Legion of the Damned

‘This is Gideon. Open the blast shields, port-side aft.’

The penitorium shuddered as the clinker plates of armour running down the frigate’s aft section began to part. As Gideon crossed the chamber, the colossal metal slats receded like blinds to admit the scene beyond. Light flooded the dim penitorium. ‘With me,’ the corpus-captain ordered.

Kersh hovered for a moment, just long enough for Gideon to register his defiance, before striding across to the vistaport. The armaplas window ran the length of the penitorium. The two Excoriators stood in silence, taking in the planet below and the craft upon which the Scarifica held orbital station. Beside the Excoriators frigate sat the Death Strike gunfreighter Nihilan Proxy. Beyond that the pocket-frigate Bellicose rolled, bearing the Chapter insignia of the Black Templars. Several other rapid strike vessels, all belonging to different Adeptus Astartes Chapters, lay in high orbit, gathered about the battle-scarred flanks of the Titus, a veteran Imperial Fists cruiser.

Below them was a world the yellow of cowardice and swirl-smeared in a cloud-cover of soot and ash. The Titus and the attending smaller craft drifted above a blackened pole. About the fat belt of the planet’s equator, Kersh could make out the lightshow of colossal impacts and explosions beneath the smog. A huge xenos craft hurtled towards the region. An obscenity of interstellar scrap, the vessel had the unmistakable graceless and clunky design of a greenskin kroozer. Flanked to starboard by Imperial Navy destroyers and a light cruiser, and on the portside by an Imperial Fists Gladius frigate, the unstoppable craft seemed to have an enemy escort. An almost continuous stream of fire existed between the Navy vessels and the monster’s thick hull, however, and the Imperial Fists vessel was engaged in a desperate high-speed boarding action. Beyond the spectacle, the distant sparks of lance beams and cannon fire marked out a distant cordon, a gauntlet of Navy and Adeptus Astartes vessels through which a swarm of other greenskin attack craft were attempting to punch.

‘All right,’ Kersh said finally. ‘Where are we?’

‘Samarquand.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘I’m not surprised. It has been part of the Urk Empire for two thousand years. A greenskin overlord called the Great Tusk holds the system here.’

‘Some overlord, I haven’t heard of him either.’

Gideon ignored Kersh’s obvious insolence. ‘The Samarquand agri-worlds supplied the cluster-hives of Coronis Agathon. Twelve verdant planets – amongst the most productive in the Imperium – inadequately garrisoned and consigned to doom and the infection of the xenos. Unfortunately, the Great Tusk and its line are plagued with an uncharacteristic lack of ambition. The fat monsters seem content to sit here, breeding in their own squalor. Their fleet and forces have never committed themselves out-system or joined the invasions plaguing nearby sectors.’

‘We think that this Tusk is building up to something?’

‘Two thousand years is a lot of patience for a greenskin, don’t you think?’ the corpus-captain returned. ‘No. But a populous xenos empire, no matter how small, cannot be tolerated so close to Imperial shipping lanes.’

‘So, destroy it,’ Kersh said.

‘The effort to do so continues to this day,’ Gideon told him.

‘For two thousand years?’

‘In turn, the Imperial Fists, the Dark Angels and the Space Wolves all have had honoured commitments to remove the Great Tusk and cleanse the system. Progress has been slow.’

‘The xenos are dug in?’

‘Nothing so sophisticated. There are just too many of them. Reports return of coast-to-coast greenskins on the planet surfaces: the Vostroyan Firstborn 13th Regiment, the Moloch 132nd Rifles and the Urdeshi 27th Mechanised – all wiped out in taking Samarquand.’

‘Then Samarquand is taken.’

‘Emperor be praised. Our brethren the Imperial Fists have succeeded where the Wolves and Angels failed. Samarquand IV has rejoined the Imperium. Still, one amongst twelve, with the enemy intent on taking it back…’

‘What in Dorn’s name are we doing here?’ Kersh interrupted. ‘What am I doing here?’

‘If it were my choice, Scourge, I would not have you here at all.’

‘Have our brother-Fists requested our assistance?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t we have ongoing engagements of our own to honour?’ Kersh pressed. ‘The Alpha Legion. Chapter Master Ichabod?’

‘You are here at Master Ichabod’s decree and that is all your wretched ears need know.’

Kersh turned on the corpus-captain. ‘I belong at my master’s side.’

‘You are not wanted, nor needed there,’ Gideon said. ‘You are to play no further role in the tragic events afflicting our Chapter. Do you hear me, Scourge? Whatever worth you have left is to be measured here.’

‘Here?’ the Excoriator said, jabbing a finger at the vistaport. ‘I don’t even know where here is.’

‘Samarquand IV is the chosen ground for the eight hundred and sixteenth Feast of Blades.’

‘We’re here to compete?’

‘You’re here to compete.’

‘With the Chapter under attack and our master’s life hanging in the balance, we are here contesting?’ Kersh said, his words dripping with incredulity. ‘Have you gone mad?’

‘The Feast is important.’

‘The Feast is a distraction!’

‘An important one. These are dark times, Kersh – and not just for the Excoriators. The Emperor’s Angels are spread thin across the stars. Dorn’s sons spread even thinner. Chapter relations must be maintained. The bonds of brotherhood strengthened and tempered through contestation.’

‘We have only just concluded a Feast.’

‘Tradition dictates the Feasts are centennial – at least centennial. It is the right of the reigning Chapter to call a Feast before its time. They often do.’

‘Why, by Katafalque, would they do that?’ Kersh sneered.

‘The Feast of Blades serves its purpose,’ Gideon said. ‘Many pacts are created and obligations honoured among our brethren – but we are bred for victory. Reigning Chapters want to build on past triumphs, for their success to echo through eternity, to catch Dorn’s approving eye or ear, wherever the Lord Primarch might be. They call the Feast to best complement their advantage – the prowess of their champions, the perceived weakness of their opponent Chapters. Like us, they want to win. I would be surprised if the recent trials of our own Chapter hadn’t been a factor in the Feast’s most recent calling.’

‘Could we not we request that another Chapter take our place?’

‘On occasion that happens.’

‘Then why didn’t you make that happen?’

‘A brother’s love is hard won,’ Gideon told him. ‘The Feast of Blades is not, however, an empty exercise. Chapter relations bear fruit. Even now, the Fire Lords move in to relieve our Second Company at Celator- Primus.’

‘We are Excoriators–’

‘Yes, we are. You’ll find our blood in the earth of Holy Terra and staining the mighty walls of the Imperial Palace. We hold our ground now as we did then, in our primarch’s plate. Our very existence is a war of attrition. As a Chapter we shall not falter. Not now – not ever.’

‘Agreed,’ Kersh said. ‘But why contest honour when we can earn it through the worthy deaths of our enemies?’

‘There is a fire within you, Scourge, that even I can feel,’ Gideon told him. ‘Be it loyalty, shame, hunger for revenge – I know not. I care not. The Chapter is suffering its worst losses in five thousand years. These are dark times and I need that fire burning bright in every company, every squad, every Excoriator. As well as reinforcing relations with our primogenate kin, participation in the games generates Chapter pride. With Master Ichabod afflicted and the Stigmartyr lost, our brothers’ hopes have turned to ash in their chests. The mere embers of faith sustain them. Ichabod hoped that some success at the Feast might stoke the fire in their hearts. That is why he