第 12 页

“Mercy of Vulkan…” Dak’ir breathed. His voice was made even hollower through his battle-helm.

“Self-mutilation, sir.” The explanation was hardly necessary. Deep lacerations ran down the adept’s torso,

arms and legs, four-pronged as if dug by fingernails. The stark evidence of the adept’s hands supported that

theory — they were stained with blood. Three of the nails had been ripped off, revealing the soft red

membrane beneath; the rest were clogged with shreds of flensed skin.

“This one had ocular implants?” Dak’ir asked.

“No, sir.”

The eyes, then, had been torn out. Gore streaked from the ruined sockets that were deep and red and visceral.

Dak’ir regarded the abomination sternly.

“Assessment?”

Emek paused, weighing up his words, until his sergeant faced him to demand an answer. “I believe the ship

turned on itself, though I don’t know how or why,” he said.

Dak’ir remembered the view of the Archimedes Rex through the Fire-wyvern’s occuliport; in retrospect, the

weapons damage was strange. It was possible that the ship’s crippling had been self-inflicted. It might also

explain why they had encountered one single magos — he was the last standing, having killed the rest. The

cryo-vault was sealed, not against foreign invaders, but to keep the rest of the ship’s inhabitants out.

“What about the servitors?” Dak’ir followed his line of reasoning out loud.

“They aren’t sentient like the magos and the other adepts. Perhaps they weren’t affected in the same way.”

Dak’ir took one last look at the mutilated adept in the tank. His salvation had come too late. Sealed in the

cryo-casket, and with nothing to attack, he had evidently turned on himself.

“Keep looking for survivors,” he said, turning, glad to avert his gaze from the gruesome spectacle.

As he walked back down the access stairway, Dak’ir’s comm-feed crackled to life. It was on a closed

channel with himself and Tsu’gan.

“Brother-sergeants.”

Dak’ir looked over at the sound of Pyriel’s voice. The Librarian maintained his vigil over their dubious

allies. The cause for his words was obvious. The Marines Malevolent had opened up the blast doors. When

he reached the Librarian, Dak’ir saw inside the chamber the other Astartes had been so fixated on. It was a

massive storage room, akin to the one they’d discovered earlier only much larger. Also unlike the smaller

munitions store, this one had a vast cache of manufactured arms and armour: Mk VII battle-plate hung in

suits from overhead armatures; bolters sat in racks like parade soldiers, pristine and unfired; ammo crates

brimming with sickle mags for the guns were piled in pallets of a hundred, a thousand clips per crate.

Materiel spanned the hangar-like room in an unending slew of grey-black.

The Marines Malevolent were already emptying it, positioning guns, ammunition and power armour directly

outside the chamber within an invisibly delineated area.

Dak’ir then realised what Lorkar and his battle-brothers were doing on the Archimedes Rex. The fledgling

weapons were the perfect replacements for their arcane militaria. The Marines Malevolent were resupplying;

appropriating the materiel cache from the forge-ship for their own purposes.

One of the yellow-armoured warriors, the shark-helmeted Brother Nemiok, had been in brief concert with

his sergeant and afterwards removed something from a large belt pouch. It was a bulky device, hoisted into

position atop the centre of the small arms cache by a thick handle, and consisted of a narrow-necked tube

with a lozenge-shaped tip that contained a beacon, appended with small pistons that powered a ribbed

compression cylinder.

Though crude and out-dated, Dak’ir recognised it at once. It was a teleport homer. En route to the

Archimedes Rex, the Salamanders had neither seen nor detected another vessel. Dak’ir could only assume the

Fire-wyvern’s sensor arrays lacked the range to discover it, for he was sure now that the Marines Malevolent

had a cruiser nearby, its teleportarium primed for the stolen Mechanicus haul.

Tsu’gan stormed towards the ring of yellow-armoured Astartes that had formed just in front of the

teleportation zone.

“What do you think you’re doing, brother!” he growled, ignoring the others and addressing Lorkar directly.

The sergeant was directing two of his battle-brothers hefting the equipment out of the storage room and

didn’t look at Tsu’gan when he answered.

“What it looks like, Salamander. I am re-supplying my Chapter.”

“You steal that which is not meant for you,” he countered, clenching his fists. “I did not realise the Marines

Malevolent were honourless pirates.”

Now Lorkar turned, and his previous nonchalance crumbled away.

“We are true servants of the Emperor. Our integrity is beyond reproach. We seek only the means to

prosecute His wars.”

“Then honour the pact made between He and the Mechanicus. We Astartes have no call to pillage and

ransack the stricken ships of Mars. You are no better than carrion snapping at the flesh of a corpse.”

“What concern is it of yours, anyway?” Lorkar returned, a slight tilt of his head suggested a glance at

something behind the Salamander. “Stay out of it.”

Tsu’gan felt the lightest pressure on his pauldron when he turned swiftly, seizing the wrist of the Space

Marine attempting to surprise him and twisting until the bones snapped and he forced his assailant to one

knee.

“Attempt to rise and I shall shatter your kneecap,” Tsu’gan promised, addressing the skull-faced Marine

Malevolent with the plasma gun. Despite the obvious pain he was in, the yellow-armoured Astartes looked

to his sergeant before he would relent.

Ba’ken stirred from his sentry position, as did the other Salamanders on overwatch, together with those

manning the cryo-caskets.

“Remain where you are.” Pyriel’s curt command arrested any further escalation.

Ba’ken seemed about to press anyway, when a glance from Dak’ir warned him off and he merely watched

instead. Of the Marines Malevolent, only Brother Rennard had broken ranks, doubtless in response to an

earlier directive from his sergeant.

Lorkar’s fists were clenched as he considered what to do next. It was as if time had frozen. The tension in

the room was strained; a little more pressure and it would break out in bloody violence. Dak’ir noticed that

Harkane had switched the gun platform from dormant to active, the red targeting matrix hazing in the cryogas.

He thought about disabling the Techmarine. He still had enough charge in his plasma pistol for a wounding

shot. It took less than a second for Dak’ir to decide against it. So delicately poised as the situation was, any

unexpected move could be disastrous. Tsu’gan had the lead for now and he had to be content with that. A

degree of insurance would be prudent, though, and it was with this in mind that Dak’ir issued the sub-vocal

command into a closed channel of the comm-feed.

“Do you really want to do this?” Tsu’gan still had his back to Lorkar, glaring down intently at the Marine

Malevolent under his control.

Lorkar exhaled slowly and released his clenched fists. “Brother Rennard, stand down,” he ordered

reluctantly, and the skull-faced Astartes relaxed. Tsu’gan let him go, facing Lorkar again, an awkward standoff

in prospect.

“These weapons can either gather dust on this wreck or be put to use destroying the enemies of mankind. We

will not abandon them.”

Pyriel’s voice invaded the deadlock. “You are wrong. They will be returned to the Mechanicus for proper

allocation,” he said. “You are outnumbered by a superior force. Neither of us wants a conflict here. Relent at

once or face the consequences.”

Harkane shifted, about to do something he would later regret, when he staggered a little as if stunned.

I would collapse your mind before your finger squeezed the trigger!

Dak’ir heard the psychic impel that was meant only for Harkane, and it chilled him.

Lorkar, who had not been privy to the mental threat, continued undeterred, nodding with assertion. “The

weapons and armour are leaving this ship—” he paused mid flow, slightly bowing his head again as

instructions were relayed through his comm-feed.

“Let us all hear your orders, Malevolent,” Tsu’gan growled contemptuously. “Or is the voice on the other

end of that comm-feed too craven?”

Rennard had got to his feet and was supporting his broken wrist, when he spoke up. “You disrespect a

captain of the Astartes!”

Tsu’gan turned on him next.

“Show me this captain,” he demanded. “I hear only a whispering coward hiding behind the pauldrons of his

sergeant.”

Ba’ken loomed suddenly behind the belligerent Rennard, who was slightly crouched with his injury and wise

enough to make no further move, merely seething behind his macabre battle-helm.

Dak’ir nodded to the bulky Salamander, who returned the gesture.

“Well then?” Tsu’gan pressed, focused on the Marine Malevolent sergeant. “Where is he?”

Lorkar stalked forwards, the ring of armour parting to let him through as he unhitched an item from his belt

and came face-to-face with Tsu’gan. Going to his fellow brother-sergeant’s side at once, Dak’ir noticed

Pyriel making a similar move as Lorkar whispered:

“As you wish…”

Brace yourselves!

II

Purgatory

It was the last thing Dak’ir heard as the cryo-vault disappeared in a brilliant magnesium flash. Then came

pain, so raw and invasive it was as if his organs were twisting inside out, as if the very molecular structure of

his being was breaking down in a nanosecond, atom by atom, reforming and disintegrating again a moment

later. Sulphur and cordite wreathed his nostrils, so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe. The acrid taste of

copper filled his mouth as all notions of time and existence bled away into a soup of primal instinct, like

being born. The tangible gave way to the ethereal as all meaning fled from his senses.

The light subsided as an image slowly resolved around Dak’ir. The actinic stench remained, as did the blood

lining his teeth and in his mouth. He saw metal, felt it concretely beneath his booted feet. A sensation of

nausea followed, supplemented by a bout of sudden vertigo making Dak’ir stagger as the corporeal world

reestablished itself.

He was on a ship. The device in Lorkar’s hand had been a homing beacon, through which he’d teleported

them aboard.

“The nausea will pass,” a grating voice Dak’ir recognised as Sergeant Lorkar’s assured them.

Dak’ir was standing in a large circular room. It had a vaulted ceiling that led away into unfathomable

darkness, and was poorly lit by sodium simulacra-lamps. Around its vast circumference, the room was

papered with cloth banners describing numerous victories with rubrics daubed in High Gothic script, yellowand-

black armoured Astartes holding skulls and other grisly talismans aloft to the adulation of a horde. A

hundred campaigns or more were arrayed across the chamber’s ambit, each devoted to the Marines

Malevolent Chapter’s 2nd Company. The Marines Malevolent were not a First Founding Chapter, they had

not fought in the Great Crusade, bringing thousands of worlds into compliance, but on the evidence of their

laurels, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

Accenting the self-aggrandising banners were other trophies — the actual macabre totems depicted on the

cloth. Dak’ir saw the flayed skulls of xenos: orks, their jutting jaws and sloped brows unmistakable; the

tyranid bio-form he recognised from the Chamber of Remembrance on Prometheus and the wing devoted to

2nd Company recounting their exploits on Ymgarl, when they cleansed the moon of a genestealer

infestation. The bleached cranium of a hated eldar also sneered down at him, its countenance as haughty and

disdainful in death as it was in life. The graven battle-helms of the Traitor Legions were also present,

hollowed out and staring balefully. Disturbingly, he caught sight of a battle-helm that did not bear any

Chaotic hallmarks he could discern, though it sparked a pang of remembrance in him. It was difficult to tell

in the gloom and he was still fighting off the unpleasant lingering sensation of the recent teleport, but it

appeared to be stygian black with a bony protrusion punching through the apex of the helmet like a crest.

“Idiot — you could have killed us all with that stunt.” Tsu’gan’s voice arrested Dak’ir’s attention. His fists

were bunched as he directed his wrath at Lorkar. The Salamander sergeant was shaking, though Dak’ir

couldn’t tell if it was with anger or if he too was still acclimatising to their sudden transition from the

Archimedes Rex.

Tsu’gan was right, though. Teleportation was a dangerous and inexact science. Even with the benefit of a

homing beacon, the chances of becoming lost in the warp or translating back as a gibbering morass of fleshy

blubber as your insides became your outsides were still uncomfortably high. To engage in teleportation

when those translating had not been primed or were not wearing Terminator armour to protect them from the

physical rigours of the process was even more hazardous.

“I did it to make a point.” The voice was hard like iron, full of power and self-confidence. It echoed from t he

edge of the room where the gloom gathered, and the Salamanders followed it to its source.

Bisecting the circle of glory was a steel dais holding up a black throne upon which sat a figure in the manner

of a recumbent king. Only the tips of the figure’s boots were visible, together with the suggestion of a yellow

greave cast in the corona of light issuing from a nearby simulacra-lamp. His identity was swathed in shadow

for now.

He was evidently a student of war history. Above the throne were numerous maps of ancient conquests and

crusades. There were weapons, too: esoteric firearms, blades of unknown origin and other strange devices.

The throne room was a proud boast, designed to promote the captain’s obvious sense of vainglory.

“I am Captain Vinyar and this is my ship, the Purgatory. Whatever control you think you have here, you are

wrong. The Mechanicus vessel is mine, I lay claim to all its contents.”

“Lay claim? You may lay claim to nothing, and will release the Archimedes Rex to our charge in the name

of the Emperor,” said Tsu’gan.

“Cool your temper, brother-sergeant,” Pyriel warned in a low voice, a spectator until now. “You are

addressing a captain of the Astartes.” Dak’ir noted that unlike him and his brother-sergeant, the Librarian

showed no outward signs of discomfort from their enforced journey.