asking how Huron knew the truth. ‘Perhaps, my lord. I will not lie and say I liked him, but I did my duty. I weighed his life against the other work facing me. Keeping Kallas alive would have necessitated several hours of difficult surgery, ensuring the deaths of other warriors awaiting urgent treatment.’
The Tyrant shuddered as Garreon resealed his skull plating. ‘I thank you, both of you. You’ve done well, as always.’
Both Apothecaries removed themselves from the dais as Huron rose to his feet. Ornate powe
r armour thrummed and whirred, and the warrior breathed a satisfied sigh. The massive power claw serving as the Tyrant’s right hand closed and opened, the talons curling in the cold air of the chamber. In the weapon’s palm, Variel took note of the Pantheon Star carved into the crimson ceramite. It drew his eyes as it always did.
‘I was informed, three hours ago, that we have uninvited guests in the northern reaches.’ Distant light from the local sun reflected off the visible chrome portions of Huron’s skull as he turned. ‘A Legion ship. As tempting as it was to order one of our fleets to leave them as wreckage, I foresee a greater use for these visitors.’
Lord Garreon’s sneer never wavered. Variel remained silent, wondering why the Tyrant chose to speak of such things before them both.
‘It seems,’ Huron bared teeth of solid metal, ‘that they request sanctuary and succour. A long transcription of repairs and resupply accompanied their request to enter our space. They will reach us within two weeks, whereupon we shall discuss the price of our assistance.’
‘You seem amused, my lord,’ Variel said at last. ‘But I am at a loss to see why.’
Huron chuckled, saliva stringing between his steel teeth. ‘Because it is the Covenant of Blood. And if the Exalted and his prophet intend to leave Hell’s Iris alive, let alone with their precious warship repaired, they have a great deal of bootlicking to do.’
XI
THE MAELSTROM
The Covenant of Blood drifted through the roiling void, no longer buffeted by the tides of the true warp, yet still shivering in the weaker currents of...
Well. Of whatever this place was. Octavia wasn’t sure. She reached up to check her bandana, as if to reassure herself it was still there, still blocking her secret sight.
As the daughter of a Navigator bloodline, she was hardly unfamiliar with the way the Sea of Souls spilled over into the material universe. Rifts in space were rare, but each was an ugly, dangerous scab – a tormenting hazard to stellar navigation, avoided by every Navigator with a desire to keep their sanity intact and their ship in one piece. It was the warp and natural space amalgamated in defiance of physical laws: a thinner breed of the former; a haunted, twisted reflection of the latter.
They’d already sailed past several worlds, through the heart of three systems. On one of the worlds, the oceans had boiled, visible even from orbit. Unnatural storms plagued the planet’s face, raining piss, acid and blood onto the continents below.
Space itself was corrupted. She watched the bank of screens before her, seeing a thousand shades of violet and red pressing against the external lenses. The mess outside the hull clashed and swirled with the repellent properties of oil and water, always colliding, bonding without mixing. Her staring eyes interpreted the colourful dance as a liquid mist, thick enough to make the ship shudder, thin enough to show the stars beyond.
If she stared long enough, she could make out the suggestions of faces and fingers in the ooze, screaming, reaching, dissolving. Some seemed to taunt her with their maddening familiarity. She swore she saw Kartan Syne at one point – the last captain she’d served. And more than once, the rippling tides resolved into the face of her oldest brother, Lannic, dead these last six years after his trader vessel was warp-lost on the Eastern Fringe.
‘Why do you watch, mistress?’ one of her attendants asked. She glanced at the wretch, who was unhealthily tall and sexless in its overcloak, keeping its face behind stained bandages. Several others lurked close to the door, whispering amongst themselves. It was impossible not to smell their sweat, their stinking, bloodstained bandages, and the rancid oil-blood of their bionics.
‘Because,’ she said, ‘it’s like the warp, but... I can see it with my human eyes.’ How to explain the difference to one not born to a Navigator bloodline? Impossible.
One of her attendants trudged closer. ‘Mistress,’ the hunched figure said.
‘Hello, Hound. Could you get rid of the others?’ She didn’t say it was because of the smell – Hound didn’t exactly come across as a floral garden himself, and she couldn’t recall the last time she had a chance to bathe, either.
As Hound shooed the other attendants from her chamber, Octavia stared back at the screens. The ship was passing a cloudless planet that looked to be made of rusted iron. Whatever its true form, the Maelstrom had warped the world into a visage of grinding continental plates formed from scrap. Octavia stared at the great canyons carved into the planet’s face, wondering what it would be like to walk on such a world.
‘Corshia sey,’ a female voice said behind her.
She was out of the throne in a heartbeat, spinning and drawing her pistol, aiming at–
‘Now that’s a curious welcome,’ said Septimus. He rested his hands at his gun belt, thumbs hooked into the leather strap. ‘Have I annoyed you in some unforeseen way?’
‘How long have you been standing there?’ Octavia narrowed her eyes. ‘When did you come in?’
‘Hound let me in a moment ago. He’s outside with Maruc and the rest of your nishallitha coterie.’
Now that word she did know. Nishallitha. Poisonous.
Septimus came closer, and she let him pluck the gun from her hands. This close, he smelled of fresh sweat and the coppery oils he used to maintain First Claw’s weapons. After placing her gun on the seat of her throne, he took her hands in his own, the beaten fingerless leather gloves wrapping her grubby, pale fingers.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Your hands are very cold.’
He was a head taller than her. She had to look up to meet his eyes, and the fall of his hair covered most of the chromed augmetics at his cheek and temple.
‘This whole ship is cold,’ she replied. It was difficult not to be aware of just how close he was now. She’d not been this close to another person in months – not since Talos had carried her from the prison facility. And that had been a cold salvation, relief permeating her more than any real comfort. This was human contact, the close warmth of a real person, not a towering fanatic in growling armour plating, or a hunched mutant with his eyes sewn shut.
‘What is it?’ he asked. The traces of blond stubble marked his jawline, where he’d not shaved in the last two days. Worry stained his features. She thought it again, despite herself: he’d be handsome, if he wasn’t a heretic – if the darkness of this ship didn’t run in his blood.
‘I’m not used to being touched.’ She tilted her head, little realising how imperious she suddenly looked. Her breeding as a noble scion of Terra wasn’t as far behind her as she believed.
He released her hands, though not immediately. Slowly, his fingers unlocked from trapping hers, and the warmth he brought receded.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, I forget your unique upbringing.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I put up with you,’ she smiled. ‘What did you say when you came in?’
It broke the moment. Septimus narrowed his good eye, and the augmetic lens clicked and whirred as it struggled to mirror the movement. ‘I didn’t say anything. I entered and merely watched. You looked peaceful for once. I hesitated to disturb you.’
‘Corshia sey.’ She said it softly. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means to beware,’ said Septimus. ‘Or, more literally, it is a slang threat from the Legion’s home world. A warning given to those soon to die: “Breathe now”. The implication is simple: breathe while you still can.’
‘Yes, I got that.’ She faked a smile. ‘Charming culture.’
Septimus shrugged, his jacket rustling. ‘Nostraman gutter threats. The lords speak them often. Did you hear it from one of the crew?’
‘Stop worrying,’ she shook her head, giving him her best, most convincingly irritated glare. ‘And get your hands off your guns. I’m not a child, needing to be defended on the scholam playground every time you hear someone calling me a name.’
He looked away, suddenly awkward. ‘I did not mean to imply anything.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said,
her tone suggesting quite the opposite. ‘Just forget it.’
‘As you wish.’ He offered her a polite bow. ‘I sense you wish to be alone, so I will comply.’
‘Wait.’
He halted, and she cleared her throat. ‘I mean, wait a moment. Did you want something? You don’t come here much, any more.’ She tried to keep the last comment casual, purging it of anything beyond neutrality.
She wasn’t entirely successful. She saw it in the way he looked at her. ‘The Exalted ordered your isolation,’ he said. ‘And I have been attending to my own duties. Maruc needed training. We had five suits of ceramite war plate to restore, as well as First Claw’s weapons.’
Octavia brushed his excuses away. ‘So did you want something?’
He frowned. ‘Forgive me, I am not sure I understand why you are so terse tonight. I wished to see you, nothing more.’ He reached a hand into his jacket pocket, leaving it in there. After an awkward moment, he asked, ‘How are you feeling?’
So it was going to be like that. Typical. The very last thing she needed. ‘Can you just relax, please? For once? I’m not sure I can deal with your formal manners tonight, Septimus. I need a friend, not another handler. Choose which one you are, please, and stick to it.’
His jaw tightened, and she felt a guilty thrill of victory. She’d struck a mark there.
‘It’s not formality,’ he replied. ‘It’s called respect.’
‘Whatever it is, I prefer it when you leave it at the door.’ She forced a smile, retying her ponytail. ‘Have you looked out the window recently? Metaphorically speaking.’
‘I try not to. You should probably do the same.’ Instead of elaborating, he walked around her chamber, stepping over clothing and screwed up balls of paper from her many failed attempts to keep a journal. ‘When was the last time you cleaned this chamber? Yet again, it appears you lost a fight with a storm in here.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘By the standards of the slave holds, yes, it’s quite the princess’s palace.’ He drew his hand from his pocket and tossed something to her. ‘For you.’
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