by Dan Abnett
The gun goes off. Krank feels surprisingly little pain considering he’s been shot through the forehead. Blood runs down his face. It’s hot. But there’s no pain. There’s not even any recoil or blowback.
The man with the pistol falls over. It’s his blood decorating Krank’s face. The side of the cultist’s skull has been shot off. It’s all matted hair and white bone shards and leaking pink.
Another man stands on the roadway. He’s got a lasrifle. He fires it again, and snaps the second cultist over on his back. Headshot. A really clean headshot. Marksman standard.
Krank blinks. Where did this guy come from? He’s Army. Krank can’t tell which unit. The shooter clambers off the street to join them.
Rane and the other cultist have stopped fighting. Rane rolls the dead cultist off him. The big, rangy freak has got a dagger wedged in his heart. Somehow, in the frenzy, Rane managed to stick the bastard with his own knife.
‘Probably an accident,’ Rane says, sitting up, saying what Krank was thinking. Krank laughs, despite the fact that absolutely fugging nothing in the world is funny.
They look up at the shooter.
‘Thanks,’ says Krank.
‘You needed help,’ says the man. He’s a veteran. His face is lined and his kit is faded. He’s got silver in his hair.
‘We all need help today, friend,’ says Krank.
‘True words,’ says the man, offering his hand. He pulls Krank to his feet.
‘I’m Krank. The kid is Rane. Bale Rane. We’re Numinus 61st. Well, we were. For whatever that counts.’
‘Ollanius Persson, retired,’ says the man. ‘I’m trying to fight my way out of this shit hole. You boys want to come along?’
Krank nods.
‘Safety in numbers,’ he says.
‘Or company in death,’ replies the old guy. ‘But I’ll take either. Grab your guns.’
Persson looks at Bale Rane.
‘You all right, boy?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ replies Rane.
‘He had a shake-up,’ says Krank. ‘He thought he saw his bride. His little wife. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t human.’
‘I saw her,’ Rane insists.
‘Nothing looks like what it’s supposed to today,’ says Persson. ‘You can’t trust your eyes. The warp’s at work, and it’s cursing us all.’
‘But–’ Rane begins.
‘Your friend is right,’ says Persson. ‘It wasn’t your wife.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’ asks Rane.
‘I got old,’ says Persson. ‘I saw plenty.’
‘You’re not that old,’ says Rane.
‘Not compared to some, I suppose,’ says Persson.
He crouches down, and plucks the ritual knife out of the cultist’s blood-soaked chest. It’s a black stone blade with a hand-wound wire handle, home-made. An athame. It reminds Oll Persson of something, but it’s not quite right. He tosses the wretched thing away.
‘Come and meet the others,’ he says to the two troopers.
‘Others?’ asks Krank.
5
[mark: 8.55.49]
The enemy comes at Leptius Numinus. It’s hard to assess numbers because of the terrible visibility, but Ventanus estimates at least six thousand. The core of the force is made up of Army units auxiliary to the XVII, the so-called brotherhoods. They look more like ritual fanatics than soldiers to Ventanus, typical of that zealot XVII mindset. Ventanus is certain that the root of many of the day’s ills lies there: the fanaticism of the Word Bearers. They were always borderline and unstable, always of a religious inclination. They worshipped the Imperium as a creed and the Emperor as a god. That’s why they were rebuked in the first place. That’s why the Emperor used the XIII, surely his most rational warriors, to do the job.
It should have been enough. It should have ended the Word Bearers’ wayward thinking, and brought them and their spurned primarch back into the common fold.
Evidently, it did not.
The Word Bearers have been fomenting dissent since that day. Reaching some crisis of faith, some epistemological crossroads, they have turned. They have turned against the Emperor they once adored.
But for what, Ventanus wonders? What do you replace your notion of god with?
Ventanus fears that the Calth Conjunction was an opportunity seized by the XVII to demonstrate their new alignment. The choice of Calth cannot have been chance. This was an opportunity to hurt and shame the Legion that chastised them all those years ago. By being the instrument of the savage reprimand on Monarchia forty-four years earlier, the Ultramarines made themselves a target. They made all of Ultramar’s Five Hundred Worlds targets.
There are still too many questions for Ventanus’s comfort. What force or concept has usurped the Emperor as the Word Bearers’ all-consuming cause? What, apart from malicious vengeance, are they hoping to achieve in the Veridian system? If they crush the Ultramarines at Calth, what is their next step?
Just how many of them are there out there in the fog?
The enemy leaders press the cultists forward in serious numbers. The brotherhood warriors, swathed in black, are chanting, and Ventanus can hear drumming too. The Word Bearers are holding back, driving the cultists forward as shock troops into the earthwork ditch and against the gate.
Sparzi’s gun crews have been shelling into the enemy line for about twenty minutes. They’ve done some serious damage considering the comparatively light nature of the field pieces. The ground beyond the earthwork is peppered with craters and littered with dead. Shot callers on the palace walls are directing the gunners in on the moving mass. Shells fall into the ranged lines, lifting tattered bodies into the air with blasts of flaming debris.
Still they come, wave after wave.
‘Small-arms!’ Ventanus instructs the defenders at the gate and wall. His practical is to let the Army bear the brunt of this, because the legionaries need to spare their boltguns and heavier munitions for the Word Bearers.
The Army force seems content with this. Greavus and some of the other legionaries have co-opted spare lasrifles and other weapons, and are joining the line. Others stand, blades ready, to meet any strength that reaches the gate.
Only Sullus seems distracted. His boltgun is drawn and ready. He wants to act, to fight. He’s angry and frustrated, and it’s fuelling his impatience.
‘Steady yourself,’ Ventanus warns him. ‘I’ll need you when the XVII come at us.’
Sullus spits out a snarl of a reply.
‘Then they’d better come soon!’ he snaps.
Ventanus leaves him to stew. The cultists renew their attacks. The outer walls of the palace are scarred with thousands of shot marks. Parts of some parapets have collapsed. There’s an endless supply of the black-robed figures. They keep rushing the gate bridge. The bridge is littered with enemy dead, and black figures have tumbled into the ditch in significant numbers.
Rockets squeal and lash up at the walls. Sparzi’s artillery tries to bracket the rocket launchers.
Ventanus has a growing concern about munitions supplies.
Ventanus locates Arook on a wall section beside the gate that is defended by the skitarii.
‘Any signal from outside?’ he asks.
‘No,’ says Arook.
‘And the server? Anything from her?’
‘No,’ says Arook. He seems slightly embarrassed.
Mortars tunk and cough behind them. Ventanus hears more rockets wailing in at the wall.
‘Can your men pinpoint the rocket sources? Sparzi’s guns need to end that pain fast before they bring the walls down.’
Arook nods.
‘I wonder how they found us so quickly?’ Arook murmurs as soon as he’s issued command blurts to his warriors.
‘Listening in to our comms?’ Ventanus suggests.
‘No chance,’ says Arook. ‘The skitarii emergency link is secure.’
‘Then just bad luck,’ says Ventanus. ‘There’s more than enough of that to go around today.’
[mark: 9.07.32]
The warp opens broad, black wings. Kor Phaeron manifests.
‘Explain your delay,’ he hisses. Creatures of unlight and the outside fidget and gibber around him.
Morpal Cxir, force commander, bows his head to his manifested superior. Dirty light from the warp-flask swaddles them both.
‘Resistance here, lord,’ Cxir says. ‘Leptius Numinus.’
‘I know it,’ replies Kor Phaeron. ‘A summer palace. No strategic importance. No tactical viability. Burn it. Move on.’
‘There is resistance, lord.’
The Black Cardinal exhales.
‘Your host is expected at the Shield Wall in two hours, Cxir. Do not waste effort and lives on a non-essential target that can be razed by orbital weapons later.’
‘With respect, lord,’ says Cxir. ‘I believe there is more to it.’
He gestures to the warriors grouped around him. One of them is Ulmor Nul, his tracker beast growling and straining at its leash.
‘Nul was pursuing an Ultramarines captain who was discovered fleeing the starport. He obtained an indelible scent. The track led here, to the palace.’
‘Just a survivor, running to the nearest place of shelter,’ remarks Kor Phaeron.
‘It is a very direct and deliberate route to take, lord,’ says Nul. ‘I believe the target has Mechanicum forces with him, and other survivors assembled into a reasonable fighting force.’
‘The defence of the palace complex is resolute,’ adds Cxir. ‘It is organised and purposeful. I believe it has tactical credibility. The XIII is trying to achieve something here.’
Kor Phaeron pauses. The Primordial Truth whispers around him, a hiss like waves breaking on an endless shoreline.
‘You are redirected, Cxir,’ he says. ‘Pursue this prosecution. Exterminate them.’
[mark: 9.20.00]
The chanting and drumming get louder. The next wave of cultists throws itself at the palace.
‘They’re wired,’ warns Greavus sharply.
Ventanus amps up his visor view. There are brotherhood warriors in the front ranks wearing bomb vests or carrying flasks and tubs of explosives.
‘Take them down before they reach the bridge!’ Ventanus orders. Marksmen on the wall line, some of them skitarii using needle laser weapons, start to pick off the bombers. Some detonate as they are brought down. One is caught at the far end of the bridge, his vest exploding with a huge, sickle-shaped rip of fire. Ventanus feels the ground shake.
‘They are renewing their efforts,’ says Sullus.
‘They are,’ Ventanus agrees.
‘Prelude to an attack by their Legiones Astartes, I’ll wager,’ says Sullus.
‘They’ll want to weaken the walls first,’ says Ventanus.
‘Let me take the fight to them!’ Sullus barks. ‘Practical: into the heart of them. Kill their leader. Break their focus.’
‘Theoretical: you die, and so do the men I’m fool enough to let you take with you. Munitions and strength are squandered. No.’
Sullus glares at Ventanus.
‘Do you doubt my courage?’ he asks.
‘In a way, I do,’ says Ventanus. ‘We know no fear, but I think, just now, you do.’
Sullus takes a furious step towards Ventanus.
‘I’ll break your back for that insult! I’m not afraid to die!’
‘I know you’re not, Sullus. But I think you’re afraid that our way of life is dying. That the universe as we understand it is dying. That’s what I’m afraid of.’
Sullus blinks.
‘Practical: loss of faith in our philosophy will lead to over-emphatic and reckless actions. Our combat efficiency will be lost. Our performance as warriors will suffer.’
Sullus swallows.
‘What if… Guilliman’s dead, Remus?’ he asks.
‘Then we avenge him, Teus.’
Sullus looks away.
‘Go find the server,’ Ventanus tells him. ‘Get an update on her progress. If they come at the walls, I want you to protect her.’
Sullus nods and strides away.
In the cavernous sub-basements of the palace, several levels underground, Tawren hears the dull crump of explosions from above ground. Trickles of dust skitter from the disturbed ceiling. She hears detonations, small-arms rattle, the steady tolling of artillery, the crazy ebb of chants and drums.
In chambers nearby, her magi are scrambling to reactivate the palace’s old high-cast system. The vox seems to be intact, but there is a singular lack of viable power.
With a skitarii aide, a female called Cyramica, Tawren has just gained entry to the ceramite-lined well under the palace centre where the data-engine and stacks are held. The data-engine is cold, off-line. She examines it, running her agile hand along its dusty, brown plastek casing. She peers into its inspection windows, observing the etched circuitry, the brass key systems. It is old, an old pattern, probably one of the first data-engines active on Calth at the time of first settlement. It employs Konor-Gantz sub-aetheric systems, and linear binaric cogitation. Old. Quite beautiful.
But not very potent. Tawren understands that the engine was only brought on-line when the governor was in residence at the palace, and then only as a back-up for state records.
‘It will have to be enough,’ she declares out loud. Cyramica glances at her.
Tawren calls in some of the magi, and they begin work on ignition and data-agitation. The engine has its own power supply, a Gysson fusion module set into the floor. The chamber grows warm as the module starts working.
‘If we had one of these for the vox-caster…’ remarks one of the magi.
‘Let us bring it to yield and then measure what it appreciates,’ suggests Tawren. ‘Its power output should be rated in excess of the engine’s needs, to cover all circumstances. Perhaps we can divert some energy to the vox once the engine is operational.’
The magos nods. Tawren has moved laterally around a problem that was confounding him.
Tawren oversees the work. Her gaze lingers on the MIU socket. She will, of course, have to plug herself in. When the time comes. If the engine is tainted with scrapcode, all her efforts may be for nothing, and she will die in the process. Die like Hesst, die the brain-death, the data-death. She remembers Hesst passing in her arms.
A voice interrupts her thoughts. ‘Will it work?’
She turns. An Ultramarines captain has entered the stack room. It is Sullus. She is not sure what to make of Sullus. From observation of micro-expressions during the journey to the palace, she believes that Ventanus does not trust his judgement or reliability.
‘It will work,’ she says with a conviction she does not entirely feel.
‘And the vox system?’ he asks, looking at the ancient engine with a dubious expression.
‘That too. Another half an hour, perhaps.’
‘We don’t have anything like that, server,’ says Sullus. ‘They are at the wall. Can’t you hear them? They’re at the gate, and they will burn this if they get to it.’
‘Then make sure, captain,’ she replies, ‘that they do not get to it.’
One of the magi nods to her. She clears her throat, and walks up to the MIU socket.
The plug connectors lock into place.
The data-engine purrs.
[mark: 9.33.01]
Thiel blows open the next hatch. The daemon-thing on the other side lunges at him, howling. It has teeth – rotten, broken pegs of teeth – all the way around its yawning mouth, which is big enough to swallow him whole. Its legs are back-jointed, with bird’s feet.
Thiel rips the electromagnetic longsword through its maw, severing the upper and lower jaws. Then he puts two bolt-rounds down its sputtering gullet.
Kerso moves in to back him up, hosing the daemon-thing with fire. The thing is already shrieking and spasming, spraying the flagship hallway liberally with ichor. It starts thrashing as the fire wraps around it.
From behind them, Chapter Master Em
pion yells a warning. A second daemon, a thing made of hair and arachnoid limbs and antlers, has scuttled out of the shadows. It grabs Kerso before he can turn, splitting his armour down the length of his spine, peeling his carapace away like foil. Kerso is screaming. His flamer unit tumbles away, weeping fire.
Thiel hacks off two of the spider-thing’s legs. They are like black willow trunks, ropey and matted with brown fuzz. More ichor spatters. Another leg lashes at Thiel. Too many limbs.
Kerso is done screaming. A lack of skull has silenced him. The thing pinning and peeling him has vomited acid juices onto his head and shoulders to render him more palatable. Kerso’s head is a fused, smoking lump of tissue.
The thing has one eye, a huge white orb that throbs with a sickening, celestial light. It is crowned with a spreading tree of sixty-point antlers.
Brother Bormarus has a heavy bolter. He slugs repeated shots into the creature’s wizened form. Rounds detonate under the skin, pulsing the slack flesh out or tearing it and spraying gobs of meat and pus.
Empion leaps forward alongside Thiel. He has a thunder hammer, and he breaks legs with it. He smashes at the daemon-thing’s body. The energised strikes fracture chitin and pulp tissue. The daemon-thing rears back, dropping Kerso’s corpse, waving its spider legs in a defensive posture. Some legs trail, broken and useless. It has hundreds of them.
Bormarus fires again, aiming at the exposed belly. Something bursts, and the hallway is filled with a noxious stench. Flies swarm everywhere. The daemon-thing flops forward. Thiel ducks a slicing limb, and stabs his longsword into the baleful eye, twists it, and keeps twisting and digging until the unholy light goes out.
Zabo recovers Kerso’s flame-unit and burns the twitching hulk.
‘Every door, a new horror,’ says Empion to Thiel.
‘And every moment a moment lost,’ Thiel replies.
They’re fighting their way down-ship towards the auxiliary bridge. The banging and scraping on the outside hull is getting louder and more persistent: the Word Bearers are on the verge of boarding from their ships alongside. But there is no point fighting for a ship that they can’t control. The auxiliary bridge is a vital practical asset. The Macragge’s Honour has lost its primary bridge tower and its shipmaster, but a replacement for Zedoff has been located among survivors picked up from the Sanctity of Saramanth. Master Hommed, along with a contingent of ready and prepped command officers, is following on behind Thiel’s desperate advance.
