by Nick Kyme
Numeon frowned. ‘Tasked by whom?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
Domadus’s vox crackled and Grammaticus caught the murmured intonation of a voice on the other end of it.
‘Try,’ said Numeon and was about to say more when Domadus approached him.
‘Pergellen is back with Shen’ra and wants to see you.’
Numeon nodded in return. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone else.’
Domadus nodded. ‘And what of him?’ he asked, drawing a short-bladed sword from his belt. Grammaticus didn’t like the cold look in the Iron Hand’s eye. ‘I could silence him now. It would end his seditious talk. He also knows our whereabouts, some of our strength.’
‘I’m not sure yet if it is seditious…’ Numeon paused, thinking. ‘Besides, he knows nothing, not about us anyway.’
‘He would complicate our mission,’ said Domadus.
‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. He knows something, Domadus. I want to know it too.’ He turned towards the Raven Guard.
‘I will watch him,’ said Hriak, unfolding his arms slowly like he was unfurling his wings.
‘Domadus,’ Numeon added.
‘No one gets in or out unless it’s with your say so.’
‘No, I was going to say, don’t let Hriak hollow the human out. I want his mind intact for questioning later.’
‘You wound me deeply,’ uttered the Raven Guard.
Numeon frowned. ‘Was that sarcasm, Hriak? You sounded almost as warm as Domadus.’
The Iron Hand laughed loudly and stepped aside.
Numeon nodded to them both, turned his back and left the room.
‘I felt safer when I was on my own,’ Grammaticus said with half-hearted humour, glancing from the stoic figure of the Iron Hand to the menacing spectre of the Raven Guard.
Hriak didn’t share Sebaton’s humour and glared back at him through the slits of his battle-helm.
‘You were,’ he rasped.
After a short walk through an access corridor and the old manufactorum bunk room, Numeon arrived at the printer’s abandoned refectorum. It was a largely barren space, tiled grey underfoot and with a few benches and tables upturned at the room’s edges. A short skirmish had unfolded here, the loyal citizens of Ranos ultimately on the losing side. Amidst the spilt food stains, there were also patches of blood.
In the middle of it all, waiting for the Salamander, stood Pergellen.
The Iron Hand was lean-faced, his eyes concealed behind a steel visor with a single retinal band across its surface. The lights were out in the refectorum, making the visor glow lambently in the darkness. Pergellen’s only other bionic was his left hand, which ground noisily as he used it to grip Numeon’s wrist. His hair was black like jet, and cut close to his scalp in the same manner as his deceased lord and father’s had been.
Over his shoulder on a strap Pergellen had a long-barrelled sniper rifle. It was his deadly aim that had killed the Word Bearer in the warehouse, although from such close range that wasn’t exactly a challenge. He’d wanted to use the warehouse as his nest from which to keep a lookout, but hopes for that were ruined as soon as the human had burst in.
‘You looked troubled, Artellus,’ he said to Numeon.
‘It’s nothing.’ Numeon smiled to cover the concern that had obviously crept over his face, and returned Pergellen’s grip in formal but comradely greeting. ‘I’m glad to see you back. Where’s Shen’ra?’
‘In the yard with the others,’ he said flatly.
Pergellen was a serious soul, rarely given to humour. But he had also saved Numeon’s and Leodrakk’s lives on the plains of Isstvan V. So few of the Morlocks had escaped, so very few of the Clan Avernii left to continue its great and noble legacy.
When the shells were falling and the full horror of the betrayal revealed, it was Pergellen who had fought his way back to the drop-ships when others were losing their minds at the death of Ferrus Manus. It was Pergellen who had dragged Domadus’s unconscious form across the black sand, and he who had kept open a path to the transport. Many didn’t make it.
He and Leodrakk would have died on that field were it not for Pergellen. Their brothers in the Pyre Guard might well all be dead, but Numeon clung to the hope that they were not, just as he believed that Vulkan, too, still lived.
If what the human had said was the truth, then perhaps… He dismissed the thought at once, knowing it was foolish to place his hope in such a man.
Instead he asked, ‘How many days were we on that drop-ship, Pergellen?’
It was often where their conversations went at some point.
‘Fifty-one days, eight hours and four minutes,’ the Iron Hand replied.
They had been a mess of disparate units and Legions back then. Not all had survived the escape. Some were simply too badly wounded or had been dead when they were dragged aboard. Of the forty-seven legionaries that took flight on that vessel, only twenty-six survived.
They lived long enough to be reunited with the Fire Ark, a strike cruiser that had escaped the carnage – one of the few. It had not done so unscathed. Many of the crew were killed during that desperate flight. Wounded, weary, they had levelled what guns they had on the drop-ship emerging from that self-same chaos, not realising they were friends, not foes.
There were no legionaries aboard, not one. Every single able-bodied warrior that could don war-plate had been sent to bring the disgraced Warmaster to heel. It was extravagant, Numeon realised in retrospect – a means of showing force to force and hoping the latter balked in the face of the former. How wrong they were. It didn’t seem like extravagance now; instead, it smacked of ignorant sacrifice. And how Horus had prepared his altar for their willing offering. The blades of his traitors were sharp indeed on that slab of Isstvan V.
Since finding the Fire Ark and the brave but depleted crew aboard, they had lost three more legionaries. Numeon had allied them together, given them back some semblance of purpose. But it did not come without risk, and a vein of fatalism was growing in this company. He had expected it of the Iron Hands, but they bore the loss of their primarch with a quiet and steely determination that did the Medusans much credit. No, it was the Nocturneans, the sons of Vulkan, that suffered most. Of all the Salamanders, only Numeon believed. In his heart, he knew that his father had survived. The rest, despite his impassioned arguments, were not so convinced, and fought for vengeance instead of hope and a desire to serve.
Numeon knew these men were broken. Bereft of leadership, they would have destroyed one another, and with no way to return to their Legions they were cut adrift and aimless.
Yes, Pergellen had saved his life, but Numeon had to believe he could save this shattered Legion too.
‘What did you learn?’ he asked the scout.
‘Nothing good. Shen’ra’s sensors were tripped by a small patrol. I shadowed it for a while before the sentries cut them all down. It will certainly alert the enemy to our presence here.’
‘We knew the Word Bearers would find us eventually. What else?’
‘In addition to their legionaries, which I believe are significant in number, they also have many cultists. Seeds were sown here long before we arrived on the Word Bearers’ heels. The cults control most of Ranos now, and more Stormbirds are coming in from other parts of the city to reinforce the legionaries already on the ground. They are mustering close to this district. Too many for us to engage.’
Numeon cursed under his breath, ‘Vulkan’s merciful wrath…’ He did not want to abort the mission, but it wasn’t too late to signal to the Fire Ark waiting in high orbit. If they moved now, they could reach the gunships and their cruiser, but what then?
‘There was something else, too,’ Pergellen said, arresting Numeon from his thoughts.
Numeon narrowed his eyes, ‘More good news?’
‘Someone
was watching.’
‘They saw you?’
‘Not us. They were watching their allies get gunned down by the sentries.’
‘Friendlies?’
‘No, I don’t think so. They disabled the Tarantulas. Shen’ra and I left shortly after that. I think they may have caught our trail from the warehouse and followed us.’
‘So, in all likelihood, they are coming here.’
‘Yes.’
Numeon’s face darkened. They had spent some time choosing a secure location to act as a base of operations. This district was mostly deserted. The gunships were far away, well outside the habitable zone. It was believed that at the edge of the city they would remain largely unnoticed by the enemy until they chose to act. Much of their plan hinged upon this assumption.
‘Any sign of their cleric?’ Numeon asked.
Pergellen shook his head. ‘No.’
The Salamander grew stern. ‘We’ve seen this before, brother. We failed at Viralis…’ As he spoke the name of this world, an image of corpse-filled streets, bodies defiled and mutilated in service to dark powers, came back to him. The traitors had left something else behind, too. The few survivors had been greatly changed, human no longer. They had become… things. Monsters, sleeved in flesh, that had crawled into mortal vessels and hollowed them out from within. The people of Viralis, an entire colony, were people no longer. Something else had taken their place, wearing them as a man might wear a suit.
‘We were too late for them,’ Numeon said, grimly.
‘We are not too late for Traoris,’ said Pergellen. ‘The cleric will die, but without the element of surprise we will need to draw him out. We won’t fail, Numeon.’
‘Ever since Isstvan. Since Vulkan…’ Numeon faltered.
Pergellen gripped his shoulder.
‘You told me you believe he still lives, Numeon. Don’t abandon your faith in that belief.’
‘I haven’t, even if I am the only one. I wish bitterly, though, that there was some sign, anything to give us hope.’ Again, he reminded himself that he could not trust the prisoner. ‘I have never felt this before… this… doubt that I feel now.’
‘I have lost my progenitor. His body lies headless amongst a field of our dead. You give me hope now. I follow you as my captain. You gave us all a purpose beyond vengeful fatalism. If you must believe in something, believe in that.’
Numeon smiled – wearily, but honestly. ‘I do. I hold to it. How many times I wished I had died on Isstvan Five with my brothers and instead ended up here, trying to make sense of this madness, trying to do something that still matters.’
‘This, here, now – this matters.’
Numeon nodded, finding strength.
The Iron Hand released his grip as the need for it faded.
‘I assume we are not staying here,’ he said.
Numeon shook his head. ‘This place is compromised. We’re moving.’
‘Will you inform the Fire Ark?’
‘No. It’s possible atmospheric communication could be intercepted. Then the zealots really will know where to come and kill us.’
‘Then I’ll summon our quartermaster to come and break down our gear.’
‘Thank you, brother. Tell Domadus I’ll be in the vehicle yard.’
‘What’s to be done with the human?’
‘He comes with us. He’s keeping secrets.’
‘Couldn’t Hriak prise his mind open and wrench them out?’
Numeon shrugged. ‘If we wanted him dead, I dare say he could. He’s watching him now.’
‘And do we not? Want the human dead, I mean. He’s a liability and will slow us down.’
Numeon shook his head. ‘You are a cold breed, you Iron Hands.’
‘I saved your life, didn’t I?’
Now the Salamander laughed, though Pergellen wasn’t making a joke. ‘You did, yes. I want to speak to the human again. He knows something. Besides, the cleric wants him. We might be able to use that.’
‘So he’s not a prisoner at all then,’ said Pergellen, ‘he’s bait. And you say I’m cold.’
Numeon replied without humour. ‘I’m pragmatic, brother. And I will do anything to kill this Word Bearer cleric.’
‘Even if it means our lives and the life of this man?’
‘Yes, even that. I would sacrifice all of it to stop them, to prevent another Viralis.’
‘And that, Artellus, is why I saved you.’
The two warriors parted, the Iron Hand headed for the printing works where they were holding the prisoner.
As Numeon returned to the vehicle yard, he tried to remain focused on his address to the other legionaries, but two words kept repeating in his mind. He barely dared to hope they were true. Vulkan lives.
CHAPTER NINE
Honouring the dead
‘Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.’
– From ‘The Rhym of the Ancyent Starfarer’
by the bard Colwrit
Twenty-three legionaries comprised Numeon’s company, himself included. It was barely more than two squads. The majority were Salamanders, mainly line warriors with a few Pyroclasts, as well as himself and Leodrakk from the Pyre Guard. A pair of battle-brothers and Codicier Hriak represented the Ravens. And of the Iron Hands Legion, there were only Domadus and Pergellen. Ever since the evacuation from the Isstvan killing fields, there had been no contact with any other Legion force.
Their vessel, the Fire Ark, had been badly damaged in the exodus from Isstvan V. Some weapon systems were still functional, though these were insufficient to last long against a fully operational ship of the same calibre. Life support, power for lighting on certain decks, the engines and warp drive still worked, albeit at a reduced and unreliable capacity. Communications were another matter, however. Shipboard vox worked well enough but long-distance augurs and the sensorium arrays were beyond repair and use. Even ship-to-surface vox was extremely patchy. Captain Halder had achieved the near-impossible in effecting a successful escape, but they had limped on ever since and knew nothing of the greater war. Or even if there was a greater war. For all they knew, everyone was dead and Horus had won.
Numeon refused to believe that. Just as he refused to believe that Vulkan had died along with Lord Manus. He hadn’t seen the primarch fall, but the news from their fellow survivors who had was as compelling as it was grim. They fought on, hoping that others did too.
In the vehicle yard, his broken company were currently stood down.
Some were sitting on storage crates, checking weapons, aligning targeters or reloading. He recognised Daka’rai, K’gosi and Uzak huddled around a fire. The three Salamanders weren’t keeping warm, they were speaking oaths and blackening their gauntlets in the flames to seal each pact. More than ever, the different legionaries fell back on their native rituals and customs to give them resolve and purpose.
Others were less clandestine and spent their downtime making battlefield repairs on armour, or testing and refocusing retinal lens resolution, or running biometrics. One legionary, a Salamander called Helon, was performing field surgery on one of the Ravens who’d been injured when a gunship had crash-landed during planetfall. The gunship was no longer operable, but Shaka would live. Helon was not a trained Apothecary, but in the absence of such a specialist he had adapted.
The Raven’s rookery brother, Avus, was squatted atop an iron gantry that overlooked the yard, keeping watch. Hriak was nowhere to be seen, but Numeon knew that the Librarian would be close by if he were needed.
Leodrakk had been waiting for Numeon to appear, and left his guarded conversation with Kronor to go and speak with him.
‘Pyre captain,’ he said, crafting a small bow. ‘How fares our prisoner?’
<
br /> ‘He lives, no thanks to you.’
Leodrakk had removed his battle-helm. It was sitting in the crook of his arm, so Numeon saw him lower his eyes at the mild reprimand from his captain.
‘You have heard Pergellen’s news,’ he offered, changing the subject.
‘I have.’
Leodrakk smiled coldly. ‘I wished for this moment. We will finally get our deserved revenge.’
‘We’re leaving, Leo.’
‘What?’
‘We can’t stay here, not now our enemies have learned of us.’
‘What does it change? Let them come. We shall be waiting.’ He clenched his fist in emphasis.
‘No, brother. We won’t be. They have many times our numbers. This place is hardly a fortress. We could not hold it against an army, and besides, we did not come here to die a vainglorious death.’
Leodrakk stepped forwards, prompting Numeon to do the same until their breastplates almost touched.
‘Yes, brother?’ asked Numeon levelly, breathing in the scent of hot ash drifting from Leodrakk’s mouth.
For a moment Leodrakk looked as if he were about to say or do something foolish. Numeon had to remind himself that Pyre Guard were not like other Salamanders. They were forged of a fierce, independent spirit; it was how Vulkan had shaped them.
‘I have Ska’s blood on my hands,’ Leodrakk whispered, but backed down. ‘Literally, brother.’
In the face of his brother’s grief, Numeon relented. He gripped Leo’s shoulder guard as Pergellen had done for him.
‘I know, Leo. I was there.’
Numeon glanced down at the vambrace and gauntlet on Leodrakk’s left arm and hand. It was still stained with Skatar’var’s blood.
‘Then tell me what else other than revenge are we fighting for?’
‘A greater purpose.’
‘What purpose? To kill a cleric, and achieve what?’
‘No, not just that. I am talking about the Eighteenth, the Legion.’
‘There is no Legion, Artellus.’ Leodrakk gestured agitatedly behind him. ‘We are all that remains.’
