Sabbat Crusade

by Dan Abnett

  That might as well be all I have, Gol thought, and switched to full auto.

  Beside him, Luffrey shuddered and dropped, eviscerated by a blade of shadow. Coils of pink, wet intestines squirted out of his belly onto the black mulch like paste from a tube.

  ‘Holy Feth!’ Gol cried.

  His voice made no sound. He couldn’t hear himself.

  The world had fallen silent. It had been muted.

  It had frozen, hushed, in shadow.

  In the sudden silence, Gol Kolea felt cold breath against his cheek.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘What are you?’

  ‘I am here,’ a voice replied. Each word sounded like a slow scrape of chalk on paper.

  A black shadow prowled around him in the darkness, angular, impossible, anti-geometric.

  ‘What are you?’ Gol repeated, frantically.

  ‘I,’ the black shadow whispered, ‘am the Voice of Sek.’ Again, the awful dry scrape of broken chalk. The thing’s voice was impossibly loud, but Gol was sure only he could hear it.

  ‘Bring me the eagle stones,’ scraped the shadow, at his side and yet far away at the same time, ‘or your child will perish.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Gol snarled. ‘Leave her alone!’

  Something scratched in the darkness. A chuckle. A scribbled shadow circled him.

  ‘You think you can have your damaged mind healed by the touch of a weakling Imperial saint,’ the shadow scratched, ‘and not become, by the same process, a conduit for daemons?’

  ‘Get out of my head!’

  ‘Bring them to me!’ the voice dry-scraped.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me!’ Gol declared. He could smell chalk dust.

  ‘You will, Gol Kolea. You will come to understand. Do it, or the bad shadow will fall upon you once more. I will fall upon you and your offspring.’

  In the darkness, a black mouth open and smiled.

  ‘You bastard!’ Kolea yelled, and resumed firing.

  XII

  They had blown the undergrowth to pieces with their gunfire. Sap dripped from broken and torn shoots.

  ‘Cease fire,’ Kolea said.

  They were all spent anyway.

  ‘What just happened?’ Baskevyl asked, looking at the two corpses tangled on the ground. One was gutted, the other had no head.

  ‘Luff!’ Rerval cried, falling to his knees beside his friend’s body. ‘Oh no! Oh fething feth! No!’

  ‘Abort this mission,’ said Kolea. ‘Abort it right now.’

  XIII

  The old lamps set into the walls of the Highness Ser Armaduke’s stark debrief room hummed and fizzled, their shades yellowed with age.

  Ibram Gaunt scrolled through the data-slate again, and then set it down.

  ‘So, you aborted the mission, major?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, sir,’ Kolea replied, standing to attention in front of the metal table.

  ‘Do you consider that a prudent command choice, major?’ asked Commissar Hark, sitting at Gaunt’s left.

  ‘I do, sir,’ Gol replied. ‘It should have been routine, but two deaths. A thing–’

  ‘You describe it as a daemon, sir,’ said Shipmaster Spika, sitting at Gaunt’s right.

  ‘I know no other word for what I saw and sensed and felt, shipmaster,’ Gol replied. ‘It spoke. It killed. It had no form except shadow. We shot at it, with multiple barrages. It did not die.’

  Silence. Gol felt he should add more.

  ‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘I appreciate with full concern our lack of munitions. I really do. We stand in a bit of a fix without resupply. Do not suppose for a moment that I would have aborted lightly. But in all good conscience, I could not continue. Lives were taken, and I supposed that more lives would have been taken if I had tried to continue.’

  ‘That is reasonable,’ said Hark.

  ‘One of yours, one of mine,’ Gaunt said to Spika. The shipmaster nodded.

  ‘Sir,’ Gol said to Spika. ‘If I could have in any way protected your man, I would have. It was so sudden. It came upon us so suddenly. Also, if I may say, I aborted because I did not dare risk bringing it back aboard with us.’

  ‘This thing,’ said Gaunt, ‘it said it was the Voice of Sek?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And it wanted something from you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It wanted… what was it? Eagle stones?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Hark.

  ‘I have no idea, Commissar Hark, sir,’ said Gol Kolea.

  ‘Do we have any data on that?’ Gaunt asked Hark. ‘Eagle stones?’

  ‘Nothing, Ibram.’

  ‘Major Kolea,’ said Gaunt, ‘is there anything you’ve left out or omitted from your report?’

  Gol paused. Of course there is, he thought. The fact that it knew my name, and that I had children. The fact that everything matched Yoncy’s drawing. The fact that it called me a conduit for daemons. How can I tell you that? How can I tell you those things and not have you execute me where I stand? I cannot speak of them, because if I am dead, executed for heresy, who will protect my children? Or will you just execute them, too, or hand them to the Black Ships? Who will know enough to protect the Ghosts? I will deny this darkness, this shadow. I am strong. I am Gol Kolea. The Saint herself has touched me and blessed me. I will protect my family and the regiment from this. It will be my personal, private duty, and I will not fail.

  ‘No, sirs,’ Gol said.

  Gaunt glanced at Hark. Hark nodded. Then Gaunt looked at Spika, who shook his head.

  Gaunt looked up at Kolea.

  ‘Despite the parlous state of our operational supply levels,’ he said, ‘we support your decision. Given the circumstances, it was right to abort. Major Baskevyl has vouched for you, and we take that seriously. We also respect your command choices on the ground. No charges will be pending.’

  ‘Thank you, sirs,’ Kolea said.

  ‘You made the best decision, Gol,’ said Hark, ‘under terrible circumstances. We’re backing you. There will be no mark on your service record.’

  ‘I am gratified by your support, sirs,’ said Kolea.

  ‘Shipmaster?’ said Gaunt, turning to Spika. ‘Supply depot Aigor 991 is no longer viable. Have your gunnery officers annihilate the site, and process that information through Battlefleet channels.’

  ‘I will,’ said Spika.

  ‘Full batteries,’ Gaunt advised. ‘Burn that site.’

  ‘I’ll raze the whole damned landmass, sir,’ Spika replied. ‘For my man Arskil, if nothing else.’

  ‘He was a good man, shipmaster,’ Kolea said.

  Spika paused. ‘Really? I always thought he was a bit of a pompous fool.’

  ‘I was just being respectful,’ said Gol.

  ‘And I should too, major,’ Spika said, rising. ‘The man’s dead. He was crew. I shouldn’t bad-mouth him.’

  ‘He died well, in the service of the God-Emperor,’ said Gol.

  ‘Did he?’ asked Spika.

  ‘No,’ sighed Gol. ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘He was slain by darkness,’ sighed Spika. ‘Pompous fool or not, he didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Nobody deserves that,’ said Kolea.

  ‘Dismissed, major,’ said Hark.

  Gol Kolea made the sign of the aquila, turned smartly, and left the cabin.

  XIV

  He was halfway down the companionway outside when he heard Gaunt call his name. Gol stopped and turned. Gaunt approached him.

  ‘Gol?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It was a bad situation, sir,’ Gol said.

  Gaunt put a hand on Gol’s shoulder. It was reassuring, but oddly uncomfortable. Gau
nt seldom showed connection like this.

  ‘Gol,’ said Gaunt quietly. ‘Gol, we’ve been together for an age now. Since Vervunhive. I think you’re… You’re the most foursquare and dependable officer I have in my command.’

  ‘Sir–’

  ‘I mean it, Gol,’ said Gaunt. ‘I am blessed with fine company officers. Bask. Daur. Kolosim. Obel. Sloman. Elam. Shoggy. Rags. Theiss. Arcuda… Rawne.’

  ‘Even him, sir?’

  Gaunt smiled.

  ‘Of course, even him,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you,’ said Gaunt, ‘you are the rock. The core. The foundation. You have, in a way, filled the void Corbec left. You are rooted. You are true. I depend on you more than I depend on any other company commander.’

  ‘I am honoured that you say that, sir,’ said Kolea.

  ‘So if you need me,’ said Gaunt, ‘if you want to talk to me, off the record. If there’s anything, anything at all, I need you to know that you can come to me with it.’

  ‘I appreciate your words, sir, very much,’ said Kolea.

  ‘Good,’ said Gaunt. ‘Gol, is there anything else about the circumstances of Aigor 991 that you want to tell me about? Man to man, not subordinate to commander? Just two men talking? Two friends?’

  Gol Kolea thought about the drawing in his pocket. He wanted to take it out, unfold it, and show it to Gaunt, whom he loved and admired above all other men.

  But the consequences. The consequences. To those he loved most. The inevitable outcome. The inevitable Imperial outcome.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your frankness, but no, sir.’

  Gaunt nodded.

  ‘Sir,’ said Kolea. ‘May I enquire… where are we headed next?’

  ‘Urdesh,’ replied Gaunt. ‘The forge world.’

  ‘Urdesh,’ Kolea echoed. ‘Well, I look forward to serving you there, sir.’

  Gaunt patted him on the arm, and nodded.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Gaunt turned and walked away.

  Gol began walking towards the troop billets, his head down, a weight upon him that he wasn’t sure would ever lift. He had a battle ahead of him, and the battle wasn’t Urdesh.

  In the patchy ghost light of the companionway’s glow-globes, he cast a bad shadow behind him.

  Aaron Dembski-Bowden needs no introduction, but here’s one anyway. His work simply always rocks. We’re friends. We think the same way (god help us both). We are like-minded in our vision of the ol’ grimdark. His contribution to the last anthology was nothing less than the death of Warmaster Slaydo. I guess I trust him enough to play with the toys.

  Here, he does Blood Pact, in his own, distinctive fashion, and nails it. And this story falls right in the continuity groove. 782.M41. Between Salvation’s Reach and The Warmaster…

  Dan Abnett

  Arnogaur

  Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  Urdesh, Southern Continent, the Serechan Expanse,

  the Foundry City ‘Xavec’, 782.M41

  (the 27th Year of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade)

  I

  The crew of the Strygora came for Erec while he was taking a piss. Tomorrow would be too late, for tomorrow was the battle – they needed him dead before dawn. It had to be tonight and it had to be unseen.

  Reaching him in the heart of the encampment wasn’t easy. Murder between crews was an act punishable by crucifixion, and they could hardly cut his throat and hope his body would go unfound. If killing him in the field had been an option, he’d have been dead for a year. Similarly, it would have aroused suspicion if they’d simply followed him through the camp of barbed wire and flakboard, only for him to show up dead mere hours later. They had to walk away from the deed as innocently as they’d walked into it.

  Guards were everywhere. Guards with scruffy lasguns clutched to their chests, their eyes keen and untrusting. Guards who were only your brothers on the battlefield, and who were all too eager to string you up and let you hang if you violated the laws of the Pact.

  To get to Erec, the crew of the Strygora had to wade their slow and sloshing way through the latrine trenches at the encampment’s western edge, their boots and trousers soaked in the knee-deep filth. They carried ritual knives in hands marked with sacred scars, and hid their faces beneath grotesques of twisted brass. Thus prepared, they went hunting through the sluggish, semi-liquid waste of several thousand men, women and monsters.

  They melted out of the darkness when they were sure Erec was most distracted, garrotting him with a wet bootstrap to keep him from crying out. The leather cord slid taut against his throat beneath the snarling bronze visage of his own grotesque, denying him any last words. His eyes widened, piggish and panicked, as slaughter came from the shadows.

  The first knife slid home into his back, immediately severing his spine with a sensation of sick, icy pressure rather than the sharp kiss of pain. The second knife stuck in his belly at an awkward angle, a killing blow missed, before it began sawing its crooked way across his stomach. The first blade crippled him, the second disembowelled him. His attackers were carving him open even as they strangled him.

  He sagged back into the clutches of his killers as the slick ropes of his innards tumbled out in a wet spill onto the boots of the men that had come to murder him.

  Neither of the knives killed him. The crew of the Strygora held him in that murderous embrace, hissing with bent-toothed laughter in the dark, cooing softly into his masked face, letting him die a strangling death in their arms.

  Once their prey ceased his futile struggling, they made ready to ruin his flesh forever. Their urgency was such that they couldn’t just wait for decay – the meat had to be spoiled at once. Dead men did indeed tell tales, and the poetic verse that claimed otherwise was one of the galaxy’s great lies.

  They used their knives on Erec’s lifeless eyes before casting his defiled corpse into the waste trench.

  Satisfied that at least one dead man would tell no tales, the Strygora’s crew waded into the filth and slunk back the way they had come.

  II

  Erec’s last journey was a slow and sedate one. He drifted along the vile, shallow river for almost half an hour, face down in the filth, until he was finally dragged from the waste trench by the fumbling hands and crunching industrial claws of two desecrated servitors. The cyborged slaves hauled the carcass onto dry ground and pulsed a summons as soon as their rudimentary visual acuity made note of the scars on the body’s hands. Their dull and scarcely sentient brains had been triggered by one of the only sins they were capable of recognising: Blood Pact had killed Blood Pact.

  Nautakah Arnogaur was summoned.

  III

  Nautakah Arnogaur had sworn the Blood Pact four years before setting foot on this blighted, lost world. Like all of Urlock Gaur’s warrior elite, he’d made the Pact by dragging his palm across the Archon’s jagged armour plating, splitting his skin and leaving a smear of blood as both a promise and an offering.

  Unlike most, however, he’d looked Gaur in the eyes while doing it. More than that, he’d looked down at the Archon. Despite his many gifts and blessings, Urlock Gaur, Overlord of the Blood Pact, was still human. Nautakah was not.

  When he closed his eyes now he could see the treacly smear of his own blood across the Archon’s breastplate. He would never forget the way his blood had glittered against the beaten bronze symbol cast upon the Overlord’s armoured chest. Nor would he forget the chanting of the nearby Red Priests in their surplices like gore-splattered aprons, moaning in divine tongues that held no meaning to mortal minds. Some of the words sounded like Nagrakali, the tongue of his former brethren, but he found sense in only one word among every ten. If the language was related to Nagrakali, it had rotted on the vine and fallen far from its roots.

  He could even summon the smell of
that night to memory – the vascular, syrupy sweetness of fresh death and sacrificed life. It was the smell of a god’s smile.

  Nautakah was to be Arnogaur. One who swore the Pact, yet stood apart from its disciplined human legions. This fate had pleased him then, and it pleased him still.

  ‘Blood,’ Nautakah had promised the Archon, ‘for the Blood God.’

  IV

  The Arnogaur looked down at the carcass, ignoring the stink that rose from Erec’s riven remains. Other Blood Pact – true human Pacted soldiers – gathered around the towering figure and the corpse he watched over. These Nautakah dismissed with a curt gesture of an armoured hand, the motion setting the joints of his armour growling in a rough, mechanical purr. Like the other Blood Pact, his armour was a dark and dull red, coloured by bloodshed and battle as much as by mundane paint, encrusted with brass runes depicting the Blood God’s vigilant stare. Yet where their wargear was mere metal bolted onto cloth in mimicry of the Imperial Guard, his was an enclosing suit of powered ceramite, first forged when the Imperium itself was young.

  A newer sigil adorned his shoulder guard, showing the sacred world of Hagia cast in consecrated bronze, caught in a maw of closing ivory jaws.

  The body of the dead officer showed the pitiful borders of human superstition, even among the Blood Pact. Its saturation in the waste trenches had soured its blood beyond use, that was true, while its eyes had been completely removed. Both acts echoed back to the tribal beliefs of the Sanguinary Worlds, where the Pact was first born in the wake of great omens and bleak, bloody prophecies. A man’s blood carried the truth of his life from cradle to grave, and his eyes were windows that bore his last visions before death. So the tribes – and the murder-handed shamans that led them – believed. Such beliefs filtered through the modern Blood Pact even decades later.

  Nautakah was not about to disabuse them of this quaint fallacy. Rather than work here where countless prying eyes might bear witness, he lifted the body by its stringy hair and hauled it over his shoulder. Foulness ran in insipid trickles down his armour, but his mind was elsewhere, focused on the task at hand.