‘I remain in command of my own ships, High Marshal.’
‘I see the Paragon, the Implicit, the Courageous and the Guilliman remain operational. You have done well. How many of you still live?’
‘Two hundred and forty-eight of the four hundred brothers I set out with remain.’ Zerberyn felt a thrill of disquiet at disclosing his numbers.
‘I am sorry. We have all suffered gravely in this war. And yet your survival is cause for celebration! Thane has reconstituted the Imperial Fists from the Successors. You and your warriors are the Fists Exemplar.’
Zerberyn bowed his head.
‘First, the Traitors must be crushed,’ went on Bohemond, ‘then you may join with us on Thane’s crusade to slaughter the remaining ork hordes and restore the Imperium to peace. Praise be to the Lord of Mankind!’
Zerberyn felt Kalkator’s eyes on the back of his neck. He could not reply.
‘Brother?’ said the High Marshal.
‘I cannot,’ said Zerberyn tightly.
‘Explain yourself,’ said Bohemond dangerously.
‘Throughout this war, the Iron Warriors have fought alongside us. Without their support and access to their intelligence, supplies, and bases, the Fists Exemplar would have been annihilated weeks ago.’
‘Then stand aside. We shall do the job for you, if you lack the heart,’ said Bohemond scornfully.
‘That I cannot do either. I have sworn an oath to preserve the life of the warsmith and his men. Depart, and we shall join you at a rendezvous of your choosing. But the Iron Warriors will be permitted to leave.’
A savage smile turned Bohemond’s ruined face even uglier.
‘Is that a threat of action against the Black Templars, Fist Exemplar? Be careful with your words.’
‘It is what it is. I have no wish to fight you. Allow me to fulfil my oath, and all will be well.’
‘Allowing Traitors free?’ said Bohemond. ‘That is far from well! To associate with Traitors is to become a Traitor. Prepare to be boarded. I will detain you. You shall be returned to Terra to face the judgement of the Inquisition. They shall determine your fate. I shall pray that they are merciful and offer you a quick death. Contact your daemon-worshipping friends and tell them that, Bohemond comes for their heads!’
Bohemond stepped back from the projector. Its focusing loops retrained themselves on the background. Zerberyn caught a glimpse of armoured pods and flat projection platforms.
‘He’s on the teleport deck,’ he breathed.
‘My lord! The Abhorrence is powering its main weapons array,’ called out a serf.
‘They’ve raised their shields!’
‘Damn him!’ snarled Zerberyn. ‘He came in expecting to fight. Prepare for combat. All ships raise shields and prime weapons.’
Tocsins sounded. Marcarian gave out a calm string of orders. The deck crew went into swift action, bringing the Dantalion ready. ‘Activate psychic shielding,’ he concluded. The Librarium serfs began to sing in their alcoves, weaving a subtle field of protection around the command deck.
Zerberyn looked helplessly on as the Abhorrence powered forwards. Bohemond meant to pass into the middle of his fleet.
‘We have multiple launch tubes coming online aboard the Abhorrence,’ said a serf.
‘They’re locking on to our weapons batteries and engines,’ said another.
A clamour of information filled the deck, drowning out the warding songs of the choir.
‘Captain Arcos of the Fourth demands to speak with you,’ said the Master of the Vox.
‘Demands?’ said Kalkator. ‘You are losing control of your warriors, First Captain.’
Zerberyn ignored the jibe. ‘Give me hololith.’
‘What are you doing?’ said Arcos without preamble. ‘I will not attack a fellow Adeptus Astartes, have you lost your mind?’
‘You will follow orders!’ said Zerberyn.
‘I do not follow orders from Traitors. I will contact Bohemond. This has gone far enough. I stand with him.’ Arcos cut the hololithic feed.
‘My lord, I have a message from First Sergeant Rost aboard Paragon querying your orders. They’re breaking formation,’ said the Master of the Vox.
‘Hold fire!’ shouted Zerberyn. The situation was slipping from his grasp.
‘The Black Templars are firing on us,’ said the Master of the Augur.
Through the vast oculus, they saw the Abhorrence’s weapons flash in sequence along both flanks and down its spine. The main hololith display filled with blinking icons denoting incoming ordnance.
‘Shall I return fire?’ asked Marcarian.
‘No!’ shouted Zerberyn. ‘Brace for impact. Hail Bohemond again!’
‘Massive energy spike, amidships of the Abhorrence.’
Honorius held up an armoured hand to his bare face. ‘The warp is disturbed, they are coming.’
Shapes of flickering mist coalesced towards the command deck blast doors. Twelve huge shapes began to form. The choirs sang louder, and half of the Black Templars’ emerging forms rippled, the helmets of the warriors twisting and melting into the underlying flesh. Three disappeared altogether to the sound of ghostly screams. The others affected crashed to the deck in a mess of steaming metal and flesh. The remainder arrived firing.
‘So you bring your Traitor friends aboard your own ship?’ boomed Bohemond when he saw Kalkator behind Zerberyn. He marched forwards, his massive Terminator suit denting the deck plating, his weapon blasting serfs apart.
Whether it was the Iron Warriors or the Fists Exemplar who returned fire first, the result was the same. Bolts filled the air from all three sides, the banging of their release and explosion drowning out the cries of terrified serfs. Marcarian, unable to move, was reduced to bloody rags of flesh hanging from his exoskeleton. The numerous weapons built into the bridge’s walls and ceiling opened up at his death, catching the Black Templars in a murderous crossfire. Bolts spanged off their thick armour, but there were more potent weapons on the bridge. Honorius ravaged them with psychic fire, and one by one they began to fall.
‘Stop! Stop!’ shouted Zerberyn. He moved to intercept Bohemond as he marched towards Kalkator, but the High Marshal slapped him aside. His power fist ruptured the plastron of Zerberyn’s armour, lifting him high and slamming him into a serf’s station.
‘You shall die the traitor’s death, Kalkator!’
‘You will have to catch me first,’ said the warsmith.
‘I will gladly kill you here, if that is what the Emperor demands!’ Bohemond emptied his storm bolter into the warsmith’s chest, but Kalkator weathered the storm, his armour’s superior construction protecting him.
Bohemond let out a thunderous war cry.
‘No mercy! No remorse! No fear!’ He lumbered into a charge.
Kalkator was ready. With impossible strength he slammed the High Marshal in the head, breaking the adamantium and ceramite of his armour, and sent him toppling backwards. Bohemond came to rest on the floor, struggling to get back to his feet. Kalkator advanced on him, gun out. Bohemond got onto his knees, wrenched off his helmet and cast it aside.
‘See, Zerberyn,’ said Bohemond. ‘See what you ally yourself with. This Iron Warrior is possessed of unnatural vigour! He has given himself over to fell powers to make himself mightier. You have sorely disappointed me, Zerberyn. Have you also embraced his sorcery? You disrupted the transit of my men. I should have blasted you from the void the moment I saw you.’
Zerberyn heaved himself out of a tangle of broken components and metal. His armour leaked gas from its ruptures, frothing ceramite gels bubbling around the cracks. The sounds of fighting diminished and stopped as the last of Bohemond’s Black Templars died.