Blood Reaver by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Author:Aaron Dembski-Bowden
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-04-24T16:00:00+00:00

XIV

LOYALTIES

His brothers’ voices are dim, forgettable things, belonging to a world of sour smells, aching thoughts and sore muscles. Focussing on their words threatens to pull him from the dream, drawing him back to a freezing chamber where his body thrashes on a table, enslaved to its flawed biology.

The prophet releases his ties to that world, seeking sanctuary elsewhere.

His brothers are gone when he...

...opened his eyes. Another shell crashed down nearby, shaking the grey battlements beneath his boots.

‘Talos,’ came the captain’s voice. ‘We move.’

‘Harvesting,’ he said through gritted teeth. His hands worked with mechanical familiarity, breaking, slicing, sawing, extracting. Something screamed overhead on failing engines. He risked a glance to see an Iron Warriors gunship whine above in a lethal spin, its thrusters aflame. The gene-seed cylinder snicked home into his gauntlet the very same moment the grey Thunderhawk ploughed into one of the hundred spires nearby. The battlements gave another horrendous shudder.

‘Talos,’ the captain’s vox-voice crackled with urgency. ‘Where are you?’

‘It is finished.’ He rose to his feet, retrieving his bolter and breaking into a run, leaving the body of a Legion brother sprawled on the stone.

‘I’ll go back for him,’ one of his squad said over the channel.

‘Be swift.’ The captain was in grim humour, for obvious reasons.

The Apothecary’s vision blurred as his helm struggled to filter out the sensory assault of another cannon barrage. Tower-top weapon batteries hurled their payloads into the sky, massive mouths thundering. Another wide spread of rampart stretched out ahead: where his brothers were making short work of the gun crews. The humans, ripped limb from limb, were hurled over the side of the battlements to fall hundreds of metres in grotesque imitation of hail.

A weight hit him from behind, powerful enough to send him crashing onto his hands and knees. For a moment, his retinal display flickered with meaningless static. Talos blinked once, thudding his forehead on the ground. Clarity returned immediately. He turned on the ground, bolter firing the moment it came level.

‘Fists,’ he voxed. ‘Behind us.’

They ran, all formation broken, bolters clutched in golden hands. Despite their distance, another bolt shell cracked off his pauldron, sending shrapnel skittering across the battlements.

His attempted rise earned him a bolt shell to the chest, detonating against his chestplate and shattering the Legion symbol there. With a breathless grunt, he crashed back down.

‘Stay down,’ one of his brothers ordered. The name-rune flashed on his visor – his sergeant’s name.

A dark gauntlet slammed into his armoured collar, gripping the ceramite. ‘Keep firing,’ the sergeant ordered. ‘Cover us, or we’re both dead.’

Talos reloaded, crunching the magazine home, and opened up again. His brother crouched behind him, firing with a pistol while dragging the Apothecary back.

The sergeant released him as they both took cover behind a section of loose rubble.

‘Thank you, brother,’ Talos said.

Sergeant Vandred reloaded his own pistol. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Hold him still.’

There. His brothers’ voices again, clearer than before.

‘I am.’ Xarl. Irritated. The same grating disquiet that has always coloured his voice, present even in youth.

The prophet feels his knuckles clacking against the table, a percussion born of twitching fingers.

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