by Andy Smillie
The Archenemy guns rack empty. I watch expended magazines topple. I see hands reach for replacements. I hear the stiff clack of fresh rounds locking in place. I watch as barrels turn on me, and fingers tighten on triggers.
They fire.
I dive forward, throwing myself into a roll. Their rounds roar as they tear over my head, obliterating the air where I’d stood. I rise at the feet of the nearest. My blade flashes azure as its energy field ripples to life. His bolter clatters to the ground as I rob him of his hand. He cries out in a language that burns my ears. I snarl, reversing my grip and severing his head.
The last of the Archenemy swings the butt of his gun towards me. I don’t have time to move. I form a wedge with my forearms and brace against the blow. The pain is immense. He hits me again. Something breaks. The third strike comes low, smashing into my ribs. I slash out with my blade as I stumble, cutting through his gun’s barrel. The strike leaves me open. He capitalises and his left hand catches me on the chin. I roll with the blow and fight to stay conscious.
Laughter rumbles through the vox-grille of his helm as he advances on me. The sound drags blood from my ears.
‘Embrace your death. It is the truest reflection of your life.’ His voice is like the cracking of dried wood aged beyond mortal means. He draws a long, curved knife as black as his armour.
I tighten my grip on my blade.
A cluster of rounds strike his pauldron. He turns, raising an arm to protect his head as another strikes his gorget. ‘Barbarian.’ The word carries the weight of his hatred as he rounds on his attacker.
Sothis. The Scout is running towards us, bolt pistol blazing.
The Archenemy grunts, and throws his blade. It spears into Sothis’s chest, pitching him backwards.
‘No!’ I roar and lunge forward, driving my blade up into the Archenemy’s chest. He grunts as though the wound were minor, and clamps a hand around my neck. I stare up into his helm and see only myself. The hatred in my own eyes glaring back at me from the polished dark of his armour. ‘Die,’ I rasp through gritted teeth and force the knife in further, feeling his blood run over my hand. His gauntlet tightens on my neck. I feel bones crack. He will kill me before my blade finds his heart.
A bullet rushes past my ear to strike the Archenemy’s wrist. His hand comes away. He lifts the stump of his forearm towards his helm in disbelief.
‘Embrace this death. It is the end of your life,’ I snarl, plunging my blade into his primary heart.
Exhausted, I let his corpse topple from me and drop to one knee. ‘Sanguinius bless your aim.’ I look to the balcony and mouth my thanks to Eschiros. He was the only one who could have made that shot. I drag myself up and rest my weight against a burnt-out barrel. ‘How many?’ I ask Cophi over the comm.
‘Too many.’
I swallow a knot of rage, and glance around. The storm outside has receded and the room is dark again. The stench of death is choking. The ground is slick with blood. Sergeant Cophi is re-organising the squads. Weapons snap to readiness as they are reloaded.
I focus on the rainwater, listening as it bounces off the metal of the presses. I hope for a moment’s calm. I do not find it. My mind warps the sound, feeding me images of weapons fire, the steady rhythm of flak guns and the quickening pace of autocannons. My hearts rumble in my chest, eager to fight again. Sighing, I get to my feet.
Nine Nekkari troopers took their own lives. A dozen more wept like infants, shaking as wracking fear bent them foetal. The rest looked on helpless, mouthing pleas to the Emperor as the Flesh Tearers prepared to leave.
‘Get on board, Chaplain.’ Seth’s voice was like the growling of a chainblade.
‘No,’ said Appollus. ‘We cannot just leave.’
‘We can and we must.’
‘Temel and the others, have you forgotten they are out there?’
‘I am aware of our current deployment status.’
‘And you would leave anyway?’
‘I have told you. This emergent threat is dire, one the Blood Angels cannot stop alone.’
‘Dante calls and you come running.’
Seth snarled and stepped forward, pressing his forehead against Appollus’s. ‘The years we have stood together, brother, the blood we have spilled together. Those things have bought you your life this day.’ Seth bunched his fists. ‘On Sanguinius’s name, if you ever speak to me in such a manner again, I will kill you.’
Appollus held his ground in silence.
Harahel felt his finger drift to the activation stud on his eviscerator. He stood at the top of the Thunderhawk’s ramp, watching Seth and Appollus below. Seth was the greatest warrior the Flesh Tearers had known since Amit, but there was a darkness in Appollus, a brutal savagery that had seen him unbeaten in the duelling cages. Both of them were irreplaceable, heroes of the Chapter. Harahel hoped he would not be required to intervene.
Seth took a step back and regained his composure. ‘Baal is at stake, Appollus. The tyranids have consumed all before them. If we do not go now, Baal will fall.’
‘And what of it? Let the Blood Angels worry about Baal. What of this world? Is it any less important?’
‘Do not insult me with feigned ignorance. You know it is.’
‘Baal is not our world,’ said Appollus.
‘It is Sangunius’s world. It is our father’s home.’
‘Our father is gone.’ Appollus struggled to keep his voice level.
‘Under the twinned red suns of death shall the reckoning of my sons begin. By the grace of a golden warrior will their fate be writ, and by their actions will he know their courage. Against an unknown foe will they fight, a beast that holds the doom of men within its jaws. This will be a war they cannot win, and failure here will herald the coming of the end.’
‘I have read the Scrolls of Sanguinus,’ said Appollus. ‘But how many must die so that Dante can triumph? How many of our brothers’ lives is Baal worth?’
‘All of them.’ Seth paced away, turning his back on the Chaplain. ‘We need Baal, Appollus.’
‘The memory of nobility does not change who we are.’
‘No it does not.’ Seth turned back to face Appollus, his shoulders heavy about his frame. ‘But without it we are lost. How can we ever find our way back from the brink if we have nothing to turn back to?’
Appollus said nothing, standing a moment in silence before stepping past Seth and onto the Thunderhawk.
The scene before me is one of madness. Serried ranks of siege engines line the shattered street. Each piece of artillery is marked by its treachery, its iron and steel warped by the influence of the Nekkari’s dark allies. Their barrels are broken and distended, stretched like misshapen mouths that snarl as they cough rounds into the air. Some buck against the piles of chains that hold them in place. Others flash with fire, their hulls glowing like filaments as they consume the bodies of their crew. All are covered in dark runes, inky sigils that shift and shiver under gaze.
The puddle I’m knee-deep in shudders as another barrage fires into the distance.
Hold. Cover. I sign the command to Cophi. The sergeant and his squad are in the building behind me. A ruined agricultural plant, it presents the only real cover on the south side of the enemy position. To the west, secreted in smashed nutrient vats, Eschiros and his Scouts await my order. The rest of the Company are already moving in from the north.
Clear. Move. Cophi signs back.
I crouch lower and edge forward, slipping between a pair of burned out pallet-lifters as I scrabble down towards the nearest vehicle.
A single, soft chime sounds in my ear. Hold. I stop moving and throw a glance back towards Cophi.
Three targets. Ten paces. I only just make out his warning.
I ease down onto my belly, sheltering behind a pile of loose brick, and tease forward.
A shallow trench snakes around the artillery, and runs the length of the position. It is thick with the enemy. Traitors with autoguns held across their chests, wa
lk up and down in slack patrol, distracted by the growling of their possessed charges and the screaming of unfortunate gun-crew.
I tap my throat once, then twice in quick succession. The three traitors nearest me jerk and fall to the ground, a single hole bore through each of their skulls. I sign my thanks to Eschiros and drop into the trench. The next patrol is already closing; a few more steps and they will uncover the bodies. I push on, trusting to the darkness and Eschiros’s rifle.
Ten more strides and I am at the first artillery piece. The machine rumbles at my presence. Verdant fire hisses from its exhausts in an angry snarl. A thick vapour hangs in the air, a chocking mix of sulphur, corditex and burned flesh. The smell is almost unbearable. I stumble as nausea threatens to beat me to the ground. I draw my knife and cut into my face, slicing the flesh between my top lip and nose. Blood runs from the wound. The smell fills my nostrils. The stink of the artillery fades behind the visceral clarity. With a grunt of effort, I plant a charge. The machine’s hull vibrates, trembling under my touch.
‘Die with courage,’ I spit, and skirt around its hull towards the next war machine.
I plant another charge and drop into a tight roll, travelling under the vehicle’s hull to avoid a patrol. Moving along the line, I shift from target to target, pushing forward as quickly as I dare, sprinting when the bark of the artillery rises to hide my footsteps. In the open, Eschiros and the others keep me covered, but between the tanks I am on my own.
‘Beware,’ a traitor grunts in warning as I round the hull of a quad-barrelled anti-air tank, to stand between it and another with a large mortar-cannon mounted in place of its turret. Beside him stand four more of his fell brotherhood.
I launch forward, grab the nearest gun and press it firm against his chest. Driving him backwards, I slash out with my knife to kill two of the others as we go. The fourth and fifth raise their weapons to fire. I throw my knife into the chest of the fourth. He topples. The fifth’s finger tightens on the trigger. I wrench the gun from the hands of the first and swing it out like a club. The stock connects with the fifth’s face. He drops, brains leaking from his skull. The first struggles to his feet. I ignore him for a moment, striding forward to retrieve my knife. I turn as he makes to run, driving my blade through his cheek, and pinning him to the tank. His mouth twitches, pleading. His eyes stare at me, wide with horror. I smile, a wolf’s grin, and leave him there.
A handful more charges and I am done.
‘Hold,’ Cophi’s voice whispers in my ear.
I freeze.
Cophi’s voice comes again. ‘The Archenemy.’
I press the comm-bead tight against my throat and whisper. ‘How many?’
‘Five. You’ll be spotted as soon as you move.’
I check the mission time. The squads moving in from the north will detonate their charges in three minutes. ‘We are out of time.’
I break cover and open fire, my bolt pistol kicking in my grasp as I unload on full-auto.
The Archenemy standfast as my rounds hammer their armour. They fire. Bolt-rounds dog my steps as I race towards the cover of the vehicles opposite. It is too far. I grimace, stumbling as a glancing shot rakes my thigh.
‘Get down.’
I throw myself forward at Cophi’s command. An instant later a missile roars past me to explode among the Archenemy. Another missile follows the first. Their weapons fall silent.
‘Finish quickly, there are more targets than we have bullets.’ This time it is Eschiros’s voice in my ear.
He is right. Traitors are pouring into the trench from all directions. Around me, the darkness is in retreat, pushed back by the glare of small-arms fire.
I work quickly, tossing charges at the tracks of the remaining vehicles even as I gun down the crews that emerge to engage me.
‘We’re done,’ I shout over the comm, making for Cophi’s position.
‘We might well be.’ Cophi’s tone is light, but he is not wrong.
The trenchline is full of traitors now. Cophi and his squad are pinned down, suppressed behind a series of low walls. Eschiros is faring little better. I’ll never make it clear before they are overrun.
I find Cophi’s eyes in the darkness. They do not need me to speak the words.
He detonates the charges.
The noise is so loud as to be inaudible, a deafening wave that stretches my mouth in anguish as I’m punched from my feet by the blast. Fire rolls over me. Shrapnel tears through me. I land hard. Darkness steals the pain.
‘Captain? Captain Temel?’
I open my eyes on Cophi. He gestures for me to be still. I follow his gaze to my abdomen. A length of ragged metal has me pinned to the ground. ‘Is it done?’ I feel blood spill from my mouth as I speak.
‘Yes. The artillery’s destroyed.’ Cophi’s brow is heavy with concern.
‘I hate the re-juve sarcophagus,’ I say grinning. ‘Pass me the long-range comm.’
Cophi waves Eschiros forward. The other sergeant is limping, and his left arm is as a bloodied rag by his side.
‘Captain,’ Eschiros says, grimacing.
‘It seems not even you made it through this one unscathed. The Emperor’s blessing must have been elsewhere.’
His face lightens. ‘It seems he had his hands full with you.’ Eschiros places the comm-unit down next to me, and hands me the transmitter.
I depress the send key and the wash of static falls silent. ‘Master Seth.’
A moment passes. Another. I listen to the crackle-hum of static, searching for a reply. ‘Master Se–’
‘Captain Temel.’
In person, Seth’s voice is akin to the roar of a chainblade. Distorted over the comm, it sounds more like the thunder of a wrathful god. I smile, glad that I fight under and not against his banner.
‘This is Temel. The mission is complete.’
The static shifts, and for a moment it sounds as though Seth makes to reply. I pause. Nothing.
‘We have destroyed the enemy artillery position,’ I continue. ‘You are free to move up and engage the main enemy formation.’
‘We are not coming.’ Seth’s words come as a hammer-blow. I feel them keener than the wound in my gut. ‘Baal is in danger,’ he continues. ‘We are already ascending to orbit.’
‘I understand.’ I harden my voice with thoughts of duty and honour. If this is to be my last communication with the Chapter, then it shall be one of strength and purpose. ‘The Blood go with you, Lord.’
‘Sanguinius keep you, Temel.’
‘Gabriel…’ I falter, struggling to separate how I feel from what must be said. ‘Our brotherhood is one forged in sacrifice. We carry the burden of our father’s death as a scar upon our souls. His sacrifice lies at the very core of who we are. Do not let your actions here weigh upon you. Do not let them define you.’
The link goes dead.
I pass the device to Cophi and take a moment, riding the surge of adrenaline that is part anger, part sorrow.
The sergeant’s fist tightens on the transmitter, his knuckles bone-white as I relay Seth’s message. ‘Just like that,’ Cophi snarls.
‘It is Seth, not us, who suffers here.’
Eschiros looks at me in question.
‘This burden is his to carry. We will be too dead to care.’ I pause, watching as the glaze of acceptance creeps into the corners of their eyes. ‘Or did you not come to kill and die in the name of the Emperor and Sanguinius?’
‘We should go. Enemy reinforcements will be here soon.’ Eschiros is already gesturing for the Company to pack up and prepare to move.
I nod. ‘Do what you can for this world.’
‘Captain…’ Cophi’s face twists in painful denial.
‘I am done. Go.’
Cophi makes to turn from me, but I grab his arm and gesture to his knife. He passes it to me without question.
I take the blade, and thrust into a pile of smouldering rubble until its length glows amber. Opening my mouth, I grip my tongue wi
th one hand and bring the blade up towards the other.
‘The Blood grant you strength.’ Cophi does me the honour of not looking away, watching as without cry or grimace I cut out my tongue.
My lips wet with blood and I toss the lump of meat to Cophi. He scoops it from the air with a loose fist, and fastens it around his neck with the others.
‘Take this.’ Eschiros tucks a heavy bolter against me. ‘Kill until killed,’ he says, reciting one of Chaplain Appollus’s favoured axioms.
Eschiros smiles and moves off. Cophi lingers a moment, searching for words he will never find, before slipping away into the night.
I wait then, alone, a sentry in the darkness. I listen as the ruckus of men and the rumble of tracks draws near. The smell of blood fills my nostrils and quickens my hearts. My thoughts are consumed by death, the death that will soon claim me, and the death I am about to reap.
I am vengeance. I am fury. I am wrath. The words I have spoken a thousand times surface in my mind like a rising storm. My face twists to a snarl. I rack the slide of the heavy bolter and open fire.
The black Thunderhawk was almost invisible against the dark rockcrete of the foundry. Nestled between two of the structure’s towering chimneys, it had not moved nor powered its engines since first arriving on Nekkaris.
First Zealot Gylon approached the gunship with the cautious gait of a man who knew exactly what awaited him inside. He stopped a moment, letting his eyes scan the darkness. Despite what they told him, he was not alone. He was not that naive. Gylon had spent his life in Nekkaris’s eternal night. He had learned to be attentive to the hairs on his neck as they rose and twitched. Out in the black, the gods were watching him. He took a breath, calming his nerves, and walked up the ramp into the gloom of the Thunderhawk’s hold.
Inside, the craft was as dark as it was outside. Gylon pulled a lumo-stick from his tunic and twisted it sharply. The chemicals inside sparked white before settling to a low-green glow. He held the stick out in front of his face and paced forwards. The Thunderhawk did not welcome him, its interior cast in ghoulish relief by the lumo-stick. Each strike of Gylon’s boots on the deck was answered by a haunting echo that sent chills down his spine. The craft was more mausoleum than gunship. Ancient statues, carved from blackest rock, lined the walls of the main hold-space. Beneath each, held in a lightless stasis field, a weapon or scarred relic stood in defiance of time. Gylon had only been here twice before. The first of those times had been on the Day of Truth, when the gods had come and set him free from the lies of the false Emperor. The second had been when he had led his army to victory, cleansing Nekkaris’s capital of the cowards unwilling to embrace the one true truth. Gylon made his way to the ladder that led to the upper deck and gripped the lumo-stick between his teeth. Reaching up, he grabbed the first rung. It was almost too thick for him to grasp. He climbed, finding it far harder than he had the last time, the effort exhausting his now old bones.
