Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius

by Darius Hinks

  Seraphim were arrayed around the shrine, helmeted and clad in the same black-and-white armour as the Sister Superior. They all carried bolt pistols and at the sight of Sister Superior Melitas they clanged the guns against their chest armour in salute and stepped aside.

  Melitas glanced back at Dharmia and Livia as she led them to the foot of the statue. Her face was still taut and severe, but the pride in her eyes was unmistakeable. She stopped them a few feet away from the top of the steps and indicated that they should approach.

  Dharmia was so weak from lack of oxygen by this point that she had to lean against Livia, but she stumbled forwards and saw what Melitas was pointing at.

  From the lower steps, it had looked as though one could climb all the way to the Ædicula Sacrum but she now saw that it had been an optical illusion. The feet of the statue were actually on a circular dais that was surrounded by a sheer drop.

  ‘How do you reach it?’ asked Livia, stepping carefully to the edge of the drop.

  The Sister Superior smiled. ‘You do not. Unless it is by the grace of Saint Ophiusa. Her voice alone can command the Ædicula Sacrum to extend its claw and bridge the mountain.’

  Livia looked away, but Dharmia caught the look of irritation on her face. Clearly she had not expected this final obstacle to their prize.

  The Sister Superior scowled at Dharmia. ‘Kneel, child. You are a few feet away from an object that we know the Emperor once held.’ She closed her eyes and reached out over the abyss. ‘Feel His courage. Feel His wisdom.’

  Dharmia did as instructed. She closed her eyes, pressed her head to the steps and began to pray. For a wonderful moment, she thought she really could hear a voice. Then she realised it was just the wind, humming across the mountaintop.

  Later that night, as they whispered their final, pre-dawn prayers before the battle, Dharmia recalled the sound, wondering if there had been words, just beyond her hearing.

  ‘Remember,’ whispered Livia in the darkness beside her, as she cleaned her laspistol. ‘We are the not-a-morons. We are not going to die on this mountain. And we’re not going to let Pieter Zorambus lay his oh-so-well-manicured hands on the Blade Petrific.’ She gave her a crooked smile. ‘I have a plan, General Dharmia.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mormotha, Divinus Prime

  They called it a miracle, but Antros knew it for what it was: an abomination. As the Blood Angels emerged from the catacombs, back up onto the streets of Mormotha, a bright, clear dawn was breaking, revealing the sky fully for the first time since they had arrived on Divinus Prime. Antros paused at the top of some steps, high above the street, and stared at the scene overhead. It was Mormotha, reflected so clearly that he could make out every roof and spire in perfect detail, but the city in the sky was a nightmare of Mormotha, a world so tainted by madness that Antros’ eyes began to hurt as he studied it.

  In the Mormotha of the sky, silver-skinned serpents flickered between the crowds of priests, hundreds of feet long and carried on pale, translucent wings. Ossuary temples flowed like liquid, morph­ing constantly into new forms, the larger buildings swallowing the smaller ones before unfurling into new, even stranger shapes. And the priests who ran through this lunacy were distorted, elongated counterfeits of the priests below. As the city in the sky moved ever closer to the real city, its silent inhabitants were stretching and drooping towards reality, like droplets of paint, hanging from a frieze that was peeling away from the firmament.

  Horrific though it was, Antros could not drag his gaze from the surreal scene overhead. He saw that, just like in the real city, there was a vast amphitheatre, crammed with thousands of burning bodies but, in this likeness, the burning mutants were not screaming but dancing, revelling in the flames that were transforming their flesh. Rather than becoming blackened husks, their bodies were crystallising, growing glass-like as they cavorted and leapt through the fire. Seeing it so clearly for the first time, Antros realised that the mirror world in the sky was actually the past. The fires in the amphitheatre were only just taking hold. He was seeing the world as it was a few moments earlier. It was as though the reflection took a few minutes to assimilate the changes below and recreate them – there was a slight lag between the two versions of reality.

  ‘Is it getting closer?’ asked Rhacelus. He was standing beside Antros but his words were directed at Mephiston, who was standing a few feet ahead of them, further down the steps, studying the rusty bolt he had snatched from Dravus.

  Mephiston secreted the bolt beneath his cloak and nodded. ‘The reflection will soon devour the reality. I see now that this “Miracle” is intended to do more than simply hide Divinus Prime.’ He looked up at the glittering figures in the sky. ‘This world is being fractured and transformed by sorcery, and if I do not halt it soon,’ he looked up at the undulating architecture above him, ‘we will be walking those streets instead of these, and Divinus Prime will be lost forever, along with the Blade Petrific.’

  ‘What will we do now, my lord?’ asked Antros, looking back at the real Mormotha. The streets were flooded with wailing, grief-stricken priests who had not made it into the amphitheatre. Those that could get near had tried to break down the gates to save those within, but the stone would not give and all they could do was listen to the screams echoing through the walls. Most had no idea of the heretical transformations that had consumed their brethren; they thought that thousands of innocents were being burned alive.

  ‘Dravus confirmed what I had already learned from Father Orsuf,’ said Mephiston. ‘The Blade Petrific is in Volgatis. But if Dravus was right, Pieter Zorambus is already at the gates. He will take the blade this very morning if we do not arrive to stop him.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Rhacelus, ‘how far is it?’

  Mephiston shook his head. ‘Hundreds of miles to the north, from memory, but I only glanced at the maps.’ He nodded to the book he had given Antros when they left the abbey. ‘Every shrine and temple is marked, Volgatis included. Take a look.’

  Antros unclasped the book and leafed through the maps and illuminated texts until he found the word Volgatis. He traced his finger over the measurements on the map and shook his head. ‘It’s a convent of some kind. Heavily fortified. Built right at the peak of a mountain – the highest peak of the Tamarus Mountains. Nearly three hundred miles north of here.’ He peered closer at the pages. ‘Father Orsuf has made notes in the margins. The Order of the Hallowed Gate. And another word. I can’t quite make it out. Seraphim, perhaps?’

  Rhacelus glanced at Mephiston. ‘Adepta Sororitas?’

  Mephiston nodded. ‘It makes sense. If the Ecclesiarchy place so much importance on this world, they will have stationed Sisters of Battle here to watch over it. Pieter Zorambus has half the planet at his back, though. Even the Adepta Sororitas will find it hard to hold out against such numbers. We need to get there fast. Mormotha has a space port. You probably saw it when we were up by the abbey. It is in this very district, not far from the amphitheatre. There looked to be aircraft there.’

  Rhacelus nodded. ‘If we fly we could reach Volgatis in minutes rather than hours.’

  Mephiston spoke into his vox. ‘Captain Vatrenus. Do not head for the gates. Make for the space port.’

  ‘Understood, Chief Librarian,’ came the reply. The captain’s words were accompanied by a chorus of screaming blasts – the unmistakeable sound of las-fire.

  ‘Have you engaged more of the mutants, Vatrenus?’

  ‘No, my lord, not mutants – just the local troops. They do not understand what happened in the amphitheatre. My explanation fell on deaf ears. I have–’ His words broke off and the sharp report of bolter-fire barked over the vox-network. ‘The idiots think we are the enemy.’

  Antros looked down the steps and saw that the locals who were not fleeing from the fire were pointing in their direction, their faces twisted with grief and rage. There was a flash of gold a
s dragoons began spilling out of doorways.

  Antros unholstered his bolt pistol, but Mephiston shook his head. ‘I have killed enough of these people for one day. They have been lied to, but not all of them are as wretched as the arch-cardinal. We should spare them if we can.’

  Antros found it hard to lower his gun. The bloodlust that had consumed him in the amphitheatre was still there, hovering at the back of his thoughts. As he watched the dragoons approaching, their lasguns raised, he felt an overwhelming urge to storm down the steps and tear into them. He could almost taste their blood splashing into his mouth. He shook his head and recited the litanies of restraint he had learned as an acolyte, muttering the words as a mantra until he was calm enough to lower the gun and look away from the soldiers.

  He clicked his data-slate from his armour and called up a schematic of the city. ‘You’re right. We are just a few streets away from the space port, my lord,’ he said, waving to an avenue behind them that was clear of people.

  Mephiston nodded for Antros to lead the way and they ran down the steps as gunfire lashed out from the nearby buildings, scattering chunks of architecture across the road as the Guardsmen’s shots failed to find their mark or skimmed harmlessly off the Blood Angels’ power armour.

  After just a few minutes they reached the control towers and hangars of the space port. The structures were as intricately wrought as the rest of Mormotha – a spiralling mass of coiled fossils that looked to be completely deserted. There were dozens of aircraft dotted around in various states of repair, including some Valkyries, hunched in their hangars like enormous carrion birds, their fuselages painted a dull black and their wings seeming to sag under an impressive array of missiles and lascannons. Most of the aircraft looked battle-ready and in good repair.

  Mephiston was already striding towards the hangars with Rhacelus at his side, making for a large, ancient-looking transport ship.

  As Antros hurried after them, he saw a block of red power armour rushing towards them from the south side of the square. Captain Vatrenus and his men moved with the same martial discipline Antros would expect. Their armour was dented, scorched and drenched in blood, but none of them showed signs of injury.

  Vatrenus saluted as he reached Mephiston, and the Chief Librarian turned to face him.

  ‘Captain,’ said Mephiston with a nod.

  ‘My lord,’ replied Vatrenus. He removed his helmet and his expression betrayed his annoyance. ‘I should not have cut things so fine. If you had explained to me why we needed to close those gates I might have–’

  ‘You might have what?’ interrupted Mephiston, genuinely confused. ‘I gave you a clear order, Captain Vatrenus. What difference would my reasoning have made?’

  Vatrenus opened his mouth to argue, then caught Rhacelus’ outraged glare and simply nodded, muscles rippling across his clamped jaw.

  Mephiston nodded at the transport ship. ‘We need to leave now.’

  Captain Vatrenus looked up at the vehicle with a raised eyebrow. It was like an ugly, overgrown relative of the Valkyries in the other hangers and it had clearly seen better days. Sections of the armour plating had rusted away and the fuel tanks were hanging from the fuselage at a very unhealthy angle. Vatrenus turned to the Techmarine. ‘Brother Gallus?’

  Gallus had been forced to fight his way out across the terraces of the amphitheatre alone, and his armour was more damaged than the rest of the Blood Angels, but he replied with a brisk nod. ‘Captain,’ he said, clambering up into the aircraft and heading for the cockpit.

  As the transport ship’s thrusters roared into life, hurling it over the walls of the city, Antros gave Mormotha one last look. The flames were already spreading through the streets, sending great plumes of smoke up through the bone-spiral towers. The Labyrinth had become a funeral pyre.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Volgatis, Divinus Prime

  Commander Hesbon soared through an ice-sharp cloud, frost fixing his face into a grimace as he climbed higher. ‘You will fall,’ he said, his words as venomous as they were breathless. His wings pounded him through the tail of the cloud and revealed the dizzying landscape below. The Tamarus Mountains, jagged and brutal, clawing up into the sky and, clinging to the highest peak, Volgatis.

  Hesbon glared at the fortress as he circled high above its battlements. It hung out over the valley like an outstretched limb, its walls glittering with muzzle flashes as the Seraphim launched volley after volley down onto Hesbon’s men. The narrow, winding road that led up to the gates of Volgatis was heaped with dead dragoons, and they had only begun the assault a few hours earlier. Hesbon had promised the Unbegotten Prince he would have the gates down by midday, but none of his men had even reached the feet of the statues that held up the cathedral-sized portico. The gunfire from the walls was merciless and the single path that led to the gates was completely exposed. It was a pitiful massacre. Even their tanks had been obliterated before they could get anywhere near the walls of the convent. They were now smouldering in the middle of the road, blasted onto their sides and leaking flames as the dragoons fell back under another pummelling barrage from the guns on the walls. Zorambus had promised that reinforcements would come from Mormotha – an army big enough to topple Volgatis’ walls; an army led by the arch-cardinal himself; an army that had never arrived.

  Hesbon could see black-armoured forms dashing across the battlements, beetle-like and tiny from this height, as they gunned down his men. Every now and then, one of his soldiers would get within spitting distance of the huge porch and the defenders would drop down from the battlements, borne on screaming, winged jets and revelling in the ease of slaughtering the poor souls trying to lay charges at the foot of the statues.

  He had tried to bring his own heavy guns to bear on the fortress but the second his men trundled them into view, the Sisters of the Hallowed Gate revealed another of their cowardly ploys. The walls of the crevasse on either side of the road looked to be nothing but sheer, unscalable granite but, every time Hesbon’s guns moved within firing distance, hidden artillery boomed from the mountainside, blasting the weapons off the road. His great army was in tatters. The glorious victory he had imagined had turned into a shameful rout.

  He looped lower, still out of range, trying to spot a weakness in the architecture of the convent, anything that could give him a last chance at victory. There was nothing. The outer wall was not bone but solid rock, and it seemed to have sprung into being, fully formed at the moment of the mountain’s birth. Hesbon cursed and loosed off a few shots from his laspistol, knowing he was too away far to hit anything but too enraged to care.

  His wings faltered as a horrific image filled his thoughts: a crimson, bloody face, covered by a white veil. The face wore a wide, lipless grin and it appeared to have no skin. The vision was so disturbing that by the time Hesbon had remembered the need to fly he had plunged halfway down to the battlements.

  The Sisters of the Hallowed Gate saw him hurtling towards them and loosed off several rounds from their bolters.

  Hesbon banked hard, swerving away from the walls, but not before one of the shots tore a ragged hole through his stomach, blasting straight through his flak armour. He arched in agony and fell from the sky towards the corpse-lined road below, dropping his pistol and clutching at the wound.

  Through his agony, he retained enough sense to beat his wings before he crashed into the mountainside. He skimmed over the ranks of his cowering troops and finally landed with a flurry of thrashing wings in the gorse bushes at the roadside.

  Bolter shells thudded into the ground around him, hurling chunks of sod into the air, and Hesbon lurched to his feet, staggering behind a rocky outcrop for cover. Shots hit the rock, pulverising it and showering him in dust and chippings. He groaned and staggered off back down the road, barging through his men as his life poured between his fingers and shells exploded all around him.

  The road loope
d around a shoulder of rock and he was out of sight of the fortress. Dragoons were staggering in every direction, hauling their dead and dying up the road, and clutching at their wounds. Even through the red haze of his pain, Hesbon was awed by the brutality of the scene. Corpses and burning tanks crowded the road for as far as he could see. Then blood loss and pain overcame him and he collapsed to the ground.

  ‘Take me to the prince!’ he gargled, as some of the men caught sight of his wings and realised who he was. ‘Get me to Zorambus,’ he groaned as the soldiers’ faces merged into a smear of colours and shapes.

  ‘You are a brave man,’ said a kind voice as the world swam back into view.

  Hesbon woke with a jolt as he recalled his stomach wound. He tried to sit, but realised he was strapped down to a bench. Pieter Zorambus was leaning over him, his tanned, weathered face creased into a concerned smile.

  He gave a gentle laugh as he wiped Hesbon’s sweaty hair out of his eyes. ‘But attacking Volgatis alone may have been a little ambitious.’

  Hesbon looked around. He was in the prince’s command tent, but they were alone. None of the other officers were present and Hesbon presumed they were dead. There were a few books and data-slates next to the prince’s cot, and a table covered with parchments and boxes. He looked down at his wound and saw, to his horror, that it was clamped wide open, exposing his steaming innards to the cold, mountain air. The skin around the opening was covered with the complex network of lines and symbols that had spread over his body. The symbols seemed to shift slightly as he looked at them, flowing into each other as if they wished to avoid his gaze. They radiated from the bloody hole in a complex sunburst.