Mark of Calth

by Edited by Laurie Goulding

  ‘I am young,’ said Marduk, ‘but I am not without talent. I yearn to master the powers that you command, my lord.’

  Kor Phaeron glared at him, and Marduk’s soul shrank from the vitriol apparent in that gaze.

  ‘Something you would not have known is that Bel Ashared was of the Dark Heart,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘A member of that sect which has served as my bloody right hand since the time of the Covenant. The Dark Heart served me at a time when Lorgar Aurelian was but an infant, and has continued to serve me through everything that has come about since then. Bel Ashared was of the Dark Heart, and you killed him because he was not the teacher you had hoped for?’

  Marduk’s mouth had gone dry. ‘I... I did not know,’ he muttered.

  Kor Phaeron glared at him for a moment, before swinging away, hands twisted into claws. When he spoke, his voice was more measured.

  ‘You say you wish to master such powers as I command. Why?’ he said, looking out towards Calth.

  Marduk did not answer immediately.

  ‘It’s a simple question,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘Answer it.’

  ‘I want to serve our primarch and the Legion to the best of my abilities,’ said Marduk, finally.

  Kor Phaeron laughed then. It was an ugly sound, like the wet cough of a sick animal.

  ‘You would have best served the Legion by not killing your own mentor during a critical tactical insertion,’ he said. Warp-light flashed, exposing Kor Phaeron’s skull, jawbone and teeth within his emaciated flesh. ‘Power is your motivation. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise. You lust for power.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Marduk replied.

  Kor Phaeron eyed Marduk for a long moment, and then snorted.

  ‘Why need I lust for that which I already possess?’

  ‘I don’t imagine a man could ever possess enough power,’ Marduk replied, carefully loading his words with subtle emphasis. ‘They could always have more. Yes, I lust for power. Teach me. I implore you.’

  Kor Phaeron narrowed his eyes. ‘What makes you think I would wish to share my knowledge with you?’

  ‘Because you want to know how I did it,’ Marduk replied. ‘Otherwise, I’d be dead already.’

  Before he could reply, a wracking cough shook Kor Phaeron’s body. He wiped black saliva from his lips. ‘Bel Ashared had some power, but perhaps I misjudged him,’ he said, a gauntleted hand held over his mouth. ‘Clearly he misjudged you. I have no real interest in teaching an arrogant upstart such as yourself, but you are right in one thing – I am intrigued. So tell me, how did you manage it?’

  Marduk licked his lips, knowing that his life hung by the most slender of threads. He knew that he would have to frame his answer carefully.

  The shipyards were burning. Twisted wreckage and debris spun silently in the blackness; some of that wreckage was recognisable as having once been battleships and defence platforms, though most was so mangled as to be practically unidentifiable. There was a serene kind of beauty to the gently rotating junk and flotsam, each tortured chunk of metal turning at its own speed and pitch. The absolute silence of the void made the scene of destruction almost peaceful.

  Close your eyes, thought Marduk, and you would never know anything was amiss.

  The Samothrace cut through the silently spinning debris like a blade. It passed through the slip gates of the Zetsun Verid Yard unopposed. There was no reason for the weapons platform to suspect the Samothrace of anything untoward. The ship was one of the lucky few of the Ultramarines fleet to have escaped the mayhem unscathed.

  It slowed its approach, and docked unchallenged.

  Sorot Tchure led the way through, as ever. Bel Ashared followed closely, and the legionaries of the XVII advanced in the wake of the two officers. They all understood that theirs was a key component of this most critical of endeavours. They knew that they were blessed to have been chosen for this task. Their hunger to begin the cleansing of the station was strong.

  Marduk’s secondary heart had kicked in. To fight alongside such august warriors as the Gal Vorbak was a great honour.

  Kor Phaeron would join them when the deed was done. The crawling sensation that had tingled at the back of Marduk’s skull was tantalising and electric as the Keeper of the Faith let the minions of the warp bear him away to wherever he had gone. Marduk lusted for the day when he too would wield such power.

  Those serving on board the Zetsun Verid Yard had no idea what was about to befall them. Nor were the arrogant sons of the XIII Legion assigned to the platform aware of the events that were already in motion. Their ignorance was delicious.

  As they left the first transit voidlock, an Ultramarine stepped forward to challenge the unexpected boarding party. He was not wearing his cobalt-blue helm, clearly not expecting an attack, nor yet realising that he had but seconds to live. Absurdly, he did not even reach for his weapon. His face bore an expression of puzzlement.

  Marduk laughed to himself. Oh, this was too good.

  The Ultramarine – a sergeant, by his markings – opened his mouth to voice... what? A greeting? A challenge? Either way, he never got the chance to speak. A bolt-round was fired, the first of many that would be unleashed in the next few minutes. The Ultramarine was struck in the face, just under his left cheekbone. Boom.

  The first kill again belonged to Sorot Tchure.

  There was something special about killing Space Marines, something powerful. It was utterly unlike killing lesser beings. Humans had such fleeting, insignificant lives. Yes, he remembered being one of them, but it felt like a dream, or a life that belonged to someone else. He felt little in ending their lives, but severing the life-thread of legionaries gave a thrill unlike any he had known. It was intoxicating.

  The Ultramarine fell to the ground with a resounding crash, seeming like a fallen Titan in the enclosed space. The reverberating sound faded, and for a moment there was silence.

  Faces turned. Mouths gaped open, aghast, as crew members registered the headless Ultramarine splayed out on the deck. Blood was spreading in a widening circle around him. It dripped down through the metal slats of the decking. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Most of those stationed here were non-combatants, the majority being technicians and adepts. Moderati. Magi. Officers. Ratings. Most had never drawn the sidearms worn at their hips – it was merely a part of their uniform, like their epaulets or their pins of servitude. They were working hard to restore communications, trying desperately to contact Calth and the fleet via vox or the local noosphere, but nothing was working.

  They were completely unprepared for this new attack.

  The Word Bearers did not waste their ammunition. They moved in with chain-blade and fist, snapping bodies like dry tinder, punching heads from shoulders. Marduk crushed a skull with the butt of his bolter. It collapsed pleasingly. He grabbed a robed adept as he tried to flee, clasping the man’s neck in his gauntlet. He lifted him off his feet and shook him; vertebra snapped and the adept went limp. Marduk hurled the dead weight back into the terrified mob.

  High-powered las-fire peppered the deck, stabbing into red armour, burning and scorching. The platform was, it seemed, not completely defenceless. Marduk turned, scanning. There, atop a raised gantry – Mechanicum praetorians. Here at least was a foe worthy of his bolter.

  Beasts of war bedecked in baroque bronzed armour, the praetor-ians laid down a torrent of fire. Two of the assaulting XVII went down, their armour smoking. Marduk pumped a pair of bolt rounds into one of the armoured creatures, forcing it back on reverse-hinged piston legs. Flesh and metal ruptured, black oil blending with milky synth-blood splattering forth from the wounds Marduk had inflicted, but it did not fall.

  His aim was thrown off as a human wretch stumbled blindly into him. Marduk cursed, and bashed the man to the ground. He stamped down hard, silencing the pitiful mewling.

  He raised his bolter, seeking to fi
re upon the praetorian again. His assigned mentor, Bel Ashared, had closed the distance, and was engaging the creature of the Mechanicum up close. The Word Bearers captain was blocking his kill-shot. Marduk cursed again.

  Angrily, he took a quick step to the side and slammed his bolter into the face of a man who happened to be staggering past, his face ashen grey. The mortal, a robed adept of some kind, was missing one arm – it had been ripped off at the shoulder by one of Bel Ashared’s warriors. Marduk’s blow caved in his face, and he fell. Marduk flicked a chunk of bloody flesh and hair from his weapon’s casing.

  He saw Bel Ashared knock the praetorian war-beast to the ground with a backhand blow. The captain stepped on its weapon arm, pinning it to the ground with his boot, and buried his humming power axe in its chest. The praetorian brayed an enraged mix of binary code and flesh-voice. It died slowly, gargling and twitching.

  Marduk reached his master’s side. Blood and oil spattered the captain’s armour, forming rivulets in the gaps between the interlocking plates of his armour. Marduk could feel the tingle of warp presence all around them – things beyond the ken of mortal men rippled and writhed just beyond the veil. Cracked voices whispered at the edge of his hearing, scratching at his sanity.

  ‘Fear and death are thinning the shroud between this world and the other,’ Marduk noted, glancing around him.

  ‘What?’ said Bel Ashared.

  ‘The Dwellers Beyond hunger to cross over,’ said Marduk. ‘Do you not feel it, my lord?’

  He saw Bel Ashared’s clenched fists tighten, perhaps sensing that he was being mocked.

  ‘Your insight is astounding, whelp,’ the captain snapped, contempt thick in his voice. ‘An idiot abhuman child could feel it.’

  ‘Most within the Legion do not,’ said Marduk. ‘They are blind.’

  As are you, he thought.

  ‘Do not think yourself special,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘Far from it. You are chaff. Even your own Chapter didn’t want you. You know nothing yet of the truth of the universe, nor of the powers growing on the other side.’

  ‘So teach me,’ replied Marduk.

  ‘Some things cannot be rushed.’

  ‘Such as your ascension into the Gal Vorbak, lord?’

  His mentor looked at him. Hidden behind his helm, his expression was impossible to read, but after a moment he laughed. It was an ugly sound, his grilled vox-unit turning it to a harsh bark.

  ‘Go away, whelp,’ he said. He waved a hand dismissively, splattering flecks of blood across Marduk’s faceplate – a droplet settled on one of his visor lenses, tingeing the postulant’s vision red. ‘I have no time for your nonsense.’

  ‘You are my mentor,’ said Marduk. ‘My place is at your side.’

  ‘I am not a nursemaid. Leave me. We have a station to take,’ said Bel Ashared, turning away. ‘Go with Dralzir’s squad.’

  Marduk swung away, saying nothing.

  The dock was clear. Corpses were scattered across the deck like broken and discarded playthings. The Word Bearers were splitting into smaller detachments and spreading out to penetrate deeper into the weapons platform. They were all familiar with the schematics of Zetsun Verid, and they needed no prompting.

  From one of the adjoining passageways came the deep boom of bolter fire. Evidently the enemy were not going to be difficult to find, but the members of Dralzir Assault Squad were still sifting through the fleshy ruin of the fallen along the dock. They moved from body to body, checking for any signs of life, cutting the throats of those who still remained – one quick slash from ear to ear with their combat blades – before moving on. Not for them the grace and grandeur of a ritual blade, Marduk noted. He joined them as they continued their grisly task.

  Dralzir was a tight unit of veterans. They had won the praise of the primarch himself in years past, and been decorated for their deeds in more than a dozen Compliance actions; kill-markings, campaign badges and cult symbols decorated the curved surfaces of their plate. They tolerated his presence, but their disdain for him was always there. He was not one of them.

  Only one of the squad’s members acknowledged him – a novitiate, just recently bonded with his first suit of power armour. He was as much an outsider as Marduk, and the only warrior within the boarding party who was newer to the Legion than he. His armour was almost embarrassingly untouched.

  This new recruit was kneeling over a fallen adept who was sprawled upon the deck, one of his legs twisted unnaturally beneath him. The man was trying to get away, but the novitiate had one knee on his chest, which was slowly crushing him, forcing his breath in ragged, pained gasps.

  ‘Did you see that blue bastard’s head go up?’ asked the novitiate, looking up at Marduk.

  ‘I did, Burias,’ said Marduk.

  ‘And the expression on the arrogant bastard’s face just before he was hit? Glorious!’

  The robed adept tried to draw a pistol. It was a simple las-weapon, but it shook wildly in his hand. Burias grabbed the man’s wrist before he could level the barrel, and he bent it backwards with almost no effort.

  Snap.

  The man screamed. Burias silenced him with a blow to the temple that broke his neck.

  ‘He didn’t even get a chance to say anything. He just opened his mouth, and boom!’ Burias stood, wiping blood from his hands. ‘You are fighting with us today?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Marduk.

  Burias cocked his head for a moment. ‘Is it true that you were expelled from your own Chapter and sent here to join the Calth assault?’

  Marduk snorted.

  ‘It may as well be,’ he said. ‘I was sent here to learn the ways of the acolyte. There was no ulterior motive in that, as far as I am aware.’

  ‘You will be an Apostle some day, then?’

  ‘Not at this rate,’ said Marduk.

  ‘Enough chatter,’ snarled the squad’s sergeant, Dralzir, striding towards them. Two Ultramarines helmets hung at his waist – the sergeant was not a warrior to be trifled with. ‘It’s time to move.’

  ‘Everyone here’s dead anyway,’ Burias muttered, kicking the corpse at his feet.

  Marduk smiled to himself.

  Burias’s armour was smoking. Plasma burn. He had been lucky, though – a direct hit would have cored right through him. He hugged the bulkhead, using it for cover as he reloaded his Umbra-pattern bolter, ramming a fresh sickle-magazine home.

  Another blur of white-blue plasma screamed through the hatchway, narrowly missing Burias, who merely laughed. The novitiate had some skill, but he was reckless. He would be lucky to see another battle after this, Marduk thought. He hoped he would, though. He had come to enjoy watching Burias kill.

  Plasma slammed against the wall opposite the open portal, exploding in a burst of searing light. From within the chamber there came an angry, screeching hiss: the telltale sound of a plasma gun overheat.

  ‘Take them!’ Dralzir bellowed.

  Responding instantly, Marduk spun out from cover. Dralzir, Burias and Udama-sin were with him, charging through the gap.

  Only small pockets of resistance such as this now remained upon the Zetsun Verid Yard, though their defiance merely prolonged the inevitable. Still, the delay had angered Bel Ashared, and that had in turn angered Sergeant Dralzir. Other squads were already pushing towards the control room at the heart of the platform, while they lagged behind.

  He had split his warriors into two smaller combat squads – a tactic first adopted, ironically, by Guilliman’s Legion – and it was his task to root out any resistance in the lower levels of Zetsun Verid before proceeding.

  A bolt round took Udama-sin almost as soon as they were in the open. Marduk did not look back to see if he lived. Gunfire lit up the darkened room in stark bursts, and Marduk saw blue-armoured targets in front of him. His focus narrowed.

  There were only two stil
l standing. There had been others, but they had been taken down in the first moments of the firefight. One had been caught by a frag grenade detonation; another had been dropped by a clean headshot from Dralzir’s bolt pistol.

  The two Ultramarines were hunkered down behind a makeshift barricade of jumbled cargo crates and machinery. One had a bolter at his shoulder, firing in controlled bursts; he had a vertical white crest on his helmet, a XIII Legion honorific marking him as a ‘Company First Sergeant’ or some such rank. The other held a malfunctioning plasma gun away from his body as it vented white-hot vapour, while firing a bolt pistol in his off-hand.

  Marduk unleashed a fresh burst of bolter fire as he advanced, covering his brethren as they charged forwards, chainswords roaring. Most of his shots were wild, but one took the bolter-wielding Ultramarine in the shoulder. The damage inflicted was only superficial, though, and not enough to put him down.

  A bolt round half spun the young novitiate, Burias, making him stumble. Marduk heard him curse – he was clearly desperate to close with the enemy before his sergeant and more experienced brethren, and prove his worth in the heat of battle.

  Marduk kept his bolter pressed to his shoulder, continuing to fire. He was moving out to one side, outflanking the Ultramarines as the others raced straight for the barricade. He concentrated on the same target he had already hit, striking him twice in the chest. He adjusted his aim for a head shot, but his target dropped into cover – the incoming weight of fire was too heavy.

  Smoothly switching targets, Marduk swung his aim towards the other Ultramarine. His first shot struck the warrior in the wrist; the mass-reactive shell detonated, blowing his hand clean off and robbing him of his pistol in the process. Undeterred, the Ultra-marine simply brought up the vented plasma gun, adjusting his grip so that it rested upon his forearm, which now ended in a bloodied stump, and levelled it at Marduk.

  The Word Bearer hurled himself aside. The sun-like flare of the discharge overwhelmed his armour’s auto-senses, and a white haze filled his helmet’s vision, rendering him blind for a few heartbeats. Even through his ceramite-insulated armour, he could feel the intense, burning heat of the shot as it screamed past, making the air fizzle.