by Darius Hinks
Antros glanced at Rhacelus then looked at the priest again. ‘Where is he now? In the city?’
The crowd carried the man away from them, but he simply laughed. ‘Follow the processions!’
‘We must find the Chief Librarian,’ said Antros, turning back to Rhacelus.
‘He will already know of this,’ replied Rhacelus. Warpfire was still sparking in his eyes, a remnant of their recent journeys. ‘Captain Vatrenus,’ he said, talking into his vox. ‘Where are you?’
There was a brief crackle of interference, then the captain’s strident voice broke through the white noise. ‘…minutes away from the amphitheatre. The Chief Librarian spoke to me an hour ago and ordered me to set watch over both of the entrances, but it’s hard to get near the place, never mind locate the gates. We have moved off the street. Need to let the crowd come past. Half the planet must be here. So many bloody refugees came through the gates yesterday. The idiots are crushing each other. The word is that Dravus has finally returned. They’re all heading for the amphitheatre to hear him give some kind of sermon.’ There was a pause and when the captain spoke again, Antros could hear wariness in his voice. ‘Have you completed your studies? I checked on you yesterday morning. Tried talking to you. You wouldn’t answer. Even when I spoke your names.’
Rhacelus looked at Antros. His expression was an odd mixture of suspicion and pride. ‘We have finished our work.’
‘Is the Chief Librarian at the amphitheatre?’ Rhacelus asked Captain Vatrenus over the vox.
‘No. He is with you. Or, at least, he should be with you. He has not left the abbey since we arrived. He went into the library with that old preacher three days ago and never came out. I tried to vox him but had no luck. He contacted me this morning about the amphitheatre gates but he has been silent since then.’ He sounded irritated. ‘And he wants us to find an old sluice gate or some such thing, but I am sure we could be more use with you.’
Rhacelus nodded. ‘Find those gates, Captain Vatrenus. The Chief Librarian does not give orders on a whim. Use force if you need to. We will find Lord Mephiston now and join you as soon as we can.’
‘Epistolary,’ said Vatrenus. ‘This blade Mephiston seeks – is it here? Is it in Mormotha? In this amphitheatre?’ He sounded frustrated by his lack of clarity. ‘Could I be looking for it rather than hunting for gates and drains? The Chief Librarian never said where we would find the thing. Will this Arch-Cardinal Dravus have it?’
Rhacelus shook his head. ‘I do not know, but Dravus is the most senior priest on Divinus Prime. He will know where their relics are stored. I presume the Chief Librarian will demand that Dravus hand the thing over or direct him to whatever reliquary houses it.’
There was a silence across the vox-network and Antros could feel the captain’s doubt. ‘Will he do that?’
‘Would you refuse the Chief Librarian?’
‘No, Epistolary Rhacelus, I would not, but I do not have a planet’s worth of faith-drunk zealots roaring my name.’
‘We will be with you soon, captain. Reach those gates,’ said Rhacelus, terminating the conversation.
Rhacelus frowned, considering the captain’s words. Then he led Antros through the courtyard and back into the refectorium. Several of the tables had been overturned and the dusty silence that had greeted the Blood Angels had vanished, replaced by a raucous, manic din. Rhacelus curled his lip in distaste at the priests and militiamen scrambling through the room, howling prayers. ‘Savages,’ he muttered. ‘And this is what we are sworn to protect.’
Antros was about to defend the men when he noticed how deranged they looked. His words stalled in his mouth. The Space Marines marched easily against the flow of devotees and shoved open the double doors that the abbot had led Mephiston through on the day of their arrival. They were met by a set of broad, sweeping steps and were about to ascend when Mephiston emerged at the top, followed by Father Orsuf. The abbot paused at the top of the steps and Mephiston placed a hand on the old preacher’s shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of affection.
‘To have accumulated so much knowledge in a single lifetime is a rare achievement, Father Orsuf,’ said Mephiston. ‘You are wise beyond your years.’
The abbot shook his head, embarrassed by the praise. ‘I am unable to rid my mind of obscure facts, Chief Librarian, that is all. Most of it is clutter that I would rather be rid of, but I am glad to have helped you. I would rather help you on the battlefield, though. Perhaps I still could? I can still–’ He was about to say more when he saw the Blood Angels waiting at the bottom of the steps. He laughed. ‘And there they are, just as you said.’
Mephiston did not acknowledge his battle-brothers and continued to grip the abbot by the shoulder. ‘You have helped me enough. Stay with your books today, Father Orsuf.’
The fire faded from the abbot’s eye and he nodded, smiling sadly. ‘I understand.’ He gave Mephiston an awkward bow. ‘Good luck, old friend. Perhaps we will meet again.’ Then he headed back into his library, laughing to himself. ‘Wise beyond my years!’
Mephiston swept down the steps, his cloak billowing behind him and his gaze even more intense than usual.
‘I know what we must do,’ he said, reaching Rhacelus.
Rhacelus gripped his arm. ‘You know where the blade is?’
Mephiston shook his head. ‘But the abbot has shared more than I could have expected. He is brave to break with the traditions that surround him, but he is a man of rare insight. He understands the mistakes that have been made here. I will explain as we travel to the amphitheatre.’ He handed a book to Antros and walked on. ‘We do not have long,’ he said as he led them back through the abbey. ‘And there is much to be done before we meet the arch-cardinal. Have you heard from Vatrenus?’
‘Yes,’ said Rhacelus. ‘They are heading for the gates to the amphitheatre, as you ordered. And looking for some kind of sluice gate?’
Mephiston nodded. ‘Good. That building is ancient even by the standards of this city. Its secrets are warded by sorcery that I do not understand. I will need Vatrenus to use simple brawn.’
Antros could see the distant terraces of the amphitheatre as their armoured boots clattered over the cobbles. As they descended from the hilltop, they began to encounter large groups of excited priests and gangs of battle-weary soldiers, their hollow-cheeked faces reinvigorated by the droning prayers broadcast by the hymnals overhead.
Antros noticed that many of the people they passed were holding something in their fists, something that glittered and flashed as they rushed through the patches of morning light between walkways and bridges. Eventually, one of the zealots came close enough that he saw what it was: a bladeless, silver sword handle.
‘The Blade Petrific is the cornerstone of their faith,’ said Mephiston, sensing Antros’ unspoken question. ‘To speak its name is forbidden. They rarely make such open demonstrations of their faith.’
‘What kind of sect is this?’ asked Rhacelus glaring at the crowds rushing past. ‘What do these barbarians have to hide? Besides their ignorance, that is.’
They had reached a narrow footbridge that soared across a maze of distant streets. Mephiston had led them out of the main flow of the crowd and towards a quieter district. ‘They are true to the Emperor,’ he said, flatly. ‘They are not heretics. They are not even particularly unorthodox.’ He paused as a regiment of dragoons jogged past, lasrifles slung on their backs as they hurried to join the masses heading towards the amphitheatre. They were flamboyantly dressed with gleaming brass cuirasses and tall, plumed helmets, but they all bore scars and their fatigues were torn and bloodstained. They were clearly hardened fighters.
As the long column of troops rushed by, some of them glanced in surprise at the Blood Angels and a few even had the presence of mind to salute as they passed, but it was clear from their blissful, transported expressions that they were as ecstatic as the priests
. As the last few stomped past, Antros noticed a familiar symbol engraved across their breastplates: the same, ornate, upside-down T that Prester Cyriak had tattooed on his forehead. He finally made the connection that he imagined his brothers had already made – the upside down T was a sword hilt.
‘Their faith centres on the Emperor,’ continued Mephiston, once the long column of soldiers and tanks had finally passed. ‘But it is a faith clouded by myths and ancestor worship.’ He nodded at the books he had given to Antros. ‘The abbot has shared much of his knowledge with me. He told me the true purpose of the Children of the Vow – they are sworn, above all, to preserve the safety and the mystery of the Blade Petrific. Every precept and ritual is intended to ensure its secrecy – even from the rest of the Adeptus Ministorum.’
‘Why?’ asked Antros, as they continued over the bridge, away from the dragoons. ‘If they are not traitors, why keep secrets from their own brothers?’
‘They have been beguiled by their faith,’ replied Mephiston, stopping to examine a doorway. The bone-wrought lintel had been contorted to resemble a great eagle’s claw, grasping the door in its bleached talons. There were symbols carved into the columns on either side of its perch and Mephiston began tracing them with his finger, trying to discern their meaning. ‘Confessor Zin described their colourful creation myths, but you will remember that he stopped short of telling us the crux of the vow. Father Orsuf was not so coy. The priests on Divinus Prime believe that it is their sacred task to preserve the Blade Petrific in secrecy because one day the God-Emperor will rise from his Golden Throne to reclaim it. And, as long as they have kept His blade safe, He will begin a Day of Wrath that will cleanse the galaxy of unbelief. Their greatest fear is that some pugnacious warrior might decide to use the blade as an actual weapon and take it from its shrine.’
‘As you mean to do?’ said Antros.
Mephiston gave no reply, absorbed by the runes on the pillar he was examining, but Antros and Rhacelus exchanged meaningful glances. Even in this quiet street they could hear the thousands of fanatics pouring through the city behind them.
‘Thank you, Father Orsuf,’ said Mephiston as the characters on the columns pulsed into life, lit by a cerulean fire that flickered and danced, lighting up the Chief Librarian’s corpse-like features.
The light swelled in brightness and the ossified door unravelled itself, the bones sliding and unlooping like laces being unfastened from a boot. After a few seconds, they were left facing a long, gloomy hallway that led to a second door.
Mephiston strode into the shadows and the other two Blood Angels hurried after him. Watching over the second door was a bored looking Guardsman, dressed in the same blue-and-brass uniform as the dragoons they had passed on the bridge. At the sight of the Blood Angels he grabbed his lasrifle and aimed, his eyes wide with alarm as he registered the size of the three warriors storming down the hallway towards him.
‘Halt!’ he cried. ‘You’re not allowed in here! If you don’t–’
The guard’s words were cut short by a single glance from Mephiston. The guard froze, statue-like, his mouth wide open, as though he were a character in a painting.
Trapping the man in a fragment of time was a minor display of psychic power and Antros and Rhacelus barely registered it, following Mephiston without comment as he strode on past the inanimate figure and through the door.
It led them into a small antechamber that in turn led them to a sweeping staircase. At the top of the stairs they walked out onto a broad, circular balcony, hundreds of feet in diameter and looking down over a strange-looking hall. It was lit by several large braziers that revealed an army of supine corpses. The bodies completely filled the floor of the large chamber, and it reminded Antros of a slaughterhouse. The corpses were arranged on slabs in neat rows in varying degrees of dismemberment. Some were grinning, skinless cadavers, glistening in the torchlight; others were no more than skeletons. There were a dozen or so hooded priests working on the bodies, wielding curved, ceremonial knives and slopping innards into large, ceramic urns. The priests worked in twos. As one sliced and chopped, the other read prayers from a small book, waving his free hand over the gradually disintegrating bodies, drawing shapes in the air.
The air was thick with censer smoke but as the light of the braziers flickered across the balconies it flashed on the Blood Angels’ armour, causing the priests to look up in surprise. There were priests up on the balcony too, and at the sight of the Blood Angels some of them cried out and started hurrying towards them. Mephiston reached out into the fumes and needles of crimson light flickered through the vapours. Before the priests had taken more than a few steps, they were jolted to a halt by the same force that had frozen the man at the door.
Mephiston waved for the other two Blood Angels to follow him as he climbed down some steps into the chamber.
‘The people of Mormotha do not realise it,’ said Mephiston, rushing through the fumes, ‘but their enemy has already breached the gates.’
He walked around the mortuary slabs, looking back at Antros and Rhacelus. ‘We must move fast, or the city will be in ruins by nightfall and there will be an army between us and the Blade Petrific.’
‘My lord,’ said Rhacelus. ‘What else have you seen? What is your plan?’ He glanced at the static figures that surrounded them. ‘They may be an uncouth mob, but they are Imperial citizens.’
Mephiston tapped one of the blood-filled vials hanging at his belt. ‘I have drunk deep of Father Orsuf’s learning. His blood may be old and thin, but it is rich with knowledge. I have tasted the entire history of this city. A fascinating subject.’
He made his way past the rows of bodies and pointed Vitarus at a doorway at the far side of the chamber. ‘These mortuaries are scattered across the city, linked by miles of catacombs.’
As they neared the door, Mephiston waved his sword slightly and it hissed open. ‘We will not need to fight our way through the crowds.’ He led them on into an arrow-straight, vaulted passageway, lined with braziers and decorated with gruesome friezes demonstrating the obscure funerary rites of the Vow. ‘This passageway will bring us out into the amphitheatre, near where the arch-cardinal intends to make his speech.’
Cadaverous faces loomed out of the shadows, grinning in the firelight as the Blood Angels hurried past the mosaics.
Antros staggered to a halt as Mephiston fell and slumped against the wall, shaking his head, as though attacked by a swarm of insects.
Rhacelus and Antros stepped towards him, then halted as the Chief Librarian began to ripple and distort, as though seen through falling water. He gave an angry roar and wrenched himself back from the wall, leaving behind a ghostly mirror image of himself, still shimmering against the mosaics. The slumped Mephiston quickly faded into shadow as the roaring one lurched off down the passageway, before crashing into a pillar with such force that he filled the passageway with dust and elicited a worrying groan from the ceiling. Dozens of ossified bones crashed down around them, exploding into dust as they hit the ground.
‘Chief Librarian!’ gasped Antros as they reached him. He was leaning heavily against the pillar and the blood film had washed back over his eyes. As Mephiston turned to face them, he held up a hand in warning.
They backed away, but Mephiston’s face twisted with pain and he seemed unable to lower his hand. It started to vibrate and droplets of dark fire dripped from his fingers.
Fingers of light knifed up from beneath their feet as the ground started to crack.
‘Calistarius!’ cried Rhacelus, his voice deep and commanding.
Mephiston howled and clenched his hand into a fist. The light vanished and the passageway fell silent again.
Mephiston staggered away from them, clutching his still smouldering fist.
They dashed after him and caught him before he fell.
For a dreadful moment, Antros saw not Mephiston’s face, but t
he face he had glimpsed on Thermia: the flayed woman, staring at him through a stained veil. Her words filled Antros’ mind and he knew Mephiston was hearing them too. We are what our scars have made us. We are born in blood.
Then the gruesome face was gone and he was facing Mephiston again.
‘We need to be fast,’ Mephiston gasped as the blood drained from his eyes. ‘The Gift is growing more powerful. The change in me is accelerating.’ He looked around the passageway. Some of the braziers were still alight and he stared at the piles of fallen bones. ‘Whatever power has hidden this world is magnifying the Gift.’
He stepped away from them, still gripping his hand. ‘We must reach the arch-cardinal to find out the location of the Blade Petrific. But I sense that Chaos is already here in this city – and that something disastrous will happen as Dravus makes his speech if we do not get there first.’ He shook his head. ‘I should be able to see more clearly but this so-called “Miracle” clouds my every thought.’
Rhacelus nodded. ‘I feel it too. I have searched for the minds of these priests but all I see is a mirror of my own thoughts. It is impossible to be sure about anything.’
‘The blade is in a reliquary of some kind,’ said Mephiston. ‘I can see that much. But “reliquary” describes most of this planet.’
‘What if we performed the Rubric of Consonance?’ asked Antros. He raised his staff and looked from Rhacelus to Mephiston. ‘Surely we have enough power between us to find such a powerful psychic lodestone? The thing must shine like a beacon.’
Mephiston shook his head. ‘The Rubric of Consonance would serve no purpose.’ He winced and staggered, then steadied himself by stabbing Vitarus into the ground. ‘The Blade Petrific has no power for us to locate, even if we did join our intellects. It is a machine, a harness for power, rather than power itself. No. We need Arch-Cardinal Dravus to tell us where the Children of the Vow have kept it hidden for all these centuries.’
