‘They won’t be enough. You saw Kelim’s report. The White Scars are here. The lapdogs of the Corpse-Emperor have come and we are out of time.’
For once, Lakmhu was right. While the appearance of the White Scars at Pergamon had been brief, it had made an impression. Amatnim had hoped to avoid conflict with their degenerate cousins, but when man wished, the gods mocked.
‘They lacked the numbers to meet us head on,’ he said. ‘Else why would they retreat?’ It seemed right, in a strange sort of way, that they had come. Ten thousand years ago, the White Scars had been instrumental in preserving the lie of the Imperium. That they should be here now, attempting to preserve another lie, was only fitting. ‘Ashu and the other outriders will be more than enough to keep them occupied.’
‘That might prove difficult,’ Kelim said. The other Word Bearer strode towards them, followed by a gaggle of mutant crewmen. He barked a command, and they scattered to their stations. ‘Just received a vox-burst. From Puloc, of the Butcherblade. He was just attacked by our cousins in white two grid points spinward. Lost most of his escorts, and his ship is all but gutted. He managed to smash up one of theirs, but it was all he could do to keep his ship in one piece.’
‘Disappointing, but what does that have to do with Ashu?’
‘He was three points coreward, running down refugees from the outlying worlds. You know how he likes easy prey.’
‘Yes, and…?’
Kelim laughed. ‘It wasn’t so easy.’
Amatnim turned. ‘Dead?’
The other Word Bearer shrugged. ‘We’ve lost contact with him. I suspect so.’
Amatnim grunted. Not unexpected, but worrisome all the same. ‘White Scars?’
‘Unknown.’
Even more worrisome. Amatnim ran a hand over his head. ‘Our cousins always did favour hit-and-run attacks…’
‘And they’ve always been good at concealing their numbers,’ Lakmhu said. ‘They may have pickets strung across the core, waiting for us. They’ll be gnawing our flanks from here to Almace. We should hunt them down now, before they bleed us further.’
‘No. That’s what they want.’ Amatnim frowned. He gestured to Kelim. ‘Scan all frequencies. I want to know what’s changed.’
‘We know that they’re here,’ Lakmhu protested. ‘What else do you need?’
‘Why they are here, and not at Almace.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re buying time – and you’re giving it to them.’
‘Yes, but who are they buying time for? What is waiting for us at Almace?’ He looked at the Dark Apostle. ‘The White Scars are pragmatic – they would not leave Almace unprotected. If they are here, then someone is there.’ He looked at Kelim. ‘Find out what you can. In the meantime, I’m going to greet our new recruits. We may well have need of them, before too much longer.’
Lakmhu followed Amatnim out onto the observation deck above the landing bays. Down below, the last of the transports carrying the pirate representatives settled into a berth with a growl of thrusters. There were hundreds of them – petty war-chiefs and their bodyguards, militaristic separatists and gaudily clad buccaneers. The mad, the lost and the vile. Every system had them, to some extent. The closer to the Great Rift you went, the more of them there were. Almace was very close indeed.
The bay echoed with the noise of their gathering. To Lakmhu, it was akin to the chattering of apes. Sub-human trash, good for nothing more than sacrifice. Then, that was Amatnim’s reason for seeking them out. They needed chattel, and Amatnim had found it. Even so, it was distasteful. Mortals were best kept at a distance, where their weakness would not infect others. Too, Lakmhu preferred a higher quality of pawn.
He glanced back. His blade slaves stumped in his wake, moving with ponderous grace. They stank of treachery and the warp, and their bodies writhed beneath their ravaged battleplate. They were, at once, his greatest sin and his greatest blessing.
He studied the closest. Dumeen, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. The other was Ortalu. Had been Ortalu, a hundred years ago. Dumeen met his gaze blankly. There was something moving behind his mask. They were still changing, both of them. Becoming more and more the perfect weapons the gods required.
It was an arduous process to create such slaves. It had consumed the lives of over a hundred witches, and a piece of Lakmhu’s own soul. But the deed was done, and they were his. As much a part of him now as his hands. They would fight and die for him, if need be. He looked back at Amatnim and wondered whether it might well be necessary.
Erebus’ commands had been explicit – Amatnim was to be converted rather than butchered, if possible. Lakmhu had spent months allowing Amatnim to think him nothing more than another fanatical attack dog. He’d tested Amatnim, sending the overly ambitious against him, all in an effort to maintain the cohesion of the host Amatnim had built.
It was a delicate balancing act, one that required him to act the fool. To resist his natural impulses. Amatnim was arrogant, believing himself blessed by the Pantheon, when nothing could be further from the truth. Erebus had explained it all so clearly before they’d departed Sicarius. What Amatnim planned might shatter the Legion to its very bedrock. The unity they’d maintained in the wake of the retreat from Terra and the wars that followed would vanish in an instant if he were allowed to succeed.
Unfortunately, he was too good a commander to waste on the altar of necessity. Erebus played the long game. He never sacrificed a pawn without cause. The gods had shown him that Amatnim would prove useful in the coming carnage. The Legion needed a war-leader like Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash. But they did not need the secret he sought to come to light.
Something would have to be done. Victory was necessary in order to maintain Amatnim’s reputation as a commander, but he could not be allowed to free the prisoner he sought. Lakmhu did not truly understand that part. For whatever reason, Erebus feared this lost brother. He’d considered using that to his advantage, but then thought better of it. Whatever Amatnim’s opinion of him, Lakmhu was no fool, else Erebus would never have set him this task. But for the moment, his only concern was surviving long enough to think of a way to achieve his aims.
Amatnim laughed. Lakmhu turned to see him conversing with Apis. The grey-clad Word Bearer and his followers watched the pirates from the edge of the deck, boltguns held at rest. Lakmhu studied the warrior discreetly, wondering if he was the way into Amatnim’s heart. Amatnim trusted Apis – which was unwise, but understandable. Apis was the perfect tool – blunt, plainspoken and dutiful. He had no ambition save to serve. With a hundred like him, Amatnim would have had no need for a host.
If Apis counselled him to consider Erebus’ words, Amatnim might listen.
‘Step aside, fools,’ someone murmured from behind him. Lakmhu looked back. One of his own followers, Yatl, stood some distance away, kept at bay by the blade slaves.
‘Yatl,’ Lakmhu said, gesturing for his bodyguards to step aside. ‘What news?’
Yatl hurried towards him, moving stiffly due to the wounds he’d taken on Pergamon. ‘Kelim was right, curse him,’ he said. ‘Ashu is dead. So are Tochus and Cloom.’ Lakmhu had set his subordinate to confirm Kelim’s report. Amatnim hadn’t said anything about either Tochus or Cloom, which boded ill.
‘The White Scars?’
Yatl nodded, as he looked down at the pirates. ‘It’s like they’re everywhere at once.’
Lakmhu grunted in consternation and turned away. ‘Or there are more of them than we think. We could be sailing into a trap.’ After what he’d seen on Pergamon, he could almost believe it. It made no sense that the Imperium, weak as it was, would leave a world like Almace undefended, or as good as. Especially now.
‘What do we do?’ Yatl hissed.
‘What we have been doing. Wait and watch.’
Yatl hesitated. Lakmhu looked at him. ‘What is it?’
&
nbsp; ‘What if he’s right?’
Lakmhu frowned. ‘You know that he is not. He has allowed himself to be blinded by that doddering lunatic, Kor Phaeron, as so many of our brothers have.’ He leaned close. ‘Or do you doubt the word of Erebus?’
Yatl looked away. ‘No, my lord.’
‘Good. Go. I tire of looking at you.’ He turned away, as Yatl bowed. He felt a twinge of regret. Yatl had been a loyal enough servant, but Amatnim had planted a seed of doubt in his hearts. Lakmhu could smell it on the warrior’s breath. Soon, Yatl might try to spread that doubt to others. The time was fast coming where a third blade slave might be added to his coterie. Doubt could not be allowed to fester.
Down below, the noise levels were rising. The pirates were boisterous, making enough racket to fill the bay. Some of it was excitement. Mostly it was fear. The Glory Eternal was not a daemon-vessel, but it was still imposing in a way that mortals would find off-putting. Lakmhu found it equally distasteful, albeit for different reasons.
Amatnim had carefully purged his ranks of the most obvious daemonic influences after they’d entered the system, unleashing them on the rim worlds. Ships and crews changed by the warp had their own ideas about how to conduct a military campaign. It was often more akin to a predator stalking easy prey – all instinct and hunger.
That act embodied Amatnim’s philosophy, as far as Lakmhu was concerned. A discarding of the blessings the gods had given them, in favour of more mundane methodology – a denial of the obvious, in favour of the traditional. It had taken weeks of argument to even get him to agree to unleashing the Neverborn on Almace, if they ever arrived. Amatnim preferred to use the more malleable human cultists and renegades as chattel, rather than relying on the truest children of the gods. More evidence of his lack of faith. More proof of his unworthiness.
And yet… the gods seemed pleased. Lakmhu could only conclude that they wished for Amatnim to succeed. That the prisoner he sought was fated to be freed, in some fashion. What happened after would be telling – perhaps the gods would remove their hand from Amatnim at the moment of his victory. He would not be the first champion to be raised up, so that he might be hurled down from a greater height. The gods had a sense of humour, after all. For now, Lakmhu could but do as Erebus had commanded. He would preserve Amatnim from his own foolishness, and continue to test him – to seek his weaknesses. And when he had found them… well. His blade slaves stirred, sensing his sudden desire. He waved them to silence. ‘Be still,’ he murmured.
Dumeen growled softly. He could feel their hunger. It was a palpable heat, and they sniffed at the air, eager for mortal blood. He traced a sigil before them, tightening the bindings about their souls, and they grudgingly subsided.
A skirl of crude, bone pipes caught his attention. Mutants clad in sackcloth and plundered armour tramped across the deck, piping an eerie tune. It was a wild, frenetic thing, a whirling dissonance of shrill noise and stamping hooves. They were followed by an honour guard of mortal cultists, all bearing Amatnim’s personal heraldry on their battered carapace armour. As they took up positions around their lord and master, Amatnim extended his hand to Lakmhu. ‘Come, brother. It is time to formally greet our new allies.’
‘Am I to be included then?’
‘Always, Lakmhu. Come. Let us not keep them waiting.’
The cultists and bestial musicians escorted them as they descended the steps leading down from the observation deck. Amatnim did so with stately speed, one hand on the pommel of his axe-rake. Lakmhu hung back, allowing the other Word Bearer to have his moment. The gathered pirates drew back as they reached the lower deck.
‘Welcome,’ Amatnim said. His voice carried easily, despite the cavernous space. ‘To see you here fills me with joy.’ He swept their ranks with his gaze as they fell silent.
Lakmhu followed his example. Few met his eye, and those that did, did so only with great reluctance. Pirates and outlaws, surviving on the system’s fringes, they had no discipline and no real use beyond their ability to die in place of one of his brothers. But they were plentiful, and almost an army – a fleet, if one were being charitable. Close to a dozen frigates and a handful of smaller vessels, mostly repurposed ore trawlers or private yachts, had responded to Amatnim’s call. Not many, in the grand scheme of things. But enough for their purposes, he concluded grudgingly.
He could see daemons lurking among them. Little things, bound to no god, or one too small to be known. Things of spite and malice, they clung to their hosts, whispering in voices only some could hear. Some among the pirates bore more familiar markings – he saw the shadow of Khorne’s blade on several, and smelled the faintest odour of Nurgle’s rot seeping from the pores of one. Two were entwined in the loving embrace of Slaanesh, though they likely did not realise it. Even Tzeentch had his playthings here – secret witches and dabblers in haruspicy and fortune telling. It was no wonder they had come so readily. The gods were already in them, driving them to whatever doom awaited them.
He watched Amatnim cajole and compliment the mortals, acting as if their presence were not a burden but a gift. Amatnim had a way with mayflies. Even Erebus admitted that, though only in private, and only to Lakmhu. It was rare that someone who could speak so eloquently and with such fervour did not take up the crozius. Perhaps that was for the best. As a Dark Apostle, Amatnim would have had undue influence. As it was, he was little more than an indulged pet.
It was clear enough what Kor Phaeron saw in him. There was a fire, there. A blazing kernel of faith that was Amatnim’s only true saving grace. Which made everything else about him a frustrating puzzle.
‘Who speaks for you?’ Amatnim said at last. Muttering was the only reply. The assembled captains glared at one another with wary dislike. It was only to be expected, Lakmhu thought. They were rivals, after all. ‘Come, come,’ Amatnim chided. ‘Surely there is one among you who is trusted enough to take part in my councils of war? I would treat you as allies, not as dogs.’
Lakmhu stifled a snort. Amatnim glanced at him, but said nothing.
There was some shuffling in the crowd, and the gleam of half-drawn blades. Lakmhu heard the click of weapons and the whine of power packs. He half-raised his crozius. Finally, a gaudily dressed figure stepped forward. The pirate was tall and gangly, but richly dressed. He wore a coat of iridescent material, and his head had been shaved to the quick. Tattoos covered his vulpine features, and a plethora of weapons hung from him – blades, mostly, and grenades. An aeldari shuriken weapon was thrust through his belt, and his hand rested protectively over it.
‘I am Ganor, Prince of the Outer Sector.’ As he spoke, Lakmhu saw the shadow of something monstrous and stinking of sickly-sweet perfumes looming above him. The Dark Prince had his hooks set deep in the soul of this one. He wore desire and ambition like armour. His need was a silken halo, throbbing in time to his heartbeat.
Laughter greeted his proclamation, and Ganor turned, shuriken pistol in hand. He fired smoothly, and a pirate screamed. The others fell silent. Above the bay, Apis and his warriors had raised their weapons, taking aim at the crowd. Amatnim raised a hand, gesturing for peace.
‘Prince, is it?’ he said, smiling. ‘You are royalty, then?’
‘I was.’
‘And now?’
‘I still am.’ Ganor didn’t quite meet Amatnim’s eyes, but Lakmhu was impressed nonetheless. He was either brave, or a fool, or both. Regardless, the gods clearly favoured him. ‘They say you plan to take Almace.’
‘I do.’
‘For yourself?’
‘No. Once I have what I want, the planet is of no concern.’
Ganor nodded slowly. He glanced at the rest of the pirates, and then back at Amatnim. ‘Can I have it?’
More shouting. Lakmhu wondered if Ganor would have to shoot another of his fellow captains. At this rate, they were going to run out. But Amatnim silenced them with a sharp gesture. ‘I
f you wish. If you can take it. Perhaps I will even help you.’
Ganor nodded again. ‘Then my ship is yours.’
‘I never doubted it,’ Amatnim said. He looked around. ‘What about the rest of you?’
Silence, but only for a moment. One by one, they all shouted their oaths.
Amatnim turned to Lakmhu. ‘It seems our fleet has grown, brother.’
‘So it seems,’ Lakmhu said. ‘Only time will tell if it is enough.’
Chapter Twelve
65:08:30
Odoacer System, coreward edge
The troop compartment of the Thunderhawk shook as the gunship set down its landing gear. Proximity klaxons wailed, and smoke from damaged engines filled the compartment, but Ariq’s helm filtered the noise and toxins out. The White Scar could hear shots striking the gunship’s hull, and the grinding roar of the craft’s assault cannons clearing the deployment zone of hostiles. If all had gone according to plan, they would be in the launch bay of the enemy vessel.
Things had come to a head rather quickly. The foe had learned well the lessons of the last few encounters. Distance meant death. They’d closed quickly this time, looking to board the Silent Horseman. Suboden had responded in kind, launching every gunship in the battle-barge’s bays into the void. A vessel’s shields were only good against weapons batteries and lance-fire. Gunships could slip right through and use a craft’s own launch bays against it, if the pilot was skilled or lucky, or both.
Suboden’s brotherhood had perfected the strategy, employing it many times in the unceasing void-war above Armageddon. But this ship was no ork hulk. Instead it was a sleek cruiser belonging to a long-excommunicated Legion. Ariq was eager to test himself against foes other than greenskins. He’d learned all he could from orks. Time for some new lessons.
The squad vox-link crackled. ‘We’re in, sergeant.’
‘Acknowledged,’ Ariq said. ‘Open the doors.’
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 22