The Final Lamentation

The Unbroken had once been a noble vessel. A ship of the line, it had been built in the days when humanity was ascendant; when the Great Crusade sought to once more cage the stars, and bring enlightenment to the galaxy. The vessel had been used by some of the first astartes when they deployed alongside the solar auxilia, and even after the primarchs had been discovered, the ship had held its course. It had emptied its guns into enemy fleets, dropped entire battalions of troops from orbit onto contested worlds, and won its share of honors in wars whose names and stakes were forgotten by all but the ancient, and the mad. The vessel had also been one of the countless ships commandeered by the warmaster when he’d raised his banners of treachery, and turned his forces against the Imperium. Though it had sustained damage on the push to Terra, and was left scarred by the siege of humanity’s home world, the Unbroken was one of thousands of ships that vanished into the warp when Horus had died, and the traitors’ force was splintered.

The ship had changed over the years. Its colors, once bright and proud, had charred and flaked away, revealing the blackened hull underneath. The steel of the bow was scarred with the unblinking eye of the Sons of Horus, as well as the eight-fold sigil of Chaos, both of them christened with blood and sacrifice. Most of the onboard lights had died long ago, and those that still functioned flickered like daemon fire, filling the ship with shadows. Now the Unbroken plowed the void like a wraith, its cannons glowing with banked hellfire as it sought to fulfill the singular purpose it had been made for; to bring death and destruction to its enemies.

Those who sailed upon this ship had not fared much better than the vessel itself. Where the elite of the imperial navy had once stood their posts on deck, and called orders in clear, ringing tones, now twisted mockeries of the human form were chained in place with their lidless eyes staring into the black. The messages that came over the vox growled in a cacophony of voices, speaking to the wretches that crewed the vessel in a thousand different tongues. Whether the ship was possessed, or its machine spirit had gone insane, was impossible to tell… and in the end, it didn’t matter. Not to the crew, nor to those they took prisoner.

The black cells of the Unbroken’s brig had never been welcoming places, even in the ship's glory days. Now they were mutated and terrible, stained by death, and haunted by the screams of all the souls who had passed through them. Nightmares lived in the darkness of the vessel’s guts, feeding off the remnants of what was left behind when the interrogations were finally finished. It was a place none dared go but the true masters of the ship, and they were rarely bothered to make that journey down into that prison unless there was something to be gained by doing so.

Kai Sikaddax had decided to grace the black cells with his presence. There was still a final prisoner left from the war band’s latest raid, and he wished to offer him a final chance to take communion with the warband.

The Black Legionnaire walked through the brig, the corpse lamps on the walls sparking into ghoulish life at his approach. Tall and regal, the pallid light danced off the gold highlights of his war plate as he strode down the corridor. Horns rose gracefully from his helm, and his eye lenses burned with a steady, red light. A cape hung from his shoulders, the edges always fluttering just above the corruption that lined the grates. A long, elegant blade hung from his hip, and a bolt pistol even older that his armor rested in a cross-draw holster with its butt forward. He was unbowed, and unhurried; an archfiend walking through his personal corner of hell. And just to complete the picture, he was attended by two of the Tormentors; the elite company of human warriors who followed at the warband’s heels like well-trained hunting hounds. They held their weapons at the ready, their lean faces unmoving, and their dark eyes hungry as they swept the darkness, searching for any threat bold or ravenous enough to turn on them.

The fallen astartes raised his sigil from where it hung on his chest, and the autoguns that watched the hallway outside the only occupied cell deactivated. The locks to the heavy, steel door turned, and the door itself opened at his approach. Bright lights snapped on inside, glaring down at the room’s only occupant. Kai gestured with a hand, and the two scarred warriors took up position to either side of the door to watch the corridor. The Black Legionnaire entered, and closed the door at his back.

The captive sat in the center of his cell. He was naked, with manacles at his wrists binding him to the floor. Dirt and blood streaked his arms and chest, but his face was unmarred by scars or wounds. Though his body was corded with rippling muscle, the halo of blonde hair that framed his face made him seem almost boyish. His eyes were hot, and though tears trembled on his lashes, they did nothing to dull the wrath that burned in his gaze. Kai smiled beneath his helm. It had been many years, indeed, since he had laid eyes on a cousin of the blood, but there was no mistaking a son of the great angel Sanguinius. The prisoner rose to his knees, straining at his bonds, baring his sharp teeth in a snarl.

“Peace, cousin, peace,” Kai said, raising his empty sword hand and holding it palm-outwards in a placating gesture. “Let us talk, you and I.”

“Talk of what?” the prisoner demanded, spitting the words as if they were venom. “Of my brothers’ screams? Of my captain’s oaths? Or shall we speak of the deafening silence that fills this prison now that both of those things are absent?”

“We may speak of such things, should you wish,” Kai said. He disconnected his helm, the mag lock whirring as the life support disconnected, and lifted it from his head. A shock of black hair fell across his tanned forehead, and he looked at his cousin with eyes that were dark pools. He smiled, showing strong, straight teeth. He let this son of the angel see that beneath this ancient armor and its sigils of Chaos, his flesh was as perfectly wrought as it had ever been. Kai stepped closer, and lowered himself to one knee, ensuring he and the prisoner were nearly at eye level. “I will tell you no lies, cousin. We are above such things, you and I. All I ask in return is your name.”

For a moment, Kai was certain the marine was going to do something rash. Activate his Betcher’s Gland and try to kill him, perhaps. Maybe he would lash out and try a kick, hoping he could move quickly enough to cave in Kai’s unprotected skull. He watched the war of emotions on the younger astartes’ face with great interest. After a second that seemed to stretch on for a small eternity, the younger marine withdrew into himself. He sat on his heels, and unclenched his fists. The tension went out of his arms and shoulders, and the cords in his neck relaxed. His face was serene, but for that hot, wet gaze. It was the one thing he could not control.

“My name is Astin Furon,” he said, speaking clearly, even if he bit off the end of each word.

Kai inclined his head. He noted the lack of rank, or honorifics, but did not remark upon the absence. He had seen the marine’s armor, and recognized his chapter badge. It did not surprise Kai that his cousin would have only his name to offer.

“You may call me Kai Sikaddax,” Kai said. “I doubt the name means any more to you than your name means to me. But to prove my good faith, ask me what you wish to know, and I shall tell you.”

“What befell my brothers?” Astin asked.

Kai pressed his thumb against a hard-top container on his belt. There was a sharp click, and a whirring noise as the assist mechanism pressed the contents into his hand. Rather than a magazine of ammunition, though, Kai held up a flat, rectangular case. It had been painted yellow, with a checkered black and white field on the lid. A bleeding heart sat atop that field, rendered in a perfect hand. The box was dented and scarred, carrying the marks of long travel and hard use. The young marine said nothing, but the sight of the box stole the wind from him as surely as any blow.

“They died well, if it’s a consolation to you,” Kai said as he opened the small case. Inside was a stack of heavy cards, the edges slightly bent from long use. Kai turned the case over, sliding the cards into his hand. “There was no begging. No bargaining. None of them accepted my offer to bend the knee, and swear to the warmaster.”

“Did you expect them to?” the young marine asked, his voice a sharp hiss.

“I did not. I have seen many sons of Sanguinius in my time. You are all as dangerous as you are strong-willed.” Kai smiled ruefully as he held up the deck. “And while I have seen many librarians over the years, never did I see one who carried a deck quite like this. I take it you recognize these cards well enough?”

“They belonged to Captain Garion Agleo,” Astin said. His throat clenched, and his voice hitched, but he shook his head hard. Not in denial, but as if he were trying to throw off the grip of grief before it could fasten around his throat.

“He wouldn’t even tell us his name,” Kai said. In a display of dexterity and grace, he carefully rearranged the cards in his palm without removing his gauntlets. His dark gaze never left the bound marine as he shuffled, and Astin’s eyes focused on the cards with a singular ferocity that was almost unnerving. “Shall I lay out your future for you? To allow the warp to convince you where my words might fail?”

Astin said nothing. Kai shuffled for another few moments, then he began to draw, and to lay the cards out one by one. He placed them in a pattern he called the Broken Wheel, laying the cards along the 8-fold path in an alternating pattern. It was as if the symbol of chaos were being woven, the lines of fate teased out, and then revealed with every turn of the deck.

“Here at the start of your journey, the Squire. I suppose this is your captain’s interpretation of the Young Warrior, as the sword and training yard in the background are much the same. Then we come to the next step, the Astartes. I can imagine the relief you felt when the process was done, and the pride that blossomed in your chest when you were given your armor. While we may not say it aloud, even among each other, there was a part of us all who feared we would fail that final test.”

The young marine held his silence. If not for the pulse in his neck, he might have been a statue. Kai turned the next card, and looked at it a moment before he laid it down.

“The Warped Renegade,” he said with a small laugh. “An unflattering portrait, but not an inaccurate one if I’m forced to be honest. Then again, it is just as possible this is meant to be another member of this ship’s warband, eh?”

Astin didn’t speak, but Kai nodded just as if the younger marine had agreed with him. He drew the next card, and pursed his lips while he stared at it.

“The sword,” he said, laying it at the position of the western spoke of the wheel. “This card could be a metaphor. See, here, the rays of golden light that shine from the blade. It is not unlike the color of your armor. But if we look more closely here, do you not think this sword bears a striking resemblance to the one your captain wielded? From one bladesman to another, it was a thing of beauty, and a privilege to carry it even for a brief time. I took it to the armory myself, and ensured it was properly locked in place.”

“Its name is Sitio,” Astin said, speaking almost as if he were in a dream. Or a trance. “It means the Thirst.”

“A fearsome name for a fearsome blade,” Kai said, drawing the next card. “Perhaps it was merely an artistic decision to place an image of that sword here, in this deck, but we should not dismiss what the cards show us as mere coincidence, should we, cousin?”

Kai turned the next card, and chuckled to himself. It depicted a swirling miasma of greens and reds that seemed to nearly pulse on the card. It was a thing of darkness that seemed to suck at the space around it, drawing the eye just as it drew light from the surrounding stars. Kai placed the card into the arrangement, and then tapped it with the tip of his armored finger. “The Eye. A simple enough statement to follow. Have you ever seen it, cousin?”

“No,” Astin said. A tremble went through his body as he spoke; a shiver that made Kai think of a fever. He watched Astin for a long moment, before his smile returned to his face. It did not reach his eyes, though.

“Perhaps you may yet have the honor of doing so,” the Black Legionnaire said.

Kai pulled the next card, and frowned at it. It was a detailed portrait worthy of a master, with all the horror of a nightmare made flesh. A colossal figure melded with impossible armor, his dimensions fearsome and terrible, his eyes burning with the colors of the ancient gods. He held out a bloody claw, as if beckoning the viewer to come and face him, if they had the mettle to do so. It was the Warmaster Abaddon… but the card was inverted. Kai considered righting it, but he had said there would be no lies between them. Not only that, but breaking the pattern with a lie just before the final card could have consequences he would rather avoid.

“The Warmaster,” Kai said, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. “A good likeness. It does not capture the details of his form, but I would say that his soul is on full display in this portrait.”

“It’s upside down,” Astin remarked.

“All the better for you to see it,” Kai said. He was tiring of the game, and he pulled the last card of the spread. His frown deepened. A winged figure knelt in a pool of its own blood, a spear stuck into the ground nearby. Its teeth were gritted, and every throbbing vein and line of muscle seemed to strain as it tried to lift itself up against impossible odds. Shadows surrounded the figure, their weapons raised, and their mouths open in silent war cries. He had never seen such a card in any deck of the Emperor’s Tarot before. He placed it in the final, empty spot, and spoke the name of the card as if ending a ritual. “The Martyr.”

Another shiver went through the young marine as the telling finished. He stared at the cards, his eyes empty and unseeing. He looked as if he’d been struck. The tears that had been welling in his eyes spilled over, cutting clear rivulets down his cheeks, and leaping from his long lashes as he tried to blink them away. He bowed his head, a gesture filled with both supplication and shame. The muscles of his back and shoulders bunched, flexing, as if he was going to be sick. A sob tore through him, ripping out from deep in his guts. Wet spatters fell on the cards as Astin made a guttural sound deep in his throat. It was the sound of a wounded animal in pain. A wide smile twisted Kai’s lips, baring his teeth in a predatory grin.

“Dry your tears, cousin,” Kai said. He reached out a hand, and rested it on the young marine’s shoulder. “There is no need for you to weep.”

Kai’s eyes fell to the Wheel of Chaos he had deftly laid out. He blinked. Spatters of blood dotted the cards, each drop so thick and dark it could only be the blood of an astartes. The wracking sobs that had filled Astin’s chest had grown deeper, his breath tearing in and out of his throat like a panting wolf. Kai wondered if the young marine had ruptured something, or if he’d bitten off his tongue. Before he could move, Astin raised his head, and met Kai’s gaze. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils so wide that they drowned the light in their depths. Blood ran from his eyes like crimson tears, dripping from the tip of his nose. His lips quivered, showing his long, sharp teeth.

Lightning shot through Kai’s mind, ignited by the immediate danger in front of him. His geneforged body was already emptying adrenaline into his bloodstream, and combat stims shot into his widening veins, traveling with every beat of his twin hearts. His nerves twitched, electrical signals crackling through the black carapace as he commanded his power armor to move. Time slowed down, and seconds stretched out into liquid eternities… but Astin moved even faster.

In the time it took for the first impulse to light in Kai’s mind, the young marine’s muscles surged forward. His restraints, which had been strong enough to hold him for days, snapped under the force of his fury. The steel dug furrows into his wrists, and flayed flaps of skin from the backs of his hands, dislocating several of his fingers, but Astin didn’t seem to notice. Kai’s legs were flexing, and he tried to raise one arm to shield himself, but it was like he was moving underwater as the younger marine shot through the gap in his defenses. One bloody hand clamped onto the side of Kai’s head, yanking it to the side hard enough he felt something in his spine give way with a brittle snap. Then there was a sharp, wet heat at his throat, just above his gorget.

Astin’s fangs sank deep into Kai’s flesh, and he yanked his head like a hunting beast. Blood fountained from torn arteries, and air whistled through the Black Legionnaire’s rent windpipe. He reached for Astin’s head, but Kai’s armored fist only caught hold of the marine’s blonde locks. Lunging forward once more, Astin sank his own wounded fingers into Kai’s throat, and ripped the hole wider, burying his face in the wound as he bit, tore, and drank. Kai’s body shuddered beneath him, and went still as Astin raised his dripping maw from the nearly-decapitated corpse.

“These tears are not for me,” Astin growled as he placed his hands on either side of Kai’s head, staring into the dead man’s eyes as he started to squeeze. “They’re for you, and all the other traitors.”

***

Tirin frowned, staring down at the deck near his feet. A round drop of nearly black liquid sat, surrounded by a halo of pure, clean steel. He glanced ahead, and saw another a few feet away. Then another, and another. Glancing back over his shoulder, he took a knee and frowned.

“What the hell are you doing?” Farnum growled over his shoulder. The heavy stubber in the sergeant’s hands was steady as he covered the hallway in front of them, and he sniffed through his crooked nose.

“I found something,” Tirin said, dipping the pad of his index finger in the spot. It was warm, and slick.

“Don’t touch it!” Vars hissed, the red lenses of his false eye pulsing in the dark like a cinder debating if it wanted to burst back into flame.

“Spectrum analysis,” Farnum said, turning his bald head to look at his second-in-command. Vars took a hand off his plasma gun, and touched the small panel on the side of his bionic as he peered down at Tirin’s hand.

“It’s biological,” he muttered, his unaltered eye narrowing as his prosthetic one clicked and whirred. “Spectrometer readings are off. None of these numbers make sense.”

Tirin carefully brought his hand toward his face, and sniffed. The sharp stench of copper crawled up his nose, powerful enough to make his eyes water. “It smells like blood.”

Vars leaned closer, his scarred lip drawing back from his yellowed teeth. Then he stretched his neck until it cracked with a hollow crunch. “I don’t know what kind of thing could survive having that in its veins.”

“Conversation for another time,” Farnum said, the burn scars along one half of his head tightening up as he frowned. “We’re here for a reason. Focus. Urlock wants a report on what’s happening, and if we don’t get it to him prompt-like we’d better hope it’s because we’re dead.”

Each of them took a fresh grip on their weapons, and a deep breath of the foul, stagnant air. The Vultures were the ones who got the worst duties onboard the Unbroken, with the highest risk and the least reward. But rank had its privilege, and when something was beneath the lords of the ship, and their personal bodyguards, the duty rolled downhill until there was nobody else to pass it on to. And that somebody was usually whoever was in their squad. The upside was that if you did a good job, you might get promoted up to a better duty. And if you did a bad job… well, it wouldn’t be your problem for very long.

Farnum lifted two fingers and a thumb before curling his hand into a fist, then pointing down the hall. They split into an advance pattern with Farnum in the lead, and the other two flanking him in a staggered line on either end of the hall. Their boots splashed through muck, and their body armor creaked. Sweat trickled down their necks and stung their eyes, but none of them was willing to blink. Down here a moment’s lost concentration would be what turned you into meat, and their deaths would be ignored by all except those it mildly inconvenienced.

Vars hissed, the noise quiet enough that it didn’t carry far beyond Farnum’s position. The sergeant glanced over his shoulder. Vars drew his thumb across his throat, held up two fingers and pointed into the darkness ahead. Farnum nodded, and advanced. Tirin swallowed, and did the same.

As the caged lights flickered into life, they illuminated a scene of carnage. Fresh blood dripped from the walls, and puddled on the floor. Viscera was spread in a grotesque pattern, and severed limbs lay a dozen yards or more from where their owners had fallen. Above them was a hollow, sparking socket in the wall. The autoguns had been torn out of their mounting, and reduced to little more than a pile of scrap. It wasn’t the worst thing any of them had seen since taking service with the warband, but it was enough that all three of them toggled their weapons’ fire switches up a notch. Farnum pointed at the door of the cell that hung ajar, held up his fingers, and counted down. When he made a fist, they hit the door hard, sweeping their guns as they looked for a target.

All they found were two bloody, broken chains, and a dead astartes.

The three of them stood there for a long moment, frozen as they regarded the figure sprawled out on the floor. Kai Sikkadax, the Voice of The Iron Brotherhood, was unrecognizable but for his armor. His throat had been rent open, and his head crushed like it had been put in a hydraulic press. The skull had been peeled open like a boiled egg, and the scalp tossed aside like a discarded wrapper. As they stood there, they felt the ship shudder, yawing to one side hard enough to send them stumbling for a moment.

“The hell was that?” Vars growled.

“How should I know?” Farnum snarled back.

“Where’s his brain?” Tirin asked.

The sergeant and his second snapped back to the moment. Tirin could tell neither one of them liked the question he’d asked, and they liked even less that they didn’t have an answer to it. Farnum crouched down, lifting the space marine’s pulped head to look beneath it. The sergeant grunted, and wiped his hands on his pants. “It’s not here, that’s for damn sure.”

Off in the distance, they heard gunfire. It was muted by distance, and intervening bulkheads, but there was no mistaking that harsh chattering for anything other than what it was. A louder sound eclipsed the discharge, and when it faded, all they heard was silence. The three troopers looked at one another, before returning their gazes back to the astartes’ corpse.

“If it’s not here, where the hell could it be?” Tirin asked. His voice was high, and he felt like he was having trouble getting his breath. Farnum clapped him on the side of his helmet hard enough to get Tirin’s attention, then turned him around by his shoulder straps, before taking the handset off the vox unit on Tirin’s back. As he dialed in the connection, Farnum barked orders over his shoulder to Vars, once again in control of himself and the situation.

“See if you can figure out who was watching the door,” he said, rattling through the frequencies. Vars stepped back out the door just as Farnum started speaking into the handset. “Vultures calling the roost. Do you read us, roost?”

“Report, blast you!” A voice that sounded like an engine trying to shake itself apart demanded over the blaring of alarms in the background. A shiver went through Tirin. Even over the crackling line, he recognized the voice of Urlock Numastar. The former Ironhand was usually as even-toned as the machinery he tended, and Tirin had never once heard him like this. Neither had Farnum, judging from the snap he put in his voice.

“Sir, contact made in the brig,” he shouted, ensuring he could be heard over the transponder. “Three casualties. The prisoner escaped.”

There was no response. If not for the alarms transmitting over the line, Tirin would have thought it had gone dead, yet another victim to the vagaries of technology within such an old, warp-riddled ship. When Urlock spoke again his voice was lower, his words the growl of grinding gears. “Sikaddax is dead?”

“Yes, sir,” Farnum replied. “The prisoner tore out his throat.”

“Anything else?” Urlock demanded. “Are Kai’s weapons missing? His power armor?”

Farnum frowned, surveying the body. “His blade and bolt pistol are gone. His armor is still here.”

“Anything else?” Urlock asked.

“His brain, Sir,” Farnum said, swallowing. “It… it’s gone.”

The silence stretched out longer this time. So long that, for a moment, Tirin thought the line had been left open. Then Urlock spoke again, his voice absent any kind of emotion.

“Converge on the armory immediately,” the forge master said. “Gather any forces you find on your way, under my authority. If you come across the prisoner, shoot to kill. Assume nothing. If he’s eaten Sikaddax’s brain, then the Lamenter knows everything about this ship and its crew that Kai did. We need to put him down quickly, before this blasted warp storm gets any-”

The vox link terminated with a squeal of static. Tirin looked back at his sergeant, a question in his eyes. Before he could say a word, the ship pitched again, the lights sputtering into darkness. Tirin’s helmet clanged off the deck, and he spun through a blackness filled with vertigo. The ship righted itself violently, and Farnum’s weapon discharged as he fell. Bullets ricocheted through the room, sparking off the steel walls like comets. One of them tore through Tirin’s shoulder, and the sharp, immediate pain was enough to blow the mist out of his brain. He cried out, clutching at his wound. His index finger slid through the hole in his jacket, the tip pressing into the fresh hole in his shoulder.

Almost as soon as he realized what he'd done, Tirin felt heat blooming in his skin. The heat expanded rapidly, burning through his veins, making his muscles spasm and flex. His ears grew sharper, his skin more sensitive, and his nose more keen. He could feel the pressure of the atmosphere against his body, and hear the blood roaring through his veins. But the only thing Tirin could smell, was blood. A bright, blue-white light pierced the darkness as Vars stood in the open hatch, his plasma gun clutched in both hands. His bionic eye swept the room, and his lips curled back from his teeth.

“What the hell is happening?” Vars demanded.

“I don’t know,” Farnum said, getting to his feet. He dug in his belt pouch until he found his angled flash, securing it in a strap on his armor before flicking it on. He knelt near Tirin, and helped roll him onto his side. “Urlock said get to the armory, so that’s what we’re gonna do. You find out who was out there?”

“Brag and Harte,” Vars said. “Checked their clips. They never even got off a shot.”

“That’s comforting,” Farnum growled.

“I think you shot me,” Tirin said, pursing his lips and frowning.

“Sharp as ever. Move your hand,” Farnum said, pulling Tirin’s hand away before he could comply with the order. Tirin saw that the tip of his first finger was coated with his own blood, now, from where he’d accidentally pressed the digit into his wound. The stain of the black blood he'd touched was gone, swallowed up by his wound. “Now, extend your arm.”

Tirin did as he was told. There was pain there, but it was far away. He swore he could feel his body trying to put itself together again, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest. His nose was numb, and no matter how bright the light from the flash was, his pupils wouldn’t constrict. Farnum nodded, drew his knife, and cut away Tirin’s sleeve so he could get to the wound. Once the injury was unobstructed, the scarred sergeant took out a pressure patch and ripped it open. He pressed the two sides on simultaneously, the chem seal hissing as it affixed itself to Tirin’s wound and went to work.

“You’re lucky,” Farnum said, offering Tirin his hand. “Through and through, no major bleeders cut or bones broken. On your feet now, before something down here gets the smell of fresh blood and comes to see what’s what.”

Tirin bared his teeth, and grabbed Farnum’s hand with his uninjured arm. The sergeant hauled Tirin to his feet, then slid his heavy stubber back into his hands. Tirin stepped to where his las had fallen, picked it up, and checked it. It had a few new dents and dings, but the power pack was solid, and it hummed when he flicked the safety off. Farnum nodded, clapped Vars on the shoulder, and the three of them moved.

They ran, boot heels banging on the steel grating, splashing through puddles of unidentified ichor and stagnant water. Vars called distances and trajectories, scanning the darkness beyond the reach of their meager lights. They all kept their weapons up, each covering a different direction. They bolted down side corridors, weaving and changing direction to throw off the scent of anything that might hear them down there. All they saw was darkness, though, and all they heard was the panting of their own breath, and the pounding of their pulses in their ears. Their nerves were stretched taut as steel cables, ready for anything to happen... but nothing did.

“Wait,” Vars rasped, putting up a hand to stop them as he stared around a corner. They’d pelted down a side corridor, cutting toward one of the three stairwells that led out of the brig, and which gave them easy access to deck lifts. Farnum half-collapsed against the wall, chest rapidly expanding and deflating as he sucked in air. Tirin was panting, his mouth open like a dog, but he didn’t feel winded. If anything, he felt like he could run from where they were all the way to the armory if he had to. Vars leaned out a little further, and his mouth dropped open slightly as his bionic whirred and clicked, peering into the dimness. When he next spoke, his words were tinged with something Tirin had never heard come out of the man’s throat; a mixture of awe, and fear. “Liar’s throne.”

“What are you staring at?” Farnum snarled. He shoved past Vars, advancing down the hallway. Tirin followed on his heels, covering their rear. Farnum’s footsteps stuttered, then stopped. When Tirin turned around, he saw what had rooted Vars to the spot.

The stairway out of the brig was a twisting spiral cage, meant to provide maximum cover to those who were defending it from anything that might try to force its way up from below. Gun ports along the side had discouraged most things from trying, and aside from occasional incursions by the slithering, monstrous things that lived in the ship’s guts, these stairs were the safest place one could be on this level.

It hadn’t been enough.

A river of gore led to the stairs, and ichor splattered the walls. A carpet of corpses covered the floor, the bodies so badly mutilated it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. There were heads barely recognizable as human, pale, putrescent limbs with too many hands, and too many fingers, as well as torsos covered in sores, extra eyes, and worse. Beyond the pile of dead mutants, though, the armor plating of the stairs themselves had been ripped apart, the metal reduced to slag by the field of a power weapon, and then rent asunder. The bodies of the security team that had manned the hard point hung from the armored overhang above; a mute testament to the savagery of the being who had torn through this blockade like an angry storm, leaving nothing but silence and blood in its wake.

“Looks like we found where the prisoner went,” Farnum said. He spoke louder than normal, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the brittle core of his voice. “Come on, boys. We don’t want to let him get away, do we?”

Tirin and Vars said nothing, but they followed Farnum through the bodies, and up the stairs to the staging area. They found more of the same, with the security personnel cut to ribbons. Judging from the scorch marks and shrapnel, someone had managed to get a grenade off in the small space. It had done more damage to the defenders than their target, it seemed. The consoles were smashed, their screens reduced to splinters, but red lights still flashed in a few places. Three open lifts stood arrayed against the rear wall; one of them was gone.

“Should we call this in?” Tirin asked.

“No point,” Farnum said, clambering into one of the lifts. When the others had joined him, he hit the button for the deck they wanted. “Urlock doesn’t care where the prisoner ain’t. He said get to the armory, so we get to the armory.”

The three of them said nothing as they rose up into the middle decks of the ship. In the silence, though, they heard the blaring alarms, and the sound of distant weapon discharges. The lift shuddered, halting while it was halfway between decks. The ship groaned, and a light exploded in its cage above them.

“Vars, boost me up,” Farnum growled, pushing his weapon up onto the deck above. “Tirin, cover me.”

Vars laid his weapon down, cupped his hands, and Farnum planted his boot in the stirrup. Vars grunted, and Farnum hauled himself up, scraping his armor on the deck plating. The sergeant was on his feet in a moment, weapon in hand as he scanned the hall. Vars jerked his head, and Tirin went next. He practically launched himself from Vars’s hands, wriggling through the gap quickly. Blood stained the patch on his shoulder, but the wound felt numb. His boots were barely clear when the lift shuddered, dropping several inches.

“This damn thing is gonna shake itself apart,” Farnum snarled. He slung his weapon, then held out his hand. “Jump, damn you!”

Vars leaped, grabbing the edge of the deck, and Farnum’s hand. The sergeant grunted, and the lift shuddered again, the cage slamming back and forth in its steel throat. Tirin grabbed Vars by the arm, hauling hard enough to whip Vars up through the gap. Not two seconds after his boots were clear, there was a snapping sound, and the lift plummeted. The three of them stared down at the empty hole, breathing hard, when a fireball exploded down at the base of the shaft.

“Looks like we're down a plasma rifle,” Vars said, once the explosion burned itself out.

“Just grab another weapon,” Farnum said, gesturing down the corridor. “It looks like you can have your pick.”

Tirin glanced down the corridor, and saw the sergeant was right. It looked like there had been a double-stack of shooters ready to greet the escaped prisoner. The walls and deck were scored and burned from las rounds, and there were patches of slag from plasma discharge. There was also more blood, and too much of it to tell whether or not the team had hit what they were aiming at. What they could clearly see, though, were huge, red footprints on the other side of the massacre, and an empty bolt pistol left on the deck. And though the footprints faded a dozen yards past the butchery, Tirin spied something else; fat, round droplets. And now that they were in a corridor with proper lighting he could see that they weren’t black; just a red so dark it looked black at first glance.

“What are you staring at?” Farnum grunted.

“Nothing,” Tirin said, wiping his nose. He looked down at his hand, realizing there was blood on his fingers. He sniffed, and put his rifle back to his shoulder. “Nothing at all.”

Farnum eyed him a moment longer, then turned away, waving them on. They picked their way through the mess, stopping only long enough for Vars to snatch up a hot shot las rifle, checking the power pack and ensuring it was still in working order. Properly armed once more, they set off at a trot.

At every intersection they prepared to come face to face with the target, but all they found was brutality, and blood. Body after body had been ripped and torn, until the sight no longer had an impact. These weren’t comrades-in-arms. They weren’t shipmates. They weren’t even people. They were just meat that had gone into a grinder, and been chewed to pieces. Farnum didn’t even glance down as he stamped through their spilled guts. Vars did the same, letting his bionic tell him where his attention was most needed. Tirin didn’t look at what he was stepping over, but the reek of congealing blood filled his nostrils, and the wet, sloshing sounds of his steps was loud in his ears. And though he lost the trail time and time again, he always found it once more; those dripping, bloody tears that felt like they were pulling him ever onward.

The armory had been one of the most secure locations on the Unbroken, with layers of security enclosing it in an envelope of protection. The sentry stations watching it were dead, the gun emplacements smoldering wrecks of slag melted by overheated discharge. Most of the lumens were dead in their cages, and the few remaining lamps flickered over a dozen more bodies. The security gate was bent and broken, and the access doors beyond hung half open. The huge, steel slabs of the armory door were trying to close, but something was malfunctioning, and they only managed to close halfway before opening again. The whining hydraulics were the only thing they could hear. Farnum waved them into an alcove, gesturing for Vars to cover the corridor. Turning Tirin around, Farnum plucked up the handset of the vox unit.

“Vultures calling Forgemaster,” Farnum said. “We are in position. Do you read, Forgemaster?”

There was no reply but silence, and static. Farnum repeated the hail once more, getting the same response. He hung up the handset, grunting as he hefted his weapon again.

“All right, we rush on three,” Farnum said, his tongue darting over his lips.

“Have you lost it?” Vars hissed between his teeth. “After everything we’ve seen, you want to go in guns blazing?”

“Right now our best-case scenario is the prisoner has moved on, and there’s nobody in there. Once we clear the room, we can trade up for something with real stopping power, and hold the armory,” Farnum said.

“What’s the worst case scenario?” Tirin asked. He wasn’t looking at Farnum. He was looking at the corridor beyond their alcove. He counted a dozen of the deep red tears going toward the armory.

“If we’re really unlucky,” Farnum said, checking the chamber on his shooter and thumbing a hanging bead of sweat from the tip of his nose. “The bastard’s still in there, and ready to add us to the butcher’s bill. And if that’s the case, I’d rather have him in a metal box with nowhere to hide than out here in the corridor with us, wouldn’t you?”

Farnum didn’t wait for an answer. He touched Vars, then Tirin, telling them which order the stack would go in. He peered around the edge of the alcove, then held up three fingers as he timed the hydraulic chewing of the entry doors. When he’d counted down to a fist, he rushed forward. Dutiful as ever, the others followed, weapons up and their fingers on their triggers. They slipped through the door one after the other, Farnum going to the left, and Vars to the right, each sweeping their side of the room. Adrenaline pumped through Tirin’s veins as he stepped over the threshold, and time seemed to slow. In the space between one beat of his heart, and another, he saw everything.

The armory had been a place of order in the decrepit chaos of the Unbroken. Racks of weapons had stood as straight as parade ground marching lines, each with ammunition magazines held in a spring-loaded clip for maximum efficiency. The walls had been lined with tools and machinery in neat, orderly rows, each serving its specific purpose in the assembly line of war. Terrible suits of power armor had stood guard near arming stations, seeming to glower at the room as they bided their time before they strode into battle once more. The regimented, machine-like order had felt almost holy, anointed with oil and scoured clean with ritual regularity. And if this place had been a temple, then Urlock Numastar, an astartes who had become more metal than flesh over the journey that had brought him into the open arms of the Black Legion, had been its priest.

Both the priest and his sanctuary had been defiled.

The once pristine order of the place had been cast down. The racks had been tipped over to spill their contents across the floor, or blown to pieces by weapons discharge. Steel ran in molten patches from the impacts of plasma rounds, and the war plate had been cast down and scattered. At the far end of the armory, before the massive, glowing forge, lay the master of this place. Urlock lay on his back, a puddle of mingled oil and blood spurting and leaking from dozens of different wounds. A broken power sword was rammed through his visor, nailing his corpse to the grating. Energy sparked from the dying weapon, making the corpse twitch spasmodically. It was as if the figure in black armor were still trying to rise to continue the battle.

The creature that stood above the fallen astartes was a vision of an angel in hell. His skin, once perfect, was now spattered with gore, and pierced through in a hundred different places that wept dark trickles of nearly black blood. In his hand he held a golden sword, the blade shimmering with incandescent power. Red tears filled the angel’s eyes, and ran down his face, dripping from his chin. In a moment that stretched forever, he looked into Tirin’s face. Tirin felt the fire of the angel’s gaze pour into him. He felt the chorus in his own blood cry out, and in that split second of eternity, he knew what had to be done.

Farnum had his weapon raised, his good eye narrowing as he took aim at the angel. Tirin squeezed his trigger first, the sharp crack of his las rifle deafening in the confined space. Farnum’s head exploded like an overripe fruit, the remains of his skull spraying wetly against the wall. Tirin was already pivoting, holding down the trigger as he faced Vars. Vars was quick, always had been, but it wasn’t enough to save him. Tirin’s fire caught his shoulder, his chest, and his thigh as he tried to dive for cover. Before Vars could say anything, Tirin fired twice more into his torso, and he went still.

Tirin had barely looked away, but when he turned, the angel was upon him. He’d heard no sound, and he’d seen no movement out of the corner of his eye. The huge figure was just there, staring down at Tirin with his bloody, martyr’s eyes. Tirin’s rifle fell from nerveless fingers, and he lifted his numb hands to his chest in the sign of the aquila… something he once swore he would never do again while he still drew breath. As he looked up into the angel’s face, Tirin realized he was weeping, too, blood leaking from the corners of his eyes. His heart was beating too fast, and his vision was beginning to go black around the edges. There was a rushing in his ears that made them feel stopped up, as if he was being held underwater. In that moment, Tirin knew he had been infected by that single brush, and it killing him. The blood of the angels was never meant to run in mortal veins.

“Ave Imperator,” Tirin said.

The angel reached out its hand, and touched Tirin. He smeared blood from his palm across Tirin’s forehead, and wrapped his hand around the back of Tirin’s skull. He held Tirin’s eyes, and the two of them shared that moment together. The angel squeezed his hand. For a moment there was blinding pain in Tirin's head, and then there was blackness as the angel made a fist, squeezing Tirin’s skull hard enough that high pressure jets of brain pulp shot from between his fingers.

The astartes raised its blade, and turned from the room. There was no joy in its movements, nor exultation in fulfilling its purpose. His face was an empty mask but for the eyes; they burned hot, and they were filled with wrath, and madness. Astin Furon was gone; all that remained was a creature who felt no pity, remorse, pain, nor fear. He had become an angel of death and vengeance. The angel stepped over the bodies of the dead, and walked into the chaos of the ship that was falling apart all around it. It had reclaimed its blade, and Thirst needed to be slaked.

More Tales of The Grim Darkness of The Far Future

If you enjoyed this tale, then please consider leaving a comment or a like, and sharing it with other readers! This is the latest installment of my Table Talk series, and if you wish to help me keep putting out new stories then consider becoming a Patreon patron, or just buying me a Ko-Fi as a way to put a tip in my jar for a job well done!

But if you're in the mood for more tales of the grim darkness of the far future, check out some of the following examples! These stories can be found in my Vocal archive, but many of them have also been dramatized by A Vox in The Void, so make sure you check those out as well!

- Broken Heroes: Rann was sent out to retrieve a lost weapon, but now he and the squad who came with him are surrounded by the colossal, insectoid creatures that claimed the forest. When a brave act crashes him through the ground and into an ancient bunker, he finds something far more potent than he could ever have hoped for... something that wants to finish the fight it started so long ago.

- Field Test: When Inquisitor Hargrave came to the world of New Canaan a few days ahead of an ork rok, she promised them a weapon that would destroy the greenskins. When that weapon was unleashed, though, none could have predicted just how powerful, or how dangerous, he truly was.

- Beyond The Black: The Emperor's Hand: Gav Smythe has fought daemons and traitors in the Emperor's name all his life... but this may be the greatest challenge the ogryn has yet faced!

- Waking Dogs- A World Eaters Tale: For my fans of Warhammer 40K, this is a story I felt compelled to tell about one of the infamous World Eaters remembering who he once was.

- Broken Chains- A World Eaters Tale: The sequel to Waking Dogs, we see that Crixus is taking his personal crusade seriously. Word is beginning to spread of his deeds, and his old sergeant Atillus realizes that the time may have come for him to pay for the decisions he made so very long ago.