by C. L. Werner
Rhodaan recoiled in alarm as he heard Sergeant Ipos’s voice rising from the wreckage, enjoining the Iron Warriors on the walls to maintain their positions. He stared at the dead Space Marine for an instant, then noticed the servitor lying a few metres away. The flesh-drone was broken, its steel legs snapped from its pelvis, its chest crushed by a section of titanium plate. But it still possessed a semblance of functionality, enough at least to continue issuing orders to the Iron Warriors.
Orders in a perfect imitation of Sergeant Ipos’s voice.
How long had the seneschal been dead? Who had set the servitor in his place?
Rhodaan’s hearts turned cold. He had a feeling he knew the answer to both questions. It answered many things, such as the renegade gun battery that had fired on them when they returned to Vorago.
The squad vox-channel crackled, the steely voice of Brother Merihem rumbling through Rhodaan’s helmet. ‘I have secured the transport hangar,’ the Obliterator reported. ‘The Flesh could not stop me. When you have finished your business with Ipos, the survivors will enthusiastically put themselves at your command.’
Rhodaan smiled at the sound of Merihem’s voice. He had worried that the Obliterator would forget his purpose and try to seek out Andraaz on his own. There was bad blood between the two and with everything collapsing around them, duty to the Legion might not be enough to restrain the monster. Rhodaan needed him, coherent and obedient, if he was to have any chance at all of bringing the Third Grand Company’s betrayer to task.
‘Hold position,’ Rhodaan ordered the Obliterator. He turned to Gomorie and Uzraal. ‘Establish communication with our battle-brothers. Tell them to disregard their last orders. They are to extract themselves from Vorago in whatever way they can. Tell them… tell them to rendezvous at the Oubliette.’
The two Iron Warriors scrambled among the debris to find a working relay. Rhodaan watched them for an instant, then turned his attention back to Merihem. ‘The situation is more complicated,’ he told the Obliterator. ‘Make your way to the grand hall. We will rendezvous with you there.’
‘I obey,’ Merihem answered. ‘And I am bringing along a complication of my own. I think it will amuse you. Give me a few minutes to discipline the surviving Flesh.’
Rhodaan could hear the first screams across his vox before the Obliterator shut off his vox-bead. Yes, it was a good thing the monster was on his side.
And a very bad thing for the battle-brother who had betrayed them all.
Rhodaan hoped Fabricator Oriax liked his sanctum because very soon it would become his grave.
Vallax brought his shoulder smashing against the metal grille, feeling its rusty surface crumble under the ceramite plate. He hesitated, turning his head to stare back down the industrial sewer. Even without the augmentation afforded by his missing helmet, his superhuman senses pierced the darkness like the sharp edge of a knife. He could hear the slosh of the slow-moving sludge running through the passage, smell the caustic vapours rising from the mineral waste, see the streamers of corrosion dangling from the roof of the tunnel, feel the sluggish draught created by the sewer’s recycling systems. Concentrating on his senses, he waited. His hearts slowed, his body tensed as he anticipated the howl of orks, the rush of blood-crazed aliens down the tunnel.
After a few breaths, the Iron Warrior was satisfied. Nothing had heard the impact against the grille. Turning, he brought his shoulder smashing against the obstruction once more.
The oversized drains connected to every factory in Vorago, a network of sewers that stretched deep beneath the city. Nothing human could survive in the stagnant, toxic air. Only the small multi-lung implanted in every Space Marine allowed Vallax to breathe the poisonous filth. Even so, the Iron Warriors had been thorough in their construction, implementing numerous baffles and obstructions throughout the sewer. Experts at siege warfare, they had applied that same knowledge when it came to constructing their own defences. Vallax knew there were other, more lethal diversions hidden in the tunnels, traps the recognition code being transmitted by his armour disabled as he neared them.
The grille gave way beneath his shoulder and Vallax thrust the crumpled mess of rusty bars into the sludge. He studied the intersection that opened beyond the tunnel, taking a moment to orient himself. Unerringly, he set himself upon the northward passage, the tunnel that would guide him back to the Iron Bastion.
It had been a dangerous route that led him into the sewers. His escape from the battlefortress had been at the edge of catastrophe every step of the way. He had lost count of the orks he’d slaughtered in the confusion of corridors and passageways, the other aliens he’d killed while stealing through the ork encampment. Many times, he had wondered if he would be able to overcome the perils of his ordeal. Always the thought of Oriax sustained him. Vallax couldn’t die beneath the paws of the orks. Not while the Fabricator was still alive.
Vengeance. It was a purity of purpose that had sustained the entire Legion for ten thousand years. Now, Vallax drew strength from sacred vengeance, cherished it as he cherished his personal honour and martial pride. Oriax would suffer for what he had done. When Vallax finished with him, the maimed Iron Warrior would truly wish he had perished in the crystal-swamps.
Bloody thoughts driving him onwards, Vallax stole through the polluted tunnels. He didn’t see the camouflaged shapes moving through the darkness, following his trail in the sludge, didn’t hear the low grumble of ork lungs choking down the toxic air, didn’t smell the sour-stink of alien flesh in the synthetic draught.
Chapter XX
I-Day Plus One Hundred and Twenty-One
A weird flash of green light strobed through the Iron Bastion as the Raptors ran down the tower’s stairs. It was an after effect of munitions striking the void shields. The orks had brought some of their heavy artillery into the city and turned it upon this last point of defiance. Rhodaan could tell by the rich jade hue that the force field could withstand much more than the aliens were firing at it. Perhaps if the orks concentrated their fire they could bring the shields down, but such restraint was going to be hard for their warlord to impose now that the brutes could smell victory.
The Iron Warriors had several hours to do what they needed to do before the shields were reduced to even three quarters of their present strength. That suited Rhodaan fine. When he got his hands on Oriax, he didn’t want to feel rushed.
Brother Merihem’s techno-organic bulk awaited them in the grand hall, looking immense even beside the towering pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling fifty metres above. Patches of the Obliterator’s armour undulated like the surface of a troubled stream.
‘I have done my duty and waited, lord captain,’ the Obliterator said, his pallid face spreading in a steel smile. His body pivoted at the waist, spinning with an unsettlingly machine-like motion. He pointed a clawed finger at one of the pillars. ‘Others have waited too. Though their sense of duty had to be encouraged somewhat.’
Rhodaan saw a lone Iron Warrior standing beside the pillar. He recognised the elaborate armour at once and though his face was concealed behind his helmet, Rhodaan was certain that Skylord Morax’s expression was anything but happy.
‘You sent this… abomination… to…’
Rhodaan glared at the outraged Morax. ‘I sent him to secure transport for our extraction,’ he corrected the Skylord. ‘Finding you was just an unexpected bonus.’
‘Captain Morax was preparing to quit the Bastion,’ Merihem explained. ‘He seemed intent on commandeering all available transport.’ The Obliterator’s little face arched forwards in a weirdly boneless fashion to stare at Morax. ‘He had a considerable amount of bric-a-brac he wanted to take away with him.’
‘Supplies to sustain my forces while I conduct a guerrilla war against the orks,’ Morax protested. As he moved, Rhodaan could see the stiffness in the Skylord’s body, the way he favoured one leg over the other. Whatever Merihem had done to subdue him hadn’t been gentle.
‘The Speaker
is versed in guerrilla tactics?’ Merihem marvelled.
Rhodaan didn’t need to hear anything else. Abducting the Speaker revealed Morax’s intentions plainly enough. The Skylord was going to bury himself in one of his underground aerodromes and use the psyker to send a message to Medrengard. Once that was done, he would be able to sit back and wait for a relief force to come and drive the orks from Castellax.
It wasn’t a bad plan. Rhodaan decided he would adopt it just as soon as his business with Oriax was completed.
‘He says the Warsmith left to confer with the Fabricator hours ago,’ Merihem reported. Morax was quick to elaborate the point.
‘Andraaz took the Rending Guard with him, all wearing their Terminator armour. I could hear them reciting the Olympian Death March as they descended into the sub-cellars.’
‘Do you think the Warsmith knows about Oriax’s treachery?’ Gomorie asked. ‘Maybe they’ve gone down there to stop him.’
Rhodaan shook his head. ‘No, if the Warsmith knew Oriax was a traitor he would have stopped the false orders being transmitted to our battle-brothers. There was some other purpose in their going to the sanctum.’
‘The Daemonculum!’ Uzraal exclaimed. ‘Oriax must have offered to use the Daemonculum to get the Warsmith to safety.’
Again, Rhodaan shook his head. ‘The Warsmith wouldn’t run,’ he stated resolutely. ‘The Rending Guard were singing the Death March. No, it wasn’t escape Oriax offered them. It was a chance to die with full honours.’
‘But Oriax is a traitor,’ Gomorie objected.
Skylord Morax limped away from the pillar, drawn by the Raptor’s statement. ‘If that is true, then the Warsmith is in danger.’ He looked from one Space Marine to another, sensing the suspicion staring back at him from behind each helmet. ‘Whatever you may think of me, I am an Iron Warrior. I know where my loyalties lie. I would have left the Warsmith to seek a hero’s death, but I won’t abide murder at a traitor’s hand.’
‘What can Oriax do?’ Uzraal asked. ‘The Warsmith has the Rending Guard with him. They are more than a match for a crippled Techmarine.’
Rhodaan didn’t answer at once, instead dashing towards the lifts that would conduct them to the sub-cellars and the Fabricator’s sanctum. The other Iron Warriors rushed after him, the limping Morax trailing behind the Raptors, the hulking Merihem following behind Morax.
‘If the Fabricator gets them into the Daemonculum he can teleport them anywhere on Castellax,’ Rhodaan explained. ‘Maybe even off-world. Power claws and Terminator armour won’t help much if the Daemonculum drops them into the planet’s core or deposits them in orbit around the sun!’ The thought of the Warsmith suffering such an ignoble death was obscene to Rhodaan. Loved or hated, as Warsmith, Andraaz’s death had to be a thing of glory and consequence, not a farce engineered by a cold-blooded manipulator. Such a blemish on its honour would never cease to haunt the Third Grand Company.
Rhodaan fairly leapt into the cage, his fingers depressing the activation runes as Merihem lumbered across the threshold. The Obliterator lurched forwards, almost slamming into the opposite wall, as the mag-lift hurtled downwards.
The green flashes from the void shields faded as the elevator descended past the surface, dropping down into the foundations of the Bastion itself. The hum of the field generators surrounded the Iron Warriors as the cage passed into the sub-cellars and the labyrinth of tunnels that formed Oriax’s domain.
The first thing Rhodaan noticed when the cage doors opened was the hellish crimson glow cast by the hazard lights set into the ceiling of the crypt-like receiving bay. The second thing he noticed were the broken servitors strewn across the floor and draped across cargo containers. His third observation nearly took his head off as a bolt-shell whistled through the exposed cage and detonated against the wall behind him.
‘Cover!’ Rhodaan roared, lunging from the cage and throwing himself behind one of the steel cargo boxes. Uzraal and Gomorie kept close to the sides of the cage as they provided covering fire for their captain.
‘So the usurping lapdog comes rushing to defend his master!’ The hatefully familiar voice echoed through the bay. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ A bolt-shell slammed against Rhodaan’s refuge, blasting a chunk of steel from the crate and sending shrapnel spraying in every direction.
Vallax! Rhodaan had given up the Over-Captain as dead, an earlier victim of Oriax’s treachery. Understanding the full measure of the Fabricator’s lies, Rhodaan felt a pang of guilt for his own complicity in the Techmarine’s schemes. Even his hatred of the Over-Captain wasn’t enough to accept the magnitude of Oriax’s betrayal.
‘We have all been betrayed, Vallax!’ Rhodaan called out. ‘The Fabricator has lied to us all. Through his deceit, many of our battle-brothers lie dead.’
Another bolt-shell slammed into the crate, driving Rhodaan from his shelter and sending him leaping behind the hull of a cargo lifter. Shells tore into the floor around him as he was momentarily exposed. Thankful as he was, he was surprised at Vallax’s poor aim.
From the mag-lift cage, the metallic bellow of Merihem thundered across the bay. The hulking Obliterator stormed from the cage, both of his arms formed into the blocky feeds of dual storm bolters. Vallax shifted his aim, firing at the charging monster. Merihem’s exposed bulk was too great a target to miss and slivers of his techno-organic armour sprayed from the explosive impacts.
Rhodaan seized the opportunity offered by Merihem’s distraction. Powering over the top of the cargo loader, he used his wings to dive down upon Vallax’s position. The Over-Captain’s marksmanship might be compromised, but there was nothing wrong with his reflexes. He was aware of Rhodaan’s move the instant the Raptor cleared the loader, darting back behind the cover of a cargo container as his enemy fired.
Rhodaan adjusted his dive, throwing himself forwards, crashing down into the lip of the container and sending it crashing down into Vallax. The Over-Captain was startled, but hardly surprised, catching the container as its fell and shifting his body so that the heavy steel box rolled away from him rather than directly down onto him.
In his manoeuvre, however, Vallax was compelled to drop his weapon. Rhodaan was surprised to see that it was a battered, almost unrecognizable boltgun of Imperial manufacture, defaced with ork glyphs and with an absurdly large blade welded beneath the gun barrel. Where and why the Over-Captain had acquired such a weapon was a mystery to him, though hardly as perplexing as Vallax’s own condition. A quick glance showed the sorry violation of Vallax’s power armour and the mutilation committed against the Iron Warrior’s head.
Vallax rounded upon Rhodaan, grappling with the other Raptor before he could bring his plasma pistol to bear again.
‘The Fabricator didn’t expect me to survive,’ Vallax snarled at Rhodaan. ‘But I endured. I escaped the orks. I returned. I bring doom to Oriax.’
‘We share common cause,’ Rhodaan growled back. ‘Oriax has betrayed us all. He plots against the Warsmith. Even now it may be too late to stop him.’
Vallax strained against Rhodaan’s grip. Without the assistance of his armour’s servo-motors, the Over-Captain could feel himself being overcome, but the stubbornness of hate refused to let him relent. ‘We share nothing,’ Vallax spat. ‘Oriax’s death belongs to me!’
The sudden roar of Merihem’s guns startled the two combatants. For an instant, Rhodaan feared the Obliterator had lost any sense of purpose or duty and opened fire on the other Iron Warriors. The pained howls of orks sounding from the far side of the bay told a different story. For an instant, he glanced away from Vallax’s scarred face, watching instead as a mob of orks dressed in camouflage came charging from one of the maintenance tunnels.
‘So, you escaped from the orks,’ Rhodaan sneered at Vallax. ‘They used you, fool! You’ve led them past the Bastion’s defences.’ He could see the horror on Vallax’s face, horror that drowned even his hate. Loyalties and oaths that had been burned into the Space Marine’s psyche echoed Rhodaan’s
words, crushing individual thought and emotion beneath the shame of dishonoured obligation.
Rhodaan thrust Vallax away from him with a disgusted shove. Even when he had plotted against the Over-Captain, he had felt a certain respect for him. Now there was only loathing. Any Iron Warrior who could so blind himself with hate as to be used by orks was beneath contempt. ‘Gomorie, Uzraal,’ Rhodaan growled into his vox. ‘Establish a perimeter. Try to keep the xenos at bay while Brother Merihem and myself attend to Oriax.’
The two Raptors came rushing from the cage, firing as they went. Anguished howls rose from the ork kommandos unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of their shots. Captain Morax limped after them, furiously cursing his lack of a weapon.
Rhodaan stared grimly at the little cluster of Space Marines. That they could hold back the orks wasn’t in doubt. What troubled him was his force’s resultant reduction in strength. He had been counting on the other Raptors’ support when they confronted Oriax. There was no telling what sorts of defences the Fabricator had installed in his sanctum.
‘Take them with you,’ Vallax said, his voice low, his tone chastened. The Over-Captain pointed to the scavenger bolter lying on the ground. ‘I will hold back the xenos scum.’ His eyes glistened as he stared into Rhodaan’s snarling mask. ‘Please, brother, allow me this chance to atone for the hurt I have done the Legion.’
Rhodaan lifted the bolter from the floor, handing it to the Over-Captain. He didn’t have the luxury of doubting Vallax. There wasn’t time for that. ‘Hold them as long as you can, brother,’ he said. Vallax nodded, then turned and began firing at the kommandos.
‘Brother Gomorie! Brother Uzraal!’ Rhodaan called out over the vox as he darted among the crates. ‘A change in plan. Over-Captain Vallax will engage the xenos. You will fall back and support Brother Merihem and myself in breaching the Fabricator’s sanctum.’ The restoration of his Raptors to the raiding force instilled a new confidence in him. Even if it was for the last time, he felt good to be leading Squad Kyrith into battle.
