to join him. Two of them guided a container forward, which hovered just above the ground, held
aloft by anti-grav technology. They were rough sorts, and Baranov saw the noses of the lords and
ladies crinkle as they stared disdainfully at them. He grinned again.
One of the crew, sat down at a desk facing the nobles, a data-slate and stylus in his hands. An
immense brute with a shaved head took his place behind him, standing with his thick arms folded
across his chest.
“If you would be so kind as to make your monies ready, my associates will collect your dues,”
he said. “Step forward if you will, and make a line behind Lord Palantus. This will be as quick and
painless as possible, and we shall all be on our way shortly.”
The nobles shuffled into line, huffing and muttering, angry at being treated like commoners. The
first in line, Lord Palantus, Prime Magnate of Antithon Guild, stepped forward and slid a slim handcase
onto the desk.
“Name?” said the seated crewman, tapping at the data-slate.
“Oh, for the love of the Emperor,” said Lord Palantus, outraged at having to commune with such
a lowborn cur. The seated man looked up at him, eyebrows raised.
“Get on with it, Antithon,” muttered one of the other nobles.
“Palantus,” the lord spat, glaring down at the man before him as if he were a bug that he had just
found in his food.
“Open it,” said the seated man, indicating the hand-case with the tip of his stylus.
80
“You are going to check it’s all there, Baranov?” asked the noble imperiously. “I am a noble of
Antithon Guild, and my word is my honour. It is all there, as agreed.”
“My dear lord, of course I trust your esteemed word,” said Baranov smoothly, “but please,
indulge my men. They are unused to dealing with such luminaries. Please, open it.”
The prime magnate huffed and folded his arms, looking away. He nodded to his mistress at his
side. She clicked the release nodules of the case with her thumbs and it opened with a hiss.
With a nod, the seated man made a mark on his data-slate. The heavily muscled crewman
standing behind the desk sealed the case, and it was placed inside the hovering container.
“Now, my dear Lord Palantus,” said Baranov, guiding the man to the side with his hand on his
elbow, “if you would please go with my associates, they will see you safely onboard.”
The lord looked outraged that Baranov dared lay a hand on him, but allowed himself to be
guided away.
“Next,” said the seated man, tapping with his stylus.
With all paying customers aboard the Rapture, Baranov smiled and let out a slow breath. He had
made an absolute killing today, and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. The engines of his ship
roared, and he gave a last look around the starport before climbing the embarkation steps.
“A good day’s work,” he said. Keying a sequence of buttons, he sealed the hatch behind him.
Minutes later, the Rapture was cleared for take-off. The wedged segments of the dome far
overhead peeled back like the petals of an immense flower, opening up the landing pad to the fury
of the elements outside. Wind swirled furiously, ice and snow spiralling in mad eddies as the
Rapture’s engines roared into life, flames gushing from the powerful downward-angled thrusters.
The ship lifted, rising vertically out of the landing dock, and as the petal segments of the dome
began to close once more, the Rapture’s thrusters rotated backwards, and it screamed up towards the
heavens, leaving the doomed ice-world of Perdus Skylla behind it.
Marduk shot an Imperial soldier in the face, and the back of the man’s head exploded outwards,
spraying blood and brain matter across the wall.
“That the last of them?” he growled, kicking the corpse out of his way.
“There are a few survivors,” said Kol Badar. “They are being executed as we speak.”
“Move in, secure the area,” ordered Marduk.
The Coryphaus barked his orders, and the warriors of the Host closed in.
For three hours they had proceeded along the access tunnel, homing in on the location
pinpointed by Magos Darioq-Grendh’al as the access lift that would take them down to the mining
facility below, to the last known whereabouts of the Adeptus Mechanicus explorator.
They had encountered little resistance en route.
One Imperial patrol of soldiers had been encountered, escorting some two thousand civilians,
and they had engaged and neutralised the foe for no losses. Not all of the civilians had been killed in
the resultant slaughter, for it would have been a waste of ammunition to gun them down. Almost
three hundred had been killed, caught in the middle of the firefight or hacked down in close combat,
but the remainder had been allowed to flee, running wildly back the way they had come, though
there was evidence to suggest that most of them had been subsequently taken by the dark eldar.
Of the eldar themselves, the Word Bearers had seen no sign since their first, frantic encounter.
On several occasions, the whine of their jetbikes had been heard in the distance, accompanied by the
echoing screams of Imperial citizens from further along the tunnels, but no bodies had been
discovered that spoke of battle.
“They are a piratical race,” Kol Badar had said to Burias, who had never encountered the eldar
before and seemed, Marduk noted curiously, to have been somewhat unnerved by his first
encounter.
81
“What are they doing here? What purpose could they possibly have on this gods-forsaken
Imperial moon?” asked Burias.
“Certain eldar sects have been observed taking captives, though for what purpose has not been
ascertained,” growled Kol Badar. “I assume that the eldar on this world are such a sect, taking
advantage of the confusion of the evacuations to reap a tally of slaves.”
“It doesn’t matter why they are here,” said Marduk. “The only thing that need be understood is
that they are xenos, and therefore the enemy.”
“Had the Great Crusade been allowed to fulfil its purpose,” Kol Badar added bitterly, “with the
Warmaster at its head, then the foul race of witches and sorcerers would have been eradicated from
the galaxy long ago. But they remain a cunning foe, swift and deadly. They are not to be
underestimated.”
“Overestimation of the foe reeks of fear and weakness,” snapped Marduk. “The eldar are
nothing more than the last fragmented strands of a dying race. We are the chosen bearers of the
great truth, the favoured sons of Chaos. We are the greatest warriors the universe has ever seen, and
will ever see. We need not be concerned with the appearance of a handful of xenos pirates.”
Marduk felt pride surge through the warriors of the Host in response to his words, and he knew
that they would fight even harder against the eldar if they appeared again. He doubted that they
would, in truth, for he believed that Kol Badar was correct in his assumptions: that they had
encountered a dark eldar sect engaged in slave raids upon this doomed world, and that they expected
little resistance. Certainly, they had not expected to encounter members of an Astartes Legion.
Marduk knew that the eldar were a long-lived race, and one that was on the brink of dying out
altogether. He was certain that the eldar would rue the day that they had attacked the revered XVII
Legion. They would move on, avoiding the warriors of the Host, to find easier pickings elsewhere.
Nevertheless, the progress of the Word Bearers was slowed, for it would be foolishness not to
show caution after the lightning attack of the dark eldar. Though it defied logic for the eldar to
attack them again, he knew that they were xenos, and so could not be understood. He had studied
reports of engagements against the eldar, and everything that he had read spoke of their
unpredictability.
The priority target was an access lift that linked one of the dozens of sub-ice hab-cities with its
mining facility on the ocean floor far below, and it was towards this location that they were moving.
On the approach to one of the many entrances to this guilder hab-city, they had come upon a
blockade of enemy soldiers, accompanied by sentry guns with servitors hard-wired into their
targeting systems and lightly armoured vehicles similar to those they had encountered on the ice
above, though modified for use on man-made surfaces rather than the nebulous ice-flows. The
soldiers had been ready for them, either having received warning of the Word Bearers approach or
merely prepared for a dark eldar attack, but it mattered little.
The Anointed had led the attack, marching resolutely through the weight of fire while Namar-sin
moved the Havocs of the 217th coterie up in support, targeting and neutralising the enemy sentry
guns. With the Anointed still weathering the brunt of the enemy fusillade, Sabtec’s veteran squad
took up position on the left flank, laying down a blanket of fire that allowed Khalaxis and his
warriors to charge up the middle, with Marduk at their forefront roaring catechisms of vengeance
and hate.
Every carefully targeted burst of fire from the Anointed had ripped another of the enemy
soldiers apart, but it was Marduk’s charge that signalled the commencement of the real slaughter.
Up close, the enemy had no hope of survival. Hastily fired point blank lasgun shots had seared
burning furrows across power armour plates as Marduk and Khalaxis entered the fray, chainsword
and axe cutting and ripping. Bolt pistols created gory craters of flesh in chests, and limbs were
ripped from their sockets as Khalaxis’s warriors tore through the heart of the enemy defence.
Those cowards that had turned to run were hacked down without mercy, chainswords and heavy
axes severing spines and cutting arms away at the shoulder. Kol Badar and his Anointed moved
82
through the mayhem, ripping apart the remnants of the Imperial defenders, gunning them down with
combi-bolters and heavy reaper autocannon fire. The Coryphaus smashed the scorpion-legged rapier
sentry-guns aside with backhand blows of his power talons, sending them crashing into cowering
defenders, crushing limbs and breaking bones.
As the last enemies were brutally butchered, and as Sabtec’s squad moved forward to secure the
area, Darioq-Grendh’al stamped mechanically forward, each heavy step accompanied by a whine of
servos.
The magos, Marduk noted with a smile of satisfaction, was now truly a being of Chaos. The four
powerful arms of his servo-harness were as much organic as metal, and bony protuberances, serrated
thorns and hooked spines ridged the once pristine metal limbs. Fleshy lumps of muscle had grown
around the servo-bundles and coupling links that joined the servo-limbs to his body, and a large
curving horn emerged from the left side of the magos’s head, bursting through the blood-stained
fabric of the low cowl that hid his face in shadow.
Waving mechadendrite tentacles sprouted from his spine, and where before they were tipped
with mechanical claws, sensory apparatus and data-spikes, now several of them ended in gaping
lamprey mouths, filled with rings of barbed teeth, from which ropes of oily saliva dripped. The
surface of many of the tentacles too had changed, their metal bands morphing into smooth, black
skin, wet and slick like the body of an eel.
The insignia of the Adeptus Mechanicus had been altered and corrupted, for such a reminder of
the false machine faith was offensive to the fundamentalist Word Bearers. The cogged wheel of the
Mechanicus had been overlaid with the holy eight-pointed star of Chaos, and the black and white
skull motif of the machine cult had been corrupted, now bearing daemonic horns and wreathed in
flames so that it mirrored the sacred Latros Sacrum borne upon the left shoulder of every warrior
brother of the XVII Legion.
As if to emphasise the corrupted nature of the magos, Darioq-Grendh’al paused besides a dying
Imperial soldier, who stared up at him in horror, face awash in blood. The magos peered down at the
man, his unfathomable red glowing right eye boring into the soldier. Four of the lamprey mouths of
the semi-organic mechadendrites waved towards the fallen man, who recoiled away from them in
horror. The tentacles were drawn to him as if they tasted his blood in the air, and latched onto him,
attaching to his neck, his chest and his face.
The man screamed in horror and pain as the tentacles twisted back and forth, burrowing into his
flesh and began sucking away his vital fluids. The man died in torment, and as the feeder mouths
pulled away from the corpse with a wet sucking sound, blood dripping from their gaping apertures,
the magos tilted his head to one side and, with an almost tender, tentative movement, lifted one of
the man’s limp arms with one of his own mechanical power lifters. Releasing the man’s arm, it
flopped back to the ground, and Darioq-Grendh’al stared down at it in incomprehension.
Amused, Marduk watched as the magos tried to raise the man to his feet, lifting him up gently in
his mechanical claws, careful not to crush him in his powerful grip, but the body collapsed to the
ground as soon as it was released.
“The life-systems of this flesh-unit have failed,” said the magos. “Already its body temperature
has dropped 1.045 degrees, and its cellular make-up is entering corporal decay.”
“He’s dead, magos,” said Marduk softly. “You killed him.”
The magos looked at Marduk, and then back down at the corpse. Then, slowly, he raised his
head once more to meet Marduk’s gaze.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” said Marduk.
The magos paused, looking down at the corpse at its feet in incomprehension. Then the
corrupted once-priest of the Machine-God straightened.
“I wish to do that again,” he said.
“Oh you will, Darioq-Grendh’al,” promised Marduk.
83
Having breached the defences of the guild hab-city, the Word Bearers made swift progress through
the tunnelled streets and boulevards, encountering no resistance and sighting few living beings. The
citizens that still remained in the city fled before the advance of the enclave, scurrying like vermin
into the darkness of side-tunnels and alleys.
Marduk gave them no mind. He cared not for the fate that awaited them once the tyranids had
descended on the planet. They would all be slaughtered, their bodies consumed to feed the growth of
the hive fleet.
They descended deeper into the guild city, guided inexorably onward by schematic maps that
