Shroud of Night

by Andy Clark

  ‘Except when you arrived, all you found was us.’

  Excrucias nodded slowly.

  ‘Only you, from a world of champions, of perpetual war. What happened here?’

  ‘We won,’ said Kassar simply.

  ‘Evidently,’ said Excrucias. ‘And who are you, you victors of the Bloodforge?’

  ‘We are the Unsung, and we prevailed, as we always prevail. Killed your men. Killed all the others. Not without cost, but…’ Kassar spread his hands. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Here you are…’ echoed Excrucias. ‘Victorious but… still here, amidst the rubble. I wonder why…’

  Kassar smiled without humour.

  ‘Never ask the Alpha Legion a question, lest they tell you seven truthful lies,’ he said. ‘Besides, except for coming down here alone, I’m sure you’re not stupid. You know why.’

  ‘You lack a ship,’ said Excrucias. ‘You sit trapped amidst the ruin of your conquest, waiting to suffer the finishing blow by the hand of the next powerful enemy that comes along. An enemy like me.’

  ‘There’s more to you than there seems,’ said Kassar. ‘Elaborate armour, gold daemon mask, impressive blade, sense of power coming off you in waves. But you came here alone. An error. You could hurt us, but I’ve enough brothers left that we’d kill you before you finished the job.’

  ‘How quickly do you think you could land the blow?’ asked Excrucias. ‘I have an entire fleet in orbit. A word, and they teleport me out… then fire on my last location. This entire region would be nothing but rad-fire within moments.’

  ‘Hm,’ grunted Kassar, seeming to ponder the point. ‘I thought you might say something like that. It’s why I had Haltheus here put together a teleport jammer before you arrived.’

  The tool-festooned Alpha Legionnaire brandished a crude-looking device, all exposed wires and runic circuitry.

  ‘Haven’t activated it yet,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It might not even work. Or it might just scramble your teleport signal enough to deliver you to your destination inside out. I’ve told them more than once that I’m no Techmarine, but…’ He shrugged.

  ‘An… impasse, then,’ said Excrucias, his outward poise showing nothing of the excitement he felt within. He hadn’t foreseen the teleport jammer, and the sense that he had placed himself in real, mortal danger was exhilarating.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kassar. ‘Perhaps not. You said that your warriors were the original reason that you came to Bloodforge. Implying that something has changed. You know what we want, to get off this gods-blighted rock while some of us still draw breath. What about you?’

  ‘I came here in search of living weapons,’ said Excrucias. ‘Flawless killers. I am engaged in… an ongoing conflict. My… rivals have proven more problematic than I had hoped. I sought to bolster my ranks with warriors who could… conclude matters on my behalf.’

  ‘But we killed them,’ said Kassar.

  ‘But you killed them,’ echoed Excrucias. ‘And for that insult I should flay you all alive. But instead, I wish to offer you a bargain.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Kassar. Around the chamber’s edge, his warriors had become very still, watching the exchange with intense interest.

  ‘You have butchered a world of warriors,’ said Excrucias. ‘What more perfect living weapons could I hope to find than you? Perhaps you do not have the magnificence, the sheer might that my Eternals possessed, but what I have seen here suggests that you make up for this lack in… murderous guile. Fight for me. You have won one war already. Now help me to win another.’

  Kassar’s face was an unreadable mask. ‘And in return?’ he asked.

  ‘In return… a ship, a frigate from my fleet with a full and loyal crew, warp capabilities, firepower. Freedom, to do with as you will.’

  Kassar nodded slowly, then motioned for Haltheus to lower his teleport jammer.

  ‘Let me speak to my brothers,’ he said. ‘You’ll remain here as insurance, just long enough for the Harrow to assemble and to vote. Then you’ll have your answer.’

  Excrucias made a show of considering Kassar’s demands, then graciously acquiesced. Inside he already knew. He had been right. He had come to Bloodforge in search of flawless, living weapons. And, by the grace of Slaanesh, he had found them.

  Soon enough, the Beacon of Tsadrekha would be his…

  Part I

  Chapter One

  The waves of the Risen Sea crashed on the flanks of Hive Endurance, beating endlessly against the immense structure’s metallic hide. Endurance shrugged them off as it had for thousands of years, looming over the ocean like a man-made mountain whose minareted peaks pierced the clouds.

  Partway up the southern face, several hundred feet above the choppy waters, Captain Dysorian wrapped his bear-like arms around another marble block. Bracing his legs, he rose, armour servos whining as they lent their prodigious strength to his own. With a grunt, Dysorian swung the block into place atop the barricade, then stepped back. He cast a critical eye over the growing barrier, heavy grey brows beetled.

  ‘Sergeant Loriyan,’ said Dysorian, addressing one of the Primaris battle-brothers labouring at the barricade. ‘What is our Chapter famed for?’

  ‘Grit,’ replied the looming Intercessor, hefting another block flush into place next to Dysorian’s. ‘Determination. Loyalty. Siege-craft. The Imperial Fists are the Emperor’s praetorians, my captain, and deservedly so.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Dysorian. ‘None amongst all the Emperor’s servants know better than we how to fortify a position, and how to hold it for as long as it must be held.’

  ‘Yes, my captain,’ said Sergeant Loriyan, stooping to heft another block into place. His brothers worked alongside him, bolt rifles slung as they raised a defensive wall across the mouth of the access-arch. It was but one of many such entrances set into the lower flanks of Hive Endurance, archways linked to cargo-conveyors that brought fuel and materiel up from the sprawling piers far below. As they laboured, the Intercessors showed no outward reaction to the rhetorical nature of their captain’s questions. Never mind that their simplicity would have insulted a yearling novitiate.

  ‘This is a reputation that we sons of Dorn have upheld for many thousands of years,’ said Dysorian. ‘It is integral to who we are, and we all must earn it anew with every day that dawns, whether long-serving veteran or newly ascended battle-brother.’

  ‘I understand, my captain,’ said Sergeant Loriyan, placing another block with a hard clunk of marble on marble. ‘My brothers and I will not disappoint you in this.’

  ‘I do not doubt it, sergeant,’ said Dysorian, though even he could hear that his tone of voice did not quite match his words. ‘Raise this barrier another five feet before the servitors monobond these blocks, then begin the second layer in a staggered grid behind it.’

  ‘Yes, my captain, and then the fire step behind that, with raised platforms for unaugmented human weapons teams. It shall be done to a standard that would make the primarch proud.’

  Dysorian nodded.

  ‘Good. Proceed, sergeant.’

  He turned away, back into the dingy electro-candle illumination of Main Hive. A chevron-lined cargo corridor took him through Endurance’s skin, his metal-on-metal footfalls ringing away down service pipes and grilled vents. Dysorian’s practised eye noted rust and spot-welds where the salt air of the ocean had taken its toll. He allowed himself a sour grunt.

  Dysorian reached the end of the corridor, where Tsadrekhan defence troopers were erecting an emplacement of prefab barricades and sandbags. The men ceased their work as he strode through their midst, each making the sign of the aquila and averting their eyes.

  ‘Enough of that,’ said Dysorian irritably. ‘Be about your labours. You can genuflect later.’

  Looking mortified, the men resumed their work with fresh urgency. The Imperial Fists captain strode on down the transit
way. Looming manufactory units rose on either side, turning the street into a metal canyon filled with jaundiced light. This hive-level’s ceiling loomed high above, half lost amidst criss-cross girders and hazy smoke. Dysorian caught movement amongst the fumes, gargoyle-like cherubim of the Ministorum winging their way through the gloom, and his scowl deepened.

  The captain’s vox-bead chimed once.

  ‘Pavras,’ said Dysorian. ‘You are contacting me to report that the south pier redoubt is complete, no doubt?’

  ‘Within the hour,’ replied the Techmarine. ‘As I’m sure you know, my captain.’

  Dysorian heard the wry smile in Pavras’ voice.

  ‘Something about this situation amuses you, Techmarine?’

  ‘No, my captain,’ said Pavras. ‘I am merely comforted by the dour cynicism I hear in your voice. The stars may have turned to madness, the Emperor’s light may be hidden from us, but it is good to know that some things remain the same.’

  ‘How is your inspection proceeding?’ asked Dysorian by way of response, ignoring his old comrade’s jibe.

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ said Pavras. ‘Where our battle-brothers apply themselves to shoring the defences, they rise as Dorn would have wished. Where the Tsadrekhan defence troopers and hive labour gangs are working…? Well, the defences appear adequate.’

  ‘What of the Adepta Sororitas?’ asked Dysorian.

  ‘They still concentrate their efforts and those of their frateris on further fortifying the spire,’ said Pavras. ‘I believe Canoness Levinia feels that their efforts are best focused upon defending the levels around the beacon itself.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Dysorian. ‘Though she must know that if Main Hive or the Underbilge falls, her convent prioris will be next, no matter how well defended it is.’

  ‘When we spoke earlier, my captain, I did mention that line of reasoning,’ said Pavras. ‘The canoness told me that I must have faith…’

  ‘We place our faith in adamantium and bolt shells,’ said Dysorian. ‘Now, what of the Primaris battle-brothers? You have overseen their labours also?’

  ‘I have, my captain,’ replied Pavras, his tone dry. ‘Just as you instructed. The barricades they raise are every bit as solid and redoubtable as those built by the other battle-brothers of the Fourth Company. Indeed, I would say they work somewhat more quickly than the rest of us with those augmented physiques of theirs.’

  Dysorian grunted. He turned left at a junction and climbed a set of metal steps onto a suspended walkway bustling with robed menials and hive militia. Skull braziers burned along the walkway’s edges, and candle-lit grav placards drifted in the air, inscribed with exhortations to faith and labour. Below, a six-lane transitway thundered with groundcars and transporters, while overhead a mag-train hove through the smoke upon its electrified lines.

  ‘Captain,’ voxed Pavras. ‘Paetrov. The Primaris are sound. More than sound, they carry something of the primarch within them. Most of our warriors venerate them. They are valuable assets, and they are our battle-brothers. But you still don’t trust them, do you?’

  ‘We have fought the long war against Chaos without them for ten thousand years,’ replied Dysorian, subvocalising so as not to be overheard. ‘New genetics? New weapons? Spawned from the work of a tech-magos trying to imitate – no, worse – to improve upon the Emperor’s own labours? Battle-brothers who do not even serve time in the Scout companies or the Devastators before taking their place in the line? I neither trust nor need such warriors amongst my ranks, Pavras. Dorn’s fist, they’re not even proven in battle!’

  ‘Only because they have not had the chance,’ replied Pavras. ‘My captain, the living primarch himself ordered their creation and vouches for their excellence.’

  ‘Not our primarch,’ said Dysorian, marching onwards as the crowds melted away before him.

  ‘My captain…’ began Pavras, but Dysorian cut him off.

  ‘Cease your fretting, Pavras. I’ve my orders from the Chapter Master and I shall not be derelict in fulfilling them. The Ultima Founding occurred whether I like it or not. I’ll use the Primaris battle-brothers just as I would proper, proven Imperial Fists. But I will keep a weather eye upon them, and no amount of hectoring from you will change my mind on the subject. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, my captain,’ replied Pavras, recognising that the subject was closed.

  ‘Now, where are you?’ asked Dysorian.

  ‘Level six-twenty-four,’ replied Pavras. ‘Main Hive. I have just finished inspecting the defences around generatorum block Kilphor.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dysorian. ‘Sweep through to the Hive Spine and take a grav-lift to level eight-one-seven. Vox Lieutenant Lydanis, have him meet us at south teleportarium hub beta. I remain unconvinced of the efficacy of the tech-priests’ failsafe rituals.’

  ‘Yes, my captain,’ said Pavras, then cut the link.

  Dysorian reached the teleportarium hub to find his subordinates already waiting for him. The Techmarine and the Primaris lieutenant stood near to a set of heavy bulkheads stamped with the cog mechanicus. They were illuminated by flickering electro-sconces and deep in earnest conversation. Pavras was stocky and square-jawed, and half of his skull and his right eye boasted finely worked augmetics. By comparison, Lieutenant Lydanis was tall and broad, his eyes ice blue and his hair shaved close to his scalp. Two sallow-skinned servitors lingered near the conversing warriors, and their eyes and weapon systems lit with warning runes as Dysorian approached. Pavras’ servants scanned the captain with ocular auspex before emitting binharic blurts and subsiding.

  ‘Brothers,’ said Dysorian, returning their aquila salutes. ‘Lydanis, report on your sweep.’

  ‘I have completed my inspection of the Underbilge defences,’ said Lieutenant Lydanis. ‘All pressure-locks and sub-aquatic bulkheads are confirmed sanctified and secure. Heavy defensive positions have been established in concentric rings around the oceanic-mag-rail transit station. As per your orders, mixed Primaris and Mk VIII squads have established patrol routes and guard posts throughout primary oceanic-mag-rail support tunnels three through nineteen, with emphasis placed on securing those routes that connect to the outer fortress islands, drilling rigs and with Hives Dryspire and Immersia. All is in readiness.’

  ‘What of the Tsadrekhans?’ asked Dysorian.

  ‘Our patrols and positions have been reinforced with significant deployment of Tsadrekhan Defence Platoons,’ reported Lydanis. ‘And Canoness Levinia has released squads of Retributors and Battle Sisters to further reinforce the checkpoints leading up through the primary Underbilge–Main Hive transit portals.’

  Dysorian nodded.

  ‘Then let us attend to this next matter. I thank the Emperor and the primarch for this period of grace, but our enemies will not wait forever to launch their assault. We will not allow Hive Endurance to meet the fate of Hive Eternum. Clear?’

  Lydanis and Pavras chorused the affirmative, though both knew that the captain’s words were aimed mostly at his Primaris lieutenant. If that fact troubled Lydanis, he did not allow it to show.

  Dysorian stood directly before the bulkhead, and announced in a clear voice:

  ‘Captain Paetrov Dysorian, Imperial Fists Fourth Company. I demand audience with Magos-ethericus Corphyx.’

  From above the doorway, gargoyle-faced scanner servitors swept the Imperial Fists with crimson auspex beams. If they found anything amiss, punisher turrets would deploy from the walls to either side of the bulkhead and fill the corridor with a hail of high-calibre rounds.

  A sonorous chime echoed along the corridor, and with a hiss of escaping gas the cog mechanicum revolved, then slid apart. Amidst crackling electrolight, the bulkhead doors rumbled open, and Dysorian led the way into the teleportarium beyond.

  Each of the hive’s three teleportaria clung to Endurance’s outer skin like huge mechanical
tumours. They dotted the south flank from down near the waterline to the highest gothic spires of the convent of the Order of the Crimson Tear. Two were lesser substations, automated servo-shrines. South hub beta was a far more substantial bastion, festooned with empyric antennae, crackling energy coils and a plethora of strange mechanical protrusions that only an adept of the Machine-God could hope to comprehend.

  They were also afforded a degree of natural daylight within their chambers and corridors, a rare and considerable honour below the spire itself.

  Dysorian and his brothers strode through wisping clouds of steam and crackling arcs of energy, through high-ceilinged chambers and along cable-thick corridors. Light fell in kaleidoscopic patterns through stained armourglass domes that depicted the great works of the Omnissiah. Servitors lumbered, hobbled, slithered or rumbled in the fumes, dead sensor eyes fixed forwards on whatever labours were theirs to perform. Tech-priests, too, swept through the murk, hunched figures in rubberised red robes who clutched data-slates in metal claws. They peered from their cowls with glowing red eyes. None approached the Space Marines, instead remaining aloof and mysterious as they went about their business.

  ‘Quite a place,’ murmured Pavras as they strode across a walkway above vast, thrumming capacitor arrays. ‘The very air sings with the power of the Omnissiah.’

  ‘I care only that, if these places must continue to operate, they do so without presenting chinks in our armour,’ replied Dysorian. ‘What they sing with is of no interest, Pavras.’

  ‘No, my captain,’ said the Techmarine.

  ‘Could we not simply order that the teleportation shrines be rendered quiescent until the threat has passed?’ asked Lieutenant Lydanis. ‘Surely the hive has stockpiles of fuel and ordnance sufficient to see out a substantial siege?’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Pavras with a grim smile, ‘you have never dealt with the adepts of the Machine-God. This transfer of fuel from the rigs is more than logistics to them, lieutenant. It is a holy act of tribute and communion with the Machine-God, the pumping of the Omnissiah’s promethium blood. It is for the same reason that they will not cease the movement of the maglev trains through the undersea tunnels. The tech-priests would no sooner stop these things than they would allow their own hearts – or whatever passes for them – to stop beating.’