Hunt for Voldorius

by Andy Hoare

  As the bowing acolytes gathered behind their master, a sonorous, atonal chanting started up. Though Malya could not understand the words, she knew beyond doubt that they invoked dark names that should never be spoken. Dread welled up inside her, but she clung on to her faith, drawing upon the grace she knew resided deep inside.

  Voldorius chuckled. ‘Even now, you resist me,’ he said. ‘And it is that strength that shall allow you to withstand the gift you are soon to receive. I knew from the moment you entered the grand square that you alone of the ten thousand gathered there had the strength to resist being consumed by the Bloodtide…’

  ‘I shall not serve you,’ Malya insisted, feeling the grace she had felt earlier returning. Her voice became gentle as she went on. ‘Nothing you can do to me shall make me acquiesce.’

  ‘I do not require your subservience, Malya L’nor,’ replied Voldorius, ‘for I have the power to control you utterly. I require only your survival, that your soul is not consumed by the awakened will of the Bloodtide.’

  Malya’s head sank to the steel surface and she closed her eyes. Was this how it felt to the Emperor’s martyrs, she wondered, as they gave themselves up to death in His name? Drawing her shield of grace around her, Malya forced her breathing to slow, to find that place of purity once more.

  Then a deep rumble passed through the chamber and Malya felt dust fall down from the ceiling. She kept her eyes closed, extending her senses outwards. The chanting of Voldorius’s acolytes faltered a moment, and then continued as before.

  ‘Is she ready to be moved?’ Malya heard Voldorius ask. ‘Speak!’

  ‘It is ready, my lord,’ the renegade tech-priest replied from somewhere behind Malya. ‘Do you have the… the vial?’ Malya sensed something akin to awe in the voice of the rogue adept, and she slowly opened her eyes to see what he referred to.

  Voldorius had one gnarled claw held in front of him, and in it was a clear, glass vial. A silvery light was emanating from the small container. Malya had seen that light before, what seemed like weeks ago. She had seen it in the cell of the prisoner, radiating from its shifting body. And here was that same radiance, somehow contained within the small clear container held between the talons of a daemon.

  ‘This is sufficient quantity?’ asked Voldorius.

  The tech-priest bowed deep, but mechanical eyes squinted upwards from the depths of his hood as he gazed covetously at the vial. ‘Oh yes, my lord,’ said the renegade. ‘That vial contains… one hundred and twenty-seven million… three hundred and thirty-three thousand… and… two viable nanytes. Such a sample could infect billions of hosts if efficiently distributed, my lord.’

  ‘If they can penetrate power armour,’ Voldorius growled absently.

  ‘Even if they cannot, my lord,’ answered the tech-priest, ‘not all of your foes take full precautions.’

  Voldorius studied the contents of the vial for several long moments, during which another tremor passed through the chamber and more dust fell down on Malya’s face, causing her to blink and tears to swell in her eyes. ‘That much is true, tech-priest.

  ‘Take her to the cathedral.’

  ‘What?’ Malya breathed, looking up sharply. ‘Why would you…’

  ‘Are you ashamed?’ said Voldorius, his voice grating and loud in the dark, enclosed chamber. ‘Why would you not desire your moment of transcendence to take place before the representation of your Emperor?’

  ‘Why?’ Malya repeated.

  ‘Because all of this,’ Voldorius indicated with a sweep of the arm not holding the vial, ‘is as naught compared to the glory of Chaos! Such things must be done correctly.’ Voldorius leaned in close to Malya. ‘There are certain processes that have so much more… gravitas, when performed in such places.’

  ‘Blasphemer…’ Malya sobbed, despair threatening to overwhelm her. She had always known she would not survive the horrors unleashed upon Quintus, but to be used like this… She cared nothing for her own life, but that it might be claimed in the Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom, before the mighty statue of the Lord of Mankind, was an unspeakable cruelty before which the last of her strength crumbled away.

  She clamped her eyes shut as the surgical table beneath her was wheeled out of the chamber, hot tears streaming down her face. The acolytes’ atonal plainsong increased in volume until it threatened to overwhelm her with the echoed wails of uncounted damned souls writhing in eternal suffering in the depths of the warp…

  Chapter 13

  Bloodtide Rising

  ‘Where is it?’ the Raven Guard Meleriex asked Sergeant Kholka as the infiltration group stalked along a cramped alleyway between two of Mankarra’s massive, bunker-like buildings.

  Kholka halted as he came to the end of the narrow alley, and nodded out towards a wide, flat expanse of marble that gleamed orange as Quintus’s setting sun cast the last of its rays across the city. ‘It’s there, brother.’

  The Raven Guard’s dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. After a moment, realisation dawned. ‘The marble forms the aquila,’ he remarked. ‘The Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom is below?’

  ‘Yes, brother, it is,’ Kholka replied. ‘And so too is the holding cell, or so your captain informs us.’

  Meleriex looked back to face Kholka. ‘The contact tells the truth, brother-sergeant. Of that I am certain. But how do we gain access?’

  ‘We follow them,’ replied Kholka, nodding to indicate a line of black-robed figures that hurried across the marble flagstones to an armoured portal set in a bunker not far from the Space Marines’ position. ‘We need only gain access to the underground complex, by which all of these buildings around us are joined. Once we are in the subterranean levels, we can locate the holding cell.’

  ‘Understood,’ the Raven Guard replied. Both warriors ducked back into the alleyway as the line of robed figures approached. Meleriex activated his lightning claws, and whispered to Kholka, ‘My kill.’

  The Scout-sergeant could not help but grin. He had as much cause as any in the Chapter to be suspicious of the Raven Guard, but this brother appeared more willing than most to work alongside others. Perhaps that was the reason Captain Shrike had attached him to the infiltration group.

  ‘Your kill,’ replied Kholka. He had no doubt that Meleriex would be able to slaughter the entire group in seconds, and without the need to expend ammunition. ‘Make it quick though, brother.’

  Kholka leaned around the edge of the wall and saw that the monkish figures were now only twenty metres away. The man at the front was activating the controls that would open the armoured portal. The sergeant waited a moment, ensuring that the enemy had fully unlocked the portal, before he nodded towards the Raven Guard warrior.

  Meleriex darted out from the alleyway. His black armour was barely visible amongst the long shadows cast by the squat buildings all about. None of the hooded, black-robed enemies saw him coming at all. Three died in seconds to lethal stabs of Meleriex’s flashing lightning claws. The remainder were frozen rigid by the sudden explosion of violence. The Raven Guard attacked out of the setting sun, and none saw more than a silhouetted angel of death moving amongst them, dispensing death with every gesture.

  Within ten seconds, only one of the figures remained, and he had only survived that long because he had bolted instead of freezing in shock when the Raven Guard had struck. Unfortunately for him, he had fled towards the wrongly imagined safety of the alleyway and ran straight into the waiting White Scars Scouts.

  As the robed figure bounded towards them, Kholka reached out an arm and hooked his elbow around the man’s neck. In a savage motion, Kholka slammed the enemy into the rockcrete wall, pushing his face right into its surface.

  Ensuring the man was restrained, Kholka reached up his free hand and yanked the hood down to reveal the captive’s face, his cheek pressed into the wall. That face was a mask of bitter hatred, teeth gritte
d and eyes alight with frenzied anger. A swirling pattern of crudely applied tattoos was etched across his face and bald scalp, denoting the vile pacts he had undoubtedly made with the Ruinous Powers.

  Upon seeing those symbols, Kholka drew his combat knife and pressed its monomolecular tip to the man’s jugular. ‘Tell me the location of the holding cells,’ he spat, ‘and I shall grant you a far quicker death than you deserve.’

  The man’s eyes flashed and his mouth twisted into a feral snarl. ‘I’ll tell you nothing…’

  Kholka pressed the tip of his knife into the man’s neck, drawing a thin swelling of blood around it. ‘Where is it? One last chance.’

  ‘Give me death,’ the man growled. ‘I welcome it, for I shall become so much more…’

  Disgust welling up inside him, Kholka prepared to end the man’s life with a thrust of his combat knife. Then Brother Meleriex appeared next to him, and placed a restraining hand upon his arm. ‘Let me, sergeant.’

  Kholka paused, turning to meet the other’s steely gaze. ‘Much slaughter awaits us yet, Raven Guard.’

  Meleriex held Kholka’s gaze a moment longer before replying, ‘That is not my meaning, brother-sergeant.’

  Then understanding dawned and Kholka stepped back, allowing the Raven Guard to take control of the prisoner. ‘Make it quick.’

  Not wishing to witness what would happen next, Sergeant Kholka strode to the mouth of the alleyway. He was on the verge of barking an order to his Scouts when he saw that they had pre-empted the need and were even now dragging the bodies of the dead traitors away from the open portal and secreting them in the shadows of the alley. Despite the bitter taste in his mouth, he felt a fierce pride in the fieldcraft his charges were displaying.

  Scout Borchu was rolling a body into the shadows nearby. It was clear to see that Brother Meleriex had been supremely efficient in the application of his deathblows, punching with his lightning claws rather than slashing. The wounds were lethal, but had not torn the bodies asunder, thus allowing the Space Marines to drag them away without spilling blood and scattering body parts across the kill-zone.

  A muffled cry sounded from further back in the shadowed alleyway, followed by a dry crack and the sound of a body hitting the black, rocky ground. Kholka did not turn, but waited until Brother Meleriex came to stand at his side.

  ‘The portal leads down to a sub-level junction. There we proceed along tunnel two seven zero until we reach the holding cells.’

  Kholka turned to look the other Space Marine in the eye. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘I am sure,’ Meleriex replied.

  Suppressing his revulsion, Kholka made to gather his charges in preparation for the infiltration. There were certain lessons he would not be teaching them.

  Malya stared straight upwards and wished that she could clamp her hands to her ears to shut out the hellish chanting of the acolytes that were gathered around the table to which she was still clamped. She had been removed from the chamber, and taken in blasphemous procession along the dark passageways to the subterranean Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom.

  Soaring far above Malya, the vaults of the cathedral were almost lost in shadow. The horrific, batlike imps flitted to and fro, swooping down towards her before darting off at speed emitting a vile shriek that was disturbingly close to the mocking laughter of an especially vindictive child. The surgical table had been placed before the mighty statue of the Emperor Triumphant, which towered twenty metres into the incense-laced air.

  At first Malya had drawn strength from the magnificent sight, but had soon noted the terrible descration of the statue. The vile imps had deposited vast amounts of guano upon the Emperor’s holy countenance, great white stripes of the stuff streaked across His noble face. Even worse, the servants of Voldorius had daubed vile runes that seared the eye when looked upon all across the statue’s flanks. The sight brought crushing sadness to Malya’s heart despite her own predicament.

  Yet, despite the injuries done to the towering statue of the Emperor of All Mankind, it was still possessed of some indefinable glory that no amount of damage short of its complete destruction could spoil.

  ‘The cohort shall muster!’ the voice of the daemon prince boomed out from somewhere outside of Malya’s field of vision, its vile notes echoing down the nave and repeating over and over again. In response, dozens of armoured boots struck the ground. The remainder of Voldorius’s Alpha Legion warriors were gathering in the cathedral to witness their master’s final blasphemy.

  ‘The Emperor’s deluded slaves descend even now!’ Voldorius growled, his voice filling the entire space of the cathedral. ‘He who hunts has slain my champion, but he shall soon hunt no more!’

  A hundred and more voices roared their assent, their words modulated by the grilles of their baroque masks. Even as the roars faded to echoes, the distant sound of an explosion ground through the rock and Malya knew that the Space Marines were closing on their foes.

  She dared not believe that she would be rescued. She clung instead to the thought that Lord Voldorius would soon be brought to judgement, even should she herself not live to witness it.

  ‘What was that?’ Telluk hissed as the group proceeded along the pipe-choked tunnel. A deep tremor had caused the pipes to twist and their metal to screech as dust descended from the stone ceiling above.

  Kholka reached to his vox-bead and pressed it into his ear. He concentrated for a moment but could discern very little, for the metal and stone all around interfered with the signal. ‘Ordnance. Ours I would hope,’ he replied. ‘Concentrate on the task at hand, neophyte,’ he continued, hefting his boltgun. ‘Gharn, the hunter’s arrow. Proceed.’

  The group resumed its advance along the dark passageway, neophyte Gharn moving forwards to take the lead position. The tunnel, which the captive had indicated would lead to the holding cells, was straight and narrow, forcing the squad to form what was a vulnerable formation given their light arms and armour. Kholka was grateful that they had the Raven Guard with them, for their superior armour and specialised close-combat armament would prove highly effective should they encounter an enemy in the tunnels.

  ‘It was not ours, brother-sergeant,’ said the Raven Guard at Kholka’s side, his voice low. ‘I have been monitoring the vox-net too.’

  ‘I know it was not,’ Kholka growled, before continuing. ‘What have you been able to pick up?’

  ‘The enemy’s flagship is firing on the city.’

  Utter madness, Kholka thought, but not entirely unexpected given the nature of the enemy. If Voldorius believed he could destroy the Space Marines with an orbital bombardment far more efficiently than his ground troops could, then he would do so, regardless of how many of his own he killed in the process. He only regretted that Lord of Heavens was too far out to intervene. The White Scars had initiated their attack a great distance from Quintus in order that the world’s defence grid would not detect their approach.

  ‘Do you have two-way contact?’ asked Kholka. He himself had been unable to raise any of his brothers. Perhaps the Raven Guard had experienced more luck.

  ‘Only sporadically, brother-sergeant,’ said Meleriex. ‘I could use my fusion core to boost the signal, but that might compromise our mission.’

  Indeed, thought Kholka. Such a transmission might be the group’s last. ‘Only if we truly have need, brother,’ he said. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ the Raven Guard replied, before halting at a sign of activity further along the tunnel. Scout Gharn had stopped where the tunnel opened up into a larger chamber. The others had assumed covering positions nearby, melting into the shadows and utilising what little cover the protruding pipes and conduits afforded.

  Kholka halted too, his eyes trained on a pool of light in the centre of the chamber. He raised his boltgun and slowly made his way forwards past the neophytes, to squat next to the lead Scout.

  ‘Th
e silvered moon enshrouds the hunted,’ Gharn whispered, not taking his eyes from the chamber. The youth had no need to use the Chapter’s battle-cant now, Kholka thought, but it was a good habit to cultivate. He looked out into the chamber, most of which was dominated by dormant machinery and twisting pipes. Only a single light source illuminated the space, a circle of wan light cast into the centre.

  Kholka’s glance took all this in within the span of seconds, before he looked to the area the Scout had indicated using the White Scars’ battle-cant. At the far edge of the pool of light he saw a pair of sturdy, rubber-soled boots, the rest of the body hidden in shadow. A deep red stain spread slowly outwards into the light.

  ‘Wait here,’ Kholka hissed. The group had no time to be distracted by what might be no more than a random act of violence inflicted by one traitor on another in the midst of a city-razing battle. He scanned the chamber through his boltgun’s sights. Detecting no enemies, the sergeant stepped out of the tunnel and skirted the edge of the chamber until he stood over the body.

  It was a servitor of some sort, but the manner of its death was not immediately apparent. The mind-scrubbed slave wore a work suit of heavy-duty, rubberised fabric, and its body was augmented by dozens of cybernetic parts designed to facilitate whatever tasks it had been created to fulfil. Its head was bald, and the entire left of its brain had been surgically replaced with crude machinery. But none of this was out of place. What was unusual was the fact that every drop of the servitor’s blood was even now draining from its body, pouring out in fact, as if some pressure within was expelling it at a great rate. And the blood was leaving the body by any and every route possible, leaking from the mouth, nostrils and the one eye and ear that were not replaced by cybernetic versions. It was even seeping out through the pores in what little skin was visible, and spreading out in a great pool all around the body.