by John French
There were no salutes, no gestures of dissent or protest. The soldiers simply did what their training had soaked into their flesh and blood. Weapon catches released. Hands checked grenades hanging from harnesses, tapped breathing tubes. Lycus watched them, struck for a moment by their discipline. They all knew what they were stepping into, what world of murder waited outside the carrier’s hull. They knew, but still they did not hesitate or question.
‘We need to reach the astropath. And we need time.’ He pulled the plasma pistol from his thigh. It began to buzz, charge building in its coils. He thought of the days and steps that had brought him to this: the days of war and conquest, the victories won, and the dead looking back at him from the path of memory. He thought of Phall, of the blood of his brothers scattering into the void, and the silent roar of flame as warships drowned in the fires of death. The carrier lurched as it turned hard, engine gunning. The human soldiers shook.
He felt his mouth open, words forming on his lips, and then growling from his speaker grille.
‘You are warriors of the Emperor,’ he said. ‘War is choice, the choice to stand, the choice to fight, the choice to keep your oaths. You have chosen to be here, to stand here, to hold to the oaths we made to the future of mankind, and I would choose no others to stand with.’
The vox roared with the soldiers’ reply. The carrier slammed to a halt. Assault ramps hinged open. Fog-thickened air poured in. Lycus’ armour began to scream warnings: toxic, corrosive, viral. The soldiers charged through the fog. It began to eat at the soldiers, layers of vulcanised rubber peeling from their armour. The first one fell after two paces and hit the ground like a bag of fluid. The rest ran on. The wreck of the Land Raider was pouring fire and smoke towards the hidden sky. Bolt rounds roared out of the fog. Three soldiers fell at the same moment.
Targeting and threat markers spun in Lycus’ helmet display as he ran. The heat of the burning wreck sent ripples of static through his sight. Another human went down, jerking as he hit the ground, holes eaten in his air feeds. The fog shrouded the corpse as Lycus passed. He was at the front of the remaining soldiers, the slope of the ramp beneath his feet. A bolt round exploded against his shoulder. He stumbled, caught himself, brought his plasma pistol up and fired down the ramp. The shot was almost blind, but that did not matter; what did matter was pouring everything they could into the space that the bolt rounds were coming from.
‘Grenades,’ he shouted, the sound booming flat in the fog. Two frag grenades were in his hand. He heard another of the soldiers gasp and fall, flesh turning to sludge in failed armour. He threw the grenades and pulled his power sword from its scabbard. Explosions blossomed as he charged down the ramp.
Kulok watched the world become fire. In the seconds after the explosion the world beyond the porthole had become distant, as though he was watching a recording on a vid- screen. It was oddly quiet, the roar of explosives and gunfire locked behind the layers of plasteel. Every now and again the door shook, and the rumble of the explosions outside became metallic thunder, rolling through the still air within. Figures moved through the flame, blurred by speed and smoke. He saw the Terminators bracing, the flames washing them with soot. There were humans out there too, soldiers in bloated void armour firing beams through the smoke and flame. It was impossible, but there they were: standing on the surface of Tallarn, fighting, advancing as the air dissolved their armour.
A melta beam flicked out, struck a Terminator, and punched through armour and flesh. The Terminator reeled, struck the door, and the impact rang in Kulok’s ears. Another figure came down the ramp. It was another Space Marine, but in yellow armour. The sword in his hand spat sparks into the fog. The Terminators braced and fired as one. Bolters hammered into the charging warrior. Splinters of yellow lacquer and ceramite scattered from the lone Space Marine. He did not stop. Another melta blast stuck one of the Terminators. Energy beams struck its squad mates like rain. The yellow warrior was within blade range. A Terminator with a chainfist met the charge.
Sword and spinning teeth kissed. Sparks and lightning lit the smoke-shadowed air. Vast strengths strained against each other as the weapons locked. The Terminator shrugged, the movement rippling with strength. The sword sheered free of its chain fist. The yellow warrior backhanded his sword into the side of the Terminator’s leg. It was not a deep cut, barely enough to splinter the shin plate, but it was enough to crack the thinner armour at the back of the knee. The Terminator brought his fist up, froze and began to fall as the air of Tallarn found the flesh within the skin of iron.
The warrior in yellow was firing before the Terminator struck the floor. Blasts of plasma spat from his pistol. Sheets of volkite energy were coming down the ramp from a line of advancing human soldiers. A Terminator ran at them. It was fast, shockingly fast for something so big. Beams shattered on its armour like drops of rain on hot steel. It struck one of the soldiers and the human burst apart. The rest fired at it. They were so close that the muzzles of their guns were almost touching their target. The Terminator was burning, but did not fall. It swung its fist wide. Bodies fell, broken, blood congealing to black as it met the air.
The warrior in yellow aimed and fired. The burst of plasma bolts struck the Terminator in the back. Metal blistered and flashed to gas, and the Terminator was falling, fist swinging like a toy automaton.
The yellow-armoured warrior turned, aim sweeping to the last Terminator before the door, but that last enemy was too fast. Bolt rounds hammered into the warrior’s legs, and now he was falling, and the Terminator was coming forwards, and the rain of volkite and melta fire was slackening.
Kulok heard himself shout. The sound rang through the lock. It was a cry of terror and pleading for the universe to stop, for the scene playing out before his eyes to prove false.
He watched the Terminator raise its fist above the fallen warrior in yellow. On the ramp above it, the figure of a lone human soldier swayed, gun firing even as it fell from its hand. The beam struck the Terminator. It hesitated for a second, as though stung, and then punched down. The blow never landed. The yellow-armoured warrior rolled aside and stabbed upwards. The power sword punched through the Terminator’s eye slot and into the face beneath. The helm exploded with a whip crack of white light.
The warrior stood, slowly, armour grey and smoking. Behind him, fire rolled in the fog. He turned to look at the door. Kulok met the blank green gaze of the helm.
Radiation and liquid poured over Lycus. The rad-scrubbers and fluid vents spun around him again, drenching him, stripping virus and matter from his armour. None of the human soldiers had made it to the door. He alone stood and waited for the decontamination to finish and the inner door to open. The rings set into the walls spun one last time, then froze. Fluid dripped from the nozzles and steam rose from his armour. It was heavily damaged. He estimated that he had had another twenty seconds before a joint seal would have corroded and failed. Warnings pulsed at the side of his sight, and the servos in his legs clattered and whined as he stepped up to the inner door.
A broad-faced man was watching him from the other side of a glass porthole. The man had thin, feather-line scars down his cheek and the look of strength softened at the edges. His eyes were steady though: a fighter’s eyes.
The inner door hissed open. Lycus stepped across, pulling his helm free and breathing in the smell of the shelter: rockcrete, hot wiring and poorly filtered air.
The man with the eyes of a soldier looked at him. He had a shotgun in his hand, a finger on the trigger guard, but the barrel carefully point at the floor. Another man in the clothes of a prefectus in the local administration stood against the wall, eyes wide, face pale.
‘I am Lycus,’ he said.
‘You have come for us?’ asked the man with the shotgun, not moving. ‘You heard us? You have come for us?’
‘Where is the astropath?’ asked Lycus.
‘How are we getting out? Are
there more of you coming?’
Lycus took a half step forward.
‘What is your name?’ he asked the man with the shotgun.
‘I am Kulok.’
Lycus nodded. ‘Where is the astropath, Kulok? There is not much time. I need to go to him now.’
Kulok did not reply, and Lycus thought he saw something flicker in the human’s gaze.
Then the man nodded and turned. ‘Follow me, lord,’ he said.
They hurried through the tunnels of the shelter. Lycus saw faces in side tunnels, eyes staring at him as he followed Kulok. The shelter was not large, but it was almost deserted. He could smell the build-up of pollutants and carbon dioxide in the air. A few more days and everybody in the shelter would suffocate. His vox hissed snatches of information at him from the commander of the Vanquisher on the surface. The carrier was gone. Its internal seals had failed after Lycus had disembarked. A saturation rocket strike had taken out the flak tank two minutes ago. Only the Vanquisher remained. The enemy drop ships were on the ground. Multiple armoured units were converging on the shelter.
‘Here,’ said Kulok as they reached a heavy door. The room beyond was small. Racks of parchment hid the walls. The last astropath on Tallarn lay in a tangle of blankets, blind sockets fixed on the ceiling above, mouth forming silent words.
Lycus became still, his hurried movements fading to stillness.
‘He has been like this for the last few hours,’ said Kulok. ‘Before that, he was comatose.’ The human paused. ‘I have no idea what he is saying when he speaks.’
Lycus nodded without breaking his gaze on the astropath. He knelt down beside the withered figure. Static and snatches of words cracked from the vox set in his collar. He ignored them.
‘What is his name?’ he asked.
‘Halakime, apparently, but…’
Lycus raised his hand and Kulok went quiet.
‘Astropath Halakime,’ said Lycus.
The astropath’s lips kept moving, but there was no sign that he had heard his name.
‘Astropath, I am Marshal Lycus of the Seventh Legion Astartes. Can you hear me?’
The astropath did not move.
Lycus opened his mouth to speak again.
‘Wait,’ said Kulok, and moved around Lycus. Slowly, as though he was reaching to pick up a sleeping snake, Kulok reached out and took one of the astropath’s withered hands. ‘We are here,’ said Kulok. ‘They have come for us, for you. Can you hear us?’
Lycus watched the astropath’s face. The veins running across the scalp were blue threads in translucent white. Kulok looked at Lycus.
The astropath’s hand spasmed shut around Kulok’s. His body snapped ridged. Lycus heard joints pop.
‘Dust, dry, dust, dry, no water, only dust and darkness!’ the astropath shouted, his voice high and shrill. ‘Darkness below, darkness at the root of the world, and the eye beyond, the eye within sees and seeks and knows–’
‘Halakime!’ Lycus roared the name, and it thundered around the small room.
Kulok jerked back as though he had been struck. The astropath twitched, shivered and the words babbling from his lips drained away.
‘My name…’ said the astropath. ‘Where am… What is…’
‘Astropath Halakime,’ said Lycus again, his voice low. ‘I am Marshal Lycus of the Seventh Legion Astartes. I need you to listen to me.’
The astropath shivered and went still. The pits of his eyes fixed on Lycus, and the Space Marine had the sensation that the man was looking through him.
‘I hear you, son of stone,’ said Halakime, and his voice was steady.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Tallarn, or at least that was where I was.’
‘You are still on Tallarn,’ said Lycus. ‘The world is dead, and you are the last of your kind here.’
‘Dust…’ said the old man. ‘I saw the dust blowing in the wind.’
‘Those loyal to the Imperium need to know what has happened here. They need to know that the Iron Warriors are here.’ Behind him, Lycus heard Kulok’s breath leave his lungs.
Halakime shivered.
‘I…’ he began. ‘The wind, the night… It will take…’
‘Whatever it takes, word must reach them.’ Lycus watched as the astropath bowed his head.
‘I…’ began the astropath. ‘To project a message form requires preparation. I do not have a meaning source.’
Lycus released the armour seal on his right wrist, and pulled his gauntlet free. The astropath’s hand was cold as Lycus gripped it. An electric tingle passed up his nerves.
‘Take what you need to understand,’ said Lycus.
Halakime shivered. The lips pulled back from his teeth. Fire burned through Lycus. Smoke and mist breathed from the astropath’s mouth. Pain yanked Lycus’ thoughts. Frost grew on their clasped hands. Their thoughts blurred, mixed, flowed like burning oil and freezing water.
He was a boy watching the thoughts of those around him dance in haloes…
He was a warrior standing on the walls of Catulon, the shells of his autocannon pouring into the beasts below…
He was a robed neophyte kneeling as his eyes boiled away under the gaze of a being that was less than a god, more than a man…
He was standing on the deck of the Light of Inwit as the Iron Warriors boarding pods bit through the hull…
He was…
…holding Halakime’s hand, his flesh crawling with heat.
‘I have enough,’ said the astropath. ‘I will send the message.’
Lycus nodded, and stood. A low rumble growled through the air, and the ceiling shook.
‘I will give you what time I can,’ said Lycus, and turned to leave the room.
‘This was it, wasn’t it?’ said Kulok from behind him. Lycus did not stop moving. His hand pulled his plasma pistol free, and he checked the charge coils. ‘There is not going to be an evacuation, is there? You came here because of the astropath, and only because of him. We are not going to survive.’
Lycus paused and looked back at the man.
‘Word must get out. Tallarn’s fate must be heard,’ he said. ‘You have served the Emperor well. You will be remembered.’
Kulok held Lycus’ gaze, and then shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, and walked past Lycus. ‘No, I won’t. But I will stand with you.’
Kulok pulled the envirosuit on. It was clammy against his skin. The breath feed snapped into place, and cool air flowed across his face. He checked the harnesses holding the oxygen bottle across his back and picked the shotgun up. Twelve solid rounds: he doubted he would be able to reload wearing the suit’s heavy gloves. He snorted to himself. Once Tallarn’s killing air was inside the shelter he doubted he would have time to reach the end of the shotgun’s clip.
‘What is happening?’ said Sabir. Kulok had not heard the prefectus enter the armoury. ‘What are you doing?’ Kulok turned, and shouldered past Sabir. ‘What is–’
Kulok looked at him, and the man stepped back, blinking. There were tears on the prefectus’ cheeks. He held the older man’s glistening stare, and then turned and began to run.
He reached the airlock to find Lycus standing before it. His sword was drawn, his pistol in his hand.
There was a boom, and light flashed through the porthole. Dust fell like fine snow from the roof.
‘Shaped krak charges,’ said Lycus, his voice growling flat from his helm grille. ‘They are cutting and blasting sequentially, creating fault lines in the door. They will be through the first door soon.’
As though in answer to those words, the inner airlock door rang like a gong. Kulok swallowed, his throat dry. He saw a shape moving on the other side of the inner porthole. A slab, armoured face looking in. A blinding beam of light flared across the porthole. Molten crystal be
gan to weep down the circle of crystal as the beam bored deeper. The door shook.
‘Will this…’ began Kulok, and found his voice catching in his lips. ‘Will this make a difference?’
Lycus looked at him, green lenses bright in the bare ceramite of his helm.
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘Every act of defiance matters.’
‘To the Imperium?’
‘To existence.’
Kulok looked back at the door. The porthole was a circle of molten orange. Three other points to either side of the centre were glowing cherry red as the cutters bit deeper. Another metal roar shook the quiet.
‘What were you?’ asked Lycus.
Kulok looked up at Lycus with surprise. The Space Marine tilted his head to the side. ‘Before this, what were you?’
Kulok shrugged. ‘An evader of taxes.’
A low growl came from Lycus, getting louder as the warrior’s armour shook. After a second, Kulok realised that the Space Marine was laughing.
Lycus brought his plasma pistol up to aim at where the airlock door was staring to blister yellow. Kulok raised his shotgun, braced, finger tense on the trigger.
The airlock door blew in. White hot shards of metal and crystal flew inwards in a wash of smoke and tainted air.
Kulok fired five rounds before Tallarn pulled his flesh from his bones and sent his memory out into the realm of the dead.
They heard.
Across the star-dotted vaults of space, astropaths woke from their trances with images of iron giants striding through dead cities and silence. Shivering, they unravelled the sensations of their dreams, and the allegorical meanings shouted in their minds with the fury of a last, dying scream.
‘Come to us,’ it said. ‘The Iron Warriors are here. Tallarn is dead. Its grave will be the anvil upon which you break them.’
They heard.
On the bridge of the Lament of Caliban, they heard.
In the Conclave of Iron, the Princeps of the Legio Gryphonicus and the Myrmidon Lords of Zelth heard.
