The Eye of Ezekiel

by C Z Dunn

  Turmiel, I’m going to drop the shield. When I do, I need you to unleash Hellfire and buy enough time for me to get us out of here,+ Ezekiel sent.

  Understood,+ replied the Codicier.

  The first of the orks were already encroaching, their bloodlust kindled by their leader. Before terminating the psychic barrier, Ezekiel broadened its circumference, shocking the front ranks of greenskins into inactivity as the wave of aetheric energy broke over them.

  Now!+ Ezekiel sent.

  He lowered the shield, the bright blue dome dissipating with a crackle, like the sound of pyrotechnics launching in the distance. Simultaneously, a perfect ring of green psychic flame sprang up around the Dark Angels, but Ezekiel had no time to admire Turmiel’s aetheric artistry, nor the control he showed as parts of the Hellfire barrier broke away and engulfed the most fanatical orks. Chanting incantations and daubing arcane sigils into thin air, Ezekiel conjured up a wind born of the warp, which whipped around them, fanning the Hellfire flames.

  The more words of power Ezekiel uttered, the bigger and more violent the funnel became, spinning so furiously that Turmiel’s Hellfire raged like an inferno, the screams of the dying orks caught within it harmonising with the unnatural sound of the psychic storm. The sky above turned the colour of rotted flesh as purple lightning played over the tops of swiftly moving clouds.

  Anticipating that he would soon be robbed of his quarry, Groblonik urged his troops onwards, through the flames that burned both body and mind, and towards the eye of the storm, but his order came too late. Shouting the final incantation, Ezekiel made the sign of a star with his finger, each of the eight points glowing with raw psychic energy.

  Then the Dark Angels were gone, leaving behind only howls of frustration and pain.

  Arch Magos Diezen barely registered the explosion from the entrance to the stairway behind him, save to acknowledge the – to his mind at least – needless waste of yet another of the Omnissiah’s creations. So intent was he on sifting through the near-infinite amount of data flowing through his slave cogitators, ancillary computation organs and celekone-enhanced flesh-brain that he did not immediately notice the lone ork survivor, crawling over the ruined bodies of its ilk and smouldering servitor chassis to reach its prey.

  Augmented hands and mechadendrites alike moved with astonishing swiftness, tapping out commands on keypads or rerouting thick bundles of cable that formed the control system’s innards. His chron read-out counted down the final few seconds; each time the digits changed, the ork got closer. With less than three seconds left until he gained control over the turret and shut down its massive guns, Diezen caught the reflection of the encroaching xenos in one of the smooth metal covers he had removed from the control system. It would have been a mere formality to lash out with one of the prehensile metal arms grafted to his back, to pierce the ork’s skull or throat, but the arch magos knew that he could not risk such an action. If he broke away from his work at such a critical juncture then everything he had achieved thus far would be undone, and he would have to start again from scratch, without the protection granted by the skitarii. Besides, even if he did terminate the beast’s brain functions, its central nervous system was so unevolved that it would still likely have time to kill him before it realised it was dead.

  The chron counted down to less than two seconds. The ork raised a huge cleaver, preparing to bring it down on the back of Diezen’s neck. The tech-priest flooded his system with electrical impulses, his Omnissiah-granted gifts overriding the fear and doubt the body he was born with was trying to force upon him. In spite of himself, he shut down his optics, diverting all of his focus to the last few adjustments and calculations while also preventing himself from having to deal with the sight of his killer administering the final blow.

  With his sight offline, his other four senses heightened. The report of the bolter, already deafening in the combined space, was impossibly loud, to the point that it nearly distracted him from his ministrations. The smell of the weapon’s discharge stung his nostrils; the taste of scorched ork flesh hung heavy in his throat; the warmth of the alien’s blood felt uncomfortable on the back of his neck. The chron counted down to zero and, uttering the correct blessing to the Machine-God, Diezen took command of the turret emplacement and shut it down. As the noise of its huge, ancient mechanisms abated, Diezen turned to Serpicus, the Dark Angel extricating himself from the ruined mess of ork and skitarii corpses he had forced his way through to make the shot.

  ‘Was it really necessary to throw away the lives of all of my skitarii, Dark Angel?’ Diezen said without even the slightest hint of gratitude.

  Serpicus pulled himself free of the bodies and examined the damage to his armour caused by the explosion, then surveyed the wreckage at his feet. ‘You have the technology. You can rebuild them.’

  Diezen snorted. ‘I hope it was worth it.’

  ‘The outcome was always binary, arch magos. Either we won and your precious archeotech remained intact, or we lost and the orks tore it apart and used it for spare parts. How we reached either of those states was utterly meaningless.’

  Diezen contemplated that for a moment. Broken down into terms he could relate to, he was able to parse the logic of the Techmarine’s course of action. ‘It would seem we did a good job with you on Mars, Serpicus. Maybe too good a job.’

  Serpicus nodded his assent before racing to join his brothers on the battlements.

  Ezekiel blinked.

  When he closed his eyes, he had been at ground level, the noise and the stink of the battlefield all around him. When he opened them, he was high above it all, the roar of the ork horde replaced by the discharge of lasrifles, the stench of alien blood and sweat giving way to the thin, cold air of the Honorian night.

  ‘Help me move him!’ Rephial yelled, his white suit of Apothecary armour stained almost the same colour as Serpicus’, the Techmarine emerging from the dormant turret as his brothers rematerialised. Shadrach broke off from coordinating the Astra Militarum’s defence to aid Rephial.

  ‘Puriel…?’ Serpicus asked as Shadrach and Turmiel hoisted the motionless form of Zadakiel between them. Rephial continued to treat the company master as the three Dark Angels hurried to where a Thunderhawk was coming in to evacuate their commander.

  ‘He underestimated the orks’ cunning,’ Ezekiel said, shaking his head. ‘We all did.’

  Serpicus looked to the floor solemnly and gave the salute of the Lion.

  ‘I see your mission was a success,’ Ezekiel said, looking up at the motionless turret.

  ‘Aye,’ Serpicus said. ‘Perhaps more successful than we had hoped,’ he added, staring out over the battlefield.

  Ezekiel could barely contain his look of surprise.

  The orks were retreating.

  Groblonik barked orders at his lieutenants, reinforcing them with violence if any dissented. The battle had already cost almost half a million ork lives, another half a dozen were nothing. They could easily be replaced by stronger, more obedient warriors. Even some of Groblonik’s foot-soldiers gave voice to their disapproval, earning a swift decapitating backhand if they spoke within earshot of their general.

  The giant ork scowled in agony as a trio of Painboyz fussed about his ruined arm. Instinctively, Groblonik lashed out, sending one of them flying, dead before its body hit the ground. The other two cowered but, spotting something among the throng of withdrawing greenskins, the warboss forced them to follow.

  In Groblonik’s way stood a huge specimen of an ork, barely half a head shorter than the warboss. The warboss gestured at the trophy the ork was carrying, and the message was clear: Groblonik wanted what the other greenskin had.

  Posturing to make itself look bigger than it actually was, the other ork started to laugh mockingly, only to stop abruptly as the larger greenskin tore its throat out. As the ork stumbled forwards onto its knees, Groblonik yanked the priz
e free from his foe’s weakened grip and tossed it to the startled Painboyz. The warboss pulled a huge knife from his belt and, without a second thought, brought the blade down onto his own irreparably damaged arm, severing it at the elbow. The warboss pointed to the trophy, then to the stump of his arm. This message was also clear: Groblonik wanted them to attach the Space Marine’s power fist to his limb.

  The Painboyz set to work, their warboss sat atop a mound of corpses surveying his retreating army. A seemingly endless parade of greenskins filed past, any who displayed their disapproval earning a snarl of rebuke.

  The warboss understood their frustration; he had raised their bloodlust and promised them slaughter only to snatch it away from them when their desire for murder was at its zenith. Like most of their kind these orks were stupid, barely capable of understanding language let alone the nuances of mass warfare. Yes, Groblonik could have ordered them to assault the walls of the fortress, and yes, the carnage would have been great but, ultimately, they would have lost. The enemy’s position was too easily defended, even without the huge cannon to back them up.

  Let them brood and rage, let their frustration build, the warboss mused. It would only make them fight harder the next time they were unleashed. The orks might not have won the day, but Groblonik had slain one of the Dark Angels generals and, more importantly, had learned much about the enemy and how they fought.

  The battle might have been lost, but now Groblonik knew how to win the war.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘His guidance and leadership will be sorely missed,’ Danatheum said to the ghostly simulacrum of Ezekiel stood before him in the immense stone chamber. ‘Puriel embodied all that is great and good about the Dark Angels, and his zeal was without peer. Master Asmodai will be gravely saddened by the Chapter’s loss.’

  The elder Librarian rose to his feet, but Reguel placed a firm hand on Danatheum’s pauldron and bade him sit again. The blue-armoured Dark Angel was partially missing two fingers on his left hand and the Apothecary had yet to finish his ministrations. All about the high-ceilinged cavern, brothers of the Ravenwing tended to damaged armour and weapons, not a single one of them unscathed, either in terms of body or wargear. Along one wall, lit by the flickering light of mourning candles made from the tallow of the Chapter’s slain enemies, lay three black-armoured corpses, their throats torn open surgically to recover the gene-seed within.

  ‘It is a dark day indeed, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, his voice as thin as his apparition. ‘Four brothers lost to us and another whose life hangs by a thread.’

  ‘Rephial’s prognosis is bleak?’ said Reguel, removing a small circular saw from a pouch at his hip. He activated the device and without ceremony proceeded to shear Danatheum’s ruined fingers down to the knuckles. The Librarian did not flinch, his system already flooded with pain-deadening hormones.

  ‘Master Zadakiel is a tenacious fighter but the delay in removing him from the battlefield may be his undoing,’ Ezekiel said, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘The sus-an coma is keeping him alive, but the wound is not healing as quickly as it should do. Rephial maintains a constant vigil at his side, naturally, though the Apothecary is running out of ideas about how to best treat him.’

  ‘Which brings us to the question of leadership,’ Danatheum said.

  ‘I don’t understand. Brother Puriel was second in command of the mission but with his loss it now falls to the next most senior member of the command squad. That is Brother Rephial,’ Ezekiel said.

  ‘As great as the Apothecary’s desire is to smite down the foes of the Imperium in all their forms, Rephial knows that his duty is to tend to Zadakiel and the numerous other casualties that will inevitably befall Fifth Company.’

  ‘Then Master Serpicus will lead,’ said Ezekiel. ‘He has served the Chapter for far longer than I, and he has the ear and trust of our Mechanicus allies.’

  ‘The Techmarine’s loyalty has always been divided between the Rock and Mars. With a tech-priest by his side – his old tutor no less – I fear Serpicus’ attention will be similarly divided,’ Danatheum said. ‘The burden of leadership falls to you, brother.’

  Ezekiel nodded. He had already come to this conclusion himself, before he had even contacted Danatheum, but wanted to make sure that the confirmation came from the Grand Master himself, lest he be accused of hubris or ambition. ‘It is a great honour, Grand Master. I shall not fail the Chapter.’

  ‘I am certain you will not,’ said Danatheum. Reguel finished his amputations and returned the bone saw to his hip, replacing it in his hand with a handheld laser, quickly cauterising the two stumps. ‘But you will need to appoint a second of your own.’

  ‘Balthasar,’ Ezekiel said immediately.

  Danatheum smiled. ‘A fine choice. Perhaps your show of faith in him will be returned.’

  Noise in the distance roused Danatheum, Reguel and the Ravenwing to attention. Their campaign against the Nephrekh Dynasty had been hard-fought, but the overwhelming necron numbers had the Dark Angels constantly on the back foot. Their latest battle – the one that had robbed them of three brothers – had forced a hasty retreat into one of the myriad chambers that formed the xenos’ domain, the Dark Angels collapsing the entrance behind them to seal themselves in and the necrons without. The sounds coming from the other side of the debris wall suggested that the golden automata were trying to break through and rid themselves of the invaders; their proximity suggested that the next battle was not far off.

  ‘I shall take my leave, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, already fading away. ‘May the Lion and the Emperor watch over you.’

  ‘You too, brother,’ Danatheum said, experimentally flexing his left hand. ‘Avenge Puriel and ensure that not a single greenskin survives to boast of his murder.’

  Drawing Traitor’s Bane, the Dark Angels Chief Librarian turned to face the first wave of necrons to breach the barricade.

  When Ezekiel found him, Balthasar and the brothers of First Squad were knee-deep in greenskin corpses.

  In the hours since Groblonik had slain Puriel and almost meted out the same fate to Zadakiel, the war for Honoria had opened up on several fronts, with numerous gates coming under heavy assault. With the anti-aircraft batteries rendering the ork flyers all but useless, the Dark Angels had attained air superiority, allowing their Thunderhawks and Stormravens to ferry them around the planet with impunity, responding to new threats as they arose. As close to a dozen gates came under greenskin attack, Ezekiel’s first command decision was to reform the company into squads and place them at ten of the beleaguered fortresses, leaving Serpicus and thousands of newly revealed skitarii to defend one other. While the orks were concentrating their forces at these eleven sites, the remaining gates yet remained under siege, albeit by fewer xenos. Ezekiel had given serious consideration to calling in Astra Militarum reinforcements from these sites, but the ork warlord had proven itself to be both cunning and unpredictable. Prudence dictated that these gates remain garrisoned lest the greenskin onslaught be opportunistically diverted.

  The Stormraven was rising into the air again before Ezekiel’s armoured boots had even touched the cold stone of the Nilumbria Gate’s walls, speeding off to its next extraction point, raking the massed ranks of orks below with devastating heavy bolter and assault cannon fire. Further along the battlements, Balthasar and his squad were engaged with the latest wave of orks to make it to the top of the sheer walls, either by making the perilous climb via ropes attached to grappling hooks or jumping from flyers that clung close to the fortress to avoid being picked off by anti-aircraft fire. Blue-uniformed figures from a Mordian regiment fought alongside their Space Marine allies, lasrifles put to use picking off greenskins foolish enough to attempt the long ascent up the smooth façade of the gate.

  As Ezekiel drew nearer to Balthasar, throwing psychic daggers through the skulls of a pair of greenskins as he ran, a cheer went up from a
group of Guardsmen, followed by an explosion. A missile launcher team had scored a direct hit on one of the flyers hovering just below the battlements, incinerating the occupants and knocking it out of the sky. A second, louder cheer rang out as the flyer careened to the ground spewing a trail of oily smoke, then exploding noisily amongst the tightly packed throng, killing or mortally wounding thousands of their alien enemy in an instant.

  ‘I would have expected higher casualties, brother,’ Ezekiel said, wrapping his fist with aetheric energy and collapsing the skull of a greenskin brute with a single blow. Underfoot, the light grey stone of the fortress was awash with ork blood, liberally mingling with that of the human defenders. The carpet of green corpses was dappled with the occasional patch of Mordian blue.

  ‘The ork strategy works in our favour,’ Balthasar replied, messily bifurcating an ork upon the teeth of his chainsword. ‘Despite their overwhelming numbers, they can only send so many troops up the wall at any one time. The Mordians account for most of them and those few that do make the climb are quickly dealt with.’ He sharply flicked his now dormant chainsword, dislodging viscera to emphasise his point.

  ‘Just when we thought we had underestimated our opponent’s tactical acumen it resorts to type, throwing sheer weight of numbers at us in the hope that we will break or tire, achieving naught but countless dead orks,’ said Ezekiel. But while he did not doubt the validity of his words, something gnawed at the Librarian. There was more to Groblonik’s strategy but it was occluded to him. Given foresight he might have been able to fathom the ork’s intentions, but with his powers of divination lost to him, it was like he was seeing the world through only one eye.

  ‘What is Master Zadakiel’s condition?’ Balthasar asked. He picked up the two halves of the ork he had just killed and threw them forcefully down the walls, dislodging a pair of orks from their grappling ropes and sending them to their doom.