Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx

by Ben Counter

  of human bodies, contorted and wounded, missing limbs or eyes,

  faces drawn in pain. The Eshkeen who had sculpted it, countless

  generations ago, had used a stylised technique that removed the

  subtleties of the human form and left only the pain. Winding wooden

  stairs provided a way down into the shaft.

  ‘When Imperial settlers were brought to Molikor,’ explained

  Sarpedon as he and N’Kalo descended the shaft, ‘they sent out

  explorers to tame the marshland and forge a path to the ocean. They

  hoped to build a port on this coast and spread to the planet’s other

  continents. They never managed it, mainly because the land was too

  marshy and the Eshkeen rather unfriendly. But one of them did find

  this.’

  N’Kalo made note of Sarpedon’s words with one half of his mind.

  The other half was trying to work out how he could turn on Sarpedon.

  They were alone now, and Sarpedon’s fellow Soul Drinkers could not

  come to his aid. If N’Kalo got behind Sarpedon, and if he was quick

  enough, he could throw Sarpedon off the staircase down the shaft. But

  the fall would not be guaranteed to kill him – indeed, N’Kalo could now

  see the bottom of the shaft strewn with leaves and broken branches,

  and a Space Marine would barely be inconvenienced by the distance.

  He could grab Sarpedon’s neck in a choke, but his aegis collar would

  make that difficult and besides, a Space Marine could go a long time

  before his three lungs gave out. By then Sarpedon could have climbed

  up the shaft and brought N’Kalo to the Soul Drinkers to face

  retribution.

  And perhaps most importantly, N’Kalo felt a truth in Sarpedon’s

  words. N’Kalo wanted to know what was hidden down here, what could

  cause a Space Marine, even a renegade one, to fight his brothers. So

  he held back and followed as Sarpedon reached the bottom of the

  shaft and headed down a tunnel that led away to one side.

  This tunnel was also carved with images. Eyes and hands covered

  the walls, symbols of watching and warding. N’Kalo could hear, on the

  hot, damp breeze washing over him from the far end of the tunnel, the

  reedy strains of voices. They were screaming, hundreds of them, the

  sounds overlapping like the threads of a tapestry.

  A cavern opened up ahead, wet stone lit from beneath by a bloodred

  glow. The screaming got louder. N’Kalo tensed, unsure of what

  was ahead, one part of his brain still watching for a drop in Sarpedon’s

  guard.

  ‘Molikor,’ said Sarpedon, ‘has a curious relationship with its dead.’

  The tunnel reached the threshold of a sudden drop. Beyond it was a

  cavern, as vast as an ocean, filled almost to the level of the tunnel

  entrance by a sea of writhing bodies.

  N’Kalo was all but stunned by his first sight of it. The awfulness of it,

  the impossibility, seemed intent on prying his mind from his senses.

  The bodies were naked, men and women, all ages, the whole

  spectrum of shapes, sizes and skin tones. The glow was coming from

  their eyes, and from the wounds that wept bloody and fresh in their

  bodies. Many bore the scarring of the Eshkeen but there were

  countless others, from dozens of cultures.

  ‘Who are they?’ said N’Kalo.

  ‘Everyone who has ever died on Molikor,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘No one

  knows how far down it goes. When you die on Molikor, your body

  decays and is absorbed by the earth. Then it reforms here, vomited

  back up by the planet. Here they are, everyone this world has claimed

  since the Age of Strife.’

  ‘Why… why are you showing me this?’ said N’Kalo.

  Sarpedon unholstered his bolt pistol. For a moment N’Kalo thought

  the Soul Drinker would turn on him, but instead Sarpedon held it

  handle-first towards N’Kalo. ‘Because I could not expect you to just

  take my word for it,’ said Sarpedon. ‘And besides, I haven’t shown you

  anything yet.’

  The bodies heaved up, like a breaking wave. N’Kalo barely had time

  to close his hand around the bolt pistol before they were surging

  around him, a terrible flood of gasping limbs. N’Kalo saw they were not

  corpses, nor alive, but something else, reborn as they had been at the

  moment of death and filled with the same emotions – fear, anger,

  abandonment. Their screams were wordless torrents of pain. One

  wrapped its arms around N’Kalo, trying to force his head down –

  N’Kalo blasted it apart with a shot to the upper chest and it flowed

  past him, reforming in a burst of blood-coloured light.

  Sarpedon grabbed N’Kalo’s free wrist. ‘Follow,’ he shouted above the

  screaming, and hauled N’Kalo off the edge of the drop and into the

  cavern.

  It took a long time for the two Space Marines to forge their way

  through the dead of Molikor. Sarpedon’s arachnid limbs proved adept

  at opening up a tunnel through the writhing bodies, and their path was

  lit by the red glow of whatever energy animated these echoes of the

  dead. The screaming was muffled now, like the crashing of a distant

  ocean, with the occasional shriek reaching through. N’Kalo followed as

  Sarpedon burrowed on, winding a path downwards. N’Kalo

  contemplated shooting him with his own bolt pistol, but then he would

  be trapped in this ocean of bodies and he did not know if he would be

  able to climb out of it. And besides, he wanted to know what Sarpedon

  had to show him. That curiosity was a human emotion, not that of a

  Space Marine, but nevertheless it gripped N’Kalo now.

  Sarpedon pulled back a final veil of bodies and revealed an opening,

  like an abscess, in the mass. It had formed around a spike of stone, a

  stalagmite, to which was chained another body.

  This body was that of a male Imperial citizen, N’Kalo could tell that

  at first glance. He had a glowing, raw hole over one eye where a bionic

  had once been implanted, and the Imperial aquila had been tattooed

  on one shoulder. He was the only one of Molikor’s dead that N’Kalo

  had seen who was restrained in this way.

  ‘This,’ said Sarpedon, ‘is Manter Thyll. He was sent by the

  Parliaments of Molikor to explore the delta marshlands. He found the

  Eshkeen and bargained his way into the pit, to see what they were so

  intent on protecting. They thought when he saw this place, he would

  treat its protection as a sacred undertaking just like they did. But they

  were wrong.’

  Sarpedon took a data-slate from the belt of his armour. N’Kalo

  hadn’t noticed it before, since his attention had been focussed on

  Sarpedon’s abhorrent mutations to the exclusion of such a detail.

  ‘This is the report he sent back to the Parliaments,’ said Sarpedon.

  The image was of poor quality, only just recognisable as the face of

  the man chained to the rock. In life, Manter Thyll had combined an

  explorer’s ruggedness with a gentlemanly façade, his well-weathered

  face surmounted by a powdered periwig.

  ‘–the Eshkeen had guarded it for generations, my lords. And though

  at first appearance it was a horrible sight, yet upon closer examination


  and the questioning of my Eshkeen hosts I came to understand it is

  the greatest treasure this world possesses. They are not living beings,

  you see, but they are not dead. They do not age, they do not tire. They

  simply exist. Think, my lords! Think what a resource they could be! An

  endless source of brute labour! If they can be trained then all is well, if

  not then a simple system of electronics and interfaces would suffice to

  make them useful. I believe that the dead of Molikor are the most

  potent natural resource on this entire–’

  Sarpedon paused the recording. N’Kalo stared dumbly for a few

  seconds at Thyll’s image, then at the man’s face.

  ‘He came back to bargain with the Eshkeen for access to the pit,’

  said Sarpedon. ‘They knew what he wanted by then. They killed him.’

  ‘Did they chain his body here?’ said N’Kalo.

  ‘No. I did, so that I could show it to someone like you. What Thyll

  and the Parliamentarians did not realise, but what the Eshkeen have

  known for thousands of years, is that power like this cannot be tapped

  without consequences. The veil between realspace and the warp is

  thin here. The emotions of the dying find form in the warp and are cast

  back out into this pit. The ancestors of Molikor’s tribes knew it, and

  they sent their best warriors to guard the pit. They grew to be the

  Eshkeen. When the Imperium settled Molikor, the Parliamentarians

  learned of the pit and they decided they wanted it for themselves,

  without having any idea what it truly was.’

  Sarpedon began to tear at the mass again, opening a path back up

  towards the surface. N’Kalo could only follow, conflicting emotions

  coursing through him. The immensity of what Sarpedon was saying,

  the concept of a world that regurgitated its dead as these mindless

  things, the claim that the Parliamentarians were the aggressors and

  that the Eshkeen were the only thing standing between Molikor and

  damnation – it weighed on him, and would not sit straight in his mind.

  Everything N’Kalo had believed about Molikor, everything he had

  assumed, was wrong.

  The First Parliament of Molikor, the Father of Power, the Imperial Seat,

  the Font of Majesty, towered over the assembled councillors like a

  second set of heavens. The dome of the First Parliament was painted

  to resemble a sky, dramatic clouds backlit by golden sunlight echoing

  fanciful images of Terra’s own glories. The members of the First

  Parliament, drawn from the lesser parliaments of Molikor’s cities, were

  resplendent in the uniforms of the planet’s many militaries or the finery

  of their mercantile houses, wearing the symbol of the aquila to

  proclaim their loyalty to the Imperium.

  Three thousand men and women were gathered beneath the First

  Parliament’s dome, the centremost place taken by Lord Speaker

  Vannarian Wrann. Wrann, as the mouthpiece of the First Parliament,

  was recognised as Molikor’s Imperial Governor. He was a sturdy and

  squat man, ermine-trimmed robes hanging off wide shoulders. He wore

  the massive gilded chain of his office around where his neck would

  have been had one existed between his barrel chest and shaven,

  glowering lump of a head. On the chain hung a silver aquila studded

  with diamonds and rubies, to match the fat gemstones on the rings he

  wore on his stubby fingers.

  ‘Men and women of the First Parliament!’ shouted Wrann. ‘You sons

  and daughters of the Imperial Will! We hereby recognise Commander

  N’Kalo of the Iron Knights!’

  N’Kalo made his way down the aisle towards the centre of the

  dome. Every eye followed him. Jaded as they were by every honour

  and beautification Molikor could place before them, the sight of a

  Space Marine was something new to them. Those closest shuddered

  in fear as N’Kalo walked past, for even in his knightly armour with its

  crests and laurels there was no mistaking that he was fundamentally a

  killing machine.

  ‘Honoured councillors of Molikor,’ began N’Kalo as he approached

  Wrann. ‘Many thanks for receiving me to the heart of your government.

  The Iron Knights, as you do, claim the will of the Emperor as their

  warrant to arms, and in this we are brethren beneath His sight.’

  ‘You are welcomed, Commander N’Kalo, and your brother Space

  Marines are granted all honours it is the First Parliament’s right to

  bestow. Truly you stand before us as saviours of our people, as

  deliverers of our citizens from the threats that have so gravely beset

  us.’ Wrann’s words were met with polite applause from the First

  Parliament’s members. ‘Do you come here to tell us that the rebellion

  has been quashed?’ he continued. ‘That the hateful Eshkeen will no

  longer plague our lands with their savagery, and that the Emperor’s

  rule shall continue on Molikor?’

  N’Kalo removed his helm. In spite of the need to keep up

  appearances, many councillors could not help grimacing or even

  turning away at the sight of N’Kalo’s burned face, its skin here

  blackened, there deformed like wax that had melted and recooled, and

  elsewhere missing entirely.

  ‘No, Lord Speaker,’ he said. ‘I have not.’

  His words were met with silence. Those councillors who did not

  stare in grim fascination at N’Kalo’s face glanced uneasily between

  their neighbours.

  ‘Commander?’ said Wrann. ‘Pray, explain yourself.’

  ‘I have seen the pit,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I have heard the words of Manter

  Thyll. When my Iron Knights answered the call for intervention from

  this Parliament, they did so without critical thought, without exploring

  first the history of this world and the true nature of its conflicts. Ours is

  the way of action, not contemplation. But we were forced into

  examining Molikor by allies of the Eshkeen, who also responded to

  your pleas for assistance, but to find out the truth, not merely destroy

  the Eshkeen as you desired.’

  ‘Of what pit do you speak?’ demanded Wrann. ‘And this Manter

  Thyll? We know nothing of–’

  ‘Do not lie to me!’ shouted N’Kalo. The councillors sitting closest to

  him tried to scramble away, ending up on one another’s laps to put

  some distance between them and the angry Space Marine. ‘I sought

  to understand for myself. I went to the historical archives in Molik

  Tertiam. Yes, to that place you thought hidden from the eyes of

  outsiders! My battle-brothers stormed the estate of Horse Marshal

  Konigen, that hero of your history, and demanded of him the truth of

  why he first led his armies into the delta lands! We know the truth, my

  brothers and I. The war on Molikor is not about an uprising by the

  Eshkeen. It is about your desire to exploit Molikor’s dead as labour for

  your mines and shipyards! It is about the wealth they can bring you! It

  is about your willingness to exploit the powers bleeding from the warp,

  and the Eshkeen’s determination to prevent you from committing such

  a sin!’

  ‘Then what would you have us do?’ shouted Wrann. ‘This frontierr />
  hangs by a thread! Without the war materiel that such labour could

  produce, we will never hold the Ghoul Stars! Humanity can barely

  survive out here as it is! Would you have us enslave our own? Would

  you have us grind our own hands to bone?’

  ‘No,’ replied N’Kalo calmly. ‘I would have you leave.’

  The Judgement Upon Garadan made little concession to the

  embellishment and glorification that endowed many other Adeptus

  Astartes strike cruisers. It was every inch a warship, all riveted iron

  and hard, brutal lines, and as it hung in orbit over Molikor it seemed to

  glower down at the clouded planet. The lion-head crest, mounted

  above the prow like heraldry on a feudal knight’s helm, was the sole

  concession to appearances.

  Inside, the Judgement was much the same, with little to suggest the

  glorious history the Iron Knights brought with them. N’Kalo conducted

  most of his ship’s business from the monastic cell in which he trained

  and meditated when his flag-captain did not require him on the bridge.

  The pict screen mounted on one wall showed a close-up of the space

  above Molikor’s main spaceport. N’Kalo watched as a flock of

  merchant and cargo ships drifted up from the cloud cover, a shower of

  silvery sparks. On those ships was the Imperial population of Molikor,

  among them the Parliamentarian leaders. Those leaders had, less

  than three days ago, received an ivory scroll case containing orders to

  evacuate their planet on pain of destruction. Those orders were signed

  with a single ‘I’, which gave them an authority within the Imperium

  second only to the word of the God-Emperor Himself.

  Inside the scroll case had also been a string of rosarius beads. It

  was a traditional message. If you defy these orders, they implied, then

  use these beads to pray, for prayer is your only hope of deliverance.

  Events moved slowly in space, given the vast distances involved.

  The pict screen flicked between the views of the fleeing

  Parliamentarian ships, and the single vessel, its livery gold and black,

  that drifted in from its concealed observation position behind one of

  Molikor’s moons. This ship, of which N’Kalo did not know the name,

  had arrived at Molikor so quickly it must have possessed archeotech

  or even xenos drives to have made so rapid a journey through the

  warp.