Yesugei leaned against the wall, feeling the vibrations of the metal against his sweaty skin. The whole ship groaned and creaked as though buffeted by physical winds, though he knew that they were worlds away from anything physical.
He remembered talking to Ahriman about it when the two of them had been on Nikaea together. Even that hellish place of volcanoes and heat-shimmered air was preferable to the raw flux of the warp.
‘You say there is nothing bad in… what you call it? Great Ocean?’ he had asked, hesitant in his broken Gothic.
Ahriman had smiled softly. The Chief Librarian’s power was obvious in every gesture. Like so many of Magnus’s protégés, he was suffused with it, stuffed full of it, saturated and soaked in it. The Thousand Sons tried to be modest, but deep down they knew perfectly well that they were the most gifted. It lent them an indefinable air of understated superiority and it was that, more than anything else, that made the others hate them.
‘There is plenty bad in it,’ Ahriman had replied, ‘just as there is in the world of the senses. But in its wholeness? No, I do not think so.’
‘Have you ever travelled with Navigator?’ Yesugei had asked him. ‘Seen things they do?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you not see the faces?’
‘The faces?’
Yesugei had struggled for the words. ‘Screaming. Clawing at ship.’
Ahriman had laughed then – not in mockery, just in amusement. It was the quick, warm laugh of an intelligent mind, one used to taking delight in the world around it and finding nothing to fear. ‘I think perhaps you were dreaming. Void travel does make one dream.’
Void travel does make one dream.
Yesugei rubbed his eyes. He’d not had an unbroken cycle’s sleep since leaving Chogoris, and though he coped with the lack well enough it made his mind feel dull and cloudy. Every snatched hour or so had been plagued with nightmares. Lately he’d had the same one, over and over: the Khan in the land of the dead, duelling with some vast creature of null-light, alone under a starless sky.
The dreams of the gifted were never random, but Yesugei was too old to be fooled into thinking that they were ever literal. If he was being told something, then interpretation – the proper interpretation – was everything.
Still, it was hard to see the primarch driven to his knees.
He activated his vox-bead. ‘Commander, the ship feels unsettled. Is all well?’
Lushan’s voice, when it came, had a barely perceptible undercurrent of tension. ‘The Navigator has been having… difficulties.’
‘Warp storms?’
‘That, he tells me, fails to capture it.’
Yesugei reached for his robes. ‘I will be with you shortly.’
Yesugei went quickly up the corridors and gantries towards the bridge. As he went, his mind failed to clear. The ship’s atmosphere felt muggy and close, as if a huge, humid thunderstorm were on the cusp of breaking around them. All around him, crew members went about their business, bowing as he passed them. They looked as haggard as he, worn out by the business of piloting a ship through the turmoil.
Yesugei had never accepted Ahriman’s theory of the benign aether. The White Scars treated it warily, dipping into the shallows to extract the powers they employed over the elements, never probing deeper. Such was the cautious heritage of Chogoris, the legacy of the old seers of storms who had birthed their powers in the Ulaav mountains. The zadyin arga had always treated with the powers of heaven, but they had never trusted them.
Yesugei knew that other Librarius brotherhoods thought the Stormseers dull and unimaginative for that. Yesugei didn’t mind the slights; he knew what benefits their limitation brought. Despite Ahriman’s gentle taunting, he also knew that he had not been dreaming when he had seen those screaming faces and clawing fingers.
The warp was not benign. It never had been. That was why the Librarius had been created: not to extend the Legiones Astartes’ control of warp powers, but to limit them.
Nikaea. Such a disaster.
Yesugei reached the bridge, and a pair of metre-thick blast doors slid open to welcome him.
The scene beyond the doors was a picture of controlled anxiety. Crew members in white tabards hunched over display screens, their fingers dancing across consoles. Massive iron shutters covered the real-view ports, shuddering. The whole bridge – an amphitheatre crowned with a bronze-edged dome and centred on Lushan’s control throne – filled with the creak and snap of alloys under stress. Several cogitator stations had blown and were crawling with worm-like flickers of electrostatic.
‘Things are bad, then,’ said Yesugei, spotting Lushan standing amid a worried-looking huddle of drive technicians.
The armour-clad ship commander smiled grimly. ‘If you had not made contact I would have been forced to wake you. The Geller fields are losing strength.’
‘That is indeed bad. What can you do?’
‘The Navigator says we should drop out of the warp. He is very insistent.’
Yesugei pursed his lips. Above him, suspended from copper-lined chains, hung a large status screen. Most of its indicators were already red; another flickered critical while he looked at it.
‘Where are we?’ Yesugei asked.
‘I asked him a few hours ago,’ said Lushan. ‘He started shouting. I do not think he knows.’
Yesugei nodded. ‘We knew this would be difficult. So, let us take the Navigator’s advice – it sounds as if he could use the rest.’
‘As you command.’ Lushan looked hesitant. ‘I was trying to get a fix on our position before committing to real space.’
As he spoke, a deep resounding clang sounded from the decks below. The whole structure listed, as if bouncing from something vast and unmoving beyond its outer limits.
Yesugei looked up at the warp shutters. It would be a trivial matter to peer beyond them, to stare into the seething non-matter that boiled beyond. He was tempted to, just to see the ferment that made their progress so painful – the entire galaxy gripped by warp fissures in a way that couldn’t be natural.
‘If we remain in this, the ship will be torn apart,’ Yesugei said. ‘Trust him – the Navigator sees what we do not.’
Lushan bowed, and moved to bring the Sickle Moon’s sub-warp engines online. As he turned away, Yesugei suddenly felt a prickliness ripple across him, a cold shudder playing over his skin.
‘How is our combat readiness?’ he asked.
Lushan looked surprised at that, and a little affronted. ‘We are fully prepared.’
‘Good. Place the ship on alert before we break the veil. I will need my armour.’
‘Have you sensed something?’
Yesugei’s gaze remained fixed upon the shutters. They were clattering like ger-fabric in a plains-gale, warning of the growing turmoil outside their fragile protective skin.
Do primarchs die? What kills them?
‘Standard procedure, commander,’ he said, moving to send commands to the armoury servitors. ‘Ensure all the crew do likewise.’
It was hard to maintain a sense of self-importance on the bridge of the Hrafnkel. Surrounded by Gunn, the High Rune Priests and the heart of the Legion command, Bjorn kept his mouth shut and his eyes down.
There had been more fighting before they’d made their way back. Alpha Legionnaire operatives had been landed in numbers throughout the lower decks, some decked out in their own colours, others in passable replicas of Fenrisian livery. That hadn’t helped them: the Vlka Fenryka could smell their own.
Damage had been done, sometimes severely, but the entire ship had been placed on alert prior to the temporary drop in shields and so it was contained. Perhaps Alpharius had known that all along and the boarding parties had been just yet another feint. He could hardly have riled Russ more by doing so – the Wolf King raged and cursed all the way back up to the command levels, ripping apart any enemy troops in his path with brutal excess.
‘Angron faced me!’ he had raged, flinging
the broken bodies of the legionaries away. ‘Magnus faced me! What was it? Why would he not come?’
The anger had been real – the kind of anger that had been building for weeks in the aftermath of Prospero – but for all that, Bjorn detected a false note to it, just an echo of something that did not quite ring true.
Did you really expect him to teleport over? Would you have done it, in his position?
In any case, the Hrafnkel had eventually been secured, its shields restored, and Russ’s retinue returned to the cavernous bridge. Once the primarch was back in full possession of the tactical situation, his mood did not improve.
The Alpha Legion maintained the superiority they had enjoyed from the start of the encounter. Their ships had gone into battle undamaged, fully equipped and more numerous. The Wolves had blunted their advance with a typically ebullient counter-charge, but the momentum was now failing. Dozens of warships had been destroyed; even the biggest were taking heavy damage. Slowly, like a pair of hands creeping around an exposed neck, their sphere of command was shrinking.
Bjorn kept out of the primarch’s eye-line, slinking into the shadowy margins of the bridge space. Though he tried to block it out, he could not help but overhear the incoming glut of droning servitor reports on the priority comm.
‘Losing void shields… Losing void shields… Adopting ramming course and speed… Engines overloaded… Jarnkel is gone… Jarnkel is gone… All ships in zone tra-fyf pull back to contingency… Incoming swarm on Heimdl… Losing hull integrity… Losing hull integrity… Core breach detected… Heimdl is gone…’
No amount of voidwar genius would reverse the losses now. A desperate gambit had been attempted, and it had failed.
They all waited.
For a long time, despite more voxed reports of damage and destruction, Russ said nothing. Every time a vessel destroyed notice flickered up on the viewscreens, he winced. The gesture was unfeigned: this primarch cared about his Legion as much as any other, perhaps more so. Bjorn thought that Russ looked strangely old then, as though the years had suddenly piled deadening weight upon his brawler’s shoulders.
‘That’s enough,’ Russ growled at last. ‘We’ll get torn to pieces if we stay in this.’ He drew in a long sigh, flexing his gauntlets with frustration, as if they alone could turn the tide. ‘Beat for the nebula, rendezvous with the reserves and withdraw to the deeps. The dust will at least blunt their sensors.’
Gunn nodded. ‘It’ll be hard to pull clear of this.’
‘We’ll be the rearguard,’ said Russ flatly. ‘The flagship goes last, no matter how much it hurts us.’ His eyes flickered towards the duty communications officer, a grey-robed kaerl hovering at the rear of the command retinue. ‘Ensure that Terra gets this message. Sixth Legion engaged Twentieth Legion at Alaxxes. Taken heavy damage, retreated to cover of inner nebula. Will attempt to regroup and hold them there. Calls for reinforcement go unanswered as of chrono-mark one-zero-eight, zero-zero-seven. Will maintain engagement until further orders received.’
The officer took in the information with a blank stare, committing it to memory for transmission to the choirs.
‘Why are we facing them alone?’ Gunn asked irritably.
‘The warp has been turbulent, lord,’ replied the comms officer. ‘In truth I do not know if anything we have sent has been heard. But we will keep sending it, hoping for something.’
‘Chondax,’ murmured Russ.
All eyes turned to the primarch.
‘We cannot be far from the Fifth Legion campaign,’ Russ went on, his eyes narrowing with sudden revelation. ‘Why have our messages not reached the Khan?’
The officer gave him an equivocal look. ‘The storms have been… unnaturally acute in that region. I doubt that anything has penetrated.’
‘Keep trying,’ urged Russ. ‘Concentrate your efforts there.’ He looked at Gunn. ‘A strange one, Jaghatai, but I’ve never seen a sword handled better. He hasn’t fallen. He can’t have done. Why did I forget him?’
Bjorn watched the doubtful expressions on the others’ faces. He didn’t blame them; the White Scars, of all the possible Legions, were the least likely to inspire confidence. He had never seen them fight, and he knew no one who had. By reputation they were almost as mystic as the Thousand Sons, in thrall to their arcane caste of Stormseers and beholden to no one but themselves.
The officer bowed. ‘If they can be reached, they will be.’
‘And if we’re dependent on them,’ muttered Gunn, ‘then we’re truly neck-deep in it.’
Russ shot him a warning glance. ‘He is my brother, Gunnar. Watch what you say.’
They were all your brothers, thought Bjorn. And look how that turned out.
The deck trembled – the Hrafnkel taking another heavy pounding along its prow. That ended the conversation; the Lords of the Wolves moved off, ready to begin the retreat that would take from them open space and back into the rusty embrace of the Alaxxes shoals.
‘Go warily!’ Russ called out after them, half in jest, but mostly in earnest. ‘We will live to skin them yet.’
Soon Bjorn was alone with the primarch on the bridge’s lowest tier – alone, that was, except for the two colossal wolves that prowled at his feet.
‘Did you want me, lord?’ he asked cautiously, watching the yellow eyes of the nearest beast as it regarded him steadily.
Russ stirred out of his thoughts, seemingly having forgotten that Bjorn was there.
‘Of course I do,’ he said.
The primarch turned to look up at the massive armourglass viewports, each of them a picture of fire-streaked turmoil. The Hrafnkel was just one island amidst hundreds, each aflame, each moving to a deadly dance of thrust and counter-thrust.
‘Much work to do,’ he said, his voice deep, almost mournful. ‘Watch and learn, One-Hand. This is how a primarch faces defeat.’
The Sickle Moon shuddered for a final time, as if relieved to be dropped out of the warp gales and easing back into real space. Its fractured Geller fields rippled clear of the outer hull, skittering with half-doused energies as the barrier fell. A second later the sub-warp drives kicked into life, their mechanical hammering replacing the dull, massive throb of the warp engines.
Yesugei rolled his shoulders as the last plate of his power armour was drilled into place. Its weight reassured him, as did the familiar hum of its servos and the oily aroma rising from the freshly serviced joints.
He held his skull-topped staff loosely in one hand. His crystalline hood fizzed a little as the implants took, sending a frisson of static across his bare scalp.
The crew, even those of the Legion, struggled not to sneak glances in his direction. Yesugei smiled a little at that, knowing how strange and magnificent a Stormseer looked when fully arrayed in the battleplate of his order.
These fanciful costumes we wear.
‘Warp shutters up,’ ordered Lushan, seated in the command throne. ‘Bring us to quarter speed. I need location readings as soon as possible.’
The iron barriers swept open with a series of loud slams, exposing the void once more. A few stray straggles of warp essence ran down metres-thick armourglass panes, glowing and multi-hued, before gusting away to nothing.
‘So where are we, commander?’ Yesugei asked quietly, staring up at newly-exposed stars. He couldn’t shake the skin-prickle sense of foreboding that had dogged him since waking.
Lushan, wearing his helm like the rest of the Legion contingent, didn’t reply immediately. ‘I think…’ he began, then trailed off as more readings came in. ‘Is that a ship?’
‘Confirmed, commander,’ replied Ergil, his sensorium officer. ‘Destroyer, Sixteenth Legion profile, though with unknown markings.’
Yesugei blink-clicked a link from the Sickle Moon’s tactical cogitators to his helm. ‘That is attack speed, commander.’
‘I noticed,’ said Lushan. ‘And its void shields are up.’
‘May I suggest we do the same?’
Lushan tur
ned to him quizzically. ‘It is a Legion vessel.’
‘Do as I say.’
Lushan turned back to his throne-mounted console. ‘Power all weapons, raise shields.’
‘Luna Wolves warship closing to within main lance range,’ reported Ergil. ‘We are being targeted.’
‘What in hell?’ muttered Lushan. ‘Pull away from it. Vox them. Ask what they think they are doing.’
The Sickle Moon swung round, rolling over on its axis and thrusting powerfully. The whole vessel shook as the engines ramped up to full power and kicked the ship into a sharp dive.
Yesugei watched the enemy vessel carefully as it approached. It was a brutal looking ship, blackened by scorch-marks along its prow and with las-damage mottling its flanks. It was bigger than the Sickle Moon, with a much larger weapons array.
‘We’re being voxed, commander,’ announced the comm-servitor.
‘Relay it,’ ordered Lushan.
‘Fifth Legion warship,’ came the comm-burst. ‘Declare yourself or be destroyed.’
Lushan shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are they doing?’
Yesugei’s gaze remained locked on the incoming vessel. He opened his mind to the aether, just a fraction, like inching a door ajar. He felt war-lust bleeding from it – a blind, obsessive war-lust he’d never sensed before from a Legiones Astartes deployment.
And… something else.
‘These are the Sons of Horus, commander,’ Yesugei said. ‘Best not to rile them.’
‘Enemy lances priming, commander,’ reported Ergil.
‘Fifth Legion warship – evasion will get you killed. You know the situation. Declare yourself.’
‘Vox them back,’ replied Lushan, sounding angry now. ‘Ask them what they mean. And tell them to power down their–’
Before he’d finished, the void briefly lit up. A lance-beam seared past, missing the aft-decks by less than five hundred metres. The scarred profile of the enemy warship continued to grow, racing after them on full-burn.
‘They know we are faster once we reach full speed,’ advised Yesugei. ‘They will not let us pull away. Talk to them.’
Horus Heresy: Scars Page 12
