[Horus Heresy 10] - Tales of Heresy

by Nick Kyme

  “And so we have served him faithfully ever since, reclaiming lost worlds in the Allfather’s name,” Bulveye said. “That is what brings us here today, honoured Speaker. Your people’s isolation is at an end.”

  The Wolf Lord strode forwards, climbing partway up the stair towards the Speaker’s throne. The senators looked on, their expressions rapt, as Bulveye held out his left hand. “I greet you in the name of the Allfather,” he said. “Take my hand, and be at peace. The Imperium welcomes you.”

  Like the rest of the statesmen, the Speaker of the Senate had retreated to his throne over the course of Bulveye’s tale, but his rheumy stare had never wavered as the long hours passed. He did not reply to the Wolf Lord at first, and much of his face was hidden in shadow. Slowly, awkwardly, he rose from his seat and set his feet upon the stair. One step at a time he descended towards Bulveye, until perhaps a third of the staircase was all that remained between them.

  Javren Santanno leaned forwards, staring down at the Wolf Lord’s open hand.

  “Lies,” he hissed. “Damned lies, every word of it.”

  Bulveye rocked back as though struck. Halvdan let out an outraged shout and Jurgen joined in. The senators sprang to their feet, shaking their fists and shouting, though it was unclear whom exactly they were shouting at.

  Black rage gripped the Wolf Lord. No man, however exalted, called a Space Wolf a liar and lived to tell of it. Bulveye fought to maintain his self-control; better to endure a fool’s slander and hope for reason to prevail than to draw steel and bring ruin to another human world. He opened his mouth to shout for silence—when suddenly the bedlam was drowned out by the sharp crackle of thunder.

  No, not thunder. After two hundred years of campaigning, Bulveye knew that sound all too well.

  The senators had heard it, too. They froze, their jaws agape, and then, out in the city, came the low, mournful wail of sirens. One of the senators, an older woman, pressed her hands to her face and screamed. “They’re here!” she cried. “Blessed Ishtar, they’ve come early! We’re not ready!”

  “Who is here?” Jurgen snapped. He knew as well as Bulveye that the sound they heard wasn’t thunder; it was high-yield ordnance being deployed in the upper atmosphere. “What’s going on?”

  Snarling, Bulveye keyed his vox-bead. “Ironwolf, this is Fenris. Do you read me?” There was a squeal of static, and the Wolf Lord thought he heard a faint voice trying to reply, but it was too garbled to make out.

  The senators were racing for the stairs, their robes flapping like the wings of panicked birds. Javren’s face was a mask of rage as he swept down the stairs towards Bulveye. “I see your plan now!” he yelled. “You meant to distract us—maybe lure us out into the open—while your soulless cronies swept down on us! I knew you couldn’t be trusted! I knew it! Get back to your damned ship and never return, barbarian! We want no part of your Imperium, or your so-called Allfather!”

  Bulveye wanted to grab the Speaker and shake the insolence out of him, but now was not the time. As the statesmen fled from the building, he turned to his men. “Condition Sigma,” he snapped, and weapons sprang into the Wolf Guards’ hands. “We need to get to high ground and try to reestablish contact with the Ironwolf,” he said to Halvdan and Jurgen. “Contact the drop-ship and tell the pilot to prep for launch. If we have to, we’ll hold here until they can extract us.”

  The two lieutenants nodded curtly, and Jurgen began speaking into his vox-bead. A crowd of Antimonans rushed into the room from outside; the Wolf Guard brought up their boltguns, but Bulveye recognised them as Andras’ friends. The young men and women stopped short at the sight of the levelled weapons, their faces white with fear. Bulveye quickly scanned the room and saw Andras nearby, still right where he’d been when they had first entered the chamber.

  “What’s happening?” Bulveye demanded of the young noble.

  Andras had a stricken expression on his face, a look of shattered innocence that the Wolf Lord had seen all too often on the battlefields of Fenris. The nobleman turned to Bulveye as though in the depths of a nightmare.

  “It’s the Harrowers,” he said fearfully. “They’ve returned.”

  The battle in orbit lit the night sky with stuttering flashes of light and the thin, almost metallic crackle of thunder. Lines of ruby and sapphire light criss-crossed through the darkness, leaving razor-edged afterimages dancing in Bulveye’s vision. There was no way to be certain who was shooting at whom, but it was clear to the Astartes that a large number of ships were involved and that the Ironwolf was in the thick of it.

  The Space Wolves ascended the spiral ramps ringing the Senate building at a full run, climbing as high as they could to improve their vox transmissions amid the surrounding hills. Jurgen, charging along beside Bulveye, let out an angry curse. “I can’t raise the Stormbird,” he reported. “It could be atmospheric ionisation from the battle overhead or some kind of wide-spectrum jamming.”

  Bulveye nodded and keyed his own vox-bead once more, hoping that the battle barge’s more powerful communications systems would be able to punch through the interference. “Ironwolf, this is Fenris, come in! What is your status?”

  A howl of static clawed at Bulveye’s ears—and then a voice, faint but audible, replied:

  “Fenris, this is Ironwolf—we are heavily engaged by xenos warships! At least twenty, possibly thirty cruiser-sized vessels and dozens of escorts! They caught us completely by surprise—some kind of cloaking field that defeats long-range auspex sweeps—” The transmission dissolved into another wail of static, then resolved again, “—reports engine damage, and we have enemy boarders on the hangar deck!”

  The Wolf Lord bared his teeth as he envisioned the tactical situation unfolding high above the planet. Against such odds, there was only one feasible course of action. “Ironwolf, this is Fenris—break orbit and disengage at once! Repeat, break orbit and disengage—”

  He was cut off by another discordant howl of static. A voice—possibly the officer on the battle-barge, but it was too faint to tell—shouted something, then the frequency broke up in jagged bursts of atonal noise.

  “Morkai’s black teeth!” Bulveye cursed. “We’re definitely being jammed now.” He skidded to a halt on the smooth ramp, and his Wolf Guard formed up around him.

  “How bad is it?” Halvdan asked. The calm, businesslike tone of his voice belied the fierce expression on the warrior’s face.

  Bulveye stared up at the battle raging overhead, his expression grim. “As it stands, the Ironwolf doesn’t have a chance,” he said. “If they can escape orbit and get some manoeuvring room, perhaps they can break contact with the enemy and disengage—”

  For a brief instant a red flash lit the night sky, throwing long shadows against the walls of the Senate building. The sight stunned the Space Marines into silence; somewhere out in the city, Bulveye heard a woman’s terrified scream. Seconds later came the rumble of the explosion, a heavy, bass drumbeat that sent tremors through the stone beneath the Wolf Lord’s feet.

  The warriors looked skywards as the flare diminished. A shower of long, glittering streaks etched their way across the sky like shooting stars as debris from the explosion burnt up in Antimon’s upper atmosphere. “Plasma drive overload,” Jurgen said, his expression bleak.

  “Could have been one of theirs,” Halvdan said, peering into the darkness. “The Ironwolf’s a tough one. She can handle herself against a bunch of filthy aliens.”

  Bulveye wanted to agree, but as he watched, the signs of weapons fire diminished swiftly in the wake of the explosion. The battle appeared to be over. He checked his vox-bead once more, just in case, but every frequency he tried was still being jammed.

  The Wolf Lord took a deep breath, then turned to face his men. “At this point, we have to assume that the Ironwolf has been destroyed,” he said curtly. Glancing past the warriors, he caught sight of Andras, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily after their swift climb. Bulveye hadn’t even realised the young no
ble had accompanied them.

  “Andras!” Bulveye called, shouldering his way through the cordon of Wolves to stand at the young man’s side. “Who are these Harrowers? What do they want?”

  The Antimonan’s expression was bleak. “We don’t know who they are. Every seven years their ships fill the skies and they…” He took a deep, wracking breath. “They used to hunt us like animals. Men, women, children—the children especially. They… they seem to like the sound of children’s screams the best. They would take people by the hundreds and… and torture them. I’ve heard stories from my father, about the times before the quota, when the Harrowers would descend on the cities and take whomever they could find.”

  “When we arrived, the senators were arguing about the quota,” Bulveye said, “and something about a lottery.”

  Andras nodded, unable to meet the Wolf Lord’s eyes. “During my great-grandfather’s time, the Senate thought that an offering might appease the Harrowers and spare the bulk of our population. We gave them our criminals and outcasts, penned up like sheep for the slaughter, while the rest of our people took refuge in fortified shelters built into the hills.” He shrugged. “It worked well enough. The Harrowers never stayed for more than a year, and by the time they’d exhausted their appetites on the people we gave them, they hadn’t the time or energy to root out many others.”

  It was all Bulveye could do not to recoil in disgust from the young man. The idea of sacrificing human beings to such monsters disgusted and appalled him. “Why in the Allfather’s name didn’t you fight back?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “We did fight them!” Andras cried. “At first, the armigers fought back with every weapon they had. There was a great battle at one point—the armigers ambushed a large force of raiders and killed a score of them, including their leader,” the young man said. “And in return the Harrowers returned to their star-ships and rained death on Antimon for seven days and seven nights. Most of the world was laid waste, and hundreds of millions died. After that, the Senate disbanded the armigers and forbade anyone to raise a hand against the raiders.”

  Bulveye clenched his fists. “Then the Senate betrayed you one and all,” he snarled. “A life not worth fighting for is no life at all.” With an effort, he fought down the urge to berate Andras. He couldn’t be held to account for the decisions of his ancestors. “How long have the Harrowers plagued your world?”

  Andras raised a hand and wiped angry tears from his eyes. “Two hundred years, or so the histories say. No one knows where they came from, or why they leave. No one taken by the Harrowers is ever seen alive again.”

  Bulveye nodded thoughtfully. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. The Harrowers had found Antimon shortly after the galaxy-wide warp storms began to subside. Evidently, this part of space remained somewhat turbulent—the Imperium had encountered a number of regions across the galaxy that still experienced cycles of warp storm activity, followed by brief periods of calm. The aliens plagued the world as long as they could and then left before the storms could rise up and trap them in the system, likely moving on to terrorise yet another planet.

  “The devils built the black spires after the bombardment, I suppose,” Bulveye said, thinking aloud.

  Andras nodded. “Their technology borders on sorcery,” he said with a trace of awe in his voice. “They land their sky-ships on terraces built into the sides of the great spires, and venture out to hunt across the zone when the mood takes them.”

  Bulveye nodded thoughtfully. He was starting to build a profile of the aliens in his head, analysing their actions and inferring what he could from them. High overhead, longer and brighter streaks of fire began to arc across the night sky, falling towards Antimon’s surface like a sheaf of burning darts. “What happens next?” the Wolf Lord asked.

  Andras took a deep breath. “The Harrowers will descend upon the spires and take up residence,” he said. “They’ll wait for perhaps a day, then send out their tribute parties the following night to take our offering.” The young nobleman shook his head bitterly. “But we’re not ready. They’ve arrived early this time. We haven’t finished stocking our shelters, and we don’t have enough people to fill out the quota.”

  Bulveye remembered something he’d heard earlier. “Does that have anything to do with the lottery that the senators were debating earlier?”

  Andras stared guiltily up at the Wolf Lord and nodded. “Every seven years, the incidence of crime drops sharply,” he said with bleak humour. “Our prisons don’t have nearly enough criminals to satisfy the aliens, so there will have to be a lottery to decide who else must become part of the tribute.” His gaze fell to the stone surface of the ramp. “It’s happened before, or so my father tells me. Prominent families are already trying to offer rich bribes to buy an exemption for their children.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now. The Senate will empty the prisons, of course, but that may be all they can manage at this point. I doubt any of the families have more than a few months’ food stocked away. When they come out of their shelters to search for more, the Harrowers will be waiting for them.”

  The Wolf Lord looked skywards and watched the descent of the raiders. “I reckon they arrived when they did on purpose,” he said. “They’ve become tired of your offerings, Andras, so they’ve arranged things to provide them some more sport.” It wasn’t so difficult to imagine; he had heard of bloodthirsty reavers who’d done much the same thing during his own raiding days on Fenris.

  Bulveye tried to imagine offering up Fenrisian villagers to the vile appetites of a band of ruthless xenos marauders, and his stomach roiled at the thought. He looked down at Andras and fought back a surge of deadly rage. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, he told himself. If anyone was to blame it was his elders. The Wolf Lord now regretted not grabbing Javren by the throat when he’d had the chance.

  “Is there a particular place where you bring your tribute to the aliens?” Bulveye asked the young man.

  Andras wiped more tears from his cheeks and nodded. “There is a pavilion,” he replied, “about ten kilometres east of Oneiros.” He glanced up at the Astartes, and was shaken by the look on Bulveye’s face. “What are you going to do?”

  The Wolf Lord met the young man’s gaze. “These xenos think they can prey upon mankind like sheep,” he said calmly. “I intend on showing them the error of their ways.”

  It was early afternoon on the following day when the procession of bulbous Antimonan cargo haulers appeared on the road heading west from Oneiros and made their way down the length of the broad meadow towards the tribute site. The pavilion itself was square and largely featureless, little more than a chessboard of stone paving tiles more than fifty yards on each side and situated at the feet of a semicircle of large, wooded hills. Only the heavy iron rings fixed at intervals along the paving stones hinted at the site’s awful purpose. Further to the west, the tall, knife-like xenos spire rose ominously into the clouds, its base wreathed in tatters of curling mist.

  Bulveye and his lieutenants watched from the shadows of a hillside thicket as the cargo haulers left the white-paved utility road and rumbled across the pavilion. The Antimonans wasted little time, orientating themselves across the stone expanse according to a well-drilled plan. When the last vehicle was in place, the passenger doors on the haulers popped open and large men in padded coveralls hopped out. Each one carried a kind of power stave or shock maul, which they swung about with authority once the back gates of the haulers banged open and the shackled prisoners began stumbling out. The men and women wore shapeless, faded brown tunics and breeches, and dark inmate tattoos had been branded along the sides of their necks. Each file of stunned, shambling convicts was herded to a line of iron rings and shackled there as a group. Once they were locked in, the prisoners sank down onto the stones and waited. Some stared up at the blue sky overhead, while others seemed to fold in on themselves and look at nothing at all.

  Halvdan shook his head despai
ringly. “How can they just sit there, like sheep for the slaughter?” he whispered, despite the fact that the pavilion was nearly a kilometre distant. “If I were down there, they’d have to beat me senseless before they hooked me to one of those rings.”

  Jurgen pointed towards the far end of the pavilion. “Looks like those lambs agree with you, brother,” he said grimly.

  The men in the last set of haulers were struggling with a smaller group of manacled victims, who thrashed and kicked and bit at their handlers. These men and women wore a variety of clothing styles, and were obviously taken from streets and homes all over Oneiros. They struggled against their fate with an energy born of stark terror, but the lash of the handlers’ shock-sticks kept matters from spiralling out of control. Twenty minutes later the last of the weeping, pleading victims were chained to the pavilion stones, and the handlers returned to their vehicles without so much as a backwards glance.

  Bulveye raised his eye from the scope of a boltgun and handed the weapon back to Jurgen. There were eight of his warriors surrounding him in the thicket, including his two lieutenants. Gone were the battle-trophies and tokens of honour they’d worn the day before; they’d stripped their armour bare and smudged the gleaming surfaces with dirt and soot to minimise any telltale glint that could give their position away. Over the course of the previous night they had put aside any pretence of civility and made themselves ready for war.

  As the Harrowers had begun to descend on Antimon in their multitudes, Bulveye had left Andras and the city behind, loping through the darkness to the landing field where their Stormbird waited. The pilot of the drop-ship was ready, the craft’s thrusters charged and idling as the Space Wolves clambered aboard and began arming themselves from the Stormbird’s large weapons lockers. The Wolf Lord had ordered the drop-ship to head west, flying at treetop level to mask its movement from alien auspex arrays, and find a place to settle down within ten or twelve kilometres of the tribute site. The pilot had found a lightly wooded hollow just big enough to put the assault ship down in, and the warriors had spent the rest of the night camouflaging it with netting and scraps of broken branches shorn off by the landing. By dawn, the Wolf Lord had led his small warband to the hills around the pavilion and begun planning his ambush. With so few men and so little in the way of equipment, his options were somewhat limited.