[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  Daemons were boiling up through the glowing floor, long-limbed, shining, flame-spewing creatures. Alaric dived into the fray to cut through the circle of daemons surrounding Tancred.

  The daemons screamed as they touched the sacred wards woven into the Grey Knights’ armour. Tancred beheaded one, spilling globules of glowing blood that fell upwards towards the distant ceiling. Alaric glimpsed surreal, individual combats through the darkness, illuminated in shafts of light from below. He saw Justicar Tancred slashing at the daemons, Brother Locath fending off reaching hands that grabbed at him with charred fingers, Brother Karlin aiming his incinerator into the monsters rising around his feet and pumping a gout of flame straight downwards until it looked like he was standing in a volcano.

  Alaric cut downwards and felt daemon’s flesh coming apart under the blade of his halberd. A crack rang out as Dvorn, at Alaric’s side, drove the head of his Nemesis hammer down into the body of a gibbering daemon. Alaric saw that Tancred was surrounded—the Grey Knights were trained and equipped to fight the daemonic, but there was a prodigious tide of them erupting now, just like on Victrix Sonora, just like on Khorion IX a thousand years before.

  A shrill scream cut through the din of battle and shapes speared down, flying creatures with bladed wings that swooped low and tore through Squad Tancred. Alaric jabbed upwards and gouged off the wing of one screamer, sending it cartwheeling away, spraying burning blood. Alaric saw Brother Krae, one of Tancred’s oldest battle-brothers, beheaded by a swooping daemon that caught fire as it touched him. Krae’s Terminator-armoured body fell to the ground and his body sunk into the deeper darkness that opened beneath him.

  “Krae!” bellowed Tancred. He grabbed one of the swooping daemons with his bolter hand, dragging it downwards and slicing it clean in half with his sword. But there were more of them, whole squadrons of them dropping from far above to shriek through the shadows. Brother Vien, just behind Alaric, brought one screamer down with a volley of bolt shells, and Haulvarn spitted another on the point of his sword.

  But Squad Tancred were in the centre of it all. Tancred himself almost lost an arm to one that ripped its blades deep into his shoulder pad. Alaric plunged deeper into the fray and the daemons below parted as he waded through them, his wards burning bright-hot, reflected in the burns that covered the daemons’ skin. But there were so many of them.

  A white light shone down suddenly as they fended off the daemons around them, and Alaric saw that someone was rising from the flood in the middle of Squad Tancred, directing the screamers—a bent and wizened figure dressed in a long flowing cloak, a mockery of Ecclesiarchical robes. The hood fell back and Alaric saw an emaciated face, thin as a corpse’s, with huge, white, pupilless eyes that dripped purple lightning.

  Polonias, the missionary—but Alaric felt such age and malice emanating from the figure that it must be someone far older than Polonias was supposed to be, perhaps even the first missionary, Crucien. If that was the case then Ghargatuloth had planted his plan on Sophano Secundus even before he was first banished by Mandulis.

  Tancred strode towards the elevated figure but the missionary drew a long, gnarled wooden club from thin air and met Tancred’s Nemesis sword in a flash of sparks. The missionary struck back with inhuman speed and Tancred only just parried the blow, forced onto the back foot.

  Alaric tried to close with Tancred and the missionary but the hands reaching up from the floor slowed him down, and for every one he and his squad severed three more seemed to reach up in their place. Tancred fought on, cutting deep into the missionary’s body only for the wound to heal up with a ripple of purple fire.

  Tancred was almost on his knees, the missionary’s staff striking again and again, the storm bolter fire from his Terminators spattering against a shield of purple-black lightning that the missionary span around himself. Tancred was as physically strong a man as Alaric had ever fought with, but the missionary was a fearsome champion of Chaos and his blows kept raining down.

  There was a flash of light from a discharging Nemesis blade and the head of a halberd punched out through the front of the missionary’s chest. Behind the missionary, Alaric saw Justicar Santoro flanked by his squad, covered from head to feet in smoking daemon’s blood, determination behind the glinting glass of his helmet’s eyepieces. Santoro twisted the blade of his halberd and opened up the missionary’s torso, spilling burning organs onto the floor. Tancred rose to his knees and sliced off one of the missionary’s arms, then as Santoro held the missionary wriggling like a worm on a hook Tancred cut down with his sword and clove the missionary’s head clean in two down to the collar bone.

  Pink fire blossomed up from the missionary’s ruined skull and spurted from his massive chest wound. The screaming of daemons rose higher and with a thunderclap the missionary exploded, throwing Terminators and power-armoured Grey Knights to the floor. Chunks of flaming flesh flew everywhere.

  The discharge of sorcerous energy rippled through the stones and Alaric felt them shift beneath his feet. Not trusting the vox, he ripped off his helmet and took in a searing breath of hot incense, blood, and flamer chemicals.

  “Out! Everyone, now!” he yelled at the top of his voice as the floor pitched suddenly, huge chunks of black marble falling. A pillar gave way and crashed to the ground like a falling tree. Falling sheets of crumbling marble reduced the visibility even more, and even through his auto-senses Alaric felt as if he were blundering through pitch darkness.

  The shards of fire that leapt past him were bolts of covering fire from Squad Genhain, and Alaric knew he was heading the right way. He stumbled, but Brother Clostus grabbed his shoulder pad and dragged him forward, through the doorway and into the comparative brightness outside.

  Alaric saw the steps up to the mission temple were littered with bodies, many of them mutants in the livery of the Allking’s household troops. Squad Genhain had held off a spirited counter-attack on the steps, and by the wounds on the bodies had used hand-to-hand combat when their ammunition ran low.

  “Good work, justicar,” said Alaric, his helmet still off.

  “What was in there?” asked Genhain.

  “The missionary. He’s dead but the whole place is coming down. Get us into cover.”

  Genhain nodded and pointed towards a single-storey complex, the villa of some feudal lord a short sprint away from the temple. Tharn and Horst, Genhain’s two psycannon Marines, led the way, hunting for targets as they ran towards the building. Alaric ordered his squad to follow and hung back to see Santoro lead Squad Tancred out. Both squads were badly beaten up, their armour covered in claw marks and spattered with smouldering gore. The smell was appalling. Brother Mykros and Brother Marl from Squad Santoro carried Brother Krae’s massive body between them, Tancred himself close behind with his Terminators.

  Alaric jammed his helmet back on his head in time for Brother Tharn’s vox. “We’ve got hostiles at the palace’s rear gates,” he said.

  “Heading this way?” asked Alaric, looking towards the imposing rear wall of the palace where an ornate archway led into the Allking’s gardens.

  “I don’t think so. Looks like they’re fleeing… one’s huge, a mutant maybe…”

  Alaric saw Allking Rashemha the Stout storm through the archway leading from the white stone palace, a ragged band of his retainers and courtiers around him. The Allking carried a huge mace and was swinging it indiscriminately, knocking his own troops off their feet to keep some unseen enemy away from him. He was yelling orders and curses, and blood streamed down his face.

  Alaric hadn’t seen the Allking before but the man’s massive girth and authority over the hapless stragglers around him left him in little doubt.

  Dark shapes flitted around him. One of them stopped for a split-second, spinning in the air, and Alaric recognized it as one of Ligeia’s death cultists. Twin swords flashed and two retainers fell dead, their heads neatly removed. Another death cultist ran up the inside of the arch, flipped over, and took off the Allkin
g’s hand. His hand and mace clattered to the ground and the Allking roared as thick, writhing worms spurted from the stump of his wrist instead of blood.

  Both death cultists slashed at the Allking, opening up dozens of wounds that all bled fountains of hideous worms. With a final bellow of defiance the Allking’s body disintegrated into a foul squirming heap of wriggling vermin.

  The death cultists landed and gave the heap a wide berth, neatly despatching the few surviving courtiers as they skirted around it. Then, two more death cultists stepped through the arch and around the bubbling mess—these two were carrying Inquisitor Ligeia between them, who somehow managed to look stately and unflustered as the death cultists placed her back on the ground.

  The death cultists and Ligeia hurried towards Alaric, the cultists swatting away the few arrows that were still being fired their way from the upper levels of the palace. Ligeia’s face was stained with smoke and blood and her hair was messy and singed, but she didn’t seem hurt. In fact, to Alaric she looked rather more dangerous than he had seen her before.

  “Justicar,” said Ligeia as her death cultists accompanied her to the threshold of the mansion Genhain had indicated. “I am glad you could join us.” She glanced back at the mission—the roof had just fallen in and a cloud of noisome black dust spewed from the open entrance. “I think we have found ample evidence of Ghargatuloth here.” Alaric saw that both Ligeia and the two death cultists who had carried her were also carrying several large leather-bound books and rolled-up scrolls and banners.

  “The missionary is dead,” said Alaric. “We have lost two men and several injured.”

  “The missionary was Cracien,” said Ligeia. “Ghargatuloth has had this planet marked since before the Imperium discovered it.”

  “It must be important to it,” said Alaric, leading Ligeia into the shelter of the mansion. It was all white marble and hanging tapestries, relatively untouched by the fighting. “Crucien had daemons and sorcery at his command. He almost overwhelmed us. It takes a very powerful man to do that and Ghargatuloth must have taken a great risk to give him such power.”

  Ligeia indicated the books she was carrying. “Perhaps there is something here that will tell us why. We need to get back to the Rubicon.”

  “We lost the Thunderhawks,” said Alaric, “but I can get a message to the Rubicon once we’re out of the city and they can send shuttles down for us.”

  “Good. Once we’re out of here we can drop a few torpedoes on this place. What do you think?”

  Alaric nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Ligeia smiled. The expression was stark contrast to the blood on her face. “We’d better get moving, then.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THALASSOCRES

  Two thousand years before the outpost on Sophano Secundus was lost, a great compact was signed.

  The Prince of a Thousand faces withdrew from his real space lair on Khorion IX into the warp, where the Lord of Change himself had cried out—a terrible keening loaded with unholy knowledge, the tolling of a great bell at the heart of the warp. The other powers of the warp—sometimes allies, usually accursed—shrunk away, the daemons said, cowering from the incandescent might of Tzeentch. The god himself sent ripples through the warp, calling his servants to him.

  The Prince heeded the call. The Prince could do this because he was much, much more than his daemonic body—he was knowledge, pure information, revelations of darkness hidden in the hearts of millions of men. He could be in real space and the warp at the same time, pulling puppet strings in both universes, doing the work of the Change. For the Prince of a Thousand Faces was one of the most powerful of its kind.

  The Conclave gathered at Thalassocres, a benighted world trapped screaming in the warp like a madman in a cell. Every hour its continents changed, melting into the seas of liquid nitrogen and spewing great mountains into the sky. The Change God’s faithful gathered and soon those awestruck by their fellow daemons fled in terror, leaving only the most powerful sons of Tzeentch.

  Their followers ran out across the melting plains of Thalassocres, settling old scores and marking up new ones in idle battle while their masters brooded. The Princes competed in the might of their armies and the magnificence of their displays. Tzeentch ignored the best and awarded the least with gifts that, in centuries to come, would rot their souls and lead to their downfall, for this was the favoured vengeance of the Lord of Change.

  Ghargatuloth was in the foremost group, along with Bokor the Wildsman who turned whole species to the cause of the Change, and Maleficos of the Burning Hands who struck like a thunderbolt to plunge star systems into war. Master Darkeye, who hid amongst mankind and tormented it invisibly, and Themiscyron the Star-Dragon held court on Thalassocres, too, magnificent and savage. A hundred other Lords of the Change took their places on the melting plains, and courts of daemons cavorted around them, gibbering and monstrous, until the whole planet rang with the praises of the Change.

  Thalassocres was a great beacon of worship, a lynch-pin of the Change, and the Conclave caused much mayhem in the minds of humankind. Although mankind’s sages searched long for the reasons behind rashes of madness throughout their galaxy, to them Thalassocres remained hidden.

  When Tzeentch spoke, the planet shook. Its crust and mantle were torn off and to this day, they say, Thalassocres is not one planet but a shoal of drifting continents surrounding a single core. Those not strong enough to hear the words of Tzeentch were thrown off into the warp, but the strongest stayed, their courts remaining glorious on the floating shelves of melting stone.

  Tzeentch spoke to them of impossible things, of the tangled threads of fate that ran through the universe like threads of a tapestry, of the immense shifting components of reality—time, space, the massed minds of humanity and the dozens of alien species that had yet to play their parts, the mindless hordes of predators teeming in the warp, the powers of Chaos themselves. The greatest of Tzeentch’s followers could divine meaning from the stream of concepts the voice of Tzeentch conveyed. Some found intricate plots for them to enact on reality. Others saw glimpses of a future they could alter, or bring to pass. Some saw only desolation and hatred, and revelled in it, for they were the most savage agents of the Change.

  Some were destroyed, unable to comprehend the majesty of the Change God’s vision.

  Ghargatuloth was not destroyed. Nor did he skim some plan from the surface of Tzeentch’s words. Instead, the Prince of a Thousand Faces immersed himself in his god’s message. Knowledge streamed around him, and straight through him until he was wallowing in a raging torrent of information like a white river of flame that coursed through the broken heart of Thallasocres.

  For days on end, measured in the strange timescale of the warp, Ghargatuloth received the revelation of Tzeentch. The other daemon princes looked on in awe, hatred and jealousy. Some were certain that Ghargatuloth would be destroyed. The daemons at his feet were swept aside by the tide of revelations. The substance of Thalassocres was further fractured by the sheer power of Tzeentch. There was a permanent scar left on the warp, a dark barren shadow, but Ghargatuloth remained.

  In real space, Ghargatuloth’s daemonic body shuddered with the effort of receiving the revelation. Some say this caused the sages of mankind to first realise that the Prince of a Thousand Faces was in their midst. The indigenous life of Khorion IX was extinguished, and space was tormented for light years around.

  Then, at last, it was over. The white river of knowledge stopped. Thalassocres fell silent.

  And when Ghargatuloth arose again, a thousand new faces looked out upon the warp.

  Ligeia snapped her head back in her seat, trying to shake out the images that filled it. She pulled her hands away from the book on her writing desk, the skin on her fingers and palms burning with the unholiness of the knowledge covering the pages.

  The dark wood panelling and lustrous furnishings of her quarters filtered back into view. She was back on Trepytos, in the quarters In
quisitor Klaes’s staff had supplied—but the images in her head were still ghosted over her vision. Ghargatuloth, a formless chaotic monster, bowing beneath a raging river of obscene knowledge. The words of Tzeentch—the god of change, trickery and sorcery, one of the foremost of the Chaos powers—echoing around the warp and shattering a world with their power.

  The contents of the book were even more invasive than the brief flashes of blasphemy she had received from the wooden sculpture. The passage she had just experienced—pulled directly from the pages by her psychic sight—was just a tiny fragment of the revelations the book contained. The meaning was so pure and undiluted that it had to have been dictated directly to the author by Ghargatuloth himself, and Ligeia was sure she could taste the old human malice of Crucien behind the words.

  Dictated by a daemon prince, written down by a thousand-year-old Chaos sorcerer; Ligeia was shocked at their sheer intensity.

  The book in front of her was just one of more than a dozen recovered from the temple beneath the Allking’s palace. In addition there were more than thirty scrolls, each one holding a complex prayer or spell, and the banners from the walls. Many of them were written in the Secundan language which Ligeia was having to learn very quickly from the sketchiest of references, and most referred to “the Emperor” as a euphemism for the Prince of a Thousand Faces. Without Ligeia’s powers, they would take years to translate. Ligeia wished that she had years to do it in, instead of receiving the concentrated meaning straight into the centre of her mind.

  She closed the book and placed it on the floor of her chambers. Even wearing her nightdress she was sweating with the effort of understanding, and straggles of her hair were clinging to her cold, damp face.