The Plagues of Orath

by Various

  ‘Say again, Meleki?’

  Kerna could barely make out what his fellow pilot was yelling across the vox, the Doom Eagle’s voice distorted by the waves of white noise which squealed through the speakers.

  He had a suspicion that his battle-brother was congratulating him on the amount of Plague Zombies and Plaguebearers he had mowed down during their last pass.

  ‘Stow the celebrations,’ Kerna muttered beneath his breath, throwing the Heart into a turn. The two Stormtalons peeled away from each other as they came around, warning bells lost in the rushing wind of the open cockpit. ‘We’re a long way from saving the day yet.’

  They were the last words Kerna would ever utter.

  In the Endurance, Meleki pulled hard on his stick.

  ‘Kerna, did the sergeant make it?’ he shouted, fighting against the sheer force of the gees the gunship was pulling. ‘Kerna?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Channel’s finally fried,’ Meleki told himself, the pressure of the turn bearing down at him. The Stormtalon levelled off as it came about. ‘No need for the vox. We can do this in our sleep, eh Kerna.’

  They had practised the manoeuvre time and time again, coming in at 90 degrees, Kerna slightly ahead. They’d cross, turn and repeat the tactic, firing directly into the ground forces with every pass.

  The damned didn’t stand a chance.

  Until now.

  The thing was flying up towards the Heart of Sorrow. Up from the ground, not dropping from the skies. Its scythe-like wings were flattened out, claws reaching up towards Kerna’s gunship. The fang-lined jaws were wide open, baleflamer jutting forward like a perverted metallic tongue.

  And then there was the noise. The beast’s profane howl was indescribable, like a nightmare being torn in two; an unearthly wail that threatened to shatter even the sanest of minds.

  There was nothing rational about the daemon engine that had pushed itself up from the very bowels of the planet itself.

  It was a Heldrake – a winged daemon engine forged at the heart of the warp. Once a gunship much like the Endurance, the Heldrake had been twisted beyond recognition. It no longer resembled any aircraft he had ever seen, taking the form of an apocalyptic dragon from ancient legend. Deep within the monstrous form, the withered body of the original steersman was cocooned in a nest of cable and bone, his flesh fused with the distorted metal, soul devoured long ago by the daemons that breathed infernal life into the war craft.

  The ultimate predator of the skies.

  And one that had Kerna in its sights.

  The Heart of Sorrow slewed to the right, trying to avoid collision, but it was hopeless. The Stormtalon was dwarfed by the mechanical atrocity that moved in for the kill.

  The Heldrake grabbed at the gunship like a craghawk snatching a sparrow, talons slicing easily through the aircraft’s armour plating.

  ‘Kerna!’

  The craft seemed to hang in the air for a second, locked in a deadly embrace, before the Heldrake dropped its fearsome head and disgorged its baleflamer into Kerna’s cockpit. The Heart of Sorrow exploded into a ball of blinding flame.

  Without even thinking, Meleki turned the Endurance’s nose into the fireball and opened fire, lascannons flashing ahead.

  With a bellow of victory, the Heldrake burst from the firestorm, flying straight towards the Stormtalon.

  Fifteen

  Artorius didn’t wait to see what had burst from the ground, or witness the fate of his Stormtalons. There was no callousness in the act. There was nothing a lone Space Marine on the ground could do to save them now, but he might still be able to protect the Key.

  Grunting with the effort, Artorius swung the heavy tower doors shut just as the first of the damned scrambled over the churned ground to reach the threshold. Their rotten fingernails scratched at the ancient wood as he slammed the heavy deadlocks home, the infected horde’s lamentations muffled by solid oak imported from the forests of Macragge.

  The devastation of the courtyard hadn’t reached the interior of the tower, the keep’s foundations standing firm. Artorius ripped his wrecked red helm from his head, expecting cool air against his bruised skin. Instead the atmosphere was humid, sweat immediately prickling against his neck.

  ‘Now, Vabion,’ he asked into the relative quiet of the entrance chamber, ‘where is this shrine of yours?’

  His eyes fell across a trail that ran across the floor. He crouched down, stopping short of running his gauntleted fingers over the flagstones. A kaleidoscope of splattered juices; greens, browns and red, no doubt dripped from the Plague Marines festering bodies.

  ‘Mixed with Vabion’s blood,’ he acknowledged grimly, filtering the unearthly shrieks from outside. Gripping his bolter tightly he marched forwards, following the grisly path, heading deeper into the structure.

  By the time he’d found the aquila chamber and started to descend the stairs to the shrine, Artorius’s vision was beginning to swim.

  It made no sense. His injuries were hardly severe. Why was he feeling this way? He stopped, pinching the bridge of his broken nose with trembling fingers. The bones had already set, albeit flattened against his face.

  Then he saw his glove. The ceramite was pitted and chipped. The damage continued down his arm, across his chest. As some points the armour had completely rusted away.

  ‘The Champion,’ he hissed, realising what had happened. He had been splashed by Naracoth’s blood – not once, but twice. When he had fired into the Chaos lord’s chest and when the grenade had detonated. It had eaten through his power armour, exposing him to whatever toxins the traitorous dog had been incubating. Then there was the Plague Marine. He had literally knelt in its filth, breathing in the gases escaping from its decaying flesh as it had died.

  ‘Protect me,’ Artorius begged, forcing himself to take another step. His limbs were as heavy as Terminator armour, the blood in his veins feeling as if it was congealing with every beat of his hearts. ‘Need to keep going.’

  When he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the corridor in front was twisting as if it was looping around itself.

  Voices rushed towards him, bouncing off the distorted walls. Familiar voices.

  ‘Go back,’ Jerius screamed, urging him to flee. ‘Save yourself.’

  He blinked, seeing the faces of his battle-brothers in the torches that lined the shifting walls.

  ‘All is lost,’ insisted Ritan.

  ‘Just illusions,’ he gasped. He was sure Kerna’s face had joined the others. ‘If there’s a warp breach, at the end of this corridor…’

  ‘You will die,’ Jerius called.

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ Artorius choked on a ball of phlegm that caught in his throat. He spat it out. It was blood-red. ‘Must focus. Continue.’

  But Artorius halted when he crossed the threshold to the shrine, hesitating not from fatigue, but awe.

  ‘Holy Terra.’

  Nothing had prepared him for the scale of the place, not Vabion’s hololith or the story that had accompanied it. The chattering screens had been silenced, their once gleaming surfaces cracked, but the light from a thousand strange gems burned through the heavy mist that hung in the air. They seemed to call to him, urging him forward.

  ‘No,’ commanded the voices in his head. ‘Turn back.’

  ‘You are phantoms of the mind,’ he shouted in response. ‘Nothing more.’

  Disobeying the spectres, he staggered towards the Key.

  Or what was left of it.

  The crystal had been smashed, scattered across the floor. He stumbled towards the dais, where a single, solitary shard rose from the platform. The wraithbone seal was smothered in a dark stain, empty power armour lying on the other side of the steps.

  ‘A sacrifice,’ the sergeant hissed. ‘That’s how they did it.’

  The
rich blue paintwork had been eaten by rust, the aquila across the once noble breast cracked, its edges eroded away. Vabion’s body had completely putrefied, reduced to a puddle of festering sludge. Artorius looked away, disgusted at the waste. ‘It was not your fault,’ he said, although the words sounded hollow in his ear.

  ‘Then who is to blame, Doom Eagle?’

  Artorius’s head snapped up at the sound of the voice. It wasn’t ethereal like the haunts that had tried to turn him away, but it had no place in the natural world either.

  ‘Traitorous scum.’ Artorius turned towards the Chaos lord, raising his shaking bolter. The Champion stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the shrine. Where his swollen intestines had draped, Naracoth’s abdomen was now crammed with a host of wriggling, chattering Nurglings, each jostling for position as they filled the void blasted clear by Artorius’s grenade. One tumbled from the cavity to land in the pile of foetid biomass and corroded armour that lay at the Chaos lord’s feet.

  Doom Eagle armour.

  ‘Run away,’ Ritan’s voice urged him.

  ‘You have failed,’ Naracoth sneered, absently squashing the Nurgling beneath his boot. ‘Your men are dead or dying. The crops have failed. Orath belongs to us. We shall open a new Eye of Terror in this place.’

  ‘Part of the Key is still in place,’ Artorius insisted, readying himself for attack. ‘There is still…’

  ‘Hope?’ Naracoth scoffed, his ever present War Scythe held in both hands. ‘Vabion had hope. It didn’t save him. Your hope lies in the reinforcements you believe are screaming towards us. They won’t save you, either.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Artorius spat, trying to gather the last of his resources, ‘but they will destroy you.’

  Naracoth continued as if Artorius hadn’t uttered a word.

  ‘Imagine the strain the rift is placing on the Key hidden beneath Garm. All it took was one tiny fissure to allow us passage. You should see the cracks in the other Key. Your battle-brothers have already been consumed.’

  ‘You lie!’

  ‘Do I? Melkan. Krytorius. Hura.’ The blood froze in Artorius’s veins. ‘Names you recognise? Brethren no more.’ Naracoth crouched down, running his hand through the biological debris that used to be Ritan. ‘They belong to me. They belong to Nurgle.’

  Still smiling, Naracoth sucked the viscous remains from his fingertips.

  Artorius could take no more. Pulling the trigger of his bolter, the sergeant charged forward with a bellow of rage.

  The Endurance of Gathis strafed the back of the Heldrake with lascannon fire as he passed, but to little effect.

  The Chaos born monstrosity roared, bathing the Stormtalon in balefire, scrambling half the instruments on board and cracking the canopy. Meleki pulled up into a loop, hoping to flip over and down onto the creature, but came in too fast. The Doom Eagle found himself diving into thin air and by the time he pulled up, the Heldrake had come around to hang on Meleki’s six o’clock, hellish flames licking at his tail.

  He knew that he couldn’t outrun the possessed aircraft, its infernal engines more powerful than any Stormtalon. The best he could do was to skid from left to right, drawing the beast away from the fort, never presenting the daemonic machine with a clear target. Keep moving, remain unpredictable, stay alive.

  For now at least.

  Warning glyphs were already flashing, the engines on the point of overheating. Flame streamed past the canopy, widening the cracks, filling the cockpit with the stink of sulphur.

  ‘Getting too close,’ Meleki gasped, his eyes stinging with the reek. ‘Need to finish this.’

  Yanking the stick towards him, Meleki threw the Endurance into another heart-stopping climb. For a moment, as dark orbs danced at the edge of his vision, Meleki felt at peace, removed from the world, absolutely sure about what he was about to do.

  And then, as the engines threatened to stall, he pulled himself back to the here and now. The gunship was on its tail, in a near vertical ascent. He didn’t even need to glance at the rear displays to know that the Heldrake was climbing with him. He could feel it behind him, jaws open, waiting for the kill.

  ‘Not today.’

  The Stormtalon inverted, pulling more gees than Meleki had ever experienced. Even with his Lyman’s ear, Meleki felt himself whiting out as the aircraft pitched into a spiralling descent, corkscrewing back down to the planet.

  ‘Follow, damn you,’ he spat, checking the displays. ‘That’s it. Come and get me.’

  The Heldrake had taken the bait, trying to match his spiral. The monster was faster than the Endurance, but it was also bulkier. In the warp, its immense size wouldn’t hamper its flight, but here, in the real world, it was subject to the same laws of physics that governed Meleki’s own ship.

  He hoped.

  It was risky – a manoeuvre Meleki had never performed himself. Throw the ship into a tight spiral, gambling that your larger pursuer won’t be able to turn as fast. The stick shook in his hand as he kept himself spinning down, never taking his eyes from the rear display.

  It was working.

  ‘That’s it,’ he laughed without humour. ‘You can’t match the turns, can you? Can’t keep in close.’

  Sure enough, the Heldrake was being forced to loosen its corkscrew, taking more airspace with every revolution.

  The smaller, more agile Endurance only needed a fraction of the space to turn, spinning faster and faster, dropping back along the Heldrake’s long body with every roll. Where he had started the descent in front of the abomination, Meleki was now above the bulk of its accursed hull and, before long, dropping behind.

  It was the moment he’d been waiting for. As soon as he saw the umbilical cables trailing from the dragon’s rear, the Doom Eagle unleashed his side-mounted lascannons, raking against the Heldrake’s oxidised tail.

  The daemon engine pulled out of the dive, trying to turn so it could return fire, but Meleki wasn’t about to let go. The electronic whine in his ears informed him that the heat-seeking missiles had locked onto their target. He was ready.

  Meleki fired everything he had. Las-fire cut into the Heldrake’s ribbed spine, corroded armour plates sliced clean from its metallic hide. The Heldrake bucked, its dragon-like head whipping around, but it was already too late. With a thumb of the trigger, Meleki’s missiles were away, zeroing in on the last vestiges of the Heldrake’s original form – the two sets of exhaust vents that blazed on either side of its back. The rockets slammed into the engines, triggering a chain reaction that saw the daemon rip itself apart.

  Unable to pull up in time, Meleki soared through the inferno, burning debris streaking across his fuselage. For a second, he imagined he saw the twisted remains of the Heldrake’s pilot screaming in defiance, its face a mass of lesions and crudely implanted cables – and then the vision was gone, the Endurance barrelling out of the firestorm.

  Before today, Meleki might have celebrated his victory, but not now. He could almost hear Kerna telling him not to get carried away.

  ‘I know, old friend,’ he said sadly. ‘The battle is far from won.’

  Pulling the gunship into a hard left, Meleki came about and streaked back towards Fort Kerberos.

  Sixteen

  Artorius was thrown back with such force that the buttress cracked, dust cascading down on the two combatants from the high ceiling. The sergeant slid down to the rune-lined floor, his gun hanging helplessly by his side. Naracoth’s scythe had cut deep, nearly cleaving the Doom Eagle’s arm from his body.

  The Chaos lord loomed over the fallen Space Marine, Nurglings hopping down from his stomach to nip and tear at the flesh that was already beginning to swell beneath Artorius’s breached armour.

  ‘You are as weak as that foolish Librarian,’ Naracoth gloated, backhanding the sergeant across the mouth, his spiked gauntlet opening Artorius’s cheek and dislodging what we
re left of his teeth. ‘But your blood will serve me well.’

  Artorius groaned, blood bubbling on his torn lips. He tried to raise his power fist, the teeth of his chainblade clogged with Naracoth’s flesh, but the gauntlet clattered back to the floor, the sergeant’s resources spent. Bloodshot eyes rolled up in their sockets.

  It was over.

  Naracoth bellowed in triumph, throwing his heavy scythe aside. Grabbing Artorius’s chestplate, the Champion hauled the broken Doom Eagle towards the Key, no lackeys to assist him now. It didn’t matter, he babbled, barely even grunting with the exertion. Soon he would have a mighty company steeped in filth and decay.

  ‘I only wish you could see it,’ he cackled, dragging the sergeant up to the shard, ‘but what kind of sacrifice would you be if you were left alive?’

  Naracoth let Artorius fall back onto the wraithbone seal and produced a sacrificial knife, the wicked blade alive with forbidden runes.

  Carefully, almost lovingly, he raised the sergeant’s chin, exposing his throat.

  ‘Accept this offering, my Lord,’ Naracoth intoned, pressing the blade down onto the pale skin, ‘and bless your humble servant. The sacrifice will be made.’

  A bead of blood appeared beneath the blade and ran down to the seal – and Artorius’s eyes snapped open, glaring up at the Chaos lord.

  ‘There shall only be one sacrifice today,’ the sergeant croaked, bringing his good arm up in an arc. In his hand he held the shard of the crystal he had grabbed as he had been pulled towards the Key, its jagged edges reflecting the look of surprise on Naracoth’s face. It slammed into the Champion’s head, embedding itself deep within the Chaos Marine’s murderous brain.

  The Plague Lord stared down with empty eyes, the knife slipping from his fingers. Artorius shoved him back, the Champion collapsing clear of the seal, a strange gargle escaping from his throat. There was no scream as his body convulsed, the flesh becoming like liquid, falling away from his bones. Naracoth and his Nurglings died with a whimper, leaving nothing but skeletons and armour that crumbled into dust.