“You are the leader,” stated the remaining sword maiden, swirling her blades above her head in what Uriel supposed was a ritual of challenge. “Uriel Ventris?”
“I am,” he said, pulling his own blade high and stalling for time. “Who are you?”
“Xiomagra, Mistress of the Blade dancers,” she said. “The swords require your name before you die.”
The Gladius touched down just over the blasted wreckage of the gatehouse, its jets screaming and its guns battering a bloody path through the Bloodborn. The assault ramp slammed down hard and there he was. Sicarius. Regent of Talassar and Knight Champion of Macragge. His scarlet cape swirled around him in the hot thermals of the Thunderhawk’s landing, and the gold of his armour glittered like morning sunlight. The Lions of Macragge followed him onto the ground, their guns firing into the mass of Bloodborn soldiers surrounding the landing zone.
Scipio leapt from the tilting perch of the slab and clambered over the rubble and debris from the artillery impacts. Helicas lay face down over his missile launcher, the tube crumpled and useless. Coltanis was next to him, and Nivian sprawled over the remains of the parapet.
“Up! Up!” he shouted. “Sicarius is here.”
Helicas was first to rise, dragging himself free of the rubble and helping Coltanis to his feet. His weapon specialist retrieved his plasma gun, checked its mechanisms, then pulled the groaning Nivian back over the parapet.
“I’m not dead,” said Nivian, as if unable to believe the fact without hearing the words.
Scipio looked over at the anti-aircraft gun, its wreckage sagging and blackened where a high explosive shell had struck. As much as he wanted to look for Laenus and Bradua in the wreckage, it seemed impossible that they could have survived.
Spatha, Pilum and Xiphos roared as they slammed down next to the Gladius, and Scipio’s heart filled with pride as the warriors of the 2nd Company charged into battle. Nearly a hundred warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, a force unlike any in the world, thrust into the Bloodborn mass and the slaughter was glorious.
“Come on,” yelled Scipio. “This is our moment! We earned this fight!”
With the remnants of his squad, Scipio ran back down the tower they had fought so hard to capture. The steps were littered with broken bodies and the walls smeared with bright blood. They met no resistance on the way down, and emerged from the shattered doorway at the bottom to a scene of magnificent carnage.
The 2nd Company was pushing a fighting wedge into the shocked Bloodborn troops. The sight of so many Astartes had thrown the enemy, though they were regrouping faster than Scipio would have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes.
“Thunderbolts, on!” he cried, fearful of missing out on fighting alongside the entirety of his company. Not since lost Damnos had the 2nd had fought as one, and such battles were the stuff of Chapter legend. To miss such a conflict would be a burden a warrior would carry for the rest of his life.
Twin roars of assault cannon fire announced the presence of Brothers Agnathio and Ultradus, the two Dreadnoughts emerging from the belly of Pilum and forging a second front with Tirian and Atavian’s Devastators following behind.
The tip of the spear was Sicarius, the magnificent warrior slaying foes by the dozen with his tempest blade. Ixion’s assault squad formed his right flank, Strabo his left. Together they were a lethal arrowhead of blades cutting through the Bloodborn towards the domed palace and their prey. Mortar shells landed amid the assault, but they were poorly aimed and only a handful of warriors fell. All but one returned to the battle, and the assault cut deeper and deeper.
The Corsair Queen’s forces regrouped around her, a mass of soldiers formed up in close order with their weapons raised in disciplined lines. As ferocious and shocking as Captain Sicarius’ assault had been, Kaarja Salombar’s forces were ready for him.
Scipio saw her armoured skiff take a direct hit from one of Tirian’s las-cannons, but a pulsing wave of energy dissipated its power enough to render the impact meaningless. The skiff darted into cover, but not before its prow cannon unleashed a withering hail of high-energy bolts. A dozen Space Marines went down, and none of them got back up again.
Scipio and his squad reached the Spatha, and his face lit up as he saw Iulius Fennion forming up the Immortals. They marched down the assault ramp, bolters at the ready. Scipio called out to Iulius, who turned at the sound of his name.
“Scipio!” said Iulius. “Damn me, but you’ve outdone us all with this.”
“If you want a job done right, you send for the Thunderbolts.”
“Then call in the Immortals to finish it off,” laughed Iulius.
“Where’s Manorian?”
“Praxor? The other side of the gatehouse,” said Iulius. “Keeping the rest of these bastards from stopping us killing the bitch.”
“One squad against a whole city?”
Iulius shrugged. “I know, it’s Ghospora all over again. Almost seems unfair to our enemies. But enough of Manorian, Captain Sicarius is calling for you to join him. He says he has a queen to kill and wants you beside him when he takes her head.”
Xiomagra came at Uriel in a blur, her twin swords raining blow after blow upon him. He blocked and parried desperately, knowing he was hopelessly outclassed. Twice he attempted to counterattack, but each time she contemptuously flicked his attack aside and plunged a blade into his flesh. Uriel bled from a dozen wounds, yet the sword maiden was untouched. They traded strikes back and forth, none of Uriel’s connecting, all of hers drawing blood. She was toying with him, savouring his slow death and relishing the growing desperation in his technique.
Anger filled Uriel, and he thrust his blade towards her heart.
It was the move she had been waiting for and she swayed aside, flicking his sword from his grip with a casual flick of her silver blade. Uriel turned in time to see her black-bladed sword arcing towards his neck and knew her playing with him was over.
A curved sabre alive with flickering energies flashed in front of him, intercepting the blade in a shower of azure sparks.
“I’ve got you, captain,” said Petronius Nero, rolling his blade around and cutting away one of Xiomagra’s shoulder guards. Uriel watched as the Mistress of the Blade dancers took the measure of his champion, her eyes widening in surprise.
“I am Petronius Nero,” said the swordsman. “You tried to kill my captain. Prepare to die.”
Nero and Xiomagra flew at each other in a dazzling display of sword-play, each a master of their art. Xiomagra fought with her twin blades as fluid extensions of her limbs, Petronius Nero with his sword and shield working in perfect harmony. They came together, clashed in an unimaginably quick flurry of blades that was too rapid to follow, then broke apart. It was impossible to see who had the upper hand, but just as suddenly as the bout had begun, it was over. Nero, calm and icy in the face of Xiomagra’s flourishes, swept his blade over Xiomagra’s and slashed the tip across her throat.
Blood arced in a jetting spray as Nero swung his sword in a curt salute to his foe, and Xiomagra collapsed, hands clawing at her throat as she vainly tried to stem the gushing flow of her lifeblood. Nero turned away and rejoined the battle, not even bothering to watch Xiomagra’s last moments.
Before Uriel could set off after his champion, he was smashed from his feet by a blur of iron and yellow. A heavy figure in armour bore him to the ground and a fist cannoned into his helmet. Uriel’s head slammed against the rocks. The vision in one eye blurred momentarily.
He put his arm up to ward off another blow and saw the scarred Iron Warrior kneeling over him. The warrior’s melta gun was gone, and he pummelled Uriel with his spike-knuckled fists. A hammerblow of a right hook smashed the front of Uriel’s helmet and a swift jab splintered its lenses. Another cracked the gorget seals around Uriel’s neck and the warrior tore off his helmet to look him in the eyes.
“I’ve heard all about you, Ventris, but you’re not so tough,” spat the warrior as he kept up his barrage of
punches. Blood burst from Uriel’s cheeks and lips as he fought to get his hands up to block the hail of strikes. The warrior had his arms pinned by his sides, and Uriel couldn’t shift his weight. His hand found the combat blade at his hip, and his hand curled around the textured grip of its hilt.
“Grendel!” shouted a voice, and the warrior looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.
Uriel took advantage of the momentary distraction to haul his combat blade clear of its sheath. He plunged it into the joint between warrior’s thigh and calf as a swift-moving shape slammed an open palm into the hideously scarred face.
The warrior his saviour had named Grendel pitched backwards and Uriel scrambled clear. With a brawler’s speed Grendel rolled upright and blocked a downward slash of an elbow, leaning low to punch his attacker in the gut. Uriel came to his feet as the warrior sent a thundering right cross into his attacker’s jaw.
Ardaric Vaanes rode the punch and spun inside Grendel’s guard, locking his arm around his opponent’s neck and twisting. Grendel’s armour and powerful neck muscles were too strong and he easily threw Vaanes off.
Uriel stared open-mouthed at the renegade Raven Guard as he fended off brutal chops of Grendel’s hands. Any one of those blows would break a limb, even a steel-strong Astartes one. The spiked collar was gone from Vaanes’ neck, yet it had left its mark. A bloody ring of puncture marks dotted his throat and dried blood coated his neck and the shoulders of his prison-issue uniform. Suzaku’s two acolytes lay sprawled unconscious behind him, and Uriel cursed, knowing he should not have expected any warrior of the Adeptus Astartes to be held by such tinker toys.
Grendel landed a blow on Ardaric Vaanes and drove him to his knees with its power. Uriel heard the dry-wood snap of bone and saw Vaanes grimace in pain as ribs broke.
“I always wanted to kill you, Vaanes,” roared Grendel.
“The feeling’s mutual,” retorted Vaanes.
Though faced with two warriors who were enemies, Uriel knew there was only one way to intervene in this fight. He ran in and threw himself at Grendel, slamming an elbow into the side of his head. Grendel staggered, but swung around and drove his fist into Uriel’s jaw. Uriel rolled with the punch, but the impact was enormous, like being hit by a siege hammer. He ducked a hooking follow-up punch and moved to the left as Vaanes circled to the right.
They came at him together, Uriel sending a flurry of blows towards Grendel’s midriff as Vaanes attacked high with graceful fist strikes and slashing elbows. Grendel blocked them all, sending hammering blows back in return. He grabbed Uriel’s arm and twisted, driving him to his knees and slamming his thigh into his face. Uriel tumbled away, just managing to grab hold of the combat blade’s hilt. It came free in a wash of blood as Grendel blocked a roundhouse kick from Vaanes, twisted his leg and flipped him over onto his back. Vaanes landed on the balls of his feet and grunted as the splintered ends of his ribs ground together.
Grendel laughed. “I knew you were always going to be trouble. Bad enough I have to fight alongside a bastard half-breed, but a renegade? You’re just an Astartes too damn stupid to choose who you fight for.”
“I know who I fight for,” snarled Vaanes, leaping into the air and sending his fist slashing towards Grendel’s throat. The Iron Warrior batted the blow aside, but Uriel watched amazed as Vaanes’ entire body seemed to bend around Grendel and he drove his fist down into the Iron Warrior’s temple. Every ounce of Vaanes’ hatred and self-loathing was bound to the blow and Uriel saw Grendel’s skull shatter, blood squirting from his mouth and nose as his head snapped sideways with a sickening crack.
The Iron Warrior crumpled, dropping to his knees and falling flat onto his face with a heavy slam of metal on rock. Vaanes slumped over the corpse, breathless and his ashen face streaked with sweat. Uriel retrieved his bolter, and swung it round onto Ardaric Vaanes.
“Why?” asked Uriel.
Vaanes looked up, his face anguished and shorn of its mask of arrogance.
“You can’t fight what you are,” whispered Vaanes, and Uriel knew those words were not spoken in answer to his question.
“The question Grendel asked?” said Uriel. “You didn’t answer him. Who do you fight for?”
Vaanes smiled weakly. “Not for Honsou.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Uriel as the battlefield fell silent.
“No? Very well. I fight for myself,” said Vaanes. “I suppose that’s why I didn’t make a very good Astartes. I never felt it, you know? The brotherhood you need to be part of something bigger than yourself. Even surrounded by my battle-brothers I always felt alone.”
“What happened to you, Vaanes?” said Uriel. “You could have been one of the greats.”
“I’ll never tell you,” he said. “It’s the Raven Guard way.”
“You know nothing of the Raven Guard,” spat Aethon Shaan, appearing at Uriel’s side. Shaan’s surviving six warriors surrounded Vaanes, like carrion birds around a fresh corpse.
“Kill me,” said Vaanes. “It’s what you promised.”
A booming detonation sounded from inside the tomb of Captain Ventanus, and a cloud of smoke blew out through the collapsed facade. The noise rolled around the cavern, and Uriel turned back to look at Vaanes.
“No,” said Uriel. “This isn’t over yet.”
TWENTY-ONE
Blasted shards of fire-blackened stone tumbled from the shattered pediment of the eastern portico. Smoke hung low on the marble-flagged steps as Uriel made his way between the two vast columns that were all that remained of the tomb’s facade.
The Saviour of Calth was venerated in hundreds of temple shrines throughout Calth, but this was the lost resting place of Captain Ventanus himself. The symbolism of what Honsou was attempting was not lost on Uriel.
Honsou needed to be stopped, though Uriel had precious few warriors remaining to him to do it. Though none of the Swords of Calth had fallen, only five of the Firebrands had survived the fight with the Blade dancers.
Fortunately Pasanius was one of those survivors, though the breastplate of his armour was now little more than molten scraps dripping ceramite to his skin. All the signs pointed to a direct hit from a melta gun, and that Pasanius was still alive spoke volumes of the sergeant’s legendary resilience.
“Take more than that toy to put me down,” was all Pasanius had said when Apothecary Selenus had attempted to treat him. “Now leave me be. You heard the captain, this fight’s not over yet.”
Inquisitor Suzaku was alone, for the warriors charged with her protection had been slain at the hands of the Blade dancers. She bled from a terrible wound in her side, her dark skin ashen from blood loss, but she had pressed on regardless. Uriel was impressed at her determination to see this through.
Six Raven Guard still followed Captain Shaan, and Revys Kyre escorted Ardaric Vaanes. Uriel had expected Shaan to kill Vaanes, but the Raven Guard captain had surprised him.
“His fate is not for me to decide,” he said. “The Master of Shadows, it is for him to choose the fate of fallen ravens.”
“And what if he tries anything?” asked Pasanius.
The claws snapped from Shaan’s gauntlets. “Then I’ll take his head myself.”
“Good enough,” replied Pasanius. “I can live with that.”
Uriel led the way into the tomb, its interior filled with settling clouds of dust. Shafts of bioluminescence filtered through cracked walls of the tomb, catching the glittering fragments of rock dust floating in the air. Soft light from the cracked dome bathed everything in a pale blue glow.
The tiered interior of the tomb was laid out like an assembly chamber, with the tiers filled with the tombs of the slain. Those closest to the centre were broken open, while looping coils of copper wiring connected the others to what were unmistakably demolition charges.
Rubble and shattered stone filled the open space at the centre of the tomb. A once-mighty sarcophagus lay broken in a scattered heap of debris. Two score Iron Warriors surrounded i
ts remains, like statues of brazen metal automatons with bolters held at their sides. The hideous creature cloned from his stolen genetics stood with clenched fists at the base of the rubble. Uriel felt its curious mix of hatred and awe.
“Hold fire,” ordered Uriel, keeping his voice low. He felt the instinctual aggression of his warriors come to the fore at the sight of the Iron Warriors, but the traitors outnumbered them two to one. They made no aggressive moves, and Uriel was content to let that continue for now. “No one fires except on my say so. That goes for you too, Shaan.”
Shaan nodded, though Uriel shared his distaste for this course of action. It felt unnatural to see traitors before them and not to be firing a bolter or drawing a sword, but this moment had been coming for too long to be ended without some form of reckoning.
A warrior in iron armour squatted atop the pile of rubble, and Uriel felt his heart quicken at the sight of him. Honsou.
Uriel marched between the concentric rows of tombs and halted at the edge of the central floor space. Honsou turned to face him, and Uriel saw sections of deep blue armour at his feet, plates of ancient ceramite and gold. His anger grew hotter as he realised whose tomb Honsou squatted upon, The Iron Warrior looked up and quickly scanned their numbers, grinning with a sardonic upturn to the corner of his mouth.
“I see you brought Vaanes back to me,” said Honsou. “I thought you’d have killed him.”
The last comment was addressed to Aethon Shaan, who glared at Honsou with undisguised hatred. The Raven Guard held a deeper enmity than most for the Iron Warriors, for their earliest Chapter history bore grim testimony to the betrayal of Corax’s Legion at the hands of Perturabo’s.
Shaan didn’t waste words on Honsou, but the Warsmith wasn’t done yet. “Vaanes betrayed you once, and he betrayed me too,” said Honsou. “Inconstancy is in his blood, so what makes you think he won’t betray you again?”
“He won’t get the chance,” snapped Shaan.