Cthonia's Reckoning by Various Authors

Author:Various Authors
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2022-04-26T10:24:04+00:00

TRAITOR’S FAITH

NOAH VAN NGUYEN

Cthonia. Kovarny’s tongue grapples the dirty syllables, as well fitting as a knife between the ribs, a bullet in the head, a hammer to the heart. His world’s wasted, punchboard surface is as warm and familiar as a tar-fire. A pleasure to be back, even for war. A pleasure to savour the greasy flames in the broken spires, and to smell again the foundry smoke in the heartless, ashen sky.

His spear tip, the Heathens, are here for one reason. They must decapitate the force of loyalists holding the hive in their rigor mortis grip. No quarter will be asked for. None given.

Those were their orders.

Kovarny checks the ticking chrono in his wrist display, then shoves his combat blade into his chain belt. He rips a farewell lungful of smog into his lungs, locks his helmet in.

The display flickers. The squad-link clicks. ‘Harken,’ he says.

The others gather, his sergeants: Ugly Telojur, Rutimant, ­Wereddon Long-Neck, Lubastus. They are the Heathens, Sons of Horus, and Kovarny’s last lodge-brothers. Officially the Warmaster disbanded the lodges, yet the Quiet Order has existed in secrecy before. Doing it again is nothing. How many brothers remain, Kovarny can’t say.

‘Chieftain,’ Lubastus growls. ‘Waiting.’

Kovarny grunts, his maimed lips aching. The grimace in his jaws never goes away, the price of playing with warp fire. ‘Captain Ashurhaddon’s orders are in,’ he says. ‘Imperial forces are holed up in the mid-levels, harrying us with needle points, bogging down our axis of advance. Surface forces can’t consolidate until they’re removed.’

‘Astartes?’ Telojur asks.

Kovarny nods. ‘Imperial Fists. Veterans from the 212th. Newborns from the 465th and 532nd. Mortals in support. Auxilia, militia. Nothing special. They’re all led by Captain Garrius, Imperial Fists, 465th. Garrius commands resistance across Lupercal’s Gate.’

‘Traitor’s Gate,’ Wereddon corrects him.

Rutimant chuckles. ‘Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Kovarny says. ‘A very blunt ring.’ He has never liked the loyalists’ spin on this war. It seems to him the only traitors are those Astartes who put the Emperor’s worthless vision of the Imperium before their brotherhood with the other Legions.

‘Mission parameters?’ Rutimant asks.

‘We’re Sons of Horus,’ Kovarny says. ‘We rip their throats out.’

Lubastus snarls. ‘No quarter.’

The others grunt. Violence blazes in their bellies like oil-fire. They’re made for this.

Now comes the hard part. ‘Garrius,’ Kovarny says. ‘Ashurhaddon wants him alive.’

The others glower.

‘Alive?’ Wereddon says.

‘Alive,’ Kovarny says. ‘Hearts pumping, lungs breathing. Alive means alive.’

No one likes it. But no one says a thing. They’d follow Kovarny into the hells and back. Truthfully, they already have.

Kovarny is pleased to hear no objections. ‘Two minutes. Once–‘

‘Why?’ Ul-Buus asks.

The Word Bearer’s voice is mellifluous, a death rattle, like silk rustling corpse-flesh. He is a Dark Apostle of the Secret Boon, attached to the Heathens as a missionary. His face is sallow, mottled with the warp’s blessed touch. His features sag, as if he’s animated by no more than the belly-deep bravura of his faith. Every time Kovarny sees Ul-Buus, the pagan litanies scratched into his traitor’s red ceramite, he’s reminded of souring wine.

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