by Rob Sanders
Pontifex Oliphant stood in the balcony, his crooked figure cutting a silhouette into the pearly sky. Turning with half a smile, the ecclesiarch proceeded to limp with difficulty across to the entering Excoriators. As Kersh came closer he realised that the pontifex suffered from some kind of paralytic affliction. Half of Oliphant’s kindly face was stricken in a mask of horror, and he dragged the deadweight of one leg behind him like a second thought and allowed his arm to dangle uselessly by his incapacitated side. He wore only simple robes and sandals, with little of the ceremonial paraphernalia the corpus-captain had come to expect from the Ecclesiarchy. He even forwent a mitre. Instead, Kersh noted the thin hair plastered across the pontifex’s forehead and the beads of sweat trembling on his brow. Even standing seemed like an ungainly effort.
‘Pontifex,’ Kersh said, offering an armoured gauntlet. Close up, Kersh could see that Oliphant was quite young for his position, despite his old man’s carriage and obvious infirmity.
‘Angel,’ Oliphant said, clutching but one ceramite finger of the proffered hand with his own weak digits. Kersh felt the ecclesiarch rest against his mighty frame and saw the momentary relief on his half-frozen face. ‘Our prayers have been answered. I knew you would come. The God-Emperor sends us the sons of Dorn. A true blessing.’
‘Pontifex,’ Kersh began, ‘I am Zachariah Kersh, corpus-captain of the Fifth Company. I bring good will from Chapter Master Ichabod of the Excoriators Chapter. He has secured assistance for this cemetery world through your guarantors at St Ethalberg.’
Oliphant went to speak but wavered suddenly. Thinking the ecclesiarch was going to fall, Kersh grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘The pontifex’s throne,’ Ferreira called and two sallow cenobites wheeled a rolling chaise to Oliphant, although it looked to Kersh more like an invalid’s carriage than a throne. Depositing the pontifex in the chair, the Scourge stepped back.
‘The Emperor’s blessings on you both,’ Oliphant said to Kersh and Ferreira.
‘Pontifex,’ the Excoriator continued, ‘I have been brief with your deputation and with your indulgence I will be brief with you. There is but one of our calling for every world in the Imperium and Certus-Minor is currently graced with a half-company of the Adeptus Astartes.’
Oliphant attempted a twisted smile.
‘We are but a tiny part of the Imperium and we wish no imposition,’ the pontifex said.
‘It is no imposition, pontifex,’ Kersh said, ‘but our enemies are legion and spread across the segmentum like a bloody smear. We would like to be of service and then be on our way.’
‘Of course,’ Oliphant said. ‘I shall introduce my clerics to you later. Perhaps I might convince you, corpus-captain, to receive the God-Emperor’s benediction with us on the morn. The suns will rise on Saint Barthes’s Feastday.’
‘I think that unlikely, pontifex.’
‘Just a blessing then, to consecrate your efforts here and protect you and your Angels in the prosecution of the God-Emperor’s will. After all, does not the God-Emperor fight on our side?’
‘Our bolters protect us under such circumstances,’ Kersh told the pontifex. ‘And as I indicate, we are unlikely to be planetside when the sun rises. If there is an evil here then we shall not dally in its destruction. Further evils wait for our bolt-rounds and blades on other worlds, and we are not in the habit of keeping the Emperor’s enemies waiting.’
‘Well,’ Oliphant said finally, holding on to a weak smile, ‘we shall see, sir. Let me instead introduce you to three of our flock charged with cemetery world security. I think they are best placed to advise you on our problems.’
Three figures stepped forwards from the shadowy gathering around the edge of the chamber. ‘May I introduce High Constable Colquhoun of the Charnel Guard, Palatine Sapphira of the Order of the August Vigil and Proctor Kraski of the enforcers.’
‘Honoured to be serving beside you,’ Colquhoun said crisply. He gave a grim but reverent salute to the rim of his feather bonnet before returning his black-gloved hand down beside the tapered barrel of an officer’s laspistol. Palatine Sapphira, conversely, had a pout of positive dislike crafted into her uninviting features. Her slim, cobalt power armour sported two chunky Godwyn-Deaz-pattern bolt pistols at the thighs and an ermine cloak that hung from her shoulders. She compulsively fiddled with a silver aquila hanging around her neck and burrowed into the Excoriator with her dark eyes.
‘The pontifex has overplayed our part, I’m afraid,’ she told Kersh with a voice of steel. ‘My mission here only looks to the preservation of Umberto II’s remains and the security of the Memorial Mausoleum.’
Kersh had encountered the Order of the August Vigil before, on the genestealer-infected shrineworld of Alamar, where Sisters of the order had been charged with safely evacuating the bones of Saint Constantine in advance of planetary Exterminatus. Their Order Minoris specialised exclusively in the security of Ecclesiarchical relics and sites of Cult significance.
Unlike the immaculate Guard officer and Battle Sister, Kraski was a grizzled veteran. An arbitrator in the senior years of his life, he was charged with keeping order and upholding Imperial Law with a small team of enforcers on the tiny cemetery world. His ragged beard moved to the motion of his jaw working on a vile slug of chewing tobacco, while the smashed lens of a bionic eye stared back at Kersh with blind obsolescence. His enforcer carapace was scuffed and blistered, while the black fur of his greatcoat was dusted with the sandy, Certusian earth. Sitting slung across one of his shoulders, however, was the gleaming barrel and pump-mechanism of an oiled and lovingly maintained combat shotgun.
‘Words are for poets and priests,’ Kraski told the Excoriators, pushing the plug of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. ‘I’ll take you straight to the Exclusion Zone and there you can see the work of evil first-hand.’
The Scourge nodded. ‘After you, proctor,’ he said with solemn appreciation. The corpus-captain had the feeling he was going to like the arbitrator.
The maid Marika knew only her holy duties. As a vestal it was her privilege to escort the Lord High Almoner about the narrow passages and crooked stairwells of Obsequa City. The Lord High Almoner had a sacred responsibility: the redistribution of wealth. The Adeptus Ministorum taxed Certusians on the Imperium’s behalf and its demands were harsh. Maid Marika very much enjoyed her role, amongst two trains of her sister vestals, accompanying the Almoner during his ceremonial act of virtue, pressing coin back into the hands of the poor and needy.
Marika gently swung her incense burner back and forth on a silver chain, allowing the fragrant mist to billow about her and behind the Lord High Almoner’s train. A sweet indication of their passing that hung in the air and reminded common Imperials that the God-Emperor still had a charitable thought for them. The incense often made Marika light-headed and the virgin indulged this, walking about the sheer city streets in a dreamy daze.
As she crossed St Lanfranc’s corpseway, at the rear of the train, she became enveloped in a cloud of incense and stopped by the cobbled crossroads to rub her watery eyes. As both the smoke and tearful blur cleared she was struck by a vision. Marching down the corpseway were demigods in plate, the giants of legend and antiquity, only immortalised for common Imperials in the stonework of cathedral architecture. Marika could not believe her smoky eyes. The Adeptus Astartes. On Certus-Minor. Her gaze fell from the scars on their immortal faces, across the scars decorating their ancient ceramite and down to their dread weaponry. The cavernous muzzles of handheld cannonry. Sheathed blades of unimaginable keenness, honed to death-dealing perfection. Thick digits. Broad hands. Housed in ceramite and throbbing with the God-Emperor’s own murderous strength.
‘Maid Marika!’
Fury – untold. An awakening.
The Adeptus Astartes were gone. The vestal stood alone and had done for some time.
Chancellor Gielgus ventured through the perfumed smoke that cloaked the alleyway. ‘Marika, where in Ter
ra have you been?’ he scolded. ‘The train is stopped. The poor are waiting. The High Almoner is furious.’
As the chancellor approached he could hear the whoosh of the incense burner swinging around at speed. Finally, he came upon the silhouette doing the swinging. ‘Stop that, child,’ he ordered. The Maid Marika was still but for the blazing arc of the incense burner, which was pouring out smoke. As he came closer, stroking his beard, the chancellor said, ‘What has come over you?’
Something was wrong with her face. As he neared and the mist between them became thinner, he could see that the vestal’s eyes were blank orbs of unseeing red. ‘Marika?’
Chancellor Gielgus only heard the beginning of a wrath-fuelled screech. The silver incense burner broke its searing orbit and smashed down on the top of his skull. Brained, the old man fell to the gutter, only to have the demented vestal fall upon him again and again with bludgeoning blows from her flailing burner. His stymied calls for mercy – and then help – went unanswered, as through the smoke the blood sprayed and the Maid Marika became as one with her unnatural rage.
Braughn Menzel rested his boot against the blade of the shovel and forced the tool down through the sandy earth. The cutting crunch of the spade filled the fosser with a strange satisfaction. There was nothing like the sound of sharpened plasteel slicing through cemetery world earth. The gravedigger needed something to keep him going. His shoulders burned and his back ached. The grave was unfinished and he would have a hundred more to dig before the end of the week. The mortuary lighters brought an unending supply of the dead from necrofreighters down to the Certusian surface. The prestige of spending just a century in the same precious earth as Umberto II drew cadavers from light years around. Senior officers of the Guard, Imperial Navy commanders, the inbred swine of hive-world Houses, merchants, Navigators, planetary nobility and devoted members of the Ecclesiarchy itself were all buried in Certus-Minor’s sacred topsoil. On the other side of the cemetery world Braughn’s opposite toiled, digging up coffins and sarcophagi for shipment back to the families following the expiry of the lease. An unending cycle of inhumation and exhumation on a planetary scale.
Tossing the dirt up and over his shoulder, Braughn came to a stop. He rested against the shovel’s stalwood shaft. Sometimes Braughn allowed his sons Yann and Otakar to watch the mortuary lighters at work when they should have been digging with him. At thirteen and fifteen there was precious little excitement in their lives, and the best that they could hope for was recruitment into the Charnel Guard and the possibility of one day travelling off-world with an Imperial Guard regiment. There would be no watching for lighters today – not with word that the Emperor’s Angels had come to Certus-Minor. The boys had caught a glimpse of the Space Marine gunship as it left Obsequa City and thundered overhead bound for the Great Lakes. Braughn little expected his sons’ eyes to leave the sky for the rest of the day.
He reached over the side of the grave and took a plas bottle from beside the tombstone. Yann had brought mule’s milk from their shack at the cenopost. His mother had corked it with a rag which Braughn proceeded to extract before squeezing the liquid into his parched mouth. He gulped down the sour milk with relish before wiping his mouth with a dusty sleeve. An odd noise grabbed his attention, a dull, metallic thud.
‘Boys?’ Braughn called. When no answer came, the fosser kicked a toe grip into the grave wall and grabbed the edge of the tombstone in an effort to haul himself out of the grave. Halfway out of its depths Braughn looked up to see his youngest son Yann laid out in the cemetery world grit. Braughn felt his heart drop. ‘Yann!’ he yelled miserably. The side of the boy’s head had been caved in and his lifeblood was leaking into the earth. The fosser tried to scramble out of the grave. ‘Otakar!’ Braughn called with fearful urgency. Turning his head, the fosser found his eldest son stood behind the tombstone. He held his shovel above his head like an axe. His eyes were blood-blind and hollow. ‘Son…’
The shovel came down and sliced the fosser’s head from his shoulders. The head bounced and rolled through the dust until it came to rest beside Yann’s body. Braughn’s body fell back into the hole and came to rest, twitching in the depths of the grave. Looking from the butchered body of his father to that of his dying brother, Otakar Menzel radiated a hatred his heart had never known. Taking his shovel in both hands, he stomped through the dust, heading for home, where his mother would be waiting with mule’s milk and a smile, and the boy’s bloodlust would find new expression.
Aloysius Mosca felt the abbot’s thin staff-sceptre jab his back-flesh. Mosca had not volunteered for the prayer cordon. The chaplain of his cell-block had ordered recompense for an incident at the barracks armoury. He had been part of a team of fraters assisting in the thrice-blessing of reserve ammunition and weaponry for the Charnel Guard defence force. Every lasfusil, stubber, powerpack and individual bullet required consecration, and above the instruments of death and destruction, Mosca had found himself in a dispute with a fellow frater. The dispute had become heated in the silence of the barracks armoury and Mosca had hit out with the palm of his hand. It was not intended as a strike or an assault, but the frater who fell and gashed his head against a mortar rack did not view it that way and reported Mosca to the chaplain. Assignment to the prayer cordon had been the chaplain’s idea – a part of Mosca’s spiritual probation.
Like thousands of others – some probationers, some volunteers – Mosca had been marched along the Great Eternity-East lychway. When the cavalcade arrived at the bleak Fifth-Circle cenopost and the miserable hovel-hamlet of Little Pulcher, Mosca and his brothers were blindfolded and led arm on shoulder to the shores of Lake Serenity. He could hear the rhythmic drone of the drainage pumps in the distance. Turning their backs to the lake they were instructed to retain their blindfolds and link hands with one another. Mosca could only imagine they were creating an unbreakable circle of prayer around the damned artefact that had been discovered below the drained surface of the lake. There had been low whispers and tattle of such a find in the fraterhouse and in the cloisters. Gossip only to match rumours of grave robbery, diabolists and disappearances out on the lonely lychways of the necroplex and burial ground provinces beyond.
Abbots walked around the inside of the circle issuing threats and jabbing encouragement as the cordon alternated between communal prayers spoken aloud to hymnals and liturgies sung to the pearlescent skies.
‘Sing, you wretch,’ the Abbot behind him ordered. ‘I want the God-Emperor himself to hear you.’
Mosca recognised the voice. A deep, baritone menace belonging to a fat bastard Mosca remembered from the Progenary. He also remembered the beatings he received at the pudgy hands of the priest and the rattan cane he used on the backs of the choristers’ legs and hands.
Mosca’s eyes moved about under his blindfold. His mouth, moments before full of bombast and lines from ‘Exalted God-Emperor, the Shepherd of Souls’, fell to silence. Lips curled. Nostrils flared. Teeth gnashed together on the gristle of long-forgotten hatreds. Mosca released the hands of the choristers to either side. One had crushed his palm with a pious grip; the other had been moist and slippery with some penitent shame.
Tearing the blindfold from his contorted face, Mosca revealed the blood-brimming rage of his eyes. Reaching down into the folds of his cassock robes and dust cloak, the cemetery worlder found the hot euphoria of a rough handgrip and trigger. Backing away, Mosca brought the brute length of a heavy stubber – thrice blessed and liberated from idleness in the barracks armoury – from concealment. Turning and hugging the flared muzzle of the brute to his body, the chorister yanked frenziedly on the trigger.
The barrel danced this way and that under the recoil and Mosca’s unpractised aim, but at almost point-blank range the stubber’s bullets punched through the pig-priest’s back. With his white vestments blanching red, the abbot crashed to the floor. Like a rider trying to tame a bucking mule, Mosca brought the chugging weapon around and sent a hailstorm of lead into the prese
nted backs of the choristers. As the massacre unfolded the cordon began to break up. With cemetery worlders screaming, falling and being blasted from their feet, Mosca spun around to present his death-dealer to fleeing choristers on the other side.
Roaring his hatred – his being filled with white-hot insanity – Mosca felled the running choristers, the juddering barrel of the heavy stubber showering the panic-addled crowds with bullets. Like trees before the axe they fell, before their scrambling steps could carry them to the cover of headstones and cemetery statues.
With the choristers dead and the cordon broken, Mosca turned to bathe in the hate-wrought radiance of the unholy monument he’d been securing. Through a blood-filtered gaze, he drank in the scale and magnificence of the thing. It called to him and fed his fury with its dread architecture. Pointing his weapon to the sky, Mosca fired once more. With the belt feed of the weapon dancing a diminishing jig, he sent bullets rocketing for the heavens in honour of carnage and annihilation. He didn’t notice the poor marksmanship of Charnel Guardsmen flashing about him – the single bolts of their lasfusils flying past. He was lost to the moment and lost to the monument, until a lucky shot found him – burning out the back of his skull and bringing peace to a mind devoid of reason.
Chapter Seven
The Beckoning
