by Mark Clapham
‘His soundness of mind isn’t our concern,’ said Rotaka. ‘He gives the orders, we follow them. That is the way it has always been.’
Kruvan scoffed. ‘Listen to yourself, Rotaka, talking as if nothing has ever changed,’ he said. ‘Those old rules were torn up when we became Red Corsairs – they were probably rendered irrelevant the moment the old Huron started ignoring orders. Why speak of loyalty when we have rebelled against everything we once stood for? We live by simpler rules now.’
‘Such as?’ asked Rotaka, unnerved by the extent to which Kruvan’s sentiments echoed his own.
‘Survival. Conquest,’ said Kruvan. ‘Taemar may be a reptile, worse still a sorcerer, but he hungers to live, to rule, like so many of us do. Not only will he play a vital role in assassinating Huron, but under his leadership we would be able to seek the glory we desire, fight wars that can be won rather than over-stretching ourselves across a handful of worlds in pursuit of… what? What are we actually doing here, if not to conquer these worlds? What power are we pursuing, and what happens to the rest of us once this power is in Huron’s hands?’
He trailed off, exasperated.
‘I do not know,’ said Rotaka quietly. ‘If you ask if I believe this is the correct course for us… I do not know.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Kruvan. ‘If you had faith in Huron you would have struck me down. You may not be willing to admit it, but you know that I am right, you know what needs to be done.’
Rotaka began to speak, but Kruvan made a gesture to silence him. ‘You know,’ he repeated. ‘And when the time comes, you will act as required. It will be soon. Will your squad stand with you on this?’
‘One, definitely not,’ said Rotaka. ‘The other two… Yes, I believe they will follow my orders, whatever I decide.’
Kruvan nodded. ‘Then choose well, brother,’ he said. ‘I know you will.’
Kruvan marched back through the jungle, leaving Rotaka alone with his thoughts.
Twenty-Six
While the forces of the Red Corsairs drew together, so did those of their enemies.
They met in the ruined city on Threshold in which the Archway from Kerresh had emerged. In his urgency to reach Exultance with the maximum force at his disposal, Huron Blackheart had abandoned any pretence of securing supply lines or maintaining a hold of key strategic points in his wake.
Instead Anvindr, Pranix and their force of Space Wolves and Tallarns had found little but a handful of dying slaves and cursory, rapidly assembled booby traps at locations previously occupied by the Red Corsairs. The encampments either side of the Archway between Kerresh and Threshold seemed hastily abandoned, as if the closer Huron got to his prize the more frantic he became in his orders.
Inquisitor Pranix was surprised to see such disarray as he walked through the ruined city on Threshold. Huron Blackheart was considered a formidable strategist. What could drive him to such distraction?
Not that Pranix was free from distraction himself. While as an inquisitor he was used to denying himself physical satisfactions, he nonetheless found himself feeling a giddy, near ecstatic sensation at being able to remove the filthy rebreather and heavy protective clothing he’d had to wear while crossing dying Kerresh, to strip down to his padded body armour and the plain, torn robe he wore over the top. To feel the artificial sunlight on his face, and breathe fresh air was sublime luxury.
It was a luxury that he allowed himself for a very short time, because his force needed to hold their position, to wait. While the force under Pranix’s command had been crossing Kerresh, another had been cutting through the jungles of Threshold, moving from a newly formed Archway towards the ruined city. Their movements had been slow, but they would be here soon, and all the forces at Pranix’s disposal would be united.
Soon, he heard them coming, the Rhinos and the other vehicles, and smelt the chemical tang of jungle being destroyed to make way for the new arrivals. They had been in faltering contact via the Space Wolves’ comms since Pranix was rescued by Anvindr, the atmospheric fallout from the destruction of Hacasta and the slow death of Kerresh interfering even with the Space Wolves’ purified communications. It had been enough to arrange a rendezvous, but it left Pranix unsure of the nature of the force approaching, and its leadership.
As such, Pranix was surprised to find Dumas Cheng amongst the leaders of the army that rolled into the city. Pranix would have thought the system governor unlikely to leave the Gatehouse, never mind venture through such dangerous terrain. The old bureaucrat looked thinner, harder, but that could have just been an illusion caused by Cheng wearing Jandarme officer’s uniform – augmented with shining honorary medals, of course – rather than his silken robes of office.
Cheng registered Pranix’s surprise at his presence. Either Pranix was getting slack, unguarded after his captivity and escape, or the system governor was beginning to know him too well.
‘I have lost a whole world to these traitors,’ said Cheng, and Pranix saw then that his first instinct had been correct; Cheng had a new iron to his manner. ‘And have another world left dying. I intend to see this ended, lord inquisitor.’
‘Then I hope you have at least brought a weapon, my Lord Cheng,’ replied Pranix. ‘The Red Corsairs have won virtually every engagement of this campaign, and come back from any blows our forces managed to inflict. We may need every last fighter before this is over.’
‘Speaking of weapons, I have brought you something, inquisitor,’ said Cheng. He disappeared into the throng of gathered officers, and returned shortly with a long object covered in cloth, which he handed to Pranix.
Pranix unwrapped it. It was the staff that he had used as part of his ceremonial trappings when he addressed his forces, and which he had also wielded when he first met Cheng. It was a prop, more than anything, meant to enforce the impression of the all-powerful inquisitor.
‘It was in your quarters in the Gatehouse,’ explained Cheng. ‘Left behind when you were taken. I thought it might be useful.’
‘It’s mainly symbolic,’ said Pranix, weighing the staff in one hand then tossing it to the other. Its shaft was filigreed with silver, skulls and other symbols sculpted in elaborate patterns. ‘Although such items can be used to focus certain energies.’
‘Then maybe it will be useful in the days ahead,’ said Cheng. ‘As you said, we will need any weapon available.’
‘I did say that, didn’t I?’ said Pranix, experimentally swinging the staff in a two-handed grip.
If it came to it, he could probably break someone’s head open with the damn thing.
Around the lake where Valthex worked to gain entry to Exultance, the jungle had been cleared and an encampment had grown. The warband had suffered losses and were spread thin across the Hollow Worlds, with groups securing key points across the system, but still there had gradually amassed seventy or so Corsairs and their supporting mortal troops and servants by the lakeside, restlessly gathered in preparation for whatever lay on Exultance. Rotaka knew that it was more than the mission ahead that kept the ranks quiet, but even those outside the conspiracy seemed subdued.
When the time came, it was Kruvan who broke the silence.
‘Huron Blackheart,’ shouted Kruvan. ‘I would speak to you.’
Rotaka felt the tension ripple through the gathered Corsairs, who had moved towards the stretch of lakeside where Huron spent most of his time. There were no words of support or condemnation from any of the others as Kruvan stood to make the first challenge.
The Tyrant had been berating Valthex about the technological problem the Techmarine had been working on by the lakeside, the manipulation of technology to open up the portal to Exultance, as Rotaka understood it. Garreon had also been nearby, and as Kruvan crossed the encampment, other rebels falling into step behind him, Valthex and Garreon, Huron’s most loyal lieutenants, stepped to each side of the Tyrant, preparing weapons. The s
orcerer Anto stood at a slight remove from Huron’s other lieutenants.
‘What must you speak to me of, Kruvan?’ demanded Huron, a sneer on his face. ‘Have you solved the problems that continue to vex loyal Valthex? If so, please share your genius. Otherwise be gone, before you anger me.’
‘You are not fit to lead the Red Corsairs, Huron,’ said Kruvan. ‘Your madness endangers us all.’
As Kruvan faced Huron, looking up at the Tyrant, Rotaka could see Taemar crossing the encampment, axe drawn, Corsairs parting to let him through.
Also, out in that crowd, he could see subtle movements. Where squads were split in loyalties, brother was readying to turn against brother, hands hovering near weapons, ready to draw them when the moment came.
Rotaka looked between Verbin, Hulpin and Wuhrsk. None had moved yet. They were relatively close to Huron and Kruvan’s position, but Verbin was slow to move to support the latter.
As am I, thought Rotaka. Why hesitate now?
Rotaka had expected an outburst of rage from Huron, a characteristic display of bile-spitting mania, perhaps even a sign that his daemonic otherself was manifesting permanently, but instead Huron was silent.
Then the Tyrant laughed a cold, humourless laugh.
Rotaka realised as the Tyrant laughed that he was turned away from where Taemar was moving through the crowd, crackles of psychic energy beginning to crawl across the double blades of his axe.
‘Fit to lead?’ sneered Huron. ‘I do not lead the Red Corsairs.’
He rocked back slightly on his heels, and Rotaka saw a blur again, something changing about Huron, an image of tentacles and countless mouths, ready to burst out into the world.
Huron caught Rotaka’s gaze, and he found the Tyrant’s insane, staring eyes looking straight at him for the slightest second, before Huron turned his attention back to Kruvan and his rebels.
‘I am the Red Corsairs!’ screamed Huron, lunging towards Kruvan, the Tyrant’s Claw swiping through the air. Kruvan dodged the blow but held his ground.
‘Who of you could take my place?’ bellowed Huron. ‘Who would dare to think they could take my warband from me? You live to serve me, Huron Blackheart. There is none amongst you who can challenge me.’
Taemar was nearly upon Huron, raising his axe.
Rotaka could not let this pass. For all his doubts, Huron was right. He was the Red Corsairs. He had led them from the Imperium through hell, and beyond. Without him they were nothing. Rotaka could not let the likes of Taemar betray that.
He began to raise his bolter, only to find a gauntlet holding it down.
‘Have faith,’ said Hulpin simply, holding tightly to keep Rotaka’s weapon motionless. ‘The moment will come, but not now.’
Speechless, Rotaka looked across to Taemar.
Taemar brought his axe around in a wide arc, swinging it past Huron Blackheart, one blade crashing into the chestplate of Kruvan, who was thrown backwards into his own supporters, his chest exploding in psychic fire and fragments of scorched ceramite.
Taemar stood before Huron, and raised his axe high.
‘So die all who defy Huron Blackheart!’ shouted Taemar.
There was a roar of approval from most of the Red Corsairs, a scream of defiance from others, and fighting broke out everywhere. Huron Blackheart charged into the crowd of rebels, sweeping the Tyrant’s Claw down to jam its blades into Kruvan’s exposed torso while lashing out at other dissenters. Garreon and Valthex were right behind him firing on the scattered rebels, while Anto was close behind, unleashing psychic bolts from his staff.
Hulpin let go of Rotaka’s bolter just as Verbin shoved past them, raising a scythed blade, barrelling towards Taemar with fearsome speed.
Taemar had already engaged one of the other rebels, and his back was turned to Verbin.
Rotaka realised in that moment the symbolic value of what Taemar had done, rejecting the insurrection and striking down its mouthpiece. Devious, self-serving bastard that he was, Taemar had nonetheless drawn out the poison of insurrection and suppressed it in one blow. If Taemar was struck down in turn, it would give that rebellion new hope.
That couldn’t be allowed. Rotaka snapped his bolter upright and shot Verbin in the back.
The shot didn’t kill Verbin; it didn’t even wound him. But it did knock him over, causing him to roll forwards, landing on his feet and swinging back to Rotaka.
Verbin pulled off his horned helmet, and spat blood.
‘Will you look me in the eye, my captain,’ said Verbin, ‘and kill me face-to-face as you did Iltz?’
Rotaka pulled his own helmet off.
‘Yes,’ he said, and raised his bolter to fire again.
Before he could even take a shot Verbin was swinging at him with the scythe, but the blade fell when Wuhrsk shot Verbin in the wrist, a precise shot at a weak point in the power armour that left Verbin clutching his hand, fingers limp and useless.
Then Hulpin was in there too, chainfists whirring, slamming into Verbin and bringing him down.
It took all three of them to keep him down, Rotaka, Hulpin and Wuhrsk descending on Verbin with blades and fists, beating him to the ground and keeping him there.
It was Rotaka who dealt the final blow, drawing the long dagger from his belt and slamming it into the back of Verbin’s neck, then twisting it.
He struck the blow without hesitation or mercy for his former brother, his squad mate.
Kruvan had been right, in a way. These things needed to be done.
Rotaka looked up to see similar scenes playing out all around, brother striking down brother, and a slow silence falling across the encampment by the lake. Bloodied and victorious, Huron Blackheart walked past Rotaka, Valthex and his other lieutenants by his side, returning to the stone console they had been arguing over when the insurrection began, short minutes ago.
Rotaka looked at the scattered dead. A quarter of the surviving Red Corsairs, massacred in minutes, only the loyal left standing.
Huron Blackheart turned and opened his mouth, presumably to address the survivors, those loyal to him. It would be a statement of profound arrogance, Rotaka had no doubt, but Rotaka knew that it would also be true, for there was greatness in Huron Blackheart’s madness and egotism, and that was why he stood victorious now while his enemies lay fallen.
Huron didn’t speak. He was looking across the camp, to the edge of the jungle.
Rotaka followed his gaze.
In every direction bar from the lake itself, Space Wolves were emerging from the jungle’s edge. They must have crept up while the Red Corsairs fought amongst themselves.
Rotaka had been involved in brief skirmishes with them so far, but this was a much larger force than the ones he had encountered in the Orrery or on Kerresh. Amongst their number were mortals, some on foot and others riding horses or a type of lizard.
All were heavily armed, hundreds of guns directed at a concentrated group of Red Corsairs.
For a silent moment, the two forces faced each other.
Valthex had experienced the attempted rebellion with a certain detachment, calculating from the first challenge that the odds were against the rebels. It unfolded as he predicted, the numbers never lying. He had killed three of the traitors himself, but it didn’t concern him. They had been comrades for decades, but the statistics were against them. It was simple reality.
Looking around at the massed armies of the Imperium surrounding the lakeside encampment the Red Corsairs had created, Valthex made a similar calculation based on the relative numbers of the two forces, the topography of the area and other governing factors.
This time, the numbers did not work in favour of Valthex’s preferred faction. The Space Wolves and other Imperial forces had the Corsairs surrounded with their backs to the lake, and while the galleons and other heavy weapons were present, they were at the fringe
s of the encampment or out on the lake itself, and would be little use with the Red Corsairs already trapped in a kill-box by the lakeside.
Amongst the gathered enemies, a figure could be seen wielding a staff crackling with white-hot psychic energy, a figure who, in spite of being dwarfed by the Space Wolves around him, seemed to project his presence across the entire area, so that his voice echoed across the lake.
‘Attack!’ bellowed the man. ‘Show no mercy.’
As the gathered loyalists opened fire, Huron Blackheart turned to the sorcerer Anto, his eyes wide with rage.
‘You told me that inquisitor was dead!’ bellowed Huron Blackheart, and Valthex thought Huron was going to decapitate the sorcerer with one swipe of the Tyrant’s Claw.
‘My lord,’ shouted Rotaka over the exchange of gunfire. ‘They’re pushing us back. They have us surrounded.’
Huron lowered his claw and cursed, ignoring Anto for the moment.
‘Huron Blackheart is never trapped. Valthex,’ screamed Huron, spitting with rage. ‘Open my portal.’
‘My lord,’ said Valthex, shouting over the gunfire. ‘This is technology beyond even my understanding. If we overload it, the consequences could be–’
‘Damn the consequences,’ bellowed Huron, the Tyrant’s Claw gouging into the pauldrons of Valthex’s armour as Huron spun the Techmarine around. Valthex’s helmet display filled with reticules as every weapon he had built into his customised armour automatically targeted the Tyrant at once.
‘Direct all power to the portal,’ said Huron. ‘All of it.’
Valthex could see it now, what the seers and sorcerers had seen but previously he had not, the daemonic side of Huron Blackheart struggling to take him over. Valthex saw it not with any of his vast array of sensors and monitors, but somehow in his tainted soul. Huron Blackheart was losing himself, and with him all would be lost. If Exultance could provide the cure for Huron’s condition, then they needed to reach it, regardless of the risks.
