The Gildar Rift

by Sarah Cawkwell

  Whether Ryarus lived or not was not even worthy of debate. Given the cutthroat nature and attitude of the Red Corsairs, one thing was certain. Ryarus was lost to them. It was a blow on more than one level. First and foremost, they had lost a brother. An Apothecary at that – and a blessed good one. His key involvement in the Resurgent Project was another reason. There was a brief, wild thought that perhaps the Prognosticator’s insight would suggest a cessation of the project. For the first time since he had been pulled into the whole thing, Arrun realised that this made him feel concern far more than hope. He was in too deep now. He did not want the project to stop.

  Either way, he knew that he would have to keep his regrets at bay until the current matter was dealt with. He was still smarting, deep down, that the Wolf of Fenris had been used as a lure to draw him out in the open. At least they were still in one piece. It was a small mercy, but a crucial one at that. Perhaps, the Emperor willing, they would be given the chance to return to the stolen strike cruiser for Ryarus and the others who had been lost.

  But now they were caught quite literally between a rock and a hard place. Arrun was going to have to play the game a little longer.

  What had once been a proud Thunderhawk gunship was now nothing more than a twisted, molten knuckle of metal, its fist plunged into the ground of Gildar Secundus. Black, acrid smoke poured up in thick columns, twisting and curling into the dusk of the planet’s night sky. Broken conduits fizzed and popped whilst ruptured fuel lines dribbled their contents out onto the ground in some sort of cheap mockery of the promethium refinery several kilometres away.

  Porteus dragged himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it of the buzzing in his ears. A glance around told him very little but the obvious; Brother Simeon had died shortly after the point of impact, unable to make any noise beyond an agonised gurgle. One of the Thunderhawk’s structural girders, a massive thing, had torn from its mountings and impaled the unfortunate psyker from behind. It had torn through his chest and his body hung there, limp as a broken doll, congealing blood dripping slowly and stickily from the hole that had been punched right through him.

  Blood now dribbled down the front of his blue battle plate, the armour that marked him as different from the rest of the squad. It pooled beneath him in a sticky mass on the floor of the gunship. Porteus turned his head away briefly, touched by a moment of profound grief for the loss of one of his closest friends. His swift death had ensured that his suffering was minimal.

  That was to say, Porteus hoped it had been swift.

  The Silver Skulls who formed Squad Carnelian variously knelt or lay on the ground, as stunned by the landing as the sergeant had been. Porteus tore his eyes from the dead psyker, whose face was hidden from sight by the helm he wore.

  ‘Status report,’ the squad sergeant said. ‘Who’s still with me here?’ Removing his helm, he hawked up a mouthful of bile. It came out stained red. The air was thin here, suggesting they were at a reasonable altitude. How they had not been impaled on the reaching fingers of the mountainside defied all odds. The Thunderhawk had come down in a dusty patch of scrubland somewhere in the heart of the mountains; within a range that on the local maps of Gildar Secundus was called the Steeple. Brown, sickly-looking plants sprouted out of the rock here and there, clinging desperately to life, although many of them were smouldering having been caught in the toxic fumes and fire of the wreck.

  Porteus had no idea how he had survived the crash and he did not care to linger on the how of the situation. Right now, he had to establish the condition of the living. The dead he would take care of later. Dire situation or not, the psyker had not only been his friend and his battle-brother. He was a Prognosticator – and there were rites that had to be observed, lest the Emperor’s wrath descend upon them. At the thought, Porteus made the sign of the aquila, his thumbs interlinked across his chest.

  By the Emperor’s grace, only Simeon was dead. Their armour was in varying states of disrepair and there were a few broken limbs which were not worrying. They would heal swiftly enough. Keyle, one of his surviving squad members, found an unbroken auspex somewhere in the remains of the Thunderhawk. With a mumbled and decidedly clumsy prayer to its dormant machine spirit, Porteus was able to force it to awaken. It didn’t offer much to alleviate their situation, but it gave them an idea as to their current position in relation to their intended target zone.

  They had been sent down here to complete a mission and they would execute that command to the bitter end. Every attempt they made at ground-to-ship communication failed.

  ‘Interference from the Rift, probably,’ Keyle suggested. ‘Although there may be some sort of blocking signal being utilised by whoever tried to shoot us down.’ One of the newer members of his squad, the young warrior had sustained a minor injury to his head. A clotted stream of dark red was on his face, issuing from a jagged cut in his scalp.

  ‘“Probably” isn’t a word I want to hear at this time, Keyle,’ replied Porteus. ‘There is no time for woolly thought or fleeting guesses. We need to establish why it is that the refinery was firing on us. There is an obvious answer, I feel.’ Porteus did not frequently act in accordance with his gut instincts; something he had inherited from a previous commanding officer. The sergeant had always been very much of the opinion that assumption was the providence of fools... and the dead. Forgetting that rule was the way good warriors died. Despite the situation, Porteus’s lips twitched in a smile. Gileas hadn’t expressed his blunt view in those exact words; his choice of language had always been far more colourful and definitely more descriptive. But it was close enough.

  Looking around at the squad in their dented and damaged suits of power armour and assortment of injuries, Porteus checked a sigh. ‘We will have to scout it out ourselves and establish the situation. We also need to get to the comms tower on the north of the refinery. Here.’

  He knelt in the dust and began drawing a rough diagram using a combination of the auspex and his own mental map of the layout as reference. ‘We were supposed to land here… a few kilometres away from the communications array. The tower itself is a little north of the refinery. We were knocked off course. By my estimation, we’re about…’ He marked a point on the crude map. ‘Thirty, maybe forty kilometres to the west.’

  He glanced over at the body of Simeon. They had no Apothecary with them which meant that as ranking commander present, the job of recovering the Chapter’s legacy fell to him. It was a messy, but necessary job. It was hard enough to lose a brother in such an inglorious way – far worse that it was their Prognosticator. The fact that they had lost their link with the Emperor’s will was a poor omen indeed. But they could not stay here. There was every possibility that whoever had shot them out of the sky would send out scouts of their own to make sure that the job was complete. Unlikely, given the mountainous terrain, but still a consideration.

  Porteus tore his eyes away and addressed the squad. ‘The terrain is going to be difficult, but we can allow it to work for us rather than against us. It will help us mask our approach more effectively.’ He straightened up. ‘Let’s get moving. I want a full weapons check, then we salvage whatever we can from the wreck and burn he rest. We don’t need it falling into enemy hands. Swiftly, brothers. Night is coming in fast and we should take that as another advantage.’

  The squad began to carry out their sergeant’s orders without question. Porteus joined Keyle in the belly of the Thunderhawk and ripped aside broken panels and wreckage until he located the emergency medical supplies. At some point during their rapid descent, the equipment had been thrown into complete disarray. No matter where he looked, there was no reductor to be found. That meant that he would be forced to commit the doubly heinous sin of carving out Simeon’s gene-seed with nothing more advanced than the sharp blade of his combat knife.

  Porteus took a deep breath. It felt almost like a violation, a disrespect to the dead Prognosticator; to be recovering his Quintessence Sacred in this barbaric way rather th
an an Apothecary performing the task with the reverence and skill it deserved. But needs must. The progenoid gland must be recovered so that the line of Silver Skulls could continue. The genetic stores of the Chapter were already greatly depleted.

  With Keyle’s help, he moved Simeon’s corpse from the ungracious position it had ended up in. They slid the dead Prognosticator clear of the girder and his body freed with a grotesque wet slurp. The girder had punched right through his back, cracking open the fused ribcage from behind. Whilst it made Porteus’s job easier, it was still an undignified mode of death.

  I wonder if he saw this coming?

  It was a blasphemous thought and Porteus quashed it immediately, ashamed at his own inner musings.

  With the Prognosticator laid on the ground, it was a swift enough job to remove the progenoid, but to Porteus’s dismay, it was ruined. The girder had torn through half of the organ leaving it ragged, a useless thing. It merely added to the heavy sense of foreboding the sergeant already felt at the loss of their psyker and he returned the damaged gland to the gaping hole in Simeon’s corpse. It would be incinerated along with the rest of his brother’s body.

  All that remained was to strip away Simeon’s battle plate. They would not be transporting it with them, but they could not perform the rite of cremation whilst he remained encased in its shell – and whatever bits and pieces they could salvage could be used by those who still lived. As he removed the other’s helm, Porteus was surprised at the expression on his battle-brother’s face. In death, Simeon had the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. His eyes were closed and he looked for all the world like he were meditating. The expression was achingly familiar. The sergeant lay the helm to one side and spoke a few words from one of the Silver Skulls many funerary litanies.

  Kneeling in the fading light and dust of the mountains, Porteus felt anger bubbling deep inside him. As he stood, he accepted a flamer from Keyle. Igniting it, he aimed it at Simeon’s lifeless body. The words of vengeance dropped from his lips before he could stop them.

  Around him, other voices joined his own and repeated the oath. Each felt Simeon’s loss as keenly as he did and Porteus took pride in the knowledge that every last one of them would exact that revenge by his side.

  The flames licked around the Prognosticator, burning ferociously. It would take time to fully dispose of the body and time was something that the squad had precious little of. Night had fallen completely now and the sky was studded with the many stars that made up the constellations of the Gildar system. Porteus looked up into the glittering tapestry and a smile ghosted across his face. He could almost hear Simeon explaining the importance of looking to the stars for guidance. It had been his preferred method of untangling the web of future events.

  As the stink of charred flesh permeated the air, Porteus hefted the weapon and nodded.

  ‘Helmets back on. We’re moving out now.’

  They were at stalemate, for now at least.

  More ships had entered the system. Escort vessels, more Infidels… but as of yet, nothing as large as the Wolf of Fenris. The strike cruiser had presented a clever ruse. Bait to lure the Silver Skulls out into the open and even now, Arrun cursed himself for taking it like a naïve child. Even as he had dealt with the repercussions of that, further things were occurring.

  In carrying out his orders to commune with the rest of the fleet, the astropaths had initially experienced a terrible psychic interference that had left most of them wailing and weeping bloody tears of pain. They had been driven to greater efforts by the whiplash tongue of the Head Astropath however, and eventually, one of them had managed to penetrate the raging currents of the empyrean, pierce her way through the psychic static and project her message. She had died straight afterwards, the sheer force of effort curdling her brain with psychic feedback and causing her to haemorrhage, but the message had been sent. Several others now lay in degrees of useless torpor, of no use to the astropathic choir or, indeed, anybody any more.

  ‘Word has been sent to the fleet as you ordered, my lord,’ reported the Head Astropath who had been duly summoned to the bridge. Fear rippled from him in waves that caused Brand to stare at him in disgust. If Arrun was aware of it, he didn’t indicate it as he nodded and dismissed the human psyker.

  The astropath scurried from the bridge in relief, Brand’s eyes boring into him all the while.

  ‘He possesses a mediocre talent at best,’ the Prognosticator observed. ‘How he rose to his position defies belief. We should consider a replacement when this is over.’

  Brand’s easy confidence that the situation would be resolved satisfactorily was surprising, but not unexpected. Arrun was standing at the hololithic display that projected their current situation in the Gildar Rift and he was not liking the picture it painted.

  ‘We could hold out well enough against the escort ships,’ he said as he stared at the flickering images. ‘But by the time we are well positioned for attacking them, the Wolf of Fenris will undoubtedly have begun to come about and be seeking to enter the fray. We can deploy our gunships, but without heavy support…’ Arrun scowled. ‘They won’t last long.’

  ‘What I would be more concerned about,’ suggested the Prognosticator, ‘is exactly why it should be that none of them, apart from the Wolf, have made any sort of aggressive gesture towards us yet.’ He joined Arrun at the hololithic display and studied it thoughtfully, his eyes picking out one ship after another.

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind. Right now, though...’ Arrun took a step back. ‘I’m more interested in understanding exactly what it is that they are doing. Or, more precisely, what they are not doing.’ Other than the broadside attack by the Wolf of Fenris, not a single vessel had made so much as a threatening move. No weapons were firing at them. The ships were just there. Waiting.

  Arrun glared at the display as though he could rectify the problem by staring it down. ‘There is much to consider. I have fought the Red Corsairs many times, but this is something new. They’ve never sent a fleet this size into the Gildar Rift before.’ He leaned forward onto the pedestal on which the sector map was projected and met his Prognosticator’s gaze head on.

  ‘On top of that, I still have to consider the impact of Ryarus’s death on the Resurgent Project.’ Brand noted that the captain chose to consider the other Silver Skull dead rather than consider the alternatives. It was a logical choice and the Prognosticator approved.

  ‘He kept copious notes, brother.’

  ‘But the bond he built up with Volker... the boy trusted him implicitly. Do you think he will be so willing to make the final sacrifice without that?’

  ‘He is Varsavian through and through. He wishes to serve the Chapter in the only way he can. I would not concern yourself as to Volker’s conviction. The other Apothecaries will pick up where Ryarus left off.’ Arrun found himself smiling bitterly.

  ‘I presume you have already divined whether or not we should continue with the Resurgent Project?’

  ‘Yes. And we must not stop. Not now.’ Arrun sighed, resignation weighing on his shoulders heavily.

  ‘You have absolute conviction we will come out of this situation, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said the Prognosticator, surprised at Arrun’s words. ‘The Emperor guides me. The Emperor protects.’

  ‘The Emperor protects,’ Arrun acknowledged. He lifted his eyes to the viewscreen and his posture stiffened.

  ‘Whatever they were waiting for,’ he said, moving into the centre of the bridge deck. ‘I think we’re about to find out.’

  There was a ripple, a distortion beyond them; more ships translating in-system. Only this time, it wasn’t something small and comparatively insignificant. This time, the vessel that emerged from the warp, slowly and menacingly moving towards them, was bigger even than the Wolf of Fenris.

  Arrun knew this ship. He knew it well. ‘The Spectre of Ruin,’ he said, staring at it.

  ‘You know this vessel?’

  �
��Aye, brother, I do.’ Arrun’s spine straightened and pure hatred filled his eyes. ‘It is one of the chosen transports of the Tyrant of Badab. I suspect, my brother, that Lugft Huron is on board.’

  SEVEN

  BLACKHEART

  Once, he had been Lugft Huron, Chapter Master of the Astral Claws. Then the Imperium had forsaken him. The Imperium had tried to deny him what had been rightfully his and the Imperium had tried to strike him down when he made the decision to take it anyway. Lugft Huron had faced down the amassed forces that the Imperium had thrown at him and he had survived. But the cost had been beyond measure.

  The long ago siege on the Palace of Thorns, and the final assault on his throne room instigated by the thrice-cursed Androcles of the Star Phantoms had been costly and it had been bloody. The wounds Huron had received had been critical and had it not been for the subsequent, tireless efforts of all of the Apothecaries and tech-priests who served their master with unswerving loyalty, the Tyrant of Badab would have been no more.

  Against all the odds, the Tyrant lived. He survived levels of physical stress and pain tolerance that would have killed lesser warriors. He had been so heavily augmented and enhanced that it was true to say that the Space Marine known to the Imperium as Lugft Huron had died that day and Huron Blackheart had been born.

  There were rumours, but there were always rumours, that he was literally not even the same man. He knew who he was. He was content in his identity. It was he who lived with the agony of his continued existence. What did he care if the rest of the universe speculated and disagreed? Let them. Whatever and whoever he was, he had died once already.

  It had been both a physical and metaphorical death; the Tyrant’s disgust at the lies of the Imperium combined with his status as an outcast renegade had led him to sever any and all ties to his own past. Lugft Huron was a being he cast aside without compunction; caught as he was in the iron grip of vainglorious madness. During the long period of his delirium, in the days he clung to the spark of life with tenacious fury against overwhelming odds, he engaged in negotiations with unseen powers he never openly acknowledged and he made countless deals of which he never spoke.