“Tempus Infernus…” he rasped, and shut his eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I
Sigil Fires
It was as if the world had split and been remoulded by savage hands.
A jagged wound ran through what might have once been an amphitheatre or temple. Its bifurcated hemispheres now sat at uneven levels, where once they might have been joined. Between them there rose a bridge of stone, wide enough for a trio of Land Raiders abreast. Smaller spans bled off from this grey artery. They were fringed by spikes and razored balustrades. Columns punctuated the main span—skeletal remains, human and xenos, hung from them by chains and steel cords. In the distance, there was a spire. Several figures were impaled upon it like graven offerings.
“It’s called dysjunction,” said He’stan, who’d halted the Firedrakes at the threshold to the temple, where the bridge began. There they waited together, in two lines of five. They’d heard and felt the capricious motions of the twisting city as they closed in their borrowed raider. It was junked now, rendered inoperable by Tsu’gan’s hand. He’d taken great pleasure in its destruction and bemoaned the curtness of the task. Deep in the avenues and conduits of the dark eldar’s frontier settlement, the Firedrakes had no further use for it. Besides, it could be tracked and at this point covertness was paramount. The rest of the way would be conveyed on foot.
Halknarr, for one, was glad of it.
“Even their cities are twisted aberrations.” He hawked and spat in the tradition of old campaigners.
“It is the dusk-wraiths’ way,” counselled He’stan. “Their borders are ephemeral, their pacts and allegiances likewise. It bodes well.”
“How so, my lord?” Halknarr asked. “Bad enough we must navigate this labyrinth without it changing on us constantly.”
“The city’s denizens will require time to adjust, redraw their tiny empires and claw fresh lines of dominion in the sand. We can exploit this distraction, use it to get closer to the Sigil undetected.”
“You mean closer to Elysius, my lord,” ventured Daedicus.
“No, brother, I meant what I said. The Sigil is all. I fear for Elysius.”
Daedicus’ silence betrayed his shock.
“If there is a way, he will survive,” Tsu’gan noted grimly. “The Chaplain is a tough and unyielding bastard.”
Praetor let the remark go. It was true enough.
“Look!” It was Halknarr, pointing towards the bridge. All eyes followed to alight on a body caught in the balustrade, snagged on the spikes; a body that wore green power armour.
“Brother,” cried Daedicus, starting to move before He’stan’s raised hand stopped him.
“He’s dead,” announced the Forgefather grimly, noting the absence of life readings through his retinal display.
The sound of a clenching fist signalled Tsu’gan’s anger. “But they are not…” he said and nodded in the direction of the bridge.
A cluster of emaciated, grey-skinned, ghoulish figures was thronged around pieces of a broken dark eldar skiff. From this distance they had blended in with the debris at first and it was hard to tell what the undulating mass was doing. After a few moments, though, it became apparent.
They were gnawing… on flesh.
The distaste in Halknarr’s voice rang out, “Carrion-eaters.”
“More of our brothers could be amongst them,” said Daedicus.
“Depraved bastards…” Tsu’gan brandished his combi-bolter only for Praetor to push his aim downwards.
“No, brother,” said the veteran sergeant. His mouth was set in a tight line. “We go hand-to-hand this time.”
Tsu’gan grinned beneath his battle-helm. The hard red flash in his eyes mirrored He’stan’s own. The Forgefather’s decree was emphatic.
“Slay them all,” he said, and was running at the creatures.
Like the hive of a lava-ant, as soon as the ghouls were disturbed they broke apart and attacked en masse. There were at least a hundred of the wretches, shrieking and clawing, so pumped up on their cannibalistic activities as to eschew all sense of self-preservation.
Halfway across the bridge, the Firedrakes met them.
Tsu’gan was reminded of the zombified servitors aboard the Archimedes Rex as he killed. These creatures had no deadly tools or cutting saws, just tooth and claw, but fought with the same automaton-like abandon. He felt invulnerable, hacking off limbs, hauling dozens over the edge into the dark abyss below the bridge, taking out his anger one cut at a time.
Fighting back-to-back with Halknarr, Tsu’gan marvelled at the glimpses of the old campaigner’s prowess. The wretches barely laid a claw on him. He’d drawn combat blade and chainsword, cutting and thrusting with the poise of a fencer but the bullishness of a pugilist.
Where Tsu’gan was wrath and fury, Halknarr was the careful execution of force and aggression. There was much he could learn from his more veteran brothers.
Vo’kar, denied use of his flamer, fought with fist and combat blade. His years as a weapon specialist had not dulled his close quarter instincts. Invictese, his comrade aboard the Protean and fellow survivor of that ill-fated mission, stood beside Vo’kar carving lumps out of the creatures with his chainblade. Oknar, Persephion, Eb’ak—they all battled like heroes, crushing the wretches. Their blades and hammers slashed and bludgeoned with almost regimented discipline, each a masterpiece weapon forged by its owner’s hand.
No one however, not even Praetor, could keep up with He’stan.
These foes were beneath the Firedrakes, little better than xenos fodder, but they needed to be slain all the same. The Forgefather did that with efficient lethality. No blow was wasted, every strike was a kill. He ground a circle of death around him so thick that the bodies piled up into a barricade of flesh.
Praetor barged and smashed them, using his bulk and strength like a human battering ram. His thunder hammer rose and fell in electric arcs like a pendulum. The creatures were pitched off the bridge in a shower of corpses, their heady screams lost to the void below.
It was pure. It was a massacre.
To Tsu’gan, it was beautiful.
The fight lasted only a few minutes. By the end, the creatures were dead, cut down by hammer and blade. Many fell to their dooms far below. The Firedrakes were drenched in gore, but relieved to discover no Salamander was being devoured by the frenzied pack.
“The Parched,” said He’stan, rolling one of the half-chewed corpses onto its back to reveal a female dark eldar, “are like their kin but starved of sensation. They are dregs,” he explained, “cowards and wretches, but like their entire race they are vicious and bitter.”
“I once fought against the Plague of Unbelief,” said Halknarr, regarding the masticated bodies. “They too ate the living, but their minds were lost to Chaos. They were little better than walking corpses, driven by their base instincts. This,” he added, a sweep of his arm encompassing the grisly scene, “this I cannot explain.”
“They are damned,” said Tsu’gan, tearing a chunk of flesh from the teeth of his chainsword.
“That is precisely what they are, brother,” replied He’stan.
“Another here, my lord,” called Daedicus from the far end of the bridge. With the battle over, the Firedrakes had spread out to search the area for further casualties.
He’stan was determined if they could not bring their slain brothers peace, they would at least burn them. He muttered a litany for the one caught in the balustrade. The Salamander’s head had been removed. Doubtless it was mounted on some trophy rack or spike. The Forgefather had to marshal his anger at the thought.
Others were not so temperate.
“It’s G’heb,” snarled Tsu’gan, his rage impotent without anything to pummel. He settled for the bridge instead and demolished a chunk of stone from the balustrade. “He was 3rd Company. I recognise his armour markings.”
“We will avenge him, brother,” said Praetor, arriving at Tsu’gan’s side. He had Persephion in tow
.
“Any sign of Chaplain Elysius?” asked the veteran sergeant.
“It seems unlikely, my lord,” Persephion replied.
Praetor seized him by the arm. His voice was stern. “Be certain. Search everywhere.”
Persephion nodded and went about his business.
He’stan was already heading for the end of the bridge where Daedicus knelt by the fallen Salamander.
“L’sen,” Tsu’gan told them. He and Praetor had followed the Forgefather, who was now kneeling by the body too. It had been left in repose, but without an Apothecary to harvest L’sen’s progenoids his legacy was ended.
“Obviously Elysius came this way,” said Praetor, searching the lightning-wracked horizon for some fresh sign of their brothers’ passing.
“He lives then,” said Tsu’gan in a quiet voice.
“The Chaplain would’ve done what he could, I am sure,” said He’stan. “Stay silent for a moment, brothers,” he added, closing his eyes.
Tsu’gan shared a wary glance with Praetor but soon became enrapt by the Forgefather’s ritual.
In a kneeling position, he bowed his head and pressed the haft of his spear against it. He clutched the weapon in both hands, holding it upright like a banner or lightning rod.
He was muttering something, some benediction or invocation. It didn’t feel like warp sorcery, but there was something unknown and intangible about it. Tsu’gan had heard of the clandestine rituals conducted at the heart of Prometheus. Even as a Firedrake himself, he was not privy to all of their secrets. In fact, he knew very little of the inner workings of the 1st Company. Barely three years had he been one of them, it was a flickering flame compared to the blazing braziers nurtured over the decades by his warrior-kin. But then again, Praetor was pre-eminent amongst the Drakes and even he looked nonplussed.
After a few minutes, He’stan stood.
“There is a signal, faint, but the trail of fire is there. They are not far,” he announced to no one in particular.
Behind him, the Firedrakes had gathered, awaiting his pronouncement in respectful silence.
“The Sigil is within our grasp,” he concluded.
“What trail? I see nothing,” Halknarr hissed beneath his breath.
As the Forgefather led them off, Praetor leaned over to Tsu’gan.
“Truly, the mysteries surrounding our Lord He’stan are incredible,” he said.
Tsu’gan could only nod in agreement. His voice was choked with reverence. “Truly,” he whispered.
II
Despair and Faith
Tonnhauser was glad Leiter and Fulhart were helping. The giant was heavy. His weight pressed on the trio of Night Devils with greater intensity every step they took. Tonnhauser could feel the shallowness of the warrior’s breathing through his armour, and smell the thready scent of blood every time he exhaled. The giant Salamander was dying. Tonnhauser didn’t need to be a field medic to know that, even a layman trooper could see it. During the few harrowing hours they’d spent in the Razored Vale, Tonnhauser had come to believe that angels could die. He’d seen one with his head removed, the explosion of gore no different to when Trooper Kolt had been decapitated. Another had fallen to multiple wounds, his tenacity incredible but no less futile than a common man’s.
Space Marines could die. It was a startling, terrifying revelation.
He’d caught the battle in snatches. The wych-warriors were so fast, like blade flashes against the sun. He’d heard the action on the plain with General Slayte over the vox, though he had no idea where the Night Devil commander was now. Dead, presumably. Everyone was dead. How could they be anything other, fighting against these things? He tried not to give in to despair but it was all too easy in the wake of his wounded faith. When they had defeated the monstrous hounds, Tonnhauser had dared to believe they could survive. Now the truth was glaring him in the face, truth that carried serrated blades and spiked tridents.
Shuffling towards the edge of the precipice, Tonnhauser shook his head to banish his fatalism. They’d endured this long, this far.
“Tempered against the anvil,” one of the Salamanders had said. Tonnhauser didn’t know what that meant but there was strength in it and the words brought him comfort. He owed it to the memory of his father to keep trying. But the wych-warriors were close and their formerly-indestructible guardians were beaten and seemed more vulnerable than ever.
The feral one in the black armour was relating some story to the rest. Tonnhauser found it hard to make out the words, such was his grating cadence. He caught fresh glimpses of the wych-warriors through the wall of armour in front of him—they were prowling nearer. He did not think death would be swift beneath their blades and barbs. He’d tried to look away several times but kept coming back—for all their ferocity, the strange androgynous creatures were alluring.
When he was done, the black-armoured warrior broke from the group and ran. Tonnhauser blinked twice as he leapt off the edge.
“Did he just…” Leiter began.
“I didn’t think Space Marines were capable of suicide,” added a breathless Fulhart.
“Not suicide…” rasped the giant. He staggered and almost took the three Guardsmen with him before he righted himself.
“He is failing, Lord Chaplain,” said another Salamander, the one with the narrow face and the scar that turned his mouth into a perpetual sneer.
Their leader, the black-armoured preacher, answered.
“We have no choice—”
The giant Salamander shrugged off Tonnhauser and his other wardens. “I can stand.” His voice was firm but his legs were not. He sagged and the narrow-faced warrior caught him.
“You are wounded, brother,” he hissed in his ear, loud enough for Tonnhauser to hear him. “And can do no further good here.”
Behind them, Tonnhauser saw the other black-armoured feral warrior racing up the ridge. His massive bolter flared intermittently.
“Iagon, I can fight,” the giant asserted.
“I’m sorry Ba’ken, you cannot. Now, brace yourself.”
They were less than half a metre from the edge when the one called Iagon pushed the giant off. He fell, his face a mask of anger before he was lost from sight completely.
“Take the humans,” Iagon added, taking in Tonnhauser and the others in a glance. “Kor’be won’t prevail alone.”
“Nor will you,” said a third Salamander, this one brandishing a long spear.
The black-armoured preacher seemed to pause in indecision before he nodded.
“May Vulkan take you to his fires, your souls eternally in the warmth of his flame.” He touched a clenched fist to his breast, before turning to the last of the Salamanders.
“Ionnes…”
The Salamander came forwards and Tonnhauser felt himself being lifted off the ground. “Long way down, little human,” said the warrior, not without benevolence. “Be sure to hang on tight.”
Then Tonnhauser’s world became a rush of darkness and lightning flashes as he was taken over the edge of the precipice.
“Hold them as long as you can, brothers,” said Elysius, picking up the other two humans and following on Ionnes’ heels.
“Our sacrifice shall not be in vain,” Iagon replied to the shadows. He was alone at the edge. Below, the world was shadowed and barbed—not unlike his own existence, ever since Tsu’gan had forsaken him, ever since his betrayal.
He had fought against it, fought against the plan. But some things cannot be fought, they are inevitable. Ba’ken’s brief friendship had masqueraded as fresh purpose, but Iagon saw the fleeting truth of it now. You can’t fight fate. To deny nature was akin to refuting something as inexorable as time.
Koto was already running to Kor’be’s reinforcement, his spear held at his waist as he charged.
“In Vulkan’s name!” he roared.
“Aye,” whispered Iagon, “for the primarch…” and flung his sword. It pierced Koto’s back, just below the heart, punching through his
plastron at the front in an explosion of bloody gore.
Koto managed to turn before he toppled, a look of anguished disbelief on his face. He tried to form words but the meaning was lost on Iagon. Then he was gone, shredded by a whirlwind of blades as the wyches descended on him.
Oblivious to Iagon’s betrayal, Kor’be didn’t last much longer. His spent clip chanked in his empty bolter for a few rounds before he turned the weapon around, using it like a club. He battered one wych, crushed the skull of another. Helspereth was not to be denied, however. She weaved around his next blow, clumsy and child-like compared to her supreme prowess, and impaled Kor’be on her trident. With a feat of incredible strength, belied by her supple frame, she lifted the thrashing Black Dragon into the air and then drove the trident into a column of stone, pinning him. Fluidly, she drew her twin blades and severed his neck with a flick of silver.
Iagon was unarmed and went to his knees as the wyches approached, his hands in the air signalling surrender.
“A traitor in the midst.” Helspereth sounded amused. She fended off her charges with a daggered glance. The wyches parted before her so she could be relatively alone with her supplicating pet.
Iagon bowed his head.
“And subservient too,” she added with a soft, lilting laugh that contained only malice, “you are a twisted little thing, aren’t you, mon-keigh…”
She slashed Iagon hard across the cheek with her talons, opening a deep wound, forcing him to look at her.
“Answer me then, whelp!” she snapped, her mockery engulfed by a mask of hatred.
“Nihilan,” was all Iagon said. “I wish to speak to Nihilan.”
Helspereth’s eyes narrowed before the feigned amusement returned to her cold features. She had sheathed her swords after killing Kor’be and instead drew forth a metal glove. There were spiked links and tiny pins that fed down her fingers like spines. A translucent mesh crackled as it was stretched over her pallid skin.
[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Page 26
