Sons of Wrath - Andy Smillie Page 11

  ‘Captain.’ Erastos indicated a pair of Zurconian battle tanks as they rolled from behind the palace wall.

  Nikon spat a curse. There was no time to stop, but no other way around – the concourse linking the avenue to the palace was the last intact roadway. He threw his gaze over the bodies and burned-out vehicles strewn in front of them. ‘Stay low but keep moving. Ligeia, ready your…’ Nikon trailed off as a squad of Flesh Tearers descended on jump packs. The Flesh Tearers swarmed over the tank hulls, their power fists sparking with energy as they bludgeoned their way inside.

  ‘Go!’ Nikon broke into a sprint. ‘Move, push past them.’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t finish the Zurconians before we’re clear,’ said Erastos.

  Nikon ignored the question inherent in the sergeant’s statement. ‘Keep moving.’

  ‘Captain, ahead,’ warned Hilarion.

  ‘What now?’ Nikon struggled to keep his tone level, his ears ringing with the screams of the tank crew as they met their end.

  ‘In Guilliman’s name.’ Hilarion gestured to a herd of gore-soaked Zurconians running towards them. They had abandoned their weapons, and seemed heedless of the Eagle Warriors.

  Galenos braced himself and raised his heavy bolter.

  ‘No.’ Nikon placed a hand on the weapon’s barrel. ‘We do not yet know if they are friend or foe.’

  ‘Then let us find out,’ said Galenos.

  ‘There is no time. We must reach Amit. Go through them.’ Nikon tensed, driving forwards, shouldering his way through the press of bodies.

  ‘I see no taint upon them,’ Erastos said to Nikon over a private channel as they pushed through the horde.

  ‘The markings of the Archenemy are not always clear, brother. Keep going – we will have answers soon enough.’ I hope. Nikon kept his doubts to himself.

  ‘Captain…’

  ‘We must trust that Amit is still with us. We must–’ Nikon froze as a tortured cry sounded from his left. ‘Ligeia,’ he shouted, driving towards the banner bearer as his ident-tag blinked dark.

  ‘Aiaxis, form up on the captain,’ Erastos barked, readying his weapons.

  ‘There,’ said Galenos as the horde of Zurconians thinned out. To their flank, two black-armoured Space Marines stood over Ligeia’s corpse, their chainswords slick with his entrails.

  ‘Kill them,’ Erastos snapped.

  ‘Wait!’ Nikon held up a hand. ‘If they are Flesh Tearers, if we open fire on them, we declare war on Amit.’

  ‘If we do not, we’ll join Ligeia,’ Erastos said as the standard bearer’s killers advanced on them. ‘We must end this.’

  Nikon looked again to Ligeia’s corpse. ‘It is too late, already. There is no going back.’ He forced the words through clenched teeth, his hearts heavy with anger and regret. ‘Fire.’

  Galenos opened up with his heavy bolter, hammering the black-armoured Space Marines with high-calibre rounds. The explosive shells blasted chunks from their torsos and punched them from their feet. Still, they kept coming, growling as they clawed their way forwards. Galenos fired again, thumbing the trigger until they were still.

  Nikon crouched to inspect one of the bodies, running his hand over the Space Marine’s left pauldron. There, hidden beneath a sheen of gore, a serrated blade segmented by a single blood drop glared back at him in accusation. He looked to Erastos, his heart heavy with regret, and opened the company-wide channel. ‘This is Captain Nikon. Engage the Flesh Tearers. Guilliman be with you.’

  ‘How is it?’ Menadel asked Seraph as the sergeant flexed his damaged arm.

  ‘Stiff.’ Seraph swung his legs down off the med-slab. ‘Looking for a fight?’ He gestured to Menadel’s weapons. He knew it was a mark of honour that the Company Champion was never without his blade.

  Menadel grinned. ‘Perhaps I’ll run into Nuriel.’

  ‘How are the others?’ asked Seraph.

  ‘Vaul and Sere are still unconscious. Nuriel barely left them alive.’

  Anger hardened the sergeant’s features at the mention of the wretched Librarian. He clenched and unclenched his fist, imagining himself crushing the life from Nuriel. ‘And Manakel?’

  ‘Apothecary Pursun is waking him now.’ Menadel indicated another med-slab on the other side of the apothecarion. ‘He should be combat ready in another few hours…’ He trailed off, distracted by a battle-servitor as it trundled in through the chamber’s central entrance. It was a front-line unit. All muscle and vat-grown sinew welded atop a pair of armoured tracks. A heavy bolter sat in place of its left arm, its remaining hand cradling the ammo feed.

  ‘Report, servitor. Have we been boarded?’ Seraph was suddenly aware that he was unarmed and unarmoured.

  The servitor said nothing, its head panning from left to right.

  ‘Answer. Where is the threat?’ Seraph snapped.

  The click-clack of a round entering the heavy bolter’s firing chamber was the first and only warning.

  ‘Down!’ Menadel dived forwards and dragged Seraph behind an examination slab, letting his armoured bulk shelter the tunic-garbed sergeant.

  The servitor opened fire.

  Explosive rounds tore across the chamber, decimating consoles, shattering bio-tanks and hammering the med-slabs. A second and third servitor joined the first, their own weapons chattering to ruinous life.

  ‘Manakel,’ Seraph called after his squad mate.

  ‘He lives,’ Apothecary Pursun shouted in answer.

  Menadel risked a glance towards Vaul and Sere, as another storm of rounds detonated around him. The two Flesh Tearers were dead, their bodies riddled with shells, torn into fleshy gobbets. ‘Sanguinius grant me vengeance,’ Menadel snarled and passed Seraph his bolt pistol. ‘Cover me.’

  He activated his storm shield, and broke cover. Rushing forwards, he stayed as low as he could, keeping a row of med-slabs between him and the servitors. Targeting lasers tracked him as he moved, heavy bolter rounds churning up the floor around him. He roared in defiance as shrapnel rained against his armour and a stray round clipped his pauldron. He stumbled but kept moving, sprinting towards the servitor circling to his right. The ground between him and it was devoid of cover. ‘Blood take you,’ Menadel growled, and tucked his chin tight to his shoulder, bracing himself behind his storm shield.

  The servitor had a clear shot. It fired.

  The storm shield shuddered and sparked, assailed by a torrent of direct hits. The jarring impacts reverberated up Menadel’s arm. He roared in anger, fighting to maintain his grip. A round scored his thigh. Another smashed apart his shoulder guard. Heedless of the pain, he ran on. His shield crackled as its powercore overloaded and its adamantium shell began to come apart. Dropping it, Menadel leapt into the air, traversing the last two metres in a single bound. He drew his sword through the air as he descended, bisecting the heavy bolter. The gun coughed and died. Menadel landed in a crouch at the base of the servitor, twisting to drive his blade upwards and through the thing’s skull. Tearing his weapon free, he took a moment to scan and reassess.

  Pursun was holding the left flank, firing from behind a resus unit and drawing the fire of the furthest servitor. Menadel called up the Apothecary’s helm feed, overlaying it onto his own. Pursun had only half a magazine of ammo left.

  In the centre, Seraph was up and moving, throwing himself behind another med-slab as the one he was sheltering behind finally came apart. The sergeant had stopped firing, his ammunition exhausted.

  Menadel broke into a run. Gripping his blade two-handed, he raised it over his head as the servitor turned, its targeting laser stabbing towards his torso. ‘For Sanguinius!’ Menadel roared and threw the blade. The power sword spun end over end, spearing the servitor’s face. He ran a hand over his breastplate, relieved to find no trace of blood, and looked to the servitor as it stuttered and ceased functioning.

 
Manakel dragged himself forwards. His fingers burned as he dug them into the steel of the floor for purchase. He hadn’t fully recovered from Nuriel’s beating, and had it not been for Pursun, he would have been as dead as Vaul and Sere. As it was, the servitors had shot a chunk from his leg and lower abdomen. Advancing hand over hand, he continued to close on the left-most servitor. Pain threatened to beat him into unconsciousness as he moved over stone fragments and broken glass. He bared his teeth in a grimace. It was little more than a dull ache compared to the roar of anger in his veins. Behind him, he heard the bark of Pursun’s boltgun. Shrapnel rained against his skin as the servitor returned fire, blasting apart the chamber as it sought the Apothecary. Manakel kept moving. If he died, it would not be before he tore the contemptible machines to scrap.

  Edging around the servitor’s flank, he closed on its tracks. Unarmed, unarmoured and unable to stand – he had never been more exposed. Yet the servitor seemed content to ignore him. It was either unaware of his presence or didn’t consider him an immediate threat. The thought drew a grunt from Manakel. He would make it regret its laxity and he pulled himself up onto the servitor’s tracks. The man-machine stopped firing, reversing in an effort to buck the Flesh Tearer. Manakel let out a cry of pain as the tracks ripped sheets off his skin. Still, he clung on, pulling his way up the servitor’s body until his arms locked around its neck. ‘Die,’ he said, and wrenched its head off.

  The skull clattered as it hit the ground, ruining the harmony of the suddenly still chamber.

  ‘Took you long enough, brother.’ Pursun emerged from behind cover, a smile warming his features as he stooped to inspect Manakel’s wounds.

  ‘Who else is still on board?’ Seraph was already making for the exit.

  ‘High Chaplain Andras remained to sanctify the Reclusiam,’ Menadel answered, flicking a line of blood from his blade.

  Seraph stopped walking, his face set in a tight scowl. ‘Then I hope for his sake he did so armoured.’

  The savagery of the scene before him shocked Nikon to inaction. Rooted to the spot, he stood just inside the Zurconian palace’s receiving chamber, watching as the Master of the Flesh Tearers was pulled from a corpse by two of his own.

  Nikon took a breath and summoned his voice. ‘Master Amit, what have you done here?’

  Amit snarled, blood dripping from his face, and rounded on him. ‘The Emperor’s work.’

  On reflex, the Eagle Warriors readied their weapons as the hulking Flesh Tearer started towards them. Amit’s war-plate was of brutal artifice. Fastened with thick, serrated rivets that clung tight to torn flesh, and dripped with blood, it was as much a weapon as the oversized eviscerator clutched in his hand. His face was a rough-hewn slab of malice. Restrained fury constricted his brow and kept his jaw in spasm. Had Nikon not known who he addressed, he could have mistaken the Flesh Tearer for a son of Angron.

  ‘Why are you here, brother?’ asked Amit.

  Nikon tensed, tightening his grip on his blade. Amit’s martial prowess was infamous. He knew he could not best him at arms. But if it came to it, he would die with his blade hilt-deep in the Flesh Tearer. ‘The Zurconians sent a request for aid.’ Nikon met Amit’s gaze. ‘Where are the council?’

  Amit grunted. ‘Those things were the council.’

  Nikon turned his gaze over the vile corpses littering the chamber. ‘What have we been drawn into…’

  Amit took a step forwards, leaning down until his face was a hair’s breadth from Nikon’s. ‘You have been made a fool, lured here under false pretences,’ he sneered and shouldered past the Eagle Warrior.

  ‘Why?’ Nikon raised his voice, his temper fraying. ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘I do not know, and right now, I do not care.’

  ‘You have turned this world into a graveyard,’ said Nikon, advancing on Amit. ‘I would know why.’

  ‘Do not test me, son of Guilliman.’ Amit turned, struggling to keep his temper in check. ‘Look at them,’ he said, gesturing to the corpses littering the chamber. ‘Is that not reason enough? What would you have done?’

  Nikon said nothing, his mind racing as it sifted through the actions and reactions, the endless possibilities that had brought them together. ‘Emperor forgive us,’ he said. ‘We must clear this structure and vox our forces.’

  ‘What?’ Amit’s voice was like the rumble of a chainblade. He touched a hand to his ear, suddenly aware that there was nothing but static sounding over his comm-feed.

  ‘Whatever dark power brought us here, I believe they intended for us to kill one another.’

  Amit read the guilt in Nikon’s eyes. ‘Traitor!’ Amit roared, seizing Nikon’s throat and lifting him from the ground.

  ‘Release him!’ Sergeant Erastos angled his blade at Amit’s neck as the other Eagle Warriors sighted on the Chapter Master.

  ‘Lower your weapons or we will kill you all,’ Druel snarled, his assault cannon cycling to firing speed.

  ‘You dare spill the blood of Sanguinius?’ Amit kept his attention fixed on Nikon.

  Nikon struggled to speak. ‘You…attacked… first,’ he managed, bringing his arm up to press his bolt pistol against Amit’s breastplate.

  ‘I will wrench your head from your shoulders before you can press the trigger,’ Amit said.

  ‘Please, Chapter Master, I have no wish to spill more loyalist blood. Let us work this out, together.’

  ‘A shame that is not your call to make, captain.’ Nuriel laughed, his voice a wet growl as he dropped from the balcony to land behind them.

  Amit released Nikon.

  ‘Nuriel?’ asked Tilonas. ‘How is it that you are here?’

  ‘How long have you worn my brother’s flesh?’ Amit said, already closing on the Librarian.

  ‘Perceptive for a berserker.’ The thing that had once been Nuriel laughed, its eyes flashing with perverse amusement. ‘You are correct, Nassir. I am not one of your cursed flock.’

  ‘I should have known.’ Amit’s face contorted in anger. ‘Was that you on the duelling stone?’

  The thing wearing Nuriel’s flesh smiled darkly. ‘No, that was Nuriel. Your Librarian was a prideful, vicious being. Even in the warp I could taste his rage, his resentment. They glimmered like twin keys to his soul.’ The thing’s smile widened. ‘Nuriel gave me his flesh and surrendered his soul for the promise of power. I wonder – what will you trade yours for?’

  ‘When the Emperor has no more use for it, my soul will die with my body, daemon,’ Amit spat, grimacing as the word cut at his tongue.

  The thing’s laugh fell to a guttural rumble. ‘Your understanding of that term is too simple, too small for it to represent all that I am. All that I bring with me.’ The skin of Nuriel’s face blistered as it melted and ran away, dripping from his bones to leave behind a face of bloodied muscle and gore-red sinew. ‘I am a true son of murder.’ Sinuous, black lengths tore free from the back of Nuriel’s skull to drape his back like hair. ‘I am your death and the death of your blood.’ The daemon paused, grimacing, as with a wet crack, slick black horns broke free to protrude from either side of Nuriel’s skull. ‘I am a child of Kabanda,’ it said, as the Librarian’s armour crumbled and fell away, leaving behind a suit of rune-encrusted, bronzed war-plate. ‘I am your doom.’

  Kabanda. The name of the daemon that had maimed their father tore at the Flesh Tearers, opening the deepest of wounds, burning like a ragged incision in their bones. The Flesh Tearers roared and opened fire. The Eagle Warriors issued their own battle-cries and joined them, all thoughts of rivalry dissolved in the face of a greater foe.

  The storm of rounds slowed before it, halting as the air bent and softened, gripping them like some unseen tar pit. The daemon spread its hands, holding up its palms in mock deference. ‘Unlike your withered corpse-god, my patron does not leave me to bleed and die before such cowardly weapons.’ It snatched it
s fists closed, sending the rounds shooting back the way they had come.

  Driven by the daemon’s psychic might, the rounds crashed against the Space Marines. They cried out in pain as their armour fractured, their bones broke and their organs failed. Riddled with wounds, they toppled, bleeding or dead on the ground.

  Only Amit still stood, his eviscerator held ready.

  ‘There will be no quick end for either of us, Flesh Tearer.’ The daemon drew Nuriel’s force sword. ‘If you want to kill me, you will have to do it with a blade.’

  ‘So be it.’ Amit bared his teeth in a snarl and charged.

  High Chaplain Andras turned as the doors to the Reclusiam opened. The unwelcome interruption tore a growl from his throat. Amit had allowed him to forego the assault on Primus that he might better order his thoughts and prepare to receive the dead.

  ‘You had better have good reason–’ He stopped short, springing to his feet and into a run as a targeting laser danced across his torso. His attacker opened fire, filling the space with the familiar sound of a heavy bolter. A second weapon opened up moments after the first. Then a third and a fourth. Andras continued running, sweeping around the chamber in a wide arc that kept a row of pillars between him and his attackers. Explosive rounds trailed after him, blasting apart the stonework and demolishing the wooden pews. He grimaced as a hail of stone fragments raked his skin; without the protection of his armour, he was at the mercy of the shrapnel as it cut and tore.

  Andras risked a glance over his shoulder. ‘Blood,’ he spat, glimpsing the four battle-servitors. He needed a weapon. Any weapon… The Phobos. Andras dropped into a roll, covering the open ground between him and the next set of pillars. On his feet again, he swung around the stone columns and headed back the way he had come, back towards the pulpit and the Phobos-pattern boltgun secured in the relic locker behind it.