by Various
‘Shall we redirect fire?’
‘Negative,’ snapped Marcus. ‘Concentrate all weapons on the field generator. Our void shields can weather the enemy attack. Our Titans will respond.’
The Contemptuous shook as it unleashed a full barrage from its cannons and heavy weapons. Half a kilometre ahead, the generator complex exploded into a micro-storm as the lightning field detonated, sending rockcrete and gobbets of molten metal hundreds of metres into the air amongst arcing shafts of energy.
A triumphant shout across the command deck was silenced by a call from the sensorium tribune.
‘Warp missile, vice-Caesari!’
The sub-screen zoomed in on one of the traitor Titan’s carapace weapon hard points. A missile ten metres long launched in a plume of blue fire. It covered the first hundred metres in seconds before its miniature warp engine activated. The missile disappeared for a moment, leaving nothing more than a contrail of wavering white and green warp energy. A second later it reappeared, less than two hundred metres from the Contemptuous.
‘Brace for impact!’ roared Valerius as the incoming ordnance skipped into the warp again.
The vice-Caesari grabbed hold of the command console as the warp missile appeared inside the Capital Imperialis’s void shields and detonated. Valerius was flung to the deck as the Contemptuous rocked on its tracks, teetering for a long moment before crashing back onto the road.
Warning sirens blared, deafening Valerius as he pushed himself to his feet. Blood streamed down his face from a cut on his brow. He wiped it away with the frocked sleeve of his shirt.
‘Damage control. Return fire.’
‘Vice-Caesari, we have confirmation – the lightning field is down,’ reported one of the tribunes. ‘Shall we commit the reserves?’
Marcus was on the verge of issuing the order, knowing that any significant delay risked the enemy recovering from the lightning field’s failure, delaying the assault on the anti-orbital guns. His men and their allies were dying in the hundreds to push on, but their deaths would be for nothing if the batteries on the far side were not secured.
He was about to contact Antonius when his personal link chimed. To Marcus’s surprise, it was his brother.
‘Vice-Caesari, we are detecting movement through the ruins of Lavlin. Infantry companies. They are broadcasting Raven Guard Legion authorisation identifiers, and are requesting passage through the line.’
Valerius could barely concentrate amongst the blaring of the klaxons, the barked reports of his tribunes and the throbbing from the wound on his face. ‘Are you sure? I have had no report from the primarch or his commanders that the Legion is operating in this area.’
‘Comm-checks and sensor sweeps confirm a sizeable force of infantry and vehicles moving on our position. Perhaps there has been a change of plan?’
Marcus was taken aback by the news. While it was possible that a contingent of Raven Guard had sent additional forces to join the battle – several of the Legion’s companies were spread across the planet fighting independently, as was Corax’s usual strategy – it stretched credulity to think that he would not be informed of their presence on his battle front.
‘You are sure they are transmitting the appropriate call signs and ident codes?’
‘They are Raven Guard signals, vice-Caesari. A few days old, but they clear our protocol servitors.’
The vision of the many-headed serpent fluttered through Marcus’s thoughts and his gut writhed.
Old call signs. It was more than coincidence. It had to be.
‘The signals are false, Antonius. Open fire.’
‘Brother? You want us to fire on forces sent by the Raven Guard to aid us? Have you gone mad?’
Marcus considered the accusation for a moment, and drew no conclusion one way or the other. Perhaps he was mad, but perhaps not. If the arriving force were enemies then they would have a clear attack into the rear of the Therions. The whole army would have to be pulled back to counter them. Though Marcus was not sure of his sanity, his instincts were screaming at him to be aware of deception. The primarch himself had given strict orders concerning communications security since the crisis at Ravendelve. Marcus was well within his authority.
‘Open fire on approaching forces. Traitors have breached our protocols. This is an enemy attack!’
‘Marcus–’
‘Open fire, or I will have you removed from command!’
The comm went silent. Marcus waited nervously, fidgeting with the red sash across his chest, yet there was no doubt in his mind that he had done the right thing. He watched as the enemy Titan’s void shields flared and failed under the pounding of the main cannon and converging fire from friendly Warlords arriving from all directions.
Nearly three minutes trickled past, during which Marcus was expecting to receive an irate communication from Branne, or perhaps even from Lord Corax himself. He wiped the sweat from his face with the cuff of his jacket and stared at the screens, forcing himself to observe the ongoing battle.
‘Vice-Caesari, reports of fighting on the western flank.’ One of the tribunes delivered the message breathlessly, face reddened with shock. ‘Praefector Antonius has engaged an enemy force of Imperial Army renegades on the outskirts of Lavlin. Reserve phalanx and Titans are moving forward to engage.’
Marcus forced himself to remain calm. He let out a long breath, and spoke in a measured tone. ‘I understand. Send word to all commanders. Focus on the assault. The threat is being dealt with. Any confirmation on the identity of the enemy?’
‘Nothing confirmed, vice-Caesari, but initial visual reports indicate Imperial Army warriors with defaced insignia. Rebels.’
Marcus nodded, the news unsurprising. There were bound to be pockets of enemy resistance everywhere.
‘Send word to Legion command. Inform them that security protocols have been compromised. Recommend immediate evaluation of all forces and plans.’
The comm-link beeped again in his ear.
‘By the Emperor, brother, that was fortunate!’ exclaimed Antonius. ‘I was going to let them walk straight into range and attack us.’
‘Fortune had nothing to do with it, brother,’ Marcus replied before he could stop himself.
‘You knew? Why did you not tell us you suspected a traitor attack?’
What could Marcus say? None save for Pelon knew about the dream, and Marcus was not about to broadcast such confidences to the entire army.
‘Simply prudence, brother, nothing more. Do you need additional forces?’
‘No, vice-Caesari. The Titans and tanks are pushing them back already. Prudence be praised, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
Weary but victorious, Marcus flopped onto his bed. It was past midnight and there were still forces fighting in the city but he could leave the mopping-up to the others. He had received word from Branne that the drop assault upon the enemy bunker complex had been a complete success. Four thousand enemy had been killed and a number of traitor commanders had been captured. Amongst the enemy leaders had been spotted a lone legionnaire from the Alpha Legion who had doubtlessly been coordinating the defence, but the traitor had killed himself rather than be captured. Branne had been earnest in his praise of Marcus and the efforts of his army. The commander had, thankfully, made no mention of Marcus’s timely interception of the Alpha Legion-orchestrated attack.
‘Do you wish to undress, vice-Caesari?’
Marcus had not noticed Pelon, who had been waiting patiently for his master’s return. The attendant stood by the bed, and Marcus sat up and shrugged off his coat.
‘A moment, Pelon,’ he said as the manservant turned towards the wardrobe.
‘Master?’
‘Those scribblings you had. What did you do with them?’
‘I still have them, vice-Caesari.’ Pelon looked crestfallen. ‘I am sorry. Did you wish me to dispose of them?’
‘No, not yet,’ Marcus said quietly.
He thought of the day
’s events and knew that he had to find hope from somewhere. He could not continue simply fighting each battle as it came. The emptiness inside would consume him even if the enemy did not kill him. The lightning field, the warp missile and – most of all – the enemy counter-attack all preyed on his thoughts.
‘Let me see them.’
Pelon delved into his pocket and fished out the sheaf of texts, passing them to his master after a moment’s pause. Fingers tugging at an earlobe, the vice-Caesari began to read under his breath.
‘Love the Emperor, for He is the salvation of Mankind.
Obey His words, for He will lead you into the light of the future.
Heed his wisdom, for He will protect you from evil.
Whisper His prayers with devotion, for they will save your soul.
Honour His servants, for they speak in His voice.
Tremble before His majesty, for we all walk in His immortal shadow...’
Lucius walked beneath a sky torn and shredded by storms. He had died beneath a sky like this, in a shattered temple far from what the XV Legion called – with stultifying literalness – the Planet of the Sorcerers.
The Emperor’s Children had splintered in the wake of Fulgrim’s apotheosis on Iydris. Some had followed the primarch to answer a summons from the Warmaster, while others seized Legion ships to strike out on their own.
But a black mood had all but consumed Lucius since Iydris.
He had died, but that wasn’t why he brooded. He had been beaten.
A Raven named Nykona Sharrowkyn had actually killed him, and had taken no satisfaction from that supremely unlikely feat.
That rankled. That hurt.
Lucius did not know what intervention had brought him back – whether it had been some higher power or the lunatic science of Fabius – and didn’t much care. Now, he had something to prove. To himself more than anyone else.
He was Lucius the swordsman. No one was more skilled with a blade.
Lucius first heard of Sanakht from Hathor Maat, a legionary who reminded Lucius so much of his younger self that he had wanted to kill him there and then. Maat told Lucius that Sanakht was a student of the ancient schools of swordsmanship, a warrior of unsurpassed skill whose defeat remained unseen by the Corvidae’s most gifted scryers.
Lucius didn’t know who the Corvidae were, but was willing to bet that they had not factored him into their visions. And so he had abandoned the rest of his Legion, as much as the rabble Fulgrim left behind could still be called, and set off to find this Sanakht.
The one constant that Lucius came to appreciate of the Crimson King’s adopted home world was that nothing was constant. He had been walking for what felt like forever, but his destination came no closer. Sometimes Sanakht’s tower appeared to be no larger than a gunship, hovering over glassy plains that reflected a sky that did not match the one above. Other times it rose from distant mountains, a stalagmite of such colossal proportions that it was a mountain itself.
It was always just ahead of him, taunting him.
Drawing him on.
Right now, it appeared as a slender minaret of fluted ivory and mother-of-pearl with a cupola that burned in silver fire. It stood amidst a thick forest of trees that writhed with their own sick radiance. Living flames leapt from branch to branch, giggling with childish amusement as the forest grew and fell back, denying him a way through.
‘Scared of me, are you?’ Lucius shouted, and the blue flame at the top of the tower flared brighter in response.
He drew his sword, its blade radiant silver. It had been a gift from his primarch; too noble a weapon for hewing, but a necessity in times of need.
Lucius hacked at the glass trees, shattering glowing limbs to fragments with every swing. He pushed deeper into the glittering forest, shorn branches reforming behind him with the sound of windows breaking in reverse.
The capering flames screeched in annoyance, but Lucius ignored them. They darted in and sought to burn him, but he unhooked the barbed whip that he had lifted from Kalimos and lashed them back.
They squealed and fled its agonising touch.
Then the forest parted, and Sanakht’s tower was before him. Closer now, he saw the mercury-bright flame veining its structure like a living thing.
A warrior in crimson armour stood in a duelling circle of flattened sand before the tower. Twin swords hung at his waist – one pommel capped with a dark jackal’s head, the other with a white hawk. Both were hooked khopesh blades with strange, shimmering curves that gave Lucius a thrill of anticipation.
To face a new blade was always interesting.
‘I hear you have been looking to fight me, Lucius,’ said the warrior, his face obscured behind a helm with a silver crest and faceplate.
‘Are you Sanakht?’
‘I am Sanakht of the Athanaeans, yes.’
‘Then I’ve come to fight you.’
‘It is your wish to die?’
Lucius laughed. ‘I think I did that once already, so I’m not about to try it again.’
Sanakht removed his helm, revealing a youthful face and close-cropped, ash blond hair – innocently handsome in a way that Lucius couldn’t wait to destroy.
‘Your feelings say different,’ said Sanakht. ‘You want to know why you came back. That is why you sought me out – to find a swordsman as skilled as the Raven. One who revels in the kill.’
‘They tell me you’re good,’ said Lucius.
‘I am the best of my Legion.’
‘That’s not saying much.’ Lucius hooked the whip to his belt and entered the duelling circle. Sanakht drew his swords; one crystalline edged and glittering with witch-fire, the other a simple energy blade.
Lucius rolled his shoulders, and swung his blade to loosen his wrist. He had sparred with his own Legion, but had stopped short of killing anyone since Iydris. No such restraint was needed here.
He circled Sanakht, studying his movements, assaying his reach and footwork. He saw strength and speed. Confidence that crossed into arrogance. Sanakht was so like himself, it was almost funny.
‘I assure you that I will defeat–’ Sanakht began, but Lucius attacked before the Thousand Sons warrior could finish speaking.
All of his strikes were repulsed with casual ease. They broke apart and circled again, studying one another and using obvious cuts and feints to test the other’s mettle.
‘You have natural ability,’ said Sanakht, ‘but I have studied every school of the blade since the first swords were hacked from the Dobruja flintbeds of Old Earth.’
They came together again in a clash of blades. Sanakht was blindingly fast, his two weapons moving in perfect concert. Lucius could fight with two swords, but preferred the focus of a single blade. Sanakht’s blades cut high and low, forcing him to work twice as hard to keep them at bay.
‘Your thoughts betray you,’ said Sanakht, and Lucius heard the first trace of amusement in his voice. ‘You fight with passion, but I can feel every attack before you make it.’
‘Are you actually giving me tips on technique?’
Sanakht swayed aside from a throat-opening thrust. ‘I am a scholar of martial knowledge. It is my duty to pass on what I have learned to others, by example.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need your help.’
‘You are manifestly incorrect,’ said Sanakht.
Anger touched Lucius, but instead of controlling it, he let it consume him. An angry swordsman made mistakes, but now he needed that anger. He threw himself at his opponent, discarding any notion of testing his defences, just going for the kill. He wanted to take this arrogant cur apart, to gut him without mercy and without finesse.
To give him an ugly death.
Sanakht turned aside the attacks with lightning-fast parries and ripostes, but Lucius kept up an unrelenting pressure. He forced him back to the edge of the circle, relishing the confusion he saw in Sanakht’s eyes.
No longer able to pick out Lucius’s emotions from the morass of anger, Sanakht w
as falling back on techniques learned by rote, and from ancient teachers.
And that just wasn’t good enough.
Lucius hooked his sword under the energy-wreathed blade and spun it from Sanakht’s grip. As the warrior’s arm went wide, Lucius kicked him in the groin and slammed the hilt of his sword into his face.
Sanakht fell back, rolling and bringing his second sword to bear. Lucius smashed it aside, and his return stroke swept down to open Sanakht’s throat.
But the silver blade stopped a hair’s breadth from Sanakht’s neck, as though striking stone. Resistance vibrated up Lucius’s arm, and he crashed his other fist into Sanakht’s jaw instead.
‘Sorcery?’ he spat. ‘You’d save your miserable skin with sorcery?’
‘He wouldn’t,’ said a voice behind Lucius. ‘But I would.’
Lucius spun around, his sword coming away from Sanakht’s neck. Another red-armoured warrior stood at the edge of the duelling circle, a cloak of blackly iridescent feathers billowing at his shoulders.
‘And who are you to spare his life?’ Lucius demanded.
‘I am Ahzek Ahriman,’ said the warrior. ‘And I will soon have need of Sanakht.’
I stand waiting, a duelling axe held loosely in my hand. It is not Gorechild – that roaring monster is purely for killing. The bout is not sanguis extremis.
The weapon is bound to my wrist with chain, in honour of the Desh’ean gladiators. I have seen their bones. I have walked the site of their death. I helped enact Angron’s vengeance upon their killers.
I never met them, yet their deaths have made known who we are becoming. We are slaves to their memory.
‘Third blood, Khârn?’
Borok is stripped to the waist, as am I. His slab-muscled torso is criss-crossed with old wounds. Scars upon scars. All of them are on his front; he has never shown an enemy his back. He is no coward.
‘First blood,’ I respond.
I can see in his eyes that he is disappointed, but he nods in agreement anyway. The Legion has bled enough. There have been too many deaths in the pits since Angron’s change, his… ascension. That was the word that his brother Lorgar used to describe it, at least.
