Priests of Mars

by Graham McNeill

  Surely a lowly Mechanicus adept had no chance?

  Callins was a granite-faced veteran from Kasr Fayn, a no-nonsense supply officer who innately understood the operational needs of the regiment. Never in all Hawkins’s years of service had he known any unit of the 71st to run out of ammo, food or any other essential supply. To gauge the attrition of supplies was as much an art form as accountancy, and Callins understood the monstrous appetite of war better than anyone.

  ‘What’s the hold-up, major?’ asked Hawkins, straightening his pale grey uniform jacket.

  Callins sighed and waved an irritated hand at the logisters. As a major, Callins was technically Hawkins’s superior, but Cadian fighting ranks often assumed seniority while on active service.

  ‘These idiots are trying to get us directed by mass and dimensions,’ said Callins, almost spitting the words. ‘They want the heavies in first.’

  ‘To better distribute the accumulated cargo loads,’ said the logister, a robed man with iron-faced cognitive augmetics grafted to the side of his skull. He carried a battered data-slate, which he repeatedly tapped with a tapered stylus. ‘A Mechanicus vessel has to be loaded in a specific mass-distribution pattern to ensure optimal inertial compensation efficiency.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Callins. ‘But if you load our heavies on first, it’s going to slow our disembarkation. The heavies go in last so the big guns come out first. Basic rule of warfare, that is. Listen, why don’t you let the big boys who actually do the fighting sort out how we want our tanks loaded and we’ll all get on so much better.’

  ‘You proceed on a fallacious assumption,’ said the logister. ‘With Mechanicus loading and unloading protocols and rapid transit rigs, I assure you that our procedures are faster than yours.’

  Callins turned to face Hawkins, throwing his hands up in exasperation. ‘You see what I have to deal with?’

  ‘Let me see that,’ said Hawkins, holding his hand out for the logister’s data-slate.

  ‘Guard captains are not authorised to consult Mechanicus protocols,’ said the logister.

  ‘Just give him the damn slate,’ said a voice behind Hawkins, and every Cadian within earshot stood to attention. ‘I have the authority and I want this hellish snarl-up dealt with right bloody now. Is that understood?’

  Colonel Ven Anders emerged from the tangled snarl of vehicles, resplendent in his dress greys, a slightly more formal looking ensemble than that of a Guardsman. Only the bronze rank pins on the starched collar of his uniform jacket and its elaborate cuffs gave any indication that he was an officer of high rank. His dark, close-cropped hair was kept hidden beneath a forager cap, and his smooth, patrician features were handsome in the way that only good breeding and a healthy diet could sculpt.

  Two commissars came after him, their black storm coats and gleaming peaked caps looking ragged and shabby next to the casual ease of the colonel’s dress. Both men were unknown to Hawkins, recent transfers to the company after Commissar Florian’s death, but he instinctively held himself a little taller at the sight of them.

  The logister immediately handed the slate over, and Hawkins quickly scanned the reams of information; lading rates, berth capacity and lifter speeds. Though much of the data was too complex to easily digest or superfluous to his needs, he understood that the Mechanicus system would, in all likelihood, be quicker than the Cadian way of doing things.

  ‘Well?’ asked Anders.

  ‘It looks good,’ said Hawkins, handing the slate over to Callins. ‘In most circumstances, I’d agree with whatever the major wanted to do, but in this case, I think we ought to go with this.’

  Callins scanned the data-slate and Hawkins saw the reluctant acceptance of his words as he ran the numbers.

  ‘Can you really move these tanks this fast?’ asked Callins.

  ‘Those margins of efficiency are at maximum tolerances,’ explained the logister. ‘With non-Mechanicus cargo, we allow extra time-slippage for dispersement procedures.’

  ‘Is he right?’ asked Anders. ‘Can they get us loaded fast?’

  Callins sighed. ‘If they can hit these numbers, yes.’

  ‘That’s all I need to know,’ said the colonel, taking the slate back from Callins and handing it to the logister. ‘Adept, you may proceed. Do what you need to do to get my tanks berthed. How long will you require to complete loading operations?’

  The logister didn’t answer, a shimmer of data-light flickering behind his eyes.

  ‘Forty-six minutes,’ said the logister as the light faded. ‘I have just inloaded a statistical schematic of movement patterns from Magos Blaylock that will allow these vehicles to be separated with minimal effort if you will permit my men to work unhindered.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Anders, addressing his words as much to his own soldiers as the Mechanicus adepts. ‘You have my assurance that you will have the full co-operation of every Cadian footslogger, tanker, flame-whip and ditch-digger under my command in all matters.’

  The logister gave a short bow and issued a series of orders to his deck crew in staccato blurts of machine language. In moments, overhead lifter rigs descended from the distant ceiling to lift out those vehicles that prevented others from moving. Hawkins, Rae, Anders, Callins and the two commissars hastily moved out of the way and watched with admiration as the Gordian knot of tangled vehicles was gradually transformed into an orderly stream of rumbling armour. Hellhounds, Leman Russ, Sentinels and a host of other vehicles roared past on their way to their assigned berths.

  ‘Okay, they’re not bad,’ conceded Callins.

  ‘Right, now that our vehicles are being stowed, let’s see about getting the men squared away,’ said Anders. ‘Do we think we can manage that without getting them lost?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘Right, get it done, Blayne,’ ordered Anders. ‘Archmagos Kotov awaits, and I can’t be stuck here making sure every soldier’s got a bunk.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Hawkins assured him. ‘We’ll be in place before you get back, squared away and ready for orders.’

  ‘Good, make sure of it,’ said Anders. ‘Give them an hour to bed in then get them running weapons drills. I want everything five by five before we break orbit. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Colonel Anders,’ said Rae. ‘Is it true what we’ve been hearing?

  ‘What have you been hearing, lieutenant?’ said Anders.

  Rae shrugged, as though suddenly unwilling to say what he’d heard for fear of looking foolish.

  ‘That we’ll be fighting alongside Space Marines, sir.’

  ‘The rumour mill’s been in overdrive, I see,’ replied Anders.

  ‘But is it true, sir?’

  ‘So I’m given to understand, lieutenant,’ said Anders. ‘Space Marines of the Black Templars, though I haven’t seen or heard whether that’s truly the case.’

  ‘Black Templars...’ said Rae. ‘Makes sense, I suppose. After all, we’re crusading out into unexplored space, aren’t we? Yeah, I like the sound of that. We’re bloody crusaders.’

  Colonel Anders grinned and gave a quick salute to his officers before striding off in the direction of one of the embarkation deck’s transit hubs, where bullet-shaped capsules paused to pick up or disgorge passengers before shooting through the Speranza at incredible speeds.

  With Anders gone, Hawkins said, ‘You heard the colonel, we’ve ten companies of tired and irritable soldiers to get bunked down and ready for weapon drills and inspection. Callins, Rae, see to it. The Mechanicus might have shown us up when it comes to moving machinery around, but I’ll be damned if they’ll do it when it comes to moving soldiers.’

  He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Move!’ he ordered.

  Incense smoke fogged the innermost sanctum of the rapid strike cruiser Adytum, and the banners hanging from the wide arches of surrounding cloisters swung gently with the passage of the warriors beneath. Six Space Marines
of the Black Templars, armoured in plates of the deepest jet and purest white, marched along the nave towards the great slab of an altar at its end. Torchlight reflected from the curves of their warplate, and caught the hard chips of their eyes.

  A giant figure encased in bulky Terminator armour stood like an obsidian statue before the altar, his shoulders bulked out with the tanned hide of the great dragon-creature he had slain on his first crusade. A golden eagle spread its wings over his enormous chest, where rested a gold and silver rosette with a blood-red gem at its heart.

  His glowering helm, fashioned in the form of a bone-white skull with coal-red eye-lenses, was a rictus death mask that was the last thing countless enemies of the Emperor had seen as they died. In one oversized gauntlet, the colossal warrior bore a great, eagle-winged maul, his instrument of death and badge of office all in one.

  This was the Reclusiarch of the Scar Crusade, and his name was Kul Gilad.

  The six Templars halted before Kul Gilad and dropped to their knees. They carried their helms in the crook of their arms, five black, one white, and all kept their heads bowed as the Reclusiarch stepped down to the marble-flagged floor of the sanctum. Robed acolytes and neophytes emerged from behind the altar and sang hymns of battle and glory as they took up position either side of the Reclusiarch. Most were acolyte-serfs of the Chapter, but one was a neophyte, and he bore the most revered artefact aboard the Adytum.

  Masked and stripped of all insignia to keep the weapon he carried from knowing his name, the neophyte bore a sword of immense proportions. Sheathed in an unbreakable black scabbard of an alloy unknown beyond the slopes of Olympus Mons, the leather-wrapped hilt bore the Chapter’s flared cross emblem at its pommel, an obsidian orb set with a polished garnet. A long chain hung from the handle, ready to be fettered to whichever warrior it would choose as its bearer.

  The Templars took their position before the Reclusiarch, devotional incense coiling around them as yet more figures emerged from the cloisters. Each of these figures bore a piece of armour; a breastplate, a greave, a pauldron, a vambrace. Unseen choirs added their chanting to this most sacred moment, a hundred voices that told of great deeds, honourable victories and unbreakable duty.

  ‘You are the Emperor’s blade that splits the night,’ said the Reclusiarch.

  ‘We light the flame that banishes shadows,’ answered the six warriors.

  ‘You are the vengeance that never rests.’

  ‘We cleave to the first duty of the Adeptus Astartes.’

  ‘You are the fire of truth that shines brightest.’

  ‘So the Primarch willed it, so it shall be done.’

  ‘The Emperor’s gift is your strength and righteous purpose.’

  ‘With it we bring doom to our enemies.’

  ‘Your honour is your life!’

  ‘Let none dispute it!’

  The Reclusiarch dipped the fingers of his left hand in a brazier of smouldering ash carried on the back of a hooded acolyte and moved between the kneeling warriors. Though each was genhanced to be greater than any mortal warrior, the Reclusiarch dwarfed them all in his ancient suit of Terminator armour. He anointed each warrior’s forehead with a cross of black ash, whispering words that spoke to each man’s soul.

  Bearded Tanna, the squad sergeant, resolute and unyielding in his devotion.

  ‘Steel of Dorn within your bones.’

  Auiden, the anchor of the squad.

  ‘Courage of Sigismund fill your heart.’

  Issur the bladesman, an inspiration to them all.

  ‘Strength of the ages be yours.’

  Varda, the questioner, to whom all mysteries were a source of fresh joy.

  ‘You carry the soul of us all.’

  Bracha, who had recovered the Crusader Helm of the fallen Aelius at Dantium Gate.

  ‘Honour of Terra shall be yours to bear.’

  Yael, the youngster, he who had been singled out by Helbrecht himself as a warrior of note.

  ‘Learn well the lessons of battle, for they are only taught once.’

  The unseen choirs raised the tempo and discordance of their chants, filling the sanctum with hymns in praise of the Emperor and His sons. Toxic incense that could kill mortals with a single breath wreathed the floor like marsh fog, and as each warrior stared into the depths of the mists, they reflected on the legacy of heroism that had gone before them, the glorious crusades of their forebears and the roll of battles won and foes slain. To live up to such a past was no easy thing, and not every warrior could bear such a heavy burden.

  But most of all they reflected on the shame of Dantium.

  A battle lost... an Emperor’s Champion slain...

  And the doom that dogged their thoughts since that day...

  The Reclusiarch stepped back to the altar as each Templar took deep breaths of the chemical-laden smoke, their lungs filling with the secrets encoded into its molecular arrangement. Only the genesmiths of the Eternal Crusader knew the origin of the incense, and only by their strange alchemy could it be rendered.

  Kul Gilad studied the men before him, each one shaped by thousands of years of history and lost arts of genetics. The best and bravest of the Imperium, the strength and honour of the past was carved into their very marrow. The fearful losses at Dantium had shaken them to their core, but this Crusade would be a chance for them to regain their honour, to prove their worth to the High Marshal once again and shake off the ill-temper that had settled upon them all. This deployment alongside the Adeptus Mechanicus was not punishment nor penance, but redemption.

  Ghostly images of mighty warriors shimmered at the edges of Kul Gilad’s vision, but he ignored them, knowing them for the narcotic phantoms they were. He would never again be touched by the visions, but one among his warriors would certainly feel the power of the Golden Throne moving within him. Who would be touched by the Emperor’s presence, he could not know, for none could fathom the complexities and subtle nuances of His will. Kul Gilad searched each man’s face for any sign of a reaction to the fugue-inducing mist, but he could see nothing beyond their stoic determination to commence this latest crusade into the unknown and reclaim their honour.

  When it began, it began suddenly.

  Varda rose to his feet, reaching out to something only he could see. His eyes were wide and his jaw fell open in wonderment. Tears ran down his cheeks as he wept at a sight of rapture or terror. Varda took a faltering step towards the altar, his hand grasping for something just out of reach.

  ‘I see...’ said Varda. ‘Its beauty is terrible... I know... I know what I must do.’

  ‘What must you do?’ asked Kul Gilad.

  ‘Slay those who have given insult to the Emperor,’ said Varda, his voice betraying a dreamlike quality to its tone. ‘I need to kill them all, to bathe my blade in the blood of the unclean. Where is my sword? Where is my armour...?’

  ‘They are here,’ answered Kul Gilad, pleased that it should be Varda who was chosen. He nodded to the figures lurking in the cloisters and they came forwards in pairs, one bearing a shard of battle-plate, the other empty-handed. They surrounded Varda, and piece by piece, stripped him of his armour until he stood only in his grey bodyglove. Even bereft of his power armour, the strength of his body was palpable. And as they had divested him of his old armour, now the figures attired him in his new warplate.

  As each portion of the gilded and artificer-wrought armour was fastened to his body, it seemed that Varda grew to fill its contours, as though it had been fashioned for him and him alone. At last he was clad head to foot in the ancient Armour of Faith, and all that remained to be fitted was his own ivory-wreathed helm. Varda reached up and slid the helmet over his head, clicking it into place and holding out his hands in expectation.

  ‘Arm him,’ said Kul Gilad, and the neophyte at his side moved to stand before the dazed warrior.

  Varda took a step towards the boy, who backed away in fear.

  ‘Quickly, boy! Give him the sword,’ snapped Kul Gilad.
It was not unknown for a warrior in such a fugue state to slay any who came near him, believing them to be his enemies. Only the sword would bring them to their senses. The neophyte held the midnight scabbard out to Varda, who let out a shuddering breath as he knelt before the youngster. He cocked his head to the side as though seeing something more than a mere sword.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he said, and the neophyte held the scabbard out, hilt-first.

  Varda drew the sword, its eternally sharp blade utterly black and etched along its length with filigreed lettering in the curling gothic script of the Imperium. Its blade was long and heavy beyond the means of any mortal soldier to bear, the handle long enough to allow it to be wielded by one or two hands. Kul Gilad approached Varda and took hold of the dangling chain.

  He wrapped it around Varda’s wrist and fastened the fetter to his gauntlet.

  ‘The Black Sword is yours,’ said Kul Gilad. ‘It can never be loosed, never surrendered and never be sheathed without blood first being shed. Only in death will it pass to another.’

  Kul Gilad placed his hand on Varda’s helmet.

  ‘Rise, Emperor’s Champion,’ he said.

  The mag-lev was a frictionless transit system that ran a convoluted circuit around the interior spaces of the Speranza like a network of blood vessels around a living being. Silvered linear induction rails sparked with e-mag pulses, the car running through the spaces between bulkheads at dizzying speeds that made Roboute’s heart race. Only an inertial dampening field within the compartment kept them from being crushed by the awesome g-force. Adara and Emil sat either side of the stasis chest at the rear of the bullet-shaped compartment, staring through the smoky glass at the incredible sights passing by with mind-numbing rapidity.

  Magos Pavelka and Enginseer Sylkwood sat at the rear of the compartment as Blaylock steered the mag-lev via a hard-wired MIU plug that socketed into place beneath the nape of his hood. His retinue of dwarf attendants hunkered down at his knees like well-behaved children. The two Magos Tychons – father and daughter (though such a notion still had Roboute scratching his head at the logistics of how such a thing had come to be) – sat behind Blaylock.