A/N: This is a revised and expanded version of a story I originally wrote for a 1,000 word flash-fiction contest for Cold Open Stories. I wanted to 'round out' the sellsword's tale and bring it to a decisive conclusion. Hope you all enjoyed it
"Tell me, sellsword, what do mercenaries and whores have in common?"
I risk raising my head. Lord Urlathane is not looking at me. He is still hunched over the table, cramming pieces of raw flesh into his slavering steel-fanged mouth, his appetite far from sated. Cracked bones lie strewn across the deckplate of his audience-chamber – if it can be called such – in congealed blood-pools. Hairless pale-skinned vermin scurry about searching for scraps; emaciated thralls cower fearfully in the shadows. The air is redolent with an abattoir stench the ship's over-taxed scrubber systems cannot filter out. Still, I've been in filthier places and have had far more demeaning questions put to me. This is a test and nothing more.
"I do not know, lord." I answer truthfully enough, striving to keep my voice impassive and unaffected, "Enlighten me."
Urlathane licks his dripping lips with a dark tongue. "A whore provides sexual services, for a price, while a mercenary provides martial ones – also for a price. Yet at heart they are the same: both sell themselves to be used by others in hope of some monetary gain. What do you desire, sellsword, in return for your blade-skills?"
"A berth aboard your vessel and, once the repairs are completed, a place amongst your warriors when you sail to war, that is all."
Unconvinced, Urlathane stands abruptly, sending his iron-wrought chair crashing over backwards. Vermin scatter squeaking in alarm; thralls fall to their knees gibbering in terror. The Chaos Space Marine looms over me, clad in a mismatched suit of rust-red power-armour adorned with gruesome trophies and unholy sigils, a bedraggled carnodon pelt draped over his pauldrons. His sickly yellow-hued eyes are narrowed in suspicion and mistrust.
"That is all? Indeed?" he snorts, wiping a gauntlet absently across his drooling mouth, "So you have no intention of stabbing me in the back and wresting the command of my men from me through deception and guile?"
I remain kneeling, keenly aware of the two Sons of Perdition in Terminator armor flanking me on either side, their chainglaives poised to spill my blood at a moment's notice. "No, lord; I am not that ambitious. I want to slay at your side, not usurp your throne."
Urlathane sneers, still doubtful, "Then why not satisfy your slaughter-lust butchering chattel-warriors and mutant beasts in Vrexor's fighting arenas? Skilled gladiators are always in high demand and a solitary Astartes vagabond such as yourself would be quite popular with the mortal crowds."
"I did." I shrug my pauldrons, feigning indifference. "Then I grew bored. Killing for the amusement of others became tedious and unfulfilling after a time. I wish to raid and reave once more. I know your warband is in need of fresh blood. Hearsay has it Warsmith Bracullas and his Iron Warriors ground your forces into the dust during the siege of Hallenfrax; you barely escaped with your life. This ship – and the Sons of Perdition aboard it – is all that remains of your brotherhood. Do you not wish to recover your strength and strike back at those who have humiliated and disgraced you? I would aid you in such an endeavor, lord, if you will have me."
"We shall see." Urlathane motions with a blood-slick gauntlet. A Son of Perdition cloaked in a patchwork of flayed skins steps forward and hands him a massive double-bladed power-axe. The Terminators retreat and I rise, careful to keep my face free of the anticipation surging within my hearts. Urlathane smiles like a blood-maddened fiend, his own eagerness blatant.
"You have guts, sellsword, to come a-begging aboard my vessel and offering yourself to me like a whore in exchange for the privilege of killing my enemies. But I am not as desperate for men as rumour has it. I will put your blade-skills to the test. We duel to first blood. Best me, and you win a place in my warband – if you are found wanting you will be made a captive and my brothers shall amuse themselves with you as they see fit. Are these terms acceptable?"
The last question is merely a formality. I nod and draw my treasured power-sword, Argentum Mortis, raising it in a traditional duelist's salute. Urlathane attacks without preamble and comes within inches of taking my head. We fight, the surviving Sons of Perdition standing in silent witness. Our differing combat styles make for an interesting engagement, yet dueling is my former Chapter's forte and I was accounted among the best. First blood goes to me when I slice Urlathane's cheek open to the bone, and as loathsome as he is he remains a man of his word.
"Kneel, sellsword," he growls, handing back the bloodless axe; warily I obey. Urlathane then brings forth a portion of meat from one of the many platters littering his table and holds it out to me, his eyes glittering in perverse pleasure. "Eat," he commands. The still-warm flesh is human. Without hesitation I take and eat. Urlathane grins. "Is it good?"
"Yes," I lie. "It is very good."
# # #
"You traitor!" Urlathane howls, his voice nearly drowned out by the screaming of mortar shells and the cries of the dying. The second siege of Hallenfrax is proceeding as abysmally as the first; unable to overcome the ferocity of the defense our allies amongst the Crimson Slaughter and the Magma Hounds warbands are already in full retreat. Only the Sons of Perdition press onwards, desperate not to fail a second time. The Iron Warriors punish them mercilessly, piling their bodies in heaps before the breach in their stronghold's outer wall. Behind my helm I rejoice to see Urlathane's men die like the degenerate dogs they are. Urlathane vomits a torrent of tainted blood as I withdraw my sword from his chest, falling to his knees among the bodies of his followers.
"Gods damn you, mercenary filth!" he spits. I backhand him across the face.
"I damned myself long ago to avenge my murdered battle-brothers," I snarl coldly, pushing back the intrusive agonizing memories of my former captain's mutilated body. "After your warband slaughtered half my company in a coward's ambush I sought permission to depart from my Chapter and embark on a Warrior's Pilgrimage in order to seek you out and destroy you. My request was denied. So I bided my time and when the opportunity presented itself I forsook my brotherhood to roam the Eye hunting for you. Now I bear witness to the extinction of the Sons of Perdition and gladly die with your life's blood on my blade."
I remove Urlathane's head with an executioner's stroke. Two Iron Warrior berserkers charge at me through the breach, bellowing incoherent praises to the Blood God, their chainswords shrieking. I commend my soul to the Emperor and raise Argentum Mortis in a duelist's salute one last time.
# # #
The siege is over and I am at peace. An inadvertent smile touches my blood-wet lips. Perhaps it perplexes the seven-strong squad of Iron Warriors surrounding me, their bolters leveled squarely at my head and chest. I am down on my knees, bleeding from a score of wounds, my armor sundered, my ruined helm lying discarded in the ashen dirt. I lean heavily upon the hilt of my sword to keep from collapsing to the corpse-strewn ground even as roving squads of Iron Warriors scour the battlefield executing the wounded and the dying alike without regard for rank or allegiance. Soon my own body will join those of my fellow besiegers – yet still I am at peace.
"Why are you smiling, Son of Perdition?" asks one of the Iron Warriors, a sergeant by his insignia, the muzzle of his bolt pistol centered unwaveringly on my hearts, "Do you find your plight amusing? Or did you despise your own brothers so much that their deaths are a delight even in defeat?"
"Those flesh-eating murderers were never my brothers," I reply, still smiling as clotting blood dribbles from my mouth along with the words. I may have voyaged and fought alongside the Sons of Perdition yet I never once considered myself one of them, though I often debased myself in their foul rituals and practices in order to gain their acceptance and trust. "I am a sellsword, a hired blade – nothing more, nothing less."
"Mercenary scum," another Iron Warrior sneers as he breaks rank to drive a boot into my injured side, his voice oozing contempt even though his vox-speakers; despite the pain my smiles remains fixed, my soul's peace untroubled. "We saw you attack and behead Lord Urlathane from the battlements," says the Iron Warriors sergeant, "Yet you couldn't have done it in an attempt to take command of his forces; most of his followers were dead by then and your pathetic allies were already quitting the field. Our victory was all but assured. You had nothing to gain by turning against him."
I wonder why they have not yet emptied their bolters into me, why they are even bothering with this pointless interrogation. My quest is over. Vengeance has been claimed and all I desire now is to stand before the Emperor and accept the judgment my deeds are owed. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the pummel of my sword. I am tired. Another brutal kick sends a fresh wave of pain pulsing throughout my body. More blood runs thickly from my smiling lips. The two berserkers did not go down without extracting a heavy toll upon my flesh. The gene-sons of Perturabo are an unforgiving and resilient breed; it was a pleasure to end them.
"I doubt you'll still be smiling after I've had you blinded, disemboweled and crucified to the chassis of my Rhino as a living battle-trophy," the sergeant growls, affronted by my silence.
"You are not the one who put me on my knees – all you did was watch from the safety of your master's fortifications like a coward," I remind him without looking up, "And since you took no part in my defeat you cannot truly claim me as your 'trophy'…unless you are the sort of man who has no shame in taking credit for the victories of his dead brothers."
"Take him," the sergeant commands.
A second Iron Warrior steps in, intending to disarm me. With the speed of a striking snake I surge to my feet and bury Argentum Mortis deep in his guts for his temerity. Two Iron Warriors seize my arms, pulling me away from their wounded comrade and holding me immobile. The sergeant approaches, now gripping a wickedly serrated combat-knife and the agony becomes incandescent as he cuts through the already compromised ceramite and fiber-muscles protecting my lower abdomen, carving into my stomach and spilling my entrails down my legs in a viscous tide of gore.
"A Space Marine who has no shame in whoring out his blade to the highest bidder is unworthy of a primarch's blood," he proclaims, "You deem me a coward? I have slain score upon score of your pathetic kind in every conceivable way and I shall make you weep and plead for the release of death long before you die!"
So they intend to sport with me. It does not matter. Urlathane is dead, executed by own my hand and his vile warband has been consigned to oblivion. My fallen Chapter-brothers have been avenged and I am enveloped in a peace beyond the comprehension of all traitors: a peace that surpasses the pain and even the prospect of a slow and miserable death. I should be screaming. Instead I begin to laugh. Perhaps my sanity has finally fled after so much time spent in the bedlam of the Eye. I do not care. I have accomplished what I set out to do. The Iron Warriors cannot take my victory from me – no-one can, not even the Dark Gods themselves.
"Silver flashes our blades – red runs the blood of our foes!" I roar out my Chapter's warcry for the first time in nearly a century even as Argentum Mortis is torn from my grasp and the fists and knives of the Iron Warriors drive me back down to my knees. "Glory unto the Emperor of Mankind! Glory unto the Primarch-Progenitor!"
"The sellsword is a lickspittle Imperial!" an Iron Warrior cries out in outrage. Their heavy ceramite boots slam relentlessly into my sides like crushing hammer-blows. "Traitors! Faithless sons!" I roar in defiance as I fall, my armor and flesh unable to withstand their combined onslaught, "The might of the Old Legions will not avail you! You cannot hope to escape the Emperor's wrath forever –!"
The flat of Argentum Mortis slides into my mouth, slicing my tongue and piercing the back of my throat. I gag involuntarily, choking on blood and steel. The Iron Warriors sergeant stares at me down the length of my sword and I do not need to see his face to feel the searing hatred in his gaze. I bite down on the blade, curling my mouth into a bloody sneer, silently daring him to drive the sword the rest of the way in.
"Stand down, Stygor."
The grating mechanical voice of the Warsmith brings an immediate end to the assault. The sergeant – Stygor – withdraws Argentum Mortis and steps back without protest, lowering his helm in deference; his men do likewise. A hulking monstrosity clad in an ancient mark of heavily-modified power-armor I do not recognize comes to a halt before me. Trophy chains of Astartes skulls and ork tusks hang from his gunmetal gray pauldrons and his head is crowed by a brazen eight-spiked Iron Halo. In one gauntlet he holds a black adamantium thunderhammer of unique design; in the other he grips a baroque storm-bolter, its burnished muzzle fashioned in the form of a daemon's ravenous maw.
"An Imperial?" Warsmith Bracullas growls in grim amusement as he regards me, his helm's fiery eye-lenzes resembling hellish gateways to the heart of some infernal forge wherein unspeakable devices of destruction and annihilation are constructed to the mad joy of daemons and tyrants alike. "An Imperial lapdog dares to invoke the False Emperor's judgment upon the very soil of my world?" The Iron Warrior lifts my chin with the muzzle of his storm-bolter, tilting my head back and forcing my gaze to lock with his own; my tortured muscles tense as I await the slashing blade that will open my throat and spill out the remainder of my blood like an offering at his feet.
"You do not remotely resemble a slave to the Golden Throne, sellsword," Bracullas remarks as he scrutinizes me, "Indeed, you are hardly distinguishable from the thin-blooded renegades of countless other warbands that frequently hurl themselves against my walls in the vain hope of making a name for themselves by capturing my fortress. Your warplate has been profaned and the emblem of your Chapter defaced beyond all recognition. For what purpose would a lackey of the Corpse God be willing to debase and dishonor himself to such an extent?"
"For the sake…of vengeance…" I gasp raggedly, each word a torment to utter, "For the sake of avenging good men…who deserved better…"
"There are no good men," the Iron Warrior says with bitter finality; he lowers the storm-bolter and I slump to the ground, my body a ruin, my strength spent. Yet the inner peace somehow remains, suffusing and soothing my wearied soiled soul like a warm and gentle light – the last flickering light in a dark place where all other lights have been extinguished. Again an inadvertent smile touches my blood-wet lips.
"You are right…you may command many warriors…but none will ever be…true brothers to you…the way mine were…to me…a Legion with a rusted soul…will never be…a genuine brotherhood…"
The Warsmith's gauntlets tighten about his weapons, then he turns his back on me and strides away, his boots tramping through the remains of the butchered berserkers. I close my eyes with a sigh, and as Stygor and his squad surround me once more, I recall the names and faces of the good men – the good brothers – whose souls will rest in peace now that my final duty is done.