Dan Abnett - Know no fear. The Battle of Calth

‘They’ll want to weaken the walls first,’ says Ventanus.

‘Let me take the fight to them!’ Sullus barks. ‘Practical: into the heart of them. Kill their leader. Break their focus.’

‘Theoretical: you die, and so do the men I’m fool enough to let you take with you. Munitions and strength are squandered. No.’

Sullus glares at Ventanus.

‘Do you doubt my courage?’ he asks.

‘In a way, I do,’ says Ventanus. ‘We know no fear, but I think, just now, you do.’

Sullus takes a furious step towards Ventanus.

‘I’ll break your back for that insult! I’m not afraid to die!’

‘I know you’re not, Sullus. But I think you’re afraid that our way of life is dying. That the universe as we understand it is dying. That’s what I’m afraid of.’

Sullus blinks.

‘Practical: loss of faith in our philosophy will lead to over-emphatic and reckless actions. Our combat efficiency will be lost. Our performance as warriors will suffer.’

Sullus swallows.

‘What if… Guilliman’s dead, Remus?’ he asks.

‘Then we avenge him, Teus.’

Sullus looks away.

‘Go find the server,’ Ventanus tells him. ‘Get an update on her progress. If they come at the walls, I want you to protect her.’

Sullus nods and strides away.

In the cavernous sub-basements of the palace, several levels underground, Tawren hears the dull crump of explosions from above ground. Trickles of dust skitter from the disturbed ceiling. She hears detonations, small-arms rattle, the steady tolling of artillery, the crazy ebb of chants and drums.

In chambers nearby, her magi are scrambling to reactivate the palace’s old high-cast system. The vox seems to be intact, but there is a singular lack of viable power.

With a skitarii aide, a female called Cyramica, Tawren has just gained entry to the ceramite-lined well under the palace centre where the data-engine and stacks are held. The data-engine is cold, off-line. She examines it, running her agile hand along its dusty, brown plastek casing. She peers into its inspection windows, observing the etched circuitry, the brass key systems. It is old, an old pattern, probably one of the first data-engines active on Calth at the time of first settlement. It employs Konor-Gantz sub-aetheric systems, and linear binaric cogitation. Old. Quite beautiful.

But not very potent. Tawren understands that the engine was only brought on-line when the governor was in residence at the palace, and then only as a back-up for state records.

‘It will have to be enough,’ she declares out loud. Cyramica glances at her.

Tawren calls in some of the magi, and they begin work on ignition and data-agitation. The engine has its own power supply, a Gysson fusion module set into the floor. The chamber grows warm as the module starts working.

‘If we had one of these for the vox-caster…’ remarks one of the magi.

‘Let us bring it to yield and then measure what it appreciates,’ suggests Tawren. ‘Its power output should be rated in excess of the engine’s needs, to cover all circumstances. Perhaps we can divert some energy to the vox once the engine is operational.’

The magos nods. Tawren has moved laterally around a problem that was confounding him.

Tawren oversees the work. Her gaze lingers on the MIU socket. She will, of course, have to plug herself in. When the time comes. If the engine is tainted with scrapcode, all her efforts may be for nothing, and she will die in the process. Die like Hesst, die the brain-death, the data-death. She remembers Hesst passing in her arms.

A voice interrupts her thoughts. ‘Will it work?’

She turns. An Ultramarines captain has entered the stack room. It is Sullus. She is not sure what to make of Sullus. From observation of micro-expressions during the journey to the palace, she believes that Ventanus does not trust his judgement or reliability.

‘It will work,’ she says with a conviction she does not entirely feel.

‘And the vox system?’ he asks, looking at the ancient engine with a dubious expression.

‘That too. Another half an hour, perhaps.’

‘We don’t have anything like that, server,’ says Sullus. ‘They are at the wall. Can’t you hear them? They’re at the gate, and they will burn this if they get to it.’

‘Then make sure, captain,’ she replies, ‘that they do not get to it.’

One of the magi nods to her. She clears her throat, and walks up to the MIU socket.

The plug connectors lock into place.

The data-engine purrs.

Thiel blows open the next hatch. The daemon-thing on the other side lunges at him, howling. It has teeth – rotten, broken pegs of teeth – all the way around its yawning mouth, which is big enough to swallow him whole. Its legs are back-jointed, with bird’s feet.

Thiel rips the electromagnetic longsword through its maw, severing the upper and lower jaws. Then he puts two bolt-rounds down its sputtering gullet.

Kerso moves in to back him up, hosing the daemon-thing with fire. The thing is already shrieking and spasming, spraying the flagship hallway liberally with ichor. It starts thrashing as the fire wraps around it.

From behind them, Chapter Master Empion yells a warning. A second daemon, a thing made of hair and arachnoid limbs and antlers, has scuttled out of the shadows. It grabs Kerso before he can turn, splitting his armour down the length of his spine, peeling his carapace away like foil. Kerso is screaming. His flamer unit tumbles away, weeping fire.

Thiel hacks off two of the spider-thing’s legs. They are like black willow trunks, ropey and matted with brown fuzz. More ichor spatters. Another leg lashes at Thiel. Too many limbs.

Kerso is done screaming. A lack of skull has silenced him. The thing pinning and peeling him has vomited acid juices onto his head and shoulders to render him more palatable. Kerso’s head is a fused, smoking lump of tissue.

The thing has one eye, a huge white orb that throbs with a sickening, celestial light. It is crowned with a spreading tree of sixty-point antlers.

Brother Bormarus has a heavy bolter. He slugs repeated shots into the creature’s wizened form. Rounds detonate under the skin, pulsing the slack flesh out or tearing it and spraying gobs of meat and pus.

Empion leaps forward alongside Thiel. He has a thunder hammer, and he breaks legs with it. He smashes at the daemon-thing’s body. The energised strikes fracture chitin and pulp tissue. The daemon-thing rears back, dropping Kerso’s corpse, waving its spider legs in a defensive posture. Some legs trail, broken and useless. It has hundreds of them.

Bormarus fires again, aiming at the exposed belly. Something bursts, and the hallway is filled with a noxious stench. Flies swarm everywhere. The daemon-thing flops forward. Thiel ducks a slicing limb, and stabs his longsword into the baleful eye, twists it, and keeps twisting and digging until the unholy light goes out.

Zabo recovers Kerso’s flame-unit and burns the twitching hulk.

‘Every door, a new horror,’ says Empion to Thiel.

‘And every moment a moment lost,’ Thiel replies.

They’re fighting their way down-ship towards the auxiliary bridge. The banging and scraping on the outside hull is getting louder and more persistent: the Word Bearers are on the verge of boarding from their ships alongside. But there is no point fighting for a ship that they can’t control. The auxiliary bridge is a vital practical asset. The Macragge’s Honour has lost its primary bridge tower and its shipmaster, but a replacement for Zedoff has been located among survivors picked up from the Sanctity of Saramanth. Master Hommed, along with a contingent of ready and prepped command officers, is following on behind Thiel’s desperate advance.