A great claw fastened about his head and shoulders, and he was wrenched from his feet. The daemon lifted him to the level of its piggish eyes and bared its teeth in a grin of triumph. Suboden matched its grin with his own, and slashed out with his knife. One of the hateful eyes went out and the creature shrieked. It hurled him across the deck and he slammed into a cogitator bank, before rolling to the floor in a cascade of sparks and broken metal. He fumbled at the smashed cogitators, trying to pull himself to his feet.
The daemon laughed gutturally as it approached. Unintelligible curses dripped from its lips like molten brass as it readied its axe in preparation for taking his head.
Then – a flash of azure. The daemon screamed. Suboden saw Kanim thrust his staff forward like a spear, lightning writhing about the totems that adorned it. Crackling strands of electricity ensnared the daemon, looping about its limbs and neck like chains. Blood dripped from Kanim’s nose and eyes, matting his moustaches and beard as he sought to bind the creature. He chanted, his voice a hoarse roar. He hauled back on his staff, drawing the strands of psychic lightning taut. The daemon staggered, arms outstretched, hooves scraping burning gouges in the deck.
Suboden quickly reclaimed his tulwar. Kanim wouldn’t be able to hold the daemon for long. ‘Strike, my khan! Strike true,’ the Stormseer bellowed. Suboden lunged, ignoring the drag of his damaged battleplate and the ache of his wounds. His tulwar’s power field hummed as he rammed it up into the daemon’s chest. He angled the blade for where he hoped its heart would be. There was a moment of resistance, and then a gust of stinking heat that stripped the remainder of the paint from his gauntlets. Something like tar spilled over him, smearing across his face, blinding him as the daemon howled in apparent agony.
The howl went on and on, rising to unbearable heights. Suboden forced the blade deeper, seeking something solid. The howl spiralled up into a shrill shriek that crashed against his senses, and he staggered, off balance. He fell to his knees as the daemon came apart in gouts of sticky ichor. For a moment, Kanim’s lightning licked over him, burning the filth from his ravaged battleplate.
Panting, Suboden met the Stormseer’s crimson gaze. ‘Do you still live, shaman?’
‘For a given value of the word,’ Kanim croaked. He spat blood onto the deck and wiped at his eyes. Suboden looked around. The command deck resembled a slaughterhouse. The last of the daemonic hounds had fallen to bolt shell and blade. Many of the serfs were dead – butchered by the now-vanished Neverborn. Several White Scars were mingled amongst these bodies. The survivors picked their way through the dead, weapons at the ready. Smoke hung thick on the air from damaged equipment, and torn cabling dangled, hissing and spitting.
The viewscreen was riven by static, but Suboden could make out one of the enemy cruisers closing in fast on the Silent Horseman’s port side. The inter-ship vox was down, and few of the crew were capable of manning their stations. Suboden hauled himself towards his command throne. The tacticum displays flickered in and out, but he could read the situation regardless. The enemy were within range, and the Silent Horseman was wounded.
Down below, fresh crew were dragging aside the dead, and manning empty stations. Suboden watched them, regret gnawing at him. If they’d had more time, just a few moments…
‘Suboden,’ Kanim said softly.
Suboden looked up. The enemy were still closing on the Silent Horseman. But now, standing firm between them, was the battered shape of Orlanda’s Wrath.
‘Keel,’ Kanim said, and it sounded like a sigh. Suboden looked at him, and Kanim shook his head. Suboden felt a chill, and turned back to the viewscreen.
The weapons batteries of Orlanda’s Wrath vomited silent fire, and one of the enemy ships twisted like a wounded wolf and fell away, dying. The heavy cruiser spat death full in the face of the enemy, and brief blooms of hateful light shivered in the dark as escorts were consumed by the fusillade.
‘Vox them – all channels. Now,’ Suboden said, half in wonder, watching as Keel set himself against the foe. Static rasped across the vox. Motes of fire danced across the black. Then, Keel’s voice. Thin with fatigue and distorted by static.
‘If you’re going to go, khan, now is the time. Our firing tubes are dry and we’re being held together by prayers and good intentions. We can’t hold them off much longer.’
‘You are a brave man, commodore-captain,’ Suboden said. He relaxed slowly, hands flexing. Kanim wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he wondered if the shaman had foreseen this moment.
‘Make it count, is all I ask. Save Almace.’
‘They’re diverting power to forward engines,’ Kanim murmured.
‘She’s an old bitch, but she’s got a bit of bite left,’ Keel continued. Suboden knew that the captain was no longer speaking to him. ‘They’re going to feel it. Emperor damn me if they don’t. They’re going to know who we were. All ahead full.’
As he heard Keel’s command, Suboden barked orders, hoping he had enough crew left to see them enacted. The deck shuddered as the battle-barge began to withdraw. Battered escorts closed in, shielding the larger vessel. Not many of those left either. He looked at Kanim. ‘The spirits told you this would happen, didn’t they?’
Kanim nodded. ‘I saw the skull beneath his skin,’ he said.
On the viewscreen, Orlanda’s Wrath arrowed ponderously towards the closest of the enemy cruisers. The crimson vessels continued to fire, lashing the oncoming ship with waves of punishment. But she didn’t stop.
When the impact came, it was akin to the birth of a new star – a flash of brilliant white, splitting the dark in two. The command deck shook as the reverberations of the conflagration rippled outwards through the void. Klaxons whooped and crew fought to compensate as the light swelled, filling the viewscreen. A halo of fire radiated in all directions. Smaller vessels were consumed instantly, swept aside as if by the hand of a giant.
‘Status?’ Suboden asked, as the glare faded. Damage reports rolled in. He looked around the bridge, seeing only corpses and smoke. He bent his head, suddenly weary. The remaining enemy vessel listed badly. It had been caught at the edge of the conflagration, and was in no shape to pursue. Part of him wanted to finish the task – to break it. To take a toll of scalps in payment for Keel and the others.
‘Orders, my lord,’ a serf coughed.
Suboden was silent for long moments. Weighing his choices. Then, with a grunt, he said, ‘Bring us about. Broadcast the new heading to all surviving ships.’ He slumped back into his command throne. There was blood in his armour, and in his mouth. Even as Kanim had foreseen. He swallowed and looked at the shaman. Kanim’s face was a mask of bruises and blood, but his eyes were determined. He nodded.
Suboden laid his tulwar across his knees. He would not sheathe it until the battle was done. One way or another.
‘Set course for Almace.’
Chapter Sixteen
80:04:40
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Eamon listened as his officers spoke, but took little of it in. Outside, the sky was the colour of an open wound, and crowded with aircraft. Every aristocrat with sense was getting out of the line of fire. They were fleeing the city in droves, heading for estates in the mountains or valleys. Most, he knew, would drag the earth over themselves until the shooting had stopped. Then they would seek to deal with the victor.
Though the thought repulsed him on a spiritual level, he could not find it in himself to judge them too harshly. He wanted to flee himself. But where was there to go? And, in any event, he could not abandon his charge.
The thought of the Anchorite sent a pulse of fear through him. Calder would know by now, or soon enough. Then – what? Execution, perhaps. It wasn’t fair, but what was in these trying times? He closed his eyes, and tried to calm the thudding of his heart.
The strategium chamber echoed with the sounds of petty disagreement. Half of
the officers were noble-born, and they bristled at having a man like Tyre in command. Ordinarily it was kept under control, but tension had a way of widening the cracks. Long-simmering resentments were coming to light, and Tyre wasn’t helping matters.
He heard the swordmaster curse and bellow, and his aristocratic subordinates return fire. They wanted to concentrate the defences on the estates and properties of their clans. Those officers whose only family was the Ecclesiarchy disagreed. Tyre fought to calm both sides in his usual manner – by insulting both parties. Back and forth it went, all of them steadfastly ignoring the fact that none of them were in charge, and when it came down to it, Calder would determine where and when the companies of the regiment mobilised.
‘You look ill.’
Eamon opened his eyes. Canoness Lorr was studying him with her usual flat gaze. She stood beside his seat as always, her hands clasped behind her back. He could not tell what was going on in her head. Had never been able to, in fact. He’d always found her impassivity oddly comforting.
‘Are you worried?’ he asked, forcing a smile. Her expression didn’t change.
‘If you perish, morale will suffer.’
Eamon snorted and tried to pay attention to the argument, but it all seemed so pointless. Lorr was still looking at him. Her eyes pierced him to the quick. They narrowed slightly. ‘What is it, my lord?’ she murmured intently, leaning close.
Eamon hesitated. Lorr knew that there was a secret at Almace’s heart, though not what it was. She knew that it was his responsibility – and by extension, hers – to guard it. And she took that responsibility very seriously.
For an instant, just one, he considered ordering her to eliminate the threat. She would do it, he knew. She would do it with a hymn on her lips. She would kill Calder, whatever the cost. All to preserve the secret.
But he could not say the words. Could not ask her to do such a thing. Could not bring himself to commit such treachery, even in good cause.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said softly. ‘Not sleeping well. I’ll be fine.’
‘You drink too much,’ she said bluntly. ‘That is why you do not sleep.’
He forced a smile and nodded. ‘Perhaps you are right. Excuse me.’ He stood. Officers turned, some making to rise. He waved them back to their seats. ‘Keep talking, gentlemen. I’m listening.’
As the argument resumed, he went to the window and looked out over the city. His city. Beautiful and sad in equal measure. There was so much he’d wanted to do. Reforms he’d hoped to implement. It took time. It always took time. But now, there was no time.
He bowed his head and tried to pray, but couldn’t think of the words. He looked up, at the face of the God-Emperor, captured in coloured glass. A proud face, wise and kind. He knew that this depiction was based on his own great-grandfather. No one alive could remember what the Emperor of Mankind had truly looked like. Even the official accounts differed. Every writer seemed to have his or her own idea of who the God-Emperor had been.
Eamon, as a theologian, had his own thoughts on the matter. They were often contradictory, and he had yet to write them down, but he’d always intended to compose a monograph on the subject of such diverse perceptions and their meaning for the faithful. But it seemed blasphemous to even consider the subject with anything less than fervent awe. It seemed blasphemous to question.
But he couldn’t help it. His life had been full of questions, from the very beginning. Things were no simpler now than before. The Anchorite cautioned him to have faith, but faith in what – the God-Emperor? Calder?
Or maybe himself.
Questioning his own decisions had become second nature to him. A planetary governor, even a cardinal-governor, could not afford to act on impulse. Too much depended on his decisions. His first instinct was to ensure that the Anchorite remained a secret. But another part of him wondered if it was not meant to be. Why else would Guilliman have sent Calder and the others, unless it was to protect the Anchorite? This world – this system – meant little in the greater scheme of things.
Past the glass, he saw the faint impression of the refugee vessels crowding the suborbital docking spires. Hundreds of them, mostly small. The larger ones hadn’t made it. Rather than thousands of survivors, there were hundreds. All bringing their own stories of terror and armoured monsters.
Lorr had been against letting them dock. She’d insisted they were tainted. Their survival proved that they had succumbed to the blandishments of daemons. Only by agreeing to allow her Sororitas to debrief the survivors – overseen by the Imperial Fists – had he managed to keep her from massacring them wholesale.
He glanced surreptitiously at her. She was watching the arguing officers like a hawk, her hand tapping at the haft of her power maul. Tyre looked at her every so often, and Eamon knew something was passing between them. Finally, she snatched her power maul up, activated it and slammed it down, cracking the table and silencing the military officers.
‘Enough,’ she snarled.
‘The canoness is correct,’ Eamon said, seizing on the silence. He looked around the table, meeting the gaze of every man and woman in uniform. ‘I have a planetary sermon to give. I expect this matter to be resolved by the time I have completed it. Otherwise I will turn over command of the armies to the canoness…’
Tyre sat back, smiling crookedly. ‘Suits me,’ he said, with an air of triumph.
Lorr laughed harshly, and her eyes blazed with interest as she took in the suddenly very nervous officers. ‘A burden I will bear gladly,’ she purred.
Eamon nodded. ‘I leave you to it, then.’ His bodyguards fell into step with him as he swept from the chamber. He allowed himself a small smile.
If only all such difficulties were so easily handled.
Data spooled across the strategium feed. Sensor telemetry, augur-feeds, long-range calculations. Reports by private vessels. All of it saying the same thing. The enemy was at the gates. Time was up. Their fleet was smaller than it had been, but still large enough to lay siege to Almace, providing they successfully navigated the asteroid belt.
Calder felt something akin to satisfaction. It was good that the moment had arrived. Now he would see whether his preparations were enough. He turned from the projection and activated an encrypted command channel.
‘Capulus – report.’
The vox squalled and whined for long moments, until a voice replied. ‘Strike cruiser Capulus moving into final position, lieutenant.’
‘Good. Wait until the enemy have taken up orbit before launching strikes. Concentrate on the southern hemisphere. Maintain vox silence.’ He paused. ‘If the battle turns, withdraw from the system. Return to the crusade.’
There was a pointed silence. And then, ‘And tell them what?’
‘That we failed.’
‘Noted. Dorn be with you, lieutenant.’
‘And with you, Capulus.’ Calder cut the channel. The Capulus would wait just out of sensor range, behind one of Almace’s moons. When the enemy arrived, the strike cruiser would do what it could. They all would. Whatever came, they would not be found wanting.
He turned again to the sensor-feed from the asteroid mining facilities. Karros had managed to calm things down significantly, but they were still tense. The Raven Guard’s last report had mentioned that he was entering talks with the leaders of the uprising. He flicked through the feed, cycling farther and farther out from the facilities. To the very edge of the asteroid belt. And there, in the distance – a gleam of light, growing steadily brighter.
‘I estimate a day, maybe two.’
Calder stiffened. He hadn’t heard Solaro enter the chamber. The Reiver seemed to have no more substance than a shadow when he put his mind to it. ‘Report.’
‘You were right,’ Solaro said. Calder turned. The Raven Guard stood a respectful distance away, at the foot of the dais. Calder gestured
for him to ascend. ‘He’s hiding something. Took me a few days, but I followed him to a vault – or perhaps a crypt. Hidden at the heart of this place. The locks are biometrically encrypted.’
‘Other defences?’ They spoke over one of the dozen encrypted vox-channels that the Raven Guard employed. To anyone capable of listening in, it would simply sound like static.
‘Combat-servitors. Antiques. Easy enough to slip past.’ Solaro shrugged. ‘I could do it again, if you like. With a few skin samples, I could beat the encryption.’
Calder paused, considering. ‘What else?’
It was Solaro’s turn to pause. ‘He was talking to someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I couldn’t determine that. Himself, perhaps. Or maybe a prisoner?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Who else would you keep sealed away like that?’
Calder nodded. A fair point. Solaro leaned back against the rail of the dais, the very picture of ease. The Reiver had an informal manner. Karros seemed to encourage a certain lack of discipline in his warriors. ‘Would you like me to procure a skin sample?’ Solaro went on. ‘I can be in and out within the hour.’
‘No. Did you record your discovery?’
Solaro hesitated. Calder gestured. ‘I know you record everything. Give it to me, please.’ Solaro sighed and extracted a data-spike from a hidden port on his vambrace. Calder took it and weighed it contemplatively on his palm.
‘What are you going to do?’ Solaro asked.
Calder closed his fist gently about the data-spike. ‘Deal with the matter directly, but politely. As a Huscarl should. Where is Eamon now?’
‘The Pulpit,’ Solaro said. It wasn’t the chamber’s official title, but it suited it well enough. The cathedral-palace’s central vox-caster station occupied the uppermost spires of the structure, where blue skies began to give way to the troposphere.
Calder turned. ‘Come with me.’
They made their way quickly to the central transit-shaft, despite the crowded corridors. Since the enemy fleet had been sighted, the cathedral-palace had seen a boom in its population. Not just troops, but scribes and officials. They packed the corridors of power, shouting to be seen and heard by the cardinal-governor’s staff. The lord deacons of the outlying cities wanted reinforcements; representatives from the trade unions wanted the bulwarks pulled down – or more of them put up – in their competitors’ territories; lay-priests and missionaries demanded the cardinal-governor’s ear; and the spokespeople for the noble families wanted to be evacuated.
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 30