by Nick Kyme
At my side, I felt the presence of Ferrus, his skeletal form hovering in my peripheral vision.
‘Do it…’ he rasped.
Above me in the amphitheatre, held fast but still struggling, I heard Nemetor whisper.
‘Do it…’
It would be so easy. I had but to tighten my grip a fraction and…
I stopped. Fingertips still clinging to the edge of the abyss, I hauled myself up and rolled away from its burning depths. In that moment, I knew that I would not be granted my freedom. I wanted to kill Corax to sate my rage.
‘Kill him, Vulkan!’ Curze snarled, rushing up to the rail. ‘He’s finished. Claim your freedom.’
‘Return to your Legion,’ urged Ferrus. ‘It is the only way…’
I released my grip around Corax’s throat and let him go. Exhausted, physically and mentally, I rolled off my brother and onto my back.
‘No. I won’t do it,’ I gasped, breathing hard. ‘Not like this.’
‘Then you have damned yourself,’ hissed Ferrus.
Not knowing what had happened, Corax got to his feet, picked up my fallen sword and stabbed me through the heart.
I came round screaming. I had returned to my cell, but still lay on my back. The door was intact and there was no evidence of my recent escape. I was strapped down to a metal slab, arms, legs and neck. I couldn’t move and there was a metal wedge in my mouth, gagging me. Surrounding me was a coven of human psykers, feral-looking with strange sigils daubed on their bodies and robes.
‘Davinites,’ Curze explained as he walked into my eye line, before killing every one of the witches in a sudden and violent blur. ‘They have served and failed their purpose,’ he said when he was done butchering them.
It was all a lie – visions implanted in my mind.
Curze removed the wedge from my mouth.
‘Did you expect me to kill him?’ I snarled.
My brother looked profoundly unhappy.
‘You are not noble. You are no better than me,’ he muttered, before killing me again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sacrifices
‘You have suffered. I know this. You have come to the abyss, and almost surrendered yourselves to it. That changes now. I am father, general, lord and mentor. I shall teach you if I can, and pass on the knowledge I have gained. Honour, self-sacrifice, self-reliance, brotherhood. It is our Promethean creed and all must adhere to it if we are to prosper. Let this be the first lesson…’
– Primarch Vulkan in his inaugural address
on Terra to the survivors of the XVIII Legion
Numeon didn’t know who had survived the battle. He was lying face down, his armour’s sensors screaming in a rash of red warning icons. Undoubtably, the fall had saved his life. He hoped it had taken others with him. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and fought to bring the physical trauma under control. Pulse was returning to normal. Breathing also. He waited, in silence and in darkness, for his body to repair and his armour systems to reboot and stabilise.
Someone stirred in the darkness next to him.
Shen’ra’s battle-plate was split, gored by blades and shell holes. His cybernetic eye flickered and went dead.
‘Lost the half-track…’ he croaked.
Numeon managed to nod.
‘Lit those traitors up well though, didn’t it?’ said the old Techmarine, smiling as he passed out. His vital signs were holding; Shen’ra yet lived.
There were others too, some less fortunate than Shen’ra. After Leodrakk and Hriak had escaped with the human, Numeon had returned to the manufactorum. Avus was dead, giving up his life so that his kinsmen could get away. He had saved Numeon in the process, then killed the other Word Bearers into the sacrificial bargain. A melta bomb at close range.
The third legionary, another sniper and probably one of those responsible for the shooting of Helon, Uzak and Shaka, had fallen back before the Raptor’s impassioned onslaught. Avus was another kill-notch on his rifle now, the Word Bearer’s disengagement from the fight leaving Numeon impotent to enact vengeance or make his own sacrifice.
By the time he got to the others, the fight had spilled out onto the streets. Domadus was down, Pergellen nowhere to be seen. K’gosi and Shen’ra remained, surrounded by the dead and dying. In desperation, the Techmarine set off a seismic charge, hoping to take their enclosing enemies with them. He succeeded in part, but collapsed the manufactorum’s already weak foundations.
Numeon remembered the ground coming apart beneath him, the sense of weightlessness akin to the last moments of a drop-pod insertion. Debris was coming down on top of him. A chunk ripped off his right pauldron and sent radial fractures up his arm. He clutched the sigil, Vulkan’s sigil, as they touched down in water. A sewer pipe, running fast, carrying them away from the battle, cheating them of the honourable death they had all earned.
Half submerged, the air rank with the stink of effluvia, Numeon stared up at the ceiling as crawling sewer vermin came to inspect the latest offerings from above but found them brittle and tough.
‘K’gosi…’ he breathed.
‘I am here.’
‘Can you move?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then wait for a time, wait until you can,’ said Numeon.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Pyre captain.’
‘Good,’ Numeon answered, half dazed and drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘That’s good.’
He still clung to the sigil and lifted the hammer icon into a shaft of light lancing through a crack in the wall to inspect it. It was smeared with grime; Numeon used his thumb to clean the sigil and was reminded of when he saw it last on Isstvan.
Isstvan V
The Contemptor lumbered through a pall of smoke, blood flecking its blue-and-white paintwork. Numerous blade and shell scars marred its armour, the true laurels of battle by which all warriors were ultimately judged, or so the XII Legion believed.
Ash-fall from the many thousands of fires was turning the sky grey. It baptised a cohort of warriors, clad to various degrees in ancient gladiatorial trappings and wielding ritual caedere weapons. They were the Rampagers, a deadly breed even amongst the Eaters of Worlds, and a throwback to Angron’s incarceration as a slave-fighter. Bellowing guttural war cries, they charged ahead of the Dreadnought to engage the Salamanders.
Numeon balked at what the battle-maddened World Eaters attempted. He counted no more than thirty men. Just three squads. Yet they charged over a hundred. Several went down to sporadic bolter fire. Some were clipped by shrapnel but kept on coming. Only those too injured to fight, unable to run because of missing limbs or critical wounds were halted. Something urgent and terrible spurred them on. Numeon had read reports of the ferocity of the XII. Even when they were the War Hounds, their reputation in battle, particularly close-quarters, was fearsome. As the reborn World Eaters under Angron, they had become something else. Rumours abounded within the ranks, of arcane devices that manipulated the legionaries’ tempers, simulacra of the ones embedded in Angron’s skull by his slavers.
Now he saw them, ignoring pain and injury, frothing with frenzy, Numeon believed those stories to be true.
A howling berserker, a falx blade in either hand, leapt at the primarch. Vulkan swatted him aside, but the crazed warrior managed to parry a killing stroke and came up fighting as he landed. A second Rampager whirled a chain with a barbed hook around his head. Lashing out, it snared Atanarius and dragged the swordsman into the World Eater’s killing arc.
Numeon had no time to react as he threw himself aside from a massive hammer smashing down at him. Driven by a small rocket-propelled ignition system, it struck the ground with meteoric force and trembled the earth underfoot. Varrun stepped in to engage the warrior but was taken off his feet by the hammer’s backswing. Trying to rush to Varrun’s aid, Numeon found the falx-armed legionary in his path. The
Salamander blocked one swing of a curved blade, barely turning it aside as he felt the hook of the other rake his armoured face. One of the lenses cracked and he lost resolution in it. Ganne bore the frenzied legionary down and pummelled him with his storm shield, whilst Igataron crushed the World Eater’s shoulder to disarm him of the falx. The blood-splashed legionary was about to lunge, ignoring the excruciating pain he must be in, when Numeon impaled him through the chest with his glaive.
‘They are insane,’ growled Ganne.
Numeon nodded, and in the brief respite searched for the rest of his Pyre Guard to see how they were faring.
Varrun was still down but at least moving.
Atanarius was on his knees, butcher’s hooks digging into his armour, still snared by the chain. Skatar’var was trying to release him as Leodrakk fought the chain-wielder, but was finding the Rampager’s fury hard to counter. He staggered, on the defensive, and would have fallen if Vulkan hadn’t lifted the World Eater off his feet and rammed him head first into the ground to silence his screaming.
Another hammer-bearer smashed aside three of Heka’tan’s Fire-born, the Fourteenth and Fifth Companies having found a way through the trenches to engage the World Eaters. Gravius’s troops were still catching up. Below them, K’gosi and the Pyroclasts held the trench-works. Elsewhere on the slope, a much larger force of Firedrakes fought Angron’s Devourers to a bloody stalemate.
For once, the Lord of the Red Sands was close to his honour guard. Numeon heard him bellow a challenge, heard Vulkan’s name amongst the guttural syllables of his native tongue. The ash and smoke were thickening; down to one retinal lens, the other a static-veined mess, it was difficult to get a visual. He caught sight of Vulkan.
The primarch was trading blows with the Contemptor. Though it dwarfed him, the hefty war machine was slowly being taken apart. Vulkan had fought it back and was amongst the Firedrakes in the heart of the battle.
Torn between rejoining the primarch and gathering his brother Pyre Guard, Numeon ran to Varrun, who was still down.
‘Get up! This is far from over.’
Varrun muttered something, but did as he was told.
As he hauled his brother to his feet, Numeon found Vulkan again through the throng.
The Contemptor towered over him, twin power claws trailing jagged loops of energy. Its chest plate was badly dented and cables in its neck spat dangerously.
A dense muzzle flare erupted from Vulkan’s pistol. It had been a gift from Lord Manus, a gesture the primarch of the Salamanders had reciprocated. Discharged at close range, it severed the servos in the Dreadnought’s right arm, rendering one of its weapons limp and useless. Vulkan clambered up the Dreadnought’s torso and when he reached the summit rammed his sword downwards into its armoured head. Like a beast felled but still catching up to the realisation that it was slain, the Contemptor sank to one knee. Its dead arm hung loose by its side whilst the other gripped its knee, struggling for purchase.
Numeon rejoiced as the war machine collapsed, triumph turned to anguish when he saw the pair of Rampagers closing on the primarch. Vulkan was pinned, unable to release the weapon he had sunk so deep to kill his enemy. With a savage twist, the primarch snapped the blade and hurled its jagged remains at one of the Rampagers. It struck the savage gladiator in the face, goring out an eye and killing him instantly. Pushing back off the Dreadnought’s corpse with his feet, Vulkan dodged the eviscerator meant for his skull. It chewed into the Contemptor’s metal chassis instead, grinding metal and spitting sparks before getting stuck.
Yanking at the eviscerator’s hilt but unable to release the weapon, the Rampager roared and abandoned it, intending to take Vulkan on with his bare fists. The primarch had drawn Dawnbringer and took the Rampager’s head off with a desultory swing. Blood was still fountaining from the World Eater’s ragged stump of a neck when a shadow loomed on the ridge-line above.
Anointed in blood, partially obscured by scudding clouds of smoke and shimmering heat haze, Angron bellowed.
‘Vulkan!’ His voice was the like fall of cities, rumbling and booming across the vast battlefield.
Angron jabbed down to his brother with one of the motorised axes he carried. Its blade was burring, roaring for blood. ‘I name you high rider!’
Spittle frothed the red primarch’s lips. His oversized musculature, seemingly too tight for his vein-threaded skin, rippled. Thick ropes of sinew stood out on his neck. A scarred and war-beaten face, framed by the nest of cybernetic scalp-locks snaking back across his head, tensed as Angron’s eyes widened.
Farther down the slope, Vulkan gripped the haft of his hammer and went to meet his brother’s challenge.
Numeon saw it all, and almost urged his primarch to hold.
An arcing missile salvo from one of the traitor gun emplacements forced the Pyre captain’s attention skywards. He tracked the spear-headed missile all the way down, following its trajectory until it struck part of the slope between the two primarchs.
A firestorm lit the hillside, several tonnes of incendiary ordnance expressed in the expansive bloom of conflagration. It swept outwards in a turbulent wave, bathing the lower part of the slope in heat and flame. This was nothing compared to its epicentre. Firedrakes were immolated in that blast, blown apart and burned to ash in their Terminator armour.
A hundred dying sunsets faded from Numeon’s sight. Blinking back the savage afterglow he saw Vulkan wreathed in flames, but stepping from the blaze unharmed. The remaining Firedrakes gathered to him, tramping over the dead where they had to.
Badly burned, the Ravagers were still fighting. The Pyre Guard and some of Heka’tan’s men finished them before Numeon led the warriors after their lord. Varrun was limping. Atanarius clutched his side, but clung to his blade determinedly with one hand.
‘Are we whole, brothers?’ Numeon quickly asked.
Atanarius nodded.
Varrun gave a mocking laugh. ‘Perhaps we should look to increasing our ranks when this is over?’
Ganne came to his side, not supporting the veteran but keeping watch.
‘Are you my protector, brother?’ Varrun asked.
‘Not remotely,’ snarled Ganne, but didn’t leave him.
Igataron said nothing, and merely glowered. His eyes behind his retinal lenses always seemed to burn brighter than his brothers’.
Mauled as they had been by the World Eaters, Numeon knew that his warriors had suffered but would not stop until they were dead or the battle was over. But it was grievously attritional, and he was not ashamed to admit relief when he heard that the reinforcements coming in to make planetfall behind them.
Hundreds of landers and drop-pods choked the already suffocating sky, emblazoned with the iconography of the Alpha Legion, Iron Warriors, Word Bearers and Night Lords. Even the sight of Konrad Curze’s Legion gave Numeon hope that the battle could be won and Horus brought to heel at last.
Vulkan had seen the arrival of his brothers and their Legions too, though he gave no outward sign of relief or premature triumph. He merely watched impassively as the manifold shuttles touched down and the loyalists took up position on the edge of the depression. Of Angron, there was no sign. The firestorm had beaten him back, it seemed, and now with the arrival of four more Legions, the Lord of the Red Sands had ordered a retreat.
Grainy static preceded the opening of the vox-link. All the Pyre Guard heard it, too, though it was on Vulkan’s channel, the primarch’s view that there could be no secrets from his inner circle. Through the choppy return, the Gorgon’s voice thundered.
‘The enemy is beaten!’
His anger was obvious, his desire for retribution palpable. Lord Manus wanted blood to salve his wounded pride.
‘See how they run from us!’ he continued, an eager fervour affecting him. ‘Now we push on, let none escape our vengeance!’
Numeon exchanged a glance
with Varrun. The veteran was badly wounded but able to fight on. Atanarius was also struggling, whilst Skatar’var stayed close to his brother Leodrakk on account of his injuries. With reinforcements ready to deploy, it made sense to fall back and consolidate. Pressing the advance now yielded only glory and profligate death.
Vulkan was impassive, betraying none of his thoughts as he allowed Corax to speak up.
‘Hold, Ferrus! The victory may yet be ours, but let our allies earn their share of honour in this battle. We have achieved a great victory, but not without cost. My Legion is bloodied and torn, as is Vulkan’s…’
Again, the primarch kept his own counsel, as the Ravenlord concluded his speech.
‘I cannot imagine yours has not shed a great deal of blood to carry us this far.’
Lord Manus was belligerent. ‘We are bloodied, but unbowed.’
Making the most of the enemy’s retreat and the brief cessation in the fighting, Vulkan chose that moment to give voice. ‘As are we all. We should take a moment to catch our breath and bind our wounds before again diving headlong into such terrible battle.’ The cost of which lay all around, clad in bloody green armour.
‘We must consolidate what we have won,’ Vulkan suggested, ‘and let our newly arrived brothers continue the fight while we regroup.’
But the Gorgon smelled blood and would not relent.
‘No! The traitors are beaten and all it will take is one final push to destroy them utterly!’
Corax tried a last attempt at reason.
‘Ferrus, do not do anything foolish! We have already won!’
It was to no avail, as the link to the Iron Hands’ primarch went dead.
‘Our brother has overmuch pride, Corvus,’ said Vulkan candidly.
‘He will get himself killed.’
‘He is too tough for that,’ Vulkan said, but Numeon heard the lie in his words, the hollow tone of his voice.
‘I won’t be dragged in with him, Vulkan. I won’t lead my sons into another meatgrinder for the sake of his pride.’
‘Then hope reinforcement reaches him quickly, for he won’t be dissuaded by you or I.’
