A Note on Loss:
To lose a battle to shape a war in your favor is valor.
To win a battle at the cost of the war is foolishness.
Only waste the lives of your soldiers when it ensures the eventual destruction of your enemy.
Chaplain Dracos stood guard before the doors of the Astartes medicae bay.
Not that it required guarding, nor was he in need of the services of Sanguinary Priest Ishtar—but they would almost certainly require the supplies stored within for the war they would soon fight on the surface.
The battle, however, raged only a few bulkheads away.
He could hear it.
The sounds of bolter, plasma, las, and stubber fire echoed down the ancient corridors until they reached his ears. The screams reached him too—long, painfully mortal cries, until they were finally cut short by the sounds of xenos heresy.
It made him snarl each time he heard it.
His vox crackled.
"Chaplain, this is Crohnia."
The transmission was punctuated by bolter fire.
"I have gathered the aspirants in the chapel and armed them per your instructions. I request permission to rejoin the battle line."
"No, Crohnia."
Dracos did not raise his voice.
"Your time will come. But now I am instructing you to make your way to the Seraph Skald and assist Techmarine Threx in the preparations to depart. The rest will join you shortly."
Three heartbeats passed.
Then Crohnia growled, "Understood. Out."
He admired the young Marine's zeal, but the battle was already lost. The Scout in his simple carapace armor would be overly vulnerable. Risking him being killed by a lucky xenos shot in exchange for nothing of value.
Losing the gunnery deck had always been part of the plan. What he had not planned for was Martyr's Blood breaking apart around him. It complicated matters, but it did not change plans
Ishtar appeared in the doorway at his side.
"Medical supplies secured, Brother Chaplain. I hear Crohnia has prepared the aspirants to meet the end."
Dracos nodded once. "He has."
"A shame they cannot be evacuated with us. It seems such a waste."
"I would agree, Brother. But now they will serve at the Emperor's side."
"At least they will not waste any gene-seed on the way to the Throne."
Dracos gave a noncommittal grunt. "Are you ready to move?"
Ishtar hefted the case at his side. "As ready as I can be. Should I follow Crohnia to the Seraph Skald?"
Before Dracos could answer, his vox crackled again.
"Brother Chaplain. This is Sergeant Tamor."
There was exhaustion in Tamor's voice, and something bordering on bitterness.
"I regret to inform you that the Tau are breaking through our lines. I have very few voidsmen left to hold our current positions. We are falling back. Defenses are prepared at the engine spaces and command centers. The ship will soon be lost."
"Regrettable indeed, Brother Sergeant," Dracos replied calmly. "But an outcome we anticipated. Make your way to the dropship and prepare to depart for the surface. Ishtar and Crohnia are already en route. I will join you shortly."
There was a pause.
"Understood," Tamor said. "Out."
Ishtar departed at the mention of his name.
Dracos severed the vox link and remained still for a time.
Martyr's Blood was dying around them—her spine fractured, her engines threatened, her bulkheads no longer capable of containing void or fire. Even now, the ship's machine-spirit screamed in confused, dying fragments of prayer and warning. She would not be recovered. She would not be sanctified anew.
But in time, another ship would bear her name.
Dracos had one last weapon to deploy.
Armsman Havel had been born aboard this ship—one of the thousands of voidborn who had crewed Marty for uncounted generations. She had been a good home to him and his kin.
He had never expected to be anything but a rating in the forgotten depths of the vessel. To serve among the Emperor's Glorious Navis Astartes was blessing enough.
When he had been selected to rise from the decks into the ranks of the armsmen, his family had been proud. No one else in his recorded line had ever been elevated beyond their station. He had dreamed of one day earning a warrant.
Those dreams were dead. Soon, he would be as well.
He had stopped hearing the screaming.
Now he only noticed when the silence came.
Silence meant the enemy was close, and that it would soon be his turn to die.
The corridor ahead was filled with smoke and drifting debris, the deck plates warm beneath his boots. His shotgun shook in his hands, though he could not remember when it had begun.
Prayers were muttered on the lips of most of the men. The sergeant-at-arms spoke softly—words of encouragement felt wrong to name them as such. Cold comfort, perhaps.
"Here they come," the sergeant said. "Won't be long now, lads."
Havel's thoughts drifted back to his birthing chamber, the way the air vents rattled at night, the smell of burnt recaff lingering in the ducts.
The bulkhead to his left ruptured inward.
Something vast moved beyond it.
Havel raised his weapon.
The shot never mattered.
*****The Chaplain walked alone down a corridor of the ship that was dark yet filled with marble and beauty. The deck thundered and shook beneath his feet as the battle raged elsewhere—distant, but unceasing. The space felt at once like a prison cell and a palace.
Paintings lined the walls.
Dracos stared straight ahead.
He came to a reinforced door set into the stone. Tech-priests waited there, their red robes stiff with ritual purity seals, their augmetics twitching.
The Chaplain gave no acknowledgment. He placed his hand on the access rune.
The door opened.
Inside, a brother stood wearing a simple tunic, sleeves rolled back, hands stained with pigment. He was painting. His features bore all the marks the Chaplain had come to recognize over long years—bloodshot eyes, veins standing proud, a tension coiled beneath the skin—but his movements were controlled. Deliberate.
"Ah, Brother Chaplain," the Legionnaire said without turning. "You are just in time. I have finished this work. Would you like to see?"
The Legionnaire stepped aside anyway, revealing the canvas.
Sanguinius lay on his back, sacred blood pouring from his body, wings limp, borne aloft by sobbing sons.
"Very fine work, Brother Lucius," the Chaplain said. "Another masterpiece. I will have the serfs hang it in the hall."
Lucius smiled faintly and began to clean his brushes.
"I assume this is not a social call," he said. "How may I assist you?"
"It is a matter of grave import," the Chaplain replied. "We have been boarded."
Lucius paused.
"Very well," he said. "I will don my armor and we will see them off together. Who is it? The Aeldari? The Orks?"
"No," the Chaplain said. "It is Horus."
The porcelain water basin slipped from Lucius's grasp and shattered on the stone floor.
He gripped the table, shoulders hunching as his breath grew ragged.
"Where is he?" Lucius growled.
"The traitors have pushed beyond the gunnery deck," the Chaplain said. "They are making progress toward the bridge."
Lucius straightened. His shoulders spread, the muscles in his back rippling beneath the skin.
His eyes were bloodshot. Veins stood stark against his temples.
"Bring me to him."