Hammer and Bolter 15

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Stay your hand, Brother Djul.’

  There was a tone of command in the young Prognosticator’s voice that brokered no argument. Kerelan nodded but said nothing, allowing Bhehan the moment he needed to take control of the situation.

  ‘The witch is right,’ he said, not elaborating on the fact that his communication with the woman had been mostly private. ‘There is only one way we are going to defeat this thing. The eldar and I have to…’ He swallowed, the words struggling to leave his lips. ‘We have to combine our powers. We have to work together.’

  ‘What you say is dangerously close to heresy, brother.’ Djul’s face was hidden behind the skull-faced Terminator helm, but Bhehan could easily picture his wild-eyed fury.

  ‘What I say is what I see,’ he retorted. ‘Do not believe for one second that I am in favour of this course of action, of forming this unwelcome alliance. But if I do not, then the rest of us are dead.’

  ‘Better death than cooperation with the xenos…’

  ‘Brother Djul, I agree with you. But this is the sacred home of our ancestors. Or have you so soon forgotten? We do not fight to save ourselves. We fight to preserve what we were. What we are.’

  ‘The Prognosticator speaks wise words, Djul. I do not agree to this pact at all, but the boy is right. Stay your hand. Concentrate your weapons on that… thing. Do not fire upon the eldar.’

  Every member of the squad picked up his mental addition.

  Yet.

  ‘The guilt and blame for this action will be mine to bear, brothers,’ said Bhehan and he moved towards the eldar woman.

  ‘Bhehan.’

  It was the first time Kerelan had addressed him directly by name rather than rank. He turned to look at the First Captain.

  ‘At the first hint that you are losing control, you oust this creature from your mind.’

  ‘Such a severance could kill me, First Captain.’

  ‘I am aware of that. It is either that or die at my hand afterwards when I believe you to be compromised.’

  The certainty was oddly reassuring. This was the only chance they had of destroying the daemon. If it failed, Kerelan would not allow him to suffer for long. He inclined his head in obeisance to his commander.

  So be it, he told the eldar mentally and the walls of his defences lowered, letting her in.

  Her unwelcome arrival in his mind was like a malignant tumour, its presence spreading to fill what little space he had granted her. Yet it did not feel malevolent. They were sharing their power. She was not stealing it. She had spoken truth. Psychic tendrils curled deeper into his mind, seeking the strength that he bore.

  You are powerful for one so young. Her surprise was insulting.

  Yes. So I am told.

  You must release the power. Our strengths must meld or we will not be strong enough. You must trust me.

  I do what I do because I must, Bhehan responded and his anger flared as a red spot on the landscape of his thoughts. I will never trust you and your kind. Memories of engagements against the eldar rose, unbidden to the surface and Bhehan tried to quell them but it was too late. The farseer’s brow rose.

  Curious. I said before that we are not all the same. These warriors you have battled against are those who Fell. We will talk more of this when the matter at hand is dealt with. Now are you ready, human?

  Bhehan did not respond immediately. Was he ready? Was he ready to commit the atrocity of working with this xenos filth? Was he able to prevent her from doing as she pleased with his mind?

  Trust me, she had said.

  He had blocked out all the ambient sounds in the dark, dank chamber but now it slowly crept back into his awareness. Gunfire was sounding; discarded shells ringing against the stone floor as they were spewed from the heavy weapons that were being discharged. His battle-brothers were holding the enemy at bay, but it would take more than physical damage to deal with the threat. The weight of expectation was heavy and the young Silver Skulls warrior stood straight and bore it with the stoic pragmatism of his ancestors.

  A sudden memory of Brother-Sergeant Igneus, the warrior he had seen in his vision flashed before his eyes and he remembered the ancient hero’s words.

  We will defend our Chapter’s home with our very last breath.

  He released the self-imposed restraint he had placed around his full psychic might and it burst into his psyche like an unstopped river. The farseer gasped at the sudden influx of strength and elsewhere, in the corporeal world, he felt her hand close tightly around his. The touch made his skin crawl, but he tolerated it. For the sake of his brothers. For the honour of the Chapter.

  The two psychic forces duelled briefly for supremacy and finally they joined together. Without ever understanding how he achieved it, Bhehan subsumed the power of the eldar woman into that of his own and she did likewise.

  For the briefest of moments, post-human warrior and eldar farseer were as one. They knew all there was to know about each other. Her memories were coloured with images of a youth and young manhood spent in endless study; of years of unforgiving training in increasingly harsh environments. A youth who had known anything but war. His memories were interspersed with those of the farseer and what he saw would change his perspective forever. He discovered that the Silver Skulls had been incorrect in believing that all eldar were the same. Despite the pressing nature of their situation, curiosity drove him to dig deeper.

  He saw her vision, that which had driven her kind to Lyria. That were this thing allowed to continue its existence, the time would come when the followers of the corpulent god would free it from its prison. That the traitor once known to the Imperium as Typhus would come here, to this holy place and unleash its horror on unsuspecting worlds.

  In return, the farseer saw his vision. She saw the entwined war banners and she saw them fall, burned and ruined. He felt her grief at the sudden understanding of what that meant and he knew no pity.

  Everything happened fleetingly. Their powers burst forth in a rush of white flame that spread like a ripple from where they stood. The corridor funnelled the psychic burst, channelling it directly towards the vile creature. It was bleeding black ichor from countless wounds, its ability to repair itself severely impaired by the sustained fire pouring down upon it and the roaring breath of the heavy flamer. At Kerelan’s order, the Talriktug continued fighting, firing into its gelatinous form. If it was weakening at all, it gave no sign.

  The first wave of energy touched it seconds later and the noise it made was other-worldly. It was not pain; the psychic burst had not apparently hurt its physical body, but something had happened. The formless daemon shifted its massive bulk and turned towards the psykers, its attention taken from the other warriors.

  Again, the farseer said and Bhehan complied without hesitation. He could not afford the risk of doubting her. Not now he was this deeply invested in the outcome.

  Another flare of energy and this time the daemon did scream. So did the farseer. Bhehan felt her body start to crumple and grabbed hold of her shoulder dragging her back upwards.

  Again, he told her in the same way she had spoken to him. One more and we will defeat it.

  I… cannot…

  You must and you will, witch. You will take my power and you will complete what you have started here.

  Her plan was exquisite. The creature was a daemon of death, rot and decay. She was defeating it with life. Too much life. She was taking her own life-force, combining it with the purity of the young Space Marine and she was using their joint powers to amplify it.

  The daemon fed, unable to stop itself. The desperate need to take any sustenance it could from everything that lived or died around it took over and it absorbed the energy into itself. But such purity and faith, amplified at such vast power levels was the antithesis of everything it was.

  Silver Skulls and eldar warriors continued to pound away at the flesh of the thing whilst Bhehan and the farseer burned at its ties to reality. The harder the two psychic beings
pressed their attack, the more damage the weapons of the warriors was doing. Bolter rounds embedded themselves beneath the surface and exploded, spraying an acidic substance across the room. It damaged eldar and Space Marine alike, eating into Djul’s pauldron. But it did not go far. Whatever organisms or whatever warp magic gave it its power seemed to be fading.

  ‘Whatever you are doing is working, Bhehan,’ bellowed Kerelan. ‘Do not stop.’ He was slicing strips of gangrenous flesh away from the daemon as though he carved a beast. His relic blade glistened, coated with the once-lethal substance that had devoured countless men, women, children and xenos across the years. This thing stood on the sacred, holy ground of those who had come before and his fury was unmatched.

  When the daemon finally stopped moving, when all the fight went out of it, Bhehan was surprised. He had anticipated it bursting like an overripe fruit. He had been ready to seek cover to avoid the inevitable rain of acid that would come with its destruction. But instead, it merely wailed as it began to lose size and cohesion. Where once a gelatinous giant had stood, now there was only a quivering lump the size of a Space Marine.

  It continued to diminish, spreading across the chamber floor and littering the ground with splinters of bone and rock. One object stood out as different, unusual; glancing more closely at it, the Prognosticator felt a shock of recognition. The last time he had seen that war banner, it had been worn at the back of the noble Brother-Sergeant Igneus, the warrior he had seen during his earlier flashback.

  And he understood how the plague had come into the fortress-monastery. He realised what the creature they had just destroyed had been. It sickened him almost as much as what he had done to defeat it. One of their own, twisted and distorted into something so…

  Do not linger on what was, came a weary voice in his mind. Instead, give thanks for what is no more. See? It dies, Bhehan.

  The psyker was utterly exhausted and drained by his mental exertions, but it was as to nothing compared to the dying spark of the woman who stood beside him. For the first – and only – time, he felt admiration for her.

  When the creature finally dissolved into nothing more than a lingering smell and a fading death wail, a harsh silence descended. The sounds of gunfire died away, their echoes fading to nothing. The eldar woman fell to her knees, her breath coming in a low rasp.

  She had withdrawn her presence from Bhehan’s mind; he could sense that and it was a welcome relief. He snatched his hand from her, stepping backwards.

  ‘Prognosticator.’ Kerelan’s voice was quiet and filled with concern. ‘Speak to me. Is it over?’

  Bhehan knew that the First Captain was not just referring to the battle with the daemon. He nodded his head. ‘It is done. My mind is my own once more, First Captain.’ He was calm and controlled and Kerelan grunted his satisfaction. The farseer raised her head with obvious effort.

  ‘I want to thank you…’ she began, but Bhehan shook his head.

  ‘I did what I had to do. Do not thank me for exposing my mind to you.’ He unclamped the bolt pistol he wore at his thigh.

  ‘Listen to me, Bhehan,’ she said, reaching a hand up to him. He winced at her use of his name, the insult cutting him deeply. ‘I know what you must do. I always have known how this must end. But you have seen, now. You have seen that we are not all that you believe us to be. That even though there cannot be peace between our two peoples, there can surely come some tolerance.’

  ‘Heed my words, xenos. I have purged your taint from my mind already,’ was the reply. ‘When I return to my ship, I will cleanse my soul of this experience. By the time I return to my home world, you will not even be a memory. I promise you that much.’

  Tears filled her eyes. ‘I had hoped…’ she said, simply and then held her head high. The pride in her expression was worthy of Bhehan’s respect even if it… if she was not.

  ‘In time,’ she said, ‘I hope you remember what you saw here.’

  ‘Do not count on it,’ he replied, pressing the bolt pistol against her head.

  The killing shot echoed loudly through the fallen fortress. Bhehan stared at her fallen, broken body without expression. Reacting to their leader’s death, the few remaining eldar prepared to attack, but despite their bulk, the Terminators were faster. Within seconds, the enemy were destroyed. Not one of the eldar remained alive.

  ‘I would say that this place is now purified,’ rumbled Djul. ‘Let us give thanks for the Emperor’s hand in this.’

  Another litany began and Bhehan joined in wholeheartedly. Kerelan moved towards the war banner and crouched to look at it. ‘That thing destroyed almost everything that remained here,’ he observed. ‘But this artefact held true. It held firm across the ages. A precious relic indeed. Vashiro will be pleased.’ He carefully gathered it up and stood. ‘For eight thousand years, this war banner has stood as a testament to the tenacity of our Chapter. Imagine, brothers. Imagine the heroes who have carried this into war. Imagine what we can learn from it…’

  He glanced at Bhehan. If the Prognosticator let his talent extend to the banner, many of the Chapter’s lost secrets could be divulged. But from the expression on the youth’s face, it was the furthest thing from his mind. Kerelan changed tack.

  ‘Brother Prognosticator, the honour of taking the witch’s head should fall to you in recognition of the part you…’

  ‘First Captain. I put myself in your custody.’ Bhehan raised his head, pride and conflicting guilt warring on his expression.

  ‘What are you talking about, Prognosticator?’

  ‘I allowed myself to become tainted. I am… impure. There will be penance to pay for my heresy and I welcome it gladly. I know my duty.’

  ‘Your duty, Prognosticator…’ Kerelan’s tone changed slightly. ‘Listen to me, Bhehan. Do you sincerely believe that we are all free from guilt? Look around you, boy. This very place is a guilty mark on our entire Chapter’s record. This whole mission, everything that you have done today should teach you that there will come times, during your service to the Golden Throne, when you will be forced to take uncompromising action. The ends in this instance more than justified the means.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘When we return to the ship, commune with the Emperor. Put your future in his hands. Our entire Chapter holds by that tenet. What would it be if our own Prognosticators did not trust to their own readings of fate?’ He reached up and for the first time, removed his helmet. Beneath, his face was fearsome. A full skull had been inked into the skin from chin to forehead and gave him a ghastly appearance. But his eyes held the wisdom of the years.

  ‘Your actions were not questionable,’ he said, laying a hand on the young psyker’s shoulder. ‘You did your duty. Nothing more.’ His face contorted in what Bhehan could only presume was a smile. ‘Now take her head and let us depart with our prize.’

  ‘Aye, First Captain,’ said Bhehan.

  An Extract from Deliverance lost

  Gav Thorpe

  In a darkened chamber close to the strategium of the Vengeful Spirit, a meeting was being held. The room was large, big enough for several dozen occupants to be seated, the light of the single great lantern hanging from the centre of the ceiling barely reaching the banner-hung walls. A few data stations blinked with ruddy lights on the far wall, beneath an embroidered standard depicting the Eye of Horus in gold on burgundy. The floor was plain plasteel mesh, scuffed to a dull grey by the countless footfalls of booted feet.

  As the door closed behind Alpharius, the primarch’s eyes instantly adjusted to the gloom. The space seemed cavernous, occupied by only three others. Alpharius was surprised; he had been expecting several of his brother primarchs to be attending the council. As he stepped forwards he realised that this was not a war council, it was an impromptu interrogation. Perhaps even a trial.

  The thought did not sit comfortably with him as he regarded the chambers’ other occupants with what he hoped was an impassive expression. Alpharius knew that he tested the patience
of the Warmaster, and here at the heart of his lair there was no telling what he might do.

  Horus, Warmaster, Primarch of the Luna Wolves – the Sons of Horus, Alpharius corrected himself – sat on a broad, high-backed throne, robed in heavy black and purple, hands on his knees. His face was heavily shadowed, eyes hooded with darkness with just a glint at their core. Even seated, the Warmaster’s presence dominated the room. Alpharius had spent time with Horus before – when loyal to the Emperor and since – and never before had he felt threatened. This time was different. Horus seemed bigger than ever.

  Alpharius was the smallest of the primarchs, but had not allowed this to undermine his confidence. Now that he looked at Horus, tree-trunk-thick arms stretching the fabric of his robes, Alpharius realised that his fellow primarch could crush him, tear him limb from limb, without warning.

  Their relationship had changed, that much was clear. The primarchs had once been brothers, equals. When Horus had been made Warmaster he had been treated as the first amongst equals. Looking at Horus now, Alpharius was left with no doubt that Horus considered himself master, a lord to whom fealty was owed. The obedience of his co-conspirators was no longer demanded, it was expected.

  There was also no mistaking the Warmaster’s perception of his role in the coming meeting. He was the judge at a trial. His eyes remained fixed on Alpharius as the primarch walked to the centre of the room. The gloomy surrounds, the half-lit shapes at the edge of vision, were a crude trick, Alpharius told himself, only capable of intimidating lesser individuals. For all that, the primarch of the Alpha Legion felt a cold trickle of uncertainty creeping through his gut.

  At the Warmaster’s right shoulder stood First Captain Abaddon, fully armoured and with a power sword at his hip. He had a look that matched his reputation: his hard eyes were those of a stone-hearted killer. At the Warmaster’s left was the Word Bearer Erebus, his armour painted a lavish crimson, adorned with golden sigils and hung with fluttering pieces of parchment covered with tiny scrawls of Lorgar’s meandering litanies. The Word Bearer leaned closer and whispered something in Horus’s ear, so quiet even Alpharius’s superhuman hearing could not detect it. The Warmaster looked sharply at the primarch of the Alpha Legion, eyes narrowing.