by Nick Kyme
‘Now!’ roared Sor Talgron, leaping into the air, the flames of his jump pack carrying him straight towards the dome. He accelerated fast, the engines of his jump pack straining against the forces of gravity.
He could feel the power of the shield-dome intensify as he drew nearer, making his skin tingle and his eardrums reverberate painfully.
He was no more than fifty metres from the veil when the first spire struck. An explosion of light and electricity erupted, far more intense than any he had yet seen.
A moment later, the other two spires hit, creating a blinding discharge of electricity. Bolts of power leapt madly between the three silver spires, and a rent was momentarily ripped open between them, a hole sheared in the fabric of the dome.
Without pause, Sor Talgron angled towards the temporary gap, pushing the engines of his jump pack to their limits, burning rapidly through the last reserves of fuel.
Jagged arcs of lightning criss-crossed back and forth across the tear in the shield-dome as the veil began to reform its impenetrable mesh. With a shout, Sor Talgron pushed on, knowing that he was committed now; there was no turning back.
He roared through the ever-diminishing hole, and his entire body was jolted as a barbed fork of lightning passed through him, using his flesh as a conduit.
His jump pack shorted out completely, sparking and smoking, though the force of his momentum carried him through the rapidly diminishing rent in the veil. His vision was fading in and out, and he dropped like a stone, a smoking, charred body, landing heavily on a palatial balcony within the flickering dome.
Sor Talgron twitched involuntarily for a moment as the last vestiges of electricity left him, dissipating across the smooth glassy floor.
Pushing himself up to one knee, smoke rising from the burnt, stinking flesh of his face, he unclipped the release clamps upon his breastplate, and his now useless, smoking jump pack dropped to the ground with heavy clunk.
‘That was… unpleasant,’ said Arshaq, pushing himself to his feet nearby. The veteran sergeant’s cream-coloured tabard was hanging off him in fire-blackened strips. Some parts of the robe were still on fire, and Arshaq casually ripped the remnants of the fabric away from him.
Only the warriors of Squad Helikon had made it through the gap. The other three of the surviving Assault squads were stuck outside the shield-dome. Sor Talgron swore.
It had taken all of the squads’ melta bombs to create even that momentary crack in the enemy’s defence – it would not be a move that his Assault squads would be able to replicate, nor was he able to contact his brother Space Marines beyond to advise them of a new course of action – evidently, the shield-dome blocked vox traffic as easily as incoming lance strikes. The all-encompassing lightning-dome they were now ensconced within obscured everything beyond.
Sor Talgron’s scorched face was stinging, but he ignored the pain, his eyes fixed in the distance.
The city within the dome had been untouched by war, and it was an awe-inspiring sight. Pristine crystal domes, glass spires and interconnected walkways that gleamed like spider-webs dipped in quicksilver sprawled before them.
But Sor Talgron paid none of these structures any mind; he was completely focused upon the looming glass structure in the distance – and upon the giant statue that towered above it.
His eyes narrowed as he glared up at the titanic statue. It stood more than a kilometre tall, a titanic silver and glass colossus in the form of a man, standing with arms raised. Lightning from the shield-dome struck the statue’s outstretched hands every few seconds, bathing it in flashes of flickering energy that coiled around its arms and torso.
Sor Talgron felt loathing rise up within him.
This was no statue of a heroic founder or local legend; this was an effigy of the god of the people of Forty-seven Sixteen.
‘So it is true, then,’ said Arshaq, disgust in his voice. ‘These people are heathen idolators.’
‘Lorgar, give me strength,’ Sor Talgron murmured.
‘Captain,’ said Sergeant Arshaq, consulting his auspex. ‘We have multiple contacts, moving on our position. What are your orders?’
‘We go there,’ said Sor Talgron, pointing towards the statue. ‘And we kill everything we find. Those are our orders.’
STRANGELY, THEY HAD encountered little resistance since passing through the dome.
After the brutal battle towards the centre of the enemy superstructure, the utter absence of the enemy here was eerie.
They traversed over expansive arched walkways of delicate glass, moving warily towards the immense central spire, covering all the angles and scanning for movement.
The battle outside the sphere of lightning had been bloody in the extreme – the artificial war constructs were deadly foes, utilising weaponry unlike anything that any of the crusade fleets had encountered, as far as he understood. Yet here, within the sheltered, impenetrable dome of energy, it was peaceful – almost serene.
Through vaulted hallways and soaring cathedral-like passages they moved, footsteps echoing loudly upon the smooth glass.
‘It’s like a tomb,’ remarked Arshaq.
Sor Talgron was forced to agree. He almost wished for an enemy to appear, just to break the tension. Almost.
The Word Bearers moved warily along a wide bridge spanning two glittering crystal spires, closing steadily on the central temple structure that rose up before them like an exotic crystal flower, atop which stood the colossal statue of the enemy’s false god. Sor Talgron could not look upon the vile storm-god statue without feeling his gorge rise.
On more than one occasion they glimpsed enemy constructs stalking along bridges and walkways far below, moving towards the shield-dome and the battle raging outside, but they appeared unaware – or unconcerned – with the Astartes already within the shield.
It seemed that the entire superstructure of the enemy continent-city revolved around this strangely alien building, and all the walkways, ramparts and flyways within the veil led towards it. Undoubtedly, it was a structure of great importance, and Sor Talgron felt strongly that the last vestiges of humanity on this doomed world were hidden within.
They covered the ten kilometres to the heart of the city swiftly, moving at a fast pace that they could have maintained for days on end.
At last they drew near the central temple-building. The storm-god statue loomed above them, its arms bathed in lightning. They were just stepping out from beneath a towering archway of crystal splinters, stalking warily towards this central structure, when Sergeant Arshaq spoke.
‘Life readings,’ he warned, consulting the squad’s auspex. They were the first life signs that the device had registered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen.
Sor Talgron barked an order and Squad Helikon formed a defensive perimeter around their captain. They continued to advance, drawing ever closer to the huge, cylindrical temple that rose up before them.
Gaping, triangular portals were cut into the sides of the temple. The interior was filled with blinding light – nothing within its brilliance could be discerned.
Warily, the Word Bearers advanced towards the nearest portal. Sor Talgron shielded his eyes against the bright light. There was a delicate shimmering sound emanating from within, and with a nod he ordered Squad Helikon in.
Stepping inside was like being transported to a completely different location. Sor Talgron felt the change in the air against his burnt skin. The air here was cool and vaguely fragrant, where outside it was hot and filled with the acrid stink of electricity. His gaze was immediately drawn upwards. The immense structure was formed around a vast cylindrical shaft, which disappeared into the distance overhead. This lofty expanse was filled with shimmering light that descended from above like an ethereal waterfall falling in slow motion. A strange, lilting sound accompanied this fey light, something akin to the sound of glass chimes, overlaid with the hum of energy. Hundreds of arcing balconies and gantries ringed this central shaft, and walkways criss-crossed the
expanse. So focused on these disturbing wonders was Sor Talgron that he barely registered the panes of glass silently sealing the portal behind them.
Standing atop a fluted pillar of glass was an exact replica of the colossus half a kilometre overhead, though this statue was a “mere” fifty metres tall. Its head was thrown back rapturously, its arms held skywards in what might have been praise or glory.
Shimmering light bathed this statue in radiant brilliance.
The floor sunk away below them in a steep series of tiers – hundreds of them. And upon each tier crowded the kneeling figures of men, women and children. These were the first people that the Word Bearers had encountered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen – the last of the world’s population.
All had their heads bowed to the floor in prayer, facing towards the glass idol of their profane storm-lord. Sor Talgron guessed there must have been some forty thousand people packed into the stadium-like temple, all of them murmuring in low voices and rocking from side to side, as if lost in a trance. None seemed to have noticed the appearance of Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon.
Upon a dais at the bottom of the circular tiers, a diminutive old man stood leaning upon a staff of glass and silver. He raised his head, staring up at Sor Talgron and his brethren. He did not appear surprised or shocked at their appearance; rather, he wore a mournful expression on his cracked parchment face.
‘Stay with me,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘Hold your fire, and follow my lead.’
His eyes were locked on the one who could only be the religious leader of the enemy civilisation. This was the one that Kor Phaeron had met with less than two days earlier. Flanked by the warrior-brothers of Squad Helikon, he began marching down the steep stairs towards the enemy leader.
At some unspoken command, the entire congregation of men, women and children stood, turning to face the intruders into their realm.
The Word Bearers tensed, levelling weapons towards the crowd. Sor Talgron expected to see the flush of anger and resentment in their faces, but they stared at the towering Astartes forlornly and, perhaps, with a little disappointment.
‘Nobody engage,’ warned Sor Talgron.
For all that the enemy appeared to pose little threat, he knew from experience that it took but a single individual to turn the mood of a mob murderous – indeed, the Chaplains of the Legion were skilful at inciting just such emotion. Were the crowd to turn on them, the resulting massacre would be terrible. He and his brothers would reap a bloody toll, taking down hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these people, but there were only half a dozen, facing more than forty thousand. Even Astartes would eventually be dragged down by such numbers.
The warriors of XVII Legion descended the steep tiers, eyeing the crowd that parted before them warily. The people regarding them stood in absolute silence, which was, Sor Talgron thought, perhaps more disconcerting than had they been braying for blood; at least that he would have understood.
The old man regarded their approach solemnly.
‘What are we doing?’ hissed Sergeant Arshaq, using a closed vox channel so none of his squad could hear.
‘I want to see how divergent these people really are,’ said Sor Talgron, replying on the same closed channel.
He had known Arshaq for decades, both having been raised in the same temple on their grim home world of Colchis, and the captain overlooked such breaches in protocol from the sergeant, valuing his opinion. The sergeant’s silence to his answer was enough to tell him that Arshaq did not approve, but he knew him well enough to know that the sergeant would back him up, no matter what.
They descended to the bottom of the tiers, and started up the steps of the dais towards the old priest. Sor Talgron levelled his bolt pistol at the elderly man’s head.
‘Squad Helikon,’ said Sor Talgron in a low voice. ‘Establish a perimeter.’
‘Yes, captain,’ said the sergeant of Squad Helikon, nodding. With clipped commands, Arshaq directed his squad members into position.
They spread apart, facing outwards, scanning the crowd for potential threats.
Talgron stepped onto the final level of the dais and came to a halt before the old priest. The elderly man came up barely to his midsection, and though he was clearly ancient, his eyes were bright and alert. Something in his gaze made Sor Talgron vaguely uneasy.
Was he a sorcerer? He dismissed the notion immediately. The old man was unnerving but he felt no threat from him. He lowered his pistol.
‘I am Sor Talgron, Captain of Thirty-fourth Company, XVII Legion,’ he said, his voice ringing out loudly, breaking the silence.
‘Why do you bring death to my world, warmonger?’ said the old man, speaking a corrupted, archaic form of Low Gothic.
‘You will order the complete surrender of your armed forces, effective immediately, and relinquish control of the world designated Forty-seven Sixteen,’ said Sor Talgron, ignoring the old priest’s words. ‘Understand?’
‘Why do you bring death to my world?’ said the priest again, but again Sor Talgron refused to acknowledge his words.
‘You will lower the lightning-shield protecting this structure,’ he said firmly. ‘You will order your people and your infernal thinking machines to cease all hostilities. Do I make myself clear?’
The old priest sighed, and nodded his head vaguely. With a gesture, he drew Sor Talgron’s attention towards a dark glass cube that was rising smoothly from the floor. Was it some form of weapon? His pistol was in his hand instantly.
There was something forming within the solid mass of the prism, and sensing no immediate danger, Sor Talgron stepped cautiously towards it. The perfect glass cube would have come up to the chest of a regular human, but Sor Talgron was forced to bend forwards to peer at the image taking shape within.
At first the object forming within was hazy and transparent, like a ghost-image, but within several heartbeats it solidified. It was somewhat like the three-dimensional representations that he had seen produced by advanced pict-devices, but those images were always poor representations of reality. This image looked real, a solid artefact, encased in the glass cube.
It was an open book, he saw, painstakingly illuminated with ink and gold leaf. The borders were replete with impossibly intricate, coiling designs and interweaving patterns. Sor Talgron saw that stylised figures and creatures were worked into these borders, hidden amidst the twisting patterns and coiling spirals. Each of the pages was covered in dense lines of script written in a firm, austere and vaguely familiar hand.
Every warrior-brother of the XVII Legion spent several hours every day engaged in solitary illumination, but never had he seen a work such as this. The penmanship and artistry was phenomenal, far beyond anything that Sor Talgron or any warrior-brother could ever hope to achieve. It was a work of undeniable genius – something that surely no mortal hand could ever hope to match. Indeed, the only illuminated works that he had ever seen that were even vaguely comparable was those penned by the Urizen himself, and he had only been allowed fragmentary glimpses of those great works…
He leaned in closer, eyes widening. The text was written in the variation of High Gothic utilised only by the religious elite of his homeworld, Colchis.
‘What is this?’ said Sor Talgron in shock, his mind whirling.
He threw a glance towards the priest, standing nearby, but it was impossible to read the expression in the old man’s eyes. He turned back towards the book seemingly trapped within the black cube.
‘…and in faith shall the universe be united…’ he said, reading aloud a line that leapt out from the dense script. His voice faltered. He knew these words. Indeed, he had memorised this work in its entirety. He swallowed heavily.
‘…united behind the… the God-Emperor of all mankind,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, completing the hallowed line.
He looked back at the old priest in confusion and shock.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘We are the Scions of the Storm,’ sai
d the old man, gesturing with both arms to encapsulate all the people standing around the temple dais.
‘What in Lorgar’s name is that supposed to mean?’ growled Sor Talgron.
The old priest snorted, and shuffled past Sor Talgron. He leant forwards and brushed his fingertips across the smooth surface of the cube. The pages of the book within the glass prism turned in response, flicking rapidly. Each was intricately illuminated and covered in dense script. Sliding his fingertips more slowly across the surface of the cube, the old priest made the pages turn slower, flicking slowly until he came to the densely illuminated frontispiece of the holy text.
He flashed Sor Talgron a sad smile, pointing at the page.
The captain of Thirty-fourth Company stared wide-eyed at the full-page illumination. It showed a radiant figure bedecked in wondrously detailed armour, detailed in gold leaf. The divine figure’s head was thrown back, and surrounded by a golden halo.
The God-Emperor of Mankind.
Sor Talgron’s eye was drawn to the golden armour worn by the God-Emperor, to His ornate and ancient breastplate, the breastplate He was said to have worn while leading the ancient armies of unification across the ravaged surface of old Terra… the breastplate that bore the ancient symbols of His rulership, symbols that were recognised and rightfully feared before even the commencement of Old Night, the symbols mirrored on the golden armour of the Legio Custodes, the Emperor’s personal guard.
These symbols rose in bas-relief from the Emperor’s armour; they represented the Emperor’s wrath – thunder bolts.
Understanding dawned.
The inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen were worshipping the Emperor…
SOR TALGRON SWALLOWED thickly, still staring at the image of the Emperor.
Scions of the Storm, the old man had called his people; sons of the storm. They were worshipping the Emperor as a god, the personification of the storms that wracked their world.
‘Now you understand,’ said the priest. He tapped a finger onto the smooth surface of the cube, and the three-dimensional image of the holy work disappeared.
