Chapter Twenty-one

a/n this chapter was originally part of chapter twenty; I split them for ease of loading and (cos I'm like that) to give you all a little cliffie. But really twenty and twenty-one need to be read together, so here it is.

Brother Cerlin watched the vid with glee; only endless centuries of discipline kept the grin from his face. "Brother-sergeant, that Inquisitor has taken the woman Tarken into custody. They're undocking now to leave the system."

Sergeant Lomin Annassios chuckled. "Definitely a worthwhile sacrifice, then. The captain was right. Bringing that female into contact with the Inquisition gets both of them out of our hair."

"And with them gone, we can turn this planet to the worship of the true gods by subverting the Trad Festival," said Cerlin with satisfaction. "Blessed Lorgar will be pleased."

There was general laughter from the small group, then Annassios quieted them. "That's all fine, but we have a mission to accomplish here. The captain and the chaplain want us ready to 'port down to impress the locals with the power we have. So make ready; we need to look as much like imperial space marines as possible. For now, anyway."

The five warriors moved to obey. Annassios turned back to Cerlin. "Are all systems working correctly?"

"Yes, brother-sergeant. The ship's machine spirit is sated from our last sacrifice, and the cloak is protecting us from detection."

"Good. Track that ship. If it makes any suspicious move be ready."

"I am patched into the station feed; it is the best we can do without powering up our scans, and that would be detectable."

"That is acceptable." Annassios moved away to finish his preparations. Cerlin turned back to his displays.

"Coming up on our course correction. Teleport range in one minute." Sara thought of calling for Morgan, but heard instead the familiar heavy tread in the adjacent corridor. A thought struck her.

"Morgan, could you pick up additional bolters for the bridge crew, please?"

"Of course, Sara." The massive footsteps paused, then turned and faded slightly as Sedreth walked into the aux armoury where they kept the bridge weaponry. She noticed Ignatius looked at her keenly.

"Sedreth wears Terminator armour?"

She nodded. "His own was ruined; Tech-captain Vivane and his techmarines were good enough to repair a damaged set we had aboard."

"Oh?"

She smiled at the slight query in his gaze. "Indeed. There were more than a hundred sets of astartes armour, mostly marks IV and V, in storage awaiting a repair that had never come. Codex armour of the Emperor's Children. From the records we could find, they were mostly from casualties of the Murder campaign, world one-forty-twenty, fought alongside the Blood Angels, together with about thirty unworn replacement sets. Amongst those was sufficient tactical dreadnought armour to make two full Indomitus-pattern sets. The second suit remains on Baal, in the colours of the Ninth. We thought it appropriate since its last owner died beside Blood Angels."

Ignatius nodded, almost approvingly. "That is a great gift. Many astartes Chapters have insufficient Terminator armour to outfit a full company."

"Mummy, course change in ten seconds."

Cerlin watched the patterns suspiciously. Hmm. That wasn't quite right. There was no need for that course change. "Sergeant, that ship just changed course. It's efficient, but not standard for that lane. It will take them within forty thousand klicks of our current position." Easy gunnery range, he thought with a sudden chill of premonition.

Annassios was at his side in seconds. "Show me."

Cerlin did so. "I can get vid at this range. Do you want a close-up?"

The albino sergeant nodded, his redly daemonic eyes cold. Cerlin brought it up on the main screen.

"What in Lorgar's name? That is no trader ship. That's a strike cruiser class."

Annassios snarled in sudden anger. "We're made. Don't ask me how, but we are. Bring the shields and engines up and get us out of here. We can't fight that thing. Battle stations. Move."

Armoured bodies flung themselves into the command chairs as Cerlin brought the shields up. There was a flare of light on the vidscreen.

"Incoming lance fire!" yelled Stabbo.

"Manoeuvre! Emergency evasion pattern delta," bellowed the sergeant as the ship shook to its core and the lights flickered.

"Direct hit. Venting plasma on decks four and five," came the dead voice of a service slave, its once human form no longer capable of emotion.

Cerlin cursed as the lights dimmed again. This time they stayed dimmed. "Shields took part of it, but they're down. Drives are offline. We're a sitting target."

"It's firing again. Full broadside. Impact in..., fifteen seconds."

Annassios cursed obscenely.

Cerlin worked his controls frantically. "Sergeant, I can 'port you aboard it manually using the emergency power."

The other grinned viciously, showing a mouthful of cruel fangs. "Then we shall take some of them with us. Do it."

Cerlin nodded and pushed the controls, seeing his brothers' last salute even as they vanished. He turned to face the incoming barrage and pulled himself to attention.

"Blessed be the Day."

The world erupted in fire; there was pain, then nothing.

"Porting now, Lord Gustavus. Emperor's Light go with you," said the child. There was a flare of energy and the bridge vanished to be replaced by rocky scrubland. Gustavus glanced at his tacscan; perfect. Exactly where they should be. He followed Ignatius as the squad advanced on the enemy position.

"Two obvious sentries," reported Meleriex quietly from up ahead. "Cultists. There should be at least one traitor marine somewhere. Hold until I deal with him."

"Acknowledged. Squad, hold positions. Phoenix, do you have anything?"

"Power armour signature approx twenty metres from you, brother-sergeant, moving at slow walk sector alpha-two-flame."

"I have him. Moving in."

There was a brief pause. Then, "Enemy eliminated. Word Bearer tactical marine."

Ignatius' voice was calmness personified. "Move up. Prepare for assault."

Sergeant Annassios arrived in a suspiciously empty corridor, a long, bare lane of gleaming metal. He moved cautiously to a cross-corridor, trying vainly to get a fix on the rest of the squad. Nothing. No servitors, no crew, no-one. What in Holy Lorgar's name was going on?

"This is Annassios. Report."

"Stabbo here, sergeant. I'm in the main hangar. It's empty; not even a shuttle. No crew, no servitors, no signs of life."

"Vicente here, sergeant. I arrived in an empty chamber of some kind. The corridor beyond is empty; I think I'm near the bow. No signs of life, but I can see an aquila on the wall of a cross-corridor from my position. Based on the size of that corridor, it's the main processional."

He waited for several seconds, then decided that Koreth must have failed to 'port, or 'ported into vacuum. Either way, he was dead. Like Cerlin, brave warrior that he was.

"Alright. It's just the three of us. Find out your location, and stay alert. The ship must be short of crew. If you meet opposition, try and make it silent. No point in alerting whoever is actually aboard. Report at five minute intervals."

He kept his bolter ready as he moved slowly along the corridor, searching for some sign to indicate where he and his men might be.

An oath came through the vox, early. Vicente. "What is it, Vicente?"

"I'm in the main processional all right, brother-sergeant. There's more than just aquilas on the walls. There's the winged talon. The codex winged talon."

"Imperial Emperor's Children? That's impossible. They all died ten thousand years ago."

"I know, brother-sergeant, but I'd know that sigil anywhere."

"Brother-sergeant, wasn't there a rumour that one of those effete bastards turned his coat? About twenty years ago? Something to do with Ahriman, the Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons."

Annassios thought for a second. "Yes. You're right, Stabbo. This might be his ship. Holy Lorgar will be pleased if we killed him." He smiled grimly to himself. "Stay alert; if this is his ship, he will be a dangerous opponent, to say nothing of any of that accursed Deathwatch team." Yes, the Blessed Primarch Lorgar would be pleased.

"Sigurd, movement behind to your left, seven o'clock."

"Acknowledged," came the deep rumble. The vox briefly rattled as the Space Wolf turned his heavy bolter on the cultists trying to flank him. Janey barely noticed.

"Lord Gustavus, I'm starting to get interference in the scan signal. It's consistent with daemonic presence. Heaviest directly ahead of you, sectors gamma-three and four."

"I see it. Possessed space marine. I'll deal with it, Ignatius, push on, don't let them regroup."

Gustavus opened fire with his psycannon on the glowing entity, ignoring the traitor marines flanking its charge across the rough-hewn stone floor. The bright-star impacts of his blessed bolts, each of them a potent anti-daemonic item in its own right, slammed into the thing's armour. It bellowed in rage and pain, but didn't stop coming and he stepped in with his holy relic powersword, meeting charge for charge and fury for fury. "For the Emperor!"

Someone stepped up beside him, engaging the surviving Word Bearer unarmed with savage brutality. Sigurd, his heavy bolter lost, presumably damaged. It made little difference; the powerful Space Wolf was almost as devastating in hand-to-hand combat as he was with heavy weapons. A massive blow smashed the traitor backwards, then the thrust of an armoured gauntlet, fingers extended, drove in under his throat, almost tearing the man's head off.

Gustavus pressed his psycannon one-handed against the daemon thing, and held the trigger down. It disintegrated with a frustrated scream. He ran forward to engage another warrior as Sigurd retrieved his heavy bolter and its merciless thunder echoed anew through the chamber.

Ahead of him, Ignatius was engaged with a massive warrior in black power armour – a captain or champion of some kind. He saw Jeremiah wading into a group of cultists with bolt pistol and combat knife; Meleriex was fighting two scarlet-armoured Word Bearers at once, his lightning claws a lethal advantage at close quarters. He glanced around, looking for Shere, and saw the warrior on one knee, blood and gore showing through the remnants of his pelvic armour, firing as calmly as he did at target practice with short controlled bursts of bolter fire. Three dead Word Bearers lay around him, testimony to how he'd got the injury in the first place. One of them had been cut neatly in two, probably by Meleriex's claws.

Gustavus leapt to meet another heretic, only for the man's head to explode courtesy of a burst of fire. He glanced round again. There was just Ignatius' opponent left, and then he was down too, a lethal sword-stroke cutting him down the middle.

"Casualties? Injuries?" he asked.

Shere spoke quietly. "My hip's broken, Lord Inquisitor. It will not take any weight; I cannot stand unaided."

"Nothing serious," said Jeremiah. "Stick fracture of my left forearm. My fighting capacity is unimpaired." His vambrace was indeed deeply scarred.

"Nothing that will not heal quickly, Lord Inquisitor," came Ignatius' response.

Sigurd helped Shere to his feet.

"I must be getting old," said the Tigers Argent marine, one arm over the Space Wolf's shoulder.

"Ten centimetres to the left and you wouldn't be getting any older, my friend," said his helper.

"Anyone else?"

The others proved to have only minor injuries. "We took them by surprise, I think. They were unprepared for an attack," said Ignatius.

"Just as well. Eleven Word Bearers. If they'd had time to set for us, we could have been in trouble. As it was, we could easily have lost this fight. The Emperor was with us today."

"Indeed, Jeremiah. But we are victorious. Meleriex, you and Jeremiah search this den; I want evidence of their plans. Shere, you return to Eyes of the Phoenix and get that injury seen to. Sigurd, you and captain Ignatius do a sweep of the immediate area. See if you can pick up any stragglers. I shall see if any of the dead have identification."

The immediate chorus of 'yes, Lord Gustavus' was followed by rapid, practised movement as the team went about their business.

"Mr Morgan, I'm picking up power armour signatures on decks seven, eight and eleven. They seem to be converging towards the chapel. I think we may have been boarded."

"How many?"

"Just the three."

He gave a grim smile. "I shall deal with them. Sara, in the meantime, put your armour on. Janey, seal the bridge; only open for me or your mother."

She nodded. "What about Lord Gustavus and his men?"

"Inform them that we have intruders and are dealing with them."

Annassios smiled slowly as Stabbo came into view, followed immediately by Vicente. Three Word Bearers was enough to take any ship. They flanked him without needing orders and the three advanced on the great polished doors through which they could make out the ship's chapel. Surely, if there were anyone aboard other than on the bridge, they would be here.

Nothing. Then, very slowly, the doors started to close. He glanced round.

A voice, a girl-child's voice, light and soft, came clearly over the ship's internal speaker system. "The traitors known as Word Bearers may not enter the Hall of Remembrance."

That old concept? He snorted in contempt. "Who's going to stop us?"

A deep male voice, distorted by suit external speakers, answered from a connecting corridor. "I am."

The marine stepped out into clear view and Annassios hesitated, such was the shock. A Terminator? An Emperor's Children Terminator? Beside him Vicente opened fire and he instinctively followed suit, the bolts smashing into the massive armoured form. Stabbo whipped grenades from his utility belt and threw them, enveloping the warrior – it had to be the traitor Sedreth – in shrapnel and concussive force. The man seemed to ignore it all, his stormbolter rising regardless. For a split second, time seemed to stand still, then the air filled with the thunderous roar of Terminator weaponry. Vicente was cut in two by a long burst, and Annassios took the only, terribly slender, chance they had. He pulled his chainsword and charged, his brother beside him.

Sedreth watched the two Word Bearers dispassionately. Brave. Foolish, but brave. He coolly picked the left-most one, who had thrown the grenades, and emptied his stormbolter into the warrior's chest, then drew his – formerly Carline's – powersword in a swift easy motion. The sword-fight didn't last long, the outmatched chainsword cut in half with its owner as he vainly tried to parry. He moved to each of the others and beheaded them. Just in case.

"Janey, three dead Word Bearers by the chapel. Any other signals?"

"Negative, Mr Morgan. I'm teleporting brother Shere aboard right now. He's been badly wounded. Could you go to the medical stores and get the diagnostic couch there? It works now; Apothecary Justinian was good enough to have one of the techmarines repair the one we found in storage."

"On my way, Janey." Badly wounded? For an astartes, that meant something that would have crippled or killed a lesser man. His strides were rapid and purposeful as he went for the medical equipment.

Shere winced inwardly as the armoured woman helped him to the spacious chamber they used for medical treatment. He was glad his helmet kept her from seeing how much pain he was in. It would not do for a civilian to see a space marine show signs of weakness.

"You wear the armour of the Emperor's Children, captain?" He spoke mostly to distract himself from the pain.

She nodded. "It protects well, brother-astartes. And I like the reaction it causes with the Emperor's enemies."

"That is a Black Templars purity seal."

She put an arm under his right shoulder for him to lean on; he couldn't help but use it. "An honour I try to live up to. I am not sure I deserve it, but I make the attempt to be worthy anyway; it keeps me working when I remember brother-captain Abdiel and all of his men who we were not in time for."

"Oh?" He was barely listening, merely trying to keep himself distracted from the effort of walking, even supported.

"They were engaged with a hive fleet spur in the Caltenis system. We only got there in time to teleport the survivors off the last ship just before she detonated her engines. Everything we had, lances and broadsides, was enough to open a thirty-second teleport window. And it was no good. We got five people off. All of them died of their wounds."

"How many Black Templars?"

"Seven companies. Seven strike cruisers and their entire compliments. Plus forty-odd thousand civilians and guardsmen who couldn't be evacuated."

Seven hundred space marines? That was a grievous loss to the Imperium. "The planetary governor should have been shot for incompetence."

"He died too. The colony detonated its powerplants on his orders. He refused to be evacuated." She half-lifted him onto a heavy diagnostic gurney, the strain of the effort evident on her face despite the power armour.

Shere winced as he lay down. "My apologies. I should not have spoken badly of the dead."

"I'm sure the dead will forgive you, brother. Now lie back and save your strength. Even space marine bodies have limits."

He lay back as directed, and let her let her remove his helmet. She shone a light into his eyes and nodded, then ran a slim diagnostic wand over his pelvic area.

Her voice showed concern under the professional calm. "You have multiple fractures and your left hip joint is shattered. I'm sure it can be healed, but not by me. This needs a specialist. There are fragments of armour and the bolts that hit you embedded right into the bone. If you were a normal human, you'd have been cut in half."

"We are a long way from an apothecary. But we have a medical servitor on our own ship," he replied.

She smiled slightly. "Good. You will need its services. And sooner rather than later, I suggest. Your body is already trying to knit itself back together. And you don't want it to do so incorrectly."

"No." He didn't want that; he could not serve the Emperor properly as a cripple. And the Tigers Argent did not believe in prosthetics – the purity of the human form was important.

"Then relax, as far as you can. I have to get back to the bridge. Morgan's a fine pilot and will make a clean dock, but I like the controls in my own hands. Just in case there are more of those Word Bearer bastards out there."

He nodded. "Go. I shall be fine until treated."

"Yes, Lord Inquisitor," said Janey. "Brother Shere is in our infirmary, such as it is. But mummy, sorry, captain Tarken, says his pelvis is shattered. He will need extensive treatment if he is to heal without long-term problems in movement."

"Very well. I need you to 'port up captain Ignatius, sergeant Meleriex and brother Jeremiah. Myself and brother Sigurd will finish our search here. We also have one cultist prisoner. Have you the facilities to hold him?"

"Uhm, I don't know. We don't have a holding cell. But we could disable the locks on one of the old crew rooms. They're empty."

"That will suffice for the moment. Do that. Jeremiah can stand guard."

"Affirmative, Lord Inquisitor. Uh, there is one thing."

"What?"

"The local Navy squadron hasn't contacted us, sir. Not when we opened fire, or even when we came into dock again. It just … well, it's strange, that's all."

The Inquisitor's voice was frigid and hard. "Yes. It is. When I return aboard, I shall have some questions to ask of those captains." The innocuous phrase held a chilling promise. Janey was suddenly very glad the Inquisitor was on their side.

"Yes, sir. Four to 'port?"

"Four to 'port. You have lock?"

"Affirmative. 'Porting in ten."