Finally, the rain of tainted power guttered out, as if shoved bodily back into the warp. Great clangs rose up from the depths, and the howl of ancient winds echoed for a few heartbeats more before sinking back into silence.
Njal sank to one knee again, breathing heavily. Gunnlaugur rushed over to him. The Rune Priest’s grizzled face was haggard from effort.
‘The ship,’ Njal rasped.
‘What of it?’ asked Gunnlaugur, crouching beside him.
‘It is the ship.’
Gunnlaugur didn’t understand. ‘We can–’ he began, but Njal cut him short.
‘You will do nothing,’ said the Rune Priest. ‘I know where it is. I felt it.’ He looked up, his grey eyes searching into the infinite darkness above them. Dimly, the outlines of great buttresses and stairwells could be made out, twisting into shadow. ‘It will crush us all.’
Gunnlaugur looked over his shoulder. Twelve Wolves stood around them, all of them battle-ravaged. Beyond their slender defensive line, the sound of mutant activity was already beginning to creep back into aural range. The enemy had been blooded, its champions slaughtered, but its near-limitless numbers had only been curtailed.
‘Go,’ said Njal. ‘The assault rams can be reached. We have done what we came for.’
‘The hunt is not complete.’
Njal smiled grimly. ‘You fight like the Slayer, vaerangi, but you cannot fight this, so save your hammer for another dawn.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Go. I will not order it again.’
‘How will you get out?’ Gunnlaugur asked.
‘You have less than an hour,’ growled Njal, summoning Nightwing to his shoulder.
Giving in to the inevitable, Gunnlaugur saluted Njal, fist-on-chest in the Fenrisian way. Then he turned, gathered the survivors together and shook the gore from skulbrotsjór. He was the only pack-leader left alive, and the rest of the Hunters, their armour scored and their blades cracked, looked close to exhaustion.
‘To me, then,’ he snarled, already focusing on the road ahead. It would be a bloody path. ‘To the Caestus.’
Chapter Twenty
Olgeir raced down nine spire-levels, picking up support from those of Annarovea’s security staff still at their stations as he went. He was obliged to silence a knot of half-hearted agitators up in the exclusive protected zone, but the real disorder was still in the ranks below, drawn from the hab-units that sheltered the skilled worker cadres.
He eventually reached a wide assembly chamber just below the main portals to the upper spire. It was a natural defensive position, with wide fire-lanes opening up across a huge semicircular auditorium. Dozens of entrances opened out into the lower levels of the auditorium, but only one gate-cluster guarded the summit, where the turbo-shafts leading up into the higher spire had been sited. Crowds had assembled at the base of the auditorium, and they were already moving up the aisles towards the summit.
Olgeir emerged from the upper portal, flanked by a dozen blue-armoured spire guards. They had their weapons drawn, but for the time being he kept his own bolter lowered. Thus far, his presence alone had been enough to deter even the most desperate of rioters, and he had no appetite for killing more than necessary.
‘Do not fire unless I give the word,’ he ordered his escort, taking up position under the upper gate’s lintel.
The guards crouched into firing positions around him, training their projectile weapons on the crowd below. The mob kept approaching, more slowly now, clambering up over the rows of empty seating with their eyes fixed on the prize ahead.
Olgeir watched them come. There must have been thousands assembled, with many more filtering into the auditorium from the low-level entrances. The closest were less than fifty metres away, though the sight of a Space Wolf standing guard above them slowed them down.
‘That is enough!’ roared Olgeir, his helm-enhanced voice echoing across the vast space. The crowd’s progress halted. ‘Go back. Leave this place. You will not be allowed to travel higher.’
Olgeir looked across the front ranks of the mob. They were not soldiers. Their faces were uncovered, exposing fearful, desperate expressions. They had never been given any reason but fear and duty to serve their masters in the elite spire heights, and once a greater fear had penetrated their minds, that coercive force lost much of its deadening power.
Olgeir saw hab-workers, menials, minor Administratum officials, medicae field staff and pedagogues among them. They all wore the same panicky pallor. The jet-black armour of Adeptus Arbites enforcers could be made out further back in the press of bodies. That was surprising – they had a reputation for incorruptibility. Then again, when the entire world was teetering on the brink of annihilation, perhaps even their heavy conditioning could be suborned.
‘Do not listen to him,’ came a new voice.
Olgeir’s eyes snapped onto the source. All around him, a dozen weapons trained on the same point.
A lone figure strode up from the lower levels of the auditorium. He advanced up the long central aisle, and the crowds parted to allow him passage.
Morfol.
The lord commissar was wearing what looked like some kind of carapace armour draped in robes of oily black and bearing the death mask emblem of the Imperium. He was accompanied by a retinue of heavily armed enforcers together with a small cadre of Guard soldiers. More armed troops, marching in disciplined ranks, followed behind.
‘Come no closer, commissar,’ warned Olgeir, resisting the urge to aim his bolter.
Morfol halted at the forefront of his ramshackle army. The light of certainty burned in his eyes. Olgeir had seen that light in a hundred other commissars on a hundred other worlds, and had always admired it.
‘Or you will do what to me, Angel of the Emperor?’ Morfol asked. His words carried to all corners of the huge space, broadcast by vox-emitters in his armoured collar. ‘You will end me? You think I fear that?’ He turned to address his followers. ‘There is nothing to fear in death. There is everything to fear in cowardice.’ Morfol knew his craft, and the crowd began to shuffle forwards once more. ‘An enemy is coming. We see it on the augurs. The Emperor – as He must ever will it – demands that we fight. If the governor will not do it, if her newfound bodyguard will not, then we must.’
The lord commissar’s words were infectious. As Olgeir watched, the front rank began to move again, climbing up over the rows of seats. Fear still shone in their wide eyes, but there was something else there, too – a dogged, desperate determination.
Morfol was a powerful orator. He was courageous, too, and marched with them, drawing a chainblade as he came.
Olgeir knew he could take Morfol out with a single shot, but that would enrage the others and vindicate his words. He knew he could hold the high gate virtually indefinitely against such opposition, but that would provoke huge bloodshed and tie up the spire completely.
As he hesitated, Annarovea’s comm-signal blinked into life.
‘My lord, a ship approaches orbital range,’ said the governor, her voice reproachful.
Olgeir’s grip on his bolter tightened by a fraction. ‘Impossible,’ he replied, glancing at his retinal chrono. ‘Too soon.’
‘It’s not the one we’ve been tracking – it is a Grand Cruiser, it doesn’t respond to hails, and it’s ignoring the troop carriers in orbit. Its shields are raised.’
Olgeir backed up towards the high gate, keeping his weapon trained on the advancing Morfol. The lord commissar pushed on fearlessly.
‘That ship is not here to help,’ Olgeir warned.
‘Does it not have Navy-level ordnance?’ Annarovea’s voice was tight with suspicion.
‘It is a Ministorum ship, governor. They will not speak to you.’
‘I can recall the Guard regiments. We have been hasty – we gave up on defence too soon.’
‘Do not do it,’ Olgeir felt his frustration risi
ng. The mob was inching closer, climbing towards the gate with ever-more determined steps. ‘Listen. Even if they could stop this thing, they will not. I say it again: they are not here to help.’
When Annarovea replied, her exasperation was evident. ‘Then why are they here?’
Olgeir immediately imagined the life-eater torpedoes being readied for launch. It would be a quicker death, but just as agonisingly pointless as the plague. What had happened? Had Njal sanctioned Delvaux to run ahead? Or had the mission already failed?
By then, Morfol was less than twenty metres away from him, shouting out encouragement to his followers and waving his chainblade to beckon them on. Every movement he made exemplified that damned Commissariat certainty.
‘I will return as soon as I can, governor,’ voxed Olgeir. ‘Until then, maintain the troop-lift. Do nothing to slow it.’
He cut off the comm-link, and burst into motion, charging down from the gate and leaping at Morfol. The commissar had no time to react – he tried to get his chainblade into position, but Olgeir swatted it aside. Then the Space Wolf’s gauntlet was clamped around Morfol’s neck, lifting him into the air one-handed.
Morfol glared back, still defiant, mastering his fear. ‘Like I… said,’ he gasped, his hands scrabbling uselessly against Olgeir’s grip, ‘I do not fear… death. Kill me here, and there are… thousands more.’
The crowd had fallen back when Olgeir charged, but now they edged forwards again, caught between fear, uncertainty and their lingering sense of outrage.
‘Kill you?’ hissed Olgeir, his eyes boring into the mortal’s own. ‘I could kill you with a twist of my fingers. I could kill every soul in this room and not one blade would come close to touching me. But why would I? You are irrelevant. You talk of duty, but I have already told you what you must do. If you will not listen, then you damn yourself.’
Morfol was struggling for breath by then, and Olgeir released his grip by a fraction. The mob around them kept its position, held rapt by the scene before it.
‘If those spores land on this world,’ Olgeir went on, ‘you will have all the fighting you could ever wish for. Believe me, I would fight alongside you then. Do not be fooled, there can be no victory. Unlike some of my brothers, the prospect of a glorious death for no purpose does not fill my hearts with joy, but I would fight until the last breath nonetheless.’
Morfol was listening. His eyes bulged, his forehead was shiny with sweat, but he listened.
‘Until then, there is only one duty – to get as many living souls off this world as we can. Your governor understands this, your generals understand it. You are charged with discipline on this world, lord commissar. Why do you not understand?’
For a few seconds longer, Morfol remained defiant. Then his bloodshot eyes ran across Olgeir’s war-plate. He saw the tokens of a dozen campaigns, and the marks made by an extended lifetime of unbroken service. He saw the bloodstains, still uncleared from the fighting on the comm-station, and the heavy marks of use on his weapons.
The resolve went out of him. Olgeir released him, and Morfol fell to his knees, heaving in deep breaths.
Olgeir turned to the crowd. ‘I told you to leave,’ he growled.
Those closest fell back, cowed by the low threat-note in his voice. Bereft of Morfol’s leadership, their will became fragile. Some looked to the commissar, but he longer met their gaze. Instead, Morfol stared up at Olgeir, a mix of humiliation and resolve on his bruised face.
‘How long have we got?’ he asked.
‘Less than three hours,’ said Olgeir. ‘Use the time wisely. It might be all you have left.’
Then he turned on his heel, and strode back to the upper gate where his escort still waited. Their guns remained trained on the crowds below, but Olgeir doubted they would be needed now.
As he walked, he made a record of Morfol’s locator-ident. If the spores started to fall, he would track him down again. He had a sense the commissar might be a good man to fight alongside when all the other barricades had fallen.
That done, he reopened the comm-link to Annarovea.
‘The spire is secure, governor,’ he voxed, reaching the gate. ‘I am coming back up.’
Baldr shuddered, and drew in a painful breath. It was air – real air. He was using his lungs again, and the body that housed them was his own.
The Mycelite’s foetid grotto surrounded him once more, as dark and clammy as it had been before. The Plague Marine gazed up at him, and his withered features were twisted into a smile.
‘Well done,’ he said.
As soon as he heard the words, Baldr realised what he had done. The horror of it cut him to the core, and he raged against his bonds, thrashing and kicking out. The glutinous matter around him flexed by a finger’s width, cracking where his right leg pushed against it.
The Mycelite remained calm, watching him with the keen interest of a guardian watching a child.
‘It will do you no good to fight it,’ the Plague Marine told him, shuffling back over to where he had been seated. ‘Memory will fade again. You will become the ship, the ship will become you.’ His smile drifted away. ‘Imagine it – mightier than any of your brothers, mightier than any of mine. You will be something new.’
The fog of deception felt weaker now. Baldr’s hatred was stronger, driving his body against its bonds. ‘I will not do that again,’ he swore.
‘Evidence tends to the contrary.’
‘I will fight you.’
The Mycelite shrugged. ‘You cannot sustain your resistance.’ He ran his withered hands up the length of his staff. ‘The collar, though. The remaining obstacle. We must find some way to circumvent that.’
‘I felt them reach the target,’ said Baldr, clinging to the one sliver of hope. ‘They have planted their charges. That ends the game.’
The Mycelite looked equivocal. ‘Nothing in this vessel is beyond you. Your mind can travel down communications conduits and drift through cogitator wafers. You can manipulate matter, divert energies. Eliminating a few thermal devices from your fusion cores will be trivial.’
Baldr pushed against the material around him once again. It didn’t shift at all.
‘I will not do it,’ Baldr said again.
‘You will.’
‘You are exhausted. You cannot force me again.’
The Mycelite looked up at him with an expression of genuine affection on his etiolated face. ‘Ah, but the Grandfather has been kind. To even witness you – that would have been enough, but to be the guide to your ascension… That is more than I know how to compass.’ He got to his feet again and hobbled up to Baldr, leaning on the staff two-handed. The Mycelite’s breath was sweet with corruption.
‘Perhaps you wonder why you are so important,’ the Mycelite said. ‘Perhaps it has occurred to you that I myself am a sorcerer, and that there are many others on this vessel who are touched by the Eye’s gifts. Perhaps, you are telling yourself, this whole thing is a deception, and it is not you who is important at all. Perhaps that gives you some hope.’
Baldr regarded him scornfully. ‘I will not do it,’ he said for a third time, issuing the words like a litany against destruction.
‘But I cannot command this vessel like you do,’ the Mycelite went on. ‘No one can. The talent you command is not something any of my Legion could ever match. Shall I tell you why, nightjar? We are interlopers, that is why, merely passengers. You, on the other hand, are where you belong.’
Baldr spat at him again, trying not to listen.
‘You call this ship the Festerax,’ said the Mycelite, sounding amused. ‘I’ve always liked the name, but I did not give it.’
As the Mycelite spoke, cracks of blue light began to run down the inner walls of the grotto. Clumps of fungus fell away, plopping wetly on the floor. A great sigh ran across the chamber’s roof, as if huge and rusty metal beams were b
eing hauled into new formations.
‘All things are corrupted by time. Thoughts, deeds, words. They all twist in the aether, mutating as the whim of the gods demands.’
Whole sections of the grotto’s roof suddenly lifted away, pulled clear by massive cantilevers. A chill blue light flooded in, exposing swathes of pale fungi trembling in the dark. The temperature plummeted. Baldr narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare. The Mycelite’s chamber was just a part of a larger structure, one that was being revealed as the shell around them unravelled.
‘Festerax is a forgivable slip,’ the Mycelite went on, ‘a melding of similar sounds. It was merely luck, or perhaps fate, that made it possible.’
The last of the chamber’s roof swung away, pulled clear on vast chain lengths. The chill illumination exposed Baldr’s position for the first time – he was bound by stone-hard lengths of organic matter, as tough as oak and covered in veinous growths. The binding roots that supported him had engulfed a platform of stone.
A towering ceiling soared away above him, half lost in a miasma of pale blue fog. Thick-boled columns of granite supported ranks of gothic arches, all of which enclosed a teardrop-shaped platform of dusty marble. There were terraces beyond that, rows of sensor stations. In the seamy distance soared an armourglass viewing portal.
It was a command bridge.
‘The Festerax is truly massive,’ said the Mycelite, looking up in appreciation as the last vestiges of his fungus chamber unfolded themselves. In the cold light, he was hunched and diminished. ‘But its core, as such hulks always are, is a single vessel. Wrecks and void-corpses were added to it, piling atop one another and bound by the will of gods and daemons, and so the original was lost, buried amid the vastness of what had been accumulated by time.’
Baldr recognised the things around him. He saw runes carved into the granite, thick with dust. He saw iron-rimmed doorways running around the chamber’s edge, gaping blindly into nothingness. He saw command stations, each one manned by skeletal figures in pearl-grey fatigues. The crew were long dead, and their eyeless, skinless cadavers slumped motionlessly in their seats.
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