by Darius Hinks
Livia sauntered to her side and leant on the battlements, giving Dharmia an encouraging wink.
Dharmia had the unnerving sensation that Livia had read her thoughts.
‘I saw how you looked when she spoke to you,’ said Livia, running a hand over the icy stones. ‘You think I’m making a mistake.’
‘No,’ said Dharmia. She gripped Livia’s arm, horrified by the suggestion. She looked down at the massacre before the gates. ‘It’s just that the Sisters seem so sure that they will defeat Zorambus. Their faith is so strong.’
Livia smiled and placed a kiss on Dharmia’s forehead. ‘Faith,’ she said. ‘Wonderful and dangerous.’ She looked at the dragoons, falling back through the mounds of corpses, screaming with the agony of their wounds. ‘Do you think those men lacked faith? Do you think they threw themselves against these walls without thinking they had the Emperor on their side?’
Dharmia shook her head, confused. ‘They’re apostates. They believe in Zorambus. They think the Blade Petrific should be taken away – away from Divinus Prime.’ Her voice grew hushed with horror. ‘Away from the Children of the Vow.’
Livia nodded. ‘They are fools, and it is faith that has made fools of them.’
‘Then is it wrong to believe? Surely we must have faith?’
‘Faith, yes. Unquestioning faith, no.’ Livia nodded at the Sisters as they unleashed another deafening barrage of gunfire, shaking the walls with the force of the las-blasts. ‘The Seraphim are blinded by their belief. They think faith is their armour, but it is a trap. They cannot conceive of a foe that could breach these walls. They see men and tanks, and think that is all Divinus Prime has to throw at them.’
Livia stooped so her face was level with Dharmia’s. ‘Faith is fine, as long as it is tempered by thought.’ She raised a mischievous eyebrow. ‘And perhaps even a little self-interest.’
A piece of the battlements broke free, hit by a lucky las-shot, showering them both in dust. Livia laughed. ‘If we don’t look after ourselves, Dharmia, who will?’
As always, Dharmia found Livia’s laugh irresistible and she grinned back at her.
‘Your parents had faith,’ said Livia, looking serious again. ‘We need more than that.’
Dharmia nodded and was about to apologise again when Livia pointed through the battlements. ‘I hope the Seraphim do hold these gates, but the matter is far from decided.’
Dharmia peered through the columns of smoke and fire, struggling to see what Livia had pointed to. In the distance, where the mountain road turned a bend and plunged from view, there were flashes of blue in the smoke – fitful splashes of colour, as though some kind of toxic chemical were being burned.
‘At the very least,’ said Livia, ‘the Sisters of the Hallowed Gate are about to become very busy, so this is our chance. I want to be out of here, with the Blade Petrific, before we find out whose faith is strongest.’
Dharmia was only half listening, distracted by the blue shapes rising in the distance. As they rolled and tumbled towards the fortress, she started to make them out a little clearer. Her stomach lurched as she realised they were creatures. Some were rippling, fish-like things but others had no clear shape, morphing and inverting as they drifted closer. It was not so much the shape of them that caused her to cry out in horror; it was the horrible noise they were making. It sounded like thousands of people screaming at once, and the sound seemed to come from some other reality. She sensed that something unnatural had leaked into the world, something dredged from the forgotten recesses of her nightmares.
‘Come,’ said Livia. ‘We need to reach the Ædicula Sacrum quickly.’
They moved away from the battlements and, as they went, Livia waved for the men to follow. Abderos and the other militiamen were also dressed in new coats and plates of flak armour but, like Livia, a new outfit could not disguise their true nature. Their scarred, tattooed faces and hulking, muscle-lashed frames marked them out as the brutal zealots they were. Most of them had even refused the offer of new weapons, preferring the rusted chainswords and battered flails they had arrived with.
Livia led them all down the steps that zigzagged through the inside of the convent’s fortified wall. The wall was so high that it took them nearly ten minutes to reach the courtyard below. Seraphim rushed past them, loading guns and drawing chainswords as they made for the wall, snapping orders and responses with a new sense of urgency. Dharmia heard the distorted sound of the Sister Superior as she ordered the whole garrison to the walls.
Livia led them on through the crowds of warriors, in the opposite direction to the flow of bodies. No words were needed; they all knew this was the chance they had been waiting for. Something big was happening at the walls – they heard explosions and howls of pain. No one was thinking about Livia or her zealots. They raced past the temples and dormitories, and reached the stairs at the rear of the complex that the Sister Superior had shown them when they arrived.
They pounded up the steps, dodging the Seraphim who rushed past them. As they climbed higher, they could see across the tops of the buildings to the battle on the walls. Dharmia paused, staring in shock. The blue-skinned sky-sharks were whirling from the smoke and latching onto the Seraphim in a terrifying feeding frenzy. She saw one of the Sisters staggering backwards, enveloped by another monstrous thing: a rolling, boiling nest of limbs. It was covered in flames and teeth, and it was tearing the Seraphim apart as she reeled, then fell from the walls. As the Sister of Battle tumbled from view, Dharmia heard her screaming in agony.
Abderos was a brute of a man, clad in unshakeable faith, but his eyes were wide as he looked at Livia. ‘By the Throne,’ he muttered. ‘What are they?’
‘Zorambus’ sorcery,’ cried Livia, turning to look back down the steps at them. ‘He has conjured those monsters to kill us. Move!’
They hurried on, but the higher they got the harder Dharmia found it to breathe. As they climbed way above the convent, with the mountains spread around them in every direction, the air became thin and elusive, battling with Dharmia as she tried to snatch it down into her lungs.
Behind her, vast flocks of the daemons were now assailing the walls of Volgatis. Every Sister in the convent had gathered on the battlements, firing desperately at the amorphous horrors that were jiggling and rippling over the ancient stone. Fires had broken out in several places and most of the gun emplacements were now smouldering heaps of warped metal. Dead Seraphim lay all across the battlements, torn to shreds by the frenzied, inhuman attacks. The victory that seemed so assured when Dharmia stood on the walls now looked to be slipping out of reach. She shivered in disgust and continued climbing.
By the time they reached the top steps, she was on all fours, clambering desperately towards Livia as she turned to wave them on.
Even with all the madness that had overtaken the walls, there were still a few sentries standing watch over the Ædicula Sacrum. Most had rushed to join the defence of the wall, but a row of heavily armoured Sisters remained at the edge of the precipice, watching over the shrine that was lodged beneath the enormous, stone griffon.
They raised their bolters as Livia approached, but then they tilted their heads and Dharmia heard words crackling from the vox-links in their helmets.
‘Are you Livia?’ demanded one of the women, lowering her gun.
Livia nodded, and Dharmia saw how she was struggling to suppress her perpetual smile.
The sentry sounded hesitant. ‘Sister Superior Melitas orders you and your men to watch over the shrine while we aid our Sisters at the wall.’ She clearly found it hard to believe what she was saying and she made no sign of moving away from the top of the steps. ‘Can this be true?’ she muttered, turning to the other Seraphim.
‘No,’ said a voice from the shadows at the side of the steps. ‘No it cannot.’
Livia drew her laspistol as Saint Ophiusa stepped out of a rocky alcove
, holding her morning star in both hands, as though testing the mace’s weight.
‘There is more than one deceiver on this mountain,’ growled the canoness, her voice a liquid slur. The raw meat of her face twisted into a snarl so furious it was even visible through her veil. ‘That was not Melitas speaking to you, but this witch.’
Livia laughed in disbelief. ‘Witch?’
Saint Ophiusa circled her, adjusting her grip on the morning star. ‘I should have seen it sooner, but all my thoughts were focused on your fellow sorcerer. At least Pieter Zorambus had the honesty to attack me openly.’ Anger contorted her voice. ‘Rather than pleading sanctuary and then attempting to stab me in the back.’
‘Witch?’ whispered Dharmia, looking at Livia in confusion.
Livia shook her head with a despairing expression, rolling her eyes at the accusation. ‘I am not here to fight you, Ophiusa,’ she said, waving the pistol. ‘I am here to protect that which you’re unable to protect. Look!’ she cried, anger entering her voice as she waved back at the walls. Whole sections of the battlements were now ablaze and a great tide of blue and pink shapes was pouring into Volgatis. Other daemons were gliding through the smoke, their rippling fins revealing rows of foot-long talons as they dived to attack. ‘You are not worthy of this prize!’ Livia cried, pointing at the casket beneath the griffon. ‘The Blade Petrific is not safe with you!’
Saint Ophiusa made a low growling sound and strode across the steps towards Livia, drawing back her morning star to strike.
‘No!’ howled Dharmia, leaping to defend her.
Chapter Twenty
Divinus Prime
The transport ship banked hard, screaming through the clouds. Every part of it was rattling and clanging as it dived towards Volgatis. Antros wondered which would come away first, the wings or the tail fins.
Captain Vatrenus sat with the Techmarine, Gallus, at the front of the cockpit. Gallus punched the controls with what seemed to be arbitrary violence and klaxons barked as they hurtled towards the ground. A jet of smoke whistled from somewhere near Antros’ head.
‘Volgatis in three minutes,’ muttered Rhacelus, strapped into the seat beside Antros.
Mephiston grunted a curse, sounding in pain.
‘My lord?’ said Rhacelus, looking over at the Chief Librarian.
Since they had left the ground, Mephiston’s tremors had grown worse and every few seconds trails of dark lightning would crackle across his skin, and his eyes would cloud over with blood. He was clutching his left arm constantly. The higher they flew, the more violent the tremors became.
‘Should we land?’ asked Rhacelus. ‘We will reach the fortress in moments.’
‘Something is coming,’ said Mephiston, staring at the floor of the cabin. ‘Ready the guns,’ he said. ‘We will need–’
Something heavy slammed into the side of the transport ship.
A new set of klaxons started blaring as the aircraft rolled onto its side.
‘Throne!’ growled Gallus, struggling to grip the controls as part of the dashboard tore free.
‘What was that?’ asked Antros, staring through the armoured glass.
The air was a riot of colour; pink and blue shapes were spiralling all around them.
Another weight slammed against the fuselage, then another.
‘Daemons!’ snapped Gallus, triggering a barrage of las-blasts.
The cockpit lit up, and Antros saw liquid blue shapes disintegrating all around them, ripped from the sky.
There was a tearing sound from beneath their seats as another of the daemons thudded into the ship.
Lights flashed on the controls. ‘Two minutes to Volgatis,’ said Gallus.
More daemons smashed against the hull and this time, some of them managed to latch on. Something hammered against the transport, right beside Antros. Then a pink, heaving mass smashed through the fuselage, reaching out towards him. Its face consisted of gaping, incisor-crammed jaws, snarling and slavering in its flesh. It thrashed furiously from side to side, trying to bury its teeth into Antros’ face as he held it at arm’s length. It was clutching a long, ornate blade and drew it back to stab at him.
Antros recited a passage from The Glutted Scythe. Lightning pulsed through his hand, ripping the daemon’s face apart. It screamed wildly and flew back, but as it tumbled away it hauled Antros with it.
He cried out, shocked by the daemon’s strength as it wrenched him through the broken fuselage and out onto the wing of the aircraft. A mortal man would have been hurled to his death, but Antros gripped one of the wing’s exposed ribs, hanging on, even as the aircraft howled up through the clouds.
The daemon drew back its sword to strike but Antros called out another invocation and blasted it apart.
Antros reached back towards the hole he had been wrenched through but, before he could drag himself through, he saw that the remnants of the daemon’s flesh had slapped down on the wing, reformed into blue-skinned daemons that were equally as grotesque as the one that had birthed them.
They threw themselves at Antros with a peevish, whining sound, mouths opening in the centre of their contorted chests.
Antros caught the first daemon in his fist and pummelled it onto the wing with a flash of psychic energy. This time he scorched it into a blackened husk, avoiding any further rebirths.
The second daemon thudded into him and they both crashed back inside the aircraft.
Antros sprawled across broken seats as the whining daemon thrashed and lunged at him, talons and blades clattering against his power armour.
Rhacelus’ sword came down through its neck and crimson fire lashed across its shifting flesh, lighting it up in a dazzling display of sparks.
The daemon fell back and Antros booted it through the hole, sending it plunging through the clouds. Then he lay still for a moment, breathing heavily as the transport ship lurched and juddered beneath him.
Another series of blows struck the aircraft and more of the windows broke, filling the cabin with noise and fumes.
‘We won’t make it,’ said Mephiston, raising his voice above the din. ‘Two minutes is too long. Climb,’ he said.
Gallus yanked the controls back and they sliced up through the clouds with the daemons screaming up after them.
‘When shall I level out?’ cried Gallus, struggling to be heard. Ahead of them was the mirror image of Divinus Prime that filled the heavens. Antros could see clouds and the transport ship reflected as they had been a few minutes earlier, before the daemons attacked.
‘Keep climbing!’ shouted Mephiston.
‘My lord,’ Gallus sounded surprised. ‘Into the…?’
Mephiston nodded.
As they approached the Miracle, Antros felt the urge to hold his breath, as though they were about to break the surface of a lake.
Then they were through.
Sound vanished. The klaxons, the screaming wind, everything; it all stopped, enveloping the transport ship in silence.
Antros laughed as ideas exploded in his mind. A thousand revelations hit him at once.
‘Dive,’ whispered Mephiston.
Brother Gallus did not respond. He had the same dazed expression on his face as Antros. ‘Everything…’ he muttered, shaking his head and frowning.
Captain Vatrenus cursed and leant over, grabbing the controls and shoving them into a dive.
Fury boiled through Antros as he realised Vatrenus was about to rob him of the wondrous insights that were blossoming in his mind. He leant forwards to wrestle the controls from the captain’s grip.
He was too late. Deafening reality exploded around them once more. The klaxons and turbulence seemed all the more cacophonous after the silence of the Miracle.
‘We’ve reached Volgatis,’ said Brother Gallus, confused, looking at the controls.
They were surrounded by
mountain peaks and directly in front of them were the soaring gates of Volgatis.
They were about to smash straight into them.
Brother Gallus yanked the controls but there was no way they would clear the wall. The battlements hurtled towards them, crowded with battling figures and lit up by dozens of raging fires.
Mephiston cried out in a language Antros did not recognise, and time slowed to a crawl.
They should have smashed into the battlements but, instead, they were surrounded by a torpid blur of crawling shapes.
Mephiston was clutching something in his fist and Antros realised it was the object he had snatched from Dravus. He was studying it closely. Then he looked up at the hazy outlines outside the ship. ‘We will have to be quick.’ He looked around at the other Blood Angels. ‘The impact will be slow, but no less lethal if we are crushed between the wreckage and the wall. Follow my lead.’
They all nodded and, a few seconds later, the ship began to shudder and groan, crumpling towards them, concertina-like, in slow motion. It was as though it were made of paper and someone was carefully folding it away.
‘Now,’ said Mephiston, opening his door and stepping out into the smear of colours.
Antros and the others followed. The world was an abstract collage in which nothing made sense, but Antros was relieved to feel solid ground crunching beneath his boots.
They took a few steps and Mephiston indicated that they should crouch. Then he turned back to the collapsing transport ship and spoke again in the obscure tongue he had used earlier.
The world regained its usual momentum with a scream of tearing metal and boom of exploding fuel tanks.
Heat washed over Antros and he saw that they were crouched near a gun emplacement at the top of the wall – a gun emplacement that was now crushed beneath the blazing wreckage of the transport ship that they had just rammed into the fortress. The scene was so chaotic that the crashed aircraft was barely noticed. Every inch of the fortifications was crowded with battling figures. Not far from the Blood Angels, Seraphim were pouring down from a watchtower towards the walkway at the top of the wall, jump packs roaring as they hurtled towards a heaving throng of daemons, their bolt pistols blazing.
