‘Brother.’ Captain Gaius beckoned him from his post. ‘It is time.’
Suddenly, Rubio felt a tightness in his chest. A regret. ‘Someone must stand watch, captain.’
Gaius’ face reflected a shared moment of sorrow, his breath curling from his lips in a thin wisp of vapour. ‘Someone will. But first we must pay our brother his due.’
Rubio gave a solemn nod and shouldered his bolter, falling in to follow the captain deeper into the tunnel, where the glow of lumoglobes cast pools of weak yellow light.
There, surrounded by a circle of his kinsmen, Brother Mieles lay at rest. The Apothecary’s white armour, stark in contrast to the deep blue wargear of the warriors standing about him, was marred by streaks of dried blood. The wound that had killed him was an angry rip across his torso, the gift of a cultist who had broken the line and destroyed himself using a vest packed with impact charges. Mieles was the most recent of them to perish, and his death had come without warning. The Apothecary had been a man of great character and good humour, a friend to all. His loss cut the warriors of the 21st as keenly as every one that had come before.
‘For Ultramar and for duty,’ said Gaius, speaking the words he had repeated many times before in this grim obligation. ‘For past and for future. For Terra and the Emperor. No brother falls forgotten.’ Then, with care, the captain applied the reductor to Mieles’ corpse, reverently extracting the progenoid gene-seed glands that would be carried back to the fortress on Macragge. There they would be added to the Legion’s store of genetic material, the bequest of the next generation of Ultramarines.
In this way, Mieles would live on; but at this moment all Rubio could see was death and darkness. Silently he made his farewell to his comrade, and cursed the sons of Lorgar once again for their perfidy. When he looked up, Rubio found Captain Gaius watching him intently. The captain spoke to them all.
‘Kinsmen. We are being tested. We cannot know what madness has overcome Lorgar and the Warmaster. We do not know the fate of our brothers and our primarch. But what we do know is duty.’ He gestured around. ‘Our duty is to hold this approach to the city, to deny it to the enemy. These were Guilliman’s last words to us. Mieles gave his life in service of that command, and if called, then so shall we.’
Inwardly, Rubio seethed with cold anger. His fury was directionless, railing at the mindless insanity of the suicidal cultists, the traitorous Word Bearers, the oath-breaker Horus – even at himself, for his failure to protect his battle-brother.
But he was an Ultramarine, and to speak openly of such things was beneath him. Instead he kept his silence and only nodded.
Garro moved swiftly across the scarred wilderness, his gene-enhanced lungs drawing in the cold, corrupted air of Calth’s dying day. The faraway shouts of heavy weapons and the cries of the injured and the dying were a constant refrain, carried to him on the harsh winds.
In the distance, he saw the glitter of habitat towers and hive stacks rising over cliffs of dark stone. Numinus City reached as high into the sky as it did into the caverns below the planet’s surface, yet even as the warrior approached it, he saw the once-proud minarets wreathed in plasma fires, and the bright pinpricks of long-range laser bombardment.
As he walked, Garro wondered how long the battle would rage across Calth. The extremist Word Bearers had picked a fight here that would test them to the limit. The Ultramarines were no easy target. They were among the most finely drilled and highly competent warriors of the Legiones Astartes, a firm match for the ruthless, fanatical zeal of the primarch Lorgar’s warriors on any battleground. On Calth, Horus Lupercal’s civil war was raging in microcosm, but, like the larger conflict written across the stars, there could be no certainty as to how it might play out.
But the fate of Calth was not why Nathaniel Garro had come to this world. His mission here served another purpose.
His gaze dropped from the towers and searched the landscape, until he found the trail he was seeking.
Deep inside the tunnel, in the cold and echoing space, Rubio’s gaze turned inwards. In his mind’s eye he saw the moment of his battle-brother’s death. In the rush of Calth’s howling winds, he heard the echo of Mieles as the Apothecary called out a warning, a heartbeat before the crashing detonation that tore him open and ended his life.
Rubio had seen the cultist coming, caught sight of the madman just as his bolter ran dry. In those precious seconds, as he raced to slam a fresh magazine home into the breech and bring it to bear, he had been too slow to save his friend. The moment burned like a livid brand, acid guilt searing him. The tragedy of it was, he could have stopped the cultist, boltgun or not. Rubio could have done it with a thought. But such a thing was now forbidden.
Once – in what seemed like another life – Rubio had been more than this. Now he wore the sigils of a Tactical line legionary, but before…
Before he had proudly carried upon his shoulder plate the skull-and-scroll device of a ranked Codicier, the badge of a psyker-warrior in service to the Ultramarines. Once, the company of Rubio and his kind had been feared across every battlefield, and even his fellow legionaries had taken pause at his presence. Once, the power of the warp had coursed from his fingertips, the actinic glow of telekinetic lightning laying waste to the enemies of mankind. Countless foes blasted apart by the sheer power of his mind.
But not now. Not since the gathering at Nikaea, and the passing of the Emperor’s Decree Absolute. Many said that those with Rubio’s gift – or as some would have it, his curse – were only one step removed from sorcerers, their minds open doors to ruinous powers ready to reach from the darkness and consume them. At Nikaea, out of fear or of jealousy, those voices had finally held sway.
At a conclave of his primarch sons, the Emperor of Mankind had ordered that all psykers among the Legions, every Epistolary, Codicier and Lexicanium, were to abstain from the use of their abilities and return to line duty with their battle-brothers. Rubio was faithful and obedient, and he did as he was commanded, giving up his psychic hood and his force sword. His former status nulled, he accepted redeployment and did not question.
At least, not at first. But now the death of Mieles had set him at odds with his orders. Rubio knew with every fibre of his being that the Apothecary would still be alive, if only he had been given free rein to use his preternatural powers. And how many others? he wondered. What deaths might have been avoided, what adversaries felled, had they been able to call upon the might of a psyker?
He heard the approach of armoured footsteps and Rubio looked up from his introspection to find Captain Gaius standing over him. ‘Are you troubled, brother?’
‘It is nothing of import, captain.’ It was a poor lie, and his captain saw through it.
‘I know where your thoughts are, my friend. I also know that you are one of the finest Ultramarines it has been my privilege to command. No matter where your talents are applied.’ Gaius placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Courage and honour, brother. We follow the words of the Emperor and Guilliman, unto death.’
‘Courage and honour, brother-captain,’ repeated the Codicier, but the axiom rang hollow in his ears. He took a breath. ‘It is only that I–’
The words he was about to speak faded in his throat as a sentry called out a warning from the far end of the tunnel. The sudden cry of alarm out at the barricades echoed down to them.
‘Report!’ Gaius barked the order into the vox-bead at his throat.
‘Intruder sighted,’ came the reply. ‘A single legionary approaching our lines. He comes with a weapon drawn.’
‘One of our kinsmen?’
‘It would appear not.’
The captain did not wait to learn more, breaking into a run. Rubio went after him, bringing his bolter to the ready. ‘To arms,’ shouted Gaius, as they sprinted towards the tunnel mouth. ‘Prepare for enemy contact!’
Two
A ghost
The choice
Oath of moment
A figure emerged from the low wreaths of curdled mist before the blockade about the tunnel mouth. In the dimness, Rubio saw the unmistakable bulk of a figure in Legion-grade power armour, moving towards them with steady purpose. Every weapon on the line of the barricade went up to firing position and drew ready.
The Ultramarines had suffered badly at the betrayal of the Word Bearers, and they would not be so trusting a second time. But as the figure fell into range of the light from the barricade’s glowing lumoglobes, Rubio saw not the dark, brazen livery of the traitors, but armour the shade of a storm cloud.
‘He bears no Legion’s colours,’ said the Ultramarine. ‘What trickery is this?’
With a whip-crack gesture, Gaius had his men take aim, and he called out: ‘You there. Halt and be recognised! In the Emperor’s name, stand to and state your intentions!’
Slowly, the figure in grey shouldered his bolter and surveyed the line of Ultramarines, each of them a heartbeat from gunning him down. He lingered on Rubio’s commander, measuring him with a glance.
‘Captain Gaius. You’re a difficult man to find.’ Heedless of the weapons ranged against him, the legionary walked boldly through the barricades until he was face to face with the officer.
It was all Rubio could do not to let a breath of his psychic senses reach out and take the measure of this new arrival. Perhaps the warrior sensed that, as his helmet turned, the fathomless eye-lenses scanning the Codicier intently.
‘I will have your name and rank,’ demanded Gaius.
‘As you wish,’ replied the new arrival. ‘Although I’ll warrant you will learn nothing from them. I am Nathaniel Garro. And as for rank… Once I was a battle-captain, but now I have none, as you would know it.’
Rubio could not stop himself from speaking. ‘Then what are you?’ He studied Garro for a long moment. ‘You stand before us in denuded armour, bereft of insignia, and this on a battleground where the enemy were once men we called kindred.’ Something in the way this warrior carried himself chimed with a distant memory from deep in Rubio’s past, a glimpse of an image once seen in a millennia-old reliquary. ‘You court death, Garro, like some ancient knight errant.’
When he spoke again there was a dry smile in Garro’s voice. ‘That’s as good a title as any, brother.’
Gaius saw little that brooked amusement, however. ‘If you are not a son of Ultramar or one of Lorgar’s traitor whelps, then why are you here on Calth?’ The captain eyed the intruder coldly. ‘I am in command here, and you will answer me.’
Garro’s manner hardened. ‘I do not dispute your command, but the higher authority here is mine. See.’ He bowed slightly, and by the glow of the lumens, a hidden rune across the shoulders of his plate suddenly became visible.
Rubio saw a stylised eye, scribe-encoded into the atomic lattice of the ceramite sheath by meson beam. ‘The Sigil of Malcador…’
He knew the symbol; they all did. It was the personal mark of the Regent of Terra, and those who bore it were proxy to the Emperor’s closest confidante. The rune would allow this Garro to go where he wished, and as the instrument of Malcador’s will, to countermand any order – even that of a ranked officer. The sharp intake of breath from Captain Gaius told Rubio that his commander shared his thoughts.
‘My mission on Calth is at the behest of the Sigillite and the Emperor, captain,’ Garro went on. ‘That is all you need know, for now.’
Gaius’ steady gaze did not waver, but Rubio saw the slight stiffening of the captain’s jaw and knew it for the signifier it was. ‘So be it,’ allowed his commander. ‘But I warn you not to interfere with my mission. That mark of yours will be no shield to you when the turncoats attempt to breach our lines.’
The captain stalked away, and Rubio found the new arrival’s gaze on him once more. ‘You are Brother-Codicier Tylos Rubio,’ said Garro.
He shook his head. ‘I am only Brother Rubio. Nothing more.’
After a moment, Garro gave a nod. ‘As you wish.’
The matter of the intruder dealt with for the moment, the legionaries manning the rail tunnel barricade returned to their duty, and slowly the poisoned night faded. Now dawn was coming, but it would be a sunrise like no other over Calth’s frigid, frost-rimed landscape. Through the night, oxygen levels had continued to drop until now, only a toxic breath of atmosphere remained to shroud the planet. Soon it would be a wasteland, all native flora and fauna suffocated and dead. Only the war would live on.
Silent inside the seals of his wargear, Brother Rubio watched the warrior Garro prepare his bolter for combat with swift and careful motions. It was clear he knew the weapon intimately, and from the numerous honour lines acid-etched into the frame and grip, it had seen many battles at his side. The warrior made a pretence of keeping to himself, but Rubio saw through that. Garro was observing everything around him, his attention returning time and again to Captain Gaius, as the officer moved among his men.
Is Garro here for the captain? Rubio examined the question in his thoughts. Has Gaius transgressed in some way, and now this stranger arrives from out of the darkness to claim him?
He had no answer to that, but he was certain of one thing. Nathaniel Garro had come to Calth to judge them. A dark impulse in the depths of his mind stirred at the thought of being found unworthy by an agent of the Sigillite. And yet, another inner voice dared to ask by what right this man could put the Ultramarines of the 21st to the question. What conviction there was in Rubio had been severely tested in the last few days, and it was close to breaking point.
It would be simple to gaze into him, he thought. It would only require the most infinitesimal use of his prohibited witch-sight. Just to see, to know if Garro was what he appeared to be.
In that moment, for one fraction of a second, Rubio’s iron concentration wavered, and something slipped into his psyche. He stiffened, and suddenly–
A vision came to him.
The real world hazed and turned to fluid, slipping away, becoming dreamlike echoes all around. He heard the thudding of his own heartbeat. Skeins of absolute and infinite frayed in Rubio’s mind, unravelling and reordering themselves. He tried to reel back and shutter the sensation away, but it was too late. The vision was upon him, his silent Codicier’s power engulfing him for one brief instant. And in that crystalline moment he saw–
A battle in full flow, bolter fire and the screams of crazed attackers. Battle, red in blade and black in shell. And there, fallen upon the icy ground…
Gaius.
Armour cracks and snaps under a terrible weight. Gaius cries out in agony, dying. Rubio sees himself reach out, his blood roaring in his ears, desperate to reach his commander, to save him before his life is crushed from his flesh–
‘Rubio!’
Garro’s voice shattered his hallucination and the Ultramarine gasped and shook off the moment, the taint of psychic energy dissipating faster than it had arrived. He cursed his brief lapse of control and rose, waving Garro away, but the other legionary strode closer. Did the grey-armoured warrior know? Would Rubio’s moment of distraction cost him dearly? He struggled to process what he had witnessed in the flash of future-seen. The captain, struck down. Dying. Dead?
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It has not come to pass…’
Rubio shrugged off the fragments of the vision, denying it. He had shown weakness, that was all. A moment of lost focus, and it had been enough for the warp to poison him. The Emperor’s decree was not to be questioned.
‘Brother!’ Garro was at his side, reaching for his arm. ‘Do you not see them coming? Quickly, to your gun!’
‘See what?’ Belatedly, he understood that his reverie had been deeper than he’d realised. The words had barely left his lips before the first report of mortar fire shrieked through the air and blasted a rockcrete piling into shrapnel. The stone walls
trembled, dust raining down on them, and in the echo of the blast a new sound reached Rubio’s ears. The oncoming roar of massed attackers.
‘The enemy returns,’ said Garro, ‘and in great number. We must make ready for battle.’
‘The captain…’ Rubio cast around, searching for his commander, fearing the worst. His brief stab of dread faded when he found him. Gaius stood atop a barrier across the tunnel mouth, his battle cloak flaring open behind him, his bolt pistol aimed and ready. The captain raised the giant mailed glove of his power fist and punched the sky.
‘Hold the line, my kinsmen!’ he shouted, earning a roar from his men. ‘For courage and honour!’
Rubio bared his teeth and set forward as bolt-fire and las-beams cut into the rails and the stony ground, the ruined dawn finally breaking beyond the barricade. He raced into the fray to meet the hordes of the enemy, and found Garro at his side. The scarred warrior drew his shining silver sword and set it cutting arcs through the air, to cleave chests and take heads. The masses of the Brotherhood of the Knife, clad in makeshift breather masks and pitiful remnants of armour, died in their droves.
Gaius led the way, at the very tip of the arrowhead that was the legionary blockade. The cultists, screaming and shivering in the frigid cold, were pushed to greater and greater heights of bloodthirst through madness and fear. Their masters among the Word Bearers had driven them into this mad tumult, and their only respite would be to die choking the guns of the loyalist Space Marines.
The captain fought deep, as an army of insane zealots rode over him in a wave. There were so many of them that by sheer weight of numbers they toppled Rubio’s commander from his feet, slamming him into the steel rails criss-crossing the ground. For long seconds, the heap of screaming, murderous cultists heaved and shivered – and finally exploded outwards as Gaius burst free of their suffocating grip. Every hammer-blow strike from his power fist took a life, shattering their brittle bodies.
Rubio stepped to his post and followed his captain’s example, ignoring the torrent of pain that lanced through his skull in echo of his vision. He tried to force it away, ignore it. He did not succeed.
Garro Page 3
