The scale of fear, revulsion, hatred, terror and panic of the system’s inhabitants had drawn the daemons to this world, like flies to a corpse. They fed off these raw emotions, gluttonously supping at them, but more delectable still were the souls of those dying in torment and fear.
The daemons licked their ethereal lips in hunger, clustered in eager packs around the glowing soul-flames of those about to die. As the mortal soldiers of Boros Prime perished, the hellspawn descended upon them in a whirlwind of hunger and savagery, rending, tearing and feeding. Whether they fell on the field of battle, killed beneath the blades of the faithful or merely took their own lives, all were consumed to feed the insatiable hunger of the true gods, for these lesser daemons were but aspects of the greater powers. In the depths of the warp, the gods rumbled their pleasure.
But Marduk was not spirit-journeying merely to witness the majesty of Chaos, as glorious and inspirational as it was.
Turning his attention away from the beauteous carnage, he streaked across the heavens, the monochromatic war-torn planet blurring beneath him. He hurtled invisibly across the ravaged planet’s continents, rising up higher and higher into the airless upper atmosphere, drawn towards a dark nimbus of power that called to him like a siren. He could see it from afar, a malignant blot upon reality, oozing potency.
At last, he slowed his ascent, and hovered in the air before this powerful warp-presence.
Greetings, Apostle of the 34th Host, boomed the shadow-soul, making Marduk’s spirit waver.
My lord Ekodas, answered Marduk.
The amorphous, insubstantial shape of Ekodas’ soaring shadow-soul coalesced into a shape more recognisable, an anthropomorphised form projected from his mind. He appeared before Marduk in the guise of a giant, robed figure hanging effortlessly in the sky, his head that of a snarling beast. Flames surrounded him, and the sheer brutality and force of the power Ekodas radiated buffeted Marduk’s spirit like a gale.
Two other soul-spirits coalesced in view alongside Marduk.
Belagosa’s presence was hazy and flickering. He took the form of an archaic warrior-knight, his body encased in ancient plate armour. Ankh-Heloth’s presence revealed itself as a coiled serpent, eyes glinting with malign light.
This war threatens to slip from our grasp, boomed Ekodas into the minds of the gathered Apostles.
If there is any failure it is yours alone, shot back Marduk.
Ankh-Heloth’s avatar bared its fangs, hissing and spitting, but Marduk ignored him.
We are making progress, said Belagosa. So long as the Nexus holds and the warp gate is kept shut, there is no hope of salvation for the followers of the Corpse-God. This world’s corruption is assured.
I want this world to burn, roared Ekodas. Its continued defiance offends me. The spirit of the Imperials is not yet broken. There is one amongst them who is their talisman; their so-called White Angel. Find him, my Apostles. Find him, and bring him to me.
We are not alone, said Belagosa suddenly.
Marduk looked around him, probing with his mind’s eye. An insubstantial flicker played at the edge of his vision.
There, he said.
Ekodas spun, ghostly arms extended and flames of the spirit roared. Amidst the inferno, a glowing figure armoured in silver plate appeared. A shining tabard of white was worn over his armour. The flames licked at this newly revealed presence, but they could not touch him, for a glowing bubble of light surrounded him.
Spying on us, Librarian? said Ekodas. It will avail you little.
This world shall never belong to you, traitors, pulsed the White Consul.
It already does, boomed Ekodas. And now, you die.
I think not, heretic, replied the Librarian.
Ekodas grew in stature, his bestial face twisted in hatred. His arms sprouted insubstantial claws and he flew at the Librarian’s soul-presence, flames flaring all around him.
There was an explosion of blinding light that made Marduk and the other Apostles shrink back. When it cleared, the Librarian’s presence had disappeared.
He is gone, said Belagosa.
How much did he hear? pulsed Ankh-Heloth.
It matters not, boomed Ekodas.
Go now, my Apostles. Find their White Angel. We destroy him, and we destroy their hope.
With his dictate conveyed, the blaze surrounding Ekodas burst outwards, slamming into Marduk and the other two Apostles with the force of a psychic hurricane. Marduk fell, spinning out of control, and slammed involuntarily back into the cage of his earthly flesh.
He collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from his nostrils.
“My lord?” said Ashkanez, kneeling beside him.
Marduk waved him back. “Get Burias,” he said hoarsely. “I have a job for him.”
The sound of the battle was loud even kilometres from the nearest of the ever-shifting front lines, dull explosions that shook the planet to its core. Thunderbolts and Marauders roared overhead, heading towards the warzones with full payloads, while others chugged back towards the scattered airbases, trailing smoke, their ammunition spent. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed from makeshift medicae facilities, and corpses were strewn throughout the streets.
Aquilius gazed around him as he marched. The sky was filled with smoke and cinders. The once pristine, gleaming white marble of Sirenus Principal, his birth-city, was now pocked and chipped from small-arms fire, scarred by ordnance and covered in soot and blood. The beautiful gardens and arboretums were now little more than charred wastelands of scorched earth. The blackened skeletons of trees protruded mournfully from the ash, like headstones, and lakes and fountains were now cesspools of foulness, choked with scum and unnatural algae blooms. Corpses floated face down in the waters.
Boros Prime was changing. Aquilius could feel the change in the air itself, and it had nothing to do with anything as mundane as pollutants, ash and death. The taint of Chaos had taken hold of Boros Prime, and he despaired as to what would be left here, even if they were victorious. A week ago, one in ten thousand had been identified as exhibiting some unnatural taint, planetwide—tens of millions of citizens and soldiers. All had been removed from their units and habs and transported under guard to the quarantine sanitation camps—death camps by any other name.
The number of the afflicted had risen sharply in the last days, and it was judged that the taint was now affecting one in five thousand, and rising daily. Paranoia was rife within the ranks of the Imperial Guard and the citizenry, for no detectable pattern to determine who would be affected was apparent. Where would it end? Would it end?
So far no warrior brother of the White Consuls had suffered any visible or detectible taint, but not even Astartes were immune to the perverting effects of Chaos if exposed to it for long enough.
It was like a plague that the invaders brought with them, an insidious creeping sickness that had infiltrated Boros Prime. It was worse than the Word Bearers themselves, perhaps, for it was an enemy that could not be fought with bolter or chainsword.
Rebreathers had been issued, but already the supply of filter plugs was running short. In truth, the insidious, corrupting effect of Chaos was not transferred through the air—it was far more insidious than that—but it had been deemed an appropriate calming measure.
In consultation with the Chapter’s Apothecaries and the Guard’s senior medicae officers, Aquilius had rolled out daily screening and purity testing for all soldiers, to be conducted in the presence of a superior officer. Any individual exhibiting any taint was removed from their unit. Commissars prowled the ranks, and each day Aquilius read depressing communiqués tallying the numbers of soldiers executed for exhibiting hostile effects of taint, or for concealing and avoiding screens.
Coadjutor Aquilius moved through the press of soldiers. He towered head and shoulders above them, and conversations died as he passed.
His armour was battle worn, his cloak was tattered and burnt, yet he walked with his head held high, his blue-crested helmet
tucked under one arm. A melta burn scarred the left side of his face, and his short-cropped blond hair was blackened from fire.
Aquilius saw the soldiers’ expressions lifting as they moved reverently from his path. He nodded to them. Hands blackened with grime and ash touched his armour plates. Murmurs spread like ripples on a lake as he made his way through the press of stinking, battle-weary soldiers. They spoke in hushed tones, but Aquilius could hear them all. The White Angel, they whispered. That was what the men were calling him now. He had tried to stop them, but it had done no good.
He did not feel worthy of their adoration, but it didn’t matter. It was Chapter Master Valens who had made him realise that, and his respect for the warrior had grown immeasurably.
“This is not about you,” Chapter Master Valens had said. “This is not about what you need, or what you deserve. This is about what those soldiers need. They need hope, Aquilius. The White Angel is that hope. The men must hold until the veil over the Boros Gate is lifted.”
He had not understood the Chapter Master’s words at first but as weeks passed he slowly came to.
Amidst the horror and darkness of this escalating, planet-wide war, the White Angel had become a beacon of hope.
In the months since the enemy had attacked, Aquilius had fought fearlessly alongside the regiments of the Boros Imperial Guard, fighting as one of them. He faced the dangers they faced, and was ever at the forefront of the most intense battles, and he—or rather the fiction that was the White Angel—had become a legend.
The Imperial propaganda machine was in full swing. Printed leaflets were distributed amongst the ranks speaking of the White Angel’s exploits, all highly exaggerated, and how the enemy was being slowly repelled. It made him intensely uncomfortable, but he could see the positive effect it was having on the men. Spirits lifted wherever he went, and soldiers that had been about to break redoubled their resolve in his presence.
He understood his role here now, and had come to accept its burden. It was his job to ensure that the Guard and the PDF, the tank companies and the auxiliary regiments were operating at their peak, that their morale held, and that their will to fight was not eroded by the insidious tools of the enemy. If that meant that he must become their talisman, their White Angel, then so be it.
The soldiers and citizenry of Boros Prime saw the White Angel as their saviour, their divine protector. While Aquilius stood, there was hope. And despite everything, that ray of hope was burning brighter with every day that passed, with every day that victory was denied the enemy.
As he moved through the regiments, making himself seen, he could not shake the feeling that hostile eyes were watching him. He stopped and scanned the rooftops and damaged battlements. He told himself he was being foolish, but the nagging impression would not budge.
The vox-bead in his ear clicked.
“Coadjutor Aquilius,” came a voice as he accepted the incoming communication. It was Chapter Master Titus Valens, located halfway around the world, engaged in the frozen north.
“Yes, my lord?”
“We are close to unearthing the secret that locks down the Boros Gate. Librarian Epistolary Liventius believes it is a device, something called the Nexus. Our brother Librarian is launching an attack upon it as we speak.”
“This is auspicious news, my lord!”
“Hope is at hand, Coadjutor. Pray that the Librarian is successful. But there is more.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“The enemy have learnt of the White Angel. The enemy is coming for you, Aquilius. Be vigilant.”
The Coadjutor’s gaze never left the rooftops. Something was watching then.
“Let them come,” he said.
“I myself am returning to Sirenus Principal,” said Chapter Master Valens. “My Thunderhawk should reach you in six hours. You will rendezvous with me, Aquilius. I cannot allow you to fall. You are too important.”
“I am a Space Marine, my lord,” said Aquilius. “I need no protection.”
Hidden in the shadows of a high alcove, Burias-Drak’shal crouched like a malignant gargoyle. A bestial snarl issued from his lips and his daemonic eyes narrowed as he focussed on his prey.
The cloistered antechamber of the Temple of the Gloriatus had been sealed with psychic wards, and incense billowed from censers. The only light came from hundreds of brightly burning candles. Wax pooled beneath them.
Thirteen psykers of various abilities and specialities knelt in a circle, as if in prayer, their minds linked. They had been gathered from all across Boros Prime as the embattled fleet still fought to protect the Kronos star fort. Their number was made up of four blind astropaths, three haughty navigators from the Imperial Navy, three sanctioned psykers of the Boros Guard command, and three young inductees of the schola progenium who showed marked psychic abilities. All of them had been vetted by Librarian Epistolary Liventius, and judged worthy. The White Consul himself sat cross-legged in the centre of the circle, like a shaman of the old times.
It is time, said Liventius.
Those arrayed around him readied themselves, conducting their own rituals in preparation of the coming conflict, lending Liventius their strength. Each of them knew that the chances of them surviving this encounter were slim. Maddening glimpses of their thoughts and fears flashed through the Librarian’s mind.
Focus, he said, gently nudging the psykers’ minds with his own.
As their united trance deepened, the temperature in the room dropped markedly. Hoarfrost began to crystallise upon the blue plates of Liventius’ armour. Deeper he drew the psykers into him, focussing their power and uniting them, until he was no longer a single entity, but rather all of them bound together as one.
For two hours, the trance continued before Liventius judged them ready to proceed. He surged from his body and passed on up through the ceiling, striking heavenward.
Up and up and up he soared, cutting through the atmosphere of the tortured planet, passing effortlessly through its gravity and out into the airless vacuum beyond.
He saw the beleaguered Kronos star fort, and could see the glowing souls of every individual on board. Even as he watched, he saw scores of the glowing soul-flames snuffed out, blinking out of existence as they perished.
Liventius turned his attention towards the Chaos fleet. For weeks and months he had been probing their defences, attempting to locate the origin of whatever it was locking down the Boros Gate’s worm-holes. At last, he had narrowed his focus down onto one ship, the hulking Infernus-class battleship, the Crucius Maledictus. And from what he had garnered from overhearing the gathering of the enemy Apostles, he now had a name for whatever it was—the Nexus.
With a thought, Liventius closed the distance to the immense warship. Immediately he came up against a wall of psychic force, an almost impenetrable barrier that actively resisted his presence. However, bolstered with the strength of the thirteen minds linked to his own, he began pushing through the defences, focusing all his will on worming his way through its intricate layers of protection.
Stabbing pain erupted in his mind, and he heard the psychic scream of one of the astropaths linked to him as he perished. Shielding himself and the other minds linked to his own from the trauma of the dying man, Liventius pushed on. It was like swimming though a viscous pool of acid, and agony rippled across his spirit-form.
He was less than halfway through the potent wall of psychic force when he felt a malignant presence swell into being around him. This was the psyker who had erected the barrier, and Liventius siphoned off a portion of his prodigious power to hide himself from its soul-eyes; for all his strength, he was as a child next to this being.
You cannot hide forever, boomed the presence. I will find you.
Liventius continued burrowing through the force wall, but even as he did, he felt the resistance against him redouble. He began losing ground, the wall repelling him, and he screamed out soundlessly as psychic Shockwaves of pain flowed through him.
Ano
ther of the astropaths perished under the strain, further weakening Liventius. Knowing that he would never penetrate the ever-strengthening barrier while still trying to conceal his presence, he dropped his shielding completely, focussing all his will into cutting through the barrier before him.
There you are, little man, boomed the voice, and Liventius screamed in torment as his spirit was bathed in incandescent flames. Two of the minds linked with his own were instantly fried, blood exploding from their eyeballs.
Nevertheless, with all his strength now focused, Liventius was making headway once more, and with a final surge, he penetrated the psychic barrier surrounding the Crucius Maledictus.
Suddenly free, he surged through the corridors of the battleship, touching every mind that he passed, seeking answers. Roaring in fury, the spirit of the apostate dogged him, surging behind him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him.
From what Liventius gleaned from the repulsive minds that he touched, there was something unnatural aboard the vessel. As he got closer to its source, he felt its touch, and he was at once repelled and attracted to it. It was anathema to a psychic’s mind, and yet he was drawn towards it, like flotsam pulled inexorably into a whirlpool. Rather than resisting its pull, Liventius went along with it, hurtling towards the source at a speed far beyond anything capable of physical matter. He burst into a high-ceilinged room located centrally within the Crucius Maledictus’ bloated belly, and came to an abrupt halt, desperately pulling up short before he was consumed.
Here was the source that had locked down the Boros Gate, he knew that instantly. It appeared to him as a pulsing sphere of utter darkness, drawing all psychic energy into itself. It was all Liventius could do to hold himself back from being sucked into that emptiness. Two of the minds linked with his own were not so strong. Their souls were dragged into the darkness screaming and snuffed out, as though they had never been. The blackness shuddered, growing stronger.
[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed Page 22
