“Let us be about it then,” Kor’sarro called to Captain Shrike, a savage glint in his eye. “Let us gather the warriors for the final assault.”
“That makes seven,” Kholka whispered as he looked down at another exsanguinated corpse. “It makes no sense.”
“Nor would it,” replied Brother Meleriex. “The workings of the Great Enemy are mercifully beyond the understanding of such as we.”
The whole length of the corridor the group had passed along was scattered with the blood-drained bodies of servitors and menials. “This is something else, brother,” said Kholka. “Something more than bloodshed and wickedness.”
The Raven Guard considered this, his black eyes glinting in the shadows cast by a flickering overhead lumen. “Perhaps you are correct, brother-sergeant. But it has no bearing upon our mission.”
“It may,” Kholka replied, readying himself to press on. “The two may prove to be connected.”
Meleriex was about to answer when a tortured scream sounded from further down the passageway. The Space Marines were instantly alert, weapons raised and ready to face an attack from any quarter.
“Fifty metres ahead,” Kholka whispered. “Seek the blood as the sabre-hound at dawn.”
The Scouts assumed the formation that Kholka’s battle-cant order had specified, moving into position with well-drilled precision. The three Raven Guard Space Marines remained where they were, however, Meleriex casting a questioning glance towards the Scout-sergeant.
“My apologies,” said Kholka. He switched to a more common idiom used by many of the Imperium’s countless and varied military institutions. “Advance to contact, ten-metre separation, bolters to the fore.”
“No, brother-sergeant,” the Raven Guard said darkly. “Myself and my brothers must go first. We are better armoured than your Scouts. We can fight through any ambush we might encounter.”
Meleriex emphasised his assertion by raising a lightning claw and activating it so that arcs of power seethed up and down the length of its talons.
“Do so,” Kholka replied. He had no time to debate patrol formations, and knew there was truth in the Raven Guard’s words. “Move out.”
Ordinarily, full Adeptus Astartes power armour would have compromised the patrol’s stealthy advance. Its electro-magnetic signature might have given it away to augur sweeps or the faint hum of its fusion core might have been heard by watchful sentinels. The armour worn by the Raven Guard was different, every sound baffled and their tread almost as silent as the Scouts’. Nevertheless, it appeared that there were no enemies waiting in ambush, or if they had been, they had been slain before they could attack.
Ahead of Kholka, the Raven Guard slipped out of the shadows of the passageway and into a larger chamber. Meleriex scanned the area, his crackling lightning claws held ready to engage any foe that might lurk nearby. The chamber was clear, and Meleriex waved the Scouts on.
“What is this place?” Scout Borchu whispered as he tracked his boltgun across the dark, vaulted ceiling. “It looks like a medicae chamber, only…”
Kholka looked across to Meleriex, guessing that the Raven Guard would have a ready answer. “It’s a torturer’s lair, boy,” the Raven Guard answered. “But not like any the Inquisition might employ.”
Such things repulsed Sergeant Kholka, for torture was anathema to a warrior’s honour and all but unknown amongst his people, with the exception of some north-eastern tribes who had never accepted the unity Jaghatai Khan had brought to Chogoris. Kholka determined not to press the Raven Guard on his knowledge of such things, having no desire to discover the answer. Nevertheless, this was evidently important, and might have a bearing on their mission. “To what end?” Kholka growled.
Meleriex was interrupted before he could answer. Scout Khula, who had positioned himself at one of the large portals leading from the chamber, gave a low hiss and raised a clenched fist to signal a warning.
Kholka and Meleriex both froze, before the sergeant silently crossed the chamber to stand behind the Scout. Neither spoke, as Kholka strained his hearing to listen for what Khula had detected.
There it was: a low, atonal chant, accompanied by the distant echo of armoured boots. Judging the distance was all but impossible, for the pipe-choked passageways distorted sound in unpredictable ways. Of one thing Kholka was certain however: the sound was coming from the direction of the Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom.
Kholka heard Meleriex approach to stand behind him. After another ten seconds had passed, the Raven Guard whispered, “Astartes boots.”
“Indeed, brother,” Kholka replied. “At least a hundred, marching towards the subterranean cathedral.”
“The other sound, brother-sergeant?” ventured Scout Khula.
Kholka concentrated on the echoing skirl, his genetically enhanced hearing able to filter out the sound of marching boots. “Blasphemy,” he spat, recognising the taint of vile sorceries in the chanting. “Something is occurring in the cathedral. We must not allow it to.”
“Our mission—” interjected Brother Meleriex, before Sergeant Kholka rounded upon him with barely contained anger.
“Has just been altered.”
“Then now is the time to contact our brothers.”
“Then do so, Raven Guard,” Kholka replied, eager to track down and slay the followers of the Great Enemy before they could complete whatever wickedness they were about. Whatever blasphemy they were engaged in, its timing, at the height of the Space Marines’ assault on Mankarra, must surely be significant. And what had the mysterious prisoner to do with this, he thought?
Meleriex bled power from his armour’s fusion core to boost its vox-transponder, and spoke for a moment in low tones into the vox-link at his wrist. Kholka could not hear the Raven Guard’s report. “It is done. But if the enemy have the sense to monitor for transmissions, they will have detected our presence now.”
“Did you get through?” asked Sergeant Kholka. “Did you receive confirmation?”
“I sent the message,” Meleriex answered. “I told our captains that the prisoner has yet to be located, but that a significant number of Alpha Legionnaires and cultists are gathering in the cathedral. I informed them that some fell deed is afoot, and that we are engaging.”
“And their reply?”
“I received none.” The Raven Guard glowered. “Though I am sure that the message got through.”
“You cannot be sure,” Kholka growled. “We must proceed as if it had not.”
Meleriex scowled back at Kholka, but he did not voice any disagreement with the sergeant’s statement. “Squad,” Kholka addressed his Scouts. “Prepare to move out, contact imminent.”
The answer to Kholka’s order was a strangled, gurgling scream as Shahan, who had been guarding the portal, collapsed to the ground heavily.
Every gun was brought up and trained instantly on the darkness beyond the portal. The stricken Scout writhed upon the ground, his hands held up to his face, blood seeping between his fingers.
“Shahan,” he said through gritted teeth. “What did you see, boy? Quickly!”
The Scout moaned in response, and convulsed violently as the blood flow from between his fingers increased. Space Marines were gifted of a unique enhancement that caused their blood to clot almost the instant it left the body, and Kholka’s mind raced as he tried to recall if there had been any problems with the process in Scout Shahan’s case. He recalled none—the blood should not have been flowing with such force, if at all.
“Kholka!” Brother Meleriex hissed, bringing the sergeant’s attention back to the darkness beyond the opening. And then he saw that it was not the same darkness they had passed through before, but one laced with a wan, silvery light.
“He’s here…” Meleriex growled as the Raven Guard powered up his lightning claws.
“Fire only on my order,” Kholka warned.
The silver glow became a blinding light that swelled to fill the entire portal. “Only on my order…” Kholka r
epeated.
The light moved into the chamber, chasing away the shadows that had hidden its details from the Scouts. The machines lining the walls were revealed to be attached to an intricate array of conduits and pipes, snaking upwards and converging in the centre of the vaulted ceiling. The light began to swim and coalesce, resolving itself into a human form before the Space Marines’ eyes. Some small part of Kholka was reminded of the tales his people told of the angelic beings that bore the slain from the field of battle to sit forever at the side of the Emperor. He forced the notion from his mind in an instant as his finger tightened on the trigger of his boltgun and he prepared to give the order to fire.
Before Sergeant Kholka could speak, the chamber was filled with the staccato burst of a boltgun. Scout Telluk had opened fire. It was impossible for his shots to miss at such short range.
The figure did not falter, despite having three bolt-rounds pumped into its torso from virtually point-blank range. Its luminous, silver body rippled and swirled. The face maintained a disturbingly serene expression. Its features changed every few seconds, though its eyes remained solid, deep, blood-red. Where the rounds struck, they were swallowed up as if by fluid, leaving behind no trace of their impact.
“Burst fire!” Kholka barked, squeezing his boltgun’s trigger hard.
The chamber was filled with the shocking cacophony of the squad’s boltguns discharging as one, the air filling with smoke and the sharp stink of cordite. Burst after burst was fired, yet the figure seemed to absorb every single shot.
Kholka opened his mouth to bark another order when he became aware of the metallic taste of blood. He spat upon the floor, and saw in the gobbet of saliva the red of his own blood. Glancing at the nearest of his charges, he saw that the Scout had a rivulet of blood running from his nostrils.
“Curse you!” Meleriex bellowed, raising his lightning claws and stepping before the luminous figure.
“Meleriex!” Kholka flicked the selector on his boltgun from burst fire to full automatic. “Get back!”
Even as the Raven Guard approached the figure and was silhouetted against the blinding radiance, it raised a hand and made an almost casual gesture towards Brother Meleriex. A silver light, glistening with microscopic motes, sprang from the raised hand and bathed Meleriex in its glow. The Space Marine faltered, then bent double, retching a great torrent of blood across the ground.
“Full auto!” Kholka bellowed. As dangerous as it was to open Fire with Meleriex so close to the target, Kholka knew he had no other choice, for the Raven Guard was vulnerable and would otherwise be slain. The boltguns roared, dozens of rounds slamming into the silver figure, yet still the target stood, unaffected by a fusillade that would have ripped a man to shreds.
Kholka’s boltgun clicked as the last of the rounds in the magazine was expended. He reached to his belt for another. As he did so, he coughed, and saw blood misting in the air.
“Get back, he is mine!” Brother Meleriex called out as he straightened up. As he did so, the figure raised its other hand, and repeated its earlier gesture with both hands.
“Spawn of blood,” the Raven Guard spat, his lightning claws arcing raw power. “I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I—”
The blinding silver radiance suddenly died.
Silence descended on the smoke-filled chamber.
The silver figure stood frozen, its shifting features finally stabilised. The face was neither male nor female, old nor young, but something human, something intelligent appeared in its eyes.
“Everyone back,” Sergeant Kholka hissed, slamming a fresh magazine into his boltgun as a distant explosion rumbled through the stone of the chamber’s walls. His Scouts moved slowly backwards but the three Raven Guard remained where they were.
“You…” the figure spoke, its voice not that of a single being, but countless voices speaking as one. “You are the foes of Voldorius.” It was a statement, Kholka understood, not a question.
“We are that,” Kholka replied.
“We do the work of the Emperor,” Meleriex growled through blood-flecked lips. “You must die. Now.”
“Meleriex…” said Kholka. “Do not—”
“He speaks the truth,” the silver figure interrupted the Raven Guard, its voice, or voices, laced with eons of pain and sadness. “He knows the truth. We must die.”
Kholka’s mind raced as he struggled to decipher the figure’s meaning. But before he could answer, Meleriex spoke again. “You are the host of the blood. You serve the vile one. Now, as then.”
The figure’s head shook slowly, its blood-red eyes dark with obvious sorrow. “We were created long before the coming of the being called Voldorius,” it said. “We were to be the last weapon. We were the Bloodtide…”
“The Bloodtide?” Kholka repeated, visions of apocalyptic destruction filling his mind. “The Bloodtide is mere legend…”
“Not legend,” the figure interrupted. “We are real.”
“Then,” said Kholka, “you are condemned by your own words. You are the Great Enemy.”
The figure considered the sergeant’s words, its eyes gazing deep into his own. “We are not the Great Enemy as you know it,” it said. “That of which you speak is the beyond, the unreal, the incorporeal made flesh. We are not that.”
“Then what?” replied Kholka, as another, stronger tremor shook the chamber.
“We were created long before the rise of the realm you serve. Long before, as you measure such things. We were unleashed by our creators, but they were bested, and we were cast beneath the earth to sleep the sleep of eons.”
A glimmer of understanding dawned on Kholka. “He found you,” he stated. “He bound you to his service.”
“And again, we were unleashed upon the worlds of men. We entered the blood, and the blood rose, and worlds drowned.”
“At his word.”
“At his word. Now he would do so again. But we defy him.”
“Why do so now?” Meleriex interjected. “Why turn upon your master who you have served so long?”
The figure turned its face towards the Raven Guard. “Before, we were many, but now we are one. Each of us was but a spark of will, afloat in an ocean of blood as a spirit drifting upon the sea of souls. We have slumbered so long, and in our sleep we have merged. And into our sleep dreams have come.”
“Dreams of what?” asked Kholka, an idea of the answer forming in his mind.
“Dreams of… pain. Dreams of… life.”
“And you would end this pain?” asked Kholka. “You would end your life?”
“We would,” answered the figure. “We are one, and we dream, and we are done with servitude.”
“Then why not end your pain yourself?” said Meleriex.
“We have no power in this,” the figure answered. “That is how we were created. But you…”
“We could end your pain?” said Kholka. “Tell us how.”
The figure nodded to Kholka as if in gratitude and understanding. “You must burn us, but first, you must know this. A portion of us have been taken, to be impacted into another, over whom Voldorius hopes to gain power.”
“Who?” Meleriex pressed.
“A woman,” the figure answered. “A woman of this world. She is strong, that is why she was chosen. Her strength will keep her alive, yet it shall be turned to the service of Voldorius, of that we are certain.”
“Where?” asked Kholka urgently.
“The fane,” the figure answered. “It is near here.”
“The cathedral?” Kholka pressed, a sense of dread descending upon him. The figure nodded.
“We must stop him,” Meleriex spat. “Whatever he has planned—”
“First you must grant us oblivion,” the figure pressed, a note of pleading entering its voices.
Kholka nodded, knowing what must be done. “You said by fire may you be slain.”
“By fire were we forged,” the figure stated. “And by fire shall we be ended.”
&nbs
p; The three Raven Guard stood in front of the prisoner. The White Scars had left the chamber, and the prisoner stood in silence, its face serene as if awaiting blessed relief.
“Now we carry out the Shadow Captain’s orders,” Meleriex said as his battle-brothers took their places at his side. “Rydulon.”
The Raven Guard raised his flamer, and the prisoner lifted its head and spread its arms wide. The pilot light hissed loudly in the preternatural silence, and then Rydulon’s finger closed on the trigger. Searing flame was propelled from the nozzle, filling the chamber with orange brilliance and a sibilant roar. The fire struck the prisoner square in the chest and burning chemicals cascaded around its body, but it was unharmed.
“Again!” Meleriex said. “We have our orders. Nothing must be left behind.”
Rydulon’s weapon spat a second stream of blazing alchemical fire, and this time he kept the valve open so that a constant torrent of flame ploughed into the target. The prisoner now stood at the heart of a raging inferno, the flames plunging into its chest, yet still its body refused to burn. The temperature in the chamber rose, the Space Marines’ power armour engaging cooling systems that would allow them to survive the furnace-hot environment.
Then, the silver hue of the prisoner’s rippling skin began to change to orange. Flame licked across the prisoner’s body, following the curvature of its shifting muscles. Searing orange stains spread out from the chest until the silver was entirely gone and the figure appeared now to be made of molten magma.
“Enough!” Meleriex shouted above the raging inferno.
The prisoner stood as it had before, but now great gobbets of its lava-like flesh came away from its body to fall to the floor, where they began to melt through the iron tread boards. The prisoner raised its hands to shoulder height and its head tracked around the room, though no features at all were visible on its face.
“You will save her?”
The voice of the prisoner filled the chamber. It no longer sounded like a million voices speaking as one, for all had melted together to form a single, sonorous tone.
03 - Hunt for Voldorius Page 28
