Anthology of Blood by James Swallow Gav Thorpe Guy Haley

Author:James Swallow, Gav Thorpe, Guy Haley [James Swallow, Gav Thorpe, Guy Haley]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brotherhood

Click. Click. Click.

A rhythm in my mind and soul. It resonates in the ground, the air, my frame, unfelt by any but myself.

Click. Click. Click.

The beat of the inexorable, of the gears turning against each other and grinding all hope to dust. The machine is at work, as it has been since the Eclipse of Hope vanished five millennia ago. The mechanism advances, indifferent to any attempt to arrest it.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound, too, of fragments snapping together, bit by bit, obscenity by obscenity, until the full mosaic appears. I do not see it yet, but I sense the approaching revelation. Let it come. I retrieve my pistol and plunge back down into the amphitheatre, throwing myself headlong into the gears. I will arrest the inexorable.

The battlefield was a cauldron before. How to describe it now? The turmoil has the frenzy of warring insects, and the destructive tragedy of hurricane waves breaking on rocks. Battle formations disintegrated following the initial moment of clash. Contests between individuals or small groups scattered through the field, separated by the motionless warriors. Suddenly, there are three times as many combatants, and there is no more order at all.

The ancient Space Marines are berserkers. Inarticulate baying howls from their helm speakers. Their movements are huge, rapid, explosions of offence. There is no defence at all. They strike without distinction, attacking whoever is nearest, whether Blood Angel or Sanctified. A few briefly continue the duels that had been held in suspense for so long, but after clashing arms a few times, they turn on the new arrivals. There seems to be no thought to their actions, only instinct, and a seeking out of prey. I see fire arms mag-locked to their armour, but they use only their chainblades. Swords and axes wreak deadly havoc, their motors somehow working after so many centuries inactive, the register of their snarls high-pitched as though hysterical from hunger after so long.

I enter the storm of battle. Before me, Albinus and Brother Ronovus are struggling against four of the returned warriors. Ronovus empties a bolter clip into the chest of one foe. At point-blank range, the shells punch through the armour and burst out the Space Marine’s back, trailing mummified flesh, petrified bone and blood black with age. The wound does not slow the berserker at all. It is as if Ronovus were fighting the armour itself. But then the warrior’s helm speaker unleashes a howl of pain and a stream of incoherent, yet clearly articulated, invective. The being inside the armour is somehow alive, even though it has been withering away for tens of centuries. The warrior swings its chainaxe down on Ronovus, who blocks the blow with the barrel of his gun. The axe smashes the bolter in two.

I strike the warrior’s limbs and head with a strobing, writhing blast of occult energy. I reduce the abomination to pieces. It collapses, destroyed. Blood is pounding in my ears. I hate the thing I have killed. I would kill it again.

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