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Tally of Slaughter – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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TALLY OF SLAUGHTER

Mark-Anthony Fenech

Razel looked up as the bells tolled.

The Death Speaker of the Executioners knelt in the nave of the Reclusiam. He hefted the vambrace of his newly forged Mark X armour, feeling its weight, and started etching another name with a stylus.

Sreng.

Before Sreng there had been Midir and before that, Lugh. Razel would pour acid over the vambrace from a basalt bowl, scoring the names forever into the metal. Cementing the sacrament.

He set the stylus down. The long journey through the warp had been spent upon this sacred undertaking, but the task of copying the names from his old Mark VII plate was finally complete.

Before him lay the crozius arcanum Sharur, a spiked mace of thrice-forged adamantine. A slayer of thousands, its scars mirrored his own Its voice echoed the fury of his sermons in battle, the bellicose implement with which he cleared a path to redemption.

It would keep his name alive long after he was gone, etched as surely as the armour.

The Methuselah shuddered, its warp engines straining. In concert, the plasma drives thrummed, coaxed into wrathful wakefulness by the ministrations of the Techmarines. Amidst the din, the structure of the ship spasmed and flexed, the banners hanging from the vault down to the narthex fluttering. The flames burning in the votive bowls around him leapt higher, as behind the altar, the Aquilonian thralls in the choir sang with greater fervour. On the lower levels below, the tribespeople from Stygia beat a faster tattoo upon the kettledrums, in rhythm with the rising crescendo.

Then silence.

For a moment, those who called the Methuselah their home held their breath as the ship tore its way into realspace at the Mandeville point. The skin of reality stretched, the warp loath to give the ship up. The strike cruiser pummelled its way through, its prow pushing inexorably against the pull of the immaterium.

As the vibrations subsided, the chimes of silver bells broke the momentary calm.

‘Successful translation to the Binyaamem System, Death Speaker,’ Shipmistress Lorayn voxed. ‘Deep-space auspex is still coming online, lord.’

‘What is the margin of error?’ he asked.

‘According to Navigator Zheng, within acceptable parameters, by a factor of three hours and plus twenty degrees above Binyaamem’s ecliptic.’

‘That will be all for now. I shall join you in due course.’

The Death Speaker rose and clamped the etched vambrace to his forearm. His long vigil through the warp was over, behind him as surely as the Imperium’s suspicion. His prey was finally within reach.

As he walked down the nave, he paused and shook his head as a shadow between the columns moved.

‘I would ask how long you have been standing behind that column, observing me,’ Razel started to say wryly as he walked towards the aisle, ‘but I know you have been here since we left Darkenvault and my vigil started.’

Epistolary Igikura chuckled in response as he emerged into the nave. ‘I was keeping an eye on you. How are your wounds from the Rubicon surgery?’

‘Much better,’ the Death Speaker replied as he stretched his neck from side to side and flexed his shoulders. ‘My body has taken well to these new implants and the Apothecarion is satisfied with my progress. My reaction time and strength have improved greatly in the ludus’ practice cages.’

‘A much-needed boon in this age of darkness,’ Igikura said. ‘A gift which I hope you will not squander on vengeance.’

Razel sighed. ‘I know your feelings on the matter, but I will not be dissuaded. This hunt is a loose end which must be dealt with and resolved. This is what we were made for in this galaxy of ceaseless war.’

‘Yes, war is what we were made for. But the Penitent Crusade is over for our Chapter. The Executioners have been redeemed, and for the first time in a hundred years we have been able to replenish our depleted ranks with new recruits. Now our training areas ring to the sound of battle practice and firing rites. We have new machines and weapons. Our people walk upon our ships again in service,’ Igikura implored as he spread his arms, encompassing the Aquilonians and the Stygians behind him. ‘There are new wars to be fought in these benighted stars, and though you have crossed the Rubicon, you still carry the old war like a millstone around your neck.’

The Death Speaker paused, mulling the Epistolary’s words before replying, ‘This is far from a petty grudge. Not all Astral Claws from the Pyre of Glory were accounted for. In this past century I have followed crumbs as to the whereabouts of those few – these Ushmengar as they call themselves now – who made it off the Salamanders’ battle-barge. They must be hunted down and slain just like the perfidious Astral Claws we faced on the Pyre.’

Razel took up his skull-face helmet and locked it on with a hiss of pressurisation.

‘Only when the last of these traitors is dead and their blight is excised will I consider myself redeemed.’

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

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