by Nick Kyme
‘Damn you, Aleph! We swore to conquer galaxies together, unstoppable, our crusade unending. Remember how we cleansed the Haruspex of Crore? How we defended the monastery of Satrapos alone against the ork hordes of the Starbiter?’
During the Great Crusades, when Scaevolla’s Legion had been called the Lunar Wolves, the Imperial Fists had fought alongside them in many battles. It was common lore that Horus, primarch of the Lunar Wolves, had, as a mark of respect, joked that a war between his Legion and the Imperial Fists would last for eternity.
At the battle of Thrael Falls on Cestus II, Scaevolla had rescued Captain Aleph of the Imperial Fists from the anak, the planet’s monstrous aboriginals. The two Space Marines bonded in friendship and fought together in many battles when the paths of their Legions crossed. But when Horus declared his true colours, Scaevolla failed to convince his friend that the road to glory lay with the Warmaster. The rebellion parted them and they would not meet again until the siege of the Emperor’s palace on Terra, when the Sons of Horus assaulted the Eternity Gate, guarded by the Imperial Fists. Across the carnage of the battlefield, Scaevolla had sought out his former battle-brother. They had fought, and Aleph had fallen, pierced by Scaevolla’s sword.
Scaevolla remembered his final words to the dying Space Marine. ‘All the glory we fought for, my brother, gone to dust.’
It was only then that Aleph’s lips moved. ‘It was not our glory, brother,’ he spat out the word with a phlegm of blood. ‘The glory was the Emperor’s.’
Scaevolla sneered. ‘Your Emperor fights to defend dishonourable men, weaklings, slaves, who cower while we, men of virtue, spill our sacred blood on their behalf. Your Emperor could have been a god, and we his angels, but instead he chose servitude to protect his bleating flock.’ Urgency touched Scaevolla’s words. ‘Look into your heart. You know I am right.’
Aleph shook his head.
Hot tears coursed Scaevolla’s cheeks. ‘I offer you freedom, brother, and you choose death.’
A hundred wounds Scaevolla had suffered, but none had bitten as deep as this. Aleph had rebuked the Warmaster, and had forced Scaevolla’s hand to fratricide. Aleph had betrayed his battle-brother.
‘Fool!’ snarled Scaevolla. ‘I rescued you. You owe me your life. Listen to me. I can save you again: disown the false Emperor and join me.’
Aleph chuckled hoarsely. ‘Had the Emperor granted me foresight, I would have preferred to have been torn alive by the anak than rescued by the whelp of an insane blackguard.’
Rage conquered Scaevolla. His bitter agony turned to anger, sweet to taste.
‘You dare mock the Warmaster? I swear, with the four gods as my witness, I shall avenge your insults a thousandfold.’ Laughter echoed madly in Scaevolla’s head.
‘I shall hunt down and kill your progeny, to the end of time. Your sons will suffer by my blade for your devotion to your weakling Emperor.’
Scaevolla tore Aleph’s armour from his chest and dug deep into the flesh. With a sickening squelch, he removed a gland from the mess, his armoured gloves wet and red. As the light in Aleph’s eyes vanished, Scaevolla taunted him with the bloody trophy. ‘I shall replay this moment of victory over you again and again.’
With reverence, he nestled the organ in Aleph’s dead hands. The progenoid gland contained the gene-seed necessary to cultivate Aleph’s successor. Apothecaries scoured the battlefield under fire, collecting the precious material. When they recovered Aleph’s progenoid gland, his essence would live on in a new recruit implanted with his gene-seed. Scaevolla would pursue each of Aleph’s genetic heirs and make them suffer the same fate as their progenitor. In invoking the four gods, he had bound himself to this oath. Scaevolla stood and addressed the corpse. ‘I shall build a monument to the gods you spurned with the skulls of your descendants. Yours shall be the foundation stone.’
With a swift swipe of his blade he decapitated his former battle-brother. As he stooped to pick up the fallen head, Larsus appeared, stumbling on the wreckage of the battlefield, panic on his bloodied face. Scaevolla paled as he heard his words. ‘Captain, all hope is lost. The Warmaster is dead! We must go!’
‘What did you say?’
Larsus repeated himself, louder…
…The past faded. Scaevolla gathered his wits back to the present. Larsus was shaking his shoulder.
‘Captain, we must go. H’raxor’s army has broken the outer defences.’
Outside, the triumphant battle cries of the invading horde were drowning out the defenders’ screams. Scaevolla paused, inhaling deeply. His quarry was close. His senses were drawn to the factory’s heights.
‘We go up.’
SCAEVOLLA WATCHED THE trooper pirouette towards a gaping vat far below and vanish with a splash into the volcanic brew, the last of those who had engaged his squad as they clambered up ladders and along gantries to the higher levels of the factory, led by their leader’s instinct.
The squad stood before a set of sturdy doors. Scaevolla could almost taste his quarry’s presence beyond them. Quietly, he took Larsus to one side. ‘Lieutenant, whatever happens, do not intervene to save me. If I should fall, it is the will of the gods. Bear my head to Sebaket and top the altar with my skull as a mark of my failure.’
Larsus looked stunned. ‘What do you mean, captain? There is no soul in this galaxy who could best you.’
Scaevolla turned away from his lieutenant. He pointed at the doors. ‘Opus?’
The bull ran at the doors and shouldered them open. Daylight spilled from the breach. Scaevolla followed, the rest of his men close behind.
Outside was a wide plaza, open to the gusting wind, with a view across the mist-wreathed killing fields far below. Low clouds, an angry red, obscured the sky. A platoon of Imperial Fists ranged across the plaza. The tallest was cloaked in sweeping blue, crowned with the golden laurels of an officer. An ornate sword hissed with energy in his hands.
Scaevolla thrilled. Aleph’s features were etched on Captain Demetros’s noble face. He barked his orders. ‘The captain is mine. Destroy the others.’
The screech of bolters greeted the warriors’ charge, their black armour soaking up the deadly hail. Scaevolla watched his squad advance.
‘Farewell,’ he whispered sadly, then muttered a pledge to the gods. ‘Now it’s time to end your sport. I will lay no more skulls before your altar.’
Scaevolla walked forward, singling out the captain with his runesword. Five hundred times he had re-enacted this scene. Five hundred times he had vanquished his silver-eyed opponent, heir of Aleph, and removed his head as a trophy. His rage had been satisfied long ago. He’d had to endure the pain of murdering his comrade over and over again, but he could endure it no longer. Scaevolla circled, a black wolf stalking its prey. His rival adopted a duelling posture, power sword balanced to parry or bite. As he closed, Scaevolla saw Demetros’s silver eyes narrow with faint recognition. That silver stare pinned Scaevolla’s gaze, transporting him to another time, another place…
…The sounds of battle roared, explosions and gunfire and the screams of the dying. The ground shuddered to the tread of a Titan’s foot, scattering squads of Imperial Fists before it. The magnificent Eternity Gate, glowering over the battlefield, shook to the fiery kiss of a hundred missiles. A gunship screeched overhead, spitting death, and a dozen advancing pale-armoured Sons of Horus fell in a shower of flame. Mud from the explosions spattered Scaevolla’s pale armour, but he did not flinch. The cacophony of battle was a mere murmur to him as he circled his opponent, the surrounding blur of violence an illusion.
‘Brother Scaevolla.’ Scaevolla’s silver-eyed adversary broke the silence. ‘I have missed you.’
‘And I you, Brother Aleph.’ Scaevolla smiled ruefully. ‘Surrender your sword. You’ve laid low many of the Warmaster’s servants but I will vouch for you before him. He will forgive.’
‘Why should I give my heart to a traitor?’ spat Aleph. His eyes steeled. ‘His madness has destroyed everything the E
mperor has fought for. Your Warmaster has stolen your reason, Scaevolla. You may live your lie for ten millennia, but your heart will weary of your lusts, and you’ll be left an empty husk.’ Aleph breathed deeply, his features pulled with sorrow. ‘Let me end it here, my friend. On the point of my blade. I cannot save you from your past, but I can save you from the future.’
Their eyes continued to lock.
Aleph nodded slowly. ‘So be it. We fight…’
…Scaevolla was jolted back into the present as Demetros’s blade sprang from nowhere. He blocked with a rapid parry, his runesword sparking as it slid down his rival’s power weapon. With a flick of his blade, Demetros tried to disarm him, but Scaevolla was too nimble and returned with a counter-blow. Demetros inclined his head slightly, and the runesword’s sweep skimmed his cheek.
A hideous ululation broke the duellist’s concentration. Fury burst from the plaza doors, clad in baroque armour slick with gore. Odes to the Blood God howled from rictus battle-helms as the berserkers fell on the Imperial Fists, chainaxes chopping. One of the crazed attackers sliced apart a Space Marine, but was in turn disembowelled by Surgit, whose kill he had stolen. Soon the plaza was a confused melee: black, yellow and crimson power armour battling each other.
Five berserkers converged on Captain Demetros.
‘No!’ screamed Scaevolla, decapitating one with a swing of his blade.
The headless corpse tottered forward, flailing past the startled Space Marine. Scaevolla turned to engage two of the surviving berserkers. Demetros was forced to defend against the other pair. Together they stood almost side by side, blocking every frenzied attack. Though their assailants’ blows were everywhere, their defences blurred in reply. A chainaxe buzzed past Demetros’s head, who ducked and rammed his blade deep into its wielder’s chest. Another berserker lunged enthusiastically at Scaevolla, who cut his legs from under him, the severed stumps smoking where the runesword had bitten.
With a crunch, a chainaxe penetrated Demetros’s shoulder guard. He shrugged off the wound, but tottered back, unbalanced. Howling, the devotee of the Blood God raised his weapon to deal the death blow, but the axe stopped centimetres from Demetros’s skull, met by Scaevolla’s sword. Scaevolla raked his blade down the weapon’s shaft, slicing through its guard and ruining the fingers clutching the hilt, before decapitating its wielder with a whirling blow. Demetros rolled to a kneeling position to gut the final attacker. Scaevolla spun to face the Imperial Fist, who rose to his feet, the berserker’s corpse slipping from his blade. Scaevolla gave a slight bow. ‘Just like old times.’
Demetros frowned. ‘I have seen you fight before.’
‘We have never met,’ Scaevolla smiled slyly. ‘But I have spilled your blood many, many times.’
Demetros shook his head slowly. ‘You are insane.’
Around the duellists, Scaevolla’s warriors had formed a defensive ring. Berserkers and Space Marines lay in a crimson circle at their feet.
‘Shield the captain!’ yelled Larsus as a howling tide of berserkers and mutants flowed into the plaza.
‘Fresh meat!’ cried Surgit with satisfaction, swinging his power sword above his head.
The fighting was chaotic, Imperial Fists and berserkers hacking at each other, and mutants caught in the melee, chopped into a crimson spray. Amidst this tumult, Scaevolla’s warriors cut down any that attempted to breach their circle. As they fought, Opus sang, Icaris wept, Manex roared and Sham slew silently.
Scaevolla and Demetros stood undisturbed in their arena.
Demetros frowned. ‘You defend me against your own kind. You are jealous for my death. Why?’
‘For the sins of your father,’ replied Scaevolla. ‘He did my liege lord a great disservice once. But fortune smiles on you, Demetros. You are the one who will win back your father’s honour. Let us finish this. My men are strong, but they cannot hold out against two armies.’
Scaevolla tipped his runesword to his forehead in salute. Demetros stood motionless. Blades blurred, then the two were statues. Neither betrayed exertion. A feint from the Space Marine, a retort from Scaevolla, swift attack and counterattack blocked and blocked again. Scaevolla twisted his blade and his opponent’s sword flew from his grasp, to land with a clatter between them. Scaevolla’s runesword glowed, as though excited by the impending kill, but Scaevolla dipped his blade and flipped the fallen power sword back at Demetros, who deftly caught it.
‘A hero should never be defenceless,’ said Scaevolla.
Demetros replied with a lightning thrust, but Scaevolla parried. Then Demetros executed a brilliant side step, and his sword was beyond Scaevolla’s guard.
The world stilled around Scaevolla, the blade hovering a second away from his heart. At this, the final moment, he felt alive; fear and elation mingled in one delicious cocktail. His vow was broken; at last he would sleep.
But if Scaevolla shifted his torso a fraction to the right, the blade would slide parallel to his armour, cutting a flesh wound, deep but not mortal.
Scaevolla remained still.
Reality surged back with a sucking roar, and the blade plunged through black power armour. Scaevolla smiled. The power sword had punctured his heart and split the back of his armour. When the blade slid free, Scaevolla was still standing.
‘A fine blow, my friend. A blow worthy of my death.’
Scaevolla wondered how a dead man could speak. There was no pain. The tumult of the surrounding battle did not ebb away. Demetros backed off, enraged. ‘How can this be? Daemon!’
Scaevolla looked down at the gash in his chest. Where there should have been spilling gore, there was instead a hole. As though torn through the fabric of space, a thousand stars swirled like gloating eyes within the wound. Laughter echoed madly in Scaevolla’s head: four terrible voices. He opened his mouth, but it was their voice which spoke.
‘You think a scratch can fell a champion of the Dark Gods? It will take more than a cur of the Dog-Emperor to cut this puppet’s strings!’
Scaevolla struggled to control his tongue. ‘You cannot kill me. Run, brother. Save yourself!’
Demetros scoffed. ‘Run? I am a Space Marine of the Imperial Fists. I do not run.’
Scaevolla’s runesword glowed hungrily. He cried out to the sky. ‘I will not slay him! There is no honour in this fight!’
As Demetros closed in for the kill again, Scaevolla tried to bare his neck to the oncoming blade, but his runesword wrestled his will, and it blocked the strike with a clash. Scaevolla swiped again, his limbs not his own, and Demetros shuffled backwards, a thread of scorched flesh lining his throat. The Space Marine fell to his knees, expressionless, his power sword clattering to the ground.
Over the noise of the Imperial Fists’ battle hymns, the wild canticles of the berserkers and screams of dying mutants, Larsus cried out to his captain. ‘It is finished. We must leave – now!’
Scaevolla gazed at the corpse of Demetros. He would order Sharn to incinerate the body, destroying the progenoid glands, ending the hunt here.
Suddenly, onto the plaza tore a mass of pulsing muscle straining within a black carapace fused to flesh. A voracious eel-like member gnashed and swallowed. Ferox had been rewarded with the warp’s ultimate boon: the gift of spawnhood. He would slaughter mindlessly for the pleasure of the gods.
Scaevolla’s order died on his lips. Watching what once had been Ferox whine and gibber as it slew, Scaevolla realised what fate awaited him should he attempt to renege on his oath. He chilled. The gods would never allow the chase to end. Sullenly, he bowed to his dead foe. It was better to embrace enslavement than have the remnants of his humanity eaten away. ‘Until next we meet, my friend.’ The words left a bitter taste.
With his sword, he sheared off Demetros’s head and picked up the trophy by the hair: one more skull for the floating altar. Larsus yelled an order. ‘Squad, converge! We return to the Talon!’
The defensive circle tightened to a knot around Scaevolla, who flicked a device on his
belt, and the squad shimmered and disappeared, the maelstrom of battle flooding into the space they left.
THE APOTHECARY DARTED among the corpses of his fallen battle-brothers, ignoring the violence swirling around him as he harvested their precious gene-seed. He knelt over the body of Captain Demetros.
‘Emperor’s tears,’ he exclaimed. ‘They’ve taken his head!’ With a heavy heart, he muttered the orison of passing and extracted the vital fluid from the progenoid gland in the corpse’s chest with his reductor. ‘Your line will live on to avenge this atrocity, my captain.’
SOMEWHERE IN THE ether, laughter rippled. The game would continue.
FIRES OF WAR
Nick Kyme
‘GIVE ME SOME good news, Helliman,’ growled Colonel Tonnhauser. The old soldier spoke out the side of his mouth, a cigar smouldering between his lips.
He ducked instinctively as another explosion rocked the walls of the workshop, sending violent tremors through the floor and chips of rockcrete spitting from the ceiling onto the map-strewn bench below.
‘That was closer…’ Tonnhauser muttered, blowing smoke as he brushed away the dislodged dust and debris for the umpteenth time.
It’s a hard thing for a man to lose his own city to an enemy. When that enemy comes from within, it’s even more repugnant. But that was the stark reality facing Abel Tonnhauser of the 13th Stratosan Aircorps. He’d given too much ground already to the endless hordes of insurgent cultists, and still they pushed for more. Soon there’d be nothing left. The defence of the three primary cities of Stratos was on the brink of failure. The cloud and bolt badge he wore, though tarnished by weeks of fighting, was pinned proudly to a double-breasted tan leather jacket. It was only made of brass, but felt about as heavy as an anvil.
The workshop structure in which he’d made his command post was full of disused aeronautical equipment and machinery, more or less a refit and repair yard for dirigibles and other flying craft that were a necessary part of life on Stratos. Air tanks, pressure dials and coils of ribbed hosing were strewn throughout the building. The one in which Tonnhauser conferred with Sergeant Helliman, while Corpsman Aiker monitored the vox-traffic, was broad and long with vast angular arches and tall support columns, all chrome and polished plasteel.
