Word Bearers

by Anthony Reynolds

  ‘Nice landing,’ said Marduk.

  Two full coteries of Word Bearers Space Marines stood with bolters trained on them as Marduk and Baranov stumbled from the twisted wreckage of the Rapture. Marduk grinned and slapped Baranov on the back heavily, knocking the man to his knees.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said.

  The First Acolyte was still naked from the waist up and his flesh was a tattered ruin, hanging from his body in bloody strips. The gathered warrior brothers stood with bolters levelled at Marduk, for a moment, not recognising him, before they dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to the ground before him.

  ‘The traitor Astartes are attempting to disengage, admiral,’ said Gideon Cortez, flag-lieutenant of the Hammer of Retribution.

  ‘How many have we lost?’ asked Admiral Rutger Augustine.

  ‘Two frigates and a destroyer. Another two destroyers have taken severe damage. The captain of the Implacable wishes to pursue.’

  ‘Order him to disengage,’ said Augustine, somewhat reluctantly. ‘We need those ships to protect the line.’

  ‘The mass transports have pulled free of the Perdus moons’ atmospheres,’ said Gideon, reading the communiqué from a data-wafer that was passed to him from a subordinate.

  ‘Finally,’ said Augustine. He looked out towards the moons. A fierce battle was underway, as the bulk of the tyranid fleet converged on the doomed worlds, moving into firing range of the main blockade line.

  ‘Your order, admiral?’ asked Gideon.

  Augustine sighed.

  ‘Exterminatus,’ he said wearily.

  Solon watched the rays of dawn lift above the horizon for the first time in over five months, relishing the sensation of natural light upon his face. The storms had all but cleared, and from his position he had a clear view across the ice flows. The white glare was almost painful, even through the tinted windows of the spaceport, and he was awed by the sublime view.

  For the past hour he had watched the alien chrysalides falling from the sky. The xenos enemy could be seen now, approaching Phorcys like a living tide. People were screaming in panic, but Solon did not bother himself. There was no army here to face the enemy for it had long evacuated the moon, and there was nowhere left to run.

  Above the living carpet of the enemy, trails of fire were roaring down from the sky, as if the burning tears of the Emperor were falling from the heavens to smite the never-ending xenos horde.

  The cyclonic torpedoes, fired by more than a score of battleships in high orbit, slammed into the surface of Perdus Skylla, and the moon was instantly engulfed in flames.

  Solon and all those who had not managed to secure passage off-world died instantly, and more than eight million tyranid organisms perished in the hellish conflagration.

  ‘The Emperor’s will be done,’ said Admiral Rutger Augustine as he watched the moon ignite from the bridge of the Hammer of Righteousness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Beneath a sky of fire and blood, the Basilica of the Word rose impossibly high into the air, hundreds of barbed spires piercing the roiling heavens. Each spire was more than five kilometres high, and studded with jutting, rusted spikes. Ten or more living sacrifices were impaled on each spike, and they moaned in agony and torment as their flesh was torn from their bones by skinless daemons. Thousands more kathartes circled the basilica, filling the air with their screeches and deathly cries.

  The sound of the daemons mingled with the morbid chanting of countless millions of proselytes within the basilica, their voices accompanied by braying daemonic choirs and the pounding of industry. Lurid flames burst forth from daemon-headed gargoyles as an endless stream of sacrifices were slain in the blood-chambers deep within, and the deep baritone of Astartes voices lifted in morbid cantillation.

  Outside the temple, the lines of sacrifices, ten million strong, shuffled forwards, a never-ending stream of humanity that wound its way through the blood-soaked avenues. Deathly cherubs with skeletal wings growing from their bloated, childish bodies swooped low over the masses, and foul-smelling incense billowed from the censors hanging from the chains that pulled at their skin. Ever more penitents were constantly added to the lines, slaves and odalisques taken from a hundred thousand worlds on which the Word Bearers had fought, bringing the holy word of Lorgar to all, willing or not. Most were already utterly corrupted to the worship of dark gods and went to their deaths willingly, eagerly, yet twisted, black-clad minions of the Word Bearers continued to stalk the lines, stabbing their needle-like fingers into any that shuffled forward too slowly, urging them on.

  Discords floated along the lines, mechanical tentacles waving gently, and the rapturous blare of Chaos in all its insanity assaulted the eardrums of the condemned from their grilled speakers. Relentless mechanical pounding boomed from the discords, overlaid with daemonic bellows and roars, voices whispering of death and the glory of Chaos, weeping of children and hate-filled screams.

  Eight immense gehemahnet towers surrounded the monstrous temple, and the doleful tolling of their bells resounded across the hellish landscape. Hundreds of thousands of rapturous voices rose in glorifying chants as the colossal bells pealed, the sound torn from raw throats.

  For as far as the eye could see, from horizon to horizon, towering shrines and temples to the dark gods rose from the blood soaked earth of Sicarus, daemon home world of the XVII Legion and seat of power of the Primarch Lorgar. Kilometre-high obelisks hanging with thousands of lifeless bodies and daubed with infernal runes had been erected in every quarter, and grand mausoleums, cathedrals, and giant statues surrounded by squares teeming with worshippers spread out around the basilica.

  Spider-legged cranes picked their way across the horizon, each one accompanied by half a million slave-workers that toiled to raise ever more impressive structures of devotion and worship to the gods of Chaos, constructing new temples, fanes and sacrariums atop older, crumbling edifices and cathedrals. The work was constant, level built upon level, so that the majority of the buildings were subterranean, an impossibly deep, labyrinthine warren of interconnected structures, all devoted to the worship of Chaos in all its guises. Indeed, millions of slaves toiled below ground, never seeing the surface at all, carving out more caverns of worship, crypts and deep, hidden sanctums many kilometres beneath the surface of the daemon world.

  The rogue trader, Ikorus Baranov, was down there somewhere, thought Marduk in amusement, if he was not already dead. He had enjoyed the look of horror and betrayal on the weakling mortal’s face when he had ordered him to be taken into the slave gangs. The human had served its purpose, and was less than nothing to Marduk.

  Two moons hung low in the burning skies, their jet-black surfaces wreathed in hellfire, like the eyes of the gods staring down upon Marduk.

  He stood on a high balcony constructed from human bones, staring down upon the glory of the Host, arrayed below him on one of the immense terraces that extended down the sides of the basilica: his Host.

  It was gathered in all its might, standing in serried ranks, and Marduk felt pride as he looked upon them. Pennants of flayed human flesh fluttered from back-banners, and all within the Host had repainted their left shoulder pads, the ones that had previously been stained black in mourning for Jarulek, Dark Apostle of the Host. They were no longer in mourning, Marduk thought with a smile.

  At the front of the power armoured bulk of the warrior brethren stood the Anointed, the warrior elite of the Host, and armoured divisions interspersed the ranks. Rhinos, Land Raiders, Predators, Vindicators, all had had their battle-scarred hulls repainted, and fresh sigils to the ruinous powers and litanies of the true word had been daubed and inscribed upon their ancient, armoured skins. Hundreds of slaves and chirumeks worked upon the hulls of these armoured divisions, patching damage and sanctifying their hulls anew in the blood of unbelievers.

  Daemon engines and Dreadnoughts clawed at the flagstones of the terrace to the side of the bulk of the Host, each titanic amalgamation of
machine and daemon kept in place by chains held in the hands of hundreds of straining slave-proselytes.

  This is my Host, thought Marduk with pride and satisfaction. Mine.

  Marduk stood with his eyes lowered as he awaited the judgement of the Council. None but the Dark Apostles were allowed to look upon the sacred members of the Council when it was in session, and he kept his eyes dutifully cast down as he awaited the outcome that would determine his fate, for now and forever.

  The wounds he had suffered under the knives of the eldar haemonculus had long since healed, leaving just faint scars upon his flesh, joining those that he had earned from fighting on a thousand worlds. His body was armoured in archaic plate, a holy relic that had been chosen from the armoury of the Infidus Diabolus. Marduk had spent long hours in solitude scrimshawing the litanies of Lorgar upon their surfaces.

  He held his skull-faced helmet under one arm, the helm that had been worn by the blessed Warmonger before him, and over his armour he wore an unadorned robe the colour of bone, as the ritual required. His face was sunken and pale, for he had partaken of neither food nor water for a month, just one part of the arduous tests that he had been subjected to in order to prove his suitability.

  He had been on Sicarus for almost three months, and since the commencement of the rituals of testing and purification, he had not spoken to a living soul, though his days were filled with acts of penitence, recitation of the Great Works and communion. He had endured all manner of ritual debasement, as his soul was stripped bare and he was reborn into the dark faith.

  He was subjected to solitary confinement for weeks on end, sealed within the ossuary sepulchre deep beneath the Basilica of the Word, interred within a crawl-space little larger than his body, walled in with bricks and blood mortar. Hallucinogenic smoke coiled around him in the tomb, and as he breathed the fumes in deeply and his body passed into a catatonic state nearing death, his spirit had soared free. Garbing himself in armour of the soul, he had fought an endless army of daemons that sought to test his resolve, armed with a gleaming sword in one ethereal hand, a shield of darkness strapped across his other. How long the infernal gods had directed their minions against him he knew not, but finally he was brought back to the land of the living, his imprisonment shattered. He awoke a new warrior, weak in the body from his confinement, but strong in faith and spirit.

  Endless days of ritual torment and study followed, when every aspect of his mind, faith and body were tested to breaking point, but through it all Marduk remained strong, refusing to succumb to the daemonic whispers that taunted him, telling him that he had already failed, that his soul would be consumed by the ether and his name forgotten by history.

  All that was behind him, and he stood before the Council, proud and noble, as he awaited their final word.

  ‘Kneel,’ came a growled command, and Marduk fell to the ground, impelled by the sheer dominance of the voice.

  A figure moved before him, and a hand was placed upon the crown of his head, pushing it backwards to expose his throat.

  I have failed, thought Marduk, though he could not believe it.

  A serrated khantanka knife was drawn and its cold blade placed against the carotid artery of his neck, but he did not flinch. He would face death with pride, though still he refused to believe that such was his fate.

  The knife slashed the artery, and Marduk gasped as blood fountained from his neck. Bright blood pumped from the wound, spraying out around him. It gushed over his breastplate, running down over his torso and onto the floor, pooling around his knees.

  Marduk swayed, still shocked that it had come to this, and all colour drained from his face as the pool around his knees spread outwards.

  His pristine skull helmet dropped from numb fingers, splashing into the pool of warm blood, and he fell forwards. He threw a hand out to catch himself, but his strength was fading, and it was all he could do to stop himself from sprawling face-first into the already congealing pool of his lifeblood. Anger swept through him.

  Marduk used the anger swelling through him to give him strength, and he pushed himself up off the floor. If he was to die, he would not die scrabbling on the floor like a dog. Even as more blood pumped from his neck, he retrieved his blood-smeared helmet from the floor and shoved it back under his arm.

  He blinked, staring at the pool of blood in which he kneeled. There was so much blood that he was amazed that there was any within him at all, and his vision wavered.

  This is the end, he thought.

  The mark of Lorgar on his forehead began to burn, smoke rising from his skin as the searing rune blistered his flesh.

  A hand was placed against his neck, and the wound was closed as warmth suffused him.

  ‘Arise, Marduk,’ said the domineering voice, and Marduk felt hands on his shoulders, helping him to his feet. He was weak with loss of blood, and did not realise that he had passed the final test, and had received Lorgar’s blessing.

  Lifting his gaze, he stared into the impossibly dark eyes of none other than Erebus, he who had been first Chaplain of the Word Bearers when Horus had lived, he who had brought the true faith to so many.

  ‘Welcome, brother,’ said Erebus.

  Other than Lorgar, and arguably the Keeper of the Faith, Kor Phaeron, Erebus was the most powerful, revered and influential member of the XVII Legion, and at his word countless millions had perished.

  Erebus’s head was shaved smooth, and covered in intricate script, his flesh a living Book of Lorgar, and Marduk stared at him in confusion and wonder, still not understanding what was taking place.

  The other seven Council members stepped forwards, surrounding Marduk, and he gazed around at their hallowed, revered faces in awe. He knew them all by name and reputation: the Dark Apostle Ekodas, the craggy-faced holy leader of the 7th Company Host, who had led a holy crusade of retribution upon the Black Consuls, almost wiping the Cursed Chapter, a successor of the hated Ultramarines, from the galaxy; at his side was the Dark Apostle Paristur, shrewd and savage, who had killed the Blood Angels Chaplain Aristedes in single combat on the walls of the Emperor’s palace. Mighty heroes of legend all, the Council members closed ranks around Marduk, touching their fingertips upon the already congealing blood and daubing unholy symbols upon his armoured plates. Erebus dipped his thumb in the blood and marked Marduk’s cheek, and he felt his skin blistering beneath the touch.

  One of the Dark Apostles, Mothac, encased in ensorcelled daemon armour, a gift from Lorgar, held a thick book in his arms, its weight immense. The book was bound in the skin of Ultramarines, and Marduk gasped as he looked upon it.

  ‘The Dark Creed,’ he murmured, overcome with awe. These were the holy writings of the daemon primarch of the Legion.

  Finally, realisation dawned on him. He had succeeded!

  Mothac’s face was solemn, and the Dark Apostles gave him some room as he hefted it before him.

  ‘Swear your undying allegiance upon the Dark Creed and you will be one with us, Brother Marduk,’ said Erebus.

  Marduk placed a bloody hand upon the hallowed book, his eyes blazing with faith.

  ‘I swear it,’ he intoned.

  ‘Dark apostle,’ said Burias, and Marduk, standing on the balcony overlooking his Host, turned towards his icon bearer with a smile.

  The newly appointed Dark Apostle wore a cloak of flayed flesh, and his right hand leant upon the butt of the mighty crozius arcanum that had been wielded by Jarulek before him. It felt good to wear the deadly weapon, the icon that represented his new-found position.

  ‘That will take some getting used to,’ he said.

  Burias smiled savagely at Marduk, and inclined his head towards the archway leading from the bone balcony.

  ‘The sorcerer comes,’ said Burias, a note of distaste in his voice.

  The archway led into his private shrine within the immensity of the Bastion of the Word. All Dark Apostles had their own quarters within the immense structure. This one had belonged to Jarulek, and it now
belonged to him.

  With a glare of warning to Burias, Marduk turned to receive the Black Legion sorcerer.

  Kol Badar stood by Marduk’s side, immense and strong, his face unreadable. Only the clenching and unclenching of his mighty power talons gave away a hint of the Coryphaus’s thoughts, and Marduk smiled. Kol Badar had not taken Marduk’s ascension well, but he had knelt before Marduk, as had all of the Host, and sworn his life and soul to him.

  Darioq-Grendh’al stood at his other side, garbed in robes of black, his face hidden beneath a deep cowl. The fallen magos was still changing, though his corruption was all but complete, and Marduk marvelled at how far he had fallen. He was truly a creature of Chaos, both in body and in spirit, and his mighty servo-limbs quivered as if beneath a mirage, their form subtly changing from one second to the next.

  Burias stood alongside the champions Sabtec and Khalaxis. Burias was tense and eager to be away, and Marduk sensed too that Khalaxis was yearning to battle once more. Soon, he thought. Sabtec’s face was set in his usual stoic expression. Marduk had been impressed by his skill, and knew that he would achieve great victories in his name.

  To the side, dwarfing them all, was the immense bulk of the Warmonger, standing immobile, his heavy weaponry held at the ready.

  These are my warrior faithful, thought Marduk, my officers and advisors. He knew they would serve him well, and if they didn’t, he would sacrifice them, and none would be able to question his actions, for he was their Dark Apostle and he held their lives in the palm of his hand.

  Marduk turned his attention to the new arrival, Inshabael Kharesh, sorcerer of the Black Legion. His gaze met piercing blue eyes that glinted with hidden secrets and knowledge, and Marduk affected a feigned smile of welcome. The Dark Apostle did not like the man, for he saw sorcery as a weakness – the only true power lay in faith, not conjurer’s tricks and magic – but he was not one to argue with the will of the Council.