![]() Dantine remembered serving with a lieutenant who swore that he’d heard a definite account of this happening, with campaign names and dates. Most sensible people discounted the notion – a Space Marine could not turn – but still the gossip never went away. There had always been rumours, never spoken of except in the most intimate company, of Space Marines who had turned, who had given themselves over to the Ruinous Powers. He even smells old – one of the melange of aromas this creature gives off is the kind of decay only the truly decrepit exude. This warrior is old beyond imagination – that is evident just from the way he looks, moves and speaks. Even in the midst of his nausea and weakness, Dantine cannot escape a sliver of awe that creeps in. Once a thing has a name, you can no longer call him ‘it’ he becomes a person, albeit of the most warped and esoteric kind. You are on the ship Solace, in the care of the Lords of Silence. ‘ I am named Vorx, siegemaster of the Fourteenth Legion, called the Death Guard. The monster gives him a canister of water. The language is also strange and hard to follow, though patently some form of Gothic. The voice is just as it was on Najan – like a throat submerged in oil, cracking and engine-harsh. ‘ Do not try that again,’ the monster says. Then he is looking up into the same eyes as before, at the number-scrawled plates, at the bizarrely pocked and bloated armour. He does not resist as huge hands reach for him, lift him up, place him back on the slab. He can barely lift a fist, let alone do his duty and attack. ‘ Inform when ready to fire.’ĭantine collapses into his own refuse. He does not quite approve of Dragan’s robust attitude to the crew, who will be doing their best. ‘Starboard broadside operational in twenty minutes,’ comes the voice eventually, sour as ever. ‘ What state the guns?’ĭragan does not reply immediately. Just a little time, to get things in order.’ ‘ Well observed,’ he says, bowing to acknowledge the correction. He allows himself a moment of self-reproach – he had enjoyed the destruction of the nova cannon and has let that colour his judgement. It only takes a second for Vorx to see that she is right. ‘Lances burned out, damage taken on both flanks.’ ‘Lord, we are vulnerable,’ she says carefully. Many look up at him, but only Hovik, poor ruined Hovik, dares to speak. ‘ Come about,’ Vorx orders, gauging how prepared they are for this. But it is only a hesitation – a momentary failure, for they are a good crew, one into which Vorx has poured all his long benevolence and careful acumen. They can see the danger, the ludicrous danger, and they are not quite inured to it despite all they have been shown of the god’s benison and their commander’s tactical experience. Vorx gazes down at her fondly ‘ Close as you dare,’ he says. Who can tell? In any case, she is perturbed, and for good reason. She is so hunched now, bent double – the end cannot be far for her, or perhaps the transformation into something better. Even so, Hovik looks up at him, just for a second. Vorx has been commander of this ship for a long time, and his authority on the bridge is absolute. The void, already tortured by a million pulses of las-energy, begins to boil, and visual distortion ripples across the barrel’s gaping maw. He tends to his herds and his slaves, seeing what can be made of them and taking pleasure in their successes. Once he would have scorned such notions, having been made immune to all calls of family or community. ‘ I wish I could,’ Every worn stone is familiar, every smell is comforting. They are streaked with moisture, dripping slowly. ‘ How stands the citadel?’ asks Vorx, looking up at the inner walls. Unlike most bestials, he can talk, although the sounds are crude and he will never be eloquent. ![]()
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