Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  Khadag Yde of VII Rampager. A giant horror, a skull-taker, trophies of human bone and skin strung about his plate like fetishes and leather aprons. He is berserk, his sentience whittled down to an inarticulate kill-urge. He is moving at close to sixty kilometres an hour. He will plough through them like a runaway speeder. He will kill them and eat them, and not necessarily in that order.

  I accelerate. Khadag Yde is, I judge, fifty times stronger than me. Six times my size. Ten times as fast. He wields a brace of chainaxes, each of which could split a troop carrier wide open.

  This will be interesting. For all that I have studied these poor friends turned-archenemies, for all I have marvelled at what monsters they have become, that was all theory. This will be my first practical engagement with the things the XII have become.

  I have one battlefield advantage. I can see Khadag Yde. He is a homed giant in white plate.

  Khadag Yde cannot see me.

  I intercept him, head-on, five metres short of the banner line.

  He senses me at the very last moment. The Neverborn anima fizzling in his bloodstream is triggered by my null-state, and flinches.

  I put my faith in the Emperor. I put my strength in Veracity.

  I put Veracity through his face.

  Yde upstroke impact almost breaks my elbow and shoulder. My feet slide, I’m rowing earth like the skids of a hard-landing Stormbird.

  Khadag Yde rises up. He leaves the ground for a moment, like a breaching cetacean, white armour shearing across his face and chest, finishes splintering and flying, ducts and feeds snapping, blood exploding in a fountain – his blood and litres of ingested blood from his burst stomach. He flails, convulsing, churning backwards, opened from groin to brainpan. He lands on his back with a noise of falling scrap metal, smashing mire-wash into the air.

  I judge my first practical experience to be a success.

  The men around the banner do not understand what has just happened. I imagine it feels like a miracle to them, an impossibility, the act of some god. They cannot see me either. They can only see the result of me.

  But they roar out a cheer nonetheless, their chanting renewed.

  I turn to them, and see the blind hope in their faces, the triumph in their eyes. They cannot stay here. They have to move. Withdraw. More are coming.

  But I can’t tell them that.

  Except-

  I see him. The old grenadier. The reprobate veteran soldier. The one from the convoy, who acted so peculiarly.

  He is staring right at me, one hand on the banner pole, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Spots of Khadag Yde’s blood glitter on his face, and twinkle in his beard.

  He sees me.

  I look him right in the eyes. I will him to see me even better.

  And I point. I point towards the barrier wall. I point as emphatically as I can.

  Go. Understand me. Please. Go now. Take these men while you still can, and get to the wall.

  For pity’s sake, see me and understand what I am trying to tell you.

  * * *

  Hari could hear Piers shouting. ‘He protects us! He guards us! I told you, I told you, boys! He’s with us! The Emperor’s with us!’

  It didn’t make much sense. Something had just happened, some state-change as simple and silent as the sun coming out from behind a cloud. But it wasn’t sunlight, it was a stillness, a dense cold as thought war’s scream had been muted. All the daemonic things, some too grotesque to look at, suddenly broken and scattered, whining and barking as they scampered and flapped away. And the monster, the feral Astartes monster, had been split apart, just metres from them, by some invisible force.

  Hari stared at its immense, ruptured corpse. Steam was pouring from its split innards. It had been so big, so fast, charging them with such fury, it had seemed less like a warrior in war and more like a force of nature.

  And what, under all the stars, could stop a force of nature except an act of god?

  ‘The spirit of Mythrus is among us, boys!’ Piers shouted. ‘Fickle mistress of war! We’re her chosen ones today! Bless yourselves, and follow me! Lift up that banner, and follow me! To the wall, boys! We’re falling back to the wall! You hear me? Do it!’

  * * *

  The dead had been taken to the longhalls and blockhouses that filled the yards behind Gorgon Bar. In the aftermath of the savage push-back, work crews had toiled to clear the ramparts of bodies. The wounded had been carried or led to the medicae bunkers and field stations. Processions of them, bloodied and dazed, were being guided down the ramps and walkways from the Bar’s inner walls. The dead, Astartes and Army alike, were borne down on carts and loaders to the longhalls. Medicae personnel ran final checks to confirm extinction, then the corpses were divided, legionaries to one set of halls, human dead to others. All would be stripped of any functioning armour or equipment, for everything was precious. Apothecaries would extract vital gene-seed and any serviceable organs. Chirugeons would harvest the human bodies for blood, tissue and organs to feed the flesh-banks of the infirmaries.

  What remained would lay in state until there was an opportunity for formal disposal. It was solemn work, with no time for proper ritual or ceremony.

  ‘I want to see him,’ Ceris Gonn told the medicae who had treated her.

  ‘I explained this, mam-‘ he began.

  ‘You know what I mean!’ she spat. ‘I want to thank him, for…’

  He led her to the longhouses by the hand. She could hear the squeak and rattle of the body-carts, the clatter of armour being stripped, the low conversations of exhausted medicae. She could smell the blood, the choking odour of mass death.

  She could not see. Her eyes were bandaged. The medicae had told her that her sight might return in time, if she rested and healed. A month, maybe two. Sound was her world, until then, sound and smell. As he led her by the hand, he told her gently that the Bar was now running a full evacuation. Only the holding garrison would remain. Even medicae were to be shipped out. Transports were waiting to ferry staff and civilian crews back to the Lion’s Gate. He told her of the battle that day, of the Bar’s near collapse under traitor onslaught. A crushing assault that had broken everything back to the fourth circuit wall in the space of a single morning. How close they’d come to ruin, but for the Lord of Baal and the Blood Angels and Imperial Fists who had stood with him.

  She’d seen nothing of it. The shell that had taken her down, and felled an entire part of the tower, had been just one of the opening shots of an engagement that had been the most savage and precarious of the siege thus far. She’d been unconscious for most of it, and when she’d woken on a stretcher cart, her eyes had already been dressed and bound in gauze.

  She’d heard the battle, the immense din of it, ringing through the Bar’s immense fortification. A world-ending war on the other side of a wall.

  ‘I can give you five minutes,’ the medicae said. ‘Then I have to get you on a transport. No arguments. What was his name again?’

  ‘Zephon,’ she replied.

  They entered a cool space, a stone building, away from the smoke-brushed open air. Different smoke here: incense. She heard quiet activity: the purr of drills, the clink of surgical instruments, soft incantations that she couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘Why is she here?’ she heard someone ask. The medicae holding her hand seemed lost for words.

  ‘My life was spared by a warrior called Zephon,’ she said, tilting her head blindly, not knowing which direction to face. ‘A shell fell.

  He… he shielded me with his body. I would have died.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think he died,’ said Ceris. ‘I wanted to…’

  ‘What? What did you want?’

  ‘To pay my respects.’

  She heard voices murmur. She twisted her head, trying to locate them.

  ‘This way,’ the voice said. It was a strong voice, but it was dulled, like a fine sculpture that had been left in
a dark place, alone and unobserved.

  The medicae didn’t say anything, but she felt him tug her hand, and lead her forwards. His hand was trembling slightly.

  ‘Zephon,’ said the voice. ‘A captain. Called the Bringer of Sorrows. His war was a long one, and painful. He was gravely wounded, and repaired with augmetics, all his limbs. The grafts were difficult. His body rejected them. He was not suited to line service after that. But on Terra, he received some treatment for his degrading bionics. The treatments were unorthodox, though they healed him. Made him whole again, enough to rejoin the honour guard and fight for these walls.’

  ‘But he’s dead?’ she asked.

  ‘Giving his life for you, it seems.’

  She let go of the medicae’s hand, and reached out. She felt the edge of a metal bier, then the hard surfaces of armour. A body laid out, silent and cold. Her fingertips felt the ash and soot coating the armour.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I cost him his life. One human saved. That’s a poor return for a legionary.’

  ‘The Legiones Astartes are the shield of mankind,’ said the voice. ‘Zephon was only doing what he was made to do.’

  She traced the edge of the armour, the breastplate, the shoulder guard.

  ‘I’m still very sorry he died,’ she said.

  ‘So am I,’ said the voice. ‘Why were you here?’

  ‘My name is Ceris Gonn,’ she replied. ‘I am an official observer. I have… I have the warrant to prove it. The Lord Praetorian, in his grace, issued them so that I, and others like me, could bear witness, and record the events of this war for future generations.’

  ‘A remembrancer?’

  ‘Like that. The Lord Praetorian believes that history is a solace. An art that must be sustained, even in the darkest time. For the recording of history allows for the hope that there will be a future to read it.’

  ‘That is unusually sentimental for him. Yet, quite like him, nonetheless.’

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’ Ceris asked.

  ‘You will have to go now, Ceris Gonn,’ the voice replied.

  ‘I know. I understand. Gorgon Bar is at the brink. All non-essential personnel are to vacate, effective immediately. I’ve been told this. Besides, my work is futile. I had only just begun, and now I can’t observe.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said the voice. ‘But I believe the Lord Praetorian is correct. A hope for the future is of value. Perhaps the only light we have. We must keep writing history, or our Imperium will become an unremembered empire. But you must leave this hall. The work of the Apothecaries is private. A solemn duty that humans should not witness.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She paused.

  ‘What will happen to Captain Zephon?’ she asked. ‘Will the Apothecaries-‘

  ‘His bionic augmentation makes the normal procedures more difficult. This is no place for such work. His body will be transported back to the Sanctum, and placed in stasis until time can be found for the proper retrieval to be done.’

  ‘May I…?’ she asked. ‘May I travel back to the Sanctum with his body? May I… accompany him? Can I witness that, at least?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Whose authority honours me so?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine.’

  The medicae led her back into the yard. She felt the day’s heat on her skin.

  ‘Which senior was that?’ she asked. ‘Which lord officer?’

  ‘Throne above,’ the medicae murmured, ‘that was the Lord Sanguinius.’

  * * *

  ‘My lords,’ said Militant General Burr, ‘half a kilometre out, and closing.’

  ‘Understood, Konas,’ said Jaghatai Khan. The primarch glanced across at Raldoron and Valdor. ‘The day’s work is at hand,’ he said.

  Both nodded.

  ‘Give the word, lord,’ said Valdor.

  The Khan smiled. ‘The First Captain has zone command,’ he replied.

  ‘In fact,’ said Raldoron, ‘good Konas Burr has that honour. I am simply here to expedite fluid function between Army and Astartes.’

  All three looked at Burr. He adjusted his collar, which seemed to sit rather too tightly all of a sudden.

  ‘It is my honour, lords,’ Burr said. ‘With respect, I’d rather strip bare-naked, and charge those bastards alone than give any of you three an order.’

  The Khan’s eyebrows rose, then he bellowed out a laugh. Valdorsmiled. Even Raldoron, the quietest of them, glanced aside to disguise his smirk.

  ‘You’re a good man, Burr,’ said the Khan. ‘We are all brothers in this, now and forever. This is labour for legionaries. Are your forces prepared?’

  ‘Steady on the line, my lord,’ replied Burr. ‘Kimmerine, Vespari, Auxilia, Albian. Marshal Agathe reports tight hold and readiness. So too Colonel Bezzer and Militant Commander Karjes. Fire gullies lit. Artillery ranged.’

  The Khan looked back at Valdor and Raldoron.

  ‘Then let’s take a walk,’ he said.

  ‘Sir! My lord…’ Burr began. ‘They are clearly trying to lure you out.’ ‘Oh, clearly,’ replied the Khan.

  ‘Tempt you into another charge-‘

  ‘Of course. They’re not idiots. Diseased wretches, but not idiots.’ The Khan looked at Burr. The brave Imperial Fists have a doctrine. Not one step backwards. Mine is rather different. It is easier to avoid taking a step backwards if you have already made several steps forward .’

  ‘Should I prepare for line advance, lord?’ asked Burr.

  ‘No, you hold, Burr,’ said Jaghatai Khan. ‘Hold and wait.’

  ‘For… what?’

  ‘In case they come through us, Konas,’ said Raldoron.

  ‘In case we don’t come back,’ said the Khan.

  They climbed the lip of the trench, and began to walk across the mud-wash, weapons gripped. Fire gullies blazed at their backs. Along the line of the Colossi Gate, Space Marines stepped out with them: the white-armoured ranks of the White Scars and, fewer, the Hashes of red and yellow, the Blood Angels and the Imperial Fists.

  And occasional glints of gold, the Custodians from Valdor’s force. Ahead of them, vapour. A smoke-mist. A dark mass.

  ‘Never let them come to you,’ the Khan remarked dryly as he strode forward. ‘If they get to us, we’ve already given up our killing ground.’

  Raldoron drew his greatsword. The moving blade flashed in the smoking light.

  ‘The essence of your doctrine, my lord,’ he said, walking at a steady pace to match the Khan’s stride. ‘The unexpected. Meet them coming in.’

  ‘Meet them coming in, Raldoron. Meet them before they are ready. Meet them short of their target. Never do what’s expected. Never allow the enemy to execute in full.’

  He glanced at Valdor, on his other side.

  ‘I imagine you dislike this, Constantin?’

  ‘I get to war at your side, Great Khan. What objection could I have?’

  ‘Heh. From you, Constantin, who are pledged to place and function?’

  ‘You simplify my order’s doctrine as casually as others simplify White Scars tactics, Jaghatai.’

  ‘Then, my apologies,’ said the Khan. He had drawn dao and boltgun. Ash flakes fluttered down over the walking line like early snow. ‘Though I know,’ he added, ‘you are only here to keep me in your sight.’

  ‘I’m here to-‘ Valdor began.

  ‘Tell me Rogal didn’t send you, friend Constantin,’ said the Khan, ‘Tell me Rogal didn’t despatch you to Colossi to keep an eye on his brother the unruly Khan and his capricious notions.’

  ‘I have lived my life in secrets,’ replied Valdor simply. ‘But I have never liked lies. Of course he did.’

  The Khan nodded, unperturbed.

  ‘I will take back the port,’ he said. ‘I’ve pledged so. I’ll do it. But this needs doing first. Colossi must stand. Once this fight is settled to our benefit, I will take the port. Oh yes, Constantin
, dear Constantin,

  I am well aware of how Rogal thinks he’s handling me. Keeping the barbarian on a short leash.’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s entirely his thinking, Jaghatai,’ said Valdor. ‘But his strategy is central to-‘

  ‘It’s peerless, Constantin,’ said the Khan. ‘Peerless. I weep at the beauty of his tactics. Rogal will orchestrate this, and win it, or we will die. I have faith in him. I will not disrupt his plans. But in the execution, they sometimes lack room for… improvisation.’

  The three of them continued to stride into the closing fog. Their pace had increased slightly. The Legiones Astartes line moved with them, resolute.

  ‘Like walking out to meet the enemy?’ Raldoron remarked.

  ‘Just like that,’ chuckled the Khan. ‘They expect us to hold the line and wait, or charge them like maniacs. Not meet them, with confidence, in the middle.’

  The billowing smoke grew heavier. It carried glowing cinders in it, like fleeting stars. Their striding feet squelched in the ooze. Valdor held his huge guardian spear braced across one shoulder.

  ‘I imagine it helps that he might be here,’ said Raldoron gently.

  ‘Helps?’ the Khan asked.

  ‘To focus your mind on Colossi, rather than the goal of the port?’ ‘He means Mortarion,’ said Valdor flatly.

  ‘I know what he damn well means,’ snapped the Khan.

  ‘To meet him, here?’ asked Raldoron. ‘That’s incentive enough, surely?’

  ‘I’m here, Raldoron,’ said the Khan, ‘because Colossi is vital. Vital.

  I don’t need an incentive to plant my standard here.’

  They took a few more steps.

  ‘Though I’ll be watching for him,’ the Khan added slyly. ‘Hell’s blood, but I’ll be watching for him. And if either of you see him once we’re in this, stay out of my damn way.’

  The clouds of smoke began to part.

  They saw the enemy, unveiled. Dark shapes in the thinning smoke ahead of them; dark shapes, dark lines, a dark mass. A host of the Death Guard, spread wide, advancing on foot at a steady pace. They could smell the sickness in them, the rot, and feel the wallowing fever heat of infected bodies. They could hear the clotted gurgle of frothed throats and consumptive lungs. Flies swirled in the smoke, buzzing like migraines, fed fat.