by Nick Kyme
‘You are wounded, brother. This is the ship’s apothecarion.’
The legionary glared, but appeared to relax. He was struggling to speak again, the sedative having impaired his capacity to do so.
Saurian leaned closer, confident of there being no further attacks. The words were faint, but he heard them well enough, not needing to catch the movement of the legionary’s eyes as they identified the subject of his question.
‘Will he live?’
Saurian stepped back.
The Techmarine on the slab across from the other legionary was T’kell. He was Vulkan’s Forgemaster. Everyone in the Legion knew of him.
Even estranged from his brothers, Saurian felt a deep kinship for these warriors, so it was with some bitterness that he could not answer in the affirmative.
‘His injuries are severe, worse even than yours.’
The legionary gave a near imperceptible nod of understanding.
‘This…’ he gestured to an honour scar on his arm, ‘and this…’ and then another on his shoulder. ‘All of it.’
Saurian frowned, and considered his charge might be delirious from pain. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Unscarred…’ said the legionary, gesturing again. ‘Unscarred. To honour their… sacrifice.’
‘These are your deeds, brother. Why would you–’
The legionary was shaking his head. ‘Can’t undo what has been done. Just symbolic. I need a different symbol. Brotherhood. Unscarred.’
Saurian nodded slowly. ‘As you wish.’ The only way to remove an honour scar was to burn it and obscure the carved or seared flesh. As Saurian reach for his tools, the legionary clenched his arm and he realised the administered sedative had been too mild. He was about to increase the dose when the legionary spoke.
‘Where are the rest of my brothers?’
Obek sat in darkness, trying to appreciate the solitude. That had proven difficult over the last few days, surrounded as he was by his brothers.
Ulok had sealed them in one of the Obstinate’s barrack halls, which appeared curiously sparse considering the size of the ship and the legionary cohort he had seen force the Sons of Horus into a retreat. He had not seen the renegade captain amongst the dead, alongside his torturer, so had to assume that he had escaped and lived. Of the magos, Obek knew nothing. Ulok had referred to a magos that must surely have been Regulus, but he had seen the creature destroyed.
As well as meditation rooms, the barrack hall also had ablution chambers and a modest training area. Not that many observed their weapon drills, for Ulok had seen them all disarmed of any serious weapons before admittance and subsequent incarceration. A few Drakes practised their pugilism or duelled with the gladius, but most sat in silence and contemplated the failure of their mission.
The Chalice of Fire was lost, its artefacts, as well as the battle-brothers aboard, amongst its casualties.
‘Vulkan,’ Obek whispered to the darkness, nursing a phantom pain from his missing forearm, ‘through adversity, grant us forbearance and the will to fight on.’
They had lost much already, and the Unscarred’s fresh purpose had been subverted by circumstance. Obek began to wonder if they were cursed.
The door to the barracks opened with the grinding of some unseen mechanism and through the brief gout of hydraulic pressure release, a squad of shield-bearing Immortals trooped inside. Ahrem Gallikus was at their head and went unhelmed so he could easily be identified.
He saluted. ‘Captain Obek, I would see to that arm now.’
Obek rose to his feet and Phokan stepped forwards, intending to join him when Obek stopped him.
‘See to it that order is maintained in my absence.’
Phokan nodded, but spared a scything glance for Gallikus.
‘I do not believe your warriors like us very much,’ said the Iron Hands legionary as Obek approached.
Obek laughed mirthlessly.
‘Shall we get this over with?’
As soon as they reached the workshop, Gallikus dismissed his entourage.
‘The Iron Father would prefer you attended to at all times when abroad on the Obstinate.’
Obek gave a wry snort. ‘Has your Iron Father always been this paranoid?’
Gallikus didn’t answer. Instead he gestured to a metal cradle in the middle of the chamber, around which were arrayed tools and parts for bionics.
‘It’s more commonly used for servitor repairs, but will serve us equally well in this case.’
Hesitating only briefly, Obek climbed into the cradle. He lay supine, his legs and arms supported by a stout metal frame shaped to his body. Flecks of blood and oil dotted the bare metal and a lumen overhead blazed with a fiery intensity in the otherwise gloomy space.
‘Isn’t this usually the province of an Apothecary?’ asked Obek, as Gallikus removed his shoulder guard, greave and the mesh layer beneath his armour.
‘Not for Iron Hands,’ he replied, subconsciously flexing augmetic fingers as he scraped a cleansing unguent across the part of Obek’s severed arm that still remained.
‘Ah, of course. You are supplementing flesh for metal to garner strength… at the loss of the soul.’
Gallikus had brought a radial arm saw into position, poised at the join between Obek’s upper arm and his shoulder.
‘I am no stranger to pain, Gorgon’s son,’ said Obek, ‘but are the nerves not usually numbed before the cut is made?’
‘Apologies, brother. I am used to doing this on servitors.’ He paused, then turned to meet Obek’s gaze. ‘You believe we have no soul?’
‘Your humanity, perhaps. That is your creed if taken to the extreme.’
Gallikus stared, for so long that Obek wondered if the Iron Hands legionary had experienced some kind of mental break, before at last he looked away and spoke.
‘Of late, I have considered the meaning of that creed and the nature of our humanity, our souls.’
‘I am no Chaplain, Gallikus,’ said Obek, recognising the turmoil in this legionary but surprised at the sudden candour, ‘but I will listen if you need me to.’
‘Ever humane, the Eighteenth.’
‘I hope to demonstrate we are not the serpents your Iron Father fears we are.’
Gallikus looked back, as if trying to gauge something that Obek could not discern. He suddenly suspected that Saurian could have replaced his severed arm, and that there was more to this meeting than the grafting of a bionic.
‘Ulok will not release your injured, not those who are severely wounded.’
Obek began to rise, anger bunching his fists but Gallikus put his mechanised hand against his chest.
‘I shift this saw and you are carved in half,’ he warned.
Obek snarled, ‘Why am I here? What is the purpose of all this?’
‘To replace your arm.’
‘And the rest?’
Gallikus looked stern but conflicted. His face saddened, rueful as he finally came to a decision.
‘There is no rest. None at all.’
Zandu basked in the heat of the ablution chamber. He let the scalding water hammer his body until it felt like knives hitting his skin. Despite the pain, he stood inside the cleansing block for almost an hour, but found no solace or invigoration. As the skull-headed founts died off to a miserable trickle, steam rising about him in a heady, vaporous cloud, Zandu felt the same as he had done every moment since coming aboard this ship.
Worn. Tired.
Swathes of heat coming off his onyx skin, he reached into his mouth and pulled out a bloody tooth.
That makes four.
When his hair had begun to fall out, he had shaved his scalp to a glabrous sheen with his combat knife. And when Zandu closed his eyes, the burning man returned, as if spurred on by his imminent demise.
‘Leave me…’ he whis
pered, but to no avail.
He had heard of Destroyers succumbing to the radiation poisoning of their weaponry, but this had been an intense bombardment of his cells over a prolonged period. His malfunctioning power armour, its hermetic seals broken, had effectively determined his fate.
Ignominious death, and the dread that even those who knew no fear could experience. Perhaps it was as the burning man foretold, a slow wasting, but by fire within even as the fire without raged against it.
Zandu released a long, pained breath and left the cleansing block. Serfs afforded to the Drakes by Ulok stood ready to receive and armour him, their eyes lowered in deference. He let them work, lost in his thoughts as they went about their solemn labours.
He knew he must finally speak with Captain Obek. Several weeks had passed aboard the Obstinate with still no sign of the Chalice of Fire. At first, he refused to believe that Zau’ull, Krask and the others had perished, that the relics of the primarch had been lost with the ship, but days on end without news had begun to grind him down. And this sickness… it only prolonged the slow agony.
They had to get off this ship, escape and seek out the Chalice of Fire for themselves, or die in the attempt. He supposed that was selfish, given his probable fate, but rather death in the service of duty and honour than waste away like a shadow before the onset of the sun.
‘You’re dying,’ said Varr.
Zandu, now armoured but not having heard the intrusion, looked askance at the other legionary as he emerged into the light of an auto-sconce.
‘What did you say to me, Drake?’ He had not meant to vent his anger, but the nerve was yet raw.
‘I said dying, not deaf,’ Varr replied.
He too wore his war-plate. Zandu saw the scorched metal had seams of soot like black veins tarnishing the green, and would never be wholly cleansed again. The imagery felt apt as he considered the plight of the Unscarred and his own inevitable demise.
‘I suppose Vulkan calls me to the mountain, does he?’ said Zandu, his voice sour and with a bitter edge. He had meant his remarks to be caustic.
‘No,’ said Varr, with a smile that twisted the map of scar tissue colonising his face, ‘the one our father called has already answered.’
Zandu frowned but before he could ask what Varr meant, Obek appeared in the arched entranceway to the ablution chamber. He had Phokan with him, who acted as equerry in Xen’s absence.
‘I need you two with me,’ said Obek. He seemed troubled. Serious. More than usual.
‘Your arm, brother-captain,’ Zandu said, gesturing to the bionic, ‘it looks well–’
‘Ulok has found the ship,’ said Obek, interrupting. ‘The Chalice is ours again.’
‘What of our brothers aboard?’
‘Unknown, but apparently contact has been made.’
Zandu had cause to frown again. ‘And yet you still seem uneasy, captain.’
‘I am. The Obstinate’s weapon holds are brimming with materiel taken from the Wrought. What do you think the Iron Father will do if he finds what’s aboard the Chalice of Fire? You both saw his reaction when we first came aboard this ship. He has incarcerated us for weeks on end with no other pretence than our provenance was believed to be in question. I have severe misgivings about his intent, but with the Chalice, Zau’ull and Krask’s Wyverns, our position has improved.’
‘Our position?’ Zandu queried.
‘Firebearer means for us to bloody our blades on the Gorgon’s sons,’ murmured Varr.
‘Only if strictly necessary,’ Obek warned. ‘But I won’t let them keep us from our ship or our mission. The relics are to be found secure harbour, if not in the Wrought then somewhere else. Geryon Deep, perhaps? Ulok is a warmonger and we have no way of knowing what Vulkan’s arsenal can do if it is unleashed. Our ties are bound to this now. I swore an oath – we all did. To T’kell.’
‘If he lives,’ said Zandu.
‘Live or die,’ said Obek, ‘we hold to it. Nothing else matters.’
Varr smiled, though his eyes had a manic faraway look to them. ‘Endurance, the hard path, self-sacrifice… Our father is justly proud.’
The others had no chance to question him. Voices emanated from the main barrack hall.
The Iron Hands had come to escort them to their fate.
Twenty
For those who are dead
Zau’ull stood before the emitter, Gor’og Krask and one of his Terminators flanking him on either side. The armour of the Terminators was badly scorched and carried several fresh gouges but it had been the difference between life and death as the launch bays were blasted apart.
A retreat had been the appropriate response from Shipmaster Reyne, even if it did rankle with Zau’ull. No legionary would ever run from a fight, especially one recruited to the XVIII, but Reyne had been protecting the Chalice of Fire and Zau’ull could not deny the sagacity of that. A short warp jump had taken them to the edge of the system, a chance to lick their wounds and make necessary repairs. The return had been cautious, via the slow burn of plasma engines. The fact that they had encountered an Iron Hands ship had been unexpected.
Zau’ull nodded for the emitter to be engaged and a beam of grainy grey light filtered from the receiver array, in turn projecting the image of a severe-looking veteran with a face half of iron and a glinting bionic in place of one eye. His beard resembled a piece of angular shrapnel and when he spoke his voice resonated with the inhumanity of a machine.
It felt cold on the bridge when compared to the heat of the forges far below but as Zau’ull listened to the words of the holo-cast veteran, who explained how he had taken a band of Salamanders into his custody until the veracity of their identities could be established, the Chaplain found the fire of his anger burning the chill away.
‘A transport is inbound,’ he told the veteran, ‘to escort our brothers back to their Legion.’
He severed the emitter feed as the veteran gave a solemn nod of acquiescence but could not shake his fury or the disquiet he felt.
‘Is that it?’ asked Krask as the light from the emitter faded and the shadows of the bridge reasserted themselves around its command dais. The crew, as well as Shipmaster Reyne, who had listened to the exchange in silence aboard his throne, faded too as the near darkness swallowed them.
Zau’ull’s eyes glowed against the blackness. ‘For now. I will speak with Obek before acting further.’ He called out to Reyne. ‘Shipmaster?’
The answer came swiftly. ‘I cannot be certain, Chaplain.’
Zau’ull still had the case clasped to his belt and his gauntleted fingers glanced against the metal as he reached for spiritual reassurance. ‘It could not be,’ he whispered and left the bridge with Krask, bound for the secondary embarkation deck.
Ulok had consented to the return of their weapons, so a fully armed cadre of Salamanders made ready in one of the Obstinate’s arming chambers. Only Obek had been summoned to the assembly hall before both parties would part ways.
The Iron Father was already waiting for him.
‘I offer my sincerest regret at having taken you under guard, but during such fell times as these it is hard to tell friends from enemies.’
Obek nodded, expecting to be met by a cohort of Medusan Immortals but finding the Iron Father alone, though he felt certain that Morikan was lurking somewhere in the shadows.
‘I do not disagree.’
‘Your injured are still in the apothecarion,’ offered Ulok, ‘and you are at liberty to see them, but Saurian has advised against their removal from his ministrations. Unless you have an Apothecary amongst your ranks?’
‘We did. His name was Fai’sho,’ Obek replied, grimly, ‘but he is amongst the dead.’
Ulok nodded, sympathetic. ‘And not the only one, I’m afraid. Not all survived. I am sorry, brother-captain. You have suffered much.’
‘No more than your Legion.’
A dark cast came over the Iron Father’s face, his mouth tightening into a grim line.
‘Though, I would see my stricken brothers,’ said Obek.
‘It shall be done,’ Ulok replied, bowing as if in concession. When he raised his head again, a question lingered in his eye. ‘I have one further ask of you, brother-captain, if you will hear of it?’
‘Very well.’
‘The renegades who attacked you, they are led by an adept of the Mechanicum.’
‘Led? I saw a captain amongst their ranks.’
‘Nonetheless, the adept leads them. He goes by the name Regulus, though he has a longer binaric designation you would not understand.’
Obek gritted his teeth, but Ulok seemed not to notice. ‘I encountered him. His bodyguard did this,’ he said, and gestured with the bionic that stood in place of flesh and blood.
‘Regulus is within the Warmaster’s inner circle, and occupies a position of influence aboard his flagship. As a fount of knowledge, he is almost unparalleled, a veritable oracle. I want to extract that knowledge and with it find a way to kill Horus.’
‘One of the renegades, Rayko Solomus, said Horus had already won, that Terra had fallen.’
‘A lie. He was taunting you. The war isn’t over, Obek, but kill the Warmaster and it will be.’
Obek waited for Ulok to laugh, to reveal a further facet of his madness and confess how his words were meant in jest.
‘You are serious,’ he said, eyes wider.
‘Horus is not a god. He can be killed.’
‘Isn’t he? His followers think he does the will of gods. He is still a primarch, the Emperor’s chosen son, by the Throne.’
‘Not any more. I have been hunting Regulus for a long time,’ Ulok told him. ‘It was how we came to that world in the first place. We have been following his trail. Estranged from the Warmaster’s side, from his main fleet, I knew I would get no better chance to capture him.’
