Soul Drinker Read online

  There must have been a thousand of them in there, crowds of baying mutants behind their makeshift defences. Their leaders - those with the most horrific mutations, some with massive chitinous talons or vast muscle growth - had either communicators or slits at their throats that indicated crude vox-bead implants. This was an organized foe.

  Tellos's men were vaulting the first barricades and laying in with chainswords - limbs lopped off, heads falling. The sergeant himself was duelling with something hulking and ugly that wielded a recycler unit's harvester blade like a longsword. If it wasn't the leader the creature would at least form a lynchpin of morale for the degenerates that crowded around it - Tellos was good, seeking out the target that would damage the enemy most if eliminated, using his duelling skill to the maximum. If he took a fine trophy from the beast, Sarpedon would put in a word for him to keep it.

  It took Sarpedon half a second to appreciate the situation and decide on his plan of action. The enemy had over­whelming strength and the Soul Drinkers had to neutralise the threat before a proper line of defence could form. There­fore they would attack the enemy's prime weaknesses relentlessly until they broke.

  He loosed a couple of shots into a crowd of mutants and workers that were sheltering behind mouldering cargo crates from Luko's pinning fire. The bolter's kick in his hand felt good and heavy, and somewhere in the heart of the enemy two red blooms burst - a stream of autogun fire crackled towards him and he ducked back into cover.

  First blood. Sarpedon had made his mark on the battle and could join with his brothers in pride at its execution, accord­ing to the Chapter traditions.

  'Givrillian, sweep forward and engage. Watch for Luko's crossfire. I will follow.'

  'Yes, sir.' Sarpedon could hear the smile in the sergeant's voice. He knew what was coming.

  Sarpedon slammed back-first against an upright stanchion for cover while he focused. The enemy's weakness was moral - there might be many hundreds of them but they were degenerates and weak in mind, not least those untainted by mutation's stain but who nevertheless stooped to associate themselves with the unclean. His augmented hearing picked out the grind of chainblade against bone above the gunfire, as Tellos wore down the mutant he had sought out. The beast's death would weaken the enemy's capacity to fight. Sarpedon would finish it off.

  Givrillian's squad flowed around him and he heard the plasma gun belch a wave of ultraheated liquid into the enemy flank, skin crackling, limbs melting.

  What did they fear? They would fear authority, power, and punishment. That was enough. He shifted the grip on his bolter so he had a hand free to draw the arunwood force staff from its leather scabbard. Its eagle-icon tip glowed as its thaumocapacitor core flooded with psychic energy. He con­centrated, forming the images in his mind, piling them up behind a mental dam that would burst and send them flood­ing out into reality. He removed his helmet and set it on a clasp at his waist, taking a breath of the air - greasy, sour, recycled.

  He stepped out into the battlezone. Givrillian's squad had torn the first rank of mutants apart, and they were now crouched in firepoints slick with deviant blood as return fire sheeted over their heads. Mutant gangs were scuttling and slithering through the debris, moving to outflank and sur­round them. Tellos had the beast-mutant on its knees, one horn gone, huge blade chipped and scarred by the assault sergeant's lightning-quick chainsword parries.

  Sarpedon strode through it all, ignoring the autoshells and las-blasts spattering across the shadowy interior of the hub.

  He spread his arms, and felt the coil of the aegis circuits light up and flow around his armoured body. He forced the images in his head to screaming intensity - and let them go.

  The Hell began.

  The closest mutants, at least two hundred strong, were thirty metres away, firefighting with Givrillian's Marines. Their firing stopped as they stared around them as tall shrouded figures rose from the floor, carrying swords of jus­tice and great gleaming scythes to reap the guilty. Some bolted, to see hands clawing from the shadows, hungry for sinners to crush.

  Bat-winged things swooped down at them and the mutants ran screaming, knowing their doom had come to punish their corruption at last. They heard a deep, sonorous laugh­ter boom from somewhere high above, mocking their attempts to flee. The waves of fire broke as the mutants fled back through their own ranks, sowing disruption amongst their own for a few fatal seconds.

  Sarpedon leapt the barricade with the nearest of Givril­lian's Marines and stormed across to the mutant strongpoint. Most of the enemy still gawped at the apparitions boiling out of the darkness. A swing of his force staff clove through the closest two at shoulder height - he could feel their feeble life-forces driven out of their bodies even as the staff tore through their upper bodies with a flash of discharging energy. The burst of psychic power knocked three more off their feet and they landed hard, weapons dropped.

  The Hell. A weapon subtle but devastating, striking at the minds of his enemies while his brother Marines struck their bodies. In the swift storming actions that the Soul Drinkers had made their own, it bought the seconds essential to press home the assault. It worked up-close, in the guts of the fight, where a Soul Drinker delighted to serve his Emperor.

  Three of Givrillian's Marines, more than used to Sarpedon's conjurations after years of training and live exercises, pointed bolter muzzles over the mutants' makeshift barri­cade and pumped shells into the fallen, blasting fist-sized holes in torsos. Several more Space Marines knelt to draw beads on the hordes of mutants thrown into confusion by the sudden collapse of their front line. Shots barked out, bod­ies dropped.

  A tentacle flailed as its owner fell. Something with skeletal wings jutting from its back was flipped into a somersault as a shell blew its upper chest apart.

  Sarpedon stepped over the defences and swung again, swiping a worker/soldier in two at the waist as he tried to scramble away. Givrillian appeared at Sarpedon's shoulder, his bolter cracking shots into the backs of fleeing enemies. Assault Marines leapt past them and sprinted towards the mutants ranged towards the back of the hub. Tellos's armour was slick with black-red gore.

  A hand clapped Givrillian's shoulder pad - it was Luko. In an instant the two tactical squads had joined up to form a fire line and chains of white-hot bolter fire raked around the Assault Marines, covering them as they did their brutal work. Some mutants survived to flee - most died beneath the blades of Tellos and his squad, or hammered by the fire from Givrillian and Luko. Their screams filled the hub with the echoes of the dying.

  The enemy had broken completely and the spectres of the Hell strode amongst the panicking mutants as the Marines slaughtered them in their hundreds.

  It was how the Soul Drinkers always won. Break an enemy utterly, rob him of his ability to fight, and the rest was just discipline and righteous brutality.

  Givrillian caught Luko's hand in a warrior's handshake. 'Well met,' he said. 'I trust your men are blooded?'

  Givrillian removed his helmet, glancing around. 'Every one, Luko. A good day.' Givrillian had lost half his jaw to shell fragments covering the advance on the walls of Oderic, and he scratched at the swathe of scar tissue from cheek to chin. 'A good day.' He looked out to where Tellos's Marines were picking their way across the heaps of mangled dead. The kill had been immense. But now, of course, the whole star fort would know they were here.

  'Sergeants, your men have done well thus far.' said Sarpe­don. 'We must not give the enemy pause to recover. How are we for an advance on objective two?'

  'The cargo ducts to port look better-maintained.' replied Luko, gesturing with his clawed hand. 'Enemy forces will be using them soon. If we bear to starboard we'll avoid contact and give them less time to form a defence around the shell.'

  Sarpedon nodded, and consulted the holoslate on the speediest route to the sphere. As the other Soul Drinker units thrust deeper into the star fort their hand-held auspex scan­ners were piping information about the environment to one another,
so each leader had a gradually sharpening picture of the star fort's interior. The holoslate display now showed a wider slice of the star fort, and several paths through the tan­gle of corridors and ducts were tagged as potential assault routes towards primary objective two.

  Intelligence on the objective was slim. Its most likely loca­tion was a shell, an armoured sphere suspended in the heart of the station, two kilometres from their position. The star fort had once been an orbital defence platform, and the shell had protected its command centre - barely large enough for one man, the Van Skorvolds were probably using it as an emergency shelter.

  Primary objective one was being dealt with by forces under Commander Caeon himself - responsibility for objective two fell to Sarpedon. This was to enable him to make command decisions regarding the use of his psychic powers, which were considered essential in an environment such as the star fort. Sarpedon absolutely would not countenance a failure to take objective two, not when the prize was so great. Nor when Commander Caeon had given the responsibility to the Librarian when he could easily have picked a company cap­tain or Chaplain for the role.

  Once the two primary objectives had been taken, the infor­mation gleaned from them should be enough to allow for the final thrust on to the Objective Ultima.

  And if it was Sarpedon who took the prize... He fought here for the Chapter, for the grand plan of the Emperor of Mankind, and not for himself. But he would be lying if he told himself that he did not relish the chance to see the true object of their attack first, to take off his gauntlet and hold it as Primarch Dorn had done.

  The Soulspear. For the moment, it was everything.

  'We pull Dreo's squad back from the environment shaft,' he began, red lines indicating paths of movement on the holoslate's projection. 'They are our rearguard. Tellos takes the lead into the starboard ducts and through the habs.' The holoslate indicated a series of jerry-built partitions, possibly quarters for lower-grade workers, possibly workshops. 'There's a channel leading further in, probably for a mag-lev personnel train.'

  'We could take it on foot if we blow the motive systems.' added Givrillian.

  'Indeed. There's a terminus a kilometre and a half in. Our data thins out there, so we'll meet up with the rest of the sec­ondary force and work out a route from there. Questions?'

  'Any more of those?' asked Tellos, jerking a thumb at the steaming, bleeding hulk that he had left of the mutant-beast.

  'With luck,' said Sarpedon. 'Move out.'

  The secondary elements - an apothecary, Tech-Marine and dozen-strong serf-labour squad - were already arriving at the beachhead near the hull. Sarpedon voxed the Space Marines left stationed there to join up with Dreo at the rendezvous point and follow his advance.

  The Space Marine spearhead moved out of the cargo hub at a jog, leaving thousands of mutant corpses gradually bleed­ing a lake of blood across the floor. It had been slightly over eight minutes since the attack began.

  NEITHER THE SOUL Drinkers' Chapter command nor the Marines in the assault itself knew anything of the Van Skorvolds save intelligence relevant to the strength and composition of any likely resistance. Everything else was beneath their notice. The Guard units transported by the battlefleet knew even less about their opponents, knowing only that they were part of a hastily-gathered strike force readied to act against a space station. But there were those who had been watching the Van Skorvolds very closely indeed, and through a number of clandestine investigations and carefully pointed questionings, the truth had gradually emerged.

  Diego Van Skorvold died of a wasting disease twelve years before the Soul Drinkers' attack on the star fort. His great­-grandfather had purchased the star fort orbital defence platform at a discount from Lakonia's cash-starved Planetary Defence Force, and proceeded to sink most of the Van Skor­vold family coffers into converting it to a hub for mercantile activity in the Geryon sub-sector. Succeeding generations gradually added to the star fort as the manner of business the Van Skorvold family conducted became more and more spe­cialised. Eventually, there was only cargo of one type flooding through its cargo ducts and docking complexes.

  Human traffic. For all the lofty technological heights of the Adeptus Mechanicus and vast engineered muscle of the battlefleets, it was human sweat and suffering that fuelled the Imperium. The Van Skorvolds had long known this, and the star fort was perfectly placed to capitalize on it. From the sav­age meat-grinder crusades to the galactic east came great influxes of refugees, deserters and captured rebels. From the hive-hells of Stratix, the benighted worlds of the Diemos cluster and a dozen other pits of suffering and outrage came a steady stream of prisoners - heretics, killers, secessionists, condemned to grim fates by Imperial law.

  Carried in prison ships and castigation transports, these unfortunates and malefactors arrived at the Van Skorvold star fort. Their prison ships would be docked and the human cargo marched through the ducts to other waiting ships. There were dark red forge world ships destined for the servi­tor manufactoria of the Mechanicus, where the cargo would be mindwiped and converted into living machines. There were Departmento Munitorium craft under orders to find fresh meat for the penal legions being bled dry in a hundred different warzones. There were towering battleships of the Imperial Navy, eager to take on new lowlives for the gun gangs and engine shifts to replace crew who were at the end of their short lifespans.

  And for every pair of shackled feet that shuffled onto such craft, the Van Skorvolds would take their cut. Business was good - in an ever-shifting galaxy human toil was one of the few commodities that was always much sought after.

  And then Diego Van Skorvold died, leaving his two chil­dren to inherit the star fort.

  Truth be told, there had been rumours about old Diego, too, and one or two of his predecessors, but they had never come to anything. The new siblings were different. The tales were more consistent and hinted at transgressions more grave. People started to take notice. The rumours reached the ears of the Administratum.

  Pirate craft and private launches had been sighted sneaking guiltily around the Lakonia system. The star fort's human traf­fic was conducted under the strict condition that all prisoners were to be sold on only to Imperial authorities; allowing pri­vate concerns to purchase such a valuable commodity from under the noses of the Imperium was not to be tolerated.

  And there was worse. Mutants, they said, who were barred from leaving their home world, were bought and sold, and the cream skimmed off to serve the Van Skorvolds as body­guards and work-teams. There were even tales of strange alien craft, intercepted and wrecked by the sub-sector patrols, whose holds were full of newly-acquired human slaves. Cor­responding gossip pointed darkly to the collection of rare and unlicensed artefacts maintained by the Van Skorvolds deep in the heart of the star fort. Trinkets paid by alien slavers in return for a supply of broken-willed humans? It was pos­sible. And that possibility was enough to warrant action.

  Matters pertaining to the star fort fell under the jurisdiction of the Administratum, and they were concerned with keeping it that way. The Van Skorvolds had been immensely success­ful, but the persistence of the rumours surrounding them was considered enough to constitute proof of guilt. The accusa­tions of corruption and misconduct indicated that the control of the prisoner-trade lay in the hands of those who broke the Imperial law, and so it was deemed necessary that the Administratum should take control of the star fort and its business.

  The Van Skorvold siblings were not so understanding. Repeated demands for capitulation went unanswered. It was decided that force was the only answer, but that an Arbites or, Terra forbid, an Inquisitorial purge would do untold damage to an essential and profitable trade. The flow of workers and raw servitor materials was too important to interrupt. It had to be done as discreetly as such things can be.

  In the decades and centuries to come, Imperial history would forget most of these facts when relating the long and tortuous tale of the Soul Drinkers. Yet nevertheless, it was there that
the terrible chain of events began, in the drab dusty corridors of the Administratum and in the decadent hearts of the Van Skorvold siblings. Had the Van Skorvolds picked a different trade or the Administratum persisted with negotia­tions and sanctions, a canny scholar might suggest, there would be nothing but glory writ beside the name of the Soul Drinkers Chapter. But, as seems always the case with matters so delicately poised, fate was not to be so kind.

  'EVERYWHERE... fraggin'... everywhere...'

  '...crawling all over the sunside... armour, guns... mon­sters, all of them...'

  On board the Imperial battle cruiser Diligent, the trans­missions from the Van Skorvold star fort were increasing in number and urgency. The tactical crews clustered around the comm consoles on the bridge were tracking a dozen bat­tles and firefights, as a small but utterly ruthless force cut their way through the mutant army of the Van Skorvold car­tel.

  They were the sounds of panic and confusion, of death and dying and shock. There were screams, sobs, orders shouted over and over again even though there was no one left to hear them. He could hear them fleeing - they were the sounds of bolter shells thunking into flesh and chainsword blades shrieking their way through bone.

  They were also the sounds of Iocanthos Gullyan Kraevik Chloure getting rich. It wasn't about that, of course - it was about safeguarding the economic base of this sector and rooting out the corruption that threatened Imperial author­ity. But getting rich was a bonus.

  And, of course, most of them were only mutants.

  Consul Senioris Chloure of the Administratum could see little evidence of the carnage within the star fort through the viewscreen that took up most of the curved front wall of the Diligent's bridge. Magnified inset panels appeared in the cor­ners to pick out something the cogitators decided was interesting - plumes of escaping air and squat ribbed cylin­ders of large ship-to-ship assault pods emblazoned with the golden chalice symbol of the Soul Drinkers Chapter.