by Braden Campbell, Mark Clapham, Ben Counter, Chris Dows, Peter Fehervari, Steve Lyons
But Vorens hadn’t let his guard down at all. At the last moment he bent forward a fraction, taking Fang squarely on his breastplate. There was a crack as the blade’s hooked tip was deflected towards the Imperial Fist’s left. He locked Drenn’s overstretched arm, twisted it so that the Space Wolf dropped his weapon and, in the same instant, slammed a boot into his injured left leg.
The Space Wolf howled as his limb buckled, the pain of his wound flaring through him. Vorens kept the pressure up, forcing the Flame Hunter down onto his knees, the arm still locked. He clamped his other hand over Drenn’s head, resisting every effort he made to regain his feet.
‘The duel is over,’ Gallio said. ‘First blood to Vorens.’
Drenn could feel blood from the reopened wound running down his leg. He made one last, furious effort to rise, cursing floridly, but Svenbald and Gallio took him by his pauldrons and restrained him. Vorens let go.
‘That was dishonourable,’ Drenn snarled as the Deathwatch leader stepped back.
‘Have you never used an enemy’s wound to your advantage?’ Vorens said. ‘The galaxy is full of countless alien races, Drenn, and all of them are united by a single characteristic – they have no honour. Go searching for it, and you will die disappointed.’
Drenn stopped struggling, allowing Svenbald and Gallio to release him. He stayed on his knees and felt the anger flush from his system, his heartbeats slowing.
‘You’re fast,’ he allowed. ‘And you trusted in your armour to turn Fang. If I’d been using Graam you would be dead.’
‘But I would have fought differently. Only fools refuse to alter their style of combat. You weren’t expecting me to be so arrogant with my opening attack, and that stung you. You reacted in kind. Then I used your weaknesses against you – your lack of helmet, and your wound. You responded with speed, savagery and skill, but there was no thought behind it. You are all raw instinct, Space Wolf.’
‘And you are only the leader of a kill-team, yet you speak with more authority than anyone I have fought before.’
‘Within the Deathwatch I am Kill-Team Leader Vorens. When I return to my brethren in the Imperial Fists, I will be Captain Caius Vorens of the Sixth Company once more.’
Drenn looked up, uncharacteristically lost for words. The Imperial Fist was the equivalent in experience and rank to Kjarl Grimblood himself...
‘Your blade is a good one,’ Vorens said, retrieving Fang and handing it back to the Space Wolf. ‘But it should not be the only weapon you trust in. If you join the Deathwatch, you’ll leave your old life behind, at least for a while. The duties and habits you have now – none of them will matter. The path to your new life starts here. As a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes you have been blessed with numerous ways to deal death to the Emperor’s enemies. You should make use of them all. Take this.’
Vorens gestured to Gallio, who held forward the Imperial Fist’s bolter. It was a beautiful weapon, its oiled barrel gleaming, the black stock etched with prayers of wrath and smiting. A tattered purity seal affixed behind the ejection port proclaimed centuries of service. The Space Wolf stared at it.
‘Its name is Xenobane,’ Vorens said. ‘And it will teach you to rely on every tool in your arsenal. Take it.’
Drenn clasped the boltgun, still staring. The grip was fashioned around the lower half of a polished femur, its smooth, yellowing surface scrimshawed with dozens of interlocking names.
‘That bone is all that remains of its first owner, Brother Weiss,’ Vorens said. ‘And the names belong to all those who have wielded it since. It is a custom in my Chapter to venerate the dead in such a manner.’
‘You honour me,’ Drenn murmured. The wound behind his knee throbbed, but he ignored it, meeting the eyes of the captain.
‘You knew the terms of this duel. What do you say to them now?’
Rather than reply, Drenn limped across to Svenbald. For the first time the young Flame Hunter lowered his gaze respectfully, acknowledging the Wolf Guard’s rank.
‘I owe you a life debt,’ he said. ‘I swear upon my honour that I will repay it, whether you release me to the Deathwatch or not.’
‘It is already done,’ Svenbald said, curtly. ‘I hope Vorens can teach you something of respect, for I cannot.’
Drenn felt a rare stab of shame, and looked up. The Wolf Guard sighed.
‘You have more than Russ’ lineage within you, Drenn. You have his untameable spirit as well. Go with the primarch’s blessings, and may we meet again.’
Vorens put a hand on Drenn’s shoulder.
‘The kill-team will assemble to observe your oaths tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and I will send word to the Watch Fortress regarding your appointment.’
He held out his hand, and the Space Wolf took it, vambrace to vambrace, the warrior’s grip.
‘Welcome to the Deathwatch, Drenn Redblade.’
DEATHWATCH 5: DEADHENGE
Justin D Hill
I
Brother Ennox Sorrlock lay wounded in the panelled reading room of Planetary Governor Ajax Finne’s personal library. His helmet rang with the dying shouts of his squad, and through the hazed eye lens of his Mark VIII ‘Errant’ armour he saw the darting shapes of the eldar: all blades and skin, and thin, pale, grasping fingers.
He fired three wild shots. His bolter magazine flashed empty. His secondary heart was failing and his breath came in long gulps. His arms were weakening. He tried to reach a fresh magazine, but as he did so a sickle blade stabbed down at his throat. He caught the hand, almost by instinct, dragged the eldar warrior in close, found his combat knife and drove it deep into its body, before throwing the corpse aside. The exertion left him weaker than before, but he gritted his teeth against the pain, flexed his muscles and tried again for the magazine.
‘Brother Sorrlock!’ a voice rang out in his vox-link.
He tried to answer, but could not make a noise.
‘Sorrlock!’ the voice came again. It was Brother Lenhk.
‘Leave me...’ Sorrlock tried to say, but all that came from his lips was a froth of blood and spittle. He looked about. The fight had moved on, and all around him were the enemy dead, lying in deep piles. Mixed in with the dead were leather-bound volumes in disorganised heaps, scraps of singed paper in the spreading pools of blood, much of it his own.
Warning runes flashed in his helmet: secondary heart collapse, liver failure, blood loss critical, too severe even for his Larraman cells to staunch. Sorrlock found a krak grenade and tried to set the charge, but his fingers were clumsy, and he couldn’t see properly anymore. He was trying to toss it towards his enemies when, from the corridor leading towards the library chamber, there was a flash of bolter fire. The screams and shouts of xenos. The vivid gout of promethium flames.
‘I’ve found him!’ he heard Lenkh call over the vox.
‘Leave me,’ Sorrlock tried to say again. Warning runes flashed inside his helmet. His consciousness faltered. He felt himself being dragged backwards.
‘Cover me!’ Lenhk was shouting to Renz, the other surviving member of the squad.
‘Covering.’
‘We have him,’ Lenkh voxed the Stormraven pilot. ‘Get us out of here!’
Flames filled the chamber again. More xenos screams and howls.
‘Coming in,’ the pilot voxed.
Sorrlock could hear the whirring of the console, the repetitive beep of the homing beacon through the pilot’s signals as their Stormraven gunship circled, looking for a good place to land.
‘I have Sorrlock,’ Lenhk voxed.
The pilot’s voice crackled back. ‘And the rest of the squad?’
‘Dead,’ Lenhk shouted. ‘Now, get us out of here!’
Then they were out into the open. Sorrlock saw the twin yellow lights of the Stormraven, descending steeply through the rain. It was the last thing he saw before his vision faded, but he heard a sudden roar as missiles streaked overhead. He felt the explosion, but it came to him only as a dim and distant sound.
Something was clinging to the hull. He could hear it scraping to get inside.
‘The others are lost?’ a new voice said.
‘Affirmative,’ Lenkh said.
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
Someone was kneeling at Sorrlock’s side. For a moment he was able to see clearly. It was an Apothecary with black hair and a ragged scar across his neck. His blue-lit augmetic eyes looked down at Sorrlock.
‘Throne,’ the Apothecary hissed. ‘What did this to him?’
‘Xenos,’ Lenkh said.
Sorrlock felt his power armour being stripped away, a hand at his neck. ‘His gene-seed is compromised,’ the Apothecary reported.
The words cut through his pain. Sorrlock felt intense shame. Not only had he led seven battle-brothers to their deaths, but now he could not even pass on his genetic legacy to the Chapter.
As the Stormraven began to climb through the rain clouds, the vox-link crackled. There was a whisper in his ear.
‘Brothers,’ a voice said. It felt like a dream, but the voice was so real and familiar that it roused Sorrlock for a moment. ‘Brothers, don’t leave me here…’ the voice came again.
The accent was Grimmack’s.
Sorrlock moaned. He tried to tell them to go back, that they had left a brother behind, but he was unable to speak.
‘Inserting needle,’ the Apothecary’s voice came.
‘No!’ Sorrlock tried to say, but the drugs were spreading cool within his veins. They removed all the pain, but there were things worse than pain.
Things like failure and defeat.
II
Space was silent, and here, in the viewing chamber of the Reclusiam spire of the Deathwatch fortress Sentinel IX, the silence was palpable. It was so quiet that Chaplain Ortan Cassius could hear the footsteps from the bottom of the long black marble staircase, nearly five hundred yards below him. He waited, listening to the sound, then turned to the armourglass window where the darkness of the galaxy seemed to suck all light from his chamber.
More than a decade ago, he had donned the black power armour and taken the silver shoulder pad of the Deathwatch; his purpose was to defend humanity from the xenos. In that time he had sought out and destroyed more aliens than he could remember. But there were always more.
It was a battle that had started long before he was born.
It would last for generations after him.
The thought did not disturb Cassius. He was a weapon of war. It was his fate to die on the battlefield and he was content with that – he would serve until that day.
He drew in a deep breath and put both hands on the vellum of the book he was reading. The Beatitudes of Arch-Confessor Paladine. The illumination showed the victorious Paladine himself with one foot on the greenskin, aquila banner held high.
Cassius looked up as his visitors reached the top of the stairs. The first was a red-hooded Inquisitorial serf. He stepped forward to bow and spoke in a deep, weary voice.
‘Chaplain Cassius. As requested, I have brought Battle-brother Sorrlock of the Iron Hands.’
Cassius looked past the serf into the shadows at the top of the long staircase. Three red eyes glowed in the darkness.
A metallic voice spoke in clipped tones.
‘Chaplain Cassius. I am Ennox Sorrlock – formerly of the Iron Hands, now Deathwatch. Greetings.’
‘Why “formerly”?’ Cassius asked. ‘You came from the Iron Hands and will return to the Iron Hands, when your service with the Deathwatch is done.’
‘If they will have me,’ Sorrlock replied.
‘Why would they not?’
‘My flesh was weak.’
‘Weaker than steel?’
‘Of course. But that is not what I meant. I failed my Chapter. I failed my brothers.’
As he spoke, the Iron Hand strode forwards from the shadowed archway. With each step there was a muted hiss of extensive cyber-enhancement. Sorrlock was tall, even for a Space Marine. His face was half steel – a mess of wires and tubes, with three marble-red optical augmetics where the eye had been.
Cassius put out a gauntlet. The fist that gripped him back was not human. He could hear the gentle whine of motors and metal tendons, felt the cold grip of iron fingers.
Sorrlock did not let go. ‘You think my enhancements crude?’
The voice was as monotone as a servitor’s, but it did not lack intelligence. Sorrlock had an odd manner; it was methodical, clinical. Too much enhanced inhuman intellect, Cassius thought. Typical of the Iron Hands. They did not trust flesh. They did not trust their greater-than-human bodies, nor even entirely the gene-seed legacy of their own primarch.
They did not trust themselves.
‘Crude? Yes,’ Cassius said. ‘In my Chapter we at least attempt to make a face that is human in aspect.’
‘That is foolish,’ Sorrlock replied flatly.
‘Why?’
‘It wastes time and resources.’
Cassius did not try to argue. He turned to the window ports and looked out into the haunted space known as Deadhenge.
‘Do you know why you are here?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘I do not guess. I input data, and assess the best course of action.’
Cassius smiled. He had heard that Brother Sorrlock could be a little difficult at times.
He turned from the window. ‘What do you see when you look at the vast emptiness of Deadhenge?’
‘Enemies,’ Sorrlock said. ‘Lurking. Hiding. Pretending not to be there.’
Cassius smiled. When he looked into the darkness of space, he too felt it watching him in return. ‘Good. We have that at least in common.’
‘We have much more in common,’ Sorrlock’s monotone voice said.
Cassius turned to look at the metal face and wondered what he meant, but Sorrlock was staring out through the vast reinforced pane, one hand upon the grip of his combi-melta.
III
Pain flooded Ennox Sorrlock as he lay in the Apothecaries’ chamber. The drugs were wearing off. His body stiffened, his mouth a snarling rictus, consciousness and memory flooding into him like a fresh shot of agony...
His orders had been to locate the eldar flesh-smith known as the Black Spider. He had done so, but rather than waiting for support, he had led his squad straight in. Surprise, he believed, was worth more than numbers, and all seemed well as they had trapped the Black Spider in the governor’s personal librarium.
‘We have him!’ Sorrlock had declared in righteous triumph as the Black Spider had dashed up a grand wooden staircase. Sorrlock laughed as he aimed his bolt pistol. ‘Death to the xenos!’
But at that moment, flesh-constructs had burst from within the vast axelwood bookshelves. All about the Iron Hands were hulking monsters with blades implanted into their flesh, simian heads snarling and hunched, ichor dripping from venom-guns. Sorrlock’s squad was surrounded by darting shapes – whips, coils, and searing blasts of poisonous liquid flashed at the Iron Hands, and the Black Spider’s narrow alien face changed from an expression of fear to inhuman delight.
‘Back!’ Sorrlock commanded, and his squad had fought as they retreated.
But the corridor was blocked with more of the foe. They had fought until the enemy dead lay three deep. And as they fell, the Black Spider raised his own weapon. Sorrlock had never seen this type of gun before. He had backhanded the barrel as he charged at the flesh-smith, but moments too late. A spray of sticky green liquid covered his side. The eldar stumbled back but did not fall. Hunched low, it edged forwards, firing over and over again.
Sorrlock had felt the slime splat against his armour. He was confident in his battleplate but the creeping gobs found the weak points – damaged areas, and the joints – and started to dissolve his flesh.
His
fury had turned to alarm as the liquid filled up his armour and started eating him alive.
As Sorrlock lay in the medicae bed, the nightmare of the assault returned to him again and again. And it always ended the same way, with the hissed voice from Grimmack.
‘Brothers... Don’t leave me here...’
Sorrlock knew only too well the pain that the wretched eldar could inflict, and he twisted and writhed at the thought of it. ‘Go back!’ he shouted out in his nightmares, but he was lying wounded, and could not help Grimmack.
The thin metal arms of the medicae servitor moved quickly to hold the sutures closed. The Apothecary bent over him, the glowing blue eyes staring into his own. ‘Be still, brother. We have done all that we can. There is no way back,’ he said. It was a simple truth. ‘No way back for any of us.’
Sorrlock didn’t understand, but felt more life-supporting fluids being pumped into his body.
‘Be still, brother. It is time to let go.’
Sorrlock snarled in answer, but the drugs were stronger than he.
IV
Amongst the abandoned orbital platforms over the planet of Shenden Port, deep in the region of space known as Deadhenge, a vessel waited. At the hour foretold by the reading of the Emperor’s Tarot, a single Storm Eagle began its descent. Its colour was black, its only insignia the mark of the Inquisition. As it started its dive towards the planet, Kill Team Torrent prepared themselves for their mission.
Chaplain Cassius stood strapped against the steel walls. His briefing had not explained why Deadhenge had been abandoned, but there were humans living on this planet regardless. And, despite the odds, the population was swelling.
In the decades that had passed, they had bred. There were now thousands here, tens of thousands, perhaps. Weak, vulnerable and beyond the shield of the Imperium: to the sentient enemies in the galaxy, these defenceless humans were prey.
