It could only be pure Chaos, the kind that had saturated Khorion IX. The land was of splintered stone, jagged plates of dark marble balancing between deep black chasms. Sprays of black water gushed upwards at random, like geysers, and large black creatures circled over the landscape like vultures. Alaric could hear screams that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the air stank of a hundred things—sweat, blood, sulphur, burning meat, gunfire, decay, disease, pollution, incense.
Broken walls cut through the stone, becoming thicker towards the centre of the scene until they formed what looked like a skeletal city. The city clung like a parasite to a rise in the stone, as if something huge was forcing its way up from below. Empty shells of temples and basilica seemed to ooze from the mountain, forming a nightmarish labyrinth, dark and broken, a place of unalloyed death. The stone peak of the mountain pushed up through the buildings and terminated in a stark, white plateau forming the acropolis of the city. On a massive slab of the summit was a block of pure white marble, incongruous and shining, bathed in a pool of golden light. The marble sarcophagus was like the lynchpin that held everything in place, the heart of the tomb, the point to which all paths led.
Alaric tore his eyes away. He saw his Marines following him, shaking the terrible veil of hatred from their shielded minds—Lykkos carrying his psycannon, Vien, Haulvarn, Clostus, Dvorn with his Nemesis hammer. Tancred and his Marines—Locath, Karlin and Golven—were close behind, their massive forms dwarfed by the scale of the evil in front of them.
Tancred made the sign of the aquila. It seemed a futile gesture here, a tiny drop of virtue in a sea of sin.
“I don’t think the Sisters will make it,” said Alaric. There was regret in his voice, but they all knew it was true. “It’s up to us. Santoro and Genhain will follow, we keep moving.”
“What’s our objective?” Tancred, like Alaric, knew they could not go back. Ghargatuloth knew they were there. It had to end now.
Alaric pointed to the sarcophagus, high up on the acropolis above the city. “Throne be with us, for otherwise we are alone.”
Squad Tancred and Squad Alaric moved out, leaving the columns behind them and moving quickly onto the shattered landscape. Chasms gaped everywhere and the tortured ground formed insane angles and sharp gradients. There were a thousand places for ambushers to hide, a hundred ways to get lost. Were it not for the beacon of the sarcophagus shining up ahead, the maze of shattered marble could form a labyrinth no man would ever escape.
The screams were deeper the further in they went, like layers of suffering bearing down on them. Skeletal trees loomed between the jagged peaks of marble and somehow it didn’t surprise Alaric that they had once been human beings, warped by corruption and deformed until their skeletons spread into branches and their faces screamed hopelessly from twisted trunks of skin and muscle. Sinister black shapes flapped overhead—Alaric could make out hollow rotted eye sockets tracking them through the rocks.
Alaric glanced back and saw Genhain following, hurrying to keep Alaric and Tancred in sight. Covering fire hadn’t been needed yet but Alaric knew that very soon it probably would, and he would be relying on Genhain to keep enemies pinned down while the other Grey Knights pressed home the attack.
He wondered if Santoro would make it, far across on the other side of the tomb. He feared for Lachryma’s Seraphim, and for Ludmilla’s Sisters that would probably try to follow them in. Would they make it inside the tomb at all? Would they be warped by Ghargatuloth’s presence and turn into another enemy the Grey Knights had to fight?
Whatever happened, happened. The Grey Knights were trained to be ready for any weapon the Enemy threw at them—and that included their own allies.
The vox, Alaric wasn’t surprised to learn, didn’t work in the tomb. “Anything in sight?” he asked his Marines.
“They’re watching us,” said Dvorn bleakly, gripping his Nemesis hammer in two hands. Lykkos was scanning rapidly for targets, sweeping the barrel of his psycannon through the shadows.
The ground was crunching underfoot. Alaric glanced down and saw finger bones mixed in with the gravelly surface of crumbled marble.
The Grey Knights could smell the enemy before they saw them—it was a cold, foul stink, as if all the corruption that saturated the tomb coagulated and solidified into a wall of repugnance that all but forced the Grey Knights back. It was the sharp odour of toxic pollution and the sickly taint of decay, a force bearing down on them from all directions.
“Genhain! Covering fire, now!” yelled Alaric and suddenly the shadows were alive, the traces of bolter and psycannon bullets picking out tall, loping shapes between the rocks. Gunfire streaked from Genhain and Tancred’s Marines, and through the storm of gunfire forms leapt from the darkness to attack.
Alaric’s first parry was more reflex than decision, the kind Tancred had taught him in long sparing sessions. It was just as well because even he might have faltered had he seen his enemy before he acted—it was only vaguely humanoid. Its skin was dark grey and translucent so organs could be seen squirming in its torso, writhing up its neck and down its arms and legs. A foul curtain of transparent slime coated it, and its arms ended in long whip-like tentacles, one spraying corrosive slime as Alaric batted it away with his halberd. The thing’s face was barely a face at all—a high thin mouth lolled wildly open, blind pale smears passed for eyes, and it emitted a horrible low howling as it pounced.
Alaric fired wildly, spraying storm bolter shells around the creature and the other following it. The attacker moved with fluid speed, whipping its tentacle around the halberd and dragging it down, drawing itself up plastically to its full height and bearing down on Alaric with that mindless gaping mouth.
Alaric plunged his free arm down the creature’s throat and rattled off a solid volley of shells, blasting the back of the creature’s head into flying globs of stinking gore. The creature shrieked and powerful muscles closed around Alaric’s arm, trying to suck him in. Through the stench Alaric could smell burning and knew the outer layers of his armour were being eaten away by the creature’s corrosive substance. Alaric pulled hard and lifted the creature off its feet, swinging it into the attackers following it, batting one aside and firing another volley. The creature came apart in a spray of acidic gore, and Alaric was free to move.
His Marines were right behind him, forming a tight circle as the corrosive attackers leapt at them from every side. Alaric saw Clostus holding one up high on the point of his halberd so one of the psycannon Marines in Squad Genhain could blow its head clean off with a single shot. Dvorn swung his hammer down straight through the closest enemy, reducing the creature to a slime-filled crater in the marble ground.
Alaric turned and saw Tancred, easy to pick out because of the bright lightning flash of the sword of Mandulis as it lashed out time and time again. Writhing tendrils of slime fell oozing to the ground but the fluid creatures reformed even as Tancred sliced through their bodies. One leapt on Tancred, trying to wrestle him to the ground—Tancred flipped it over his head, turned deftly and stamped down on it so hard it burst apart in a welter of toxic filth.
“Blades won’t work!” yelled Alaric over the unearthly howling. “Dvorn! Take them apart!”
Squad Alaric turned, forming a wedge with Dvorn at the head, facing down the dozen more enemies charging from the darkness. Dvorn swung his hammer in wide arcs, battering the creatures back or ripping the hammer’s head right through them, while Squad Alaric concentrated on blazing away with their storm bolters and holding the enemy back.
“In war and abandonment!” Tancred was bellowing, “Be thou my shield and my steed! Be thou retribution, and I shall be your hand in the darkness! Light from the shadows! Death from the dying! Vengeance from the lost!”
Alaric could feel the buzzing in the back of his mind as Tancred’s remaining Marines tried to focus their willpower.
It was the Holocaust—the expression of the Grey Knights’ faith, focused through Tancred’s mind and for
ged into a weapon worthy of the Emperor’s finest. Alaric knew it was hard enough to do with a full squad—with only Tancred and three battle-brothers, the power would require almost everything they had.
“Vengeance from the lost!” echoed Alaric, giving Tancred all the help he could. “And from the void shall rise only the pure!”
The sudden psychic crescendo nearly knocked Alaric off his feet—a pure white flame of faith, bursting out from the sword of Mandulis like a shockwave, rippling across the stone. Alaric saw the closest creatures blasted into ash, the after-images of their twisted forms ghosted against the light as they came apart.
The creatures facing Dvorn shrieked and whipped their tendrils around their faces as if trying to block out the light. Alaric’s auto-senses were overloaded and he could see nothing, just pure whiteness, the sword of Mandulis at its centre like a shard of lightning.
“Down!” yelled a voice from behind Alaric and he instinctively dropped to the ground. He felt his battle-brothers doing the same an instant before heavy thudding impacts ripped overhead. Blessed bolts from Genhain’s two psycannon Marines thudded into viscous flesh, their psychic detonations ripping through corrupted bodies.
Alaric’s sight came back. He was face-down on the ground, which was spattered with stinking, steaming blood. He quickly got to his feet to see the area covered in smouldering patches of gore, and heard Squad Genhain walking down the slope behind Alaric snapping off shots at any enemy that still moved. Brother Ondurin poured gouts of holy promethium from his incinerator into the shadows, and Alaric heard the screams as he immolated the creatures lurking there.
The armour of Alaric’s squad was smoking and corroded, its gunmetal covered in patches of smouldering black.
Tancred’s Marines had fared worse. Tancred himself was on his knees, sagging with fatigue. The use of the Holocaust power had drained him terribly—even he had not expected the strength of his Marines’ hatred to be that great. The sword of Mandulis still shone, smoke coiling off its blade.
Brother Golven, one of Tancred’s Terminators, lay face-down and limp. Brother Karlin turned him over and saw the whole front of Golven’s armour had been rotted away, exposing blackened, oozing flesh. Karlin dropped Golven back down. It was obvious the Grey Knight was dead—he must have been dragged down almost right away and had his armour corroded by the attackers. Even blessed Terminator armour wasn’t proof against the guardians of St. Evisser.
Tancred turned to Karlin, who was armed with the squad’s incinerator.
“Burn our brother,” he said, and Karlin dutifully scoured Golven’s body clean with a spray of flame. It took a few seconds for Golven’s corpse to be reduced to a guttering shell of charred armour.
They wouldn’t even be able to take his gene-seed for return to the Chapter. But Alaric, if he survived, would ensure that Golven would be remembered.
“Move on,” said Alaric. “Stay tight. The Emperor is with us.”
As the Grey Knights moved on into the stunted outskirts of the skeletal city, Alaric could see the carrion beasts circling in greater and greater numbers overhead.
Commissar Thanatal had almost given in to despair when he had seen what surrounded the processing plant on the shore of Lake Rapax. Creatures were writhing out of the ground all around the plant, faces and clawing limbs reaching from the earth, moaning and gibbering in a thousand tongues. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, foul things with massive mouths full of teeth, grasping hands with fingers that ended in razor-sharp talons, all dragging themselves from the earth to defend the plant.
Thanatal had felt then that the Emperor’s duty lay not in death, that being torn apart by the maddening horde was too great a price to pay for duty. The sin of doubt had clawed at him, and he had felt his resolve eroded by the sight. The men around him stopped as the ash parted and the scene was laid out before them and the cries of daemons reached their ears.
But Inquisitor Valinov was not afraid. Thanatal’s fears were banished as he watched awestruck—Valinov walked out into the boiling sea of daemons, sword held out, and they recoiled from his presence, shrieking in fear as he approached.
Valinov bellowed out words in a strange, sibilant language—a prayer, Thanatal guessed, an ancient rite dedicated to the Emperor—and the daemons parted before him. Valinov walked out into the very centre of them, calling out words of power as he did so, making sharp arcane signs with his free hand that sent daemons reeling back into the earth.
“Be thy cowed in the presence of your Master’s work!” called Valinov in High Gothic. “Fear His touch, be burned by His words! Back, back, servants of decay, back into the earth, back beneath the notice of the pure!”
The daemons were forced back beneath the ground by Valinov’s words, his commanding presence spreading out in a ripple through the sea of daemons, forcing them down until a path was cleared between the Balurians and the tomb.
“See!” shouted Thanatal. “See how the word of Emperor cows the Enemy! He is with us! Press on, servants of the Emperor, for the work of mankind has yet to be done!”
“The Enemy recoils!” echoed Valinov from up ahead as he began to lead the Balurians towards the processing plant. “We are but the tip of the Emperor’s spear. Feel His spirit as he drives us home, rejoice as we pierce the heart of corruption!”
Their faces alight with wonder, the Balurians moved across the sea of daemons who were now whimpering in defeat, their faces turned away, the shimmering iridescence of their skin now dull and defeated.
The ash was parting and a shaft of pure, bright sunlight, such as had not shone on Volcanis Ultor for centuries, illuminated the processing plant, turning its grey plasteel walls golden, lining it with a white light of purity.
The Emperor’s eyes were on this place. The gates of the plant stood blasted open, as if entreating the Balurians to enter and purge it of corruption. Valinov strode boldly towards it with hundreds of Balurians behind him, Thanatal at their head.
Without prompting, the Balurians began to sing an old, popular marching-tune they had sung as boys on their first parade grounds on Balur. It was a song about duty, bravery, longing for home, yet adventuring through the stars. Their valour crushed the daemons down further until they were cloaked in shadow, weak and pathetic, cowed into helplessness by the light of the Emperor filling the Balurian hearts.
The doors of the plant were up ahead. The darkness within was pleading to be filled with light. Valinov didn’t have to urge the men on any more—he just broke into a run and plunged through the burst doors. Thanatal followed and the Balurians poured after him, lasguns ready, not one man faltering in his step.
Light streamed in with them, illuminating a place of ancient stone. Statues of Imperial heroes looked down with approval on these servants of the Emperor. A temple was up ahead, covered in gold and shining like a beacon—this was the place the Balurians had to liberate from enemy hands.
And ranged in front of the temple were the enemies. They were shimmering and indistinct, their very existence threatened by the sudden appearance of the faithful Balurians. Their red-painted armour would not help them, neither would the guns in their hands. The Balurians had the Emperor, and his most faithful servant, Inquisitor Valinov. They would not fail.
Thanatal didn’t even realise he was singing along with the Balurians as he drew his chainsword and, along with hundreds of his men, charged.
Canoness Ludmilla had expected the threat to come from the temple. The vox was cut off completely and she had no way of knowing what was happening inside the temple, but she knew the Grey Knights and Lachryma’s Seraphim had gone in intending to secure the place rapidly, and no one had come out. She was about to order her Sisters in after the Grey Knights when Sister Heloise, the Superior of the Retributor squad holding the plant’s gates, reported there was some sorcery afoot—the ground outside the plant was seething and creatures were trying to force their way up.
Heloise was halfway across the statue graveyard, heading f
or Ludmilla’s position, when the enemy force burst in.
“Sisters! To the front of the temple, now! Heloise, get into cover and fire at will! The rest, rapid fire and prepare to engage!”
“Looks like Guardsmen, my canoness,” said Heloise over the static-filled vox. “Maybe we should…”
Thousands of las-shots ripped through the air from hundreds of lasguns on full auto. Ludmilla watched in horror as the ruby-coloured lances of fire filled the air with crimson threads, riddling the statues until they crumbled and fell, scoring chunks out of the ground, whipping around the temple steps and spattering against Sisters’ armour. Somewhere heavy bolters and multi-meltas opened up from Heloise but they were soon drowned out by the sound of las-fire and—obscenely—of singing, a parade-ground tune carried by hundreds of hoarse throats as the Guardsmen charged closer.
Ludmilla’s inferno pistol was in her hand and she could see Battle Sister squads converging at the foot of the steps to form a firing line. About half of them were in position and just beginning to fire volleys when the Guardsmen hit.
Heavy chains of bolter fire punched through deep royal blue body armour, sending out sprays of blood frozen in the strobing las-fire. The lasgun fire blasting back riddled the marble steps and Ludmilla saw Sisters spasming as las-bolts found weak points in their armour. One shot burst against Ludmilla’s lower leg and nearly knocked her flat on her face, another thudded into her breastplate, and she felt the sleeves over her armour fluttering as shots streaked through the material.
She saw a tide of men, teeth gritted. A commissar led them, bolt pistol in one hand and a chainsword in the other. The front rank of Guardsmen was chewed up before her eyes by the Sisters’ bolter fire but there were hundreds of them, trampling their wounded as they charged. She heard their voices raised in anger and loathing.
[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights Page 30
