‘She is not unbeatable.’
Thorolf turned back, annoyed that Ecanus had mistaken his disinterest for concern.
‘She wastes energy with her flourishes. Her obsession with violence makes her unable simply to strike, to kill. For her there is too much pleasure to be gleaned from the moment.’
Thorolf watched Khalys slip a blade into the green-armoured eldar’s neck as Ecanus spoke.
‘It is slight, minute even, but there is a lull in her concentration.’ Ecanus pointed at the wych’s face and it zoomed into focus. ‘See, as she cuts and tastes blood, she relishes the sensation. We can exploit that.’
‘Warriors of the Bladed Lotus,’ the Orator swept off the Archon’s balcony into the air, a mist of red gore billowing in his wake like a vengeful cape. ‘Much blood has been spilt for your pleasure. Now, it is you who must give yours.’
‘A razor through our veins! A blade through the heart of our foe!’ As one, the warriors of the Bladed Lotus recited the oath. Drawing ceremonial daggers from ornate clasps fastened around their wrists; they slashed their hands, squeezing three drops of blood each into a thin channel that spiralled down through the galleries of the amphitheatre. The crowd fell silent as the blood trickled downwards to pool in the skull of an onyx gargoyle.
‘Drink!’
Khalys bowed to the Orator and walked beneath the gargoyle. The beast’s stone mouth opened, bathing Khalys in the crimson liquid. She opened her mouth wide, relishing the baptism as the blood fell across her face and flooded her throat.
‘And so it begins, the end of the Razor Vein,’ the Orator broke the silence that had descended upon the arena.
Without pause, Khalys turned and paced towards the Space Marines. She had sought no respite after killing the eldar, stopping only to accept a frenzied roar of approval as the crowd celebrated their champion. Droplets of the green-armoured warrior’s blood still adorned her unblemished skin, reminding Thorolf of the tell-tale markings carried by the most venomous snakes of his home world.
Ecanus sensed the other Space Marine’s disquiet, ‘Remember, brother, she can be killed.’ The Dark Angel shook the tension from his body and tested the weight of the impaler he carried in his right hand.
‘As the Emperor wills it,’ affirmed Thorolf adopting an aggressive posture with his blade.
Khalys smiled and stopped. Sheathing her twin blades, she held her empty hands up to the archon. The crowd met her display with ecstasy, eager to see her kill the so called super-humans with her bare hands.
Thorolf thrust his blade at her midsection. She stepped to the side, patting away his arm with her palm before skipping her knee into his jaw. Thorolf staggered backwards, teeth loose in his mouth. Ecanus made to attack Khalys’ exposed back but she was quicker, twisting in mid-air to kick him in the head. The blow flipped him; he landed hard on his shoulder.
Thorolf struck out with a flurry of arcing cuts, but the wych weaved between his blows, stepping inside his guard to strike him in the throat before hooking her hand under his arm and throwing him to the ground. Khalys moved to finish the prone Space Marine, but Ecanus interceded, stabbing the tip of his impaler toward her. She turned just in time and leapt over the weapon. Ecanus pressed his attack but the wych cartwheeled off to the side, whipping her feet into the side of his head as she danced past.
The crowd roared with amusement as the Space Marines flailed around like children, unable to land a blow on the dextrous wych.
Khalys attacked again. Pushing through her toes, she let her lithe calf muscles propel her through the air, the ridge of her outstretched foot aimed at Thorolf’s throat. Ecanus read her move. Pivoting on his back foot he kicked Thorolf hard in the abdomen. The Space Wolf bent double as the blow, robbing Khalys of her target, unbalancing her. Ecanus let the momentum of his strike carry him round, swinging his rear leg up like the blade of a grav-copter to kick the wych in the face as she landed.
Khalys moved with the blow, folding into a roll that took her clear of the Space Marines and up to her feet. She touched a hand to her jaw and licked her tongue around the inside of her mouth, delighting in the metallic tang of her chemical-filled blood. With a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Khalys unsheathed her knives.
‘No more games wych,’ Ecnaus spat.
Khalys snarled and leapt at the Dark Angel. Ecanus gripped his impaler by the edge of the haft and whipped it out in a long-arcing strike. Khalys bent at the waist, curving her body underneath his swing. Rising, she disarmed Ecanus, slashing a dagger across his forearm and driving the other into the side of his neck. The wych finished with a flourish, kicking Ecanus in the face with the exact same kick he’d struck her with.
Thorolf looked up from all fours. Kahlys had paused to savour the Dark Angel’s blood. It had been for less than a heartbeat, but for an instant she wasn’t in motion.
Khalys was poised to finish Ecanus as he struggled with the wound in his neck.
Thorolf sprinted headlong at the wych. She turned as he knew she would. He fed her blades the outsides of his forearms. Devoid of vital arteries, her blows would not be fatal.
Blood splashed across Khalys’s face. She moved around the charging Space Marine, though slower than she might have, her mouth open as she relished the fruit of his veins. Thorolf twisted as he past her, and spat a gobbet of acid-saliva onto her face.
Khalys screamed as the searing liquid burnt at her flesh. She lashed out like a rabid dog, her twin blades seeking vengeance.
Thorolf swept low, avoiding her desperate attack, and ripped his blade across her abdomen.
He stared at Khalys as she bled out on the ground in front of him. The wych’s once perfect features burned away by his saliva, her lithe body ruined by the vengeful teeth of his blade. Ecanus had been right, Khalys technique was as flawed as her debased soul. Thorolf caught the Dark Angel’s hand as he moved to finish Khalys.
‘The champion of this accursed arena does not deserve the All-father’s mercy. She will die in pain.’
‘As you wish,’ Ecanus dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘Emperor, eternal saviour and redeemer, it is by your hand and unfailing wisdom that we have been spared this fate.’ Thorolf closed his eyes in prayer.
Ecanus stared at Khalys in silent satisfaction as the last of her life-force ebbed away. The wych’s veins pulsed like flashes of lightning beneath her taut flesh as the cocktail of stimms and combat drugs in her system continued to burn. Khalys’s flesh began to bubble and run as the excess adrenaline and frenzon in her blood melted her organs. Within moments all that remained was a pool of toxic ichor.
Ecanus ignored the jubilant roaring of the crowd and held his hand out towards Thorolf. ‘It has been an honour to fight by your side, brother.’
Thorolf looked Ecanus in the eyes and grasped his arm in a warrior fashion, clasping his hand around the other Space Marine’s forearm. ‘It is my sacred duty to save your soul from the Dark Gods of Chaos,’ Thorolf stared into Ecanus’s eyes as he spoke, feeling the Dark Angel’s grip loosen as realisation set in, ‘and I will save your soul, even if you die in the process.’
The nagging feeling Ecanus had pushed to the recesses of his mind burst to the surface like a blazing comet, illuminating the truth that had until now eluded him. Past the unruly, matted hair, the unwashed skin, and the careful lies, Ecanus saw Thorolf for the first time. The other Space Marine was not a wolf but a lion, a Dark Angel.
‘You...’ Ecanus’s mouth hung open as understanding dawned.
Thorolf brought his knee up and drove his foot into Ecanus’s chest. Ecanus let the force of the blow carry him and rolled backwards to his feet. ‘I am Interrogator Chaplain Ramiel,’ Thorolf spoke, revealing his true identity, ‘member of the most sacred brotherhood of the Inner Circle, son of the Lion and avenging blade of the Angels.’ Ramiel pointed his blade at Ecanus, ‘You are a traitorous cur, a shameful stain upon our Chapter’s honour and I have come to offer redemption.’
Ecanus b
ared his teeth in a snarl, ‘I will spit upon your corpse, pawn of Jonson.’ Ecanus sprang at Ramiel, unfettered rage dulling the pain from his wounds.
Ramiel stepped off Ecanus’s line of attack, avoiding the punch-dagger that was aimed at his primary heart, and sliced his blade down towards Ecanus’s thigh. The Fallen countered without pause, pivoting away from the blade, swinging his leg up over the sword stroke to kick the Chaplain in the jaw. Ramiel staggered, recovering in time to block the cross Ecanus threw at his nose. Too late, Ramiel realised Ecanus had wanted him to block it. The Fallen rode the momentum of the Chaplain’s parry, folding his arm in on itself and bringing his elbow smashing through Ramiel’s guard and into his face. Ramiel felt the sickening crunch as his cheekbone broke, dropping his blade as he struggled to stay upright. Ecanus allowed him no reprieve, spinning tightly to deliver a powerful back-kick that broke the Chaplain’s ribs and sent him sprawling into the dirt. Ramiel wheezed heavily as his lungs struggled to draw breath.
The crowd erupted in violence-fuelled ecstasy, drinking in the animosity between the two combatants.
‘I have crossed the depths of space and ripped the hearts from warriors far mightier than you before you’d even deemed to crawl from your mother’s foetid womb,’ spat Ecanus as he paced towards Ramiel.
Ramiel felt his strength slipping, he needed to buy some time, recover and then–
Fight now, heal later.
Brother-Sergeant Sariel’s voice filled the Chaplain’s head. Sariel was a member of the Deathwatch, the best of the most elite warriors the Dark Angels could muster. He had helped Ramiel from his knees once before, back on Tervanaous IV when a tyranid bio-weapon had devoured most of Ramiel’s abdomen. Ramiel took heart from his old sergeant’s words, Sariel’s memory surfacing in the Chaplain’s mind to help him once more. Emboldened, Ramiel threw himself at Ecanus.
Caught off guard by his opponent’s sudden resurgence, Ecanus swung a clumsy punch at the Chaplain’s face. Ramiel caught the attack, wrapping his right arm around Ecanus’s left and using his other to hook the Fallen’s neck, pulling him into a headbutt that began when Ramiel had leapt from the ground and ended when it dented Ecanus’s brow and caved-in his right eye socket. Ramiel kept a hold of Ecanus, firing one knee and then the other into his gut, winding him. Grunting with effort, the Chaplain hurled the Fallen Angel across one of the barbed sections the arena floor. The carpet of microscopic blades ripped open Ecanus’s skin as he tumbled over it, leaving him bleeding from hundreds of small lacerations.
‘The will of the righteous cannot be denied,’ Ramiel let the catechism invigorate him.
Ecanus’s head swam, Ramiel’s blow had been severe and his body was struggling to heal the myriad incisions puncturing his body. He looked up and saw the Chaplain, blade in hand, advancing. Behind him, Ecanus could just make out the glint of an impaler in the dirt. Standing, he winced as the damnable arena stabbed into his feet.
‘Time to die, Chaplain,’ Ecanus skipped forward and flipped over Ramiel’s sword stroke. Landing behind the Chaplain, Ecanus scooped up the impaler with his foot; catching it he lunged at the Chaplain.
Ramiel had read Ecanus’s move, his clumsy sword stroke a lure. Turning on the balls of his feet, he side-stepped the impaler’s tip, grabbed its haft and pulled Ecanus onto his outstretched blade. Ramiel felt the Fallen’s body judder and spasm as the blade punctured his primary heart.
‘Let the blood of the unclean act as an offering to the Lion’s shade,’
The Chaplain ignored Ecanus’s desperate hands as they tried to push him away. Ripping the blade across Ecanus’s chest, Ramiel scythed it through the secondary heart and tore it out through the shoulder. The Fallen’s body fell at Ramiel’s feet in a ruined heap.
‘The unworthy shall be crushed from the Emperor’s sight.’ Ramiel stamped his foot down hard on Ecanus’s skull, cracking it into the dirt.
The crowd erupted in a torrent of cheering; their sickening ovation amplified to a numbing crescendo by the distended mouths of the cadaver heads encircling the arena.
Archon K’shaic stood, silencing the applauding masses.
‘Champion of Xelaic,’ the Orator began. ‘Through blood and death you have earned your freedom.’
Ramiel stood immobile and waited for the punchline.
‘You will accompany my master to the depths of Commorragh, where you will fight for even greater glory and perhaps even, immortality.’
The crowd approved. Braying like savages, they banged gauntleted fists against armoured chests and roared in pleasured excitement.
Ramiel’s jaw tightened in anger. He would no more continue to kill for the entertainment of K’shaic and his depraved race than he would have allowed Ecanus to live. The Chaplain closed his eyes for a moment, finding solace in the darkness and offering a prayer to the Emperor for strength. He felt the weight of the impaler clutched in his right hand, it was perfectly balanced. Opening his eyes Ramiel let his enhanced senses filter out the crowd. Their jeering faded away to a wash of noise, like waves rolling onto a distant beach. The army of pendants and the grotesque sheets of flapping skin blurring out of focus until only the archon remained visible – a dark spot at the end of a white tunnel Ramiel formed in his mind.
‘I am the Emperor’s wrath!’ cried Ramiel, and in one fluid motion the Chaplain stepped forward, his arm shooting up to launch the impaler at K’shaic’s chest.
The impaler flew true, covering the distance to the archon in a heartbeat and striking him full in the chest. The blow triggered a burst of light like the shattering of a minute star, momentarily eclipsing the archon and his attendants. In the after-flare, Ramiel saw K’shaic still standing – the archon had used some form of displacement field to swap places with the Orator.
A thousand lifeless mouths cried out in symphony as the Orator looked down at the haft of the impaler protruding from his chest, its spear tip buried in his black heart.
K’shaic watched dispassionately as the mouthless creature collapsed in a pool of thick blood. The cries of the Orator’s familiars tailed off as the last of its blood ran onto the barbed floor of the balcony. The archon nodded in mock respect towards the Chaplain, with a wicked smile that revealed two rows of dagger teeth.
‘His loyal servant unto death,’ Ramiel reached for where his rosarius should be sitting on his chest and awaited eternity.
AN EXTRACT FROM DELIVERANCE LOST
Gav Thorpe
‘Picket ships detected.’ Ephrenia’s announcement stilled the activity on the strategium.
‘Three destroyers, overlapping sensor sweeps, detecting plasma trails of three more vessels, probably light cruiser class,’ she continued.
The Avenger was only two days from reaching translation point, far enough away from the gravitic pull of Isstvan’s star to make a safe warp jump. For the last three days the net thrown up by the traitor ships had been closing in, but this was the closest they had come, only a few hundred thousand kilometres away.
Corax glanced at a screen in the arm of the command throne, showing the relative positions of the vessels. In a moment he had assessed their trajectories and the coverage of the scanner sweeps.
‘Too close to alter course,’ he declared. ‘We will have to make a dash for the translation point. Shut down all auxiliary systems, impose blacklight protocols, divert power savings to the engines.’
A series of affirmatives chorused from the assembled staff and legionaries. The primarch turned his attention to Commander Branne.
‘I want you and Agapito to make a stern-to-prow inspection. Ensure all support systems are at minimal output. Pass the word to Solaro and Aloni to enforce the blacklight protocols.’ The primarch raised his voice. ‘I want full energy balance in ten minutes, no later.’
‘Aye, lord, I’ll see to it,’ replied Branne.
‘Detecting launch, Lord Corax,’ said Ephrenia. ‘Picket ships are firing torpedoes, wide dispersal.’
‘Direction?’ snapped Corax, re
turning to his place behind the command throne, eyes fixed to the small data screen.
‘Crossing pattern,’ Ephrenia replied. ‘Even at our increased speed they will pass ahead of us.’
‘Clever bastards,’ muttered Branne from behind the primarch. ‘Hoping to get lucky with blind firing.’
‘Save three per cent of energy output for manoeuvring, just in case,’ said Corax. ‘All personnel to attend to battle stations.’
‘Weapons, Lord Corax?’ asked Ephrenia. Her expression was as calm as ever, but the primarch detected the slightest hint of tension in her voice. ‘Shall we reserve any output for the weapons batteries?’
‘No,’ replied the primarch after a moment’s thought. ‘We won’t be able to fight our way out of this one if we are discovered.’
‘And the void shield transformers, Lord Corax? Shall I have them running on standby?’
‘No,’ Corax said. ‘All power to reflex shields and engines, nothing else. If they hit us, it will be too late anyway.’
Taking the shield transformers offline would add almost four minutes to the time required for the reflex shields to revert to defensive void shields; extra minutes during which untold damage might be incurred by the Avenger. For the first time since he had come aboard, Corax noticed hesitation in the controller. It lasted only a heartbeat before Ephrenia nodded and turned to the task at hand. He heard the doors opening and glanced over his shoulder to see Branne departing on his inspection.
He checked the display again. They were two hundred and fifty thousand kilometres from the Traitor picket. Seven more vessels had been picked up by the low-band sensor screen, creating three layers of defence between the battle-barge and the safe translation point. If there was even a momentary blip in the reflex shields, or one of the torpedoes caught the Avenger in its blast, the primarch’s ship would quickly find itself surrounded by enemies.
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