by Ben Counter
All was quiet and still for a moment.
‘Where is Mhotep?’ the Ultramarine asked, sheathing the blade. He’d been monitoring the helmet vox transmissions and knew that the Thousand Son had been at the Primary Dock. During the warp phenomenon, battles had erupted all across the Wrathful, and the secondary and tertiary docks had also come under attack. Reports were flickering past on Cestus’s helmet vox that the warp spawn had abated abruptly for reasons unknown, dissolving back into the ether.
Skraal was still out of it on the deck, babbling in enraged delirium, so Cestus turned to Brynngar for his answer.
‘He made a noble sacrifice,’ intoned the Space Wolf, as he got to his feet.
‘That almost sounds like respect,’ Cestus said, his voice tinged with bitterness.
‘It is,’ growled Brynngar. ‘He gave his life for this ship and in so doing saved us all. For that he will have the eternal gratitude of Russ. I am not so proud to admit that I misjudged him.’
Whining servos and the hiss of released pressure made the Space Wolf turn with bolt pistol raised as the blast doors ground open. Cestus and the other Astartes joined him with weapons levelled at the flickering dark beyond.
Mhotep emerged from the scorched ruin of the Primary Dock, staggering, but very much alive. Tendrils of smoke rose from his pitted armour and he was drenched in viscous, translucent gore. In spite of his appearance and obvious injuries, he still retained his bearing, that nobility and arrogance so typical of Prospero’s sons.
‘It is not possible,’ Brynngar breathed, taking a step back as if Mhotep were some apparition from the fireside sages of Fenris. ‘None could have survived in such a conflagration.’
Cestus lowered his bolter cautiously and then his hand in a gesture for the other Ultramarines to do the same.
‘We thought you were dead.’
Mhotep unclasped and removed his helmet, breathing deep of the recycled air. His eyes were black orbs and a riot of purple veins wreathed his face, but was slowly disappearing beneath his skin.
‘As… did… I,’ gasped the Thousand Son, helmet clattering to the deck as it fell from nerveless fingers.
Cestus caught his fellow Astartes as he lurched forward and bore him down to the floor, half-cradled in his arms.
‘Summon Laeradis at once,’ he told Antiges, who was stunned for a moment before he came to his senses and went off to find the Ultramarine apothecary.
‘He lives, yet,’ Cestus added, noting Mhotep’s fevered breathing.
‘Aye,’ Brynngar muttered darkly, having overcome his superstition, ‘and there is but one way that could be so…’ The Space Wolfs lip curled up in profound distaste. ‘…Sorcery.’
EIGHT
Nikaea
Advantage
Bakka Triumveron
IN HIS PRIVATE quarters, Zadkiel regarded the pict screen on the console before him with interest. The room was drenched in sepulchral light, the suggestion of idols and craven icons visible at the edge of the shadows. Zadkiel’s face was bathed in cold, stark light from the pict screen, making him appear gaunt and almost lifeless.
Battle scenarios were displayed on the surface of the screen. An astral body, the size of a moon, exploded moments after being struck by a missile payload. Debris spread outward in a wide field, showering a nearby planet with burning meteors. An icon in the scenario represented a ship, the Furious Abyss, as it moved through the debris field. Trajectory markers with distances indicated alongside were displayed, originating at the ship icon and terminating at the planet’s surface. The image paused momentarily and then cycled back to the beginning again.
Zadkiel switched his attention to a vertical row of three supplementary screens attached to the main pict screen. The uppermost one was full of streaming data that bore the Mechanicum seal. Calculations concerning armour tolerances, projected orbital weapon strengths and extrapolated endurance times based upon the first statistic versus the other scrolled by. Angles, probable firepower intensities and shield indexes were all considered in exacting detail. The middle screen contained four stage-by-stage picts showing the effects of a particular viral strain upon human beings. A time code at the bottom right corner of the final pict displayed 00:01:30.
The final screen displayed projected casualty rates: Macragge orbital defences – 49%; Macragge orbital fleet – 75%; Macragge population – 93%. Kor Phaeron and the rest of the Word Bearers’ fleet would account for the rest. Zadkiel smiled; with a single blow they would all but wipe out the Ultramarines’ home world and the Legion with it.
‘I SAW IT myself, with this very eye,’ snarled Brynngar, pointing to the non-cloudy orb. The Kolobite drone king did not blind me so much that I cannot see what is before my face.’
Brynngar had joined Cestus, Skraal and Antiges in a waiting room outside of the medi-bay where Laeradis ministered to Mhotep after his collapse. The Wolf Guard stalked back and forth across the small, sanitised chamber, which was all white tile and stark lighting, impatiently awaiting the Thousand Son’s return…
‘No man, not even an Astartes, could have faced those hordes and lived,’ offered Skraal, ‘although I would have gladly laid down my life to dispatch them to the hell of the warp.’ The World Eater was raging as he spoke, blood fever clouding his vision as the endless need for violence and slaughter nagged at him. He had confessed earlier that he remembered little of the fight, engaged as he was in a haze of fury, only waking in the access corridor to the primary dock. Brynngar had deliberately chosen not to enlighten him, deciding that he didn’t want to risk the World Eater’s wrath.
‘Aye, and I can think of no other way that such a deed could have been done,’ said Brynngar, coming to rest at last.
‘You speak of witchcraft, Space Wolf,’ said Antiges with a dark glance at Cestus.
The Ultramarines captain had remained silent throughout. If what Brynngar said was true then it had dire ramifications. What was beyond doubt was that Mhotep’s actions had saved the Wrathful from certain doom, but the edicts of the Emperor, laid down at Nikaea, were strict and without flexibility. Such things could not be ignored, to do so would damn them as surely as the Word Bearers. Cestus would not embrace that fate, however rational it might seem.
‘We do not know for certain that Mhotep employed such methods and devices, only that he lived where perhaps he should not have,’ he said.
‘Is that not proof enough?’ Brynngar cried. ‘The acts of Zadkiel, of this treacherous vermin is one thing, but to have a heretic aboard ship is quite another. Let me wring the truth out of him, I’ll—’
‘You will do what, brother?’ asked Mhotep, standing in the open archway of the waiting room. Like the other Astartes, he wasn’t wearing his helmet, but he was also stripped out of his power amour and clad in robes.
Apothecary Laeradis, together with another of the honour guard, Amryx, there by way of additional security, was visible behind him. The Apothecary was collecting his various apparatus as stooped Legion serfs scurried around him gathering up Mhotep’s discarded armour.
Brynngar stared at the Thousand Son, fists clenched, his face reddening as he bared his fangs.
‘Laeradis?’ asked Cestus, stepping in front of the Space Wolf in order to diffuse the tension.
The Apothecary had just emerged into the room. Amyrx was standing silently next to him.
‘No lasting injuries that his metabolism cannot cure,’ Laeradis reported.
‘Good,’ Cestus replied. ‘Rejoin your battle-brothers in the barracks.’
‘My captain,’ said the Apothecary, and gratefully left the charged atmosphere of the waiting room with Amryx, obsequious Legion serfs in tow.
‘What happened at the dock?’ asked Skraal, weighing in on Brynngar’s behalf. ‘I lost two Legion brothers to that fight, how were you able to survive?’
The two World Eaters had been discovered later, recovered by blind servitors before the dock was locked down permanently and bulk heads put in place. The unfortunate As
tartes had been transfixed by the blade claws of the warp spawn and died gurgling blood. Their scorched remains rested in one of the Wrathful’s mausoleums, awaiting proper ceremony.
‘When I reached the auto-destruct console I found that the protocols were off-line,’ Mhotep explained, his face unreadable. ‘Favour smiled on me though as during the battle, a fuel line linked to one of the docking ports had come loose from its housing and I was able to ignite it. I fought my way to a place where I was shielded from the blast and the resultant conflagration destroyed the entities with purging fire.’
‘Your silver tongue is fat with lies,’ Brynngar accused him, stepping forward. ‘The air is thick with the stink of them.’
Mhotep turned his stony gaze on the Space Wolf.
‘I can assure you, Son of Russ, whatever odour you are detecting is not emanating from me. Perhaps you should seek your answer nearer to your own bedraggled self.’
Brynngar roared and launched himself at the Thousand Son, bearing him to the ground with his massive bulk.
‘Drink it in, witch,’ snarled the Wolf Guard, intent on forcing Mhotep’s head into the tiled floor. A splash of spittle landed on the Thousand Son’s grimacing face as he thrashed against the Space Wolf’s superior strength.
Cestus, using all of his weight, smashed into Brynngar’s side to dislodge him. The Wolf roared again as he was toppled from the Thousand Son.
Skraal was about to wade in, but Antiges blocked his path, the Ultramarine’s hand resting meaningfully on the pommel of his short-blade.
‘Stand fast, brother,’ he warned.
Skraal’s hand wavered near his chainaxe, but he snorted in mild contempt, and in the end relented. This was not the fight he wanted.
Brynngar rolled from Cestus’s body charge and swung to his feet. The Ultramarines captain was quick to interpose himself between Space Wolf and Thousand Son, his posture low in a readied battle stance.
‘Stand aside, Cestus,’ Brynngar growled.
Cestus did not move, but instead kept his gaze locked with the Space Wolf.
‘Do so, now,’ Brynngar warned him again, his tone low and dangerous.
‘This is not the way of the Astartes,’ Cestus said, his voice calm and level in response.
Behind the Ultramarine, Mhotep got to his feet, a little shaken, but otherwise defiant in the face of his aggressor.
‘No: it is not the way of Guilliman’s Legion, you mean,’ answered Brynngar.
‘Even so, I am in charge of this ship and this mission,’ Cestus asserted, ‘and if you have issue with my commands, then you will take them up with me.’
‘He defies the Emperor’s decree and yet you defend him!’ Brynngar raged and took a step forward. He stopped when he realised that the Ultramarine’s short-blade was at his throat.
‘If Mhotep is to answer charges then he will do so at my behest and in a proper trial,’ Cestus told him, the blade in his hand steady. ‘The feral laws of Fenris are not recognised on this ship, battle-brother.’
Brynngar growled again as if weighing up his options. In the end, he backed down.
‘You are no brother of mine,’ he snarled, and stalked from the chamber.
Skraal followed him, a thin smile on his lips.
‘That went well,’ said Antiges, sighing with relief. He had not been relishing the idea of facing one of Angron’s Legion, nor had he a desire to see Brynngar go toe-to-toe with his brother-captain.
‘Sarcasm does not become you, Antiges,’ said Cestus darkly. Brynngar was his friend. They had fought together in countless campaigns. He owed the old wolf his life, and more than once, Antiges too had a similar debt to the Wolf Guard. Cestus had defied him, however, and in so doing had besmirched his honour. Yet, how could he not give Mhotep the benefit of the doubt, without proof of his supposed actions? Cestus admitted to himself that his experience in the reactor chamber at Vangelis, the vision of Macragge he had witnessed, might be affecting his decisions.
‘I am grateful to you, Cestus,’ said Mhotep, smoothing out his robes after the Space Wolf s rough treatment.
‘Don’t be,’ the Ultramarine snapped, in part angry at himself for his self doubt. His gaze was cold and unforgiving as it turned on the Thousand Son. ‘This is not over, nor am I satisfied with your explanation for what happened at the dock. You will be remanded to your quarters until we leave the warp and I have time to decide what is to be done.
‘Antiges,’ Cestus added, ‘have Admiral Kaminska send the new Officer of the Watch and a squad of armsmen to escort Captain Mhotep to his cell.’
Antiges nodded briskly and went off towards the bridge.
‘I could overwhelm a mere band of armsmen and defy this order,’ Mhotep said, matching the Ultramarine’s steely gaze.
‘Yes, you could,’ said Cestus, ‘but you will not.’
‘LET IT NOT be said,’ uttered Zadkiel, ‘that the warp is without imagination.’
Before Admiral Zadkiel, who, having left his private quarters, was in the Furious Abyss’s cathedra, stood rank upon rank of Word Bearers. Their presence in the vaulted chamber was an echo of what had faced him at the vessel’s inaugural launch at Thule. It was a sight that filled Zadkiel with a sense of power.
The warriors represented the Seventh Company of the Quillborn Chapter, one of those that made up the greater Word Bearers Legion. Every Chapter had its own traditions and its own role within Lorgar’s Word. The Quillborn were so named because their traditions emphasised their birth, created in the laboratories and apothecarions of Colchis. They were written into existence, born as syllables of the Word. A dedicated naval formation, the Quillborn were true marines, fighting ship-to-ship, completely at home battling through the cramped structure of a starship. At their head was Assault-Captain Baelanos, the acting captain of the company, although Zadkiel was their overlord.
‘The ghost of one of their vessels has waylaid them,’ continued Zadkiel with rising oratory. ‘It was promised that in the warp we would find our allies. The fate of our pursuers aboard the Wrathful has shown that promise to have been kept.’
Baelanos stepped forwards. ‘Who will hear the Word?’ he bellowed.
As one, a hundred Word Bearers raised their guns and chanted in salute.
‘They will be harrying us from here to Macragge,’ said the assault-captain, his belligerence a contrast to Zadkiel’s authoritative confidence, ‘and they will die for it! Perhaps the warp will send them to us in the end, so we can show them how we deal with the blind in real space!’
The Word Bearers cheered. Zadkiel saw Ultis among them, and felt a pang of agitation at his presence in the throng.
His fate is written, Zadkiel thought.
‘The warp is yet a strange place to us,’ said Zadkiel. ‘Though it holds nothing for us to fear, for Lorgar knows it better than any mind ever has, you will be assailed by mysteries. You might dream that which your mind has hidden from you. Perhaps you will even see them, as clear as day. These are the ways of the warp. Remember in all things the Word of Lorgar, and it will lead you back to sanity. Lose sight of the Word, and your mind will be carried away on currents from which it might never return. Make no mistake, the warp is dangerous. It is the Word, and the Word alone, that lets us navigate its waters.
‘Soon we must make dock. The earlier battle took more of a toll than we thought. The way-station at Bakka Triumveron is our next destination.’
Zadkiel did not tell them that his over-confidence had resulted in the damage to the ship that meant they were forced into a detour. A lucky hit from the Waning Moon’s lances had cut off the engineering teams from the Furious Abyss’s stores of fuel oil as well as rupturing the primary coolant line. Without regular supply, they could not function, and so it was imperative that the damage be cleared in order to allow the crews access. That could only be done whilst at dock.
‘Shortly after that, we shall be at Macragge,’ Zadkiel continued. ‘Then our chapter of the Word will be completed. To your duties, Word
Bearers. You are dismissed.’
The Word Bearers filed out of the cathedra, many of them heading to reclusium cells.
Baelanos approached the pulpit where Zadkiel was standing. ‘We won’t have long at Bakka,’ he said. ‘What are your orders to the astropathic choir?’
‘I need to make contact with my lord Kor Phaeron,’ said Zadkiel, ‘and apprise him of our progress.’
‘What of Wsoric?’ asked Baelanos, a momentary tremor evident in his outward resolve at mention of the name.
‘He stirs,’ replied Zadkiel. ‘We have only to cement our pact with the empyrean with blood, and then he will act.’
‘The lap dogs of the Emperor are ever tenacious, my lord.’
‘Then we shall cast them off,’ Zadkiel told him, ‘but for now, we wait. Asking too many favours of the empyrean may not behove us well.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Baelanos, bowing slightly, but his reluctance was obvious.
‘Trust me to fulfil my duties to the Word, Baelanos, as I trust you,’ said Zadkiel.
‘Yes, admiral,’ replied the assault-captain. Baelanos saluted and headed for the engine decks.
Zadkiel remained in the cathedra, for a moment, deep in thought. It was so easy to lose sight of the Word, to become wrapped up in power. It would have been simple for him to forget what he was and where his place was in the galaxy.
That was why Lorgar had chosen him for this mission. There was no more dedicated servant of the Word, save for Lorgar.
Zadkiel knelt before the altar, murmured a few words of prayer, and headed back up towards the bridge.
‘CAPTAIN CESTUS?’ SAID Kaminska’s voice over the Ultramarine’s helmet vox. The engine servitors of the Wrathful had managed to bring on-ship communications back on line.
‘Speaking,’ he replied, more irritably than he’d intended. The confrontation with Brynngar in the medi-bay waiting room was weighing on his mind, that and whatever Mhotep was hiding from them behind that veneer of indifference.
