Dark Vengeance Read online

  Those of us left standing were already bearing the marks of our encounter – a puckered scar runs along the length of my thigh as a souvenir of that day – and the tyranids were beginning to pen us in. Pushed back against the bulkhead, Fraciel was barking orders, attempting to regroup the survivors and begin a counter-attack. Laying down covering fire with my bolter, I crossed the distance between us and took up position alongside him.

  ‘Arion, we’re going to hold them here. Take these.’ He reached down to his thigh and removed a webslung pack with his left hand. It was only then that I noticed that he’d lost the other to the tyranids; such was the tenacity and prowess of the man that the loss of a hand had not affected his ability to fight in the slightest.

  ‘Melta bombs. If the teleportation calculations were correct then the realspace engines are two chambers back. Our only chance is to blow them and take out the rest of the hulk in the chain reaction. Plant these and then teleport out. We’ll buy you enough time to get the job done.’

  Fraciel was a taciturn and straightforward character and in all the years I served under him, those final words were the most he had ever spoken to me.

  I nodded and, picking up a fallen heavy flamer, began to burn my way through the seething mass, the bright orange flames lighting my way through the darkness. Bodies, both Space Marine and tyranid, littered the floor and progress was slow as I incinerated my way through to the next chamber. All attention focused on my surviving battle-brothers, the tyranids had left the next room unguarded and within minutes I was in the engine house planting timed charges.

  In my entire time as a Dark Angel I have only ever once disobeyed a direct order from a Company Master. This was that one occasion.

  As expected, when I returned to the chamber into which we had teleported, Fraciel and the few surviving Dark Angels had formed a circle in the centre and were in danger of being overwhelmed. I ignited the flamer and before me tyranids unleashed death howls as their chitinous hides caught fire and their flesh began to pucker and boil. Another Dark Angel beside Fraciel succumbed to the xenos assault, leaving only four of us against what felt like a whole hive fleet. More of the xenos withered under my flamer’s attention and a path towards Fraciel’s position opened up.

  Another of the battle-brothers alongside the Company Master fell.

  The rampant tyranids now began to divert their attention and more and more of them converged on me. The hive mind had been tactically astute taking out the heavy flamers during the initial stages of the attack, as every time I depressed the ignition stud, two or three of the alien beasts were engulfed in an inferno.

  The last Dark Angel beside Fraciel died, decapitated by a hormagaunt’s claw.

  Dozens more tyranids roasted, those already engulfed thrashing about mindlessly and setting light to others. Crazed shadows flickered on the walls of the chamber and a great collective wail went up from the dying horde.

  Fraciel was almost within reach when the lictor’s claw impaled him.

  The Company Master slumped to his knees, his one remaining hand losing grip of his bolt pistol. Within seconds the horde was upon him. I began to scream in defiance but my plaintive wail was drowned out by the sound of the melta bombs detonating, heralding the destruction of the Harbinger of Woe.

  Six weeks later I woke up in the apothecarion on board Salvation.

  In spite of the wounds I suffered in the explosion, I once more had my sus-an membrane to thank for saving my life. Mere hours after the destruction of the hulk, Salvation picked up the automated distress beacon in my power armour and my unconscious form was brought aboard. This time, I wasn’t just the sole survivor of my squad – I was the sole survivor of my entire company, though I garnered some comfort from the fact that they had all died fighting on board the Harbinger of Woe rather than in the explosion.

  Towards the end of my recuperation, Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphicus came to see me in the apothecarion. I fully expected him to tell me that a new Third Squad had been selected for me from among the ranks of the Scouts and were waiting for me to lead them into glorious battle. That wasn’t to be the case.

  ‘A place has opened up in the Ravenwing and we have need of an experienced sergeant. What say you, Arion? Will you don the black and spiral yet further towards the inner circle?’

  ‘I’m surprised you even asked. It would be a great honour to take my place in the esteemed Second Company.’

  The Chaplain smiled and nodded his approval before taking his leave. He stopped on the threshold of the apothecarion and turned back to me.

  ‘This is the second time you’ve been the sole survivor of your squad, isn’t it, sergeant?’

  ‘It is, Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphicus. I cannot explain it and I am too much of a realist to put it down to something as random and intangible as mere luck.’

  ‘Perhaps the Lion and the Emperor have a plan for you after all.’

  The beeping of the auspex rouses me from my reminiscences. Life signs, weak but only six kilometres north of our current position. I turn to issue orders to Arias and Gethel but they are already aboard their bikes, and revving the engines.

  Maintaining the high vantage point along the ridge, we gun along in single file, the lone set of tracks making it impossible for an enemy to judge our numbers should anybody be following us. Despite the rough terrain, a Space Marine bike is a hardy vehicle and even bouncing over rocks and rents in the earth is capable of near top speeds. Even at close to two hundred kilometres per hour my enhanced senses allow me to take in my surroundings with almost total recall and I filter out the greens and browns of the tree canopies far below, seeking out other colours that may give away the enemy position.

  There. A flash of crimson for the briefest of moments. A pauldron or vambrace. Certainly power armour and certainly hostile.

  I glance behind me and both Arias and Gethel acknowledge the sighting but none of us stop, or even slow down. The engine noise and dust cloud thrown up by the bikes mean the enemy know we’re here, but they don’t yet know we’ve spotted them and that information may yet prove crucial in the coming engagement.

  Company Master

  Balthasar

  ‘Master Balthasar, this is Arion. We’ve sighted the enemy. They’re in the forest about ten kilometres north-west of your position.’ The sergeant’s voice is loud in my helmet vox as he struggles to make himself heard over the sound of a bike engine at full throttle.

  ‘Acknowledged. Any idea of numbers? Troop types?’ I’m signalling to Raphael to ready his squad and move out. The encounter with the living undergrowth has shaken the tactical squad, nothing more, and our objective yet awaits us. I still don’t know the true nature of the Hellfire Stone but if Kranon the Relentless and the Crimson Slaughter desire it and have laid waste to half a dozen worlds to acquire it then they have to be stopped.

  ‘Negative. I’m going to sweep back again but don’t want to give away that we’re aware of their position. I’ll make it look like it’s a routine patrol route.’

  ‘Most prudent, Sergeant Arion, but don’t delay too much in getting back to us. I need you close in case we have to unleash death.’

  ‘Understood,’ comes his reply.

  I turn to issue the order to move out but Turmiel is already heading in the exact direction Arion had told me the enemy were located.

  ‘Shall we just follow him?’ Raphael scoffs, though I am unsure if his derision is aimed at the aloof Librarian or me.

  Raphael and Heskia take point on our march through the forest, the sergeant ensuring that if the undergrowth should come alive again then the big guns are to the fore. The rest of the tactical squad follow behind in single file while Turmiel walks beside me, though from his demeanour you cannot tell that there is anybody else within a thousand kilometres, let alone eleven of his battle-brothers alongside him.

  I think it is exactly what it sounds lik
e.+

  I go to blink-click the activation rune for my helmet vox but stop when I realise that Turmiel is speaking to me telepathically.

  ‘What is?’ I vocalise to prove a point.

  The Hellfire Stone. I believe it is literally a stone. It is Khornate in origin and followers of that particular dark god are not renowned for their subtlety or guile. The Hellfire part of the name, I’m less sure of. It could be literal but I suspect instead some pomposity went into its naming, a definite Khornate trait.+

  ‘And what do you think the Crimson Slaughter want with it exactly? What purpose does it serve?’ Battle-Brother Joash, marching right in front of me, turns in response but I motion sideways with my head towards Turmiel. Joash nods in acknowledgment and turns back without breaking stride.

  Of that I am unsure. Almost certainly some kind of ritualistic element, yet another Khornate trait, but to what end? Perhaps I should contact Seraphicus and see if he has–+

  ‘I’m sure the Chaplain will let us know when he’s extracted what he needs without you having to invade his head, Librarian.’

  Of course. I sometimes forget how unsettling telepathic communication can be for the non-psyker. What about precognition?+

  ‘What do you mean, precognition?’

  Does precognition make you feel uncomfortable? Does my ability to peer through the strands of the warp and pull together the threads into cogent visions of the future unnerve you, Company Master?+

  ‘Not particularly, why?’

  Because in approximately three seconds I suggest you duck.+

  ‘What?’

  Turmiel draws his bolt pistol and aims it towards the tall grass that the forest has begun to thin out into. He squeezes the trigger just as a tattooed figure emerges from the undergrowth and screams: ‘Death to the lackeys of the–’

  His declaration goes unfinished as Turmiel’s shot finds its mark between the cultist’s eyes and turns his head to a fine red mist. He has holstered the pistol and unsheathed his force sword before the cultist’s headless body has even hit the ground.

  I did try to warn you,+ he sends before charging towards the other tattooed figures now beginning to emerge from cover.

  Anarkus,

  Cultist Leader

  I have waited my entire life for this moment.

  The skeins of fate have drawn tight around this precise point in time, my entire existence channelled towards this instant. From the difficult labour that killed my mother, through the rampant alcoholism that claimed my father, and beyond the gates of the Ecclesiarchy orphanage on Gethsemane VII where I was cared for until I was old enough to work in the gas mines, the tides of fortune have carried me inexorably towards my destiny.

  Today is the day I am going to slay a Space Marine.

  This is no idle boast, nor crazed hyperbole. I have known ever since I was a child that I have been marked for greatness. It was obvious from the way I could run rings around the orphanage tutors on matters of the Imperial Creed, how I was always bigger and stronger than the other children of my age. It was obvious when they put my father into the cold, permafrosted ground and I didn’t even shed a tear. Obvious when I made my first kill aged only nine, my main rival for the orphanage’s sporting prize, and even the way I disposed of the body down a well to make it look like an accident was a sign of my true greatness. And when the Black Crusade came to Gethsemane VII that greatness was finally recognised.

  Fire rained down from the heavens along with hundreds of thousands of cultists, mutants and even more powerful followers of the Four. The atrocities they wrought made my blood sing as villages and mining settlements fell beneath their onslaught. Banners were fashioned from the flayed skin of their victims and half-living trophies adorned their tanks and war machines. With the outlying territories razed and pillaged their attention turned to the cities and I knew that I had to do something to welcome my new masters, to commemorate my ascension into their ranks.

  So I set to work.

  By the time the leader of the first warband to reach the orphanage swung open the unlocked gates my tribute was ready. There, sat atop the corpses of the one hundred and seventeen souls I had butchered in the name of the Four, was I, waiting to greet them.

  One of his lieutenants, a brute of a man with hooks embedded in his flesh by way of adornment, was so enraged that I had robbed them of their prize – pure, unsullied souls to dedicate to their master or put into the service of the Black Crusade – that he took aim at me with his weapon, to claim my soul by way of recompense. But my new master knew potential when he saw it and ran the lieutenant through with the great barbed sword he carried at his side.

  I laughed as both halves of his severed body fell messily to the floor and my master and the rest of his warband did likewise, revelling in yet more bloodshed. The lieutenant’s corpse was picked clean by his former comrades-in-arms and his axe gifted to me by my master. Though the weapon was inelegant and brutish, it was a more effective killing tool than the kitchen blades I had used to murder my fellow orphans and tutors and in the days that followed would add greatly to my kill tally as the Black Crusade swept on.

  When the fight against the Imperial forces on Gethsemane VII was over and the last of its citizens either lay dead or were in the employ of the Black Crusade, the warbands turned on each other in an attempt to sate the lingering battlelust. For days more, constant battle raged between erstwhile allies as cult after cult vied for the attentions of the Chaos Space Marines at the head of the Crusade. Our ranks swelled even more over the course of the fighting as the heads of three cults were slain by my master and their servants subsumed into the ranks of our own warband, and by the time we boarded the orbiting vessels our loyalty had been sworn to a Traitor Astartes of no small renown.

  The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months and from battlefield to battlefield, planet to planet, I killed in the name of my masters and in dedication to the Four. The more I venerated my dark lords the higher my status rose, both among them and the gods. Changes, subtle at first but then more drastic, were wrought upon my flesh and my visage began to resemble that of my brethren, more pleasing to the eyes of the Ruinous Powers. The time between battles became like torture. My sole purpose, the path I was on and could not be swerved from, was to kill in the name of my masters and being denied the opportunity was like starving me of oxygen.

  Infighting broke out amongst us during the long transits through the warp to reach the next killing ground and other like-minded souls rallied around me as new factions sprang up within the warband. One of the cults we’d previously subsumed viewed killing as an artform, as a thing of beauty and creativity, and its members found an affinity with me. With their strength to my arm my standing within the warband grew exponentially and the next time I threw myself into butchering the lackeys of the Corpse-Emperor it was at my master’s right hand. We slew like there was no tomorrow and it was glorious, so glorious that we caught the attention of a new master.

  Kranon the Relentless.

  The Traitor Astartes at the head of the Crusade had fallen in a personal duel with the leader of the Crimson Slaughter and Kranon had made it clear that he had his own agenda to pursue rather than assuming the mantle of leader. Those warbands that wanted to continue on the Crusade could do so freely but any that wanted to fight under his banner would be accepted with open arms. The Crimson Slaughter had a fearsome reputation as bloodthirsty butchers, constantly looking for their next kill, and that appealed to me. Sadly, my master didn’t see things the same way.

  As his corpse slid from my axe head, he eyed me with such disappointment. ‘We were destined for greatness, Anarkus,’ were the final words he uttered through blood-stained teeth, but he’d already relinquished his grip on life by the time I responded.

  ‘I still am.’

  Sergeant Raphael,

  Tactical Squad Raphael

  With combat immin
ent my senses augment and the world around me slows, allowing me to take in the battlefield and make the optimum decisions for my squad and I to emerge victorious. One cultist has already fallen to Turmiel’s well-placed shot but nine more spring from the undergrowth and unleash a volley of fire towards us.

  My Lyman’s ear filters out the other battlefield noise and while the shells are still mid-air I ascertain that the cultists are using autopistols and turn my shoulder towards the shots aimed at me. All three deflect harmlessly off the armour plating and, with their positions now revealed, I return fire at the enemy, my shots both measured and aimed, the plasma pistol’s heat apparent even through my armoured gauntlet. Their dark masters must be watching over them this day as only one of my shots finds its mark and a cultist falls to the ground, briefly spasming before going limp as the rest of his body realises that the right hemisphere of his brain is no longer where it should be.

  More fire from the undergrowth, but sustained and accurate this time. A white-haired cultist in a storm coat is directing the fire and appears to know what he is doing.