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Renegades - Gav Thorpe

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RENEGADES

Gav Thorpe

The growling of engines and the roar of battle cannons reverberated around the massive hall, the echoes overlapping into a constant thunder of destruction. Intricately designed mosaics upon the wall shattered into thousands of multi-coloured shards under the impact of shells and las-fire. The marble tiles of the flooring cracked and heaved under iron treads as battle tanks lumbered forwards. Soldiers garbed in long black overcoats hurried from cover to cover; sheltering behind the immense pillars supporting the ceiling, scurrying to and fro behind mounds of rubble and leaping into craters gouged into the once-gleaming floor.

The tumult of war drowned out the shouted commands of the rebels’ leaders, who waved forward their men from atop the blasted remains of armoured transports and the plinths of ravaged statues of former Imperial commanders. Their men chanted new slogans in defiance of their ousted commanders; battle cries filled with hate and calls for justice.

All along the mile-long hall the forces of the insurrectionists surged forwards under the cover of their tanks’ guns.

Ahead of them the Astartes of the Avenging Sons Chapter stood defiant, their blue armour covered in dust and grime. They had come to quell a rebellion, only to find a world gripped by civil war. They had arrived to execute the rebel leaders and restore the rule of the Imperial commander, now they defended the same man against a whole world risen up against the tyranny of their ruler. The fighting had taken a bloody toll. There were thirty of them left; thirty Space Marines of the one hundred and three who had first come to Helmabad.

From behind makeshift barricades of twisted metal, heaps of lumpen rockcrete and barriers of piled bodies the Astartes poured fire into their attackers. The air was alight with the flickering rocket trails of bolter rounds, while blinding lascannon blasts blazed out to sear through armoured hulls and flesh alike. The crunch of heavy bolter fire and the crackling roar of plasma howled the Space Marines’ fury.

Behind the wall of armoured giants cowered the relatively few men that still remained loyal to Commander Mu’shan, snapping off shots from their lasguns in scattered moments of bravery. Once they had been the elite, the lauded Sepulchre Guard of Helmabad. Now the ire of those they had once sworn to protect had humbled them. Their death’s head masks seemed comical rather than grim. Their gold brocade and epaulettes were tattered and their black carapace armour pitted, scarred and filthy.

Amidst the fire and devastation strode Brother-Captain Gessart of the Avenging Sons. Like his battle-brothers he wore armour marked from much fighting. Its blue paint was burnt and cracked ceramite showed through his livery in dozens of places. His left shoulder pad was a plain, dull white; a hasty replacement for the one he had lost two days ago. His golden helmet was slicked with a layer of dust, and blood stained the silver eagle upon his chest; the blood of enemies a better badge of honour than the symbol it obscured.

Gessart barked commands as he led the defenders, each order punctuated by a salvo of shots from the storm bolter in his hands.

‘Dispersive fire on the left,’ he growled, loosing off three rounds that tore through a junior officer half-hidden behind the tangled remains of an iron bench. The men the dead officer had been attempting to rally melted away into the dust clouds and smoke.

Just behind the captain stood Librarian Zacherys, a nimbus of energy glowing from the Librarian’s psychic hood, the force sword in his right fist blazing with power. Helmetless, Zacherys’s face was a mask of strain as he projected an invisible wall of force around the Space Marines. With sparks of warp energy, las-bolts and autogun rounds crackled into oblivion around the psyker.

‘Show them no mercy!’ bellowed Herdain, the Company Chaplain, as he stepped up onto a pile of rubble and loosed a succession of plasma bolts from his pistol. The conversion field hidden within the Chaplain’s rosarius intermittently blazed into blinding life as enemy fire converged on the grim custodian.

‘How can so many be so misguided?’ said Rykhel, his bolter raised to his shoulder, his shots controlled and precise. ‘They are blind to their doom.’

‘Pick your targets,’ said Gessart. ‘Make every shot count.’

‘It’s hard to miss,’ laughed Lehenhart, his bolter spewing rounds that chewed through a rebel squad dashing across the open area directly in front of the Space Marines. ‘We haven’t had such easy targets since those orks charged us on Caraphis.’

‘You’ll lead us to victory, captain,’ said Willusch. ‘The primarch favours you.’

‘Just stay focused,’ said Gessart as he loosed off another burst of fire.

The firefight continued for several more minutes, the Space Marines manoeuvring and concentrating their fire wherever the rebels looked to be gathering in numbers.

‘Recon walkers on the right flank; three, possibly four,’ warned Willusch. He swung his heavy bolter in a slow arc, his volley hammering through plasteel and rockcrete at the rebels cowering behind. ‘I can’t draw on them from here.’

‘Lehenhart, Herdain, Nicz and Rykhel with me,’ Gessart snapped. ‘Ready grenades for counterattack.’

The five Space Marines pounded to the right along the barricade line. A long gallery ran alongside this side of the hall, the wall between cracked and holed in places, through which the captain saw the gawky forms of the Sentinel walkers advancing. If they were allowed to continue they would reach the end of the line and would be able to pour fire from behind the defence works.

‘Breach on my signal,’ Gessart called out.

They were less than a dozen paces from the wall when Gessart unleashed a long burst from his storm bolter, the rounds punching into the rockcrete and gouging great holes with their detonations. The others did the same, ripping up the wall with their fire.

‘Breach!’ shouted Gessart, lowering his left shoulder and charging full speed at the damaged rockcrete. The blasted wall shattered under the impact of the massive Space Marine and the captain smashed through into the gallery beyond amidst a cloud of stone splinters and crumbling plaster. To his left and right the others made similarly dramatic entrances.

The Avenging Sons had breached just behind four Sentinel walkers. The rearmost turned awkwardly, its double-jointed legs buckling as it struggled over a mound of rubble. The pilot’s eyes widened with horror inside the open cockpit as Rykhel’s frag grenade landed in his lap. He reached up to slap the release buckle on his restraining belt. A moment later the grenade detonated, spraying the inside of the walker with lethal shrapnel. The pilot was shredded, his bloodied, ragged form disembowelled. Its controls destroyed, the walker swayed to the left and then nose-dived to the right, the impact buckling its chin-mounted multilaser.

The three others were beginning to turn, but not quickly enough to bring their weapons to bear. Nicz had a krak grenade in his hand. He leapt forwards and slammed the magnetic explosive onto the lower joint of the closest Sentinel’s left leg before jumping back. The grenade detonated, shearing away the walker’s steel limb. The Sentinel toppled backwards and Nicz punched his gauntleted fist through its exposed underside, tearing free a handful of wires and hydraulics. Red fluid spurted from the severed lines, spraying like arterial blood from the critically wounded Sentinel.

Gessart jumped up towards the next Sentinel, his free hand grabbing hold of the edge of the cockpit. The pilot pulled out a laspistol and fired it point blank into Gessart’s chest as the captain heaved himself up, the shots flickering harmless from the solid plastron of his armour. Gessart swung his storm bolter around and fired two shots; the first round ripped apart the pilot’s chest, the second disintegrated his head in a shower of gore; blood and brain matter spattered across Gessart’s golden helm. The Sentinel jerked spasmodically as the dead man’s muscles contracted at the controls, throwing Gessart to the ground in its mechanical death throes.

The last pilot fired his multilaser, the shots falling well wide, as he tried to steer his walker to face his attackers. Lehenhart reached up and grabbed the swivelling weapon with his right hand. The creak of hydraulics competed with the whine of servos as the Sentinel’s systems battled against the artificial muscles of Lehenhart’s bionic arm and power armour. With a screech and a shower of sparks the Sentinel’s actuators lost the fight and Lehenhart ripped the multilaser from its housing. Herdain’s plasma pistol tore a glowing hole through the walker’s engine block which exploded in a ball of blue flame, sending Lehenhart and the Chaplain crunching into the rubble littering the gallery floor.

The pilot of the walker crippled by Nicz pulled himself free of the cockpit and dragged himself a few paces across the grit of the floor, his leg shattered by the same blow that had destroyed his machine. Lehenhart picked himself up and grabbed the back of the man’s flak jacket. Casually lifting the soldier into the air, the Space Marine turned to Gessart.

‘Anyone want a new pet?’ Lehenhart asked.

‘Perhaps we can interrogate him for intelligence,’ said Nicz.

Gessart glanced at the wounded man. Tears made tracks through the filth on his smoke-grimed face beneath the peak of his skewed leather helmet. The man’s distress meant nothing to the captain. He was the enemy, that was all that mattered.

‘There’s nothing he can tell us that we don’t know already,’ said the captain with a dismissive shake of the head.

Lehenhart shrugged, the actuators beneath his shoulder pads whining in protest as they tried to replicate the expressive gesture. With a swing of his arm, the Space Marine smashed the pilot against the wreckage of his walker, dashing in his skull and snapping his spine with one blow. Lehenhart let the limp corpse drop from his fingers.

Gessart checked down the gallery to see if any other rebels had been following the walkers. He could see nothing and guessed they had been waiting until the sentinels secured a forward position. Still, he could not defend the gallery and the hallway at the same time; not if the rebels made a determined push along both. He was thankful that the rebel commanders, whoever they now were after overthrowing the Imperial commander’s regime, seemed to place a tactically-limiting value on their follower’s lives. An enemy with a more detached attitude would have overrun the hall on the first attack.

‘Back to the line,’ Gessart ordered.

For another six hours the battle for the audience hall raged. There had been little let-up in the fighting and even Gessart was beginning to feel the strain of the constant vigilance required; not just on the line here but from more than forty days of continuous war since they had arrived on Helmabad.

Smoke billowing from four wrecked tanks hung heavily in the still air, obscuring growing numbers of shadowy figures beyond. The rebels were clearly massing for another attack, as they had done three times before in the last twenty hours.

‘Ammunition check,’ said Gessart, ejecting his own empty magazine and slamming another drum into place on the side of the storm bolter.

‘Last belt, captain,’ Brother Willusch reported on the comm.

‘Seven rounds left, captain,’ warned Brother Rykhel.

‘Power pack at thirty-five per cent,’ said Brother Heynke.

As the rest gave their reports it was quickly apparent that every Space Marine was running low. Gessart looked out at the hundreds of soldiers now creeping closer and closer to their line. Some were less than fifty metres away, firing blind from their hiding places to cover the advance of their comrades. Gessart knew that they would be moving up heavier weaponry and the Space Marines would feel the full wrath of the rebels’ attack soon.

Another Leman Russ tank rumbled into view. It foolishly shouldered aside the wreckage of a transport and crawled forwards, its cannon swinging towards Gessart’s position. Obviously the men inside had not learnt from the mistakes of their fellow tank crews. The captain fearlessly stared down the bore of the gun for a moment.

‘Heynke!’ Gessart called out, but his warning was unnecessary; even as the name left his lips Heynke’s lascannon spat out a blast of energy that slammed into the turret of the tank. The shot ignited the shells stored inside and the whole of the turret erupted into a blossom of fire and smoke, hurling a burning body out onto the blood-soaked marble.

‘Power pack at thirty per cent,’ warned Heynke. ‘No more than half a dozen shots left, brother-captain. What are your orders, captain?’

‘We are outgunned,’ said Rykhel. ‘We need to defend a more enclosed area.’

‘It is our duty to press forward and drive these scum from the palace, captain,’ snapped Herdain. ‘Remember the teachings of Guilliman!’

Las- and heavy weapons fire intensified around the knot of Space Marines as more and more rebels got into position. Las-bolts, shrapnel and splinters of rockcrete pattered from their armour. Gessart could see only two options: retreat to the next position or counterattack and drive back the soldiers with hand to hand combat. He chose the former.

‘Colonel, fall back to the access way,’ Gessart directed his order to Colonel Akhaim, the leader of the Sepulchre Guard.

The Guardsmen needed no further encouragement and were soon scrambling and scrabbling over the wreckage towards the corridor behind them. A few minutes later Gessart signalled his own squads to withdraw. The Avenging Sons pulled back from the line, facing their foes all the while. No shots were fired to cover their retreat; the Space Marines were contemptuous of the rebels’ weapons, and they needed to save every last shred of ammunition if they were to continue the war.

As they passed into the corridor the Space Marines retreated past a ring of melta-bombs secured to the walls and ceiling. When they were clear of the area Gessart sent the detonation signal. The ground underfoot shuddered as the captain watched the gateway into the audience hall disappear under tons of rockcrete and twisted steel. Now there was only one way in to and out of the central sepulchre where the Imperial commander was hidden.

‘Reminds me of Archimedon,’ said Nicz from behind the captain.

Gessart turned to look at the Space Marine, unable to see Nicz’s expression hidden inside his helmet.

‘Keep that thought to yourself,’ snarled Gessart.

The sepulchre was the inner reaches of the Imperial commander’s palace; a maze of corridors and chambers dug into the heartrock that were the foundations of the citadel. Before the uprising they had been home to functionaries and courtiers, now they were a makeshift hospital, communications station and headquarters. The brick tunnels were now choked with storage crates and wounded men on bloodstained bedding. The ghostly echoes of the dying resounded along the long, low tunnels.

Having left some of his warriors to defend the last gateway to the surface, Gessart led the remnants of his company through the winding subterranean passages. He ignored the moans of the wounded and the scared chatter of the Sepulchre Guard. Here and there a radio squawked out tinny propaganda transmitted by the rebels – a crude but effective jamming of the loyalists’ communications.

Passing an archway the captain heard laughter and swearing from the chamber beyond. He stooped under the low arch into the room. Inside were a handful of Guardsmen clustered around a battered vox-caster.

‘You’ll be getting the same as your dog-faced friends,’ their sergeant was saying into the pick-up. ‘Just try to come through the east gate and the Avenging Sons will send you crying to your mothers.’

Gessart’s massive armoured boot crushed the vox-caster, which died with a piercing screech.

‘No communication with the enemy!’ bellowed the captain.

The Guardsmen cowered before Gessart’s anger as he loomed over them.

‘This endless chatter gives the enemy vital information,’ the captain told them. It was not the first time that he had been forced to explain his edict for radio silence. ‘Fools such as you tell them where we keep our supplies, where our defences are strongest, where we intend to strike. If you wish to help the rebels at least have the courage to do it with your guns.’

Suitably cowed the Guardsmen muttered their apologies, avoiding the disconcerting gaze of the captain’s blank eye lenses.

‘Hopeless,’ muttered Gessart as he turned back into the corridor.

The captain soon led the others into the central chamber; an octagonal meeting place of the main thoroughfares that radiated outwards to the far reaches of the sepulchre. Rykhel was already waiting; his helmet removed to reveal a lean face and agitated grey eyes.

‘We have less than two hundred bolter rounds left,’ the Space Marine explained with a grim expression. ‘Less than fifty heavy shells for Willusch. Power packs are still plentiful.’

‘One engagement,’ said Heynke.

‘A short one, perhaps,’ said Lehenhart, his mood unusually subdued. ‘It’ll be short for the wrong reasons.’

‘It’s only through good fire discipline we’ve made our supplies last this long,’ said Rykhel. ‘We weren’t equipped for an elongated campaign. We’re already seventy days over our predicted combat threshold.’

‘Tell me something I don’t already know,’ said Gessart. ‘Other weapons?’

Rykhel strode across the chamber and picked up one of the many Guard-issue lasguns stacked against the walls. Its barrel crumpled in the augmented grip of his hand.

‘Useless for our purposes,’ said Rykhel, tossing the remnants of the lasgun aside. ‘Simply not durable enough. We would be better using our fists.’

‘If that is what we must do, that is what we shall do,’ said Herdain. His skull helm turned slowly as the Chaplain looked at the assembled Space Marines. ‘We fight to the last breath.’

Gessart did not reply, for his own thoughts were very different. Instead he looked towards Zacherys. The Librarian had pulled off his helmet, his black hair plastered with waxy sweat across his face. He leaned against the wall, the bricks behind him cracking under the strain as if in sympathy for the laboured psyker.

‘Have you detected any sign of relief or reinforcement?’ Gessart asked. ‘Any vision or message?’

The Librarian shook his head silently.

‘Nothing at all?’ Gessart continued. ‘No warp-chatter? No ship wakes?’

‘Nothing,’ said Zacherys in a cracked whisper. ‘There is a veil upon Helmabad that I cannot pierce. I cannot see beyond the curtain of blood.’

‘Rest,’ said Gessart, crossing the chamber to lay a hand upon the Librarian’s head. ‘Regather your strength.’

Zacherys nodded and pushed himself upright.

‘I do not wish to bring woe, but this does not augur well,’ croaked the Librarian. The others watched as he straightened and walked from the vault with as much dignity as he could muster.

‘His reticence worries me,’ said Herdain once Zacherys was out of earshot.

‘I trust no one more than Zacherys,’ said Gessart. ‘He guided us here. I trust he will lead us on the right path.’

‘As he did on Archimedon?’ asked Nicz. ‘You followed his prophecy then and what did we get? A penitence patrol that has brought us to this Emperor-forsaken war.’

‘I said not to speak of that place,’ said Gessart, squaring off to Nicz. ‘Your indiscipline borders on insubordination.’

‘If I have my doubts it is not wise to keep them hidden,’ said Nicz, looking at Herdain. ‘Is it not true that the doubt that is buried festers into heresy, Brother-Chaplain?’

‘There is a time and a place for voicing concerns,’ Herdain replied evenly. ‘This is neither. Respect your superiors or there will be consequences.’

‘All I am saying is that we were never prepared for this fight,’ said Nicz. ‘You brought us here to put down a… What was it? A “small uprising”, wasn’t it? This world has been wracked in civil war for eight years. We should not have stayed.’

‘The Chapter will respond,’ said Herdain. ‘More will come, either to aid us, or to avenge us.’

‘Zacherys did not seem so certain,’ said Heynke. ‘All he talks about is the “curtain of blood” that surrounds this place. His messages have gone nowhere.’

‘Then here we will make our last stand,’ said Herdain. ‘We live for battle and we shall die for battle.’

‘We lay down our lives for victory,’ said Gessart. ‘I am not convinced there is any victory to be won here.’

Gessart was alone in one of the many chambers of the sepulchre, performing the rituals of maintenance on his storm bolter. The captain sat with his back to a crumbling vault wall, the storm bolter cradled delicately in his hands. He had removed his helm to see better and his craggy features were illuminated by the flicker of candles in small alcoves around the chamber. By the dim light he worked a cloth over the exposed innards of the weapon, inspecting each piece carefully before replacing it.

Now and then a detonation would set the whole network of corridors trembling, showering mortar dust from the walls and ceiling. The rebels’ bombardment had been continuous, trying to force a breach through the gateways since the Space Marines had withdrawn from the upper levels. Though the defences were strong, the men who defended the catacombs were weary and disillusioned. Once the gates collapsed – perhaps two days, perhaps three or four – there would be nothing left but a last stand against an unstoppable army.

‘Captain?’ said Willusch from the doorway. He had stripped his armour of backpack, helm and shoulder pads. It made Willusch look strangely thin and weak, something Gessart knew to be utterly wrong. ‘May I speak with you?’

Gessart looked up and waved in the Space Marine, placing his storm bolter to one side. Willusch did not sit.

‘I have concerns, captain,’ said Willusch.

‘Our Brother-Chaplain is always ready to listen,’ said Gessart.

‘It is with Herdain that I have an issue,’ Willusch said, his hands clasped at his waist.

‘How so?’ asked Gessart.

‘I know that you forbade us from speaking of Archimedon, but I must,’ said Willusch.

‘Say what you must, brother,’ said Gessart with a sigh.

‘Thank you, captain,’ Willusch said. He remained absolutely still as he spoke, his scarred face a picture of intense sincerity. ‘We were right to do what we did on Archimedon. It is not in the teachings of the primarch to throw our lives away in needless sacrifice. We could not defend the space port any longer against the enemy. It had to be destroyed.’

‘I do not need to justify my actions,’ Gessart said angrily. ‘As I told you all at the time, thousands would die, but not in vain. If the renegades had captured the port they would have been able to wreak unknown terror and destruction.’

‘Yet the masters of the Chapter felt that you were in error,’ said Willusch. ‘They have punished us for that decision; a punishment that has led us to this place.’

‘A chance of fate, perhaps,’ said Gessart with a shake of the head. ‘There is no divine justice in our coming here, merely the happenstance of location and the vagaries of astrotelepathy.’

‘I concur, captain,’ said Willusch. ‘Yet Herdain lectured us when you departed. He told us that we were about to lay our lives upon the altar of battle for the glory of the Chapter.’

‘And perhaps we will,’ said Gessart. ‘I see no way for us to break out of our predicament. The enemy number in their billions. Billions, Willusch! In all likelihood it is well that Herdain resigns us to our doom.’

‘He not only expects it, he craves it,’ said Willusch, now growing more animated. ‘He would have us throw away our lives as a gesture of penance for Archimedon. He was not there yet he attributes us with a great shame for the judgement of the Chapter upon us. He does not seek victory, he seeks to absolve us with our deaths!’

Before Gessart replied a wailing shout echoed along the stone labyrinth; the cry of Zacherys. The captain pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the chamber, Willusch close on his heels. The pair marched quickly through the winding corridors, following the source of the shouts that continued to cry out. When they arrived at Zacherys’s quarters Gessart saw that many of his warriors were already there.

The chamber was dark, lit by a single guttering lantern overhead. In the centre of the circle of Space Marines, Nicz was on one knee, the Librarian’s head cradled in his armoured lap. Motes of energy danced around the psyker’s lips as he shouted wordlessly, but the Librarian was otherwise utterly inert. Gessart noticed thick blood oozing from Zacherys’s gums as he wailed.

‘What is happening?’ demanded Herdain as he entered from the opposite doorway.

‘I just found–’ began Nicz.

Zacherys’s eyes snapped open and a blast of power exploded from him, hurling the Space Marines to the ground. Nicz was flung against the wall and flopped to the ground, dazed. The others groped their way back to their feet as the Librarian stood. His eyes were a liquid crimson and his teeth stained with blood.

‘The curtain of blood is parting,’ Zacherys whispered. ‘The realm beyond breaks through. The legion across the divide awaits. The clarions of Chaos call loud.’

‘What do you see?’ demanded Gessart, striding across the small chamber. He reached out to touch the Librarian but held back his hand at the last moment.

‘Death is coming!’ hissed Zacherys. He turned his otherworldly eyes on Gessart. ‘Yet, you are not destined to die here.’

With a shuddering gasp, the psyker fell to his knees and slumped forwards onto all fours. When he raised his head again, his eyes were once more the pale blue they had always been. Gessart crouched beside his friend and laid a comforting hand on his left shoulder pad.

‘What did you see?’ he asked again, his voice now gentle, barely audible.

‘The warp opens,’ said Zacherys.

There was a moment of murmuring discontent from the other Space Marines and Gessart shot them a fierce glance to quell it.

‘Traitors?’ asked Herdain.

‘Worse,’ said Zacherys, getting to his feet with the aid of Gessart. ‘Chaos Incarnate. The Evil Given Life. A Nightmare Host.’

‘Daemons,’ muttered Rykhel.

‘The rebels,’ the Librarian continued. ‘They know not what they do, but their fear and their loathing beckons the apparitions. They idly whisper the names of ancient powers lost in antiquity and draw the gaze of them to this world.’

‘How long do we have to get ready for the festivities?’ asked Lehenhart.

‘Less than a day,’ the Librarian replied. ‘Hours, more likely. I can feel the rift opening, out in the stars above the city. They will come here first. Everything will die.’

‘Not us,’ said Herdain. ‘We shall fight on gloriously. You said yourself that we will not die here.’

‘He said that I would not die here,’ said Gessart. ‘I didn’t hear him mention your name.’

‘Yet how would you survive while we perish?’ said Nicz, who had recovered and was pushing himself to his feet, using the wall to keep his balance.

‘None need to die here,’ said Gessart. He turned his dark gaze upon his Space Marines. ‘This world is lost; to the rebels or the daemons. It matters not which darkness devours Helmabad; only that we survive to warn of its fall.’

‘So we cut and run again?’ said Nicz.

‘That would not be my choice of phrase,’ said Gessart.

‘There is no honour in empty sacrifice,’ said Willusch, taking a step to stand beside his captain.

‘Sacrifice is the honour,’ snapped Herdain. ‘The Astartes were created to lay down their lives in battle. This cowardice will not be tolerated.’

‘It’s not cowardice, it’s survival,’ said Lehenhart. ‘Humanity will not be guarded by our corpses.’

‘I will not let you repeat the sins of Archimedon,’ said Herdain, rounding on Gessart. ‘You failed in your leadership then and you are failing now. You are no longer fit to lead this company.’

‘Company?’ laughed Nicz. ‘There is no company here. No Chapter. We are all that remain. I will not die here in a vain gesture.’

‘Heresy!’ roared Herdain, snatching his plasma pistol from its holster and pointing it at Nicz. ‘Pay no heed to this treachery, brothers.’

Rykhel held up his hands and stepped forwards.

‘I swore an oath to the Chapter,’ he said. ‘I am Astartes, of the Avenging Sons. My life was forfeit the day I took that oath, as were all of yours. It is not our place to pick and choose our fates, but to fight until we can fight no more.’

There was a chorus of assent from several of the Space Marines, most of them newer recruits to the company, brought in to replace the losses of Archimedon. Gessart looked at the assembly and saw a mixture of hope and doubt in their eyes. Willusch gave him a reassuring nod.

‘We cannot stand divided,’ said Gessart. ‘I am your captain, your commander. I alone lead this company, what remains of it.’

‘I still follow where you lead,’ said Willusch.

‘And I,’ said Zacherys. ‘There is no defeating this foe.’

‘I was taught to fight, not commit suicide,’ said Lehenhart. ‘Staying here would be suicide, by my reckoning.’

Herdain’s face was a mask of hatred as he stared at Gessart and his companions. He turned his fell look upon Heynke.

‘You, brother, what do you say?’ the Chaplain demanded.

Heynke stood transfixed for a moment, his eyes shifting between Gessart and Herdain before straying around the room to look at his battle-brothers. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

‘Is this the bravery of the Avenging Sons?’ shouted Herdain, grabbing the rim of the breastplate at Heynke’s throat and pulling him forward. ‘Make your loyalties known! Show your purity!’

‘I will fight!’ declared Ruphen, drawing up his bolter to his shoulder and aiming at the group clustered around Gessart.

‘This is insanity,’ muttered Tylo, the company’s Apothecary. His white armour stood out amongst the deep blue of his battle-brothers as he pushed his way forward. ‘We cannot fail here and allow our gene-seed to fall into the clutches of traitors. We must seek to preserve the future.’

‘What future is there without honour?’ said Herdain, lowering his pistol, his eyes imploring.

The crack of a bolt-round rang out around the chamber and the Chaplain’s head exploded in a blossom of blood and fragments of bone. Gessart stood with Zacherys’s smoking pistol in his fist; the captain had not brought his own weapon with him.

‘More future than death holds,’ Gessart declared.

Ruphen opened fire with his bolter and anarchy filled the chamber. Gessart lunged to his left, pushing Zacherys clear of the Space Marine’s fire. Nicz and Lehenhart opened up with their bolters. Within a second, the two camps were locked in bitter combat, blazing away with bolters and pounding each other with fists and chainswords, their harsh shouts accompanying the roar of weapons.

In a matter of moments four Space Marines lay dead on the rocky floor and six more were sorely wounded. Nicz loomed over brother Karlrech, one of those who had sided with Herdain. His bolter was inches from the bleeding Space Marine’s face. Lehenhart was holding down Rykhel with the aid of two more battle-brothers. Heynke and a few others looked on with expressions of horror.

Gessart handed back the pistol to Zacherys and walked towards the subdued followers of the Chaplain.

‘If you wish to die on Helmabad, I will grant that for you,’ he said calmly, looking not only at those who had spoken against him but those who had remained silent. ‘I hold no ill will against you, for we must each make a choice now. It will be quick for those who wish to preserve their honour. For those who swear anew to follow me, there will be no judgement on what has just passed.’

‘I will follow the will of my brothers,’ said Heynke. ‘If it is their choice that we leave, then I shall be with them.’

‘Death before dishonour!’ spat Karlrech.

Gessart gave Nicz a nod, who pulled the trigger and ended Karlrech’s protests with the angry retort of his bolter.

‘Anybody else?’ Nicz asked, straightening, his face a crimson mask of the dead Space Marine’s blood.

Brother Hechsen stepped forwards and grabbed the muzzle of Nicz’s bolter and placed it under his chin. He stared defiantly at Gessart.

‘This is treachery,’ said Hechsen. ‘I name you all renegades, and I will not be numbered amongst you in the annals of shame. I am an Avenging Son and proud to die as such. You are less than cowards, for you are traitors.’

Gessart noticed a few of his warriors wince as Nicz fired again, but he kept his own eyes firmly fixed on those of Hechsen. He felt nothing. Inside he was empty, as he had been for several years; ever since Archimedon. He had not wished events to turn in this way, but he was accepting of whatever fate had dealt him.

No more Space Marines stepped forwards at Nicz’s next inquiry and Gessart nodded approvingly. Lehenhart pulled Rykhel to his feet and patted him on the head. Tylo moved to the dead warriors and began the bloody process of removing their gene-seed as Gessart turned to Zacherys.

‘We shall not die on Helmabad,’ the captain said.

‘Aye, captain,’ said the Librarian with a weak smile.

‘I hope you have a plan for how you’re going to make that happen,’ said Lehenhart. ‘There’s still millions of rebels camped outside, and we need to get off this world.’

‘Captain!’ Nicz called out and pointed towards one of the chamber doors.

Clustered outside was a handful of the Sepulchre Guard, who looked upon the awful scene with wide eyes and trembling lips.

‘Nicz, Lehenhart, Heynke, Willusch,’ Gessart snapped. ‘Deal with them.’

As the Space Marines turned towards the doorway the Guardsmen bolted.

‘Fists and knives,’ Gessart added. ‘Save what ammunition you can.’

The central chamber of the sepulchre was deathly quiet, disturbed only by moans and whispers of dying Sepulchre Guards echoing from the corridors surrounding it. It was a large space, its wide floor decorated with tiles carved with the Imperial aquila, thirty pillars inscribed with the names of faithful Imperial servants supported the vaulted ceiling. At one end Imperial Commander Mu’shan sat upon a high-backed chair of dark red wood, his wizened face hidden by the cowl of his golden robe. Nicz stood to his left, bolter in hand, while Hurstreich loomed on the governor’s right. Gessart leant against one of the pillars not far from the throne, talking to Lehenhart and Zacherys. Some of the other Space Marines stood guard at the entrance hall, others stood sentry behind the sealed east gate, whilst five had been despatched on a mission beyond the sepulchre by their captain.

‘The breach is coming closer,’ warned the Librarian, his voice low. ‘I can feel the curtain of blood thinning. I hear the voices of the beasts that dwell on the other side. They are hungry, I can feel it. They sense the terror of this world and they thirst for it.’

‘We could probably fight our way back to the Thunderhawk,’ said Lehenhart. ‘It’s less than a mile from the north-west gate.’

‘As a last resort, yes,’ Gessart replied. ‘I would rather not use up the remaining supplies fighting the rebels only to be unarmed when the daemons arrive. There is another way; one that carries less risk.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Lehenhart.

‘That is not your concern,’ snapped Gessart. ‘Be ready to move out on my word.’

‘Of course,’ said Lehenhart. ‘You know, a little trust goes a long way.’

Gessart darted the Space Marine a scowl in reply and Lehenhart swiftly retreated, joining his comrades at the main door.

‘What is your intent, renegade?’ Mu’shan’s high-pitched voice floated across the hall.

Gessart strode to the Imperial commander and stood in front of him, swathing the aging ruler with his shadow. He looked down at the shrivelled dignitary and wondered how such a decrepit specimen could ever have been trusted with the sovereign rule of Helmabad.

‘It was not I that surrendered his world to the rebels,’ said Gessart. ‘The blame for all that has befallen you lies at your own feet. Your laxness in prosecuting the Emperor’s will has been your undoing.’

‘And so in hindsight you would hold me guilty of this, when it is you who are supposed to be our saviours?’ Mu’shan spoke quietly but with defiance. ‘What hope is there for mankind if our greatest defenders forget their oaths and put their survival ahead of their duty?’

‘You speak to me of duties?’ said Gessart with a sneer. ‘How is it that three-quarters of your citizens rose up in revolt against your command? Explain to me why the Astartes should shed their blood to save the rulership of a man who did not defend it himself?’

‘If I am weak, then it is beholden to you and your kind to remain strong,’ said Mu’shan, pulling back his hood to reveal a thin, wrinkled face with alabaster-white skin. His eyes were dark blue and intent as he stared at Gessart. ‘If I failed, it is because of my human weakness. You were created to be better than human; stronger, more devoted, dependable and unflinching. Has so much been lost these ten thousand years that the war-angels of the Astartes consider the protection of mankind beneath their dignity?’

‘Has Man fallen so low that it must always look to the Astartes to cure every ill it suffers?’ countered Gessart. ‘We wage war for the protection of humankind, of the race, not in the defence of individuals. Did the Emperor grant you such a greater lot in your life, that it is worth our lives to defend you for a few hours more when we could live and save a billion others?’

Mu’shan stood slowly, awkwardly, lips pursed, his head barely reaching the chest of Gessart. His back was bent and as he reached forward a hand to lay it upon the eagle of Gessart’s armour his skeletal limbs were plain to see.

‘If you judge the worth of your battles by numbers alone, then you have already lost,’ said Mu’shan. ‘Beneath this breast of muscle and fused bone beats the heart of a man. Does it not tell you that what you do is wrong?’

Gessart gently brushed aside the commander’s hand, fearful that so frail was Mu’shan that even this light touch might break his weak bones.

‘I have read the Tactica Imperialis too,’ said Gessart. ‘It also says, “The mere slaughter of your foe is no substitute for true victory.” A man’s heart may beat in my chest, but beside it beats the secondary heart of the Space Marine. We are not alike. We share no common bond. You ask that I be human and sacrifice myself for you. The nature of the galaxy demands that I be more than human and live to fight further battles. To accept defeat, for our deaths will not prevent it here, is no courage at all. To accept death, no matter the circumstance, is the counsel of despair. I will listen to it no longer.’

Gessart turned away and heard Mu’shan wheeze as he sat down again. His ears also detected the tramp of heavy boots outside and a moment later the guards at the door parted to allow Willusch, Heynke and three other Space Marines to enter. Between them they carried the limp forms of four men, their greatcoats torn, insignias cut out. Rebels.

‘Tylo!’ Gessart called as the prisoners were dropped unceremoniously in the middle of the chamber.

The Apothecary walked over to the captives and, after giving them a brief inspection, nodded to confirm that they were still alive.

‘Wake them up,’ said Gessart.

Willusch strode across the chamber to the pile of crates and barrels in one corner, returning quickly with a glass demijohn of water. He tipped its contents over the faces of the men, who rose to wakefulness with splutters and coughs. They gazed at the Space Marines towering over them, their eyes full of fear, and their mouths aghast.

‘Listen, do not speak,’ snapped Gessart. ‘Do as I say and you will live. Any defiance and you will be slain.’

The men nodded dumbly in understanding.

‘That is well,’ said Gessart, crouching down beside the prisoners, the joints of his armour creaking as he did so. He turned his gaze to Heynke. ‘Fetch a vox-caster.’

Heynke headed back into the recesses of the hall without question and returned promptly carrying a comms unit under one arm. He placed it on the floor next to Gessart and knelt on one knee beside it.

‘Who are we contacting?’ Heynke said.

Gessart looked at the prisoners with a vicious smile.

‘The enemy,’ he said.

Gessart’s captives were more than willing to give up the command frequencies of their superiors, and after several messages, the Space Marines worked their way up the chain to speak to those in charge.

‘Whom am I addressing?’ asked Gessart, the vox-caster’s pick-up dwarfed by his huge fist.

‘Serain Am’hep, Third Apostle of the Awakening,’ a tinny voice crackled back.

‘Third what?’ snorted Lehenhart. ‘Unbelievable!’

Gessart waved him into silence and pressed the transmit stud.

‘Do you have the authority to discuss terms?’ the captain asked.

‘I am a member of the Revolutionary Council,’ Serain Am’hep replied. ‘I have with me the fourth and eighth Apostles and we speak for all members.’

‘Finally!’ said Gessart. He began to pace around the prisoners as he spoke. ‘It is my desire to end this conflict.’

‘You wish to discuss surrender?’ Am’hep’s incredulity was clear in the tone of his voice.

‘Of course not,’ said Gessart.

‘There’s no way we could possibly take you all prisoner!’ Lehenhart called from behind his leader.

Gessart turned with a frown and wordlessly pointed towards the guards at the door. Lehenhart gave a sullen nod and departed to join them.

‘Let me be direct with you,’ said Gessart. ‘I wish to arrange our safe departure in return for the delivery of Imperial Commander Mu’shan.’

‘What?’ came Mu’shan’s choked cry from the end of the hall.

Surprise was written across the faces of many of the Space Marines. Nicz simply nodded with a grim smile.

‘You will turn over the faithless Mu’shan to our justice?’ asked Am’hep.

‘Once we have departed, you will be free to enter the sepulchre without resistance and claim him for yourselves,’ said Gessart.

‘Why would we allow you to walk free?’ said Am’hep. ‘We have the manpower to storm the sepulchre any time that we wish.’

‘You are welcome to expend the lives of thousands of your followers in the attempt,’ said Gessart. ‘I’m sure their deaths will not discourage the rest.’

There was a long pause as Am’hep undoubtedly conferred with his companions. Gessart glanced towards the throne, where Mu’shan was sat trembling, his eyes boring holes of hatred into the Space Marine captain. Gessart ignored him and looked away.

‘What guarantee can we be given that you have not spirited Mu’shan away by some means?’ said Am’hep.

‘None,’ replied Gessart. ‘However, should you try to double-cross me, my strike cruiser in orbit has locked onto your comms-signal and is even now aiming its cannons at your position. If I fail to report to them once we leave the sepulchre they will reduce your camp to ashes, and you along with it.’

‘Really?’ whispered Willusch with a smile. ‘I never knew we could do that.’

‘He’s lying, you idiot,’ snapped Nicz. ‘Even if we were actually in contact with the Vengeful they can’t track a solitary carrier wave signal from orbit. We would have blasted their commanders to oblivion by now if we could.’

Gessart shook his head despairingly and clicked the transmit stud once more.

‘I expect your reply within five minutes,’ he told the rebel leaders. ‘If I have not had confirmation by then, I will assume you wish the war to continue.’

He tossed the pick-up to the floor and walked away.

‘What if they refuse?’ asked Tylo. ‘They could bombard us for days and reduce the sepulchre to rubble and trap us in here.’

‘No,’ Mu’shan called out. ‘They’re revolutionaries. They need to show their pawns that I have been truly overthrown. It is, however, a grave mistake to trust them. To defeat the Astartes will be a powerful symbol for them also.’

Gessart stalked along the hallway, his eyes fixed upon the Imperial commander.

‘You try to goad me by speaking of defeat?’ Gessart said as he walked. ‘Your crude manipulations may have been sufficient to fool and subdue your council, but they do not work on me. You forget that we are trained to believe in the right of our cause. We do not flinch from the harsh truths that ordinary men would shy away from. Once committed to a cause we are indefatigable; swayed not by propaganda or deception.’

‘You believe your actions here are justified?’ croaked Mu’shan. ‘You have made your decision and will no longer listen to reason?’

‘The reason of men is filled with doubt and fear,’ said Gessart as he stopped in front of the governor. ‘Their logic is tainted by affection, compassion and mercy. They believe that life should be fair, rather than just.’

‘I did not realise that the argument of semantics was part of your training,’ said Mu’shan with a dismissive shake of the head. ‘It has bred arrogance.’

‘The insecure see self-assurance and call it hubris,’ said Gessart. ‘You call it semantics. In training it was called the shield of righteousness and the armour of contempt. We indeed learn of the trickery of words, so that we might spot the falsehoods presented as facts by our foes. Our minds are as hardened to doubt as our bodies are to injury. Your self-interest is plain, and so easily ignored.’

‘My self-interest?’ laughed Mu’shan bitterly. ‘You flee this battle to save yourself!’

‘It does not matter which course of action I have chosen,’ said Gessart. ‘Label it as you will. The fact remains that I am decided on it, and your so-called arguments are nothing more than a petty, irritating distraction. If you continue, I shall be forced to silence you.’

Mu’shan looked into Gessart’s eyes and saw nothing but harsh sincerity. He shook his head once more and lifted up his cowl to hide his leathery face.

Gessart was halfway back to the vox-caster when it crackled into life.

‘We have contacted our fellow Apostles and we have reached a decision,’ said Am’hep. ‘In two hours from now you shall assemble at the east gate and open it. You will be allowed to depart and will be given clear passage to your transport. You will not be hindered. When you have left we shall enter the sepulchre and arrest the treacherous Mu’shan. Are you agreed with this plan?’

Gessart took the proffered pick-up from Willusch and squeezed the transmit stud.

‘The east gate, in two hours,’ Gessart repeated. ‘It is agreed.’

Dropping the handset to the floor he turned to his warriors.

‘Scout the sepulchre for power packs, ammunition and all other supplies of use to us,’ said Gessart. ‘Armour up and be ready for action in ninety minutes. Tylo, prepare your gene-seed extractions for transit. Brothers, we are leaving Helmabad.’

Gessart’s Space Marines were a peculiar sight as they gathered just inside the massive bastion of the east gateway. Helmeted once more, they assumed the appearance of faceless angels of death, but now tempered with the baggage of their war on Helmabad. Their armour was rent and pitted with damage from the long fighting, patched here and there with battlefield repairs. They carried kitbags from the slain Guardsmen stuffed with power packs and water canteens. Nicz had an ornate power sword looted from the body of Colonel Akhaim; it looked small in his armoured fist, but was still a valuable prize.

Some of them had promethium containers hung from their belts, and the small fragmentation grenades used by the Imperial commander’s forces. Lehenhart had supplemented his bolter with an autocannon taken from its tripod, which he now carried over his shoulder, belts of shells hooked over one of the exhaust vents of his backpack.

They had been busy this last hour and a half, that was for sure.

‘Ready?’ asked Gessart. He received nods and affirmatives in response. He gave the signal to Heynke to start the gate-opening sequence.

He was stood at a rune panel set atop a lectern facing the huge armoured doors. Heynke’s gauntleted hands moved quickly over the glowing screen. Gears hidden in the floor far below the sepulchre started to turn slowly, their rumbling causing the floor to shudder. A warning klaxon sounded and red lights flashed on and off in the mass of machinery above the Space Marines.

The inner gate creaked and squealed as it opened outwards, driven by massive pistons. Amber lights flickered into life in the high, narrow hallway beyond.

‘Move out,’ snapped Gessart.

With the four captured rebels in front of them, the Space Marines strode into the antechamber. Gessart gave Heynke the nod, who activated the outer door locks and then followed his leader into the gatehouse.

There was more grinding of huge engines beneath them and then a sliver of bright light appeared in the plasteel door ahead. The sliver became a crack and then widened into a shaft of blinding sunlight. It was sunset and Helmabad’s star was low on the horizon, almost directly opposite the east gate. Gessart’s visor darkened immediately as the auto-senses filtered out the sudden brightness.

Through the tint, Gessart could see a massive ruined hallway, with tall windows all along its length through which the light was streaming. A long colonnade, its columns broken in places, ran down the centre, lined with troops and vehicles. Hundreds of weapons from lasguns to battle cannons were directed towards the Space Marines as they emerged. Most of the roof had collapsed and the dusk sky provided a ruddy ceiling.

A shimmering aurora hung to the north, making the sky look like a curtain of blood. At the realisation, Gessart hurriedly glanced at Zacherys. The Librarian nodded meaningfully.

Ahead, and to the left, stood a knot of serious-looking men in grey robes. There were eight of them, each with his head shaven, his face and scalp painted black. Their white eyes stood out like pearls floating upon ink. Gessart looked at the Apostles of the Awakening but they all cast their gaze upon the rubble-strewn floor; out of disdain, fear or shame, Gessart could not tell.

The shattered plascrete crunched underfoot in the quiet, joined only by the throbbing of combustion engines. Gessart turned his eyes directly ahead and walked without fear down the steps of the eastern gatehouse and into the hall.

‘Go,’ he said to the captured rebels, waving them away. They gave grateful smiles and grins as they scurried across the debris to rejoin their insurrectionist comrades.

The Space Marines’ advance along the hall was not hurried, but nor was it slow. Gessart was keen not to show any fear, but he was very aware that it was more than a mile to the Thunderhawk’s landing pad up on the roof of the palace, and time was a resource that was rapidly running out.

The tramp of booted feet signalled an escort falling into place behind the Space Marines. Gessart glanced back and saw the fear etched into the faces of those that followed. If the Astartes chose to fight, the men closest to the Space Marines knew they would be the first to die.

Further on, tank engines belched into fuming life and the crunch and clatter of treads announced the armoured element of their guard was now getting underway. Gessart was not worried. At this close range, the presence of the tanks was for show rather than any real protection. With another glance towards the darkening red sky, he began to slowly increase his pace.

As the small group reached the end of the hall, Gessart turned back towards the sepulchre. Already squads of troops were streaming up the steps to search for the Imperial commander. Mu’shan wouldn’t be hard to find; Gessart had manacled him to his chair of office and transmitted the location of the inner chamber just before he’d left for the gatehouse.

Assured that there would be no treachery, Gessart lead his Space Marines onwards.

The Avenging Sons’ last remaining Thunderhawk gunship sat atop one of the landing platforms of the palace’s east wing, surrounded by a cordon of guards. The Avenging Sons had lost their other craft one by one during the course of many missions against the rebels, and Gessart had wisely decided to keep one of the gunships intact. Fearing the vessel to be booby-trapped the rebels had not interfered with the Thunderhawk or tried to gain entry; early in the campaign the traitors had tried to capture a damaged Rhino personnel carrier and the transport’s machine-spirit had detonated its engines, slaying several dozen looters.

The Helmabadians guarding the craft withdrew into the palace as Gessart and his warriors approached, giving the Space Marines unimpeded access. Nicz moved to the assault ramp at the front of the slab-sided craft and opened the access controls while Gessart and the others scanned the surrounding gantries and rooftops for signs of heavy weapons ready to bring them down once they were airborne. Gessart could see nothing with enough firepower to down the Thunderhawk and gave Nicz the signal to open the ramp.

The ring of Space Marines collapsed back towards the gunship as the ramp growled down from the hull of the Thunderhawk. They were as alert now as they had been throughout the march from the sepulchre, expecting treachery but careful not to provoke a response from the rebels that had shadowed them. Gessart was the last to board, and gave a look towards the heavens where the night sky was dominated by the rippling waves of the red aurora. He slammed a hand onto the button that would close the ramp as he strode into the Thunderhawk’s interior.

Nicz was already in the cockpit at the pilot’s controls, Vanghort beside him in the navigator’s position. Gessart stepped backwards into one of the flight alcoves along the flanks of the hull. Mechanics hissed as servo arms came down from the ceiling and detached the Space Marine’s backpack and plugged it into the Thunderhawk’s system to recharge. Even the compensating muscle-like fibre bundles of his power armour felt lighter without the backpack’s reactor weighing him down. A quick check of the suit’s systems in his visor display confirmed that his armour had internal power for several hours; more than enough for them to reach the strike cruiser in orbit. Thus freed of the bulky backpack, Gessart was able to work his way between the rows of benches into the control chamber and climb up into the command chair behind Nicz. He activated the comm-link and punched in the frequency of the strike cruiser’s bridge.

‘Vengeful, this is Gessart,’ he said, the Thunderhawk’s own communications system picking up his helmet’s signal and amplifying it into orbit. ‘Confirm extraction by Thunderhawk imminent. Stand in to low orbit above our position and beat to quarters. Be ready to leave at flank speed upon our arrival.’

‘Captain!’ came the surprised voice of Kholich Beyne, Gessart’s chief functionary aboard the Vengeful. ‘We thought you might be dead.’

‘I still might be if you don’t get ready to leave right now,’ Gessart snarled. ‘You can leave the celebrations until we’re out-system.’

‘Understood, captain,’ said Beyne, his tone controlled once more. ‘Will rendezvous over your position in one-eight standard minutes. Confirm.’

‘Confirmed,’ said Gessart before he closed the contact. He reached up and pulled down the restraint harness above his head, fixing its locking bolts into position on his shoulder pads. ‘Everybody get secure for rapid departure!’

When the other Space Marines confirmed that they were in their positions Gessart reached out and patted Nicz on the back of the head. Without a word, Nicz gunned the engines into life, which kicked in with a throaty roar that set the whole gunship to juddering.

‘Goodbye Helmabad,’ said Lehenhart over the comm-net. As Nicz opened up the launch thrusters the Thunderhawk surged into the air upon columns of plasma fire. Gessart felt the gravitational forces pushing at him even through the pressurised balance of his armour and he gritted his teeth against the sickening sensation in his stomach.

Nicz rolled the Thunderhawk to the right as they pulled up into a steep climb, taking them over the ruins of the palace.

‘Come take a look at this, captain,’ said Heynke from his position at the starboard lascannon array.

Gessart glanced at the launch chronometer and saw that they were still over a hundred seconds from orbital thrust. Plenty of time to investigate. He punched the harness release and levered it back over his head. The Thunderhawk shaking under the tread of his magno-grip boots, Gessart made his way down the steeply inclined hull towards Heynke. The Space Marine pointed to the monitor displaying the image from the external gun camera. He had the magnification set at thirty times normal Space Marine vision and it showed the steps of the sepulchre eastern gate. Gessart could see thousands of rebels were crowded into the outer hall and tens of thousands more could be seen outside the palace and crushing into the galleries and on balconies. Through the remnants of the hall’s roof the scene playing out upon the steps was clear to see.

The eight Apostles of the Awakening stood in a circle around a golden-robed figure: unmistakeably Mu’shan. The dwindling light of the dusk glittered on blades as they struck him down and the surrounding rebels threw up their arms and cast their hats and helmets into the air in celebration. Lasrifle shots flashed into the sky as they fired victory volleys.

Heynke looked over his shoulder but said nothing. Gessart nodded in understanding and patted Heynke hard on the shoulder pad.

‘It would have happened even if we had stayed,’ said Gessart. ‘He was slain swiftly. Perhaps it is better that he died at the hands of those who despised him than he survived to be taken by the daemons.’

Gessart clambered his way back to the control cabin and locked himself in once more. By now the Thunderhawk was shaking violently as its thrusters accelerated the gunship to hypersonic speeds. The external pick-ups of his helm relayed the creaks and groans of straining metal and ceramite as the Thunderhawk fought against gravity and friction. Looking out of the armoured canopy, Gessart could see the stubby nose of the craft beginning to glow with heat, and beyond that the great wound in reality like a pulsing red sheet of energy.

‘Check seals for depressurisation,’ Nicz said over the link. ‘Orbital velocity in thirty seconds.’

Gessart hoped fervently that they reached the safety of the strike cruiser before the rift opened and the hellish legions that waited beyond were unleashed. He didn’t need Zacherys’s psychic insight to know that it would be close. Very close.

Even as Nicz switched power to the landing thrusters and the Thunderhawk screamed into the docking bay of the Vengeful Gessart was already out of his seat. He tapped into the internal ship link to the bridge.

‘Kholich, full power to engines, maximum acceleration!’ he snapped.

‘Understood, captain,’ came Beyne’s reply.

The roar of plasma was joined by the screech of metal as the Thunderhawk touched down onto the docking platform. Gessart leapt down into the main compartment and activated the assault ramp.

‘Zacherys, with me,’ he ordered as he thundered onto the lowering ramp. ‘The rest of you get to battle stations and prepare the gun crews.’

Gessart was off the Thunderhawk before the ramp had finished lowering, leaping the last few metres to the decking, Zacherys a few strides behind him. The Vengeful was awash with tremors as her powerful engines burned into life. Stunned serfs looked up from their consoles and cranes as the Space Marines dashed past. Gessart exited the hangar into the main dorsal corridor at a run. Turning left he headed towards the nearest conveyor and punched in the code for the bridge.

‘Report on the warp breach,’ Gessart demanded as he waited for the conveyor to arrive.

‘Activity increasing, captain,’ said Beyne.

‘It’s opening,’ whispered Zacherys. ‘It’s almost time.’

The conveyor arrived with a hiss of brakes and a clang. The doors squealed open at a touch of the runepad. Gessart stepped inside and almost dragged Zacherys with him. Closing the door, Gessart set the transporter into motion and forced himself to calm down. In the three minutes it took for the conveyor to arrive at the main bridge station he was back in control, his rising sense of urgency brutally quashed.

The armoured doors to the bridge grumbled open at his approach to reveal a scene of frenzied activity. The warp breach was front and centre of the main display, algorithms and symbols scrolling past as its energies were detected and measured.

Gessart was no more than a pace inside the bridge when Zacherys gave a cry of pain. Turning, Gessart saw the Librarian fall to one knee, his hands clasped to his head.

‘The curtain of blood falls away!’ he shouted. ‘The rift opens!’

Gessart looked back at the screen and saw that the waving red energy seemed to part, unveiling a swirling maelstrom of colours. Though he had no psychic power at all even he could hear the screams and shouts of the daemonic host, like distant cries within his skull.

‘Immediate warp jump,’ snapped Gessart, focusing his attention back on the bridge.

Beyne stood to one side of the command chair; a young, bright-eyed retainer with long hair. He was dressed in blue service robes like the other serfs, though his rank was signified by the silver rope at his waist. He held a dataslab in one hand, forgotten now, his gaze distant as he listened to the inner voices now assailing everybody aboard.

‘Activate warp shields,’ shouted Gessart. ‘Prepare for immediate jump.’

There was no reaction from the crew.

‘Beyne!’ Gessart yelled, grabbing the man by his arm, careful not to squeeze too tightly and shatter the bone. The pain brought Beyne out of his trance and he looked at Gessart with panicked eyes.

‘Warp jump?’ he stuttered. ‘If we open a gate here the gravitational forces will pull us apart.’

‘There’s already a gate open, you imbecile!’ said Gessart, thrusting a finger towards the pulsing daemonic rift.

‘Enter that?’ replied Beyne, the fear written across his youthful face.

‘Heading zero-zero-eight by zero-seventeen by thirteen degrees,’ Gessart bellowed, turning his attention to the helmsmen to his left. They nodded and their fingers danced across their control panels as they laid in the course that would take the Vengeful directly into the warp breach.

Satisfied that they were at least headed in the correct direction, Gessart turn to Zacherys, who was back on his feet, staring intently at the main screen.

‘I need you to navigate, Zacherys,’ Gessart said, stepping towards the Librarian. ‘Can you do that?’

The Librarian nodded.

‘Where are we heading?’ he asked.

‘Anywhere away from here,’ said Gessart.

Zacherys turned on his heel and made his way back into the main corridor, heading towards the navigational pilaster above the bridge. The doors closed behind him with a resounding crash.

Gessart fixed his attention back to the main screen and the warp rift displayed upon it. It looked like a writhing miasma, interchanging between strangely-coloured flames, bright spirals of light and a seething ring of boiling reality. Faces appeared briefly and then faded from view. Swirls and counter-swirls of different hues rippled across its surface.

The sound of an alarm pinging from a console broke Gessart’s fixation.

‘Saviour pod launched from the third battery, captain,’ announced one of the bridge attendants.

‘What?’ said Gessart. ‘Who launched it?’

He strode across the bridge and shoved the serf out of his way. A schematic of the foremost starboard battery was on the screen, the saviour pod channel flashing green. A circular sensor display showed the evacuation craft on a trajectory towards the planet below. Gessart activated his ship-wide address.

‘All Astartes, report in!’ he barked.

As his warriors called in their locations, it became clear that Rykhel was missing. Gessart recalled that he had only been a reluctant convert to the departure from Helmabad.

‘Get me a hail frequency for that pod,’ Gessart demanded, rounding on the attendant who was nursing his arm from where Gessart had shoved him.

‘Linking in to your helm comms, captain,’ a serf at the communications bench told him.

‘Rykhel?’ Gessart said.

There was a hiss of static for a moment before the Space Marine replied.

‘This is wrong, Gessart,’ said Rykhel. ‘I cannot be a part of this.’

‘Coward,’ snarled Gessart. ‘At least the others faced me and took their fate as warriors.’

‘The Chapter must hear of this treachery,’ said Rykhel. ‘You murdered Herdain and fled your duty. You cannot be allowed to go unpunished for this. You talked your way out of the recriminations for Archimedon; I cannot let you do that again. You have taken the first steps on a dark path and you have damned yourself and those that follow you.’

Gessart heard the snick of the connection cutting before he could reply. Thankfully Rykhel’s accusations had been made on his command line, heard only by Gessart. He looked around the bridge and saw the serfs going about their work, ignorant of the exchange.

‘Continue on course,’ Gessart said, focusing on the screen once more.

He wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Rykhel would die; at the hands of the rebels or the daemons. It was not important, for Gessart had resigned himself to his fate the moment he shot Herdain. The others had not yet realised that they were truly renegades now.

The warp breach was expanding even as the Vengeful hurtled towards it. It swelled in size until the main screen could not contain it even without magnification.

‘I’m in position,’ Zacherys reported in Gessart’s ear.

A few minutes later Gessart felt the lurch in his body and mind that signified a jump into warp space. Dislocation throbbed through his being as the Vengeful burst into the immaterium. His nerves buzzed with energy and shadows played across his vision. The constant murmuring of the daemons became louder and for a moment Gessart was sure that insubstantial hands were clawing at him. He knew the sensations to be false; the psychic shields of the strike cruiser were operating normally. Controlling the unnatural dread that seeped into the corners of his mind, Gessart switched off the screen and turned away.

There was now no sensation of movement. All was calm as the Vengeful drifted upon the psychic tides, the raging tempest of energy held at bay by her warp screens.

‘Can you plot a course?’ Gessart asked as he hailed Zacherys.

The Librarian’s reply was halting and suffused with strain.

‘No fix on Astronomican,’ he said. ‘Heading for eye of storm. Need to concentrate.’

‘Stand down from general quarters,’ Gessart announced. ‘Follow warp security rituals.’

Unseen and out of mind, the world of Helmabad descended into nightmare.

Once the Vengeful was well clear of the Helmabad system and the roiling warp storm unleashed by the daemons, Gessart called his surviving Space Marines together. They gathered in the strike cruiser’s chapel; a carefully considered choice by Gessart in relation to what he had to say.

The others entered to find Gessart already awaiting them, stripped of his armour, which was stowed on a frame to one side of the Chapter shrine. The small altar was bare of the ornaments and relics usually displayed. They had been the artifices of Herdain and Gessart had already disposed of them. In a similar vein, the company banner, which had remained on the ship for its safety, had been taken down and stowed away. Now the only reminder of the Space Marines’ allegiance was the Chapter symbol engraved into the metal of the bulkhead. Gessart had already arranged for some of the serfs to etch it out with acid once he was finished here.

He stood with his arms folded across his broad chest as his battle-brothers attended him. Some looked at the bare wall and empty altar with confusion. Others were impassive, perhaps having already guessed the nature of Gessart’s announcement. Nicz stood apart from the rest, his eyes narrowed as he hawkishly watched Gessart.

The last to enter was Zacherys. The Librarian still wore his armour, though within the confines of the ship’s warp shield he had removed his psychic hood to allow him to better see the currents of the immaterium and guide the ship. He did not look at Gessart, but instead stayed at the door, perhaps having already seen what was unfolding.

Gessart said nothing. Instead he crossed the chapel to where his armour stood. Leaning down, he picked up a container of paint used by the serfs. Wordlessly, he dipped a thick brush into the black liquid within and drew the brush across the symbol upon his armour’s shoulder pad. A few of the Space Marines gasped at this obvious affront to the armour’s spirit and the obliteration of his rank insignia.

‘I am no longer a captain,’ Gessart intoned. He painted out the chest eagle. ‘The Third Company is no more.’

Gessart continued to daub the pitch black onto his armour, his rough strokes eradicating the heraldry, campaign badges and honours displayed upon it.

‘We cannot return to the Chapter,’ Gessart said, putting down the paint and turning to face his men. ‘They will not understand what it is that we have done. We have killed our battle-brothers, and to our former masters there is no greater heresy. Rykhel deserted us for fear of their vengeance and he was right to do so. Think with your hearts and remember the hatred you felt for the traitors we have faced before. We are now those traitors. We willingly stepped over a boundary that kept us in check. If ever the Chapter learns that we have survived, they will hunt us down without pity or remorse.’

Gessart picked up the paint once more and walked forwards. He proffered the container to Lehenhart who stood at one end of the group.

‘You are an Avenging Son no longer,’ Gessart said.

Lehenhart looked grim, in stark contrast to his usual ready laugh and lively eyes. He nodded, turning his gaze towards the deck. With a brushstroke Gessart covered up Lehenhart’s Chapter symbol. Next in line was Gundar. He took the brush from Gessart and painted out the symbol himself.

Some of the Space Marines were eager to break the last of their ties, hoping that perhaps the guilt they felt would be destroyed along with the cross-crosslet of the Avenging Sons. Others hesitated, seeking some remorse in Gessart’s eyes. They saw nothing but his iron-hard will to survive and realised that they were not being presented with a choice; they had made their decision back in the inner sepulchre of Helmabad. One by one the Space Marines destroyed that which had been most precious to them. A few had tears in their eyes, the first emotion they had felt since being brought to the Chapter as youths many war-torn years ago.

Nicz was the last, his eyes boring holes into Gessart as he took the brush from his former captain and splashed the dark paint across his shoulder.

‘If you are captain no more, why do you still remain in command?’ Nicz asked, handing the brush back to Gessart. ‘By what authority do you give us orders?’

Gessart did not say anything immediately but instead met Nicz’s cold stare with his own. Neither was willing to look away and they stood like that for several minutes.

‘If you think you can kill me, take your shot,’ Gessart eventually hissed, his eyes unwavering. ‘When you do, make it count. I won’t give you a second chance.’

Confident that his message was clear, Gessart stepped back, still eying Nicz, and then eventually broke contact to look at the others.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Willusch.

Gessart grinned. ‘Whatever we want,’ he replied.

‘Where should we go?’ said Tyrol.

‘Where all the renegades go,’ Gessart told them. ‘The Eye of Terror.’

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2009 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Hardy Fowler

© Games Workshop Limited, 2009, 2011. All rights reserved.

Black Library, the Black Library logo, Games Workshop, the Games Workshop logo and all associated marks, names, characters, illustrations and images from the Warhammer universe are either ®, TM and/or © Games Workshop Ltd 2011, variably registered in the UK and other countries around the world. All rights reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-85787-217-3

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.