ASHES OF PROSPERO

by Gav Thorpe

  The Trickster ignored the complaint, flicking open the thumb-triggers on his control column to activate the pair of stormstrike missiles set either side of the armoured canopy. Rivulets of setting ceramite slipped across the long prow of the craft as he turned again, bringing the scarab-machine into view.

  The enthusiastic whine of the missiles’ spirits chorused in his ears even as he saw the bloom of another burst of warpfire billow from the dorsal exhaust-cannons of the warp-atrocity. He pressed both firing studs. Twin tails of white fire engulfed the cockpit for a moment, a wash of plasma jet fogging the view. On instinct, Lukas pulled up and starboard, dragging the gunship out of the path of the rising warpflame.

  More machine-spirit moaning filled the gunship as the starboard engines and flight wing took the brunt of the hit. Dirty smoke poured from the turbofans, accompanied by a worrying rattle as cooling ceramite droplets crackled through the intakes. Lukas felt the eyes of his co-pilot on him and risked looking away for a moment, winking to allay the other’s apprehension.

  ‘I’ve been in worse situations,’ Lukas assured the others.

  A solid crack and screech of torn metal signalled one of the engines parting company from its holding strut, whirling away in streamers of fractured ceramite.

  ‘Not much worse,’ the Trickster admitted.

  The missile link grew to a fever pitch of machine-spirit excitement in the moments before impact. Lukas threw a glance back towards the scarab-cannon in time to see the two missiles strike the head and carapace of the monstrous beetle, covering it with flame and shrapnel. A couple of seconds later, the double concussive boom of their detonations rattled the armourplas canopy.

  They circled, dropping lower to rake more fire across the emboldened heretics of Magnus. Yet even as Jerrik fired his heavy bolter again a fresh eruption of warpfire flared across the dockworks. It dropped short, falling explosively into the square by the gate, sending out a shock-wave that hurled cultists across the plaza and buffeted the gunship. Through the dissipating smoke of the stormstrike attack, he saw the creature virtually unharmed, just a few ichor-leaking cracks across its broad exoskeleton.

  ‘This beast is livelier than a kraken’s eleventh tentacle,’ growled Lukas. He tried to align the gunship to the beast so that Gudbrand could have a shot with the helfrost destructor but a fresh burst of warp-conjured flame forced him to abort the attack run, narrowly avoiding losing the engine on the other side. ‘Hang on, I have an idea.’

  He pulled the Stormfang into a twisting climb, away from the port facilities. When he felt that they were comfortably out of range he circled back south, picking his course carefully. Ahead, nearly two kilometres away, the scarab-machine stalked out onto one of the main access roads towards the wall. Lukas punched in coordinates for the machine-spirit, setting a beacon point for the animus of the gunship to follow. Pushing the engines to full – ignoring the shrieks and clatters of protest from the starboard side – he angled the gunship on a swooping trajectory.

  ‘Shall I power up, pack… Lukas?’ asked Gudbrand.

  ‘No.’ Lukas hit the release of his harness and stood up. ‘Emergency disembarkation.’

  To their credit, the Blood Claws followed suit without question, releasing themselves from the reinforced belts of their seats. Lukas activated the rear ramp, which whined down to reveal the city’s outskirts and the inferno-scoured wasteland beyond. Wind whistled past, a trail of dark smoke from the damaged engines dragged out across the sky.

  ‘Get ready.’ Lukas moved to the ramp, legs braced against the gentle buffeting of their descent. He looked over his shoulder, through the front canopy, judging his moment. A few seconds later, the gunship was almost above the storehouse roof he had been aiming for.

  ‘Now!’

  Lukas jumped, trusting that the others would follow.

  The wind tugged at his hair and tousled the pelts of his armour as he fell. A heartbeat and ten metres later, he hit the storehouse roof hard. Actuators in his leg armour snarled in protest and he buckled and swayed, turning his impact into a forward roll. His momentum carried him crashing over several metres of dusty ferrocrete before he skidded to a halt. The others thudded down in front of him, spilling out of the gunship like poorly fastened cargo from the deck of a storm-stricken ship. On his feet an instant later, Lukas ran towards the front of the building.

  He reached the edge of the storehouse in time to see the Stormfang hit, already engulfed prow to stern by warpfire from the creature’s final defensive blast. The reactor detonated first, white hot plasma erupting into a miniature sun. In the following split second the helfrost core cracked, unleashing its void potential. The sudden, conflicting extremes of temperature exploded outwards, ripping the beast and its handlers into disintegrating atoms. The shockwave smashed into the nearby buildings, demolishing storage halls and tithehouses, their foundations torn out by the detonation.

  Lukas stared at his handiwork while the others gathered around him. He did not have long to enjoy his triumph. Angry shouts and sporadic lasfire spewed up from the concourse in front of the storehouse. Cultists streamed towards their position from every direction, more determined to meet the enemy in their midst than to reinforce the attack in the city centre.

  ‘There must be a hundred or more of them,’ said Artyn.

  ‘They seem eager to meet the Sons of Russ.’ Lukas pulled his plasma pistol free and held up his wolf claw, cerulean power licking along the blades. He flashed his fangs in a grin.

  ‘Let’s introduce ourselves properly.’

  CHAPTER 11

  A BROKEN BRIDGE

  The warplight thickened, if such was possible. Like a living organism, it slicked across the armour of the advancing Space Marines. The sensorium registered it simultaneously as light and a physical object, though it seemed to be no impediment to the Terminators as they pushed into the hall beyond the doors. Sketchy readings described a broad space adjoined by many rooms and conveyor gates, with flanking archways beyond which long corridors speared into the heart of the Pyramid of Photep. The sensors detected a ceiling more than a hundred metres above, criss-crossed by arcing spans and horizontal conveyor bridges and the slightly tapering outer wall of the pyramid was lined with galleries and mezzanines.

  But there was no agreement on exactly where these features were.

  Ulfar’s suit placed the squad somewhere near the centre of the chamber while Arjac’s own armour had them to the right. Ingvarr’s autosenses detected a stairway a few metres ahead, yet Berda’s datalink transmitted a broad set of steps sweeping down into a space reminiscent of an amphitheatre.

  And all around, as suddenly as the cultists had first attacked, life signs sprang into being. Red blotches appeared against the greenish tinge of the auspex sweeps. Tracer fire and las-bursts rippled out of the permeating light, striking sparks from the war-plate of the Wolf Guard and searing burns across their ceramite.

  The veterans returned fire as best they could, their storm bolters and assault cannon hurling a torrent of projectiles at the surrounding ambushers. Balconies gave way under the impact of cyclone krak warheads, toppling dozens of Magnus’ insane disciples, crushing more beneath the fall of broken masonry. Detonations rippled along galleries, obliterating bodies and bricks. The screams of the slain were lost in the crash of splintering blocks and pummelled ferrocrete. Glass and crystal shattered, plunging as lethal hail onto Magnus’ followers below.

  ‘Where? Where are they?’ Jorn pivoted left and then right, storm bolter tracking the hundreds of signals that appeared and disappeared across the sensorium. Scouring laser blasts attested that the augur returns were not simply phantasms, but swathed within the concealing, distracting miasma, the enemy might as well have been ghosts.

  A figure of white fire moved beside them. Arjac was about to open fire when he realised it was the Navigator. Rays of darkness cut through the light as she directed the stare of her third eye against the cultists.

  Arjac raised his shield, S
ven likewise on the other side, providing cover for his companions while they reloaded.

  ‘Detecting your… Moving forward to sec… Do you need…’ Valgarthr’s question was lost in a welter of vox static edged with spectral whispering.

  ‘Do not enter the Pyramid of Photep!’ Njal commanded, advancing quickly, oblivious to the raking fire that cascaded down around him. He stopped about ten metres in front of Arjac, head turning first one way and then the other as he looked for something. Again, he had the distracted appearance of a man in communion with another. Rockfist thought he saw the Rune Priest’s lips moving ever so slightly. The Rune Priest started forward again, his gait somewhat shorter than usual.

  Arjac’s instincts blazed. Not all was as it seemed. Someone else walked in the Stormcaller’s body. Someone who was not used to the Rune Priest’s exact length of stride and, judging by a slight hesitancy in each step, was also unfamiliar with the particular properties of advancing in Terminator armour. Tiny details, but enough to send the hearthegn after the fading outline of the Rune Priest.

  ‘With me,’ he told his pack, grimacing at the prospect of forging further into the teeth of enemy fire without any clear indication where they were or what his objective was meant to be.

  Njal walked quickly now, forcing Arjac to advance after him. He needed to stay close but was not willing to break completely with his pack as fresh fusillades ripped through the disorientating light cloud. There seemed to be a brightness ahead, beyond what the sensorium said was a thick wall, but discernibly different to the shimmering diffusion that swirled liquid-like at their passage.

  ‘It’s moving,’ warned Ingvarr.

  ‘What is moving? Give me clear reports!’ Arjac growled back, trying to balance the unfolding tactical nightmare with his oath to protect or execute the Runelord if necessary. Half of him wanted to withdraw, take stock and launch a more considered attack. The other half compelled him to follow in the wake of the compromised psyker, trying to get within hammer’s reach without betraying his intent to whatever sentience currently inhabited Njal Stormcaller’s mortal frame.

  ‘The wyrdlit, pack leader,’ Ingvarr said, a hint of surprise that he needed to explain himself.

  Arjac tore his gaze away from the Stormcaller to see that there was indeed a current stirring in the cerulean glare to his right. He turned his attention to the other side and realised that the motion was cyclic, and moving around their position.

  ‘Is that your doing, Stormcaller?’ Berda asked the Rune Priest, his voice quiet with uncharacteristic doubt.

  ‘I am trying to concentrate. Cease your prattle,’ the Rune Priest replied. The voice was his in timbre and depth, but the manner was not. He was sometimes curt, but never casually admonishing.

  The cyclonic movement of the warplight was increasing, swirling around the Rune Priest, moving with them as they neared the brighter shaft within the azure gleam. Arjac broke into a run, power flooding his suit while targeting runes danced over Njal’s armoured outline. The psyker had stopped, staff held high, other hand forming complex shapes with his fingers.

  It felt like diving into a maelstrom, light whirling faster and faster though it left no physical touch upon Arjac’s armour. He heard Ulfar call his name in surprise but ignored his companion. The sorcerer – or whatever being had been masquerading as such – was opening the portal, Arjac was certain of it. The Rune Priest had been duped; his psychic potential hijacked by a warp entity to rip open barriers weakened already by the machinations of the cultists.

  Rockfist’s hammer snaked white fronds of power through the swirling warp energy. He was three steps from Njal and drew back his arm, the corrupted Space Marine unaware, it seemed.

  Something banged into his arm from behind, knocking him off his stride.

  It was one of Magnus’ disciples, somersaulting through the warplight, tossed about while the energy dragged at his robes and pulled at his long greasy hair. The man, eyes wild inside the visor of his beak-faced mask, stretched impossibly as he touched the column of white light.

  He disappeared.

  Arjac took another step, momentum faltering with confusion. Another cultist whirled past, her screams only just audible above the roaring of blood in his ears. More of them funnelled down into the light as though flung by a godly hand, limbs snapping, backs breaking and contorting as the unearthly torrent slammed and twisted their bodies within buffeting currents of otherworldly power.

  ‘Arjac?’

  Sven was at his shoulder, the rest of the pack close behind. Njal could see nothing of the Wolf Guard’s face but Sven’s stance and tone betrayed intense confusion.

  Rockfist realised he could see the others clearly, no hint of flowing sapphire power. He saw the last of the warplight flecked with the still-flailing bodies of the cultists, swirling down into the blazing central column like water down a drain hole. His attention returned quickly to the Stormcaller.

  The Rune Priest faced the portal column with staff outstretched between both hands, the last flickers of golden energy dancing along its length, drifting across the gap between him and the rapidly diminishing warp-slash. He convulsed lightly, once, a wordless choking noise sounding across the vox-link.

  With eyes narrowed, his grip relaxed but firm on Foehammer, Arjac took another step. Njal – his body, at least – turned slowly, bringing the staff down in one hand, the other moving to clutch something at his chest but the fingers finding the embossed plate of his armour instead. They locked gazes and for an instant Rockfist knew he looked into the stare of another even though the eyes were so familiar. A hint of a smirk played about the Rune Priest’s lips, revealing a sliver of fang, and then it was gone.

  Njal straightened just a little, his eyes quickly focusing on Arjac and then flicking to the hammer in his hand. The gaze, knowing and wise, met Arjac’s again, and he saw understanding – an acceptance of what had just happened. There was almost gratitude in the Stormcaller’s expression.

  Arjac waited a heartsbeat longer, assuring himself that the Stormcaller was fully present. There had been wild talk of a daemon-creature that had sowed discord and conflict across the Imperium by taking the guise of others. Rumour in the Fang even implicated this changeling in the terrible events that had set the Dark Angels against the Space Wolves, weakening both before the invasion of Magnus. It was quite possible the daemon was continuing its mission to destroy the Sons of Fenris.

  Was it simply the threat of discovery that had forced it to relinquish its hold?

  Arjac had to trust himself, to believe what he had seen in Njal’s face. Had there been cause for Arjac to act, he had no doubt the Stormcaller would have ordered him to strike the blow there and then, willing to sacrifice himself if he thought the expedition was compromised.

  The sensorium rippled around the crack in realities but the rest of the hall swirled into recognition, amalgamating the disparate viewpoints. The hall had a high ceiling. The walls were broken by platforms and walkways and the space between criss-crossed by transitways and gantries. Beams of plasteel held up crystal sub-ceilings that refracted the dying daylight into a gentle luminescence that filled the vast chamber. Most importantly, there were no unaccountable life signs within the Pyramid.

  Still, Arjac could not relax.

  He looked at the change wrought upon the interior of the Pyramid of Photep and knew that his worries were far from over.

  The cavernous space looked as though it extended forever but the wyrdsenses of Njal felt a massive pressure pushing in from every direction, as though he had been crammed into a space far too small. The split in reality filled everything with its pulsating energy, lapping at the broken containment runes. Far above – impossibly far above even given the Pyramid of Photep’s immensity – serpent-like silhouettes writhed against a bright sun. Other shapes, hints of flame and face, of fang and claw, moved through the curtain of power.

  Where the column of light had been was now occupied by a towering stele of jet black. Its edges
rippled with power, but the flat surfaces absorbed everything like a negative light, darker than even the void between stars.

  +Incredible.+

  ‘What is it?’ asked Arjac.

  ‘Our objective. An entrance to the Portal Maze.’

  ‘It is a bridge between the realms,’ said Majula, placing the shield over her mutant eye. ‘I have not read of anything like it. Not a warp rift, far more precisely engineered.’

  ‘We need to muster our strength before we continue.’ The hearthegn sent his squad to watch points around the hall, guarding the corridors and archways. ‘We can hold the temple grounds for a while if need be.’

  Njal was eager to be rid of Izzakar, but he could see the sense in Arjac’s caution. He nodded his assent and activated the vox. ‘Valgarthr, form a collapsing cordon to my position and unite with the Wolf Guard. Have the force from the landing field maintain the corridor. We’ll call them when we need them, no sense in everyone getting surrounded in the central district.’

  ‘Aye, Lord of Runes. As you say.’

  Majula glared at the undulating fog of power, near rigid, fists clenched at her sides. There was no reaction from her when Njal stepped up by her side.

  ‘Navigator?’

  Majula either ignored him or did not hear. She slipped a hand up to the band across her forehead. The Stormcaller halted her as gently as possible, a finger on her wrist.

  ‘Let me see, Lord of Runes,’ she said quietly, not turning her head. ‘I cannot feel the light of the Emperor within. It swallows the echoes of Terra. Let me look into the Portal Maze.’

  +I do not think that wise.+

  ‘Tell me what you see,’ said Njal, lifting his hand.

  Majula pulled the silver eyeguard away and looked up. Njal steadfastly refused to look at her, instead fixing on the broken tiles of the floor. Still he felt the lap of her third eye’s stare fluttering on the cusp of his wyrdsense.

  ‘I see nothing,’ Majula whispered. She took a step, head level to look directly into the strange cleft where the magistae had been.