James Swallow: Nemesis

and his senior battle-brothers. One sip would be enough to infect them… and he

hoped it would be enough to kill, although Tobeld held no doubt he would not live to

see his mission succeed. His faith in his art would have to be enough.

9

Time, then. He stepped out from underneath the Stormbird’s wing; and a voice

said, “Is that it?”

A reply, firm and cold, returned from somewhere close at hand in the smokehaze.

“Aye.”

Tobeld tried to turn on his heel, but he was already leaving the ground, taken off

his feet by a shadow that dwarfed him, a towering man-form in steel-grey armour

holding a fistful of his robes. Leering out of the gloom came a hard face that was all

angles and barely restrained menace. A patchwork of scarification was the setting for

eyes that were wide with black mirth, eyes that bored into him. “Where are you

going, little man?” He marvelled at the thought that someone so large had been able

to approach him in utter silence.

“Lord, I…” It was hard to talk. Tobeld’s throat was as dry as the winds, and the

grip the Astartes had on him pulled the material of the robes tight about his neck. He

struggled for breath—but he did not struggle too much, for fear the turncoat might

think he was making some futile attempt to defend himself and respond in kind.

“Hush, hush,” said the other voice. A second figure, if anything larger and more

lethal in aspect than the first, stepped from the smoke. Tobeld’s eyes instantly fell to

the intricate etching and jewelled medallions adorning the other Astartes’ chest,

symbols of high rank and seals of loyalty among the Sons of Horus Legion. He knew

this warrior immediately, the laughing face and the shock-blond hair, without need to

survey the rank sigils upon him, though. Luc Sedirae, Captain of the 13th Company.

“Let’s not make a song and dance of this,” Sedirae went on. His right hand flexed

absently; he wore no gauntlet upon it, showing to the world where the limb had been

lost and replaced by an augmetic in polished brass and anodised black steel. The

hand had been taken from him in battle with the Raven Guard at Isstvan, so it was

said, and the captain wore the wound proudly, as if it were a badge of honour.

Tobeld’s gaze flicked back to the warrior holding him, finding the symbols of the

13th Company on the other Astartes. Belatedly, he recognised him as Devram Korda,

one of Sedirae’s seconds; not that such knowledge would do him any good. He tried

again to speak. “Lords, I am only doing my duty as—”

But the words seemed to curdle in his throat and Tobeld choked on them,

emitting a wet gasp instead.

From behind Korda, following the path that Tobeld had taken around the parked

craft, a third Astartes emerged from beneath the shadows cast by the drop-ship. The

assassin knew this one, too. Armour the colour of old, dried blood, an aspect like a

storm captured in the confines of a man’s face, eyes he could not bring himself to

meet. Erebus.

“His duty,” said the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, musing on the thought.

“That is not a lie.” Erebus’ voice was soft and almost gentle, raised only slightly

above the low keen of the Gyges winds.

Tobeld blinked and felt a tide of terror growing to fill him. He rose on it, caught

by the icy certainty of the moment. Erebus knew what he was. Somehow, Erebus had

always known. All his careful subterfuges, every piece of flawless tradecraft he had

employed—the Word Bearer walked towards him now with a swagger that told the

assassin it had counted for nothing.

10

“My duty is to serve the Warmaster!” he blurted, desperate to stall for time, for a

moment more of life.

“Quietly,” warned Erebus, silencing him before he could say more. The Word

Bearer threw a glance towards the command tent. “Nothing will be gained by

disturbing Great Horus. He will be… displeased.”

Korda turned Tobeld in his grip, like a fisherman evaluating a disappointing catch

before tossing it back into the ocean. “So weak,” he offered. “He’s dying even as I

watch. The boneseekers in the air are eating him inside.”

Sedirae folded his arms. “Well?” he demanded of Erebus. “Is this some game of

yours, Word Bearer, or is there real cause for us to torment this helot?” His lips

thinned. “I grow bored.”

“This is a killer,” Erebus explained. “A weapon, after a fashion.”

Tobeld belatedly understood that they had been waiting for him. “I… am only a

servant…” he gasped. He was losing sensation in his limbs and his vision was

starting to fog from the tightness of Korda’s hold.

“Lie,” said the Word Bearer, the accusation clicking off his tongue.

Panic broke through what barriers of resolve still remained in Tobeld’s mind, and

he felt them crumble. He felt himself lose all sense of rationality and give in to the

terror with animal reaction. His training, the control that had been bred into him from

his childhood in the schola, disintegrated under no more than a look from Erebus’

cold, cold gaze.

Tobeld flexed his wrist and the vial came into his hand. He twisted wildly in

Korda’s grasp, catching the Astartes fractionally off-guard, stabbing downwards with

the glassy cylinder. Motion-sensing switches in the crystalline matrix of the vial

obeyed and opened a tiny mouth at the blunt end, allowing a ring of monomol

needles to emerge. Little thicker than human hairs, the fine rods could penetrate even

the hardy epidermis of an Adeptus Astartes. Tobeld tried to kill Devram Korda,

swinging at the bare skin of his scarred face, missing, swinging again. He did this

mindlessly, in the manner of a mechanism running too fast, unguided.

Korda used the flat of his free hand to swat the assassin, doing it with such force

that he broke Tobeld’s jaw and caved in much of the side of his skull. Tobeld’s right

eye was immediately crushed, and the shock resonated through him. After a moment

he realised he was on the ground, blood flowing freely from his shattered mouth and

nose into a growing puddle.

“Erebus was right, sir,” Korda said, the voice woolly and distant.

Tobeld’s hand reached out in a claw, scraping at the black sand and smooth rock.

Through the eye that still worked, he could see the vial, the contents unspent, lying

where it had fallen from his fingers. He reached for it, inching closer.

“He was.” Tobeld heard Sedirae echo his battle-brother with a sigh. “Seems to be

making a habit of it.”

The assassin looked up, the pain caused by the simple action almost

insurmountable, and saw shapes swimming in mist and blood. Cold eyes upon him,

judging him unworthy.

“Put an end to this,” said Erebus.

Korda hesitated. “Lord?”

11

“As our cousin says, brother-sergeant,” Sedirae replied. “It’s becoming

tiresome.”

One of the shapes grew larger, coming closer, and Tobeld saw a steel-plated hand

reach for the vial, gather it up. “What does this do, I wonder?”

Then the vial glittered in the light as the Astartes brought the assassin’s weapon

down and injected the contents of the tube into the bruised bare flesh of Tobeld’s