by Marc
Blackheart stood silently for a long moment, the only sound in the room Arghun’s increasingly laboured breathing as the claw squeezed tighter. Then the claw snapped open and the Blood Reaver stepped back. Arghun sighed in relief and drew in great gulps of air.
Sartak also relaxed. The worst was over. He knew how merciless Huron could be with potential new recruits, but it seemed that Arghun had passed the test.
Huron strode over to Sartak and put his good hand on the Astral Claw’s shoulder. ‘Brother, you have done well. You know how few sorcerers I command and we had mourned your loss.’ Sartak, wary of trickery, could detect no falsehood in the tyrant’s words. ‘I want to welcome you back to the Red Corsairs.’ Blackheart’s voice deepened as he continued, ‘But first, you must do something for me.’
‘Anything, great tyrant!’ Sartak exclaimed, nodding his head.
Blackheart removed his hand from Sartak’s shoulder, unholstered his bolt pistol, and held it out to the Astral Claw. ‘Kill the White Scar.’
‘But, great tyrant.’ Sartak stammered, ‘he, well, he helped me to escape.’
‘He helped you to escape so you would bring him here.’ Huron said matter of factly. ‘He’s a White Scar infiltrator, no doubt sent to kill me. Now take this and execute him!’
The tone of the Blood Reaver brooked no contradiction, not if Sartak wanted to live. The Marine took the pistol and walked slowly over to Arghun. He had no love for the uncompromising White Scar, but nor did he want to be his executioner. He raised the pistol and aimed for Arghun’s temple. At least death would be quick.
‘What are you waiting for?’ roared the Blood Reaver. ‘Kill him!’
‘Kill the traitor!’ the Red Corsairs howled in unison.
Arghun looked at the Astral Claw and Sartak saw no fear in his face. ‘Go ahead, Corsair.’ Arghun said calmly. ‘I always knew you would kill me in the end.’
Sartak squeezed the trigger twice. The White Scar died without sound or complaint and fell with an echoing thud on to the metal floor of the great bay. Not for the last time innocent blood stained the unholy ground of Blackheart’s temple.
Huron Blackheart smiled and his insane joy was almost as terrible as his anger. ‘Welcome home, Sartak. You’ve been away too long.’
SARTAK MOVED QUICKLY amidst the twisting corridors of Huron’s warship. It had been two days since his return and at last it seemed safe for him to move about freely. The Blood Reaver’s small fleet was even now cruising through the Maelstrom, heading for an unknown destination. Excitement ran high amongst the Red Corsairs, for Huron Blackheart had promised them booty and blood aplenty. Sartak tried to appear calm as he searched the ship for Lothar. By now his friend should have discovered where the attack was to fall, for he had won a place amongst Huron’s inner circle. But the man had not been in his quarters, nor was he in the galley. Now, Sartak was forced to roam the great ship almost at random, hoping to find his friend before it was too late.
The Astral Claw found himself heading deeper into the bowels of the labyrinthine ship. The corridors stank of stale blood and he began to see skulls and bones littering the grilled walkway. This was the part of the ship claimed by the followers of Khorne, and Sartak usually went out of his way to avoid it. But he must find Lothar and this was one of the few places he had not searched.
Sartak had seen no one for almost an hour, and this only added to his agitation. Something was going on, he could sense it. Then he heard distant howls from up ahead and his heart sank. As he approached, Sartak could hear the roar of a crowd and cries of ‘Blood for the Blood God!’ At last Sartak emerged into a wide cargo bay and stopped in alarm. All of Huron’s Khornate followers were assembled in a circle of crimson and gold, surrounding two combatants. Even above the shrieks for blood, Sartak could hear the distinct whirr of a chain-axe. He knew with cold certainty that this was no ordinary combat.
Pushing himself through the frenzied warriors, Sartak finally got a view of the combatants and his worst fears were confirmed. At the centre of the circle was Lothar, stripped to the waist and armed with a chain sword. His opponent was Crassus, a renegade Ultramarine who was Khorne’s chosen champion amongst the Red Corsairs. Dark and wiry, Lothar was an experienced fighter, true enough, but Crassus was a bloody-handed psychopath a full head taller than him, with few equals in hand-to-hand combat.
This is not a duel, Sartak thought grimly. This is slaughter.
‘Khorne demands a sacrifice!’ the berserkers chanted wildly. ‘Blood! Blood for Khorne!’
‘Lothar!’ Sartak bellowed and tried to break through the ring of blood-hungry berserkers, but half a dozen arms held him back. Lothar caught sight of him but was fully engaged in trying to fend off Crassus. The chain-axe of the insane warrior hammered down upon Lothar’s chainsword, driving the weary warrior back with every blow. Sartak could see that Lothar was bleeding from many wounds. Each time he parried, the Marine was just a little slower, while Crassus seemed to grow stronger with each blow. As the howls for blood reached a frenzied pitch, Crassus roared and smashed the chainsword from his opponent’s hands, and in the same fluid movement buried the axe in Lothar’s chest. The chewing blades of the chain-axe tore through Lothar’s flesh and he screamed in pain as his hot life-blood gushed all over the crazed Berserker.
‘Blood for the Blood God!’ the mob roared, and then, bearing Khorne’s chosen one aloft, ‘Crassus! Crassus!’
‘No!’ Sartak screamed and ran where to his dying friend lay, forgotten. Lothar lay on his back, his chest a bloody rain. Still, he yet lived.
Sartak knelt next to him. ‘Forgive me, Lothar,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘I was… discovered.’ Lothar gasped, blood frothing on his lips. ‘But the attack… the attack will fall on Razzia. Emperor… redeem us.’ His ravaged body convulsed one last time and lay still. Around Sartak, the berserkers of Khorne howled in savage celebration. Soon they were fighting furiously amongst themselves, driven mad by the sight and smell of freshly spilled blood. Taking advantage of the mayhem, Sartak slipped back into the welcome darkness.
SARTAK SAT ALONE in his chambers, still covered with the blood of his only friend. Now Lothar and Arghun were both dead, and Sartak knew it was up to him to finish Huron Blackheart alone. The Astral Claw shook with barely repressed fury as he thought about the lifeless body of Lothar, and of his own fall from the Emperor’s grace.
Sartak’s blood burned for vengeance on Blackheart, but a small inner voice crooned to him to wait. A relic of his reaving days, or a clear sign of impending madness, the voice tempted and chided his soul. It would be so easy, the voice told him, to stay with Blackheart and maintain his loyalty.
Yes, so easy, Sartak reflected, but he had followed the easy path for far too many years. Sartak remembered those dark days on Badab, when Huron had poisoned the Astral Claws against the Emperor. Sartak, loyal to his Chapter Master, as a Space Marine should be, followed him into heresy. But the years of reaving had taken their toll on the once idealistic warrior. Like a sleeping man jarred to consciousness, Sartak had opened his eyes to the depravity and corruption of the man once known as the Tyrant of Badab. With this shocking awakening Sartak had realised that there was only one way to make good his betrayal of the Emperor.
‘If I must add my own blood to that of Arghun and Lothar.’ he snarled aloud, ‘then let that be my penance.’ Sartak drew in a deep breath and steadied his beating heart. Now, it was time to finish what he had started.
THE ASTRAL CLAW knelt on the floor and pulled a small cloth bag from between the folds of his bunk. Reaching inside, he pulled out the Imperial Tarot. The magical paraphernalia cluttered about his chamber was just for show, mere superstitious frippery. Huron was strangely proud of his ‘sorcerers’ and Sartak had been forced to act the part. Runic wands, talismanic skulls, and ancient icons lay strewn about haphazardly, the accoutrements of his obscene trade.
Now all Sartak needed was the purity of the Tarot to communicate with t
he White Scar ship which circled the Maelstrom in eager anticipation of his message. It was time for him to take on once again the mantle of Space Marine, librarian and Astral Claw.
Sartak knelt and shuffled the Tarot. Focusing his mind, he drew three cards from the top of the deck and placed them face down. Holding his breath, he flipped them over one by one. Horror! Revealed before him were the Emperor reversed, the Tower, and the Ecclesiarch reversed.
Sartak suppressed the shock of such an ill-omened hand, quickly reminding himself that he was not divining but reforging long broken lines of communication. Trying to forget the grim portents thus revealed, Sartak concentrated on the Tower. Chanting quietly, he envisioned the Tower in the distance, across the great tide of the warp. Casting his mind outward, Sartak fell into a deep trance.
Always he kept the Tower foremost in his mind, as he searched for the spirit of the White Scar librarian he knew to be waiting. The warp embraced him as it always did, comforting him like a mother as it tried to suck him to its womb. Further and further he reached, beyond the gibbering hordes of demonic creatures which implored him for his soul. Then, at the last, the jolt of contact. Across the warp, their minds came together and in an instant it was done. ‘Razzia.’ he intoned, ‘the attack falls on Razzia.’
Information delivered, Sartak broke the contract and fled back across the void to the safety of his own body. It was finished.
BEFORE SARTAK COULD so much as stand, there was a rending crash as the door to his chamber was smashed open. Standing in the doorway was Huron Blackheart, flanked by the tall, cadaverous figure of Garlon Souleater, the tyrant’s most potent sorcerer.
Sartak jumped to his feet, scattering the Imperial Tarot across the floor. ‘Great tyrant, I had not expected you.’ he stammered hastily, knowing with certainty that the Tarot had shown him the future after all.
‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’ Huron laughed. The Chaos leader shrugged towards his twisted sorcerer. ‘Garlon tells me that you have been communicating with the White Scars… and I wanted to come and thank you personally.’
‘Th- thank me, lord?’ Sartak let his hand rest on the hilt of his force sword, yet maintained a pretence of servitude a while longer.
‘Yes, Astral Claw, most certainly.’ The tyrant grinned maliciously. ‘I wanted to thank you for telling the White Scars that I would be attacking Razzia.’ Huron continued, his words dripping irony, ‘A touching show of misplaced loyalty.’ The Corsair’s voice rose to a thundering growl and he stabbed his power claw at Sartak. ‘Especially when you consider that I’ve changed my mind!’
‘Changed your mind?’ Sartak gasped, taken aback. ‘Wha—’
Huron waved his hand dismissively. ‘Well, no, I lie. I haven’t changed my mind as such – we never were attacking Razzia.’
Sartak began to see the trap which had been set for him, and his grip was firm upon his force sword. ‘You twisted, evil… what do you mean?’ The tyrant laughed widely at this show of bravado, and beside him Garlon clapped politely in mock applause.
‘We are, in fact, headed for Santiago.’ Blackheart paused to let the awful truth sink in. ‘Thanks to you, however, the White Scars will be far away when the Red Corsairs sweep down on that helpless planet.’ The tyrant grinned again, obviously delighted with the Astral Claw’s terrified expression.
Sartak staggered backwards, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he had done. ‘Santiago? But why?’ he whispered, horrified. ‘There’s nothing to steal there, it’s an agricultural world of no military significance at all.’
Garlon rubbed his bony hands together eagerly, his wet tongue licking his thin lips in anticipation of some future pleasure.
‘Ah, but you are mistaken. There’s one thing Santiago does have.’ Huron gloated, clapping Garlon on the back. ‘Santiago has millions upon millions of defenceless citizens.’
Garlon whinnied in helpless pleasure. The sorcerer’s eyes rolled in his head and he silently mouthed the words: ‘Blood and skulls…’
Huron laughed mockingly. Sartak felt cold fury burning in his soul. The tyrant continued, ‘And what do you think would happen in the warp, my loyal little sorcerer, were I to offer up the blood of a billion victims on one night?’
‘You butcher!’ Sartak screamed. ‘I followed you, I trusted you, and you led me straight to hell!’ In his mind, he commended his soul to the Emperor. He knew what he must do. ‘In the name of all that is holy, it stops here!’ he yelled, dragging his force sword from its scabbard and charging the Blood Reaver, howling his fury.
Huron Blackheart met Sartak’s charge with a cry of delight, parrying the force sword with his great metal claw. The sword, pulsing with psychic energy, sparked and shrieked as it strove to tear the claw asunder. But the forbidden technology powering the tyrant’s claw proved too strong, and after long moments of straining sinew and muscle, Sartak was forced to pull his sword away.
Backing up as far as he could in the cramped confines of the chamber, Sartak quickly uttered a calming prayer, before focusing his mind and unleashing a psychic blast at Blackheart’s diseased consciousness. The energy of righteousness roared within him, and the bolt flew clear and true.
But Garlon Souleater, soaked in the black energies of Chaos, deflected the blow with a casual flick of a skeletally thin wrist, all the while cackling with perverse pleasure. ‘There’ll be none of that, Sartak.’ His voice oozed mockingly into the Marine’s mind. ‘Goodbye, our lovely traitor.’
The Blood Reaver closed on Sartak, even as Garlon’s twisted laughter echoed inside his skull. There was no more time for psychic trickery.
As the Tyrant attacked with all the power at his disposal, it was all the Astral Claw could do to parry the whirling power axe and merciless claws. Sartak held his force sword in both hands, trying to keep Huron at bay with great sweeps of the deadly blade.
Huron would not be denied blood. With a scream of rage and bitter satisfaction, the Tyrant slammed Sartak’s blade into the wall and pinned it there with his axe. The sword was motionless for just a few seconds, as Sartak tried in vain to wrench the glittering weapon free, but that was enough time for Blackheart to close his great claw over Sartak’s exposed wrists.
With a wicked grin, the Blood Reaver snapped the claw shut with a sickening crunch. Howling in pain, Sartak fell to his knees, staring in horror at the bleeding stumps.
Huron stood over Sartak, looking with disdain at the wretch at his feet. ‘You’d like to die now, wouldn’t you, last of the Astral Claws?’
Sartak would not answer. He watched his lifeblood slowly pump away, knowing that he had failed utterly.
Blackheart walked around Sartak’s prone form, crushing the Tarot cards that still lay on the floor. ‘But a hero’s death is not for you.’ he taunted, as he brought his leering face close to Sartak’s bloody countenance. Sartak groaned aloud, but he could not bring himself to meet the tyrant’s gaze. ‘No, there will be no redemption for you, Sartak.’ The tyrant howled in glee. ‘Instead, I will give you the greatest gift an Astral Claw could hope for.’
Laughing with delight, Huron Blackheart turned to the capering sorcerer. ‘Take him away, Garlon, and make this sad wretch a hero to be proud of.’
Garlon’s mind reached out and smashed through Sartak’s weakened defences. The Astral Claw fell into blackness.
SARTAK AWOKE IN total, unutterable darkness. Surprised to be alive, he tried to get up, to move, but found that he could not. Straining his limbs, he slowly realised that needles invaded his body, and unknown wires were entwined around his limbs. Some kind of mask was clamped to his face. Sartak tried to talk, but he choked on the array of tubes that had been rammed down his throat. In panic, he tried to cast his mind into the warp, but found that his powers had been suppressed.
After what felt like long, desperate hours of thrashing blindly in the darkness, Sartak lay in the blackness and waited. Huron would come to taunt him soon enough. Sartak waited and waited, cut off from feeling and perhaps time
itself. How long have I been so? he wondered. Hours? Days? Time had lost its meaning.
Still Huron did not come. What have you done to me? the panicked librarian screamed silently.
Have I been jettisoned into the emptiness of space, in an escape capsule? Will I fall forever through the void?
How would that make me a hero?
His mind cast about, trying to find an answer, but to no avail. Nothing made any sense at all.
In a flash of realisation it all became clear. Sartak remembered his one walk beyond the Great Seal. He remembered seeing the maddened members of the Red Corsairs encased forever in coffins of adamantium, sealed up in the Great Temple until battle called.
Sartak knew beyond doubt that the life support systems of a dreadnought could keep a man alive indefinitely. But what if the sarcophagus were never to be hooked into a dreadnought? What if a man was locked inside and left to rot for all eternity? What then?
Sartak tried desperately to think of another possible explanation for his plight, but the logic was cold and inescapable. The epiphany of horror crashed into his consciousness with unstoppable power. He could not even scream as sanity fled.
IN THE FRIGID darkness of the Maelstrom, the fleet of Huron Blackheart tore through space, destined for doomed Santiago. The Blood Reaver was on his way to offer up a billion souls to the Dark Gods of Chaos.
