by Rob Sanders
Kersh tracked the powerful lamps of a Scout bike surging up along the columns of cemetery worlders towards the city. Lifting the magnoculars at the roar of engines overhead, he watched the Thunderhawk Impunitas pass above the city and bank. With all three of the company’s remaining gunships now repaired and at his disposal, Kersh had ordered one standing by on the rockrete of the Memorial Space Port, one to remain with the Angelica Mortis in orbit and one to maintain constant airborne patrols of Obsequa City and the surrounding necroplex.
Lowering the magnoculars, Kersh turned his head. Beneath his boots he could feel the supernatural cooling of the stone. He heard it cracking and blistering. Behind him stood the revenant in its ghoulish black plate, rippling with the rachidian contours of rib and bone. It waited like a thing eternal, as though it had all the time in the universe.
‘Ready?’ the Scourge said finally and disappeared through the maintenance arch followed by his solemn and silent haunter.
Down in the basilica nave, surrounded by pillars crafted in the baroque likeness of Imperial saints, and under the stained-glass gloom of the God-Emperor sat upon the Golden Throne in lead-lined representation, the corpus-captain had called a gathering. Kersh walked past Erasmus Oliphant, the young pontifex holding his crippled side awkwardly in the simple throne his frater menials had brought in for his comfort. Palatine Sapphira stood by his side, flanking the throne with two of her cobalt-plated Sisters, each armed with their distinctive Godwyn-Deaz-pattern bolters. Behind them huddled a small group of confessors, priests and deacons who were either too loyal to their pontifex to flee, or had been too late to arrange passage off-world with their Adeptus Ministorum colleagues. Kersh heard the hurried scuff of boots on the polished marble floor of the basilica, noting a shabby and tired-looking Proctor Kraski and Colquhoun’s replacement, Lord Lieutenant Laszlongia, enter the chamber via a side-arch.
With the mortals to his back, the corpus-captain stepped out before his Excoriator brothers. Kersh had assembled the significants of the Fifth Company, as well as the silver-haired squad whip of the Tenth Company Scouts, Silas Keturah. The whips of Squads Cicatrix, Castigir and Censura all stood in assembly, with squad second whips standing behind them. Uriah Skase held himself with unusual stiffness, his shoulders reclined, chestplate thrust forwards and fingers interlaced behind his back. Kersh wasn’t fooled by the chief whip’s seeming respect and attention. The Scourge had seen the stance before and had indeed indulged in it himself. It came from a rawness and sensitivity of the back, where flesh itself had been flayed during the worst of ‘the purge’s’ attentions. As Kersh suspected, Skase had continued to punish himself – pushing ritual observance beyond its primarch-communing function and into the dark realms of a shame-cycle and flagellation for flagellation’s sake. Whips Ishmael and Joachim demonstrated no such deference, pretend or otherwise, and instead busied themselves with furtive glances and conspiratorial mutterings between themselves and the second whips.
Kersh stood, anger slowly building in the tautness of his scarred face as he waited for the squad whips to present themselves to their corpus-captain. While they did, with insolent tardiness, the Scourge’s eye fell across Ezrachi and the skull-helmed Chaplain Shadrath on the opposite side of the nave. Keturah was with them. Last in line was Techmarine Dancred with his Thunderfire cannon, Punisher, which seemed to follow him everywhere. Only the Librarian, Melmoch, was missing. Brother Micah, the company champion’s young face a nest of cuts, stitches and bruising, took his position at his corpus-captain’s side. Beside him was Brother Novah, Brother Toralech’s hasty replacement as company standard bearer. Young, like Micah, but quiet and uncertain, Novah held the battered and tattered standard of the Excoriators Fifth Company in one hand. Micah had assured Kersh that he was a first class warrior, and having originally fought in the same squad as the champion, was one of the few brothers he could trust. In the darkness of the aisle, the armoured revenant melted into the shadows.
‘Brothers,’ the corpus-captain began, ‘I have gathered you here to share my resolutions, so that we may commit to a course of action and see it through.’
‘Rumour has it,’ Skase interrupted, his voice echoing about the basilica’s columns, ‘that we are abandoning our pursuit of the renegade Alpha Legion and pointlessly garrisoning this pile of grave dust.’ Murmurs of assent proceeded from the Excoriators about him.
Kersh would not be drawn.
‘Chief whip, I have called members of this company to order and you will respect that.’
‘I only–’
‘Hold your tongue, damn it!’ Kersh roared at him. ‘When I want your insights I will be sure to ask for them. In the meantime you will act in accordance with your rank and responsibility, sir.’
The chief whip tensed and bridled, but Kersh saw Ishmael grab at his wrist. Skase shook free of the squad whip’s grasp but remained silent, his jaw rigid with anger and eyes glistening.
With similar difficulty, the corpus-captain continued.
‘The Angelica Mortis confirms that the Keeler Comet has passed Certus-Minor. I think we can assume that the comet’s infernal influence is responsible for the mayhem and bloodshed on the planet surface. The cemetery world will pass through the comet’s tail in the next eighteen hours, however, and only the Emperor knows what might happen then. Long range sensors and pict-scans confirm that an enemy armada has reached the outskirts of the system, trailing the comet at sub-light speed. We can assume this to be the Cholercaust Blood Crusade. We have little intelligence to go on in respect of the armada’s numbers or composition. I won’t lie to you. No world has survived the Cholercaust’s attentions. The dead tell no tales. Estimates vary wildly from fifty to a thousand vessels. The Imperial Navy has verified sightings of cruisers belonging to the World Eaters…’ Kersh allowed confirmation of their dread enemy to sink in before continuing. ‘So we can assume Traitor Legionaries to be at the head of their numbers.’
The clockwork whir of Brother Dancred’s face preceded the Techmarine’s contribution. ‘You intend the Fifth Company to remain on Certus-Minor?’
Kersh paused.
‘I do, brother.’
A ripple of discontent washed through the squad whips and their seconds. ‘Corpus-Commander Bartimeus’s estimates place the Keeler Comet on a trajectory for the Segmentum Solar. We cannot afford the Blood Crusade’s further progression, nor allow its strength to grow by another conquered world. Not with Ancient Terra as a possible future target.’
‘What about the Vanaheim Cordon?’ Squad Whip Joachim ventured, his young eyes boring into the corpus-captain.
‘Be under no illusion,’ Kersh told them all, ‘the decision to stay is mine and mine alone. I will not surrender this part of the Emperor’s Imperium, no matter how small, to the Ruinous Powers – nor will I abandon the Emperor’s subjects, those who we were bred to protect, to torment and certain slaughter. This is, of course, largely academic. We have no astropath to call for reinforcement and without a Navigator, we cannot reinforce the Vanaheim Cordon with our own numbers.’
‘The Avignor Star?’ Ezrachi asked.
‘Their Navigator is dead,’ Kersh informed the Apothecary. ‘He inexplicably started bleeding from his mouth, his ears and his eyes. The ship’s surgeon tried his best but the Navigator could not be saved.’
‘The Angelica Mortis could make short-range jumps,’ Dancred said.
‘Yes,’ Kersh agreed. ‘And I have spoken with Corpus-Commander Bartimeus on the matter, but I have another destination for the strike cruiser. In the meantime, we have to face the reality of an imminent attack. With our number we can only afford to hold one strategic location and the city is our only real option. Pontifex Oliphant and I have arranged the recall of all Certusians from burial grounds and communities across the planet surface. They have made and continue to make their way here under the instruction of the Tenth Company Scouts. Whip Keturah, I believe you still have a number of your contingent outstanding.’
S
ilas Keturah fixed his corpus-captain with his single bionic eye.
‘Brothers Taanach, Omar and Iscarion are still outstanding,’ Keturah reported. He nodded his acknowledgement to the Techmarine beside him. ‘Brother Iscarion reported issues with the vitality of his vehicle’s machine-spirit.’
‘I will apply the necessary oils and benedictions,’ Dancred assured the squad whip.
‘Taanach and Omar have made no vox contact,’ Keturah informed the Scourge. ‘Which is unusual.’
Kersh nodded his agreement. ‘Go out with the Impunitas. Find them, Silas. We will need every brother in the dark hours to come.’
‘You have a battle plan?’ Ezrachi asked.
‘One that was good enough to serve our ancestral brothers and parent Legion at the walls of the Imperial Palace,’ Kersh told him. ‘Brother Dancred will oversee the demolition of all buildings on the city exterior.’ The Scourge paused, turned and looked at the young pontifex. He expected the ecclesiarch to offer some objection regarding the ancient lineage of the buildings or the holiness of the ground upon which they were to be collapsed. Oliphant hesitated and then nodded. The pontifex had seen up close the monstrous enemy that the Excoriators would be facing. ‘We’ll assume that an attack could come from any and all directions. The necroplex itself will impede large vehicles and slow the progress of mass charges on the city. There our bolters will do their worst.’
Several Excoriators nodded in grim appreciation. ‘Rubble mounds from the collapsed architecture will provide cover and elevation for our shooters, but more importantly an unbroken perimeter obstacle for our assailants should we have to fall back to the next line of buildings.’
‘What about the remaining citizenry?’ Oliphant asked through one side of his mouth.
Kersh hesitated. ‘The city is small but we simply do not have enough Excoriators, Charnel Guard and Adepta Sororitas to hold the line alone,’ he said.
‘You don’t have any Adepta Sororitas,’ Palatine Sapphira informed him with cool conviction. ‘My Sisters and I will be in the vault below the Memorial Mausoleum with the relic remains of his Reverence, Umberto II.’
‘I need your bolters on that perimeter.’
‘You can’t have them. I’m sorry.’
The Excoriator and Sister looked hard at each other.
‘You will be when we’re overrun by the enemy.’
‘You have your orders, corpus-captain, and I have mine.’
‘My orders invariably focus on saving the living.’
‘I’m afraid mine don’t,’ Sapphira told him harshly. ‘That many might fall today is regrettable, but nothing compared to the comfort and spiritual fortitude Umberto II’s sacred bones will give to future billions. See, corpus-captain – you must worry about the living but I must look to the yet to live.’
Kersh’s lip curled. He would get nowhere with the Sisters of the August Vigil.
‘The cemetery worlders will have to provide the extra coverage,’ Kersh said with regret.
‘And how do you propose they do that?’ Palatine Sapphira came back at him. Her voice was cold and cautious.
‘We will arm them from the city auxiliary armouries,’ the corpus-captain returned.
‘Impossible, that’s–’ Oliphant piped up, half out of his throne and tripping over his words.
‘Heresy,’ said Sister Sapphira, supplying the word for him. ‘That would break the Decree Passive. Should we survive the oncoming Cholercaust, we would all simply be executed for treason of faith.’
Kersh nodded, recalling his time at St Ethalberg.
‘Which is why Laszlongia would recruit them as Charnel Guard conscripts. They would be probitors, whiteshields – under the command of the lord lieutenant and the pontifex only in his role as planetary governor.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Sapphira said after a short pause. ‘It still smacks of insidiousness.’
‘I’m not asking you to like it,’ Kersh bit back. ‘And I’d simply call it expedience.’ He looked to the freshly promoted leader of the Certusian Charnel Guard.
‘My lord, you want to draft the citizenry into the ceremonial defence force?’
‘No,’ Kersh told him. ‘That’s what I want you to do. I’m sure under the severity of the circumstances, the Departmento Munitorum would hypothetically approve such measures.’
Proctor Kraski seemed to consider the proposal. The grizzled arbitrator finally said, ‘These here cemetery worlders are mainly diggers and labourers. Many can’t read and write anything beyond the most basic prayers. You’ve got a lot of women and children. None of the men have any combat experience.’
‘Would they know which end of a lasfusil was the most dangerous?’ Kersh put to the enforcer.
‘I expect so,’ Kraski said, chewing on his tobacco.
‘Well as long as they point that end in the general direction of the enemy, I’ll be happy.’ The Scourge looked from Kraski and the lord lieutenant to Oliphant. ‘The women and children can form a prayer cordon inside the perimeter.’
Pontifex Oliphant’s gaze moved about the floor. The ecclesiarch looked deeply unhappy and as though he were going to vomit on the basilica floor.
‘The Sister is right. The Decree Passive is not an obstacle to be circumvented. It is the God-Emperor’s law.’
‘Whether you designate them so or not,’ Kersh told him, ‘the Certusian people are your defence force. When the enemy attacks, they will have to fight for their lives. All I’m asking is that they also fight for everyone else’s. Pontifex, does not the God-Emperor fight on their side?’
The pontifex searched his soul and looked up at the dull stained-glass window above them. ‘Yes,’ he said tightly and left it at that.
‘These backwater wretches against the damned berserkers of the xiith Legion?’ Skase said with ill-disguised scorn. ‘You might as well offer them up on an altar to the Blood God yourself.’
‘There is another consideration,’ Ezrachi said, eager to take Kersh’s attention off the provocative Skase.
‘Apothecary?’
‘With so many losing their minds to this gall-fever, is it wise to indiscriminately arm the population?’
‘Do we know anything more of this madness?’ the corpus-captain asked.
‘Only that it isn’t physiological,’ the Apothecary replied. ‘And it doesn’t seem transmissible like a virus or infection. It is a malady of the mind. Men are no more susceptible than women, young no more than the old. All we do know is that the mental transformation from Certusian to savage is unpredictable, swift and that the first symptom is usually murderous bloodshed. I suspect it is some psychological condition brought on by the comet, but that is not for me as Apothecary to say.’
‘The lord lieutenant here is simply going to have to exercise his judgement. I suppose a cure is too much to hope for?’
Ezrachi grunted. ‘The same as for life, a bolt-round, administered to the heart or brain.’
‘What about our number?’ Kersh asked.
‘Beyond reports of brief visions and disturbed sleep, we seem unaffected. This is probably due to cult observance and psychoindoctrination, but again, I can’t know. I can run further tests.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the corpus-captain said. ‘I have a different duty for you to perform.’
‘Sir?’
‘Without delay I want you to begin extraction rites and harvest mature progenoid glands from all Excoriators with at least ten years’ service to the Chapter,’ the Scourge said gravely. The announcement was met with an immediate wall of shock, discontent and objection from the company whips and their seconds.
‘Kersh?’ Ezrachi said, falling out of formality.
‘We are facing an enemy infamous for its intolerance of survivors.’
‘You prepare for our failure,’ Squad Whip Joachim accused.
‘We are attrition fighters. We battle with the best but prepare for the worst. If we are faced with failure – and by Katafalque’s blood, I hope that
we are not – then we should meet our doom knowing that our legacy lives on through the genetic heritage we bequeath. We do this in the best interests of the Chapter and not ourselves. I do not ask this of you, Dorn does – so that the Imperium’s future, as well as its present, might be secure.’
‘How would we do this?’ Ezrachi asked bleakly.
‘You would transport the collected gene-seed to the Angelica Mortis and oversee its safe storage and containment. The sacred seed would then travel on to the forge-world of Aetna Phall.’
‘Aetna Phall?’
‘It’s nearby,’ Kersh explained, ‘and reachable through the series of short warp jumps Brother Dancred alluded to.’
‘That will take months, this close to the Eye,’ the Apothecary informed him.
‘Yes,’ Kersh agreed. ‘But the Adeptus Mechanicus will appreciate the importance of the cargo and have the resources to see it on to Eschara. You would, of course, be there to impress such necessity upon them.’
‘You want me to accompany the seed?’
‘Our only Apothecary?’ Ishmael scathed. ‘And the company strike cruiser? This is madness.’
‘It is time you fully appreciated the nature of the foe you face,’ the corpus-captain told the squad whips gravely. ‘The Blood God’s servants do not orchestrate and strategise. They have no knowledge of failure – only success or the eternal darkness. They do not wound and incapacitate, attack and withdraw. Victory, both personal and galactic, is everything to them. They live for the death of their enemies and think on nothing but their blades steaming with warrior blood. There will be little for Apothecary Ezrachi to do here, once the fighting begins a-proper. As for the Angelica Mortis – what do you think the Cholercaust will do with her? The Chaos armada will crush the cruiser like a ration can. Which is why Corpus-Commander Bartimeus and the good Apothecary will see our future safely to the Mechanicus forge-world.’
