Blood sprayed across his ceramite chestplate and the chapel walls in equal measure as Zalayt drove his chainsword deep into the ogryn’s chest. The beast looked absurd in long, flowing, white robes, but the heavy censor it carried had easily caved in the skull of one of Tzeentch’s chosen.
A drawn-out scream marked the death of the last Imperial defender. Zalayt watched as Ghal Soulcarver tore the battle sister’s still beating heart from her body and held it aloft. His audience was meagre – of their twenty-strong raiding force, only four remained: Zalayt, Ghal, one Havoc, and a Khorne Berserker who spoke only in curses. They had followed the Soulcarver to this isolated monastery to find a young man, supposedly so pure of heart that he was destined for sainthood.
Ghal led the survivors in a blasphemous chorus of thanks and praise for the dark gods, but he conspicuously did not invite Zalayt to join them. To his face, others called him ‘Zalayt the Veteran,’ sometimes ‘Zalayt the Elder.’ But behind his back, they had a different name: ‘Zalayt Neverchosen.’
He had taken skulls for Khorne, spread plagues for Father Nurgle, corrupted entire cities to sing for Slaanesh, and masterminded decades-long rituals for Tzeentch.
He had never been blessed by any of them.
As the others joined Ghal’s chanting, Zalayt kicked down a final door and entered an austere cell. Inside was their prize – Zalayt knelt to bring his bloodied visor face to face with the young man. On a whim, he asked: ‘Will you beg for mercy?’
The sacrifice stared. ‘Would it make a difference?’
A fair question. ‘Perhaps,’ Zalayt replied.
‘Then yes. Please, grant me mercy. Please.’ A hoarse, hopeless whisper.
Did I ever grant mercy to anyone? Zalayt thought back through a thousand campaigns, back before even the heresy, back to his home planet and alleyway knife fights. What would it feel like?
He stood and faced the others. ‘We leave this one! I have decided to – show mercy.’
They fell silent at that, profanities dying on their lips. ‘Are you possessed, brother?’ Ghal stepped forward with a cruel grin.
Bitterness flooded through Zalayt with hot familiarity. He drew his plasma pistol. ‘No, I am not possessed! I never have been, and it seems I never will be. I am myself and no more. And I am granting mercy to this wretch.’
Ghal leapt forward… to put himself between the pistol and the sacrifice. Of course, Ghal could only imagine one type of mercy. Of course, he saw reliable, pliable Zalayt as no danger to himself. The shock in the Soulcarver’s eyes as the plasma pistol whined and bucked and discharged a ball of superheated death into his face was most gratifying.
The other two marines did nothing at first, assuming this to be an everyday betrayal – until Zalayt’s plasma pistol spat again, blowing a hole in the Berserker’s chest. The Havoc raised his autocannon and opened fire. Zalayt charged him. The heavy shells tore his right arm off at the elbow, but Zalayt drew a power knife with his left and eviscerated the gunner.
The sacrifice was a bloodied, plasma-scorched mess, but alive. His voice trembled. ‘I don’t know what you are, but thank you.’
Zalayt wasn’t sure what came next – a new sensation after all these centuries, in contrast to the familiar feel of his bloody stump rapidly clotting. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.
The sacrifice considered.
‘Could we go outside? I remember it from when I was a child. They have not allowed me to leave this chamber since I was taken.’
Did I mishear? But no, it seemed an honest request. This man truly wanted nothing else. No vengeance, no eternal power. Maybe he didn’t know what was possible.
‘I can show you how to claim power from the dark gods,’ Zalayt said. ‘You have something they want. Revenge could be yours. You could shape an outside… whole worlds to your whims.’
The young man did think about it. Zalayt listened to his heart beat 53 times. But he ultimately shook his head. ‘Though I thank you for the offer, I only wish to leave this stifling monastery. I think I am done with gods, of all kinds.’
Zalayt felt a shocking moment of kinship. Could I, too, be done with gods?
‘I will show you the way.’
‘Does mercy always involve so many questions?’ Zalayt growled as they stood outside the ruined gatehouse.
‘I think kindness is always more complicated than cruelty,’ the sacrifice replied. He stared out at stunted trees like they were beautiful artworks.
Is that true? If so, do slaughter and corruption bore me? A faint sound high above broke Zalayt’s reverie. He spoke, ‘Our time together is over. The Corpse Emperor’s angels of death are coming. They will kill us both as heretics.’
The sacrifice’s eyes went wide, but then he calmed. ‘Being a heretic was more restful than I expected. I could get used to it.’
‘The lustre wears off quickly, I assure you.’ Zalayt checked his plasma pistol and began to whisper a prayer to Khorne, but then thought better of it. ‘Will you not flee?’
The sacrifice shook his head. ‘Where would I go? Just… please don’t let them take me inside again. I’d rather die.’
Zalayt crouched beside a burning Rhino, where the drop pod’s augurs would miss him. ‘You are welcome to die beside me if you wish.’
‘Will it be quick?’ The sacrifice’s heart was racing as he hurried into Zalayt’s shadow.
How many times have I been asked that question? Zalayt calculated the effect of the pod’s landing on an unarmored human body before answering: ‘It will. Do not fear.’
Zalayt heard the sacrifice’s heart slow a little. He felt the young man’s terror fade, even as the drop pod’s impact was mere seconds away. He would die peacefully. The young man gave a weak smile, and for the first time in centuries, Zalayt smiled too.
About the Author
A teenage 40K fan finding himself drawn back in, twenty odd years later.
