Sons of Wrath - Andy Smillie Read online

  ‘And so we turn our backs and flee,’ Zegan cursed low.

  Namtar shared his brother’s frustration, but ignored the remark.

  ‘Bring us around for another pass. Valac, damage assessment.’ Namtar sat forwards, eager for the Techmarine’s report.

  Valac said nothing, his back to the brother-sergeant.

  ‘Valac, report.’

  The Techmarine turned in his chair, his brow twisted with confusion. ‘Negative impacts. We… we hit nothing,’ Valac stammered like a damaged servitor, his flat machine-tone incongruous with the bewildered look in his eyes.

  ‘Nothing?’ Namtar spat the question, rising from his chair to close with the occulus.

  ‘Valac is right,’ Zegan confirmed. ‘We did not hit the Paladin.’

  ‘Then what were we shooting at? The Divine Light?’ Namtar swallowed the knot of rage rising in his gut. ‘Valac, are the ident-tags off?’

  ‘No. The sensorium is functioning within normal limits. We simply hit–’

  ‘We hit nothing,’ Zegan finished Valac’s sentence with a snarl.

  ‘How in–’ Namtar was cut short, thrown forwards into a pair of human serfs as the Redeemer convulsed, rocked by a blistering hail of lance fire. The serfs died instantly, crushed by Namtar’s armoured bulk, their bones breaking with a wet crunch. ‘Evasive!’ Namtar roared as another shock wave pitched him into a rear bulkhead.

  ‘Shields are failing across all decks,’ said Zegan.

  ‘What in the Emperor’s name?’ Namtar’s mind raced as he climbed back into his command throne. ‘Valac…’ He looked to the Techmarine for answers.

  ‘Improbable,’ Valac stammered. ‘Impact trajectory indicates the Paladin is to our starboard.’

  ‘We’ve got less than a minute until their lance batteries recharge for firing,’ warned Zegan.

  ‘Noted, but we cannot evade what we can’t see coming,’ Namtar spat through gritted teeth, and consulted the tactical hololith. The shimmering display still showed the Zurconian vessel to their aft and port. ‘This makes no sense. Valac recalibra–’

  The rest of Namtar’s order died in his throat as the Redeemer shuddered and convulsed, assailed by a withering barrage of fire.

  The Flesh Tearers ship was unshielded, naked in the void. The fusillade stripped away the Redeemer’s armour plating and blasted great holes in its outer decks. Shrill klaxons and secondary detonations fought for dominance as the Zurconian guns continued to fire, hammering the Redeemer’s hull until it seemed as though the stars themselves were trying to force their way inside.

  ‘Blood! How in Sanguinius’s name did they get into battery range?’ Namtar’s voice was a guttural snarl as he cast his gaze around the bridge in vain search for an answer.

  The chamber was broken. Adamantium bulkheads trembled as jagged cracks widened and fractured them. Flame sped across the walls and dripped from the ceiling like wax. Stuttering, red warning lights flickered in pained bursts, throwing strobing light across dead serfs and sparking servitors.

  ‘Port-side weapons disabled. Venting engine plasma.’ Valac began listing the damage as another fusillade wracked the Redeemer, sending a torrent of explosions tearing through the bridge to shower the Flesh Tearers in shrapnel and the burned remains of serfs.

  ‘Blood of heretics!’ Namtar smashed his fist down onto a console and shrugged a lump of charred flesh from his shoulder guard. ‘Valac, all remaining power to engines.’ Punching a series of buttons on his console, he manipulated the hololith until it panned out, projecting an image of the wider sector. ‘There, Valac – get us behind that moon.’ Namtar indicated a small moon to their port side as the Redeemer rocked under another hail of fire.

  ‘Course relayed, engaging.’

  Namtar was forced back into his chair as the Techmarine executed his order and the Redeemer sped towards sanctuary. ‘Zegan, Alert the Fist–’

  ‘Brother-sergeant…’ Zegan interrupted, rising from his chair to gesture to the occulus.

  Namtar followed his gaze, watching in awed disbelief as the Bleeding Fist drifted past them. It was a ruin, a shattered wreck consumed by fire. It seemed to stall, to hang suspended a moment, before an incandescent beam of energy flickered out from one of the Zurconian vessels and sliced it apart.

  ‘Emperor’s mercy…’ The words fell from Namtar’s lips as the two broken halves of the Fist slowly tumbled away from one another. ‘Zegan, survivors?’ he asked, as the shrapnel remains of the Fist began to collide with the Redeemer’s hull.

  Zegan tapped a series of buttons on his console, and a cluster of icons denoting Flesh Tearers craft resolved onto the tactical hololith. ‘Five drop pods and a pair of Thunderhawks ejected from its starboard side. They’re burning off towards the planet. Arrival in…’ He paused, turning to regard Namtar. ‘The Divine Light has launched a wing of fighters in pursuit.’

  ‘Will they make it?’ Namtar already knew the answer.

  ‘No.’ Valac’s voice was heavy with regret. ‘The fighters will intercept them in one minute fifty seconds.’

  ‘Blood!’ Namtar roared, gripping the armrests of his command throne so tightly that they came away in his fists. ‘Take us back in.’

  ‘We will not survive another salvo from the Paladin.’ Valac kept his head low as he spoke.

  Namtar snarled. ‘Do it.’

  ‘As the Blood wills it.’ The Techmarine nodded, carrying out Namtar’s orders.

  ‘Zegan, target the fighters,’ ordered Namtar.

  ‘We need more speed or we will not catch them in time.’ Zegan looked to Valac.

  ‘This is all the thrust we have. The engines on deck seven through fifty are out.’

  Namtar felt his gut twist in frustration as he watched the Zurconian fighters accelerate ahead of them on the tactical hololith. ‘Launch our remaining missiles.’

  ‘We’re still beyond effective range,’ cautioned Zegan.

  ‘Agreed, but we’re close enough to rattle them, slow them down a bit.’ Namtar did well to keep the desperation from his tone. ‘We need only gain a few hundred kilometres.’

  Zegan nodded, opening the Redeemer’s silos to loose a dozen missiles in pursuit of the Zurconian fighters. A moment later, the Redeemer shuddered again, and a fresh wave of warning klaxons erupted into life.

  ‘Shut them off,’ snapped Namtar. ‘Report.’

  ‘One of the missiles detonated in its silo. We have breaches on half a dozen decks,’ said Zegan, his voice dispassionate, his gaze fixed on the weapons console. ‘The others are reaching maximum range now. Detonating… It worked, we’re gaining on the fighters. Battery range in fifteen seconds.’

  Namtar stared out through the occulus, his eyes fixed on the pinpricks of light that were the fighters’ thrusters. In his mind’s eye, he was alone with them. He could no longer see the flames licking their way across his bridge or those coating Valac’s armour. He was oblivious to the charnel smell of the dead serfs that littered the deck. Even the fulgurant crack spread around the occulus itself was invisible to him. There were only the fighters and the rising beats of his hearts as they counted down the seconds to–

  ‘Range,’ barked Zegan.

  ‘Fire!’ Namtar clenched his fist, wishing for all the universe he could crush the Zurconian craft in his gauntlet.

  The Redeemer trembled, shedding more of its fractured hull, as it brought its weapons to bear. The vicious salvo tore apart the Zurconian fighters, obliterating fully half of them in a halo of explosions.

  ‘Status?’ Namtar’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

  ‘There are three left. They have repositioned to our port side.’ Valac struggled to indicate the remaining fighters on the hololith, his left arm pinned in place by a fallen support strut.

  ‘Heretic filth,’ Namtar spat. ‘I will not be denied. Kill the engines, and br
ing us hard about.’

  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’ Valac knew it was only speed that had protected the Redeemer thus far. He knew that the manoeuvre would be the final one he executed. ‘It has been my honour.’

  The Redeemer groaned as it turned, its hull emitting a tortured wail like the death throes of a giant, primordial sea beast. Plasma shells and laser blasts hounded it as it slowed, punishing it for its arrogance. The noise was overwhelming, the destruction incessant as round after explosive round struck the Redeemer, mauling it, stripping its hull and smashing its innards. Thousands of bodies bled off into the void as the outer decks crumbled and were torn away.

  Amid the turmoil, Namtar was still. Unmoving, he didn’t register Valac’s death, nor the collapse of the occulus and the sundering of his bridge. Not even the adamantium fragment that speared his chest drew his attention from the embers of the Zurconian fighters as the Redeemer’s guns blasted them from existence.

  ‘The drop pods?’ asked Namtar, unsure if he’d find an answer.

  ‘They’ve made planetfall.’ Zegan’s voice was wet, his throat and lungs thick with arterial fluid.

  Namtar managed a nod. ‘The Blood keep us,’ he grinned, unbowed as his life vanished in fire.

  ‘Negative returns. Zero hits on target. No course deviation,’ relayed one of the servitors assembled under the main tactical hololith, its measured machine-tone at odds with the incredibility of the news.

  ‘Impossible.’ Ronja rose from her chair and stared up at the hololith. The Zurconian battle line remained intact; not a single torpedo had found its mark. All sixteen vessels were continuing on course, powering towards the Victus and the Flesh Tearers fleet. ‘How can this be? How could–’

  ‘Shipmistress,’ the comms-man stammered. ‘Mistress, the Bleeding Fist. It’s gone.’

  ‘Clarify,’ Ronja snapped, allowing her frustration to quash the wave of panic threatening to steal the order from her thoughts.

  ‘The Bleeding Fist has been destroyed.’

  ‘Confirm that report.’ Ronja could feel Amit’s eyes upon her. If she showed a single moment’s hesitation, he would take control of the Victus and all that she had fought for, all that she had suffered, would be for nothing. A moment’s laxity was all it would take for her to be cast down and for all of her glories to be forgotten.

  ‘I have confirmation. We received an audio transmission from Brother-Sergeant Namtar of the Redeemer.’

  ‘Hail him, now.’

  ‘I cannot.’ The serf was death-white, as though what had transpired had been his fault. ‘The Redeemer’s energy signature was lost a moment after we received the recording.’

  ‘Survivors?’ asked Ronja.

  ‘According to the Redeemer’s report, five drop pods and two Thunderhawks escaped the Fist’s destruction and made planetfall, but we have had no contact from them.’

  ‘Keep trying to reach them,’ said Ronja, though for the moment she was far more concerned with the pair of Zurconian ships the Bleeding Fist and Redeemer had failed to intercept. The Zurconian battleships were now bearing down on the Victus and the Shield of Baal. ‘We cannot allow them to flank us.’ Ronja’s hands darted across her throne’s control panel as she input a series of coordinates. ‘Comms-man, signal the Shield of Baal. Have them attack along this vector.’ A series of strobing way-markers drifted onto the main hololith as Ronja worked. ‘Order the Merciless and the Butcher back into close formation. Have them form up to our aft – our shields and hull should offer them some protection.’

  ‘Aye, mistress. Orders transmitted.’

  No sooner had the serf spoken than Captain Eligus’s voice crackled over the main comm. ‘That path will take us right through the middle of the enemy fleet.’

  ‘I am aware of that, lord captain.’ Ronja kept all trace of emotion from her response. She would not lower herself to Eligus’s wild rants. ‘Faced with such odds we have little choice. We cannot outmanoeuvre that number of vessels. We have only the speed of our engines and the skill of our crew to our advantage. We’ll hit them hard, disrupt their formation and turn for another pass before they can regroup. Unless of course you have a better idea?’

  ‘Do not test me, woman,’ Eligus snarled and cut the feed.

  Ronja smiled, glad to have irritated the Flesh Tearer. ‘Helmsman, flood the plasma drives, engines to full speed. Gunnery, power bombardment cannons. Lock targets for close-fire ordnance.’

  Flanked by the Shield and with the Merciless and Butcher tucked tight to its hull, the Victus raced towards the Zurconian fleet, and into a maelstrom of violence. Powerful beams of lance fire flickered out to strike the battle-barge’s prow armour. Its shields flared and shattered in a halo of blue-white under the sustained fire, beaten to submission by the columns of super-heated energy that slammed into them. Undeterred, the Victus continued to close, but the Flesh Tearers flagship did not go unpunished for its arrogance.

  Bringing their broadsides to bear, the Zurconians scoured away the ornate detailing and armoured statues studding the Victus’s prow. Under a relentless fusillade of plasma and laser rounds, the battle-barge’s ridged plating buckled and peeled away, leaving the outer layer of adamantium to crack and crumble.

  ‘Optimum range achieved.’ The gunnery serf had to shout to be heard over the concussive impacts riddling the Victus.

  Ronja rose from her throne and gripped the command rail with both hands. ‘Let us teach these heretics the meaning of wrath. Fire.’

  On her command, the Flesh Tearers vessels let loose their wrath.

  It took all of Ronja’s restraint to remain still as her heart rate quickened. She felt her muscles twitch as they swelled with blood. A shiver of disquiet knotted her breath as all her emotions tried to occupy her at once. She grinned, her focus drawn to a narrow horizon, revelling in the adrenaline flooding through her as the Victus shuddered and its bombardment cannons fired. At such close range, no shields would be proof against the barrage of magma shells. The Zurconians would be annihilated, their armoured flanks stripped and their innards broiled away.

  ‘Capacitors cycling, gun crews rotating, making ready for second volley,’ the gunnery serf said as secondary vibrations shook the battle-barge and it opened up with every other weapon in its arsenal. Plasma blasts joined laser rounds and clusters of torpedoes in a hail of destruction meant to remove what remained of the Zurconian fleet.

  ‘Surveyor, damage report.’ Ronja was only half listening for a response. The blow they’d dealt the Zurconians was crippling. Her attention had already shifted to plotting the next attack run.

  ‘Negative impacts… Targets…’ The surveyor turned and stared up at the tactical hololith as the icons denoting the Zurconian ships vanished. ‘Targets have gone.’

  ‘What in the name of the Throne…’ Ronja’s voice was weak with disbelief as she regarded the hololith. ‘Recycle the sensoria. Confirm enemy positions. Launch a cluster of way-buoys. Someone, anyone, find me something to fire on.’

  ‘Battleships inbound!’ Another of the surveyors spoke, his voice shrill with alarm, as the tactical hololith updated to show the Zurconian fleet in a position to cut across the Victus’s port side.

  Ronja gripped her command rail and stared, slack-jawed, at the hololith.

  There was no time to do anything.

  Nuriel threw a hand out, bracing himself on the walls of the corridor as the deck shuddered violently beneath him. He groaned, ignoring the hurried serfs and gun-servitors that trundled past him as he slunk back to his cell. Around him, the ship continued to quake.

  ‘Librarian, do you need aid?’

  Nuriel turned to find Brother Sylol, his black gauntlet outstretched. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I…’ He paused, a wave of nausea washing over him. The other Flesh Tearer seemed to blur in front of him, the edges of his armour softening until Nuriel could no longer focus. He bl
inked hard in an effort to clear his vision. Nuriel grunted; Amit had hit him harder than he thought. Wiping his eyes he looked again at Sylol. He was glowing.

  A faint line of white energy traced the Flesh Tearer’s outline, riming the edges of his jump pack and spreading out to form etheric pinions.

  ‘Brother Nuriel?’ Sylol’s face creased in concern.

  Nuriel stared at him, transfixed, his fingers reaching out to touch the shimmering halo.

  This time it was Nuriel who shuddered. His body convulsed as he touched the light; his muscles seized and cramped, toppling him to the floor in their sudden palsy. He coughed up a mouthful of ashen phlegm and lay still. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, dragging him into cold darkness, before reopening on a world he didn’t recognise.

  Jagged structures of black rockcrete crowded the landscape, stabbing up from the ground in irregular columns. The largest of them towered up past the edge of Nuriel’s vision, their peaks hidden in layers of malachite smog. They were as sentinels, standing watch over the world below. Nuriel coughed, dropping to one knee as his body adjusted to the noxious atmosphere. The action sent a sliver of pain through his shin. He glanced down at the ground. A carpet of cracked and splintered bone cut into the tissue of his leg. Several larger pieces were cast around like morbid tombstones. Nuriel’s gaze settled on a skull. It was badly damaged but there was no mistaking the thickened brow of a Space Marine.

  My armour? Nuriel touched a hand reflexively to his chest, feeling the warm elastic of flesh where there should have been the rigid cold of ceramite. He was naked, stripped of both war-plate and carapace. How? Even as the thought formed in his mind, his hands reached for weapons that too were gone.

  A faint noise drifted from behind, stirring a breeze that felt like ice against his skin. Nuriel turned around.

  ‘Sanguinius’s blood…’

  Startled, he dropped onto his back and scrambled backwards, ignoring the gashes the bone-riven ground tore across his body. A towering edifice of light loomed large over him. It needled up into the sky, shimmering with impossible brightness, like a star bent and melded by the will of some divine architect. Yet its light was contained within itself: not a single sliver bled off to light the darkness enveloping the world around it.