Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx

by Ben Counter

  anchor them, the plaguebearers wheeled in confusion, running in ones

  and twos into the bolter fire of the Imperial Fists, cut down and

  shredded into masses of stringy gore.

  Graevus held his power axe high and yelled an order that Luko

  couldn’t quite make out through the ringing. The Soul Drinkers vaulted

  from cover and advanced, bolters firing, even as the Imperial Fists did

  the same. Caught in a crossfire, leaderless, the plaguebearers

  seemed to dissolve under the weight of fire, as if in a downpour of acid.

  Luko’s senses returned to him as the whole flank of the daemon

  army collapsed, the servants of the Plague God ripped to shreds by

  the combined fire of the Soul Drinkers and the Imperial Fists.

  The two Adeptus Astartes forces met as the last of the

  plaguebearers were being picked off by bolter fire. Luko found himself

  looking into the face of Captain Lysander.

  ‘At last, we meet as brothers,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Thank the Emperor for mutual foes,’ replied Luko without humour.

  ‘Vladimir has requested that we fight now as one. Will you take your

  place in the line?’

  ‘We will, Captain,’ said Luko. ‘There are but few of us, and one of

  our best was lost killing that beast. But whatever fight we can offer, the

  enemies of the warp will have it.’

  Lysander shouldered his power hammer, and held out a hand. Luko

  slid his own hand out of his lightning claw gauntlet, and shook it.

  ‘They’re falling back,’ came Vladimir’s voice over Lysander’s vox.

  ‘But in order. All units, withdraw to the centre and the Forge and hold

  positions.’

  ‘Abraxes would not abandon the fight,’ said Lysander, ‘even with

  their flank collapsed.’

  Luko watched as the last few plaguebearers fled through the ruins of

  barracks and shrines, as if responding to a mental command to give

  up the fight. They were cut down by bolter fire, sharpshooters snapping

  bolts into them as they ran. ‘He has a plan,’ said Luko. ‘His kind

  always do.’

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked Kolgo.

  Sister Aescarion, crouched among the ruins of the front line’s

  barricades, watched through her magnoculars a moment longer.

  ‘They are building something,’ she said.

  The daemons had retreated a little under an hour before, but not all

  the way back to the cargo holds. Instead they had formed their own

  lines a kilometre away, almost the whole width of the deck. They had

  cut power to as many of the local systems as they could, resulting in

  the overhead lights failing and casting darkness across the battlefield

  as if night had fallen. Fires twinkled among the daemons’ positions,

  illuminating hulking shapes of iron with designs that could only be

  guessed at in the gloom.

  ‘Building what?’ said Kolgo.

  Aescarion handed him the magnoculars. ‘War machines,’ said

  Aescarion. ‘At a guess. It is impossible to tell.’

  Kolgo focused the magnoculars for himself. Daemons danced

  around their fires and tattered banners stood, fluttering in the updrafts,

  casting flickering shadows on the engines they were building. ‘Building

  them from what?’

  ‘Perhaps they are bringing parts through from the warp,’ said

  Aescarion.

  The Imperial Fists had rebuilt what defences they could and were

  now holding their makeshift line again, watchmen posted at intervals to

  watch for any developments among the enemy. The Space Marine

  losses had been tallied, and they were heavy. Leucrontas’s command

  had almost been wiped out, only a couple of dozen stragglers now

  joining the centre. Most other Imperial Fists units were little over halfstrength.

  Borganor’s Howling Griffons, in the Forge of Ages, had

  fended off skirmishing forces that tested their strength, and were

  mostly intact save for a few felled by shrieking flying things that

  swooped down among them, decapitating and severing with their

  snapping jaws. The Imperial Fists now holding the line in front of the

  Tactica were crouched, much as Aescarion was, scanning the

  daemon lines for the first signs of an assault. The sound of metal on

  metal drifted across, along with strains of a grim atonal singing.

  ‘Come,’ said Kolgo. ‘Vladimir has called a council of war. We shall

  not have to settle for sitting and watching for much longer.’

  Aescarion followed the inquisitor through the darkness. On every

  side were Space Marines who had suffered wounds in the battle but

  returned to the fray. Many were missing hands or limbs, or had

  segments of their armour removed to allow for a wound to be cast or

  splinted.

  The most severely wounded were laid out in the Tactica itself, on or

  around the map tables. Apothecaries worked on chest and head

  wounds, with healthy brothers rotated in to serve as blood donors for

  transfusions. As Aescarion and Kolgo entered, another Imperial Fist

  was lifted off a map table by two of his battle-brothers and carried

  towards the archways leading to the building’s rear, where the dead

  were being piled up. A lectern-servitor with a scratching autoquill was

  keeping a tally of the dead in a ledger.

  Officers were gathered around one of the central tables, which

  represented the canyon walls and xenos settlement of some ancient

  battle. Vladimir was there, along with Lysander, Borganor and Librarian

  Varnica of the Doom Eagles. With them stood Captain Luko and

  Sergeant Graevus of the Soul Drinkers.

  Aescarion stood apart as Kolgo joined them.

  ‘Lord inquisitor,’ said Vladimir. ‘Now we are all present. I shall

  dispense with any formalities as time is not on our side. We must

  decide our next course of action, and do it now.’

  ‘Attack,’ said Borganor. ‘I cannot say why Abraxes withdrew his

  army, for it is unlike the daemons’ manner of war, but it is certain that

  we shall not get any such respite from them again. We must lead a

  counter-offensive as soon as we can, before they finish whatever

  infernal contraptions they are building. Therein lies the only chance of

  defeating them.’

  ‘I agree, Chapter Master,’ said Lysander. ‘We have borne the brunt

  of their assault with greater fortitude than Abraxes expected. They

  regroup and perhaps reinforce as we speak. Attack them and destroy

  them. It is the only way.’

  ‘They outnumber us,’ countered Librarian Varnica. ‘A full assault will

  result in defeat for us, every tactical calculation points towards it.’

  ‘Then what would you have us do?’ said Borganor. ‘Wait for Dorn’s

  own return? For Roboute Guilliman to appear amongst us?’

  ‘Attacking would make the most of what advantages we have,’ said

  Luko. ‘We are at our best up close, charging into the face of the

  enemy.’

  ‘So are daemons,’ said Graevus.

  ‘True,’ said Luko. ‘Very true.’

  ‘There must be other ways,’ said Varnica. ‘We fall back to a smaller,

  more defensible part of the Phalanx and force them to attack on a

  narrow frontage. Lure them in
and kill them piece by piece.’

  ‘That would give them the run of the Phalanx,’ said Vladimir.

  ‘Abraxes would do with this craft as he wished. His daemons could

  surround us and perhaps render the whole section uninhabitable by

  introducing hard vacuum or radiation. With Abraxes in charge they

  certainly would.’

  ‘The question is,’ said Varnica, ‘does such a scenario promise our

  deaths with more or less certainty than walking across the barracks

  deck and into their arms?’

  ‘So,’ said Vladimir. ‘We give Abraxes my army or we give him my

  ship. Any other suggestions?’

  ‘There is one,’ said a newcomer’s voice. The officers turned to see

  Apothecary Pallas. He was attending to one of the wounded nearby,

  using a cautery iron to sear shut the stump of an Imperial Fist’s

  severed left arm.

  ‘Pallas,’ said Luko. ‘I had not realised you let lived. I did not think I

  would speak with you again.’

  ‘Chapter Master,’ said Pallas, continuing to work on the wounded

  warrior. ‘What was to be our manner of execution?’

  ‘We have not the time to waste listening to this renegade,’ said

  Borganor.

  ‘Execution by gunshot,’ said Vladimir, ignoring Borganor. ‘Then

  incineration.’

  ‘On the Path of the Lost?’

  Vladimir folded his arms and stepped back a pace, as if some

  revelation was growing in his mind. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You were to walk

  the Path.’

  ‘It is traditional,’ continued Pallas, ‘that the condemned among the

  sons of Dorn be forced to walk the Path of the Lost. It runs from the

  Pardoner’s Court, just a few hundred metres from this very building,

  and across the width of the Phalanx along the ventral hull. It emerges

  near the cargo holds, where our incinerated remains could be ejected

  from the ship. Is this not correct?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Vladimir. ‘You know much of this tradition. So few

  executions have been held on the Phalanx that few give it any mind

  now.’

  ‘I read of the ways in which we would die after I refused to join my

  brothers in their breakout,’ said Pallas. ‘It seemed appropriate for me

  to do so, that I might counsel my brothers when the time for execution

  came.’

  ‘And what,’ said Borganor, ‘is your point?’

  ‘My point is that Abraxes has at his command more than a mere

  army,’ said Pallas. The cautery iron had finished its work in closing the

  wound and Pallas now wrapped the wound in gauze as he spoke. ‘He

  brought his army onto the Phalanx somehow, and he brings

  components for his war machines and no doubt reinforcements for his

  troops. He has a warp gate, a way into the immaterium, and it is

  stable and open. Only this explains his capacity to attack the Phalanx

  at all.’

  ‘And the Path of the Lost,’ said Luko, ‘leads from here to the region

  of the warp gate.’

  ‘Among the dorsal cargo holds,’ said Pallas. ‘A sizeable force could

  not make it through the Path, certainly not without alerting Abraxes to

  divert his forces to defending the portal. The majority of the force must

  stay here to face his army and keep it fighting. A smaller force, a

  handful strong, takes the Path of the Lost and strikes out for the warp

  gate’s location. As long as Abraxes possesses a gate through the

  warp any attempt to defeat him here is futile, for he will just bring more

  legions through until we are exhausted.’

  ‘Insanity,’ said Borganor.

  ‘Captain Borganor,’ said Vladimir. ‘I have no doubt that your hatred

  for the Soul Drinkers is well deserved, for they have done your Chapter

  much wrong. But what Pallas says has merit. It does not matter if we

  shatter Abraxes’s army, he still has a means to conjure a new one

  from the warp. Remove that, and we buy ourselves a thread that leads

  to victory.’

  ‘You are not seriously considering this?’ said Borganor.

  ‘I will go,’ said Luko. ‘The Soul Drinkers have suffered at the hands

  of Abraxes before. If we are to die on the Phalanx, then let it be in

  seeking revenge against him.’

  ‘And none but the Soul Drinkers have faced Abraxes before at all,’

  added Graevus.

  ‘You will need a Librarian,’ said Varnica. ‘And since they are in such

  short supply, I had better go with you.’

  ‘Varnica?’ said Borganor. ‘You were among the first to condemn the

  Soul Drinkers!’

  ‘And if you are correct in your mistrust, I will be among the last to be

  betrayed by them,’ said Varnica. ‘But the Chapter Master is right.

  There is no other way. Thin as the thread is, unwholesome as the Soul

  Drinkers reputation might be, I must follow that thread for it is all we

  have.’

  ‘And I,’ said Sister Aescarion, stepping forwards. ‘The Inquisition

  must have a presence. My lord inquisitor is most valuable here,

  leading the defence of the Phalanx. In his stead I offer myself to

  accompany the Apothecary’s mission.’

  ‘I shall appoint an Imperial Fists squad to accompany you,’ said

  Vladimir. ‘I can spare no more. The rest of my warriors must remain to

  hold the line.’

  ‘I wish Apothecary Pallas given leave to join us as well,’ said Luko.

  ‘You have it. Kolgo, Borganor, Lysander and myself shall continue to

  command the defence. These are the wishes of Chapter Master

  Vladimir, and hence are the wishes of Rogal Dorn. Go now to fulfil your

  orders, brothers and sisters. Should I see you after the battle, then all

  shall be joyful. If not, I shall await you at the end of time, at the

  Emperor’s side, when we shall have our revenge for everything the

  enemy has done to us.’

  The officers departed to organise the defence of the Tactica and the

  Forge of Ages. Across the cavernous barracks deck, the war

  machines of the daemon army grew higher.

  Chapter 13

  It was a dismal thing, killing Chaplain Iktinos.

  Iktinos was, by then, a barely sensible wreck. The infliction of the

  Hell had broken his mind so thoroughly that there was nothing left of

  the Chaplain save for his physical shell. The man that had once been,

  the paragon of the Chapter and the hidden traitor, were gone.

  Sarpedon had carried Iktinos to a cluster of saviour pods adjoining

  the fighter craft deck. In the event of the huge hangar doors failing or

  some disaster befalling the fighter deck, the crew could use the pods

  to escape the Phalanx. The entrances to the pods were circular shafts

  leading down from a slanting wall, like the open mouths of steel worms

  waiting to swallow the desperate crewmen as they fled. Oil stained the

  walls and ceiling, and the chill of the near-vacuum could not be

  completely kept out by the hull insulation. It was no place for a Space

  Marine to die, suited only to a shambolic, almost apologetic excuse

  for a death.

  Should the saviour pods themselves be compromised, an

  emergency airlock was set into the outer skin of the hull beside the

  entrances to
the pods. A crewman in a voidsuit who took that exit

  could conceivably survive an extra hour or two in space, and perhaps

  even be picked up by a rescue craft. Sarpedon placed Iktinos’s limp

  form on the deck and turned the wheel-lock, opening the airlock’s

  outer door.

  ‘If you have anything you wish to add, Chaplain,’ said Sarpedon,

  ‘now is the time.’

  Iktinos did not reply. Sarpedon looked down at him, at his burned

  face and scorched, dented armour, and regretted speaking. The

  Chaplain was barely drawing breath.

  Sarpedon placed a hand against Iktinos’s charred skull. Sarpedon

  had never possessed any great talent for diving into the mind of

  another. Some Librarians of the Old Chapter had specialised in peeling

  apart another’s consciousness, diving down and extracting secrets the

  subject himself did not know. Others read minds on a vast scale,

  divining troop movements from an opposing army as fast as their

  orders spread. Sarpedon had only been able to transmit, albeit at the

  tremendous telepathic volume that manifested as the Hell.

  Nevertheless he had sometimes caught echoes of the strongest

  emotions, an aspect of the sixth sense that all psykers possessed in

  some degree. He tried to read something from Iktinos then, to divine

  some final thought from the man he had once considered his closest

  ally in all the universe.

  There was nothing. Complete deadness, as if Iktinos was an inert

  object with no mind at all.

  Then Sarpedon caught something, faint and intermittent, like a

  signal from a dying transmitter light years away. It was the howling of

  a desolate wind, the sound of emptiness more profound that silence. It

  whistled through the ruined architecture of a mind as empty as a

  bombed-out city, as alone as a world where life had never evolved. It

  was as if there had never been a mind in there at all, scoured and

  scrubbed from the wind-blasted stones by a terrible extinction.

  Sarpedon alone had not done this. The Hell was indiscriminate and

  crude, a force of destruction, certainly, but not accurate or thorough

  enough to erase the personality of another. Iktinos had done this to

  himself. The shattered fragments of his soul had gathered themselves

  into a whole coherent enough only to self-destruct. A logic bomb

  planted by Daenyathos’s teachings, a way to destroy any