by Andy Smillie
Tears streamed from Corvin’s eyes as he sobbed between laboured breaths. His body trembled. Seth knelt down next to him, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘And you would dare call us traitors. We who channel this anger, this curse, each and every moment in which our hearts pump our father’s blood through our veins. We who endure this torment and yet stand ready to fight for humanity. You. You who cannot handle our pain for a heartbeat dare question our loyalty.’ Seth stood, snapping the restraints from their housings. ‘Leave and pray to the Emperor that you never cross my path again.’
Inquisitor Corvin Herrold lay among the corpses of his warband, thankful the shuttle’s pilot had been spared. The inquisitor couldn’t stand, let alone steer the craft. His nervous system was shot and his muscles were shivering from withdrawal as the remains of the Rage left him. Sweating with effort, he propped himself up. The symbol of the Inquisition stared accusingly at him as he adjusted the ring on his finger.
Who am I?
Tears soaked his cheeks as he searched for an answer. Grief pushed him to remove the ring from his finger and toss it away. He looked to the ceiling; the galaxy stared down at him through the translucent hull as they edged away from the Victus. No stars shone. Yet the darkness of the void was as a beacon of light compared to what he’d felt living inside the Flesh Tearers souls.
‘Emperor save us.’
blood in the machine
Captain Iago emptied the last of the contents of his stomach onto his boots and replaced his rebreather. The bloodied remains of his command squad covered his fatigues, mixing with the slick mud to stain the tan of his greatcoat a ruddy brown. It was only by the grace of the Emperor that he had not died along with them.
‘Emperor forge my soul with steel.’ Iago whispered the prayer and straightened, leaning against the trench wall for support.
All along the line, members of the 89th Regiment of the Armageddon Steel Legion were picking themselves up and mouthing their own prayers. The ork artillery attack had been brutally effective. Spheres of crackling energy had glided into the trenches, exploding in fulgurant flashes that had turned men inside out.
Iago winced as he coughed, hammering a fist into his chest in an effort to clear it. He ached to his war-weary bones. Every instinct told him to lie down, to curl up in the dirt and let the inevitable happen. Perhaps, if he had been on another world, fighting in another war, he would have. But Armageddon was his home. If he did not fight for it, then who would?
‘Captain… Captain, you have to see this.’
Iago turned to find a badly scarred trooper proffering a set of magnoculars.
‘What is it, trooper?’ Iago’s reply was punctuated by another fit of coughing.
‘I don’t know, sir. I think… Yonis thinks they’re angels.’
Iago took the magnoculars from the shaking trooper and carefully climbed onto the lip of the trench. ‘How far out?’
‘Three hundred metres, sir.’
Iago adjusted the magnoculars’ lenses. ‘Where? I don’t…’ He cursed as a squad of crimson and ashen warriors resolved into view. They stood as tall as the monstrous orks and were clad in brutal war-plate sealed by fist-sized rivets.
‘Space Marines…’ The words fell unbidden from Iago’s lips. ‘Thank the Throne. Space Marines.’
Iago refocused the magnoculars, zooming in on the nearest squad of the Emperor’s angels. Though he did not recognise the red livery of their war-plate, nor the toothed saw-blade on their pauldrons, Iago had no doubt they were there to deliver him. Emboldened by their appearance, he snapped orders to his warriors.
‘Dorcas, get that heavy bolter operational. Triano, I want a firing solution for the mortar team in two minutes. Osric, get your men ready to move up when the bombardment starts. We’re retaking the forward line. Prepare–’
‘Sir, incoming. Enemy aircraft.’
Iago turned his view skywards. A cloud of thick black smoke was speeding towards them. ‘Ork bombers. Cover! Find cover!’ Iago threw himself flat, muttering a prayer for protection as the snarling prows of the ork aircraft tore into view. He pushed his face to the ground, folding his arms over his head as weapons fire erupted in the sky above.
Two explosions rumbled in the air in quick succession. Iago looked up to see a hunched raptor shape above him, its flanks blood-red. Multiple weapons on its wings and prow flashed with lethal discharge, blasting apart the ork machines.
Iago got to his feet with newfound vigour. ‘The Emperor has sent more of His angels to aid us! Let us not be found wanting in their sight! Forward! Push forward! For the glory of Terra, forward!’ Iago had no idea what Chapter this second wave of Space Marines were from. He didn’t care. For the first time since the morning rotation began, Iago began to believe that he might live through the day.
The ork’s eyes were fist-sized fissures sunk deep into its gnarled face. Rage-red pupils strained at the centre of cancerous yellow sclera, glaring at Seth as though they might somehow break his hold. The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers tightened his grip on the ork’s neck and leaned closer. ‘You fight with bestial fury, ork.’
The ork stank of stale sweat and freshly spilled blood. The stench of undigested meat hung on its breath, wafting from between the cage of broken incisors studding its gums.
‘But today, I will teach your kind the meaning of wrath. I will kill a thousand of your filth-breed before your blood dries on my gauntlets.’
The ork rasped defiance, its war cry ending in a strangled rattle as Seth tore its head from its body.
‘For Sanguinius, for the Blood, kill them all!’ Seth bellowed to his warriors and spun around, tearing his eviscerator from the dead ork’s chest, cleaving it through two more of the greenskins.
The orks came apart in a shower of gore and ruined flesh. Seth snarled, emboldened by the copper tang of their blood as it splashed across his face. He killed again, thundering his fist into an ork skull. The greenskin’s face broke with a harsh crack as its teeth spilled from its mouth. The sound of battle rang in Seth’s ears like righteous chanting. Yet it was as a whisper to the hammering beat of his hearts.
They pounded in his chest, louder than any boltgun, more visceral than any death-scream.
They were war drums, driving his limbs to battle with all the rage his father had bestowed upon him.
‘I. Am. Wrath!’
Beside Seth, the five members of his command squad cut into the mass of orks with the same unrelenting ferocity. The veterans Nathaniel and Shemal guarded his flanks, butchering their way forwards with a chainweapon in each hand. The Techmarine, Metatron, and the Company Champion, Harahel, were at the fore of the diamond formation. At the rear of the formation Nisroc blazed away with his boltgun, covering his brothers’ advance.
Nisroc growled, blasting apart an ork that was bearing down on him with a barbed cleaver. ‘Master Seth, to your left.’
At Nisroc’s warning, Seth pivoted, slicing his blade upwards to meet a powered claw intent on removing his head. His armour’s servos spat and whined in protest as he struggled against the ork’s bulk. A monster of sinew and aggression bolted into an oversized suit of war-plate, the greenskin stood head and shoulders above the Chapter Master. Seth ground his teeth, pitting all of his strength against the ork. Yet it was not enough. The crackling claw neared his head.
Seth’s hearts howled in his chest like caged beasts. In his mind’s eye, he stood in a sea of ork blood. He would not yield. He would rip the ork’s arm from its socket, drive his fist into its chest and pulp its wretched heart between his fingers. He would kill it, murder it. He would…
A status icon chimed on Seth’s retinal display – they had reached the designated coordinates. The interruption tore the Chapter Master back to his senses. Seth eased his resistance, dropping his weight, letting the claw carry his blade low before slipping forward and tearing his weapon through the ork’s thigh.
The greenskin roared in pain and slumped forwards. Seth allowed it no q
uarter, turning as he rose to drive his blade down through its back. The greenskin convulsed, spasming as the teeth of the eviscerator churned its organs to bloody offal.
‘Xenos filth. Be still,’ Seth spat, bringing his armoured boot down to crush the ork’s skull. The Chapter Master opened a company-wide channel and addressed his warriors. ‘Brothers, the Steel Legion regiments garrisoning the defence lines around the hive have been scattered. We will buy them the time needed to rally.’ Seth tore the powercell from his eviscerator and slammed a fresh one into place.
‘Master Seth.’ Nisroc gestured to the five golden figures descending towards them.
Seth finished hacking apart the ork he was duelling with and shot a glance skyward, and growled low. ‘Sanguinary Guard.’
Framed by wings of the purest white, they were clad in armour of polished gold. They wore ornate helms, glistening faceplates wrought into sneering smiles. The Blood Angels. First amongst the sons of Sanguinius, only they were arrogant enough to hide their rage behind masks of gold and brass.
Seth’s face crumpled in disdain. Beauty on the outside did not remove the beast within.
‘What do Dante’s dogs want?’ Harahel didn’t bother using a closed vox-channel.
‘Nothing good, brother,’ said Seth.
The Sanguinary Guard landed amidst a hail of bolter fire. The unexpected ferocity of the Blood Angels attack momentarily stalled the ork advance as their explosive rounds blew off limbs and pulped torsos.
‘Master Seth. I am Brother Anachiel, first Sanguinary Guard of the seventh cohort of Angels.’
‘There is no glory to be found here, cousin. Why have you come?’
‘I am here to extract you and your squad,’ said Anachiel.
‘Extract?’
‘Yes. Brother-Captain Tycho wishes you to come with us.’
‘Our mission here is not complete,’ said Seth.
‘This mission is folly. You cannot hold back the greenskins without more support.’
‘Then have Tycho send some.’
Anachiel grasped Seth’s pauldron as the Flesh Tearer made to turn from him. ‘You must come now. More ork craft are inbound to this location. We cannot delay any longer.’
‘If you lay your hand on me again, I will cut it from you.’
‘With respect, there is more at stake here than you realise.’
‘There is plenty at stake. Here. Now. If we leave the Guard to fight alone, they will die.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do not patronise me, Blood Angel.’
‘This is no longer your fight.’
‘Until the Emperor rises from His Throne, I, and I alone, decide where we fight.’
‘You would serve your own bloodlust over the needs of the Imperium?’
‘Be careful, cousin. You did not bring enough warriors to test me.’
Anachiel thrust a mag-ascender cable towards Seth. ‘Uphold your duty and do as Tycho commands.’
‘The blood of those we leave to die is on your hands, angel.’
‘Save your piety. My humour is too ill to indulge your hypocrisy.’
Seth’s muscles tensed until they pressed at the limits of his armour. His jaw twitched as he imagined ripping his teeth though Anachiel’s flesh. The growling of his eviscerator was like a terrible siren, his blade demanding he cleave the Blood Angel in half.
Seth roared and threw himself into a press of orks; hacking, cutting, tearing until every greenskin within reach had been reduced to bloodied mulch. Seth tightened his grip on his weapon, crushing what remained of his rage between gauntlet and haft, and turned back to Anachiel. ‘Another time, Blood Angel.’ Seth snatched the mag-ascender from Anachiel. ‘To me, brothers. We are leaving.’
Captain Iago sank to his knees as he watched the Space Marine gunship shrink into the distance. The Emperor had deserted him. Left him to die in the dirt. Around him, his men died in short order, butchered by the orks as they overran their position.
Iago pulled off his respirator and let his head drop back onto his shoulders. Without its protection the toxic atmosphere would kill him in minutes. He smiled. He doubted he had that long.
‘Emperor… why?’ Staring up at the sheet-metal grey of the sky, Iago had time to shed a single tear before an ork blade tore through his back and ended his life.
‘Tycho. Why was I recalled?’ Seth entered the command chamber at a march, his words ringing out like bolter fire, an attack on the measured hum permeating the room. ‘What matter could not wait until we had secured Volcanus?’
‘Calm yourself, brother. All will be explained.’ Captain Erasmus Tycho replied without turning around. He stood with his back to the room, his attention fixed on the grey-blue tactical hololith dominating the chamber’s rear wall.
A torrent of tactical information scrolled across its flickering surface. Shifting clusters of red and green marked the positions of the ork and Imperial forces. Lines of attack and retreat overlapped one another, depicting estimated engagement patterns. Truncated Gothic sprang up under Tycho’s gaze, detailing temperature, wind direction and soil density. Ammunition and casualty numbers flickered like broken luminators as they continually updated in response to the flood of vox-reports spilling in from across the planet.
Though dedicated banks of tactical cogitators worked ceaselessly to assimilate the information and serried rows of servitors chattered away on heavy keys, collating and processing the data, it took a warrior of Tycho’s mettle to make sense of it. The Blood Angel’s enhanced physiology and decades of bitter experience allowed him to do the job of hundreds of Imperial tacticians.
Seth scowled at the sight of Tycho’s unblemished battleplate. Like Anachiel’s, it was polished gold and glistened under the white light of the glow-lamps studding the chamber. ‘You may call me brother when you stand beside me in battle, bleeding in the dirt instead of cowering here among these clerks and serfs.’ Seth threw his gaze around the chamber. He despised the throng of robed savants that stood huddled over data charts and holo-projectors. They were miserable wretches and his contempt for them was palpable.
A Sanguinary Guard stepped from one of the chamber’s many alcoves to bar Seth’s path. ‘Watch your tone, Flesh Tearer.’
Seth growled. ‘I have had enough of your kind today, cherub.’
‘Were we not at war, I would see you learn respect in the duel–’
‘Were we not at war, I would kill you,’ said Seth.
‘You…’
‘Enough.’ Tycho turned to fix Seth with his one good eye. ‘All of you, leave us.’
‘Captain.’ The Sanguinary Guard kept his eyes fixed on Seth as he dipped his head in salute to Tycho.
The chatter and hum of the command chamber bled away to silence as the chamber’s occupants filtered out, leaving Tycho and Seth alone in the room.
‘Dante has given me charge of this war, Seth. You will pay me the same accord you would him,’ said Tycho.
Seth grinned. ‘It is good to see there is still fight in you, brother. I had worried command was beginning to soften you.’ Stepping forward, Seth clamped his fist around Tycho’s vambrace in a warrior’s salute.
‘In this tumultuous time, brother, it is pleasing that you, at least, have not changed.’ The ire drained from the Blood Angel’s face as he spoke, yet Seth detected something more behind Tycho’s composed greeting. A bestial glint in his eye.
Seth had spent enough time in the company of the damned to recognise the black flicker of rage. He felt the numbing touch of sadness in his gut. Tycho was a great warrior, one who would not easily be replaced. His spirit was as strong as Baalite steel, but it would not be long before the captain was lost to bloodlust and madness.
Tycho tapped a button on the console nearest to him, activating an overhead hololith. ‘This is the Ephesus ore mine. It lies on an island to the south-west of the Fire Wastes. I need you to secure it.’
Seth paced around the image of the mine, in careful study. ‘The mine is inco
nsequential. There is nothing to be gained by securing it. If I withdraw my forces from Volcanus, the hive may fall…’ Seth turned, gesturing to the larger tactical hololith at the rear of the chamber.
Behind him, the chamber doors opened.
‘If that happens, the flank of Hive Prime will be exposed,’ said Seth.
‘You are correct, Gabriel.’ The female voice preceded a series of footsteps as the newcomer paced into the room. ‘But there is more at stake here than the fate of one world.’
Seth rounded on the woman. An Inquisitorial pendant hung around her neck. His face hardened. An agent of the ordos heralded nothing but strife. ‘You will address me as Chapter Master, inquisitor.’
‘My apologies, Chapter Master.’ The inquisitor moved past Seth to stand at the head of the room. ‘I am Inquisitor Nerissa. Here by order of the Emperor Himself.’
‘I doubt you had crawled from your mother’s womb when last the Emperor gave an order.’
‘I am an agent of the Emperor’s most holy Inquisition. Every act I undertake is by His order, whether He speaks the words or not.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Seth.
‘Why is it, do you think, that the orks have returned to Armageddon?’
‘I do not wish to understand the xenos, only to kill them,’ said Seth.
Nerissa smiled, though her face held no warmth. ‘If that were true, then I fear the Flesh Tearers would be no more than the bloody berserkers they are rumoured to be.’
‘Tread carefully, inquisitor. Your rank affords you a measure of protection, but you are not among friends.’
‘War does not continue to find this world by chance.’ Nerissa moved towards the hololith control panel as she spoke. Manipulating the controls, she brought the image of the mine into sharp relief. ‘Though they may not themselves know it, I believe that the orks have been drawn here. Summoned to the mine by a psyche more attuned to war than even the greenskins’.’ The hololith shivered as the mine faded away, dissolving to reveal what lay beneath it.
