Mark of Calth

by Edited by Laurie Goulding

  He doesn’t, though. Shrugging off his followers like a second skin, he strides through the shallows towards me. I hear the creak of my brothers’ plate. Brother Phornax – formerly of the Librarius, and therefore invaluable in his knowledge of the Word Bearers immaterial allies – draws up beside me. Molossus has his hand upon the hilt of his chainsword. Sergeant Arcadas’s all-but-empty boltgun comes level with his helmet optics.

  ‘Pelion…’

  ‘I have this, sergeant,’ I tell him.

  My enemy’s eyes are furtive and furious, but they are finally fixed upon my own. Arcadas won’t back down, though. ‘That’s far enough,’ he tells the Word Bearer.

  The legionary slows but keeps coming. His face screws up with spite, barely suppressed.

  ‘It is you who have gone as far as you’re going to go, Ultramarine.’

  Arcadas steps forward, the muzzle of his bolter aiming at the Word Bearer’s face. I extend two digits of my gauntlet and gently push the boltgun down towards the ground.

  ‘Our brother seems to have something to say,’ I announce, meeting the Word Bearer’s wretched gaze once more. ‘Let’s hear him out.’

  ‘I have but one thing to say to you, son of Ultramar,’ the forsaken Space Marine spits back.

  He was fast. He was very fast. A knife – some kind of kris or sacrificial blade, like so many of them carried now. It was there, suddenly between us. Perhaps it had been mag-locked to the rear of his belt, or perhaps it had been passed to him by one of his tactual followers. It was there, regardless, blood-stained and sharpened on the thousand souls it had taken in the service of some infernal pact.

  It would have claimed my soul, of that I have no doubt – but fast as he was, I was faster.

  The Word Bearer’s face had no sooner formed the ugly mask of murderous intention, than my sword cleared its scabbard. The blade, light in my grip, sweeps down, taking the Word Bearer’s hand off at the wrist. In shock, the renegade instinctively reaches for the gushing stump with his other hand. Before both gauntlet and knife clatter to the stone floor, my short blade streaks around and slices the other off as well.

  Moments pass. My blade is still – but ready – and sings with the ruthless execution of the manoeuvre. The Word Bearer stumbles back into the shallows, staring down at his armoured stumps. Blood squirts into the groundwater lake.

  His acolytes need no order. They throw themselves at me.

  Seid Phegl, Cognosci of the Red Munion, is suddenly torn back, lost in the bloody crash of a single bolt round from Sergeant Arcadas’s gun.

  ‘Hold!’ I order, such human detritus being not worthy of our precious ammunition. ‘Blades only.’

  The cultists come at me, and they die. Thrusts and sweeps, as fluid and economical as they are brutal, tear through their squalid forms. The Word Bearer splashes down onto his knees and looks up at me. Bodies, and parts thereof, fall about him.

  ‘As far as we’re going to go…’ I say. ‘Well, we’re still going, cousin, despite the sick attempt by your wayward Legion to destroy us. It’s more than I can say for you. Now you’ll hear me out – where is your master, Ungol Shax?’

  He sneers. ‘You really think my last words in this universe will be the answers to your questions, Ultramarine?’

  ‘They will be if you desire a clean death. A death befitting a Space Marine, and not some carcass of corrupted meat that lost its way to false enlightenment.’

  ‘Go suckle at your father’s teat, boy,’ the Word Bearer seethes. ‘You are but a babe in the great affairs of the galaxy and your sire the wet nurse of calamity.’

  ‘Where is Ungol Shax, Word Bearer?’ I repeat, struggling to hold my temper.

  The renegade goes on. ‘Those that fear the great truths of our times are not long for this universe.’

  ‘Longer than you, cousin,’ I tell him. I nod to Molossus, who has unclipped his chainsword and guns the weapon to a throaty roar.

  ‘Belay that,’ a commanding voice booms from behind us.

  I turn. Through the gloom strides the tetrarch himself. Tauro Nicodemus – Prince of Saramanth, Tetrarch of Ultramar, Champion of Roboute Guilliman himself – now, lowly master of Arcology Magnesi. However, this does not prevent Nicodemus from presenting himself with a more regal bearing. His plate is polished to perfection. His weapons gleam care and lethal proficiency. The plume of his helm, clutched under one armoured arm matches his pteruges and scarlet mantle. The cloak follows him like a river of blood, through the damp darkness of the caves, flapping aside to reveal the bejewelled Crux Aureas – the mark of a champion.

  To the unknowing eye, such ceremony might appear as an exercise in vanity. Serfs and seneschals should have more important duties to attend to in times of war than lacquering the filigree of their tetrarch’s pauldrons. As in all things, Nicodemus has prioritised strategy over self-importance. Like the arcology itself, men’s souls required fortification. The people of Calth – decimated and returned to the mean existence of survival underground – need a symbol of pride and defiance. There are no better symbols of Ultramar’s superiority and grandeur in the face of catastrophe than the Legiones Astartes themselves. Nicodemus needs them to feel that dignity and worth, to know that they are so much, despite having so little. There is still a war to be fought, and the tetrarch cannot allow the emptiness of men’s hearts to fill with defeat, for then the war would be lost before it had even begun.

  Nicodemus has been blessed with the primarch’s eyes, and I find the familiar, reproving gaze of Guilliman upon me.

  ‘The Seventeenth Legion are our cousins no more,’ the tetrarch says, marching up and flanked by two honour guards. He passes his helmet on and holds out his gleaming gauntlets. The first Ultramarine places a master-crafted bolt pistol in his hand; the other a magazine of precious ammunition. ‘They are the heralds of their own oblivion. Their words hold no interest for us. The only deed to warrant our attention is their death, and we shall be the instrument thereof.’

  Tauro Nicodemus steps up to the kneeling Word Bearer. The renegade goes to speak but the tetrarch puts a single bolt through his skull before the words escape his cracked lips. The shot echoes about the cave.

  ‘Am I understood?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, tetrarch,’ the Ultramarines answer in unison.

  Nicodemus nods. ‘Sergeant Arcadas.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘The 82nd Company’s work here is done,’ he says. ‘Have your men gather what ammunition remains – rounds, flasks and power packs. Collect it bolt by bolt, if you have to. Anything we can send back at these armoured mongrels upon their return. Leave everything else to rot.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arcadas, Molossus and the Ultramarines go to disperse.

  ‘Tetrarch,’ I say.

  ‘Speak,’ Nicodemus replies, the word knowing and heavy. Molossus hovers with his tattered banner, while the sergeant searches the corpse-plate of a nearby Word Bearer, watching the storm between his masters quietly unfold.

  ‘Would it not further the Legion’s interest to hold this arcology?’ I ask. ‘If we abandon it, won’t the enemy return over time to threaten our security once more?’

  ‘I forgive you your conquering spirit, brother,’ Nicodemus says, ‘for it burns as bright as any in Ultramar. The time for empire building will come, trust me, but we are not building empires here. This is attrition. This is survival. We look to more than just the Legion’s interests. The people come first. We were bred in service of humanity, not to simply gratify our own warrior desires.’

  ‘Ungol Shax was here,’ I counter. ‘He will be a threat to the people and their survival until we end him.’

  ‘So you would clear out arcology after arcology in your search for this one enemy, building a guttering empire in the darkness as you go,’ the tetrarch says. ‘What of the other diseased minds that will prey upon our v
ulnerability in the meantime? We don’t presently have the numbers to hold that much territory.’

  ‘We are Ultramarines…’ I venture. Nicodemus narrows his eyes.

  ‘You do not need to tell me that, Pelion. We are Ultramarines and we could do it, but ask yourself whether we should do it. It is a question you ought consider. For example, I do not know what you expected to gain from engaging the enemy in conversation there.’

  His tone confuses me. ‘I was drawing information from the prisoner, tetrarch.’

  ‘No Hylas. This man had no information to give you. You were pointlessly toying with him, as though you expect to create fear in the hearts of such men with petty threats of violence and the promise of an executioner’s mercy. They have turned from the Emperor’s wisdom and consigned themselves to damnation. They are already living out their greatest fear. Your only duty is to end such abomination, and end it quickly. You think you were drawing information from him, while he drew you further into his lies and ignorance. The only words that the Seventeenth Legion now bear are poison.’

  ‘Tetrarch–’

  ‘Enough,’ Nicodemus commands. ‘We will not play their games in the shadows. It is what the Word Bearers want for us, and they wait for us there. You will stand to your post, Honorarius Pelion, and not be drawn into such dark–’

  A sudden splashing from the far reaches of the groundwater lake attracts the attention of every Ultramarine in the chamber. Someone, or something, is surfacing.

  Sergeant Arcadas and the tetrarch’s honour guard bring up their bolters in a flash, and once more Molossus guns his chainsword into life. Tauro Nicodemus, still with pistol in hand, stares into the dark waters. It is I, however, leading with the short blade of my sword, that first advances into the shallows.

  A spiked and armoured shape breaks the surface. It gasps and gurgles in the icy, gritty water, hauling itself up from the depths and over the jagged rocky bed of the lake. The colour of the plate identifies it as an enemy. A Word Bearer.

  As I close on the prone form, my suit lamps shine upon a scarred and shaven head. He brings up his chin and sputters the remaining water from his multi-lungs, and sharp, Colchisian features greet the illumination.

  I halt in the shallows when I see his eyes. They are gone.

  The flesh about the empty sockets is bloody and botched. His eyes have either been taken by another, or he has cut them out himself. The senseless barbarism and despoliation of the Emperor’s flesh disgusts me.

  The Word Bearer senses the movement about him and reaches out for my armoured leg.

  ‘Friend?’ he coughs.

  I wade behind my enemy. My blade slips beneath the renegade’s chin and rests against his inviting throat.

  ‘Foe,’ I correct him.

  The Word Bearer finds his way to a smile.

  I look to Tauro Nicodemus. ‘At your command, my lord,’ I say. The tetrarch does not look pleased.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he says. ‘Where does that lake lead?’

  ‘I was not under the impression that lakes led anywhere, tetrarch,’ Arcadas replies.

  ‘Tetrarch…’ the Word Bearer mouths with obvious relish, until my sword presses harder into his Colchisian flesh.

  ‘Those about to die have no business addressing princes,’ I tell him. ‘Now hold your tongue, or you’ll force me to cut it out.’

  ‘I fear you may merely end what he has started,’ Nicodemus says, looking at the mutilation already wrought on the Word Bearer’s face. ‘What are these markings on his head?’

  I look down at the hatch-scarring across the Word Bearer’s shaven skull. It looks like a grate or portcullis.

  ‘Exalted Gate Chapter,’ I inform him. ‘Just like Shax.’

  The Word Bearer’s pained smile broadens. I look to Nicodemus. ‘It would be my honour to end this abomination now,’ I say, echoing his earlier sentiment. ‘However, I think it might be prudent to put questions to this prisoner.’

  ‘Pelion…’ the tetrarch warns. I am testing a hero’s patience.

  ‘The lake clearly leads somewhere my lord,’ I say. ‘The dark depths alone did not give birth to this aberrant brother.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ Nicodemus mutters.

  I turn to the tetrarch in a formal salute. ‘Ungol Shax remains a threat, my lord. His men are operating in the region. He might be operating in the region. Surely, it would be tactically perilous to allow that? The prisoner might have information to that end. I request an interrogation-audience, Lord Nicodemus.’

  Vexation ripples across his patrician features. ‘Sergeant Arcadas,’ he calls out.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Have your men complete their sweep of Tantoraem.’

  ‘Yes, tetrarch.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Nicodemus tells him, ‘have a chamber cleared and set aside for the questioning of the prisoner.’

  ‘Straight away, my lord.’

  ‘Pelion,’ the tetrarch says, turning to walk away. ‘Have the prisoner gagged, secured and brought before me.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I shall conduct the questioning myself,’ Nicodemus says. ‘Have no doubt, Honorarius Pelion, that if I suspect treachery of any breed or creed, I will order the prisoner ended – information or not.’

  I don’t quite know what to say. I watch his scarlet cloak stream about him and follow the tetrarch into the darkness.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ I call after him.

  The intruder is captured by Pelion and his brothers

  The chamber has clearly been used for sacrifices in the recent past. Splatters of browning blood forms a collage with other forms of filth across the walls, floor and ceiling. What Sergeant Arcadas had taken for some kind of stone table actually appears to be a rune-inscribed altar, loaded with profane ritual significance.

  The Word Bearer doesn’t know that he’s seated before such an atrocity, blind as he is. I put him down harshly on an empty ammunition crate. He’s unsteady, and not just because he can’t see. I had summoned one of the engineer crews we used to secure and maintain barriers across the numerous arterial tunnels and arcology subways. Using their plasma torches, I had the Word Bearer’s arms braced across his chestplate and the palms of his gauntlets fused to his armoured sides. So there the bastard sits: a prisoner in his own plate.

  The bolt round rattles around the inside of my gauntlet.

  Tauro Nicodemus stands before the prisoner, resplendent and grim in equal measure. Brother Daesenor stands sentinel on the doorway, the fat muzzle of his boltgun trained upon the prisoner. The tetrarch nods. I cut the gag from the Word Bearer’s mouth with the tip of my sword.

  The prisoner works his jaw.

  ‘Name and rank,’ Nicodemus demands. The Word Bearer purses his dark lips. ‘Let’s not play games, legionary,’ the tetrarch insists. ‘You know that I will not dishonour your flesh – nor my own – with torture and affliction. Let us talk as Legiones Astartes, as warriors of a galaxy broad and wide, and divided. As enemies, if you wish, but enemies that both hate and respect one other.’

  ‘You have a gift with words, tetrarch,’ the legionary observes with a smile. ‘In another life, you might have been a bearer of the Word. Are you sure you have chosen the right side?’

  ‘Of all the things we want from you,’ I say from behind him, ‘praise and approval are not among them.’

  ‘Name and rank,’ the tetrarch demands again.

  ‘My name is Azul Gor,’ the Word Bearer says. ‘Exalted Gate Chapter. And you?’

  ‘Tauro Nicodemus of Saramanth.’

  ‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen,’ Azul Gor says.

  ‘The mighty go where they are needed,’ Nicodemus counters. ‘Today, I am needed on Calth. On another day it might be anywhere in Ultramar. On another still, anywhere in the Imperium of Man. Wherever my enemies dare to soi
l the earth with their presence, I will be needed.’

  ‘I think it amusing that it was in fact the Warmaster that sent you to this doomed world.’

  ‘Then Horus sent me to the place where I was most needed,’ the tetrarch says. ‘Perhaps there is hope for him yet.’

  I interject. ‘Galactic politics aside, I hope you don’t mind me asking where you and your villainous kindred have been hiding. We paid you a visit. You were not at home.’

  ‘I was in the deep and the dark,’ Azul Gor replies absently.

  ‘Can’t we all say that?’ I mutter.

  ‘We cannot, Ultramarine,’ he hisses. ‘Imagine being blinded, stumbling about a cave as black as night, buried deep below the surface of dead world – a world bathed in the glare of a star turned from the light. Can you imagine a deeper darkness?’

  The chamber falls to silence.

  ‘What happened to your eyes?’ Nicodemus asks.

  ‘I put them out,’ Azul Gor said. His honesty burns. ‘I put them out so that I might not have to look upon your starched faces and the dazzling gleam of your untested war-plate.’

  ‘You didn’t expect to find us in Tantoraem,’ I accuse.

  ‘And you negotiated a flooded cave system, without your weapon or helmet,’ the tetrarch adds.

  I nod. ‘Or your eyes. I put it to you, Word Bearer – you did not expect to find us at Tantoraem. I think you were looking for your master, Ungol Shax.’

  The blind defector begins to laugh. It is a horrible chuckle laced with venom and bitterness.

  ‘Ungol Shax is dead.’

  ‘You lie!’ I spit back, working my way around the altar. ‘It is all you know. It is all you are. I would slit your throat, but for the untruth that would pour from the wound in place of good, honest Legion blood.’

  ‘I wish you would, Ultramarine,’ Azul Gor roars back.

  I lash out. My blade lurches forward, coming to rest under the Word Bearer’s sharp chin.

  Nicodemus throws up his hands. ‘Pelion!’

  ‘Where is Ungol Shax?’ I hiss.

  ‘He is dead,’ Azul Gor tells me once again, ‘as I soon will be too. As will you be, Brother Pelion.’