A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
DARK CREED
Word Bearers - 03
Anthony Reynolds
(An Undead Scan v1.0)
To my friends and family, to Nick and Lindsey and everyone else at BL, and above all to Jacquie, thank you all for your patience and understanding.
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
PROLOGUE
The animal stink of humanity rose up the bladed sides of the Basilica of the Word, borne on hot updrafts, mingling with the heavy scent of incense and the metallic bite of freshly spilt blood. Behind it, the electric tang of Chaos hung in the air.
A balcony jutted from one of the basilica’s great spires, five kilometres above the heaving masses below. The surface of the daemon world Sicarus was a honeycomb of mausoleums and temples, though from this height, it was partially obscured by blood-red clouds that whipped around the spires. Two holy warriors stood side by side upon the balcony, gazing across the skyline of their adopted home world.
Immense towers and shrines strained towards the burning heavens as far as the eye could see, and ten thousand mournful corpse-bells tolled. Moans of pain and rapture rose from the millions of proselytes in the streets, the morbid sound carried on rising thermals exhaled from the subterranean blood-furnaces and daemonic forges.
Skinless daemons circled overhead. Others stripped the flesh from the tens of thousands of living sacrifices impaled on the flanks of the basilica’s spires.
The flayed skin curtain behind the pair of holy warriors rippled.
“Let them expose themselves,” said Erebus, First Chaplain of the Word Bearers. His voice was low and dangerous. “Find out how deep the river of their corruption runs.”
The holy demagogue’s head was shaved and oiled. The skin across his scalp was inscribed with intricate cuneiform, his flesh forming a living Book of Lorgar. Erebus’ eyes were cold and dead, giving away nothing. In their reflective darkness Marduk saw himself, the lurid flames of the aether burning behind him.
“As you wish, my lord,” said Marduk.
“They will seek to deceive and to confuse. They will undermine you, and try to sway your loyalty and the loyalty of your captains. Trust only your own council and judgement.”
“I understand, my lord,” said Marduk. “I shall not fail you.”
“See that you do not.”
Erebus’ gaze remained fixed on a point beyond the horizon, and Marduk followed it.
Though there was nothing to be seen but the endless landscape of spires, domed cathedrals and gehemehnet towers, Marduk knew where Erebus’ thoughts lay.
It seemed an eternity had passed since blessed Lorgar had removed himself from his adoring Legion. It had been thousands of years since the golden-skinned daemon-primarch had isolated himself within the Templum Inficio, forbidding any to disturb his meditations. Great had been the lamentation within the Hosts when the holy daemon-primarch had made his will known, for never had they been without the glorified one, the Urizen as he was known amongst the warrior brethren. Surrounded by a desert of bones, the Templum Inficio had been constructed by eight million slave-adepts, all of whom had given their lives upon its completion, staining the temple stones with their blood. As the voices of the Legion rose as one in mourning, the great doors of the templum were sealed, never to be opened until Lorgar’s vigil was over.
Centuries rolled into millennia, yet every day hundreds of thousands of blood-candles were still lit in Lorgar’s name. His name was whispered on the tortured lips of ten million penitents praying for his return.
In his absence, the Council of Sicarus continued to guide the flock, ensuring that the Legion maintained its adherence to Lorgar’s teachings.
“He will return to us, my lord?” asked Marduk.
“In his own time,” assured Erebus. “Have faith, Apostle.”
Marduk touched the glyph of Lorgar branded on his forehead, murmuring a prayer. He lifted his gaze, squinting into the burning atmosphere and the glory of the raw immaterium.
Thirteen immense battleships hung in low orbit overhead, motionless and menacing; five complete Hosts, ready to embark upon a dark crusade against the hated Imperium. His ship, the Infidus Diabolus, was amongst the deadly shoal, her flanks bristling with cannons and launch bays, steeples and shrine towers rising above her armoured hull.
“The crusade awaits you, Marduk,” said Erebus. “May the blessing of Lorgar be upon you.”
“And you, my master,” said Marduk, bowing low. He turned and strode from the balcony, sweeping the flayed skin curtain aside.
Erebus watched him go then turned to face the distant horizon.
“Come then, my brothers,” he said. “Make your play against me.”
BOOK ONE:
THE BOROS GATE
“Five there shall be, by blood, sin and oath, five cardinals Colchis born, united in bonds of Brotherhood. Hearken! Rejoice! Harbingers of darkness they, augurs of the fall. And lo! With fury of hellfire, truth, and orb of ancient death, the gate shall be claimed. And so it shall come to pass; the beginning of the End. Glory be!”
—Translation from the Rubric Apocalyptica
CHAPTER ONE
Fanged mouths of a dozen grotesque misericords exhaled incense, filling the dimly lit shuttle interior. Seated shoulder to shoulder, their genetically enhanced bodies encased in thick plate the colour of congealed blood, the warriors of the Host sat in meditative silence, breathing the heavy smoke.
Hunched figures shuffled up the aisles, daubing the warriors’ armour with sacred unguents. Their features were hidden beneath deep cowls. They hissed devotional prayers and blessings as they went about their work.
Kol Badar waved them away with a snarl, sending them scurrying.
Heavily scarred from thousands of years of bitter warfare, his face was lit from below by the ruby-red internal glow of his ancient Terminator armour. His head was dwarfed by the immensity of the armoured suit within which he was permanently sealed. Segmented cabling pierced the necrotised flesh at the base of his neck and at his temples.
“Initialising docking sequence,” croaked a mechanised voice. Kol Badar was jolted as the
shuttle’s retro-thrusters kicked in.
Uncoupling himself from the bracing restraints, Kol Badar rose and stalked down the darkened aisles of the Stormbird. Each heavy metallic step was accompanied by the whir of servo-motors and the hiss of venting steam. Seven holy warriors of the cult of the Anointed, the warrior elite of the Host, had been chosen to accompany the Dark Apostle and his entourage, and they bowed their heads low in respect as Kol Badar passed them.
The Anointed were the blood-soaked veterans of a thousand wars. Proud and zealous, each was a holy champion of Lorgar in his own right. They wore ancient suits of Terminator armour, their heavy gauge ceramite plates inscribed with scripture and hung with fetishes and icons. This armour had been in the service of the Legion since before the fall of Horus, lovingly maintained and repaired over the long millennia by the Legion’s chirumeks.
Stabilising jets roared, and the Stormbird shuddered as docking maglocks clamped into place. Burning red blister lights flashed, and the scream of the engines began to subside. Reams of data scrolled before Kol Badar’s eyes. He reviewed the information feed swiftly before blinking it away.
“Honour guard, at the ready.”
As one the Anointed brethren released their restraints and stood to attention as the shuttle lowered to the deck of the immense battleship.
Mechanical clicks and whines accompanied final diagnostic tests. Weapons were checked and loaded.
The pneumatic stabilisers of the shuttle settled. With a hiss of equalising pressure and a burst of super-heated steam, the assault ramp of the shuttle unfolded and slammed down on the deck. Kol Badar led the Anointed down the ramp. Tracking for targets, they stepped aboard the Crucius Maledictus.
An Infernus-class battleship, one of the largest vessels to have fought in the Great Crusade, the Crucius Maledictus was the flagship of the Dark Apostle Ekodas. The battleship had suffered calamitous damage fighting against the fleets of the Khan in the last days before Horus’ fall, but had managed to limp to the safety of the Maelstrom. Extensively repaired, modified and re-armed upon the daemonic forge-world of Ghalmek, it now ranked amongst the most heavily armed and armoured battleships in the Word Bearers arsenal, rivalling even Kor Phaeron’s Infidus Imperator.
The docking bay of the Crucius Maledictus was immense, with curved arches rising a hundred metres overhead. Ancient banners and kill-pennants hung down the length of giant pillars, recounting the victories of the 7th Company Host. Two other assault shuttles had already docked. They seemed small and insignificant within the vastness of the docking bay, which was far bigger than any aboard the Infidus Diabolus. Kol Badar merely scowled, unimpressed, and glared at the serried ranks of Astartes waiting for them.
There were more than two thousand Word Bearers, standing motionless, bolters clasped across deep red chest plates. The 7th was one of the largest and most decorated Hosts in the Word Bearers Legion, and their Dark Apostle Ekodas was counted as close confidant of the Keeper of the Faith, Kor Phaeron. Ten ranks deep on either side, the warrior brothers of the 7th formed a grand corridor leading towards the titanic blastdoors at the far end of the docking bay, four hundred metres away. A blood-red carpet had been rolled out between them along its length.
There was no welcoming party, no fanfare to honour them as they came aboard the Crucius Maledictus. Annoyed, Kol Badar barked an order to his brethren. The Anointed fell into line at the foot of the Stormbird’s assault ramp, four warriors to a side. The sound of them slamming their fists against their chests echoed sharply. Kol Badar turned his back on the warriors of the 7th to wait for Marduk, his Dark Apostle and master, to emerge from the Stormbird.
His expression darkened. Master, he thought hatefully. The whelp should never have risen so far. He would have killed the whoreson that day on the moon of Calite long ago had Jarulek not restrained him.
Marduk appeared at the top of the ramp. Kol Badar’s power talons twitched involuntarily.
Dark Apostle of the 34th Grand Host, the third leader to have borne such a title, Marduk wore a cold, disdainful expression as he gazed upon the might of the 7th. His deathly pale features were aristocratic and noble, the gene-lineage of blessed Lorgar blatantly apparent. His left eye was red and lidless, bisected by a narrow pupil. His jet-black hair was oiled, and he wore it long, hanging in an intricate braid down his back.
A thick fur cloak was draped over his shoulders and he wore a cream-coloured tabard secured around his waist with a heavy chain.
His red power armour was ornate and heavily artificed, a bastardised blend of plate from various eras, ranging from his segmented MkII Crusade-pattern greaves, to his reinforce-studded MkV-era left shoulder plate. Every centimetre of it had been painstakingly etched with ornate script. Hundreds of thousands of words were carved around his vambraces and upon his kneepads—litanies, scripture and extracts from the Book of Lorgar. His left vambrace was engraved with the third book of the Tenets of Hate in its entirety, and dozens of sacred passages and psalms encircled his pauldrons. Strips of cured skin bearing further epistles and glyphs were affixed to his plate by rune-stamped blood-wax.
In his hands, Marduk bore his sacred crozius arcanum. A hallowed artefact consecrated in the blood of Guilliman’s lapdogs, the dark crozius was a master-crafted weapon and holy symbol of awesome power.
Flicking his cloak imperiously over one shoulder, Marduk began to descend the Stormbird’s assault ramp towards the floor of the docking bay. Following a step behind him came two other power-armoured figures.
The one on the left, Burias, moved with a swordsman’s grace. Gene-born in the last days of the Great War, Burias was a flamboyant, vicious warrior. His black hair was combed straight and hung to his waist, and he bore the sacred three-metre-tall icon of the 34th in both hands. There was not a scar or blemish upon the Icon Bearer’s cruelly handsome face; Burias was one of the possessed, and his powers of regeneration were impressive.
The other was more of an unknown to Kol Badar, and was a stark contrast to the Icon Bearer. Shorter and with a heavier build than most warriors of the Legion, his broad face was a mess of scar tissue. His downcast eyes were set beneath a protruding brow, giving him a brutish appearance at odds with his genetic heritage. His almost translucent skull was shaved smooth and covered in jagged scars and pierced with cables. A black beard bound into a single, tight braid hung half way down his barrel chest. His armour was without ornamentation and he wore an unadorned black robe. His hands were hidden within heavy sleeves. A double-handed power maul hung over his shoulders, and a chained and padlocked book dangled at his waist.
While Kol Badar had fought alongside Marduk, Burias and every other member of the Host during the Great War, First Acolyte Ashkanez had only joined the 34th recently. His combat record was impressive but Kol Badar had yet to fight alongside him in battle, and it was only in battle that true brotherhood was forged.
Ashkanez had only been with the Host since they had left the daemon-world of Sicarus, seven standard weeks earlier. Deeming that the 34th lacked a suitable candidate from amongst its own ranks, the Council of Sicarus had appointed Ashkanez to the position of First Acolyte to serve under Marduk.
“What a fine spectacle Ekodas has arranged for us,” said Marduk, looking towards the silent ranks of Word Bearers. “Such an unsubtle reminder of his strength.”
“Hardly necessary,” said Kol Badar. “He is of the Council, after all.”
Only eight individuals sat upon the Council of Sicarus, the holy ruling body that guided the Word Bearers in Lorgar’s absence, and each was a dark cardinal of great authority and power.
“Intimidation is in his nature,” said Marduk.
With a roar of engines, another shuttle breached the shimmering integrity field of the docking bay. Banks of cannons bulged from beneath the snub nose of the heavily modified craft, and flickering remnants of warp-presence—semi-transparent, semi-sentient globs of immaterium that pulsed with inner light—clung to its hull.
“Cadaver-class,
” said Kol Badar, assessing the arrival with a glance. “18th Host.”
“Sarabdal,” said Burias.
“Dark Apostle Sarabdal, Icon Bearer,” corrected Ashkanez.
Burias snarled and moved towards the newly appointed First Acolyte but Ashkanez remained motionless, offering no confrontation.
The debarkation ramp of the old Cadaver-class shuttle extended in four clunking sections and slammed onto the deck. A trio of corpse-like cherubs bearing smoking censers flew from the red-lit shadows of its interior, their pudgy childlike faces twisted into grotesque leers. Their eyes were sutured shut with criss-crossing stitches. Snarling, they exposed tiny barbed teeth. The cherubs began a circuit of looping dives and swoops, heralding the arrival of their master.
Dark Apostle Sarabdal stepped from his shuttle and took in the cavernous docking bay at a glance. He wore a heavy cloak of chainmail and his armour had been painstakingly sculptured to resembled flayed musculature. Every vein, tendon and sinew of it bulged in stark relief.
Sarabdal strode towards Marduk and his retinue fell in behind him. Marduk met him halfway, his own entourage moving with him.
The two Dark Apostles slowed as they approached, sizing each other up before stepping in close and embracing as equals and brothers. Sarabdal, the taller of the two, leant in to kiss Marduk on both cheeks. His skin tingled as the Dark Apostle’s burning lips touched his flesh.
“Brother Erebus speaks highly of you, Marduk,” said Sarabdal, in a hoarse whisper.
Marduk inclined his head to accept the compliment.
“My lord,” murmured Ashkanez, and Marduk turned to see a skeletal figure making its way towards them.
Marduk’s lip curled at the cyber-organic creature. Four mechanical, insectoid legs protruded from its bloated abdomen and propelled it forwards in a stop-start motion. Bone-thin arms were spread wide in an overly sincere gesture of welcome. The creature’s lips had been hacked off, leaving its mouth set in a permanent rictus of teeth. Spine-like sensor arrays protruded from the back of its head, and the buzz of data-flow erupted from the emitters in its modified larynx.
[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed Page 1
