Maven nodded in agreement, though, truth to tell, even he had begun to doubt the instincts of his mount as it led them deeper and deeper into the pallidus. Then, after days of fruitless searching, his auspex had fizzed and hissed with the familiar spider-like pattern of electromagnetic energy that was their prey’s signature.
The buried wreck of a prospector’s hauler had been almost completely obscured by the dust storms, but Equitos Bellum had scented the handiwork of its nemesis in its destruction.
No sooner had the Knight’s auspex sniffed at the residue of reactor, shield and weapons, than Maven felt its gnawing desire to travel eastwards over the mountainous ridge between Tharsis and the Syria Planum in an aching pull of the Manifold.
Now they had found this corpse-filled tunnel, a charnel house of senseless slaughter, and still the Manifold pulled them onwards.
‘Why hasn’t anyone come to help?’ wondered Maven. ‘Why have they just left them?’
‘Mars has bigger problems,’ replied Cronus. ‘You’ve heard the feeds. It’s civil war.’
Maven heard the warring desires in his friend’s voice and felt the same turmoil within his own heart. The inload feeds had been jammed with a million clamouring voices: declarations of war, pleas for aid and feral screams of hatred. The Martian forges, which had stood shoulder to shoulder through uncounted epochs of darkness and weathered those storms intact, were now doing to one another what Old Night could not.
Duty to their order told Maven they should abandon this quest and ride west with all speed to join their fellow Knights in defence of the Magma City.
But honour told him that once begun, a quest could never be abandoned, only completed.
Maven felt the angry pull of Equitos Bellum through the Manifold and knew which imperative he must obey.
‘It’s closer,’ he said. ‘I can feel it.’
‘Then let’s get after it,’ said Cronus, riding towards the Syria Planum. ‘The sooner we kill it the sooner we can rejoin our brothers.’
THE CARGO-5 ROLLED onwards through the soaring canyons of the Noctis Labyrinthus, the darkness always seeming to draw it further and further in, as an ambush predator lures its prey. The darkness was cold and the cabin’s tiny heater did little to take the edge off the chill, but after the dusty, clammy journey across the Syria Planum, no one was complaining yet.
The deeper they went, the colder it became, and white webs of hoarfrost formed on the windows, a phenomenon none of them had ever seen before. Rho-mu 31 was forced to divert valuable battery power to the heater to keep the glass clear and see where he was going.
The headlights of the Cargo-5 stuttered, barely piercing the gloom, and the atmosphere within the cabin grew stuffy and unpleasant as the air recyder failed. Hour after hour passed, and though there was nothing resembling a roadway, the base of the graben was relatively flat and the Cargo-5 devoured the kilometres.
Whenever they came to a branching canyon, Dalia would direct Rho-mu 31 with a nod of the head, as though afraid to disturb the sepulchral silence that filled the Noctis Labyrinthus.
No one questioned how she knew where she was going.
Grating static hissed from the oil-stained vox and Zouche reached down to turn it off before looking over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. ‘Strange. It’s not even on.’
‘Mellicin did say the adepts in this region left because of technical problems,’ said Caxton.
His words were said lightly, but served only to heighten their unease.
More mechanical glitches plagued them as the journey continued, though the passage of time after the first two days in the darkness was hard to judge after everyone’s chronometers failed at exactly the same moment. Several hours later, the cabin’s internal lights sputtered and died as they made a treacherous descent into an even deeper, shadow-thickened canyon unleavened by sunlight.
The darkness closed in on them utterly, and Dalia felt as though a cloak was being drawn around them while a host of black ghosts followed and watched from the shadows. Each of them felt a thousand eyes upon them, the hairs on the backs of their necks erect and screaming danger, though nothing threatening was visible.
Several times along the way the engine coughed and died, and each time it had to be coaxed back to life by an increasingly frustrated and nervous Caxton.
Despite the mechanical problems and the sullen, apprehensive mood that settled upon everyone in the gloom, Dalia felt a mounting sense of excitement with each kilometre that passed. They had seen no daylight and no hint of anything resembling their final objective, but with the certainty of a zealot, Dalia knew they were close.
She had no idea how deep they had penetrated into the Noctis Labyrinthus – the odometer had failed the previous day – or where they were in relation to any other living thing on Mars, but a growing ache in the back of her mind told her they were close.
The rumble of the engine cut out again, and Dalia heard Caxton groan as he prepared to venture out into the cold and the dark to get it restarted.
Rho-mu 31 shook his head. ‘No need. We’re not going any further, the battery’s dead.’
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Severine, a shrill edge to her voice.
‘It’s all right,’ said Dalia, leaning forward and wiping her hand across the cold glass of the driver’s cabin. ‘Look!’
Ahead of the lifeless Cargo-5, a sheer cliff towered over them, its walls sparkling as though studded with nuggets of quartz. But this was no ordinary wall of rock, Dalia realised: its surface was smooth, like fused glass, and it shone with a faint internal light. Sections of the cliff had fallen away over the aeons, exposing a darkened passage that cleft the rock, and from which a strange mist sighed like steam from a geothermal vent. ‘The breath of the Dragon,’ said Dalia. ‘We’ve arrived.’
THE HIMADRI PRECINCT encircled the great, hollow mountain of the Himalazia at the crown of Terra, a mighty concourse of black, glassy marble lined with busts and statues of cowled figures. Veins of gold and red and blue threaded the marble and a thousand honour banners hung from the kilometre-high roof of shadowed arches and iron vaults.
Cold light spilled into the vast chamber through tall windows twice as large as a Warlord Titan, throwing out great spars of brightness across the tiled floor of black and white terrazzo. The light fell on the towering warrior in gold who marched along its length in the company of a smaller, white-haired man who wore the simple robes of a palace administrator.
The giant wore a magnificent suit of golden armour, wrought by the finest craftsmen and embellished with finery scrimshawed by the greatest artisans of the Imperial Fists. A mantle of red velvet edged with bronze weave hung around his shoulders and his silver hair gleamed in contrast to the lustre of his armour.
The warrior’s face was craggy and tanned, browned by the light of unnumbered suns, and carved in an expression of stoic determination.
His companion was as unremarkable as the warrior was exceptional, his white hair worn long, like a mane, and his shoulders stooped with the weight of the world.
Behind this unlikely pair marched a detachment of ten Custodians in bronze armour and scarlet-plumed helms who carried long-bladed pole arms. Their presence was a formality, for Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, needed no protection.
Of all the great precincts of the Emperor’s Palace, the Himadri was one of the few not to have been turned into a fortress by the golden warrior; though that fact was scant comfort to him, saw his companion, Malcador the Sigillite, Regent of Terra.
Malcador saw the wonder in Dorn’s eyes as they passed beneath Shivalik Arch and the ten thousand names of its builders inlaid with gold onto the marble. Behind that wonder, he also saw sadness.
‘The glory of the Emperor’s fastness will rise from the ashes of this war like a phoenix,’ said Malcador, guessing his friend’s thoughts.
Dorn looked down at him and smiled wearily. ‘Sorry. I was just calculating how long it would take to dismantle the gre
at archway and replace it with a bastion gateway.’
‘I know you were,’ nodded Malcador, lacing his hands behind his back as they passed beneath the arch. ‘So how long would it take?’
‘If my Fists did the work, perhaps two days,’ said Dorn. ‘But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If the traitor’s forces reach this far then we have already lost.’
‘The Emperor trusts you not to let that happen.’
‘I will not,’ agreed Dorn.
They walked in silence for some time, content to enjoy the view of the mountains against the rare sight of a blue sky and the many wonders contained within the Himadri Precinct: the Throne Globe of Mad King Peshkein of Tali, the Colonnade of Heroes, the last flying machine of the Roma, preserved in a shimmering stasis field and a hundred other wonders and trophies taken in the Wars of Unity.
‘The Emperor still does not join us?’ asked Dorn as they passed the bloodstained Armour of Pearl that had been torn from the body of the warlord Kalagann.
Malcador sighed. He had been waiting for this question. ‘No, my friend, he does not.’
‘Tell me why, Sigillite,’ demanded Dorn. ‘His empire is crumbling and his brightest bastard son is dragging half the galaxy into war. What could possibly be more important?’
‘I have no answer for you,’ said Malcador. ‘Save the Emperor’s word that nothing is more important than his labours in the palace vaults, not Horus, not you and certainly not I.’
‘Then we are alone.’
‘No,’ said Malcador. ‘Not alone. Never alone. The Emperor may not stand beside us, but he has given us the means to fight this war and win it. Horus has three of his brother legions with him, you have your Fists and thirteen others.’
‘Would that it were fifteen,’ mused Dorn.
‘Do not even think it, my friend,’ warned Malcador. ‘They are lost to us forever.’
‘I know,’ said Dorn, ‘and you are right. By any simple reckoning of numbers, the traitor stands little chance of victory, but he was always the most cunning, the one most likely to find a way where no others could.’
‘Is that what you’re really afraid of?’
‘Perhaps,’ whispered Dorn. ‘I do not yet know what I am afraid of. And that worries me.’
Malcador waved a hand along the length of the Himadri Precinct towards the grim, black portal at its end, their ultimate destination. ‘Mayhap the Master of the Astrotelepathica will have more news of the Legions.’
‘He’d better,’ said Dorn. ‘After the sacrifices we’ve made to pierce the storms in the warp, there had better be some news of Sanguinius and the Lion.’
‘And Guilliman and Russ,’ added Malcador.
‘I’m not worried about them. They can look after themselves,’ said Dorn. ‘But the others were heading into danger when last I knew of their plans, and it grieves me that I cannot reach them. I need to gather the Legions to strike at the heart of the traitor.’
‘You still plan to take the fight to Horus Lupercal?’
‘After what he did to Istvaan III it is the only way,’ said Dorn, almost flinching at the sound of his former brother’s name. ‘Kill the head and the body will die.’
‘Maybe so, but we have problems closer to home to deal with first.’
‘You speak of the uprisings on Mars?’
‘I do,’ confirmed Malcador. ‘High Adept Ipluvien Maximal contacts me daily with word of further atrocities and loss of knowledge. War has come to the red planet.’
‘There is no word from the Fabricator General?’
‘None that makes any kind of sense. I fear he is against us now.’
‘This Maximal, how reliable is he?’
Malcador shrugged. ‘How reliable is anything these days? I know Maximal of old, and though he is prone to exaggeration, he is a staunch Emperor’s man and I believe he speaks the truth. Mars burns with rebellion.’
‘Then we need to secure the solar system before looking to make war in a far off system.’
‘What do you propose?’ asked Malcador.
‘I shall send Sigismund and my four companies of Imperial Fists to secure the forges of Mars. Mondus Occulum and Mondus Gamma produce the bulk of the armour and weapons of the Astartes. We will strike there to capture those forges and when they are ours, we will push outwards and secure the others.’
‘Sigismund? A trifle volatile is he not?’ asked Malcador. ‘Might not a mission to Mars benefit from a cooler head than his?’
Dorn smiled, a rare sight in these bleak times. ‘My first captain is prone to bellicose talk, aye, but I will send Camba-Diaz with him. He will provide a steadying influence on Sigismund. Will that suffice to allay your concerns?’
Malcador nodded. ‘Of course. You are the commander of the Imperium’s armed forces and you have my full confidence, but even a humble administrator such as I knows that you will need more warriors than four companies of Imperial Fists to pacify Mars.’
‘We can bulk out the force with regiments of Imperial Army and Auxiliary units stationed on Terra and the moons of Saturn and Jupiter.’
‘And perhaps Sor Talgron’s Word Bearers?’
‘No,’ said Dorn. ‘I need his warriors for the assault on Istvaan V.’
Malcador paused and looked through one of the soaring windows as the sun began to set behind the tallest peak of the world.
‘Who could have believed it would come to this?’ he asked.
‘No one could have foreseen this,’ said Dorn. ‘Not even the Emperor.’
‘If we cannot stop the Warmaster then everything we have built over the last three centuries will be lost, my friend. All our grand achievements and the great dream of unity will turn to ash if we fail. We will perish by our own hands or else be devoured by a tide of alien insurgents, unable to mount more than a token resistance against the ghoulish hordes.’
‘Then we cannot afford to fail,’ said Dorn.
Malcador turned to face Dorn and looked up into his handsome, weathered features. ‘Send your warriors to Mars, Rogal Dorn. Secure the Martian forges and then crush the life from Horus Lupercal on Istvaan V.’
Dorn bowed towards him. ‘It shall be done,’ he promised.
3.02
AS ADEPT ZETH had predicted, the forces of the Fabricator General did indeed return to the Magma City. The sun rose above the calderas of the Tharsis Montes on yet another day of bloodshed and chaos, and auspex lookouts raised the alarm that the inhabitants of her forge had feared.
Legio Mortis was on the march.
Southwards from Pavonis Mons, the engines of Mortis came around the western flanks of Arsia Mons, easily demolishing the high walls surrounding the container yards and runways that fed on the materiel produced by the Magma City. Led by the towering Imperator, Aquila Ignis, a total of thirteen war engines strode through the great breach torn by the guns of the Imperator.
The Imperator’s pack moved slowly and ponderously, a mix of Warlords and Reavers, with four Warhounds leading the way like snarling wolves to flush out their prey. Armour of red and silver and black gleamed in the growing light, their hulls freshly daubed with the Eye of Horus. Thundering warhorns blared their warlike intentions and hideous blurts of scrapcode screamed their corrupted names across the airwaves.
From a distance they looked like hunched old men, moving with wheezing, stiff-legged gaits, but there was nothing infirm about these terrible war engines. These machines had been designed with the express purpose of destroying the enemies of humanity, but were now perverted to serve a darker purpose and far darker masters.
They paid the vast stacks of containers no mind, intent on pressing onwards to their goal of destruction. The container port was huge, but looming in the distance was the industrial sprawl of the Arsia Mons sub-hives, worker habs and outlying production hubs.
It was to this tangled mass of structures that Mortis walked, the only route, other than the heavily defended Typhon Causeway, by which their engines could cross the vast magma l
agoon upon which Adept Zeth’s city stood.
No route wide enough for the Titans existed through the sub-hives, but Princeps Camulos had no need for one. The guns of his Titans could easily blast a path, or simply crush a way through with the weight of his engines. Mortis cared nothing for the millions that dwelled within the sub-hives, only that the Magma City was brought to ruin and Adept Zeth humbled before the new masters of Mars.
Thousands of workers fled before the advancing Titans, ants before a herd of charging bull grox, but like the containers around them, the Mortis engines ignored them, safe in the knowledge that the forces following behind them would mop up any lingering threats.
Flowing like a black-armoured tide of spiked nightmares made real, the warped cohorts of skitarii and horrifically altered battle-servitors poured into the container port, their lustful war-shouts echoing weirdly from the metal skins of the stacked containers.
Explosions dotted the landing fields as fuel lines were crushed under the colossal feet of the Titans and flames followed in their wake. Black smoke boiled upwards like dark scratches etched on the sky.
Artillery pieces fired from redoubts and fortifications around the base of the sub-hives, and the ground before the Titans erupted in corrosive flames and deadly clouds of whickering shrapnel. Hundreds of enemy soldiers were cut down in the first instant, but it was nothing compared to the host pressing at their backs.
Voids flared and shimmered under the bombardment, but without the concentration of fire necessary to overload an engine’s shields, the defensive fire was largely wasted. The four Warhounds bounded forward, low to the ground, weaving between the incoming fire as they opened up with their mega bolters.
One Warhound staggered as a particularly well-aimed salvo caught it full on and it shed its voids in a coruscating detonation. The explosion blew off one of its legs and it smashed, nose-first, into the ground, ploughing a thirty-metre furrow before finally coming to a halt. A cheer of elation erupted from the defenders, but observers further back in the Magma City knew the loss of a single Warhound would not slow the attackers.
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