Dark Heart

by Anthony Reynolds

He turned the helmet over in his hands. It was a prototype Mark VI design, part of the last shipment the Legion had received from Mars, in a deep, arterial crimson – the colour of the Legion reborn. Its lenses glittered like emeralds, slanted menacingly as it stared back at him.

He flipped it over, and set it into the waiting calliper-stand, which adjusted itself to the helmet’s weight and shape, cradling and holding it steady. He reached for his electro-stylus, drawing it from its stand. Tapping the activation rune with his index finger, it began to vibrate with a dull hum. With his free hand he adjusted the position of the helmet, angling it to best allow him access to its curved interior. He brought the fine synth-diamond tip down towards the smooth, unadorned surface.

He paused.

Looking away, he glanced towards the ritual Octed icon, enshrined in the shadow of a small alcove in the corner the chamber opposite the low-burning brazier. The flames seemed to dim, and the temperature dropped. Hoarfrost crept across the walls. The darkness itself began to move, writhing and growing.

Tendrils of shadow reached out, groping blindly. They felt their way up the walls, worming across the ceiling and the deck. One of them touched him. Its caress was like ice. The darkness closed in, drawing his robed body into its embrace.

A steaming breath touched his neck. It reeked of tainted nightmares and rotting flesh.

The creeping darkness whispered to him, a dozen voices of madness blended into one. Blood began to leak from his ears. The stylus in his hand began to twitch.

He communed with this envoy of the Primordial Truth. Pledges were made. More blood was spilled.

An hour passed. Perhaps more.

Hell retreated finally, uncoiling itself from him and sliding back through the worn-thin veil of reality. The brazier came back to life, flames crackling, and its low light filled the room once again. Marduk winced as he released his grip on the stylus. His hand was locked in a painful claw. In fact, his whole body ached.

He glanced down at the helmet still cradled in the arms of the calliper-stand. The curved interior was covered in tiny cuneiform script. Not a single centimetre was untouched.

The handwriting was not his own.

‘Let it be so,’ he said.

Heavy footsteps halted outside the makeshift cell. The postulant’s time of judgement had arrived.

He was sat cross-legged upon the deck, his back straight. He had been sat in that position for the better part of a day. In that time, his body had healed the worst of the injuries his brothers had inflicted upon him.

The postulant lifted his head and saw himself reflected in the locked cell door. For all his advanced transhuman physiology, his face was still mottled with purple bruises. Dried, flaking blood caked his cheek and lips. Like all born under the relentless suns of Colchis, his skin was swarthy and his eyes dark. His bloodshot gaze was sullen.

He knew his features were broader and heavier than those of unaltered humans, who looked strangely fragile and delicate to him now. He still dimly remembered what he had looked like before his rebirth into this more exalted form; most of the Legion did not. In time, he supposed that he too would forget his life in the temple before he became a part of the XVII Legion.

He had been stripped of his armour. It had once been granite-grey, but now it was the red of congealed blood, in honour of the revered Gal Vorbak. Oh, to see the things that they had seen...

His thoughts were interrupted as the cell locks were thrown, accompanied by a groan of metal. The hatch swung wide, and a pair of crimson-armoured veterans stepped into the cell, ducking their helmeted heads. Their heavy plate was hung with fetishes and inscribed with Colchisian cuneiform.

He knew them, of course. They were Bel Ashared’s warriors. Between them, they had seen in excess of a century and a half more warfare than he had.

There was a controlled aggression in their posture, and their gauntleted hands were clenched into fists. That they wanted to rip him limb from limb was obvious. That they had not yet done so was... surprising. Something held them back.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Stand up, Marduk,’ said one of them said, his vox-grille turning his voice to a throaty, animalistic growl.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘What is to be done with me?’

He saw the blow coming, but refused to flinch from it. It struck him on the side of his head, slamming him hard into the unforgiving metal of the cell wall. He crashed to the deck, and hot blood ran down his face. He tasted it on his lips.

But he did not cry out. He did not wipe the blood from his face. He merely stared up at his attacker, uncowed.

He was hauled to his feet, and did not resist. His own distorted reflection stared back at him in the emotionless lenses of the veteran warrior holding him upright. His cracked lips parted into a bloody grin.

‘You hit like a feeble woman,’ he chuckled.

The veteran growled and slammed his armoured forehead into Marduk’s face.

Darkness.

He came to with a start, jerking into wakefulness. Something was inside his mind, squirming and probing. It was oily and vile, the intrusion sickening.

Marduk resisted. It pushed deeper in response, asserting its dominance.

Finally, content with its vulgar display of power, the presence retreated. A throbbing pain behind Marduk’s eyes was all that was left in its wake, aside from the acrid taste of warp-spoor in the back of his throat.

He struggled to focus. The lights were too bright. He blinked heavily, clearing his head.

He was in the master control room. Zetsun Verid Yard.

He was on his knees, and veteran legionaries stood nearby – the newest of the Gal Vorbak. He felt their anger. It radiated from them like the heat of a furnace.

Calth filled the view portal. Even from this orbit, evidence of the war below was clearly visible. Plumes of smoke and dust spread from the continent below like vast algal blooms. They reached high into the atmosphere, shot through with light of varied hues.

A cracked voice laden with authority echoed in the chamber. ‘All things are at their most beautiful in death, are they not?’

Marduk struggled to locate its source. Focus.

Robed magi scurried about the platform’s control centre, while others were hunched over consoles and plugged into MIU ports. It was not one of them that had spoken, however.

‘The battle still rages, though the war is as good as won.’

Marduk’s eyes were drawn to a figure stood apart from the others, staring out into the void.

There.

The air shimmered around this unholy figure. The membrane between reality and the realm of the Primordial Truth was stretched thin in his presence.

Kor Phaeron. Master of the Faith.

‘The Thirteenth Legion is crippled, and Calth forever scarred. The sun is dying. The surface will be scoured. The last pockets of resistance will be forced underground, but it will do them no good. Calth, the jewel of Ultramar, is in its death throes. This is my victory. Not Erebus’s. Not even Lorgar’s. This victory is mine.’

The revered cardinal turned. His eyes radiated fervour and flickered with unnatural energies. ‘This whole system is a corpse,’ he said. ‘It just doesn’t yet realise it’s already dead.’

He came closer, and Marduk fought the urge to step back.

‘Bel Ashared’s warriors wish to rip out your hearts and feast upon them while you still draw breath,’ growled Kor Phaeron. ‘I am tempted to indulge them. What did you hope to achieve?’

Marduk’s skin tingled. Looking upon Kor Phaeron made his eyes hurt and he lowered his gaze.

‘Look at me,’ wheezed Kor Phaeron, his voice laced with thunder.

Marduk did as he was commanded; he doubted he would have been able to resist even had he tried.

By the time the Legion found Colchis and was reunited with their primarch, Kor Phaeron was already suffering the ravages of mortality. He was old then, too old to undergo the full augmentation procedures to become a true Space Marine. He still looked old now, but as frail and hunched as he was within his armour, there was an undeniable, fierce vitality about him.

It was more than constant rejuvenat treatments that fuelled him – it was a dangerous and fevered energy that burned hot, voracious and dangerous. It must have taken supreme willpower to keep it from consuming him. There were likely only a handful of beings in the galaxy that could have maintained that state without quickly becoming a hollow, burned out shell.

‘This is my war, postulant,’ hissed Kor Phaeron. ‘Mine. To fail in it was never an option. Taking this platform was integral to the plan. Our victory depended upon it. You understand this?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Marduk.

‘Yes, my lord,’ mimicked Kor Phaeron with a sneer. ‘Yet it is at this precious moment, with success or failure hanging in the balance, that you chose to turn against your mentor?’

‘It was not my–’ began Marduk, but he was silenced as the Dark Cardinal’s eyes flared. Warp-vapour steamed from his cadaverous sockets.

‘It was not your intention to imperil the taking of this station?’ Kor Phaeron snarled. ‘Perhaps not, but that is what you did. Perhaps you thought nothing at all, blinded by your lust to rise above your station by murdering one of your betters. Your own mentor. Your lack of respect is an insult.’

‘What is the purpose of a teacher who will not teach?’ asked Marduk. ‘He was no mentor to me. I was glad to kill him.’

There was a wordless objection from one of the veterans standing at his back, and he heard a blade drawn from its sheath.

‘No,’ growled Kor Phaeron to the warrior, malignant light flickering around him like a halo. The blade slid back into place.

‘Even if he had any inclination to teach me, I would have learnt nothing from him,’ Marduk continued, boldly. ‘His soul was blunted to the Primordial Truth, and his mind rigid and inflexible. It angered him that I was more attuned to the pantheon than he could ever be. That is why he refused to teach me. I was sent here to learn the ways of an acolyte, and yet I was placed under the guidance of a warrior with no aptitude for warp-craft.’

‘Clearly, then, he deserved to die,’ said Kor Phaeron.

Marduk grimaced. ‘No, I do not mean–’

‘You feel insulted in having been placed under Bel Ashared’s tutelage? Bel Ashared served the Legion faithfully for almost a century, while you are barely more than a neophyte. How long have you fought as part of the Seventeenth? Two decades? Three? You are nothing but an ingrate child.’

‘I am young,’ said Marduk, ‘but I am not without talent. I yearn to master the powers that you command, my lord.’

Kor Phaeron glared at him, and Marduk’s soul shrank from the vitriol apparent in that gaze.

‘Something you would not have known is that Bel Ashared was of the Dark Heart,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘A member of that sect which has served as my bloody right hand since the time of the Covenant. The Dark Heart served me at a time when Lorgar Aurelian was but an infant, and has continued to serve me through everything that has come about since then. Bel Ashared was of the Dark Heart, and you killed him because he was not the teacher you had hoped for?’

Marduk’s mouth had gone dry. ‘I... I did not know,’ he muttered.

Kor Phaeron glared at him for a moment, before swinging away, hands twisted into claws. When he spoke, his voice was more measured.

‘You say you wish to master such powers as I command. Why?’ he said, looking out towards Calth.

Marduk did not answer immediately.

‘It’s a simple question,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘Answer it.’

‘I want to serve our primarch and the Legion to the best of my abilities,’ said Marduk, finally.

Kor Phaeron laughed then. It was an ugly sound, like the wet cough of a sick animal.

‘You would have best served the Legion by not killing your own mentor during a critical tactical insertion,’ he said. Warp-light flashed, exposing Kor Phaeron’s skull, jawbone and teeth within his emaciated flesh. ‘Power is your motivation. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise. You lust for power.’

‘Don’t you?’ Marduk replied.

Kor Phaeron eyed Marduk for a long moment, and then snorted.

‘Why need I lust for that which I already possess?’

‘I don’t imagine a man could ever possess enough power,’ Marduk replied, carefully loading his words with subtle emphasis. ‘They could always have more. Yes, I lust for power. Teach me. I implore you.’

Kor Phaeron narrowed his eyes. ‘What makes you think I would wish to share my knowledge with you?’

‘Because you want to know how I did it,’ Marduk replied. ‘Otherwise, I’d be dead already.’

Before he could reply, a wracking cough shook Kor Phaeron’s body. He wiped black saliva from his lips. ‘Bel Ashared had some power, but perhaps I misjudged him,’ he said, a gauntleted hand held over his mouth. ‘Clearly he misjudged you. I have no real interest in teaching an arrogant upstart such as yourself, but you are right in one thing – I am intrigued. So tell me, how did you manage it?’

Marduk licked his lips, knowing that his life hung by the most slender of threads. He knew that he would have to frame his answer carefully.

The shipyards were burning. Twisted wreckage and debris spun silently in the blackness; some of that wreckage was recognisable as having once been battleships and defence platforms, though most was so mangled as to be practically unidentifiable. There was a serene kind of beauty to the gently rotating junk and flotsam, each tortured chunk of metal turning at its own speed and pitch. The absolute silence of the void made the scene of destruction almost peaceful.

Close your eyes, thought Marduk, and you would never know anything was amiss.

The Samothrace cut through the silently spinning debris like a blade. It passed through the slip gates of the Zetsun Verid Yard unopposed. There was no reason for the weapons platform to suspect the Samothrace of anything untoward. The ship was one of the lucky few of the Ultramarines fleet to have escaped the mayhem unscathed.

It slowed its approach, and docked unchallenged.

Sorot Tchure led the way through, as ever. Bel Ashared followed closely, and the legionaries of the XVII advanced in the wake of the two officers. They all understood that theirs was a key component of this most critical of endeavours. They knew that they were blessed to have been chosen for this task. Their hunger to begin the cleansing of this station was strong.

Marduk’s secondary heart had kicked in. To fight alongside such august warriors as the Gal Vorbak was a great honour.

Kor Phaeron would join them when the deed was done. The crawling sensation that had tingled at the back of Marduk’s skull was tantalising and electric as the Keeper of the Faith let the minions of the warp bear him away to wherever he had gone. Marduk lusted for the day when he too would wield such power.

Those serving on board the Zetsun Verid Yard had no idea what was about to befall them. Nor were the arrogant sons of the XIII Legion assigned to the platform aware of the events that were already in motion. Their ignorance was delicious.

As they left the first transit voidlock, a Ultramarine stepped forward to challenge the unexpected boarding party. He was not wearing his cobalt-blue helm, clearly not expecting an attack, nor yet realising that he had but seconds to live. Absurdly, he did not even reach for his weapon. His face bore an expression of puzzlement.

Marduk laughed to himself. Oh, this was too good.

The Ultramarine – a sergeant, by his markings – opened his mouth to voice... what? A greeting? A challenge? Either way, he never got the chance to speak. A bolt-round was fired, the first of many that would be unleashed in the next few minutes. The Ultramarine was struck in the face, just under his left cheekbone. The first kill again belonged to Sorot Tchure. Marduk prayed that there would be more of the XIII stationed here. He longed to make another kill.

There was something special about killing Space Marines, something powerful. It was utterly unlike killing lesser beings. Humans had such fleeting, insignificant lives. Yes, he remembered being one of them, but it felt like a dream, or a life that belonged to someone else. He felt little in ending their lives, but legionaries gave a thrill unlike any he had known. It was intoxicating.

The Ultramarine fell to the ground with a resounding crash, seeming like a fallen Titan in the enclosed space. The reverberating sound faded, and for a moment there was silence.

Faces turned. Mouths gaped open, aghast, as crew members registered the headless Ultramarine splayed out on the deck. Blood was spreading in a widening circle around him. It dripped down through the metal slats of the decking. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Most of those stationed here were non-combatants, the majority being technicians and adepts. Moderati. Magi. Officers. Ratings. Most had never drawn the sidearms worn at their hips – it was merely a part of their uniform, like their epaulets or their pins of servitude. They were working hard to restore communications, trying desperately to contact Calth and the fleet via vox or the local noosphere, but nothing was working.

They were completely unprepared for this new attack.

The Word Bearers did not waste their ammunition. They moved in with chainblade and fist, snapping bodies like dry tinder, punching heads from shoulders. Marduk crushed a skull with the butt of his bolter. It collapsed pleasingly. He grabbed a robed adept as he tried to flee, clasping the man’s neck in his gauntlet. He lifted him off his feet and shook him; vertebra snapped and the adept went limp. Marduk hurled the now dead weight back into the terrified mob.

High-powered las-fire peppered the deck, stabbing into red armour, burning and scorching. The platform was, it seemed, not completely defenceless. Marduk turned, scanning. There, atop a raised gantry – Mechanicum praetorians. Here at least was a foe worthy of his bolter.

Beasts of war bedecked in baroque bronzed armour, the praetorians laid down a torrent of fire. Two of the assaulting XVII went down, their armour smoking. Marduk pumped a pair of bolt-rounds into one of the armoured creatures, forcing it back on reverse-hinged piston legs. Flesh and metal ruptured, black oil blending with milky synth-blood splattering forth from the wounds Marduk had inflicted, but it did not fall.

His aim was thrown off as a human wretch stumbled blindly into him. Marduk cursed, and bashed the man to the ground. He stamped down hard, silencing the pitiful mewling.

He raised his bolter, seeking to fire upon the praetorian again. His assigned mentor, Bel Ashared, had closed the distance, and was engaging the creature of the Mechanicum up close. The Word Bearers captain was blocking his kill-shot. Marduk cursed again.

Angrily, he took a quick step to the side and slammed his bolter into the face of a man who happened to be staggering past, his face ashen grey. The mortal, a robed adept of some kind, was missing one arm – it had been ripped off at the shoulder by one of Bel Ashared’s warriors. Marduk’s blow caved in his face, and he fell. Marduk flicked a chunk of bloody flesh and hair from his weapon’s casing.

He saw Bel Ashared knock the praetorian war-beast to the ground with a backhand blow. The captain stepped on its weapon arm, pinning it to the ground with his boot, and buried his humming power axe in its chest. The praetorian brayed an enraged mix of binary code and flesh-voice. It died slowly, gargling and twitching.

Marduk reached his master’s side. Blood and oil spattered the captain’s armour, forming rivulets in the gaps between the interlocking plates of his armour. Marduk could feel the tingle of warp presence all around them – things beyond the ken of mortal men rippled and writhed just beyond the veil. Cracked voices whispered at the edge of his hearing, scratching at his sanity.

‘Fear and death are thinning the shroud between this world and the other,’ Marduk noted, glancing around him.

‘What?’ said Bel Ashared.

‘The Dwellers Beyond hunger to cross over,’ said Marduk. ‘Do you not feel it, my lord?’

He saw Bel Ashared’s clenched fists tighten, perhaps sensing that he was being mocked.

‘Your insight is astounding, whelp,’ the captain snapped, contempt thick in his voice. ‘An idiot abhuman child could feel it.’

‘Most within the Legion do not,’ said Marduk. ‘They are blind.’

As are you, he thought.

‘Do not think yourself special,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘Far from it. You are chaff. Even your own Chapter didn’t want you. You know nothing yet of the truth of the universe, nor of the powers growing on the other side.’

‘So teach me,’ replied Marduk.

‘Some things cannot be rushed.’

‘Such as your ascension into the Gal Vorbak, lord?’

His mentor looked at him. Hidden behind his helm, his expression was impossible to read, but after a moment he laughed. It was an ugly sound, his grilled vox-unit turning it to a harsh bark.

‘Go away, whelp,’ he said. He waved a hand dismissively, splattering flecks of blood across Marduk’s faceplate – a droplet settled on one of his visor lenses, tinging the postulant’s vision red. ‘I have no time for your nonsense.’

‘You are my mentor,’ said Marduk. ‘My place is at your side.’

‘I am not a nursemaid. Leave me alone. We have a station to take,’ said Bel Ashared, turning away. ‘Go with Dralzir’s squad.’

Marduk swung away, saying nothing.

The dock was clear. Corpses were scattered across the deck like broken and discarded playthings. The Word Bearers were splitting into smaller detachments and spreading out to penetrate deeper into the weapons platform. They were all familiar with the schematics of Zetsun Verid, and they needed no prompting.

From one of the adjoining passageways came the deep boom of bolter fire. Evidently the enemy were not going to be difficult to find, but the members of Dralzir Assault Squad were still sifting through the fleshy ruin of the fallen along the dock. They moved from body to body, checking for any signs of life, cutting the throats of those who still remained – one quick slash from ear to ear with their combat blades – before moving on. Not for them the grace and grandeur of a ritual blade, Marduk noted. He joined them as they continued their grisly task.

Dralzir was a tight unit of veterans. They had won the praise of the primarch himself in years past, and been decorated for their deeds in more than a dozen Compliance actions; kill-markings, campaign badges and cult symbols decorated the curved surfaces of their plate. They tolerated his presence, but their disdain for him was always there. He was not one of them.

Only one of the squad’s members acknowledged him – a novitiate, just recently bonded with his first suit of power armour and brought up from the Scout ranks. He was as much an outsider as Marduk, and the only warrior within the boarding party who was newer to the Legion than he. His armour was almost embarrassingly untouched.

This new recruit was kneeling over a fallen adept who was sprawled upon the deck, one of his legs twisted unnaturally beneath him. The man was trying to get away, but the novitiate had one knee on his chest, which was slowly crushing him, forcing his breath in ragged, pained gasps.

‘Did you see that blue bastard’s head go up?’ asked the novitiate, looking up at Marduk.

‘I did, Burias,’ said Marduk.

‘And the expression on the arrogant bastard’s face just before he was hit? Glorious!’

The robed adept tried to draw a pistol. It was a simple las-weapon, but it shook wildly in his hand. Burias grabbed the man’s wrist before he could level the barrel, and he bent it backwards with almost no effort.

Snap.

The man screamed. Burias silenced him with a blow to the temple that broke his neck.

‘He didn’t even get a chance to say anything. He just opened his mouth, and boom!’ Burias stood, wiping blood from his hands. ‘You are fighting with us today?’

‘So it would seem,’ said Marduk.

Burias cocked his head for a moment. ‘Is it true that you were expelled from your own Chapter and sent here to join the Calth assault?’

Marduk snorted.

‘It may as well be,’ he said. ‘I was sent here to learn the ways of the acolyte. There was no ulterior motive in that, as far as I am aware.’

‘You will be an Apostle some day, then?’

‘Not at this rate,’ said Marduk.

‘Enough chatter,’ snarled the squad’s sergeant, Dralzir, striding towards them. Two Ultramarines helmets hung at his waist – the sergeant was not a warrior to be trifled with. ‘It’s time to move.’

‘Everyone here’s dead anyway,’ Burias muttered, kicking the corpse at his feet.

Marduk smiled to himself.

Burias’s armour was smoking. Plasma burn. He had been lucky, though – a direct hit would have cored right through him. He hugged the bulkhead, using it for cover as he reloaded his Umbra-pattern bolter, ramming a fresh sickle-magazine home.

Another blur of white-blue plasma screamed through the hatchway, narrowly missing Burias, who merely laughed. The novitiate had some skill, but he was reckless. He would be lucky to see another battle after this, Marduk thought. He hoped he would, though. He had come to enjoy watching Burias kill.

Plasma slammed against the wall opposite the open portal, exploding in a burst of searing light. From within the chamber there came an angry, screeching hiss: the telltale sound of a plasma gun overheat.

‘Take them!’ Dralzir bellowed.

Responding instantly, Marduk spun out from cover. Dralzir, Burias and Udama-sin were with him, charging through the gap.

Only small pockets of resistance such as this now remained upon the Zetsun Verid Yard, though their defiance merely prolonged the inevitable. Still, the delay had angered Bel Ashared, and that had in turn angered Sergeant Dralzir. Other squads were already pushing towards the control room at the heart of the platform, while they lagged behind.

He had split his warriors into two smaller combat squads – a tactic first adopted, ironically, by Guilliman’s Legion – and it was his task to root out any resistance in the lower levels of Zetsun Verid before proceeding.

A bolt-round took Udama-sin almost as soon as they were in the open. Marduk did not look back to see if he lived. Gunfire lit up the darkened room in stark bursts, and Marduk saw blue-armoured targets in front of him. His focus narrowed.

There were only two still standing. There had been others, but they had been taken down in the first moments of the firefight. One had been caught by a frag grenade detonation; another had been dropped by a clean headshot from Dralzir’s bolt pistol.

The two Ultramarines were hunkered down behind a makeshift barricade of jumbled cargo crates and machinery. One had a bolter at his shoulder, firing in controlled bursts; he had a vertical white crest on his helmet, a XIII Legion honorific marking him as a ‘Company First Sergeant’ or some such rank. The other held a malfunctioning plasma gun away from his body as it vented white-hot vapour, while firing a bolt pistol in his off-hand.

Marduk unleashed a fresh burst of bolter fire as he advanced, covering his brethren as they charged forwards, chainswords roaring. Most of his shots were wild, but one took the bolter-wielding Ultramarine in the shoulder. The damage inflicted was only superficial, though, and not enough to put him down.

A bolt-round half spun the young novitiate, Burias, making him stumble. Marduk heard him curse – he was clearly desperate to close with the enemy before his sergeant and more experienced brethren, and prove his worth in the heat of battle.

Marduk kept his bolter pressed to his shoulder, continuing to fire. He was moving out to one side, outflanking the Ultramarines as the others raced straight for the barricade. He concentrated on the same target he had already hit, striking him twice in the chest. He adjusted his aim for a head shot, but his target dropped into cover – the incoming weight of fire was too heavy.

Smoothly switching targets, Marduk swung his aim towards the other Ultramarine. His first shot struck the warrior in the wrist; the mass reactive shell detonated, blowing his hand clean off and robbing him of his pistol in the process. Undeterred, the Ultramarine simply brought up his plasma gun, adjusting his grip so that it rested upon his forearm that now ended in a bloodied stump, and levelled it at Marduk.

The Word Bearer hurled himself aside. The sun-like flare of the discharge overwhelmed his armour’s autosenses, and a white haze filled his helmet’s vision, rendering him blind for a few heartbeats. Even through his ceramite-insulated armour, he could feel the intense, burning heat of the shot as it screamed past, making the air fizzle.

His vision began to clear, enough to see Dralzir vault the barricade and bury his chainsword in the plasma gunner’s neck, the teeth whirring madly as they tore through one of the variant plate’s few weak points. He drove the weapon in deep, ripping into flesh, churning through meat and bone. Blood drenched the sergeant’s faceplate and chest.

A bolter fired from behind the barricade. Dralzir staggered, struck from behind, and fell forwards over the mutilated body of the Ultramarine he had just cut down.

Now Marduk had a target lock once more. He squeezed off a pair of quick shots, but they missed the mark by scant centimetres. He was about to fire again when a red-armoured figure cut in front of him.

Burias.

Marduk cursed his name, and broke into a run.

Dralzir was trying to rise, struggling to push himself up off the ground. It was impossible to see the extent of his injuries, but that he was seriously wounded was clear by his sluggish, pained movements.

‘Whatever you traitors hope to achieve, it will fail!’ roared the Ultramarine, leaning forward and jamming his gun barrel into Dralzir’s exposed neck seal, ready to execute the Word Bearer sergeant. ‘Know that before you die.’

‘Infidel!’ screamed Marduk as he drove forwards, only a few steps behind that oaf Burias.

Two shots rang out, the bolts’ detonation taking Dralzir’s head almost completely from his neck and blowing out his eye lenses. He crashed down and blood pooled beneath him, and the Ultramarine shoved his body away.

Marduk spat, and grunted in frustration. Burias was still obscuring his shot.

With a bellow, the headstrong young novitiate leapt over his fallen sergeant’s corpse, bringing his chainsword down in a double-handed blow. The Ultramarine used the stock of his bolter to block, but the roaring adamantium teeth still bore down towards the legionary’s helmet, chewing and spitting against the weapon’s casing.

With a swift movement, the Ultramarine stepped to one side and turned, shifting the angle of his bolter sharply and unbalancing Burias. The momentum carried the novitiate forwards, his chainsword roaring as it lost traction and slid down to the deck. Stepping back in close, the Ultramarine brought his elbow around in a perfectly timed strike that hit Burias square in the faceplate as he staggered into it.

The force of the blow dropped him onto his back, hard. He lay there, momentarily dazed. One of his visor’s lenses had cracked, and his faceplate was visibly buckled.

Without pausing, the Ultramarine rounded on Marduk, but the Word Bearer was upon him before he could fire, slamming into him with a lowered shoulder. The armoured impact lifted the Ultramarine off his feet and drove him into a stabilising pylon, which gave a groan of tortured metal as it was wrenched out of shape. The Ultramarine’s weapon clattered to the floor and Marduk kicked it away, sending it skidding across the deck.

The legionary recovered quickly. He grabbed Marduk and pulled him into a knee strike that took him in the midsection. The force of the blow would have broken a lesser being – that was clearly what the warrior had been trained for, not the killing of other Space Marines. Until this day, the merest thought of such a thing would have been beyond his dim comprehension.

But not for Marduk.

He had killed Space Marines before. Battle-brothers of his own Legion, no less.

Still, the Ultramarine was a fast learner, as were all the warriors of Ultramar; they were not to be underestimated. Another sharp knee sent a hairline fracture splintering up Marduk’s breastplate, and integrity warnings flashed within his helm. Rising fast, he struck the Ultramarine under the chin with his bolter, snapping his head back sharply.

The legionary reeled, and Marduk had a clear shot, but even as he squeezed the trigger the Ultramarine slapped the weapon aside. The report was deafening, but the bolt missed, slicing past the Ultramarine’s smooth faceplate.

The veteran XIII Legion warrior had a hold of Marduk’s bolter then, and he disarmed him with a vicious twist of the weapon’s grip. He planted a boot squarely in Marduk’s chest, sending him stumbling backwards, and took aim with the bolter.

Behind him, a chainsword revved.

The Ultramarine spun, turning aside from the murderous, decapitating strike from Burias. He avoided another wild blow and planted a fist into Burias’s already damaged helmet. Sparks danced across the shattered faceplate. The stolen bolter came up again.

Marduk grappled him then, wrapping an arm around his neck. In his other hand he held a blade – not a combat blade, but his sacred athame, its hilt wrapped in copper wire. The Ultramarine dropped the bolter, grasping at Marduk’s arm, but the Word Bearer’s grip was like iron.

‘The gods will feast on your soul, son of Ultramar,’ Marduk hissed.

‘There... are... no... gods!’ the stricken legionary choked.

‘You’ve been lied to,’ said Marduk, ‘but you’ll know the truth soon enough.’

He wrenched the Ultramarine’s blue helmet to the side, exposing the vulnerable fibre-bundles and cabling behind the gorget, and rammed his blade in.

The Ultramarine was not dead, though he was as good as.

Joint servos and interlocking gears whined as he continually struggled to rise. His strength was all but gone, and Marduk kept him pinned to the deck, one foot pressing down hard against his breastplate.

Blood had pooled. It was already congealing, turning the deck into a sticky, clinging quagmire. It continued to flow sluggishly from the Ultramarine’s wounded neck. Even the hyper-coagulants in his bloodstream were unable to seal the cut that Marduk’s athame had made.

He writhed weakly, gauntleted fingertips twitching.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Burias. The novitiate still hovered at Marduk’s shoulder, casting nervous glances up and down the corridor outside as the sounds of battle rang through the platform’s superstructure. ‘Just kill him.’

‘Wait,’ said Marduk.

‘For what?’

‘I want to try something,’ said Marduk. ‘Watch. Learn.’

He took his boot off the Ultramarine’s chest. The breastplate groaned at the release in pressure. The legionary tried to push himself upright, lifting himself on one shaking, faltering arm. Marduk kicked it out from under him, and he fell back to the deck with a crash of ceramite on metal.

Kneeling, he cradled the Ultramarine’s crested blue helm in his hands. Disengaging the locking seals, he removed the helmet with a hiss of venting air pressure and placed it to one side.

The warrior’s face was an unhealthy, ghostly pallor. What little colour remained was being drawn out before Marduk’s very eyes. It made the splash of blood upon his neck and cheek appear even brighter in contrast.

He had a strong, proud visage: angular and imbued of a cold, arrogant nobility that was utterly foreign to one born on Colchis. It was the lined, careworn face of a senator or a diplomat – not a warrior, in spite of the scars, the blood and the three service studs embedded in his brow. Red foam bubbled on his lips. He struggled to focus upon his tormentor with eyes the colour of iron.

‘Lorgar... is sending… children to fight us now?’ breathed the Ultramarine, with a hint of cold mirth.

‘I am no child,’ snapped Marduk.

‘But you are… a traitor...’

‘History will not regard us so. We will be hailed as the heroes of this war, those who ushered in a new era of understanding and belief.’

The Ultramarine gurgled something that might have been a derisive laugh.

‘You are... a foolish youngling,’ he said. ‘You will learn... the folly... of... of your actions.’

‘Let me show you what can be achieved with true belief, noble son of Ultramar,’ Marduk snarled. He leaned forward and placed a hand upon the Ultramarine’s chest. The dying legionary jolted. ‘Let me show you the power of the gods you would deny.’

‘What is this?’ hissed Burias, seemingly unable to look away.

‘Can I trust you, brother?’

‘Of course. Always.’

‘Then be silent,’ said Marduk, and closed his eyes.

Shapeless things writhed in the darkness behind his eyelids. Amongst them he felt the presence of another – his true mentor. It pushed to the fore and the rest gave way before it. He felt its presence swell, pushing against the boundaries of reality. It longed to be made real.

Soon, he promised.

He breathed deeply, turning his focus inwards. Unreality blossomed like a flower, unfurling itself, and the sentient darkness spoke to him.

It knew what he wanted. It whispered to him, a thousand voices blended together into one insidious drawl. It spoke directly into his head, each unfathomable vowel and syllable stabbing into his brain like an incision.

Feal’shneth’doth’khaerne’drak’shal’roth.

Marduk opened his eyes.

The Ultramarine looked up at him, his unfocused gaze one of pure horror. He tried vainly to pull away. Even with his blunted mind he could feel that something was happening.

‘Feal’shneth’doth’khaerne’drak’shal’roth,’ Marduk intoned.

An electric itch crept beneath his amour, beneath the sub-dermal fibre-bundles and cabling of his mechanical musculature, beneath the bonded black carapace that was as one with his flesh. His eyes itched from the inside. Insubstantial tendrils scratched at the interior of his skull.

Dol’atha’lin’korohk’bha’naeth’la’kor.

‘What is that?’ hissed Burias, looking around them in the growing gloom. ‘Where is it coming from?’

Marduk ignored him.

‘Dol’atha’lin’korohk’bha’naeth’la’kor,’ he said. He felt the power in the words even as he spoke them. They made his lips tingle and sting. He tasted an acidic burn on his tongue.

But it was working.

The Ultramarine began to shudder, moaning softly. He convulsed on the deck, turning his head from side to side. His eyes had rolled back, with only the blood-flecked whites now visible.

Raeth’ma’goerdh’mek’koeth.

Burias had fallen silent. Marduk was thankful for that.

‘Raeth’ma’goerdh’mek’koeth.’

The Ultramarine’s muscles tensed in a sudden, violent spasm that curved his back and lifted him off the deck. Marduk kept his hand firmly upon the legionary’s chest.

The breastplate had begun to smoke beneath his touch.

Things moved beneath the Ultramarine’s flesh, like ripworms wriggling under the skin. His armour began to bulge at the seals, as of great pressure gathering within.

‘Blood of the Aurelian,’ whispered Burias.

Bony spurs and thorn-like barbs rose along the edges of the Ultramarine’s armour, twisting and contorting the armoured plates of his suit. It was of a design unfamiliar to the Word Bearers, but its regal lines were now marred by a more pleasing, corrupted aspect.

The Ultramarine’s eyes were screwed tightly shut now, and blood tears began to flow from their corners. When they snapped opened again, his eyeballs were gone, revealing only hollows of darkness rimmed by small, jagged teeth. Those teeth began to chatter. Burias laughed.

The Ultramarine scratched at his own face with fingers turned to claws, ripping at his flesh. Wriggling things were revealed in those rents – ribbed, leech-like things with snapping lamprey mouths. An anguished cry escaped his lips.

‘Don’t fight it, kinsman,’ said Marduk. His hand was still pressed to the altered warrior’s chest. The Ultramarine’s ribs had pushed through his breastplate, forming a crude exoskeleton that squirmed and twisted. ‘This is a great honour.’

There was agitated movement in the corner of his vision. Marduk looked into the shadows with a smile.

‘The Dwellers Beyond await you,’ he said. ‘Can you feel them? They are close.’

The Ultramarine cried out again. He was unable to form coherent words – his tongue had become a grotesque lolling slug-like lump covered in hundreds of fleshy protuberances – but the sound was undeniably one of horror and agony.

‘What blasphemy is this?’ roared a voice, suddenly loud and bold within the chamber.

Burias gave a low warning growl in the back of his throat, and Marduk removed his hand sharply from the Ultramarine’s chest. Ceramite boots echoed upon the deck. Marduk stood and turned to face them.

Bel Ashared, flanked by four company veterans, was stalking towards him. Blood-matted furs hung from his broad shoulders. They swung from side to side with each determined, enraged step that he took. His face was hidden within his helm, but his anger was a seething, raging, palpable thing.

Marduk lifted his head high, undaunted. His master loomed over him, an intimidating, glowering presence. The slanted lenses of his visor gleamed with a hellish inner light.

‘Only those with closed minds would see this as blasphemy,’ Marduk shrugged.

The hulking captain struck him, and the blow dropped him to one knee. It took Marduk a moment to recover from the force of it.

When he did, Bel Ashared was staring down at the twisted, broken figure of the Ultramarine. This once proud warrior of the XIII Legion, his body now vacated by the energies that had been trying to inhabit it, was slumped lifelessly upon the deck – limbs and spine bent at unnatural angles, his entire form twisted into something horrific. It looked somehow even more vile now that the warp-things had fled from its flesh. Acrid vapours rose lazily from the corpse.

Bel Ashared hauled Marduk to his feet, and wrenched his helmet off, but the postulant’s eyes burned with defiance and belief. He hurled the helmet aside and pushed his own faceplate in close. The steaming breath from his helm’s front grille washed over Marduk’s grinning face.

‘Your arrogance and your insolence I could tolerate,’ growled Bel Ashared. ‘But this is an abomination. This is–’

‘It is the next stage on our path,’ Marduk interrupted him. ‘To not use the Dwellers Beyond as a weapon is to hobble ourselves. We must use every advantage we possess, if we are to win the coming war.’

Bel Ashared pulled Marduk into a brutal head-butt, and pain exploded across the postulant’s face. He would have fallen, but the captain held him upright. His feet were not even touching the ground.

‘You are a foolish child playing with things that you do not understand,’ Bel Ashared snarled, his vox-emitters turning his voice into a mechanical growl. ‘Where did you learn this madness?’

Bel Ashared head-butted him again, fracturing his skull.

‘Tell me!’ he demanded again.

‘Are you jealous that you’d not be able to manage such a feat, my honourable mentor?’ Marduk slurred. ‘Your mind is as limited as your rigid adherence to your beliefs. You refused to teach me, so I found a teacher who would.’

Again, Bel Ashared slammed his armoured forehead into Marduk’s. Pain blossomed across the dazed Word Bearer’s skull, shooting through hairline fractures and into his temples, yet still he grinned lopsidedly.

‘You lie,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘None of my warriors would teach you.’

‘Perhaps I found a teacher beyond your company,’ said Marduk, blood trickling from his nostrils. ‘One with far more power than you could ever hope to wield.’

In disgust, Bel Ashared thrust Marduk away, sending him sprawling to the deck.

‘The Ultramarine killed Sergeant Dralzir,’ said Burias. ‘Now he has been avenged. Does it matter how that death was achieved?’

The captain glanced over at Burias and levelled a finger at him.

‘Do not speak another word, novitiate. I will judge your complicity in this sacrilege once the mission is complete.’

Burias bowed his head in deference and backed away.

Bel Ashared stepped carefully around the corpse. Its flesh was rotting at an accelerated rate, liquefying and sloughing from the contorted bones.

Marduk was rising, his face slick with his own blood. Bel Ashared lifted him back to his feet and slammed one of his gauntleted fists into his face, splintering teeth and breaking his nose. The force of the blow put Marduk straight back down.

‘To become one with the forces of the empyrean is something honoured and revered,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘It is a holy union. To force it on an unbeliever is abhorrent! An affront! Sacrilege. Such is the decree of Kor Phaeron himself.’

‘Decrees can be wrong,’ said Marduk, spitting blood and shards of tooth. ‘The Emperor’s lapdogs will find that out soon enough. Once even you worshipped the Emperor as a god.’

‘The Legion has seen the folly of its former ways,’ said Bel Ashared.

‘And it will once again,’ said Marduk.

‘Enough!’ Bel Ashared roared. ‘How did you do this? Tell me!’

‘You could never master it,’ sneered Marduk. ‘You’re pathetic. You want so badly to be ushered into the Gal Vorbak. It will never happen. You’re too unwilling to open yourself up to the Dwellers Beyond. The lack of knowing, the uncertainty – it terrifies you.’

The silence of the other assembled Word Bearers was absolute. Bel Ashared laughed, almost in disbelief.

‘I do not have time for this,’ he said. ‘I will not be shamed in this manner. Hold him.’

Two of his warriors stepped forward, grabbing Marduk roughly between them, and Bel Ashared unslung his axe. Insulated cabling linked the weapon to his armour’s power source; its head was fashioned in the likeness of a leering hell-creature, and its crescent blade hummed as it came to life in his hand.

‘By your actions you have damned yourself, postulant,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘Kneel and accept your fate.’

Marduk spat at the captain’s feet.

‘The knowledge of your limitations has blinded you with bitterness, Bel Ashared,’ said Marduk. ‘I pity you. You are cursed. You know your limitations, but you cannot accept them. You are doomed to mediocrity, and that knowledge eats away at you like a cancer.’

‘Kneel,’ the captain growled.

Marduk was forced to his knees. Bel Ashared’s axe blade crackled. The scorched ozone stink was strong.

‘This is a path that I had hoped to avoid,’ said Marduk, glaring up at his appointed mentor, his eyes narrowed venomously. Bel Ashared’s emerald visors, set deep in his grim Mark VI helm, glowered down at him. ‘But you leave me no option.’

‘You brought this upon yourself,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘It is time for you to swim the Sea of Souls, and be damned for all eternity.’

‘No,’ said Marduk. ‘The time is yours.’

The shadows coiled, knowing what was to come.

Dhar’khor’del’mesh Arak’sho’del’mesh Drak’shal’more’del’mesh.

The voice stabbed into Marduk’s mind like a needle. Fresh blood trickled from his nose, and his eyes turned black.

‘Dhar’khor’del’mesh Arak’sho’del’mesh Drak’shal’more’del’mesh,’ he said. The words made his mouth bleed.

Hidden runes carved inside Bel Ashared’s armour flared, and then in one sudden, violent twist of unreality, he was turned inside out.

Kor Phaeron pursed his blackened lips. ‘With no instruction, you were able to do this?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Marduk, still on his knees. ‘The Primordial Truth itself guided me.’

Kor Phaeron turned away, staring out through the view portal at Calth. The uncomfortable tingling in Marduk’s flesh lessened somewhat in response.

Marduk waited for Kor Phaeron to speak, knowing that his fate would be decided here and now.

‘Bel Ashared was a fine soldier,’ said Kor Phaeron, finally. ‘But he was limited, perhaps in ways that you are not.’

A ghost of smile crept onto Marduk’s face. ‘You will teach me, then?’ he said.

Kor Phaeron turned back towards Marduk. Impatient energy played across his skin, lighting it from within.

‘Jarulek spoke highly of you,’ he muttered. ‘He tells me that you acquitted yourself well during the Purge.’

‘I did what was asked of me,’ said Marduk. He raised a hand to his throat where a knot of old scars encircled his flesh like a necklace. ‘I did my duty.’

‘And what did you feel as you killed your own kin?’

‘They were not my kin.’

‘They were of the XVII and the blood of Lorgar ran in their veins, as it does in yours,’ said Kor Phaeron, though Marduk felt that the Dark Cardinal was pleased with his answer.

‘They were not of Colchis,’ said Marduk. ‘They were not my kin. It felt... good to kill them.’

‘Why?’ said Kor Phaeron, leaning forwards like a predator. His eyes glittered.

‘Their deaths were significant. They had meaning. There was power in their sacrifice.’

‘Ah. “Power” once again.’

‘Am I wrong, master?’ said Marduk.

‘No. Even the most primitive cultures instinctively understand that there is power in death. A child ails with fever? His parents sacrifice a feed-beast and beg whatever god they pray to for his recovery. They sacrifice to the Primordial Truth, no matter what name they give to their bloodthirsty deities.’ Kor Phaeron took on an evangelical tone, as he might be delivering one of his potent sermons to the Legion. ‘But some things require larger sacrifices, something more significant. Famine and plague ravage your cities? Your enemies march upon your walls with murder in their hearts? The sacrifice of a lowly bovid will not suffice then. It is in the human psyche to understand this. Without needing to be told, we all know that some deaths are intrinsically more meaningful than others. The death of a man is more powerful than the death of a beast – and as men are raised above beasts, so too are the Legiones Astartes raised above men. It follows that their sacrifice has a subsequently higher significance.’

Kor Phaeron turned.

‘And much more can be achieved with the power that blossoms from such a sacrifice.’

Marduk’s gaze drifted towards the vision of Calth beyond the station’s viewscreens.

‘What could be achieved with the death of a world?’ Marduk wondered out loud.

‘What indeed.’

‘And the death of a primarch?’ whispered Marduk. ‘I see the truth of it. They are the next step.’

‘Yes,’ said Kor Phaeron, ‘they are. Ferrus Manus will not be the last.’

A klaxon blared, and Marduk saw Kor Phaeron’s thin lips part in an unpleasant, grimacing smile. He had a fevered, hungry look in his eyes.

‘Teleport signature,’ said one of the dark magi hunched over a console. ‘We are boarded.’

‘Guilliman,’ hissed Kor Phaeron. ‘At last.’

‘He’s here?’ said Marduk. ‘You knew he would come?’

Filthy light gathered around Kor Phaeron, and Marduk could hear the gibbering beasts of the empyrean – whispers and cries that crowded in through every speaker, vox-link and console on the station.

Kor Phaeron seemed to grow in stature, coiled in darkness.

‘This is my time,’ he said, rising up from the deck, black vapours oozing from his eyes and mouth. Unholy energies played across his splayed, skeletal fingers, and the currents of the warp washed over Marduk like a drowning tide, emanating from the Dark Cardinal in waves.

‘Today is a great day, my sons,’ said Kor Phaeron, his voice raised to be heard over the infernal cacophony. ‘Today we will see a primarch brought to his knees. He comes to us, drawn like a moth to the flame, not realising that the flame will be his ending.’

Marduk made to rise, but he felt a hand upon his shoulder, holding him in place. The grip was strong; it was that of Sorot Tchure. He had a blade in his hand.

An athame.

‘My lord?’ said Tchure. ‘The postulant?’

Kor Phaeron was like an angel of darkness, haloed in terror. He looked down at Marduk. There was no mercy in his expression, merely a vicious hunger and yearning. His eyes had turned completely – the deepest black of the dark spaces between the stars.

‘He has their favour,’ rumbled Kor Phaeron. ‘This is the source of all power. Release him.’

Tchure’s blade disappeared, and Marduk was raised to his feet. He gaped up at Kor Phaeron, bathing in his unholy majesty.

‘Whatever power I have is yours,’ he said, eyes shining with devotion.

Kor Phaeron drifted down towards him, dragging the darkness in his wake. Marduk bowed his head and dropped to one knee, this time as a devotee rather than a prisoner. He felt the heat radiating from Kor Phaeron’s body as he came close, and he flinched as a burning hand was placed upon his head.

Marduk struggled not to cry out. His skin blistered under the unholy benediction.

‘Do not attempt to use your new talents in this battle, postulant,’ Kor Phaeron hissed. ‘The power of the empyrean flows strong. I will have all of it.’

‘It will be as you wish, my lord,’ said Marduk.

‘You are blessed, child,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘Today, you will witness an act that will echo down through the ages. Today you will witness true greatness.’

Kor Phaeron released Marduk and stood resplendent as the warriors of the Legion readied themselves for battle around him.

‘Today, my sons, you will witness the death of Roboute Guilliman,’ declared Kor Phaeron, his voice resonant. ‘Or perhaps,’ he added, slyly, ‘something greater still...’

A bolter was pressed into Marduk’s hands without ceremony.

‘Be ready, lad,’ said Sorot Tchure. ‘They come.’

Marduk cast the bolter aside, its magazine spent. He picked up a heavier double-barrelled weapon from the dead grasp of an anointed veteran and squeezed the trigger, unleashing a torrent of fire into the charging horde of cobalt-blue as the Ultramarines stormed the master control room.

The Ultramarines were dying, but the Word Bearers were dying faster.

Bodies lay scattered across the deck. The giant leading the Ultramarines was like unto an unstoppable force of nature.

The hated primarch. Guilliman.

Nothing could stand in his path. He swatted Word Bearers aside, sending Gal Vorbak and legionaries flying. A grim warrior in a red helm fought at the giant’s side, wielding an exotic longsword that sliced through armour like wet fabric. Some sort of champion, most likely.

Marduk dropped one Ultramarine with a well-aimed bolt-round, and sent another reeling, his armour shredded. He tried to gun down the red-helmeted swordsman, but another warrior was caught in the crossfire – ceramite chunks were blasted from his body, before he was cut in two by the scything arm-claw of one of the Gal Vorbak. The clash of armoured bodies as the Ultramarines slammed into the Word Bearers was almost deafening.

Kor Phaeron flew at Guilliman, black energies trailing in his wake.

Marduk had no chainsword, and his athame had been taken from him. He stepped backwards, trying to keep his distance from the rush of the enemy. The combi-bolter bucked like a wild beast in his hands; he fought to keep its aim down.

There was a flash of red through the press of bodies and a blade cleaved his weapon in two with a shower of sparks. The red swordsman made to lunge for him, but the surging melee kept them apart, and moments later the disarmed postulant was evidently forgotten amidst the throng.

Marduk cast his ruined weapon aside. There was blinding flash of plasma and a Ultramarine’s chest was burned out not three paces away – Marduk plucked a power maul from the dying warrior’s hands and set about with it. Chainswords were built to rend flesh, not power armour, but a power maul was more effective against Legion plate, crushing ceramite and bone with equal vigour.

Beyond them, Marduk could see the hunched figure of Kor Phaeron, robed in shadowlight, standing triumphantly over the downed giant, Guilliman.

Marduk saw Kor Phaeron’s blade at the giant’s throat, and his bitter hearts sang.

Victory was at hand.

The postulant cried out in elation, swinging his maul left and right. He would be a righteous agent of the Word until the end of time. The heavens themselves would–

Something changed. The currents of the warp fluctuated for a moment, before a cry of anguish went up.

The Dark Cardinal had fallen.

Marduk shrieked, staving in the skull of an Ultramarines officer with a dozen frenzied blows.

The Dark Cardinal had fallen.

There was a scramble of armoured bodies, a frantic press which obscured Marduk’s view of the scene. Beyond, fires were breaking out across the control deck. Alarms sounded with renewed vigour.

In a single moment of horror, Marduk caught sight of Kor Phaeron again.

He was being dragged bodily across the deck, pulled in several directions by Ultramarines and Word Bearers alike, who screamed and spat and struck at each another as they heaved and tugged.

Both sides wanted to claim the body.

‘Help us, damn you!’ Sorot Tchure cried over the din. Half of the veteran’s face was missing, exposing bone and teeth. Marduk did as he was bidden, his eyes wide in shock.

This was not how it was meant to be. Guilliman should be dead. This should be their moment of triumph. Marduk skidded on the deck plates, smeared with Kor Phaeron’s dark blood.

Together with the last remaining members of the Gal Vorbak, Marduk helped to bear the shattered body of Kor Phaeron from the burning master control room.

How the Master of the Faith still drew breath was beyond him. His chest was a mangled ruin. The gaping hole in his breastplate and fused ribcage exposed a pulsing crater of ruined flesh. Black, foul-smelling fluid covered his armour and bubbled from his lips, while wisps of warp-shadow streamed from his eyes, mouth and nose.

‘Quickly,’ barked Tchure, urging them on through the flames and the smoke. At any moment, Marduk expected to be cut down by bolter fire, or for Guilliman to fall upon them, tearing them apart with his bare hands.

Kor Phaeron was gurgling and gasping, eyes rolling in their sockets. He clutched at Marduk, clinging to his robe with an emaciated claw. His eyes bled tainted darkness, burning with a fiery intensity even now.

He should have been dead.

In the void where his primary heart should have been, instead a vile blackness roiled, wriggling like a pseudopod. Oily darkness coursed through Kor Phaeron’s veins and arteries, spurting from where they were ruptured and severed and dissipating into the foul air. His ravaged flesh stank of dead meat and spent batteries.

Kor Phaeron writhed. Was this was the power that he had desired?

Sorot Tchure raised his left wrist. ‘Get us out of here,’ he growled into the Octed-inscribed glass blister embedded in his vambrace. The glistening, unliving thing within squirmed as it relayed his order.

The Ultramarines were coming for them, determined to cut off their escape.

Marduk saw his own death written in the eyes of the red-helmed swordsman and his fellows. He would not be able to avoid it.

The flames of the brazier seemed to dim, and the temperature dropped. Hoarfrost crept across the walls. The shadows came alive, writhing and growing.

Tendrils of shadow reached out, groping blindly. They felt their way up the walls, worming across the ceiling and the deck. One of them touched him. Its caress was like ice. The darkness closed in, drawing his robed body into its embrace.

A steaming breath touched his neck. It reeked of tainted nightmares and rotting flesh.

The creeping darkness whispered to him, a dozen voices of madness blended into one. Blood began to leak from his ears. The stylus in his hand began to twitch.

I will give you the means to overwhelm your mentor, if that is your wish.

‘A precaution, only,’ said Marduk. ‘I feel there will come a time when it will be necessary.’

And in return?

The darkness was agitated, the shadows coiling around themselves and itching against the borders of reality.

‘And in return I will find you a suitable host,’ said Marduk.

Pledge it in the blood.

Marduk put down his stylus and drew his athame. Without hesitation he sliced it across the palm of his hand, blade biting deep. The shadows redoubled their agitated movement, crowding in close.

‘This I pledge,’ said Marduk, squeezing his hand into a fist and letting the blood flow. It hissed and smoked where it fell upon the carved Octed on the bench top. Then he took up his stylus once more, and allowed the daemon to guide his hand.

An hour passed. Perhaps more.

Hell retreated finally, uncoiling itself from him and sliding back through the worn-thin veil of reality. The brazier came back to life, flames crackling, and its low light filled the room once again. Marduk winced as he released his grip on the stylus. His hand was locked in a painful claw. In fact, his whole body ached.

He glanced down at the helmet still cradled in the arms of the calliper-stand: his mentor’s helmet, now inscribed with a thousand upon a thousand curses. Not a single centimetre was untouched.

The handwriting was not his own.

All that the potent curse required was the speaking of a trigger phrase and his mentor would be undone.

‘Let it be so,’ he said.

Let it be so, agreed the daemon Drak’shal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After finishing university Anthony Reynolds set sail from his homeland Australia and ventured forth to foreign climes. He ended up settling in the UK, and managed to blag his way into Games Workshop’s hallowed design studio. There he worked for four years as a games developer and two years as part of the management team. He now resides back in his hometown of Sydney, overlooking the beach and enjoying the sun and the surf, though he finds that to capture the true darkness and horror of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 he has taken to writing in what could be described as a darkened cave.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Neil Roberts

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These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.