by Nick Kyme
Panicked, some of the remaining Night Lords drew bolters. I felt a shell score my side, leaving a burn. It barely even slowed me down. I backhanded the shooter, snapping his neck at an awkward angle before hoisting another above my head and bringing him down across my knee, breaking his back.
I seized the generator of a fifth, dragging him towards me and caving in his stomach with my fist. With the blade of my hand, I shattered the clavicle of a sixth. Someone got a sword thrust in and I felt it pierce my midriff with a sudden sawing motion. I snapped the blade off at the hilt, and scooped up my attacker by the chin, gripping his jaw before swinging his flailing body overhead and slamming it into a heavy crate. The legionary’s head punched right through it and I left him there, hanging by his neck, dead.
Killing was not akin to revelry for me, but I revelled in this. Every torture I had endured, every injury against my men, I visited back upon the Night Lords. As the barricade broke down behind us, I welcomed my enemies. A host of corpses lay around me. Blades and bolters were within easy reach, but I had no need of them. Clenching and unclenching my hands, I wanted to tear these warriors apart in the most intimate way possible.
‘Come unto my anvil,’ I challenged, a feral snarl curling my lip.
The fact that the ship was gone, our only means of escape lost with it, didn’t even enter my mind. I craved this violence. I desired nothing more than to break these warriors, who would suffer for the deeds of their father.
My fists were like hammers, my fury blazing like forge-fire.
One by one, the Night Lords died and I rejoiced in their destruction.
By the time it was over, I was breathing hard through clenched teeth. Spittle flecked my trembling lip. My entire body quaked with the violence that was slowly bleeding from my every pore. In my mind’s eye I beheld an abyss. It was red-raw, the colour of blood and death. I stood upon its edge, looked down into the chasmic black at its nadir. Madness waited there for me. I heard its calling and reached out to touch it…
Corax brought me back.
His hand upon my shoulder. The urgent tone in his voice.
‘Are you all right, brother?’
It took me a few seconds to realise he was referring to the sword still impaling me.
I yanked out the blade. A welter of blood came with it to paint the deck, soon lost on an already blood-soaked canvas.
‘Believe me, it’s nothing,’ I said, steadily regaining my composure.
Corax nodded, betraying no sense of what I had shown to him, expressed in the charnel leavings on the deck around me.
‘What now?’ I asked, the wrecked Thunderhawk before us.
‘Delve deeper, penetrate the ship’s core. There’ll be other vessels we can commandeer.’
It was a small hope at best. I knew Corax realised that, but chose not to say it out loud.
‘Failing that, we could fight our way to the bridge,’ I replied. ‘And take our wrath out on whoever we find enthroned upon it.’
‘Agreed.’
Corax jerked his head up, listening.
‘More are coming.’
‘Let them.’
His cold retinal lenses regarded me. ‘Does it end here, or on the bridge with Curze’s beating heart clenched in your fist?’
I nodded, though I thought our chances of reaching the bridge and Curze were remote at best. ‘The bridge. Lead on, brother.’
Leaving the massacred Night Lords in our wake, Corax took us through several more chambers until we entered a warren of sub-tunnels reached through a service hatch. The confines of the tunnels were close, and my brother was forced to leave his beloved jump pack behind. Despite his efforts at obscuring the trail, our pursuers were always close behind us. Snarled Nostraman curses followed us down vents and pipes, the din of scraping power armour echoed. I imagined Curze’s men on their knees and elbows, crawling after us.
But however deep we went, however many the turns we took, the Night Lords stuck to us like our shadows. They knew this ship, its every inch. I felt the trap again, its rusty teeth closing around my neck. Escape or capture, there was no other way for this to end for me. I feared for Corax, though. Curze would not be kind to him for this affront.
After an hour of scurrying through the service tunnels like rats, Corax found another access hatch. Kicking it through, the grate landing with a clatter below, my brother dropped from sight for a moment before calling up to me to follow. I went after him and plunged from the lightless warren into a barren chamber. It was dimly lit, fashioned of dark iron like so much of this desolate place, and I discerned blade marks in the floor. There were bloodstains too, but it was empty. It was strangely familiar, though I had never been here before.
A single archway led further, though it was beyond the weak corona of light cast by the lumen orbs ensconced in the walls, and therefore heavily shadowed.
‘See, the way is unobstructed,’ Corax hissed, gesturing to the archway and the darkness beyond it. ‘I’ll make sure we were not followed. Here.’ He tossed me his gladius, the last of his secondary weapons. I caught it and nodded, hastening to the archway, but could see and hear no danger.
‘There are steps leading down,’ I called. ‘And I can feel a breeze.’
It was artificial of course, and the air was musty, but it could indicate that we were close to a deck with atmospheric recycling, which almost certainly meant a human presence.
Corax waited under the gaping hatch for a few more seconds before joining me.
‘What of your helm sensors?’ I asked, knowing that my brother was already cycling through the visual spectra of his retinal lenses.
‘Shadows…’ he hissed, his tone leaving me slightly unnerved.
If I didn’t know my brother better, I would swear he sounded concerned about that.
‘Only way is down,’ I muttered, levelling my gladius at the darkness as though it were a foe I could engage.
Corax agreed, unsheathing his talons, and together we descended the steps.
At the bottom, the darkness was just as thick and abject. It was like trying to see through pitch. I knew it wasn’t an ordinary absence of light. Our eyes would have penetrated that easily and left us in no doubt as to our surroundings. This was different. Viscous and congealing, here the shadows clung to us like tar. As I stared into the oily depths, I saw the vague adumbration of what appeared to be a coliseum. We were standing back to back in its arena. Beneath our feet were sand and earth.
‘It’s a trap!’ I cried, but too late.
Corax was halfway up the steps when a sliding blast door sealed us in. A step behind him, I turned to face the arena as the unnatural darkness bled away through vents in the floor and a chill I hadn’t realised was affecting me melted from my body. Flaming torches delineated an eight-sided battleground where the skeletal remains of gladiators and their shattered trappings still lingered like unquiet spirits. I recalled where I had seen the antechamber before. It was in Themis, a city of Nocturnian warrior kings who engaged in gladiatorial contest to prove their prowess and choose their next tribal leader. Before each fight, the combatants would wait in barrack rooms to sharpen their blades or their minds before the upcoming contest. Corax and I had done neither. I suddenly wondered what our gaoler had in mind for us.
‘It’s a little archaic, I admit,’ said Curze, our attention drawn to him. He was standing above us, looking down from the pulpit of an amphitheatre. ‘But I think Angron would have appreciated it. A pity he isn’t here to see it. Your paths almost crossed on Isstvan, didn’t they, brother?’
I arched my neck, meeting Curze’s gaze in the highest echelons of the amphitheatre. He was not alone. Thirty of his Atramentar Terminators encircled the arena, the threat of their reaper cannons obvious.
‘A pity ours did not,’ I replied.
‘You had your chance on Kharaatan and didn’t take it.
’
‘You will wish I did when this is over.’
Curze smiled thinly. The two Atramentar flanking him proffered arms, a sword and trident.
‘On Nostramo, we had no grand theatres like this. Our gutters and hives were our arenas, but offerings of bloodsport were plentiful.’
He tossed the sword down to us. It impaled itself in the ground, up to a third of its blade deep.
‘Gang culture ruled our streets and everyone wanted to be a part of the strongest gang.’
The trident followed, striking the earth with enough force to send vibrations all the way down its haft.
‘Even murderers and rapists have ritual,’ Curze went on. ‘Even to scum like them it’s important. Opportunities were always limited, often only enough for one. First thing,’ he said, looking down at Corax, ‘the fight must be fair. Remove your armour, brother. Vulkan stands unequal to it.’
‘I didn’t think you approved of holding court, Konrad,’ I replied, stepping forwards as I challenged him. ‘Isn’t that why you butchered your world’s overlords and spire nobles?’
‘They did not lord over me, nor were they noble,’ Curze uttered darkly. ‘Now, Corax will remove his armour or condemn your own sons to death.’
From the back ranks of the Atramentar, two warriors were brought forwards on opposite sides of the amphitheatre. On one side there was Kravex, my brother’s errant son that he had believed dead; on the other was Nemetor.
Both warriors struggled vainly against their captors, not to escape but rather to make clear their defiance.
‘Nemetor…’ How one wounded son had come to mean so much… Curze had not told me what had become of the rest of my Legion, and I had not the heart to ask him. I believed they still lived, though in what numbers I could not say. Had they perished completely on Isstvan, Curze would not have passed up the opportunity to twist that particular knife. And for all the deception of his trials, Curze had not yet lied to me in anything he had said. The Salamanders yet lived. I yet lived. I had to save Nemetor.
Evidently, Corax had reached the same conclusion and quietly removed his armour until he was standing alongside me in the arena with only the lower mesh of his leggings, greaves and boots. His magnificent war-plate lay discarded on the sand like worthless chaff.
Curze had brought us low, and I felt the gnawing guilt of bringing my brother into this crude pantomime.
‘I am sorry, Corvus. For all of this.’
‘Put it from your mind, Vulkan. I made my decision free of will, as I know you would have done also.’
‘But there is something you don’t understand, brother…’
Two gladiatorial helms thrown in our midst interrupted my confession. One was black, fashioned into the likeness of a bird of prey; the other was dark green and draconian. It was obvious what Curze wanted us to do.
‘Are we to dance next?’ I said, stooping to retrieve the helmet intended for me.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Curze replied. ‘Put them on.’
The inside of the helmet was rough. It felt heavy.
‘One lives, one dies,’ said Curze, his voice channelled to me through a reedy vox-link inside my armour. ‘Gang culture is brutal, brothers. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that yet. You will.’
I looked up at Nemetor, my son seeming oblivious to his surroundings, then back to Corax, seeing him do the same with Kravex.
I felt the presence of the abyss again, my bare feet teetering on its edge, looking down into hell and darkness. Pain seared my skull from everywhere at once and I realised the helmet was rough because its interior was studded with a host of tiny nails. Curze had just embedded their points in my skull. The abyss throbbed in my mind’s eye, urging me to act, to step off and be lost to its heat.
I fought to stay calm, to rein in the madness threatening to turn me raving.
Corax hadn’t moved yet, though only a few short seconds had lapsed.
‘Survivor goes free, as do his men,’ Curze gave his last edict to us out loud. ‘For let me say now, I have several more drakes and ravens in my rookery. Now, fight.’
Curze had yet to lie to me. If the game was to have meaning, he would tell the truth here too. But I could not kill Corax. I would sacrifice Nemetor for that, though it would hurt me to do so. I would not bow down to barbarism and become like him. Insanity clawed at the edges of my consciousness but I refused to submit to it. Curze would not win. I would not let him.
Corax would defeat me, Nemetor would die, but at least Corvus would live. I could make that sacrifice, I could do that for my brother.
I reached for the sword.
‘And, Vulkan…’ Curze whispered through the vox-link, a final instruction just for me, ‘I lied. Beat Corax, render him unconscious or I kill him and his Ravens, letting you watch as I do it.’
I tried to shout out, but a wedge of steel slammed into my open mouth from a device wrought into the helm, muting me.
Corax had yet to move. I wondered if Curze had told him the same thing as me, only the reverse of the scenario I had been presented with.
‘Still reluctant to fight?’ asked Curze. ‘I don’t blame you. It’s a heavy thing to have to kill your brother to survive. But trust me when I tell you that hungry dogs have no loyalty when the prize is survival. I remember a family on Nostramo. Their bonds were tight and they fought tooth and nail for one another, gutting entire gangs that dared raise a hand against them.
‘One winter, one particularly bitter and frigid winter, they went to war with a rival gang. Territory and status were the prize. It became about honour, if you can believe that? Such a lofty and costly ideal. It took them far from what they called home. It was war, only much grubbier than you have ever experienced.
‘Towards the end, food ran short, when the rats were gone and the litter in the streets bereft of sustenance. Desperation breeds desperate men. The loyal gang, the one whose blood ties were so strong… they fell upon each other. Murdered each other. One side wanted to keep fighting, the other just wanted the war to end. You see, brothers, sometimes the enemy is just the person preventing you from getting home.’ Curze stepped forwards, put his hands on the rail in front of him. ‘No more delays. Only one of you is getting out of this. Only one gets to go home.’
Corax picked up the trident.
‘I am sorry, Vulkan.’
I could give him no answer.
Curze retreated into the shadows again.
‘Remember what I said, brother,’ he whispered to me.
I had barely wrapped my hand around the sword’s hilt when Corax lunged. His feet left the ground, his leap taking him halfway across the small arena. Dragging the blade free, I rolled and felt the trident punch the earth where I had been standing. A second blow darted past my cheek, tearing it open and flecking the sand with blood. I parried, smashing a third trident thrust aside and landing a heavy punch to Corax’s midriff, staggering him back. I had a second’s rest but he came at me again, crafting a series of small but piercing jabs against my improvised defence.
I had never fought Corax before, but had seen him in battle often enough. His fighting style was not unlike the avian creature from which he took his honorific. Deft, probing attacks like the snapping of a beak assailed me. He was swift, with an ever-shifting combat posture, attacking my blind side and often moving into peripheral assault patterns.
I turned and blocked, took small cuts on my arms, torso and legs. He was relentless, and had not spent the last few months or years of his life trapped in a cell. Furthermore, he was willing to kill me. There was a fury to his attacks, something I had not yet embraced for the duel. Since picking up his trident, a change had come over my brother – one that I was unprepared for.
The abyss returned in my mind, beckoning as the hot nails pushed deeper into my skull, stimulating my anger and need for violence.
I reeled, feeling my sanity unpicking at its already frayed seams.
Corax landed a telling blow, the trident lodged in my left pectoral, digging into muscle and below. I would have screamed were it not for the wedge in my mouth gagging me.
Rage.
I cut a savage wound across Corax’s torso as he found his guard compromised with the trident still impaled in my body.
Rage.
I snapped the trident’s haft in two, leaving the fork still embedded in my flesh.
Rage.
I threw down my sword and hurled myself at Corax.
I am strong, perhaps the physically strongest of all my father’s sons. Corax had claimed as much once. Now he felt it first-hand. With a single blow of my clenched fist I smashed apart his helmet’s grille, revealing his anguished mouth beneath, spitting blood. I landed a second punch around his left ear, snapping his head to the side and denting the helm inwards. Corax shrieked like a bird. I wanted to break his wings, fracture that weakling skull. Despite his attempts to fend me off – a knee into my chest, a heavy jab to my exposed kidneys, a throat strike – I overwhelmed him. With sheer bulk, I bore him down to the earth. He grunted as his back hit the ground hard, and I punched the air from his lungs. Like a vice, my hands were around his throat. Straddling him, Corax’s arms pinned by my knees, he couldn’t move. All he could do now was die.
During the savage assault, his helmet had come apart. I saw his dark eyes staring at me, that quiet wisdom turned to terror.
I squeezed harder, feeling his toughened larynx giving way to my fury as I slowly crushed it. His eyes bulged in their sockets and through blood-rimed teeth he choked two words.
‘Do it…’
