By the ninth minute, bleeding from a dozen wounds, two of them critical,
he had resolved to kill the Lord of Iron too. If he got out. In that dream of
escape. He would find the great Perturabo and kill him. This had been his
great idea. Perturabo had seen the flaw, the Saturnine fault. He had toyed
with it, cooed over it, revealed it to Abaddon furtively, like some
pornographic image. He had gulled Abaddon into this. He’d used the First
Captain, with his reputation, and his authority, and his unrivalled
connections. He had used Abaddon to make this happen. Perturabo, damn
his soul, had played First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon like a fool. He had
tempted him with glory, made him feel smart and noticed, preened his ego.
Made him feel like it was all his big, clever idea. The bastard had even
made Abaddon beg him to let him do it. The Lord of Iron, lord of shit, had
manipulated Abaddon into using his influence to draw resources from the
Sons of Horus, coerce the Emperor’s Children into playing along, broker
the help of the Mechanicum. He’d made Abaddon do all the work and take
the credit, so if it failed – if it failed – if it failed like it was failing now,
Abaddon would be to blame.
Perturabo had deniability if it turned to shit. Perturabo could claim
ignorance if three companies of the Sons of Horus, including the elite, not
to mention how damn many of the Emperor’s Children, failed to return.
In death, Abaddon would be blamed for the disaster, and his memory
dishonoured. In death, he would be disgraced. Called overreaching. Called
‘that fool Abaddon’.
Abaddon would find the Lord of Iron, in that dream escape from this hellpit. He would annihilate those damned war-tometa with meltas. He would
face Perturabo, and tear his skull off his spine, and ram the haft of
Forgebreaker down the stump of his neck, and keep ramming it until the
bastard’s body split like a rotten gourd.
In the tenth minute, Abaddon arrived at a point of calm. Of serenity. He
accepted his onrushing death, which was surely only seconds away. It had
become a game, a contest, like the old practice cages. How many of them
could he kill before he was bested? Some? Most? All? Some were fine
warriors. Sepatus, he was magnificent. Haar was a brute, but an interesting
challenge. Garro… Abaddon fancied his own chances in an even match, but
the man’s sword was a piece of work, and so was Garro’s skill with it.
He realised, as he killed, and killed, and killed, that he owed the Lord of
Iron a genuine debt of gratitude. Abaddon was a warrior. He’d always been
a warrior. It was his life. His purpose. He excelled at it. The warp was a
distraction. It was just another weapon. Those who knelt before it and
pledged their worship, treating it like some kind of god, they were fools. All
of them. Magnus. Lorgar. Fulgrim. Fools. Horus was a fool. The warp was
nothing.
Being a warrior was everything. It defined him. The skill of combat. The
lessons of defeat. The joy of triumph. That was his sacrament. Let them
worship their false gods and giggling abominations. This was what he had
wanted. The chance to fight, like a man, not a daemon. The chance to take
the Palace, and claim Terra, the old-fashioned way. By force of arms.
He had wanted to win as a warrior. Perturabo had let him try. He owed the
Lord of Iron thanks for that.
This was everything, he realised, as he entered the eleventh minute, with
almost everyone dead. This moment. Its simplicity. Skill and courage,
tested to the limit, for no other reason, to serve no grand plan or devious
ruse… just tested for the sake of skill and courage.
This moment was his life in its purest form. His life distilled. He fought
Katechon, and Imperial Fists, and Blackshields, and Cataphractii
Terminators, and Tactical Space Marines, for no other principle than to find
out who was best. There were no sides. No good or bad. No rebel cause or
loyalist alliance. No Warmaster. No Emperor. No point to anything outside
the broken, blood-smeared walls of the killing chamber.
Just war. Only war. The binary test of the galaxy, that you passed in
triumph, or failed in glory.
Death, rushing closer, was immaterial.
How many could he take? How many more times could he prove his
prowess?
He was Abaddon. Let them come. Let them all come. Find more, and bring
them too. Bring anyone. Bring everyone.
He would take them. Or he would die. Either way. It didn’t matter any
more.
In the twelfth minute, Nathaniel Garro reached him, cleaving through one
last Justaerin to close with him. They duelled, blade into blade, munitions
long since exhausted. Garro was good. His sword was remarkable. He dealt
Abaddon two wounds that would have killed lesser men. He drove
Abaddon back, boxing him against the chamber’s ancient wall. Good
tactics, but a mistake. When Abaddon pivoted, it was Garro who found
himself boxed, his back to the stone. Abaddon threw a punch that smashed
Garro against the wall. The man slumped, dazed, chestplate cracked.
Abaddon swung to finish him.