Battle for The Abyss (25 page)

‘Go,’ gasped Antiges.

The World Eater paused for a second, about to run back in and rescue the Ultramarine. A thrown grenade exploded near the pillar and Antiges’s world ended in a billow of smoke and shrapnel.

SKRAAL DIDN’T WAIT to see if the Ultramarine had survived. One way or another, Antiges was lost. Instead, he ran from the cathedral, storm shield warding off the worst of the bolter fire hammering across the cathedral towards him.

As he fled into the endless darkness, the shifting of the vessel’s hull echoing as if venting its displeasure, a thought forced its way into his mind in spite of the battle rage.

He was alone.

ZADKIEL WATCHED THE battle unfolding through the docking picters mounted along the hull of the
Furious Abyss
.

Baelanos had fallen, yet his inert body had been recovered and lay in the laboratorium of Magos Gureod.

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He would serve the Word, yet.

Baelanos’s dedication to the Word was that of a soldier to his commander, and he had never appreciated the more intellectual implications of Lorgar’s beliefs. Nevertheless, he was a loyal and useful asset. Zadkiel would not throw him away cheaply.

Ultis was doubtless buried beneath the rubble of Bakka Triumveron 14. In that, Baelanos had served Zadkiel too. It was another thorn removed from his side, the potential usurper despatched.

Yes, for that deed you will receive eternal service to the Legion.

‘We’re breached.’ Sergeant-Commander Reskiel’s voice came through on the vox, down where the engines met the main body of the battleship.

‘How many?’

‘Only one remains, my lord,’ Reskiel replied. ‘They made it in through the coolant venting ports, open for the re-supplying.’

‘Hunt him down with my blessing, sergeant-commander,’ Zadkiel ordered, ‘but be aware that you will be making your pursuit under take-off conditions.’

Another thorn, thought Zadkiel.

‘Sire, there are still warriors of the Legion fighting on the dock,’

countered Reskiel at the news of their imminent departure.

‘We cannot tarry. Every moment we stay to fight is another moment for the
Wrathful
to reach strike range or for our stowaway to damage something that cannot be replaced, not to mention the fact that the dockyard’s defences might be brought to bear. Sacrifice, Reskiel, is a lesson worth learning. Now, find the interloper and end this annoyance.’

‘At your command, admiral. I’m heading into the coolant systems now.’

Zadkiel cut the vox and observed the viewscreens above his command throne. A tactical map showed the
Furious Abyss
and the complex structure of the orbital docks around it. Crimson icons represented the Word Bearer forces still fighting and dying for their cause.

Zadkiel reached back for the vox and gave the order to take off.

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ULTIS WATCHED FROM the rubble of the collapsed observation platform as the
Furious Abyss
begin to rise.

The engines of the battleship threw burning winds across the dockyards. Docking clamps and supply hangars melted to slag.

Gantries burned and fuel tankers exploded, blossoms of blue-white thrown up amidst the firestorm. Fiery gales whipped around the open metal plaza, cooking cohorts and Astartes alike in the burgeoning conflagration surging across Bakka Triumveron 14. Scalding winds singed his face, even shielded by the wrecked chunks of ferrocrete. He saw the crimson paint on his armour blistering in the backwash of intense heat.

The maelstrom engulfed the bodies fighting outside it and they became as shadows and ash before it, as if frozen in time, eternally at war.

This was not the future he had envisaged for himself as he watched the
Furious Abyss
rise higher from the deck with a blast from its ventral thrusters.

He had been betrayed: not by the Word, but by another on board ship.

A shadow eclipsed the stricken Word Bearer, prone in the rubble.

‘Your friends desert you, traitor whelp,’ said a voice from above, old and gnarled.

Ultis craned his neck around to see, vision hazing in and out of focus, dimly aware of the blood that he had lost.

A massive Astartes in the armour of Leman Russ’s Legion reared over him like a slab of unyielding steel. Bedecked in trophies, pelts and tooth fetishes, he was every inch the savage that Ultis believed the Space Wolves to be.

‘I serve the Word,’ he said defiantly through blood-caked lips.

The Space Wolf shook the blood out of his straggly hair and grinned to display his fangs.

‘The Word be damned,’ he snarled.

The Space Wolf’s gauntleted fist was the last thing Ultis saw before all sense fled and his world went black.

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ELEVEN

Survivors

Aftermath

I will break him

BUOYED UPON HOT currents of air vented by the
Furious Abyss
, what was left of the assault boats carrying the Astartes strike force made their escape from Bakka Triumveron 14 and back to the
Wrathful
held in orbit around the moon.

Cestus was waiting for the atmospheric craft in the tertiary docking bay when a single vessel touched down. Its outer hull shielding was badly scorched and its engines were all but burned out as it
thunked
to an unwieldy stop on the metal deck.

One assault boat, thought the Ultramarine captain, waiting with Saphrax and Laeradis, the apothecary ready with his narthecium injector. How many casualties did we sustain?

Engineering deck-hands hurried back and forth, hosing down the superheated aspects of the boat with coolant foam, and brandishing tools to affect immediate repairs. One of the officers stood at a distance with a data-slate, already compiling an initial damage report.

Cestus was oblivious to them all, his gaze fixed on the embarkation ramp as it ground open slowly with a hiss of venting pressure. Brynngar and his Blood Claws stepped out of the compartment.

The Ultramarine greeted him cordially enough.

‘Well met, son of Russ.’

Brynngar grunted a response, his demeanour still hostile, and turned to one of his charges. ‘Rujveld, bring him out.’

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One of the Blood Claws, a youth with bright orange hair worked into a mohawk and a short beard festooned with wolf fetishes, nodded and went back into the crew compartment.

When he returned, he was not alone. A pale-faced warrior was with him, his hands and forearms encased by restraints linked by an adamantium cord, his face fraught with cuts, and a massive purple-black bruise over one eye the size of Brynngar’s fist. Bent-backed and obviously weak, he had a defiant air about him still.

He wore the armour of the XV Legion: the armour of the Word Bearers.

‘We have ourselves a prisoner,’ Brynngar snarled, stalking past the trio of Ultramarines without explanation, his Blood Claws with their prize in tow.

‘Find me an isolation cell,’ Cestus overheard the Wolf Guard say to one of his battle-brothers. ‘I intend to find out what he knows.’

Cestus kept his eyes forward for a moment, striving to master his anger.

‘My lord?’ ventured Saphrax, the banner bearer clearly noticing his captain’s distemper.

‘Son of Russ,’ Cestus said levelly, knowing he would be heard.

The sound of the departing Space Wolves echoing down the deck was the only reply.

‘Son of Russ,’ he bellowed this time and turned, his expression set as if in stone.

Brynngar had almost reached the deck portal when he stopped.

‘I would have your report, brother,’ said Cestus, calmly, ‘and I would have it now.’

The Wolf Guard turned slowly, his massive bulk forcing the Blood Claws close by to step aside. Anger and belligerence were etched on his face as plain as the Legion symbols on his armour.

‘The assault failed,’ he growled. ‘The
Furious Abyss
is still intact.

There, you have my report.’

Cestus fought to keep his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

‘What of Antiges and Skraal?’

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Brynngar was breathing hard, his anger boiling, but at the mention of the two captains, particularly Antiges, his expression softened for a moment.

‘We were the only survivors,’ he replied quietly and continued on through the deck portal to the passageways beyond that would lead eventually to the isolation chambers.

Cestus stood for a moment, allowing it to sink in. Antiges had been his battle-brother for almost twenty years. They had fought together on countless occasions. They had brought the light of the Emperor to countless worlds in the darkest reaches of the known galaxy.

‘What are your orders, my captain?’ asked Saphrax, ever the pragmatist.

Cestus crushed his grief quickly. It would serve no purpose here.

‘Get Admiral Kaminska. Tell her we are to continue pursuit of the
Furious Abyss
at once, with all speed.’

‘At your command, my lord.’ Saphrax snapped a strong salute and left the dock, heading for the bridge.

Cestus’s plan had failed, catastrophically. More than sixty per cent casualties were unacceptable. It left only the Ultramarines honour guard, still stationed aboard ship by way of contingency, and Brynngar’s Blood Claws. The Space Wolf’s continued defiance was developing into open hostility. Something was building. Even without the animal instincts of the sons of Russ, Cestus could feel it. He wondered how long it would be before the inevitable storm broke.

Here they were, at war with their fellow Legions. Guilliman on-ly knew how deep the treachery went, how many more Legions had turned against the Emperor. If anything, the loyal Legions needed desperately to draw together, not to fight internecine conflicts between themselves in the name of petty disagreements.

When the final reckoning came, where would Brynngar and his Legion sit? Guilliman and his Ultramarines were dogmatic in their fealty to the Emperor; could the same be said of Russ?

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Cestus left such dark thoughts behind for now, knowing it would not aid him or their mission to dwell on them. Instead, his mind turned briefly to Antiges. In all likelihood, he was dead.

His brother, his closest friend slain in what had been a fool’s cause. Cestus cursed himself for allowing Antiges to take his place. Saphrax was an able adjutant, his dedication to the teachings of Guilliman was unshakeable, but he was not the confidant that Antiges had been.

Cestus clenched his fist.

This deed will not go unavenged.

‘Laeradis, with me,’ said the Ultramarine captain, marching off in the direction that Brynngar had taken. The Apothecary fell in-to lockstep behind him. ‘Where are we going, captain?’

‘I want to know what happened on Bakka Triumveron and I want to find out what our Word Bearer knows about his Legion’s ship and their mission to Macragge.’

BY THE TIME Cestus and Laeradis reached the isolation cells, Brynngar was already inside, the door sealed with Rujveld standing guard.

The isolation cells were located in the lower decks, where the heat and sweat of the engines could be heard and felt palpably.

Toiling ratings below sang gritty naval chants to aid them in their work and the resonant din carried through the metal. It was a muffled chorus down the gloom-drenched passages that Cestus and Laeradis had travelled to reach this point.

‘Step aside, Blood Claw,’ ordered Cestus without preamble.

At first it looked as if Rujveld would disobey the Ultramarine, but Cestus was a captain, albeit from a different Legion, and that position commanded respect. The Blood Claw lowered his gaze, indicating his obedience, and gave ground.

Cestus thumbed the door release icon as he stood before the cell portal. The bare metal panel slid aside, two thins jets of vapour escaping as it did so.

A darkened chamber beckoned, barely illuminated in the half-light of lume-globes set to low-emit. A bulky shape stood within,
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with two shrivelled, robed forms to either side. Brynngar had stripped out of his armour, aided by two attendant Legion serfs.

The menials kept their heads low and their tongues still. The Wolf Guard was naked from the waist up, wearing only simple grey battle fatigues. His torso was covered in old wounds, scars and faded pinkish welts creating a patchwork history of pain and battle.

Standing without his armour, his immense musculature obvious and intimidating, and with the great mass of his hair hanging down, Brynngar reminded the Ultramarine of a barbarian of ancient Terra, the kind that he had seen rendered in frescos in some of the great antiquitariums.

The Wolf Guard turned at the interruption, the shadow of another figure strapped down in a metal restraint frame partly visible for a moment before the Space Wolf’s bulk took up the space again.

‘What do you want, Cestus? I’m sure you can see that I’m busy.’

Brynngar’s knuckles were hard and white as he clenched his fists.

As he had stormed from the tertiary dock after the Space Wolf and his battle-brothers, Cestus had thought to intervene, the idea of torturing a fellow Legion brother abhorrent to him. Now, standing at the threshold of the isolation chamber, he realised just how desperate their plight had become and that victory might call for compromise.

Just how far this compromise would go and where it would eventually lead, Cestus did not care to think. It was what it was.

They were on this course now and the Word Bearers were enemies like any other. They had not hesitated when they destroyed the
Waning Moon
, nor had they paused to consider their actions during the slaughter on Bakka Triumveron 14.

‘I would speak to you again, Brynngar,’ the Ultramarine captain said, ‘once this is over. I would know the details of what happened on Bakka.’