Yarrick: The Pyres of Armageddon

by David Annandale

  ‘Your presence here will be notable,’ I said to Brenken. ‘If he sees you and Princeps Mannheim approaching, his focus will be on you. I’m hoping he won’t hear what I’m up to until it’s too late.’

  ‘Should I have my pistol drawn?’ Brenken asked, half joking.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But keep it visible. Make him wonder.’

  Mannheim and Brenken left the staging area a few minutes ahead of me. I gave von Strab time to notice them, and to busy himself with preparations for the encounter. Then I began the journey to the spaceport. I made good time. I took the maglev transports. There was no stealth to be had, but speed mattered.

  It was all a gamble. I couldn’t know if our diversion was working. I watched for von Strab’s security forces. I watched the people around me. I had hopes that von Strab was in the dark about my presence. Even if he was aware of me, I didn’t think he would order an attack. He had no reason to. Not unless he guessed where I was going and why. I did not give him that much credit. Even so, I prepared myself for the worst. I was ready to kill anyone who tried to stop me from reaching the astropaths.

  No one did. I was at the spaceport in less than an hour. In the tower, I rode the rattling lift up to the midpoint. It deposited me in a vast scriptorium filled with clerical clamour. This was where the messages to be sent were prepared, and the messages received were annotated. Distortions and misinterpretations were not unusual. The astropaths themselves were the ones who had the training and the knowledge to decipher and interpret the visions that reached them from the warp, and to encode the outgoing messages into the psychic forms that would travel the immaterium. It was the duty of this army of scribes to cross-reference, catalogue, contextualise and prioritise the communications. It was up to them to ensure the messages found their way to the right hands. The warp storm had cut message traffic to nothing, but there was still a large backlog to work through. Messages of vital military importance always received attention first. Trade queries and the like were dealt with in order, as time permitted. It did so now. There would be a great deal cleared. Assuming the orks left the scribes to work in peace.

  I walked between rows of high standing desks. Few of the scribes even looked up from their data-slates and parchments. The air of the scriptorium was filled by the sounds of rhythmic tapping, the scratching of vellum, low whispers sounding out and discarding fragments of sentences, and sporadic coughs. There were perhaps a hundred scribes. Each individual seemed silent. Collectively, they created a constant susurration.

  At the far end of the scriptorium was a pair of bronze doors engraved with the eye of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Two guards stood outside. They did not wear the uniform of von Strab’s retinue; they wore the sashes of the Telepathica. Their loyalty should be to the choir beyond the door rather than to the overlord. On Armageddon, that meant little. It was entirely possible, even likely, they had been suborned.

  I did not draw my bolt pistol as I walked up to them. I gave them the chance to show where their allegiance lay.

  ‘I must speak with Master Genest,’ I said.

  On my left, the male guard said nothing. On my left, the woman said, ‘He is meditating. He can’t be disturbed.’

  ‘He will have to be.’ Was she lying? I was unwilling to guess.

  The guards looked at each other.

  The male said, ‘I will announce you, Commissar…?’ He waited for my name.

  I ignored the question. ‘That won’t be necessary. Let me in. Close the door behind me.’

  They hesitated, then acquiesced. They pulled the doors open, then shut them with a clang after I passed through.

  The choir was held in a nautilus spiral of depressions in marble. Each astropath sat on a small pew in a narrow cleft in the stone. Only their heads were visible above the surface of the floor. Their eyes were closed in a false semblance of sleep. The psychic energy in the room made my skin crawl. I forced my eyes to circle the spiral all the way to the centre. There Genest sat with his head bowed. I walked the circles, twisting and turning until I stood at the centre. I knelt and placed my hand on Genest’s shoulder. ‘Master Genest,’ I said, ‘the Emperor calls to you. More urgently than at any time of your life. Will you heed Him?’

  I waited. After a minute, Genest raised his head. His eyes searched mine. ‘What does He require?’ he croaked.

  ‘You tried sending a plea for help earlier. You must do so again, to specific recipients.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘The Blood Angels. The Ultramarines. The Salamanders.’ Those were the three Chapters who had forces close enough to the Armageddon System that they might be able to aid us in time.

  ‘We have been unable to send or receive any messages since the warp storm began,’ Genest said. ‘You understand, commissar? The last thing to enter the system was the Claw of Desolation.’

  ‘I understand, Master Genest. Before you tell me, I also understand that Overlord von Strab has forbidden any calls for help.’

  ‘We are fortunate he didn’t detect the one we sent on behalf of Princeps Mannheim.’

  ‘And it is tragic no one else did.’

  Genest’s blank eyes stared straight ahead. The walls of his stone cocoon were inlaid with gold. The lines formed runes and occult patterns. They dragged at my awareness. I could only imagine how effective they must be in drawing Genest’s consciousness into the folds of the immaterium. His eyes were blind, but I had no doubt the runes blazed before his inner vision. Genest said, ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Very. The orks have conquered Armageddon Prime. They’re on their way here. Von Strab’s response has been disastrous, and there is no reason to believe he will suddenly show wisdom. Even if he did, the threat is far worse than I imagined.’

  ‘You think we can’t win.’

  I hesitated, torn between my vow, my faith, and cold reason. I knew Armageddon could fall, yet I would not let it. ‘We will win,’ I said. ‘We will win by doing what must be done. And we must summon the help of the Adeptus Astartes.’

  ‘And if we can’t send our plea through the storm?’

  ‘You will. Because you must.’

  Genest turned his head to face me. The white eyes seemed grey. His skull was brittle. The lines in his face were deep canyons. Wisps of colourless hair, insubstantial as hope, floated out from beneath his hood. ‘You ask much.’

  ‘I ask nothing. The situation demands this of you. Your duty to the God-Emperor requires it. And we have always owed Him everything.’

  Genest nodded. ‘Are there any details you hope to convey?’

  ‘No. Keep things simple. This is a cry for help from Armageddon. That will suffice.’

  ‘If we’re interrupted…’

  ‘I know. You won’t be.’ We both knew von Strab would stop the choir if he realised what was going on. I expected he would. Brenken and Mannheim’s diversion would grant me only a limited head start. It would be my task to ensure Genest completed his.

  I stood up. ‘There may be noise beyond the doors.’

  ‘We won’t hear it. What’s important is that we not be disturbed physically.’

  ‘I’ll see that you aren’t. Thank you, Master Genest.’

  ‘No, commissar. Thank you.’ The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. ‘I know you’re right. Accepting the whims of the overlord as a necessity has been a burden. You’ve recalled me to the path of my vows. I feel the burden lift, and that is a gift. This is the form my war will take. I am satisfied.’

  ‘You’ll have earned your place in the song,’ I said.

  Genest laughed. The sound was dry, pebbles in leather. ‘And will there be any singers left, commissar?’

  ‘There will,’ I promised, and left the chamber.

  2. Mannheim

  ‘I’m surprised to see you, Colonel Brenken,’ von Strab said. He sat on his throne with the air of offen
ded virtue. While expressing surprise, he was doing a masterful job of concealing it in his face. If he had been startled by Brenken’s return, Mannheim thought, he had already moved on to calculating his response.

  ‘You were expecting me to die?’ Brenken asked.

  ‘No. I just never imagined you would be capable of dereliction. But I expect you had bad advice.’

  Brenken stiffened. Mannheim felt his own muscles lock in solidarity. On the way to von Strab’s quarters, Brenken had spoken about what it had cost her to leave behind the tiny fragments of her regiment.

  ‘What were your last orders to your captains?’ Mannheim had asked.

  ‘To fight as long as they could, then go to ground.’

  ‘You’re hoping for an extraction? Helm was lucky that single Valkyrie wasn’t shot down. Von Strab was shouting about its flight minutes after it took off.’

  ‘I won’t have my troops thrown away,’ Brenken had replied.

  Now the colonel said, ‘The 252nd has done all that was possible and more. I’m here to organise the rescue of my remaining troops, overlord.’

  ‘Your return was unauthorised.’

  ‘And,’ Brenken continued as if von Strab had not spoken, ‘I am here to report to you, in person, about the threat we face. Overlord, if we do not act, all of Armageddon is at risk.’

  ‘Oh? What would you have me do?’

  ‘A massive counterattack. Gather the regiments of the Steel Legion. March with the Legio Metalica. If we hit the orks as they’re crossing the jungle, we can keep them bogged down until reinforcements arrive.’

  ‘You agree with this proposal, princeps?’

  ‘I do,’ Mannheim said.

  ‘So we should leave the hives undefended?’

  ‘If we allow the orks to reach Secundus,’ Brenken said, ‘our defences will already have been breached.’

  Von Strab smiled. ‘But the jungle will not allow the orks to reach Secundus.’

  ‘Overlord,’ Brenken said, ‘I assure you, they will cross the jungle. If they haven’t begun the process already, they will very soon. I am as sure of this as I have been of anything in my entire career.’

  ‘Given your lack of success in Tempestora and Volcanus, I’m sceptical of your judgement,’ von Strab told her. He shrugged. ‘But we can all be wrong. I have a better approach in mind. If the orks set foot on Secundus, they will find our cities well defended and they will be repulsed by the Legio Metalica.’

  Mannheim blinked. The fate of the Iron Skulls was now in play. It had been torn from his grasp. His proud legion was suddenly the plaything of a petty tyrant’s whim. He saw a new disaster taking shape. Von Strab was ready to repeat the mistake that had doomed Armageddon Prime. Piecemeal, he was engineering the loss of the planet. ‘I must warn against such an action,’ Mannheim said.

  ‘Duly noted, princeps. My confidence in your abilities appears to be stronger than your own. No false humility, please. This is hardly the time.’ Von Strab began to form his unctuous smile, then stopped. He frowned. ‘What reinforcements?’ he said.

  ‘Overlord?’ Mannheim asked.

  ‘Colonel, you mentioned reinforcements.’

  ‘Yes, because we need them.’

  ‘We do not, and we cannot have them.’

  ‘We do and we must,’ she replied.

  Von Strab stared at her. ‘You’re very certain.’

  ‘I am. We–’

  He cut her off. ‘Did Commissar Yarrick survive?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He arrived with you, didn’t he?’ Again, he didn’t wait. He rose from the throne. His retinue clapped their gauntlets against their rifles. ‘Get to the spaceport,’ he ordered. He glared at Mannheim and Brenken. His face and scalp had turned purple. It was the first time Mannheim had seen him enraged. It was, he realised, the first time he had seen von Strab feel threatened. ‘I will not be humiliated,’ the overlord said.

  ‘It is odd,’ Mannheim replied, ‘that you would prefer to be annihilated.’

  3. Genest

  The rest of the choir had remained silent during his exchange with Yarrick. They had heard, though. And when Genest said, ‘We have work to do,’ the prayer that greeted his words was heartfelt.

  It was a prayer for the strength to complete the task. It was a prayer of gratitude that they were taking meaningful action. It was a prayer for protection against what they would now encounter.

  ‘Speak through me,’ Genest told the choir. ‘In the name of the God-Emperor. Be His words and His will.’ He opened his inner eye. Slowly. Even before he began, the warp storm tore at him. It had become the fanged backdrop to his awareness, gnawing at his edges, waiting for him to turn its way, hungry for his mind and soul, and for the minds and souls of all the astropaths in his charge.

  And now he turned.

  Chaos raked him with claws. Pain stabbed into the core of his identity. It tried to pry him apart with lightning. A cacophony of half-formed ideas, broken language and molten dreams poured into him. His perception fell into a whirlpool, was shattered by eruptions, swept up in a hurricane. If he had been alone, his identity would have been whipped to shreds. But the choir was with him, and he with it. The telepathic song was a collective strength, a core that preserved. It held fast in the face of the storm, but Genest was just at its edges. He had to go deeper. He had to work his way through the vortex.

  The message was simple. That was a mercy. It was direct, urgent, impossible to misinterpret. Genest forged a psychic impression as dense and focused as a bolter shell. It was as immune to distortion as any astropathic communication could be. Now that he was committed to this action, the message was vital to Genest. He shared the cry of Armageddon. He had not witnessed what Yarrick had in Secundus. But he felt the warp storm. He knew its corrosion. And he knew it was not a simple coincidence. Somehow, it was linked to the orks. They had not willed it into existence. That was impossible. But orks did have a psychic force of some kind. A threat as monumental as Yarrick described would have an effect on the materium. Perhaps the warp storm was one such effect.

  Collective will, collective urgency, collective desperation. They gave direction to the choir. A unity of iron to pierce the chaos, to batter through the wall of howling disorder surrounding the Armageddon System. Genest directed the blows, and he was one with the blows. His identity had a single purpose, and the goal preserved him. The talons of unreality raked the flesh of his soul, the choir’s soul. The choir bled, and he bled. The storm would tear them to tatters.

  Forward. Deeper. And the storm reaching deeper into him. Entropy was insistent as acid.

  Coming apart. Eroded. Disintegrating.

  But though he was fraying, he held the shape of the cry. He forced it through the storm. Then he and the choir, mortally injured but fused in duty and need, hurled the cry to the galaxy and Armageddon’s need shrieked across dreams.

  4. Yarrick

  In the scriptorium, I spoke with the two guards. The woman’s name was Dreher. The man was Fertig. ‘The choir is calling for aid,’ I told them. ‘The overlord will send forces to stop this message from being sent. Anyone who joins in that attempt is turning against the needs of Armageddon, and of the Imperium itself. I will use lethal force. Stand with me, leave, or fight me now. Decide.’ I left my pistol holstered. I wanted their decision to be a truthful one.

  ‘I am with you,’ Dreher said. Fertig nodded.

  ‘Good.’ I turned to the ranks of scribes. A few of the nearest had raised their heads to watch our exchange. The others worked on. I raised my voice. ‘I am suspending work in this chamber,’ I announced.

  A startled silence followed. An army of confused faces turned my way. Nothing in the memory of these faithful servants had ever interfered with their duties, least of all the commands of a military officer.

  ‘Leave,’ I told them. ‘Immediately.’

 
They did, quietly, quickly, without question. They did not understand, nor did they wish to. They believed their ignorance would shield them. Perhaps.

  Even before the scriptorium was fully vacated, I began overturning the desks and benches. Dreher and Fertig joined in. We threw together two makeshift barricades, one in front of the elevators, and a larger one, over two metres high, before the bronze doors, with room behind it for us. The rest of the chamber’s furniture we threw to the floor, denying any clear run to the doors to the astropathic chamber.

  The lift clattered to life.

  ‘Get ready,’ I said. We took up our positions. We aimed bolt pistol and lasrifles at the elevator and through the stacked desks. ‘Hold fire until my order,’ I said.

  The doors opened. Men wearing von Strab’s colours collided with the first barricade. They climbed on top. There were a dozen of them, their weapons drawn.

  ‘Fire,’ I said.

  We shot them before they had a chance to descend. We caught them in the open, vulnerable, surprised. They had not expected to be opposed. They had not believed it possible for anyone to fight the edicts of Herman von Strab. In those first few seconds, four of them were killed by their presumption. Two more dropped to the front of the barrier. They scrambled for non-existent cover. We took them down too. The others fell back to the other side, and they returned fire. Las burned though iron and wood. It chipped at our shelter, but couldn’t reach us. Not yet.

  ‘Stay down,’ I told Dreher and Fertig. The pile of furniture was no barrier to my bolt shells. I aimed at the movement by the elevator and shot a man through the midsection.