The mutant hesitated on the edge of the steps, angered at another interruption. It saw the sword coming and animal panic lit across its expression. It clawed at the blade, desperate to stop it. Rafen denied the creature and pressed Vitarus into the blood-flecked torso, piercing the skin above the knot of pulsing flesh that was its secondary heart. The inert force sword whispered through the dense meat as if it were vapour, slicing the organ in two, pressing onward until it erupted from the Bloodfiend’s back in a welter of black fluid. It staggered, pain squeezing the air from the beast’s lungs, and collapsed atop the steps beneath the copper ring.
But some things do not die all at once.
Life leaking from it in sluggish pulses, the clone made a last, desperate attempt to claw itself closer to the sarcophagus, reaching out, raising itself up to feel the warmth of the golden glow upon its trembling skin.
Rafen took the hilts of the sword and the knife in either hand and gave both a savage, final twist.
A last rasp of breath escaped the lips of the Bloodfiend as death finally claimed it. For a man standing close by, for a man who turned the blades that killed the accursed creature, that breath could have been a single word.
“Brother?”
EPILOGUE
From the battlements of the fortress-monastery’s shield wall, the broad scope of the Oxide Desert could be seen stretching away into the wilderness, toward the Chalice Mountains. In the warm light of the day, the towers of black smoke from the death pyres extended upward into the clear sky, tilting to the west with the motion of the winds that carried them. Rafen could see the red slabs of Rhino transports dallying at the points of each smoke trail, and on the air he tasted the faint tang of burning flesh and spent promethium.
“How can we be certain that we killed them all?” said Kayne, watching the same sight from the sergeant’s shoulder.
“The Chapter serfs will sift Caecus’ records just to be certain,” he offered, “but I know there are no more. Their birthplace in the citadel was obliterated. All of the hatched came to the sepulchre. All of them perished there.”
Kayne frowned and looked away. “I still…” He stopped.
“Speak, boy,” said Rafen. “If you serve in my squad, you speak your mind when I tell you to.”
“Lord, while I honour and revere Lord Commander Dante as much as any Blood Angel, I am still…troubled by what he did.”
Rafen nodded slowly. “The opening of the sepulchre?” He sniffed. “The mutants would have found it on their own eventually. He only made it happen sooner.”
“But the Golden Sarcophagus…” Kayne’s voice trembled as he said the name. “It has been sullied.”
“The master let them come because he is a tactician. Because he knew that they would all be drawn to that place, that their blood-hunger would cloud them and rob them of any other focus. Imagine if we had been forced to hunt the mutants down one by one, if they had been allowed to hide in shadowed corners of the fortress. We would have lost many more men, and much more time.” Rafen turned away from the pyres and studied the youth. “Blood washes away, brother. Broken stone can be mended. But faith… That is eternal. And Lord Dante knows that faith such as ours cannot be crushed.”
“And what of broken men? What of our brothers Puluo or Corvus?”
Rafen looked away again. “Puluo is strong. He’ll live.”
“And Corvus?” Kayne pressed. “He gave much for his penitence.”
“So he did.” The sergeant nodded once. “The Emperor knows his name.”
They stood in silence for a time, until the youth ventured to ask another question. “Brother-sergeant… What is to become of the Blood Angels now?”
Rafen’s gaze fell to a pennant turning in the breeze; a banner upon which lay the sigil of a droplet of blood flanked by angel’s wings. “That choice is beyond our reckoning, brother.”
Dante cast about the Grand Annex, his gaze dwelling on each warrior there, on Armis and Sentikan, on Orloc and Seth and all the others. He frowned as he thought of Daggan, blunt and candid, steadfast and strong, now lost to his Chapter and his kindred alike. As with Rydae before him, and Gorn and Corvus and all the other Space Marines lost to this sorrowful business, their remains were aboard their ships and votive scrolls bearing their names hung in the Chapel of the Red Grail to honour their sacrifices. It was the first time in living memory the rites of the heroes had been spoken there for warriors who were not Blood Angels. It was only fitting, though. They had died in the name of the same primarch, and that was enough.
Dante stood in the centre of the stone star and bowed his head. “Kindred. Cousins.” He looked up and caught Seth’s eye. “There are no words I can voice that will express my gratitude for your aid in Baal’s hour of need. We have paid for the sanctity of the Great Angel with our dearest blood. And in the aftermath of this misery I must take accountability for what has happened.” The lord of the Blood Angels let out a slow breath. “I am to blame. The responsibility for this atrocity falls to me and I accept it without recoil. As my honoured cousin Lord Seth said, the state of my Chapter can only be laid at my feet. It was my hubris that brought us to this place.”
“Fine words,” said Orloc. “But what of the choice you asked us to make, Dante? What of this tithe that you request from our Chapters? What are we to do upon that matter?”
Several of the assembled warriors glanced toward Seth, expecting the outspoken Flesh Tearer to speak, but he remained silent.
“The appeal remains,” said Dante. “I can do no more than ask for your help. But I will bear no malice to any Master who decides against me. I make no motion to compel you. The choice is yours to make.”
“And it must be unanimous,” said Sentikan. “Without unity, it will be meaningless.”
Armis shifted. “You realise the import of this, Lord Dante? Let us be clear. If the vote is carried against your tithe, it will mean the dissolution of the Blood Angels.”
Dante gave a solemn nod. “I will abide by whatever choice the conclave makes.”
“Then we shall make the ballot.” Sentikan’s hooded head bobbed. His words hung in the air; no one was willing to speak first.
Blood Angel and Flesh Tearer, Angels Vermillion, Sanguine and Encarmine, Blood Legion and Blood Sword, Flesh Eater, Red Wing and Blood Drinker, these warrior-lords and each of the other successor Chapters gathered in the chamber, they stood in a silence that seemed to go on forever.
At last, it was Seth who stepped forward. His face was still seared with the colour of his knitting wounds, but the intensity behind his eyes was undimmed. “In my Chapter, there is a litany that we recite upon the final day of testing, when a warrior completes his induction into our ranks and earns the name of Adeptus Astartes.” He walked slowly toward Dante. “The Invocation Initiate. Each Chapter has its own variation, but it is at the core of what we are. These words empower our bond, our strength of purpose.” Seth paused, and when he spoke again it was with a brusque honesty that gave every warrior in the room pause. “For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my battle-brother eternal.”
The Flesh Tearer produced his flaying knife and drew it across his palm, a line of blood emerging behind it. Seth offered his hand and the blade to Dante. The Blood Angel copied the gesture and the two masters clasped their palms together, the crimson mingling.
“I will give you the men,” said Seth. “And so will every successor here. Your future will be secure.”
There was very little that surprised Dante, but he felt that emotion now. “Why?”
“Because it is the will of the Emperor,” Seth smiled. “He brought us to this place, to this condition for a reason, for a lesson. To test you. To remind us.”
“To remind you of what?”
Seth’s grin grew to show his fangs, and Dante found himself returning it. “That we are not cousins, Blood Angel. We are brothers.”
With care, Turcio removed the segments of his battl
e-brother’s power armour from the rack in the armoury chamber, taking a moment to speak a few words of the Prayer to Weapons over each piece.
Ajir watched him, aware that the penitent was ignoring him. Finally, he spoke. “He gave up his life in vain,” said the Astartes. “You understand that?”
Turcio hesitated, then continued in his work. “Is that what you believe?” The Space Marine ran a fine cloth over the ruby sigil across the wargear’s chest plate.
“Did Corvus think that letting himself die would somehow complete his atonement? Is that why he did it?”
“Corvus did what he thought was right. That is why I was proud to call him my battle-brother.”
Ajir picked up the dead warrior’s helm and shook his head. “He died for nothing.”
Turcio put down the chest plate and turned to present Ajir with a severe stare, the brand upon his cheek livid and red with anger. “If you truly believe that, then you did not know him. And because of that, I feel sorry for you.”
“I do not understand.”
The other Space Marine shook his head and turned away. “That is clear. If you knew Corvus, if you saw the man instead of the brand… Then perhaps you would.”
Turcio walked away, leaving Ajir to stare into the eyes of an empty helmet.
Rafen watched his battle-brother go. The wounds of the past days were still fresh, and it would take time for them to heal. The sergeant returned to his own duty, working at his bolter with the cleaning rods, the simplicity of the task helping him to maintain a focus.
A shadow fell across him and he looked up. “Brother-Sergeant Noxx.”
The Flesh Tearer’s head bobbed. “Brother-Sergeant Rafen. I have news from the conclave. I thought you would wish to know. The tithe has been approved by all the Chapter Masters.”
A sense of relief washed over the Blood Angel. “Thank you.”
“My master and our delegation are to return to Eritaen to conclude the campaign there,” he continued, “but before we do, there is another matter of which I would speak to you.”
“Go on.”
Noxx’s hooded eyes bored into him. “We do not see eye to eye, the two of us.”
Rafen gave a humourless smile. “That much is certain.”
“But I wish you to know this. In the sepulchre… I was reminded of something. Of commonality between us.”
“I, too.” Rafen admitted.
Noxx gave a nod. “And perhaps, I dislike you a little less now.”
“I feel the same way.” Rafen offered the Flesh Tearer his hand. “Until our paths cross again, then?”
Noxx shook his hand. “I have a feeling that will be sooner than either of us expect—”
At the chamber door, a Space Marine in the gold-trimmed robe of an honour guard entered, interrupting them. “Brother-Sergeant Rafen?”
“Who asks for me?”
“The Chapter Master,” came the reply. “You are summoned to his presence.”
Dante looked up from the stained glass window as Rafen entered and bowed. The commander beckoned him forward, and the Astartes crossed the chamber.
Rafen saw Mephiston standing in the lee of the window, in the shadow cast by the red sunlight. The psyker nodded to him; he bore no outward signs of the injuries he had suffered in the previous night’s battle. Rafen’s hand twitched with a fleeting ghost-memory of the force sword in his grip. On the other side of the room, Brother Corbulo waited, watching.
“Master, my lords. What do you wish of me?”
Dante faced him, and there was grave concern etched upon his expression. He held a data-slate in his hand. “This is an initial report from the Techmarine squads sent to sift the ruins of the Vitalis Citadel. Pict spools recovered from Caecus’ laboratorium have provided some very troubling information.”
“Fabius?” Rafen asked, his throat tightening at the renegade’s name.
Dante nodded as Corbulo spoke. “Before Caecus fled to the citadel, he stole a measure of the sacred vitae from the Red Grail.” Rafen’s blood turned icy at the thought of such a thing. “It… appears that the vial was appropriated.”
“The traitor has it,” Mephiston rumbled. “It was doubtless upon his person when he fled through the warp-gate.”
Rafen’s heart pounded in his ears. “And I let him escape…”
“The blame does not fall upon you,” Dante replied. “All of us were remiss in this. We share it equally.”
“But what does he want with the blood of the primarch?” Rafen blurted out the question. “In Terra’s name, what sorcery could he do with it?”
Dante exchanged glances with his lieutenants. “We cannot know. All that is certain is that such a heinous transgression will not stand unchallenged. For too long, Fabius Bile has been a blight upon the galaxy. And now, he has awakened the full wrath of the Sons of Sanguinius.”
Rafen nodded, a sense of purpose coming over him. “I am at your command. What would you have me do?”
“Prepare the warship Tycho,” said Mephiston. “Gather your men. You will go forth and seek out this criminal.”
“And when I find him?”
“You will recover the sacred blood,” Dante gave him a long, level stare, “and you will wipe his blighted existence from the stars.”
BLACK TIDE
BY
JAMES SWALLOW
CHAPTER ONE
Everything is madness.
That was the clearest explanation, the simplest, most logical answer. There could be no other truth; any alternative was impossible. The undeniable fact was that the universe turned on an axis of insanity, and any being who struggled to deny that fact was utterly doomed.
Understanding of this truth was no reward, however. Moving through the thick, sticky silt that coated the surface of the effluent channel, La’Non paused and looked down at his right hand, the spindly grey fingers caked with filth and dried bloodstains. The other arm—the alien thing—hung limply at his side, the grotesque greenish-brown bulk of it forever pulling him off balance, upsetting his gait and motion. It reached up to wipe muck from his forehead, but he slapped it away and used his good, true tau limb to do the job. La’Non didn’t like to stop too often. If he kept moving, then the voice in his head stayed away. He imagined it like a phantom, a spectral thing that moved as he moved, in perfect lockstep; but it was slow, and he could outrun it. For a time, at least.
Time enough to understand that the mad universe hated him. Hated him and wanted him to suffer, so much so that it had broken off pieces of itself and sent them here, to this place, where they might torment him to death.
He felt the voice coming, and shouted a curse at it, the snarled words echoing down the channel. With a hard effort, La’Non kicked out the service grille above him and hauled himself up, on to the work gantry. He allowed the alien limb to help; he would not have been able to make it otherwise.
From there, he moved up and up, spiralling through the turned tubes cut through the rock, passing once or twice through voids where great deposits of nickel-iron ore had nestled, back when this place had just been a vast stone adrift in the void.
La’Non stopped once more and started to weep. This he did for a few minutes. He couldn’t be certain why these intervals came and went without pattern or regularity. Instead, he sat through them, let them take their course. It had become possible, ever since the day he had awoken with the limb grafted to him, to compartmentalise himself in this way, distancing the functions of his body from his mind. Eventually, as they always did, the racking sobs went away and he moved on, towards the surface. The tracks of tears cut lines down his dirty cheeks, and he noted the pattern as he caught his own reflection in a large piece of glassaic, broken off from a window. He was a sorry sight. The robes he had once worn in his role as a minor earth caste functionary had been replaced by the ripped oversuit he had taken from a dead kroot, and it was only the broken pieces of his necklace, balled up in a pocket, that recalled his
rank. His drawn face was pallid, the flesh hanging from his skull like an ill-fitting mask made from parchment. The big arm at his side swung back and forth; it was heavy with muscle, twitchy and hot to the touch. La’Non didn’t dwell on it, looking away from the shapes of alien flesh, the places where implanted things beneath the surface hissed and bubbled. He padded, feet bare, through the splinters of the rest of the glass, and felt nothing. He pressed his weight down deliberately, but felt no pain. Blood was there, pooling between his toes, but no sense of it reached him. And so he moved on. Upward. Outward.
The colony was like a kittick fruit from a tree infected by boreworms. Oblate in a rough sense, lumpen across its outer skin, inside the asteroid was all tunnels and voids, eaten through and cross-connecting. Factories and oxy-plants, arboreas and habitat pods, places of exercise and teaching and leisure, the home to a hundred thousand tau… Or at least, it had been.
La’Non had come when the colony had been opened, drifting out at the farthest edge of the Tash’var system. He’d lived a good life here, until the tempest had arrived.
He remembered little of it. He learned the story later, in fragments. A warp storm, sudden and terrible, swallowed up the colony and tore it away, spat it back out like indigestible food into some other part of space. Far from home. Far from Tau.
And there, while they were alone and lost, the strange gue’la had come, the human with his many devices of pain and his army of freaks. The madness came with the invader, the great revelation.
How long ago was that? Days? Years? La’Non had lost his sense of the passage of time, and he recalled old wisdom that said a being should recognise such a thing as the first roadstone on the path to insanity. Perhaps, if and when he reached the outer tiers, perhaps when he saw the dark sky again for the first time in… however long it was, he would know. But so many things had kept him from moving forward. The nest of crazed vespids that blocked his path down in the food stores. The crippled and near-dead kroot he had killed with a broken chair. The thing that had seemed to be a female of the air caste, but was actually a bag of meat and blood. She took the most of his time. Talking to him, being a friend to him. When the alien limb had driven her head into a stone wall and crushed it, La’Non had watched with dispassion, still reaching for an understanding at that point in his journey.
Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow Page 81