'We should have stayed down there,' said Jarulek.
'Be silent, priest,' snapped Sor Talgron. 'To stay there was a death sentence. We have to get off-world.'
'Look at what they have unleashed!' snarled Jarulek. A chemical mist was seeping into the carriage, coming in through the vents and the cracks in the door. Tongues of pale flame licked up from where that mist touched bare metal. They reached for Jarulek, drawn to his gesture. 'You thought it beyond them? This world is going to burn.'
Sor Talgron turned and shoved Jarulek up against the back wall, hand locked around his throat. 'Your gods did not foresee this either, priest,' he said. 'It seems that we all misjudged just how much the Thirteenth hate us... How far they would go to see us bleed.'
He gave Jarulek a final shove, and turned away in disgust. It was not only disgust at the Dark Apostle, but everything - what the Legion had become, the weakness inherent in his genes, and his own actions on Terra, to name but a few.
'To step out there is to die,' said Jarulek. 'There are other ways, other paths that can be walked. If one knows how.'
Cold fury rose within Sor Talgron.
'I will not flee like a worm into a hole, leaving my legionaries to die,' he said, casting a withering glare at Jarulek for a moment before turning his back on him.
'So be it,' breathed Jarulek.
The temperature inside the carriage dropped markedly, hoarfrost creeping up the walls. A host of shadows and whispers swirled around the Word Bearers.
When Sor Talgron looked back, Jarulek was gone.
The conveyor came to a groaning halt. Already the metal was starting to buckle and collapse, being eaten away by the caustic chemical mist.
The doors opened. Beyond, the world burned.
ELEVEN
Phosphex, Roboute Guilliman would later write, was 'without a doubt singularly the most deplorable man-manufactured weapon that humanity has ever, to its shame, unleashed upon a living world'.
An incendiary of the most volatile nature, it had the capacity to burn without oxygen and with next to no fuel source. It was capable of burning underwater - in fact, it set the water itself alight - and would burn through solid rock, through the most fire-hardened ceramite and adamantium, absolutely devastating any carbon-based life that it touched.
Known variously as the 'living fire', 'crawling death' and 'ice-fire' due to its attraction to movement and sub-zero burning temperature, once unleashed it expanded exponentially, burning everything in its path. It was designed for one purpose - the absolute eradication of life on a world. The taint of its residue was far more enduring even than the most deadly radiation from nuclear fallout and plasma-core exposure, rendering any lands exposed to its touch uninhabitable.
Not even the Death Guard favoured its use in any but the most extreme circumstances, and even then only on the order of a Legion's most senior echelons of command. The use of phosphex had only twice been sanctioned for use by the primarch of the XIII Legion, and then only upon isolated regions, but a small number of its most powerful warships held the munitions in their armouries still, for use in extremis.
Percepton Primus, Chapter Master Decimus had decreed, was such a case.
A single, man-portable phosphex bomb had the capacity to contaminate the air and soil where it was detonated for a thousand years. Never in Legion history had an entire payload of phosphex warheads been unleashed in one bombardment. In theoretical simulations, a world that suffered such an attack would never recover.
In all, twenty-four Modalis-class atmospheric missiles were launched from the Righteous Fury at the surface of Percepton Primus. All of them struck the planet's singular super-continent, spread across a dispersal zone ten thousand kilometres wide. Each targeted a key strategic location, the coordinates of which had been uploaded from the communications sub-base within the mountains - Word Bearers extraction points, the city of Massilea, the field of war where the Chapter Master had drawn the enemy legionaries in strength.
The Righteous Fury was destroyed with all hands three minutes and twenty-seven seconds after the first payload was launched. The XVII Legion cruiser Sanctified claimed the kill.
By then, the surface of Percepton Primus was already burning.
It was harder to remove a legionary's primary heart than one might expect, even one not wearing his armoured plate.
First there was the black carapace, the tough under-skin membrane that was as hard as guard-issued flak armour and tough enough to stop a solid slug. Once through that, cutting too high would hit the fused ribcage. Trying to hack through that was futile unless you were well-equipped; a Space Marine's bones were like iron, and their chest was one solid mass.
The key, Sor Talgron knew, was to come in under the ribcage. A deep, vertical slit just below the breastbone.
'It is a shame that Dorn is sending us away,' said Jarulek as he cut through flesh and sinew. 'All the guns of our fleet, sitting up there in the shipyards around Luna, waiting to be unleashed at the most opportune moment. That would have been... delightful.'
'Dorn is no fool,' said Sor Talgron. 'We knew this was a possibility, which is why we have our contingencies - the comet, the shipyards, our allies on Mars and such. The charges remain primed, yes?”
'They do,' said Jarulek. 'Loth did his job well. When they blow, they'll think the psychic levees simply overloaded. There will be mayhem. Panic. More importantly; they'll be blinded - it could take months before they are able to send or receive any astropathic missives beyond the Solar System.'
'Good,' said Sor Talgron.
'Lord Aurelian will not be pleased that we are being shunted off Terra. If we were still garrisoned here when the final push came...'
'This was always a possibility,' said Sor Talgron. 'Our primarch knew that. We have done what we can in preparation. We have used our time here well. And now for our last surprise...'
Volkhar Wreth lay paralysed and close to death on his back on the floor, atop a heavy canvas drop sheet stained dark with blood. They had stripped him of the robe he'd been wearing, and his yellow bodyglove had been cut away, baring his heavily muscled body. His skin was slick with gore. He gave a muted groan, his head twitching in agony as Jarulek pushed his hand into the cut in his abdomen, pressing into his body cavity, groping upwards.
His tongue was gone, torn from his mouth at its root. It lay on the floor, discarded. A length of chain was between his teeth, wrapped around the back of his neck like a gag. Bleeding ruinous symbols were sliced into the meat of his chest, thighs, shoulders and neck; Jarulek had made his flesh a bloody parchment for his work. An eight-pointed octed had been carved into his forehead, deep enough to score it upon his skull.
'Was it wise to tell Dorn you were on the comet?' said Jarulek.
'The best lies have an element of truth to them,' said Sor Talgron. 'He would have known if I had spoken false.'
'Was the task complete?'
'No,' said Sor Talgron, bitterness tinging his words. 'With Dorn's return, I had to leave it unfinished. I left a contingent behind with Ibarix to complete the task.'
Jarulek paused in his bloody work, glancing up at his captain.
'That is a death sentence,' he said.
'Ibarix volunteered. He will do the Legion proud, when their time comes. Now get on with it. We have been too long already.'
Jarulek nodded sagely, and focused back on the task at hand.
'I take no pleasure in this defilement,' Sor Talgron said to Volkhar Wreth. He was standing back, away from the bloody work, arms folded across his chest. 'This is just a means to an end. You are just another tool in my arsenal, a weapon to be unleashed. The war will come to Terra, and the palace will fall. You'll be a part of that.'
The Apostle pulled his bloody arm from within Wreth's torso. He held the tortured Word Bearer's primary heart in his hand. It was still pumping, the severed arteries and veins gushing blood with each labouring convulsion. The predicant's eyes were wide as he stored up at his own still-bearin
g heart. His breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. His secondary heart would have kicked in by now - a legionary could live, for a time, like this.
'The flask,' said Jarulek.
There were two glass vessels that Jarulek had set aside before he had begun his work. One had something oily and writhing within it. The other was empty but for a measure of inky fluid. Sor Talgron unstoppered the lid of this second flash and held it out, and Jarulek slid Wreth's heart into it before sealing it shut.
'The other one,' said Jarulek, gesturing. 'Give it to me. Quickly!'
'I will not touch it,' said Sor Talgron, holding up the vessel containing Wreth's heart before him. It had stopped beating.
With a hiss, Jarulek stood and retrieved the flask himself before kneeling once more before Volkhar Wreth. The legionary's face was pallid and his eyes were unfocused. His breathing had shallowed. His body was shutting down, putting him into hibernation.
Jarulek muttered a string of un-words that made his mouth bleed and the candlelight flicker. He slammed the flask in his hand into the stone floor, and a spiderweh of cracks crazed its glass surface. Dark liquid seeped from the cracks, oily and steaming, and a stench like spoiled meat filled the air. The wriggling thing inside went wild, thrashing and undulating, pressing against its fractured prison. Jarulek still held it in his hand as pieces of glass began to fall away and worm-like appendages the colour of a bruise probed their way free.
Volkhar Wreth had now faded out of consciousness, his breathing slowing until it was barely perceptible. Jarulek leant over him, still speaking in the tongue of the daemon, blood dripping from his lips. Tainted glass fell from the shattered flask as the thing held within struggled to emerge. Sor Talgron could feel its presence, clawing at the edges of his mind like nails on a chalkboard as it strained to haul itself into reality. The squirming thing in the flask was but a tiny part of the creature, the rest dwelt in the roiling chaos of the warp.
'If I can feel that, others may,' he snarled. 'Control it.'
'This room is shielded,' said Jarulek. 'No one will pick up anything.'
'Just be quick about it.'
Jarulek thrust the broken flask into the gash he had carved in Volkhar Wreth's body, and pushed it up into the void where his heart had been. He pulled his hand out, and wiped away the oily residue.
Volkhar Wreth shuddered, his body convulsing. His eyes shot open, a look of unutterable horror ingrained within them. He moaned, shaking his head from side to side. He looked up at Sor Talgron, pleadingly. He was managing to gasp, though the muscles of his neck were bulging, the veins in his temple straining fit to burst. He tried to scream, to beg, to curse them, but he could not.
Sor Talgron felt a shudder in the flask in his hand. He lifted it, wonder and disgust warring for his attention. The predicant's heart within had started beating once more.
'It's working,' said Sor Talgron.
'It is bonding with him,' said Jarulek. He was stitching up Wreth's midsection, pulling the skin tight and sewing it shut with thick thread and a jagged hook. It was crude work, and hurried, but it would suffice.
When he was done, he wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
'These wards will contain it,' he said, gesturing vaguely to the symbols carved in Wreth's flesh. 'Until the time is right.'
'And then the minds of these frozen psykers will power its release,' said Sor Talgron.
'Correct,' said Jarulek.
'As I said - if it doesn't work, I will cut your throat.'
'It will likely be some years before we know.'
'I can wait,' said Sor Talgron. He placed a hand upon Volkhar Wreth's bloody brow. 'I'm sorry, old friend,' he said.
Almost wilfully, a burning white-green mist fell upon one of the siege squad legionaries as the doors slid open. He staggered, steam rising from his armour, which instantly began to hiss, its surface dissolving as the phosphex began to work.
Sor Talgron and one of the other Word Bearers hauled the stricken legionary back, but the damage was done. They dumped him on the floor as his heavy plate began to blister and crack. It was his rubberised armour seals that were compromised first, but he roared as his flesh began to sizzle and burn inside his plate. The floor beneath him began to hiss as the corrosive chemical mist began to eat away at it.
Burning vapours crawled across the landing pad. The mountains were on the very edge of one of the detonations, yet even so, the carnage was devastating. Everything touched by it was being voraciously devoured. Metal dissolved as though bathed in acid, and the bare rock blazed with green fire. Even the air itself was being consumed in the choking, metallic clouds.
'Gods,' swore Loth. 'The ships.'
The Word Bearers craft were gone. The XIII Legion lighter craft was there, but a glance assured Sor Talgron that it was not taking them anywhere - the cockpit canopy sagged inwards, liquefied by corrosive alchemical poisons, and its metal fuselage was dissolving before his eyes.
There was no way off the platform.
The fallen legionary was sinking into the floor as it sagged and melted beneath him. His screams were almost pitiful, so Sor Talgron ended him quickly with his combat blade. The flooring gave way, and the body of the Word Bearer dropped into the conveyor shaft.
The corrosion in the floor was spreading.
'Out,' he ordered.
The platform was burning, but the corrosive mist had not yet consumed it. There were still pockets of safety. In the distance, alchemical flames were engulfing the mountains, flowing over them like an avalanche. They were lucky, here, he realised. The other mountains must have acted as a buffer, an aegis protecting them from the worst of the phosphex fallout, but the rising mist was coming for them at high speed. They had a matter of minutes at best.
'Dal Ahk,' snarled Sor Talgron, scanning the skies.
'The vox is still out,' said Loth.
'Get a flare up,' ordered Sor Talgron. Before the recon sergeant could comply with his captain's orders, however, they caught sight of a final missile screaming down through the upper atmosphere. It disappeared beyond the mountains, but it wasn't hard to judge that it would fall closer to them than any other had.
They didn't feel the impact underfoot - not right away. The shock wave would take some time to reach them, but when it did, it would be devastating. Nor did they hear anything at first.
There was a retina-burning flash, however. It blanketed the sky. The optic dampeners of Sor Talgron's helmet cancelled out the searing blast, saving his eyes and turning everything dark as they compensated.
In the wake of the detonation, a giant cloud of roiling dust, smoke and pale flame rose into the air, its momentum building even as it soared into the stratosphere. The fallout of that detonation roared over the tops of the mountains in a searing, burning shock wave, hurtling towards them in a wall over a dozen kilometres high. That wall obliterated the peaks from view, one after another, coming at them at colossal speed.
There was no way to outrun it. There was nothing to do but stand and watch as it howled towards them, consuming everything in its wake. It was death, and it was coming for them.
There was no way anyone would believe that one of Guilliman's sons would sanction the use of phosphex on such a scale, particularly against one of their own worlds. Sor Talgron knew that his own Legion would be blamed for this atrocity.
'Perhaps this is what we deserve,' he muttered.
TWELVE
The wall of roiling, pale green alchemical fire crashed over them, lifting them from their feet and hurling them back.
Sor Talgron bellowed as he was smashed against the mountain with bone-shattering force. His cries were lost in the deafening roar of the poisonous inferno. He could see little, the white mist and pale flames surrounding him, though he caught glimpses of legionaries being tossed around like the playthings of cruel gods. It was like being in the grip of a fiery cyclone, though the winds were made up of the strongest corrosive chemicals ever devised by man.
/> Loth and his recon squad were the first to perish, their stripped down armour the least able to resist the toxic winds. Their plate dissolved upon their flesh, consumed by a fierce, burning coldness. Skin and muscle tissue turned molten, and bones burned as meat slipped from them. Helm lenses shattered, and eyes and brains were liquefied, burned out within their skulls in an instant.
Sor Talgron felt the acidic burn as his armour seals gave way. The agony was excruciating, worse than anything he had ever experienced. His face already bore evidence of rad-scarring and nuclear burns, but the pain of those injuries was as nothing next to the horrific sensation of the phosphex melting into his flesh.
The blast wave was past them, leaving Sor Talgron and his warriors reeling, stumbling around on the melting platform, their bodies awash with choking, corrosive fire. None of them had escaped its rage. Half the legionaries were dead already, their bodies burning fiercely on the deck. Sor Talgron's flesh was aflame, and he dropped to his knees, as the tendons, ligaments and muscles in his ankles and knees were consumed, his integrity seals finally giving way completely.
His entire body was awash with burning agony, without and within. His muscles turned to fire. Both hearts began to blaze.
His helm's grille dissolved inwards and he inhaled the burning, acidic mist, breathing it into his lungs. His visor lenses had been eaten away and his eyes melted, running down his searing cheeks.
He fell, writhing, agony searing through every nerve ending. His flesh was being broken down, eaten off his bones, flickering with pale flame. His armour was alight, being stripped back to its base constituents and devoured. The very air he breathed was poisoned fire.
He struggled to push himself upright, but it was a battle that he could not win. His will alone was not enough. He fell again, and this time he did not rise.
In his last moments, he thought of Volkhar Wreth. Better to die than to suffer that fate.
Sor Talgron and his companion, cloaked in a dark crimson robe and the hood drawn low over his face, strode down the umbilical corridor towards the waiting drop shuttle. A voice, authoritative and altered by a high-end vocabulator called after them.
The Purge Page 9
