by John French
‘Send it,’ Perturabo had said, and the signal had reached out to the Conqueror.
‘This is the voice of Perturabo, Lord of the Fourth Legion. I come from Horus, Warmaster of the New Imperium, with a message of his will. We come as brothers in blood and war.’
A reply had come, scratching with static from being bounced through atmosphere to a ship and then from ship to ship.
‘This is no place for you,’ it had said in a halting growl. ‘Leave us. Go.’ Then it had cut out, and no further word had come. The World Eaters ships had not tried to stop them as the Iron Blood and its sisters had moved into Deluge’s orbit. They had stayed close, though, approaching within hundreds of metres of the Iron Warriors, their guns primed, like wild dogs running beside a rival pack. The Iron Warriors had dropped in a single wave, five thousand warriors, armour and materiel roaring down through smoke and storm clouds to stand on a murdered world. Argonis had not asked why they went arrayed for battle. The answer was obvious: they might need to fight. On the surface they had moved and deployed with a swift efficiency that Argonis had only just been able to follow. War machines had been positioned, defence lines erected and munitions sighted without Perturabo speaking a word. It was like watching the cogs of a machine turn.
‘We are here to bring them to the Warmaster, not to slaughter them,’ Argonis had said. Perturabo had looked at him for a long moment.
‘Words will fail here,’ he said. ‘You can taste that truth in the rain. Battle is the only dialogue that my brother will hear.’
Beneath the rain Argonis shook his head and was about to speak again when a hiss and scrape of metal made him turn. The hunched shape of Volk stood behind Perturabo, standing almost as tall as the primarch now. He was pointing into the distance with a hand of blades. Argonis looked in that direction. At first he saw nothing, and then his eyes found it, a shadow amidst the grey streaks and smoke. It walked closer, its movements slow but somehow awkward, as though it were forcing itself to move that slowly.
Guns rose as the figure drew closer. It kept walking. Argonis could see it more clearly now: a lone warrior in plate and helm, caked in blood and ash. More guns rattled to alert and turned to cover the warrior. No one spoke. The figure began to climb the hill of rubble then stopped just beneath the lowest palisade. He looked along the plasteel barrier, at the levelled guns of the warriors behind it, and then raised his gaze to Perturabo.
‘Leave,’ he said. ‘You should not be here. Go now.’
Argonis recognised him then. They had met before, fought once, even – shared battle zones and command briefings, though he remembered the warrior’s bearing as much as the voice. Still, he could not keep the question out of his own voice as he spoke.
‘Khârn?’
The warrior’s gaze twitched to Argonis, but he did not reply. Rain slid in heavy trickles down the face of his helm. His armour was gore-caked and fire-blackened, the white and blue of its colours all but lost beneath red and black. He held his chainaxe loose at his side, the flesh of his axe-arm bare. Argonis saw the hand twitch on the haft. Chains rattled. He did not look like the warrior that Argonis had known. He looked like something much more fragile, and much more dangerous. The World Eater shivered, then shook his head as though trying to clear it. ‘Go,’ he said again, the words rasping with effort.
‘We come with the Warmaster’s will,’ called Argonis, the words loud but flat in the pattering rain. ‘Where are your brothers? Where is your lord primarch?’
Khârn shook his head once.
‘Leave,’ he said. The chainaxe in his hand gunned to life for an instant. Shreds of meat scattered from the teeth.
‘Your ships let us land,’ said Argonis. ‘We are here because the Warmaster calls you to play your part in the fall of the False Imperium. You are called to the gates of Terra.’
A slow breath hissed from Khârn’s speaker-grille.
‘Khârn, listen to me,’ said Argonis. ‘Angron must–’
‘He is dying,’ roared Khârn. The chainaxe spun to life, and Argonis thought he could see the effort of will vibrate through Khârn as he kept it still at his side. He was breathing hard, the sound rasping from his speaker-grille. ‘This is all that is… keeping him here.’ He jerked his head at the flames rising from the death pits. ‘We did it for him. I did it for him.’
The display of Argonis’ helm began to ping with warnings fed from the auspex systems of the Iron Warriors tanks.
There were things moving towards them behind the veil of rain and the wash of flame. Countless things, moving fast.
‘They will come…’ said Khârn. Every word now seemed an effort. ‘If you do not leave… now, they will come.’
Perturabo turned his head slightly and nodded. The Iron Circle closed around him, shields locking. Every weapon across the hillside armed with a buzz of charge and a clatter of cycling breeches. He looked back to Khârn.
‘Let them come,’ he said.
Behind Khârn, the first of the World Eaters broke through the curtain of rain with a roar of fury.
Fulgrim and Lorgar clash
Fourteen
Ekaddon
The sirens shouted in time with the boom and roar of the ship. Ekaddon ran through the red-sliced dark. Behind him, Maloghurst limped. The rest of the squad was strung out down the passage behind them in loose battle order. That was bad; you did not just run through a ship under battle condition, especially when you had to count almost everyone on board as a potential enemy. They had no choice, though. Time and speed was everything.
‘The Blood Angels have punched through the Seventeenth Company cordon,’ said Kobarak.
‘That’s not good,’ wheezed Maloghurst. ‘There will be reinforcements flooding into these sections soon.’
Ekaddon did not reply.
‘Two hundred metres to the hoist shaft,’ said Kobarak.
‘They will have shut that down as soon as the Blood Angels breached the hull.’
‘It will be working if we can reach it within the next five minutes,’ said Ekaddon, watching the runes dance in his sight, marking their route through the ship. ‘The tech-witch guaranteed it.’
‘But not if we miss that window of time,’ said Maloghurst, an edge of humour in the rasp of his voice.
Ekaddon was about to reply when an explosion punched through the side of the corridor ahead of them. The blast wave picked him up and slammed him into the wall. Ceramite cracked. Warning runes and static filled his vision. He hit the floor, rising even before his sight cleared. Shreds of metal pinged off his armour. A figure was stepping from the torn ruin of a door. Flame light licked over the crimson of its war-plate. Jet blood marked the edge of its pauldron, and its face was a serene mask of silver. The sword in its hand shone with lightning from winged crossguard to tip. On its chest was the winged skull that had begun to spread amongst the Legions still loyal to the Emperor. The Pax Imperialis, they called it, and the warrior who wore it was of the IX Legion, a son of Sanguinius, a Blood Angel.
Ekaddon brought his pistol up to fire. The Blood Angel’s sword-cut split the pistol just behind the barrel. The explosion ripped Ekaddon’s hand apart. Pain speared through him for an instant before his body blanked it out. He jerked back in time to avoid the Blood Angel’s second cut.
So fast, so fluid, thought a part of his mind even as his power knife lit in his hand. Blood scattered from the stump of his wrist as he moved. His squad brothers were moving in the corridor behind him, but for this second he did not care. He was a commander, a warlord, but in this moment he was a son of Cthonia as much as a son of Horus. Death, swift and brutal, delivered without hesitation, that was what he had learnt in the dark warrens of the home world, and that was what had given him everything he had. It did not fail him now.
A bolt-round tore past him as one of his squad fired. The Blood Angel staggered as the shell burst in the ai
r beside him. Ekaddon took the opening and leapt the last metre of space separating them. The Blood Angel brought his sword around in an upward cut that would have split Ekaddon from hip to collar. Would have, if it had begun a fraction of a second before. Ekaddon landed inside the Blood Angel’s swing. The pommel of the sword clashed against his side. He slammed the elbow of his ruined arm into the Blood Angel’s silver face, then stabbed up, knife arm pistoning. Just like the old times, when he and Argonis had walked from the tunnels with red arms to dump their death coins at their chieftain’s feet.
Ceramite and bone exploded under the knife’s power field. A flurry of bolter fire came from the breached door through which the Blood Angel had emerged. There were others there, other figures in red armour. Ekaddon rammed the Blood Angel back, still stabbing, blood burning to smoke on the knife’s power field. Two of his squad brothers were behind him now, close in, firing over his shoulders as he ploughed forwards, shoving the dying Blood Angel into his squad mates.
‘Grenades,’ he called into the vox. A second later, a trio of grenades lobbed past him as he pivoted back into the corridor. The blast blew a fresh gout of flame past him. ‘Withdraw!’ he shouted.
He began to run, looking back to check that Maloghurst was still with them. The equerry was three paces behind him, his twisted frame turning his run into a loping hobble.
‘We have to reach the lift-hoist in–’ began Maloghurst.
‘I know!’ growled Ekaddon. Further down the corridor red-clad warriors stepped from the smoke and flame. They fired. Another man in Ekaddon’s squad went down, his legs torn out from under him.
‘Captain,’ said Kobarak over the vox. Part of Ekaddon’s pain-soaked brain noted that the signals specialist was still alive. ‘Primary command signal traffic indicates that Lord Kibre has committed two-thirds of the Justaerin to a boarding action against the enemy star forts. They are moving to the teleportation chambers now.’
Perfect timing, thought Ekaddon. He did not know how Maloghurst and the daemon creature had engineered such fortune.
‘It will mean nothing if we can’t reach the throne room,’ said Maloghurst, as if answering his thoughts.
More gunfire came from behind them. He glanced back. The rearmost pair in the squad had dropped to one knee on either side of the passage and were firing down it in synchronised bursts. There were red warriors lying on the floor, blood lacquering their armour to a gloss shine.
The blast doors to the lift-hoist were just ten paces in front of them. Yellow-and-black chevrons marked their closed teeth. Kobarak sprinted past him to the controls. Maloghurst slowed.
‘The doors will not open,’ called Kobarak.
‘The tech-witch has betrayed us,’ snarled Ekaddon. The sensation from his arm was starting to eat through the pain suppressors in his blood.
Kobarak shook his head, fingers moving over the control keys set in a panel beside the doors. ‘Someone has overridden the hoist already. It is in motion… Someone is coming down.’
Ekaddon turned to look at Maloghurst, his mouth forming the question.
A booming thud shuddered from the passage they had come down.
Ekaddon turned from the doors. His two warriors were firing back into the Blood Angels. Something was moving beyond the flare of gunfire. The deck shook again. He felt his teeth shake in his jaws. He knew that sensation, knew it from hundreds of battlefields.
‘Dreadnought,’ he shouted.
A tongue of stuttering fire ripped down the corridor towards them. The two kneeling Reavers became tatters of bone and armour. A roar filled Ekaddon’s ears, purring and sawing as the line of fire reached towards them.
The Dreadnought stepped through the curtain of smoke. It made no pretence of aping the human form. Its torso was a block of machinery set on piston-driven legs. Slabs of armour covered its front. Silver blood drops gleamed amongst the scorches and bullet marks. The cannon mounted on its right arm keened as it spun.
Ekaddon dived aside a second before fire spat from the cannon. Maloghurst was not as quick. A cluster of shells ripped through his left leg as he ducked back. He fell, blood scattering, as the torrent of fire panned away from him. Another of Ekaddon’s squad was caught in the open and sawn in two.
Ekaddon rolled as he struck the deck, and came up beside the hoist doors. Kobarak was beside him, not bothering to take cover but still working at the lift-hoist controls.
‘It is almost here,’ called Kobarak. ‘I cannot stop it.’
‘Just get the doors open or it won’t matter.’
The Dreadnought’s cannon fell silent. Ekaddon could hear the hiss of liquid coolant fighting to quench the still-spinning barrels. Pistons slammed its feet into the deck as it came forwards. There were Blood Angels in the passage behind it now, running up behind the cover of its bulk. The remainder of his squad opened fire. Rounds smacked into the Dreadnought’s front and burned into the space behind it.
The autoloader in its cannon arm cycled with a thud of metal on metal.
Ekaddon smiled behind his faceplate. So this was how it was going to end: not in battle in the heart of the Emperor’s domain, not with a knife from behind or a bolt shell delivered for betrayal, but here in a half-forgotten corridor. He was almost disappointed.
Beside him the doors of the lift-hoist clanked and began to open.
The Dreadnought seemed to pause, its bulk twitching as it shifted aim.
Ice prickled across Ekaddon’s skin. Figures stepped from the opening beside him. He saw armour that was the black of soot and the touch of fire. He saw frost spread across the deck beneath their feet.
Furnace light shone from their eyes and the joins in their armour. Ekaddon could feel the touch of the warp on his skin. The taste of blood filled his mouth as he looked at them. There were three of them, but their presence filled the space before the doors. They were of the Luperci, and the daemons within their souls had risen from their hearts. Claws grew from their hands. Their helms cracked and elongated. Jaws opened across their faceplates, and heat breathed between burnt-iron fangs. At their head walked a bareheaded warrior. The lines of Grael Noctua’s face were gone. A grinning skull glowed from beneath translucent skin. Twin horns rose from its brow. Tattered light coiled in its wake.
‘Murder,’ said Tormageddon in a voice that shivered from the back of Ekaddon’s skull. The three Luperci bounded forwards.
The Dreadnought fired. Flames breathed from its cannon. Brass casings sang as they struck the deck. The Luperci were one stride into their charge, legs elongating, armour flowing like muscle. The cannon rounds hit them head on and vanished.
Ekaddon heard screams fill his skull, and for a second he thought he saw ghost impressions of faces swirling in the dark around the Luperci, jaws wide to swallow the bullets from the air. The twin-souled creatures took another step and leapt. The Dreadnought twisted to track them, its piston fist rising. Bullets tore into the passage walls. Bolter fire rose from the Blood Angels behind the Dreadnought. The Luperci landed on the front of the machine. The Dreadnought twisted, trying to throw them off as they buried talons in its armoured skin. They tore at it, worrying and rending. The red lacquer of its armour blistered and charred beneath them. Sparks and burning oil fell from its form.
Ekaddon pulled himself up, his knife still in his hand, his head filled with screams and the pain of his wounds.
Tormageddon was sliding past him towards the Dreadnought, unhurried. For a second, Ekaddon felt instinct scream at him to bury his blade in the thing’s throat. Tormageddon turned its head to look at him. Fire flowed beneath the skin, and blackness filled the sockets that were its eyes.
‘Maloghurst,’ it said. Ekaddon’s head snapped around, eyes going to where the equerry lay at the side of the passage. A black pool glistened around him, spreading wider.
The equerry had pulled himself half-upright. He was still, though, the
fingers of a bloody hand splayed against the wall. Ekaddon ran to him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tormageddon move towards the Dreadnought, gaining speed, a lightning-shot pressure wave building in front of him. The Dreadnought managed to clamp its fist around one of the Luperci. Chisel fingers slammed together. Armour shattered. Warped flesh became slime. A shock wave of screaming light flashed out.
Ekaddon reached Maloghurst and dropped to his knee. He put a hand on the equerry’s shoulder.
‘Maloghurst!’ he shouted. There was no response. He pulled Maloghurst’s helm off. The face beneath was pale, the eyes closed. A fresh stream of blood ran down the equerry’s chin from the corner of his mouth.
‘Maloghurst, you old bastard, this is not the time to die.’
A high shriek filled the corridor. Ekaddon looked around in time to see Tormageddon reach the Dreadnought. Its hands were bunches of glowing blades. The air around it was a vortex of red-smeared light. The two Luperci leapt from the machine’s casing just before Tormageddon struck. The Dreadnought was torn and dented but still swung its fist at this new enemy. Tormageddon met the swing with a twitch. An invisible wave slammed into the Dreadnought. The fist juddered as though pushing through rock.
‘Kalus…’ The whisper reached up to Ekaddon, and his gaze snapped back to Maloghurst. Eyelids fluttered open over pale eyes. ‘Get me up, Kalus. Get me to the throne room.’ For a second Ekaddon did not move. Perhaps it was the sound of his given name coming from the equerry’s mouth, perhaps it was the effort and control in the plea, but he felt something he did not understand.
‘Get up then,’ he growled, and looped an arm under Maloghurst’s shoulder. Fresh blood poured out of the torn stump of Maloghurst’s left leg. There were wounds in his lower belly too, raw punctures through ceramite and meat. A mortal would already be dead, would have been dead from the first impacts, in fact. A Space Marine too. But Maloghurst gurgled bloody foam from his mouth and tensed to take his weight on his remaining foot.
