Jone was still adjusting her psy-dampening hood and juggling a mug of recaff when she entered the choral antechamber. Master Furth had been in the tank for the last eight hours and she was expecting a substantial stack of scrolls to sort and forward. The morning shift was the worst, all those unattended hours of messages waiting overnight. She had been begging Master Aliel to add a third shift, but they were stretched thin as it were with two. Besides, Aliel had asked her, what was adding an extra few hours of time to messages that were often months old? Jone sighed, throwing back the dregs of her recaff and settling into her chair. She could barely see over the stack of parchment, and the drone of the messenger cherub’s wings never ceased.
She started with the bottom of the stack as always. Her job was to scan the missives, place them into phials, the phials into one of three baskets at her feet: On-world, in-orbit, misdirected. Hourly, runners would collect each pile and carry them off to pneumatic tubes for delivery.
Jone had dropped six scrolls into the ‘mis-delivered’ pile before she realised they had all said the same thing. One single word. Heaven. Over and over again, the junior Astropath autoscribes had written “Heaven.” Jone stood up, pulling from the top of her stack. Another single word. meat. meat. meat. There were hundreds of pages, hastily scrawled. Jone began pulling the stacks apart, trying to parse the message. meat. meat. She tore through the baskets, good, good. Loose papers were flying about the small office, and the scroll cherubs buzzed overhead like lost wasps. sends, sends, Heaven, Heaven. She finally had the entire message- Heaven sends good meat. Jone pushed the emergency rune on her cogitator and went to the armaglass windows that looked down into the Astropathic Choir.
In the pit of the Choir, Histriana Pugh was hungry. She reached out for the minds of her fellow Astropaths, Ludvig and Tyrea, trying to discern which might be responsible for the sudden hunger gnawing at her gut. It was irresponsible of them to report for duty so ill-prepared, as even the slightest physical discomforts could distract from their duties. They were seated at a round table which encircled the sensory deprivation tank housing the Master Astropath. They were tasked with translating the messages via autoscription. Ludvig and Tyrea appeared at ease, scribbling neatly on the parchments before them.
Might she be the problem? Histriana worried, as her stomach rumbled loudly. Blind as she was, she could feel her missives deteriorating from neat script to slashing print, and finally to sloppy glyphs. Histriana could feel the dispatches pressing against the inside of her skull urgently. She took a deep breath and recalled the litany of focus. It failed her. Her hunger grew.
Though their blind eyes could not see it, the hands of all three junior Astropaths were sketching furiously. The wet eyes and gaping maw of something terrible were forming with an artistic skill well beyond the Astropath’s own capabilities. A yawning pit of emptiness unfurled within the three novitiates that only consumption would fill. Histriana lunged for Tyrea, tearing the woman’s green robes away and sinking her teeth into her shoulder. As the first hot spurts of blood flowed over her lips, the emptiness inside of her expanded. Ludvig climbed over the small round table and latched onto Tyrea, using one hand to wrench her head to the side. He grunted, barely noticing the loss of two of his fingers to Tyrea’s gnashing jaws. In the tank at the centre of the room, Master Astropath Furth began to writhe and struggle. Slimy fluid bubbled and splashed, leaking down the sides of the tank. Furth was banging on the walls of the tank. A dark, numinous glow emanated from his empty eye sockets. His mouth was open, but the viscous fluid swallowed his screams. His frail arms were no match for the armaglass of the tank, but his growing hunger would not be sated. He began to chew on his forearms, pulling off big bloody chunks and swallowing them whole as the amnion fluid clouded red with blood.
Outside, an icy wind howled around the soaring parapets of the Ipheryn Astropathica, but inside, the ice along the stone walls was a manifestation of psychic agony. Chapter Master Heral Anir of the Sentinels, noted squad positions in his helm’s display. They held at all three entrances to the antechamber of the astropathic choir, waiting for Anir’s word.
‘Breach,’ he exhaled as he put his boot to the beautifully carved main doors, felling them with a single kick. Two other doors were breached simultaneously, each covered by three marines. Anir took point for the breach of the main doors. First Captain Aadhim Solyras was right behind him, followed by two First Company Lieutenants. Last through the central doors came a demi-squad of Intercessors from Solyras’ First company bearing heavy flamers.
In the centre of the round room, Inquisitor Praxxine Wrail perched on the edge of the blood-splattered round table. A sweat-slicked skeletal man stood before her. She wore a tight-fitting body glove of red leather, unzipped from collar to sternum. She stood, ink-black leather cape swishing. The ornate handles of two power swords peaked over her shoulders, broadening her profile.
‘Nice of you to join us, Chapter Master.’
‘It seems my brothers and I are late. My apologies, Inquisitor Wrail.’ Anir mag-locked his bolter to his thigh. ‘Magister Aliel.’ He indicated the pale, sweating man seated at the desk behind her.
‘My… My Lord Vigilant,’ Aliel blubbered as he stood from his desk to bow towards Anir.
‘Magister Aliel was just telling me how rarely the Chapter has reason to interact directly with the Ipheryn Astropathica, Chapter Master.’ Inquisitor Wrail stood from the desk. Unlike Aliel, who was visibly shaking, Praxxine Wrail seemed perfectly comfortable in the company of the eleven Primaris marines.
‘And why should we?’ First Captain Solyras’s thick baritone rumbled across the vox for Anir’s ears only as he maglocked his golden bolt pistols to his armour.
Anir made a noncommittal grunt in reply before quickly undoing the seals on his gold helm and securing it at his side. He signed a stand-down, and the room was briefly alive with the clink of bolters locking to ceramite. ‘Then I’m sure he is grateful for your introduction, Inquisitor.’ He favoured the woman with a smile that never quite reached his brown eyes. ‘Had you made me aware of the change in plans, we would have acted accordingly.’
‘Apologies for the doors, Magister,’ Solyras added.
‘I trust you have all the information you need, Inquisitor,’ Anir continued.
‘More than enough.’ The hiss and crackle of liquid incendiary filled the room as the inquisitor crossed the space to stand amongst the marines. ‘You were less punctual than I’d hoped, but at least you brought the requested equipment.’
‘Yes, Inquisitor. Chapter relics. Heavy flamers, as ordered,’ Anir answered her plainly.
‘Getting the Master armourers to part with them was a battle unto itself,’ Solyras growled.
‘Unneeded as they are, in the face of your diplomacy, Inquisitor,’ Anir added.
‘Diplomacy is a weapon, Chapter Master. However, two weapons are better than one.’ She tapped the pommels at each shoulder. ‘Burn them all.’
‘What?’ Aliel sputtered.
‘The Magister?’ Solyras questioned.
‘Indeed. And every single Astropath in the building.’
‘My lord, I-’ A small rose of gore blossomed between Aliel’s eyes. Inquisitor Wrail had withdrawn a needler and put a dart smartly in the middle of his forehead. She was steps from the door as he slumped from his chair.
‘You are so ordered, Master Anir.’ Her words were final, thrown over her shoulder as she departed, leaving no time for further argument.
‘You cannot support this, Heral. Not without knowing the basis of her decision.’
‘I know she is a servant of the Emperor.’
‘Cut off as we are from Imperium, we cannot be cert-’
‘Be steadfast and watchful, unto Death, Aadhim.’ Anir walked the circular room. He made eye contact with each of the marines before returning to Solyras’s side. ‘We do our duty unto Him, as ordered. Burn everything.’
‘Play it again.’ On the bridge of His Ever-Watching Eye, Anir paced.
‘Again. Louder,’ Solyras repeated, looming over the ship’s Vox Mistress. The woman’s hands flashed across the console, and a light image of the sound waves projected on the holoscreen before her. A low rhythmic thrum sounded in time with the oscillations.
‘You have confirmed the cypher, Mistress?’
‘Yes, Lord Vigilant. Four times. Whatever this is, it’s broadcast with Sentinel’s clearance, my Lord, of the highest level.’
‘And how is it the Inquisition knows this before I do?’ Anir said and stopped pacing to glower at the bridge crew.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord. I don’t know.’ The Vox Mistress did not raise her eyes from the console before her, but her voice quavered. She looked from Solyras to Anir. To her credit, she swallowed her fear and looked Solyras in the eyes. Her name was Vixaand, he remembered. ‘I am sorry, my Lords.’ She forced her gaze back to Anir. ‘I do not know how the Inquisitor intercepted the signal, but I will find out, Lord Vigilant.’
‘And quickly too, Vox Mistress.’
Solyras followed Anir into his private strategium. As the doors slid shut behind them, Anir settled behind his desk. Solyras poured two goblets of wine from the nearby decanter, finished one in a single gulp, refilled it, and carried both goblets over to his Chapter Master’s desk.
‘Perhaps a softer touch with the crew, Lord. They are doing their best.’ Solyras handed Anir the glass. Solyras had always been more casual with his Chapter Master than might be tolerated by another. But they had been Greyshields together, and Anir saw his first captain as an equal.
‘Then it is unfortunate that their best is insufficient.’ Anir held the goblet, staring at the still, dark liquid. Solyras sat opposite him. Unlike the command strategium, all the furniture in the Lord Vigilant’s private chamber was designed for Primaris physiology.
‘Are you angry that it took time to discover the signal, or that Inquisitor Wrail discovered it first?’
‘Yes.’ Anir frowned before emptying his own goblet.
‘I thought as much.’ The gentle thunder of Solyras’s laughter broke the tension. ‘What do you think it means, Heral?’
‘In truth, I do not know, Aadhi.’
‘I’m not sure what it means will matter more than what the Inquisitor has decided it means.’
‘I believe the chapter is being tested, Aadhi, and worst, I suspect we are found wanting.’
‘Admit that she gets under your skin, Brother. It will make you feel better.’
‘That’s what she wants.’
‘In all things deny the enemy.’ Solyras smiled.
‘You make light of our ideals?’
‘Never, Brother. In these dark times, the galaxy is full of enemies.’ He walked over to the refreshment, returned with the decanter and refilled their glasses.
‘Perhaps you speak the truth when you quote the Vera Vigilia. Perhaps this Inquisitor is our enemy.’ Anir’s mood had soured again and a storm passed over his noble features. ‘Our sacred text is as valuable today as it was when it was written. Everyone is an enemy until they prove themselves a friend.’ Anir stood from the chair abruptly, the wine in his goblet sloshing and the glass threatening to fracture in his genehanced grip.‘So far, she has used us, withheld information, and now she undermines me, summoning my crew-’
‘That is handled.’ Solyras smiled, refilling his goblet. Anir set the endangered glass down and stared at his First Captain. The ice of his stare wiped the smile from Solyras’ face. ‘The Watch Captain noted Inquisitor Wrail’s summons as part of his routine report. I ordered him to assemble the bridge crew here, on your authority. She may interrogate them if she wants, but she can do so on The Eye, under our purview.’
‘Oh, on my authority, Aadhi?’
‘I anticipated your displeasure and acted accordingly.’ Solyras raised an eyebrow.
‘Anticipation is the buttress of preparedness.’ Anir scowled, but a twitch at the corners of his mouth belied his amusement.
‘See, I take our ideals very seriously, Brother.’
‘Are we to be her executioners now, Heral? After she embarrassed us? Embarrassed you? Now she flouts your command.’
‘I like it less than you, Solyras.’
The First Captain followed his lord with his eyes as Anir paced the hallway outside of the brig, ermine cloak swishing behind him. To their genehanced ears, the quiet sobs from the bridge crew in the detention block were viscerally audible.
‘We are the Emperor’s executioners, Aadhim? Are we not? The word of the Inquisition is his will.’
‘First, the adepts of the Ipheryn Astropathica. Now we’re to murder our own crewmen?’
‘She suspects them of being compromised by the signal.’
‘She orders the death of twenty-seven of our crew based only on her suspicions?’
‘If they are compromised, their souls are open doorways to the enemy, and our first duty remains.’
‘Stand at the threshold and hold back the dark,’ Solyras recited the Vera Vigilia, but he remained uneasy. ‘This is not darkness, but madness, Heral! So little word comes from Terra and most of what does is unintelligible gibberish. How are we to know the Inquisitor’s true motives?’
‘Ours is not to know, but to stand true. Orders, command, that is the true language of the Imperium, and it is always intelligible to loyal ears. We must do our duty. We will do it. Alert the fire team.’
The fireteam entered first, bolt pistol already drawn. Chaplain Veryl followed behind them, a smoking thurible swinging from his gauntleted hand. Behind Veryl, came Solyras. The six marines formed a line, blocking the door. Outside the room, Chapter Master Anir and Inquisitor Wrail looked on. All the marines were fully armed and armoured, the gold edging of their black armour glinting in the harsh lumens of the brig. The sight of their weapons raised some shouts of fear, but most of the bridge crew knew there was only one way to leave this room. They wore their fear on their faces as furrowed brows, quivering lips, and tears. They wore it on their bodies as a hormonal stink, discernible only to the Astartes.
‘First Captain.’ Vixaand approached Solyras. Her eyes were red and sunken, but she stared into his eye lenses defiantly.
‘I am sorry, Vox Mistress. I wish the outcome were different.’
‘A witch hunt that doesn’t end in death is a failure, and this is a witch hunt, Captain. Unfortunately, there are no witches here.’ She waved at the scared crewmen standing against the far wall.
‘Stand down, Vox Mistress, and join your fellows. You have a last duty to perform.’
‘I have every intention of performing it, Captain.’ She was crying freely now. ‘With my head held high, looking my murderer in the eyes. You should have the decency to look your victims in theirs.’
Vixaand took her place among the bridge crew at the far wall. Some cowered, but the majority stood tall in the face of their execution. Vixaand stood in the front row. She reached for the hand of a stocky crewman with an augmetic eye who stood next to her. Solyras unclasped his helm and secured it before drawing his bolt pistol and taking his place.
‘Ready.’ The metallic thunk of chambered rounds punctuated the grim refrain of resigned sobs. ‘Fire discipline. Kill shots only. Fire.’ Four rounds of expert fire came in rapid succession.
Solyras took one last look at the slumped bodies, the smears of brain matter and bits of skull. His eyes lingered longest on the clasped hands of Vixaand and her companion.
Solyras led his men from the chamber. Neither he nor Chaplain Veryl acknowledged his Chapter Master or the watchful Inquisitor who stood by as the fireteam filed past.
‘Waste of bolts. Tactical knives would have served fine, in my opinion,’ Gessig grunted.
‘Your opinion was not requested, Lieutenant.’ Solyras wheeled around to face Lieutenant Gessig, teeth bared. ‘But, since you’d share it so freely, I will be equally as generous with my own. The Emperor gave you many gifts, but conscientiousness was not one of them. The only thing more dangerous than your affinity for violence is your righteous entitlement. Despite all your battle prowess, you are a stain on-.
‘Aadhim!’ Anir interjected, stepping between Solyras and his Lieutenant.
‘No. Heral. Those were our crewmen! They served us and would have given their lives in service to this chapter. The very least of our duties is to protect them! Yet you have let this woman order them to the slaughter and worse, made us their butchers!’
‘Captain Solyras, loyalty to the throne often requires sacri-’ Chaplain Veryl said, attempting to defuse the situation.
‘The very last thing I want to hear, Veryl, is your trite, superstitious drivel.’
‘I am sorry, Captain,’ Gessig began.
‘You are dismissed, Lieutenant.’ Solyras cut the space marine off.
‘Sir, I-’
‘Dismissed, Gessig!’ Solyras’s face contorted with rage.
‘Aadhim, those crewmen have given their lives in service to this chapter and the Throne! Do not tarnish their loyal service with a tantrum. We did not make this decision lightly.’
‘We did not make this decision. She did.’ He pointed an accusing gauntleted finger at Inquisitor Wrail. ‘And you blindly followed her orders.’
‘I am Guardian Vigilant of this Chapter, Captain Solyras,’ Anir’s voice thundered in the confined space, his choler rising.
‘So you say, but I’m the one with the bloody hands.’ Solyras turned from Veryl, Anir, and Inquisitor Wrail. The thud of his boots echoed behind him.
Anir tapped frustratedly at the holoscreen. He replayed the recording for the hundredth time. Inquisitor Wrail had ordered the broadcast muted and the deaths of all crew that had heard it. Despite Anir’s compliance, she refused to share any other information about the signal with the Sentinels. Anir had been listening to it on repeat for hours. It was static. But underneath, there was something more: a screeching, the sound of breaking glass and the ear-itching scrape of teeth gnawing bone.
He slid a hand across the pictscreen, beginning the recording again. The sound had a physical presence, cold and squirmy like graveworms. He rapped his knuckles on the desk to shake the feeling. Thud. Thud-thud. He heard it then. If not for his nervous tapping, he would have missed the pattern hidden in the sounds of the recording. His hands worked frantically over the controls, removing the extraneous sounds and isolating the repeating pattern. It took the ship’s cogitator several minutes to decipher, but the message was clear when it finished:
Destroy this ship at all costs. The Vengeance of Terra has fallen. She is The Feast Infernal now, and her halls are full of horrors. My lost brothers have their sights set on our homeworld. This ship must be destroyed. We must not reach Ipheryn.
He tapped a response immediately.
I am Lord Vigilant Heral Anir of the Sentinels, broadcasting from Ipheryn.
The response was almost instantaneous.
This is Forgemaster Heliobore Tyr of the Sentinels. I am honoured, Lord Vigilant.
Heral’s fingers danced over the controls at his desk. The cogitator was more than capable of matching the cypher for outgoing messages.
You are no brother of mine. This Chapter is less than 100 Terran standard years old. I know every Sentinel by name and rank. There is no Forgemaster Heliobore Tyr.
You know nothing of the Abyssal Crusade? The Judged? The Council of Dismay?
You lie. Anir’s hand hovered over the disconnect button. He could not know who or what this voice from the darkness represented, but it sowed dangerous doubt in his mind. The only thing he was sure of was that the uncertainty reaped would be dangerous.
Be steadfast, watchful unto death, and speak the truth. The transmission stopped abruptly. Not disconnected. Waiting.
Heral Anir knew the end of the verse by rote, as he knew every word of the Vera Vigilia. For the archenemy is the embodiment of lies, He responded. How is this possible?
You are a new founding? Perhaps that is a blessing. Your Chapter knows nothing of our shame, our taint.
We have suffered no shame. Ipheryn is a shrine world, an Inquisitorial stronghold. There is no taint here. Anir was pacing again, agitated at the prospect of the unknown.
There was no Inquisitorial fortress on Ipheryn when I last set foot on its soil. You have Ordo Astartes handlers. The Inquisition has a long memory.
Speak plainly. What shame? He banged his hand against the desk, denting the smooth metal surface.
This ship was The Vengeance of Terra; it departed Ipheryn 321.M37, headed for the Eye, with our honour in question. We were the Judged, one among some thirty chapters. I know not of the others, but we failed. I fear I am the last of us. We have become a curse on the galaxy. They call themselves the Corpus Brethren, and they are hungry for their homeworld. You cannot let them have it.
Will you aid us, brother?
I will do what I can, but it will only be so much. My sarcophagus is locked in a storage unit, running as little life support as will sustain me and broadcasting on the frequencies of old.
‘I want to see it with my eyes.’ Anir stood on the command dais. The gold trim on his black ceramite reflected the glow from dozens of command stations. Plugged into her throne in the recessed pit at the bridge’s centre, Shipmistress Vonne keyed a rune on her command dais’s interface. An alarm sounded, and a slight tremor rumbled across the bridge as the plasteel doors slid away from the armaglass dome, revealing the void. The Great Rift roiled in space above the cold, glittering orb of Ipheryn.
Many of the bridge crew stood as scintillant lightning sparked in the void before them. Clouds of nameless colours rolled and turned as reality split and a daemonship unsheathed. The ship was an Astartes battle barge, painted bright white with ostentatious gold trim. Age had given it a patina of mottled browns and greens, which only served to highlight its extensive modifications. Gun turrets fashioned after the jaws of great beasts, lance batteries emerging from pale fleshy protrusions spouting thrashing tongues, a prow transformed into a gaping wet beak surrounded by six enormous tentacles. The tentacles writhed, exposing corpse-white undersides studded with gun-ship-sized suckers.
Small assault craft raced from a yawning orifice on its port side even as the abomination closed. As the crew of His Ever-Watching Eye looked on in horror, one of the appendages struck lightning-fast, curling around one of its own assault craft, dragging it into the snapping beak. The small explosion momentarily lit the slime-slicked horror of the ship’s black throat. It was an undulating tunnel, bristling with needle teeth.
Threat alarms blared across the bridge. The daemonship was broadcasting: The Feast Infernal. The Feast Infernal. Over and over. At once, a name, a threat, a prayer, and a promise. Several crewmen began to scream as their ears bled. A servitor burst into flames. From her command throne, the Shipmistress called for battle readiness. Holoscreens lit with images of enemy fighters, and in the void outside the dome, a squadron of Stormhawks slipped from His Ever-Watching Eye.
‘Sensoria off, now!’ Anir ordered. ‘Battle stations all. Stand ready to repel and support armsmen. Ready the lances, but hold fire.
‘We should blast these heretics from the void.’ Captain Solyras stalked onto the bridge with a first company fireteam at his back.
‘They do not want us destroyed; they want The Eye,’ Anir answered. ‘Let us make sure they do not claim it, Brothers.’ Anir nodded, dismissing the high commanders to their assignments. ‘Aadhim, join me,’ he said, turning for the command strategium. Solyras’s squad stood in defence of the bridge.
‘I am leading a boarding action to recover Brother Tyr,’ Anir continued when the doors had closed behind Solyras.
‘By your word, he all but ordered us to destroy this ship, Heral.’
‘And according to Inquisitor Wrail, he is a heretic.’
‘You are ignoring her orders?’ Solyras asked, surprise written plainly on his strong features.
‘She orders the extermination of a shrine world, housing a keep an Inquisitorial fastness, no less. The time for following her orders has passed, Aadhim.’
‘Where was this sentiment when she ordered the death of our own crewmen?’ Solyras’s words were sharp.
‘I have already apologised, Aadhim, and I am sorry. Are we not brothers? Will you never forgive a mistake?’
‘I have forgiven my commander. I have higher standards for my brother.’ His voice softened but the bitterness was still there, fueled as much by anger towards his chapter Master as by shame for his participation.
‘I understand. Heliobore Tyr is your brother as well, and he is no heretic. He has held to a standard as high as your own, and like you, he is a credit to the Imperium and this Chapter. I will no longer punish loyalty with death.’
‘Your belief in him is enough for me. I will join you.’ Solyras’s anger had burned away but his shame still smouldered. He would not compound it with another.
‘There is no warrior I would rather have at my side, Aadhim, but I need you protecting The Eye. I trust you.’
‘You expect trouble from the Inquisitor?’
‘I’m certain you would welcome that, but Inquisitor Wrail is the least of our current problems. If we are overrun, you must destroy The Eye. Do not let them take it. Do not let them take Ipheryn. Hold as long as you can, Aadhi. Once you have our beacons, destroy that ship.’
‘Understood, my brother. We will hold until your return. No more loyalty punished with death,’ Solyras agreed.
‘Contact in four minutes,’ Anir called across the vox to the squad of Incursors sharing the assault ram with him. He was strapped into a restraint harness, his two-handed power sword, End of Watch, in its baldric, rested between his knees point down. The assault ram lurched as it locked onto The Feast Infernal. Melta charges blew and burned their way through the corrupt skin of the daemonship.
A series of impacts rocked The Feast Infernal midship. The daemonship was covered by calloused fleshy growths, which protected it like the exoskeleton of a deep-ocean crustacean. When the ram burst through the skin-hull of The Feast, Chapter Master Heral Anir was the first off the ramp, the power field around End of Watch already crackling with deadly energy as he led the veteran Incursors forward. Three boarding torpedoes hit The Feast seconds after the assault ram. The coffin-like capsules punched into their target and melta-prows activated to deliver their deadly payloads. Chainswords snarled and Primaris marines sprang from the torpedoes ready for war.
‘Status?’ Anir voxed to his lieutenants.
‘Squad Korvann confirming breach. Light resistance. En route to enginarium, estimated time to merge with Squad Gessig, fourteen minutes,’ Lieutenant Korvann replied over the bark of bolter fire and the grind of chainswords.
‘Squad Lugo, successful breach,’ Enkir Lugo answered. ‘Heavy resistance,’ His gruff voice was choppy over the vox as he grunted with effort. ‘We breached the main gunnery deck, Lord Vigilant.’ An explosion roared over the vox, momentarily deafening Anir before his helms autosensors adjusted. ‘Estimated time to full weapons control 12 minutes.’
‘Gessig report,’ Anir voxed. ‘Lieutenant Gessig, status?’ Anir repeated. The vox hissed and clicked, but there was no reply from Gessig or the other four Intercessors in his squad.
‘This is Anir, confirming ingress,’ He voxed on the command frequency back to the bridge of The Eye. ‘Support, confirm?’
‘Engaged…jam…reading you… confirm… three minute delay.’
‘There is interference on the command frequency, and The Eye is under assault. Beros, get that channel clear. We proceed.’
The massive talons of a Dreadclaw dug into the hull of His Ever-Watching Eye. Every tortured shriek of metal sank the boarding craft deeper into the meat of the imperial vessel. Auto incendiaries lit, melting through the last layers of adamantium as the mouth of the Dreadclaw maglocked to the hull, latching on like a vile infant directly beneath the bridge deck. An armoured giant stalked from the craft, crushing the smoking metal at his feet. A single bulkhead stood between him and the ship’s crew. He pointed a clawed powerfist at the bulkhead. Four of his brethren, their armour sickly white, trimmed in gold, and covered in obscene symbols, obeyed his command. They heaved their warp-powered plate and enhanced muscles easily lifting the bulkhead. Bolt rounds rang out immediately as Solyras’s squad and the armsmen opened fire on the heretics.
The leader was tall and skeletally thin despite his bulky warplate. His helm had been carved into the jaws of an ocean beast. Needle-sharp teeth sparkled around a single glowing eye lens nestled in the carved mouth. The eye cast a sickly yellow light that throbbed like an infected wound. A fang-mawed red daemon with four eyes leered from his left pauldron. He pointed a power fist-clad finger at Solyras in challenge as his terminator plate absorbed the impact of bolt rounds.
His voice was a sibilant whisper of innumerable voices that seemed to fill the ship. ‘Astartes! You will be the centrepiece of my feast, and this ship, a jewel in the crown of the Corpus Brethren flotilla! I am Kylael the Famished. Even if you weren’t already seasoned by our blades, your fear would render you delicious enough!’
Solyras was at the head of the charge. Around him bodies burst, splattering the hall with gore as the Corpus Brethren and Sentinels clashed. Solyras computed the brutal calculus of battle as he ran to meet Kylael’s challenge. Mortis runes flashed in his display as two of his squad were cut down.
‘Three-man teams per target, concentrate fire,’ He voxed as he ran.
Kylael laughed, his armoured fist tight around a Sentinel’s neck. He ripped the helmet from the intercessor and let the field of his power fist cook the flesh of the marine’s face. The corrupt Astartes pulled the dying Sentinel closer and breathed in the scent of rendering fat and burning flesh.
Kylael dropped the dead Sentinel and drew his combi-bolter turning toward Solyras’s charge. The shot went high as Solyras dived to the deck and slid, his armour sending up sparks. Sliding beneath the terminator, he maglocked a krak grenade to the weak spot behind his foe’s left knee. Solyras was on his feet lightning fast. He hammered the red emergency button on the far wall, sending the opposite bulkhead crashing down again. The grenade detonated as the door thudded into the deck, briefly whiting out the visual through Solyras’s eye lenses and filling the small corridor with smoke.
Despite Solyras’s expert placement, Kylael’s ancient terminator plate provided plentiful protection. The armour had warped and the poleyn had been destroyed, exposing corpse-white flesh, but the traitor still stood, now with a pronounced leftward lean. As the dampers in Solyras’s sensorium returned to normal, he heard Kylael the Famished laughing.
‘If you wanted my attention, little cousin, you could have just asked.’ Kylael smiled, raising his combi-bolter. He fired four rounds in quick succession, sending Solyras ducking for cover. The First Captain rolled down an access stairway to the deck below and ran for cover.
‘Scenario Delta, on me. Acces deck Omega-12,’ Solyras voxxed. He heard the heavy tread of the Chaos Terminator above him as it limped forward. Suddenly, all sound was drowned out by the bark of storm bolter fire from the terminator. The deck shook as Kylael stomped one enormous foot and dropped through the weakened metal onto the subdeck.
Kylael was relentless, but he was slowed by the injury to his leg. The First Captain didn’t hesitate; he pressed every advantage. Solyras manoeuvred swiftly, utilising his expert knowledge of the ship to gain a strategic upper hand. He darted from cover to cover, using bulkheads and maintenance accessway hatches for cover as he put distance between himself and his enemy. He tossed a blind grenade over his shoulder, and after a deafening explosion, the tight corridor was filled with smoke.
Solyras used the distraction to choose his hide site. He concentrated on slowing his breath as his helm calculated the distance from his target.
Eight metres.
His heads-up display struggled to analyse the target in the smoky confines of the hallway. His genehanced and combat-conditioned mind had been cycling through potential combat patterns since he first set eyes on the heretic. He stepped down onto the landing of an access stairway leading to the forward gunnery decks and crouched low, turning his armour’s system to idle while he listened.
Four metres until melee range.
He heard Kylael the Famished, step closer. The terminator turned, his heavy plate making the movements short and awkward.
‘I do love to play with my food,’ Kylael growled, then he sucked greedily at the air, making a long, wet snuffling sound like a fat porcine scenting for fungus.
Three metres.
‘Do I smell cowardice, little cousin?’ Kylael chuckled. ‘Pity, it taints the meat.’
The terminator took two more strides. Solyras lined up his shot and fired.
His bolt struck home and the milky white flesh of Kylael’s knee was blown to ribbons. The terminator listed, screaming in anger as the weight of his armour collapsed his ruined leg.
Solyras sprinted from cover. He dropped his shoulder and used all the forward motion his Primaris physique could generate to charge the terminator.
Their ceramite met with a thundercrack, and Solyras bowled the traitor marine to the decking, sending his storm bolter bouncing away. Kylael thrashed, throwing Solyras from him.
Solyras sprang up, already firing as he voxxed, ‘Now!’
The heavy weapons squad leapt from their hides, opening fire on the prone terminator. Solyras concentrated his fire on the frail spot between helmet and gorget. Kylael’s thrashing became death throes, the grimy yellow light of his mono-eye lens died, and the scent of smoking flesh wafted from the ruined gorget.
‘Target down, Captain,’ Brother Iontrel voxed as the rest of the squad stowed their weapons.
‘We’re taking back the bridge.’
‘Yes, First Captain,’ The lieutenant responded, staring down at the dead terminator.
The enginarium doors blew in with a concussive bang. Griege and Sandries took rear guard in the passageway as Anir and Beros charged through the smoking remains of the portal, bolters firing. The enginarium was in chaos. Anir’s unit entered amidships but the enginarium spanned the full height of the chaos warship. On the gantries above, traitor marines, tainted servitors, and cultists clashed with Sentinels. In the middle of the room, Enkir Lugo and the other four members of his squad took on two traitor Astartes and a swarm of cultists. Bolt rounds flew, powerswords sang as they cut through rusted metal and flesh alike. In his heads-up display, the beacon denoting Anir’s objective flashed green. He was close to his goal.
‘With me,’ Anir voxed to Beros. ‘The accessway on the left.’ They were hemmed in by several cultists driven by a traitor marine.
Beros maglocked his bolter to his thigh and drew the Omnissian poweraxe from his back. He smashed cultists aside and cleaved into the traitor Astartes. He set the shoulder cannon on his servo harness to full auto as he worked. Together, the two marines fought their way across the cavernous space. Beros’s expert marksmanship kept the way clear for his Chapter Master, and what enemies he did not put not fell to the Lord Vigilant’s power sword.
Anir ran his gauntleted hand along the wall as he blinked through the data on his display. He found the storage unit in question, its outline glowing in his tactical view. ‘Melta, here,’ He voxed to Beros.
‘It’s my last,’ Beros answered, placing the charge.
The charge ate through the plasteel and the locking circuitry underneath. The quiet hiss was barely audible over the crack of bolters and the clash of swords coming from the centre of the enginarium as the locking device burned away and the door thunked open.
Anir slid End of Watch into its baldric and stepped into the storage compartment. Auto lumens clicked and flickered to life, casting the container in grimy light. Control stations began to glow around the two marines. Beros pulled the door up behind them, muffling the bark of bolters and the clang of weapons. The chassis of a massive Mk IV pattern Castraferrum Dreadnought took up the entire far wall of the chamber. Its twin-linked autocannons and bladed power fist rested near its squat legs.
‘By the Omnissiah.’ Beros’s augmetic eye washed the Dreadnought in red light, lingering over its custom shoulder-mounted forge bolter. The Cog Mechanicum was emblazoned in black against its red right pauldron. It bore the wreathed torch – the Candle of the Watch – the symbol of the Sentinels, in bright gold on a white background on the opposite arm. ‘How old is it?’
‘This is Venerable Ancient Brother Heliobore Tyre.’
‘A fellow techmarine? One of them?’
‘One of us. I am unsure of his true age, but I am sure of his loyalty. Can you get him mobile?’
‘I can try,’ Beros said, connecting access cables from the nearby cogitator to his armour’s machine spirit and keying several runes on the control interface.
‘Is this ordnance live?’ Anir asked, nudging a crate of drum magazines.
Beros inspected the ammunition cylinders before clipping them behind the dreadnought’s autocannon. ‘We will soon find out.’
Beros returned to the console and continued the ritual of awakening. The click of machinery and the soft rush of liquid through tubing filled the storage chamber. ‘He wakes. Disengage the cradle now.’
Anir rotated and disconnected several large, tubed connections from the Dreadnought chassis. This close, he could hear the thrum of its power unit.
‘You should have destroyed this ship,’ Heliobore Tyr’s voice thundered in the enclosed space.
‘We very much intend to, Brother, once we are off of it.’
‘Are you fully functional, Forge Master?’ Beros prodded.
Tyr lifted one colossal leg and placed it down, shaking the container. He repeated with the other leg, taking small steps.
‘It would appear so. Well met, Frater Astrotechnicus; you have my thanks. But I am no Forge Master as there has been no working forge here for some time. Heliobore will suffice.’
The roar of the battle in the greater enginarium was reaching a crescendo. ‘It is time to go.’ Anir voxed. He was greeted with static as the dreadnought adjusted its communications frequencies.
‘I have readied the detonator; we need only rejoin our brothers,’ Beros replied, drawing his power axe.
‘All squads activate teleport beacons, rendezvous in the enginarium if possible.’ Anir voxed the entire squad as he pulled out the beacon, depressed the activation rune, and affixed it to his breastplate. It pulsed green in time with a matching green glow around the perimeter of his helm’s heads-up display. ‘Go Now!’ He yelled, and Beros pushed the container doors open.
Several more squads of traitor marines had joined the fray, but the majority of the Corpus Brethren had boarded The Eye, greedy for slaughter. The bodies of cultists and Astartes alike littered the deck plates, blasted apart by bolter rounds and hacked to pieces by power weapons. The pieces were not discarded for long as fellow cultists gnawed them down to bones. Anir plunged End of Watch through the power pack of a traitor as it crushed Enkir Lugo’s skull in its power fist. Lugo’s watch had ended, but Anir would avenge him.
With the traitor marine trapped in his frozen power armour, Anir pulled his sword free and cleaved the chaos marine’s helmeted head from his shoulders. He looked on in disgust as the nearby cultists closed on Lugo’s corpse. They tore at his armour with their small hands and wrenched flesh off his body, shoving it into their hungry mouths. Their appetite was indiscriminate. They devoured their masters, their enemies, and their fellow cultists alike. The battle was a feast for them, but they were never sated.
Beros and Tyr provided heavy support for their brothers. Tyr’s autocannons boomed continuously, blowing holes in the amassing tide of cultists that swarmed the enginarium. He bludgeoned one of the corrupt marines and ground its body to paste and ceramite flecks under an enormous foot. Anir watched as the life sigils of two more members of Lugo’s squad blinked out.
Across the chamber, Griege hacked at the flow of human filth pushing through the main enginarium doors. The cultists were wasted, bloody-mouthed, barely-human things, but the sheer weight of their numbers would overwhelm them soon. Sandries’s life sign was faint; he had slumped to the floor where he clawed at legs and pulled on robes, tugging the cultists down to the floor where he ended them with fist and combat knife. Their teleport beacons were active in Anir’s heads-up display.
‘Support! I am activating Objective Teleport Beacon!’ Anir was yelling into the vox. The Eye should have picked up their active teleport signatures. He fought through the throng toward Beros and Tyr, who had his bladed fist spinning in the chest cavity of a traitor marine. He pressed the activation rune on the beacon and maglocked it to Tyr’s chassis. The beacon glowed red.
‘This teleport beacon is damaged!’ Beros snatched the beacon from Tyr’s armour and banged it against a nearby bulkhead, reciting a canticle of activation. ‘It cannot access the command frequency. Even if we get it on, the channel is compromised. The green pulse sped up in Anir’s display.
‘Give me the detonator, Little Brother,’ Tyr’s voice rumbled above the snapping of cultist jaws and the bark of his and Beros’s autocannons.
‘No!’ Anir yelled, pulling his baldric from his side and pressing it into Beros’s hands.
He voxed to Beros on a private channel. ‘Give this to Solyras.’
‘No more loyalty will be punished with death on my watch, Forge Master Tyr.’ The transport indicator tinted Anir’s display solid green. He pulled his teleport beacon from his breastplate and clamped it to the centre console of Tyr’s chassis, snatching the remote detonator from Beros.
Anir watched as Beros and Tyr first blurred and then folded out of existence. He was surrounded by cultists. Emboldened by the sudden lack of bolter fire, they tore at him with bare hands. He pressed the activation rune on the detonator.
Brother Iontrel put his boot to the plasteel and pushed. The hunk of metal fell inwards onto the deck of His Ever-Watching Eye. The heavy support squad was through the door, firing as they went. The surviving bridge crew ducked for cover as their masters let loose on the invading marines. Solyras made for the command throne.
Shipmistress Vonne was slumped on the throne; a pistol gripped in her right hand. A medicae knelt nearby, and the dais filled with the stink of cooking flesh as the medicae worked the cauteriser around what was left of her shoulder. A bolt round had blown her arm off at the clavicle. The hand rested in her lap, almost untouched save for the bits of bone sticking out from the wrist. The rest of her arm decorated the throne and the surrounding displays.
‘Open the shutters. Anything from Anir?’
‘We lost contact…’ Vonne blinked slowly, her eyes glassy with narcotics, pupils huge from the stims.
‘Vonne! Do we have the Lord Vigilant?’
‘We lost the command channel.’
‘Signals? Anything?’
‘Teleport signatures incoming.’ The master of the signals was back at her station. She was splattered with gore and her hands shook as she worked the controls.
‘Ordnance, solutions on the traitor ship, all weapons free on my order.’ Solyras’s command was met with a chorus of affirmatives.
In the centre of the bridge, space and time folded, distorting the room. When it unfolded, six Sentinels and a dreadnought stood in the centre of the room.
‘Heral?’
‘I’m sorry, First Captain.’ Beros clutched the Lord General’s sheathed sword.
Solyras sighed, resigned to his duty. ‘Fire,’ He commanded.
In the cold void, ordnance raced from The Eye, but before torpedoes could strike, The Feast Infernal was rocked by explosions from within. Blossoms of bright fire erupted across its spines, blinding the crew of The Eye as they looked on. The chaos ship broke into three parts.
‘Target any large debris. Fire!’ Solyras commanded
‘His watch is ended,’ The great dreadnought voxed aloud.
‘I have told you everything, Inquisitor. Either end my watch now, or return me to the long sleep because, as far as I know, The Feast Infernal was home to all Sentinels lost to the Eye of Terror.’
‘Home to your brothers?’
‘They are no brothers of mine,’ The static crackle of Tyr’s voice echoed in the chamber. Wrail had ordered Tyr’s weapon arms removed, and his ambulation controls deactivated. She had been surprised by his compliance with her orders. Even more surprised when he ordered the Sentinels, who argued on his behalf to stand down.
‘What did you hope to gain by returning here?’
‘I thought I would see Ipheryn again, see brothers bearing the Candle of the Watch on their pauldrons.’
‘And now you will lead them?’
‘I am no leader of men. I want nothing other than to serve my Emperor and the Imperium. Lord Vigilant Anir has given me the chance to serve again. He has given me a gift I can never repay.’
‘You can repay him by serving alongside your brothers,’ Solyras said from the doorway. A fireteam, led by Lieutenant Beros, stood at his back.
‘First Captain.’
‘Lord Vigilant, Inquisitor,’ Solyras corrected.
‘I see the determination of succession is complete. I feared you and your brothers would be in conclave far longer, Chapter Master Anir being so singular a warrior, irreplaceable really. But I suppose duty comes before honour.’
‘We honour him every day Inquisitor, with our service and our lives,’ Beros interjected.
‘And we will honour his vision for this chapter, the same vision Brother Tyr has kept alive all this time,’ Solyras added.‘Now that Ipheryn is safe and the Corpus Brethren are defeated, I am taking my brothers to join Lord Guilliman’s crusade. All of my brothers.’ Solyras looked pointedly at the Dreadnought chassis.
‘You will do no such thing, Solyras,’ The Inquisitor stated firmly.
‘You have no direct authority over the Sentinels, Inquisitor. And given your rash actions, it’s doubtful that you ever did. Get our brother mobile, Lieutenant. We are done being caged for the crimes of others. We are leaving Ipheryn.’
Beros stepped into the chamber. He kept one hand near his bolt pistol as he moved around the Inquisitor to Tyr’s chassis. Servos whined and the floor trembled as Tyr took his first steps. He towered over the Inquisitor who stood between him and his Chapter Master.
‘I could make you stand down with the might of the Inquisition behind me.’ Wrail crossed her arms and stared Solyras down.
‘I sincerely hope you try, Inquisitor.’
About the Author
E. Nicole Gary is a scientist and Warhammer lover. She received her PhD in microbiology and immunology from Drexel university college of medicine and studies vaccine design and immune responses. When she isn’t writing scientific manuscripts, she’s reading, watching, and writing sci-fi and horror. She loves wine, crochet, chaos, and laboratory mice. You can find her online @NickyinBrooklyn on instagram, twitter, and tiktok, and on the 40k bookclub she shares with her loyalist husband all linked below.
