III.
The Briefing Room felt crowded, filled as it was the leaders of the warband.
Holreck looked around, letting his eyes rest upon each of the members of his inner circle.
Derrus was again covered in fresh blood. Potent blood. Wolf’s blood. The Apostle had made no effort as to explain this strange fact, and Holreck frankly did not care enough to ask. If the cur was dead he would not be missed.
The next member was Rothus. The Iron Mask was quiet, a statue in Mark V armour, his hands resting on the two-handed powerblade he had once claimed from one of the sons of Dorn.
Varx lumbered in the background of the room, his armour’s thrum the only indication of his presence. The witch seemed strangely non-confrontational.
The Warsmith furrowed his brow. He would need the psyker in this mission.
“Our objective is the Ist Legion Hunter-class “Pride’s Prosecution”. The vessel is alone and occupied by a few thinbloods, if Aphrael is correct. They are our target. We want them, preferably alive.” he spoke somberly, regarding each of the marines. “Or at least as close to living as possible.” he added with little humour.
“The Eternal Usurper should be capable of dealing with the vessel itself.” the holo-projector in the middle of the room flickered to life, casting an orange rendition of a Hunter class destroyer.
“When the ship is incapacitated, we will board it here, here and here.” the Warsmith’s finger drew hard lines across the hull. The inner circle followed. The plan was simple yet effective.
In earnest, Holreck was dissatisfied. Working with Aphrael always included unknown variables. Unknown variables meant trouble.
“I will personally be taking part in the attack. As will all of you.” Rothus nodded curtly, but otherwise remained as still as he always did. Derrus seemed slightly surprised. Holreck could tell by the slightest hint in his expression.
“Is this truly needed, Lord?” the Priest asked, uncharacteristically demurely. Did he fear death, all of a sudden?
The Warsmith remained silent for a while, focussing on Varx. The sorcerer seemed to not even have heard him, dark eyes reflecting the orange sheen of the projection.
“Yes it is,” he spoke slowly, intently, “we will be capturing a Librarian.”
Only then did Varx react, his lost expression slowly twisting into a slight smile of excitement.
***
Brylla awoke to a world of doubt. He jolted upward from his resting place, flexing one arm back, ready to strike at an attacker that was not there. He found only Orros, sitting on his own bunk, staring at him, eyes wide, between shock and awe.
“The Apostle brought you in a while ago.” the warrior muttered, seemingly under his breath. Brylla slowly let his guard fall. He was safe. For now.
“He told me that he operated on you...that he believes you have a part to play in the gods’ design.”
Orros still had not moved, his eyes boring into Brylla’s chest. The wolf looked down, letting out a strangled grunt at the sight of the long, pale scar that dragged itself across his entire torso.
“How…” he rasped, his throat parched and his voice coarse like sandpaper, “how long was I gone?”
Orros didn’t seem to hear at first, before finally snapping into life once again, raising his enigmatic eyes toward Brylla’s face.
“Five hours, at best.” the Iron Warrior answered, taking Brylla by surprise. Five hours? Even with the engineered healing properties of an Astartes the wound shouldn’t have looked like it did now!
“Maybe you are blessed after all.” Orros mused distantly. “Maybe the gods will prove their use to you, even if you won’t embrace them.”
Though Brylla denied it vehemently, something was wrong. He could feel it, deep inside his chest, dread certainty, like a talon around his twin hearts. What had the priest done to him?
***
Varx had returned to his chambers. The comfort he’d so often enjoy here, in isolation, with nothing to distract him from his studies, now did not want to set in. Something was not right, something didn’t allow him to focus, to be content with meditation.
He lowered himself onto the thin rug, facing the painting leaning on the wall. He followed the brushstrokes from the bright face, slowly following outward, toward the darker areas, the hair, the clothing, eventually the detailed background. It was a pleasing work, watched just with mortal eyes, even if psychically void of any traces he had once thought responsible for its captivating nature.
The sorcerer sighed, as he looked around his sanctum. This was a pointless exercise. Maybe the upcoming battle would leave him with some satisfaction, and he could gain back his focus.
Hopefully, he thought to himself, as he closed his eyes, sensing a pressure behind his eyes that spoke not of exhaustion but some other, higher concern.
A librarian. A fellow psyker, schooled in the same ways he had been, possibly more, depending on how the Dark Angels handled things. He’d never interacted with the insular chapter or their successors. This would be a learning experience for all involved parties.
***
The Pride’s Prosecution emerged from the shadow of a nearby moon, gliding through a field of asteroids and debris from ages long past. Its mission had been a success, a small task for a small vessel, a favour to a planetary governor.
23 Astartes waited aboard the ship, while hundreds, if not a thousand mortal crewmen and serfs went about their daily life.
Eli Wurk, auspex-officer of the venerable destroyer, was not worried. The readings were clean. Nothing out of the ordinary. Noone would dare attack them.
The Hunter class was a stable ship, more armoured and battle ready than most other vessels in the fleets of the Astartes. Not to mention the protectors of Mankind themselves. His own avenging angels! He risked a single second of slipping attention to glance backward, trying to catch a glimpse of his Lords.
There they were, clad in their green panoply, indomitable warriors, messengers of the God-Emperor’s holy word, defenders of His Imperium.
No. Truly none would dare…
A sudden, mechanical bleep drew his attention back. Focussing on the cogitator and its dusty screen he caught a glimpse of a spec on the sensor display that hadn’t previously been there. A single dot on the grainy screen. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Contacts, Wurk?” asked Groffning, the master of the sensorium.
“Negative Sir, just debris.” Eli chattered back, not half as sure as he seemed.
Oh well, they were His most faithful servants, surely no evil would dare even touch them?
He kept staring at his screen. The debris swirled around, but the contact did not reappear.
***
The dropship they sat in had definitely not been built for Astartes, but it had certainly undergone a transformation. Brylla looked around to the rest of his pack. “Squad” , he muttered to himself quietly. A small difference. He looked around to Pelagys, Mirk and Orros. Four men in a squad. Given, more wouldn’t have fit into this bird, but still it felt strange. They were the youngest. Noone actually thought they’d make it through the next few raids, the toughest survivors would be taken on by other squads.
The Molten Brethren were logical in their ways, Brylla always found. Only in one case he didn’t think he could ever truly understand. The scar on his chest itched slightly. It was almost not visible anymore. It had been four standard days for it to nearly heal completely.
Brylla focussed on Orros. The young marine was speaking some silent words to his boltgun. Was he right? Did these damned gods of theirs try to win him over with their gifts? Was there no escape from this madness? Was he as damned as the others?
He’d never thought all that much about his soul. He didn’t truly think his flight from the Chapter had severed him from his world, or the All-Father, or the Primarch, for that matter. At least it hadn’t felt that way. Now, though, he felt unprotected. Abandoned for his betrayal.
It was the priest. The honourless bastard had worked his wyrd-arts on him! He hadn’t been abandoned, he’d been cursed!
He wouldn’t be able to do anything against Derrus. The priest was the second mightiest man in the entire warband. He needed a plan!
The crackle of vox-static tore him back into reality.
First he needed to survive this fight, then he could see about reversing whatever the Apostle had done to him.
***
Wurk had stared at the screen for two solid minutes without another sign of the contact. Just when he decided it had really been debris or a system error, a speck appeared again. From behind a greater asteroid a shape took form. The screen flickered for a while, distorting the image. Eli couldn’t believe his eyes. When the screen stabilized again there suddenly was the shape of an entire cruiser to be seen. Eli turned and opened his mouth, croaking the first tones of a warning, when suddenly it was too late to cry out.
The unthinkable had happened. The floor shook, and the screens went white, dread forebears of a low rumbling, and then a high pitched screaming of metal and crew.
“We’ve been hit.” Eli mused senselessly, before another impact illuminated his sight. Had He himself come to take him with Him? Was he to meet the God-Emperor so soon?
“Please no-” he managed to press out before the flaming tongue plasma bursting through the left hand wall of the room gave birth to a large hole in the bridge’s outer structure.
It all happened so slowly. The air was sucked from his lungs, then he went hurtling across the entire bridge. He didn’t truly feel his impact on the terminals and servitors, he didn’t feel that his skin had blistered from the heat of the plasma-impact. He tumbled, spun, then he was outside. A cold corpse in the dark void, a lazy hint of puzzlement on his features. Occasionally his features were lit by more impacts.
The Pride’s Prosecution wouldn’t fight back. It was brutally outclassed by the Murder class cruiser’s experimental plasma cannons, once the pride of Battlefleet Gothic, over 300 years ago, now precise weapons of mass destruction, modified by heretical knowledge from eyespace and guided by the hands of a siegemaster. The savage vessel jolted forwards, in toward a kill that was practically already made. Sadly its work was done for now.
Holreck was satisfied with what he had witnessed on the pict-feed inside the storm-hawk gunship.
Precise shots, with devastating effect, delivered before the enemy could even raise their shields. That the first Legion vessel hadn’t spotted them earlier had been a surprise, but a welcome one. It only made the Brethren’s work easier.
He couldn’t hide a slight smirk looking over at a visibly uncomfortable Derrus and an unexpressive Rothus.
***
The transport slammed down to the ground of the cargo-bay. The ramp was only halfway down, when Brylla and the others charged out, taking in their surroundings, sneaking out shots at the first hostiles they could spot.
Their mission was relatively easy, Brylla went through it again while he strangled one of the last mortal crewmembers in the bay. They were to advance toward an auxiliary power station, butchering the crew as they went, to attract the marines aboard the destroyer. Practically nothing could go wrong.
As the lifeless corpse slipped from his grasp, he rolled his shoulders. Hostile astartes could mean trouble.
They continued down the hallway in relative silence. Only a few mortal crew showed their hides, even fewer had the courage to stand and fight. Not that the others fared better.
A brutally efficient enemy was crawling through the veins of the Pride’s Prosecution, slaughtering whoever they found with unfeeling accuracy or calculated savagery.
Brylla rolled his eyes inside his battered helmet, trying to not make sense of their incessant squabbling. He looked over to Orros, who seemed to look to him for support. The Iron Warrior was more of an artificer, less so a leader. With a groan the Space Wolf decided to take control of the situation.
The two marines turned to face him, suddenly silent.
They went on in blissful quiet and unchallenged.
Then, at an intersection, Brylla sensed it. A known scent, and a hated one at that. A son of the Lion. Until now it hadn’t occurred to him how ironic it was, that he’d be carrying out his chapter’s feud, even now.
Brylla shot him a dark look, before motioning for the other two.
***
Varx could feel it. The Librarian was close, very close. Sometimes he even thought he could see his influence flare up in the immaterium, but that he put down to the thrill of it all. He was marching ahead, in front of the commanders of the entire warband. Now they needed him! Now they needed to trust him! The sorcerer snickered in a rather satisfied manner. Simply delightful!
In truth he was excited at the opportunity to finally face a challenging foe, one he could test his psychic might against. He hadn’t duelled another psyker since...when?
They were heading toward the main power-reactor of the vessel right now, with several other landing groups converging on the location from different angles.
Varx could feel the presences behind him, the hard, logical aura of the Warsmith Kethral, the deep and zealous vortex of energies that was Derrus, the many, less interesting impressions of Rothus’ men, the Crucible Guard. Rothus himself was a fairly steady, insignificant influence, below the hard surface the marine was troubled by the same base influences as all others, not easily read, but ultimately little went on within the bodyguard that was truly worth reading. Maybe that was remarkable in and of itself.
This pondering of his company had nearly let his attention slip, Varx realized, as he only now detected the faint pulse of terror, ten paces ahead. A small pulse, but a potent one. His twin hearts accelerated their rhythm. Could it be?
“Come out, little one.” he spoke somberly. The speck of neglect didn’t stir at first.
Irritation behind him, questions gnawing at surety.
“Come out or I will make you come out.” he tried again.
The small heart quickened behind the piping. Varx could feel how heavy his tongue felt. He could scarcely read the chaotic tumble of thought in the childs aura. It was time for the ultimate test of his theory.
Slowly, very slowly, the existential dread made way to hope in the child. Finally, it made its way out of its hiding place between the pipes, exhaling from its pitiful, small lungs, when it finally was free.
“Explain yourself, witch.” the Warsmith barked in a low tone. Varx had no time to explain.
“This one will stay alive.” he simply stated, as if he had any say on the matter. “It could be very useful indeed.”
Kethral stayed silent for a while, his unreadable machine-mind coloured by distrust. Aid came from an unexpected ally.
“I see.” Derrus stated, with a hint of appreciation in his voice. “This is no mere eccentricity, Lord.”
The priest leaned close toward the tyrant of the Molten Brethren, hissing a few words.
His approval was basically guaranteed now. Varx slowly stepped forward, the light of a few torches illuminating the small thing that stood before him.
A dishevelled little boy, in soiled, mock-robes, emanating confusion and gnawing fear.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Just when he was about to touch it, it looked up at him, with inky eyes that told of the stars.
His hand froze in place. Lights flickered down the hallway. His armour creaked, as a thin film of ice spread across it.
“Will you bring me home?” the child asked, between dread and defiance.
The sorcerer only smiled as he pushed his hand down with a small effort, putting the child to sleep.
***
The sons of the Lion had come on far less cautiously than Brylla would have expected. Remorselessly boltshells whipped down the corridor, at least five opponents. That was a thought. Being outnumbered by a numerically inferior foe.
They’d scattered into the different corridors, Pelagys and Orros exchanging fire with the Dark Angels, one laying down rapid and reckless suppressing fire, while the other worked far more methodically, calculating each shot.
Brylla was waiting behind the wall on the other side of the cross-section. Thumbing his bolt pistol he listened to the heavy footsteps of the advancing astartes. A muffled, animal cry, a heavy thump. One of their assailants had fallen. They were equal on manpower now.
Still they came on without pause. Why so close?
While the young marine ducked into the crosssection, flexing his arm backward, Brylla had a good look of two combustions on his torso, knocking Mirk backward with a disgruntled squeal, another shot ricocheted off his helmet, sending him sprawling against the wall. Brylla could hear his muttered curses through the vox-static.
Not good.
As if the drawing of blood had reinvigorated them, the Dark Angel’s salvoes intensified. Orros’ pauldron took a glancing hit as Pelagys barely managed to pull him back behind the corner, while more shells flew past his head.
The realisation hit Brylla like a hammerblow. They were, now, absolutely out of position.
He turned out of his cover, raising his pistol to at least offer some form of opposition, when he saw an object sailing past his left pauldron. He heard the impact of a grenade next to him. As he dove to his right it already let out its deadly payload, a searing white, glowing ball of flame wafted into all directions.
He could feel the explosion tearing through his left arm, flesh and skin sizzling as they were melting away from the heat.
Where had it gone wrong?
That damn priest… he thought, as suddenly the corridor seemed unbelievably dark next to the bright star of the melta-charge.
Then the Angels were upon them, their vengeful shapes reminding Brylla of loyalties past.
***
The infant had been left behind. They couldn’t afford to carry it around with them. Holreck glared at the sorcerer’s back. If Derrus was right this child was gifted in some way. He hoped for the sorcerer’s own good that this little experiment didn’t turn into an uncontrollable maelstrom.
They trudged onward, only occasionally halting, when the sorcerer gestured around with an outstretched hand.
The display reminded the Warsmith of a blind cripple he’d seen once, on a long dead world.
They’d gone without a meaningful challenge. A couple dozen mortal serfs and crewmen had proven nothing but an irritating diversion.
Other boarding teams had had more luck. Eleven of the enemy numbers were accounted for, bound in combat. Other contacts were being made just now. That left up to 12, the Librarian among them. If Aphrael was right.
A pict-feed in the edge of his awareness confirmed that they were closing in on the psyker’s recluse, an isolated chamber along the spine of the ship, insulated like the cells of the navigators.
A great doorway, flanked by sconces, confirmed the machine’s reading.
Varx nodded curtly. Some productiveness at last. The Warsmith readied himself, gripping the combi melta locked to his thigh. He’d made the piece himself, a fusion of the bolter of the Legiones Astartes and the armour-melting fire of the meltagun. The transition was seamless, as if the weapon had always been intended as an amalgamation. Some details brought a scowl to his lips, however.
Along its spine a small ridge had begun to form, barely noticeable, but it was not negligible. He’d need to grind it down again. Not to mention that the muzzle of the boltgun slowly split down the middle, not by corrosion, but as if growing apart, the material simply refusing to stay together. So far the artificer had been able to keep his weapon clean from the taint of the witch-realm they inhabited. At least superficially.
He shut out such thoughts. Now was not the time. He breathed in, with a hint of excitement. He looked up at the Aquila on the wings of the door, at the gilded imagery of heroism and study.
With a whir of servos the witch made a wide motion, before forcing his arms forward. The doors flew inward, blown from their hinges, twisting with hideous, metal-shrieks.
They revealed a circular chamber. A circle of pillars held up the domed ceiling. Beyond the pillars shadow hinted at further access points and more room.
In the center of the chamber, in the middle of the pillars, stood a figure in flowing robes.
“Whoever sent you, you’re making a mistake, traitors.” the Librarian spoke cautiously.
Holreck scoffed. Had the learned men no better words for him anymore?
He’d enjoy these mutants bleeding each other dry.
***
Brylla was fighting for his life. Usually his opponent wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but the odds between knife and chainblade would be considerably skewed by his loss of limb.
The Marine thrust his chainsword forward, toward his foe’s chest, but the Angel simply stepped aside, coming in closely with his knife, forcing Brylla back in turn, swaggering to the right unsteadily. The Dark Angel followed him, but Brylla brought his sword around to his left in a swiping motion, purchasing a little more time.
Blood was flowing from his torn open left side, the coagulant that all Astartes naturally produced in abundance not able to stem the tide this time. Would he die here?
The nervous, acidic tang on his tongue and the chemicals hammering through his veins eked him on, the roiling blood inside him, the unsteady rhythm of his twin hearts wouldn’t allow the thought.
Brylla charged forward, striking at his foe’s head. The teeth rattled across the ceramite with a shower of sparks, but he couldn’t keep the edge aligned, the blade skidded downwards, only finding purchase in the Angel’s pauldron. He felt the sword grinding down, biting into the shoulder plate with an ugly screech.
Still, he was at a disadvantage, he felt his legs shaking, his arm slowly draining of strength. The son of the Lion also made his advantage in arms felt, with a single, powerful punch to Brylla’s helmeted head.
The world was dark for a moment. Then the sensors of the helmet came alive again. The left lense was cracked, warnings flashed all across his perception, breaches detected, power plant damaged, sensors failing. He sucked in air, blinking away the numb pain and the warnings. The beat of his hearts grew ever weaker.
Brylla was on one knee, barely managing to swipe his chainblade in front of himself to force his foe back, before he could close in to finish the job. Some breathing room. A futile hope.
With a single kick the son of the Lion disarmed him, forcing the blade from the vice grip of his hand, tendons snapping and bones cracking with the force of his opponent.
Pain reminding him again of the weakening influence of the stimulants. Numbness began to creep through him, sluggishly devouring his mind. Still some drive remained, a spark of cold hatred, of ancestral need for blood.
He wouldn’t die on his knees. He barreled forwards, pistoning his kneeling leg backward. Brylla brought his shoulder forward, ramming himself into the marine’s abdomen.
They fell, the Dark Angel was scrambling for purchase on the ground, but Brylla had a different goal already.
He didn’t know where the others had gone. All he knew was his foe, all that mattered was this ancestral grudge, as old as their chapters, far older than both combatants. A hollow fight, but one he’d see through, if for nothing else than his own stubborn pride.
Brylla hooked his straining hand into his foe’s warplate, dragging himself on top of him, eyelense to eyelense. The knife blade found his exposed flesh, but he didn’t care for it, instead pulling off his battered helmet with great effort.
The scent of blood and smoke was strong, burning flesh and slaughter surrounded him.
Acid spit was already running down his chin, or dripping directly from his canines, searing the lacquer off the Angel’s plate. It broke from him, searing hatred driving the dying man to acts of carnage. His death would not be the only one, he would make his foe pay. He cursed the Angel to all hells, cursed his bloodline, raging against the inevitable, promising to at least take this craven cur with him to whatever empty afterlife was his.
The world was red, his goal was red, his entire body felt red, he brought up his helmet and hammered it into the Angel’s head, striking again and again. The knife pushed through his cracked ribs, sinking deeper into Brylla’s flesh, piercing a lung. He sucked in the air, his breath rattled as his foe twisted the knife around. The chemical pain inhibitors were depleted. He felt every second of agony, every muscle in his body shrieking out against the impending end.
Suddenly the resistance was gone. The knife ceased its inexorable advance into his side.
Brylla’s body burned with pain, each nerve flared with bright agony. Breathing had become a hassle, his throat slowly filling with blood and acid.
The slop gushed from his maw as he looked down, to his side, to his torn away arm. Was this the end? Was it over? Would the Allfather still take him like this? He doubted it. He’d broken all his oaths. Had this short, cruel freedom been worth it?
He looked up into a snow-filled sky, the white and grey clouds in turmoil, roiling with the oncoming storm.
With a gurgling, bloodcurdling cry the champion howled his defiance to the universe.
The ruin that had been his last beating heart ceased its function.
Brylla, renegade of the Vlka Fenryka, died, slurring curses in the depths of the Pride’s Persecution.
***
The Librarian was a cold presence, a smooth aura, like a deep ocean. Varx knew that even the calmest water held turmoil, hidden however deep. The air was laden with static, the temperature fell, as both psykers gathered power, one slowly muttering incantations, while the other ran along weak and controlled routes of power in his mind.
He felt the psychic tendrils of the Dark Angel, probing his defences. How brazen.
Such morose bravery would not go unpunished.
The Sorcerer thrust forwards his hands, a simple telekinetic push, executed with too much bravado now that he thought about it. The Librarian budged slightly, focussed in balance for a single second, a single moment of slipping attention Varx intended to exploit fully, lodging himself into the cracks of his opponent’s defence, slipping into the Dark Angel’s mind, taking a plunge into the unknowable. He moved through the dark, thorned branches of the mind, like a wolf on the prowl, when suddenly he was stopped in his tracks by a cold and hard force, and unstoppable force ran into an immovable object.
He hadn’t expected that.
Suddenly there were thorns in his sides, piercing his eyes, pushing through his gums. The pain was not physical, yet he could feel blood spurting over his face.
Suddenly he was on the defensive, blocking passages, attempting to seize the infiltrating mind, yet he found another intelligence entirely. This wasn’t the Librarian. It was something else. A far more potent force, far more at home in minds and the warp than any mortal could ever be.
What manner of illness had brought them to bind a daemon?!
***
The appearance of the shackled, twisting body couldn’t have been predicted. From the dark behind the Librarian it had broken forth, a rictus grin glistening from the shadow-obscured face.
It writhed in its chains, floating a solid meter above the floor, feet halfway melded together.
A daemon-host. A feeble mortal shell, breaking with the power of an entity of the warp trapped within.
Targeting solutions ran across Holreck’s field of vision, his boltgun came up, inching toward the optimal angle.
Time ran too slowly, he realized now. His heartbeat seemed to be the only thing he could actually hear, the sudden gasps of surprise around him muffled, like the wailing of a deep-sea creature.
The rictus grin was staring at him, eyes bursting aflame with golden light.
The damn thing was laughing.
***
Varx felt moreso than heard the infernal thing’s joy as it held his mind in a chokehold.
He couldn’t move his body, no muscles stirred, his twin hearts had been abruptly halted, the unnatural lack of blood pained his chest, his lungs drew no air, his eyes wouldn’t move.
He was locked in a slow death, only seconds would remain if he didn’t find the power to break the things hold on him.
His mind ran along the old routes, concentrated and disciplined, trusted and proven by eons of Librarians.
He was mindful of the warp, never drawing its full potential. He couldn’t. It was to risk possession, madness and corruption beyond repair.
He wouldn't…
The image of the woman from the woods came back to mind.
He knew exactly what she looked like now, he realized.
No, it hadn’t been the woman from the picture that had so mysteriously found its way into his study. A resemblance was there, definitely. Maybe a relative, many, many decades down the line.
One of his relatives.
He had a family, it struck him.
Death had lost the cold comfort it had carried but an absent heartbeat before.
He wasn’t alone.
It had never bothered him before, but the realization was a profound one now that it came.
His studies weren’t over quite yet.
Varx let go all discipline. He welcomed the roiling tides. Maybe it was a lucky day.
***
Baleful witch-flame struck out from Varx, an iridescent blast illuminating the deep shadows of the high chamber. The laughing daemon seemed taken aback. The boltgun came up and three shots rang out, detonated in its chest-cavity and threw the floating abomination backward, into the protection of a row of columns that ringed the chamber.
More shots rang out, the unleashed fury of the betrayed. Aphrael had known what they’d find here. The Warsmith felt hard rage pressing at the back of his eyes.
He’d gut the treacherous worm.
A high-pitched scream brought his attention to the sorcerer, forced to his knees by whatever foolishness he’d undertaken, clawing at his face.
The priest obeyed wordlessly, hurrying to Varx’s side without much concern for his own safety, while Rothus and the Crucible Guard gave chase after the daemonhost.
Holreck himself took it upon himself to inspect what was left of the Librarian.
At first glance it seemed unlikely that the Dark Angel was still alive.
The Librarian had burst into the same flames that had consumed Varx, his armoured form seemed molten and charred. Suddenly a gasp from the raw, burnt face.
Holreck placed an armoured boot on top of the psyker’s chest. The irony of the moment hit him, as he saw the flame-scoured surface of his own armour match almost perfectly with the charred plate of the Dark Angel.
Another roar of pain brought his attention to the gloom within the columns. One of the Guards had burst into flames as well, the daemonhost brought from the shadow by the flickering light. He watched its wounds reknitting, even as more and more boltshells found their mark, sundering its flesh.
It should have been so easy.
***
Rothus unleashed a battle cry as he charged the abomination. If bolts wouldn’t hurt it, blades would. The sword went up, its silvered edge dancing with electrical currents as the archaic powerfield sprang to life. The upward slice missed the daemon but still served its purpose as he turned the blade around for a sideways strike at the things mid. The blade cut deep, glowing ichor spurting from the wound, but the daemon was far from relinquishing its physical form.
Rothus was sent flying by a deceptively decrepit looking backhand. He felt the crunch of ceramite on rock.
He caught a glimpse of the Warsmith, foot resting on the remains of the Librarian, hulking figure turning to face a sudden deluge of bolter fire from the shadow at the western edge of the chamber, raising his own weapon. The Warsmith’s faceplate hid emotion, but Rothus knew what was going on within Kethral’s mind right now.
They were old, he realized. And Holreck knew it too.
He shook off the thoughts and rose to his feet once more, just in time to see Bornyx meet the same fate that Virrok had suffered just moments ago, going up in baleful witchfire, armour contorting and bursting open. He didn’t look long enough to watch the tentacles sprout and tumours press through ceramite, he was already pressing the assault again, diving behind a pillar to his right to evade a stream of manifest madness destined for him, rolling around the inside of the column-circle, closing in on the wretched entity.
His sword went up to his right, going in for a swing, when suddenly he was dangling in the air, the daemon holding him by the throat. It's malformed face was splitting open from top to bottom, revealing rows upon rows of teeth, shaped from fragments of skull.
“Don’t you tire of these games?” The dread thing spoke. Yes. He did. He felt weary, so very weary. He was tired, he realized. It had been over ten-thousand years.
The maws closed in on his face, fighting instinct took over, he wildly pushed the blade forward, feeling the resistance of flesh. The creature reeled backwards, letting go of him, but he wouldn’t let it get away now. Rothus twisted the blade, driving it deeper, into its chest, its claws carved into the shoulderpads, small warning overlays flashed up. He denied them. He had it now!
The daemon screeched as the silver blade sapped away its grasp on the world, ichor flowed freely from it, golden, shining essence sullied the blade, he drove deeper, pressing the hilt into the wound. The blade hit the wall behind. Still the thing wasn’t dead.
“I’ll have your soul for this!” It screeched its empty threat.
Rothus pulled back the great blade, before going in for a beheading stroke.
Finally the thing fell quiet.
***
Varx looked up into the whirling abyss. He saw the faces, felt the claws like never before. He heard their whispers, promising so much, for so little.
He’d been a fool to let go all caution so easily. Now there was no way back, he was damned, he’d tear open the rift and end up as a portal for the neverborn that promised and threatened, if only he gave in, if only…
There was a pull on him. The daemonic realm grew fainter. The wound in the world was mending, sibilant words cauterizing the gash between realities.
He was glad, for a moment, terrified in the other. The voices rang in his head, promising damnation for his spite. He hadn’t done this, it hadn’t been him! He had no choice!
He pleaded, begged for them to understand, yet he was jubilant for his sudden rescue.
When the fog cleared from his mind he slowly began to see the outline of a face above him.
“Welcome back, Brother.” Derrus spoke softly, hiding a layer of strain under his cool appearance.
“I was beginning to doubt whether your mind had survived the encounter intact. Alas, I am glad it did.” The Dark Apostle grew more distant. Bolt-rounds whizzed past his head, bringing his irate glare up, to face an unseen foe.
“We have plans, after all.”
***
With the Daemonhost dead the fight had been rather easy. The remaining Dark Angels had been cut down with the strength of blade and bolter, those that deigned to retreat were hounded to their barracks. Holreck had no need to preserve their lives. They were smoked out, krak grenades tearing apart their dwellings, flame scourging flesh where armour had been cracked in their fighting retreat.
Afterwards the true work had begun, plundering and salvaging what they could, recovering the wounded.
The tally had still been harrowing. Aphrael would pay for what he had caused today.
Among the Brothers there had been five dead, with seven injured to any significant degree. He heard the chants deep in the bowels of the ship, the chanting that accompanied the grafting of a prosthetic limb. Had it always been like this? No, not from memory.
When had it all begun, the ritualisation? Derrus had always said there was significance in ritual, that there was symbology within. The Warsmith wondered if the priest had had a hand in the increasing cultishness of the Brethren.
His attention slipped back to the report before him. Out of the Crucible Guard only two of those that had entered the Pride’s Persecution were still alive, a maimed veteran by the name of Ertos and Rothus himself. They’d need to replenish their ranks from the best. And all of them were the best.
All, except one. The thought of the Wolf stabbed his brain with all the affection of a rusty blade. The outsider had been found amidst the ruins of his squadmates, the fresh and weak blood, still to be tested.
Apparently he hadn’t spoken a word to anyone, not even his two surviving squadmates, one of which most likely wouldn’t make it. Derrus had seemed very interested.
He put down the report. He wouldn’t be able to focus now anyway.
Holreck’s mind returned to the bridge. He rose from the throne with a loud yowl of servos. He hadn’t had the time to repair any damage. He wanted to see this.
“Lord, her drive is going critical.” the Mistress Sensoria reported, and he turned his eyes to the pict-screen ahead.
The crippled shape of the Pride’s Persecution hung in the void, like a ravaged animal, great wounds rent into her stern, where her primary control stations had been.
Suddenly light flashed out of her aft, before rippling across her starboard side, a series of combustions turning the screen stark white. What glass windows there were automatically adjusted to the bright star thousands of kilometers away.
The vessel burst, as drives and engines went critical, systems overloaded and breakers failed.
The Pride’s Persecution was dead, and as to who had killed her noone could ever know. They had wiped their traces. Their end of the agreement with Aphrael’s Order had been met.
It was time to see if the secretive wretch could be at least trusted to hold his word.