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The Beast Arises: Volume 2 – Extract

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One

The Last Wall gathers

An armada of slab-sided warships glided in geosynchronous orbit a thousand kilometres over Phall’s equator, diverse heraldries proclaiming their masters. Bleached by harsh sunlight unfiltered by atmosphere, the yellow and silver, black, blue, crimson, white and grey of each Space Marine Chapter was nevertheless clear, defiant of the star’s glare. Void-deep shadow cut mysterious shapes onto the towering superstructures high on the ships’ spines. A million lights shone from their flanks. The craft were larger than cities; thousands dwelled within them, living out lives devoted to war. Great gun maws issued silent challenges to the fathomless interplanetary night. Hangar bays were black slots glimmering with coherence fields, ready to launch the vengeance of the Emperor at the foes of the Imperium.

Still Koorland feared it would not be enough. He counted and recounted the ships, calculating the combined strength of arms arrayed above the world. Ship tonnage, munition payloads, fighter groups, armed bondsmen, serfs and ship crews, all of it, not only the number of Adeptus Astartes, although they were the group he counted and recounted the most. Each time the mathematics of war came up short. The greatest number of Space Marines gathered in one place since the time of the Scouring, and still it was pitiful in the face of the orkish threat.

‘Truly, it is a sight to stir the hearts of men.’

‘It is, Brother Issachar,’ said Koorland. He moved away from the window to greet the Chapter Master of the Excoriators as he entered the observation deck. The mark of their shared heritage was clear to see – the fist that adorned Issachar’s dull white pauldron was the same as that upon Koorland’s yellow armour – but it was a kinship sundered. The ways of the sons of Dorn had diverged. Issachar’s fist was red, not black, and gripped in its fingers a doubled lightning bolt of yellow that Koorland’s lacked. The Excoriator’s armour was a mess of nicks and scratches, each one annotated in fastidious script detailing the manner and date of its earning. His exposed face was likewise abused, those stretches of skin not torn up by battle wounds ritually scarred.

Koorland’s own armour was battered, and he would not repaint it until his vengeance was won, but whereas his oath was exceptional, born out of grief, the practice of the Excoriators to preserve all hurts done to them was strange to him, as were the rituals of the others in the fleet: the Black Templars, the Crimson Fists, and the Fists Exemplar. Brotherhood brought them here to the gathering of the Last Wall – the successors of the old VII Legion amassed again as Terra was threatened. Despite their commonalities, fifteen hundred years had passed since the VII Legion had ceased to be, and these Chapters fathered by the same primarch had drifted far apart.

Was this how the Heresy began, Koorland wondered, brothers so distanced by circumstance that they ceased to recognise their own, and turned on one another? The man beside him shared his genetic gifts and a deep history. For all that, he was more a stranger than brother, someone to be greeted and feted at the Festival of Blades as an honoured guest, but one whose mind Koorland could never know. Surrounded by his warrior kin, the last of the Imperial Fists had never felt so alone, nor so exposed.

‘So many of Dorn’s sons gathered together in one place,’ said Issachar. Beneath the fearsomeness that his damaged armour and scarification bestowed on him, Issachar was a considered man, and he spoke softly. ‘The power concentrated here halts my breath. Such an army, such a fleet. With it, the stars are ours for the taking.’ Issachar stepped closer to the armourglass of the window gallery and spread the fingers of one scratched gauntlet upon it, as if he would seize that power for himself. He smiled at Koorland, the knotted tissue on his face distorting the expression into something ugly.

‘That is why the Legions are no more. And this is no Legion,’ said Koorland, ‘despite our numbers. At last count we are two thousand eight hundred of the line of Rogal Dorn. The Fists Exemplar are much depleted, High Marshal Bohemond calls in his crusades but they are scattered.’ He left unsaid the fate of his own brothers, slaughtered at Ardamantua. ‘Five companies of the Crimson Fists, eight of your brothers–’

‘The rest will come,’ reassured Issachar. ‘We grow in strength daily. Soon the Excoriators will be here in full, every last battle-brother and neophyte. I swear this to you. The Iron Knights have responded to the call, and make their way to join us.’

‘And then what? How many can we count upon? If all our brothers answer the call there will be fewer than four thousand of us.’

‘High Marshal Bohemond keeps his own Chapter numbers a mystery – how many of them might come? And we have yet no word from the Soul Drinkers. They are secretive but honourable, and will have set out in force the moment they received the call to the Last Wall.’

‘So five thousand, at best,’ said Koorland. ‘At the height of its power, the old Seventh consisted of over one hundred thousand warriors, and it was but one of eighteen Legions. How differently things would go were it still so.’

‘The breaking was done long ago, brother. That was then and this is now. I have always honoured the decision, as the primarch eventually did. But lately I have come to see the other side.’ Issachar gestured at the fleet. ‘Look at us, divided by tradition, overwhelmed by enemies, betrayed by the men set to rule over us. Unable to bring sufficient strength to bear to truly crush our foes, we push them out only for them to slink back when our attention is drawn elsewhere.’ He glanced uneasily at the triptych of tall bas-reliefs at the end of the gallery. The central depicted the Emperor surrounded by light, Black Templars at His feet, holding up their weapons. ‘Some of us are fallen into superstition.’

‘You do not know that,’ said Koorland, yet he agreed in his hearts. To him the image looked like supplication.

‘I look at our brothers’ decorations, their temples and their honours. They hide it yet they flaunt it.’

Koorland examined the carvings. He shrugged away his own misgivings. ‘Does it matter? Our Templar brothers are noble to a fault. A little headstrong, perhaps, but so was Sigismund of legend, and they say he was the favoured son of Dorn.’

‘All my life I have fought with honour and determination,’ said Issachar, ‘to uphold the rule of the Emperor. Let others worship Him, those we shield know no better. To them the Emperor must seem as a god. But our gene-fathers walked by His side, they were His sons, created by His knowledge, not by sorcery. To think on the Emperor as a divinity is to confer the same upon His children, and by extension onto their offspring. We are far from divine. Yes, lord Chapter Master, it matters.’

‘I am not Chapter Master, not truly. I cannot claim to have mastered myself, and I am all there is,’ said Koorland.

Issachar searched Koorland’s face a moment. ‘The honour was thrust upon you, but I adjudge you worthy of the rank, brother. We are equals, you and I.’

‘You do me a great honour by calling me brother. I shall attempt to command myself accordingly.’

‘We do not listen to you lightly, brother. We require a leader. The Imperial Fists are the senior Chapter. Your assumption of command saves much dissension and loss of time.’

‘I am a figurehead,’ said Koorland.

‘You are not.’

‘Then it is a pity Bohemond only listens to me when he feels he must.’

‘He has deferred leadership to you.’

‘Then why do we not attack?’ complained Koorland. ‘Terra itself lies under the shadow of the Beast’s moon and he plays for time, intent on attacking those nearest. His plan is strategically unsound.’

‘He plays for numbers.’

Koorland’s face creased with anguish. ‘His pride threatens us all. He would not be so headstrong had he not been forced to fall back at Aspiria.’

‘We are all hostage to our humours. You have lost much,’ said Issachar. ‘Do not let that colour your decisions.’

‘I have lost everything, and we stand to lose the throneworld itself! How could we bear that, if the walls of the Palace should fail and no son of Dorn is there to man them?’

Issachar gripped the lip of Koorland’s pauldron. ‘It is not yet gone. The moon has not attacked. The orks are unaware of our gathering. Once there are a few more of us, then we shall drive at them. Calm yourself. You are a Chapter Master now. There are politics to consider.’

‘Politics are what created this disaster.’

‘Politicians created this disaster, brother. Politics are a part of life, unpalatable as it is.’ Issachar slapped Koorland’s shoulder. ‘Come, why do we not test ourselves against one another? It is rare outside the Festival of Blades that our kind meet.’

‘This is no time for empty tournaments.’

‘That is not what I suggest. Let us hone our bladework, brother, so that we might better slay the enemy. It is rarely we of Dorn’s lineage cross blades, and there is a clarity that combat brings. It will help you, and be a great honour to me.’

‘Honour?’ said Koorland thoughtfully.

‘We will spar?’ said Issachar.

‘Not now,’ said Koorland. ‘Later. I must speak with Bohemond first. You mention honour, I will appeal to his. This delay has gone on long enough.’ Koorland strode out, brow furrowed.

‘Shall I come with you?’ called Issachar.

‘No, brother,’ Koorland shouted back. ‘This confrontation needs to be face to face, and accomplished alone. I cannot rely on my allies to carry me through. The High Marshal must see me as strong.’

Issachar approved. Koorland was learning.

Bohemond received Koorland warmly in his sparely decorated quarters. Away from the splendidly ornate public sections of the Abhorrence, the few private areas Koorland had seen were spartan, almost monkish. Bohemond’s rooms were no exception. Buried deep at the base of the ship’s command spire, they were windowless, lacking adornment. Bohemond’s plate was on a rack at the centre of a display of many weapons. A few trophies hung in stasis fields on the opposite wall. Weapons were the only indulgence the High Marshal permitted himself. A tall arch led through to his arming chambers, and through it could be glimpsed silent bondsmen going about their business attending to Bohemond’s other armours and equipment.

The furniture was plain. Documents of pressing importance were fastidiously arranged on the three tables. Koorland could not help but respect Bohemond more for this frugality.

His notion still hot in his mind, Koorland eschewed all formality and came straight to the point.

‘We will depart tomorrow,’ said Koorland.

‘I advise against it,’ said Bohemond. ‘We are too few.’ Bohemond’s robes were plain too, a bone-coloured habit covered with a black surplice, the Templar’s cross emblazoned in white upon the chest. Sigismund’s sword, the badge of his office, was as ever belted at his side, a bolt pistol on his opposite hip. Everyone in Bohemond’s Chapter, bondsman and brother alike, carried some sort of armament. The number of warrior bondsmen Koorland saw on the Abhorrence astounded him.

‘We have insufficient numbers to ensure victory, it is true,’ conceded Koorland, ‘but there are enough of us to make it a possibility. What we lack is time. Terra is threatened, High Marshal. Your plan to target the nearest moon is laudable, but formulated before the throneworld was attacked. We must act.’

‘Must we? What will you say when not only your Chapter is destroyed, Koorland, but most of four others? We must pick our battles carefully.’

‘There is only one battle we must fight. We are the Last Wall. We will not fall. Our predecessors did not fall on Terra when all seemed lost. We will not fall now.’

Bohemond’s face was a wreck, burned off by an ork psyker. Half was a metal mask, with a lidless augmetic eye. The rest was so scarred and lumpen he was almost devoid of human expression. ‘Spoken like a true son of Dorn. I applaud your sentiment.’ Bohemond poured himself a large measure of a spirit unfamiliar to Koorland. He proffered the bottle, Koorland shook his head, and Bohemond replaced it on the table.

‘Allow me, if I may, to draw an analogy.’

‘High Marshal, there is no time for stories–’

‘It will take but a moment.’

‘Very well,’ said Koorland.

Bohemond gestured to a pair of plain metal chairs, and they sat down facing each other.

‘Sigismund was a son of Dorn, and so highly favoured by the primarch that when my Chapter was founded under his auspices, he was granted one of Dorn’s favourite vessels – the Eternal Crusader – to be the lynchpin of his efforts to extend the Imperium’s reach. A great vessel, alas it languishes in refit in the shipyards of Cypra Mundi and will not be returned to us for twenty years. I feel its lack sorely.’

‘Your point, High Marshal?’

Bohemond downed his drink. He gasped in satisfaction. His mouth no longer closed properly, and so a dribble spilled from his riven lips. He wiped them unselfconsciously on a cloth he drew from his sleeve. ‘The Eternal Crusader represents the spirit of our Chapter and of our founder. Sigismund swore never to rest, that the Black Templars would not build walls but forge onward, performing the role the Emperor originally created us for – to unite the galaxy under the rule of man. Not to oversee its piecemeal dissolution under the guise of defence. The sons of Dorn are renowned as wall-keepers and castellans. Not so the followers of Sigismund – for us attack is the only form of defence. Our blades are our parapets, our tanks are our fortresses, and never are they more effective than in the advance. Walls are of no use if the enemy is permitted to live outside the gate.’

Away from the council of Chapter Masters, Bohemond was risking more, goading the Imperial Fist directly. Koorland refused to rise to the bait. ‘Then you think Terra is lost,’ he said calmly.

As Koorland expected, Bohemond did not answer directly. Instead he said, ‘Targets of greater opportunity present themselves to us, brother. We must strike now, and throw the orks into confusion. Should we kill three or four of their moons, they will be forced to deal with us. Strike at Terra, and we leave much of the Imperium to burn.’

‘And so Terra will be lost. What then of the Emperor?’

A strange look crossed the remains of Bohemond’s face. ‘The Emperor is eternal.’

‘At your waist, High Marshal, you carry the Sword of Sigismund.’ Koorland pointed at Bohemond’s great sword. ‘Within it is bound a fragment of Dorn’s own blade, broken in a rage when he failed to protect his lord. And yet you would willingly let the same happen again. Tell me, High Marshal, whose oaths are the more important to you? Those of your founder, who while a great warrior, the Emperor’s Champion, the first Templar, was still but a Space Marine? Are those of your primarch not of a higher order, forged as he was by the Emperor Himself, and set above the common run of humanity for its betterment? Do you deny your father in favour of his son? Will you honour your oaths?’

Bohemond’s gaze hardened. ‘Do you accuse me of hypocrisy, Koorland?’

‘I ask you to clarify your priorities, that is all. If there is an accusation of hypocrisy, it comes from within your own heart, and not from my lips.’ Koorland leaned forward. ‘We cannot always pursue the desires of our hearts, righteous as they might be.’ He paused. ‘You hold your Eternal Crusader as dearly as your oaths?’

‘Absolutely. Both ship and oaths were the gift of Dorn.’

‘But this, the Abhorrence that serves as your flagship while Sigismund’s craft repairs, is it a good ship?’

Bohemond’s eye narrowed. ‘It is a fine ship, a righteous tool of the Imperium.’

‘So you see, son of my father, the power of choice is not always ours to wield.’ Koorland bladed his right hand and brought it down in a slow chop to point at Bohemond. ‘At the gathering of the Last Wall at last watch today, I will command that we strike for Terra. And you will not demur, lord High Marshal, but heartily concur.’

Koorland turned on his heel and left before Bohemond could respond. Both hearts pounded hard in his chest, the secondary activated by stress levels he had felt at no other time outside conflict. Nevertheless, he permitted himself a smile.

The Black Templars would sail for Terra, or Bohemond was worth none of his regard at all.

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A Black Library Publication

Throneworld first published in Great Britain in 2016.
Echoes of the Long War first published in Great Britain in 2016.
The Hunt for Vulkan first published in Great Britain in 2016.
The Beast Must Die first published in Great Britain in 2016.
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