[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  Kol Badar was bleeding from several wounds, but continued to fight with a cold-burning fury, destroying every White Consul that came within his reach. A humming power sword slashed towards him, but he caught the blade in his talons, halting it mid-strike. With a wrench he ripped the blade from his opponent’s hand, and as the White Consul staggered back, raising his pistol, hurled the power sword after him. It spun once, end over end, before embedding deep in the warrior’s chest, sinking to the hilt. Bringing his combi-bolter up, Kol Badar finished off the White Consul with a concentrated burst of fire.

  Marduk could not close with the enemy captain, whose bodyguard were holding tight rank around him. The Dark Apostle gave vent to his frustration, his fury giving him strength. Swinging up his crozius, he knocked aside a bolter aimed at his head and brought his chainsword around in a bloody arc that struck his enemy in the shoulder. The daemon entity residing within the blade was raging, adamantine teeth whirring madly as they sought to tear through the warrior’s power armour.

  The White Consuls captain killed another Word Bearer, tearing him to shreds with his slashing claws before kicking him away to find another victim.

  “The enemy press in behind us,” said Ashkanez, as bolter fire peppered off one of his shoulder plates. “We are caught between them. Our position is untenable.”

  “Where are our damned reinforcements, Kol Badar?” replied Marduk through gritted teeth, glancing behind him. His First Acolyte was correct—the enemy were moving up solidly, pressuring their position, and it would not be long before they were overrun. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

  “They are delayed,” replied Kol Badar. “They have encountered higher enemy concentrations than expected.”

  “A flaw in your plan? I’m shocked.”

  “They will be here.”

  “Not fast enough,” said Marduk, battering a sword aside with his crozius.

  The Black Legion sorcerer released the helm of a White Consul, his hands glowing with warp energy. Coiling blue-grey smoke whispered from the Space Marine’s ruptured lenses as he fell to the ground, a lifeless, burnt-out husk. The stink of burning flesh rose from the corpse, mingling with the electric tang of Kharesh’s warp-sorcery.

  “If I may?” the sorcerer ventured.

  Marduk flicked a glance towards the sorcerer. It was impossible to gauge his facial expression, hidden as it was behind his sickeningly ornate battle-helm, but he was sure it would be mocking.

  “I may be able to slow them,” the sorcerer said.

  “Do what you will,” said Marduk, his attention diverted as he was forced to sway to the side to avoid a falchion blow.

  He heard the sorcerer begin to incant, speaking in the infernal tongue of daemons. It felt as though skeletal fingers were clawing at the back of Marduk’s mind, but the sensation was not unpleasant. He struck a heavy overhand blow towards his foe, who blocked the strike with a standard overhead parry, as he knew he would. He slammed a kick into the warrior’s chest, knocking him back into one of his comrades, unbalancing them both. Kol Badar, talons balled into a fist, punched the head off the shoulders of one, and the other was downed by a sweep of Ashkanez’s power maul. Marduk finished him off, planting a kick into the side of the fallen warrior’s head. The sound of his neck cracking was audible even over the battle’s din.

  Marduk felt the hairs across his flesh stand rigidly to attention as the Black Legion sorcerer completed his spell, and he glanced back to see what the invocation heralded. A rippling wall of black mist was stretching out to block the corridor behind them. It moved like a living entity, tendrils reaching out like wriggling worms to bridge the expanse. Forms could be vaguely discerned amongst the smoke, swirling within it in a seething mass. Marduk saw sinuous bodies writhing around each other before disappearing once more, fanged mouths opening and closing and eyes glinting like stars within the thickening darkness.

  He could still see the enemy advancing beyond the veil of warp-spawned mist, but no gunfire seemed able to penetrate it. A feral grin cracked Marduk’s face as he realised that the sorcerer had brought forth a minor warp-rift into existence, a link to the holy aether itself. Bolts and plasma fire disappeared in small puffs of smoke as they struck the ethereal wall, transported to the gods only knew where.

  One of the White Consuls attempted to push through the insubstantial barrier, and his body was instantly the focus of frantic movement within the mist. Smoky claws and tentacles latched onto the warrior’s armour, which began to run like melted wax. The warrior’s battle-brothers tried to drag him back, but this merely ensnared them as well, and they were all dragged into the hellish warp-rift. In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

  Marduk nodded appreciatively towards the sorcerer, who inclined his head in acknowledgement. With the threat from the rear at least temporarily held at bay, the Word Bearers spread out, encircling the enemy captain and the last of his veteran battle-brothers.

  One by one, the blue-helmeted warriors were cut down, dragged to the ground and butchered. Held aloft by one of the few remaining veterans, their Chapter banner burst into flames at a word from Inshabael Kharesh. In a heartbeat, nothing remained of it but its skeletal standard pole, the ancient design rendered to ash. The banner bearer was dropped a second later, Marduk’s crozius buried in his skull.

  The captain’s champion was next to die, ripped limb from limb by Burias-Drak’shal. The possessed warrior’s wounds, deep cuts sustained from the champion’s slender power blade, began to heal instantly. His long, forked tongue lapped at the blood on the side of his face and he looked towards the lone figure of the White Consuls captain with undisguised hunger.

  The captain stood alone, the bodies of his comrades piled around him. Even facing certain death, he showed no fear. Sparking energy danced across his bared lightning claws.

  “Now you die, like the dog you are,” said Marduk, relishing the moment. The enemy captain tensed himself, dropping into a crouch.

  “Face me, heretic,” said the captain. “One on one.”

  “No,” Marduk said. The enemy captain seemed momentarily taken aback by the unexpected answer.

  “Have you no honour?” said the White Consul. “Do you fear to face me, to be humbled before your brethren?”

  Sheathing his chainsword, Marduk reached up and removed his skull-faced helmet. His face, an ugly mess of scar tissue, regrafts and augmentation, was amused. He cleared his throat and spat a thick wad of black phlegm at the captain’s feet. The floor plating began to sizzle and melt beneath the impact.

  “Coward,” taunted the White Consuls captain.

  “You are the bastard get of the thrice-cursed Guilliman,” said Marduk. “You do not deserve an honourable death.”

  “Let me take him,” growled Burias-Drak’shal.

  “No,” said Marduk.

  “Let me face your warp-spawned pet,” said the White Consul. “In the Emperor’s holy name, I shall cut it down and spit upon its corpse.”

  Burias-Drak’shal snarled and stepped forward. Marduk halted him with a word.

  “No,” he said. “He wishes to die a noble death. Therefore, he shall not have it. Gun him down.”

  Marduk smiled as he saw the shock and outrage written in the eyes of the enemy captain. The White Consul made to leap at Marduk, but he was cut down before he could move, struck from all sides by gunfire.

  The bridge belonged to Marduk, and he grinned in savage pleasure as a second blast door exploded inward less than a minute later.

  “Too slow, Ankh-Heloth,” he said with relish as the rival Dark Apostle and his warriors stormed through the breach, weapons raised. “I have already informed Ekodas that the 34th has taken control of the vessel.”

  Ankh-Heloth had departed the Sword of Truth in a rage, and the last White Consuls still holding out against the Word Bearers were isolated, bulkheads locking down around their positions as the dark magos Darioq-Grendh’al linked with the ship’s controls. Marduk had felt the unspoken question
from his warriors that these last survivors were not killed, but the Dark Apostle felt no need to explain his actions. The ship’s communications had been severed before the bridge had fallen, ensuring that the enemy had not learnt its fate. For all they knew, the battle-barge had made it to the safety of the asteroid belt, escaping the wrath of the Chaos fleet.

  The Dark Apostle was standing upon the bridge of a White Consuls battle-barge, gazing upon its cogitator banks and data-screens in distaste. He spied a shrine to the Emperor, a small statue surrounded by candles and papers of devotion, and his lip curled in loathing.

  “First Acolyte?” said Marduk, nodding his head in the direction of the shrine.

  In response, Ashkanez stepped forwards and smashed the statue to dust with his power maul, intoning the psalms of desecration. A second sweep saw the candles and papers scattered.

  “Kol Badar,” said Marduk through his vox. The Coryphaus was located half a kilometre distant, assessing the weapon-caches of the White Consuls vessel.

  “Yes, Apostle,” came the reply.

  “Where is the sorcerer? I wish to speak with him.”

  “I believe he has already returned to the Infidus Diabolus, Apostle,” said Kol Badar. “He returned on one of the first shuttles.”

  “Find him,” said Marduk.

  “It will be done,” said Kol Badar.

  Marduk cut the communication, irritated that he had no real authority over the Black Legion sorcerer’s movements. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see his Icon Bearer, still in the thrall of his daemonic possession.

  “Yes?”

  “I am your champion,” snarled Burias-Drak’shal, forming the words with difficulty. He shook his head and his face returned to his own regular, slender, handsome features as he pushed the daemon back within. “That was my kill.”

  “Do not question my decisions, Burias.”

  “And as for your precious Coryphaus… His plan to take the bridge almost saw us killed. So much for his being a master strategist.”

  Burias once more held the heavy Host icon in his hands, having snatched it from the Anointed brother who had borne it in his absence. The heavy base of the tall, dark metal icon thumped into the floor repeatedly as Burias paced back and forth alongside Marduk, his free hand clenching and unclenching into a fist. His face was flushed and his cruel mouth set in a deep scowl.

  “We just took a fully manned Astartes battle-barge in under thirty minutes,” said Marduk. “That is hardly the result of an incompetent Coryphaus.”

  “I don’t know why you show the whoreson such favours,” snapped Burias. “Be rid of him! You know he will betray you.”

  With a single word, Marduk dismissed all the warriors of the Host from the bridge.

  “You too, First Acolyte,” said Marduk.

  With a bow, Ashkanez left the room, leaving Marduk alone with the Host’s Icon Bearer.

  “I see I am going to have to spell this out to you, Burias,” said Marduk. “You are my blood-brother, and for this reason I have given you much leniency, but I’m not prepared to take any more.”

  “You are making a mistake,” said Burias, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Be rid of Kol Badar, before he turns on you.”

  “You think there is someone more suitable to be Coryphaus within the Host than Kol Badar, Burias?” said Marduk.

  The Dark Apostle had considered the option long and hard. Sabtec was the obvious candidate, but Marduk did not believe that even he, the exalted champion of the glorified 13th Coterie, was anywhere approaching Kol Badar’s equal, at least not yet. There was no one that came close. The taking of the Sword of Truth confirmed Kol Badar’s pre-eminence, had Marduk harboured any doubt.

  “We are brothers, sworn in blood,” said Burias. “I am the only one you can trust.”

  “You honestly thought that you would become Coryphaus upon my ascension? Is that really what all this is about?” said Marduk.

  He had always known that Burias was a devious and ambitious warrior who hungered for power and prestige, and that he had always planned to rise up the ranks of the Host, buoyed by his close relationship with Marduk, but… Coryphaus? He turned back towards his Icon Bearer, a look of exasperation on his face.

  “You are important to the Host, Burias, and you have a role to play. But Coryphaus? Really?” said Marduk.

  Burias’ jaw jutted forward stubbornly, and though he did not speak, his silence was confirmation enough to Marduk.

  The Dark Apostle shook his head and chuckled. He placed a hand upon Burias’ shoulder.

  “Ah, my brother, you do so amuse me,” he said.

  Burias shrugged off his hand.

  “I do not see what is so amusing,” Burias said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “We are blood brothers. You owe me—”

  The Icon Bearer silenced himself, perhaps hearing the words spilling from his own lips, perhaps seeing the murderous light that was flaring in the Dark Apostle’s eyes.

  “I owe you?” said Marduk in a quiet, deadly voice.

  “What I meant—”

  Burias didn’t see the blow coming. Marduk slammed his fist into Burias’ face, snapping the Icon Bearer’s head back sharply, breaking his nose. He staggered, and touched his fingers to the blood dripping down his face.

  “You dare—” he began, but Marduk struck again, the blow catching him on the temple as he tried to turn away from it.

  “I dare?” snarled Marduk. “I dare? I am your Dark Apostle, you insolent wretch. You dare question me? You dare suggest that I owe you somehow?”

  “I felt that—” began Burias, but Marduk did not let him finish. His face was a mask of fury. He stepped in close to Burias and raised his hand to strike him. The Icon Bearer stepped back instinctively.

  “Do not recoil,” snarled Marduk, and Burias froze, waiting for the blow to fall.

  Marduk unclenched his fist, and sighed. “Burias, you are my champion, and the Host’s finest warrior. Is that not enough?”

  The anger simmering in Burias’ eyes said that it was not.

  “I had hoped that we would not need to have this conversation, Burias,” said Marduk. “I had hoped that you would come to accept your place in the Host, but I see now that I will have to speak even more plainly. Accept what you are, Burias, and stop trying to become something you will never be. Let me make this perfectly clear: you will never be Coryphaus, Burias. Kol Badar is Coryphaus, and your superior, and that is not changing.”

  Burias stood glowering at him.

  “You are my champion, and the Host’s Icon Bearer, but you a warrior, Burias, just a warrior. You will never be more than that. Never.”

  Marduk let these words sink in, holding the Icon Bearer’s gaze, before he added, “Now get out of my sight. Six hours on the pain deck. Perhaps that will help you learn to accept your place.”

  Without a word, Burias turned and marched from the bridge. Marduk stood there silently for a moment, before slamming his fist down onto a console.

  Standing unseen in the shadows outside the bridge, having overheard the entire exchange, First Acolyte Ashkanez smiled.

  A blinking vox-bead interrupted Marduk’s brooding. It was Kol Badar. “What?” he said.

  “I have just received word from Sabtec. The Black Legion sorcerer has been found.”

  “Have him wait for me in my quarters. I am returning to the Infidus Diabolus now.”

  “There is a problem,” said Kol Badar.

  Anger radiated off Marduk in waves. Together with Sabtec and Kol Badar, he stood inside a little-used, dimly lit storage space located on one of the lower decks of the Infidus Diabolus. Humming fan units spun overhead. All three of the Word Bearers were focussed on the body strung up in the centre of the room. It hung there like a martyred saint, arms wide, wrapped in razor wire that cut deep into its armoured wrists and ankles.

  It was the body of Inshabael Kharesh, Warmaster Abaddon’s personal envoy within the Host. Blood had pooled and congealed upon the deck f
loor beneath him.

  Kol Badar made a warding gesture. The killing of a sorcerer was a blasphemy said to bring down the ire of the gods.

  “It is a bad omen,” said Sabtec.

  “You think?” said Marduk.

  He lifted the sorcerer’s head. His neck had been slashed open, a cut so deep that it had reached the spine. The sorcerer’s eyes had been put out, and there was a runic icon carved into his alabaster forehead. It was Colchisite cuneiform in origin, he knew that, but the symbol meant nothing to him.

  “Abaddon will have our heads for this,” said Kol Badar.

  Marduk’s mind was reeling—first his only ally, Sarabdal; now the Black Legion sorcerer.

  “Why would anyone want him dead?” said Kol Badar.

  “To dishonour the 34th? To spread disharmony and doubt?” said Sabtec.

  “Or to ignite antagonism between us and the Black Legion,” said Marduk.

  “What is this symbol?” said Kol Badar.

  “I don’t know,” said Marduk.

  “There were more than two hundred warrior brothers onboard the Infidus Diabolus at the time when this took place,” said Sabtec. “I will begin verifying the whereabouts of each of them.”

  “We do not have the time,” said Marduk, shaking his head. “This is what they want—to sow confusion and dissent.”

  “Ashkanez,” said Kol Badar. “He’s the only one of us who is not of the 34th.”

  “The First Acolyte was aboard the White Consuls ship,” said Marduk.

  “If not him, then we must face the fact that there is one—or more than one—working against us from within the Host,” said Kol Badar.

  The thought was not a comforting one.

  Burias was lying upon his spike-rimmed pallet, his flesh awash with agony, when there came a knock on his cell door.

  “Wait,” he said, and dragged himself to his feet. His pain receptors were still burning with residual agony from the ministrations of the black-clad wraiths of the pain deck. Serums had been injected into his spinal column that retarded the accelerated healing of his body, ensuring that he felt every nuance of his punishment. It was not the physical pain that bothered him—in truth, its purity was a welcome—but rather the fact that his blood-brother had humiliated him so. Anger seethed within him, coiling around his twin hearts like a serpent.