She shuddered slightly, a sick look on her face. ‘I told them, you know. I said you’d do it. That’s why some of them have gone to ground, I think. The others are just stubborn – they think whoever wins will be open to dealing with us on more even terms.’
Karros nodded. ‘Never underestimate the value a human being places on their life – or the lives of their kin. Whole worlds have sold themselves into slavery of one sort or another, just for the promise of protection. It is the nature of man to survive, even if that survival comes at a high cost.’
‘You’re going to hunt them down afterwards, aren’t you?’ she asked, after a moment. He could hear the pain in her voice. The regret. Part of him felt it as well – though not for the same reasons, he suspected. For her, they were kin – friends and creche-mates. For him, they were resources that were going to waste.
‘No. That is a task for the enforcers.’ Karros smiled, trying for levity. ‘If any of us survive.’ He could tell by her expression that it hadn’t worked. He sighed. Mortals were more complicated than many of his brothers wanted to admit.
‘Brother.’ Spiros’ voice cut in over the vox. Karros waved Reyes to silence.
‘What is it, Spiros?’
‘Gunships. Three of them. And a handful of assault landers.’
Quickly, Karros blink-activated the picter rune on his display. A sensor-feed of the exterior of the mining facility appeared. He cycled through the feeds, studying the approaching vessels from the various angles. The gunships were of an unfamiliar type – archaic looking, and sinister. They had been daubed in crimson paint, and covered in the sort of grotesque decorations that the traitors favoured.
The landers, on the other hand, were easily recognisable. Wide-bellied, slow-moving vessels that weren’t normally used in void transport. Briefly, he considered ordering his own Thunderhawk to make an attack run, but decided against it. While they might be able to down one of the landers, they’d definitely alert the enemy to the Raven Guard’s presence.
‘Status,’ he murmured.
‘They’ve sent landing codes,’ Spiros said. He sounded amused.
‘I assume you didn’t reply.’
‘No. It seems to have made them angry.’
‘Good. Angry opponents are easier to defeat.’ He watched the gunships swoop low over the facility, and the landers wallow in their wake. He estimated the enemy numbers at multiples of a hundred. Given the nature of the vessels, most of those would be mortal troops. The Word Bearers had ever relied on sacrificial lambs. That would be their undoing. ‘Time to get into position. Alert the others.’
‘What is it?’ Reyes asked, as he cut the feed. ‘Are they attacking?’ She sounded frightened, but did not let it show in her face. Karros was pleased.
‘Yes. Are your people ready to meet them?’
Reyes blanched, but nodded. ‘We’ve wired the main entrances, as you commanded. But left docking platforms twelve through sixteen open. Think they’ll go for them?’
‘Almost certainly. I doubt they have the patience to cross the surface the way we did. They’ll make for the openings we left, and trust to numbers to carry them past any defences. That has always been their way.’
‘You’ve fought them before?’
‘Often enough to know how dangerous they are. Which is why we have to end this quickly, before they have a chance to change the rules of engagement.’ Karros gripped her shoulder, but gently.
‘Have no fear, Ore-loader Reyes. The Ravens are with you.’
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Calder stepped down out of the grav-tram. Birds hurtled skywards as he strode across the ferrocrete platform towards the waiting Stormtalons. The aircraft were painted in the heraldry of the White Scars, and Chapter-serfs moved among them, readying them for take-off. The pilots stood some distance from their craft, watching Calder approach.
The faint wail of distant klaxons echoed across the city’s aero-ring. The ring was a belt of reinforced berths, originally the property of the city’s upper classes, extending outwards from the larger landing plinths. It had been the home for a variety of private craft, all now repurposed or moved elsewhere.
The White Scars pilots had made themselves hard to reach since Suboden’s departure. They had followed his orders, and conducted sweeps of the surrounding area, but their commander, Torag, had refused to meet with him to discuss their part in the wider strategy. Calder had given them as much leeway as possible, recognising their intransigence for what it was – a protest at being left behind. But the time for leeway had passed.
The White Scars eyed him warily and murmured to each other in Khorchin. Calder stopped at a respectful distance, aware that the serfs had ceased their labours and were watching him as well.
The White Scars, like the Space Wolves and the Dark Angels, were particular about their personal honour. They were warriors first and foremost, and soldiers second. He knew that Torag in particular saw this duty as an imposition. Suboden had provided a much-needed buffer between Calder and the wilder elements of his brotherhood. Without him, Calder was forced to impose his authority the old-fashioned way.
As much as he wished that he didn’t have to force the issue, he had to ensure that Torag followed his orders. That meant confronting him here, on the ground he’d claimed as his own. But better here than in the field.
Torag stepped forward to meet him as he drew close. The Uquillian was a sight, even among the White Scars. His power armour was of an older mark, and he considered it a canvas upon which to enact his artistic vision. Braids of woven hair, strung with eagle feathers, hung from his shoulder-plates, and his helm was decorated with another profusion of feathers, its narrow snout painted to resemble an eagle’s beak. Both of his hands were bionic, the fingers tipped by golden claws.
‘You are the Uquillian,’ Calder said. Torag nodded silently. Calder held out his hands, palms up. A Chogorian sign that he’d come weaponless. ‘I am Calder. I would speak with you.’
‘Speak, then,’ Torag said after a moment.
‘The enemy is at our walls.’
Torag laughed, and the other White Scars laughed with him. ‘We have ears, Primaris.’ The way he said it, the word sounded like an insult. Calder let it pass. Torag was trying to provoke him.
‘Good. Then you will have no trouble following my orders.’
Torag stopped laughing. For long moments, he studied Calder. Then, ‘They say you walked on Terra, in the days before.’ He crossed his arms and watched as Chapter serfs fuelled and rearmed nearby aircraft. Calder nodded.
‘I did.’
Another moment of silence. ‘What was it like?’
Calder thought for a moment. ‘Crowded. Even after… everything.’
‘You remember this?’
Calder frowned. ‘Some.’ The process of becoming Primaris had set his mind alight. Many of his memories had become ash, burnt away to make room for new thoughts. ‘Do you remember anything of… Uquill?’ He stumbled over the unfamiliar name.
Torag grunted. ‘I remember the smell of the great western sea, and the sound of gulls. The way a fish twitched, as I cut open its belly.’ He twitched his head. ‘That is all.’
Calder nodded. ‘Good memories, though.’
‘I have made better ones away from that place. I ride the wind now. And I gut things more deadly than any fish.’ Torag paused. He reached up and removed his helm, revealing flat, scarred features. His scarred head was hairless, save for his long moustaches and beard, all neatly bound. A bionic eye whirred and clicked as he looked out over the horizon. He closed his organic eye and tilted his head, as if sniffing the air. Then, he leaned over and spat. ‘I can smell the stink of them, even here.’
‘They have not landed yet.’
‘Even so. They come, and the wind brings word of them.’ Torag looked at Calder. ‘You want us t
o greet them.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I want you to do what you do best.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘What we do best.’
Torag grunted and ran a palm over his shaved pate. ‘A good plan.’ He looked away. ‘I dreamt that an eagle circled a mountain peak three times, and fell from the sky.’
Calder stared at him, uncertain as to how he should answer. Torag smiled. ‘A good omen,’ he said. Calder relaxed.
‘Was it?’
‘No.’ Torag pulled his helmet on. ‘We will burn them from the skies. And then you can grind what’s left into the mud of this sad place. Then we will go somewhere else, and do it again. Until the eagle falls from the sky.’
The Uquillian turned away, and raised a fist. His warriors set up a ululating cheer. Calder waited, but Torag seemed to have no further interest in conversation. He looked up. The sky was clear. But only for the moment.
Soon, it would be full of fire.
Eamon stood in the Anchorite’s cell, watching the Dreadnought scratch runes in the wall. Though he could not hear the alarms, he knew they were sounding. The bells were ringing throughout the city – in every city. Almace’s time had come, and the enemy was at the gates. Even now, those with the ability to do so were seeking safety in the reinforced shelters set deep within the city. Others were readying themselves as best they could for what was coming. Private armies assembled in the dioceses, as humanity’s guardians prepared the defences. It was all quite stirring, in the abstract.
Up close, it was nerve-wracking. A set of gilded armour awaited him in his quarters. Another heirloom, passed down from parent to child, through a hundred generations. Today would see him finally put his martial skills to the test. A part of him was excited. Another, larger part, was fearful. Would he pass this test of his will and courage? Or would he fail? Was it even up to him – or was he merely a bit player in the story of another?
He looked at the Anchorite, wanting to ask all of those questions. The ancient warrior had been the one constant in his life, and it seemed only fitting that he should have the answers now. He plucked at his robes, uncertain as to how to begin. As ever, the Anchorite saved him the trouble.
‘My brothers are here, then. I can hear them knocking on the door of this world.’ The Anchorite continued to scratch runes into the wall. Eamon nodded.
‘The lieutenant estimates a few hours before they come into range of the orbital defences.’
‘He is canny, that one. The primarch was wise to send him.’
‘Should we survive this, I will tell him so.’
The Anchorite gave a rumble of laughter. ‘I am sure he will appreciate your opinion on the matter.’
Eamon paused, considering. Then, he said, ‘Why are they coming for you?’
The Anchorite turned. He studied Eamon for a moment. ‘I do not know. I had assumed all knowledge of my existence would have been purged. Then, perhaps they simply never stopped looking…’ His frame twitched slightly. ‘We were sent to die, you know. Calth. It was meant to be a grand purgation of the Legion – all those elements too mad or too disciplined to endure the coming change. I wonder, sometimes, if they know that. If my brothers realised that, even as they died.’
‘Did you?’ Eamon asked, softly.
‘Oh yes. But only afterwards. I realised that Lorgar had betrayed his own sons, and more than once. That Kor Phaeron and Erebus had done so as well. We were guided by traitors from the moment the God-Emperor set foot on Colchis.’ The Anchorite studied his talons, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Our Legion was built on a foundation of treachery. We were very good at it. At twisting our oaths to fit our wants. At seeing our desires in the words of the gods.’ He lowered his talons. ‘Maybe that is why they are coming. Maybe… maybe the gods have decided to kill the last bit of truth left to the Legion. To prevent any hope of them seeing what I saw. One final treachery as the galaxy unravels.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Eamon said, shaking his head. ‘Would they care?’ It seemed inconceivable to him that such damned souls would do so. Once you were far enough down a false trail, it ceased being false.
The Anchorite turned back to the wall. ‘Some would. To know that we were regarded as chattel by our lords, and spent like bullets for their glory, rather than our own? We mocked other Legions for such – to know that we too were but bodies for the altar, that would be too much for some, I think.’ He paused, tapping the wall.
‘It is a funny thing. A devout man understands the possibility of damnation, but does not think that he himself will be damned. In those days, I heard my brothers boast of altars and knives, and even then, I knew that not a one of them would go willingly to the stone. For such men, there is always another sacrifice, always someone weaker…’ He trailed off. ‘But these are the words of one who has grown used to solitude. I cannot say with any clarity why they come, or what their aims are. I doubt they themselves know.’
They were silent, for a time. Then, the Anchorite said, ‘What will you do, if they breach the walls of this place, boy?’
Eamon cleared his throat. ‘What would you have me do?’
The Anchorite turned. ‘Kill me. They are here for me. If I am dead, they may leave.’ The words sent a chill through Eamon. He’d heard them before – too often.
‘You know that they won’t.’
The Anchorite gave a rattling, artificial sigh. ‘Yes.’
Eamon was silent for a moment. ‘Do you truly wish to die?’
The Anchorite spread his arms. ‘Would I be imprisoned in this sarcophagus if I did not wish it? I deserve death. I am owed death.’ He turned back to the wall. ‘But we so rarely get what we are owed, in this life.’
Eamon shook his head. ‘What will you do, when they come for you?’ He paused. ‘If they come,’ he amended, hastily.
‘You mean will I go willingly?’
Eamon didn’t reply. The Anchorite laughed. ‘No, boy. I will not go. Nor will I fight them. Whatever they have become, they were once my brothers. I will not raise my hand against them.’
‘Then they will chain you and drag you back to whatever hell-world they call home.’ Eamon’s voice rose. Anger flooded him. The thought of such abominations bestriding the holy soil of Almace, of taking away a relic of the Ecclesiarchy, was enough to burn away his fears and anxieties.
‘First, they must break the walls erected by the sons of Dorn. I have faith that that will not happen. It did not happen then, it will not happen now.’
‘And if it does?’
The Anchorite paused. He began to write once more.
‘Then the God-Emperor will provide.’
Chapter Nineteen
85:40:00
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Apis entered the ship’s meditation chamber with some hesitation. All Word Bearers vessels of appropriate size possessed such a chamber, though they often took different forms. Some resembled temples, while others were open to the void. This one was more sedate than some, fitting with its master’s personality. A place of quiet contemplation and reflection.
The chamber was a large, tentlike space, occupied by a mandala of semicircular benches, all centred around a single, immense censer. The censer was suspended between the floor and ceiling by taut lengths of now rusty chain, and was tended by a quartet of blind slaves, their mouths stitched shut and smaller censers grafted to their chests and backs. Fumes of steaming incense rose from it, filling the chamber. Prayer scrolls decorated the walls, displaying the inked leers of daemons and dark saints. The statues of fallen heroes of the Legion stood sentinel at the eight cardinal points.
Apis knew some of them. Zardu Layak. Argel Tal. Xaphen. One or two others. He ignored the weight of their stony gazes as he threaded through the benches. A few of his brothers were here, stripped to their armour interface ports.
As they sat in quiet contemplation, mutant slaves doused them in blessed oils or tattooed their flesh with catechisms. Some turned to watch him as he strode towards the back of the chamber, but most knew better than to display any interest.
Amatnim sat on the outermost benches, eyes closed. Mutants kneaded his muscles, and cleaned his interface ports, hissing and murmuring to each other in their own debased tongue. They paused as Apis drew near. Amatnim opened his eyes.
‘Well?’
‘We’ve almost entered the asteroid belt.’
Amatnim sighed. ‘I know. The gods whisper as much to me.’ He smiled. ‘Can you hear them, brother?’
‘No.’ Apis glanced around. There was the vaguest impression of shapes, moving in the fumes of the censer. Neverborn, perhaps. Unaligned entities, seeking a suitable husk to inhabit. That was why the mutants who were assigned to the chamber first had ritual bindings carved into their flesh. No sense letting a feral daemon loose on board, if possible.
Amatnim nodded. ‘No. I suppose not. Did Lakmhu go, in the end? Or is he slinking about, waiting for his chance to plant a blade in my back?’
‘He went. I made certain of it.’
Amatnim nodded. ‘You are of great comfort to me, Apis. A true brother, in a Legion where precious few of those remain.’ He sounded almost melancholy, and Apis sighed inwardly. It was always the way. Amatnim was a soul of great merriment and great sadness in equal measure. It was no wonder that the gods loved him as they did.
As if reading his mind, Amatnim said, ‘If the gods abandoned me, brother – what would you do?’
Apis paused, seeking a trap in the words. Seeing none, he answered honestly. ‘I would abandon you as well. Where the gods go, a man must follow.’
Amatnim nodded again. ‘A good answer. An honest answer.’
‘I have no cause to lie.’
Amatnim laughed. ‘Some among us don’t need cause, brother.’ He waved aside his slaves and indicated the bench. ‘Sit. Something is on your mind. I can tell.’
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