The sound of the desperate battle beyond the sealed pneumatic doors was muted, but Octavion felt every death like a lance through his soul. The floor shuddered each time the Contemptor stepped. It would not be long before it fell. Korolos deserved that peace, but Octavion hoped more than anything that he could hold out just a little longer.
Forty-five seconds. Forty-four. Forty-three.
It had been a shock to realise that they had been followed. A sense of frustration had beset the shamed Ultramarines when they had realised that the Word Bearers had found them, and that they may yet fail in this last, redemptive task. That could not be allowed. They had been relieved when Octavion had volunteered to be the one to stay in here in the command centre, to give the fatal order, while the others would go and stall the enemy as long as they were able. It was not a role that he relished, but it was necessary.
Twenty seconds.
He glanced at the small screen. Word Bearers were scattered across the floor out there, but it was not enough. The black-armoured Imperial Army veterans were all slain, as were his other censured Legion brothers. Korolos stood alone.
The Contemptor had killed several of the newly arrived Cataphractii, but they had surrounded him now like hounds around a bear. One of the Dreadnought's arms was hanging useless, and it was limping markedly. Its armour plates were hanging off in ragged sheafs where the Terminators hacked at it with power blades and chainfists, from all sides. It would not be long.
Four seconds. Three. Two.
Octavion tapped a sequence on the keypad of the antiquated control panel, establishing a direct link with the Righteous Fury.
The main screen remained blank.
'Come on,' he breathed. 'Come on!'
He tapped another series of keys, and the screen refreshed. A grainy image of a woman's face appeared - her eyes were hollow, and there was a hastily stitched wound on her brow. Ash, or perhaps blood, was smeared across her face. Her epaulets marked her as an admiral. Behind her, the bridge of the once-hallowed ship was dark. He knew her, though he had never spoken to her himself.
'-there?' came her static-infused voice.
'Repeat, Admiral Solontine,' said Octavion. 'Can you hear me?'
'There is some interference, but yes,' said the woman on the screen. The sound was not in synch with the image, making it oddly disjointed. 'Who are you? I was expecting Decimus.'
'I am Brother Xion Octavian. Chapter Master Decimus entrusted me with the responsibility of giving the order.'
'You have the authorisation override?'
'I do.'
'Key it in now.'
Each of the legionaries assigned to this task had memorised the authorisation code. Octavion keyed in the seventeen-digit number.
'Authorisation override accepted,' said Admiral Solontine. She rubbed a hand across her face. 'This is the end, then. I had prayed it would not come to this.'
She knew as well as he did that as soon as she gave the order, she was committing herself and her ship to death. Octavion glanced over at the pict-feed from beyond the sealed doors behind him.
'Uploading targeting coordinates,' he said.
'Upload connected and processing. All arming decks are ready to fire.'
'It needs to be done, now.'
'We are not yet in position, Legionary Octavion.'
'What?'
'A minor complication,' said Solontine. 'A collision. Space debris. Part of the Fist of Ultramar nudged us. Nothing too bad, but it has slowed the momentum of our turn.'
'Will you still be able to complete this mission?'
'Yes,' she said. 'We will be in position in less than seven minutes.'
'Seven minutes,' said Octavion. He cursed. 'We do not have seven minutes.'
'Is there a problem, legionary?'
'Yes, there is a problem. Can't you bring your ship around faster?'
'We are dead in the water,' said the admiral. 'We have no engine power, and even if we did, the enemy fleet would detect us as soon as we engaged the drive motors. Seven minutes. Keep the upload feed running.'
'If I destroy these consoles...'
'Then you destroy all hope,' snapped Solontine. 'I have no targeting guidance. All my systems are down. I need this line to stay open. With that frame of reference, I can bring the guns to bear manually. Do not let the enemy get into that room.'
Octavion stared at the consoles in helpless desperation. Was this how it was going to end? In failure?
'I will hold them,' he said. 'You will have the time you need.'
The hall was empty. Scaffolding was set against the walls, but it sat half-finished and unused, as if the workers had abandoned their work before it was done. Dust, masonry and dried paint flecks covered the floor. It was not difficult to imagine that these halls had been empty for months, perhaps years.
The curved ceiling was emblazoned with a faded fresco, the plasterwork beneath it crumbling and flaking. In its prime, the artwork would have been glorious: in its centre was a heroic portrayal of the Emperor, wreathed in golden light and flame, and around him were gathered stylised figures representing the Legiones Astartes. All the colours of the Legions were there. Orbiting around the Emperor were the planets of the Solar System, and beyond them, the constellations. Imperial ships filled the void, spreading out towards every corner of the fresco's edges. Work had commenced on its restoration - and the repainting of a handful of warriors in new Legion colours. The most skilled artisans would have been brought in to duplicate the masterwork of the original and bring it back to its former glory, before their efforts had been abandoned.
The stonework here had also been undergoing repairs. Tools lay scattered across the floor, and half-carved statuary stood unfinished. Huge blocks of unworked stone were trussed up with canvas and rope, and machinery lay half-hidden beneath tarpaulins, debris and dust.
Perhaps the restoration had been deemed surplus to requirements and the crews reassigned elsewhere when Dorn had begun the process of fortifying the palace, or perhaps it had been abandoned decades earlier and forgotten amidst the bureaucracy of the Council. Either way, what was important was that it was an unused, old section of the palace, a lower wing that had been discarded and overlooked. It served Sor Talgron's purpose, and that was all that mattered.
'This is not the way to the shuttle decks, Sor Talgron,' Volkhar Wreth said.
'There is one last task that must be performed before we leave Terra, honoured predicant,' Sor Talgron replied. 'Something Lord Aurelian asked of me in person.'
'He asked you himself? Your star must be in the ascendant within the Legion,' said Wreth.
'As you predicted when I was an aspirant,' said Sor Talgron. 'I am captain of the Thirty-Fourth now.'
'You have done well,' said Predicant Wreth.
'You taught me well.'
Sor Talgron picked his way through the debris, plaster chips crunching beneath his armoured boots. Wreth ghosted him, stepping more lightly. The captain pulled aside a heavy canvas drop sheet, throwing up a cloud of dust. Behind it, obscured by more collapsed scaffolding and other junk, was a set of stairs. The steps were worn by time - once, they must have been frequently used. Sor Talgron descended into the gloom, and his Legion-brother followed.
Sound was muffled down in the low-ceilinged darkness. The buzzing of Sor Talgron's armour sounded like a swarm of angry insects. Arched passages led off in different directions, but Sor Talgron walked straight. A flickering orange light in the distance drew him on.
They passed carved niches and hollows, all of them blockaded by chained iron gates and ferrocrete. Volkhar Wreth paused beside one of them, brushing his fingertips across its seal - an eagle's head atop crossed thunderbolts.
'Pre-Unity,' he breathed.
'This whole section of the Imperial Palace is old,' said Sor Talgron, looking back at him. In the darkness, his lenses gleamed like the reflective eyes of a predator.
'Very old.'
'And abandoned,' agreed Sor Talgron, turning
away.
'There were those amongst the Crusader Host who felt they were abandoned,' said Wreth. 'Stuck here on Terra while their Legions were out there among the stars, doing what we were made to do.'
'And you? Did you feel that way?' said Sor Talgron over his shoulder.
'Never,' said Wreth. 'My faith in the God-Emperor carried me through. As I said, I knew you were coming.'
'I have never held much stock in visions and prophecies,' said Sor Talgron.
'That doesn't mean they are not real.'
Sor Talgron did not answer. He simply walked on, drawn to the flickering light ahead of them. It was clear now that it was a candle.
At the end of the passage, one of the sealed archways had been opened. Lengths of chain lay spread upon the stone floor. A single wick burned within, sitting in a pool of melted red wax atop a stone block carved with intricate figures and dense lettering. The block had been pushed up against the far wall, revealing a gaping square hole where several more had been removed. Dozens of stones of all sizes were stacked low around the walls. Eight carved burial niches lined the walls.
Several sets of human remains, long dead, lay upon the floor; they had clearly been dragged from the burial niches. Some had tumbled face down on the floor, while others were just pushed roughly aside, snapping their bones likes twigs in the process. Those that were still recognisable as bodies were skeletal and ancient, with yellowed, dried—paper skin and clumps of hair clinging to desiccated flesh. They were bedecked in ancient armour that nevertheless bore some similarity to the plate worn by the Legiones Astartes.
There were eight bodies in all, one for each of the arched niches. In their place, eight curved caskets had been placed.
'Welcome, brothers,' said a voice in the darkness.
NINE
All resistance in the room was neutralised. The only living enemy remaining was the Contemptor, if you could call it living. Sor Talgron did not. Trapped in darkness, confined in a box. That was no life.
Three of the Cataphractii had been slain before it had fallen. Not even their vaunted armour was protection against its fists.
It was laid low, a battered heap of metal and ceramite, yet still it struggled to fight and kill. One of its arms was gone, and its lower half was malfunctioning. It lay on the ground, struggling to push itself upright. Its chest had been breached, and sickly, foul-smelling fluid was leaking from within.
The surviving Word Bearers circled the downed behemoth, respecting its power even in death. Sor Talgron was holding the dead sergeant's thunder hammer. Uncoupled from its power source, it did not have the same kick, but it would do the job.
He smashed the hammer into the Contemptor's oversized red helm. The Dreadnought reached for him, but it was a clumsy attempt and easily avoided — there was no strength left in the beast. Another three strikes knocked the helmet loose, rendering the Dreadnought blind.
'Take off its arm,' he ordered.
The two Cataphractii stepped in. One of them pinned the giant's limb down, testimony to how weak the Contemptor was — minutes earlier, it would have crumpled the Terminator in one fist had he dared come so close.
A chainfist shrieked. Oil spurted and sparks filled the air. Then it was done.
With both arms amputated, and its legs twitching spasmodically, the machine was helpless. It lay on its back, jerking.
'Kill. .. me...' it drawled.
Sor Talgron nodded to the Cataphractii. They wrenched the Dreadnought's ruptured breastplate apart, widening the breach. Sickly fluid gushed forth.
Within, suspended in a web of cables, tubes and pipes was a wretched, wasted corpse — some XIII Legion hero of ages past. Was this his reward for his years of service, Sor Talgron wondered? It was a cruel fate, if so.
It twitched, and a croak escaped its rotten lips. It was piteous. It repulsed him.
The hammer ended its torment. Sor Talgron tossed the weapon away in disgust, and turned towards the sealed door. He was about to order it smashed down, but it opened of its own accord.
A lone Ultramarine walked out to meet them. He was unarmed, and perhaps that was what stayed Sor Talgron's hand, stopping him from having the fool gunned down immediately.
Like the Dreadnought, the Ultramarine had a red helm, though his was hung at his waist, leaving his head bare. He was looking down, hair hanging over his face.
Sor Talgron felt an uncomfortable buzzing against the inside of his skull. It felt as though something was trying to scratch its way out. He shook his head to rid himself of the sensation.
The Ultramarine looked up.
White flames spilled from his eyes.
Sor Talgron stepped into the dark chamber, noting the sudden drop in air temperature.
'Enough of the theatrics, Jarulek,' said Sor Talgron, the grilled vocalizer in his helmet rendering his words into an inhuman, crackling snarl. 'We do not have much time.'
'Everything is in readiness,' said the Apostle, rising from the shadows. He was garbed from head to toe in a heavy, dark robe, his face hidden to the naked eye. Sor Talgron had seen him instantly, his helmet stripping away the shadow of his cowl and the thermal image glowing hot against the stone. But to Volkhar Wreth he must have appeared like a wraith, rising from the dead. The predicant's eyes were wide.
'Any problems?' said Sor Talgron, glancing back the way that they had come. He knelt and picked up a length of chain from the floor.
'No one's been down here,' said Jarulek, pulling back his hood. His head was shaved to the scalp, like an ascetic, and his skin was pulled taut across his skull. His eye sockets were sunken and dark.
'What is this?' hissed Wreth. 'Why do we delay here?'
'Predicant Volkhar Wreth,' said Jarulek, bowing his head. 'It is an honour.'
Wreth nodded vaguely in return. He brushed past the Apostle, picking his way amongst the ancient dead to halt before the nearest casket. Green lights blinked from the panel on its side. He wiped a hand across the curved surface of its lid, brushing aside a coating of frost. On the other side of the crystal, a face was revealed.
'Life signs?' said Sor Talgron, wrapping the length of chain around his hand.
'All strong, captain,' said Jarulek.
'You are certain this will work?'
'It will work.'
'What is this?' said Wreth once again. The figure within the casket wore a close-fitting metal cap studded with crystals, diodes and wires. There were markings upon his naked flesh, and Wreth leaned in to see more clearly. His breath misted the air before him. 'Who are they?'
'A battery,' said Jarulek. 'A very powerful battery.'
'To power what?'
'They are psykers taken from the Hollow Mountain,' said Sor Talgron. 'All within that hated fastness are those the Imperium deems too uncontrollable, too weak or too old to be of use. They were doomed to die.'
'For the good of the Imperium,' said Jarulek, his voice thick with venom. 'These ones will still die,' Sor Talgron went on. 'Only now they will die for a more noble purpose.'
'They've been...mutilated,' said Wreth, his face close to the casket's lid. The dormant psyker within had runes and markings cut into his flesh. The wounds were red-rimmed and septic.
'You wear Colchisian writing, but you're Terran-born, aren't you?' said Jarulek, coming closer.
'What of it? I have the primarch's blood in me, as do you?” Wreth snapped.
'There are. .. markedly fewer Terrans within the Legion of late,' said Sor Talgron. Volkhar Wreth looked at him, his brow furrowed, not understanding what was being said.
'Tell me, predicant,' said Jarulek. 'What would you be willing to give up, if Lorgar himself asked it?'
'Anything,' replied Wreth instantly. 'You would surrender your life?'
'Of course.'
'Excellent.'
Predicant Wreth looked around sharply as he heard the murderous intent in Jarulek's voice, turning his back on Sor Talgron. Before he could react, Sor Talgron looped a length of chain around the p
redicant's neck, like a garrotte. He yanked it tight, cutting off his airway and pulling him off-balance. Wreth's hand went instantly to the choking chain, struggling to breathe. Using his colossal, armour-enhanced strength, Sor Talgron hauled Volkhar Wreth around to face Jarulek.
The Apostle threw off his robe. Beneath it he was unarmoured and stripped to the waist, his tattooed torso exposed. The candlelight rippled across his skin, making the symbols and intricate Colchisian cuneiform emblazoned upon him dance.
'I too bear the word of our lord upon my flesh,' he said. 'The message has changed somewhat in recent times, however.'
He had a knife in his hand, and he stepped in to drive it into the predicant's body.
'This is the will of Lorgar,' he snarled.
Holding onto the chain with both hands, Volkhar Wreth lifted himself and slammed both feet squarely into Jarulek's chest. The force of the blow knocked Jarulek back, and drove Sor Talgron into one of the stasis caskets, sliding it half a metre to the side with a screech of metal. The captain's helmet crunched into the low arch above, and his grip on the chain loosened.
Wreth tore himself free and rose to his feet as Jarulek lunged at him. He grabbed Jarulek's wrist as the Apostle's knife flashed in the gloom, guiding it past him and twisting sharply, overextending the joint. With his other hand he grabbed Jarulek's shoulder and, using his momentum against him, drove the Apostle's face onto the edge of the stone plinth.
He tore the knife from Jarulek's hand and spun, coming to face Sor Talgron. The Word Bearers captain was blocking his way out.
'What in the Emperor's name is going on?' he hissed.
'The Urizen has had a change of heart regarding the Emperor,' said Jarulek, as he made to rise, blood dripping from his face.
'This is insane,' said Wreth. 'The Seventeenth would never turn.'
'There were those who were resistant,' said Sor Talgron.
'That knife in your hand has spilled plenty of Legion blood,' added Jarulek.
'You are the last of your kind, old friend,' said Sor Talgron. 'The last Terran-born Word Bearer who has not embraced the new path. The purge is almost complete.'
The Purge Page 7
