by Guy Haley
The lord-civil of Matua Inferior began a scream that was cut off by a wet bang as Dostain put a bolt into his face. His head exploded into a cloud of red mist, and his body toppled onto the dais steps, hitting the floor before the heavy report of the bolt pistol had ceased to echo around the hall.
A horrified crowd stared up at him.
‘How wonderful,’ murmured Pollein.
‘A very fine shot, Dostain,’ said Dib, clapping his hands. ‘Bravo.’
Their gold-dusted skin and enticing garments splashed with blood, the concubines screamed and shrank back from the corpse. A spreading wash of crimson trickled down the steps, carrying white pieces of the lord-civil’s brain away. They looked like pleasure boats on a red river, recklessly daring cataracts.
‘You!’ shouted Dostain, jabbing a finger at a concubine. ‘Come sit on my lap.’
Biting her lip to stifle her tears, the girl came and placed herself on her planetary governor’s knee.
‘Is there more need for this tedious charade?’ said Dostain. ‘I wish to feast, and sate my appetites.’
He patted the girl’s behind.
Dib smiled. Something inside Dostain curled in disgust. The perfume on the air mingled with blood, each scent strengthening the other until he felt dizzy with the stink. He longed for the sweet wine from his dream to wash away the flavour. Part of him shrilled inside. He could stop it now. He could. He knew it.
But he could not. There was a feast of flesh, wine and meat to be enjoyed. The perfume intoxicated him. His scruples melted under its influence. His body, always large, called out for excess. He had everything. He wanted more.
‘Not quite yet, my lord,’ said Dib. ‘There is one more lord who wishes to pay his respects, and he is no coward, I assure you.’
Dostain swept an increasingly drunken gaze around his court. He could see none missing. As a boy raised in the most paranoid of circumstances, he had a honed ability to detect unexplained absences.
‘Who is he, this lord? Where is he?’
‘One you will like very much.’
‘Send him in!’ Dostain was beginning to enjoy himself again. The perfume lost its forbidding edge.
Dib clapped his hands and waved them encouragingly. The court trumpeters blew their long horns. ‘Open the gates!’
Trembling servants drew open the doors to the hall. In strode a man of titanic proportions, flanked by two others of only marginally lesser size.
The court herald looked at them dumbfounded.
‘I give you Damien Trastoon the Pleasure Seeker, Lord of Space Marines!’ Dib called.
Trastoon towered head and shoulders over the courtiers who crowded Magor’s Hall. Heavy ceramite boots clanged on the stone floor. He wore power armour of brilliant, lurid pink, finely worked with grimacing faces. The jets of his back-pack, antiqued bronze orbs held in beast claws and spread like wings behind him, leaked a purple vapour. Upon his face was a brazen mask, wrought to resemble a snarling maw. The helm swept up from glowing lenses into a crest of horns, also of bronze. Upon his pauldron was a symbol a little like those used to denote the sexes in ancient alchemical texts, those circles with lines coming off their sides – arrow for male, an addition sign for female, but upon his armour blended and decorated with ornate curlicues.
Trastoon came to the foot of the steps. His men put their boltguns at rest with a perfect display of synchronised movement. Trastoon reached up to his helm. The members of the court gasped and murmured. The crowd shimmered in Dostain’s vision. The individuals in it seemed to melt together so that to Dostain’s eyes it was one gaudily clad beast. Someone was weeping. Dostain’s head spun.
With a hiss, Trastoon disengaged the upper part of his helm and pulled it free. With a soft touch, he pressed at the side of his vox-grille mask and detached it from his gorget and the soft seals at his neck. Putting the mask into the upturned bowl of his helm, he stood revealed, the most perfect and repulsive creature Dostain had ever seen. His skin was a flawless, pearlescent white. One eye was a pure emerald green. The other was golden, slitted like a felid’s. Above the golden eye, two delicate horns, pink and smooth as the lip of a seashell, curled up from his forehead.
‘Hail, Dostain!’ he shouted, clashing his arm against his chest. ‘Free Lord of Geratomro!’ His voice was pure and clear, but his words dripped with venom. His lips curved into a cruel smile. ‘You have shown wisdom beyond your years in rejecting the False Emperor and claiming this world for your own. For was it not always yours, and did not the lords of Terra, the lickspittles of the corpse-god, impose themselves upon you and usurp your rightful rule? You are a true heir of Magor, my lord.’
With long, smooth strides he walked up the steps to the top of the dais, his feet further mangling the remains of the lord-civil’s head. The weight of Trastoon must have been immense, for the boot squashed flesh flat and crunched bone on its way to meet the marble of the stair without hindrance.
‘I am Lord Damien Trastoon of the Emperor’s Children. Well met.’
‘Em-em-emperor’s children?’ stuttered Dostain.
‘Yes, we are all children of the Emperor here, are we not? Isn’t that what He would like you to think, that He looks on you as a father?’ Trastoon leaned close and hissed through pointed teeth. ‘Lies. He is a mutant, like those He oppresses on every world. A psyker, like the many thousands He slaughters every day to maintain His unnatural life. I name Him hypocrite. False.’ He stood erect again, imprisoning Dostain in his shadow as surely as if it were a cell in a tower. ‘The name He gave us we keep. An irony. Humour is pleasurable, all the better when its sweetness is laced with the bitterness of the sardonic. Who does not like to laugh?’ he shouted, and Dostain flinched. ‘Pleasure, satisfaction, fulfilment. The Emperor offers none of these things, only slavery! To Him, we were merely tools. To Him, we of the Legiones Astartes were expendable weapons. Thanks to our true lord, we are masters of all we survey.’ He bowed, that awful smile chasing itself across his face again. ‘Except here, of course... This is your world, my lord.’
He turned to Dib and bowed more deeply. ‘My lord. It is pleasure unbounded to stand before you.’ This time there was no irony in what he said.
‘Our master is pleased that you came,’ said Dib.
‘How could I not, when the opportunity for such divine entertainment presents itself?’ He turned to Pollein. ‘This is the gateway? How charming.’ He ran an inhumanly large, armoured finger along Pollein’s jaw-line. She shuddered, whether from pleasure or horror, or a mix of both, Dostain could not tell.
‘How wonderful,’ she said.
‘Who-who is your master?’ said Dostain. Trastoon swivelled smoothly, returning his attention to the new Lord of Geratomro.
‘Why! The lord of excess! The prince of pleasure! The lord of beauty and of abandon. Do you not know him?’ he said in arch surprise.
‘I have never heard of such a person.’
‘No. You are the slave of the dusty corpse-king. How awful. Count yourself among the blind and the impoverished. But rejoice! We bring news of a fair prince who will treat you as you should be treated, with kindness and rewards of piquant sensation never to be bested.’
‘You said nothing about a prince,’ said Dostain to Dib. ‘Am I not king?’
‘I said nothing about a great many things. But all is to your benefit, my lord.’ Dib and the Space Marine lord shared a smile.
‘Bring in the feast!’ called Trastoon.
‘But we have a feast!’ said Dostain, rousing himself from his stupor. He pointed at the long banqueting tables lining the hall.
Trastoon paid him no mind. The doors swung open again. Lines of human servants entered, some carrying tall ewers, others trays of goblets. They were dressed to preserve only the smallest part of their modesty, and often not even that. They were heavily tattooed, their eyes caked with make-up, spiked collars
around their necks, and their hair styled into extravagant spikes and crests of every colour. They passed into the crowd, and began to pour wine. A heavy smell blew into the room, an unpleasant odour masquerading as something fine.
The lords and ladies reluctantly drank of the wine, but the instant it touched their lips their unease melted away. Gaiety replaced fear. An excited chattering set up in the hall.
‘My lord,’ said Trastoon, taking a goblet from one of the slaves and holding it out to Dostain. A clear, viscous wine clung to the inside, giving off a sweet pungency.
‘Drink.’
‘I–’
‘Drink! You must drink, then you must eat. You must have your strength for your wedding night,’ he said lecherously.
‘I have my strength,’ Dostain said weakly.
Trastoon looked meaningfully at Pollein. ‘You require more.’
Dostain took the goblet. The scent masked the perfumed air and made his mouth water. With the Space Marine staring at him, he had no choice but to sip.
As soon as he did, his mouth tingled with pleasure. It was the wine he had supped while sleeping, but the flavour when tasted for real transcended that of his dreams. It was the sweetest he had ever had. Before it had a chance to travel down his gullet, he was suffused with a giddy euphoria. He began to smile.
‘Yes, yes?’ nodded Trastoon enthusiastically. ‘Is it fitting to your palate, my lord?’
‘It is very fine!’ shouted Dostain.
The transhuman took a mighty goblet appropriate to his size and raised it in salutation.
‘Your health!’
Dostain, laughing uncontrollably, forced some wine into the girl on his lap. Her sullenness vanished instantly upon tasting it, and her warm body relaxed into his.
Trastoon held up his goblet to the room and shouted out, ‘My lord demands a tribute, a celebration of carnality and excess! To Planetary Commander Dostain! Eat, drink, abandon yourselves to revelry and revelation!’
Halt the tank, and thank the machine-spirit for its indulgence.
Let first the primary safety catch be released, and praise given unto the Omnissiah, who is the lord of the light of knowledge.
Let the engine main switch be disengaged from its alpha setting, thus freeing it from the sacred duties of the motive unit that propels the armoured servant of the Emperor and Omnissiah into battle. Give praise to Mars, and the majesty thereof.
Let the engine main switch be engaged with the beta setting. All glory to the domains of Mars, which protecteth the wisdom of the past.
Let the engine be activated, so that its might may be harnessed by the most holy dynamo, and so call forth the motive force unto the shell of the tank, and catch it gently within the capacitors.
Sing the praises of the motive force, so that it might quickly fill the energy reservoir.
Ensure capacitor charge is at the one hundredth of one hundred per cent.
Bless the refractor array.
Petition the ranging unit for a truthful refraction index.
Set refraction index.
Sing the praises of the motive force made light, the photonic sword of the Omnissiah.
Fire.
– The Prayer of the Volcano Cannon,
from an Adeptus Mechanicus primer
for the novice enginseer.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shadowsword
MAGOR’S FIELDS
GERATOMRO
087498.M41
Jonas strained his eyes peering out into the gloom. ‘Can’t see anything!’ he said. His nerves were ragged. Space Marines. Gods in man’s form, and they were coming for him.
‘Be brave, Jonas,’ said Suliban. ‘The enemy are men still, and can be killed. Think of your warriors. Do not dishearten them before the fight comes. It is bad enough that they might die – do not make cowards of them through your own fear.’
There were a dozen men in the dugout. His command group – Micz, Turneric, Bosarain, Suliban, Killek – and his sole support unit, a heavy group of two heavy bolters and a light autocannon. The wheels of the guns’ carriages had been levered off the ground by the legs of their static mounts. The dugout was well constructed. His men were competent and bold. Against any other foe he would have rated their chances well.
Jonas shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. He was soaking wet. Emperor alone knew what was in that rain. His world had become a small stage, curtained by rain and lit blindingly with short-lived red-and-orange flashes of the Titan battle. Lance beams slammed down from orbit intermittently. Further off, the noise of hundreds of tanks firing at once rumbled like thunder arrested at the peak of its sounding, never dying away as it should. The light of the weapons pulled the world in tighter rather than expanding it, making him feel more trapped. Right in front of him, the Titans continued to exchange volleys of fire fit to level cities. The power on display was beautiful in a terrifying way.
His vox-bead bleeped in his ear. ‘Targets advancing. Four hundred yards and closing,’ said Gulinar, Parrigar’s second in command and vox-operator.
‘I still can’t see anything!’ hissed Jonas, more quietly this time, quiet enough that his words were inaudible under the clamour of war.
Jonas watched the god-machines. What he was seeing was almost incomprehensible. The Warhound had come in from the enemy Titan’s right, and was weaving back and forth in tight zigzags faster than the towering enemy’s carapace weapons could track. The huge cannons were obscured by the rain and the Warlord Titan’s armoured shell from over whose lip their discharge stabbed out like thunderbolts. His vox-bead pulsed with every shot. The Reaver circled further out to the right. Itself a towering monstrosity, in comparison to the enemy Titan it seemed like a child. The infantry were all reduced to insects by this quarrel of metal gods. Far off, the continued rumble and flash of cannons lit up the stalking shapes of the lesser enemy Titans, whose own weapons swept from side to side like the scythe of a farmer.
Both of the Imperial Titans were closing in on the crippled enemy Warlord, firing as they approached. Having attained a position out of the firing arc of the right arm, the Reaver marched straight at its foe. The whining grind of monstrous motors penetrated the racket of their fire as the left arm and both top mounts locked on to the Reaver. The Reaver’s void shields had been up and down throughout the fight, and once more they flared at the immense amount of punishment they absorbed. Quickly the first collapsed with a dull, purple flash.
Jonas’ cousin’s tank was dragging itself very slowly back up the slope into a better firing position. The Shadowswords’ emplacement was unrecognisable. The crater edge had given out where Lux Imperator had been stationed. A deep, smoking furrow, patches of it still glowing with heat, marked the position of Askelios’ tank. That had been completely obliterated. The other Atraxian Shadowsword was a dark hull leaning away from Jonas’ position.
‘I never thought to be fighting them. Space Marines. They are supposed to be all that is good in the Imperium,’ he said.
‘As I said, they are men, and men can be corrupted.’
Jonas smiled and gave a sidelong look to Suliban.
‘I did not mean that it were a matter of levity,’ said Suliban.
‘It’s not that,’ said Jonas. ‘I’m smiling because you, commissar, are dirty, for the first time since I have known you.’
Suliban adjusted his filthy poncho. His high-peaked cap had collected a layer of silt, deposited by the rain.
‘You look so uncomfortable, it’s comic–’ Jonas was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected noise from the vox-bead: not a signal, but a pulse of raw electromagnetic energy. The sky out towards the main advance filled with a growing ball of fire, followed seconds later by a blast of hot wind that whipped the black rain under the roof of their shelter.
‘Engine death!’ said Bosarain.
A triumphant, army-wide broadcast a moment later confirmed the kill: one of the enemy Reavers, pummelled to its end by concerted battle cannon fire.
‘One down, three to go,’ said Jonas.
‘Look!’ said one of his men, leaning out of the shelter and pointing down the rough slope of the crater.
Jonas peered over the edge of the dugout. Emerging directly from the black water collected at the bottom of the crater were huge, armoured figures. The first walked straight at the steep slope below. They mag-locked their bolters to their chests then propelled themselves up the mud slope on all fours with horrifying speed.
‘Emperor,’ said Suliban. He raged at seeing their god’s finest servants turned traitor, but there was fear there, too.
Jonas swore. The Space Marines were coming up under them. The angle was too steep for his heavy team to target.
The blazing light of the dying reactor blinked out, plunging Jonas’ environs into blackness.
‘Hostiles! Hostiles!’ voxed one of his sergeants out on the left flank, away from the crater. The snapping reports of lasguns came swiftly on the heels of his words, then the terrible bangs of bolters, their clean, triple barks clear under the booming of the Titans’ war.
‘Heavy team, pan left,’ said Jonas shakily. ‘Open fire. The rest of us, grenades and lasguns. Micz, get your melta ready.’
The men quickly rearranged themselves to the right of the heavy squad. Huddled together, they leaned into the damp bank of the dugout, knuckles white.
‘Ready?’ said Jonas.
His men nodded. Suliban disengaged the safety on his pistol with an audible snap.
‘Raise Parrigar.’
‘I can’t,’ said Anderick.
‘Then we’re on our own.’
The heavy weapons took aim on half-seen figures attacking the left flank.
‘Now,’ mouthed Jonas.
Lit by the wrath of heaven, Jonas and his men leaned over the edge of the dugout and opened fire on the monsters climbing up to kill them.
‘Steady, steady!’ said Bannick.
