Battle for The Abyss (40 page)

Brynngar’s ears pricked up; he’d lost his battle-helm at some point he could not recall. A slab of metal slid away from a bare wall in the armoury hall and a shaft of wan red light issued through the gap. A tall, thin shadow was waiting outside and, with the way open, it moved into the room. It was clad in black robes and Brynngar detected the glint of a metal artifice at its back: Mechanicum.

The magos turned when it noticed the Astartes in the armoury.

Without preamble, it came at the Space Wolf, a mechadendrite drill emerging from the folds of its robes. Brynngar slashed the mechanical arm of the weapon, oil spilling from the severed metal limb like blood, and brought Felltooth down onto the hapless magos with a roar. The creature gurgled as it died, in what might have been an expression of pain or regret. It twitched for a moment as if its mechanical body was taking time to realise that it was already dead, before at last it lay still.

The red light continued to issue from the portal opened by the magos.

Brynngar had no idea where it led, but perhaps he could find some vulnerable location on the ship and do some damage, making the sacrifice of his Blood Claws and his own terrible act worth something. Maybe even the Ultramarine was still alive and he could find him. These thoughts running through his mind, the Wolf Guard took a step towards the portal, but stopped when he heard the shift of metal in the chamber, followed by the pressure-hiss of a disengaging harness.

Brynngar turned towards the sound, his accentuated hearing pinpointing its location exactly, and paused. He did not have to wait long for the source of the disturbance to reveal itself.

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‘I serve the Legion eternally,’ a scratchy voice, said, emitted from a vox-caster out of the darkness. Heavy metal footfalls like the
thunk
of giant hammers hitting metal, echoed in the armoury as a massive dreadnought emerged from the shadows.

The thing was an abomination, only part-way through the procedure of interment. The armoured sarcophagus hung open revealing a translucent blister pod in which a naked form was surrounded in amniotic fluid. The viscous material clung to the body, casting the enhanced musculature of the entombed Astartes in a dull sheen through the blister.

It walked unsteadily and one of its arms was missing, disconnected cabling flapping like cut veins, doubtless still awaiting the weapons of destruction through which it would express the art of war. The other arm, though, was more than ready, a massive, spiked hammer swinging from it. A faint energy crackle played along its surface, casting stark flashes onto the dreadnought as it primed the deadly weapon subconsciously. A sense of palpable menace came from the metal monster that towered over Brynngar. The old wolf took a step back, swinging Felltooth in readiness. The armour of his opponent looked thick and he hoped that the rune axe could pierce it.

‘My enemy,’ droned the dreadnought lumbering forward to close off the exit to the armoury as a flare of recognition coloured its tone and demeanour. ‘Ultis must die,’ it added, pausing for a moment as if suddenly confused, before it refocused on the Space Wolf and continued, ‘You will not gain the ship.’

Brynngar knew this warrior. He had killed him once already, at Bakka Triumveron.

‘Baelanos...’ it said with machine coldness.

The assault-captain.

‘Didn’t I kill you once, already,’ growled the Wolf Guard.

‘...Destroy you,’ the dreadnought replied, the sarcophagus closing up over the blister.

‘Round two,’ Brynngar whispered as Baelanos the dreadnought charged.

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MHOTEP CRASHED THROUGH the blast doors of the bridge, and skidded across the floor of an adjoining corridor. Fire wreathed his armour and scorch marks tarnished it from where the daemon had burned him with its breath. The force of the blow was such that Mhotep tried to claw at the corridor walls to slow his passage, but the wood veneer and metal tore away in his grasp, revealing bare wiring and fat cables that spat sparks and flame.

The Thousand Son struck a bulkhead at the corridor’s intersection and crumpled to a halt, pain lancing his back and shoulder.

Heat coiled from the edges of Mhotep’s armour. The faceplate of his helmet had taken the worst of the impact and he ripped it away, half-melted, leaving the rest of the headgear intact, together with the psychic hood. Discarding the battle-helm face plate, Mhotep got to his feet. Three claw marks were cut so deep into his cuirass that they bled. The Astartes staggered at first, but drew on his psychic reserves to steel himself. Forcing one foot in front of the other, banishing the pain, he made his way back to the bridge.

Wsoric stepped from the shattered blast doors, metal squealing as the daemon pushed its immense bulk through the ragged hole left by Mhotep. The beast would meet him halfway.

As it got closer, Mhotep saw that the black armour carapace was cracked in places and faintly glowing ichor seeped from minor cuts on its body.

It could be hurt, at least. Mhotep clung to that small sliver of hope as he readied his spear. With a muttered incantation, he sent an arc of crimson lightning towards the daemon. The creature shied away at first, using its muscular forearm to fend off the psychic assault, but the cerulean energy quickly died and Wsoric emerged unscathed.

‘Like an insect,’ said the daemon, its voice accompanied by the slither of muscle and the cracking of bone, ‘you are harder to kill than your feeble frame suggests.’

‘I am Astartes. I am an avenging angel of the Emperor of Mankind,’ Mhotep challenged, using the brief respite to marshal his strength. Though he was weak and in pain, the Thousand Son
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was careful not to show weakness, not even to contemplate defeat. For if he did, the daemon would seize upon it and all would be lost.

‘I am your doom,’ Wsoric promised and came forward with preternatural speed.

‘As I am yours,’ Mhotep hissed.

Talons like blades scythed the air and Mhotep’s spear spat golden sparks as he used it to parry the blow. He was staggered by the force of it and took an involuntary step back, boots grinding metal. He lunged with his spear, igniting the tip in an aura of crimson fire, and pierced Wsoric’s side. The daemon’s skin felt like iron, and the resonance of the blow rippled down Mhotep’s forearm and into his shoulder. The effect was numbing and he nearly dropped the weapon. Wsoric’s pain bellow was immense, and the Thousand Son winced against its intensity before withdrawing.

With the servos in his armour assisting his muscles, Mhotep leapt backwards, the tattered robes of his armour flapping like a cloak, and landed, spear in hand, before the daemon could retaliate.

‘You have failed here, spirit,’ he said, filling his voice with absolute certainty. ‘Wraith of times past, I name thee. Native thing of the warp, I shall send you back there. However much you hunger, you are known to me and you will not prevail. You will be banished by the light of the Emperor.’

‘You know nothing,’ Wsoric sneered, ‘of what we are.’ The terrible wound in its side was already healing. ‘You are misled and you know not of your fate.’

An image flashed briefly in Mhotep’s mind, of the spires of Prospero burning and the howling of wolves. It was the same vision he’d seen when Wsoric had first tried to subvert him and it came back like a recurring nightmare to haunt him.

Mhotep focused, determined not to give in, and slowly the image faded away like smoke.

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‘I am Mhotep, Thousand Son of Magnus the Red. The wisdom of Ahriman flows within me.’ The affirmation steeled him and power coursed through his body. Wsoric’s body, all muscle and blemished skin like the hide of a diseased corpse, shuddered with what the Thousand Son could only think was laughter. The daemon’s bloody lips peeled back from its dog-like skull and its pure black eyes shimmered wetly in sunken sockets of gore. One of Wsoric’s hands turned in on itself with a foul sucking sound, forming a wide orifice, which the monster aimed like a gun. The daemon roared with effort and a bolt of purple fire spat from its hand. Mhotep couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough and the blast caught his pauldron, hitting him hard enough to throw him, spinning, down the corridor. The Thousand Son was on his feet as soon as he landed, feeling the armour down one side char with the heat and the exposed skin of his face blistering.

Wsoric fired again, a heavy chain of caged fire spitting from his hand. The monster was laughing loudly, a horrendous gurgling sound that sprayed blood from its throat. Mhotep rolled around the intersection, tumbling into another corridor as lances of fire tore through the bulkhead.

The stink of burning metal filled his nostrils and wretched heat plagued his skin, but Mhotep was not about to give up. Once the conflagration had died down, he swung back around the intersection. From his outstretched palm, he sent a boiling mass of crimson fire against the daemon, which coursed over its weapon-arm, searing it shut.

‘The Word Bearers will not succeed,’ he said, rushing forward with his spear. ‘The Emperor knows he is betrayed! Lorgar will not escape his justice!’

‘I care nothing for Lorgar’s dogs,’ roared Wsoric. ‘They are be-holden to the will of the warp, the ancient ones that dwell in the empyrean. The slave Lorgar is merely a tool in the fashioning of our grand design. Mankind will fall as Old Night returns to the galaxy, shrouding it in a second darkness. You will all be slaves!’

Astartes and daemon clashed. Mhotep ran his spear through Wsoric’s side while the daemon swatted him against the corridor
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wall with a sweep of its gargantuan claws. Before the Thousand Son could recover, it seized upon his skull and started to squeeze. Mhotep could hear the bone cracking inside his head as dark spots flecked his failing vision.

‘Your Emperor can plot and cower all he likes,’ said Wsoric.

‘What has the warp to fear from him?’ he taunted, exerting more pressure.

‘Knowledge...’ hissed Mhotep through clenched teeth, ‘...is power.’ Twin beams of light seared from his eyes, burning Wsoric’s face and torso. The daemon recoiled, loosing its grip and Mhotep rammed his spear into its neck. Shrieking in pain, Wsoric let him down and the Thousand Son clattered to the floor, the spear still embedded in the daemon’s neck.

With a massive effort, Mhotep got up and threw the daemon off, a mental shield forming in his mind and crystallising in the air before him. Wsoric was angry, its red raw flesh charred and bleeding ichor. The fresh spear wound had not closed.

Wsoric came at the Thousand Son again, tearing through the psychic shield as if it was parchment.

CESTUS FELL FLAT on his face, dry heaving. He couldn’t tell which way was up. He was cold, appallingly cold, as if he was wrapped in ice or exposed to the naked void.

The feeling of his body coming apart was an agonising echo in every bone and tendon. To turn like that from a living, breathing man to a piece of mangled meat, to be trapped in that transition, feeling his spine cracking and his chest splitting, had been as obscene as it was tortuous. He felt violated, as if his flesh didn’t belong to him any more.

Cestus opened his eyes.

He was in the last circle of hell. It was an endless shaft of blackness, reaching up and down for infinity. Hundreds of long, thin blades penetrated the darkened void, hanging down from above and spearing down forever. On these blades were impaled traitors to Macragge. They slid, centimetre by centimetre, down into the black.

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Cestus stood on a thin spur of rock reaching from the wall of this circle of hell. He saw the faces of the condemned, locked in eternal screams as the blades bit slowly through them.

‘You have as many circles of sin as hell itself,’ said the taskmaster, standing behind Cestus. The Ultramarine got a good look at him for the first time, as burly as an Astartes, dressed in tarnished steel armour such as that worn by Macragge’s ancient Battle Kings. He wore a leather apron stained with blood and sweat. His face was like a solid slab, features worn down by an eternity serving in hell. The whip in his hand was as cruel and ugly a weapon as Cestus had ever seen. ‘I’m not a traitor,’ said Cestus.

‘Neither are these,’ said the taskmaster, pointing with his whip towards the damned souls sliding their way into eternity. ‘They think they are. Theirs is a sin more of arrogance than treachery.

They thought they really had the capacity to betray their fellow man, but in truth they are just petty thieves and killers: unre-markable. To be a true betrayer, you need power to turn against your brother. Very few ever possess it. That the virtue in acquir-ing that very power should be so tainted by the act of betrayal, that is the truth of the sin. That is what makes it fouler still than anything else.’

Cestus looked down at his body. His armour was gone and he wore the deep blue padded armour of an aspirant of Macragge, with the crest of the Battle Kings on his chest. It was what he had worn when he had first stepped up to the Ultramarines’ chaplain and declared that he believed he was ready to join the sons of Guilliman. It was tattered and torn, stained with the blood of a thousand battles. ‘I am no traitor, imagined or otherwise. I have never turned on my brothers.’

‘As for you, Lysimachus, where do you really belong? You are an Astartes, with all the power and brutality that brings. You’re a murderer, too, given all the people and xenos you have killed, do you truly believe that not one of them could have been undeserving of their fate? Think of all those sins, and that is without the mission you died fighting. You led a whole fleet to its destruc-294

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tion. You allowed your battle-brothers to die in vain. You protected a psyker, knowing full well that he was in breach of the Council of Nikaea: all of this to fight your fellow Astartes.