The Purge

by Anthony Reynolds

  'New path?' said Wreth. 'What madness is this?'

  'At Monarchia, the Emperor rebuked us for worshipping him as a god,' said Jarulek. He shrugged. 'We found new ones. Well, old ones...'

  'You've been away from the Legion too long,' said Sor Talgron.

  'You haven't got a religious bone in your body, lad,' spat Wreth. 'This is not some holy endeavour. You've become traitors, nothing more.'

  'No,' said Jarulek. 'We've become enlightened.'

  'Why did you release me? Why didn't you just let me rot with the others of the Crusader Host?'

  'You'd only have been executed, in time,' said Sor Talgron. 'The truth will out. Always, the truth will out. You think Dorn would let you live once he knew that the Seventeenth had pledged for Horus? This way, you may still serve the Legion. This way, your death has a meaning. A purpose.'

  'What have you become, Sor Talgron?' said Wreth. 'You are not the warrior that I knew. He would never have betrayed the Imperium. Never in a thousand years. Something has happened to you, some corruption has eroded your soul.'

  'I am exactly the man that you knew,' snarled Sor Talgron. 'The Legion is my life. It has always been so. Would it have been better to have betrayed the Seventeenth? Is that what the man you knew would have done? Would he have betrayed Lord Aurelian?'

  'The one I knew understood the difference between right and wrong.'

  'What's right and what's wrong is determined by the victor,' said Sor Talgron. 'I am a soldier, just as I always was. I do as I am ordered. Nothing has changed.'

  'Then damn you, and damn the Legion,' said Volkhar Wreth, stepping towards him, clutching Jarulek's knife.

  * * *

  'Kill him!' Sor Talgron shouted, too late.

  The Ultramarine swept his arm in front of him, from left to right, in the manner of one clearing a table in a pique of rage. Every Word Bearer was hurled backwards by a colossal barrage of unseen force.

  They were slammed against the far wall, which bent and buckled beneath them. The unseen force did not relent, either. It continued to press upon the Word Bearers, pinning them in place. It was as though the axis of reality in the room had suddenly changed, making the back wall down, and the gravity increased ten-fold.

  The Ultramarine had risen off the floor, his feet hovering just above it. His arms were outspread, palms up, and white flames were rising from his hands as well as spilling from his eyes. His teeth were bared in a vicious snarl.

  The force pressing upon Sor Talgron made it feel like the weight of a battle tank on his chest, making breathing difficult. His arms and legs were pinned against the wall, and in spite of all his strength, enhanced by the fibre-bundles and servos of his armour, he could not pull himself free, nor even raise a weapon against his enemy.

  Yet, despite the tonnage of force pressing against him, a bark of laughter escaped his lips.

  The Ultramarine turned his gaze upon Sor Talgron.

  'You find your end amusing, traitor?' he said. His voice sounded like a dozen voices blurred together.

  'You are as much a traitor as I,' said Sor Talgron. 'You go against the Emperor's decree.'

  'You have no moral right to condemn me,' said the Ultramarine, multiple voices overlapping.

  Sor Talgron laughed again, with considerable difficulty. 'I do not need to condemn you. Your actions do that for me.'

  'You speak poison, traitor,' said the Ultramarine. 'My infraction is as nothing next to the scale of your treachery.'

  'Such is how all treachery is born - by small degrees,' said Sor Talgron. He strained to lift his weapon again, but he could not. He might as well try to lift a mountain, so strong was the force ranged against him. 'But there is no grey area here. There is only obeying, and disobeying. You've turned against the word of the Emperor. In his eyes, you are no different from any of us. He ordered the death of one of his own sons for it - why do you think he would forgive you?'

  The Ultramarine pressed his arms outwards, as if pushing on a heavy weight. The force holding the Word Bearers intensified. Sor Talgron's armour groaned. It could not take much more than this.

  'You... are... as... damned... as... us...' he snarled.

  'Enough,' yelled the Ultramarine, thrusting a hand towards Sor Talgron, fingers tightening like he was gripping something. Sor Talgron's throat was constricted suddenly, closing off his windpipe. 'This world is going to burn, and you and all your traitorous Legion will burn with it.'

  With one hand extended, holding the Word Bearers in place, the damned Librarian drew a plasma pistol. He aimed, taking his time, and fired. There was a searing flash of heat and light, and one of Sor Talgron's legionaries was slain, cored through his midsection. The air filled with the stink of melting flesh and acrid plasma discharge.

  The Word Bearers strained against the psychic pressure pinning them in place, but it was no good. None of them could move. The Librarian's pistol was venting super-heated vapour from its power coils. He lowered its barrel at his next target — Sor Talgron. The captain's face was purple, the invisible grip of iron still clamped around his throat.

  Jarulek spoke then. His words made the scratching inside Sor Talgron's mind intensify sharply, and he might have cried out had he been able to breathe. It felt as though some taloned thing inside his skull was straining desperately to get out. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose.

  The Apostle's words were guttural and harsh, and not in any way human in origin. They were an aberration, the sounds not ones that any being born of the material realm had any right to utter. It was a calling, a summoning of beings beyond the veil of reality.

  And in defiance of all rational logic, that call was answered.

  The buzzing in Sor Talgron's head could have been the sound of a faulty vox picking up nothing but static, or the incessant burr of a million insects. Behind the crackling noise he could hear the chittering of inhuman voices and the cutting cry of newborns. It was an uneasy, disconcerting sound, and it was getting steadily louder.

  Every lumen strip in the room exploded, scattering shards of broken glass in all directions. Darkness descended like a veil and the chittering voices were suddenly in the room with them. The only light was the dull electronic glow of a data-screen coming from the chamber beyond. The electric buzz in the air reached a painful resonance.

  With a sound like paper ripping, a pair of shadows detached themselves from the surrounding darkness. They descended upon the Librarian, drifting towards him like moths to a candle, like leeches to blood. Each of the incorporeal shapes manifested a pair of long, spindly arms made of nothing more solid than darkness, the limbs extending from vaguely humanoid, skeletal torsos that tapered into nothingness below the waist.

  They grappled with the Ultramarine, clawing his weapon arm with insubstantial talons, and his shot went wild, searing through the metal wall half a metre above Sor Talgron's head, He felt the pressure against him lessen, and he sucked in a breath, gasping for air. Fighting against the pressing psychic power, he managed to shift his arm fractionally. His fingertips touched the grip of the volkite pistol holstered at his chest.

  The shades surrounded the Librarian, coiling around him like serpents. One of them still held his weapon arm, fighting against him, while the other was scrabbling wildly for his throat. The Ultramarine fought them off, struggling to shove them away, but it was like clutching at smoke.

  A third spectral shape materialised, emerging from the darkness and rearing up behind him. It grabbed the Ultramarine's head in its shadow-talons, and the Librarian roared as cold fingers pressed into his mind. The incorporeal being shuddered, dark un-light pulsing along its arms and into its being, and its presence grew more substantial. It was feeding on him, Sor Talgron realised. A mouth split open in its otherwise blank face, revealing rows of tiny, barbed teeth, and it breathed out a cloud of buzzing flies, accompanied by a stench like rotting flesh.

  The other two spirits renewed their efforts. It was abundantly clear that the Librarian was about t
o be overcome.

  With a roar, he threw a hand towards the wreckage of the Contemptor, lying lifeless on the floor. It was lifted into the air, and with a wild motion of the Ultramarine's arm, it was sent slamming into Jarulek.

  The shades began to fade as the Apostle's voice was silenced. They fought to remain in the material realm, clawing frantically for a foothold in real space, but they were drawn slowly back into shadow. They screamed and writhed, but then they were gone. The Librarian stood alone, breathing hard.

  A single shot rang out, echoing loudly, and a hole was punched through the Ultramarine's chest. He collapsed backwards, following the trajectory of the high-velocity sniper round.

  The weight pressing Sor Talgron to the wall fell away, and he pushed himself to his feet. He glanced back towards the conveyor. Loth was down on one knee, smoke drifting from the barrel of his long rifle.

  'Good shot,' he growled. The recon sergeant shrugged.

  Sor Talgron stalked over to the Librarian. The Ultramarine was slumped on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Sor Talgron didn't need to be an Apothecary to see that the legionary would not survive.

  'Desperation makes fools of us all,' he said. 'You didn't need to break the Nikaea edict. Now, you die a traitor.'

  'Perhaps,' breathed the Ultramarine. 'But you'll... die... with...'

  His voice trailed off as his life left him.

  Sor Talgron frowned and turned away. The buzzing in his mind had finally gone, though it had left a pounding headache in his temples. Surprisingly, the flies that the shadow-daemon had breathed forth were all still there, lying dead on their backs with legs folded. They crunched beneath his boots.

  Daemons. These were the new allies of the XVII Legion. Had he not been wearing his helmet he would have spat in disgust.

  He saw two of his legionaries haul aside the wreckage of the Contemptor and help Apostle Jarulek to his feet.

  'You're alive, then,' Sor Talgron commented, feeling nothing either way.

  'Captain, you need to see this,' said Loth.

  Sor Talgron followed the recon sergeant's voice, and entered the small communications command centre. It was dominated by sensor arrays and data-screens awash with information.

  'What am I seeing?' he said. He stabbed a finger at one of the screens. 'Is that what I think it is?'

  'Yes,' said Loth. 'There's an active Ultramarines ship up there in orbit.'

  'Give me audio on that screen there,' said Sor Talgron, gesturing to where the image of a woman could be seen speaking.

  '-on third bombardment deck,' the woman was saying as the audio connected to the visual feed. 'Target solution is a lock. On my mark.'

  'It's preparing to fire,' said Loth. 'They're using this connection to sequence its guidance systems.'

  'Kill the connection!' barked Sor Talgron.

  'I'm trying,' said Loth, punching in keys on the command Console. 'It's locked me out.'

  The woman on the screen turned to look at the Word Bearers. She was a fleet admiral, Sor Talgron saw by the pins on her lapel. An unappealing smile touched her thin lips.

  'I take it, then, that Legionary Xion Octavian is dead,' she said. 'He died a hero. Whatever he did bought the time I needed. You traitors are all going to burn.'

  Sor Talgron cursed and drew his volkite pistol, aiming it squarely in the centre of the command module. Loth stood and backed away, knocking his chair over in his haste.

  The captain fired, emptying the weapon's charge into the console. The whole thing went up in sparks and flame, and the data-screens exploded.

  Jarulek stood in the doorway, leaning on the supporting arm of a legionary. 'What can one crippled ship do?'

  'There are still Ultramarines forces on this continent,' said Sor Talgron. 'They won't target the battles for fear of killing their own legionaries. They wouldn't sanction that. It is not in their nature. They'll be targeting one of the muster points.'

  Loth spat. In the silence that followed, Dal Ahk's voice crackled through on the vox.

  'Captain! Enemy planet-strike ordnance inbound!' he said. 'Multiple targets!'

  TEN

  Decimus was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and he clutched a chainaxe in blood-slick hands. He had lost his own weapons - and a number of those scrounged from fallen friends and foes - earlier in the battle. His muscles were burning, and his armour was hanging off him in ragged pieces. One of his lungs was deflated, and his secondary heart was pounding, picking up the slack from his primary heart, which had been pierced by shrapnel. He was aware of more than a dozen internal injuries that required immediate medicae attention.

  He smashed the skull of a traitor beneath the butt of his axe, grimacing in pain as he struck. He tossed the chainaxe aside - it was missing so many teeth that it was little more than a bludgeon. He picked up the crude knife that the enemy legionary had been clutching. It was hot to the touch, and made his hand tingle strangely. Bile rose in his throat. He hurled the cursed blade away.

  'Here, my lord,' said a wounded Ultramarines sergeant, proffering his power sword. The warrior was so drenched in blood that he could have been mistaken for a Word Bearer.

  'My thanks, Sergeant Connor,' he said, and took the blade. He thumbed its activation rune and energy coalesced down its length. 'Macraggean?'

  The sergeant nodded wearily. 'From the Crown Mountains themselves.'

  The scream of an incoming artillery shell sent Ultramarines scrambling for cover. Decimus didn't bother. He could tell from the sound that it was a way off to his left. A hot wind tore across the corpse strewn plain, and the choking clouds parted momentarily in the backwash of an unseen blast.

  The enemy was coming for them once again, lines of legionaries and Dreadnoughts advancing alongside Vindicators and Predators. There were still thousands of them.

  'My lord,' came a shout. He was too weary even to register who it was that had spoken. 'My lord, look!'

  Lifting his gaze skyward, Aecus Decimus saw dozens of burning shapes falling through the upper atmosphere. Each was trailing a line of fire. He stood there in the mud and the blood, breathing hard. It was done.

  'Reinforcements?' said one his legionaries, and Decimus felt a pang of shame. He had told no one but his most senior captains and the cadre of censured legionaries of his final order. It was better that way, he had decided.

  There was a ragged cheer from a few of the men, thinking that their Chapter Master had confirmed the arrival of reinforcements. Others knew better, however.

  'Those are not drop pods,' said Sergeant Connor in a low voice that only Decimus heard. 'Reinforcements are not coming, are they.'

  It was not a question.

  'No,' he said. 'This planet is lost, and so are we. But we'll take all these heathen traitor bastards with us.'

  With the sergeant's aid, he climbed wearily to stand atop the ruined hulk of a Rhino, and he raised the power sword high for all to see. There were pitifully few of them left, but he saw pride burning in their eyes. Pride, and anger.

  The first of the orbital strikes hit to the north. There was a blinding flash, and rising green flame mushroomed into the air beyond the horizon. The sound would not hit them for almost a minute, the Chapter Master judged. Others were coming down overhead, closer than the first.

  History would not judge him harshly for this, but only because none of the XIII Legion would be left alive here once this was over, none to speak of what he had set in motion. No one would ever question which side had unleashed this horror upon a loyal world of the Five Hundred. The time for doubt was past.

  'One last charge, sons of Ultramar,' he roared. 'One last charge, in the name of Guilliman and the Emperor.' He dropped off the Rhino, sinking half to his knees in the clinging mire. 'Come, my brothers. Honour and glory!'

  'Honour and glory!' they answered as one.

  The struggle did not last long. No contest between an armoured and unarmoured legionary would.

  Sor Talgron caught Volkhar Wreth's hand in his fist a
s he stabbed at him. Bones crunched and the knife clattered to the floor. The predicant slammed his fist into the side of Sor Talgron's helmet, cracking a lens and denting the ceramite.

  'That is all you get,' said Sor Talgron, the light of his cracked lens flickering.

  He grabbed Wreth by the neck and slammed him bodily into a wall, once, twice, using all his servo—assisted strength. Bricks crumbled around Wreth, and he slumped to his knees. Stepping in close, Sor Talgron slammed a heavy backhand blow into the side of his head, felling him instantly.

  Sor Talgron knelt over him, a knee in the centre of his back pinning him to the ground, and one hand pressing down upon the back of his head. He scooped up Jarulek's blade with his other hand. The hilt of the athame felt warm to the touch, even through his gauntlet.

  'This is my mentor and a mentor who in his day was worthy even of the primarch's respect,' growled Sor Talgron. He had the blade of the athame pressed to the back of Volkhar Wreth's neck. 'I would not have him suffer needlessly.'

  'It will work, captain,' Jarulek assured him.

  'If it does not, I will cut your throat. I promise you that.'

  Then he pushed the knife between Wreth's vertebrae, cutting into the spinal column.

  The doors were already being eaten away before they arrived at the surface. The temperature in the conveyor had dropped markedly, and a harsh, alchemical stink was seeping through the vents. The lift cable overhead groaned. Sor Talgron wasn't sure they would make it to the top at all.

  For the enemy to unleash world-killers was a stunning development. It was not a strategic possibility that he had even considered the XIII Legion undertaking.

  'This world is going to die, along with countless thousands of the Seventeenth, yet you seem impressed,' said Jarulek.

  'I am,' said Sor Talgron. 'I didn't think they had it in them.'

  He had ordered the evacuation, but there was little chance that more than a fraction of his legionaries had made it off-world before the bombs had struck. Now, the vox was awash with static.