by Gav Thorpe
The burning lights of the incoming drop pods and landing craft grew brighter.
‘I wonder what it feels like,’ said Arukka.
‘What’s that?’
‘Making a drop assault without the Nails. I’ve always been too lost by the time I even stepped aboard to worry about the danger of plunging from orbit onto an enemy position. These sons of Macragge know exactly what they are doing. All the way down.’
Eres did not reply. His implants were starting to respond to the change in his physiology and brain activity as the prospect of battle approached. His adrenal surge was already boosted by his Space Marine augmentations. On top of that, the Butcher’s Nails were fizzing in the meat of his mind.
He shuddered and bared his teeth, suppressing a growl. It was too soon.
The key to using the Nails properly was not to become a mindless slayer, as much as many in his Legion allowed themselves. There was a technique, a pattern to follow, that allowed the implant to peak in its effect at just the right moment. The trick was to hold back on the rise to the top of the wave, and then allow oneself to succumb fully, riding it back down into oblivion.
He knew that the desire to kill had to be burning through the nerves of his warriors, but they held back their fire. Not a single volkite beam or bolter shell leapt out to meet the descending enemy craft.
Unopposed, the Ultramarines crashed down onto the surface of Kronus, thirty drop pods packed with vengeful warriors, ten more unleashing clouds of missiles and blasts of plasma into the surrounding ruins. Gunships rained down fire as they circled, battering shells against the toppled walls and the reinforced ferrocrete of the bunkers.
‘The time is at hand, my proud Eaters of Worlds!’ declared Eres, opening fire with his bolter vambrace while the Achilles spat forth death from its thunderfire cannon and multi-meltas. ‘Let the enemy know our retort!’
The World Eaters surged from dozens of cover positions, bolters and pistols barking, covered by heavy weapons fire from Word Bearers stationed at murder holes in the lower levels of the templum.
Suddenly surrounded by a mass of foes, the Ultramarines tried to pull back into a defensive formation, the guns of the Thunderhawks overhead silenced by the short distance between both sides. Eres ran in, his chainsabres whirring as bolts from a charging Ultramarines sergeant sparked from his war-plate.
The sergeant had a short-bladed gladius in one hand, his pistol in the other. Diamond-edged chainblade teeth cut through his sword hand, scattering armoured fingers. Eres’ other weapon split the pistol’s barrel, detonating the bolt in the chamber. Reeling from this, the sergeant took a step back. Eres ripped both blades free and drove them into the Ultramarine’s chest, the spinning teeth chewing through the golden blazon and blue ceramite until they churned into bone and organs.
Eres felt a jolt as his Butcher’s Nails responded to the carnage unfolding around him. He snarled, taking in a short breath as he looked around.
Brother versus brother. It mattered not.
To fight his fellow legionaries was the ultimate test. If he was stronger than the best of them, then there was no other in the galaxy that could threaten him, save for the primarchs themselves.
He wove his blades in deadly arcs – sometimes together, sometimes apart – punctuating the moments of inactivity between foes with salvoes from his vambrace.
With each death the gorging of his warrior spirit grew and the Nails’ effect became more potent. His vision was turning red as combat stimms coursed through his body, threatening to burst his genhanced veins.
There was something else, alongside the well-known euphoria of battle. There was a sense of release with each foe he killed. Every Ultramarine that fell was accompanied by a surge of power. It lingered along his blades with the blood, a miasma on the edge of sensation.
The same was also true of every World Eater that died around him. Eres could almost feel something ephemeral, as though their very essence fled their cleaved bodies, trying to soar away but caught in the thrall of the Templum Daemonarchia. It occurred to him, as he struck the head from another foe, that perhaps Eliphas was trying to play him for a fool, luring him into sacrificing his warriors for some greater goal…
The implant reached its perfect pitch, raw sensation and intellectual understanding meeting at an infinitely small point of balance.
Everything was clear and pin-sharp. Each flying drop of blood, each tooth on his sword blades, every scratch upon his armour. He saw the detonation of bolts and the trails of propellant behind them, felt the thunder of the Achilles’ guns through his boots, smelled the blood and tasted the sweat on the air.
For an exquisite instant he teetered on the precipice, trying with every mote of will to hold on to his sanity, lifted up above all other creatures in his moment of ecstatic accomplishment.
And then he slipped over the summit and was dragged down into the mindless rage, all thought of grand plans and potential betrayal forgotten.
From a skewed window a few metres above the base of the tower, Eliphas heard Eres’ howl split the air. The World Eater was a blur of death, his armour sprayed with gore as he hacked his way into the heart of the Ultramarines’ ranks.
But as much as the XII Legion fell upon the sons of Guilliman with reckless abandon, Eres had been true to his plan. He had positioned his warriors in such a way that there was a path to the Templum Daemonarchia, and along this weakened axis the Ultramarines naturally moved, seeking both refuge from the berserk assault and also to silence the heavy guns of the Word Bearers in the higher reaches.
‘It’s working!’ crowed Yoth. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘I can,’ replied Eliphas. Like a rising flood, the immaterial energy was gathering in the foundations of the tower. It was drawn to the blood-soaked stones, built in ritual, arranged along the occult lines of confluence between realms. He slapped a hand to Yoth’s shoulder plate. ‘I can feel it, my learned friend. Your calculations are perfect!’
The first of the Ultramarines reached the gate below, staggering into the cold interior as they turned and fired their bolters at the pursuing World Eaters. Eliphas gestured to Achton, who was waiting by a crude stairway to the left, the great icon across his shoulder.
‘It is nearly time. With me, proud sacrificier.’
The Word Bearers commander raced down the steps and into the beleaguered Ultramarines. His mace left crimson trails of smoke as he smote left and right, cracking open armour and crushing helms.
For all that he had laboured to build the templum for the glory of the Abyssal Situlate, it felt good to smite his enemies in person.
The escaping soulstuff of the dead washed around him, the death cries and passing moans of the departed lingering in his hearing. As more legionaries died, the warp-fluid became a tangible thing, a half-present cloud of fog that was spiralling up to the pinnacle of the templum, guided by the swirl of dedicated corpses adorning the exterior, concentrating and solidifying as though light passing through successive lenses, becoming sharper and more distinct as it spun higher.
‘Now, Achton!’ he cried. ‘Immoria magisterius sanguinia!’
Eliphas’ icon bearer drove the sharpened heel of the stave through the chest of a dying Ultramarine, pinning the flailing legionary to the ground.
The skulls flared with black fire, hurling Achton half a dozen metres across the floor of the templum as if he had been struck by lightning. His smoking war-plate clattered to a stop against the far wall, cracked open as though something huge had burst out from within. Of the warrior that had worn the armour, nothing was visible.
Set into the corpse of the Ultramarine, the standard started to shine with a dirty golden light that caused even Eliphas to flinch, averting his eyes from its blazing light. When he had recovered, he saw that the head of the icon was slowly starting to spin. The circle described by the orbiting skulls darkened, becoming a bla
ck disc that bowed outwards.
Or perhaps inwards? The shining surface tricked the eye, making it seem both convex and concave at the same time.
A face formed in the fluid-like blackness.
A proud brow, and unflinching eyes. Lips pursed in agitation.
The Abyssal Situlate.
The Incarnate Entity of the All-Changing Ways. The Guide of the Blind.
Lorgar, Aurelian.
The Urizen. Primarch of the XVII Legion.
Eliphas and the other Word Bearers threw themselves to their knees, all except the Inheritor averting their eyes.
‘Lord, a thousand humble thanks for your appearance,’ Eliphas called, holding out his hands in supplication. ‘You bless us with this visitation. But I beg more. Why do you not walk the bridge we have built? Why would you not pass through the golden arch we have erected in your honour?’
The primarch’s lips moved, and as they did the skulls opened their jaws, mouthing in time to the words that issued from the icon, the voice bassy and distorted.
‘Eliphas. What cause brings you to disturb me in this awkward fashion?’
‘Kronus, revered lord. We beg your indulgence and your presence so that you might witness the holy slaughter. Bless us with your strong arm and sure command, I beseech you!’
‘Kronus? What of Kronus?’
‘The Five Hundred Worlds burn in your name, Father of Truth. Kronus shall be lit like a pyre in your honour.’
‘The Five Hundred Worlds are of no concern to me any longer, Eliphas. I have achieved that which I sought when we came east.’
Eliphas became aware that all had fallen quiet around him. He heard the tread of boots and glanced to his left to see Eres marching into the hall of the templum. The glazed look in his eyes was fading, his gaze slowly focussing on the Word Bearers. Eliphas ignored him.
‘But my lord… Monarchia?’ Eliphas spluttered. ‘What of our retribution against the sons of Guilliman? Are the Ultramarines to be spared the anguish that their callous betrayal deserves?’
‘The Ultramarines are no longer of any consequence – my brother Angron and his Legion will hew their pitiful remains. All forces and expeditions of the Word Bearers are to reassemble on the Road of Stars, to follow the primus naviclature to the recall point on Tarsaron.’
‘Tarsaron?’ Eliphas’ voice was almost a whimper. ‘What of our works here? What of the great pyre?’
‘Obey.’
The image of the primarch grimaced briefly and then was gone, the icon falling to dust across the body of the Ultramarine.
Yoth rose to his feet and rounded on the commander. ‘That is our reward, Inheritor? That is the prize for all our labours?’
‘The Abyssal Situlate has spoken,’ Eliphas replied, though his voice sounded as hollow as his heart felt. ‘The Shadow Crusade is no more. Vanished, like the Great Crusade before it. Lorgar commands. We follow.’
‘We fought for Kronus...’
‘You fought little,’ said Eres, coming up behind Eliphas, his chainswords leaving bloody droplets on the crudely tiled floor. ‘Kronus belongs to me. You heard the words of your gene-sire.’
Eliphas thought to argue, but he could see the last remnants of the implant still pushing murderous thoughts into the captain’s brain. Outnumbered, facing direct orders from his primarch, Eliphas had little option but to acquiescence to Eres’ demand. He said nothing, and started towards the archway that led from the tower.
As he went, he heard Eres speaking to Yoth.
‘Why do you call him “Inheritor”?’
‘It is how he came by the rank of Chapter Master,’ Yoth replied with a bitter laugh. ‘During the Purge, he slew the previous leader of the Ark of Testimony, and took his place. Lorgar did not elevate him, saying only that he had “inherited” his command. He never earned his place, and we will never let him forget it.’
Eliphas ground his teeth. He had hoped that Kronus would seal his place in history and allow him to bargain for Lorgar’s favour. He had failed.
But it was not the end of his ambitions. Even if he had to throttle Kor Phaeron and slay a thousand worlds himself, he would get the respect he deserved...
He walked out into the body-strewn surrounds of the templum. Kronus was a stepping stone, as he had said, but now he knew that he could depend upon the primarch for nothing.
The principles had been proven. Now he would enact his plans on a far grander scale. There would be a reckoning. When the time came, Eliphas swore to himself, Lorgar would finally take notice, and the name of the Inheritor would be known across the galaxy.
Whether as a curse or blessing, he did not care.
ABOUT the AUTHOR
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
Chastised by the Emperor, the Word Bearers set out on their own path - one that will eventually lead them to damnation and heresy and plunge the galaxy into war.
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
First published in Great Britain in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
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Inheritor © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Inheritor, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN 978-1-78572-054-3
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
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