by Darius Hinks
The servitor fluttered before him, holding the metal plate closer, and he recalled its name: Vidiens, the Oraculist. As the servitor shifted the plate slightly, Mephiston studied what he had been engraving on the polished metal – an incredibly complex astrological chart. While his mind had been tumbling through the warp, lost and blind to its own nature, his fingers had continued this crucial work. Finalising the details of his masterpiece. He had been inscribing the metal with a stylus, and the shapes mirrored the blood web that filled the chamber. Mephiston peered closer at the details, awed by the fineness of his creation. The design was intricate in a way that would confound even the greatest Mechanicus adept, but he could discern every elegant subtlety. It was a map of time and souls, a chart of ideas that had yet to form. He had illustrated a galaxy hidden from everyone but him – the galaxy of prophecy and life-force. His blood hunger went forgotten as he sank back into the work.
He saw the decades he had spent charting a path across the stars, recording everything, halting for nothing, baulking at nothing, moving ever closer to his glittering prize. The prize that was clearly worked into the brass. He stared at it in wonder. He had rendered nothing short of hope. He had drawn the glory of the Chapter, assured forever, by a victory that was almost in his grasp.
At the centre of the design there was a stylised winged angel beheading a writhing serpent with his sword, as a host of other angels raised their weapons in tribute, bathed in the light of an imperious, beneficent Sanguinius. The serpent crossed the whole map, dividing it in two and spawning hundreds more snakes from its belly.
The howling wretches that haunted Mephiston gathered over his shoulders, staring at shapes they could not hope to understand. He pitied them, of course, but their deaths were a footnote, a distraction – and there could be no more distractions. The Imperium had come too close to defeat. Humanity was on the brink of extinction. The galaxy was torn. The final bell was about to toll. But he had found the answer. And now he would realise his vision before the map on the salver became nothing but serpents.
‘Wait! Vidiens. What have you done?’ he asked, noticing something terrible. He looked up at the Oraculist, his eyes darkening. He touched a flaw at the heart of the diagram: a jarring, ugly mass of lines that confused the whole design. Even as he glared at the servitor’s expressionless mask, seeing the panic in its eyes, he realised that the fault was not with Vidiens. The final piece of understanding fell into place. This was the result of the dreadful blindness that had overcome him. The scrawled lines showed the failure of sight that had driven him further than ever before into the abyss.
He stared at his dripping, skinless hands and realised how close he had come to losing himself. But what had brought him back? Rhacelus. Of course. He recalled the blood he had seen on Rhacelus’ hands. Mephiston had been called back by the same friend who had saved him so many times before.
At the thought of that old, noble soul, he looked up from the salver.
Rhacelus was still trying to fight through the tumult, but the ghosts had become an impassable barrier, hacking and thrashing against him, filling the air with accusations, driving him back.
Mephiston raised a finger and the spirits scattered, creating a path for Rhacelus. His equerry raced to the top of the dais and grabbed his arm, the fingers of his gauntlet sinking into the exposed muscle.
‘My lord,’ cried Rhacelus. ‘You must cease this…’ He looked at the howling faces. ‘You’re tearing the ship apart.’
Mephiston was still warp-drunk. Impossible places were drifting through his mind. He could not think how to reply to such an absurd demand. Stop? Stop seeking the answer he had pursued for decades at the expense of everything else? He turned to the Oraculist as though Vidiens could answer for Rhacelus’ madness. The servitor’s pale human eyes were just visible through the sockets of its mask. It answered in a shrill staccato.
‘Lord Rhacelus,’ it said. ‘The Chief Librarian, Emperor be blessed, is close to success. We have reached the Great Rift at the beginning of the twelfth dawn. Of the sanguine son. The Angel of Baal has spoken thrice. And thrice he has been silent. The Angel has spoken to us. This is not the time to lose faith. Emperor ever be praised. It is a time to pray. Pray and be enlightened. The path to bloody redemption is revealed. But it is not always the–’
‘Lord Mephiston,’ Rhacelus growled, not even looking at the rambling servitor. He gripped Mephiston’s skinless arm so tight that blood oozed over his fingers. ‘Can you hear me?’
Anger swelled up through Mephiston’s chest and bled out into reality – the warp, always straining to escape his flesh, sliced through the joins in his bones and ligaments. The deck shook violently as his rage rocked the ship. A deep, grinding moan echoed through the bulkheads.
Rhacelus drew back his hand and looked around in confusion. ‘My lord…’ he whispered, but he seemed unsure how to continue.
‘The path to bloody redemption is revealed,’ whined the servitor. ‘Pray and be enlightened.’
The servitor’s hectoring tone gave Rhacelus focus. His expression changed to an irritated snarl and he reached past the Oraculist, moving with inhuman speed, writing on the salver before the servitor could stop him. He traced a single word with the blood that was still flowing from his hand. A name. Mephiston’s blood rage was about to boil over into violence when he saw what Rhacelus had written: Calistarius.
The fire in his soul guttered and dimmed. He slumped back, staring at Rhacelus.
‘Calistarius,’ said Rhacelus, invoking the power of the Chief Librarian’s former name. ‘You are destroying this ship.’ He looked up at the vast wings Mephiston had ripped from his back, and the agonised shadows whirling through them. ‘And you are destroying yourself. Whatever this is, you must stop it.’
The old name was a code – a reminder of their shared past, of a trust that would not be forgotten. With a great effort, Mephiston crushed his anger and lifted his hand away from the salver.
When he finally spoke, his voice was thick and slow, as though he had just awoken from a deep sleep. ‘Stop, Rhacelus?’
‘My lord, the ship.’ There was no judgement in Rhacelus’ eyes, only relief that he had been recognised.
Mephiston stared at Rhacelus, then nodded at the corpses hanging from the web. ‘We are almost there.’ His words came quicker. ‘Everything stems from the daemon. I see that now. When we reach the daemon, I can heal the Great Rift, Rhacelus, do you understand? I can heal it. The daemon I seek is the lynchpin of everything.’
Mephiston shook his head as he looked back at the scribbled mess at the heart of the salver. ‘After all these years of hunting, my prey was within reach, but the final approach has been obscured. Something has blinded me. I do not understand how.’ He raised a hand and the corpses juddered in response, a troupe of crooked dancers, wrenching their skeins of flesh into new shapes. ‘But there is always a rite that works. There is always a word that unlocks the truth. And I am so close now, Rhacelus. I will regain my sight. I will complete this chart.’
‘But…’ Rhacelus looked at Mephiston’s butchered flesh and shook his head. ‘One daemon, Mephiston, in a galaxy overrun with daemons – is it worth all this? What of Baal? Are we right to keep tracking this one daemon when so much has been lost?’
Mephiston was surprised by his equerry’s doubt. ‘Do you think me vainglorious? Do you think I’m trophy hunting?’
‘No, my lord. Of course not.’ Rhacelus waved at the strangeness of the web. ‘But you are collapsing.’
‘Everything is collapsing, Rhacelus. You saw what we faced on Baal. You saw what we fought at Dante’s side. And you have seen the horrors of the Great Rift. Our time is almost up.’
Mephiston tapped the design on the salver – pointing at the serpent that divided the galaxy. ‘I see more than rifts and storms. I see the cause. The daemon I seek is one of the architects of the Great Rift and I am li
nked to him. I see it constantly now, Rhacelus, in my dreams.’ Mephiston stared at the salver as though it were the daemon. ‘An old monk, frail and hunched, its face hidden in its hood. And when the hood shifts there is no head, Rhacelus, just a bird-skull – long and bleached, like a claw. And it recites a mantra. We dream, dreaming, dreamed. Over and over again. The mantra refers to the Great Rift, I am sure.’
Mephiston’s blood rushed as he considered how close he was to his prey. ‘Its sorcery underpins the Cicatrix Maledictum, I know it.’ He waved at the salver. ‘All my designs lead to its door. The daemon’s deceits have helped turn the whole war against us. And now it is within my reach. We cannot simply return to Baal – we must press on, press on, Rhacelus. This is my great purpose. This is my duty. This is the Angel’s wish.’
‘Calistarius,’ said Rhacelus. ‘I believe you. I have always believed you. But, my lord, think. Your vision has been obscured. We cannot just plough blindly on. Your power is too great now to simply–’
‘My power?’ Mephiston stood and reached into the shadows, grabbing another ghost, forming darkness into flesh. ‘This power? Look at what I have wrought. Death, Rhacelus, so much death. Do not talk to me of waiting.’
He shook the reanimated corpse at Rhacelus, splashing his armour with blood. It was a young Guardsman, as mutilated and distressed as the previous one. The undead wretch stared at Rhacelus through strained, blue-white eyes.
‘I must be destined to save us, Rhacelus,’ said Mephiston. ‘Because if I am not…’ He stared at the corpse in his hand. ‘What am I destined for?’
‘Your power is the light of Sanguinius,’ said Rhacelus. ‘I have never doubted it.’
Mephiston was still looking at the pitiful ghosts. ‘This cannot be for nothing.’
Rhacelus shook his head. ‘Do your auguries tell you nothing?’
Mephiston barged through the spirits and reached out into the bloody web, spilling light from his fingers, illuminating the threads.
‘They tell me everything.’
He waved his hand and created another surge of spasmodic movements. ‘Simultaneously.’ As the corpses moved they threw shadows, and each shadow revealed a scene. The more they moved, the more scenes they described, each one superimposed over another. It was bewildering – cities and star systems, murders and births, battles and rites, each contradicting the other.
‘Rhacelus,’ said Mephiston, ‘since we tracked its followers from Divinus Prime, all those years ago, I have never lost sight of the daemon. Until now. Through all these decades, Rhacelus, I have been sure of my purpose. Even now, blind as I am, I know we are close. When we left Hydrus Ulterior I caught a glimpse of the daemon’s tracks and we can’t be far away now.’
Rhacelus frowned as he studied the bloody ruin Mephiston had made of himself. ‘But you can’t carry on like this.’ He waved at the crowds of howling spirits. ‘You are haunted.’
Mephiston gave a bleak laugh. ‘Only by myself.’ He waved a hand and the roar was silenced.
Rhacelus looked around in confusion. The spirits had vanished.
‘There are no ghosts.’ Mephiston tapped his naked skull. ‘Apart from the ones we carry in here.’
‘If only all our foes could be so easily dismissed,’ said Rhacelus. ‘While you were away trying to regain your warp sight the Blood Oath has been attacked. The void shields are failing. We translated back into real space two weeks ago, off course, deep in the Revenant Stars and dangerously close to the Great Rift. Necrons attacked almost immediately and without shields we will soon be–’
‘The Revenant Stars.’ Mephiston frowned, silencing Rhacelus with a raised finger. ‘Near the Great Rift.’ He barely registered the Librarian’s concerns about necrons. The name of the star system was familiar to him. He waved the Oraculist over to the bookshelves that lined the walls.
The servitor fluttered through the shadows as Mephiston called out the titles of books, then, after a few moments, it flew back to him, using the salver to carry a pile of leather-bound volumes.
The books were ancient and incredibly valuable, and Mephiston had no intention of staining the pages with his skinless fingers. He whispered a few coaxing words and the books drifted before him, fluttering their pages until they settled on the passages he sought. Rhacelus and the servitor watched in respectful silence as Mephiston peered at each of the pages in turn.
After a few minutes of intense concentration, Mephiston nodded at the servitor and it returned the books to the shelves.
Mephiston motioned for Rhacelus to approach. ‘We are not too far off the daemon’s trail. I have seen its face in the warp and studied its routes through the immaterium. There is a great storm surge coming to the Great Rift, Rhacelus, in this sector and at this time. An aspect of the daemon will appear here, in real space, within my reach.
‘I lost myself for a while,’ he continued, ‘but now we will remove this delay and continue.’ He tapped one of the solar systems engraved into the metal salver. It was on the edge of the twisted serpent that signified the Cicatrix Maledictum and it was framed by a narrow, angular skull design. ‘Something in this system is the source of my recent blindness and the edge of the Great Rift is exactly where we need to be.’
Mephiston reached out towards the skin web that surrounded them, fanning his crimson fingers until the shadow scenes reflowed, drawing new pictures from the darkness. The silhouettes of metal automata marched into view – rigid, robotic figures, moving with inhuman precision.
Mephiston’s expression was blank. ‘Necrons. The flotsam the war has left behind. They have no hope against the horrors about to pour from this stretch of the Great Rift. I doubt they are even aware of the doom that comes for them. But they have found something powerful out here. It has stifled my second sight in a way I have not experienced before. It feels more like a mechanical block than a spiritual failing. It is unlike anything…’ His words trailed off and he shook his head, unsure how to describe what he was feeling.
The servitor fluttered back over to them and looked at the planets Mephiston had pointed out on the salver. ‘The Revenant Stars were lost to the thrice-damned necrons centuries ago. It was once a great source of promethium. Before the arrival of the xenos, we colonised some of the worlds and built glorious, fortified pits, called bastion mines. But with the arrival of the Great Rift, the system was abandoned. Left to rot. Emperor preserve its memory.’
Rhacelus shook his head. ‘We relinquished a whole sector to the necrons?’
Mephiston nodded. ‘On the order of Guilliman himself. All local Astra Militarum regiments were redeployed to join his Indomitus Crusade. This sector was deemed beyond saving. The lord commander would not spare a soul then and neither would he now. As you and I fought with Lord Commander Dante to preserve Baal, the necrons were given dominion over this damned place.’
He traced his finger over the sigils on the plate, animating the bodies strung from his wings. The corpses twitched and jerked, dragging the threads into a new collection of shapes. Behind the ranks of gleaming automata, a planet whirled into view.
‘Morsus,’ said Mephiston, stepping closer and staring at the spinning globe. ‘This is the exact source of my blindness.’ He reached out to grasp the ghost planet, letting his fingers fall through it. ‘The shadow comes from this world, Rhacelus. Throne knows what it is, but these necrons have blocked my path with something. And while I am blind, the Great Rift grows, unabated.’ He recalled some of the strangest scenes he had witnessed in the warp. ‘And those that have been trapped in its shadow, lost to the light of the Emperor, are in terrible danger.’
As he passed his hand through the image, Mephiston felt the weight of his vast wings, trembling above him, scattering blood rain across the floor. The bulkheads groaned again and more alarms barked into life. Rhacelus staggered back towards the edge of the dais as the ship juddered with renewed violence.
&nbs
p; ‘Calistarius!’ warned Rhacelus.
Mephiston paused, then lowered his hand and the planet faded from view. He turned to the servitor hovering in the air beside him. ‘Help me dress.’
The servitor took a hymnal from its robes. Then it launched into a droning prayer, warbling the words in a piercing falsetto. As the servitor sang, Mephiston mouthed silent responses. It was an incantation he had never recited before but the words formed all too easily in his mind. Rather than searching for the right syllables, as he did when taking his flesh apart, he now had to make a concerted effort to stop them becoming a torrent. Ever since the Great Rift had torn the galaxy in two, power came almost too easily to his fingertips.
As the words echoed around his head, bolstered by the shrill harmonies of the servitor, the vast web of skin began to lash itself back onto his exposed muscles, hitting the raw meat with a series of audible slaps.
In a few seconds the crimson mesh had vanished from the chamber. Light flooded back into the room as the lumens drifting overhead were revealed and the thick, abattoir stench faded, replaced by the normal ship smells of incense, scented oil and engines.
Rhacelus looked around the chamber and frowned. ‘The bodies…?’
Mephiston listened for a moment to the voices clamouring at the back of his mind. ‘Still here, Rhacelus.’
He looked down at his chest. His skin was a network of hairline scars. At first glance, he looked like a collection of cadavers crudely sewn togaether, but even here his artistry was at work. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the scars were formed in elaborate designs, mirroring the charts on the brass salver.
‘My true armour,’ he said, noticing the recognition in Rhacelus’ eyes.
‘The world behind the world,’ said Rhacelus, recalling the Librarius tracts they had studied togaether as acolytes, centuries ago. He was quoting directly from the Scrolls of Sanguinius. ‘Power beyond sinew.’
Mephiston nodded, pleased that his old friend understood. Where others would have seen ugliness and heresy, Rhacelus saw divinity.
