The Eye of Ezekiel

by C Z Dunn

  ‘You do yourself a disservice,’ Ezekiel said.

  ‘Do I? How are we having this conversation right now, Ezekiel?’

  ‘I am communicating with you via a telepathic projection of my physical form.’

  ‘Exactly. You are projecting, not I.’

  ‘But you are capable of the same feat, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, his inflection rising at the end of the sentence, almost as if he were posing a question. ‘It was you who taught me this skill.’

  ‘Yes, Ezekiel. I have psychically projected myself from one level of the Rock to another, or from my position on the battlefield to yours,’ Danatheum said, chuckling softly. ‘Tell me, where are you right now?’

  Ezekiel sighed, knowing that Danatheum had entirely scuppered his argument.

  ‘I am in the Astropathic Chamber on board the Sword of Caliban.’

  ‘And what is the Sword of Caliban’s position?’

  ‘In Segmentum Pacificus, close to the border with Solar.’

  ‘You see? You are two segmentums away and your psychic projection is the exact duplicate of your physical form.’ Danatheum shook his head. ‘Even the latest recruit to our ranks outstrips me in terms of raw power.’

  ‘Turmiel? The boy shows promise but he is lacking in control and finesse.’

  ‘The things you taught him during your year convalescing on the Rock would have taken me a decade to drill into him, if I was capable of them at all. That is why I sent him with you. By the time you return to the fold of the Chapter that boy will be second only to you in terms of psychic ability, mark my words.’

  ‘But none of that means you are not worthy to sit at the head of the Librarius.’

  ‘I may carry this sword, I may be the custodian of the Book and Holder of the Keys, but I am only keeping them safe until the time comes for you to assume the mantle of guardian.’

  ‘That will not be any time soon,’ Ezekiel said. ‘You’ll outlive us all.’

  Another sound joined the noise of battle, and the subterranean gloom began to lift as intense light spilled from an ornate tomb in the centre of the chamber. A heavy golden lid slowly slid aside as the occupant started to rouse from its slumber.

  ‘Looks like it’s time to take my leave,’ Ezekiel said.

  Danatheum shifted his gaze from the sarcophagus to look the vision of Ezekiel square in the eyes.

  ‘Swear to me that I made the right decision, Ezekiel. What happened to you on Korsh was enough to change any man, even one blessed with the twin boons of the Lion’s genetic legacy and the gift of the warp.’

  Ezekiel blinked. ‘I swear to you, Grand Master. I am the same now as I was before my encounter with the daemon.’

  Danatheum looked the psychic projection up and down, appraising him. ‘Good enough for me,’ he said eventually. ‘The Lion be with you, Ezekiel.’ He raised his blade, ready to face and exterminate whatever rose from the tomb.

  ‘And you, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, exorcising his own psychic ghost.

  ‘Why did you lie to Grand Master Danatheum?’

  Ezekiel opened his eyes with a start. He had not sensed Turmiel enter the chamber.

  ‘How long have you been in here?’ Ezekiel said. His robes were soaked through with sweat, which dripped to the cold floor as he rose to his feet and turned to face the Lexicanium.

  ‘Long enough to hear you tell the Chief Librarian that your battle with the daemon has left you unchanged.’ Turmiel’s expression was blank. Though he was looking directly at Ezekiel, he appeared to be staring at some unspecified point in the distance.

  ‘That was no lie,’ Ezekiel lied.

  ‘Really?’ Turmiel’s voice was as emotionless as his hooded face. ‘Then use your powers of foresight to tell me what I’m going to say next.’

  Faster than the Lexicanium could react, Ezekiel lunged forwards, his forearm at Turmiel’s throat, pushing him back against the hoar frost-rimed wall of the chamber. The young psyker didn’t even flinch.

  ‘How long have you known, damn you?’ Spittle coated Ezekiel’s lips.

  ‘Since the Rock. I realised that while you had been training me, you had also been relying on me to provide you with divinations. The information you provided Lord Azrael regarding the awakening of Phaeron Sylphek came directly from me, as did your briefing to Chaplain Asmodai about Black Legion movements in the region of the Ghoul Stars.’ Ezekiel’s arm remained locked across Turmiel’s throat. ‘I mean you no ill will or malice by telling you this, brother. I may not have been a Dark Angel for long, but I too recognise the value of secrets.’

  Ezekiel’s hold relaxed. Lacking as he was in his powers of foresight he could still tell when he was being lied to, and Turmiel was speaking the truth. ‘My ability to perform my role is undiminished. It is only my powers of divination that are impaired. All of my other psychic faculties are functioning perfectly.’

  ‘With the greatest of respect, brother, the Chapter relies upon you to sift through the firmament of time and read those possible futures that burn brightest. Without the ability to do that I believe your role is very much diminished.’

  Ezekiel pushed hard with his forearm, lifting Turmiel from the floor. The Lexicanium remained unperturbed. ‘Is that what this is? Blind ambition? You see an opening for the pupil to assume the master’s role?’

  ‘On the contrary. I see an opportunity to help repay you for the guidance and tutelage you have given me this past year. I have nothing but gratitude and respect for you, Brother Ezekiel. Let me help you while your powers are recovering.’

  Turmiel was still speaking the truth, of that Ezekiel was sure. The boy did not have a malevolent or manipulative bone in his body; there was no hidden agenda here. Ezekiel moved his arm away. Turmiel slid down the wall, his armoured feet hitting the floor with a metallic thud.

  ‘Forgive me, brother. I took leave of my senses momentarily. I harbour no malice towards you,’ Ezekiel said, turning away.

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. You are bound to feel… emotional. Losing one aspect of our psychic mastery is akin to one of our non-warp-gifted brothers losing a limb. The difference being, our powers will gradually return whereas limbs do not regrow.’

  ‘I’m not certain that my power of foresight will return,’ Ezekiel sighed. ‘There’s nothing there, not even a sliver of ability. My physical wounds may have healed but the gash in my psyche is still as fresh as the day it was gouged. When the daemon entered my mind it did not leave empty-handed.’

  ‘What was that like?’ Turmiel asked. For the first time since he had met him, Ezekiel could hear emotion creeping into the Epistolary’s voice. If he hadn’t known better he could have sworn it was fear. ‘To have another entity abroad in your mind, every aspect of your psyche exposed and opened up for exploitation…’

  Ezekiel closed his eyes. ‘Please, brother…’

  ‘My apologies. I realise it must be difficult for you,’ Turmiel said. ‘I shall leave you in peace.’ He headed towards the chamber entrance.

  ‘Why did you come here, brother?’ Ezekiel asked just as Turmiel had reached the threshold. The question was as figurative as it was literal.

  Turmiel stopped and turned back to face Ezekiel. ‘While you were in communion with Grand Master Danatheum I performed several rituals of divination, each one showing me the same vision of the future. That is why I came here, to tell you of the future.’

  ‘And what happens in the future, Turmiel?’

  ‘You die, Brother Ezekiel.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Gaspar! Do you see anything yet, brother?’

  Gaspar Kordiev shivered beneath the snow piled on top of him by his identical twin and peered down the scope of his lasrifle. The view was the same as it had been the last time his brother had spoken to him over the vox: nothing but snow and evergreen trees stretching off into infinity. Gaspar ta
pped the bead in his ear to open a return channel, knocking off the frost that had formed on his big, bushy moustache as he did so.

  ‘Negative, Grigori. There’s nothing–’ Sudden movement in the treeline a kilometre straight ahead distracted him. He twisted the focus adjuster of his targeting scope and zoomed in on the source. The thick trunks of the trees obscured most of the target but Gaspar could see enough of its flesh to identify it. He switched vox-channels to speak to the squad as a whole. ‘Contact. It’s a greenskin. Looks like it’s heading west.’

  ‘Is it alone?’ somebody asked over the fizzing communication link.

  Gaspar swung his lasrifle around in a slow arc, scanning for any sign of enemy movement. ‘I think so, captain.’

  ‘Good. If you get a clear shot, take it, but only if it’s a headshot – and only if you’re certain you can bring it down. Shift position if you need to but stay on the ridge, and keep alert for any more of them,’ came the response in heavily accented Vostroyan. ‘The rest of you get into position. Let’s do this exactly like we did last time and we’ll all walk back into camp in one piece tonight.’

  Five voices responded that they had understood the order. Mute quickly tapped his vox-bead three times to signal that he had heard the captain.

  For the next few minutes, Gaspar tracked the brute as it wended its way through the trees, desperate for it to move out into the open so that he could shoot it from a distance, but also cautious not to expose himself against the skyline as he moved along the ridge. Just as it was about to disappear from Gaspar’s view, the thing stopped and began to look around as if trying to get its bearings. Gaspar dropped to his belly, put the scope back to his eye and fixed the green behemoth in his sights. The opening was slight – no more than thirty centimetres between two gnarled tree trunks – but it was an opening nonetheless. He adjusted the focus again, aiming at a spot just above the greenskin’s eye, then placed his finger on the firing stud and inhaled gently, cold air stinging his lungs.

  Then, suddenly, it was gone, back on the move.

  Gaspar relaxed his grip on the weapon and opened the vox-channel again.

  ‘All yours, comrades. It has entered the kill-zone.’

  Kasimir Tupolev – though nobody ever used his full name, his squad mates shortening it to simply Kas, everybody else calling him Freak – had to stoop to get his near two and a half metre frame beneath the low branches. Even with the heavy bolter strapped to his back, he kept pace with Mute ahead of him, the much smaller man skipping silently over the drifted snow, ammo drum stowed tightly under his arm.

  ‘We’ll set up here, Mute,’ Kas said quietly as they passed through a wide clearing and back into the white forest. ‘We should see it coming long before it sees us.’

  Mute nodded vigorously and opened up the tripod weapon stand, dropping it into position just behind the treeline. Kas took the heavy bolter from his back and locked it into place before Mute slotted the ammo drum home. The pair of them were well-drilled and the whole process took only a matter of seconds. After checking everything twice to ensure that no dirt or snow had found its way into any vital part of their weapon set-up, Kas voxed the rest of the squad.

  ‘Ready to go. Lead it to us.’

  ‘We’re eyes-on it,’ Allix said into the vox-bead, so quietly that the words were almost breathed.

  Oblivious to the unseen stalkers lurking in the snowbound forest, the ork lumbered onwards, awkwardly forcing itself through the narrow paths between trees, felling saplings as it went.

  More than once both Allix and Grigori were certain they could have ended the thing there and then, their combined firepower enough to bring it down, but their orders were to lead the xenos to Kas and let him make certain of the kill. The orks had slowly been dropping onto the surface of Honoria for weeks, and they had all seen what could happen when instead of cleanly killing one, you just made it mad instead.

  Keeping their distance, the two Vostroyans tracked their prey, Allix sticking to the thick trees on one side, Grigori crawling through the deep snow on the sparsely forested other flank. Occasionally, the ork would halt, sometimes to decide in which direction it should head when faced with more than one route through the trees, at other times to sniff the thin air and survey the forest for any signs of life. When the latter happened, Allix and Grigori would stay motionless even after the greenskin had continued on its way, allowing the thing to put more distance between them and it to reduce the chances of being spotted.

  ‘Damn it,’ Allix cursed almost inaudibly into the vox. The ork had just recommenced moving after stopping to find its bearings and had completely changed direction, moving north instead of west and into the path of Kas’ heavy bolter. ‘It’s changed its route, captain. Grigori and I have to bring it down now.’

  ‘You’re certain of the kill?’ the captain replied over the vox.

  ‘Positive,’ Allix said.

  ‘Negative,’ Grigori said after a pause. ‘It’s out of range. We’ll only alert it to our positions.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Allix hissed. ‘I have a bead on it right now. Just issue the order, captain.’ Allix lacked the thick, bushy moustache sported by most Vostroyan soldiers as a sign of their station and manliness, so at times overcompensated with reckless shows of bravado and macho posturing. Most of the time, the rest of the squad found it amusing and played along with Allix, leading to verbal, and sometimes physical, sparring. In the middle of a combat situation, however, it was far from amusing. The captain, as ever, could see exactly what Allix was doing.

  ‘Do not take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot,’ the captain said firmly. ‘Dmitri. Get it back on track.’

  The vox-bead in Dmitri’s ear buzzed with static as Allix killed the link, sparing the rest of the squad from the choice words now being spoken about the captain. He gripped the dark goggles hanging around his throat with both hands and pulled them up to cover his pink eyes, the black frame and lenses stark against the alabaster of his skin. Unslinging the flamer hanging limply from a strap over his shoulder, he ignited the pilot flame and gave a short experimental press of the trigger to ensure the promethium flowed freely. An orange burst blossomed into life and disappeared just as quickly, leaving behind the stink of burned fuel. Dmitri’s lips peeled back in a smile, revealing teeth the same colour as his face.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out, shattering the silence of the cold forest. ‘Over here!’ Dmitri pointed the flamer skywards and let out a long, satisfying jet of flame, causing steam to emanate from the snow-covered branches high above his head.

  In the distance, the ork bellowed in reply. Though Dmitri could not see the beast he could tell it was on the move and headed for him by the movement of the trees. He could also tell it was moving fast.

  The albino Vostroyan began to run, putting the strap of the flamer over his shoulder crossways so that the weapon sat at his hip, bouncing off him with every stride he made. Though the canopy above granted some respite from the snowfall, the powder underfoot was knee-deep, significantly impeding Dmitri’s progress. He risked a glance backwards to find that not only could he see the ork, but that it had already covered a third of the distance between them.

  ‘Keep heading towards us,’ Kas said over the vox. ‘You’re nearly there.’

  Dmitri looked up to see Mute through a gap in the trees off in the distance, furiously waving both arms above his head like a Naval rating trying to land fighters on a flight deck. Alongside him, the imposing figure of Kas gripped the handles of the heavy bolter, poised to open fire.

  Dmitri put his hand on the flamer and shot from the hip, sweeping the superheated promethium in a one hundred and eighty-degree arc, simultaneously melting the snow and letting the ork know exactly where he was. Hot mist sprung up before him, soaking his uniform as he sped through it, the heat stinging his thin, frail flesh. The brute bellowed again, so close now that Dmitri was not sure that he
was going to lure it into Kas’ sights before it caught up with him. Lungs broiling as he gasped in the freezing air, Dmitri put his head down and increased his speed, calling on every last reserve of stamina and power to propel himself forwards.

  He burst out of the trees into the clearing, exhaling in relief but not slackening his pace. He looked up to see that Mute was no longer waving, instead flapping both hands in a downwards motion. The ork roared again, so close that Dmitri could feel the wet warmth of the thing’s breath on the back of his neck.

  ‘Get down!’ Kas yelled over the vox.

  Dmitri threw himself forwards, landing on densely packed snow before rolling sideways, hands over his ears to prevent himself being deafened by the report of the heavy bolter. Three staccato shots rang out, muffled by the thick fabric of the gloves he was using to protect his hearing, followed by another cry from the beast. Then, confusingly, there was silence.

  Dmitri looked up to see Mute frantically trying to free the ammo drum from its housing in the heavy bolter while Kas bashed at the weapon with a meaty fist, trying in vain to dislodge the jammed bolt-round. Slowly, Dmitri turned his head to where the ork, still very much alive, was lying prone, a guttural roar gradually building in its throat. Kas’ shooting had been Primer-perfect: three shots to the leg to rob the ork of mobility and bring it low. Unfortunately for the Vostroyans, the weapon had jammed before it could deliver the other dozen or so shots needed to finish the job.

  With a howl of pain, the ork tried to rise to its feet, its ruined leg trembling beneath it where gobbets of meat had been blown away. Its first attempt ended with it on its knees, the beast collapsing under its own weight, but the second time it managed to draw itself up to full height, trapping Dmitri in its vast shadow, cast by the hazy winter sun. The Vostroyan, not diverting his gaze from the ork looming over him, began to scrabble around for the flamer that had escaped him when he dived to the ground.