Iakodos ran his gauntleted hand across his shorn head. ‘You may be right, my brother,’ he acknowledged. ‘But thank the Emperor that it is no longer there.’
The meeting with Remigius’s retinue lasted long after the Accursed Eternity had disappeared. Nobody could comment upon the veracity of the claim that it had been destroyed, but then nobody could prove that it hadn’t been. Careful scrutiny of the augury returns suggested conflicting answers. There were all the signs that there had been a plasma core breach but there was no debris to support this.
Iakodos had taken the burden of relaying the news of Remigius’s actions to his followers and had been met with cold anger, the rage of those in denial at news they had half-expected but had never fully prepared to hear.
Shock had turned to disbelief, and that in turn had led to anger. Iakodos had stood patiently through the tears and the pleas and then the barrage of accusations, until there was nothing left to say. He had not lied to the inquisitor’s retinue; he had given them a full and frank account of what had occurred there.
It had taken one man to raise a single question for the conversation to come finally to an end.
‘What of the Star Dragons’ debt to the Ordo Malleus?’
Tanek, who had sat in silence throughout Iakodos’s debriefing had stood abruptly at this question. He had leaned across the table that had separated him from the servant. It was that and the captain’s exceptional self-control that ensured the man wasn’t throttled where he stood.
‘My men did everything Inquisitor Remigius asked of them. As a result of this mission, my company has been decimated. I suggest that you learn from your errors. In future, you should think very long and very hard about the sense of asking a captain of the Adeptus Astartes a question like that.’
An icy look crossed the captain’s face and he turned his back on the gathering. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and measured. Iakodos knew his captain well enough to recognise that tone. ‘The Star Dragons have more than paid back their debt to the Ordo Malleus. You have precisely two hours to get off of the Ladon and to remove yourselves from the vicinity of my vessels. As one of the commanders of the Containment Fleet, I suggest that your foolishness in this engagement has generated enough risk for us to consider you a threat.’
‘And if we don’t leave?’ Remigius’s elderly adviser attempted a moment of bravado.
His unfortunately chosen and highly facetious comment was quelled instantly when Tanek turned around. The genial and affable face that they had come to know was replaced with the mask of a tyrant.
‘Then you will be disobeying a direct order of Containment Fleet Kappa. And I would heartily suggest that you do not test me to see where that path leads.’
It was a threat, plain and simple. Had the inquisitor still been alive, there would have been resistance to the suggestion but, perhaps fortunately for the demoralised remains of Remigius’s followers, he was not. Picking up on the barely shrouded threat, they left with such alarming haste it seemed as though all the daemons of the warp were hot on their tail.
‘There will be questions, captain, possibly censure,’ Iakodos finally took a seat at the table. ‘The Ordo Malleus will not let this go. You appreciate that, I am sure.’
Tanek nodded. ‘Let the questions come,’ he replied. ‘I will answer them honestly and truthfully. We were summoned here to aid the inquisitor and we have done that. I propose we remain in the area for a while. Continue to give support to our brothers in the Blood Swords and monitor for any sign of that ship returning.’
‘You do not believe it is destroyed?’
‘I simply do not know, Chaplain.’ Tanek sighed. ‘Our Chapter has taken a great loss today and I have to hold on to the hope that the Accursed Eternity was destroyed. Otherwise, what was the point of our Chapter’s sacrifice? I cannot allow myself to walk that dark path of thought. Its end is not a good one.’
The Chaplain laid his crozius on the table. ‘Brother-Sergeant Evander may be a concern for a while,’ he said softly. ‘His mind was weaker than I had hoped. He fell easily to the whispers of the daemon. We should watch him closely for a while.’
‘What of the Blood Swords?’ Ardashir and his men had travelled back to their own vessel for debriefing and to undergo care at the hands of their own Apothecary.
‘Exemplary,’ replied Iakodos without hesitation. ‘Those who whisper in the shadows against them, those who scorn them for their penitence should watch their words in future. They are well on the path to redemption.’
‘And you, Chaplain?’ Tanek turned his attentions to Iakodos. He had been through many campaigns with the Chaplain’s words of faith powering him forwards. But he had learned long ago that it did no harm to assess the spirituality of the most spiritual of them all.
‘I am…’ Iakodos sought for the words to describe how he felt. ‘I am cautious. Do I think that the Accursed Eternity is destroyed? I do not know either. If I were to speak plainly I would have to say that I do not believe it is the last we – or others of our kind – will see of that daemon-ship. The inquisitor believed he knew its name and its nature, but he was wrong. Those mistakes cost him his life and cost us even more dearly. But if we have banished the vessel, even if only for a time, we must look upon it as a success, high though the cost has been.’
His words held conviction, even if his eyes did not.
‘Aye,’ replied Tanek. ‘For the good of the Imperium. Ours is not to question why, Chaplain. Ours is merely to serve. We have to pick ourselves up from this blow and move forward with renewed purpose. It is our purpose.’
He was lost.
Not in space, but in time. Whatever foul warp magic had seen him step sideways into an entirely different causality had effectively ended any hope he might ever have had of returning to real space.
Staring around the enginarium of the Accursed Eternity, Korydon finally understood the reason for the ship’s name. In time, he came to know all that there was to know about it. After all, he had lived within its confines for centuries, maybe even millennia. His armour was old and corroded, and he had witnessed its history over and over. He had been here before. He would be here again. Of that, he was certain.
Without the life blood of the Star Dragons and Blood Swords on board the ship to sustain its physical presence, the daemon had faded back to the warp, trapped within its prison until the next time it was woken. Korydon was alone on board the cursed ship, but for the ever-present shifting ghosts of those who had once called this place home. They seemed unaware of his presence.
He was lost and he was alone. But he was not without hope. Just as the daemon had, Korydon had come to learn that every time events replayed themselves, every time the endless loop repeated, something changed. And one day, the change would come that would mean he could step from the shadows and once again take his place alongside his brothers.
When that day comes, I will exact revenge. Not even knowing if his prayers would be heard by the distant God-Emperor, Korydon swore himself to the moment.
He waited. He was faced with an eternity. It was all that he could do.
+++
Amaranthine encrypted message, code Theta Gamma Four Three Nine. Captain Tanek of the Star Dragons Third Company, presently designated commanding officer of Containment Fleet Kappa, hear this on the order of the Ordo Malleus. I send you greetings and demand your immediate compliance. There has been a reported sighting of the vessel matching archive description of the Accursed Eternity.
By the power vested in me and through my position within the holy Ordos, you are ordered to bring your fleet to the coordinates I will transmit following this message. This sighting warrants an immediate investigation and your fleet is the closest available. I will speak with you in person on your arrival.
Message ends.
+++
SANCTUS
I am betrayed, thinks Sergeant Halser. Betrayed.
‘Comus is down!’ howls Brother Volter over the vox. ‘Dea
d, maybe... I-I can’t be sure. They’ve taken the infirmary. I’m pulling back. What are your orders? Sergeant?’ His voice is broken, his words half-buried beneath the sound of artillery. ‘Are you there? Sergeant Halser?’
Halser keeps his gun pressed to the prophet’s head and gives no reply. The pilgrims scream at him from the shadows, but he keeps his gaze fixed on a pair of grotesque, fathomless eyes.
The prophet stares back.
Halser places his finger on the trigger.
‘I can save both of us,’ says the prophet. His head lolls inside his bowl-shaped helmet, suspended by a pale, thin neck and a gloop of viscous liquid. The solution distorts his voice, but he tries to contort his vowels into something more human, enunciating each word carefully, as though speaking to a child. He points a long, webbed finger at the man in the doorway. ‘They’ve lied to you. They have murdered us both. They knew exactly what would happen. They have always known.’
Halser follows his gaze and sees to his horror that Gideon Pylcrafte is laughing. No mouth is visible beneath his black hood, just a quivering mass of cables, but his amusement is clear. Halser’s resolve evaporates. His hand falters. If Pylcrafte saw this coming, the whole mission was a lie. Halser tries to marshal his thoughts. He tries to pray, but the sound of Brother Volter’s pain knifes into him, merged with the wailing of the pilgrims. The artillery grows louder until it seems the whole valley is groaning. The noise is unbearable and too loud to be just heavy guns. As the blasts ring around his head, Halser is forced to accept the truth.
The orbital bombardment has already begun.
Without Comus’s protection, his mind edges quickly towards collapse. The temporal distortion has reached its zenith and the pilgrims’ voices claw at his thoughts like blades across metal. He cannot be sure what is now and what was then. Simultaneously, he is leading the squad through the catacombs, slaughtering the pilgrims at the city gates and reaching the inner temple, but he knows that has already been. He stares deeper into the prophet’s misshapen eyes, trying to anchor himself.
‘Comus is down!’ howls Brother Volter over the vox. ‘Dead, maybe... I–I can’t be sure. They have taken the infirmary. I’m pulling back. What are your orders? Sergeant?’
Halser curses and looks back at the doorway. Time is collapsing. He has heard those words before, but how many times?
‘I will not let you live,’ he snaps, turning back to the prophet. The metallic ring of his amplified voice booms around the chamber. ‘You’re an abomination.’
The prophet’s bloated skull drifts to one side and splits open in a grin. ‘You have a ship and I have vision. The clouds are no barrier to me.’ He waves at Pylcrafte. ‘He’s wronged us both. Why should we accept our fate? We are the elect few. We have great work ahead of us. Great deeds.’
Halser shakes his head, but there is doubt kindling in his eyes. To shoot the prophet means death. Worse than that, it means failure. But what is the alternative? After everything he has seen, how could he let such a man live?
The prophet brushes his elongated fingers against Halser’s power armour. They trace around a filigreed skull and he narrows his eyes. ‘Why did you come to Madrepore, Relictor?’
The chamber lurches and the ground shifts. The enemy fire is closing in. Centuries-old marble tumbles from the vaulted ceiling. Ten-metre eagles splinter and crack, covering the floor with vast, broken wings.
‘Behold, the immutable will of the Emperor!’ cries Pylcrafte from the doorway, raising his voice over the cacophony. ‘You’re a proud fool, Sergeant Halser. This is all on your head. This is the price you pay for all your lowly, creeping misbelief and your repeated use of xenos–’
Halser silences him with a shot to the head. The blast echoes around the chamber and Pylcrafte crumples in a plume of blood. The cables in his hood twitch for a few seconds longer, then he lies still.
Halser turns away and presses his bolt pistol back against the prophet’s helmet. ‘You’re a mutant.’
‘And what are you, Relictor?’ The prophet’s glass helmet is now splattered with Pylcrafte’s blood but his voice remains defiant. He waves at the network of passageways that lead off from his throne room. ‘There are weapons here. Weapons we could use.’ His voice grows softer. ‘They lied to you, Relictor. All of them. Your fidelity is misplaced, don’t you see?’
Halser grimaces as the agonised chorus grows louder: Brother Volter’s desperate requests for orders, the chanting of the pilgrims, the groaning of the earth, the pounding of the guns. But worse than the noise is the doubt. How could Mortmain have tricked him? As the question torments Halser, the doubt turns to rage. Even his oldest friend does not believe in him, does not believe in his Chapter. He and his men have been sent to their deaths. Perhaps the braver act would be to listen to the prophet? ‘I will prove you wrong, Mortmain,’ he spits. ‘I will make you pay.’
As his fury grows, the déjà vu becomes unbearable. The prophet’s words loop around the chamber, growing louder with each repetition. Halser’s indecision grows and lights blossom in his head, merging with the crystals in the walls and the glyphs rolling across his visor. He sees a corona of sunlight around Ilissus, shimmering like spun gold as he breaks orbit and drops down into the storm.
Chapter One
‘Ilissus IV. Shrine World.’ Pylcrafte speaks in the awed tones of a supplicant. ‘Until the enemy seized control, this was one of the holiest sites in the galaxy. Before the dark days of the Heresy, the Emperor Himself trod its hallowed earth.’
As they fall from the heavens, the curvature of the planet vanishes, obscured by a tormented mass of thunderheads and tornadoes. The gunship begins to rattle and shake, but Sergeant Halser is distracted by the strangeness of the storms: strands of gilded vapour, rising from bottomless valleys of cloud. The whole planet is shrouded. It looks like a ghost.
‘And the clouds?’ he asks.
Pylcrafte lowers his voice. ‘A sign of the infernal transgressions that have doomed Ilissus, a badge of its utter corruption. This is the witchcraft Inquisitor Mortmain spoke of. The tempest is not natural, Sergeant Halser. It is the most profane manifestation of Chaos. The clouds appeared after the arrival of the Black Legion, three centuries ago, and they bleed heresy. They are sentient. Malevolent. A metamorphic likeness of nature. A cheap glamour, constructed to hide the face of the enemy. And their reach is growing longer.’
Halser is a bull-necked lump of rage. His slab-like features are flushed and trembling and his lips are curled back in a sneer. The glare he turns on Brother-Librarian Comus would shrivel a normal man.
Comus scowls back, undaunted, his eyes full of the same bitter fury.
‘What do you sense?’ growls Halser.
Comus shrugs his broad, armoured shoulders and looks down at something in the palm of his right hand. ‘Sorcery, yes, the libellus is clear on that, but in the clouds…?’ His scowl deepens as he turns towards Pylcrafte. ‘I’m sure Inquisitor Mortmain’s servant is correct.’
The gunship lurches again as the golden storm envelops its hull. Servitors scurry back and forth trying to silence alarms and steady flickering lights.
Halser punches the comms panel as though imagining it is someone’s face. ‘Thunderhawk Five, this is Thunderhawk Four. Brother Silvius, state your position.’
There is a burst of static, followed by a staccato, inhuman voice. ‘… Five… Navigation difficult… Unsure of altitude… Extreme turbulence…’ There is another burst of static, followed by: ‘Sergeant, I’m not sure if we can hold our–’
The connection dies, leaving a thin screech of feedback in its wake. Halser silences the machine and glares at it for a few seconds. Then he looks over at Pylcrafte. The turbulence has thrown him into his seat and his hood has fallen from his tonsured head, revealing the oily knot of cables where his face should be. Each coiled flex ends in a glistening, brass-rimmed lens, and as he turns towards Halser they focus on him with a series of whirring clicks.
‘Inquisitor Mortm
ain warned that landing would be difficult,’ says the inquisitor’s acolyte, ‘but as long as your men follow his counsel exactly, they will only be on the surface briefly. The planet is riddled with tunnels. They were wrought thousands of years ago by mendicants, before they yielded to the malign dominion of the Inferior Powers. The corruption in the air is clearly of no concern to heretics, but to us it could mean death, or even worse: transmutation. We must spend as little time in the open as possible.’
‘Mortmain mentioned the priests. He said they were connected to the original invasion.’
Pylcrafte nods. ‘They were confounded by the Ruinous Powers, and then they were butchered by the Black Legion.’ His voice trembles slightly. ‘And, to the eternal shame of the Ecclesiarchy, they brought it all on themselves. A group of senior priests were responsible for Ilissus. Who else could watch over a world where the Emperor once walked? But their deceit brought ignominy on their blessed brotherhood. The priests left in charge of the infamous Zeuxis Scriptorium became enamoured of certain artefacts, certain magic charms enshrined during the days of the Great Crusade.’ Pylcrafte pulls his hood back into place and withdraws his optical cables. He looks like a snail, retreating into its shell. ‘It’s a tale as old as the Imperium. What began as innocent research ended in loathsome idolatry. The doomed priests summoned the most vile, unspeakable malefactors into their temples. They handed over their souls to the Black Legion as a gift. It would seem that whatever they found in the scriptorium was too much for their simple faith to overcome. They were the architects of their own miserable fate.’
Comus clenches his fists and mutters to the floor. ‘And here we are, following in their footsteps.’
The spasms in Halser’s face grow more noticeable as he struggles to keep his voice low. ‘Mortmain sent us. Why would he do that if he thought we were insufficient for the task?’
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