by Darius Hinks
Then he held up a warning hand, gesturing to the shadows beneath one of the gunships.
‘Down there,’ he said, keeping his voice low.
I see nothing,+ replied Antros, projecting his reply telepathically into the Chapter Master’s mind.
Dragomir stepped backwards, as though he had been shoved, staring at Antros in surprise.
Forgive me,+ said Antros. +I did not wish to speak aloud.+
Dragomir continued staring at him for a moment, clearly disturbed by the idea of a voice appearing in his mind, but then he nodded and signalled to his men. ‘The distress signal is coming from those shadows. Approach with care.’
The Sons of Helios split up, heading towards the deck, racing easily down stairways and ladders with their bolters ready. They rushed towards the gunship from different directions.
Antros and Dragomir were the first to reach the shadows beneath the wings. The pale, flickering glow of the emergency lights barely pierced the darkness, but it was enough for their powerful, Adeptus Astartes eyes.
There was a vox-unit on the floor, chattering to itself, repeating the same disjointed signal Dragomir had been tracking.
‘It’s a trick,’ said Antros.
A piece of machinery had been wedged against the vox-unit, keeping the channel open and forcing it to broadcast the same, looping message.
Something moved in the shadows.
Antros raised his staff and poured light into the darkness, revealing a large spore sack. It must have fallen from the ceiling at some point and spewed its contents across the deck. There was a great, teeming mass of spores tumbling from its pallid flesh, some spilling across the floor and others drifting up into the pulsing light.
Dragomir stepped back, but Antros gripped his arm, nodding at the cascading spores.
As the spores rose they formed a dark, whirling tunnel, a miniature tornado of glinting shells rising quickly from the ground.
Dragomir waved to his men. ‘Do not let those things on your armour.’
The Sons of Helios edged back, their guns still raised, but Antros was too intrigued to move. The spores reminded him of something. As he watched, the cloud grew denser and darker, rearing up from the deck and taking on a definite shape: the hulking, powerful silhouette of a Space Marine.
The shape spoke. Its voice was a wet, bubbling belch, full of joy. ‘We had almost given up hope, Lord Dragomir.’
It was a hideous mockery of a Space Marine. It wore a suit of rotten, rusting power armour that bore Sons of Helios Chapter markings. Antros could see the remnants of their flaming sun device on its chest-plate and shoulder pad but the armour was now as warped and buckled as the rest of the station. The ceramite had changed from gold to a garish, toxic yellow and it was covered in broken sores. One of the suit’s arms had mutated into a jagged, bloated claw like the limb of a crustacean, and where the helmet should be there was a lump of puckered flesh – rolls of white blubber heaped around a ridged, foot-long tusk curving up from its forehead. The face had no mouth that Antros could discern, but it had eyes – three tiny studs of jet, just below the tusk, glinting merrily.
‘You’re just in time,’ said the mutant, the words slopping from some hidden orifice.
‘Brother-Sergeant Koloch?’ said Dragomir.
‘My lord,’ said the monstrous figure and its pale head split in half, revealing a mouth so wide that it hinged its entire head. The gaping maw was crowded with spine-like teeth and a lolling, rotten tongue. There was genuine delight in its voice. And there was something almost canine about the way it lurched towards the Chapter Master. ‘I thought we would have to leave without you. I thought you would never come.’
Before the grotesque creature could get any closer, the Sons of Helios opened fire. Bolt-rounds ripped through its half-formed shape, shattering the rusted armour and tearing the blubbery flesh.
The monster slammed back against the gunship’s landing gear and disintegrated as the shots kept thudding into it. Before its face was obliterated, Antros saw shock and hurt in its eyes.
There was more movement behind them and Antros stepped back from the ship, his gaze sweeping the hangar. All around them, the spore sacks were bursting open and spilling their contents. Some of the spore clouds formed frail, withered humans, but others birthed figures like Sergeant Koloch: hulking, Chaos-warped Space Marines, their armour transformed by crustacean-like growths.
Antros waved his staff and the shambling figures erupted in cerulean fire. The Sons of Helios formed a defensive circle around Dragomir, firing in every direction, kicking the mutant horrors off their feet and scattering the spore clouds.
As more shadows stomped towards them, a deafening roar filled the hangar and the ground juddered with the tremor of vast engines. Warning klaxons began barking and all around the deck strip-lumens blazed, revealing the Chaos Space Marines in horrible clarity. The station was coming back to life.
‘It’s a trap,’ growled Antros.
Dragomir stopped firing for a moment and stared at him.
‘The facility is operational,’ said Antros, drawing his pistol and downing a four-armed horror climbing from the balcony. ‘These things wanted you to come back.’
As the Sons of Helios tore down the approaching figures, the engine noise grew in volume, competing with the furious baying of the alarms.
‘They are not firing,’ said Antros, lowering his pistol and surveying the battle.
The shambling mutants were reaching out towards Dragomir, even as the bolter rounds slammed into their contorted armour, but none of them were firing back. There was a mixture of hurt and pleading in their distorted eyes, but no anger.
‘Leave none alive,’ said Dragomir quietly over the vox. ‘These things are no longer our brothers.’
The Sons of Helios fired even more furiously, sending volley after volley into the lumbering ranks. They began to move towards the Chaos Space Marines, advancing in orderly, disciplined lines.
Antros backed up the steps of the gunship, still firing his pistol, and saw that the mutants were absorbing the shots with no sign of pain or hesitation. Every time a blast sliced through their corroded armour, they simply climbed back to their feet and continued pressing closer.
There was a noise behind him on the steps and Antros whirled around, staff raised.
One of the abominations had emerged from the ship and was leering down at him from the hatch. It gripped a rusted chainsword in its armoured paw and levelled it at Antros.
‘The Blood Angel!’ it roared, spewing toxic sludge from a mandible-like mouth. ‘He has tricked Lord Dragomir! He does not belong here.’ His face twisted into a furious snarl, making his deformed features even more disturbing. ‘Kill the witch!’
Antros whispered a word of channelling and opened his mind to the warp, allowing it to flood down his staff. He gasped in shock. This close to the Great Rift, it was like trying to hold back the tide. He shook violently as warp flame lashed from the staff, eviscerating the mutant but also tearing open the gunship’s hull and hurling Antros back from the steps.
All across the hangar, mutants fired at Antros, but their shots punched uselessly into the gunship as Antros lay sprawled and dazed on the deck, enveloped in pulsing light.
Dragomir rushed through the dazzling nimbus and hauled Antros to his feet. Antros was rigid with exertion, straining to keep a leash on the warp flame.
Dragomir continued firing his pistol as he strode back through the wall of energy and rejoined the battle. Upon reaching the first of the mutants, he drew his power sword and began coolly slicing through them, fighting with smooth, even strokes as he scattered ink-black gore from their armour.
None of the Chaos Space Marines fired at Dragomir, even as he hacked them apart; they were all focused on Antros, howling and spitting as they tried to reach him.
Antros raised his staf
f, more carefully this time, and teased a little warp flame back into it, painting a glimmering shield across the air. The runes along the staff burned white hot and visions clawed at Antros’ mind. The colours boiling outside the station poured through the punctured hull and into his brain, filling his thoughts with malformed spirits. He staggered, battling to hold them back. Channelling the warp through his staff became impossible. His mind burned with the effort of containing such a powerful psychic tide.
With an agonising force of will he stemmed the blast, but the effort was so great he lost hold of his staff. It clattered to the floor, cold and inert.
Antros reeled across the deck as another spray of bolter rounds whined past him.
I cannot help you,+ he said, placing the words directly into Dragomir’s mind. +The rift is too close.+
Dragomir was still fighting, but he replied calmly over the vox. ‘I have found my missing brothers. I know what to do.’
Shots kicked into the hull behind Antros and he rolled clear as shrapnel exploded all around him. He grabbed his staff and fastened it to his back, then raised his pistol, firing super-heated gouts of plasma as he marched back into the fray.
The station’s engines were screaming furiously, shattering the statues that supported the balcony, scattering broken wings across the deck plating.
Antros fired again, then sprinted to a circular oculus behind the gunship. The stars had vanished. Everything had been consumed by madness.
‘They’re taking us in,’ he muttered.
Chapter Master,+ he thought, reaching back into Dragomir’s mind. +This is a trap. We have to leave now. They are flying the ship into the warp.+
‘This station cannot fly,’ replied Dragomir, but as he looked towards the oculus his sword blows faltered.
A Plague Marine barrelled past the Chapter Master, making for Antros and raising a spitting chainaxe. Dragomir lashed out with his power sword but the Plague Marine had already passed him, propelled by a savage fury.
Another battle-brother whirled around, loosing off a barrage of shots. The rounds thudded into the Plague Marine’s rusted battleplate, kicking him off course. He staggered and weaved, then launched himself at Antros.
The full weight of the mutant smashed into Antros and they fell backwards, clattering across the deck, kicking up sparks as they rolled towards the oculus. The Plague Marine locked a rotten claw around Antros’ throat, crushing his intricately inscribed armour. Then it rammed the chainaxe into Antros’ faceplate.
There was a blinding flash and a series of muffled thuds as Antros fired his pistol into the mutant’s sagging gut. Pus, blood and spine erupted from the mutant’s back.
The chainaxe tore into Antros’ faceplate with a scream of tearing metal. Pain exploded in his face and rage flooded through him. He reached into the immaterium, howling. Warp fire burned through his veins as he rose to his feet and hurled the Plague Marine across the hangar.
Antros stormed across the deck, arcs of blazing light flashing across his power armour. Still howling, he grabbed his warp-blasted foe, ripped into the rusty armour with his fingers and smashed his staff into the mutant’s misshapen head, pounding it into a bloody pulp. As he savaged the mutant, Antros’ rage grew. Blood was pouring down his face. This filthy, wretched traitor had turned a beautiful likeness of Sanguinius into a mess of torn flesh.
Blood rushed into his mouth and long-suppressed hunger rose from his gut. Bloodlust mingled with warp fire, driving him into a kill-frenzy. He sank his teeth into the mutant’s face. Bitter ichor filled his mouth. A small part of Antros’ mind cried out in warning, but the voice was washed away by a wrathful tide.
Antros ripped the mutant to pieces, hacking and tearing until there was nothing but shreds of gore. Then he staggered backwards, lightning arcing from his eyes and a distorted howl booming from his lungs.
He held his staff aloft and caught strands of psychic energy, channelling them through the rune-warded metal and hurling bolt after bolt into the mutants. Every blast ripped the Plague Marines apart, but the energy was too wild to stop there. The bolts tore through the detonating mutants, then punctured the walls of the chamber, bursting the plasteel like seared flesh. The hangar billowed and folded. Reality gave way. From both inside and outside, the station was consumed by the warp.
Antros closed his eyes, lost to the bloodlust, his mind a conduit for wild, unearthly power. He did not see the Sons of Helios attempting to run towards him, battered by the whirlwind that had enveloped him.
He did not see the jaws of the Great Rift open around the Horns of the Abyss and drag it from the material world.
For a long time, Antros knew nothing but rage. It consumed him to the point at which he could not recall its cause. All he knew was the animal need to roar and thrash, punching his way through the intangible shapes that seethed around him. There was only blood, shadows and hate. Shrieking wraiths clamoured around him, pawing at his mind, babbling curses, drowning his soul. He could feel all trace of sanity slipping away from him and he recalled how Rhacelus had warned him to stay away from the Great Rift.
Antros’ rage grew as he realised what a terrible mistake he had made. The mutants had driven him into the arms of the damned. If he did not halt this plunge into madness, he would become a plaything of the Ruinous Powers.
He howled as he fell but there was nothing he could do. The rage had taken him. He had succumbed to the age-old madness of his Chapter. He gasped in disgust and agony as his mind slid inexorably into the abyss.
Then, with his last trace of consciousness, Antros saw a light. No, several lights, he realised, glimmering in the pitch-black – cool, unruffled flames, quite different from the maelstrom that was consuming him.
He stared harder at the lights, throwing his mind towards them, seeing something wonderful in their implacable dignity. As the lights filled his thoughts, they took shape, becoming a row of kneeling, praying Space Marines, their heads bowed against their weapons, mirrors clutched in their hands, dangling silver chains. It was Dragomir and the Sons of Helios, motionless on the deck of the hangar as a tsunami of colour whirled around them. They had centred themselves, becoming one with the eye of the storm – unbreakable and inviolable, even as the galaxy collapsed around them. They whispered a faint mantra as they prayed. ‘We dream, dreaming, dreamed.’
There was something troubling about the mantra that made Antros pause, but as soon as he removed his gaze from the kneeling figures, damnation rushed at him once more, filling his mind with bloodlust and madness. The Sons of Helios were his only chance.
Antros climbed unsteadily to his feet, mantled in psychic fire, shrugging off scorched flesh and broken armour. He staggered towards the Space Marines, reached for the fire in their chests, and said, ‘We dream, dreaming, dreamed.’
Calm clarity flooded his mind. The Sleepless Mile. He finally understood. The path to enlightenment. He watched the Sons of Helios in wonder. Even now, they were immune.
Antros’ breathing became calm. The fire in his veins cooled. He gripped the mirror dangling from his armour and mimicked the solemnity of the Sons of Helios, becoming master of his thoughts as their light burned through him. Finally, impossibly, he shrugged off the savagery of the curse. He unfastened his staff and held it aloft, testing its weight, trusting it once more. The ancient staff was unchanged but Antros could feel that he had been altered. Even without being summoned, the warp was pulsing through his arteries, as much a part of him as his own blood. Incredible power was just a thought away. He felt as though he could breathe an apocalypse.
Antros trod carefully as he moved towards the Sons of Helios, as though he carried an explosive charge. Unimaginable force pulsed through his fingers as he reached out and rested a hand on Dragomir’s shoulder.
The Chapter Master looked up and, through his visor, Antros saw the warrior’s expression change from wariness to hope.
The warp storm was still raging through the hangar, so Dragomir had to speak to Antros over the vox-network.
‘You understand,’ he said.
Antros nodded, proud to have joined them, but ashamed that the Chapter Master had witnessed his barbarism.
He looked around and saw that the hangar was now just an echo of reality. There was a vague outline of walkways and alcoves, but they were rippling and fading, like a painting consumed by fire.
‘Reality is still at hand,’ said Dragomir. ‘You could bring it back.’
Antros hesitated, considering the havoc he had just unleashed.
‘You have joined us on the path, brother,’ said Dragomir. ‘It will lead you. It will lead us all home.’
He shook his head, feeling he was on the edge of a great precipice from which there would be no return.
‘If you do not try, we are all lost,’ said Dragomir. There was no accusation in his voice, just quietly stated fact. His tone reminded Antros of his master, Lord Mephiston – or at least it reminded him of the cool, noble side of Mephiston, the side that was such an inspiration to the Chapter.
‘If I try and fail, many more will be lost,’ replied Antros.
‘Then do not fail.’
Antros nodded and closed his eyes, reaching into Dragomir’s mind and stepping onto the Sleepless Mile.
The Horns of the Abyss rose from the Great Rift like a wreck dredged from the ocean. Eddies of warp fire glimmered across its hull as it shouldered its way back into reality. Light and thought churned around its blackened frame, fusing into bestial faces before falling back into shadow.
Antros knelt beside Chapter Master Dragomir as real space settled around them. He opened his eyes and saw that the hangar had regained its solidity. Contorted corpses lay slumped across the deck, but they were all Plague Marines – none of the Sons of Helios had fallen. Dragomir and the others still had their heads bowed as they trod the path Antros had just left.
