The Eye of Ezekiel

by C Z Dunn

  ‘I have spent an eternity adrift in the Eye of Terror, Dark Angel,’ Draigo said, his animosity equally naked. ‘I have endured far worse than this.’

  The six of them continued onwards, following Balthasar, who both lit their way and stood vigilant for any ambush that might await them. Periodically, they would pass cell doors, each made from the same bone as the entrance, but the Dark Angels and Draigo ignored them, their focus on their mission – whatever that was – unwavering.

  After a time, they passed a cell with a door unlike any of the others. Instead of bone, it was made of a strange metal of unknown origin and had a slider at eye height to allow a jailer to look in on whoever or whatever was held within. All of the others ignored it, though Ezekiel did see Azrael and Asmodai exchange the briefest of looks. Ezekiel stopped, curiosity besting him.

  ‘Take a look,’ the daemon said. Azrael stood beside him but was simultaneously further along the corridor. ‘What harm can it do? You’re dead, after all.’

  Ezekiel hesitated for a moment, studying Azrael’s face to see if the daemon gave off any sign of tricking him or laying a trap. His features were as blank as the poor souls used to construct the prison.

  His decision made, Ezekiel slowly slid back the metal cover, the meagre light from the cell block filtering in through the narrow aperture. Before peering in, he looked along the hallway to see if the other Space Marines had noticed him, but they were entirely oblivious to his actions. The Azrael that had been standing next to him was gone too.

  His enhanced vision compensating for the darkness, he peered in to see a hooded figure sat on the floor of the bare cell. Though he wore no suit of power armour, he was obviously of Space Marine stock, larger even than the biggest Dark Angels Ezekiel had ever known. The prisoner did not react immediately to Ezekiel’s presence, slowly lifting his head to meet the Librarian eye to eye. Whether it was some trick of the warp or an inherent ability of the hood he wore, the prisoner’s features were completely obscured except for the eyes. Eyes that Ezekiel somehow knew. It wasn’t that he had seen the captive before but rather a cultural memory, possibly even a genetic one, that had sparked recognition.

  Ezekiel was just about to speak to the prisoner when Azrael called out from up ahead, diverting his attention.

  ‘We’ve found him,’ Azrael said in his own voice. ‘It’s this cell here.’

  When Ezekiel turned back, the cell door had changed and was made of carved bone just like the rest. Unsure of who the cell’s occupant was, he caught up with the others.

  ‘I think the time for subtlety is over,’ Azrael said, his voice both his own and that of the daemon. ‘Open the door, Brother Balthasar.’

  The others retreated a couple of steps as Balthasar opened up with his storm bolter, shards of bone flying in all directions, puncturing the flesh of the bodies that made up the floor and walls, which showered the Space Marines with fresh blood. Having emptied his weapon, Balthasar kicked open the remains of the door. The other five entered, and Ezekiel followed.

  In his time as a Dark Angel Ezekiel had seen many things, and his conditioning had prepared him for many more, but what awaited him in that cell ranked highly on the most bizarre, grotesque and barbaric things he had ever witnessed. Bound at the hands and suspended from a chain in the centre of the room was a Space Marine, as large as the one he had seen previously, his body a tapestry of scars and open wounds. As he spun around, feet high off the ground, Ezekiel could see that there was something on the Space Marine’s back that shouldn’t be there. No, somebody who shouldn’t be there. A human had been grafted onto the prisoner’s back.

  The Librarian suddenly became aware that nobody else was reacting to what was before them, and he realised that Asmodai, Balthasar, Turmiel and the one called Draigo were motionless.

  ‘Who is he?’ Ezekiel asked. Hearing his voice, the hapless captive fixed his gaze on the Dark Angel with eyes as familiar as those of the previous cell’s occupant. He opened his mouth but his tongue was missing, so could not speak.

  ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet? This isn’t about answers, Ezekiel. This is about questions, about possibilities, about what might have been, what might yet be and what will never be.’ The daemon in Azrael’s form laughed. ‘His torment is slowly killing him, but tell me, what is your torment doing to you?’

  Darkness.

  An eerie hush descended upon the assembly hall, tens of thousands of Guardsmen instantly falling silent at a signal from Balthasar, flanked by Serpicus and Turmiel, on a balcony high above. Mordian, Vostroyan and Honorian alike, many crammed into the tunnels and corridors leading into the vast chamber, cast their eyes upwards.

  ‘I shall keep this brief,’ Balthasar began. ‘Each of you has given your all and in this respite from battle, you have earned your rest. But this rest will also be brief. The orks have breached the outer walls of Honoria and encircle the inner citadel, believing that they have us trapped in here. Though the orks are not a patient foe, they will continue to lay siege to this place until they believe us to be dead from dehydration and starvation, or until they breach these walls. Neither of these things is going to happen.’

  In the crowd below, Guardsmen turned to each other in bewilderment.

  ‘The orks may outnumber us a hundred to one, a thousand to one even, but that numerical advantage means nothing in the narrow streets of the capital. They think they have us trapped but the reality is it is us who have them trapped. As we slaughter the greenskins within the city, those without shall hear the sounds of their kin dying and shall despair, put to the rout in the knowledge that they will be next.’

  The bewilderment turned to nervous excitement, a ripple of noise passing through the throng.

  Capturing the mood, Balthasar turned it to his advantage. ‘Many have already laid down their lives to put us in this position and more of our blood will be shed if we are to win this day, but it is the price that must be paid to liberate this city, to liberate this world. While the orks revel in what they wrongly believe to be their victory here, we shall throw open the doors of this citadel and march once more to war!’

  Sections of the crowd cheered. Balthasar had them on the hook; all he had to do now was reel them in.

  ‘Go from here and rearm and resupply, knowing that the Emperor watches over and protects you, guides your hand and ensures your aim is true. Go from here and sleep, knowing that when you awaken, glory and victory awaits you. Go from here knowing that at nightfall you shall drive the greenskins from Honoria and write your names into the annals of Imperial history!’

  Every man, woman and child in the chamber roared their approval. Balthasar made the sign of the aquila, mirrored by tens of thousands down below.

  With the cacophony still prevailing, Balthasar turned to Serpicus. ‘Is the strike team assembled?’

  ‘Every member of Fifth still capable of raising a bolter put themselves forward. It was a difficult task narrowing it down to just ten brothers,’ the Techmarine replied.

  ‘Good,’ Balthasar said, nodding his approval. ‘We head out an hour before the main assault.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sky ran the gamut of every colour known to man – and many others that weren’t – unnatural light bleeding in though shattered windows onto the stone floor below. The wind howled like the laughter of dark gods, and tremors rocked the already damaged structure in which Ezekiel now found himself. Though the unease he felt was not as pronounced as it had been in the Eye of Terror, the influence of the warp was all-pervasive here, seeping into the very fabric of this unknown world.

  ‘Is this to be my lot from henceforth, daemon?’ Ezekiel said. Neither he nor the daemon had form here, instead assuming the roles of omniscient observers. ‘To spend all of eternity escorting you to every corner of reality and unreality? If so then you might as well consume my soul now as you will find me to be a far from agreeabl
e travelling companion.’

  ‘There is nothing I would enjoy more than showing you the secrets and lies of your Chapter and the depths of human misery forevermore, but alas, this is our final destination.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘All those months you spent convalescing here and yet you still don’t recognise the old place?’

  ‘The Tower of Angels,’ Ezekiel said. Though it did look like the Tower of Angels where he had spent so much time during his life as a Dark Angel, some of the details were different from how he remembered them, and it seemed newer somehow. Ezekiel put this down to trickery and obfuscation on the daemon’s part.

  ‘Ah, but where – or perhaps that should be when – is the Tower of Angels?’

  ‘Caliban?’ Ezekiel said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘The warp storm? Does that mean…?’

  ‘It does. These are the final moments of the cradle of the Dark Angels.’ There was a smug satisfaction in the daemon’s tone. ‘And that being the case, who do you think that is down there?’

  Ezekiel’s focus was drawn to a figure lying still on the stone floor below. On the periphery of his vision he could make out the form of another prone armoured warrior, but his identity was irrelevant to Ezekiel. At this moment, all of his attention was focused on one being.

  ‘The Lion,’ Ezekiel said, reverence threatening to spill over into emotion. He wanted nothing more than to be at his primarch’s side, to mend his wounds and make him whole again. To change history so that the greatest of the Emperor’s sons would live on to bring hope and light to an Imperium blighted by despair and darkness.

  ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it?’ the daemon said. ‘But, even if you could save him, your part in this unfolding drama is merely that of watcher.’

  Loathing welled up from deep within Ezekiel, a primal hatred directed solely at the daemon, but he did not give voice to it. To show a son of the Lion his father’s dying moment was intolerable cruelty; for the son to respond to it was to hand the daemon a victory, no matter how small or petty.

  Ezekiel looked on in silence as a third figure entered the great hall of the Tower, robed like the captive in the first cell within the Eye of Terror. Upon seeing the dying primarch, he stopped in his tracks, arms hanging limp at his side. The noise of the raging warp storm was broken by the sound of a bolt pistol falling from one hand and hitting the stone floor, a plasma pistol dropping out of his other. Slowly, he approached the Lion, sinking to his knees beside the giant figure. The primarch, aware of the newcomer’s presence, spoke softly.

  ‘Come closer. There are things I must tell you. A task you must complete.’

  The robed figure pulled back his hood and leaned in close to the Lion. Though Ezekiel could see his primarch’s lips move, he could not make out what was said.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ the daemon said, ruining the moment, ‘I don’t know what he said either.’

  His final words imparted, the Lion breathed his last and the robed figure fell upon his primarch’s breast weeping the tears of angels. Ezekiel wished he could turn away, to allow the stranger to grieve in private, but this was all part of the daemon’s torment, to force him to watch regardless. Composing himself, the figure rose to his knees, carefully placing his fingertips on the Lion’s face and closing his dead eyes. Then, as if sensing the presence of others, he jerked alert turning his head to look right at where Ezekiel and the daemon were positioned.

  ‘Time to take our leave,’ the daemon said, a little panicked. ‘Too much knowledge can be a bad thing.’

  But Ezekiel already had too much knowledge. Though the eyes that had looked straight through him had not been the ones he had expected to see, he had recognised them nonetheless.

  ‘Come on, you stubborn bastard, live!’

  Rephial’s arms were coated in Ezekiel’s blood up to the elbows, his cuirass and pauldrons similarly spattered with crimson. He had been trying to get the Librarian’s heart restarted for hours without any success, and by rights should have given up trying long ago, but there was one thing keeping the Apothecary going: though neither of Ezekiel’s hearts were beating, the sensors hooked up to him showed that the Librarian still had brain function. He was fighting so Rephial was going to fight alongside him until the battle was won or lost.

  The medicae was almost deserted, most of the personnel having retired to their billets to prepare for the imminent counter-attack, leaving behind only a skeleton staff to tend to the most severely wounded. The rhythmic beeping of monitoring devices was the only sound, save for the background hum of the generators that powered them.

  Rephial ceased his latest attempt to get Ezekiel’s primary heart started and switched his attention to the secondary, placing both palms on the still organ. It was cool to the touch but not as cold as Rephial would have expected after so long, which offered him further encouragement. He pressed down hard on the heart a couple of times before beginning his silent count that led into the next repetition. Halfway through, he ceased counting, his attention drawn by one of the Astra Militarum doctors. One of the Guardsmen had succumbed to his wounds and the doctor – a Vostroyan judging by the facial hair – was preparing for the body to be removed. He respectfully closed the dead man’s eyes, then removed a canula from his forearm and switched off the heart monitor, which by now was making a constant, monotone squeal. The Vostroyan was just about to turn off the portable generator when Rephial approached him.

  ‘Are you using this?’ the Apothecary asked, pointing to the generator.

  Shocked into silence, the Vostroyan simply shook his head. Rephial picked the generator up with both hands, carrying with ease what three burly Guardsmen would have struggled with. He placed it down beside the gurney upon which Ezekiel lay, chest splayed open, his head a bloody ruin.

  Rephial had acquired many skills and techniques in the course of his centuries of service above and beyond what the Master of the Apothecarion had taught him as a newly elevated Dark Angel. Principal among them were employing a garrotte wire for battle­field amputations, cauterising a wound with a lasweapon and the use of the butt of a bolter as a means to relocate a dislocated shoulder; but there were also more advanced methods he had been made privy to. Just as the Dark Angels apothecarion had shared with the Reclusiam the exact composition of a serum that could prolong life over the course of even the most arduous interrogations, so too had the Chaplains shared their discovery that a heart that had ceased beating could be restarted with judicious use of a crozius arcanum. While Puriel’s weapon of office had been lost when its wielder had been slain, a brief surge of energy could be administered by any source powerful enough to coax the organ back into action.

  Holding out the cable that delivered the power, Rephial spat acid onto it, stripping away the coating that prevented accidental electrocution and thrust the bare wire deep into Ezekiel’s gaping chest.

  ‘You told me that Caliban was our final destination, daemon,’ Ezekiel said. ‘So what are we doing back here?’

  They were both back in the darkness where the daemon had first appeared to him on wings of fire. Sensing their presence, the things of the warp began to circle.

  ‘Technically here isn’t anywhere,’ the daemon said. ‘At least not anywhere you would find on any map or chart.’

  ‘Has there been a point to all this? You’ve already demonstrated that you have absolute power over me in this place, so if your plan for me is not eternal torment then what is it?’

  Ezekiel raised his voice, the psychic predators getting ever more agitated the louder he became.

  ‘Those things I showed you, some will be and–’

  ‘Some will not come to pass. Some were real. Some were not. So you keep saying, but what does any of it have to do with me? I’m already dead, or was that one of your lies, daemon?’ Ezekiel raised his volume yet again, stirring the aetheric entities into a greater frenzy. If he co
uld keep the daemon distracted for long enough, perhaps they would get close enough to attack and hopefully even vanquish it. At the very least they might consume it and spare him any more of the daemon’s cryptic visions and prattling.

  ‘Let me assure you, you are quite dead, Ezekiel,’ the daemon said. ‘Those things I showed you? Some of them benefit me greatly if they are allowed to occur, others cause me irreparable harm.’

  ‘But some of what you showed me has already happened. The benefit or harm has already been done.’

  ‘The past is easily altered. If you had been able to save the Lion then the next ten thousand years would have taken a very different path indeed,’ the daemon chuckled. ‘It’s also easy to confuse the past and the future, especially when at times they can be one and the same.’

  ‘Are you functionally incapable of giving a straight answer?’ Ezekiel yelled. ‘What does this have to do with me?’

  ‘I need you to do something for me, Ezekiel.’

  ‘I’d rather die than help you, daemon.’

  ‘You are already dead, or did you forget that little detail? What I need you to do also aids you, Dark Angel.’

  The things of the warp were tantalisingly close. Ezekiel did not have to stall the daemon for much longer.

  ‘And what is it that you need me to do?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious, Ezekiel?’ the daemon replied, all frivolity in its voice frozen out by malice. ‘I need you to live.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Allix inserted a fresh power pack into the lasrifle before tossing it to Dmitri. The albino caught it in one hand then looked along the length of the barrel, checking for kinks and bends.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ Marita asked, appearing in front of Allix. She had buttoned up her tunic making the bulge at her stomach more pronounced.

  ‘Where’s your what?’ Allix replied.