Warden of the Blade

by David Annandale

  A glorious sight.

  A sight that found its spiritual form in the goal he had set for himself. The fires of faith would blanket Sandava II. Nothing would stand in the way of Rannoch accomplishing this sacred task.

  Nothing and no one.

  He had observed Vendruhn’s reaction in the throne room. Her father was slow to understand too, but Rannoch thought the Lord Governor had received an instructive religious shock when he had seen the mask. Indeed, the relic seemed to have grown stronger since Rannoch had first set eyes on it. Its impact on viewers was more pronounced and immediate. It had not, though, had the same effect on Vendruhn. She had turned her face from it.

  Rannoch could not imagine a clearer sign of incipient heresy. Vendruhn could not even bring herself to gaze on sacredness. And now she proposed to guard it against the unruliness of the people? Rannoch had agreed to all her security measures only because he knew it was the people who would defend the mask against her. Let the general deploy her troops. They would see the truth, and know how they should act.

  But some might not, Rannoch thought. There might be others like Vendruhn, others who had fallen from the Emperor’s light. They would try to work against the glory the mask would spread.

  Rannoch looked down the height of the spire to the streets and squares of Egeta, hundreds of yards below. They were filled. A vast current of citizens ran towards the cathedral. The news he had announced a few hours earlier had raced across the city. The people were coming to worship. The faith of Sandava II was already aflame, and the witnessing of the mask had not yet begun.

  Rannoch should have felt joy. This was what he wanted. This was what he had foreseen.

  And yet…

  He eyed the militia formations in position along the main avenues, controlling major intersections, arriving by Chimera to the cathedral’s parvis. His chest tightened. His throat became parched. Anger buried elation. Suspicion and worry bloomed. He knew to watch the soldiers. By their uniforms, he would know one possible source of threat, however small the number of apostates might be.

  But what of the people? What of the hundreds of thousands soon to flow through the nave? How many of them would be there under false pretences? Very few, certainly. But a few mattered. Even one could matter. He could not watch them all.

  Unless he could see into their souls, he could not trust any.

  Down inside the cathedral, waiting on the central altar, mounted on a jewel-encrusted bronze stand, was a reliquary. Rannoch’s original intent had been to place the mask there. It would be protected by the reliquary’s stasis field, and it would be on high and illuminated for all to see. It would be safe enough.

  Safe enough is not good enough.

  No stasis field was impregnable. The reliquary was not indestructible. He could not place his faith in it any more than he could be certain of every person who entered the cathedral.

  He felt the reassuring weight of the mask in the folds of his vestments. The thought of its absence was intolerable.

  He could trust no one absolutely. He could only rely on himself. It was, after all, to him the will of the Emperor had entrusted the relic.

  The solution was clear. Rannoch started to laugh. He shook his head at how blind he had been. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to the mask, vowing to do better. Then he laughed again, because with the solution his joy had returned.

  If he could only trust himself, then he would keep the mask. He would be the means by which the people beheld its glory.

  He would wear the mask.

  He would wear it, and he would preach. It would be as if the mask itself were speaking to the congregation. Rannoch shivered as he thought of the inspiration that would take him when he dared to become one with the holy. When he would look through the eyes of the mask.

  Worries of safety and risk evaporated. He knew he would be a guardian infinitely surer than a simple stasis field. He had proven that on the Envoy of Discipline. He would know what to do, no matter what challenge arose. He would know what to do, and he would have the power to do it.

  He pulled the mask into the light. He held it before him. It dazzled him with golds and reds, blessed by the setting sun. Rannoch stared at the face for a long time. It had new meaning for him. Those features were going to be his. This would be his face.

  His fingers trembled as he turned the mask around. For the first time, he looked at its interior. His eyes ran over the contours that would meet his own. There were no jewels here. The inside of the mask was perfect in its simplicity. It was golden flesh.

  He brought the mask towards his face. The eye holes grew larger. The world appeared through them. Already, it seemed brighter, richer. A violet luminosity suffused the evening.

  Rannoch took his last unfettered breath. Then he donned the mask.

  The two boarding torpedoes cut through the hull of the Envoy of Discipline. Perhaps what Crowe had seen was true, and the hull had breathed. But it was still metal, and it shrieked as the drill-heads ripped it apart. The torpedoes struck within yards of each other. Gavallan had ordered a unified strike. They stabbed through the freighter’s superstructure at the level of the bridge.

  The hatches slammed open. Eleven Purifiers burst into the corridor of the tainted ship. The atmosphere was thick. It had become a miasma of heady scents and pheromones. Crowe snorted in disgust. The air crackled. As he marched behind Gavallan, the clinging mist recoiled from the presence of the Purifiers. Crowe perceived the ugliness in the warp’s current. The immaterium had settled into cracks in the real. It festered, dissolving the materium’s coherence. But as he walked, the current flowed again. His anger burned the turbidity away. The filth that had come with the warp flinched away from him.

  The corridor was a wide one. There was room for the Purifiers to advance two abreast. Gavallan had the lead. He was several paces ahead of the squads. Any closer, and the effect of the Blade of Antwyr would have been too strong. The Purifiers would have to devote too much spiritual energy to warding off its attacks.

  Sendrax and Crowe’s other battle-brothers all wore power armour. Only Gavallan and Crowe wore the stronger artificer armour. Crowe had earned his plate through feats of battle, but he understood now that the judgement which had found him worthy of this sacred armour was the same that had chosen him as the future Warden of the Blade. The dark honour had been prepared for him for many years. Perhaps decades.

  So why has the castellan spoken to you of it now? he asked himself. Why now?

  Because he is dying.

  Gavallan’s stride was strong. He showed no outward signs of weakness. But each time Crowe had seen him on the journey to Dierna, he had noted the deepening grey in Gavallan’s face, and the eyes receding further and further into the skull. The Blade had consumed him. Gavallan needed to know Crowe was ready for his task, because the castellan could foresee his end.

  You will not guard me, Antwyr snarled. You will be mine.

  The sword had been directing more and more of its attention Crowe’s way. Its attacks were more pointed, more ferocious. It saw what was coming too. Its work on Gavallan was nearly done. It sought to groom Crowe.

  It would fail.

  The corridor was adorned with tapestries. They had all been transformed. The trace of their original subjects was there, just enough for the full extent of the blasphemy wrought to be seen. Ceremonies had become orgies. Scenes of triumph were now celebrations of atrocity, their heroes convulsed in deformity, limbs elongated, serpentine in elegance, writhing sensually in blood. The weave of the tapestries had changed, too. It pulsed like worms and flesh. The tapestries billowed in an absent wind.

  Ahead, the doors to the bridge were open.

  ‘The enemy must know we’re here,’ said Drake. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They run in terror before our approach,’ Carac said. ‘Where is our battle?’ The Purifier spoke half in jest
, though Crowe heard his impatience to be in the fight.

  The emptiness of the hall was odd. ‘Have patience, brothers,’ Crowe said. You especially, Carac, he thought. ‘The foe will come.’

  But why not here? The ship was heavily corrupted. Crowe had expected the corridors to be infested. And why would the daemons leave a clear access to the bridge?

  The Purifiers passed through the doorway. Beyond it, atrocity waited. There were still functioning work stations on the bridge. The space had not been so tainted that it could no longer function at all, and the Envoy of Discipline could be guided towards a target. But what remained was surrounded by madness. The walls and vaulted ceiling were painted in blood and viscera. Enormous runes covered the original artwork. They were angular, twisted things that clawed the mind and stroked the senses to raw, hideous arousal.

  At the front of the bridge rose a mound of wreckage. On its summit and around its periphery were metal crosses. Crew and servitors had been crucified and decapitated. Their lifeless, deathless bodies twisted in an endless fugue of pain.

  Gavallan stopped before the mound. ‘The doors were open,’ he said, ‘so we would see this. The enemy is proud of its work. It desires witnesses.’ His voice ground out of his helm’s grille with stony anger. ‘Well, we have witnessed. Purge this obscenity from our sight.’

  Ruluf from Sendrax’s squad and Destrian stepped forwards with their incinerators. Blessed promethium and sacred oils ignited in a stream of blazing white purity. Deliverance washed over the twitching bodies. The crucifixions became a pyre.

  Crowe turned from the fire, watching the flow of the warp, scanning for a sign of attack. The currents were accelerating, clashing with greater violence.

  ‘You sense something, brother?’ Gavallan asked.

  ‘Yes. The turbulence of the warp is increasing.’

  ‘Where?’ Sendrax asked.

  ‘At both exits,’ said Crowe. The Grey Knights had entered from the starboard side. The port doorway was wide open too.

  ‘They think to trap us,’ said Drake.

  The squads took up positions in the centre of the bridge, facing the doorways, ready not to defend, but to take the offensive and charge.

  ‘What are your orders, castellan?’ Sendrax asked.

  Before Gavallan answered, Crowe said, ‘This is a poor trap. Our foe was not ready for us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gavallan asked.

  ‘The turbulence of the warp is only reaching an intensity foretelling an attack now.’ He waved a hand at the pyre. ‘That display could have waited for centuries for eyes to see it. It required very little energy. To come at us, the enemy has had to gather its strength. Yet the entire structure of the ship has been corrupted.’

  ‘What do you conclude?’

  ‘That the initial spread of the taint consumed a great deal of energy. There is something missing. The true power behind this corruption is no longer here. We will be fighting its potent traces.’

  Gavallan nodded. ‘Then we must learn where it has gone.’

  ‘Navigation records would prove useful,’ said Sendrax.

  Doran glanced at the tainted work stations and said, ‘We will not find that information here.’

  ‘We will make for the captain’s quarters,’ said Gavallan.

  The currents darkened in Crowe’s sight. A storm was coming. ‘Prepare!’ he called.

  And the Blade lashed into his mind. Think what you will do when you wield me. End the husk that guards me. Bring the stars to heel.

  The sword laughed. It laughed with a terrible triumph, as if delighted by the progress of a game only it understood. The laughter was a psychic blow, a razor’s slash across the soul. Crowe stood against it, felt the strike snap against the stone of his resolve. But he saw the tension vibrate through his brothers. He saw Gavallan shift his stance as if to steady himself. He saw that mark of pain.

  And as the sword laughed, the taint on the Envoy of Discipline found its strength. From port and starboard came the thunder of hooves and the hammering of claws. The daemons had arrived, howling with pleasure. The doorways filled with a rush of monstrosities.

  And still the sword laughed.

  From the roof hatch of her command Chimera, Vendruhn watched the pilgrimage become a celebration, and the celebration move towards something else, something larger and wilder.

  ‘Hauk,’ she voxed the captain stationed inside the Cathedral of Martyrdom Embraced, ‘how are things going?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Hauk,’ she called again. ‘Give us your evaluation.’

  She waited a few seconds, eyeing the flow of the crowd. The Sandava II Militia had set up a corridor down which to channel the arriving faithful. It led from the principal avenues of Egeta, directly to the northern door of the west-facing cathedral. Troops and Chimeras divided the parvis, keeping the flow organised and funnelled into the door. What Vendruhn envisaged was the orderly procession of people entering the cathedral, walking past the relic, capturing their brief glimpse of it, then filing back out.

  The problem was, the people who emerged from the church were slow to leave. They milled about, gazing longingly at the doorway as if they might try to push their way back in. The crowd grew larger by the second. Its songs of praise had been a confused mix at first, but now were blending into one. Vendruhn did not recognise the hymn, which surprised her. She thought she knew all the great religious songs of her world. This one was more ecstatic than any she had heard before, its chorus approaching an ululating frenzy. She could not make out the words. That made her uneasy. She felt as though she were on the shore of an ocean of mouths, and the song was the pounding of a chanting, inhuman surf.

  Up and down the militia lines, Vendruhn’s soldiers shifted uncomfortably, stared at the singing crowd and adjusted their grips on their weapons. Like her, they were not feeling inspired to join in. If this was what Rannoch and his relic were inspiring, it did not feel like the faith Vendruhn knew. Where was the discipline? Where was the self-abasement? Where were the promises of judgement on the heretic?

  Where were any words she knew?

  She had to quell an impulse to order the militia to open fire. She recognised the desire came from her personal revulsion. She would be acting for her own satisfaction, rather than the dictates of duty. But she could not pretend the celebration was unrolling as it should.

  ‘Hauk!’ she said again, barking the name.

  This time there was an answer. ‘General,’ Hauk said. He sounded frayed. ‘I’m sorry… I... What did…’ He spoke as if forming words was an intolerable effort, and something else had a firm hold on his attention.

  ‘Captain,’ she said, ‘you will tell me what is going on in there.’

  A pause. Then, ‘General… I don’t know how… The cardinal is wearing the mask…’

  What? Vendruhn thought.

  ‘He is preaching… Oh, general, if you could see…’ He broke down in sobs.

  ‘Hauk,’ Vendruhn said. ‘You will take command of–’

  The captain’s vox transmission cut off suddenly, interrupting her. She switched to an open channel. ‘To any troops stationed in the cathedral, this is General Glas. Respond immediately.’

  No one did.

  Vendruhn looked at the people streaming out of the north door again. As the song grew louder, the people emerged with less reluctance. They ran to join the choir. They added their voices, and the music swirled upwards, a coiling exultation wrapping around the cathedral’s spires. Every person singing knew the words, if indeed those syllables were words. Vendruhn still could not understand any of it. The greater the energy of the congregation became, the more she felt revolted by the sound. A pulse of hatred beat at the base of her skull.

  She had deployed some infantry squads to aid in the dispersal of the crowd. They were being overwhelmed by the numb
ers. Some people were leaving, but they brought the song with them, and it was spreading beyond the parvis.

  ‘End access to the cathedral,’ Vendruhn voxed. ‘Seal the doors and block them. No one goes inside.’ She thought for a moment, then ordered the solders on the avenue to stop the pilgrimage.

  ‘How should we meet resistance?’ Captain Lehnert voxed, his way of reminding his general of the inevitable.

  Vendruhn hesitated. She was poised on the edge of an irrevocable decision. She was one order away from entering into open conflict with the Ecclesiarchy. She knew in her soul that Rannoch’s celebration had turned into something deeply wrong, but she did not yet have undeniable proof. Was there any chance she was mistaken?

  The song ratcheted up in intensity. The pilgrims ran from the south doors, screaming their mad praise.

  At the north door, the people were pushing forwards, trying to force past the soldiers blocking their way.

  ‘Use deadly force,’ Vendruhn told Lehnert. She repeated her order for all the companies to hear. ‘If there is resistance, open fire.’

  She was unsurprised by how easily the order came. She felt something like satisfaction. Rannoch had disturbed the good order of Sandava II, and she was ready to punish those who followed him.

  The flow of the crowd into the parvis slowed, but did not stop. The numbers kept growing. The people who were denied entry to the cathedral ceased to push as hard. They were starting to react with unease to the song of the others. Those rushing outside were even more frenzied. They were tearing at their hair and clothes as they sang.

  ‘Block the exit!’ Vendruhn voxed. ‘Let no one out!’ She would deal with those trapped inside later. Right now, she had to stop the stream and isolate the elements of the crowd.

  At the back of her mind, the thought took shape that she might have to burn the cathedral.

  ‘Gunner,’ she shouted down the hatch of the Chimera, ‘aim our turret at the south door.’ They were less than a hundred feet from the target. She prepared herself to order a slaughter.

  But then it was too late. It was all too late. The people were not tearing their hair any longer. They were tearing their faces. Tearing them with joy.