"Janey, inside and wash your hands. Dinner time."
The black-haired girl looked round from her game. "Coming, mummy. Mikey's just got to finish his chores." She walked a small wooden doll round the back of the large wooden doll's house, shuffling on her knees along the blue-green lawn.
Sara Smitsen looked out at her six-year-old daughter and smiled. It was so typical of Janey that she'd have her dolls do chores. She chuckled to herself. Definitely her father's daughter.
She wondered how Kanret was. A moment of melancholy as she missed her husband, called up on militia duty for the mandatory month. Still, she brightened, only a week to go.
"Hurry up, darling. Or there'll be no moklat pudding."
"Moklat pudding!" Janey's reply was almost a squeal as she jumped up, doll in hand, and ran into the kitchen.
The house was well made, two stories of stout timbers over a plascrete foundation. Like most of the settler families in the area, the Smitsens had built their house by hand with the assistance of neighbours. Sara was quite proud of that, just as she was of the little farm that grew sufficient grain and fruit to pay off the bank, and that would, in time, also produce high quality timber to be sold as a luxury item on faraway planets. That would mean that Janey would have a good inheritance to pass on to her own children. She grinned as the little girl held up two tiny hands for inspection.
"Hmm. That seems fine. Up to the table then."
Janey bounced up into her chair at the small table. The polished furniture was a present from Kanret's parents; the white tablecloth made and embroidered by Sara herself with a few stitches by both her husband and her daughter, for luck.
Sara took her own seat, pouring water into her glass and Janey's. "You say Grace, darling."
"Yes, mummy."
They bowed their heads.
"Emperor's Grace protects our people; His hand provides our bounty. By His will we eat today; to Him we give our thanks and ask His blessing. Amen."
"Amen," said Sara.
"Amen," came a deep voice from the door. "Or rather, fuck that corpse bastard."
They looked round. A huge armoured figure stood in the doorway, dark blue with silver lightnings down legs and arms. Its head was covered by a fearsome-looking bat-winged helm, which it slowly removed as they stared in shock.
The face revealed was handsome, and cruel, with dark eyes and black hair. The man – for despite being almost three metres tall it was undeniably human – looked at them both with casual amusement, a large and deadly-looking pistol pointed easily in their direction.
"I would say 'Good evening', but since it will be anything but – for you – I won't."
Sara stood slowly. She barely came up to his waist. "Who are you?"
"Well, I could say something trite and unimaginative like 'I am death', but since I'll be the last person you ever see, I shall merely inform you that I,"
"That you talk too much," came a voice from outside.
The armoured giant flung himself sideways as a burst of heavy gunfire sliced the air where he'd been standing and smashed a line of holes in the kitchen wall. Sara pulled Janey down and under her as the fire-fight erupted just outside, covering the girl's ears to block out the horrific sounds of combat.
The thunder lasted only a few seconds and a shadow loomed. They looked up together, hearts pounding. Another armoured giant, this one armoured in purple and gold, bearing a huge white feather attached to the shoulder of his armour by a massive red ruby. The feather seemed to almost glow in the reflected sunlight.
"You are unharmed?"
"Yes," said Sara. She noticed with relief that this armoured man wore the imperial aquila, bright gold on his chest-plate. "Who, what, was that?"
He pulled off his helmet, the same imperial purple as his armour, revealing an inhumanly handsome face with a grim expression under short-cropped white-blond hair. "Night Lord."
Janey spoke. "What's a Night Lord?"
"A very bad man, little one. A warrior of evil."
Sara gasped. "A traitor marine?"
Janey looked at her mother. "Mummy. Don't be silly. Marines aren't traitors." She hesitated, then looked stricken. "Did we do something wrong? Is that why he came?"
The big man knelt down to meet her eyes. "What is your name, little one?"
"I'm Janey. I'm six. What's yours?"
"You may call me Morgan. Janey, your mother is correct. That man stopped being a marine and following the Emperor a long time ago, Janey," he said gently. "Not everyone has the courage to reject the temptations of power."
Janey looked worried. "But he was a space marine. Why did he want to kill us?"
The man sighed slightly. "There is no time to explain this, little one."
"You saved our lives, ser. Thank you," said Sara quietly, forestalling Janey's next question.
The big man shrugged. "He will not have been alone, sera. Have you some means of transport? You cannot stay here; there will be others along shortly."
Sara nodded. "My husband is on duty with the local militia regiment and he took the ground car. I only have the farm cart here. But there's a storm cellar; we could hide there."
"They would find you. Can you contact neighbours? Someone who can get here quickly?"
She nodded.
"Then do that. And hurry. You do not have long."
"Janey, upstairs and pack your overnight case. Make sure you have two changes of clothes. Go on, now."
Janey hesitated, then nodded and ran for the stairs. At the bottom she stopped and looked at him. "Bye, Mr Morgan. Emperor's grace." Her light footsteps sounded on the wooden staircase.
"If you have a weapon, ready it, and be prepared to use it. I was tracking his squad; I must find them, if I can, rather than have them return here."
Sara looked up at him. "Thank you again. Emperor's light on you, ser."
"And on you." The big man turned and left at the run, skipping across the lawn without even leaving footprints. Sara walked outside to where the armoured corpse lay, its blood, flowing red from the huge holes in the chest-plate, staining the grass purple, and shuddered. She ran for the comm-unit
Sedreth moved easily, immune to the tangled thorns, through the thick scrub, his helmet's autosenses on full and his bolter ready. He mentally reviewed everything he knew of the Night Lords. Legio Astartes VIII. Tricky bastards, tough, and ruthless even beyond the usual traitor Legion. Entirely dedicated to what they called the Long War against the Imperium. A preference for getting up close and personal on other marines, and whenever possible on other opponents as well. But also expert at drawing opponents into traps. Feather-touch and feint; give the enemy just enough information to kill himself. Not to mention a certain sadism, indulged whenever the mission allowed, or simply to scare opponents. Instilling terror was something the Eighth had always been very good at. He expertly slipped past a nasty little infra-red detector for an anti-personnel trap, noting that it was designed to eliminate normal troops rather than power-armoured space marines. Good; hopefully they had not yet realised he was after them.
He moved cautiously now, watching for ambush, for any sign. Nothing. The noise of the local wildlife was undisturbed. They had not been this way; even the most ferocious predator went still and silent when astartes passed. He started to retrace his path, searching for the divergence.
He was nearly at the trap when he found it, close under a broken bush; an armoured boot-print Bastards had been moving in the opposite direction. They must have teleported in here. Which would take them towards that farm. The one he'd killed must have been detached to provide an object lesson in terror for anyone finding the inhabitants. Damnation. He started to move faster. There was a sudden scream from up ahead and he broke into a run.
The screaming came from a man, in torn and bloody civilian clothing. He screamed anew as one of the bastards flung him easily into the air with a flick of his chainsword, only for a second laughing Night Lord to skilfully catch him again on his own whirring blade. As Sedreth burst from the scrub a third whipped out his bolt pistol with a cry of warning, squeezing off shots that pinged off his armour. His answering bolter burst ripped the man's chest open.
"For the Emperor!" he bellowed, as the captive was casually eviscerated with a wrist flick and the other two leapt to meet him. A fourth and fifth leapt from the kitchen door, bolters shuddering on full auto. He felt a rib break under the impacts, and red lights appeared on his armour displays. The two with chainswords closed fast; he managed a burst into the helmetless one's head, bursting it like bloody fruit, then the other was on him. He turned a shoulder-plate into the strike, using his own body as a weapon to drive the man backwards into his fellows' fire, and pulled the corpse down beside him for cover as he reloaded. The last two fired jump-packs, bouncing over and behind him to clear their field of fire. He leapt to his feet and met them as they landed, combat blade against hastily drawn chainswords. Damn, they were good, their longer weapons giving them an unpleasant edge.
"For the Phoenix Lord and Terra!"
The ancient battle-cry, unheard these ten thousand years, seemed to distract them and he flung himself sideways, scooping up a fallen chainsword and grinning under his helmet. They moved more cautiously, presumably realising for the first time just who and what they were fighting. Blades met, engaged and disengaged as he parried and stabbed with both weapons at once.
"So," said one through his armour speakers. "You are Sedreth. A worthy opponent. We shall enjoy your pain, traitor."
He laughed aloud. "You think so. You talk better than you fight, Night Lord. But then, the Eighth always were a bunch of pussies." He spun into an attack he'd learned long ages before, the blades trapping and turning the man's weapon before his combat knife drove through the helmet lenses, dropping him like a stone. The other was fractionally quicker than he'd thought though, and he staggered and fell as the muscles of his left abdomen were ripped open.
"Good, marine, but not good enough," laughed the Night Lord, raising his chainsword again. It was all Sedreth could do to parry the blow and he rolled desperately to avoid the follow-up, losing his knife.
"And so it ends." The warrior laughed again, cruelly, as he knocked aside a parry and reversed his blade for the killing stroke.
Zaapp! The glow of laser light slammed into the marine's back and he bellowed in fury, spinning. Stupid. Sedreth's chainsword almost severed the man's leg as he struck with desperate strength. The warrior fell, rolling towards Sedreth and raising his whirring blade to take his enemy with him; his helmet glowed briefly, bright orange outlining the bat-wings before it melted into a slag of ceramite and gore.
Sedreth pulled himself painfully to his feet. The woman lay slumped and bleeding on the wooden veranda, las-rifle fallen from nerveless fingers. He limped over. Bleeding, but alive. A metal spike protruded, dripping crimson, where it had been driven through her hand, and her back was striped with bloody whip marks. He knelt painfully and pulled out the medpack from his utility belt.
"Janey. Upstairs." Her voice was barely a breath.
He nodded, then realised that she couldn't see the gesture and said, "I shall check momentarily. Lie still." He pulled out the spike, and applied field dressings quickly and expertly, though it had been long ages since he'd acted the apothecary. He checked the wounds; satisfactory; and stood, walking slowly into the building.
The previously immaculate kitchen was shattered, the white tablecloth blood-stained over smashed splinters. A dark-haired man lay bloody and dead, the terrible wounds obviously chainsword-inflicted. He stepped dispassionately over the corpse and moved into the living room; furniture lay broken all about, and a third civilian body, the head and chest torn apart by bolter fire, was slumped against a wall. He moved to the stairwell.
A tiny dark-haired missile flung itself into his chest.
"I knew you'd come."
He smiled behind his helmet, holding her easily one-handed. "I would not leave you defenceless, Janey. Have you packed?"
She nodded against his armoured chest. "Yes, Mr Morgan."
"Then collect what you need. Has your mother also prepared?"
"She packed a bag."
"Good." He carried her up the stairs, ducking under the ceilings as she directed him into a large airy room with a double bed.
"That's mummy's bag," she said, pointing to a neat brown carry-sack on the floor. He picked it up, letting her down to grab her own smaller rucksack from the floor at the top of the stairs. A worn stuffed animal stuck out of the top of it, yellow fur patchy and even missing in places.
"Are we going away now?"
"Yes." He picked her up again, and started down the stairs. "Janey, close your eyes." He pulled her head against his chest-plate so that she would not see the blood and destruction, and carried her out to the veranda and her mother.
"Mummy!" She struggled in his arms and he let her down to kneel beside her parent.
"She is injured, Janey, but she will be alright. The wounds are more painful than serious."
The woman opened one eye and spoke slowly. "That's not very comforting, ser."
He chuckled. He found himself liking this woman. She was tough. "Sera, you cannot stay here. I am going to send you somewhere safe."
"Send us?"
He pulled out a booster bracelet. "This is a teleport booster. Normally it is used when the armour signal is insufficient, but it can be used to transport both of you to my ship, in orbit. I warn you, the transfer, though harmless, can be quite painful for non-astartes. But you will both be safe there, until my mission is complete. Please touch nothing on board. I shall finish as quickly as I may and return for you."
"You're going to teleport us to a space marine vessel?" Even through the pain he recognised her surprise.
"I cannot stay here to protect you."
She nodded, brown eyes still wide. He knelt and buckled the bracelet round her wrist and her daughter's.
"Janey, I need you to be brave. This will hurt, a little, but it will keep you and your mother safe. Stay with her. Do you understand?"
The small head nodded, looking scared. He touched the control stud and they vanished in a flare of light. He checked the readings; successful transfer. So. He pulled his diagnostic from his belt and ran it over his throbbing side. Sufficient for what he had to do. He looked round at the corpses and the doll's house lying untouched and perfect in the middle of the bloodstained lawn, then shook himself and broke into a run.
Kanret Smitsen sighed and rubbed his eyes. He'd been on watch now for six hours and the darkness made it hard to see. He lifted his binoculars again and swept them carefully over the quadrant he'd been assigned to watch. A blur appeared in his vision, too close for focus, and he dropped them to his chest, bringing his rifle up and ready.
"Too slow, private. Had I been an enemy, you would already be dead." The black-coated figure of Commissar Aders glowered down at him.
Kanret snapped to attention and saluted. "Yes, Commissar. I shall do better."
"The Emperor requires it. How long have you been on watch?"
"Six hours, sir."
The man looked angry. "You should have been relieved after four, and not left on duty alone. Who is your company commander?"
Kanret started to speak, then saw swift movement behind the man, a gleam of metal and an horrific horned helmet. He squeezed the trigger of his rifle even as a roaring blade erupted through the commissar's back, spattering him with viscera.
"Alert, alert, enemy in quadrant six bravo. Repeat quadrant six bravo." The weapon, a chainsword, smashed his rifle into two pieces and he screamed in pain and fell. He never even felt the armoured boot that drove the remains of his chest into the hard-packed earth. Janey.
Ateth Al-kaesil, Captain of the few remaining warriors that had once been the Night Lords' sixty-third company, chuckled as he watched the chaos in the guard encampment. His warriors had taken them almost completely by surprise and men were tumbling from tents and barrack huts to be cut down by bolter fire and blood-drenched chainswords.
"You know, March," he told his second, "once upon a time the Imperial Guard were actually worth fighting."
The other laughed. "That was a long time ago. It would be a change to have a worthy opponent before us."
Al-kaesil nodded. "It would indeed."
March lifted his arm to point but before he could speak a single bolter shot rang out and his head exploded. Al-kaesil turned slowly, drawing his daemonblade. A space marine stood casually, not twenty metres away. A space marine in the codex colours of the Emperor's Children.
"If you want an opponent, captain, feel free to try me," said the marine in a conversational tone.
"Sedreth, I presume? I see your reputation is well-earned. I shall make your death a long song of pain."
The warrior laughed. "As always, you talk a good fight." He triggered his jump-pack and roared into the air; Al-kaesil spun, expecting the man to challenge him, but the fiery trail had launched the traitor into the middle of the Guard encampment. Even over the thunder of battle he heard the man's shout.
Captain Sitel Overmars fired desperately into the mêlée at the huge armoured figures which had ambushed the Canthian 137th. Who were they? What were they? They looked like space marines, but they were carving the Emperor's troops into dogmeat. He swore, grabbing a panicking trooper.
"Hold the line! Form up on me. For the Emperor!"
Some troopers – he recognised sergeant Bukenhiltz – tried to do just that, but both he and they were being swept away by the terrified militia. A blaze of flame lit the sky and another armoured giant landed in the middle of it, a massive bolter roaring in his hands. At the other marines. The man's shout echoed over the encampment.
"Guard will rally! Rally on me! In the Emperor's Name!"
Overmars echoed the shout, pushing forward to join the warrior as the other marines – traitor marines, they must be, eternally damned heretics who had turned to the ruinous powers of chaos – turned to face the more dangerous threat.
"With me, 137th!" he bellowed, hurling himself forward with sword drawn and pistol spitting laser fire. Other troopers joined him, holding their ground against the rout, sergeants grabbing men and shoving rifles into their hands, turning them to face the enemy. "Forward!"
"For the Emperor!"
The answering roar was loud as more and more guardsmen rallied. No hope of orderly tactics here, just charge and shoot. Overmars led half a hundred warriors forward, shooting as they advanced. He saw the black-coated corpse of Commissar Aders and vaulted it at the run. "Onwards. For Canth and the Emperor!"
A second flare of fire in the night. A black-cloaked, lightning-armoured figure with a green glowing blade, dark of hair and eye and impossibly handsome, dropped out the sky, rallying the traitors again. They plunged into his men with roars of fury.
"Hold your ground. Stand and fight!" He emptied his pistol into a bat-winged helmet and the man fell back, then pulled himself upright. Emperor's balls, what did it take to kill these scum? Overmars lunged, his blade driving into an armoured knee joint and the traitor fell. Sergeant Diersen drove his bayonet into the fallen warrior's throat and held his trigger down, almost decapitating the enemy. Then Diersen went down, almost cut in two by a chainsword. Overmars barely parried the follow-up strike, the impact nearly knocking his sword out of his hand. Carsen leapt onto the armoured giant, detonating a grenade and blowing herself and the warrior's head to pieces. He grabbed a fallen rifle and fired at yet another.
"For the Emperor!"
Sedreth's bolter ripped a Night Lord apart at point-blank range, then he had to leap backwards to avoid the glowing daemonblade. He swept up a fallen chainsword and drew his short blade.
"Come on then, boy. Let's see how good you are."
The Night Lord captain laughed. "Indeed." His attack was blindingly fast, a blur of green, but the blade slid aside and he had to parry in his turn as the chainsword swung at his head.
Al-kaesil laughed. Now, this was war. A truly worthy enemy, face to face and hand to hand. He swung and parried, the universe shrinking to just the space marine and himself, mano a mano. He saw an opening and swung. His blade connected with the .. feather?.. on the man's armour which glowed suddenly white-gold, and simply bounced, throwing him off-balance. Something drove into his neck and he fell, the ground coming up to meet him in slow motion. He tasted blood and earth. Like the good earth on his father's farm. He remembered the Legion. His sister and brothers. His Alicia. He wished...
Sedreth stepped over the captain's corpse and drove the chainsword's whirring teeth into the side of another Night Lord. The man turned, ignoring the terrible wound as only a marine could, but a volley of las-fire slammed into him before he could riposte. Sedreth kicked the corpse aside, seeking another, but they were gone. He winced as the plasm in his side stretched again. Just as well the Guard couldn't see his face; space marines weren't supposed to show pain to ordinary mortals.
He scanned the area, autosenses on max. Nothing. Either the Night Lords were all dead, or the survivors had fled, for the moment. He turned to face the slender man in a bloodstained captain's uniform who pushed his way through the mob of jubilant guardsmen.
"Captain Overmars, sir, Canthian 137th Imperial Guard regiment."
Sedreth returned the man's salute with the traditional astartes one, fist to chest. "Honoured, captain. Your men fought well. In the end. Not many units could rally in the face of the Night Lords."
The man flushed. "Yes, sir. We are grateful for your assistance. Without you,.." he trailed off.
"You would be dead. Have you heavy weapons?"
"Uhm, yes, sir. "
Sedreth nodded and was about to continue when he heard the faint rumble of heavy armour. "We are about to have company, captain. I suggest that you sort out your unit before higher authority arrives."
He turned and walked to the untouched daemonblade, watched silently by dozens of guardsmen and -women. He picked it up, delicately, in two fingers and carried it gingerly to a slab of stone.
"You," he pointed to a man with the insignia of a heavy weapons squad on his shoulder, "bring me a las-cannon. Quickly." The man hurried to obey.
Overmars was calling out commands, ordering the survivors into some semblance of a coherent unit. Lights came up, illuminating the battlefield. Sedreth ignored the bustle as the lines of troops moved into ranks. He took the las-cannon from the soldier and indicated he should stand well clear. The rumble grew to a thunder as tanks and artillery and troops drove through the encampment's shattered gates. He glanced round, one eye still on the daemon weapon, in case. Higher authority indeed, a commissar, several officers in gold braid, an armoured woman in white and black. Bugger. He ignored them all and carefully positioned the las-cannon as close as he dared.
A voice came from behind him and he turned. The commissar.
"Commissar, I shall attend you shortly." He waved the man aside. The black-coated fanatic didn't move. Shit. He sighed. "Commissar, this is a daemonblade. Kindly move back while I destroy it."
The man said nothing, looking annoyed, but slowly moved back a few metres. Sedreth pressed the firing stud; a beam of white-hot light cut deeply into the possessed weapon and he felt rather than heard the scream of rage. He held the stud down, hearing the las-cannon whine in protest as its power source started to overheat. The enraged screams rose to a pitch and the sword shattered into three pieces, one narrowly missing his leg. He chuckled, and took a stasis field generator from his utility belt. Rare, and expensive, and almost irreplaceable, but nonetheless necessary. He activated the field around the shards and stepped back, looking round.
The commissar had been joined by the armoured woman.
"Sister. I trust you can destroy these remains?"
She nodded slowly, suspiciously.
"Is there a problem, sister?" he asked, remembering to stay polite however much he might want to slap her sort of fanatic.
She spoke quietly. "That depends on you, warrior. The Astartes Soul Drinkers are proscribed for heresy."
He laughed, sudden amusement at the irony of her mistake escaping him before he could control it. "Indeed, sister? I was unaware of that. Then again, I am not a Soul Drinker. Now, the stasis field will hold for a time. I suggest that the shards be shot into the sun; that tends to be fairly effective as a means of destruction. As to the Night Lords, their captain is dead, as is his second. Whatever they are doing here will have died with them; such are not usually given to discussing the reasons for their missions with the warriors under them. However, there may still be others lurking around somewhere, and they will have transport of some kind in the system. I suggest a full sweep of the area, and the assistance of your order in that operation. My mission leads me elsewhere."
She looked at him. She would have been quite pretty were it not for the hardness of her expression and the fanatical gleam in her eyes.
"And what mission is that, for an astartes who wears the colours of the Soul Drinkers but claims not to be one of them?"
He shrugged. "My mission is to hunt and kill the enemies of humanity, sister. To protect the innocent and defend them from persecution." He saw Overmars walking over in their direction and ignored the two fanatics to speak with the man.
"Captain, do you have a soldier who resides at the farm at grid reference Fal-septis-gamma?"
The man nodded, looking uncomfortable. "Private Smitsen, sir. He was killed in the attack. He was the sentry who managed to give a warning; the only one who did."
"I see. Might I see the body?"
"Of course." Overmars led him to where rows of bodies were being laid out, ready for burial. The Sister of Battle and the Commissar followed, looking bemused.
"This is Smitsen." A dark-haired man, his chest driven in and drenched with blood.
"Have you his personal effects?" Sedreth asked.
Overmars nodded to the orderly beside him who picked out a small transparent plastic sack and handed it to him.
The Sister spoke. "Why is this man so interesting, astartes?"
Sedreth looked at her. "A matter of honour, sister. His wife saved my life yesterday."
Overmars looked thunderstruck. "Sara Smitsen saved your life?"
Sedreth looked back at him. "Yes. I'm good, but even I'm not good enough to take four Night Lords at once. She shot the last, or he would have finished me."
"Oh," he said, nodding slightly. "I see."
Sedreth chuckled and lightly clapped the man on the shoulder, making him wince in pain and stagger slightly. "You and your men fought well, captain. Stay brave. And stay alive. I shall return Kanret Smitsen's effects to his wife and child."
"Astartes, I regret that you will not. Not until I know who and what you are." Her voice was flat and hostile. Her hand was on her powersword, and she drew it slowly, deliberate threat.
"Fanatics. You're all the same," he said, not bothering to hide his derision. "Very well, sister Agnetha. Since you insist, my name is astartes Morgan Sedreth. I am, or more accurately I was, a sergeant in the 79th Combat Century of Legio Astartes Tres."
She blinked. "Legio Astartes Tres?"
"Emperor's teeth, woman, don't you speak Latin? The Third Legion Astartes. Ah, I see you recognise that." He slid aside from the attack with casual ease, slapping the blade down into the ground. "Woman, if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. Put up your weapon."
Her only response was a snarl of fury. "Kill him. He is one of the Emperor's Children Legion, a follower of the arch-heretic Horus."
The Commissar's weapon was in his hand incredibly fast. So were the las-pistols of those close enough to hear her. She pulled her blade clear just in time for him to spin her into him.
"My life means nothing. Kill this heretic."
Light flared. They fired. At nothing. The marine and his captive had vanished.