Part 21 (1/2)
No. His mind simmered, confident. His death lay somewhere and somewhen else.
The first Dark Angel pulled himself clear into the weightless s.p.a.ce, one hand on his s.h.i.+eld straps, the other on the hatchway rail.
Curze lunged at him hard and fast, the way a shark slams into a swimmer. A crunch, a single wound trauma that nothing could survive.
The Night Haunter's claws took away both the gorget and the throat of the Dark Angel as he came clear of the hatch. Vast beads of blood bobbled away into the vacuum.
The man fell away, limp, trailing balloons of blood, his head held on by a twist of metal and a shred of gristle.
As the first victim went by, Curze took his s.h.i.+eld from him and slammed it into the face of the warrior emerging from the hatch behind him.
The impact was hard. Things broke a a skull, primarily a beneath all of it. The blood oozed out of the crushed faceplate in oily, weightless bubbles.
The blow knocked the man back. Curze reached in and scooped him out through the hatch so he could get at his next kill. The dying Dark Angel was propelled away from the hull so hard that his twitching form quickly overtook the drifting, rotating corpse of the first victim, and dropped towards the bright, grey planet below. It began to glow blue and then burn like a shooting star.
Curze went in through the open hatch. He re-entered the s.h.i.+p feet first. He was moving so fast, shadows barely stuck to him. His heels met the s.h.i.+eld of the Dark Angel advancing behind the first two, and kicked the warrior back down the gullet of the hatch's void-lock. The man dropped heavily.
Landing on a foot and one knee in the gate beside the Dark Angel, Curze slew him before he could rise again by slamming down the edge of the captured boarding s.h.i.+eld and crus.h.i.+ng his throat.
Now there was confusion. Now there was reaction. Possibilities flew fast. Curze obeyed the visions. He responded, reacting to things that had not yet occurred.
Two Dark Angels came at him, firing. Bolter-rounds burned silently across the narrow s.p.a.ce of the gate. Curze could hear, through vox-chatter or his visions, the outrage and profanity they were screaming, because of his attack and the murder of their brothers.
They wanted him dead.
Their wish would be entirely denied.
Curze tilted, and stopped the shoal of bolter-rounds with the captured s.h.i.+eld. One, two, three and four, five and six, he swatted them aside. He felt the impact of their detonations transmitted up his arm. Flickering reflections had told him where each blazing sh.e.l.l would be before it had even been fired.
Curze went for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. He removed a head with the long claws of his right hand. He eviscerated a torso with the long claws of his left.
Conflicting arterial geysers hosed the ceiling and wall.
Another Angel, a veteran of the Deathwing, rushed at Curze. Curze impaled him upon the claws of his left hand. Blood squirted in a torrent as the poor fool bled out around the adamantium hooks rammed through his torso.
The killing was only just starting.
The visions told him that a great many more Dark Angels were closing in on his location.
That meant that a great many more lives were about to end.
*I seldom come to this chamber,' Guilliman said, *but when I do, it rea.s.sures me.'
The Lion followed him into the room. Guilliman's Cataphractii bodyguard held the broad doors open for him.
*You give me a tour of the most magnificent fortress stronghold beyond Terra itself,' The Lion said, *and believe me, I am impressed, Roboute. But you decide that this tour should include a chamber you seldom visit?'
He stopped, and looked around.
*I see,' he said, nodding. His lieutenants stood in the doorway behind him. He nodded to them, dismissing them.
*Leave us,' Guilliman said to Gorod. The warriors of the bodyguard turned, and closed the doors.
The two primarchs were alone for the first time.
*The Fortress of Hera is a true achievement, brother,' the Lion said quietly. *It is more than I could have believed. It exceeds my imaginings.'
He smiled and glanced at Guilliman.
*That was not a slight, Roboute. I have never doubted your abilities. But I stand in awe of your achievements. The Fortress. Macragge. The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. All of it.'
Guilliman pursed his lips. *I do what I was bred to do, brother,' he said. *What we were bred to do.'
*Ah, that,' the Lion murmured, as if contemplating things that Guilliman could not possibly know.
*The Fortress is robust,' Guilliman went on, a little stiffly. *It serves me and it serves my Legion. It is fit for purpose.'
*It is entirely and magnificently practical,' the Lion replied. *Truly, a wonder. I have no doubt it will endure for a thousand years or more. But you were always practical, Roboute. You, Rogal too. Men of the head. Led by your brains, by your processed data, not your emotions. That's why the two of you have the best and most efficient Legions in human s.p.a.ce.'
The Lion tapped his brow with one long index finger.
*You think, and you apply that thought, and you don't let emotions cloud you. Not like Vulkan, or dear Ferrus, or Jaghatai.'
*Or Russ,' Guilliman added.
*Heavens, no!' the Lion laughed.
*Terra help me, Russ.'
*So, this,' the Lion said, gesturing to the long table. *This surprises me. A work of emotion, not logic.'
The light of the late afternoon, discoloured by the storm, flooded the chamber through high windows. A long table, carved from stone, dominated the length of the room. Around it were twenty-one chairs, all built for the scale of a primarch. Each one was cut from the same mountain granite as the table.
The chair backs were draped with banners. The great seat, at the head of the long table was draped with the pennant of Terra. Two of the other pennants were plain and made of bleached, un-dyed cloth. The other eighteen were the banners of the Legiones Astartes.
*You did this?' The Lion asked.
*Are you mocking it?' asked Guilliman.
The Lion shook his head.
*It moves me. You still believe in a day when all of us, all of us, can sit at a table with our father, as equals, and talk of the matters of empire.'
*All of us,' Guilliman nodded.
*You made this room in antic.i.p.ation of that?'
*Yes, many years ago. Does that make me sentimental?' asked Guilliman.
*No, brother,' said the Lion. *It shows you possess a soul.'