The Swords of Epiphany were here to correct that injustice. Rodrigo Nessun would give the Twins more attention than they had received in all of human history.
The identical worlds filled the main viewport, their new moon at the peak of an isosceles triangle formed by the orbits. Nessun gave the moon a look of promise. Soon, he told it. ‘What we need is inside one of the planetoids,’ he announced.
‘Which one?’ Gabrille asked. ‘They’re identical.’
‘Scan them. There is a difference. Find it.’
The Disciples of Purity met and prayed. Toharan didn’t try to gloss over the damaged altarpiece. He stood aside while Lettinger began the service, but then took over once he felt the fervour in the room had reached the necessary pitch. He spoke with all the passion of his conviction, and he felt the necessary words coming to him as if he had been born to preach instead of fight. Before him was the largest number yet of adherents to his banner. They were still, to a man, the least mutated of the company, and perhaps that was as it should be. They represented the Black Dragons best chance to reach physical purity through the purging of the monstrous.
Toharan spoke to them of this purity, and they were with him. He spoke to them of power, and they were with him. He shattered the hold of the rotting corpse on the Golden Throne, and they were with him. When he unveiled the full extent of his illumination, he thought for a moment that he might have lost Lettinger. The inquisitor did start, and did look again with horrified fascination at the void above the altar. But then Toharan saw the play of guilt and exhilaration on Lettinger’s face, and knew that he held the man more firmly than ever.
The call to prayer became the call to mission, and finally the call to war. There was never any question about who the enemy was. Volos had shown where the path of impurity led. He was a menace to the promise of what the Black Dragons could be. There was no question now of adopting Codex dogma. The Dragons could be so much more than the barely tolerated poor cousins in the family of the Adeptus Astartes. They were their own power, and the time was coming when that power would be known across the galaxy. The first step to unleashing that power was to eliminate that which threatened the Chapter’s potential. Volos was not only a dark alternative; he had also killed one of the Disciples. There was no question that he had to die.
Toharan had no shortage of volunteers. He only needed one.
This time, Lettinger did use wards. He did place himself within a protective circle. He had no illusions about what he was doing. There were no rationalisations to be made here, not if he wanted to live through the next half-hour.
He was in his quarters. Toharan waited just outside the door. Lettinger drew steady breaths, slowing his pulse and regulating the beat of his heart. Then he began. There was a lot that Lettinger knew about summoning, but that knowledge, until now, had been academic in nature. He knew how to recognise the daemonic. He knew how to destroy it, and had done so times beyond counting. But to conjure something from the warp, to become that which he should exterminate…
That was the most forbidden. That was the greatest guilt. And in his new, enlightened, more powerful state of mind and spirit, that was also the greatest thrill.
He began the ritual as another thought exercise. It was his necessary rationalisation, a mental fig leaf. He pretended to pretend he wasn’t doing what he was doing. Then he followed the thoughts until they became darker and more real. When he reached the point where he would previously have hung motionless in rapt contemplation, he kept going. He entered a new realm of flickering possibility and whispering obscenity. The guilt and excitement threatened to break apart his rational processes, but he hung on to them and pushed forward. And suddenly he was plunging his will into the stuff of the warp with the assurance of the born sorcerer. It was as if the mental chants and psychic defences were being given to him by a universe that had no choice but to recognise him and his deeds.
He sculpted an idea as if working in clay. It was an idea of doom and corruption, and he crafted every detail and nuance until it was a masterpiece of a curse. He scaled it down into an essence no less perfect, no less artistic, but as concentrated as it was toxic. Then it was time to haul it, newborn and wailing its soul-hunger, into the material world.
When Toharan entered the chamber, the curse hovered in the air before Lettinger’s face. It didn’t look like much more than an onyx marble. Lettinger couldn’t take his eyes off it. Pride crushed guilt beneath its boot heel.
‘Is that it?’ Toharan asked. He was careful to stay outside the circle.
‘It is.’ Lettinger reached into a pocket, and produced a small wooden box. It had once held an icon: the molar of Ordo Malleus legend Saint Meruh. The icon had been a source of strength for Lettinger. He didn’t need it any longer. But the box was useful. Wards covered its surface. Lettinger opened it, that it might receive its new pearl.
Volos had thought to spend some time in the training cage. For a short time, he could lose himself in the trance of physical exertion. Waiting for Toharan to make a move went against his grain, and his impatience felt more like a cursed impotence. He had no choice. He couldn’t act first, unless he wanted to doom the company. So a few moments where his attention would be taken away from strategising a war no one should be fighting would be a boon.
But Toharan was in the cage. He appeared to have just arrived, and Volos couldn’t shake the idea that Toharan had raced ahead of him to get there first. The notion was ridiculous. It also felt accurate. The Black Dragon captain stood stripped to the waist, longsword in hand, swinging the blade from side to side, just a bit too elaborately at ease. ‘Brother-sergeant,’ he said. His smile was thin.
‘Brother-captain,’ Volos returned, cautious.
‘It’s been a long time since we sparred together.’
‘Really? I would have said we’ve been doing nothing but, lately.’
Toharan’s smile didn’t falter. He nodded once. ‘Perhaps that’s the problem. Shall we return things to the proper arena?’ He bowed and presented the point of the sword in formal challenge.
Volos chose a blade from a weapons locker and climbed into the cage with Toharan. The duel began.
Setheno hadn’t lied to Volos. She didn’t see the future. She had no visions of any kind. She had no psyker gifts. For all these lacks, she was grateful. The presence of any extra sight might hurt the accuracy of her true gift and curse: perfect clarity.
Volos had not spoken to her about what had happened on the Metastasis. He didn’t have to. She saw his grim look when he returned, and that was all she needed. She knew how Danael had died. Now she stood in the shadows of an alcove partway down the corridor from Volos’s cell. She was motionless, a thing of stone at one with the walls. She had been on post for several hours now, watching over the Space Marine who should be governing Second Company. She had been here while he rested and prayed, and she had been especially alert since he had left his quarters twenty minutes ago. She didn’t know when the assassination attempt would come, only that it would be soon. Toharan’s strategic position demanded that this be so. It was that simple
She heard the hollow echo of armoured boots against the metal decking. She pulled deeper into the shadows and waited. The approaching Space Marine might be one of Volos’s number. Most of them had cells down this same corridor. But Volos’s allies had no reason to be down here at this time. Work on the ship was ongoing, and preparations were ramping up in anticipation of war in the Abolessus system.
The Black Dragon appeared. He had his helmet on, but Setheno recognised the purity seals and insignia. It was Mattanius. She had seen him before, and noted him as part of Toharan’s cohort. He was not as pure as the captain. No one was, and that, Setheno knew, was another reason why Toharan was so dangerous. But Mattanius’s skull, though heavy of brow, had no actual deformities. Since the events of Flebis, Setheno had found herself eyeing the Dragons through a phrenological filter. Lack of physical deformity meant an equivalent lack of humility. A norma
l Ossmodula led to an overdeveloped sense of entitlement. She had made a mental list of Black Dragons she considered obstacles to the proper development of the Chapter. Now they were proving her correct.
Mattanius was carrying a small package. At Volos’s door, he stopped and pulled out a key. He worked it a bit, and then the ancient lock gave way. The Space Marine disappeared into the meditation cell. Setheno followed him.
She stood in the doorway. Mattanius had his back to her. He seemed to be looking for something. He hovered before the bookshelves that lined the far wall. Setheno could see the titles on their spines. They were primarily works of military strategy and religious philosophy. Mattanius ran a finger along the books, testing the bindings. The book he selected was a collection of battlefield devotionals. It was very thick and very worn. It bore the marks of frequent, possibly daily, use. He let the book open in his palm. The pages flipped open to a favourite passage. There was a lectern in front of the shelves, and Mattanius place the book there, the small box beside it. He pulled out his combat knife and began to cut deep into the pages.
Setheno drew her bolt pistol.
Holding the hilt of the longsword, Volos was struck by just how long it had been since he had wielded a blade that was not part of his body. There was a distance between his will and the weapon. He was wrong-footed before the duel even began. Beneath the dome of iron bars that made up the practice cage, he circled Toharan, waiting for the other Space Marine to attack first. Any strike of his own would be countered.
For almost five minutes, neither warrior did anything but move around the perimeter of the cage, watching his opponent, studying how the other walked, how every twitch of muscle and nuance of breath might signal a move. To know the enemy as he knew himself could cut the actual swordfight down to an exercise of seconds. With each passing moment, Volos felt the stakes of the duel rising.
Toharan attacked. The move was lightning-fast. Volos had expected speed, but the strike came at an angle and at a moment that he hadn’t anticipated. Toharan took a step forward and appeared to ground himself on the leading right leg. Then he pivoted on his left, coming in anticlockwise, his blade a streak of light. Volos brought his sword down and parried at the last second, but stumbled back, already on the defensive.
‘Did you kill Danael?’ Toharan demanded.
Mattanius reacted to the click of Setheno’s gun. He spun, ducking low, and threw himself across the chamber. He slammed into her, knocking the pistol from her grasp. They crashed into the corridor wall. Their armoured bulk left a crater in the reptile-green stone. Setheno’s ears rang. She slumped. Mattanius backed up a step to bring his knife to bear. He drew his arm back, the point of the blade aimed at the seam where her gorget met her cuirass. It was coming for her throat.
‘Did you send him to kill me?’ Volos countered. He blocked Toharan’s flurry of strikes. They were hard blows, tiring to both of them, and he was still off-balance. He couldn’t retaliate.
‘Your evasion affirms your guilt,’ Toharan snarled. He pressed the attack harder.
‘So does yours,’ said Volos.
Setheno jerked forward out of her possum feint and hammered Mattanius’s ribs, her fists rapid-fire pistons. It was impossible for her blows to injure the Space Marine, but nor could he ignore the physics of hits strong enough to punch through walls. The impacts knocked him back, and his knife thrust went wrong, glancing off her right pauldron. She danced back out of his range. In a grapple, she would lose. She didn’t have enhanced Space Marine physiology. Her power armour was almost the equal of his, but in a contest of strength, the result was preordained.
She drew her sword as he raised his bolter.
Toharan pressed Volos harder. His thrusts and slashes came with the precision and grace of a fugue. With the small part of his mind that was observing the duel with interest, Volos admired the art of Toharan’s attack. It wasn’t composed of individual moves. Each assault flowed into the next, the thrust turning into the parry of Volos’s awkward counter, the parry becoming a slash, and so on, an unending flow that beat at his defence like steel hail.
‘Why are you doing it, brother?’ Toharan asked. His words came in a grunted staccato at odds with the fluidity of his swordcraft. ‘Why are you standing in the way of what this Chapter can be?’
He doesn’t want me to join him, Volos thought. He just wants me to vanish. He said, ‘I’m more concerned with what we should be.’
The answer enraged Toharan, as if Volos had pricked a suppressed conscience. Toharan’s rhythm broke into a moment of furious hacking, and Volos slipped his blade in for just a moment, nicking Toharan’s cheek. Toharan spat and retaliated with renewed anger and rigour, his mistake corrected.
‘You will be stopped,’ Toharan promised. His glare was desperate, and Volos had a glimpse of the depth of Toharan’s self-damnation, and the lengths to which he would go to justify the path he had chosen.
‘What have you become?’ Volos begged, as if the question might remind Toharan of what he had once been.
‘Your conqueror,’ Toharan answered. His blade cut long slices along Volos’s ribs.
Clarity could be a curse. In battle, it was a gift. Setheno knew where she was weak against Mattanius. She knew her strengths, too. She wouldn’t make a mistake. So all she had to do was stay alive until he made one.
Shooting her wasn’t that mistake.
She threw herself forwards on her knees as he fired. The rounds burned the air just over her head. The far end of the corridor exploded stone fragments and dust as the mass-reactive shells blasted their way into the wall. Mattanius dropped his aim, bringing her into the line of annihilation. But she had her sword up now.
The blade had a name. It was Skarprattar, and it was a relic sword. It had once belonged to Saint Demetria, who had stood alone during the doom of Caedo III, taking countless bloodletters of Khorne down in her martyrdom. The sword had been the only artefact recovered when Imperial forces had staggered back to the ravaged world. It had done grim work since, and been Setheno’s companion in wading the bloody tides of brutish necessity for nearly a century. Its spirit was her twin. It was foreign to hesitation, mercy, or the illusions of hope. Its existence was an endless severing of souls from being. Now it sliced Mattanius’s rounds in half. Setheno’s blow arced into his plackart, parting ceramite. Mattanius staggered into Volos’s cell, blood rushing from his lower abdomen.
He was wounded. But he was Adeptus Astartes. He was Black Dragon. So he did not falter in his attack. He kept firing, and Setheno couldn’t stop or dodge every round. Bolts stitched across her chest and ribs, punching through armour.
Her blood pooled with her enemy’s.
Toharan was fighting as if he meant to kill. The idea that the duel was a joust was fading into a lie. Volos abandoned any pretence of form and hurled his bulk into his captain. He took a deep gash in his left shoulder, but knocked Toharan off his feet. Volos rushed in to press his advantage, and he did so with his left fist extended.
The hand that did not hold his sword.
His rational mind caught up with his instincts and stopped him from impaling Toharan with a bone-blade. He stumbled right, and Toharan bashed him across the brow with the flat of his blade. Blood ran into Volos’s eyes. He jumped away, blind. He swung his sword as a ward. He might as well have waved a parchment. Toharan did not reach his shoulder and was much lighter, but Volos didn’t see the body blow come, and he wasn’t ready for it. He hit the floor of the cage hard.
The edge of Toharan’s sword bit into his throat.
Setheno was not Adeptus Astartes. Her body did not start healing almost as soon as it was hurt. Her system was not flooded with pain-killing drugs. She was a Sister of Battle, and her discipline and will were no less than those of any Space Marine. Her need to kill her enemy outweighed her injury, and now she was the one who launched herself across the intervening space into Mattanius.
It was not a blind strike. There was strategy born of her hellish cla
rity. She rocked Mattanius against the lectern, jolting his right hand up. Bolter rounds smashed the ceiling. Setheno stabbed up with Skarprattar deep into Mattanius’s armpit. Bone and tendons parted, and his arm fell limp to his side.
The Black Dragon roared in anger, not pain. His left arm flashed out and snatched the box on the lectern. He swung it toward Setheno.
‘So you would kill me,’ Toharan hissed.
‘I did not.’ It was hard to speak with the blade pressing so hard, just shy of sawing through his throat. Volos blinked until he could see again. Toharan’s face was twisted with hate, yet Volos thought he also saw a desperate self-loathing beneath the surface.
‘You are mutinous, degenerate muck,’ Toharan said.
‘Is that my death sentence?’ Volos didn’t hide his contempt.
Toharan straightened and withdrew the sword. ‘This was your lesson,’ he said. ‘I won’t stain my leadership or my hands with your death here, with no witnesses. You are going to answer for your corruption, sergeant, but not without exposing your true nature to the entire company.’
Volos got to his feet. He did not pick up his sword. He stared at Toharan. ‘You are lost, brother,’ he said. He felt a sadness that bordered on despair.
Toharan sneered.
His answer was cut off by a chilling thrum. It resonated not in the ears, but in the soul.
Setheno seized on Mattanius’s mistake. She grabbed his fist with hers and squeezed. The move surprised him and his grip tightened without thinking. There was a sharp crack as the box splintered. Mattanius froze. Setheno could not see his face behind his helmet, but she pictured his dismay. He spoke one syllable: ‘Oh.’
She released his hand and jumped back. She sensed the arrival of something ruinous. The temperature in the chamber dropped below freezing. Skarprattar’s aura burned a violent blue. Mattanius turned his head to stare at his outstretched hand. There was a low, almost subaural whump and his hand vanished. A point of absolute nothing hung in the space before his wrist, and then tendrils of dark, muscled thought whipped out of the singularity. They wrapped themselves around Mattanius, a kraken seizing a ship. Mattanius howled the agony of his soul, and then the strangling cables of dark contracted, pulling him into nothing. The sound as he vanished was a chord plucked from the strings of reality, a stab in the very essence of being.
The Death of Antagonis Page 24
