Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

‘I learned all this when I returned home. The craftsman’s deathless state persisted for some days before he expired, and he never once spoke again. By the time I saw Bertgilda, she was ill of mind, though I managed to piece together events from what she said. She lived, I’m glad to say, though it took her a long time to recover.

  ‘Every day for ten years I walked from the city to hammer on the mountain gates of the grey aelves. Their guards and their functionaries spoke with me, but their high lords would not see me, until, annoyed by my persistence, they paid blood money for the craftsman’s death and told me that was to be the end of it. Unwilling to risk relations with our neighbours, the alder council ordered that I drop the matter. I did. Though they assured me I did so honourably, it stung me.’

  Stonbrak grumbled into his pint pot. ‘From this tale I learned three things. Generosity is a weakness. Always take payment up front.’ He jabbed his pipe stem at the prince. ‘And never trust an aelf!’

  Maesa sipped his wine glass empty and he gestured for more. Horrin hurried off to oblige. ‘Surely the message of your tale is that greed is a weakness?’ said Maesa. ‘Pride, a desire to maintain honour, and greed were his downfall. Can you not see?’

  ‘And you imply these are flaws?’ Stonbrak slammed his pot down on the table. ‘Not at all. Pride drives a being to do his best. Honour to maintain it. Greed is good, so long as it does not overrule sense,’ said the duardin. He clamped his pipe in his teeth with an audible click.

  ‘Yet all three led to his downfall.’

  ‘Life,’ said Stonbrak coolly, ‘can be cruel.’

  ‘Who was this craftsman to you?’ said Maesa. ‘I guess he was close from your sorrow.’

  ‘What of it?’ snapped Stonbrak. ‘He was my clansman, his dishonour tarnishes the reputation of all his family. There is need of no more cause than that.’

  ‘He was more than a cousin or an uncle, I think,’ said Maesa.

  Horrin returned with a jug of wine. ‘I’m sure his highness here meant no offence,’ he said cheerily, keen to head off disagreement between his guests. Before either could reply, a strong gust buffeted the inn, and he looked up momentarily as the structure shifted. Dust sifted down from the rafters. The building settled.

  ‘I did not mean offence,’ said Maesa. ‘I seek merely to understand.’

  ‘Not much to understand,’ grumbled Stonbrak.

  Horrin poured.

  ‘Then tell us,’ said Maesa. ‘Who was he?’

  Stonbrak removed his pipe, grasped it hard in both hands and stared at it.

  ‘His name was Jurven. He was my brother. I loved him dearly,’ Stonbrak said shortly, embarrassment clamping his jaw so he bit off the words, then he softened with the sentimentality his kind hide so well, but not always. ‘When we were young, people assumed I would be envious of his ability, but it was not so,’ he said. ‘His works were a marvel. I lacked his perfect skill, but I never had any feeling for him other than pride at his ability. As I could not compete, I became a merchant, travelling the realms beyond Ulgu, and many a pretty coin I made from his crafts. It was while I was gone that tragedy befell him.’

  Shattercap reached up his cup to the innkeeper. ‘More, more!’ he said.

  Horrin looked to Maesa. The aelf nodded.

  ‘Just a little more,’ he said.

  Horrin obliged, tipping a few drops into Shattercap’s thimble.

  ‘I tell you what else I learned,’ said Stonbrak. He patted his axe. ‘I don’t use firearms after what I heard. I trust to my axe.’ Runes glimmered on the shaft and head, fading only reluctantly away when his hand left the metal. Barnabus crept up to Ninian, and snuggled into her. Warmth enveloped the company.

  ‘Now,’ Stonbrak barked. ‘You have had your story from me. I nominate this aelfish princeling go next.’ The wind was dropping, but the rain picked up, its nervous fingers rattling on the wood. Thunder cracked.

  ‘The weather is improving, perhaps,’ murmured Quasque. ‘The storm breaks. Perhaps the ship will come tomorrow?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ said Horrin. ‘The eye of the storm is closing in on us. There will be a drumbeat of thunder, a dazzlement of lightning!’ He had consumed all his second drink and much of his third while listening to Stonbrak, and was thoroughly set in the storytelling mood. He was eager for more. ‘The eye will drift over, and linger awhile. When it goes on its way, we’ll have more wind, more rain. So there is plenty of time for more tales,’ he said. ‘Will you, could you, tell us a story, Prince Maesa?’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘I will choose which one he shall tell!’ said Stonbrak. ‘An aelf like him will have lifetimes of tales, but there is one in particular I would like to hear.’

  ‘Is there?’ said Maesa.

  ‘There is,’ said Stonbrak. ‘Tell me how you came into the company of this little monster here.’

  Shattercap hissed.

  Maesa set his glass down. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall.’

  SACROSANCT & OTHER STORIES

  by Various authors

  Enjoy a collection of tales from the Mortal Realms, covering a host of races and factions and providing a taste of the flavour of the Age of Sigmar – including a brand new novella by C L Werner.

  Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com

  THE THIRTEENTH PSALM

  Peter Fehervari

  Master of the macabre, Peter Fehevari is well known for his appreciation of all things strange and peculiar in the Warhammer 40,000 universe.

  In this mysterious narrative, a squad of Space Marines from the Angels Penitent are forced to confront their own flaws and the dishonourable history of their Chapter as they are drawn further and further into an enigmatic web of cruelty. Can the past truly remain buried and forgotten? Or are even the Penitent susceptible to falling?

  Beauty blinds the beholder, bedazzling the eye with grace or splendour and beguiling the heart with the promise of hope. The first rapture is an illusion, the second a lie, both wrought by the Archenemy to bind the soul in sweet tangles while the world sours, bleeds and burns unopposed. Those who cherish beauty flirt with corruption, but those who fabricate, disseminate and embody its deceits are among the foremost of heretics.

  – Thirteenth Psalm

  The Testament of Thorns

  First Reflection

  Once I was among the worst of sinners. Whenever I medi­tate upon the Thirteenth Psalm I am dismayed anew by the weight of my past transgressions. The bloodline of my brotherhood runs strong with the Angel Sanguinius’ golden taint, cursing us with a comeliness and refinement uncommon among the Adeptus Astartes, even surpassing others who share our progenitor, but that does not excuse my excesses. When I walked among mortals as a Knight Artificer of the Resplendent they gazed upon me as though I were the God-Emperor Himself! But it was the accolades my ­creations received that truly filled my heart with pride, for even among a Chapter of artisans, poets and painters, my works were extravagant in their number and arrogance.

  There was a time when the sculptures of Bjargo Rathana were lauded across a thousand worlds and sought by the most discerning – and avaricious – of the Imperium’s elite. I brought more glory upon my Chapter with chisel and stone than ever I did with bolter or blade, not to mention the bounty I reaped for our coffers. I recall earnestly declaring that I was a warrior of the soul, charged with waging a higher war than the petty scuffles of bone and sinew. Such was our Chapter’s decadence that my hubris was not only tolerated, but revered. Chapter Master Varzival titled me an Artisan Illuminant and decreed me too valuable to hazard in battle. And I delighted in it!

  It shames me to confess such things aloud, yet it is necessary, for I must face myself without mercy if I am to prevail in the trial before me. The God-Emperor has condemned us all as sinners and shame is the first step on the road to penitence. Since the revelation that excoriated
my Chapter I have walked far along that path and become a true warrior of the soul. And yet I was among the last to embrace atonement.

  For years I languished in our monastery’s Ghost Pits with the foulest recidivists, clinging to my pride, yet our prophet refused to forsake me. Time lost its way in that changeless darkness until nothing mattered save the patient, passionate tone of his censures.

  ‘Concede the squalor in thy soul, Bjargo Rathana,’ the Undying Martyr urged. ‘Confess thy sins and rise above them, soiled but honest in thy contempt.’

  I have heard outsiders claim that our prophet is surely a madman or a sly servant of the Archenemy who has led us to ruin like cattle to the slaughter. Why, they ask, would a civilised brotherhood like the Resplendent submit to the degradation prescribed by a mortal stranger? To them I say this – listen to the Undying Martyr speak. See the sorrow in his eyes when he laments humanity’s fall from grace. Only then will you understand and earn the right to judge. Until then it is we who shall stand in judgement over you. That is the doom of the Angels Penitent.

  After I awoke to the revelation I seized it with a fervour that eclipsed all but the most blessed of my brothers, and ascended swiftly to the Crown of Thorns that governs our Chapter. For nearly twenty years an iron skull has masked my impure visage, riveted to the bone beneath to seal the compact, for a Chaplain Castigant never relinquishes his vestments. My hempen robes have never known the touch of water and the soot-black armour beneath is begrimed with old blood and the dirt of countless worlds, their stain a litany to the battles I have fought in His name. The crozius I now wield is more honest than a chisel, though it carves in fewer strokes and leaves every subject broken.

  I wrought much good work in my new calling, yet my past disgrace tormented me, thus when the Undying Martyr proclaimed a crusade to scour the Imperium of the Resplendent’s artistic legacy I sought his blessing to lead the quest. My creations were at the forefront of that prideful diaspora, so who better to expunge them than I? As I had sown, so I would reap!

  The Chapter’s numbers were few and our allies fewer still, so it fell to a single, much diminished company to prosecute this sacred quest. Rechristening our strike cruiser the Severance of Glory, we set about our task with zeal, seeking out and purging the vainglorious artefacts of the Resplendent.

  Many years have passed since the Absolution Company’s departure, and with them many of my brothers, for the heathens who covet our heritage have rarely surrendered their treasures willingly and some have commanded armies. It is a testament to the iniquity of the baubles we fabricated that they evoke such ardour in mortals. Indeed our dreams have seeded many monsters.

  And so we come to the exquisite abomination that stands before me now – the centrepiece in this gallery of aberrant constructions.

  Balanced on a tripod of curved legs, the mirror is taller than I and almost as broad, its arched top lending it the aspect of a doorway. The frame is forged from silver-plated plasteel, sinuous and seamless in its construction, its edges carved into the likeness of curled waves that appear to seethe at the corner of the eye. It is quite remarkable, yet mundane beside the glass it cages. Words are my foremost weapon, yet they defy my attempts to describe that strange surface. There is no tint or distortion to it, nor does it harbour subtle ghosts or glimpses of unholy realms. No, the mirror only reflects the world before it, but with a clarity that somehow surpasses its subjects, as though the reflection is the truth and the reality merely an impoverished approximation.

  Above all else, it reveals you.

  You gaze back at me from that heightened place with a sharpness of being – a completeness – that I cannot equal, though we are one. What lies behind your iron death mask, my brother-self? My own face for certain, yet also not.

  It is imprudent to gaze into that eloquent glass too long, yet duty demands it. My purpose here is not crass destruction, but righteous castigation. Each artefact of the Resplendent must be studied, decried and conquered with the correct rituals for its redaction to bear meaning. The physical act of violence is only the tip of the spear I plunge into the Sea of Souls whenever I obliterate one of our heresies. As the mirror itself so insidiously suggests, the world of flesh and blood we inhabit is a shroud obscuring an infinitely greater, darker reality, where the Archenemy lurks, ever watchful. That is where I must strike! That is–

  My work? No… You are mistaken. The mirror is not mine. I had no skill in the crafting of metal or glass, let alone the warp-weaving talents to enliven them. No, it was forged in the Librarium Resplendent by the most potent of our old Chapter’s sorcerers, Chief Librarian Athanazius himself. The description in the Inventorium Illuminatus is unmistakable, though there is no mention of the mirror’s arcane properties – and little wonder, since it was the Librarium that compiled the records and its acolytes were cautious even in those dissolute times. Wise to such evasions, I had prioritised their creations in our hunt, yet Athanazius’ masterwork had long eluded us.

  It would take too long to recount the twisted skein of events that carried the mirror so far from our monastery on sacred Malpertuis to the remote world I stand upon now. Suffice to say the Archenemy undoubtedly had a hand in its journey, though whether by intent or instinct, I cannot fathom. Either way, this planet has proved itself to be a trap.

  As always, it was Brother Anselm, our company’s most studious Redactor, who pieced together the trail. I recall the gleam in his eyes when he sought me out in the ship’s chapel to reveal the breakthrough, though he kept his elation leashed. Like my own, Anselm’s zeal burned cold, tempered by the discipline that our baleful blood demands lest it spill over into madness. We were both veterans of the Resplendent era, our roots steeped in sin, while more than half the Chapter’s warriors are now Penitent-forged. While these young ‘Thornborn’ are aware of the past, they cannot feel it as we do, nor loathe it with such clarity. Though my calling disallows the camaraderie shared by common battle-brothers, there was an understanding between Anselm and myself that I choose to remember as friendship.

  Now my friend is dead, along with all the others who accompanied me to this foul place. I can see him behind me, still kneeling where he fell, his body propped up by his rigid armour. His eyes are frozen in surprise beneath the splintered crown of his cranium. No… There is more than surprise in them – betrayal – for the trail of blood weaving from his corpse leads to the crozius in my hand.

  I had no choice. But you already know that, mirror-brother, for Anselm Giordano also kneels broken on your side of the glass.

  Second Reflection

  I should say something of the benighted world where we found the mirror. Oblazt lies on the borders of the Damocles Gulf, just beyond the overt incursions of the foul xenos empire that festers beyond that great void. Though the planet is an insignificant speck of ice within the greater Imperium, it is the cornerstone of its own miserable subsector. The oceans under its frozen skin are abundant with edible beasts, and beneath their realm, deep wells of promethium. A network of domed cities harvests this wealth in the Emperor’s name, though our records indicated their masters’ loyalty derived from obligation rather than devotion.

  Like so many provincial rulers, the Koroleva blue bloods revere themselves first and the God-Emperor second, wallowing in excess while the wretches under their yoke suffer the burden. It sickens me that such leeches are tolerated, indeed fostered, across the Imperium; however it bears witness to the Undying Martyr’s message – mankind is beyond redemption. The Emperor condemns and the day of His wrath is imminent. By His leave the Angels Penitent shall prosecute it, but for now the wickedness of backwaters like Oblazt was not our concern. That was my decree when we set our course, but malign fate conspired against us.

  When we entered Oblazt’s orbit we found a world in the throes of revolution. Most of its cities burned like funeral pyres across the tundra, some with their domes cracked open to the killing cold. The vox wave
s blazed with defiance of the Imperium, promising a new age of harmony under the aegis of the blue-skinned ‘Liberators’ who would soon cross the Damocles Gulf and rebuild Oblazt equitably. Their watchword was Unity, but beneath its benevolent sheen their manifesto was a filthy xenos lie.

  My brothers demanded action. Overlooking the grubby injustices mankind wreaked upon itself was tolerable, but turning a blind eye to this heresy was surely unforgivable! Was it not the God-Emperor’s hand that had guided us to this place in its hour of vitiation?

  I admit I almost surrendered to the temptation of war, for my own ire was stirred, but a Chaplain Castigant must rise above such indulgence and cleave to a higher purpose. Oblazt was in the grip of a headless, many-tentacled leviathan, while only fifty-five battle-brothers remained to me. We might hunt the beast for months, slicing away limbs, but never slaying it. It was a fool’s errand. More than that – a test of our devotion to the true quest!

  My brethren’s fury withered before my rebuke and Brother Veland, who had been the most outspoken of them, begged that his tongue be cut out lest he utter such foolishness again. I denied his plea and merely chastised him with the Mute Censure, binding him to ninety-nine days of silence. Though he was the youngest among us he had the makings of an exceptional warrior, but his quickness to anger ­troubled me, for it likely presaged the onset of the Black Rage. The Chapter’s new recruits have proven more susceptible to our blood’s ancient curse than the veterans, as though the clean slates of their souls are easier to stain, but I hoped Veland might elude the blight if correctly tempered. That is why I chose him for the mission ahead. With little prospect of meaningful opposition it would be a fine opportunity to observe and guide him.

  No, do not berate me for it! Did you not make the same choice, mirror-brother? Or was your Veland made of purer stuff than mine?