Sons of Wrath - Andy Smillie

by Warhammer 40K

  Amit grunted with effort as the creature pressed down on him, his boots cracking the ground as it forced him backwards. It seemed oblivious to the wound he’d dealt it. He bobbed his head, weaving aside as the brute’s beak snapped at him. He tensed, ignoring the pain as its blade ate into his shoulder, and pressed forwards. He locked eyes with it, staring into the fathomless beads of black. He could hear its blood bubbling in its veins. He thought of the rain. He thought of the ocean. A vast sea of blood that would drown him in ecstasy. ‘Die,’ he roared, shouting until his cry sounded silent, and forced his blade through the thing’s spine. The eviscerator’s teeth shredded the brute’s innards, showering Amit in viscera and putrid fluid. He tore it free, ripping the abomination in half. The bits of its corpse collapsed to the floor. Amit reversed his grip and set about them, plunging his blade into the dismembered meat until there was nothing but bloodied mulch.

  ‘Lord, they are all dead.’ Druel placed a cautious hand on Amit’s shoulder.

  Barakiel opened his eyes to darkness. He blink-clicked, resetting his helm’s optics. His display shuddered as it resolved into an image of his surroundings, flickering in and out of focus. Red warning sigils shivered as they scrolled across his vision. His armour was wrecked, the outer shell cracked and the powercore damaged. Most of his bones were broken and many of his organs showed signs of critical failure. It had only been through his foresight that he still lived. Even as Nuriel had hoisted him up, Barakiel had activated his armour’s pain suppressors, flooding his system with a cocktail of muscle relaxants and nerve deadeners. He’d shot adrenaline into both hearts, something to keep them going as everything else numbed around them.

  Not yet. Barakiel clung to the thought and struggled to focus as his implants dried, dragging him into a sus-an coma. He had to warn Amit.

  Activating his comm, he winced as a burst of static shot over the feed. He tried another channel, modulating the frequency. Still nothing. A third and…

  ‘Barakiel! Emperor’s grace, we thought you dead.’ Amit’s voice came through loud and clear.

  Barakiel smiled. ‘Not yet, and no thanks to Nuriel.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Librarian has gone mad. He attacked us.’

  ‘Sanguinius thank you for the warning,’ said Amit. ‘I will deal with Nuriel. Send me your coordinates and I will dispatch aid.’

  Barakiel transmitted his coordinates and closed his eyes…

  Except his eyes were already long closed, his mind having slipped away to the empty rumble of static in his helm, his body given in to the coma. The captain’s thoughts of glorious duty and vengeance were little more than a healing salve for his mind as his body knitted itself back together.

  He had not reached Amit. The Chapter Master had gone unwarned.

  Zophal stood still in the darkness, letting the full weight of what he was about to do settle on his shoulders. He growled low, his resolve hardened. He could bear the strain. ‘Sanguinius stand with me,’ Zophal whispered and pressed his palm to the data-pad. He took a step back as it blinked green and waited for the floor panel to recede, revealing a set of stairs. He followed them down, descending into another shrouded corridor. A further series of locking mechanisms greeted him. He disabled them, advancing to the end of the corridor to stand before one final cell. Its door was ringed by the same runes that had kept Astyanax’s power in check. Zophal opened it and entered.

  Bound by lengths of barbed chain, a single prisoner hung from the rear wall. He was clad in ruby-red armour trimmed in gold. A white icon stained his pauldron, marking him as a son of Magnus.

  ‘Omari,’ Zophal barked.

  ‘It has been a long time, Chaplain,’ the prisoner hissed, ‘since you addressed me by anything other than traitor.’ His voice was obscure, layered over itself as though each word had been thrice repeated. ‘Is it finally my turn?’ He raised his head. ‘Have you come to ki…’ He paused, his eyes drawn to the slender sword held in Zophal’s grasp. ‘My weapon.’ He looked at Zophal. In the Chaplain’s blunt hands, the weapon was unremarkable, its flawless design humbled by the thousand other such blades wielded by the Adeptus Astartes. Yet in Omari’s grip, the psy-reactive alloy would blend with his gifts and the blade would become whole again. It would be a mighty thing. A weapon for slaying worlds. ‘You would dishonour me further? You would murder me with my own blade?’ Omari sneered, anger narrowing his eyes.

  ‘I have not come to kill you. I have come to offer redemption.’ Zophal’s face was unreadable, the practised disguise of a warrior used to rousing others and leading them to their deaths.

  Omari laughed without humour. ‘Only in death, brother.’

  ‘Perhaps. But not by my hand.’ Zophal struck out with the blade, cutting the chains.

  Omari dropped to the floor with a grimace.

  ‘We have spoken many times, you and I.’ Zophal stood over him as he spoke. ‘You have told me since the beginning that you were pure, that the taint of your Legion was not upon you.’

  Omari looked up, his eyes embers of hate. ‘Once again…’ He pushed up into a crouch, resting his chin on the end of the blade. ‘I was on Holy Terra when my father turned from the Emperor. I will tell you no more. Now kill me and end this charade.’ Omari stiffened as Zophal withdrew the blade.

  The Chaplain reversed his grip on the weapon and offered it to Omari.

  The legionary’s eyes widened. ‘What game is this, Flesh Tearer? Would you rather I was armed when you slay me? Would that satisfy your blood lust?’

  ‘I have told you once. I am not here to kill you. Let it be enough,’ Zophal snarled.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘There is a daemon on this ship. I need your help to stop it.’

  Omari gave an insane smile born of chance circumstance. ‘Free from this cell, my power will be more than a match for you. Had you any Librarians of your own aboard, I doubt you would have stooped to such a desperate measure.’ Omari got to his feet. ‘So tell me, why shouldn’t I just kill you?’

  ‘You are free to.’ Zophal’s mask slipped a moment, the sorrow in his eyes unmistakable. ‘If you wish to prove Amit right, to be the traitor he thinks you are, then kill me.’ He tossed the blade to the ground.

  Omari’s jaw hardened, his eyes darting between Zophal and the weapon.

  ‘I will not try to stop you, brother.’ said Zophal. ‘It is your soul to forfeit, your life to render a lie.’ Zophal turned and started for the corridor.

  Omari retrieved his blade. ‘And afterwards, after we kill this daemon, what then?’

  ‘I will set you free.’

  The last of the Zurconian vessels came apart in a ripple of explosions, slaughtered by a withering broadside. Ronja clenched a fist in triumph, relishing the victory. ‘Surveyor, run a full sweep. Confirm that was the last of them.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Ronja watched the hololith as the surveyor worked. Information flickered and streamed across the panel of light, resolving and dissolving as the Victus’s sensoria analysed and dismissed threat readings.

  ‘Negative returns,’ said the surveyor. ‘All Zurconian vessels eliminated, mistress.’

  A smile spread across Ronja’s face. She had been tested and she had been found worthy. ‘Helmsman, hail the–’ She faltered, wincing in pain as something stabbed at her mind. It was the Victus. Its machine-spirit was restless. No. Ronja’s eyes widened in panic. It was angry. She clutched her head, toppling from her command throne as the pain swelled to engulf her mind. She screwed her eyes shut, clutching her skull in an effort to blot out the pain. ‘We have won… What more…’ Her mouth stretched in a silent scream as the Victus’s barbed voice tore at her.

  Kill, it said. Blood, it roared.

  ‘Yes… yes.’ Ronja nodded and climbed back into her throne. ‘Yes.’ She shivered, twitching as she fought to quiet the ship�
�s voice before it broke her mind. ‘You are right… I hear you, I hear you, and I am with you.’ Ronja’s pain eased only to be replaced by self-loathing. Shame burned in her gut like a fresh wound. The Victus was right. There had been no true victory in defeating the Zurconians. The weakling wretches were nothing without their psychic trickery. They lacked the martial strength to stand before her. Even ruined by those early exchanges, the Victus had been more than a match for their cruisers. Tears of shame streaked Ronja’s face, hissing as they evaporated on her cheeks, her skin flushed with anger. She sat forwards, her heart thundering with purpose. ‘Lock on to the Eagle Warriors vessel.’

  ‘Mistress, are–’

  Ronja scowled. The gunnery serf convulsed as a surge of electric current burned out his body from the inside. She licked her lips, savouring the tang of scorched flesh. ‘The Victus will be questioned no more.’ Her voice sounded from the mouthpiece of every servitor toiling below her in the data trenches. It was a canine snarl, a savage bark that rumbled around the chamber to tear at those who would hear it.

  ‘Mistress, what are you doing?’ Bohdan drew his pistol. Blood trickled from his ears, loosed by Ronja’s voice.

  ‘You dare?’ Ronja rose from her throne, eyes narrowed in fury. ‘You dare draw your weapon on me? Me?’

  Bohdan’s hand shook in terror. ‘Forgive me, shipmistress, but I think you are unwell.’ He gestured to her face.

  Ronja touched her skin, drawing her hand away as smoke began to rise from the flesh of her fingertips. ‘Fool. I am the Victus, as it is me. The same inferno boils within us both.’

  ‘No, mistress. There’s…’ Fear widened Bohdan’s eyes as he shook his head and pointed towards her face. Behind him, a pair of armsmen took a cautious step forwards. He turned. ‘Stay bac–’

  The moment’s lapse in concentration was all the time Ronja needed to draw her weapon and shoot him. The laser blast scythed through Bohdan’s arm, severing it at the elbow. He cried out in agony, ignoring his gun as it toppled to the floor in favour of cradling his cauterised stump. Ronja advanced on him, locking a hand around his throat and lifting him from his feet.

  ‘You will die for turning from us.’

  Lost to pained delirium, Bohdan didn’t struggle. ‘The breach… The breach in the field…’ His lips trembled.

  Ronja frowned at his incoherent whimpering. ‘Weak.’ She placed her free hand over his chest. His heartbeat was shallow and fast, his voice the pitiful wailing of a child. ‘Weak,’ she snarled. Bohdan went slack, his heart pulped in his chest. Ronja tossed him aside. ‘All of you, weak.’ She turned to face her crew. ‘We need none of you to triumph.’

  Across the bridge, serfs, armsmen and servitors died. Some quickly, their bodies consumed by crimson flame, others more slowly, torn to ribbons by unseen claws as a thousand cuts opened their flesh.

  ‘Only the strongest among you deserve to live.’ Ronja looked past the slaughter out into the void. She had no more need of the tactical hololith or the occulus. The Victus let her see through its eyes. She felt them narrow with malice as they sighted the Eagle Warriors vessel and the Flesh Tearers strike cruiser beyond it. She looked to Zurcon Primus. Targeting coordinates and Flesh Tearers ident-tags scrolled through her mind as the planet turned below her. She grinned as the data fell into synch, merging to become one and the same. ‘If you do not thirst for blood, you cannot thirst for life. Kill or be killed. That is the only command. The only truth.’

  Nikon sat glued to the pict viewer as his Thunderhawk banked low over a row of decimated structures. Zurcon Primus was burning, its armies broken and scattered, butchered by the Flesh Tearers, who had set upon the world like violence-starved murderers. Through the eyes of the gunship’s sensoria, Nikon snatched glimpses of Amit’s warriors, their crimson armour caked in blood and viscera, coated in the excesses of savage, close-quarter killing. Nikon felt a twisting sickness in his gut. He was no sinless novitiate; all war was ugly. Yet the Flesh Tearers persecution of Zurcon seemed a far cry from the righteous campaigns Nikon had fought in the name of Emperor and primarch.

  The snap-din of small arms fire rang out against the craft’s hull as they soared past a unit of dug-in Zurconians. Nikon watched as a squad of Flesh Tearers advanced on them, their bolters silent. The Zurconians would die on the edge of a blade.

  Nikon shook his head and looked away. ‘Do we have a fix on Amit’s location yet?’

  ‘Yes. He’s headed for the central palace, here,’ Sergeant Erastos said, manipulating the controls of the Thunderhawk’s onboard hololith. In response, the image of a red stone building resolved into view. It was a grand structure, comprising a central building surrounded by four towering annexes. Opulent domes crested the main building’s roof, a stark aesthetic contrast to the angled tips of the annexes. A high wall of reinforced rockcrete ran around its entire perimeter, sheltering the palace from the city beyond. ‘Captain.’ Erastos lowered his voice. ‘The building occupies the same coordinates that we traced the Zurconian council’s distress signal to.’

  ‘Have we been able to re-establish contact with the council?’

  ‘No,’ said Erastos. ‘We’ve been unable to detect any communications coming from the structure since we breached the planet’s atmosphere.’

  ‘Do we have a schematic of the interior? Any clue as to where in the building the council might be?’

  Erastos shook his head. ‘Our scans have been unable to penetrate the structure.’

  Nikon nodded slowly, his face troubled. ‘Pilot,’ he said over the internal comm. ‘Set us down here.’ Nikon tapped the hololith, indicating a wide avenue just beyond the wall’s perimeter.

  ‘Understood. Compliance,’ the pilot-servitor’s mechanical voice crackled back over the vox-unit mounted on the ceiling.

  ‘Sergeant,’ Nikon said to Erastos, ‘have the rest of the company hold positions around the perimeter.’ Nikon drew his finger through the hololith, indicating the cordon he wanted the Eagle Warriors to form around the palace.

  Erastos nodded and relayed Nikon’s instructions.

  Nikon sat uneasy in his chair. There were too many unknowns, too many questions that needed answers. He took a slow breath and focused on the rumble of the gunship’s engine, letting its familiar wash calm his mind. He was there now, his Eagle Warriors committed to battle. Whatever answers awaited them on the ground, they would face them with honour and courage. They would do their duty.

  ‘One minute to insertion.’ The pilot’s voice stirred Nikon from his reverie.

  As one, he and his honour squad, Aiaxis, deactivated the mag-harnesses holding them in place and rose from their seats to assemble by the assault ramp.

  ‘In Guilliman’s name, we go forth,’ said Nikon.

  ‘In Guilliman’s name, we bring justice,’ the five members of Aiaxis said as one, finishing the rite of insertion.

  The Thunderhawk juddered as it touched down, the roar of its engines deafening as they arrested its hurried descent.

  ‘Go,’ cried Erastos, depressing the hatch release.

  Nikon crashed his fist against his breastplate and led Aiaxis down the ramp and out onto Zurconian soil. The Eagle Warriors fanned out, their weapons panning for targets.

  ‘Site secure, captain,’ said Erastos. It was an odd statement, incongruous with the war-scape that greeted the Eagle Warriors. Yet so far, they were the target of none of the violence enveloping the city around them.

  Nikon nodded, noting each of his bodyguard as the sergeant and the other four members of Aiaxis formed up around him: reliable Brother Acacius, his armour polished to a parade-sheen; the standard bearer, Ligeia, company banner held aloft in his left hand, a power fist bunched in the other; Apothecary Hilarion; and hulking Galenos, who wielded his heavy bolter as though it were a fraction of its true weight. Erastos made to advance.

  ‘Wait,’ said Nikon, holding up a hand. />
  ‘What is it?’ asked Erastos.

  ‘It sounds…’ Nikon paused, struggling to find the word. ‘Wrong.’

  The sergeant nodded in agreement, stooping to examine a mutilated corpse. ‘There are no wounded.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Erastos.

  Nikon strained his ears, letting his mind filter out the chatter of weapons fire. Behind it, he heard the roar of the Flesh Tearers, the defiant cries of the Zurconians and the rumble of vehicles. Beyond that, there was nothing. No sobbing. No desperate prayers. No agonised, rasping breaths or the sound of blood filling a man’s throat and lungs as his body shut down. Amit’s warriors were butchering with ruthless efficiency. Nikon scanned the battlefield. Pockets of Flesh Tearers were scattered in every direction. There was no cohesion, no forward momentum. They didn’t seek to take ground or secure positions. They killed. They just killed.

  Nikon’s features hardened. ‘All squads, hold position,’ he said over the company-wide channel. ‘Defend yourselves, brothers. But do not engage unless I give the order.’ Nikon tightened his grip on his gladius. It was an order he hoped he would not have to give. The Flesh Tearers outnumbered his warriors almost three to one. His Eagle Warriors would die if pitted against Amit’s butchers.

  ‘Guilliman grant me the strength to do what I must.’ Nikon whispered the axiom, thankful that, for the moment at least, the Flesh Tearers seemed content to ignore his presence in favour of killing the Zurconians.

  A series of confirmations flashed on Nikon’s helm display. ‘Ready, sergeant?’ He turned to Erastos and squad Aiaxis.

  ‘Aiaxis will not fail you, captain.’ Erastos clamped his fist to his breastplate.

  ‘Then for Guilliman, and the Emperor, with me.’

  Nikon and his honour guard broke into a run towards the palace. There would be no stopping. No snap-shots loosed or enemies engaged. If they were to reach Amit before he finished his bloody work, they had no time to spare. They ran across the embattled avenue, ignorant of the stray shells and laser blasts that scarred their armour. Nikon felt every ounce of his martial honour rail against him as they moved past a huddle of civilians, his nostrils thick with the smell of their deaths as the Flesh Tearers put them to flame. On and on they ran, a fleeting audience to the mayhem and carnage consuming the world.