Word Bearers

by Anthony Reynolds

  Another Word Bearer leapt at Ostorius, animalistic growls emitting from the vox-amps set into his helmet. He hefted a massive chainaxe in both hands, and brought the screaming weapon down towards Ostorius’s head.

  The Proconsul of Boros Prime swayed aside at the last moment, the roaring teeth of the chainaxe missing him by centimetres. He ducked beneath a second blow and severed one of the traitor’s legs above the knee, his power sword shearing through armour, flesh and bone. The Word Bearer fell with a snarl, blood pumping from the terrible wound, and Ostorius moved on.

  The next minute passed in a blur of motion and blood, until Ostorius came to a halt. Blood splattered his armour, and he was breathing heavily, his heart beating fast. Dimly he felt pain receptors flaring, and glanced down to see the rerebrace protecting his left upper arm shorn completely through, the flesh beneath a bloody ruin. He could see the white of bone, but could not even remember being struck.

  He glanced around the deck as pain nullifiers flooded his system. A dozen White Consuls, all splattered with blood and carrying injuries, moved amongst the fallen, dispatching those Word Bearers that still lived without mercy.

  Twenty-five Word Bearers lay strewn across the deck floor, all dead. Eighteen White Consuls had fallen. Nine of those would recover, given time – Astartes did not die easily. Nevertheless, only one, perhaps two, of the fallen White Consuls would be able to fight again within the next few days or weeks, and time was not a luxury that Ostorius could afford.

  Kronos had held out for two months now – an astonishing feat given the force besieging it – yet the Proconsul knew that it would be but days now before it was overrun. He prayed that Librarian Epistolary Liventius would uncover the source that shrouded the Boros Gate soon. If he did not, then Boros would fall, it was as simple as that.

  His gaze was drawn to the enemy Thunderhawk, sitting idle on the deck. A carefully aimed shot had taken out its pilot as it had attempted to pull away. A foul reek emerged from within its gaping assault ramp pods, along with a growling sound of static that made Ostorius feel faintly sick.

  The enemy was growing bolder. Previously, all attacks had been launched via Deathclaw, corrupted drop-pods that burrowed through the thick armour plating of Kronos like flesh-eating maggots. However, with Kronos’s shields failing, they were now able to launch attacks directly into its launch bays, with Word Bearers delivered right into the heart of the star fort via Thunderhawk and Stormbird.

  ‘Shall we set explosives to destroy it, Proconsul?’ said a battle-brother.

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Ostorius, eyeing the Thunderhawk thoughtfully. Apart from some exterior damage it had sustained in the assault, it was mostly intact. With minor repairs, it would again be spaceworthy.

  An Apothecary was kneeling beside the bodies of dead White Consuls, extracting their precious gene-seed, the lifeblood of the Chapter. His narthecium whirred and crunched as he cut through plate and flesh.

  Vox-chatter from elsewhere upon the star fort crackled in his ear; the latest assault had been underway for perhaps fifteen minutes, and already the enemy had breached the star fort’s defences in more than a dozen places.

  ‘Not today,’ said Ostorius under his breath.

  Never in his life had Ostorius felt this weary, and his mind was hazy with exhaustion. He had not slept – not truly slept – since the start of the siege. He had snatched moments of rest here and there, in between attacks, and during those lapses in battle he allowed isolated sections of his brain to shut down, but it was not real, healing rest. Plenty of time to rest when he was dead, though, he thought, morbidly. He was sure that time would come soon enough.

  Frantic calls for reinforcements were broadcast suddenly from a deck location eighty floors below his current position, and Ostorius snapped back to full alertness. He responded curtly, and was moving purposefully a moment later.

  ‘Come brothers,’ he called. ‘We are needed. Deck 53b-E91.’

  Marduk’s spirit ripped away from the prison of his flesh, soaring free.

  The release had been more difficult than usual to attain, and this caused him a moment of disquiet. It was forgotten when he was overwhelmed with stimuli.

  The material world around him was now nothing more than a shadowy presence rendered in shades of grey, yet his witch-sight afforded him a vision richer and more alive with colour and movement than mortal eyes could ever realise.

  His aural senses too were overwhelmed. Billions of voices screamed out in terror and fear, joining the sublime cacophony of the Discords, which could be heard in both this plane and the real. Theirs was an unholy, rapturous din.

  He could hear the leathery flap of wings as kathartes circled around him, brushing his soaring soul affectionately. A hundred kilometres away, a corrupted Titan of the Legio Vulturus let out a cry, the reverberant bass note shaking the doomed planet to its core.

  Invisible to mortal sight, daemons in their tens of millions had descended upon Boros Prime, and Marduk saw them now in their full glory, a dizzying panoply of radiance and majesty, of horror and despair. Like a swarming tide they had come here, attracted by the sheer scale of the savagery being enacted in the name of the gods of Chaos, summoned by the powerful emotions being unleashed across its continents.

  Invisible to all but those with the witch-sight and will to see them, these daemon spirits swarmed across the skies like a hellish, ethereal living soup, and waited in great, menacing groups around the living. Even those pathetic mortals unable to perceive them felt their presence, perhaps as nothing more than a shiver or a breath of ice across the back of their necks. They suffered the nightmares that the daemons brought with them, their minds giving voice to their doubts and their fears.

  The scale of fear, revulsion, hatred, terror and panic of the system’s inhabitants had drawn the daemons to this world, like flies to a corpse. They fed off these raw emotions, gluttonously supping at them, but more delectable still were the souls of those dying in torment and fear.

  The daemons licked their ethereal lips in hunger, clustered in eager packs around the glowing soul-flames of those about to die. As the mortal soldiers of Boros Prime perished, the hellspawn descended upon them in a whirlwind of hunger and savagery, rending, tearing and feeding. Whether they fell on the field of battle, killed beneath the blades of the faithful or merely took their own lives, all were consumed to feed the insatiable hunger of the true gods, for these lesser daemons were but aspects of the greater powers. In the depths of the warp, the gods rumbled their pleasure.

  But Marduk was not spirit-journeying merely to witness the majesty of Chaos, as glorious and inspirational as it was.

  Turning his attention away from the beauteous carnage, he streaked across the heavens, the monochromatic war-torn planet blurring beneath him. He hurtled invisibly across the ravaged planet’s continents, rising up higher and higher into the airless upper atmosphere, drawn towards a dark nimbus of power that called to him like a siren. He could see it from afar, a malignant blot upon reality, oozing potency.

  At last, he slowed his ascent, and hovered in the air before this powerful warp-presence.

  Greetings, Apostle of the 34th Host, boomed the shadow-soul, making Marduk’s spirit waver.

  My lord Ekodas, answered Marduk.

  The amorphous, insubstantial shape of Ekodas’s soaring shadow-soul coalesced into a shape more recognisable, an anthropomorphised form projected from his mind. He appeared before Marduk in the guise of a giant, robed figure hanging effortlessly in the sky, his head that of a snarling beast. Flames surrounded him, and the sheer brutality and force of the power Ekodas radiated buffeted Marduk’s spirit like a gale.

  Two other soul-spirits coalesced in view alongside Marduk.

  Belagosa’s presence was hazy and flickering. He took the form of an archaic warrior-knight, his body encased in ancient plate armour. Ankh-Heloth’s presence revealed itself as a coiled serpent, eyes glinting with malign light.

  This war threatens to slip f
rom our grasp, boomed Ekodas into the minds of the gathered Apostles.

  If there is any failure it is yours alone, shot back Marduk.

  Ankh-Heloth’s avatar bared its fangs, hissing and spitting, but Marduk ignored him.

  We are making progress, said Belagosa. So long as the Nexus holds and the warp gate is kept shut, there is no hope of salvation for the followers of the Corpse-God. This world’s corruption is assured.

  I want this world to burn, roared Ekodas. Its continued defiance offends me. The spirit of the Imperials is not yet broken. There is one amongst them who is their talisman; their so-called White Angel. Find him, my Apostles. Find him, and bring him to me.

  We are not alone, said Belagosa suddenly.

  Marduk looked around him, probing with his mind’s eye. An insubstantial flicker played at the edge of his vision.

  There, he said.

  Ekodas spun, ghostly arms extended and flames of the spirit roared. Amidst the inferno, a glowing figure armoured in silver plate appeared. A shining tabard of white was worn over his armour. The flames licked at this newly revealed presence, but they could not touch him, for a glowing bubble of light surrounded him.

  Spying on us, Librarian? said Ekodas. It will avail you little.

  This world shall never belong to you, traitors, pulsed the White Consul.

  It already does, boomed Ekodas. And now, you die.

  I think not, heretic, replied the Librarian.

  Ekodas grew in stature, his bestial face twisted in hatred. His arms sprouted insubstantial claws and he flew at the Librarian’s soul-presence, flames flaring all around him.

  There was an explosion of blinding light that made Marduk and the other Apostles shrink back. When it cleared, the Librarian’s presence had disappeared.

  He is gone, said Belagosa.

  How much did he hear? pulsed Ankh-Heloth.

  It matters not, boomed Ekodas.

  Go now, my Apostles. Find their White Angel. We destroy him, and we destroy their hope.

  With his dictate conveyed, the blaze surrounding Ekodas burst outwards, slamming into Marduk and the other two Apostles with the force of a psychic hurricane. Marduk fell, spinning out of control, and slammed involuntarily back into the cage of his earthly flesh.

  He collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from his nostrils.

  ‘My lord?’ said Ashkanez, kneeling beside him. Marduk waved him back.

  ‘Get Burias,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have a job for him.’

  The sound of the battle was loud even kilometres from the nearest of the ever-shifting front lines, dull explosions that shook the planet to its core. Thunderbolts and Marauders roared overhead, heading towards the warzones with full payloads, while others chugged back towards the scattered airbases, trailing smoke, their ammunition spent. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed from makeshift medicae facilities, and corpses were strewn throughout the streets.

  Aquilius gazed around him as he marched. The sky was filled with smoke and cinders. The once pristine, gleaming white marble of Sirenus Principal, his birth-city, was now pocked and chipped from small-arms fire, scarred by ordnance and covered in soot and blood. The beautiful gardens and arboretums were now little more than charred wastelands of scorched earth. The blackened skeletons of trees protruded mournfully from the ash, like headstones, and lakes and fountains were now cesspools of foulness, choked with scum and unnatural algae blooms. Corpses floated face down in the waters.

  Boros Prime was changing. Aquilius could feel the change in the air itself, and it had nothing to do with anything as mundane as pollutants, ash and death. The taint of Chaos had taken hold of Boros Prime, and he despaired as to what would be left here, even if they were victorious. A week ago, one in ten thousand had been identified as exhibiting some unnatural taint, planetwide – tens of millions of citizens and soldiers. All had been removed from their units and habs and transported under guard to the quarantine sanitation camps – death camps by any other name.

  The number of the afflicted had risen sharply in the last days, and it was judged that the taint was now affecting one in five thousand, and rising daily. Paranoia was rife within the ranks of the Imperial Guard and the citizenry, for no detectable pattern to determine who would be affected was apparent. Where would it end? Would it end?

  So far no warrior brother of the White Consuls had suffered any visible or detectible taint, but not even Astartes were immune to the perverting effects of Chaos if exposed to it for long enough.

  It was like a plague that the invaders brought with them, an insidious creeping sickness that had infiltrated Boros Prime. It was worse than the Word Bearers themselves, perhaps, for it was an enemy that could not be fought with bolter or chainsword.

  Rebreathers had been issued, but already the supply of filter plugs was running short. In truth, the insidious, corrupting effect of Chaos was not transferred through the air – it was far more insidious than that – but it had been deemed an appropriate calming measure.

  In consultation with the Chapter’s Apothecaries and the Guard’s senior medicae officers, Aquilius had rolled out daily screening and purity testing for all soldiers, to be conducted in the presence of a superior officer. Any individual exhibiting any taint was removed from their unit. Commissars prowled the ranks, and each day Aquilius read depressing communiqués tallying the numbers of soldiers executed for exhibiting hostile effects of taint, or for concealing and avoiding screens.

  Coadjutor Aquilius moved through the press of soldiers. He towered head and shoulders above them, and conversations died as he passed.

  His armour was battle worn, his cloak was tattered and burnt, yet he walked with his head held high, his blue-crested helmet tucked under one arm. A melta burn scarred the left side of his face, and his short-cropped blond hair was blackened from fire.

  Aquilius saw the soldiers’ expressions lifting as they moved reverently from his path. He nodded to them. Hands blackened with grime and ash touched his armour plates. Murmurs spread like ripples on a lake as he made his way through the press of stinking, battle-weary soldiers. They spoke in hushed tones, but Aquilius could hear them all. The White Angel, they whispered. That was what the men were calling him now. He had tried to stop them, but it had done no good.

  He did not feel worthy of their adoration, but it didn’t matter. It was Chapter Master Valens who had made him realise that, and his respect for the warrior had grown immeasurably.

  ‘This is not about you,’ Chapter Master Valens had said. ‘This is not about what you need, or what you deserve. This is about what those soldiers need. They need hope, Aquilius. The White Angel is that hope. The men must hold until the veil over the Boros Gate is lifted.’

  He had not understood the Chapter Master’s words at first but as weeks passed he slowly came to.

  Amidst the horror and darkness of this escalating, planet-wide war, the White Angel had become a beacon of hope.

  In the months since the enemy had attacked, Aquilius had fought fearlessly alongside the regiments of the Boros Imperial Guard, fighting as one of them. He faced the dangers they faced, and was ever at the forefront of the most intense battles, and he – or rather the fiction that was the White Angel – had become a legend.

  The Imperial propaganda machine was in full swing. Printed leaflets were distributed amongst the ranks speaking of the White Angel’s exploits, all highly exaggerated, and how the enemy was being slowly repelled. It made him intensely uncomfortable, but he could see the positive effect it was having on the men. Spirits lifted wherever he went, and soldiers that had been about to break redoubled their resolve in his presence.

  He understood his role here now, and had come to accept its burden. It was his job to ensure that the Guard and the PDF, the tank companies and the auxiliary regiments were operating at their peak, that their morale held, and that their will to fight was not eroded by the insidious tools of the enemy. If that meant that he must become their talisman, their White Angel,
then so be it.

  The soldiers and citizenry of Boros Prime saw the White Angel as their saviour, their divine protector. While Aquilius stood, there was hope. And despite everything, that ray of hope was burning brighter with every day that passed, with every day that victory was denied the enemy.

  As he moved through the regiments, making himself seen, he could not shake the feeling that hostile eyes were watching him. He stopped and scanned the rooftops and damaged battlements. He told himself he was being foolish, but the nagging impression would not budge.

  The vox-bead in his ear clicked.

  ‘Coadjutor Aquilius,’ came a voice as he accepted the incoming communication. It was Chapter Master Titus Valens, located halfway around the world, engaged in the frozen north.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘We are close to unearthing the secret that locks down the Boros Gate. Librarian Epistolary Liventius believes it is a device, something called the Nexus. Our brother Librarian is launching an attack upon it as we speak.’

  ‘This is auspicious news, my lord!’

  ‘Hope is at hand, Coadjutor. Pray that the Librarian is successful. But there is more.’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘The enemy have learnt of the White Angel. The enemy is coming for you, Aquilius. Be vigilant.’

  The Coadjutor’s gaze never left the rooftops. Something was watching then.

  ‘Let them come,’ he said.

  ‘I myself am returning to Sirenus Principal,’ said Chapter Master Valens. ‘My Thunderhawk should reach you in six hours. You will rendezvous with me, Aquilius. I cannot allow you to fall. You are too important.’

  ‘I am a Space Marine, my lord,’ said Aquilius. ‘I need no protection.’

  Hidden in the shadows of a high alcove, Burias-Drak’shal crouched like a malignant gargoyle. A bestial snarl issued from his lips and his daemonic eyes narrowed as he focussed on his prey.