Treacheries of the Space Marines

by Edited by Christian Dunn

  Who was the faceless girl? What message did she have for him? One thing he was sure of was that he must possess her. He must have her knowledge. He must have her power.

  The Host was gathered in prayer in the expansive cavaedium at the heart of the Infidus Diabolus, but the Dark Apostle was alone, unobserved and hidden from view, away from his congregation. He knelt before a shrine covered in candles and braziers. Fire and faith danced in his eyes. Shadows writhed in the darkness beyond the candlelight.

  The martyry he prayed within was dedicated to his former master, Jarulek. He liked to come here to worship – it made him feel close to his gods. It had been he who had ended Jarulek’s life, after all, an action that had clearly been ordained by the Ruinous Ones.

  No one within the Host knew the dark secret of Jarulek’s death, of course, though many no doubt suspected, Marduk’s Coryphaus among them. This pleased him. Jarulek was a fearsome warrior-priest and beloved of both Council and gods. Any warrior able to best him would be rightly feared.

  Besides, Marduk himself sat on the Council now. His power and reach had surpassed that of Jarulek. Truly, the gods had blessed him.

  The morbid chanting of the Host surrounded Marduk, embracing him and echoing around the enclosed space of the martyry. Behind it, barely audible, other sounds could be discerned. Hisses, groans, muffled screams. Those beyond the veil of existence were making themselves heard. The denizens of the living ether were joining the Host in prayer. It was a good sign.

  The service had entered its final movement. The droning reaffirmation of faith was led, as ever, by the Coryphaus. The Host’s newly appointed First Acolyte had completed his ritual sermon and gloriatus, and the doxastika was now nearing its conclusion.

  Enusat. The new First Acolyte. Marduk had personally chosen him, picking him from among a wide field of aspirants. Though there had been many more likely candidates presented to him on Sicarus, postulants handpicked for larger things from among the Hosts of other Dark Apostles, he had chosen Enusat from within his own ranks – never again would he allow an outsider to hold a position of influence within the Thirty-Fourth, not after his last Acolyte’s treachery.

  What Enusat lacked in formal teachings and religious indoctrination, he made up for in other ways, ways that could not be learnt by rote or by any amount of studying the Urizen’s holy scriptures. He was highly regarded within the Host and respected by all. What’s more, Marduk trusted him, utterly and implicitly, as he trusted few others. Such loyalty was to be valued. Everything else could be learned.

  Most First Acolytes harboured dreams of power, always looking for their moment to overthrow their master. Such was the accepted way of things in the Legion, and Marduk himself had certainly fallen into that camp. He had no such fears with Enusat, however. He was a wardog, fierce and utterly loyal; a devout killer with an unwavering sense of duty. Tell him to saw off his own arm and he would, without question or hesitation.

  Marduk felt the presence of an attendant hovering at the martyry’s entrance. He could smell the foetid odour of its decaying flesh, and could hear the uneven rasp of its breath. It had been lurking there for some time, but it knew better than to disturb his meditations.

  The final, doleful verses of the doxastika were intoned, and a deep, resounding bell tolled. Silence filled the void.

  Marduk rose to his feet, servos in his revered battle plate purring softly. His armour had been with him since he had been first embraced into the Legion, and was as much a part of him as his own flesh.

  For a time after the Boros Gate campaign, he had worn the ancient Terminator armour that had once belonged to the Warmonger, but the bond had not been the same. To not wear his own engraved plate felt akin to missing a limb, and while the Terminator armour was powerful, he had disliked the sensation of restriction it brought to his movement.

  His own armour itched beneath his skin now, fusing to him, joining with his flesh and bone. Perhaps it was jealous and sought to ensure it was never removed from him again. The notion did not concern him. What need had he to remove it?

  He turned. His face was hidden in shadow, backlit as he was by the braziers and candlelight. Only his left eye could be seen, burning with lurid witch-fire.

  He towered over the hunched servant cowering before him.

  ‘Speak,’ he said.

  ‘We near our destination, revered one,’ hissed the robed creature, keeping its gaze obediently downcast. ‘The time of translation is near.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marduk. ‘See that the Coryphaus and First Acolyte join me on the bridge.’

  ‘As you will it, revered one.’

  The pitiful creature backed away, bowing as it retreated, but Marduk gave it no mind. His mind was already occupied, projecting forth to the battle ahead. Too long had he been cloistered in the halls of Sicarus.

  His left hand closed around the haft of his crozius, and he felt a thrill rush through his enhanced system. He longed to kill. He ached for it.

  It was time to praise the dark gods in the manner that pleased them most – by killing in their name. It was time to worship in the purifying fires of battle.

  From nothingness the Infidus Diabolus burst into reality, trailing etheric afterbirth. Kilometres in length, its powerful form was protected by thick adamantium plating and shimmering void shields. Weapon banks bristled along its flanks, raised like the hackles of a threatened beast. Crenellations, domed templum roofs and skeletal cathedral spires ran down its spine.

  The veil was thin here on the edge of the Eye, and the void was stained with swirls of colour. Dark shades of red and orange were cut through with ribbons of purple and blue, coiling and running together like oils atop a film of water. A trio of dying suns lit the Word Bearers strike cruiser from different angles, casting it in shades of deepest crimson.

  A second ship flashed into existence alongside the Infidus Diabolus. Thousands of kilometres separated them, but in the emptiness such distances were as nothing. Indeed, most naval battles fought in the void were conducted at a range well beyond human sight, slow moving ballets that ended in the silent deaths of tens of thousands at a time.

  These two ships, however, were not engaged in void war. They were not foes. Nevertheless, neither were they unguarded in each other’s presence. They kept a respectful, wary distance from each other, like predators that chose to hunt together for mutual benefit, while knowing they would turn on each other as soon as prey became scarce.

  The second ship was the Vox Dominus, and it dwarfed the Infidus Diabolus. It was a hulking battleship, Carrion-class, and though it was lacking in speed and grace, it was utterly brutal in short-ranged engagements, able to cripple and tear apart all but the most heavily armoured of capital ships.

  It was the pride of the Third Host, a mighty vessel that had spread the word of Lorgar from one end of the galaxy to the other for millennia. Once it had been called the Vox Domina, but that had changed along with the focus of the Legion’s worship long before the nature of the Dwellers Beyond had even been fathomed by the other Legions.

  Rippling waves of the living warp shimmered across the ships’ forms for a moment, like a parting caress from the gods themselves, before the last vestiges of the ether were shed.

  A flare of light lit one of the Vox Dominus’s shadowed launch bays and an escort shuttle designated Lux Aeterna spat forth, hurtling across the void between the two ships. It appeared tiny and insignificant as it closed the gap between the two battleships, a tiny mote of dust in the unfathomable, empty expanse.

  ‘Shuttle inbound,’ croaked a servitor hard-wired into the command console of the Infidus Diabolus. ‘Do we engage?’

  A wry smile curled at Marduk’s lips.

  ‘I’m not sure that the Third Host would appreciate it if we turned our guns upon their revered Dark Apostle,’ he said.

  ‘Do we engage?’ repeated the slaved creature, it
s putrefying flesh twitching spasmodically.

  Marduk sighed. ‘Do not,’ he said.

  ‘Open embarkation deck thirteen-four,’ said Kol Badar. ‘Disengage automated defence turrets.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ drooled another half-mechanical wretch.

  ‘Should we not go to meet him, master?’ said First Acolyte Enusat.

  His gaze was utterly without guile, but nor was it weak. Indeed, no one could ever accuse Enusat of weakness, for it was not a fault he possessed. Quite the opposite. He had a reputation for stubbornness and tenacity, and had depths of endurance that put the rest of the Host to shame. His faith was stronger than steel.

  Marduk knew that if he ordered it, Enusat would unsheathe his ceremonial kantanka knife and draw it across his own throat. He’d do it willingly if that was his Dark Apostle’s wish, and if the hyper-coagulants in his demi-god’s blood sealed the wound before it claimed his life, he would open his veins a second time.

  Uncomplaining, uncompromising and fanatically devout, Enusat was the embodiment of what it was to be a Word Bearer. He was a truly ugly whoreson, however.

  He had a face that looked like it had been immersed in acid. It looked that way because it had, in fact, been immersed in acid. It had also been shot, repeatedly beaten, burned and cut, so much that it now resembled little more than a roughly head-shaped lump of tortured flesh, from which two pale eyes peered at the world. His nose was swollen and shapeless, and his mouth was an angry slash. His teeth were made from dark steel, his own having long ago been smashed from his jaw.

  Prayer beads and rosaries hung from his wrists and at his belt, and selected holy epistles from the Book of Lorgar had been scrimshawed across the plates of his armour. A tattered, blood-stained wolf skin, ripped from the corpse of a defeated priest of Russ, hung across his shoulders, and a scroll case carved from the thigh bone of the Hex-Deacon Hannaknut hung from his waist, containing an illuminated page from the holy Lamentations of Betrayal, a gift that Marduk had given him on the day he had been ordained as the Host’s new First Acolyte.

  His armour was of an old mark, and heavily-modified. His greaves were bulky with the additional plating and stabilisers that marked him as a heavy weapons specialist. A powerfully built warrior, he stood Marduk’s equal in height, though his wide shoulders made him seem larger. Both, however, were overshadowed by the Terminator-armoured Coryphaus.

  ‘Let him wait,’ said Marduk.

  ‘He will not like it,’ said Enusat.

  ‘And that is exactly the point,’ said Marduk. ‘I am of the Council now. Nahren must learn his place in the order of things.’

  ‘I understand, master,’ said Enusat, bowing his head.

  ‘Petty games and politics,’ growled Kol Badar. ‘It achieves nothing but to spread the seed of resentment.’

  ‘A necessary evil,’ said Marduk. ‘What the esteemed Coryphaus fails to understand is–’

  The Dark Apostle’s words were forgotten as a warning light began to throb, accompanied by a grating alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Kol Badar.

  ‘Unidentified etheric surge,’ replied a slaved servitor. ‘Quadrant X.P. Ninety-nine point three point two.’

  ‘Another ship making transference?’ said Marduk.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Kol Badar, scanning the stream of data feeding across the curved black monitors above the bridge’s command console. ‘It doesn’t read like that kind of signature. Warp anomaly, more likely.’

  ‘Master,’ said First Acolyte Enusat. He had moved closer to the broad viewing oculus and was staring out into the void. Marduk joined him. ‘There,’ said Enusat, pointing.

  Beyond the Vox Dominus, the void was churning. The garish green and purple swirls smeared across the emptiness were coiling towards a point beyond the hulking battleship.

  ‘That does not look good,’ said Marduk.

  The bleeding colours of the void were being drawn in behind the holy Vox Dominus with increasing vigour, spinning faster, creating a kaleidoscopic whirlpool to the vessel’s aft.

  Its engines were flaring as it attempted to extricate itself from the danger, but it was a cumbersome ship and not built for rapid manoeuvring. Having only just emerged from the warp, its plasma engines were not even close to operating at full power.

  ‘How close is it?’ asked Marduk.

  ‘Too close,’ replied Kol Badar. ‘All power to primary thrusters. Get us away from that thing.’

  The void rippled. A rent in the fabric of reality tore open in the centre of the swirling maelstrom behind the Vox Dominus, sucking matter and anti-matter into it like a siphon. For a brief moment, a place distinctly other could be glimpsed through that gaping window, a place of noxious yellow skies and dying worlds. Immense tentacle things coiled within sulphuric clouds, things the size of planets.

  ‘Gods above,’ breathed Enusat.

  ‘Yellow skies,’ murmured Marduk.

  Enusat could feel something – it gnawed at the back of his mind, scratching inside his skull. It was disturbing but not an altogether unpleasant sensation, like a host of unintelligible voices whispering in his head, the sounds blurring together into one sonorous babble.

  Despite the power being re-routed to its engines, the Infidus Diabolus was being drawn inexorably backwards. The ship groaned in protest, the drag of the warp anomaly fighting against the impetus of its engines. Straining metal shuddered and screeched as the ship gave voice to its torment.

  It was not the only vessel being affected.

  The Vox Dominus, so much closer to the warp anomaly, had no hope of pulling away. It was being inexorably drawn into the gaping rent in unreality.

  Enusat grabbed on to a spiked railing for balance as the ship was hauled off centre, still staring out into the vacuum beyond the oculus. Almost half of the Vox Dominus had been pulled through the rift now, its back section existing in that daemonic otherworld. Then, with one final surge, it gave up its fight, and was sucked fully through. The rift slammed shut behind it, sending a ripple through the void that shook the Infidus Diabolus to its core.

  Warning alarms blared. Viewscreens flickered, and the lights on the bridge dimmed. Every Word Bearer aboard the strike cruiser felt an uncomfortable wrench in their forsaken soul as the wave passed through them, a nauseating imbalance that made them reel.

  Marduk suffered more than most, for his link to the warp was the strongest. His world spun, and he dropped to one knee, clutching at the command console for balance. He clenched his eyes tightly shut as intense pain lanced through his mind. Black bile rose in his throat, and he spat it onto the deck. Its acidic touch made the floor-grill steam and hiss.

  Then the moment passed and power was restored to the bridge. Enusat reached instinctively to help the Dark Apostle, but he stayed his hand at the last moment.

  ‘Very wise,’ snarled Marduk, having seen the movement, as he hauled himself to his feet unaided.

  The Coryphaus was staring out into the void, and Marduk moved to his side.

  Of the Vox Dominus, nothing could be seen. The anomaly too was gone, leaving just a patch of disturbed colour in its wake, still slowly spinning, before it became once again inert, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Inbound shuttle has touched down on deck thirteen-four,’ said a servitor, breaking the silence.

  Marduk swore. He had forgotten the Dark Apostle.

  ‘Thank the gods he was not aboard the Vox Dominus,’ said Enusat.

  ‘A small mercy,’ said Marduk. ‘Now it just remains for us to tell him that his entire Host is missing.’

  ‘We should move,’ said Kol Badar. ‘This area of the Eye is unstable.’

  As if his words had been prophetic, another alarm began shrieking.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Marduk.

  The hole in the universe tore open once more, precisely where it had
been less than a minute earlier. Once again the Infidus Diabolus fought against its surging pull. But it was not the Infidus Diabolus the warp had come for. This time, the rift came bearing a gift.

  A snub-nosed tug emerged from the swirling colour, an ugly vessel that appeared barely void-worthy. It was small, no larger than escort-sized, but its engines were immense for its size, and it was powerful enough to advance against the whirling pull of the warp rift. A massive chain was affixed beneath its aft.

  It was dragging something into reality. Something huge.

  ‘Well that’s… unexpected,’ said Kol Badar, staring at the unlikely sight.

  Behind the tug, the Vox Dominus listed lifelessly as it was dragged from the spinning rent. Its engines were dead, and its plasma core cold. It was being hauled along like a carcass – the prize of a successful hunt. As it cleared the warp, the rift snapped shut behind it.

  ‘Have Dark Apostle Nahren escorted here immediately,’ said Marduk. ‘He might like to see this.’

  He stared at the tug vessel, as if his eyes might bore through its hull. There was something there… Something that called to him.

  A previously inert servitor slaved into the control deck began to convulse.

  ‘We are being hailed,’ said Kol Badar.

  ‘Bring it up on screen,’ ordered Marduk.

  A whitewash of static and crackling interference filled the oculus before resolving itself into a face that might once have been human but was now so warped and diseased that it was barely recognisable. Enusat’s eyes widened.

  ‘Death Guard,’ spat Marduk.

  His lean, imperious face was as emotionless as stone. He did not speak. He did not move. Even the cold black points that were his eyes gave away little of the true fury burning within.