The Gildar Rift

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘Silver Skulls, be prepared to take up arms. And, my brothers – Primus inter pares! Never forget!’

  Arrun didn’t give the order to contact the squads and order them back. There was no point. His men were no fools. They would be doing that already.

  If they still lived.

  They still lived. But they were losing the battle.

  They were not entirely failing in their mission, though. Not counting the humans who were swept aside like sacks of meat by the Silver Skulls, several of the Red Corsairs were now lying inert on the ground, either dead or incapacitated by ably placed bolter shots. Despite the visible evidence of their triumph, the rapidly diminishing runes on the inside of his visor screamed at Apothecary Ryarus, informing him that the Silver Skulls numbers were decreasing far too swiftly. There was no sign of any break in the onslaught, either.

  The Wolf of Fenris had woken up; he felt the unmistakable jolt as she engaged her forward engines. He cursed and corrected his balance as the motion caused him to lurch slightly. The servos in his power armour compensated, keeping him upright but the sudden motion was an unwelcome distraction. His moment of unsteadiness proved enough for an opportunistic Red Corsair to take his chances. His chainsword cleaved through the Apothecary’s left shoulder guard with a whine of servos and unmistakable crunching of bone. The ceramite plating split and clattered to the ground along with his axe. The Silver Skulls Chapter motif leered up at him from the floor. In a moment of misplaced irrationality, that somehow incensed him more than the injury.

  ‘Apothecary!’ The shout came from over to his right somewhere. A flare of pain blossomed in his shoulder, swiftly countered by the flow of drugs administered by the power armour. Although the chainsword had destroyed his pauldron and bitten into his bone, his body would work quickly to repair the damage. But he was blessed with two arms and although in battle situations he usually favoured his left, it didn’t mean for one moment that he wasn’t in possession of an equal level of skill with his right. Stooping briefly, the Apothecary picked up his axe again.

  His opponent sneered at him as he hefted the axe’s weight. Not waiting, the enemy brought down the chainsword in a fierce overhead smash, its teeth emitting a furious growl of hunger that would only be sated with the Apothecary’s blood. Ryarus put his own weapon up to guard against the attack and there was the harsh, metallic screech of metal on metal. The chainsword bit ineffectually into the adamantium head of the Silver Skull’s axe.

  ‘Apothecary!’

  He could hear the voice again; somewhere on the periphery of his aural awareness, but it seemed distant and unreal. He shook his head briefly to clear it of the fuzz that always accompanied a moment of pain. The burst of narcotics was familiar enough, but even for a post-human warrior at the peak of genetically enhanced perfection, there was a second or two of disorientation as his biology went to work.

  He pulled back from the attack, then went at his opponent with renewed vigour. He felt a hand on his shoulder, tugging at him urgently and he shrugged it off angrily. Whether it was one of his own men or one of the Red Corsairs didn’t matter. He did not welcome the physical contact, not whilst he was in the midst of battle.

  Ryarus stared at his enemy through the red of his eye lenses. His power armour was gravely compromised and whilst he was an accomplished warrior, at this very moment in time, his opponent was physically superior.

  The Silver Skulls had pulled back almost to the landing bay. He could hear the unmistakable sounds of weapons discharging, their echoes getting ever closer. Dasan’s squad, being closest had reached the Thunderhawk first and were keeping the Corsairs pinned down with the gunship’s heavy bolters. Even in his moment of distraction, Ryarus grunted approval at their methods.

  His attacker launched at him once again and this time he was pressed back. It took every shred of his strength to keep the chainsword from biting into his helm.

  ‘Keep moving back, Matteus,’ he roared through the vox. ‘I can keep this traitor engaged for a while.’ He was not completely alone though; three or four other Silver Skulls were engaging in the rearguard battle with him. His heart soared at the fraternal sense of solidarity this gave him and his strength renewed, he shoved the Red Corsair away from him.

  Matteus was dealing with his own situation. Whilst Dasan’s squad were holding the wave of Red Corsairs back, his own men – or what were left of them – were setting krak grenades to blow the mag-clamps locking their ship to the floor. With the awakening of the Wolf of Fenris, all its systems had come back on-line, effectively cutting off their escape.

  But they would not be trapped that easily.

  The charges set, Matteus took advantage of the covering fire of the heavy bolters to get inside the Thunderhawk. Already it was beginning its power cycle, making ready to leave. The Apothecary and the other warriors were at the landing bay door. They would make it.

  Then, Matteus’s spirits fell with an almost audible crash.

  ‘Apothecary, behind you!’

  Interposing himself between Ryarus and his escape was one of the single most massive Space Marines the Apothecary had ever seen. With a pockmarked face boasting a scarred but ruddy complexion, the warrior had dirty blond hair pulled back from his face in a topknot falling down past his shoulders. The many fetishes and runes that decorated his grey battle plate told Ryarus that here was another Space Wolves warrior who had turned his back on the Imperium.

  In front of him, a blockage that he could not hope to defeat, not in his weakened state.

  Behind him, chainsword teeth hungering for his flesh.

  So this is how it ends. It was the second time he had thought that within the hour. Last time, it had not been the case. This time, he felt the truth of the moment far more keenly.

  A humourless smile spread across his face beneath his helm.

  ‘Go,’ he voxed, hefting the weight of his power axe in his hand. He would not be removed from the Emperor’s cause without putting up resistance. Matteus’s head came down in an abrupt, curt nod and his voice, for once without humour, fed through the vox-bead in Ryarus’s ear.

  ‘Fight well, my brother. Primus inter pares.’

  With those words, the Silver Skulls destroyed the controls to the staging area doors and they ground slowly closed with a shrill shriek of straining gears. As they slammed close, they left Ryarus and four others to stand their ground and buy the retreating squads enough time to complete their task and to get clear.

  ‘Primus inter pares,’ Ryarus repeated and turned his head briefly to the four Silver Skulls he now stood with. It was the right of every Space Marine to die gloriously – and they would hold here. Enough of their brothers would survive to regale their tale; an ending worthy of the favourite stories of Varsavia.

  ‘Primus inter pares,’ the Apothecary said again, his words echoed by the others. ‘We are the Silver Skulls. We are first amongst equals.’

  The smile behind his helm grew wider as he held his axe aloft. ‘Time to die,’ he said.

  With a deep, bestial bellow, he rejoined battle with renewed vigour. He was filled with a determination to annihilate as many of the enemy as he possibly could before death finally caught up with him and claimed him for the Emperor.

  The two strike cruisers were built to an ancient design and despite the differences in their colours and external livery, not to mention the very obvious damage that the Wolf of Fenris had endured, they were to all intents and purposes an equal match.

  The Dread Argent was intact. She was well-crewed, robust and in peak condition. It would take a single word of command to obliterate the crippled Space Wolves vessel. Just one. But Arrun could not give it. Not until they either received word from the squads who had travelled across to secure it or if the Wolf fired on them.

  Everything happened simultaneously. The Silver Skulls Thunderhawk burst out of the launch bay and began a hasty journey back towards the Dread Argent. A crackle of static broke through the bridge vox-operator’s console
and Sergeant Matteus’s voice delivered the news Arrun had been waiting to hear. For once, the young warrior did not attempt to pretty up his words or indulge in unnecessary verbiage. That alone told of the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Vessel is not salvageable. Red Corsair raiders. Clear Dread Argent launch bay, we are coming in fast and furious.’

  Over the years, the Silver Skulls and the Red Corsairs had shared many encounters. The Gildar Rift had seen incursions from the would-be raiders many times but each had been successfully thwarted. But this was something new and untried. The sheer magnitude of what had happened to the Wolf of Fenris was devastating.

  ‘Incoming munitions from their prow cannon and port-side batteries! All hands brace for impact! Repeat, all hands brace for impact!’

  At this proximity, it would take next to no time for the Wolf’s attack to reach them. Arrun barked out an order to return fire, but never quite got the full sentence out. The opening salvo from the Wolf of Fenris crashed over the Dread Argent’s void shields, sending a rippling shudder through the hull of the vessel.

  ‘Damage report!’

  ‘Void shields are holding steady.’

  ‘Is the Thunderhawk back on board?’ Arrun turned to one of the servitors. ‘Has it landed? Is it out of the firing zone?’ He fired off the questions rapidly and the servitor responded in kind.

  ‘Confirmed. Thunderhawk Delta Four has docked.’

  The ever-present rumble of the far-distant engines was joined by the deep, throaty sound of the bombardment cannon preparing to spit her destructive load back at the enemy.

  Arrun clenched his hand tightly, then unfurled his finger to point at the image of the Wolf of Fenris before him. ‘Return fire. Blow her out of existence.’

  A coppery tang flooded his mouth as his body emerged from temporary stasis. The myriad wounds that lacerated his body beneath the power armour throbbed as his gene-enhanced physiology worked to knit together broken bones and seal wounds that had been caused by the blades tearing into him.

  Breathe, Ryarus.

  Like all of his kind, fear had been bred out of him. But that did not mean he couldn’t experience other negative, detrimental emotions. He was in pain and although neural blockers kept the worst of it from consuming him, he knew it was impairing his judgement. He was confused and he was anxious. These were strange and unwelcome sensations. They were unfamiliar to him and he did not like it. Not at all.

  Breathe, Ryarus. Steady yourself. Balance your humours.

  They were familiar words. They were words that he spoke to those put into his care. From a habit borne in decades of service as an Apothecary, he allowed himself to remain calm, not to let the rage at his enemy consume him. For once, he practised what he regularly preached to others. It was a strange feeling to be giving himself such advice, but he took it.

  It was good advice, after all.

  Slowly, Ryarus. Let it come back to you in good time. Just breathe. Concentrate on the breathing. Feel each inhalation fill your lungs. Cherish each time you exhale another breath with which to fight the enemies of the Imperium. That’s good. Just keep breathing.

  It would have been the advice he would have given to any injured brother and he heeded it well. His breathing steadied and the pounding of his twin hearts began to stabilise. Clinical detachment took over. The fact that both hearts were beating gave a measure of the extent of his internal injuries. If he was wounded enough that his secondary organ was functioning, things were dire.

  Utilising the skills of self-control, he regulated his breathing for a while longer until the soft thud of his second heart slowly faded to a barely perceptible rhythm. His Apothecary skills moved onwards, working outwards as he assessed himself with calm, methodical processes. The familiarity of the process was soothing.

  His senses gradually came back to him one at a time, tuning him into his surroundings. He realised that his helm had been removed. A flood of scents tickled his olfactory receptors. Soft, acrid chemical smells that were well known to him. Antiseptic smells. Medical smells. He was in an apothecarion. He was not restrained. There had been little need to. He was injured enough that any attempt at escape would be futile. Even if he tried, he would not get far. The Wolf of Fenris was an Adeptus Astartes ship. The traitorous crew on board would know all the escape routes he might have tried.

  Ryarus turned his head, taking in more of his surroundings. To his left were two other Silver Skulls warriors in similar situations to his own. He couldn’t tell from this angle whether their chests rose and fell. He had no idea if they were conscious or if they were even still alive. He had a sense that they were; the thought of why the Red Corsairs would choose to keep them living sickened him to the very pit of his stomach.

  Better they were dead than this indignity. None of the Silver Skulls would ever turn traitor against their own. Their loyalty ran too deep. They would find some way to escape, or they would die fighting off their captors.

  But there were unknown variables here. Perhaps they were being kept alive for the Emperor only knew what reasons. An Apothecary’s concern for his charges welled in him and he let it take him. He tried to sit up, to go to their aid, but he could not. He murmured a string of curses.

  ‘You’re awake, then.’

  The voice was deep, richly accented and came from somewhere over in the corner. The Apothecary lifted his head with concentrated effort, letting his enhanced optic sensors adjust to the murky darkness. A hulking figure stepped forwards from the shadows. It was the same Space Wolf he had fought in the corridor.

  ‘What is your name, Apothecary?’

  ‘I have no words for traitors. Do not presume to speak to me.’

  The Space Wolf let out a humourless bark of a laugh and moved close enough so that he was in Ryarus’s full line of vision. He was still clad in his blood-splattered armour and moved with an easy lope. His blue eyes were piercing and horribly devoid of all emotion. Ryarus’s eyes were automatically drawn to the Chapter symbol on his shoulder where red paint besmirched the wolf’s head. He focused on it as his captor encroached into his personal space.

  ‘Are you not even interested in whether your brothers live or are dead?’ The question seemed genuine.

  ‘Better for them to be dead if you feature anywhere in their future.’

  The traitor laughed, a huge boom that tore into the otherwise-silence of the room. Despite his efforts to retain his dignity, Ryarus flinched slightly at the noise. The former Space Wolves warrior ran a hand over his jaw, his fingers combing through the scruffy beard. The brief glimpse of humour dissipated as swiftly as it had come and his dispassionate gaze met that of Ryarus.

  ‘My name is Vollsanger,’ he said. ‘There was a time when I spoke the very same words you utter now. At the beginning, when I was first brought here, I was loyal to my former masters. You will change your mind.’ There was absolute certainty in his voice. Ryarus still said nothing, staring instead up at the ceiling. Vollsanger loomed over him.

  ‘Your silence will win you no respect. Not here, Silver Skull. There is a way that you can garner that respect, though. A way that you can keep your life – and the lives of your battle-brothers – from being snuffed out... Ah! You look at me now. I found your weak spot, yes?’

  ‘Tell me what I must do so that my brothers may live,’ Ryarus demanded, his teeth clenched. ‘Tell me what I must do so that they may be freed and together, then we will kill every last one of you where you stand.’

  ‘What you must do? Ah, a simple thing, really.’ Vollsanger leaned down and murmured the answer to Ryarus’s question in a low voice. The Silver Skulls Apothecary let his eyes widen in shock. His expression rapidly moved to one of disgust and rage.

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘You may as well kill us now. That isn’t ever going to happen. I won’t ever serve the Tyrant. And I will never give up my birthright voluntarily.’ He turned his head to the side and spat a mouthful of acidic bile at the mention of the name. It came out stained red wit
h his own life’s blood.

  An expression flitted across Vollsanger’s face that startled Ryarus. It was pity; a reluctance there that surprised the Apothecary simply by its existence. A wild hope flared in him that even if the Space Wolves of this ship were lost to the evils that had brought them low there was a spark of their former nobility. But Vollsanger’s words held no such pity.

  ‘You will change your mind. In time. And if there is one thing the Corpsemaster can do well, it’s persuasion.’ Vollsanger’s hand went unconsciously to his chest and Ryarus could only imagine what tortures the other Space Marine must have undergone, what horrors he must have been subjected to that had led to him committing the ultimate betrayal.

  Something almost like sympathy rose in his gut, but the Apothecary quashed it instantly. He could not afford to feel sympathy, never for dissidents and betrayers. He had heard of the Corpsemaster, of course. All Apothecaries knew of Lord Apothecary Garreon of the Astral Claws. His research scrolls and early documentation were lauded for their extraordinary insight and understanding of Space Marine physiology. Even Ryarus had studied Garreon’s earlier works.

  The idea of meeting such a legendary figure might once have filled him with interest and reverence. Now it filled him with nothing but revulsion.

  ‘I will leave you to ponder your options, Silver Skull. The Corpsemaster is presently engaged on the campaign, but I have no doubt he will be delighted that we have captured him another Apothecary. We need all we can get.’

  ‘Go and crawl back to your fallen master. Go wallow in his debased heresy. I will never serve the Tyrant of Badab.’

  A smile flickered over Vollsanger’s face and almost absently, he patted the Apothecary’s shoulder. He nodded, as though expecting such a response. ‘If it counts for anything, your brothers live still.’ The former Space Wolf moved away from Ryarus’s sight. ‘We killed none of them. You are all worth far more to us alive than dead, but dead will do if necessary.’

  With those words, he turned and strode from the apothecarion. Ryarus could feel the reactions of his body, striving its hardest to swiftly bring him to fitness. He touched a moment of despair. He couldn’t imagine for one moment that even if he healed quickly there was a lot he could do about his present situation.