Twitching, the vile creature came to a halt before the pair of Dark Apostles and performed an awkward bow, head flopping forwards. It righted itself and began to speak, though the words bubbling from its lipless mouth had no relation to the crazed articulation of its jaws.
“Welcome, brothers of the 34th and the 18th, to the Crucius Maledictus,” it slurred. “Grand Apostle Ekodas, blessed be his name, regrets he could not welcome you himself, but he humbly requests that you follow this lowly mech-flesh unit to his audience chambers.”
“Grand Apostle Ekodas?” said Marduk.
“The arrogance!” fumed Sarabdal. He spat onto the deck floor in disgust. The thick wad of black phlegm began to eat through the metal, hissing and steaming.
The cyber-organic beckoned and twitched impatiently.
“Let me be the one to tear its head off,” said Kol Badar under his breath, and Marduk smiled.
“Depending on how this conclave goes, gladly,” said Marduk.
“Can’t we do it now?” said Burias, as the insectoid-legged creature grinned inanely.
“Come,” said Sarabdal. “Let us get this over with.”
CHAPTER TWO
Garbed in full parade regalia, Praefectus Verenus stood in the centre of Victory Square beneath the baking sun and awaited the arrival of the White Consul.
At his back, four thousand soldiers of the Boros 232nd stood to attention. Proud, royal blue banners hung limp in the still air. Alongside the Guardsmen were the ancillary support vehicles of the regiment: Chimera APCs, reconnaissance Sentinels, Trojan workhorses.
Rearing up behind the regiment, at the top of almost four thousand stairs, was the immense, white marble edifice that was the Temple of the Gloriatus. A golden statue of the Emperor looked resplendent at its soaring peak.
Verenus stood alongside his commanding officer and support staff in total silence.
With his mighty physique, Verenus was the epitome of Boros gene-stock, an imposing officer and soldier. His eyes were ice-blue and hard. His skin was deeply tanned. His nose had been broken a dozen times and poorly set, and his sandy blond hair was clipped short in a regulation cut.
Verenus swallowed heavily as the heat of the twin suns beat down upon him. He had forgotten how unforgiving Boros Prime’s summers could be. It had been ten long years since he had been home. He indulged himself and let his eye wander over the majesty of the city before him.
Sirenus Principal was a gleaming bastion-city of white marble and manicured arboretums, and it stretched beyond the horizon in every direction. Home to more than eighty million citizens, all of whom willingly served at least a single five-year term in the Guard or PDF, it was one of the great cities of Boros Prime, and indeed of the entire Boros Gate sub-sector.
Perfectly symmetrical boulevards, a hundred metres wide and lined with towering statues of Imperial heroes and revered saints, ran past colossal architectural wonders, replete with columns, arches and gleaming alabaster sculptures. Tree-lined flyovers curled between soaring schola progenium collegiums and ecclesiastic shrine-wards, and tens of thousands of dutiful citizens could be seen coming and going, as they hurried to lectures and work. Mass-transits snaked soundlessly along curving aqueduct bridges, whizzing past mighty cathedrals that reached towards the heavens in praise of the God-Emperor. Each day millions of wreaths and aquila tokens were laid before hundreds of grand monuments scattered around the city that celebrated Imperial victories and honoured the valiant fallen.
Gleaming white fortress walls bisected the city. Far from being oppressive and domineering, they were sculptured masterpieces of classical design, with gently sweeping buttresses climbing their flanks.
Lush gardens fed by subterranean hydroponics butted up against the city walls, colonised with exotic flowering plants and broad-leafed shrubs. Fountains surrounded by grassy arboretums were located in each district, water spurting from the lips of cherubs.
Thousands of ordered PDF units marched across the tops of the walls, sunlight glinting off helmets and lascarbines. Their blue cloaks, the same as those worn by all members of the Boros PDF and Guard, were bright upon the pristine white stone. In all, Sirenus Principal boasted nearly fifteen million active soldiers; one in six inhabitants was a Guardsman, and it was the same all across Boros Prime. Few Imperial systems had such numbers.
The entire city was a blend of simple beauty and practicality, of form and function; an elegant and wondrously designed metropolis that was essentially a mighty and brilliantly conceived fortress, yet one that was aesthetic and pleasant for its populace to live within.
The city summed up all that it meant to be a citizen of Boros Prime: strong, determined, ordered, refined, noble.
Verenus’ gaze was drawn heavenwards, towards the distant shadow of Kronos. As potent as all the ground defences of Boros Prime were, its true strength lay in the immense star fort orbiting overhead.
Bristling with weaponry and the size of a small moon, Kronos was the largest space station in Segmenta Obscurus. It was an ever-present sentinel that was both a comfort to the people of Boros Prime and a constant reminder of Imperial authority, for it was the seat of the system’s governorship: the Consuls.
The White Consuls ruled with a benevolent hand, and the citizens of the Boros system—all eighteen inhabited planets and two-dozen colonised moons and asteroids—were afforded liberties and a quality of life undreamed of in many regions of the Imperium. Civil unrest was all but unheard of.
Two Consuls ruled Boros—the Proconsul Ostorius, and his Coadjutor, Aquilius. The highest authority in all matters military and political, they were regarded with awe bordering on worship by the bulk of the Boros citizenry. Such devotion was not officially encouraged, but neither was it discouraged—was it not true that the Consuls were formed in the image of the God-Emperor himself?
The Proconsul and his Coadjutor were responsible for somewhere in the realm of four hundred billion Imperial citizens, as well as the security of the vital Boros Gate subsector itself.
Verenus spied several shapes approaching from the star fort, gleaming like falling stars, and snapped to attention. He could hear them now, jet engines screaming as they penetrated the atmosphere, the sound rising from a distant drone to an ear-splitting roar.
Three strike aircraft streaked out from the glare of the suns, flying in tight formation, wingtip to wingtip. Verenus recognised them as agile Lightning fighters by their forward sweeping aerofoils and distinctive wail.
Slicing effortlessly through the air, they dived low and screamed over the heads of the Boros 232nd. Contrails of white vapour chased their progress like ribbons. Having shot overhead, the fighters peeled off sharply, turning in a wide sweeping motion. A blast of hot, displaced air struck the gathered soldiers of the 232nd a second later, sending their capes and banners fluttering.
As the scream of the Lightnings subsided, it was replaced with the resonant drone of bigger engines. A minute passed and a pair of Vulture gunships hove into view, their wings heavy with tubular rocket pods and autocannons. They were escorting a smaller Aquila lander. The Lightning strike fighters made another pass before pulling up and disappearing from sight.
The Aquila was resplendent gold, and Verenus was forced to squint against the glare reflected upon its gleaming metal skin. With vectored engines swivelled downwards, the lander and its gunship escort descended upon the gleaming white parade ground twenty metres in front of the Legatus and his officer cadre, landing gear unfolding beneath them.
They touched down smoothly, and even before their engines died, the golden-hulled Aquila was lowering its passenger compartment to the ground.
“And behold, an Angel of Death walks among us,” quoted the Legatus in a quiet voice. Verenus recognised the line from his years in the schola progenium, though he could not recall which scrivener had penned it.
All thoughts of ancient poets and their epics were forgotten as the blast door of the Aquila’s passenger compartment slid open with a hiss of equa
lising air-pressure.
A huge figure appeared in the doorway, so big that it was forced to duck to exit the landing craft. Only as it stepped onto the parade ground did it rise to its full height, and Verenus’ eyes widened.
The praefectus knew that the Consuls were big—he had seen countless holo-vids of their public appearances, and he had seen them commemorated in frescoes and sculptures his whole life—but nothing had prepared him for just how big. The warrior was a giant.
The Space Marine was encased in heavy plate armour as white and flawless as the marble of Sirenus Principal. He stood easily two heads taller than Verenus. His shoulders were immense, protected by huge pauldrons and the twin-headed eagle shone on his breastplate. He wore a royal blue tabard over his power armour, emblazoned with the eagle-head heraldry of the White Consuls Chapter. Its hems were stitched with delicate silver thread. Verenus recognised the Space Marine as Coadjutor Aquilius.
The Coadjutor’s head was bare. He had a broad face that was solid and youthful. Carrying his helmet under one arm, he strode towards the Legatus of the 232nd. Verenus fought the urge to step back.
“And fear incarnate is his name,” Verenus heard his Legatus murmur.
The Coadjutor halted a few steps before the regimental commander and his entourage. He stared at the Legatus, his expression inscrutable and his colourless eyes hard.
“A quote from Sueton,” said the Space Marine. His voice, Verenus noted, was deeper than a man’s. It seemed apt given his immensity. “In Nominae Glorifidae. Seventh act?”
“Ninth,” said the Legatus.
“Of course,” said the Coadjutor, bowing his head slightly in respect. A discussion on classical literature was the last thing that Verenus had expected.
At a barked order, the soldiers of the Boros 232nd saluted the Coadjutor with perfect synchronicity. The Space Marine returned the salute. Upon a second order the regiment snapped back to attention.
A robed adept of the Ministorum, the left half of his face hidden beneath a mass of augmetics, stepped to the White Consul’s side. A servo-skull hovering at his shoulder beeped indecipherable date-code.
“Legatus Cato Merula, 232nd Regiment, Boros Prime Imperial Guard, rotated from battlefront Ixxus IX of the Thraxian campaign, under Lord Commander Tibult Horacio,” intoned the adept from a half-bow, gesturing towards the regimental commander with one outstretched arm. His fingers were needle-like mechanical digits, and they buzzed with exloading data. “One month resupply, re-indoctrination and recruitment before return to frontline duties. Execution status XX.V.II.P.C.IX.”
The adept swung around to face the Coadjutor and abased himself, dropping to one knee and lowering his head towards the ground.
“Lord Gaius Aquilius, 5th Company White Consuls of the Adeptus Praeses, Dux Militari, Coadjutor of Boros Prime,” intoned the adept in his monotonous voice. “Praise be to the God-Emperor.”
“Praise be,” murmured the Legatus.
“Praise be,” said Coadjutor Aquilius.
“It is an honour to address you, sons and daughters of Boros,” said the Coadjutor, his resounding voice easily reaching the ears of every soldier of the 232nd without the need of vox enhancement.
“The Proconsul was due to address you himself, but duties of state precluded him from being here,” said Coadjutor Aquilius. “I pray my presence instead does not disappoint.”
Verenus knew that not one of the soldiers of the 232nd would have been even slightly disappointed. Only a few amongst them had ever laid eyes upon a Space Marine, and then only from afar.
“I am humbled to be in the presence of such noble soldiers as yourselves,” said the Coadjutor. “You have given all that I could have asked of you, and more, and I have faith that you shall continue to do so. I salute you, men and women of the illustrious 232nd.”
An adjutant of the Coadjutor stepped forward bearing an exquisite, ornate regimental standard. A golden aquila gleamed atop the standard pole above the ornate crosspiece of carved bone. The banner itself was tightly furled and affixed with studs. The adjutant dropped to one knee and offered the standard to the commander of the 232nd, who gestured for one of his younger officers, the regiment’s overawed aquilifer, to step forward and take the standard.
“It was with great sadness and regret that I learnt of the loss of the 232nd’s standard during the Daxus Offensive on Thraxian Minor,” said the Coadjutor. “I had my own personal artificers construct this replacement. May it serve your regiment faithfully.”
With a nod of encouragement from his Legatus, the regiment’s young aquilifer began to release the studs of the standard with shaking hands. With a flourish, he lifted it high in the air, allowing the banner to unfurl. A tapestry of such beauty was unveiled that it brought a gasp from the regiment. The glorious image of a winged saint, the martyred Ameliana—the regiment’s official patron—was emblazoned in gold and silver thread upon a field of blue. In the upper left corner was the unit’s regimental insignia, along with the four-dozen campaign badges of the regiment’s long history. The names of every Legatus that had led the regiment into battle since its founding—all three hundred and seventy-four of them—were picked out in silver thread on the back of the banner.
Verenus had not known exactly what to expect when meeting one of the revered Consuls face to face, but seeing such humility in one so far above the humble ranks of Guardsmen such as he was certainly not it.
The next few minutes passed in a blur as the Coadjutor was introduced by name to each of the 232nd’s officers. Suddenly the White Consul was standing before Verenus. Few men were the equal of Verenus’ height, but he felt like a child as he looked up into the broad face of the Space Marine.
The Coadjutor offered his hand, and Verenus clasped forearms with him. It was like gripping the arm of a statue. He could feel the terrifying strength in the Space Marine’s grip.
Finally, the Space Marine saluted the 232nd, and made his way back to his shuttle. Awestruck, Verenus watched the golden Aquila lander ascend towards the Kronos star fort, like an angel returning to the heavens.
Aboard the Aquila, Brother Aquilius drummed his fingers on his armrest. “Where was the Proconsul?” he said.
“Regretfully, I am unable to say, Coadjutor,” said Aquilius’ heavily augmented aide. Aquilius took a deep breath.
“The banner was a nice touch,” he said a moment later. “I thought that it would be appropriate, Coadjutor. It seemed to be appreciated.”
“It was. Thank you.”
The White Consul peered out through the narrow portal beside his seat. Kronos star fort filled his view.
Even several hundred kilometres out, the space station was immense. It rendered the tiny gold lander utterly insignificant. Aquilius could see a dozen Imperial Navy vessels of Destroyer-class and higher docked there. Even the two battlecruisers of Battlegroup Hexus, Via Lucis and Via Crucis, each more than three kilometres in length, were dwarfed by Kronos.
“Would you like me to run through the day’s remaining commitments, Coadjutor?” said his aide.
Aquilius’ gaze lingered on the massive launch-bays and banks of gun-batteries lining the space station’s heavily shielded flanks.
“Coadjutor?” said his aide, offering the Space Marine a data-slate.
Aquilius turn away and nodded.
Two hours later, his mind numb from meetings with bureaucrats and Ministorum adepts, Brother Aquilius walked the length of a brightly lit corridor, deep within the heart of the Kronos star fort. He came to a halt and pressed his palm against a matt-black sensorii tablet. Blast-doors opened with a hiss in response, and he went into the training chambers.
The stink of perspiration and ozone was heavy in the air.
Moving to the third and only occupied training cage, Aquilius stopped. He glanced down at the data-slate readout on the control pulpit, and pursed his lips.
From the cage came a high-pitched squeal of discharging energy as a training servitor was dispatched.
The warrior within moved with a subtle blend of power and grace. Every strike flowed into a parry or another blow, his every thrust precise and deadly. He displayed an astounding economy of movement, with no unnecessary flourish or extravagance. He fought with combat shield and sword, and his head was lathered in sweat. Four training servitors circled him, their blank-helmed heads and swift-moving bodies blurred by their humming shield-units. Bladed arms cut through the air as they sought to land a blow against the sublime swordsman. Programmed to complement each other, the training servitors attacked as one.
Far from being dim-witted protocol mech-organics, these training servitors were vicious combat models, their aggression heightened with stimms and Rage injectors.
Aquilius knew the damage they could inflict with those slashing blade-arms—he carried more than a few scars from their touch—and he watched the Proconsul with a mixture of respect, awe and frustration.
Until twenty-one months ago, Veteran Brother Cassius Ostorius had been Company Champion of 5th Company. He had held the post for forty-seven years, having been inducted into the White Consuls three hundred and thirty-four years earlier.
When Aquilius had first learned that he would be serving as Coadjutor to Veteran Brother Ostorius, he was overjoyed. Ultramar-born, and one of the White Consuls’ most respected warriors—arguably its finest swordsmen—Ostorius had been Aquilius’ idol as he rose from the neophyte Scout to fully fledged battle-brother.
That enthusiasm had waned significantly in the subsequent months.
With enviable skill, Ostorius turned aside a slashing blade with his combat shield. Spinning, he deflected a second and a third blow coming in at him from different angles and cut his sword across the face of one of the training servitors. Its shield registered the hit in a blaze of electricity and the servitor stepped backwards stiffly, powering down.
[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed Page 2
