by Darius Hinks
The captain shook his head and laughed in disbelief. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘Star Warriors,’ she said.
‘We saw a–’ began Eskol.
‘Did I ask you to speak, trooper?’ barked the captain, then he broke into a series of violent, rasping coughs. When the coughing ceased, he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief and Llourens saw spots of crimson. As he took a moment to catch his breath, Llourens noticed how painfully thin the captain was. She tried to imagine him as he must be beneath his thick, starched uniform. Little more than a skeleton, she guessed.
Once his breathing was under control, the captain gave Eskol a warning glance and then addressed Llourens again. ‘Tell me what you saw, sergeant,’ he said.
‘Sir, we were half a mile from the gatehouse near the twenty-eighth incline, near the shaft station – the one with the working gurneys.’
The captain grimaced, spat something into his handkerchief, then nodded for her to continue.
‘There was another tremor and this one didn’t sound like the ancients. They’re still bombing the south ridge, but this was something different. We approached the surface and I allowed Trooper Eskol to take a brief look outside.’
The captain shook his head at this but said nothing.
‘Eskol saw warriors, sir, walking on the surface.’
‘Ancients, you mean?’
‘No, sir, humans. Or at least…’ She glanced at Eskol and then back at the captain. ‘They were like humans, but big, as big as ogryns.’
‘They were ogryns then? Those vermin survive everywhere.’
‘No. Not blistermen. They wore decorative suits of armour and carried guns.’ She spoke quickly. ‘And I believe they’ve only just landed on Morsus. I think that was the cause of the strange tremor.’
The captain gave a weary shake of his head. Then another violent coughing fit rocked his frail body. Still coughing, he lifted a chipped enamel cup from his desk and sipped, filling the room with the smell of strong spirits. Once he was able to speak again he said, ‘Sergeant Llourens, if you’re foolish enough to approach the surface, and inhale Emperor-knows-what, you can expect to see all sorts of wonderful things.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘Shortly before your mind runs from your ears.’
He was about to wave them away, when something made him pause.
‘What made you refer to them as Star Warriors? Where did you hear that name?’
Llourens hesitated, then spoke quietly. ‘From an ogryn, sir.’
‘You’ve been talking to blistermen?’ The captain’s voice took on a more serious tone.
‘It spoke to us, sir,’ said Ghadd. ‘Eskol was telling us what he’d seen and the ogryn interrupted – talking about gods and servants. Sergeant Llourens didn’t talk back to it.’
Llourens was about to speak up, unhappy that Ghadd was covering for her, when the captain leant across his desk.
‘What did they look like, these Star Warriors?’ He pushed a dataslate and stylus towards Eskol.
Eskol hesitated and looked at Llourens.
‘Draw them, man!’ roared the captain, his voice surprisingly powerful for such a wasted ruin. He began coughing into his handkerchief again, but waved for Eskol to proceed.
Eskol grabbed the stylus and sketched out a few figures – hulking, heavily armoured soldiers, wearing backpacks and carrying large, two-handed guns. He paused to look at his sketch, then tapped his head, grinning as he remembered another detail. ‘They were all marked with an icon. A regimental badge. Wings,’ he muttered as he drew the symbol, ‘around a blood drop.’
The captain ceased his coughing and stared at Eskol’s drawing. The sneer faded from his face. ‘By the Throne,’ he mumbled, picking up the slate and shaking his head.
He switched on the vox-unit on his desk. ‘Get me Colonel Sartor,’ he said. ‘We might have a situation.’
‘Colonel Sartor was last seen inspecting the western barricades, Captain Elias,’ came the garbled reply, half drowned out by bursts of white noise and popping sounds. ‘He won’t return for at least a week.’
‘The western…?’ The captain looked pained and rapped his knuckles against his head. ‘What does he think we can defend the western barricades with? There are no men left. Never mind. I’ll deal with this myself. When he returns, tell him I’ve headed out to inspect the eastern perimeter with Sergeant Llourens.’ He glanced at her. ‘I need to know if she’s a heretic, a prophet or just an idiot.’
‘Captain?’ crackled the voice on the vox-unit.
‘Never mind,’ said the captain. ‘Idiot is the most likely answer.’ He took his rad-suit and rebreather mask down from a shelf and nodded at Eskol and Ghadd to fasten it for him. ‘Just tell the colonel this – Llourens thinks we have guests from off-world. Adeptus Astartes guests at that.’
The captain commandeered whoever he could find skulking around the barracks. He had been gathering troops for months from the outlying garrisons, claiming he was planning an offensive. Llourens wished she could believe him but she knew it was a lie. He was mustering troops because he was afraid, and growing more afraid with every day that passed. Colonel Sartor was even worse, hiding from his own troops in case they demanded action.
As Captain Elias led them all back into the mine’s eastern shaft, Llourens considered what a pitiful sight they would make if they did have to welcome warriors from another world. The ash storms had grown far worse over the last few years. The number of deaths from rad-poisoning had soared and those who hadn’t died were in a pitiful state.
And yet, despite all of this, Llourens still cradled a tiny ember of hope – not of victory, perhaps, but that she might one day find some kind of purpose, some way to make a difference. Something about the ogryn’s awed voice had breathed life into that ember. What kind of warrior could walk on the surface of Morsus? And, if they could do that, what else might they be capable of?
Captain Elias stumbled as he led them into the mine, squinting into the blue-white glare, and behind him came a hundred or so equally stooped, ill-looking wretches. The banner of the Sabine 12th fluttered weakly over their heads as they trudged after the captain, looking as though they could barely carry the weight of their lasrifles.
The captain paused to speak to a vox-officer, then they left the barracks and headed back down the tracks into the mine.
He glanced at Llourens, sneering. ‘It will be hilarious if you’re right, and it really is the Adeptus Astartes.’ He laughed. ‘Only three centuries too late.’
Chapter Six
As they approached its gates, Mephiston saw just how magnificent the bastion mine must once have been. Whatever prosaic industry lay beneath, above the ground it was an angel-shrouded monolith – a glorious tribute to the artistry of the Imperium. Even now, shattered and halved in height, it looked more like the spur of a mountain than a man-made building. Harsh, Morsusian winds had eroded the fortress’ pediments and parapets, lashing them with toxic blasts, rounding the edges to a smooth, indistinct mass of crumbling rock, but that only seemed to lend it more grandeur.
Mephiston led the Blood Angels through the remains of a triumphal arch and on into a broad, square parade ground, bordered by distant terraces and rows of dark windows that had long ago lost their glass, causing them to resemble a forest of sightless eyes staring at the Space Marines. The parade ground was littered with crumbling tank skeletons and the remains of other armoured vehicles, and at its centre was a pedestal of a long-gone statue. Only a pair of colossal, crumbling feet remained of whichever saint had once stood there.
Lieutenant Servatus ordered his men to fan out through the rubble and search for enemies, but the ruins seemed utterly lifeless – the only noise came from the wind, moaning through the broken masonry.
Mephiston climbed stairs that must once have led to a doorway, but were now just a broken limb of stone lead
ing to nothing. He peered at the statue’s feet then nodded and pointed. ‘Between the toes of the statue,’ he said quietly into the vox.
Rhacelus hurried up the steps and stood beside Mephiston, staring through the junkyard of broken machines.
‘Wait,’ said Mephiston, his voice humming over the vox-network. The light was flashing in a deliberate pattern.
‘That’s an Imperial signal,’ said Rhacelus, turning to Servatus and waving for the other Blood Angels to approach.
The two Librarians left the shattered staircase, climbed up onto the pedestal and approached the statue’s feet, with Servatus and the others following behind.
At the base of the statue was the broken remains of a doorway – a broad arch that must once have housed a pair of tall, heavy doors. The doors were long gone, the doorway just a gaping mouth leading to a wall of shadows. The light came from within.
Mephiston held up a hand, signalling for the others to wait as he stepped closer, sword raised, and approached the source of the light. Through the doorway he saw, jutting from the exposed, iron supports overhead, the remains of a mirror – a single piece of broken glass, lodged in a joist. It blinked at him as he approached, reflecting a light that he now saw came up from the lower levels, from an empty lift shaft.
He tried to send his thoughts down the shaft, to reach out with his mind, but it was no use.
He turned to Servatus, who nodded and took the auspex from one of his men. He studied it, the light of the screen flashing across his helmet, columns of glyphs flickering over the polished ceramite.
‘Life forms,’ said Servatus, ‘a few hundred feet below us, in a large chamber. Humans.’
‘Armed?’ asked Rhacelus.
‘Lasweapons.’
Mephiston nodded, then jumped into the lift shaft, drifting weightlessly down into the darkness, surrounded by a faint nimbus of aetheric light. Rhacelus followed in the same way, gliding ghost-like into the shadows, and the other Blood Angels climbed down, hanging from broken cables and girders.
As they moved, the darkness started to lift, replaced by a cool radiance that pulsed up from beneath their boots. It grew hotter as they climbed, adding to a sense that they were descending into an inferno of blue fire.
They passed several yawning, empty galleries and then stepped out onto a balcony overlooking a large assembly hall. The floor was broken in many places and the frigid light knifed up through the broad, domed chamber, creating columns of glittering dust motes. It gave the chamber a grand, cathedral-like quality, despite its pitiful, ruined state.
A block of soldiers was waiting on the far side of the hall, crowded before the entrance to a tunnel. They carried regimental banners laden with Imperial heraldry, but the cloth was threadbare and filthy. Their uniforms were torn and they had the grubby, dishevelled appearance of beggars or itinerants. Their lasweapons looked like they had not been cleaned for years and many of the troopers were wearing shapeless, rubber work suits.
At the head of the soldiers was something resembling a captain. Rather than setting a good example, he was even more unkempt than the slovenly rabble he commanded. He was unshaven and his hair hung down to his shoulders in thin, greasy strands. His right leg had been replaced by bionics and its workings left to rust and corrode, so that it screeched as he hobbled towards them. He staggered as he walked but that was not due to his artificial leg. There was a bottle jutting from the deep pocket of his trenchcoat. The captain was drunk.
As he neared the Blood Angels, the captain made a belated effort to smarten himself – fastening his coat and patting down his errant hair. His face was contorted by a mixture of fear and resentment.
‘My lords,’ he said, his voice a husky croak. He cleared his throat, stood a little more erect and saluted. ‘My lords, welcome to the bastion mines. I’m Captain Elias of the Sabine Twelfth.’
He paused, squinting up at the Blood Angels, struggling to discern their faces in the shifting light.
Mephiston said nothing, waiting for the captain to continue.
‘My lord,’ said Elias, ‘Morsus is in xenos hands.’ He shuffled across the hall, still peering up at the Blood Angels. ‘Have you come to save us?’
Mephiston glanced at the bottle in Elias’ coat. ‘From what?’
Elias’ face flushed with colour.
Mephiston led the Blood Angels down from the balcony and they gathered before Elias and his scared-looking men.
‘I need to find the lord of this xenos army,’ said Mephiston. ‘Where is their base of operations?’
Elias looked confused. ‘You want to go to their fortress?’
Mephiston stared at him.
Elias wiped his lips with a trembling hand. ‘They have thousands of soldiers. There’s no way you could get close. There’s no way in.’
‘There is a way,’ said the sergeant at his side, her face flushed with emotion. Mephiston looked her way. She was as bedraggled and gaunt as all the other soldiers, but there was a steel in her eyes that the captain lacked. She was trembling, not with drunkenness, but with excitement.
Captain Elias seemed furious at the interruption, but before he could speak Mephiston signalled for the sergeant to approach.
She glanced apologetically at Captain Elias as she passed him, then bowed to Mephiston.
‘My lords,’ she said. ‘I am Sergeant Llourens. The ancients’ fortress is in the eastern district of the first canton, deep underground, beneath the largest bastion mine – the one we call the Infernum.’
As the Blood Angels turned their menacing, visored helmets towards her, Sergeant Llourens grew more passionate, rather than more afraid. ‘The ancients are insane, my lords. I and my men have tried striking back at them but they don’t even register us. They spend their time attacking empty strips of land and dropping bombs on the clouds. I bet you could breach the upper levels of the Infernum and descend into their underground complex before they even noticed what you were doing.’
Rhacelus removed his helmet and locked his shimmering, sapphire gaze on Llourens. She was clearly unnerved by his inhuman glare, but she held her place.
‘This Infernum,’ said Rhacelus. ‘How is it defended?’
‘By legions of undead machines,’ said Captain Elias, scowling at Llourens. ‘Metal revenants that will dissolve your flesh.’ He stepped closer to Mephiston. ‘There is no way to fight your way in. They regenerate. Every time you think you’ve killed one it is born again at one of their regeneration points.’ His voice was hoarse with passion. ‘We tried for years to find those regeneration points but it’s impossible. There’s no way to get close enough to locate them. If you try to attack them you’ll be facing an enemy that can be endlessly reborn in whatever numbers they need.’
Llourens nodded. ‘It’s true. We’ve never found those regeneration points. They’re hidden somewhere far beneath the Infernum. But the ancients are fools. They defend perimeters that don’t exist and spend the rest of their time ambushing rocks.’ She waved at two other Guardsmen. ‘We got closer than anyone else in the regiment and I’ve seen blistermen living within just a few miles of the Infernum. There’s no way blistermen could survive out there if the ancients were actually patrolling their borders.’ Her words became a torrent as she voiced ideas long held back. ‘The heart of the Infernum is probably half empty. Whoever rules the ancients sends his armies out across all of Morsus, attacking nothing. If you got past those first few upper levels it would likely be easy to reach the lord himself.’
She paused, staring eagerly at Mephiston.
Mephiston watched her for a moment, impressed. Then he noticed that the shadows beyond the Guardsmen were starting to shift and roll, forming into familiar shapes.
The dead had left him alone as they crossed the planet’s surface, but here, in the dark, they returned in force, screaming through the oblivious Guardsmen and surprising Mephiston
with the ferocity of their attack. They had not been this angry since he left the Blood Oath.
He resisted the urge to fight back as they crashed into him, but there was such a torrent of agonised souls that he could not help taking a step back and raising his hand slightly in a defensive gesture.
Llourens and the other Guardsmen flinched, thinking Mephiston was about to attack them. Rhacelus placed a hand on Mephiston’s arm and spoke into his mind.
Stay with us. We need you here.+
Mephiston nodded and shrugged Rhacelus off, trying to see through the storm of dead soldiers to the real ones standing before him.
‘Do you know the way to the Infernum?’ he asked, managing to focus on Llourens’ face, despite the tornado of spirits that spiralled around him.
She nodded, determination in her eyes. ‘I’ve been within half a mile of the western gate,’ she said. ‘And I know every tunnel in this complex. I can show you the way. I could get you there in two days if we used the old groundcars.’
Captain Elias stared at her, incredulous. ‘She’s more insane than the xenos. You’ll all be dead before you get anywhere near that.’
Mephiston ignored the captain and continued staring at Llourens.
‘Consider yourself relieved of your command, Captain Elias,’ said Mephiston, without looking at him. Then he waved for Llourens to lead the way. ‘Show me what you know, sergeant.’
She looked from Mephiston to Elias. His face was white with rage, but he did not dare reply to Mephiston.
Llourens saluted, looking dazed, as the Guardsmen turned to face her. Not one of them questioned Mephiston’s order. She turned on her heel and headed back across the hall.
‘This way,’ she muttered.
After a few confused seconds, the other Guardsmen followed her, with Elias and his aides marching rigidly at the rear, glaring at her back.
Mephiston and Rhacelus walked beside Llourens as they crossed the hall, making for a distant archway. Rhacelus was watching Mephiston with a troubled expression, seeing how distant he was becoming, twitching and glaring at things only he could see.
