Word Bearers

by Anthony Reynolds

  ‘Sir, Battle Group Orion has picked up a warp-echo emanating from jump-point XIV. It has been verified by our own Navigatorii.’

  Augustine frowned at the transmission card, and then turned and fed it into the chest-slot of the servitor unit wired into his command console. The servitor jerked, and its needle finger began to punch away at a set of keys in front of it. Ignoring the drooling servitor, Augustine looked at the transmission data as it was relayed onto the screen.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘A rogue hive ship? Don’t say the bastards have got behind us.’

  ‘No sir. Initial sweeps indicate a vessel of cruiser mass, but it is not an organic entity.’

  ‘No? Probably another trade vessel come to aid the evacuations. Why are you bothering me with this?’ asked Admiral Augustine. ‘The fleet is engaging the xenos threat, petty officer!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, and it may be nothing, but the long-range scan that Battle Group Orion performed seemed to indicate that the vessel may be an Astartes strike cruiser or battle-barge.’

  Augustine frowned.

  ‘I was notified of no Space Marine presence inbound, though we could do with their aid.’ He rubbed a hand across his freshly shaved chin. ‘Have Orion send a frigate squadron on an intercept course with the vessel, and keep me informed of any updates.’

  With that, the admiral turned away from the petty officer.

  ‘Yes, admiral.’

  The Infidus Diabolus ploughed through the vacuum of space, its plasma-core engines burning blue-white as it closed towards the vast red giant sun around which the solar system rotated. Solar flares a million kilometres in height burst from the daemonic red corona, leaping up from around dark sunspots that blemished its unstable surface.

  The sun was dying. Five billion years earlier it was less than one hundredth of its current size, though it had burnt over ten times as hot. Having exhausted its gaseous core, it had expanded exponentially, engulfing its nearest planets. Even as it grew in size, it was diminished in mass, and the outer planets circling it began to pull further away, its gravitational hold over them weakening. Now it burnt the colour of hell itself, but in another billion years it would be no more.

  The Infidus Diabolus dropped closer to the hellish, glowing corona, buffeted by solar winds. There, with intense spikes of radiation spilling around her hull, she drew anchor.

  ‘I would hear your council, revered Warmonger,’ said Marduk. He ran the fingers of his hand thoughtfully along the surface of a stone column. A cold wind gusted through the darkness, tugging at Marduk’s cloak, and a mechanical scream of insane rage echoed from deeper within the crypt.

  Marduk and Kol Badar stood beneath the shadow of a wide archway, facing into a cavernous alcove set into the side of the expansive passageway. They were deep within the depths of the Infidus Diabolus, in the undercroft that housed those warriors of the Host that had long ago fallen in holy battle, but had not been allowed to pass on into blessed oblivion.

  The damned warriors lived on in the deepest labyrinthine catacombs of the strike cruiser, condemned to a tortured limbo, neither living nor dead, the shattered remnants of their earthly forms interred in great sarcophagi that they might serve the Host even after their time had long passed.

  A delicate mural decorated the back wall of the alcove, detailing the great moments of the Warmonger’s life before he had been condemned to an eternity of servitude within the towering mechanical form of a Dreadnought.

  Once he had been amongst Lorgar’s most favoured and devout chaplains, the first Dark Apostle of the 34th Company Host that Marduk now led. He had fought alongside the god primarchs, and counted such exalted heroes as Erebus, Kor Phaeron and Abaddon as his battle-brothers. Marduk had listened in awe to the scratchy vox-recordings of his passionate sermons, and had pored over a thousand volumes of his thoughtful scripture, and his fiery rhetoric and hate-filled sermons never failed to inspire.

  Though the other warriors interred within the Dreadnoughts of the Host had long ago lost any semblance of sanity, cursed as they were and unable to attain oblivion yet denied the physical sensations of holy war, the warmonger retained a coherent self-awareness, and was a source of great wisdom and council.

  It was his unshakeable faith that kept him lucid, Holy Erebus had once said, the power and conviction of his rapturous belief that kept him from toppling off the precipice into madness.

  A thousand blood-candles ringed the mighty warmonger, tended day and night by a pair of slave-proselytes to ensure that the flames never died, and their light cast a divine glow over the Dreadnought’s sarcophagus.

  It towered over Marduk, even Kol Badar, standing over five metres tall with the armoured sarcophagus that held the Dark Apostle’s shattered remains at its heart. The Dreadnought stood on squat, powerful legs, and immense arms bearing ancient heavy weapons systems were held immobile at its side.

  For hundreds of years at a time the Warmonger stood motionless within its own death shrine, lost in contemplation, waiting for holy battle to be joined once more.

  ‘It is pleasing to my soul to see you once more, First Acolyte Marduk,’ boomed the Warmonger, its voice a deep reverberating baritone, the words spoken slowly and deliberately, ‘and you, Kol Badar, finest of my captains.’

  The two warriors bowed their heads in deference.

  ‘The loss of Jarulek pains me,’ continued the warmonger. ‘Though in you I see a worthy successor, young disciple Marduk.’

  ‘Jarulek’s death cuts me deeply as well, revered warmonger,’ said Marduk. A slight smile curled his lips as he felt Kol Badar’s anger at his words. ‘I am honoured to fill the role of religious leader of the Host, though I feel… unworthy of such a hallowed duty.’

  ‘It is only right that you step into the breach and guide the flock,’ said the warmonger. ‘Your star is in the ascendant. Feel not unworthy of the duty; be humbled by it, but never doubt your right to serve. The gods have ordained it.’

  Marduk turned his head to Kol Badar and smiled.

  ‘I fear that some amongst the Host feel I am not ready for such an exalted position, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘Tolerate no insubordination, First Acolyte,’ boomed the Warmonger. ‘Crucify any who seed dissent, for theirs are the voices of poison and doubt.’

  ‘I shall heed your council in this matter, revered one,’ said Marduk.

  ‘You are walking the black path, Marduk,’ said the Warmonger. ‘You are the dark disciple, moving towards the light of truth, and you shall, in time, be granted enlightenment. You did not, however, come here for my acceptance, for you already know that you have it. What is it you would ask of me?’

  ‘I had wished to descend on the Imperial world of Perdus Skylla with the full force of the Host, laying waste to the world and claiming that which is needed. While it pleases me to see the Imperium weakened in their battles with the xenos, for it will make our eventual victory in the Long War come all the sooner, the size of the battlefleet here in this sector forces me to change my intentions. Mighty as she is, the Infidus Diabolus would not survive long enough to get us to the Imperial moon.’

  ‘I say we abandon this fool’s errand here and now,’ growled Kol Badar. ‘Let us return to Sicarus and leave the Imperials to wage their war against the xenos hive-creatures. We will recoup our strength in the Eye while the Imperium suffers.’

  ‘Kol Badar speaks, as always, with wisdom,’ said the Warmonger, and for a moment Marduk thought he had horribly misjudged the way this conversation would go. He felt a flicker of unease at having instigated it in the presence of the Coryphaus as Kol Badar flashed him a look of triumph.

  ‘And yet,’ continued the Warmonger, ‘Jarulek saw in the xenos device something of great import. He was always a gifted zealot and the power of his gods-gifted dream visions were stronger than my own. If he saw that the item was worth waging war for, then it is an artefact of great importance, and is destined to further the spread of the holy Word of Truth.’


  ‘We already have the device in our possession,’ said Kol Badar. ‘We need not tarry here and risk it further.’

  ‘We have the device, that is true,’ admitted Marduk, ‘but as it is, it is worthless to us; its secrets are locked within it. It is nothing more than a xenos curio, an inert and useless sphere of metal.’

  ‘The chirumeks of the Legion will unlock its secrets, whatever they may be,’ said Kol Badar.

  I will not return to Sicarus in anything but glory, thought Marduk fiercely, glaring at the Coryphaus. Were he to return empty-handed, he feared that the council would not endorse his rise to Dark Apostle. With the secrets of the Nexus Arrangement unlocked and his to command, they would be forced to heap honour upon him.

  ‘You know that the knowledge that will unlock the device will be attained upon this Imperial world?’ asked the Warmonger.

  ‘I do,’ said Marduk. ‘It is held within the mind of a servant of the false Machine-God.’

  ‘You base that belief only on the word of another servant of the Machine-God,’ snarled Kol Badar. ‘The Enslaved’s loyalty does not lie with the Legion. For all you know, he may be leading us into a trap, to deliver the device unto his Mechanicus brethren.’

  ‘The Enslaved is mine,’ growled Marduk. ‘It has no will of its own any more. It is not capable of such duplicity.’

  ‘Speak with respect to your First Acolyte, Kol Badar,’ chided the Warmonger. ‘Marduk, if you trust the knowledge you have, then the path is clear.’

  ‘The Infidus Diabolus cannot approach Perdus Skylla,’ said Kol Badar, changing tack. ‘If anything, we should return to the Eye and gather the Hosts to our cause. Then we can return, and take the moon by force.’

  ‘The xenos threat will have obliterated it by then,’ snapped Marduk. ‘We have both seen worlds ravaged by their kind; nothing is left behind. The secrets will be lost forever.’

  ‘You do not need my council, then, disciple Marduk. Kol Badar, if brute force will not suffice, explore more subtle ways of gaining victory for your First Acolyte.’

  Marduk smiled as he saw Kol Badar’s jaw twitch in anger.

  ‘As always, Warmonger, you are the voice of wisdom,’ said Marduk, bowing. ‘My purpose is clear; you have allayed my fears and stripped away the shadow of doubt. I am confident that my loyal Coryphaus will find a way forward.’

  ‘One last thing, Marduk. I am disturbed that there are those within the Legion who doubt your holy right to lead them. I would have it known that I fully endorse your appointment.’

  The Warmonger shifted its immense weight, servos and gyro-compensators hissing. It turned on the spot, each step making the floor shudder, and reached out with its immense power-claw, scooping something up in its grasp. Then it turned back towards Marduk, and the First Acolyte strained to see what the Warmonger held.

  The sickle-bladed talons of the Dreadnought’s power claw opened, and Marduk saw a gleaming helmet, its porcelain features moulded into the form of a grimacing skull. An eight-pointed star of Chaos was carved into its forehead, and its sharpened fangs were fixed in a grinning rictus. A crack, not battle damage, but rather a carved affectation, ran across the left brow and continued below the glimmering eye-piece onto the cheek.

  It was a revered, ancient artefact of the Legion, and had been crafted by the finest artisans of Mars in the years before the commencement of the Great War for the Warmonger himself.

  Marduk stared at the sacred helmet with covetous eyes.

  ‘I ordered my helmet removed from its stasis field within the bone-ossuary,’ said the Warmonger, ‘though at the time I did not understand what it was that urged me to do so. I see clearly now that it was the will of the gods for you to have it, young Marduk.’

  The First Acolyte stepped forwards and lifted the helmet from the Warmonger’s outstretched claw, marvelling at the mastery with which it had been rendered. The morbid visage, a dark reflection of the helmets worn by the chaplains of those blinded Legions that had not joined with the Warmaster, was a potent symbol of death, the face of damnation for all those who refused to cow to Lorgar’s word.

  Marduk placed the helmet over his head, and he heard a mechanical whine as it adjusted to fit his cranium. It fitted firmly in place, and there was a hiss as coupling links connected. Then all sound was blanketed out, before the integrated auto-senses powered up and his hearing returned. He breathed deeply, sucking in a lungful of recycled air, and registered the flickering array of sensory information and integrity checks being relayed onto the front of his irises. Servos whined as he stretched his neck from side to side, and an enticing targeting matrix appeared before him, locking onto Kol Badar as he turned to look upon the Coryphaus. The towering war leader was scowling, and Marduk grinned. He dismissed the targeting matrices, somewhat reluctantly, with a blink, and dropped to one knee before the warmonger.

  ‘I have not the words to express the honour you do me, Warmonger,’ he said, his voice growling from the vox-grills cunningly concealed behind the fangs of the death mask.

  ‘Leave me now, my captains,’ said the Warmonger. ‘The preparations for the final push against Terra must be made. Join your brothers, and rejoice in prayer and exaltation for within the month, we shall assail the walls of the Emperor’s Palace.’

  ‘Rest well, Warmonger,’ said Marduk, and he and Kol Badar backed away from the towering Dreadnought, recognising that the ancient one’s lucidity was slipping. Often it was this way, as the Dreadnought relived battles of days past.

  The pair left the crypt, leaving the Warmonger to relive his memories. Marduk strode out in front, a triumphant strut to his walk. Kol Badar stalked behind, a deep scowl on his face as he glared at the First Acolyte’s back.

  Cowled slaves pushed the skull-inlaid doors wide, and Marduk stalked out into one of the expansive docking bays of the Infidus Diabolus. The entire Host was gathered there, and, as one, the warrior brothers dropped to their knees as the First Acolyte strode through their serried ranks, heading towards the stub-nosed transport ship, the Idolator.

  Indentured workers, their bodies augmented with ensorcelled mechanics and their eyes and mouths ritualistically sutured shut, hurried to ready the ship, pumping fuel into its gullet through bulging intestine-hoses and daubing its armoured hull with sacred oils and unguents. Four Land Raiders, massively armoured tanks that had borne the warriors of the Host into battle on a thousand worlds, were moved into position beneath the stubby wings of the Idolator, and reinforced clamps locked around them from above, securing them for transport.

  Marduk was wearing the deaths-head helmet gifted to him by the warmonger for the first time in front of the Host, and he felt awe and reverence ripple out across the gathered warriors. Passages freshly scribed upon the flayed flesh of slaves hung from devotional seals fixed to his armour, and he felt savage pride as he looked upon the warriors of the Legion.

  He stalked to the front of the assembly, where a group of thirty warrior brothers knelt facing the rest of the Host. These warriors uniformly bowed their heads as Marduk came to a halt in front of them, his gaze, hidden behind the inscrutable red lenses of his helmet, sweeping over them.

  With a nod to Burias, the icon bearer stood to attention and slammed the butt of his heavy icon into the floor. The sound echoed loudly, and with an imperious gesture, Marduk motioned for the thirty warriors to stand. Kol Badar stepped out of their ranks and began to prowl along the lines, inspecting them with a grim expression on his broad face.

  The thirty warriors were gathered into four coteries and Marduk’s gaze travelled over the waiting warrior brothers, reading their eagerness for the forthcoming descent towards the Imperial planet in their faces and their stances.

  Each holy Astartes warrior stood armed for war, his helmet held under his left arm, and weapons readied. They stood motionless and attentive as they awaited Marduk’s word, their heads held high. Each was fiercely proud to have been selected to accompany the First Acolyte.

  Including Marduk, Burias
and the enslaved daemon-symbiote Darioq, they would number thirty-two. It was an auspicious number that equalled the number of the sacred books penned by Lorgar. It augured well. Marduk had read the sacred number in the entrails of the squealing slave-neophyte he had butchered in the blooding chamber not an hour earlier, and he knew that the gods had blessed his endeavour.

  ‘Brothers of Lorgar,’ said Marduk, addressing the thirty, though his voice was raised, so that it carried to every member of the Host, ‘you are blessed, for amongst all the glorious Host you have been chosen to be my honour guard, to accompany me in doing what must be done to ensure that victory is ours, for the glory of blessed Lorgar.’

  Marduk strode along the line of warriors, seeing the fire of religious fervour and devotion on their faces. They stared at him passionately, fanaticism in their eyes.

  Each member of the four coteries was a veteran of a thousand wars fought across a thousand battlefields, and each had been tested and found worthy time and again in the forge of battle. These were the most vicious, fanatical and devoted of all the vicious, fanatical and devoted warriors of the Host. Each was a holy warrior, who would follow his word without question, for his was the voice of the gods, and through him their infernal will would be enacted without question and without remorse. Devout, holy warriors, they would not flinch in their duty, and their fervour lent them great strength.

  Each of the four coteries was led by a favoured warrior champion of the Host.

  Kol Badar stood before four of his anointed brethren, each of them enormous in their heavy Terminator armour. The other coteries consisted of eight warriors each. Towering Khalaxis, his cheeks covered in ritual scars, stood before his 17th coterie, brutal warriors all. Namar-sin, shorter than his brothers, though he made up for this deficiency with sheer bulk, stood before his warriors of the 217th coterie, Havoc heavy weapon specialists. Last of the champions was Sabtec, who led the highly decorated 13th coterie. Neither as tall as Khalaxis, nor as broad as Namar-sin, Sabtec was a lean warrior whose tactical nuances had won countless glorious victories for the Host. A row of horns protruded from the skin across his brow, a clear mark of the god’s favour upon him, and his hand rested upon the hilt of his power sword, gifted to him by Erebus.