She rolled onto her side, crying in pain and fear as the terrifyingly close volleys continued, clearing a path for the massive, armoured warriors of the Sons of Horus.
A giant towered above her, reaching for her with his armoured gauntlet.
He wore no helmet and was silhouetted by a terrible red glow, his awesome bulk haloed by blazing plumes of fire and pillars of black smoke. Even through her tears, the Warmaster’s beauty and physical perfection rendered her speechless. Though blood and dark slime covered his armour and his cloak was torn and tattered, Horus towered like a war god unleashed, his face a mask of terrifying power.
He lifted her to her feet as easily as one might lift a babe in arms, while his warriors continued the slaughter of the monstrous dead things. More and more Sons of Horus were converging on the crash site, guns firing to drive the enemy back and forming a protective cordon around the Warmaster.
‘Miss Vivar,’ demanded Horus. ‘What in the name of Terra are you doing here? I ordered you to stay aboard the Vengeful Spirit!’
She straggled for words, still in awe of his magnificent presence. He had saved her. The Warmaster had personally saved her and she wept to know his touch.
‘I had to come. I had to see—’
‘Your curiosity almost got you killed,’ raged Horus. ‘If your bodyguard had been less capable, you’d already be dead.’
She nodded dumbly, holding onto a twisted spar of metal to keep from collapsing as the Warmaster stepped through the debris towards Maggard. The gold armoured warrior held himself erect, despite the pain of his wounds.
Horus lifted Maggard’s sword arm, examining the warrior’s blade.
‘What’s your name, warrior?’ asked the Warmaster.
Maggard, of course, did not answer, looking over at Petronella for help in answering.
‘He cannot answer you, my lord,’ said Petronella.
‘Why not? Doesn’t he speak Imperial Gothic?’
‘He does not speak at all, sir. House Carpinus chaperones removed his vocal chords.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘He is an indentured servant of House Carpinus and it is not a bodyguard’s place to speak in the presence of his mistress.’
Horus frowned, as though he did not approve of such things, and said, ‘Then you tell me what his name is.’
‘He is called Maggard, sir.’
‘And this blade he wields? How is it that the slightest touch of its edge slays one of these creatures?’
‘It is a Kirlian blade, forged on ancient Terra and said to be able to sever the connection between the soul and the body, though I have never seen it used before today.’
‘Whatever it is, I think it saved your life. Miss Vivar,’
She nodded as the Warmaster turned to face Maggard once more and made the sign of the aquila before saying, ‘You fought with great courage, Maggard. Be proud of what you did here today.’
Maggard nodded and dropped to his knees with his head bowed, tears streaming from his eyes at being so honoured by the Warmaster.
Horus bent down and placed the palm of his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder, saying, ‘Rise, Maggard. You have proven yourself to be a warrior, and no warrior of such courage should kneel before me.’
Maggard stood, smoothly reversing the grip of his sword and offering it, hilt first, to the Warmaster.
The yellow sky reflected coldly in his golden eyes, and Petronella shivered as she saw a newfound devotion in her bodyguard’s posture, an expression of faith and pride that frightened her with its intensity.
The meaning of the gesture was clear. It said what Maggard himself could not.
I am yours to command.
THUS ASSEMBLED, THE Astartes took stock of their situation. All four phalanxes had rendezvoused around the crash site as the attacks from the diseased and dead things ceased for the time being. The speartip was blunted, but it was still an awesome fighting force and easily capable of destroying what remained of Temba’s paltry detachment.
Sedirae volunteered his men to secure the perimeters, and Loken simply waved his assent, knowing that Luc was hungry for more battle and for a chance to shine in front of the Warmaster. Vipus re-formed the scouting parties and Verulam Moy set up fire positions for his Devastators.
Loken was relieved beyond words to see that all four members of the Mournival had survived the fighting, though Torgaddon and Abaddon had both lost their helmets in the furious melees. Aximand’s armour had been torn open across his side and a splash of red, shockingly bright against the green of his armour, stained his thigh.
‘Are you all right?’ Torgaddon asked him, his armour stained and blistered, as though someone had poured acid over its plates.
‘Just about,’ nodded Loken. ‘You?’
‘Yes, though it was a close run thing,’ conceded Torgaddon. ‘Bastard got me underwater and was choking the life out of me. Tore my helmet right off and I think I must have drunk about a bucket of that swamp water. Had to gut him with my combat knife. Messy.’
Torgaddon’s genhanced body would be unharmed by swallowing the water, no matter what toxins it carried, but it was a stark reminder of the power of these creatures that a warrior as fearsome as him could almost be overcome. Abaddon and Aximand had similar tales of close run things, and Loken desperately wanted the fight to be over. The longer the mission went on, the more it reminded him of Eidolon’s abortive first strike on Murder.
Restored communications revealed that the Byzant Janizars had suffered terribly under the assault from the swamp and had hunkered down in defensive positions. Not even the electro-scythes of their discipline masters were able to coerce them forward. The horrific enemy had melted back into the fog, but no one could say with any certainty where the creatures had gone.
The Titans of the Legio Mortis towered over the Astartes; the Dies Irae reassuring the assembled warriors by the simple virtue of is immensity.
It was left to Erebus to point the way onwards, he and his depleted warriors staggering into the circle of light surrounding Petronella Vivar’s crashed skiff. The first chaplain’s armour was stained and battered, its many seals and scripture papers torn from it.
‘Warmaster, I believe we have found the source of the transmissions,’ reported Erebus. ‘There is a… structure up ahead.’
‘Where is it and how close?’ demanded the Warmaster.
‘Perhaps another kilometre to the west.’
Horus raised his sword and shouted, ‘Sons of Horus, we have been grossly wronged here and some of our brothers are dead. It is time we avenge them.’
His voice easily carried over the dead waters of the swamps, his warriors roaring their assent and following the Warmaster, as Erebus and the Word Bearers set off into the mists.
Fired with furious energy, the Astartes ploughed through the sodden ground, ready to enact the Warmaster’s wrath upon the vile foe that had unleashed such horrors upon them. Maggard and Petronella went with them, none of the Astartes willing to retreat and escort them back to the Army positions. Legion apothecaries tended their wounds and helped them through the worst of the terrain.
Eventually, the mists began to thin and Loken could make out the more distant figures of Astartes warriors through the smudges of fog. The further they marched, the more solid the ground underfoot became, and as Erebus led them onwards, the mist became thinner still.
Then, as quickly as a man might step from one room to another, they were out of it.
Behind them, the banks of fog gathered and coiled, like a theatre curtain in a playhouse waiting to unveil some wondrous marvel.
Before them was the source of the vox transmission, rearing up from the muddy plain like a colossal iron mountain.
Eugan Temba’s flagship, the Glory of Terra.
SEVEN
Watch our backs
Collapse
The betrayer
RUSTED AND DEAD nearly six decades, the vessel lay smashed and ruined on the cratered mudflats, its once mighty
hull torn open and buckled almost beyond recognition. Its towering gothic spires, like the precincts of a mighty city, lay fallen and twisted, its buttresses and archways hung with decaying fronds of huge web-like vines. Its keel was broken, as though it had struck the moon’s surface, belly first, and many of the upper surfaces had caved in, the decks below open to the elements.
Swathes of mossy greenery covered the hull and her command spire speared into the sky; warp vanes and tall vox masts bending in the moaning wind.
Loken thought the scene unbearably sad. That this should be the final resting place of such a magnificent vessel seemed utterly wrong to him.
Pieces of debris spotted the landscape, twisted hunks of rusted metal and incongruous personal items that must have belonged to the ship’s crew and had been ejected during the massive impact with the ground.
‘Throne…’ breathed Abaddon.
‘How?’ was all Aximand could manage.
‘It’s the Glory of Terra alright,’ said Erebus. ‘I recognise the warp array configuration of the command deck. It’s Temba’s flagship.’
‘Then Temba’s already dead,’ said Abaddon in frustration. ‘Nothing could have survived that crash.’
‘Then who’s broadcasting that signal?’ asked Horus.
‘It could have been automated,’ suggested Torgaddon. ‘Maybe it’s been going for years.’
Loken shook his head. ‘No, the signal only started once we breached the atmosphere. Someone here activated it when they knew we were coming.’
The Warmaster stared at the massive shape of the wrecked spaceship, as if by staring hard enough he could penetrate its hull and discern what lay within.
‘Then we should go in,’ urged Erebus. ‘Find whoever is inside and kill them.’
Loken rounded on the first chaplain. ‘Go inside? Are you mad? We don’t have any idea what might be waiting for us. There could be thousands more of those… things inside, or something even worse.’
‘What is the matter, Loken?’ snarled Erebus. ‘Are the Sons of Horus now afraid of the dark?’
Loken took a step towards Erebus and said, ‘You dare insult us, Word Bearer?’
Erebus stepped to meet Loken’s challenge, but the Mournival took up position behind their newest member and their presence gave the first chaplain pause. Instead of pursuing the matter, Erebus bowed his head and said, ‘I apologise if I spoke out of turn, Captain Loken. I sought only to erase the gross stain on the Legion’s honour.’
‘The Legion’s honour is our own to uphold, Erebus,’ said Loken. ‘It is not for you to tell us how we must act.’
Horus decided the matter before further harsh words could be exchanged. ‘We’re going in,’ he said.
THE RIPPLING FOG bank followed the Astartes as they advanced towards the crashed ship and the Titans of the Legio Mortis followed behind, their legs still wreathed in the mists. Loken kept his bolter at the ready, conscious of the sounds of splashing water behind them, though he told himself that they were just the normal sounds of this world – whatever that meant.
As they closed the gap, he drew level with the Warmaster and said, ‘Sir, I know what you will say, but I would be remiss if I didn’t speak up.’
‘Speak up about what, Garviel?’ asked Horus.
‘About this. About you leading us into the unknown.’
‘Haven’t I been doing that for the last two centuries?’ asked Horus. ‘All the time we’ve been pushing out into space, hasn’t it been to push back the unknown? That’s what we’re here for, Garviel, to render that which is unknown known.’
Loken sensed the commander’s superlative skills of misdirection at work and kept himself focused on the point. The Warmaster had an easy way of steering conversations away from issues he didn’t want to talk about.
‘Sir, do you value the Mournival as counsel?’ asked Loken, taking a different tack.
Horus paused in his advance and turned to face Loken, his face serious. ‘You heard what I told that remembrancer in the embarkation deck didn’t you? I value your counsel above all things, Garviel. Why would you even ask such a question?’
‘Because so often you simply use us as your war dogs, always baying for blood. Having us play a role, instead of allowing us to keep you true to your course.’
‘Then say what you have to say, Garviel, and I swear I will listen,’ promised Horus.
‘With respect, sir, you should not be here leading this speartip and we should not be going into that vessel without proper reconnaissance. We have three of the Mechanicum’s greatest war machines behind us. Can we not at least let them soften up the target first with their cannons?’
Horus chuckled. ‘You have a thinker’s head on you, my son, but wars are not won by thinkers, they are won by men of action. It has been too long since I wielded a blade and fought in such a battle – against abominations that seek nothing more than our utter destruction. I told you on Murder that had I felt I could not take to the field of battle again, I would have refused the position of Warmaster.’
‘The Mournival would have done this thing for you, sir,’ said Loken. ‘We carry your honour now.’
‘You think my shoulders so narrow that I cannot bear it alone?’ asked Horus, and Loken was shocked to see genuine anger in his stare.
‘No, sir, all I mean is that you don’t need to bear it alone.’
Horus laughed and broke the tension. His anger quite forgotten, he said, ‘You’re right of course, my son, but my glory days are not over, for I have many laurels yet to earn.’
The Warmaster set off once more. ‘Mark my words, Garviel Loken, everything achieved thus far in this Crusade will pale into insignificance compared to what I am yet to do.’
DESPITE THE WARMASTER’S insistence on leading the Astartes into the wreck, he consented to Loken’s plan of allowing the Titans of the Legio Mortis to engage the target first. All three mighty war engines braced themselves and, at a command from the Warmaster, unleashed a rippling salvo of missiles and cannon fire into the massive ship. Flaring blooms of light and smoke rippled across the ship’s immensity and it shuddered with each concussive impact. Fires caught throughout its hull, and thick plumes of acrid black smoke twisted skyward like signal beacons, as though the ship were trying to send a message to its former masters.
Once again, the Warmaster led from the front, the mist following them in like a smoggy cape of yellow. Loken could still hear noises from behind them, but with the thunderous footfalls of the Titans, the crackling of the burning ship and their own splashing steps, it was impossible to be sure what he was hearing.
‘Feels like a damned noose,’ said Torgaddon, looking over his shoulder and mirroring Loken’s thoughts perfectly.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I don’t like the thought of going in there, I can tell you that.’
‘You’re not afraid are you?’ asked Loken, only half joking.
‘Don’t be flippant, Garvi,’ said Torgaddon. ‘For once I think you’re right. There’s something not right about this.’
Loken saw genuine concern in his friend’s face, unsettled at seeing the joker Torgaddon suddenly serious. For all his bluster and informality, Tarik had good instincts and they had saved Loken’s life on more than one occasion.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.
‘I think this is a trap,’ said Torgaddon. ‘We’re being funnelled here and it feels like it’s to get us inside that ship.’
‘I said as much to the Warmaster.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Ah,’ nodded Torgaddon. ‘Well, you didn’t seriously expect to change the commander’s mind did you?’
‘I thought I might have given him pause, but it’s as if he’s not listening to us any more. Erebus has made the commander so angry at Temba, he won’t even consider any other option than going in and killing him with his bare hands.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Torgaddon
, and once again, Loken was surprised.
‘We watch our backs, my friend. We watch our backs.’
‘Good plan,’ said Torgaddon. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. And here I was all set to walk into a potential trap with my guard down.’
That was the Torgaddon that Loken knew and loved.
The rear quarter of the crashed Glory of Terra reared up before them, its command decks pitched upwards at an angle, blotting out the diseased sky. It enveloped them in its dark, cold shadow, and Loken saw that getting into the ship would not be difficult. The gunfire from the Titans had blasted huge tears in its hull, and piles of debris had spilled from inside, forming great ramps of buckled steel like the rocky slopes before the walls of a breached fortress.
The Warmaster called a halt and began issuing his orders.
‘Captain Sedirae, you and your assaulters will form the vanguard.’
Loken could practically feel Luc’s pride at such an honour.
‘Captain Moy, you will accompany me. Your flame and melta units will be invaluable in case we need to quickly cleanse an area or breach bulkheads.’
Verulam Moy nodded, his quiet reserve more dignified than Luc’s eagerness to impress the Warmaster with his ardour.
‘What are your orders, Warmaster?’ asked Erebus, his grey armoured Word Bearers at attention behind their first chaplain. ‘We stand ready to serve.’
‘Erebus, take your warriors over to the other side of the ship. Find a way in and then rendezvous with me in the middle. If that bastard Temba tries to run, I want him crushed between us.’
The first chaplain nodded his understanding and led his warriors off into the shadow of the mighty vessel. Then the Warmaster turned to the Mournival.
‘Ezekyle, use the signal locator on my armour to form overlapping echelons around my left. Little Horus, take my right. Torgaddon and Loken, form the rear. Secure this area and our line of withdrawal. Understood?’
The Warmaster delivered the orders with his trademark efficiency, but Loken was aghast at being left to cover the rear of their advance. He could see that the others of the Mournival, especially Torgaddon, were similarly surprised. Was this the Warmaster’s way of punishing him for daring to question his orders or for suggesting that he should not be leading the speartip? To be left behind?
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