‘Kill it,’ he whispers, but nobody hears.
The writhing mass lurches up from the shadows and the soldiers back away in horror. The thing that was Kaleb is now a five-metre nest of twitching limbs, surrounding a yellow, egg-shaped sack that quivers with revolting, subcutaneous shapes.
‘Kill it!’ repeats the baron. His voice is now a scream and before his men have a chance to respond, he begins firing his laspistol at the nightmarish vision.
Gunfire throws back the darkness for a second time, as the soldiers unleash a desperate volley of las-fire at the approaching colossus. The light is dazzling. It is impossible to see anything clearly so the soldiers fire blind, screaming as they register the full horror of what they have seen. The onslaught continues for several minutes, until finally the baron calls a halt.
As the echoes and smoke drift away the soldiers peer at the distant, hulking shape blocking the far end of the corridor.
Someone screams.
The monster has absorbed every shot as a welcome, nourishing feast. The featureless sack that passes for its head is now pulsing with inner fire and its jumble of spider limbs has swelled to three times the size, completely filling the passageway.
A few of the men begin firing again. A few drop to their knees and clutch their heads, their minds splintered. The rest turn and flee, dropping their guns as they race past the baron and disappear into the dark.
‘Uncle,’ gasps Captain Thayer, pulling at the baron’s arm. ‘Run.’ To his horror, he realises that his uncle’s face has gone slack and his eyes are fixed in an unblinking stare, locked on the undulating mass squeezing down the passageway. He tries again to drag the baron after his fleeing men, but van Tol will not move. Thayer keeps his gaze averted from the approaching mass, sure his mind will break if he looks at it even briefly, but he senses that the featureless sack is turned towards his uncle, as though the monster has singled him out amongst the crowd of terrified soldiers. ‘Uncle,’ he repeats in a tremulous wail, barely recognisable as speech. Finally, as he sees the forest of limbs in the corner of his vision, slithering across the ground towards him, he lets go of the baron’s arm and bolts, sprinting after the others.
The baron is not conscious of his nephew’s departure. He is not conscious of the figures dashing past him. He is not even conscious of his own being. All he sees is the vast, pallid, featureless head looming out of the darkness, fixed determinedly on him.
The creature heaves its awkward, pulsating bulk the last few metres to the baron, then reaches out with several of its triple jointed limbs. It grasps the baron in a delicate embrace and picks him carefully from the ground, lifting him towards its trembling, bloated head. For a second it holds him there, just a few centimetres away from the gleaming expanse of skin, then it shoves him through the membrane with a liquid plop and he vanishes from view.
The baron finds himself drowning in a saffron-coloured sea. The liquid fills his ears and rushes down his throat but, despite the absurd horror of his situation, van Tol feels a part of his mind step back, calmly removing itself from the agony of his death throes. This fragment of sentience is not even surprised to hear a voice, drifting through the yellow fluid.
‘Baron van Tol,’ it says in a perfectly reasonable tone.
The baron feels an inexplicable swell of pride that his murderer should know his name.
‘What is down there, baron, on Ilissus?’
The baron’s lungs are already full of the creature’s fluid and there is no way he can form speech, but as life slips away from him, he answers with his mind, delighted to be able to answer the god-like being that is digesting him.
He feels sure his answer will come as a surprise.
Chapter Ten
Gideon Pylcrafte kneels in the dust and mutters a prayer. The towers rising up ahead of him defy all logic. They resemble the fossil of a tornado, preserved at its most destructive: frozen, twisted spirals of rock, ten times taller than anything they have yet seen. They lean and bulge in a way that should send them toppling to the ground, but instead of falling they weave several kilometres up into the churning sky, towering over everything. ‘Sweet, merciful Emperor,’ moans Pylcrafte, shaking his mass of cables, ‘save us from this place.’
Sergeant Halser lets out a bitter laugh. ‘I think we will have to save ourselves.’
Halser, Comus and the rest of the squad are stood behind Pylcrafte on a lip of rock, also surveying the mountainous towers. If they feel any of Pylcrafte’s horror, it is hidden behind their expressionless helmets. Only the Librarian has his face exposed to the needling dust and he is poring over the book chained to his power armour.
‘According to the libellus,’ he says, tracing a finger over the murky screen, ‘the Emperor once paused here to rest. In those days the planet was a verdant haven, full of life. The natives flooded the towns and cities, showering their saviour with rose petals and chanting His name. It must have been something to see.’ Comus looks up and his face is a mask of pain. Blood is flowing freely from his eyes and his skin is as grey as the lifeless rocks. He closes the book. ‘Whoever rules this place now is a saviour of a different kind.’
Sergeant Halser nods. Even through the grille of his helmet his voice betrays his excitement. ‘But a saviour nonetheless.’ He nods at Pylcrafte. ‘Inquisitor Mortmain believed this place was crawling with the Black Legion. And what have we seen? A few pitiful stragglers at most. This prophet clearly has great weapons at his command.’
Pylcrafte climbs to his feet and points his cane in the direction of the towering peaks. ‘How can you say such things? Look at that! It reeks of sorcery! My master gave you license to investigate ruins, not to consort with magicians and apostates!’
Halser grips the hilt of his chainsword and speaks in a series of explosive barks. ‘Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.’
Mortmain’s acolyte clutches an I-shaped medallion as though it will ward off the sergeant’s fury. ‘I am my master’s eyes and ears, Sergeant Halser, you would do well to remember that.’
Halser lets out an incoherent howl and rises up over him, but Comus steps forwards and places a hand on his arm, looking at him with pain-filled eyes.
Halser backs away with a curse and waves his men towards the towering shapes. ‘Don’t just stand there, move!’
The Relictors climb down from the lip of rock and start making their way across a featureless plain towards the warped peaks. The scene resembles a clearing in a forest of stone, and as the Space Marines lurch and stumble through the knee-deep dust, they keep their guns trained on the horizon, conscious of how exposed they are, even in the golden, hazy dusk. As they near the columns of rock they realise they are the beginnings of a bizarre mountain range. As they climb a gradual incline, they see dozens more of the teetering spires stretching away across the horizon.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ calls Sergeant Halser through the swirling dust.
Comus nods. His chin and neck are slick with blood and his face is white with pain. He is leaning heavily on one of the other Relictors. ‘The xenos device is pointing here. The Zeuxis Scriptorium is hidden somewhere in these mountains. And the air is so thick with prayers, I can hardly breathe.’ He waves weakly over the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘They are coming to greet you.’
Halser peers through the clouds and sees a group of tiny silhouettes rippling through the storm. He signals for his men to fan out and keep their guns on the approaching figures.
Even in their servo-powered suits, the Space Marines find it almost impossible to walk through the shifting terrain and it takes another fifteen minutes to reach the men. There are three of them: skeletal, shaven-headed wretches dressed in white, priestly robes. As they bow in greeting, light flickers across the star-shaped crystals embedded in their foreheads. Each of them has a line of thick, black stitches where their eyes should be.
‘Heretics,’ mutters Pylcrafte inside his hood, quietly enough that Sergeant Halser does not hear. ‘How can they see without
eyes? Unless they have witch-sight.’
‘Friends!’ cries one of the men in heavily accented Low Gothic, holding up his hands in greeting.
Sergeant Halser notices that none of them are carrying weapons but keeps his gun raised just the same. ‘Who are you?’
The man beams back at him, delighted by the question. ‘We’re the Sons of Astraeus.’ He signals for the two men behind him to approach. ‘I’m Frater Gortyn. This is Frater Eusebius. And this is Frater Carmina. We are Pilgrims of the Sacred Light.’ He points at the tower behind them. ‘It is by our will, and the will of Astraeus himself that you have been allowed to find your way here.’
Sergeant Halser feels his hackles rising at the word ‘allowed’ but manages to keep his reply reasonably civil. ‘And where is “here”?’
Frater Gortyn steps towards him with his hands still outstretched in greeting and Halser notices that they are wrapped in a silken mesh that stretches around his fingers, giving them a webbed appearance.
The pilgrim’s smile grows even wider. ‘You have found that which the enemy never could.’ He looks past the Space Marines to the rocky outcrop at the edge of the plain. ‘But we should talk once we are safely through the catacombs. Even now, the Great Enemy has not completely withdrawn from Ilissus. Astraeus has recently turned his thoughts to the celestial bodies. He cannot devote as much time to material concerns as he once did.’ The pilgrim waves at the mountains. ‘We can relax once we are in the city.’
Sergeant Halser gives Comus a questioning glance, but the Librarian’s only reply is a shrug.
At the sight of Halser’s hesitation, Frater Gortyn’s smile falters. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘We have travelled a long way,’ replies Halser. ‘We have come from the celestial bodies that you mentioned, in search of an ancient scriptorium. Have you heard of such a thing? It was once known as the Zeuxis Scriptorium.’
The pilgrim smiles again and makes a strange little gesture with his hands, as though scattering light from the crystal in his head. ‘Astraeus knows everything.’ His voice is a droning chant. ‘All questions shall be answered. All truths shall be revealed.’
Halser studies the white-clad figures for a moment, taking in their thin, wasted bodies, gangly, feeble limbs and gaunt, eyeless faces. Despite the eagle designs daubed on their robes, everything about them screams heretic. He has seen the same vacant, blissful smile countless times before, on a hundred worlds, and it has only ever meant one thing: corruption. Without looking back he can sense Inquisitor Mortmain’s lackey staring at him, willing him to execute them, and for once he is not sure that Pylcrafte’s puritanism is misplaced. Doubt grips him and quickly morphs into anger. He feels as though he is teetering on the brink of something without knowing which way to fall. He scowls at his men as they wait patiently for his next move; their faith in him is as complete as it is unquestioning. Even Comus is staring at him, his eyes as full of hope as they are of blood. Halser looks past him at the sunset. The knotted branches of cloud are taking on a crimson sheen as the day’s light slips from the sky. Only a few more hours, he thinks.
He turns back to the mutilated pilgrims. ‘I am Sergeant Halser. We are the Emperor’s Adeptus Astartes. Lead on.’
Chapter Eleven
Captain Thayer van Tol weeps as he runs, sprinting past crowds of wailing crewmen, Imperial Navy officers and his own, whimpering guards.
Behind him the Domitus is being devoured.
The battleship screams along with its crew as a monster tears into its brittle flesh.
The captain flings open a door and pounds up a flight of stairs, struggling to maintain his balance as a series of violent spasms rock the corridor, tearing support struts from the walls and firing rivets across the splintering floor. He slices through the carnage and bolts into a vast, open space. The ceiling disappears into cavernous darkness, only interrupted by the occasional winged saint, peering down sadly at the crowds flooding into one of the Domitus’s launch bays.
As he joins the terrified throng, Captain Thayer sees he was not the first to think of abandoning the doomed battleship. Thousands of desperate souls are clawing over each other in an attempt to reach the hulking rows of frigates and cruisers.
‘Make way for House van Tol!’ he cries, but his voice is lost, drowned beneath the general clamour. ‘Let me through!’ he demands, but nobody hears.
The chorus of screams grows as a vast shape tears through the wall on one side of the hangar. As the dust and debris settles, it becomes clear that Cerbalus has grown to surreal proportions. As its limbs unfold from the shadows, they dwarf even the beleaguered spacecraft, crumpling armoured hulls like tinfoil as they carry the daemon into the chamber. Then the egg-like head swings into view, hanging over the shrieking crowds like a sloshing, glistening moon.
Once more, Captain Thayer manages to look away before he takes in the full horror of the thing. He feels his mind tremble on the edge of collapse, but manages not to plunge fully into the abyss. Others are less lucky. All around him rows of hardened crewmen drop to their knees, howling and clawing at their own eyes in an attempt to remove the vision that has ruined their minds.
The Navigator shouts prayers as he turns and flees back the way he came, vaulting over the toppling, drooling ranks of crewmen. He is conscious that the impossible monster is ploughing through the crowds towards him. The screams leap in pitch again as the thing stuffs hundreds of pitiful souls into its quivering head, spilling yellow fluid onto the crowds as it attempts to satisfy a dreadful, centuries-old hunger.
Thayer makes it back to the doorway, but sees to his horror that the stairs have collapsed. ‘Emperor preserve us,’ he gasps, looking around for another exit.
Those still sane enough to control their limbs are now flooding back out of the hangar and Captain Thayer finds himself barged and jostled into a corner. Terror overcomes him and he draws his laspistol. ‘Stand back!’ he screams, levelling the gun at rows of ashen faces. Nobody hears him and after a glimpse of the creature’s teetering, spider-like limbs, a pistol does not make much of an impression.
As the crowds press closer Thayer loses control and begins firing indiscriminately into the crowd. Men, women and children are indistinguishable to him as he attempts to blast a path to another door. As quickly as the bodies tumble to the floor, more rush into the gaps they create. However desperately he fires, the captain only manages to move at a snail’s pace, and all the while he senses the huge shape looming closer – smashing through the remaining ships and tearing statues from the balconies overhead.
‘Let me through!’ he screams again and, this time, to his amazement, the figures ahead of him do actually move to one side. Captain Thayer can barely believe his luck as he rushes towards the door.
He has only taken a few steps when he sees the reason for the gap in the crowd. A towering, glittering figure is striding towards him: a Space Marine, wearing flashing plates of unpainted power armour and carrying a halberd that shimmers with blue light. As he smashes effortlessly though the crowd, the Space Marine makes a formidable sight. The sheer bulk of him is incredible and every inch of the warrior is clad in thick, gleaming plate.
‘Wait!’ cries Captain Thayer, reaching out to the Space Marine, but he finds himself barged unceremoniously to one side as the warrior ploughs through the crowds towards the still-growing monster.
The captain scrambles back to his feet and manages to climb onto the pedestal of a broken statue. As he looks out over the heaving throng, he catches other glimpses of silver, appearing at various points in the vast, shifting darkness. It seems almost as though they are arriving from nowhere. As Thayer watches in disbelief seven of the glittering figures materialise from the shadows and begin charging towards the mountain of thrashing limbs.
Thayer looks back at the door and sees that he has a chance to escape, but he finds he cannot leave. The scene unfolding before him is like a tale from the oldest legends: a giant creature from the warp, surrounded by glitter
ing, armour-clad knights. The captain forgets his terror for a moment as he watches the Space Marines charge towards the thing that is devouring the ship.
The monster lifts its mountainous pile of limbs, severing a cluster of fuel pipes and spilling gouts of blue flame across the hangar. Whole swathes of the crowd ignite and their agonised shadows begin to dance and writhe across the walls.
The fire does not slow the Space Marines and as they race towards the writhing monster they raise their halberds with mute synchronicity, levelling the pulsing blades at its huge, arachnid limbs.
At the last minute, Captain Thayer looks away, unwilling to watch the creature feed on its silver-clad attackers. Then, rather than the sounds of messy consumption he was expecting, he hears a new sound: a thin, piercing whistle, so loud he has to clamp his hands over his ears. He looks back and sees to his amazement that the vile creature is rearing up in pain. The Space Marines’ weapons are embedded deep in its legs and their power has spread across its flesh in a network of glittering, sapphire veins.
As he follows the lines of light, Thayer sees that they are racing towards the warp creature’s featureless, sack-like head. The captain howls in fear, realising too late that he has made a terrible mistake: in his excitement he has looked directly at the thing. His mind recoils from the insanity of it. ‘Mercy,’ he groans, sliding down the pedestal onto the trembling floor. No mercy is forthcoming as his thoughts race down avenues best left unexplored. In a fraction of a second the captain perceives all the dreadful, pitiless lunacy of the universe. ‘Mercy, mercy, mercy,’ he repeats as screaming, burning figures barge past him. His shattered thoughts present him with a variety of disturbing images, one of which might be reality. He sees the monster lash out with its countless limbs, sending a Space Marine spinning through the air like a child’s toy. The warrior flies up towards the gloomy, vaulted ceiling of the hangar, then plummets back down into the hellish inferno.
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