‘Let’s hope that the Dark Gods watch over us until then.’ Apis peered around the side of a bulwark and fired. ‘We’ll need their blessings to get past those big bastards.’
Amatnim laughed. ‘They are quite large. What do you think they feed them?’
‘Knowing the Imperials – a tasteless nutrient paste.’
‘Sometimes it’s not about quality, but quantity.’
Amatnim heard a click on the vox. Apis tensed.
‘Saper is making his move.’
‘He’s a stealthy one.’
‘And vicious. That’s why I keep him around.’ An explosion sent chunks of stone hurtling through the air. Apis rose and Amatnim followed. One of the Imperial Fists was down, his armour smoking and ruptured. The other was turning, firing, stitching shots across the chest-plate of one of Saper’s companions. Another Word Bearer came out of the smoke, chainblade whirring. The Imperial Fist sidestepped the blow and crunched the stock of his weapon into the Word Bearer’s helm, knocking him flat. Before he could rise, the bolt rifle thundered, silencing his curses.
Apis cursed and lunged. The Imperial Fist spun, faster than Amatnim thought possible, and knocked Apis back against a bulwark. Before their opponent could capitalise, Amatnim drew his axe-rake and swung. The blade bit deep, nearly severing the giant’s hands at the wrists, and sent the bolt rifle clattering away. The hulking warrior jerked around, nearly dragging the weapon from Amatnim’s grip. He tore his axe-rake free and hacked at his opponent, finally knocking him to his knees with the flurry of blows.
Apis was there a moment later, to drive a combat knife into the back of the warrior’s neck, in the gap between his helm and gorget. The Word Bearer twisted the blade, but the Imperial Fist tried to clamber to his feet regardless. ‘He’s not dying,’ Apis snarled. ‘Saper – make him die.’
Saper appeared, blade in hand. Not a combat knife, but something alien and lethal. It hummed nastily as he slammed it through a gap in the warrior’s armour. The Imperial Fist stiffened and finally slumped. Saper stepped back, panting. ‘That did it.’
Amatnim looked at the blood coating his axe-rake. It smelled different, somehow. Full of mysteries. He turned, looking up towards the Cardinal’s Gate – he could see tiny figures moving. The Imperial Fists had succeeded. And there would be more of them up there. Not many, perhaps. He looked down at the body. ‘Take his head. Just to be sure.’
He sheathed his blade. ‘And then – we take the Cardinal’s Gate.’
Almace, Primus asteroid facilities
Lakmhu staggered on through the dust of the asteroid’s surface, through a forest of girders and machinery, forcing himself to stay upright. His remaining warriors moved in his wake. Only a handful now. He knew the names of some: Evek. Morn. Feyan. Half a dozen others. Loyal servants of Erebus, just like him. He hadn’t realised it at the time. Amatnim had sent all of those openly loyal to Erebus with him. Perhaps hoping to cull them.
Some had died. But those who hadn’t were determined to survive.
That was what the sons of Lorgar did best. They survived. Only those who survived tribulations were worthy to serve the gods. And Lakmhu was worthy. He had failed – but he would survive. He would survive to serve the gods again.
If they forgave him.
The ritual had been disrupted. Lakmhu could feel the pain of it inside him. He’d failed, and the gods had extracted a price for it. He felt smashed up inside, as if something had grabbed him by his hearts and lungs and twisted. It was a wonder that he wasn’t dead already. Obviously, the gods had other plans for him. Why else would they have spared him?
The Raven Guard had come from an unexpected quarter – they and their slaves. He cursed himself for not realising – for not thinking that they might. Perhaps Amatnim was right. He was no line soldier, no strategist.
It had been the slaves that had surprised him. He’d thought them too cowardly to risk open battle. His hand ached from where the woman had shot the offering from his grip. He looked down at his hand, the blood on it turned to crimson crystals of frost.
Twice now, he’d failed to call up that which ought never to be put down. He could feel their anger beating at him. Pulsing in time to his own heartbeat. They were savage and hungry and driven to distraction by the sensation of their kin loosed upon the planet below. They wanted to be free. Demanded it.
He realised Evek was looking at him. They all were. ‘I hear them as well,’ Evek said. He was a bulky warrior, his armour crudely reinforced in order to contain an inhuman girth. Lakmhu fancied that soon he’d burst and something glorious would rise from the ruin of him. If he lived long enough. ‘The gods demand blood to open the way.’
‘The only blood we have left is ours,’ Lakmhu said. ‘And they’ll have that soon enough. Contact Decimo. Get one of the gunships down here. We must retreat.’
The thought angered him and he coughed. Blood spattered the inside of his helm. Out of the corner of his eye, red markers flashed. The enemy were in pursuit. The image magnified, revealing a trio of ore-crawlers closing in. They had reinforced cabs set atop bulky, spider-like legs. Repurposed plasma cutting tools were mounted on the cabs.
‘More to our left,’ Evek said. ‘They’re closing in.’
‘There – the pumping stations,’ Lakmhu said, gesturing with his crozius. ‘Easily defendable position. We’ll call for extraction.’ The pumping stations made for a makeshift palisade of pistons and slough-tanks, nestled among an interwoven thicket of support girders. The Word Bearers trudged into cover. The vox crackled and popped with the echoes of encrypted signals. Lakmhu suspected that meant that the Raven Guard were shadowing them as well. ‘Feyan, Morn, the rest of you, keep watch.’
Evek moved to the edge of the stations, looking towards the landing platform where they’d left the gunships. Lakmhu joined him. There were flashes of light there. No sound, but Lakmhu knew the flash of weapons fire.
‘The gunships aren’t responding,’ Evek said.
‘Perhaps they are preoccupied.’
‘Contact,’ Feyan howled. A spurt of plasma struck one of the girders, nearly cutting through it. Morn and the others began to fire. Lakmhu drew his pistol and sought cover behind one of the girders as more lances of plasma struck the pumping stations and support beams. Evek joined him.
‘The gunships,’ he began.
‘What about them?’ Lakmhu demanded. A stream of plasma struck Morn, punching the Word Bearer from his feet. He convulsed on the ground, clawing uselessly at his melting armour. When he at last lay still, Lakmhu saw that the plasma had eaten its way right through the bone.
‘They’re taking off without us,’ Evek said.
Lakmhu cursed and leaned around the girder, firing his bolt pistol at the approaching ore-crawlers. ‘Patch me through to them – now!’
‘They’re refusing, my lord.’
Lakmhu snarled in frustration and turned, glaring at the distant shapes of the gunships as they rose into the black, pursued by flashes of light. ‘Decimo,’ he growled. ‘I know you can hear me, Decimo – whatever Amatnim has promised you, I will double it. But only if you cease this foolishness…’
Static was his only reply.
‘Dark Gods take them,’ he roared, slamming his fist into the girder. ‘I– what?’ He looked up as a shadow passed across the asteroid.
Something white and vast moved slowly overhead. The murmur of the Neverborn quieted as the vessel slid across the horizon, filling it end to end. A gunship was caught by a strobe of fire and reduced to drifting motes. Another gunship followed, and another, until all of them were burning – a rain of steel comets.
Lakmhu began to laugh.
It seemed that the gods had preserved him again.
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Huldan Datch, commander of the Imperial Fists strike cruiser Capulus, watched as the en
emy swarmed over Almace. His tactical feeds brought him information about the status of the closest vessels – most were damaged in some way. While the orbital defences had not proven equal to the task of keeping the foe at bay, they had bloodied the enemy fleet severely. The Capulus had capitalised on that, as much as it was able.
It was not enough. One ship, no matter its pedigree, was not enough. Datch had chosen his battles with care, but time was running out. Outnumbered and outgunned, his ship had sustained too much damage in too brief a time. He’d remained close to the dockyards, preventing their destruction – but only just. He made his ship a wall, and put it between Almace and the enemy. But every wall eventually fell.
The enemy vessels had begun to peel away from Almace, seeking new prey. The dockyards made a pretty target – every vessel that could mount a weapon had been impressed into service. Merchantmen and trade frigates spun in slow contests with pirate vessels in the upper reaches of the stratosphere.
The wreckage of the battle cluttered the upper orbits. Great currents of torn metal drifted sunwards, caught in the planet’s gravity well. Fighter craft hunted one another through these reefs of shrapnel, duelling savagely in the shadows of the vessels they had launched from.
‘Bring us about,’ he growled. At their stations, the bridge-servitors bent to obey. Slowly, painfully, the battered cruiser began to turn. Klaxons whined throughout the ship. Smoke choked the corridors of the gunnery decks, and contact had been lost with the starboard launch bays. The command deck was full of heat and sound. He ignored it all. His armour was sealed against heat and the void. The surviving serfs had been evacuated, where possible. Only servitors and battle-brothers remained aboard, for the most part – those who could endure the slow dissolution of the Capulus and keep her in the fight.
Datch gave orders calmly, despite the flames licking across the deck, feasting greedily on the ancient battle standards and sacramental tapestries that rustled loosely in the heat. Soon, it would reach his throne. He estimated that he had another hour before it truly endangered his ability to effectively conduct operations. His tacticum display flickered weakly, but it was still readable. ‘Jerik, concentrate starboard fire on those troop ships for as long as possible – I want them burning when they reach the troposphere.’
The crackle of static was his only reply. He ignored it. Either Jerik had heard him or not. There was little he could do about it either way. On the viewscreen, the enemy flagship was visible – a vast, crimson nightmare, heaving to through seas of stellar debris. It cruised through the shattered wreckage of lesser ships, smashing them aside, sending the burning hulks spinning slowly away. Its guns spat fire, cutting attack craft from the air. Datch could hear the cries of the pilots as they died, and his hands curled into fists. He wanted to lash out, but the enemy was too far away. At least for the moment.
It had been a battle-barge once, he thought. Something beautiful. Now it was twisted and broken, made over into a thing of murder and ugliness. Clean lines broken by ramparts of filth, orderly decks become gaping maws – a loyal hound gone rabid.
Datch hated it, as he had never hated anything else. He wanted to kill it, more than he had ever wanted to kill anything else. But he knew that he could not. It was too strong, even wounded as it was. All he could do was bleed it more, sacrifice his ship so that the next ship – or the next one – might have a chance. A wall was not one stone, but many.
The battle-barge was approaching the dockyards, seemingly intent on dealing with them once and for all. Datch did not intend to let it do so unchallenged.
‘All power to forward batteries. As soon as it gets in range – fire.’
Servitors murmured their acquiescence. One squalled and slumped as flames crawled up its withered form. Its yellow tabard crackled as it twitched in its death throes. Datch paid it no heed. There were still an optimum number remaining. If necessary, he could run the bridge himself.
Augur-feeds showed the enemy vessel powering up its forward batteries. It was going to be a stand-down – a straight-ahead brawl, with the toughest ship emerging victorious. He smiled, despite the increased probability of his imminent demise. If the sons of Dorn were good at one thing above all others, it was taking whatever the enemy doled out, and paying them back twice over. ‘Come on then,’ he growled. ‘If it is to be done, let it be done well.’
The two vessels closed the distance, batteries hammering silently. The first shot smashed aside what was left of the Capulus’ shields. The second tore a canyon in the strike cruiser’s hull. The strike cruiser returned fire, to less effect. Datch scanned the sensor-feeds, trying to find a weak point. But the battle-barge had held itself aloof from the worst of the orbital defences, allowing the rest of its fleet to take the punishment. The damage it had suffered was seemingly mostly cosmetic.
He growled in frustration as another hit knocked out the Capulus’ long-range sensor array. The deck shuddered, and he fought to hold on to his seat. A servitor was knocked sprawling as its cogitator station exploded. Smoke was thick on the air, and the vox was buried beneath distortion. But the Capulus continued its approach, still firing.
Proximity klaxons sounded, and a new tacticum display shimmered to life, alerting him to the approach of a second vessel – as large as the first. Datch cursed. ‘All hands to evacuation stations.’ There was no sense in condemning his brothers to death. If they could make it to the planet below, they’d stand a better chance of survival. ‘All hands to…’
He trailed off, as explosions lit up the viewscreen. The battle-barge shuddered beneath the impacts and began to come about. The vox hissed and spat, and then a voice – ‘Pull back, Capulus. You have done your part. Now let us finish it.’
‘Who is this? Identify yourself,’ Datch demanded. As he spoke, he caught sight of the newcomer at last. A second battle-barge, but this one was a familiar white. His hearts leapt with a sudden hope.
Laughter filled the vox. Wild and savage. ‘The White Scars have returned, sons of Dorn. And Almace will not fall while we live.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
97:00:00
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Torag came to slowly, his gaze full of red. He blinked, trying to clear the blood from his vision. He felt no pain, but knew something was wrong. Fire licked at him. He turned in his control-cradle, and saw nothing save flames and smoke. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it.
The last thing he recalled was swooping to attack the Word Bearers as they climbed the steps to the Cardinal’s Gate. But they had been prepared. Brief flashes of that last moment clung to him – of red-skinned abominations, falling through the air like rain. Of a streak of light, and the sudden cessation of movement.
Metal popped, in the heat. His armour’s systems were redlining. Red Hare was dying. He felt the Stormtalon’s brave spirit slipping away even as he fumbled at the seals of his cradle. If he did not get out in time, its death would claim him as well. He drew his knife and hacked at the hoses and cables that tangled him. Sparks and lubricant spilled across his armour as he wrenched himself loose. He slammed his shoulder into the cracked canopy, trying to smash it from its frame.
Eventually, it gave way, parting with a scream. He hauled himself from the wreckage. One of his legs wasn’t working, but he forced himself erect. His augmetic hands twitched spasmodically, and the world swayed about him. He turned, seeking his brothers. Another Stormtalon lay some distance away, scattered in burning chunks along the upper steps. But of the rest, he saw no sign. Perhaps they had retreated. Or perhaps they had not made it to the steps. He staggered away from the wreckage.
His visor was cracked, and he could feel his battleplate’s servos acting sluggishly. There was blood in his mouth. In his armour. He looked down. A chunk of shrapnel jutted from his torso. The wound had sealed around it, but every movement he made caused it to tear open anew. He reached for it.
/> ‘I wouldn’t.’
The voice was evil, a purr, like that of some great hunting cat. Torag looked up and saw a towering figure in red armour stalking up the steps towards him through the smoke. ‘I am impressed that you survived, brother. A wreck like that would have killed a lesser warrior.’
Torag said nothing. He knew instinctively that this was the cause of it all, before him. The arch-abomination. The warrior drew closer, and Torag saw other red forms rising up through the smoke, their baroque battleplate adorned with filthy sigils and strange runes. He did not retreat – could not. Would not. He was the hunter, and they the prey. That had not changed. He wished he had a weapon – even just a knife.
‘I saw you above, I think. Hunting my troops through the sky. Beautiful – if unfortunate.’ The Traitor legionary sighed. ‘You will die soon, I think.’
‘Better men than you have said the same. I am still here.’ Torag forced his hands to cease their twitching. ‘I have been burned and beaten. Drowned and hanged.’
The abomination studied him for a moment. ‘Have you ever had your soul flayed from your bones?’ he asked. Torag could hear the smile in his words and yearned to lunge at him. But even as he contemplated it, lanky shapes emerged from the smoke, prowling among the Word Bearers like wolves. Daemons.
The traitor extended his hand. ‘You do not have to die, you know. What purpose would it serve? Warriors of your calibre are not meant for lonely graves – but for glories eternal. I can give you that, brother.’
‘We are not brothers,’ Torag said.
The traitor lowered his hand. ‘No. Perhaps not.’ His hand fell to the blade at his side. ‘Then perhaps I can give you a worthy death, at least. Kneel.’
Torag laughed, though it pained him. The Word Bearer sighed, as if he’d expected it. ‘Very well,’ he said softly. Daemons paced forward, their steaming blades raised.
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 42