25 For 25

by Various

  She continued to fire her bolter into the enemy without caring any longer whether she hit them or not. It became an act of sheer venomous loathing.

  After a few short moments, she became aware that outside her immediate sphere of awareness the sounds of battle had ceased. Only one weapon continued to fire and that was hers. It did not detract from her focus, however, and she poured ammunition at the enemy until the last bolter shell clattered to the floor.

  One of the enemy, bareheaded and terrible, moved from the pack to stand before her.

  ‘You are Sister Brigitta of the Order of the Iron Rose,’ he stated. It was not a question. She looked up into his inhuman face and drew in a rasping breath. She had seen un-helmed Space Marines warriors before and was used to their over-exaggerated features. But this… creature… that stood before her was so far removed from anything even remotely human that she felt, against her will, the urge to scream in incoherent contempt. A poisonous air of evil came from him and she felt sick to her stomach.

  She began to quietly recite litanies of faith to herself, never once taking her gaze from this augmetic monstrosity. She neither confirmed nor denied the accusation of her identity but instead ripped the combat blade from its sheath at her side and plunged it the traitor’s throat. Blackheart sighed wearily before catching her wild lunge on the back of his claw. Then, with excruciating care, not wanting to kill her outright, he backhanded her into unconsciousness.

  She was like a rag doll in his arms, limp and lifeless, and as he carried Sister Brigitta into the chamber, Huron Blackheart marvelled as he always did at the papery inefficacy of the human body. He wondered how it was they had any resilience without the enhancements that he shared with all his gene-bred brothers. Brigitta’s face where he had struck her was distorted. He had fractured her cheekbone at the very least and purple bruising was swelling up around her jaw. Her braided hair had come loose and hung freely down.

  Dengesha turned to study them. He had removed his helm and Huron was struck once again by the wriggling sigils that marked the sorcerer’s face. ‘You did not kill her?’

  ‘She is merely unconscious. Allow me a little credit.’

  ‘Then lay her next to the vessel and I can begin the ritual.’ Already Dengesha had made the preparations for the rite that would bind the potent soul to the cursed vial. The green bottle lay on its side, an innocuous and inanimate object. Around the chamber, Dengesha had marked out a number of unreadable symbols, each one drawn at the point of what formed the eight-pointed star of Chaos. One each of his cabal stood at seven of the points, the top-most remaining free and evidently waiting for Dengesha’s leisure.

  Huron moved forward and dumped Brigitta’s body without any ceremony on the ground where the sorcerer indicated. He noted as he did so that the sigils drawn on the floor were marked in blood; most likely from that of the dead soldiers.

  ‘You should step outside the borders of the mark, my lord. Once we channel the powers necessary to perform the binding, they will be potent.’

  From beyond the broken walls of the temple, the distant sounds of shouting could be heard. The assistance that the temple guards had called for was finally arriving. Huron nodded to several of his warriors who moved wordlessly out of the chamber.

  ‘They cannot be allowed to enter this place whilst I am working. The balance of this work is delicate.’

  ‘My men will keep them away.’ Huron took several steps back. ‘Trust to their abilities to do that. I, however, will remain.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Huron Blackheart had witnessed many rituals of this kind in his life, but he had never seen one driven with such determination and single-minded focus. He watched Dengesha closely as the sorcerer moved back to take his point at the tip of the star and listened intently to the words that he recited. It did him little good, as the sorcerer spoke in some arcane tongue that Huron did not understand, though the inflection was clear.

  The seven other members of the Heterodox echoed his words, one at a time until the chant was being repeated with a discordant, impossible to follow rhythm. The sound grew and swelled and all the while there was the underscore of another battle taking place beyond the temple walls.

  A thick black substance, like tar from a pit, began to bubble up in the space marked out by the points of the star. It rose upwards, never spilling over the edge of its limits and coated first the bottle and then the unconscious Sister Brigitta in a film of inky blackness. Dengesha’s chant became almost musical, as though he were singing. His eyes were fevered and his expression one of pure ecstasy.

  The thick, gelatinous substance became more and more viscous and at some point during its creeping encroachment, Brigitta stirred from her unconsciousness. Realising that she was being smothered, she opened her mouth to cry out. The fluid rushed into her mouth and she began to choke on it, writhing desperately on the floor as she struggled to breathe.

  As soon as that happened, Dengesha stepped forward from his position and moved to stand above her. Huron watched, leaning forward ever so slightly. This was it. This was the moment. He had made countless pacts and agreements to reach this point and so had his followers. This was the point at which it would all pay off. Or the point at which it would fail.

  Outside, the sounds of gunfire had stopped, but the Chaos sorcerer paid no heed.

  Dengesha looked down at the wriggling human woman with a look of total contempt, then reached to take her arm firmly in his grip. He guided it to the glass vial and placed her hand upon it, wrapping his gauntlets around her tiny hands. He then spoke the only words that Huron could understand.

  ‘Be forever bound.’

  The oily liquid began to slowly ebb away, draining until all that remained was the faintest slick on the ground. Brigitta, who was in tremendous pain and almost frozen with terror stared at the green vial, then she stared up at the sorcerer.

  Then, summoning every ounce of strength and fortitude she possessed, she spat in his face. Dengesha began to laugh, a hateful, booming sound that bounced around the walls of the chamber and resonated in everyone’s vox-bead.

  Then abruptly the laughter stopped and a look of utmost dread crept slowly over Dengesha’s face. His fist, which had been ready to crush Brigitta’s skull suddenly opened out flat. His face slackened, his posture changed and he slouched suddenly as though wearied.

  And Huron smiled at him.

  ‘What is this treachery?’ The sorcerer spun around to face the Tyrant of Badab, who stood watching him with an air of amusement. ‘What have you done, Blackheart?’

  ‘Ah, Dengesha. Your fate was sealed the moment you took the vial from me. You were quite right. I needed a potent soul. And my sorcerers found me one. Yours, in fact. And now, with the ritual of binding complete, your soul and the vial are united. You quite literally belong to me.’

  ‘This is not possible! There is no way you could have… your sorcerers are nothing compared to the glory of the Heterodox!’

  ‘Ah, arrogance has been the downfall of many a brother of the Adeptus Astartes over the millennia, brother. My sorcerers may not be as powerful as you and your former cabal, but they are far more cunning.’ Seemingly bored of the conversation, Huron moved around the chamber, occasionally turning over the body of a fallen soldier with his booted foot. He picked up a boltgun, empty of ammunition and dropped it back down with a clang.

  Dengesha’s face was fury itself and he reached out to the powers of the warp. But none of them answered him. His black, tainted soul was no longer his to command. He looked to each of his cabal in turn and for their part, they turned from him.

  ‘You all knew of this,’ he stated flatly. ‘You betrayed me to this cur…’

  ‘Come now, Dengesha. If you seek to wound my feelings, you will have to try a lot harder than that.’ Huron stooped and picked up a meltagun. ‘My agents have been dealing with your cabal for months. They agree that their prospects with me and my Corsairs are more interesting than a lifetime of servitude
under your leadership. It has been vexing, true – but I think you will agree that the ultimate reward is well worth it.’

  On the ground, Sister Brigitta was listening to the exchange without understanding it. All she knew was that these two traitors were speaking such heresy as it was almost unbearable to be a party to.

  Dengesha stared at Huron’s back with a look that could have killed and perhaps once, before his soul had been plucked from his body, could have done.

  ‘So you see, Dengesha. In a way, my promise to you is truth. Now that your Heterodox are part of my Corsairs, they will help themselves to the spoils of this world. You, however…’

  The Tyrant of Badab crossed the distance between them with uncanny speed and fired the meltagun at the sorcerer. His head was vaporised and seconds later, what remained of his body crashed to the ground. Brigitta gazed up at Huron and there was a look of serene understanding on her face. Her doom was come and it was clad in the desecrated armour of the Imperium of Man.

  ‘My faith is my shield,’ she said, softly. The words rang hollow in her ears.

  ‘No,’ said Huron, equally softly as one of the claws of his hand tore through her breast and skewered her. He raised her to eye level. ‘It is not. And it never was.’

  She let out a sigh as she died and slid free from his claw to the floor below. Without looking at the two corpses at his feet, Huron reached up and plucked the vial from the ground, reattaching it to his belt.

  Sometimes, Huron Blackheart kept his word. But this was not one of those times. He did not care who he betrayed to reach his goals. Loyal servants of the Imperium or those who served the dark gods of Chaos. It made little difference to him. The end always justified the means.

  ‘Take what we need,’ he said. ‘And then we leave.’

  ‘It worked perfectly.’

  ‘Surely you did not doubt, my Lord?’ Valthex turned the vial over in his hand before handing it back to Huron.

  ‘The curse worked exactly as you said it would. Thanks to your efforts, my familiar now has the strength it needs to grant me the blessing of the four beyond the Maelstrom. Well done, Armenneus.’

  ‘I live to serve, Blood Reaver.’ Valthex dropped a low, respectful bow and Huron stalked away. Straightening himself up, the Alchemancer absently rubbed at a sigil branded into the skin of his hand.

  It was not just the Tyrant who made pacts. The Patriarch would have to wait to see when he would be called upon to deliver his side of the bargain.

  ON MOURNFUL WINGS

  Simon Spurrier

  The sky became a mirror, reflecting the ocean’s anger. Tangled clouds flexed and boiled, wrestling for supremacy of the horizon.

  A wall of wind and dust and water ripped from the maelstrom like a talon snatching at the land.

  Someone screamed.

  Everyone died.

  Ica lurched awake, the memory of screaming voices withdrawing into his mind.

  Around him the glider shuddered, inexpertly-fitted fuselage protesting at the pressures beyond. A rusted bolt dropped from the seal above his head and clattered on the floor.

  He couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Dalus slept fitfully beside him. Ica wondered if he shared his twin’s dark-rimmed eyes, prematurely lined features and weary, malnourished complexion. Probably. Sleep had become tortuous since… since then.

  Dalus mumbled and fidgeted in his uncomfortable seat, disturbed.

  The glider’s descent became more pronounced and several passengers, all boys of thirteen, whispered urgent prayers of protection. A tortured creak announced the deployment of ancient landing gear.

  Let it break, said a voice in Ica’s head. Let it hit the runway and splinter into a thousand pieces. Let us spin along that narrow strip of plascrete above Table City, detonating like a messy citrusbloom and sitting there, half buried under granite landslides, flaming and screaming and dying.

  There had been a priest in the tiny Ecclesiarchy chapel at Kultoom, a priest with one eye and one flickering ocular implant. He had scars on both cheeks and the bulge of dog-tags concealed beneath his sackcloth robes. Sitting there in the shuddering glider, wishing for oblivion, Ica remembered the priest’s words with a guilty wince. ‘Seek not escape from misery in death,’ the voice droned, eye clicking and whirring in the gloom, ‘for He That Is Most Mighty gathers not the Selfish Dead to his side.’

  The priest was dead now. Everyone in Kultoom was dead now.

  The glider landed amid the rain lashed chimneys of Table City with the baby scream of salt-clogged brakes. Its confused passengers disembarked meekly.

  The principal city of Gathis II was a desolate metropolis: a scaled-up echo of the tribal communities and lugubrious villages dotting the few areas of planetary dry land. Ramshackle dwellings clustered around one another for protection, smeared with the planet’s only resource: chamack oil.

  Produced from the pulped remains of chamack weed, the viscous sludge was exported by the Administratum as a cheap but foul-smelling sealant. Day and night the cargo gliders ferried their odoriferous loads from distant island-tribes, a whole year’s harvest barely filling a single glider. Competition for access to the aquatic plantations was fierce and regularly bloody.

  Ica pushed his face against rain-splattered blast shields as an enormous vessel lifted from the ground, clouds of dust writhing like gaseous tendrils.

  ‘Wonder where they go?’ Dalus said, tired-looking eyes tracking the slab of metal into the brooding rain clouds.

  Ica nodded. Inside, a voice said: It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

  ‘Keep moving!’ someone called, and both twins returned to the winding line of youths, herded along by men in thick rain-cloaks. They trudged through the skyport, between looming parades of Imperial ships with their massive, mysterious engines.

  ‘Question not your lot in this life,’ the priest had said, his his dead voice echoing through Ica’s mind. ‘Be content to serve Him-Upon-The-Throne – however humble your station.’

  Along the line Ica could see inquisitive eyes goggling at the gargantuan treasures looming on either side. Their expressions said, ‘How do they work?’ ‘Where do they go?’ ‘What’s out there?’ But they’d never know; never leave the rain-pocked surfaces of Gathis; never see the stars.

  And nothing they had ever done would be remembered.

  A building loomed ahead, archaic façade crumbling. Its steep sides, surmounted by spines and sneering gargoyles, stood incongruous among the surrounding dockyards. With growing unease Ica realised the youths were headed directly for a gaping set of loading doors on the building’s side.

  Above, carved from vast stone slabs, stretching in a magnificent halo of angular symmetry, was a set of stylised feathers, angular and black. Not the graceful arcs of Administratum heraldry, with their sweeping curves and adamantium omegas; but rather squared and clipped, arranged in a brutal phalanx. And at the crux of the jagged raptor wings, watching with mute melancholia, an ivory-white death-masque cast its gaze down upon the column of youths.

  A winged skull.

  The sky rumbled distantly. The twins barely bothered to look up. ‘Another storm,’ Dalus grumbled, tinkering with his stretch-wings. Ica pushed at a ratchet joint and nodded.

  ‘Mountain ghosts having a brawl, father?’ he grinned.

  The twins’ father smiled, features creasing like old leather. He leaned over Ica’s shoulder and helped tighten the wing-brace, tousling his son’s hair warmly. ‘That they are, son.’

  Across the room, Dalus watched the movement closely, then returned to improving his glider with renewed vigour.

  Ica had never seen so many people. The interior of the building seemed endless, ebony horizons pulling away on every side, gazing down upon an infinite ocean of young, bewildered heads.

  ‘Every male of age thirteen to be present at Table City upon the thirteenth day of the thirteenth lunar month of every year. By Imperial command.’

  Every year the same: the glider
s would come to Kultoom and collect the youths. And sometimes, once in every decade, not all of them would return.

  Inducted into the Imperial Navy, the rumour went.

  Or sent as cannon fodder to fight the orks.

  Or offered as a sacrifice to the Emperor’s glory.

  Or any one of a thousand different possibilities, all of them rich with uncertainty and legend.

  Sent to appease the angry mountain ghosts, one rumour went.

  Something far above screeched like a craghawk and a shape parted with the ceiling-shadows, resolving into a metallic platform suspended upon chains. The murmuring of thousands of youths arose throughout the chamber, a choir of fear and uncertainty.

  The platform creaked to a pendulous halt far above and silence spread like a net.

  The air was greasy and tense, spiderlegs scuttled up the spine and static whispered through the ears and nose.

  Spotlights flickered to life, each a miniature thunderclap.

  ‘Look,’ Dalus said. Ica followed his gaze and there, threading through the crowd, were the black-robed minders who had ferried the boys from the gliders. Every so often they would stop, lizardlike, and tilt their heads, then scurry off again in another direction. Sometimes they’d look up at the distant platform as if someone stood there, watching, directing.

  And then they began to Choose. A hand would reach out and tap at a shoulder, blindly feeling for – what? And then three or four of the ebony figures would close in, dragging away each victim in a knot of limbs.

  Ica had expected shrill pleas for help: oh Emperor, don’t let them take me! But no, those who were taken seemed placid, cowed somehow. Not one of them cried out.

  Then something stabbed at Ica’s mind. Something that crawled through his brain and knew everything. Something that said, Yes, you’re correct not to care. You’re already dead, and you know it.

  And when black-gloved hands closed on his arms and hauled him away into the shadows, he didn’t cry out in alarm. He didn’t even mutter a prayer under his breath because, after all, what good would it do?