ONE
Blood flows.
Not in veins, where evolution has dictated that it should, but over metal decking pitted with the gradual ravages of oxidisation that no amount of care could prevent. It dribbles down walls, from where it arced after being brutally released from its fleshy prison. It seeps into cracks and crevices. It pools in slight depressions, and drips through gratings to drizzle onto whatever lies beneath. The metallic tang of it is everywhere, mixing with the stink of burned hair, the chemical reek of promethium fumes, the sharp scent of cordite, and hints of ozone as the charged blades of power weapons gradually fuse the atoms of the air.
And through the blood comes the Blood Reaver.
Once, Lugft Huron was the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws. Once, he was a towering Space Marine warrior, the galaxy’s image of nobility and righteousness: at least, to those parts of the galaxy that cowered behind the shield his warriors made from their bodies, and their guns, and their will. Once, Huron believed in the Imperium, and in the Emperor, and in his Chapter’s duties: at least in his own way.
But in the Imperium there is little tolerance for any way other than that which the Imperium itself dictates. The tool that does not completely fit its role is eliminated; and if, like Lugft Huron, the tool is too tough and too stubborn to be properly eliminated, it is cast out.
The problem with that, of course, is that those who are cast out can come back. And when they do, their bodies and their guns and their will are no longer a shield, but a sword aimed for the heart.
Huron Blackheart looks around and sees death: not just death, but slaughter. This is not a military outpost; not an Astra Militarum barracks, an Adeptus Astartes fortress-monastery, or a convent of the Adepta Sororitas. This is Adeptus Mechanicus mining station Delta-Kappa-39006, plundering the mineral resources of an asteroid with a diameter of roughly three hundred miles, and its defences have been easily overwhelmed. The ships tasked with its protection were annihilated by the Spectre of Ruin within moments of its exit from the warp, and the Red Corsairs have overrun the station itself. Huron could have targeted the astropath’s tower, to ensure that the station could not call for help, but he has not cared enough to do so.
Let the blind psykers scream. Abaddon the Despoiler has ripped the galaxy apart, and the Imperium has far greater matters to attend to. No one is coming here.
‘Progress?’ Huron rasps. His voice is as damaged as the rest of him. What was once a commanding basso boom is now a phlegm-edged rattle. Sometimes it betrays him altogether, until his underlings can coax his half-dead flesh back into synergy with the mechanical implants that allow him some measure of control over his own body. These are souvenirs of events in the Palace of Thorns: a reminder of how the Imperium treats its own when they dare question an unfair system.
Still, damaged or not, Huron’s voice is acknowledged and obeyed just as fast as it ever was. Perhaps faster.
‘We’ve taken most of the complex, lord,’ a man replies, dropping to one knee, heedless of the bloody remains of a Mechanicus defender within inches of his leg.
The man is wearing a uniform that once belonged to a member of the Mordian Iron Guard, now with the aquila torn off and the epaulettes replaced by loyalist skulls. Perhaps he is its original owner. The Red Corsairs are a warband: the strong core of it is made up of renegade Space Marines, both from the old Astral Claws and those of other Chapters who have traded their former colours in for Huron’s, but great numbers of mortal warriors have also flocked to his banner over the decades. Huron welcomes all those who will fight in his name; or at least those who do so well.
‘“Most”?’ he repeats, and the ragged team of men and women stiffen. There are a dozen or so of them, armed with lasguns and autoguns, and Huron could tear through them all in a matter of seconds. They know this.
‘One part holds out, lord,’ the kneeling man says hoarsely. Perhaps he fears that Huron’s power axe will take his head, or the Tyrant’s Claw will envelop him in its crackling fingers and crush the life from him, or Huron will trigger the heavy flamer embedded in the palm of that power gauntlet and simply roast him alive. ‘There is only one access corridor, and the defenders are fiercer than we anticipated – combat automata, at least three of them.’ He begins to speak faster, perhaps hoping to head off the displeasure of the renegade standing over him. ‘If the lords of your brethren were willing, I’m sure they could attack that part of the complex from the outside, but we lack void suits and so–’
‘Enough.’ Huron cuts him off with a dismissive wave of fingers from the Tyrant’s Claw, and the man falls silent. Huron can hear his heart pounding, can see the pulse of the vein in his neck as his blood courses through him. Human blood, mortal blood; so very different from that which cycles through Huron’s twin hearts, and yet the basis for it.
Or so Huron presumes. He has been in the Maelstrom for years now, in that rift where the warp bleeds through and has its way with realspace. There is no predicting how the warp will change you: it defies logic, defies science, defies reason. The man kneeling in front of him, in fear of his life, may have already been altered. Perhaps his blood is no longer human, either. He came to the Red Corsairs as a weak mortal, the sort of malleable clay the warp can twist without effort.
Those possessed of a stronger will, on the other hand, can be harder to change; and there are few beings in the galaxy with a will stronger than that of Huron Blackheart. Most warriors, even those of the Adeptus Astartes, would have succumbed to the injuries he took in the retreat from the Palace of Thorns, rather than live on as he has. Part of that is due to a potent mix of spite and his indomitable spirit. Part of that is due to the skill of his loyal warriors Armenneus Valthex and Lord Apothecary Garreon, who worked to save him when he lay wounded. And part of that is because of the bargain Huron has struck.
He can feel a part of that bargain patrolling back and forth on his shoulders. The Hamadrya chitters softly as it phases into visibility, and the kneeling man looks up at the sound, then blanches and lowers his eyes again quickly. Huron finds the contrast amusing. A towering, horrifically scarred transhuman warrior in blood-red armour plate, wielding weapons of fearsome potency, is to be feared and obeyed; yet his daemonic familiar, a creature no larger than a domestic felid, is too unnerving to even look upon.
‘Combat automata?’ Huron asks, turning the words over in his mouth.
The Legio Cybernetica are formidable foes indeed; at least when they have a datasmith to update their command protocols, and adapt them to changing situations. A headlong rush into their guns will serve little purpose other than to amass skulls for the Blood God, and Huron prefers those sacrifices to be offered in scenarios where they will materially benefit him. He has brought a small number of Heretic Space Marines with him for this strike, oath-bonded killers with centuries of combined experience in bloodshed, and they could indeed approach over the asteroid’s surface and breach the last part of the complex from the outside. However, he is not certain he is willing to risk them on such an assault. Such is the weight of command, for Huron has no superior. Even as a Chapter Master of the Imperium, and supposedly the sovereign commander of the Astral Claws, he was expected to respond to the ‘requests’ made of him for aid. As Master of the Maelstrom, he has no orders to carry out save his own. There is no hiding place, should his strategies falter.
Perhaps another approach can be attempted.
‘Where is the start of this killing ground?’ he demands.
There is a pile of burned and pulverised bodies outside a pair of blast doors, and they bear the ragtag motley of the mortal warriors of Huron’s raiders, rather than the red robes of the defenders. The Mechanicus sigils over the door mean nothing to Huron, and he does not bother to call for any of the heretek priests who have accompanied his force on this raid to translate for him. Instead he simply presses the release, and steps to one side.
A roaring barrage of fire is the immediate response, as the incandescent fury of heavy phosphor blasters rips into the already half-melted bulkhead opposite. Huron keys the pad to keep the door open, and waits. After three seconds, the shooting stops, leaving the wall glowing.
‘Impressive,’ Huron rasps, pitching his voice to carry over the faint pinking of cooling metal. ‘To whom am I speaking?’
There is no reply from beyond the hatch. Huron listens intently. Kastelan battle robots, unless he misses his guess: mighty automata perhaps twice as tall as he is, ferociously tough and very well armed. If he hears them coming for him, he will have to be ready to react at a moment’s notice. There is presumably a reason they are holding this ground, though, instead of coming out to try and repel his force’s intrusion into the complex as a whole. Perhaps they will stay put for now.
There is still no reply.
‘Nothing to say?’ Huron asks the silent hatchway. No, not quite silent: if he strains his hearing, he can just make out the very faint buzz of the machinery and circuits of the warrior automata, although it is barely audible over the sound of his own armour. ‘You have just tried to kill me – do you not wish to know who I am?’
He closes his eyes, and reaches out with his senses. On his shoulder, the Hamadrya chitters a babble of quiet syllables that come close to being words, but which never quite develop that far. They ease his mind loose, allowing part of it to quest out in search of answers.
Blunt shapes, present and whole, entirely free from the spark of life, and yet animate. The kastelans: five of them, arrayed across the corridor. Huron can feel the belligerent energy of their machine-spirits, well suited to the task to which they have been set. And behind them…
‘There you are,’ the Blood Reaver whispers to himself, his dead lips twisting into a smile.
Behind them is true life. One soul only, about whom fear hangs as thick and obvious as captured banners on the walls of a warlord’s hall. Fearful, yes, but also resolute of purpose. If it is just a labourer taking shelter behind these guards then there is no way through that will not claim a high price in blood; perhaps higher than Huron is willing to pay for such uncertain reward. If, however, it is the Legio Cybernetica datasmith – the one who controls the kastelans – then another approach is possible, and Huron has always been one to keep his options open. The commander who leashes themselves too firmly to a course of action is the one who will find themselves led by it, and not the other way around.
‘A formidable force you have there,’ he says. ‘Too formidable to leave intact to serve the Imperium. Even now, my warriors are tearing this complex apart to secure the materials we came for. When we are done, I will have my ship level it. We have the weapons and the precision to achieve it, believe me.’
Still no response. No words, no attack. However, Huron can sense fear surging higher. Whoever this is, they have not progressed far enough down the path of the Machine Cult to eliminate all their emotions.
‘I am Huron Blackheart, master of the Red Corsairs,’ Huron says conversationally. ‘Who is it who has stalled me so?’
Still nothing. Until–
‘Cybernetica Datasmith Griza Dallax,’ comes the reply, the words tinged with both fear and pride. ‘I command these machines, so do your worst.’
‘My worst?’ Huron gives a breathy chuckle. ‘My worst would see you reduced to your component atoms as your existence catches fire around you. Have you ever died, Magos Dallax? I have, or as close to it as makes no difference. Let me tell you that your last instants are stretched out into a subjective eternity. I came out the other side. I am not certain you would be so fortunate.’
Silence.
‘And what of your charges?’ Huron continues. ‘Valuable servants of the Omnissiah, all of them. Can they withstand an orbital bombardment? I doubt it. I am a practical man, and I detest waste. Perhaps I can offer an alternative.’
Magos Dallax does not reply, but Huron can practically taste the desperation on the air. He knows the emotion well. Dallax might stand alongside her kastelans and fight and die with them in the teeth of an attack, ...
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