by Guy Haley
'I'll deal with this,' said Flokr. 'Easy meat.'
But as soon as Flokr moved into their response range, they reacted with unexpected alacrity and he was cut down by enfilading las-fire coming from both sides of the junction.
'Flokr!' shouted Himmlik.
'He is silenced for good in this world,' said Ragner. 'May the warriors of the Golden Halls accept his dourness better than we.'
Bror put out his head and looked round the corner. A strobing hail of las-bolts drove him back. 'Skjitna!' snarled Bror. 'A damn trap. There's enemy down every corridor.'
Free from the attentions of the Vlka's blades, the thralls opposite fired with impunity, and the Space Wolves sought cover in recesses in the walls as las-beams lit up all of the junction's four corridors.
'I could have sworn we came through here, and this junction was not like this!' shouted Ragner, leaning out from his hiding space. In the time it took for him to lean out and duck back, he placed three rounds perfectly into the heads of three tech thralls. The force of the explosions flipped them into their comrades, spoiling their aim and allowing Himmlik to gun down several more with an indiscriminate spray of bolts. 'This junction wasn't here before,' said Bror. 'And it's not on the cartolith.'
'How by the iciest level of Hel can a starship rearrange itself?' said Enrir.
'Never mind how,' said Gren, shouting up the corridor to his comrades.
'We have to retreat, try another way,' said Bror.
'Too late!' shouted Gren. 'There are skitarii coming up from the rear.' His bolter barked five times.
Radioactive bullets fizzed down the corridor. None of them hit the Space Wolves, and a lot of them ended up buried in the mechanisms of the tech thralls facing them. Nevertheless, the wolf pack was trapped.
'Damn it all!' growled Bror. 'Forward it is, then.' He tugged a frag grenade from his bandolier, flicked out the pin and rolled it across the junction.
He was already moving when it exploded. He charged blind, his autosenses whited out by the detonation and the secondary explosions of cybernetic power units. Fragments of tech thrall banged from his armour. Something more substantial than a las-bolt slammed into his greave, denting the metal. He swung blindly into the mass of tech thralls. His vision returned to normal as he cut a thrall through the shoulder, his chainsword's teeth kicking out a black spray of mixed blood and oil. He continued the cut down, carving out of the side of the dead cyborg, and brought the weapon around at waist height, bisecting another across the chest. A further one died to his gun, a single bolt emptying his ribcage of its contents. Bror's brothers were shouting and howling, boltguns barking deafeningly in the confined space. The tech thralls' close-quarter protocols kicked in, proximity to their fellows preventing them from firing their built-in weapons. They had no words, but the organs of speech were intact in many, and they mumbled idiot moans at Bror as they grabbed for him with their gloved left hands. He shot them, he cut them down, he kicked and punched and headbutted. Twisted wreckage snagged at his ankles. Oil-tainted vitae slipped under the treads of his boots.
His last bolt was spent. He threw the weapon hard into a tech thrall's face, staving in its domed bronze helm and shattering its glass eyes.
A moment later, his second weapon failed.
Black smoke poured from the chainsword's motive unit. The teeth jammed with flesh and swarf. He smashed it hard against the wall to jar the muck free, at the same time grabbing a thrall's throat and crushing it in his bare hand. The teeth spun through a single revolution, and jammed again hard, breaking the links and unravelling the track from its mount. Bror dropped the sword, and grappled with the thralls barehanded.
They pressed in on him. He tore them bodily apart, but there were dozens, and they pounded upon his armour with metal fists as they dragged him down under their combined weight.
A shot buzzed past his shoulder, blasting the upper half of a thrall into metal-laced gore. He tried to focus on his helmplate to see how his brothers were faring. He saw mortis runes, but his vision shook with the hammering of the thralls on his armour and he could not tell which of his pack lived.
His field of view was crowded with cybernetic faces and scrabbling hands. Decaying flesh left greasy smears over his eye-lenses. They were tugging at his power feeds, metal fingers prying under his battleplate. Finally, one seemed to process that their weapons could be freely used again.
With a metallic chink, a laslock pressed against his forehead.
Bror screamed defiance into the mouth of Morkai.
'Fenrys hjolda!'
He prepared to die. Abruptly, the pressure ceased. The Mechanicum troops stood back, stood to attention and put their weapons at rest. Bror leapt up. He tore the head off one of the cyborgs before he realised they had stopped fighting and become as motionless as model soldiers.
He turned around. Gren had joined Flokr in death. Himmlik was slumped against the wall, his bloody hands clutched over the shattered armour covering his stomach. Fires guttered in craters in the walls. A ruptured pipe jetted thick clouds of chilled carbon dioxide into the corridor past the Wolves. The glowing red eyes of Mechanicum cyborgs shone in the artificial mist, but they did not attack.
'By the third head of Morkai! What is happening?' said Enrir.
Bror pulled off his helmet and gulped down air thick with the stench of death and lubricant.
'More twists in the wyrd,' he panted.
A lone figure advanced down the corridor towards them through the battle smoke.
Ragner took aim.
'Do not shoot!' commanded Bror.
'I come to you in truce,' said the warrior in a flat, machine voice. He came closer, stepping out of the swirling gases. 'You are not a valid target,' he said. His crest and the insignia on his grey-and-red coat marked him out as a skitarii clade alpha.
'Then why did you attack us?' said Bror.
'Direct oversight from subverted command centres. You are not a valid target,' repeated the warrior robotically. 'You are Space Wolves, Legiones Astartes Six. Loyal to the Emperor. You are not a valid target.'
'Do you know where you are?' asked Enrir.
'I do not,' said the skitarii.
'You are aboard the Vengeful Spirit,' said Enrir. 'You were fighting for the Warmaster.'
The warrior fell silent. Tiny dicks and whirs sounded in his skull. 'Then our leader was in error. We were set against you without consent of this forge world's master. The moment of communion with the Motive Force is over. We have been reset to self-determination parameters.'
'Who is in command now?' asked Ragner.
The warrior was silent. The remainder of the pack tightened their grip on their weapons.
'I am,' the skitarii said.
'Then are you for or against the Emperor?' asked Enrir.
Again, that long silence.
'The Emperor is the rightful ruler of the Imperium. Kelbor-Hal is a traitor to the species. I am a loyal servant of the Imperium of Terra and Mars. I will fight with you.'
'What's your name?' asked Enrir.
'My designation is 978-1849700764.' He made the sign of the cog over where his heart had once been.
'That's your name?' said Enrir.
'That is my designation,' said the warrior. 'My name is Diort.'
'Diort,' said Bror.
'I have nine warriors remaining only. You are efficient killers,' he said emotionlessly. 'I will add our numbers to your own. We shall fight with you.'
'What about these?' asked Enrir, gesturing at the thralls. 'They would be useful.'
'These units lack the capacity for self-determination. They operate only under direct control of a magos,' Diort said. 'They are blessed to be so commanded, but the link has been cut. They will remain like this until issued further orders to act.'
'Let's move on before someone unfriendly reactivates them,' said Enrir.
Himmlik coughed. 'Not me, brothers. My spine's smashed. I'm not going anywhere.'
'Ah, you're not going t
o let a little scratch like that stop you, are you, Himmlik?' said Enrir. 'At least Flokr and Gren have the reasonable excuse of being dead for being so lazy.'
Himmlik laughed. It turned into a cough and pants of pain. 'Don't make me laugh, you bastard. I'm staying. I'm sorry. I wish I was going with you.' He pulled off his helm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. 'I'm not dying with this pot on my head. I'll breathe free air and look into Morkai's eyes without lenses in the way. Don't tell me to put it back on, Bror.' Himmlik picked up his bolter from the floor and raised it over his head. Dark blood pumped from his wound. 'I can still shoot. If anyone comes this way, they'll have me to welcome them to Bel's halls.'
'Can we find our way back to the embarkation deck?' said Ragner. He was a superlative hunter. A question like that from him showed how lost they were.
'We can but try, brother,' said Bror. He looked at Himmlik. 'Until next winter.'
'Aye,' said Himmlik through blood-smeared lips. 'Until next winter.'
Twenty-Four
The Wolf And The Warmaster
Russ and Horus fought with the might of cosmic force unleashed. In their contest the roar of avalanches was contained, the rising of seas, the eruption of volcanoes and the birth pangs of stars.
The brothers had sparred in the past, before Horus' fall and betrayal. Those bouts had no relation whatsoever to the fight they fought in the corrupted hall aboard the Vengeful Spirit. It was not simply a matter of the situation's gravity, that they were trying to kill each other now where before they had fought in friendship. It was a question of power. Raw energy blazed around the Warmaster. Every strike of his maul thundered with otherworldly magics, his eyes shone with daemonic light Horus had been an excellent warrior before his downfall, though not so accomplished as Leman Russ. That had changed.
Loken was right, Russ thought - he could not possibly beat whatever this thing was.
Russ was far from defenceless. His reflexes saved him from the maul's crushing blows. When the Warmaster's hellish minions rushed in to assist their master, Russ skewered them efficiently. His ability with the blade kept the Warmaster back, and for once he was glad of a spear's reach. The weapon lent him arcane power of his own. Each thrust arced with blue lightning that stabbed at the ground. Sheets of light trailed its blade as he swept it round his head to slash at his brother.
Where the lightning caught upon the corrupted surfaces of the hall, filth curled back and the warped decoration twisted. When the spear sheared into the unholy light surrounding Horus, it shrank away, writhing from the spear's edge. Truly, the Emperor had gifted him with a portion of His own might. It was a wyrding blade, steeped in the energies of the Underverse, a weapon from myth.
Russ whirled, keeping up the spear's momentum with a continuous series of rapid steps. The spear thrummed with palpable delight to be used. Its point shivered through gaps in Horus' defence. The Warmaster reacted to each attack, blocking them with his monstrous claw or batting aside the spear's shaft with his maul. Each time their weapons touched, violently coloured sparks fountained in all directions. They took root in ragged tapestries and upon the sticky faces of unclean artworks, so that wherever Russ and Horus went fires kindled. Within minutes the upper part of the hall was ablaze. Warriors fought on in the flames. Space Marines twisted by the maleficarum of the warp struck in mad frenzy at Russ' Wolves. No more foes emerged from the hidden panels, but hundreds more Sons of Horus were pouring into the hall through the great gates. Parties of screaming mortals, many touched by Chaos' warping influence, hurled themselves through smaller doors towards the ship's stern. Russ' amazing mind kept a running evaluation of the haute. His Rout held the way back for now. There remained a single corridor of retreat running through the ship down to the embarkation deck.
He kept it open for his sons, not for himself. Russ expected to die. All he had to do was hurt the Warmaster. He was not sure he could do even that.
Horus had to see the truth of what he was. He had to know what Russ knew.
Russ drove in with a series of lateral strikes, swinging the spear like a sword. Horus parried with his claw, each dash of metal on metal like the peals of a bell heralding the end of the world. Russ howled. Horus laughed into the face of a cry that would have slain a mortal man. Russ' ferocity he found harder to counter. The primarch of the Space Wolves jabbed hard towards Horus' sides below his plastron, where the armour was thinnest. The Warmaster moved aside. He was lumbering in his Terminator suit, but anticipated Russ' attacks early enough to avoid them all. Horus' lightning claw punched forwards, seeking to rip Russ' head from his shoulders. The primarch moved - but not completely out of the way, allowing Horus to grab his pauldron.
Ceramite exploded into smoke. Slivers of the metallo-ceramic peppered his face. Russ' armour was that of Elavar, an andent design imbued with arcane defences. Its machinery responded to the damage, bathing Horus in a field of deadly cold, but the Warmaster was unaffected, and he twisted his gauntlet back and forth, working the barbs on his claws like saw teeth deeply into Russ' arm. The Wolf King gritted his teeth against the pain.
Horus smiled in triumph.
'You were wrong, brother, you could not best me. Now you will die.'
The Warmaster raised his maul to slay his brother, but Horus' arrogance blinded him to the Wolf King's ruse. As the Warmaster swung up the maul, Russ twisted free of the claw, shredding his own armour and flesh to force an opening, and with every ounce of his strength he thrust the spear one-handed into Horus' side.
A shock wave blasted from the impact, rippling Russ' face with its (bred he pushed on, grinding the spear through the outer layers of Horus' Terminator plate, into the armoured undersuit, through the body glove and into his brother's flesh. Horus looked down at the weapon protruding from his flank in disbelief. A thin sheet of blood ran down the glistening black ceramite of his plate.
'I do not need to win,' said Russ.
Howling, Leman Russ pushed again, plunging the eager tongue of his blade into the Warmaster's guts. Horus roared in agony, and his men faltered in dismay. His maul fell from his fist and he began to shake tremendously. His head jerked back and a blast of white-hot soul fire blazed from his mouth, cracking the armoured cowl curved above his head. Skittering lightning crackled over the two brothers. Violet light blazed from his wound, and the edge of the blade shone golden. It too was shaking, its edges blurring, becoming a spear made of nothing but light. Russ' arm shook painfully. His post-human muscles and bones went numb as he struggled to hold the weapon in place.
Still screaming light, Horus staggered back, releasing Russ in his attempt to dislodge the blade. Russ would not relent, and went with him, grinding the weapon in the wound. The Warmaster gripped the shaft of the Emperor's Spear, desperate to keep it from cutting deeper. The scream ended, the white-hot light of his wounded soul cut out, and he fell to his knees, head bowed.
When Horus looked up, the unholy aura had gone from around his head. The absolute confidence he had displayed a few moments before was absent. His flesh hung slackly upon his skull. He had aged a thousand years in a moment.
'Russ,' he said hoarsely. 'Russ, my brother.' He smiled. 'I have been unkind to you. You were the second. I should not have been jealous, but I was.'
'Horus?' said Russ. 'I speak with Horus Lupercal?'
Horus closed his eyes and shook his head. 'Leman, Leman, you have been speaking to me since you arrived here,' he said, his voice thick with emotion. 'I have seen it all. I understand. I had to do it. I had to. The Emperor is the greatest evil in the galaxy, but what have I done to stop Him? How many have died… Am I worse than He?'
'Horus,' said Russ urgently. 'Call off your warriors. Let us talk. I will take you back to Terra. It is not too late.'
'Too late, too late,' said Horus. He looked up at his brother. For a moment their eyes met, and Russ saw nothing but regret in his brother's face. Then Horus smiled, and the regret was replaced by triumph.
Horus took a deep, rumbling b
reath, the sort taken by men on the cusp of death.
'It is too late, Leman of the Russ,' said Horus. 'Far too late for you.'
'Horus!' shouted Russ. 'Hear me!'
Horus replied so loudly warriors on both sides stumbled and clutched at their ears.
'I hear you, and I defy you.' Horus' words echoed down the aeons, coming from a place beyond time and space. 'This universe will burn as countless others have burned before it! There can be no victory against Chaos. If you cannot accept its power and its glory, then you shall die. The Emperor is doomed. I will kill Him myself.'
Before Russ could react, Horus punched forwards with his talon, slamming it hard into the injured side of Leman Russ. The boom of the claws' energy fields rolled out over the battlefield, drowning out the noise of battle. Russ roared with pain as the talon raked fresh cuts through his armour and gouged deeply into his flesh. The barbs ripped away chunks of muscle, the energy fields scorched his bones. With a contemptuous flick, Horus threw him off the ends of his claws, hurling Russ across the chamber.
Russ skidded to a halt at the foot of a profane painting, the Emperor's Spear clattering down beside him. Smoke issued from the rents I carved into the armour of Elavar by Horus' talon.
Horus grabbed the handle of his maul, forcing his heavily armoured body back upright. He gathered his dark majesty to himself again like a cloak. The haggard, suffering figure was gone. Russ could not be sure he had really seen it.
'So you were good enough, after all, brother. You could have killed me. You should not have hesitated. This weakness is what will cost our father victory. You so nearly won.'
Horus strode forwards, his maul raised to deliver the killing blow. 'When your soul is cast from you, and you are adrift in the warp, then you will know the truth as I do, brother. Before your essence is devoured by the gods our father denies, you will know you were wrong to deny me.'
Russ looked up weakly. Blood ran between his teeth. At least one of his lungs was punctured, and his secondary heart had been injured. His flesh burned with the efforts of his primarch's physiology to heal him, but his hurts were graver than the marks on his armour suggested. His chest was a mess of snapped ribs and pulped organs. The wounds were terrifyingly similar to those he had suffered in the Underverse, and he saw them now as prophecy.
