‘For Home and the Throne!’ the soldiers chorused. Zailen’s recital of the Litany of Courage continued, muted but audible, in the background of the general vox channel.
‘For Home and the Throne,’ Thade echoed. ‘The Emperor protects. Now move out.’
The monastery was cold and dead, which surprised no one. Yet the silence was still unnerving. Booted footfalls echoed strangely through the cavernous halls, all sound bouncing from the skeletal architecture while stern-faced and disfigured statues of saints, angels and Astartes peered down from their alcoves.
Thade had given the four remaining members of Dead Man’s Hand a choice: remain outside with the tanks or abandon their Sentinels and join the rest of the regiment. To a man, they’d voted to remain in their walkers. Thade had given them a final salute before entering the monastery’s towering double doors. The regiment knew the chances of the Sentinels surviving out there alone were too slim to contemplate. Only the fact every man knew he was marching to almost certain death under the monastery prevented them from seeking to dissuade the walker pilots.
‘I’ll let them die how they wish,’ Thade had said. ‘They’ll kill more of the Archenemy’s host if they’re sat in their Sentinels.’
‘We need everyone that can still carry a weapon!’ Tionenji insisted.
‘Four pistols will make no difference,’ Thade shook his head. ‘They stay and die how they wish to die. They stay and fight however they choose. This conversation is over.’
Now the 88th advanced through the ruined cathedral, the occasional gunshot blasting out to silence a stray plague-slain that shambled through the empty halls. Over the vox, Zailen spoke on, now reciting the Litany of Defiance in the Face of the End. His voice grew fainter as time passed.
‘The vox-link is getting weaker. And choppy. I can barely hear Zailen,’ Darrick said.
Thade nodded. He didn’t have it in him to play along with the lie. Neither did Master Sergeant Jevrian, but he didn’t stay silent on the matter.
‘He’s breathing his last, joker. Don’t shine it up for smiles.’ The Kasrkin leader tossed aside an empty glass vial, and tensed his hand into a fist a few times. ‘That’s better.’
‘Did you just gland something?’ Darrick asked, his irritation rising. Cadian regulation discouraged all use of combat drugs, and Thade was especially hard on those he found indulging. With the temporary boost to reflexes and strength from most combat narcotics, came unreliability and dangerous side-effects. Stimm abuse might be common in other regiments, but it was rare in the Shock.
‘Shut your whine-hole.’
‘Go to hell, stimm junkie,’ Darrick snapped.
‘Ban,’ Thade turned to him and stopped walking. ‘Is that frenzon?’
‘Like it matters if it is?’
There was a click and the nearby hum of a charged weapon. Jevrian flicked his glance to the left, where Commissar Tionenji was holding his laspistol to Ban’s temple.
‘Be a good little soldier and answer the captain, you shaved ape,’ Tionenji warned. Thade shared a look with the commissar. He was pleased; this was almost the first thing Tionenji had said in the hours since their confrontation, and the first signs of the atmosphere thawing between them. Still, this was hardly ideal…
‘Naw, it’s not frenzon,’ Jevrian growled.
‘This isn’t some penal legion, and you’re not a Catachan jungle thug who gets to gland combat drugs that are forbidden in the Primer.’ Thade was as close to angry as Darrick and the others had ever seen him.
‘Is this a Ten-Ninety, sir?’ asked the commissar.
‘That depends. Is that frenzon, Jevrian?’
‘A Ten-Ninety? For glanding stimms? I already said it wasn’t bloody frenzon.’
‘So what is it?’ Thade asked. ‘I won’t have that crap in my regiment, Kasrkin. We’re all better than that.’
‘Dying with dignity is awfully important to the Cap,’ Darrick interjected.
‘Shut up, Taan.’
‘Shutting up, sir.’
‘Listen,’ Jevrian said, reaching up to lower Tionenji’s pistol with his brutishly large hand. ‘It’s not frenzon or satrophine, we clear? Throne in flames, don’t we have a job to do? There’s still a war on, last time I checked. It’s just a cocktail of ’slaught with a little downer to stay sharp. Reflex juice.’
The captain let it slide. As the command team moved on, Jevrian walked next to Thade.
‘That was some fine loyalty you showed me there, hero. Next time the Garadeshi has his gun pointed at your face, I might not leap to your defence.’
‘Get over it,’ Thade said. ‘You were in the wrong then, too.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ Jevrian fell back into line with his Kasrkin. ‘I’ll remember that, captain.’
Seth was hearing the voice with astonishing clarity now.
And that was the problem. It was coming from everywhere now, from the dust on the ground, from the bloodstains on the walls, from the pores of his sweating skin.
The inquisitor trailed his every step now. Seth knew what this was about – they needed him to find the source of the voice. It was obvious. But as Thade’s small army descended down the wide stone stairs into the undercroft, he knew they were setting their hopes on a false path. He couldn’t make out any sense of place or direction in the voice’s ululating scream. Even with his senses opened wide to the hidden world, all he could feel was the illusory sensation of unseen fingernails scratching lightly at his mind.
He began to wonder after a while if the feeling was really just an illusion. A taste appeared in his mouth, raw and rancid and tingling on his tongue like burning copper. He was stronger than this. He knew it. He could listen for the voice and remain untainted. Caius did, didn’t he? Zaur had?
Seth placed one foot in front of the other, at times shambling forward like one of the plague-slain and remaining upright only by gripping his black staff. He felt their eyes on him… Thade’s, Caius’s, the bastard Jevrian’s.
They didn’t care if he died. Whatever it took to get their prize. Whatever it took to reach the crashed ship. Here he was, swallowing the taste of blood and trying not to choke on it, while they silently willed him on with smiles on their faces.
He could, he realised, kill them if he wished. Within that realisation was a flare of shame, quickly quenched in Seth’s rising anger. Cadian Blood, the fuel of the Imperium… Born to die in service to the Throne. It was laughable, Seth realised. Laughable and grossly wrong.
Damn the Throne. The Throne was a meat-grinding engine feeding on the souls of those that wasted their lives worshipping it. Damn the Throne. To the Eye with all of them for wishing me dead.
They were in a vault with a ceiling so low many of the taller soldiers had to slouch as they walked. It helped the popular opinion that the entire cathedral, raised over several decades of toil by tens of thousands of workers, was thrown together more by faith than sensible design.
As Seth passed between rows of stone sarcophagi, each one adorned with golden decoration and bearing long-faded names carved into the stone, the Cadians detected a curious noise.
‘You hear that?’ Thade asked Caius.
The inquisitor nodded, gesturing to the sarcophagus closest to Seth’s trailing coat. As Thade passed it, he heard…
– something inside, something made of dry bones, furiously scratching to get out –
…something within. An eerie sound, like vermin running over stone.
‘Tell me that’s the rats,’ he said to Caius, loudly enough for the men nearby to hear.
‘It’s the rats,’ the inquisitor replied, not looking back.
From that point on, Tionenji followed Seth with his laspistol drawn.
The Cadians had been within the monastery for approximately three hours when the voice addressed Seth by name.
‘Why
are you smiling?’ Thade asked him immediately. Seth blanked his face and looked at the captain while they walked. The false pity on Thade’s face sickened him so powerfully he had to tense his stomach and force it not to rebel.
‘Nothing,’ he said at last.
‘You’re looking bad, Seth. Do you need to rest for a while?’
‘No rest.’ Caius shoved Seth forward with the palm of his hand on the psyker’s spine, right between the shoulder blades. Seth drooled as he staggered on. He’d been about to say yes. Been about to mention that the voice was calling his name now.
Thade moved closer to Caius as the troops walked through a tunnel lit by dim strip lighting running off one of the forgotten power generators in the city-sized monastery. This, too, was unnerving. The Cadians were used to Solthane as a city devoid of power.
‘This is killing him,’ the captain whispered.
‘This will kill us all,’ Caius replied in a tone that brooked no further comment. The inquisitor wondered if Thade had really considered the sanctioned psyker’s chances of survival after all. Either way, now was not the time for sentimentality. Now was the time to shut up and serve.
From up ahead, where the tunnel branched into a T-junction, Lieutenant Horlarn voxed back to the main force.
‘We’ve got some chanting up here. The tunnel splits north and south and leads into attached chambers. We’ve got chanting coming from the south side. Silence from the north.’
Caius stared at the back of Seth’s head as the sanctioned psyker shivered in the cold air. He seemed to be listening to something only he could hear.
‘We go south,’ the inquisitor said. Thade voxed the order to Horlarn, and the units closed together once more, catching up with their scouts.
The chanting turned out to be the dregs of some plague cult lost in the darkness of the catacomb maze. The 88th squads stormed in, opening fire and cutting down the handful of heretics as they crouched down for their evening meal.
Several soldiers spat on the corpses as they passed on once the fighting was done, disgusted to see how the heretics had been feasting on the bodies of their own dead. They were but the first of several splintered, isolated gangs of mindless pilgrims lost down in the dark. Each one fell before the guns of the Imperials, and the 88th ventured deeper and deeper through subterranean burial vaults, storage chambers, habitation wings and abandoned ritual halls. None of these had been used in thousands of years except for the recent deprivations of the scavenging heretics.
‘We’re in the real catacombs now,’ Thade said at one point, running his metal hand across the wall of a chamber.
‘How do you know?’ asked Caius.
Thade tapped the wall with his knuckles. ‘Stone. Not marble. This is cheap and serviceable, probably never meant to be seen by any pilgrims even when the temple was still growing. What? Don’t look at me like that. Just because I’m a soldier doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.’
‘I’m beginning to forget what sunlight feels like,’ muttered Darrick. He held a lamp-pack in one hand, panning it around the dark chamber. Power was sporadic in the undervaults, and the ceiling lightglobes were off more often than on.
‘It’s only been six hours,’ Jevrian said. ‘Grow a backbone.’
‘It’s been nine,’ Thade said, holding his wrist chronometer within Darrick’s circle of illumination.
‘I count seven hours and fifty,’ Kel piped up. More responses came. Not a single chron agreed with another.
‘This can’t be good,’ Darrick commented.
‘Move,’ called Caius. ‘Time displacement is a common effect of warp distortion. Just keep moving.’
‘Oh,’ Darrick muttered. ‘Well, that’s fine, then. Silly me for worrying.’ Grin in place, Darrick expected Thade to tell him to shut up. He found the fact the captain remained silent to be more disconcerting than time itself playing around.
Typhus wrenched his scythe clear and the Raven Guard sank to the ground. It had been a brief fight: brief but deliciously satisfying. Blood hissed and bubbled on the Herald’s blade, cooking black on the surface of the psychically-charged metal.
Brief. Satisfying. But costly. The Raven Guard had swooped down all too literally, striking from the air as they descended on jump-packs with howling thrusters. Chainswords sang and bolters barked at close range as the Astartes butchered one another in a savage brawl.
The black-armoured Astartes had been outnumbered three to one, but the advantage of surprise counted for much. Typhus stared through the Y-shaped visor of his gory, horned helm. Death Guard, their cracked armour the colour of gangrene, lay across the landing site. Men (or beings that had once been men and still maintained roughly human form) that had stood alongside the Herald for millennia, lay cleaved by Imperial chainblades or burst open by bolter fire.
Typhus felt no emotion at seeing this. He was capable of no emotional sensation that even vaguely approached something a human would comprehend. What he felt was hollow, the absence of emotion. His thoughts plumbed this vacant space within his mind, searching the void, finding it chilling and almost fascinating where his emotions once resided.
A plague on these accursed sons of Corax in their black armour. Their guerrilla assaults had held the Death Guard’s advance for too long.
The momentary introspection passed, and Typhus took a Raven Guard head with a sweep of his scythe. Picking up the black helm, he shook the head free and stamped on it, crushing it to blood-and-bone paste under his boot.
‘We honour our enemies,’ the Herald growled, and vomited a stream of bloated, sticky flies through his narrow visor into the empty helmet in his hands. He tossed the writhing mass onto the headless corpse at his feet, letting the flesh-eating flies spill across the body and seek openings in the deactivated power armour.
The final insult. The gene-seed of these fallen Astartes could never be recovered by the Imperium. This last thought stirred something deep and sludge-thick within the recesses of the Herald’s mind. The Raven Guard still suffered today from their near extermination ten thousand years before. To deny them the genetic legacy of their primarch now brought a smile to the Herald’s lips. His emotions might have decayed long ago, but he was forever delighted by both vengeance and cruelty – especially when the two mixed.
The Death Guard, minus half their initial landing force, moved on shortly after, leaving the flesh-flies of the Destroyer Hive to finish their meal.
The vessel, what remained of it at least, was an Astartes battle-barge. This ancient spaceborne fortress lay in pieces, the largest sections of hull still bone white and emerald green in the XIV Legion’s original colours, unstained by the years of warp-corruption that had tainted the Terminus Est and the armour of the Death Guard themselves. The taint was insidious rather than obvious, but no less true.
Here and there on ridged sheets of exposed hull metal, black marks showed where the ship had ploughed through the atmosphere on its death dive, before gouging this savage cleft in the rock of the world soon to be named Kathur.
Silence reigned within the shattered ship. The crew, Astartes, servitors and Legion serfs alike, had long since mouldered to bone and dust.
Only a single soul claimed anything akin to life here.
It waited in the silence, screaming soundlessly, knowing its hour of freedom had finally come.
Chapter XIV
Cadian Blood
Beneath the catacombs
It defied their expectations.
Seven hours of trekking through the monastery, and they’d found it. Seth no longer even needed to lead the way; Caius was all too aware of the force of the voice’s pull as he made his way through the catacombs. Impossible to ignore, its intensity made it increasingly difficult to reach out of his own mind, and he felt inexorably drawn deeper into the subterranean labyrinth.
All notions of needing excavator equipment were banished from t
hought. All images of the great ship blown to a million pieces and seeing the impressive wreckage in an underground cavern were purged from imaginations. The truth was both much more logical to understand and much more uncomfortable to behold.
The Aggrieved wasn’t buried in the rock of Kathur’s crust beneath the foundations of the monastery. It was the foundations of the monastery.
The Cadians became aware immediately when the deepest tunnels of the catacombs all appeared to be walled with metal instead of stone. It was strikingly obvious, as the carved rock passageways gave way to corridors of riveted iron and black steel; it was clear to all who laid eyes upon it that they were entering the halls of an Imperial ship.
A very old Imperial ship, it had to be said. But one of Standard Template Construct design, and therefore, timeless – the design still in use in new vessels today.
Osiron could scarcely believe what his photoreceptors were showing him.
‘They made the lowest levels of their fledgling cathedral link to these corridors,’ his metallic voice rang out, echoing weirdly down the spaceship’s wide hallways. ‘This is… blasphemous. Such a violation of the Mechanicum’s treasured lore. Such an unholy waste of power and knowledge.’
‘The blasphemy was committed before the vessel even crashed, tech-priest,’ Caius said softly. ‘And after.’
‘The blasphemy against the Emperor, yes. I speak of blasphemy against the Cult Mechanicus of Mars, and the Omnissiah.’
‘The Omnissiah? I thought your Machine-God was the God-Emperor,’ Darrick cut in. ‘You just dressed him differently.’
Osiron’s crimson hood moved in a gesture that may or may not have been indicative of a nod. ‘All this knowledge,’ he said again, stroking metal fingers across the vessel’s internal skin. ‘All this stolen power.’
‘Tainted by heresy,’ Caius said.
Now Osiron definitely nodded, conceding the point. The vessel may have been close to the peak of Mechanicus ingenuity, but the tech-adepts of forge world Mars wished no truck with the touch of Chaos. Tainted was tainted. Lost was lost.
Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden Page 22
