Atop the landing, Canoness Lorr oversaw the remaining defenders as they doused fires and recovered the dead. He could hear her singing from where he sat, and wondered why the sound of it bothered him so. He lifted the knife and carefully wiped it on his gauntlet, before sheathing it.
‘The truth is revealed,’ he murmured. What truth? Whose truth? What had the Word Bearer meant? The thought gnawed at him, despite his best efforts to dismiss it. Calder wondered if he were fit for this new age, when men waged wars not for strategic objectives but for more esoteric purposes. He felt tired – more tired than he had ever been.
They do not recognise defeat.
He shook his head. If the enemy did not recognise defeat, could he truly claim victory? Or was a stalemate the best that could be hoped for?
He looked down as he heard a familiar voice call out. Suboden Khan, white armour stained grey with ash, climbed towards him through the thinning smoke. He was followed by several White Scars, all of them looking as if they’d waded through blood and fire. Suboden studied Calder. ‘Not often I get to look down on one of you.’ He turned. ‘Was that the Uquillian’s Stormtalon down there?’
Calder shook his head. ‘I do not know. I am sorry.’
Suboden nodded, as if he had expected as much. ‘I told you I would return,’ he said after a moment. ‘Though it seems you do not require my assistance.’
‘Not at this particular moment, no.’
The White Scars raised their weapons. Suboden looked up. Calder turned, and saw the Anchorite at the top of the steps. He tossed a crumpled helm down and it clattered past Calder, to roll to a stop at Suboden’s feet.
Suboden looked down at the helm, and then back at the Anchorite. ‘One of yours?’
‘No.’
‘I belong to no one,’ the Anchorite rumbled. ‘And I can speak for myself.’ He looked up. ‘They will retreat, with Amatnim dead. Not all at once. And not all of them. Some will seek to dredge glory from this moment. Others will seek to hide themselves away, like ticks in the flesh of a beast.’
‘Then we will hunt them down,’ Calder said. ‘But not today.’
‘No.’ The Anchorite was silent for a moment. ‘I wish to return to my cell.’
Calder looked at him. ‘I cannot stop you.’
The Anchorite laughed. ‘No.’
Calder hesitated. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank Eamon. It was he who convinced me.’ The Anchorite didn’t move. His red gaze scanned the horizon, and Calder wondered what he was looking for. ‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’ the Dreadnought said. ‘I forgot what it was like, I think.’ His talons twitched, and Calder saw that they were stained crimson. ‘I forgot what it was like to be… to be who I was.’ He turned away. ‘I will return to my cell. But maybe my time of contemplation is at an end. I must pray for guidance.’ He stopped and looked at Calder. ‘You will tell the primarch that I held to my oath. Tell him that I continue my penance. That I will continue it.’
Calder nodded, and the Anchorite strode away, each step like a boom of thunder. Suboden was silent for a moment. Then he sat down beside Calder. ‘Is he–?’
‘He is what they came here for.’
‘Why?’
Calder shook his head. ‘I do not know. I find I know less now than when I arrived.’ He looked up, watching distant fires streak the skies. The battle was still raging above Almace. What was left of the Word Bearers fleet was attempting to fight its way free of the planet’s gravity well. He looked at Suboden. ‘I think the Lord Commander sent us here to find him. Or maybe to kill him.’
‘Which is it?’
‘I have not decided yet.’
Suboden nodded. Then, ‘You will let me know.’
Calder thought about it. ‘Yes.’
Suboden laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good enough.’ His smile faded. ‘Kanim has reported that the mining facilities are under our control, as well.’ He paused. ‘Though not without cost.’
Calder said nothing. Suboden looked out over the city. ‘Victory does not come without a price,’ the khan continued, after a moment. ‘Ours was not so heavy as it might have been.’
‘For which we give thanks to the God-Emperor.’
Calder turned. Eamon stood above them, flanked by his ever-present bodyguards. ‘Cardinal-governor,’ he said.
Eamon nodded in greeting. ‘Lieutenant. Khan. You have the thanks of the Ecclesiarchy. And, perhaps less impressively, myself.’
Suboden chuckled and rose. ‘There are things I must see to. Find me when you have a moment, brother. We will raise a cup of rice wine to Karros’ memory.’ He and his warriors filed past. Eamon joined Calder on the step. His bodyguards remained where they were.
‘Do you think it was wise – rousing him?’ Calder asked, after a moment.
Eamon shook his head. ‘No. I will likely be sanctioned for it. A vow is no less broken for it having been done in good cause.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘It worked, though. For which I am grateful.’
‘It was a sound stratagem. One I would not have conceived of.’ Calder looked at the cardinal-governor. ‘I am sure the Lord Commander will speak on your behalf, should it become necessary.’
Eamon smiled. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked up, back towards the gate. ‘He is out now. He is awake in a way I have not seen before. As if new life fills him. There is a light to him. I cannot describe it.’ He bowed his head, hands clasped. ‘I have faith that I have done the right thing. But I cannot help fearing that I have loosed something that cannot be chained again.’
Calder thought of the way the daemons had given way before the Anchorite, of the light that had swelled from the Dreadnought. As if it were not a fallen warrior in that sarcophagus at all, but something else. He thought of Guilliman, and what the Word Bearer had said as he’d died.
The truth is revealed.
He looked at Eamon, trying to find words of comfort. Of surety. But only one thing came to mind. The unspoken mantra of his Chapter. ‘We do as we must,’ he said. ‘That is all any of us can do.’
It would have to be enough.
Prince Ganor Kabalevsky slunk hurriedly through the shattered streets, one hand on his shuriken pistol. He had discarded his coat and armour, instead wrapping himself in a hooded robe. His cutter was gone, blown out of the sky. Kabalevsky’s Wrath wasn’t responding to his hails. It too was probably gone – either fled, or floating shattered in Almace’s orbit. Either way, it was of little use to him.
He had not understood what was happening, at first. He had never experienced a drop pod assault. When he saw the first one open, disgorging a squad of towering, white-armoured killers, he had ordered his men to fall back, to abandon their plunder, to retreat. But too late.
And now, he was alone.
No, not alone. Never that, Prince Ganor.
He stopped, senses straining. Something was following him. Someone. He could hear their steps. Had heard them since he’d fled the White Scars. They were walking on his shadow, hunting him through the ruins of Low Town.
Or maybe it was in his head. He wasn’t sure any more. His stomach ached, and his skull felt full. The voice no longer brought comfort – if it ever had.
He stumbled and leaned against the wall of an alleyway, wanting to vomit, but lacking the strength. Something was wrong. It felt as if he were being eaten from the inside out. As if something were growing in him.
He couldn’t think straight. He needed to escape the planet. If they caught him, he was dead for sure. And that would be the story of the Kabalevsky clan. And wouldn’t the cardinal-governor laugh to hear of it? A spurt of anger filled him, and he thought he heard a voice, murmuring supportively.
You are meant for great things, Prince Ganor. Great things indeed.
He looked around, certain now that someone was stalking him. The world spun. He slid down the
wall. There was no one in sight, save the dead. All around him, the dead and fire and broken things. He cradled his face in his hands, trying to breathe, trying to find his courage. He’d wanted this, hadn’t he? He’d dreamed of it for so long.
I’m just a spark in the fire. And now so are you.
He shook his head. There were places he could go. Safe places. The Kabalevsky name still carried weight in some quarters. He could hide here, build a new crew – no, a revolution. The thought warmed him.
There would be other survivors. Dheel, maybe. And whatever was left of the Word Bearer’s chattel – fanatics, but a smart man could make use of such materials.
Yessss. They’ll be looking for someone to lead them. To tell them what to do. Why not you? Are you not a prince of Almace? Who better?
He nodded, no longer wondering where the voice was coming from. Why bother, when it made so much sense?
He stiffened.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper black of the alleyway. His hand fell to his shuriken pistol as the Raven Guard stepped into the firelight. He was taller than Ganor had expected, and clad in form-fitting armour. A helmet shaped like a skull obscured his features.
The Space Marine did not speak. He lifted his bolt pistol, and Ganor wanted to close his eyes, but something wouldn’t let him. Something in him thrashed and screamed and demanded that he stand, that he draw his pistol.
Fight, fool! Fight for your throne. Fight for what is yours!
Ganor cried out and snatched his weapon free. The shuriken pistol spat and the Raven Guard darted to the side, faster than Ganor could follow. A blow caught him in the sternum, and he fell back, unable to breathe. He fired again and again, trying to keep his attacker at bay. How long had this killer stalked him? Since he’d fled the upper reaches of the city? Longer?
The cardinal-governor sent him, Ganor. He wants you dead. You must fight.
‘Can’t,’ he wheezed. He tried to get to his feet, but another blow dropped him back to his knees. He turned, and saw the Raven Guard watching him. Ganor fell onto his back. ‘Do it,’ he spat. ‘Finish it and be damned!’
The Raven Guard levelled his weapon. Then, abruptly, he stiffened. There was a sound Ganor had heard before – a wet crunch. The Space Marine turned, and Ganor saw a knife jutting from a gap in his armour. A bulky form, hidden beneath a heavy cloak, lunged. Ganor caught the gleam of steel, and heard another crunch.
The Raven Guard staggered and fell against the wall. His attacker threw back his hood, revealing tattooed features. The Word Bearer grinned and drove the knife he held into the Space Marine’s chest, hard enough to crack his armour. The warrior convulsed as his killer twisted the blade with both hands. When the Word Bearer jerked the knife free, the Raven Guard collapsed to the ground. The Word Bearer bent and retrieved the dead man’s weapon. He peered at Ganor and grinned, almost mischievously.
Ganor scrambled backwards, heart thudding. The Word Bearer padded towards him, cloak rustling. Ganor retreated until he struck something unyielding. He looked up into the hard, flat gaze of a second Word Bearer. The newcomer gestured.
‘No, Saper. This one might be useful.’
Ganor stared up at the Word Bearer. ‘I-I know you. Your name is Apis.’
Apis nodded. ‘You remembered. Good.’ The Word Bearer hauled him to his feet. He caught Ganor by the chin with a painful grip, and peered into his eyes. ‘Yes. As I thought.’ He released Ganor and smiled thinly. ‘Where are you going, little prince? Haven’t you laid claim to this world?’
‘I…’ Ganor trailed off. ‘I have to get out of here.’ Something in him hissed, but he ignored it. His hands shook as he looked back and forth between them. ‘Somewhere safe.’
‘No,’ Apis said, laying an almost companionable arm across Ganor’s shoulders. ‘No.’ And he laughed softly.
‘I think you are right where you are supposed to be.’
About the Author
Josh Reynolds is the author of the Warhammer Horror novella The Beast in the Trenches, featured in the portmanteau novel The Wicked and the Damned. He has also written the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and two audio dramas featuring the Blackshields: The False War and The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels Primogenitor and Clonelord. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. His tales of the Warhammer Old World include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.
An extract from Knights of Caliban.
A fuel tank exploded, showering squat bodies and shards of metal across the refinery. Guttural laughter rang around the bare rock walls of the asteroid-ship, against a backdrop of chattering guns and flames. A handful of stocky figures stumbled from the fire, airsuits tattered, thick beards and bushy sideburns smoking. They carried high-velocity riveters and fired them at the mob of green-skinned attackers thundering down the tunnel. A few orks fell to the fusillade; others returned fire with their crude weapons, filling the tunnel with muzzle flare and bullets.
‘Give ’em anuvver!’ Ghazghkull barked at an ork to his left.
The greenskin loaded another improbably sized rocket into its launcher and stood with legs splayed, aiming at the survivors through an array of cracked lenses. The rocket hissed wildly for a moment before the propellant erupted into flames, blowing apart the launcher, tearing off the ork’s arm. The ork’s pained cursing was drowned out by Ghazghkull’s deep laugh.
‘Wun fer da doks,’ said the warlord, waving roaring warriors forwards with a claw-sheathed hand. Ghazghkull’s laughter stopped as a slew of rivets pattered across the thick plates of armour protecting the warlord’s gut. The massive greenskin turned his red scowl upon the scattered demiurgs sheltering in the ruins of the refinery. ‘Time to finish ’em off. Get stuck in, boyz!’
Following their warlord, the orks charged into the burning debris, hacking and chopping with serrated cleavers and whirring-toothed blades. Ghazghkull levered aside a twisted sheet of metal to reveal a demiurg hiding behind it. The warlord roared along with his multi-barrelled gun as he blazed away, shredding the miner into bloody lumps.
‘Dakka dakka dakka! Dat’s ’ow ya do it!’
Ghazghkull’s gaze fell upon another victim scurrying into the collapsed doorway of an outbuilding. The massive ork shouldered his way through the wall after the fleeing miner, erupting amidst a cloud of tangled reinforcing rods and shattered stone. The demiurg swung a rock-drill at Ghazghkull, aiming for the chest. The diamond-edged bit skittered and shrieked across the warlord’s armour and bounced away, the impact almost wrenching the drill from the miner’s hands.
‘Nice try,’ growled Ghazghkull, looking at the scoring across his chestplate. The ork lifted up an armoured, energy-wreathed fist. ‘My turn, stunty!’
The claw crackled with arcs of power as Ghazghkull smashed in the demiurg’s craggy face, the force of the blow thudding the miner’s head into the far wall. Smoke billowed from the exhausts of the warlord’s armour as Ghazghkull lifted up an armoured boot and crushed the headless body beneath its deep tread. It was always worth making sure.
Thundering out through another wall, Ghazghkull looked around. Scattered pockets of orks were running here and there looking for more targets, but it appeared the refinery was empty of enemies. The warlord spied a tiny figure scrambling through the rubble, dragging a huge pole and banner behind him.
‘Oi, Makari!’ Ghazghkull bellowed at his standard bearer. The gretchin flinched and turned wide eyes to his master.
‘Yes, boss?’ Makari squeaked. ‘What can I do fer ya?’
‘Where’s da meks? Dey needs to be gettin’ da ore and wor
ky-bitz back to da ship.’
‘I’ll go find ’em, boss,’ said Makari. He planted the flag in a pile of debris before gratefully scurrying back down the tunnel.
Ghazghkull strode to the top of a slag heap and looked around. The stunties hadn’t provided much sport, but the warlord didn’t mind. The orks were here for loot and gubbinz. The meks could make some really good stuff with stunty gear.
Another explosion rocked the artificial cavern, a blossom of fire engulfing a mob of orks investigating one of the mine entrances. Ghazghkull thought it was a secondary explosion, but it was soon followed by three more, each heralded by the telltale smoke trails of rockets.
‘Dat’s odd.’
‘What’s dat, boss?’ asked Fangrutz, clanking up the slag heap, the joints of his armoured suit wheezing and whining.
‘Look at dat,’ said Ghazghkull, pointing a serrated claw towards the explosions. ‘Dose is rokkits. Oo’s firin’ rokkits at us?’
‘Da stunties?’ suggested Fangrutz.
‘Stunty rokkits don’t smoke and whirl about like dat.’ Ghazghkull smacked Fangrutz on the head again for making such a stupid suggestion. ‘Dey iz orky rokkits!’
In confirmation of Ghazghkull’s suspicion, a horde of green-skinned warriors poured out of the mine entrance, guns blazing in all directions. They wore yellow-and-black body armour and jackets, the back banners of their nobz decorated with stylised grinning half-moons.
‘Dey ain’t our boyz!’ Fangrutz declared. Ghazghkull’s gun clanged loudly across the back of Fangrutz’s head again. The nob’s eyes crossed momentarily and he stumbled.
‘Course dey ain’t, ya zoggin’ squig-brain. Get down dere and give ’em some dakka. Dey’re after our loot!’
Ghazghkull set after the boys as they poured into the firefight, which in some places became a vicious scrum of blades and fangs. Smoke churning behind him, Ghazghkull lumbered into a run, bellowing orders.
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