Part VIII But he had wasted too much time: he had let the Traitor get too close. He was only a short distance away, around a single bend in the corridor, and would surely hear Ezekial if he made any noise; he would be in clear view in seconds. Lying perfectly still, not even daring to replace his helmet for fear it would be heard, Ezekial readied himself to attack. Surprise was his greatest advantage now. It was only by the luckiest of circumstances that he had escaped disemboweling earlier; no doubt the Traitor Marine expected him to be dead, just as all his fellows were dead. Ezekial had faced Traitor Marines on more than one occasion. He knew of their depravity and foul evil beliefs -- their betrayal of their own humanity, in more ways than one -- and the scars they bore as a result. Tentacled limbs, mutated faces, weird, monstrous yet useless appendages: all were evidence of their allegiance to the warp gods. And though many had lived since the time of the Horus Heresy itself, they were far from immortal. Ezekial readied himself for his attack, knowing that in his weakened state surprise was his greatest ally. His chainsword, still wet with the blood of its Eldar victims, was close at hand, and his bolt pistol had never left his side. Even so, he drew venom from his Betchers Gland, preparing to spit it in the enemy's face on the slim chance that he was unhelmeted. The corrosive poison would quickly blind the Traitor, no matter what bizarre changes had been affected on him by his gods. Ezekial could not see as well without his helmet on, but his enhanced senses were sharper than an ordinary man's. With a mental shrug he shifted his eyesight to the near-infra red spectrum, hoping to distinguish the enemy's heat presence against the cool background of the corridor. Glowing red pockets lit up around him where bolter shells had impacted the walls, and tiny trails of cooling blood marked the places where the Traitor's aim was true. His own blood hotly stained his armor, but no longer flowed from his wounds now that his suit's medical systems had been working on him. Ignoring his light-headedness, he concentrated on remaining still and watching for the Traitor's approach. A tell-tale glow signaled his stealthy arrival, the heat of the power plant in his backpack outlining his form. Ezekial could readily see it was indeed a man in power armor; therefore he must be a Traitor. It only made sense that a planet wrapped in warp storms should be home to someone so corrupted by Chaos. The Emperor only knew how many others like him there were on Mraba IV even now. The enemy Marine continued his advance up the hallway. His stance was that of someone accustomed to fighting, wary but not fearful. He rounded the corner then stopped, closely examining the corridor before moving into it. Ezekial held himself completely still, thinking dead thoughts, waiting for the enemy to close. He was not afraid of death, only of dying before he could kill this Traitor. The Traitor Marine stood for several long moments unmoving, watching the hall. Then he cautiously walked up to Cepheus, nudging him with his boot, boltgun pointed at the dead man's head. Ezekial dared not to breath as the black-clad Marine then stopped next to him, shoving the toe of his armored foot into his side. The Traitor hesitated then, though Ezekial had remained as limp and unresponsive as he could. His tension mounted as the Sergeant felt the other man watching him, studying him for some reason. It took all his self-control to not rise and attack; he knew doing so would be foolish, for no doubt there was a bolter mere inches from his face. But the Marine passed on to examine Laertes, and Ezekial knew his moment of opportunity had come. Mustering his energy, he quickly prayed to the Emperor, then focused his loathing and guilt on the black armored Traitor. With the strength of hate, he stood, pivoting silently about to face his foe. The sight that met his eyes, however, stopped him in his tracks. The enemy Space Marine was kneeling over Laertes, not in barbaric victory, but because he was weeping. Though he had entered the hall fully armored, his helmet was only just removed, carelessly discarded across the floor. His boltgun drooped unattended in one hand, while the other rested gently on the fallen Dark Angel Marine. The head which was revealed was not a warped caricature of humanity, but a clean-lined, strong-jawed older man. It was bowed in sorrow, his face turned away from Ezekial. Ezekial delayed only an instant. That his quarry was unmarked by Chaos was no indication that he was not still ruled by it. Thumbing his chainsword to life, its vibrant buzz suddenly filling the hall, he rushed at the warrior. Before he had covered half the short distance, however, the other soldier's own sword, previously scabbarded at his side, arced up as he spun round from his crouching position. The surprise that he had not been fooled by Ezekial's feigned death lasted no more than a heartbeat, and did not even interrupt the Sergeant's brazen charge. With a strangled "For the Emperor!" the Dark Angel crashed headlong into the black-suited Marine, chainsword meeting powersword. The force of his rush send them toppling backwards over Laertes' body, both men struggling to keep their footing. Ezekial used his foe's inertia to counteract his own, staying upright. The other Marine stumbled backwards, backpedaling rapidly to regain his balance. Ezekial did not wish to give him that chance and again ran at his enemy, snapping off two quick shots from his pistol. The gun was poorly aimed, though, and did little more than momentarily distract the Traitor Marine, enabling Ezekial to close to hand-to-hand distance without any return fire. The other man's boltgun was a larger weapon than Ezekial's pistol, and consequently harder to handle in the fracas of close combat. With a small portion of his attention, the Sergeant realized that his opponent's gun was painted as bright a red as his own. He attached no special significance to this fact at the time. Wheeling chainsword met powersword with a sparking whine, the mono- molecular teeth of the chainsword skipping and singing off the titanium-hard edge of the power sword. This time the Traitor's position was more braced and he accepted Ezekial's charge without giving ground. The blue-white flare of his powersword cast a deep, haunted look under his eyes; the red-orange flakes of falling sparks singed both men's hair and face, bouncing lightly off their impervious power armor. Ezekial, furious with rage, forced his chainsword hard against the other Marine's sword, preventing him from with- drawing it for another strike. Instead, he quickly brought up his bolt pistol for a point-blank kill. The black-armored Marine saw the Sergeant's intentions, and hastily dropped his own boltgun to free his other hand. Just as Ezekial squeezed the trigger, the older man's hand came up, deflecting the shot by grabbing hold of the gun at Ezekial's wrist. Now they were locked in a desperate fight, a pure test of strength and will. Chainsword still buzzing and vibrating against the flaring blue power- sword, bolt pistol held harmless by a grip of iron, the two men wrestled back and forth, seeking each other's weak points. The Sergeant was the younger of the two, but he was weakened by pain and blood loss. His foe was older -- and perhaps more canny -- but unwounded. Their power armor's motorized servos, designed to enhance and reinforce a Space Marine's already prodigious strength, whined under the strain. In wordless combat, they struggled in the dark halls of the City of Might. The only sound was the noise of their weapons and the scuff of their boots. Ezekial concentrated hard on forcing his chainsword further down, and on bringing his bolt pistol more into line. He looked at nothing, his eyesight directed inwards to channel his reserves, not outwards. Then, purely by chance, he focused on the other Marine's face, seeing it clearly for the first time. He thought his heart would fail him. He knew this man. Part IX The world around him dissolved as memories long, long forgotten flooded back into him. His present day awareness vanished as he disappeared into the past. He felt his memories wash over him like a tide. With perfect clarity he recalled... ...the smell of the air in the Schola Progenium on his homeworld of Egana III. ...his frequent treks through fields of grain, out away from the cityport of Belkand, to search out new hideaways. ...the lash of the whip from his Preachers to punish his curiosity. ...a man known only as the Hermit, who lived in a solitary dwelling away from all else. ...the sad kindness of the Hermit, who became his friend, and who lived a Spartan existence. ...the fateful day when he, as a child, watched the incorruptible Arbitrators of Judge Salzbry die at the hands of the Dark Angels. ...the day his friend, the Hermit, revealed himself to be a Space Marine of great age, hunted by his fellows. ...the crushing helplessness he felt when his friend left him to watch men die. ...the confusion and hopelessness deeply rooted inside him when he realized he would never see the Hermit again. And he recalled the Hermit's name, given to him on that long ago day as a sign of his trust: Gideon. "Gideon," he breathed, relief mingling with disbelief. Without conscious transition, he found himself kneeling on the floor, still alive, not knowing how much time had passed. Gideon -- for it _was_ Gideon -- had retreated a pace or two, a look of pure shock written on his face. Suddenly things made sense to Ezekial: Gideon's attacks on his men were not because he was a Traitor, but because they were Dark Angels. "Gideon," he said again, more loudly, conflicting emotions sailing wildly through his voice, "you do not know me now, but I know you." Gideon's guard was down; surprise at this Sergeant's behavior had rattled him more than he thought. All he answered was, "How? Who are you?" Chuckling softly, Ezekial raised his eyes to his old friend. "You knew me once as Young Zeke. Do you not recall your own past?" |
REDEMPTION By Kelly L'Roy |
TOMES OF VALOUR |
This item has been reproduced without the permission of the author. It's use here is not intended as a challenge to the original authors copyright and is reproduced here for the sole purpose of enhancing the Dark Angel spirrit and the warhammer 40,000 experience. Sadly all attempts at contacting the author have been unsuccessful and the original site where this was published no longer in existence. The story has been too invaluable to the DA community to be simply lost in the warp and therefre been reproduced here. If Kellt L'Roy happens to read these pages, please contact by email. |
