by Rob Sanders
‘I’ve got nothing,’ the prognostic told him with a little uncertainty and a good deal of fear. Gone was the girl’s cockiness and attitude. The uncertainty Klute had heard before. Never the fear.
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘I see nothing of our future, inquisitor,’ she replied. He turned to see her face white and stricken. She hardly ever used his title. Klute swallowed. This was bad. If Epiphani could not see their future then perhaps they did not have one.
‘Daemonic incursion located – Reliquary Chamber XIII.3,’ the Grey Knight justicar stormed with sober certainty over his vox-link. ‘Inquisitor Cyarro – permission to commence purgation of threat?’
Both Brother Torqhuil and the daemonhost Hessian had heard the Space Marine. Hessian glowed with unnatural power and unearthly hate. The monster sensed the danger and its vulnerability to such thrice-blessed enemies.
‘Unleash me,’ it said, although it was difficult for Klute to tell whether or not the thing was begging him or commanding him to do the horrific deed.
‘Cyarro,’ the Relictor seethed beside them, barely containing himself. Klute knew that Gamal Cyarro operated out of Nemesis Tessera. Cyarro had made a life’s work of hunting Relictors Space Marines as heretics and deviants and it had been from one of Cyarro’s associate inquisitors that Klute himself had learned of the Relictors and the details of their shameful quest in the Eye of Terror. He would never have intentionally led Saul Torqhuil into the reach of such enemies. The Relictors Space Marine’s reaction was both terrible and predictable.
The cavernous chamber was a reliquary for objects both damned and daemonic, claimed and catalogued by the Ordo Malleus. Many were inert or erroneously categorised – the Inquisition impounding objects that they simply did not understand or had no time to research. Those that had been identified as having observed, destructive capabilities were cradled in psi-inhibitors, stored in stasis caskets or Geller phase-field protected.
Torqhuil reached out and with little difficulty the Techmarine’s gauntlet found the grotesque hilt of a daemonically-possessed weapon. The Relictor was an expert in the field of exotic, otherwordly weapons and knew exactly what he was looking for. Snatching it from an ancient rack of similar items, the Techmarine clipped through a thick security chain with the claw on his servo-arm. He swung the sword into the cavern floor, smashing apart the fractured crystal case and cradle psi-inhibitor in which it had been safely stored. The hideous sword hilt rattled in his grip in excitement.
The seals and blessed ointments within and adorning the Techmarine’s power armour prevented the force flooding him with its corruption but the daemon weapon still managed to feed off the Space Marine’s hate and desire for vengeance. The blade’s wicked form changed, seemingly shaping itself to represent the dark thoughts of its wielder. From a relatively straight, short and thin blade the sword bled aged metal and rust into reality, morphing into a devastating weapon – as tall as the Space Marine himself, with a curved, flat, single-edged blade, more like a scimitar or falchion. Its dull edge grew twisted and knobbly like a contorted spine. From it sprouted thorny spikes and spines running down its length and onto a rusted, daemonic skull that performed the function of a pommel and counterweight. Snatching his power axe in the other gauntlet from where it rested in his servo-harness, the Relictor presented himself to his sworn enemies.
Ignoring Hessian and seizing his Inquisitorial rosette, Klute ran out in front of the Relictors Space Marine. He had to act quickly. It would take a few moments for the Adeptus Astartes to clash. The Chem-Dogs’ trigger fingers wouldn’t wait that long and the game would be up as soon as the bolt-rounds and lasblasts started flying.
‘Hold your fire,’ Klute commanded, flashing his rosette at the Grey Knights but nodding at Steward-Sergeant Rourke. ‘By order of the Ordo Xenos.’ Klute felt he had little to lose by invoking the authority of his entire Holy Ordo.
‘An illusion, to draw us from our sacred purpose,’ the justicar called with conviction. The rosette had not even given him a second’s pause for thought. ‘Minions of the Great Enemy will do aught to survive on this corporal plane. Purge this Inquisition fortress of the unholy and abominate in the God-Emperor’s name. Destroy the interlopers. Suffer not the immaterial to exist.’
In unison the Grey Knights halted, extending their left gauntlets. On each sat a wrist-mounted storm bolter that let loose a stream of raw, yet disciplined firepower. The motley barrels of the Savlars came instinctively up and replied. Bolt-rounds tore through the bodies of the penitent Guardsmen, blowing off heads and limbs with brutal precision. The Chem-Dog firepower was pathetic in comparison and danced off the antique armour of the Space Marines. During the exchange the remaining Guardsmen swiftly scrambled for cover along with Epiphani and her servo-skull guide.
Klute was roughly pushed to the ground by Torqhuil. The inquisitor hit the rocky floor behind a robust security storage crate. It looked very much like a large coffin and undoubtedly contained something hideous. Brother Torqhuil dauntlessly strode at the Grey Knights, daemon blade and power axe stretched out in front of him. Bolts seemed to blast artefacts and Guardsmen to pieces about him but the shells rocketing directly at the Relictor Space Marine seemed to fall away to dust, disintegrating before the infernal power of the daemon sword. Hessian’s flesh was aflame from within and the letters embedded in that flesh were clear to see against a background of dark light. The daemonhost was resisting his wards and litanies and from its contorted features Klute concluded that this constituted both physical and spiritual agonies.
Hessian’s feet left the floor and the creature began to rise above the chaos and gunfire. Klute thought about unleashing the daemon as it had requested but despised the thought of it becoming a habit. Perhaps, the inquisitor considered with bolt-rounds chewing up the damned relics and curiosities about him, the problem was not Hessian and his appetite for freedom and destruction, it was the fact that since Czevak had returned they were increasingly in the kind of peril that necessitated Hessian’s hellish powers.
Klute felt the security storage coffin move. It drifted off the ground wreathed in a faint, spiritual fire along with the daemonhost and several other heavy objects. Hessian screamed horribly. He wanted to launch the levitating barrage at their enemies but bound as he was simply could not draw on the telekinetic power it needed from the warp to accomplish such a feat. The coffin crashed back to the ground where its reinforced surface absorbed a staccato of storm bolt abuse from the Grey Knight justicar. Hessian hung in the air, barely drawing on the power to deflect oncoming bolt blasts from ripping its host’s body up. Instead the ammunition deviated the hair’s breadth needed to clip the daemonhost’s arms and shoulders instead of punching a ragged hole through the centre of its chest.
‘Free me…’ Hessian hissed. This time Klute knew it was begging. The inquisitor’s lips began to form around Phalanghast’s incantations – incantations designed to give the monster its wish.
The air about them suddenly blazed. An arc of searing power roasted reality above Klute’s head and buried itself in the daemonhost’s floating form. The creature was flung back into the cavern wall, thrashing under the torment of the soul lightning. Klute realised that one of the Grey Knight’s had unleashed his own warp-borne powers on the daemonhost. This was joined by a second arc that lanced its way across the chamber and savaged the daemon. Crucified against the cold rock with an arc streaming at each of the creature’s arms the daemonhost was helpless.
Risking a glance above the coffin, Klute found that the arcs were raging from the tips of two Nemesis force halberds, each held by Grey Knights who sat immobile like tanks in their Tactical Dreadnought armour. Torqhuil was amongst his enemies now, moving with insane speed and precision. The Relictors Space Marine was drawing on every second of his Adeptus Astartes combat training but was also working in unison with the damned blade he was wielding and its dark will. Three Grey Knight Terminators were attempting to cleave the Techmarine in
two with the crackling blades of their force halberds but time after time the Relictor managed to get a mechadendrite, servo-arm, gauntlet or weapon between him and his foe. It was awe inspiring to watch the Space Marine cross blades with his battle-brothers.
At one point Torqhuil managed to seize one of the Terminators with his servo-arm and throw his heavy weight opponent across his shoulder like a wrestler. The Grey Knight slid across the reliquary chamber floor, smashing a path through the gathered artefacts and damned arcanum, losing his helmet. The surprise and frustration were clear to see, etched into the ancient Space Marine’s face. The Techmarine brought up his power axe only to have his weapon smashed to pieces as the pulsing Nemesis blade of a Grey Knight halberd passed through it. Despite his mindless bravery, the Relictor had little hope of besting three Grey Knights and gradually the force weapons were finding their way through the Techmarine’s furious assault and opening his sacred armour up like a tin can.
With blood and oils leaking from Torqhuil’s suit and the thrown Terminator back on his feet, the Techmarine was forced to redouble his already impossible efforts. His fury fed the dark weapon in his creaking gauntlet, swinging the curved blade about him in savage, superhuman sweeps that not only smashed aside the Grey Knights’ blades and the aim of their storm bolters but occasionally managed to slice through the thick ceramite of the Grey Knights’ vambrace and cuirass plates.
Klute knew that he had to do something but could not conceive of what. The odds were so staggeringly stacked against them that it was inconceivable to imagine the following minutes ending in anything other than a certain, merciless death. Slipping his Cadian street silencer out of his robes, Klute feverishly ejected silver and salt shot cartridges from the sawn-off shotgun and began replacing them with modified single bolt-rounds. Something moved to his left and the inquisitor yanked on the lever action to prime the weapon but found that it was only Father. The servo-skull was fleeing a scene of nearby destruction. The Grey Knight justicar had worked his bloody way through most of Rourke’s Chem-Dogs and having now found Epiphani was swinging the length of his force halberd at the witch. The girl was down on her knees and blind without Father. The justicar batted crates, relics and heathen archaeology aside in an effort to cut the warp-seer in half. Moment by moment, the blind prognostic managed to read the second before her last and evade the path of the sizzling blade.
Torqhuil. Hessian. Epiphani. Klute had brought them all to this with his misguided manipulation of Czevak. The inquisitor was terrified but it was the guilt and responsibility he could not bear. Standing, Klute turned on the two Grey Knights from whose weapons soul lightning leapt at Hessian. He aimed the shotgun uselessly at the Adeptus Astartes warriors encased safely in their Terminator armour. Klute’s lip curled. A thought crossed his mind. A desperate thought. The inquisitor’s aim altered slightly and the shotgun pistol bucked as he hammered the broad Nemesis blade of the nearest Grey Knight aside with his bolt-round. As the Space Marine’s arc of blistering warp power went wide Klute worked the lever action and repeated the action with the blade of the second force halberd.
Suddenly the daemonhost was free and dropped the considerable distance to the ground. The Grey Knights corrected their aim almost immediately, bringing their weapons back on target. Klute threw himself back down beside the coffin as the lightning streams passed overhead and blasted apart the contents of the chamber. From his vantage point Klute could see the smouldering heap of daemonhost, crumbled against the bottom of the wall.
The inquisitor could only hope that he had taken the right action. The justicar had Epiphani now, the hulking Terminator knelt over the frail form of the young warp-seer. The blind prognostic was pinned to the dusty floor and the Grey Knight had his force halberd where he intended to slice the witch’s head from her shoulders. Klute had been counting on the warp-seer’s childhood pet not allowing that to happen. With scorched flesh still alight in places the daemonhost suddenly scrambled to its senses, bounding across the floor almost like some kind of infernal hound.
Launching itself at the justicar, Hessian landed on the thick armour of the Grey Knight’s barrel chest. Seizing his force halberd the monster – eyes ablaze – tore the shaft of the weapon in two, allowing each half to fall away. The daemonhost needed its fists to pummel the armoured figure to the ground, which it incredibly managed despite the fact that it could pull upon only a fraction of its talents and had just been savaged by the formidable psychic powers of two Grey Knight Space Marines. With hands swathed in ethereal warp fire the daemonhost smashed at the Grey Knight justicar.
Again, Hessian was testing the limits of his bounding, drawing on what immaterial power he could. Ceramite plates and plasteel buckled with every impact. The Terminator attempted to get his wrist-mounted storm bolter between himself and the hell-sired thing but Hessian slammed the armoured limb to the floor with a foot. It then grabbed the justicar’s helmet and brutally tore it, head and all, from the unfortunate daemon hunter.
As the daemonhost tossed the gore-streaming helmet aside the twin streams of soul lightning found him again, throwing his scorched body over Epiphani The warp seer was blindly attempting to crawl away. Hessian was blasted back into the wall where the streams of psychic energy held him and bled away his hold on the material universe. The thing roared in anguish and agony.
‘Epiphani!’ Klute shouted across the bedlam in an attempt to help the blind prognostic find her bearings. On some deep, unconscious level the girl seemed to know something that he didn’t and instead of crawling towards his voice she crawled away.
As Klute worked the lever action on his shotgun pistol another of his compatriots crashed by. Torqhuil was a mess. His armour was rent and smashed and his servo-harness was a tangled cage of broken appendages and severed limbs. His chest plate was a black, smouldering crater where one of the Grey Knights had blown him from his feet with a close range burst of soul lightning. The daemon blade in his gauntlet had changed both shape and size, further reflecting the now dying spirit inside the Adeptus Astartes warrior. The Space Marine’s wrath – which had fed the weapon’s dark needs – was bleeding away with his life.
Klute went to move to the hulking Techmarine’s side but the Space Marine’s enemies were suddenly upon him. In credit to the Relictor, each Grey Knight Terminator looked as though they had just walked out of a daemonic warzone. Where the possessed blade had found its mark it had not only cut through adamantium and Tactical Dreadnought plating, it had aged the armour on contact. The slashes and slices that Torqhuil had visited upon the Grey Knights were now yawning, rusted and ragged holes revealing the Adeptus Astartes within. Surrounded and floored, Torqhuil suffered a storm of blades as each of the Grey Knights fought for the honour of despatching the renegade Relictors Space Marine. Crouched and powerless, all Klute could do was will on the Relictor’s survival. The Techmarine gave the inquisitor reason to believe this was possible with his feverish, prone defence. Somehow the Space Marine managed to get the daemon blade between himself and the Nemesis force halberds sailing at him. The helmetless Adeptus Astartes, whom Torqhuil had thrown across the chamber, snarled superhuman desire to end the Relictor, smashing the blazing blade of his halberd into the rocky floor upon which the Techmarine thrashed, squirmed and dodged.
Risking everything, Torqhuil moved from a defensive posture to one of attack, arching his broken body in order to give the daemon blade enough momentum to sweep his foe. The blade found the helmetless Grey Knight just below the knee and cut through both of the Space Marine’s legs.
Without legs to support it, the bulk of the Terminator crashed to the floor. Gore streamed from the severed limbs and the Grey Knight’s face became a nest of shock and confusion. Even in the face of such grievous wounds, Space Marines were trained to fight on. Klute knew that Adeptus Astartes warriors had walked and crawled off battlefields with much worse. With composure swiftly returning the Grey Knight went to swing his force halberd from his position on the floor. Then Klute
saw something else happen to the Grey Knight’s face. Creases of confusion rapidly became the deep lines of old, old age as the power of the supernatural blade took effect. From genetically enhanced human to dusty skeleton took less than a few seconds and was horrific to behold.
The daemon blade spasmed with new power and once again grew in length and death-dealing shape. Torqhuil clearly dared to hope and tried to get the weapon back between himself and his enemies but he had left himself wide open for other attacks. The first Grey Knight batted the daemon blade aside with the flat of his force halberd and then, blade crackling with warp-drawn energies, sliced the Relictor’s power armour gauntlet off at the wrist.
Gauntlet, hand and sword fell to the floor where the Grey Knight Space Marine kicked it away. The second reared and tossed his own halberd like a psychically guided spear, the blade easily cleaving through the crater that was now the Techmarine’s chest plate and impaling the Relictor through his primary heart.
Torqhuil roared but the suffering was drowned in a gush of bloody gruel that erupted from the Relictor Space Marine’s lips. The Grey Knight put his boot on the Techmarine’s belly and attempted to withdraw the force halberd from the twisted adamantium of Torqhuil’s ruined armour. His intention was clear, to stab him again and finish the job.
Klute was not usually given to wildly stupid and heroic gestures, but they were all he had. Standing, the inquisitor blasted bolt-rounds at the Grey Knights, working the lever action and hoping that one of his wild, furious rounds could find one of the aged, rusting rents that Torqhuil’s daemon blade had opened in the Grey Knights’ Terminator armour. Both Grey Knights took their attention off the smashed Relictor and lifting their left gauntlets sent Klute explosive bursts of their own firepower from their wrist-mounted storm bolters.
To the Space Marines, Klute was but an inconvenience, a fly to be effortlessly swatted, and he would have been if it hadn’t have been for the chromatic stream of fragmented colour and shape that passed before him and the Adeptus Astartes’ aim. Tearing the inquisitor out of harm’s way and behind an obscene Slaaneshi obelisk, Czevak’s Harlequin coat and Domino field gave them the milliseconds of uncertainty they needed to escape an explosive mauling. Further gunfire crumbled the stone of the phallic, Slaaneshi monument.
