Mark of Calth

by Edited by Laurie Goulding

  ‘Kneel,’ the captain growled.

  Marduk was forced to his knees. Bel Ashared’s axe blade crackled. The scorched ozone stink was strong.

  ‘This is a path that I had hoped to avoid,’ said Marduk, glaring up at his appointed mentor, his eyes narrowed venomously. Bel Ashared’s emerald visors, set deep in his grim Mark VI helm, glowered down at him. ‘But you leave me no option.’

  ‘You brought this upon yourself,’ said Bel Ashared. ‘It is time for you to swim the Sea of Souls, and be damned for all eternity.’

  ‘No,’ said Marduk. ‘The time is yours.’

  The shadows coiled, knowing what was to come.

  Dhar’khor’del’mesh Arak’sho’del’mesh Drak’shal’more’del’mesh.

  The voice stabbed into Marduk’s mind like a needle. Fresh blood trickled from his nose, and his eyes turned black.

  ‘Dhar’khor’del’mesh Arak’sho’del’mesh Drak’shal’more’del’mesh,’ he said. The words made his mouth bleed.

  Hidden runes carved inside Bel Ashared’s armour flared, and then in one sudden, violent twist of unreality, he was turned inside out.

  Kor Phaeron pursed his blackened lips. ‘With no instruction, you were able to do this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marduk, still on his knees. ‘The Primordial Truth itself guided me.’

  Kor Phaeron turned away, staring out through the view portal at Calth. The uncomfortable tingling in Marduk’s flesh lessened somewhat in response.

  Marduk waited for Kor Phaeron to speak, knowing that his fate would be decided here and now.

  ‘Bel Ashared was a fine soldier,’ said Kor Phaeron, finally. ‘But he was limited, perhaps in ways that you are not.’

  A ghost of smile crept onto Marduk’s face. ‘You will teach me, then?’ he said.

  Kor Phaeron turned back towards Marduk. Impatient energy played across his skin, lighting it from within.

  ‘Jarulek spoke highly of you,’ he muttered. ‘He tells me that you acquitted yourself well during the Purge.’

  ‘I did what was asked of me,’ said Marduk. He raised a hand to his throat where a knot of old scars encircled his flesh like a necklace. ‘I did my duty.’

  ‘And what did you feel as you killed your own kin?’

  ‘They were not my kin.’

  ‘They were of the XVII and the blood of Lorgar ran in their veins, as it does in yours,’ said Kor Phaeron, though Marduk felt that the Dark Cardinal was pleased with his answer.

  ‘They were not of Colchis,’ said Marduk. ‘They were not my kin. It felt... good to kill them.’

  ‘Why?’ said Kor Phaeron, leaning forwards like a predator. His eyes glittered.

  ‘Their deaths were significant. They had meaning. There was power in their sacrifice.’

  ‘Ah. “Power” once again.’

  ‘Am I wrong, master?’ said Marduk.

  ‘No. Even the most primitive cultures instinctively understand that there is power in death. A child ails with fever? His parents sacrifice a feed-beast and beg whatever god they pray to for his recovery. They sacrifice to the Primordial Truth, no matter what name they give to their bloodthirsty deities.’ Kor Phaeron took on an evangelical tone, as he might be delivering one of his potent sermons to the Legion. ‘But some things require larger sacrifices, something more significant. Famine and plague ravage your cities? Your enemies march upon your walls with murder in their hearts? The sacrifice of a lowly bovid will not suffice then. It is in the human psyche to understand this. Without needing to be told, we all know that some deaths are intrinsically more meaningful than others. The death of a man is more powerful than the death of a beast – and as men are raised above beasts, so too are the Legiones Astartes raised above men. It follows that their sacrifice has a subsequently higher significance.’

  Kor Phaeron turned.

  ‘And much more can be achieved with the power that blossoms from such a sacrifice.’

  Marduk’s gaze drifted towards the vision of Calth beyond the station’s viewscreens.

  ‘What could be achieved with the death of a world?’ Marduk wondered out loud.

  ‘What indeed.’

  ‘And the death of a primarch?’ whispered Marduk. ‘I see the truth of it. They are the next step.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kor Phaeron, ‘they are. Ferrus Manus will not be the last.’

  A klaxon blared, and Marduk saw Kor Phaeron’s thin lips part in an unpleasant, grimacing smile. He had a fevered, hungry look in his eyes.

  ‘Teleport signature,’ said one of the dark magi hunched over a console. ‘We are boarded.’

  ‘Guilliman,’ hissed Kor Phaeron. ‘At last.’

  ‘He’s here?’ said Marduk. ‘You knew he would come?’

  Filthy light gathered around Kor Phaeron, and Marduk could hear the gibbering beasts of the empyrean – whispers and cries that crowded in through every speaker, vox-link and console on the station.

  Kor Phaeron seemed to grow in stature, coiled in darkness.

  ‘This is my time,’ he said, rising up from the deck, black vapours oozing from his eyes and mouth. Unholy energies played across his splayed, skeletal fingers, and the currents of the warp washed over Marduk like a drowning tide, emanating from the Dark Cardinal in waves.

  ‘Today is a great day, my sons,’ said Kor Phaeron, his voice raised to be heard over the infernal cacophony. ‘Today we will see a primarch brought to his knees. He comes to us, drawn like a moth to the flame, not realising that the flame will be his ending.’

  Marduk made to rise, but felt a hand upon his shoulder, holding him in place. The grip was strong; it was that of Sorot Tchure. He had a blade in his hand.

  An athame.

  ‘My lord?’ said Tchure. ‘The postulant?’

  Kor Phaeron was like an angel of darkness, haloed in terror. He looked down at Marduk. There was no mercy in his expression, merely a vicious hunger and yearning. His eyes had turned completely – the deepest black of the dark spaces between the stars.

  ‘He has their favour,’ rumbled Kor Phaeron. ‘This is the source of all power. Release him.’

  Tchure’s blade disappeared, and Marduk was raised to his feet. He gaped up at Kor Phaeron, bathing in his unholy majesty.

  ‘Whatever power I have is yours,’ he said, eyes shining with devotion.

  Kor Phaeron drifted down towards him, dragging the darkness in his wake. Marduk bowed his head and dropped to one knee, this time as a devotee rather than a prisoner. He felt the heat radiating from Kor Phaeron’s body as he came close, and he flinched as a burning hand was placed upon his head.

  Marduk struggled not to cry out. His skin blistered under the unholy benediction.

  ‘Do not attempt to use your new talents in this battle, postulant,’ Kor Phaeron hissed. ‘The power of the empyrean flows strong. I will have all of it.’

  ‘It will be as you wish, my lord,’ said Marduk.

  ‘You are blessed, child,’ said Kor Phaeron. ‘Today, you will witness an act that will echo down through the ages. Today you will witness true greatness.’

  Kor Phaeron released Marduk and stood resplendent as the warriors of the Legion readied themselves for battle around him.

  ‘Today, my sons, you will witness the death of Roboute Guilliman,’ declared Kor Phaeron, his voice resonant. ‘Or perhaps,’ he added, slyly, ‘something greater still...’

  A bolter was pressed into Marduk’s hands without ceremony.

  ‘Be ready, lad,’ said Sorot Tchure. ‘They come.’

  Marduk cast the bolter aside, its magazine spent. He picked up a heavier double-barrelled weapon from the dead grasp of a fallen veteran and squeezed the trigger, unleashing a torrent of fire into the charging horde of Ultramarines as they stormed the master control room.

  The Ultramarines were dying, but the Word B
earers were dying faster.

  Bodies lay scattered across the deck. The giant leading the Ultramarines was like unto an unstoppable force of nature.

  The hated primarch. Guilliman.

  Nothing could stand in his path. He swatted Word Bearers aside, sending Gal Vorbak and legionaries flying. A grim warrior in a red helm fought at the giant’s side, wielding an exotic longsword that sliced through armour like wet fabric. Some sort of champion, most likely.

  Marduk dropped one Ultramarine with a well-aimed bolt round, and sent another reeling, his armour shredded. He tried to gun down the red-helmeted swordsman, but another warrior was caught in the crossfire – ceramite chunks were blasted from his armour, before he was cut in two by the scything arm-claw of one of the Gal Vorbak. The clash of armoured bodies as the Ultra-marines slammed into the Word Bearers was almost deafening.

  Kor Phaeron flew at Guilliman, black energies trailing in his wake.

  Marduk had no chainsword, and his athame had been taken from him. He stepped backwards, trying to keep his distance from the rush of the enemy. The combi-bolter bucked like a wild beast in his hands; he fought to keep its aim down.

  There was a flash through the press of bodies and a blade cleaved his weapon in two in a shower of sparks. The red-helmed swordsman made to lunge for him, but the surging melee kept them apart, and moments later the disarmed postulant was evidently forgotten amidst the throng.

  Marduk cast his ruined weapon aside. There was a blinding flash of plasma and an Ultramarine’s chest was burned out not three paces away – Marduk plucked a power maul from the dying warrior’s hands and set about with it. Chainswords were built to rend flesh, not power armour, but a power maul was more effective against Legion plate, crushing ceramite and bone with equal vigour.

  Beyond them, Marduk could see the hunched figure of Kor Phaeron, robed in shadowlight, standing triumphantly over the downed giant, Guilliman.

  Marduk saw Kor Phaeron’s blade at the giant’s throat, and his bitter hearts sang.

  Victory was at hand.

  The postulant cried out in elation, swinging his maul left and right. He would be a righteous agent of the Word until the end of time. The heavens themselves would–

  Something changed. The currents of the warp fluctuated for a moment, before a cry of anguish went up.

  The Dark Cardinal had fallen.

  Marduk shrieked, staving in the skull of an Ultramarines officer with a dozen frenzied blows.

  The Dark Cardinal had fallen.

  There was a scramble of armoured bodies, a frantic press which obscured Marduk’s view of the scene. Beyond, fires were breaking out across the control deck. Alarms sounded with renewed vigour.

  In a single moment of horror, Marduk caught sight of Kor Phaeron again.

  He was being dragged across the deck, pulled in several directions by Ultramarines and Word Bearers alike, who screamed and spat and struck at each other as they heaved and tugged.

  Both sides wanted to claim the body.

  ‘Help us, damn you!’ Sorot Tchure cried over the din. Half of the veteran’s face was missing, exposing bone and teeth. Marduk did as he was bidden, his eyes wide in shock.

  This was not how it was meant to be. Guilliman should be dead. This should be their moment of triumph. Marduk skidded on the deck plates, smeared with Kor Phaeron’s dark blood.

  Together with the last remaining members of the Gal Vorbak, Marduk helped to bear the shattered body of Kor Phaeron from the burning master control room.

  How the Master of the Faith still drew breath was beyond him. His chest was a mangled ruin. The gaping hole in his breastplate and fused ribcage exposed a pulsing crater of ruined flesh. Black, foul-smelling fluid covered his armour and bubbled from his lips, while wisps of warp-shadow streamed from his eyes, mouth and nose.

  ‘Quickly,’ barked Tchure, urging them on through the flames and the smoke. At any moment, Marduk expected to be cut down by bolter fire, or for Guilliman to fall upon them, tearing them apart with his bare hands.

  Kor Phaeron was gurgling and gasping, eyes rolling in their sockets. He clutched at Marduk, clinging to his robe with an emaciated claw. His eyes bled tainted darkness, burning with a fiery intensity even now.

  He should be dead.

  In the void where his primary heart should have been, instead a vile blackness roiled, wriggling like a pseudopod. Oily darkness coursed through Kor Phaeron’s veins and arteries, spurting from where they were ruptured and severed and dissipating into the foul air. His ravaged flesh stank of dead meat and spent batteries.

  Kor Phaeron writhed. Was this was the power that he had desired?

  Sorot Tchure raised his left wrist. ‘Get us out of here,’ he growled into the Octed-inscribed glass blister embedded in his vambrace. The glistening, unliving thing within squirmed as it relayed his order.

  The Ultramarines were coming for them, determined to cut off their escape.

  Marduk saw his own death written in the eyes of the red-helmed swordsman and his fellows. He would not be able to avoid it.

  The flames of the brazier seemed to dim, and the temperature dropped. Hoarfrost crept across the walls. The darkness itself began to move, writhing and growing.

  Tendrils of shadow reached out, groping blindly. They felt their way up the walls, worming across the ceiling and the deck. One of them touched him. Its caress was like ice. The darkness closed in, drawing his robed body into its embrace.

  A steaming breath touched his neck. It reeked of tainted nightmares and rotting flesh.

  The creeping darkness whispered to him, a dozen voices of madness blended into one. Blood began to leak from his ears. The stylus in his hand began to twitch.

  I will give you the means to overwhelm your mentor, if that is your wish.

  ‘A precaution, only,’ said Marduk. ‘I feel there will come a time when it will be necessary.’

  And in return?

  The darkness was agitated, the shadows coiling around themselves and itching against the borders of reality.

  ‘And in return I will find you a suitable host,’ said Marduk.

  Pledge it in the blood.

  Marduk put down his stylus and drew his athame. Without hesitation he sliced it across the palm of his hand, blade biting deep. The shadows redoubled their agitated movement, crowding in close.

  ‘This I pledge,’ said Marduk, squeezing his hand into a fist and letting the blood flow. It hissed and smoked where it fell upon the carved Octed on the bench top. Then he took up his stylus once more, and allowed the daemon to guide his hand.

  An hour passed. Perhaps more.

  Hell retreated finally, uncoiling itself from him and sliding back through the worn-thin veil of reality. The brazier came back to life, flames crackling, and its low light filled the room once again. Marduk winced as he released his grip on the stylus. His hand was locked in a painful claw. In fact, his whole body ached.

  He glanced down at the helmet still cradled in the arms of the calliper-stand: his mentor’s helmet, now inscribed with a thousand upon a thousand curses. Not a single centimetre was untouched.

  The handwriting was not his own.

  All that the potent curse required was the speaking of a trigger phrase and his mentor would be undone.

  ‘Let it be so,’ he said.

  Let it be so.

  +ALL CHANNELS EMERGENCY BROADCAST – PRIORITY CODE ALPHA-I TO ALL SHIPS WITHIN THE VERIDIAN SYSTEM++

  +IDENT: Ultramarines battle-barge Constellation of Tarmus, tethered at high anchor over Calth++

  +TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS++

  This is Brother-Captain Ruben Indusio of the XIII Legion. We have suffered a catastrophic systems failure. Requesting immediate assistance. We have zero reactor capability, no weapons, no auspex. Please confirm, greenskin presence? We saw noth-

  Who�
�s firing? Vox-master, open a link to the orbital. I need shields now, damn it.

  [Detonation, followed by severe signal distortion]

  Throne, the Sons of Ultramar! They’re gone. We’re trapped. Cut the docking lines, you damned fool! Cut them or we die here and now.

  Brothers of the XVII Legion, cease fire! In the name of the Emperor, this is a mistake! You’ve made a mis-

  [Transmission terminated at Calth mark: -0.17.13]

  +END TRANSCRIPT++

  It started during his second week below ground.

  Jassiq Blanchot was on digging duty. He was nearing the end of his shift. The ache in his limbs from hauling collapsed rock was so constant, so enveloping, that his arms and legs didn’t seem to belong to him anymore. For six hours, his work detail had chipped at the cave-in, dragging away hundreds of kilos of stone. The large chamber to the rear was filling up with debris, but the collapse was intractable. He could easily believe that the barrier went on forever. Still, he kept working. He loaded up a makeshift sled – just a plasteel door and rope – and began dragging it away from the dig. The rope worked deeper grooves into his neck and shoulders.

  He leaned forward into his burden. As he was reaching the storage chamber, he crossed paths with Narya Mellisen. The lieutenant from the Numinus 61st Infantry was taking her empty sled back for another load.

  ‘You lead a charmed life,’ she said.

  He stopped, brought up short. He’d just been thinking dark thoughts about eternity.

  He was trapped in an underground arcology along with hundreds of other refugees. Over half the system had collapsed, hammered by the earth-shaking blows of the war on the surface, except ‘war’ was really too weak a word. ‘Cataclysm’ was closer to the truth. Could a simple war turn the universe upside down, and shatter his every taken-for-granted conception of how reality worked? He didn’t think so. That was what cataclysms did.

  So there was the little matter of soul-deep trauma added to the overcrowding, the shortage of basic supplies, the isolation from the rest of Calth’s subterranean network, and the absence of any communication from the outside world since the warning voxed by Captain Ventanus of the Ultramarines. The surface of Calth was now being scoured by its agonised sun. Survival meant staying underground indefinitely – underground was where the war now raged – but it also meant escaping this particular arcology by somehow digging through who-knew-how-many thousands of metres of blocked tunnel. Blanchot was becoming quite comfortable with cataclysm.