Kor Phaeron grunted in wordless disapproval. ‘Boy, order the attack. We must support Argel Tal and the Iron Warriors.’
‘But what are we doing? Why have we done it this way?’
Erebus didn’t scowl, he was far too composed for that, but Kor Phaeron wore his human emotion with greater ease. He fairly snarled the words, leeching them of kindness.
‘We are bringing enlightenment to the galaxy, Lorgar. This is what you were born for.’
Erebus turned to regard his primarch. ‘Is it not a grand sensation, sire? To be the architect of all this? To see your designs reach fruition?’
Lorgar would not, could not, look away from his duelling kin. ‘This was not my design, and you know it as well as I. Let us not pretend I have any skill at orchestrating bloodshed and betrayal on this scale.’
Kor Phaeron’s lips twisted as close as they ever came to a smile. ‘You give me far too much credit.’
‘It is well-earned.’ The primarch’s gauntleted fist was tight around Illuminarum’s haft, and minute tremors narrowed his eyes with each blow that rained upon Ferrus’s black armour. ‘Ferrus is tiring. Fulgrim is going kill him.’
With a grinding purr of servos, Kor Phaeron came forward to rest a clawed hand on his foster son’s arm. ‘Do not let it grieve you. What must be, must be.’
Lorgar didn’t shake the hand off, which both Erebus and Kor Phaeron counted as enough of a triumph. Lorgar’s feyness had worn on them both, and it took great patience and subtlety to incite him to violence. This battle had been years in the planning, and they would not allow him to foul it now with misplaced compassion. Emboldened, Kor Phaeron continued. ‘The truth is ugly, boy, but it is all we have.’
‘Boy.’ Mirth had no place in Lorgar’s smile. ‘I am over two centuries old, and I am dragging my father’s empire to its knees. Yet you still call me boy. Sometimes I find that a comfort. Other times, a weight around my shoulders.’
‘You are my son, Lorgar. Not the Emperor’s. And you are bringing hope to mankind.’
‘Enough,’ said the primarch, and now he did shake his foster father’s hand loose. ‘Come. Let us get this day done with.’ Lorgar raised his crozius maul to the sky.
It was all the signal they needed. Thousands of Word Bearers roared their approval behind him, as their liege lord led them to war.
The war on the surface was of no concern to him anymore.
Staying alive was, but then, that was always a concern. He was forever aware of that fact, which was why he was so good at it. Still, he had to admit it had become a more pressing matter, and a more difficult aim to reach.
Ishaq had never been in a void battle before, and it wasn’t something he hoped to get into again. The ship shook as if in a storm’s grip, shuddering with a belligerent aggression that defied all expectation. Every two dozen steps he took found him thrown to the floor with knee-aching violence, and resulted in hisses of pain along with the creation of new swear words – the latter usually by melding three existing curses together in a stream of invective. When Ishaq Kadeen swore, he swore with feeling, even if not with sense.
Half of the problem was that he was lost, and the other half of the problem was that he was lost on what was jokingly-referred to as the monastic deck, where the Word Bearers and their Legion serfs went about the business of being heroes (and the slaves of heroes). Sneaking onto the deck had seemed a good idea at the time; he’d hoped for some panoramic views of Astartes training chambers, or discarded suits of armour awaiting repair, or immense weapon racks to show the scale of war waged by the Emperor’s Legions. All of these would have made for fine, private and personal images very rarely seen from the Great Crusade, and would have bolstered his portfolio immeasurably. Stealing the grey, hooded Legion robe had been no trouble at all. Even slaves with vows of silence had to do their laundry.
It had started well. Then the battle had started, and he’d got lost.
Luckily, no Word Bearers were on board, all of them committed to the world below. The Legion serfs he did see were hurrying along about their business, but even they were hardly a sizable population. Evidently they had other duties to perform when their masters went to war. What they might be, Ishaq had no idea.
‘Shields down,’ shouted a voice over the shipwide vox, accompanied by some truly horrendous shaking. ‘Shields down, shields down.’
Well, that wasn’t good.
He stumbled around a corner as the lights flickered above. Another long corridor awaited him, with various junctions leading off deeper into this never-ending maze. At the far end, he could see another bulkhead of dense, multi-layered metal. He’d come across several of these so far, and was almost certain that they led to the most interesting parts of the deck. Ishaq wasn’t about to attempt to gain entrance though – a single failed retinal scan would mark his location to the Army units on board, and he could look forward to a quick execution. Oh, yes. He remembered the penalties for coming here all too well.
The Euchar were proving to be a problem too. Squads of them patrolled the halls with their lasguns held diligently to their chests, and though he was immune to their gaze with his robe’s hood covering most of his face, they made it difficult to take any picts, even if he had actually come across anything worthwhile.
Ishaq was finally considering a tactical retreat when the ship shook with enough violence to send him sprawling off-balance, head banging off the steel wall. It hurt enough to stun him, and it stunned him enough that he didn’t even think of swearing.
That lapse was rectified several seconds later, when an automated voice declared a list of breached decks over the vox. The list came to a climax with the words: ‘Deck Sixteen, void breach. Bulkheads sealing. Deck Sixteen, void breach. Bulkheads sealing.’
In a moment of almost poetic disgust, Ishaq looked up to see the great, red ‘XVI’ emblazoned on the wall where he’d hit his head. It was even decorated with spots of his blood.
‘You’re kidding me,’ he said out loud.
‘Deck Sixteen, void breach,’ the crackling voice monotoned again. ‘Bulkheads sealing.’
‘I heard you the first time.’
The ship rattled again, with the definite booming of explosions only a few corners away. Smoke billowed from the far end of the corridor.
Ishaq’s world dimmed into the deep, unwanted red spectrum of emergency lighting. At best, it would ruin any picts he took. At worst, and much more likely, he was about to die.
Argel Tal drew back his claws. The blood lining them sank into the curling metal, drank as thirstily as desert soil drinks rainwater. He released a great howl to the sky as he waded forward, kicking aside wounded Astartes and carving out at the massed Raven Guard in range. Their blades broke against his armour, each strike hitting with a curiously muted sensation – he could feel the slices as if they were chopping into the skin of his armour, but they never bled, never caused any pain.
blade left danger kill
The warnings manifested with tickling pressure behind his forehead, somewhere between a voice, a premonition, and a tide of instinct. He wasn’t sure if Raum was warning him, or he was warning Raum – both voices were the same, and his movements were only half his own. He would swipe with a claw, but the blow would accelerate and hit harder than he could ever manage himself. He would block a sword blow, but would find his talons around the enemy’s throat before he had time to think.
He wrenched his head to the left – he smelled the metal tang of the descending blade, he caught the flash of sunlight along its edge without even looking – and Argel Tal span to kill its wielder. The Word Bearer’s claws raked across the warrior’s torso and the Raven Guard dropped instantly, his armour savaged and pulled from his body. Argel Tal’s fingers burned as they absorbed his brother’s blood. Under his helm, his grinning mouth was stained red by a bleeding tongue.