Kersh took his palms off the numbing cold of a section of reinforced armaplas. The blast shielding was closed, but the plas of the vistaport still retained the scalding sting of the void beyond. The heat from each handprint vanished from its deep blackness. The Scourge turned to present himself to the Apothecary and his freshly mauled back-flesh to the port. Ezrachi shook his head as he took in the constellation of ugly welts on the Space Marine’s body. Old scars from battles fought long ago.
‘What on Eschara do you think you’re doing?’ Ezrachi put to him. The Apothecary’s ceremonial plate was splattered with blood and he held his white helmet under one arm. ‘My express instructions were for rest, not mortification.’
‘I shouldn’t have to learn my shame from an errant,’ Kersh said, staring at the approaching Apothecary but nodding at Old Enoch. ‘I heard from mortal lips how Dorn’s flesh had failed them, failed their master and failed their master’s master.’
Ezrachi slowed. ‘I regret that,’ he said finally. ‘There have been pressing demands on my time. I had hoped to perform such a duty… at a suitable moment. Still, in my absence you had my orders–’
‘I have fallen so far in my estimation,’ Kersh seethed, ‘and that of my brothers that I’m not even sure I deserve to live.’
The Apothecary jabbed a gauntleted finger at Kersh’s superhuman bulk. ‘Do not be casual with this divine instrument, for it belongs neither to you nor your brothers,’ Ezrachi warned. ‘Your soul belongs to the Emperor and your flesh to Rogal Dorn – as you have correctly observed. The death separating the two belongs only to your enemies. In the meantime an Imperium’s interest resides in what may become of this crafted form before that eventuality.’
‘This flesh needs purification. I must find myself and the presence of the primarch within me.’
‘You have been one with the Darkness,’ Ezrachi countered. ‘You have walked in Dorn’s plate, seen the galaxy through his eyes, known the emptiness of his grieving heart. Some may say that no living Excoriator has known his father as well.’
‘Where is the Stigmartyr?’ Kersh asked. ‘Where is the Chapter’s sacred standard now?’
‘It is lost…’ a voice rumbled from behind Ezrachi. ‘Like you.’
Another Excoriator entered the penitorium. He was stripped to the waist, like Kersh, and accompanied by his own trio of Chapter serfs. His flesh was that of a veteran, leathery and lined from a lifetime spent in battle. His brow bore a neat row of service studs and a necklace of chainsword teeth jangled about his taut neck. ‘And now… like us.’
‘Tiberias,’ Ezrachi warned.
As his seneschal, lictor and absterge filed past, the Space Marine turned to hang a towel from a hook set into the wall. The word Vanguard was tattooed across his broad shoulders, identifying him as an honoured brother of the First Company. As he turned again his baleful gaze drove the Scourge’s eyes to the deck. The sting of shame kept them there for a moment, but before Kersh knew he had done it, he was staring back at the Excoriator in defiance.
‘Kersh,’ the Apothecary said.
‘Do not spare me, brother,’ the Scourge called at Tiberias. Fresh blood pitter-pattered the deck about the Space Marine, falling from the torn flesh on his back. Bethesda approached with Kersh’s own towel. ‘Back…’ the Scourge growled, causing the absterge to drop the item where she stood and retreat. Ezrachi watched, uncertain, as Tiberias approached. Kersh took several steps also, scooping up the towel and wiping the glistening sweat from a knotted brow. ‘Where is it?’
‘What would you do with such information?’ Tiberias teased through a sneer. ‘Reclaim it?’
‘I would.’
‘And I would check your instruments, Apothecary,’ the veteran said to Ezrachi, ‘for your patient here seems still to dream.’
‘You’ll wish I was dreaming, brother,’ Kersh told him.
‘I am no brother of yours, Scourge…’
‘Must I beat it out of you?’
‘Desist. The both of–’ Ezrachi began.
‘I’ll fight you for less than that,’ Tiberias informed him as the two of them closed. ‘The Alpha Legion has the Stigmartyr now.’ The two Excoriators began to circle. ‘You and the Santiarch are all that remain of the Chapter Master’s inner circle. And I am all that’s left of the Honoured First.’
Kersh looked from Ezrachi to Tiberias, then back to the Apothecary.
‘Chapter Master Ichabod?’
‘The Chapter Master lives,’ Ezrachi confirmed, ‘but the rumours are that he is waning.’
‘Rumours!’ Kersh spat. ‘You are Ezrachi, of the Helix – what does your Lord Apothecary say?’
‘My lord is dead,’ Ezrachi admitted, more harshly than he intended. Taking his helmet from under his arm, he hugged it to his chestplate. ‘Like Tiberias says, the circle is broken. Chapter Master Ichabod is strong, but his wounds are grievous. The Alpha Legion’s assassination failed, but they employed a virulent toxin for which we have no record, nor antidote. It is only a matter of time.’
‘How long?’
‘Weeks. Perhaps years. In truth we do not know.’
‘We must search for the source of this toxin.’
‘Already begun – that is the Fourth Company’s honour. They suspect it to be a naturally occurring substance, since it betrays no evidence of engineering. They have been despatched to every known death world in the segmentum. That is why I have been attached to this venture. Apothecary Absalom of the Second was due to travel with you to the Feast, but he is needed to coordinate the search and to formulate an antidote. He is Lord Apothecary now.’
‘Then where are the Alpha Legion?’ Kersh demanded.
‘They have slithered away like the serpents they are,’ Tiberias said.
‘The Fourth waste their time,’ Kersh said to Ezrachi. ‘We must find the Traitors and recover both the banner and intelligence of the toxin’s origin.’
‘You think we have not all thought on that?’ Tiberias goaded.
‘They are everywhere and nowhere,’ Ezrachi said with sadness. ‘They have played with us. Even the most promising leads have thus far turned out to be no more than shadows and whispers. That was until Veiglehaven.’
‘Veiglehaven?’
‘The Fifth Company were lured there,’ Ezrachi told the Scourge.
‘Looking for the Chapter standard,’ Tiberias added, jabbing a meaty finger at Kersh. ‘Your standard.’
‘A trap?’
The Apothecary nodded sadly.
‘How many?’
‘Over half the company was lost,’ Tiberias said. Kersh’s gaze fell to the deck. ‘Brothers, sent to suffer an ignoble death, while you live and breathe before me. The Scourge? More like a scourge. A scourge on this Chapter. Your hearts beat only to expound your dishonour. How do you suffer the insufferable? Our blood – on your hands.’
‘It’s Dorn’s way,’ Kersh said finally, his eyes rising once again to meet his accuser’s. ‘We are for the Emperor, to the point of death. Devotion at any cost – even that of my soul, Brother Tiberias. We talk of your blood and its whereabouts. My understanding is that you will find it in ample quantity on the blade of the White Templar you fought in the Cage.’
The Excoriator’s sneer split into an ugly snarl. His bruised fist came at Kersh with a furious desire. Tiberias was fast but his movements were those of a close combat veteran: precise, measured and committed. Predictably so. Kersh had spent a lifetime at his Chapter Master’s side, fighting experienced warriors of all creeds and species. The enemy would always send their best at him and it had been the Scourge’s simple honour to end them before they could end his master.
Kersh held his ground, craning and stretching. Tiberias’s fists were everywhere: punching, back-handing, swinging. Each failed to find its mark – the fury of each strike lost on air. The Scourge angled his shoulders, swooping and bobbing his head just out of the veteran’s considerable reach. A bare foot struck out at Kersh, forcing him to pivot. He sl
apped the knee aside and flung his towel into Tiberias’s contorted face. The honoured brother tore it away, only to find that Kersh had pivoted back.
A gobbet of blood and teeth erupted from the veteran’s mouth as his head was smashed to one side. The Excoriator’s mighty body followed, his feet thrown up into the air and his tattooed shoulders hammering into the hard deck with a metallic boom.
Kersh stood with Ezrachi’s helmet clutched in one hand. The Apothecary had tried to get between the two warriors in his ceremonial plate, but Kersh had snatched his bone-white helm from his hands. It sat snug in his fist as he’d spun around, like a moon in rapid orbit around a serene gas giant, until it crashed into Tiberias’s face.
Ezrachi knelt down beside the felled Space Marine to check his ruined features. A broken nose and shattered jaw fountained a further spray of blood as Tiberias coughed up more teeth. Kersh looked down at the gore-smear across the white of the helm’s faceplate.
‘I’ve found more of your blood, Brother Tiberias,’ the Scourge spat, prompting the veteran to shove the aged Ezrachi aside and scramble, half blood-blind to his feet.
‘Come on, meat,’ Kersh dared.
‘Enough!’ Corpus-Captain Gideon called, striding into the penitorium. ‘Save it for the damned arena,’ he said in disgust. ‘Get him out of here. Clear the chamber.’
Chapter serfs hurried past, while Ezrachi angled the unsteady Tiberias’s shoulders towards the exit. The Apothecary gave the Scourge a sullen scowl.
‘I will see you planetside,’ Ezrachi told him. Kersh threw Ezrachi back his besmirched helm.
The Apothecary looked back at Kersh and then left. The corpus-captain hit a vox-stud in the wall.
‘This is Gideon. Open the blast shields, port-side aft.’
The penitorium shuddered as the clinker plates of armour running down the frigate’s aft section began to part. As Gideon crossed the chamber, the colossal metal slats receded like blinds to admit the scene beyond. Light flooded the dim penitorium. ‘With me,’ the corpus-captain ordered.
Kersh hovered for a moment, just long enough for Gideon to register his defiance, before striding across to the vistaport. The armaplas window ran the length of the penitorium. The two Excoriators stood in silence, taking in the planet below and the craft upon which the Scarifica held orbital station. Beside the Excoriators frigate sat the Death Strike gunfreighter Nihilan Proxy. Beyond that the pocket-frigate Bellicose rolled, bearing the Chapter insignia of the Black Templars. Several other rapid strike vessels, all belonging to different Adeptus Astartes Chapters, lay in high orbit, gathered about the battle-scarred flanks of the Titus, a veteran Imperial Fists cruiser.
Below them was a world the yellow of cowardice and swirl-smeared in a cloud-cover of soot and ash. The Titus and the attending smaller craft drifted above a blackened pole. About the fat belt of the planet’s equator, Kersh could make out the lightshow of colossal impacts and explosions beneath the smog. A huge xenos craft hurtled towards the region. An obscenity of interstellar scrap, the vessel had the unmistakable graceless and clunky design of a greenskin kroozer. Flanked to starboard by Imperial Navy destroyers and a light cruiser, and on the portside by an Imperial Fists Gladius frigate, the unstoppable craft seemed to have an enemy escort. An almost continuous stream of fire existed between the Navy vessels and the monster’s thick hull, however, and the Imperial Fists vessel was engaged in a desperate high-speed boarding action. Beyond the spectacle, the distant sparks of lance beams and cannon fire marked out a distant cordon, a gauntlet of Navy and Adeptus Astartes vessels through which a swarm of other greenskin attack craft were attempting to punch.
‘All right,’ Kersh said finally. ‘Where are we?’
‘Samarquand.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I’m not surprised. It has been part of the Urk Empire for two thousand years. A greenskin overlord called the Great Tusk holds the system here.’
‘Some overlord, I haven’t heard of him either.’
Gideon ignored Kersh’s obvious insolence. ‘The Samarquand agri-worlds supplied the cluster-hives of Coronis Agathon. Twelve verdant planets – amongst the most productive in the Imperium – inadequately garrisoned and consigned to doom and the infection of the xenos. Unfortunately, the Great Tusk and its line are plagued with an uncharacteristic lack of ambition. The fat monsters seem content to sit here, breeding in their own squalor. Their fleet and forces have never committed themselves out-system or joined the invasions plaguing nearby sectors.’
‘We think that this Tusk is building up to something?’
‘Two thousand years is a lot of patience for a greenskin, don’t you think?’ the corpus-captain returned. ‘No. But a populous xenos empire, no matter how small, cannot be tolerated so close to Imperial shipping lanes.’
‘So, destroy it,’ Kersh said.
‘The effort to do so continues to this day,’ Gideon told him.
‘For two thousand years?’
‘In turn, the Imperial Fists, the Dark Angels and the Space Wolves all have had honoured commitments to remove the Great Tusk and cleanse the system. Progress has been slow.’
‘The xenos are dug in?’
‘Nothing so sophisticated. There are just too many of them. Reports return of coast-to-coast greenskins on the planet surfaces: the Vostroyan Firstborn 13th Regiment, the Moloch 132nd Rifles and the Urdeshi 27th Mechanised – all wiped out in taking Samarquand.’
‘Then Samarquand is taken.’
‘Emperor be praised. Our brethren the Imperial Fists have succeeded where the Wolves and Angels failed. Samarquand IV has rejoined the Imperium. Still, one amongst twelve, with the enemy intent on taking it back…’
‘What in Dorn’s name are we doing here?’ Kersh interrupted. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘If it were my choice, Scourge, I would not have you here at all.’
‘Have our brother-Fists requested our assistance?’
‘No.’
‘Then don’t we have ongoing engagements of our own to honour?’ Kersh pressed. ‘The Alpha Legion. Chapter Master Ichabod?’
‘You are here at Master Ichabod’s decree and that is all your wretched ears need know.’
Kersh turned on the corpus-captain. ‘I belong at my master’s side.’
‘You are not wanted, nor needed there,’ Gideon said. ‘You are to play no further role in the tragic events afflicting our Chapter. Do you hear me, Scourge? Whatever worth you have left is to be measured here.’
‘Here?’ the Excoriator said, jabbing a finger at the vistaport. ‘I don’t even know where here is.’
‘Samarquand IV is the chosen ground for the eight hundred and sixteenth Feast of Blades.’
‘We’re here to compete?’
‘You’re here to compete.’
‘With the Chapter under attack and our master’s life hanging in the balance, we are here contesting?’ Kersh said, his words dripping with incredulity. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘The Feast is important.’
‘The Feast is a distraction!’
‘An important one. These are dark times, Kersh – and not just for the Excoriators. The Emperor’s Angels are spread thin across the stars. Dorn’s sons spread even thinner. Chapter relations must be maintained. The bonds of brotherhood strengthened and tempered through contestation.’
‘We have only just concluded a Feast.’
‘Tradition dictates the Feasts are centennial – at least centennial. It is the right of the reigning Chapter to call a Feast before its time. They often do.’
‘Why, by Katafalque, would they do that?’ Kersh sneered.
‘The Feast of Blades serves its purpose,’ Gideon said. ‘Many pacts are created and obligations honoured among our brethren – but we are bred for victory. Reigning Chapters want to build on past triumphs, for their success to echo through eternity, to catch Dorn’s approving eye or ear, wherever the Lord Primarch might be. They call the Feast to best complement their adva
ntage – the prowess of their champions, the perceived weakness of their opponent Chapters. Like us, they want to win. I would be surprised if the recent trials of our own Chapter hadn’t been a factor in the Feast’s most recent calling.’
‘Could we not we request that another Chapter take our place?’
‘On occasion that happens.’
‘Then why didn’t you make that happen?’
‘A brother’s love is hard won,’ Gideon told him. ‘The Feast of Blades is not, however, an empty exercise. Chapter relations bear fruit. Even now, the Fire Lords move in to relieve our Second Company at Celator-Primus.’
‘We are Excoriators–’
‘Yes, we are. You’ll find our blood in the earth of Holy Terra and staining the mighty walls of the Imperial Palace. We hold our ground now as we did then, in our primarch’s plate. Our very existence is a war of attrition. As a Chapter we shall not falter. Not now – not ever.’
‘Agreed,’ Kersh said. ‘But why contest honour when we can earn it through the worthy deaths of our enemies?’
‘There is a fire within you, Scourge, that even I can feel,’ Gideon told him. ‘Be it loyalty, shame, hunger for revenge – I know not. I care not. The Chapter is suffering its worst losses in five thousand years. These are dark times and I need that fire burning bright in every company, every squad, every Excoriator. As well as reinforcing relations with our primogenate kin, participation in the games generates Chapter pride. With Master Ichabod afflicted and the Stigmartyr lost, our brothers’ hopes have turned to ash in their chests. The mere embers of faith sustain them. Ichabod hoped that some success at the Feast might stoke the fire in their hearts. That is why he sent me. That is why he sent you.’
Kersh stared out across the frozen void. ‘How do we fare?’ he said finally.
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