by Rob Sanders
‘Then where are the Alpha Legion?’ Kersh demanded.
‘They have slithered away like the serpents they are,’ Tiberias said.
‘The Fourth waste their time,’ Kersh said to Ezrachi. ‘We must find the Traitors and recover both the banner and intelligence of the toxin’s origin.’
‘You think we have not all thought on that?’ Tiberias goaded.
‘They are everywhere and nowhere,’ Ezrachi said with sadness. ‘They have played with us. Even the most promising leads have thus far turned out to be no more than shadows and whispers. That was until Veiglehaven.’
‘Veiglehaven?’
‘The Fifth Company were lured there,’ Ezrachi told the Scourge.
‘Looking for the Chapter standard,’ Tiberias added, jabbing a meaty finger at Kersh. ‘Your standard.’
‘A trap?’
The Apothecary nodded sadly.
‘How many?’
‘Over half the company was lost,’ Tiberias said. Kersh’s gaze fell to the deck. ‘Brothers, sent to suffer an ignoble death, while you live and breathe before me. The Scourge? More like a scourge. A scourge on this Chapter. Your hearts beat only to expound your dishonour. How do you suffer the insufferable? Our blood – on your hands.’
‘It’s Dorn’s way,’ Kersh said finally, his eyes rising once again to meet his accuser’s. ‘We are for the Emperor, to the point of death. Devotion at any cost – even that of my soul, Brother Tiberias. We talk of your blood and its whereabouts. My understanding is that you will find it in ample quantity on the blade of the White Templar you fought in the Cage.’
The Excoriator’s sneer split into an ugly snarl. His bruised fist came at Kersh with a furious desire. Tiberias was fast but his movements were those of a close combat veteran: precise, measured and committed. Predictably so. Kersh had spent a lifetime at his Chapter Master’s side, fighting experienced warriors of all creeds and species. The enemy would always send their best at him and it had been the Scourge’s simple honour to end them before they could end his master.
Kersh held his ground, craning and stretching. Tiberias’s fists were everywhere: punching, back-handing, swinging. Each failed to find its mark – the fury of each strike lost on air. The Scourge angled his shoulders, swooping and bobbing his head just out of the veteran’s considerable reach. A bare foot struck out at Kersh, forcing him to pivot. He slapped the knee aside and flung his towel into Tiberias’s contorted face. The honoured brother tore it away, only to find that Kersh had pivoted back.
A gobbet of blood and teeth erupted from the veteran’s mouth as his head was smashed to one side. The Excoriator’s mighty body followed, his feet thrown up into the air and his tattooed shoulders hammering into the hard deck with a metallic boom.
Kersh stood with Ezrachi’s helmet clutched in one hand. The Apothecary had tried to get between the two warriors in his ceremonial plate, but Kersh had snatched his bone-white helm from his hands. It sat snug in his fist as he’d spun around, like a moon in rapid orbit around a serene gas giant, until it crashed into Tiberias’s face.
Ezrachi knelt down beside the felled Space Marine to check his ruined features. A broken nose and shattered jaw fountained a further spray of blood as Tiberias coughed up more teeth. Kersh looked down at the gore-smear across the white of the helm’s faceplate.
‘I’ve found more of your blood, Brother Tiberias,’ the Scourge spat, prompting the veteran to shove the aged Ezrachi aside and scramble, half blood-blind to his feet.
‘Come on, meat,’ Kersh dared.
‘Enough!’ Corpus-Captain Gideon called, striding into the penitorium. ‘Save it for the damned arena,’ he said in disgust. ‘Get him out of here. Clear the chamber.’
Chapter serfs hurried past, while Ezrachi angled the unsteady Tiberias’s shoulders towards the exit. The Apothecary gave the Scourge a sullen scowl.
‘I will see you planetside,’ Ezrachi told him. Kersh threw Ezrachi back his besmirched helm.
The Apothecary looked back at Kersh and then left. The corpus-captain hit a vox-stud in the wall.
‘This is Gideon. Open the blast shields, port-side aft.’
The penitorium shuddered as the clinker plates of armour running down the frigate’s aft section began to part. As Gideon crossed the chamber, the colossal metal slats receded like blinds to admit the scene beyond. Light flooded the dim penitorium. ‘With me,’ the corpus-captain ordered.
Kersh hovered for a moment, just long enough for Gideon to register his defiance, before striding across to the vistaport. The armaplas window ran the length of the penitorium. The two Excoriators stood in silence, taking in the planet below and the craft upon which the Scarifica held orbital station. Beside the Excoriators frigate sat the Death Strike gunfreighter Nihilan Proxy. Beyond that the pocket-frigate Bellicose rolled, bearing the Chapter insignia of the Black Templars. Several other rapid strike vessels, all belonging to different Adeptus Astartes Chapters, lay in high orbit, gathered about the battle-scarred flanks of the Titus, a veteran Imperial Fists cruiser.
Below them was a world the yellow of cowardice and swirl-smeared in a cloud-cover of soot and ash. The Titus and the attending smaller craft drifted above a blackened pole. About the fat belt of the planet’s equator, Kersh could make out the lightshow of colossal impacts and explosions beneath the smog. A huge xenos craft hurtled towards the region. An obscenity of interstellar scrap, the vessel had the unmistakable graceless and clunky design of a greenskin kroozer. Flanked to starboard by Imperial Navy destroyers and a light cruiser, and on the portside by an Imperial Fists Gladius frigate, the unstoppable craft seemed to have an enemy escort. An almost continuous stream of fire existed between the Navy vessels and the monster’s thick hull, however, and the Imperial Fists vessel was engaged in a desperate high-speed boarding action. Beyond the spectacle, the distant sparks of lance beams and cannon fire marked out a distant cordon, a gauntlet of Navy and Adeptus Astartes vessels through which a swarm of other greenskin attack craft were attempting to punch.
‘All right,’ Kersh said finally. ‘Where are we?’
‘Samarquand.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I’m not surprised. It has been part of the Urk Empire for two thousand years. A greenskin overlord called the Great Tusk holds the system here.’
‘Some overlord, I haven’t heard of him either.’
Gideon ignored Kersh’s obvious insolence. ‘The Samarquand agri-worlds supplied the cluster-hives of Coronis Agathon. Twelve verdant planets – amongst the most productive in the Imperium – inadequately garrisoned and consigned to doom and the infection of the xenos. Unfortunately, the Great Tusk and its line are plagued with an uncharacteristic lack of ambition. The fat monsters seem content to sit here, breeding in their own squalor. Their fleet and forces have never committed themselves out-system or joined the invasions plaguing nearby sectors.’
‘We think that this Tusk is building up to something?’
‘Two thousand years is a lot of patience for a greenskin, don’t you think?’ the corpus-captain returned. ‘No. But a populous xenos empire, no matter how small, cannot be tolerated so close to Imperial shipping lanes.’
‘So, destroy it,’ Kersh said.
‘The effort to do so continues to this day,’ Gideon told him.
‘For two thousand years?’
‘In turn, the Imperial Fists, the Dark Angels and the Space Wolves all have had honoured commitments to remove the Great Tusk and cleanse the system. Progress has been slow.’
‘The xenos are dug in?’
‘Nothing so sophisticated. There are just too many of them. Reports return of coast-to-coast greenskins on the planet surfaces: the Vostroyan Firstborn 13th Regiment, the Moloch 132nd Rifles and the Urdeshi 27th Mechanised – all wiped out in taking Samarquand.’
‘Then Samarquand is taken.’
‘Emperor be praised. Our brethren the Imperial Fists have succeeded where the Wolves and Angels failed. Samarquand
IV has rejoined the Imperium. Still, one amongst twelve, with the enemy intent on taking it back…’
‘What in Dorn’s name are we doing here?’ Kersh interrupted. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘If it were my choice, Scourge, I would not have you here at all.’
‘Have our brother-Fists requested our assistance?’
‘No.’
‘Then don’t we have ongoing engagements of our own to honour?’ Kersh pressed. ‘The Alpha Legion. Chapter Master Ichabod?’
‘You are here at Master Ichabod’s decree and that is all your wretched ears need know.’
Kersh turned on the corpus-captain. ‘I belong at my master’s side.’
‘You are not wanted, nor needed there,’ Gideon said. ‘You are to play no further role in the tragic events afflicting our Chapter. Do you hear me, Scourge? Whatever worth you have left is to be measured here.’
‘Here?’ the Excoriator said, jabbing a finger at the vistaport. ‘I don’t even know where here is.’
‘Samarquand IV is the chosen ground for the eight hundred and sixteenth Feast of Blades.’
‘We’re here to compete?’
‘You’re here to compete.’
‘With the Chapter under attack and our master’s life hanging in the balance, we are here contesting?’ Kersh said, his words dripping with incredulity. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘The Feast is important.’
‘The Feast is a distraction!’
‘An important one. These are dark times, Kersh – and not just for the Excoriators. The Emperor’s Angels are spread thin across the stars. Dorn’s sons spread even thinner. Chapter relations must be maintained. The bonds of brotherhood strengthened and tempered through contestation.’
‘We have only just concluded a Feast.’
‘Tradition dictates the Feasts are centennial – at least centennial. It is the right of the reigning Chapter to call a Feast before its time. They often do.’
‘Why, by Katafalque, would they do that?’ Kersh sneered.
‘The Feast of Blades serves its purpose,’ Gideon said. ‘Many pacts are created and obligations honoured among our brethren – but we are bred for victory. Reigning Chapters want to build on past triumphs, for their success to echo through eternity, to catch Dorn’s approving eye or ear, wherever the Lord Primarch might be. They call the Feast to best complement their advantage – the prowess of their champions, the perceived weakness of their opponent Chapters. Like us, they want to win. I would be surprised if the recent trials of our own Chapter hadn’t been a factor in the Feast’s most recent calling.’
‘Could we not we request that another Chapter take our place?’
‘On occasion that happens.’
‘Then why didn’t you make that happen?’
‘A brother’s love is hard won,’ Gideon told him. ‘The Feast of Blades is not, however, an empty exercise. Chapter relations bear fruit. Even now, the Fire Lords move in to relieve our Second Company at Celator-Primus.’
‘We are Excoriators–’
‘Yes, we are. You’ll find our blood in the earth of Holy Terra and staining the mighty walls of the Imperial Palace. We hold our ground now as we did then, in our primarch’s plate. Our very existence is a war of attrition. As a Chapter we shall not falter. Not now – not ever.’
‘Agreed,’ Kersh said. ‘But why contest honour when we can earn it through the worthy deaths of our enemies?’
‘There is a fire within you, Scourge, that even I can feel,’ Gideon told him. ‘Be it loyalty, shame, hunger for revenge – I know not. I care not. The Chapter is suffering its worst losses in five thousand years. These are dark times and I need that fire burning bright in every company, every squad, every Excoriator. As well as reinforcing relations with our primogenate kin, participation in the games generates Chapter pride. With Master Ichabod afflicted and the Stigmartyr lost, our brothers’ hopes have turned to ash in their chests. The mere embers of faith sustain them. Ichabod hoped that some success at the Feast might stoke the fire in their hearts. That is why he sent me. That is why he sent you.’
Kersh stared out across the frozen void. ‘How do we fare?’ he said finally.
‘The worst in our history,’ the corpus-captain admitted. ‘Nine of our ten champions have been beaten and are out of the contest – and the Feast is but yet at an early stage. You are the last. That is why I had Ezrachi experiment with that damned box.’
‘If I fail?’
‘Then we have dishonoured Dorn and our entire Chapter. In your case, again. It would strengthen the belief in our brothers that we are ruined and I don’t know if Master Ichabod would survive such news.’
‘But we would leave the Feast early?’
‘Think not on crusades to reclaim the Stigmartyr. If winning back your honour is the prize, then that can only be achieved here. If you do not do your utmost – as every Excoriator before you – to succeed in the Feast, then I shall leave Samarquand with my ten defeated champions and take the Scarifica to Onassis and join the Marines Mordant on their penance crusade through Tempest Hippocrene. You will not see our home world, Eschara, for a hundred years, and when you do, it will be because the dishonour of our failure has been bled from your body. I will then select you for participation in the Feast once more. Consider this both my threat and my promise, brother.’
Kersh stood there. Angry at Gideon. Angry at himself. He watched the Imperial Fists cruiser peel away from the greenskin hulk. The Imperial Navy vessels disengaged likewise, their magnabore laser batteries silent but still glowing. The kroozer rippled with explosions. Sections broke away and the bulbous monstrosity split in two. Both sections tumbled towards Samarquand IV, wreathed in an upper-atmospheric blaze. These were followed by falling stars that had erupted from the belly of the Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser and were now thunderbolting down through the wake of the wreckage. Drop-pods laden with Imperial Fists, intent on finishing the job and cleansing the inevitable crash-site of greenskin scum.
Kersh turned to Gideon, but he had gone, leaving the Scourge in the penitorium on his own. The deck lamps were out and the cool chamber was only lit by the sickly light of the planet below. A shiver danced up the Space Marine’s spine and the flesh on his forearms suddenly pimpled, telling Kersh that the temperature in the penitorium had dropped considerably. Something brushed past the tiny hairs standing erect on his thick neck, causing the Excoriator to spin around. He found nothing but empty darkness. He hocked and spat into the black.
‘I spit on your childish tricks, Tiberias,’ Kersh announced to the echoing chamber, ‘for they proceed from a cowardly soul.’
Kersh turned back to the thick armaplas and the deeper darkness of space. He soaked up the emptiness for a moment – the totality of black loneliness offered by the void – before realising that he wasn’t actually alone. The unrequested appearance of his serfs would simply have irritated the Scourge. If he had sensed Tiberias then the Excoriator’s brawny arms would have flared with the sudden burn of anger and adrenaline. This was something else. The pit of his stomach curdled. He felt the coolness of his blood. Then, the chatter of teeth.
The Scourge turned his head slowly. He saw a ghostly reflection in the plas, the silhouette of an armoured figure, cutting its shape into the darkness beyond.
‘No…’ Kersh mouthed, his breath misting before him. His eyes widened. Before him was the revenant from his dark dreams. It didn’t look at him. It merely existed. There. A horrifying reality. Its grotesque armour was the skeletal nightmare he remembered, and through a rent in its helm, Kersh caught a glimpse of something unliving, a vision of fear crafted in bone and smouldering with radiance unnatural.
Something akin to fear fluttered through the Scourge’s being. He had not been built with the emotional spectrum to experience dread as mortals did, but something deep and primordial within him was reacting to the phantasm, and it was not pleasant. This alien feeling soon churned into something all the more recognisable to the
Space Marine. Anger. The desire to meet a threat head on and end it. The revenant could be heralding the return of the Darkness or it could be an unknown menace that was a danger to the ship. Either way, Kersh felt that he had to act. He risked a fleeting glance about the benighted penitorium, his eyes darting for anything that might serve as a weapon. The brief search revealed nothing and within a moment, his distrusting gaze was back on the revenant. Except, it wasn’t there.
Through the vistaport plas, the busy hull of the Scarifica became silhouetted against the sallow curvature of Samarquand IV. Amongst the aerials, crenellations and grotesques, Kersh could make out a distant, armoured figure on the exterior of the ship. The revenant. It too was in silhouette and held his attention as it worked its ghostly way up through the crowded architecture.
‘Terran Throne…’ Kersh murmured, his eyes almost to the armaplas. Step by spectral step he followed it with his eyes, until, with a ghoulish uncertainty plucking at his hearts, he watched it disappear around a maintenance barbican.
He felt something wet and slippery to the touch on the plas interior. Backing away, Kersh found himself staring at High Gothic scrawl written with a fingertip on the vistaport surface. Some of his own words – words he’d used in the penitorium only minutes before – quoted back to him. In dedicato imperatum ultra articulo mortis. ‘For the Emperor beyond the point of death,’ Kersh mouthed. Stunned, the Excoriator strode across the darkness of the chamber. Hitting a stud by the penitorium bulkhead, he brought the deck lamps back to life. With the lamps on, Kersh could see that the words were spelled out in blood. Blood taken from the pool Brother Tiberias had left on the floor. There were bloodied footsteps also. Armoured, broad and heavy. They led from the spot Tiberias had fallen to the High Gothic on the vistaport. They seemed to come from nowhere and they led to nothingness.
