by Nick Kyme
‘You’ll get to killing soon enough,’ said Kurnan, and cut the feed.
The servitors had taken a beating, their ranks decimated by the auto-defences employed by Kurnan’s black-skinned cousins. Soon enough they would reach the Salamanders legionaries and then the grim toil with blades would begin.
Before the last sentry gun went down, Obek signalled the attack.
Xen led them in at the point of the spear, the others to either flank and behind him. Raios and Phokan were close. He heard their wordless war cries as they fought with the tenacity expected of Firedrakes. Xen took a servitor in the throat with his first thrust, the reverse blow severing its head, but he didn’t pause. Raios had moved ahead a step, splitting a skitarii down the clavicle and tearing off its arm. Phokan took it down, hammering it with his shoulder guard as it flailed for its firearm and stomping into the chest cavity once it was on its back.
Drakos flashed as Xen swung it overhead, taking the lead again as he hacked into the chest of a second automaton. Ignus cleaved in from the side and the two swords met with a clash of metal and bisected the servitor.
Again he pressed on into the horde, blood and oil sluicing off his blades as he wrenched them loose, Raios and Phokan in his peripheral vision and matching him step for step.
‘To never know glory,’ he roared.
‘To be denied vengeance,’ shouted Raios and Phokan together.
Several servitors were dead, even more were critically wounded and a small cordon had opened up around Xen, affording him enough time to sheathe Ignus and clutch a fistful of the banner he had draped over his shoulders like a mantle. It was already drenched in gore but as he raised it aloft, the Unscarred declared their fury.
A second line of skitarii entered the fray, firing their carbines and culverins with frenetic abandon. The urgency was akin to fear, a manifestation of the transhuman dread experienced by all who fought against Space Marines and were not transhuman themselves. Even the servitors, those that had some mote of consciousness remaining, appeared reluctant to engage when faced with the Drakes’ ferocity.
The Salamanders legionaries used that to their advantage.
As Xen carved a furrow into the heart of the Mechanicum troops, Zandu and Varr anchored either flank with the remnants of their squads.
Zandu had neither the skill nor finesse of Xen, but he traded it for brute aggression. His chainsword reaped a red tally, spattering him with blood and oil. Hacking down one servitor, pushing the burring teeth into its gelid flesh until the blade bit deep, he stamped on the skull of another that had been trying to rise. A third he seized around the throat, his other hand still wrapped around the hilt of his chainsword, and squeezed until his gauntleted fingers met and the servitor’s head came off in his hand.
No less relentless, Varr wielded a thunder hammer, his wild laughter at odds with his apparent metronomic efficiency. Smiter, as he unsubtly named it, was usually slung across his back, stowed away whilst his flamer took preference, but this was close work, too close for fire and so he bore the hammer.
‘Vulkan!’ he roared, every stroke of Smiter punctuated by the crack of yielding metal or bone.
If he saw Vulkan in those moments of fury, he did not say, but he fought like a legionary beneath the judgement of his primarch.
They all did, or so it felt.
It wasn’t some cold armoury the Salamanders defended. It was his body, his flesh. It was all that remained of the Lord of Drakes.
It might as well be his tomb, thought Obek as he watched Xen dismember and dismantle with an executioner’s precision.
The captain followed in the wake of the vanguard, but stayed close on Xen’s heels. Despite their eagerness, Phokan and Raios kept dropping back so Obek had protection on either flank. It galled him to be considered in need of these outriders but down to one arm, he was not the warrior he used to be. Still, his bolt pistol never fell silent in his grasp, roaring in single and three-round bursts to conserve the clip. A reload at this point would be difficult. As soon as it clanked dry, the hard dull echo of an empty chamber, he would leave it and draw the combat blade sheathed at his hip.
Through the brutal melee the servitors struggled to weather, Obek saw a skitarii bear down on Raios. He shot it through its glowering optics, violently detonating the cranium a moment later.
Raios flashed a surprised but relieved glance in Obek’s direction.
‘You can thank me later, vengu,’ said the captain, earning a curt nod from the other Drake.
As Raios felled another drone, Obek shot one that had managed to circle around and attack from his blind side almost point-blank.
‘Xen,’ he said across the vox, ‘ease up. They are getting around us.’
A compliance icon flashed up on Obek’s left retinal lens but a cursory appraisal of the battle suggested they would be surrounded anyway.
He thought about signalling a retreat. They could fall back, deeper into the armoury and make the renegades fight room by room, but he almost immediately dismissed this idea. Obek knew they didn’t have the numbers. It was why they hadn’t done it in the first place.
And it dawned upon him then, as he saw two Drakes fall to an onslaught of mechanised blades and watched Gairon speared through the chest and his left pauldron hacked apart, that this had never been about survival or escape.
This is our Dropsite Massacre. This is our Isstvan V. This is where we die.
Gairon struck down his attacker, but bled profusely from the gaps in his war-plate.
Obek hailed Votan.
A Drake had to stay behind and protect T’kell and Fai’sho, a precaution that hardly seemed to matter now.
‘Kill as many as you can, Votan, but do not let either of our stricken brothers fall into their hands.’
‘Understood, brother-captain.’
‘Vulkan lives, Votan.’
‘We honour him with our sacrifice.’
Bitterness caused Obek’s gorge to rise, like acid in his mouth. He ended the feed.
More Salamanders legionaries were dying and as a hand recoils when struck, the sons of Vulkan pulled into a tight formation. It was almost inviolable, but then many last stands were.
Not until the Sons of Horus entered the carnage did Obek truly see the end approaching.
Kurnan saw their captain, and knew this was the one he needed to kill.
His honour demanded nothing less.
True, the Drake had lost an arm, but he had still killed three of Kurnan’s brother legionaries and even now, debilitated as he was, fought ferociously.
He broke through the withering ranks of the Mechanicum cohorts and came blade to blade with a Salamanders legionary. No accusation, no tirade of any kind passed the warrior’s lips, just a fierce intensity born of the knowledge of a forlorn hope.
Kurnan’s men and the remnants of Regulus’ hordes surrounded them. Every second saw the knot tighten, the dreaded noose that all heroes secretly feared, transhuman or not. It was the death of honour, the end to glory. Ignominy.
The stain of that word felt thick on Kurnan’s war-plate, even as he duelled with the Drake, brackish memories of Isstvan V fomenting in his conscious mind.
Backstabber. Treacherous dog… Traitor.
Kurnan disarmed his opponent and rammed his combat blade into the warrior’s pectoral as far as the hilt. He heard a spray of something hitting the inside of the other legionary’s faceplate. Then came a gurgle, and finally choking.
‘I’ve pierced your lungs,’ he whispered, dragging the Drake close so he could use the body as a shield. ‘You are drowning in your own blood.’
The warrior jerked, trying to fight the inevitable.
‘It won’t matter,’ said Kurnan, twisting the blade and then forcing it upwards. He pushed so hard it lifted the legionary off his feet. ‘You can’t fight this. Not this.’ The light
died in the legionary’s eyes. Kurnan saw it through the red retinal lenses, like a fire suddenly doused.
Retaliation came swiftly, and Kurnan turned the dead Drake’s body just before a chainblade hit. Blood and metal shards cascaded outwards from the wound, the squeal of chain teeth chewing up ceramite merging with the enraged grief of a legionary cutting into his fellow legionary.
Still clutching his meat shield, Kurnan yanked out the blade in a welter of blood. Then he heaved back on the body, trapping the other Drake’s sword, which was jammed in the dead warrior’s war-plate. As the Drake desperately tried to free his weapon, Kurnan leaned in and stabbed him in the neck, in the gap between helmet and gorget.
He did it three more times in quick succession and then parried another blade aimed at his neck, before denting the side of his assailant’s war-helm with his gauntleted fist. Reeling, the legionary fell back into the bodies of his brothers. The Salamanders had closed ranks. A retreat was in effect.
An ever-widening gap emerged between Kurnan and his enemies.
He raised his fist and all battle ceased. The servitors were dead; only the skitarii remained and even they respected the stand-off between old comrades.
‘What are you doing?’ the sibilant voice of Solomus came through on the vox. ‘Let’s finish them.’
‘This isn’t Isstvan. I won’t do that again,’ Kurnan said, and in a lower voice added, ‘We’re warriors, not assassins.’
‘We are whatever Horus needs us to be,’ hissed Solomus. He prowled the edge of the fight like a creature of the Legion’s old namesake, stepping over the bodies already added to his butcher’s tally. His cold eyes searched for who next would bloody his sword. Kurnan wanted only one and, ignoring Solomus’ impudence, found the warrior in the middle of a dwindling shield wall of drake-green power armour.
There is at least some honour left in this galaxy.
He raised his sword, the chain teeth still wet and glistening. The stink of it, the blood and the sweat, almost overwhelmed the heady scent of ash and cinder. It was choking, and Kurnan decided he wanted to be rid of this place in short order.
‘You…’ he uttered, raising his voice so it carried above the drone of many chainblades burring in discordant union. ‘Captain to captain.’
It was over. Obek knew it. He had known it before they had even entered the Wrought, but denial was a powerful emotion in Nocturnean culture. Some called it defiance.
He felt the huddle of armoured bodies around him, heard their breath sawing through their faceplates and smelt their blood and the blood of the renegades on their war-plate. Stained, scarred, but far from glorious and with only a shred of vengeance to show for all the death.
Is this what Isstvan V was like?
No black sand underfoot, just black obsidian, their blood and that of their enemies almost invisible upon it.
Obek met the gaze of the other captain and shouldered his way forwards.
Xen tried to step in. ‘Brother-captain–’
‘Don’t try to stop me.’ Raios was bleeding all over the floor, stabbed in the neck. Gairon was lying nearby, a jagged cleft in his chest that tore all the way up to his throat. They were not alone. Not nearly.
Xen held out a sword, a serrated spatha of rare craft. ‘This is Drakos. Its edge has never failed me.’
Obek thought about refusing, but could not dishonour the gift. Instead he nodded, sheathing his ruddy combat blade to take up the green-tinged spatha.
‘A fine companion for an honour duel.’
‘There is nothing honourable in this,’ said Xen, his eyes on the renegade captain. ‘He will not be, and you only have one hand, my captain.’
Obek smiled, and it felt like a lifetime since he had done so and meant it. He supposed it was not joy or gladness he felt, but something more like relief.
‘I need only one,’ he said, and his mood abruptly darkened, ‘to kill this dog at least. When it is done–’
‘We will not be taken alive.’
Eye to eye, they locked forearms, although Xen gripped a cauterised stump. ‘I have shamed us. I see that now.’
‘Atone by avenging my death,’ laughed Obek. He thought of T’kell and the pledge he made to him, which he would fail, and all those who had come to the Wrought in search of purpose and honour, but found only death. It made finding the resolve to do what he had to do next easier.
‘Come then,’ Obek told the captain, ‘if you are so willing to die.’
They exchanged a curt salute. Obek knew the odds favoured his opponent, but he had killed three of theirs in single combat and that counted for something.
‘In Vulk–’ he began, but stopped short. A blade was sunk several inches into his chest, and he staggered before he saw the renegade with his hand outstretched and realised he had thrown it.
‘Damn it, Solomus!’ the renegade captain roared, before chaos erupted anew.
Xen rushed the blade thrower, this Solomus, as Zandu and Phokan hauled Obek to his feet. One of the renegades peeled off from the half-circle of warriors to intercept, but Xen cut him down with Ignus before he could even utter a war cry. He kicked the corpse aside, his stride barely interrupted and met the hastily drawn blade of Rayko Solomus.
The other Salamanders were fighting too, a rush of blades and armour too swift and varied to truly account for as they engaged enemies. Xen’s attention was fixed on one.
Solomus was fast, his gladius a blur, which, unlike Xen’s sword, was an ugly thing, just a tool for killing with all the brutality that required. His skills were anything but, and Xen almost immediately went onto the defensive.
The Son of Horus fought with a raw aggression and intensity Xen had rarely come up against. He had been in battle before, mainly during the Crusade, and that kind of instinct never left, but the edge… that could be blunted by time.
Xen parried, but could find no opening. He wished he had Drakos too; the other blade would have given a sorely needed advantage. He caught sight of Obek, getting to his feet, yanking out the thrown blade. Phokan and Zandu were in front of him, fending off the renegades, but they were getting pinned down.
‘You’ll die just like your brothers died, bleeding and without hope,’ said Solomus.
Xen took a glancing blow against his forearm. It bit deep, through ceramite and adamantium, into flesh. It hurt but he smiled anyway as his thrust took the renegade in his right pectoral. The armour absorbed much of the impact but Solomus grunted in pain. A second blow, an overhead, met the edge of the renegade’s steel and drew sparks. Xen swiped at his flank, but found this parried too. A second thrust… Solomus smacked it aside with his palm so swiftly that Xen could scarcely believe he had done it. The momentary delay was telling.
A punch to his solar plexus sent Xen reeling. Just a step or two, but it was enough to put him off balance. Solomus drew a second blade, third if counting the one he had thrown into Obek. Ugly as the others, it had a hooked tip and a dark sheen.
The thrust came at Xen so fast he nearly missed it. He parried the blade but not the one with the hook that followed and bit in the place between his shoulder guard and his neck. He felt a lurch as Solomus dragged him forwards, pulling his right shoulder to the left and turning him savagely. He missed the jab that cut into his side and the blow across his cheek that exploded white fire into his right eye.
Xen staggered and experienced something he had not felt before.
Defeat.
His vision fogging, he felt something slide into his chest and down. Hot at first, but then cold, even as his blood gushed across his armour. Now he fell, to one knee and then the other in close succession. Ignus glinted just beyond his reach. He could not remember dropping it.
Solomus loomed above him. ‘Bleeding and without hope…’
He raised both blades. It was hard not to think of them as a guillotine.
�
��Vulkan lives…’ said Xen, and prepared to meet his fate – until sound and fury tore the chamber apart.
Solomus half turned to meet a billowing explosion. It threw him off his feet before seizing Xen too and a host of others. Salamanders and Sons of Horus were tossed aside like ash in the wind.
A thought imposed itself in Xen’s few remaining moments of consciousness.
Krask.
Seventeen
The Raven and the Gorgon
Phokan and Zandu were dragging Obek back to where T’kell and Fai’sho were lying when he heard the faint clink of grenades hitting the ground and shouted a rasped warning.
‘Down!’
He saw Phokan and Zandu brace as a thunderous roar shook the chamber, filling it with smoke and fire. Moments later there came the stolid drumming of bolters. Zandu’s hand on his shoulder kept him down and Phokan had interposed his body also, obscuring the view, but Obek saw the warriors moving through the slowly dissipating pall of smoke.
A bolt shell struck one of the renegades, twisting him around with the impact before two more put him down. Several muzzle flashes lit up the gloom at once as a steady fusillade struck out at the Sons of Horus, who reacted with return fire of their own.
Obek’s first thought was Zau’ull and the Wyvern, but the legionary who emerged first out of the smoke had black armour and a Corvus-pattern helm, and was not a Chaplain. He carried a long sword with a crackling energy blade. Dust motes burst into flame as they touched the weapon’s power field.
Obek had thought they were all dead or scattered to the galactic winds.
The son of Corax wasn’t with his brothers, but he also wasn’t alone. Black-armoured warriors came in his wake, a white gauntlet emblazoned on their shoulder guards. The Iron Tenth, the Gorgon’s sons.
‘Iron Hands…’
Led by one of the XIX, these warriors were known to Obek. He didn’t know what business the so-called Shattered Legions had with the Wrought. That would come later, if he survived.
