by Guy Haley
Grossly twisted figures worked all over haphazard platforms upon the flesh engine. A command went up. The engines belched more acrid smoke, clouding the field further. Bile tanks bubbled. The snout creaked down. The whole thing juddered, and the foreparts revolved as they dropped level with the gate, spinning faster and faster. With a roaring belch, meltacannons ignited. Volcanic heat washed into Justinian’s position, forcing his men back a moment until their armour compensated for the sudden rise in temperature.
The remaining guns of the Crucius Portis II blatted loudly, but the daemon engine’s green flesh took the hits without apparent harm. The engine gurgled with malevolent glee. Roaring with heat, the snout was pushed against the gateway.
The engine began to melt its way through. As it worked, lesser siege teams came forward to assault the foot of the wall with their own melta devices and sprays of stinking acid. Plague Marines climbed rickety ladders to lob grenades through firing slits. Leering daemons on giant flies the size of horses buzzed along the wall front. Justinian filled one with bolts. Thick fluid burst from the wounds, as if it were a sack full of pus, and it crashed into the seething mass at the base of the walls, but there were hundreds more, possibly thousands.
‘They must have summoned these things aboard,’ said Maxentius-Drontio. ‘There is no way they landed so many troops by conventional means.’
‘Fire below!’ Justinian ordered. His men repositioned themselves.
In a blur of fusion fire, the daemonic ram burned its way through the gate, opening a hole wide enough for a Dreadnought to pass through. The heat from the breach cooked the putrid flesh clothing its body, and it shrieked in pain through its fused-shut mouth, but its masters drove it on. Its snout plunged deeper, burying the full length in the gate. The platform upon the back passed under Justinian’s position, exposing the adepts of the Dark Mechanicum working banks of toggle switches, or watching displays sunk directly into the diseased thing’s hide. The tanks of bile around them gurgled empty, consumed by the unclean engines set in front of their control stations.
‘Kill the operators!’ voxed Justinian. Bullets, bolts, and las shot blasted at Squad Parris’ position, eroding the smooth lips of metal to jagged, pockmarked wounds. A fly daemon flew by, lobbing a severed head into the room. It collapsed like a fungus, filling the space with toxic gases that ate at their softseals and corroded their breathing apparatus. The Primaris kept their aim on their targets throughout.
Justinian destroyed one of the traitorous tech-priests, his bolt exploding him to black scraps. His men killed another. Daemon-servitors turned arcane weaponry on the bunker, shearing off Donasto’s head with a green sheet of fire. Justinian continued to riddle the adepts and their machinery with bolts, but his efforts did no good.
‘The gate is breached. All defenders prepare for melee.’ Dovaro’s message was short.
On clanking treads, the daemon ram drew back and wheeled off to the side, reversing over hundreds of daemons and wailing cultists. It was under fire the whole time, and gushed reeking liquids. It squealed horribly in pain, like a farm’s worth of swine burning alive, but its work was done. The horde parted, opening a path for a phalanx of Plague Marines to march towards the breach in the gate. The seven ranks at the front pushed wheeled shields, miniature versions of the great mantlets standing outside the beleaguered gate. The rest bore rusted axes and blades, and dribbling chem-sprayers. Covered by the thousand boltguns of their comrades, they marched in proud lockstep in a disgusting parody of Imperial discipline. Their armoured boots crushed the dead. Justinian and his men remained at their firing slits and joined their fire to others targeting the Death Guard, although their bunker rang to the hailstone rattle of endless rounds blowing on the exterior, and microshrapnel pinged ceaselessly around the room.
The Death Guard lost a handful of their number, no more, as they went through the gate into the steaming tunnel.
The wall was swarming with enemy. Cultists and daemons were shuffling through breaches along its length. Explosions blasted out from gun chambers. The last of the wall’s weapons fell silent.
A bolt jetted past Justinian so closely its propellant burn flared in his eyes. It ricocheted off the roof and detonated.
‘We can do no more good here,’ shouted Justinian against the relentless firecracker snap of bolts exploding on the wall exterior. ‘Michaelus, Achilleos, take the ammunition. Maxentius-Drontio, rig grenades on the door. Maybe that will kill a few of them when they break in here.’ He ejected a smoking magazine from his bolt rifle and slammed another home. ‘Retreat to the inner chamber.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Emperor’s will
By evening battle moved away from Tyros. The coughing thunder of the defence lasers on Keleton troubled the twilight occasionally, but the time between their discharge was lengthening as the fleet battle drifted out of their lines of fire. The vast shape of Galatan grew, bleached out by the last moments of daylight’s death. An airy painting of a castle, ramparts picked out in shades of ethereal blue and purple, glowing with ten million points of light. A phantom fortress whose destructive power was all too real. Armadas crowded it, fighting their own wars. Galatan’s terraces of plasteel loomed behind the naval fight, a mountain range in space more backdrop to the struggle than a part of it, it seemed, as distant hills framed the combat of armies upon the ground. But these hills spoke with fire and thunder, targeting all and sundry around the fortress. The allegiances of the ships were unknown to the soldiers upon the walls of Tyros. Mathieu had learned enough of warfare at every scale to guess that Galatan was contested, and different banks of weapons fired on different targets depending on who held them.
The tread of armoured feet approached from behind. The machine whine of powered armour was well known to him now. Too light for a Space Marine. A Sister, he thought. He smiled to himself. Iolanth had come to him, as he had expected. All was as the Emperor ordained.
‘Sister Superior Iolanth,’ he said, without turning around.
‘Frater Mathieu,’ she said, and came to stand by him. She rested her red-armoured hands upon the parapet. The coming dark dulled the colour of her armour, casting it with a bloody tint. Such hands are steeped in the vitae of martyrs, thought Mathieu. Being near so pure a tool of the Emperor’s will sent a shiver of delight through him that threatened to trip the castigator routines of his autoflagellator. He tapped the palm button with his index finger, considering setting it off manually anyway to punish his unseemly pleasure.
‘It pleases me you use my humble title,’ said Mathieu. ‘Humility is a virtue in the eyes of the Lord of Terra.’
‘A vain man cannot expect grace,’ she agreed. ‘Nevertheless, I respect you as militant-apostolic as much as I do a mere frater,’ she said. ‘You are bold, and fight with honour. Your reputation for valour has reached my ears.’
‘Do not call me brave,’ he corrected her. ‘I do not acknowledge fear because I have nothing to fear. The Emperor is my comrade at arms, and protects me at all times.’
‘Praise be,’ she said.
‘Praise be,’ he responded.
‘It is a hard battle,’ she said, looking out at the flash and roar of the plains, then up to the phantasmal castle. ‘I wish I were away from here, in the fight.’
‘You could be,’ said Mathieu with a sly glance. ‘Go down to the fields of worship, wield your holy tools in bloody praise, and I shall tell no one.’
She laughed at his conspiratorial tone. ‘I have my duty here. We may be denied guardianship of the holy child, but we will stand ready to be called. The Emperor ordains it. The red sacrament must wait. What of you? Will you not go to the front?’
‘I have been ordered to stay here also,’ said Mathieu. This was something of a lie. He had requested to remain to be nearer to the girl.
‘For the sake of the child?’ she asked.
‘Not entirely,’ he lau
ghed shamefacedly. ‘It is because I annoy the most sainted primarch.’ That much was true.
‘Your personality, or your calling?’ she asked neutrally.
‘I am vain enough to believe he has a little time for me as a man, but he has very little respect for priests in general,’ said Mathieu.
‘Then what they say about him is true?’ she asked. ‘He does not believe in the divinity of the most holy God-Emperor?’
Mathieu nodded. ‘Lamentably so. He witnesses all the wonders of his father around him, and yet he cannot see His power at work. Guilliman denies it.’
‘How can he not believe?’ asked Iolanth, troubled by the idea.
Mathieu spoke thoughtfully. ‘It is as if he is willingly blind. He does not want to see it, so he does not. The Lord Guilliman rarely speaks of his father. When he does, he insists on His humanity. I see it as my holy purpose to open Lord Guilliman’s eyes. To make him see, to help him believe.’ He paused. ‘I had a dream.’
‘Good or bad?’
‘A bad one, with a good message.’
‘The Emperor speaks to the most faithful through dreams.’
‘So it is said,’ said Mathieu ambivalently. Let Iolanth draw her own conclusions.
‘What did the dream tell you?’
‘The grains of time slither by so eagerly,’ said Mathieu. ‘Battle goes on in the void and upon the plain. We teeter on the cusp of defeat. Soon that vessel, O mighty Galatan, will be close enough to accurately target the surface of this world, and the battle will be decided. If the traitors hold sway there, we will perish. Imagine how more likely a favourable outcome would be if the primarch were free to aid the defenders. He is detained here, and yet here on this world is the key to an easy victory. We should use what we have, aid him, and speed him on his way to orbit.’
‘You are speaking of the child.’
‘I am.’
‘Lord Commander Guilliman ordered that she be held here,’ said Iolanth.
Mathieu smiled serenely at the mist hanging over the plains, where Titans duelled with weapons of light and power, and a million men fought desperately beyond his sight. ‘I would die to save the primarch. I would gladly suffer all the torments of the warp if he would see clearly for but one second the truth of his father’s nature. I am sure if he did then mankind would prosper as never before.’ He paused, then turned quickly to look the Sister Superior in the eye, and spoke fervently. ‘Tell me, Sister Iolanth. Would you die to bring the son of the Emperor fully into His light, as I would?’
‘I would,’ she said. ‘I desire nothing more than to serve the Master of Mankind with my life, and my death.’
‘Then kneel,’ he said.
She hesitated. He opened his hand and indicated the floor.
Iolanth dropped to one knee. Her braids swung over her face. Mathieu rested his hand lightly upon the crown of her head. ‘I cannot tell you what is to come, for that is the Emperor’s gift alone. But I shall tell that the child can save the primarch. By showing him he does not fight alone, but that his father is by his side, the primarch can be brought into the Emperor’s light. She might save the whole Imperium, if she opens his eyes. Whosoever aids the girl will be called a saint.’
Iolanth looked up at him.
‘Why do you not do it?’
‘I cannot act. The primarch will be angry with the one who shows him the truth. I must be there to guide him once it has been presented to him. He will resist at first.’
‘You are well placed to show him the way,’ Iolanth said.
He nodded.
‘Then I know what must be done,’ she said.
‘I will not command you,’ said Mathieu. ‘I cannot. If you decide to follow this course, it must be by your own decision.’
‘I have made my choice.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Bless me, militant-apostolic, so I might be forgiven whatever transgressions I must make to fulfil the Emperor’s will.’
‘Sometimes good intentions require bad deeds to realise them. The Emperor’s grace already surrounds you. I can see it. The light of purity enfolds you.’
‘I am a good servant. My faith is strong.’
‘I see that. It is a pure faith, a powerful faith. That is why the primarch needs you when I cannot help him.’ He gripped her head and closed his eyes. ‘In the name of the Emperor of Terra, Lord and Master of all Mankind, I bless you and commend you to His protection.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Rise, Sister Superior Iolanth,’ he whispered.
Iolanth stood. She gave Mathieu a fierce look.
‘I am a warrior of the Emperor, and I shall serve Him unto death.’
Mathieu smiled. ‘That is all He requires of us. Now go, and perform the Emperor’s will.’
Iolanth’s warriors were armoured from head to toe, but they could move silently when needed. Two of them ghosted along the corridor towards the part of the Shoreward Bastion where the girl was kept, the faint whine of their armour mechanisms hidden by the thump of weapons being fired a hundred kilometres away. They kept to the shadows, two at the rear, bolters up and ready to fire, a third out ahead, her knife in her hand. The lead Sister came to a soundless halt, her hand up. Her Sisters stopped a few metres up the corridor and covered her with their weapons.
The advantage of infiltrating your own facility was that you knew where all the blindspots were.
A sole member of Devorus’ regiment stood guard at an intersection. There was only one; nobody expected an attack from within the Imperial ranks. The door was locked. All six of the indicator lights on the door’s control panel were an unwavering red. Though Tyros was not currently under threat, the soldier took his duty seriously, neither too relaxed or too tense to do his job properly. He stood at wary ease, his lasgun ready across his chest, finger straight beside the trigger guard. His vigilant eyes flicked back and forth, covering all three approaches to the door, ahead, left and right. The Sisters shrank back when his gaze darted in their direction.
Iolanth approached him from ahead. He did not stand to attention or salute, but shifted his gun ever so slightly, readying it to fire. He was a veteran killer. Ordinary men did not survive long in the Imperial Guard by taking things on trust.
‘Sister Superior Iolanth,’ Iolanth announced herself. ‘I am here to see the child. Open the door.’
‘I know who you are, Sister,’ said the soldier. ‘I can guess why you’re here, and I’m not opening the door.’
Some soldiers were highly religious and held the Battle Sisterhood in awe. Some soldiers didn’t give a damn. Devorus had chosen his sentry carefully.
‘Very well,’ said Iolanth. ‘I shall frame my request as an order. Open the door.’ She moved a few centimetres to her left. The soldier followed her enough to keep her fully in his sight, but he didn’t turn his back on the corridor to his left where the three Sisters hid in the shadows.
The soldier brought up his gun and sighted down the barrel. ‘Back away from the door, Sister,’ he said. ‘I can’t let you through.’
‘That is regrettable,’ said Sister Iolanth.
The soldier was skilled, but she was better, moving to the side and grabbing the end of his lasgun with her open right hand. It discharged once, a lonely crack of superheated air. By the time Iolanth had crushed the barrel, the other Sisters had moved up.
The knife of the lead Sister parted the man’s neck, destroying his vocal cords and opening his veins before he could call out. He fell with a helpless gurgle.
It did them no good.
A sensor blinked on the man’s breast, noting his stilled heart. An alarm went off. Now the game was up, other Sisters came jogging down the corridors, and took up firing positions.
‘Throne,’ said Iolanth. The mission was turning regrettably bloody. The lights on the door blinked and turned blue. ‘Lockdown. Squad Evangelis, remain here to repel reinforcements. Si
ster Rhapsody, krak the door. All of you, ready to follow me as soon as the way is open.’ She readied her gun. ‘The Emperor has decreed we face a challenge. In His praise, we shall rise to the test.’
Sister Rhapsody took an oval implosion charge from her belt and clapped it to the door. ‘Stand clear!’ she said, and withdrew.
The grenade banged. The door burst inwards. Rhapsody kicked it back into its housing and stood to the side, making way for Iolanth to step over the soldier. As he was twitching his last, she was moving down the corridor.
War blinked over the plains of Hecatone, casting coloured light upon the ceiling. Night was well entrenched, but battle raged. It will proceed for days, thought Devorus. He had welcomed the orders to remain behind, but now he was getting bored, and his companions made him uneasy. He itched to join the rest of the army in the simpler work of fighting.
There were four people in the room: Devorus, the child, the Sister of Silence and a giant Primaris Space Marine that Tetrarch Felix had set to watch over them. All Space Marines were strange to a baseline human, and most were emotionally stunted, with little interest in conversing with other men. But the Primaris type seemed even less talkative than their predecessors. This one stood in the corner, his blue armour blending with the shadows, still as a mountain.
The Sister was worse. She kneeled on the other side of the room, the point of her drawn sword against the floor and her eyes closed in meditation. She had a name, Voi, he thought. He had been told several times, but it wouldn’t stick in his memory, and every time he reminded himself of it he doubted his mind. Her presence made him queasy. Despite the revulsion she engendered his eyes kept sliding back to her. When she had come near to him he had felt a terrifying, sucking nothingness, as if death stood at his side. He probed the sensation repeatedly, eliciting shudders every time, as if it was a sore tooth he could not leave alone.
