Rob Sanders: Legion of the Damned

Grit and grave dust whipped up about the approbator, and turning, Quast came to regard the Thunderhawk that had led the formation down through the thick cloud cover. Its prow section drifted up behind him, hovering like some great predator. Quast stood up in the beast-craft’s sights, his robes thrashing about him in the squall of its engines. The tempest invested cadavers with momentary life as bodies trembled and mortis-stiff limbs rocked in the backwash of the Thunderhawk’s thrusters.

Once again Quast held out his identification, finding himself turning and stumbling as the Thunderhawk circled, the craft’s tail gliding around while the armoured cockpit, heavy bolters and troop section remained fixed on the approbator. The gunship’s engines, landing gear and weaponry gleamed with sacred oils and clear maintenance; however, its armour was sallow and abused. The flash-scarring of las-blasts accompanied soot-smeared missile strikes and a nosetip-to-tail mauling of bolt plucks and heavy-gauge auto-fire.

As the bay ramp opened, Excoriators Space Marines filed down the incline and dropped to the ground below in two flanking lines. The Excoriators moved with solemn purpose, the compact brutality of their boltguns breaking up the curvilinear lines of their ceramite. The plate itself was a dirty ivory – shabby in appearance against the polished gleam of the torso cabling – and above the scorn of their half-moon helmet grilles, a pair of dark optics burned with resolution.

The battered cream of their armour became immediately splattered with the ichor of the dead. With the crouch landing of each armoured Angel, Quast fancied he could feel the flesh below him quake. As the gunship circled, the deploying Excoriators began fanning out, boltguns aimed at the carpet of carnage and helmets methodically scanning from left to right. Turning his magnoculars on the other Thunderhawks, Quast found that they too had delivered their Adeptus Astartes payloads to the battlefield about the smoking remains of Obsequa City. And they too seemed to be doing more than a reconnaissance sweep. The Excoriators were looking for something. Or someone.

As the howling wind grew about him, Quast lowered the glasses. The Thunderhawk had completed its deployment and now closed on the approbator. The last thing that the acolyte wanted was confusion, or to cause offence, and so he kept his ordo identification stretched out in front of him, that the living arsenal of the Emperor knew that he was no enemy of the Imperium.

A final figure stepped out of the shadows of the troop bay. His steps were those of a warrior bearing the burden of great age and rank, and as he waited on the edge of the ramp, the Thunderhawk effortlessly drifted forwards. Quast felt like they were both in the eye of a storm. The acolyte staggered back as the gunship rolled right up to him. The Excoriator stepped off the ramp and onto the battlefield. The ramp behind him closed and the craft gently banked and peeled off, leaving the two of them amongst the calm and quiet of the massacre.

Quast was drowned in the shadow of the ceramite hulk. Like the Thunderhawk from which he’d stepped, the Excoriator’s armour was blasted and scarred. Unlike his superhuman brethren, however, this figure was decked in battle-plate of deepest black. A blizzard of bolt craters blemished its dark surface, while the criss-cross of blade slashes and claw scratches scored the plate into a mosaic blaze. This once again contrasted with the adamantium gleam of its cables, casings and Imperial aquila, unfolding its glorious wings across the warrior’s broad chest. His scuffed gauntlet clenched a great crozius, beneath the mirrored blades of its sculpted eagle head. The shaft of the power weapon extended all the way to the ground and the giant used it like a staff as he took his first steps across the felled bodies towards the approbator.

‘Approbator Quast?’ the Adeptus Astartes rumbled. When Quast didn’t answer, the Excoriator removed his helmet. He peered down at the acolyte over his chestplate, revealing his mangled features, a patchwork of ugly stitching cutting his ancient face into quarters.

Quast couldn’t quite find his words in the presence of the Angel. Neither could he hold the intensity of the Excoriator’s dark eyes, and found his own drifting down and across the detail of the warrior’s scarred battle-plate. Unconsciously leaning in, Quast saw that adorning each nick, each sword slash and bullet hole was an inscription, scratched in High Gothic lettering. The battle-plate was covered in such markings, each gouge and las-burn bearing its own notation, dates and locations: 221751.M41 Gethsemane ; 435405.M41 Delleria Secundus ; 997640.M41 Mallastabergiii . From the dun sheen of the ivory armour worn by the Excoriators beyond, Quast assumed their plate bore the same mixture of script and scarring.

‘Approbator?’

‘Yes,’ Quast managed, lowering his ordo identification and looking up. ‘It was my vessel that hailed your mighty battle-barge.’

‘And I thank you for your concision,’ the Excoriator said. ‘I know you broke with the protocol of your Holy Ordo. In turn forgive me the forthright nature of our approach. For the Adeptus Astartes, like the Emperor’s Inquisition, there is often much to accomplish and little time. I am Santiarch Balshazar, Chapter Chaplain of the Excoriators, and I represent the interests of Chapter Master Ichabod, here on this cemetery world.’

‘Vaskellen Quast,’ the acolyte replied. ‘And I represent Lord Ehrensperger and the interests of the Ordo Obsoletus on this planet.’ Quast tried to hold the stony gaze of the Excoriators Chaplain but failed a second time.

‘The Ordo Obsoletus?’

‘We are an ordo minoris, my lord. Santiarch, may I offer my condolences to your Chapter during the test of these times. I understand that the entire Fifth Company was lost in garrisoning this world against the predations of Chaos.’

‘Duly noted, approbator. Might you tell me what the Inquisition’s interest in our misfortunes might be?’

Quast felt the crushing weight of the Angel’s expectation. The authority of seeming immortality in his grave words. The fearful insistence of the Space Marine’s physical presence.

‘The interest of the Ordo Obsoletus extends to your own interest, Santiarch,’ Quast responded with growing confidence.

‘Just like the Inquisition,’ the Santiarch replied. ‘To reply in riddles. Are the Excoriators to suffer the indignity of investigation, approbator?’ Balshazar asked. When Quast didn’t respond, the Chaplain continued. ‘The Emperor’s Angels come to Certus-Minor to bury brothers, search for survivors and recover our sacred seed. I suffer your aspersions only to achieve that end all the faster. Now, approbator, tell me, have you encountered any of my battle-brethren?’

‘Yes, Santiarch,’ Quast confirmed. ‘Many of them. All dead, I regret. Some of their bodies are spread out across the battlefield beyond, but the greatest concentration lie about the ruins of Obsequa City. I wish I could assist you further but the Cholercaust is absolute in its insistence to leave us nought but corpse witnesses.’

‘Thank you,’ the Santiarch replied soberly and strode across the slaughter towards the demolished city.

‘Three companies and a Chapter battle-barge,’ Quast said as the giant passed, causing the Chaplain to grind to a furious pause. ‘Withdrawn from active duty garrisoning the Eye of Terror? That seems a great outlay for such a solemn mission.’

Balshazar turned dangerously, and Quast became very aware of the gleaming blades that adorned the Chaplain’s death-dealing staff of office. ‘And what would you know of deployments and the Emperor’s Angels, mortal, having existed for all but a galactic blink in the greater scheme of the Imperium?’