Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius

by Darius Hinks

  The daemons bounded over the battlements and sprinted forwards, gibbering ecstatically, oblivious to the ferocity of the Sisters’ gunfire. A forest of pink limbs and flaming tentacles slapped across the stones, some landing only a few feet away from Antros.

  As the Sisters of Battle landed on the top of the wall, they drew chainswords and hacked into the daemons, finally halting their advance not far from the smouldering wreckage of the transport ship.

  Captain Vatrenus and the rest of the Blood Angels rushed across the walls to join the Sisters as Antros and Rhacelus strode through the fire and surveyed the scene. The Sisters were being enveloped by countless horrors but they held their ground, hacking into the waves of daemons with no sign of fear or hesitation.

  As the Blood Angels fired careful, precise shots into the fray, the Seraphim raised their voices, singing wild, amplified hymns as they tore into the daemons.

  Antros and Rhacelus raced to join their brothers, their weapons blazing into life as they crossed the wall.

  It was only as they crashed into the enemy that Antros realised that there was no sign of Mephiston.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Volgatis, Divinus Prime

  There was a resounding clang as Abderos blocked Saint Ophiusa’s morning star with his chainsword. One of its iron balls still thudded into Dharmia, but Abderos had taken the force from the blow. Dharmia toppled back down the steps, winded, but unharmed.

  She saw Livia draw her laspistol, her face rigid with fury, and fire several shots at Ophiusa.

  The blasts tore holes in the walls but Ophiusa was already gone. She moved with remarkable speed, bounding across the steps and leaping, swinging the morning star round her head, bringing the balls hurtling down towards Livia.

  Livia swayed to one side and the mace smashed into the steps, scattering fossilised bone and filling the air with dust.

  The Seraphim at the edge of the precipice strode forwards, raising their bolt pistols and opening fire on Livia and her militiamen.

  Abderos grunted as bolt-rounds slammed into him, tearing his body apart and scattering the pieces across the steps.

  Two other militiamen flew backwards, hit by the gunfire. A third managed to return fire with a lasrifle, gouging the chest armour of a Seraphim but she barely noticed, cutting him in half with a few well-placed shots.

  A brutal massacre began as the Sisters mowed the militiamen down at point-blank range. Dharmia cowered beneath one of the steps as the storm of shots rang out.

  Livia barrelled into Saint Ophiusa and the pair of them clattered away down the steps. The Seraphim calmly lowered their smoking guns and resumed their places, unwilling to leave the reliquary.

  Dharmia dashed after Livia and Ophiusa, drawing her only weapon – a knife she had taken from the armoury. Livia and Ophiusa had come to a halt further down the steps, on a balcony looking out over the miles-high crevasse. Ophiusa swung back her morning star but before she could land a blow, Livia punched her hard in the face, jolting her head back with such force that her veil tore loose and drifted down into the abyss.

  Livia seemed to hesitate at the sight of Ophiusa’s brutalised face. The pause was enough for the saint to smash the morning star’s handle into Livia’s jaw, sending her sprawling back onto the steps. Livia landed, dazed, and Ophiusa hefted back the morning star to pulverise her head.

  ‘No!’ cried Dharmia, leaping at the saint and crashing into her.

  The force of the impact sent them both tumbling over the railings of the balcony. They plunged towards the valley floor, thousands of feet below, turning and wrestling as they went.

  There was an explosion of heat and noise as Ophiusa fired her jump pack. They jolted violently to a halt, but Dharmia was tangled in the harness and managed to hold on as Ophiusa hurtled across the chasm and flew back up to the balcony.

  Ophiusa gripped her by the throat. ‘Apostate!’ she hissed.

  Dharmia tried to reply but Ophiusa’s armoured grip was crushing her windpipe and her head started to spin.

  Dharmia jammed her knife beneath the plates of the saint’s armour. Ophiusa gasped and loosed her grip, howling in rage and clutching at the blood that rushed from her stomach.

  They crashed back down onto the steps, rolling, punching and cursing. As they came to a halt, Dharmia wrenched herself free, staggered backwards and clutched her throat, gasping for breath. Her vision became shot through with stars and she collapsed.

  As she lay there, her lungs burning, staring at the mirror Volgatis that filled the sky, Ophiusa loomed over her. The saint had lost her morning star but she had drawn a bolt pistol and, as she approached, she levelled it at Dharmia’s head.

  There was a scream of las-fire and Ophiusa jerked forwards, showering Dharmia with blood as she slapped to the ground.

  Livia was standing a few feet away, her pistol still raised, the muzzle glowing. There was no sign of her habitual smirk. She looked at Dharmia with a mixture of confusion and shock. ‘You saved me,’ she muttered.

  Dharmia tried to smile, despite her pain. ‘I’m no moron,’ she managed to say, wincing at the agony of using her bruised vocal cords.

  Livia kept staring at her with the same confused expression. Then she shook her head and held out her hand. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  As Livia hauled her to her feet, Dharmia saw that the steps further up were littered with corpses of the militiamen, all of them torn apart by gunshots and lying in the surreal, unnatural poses of the dead.

  ‘I know you are not a moron,’ said Dharmia, still gasping. She grabbed Livia’s arm. ‘But what are you?’

  Livia looked away. Then she raised her chin and looked back at Dharmia defiantly. ‘I am your friend. And I will not let any of these fools hurt you.’

  ‘What are you?’

  Livia scowled, grinned and then shrugged. ‘Damn it, Dharmia, do I have to say it? Yes, I am everything you have been taught to fear. It’s true. Call me a witch, if you like. I have learned such wonderful things that the God-Emperor would have me burned alive for my temerity. I believe in knowledge and learning and change…’ She hesitated. ‘And I believe in the only god who does not forbid such things. The Weaver of Fates, Dharmia. The Keeper of Secrets. The Changer of Ways. Tzeentch. The Schemer. The Trickster. However you want to label him, he is the source of my power and my freedom.’

  Dharmia did not recognise the names but they fell from Livia’s lips with such passion that her pulse quickened in response. She realised what had drawn her to Livia in the first place. She had sensed this mystery in Livia, this great difference from the start, and she wanted to be privy to whatever wonderful secrets had empowered her friend.

  She was too breathless to speak for a moment, then she nodded at the griffon statue at the top of the steps. ‘You said you had a plan – a way to reach the Ædicula Sacrum. But how would we get past those Seraphim?’

  Livia stared back at her. ‘You don’t want to flee?’

  Dharmia held her gaze.

  Livia hesitated and waved at the corpses. ‘I was using you all, Dharmia. I do not really care about this world. It’s all just a game. I care about me.’

  Dharmia kept looking at her.

  Livia cursed and then laughed. ‘And now I care about you.’ She gave her a sly grin. ‘Yes, I have a plan. I always have a plan.’ She turned and crept across the steps, keeping out of sight of the Seraphim further up.

  Dharmia looked out over the sheer drop. It was a dizzying view. The valley floor was so far away she could see eagles drifting way below her, circling the glinting rivers and white, dusty plains.

  ‘How will we–?’ she began, then stopped, hearing a snapping and clicking sound behind her.

  Livia was wrestling with a corpse – one of the dead Seraphim.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasped Dharmia.

  Livia staggered to
her feet, swaying under the weight of the Sister’s jump pack. She grinned at Dharmia, her face purple with the effort of holding the thing. ‘Help me with this would you, General Dharmia?’

  Dharmia rushed to grab the mass of polished ceramite, gasping under the weight of it. ‘You won’t be able to work it,’ she said.

  Livia gave her a coy smile. ‘“Witch”, remember.’

  They hefted the thing onto Livia’s back and, just as she was about to collapse under the weight, Livia muttered a series of fluid, unfamiliar words.

  Dharmia backed away in surprise as light flickered in Livia’s eyes, then rippled across her skin.

  Livia stretched and sighed, as though waking from a long sleep, then stood as easily as if she were carrying nothing.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Dharmia, unable to hide her fear.

  Livia shrugged. ‘I’m a witch and Ophiusa was a saint. The witch wants to keep you alive – the saint tried to unload her gun in your face. They’re all just words.’

  A chorus of brittle screams filled the air and shadows washed over the steps.

  Dharmia howled in disgust as a squall of rippling blue shapes tumbled towards them – flat, shark-like daemons, filling the air with dazzling, rainbow-coloured vapour trails and opening their mouths to reveal rows of knife-like teeth. Their yellow eyes were rolled back in their sockets and they were all trembling with bloodlust.

  ‘Damn you!’ howled Livia and loosed off a volley of gunshots. Her aim was true and the first of the daemons exploded into radiant flames, but the rest continued screaming towards them.

  Livia closed her eyes and the light blazed brighter beneath her skin. The jump pack’s jets roared into life and lifted her up from the steps. She swooped low and hauled Dharmia out over the chasm.

  ‘Damn you, Zorambus!’ cried Livia as whole schools of daemons flooded towards them from every direction.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Volgatis, Divinus Prime

  Volgatis was burning. Flames of every hue had spread across the battlements, dancing over corpses and hanging in the air, dripping from the smoke as though reality itself had been set alight. The garish fumes were almost indistinguishable from the screaming daemons that were spiralling through the tumult. Antros tumbled and staggered through this explosion of noise and colour, his bolt pistol barking at the myriad horrors that surrounded him, spewing shells and death. The daemons were not his only problem. As he fought he was being dragged along the top of the walls, wrenched by powerful currents of aetheric power.

  The warp storm hauled him up onto the top of a collapsed section of wall and as he rose out of the fumes, he caught a brief glimpse of the battle spread out around him. The walls were crowded with battling figures, but all of them, Seraphim, Blood Angels and daemons alike, were caught in a furious psychic storm. And at the eye of the storm, Antros found what he had been searching for: Mephiston. He stood above the gates, arms spread, fingers splayed, surrounded by a tornado of lightning and blood. Daemons of every conceivable colour and shape were hurtling towards him, caught in the crimson vortex. Mephiston was silhouetted within a fierce, bloody corona, a single point of darkness at the heart of the violence.

  Antros dug his heels in the rubble and managed to hold his place. Bones, corpses and daemons rushed past him as he tried to make out Mephiston’s face. It was like trying to stare into a black sun. The darkness burned and blinded, making it impossible to see whether the Chief Librarian was still in control of his actions, or consumed by the Gift.

  A shriek of giggles alerted Antros to the daemon that was bounding over the ruins towards him. It was a pink jumble of body parts, scampering on eight limbs like a spider, then six, then two, as its body morphed and flipped into a confusing variety of shapes. Only its face remained constant: hideously elongated jaws, quivering hysterically as it hurled a gobbet of pink fire at Antros.

  He loosed one hand from the wall and cried out a word of warding, causing the missile to explode seconds before it hit him. The force of the blast rocked him back on his heels and kicked him from his perch, throwing him into the fury of Mephiston’s tornado.

  Antros cursed as he rolled and tumbled across the wall, smashing through the rubble with the giggling daemon scuttling after him.

  He slammed into a column and managed to grip it, halting his freefall through the clouds of blood. He braced himself with one hand and extended the other one, palm outwards, towards the daemon.

  It gambolled through the air towards him, laughing hysterically and drawing back one of its many hands to hurl another ball of warpfire.

  Antros howled an evocation. Lines of energy crackled down from his psychic hood and along his extended arm, becoming a white-hot blast that tore from his palm and hurtled towards the daemon’s face.

  The daemon’s head vanished before the blast hit, and reappeared on its side, still giggling, as its body formed into an O shape, allowing Antros’ blast to ripple uselessly over the wall behind it.

  Sprouting even more limbs, the daemon grabbed a bent girder and hurled itself at Antros, crashing into him like a sack of thrashing eels.

  Antros fell back, caught once again in the currents of Mephiston’s conjuration.

  He rolled across the ground, the daemon latched on to him, pummelling his face and chest with its fists and stabbing a serpentine blade into the mask of his helmet.

  The daemon’s sword was not made of any real, physical material and it cut through the unbreakable ceramite of Antros’ faceplate. Fumes and heat washed over his face as the daemon’s blade raked through his jaw, rending muscle and bone with a flash of pain. Pain suppressants kicked in immediately but blood rushed from his helmet, filling his eyes, blinding him as the daemon’s teeth shredded bone and ceramite.

  Antros wrenched the thing off his face and held it at arm’s length, blood spraying from his ruined helmet.

  They were still tumbling through the air towards Mephiston but Antros managed to grab his combat knife and jam it between the daemon’s eyes.

  The daemon continued laughing until Antros summoned a wave of cleansing fire into the heart of the blade. The psychic flame pulsed inside the daemon’s head and incinerated it from within.

  Antros continued crashing and clattering across the battlements, trailing blood from his broken helmet and the daemon shrieked and tumbled to the courtyard below, thrashing wildly at its own face as it tried to extinguish the flames. By the time it hit the flagstones it was little more than a burned husk.

  Antros jolted to a halt, jamming his feet into the rubble and looking around. Volgatis was littered with dead Seraphim. The Adepta Sororitas had been almost entirely overwhelmed by the daemons. He scoured the walls for sight of a living Seraphim and could only see a few, huddled in small groups, blasting at the warp horrors with the same well-drilled accuracy they had shown in the first hours of the battle, but unable to see through the psychic storm. There were no more than a few dozen of them left alive, but none of them showed any sign of fear or doubt.

  He saw Blood Angels firing too, but they were also scattered and divided – caught in the blood storm emanating from their Chief Librarian.

  He yelled into his vox. ‘Squad Seriphus?’

  ‘Lexicanium Antros?’ came a reply over the vox-network. ‘Is that you? This is Captain Vatrenus. We are–’ Vatrenus broke off and there was a crack of bolter fire, followed by daemonic shrieks of laughter. ‘Wretched warp spawn. Yes, I’m with Squad Seriphus. We’re pinned down by this damned storm. Can’t reach you. Can’t–’ He broke off again to fire more shots. ‘No sign of Squad Hestias. Are they with you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Antros.

  ‘Is this the daemons’ magic?’ gasped Vatrenus.

  ‘No. Mephiston’s.’ Antros was unsure what else to say.

  ‘Hold your position,’ said Vatrenus. ‘We will get to you.’

  Antros was a
bout to reply when the air exploded with movement and noise. A storm of the screaming, shark-like daemons rippled through the fumes, their jaws gaping as they dived towards him.

  He blasted the first with a thunderbolt so powerful it broke the daemon in half, the pieces slamming back into the second and causing it to spin off into the smoke.

  The third hit him, hurling them both back onto the battlements.

  He fell on his back with the daemon thrashing on top of him. Both his hands were locked on its jaws, trying to hold them at bay, but the daemon was charged with warp energy and the teeth were bearing down on his already-wounded head. He chanted obscure, Baalite phrases, opening his mind to the same invisible currents that were powering his attacker. Strength ripped through his muscles and he rose to his feet with a howl, smashing the daemon to the ground. Then he drew his bolt pistol and tore it into pieces with a deafening barrage of shots.

  Dozens more of the daemons sliced towards him through the smoke, but Antros was so enraged he relished the chance to face more of them.

  He was almost disappointed when a wall of muzzle flashes erupted in the smoke to his right. The daemons disintegrated, leaving just a final, wounded wreck for Antros to stamp his boot on and execute with a few rounds from his bolt pistol.

  A Sister of Battle strode through the rubble towards him, her gun still smoking. She was battered, bloody and surrounded by her dead Sisters, but she saluted Antros calmly.

  ‘Son of Sanguinius,’ she yelled over the din of battle. ‘The Astra Angelus. Is he here?’

  ‘Astra Angelus?’ Antros asked, surprised. ‘Confessor Zin used that name. I did not think it was known here.’

  They ducked as a series of las-blasts detonated the wall behind them.

  ‘We know who the Astra Angelus is,’ she cried, struggling to be heard. ‘We understand why you are here.’

  More Seraphim stumbled through the storm towards him and gathered around her, looking at Antros. ‘Where is your lord?’ she asked.