Word Bearers

by Anthony Reynolds

His expression darkened. Master, he thought hatefully. The whelp should never have risen so far. He would have killed the whoreson that day on the moon of Calite long ago had Jarulek not restrained him.

  Marduk appeared at the top of the ramp. Kol Badar’s power talons twitched involuntarily.

  Dark Apostle of the 34th Grand Host, the third leader to have borne such a title, Marduk wore a cold, disdainful expression as he gazed upon the might of the 7th. His deathly pale features were aristocratic and noble, the gene-lineage of blessed Lorgar blatantly apparent. His left eye was red and lidless, bisected by a narrow pupil. His jet-black hair was oiled, and he wore it long, hanging in an intricate braid down his back.

  A thick fur cloak was draped over his shoulders and he wore a cream-coloured tabard secured around his waist with a heavy chain.

  His red power armour was ornate and heavily artificed, a bastardised blend of plate from various eras, ranging from his segmented MkII Crusade-pattern greaves, to his reinforce-studded MkV-era left shoulder plate. Every centimetre of it had been painstakingly etched with ornate script. Hundreds of thousands of words were carved around his vambraces and upon his kneepads – litanies, scripture and extracts from the Book of Lorgar. His left vambrace was engraved with the third book of the Tenets of Hate in its entirety, and dozens of sacred passages and psalms encircled his pauldrons. Strips of cured skin bearing further epistles and glyphs were affixed to his plate by rune-stamped blood-wax.

  In his hands, Marduk bore his sacred crozius arcanum. A hallowed artefact consecrated in the blood of Guilliman’s lapdogs, the dark crozius was a master-crafted weapon and holy symbol of awesome power.

  Flicking his cloak imperiously over one shoulder, Marduk began to descend the Stormbird’s assault ramp towards the floor of the docking bay. Following a step behind him came two other power-armoured figures.

  The one on the left, Burias, moved with a swordsman’s grace. Gene-born in the last days of the Great War, Burias was a flamboyant, vicious warrior. His black hair was combed straight and hung to his waist, and he bore the sacred three-metre-tall icon of the 34th in both hands. There was not a scar or blemish upon the Icon Bearer’s cruelly handsome face; Burias was one of the possessed, and his powers of regeneration were impressive.

  The other was more of an unknown to Kol Badar, and was a stark contrast to the Icon Bearer. Shorter and with a heavier build than most warriors of the Legion, his broad face was a mess of scar tissue. His downcast eyes were set beneath a protruding brow, giving him a brutish appearance at odds with his genetic heritage. His almost translucent skull was shaved smooth and covered in jagged scars and pierced with cables. A black beard bound into a single, tight braid hung half way down his barrel chest. His armour was without ornamentation and he wore an unadorned black robe. His hands were hidden within heavy sleeves. A double-handed power maul hung over his shoulders, and a chained and padlocked book dangled at his waist.

  While Kol Badar had fought alongside Marduk, Burias and every other member of the Host during the Great War, First Acolyte Ashkanez had only joined the 34th recently. His combat record was impressive but Kol Badar had yet to fight alongside him in battle, and it was only in battle that true brotherhood was forged.

  Ashkanez had only been with the Host since they had left the daemon-world of Sicarus, seven standard weeks earlier. Deeming that the 34th lacked a suitable candidate from amongst its own ranks, the Council of Sicarus had appointed Ashkanez to the position of First Acolyte to serve under Marduk.

  ‘What a fine spectacle Ekodas has arranged for us,’ said Marduk, looking towards the silent ranks of Word Bearers. ‘Such an unsubtle reminder of his strength.’

  ‘Hardly necessary,’ said Kol Badar. ‘He is of the Council, after all.’

  Only eight individuals sat upon the Council of Sicarus, the holy ruling body that guided the Word Bearers in Lorgar’s absence, and each was a dark cardinal of great authority and power.

  ‘Intimidation is in his nature,’ said Marduk.

  With a roar of engines, another shuttle breached the shimmering integrity field of the docking bay. Banks of cannons bulged from beneath the snub nose of the heavily modified craft, and flickering remnants of warp-presence – semi-transparent, semi-sentient globs of immaterium that pulsed with inner light – clung to its hull.

  ‘Cadaver-class,’ said Kol Badar, assessing the arrival with a glance. ‘18th Host.’

  ‘Sarabdal,’ said Burias.

  ‘Dark Apostle Sarabdal, Icon Bearer,’ corrected Ashkanez.

  Burias snarled and moved towards the newly appointed First Acolyte but Ashkanez remained motionless, offering no confrontation.

  The debarkation ramp of the old Cadaver-class shuttle extended in four clunking sections and slammed onto the deck. A trio of corpse-like cherubs bearing smoking censers flew from the red-lit shadows of its interior, their pudgy childlike faces twisted into grotesque leers. Their eyes were sutured shut with criss-crossing stitches. Snarling, they exposed tiny barbed teeth. The cherubs began a circuit of looping dives and swoops, heralding the arrival of their master.

  Dark Apostle Sarabdal stepped from his shuttle and took in the cavernous docking bay at a glance. He wore a heavy cloak of chainmail and his armour had been painstakingly sculptured to resembled flayed musculature. Every vein, tendon and sinew of it bulged in stark relief.

  Sarabdal strode towards Marduk and his retinue fell in behind him. Marduk met him halfway, his own entourage moving with him.

  The two Dark Apostles slowed as they approached, sizing each other up before stepping in close and embracing as equals and brothers. Sarabdal, the taller of the two, leant in to kiss Marduk on both cheeks. His skin tingled as the Dark Apostle’s burning lips touched his flesh.

  ‘Brother Erebus speaks highly of you, Marduk,’ said Sarabdal, in a hoarse whisper.

  Marduk inclined his head to accept the compliment.

  ‘My lord,’ murmured Ashkanez, and Marduk turned to see a skeletal figure making its way towards them.

  Marduk’s lip curled at the cyber-organic creature. Four mechanical, insectoid legs protruded from its bloated abdomen and propelled it forwards in a stop-start motion. Bone-thin arms were spread wide in an overly sincere gesture of welcome. The creature’s lips had been hacked off, leaving its mouth set in a permanent rictus of teeth. Spine-like sensor arrays protruded from the back of its head, and the buzz of data-flow erupted from the emitters in its modified larynx.

  Twitching, the vile creature came to a halt before the pair of Dark Apostles and performed an awkward bow, head flopping forwards. It righted itself and began to speak, though the words bubbling from its lipless mouth had no relation to the crazed articulation of its jaws.

  ‘Welcome, brothers of the 34th and the 18th, to the Crucius Maledictus,’ it slurred. ‘Grand Apostle Ekodas, blessed be his name, regrets he could not welcome you himself, but he humbly requests that you follow this lowly mech-flesh unit to his audience chambers.’

  ‘Grand Apostle Ekodas?’ said Marduk.

  ‘The arrogance!’ fumed Sarabdal. He spat onto the deck floor in disgust. The thick wad of black phlegm began to eat through the metal, hissing and steaming.

  The cyber-organic beckoned and twitched impatiently.

  ‘Let me be the one to tear its head off,’ said Kol Badar under his breath, and Marduk smiled.

  ‘Depending on how this conclave goes, gladly,’ said Marduk.

  ‘Can’t we do it now?’ said Burias, as the insectoid-legged creature grinned inanely.

  ‘Come,’ said Sarabdal. ‘Let us get this over with.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Garbed in full parade regalia, Praefectus Verenus stood in the centre of Victory Square beneath the baking sun and awaited the arrival of the White Consul.

  At his back, four thousand soldiers of the Boros 232nd stood to attention. Proud, royal blue banners hung limp in the still air. Alongside the Guardsmen were the ancillary support vehicles of the regiment: Chimera APCs, recon
naissance Sentinels, Trojan workhorses.

  Rearing up behind the regiment, at the top of almost four thousand stairs, was the immense, white marble edifice that was the Temple of the Gloriatus. A golden statue of the Emperor looked resplendent at its soaring peak.

  Verenus stood alongside his commanding officer and support staff in total silence.

  With his mighty physique, Verenus was the epitome of Boros gene-stock, an imposing officer and soldier. His eyes were ice-blue and hard. His skin was deeply tanned. His nose had been broken a dozen times and poorly set, and his sandy blond hair was clipped short in a regulation cut.

  Verenus swallowed heavily as the heat of the twin suns beat down upon him. He had forgotten how unforgiving Boros Prime’s summers could be. It had been ten long years since he had been home. He indulged himself and let his eye wander over the majesty of the city before him.

  Sirenus Principal was a gleaming bastion-city of white marble and manicured arboretums, and it stretched beyond the horizon in every direction. Home to more than eighty million citizens, all of whom willingly served at least a single five-year term in the Guard or PDF, it was one of the great cities of Boros Prime, and indeed of the entire Boros Gate subsector.

  Perfectly symmetrical boulevards, a hundred metres wide and lined with towering statues of Imperial heroes and revered saints, ran past colossal architectural wonders, replete with columns, arches and gleaming alabaster sculptures. Tree-lined flyovers curled between soaring schola progenium collegiums and ecclesiastic shrine-wards, and tens of thousands of dutiful citizens could be seen coming and going, as they hurried to lectures and work. Mass-transits snaked soundlessly along curving aqueduct bridges, whizzing past mighty cathedrals that reached towards the heavens in praise of the God-Emperor. Each day millions of wreaths and aquila tokens were laid before hundreds of grand monuments scattered around the city that celebrated Imperial victories and honoured the valiant fallen.

  Gleaming white fortress walls bisected the city. Far from being oppressive and domineering, they were sculptured masterpieces of classical design, with gently sweeping buttresses climbing their flanks.

  Lush gardens fed by subterranean hydroponics butted up against the city walls, colonised with exotic flowering plants and broad-leafed shrubs. Fountains surrounded by grassy arboretums were located in each district, water spurting from the lips of cherubs.

  Thousands of ordered PDF units marched across the tops of the walls, sunlight glinting off helmets and lascarbines. Their blue cloaks, the same as those worn by all members of the Boros PDF and Guard, were bright upon the pristine white stone. In all, Sirenus Principal boasted nearly fifteen million active soldiers; one in six inhabitants was a Guardsman, and it was the same all across Boros Prime. Few Imperial systems had such numbers.

  The entire city was a blend of simple beauty and practicality, of form and function; an elegant and wondrously designed metropolis that was essentially a mighty and brilliantly conceived fortress, yet one that was aesthetic and pleasant for its populace to live within.

  The city summed up all that it meant to be a citizen of Boros Prime: strong, determined, ordered, refined, noble.

  Verenus’s gaze was drawn heavenwards, towards the distant shadow of Kronos. As potent as all the ground defences of Boros Prime were, its true strength lay in the immense star fort orbiting overhead.

  Bristling with weaponry and the size of a small moon, Kronos was the largest space station in Segmenta Obscurus. It was an ever-present sentinel that was both a comfort to the people of Boros Prime and a constant reminder of Imperial authority, for it was the seat of the system’s governorship: the Consuls.

  The White Consuls ruled with a benevolent hand, and the citizens of the Boros system – all eighteen inhabited planets and two-dozen colonised moons and asteroids – were afforded liberties and a quality of life undreamed of in many regions of the Imperium. Civil unrest was all but unheard of.

  Two Consuls ruled Boros – the Proconsul Ostorius, and his Coadjutor, Aquilius. The highest authority in all matters military and political, they were regarded with awe bordering on worship by the bulk of the Boros citizenry. Such devotion was not officially encouraged, but neither was it discouraged – was it not true that the Consuls were formed in the image of the God-Emperor himself?

  The Proconsul and his Coadjutor were responsible for somewhere in the realm of four hundred billion Imperial citizens, as well as the security of the vital Boros Gate subsector itself.

  Verenus spied several shapes approaching from the star fort, gleaming like falling stars, and snapped to attention. He could hear them now, jet engines screaming as they penetrated the atmosphere, the sound rising from a distant drone to an ear-splitting roar.

  Three strike aircraft streaked out from the glare of the suns, flying in tight formation, wingtip to wingtip. Verenus recognised them as agile Lightning fighters by their forward sweeping aerofoils and distinctive wail. Slicing effortlessly through the air, they dived low and screamed over the heads of the Boros 232nd. Contrails of white vapour chased their progress like ribbons. Having shot overhead, the fighters peeled off sharply, turning in a wide sweeping motion. A blast of hot, displaced air struck the gathered soldiers of the 232nd a second later, sending their capes and banners fluttering.

  As the scream of the Lightnings subsided, it was replaced with the resonant drone of bigger engines. A minute passed and a pair of Vulture gunships hove into view, their wings heavy with tubular rocket pods and autocannons. They were escorting a smaller Aquila lander. The Lightning strike fighters made another pass before pulling up and disappearing from sight.

  The Aquila was resplendent gold, and Verenus was forced to squint against the glare reflected upon its gleaming metal skin. With vectored engines swivelled downwards, the lander and its gunship escort descended upon the gleaming white parade ground twenty metres in front of the Legatus and his officer cadre, landing gear unfolding beneath them.

  They touched down smoothly, and even before their engines died, the golden-hulled Aquila was lowering its passenger compartment to the ground.

  ‘And behold, an Angel of Death walks among us,’ quoted the Legatus in a quiet voice. Verenus recognised the line from his years in the schola progenium, though he could not recall which scrivener had penned it.

  All thoughts of ancient poets and their epics were forgotten as the blast door of the Aquila’s passenger compartment slid open with a hiss of equalising air-pressure.

  A huge figure appeared in the doorway, so big that it was forced to duck to exit the landing craft. Only as it stepped onto the parade ground did it rise to its full height, and Verenus’s eyes widened.

  The praefectus knew that the Consuls were big – he had seen countless holo-vids of their public appearances, and he had seen them commemorated in frescoes and sculptures his whole life – but nothing had prepared him for just how big. The warrior was a giant.

  The Space Marine was encased in heavy plate armour as white and flawless as the marble of Sirenus Principal. He stood easily two heads taller than Verenus. His shoulders were immense, protected by huge pauldrons and the twin-headed eagle shone on his breastplate. He wore a royal blue tabard over his power armour, emblazoned with the eagle-head heraldry of the White Consuls Chapter. Its hems were stitched with delicate silver thread. Verenus recognised the Space Marine as Coadjutor Aquilius.

  The Coadjutor’s head was bare. He had a broad face that was solid and youthful. Carrying his helmet under one arm, he strode towards the Legatus of the 232nd. Verenus fought the urge to step back.

  ‘And fear incarnate is his name,’ Verenus heard his Legatus murmur.

  The Coadjutor halted a few steps before the regimental commander and his entourage. He stared at the Legatus, his expression inscrutable and his colourless eyes hard.

  ‘A quote from Sueton,’ said the Space Marine. His voice, Verenus noted, was deeper than a man’s. It seemed apt given his immensity. ‘In Nominae Glorifidae. Seventh act?’


  ‘Ninth,’ said the Legatus.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Coadjutor, bowing his head slightly in respect. A discussion on classical literature was the last thing that Verenus had expected.

  At a barked order, the soldiers of the Boros 232nd saluted the Coadjutor with perfect synchronicity. The Space Marine returned the salute. Upon a second order the regiment snapped back to attention.

  A robed adept of the Ministorum, the left half of his face hidden beneath a mass of augmetics, stepped to the White Consul’s side. A servo-skull hovering at his shoulder beeped indecipherable date-code.

  ‘Legatus Cato Merula, 232nd Regiment, Boros Prime Imperial Guard, rotated from battlefront Ixxus IX of the Thraxian campaign, under Lord Commander Tibult Horacio,’ intoned the adept from a half-bow, gesturing towards the regimental commander with one outstretched arm. His fingers were needle-like mechanical digits, and they buzzed with exloading data. ‘One month resupply, re-indoctrination and recruitment before return to frontline duties. Execution status XX.V.II.P.C.IX.’

  The adept swung around to face the Coadjutor and abased himself, dropping to one knee and lowering his head towards the ground.

  ‘Lord Gaius Aquilius, 5th Company White Consuls of the Adeptus Praeses, Dux Militari, Coadjutor of Boros Prime,’ intoned the adept in his monotonous voice. ‘Praise be to the God-Emperor.’

  ‘Praise be,’ murmured the Legatus.

  ‘Praise be,’ said Coadjutor Aquilius.

  ‘It is an honour to address you, sons and daughters of Boros,’ said the Coadjutor, his resounding voice easily reaching the ears of every soldier of the 232nd without the need of vox enhancement.

  ‘The Proconsul was due to address you himself, but duties of state precluded him from being here,’ said Coadjutor Aquilius. ‘I pray my presence instead does not disappoint.’

  Verenus knew that not one of the soldiers of the 232nd would have been even slightly disappointed. Only a few amongst them had ever laid eyes upon a Space Marine, and then only from afar.