The Emperor's Legion (Watchers of the Throne #1) - Chris Wraight Page 0,26

had always made sure no one looked too closely. We paid the tithes and bribes we needed to, cultivated the right members of the planetary Arbites fortresses, and pursued our true vocation under a cloak of semi-obscurity.

Now, though, the entire grid had been levelled. Whole hab-towers had been demolished, their outer structures slumped into scorched piles of scree. As I wound down the engines to land I could hear the rumble of ongoing destruction, laced with the screams of thousands. The air itself was black down here, thick with tattered ashes.

I pulled into the ruined hangar, its blast doors melted away, cut the power and leapt from the Cull’s cockpit. The interior was charred, and bodies of servitors and menials littered the apron. All the ships that had stood here before were gone, looted just as Arraissa’s standing Naval detachment must have been.

I ran inside, leaping over the corpses, my flamer primed and ready. The corridors were thick with more ruin – bodies thrown against the walls, doorways demolished, libraries ransacked and still smouldering.

I began to think that there would be nothing left. I raced towards the command nexus, buried deep under the false Ministorum shell. The whole place stank of blood and burning. I pushed through broken doors, expecting just the same scenes of destruction, and found a creature of Outer Hell waiting for me.

I have no idea why this one was still there. Its comrades were long gone, fled back into the warp as was their habit, but one remained. Perhaps it had been intended as a sentinel to guard against my return, or perhaps they had fought among themselves in their base fashion and left one of their number as some kind of punishment for weakness.

I cared not. It was there, ahead of me, hunched over the corpse of one of my precious sisters, its claws running with her blood.

It was massive. Its black armour was thick and ether-pitted, inscribed with curls and spikes of gold over a matt-black base. It breathed like a beast breathes, condensation spilling from its ornate vox-grille. In one hand it held its prey, in another a ­spattered chainsword.

I was screaming as I charged it – inwardly, of course, but the screams were real enough. I leapt high before it was even aware of me, my flamer bursting into life.

It turned at the last moment, and we crashed together. My momentum was vicious, but it was as heavy as a tank and just as deadly. I punched at its helm through my flames, taking savage satisfaction in its roar of surprise.

Then the chainsword geared up, swinging throatily through the fire. I pulled away, emptying my flamer into its face as it lumbered closer, slashing wildly. Its movements were as fast as mine, though much heavier. I could smell the corruption spilling from it, the long-wearing corrosion of its warp-soaked home. It was badly wounded, a long gash down one flank, which perhaps explained its exile here.

‘Anathema,’ it croaked, swinging at me. At least it knew what it was fighting.

The longer this went on, the more likely it was I would die. My purpose was to blunt the shedim, the apparitions of dreams, not the physical servants of Enemy. Despite its wounds, it was stronger than I was, built for this kind of fight, and it had already ended scores of my sisters in their own citadel.

But I was enraged. I was near-blind with it. And it made me stronger.

I shoved the flamer into its outstretched chainsword, and the whirring teeth caught fire and spiralled madly. Then I was ducking under the flailing attack, using my size and speed and reaching for my rondel dagger. I pushed up, two-handed, driving the tip into the creature’s jaw line.

The tip pierced, and I drove it in deep. Blood as black as pitch slopped over its gorget, and it caught me in a bear-hug, crushing me against it.

I felt it squeeze, and my armour flexed. The stench made me gag, and I struggled to breathe. All the while I pressed the dagger home, twisting, churning through flesh and bone. I felt something burst, and a cascade of stinking pus streamed over both of us. It crushed me further, and I heard the first crack in my breastplate.

We were face-to-face. I was looking into its filmy helm-lenses. Just below the surface of that grotesque armour I knew that a once-human was looking back at me, matching my hatred with its own. The pressure grew worse. It was