Nemesis

difficult to relax and ease the skin-matter open. “Just be silent.”

There was movement outside. Someone on a higher floor in the building across

the street, probably some bold member of Capra’s rebellion or just a Dagoned sick of

being a victim, tossed a makeshift firebomb that shattered wetly over the warrior’s

helmet and right shoulder. The Son of Horus halted and swiped at the flames where

they licked over the ceramite, patting them out with the flat of his gauntlet. As Koyne

watched, the Astartes was still dotted with little patches of orange flame as he

pivoted on his heel and aimed upward.

A heavy thunderclap shot rang out, and the bolter blew a divot of brick from the

third floor. A body, trailing threads of blood, came spiralling out with it, killed

instantly by the proximity of the impact.

“They… they want you!” snarled the man in the shop, oblivious to what was

taking place outside. “Maybe they should have you!”

“No,” Koyne said, fingers at last touching the butt of the pistol nestling inside the

false-flesh gut over the Callidus’ stomach. “I told you to—”

Stone crunched into powder and suddenly the warrior was there in the doorway

of the gutted shop, too big to fit through the wood-lined threshold. The emotionless

eyes of the fearsome helmet scanned them both and then the figure advanced, its

bolter dropping onto a sling. Koyne stumbled backwards as the Son of Horus tore

through the splintering remains of the doorway, drawing his combat blade as he

came. The knife was the size of a short sword, and the fractal edge gave off a dull

gleam.

Before the Callidus could react the Astartes struck out with the pommel and hit

the assassin in the chest. Koyne felt bones snap and spun away, landing hard. In a

perverse way, the assassin was pleased; Koyne’s cover was clearly still intact. If the

Astartes had known what he was facing, the kill would have come immediately.

The man was pointing and shouting; the Son of Horus, having decided to

preserve his ammunition for the moment, advanced on the survivor, the top of his

helmet knocking light fittings down from the patterned ceiling. A sweep of the

combat blade silenced the man by taking his head from his shoulders; the body gave

a peculiar little dance as nerves misfired, and fell in a heap.

Koyne had the gun but the twitching of the muscles and the flesh-pocket would

not let it go; pain from the impact injury robbed the Callidus of the usual

concentration and control needed at a moment like this.

The Son of Horus changed his grip on the knife, holding it by the blade, ready to

throw it; in the next second a crash of bolter fire echoed and impact points appeared

in a line of silver blooms across the chest plate and left shoulder pauldron of the

Astartes.

207

Through blurry vision, Koyne saw a man-shape moving faster than anything

human should have; and a face, a mask, a fanged skull made of discoloured

gunmetal.

Scrambling backwards, the assassin watched as the Garantine sprinted around the

Astartes in a tight arc, rolling over fallen counters and leaping from pillar to wall. As

he moved, his Executor pistol was snarling, spitting out low-gauge bolt shells that

clattered and sparked off the towering warrior’s armour.

The Astartes let the combat blade drop and brought up his bolter; the weapon was

of a far larger calibre than the Executor. A single direct hit at the ranges these close

quarters forced upon the combatants would mean death for the Eversor; but to kill

him, first the Astartes had to hit him.

Koyne moaned in pain as the gun slowly eased out of the stress-tensed flesh

pocket, watching as the two combatants tried to end each other. In the confined space

of the destroyed store the bray of bolt shells was deafening, and the air filled with the

stench of cordite and the heavy, choking dust from atomised flakboard. A support

pillar exploded, raining plaster and wood from the broken flooring above. The

Callidus could hear the animalistic panting of the Eversor as he moved like lightning

back and forth across the Space Marine’s line of sight, goading the Astartes into

firing after him. Stimm-glands chugged and injectors hissed as the Garantine’s

bloodstream was flooded with bio-chemicals and cocktails of drugs that pushed him

beyond the speed of even an Astartes’ enhanced reflexes.

Koyne’s gun, slick with mucus and fluids, finally vomited itself out of the

assassin’s stomach and on to the floor. The Callidus clutched at it and released a shot

in the direction of the grey-armoured hulk. The neural shredder projected a spreading

plume of sickly energetic discharge around the Son of Horus and the warrior

staggered with the hit, one hand coming up to clutch at his helmet.

The Garantine roared past, sprinting over Koyne where the Callidus lay propped

up against a wall. “My kill!” he was shouting, the words repeating and coming so fast

they became a single stream of noise. “My killmykillmykillmykill—”