Mephiston: Revenant Crusade

by Darius Hinks

  Llourens looked at the ogryn who had primed the device, pointing to the trigger he was holding. ‘What’s the range on that thing? Can we set the charge off from over there?’ She gestured to the feet of the nearest statue, over at the side of the hall.

  The ogryn nodded.

  ‘So we could wait until the first few ranks have passed through the doors and then trigger it?’

  He nodded again.

  Llourens took a deep breath and looked around at everyone. ‘Two options, then. We can skulk back into the shadows and hide until this army has gone back inside their fortress. Then we could wait until they’re far enough inside, get to a safe distance and blow the doors to create a bit of a distraction. We could take out the rear guard, but most of this huge army would be left to descend on the Blood Angels.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Or we blow these bastards to hell as they’re halfway through the door.’ She gripped her lasrifle. ‘And we give the Blood Angels a real chance to rid this planet of xenos filth who use our families as kindling.

  ‘We have a chance to do something,’ whispered Llourens, looking each of them in the eye. ‘Let’s face it, we were never going to get out of this place alive. We were born to die here. But maybe now we could die with a purpose. We could make the ancients take notice of us. And we would be more than just a distraction. We could kill hundreds of them. We could show them that we are not defeated. Not yet.’

  For a long moment, no one moved. Then one of the ogryns pressed his gun against his scarred chest. ‘For the Emperor,’ he growled.

  Ghadd stared at the ogryn. Then he nodded and saluted. ‘Captain.’

  ‘Captain,’ said the rest of the Guardsmen, mirroring Ghadd’s salute.

  Eskol looked pale and there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke. ‘This might be your last chance to tell me how attractive you find me.’

  Llourens returned their salute and spoke with a hard, level voice. ‘Keep your heads down until we blow the door. If we don’t have to trigger it until the first ranks are inside, we could take out hundreds of them.’ She nodded at the shadows behind the statue. ‘If we wait there until the door comes down, we might even have a chance to do some shooting before the end.’

  The ogryn positioned the crate in the shadows behind the angular columns of the doorframe and they all sprinted back across the hall, vanishing into the darkness as the first rows of necrons clattered into view, emerging from the smoke clouds with unerring, mechanical precision.

  Once she was sure the others were all safely hidden, Llourens crawled across the statue’s grave-cold plinth and positioned herself behind its left foot, giving herself a clear view of the hall.

  As the first rows of necrons clattered past she struggled to stay calm. Every inch of her wanted to howl and start firing her gun at their dead, expressionless skulls. She held her tongue.

  She almost lost her nerve as more necrons marched into view, much closer to the statue than she had expected. The nearest of them were only a dozen or so feet away. If they looked her way the army might halt before it even reached the door. She considered crawling back to join the others, but moving now was too much of a risk so she simply lay there, praying that none of the necrons would look towards the statue.

  The xenos marched past with metronomic rigidity. They looked like a single machine, devoid of sentience. With a rush of relief, Llourens saw the immense door start to move. Rather than open outwards, it sank into the ground, dropping with a quietness that seemed bizarre for such a huge slab of stone. It did little more than hum gently as it slid from view, revealing another identical chamber beyond, lined with the same gruesome braziers.

  The first few ranks marched into the fortress, then more, and Llourens knew this was the time to strike. She hesitated for the briefest moment, picturing, to her immense surprise, the rueful faces of Eskol and Ghadd. Then she turned, looked the ogryn in the eye, and nodded.

  Chapter Eleven

  Heliomancer Xhartekh was in the Halls of Kythmosis – the deepest chambers of the whole necropolis. Unlike the rest of Nekheb-Sur, the air in these chilly vaults was clear of smoke, and he was able to see, with horrible clarity, how much damage the phaeron’s crypteks had done. The orchestrion’s design was simple and utterly baffling. It was a rectangular case, cast in a silver alloy, about the length of a coffin, and framed in its centre, filling the chamber with coloured rays, was a circular chromascope – a collection of slowly rotating crystal lenses. The lenses were tinted different colours and lit from beneath, so as they overlapped they projected confusing patterns across the walls of the chamber.

  The reason for Xhartekh’s dismay was the foot-long hole that had been bored into the side of the case. The silver alloy was scorched and ragged where the crypteks had burned through it and dragged wires out through the hole. Xhartekh’s dismay grew as he saw that someone had forced a thick cable into the device through the hole.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, kneeling beside the cable and tapping it gently. ‘What was this intended to do?’

  Most of the crypteks had made their excuses when Suphys, the phaeron’s herald, had brought Xhartekh into the chamber, but on Suphys’ orders one had remained so that he could explain the work they had done so far – and how little progress they had made.

  He did not look at Xhartekh as he spoke. ‘None of this was my idea, Lord Xhartekh. I would never have chosen to carve a hole in something of such antiquity and importance. We have not been able to gain any understanding of its workings anyway. I have never seen anything like it.’

  ‘What was the cable meant to achieve?’

  The cryptek hesitated. ‘When the Unmortal One learned of our failure he demanded that we make some use of the device. We failed to fully activate its primary circuits, but…’ He looked at Suphys, as though the herald might allow him to escape any further explanation.

  ‘But?’ prompted Xhartekh.

  ‘The device has a power supply greater than anything we have been able to achieve since we emerged from the Great Sleep. It utilises a kind of fusion I cannot explain, but I have been able to relay a fraction of its power through a series of amenphosis transmitters.’ A note of pride entered his voice. ‘I have fed the power through our regeneration nodes and now every warrior in the Khenisi Dynasty is receiving a portion of the orchestrion’s power. We are all linked to its core. Our regeneration process is faster, our weaponry is more powerful than ever before and our bodies are free of corrosion. You must have noticed how untarnished we all look. That is entirely due to my work in this chamber. I have returned our physical forms to their original magnificence.’

  ‘You are draining the orchestrion of its subsidiary power, before finding a way to activate its core reactor?’

  Xhartekh felt like striking the idiot, but he reminded himself that the phaeron would have threatened him with execution if he did not provide results. ‘If we do not remove that cable quickly, the orchestrion will never have enough power to fully engage, even if I can work out how to trigger it.’

  ‘My lord.’ The cryptek’s voice shifted up a pitch. ‘You must do no such thing.’

  Lord Suphys nodded. ‘The phaeron has explicitly praised the crypteks for this small piece of good news. He is keen that we keep utilising the orchestrion’s power.’

  ‘Then I must speak with him as a matter of urgency,’ said Xhartekh. ‘If we do not stop this barbarism, the device will not have enough power left for full activation.’

  ‘His majesty will not have time to assist you for a few days at least, Heliomancer Xhartekh. He is engaged in a tournament.’

  ‘Tournament?’

  ‘Crowns,’ explained the cryptek.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You come highly recommended, Heliomancer Xhartekh. His majesty is expecting to see results when he visits you after the tournament.’

  Xhartekh lo
oked despairingly at the gauge in the case, wondering who would be the first to behead him – the mad phaeron or his equally deranged concubine.

  He bowed to Suphys. ‘If you will forgive me, my lord, I will need privacy to complete my work.’

  Suphys nodded. ‘I will return with the phaeron soon.’ He gestured at the other cryptek. ‘Hezekyr will assist you.’

  ‘No,’ said Xhartekh. ‘I need to work alone. Hezekyr’s help will not be required.’

  Suphys was watching him closely and Xhartekh realised he would need an excuse for his secrecy.

  ‘I am a high priest of the Still-heart Conclave,’ he said. ‘My fraternity demands a strict code of secrecy from all its members. If they knew I had shared my techniques with an outsider I would be banished from the order. I will be utilising atmospheric refraction, Zemlya effects and tropospheric optics to engage the core reactor. I must not divulge the details of such methods to anyone.’

  Suphys nodded. ‘Leave the heliomancer to his work, Hezekyr.’ He turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. ‘Whatever oaths of secrecy you have sworn, Heliomancer Xhartekh, his majesty the phaeron will wish to understand every detail of your work.’

  Suphys and Hezekyr left the chamber and once he had heard their footfalls recede into the distance, Xhartekh took a closer look at the orchestrion. It was not quite as plain as he first thought. The metal case was delicately inscribed with astrological designs. There were glyphs in a language he had never encountered before, and a complex pattern of grids and ellipses. He used one of his lenses to look closer and realised the lines showed star systems of every size and form, but none of them familiar.

  ‘Were you forged in another galaxy?’ he said, tracing his finger over the designs. The metal hummed and crackled at his touch, scattering sparks through the gloom.

  ‘I wonder if that’s how you’re meant to respond.’ He glanced at the hole in its side. ‘Or if it is a result of the damage.’

  He spent the next few hours patiently committing the designs to memory, tracing the shape of every planet and rune, until he could picture the whole pattern without having to see the box. Then he found a workbench and began laying out his tools in neat lines, like a surgeon preparing to operate.

  He was almost ready to begin in earnest when the chamber jolted, as though it had been struck by an earthquake. Tools and machinery clanged across the stones and the orchestrion toppled from its stand, hitting the floor with a worrying thud.

  Xhartekh was thrown against the wall, and when he got back to his feet the chromascope at the orchestrion’s centre had gone dark. The lenses were static and there was no light shining through the crystal. The chamber was still shuddering violently but Xhartekh managed to stagger towards the device and grab it, trying to stop it sliding any further across the room. As he gripped the case, the chromascope flickered back into life and the metal started humming again.

  Xhartekh was still in that position, shielding the orchestrion from falling debris, when a group of the phaeron’s lychguard marched into the room, their warscythes raised, as though they expected to find him under attack.

  ‘You have been summoned to the throne room,’ said one of them.

  ‘I must not leave,’ said Xhartekh, nodding at the wreckage that was still falling from the ceiling. ‘I must protect the device. What happened?’

  ‘Nekheb-Sur is under attack. All nobles are required to attend his majesty immediately in the throne room.’ His eye sockets flickered in warning. ‘It is not a request.’

  ‘Under attack? From who?’

  ‘All nobles are required to attend his majesty immediately in the throne room,’ repeated the guard, not looking at him.

  Xhartekh looked at the orchestrion. It was covered with dust and pieces of rock, but the chromascope was now blazing as vibrantly as when he had first seen it.

  ‘Do not concern yourself with the device,’ said the guard.

  Some of the other guards marched past Xhartekh, moving him aside and lifting the device back onto its stand. They turned and formed a circle around it, holding their warscythes up before their faces, becoming quite motionless.

  ‘That will be no help,’ said Xhartekh. ‘If there is another blast the device could be crushed.’ He rummaged through his robes and took out a small sphere of polished silver. He drew an invisible shape on it with his fingertip and then placed it on top of the orchestrion. A few seconds later it opened, like a metal flower bud, folding back its petals to reveal a smooth green gemstone.

  The lychguard was about to ask for an explanation when an umbrella of emerald light rose from the silver ball and enveloped the orchestrion. It looked like mere light, but when Xhartekh approached and tapped it he was pleased to hear his knuckles clang against a hard surface.

  ‘Dispersion glass,’ he explained. ‘The charge will only last for an hour or so, but nothing will get through in the meantime. The whole necropolis could come down and that glass would remain.’

  The lychguard gave no reply, other than to wave his warscythe at the door.

  The throne room was far less sedate than the first time Xhartekh had entered it. The colonnaded walkway down the centre of the chamber was crowded with courtiers and nobles dashing back and forth, carrying metal-clasped scrolls and flickering data scanners.

  The ordered ranks of lychguard had mostly gone, presumably to defend the breach, and the animated frieze of the galaxy had vanished from the walls, replaced with a schematic of the city, clearly showing the vast rent that had been torn in the outer wall.

  At the far end of the walkway was the vast copper scarab and the royal dais. The phaeron had risen from his throne, surrounded by nobles and aides. He was locked in a debate with Nemesor Tekheron and his crimson-armoured concubine, Alakhra. Scattered across the dais, still twitching and attempting to reassemble, were the body parts of several lychguard. The war council did not appear to be going well.

  As Xhartekh made his way up the steps between the scarab’s antennae, the phaeron caught sight of him and came to greet him, trailed by a crowd of nobles.

  ‘Heliomancer,’ he said, raising his arms in welcome. ‘You must excuse this interruption. The perfidious ones have deployed an underhanded ruse in an attempt to stop us activating the orchestrion. They know their witchcraft will not aid them once you finish your work.’ He lowered his voice as he leant close and gripped Xhartekh’s shoulder. ‘I presume you are nearly done?’

  ‘Your majesty,’ said Xhartekh, glancing at the nemesor and concubine.

  ‘Of course you are. I knew you would understand these matters better than the simpletons who pass for my crypteks.’ He nodded at the schematic shimmering across the distant walls. ‘I will need your help with this minor inconvenience before you can show me what you have done with the orchestrion. Tekheron and Alakhra insist that we find a way through the bomb site and make sure none of the aliens survived the blast.’

  ‘Nothing could have survived that blast,’ said Tekheron, ‘but we need to see what remains of our phalanxes and man the breach.’

  The phaeron shrugged. ‘I will have no peace until you have found a way to march at the head of a parade.’ He nodded to the throne beside his – the one with the half-born corpse in it. ‘I will consult with my brother. He will suggest a speedy resolution.’

  Xhartekh followed the phaeron and stood before the mouldering pile of rags and bones. The flesh had been partially preserved and he could still recognise its haughty, necrontyr features. They stood in silence before the corpse for a few seconds, while the phaeron nodded respectfully, responding to words only he could hear.

  Then the phaeron turned to Xhartekh. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Xhartekh shook his head. ‘Your majesty?’

  ‘You did not answer my brother’s question,’ said the phaeron, becoming suddenly serious. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I ag
ree,’ said Xhartekh, trying to sound sure of himself as he humoured the phaeron.

  The phaeron stared at him and Xhartekh was about to change his answer when the phaeron nodded.

  ‘He agrees with you.’ He patted the corpse on the shoulder, dislodging a layer of parchment-like skin. ‘Of course he does. Very well. If that’s what you both think.’

  The phaeron turned to Nemesor Tekheron. ‘Heliomancer Xhartekh will accompany you to the first sepulchre and aid you in clearing a path through the ruins. Once you are through, return him to the Halls of Kythmosis so he can complete his work.’

  Xhartekh felt like knocking the corpse’s head from its shoulders, but instead he gave Tekheron a slight bow. ‘I will be happy to assist in any way I can, nemesor.’

  As they arrived in the first sepulchre, Xhartekh halted, shaking his head. The air was simmering with irradiated particles. He could feel them like an echo of the blast, and they were behaving in a peculiar way. ‘These were unusual explosives,’ he said, picking up a piece of rubble and turning it between his fingers. The stone was still glowing slightly and he could feel the heat eating into the pitted metal of his hand. ‘There is some kind of sub-gravitic radiation. Most unusual.’

  They were surrounded by lychguard, so Tekheron waved Xhartekh away from the block of troops to stand beside the base of a ­toppled pillar. He spoke in a low voice. ‘The phaeron thinks this is the work of aeldari witches.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But we both know there are no aeldari on Morsus, so who has managed to create a weapon like this?’ He picked up a charred rock and handed it to the nemesor. ‘Feel it. Whatever created this blast was not a typical weapon. In fact, I would say “weapon” is the wrong word. It seems more like something that would be used to carve out mine shafts.’

  The nemesor nodded. ‘The humans who created the mines. We have never fully removed them from Morsus.’

  ‘Humans?’ Xhartekh was shocked. ‘The primitive races have managed to live alongside you all this time?’