Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius

by Darius Hinks

  Antros waved them on and clambered through the wrecked aircraft, trying to lead them through the psychic tumult towards the Chief Librarian at its heart.

  He dragged himself over another piece of shattered wall and they looked down on Mephiston. He looked like something from one of Zin’s tales. Colossal arcs of power were coursing through the skies, knifing down from the clouds and flashing across the frozen crowns of the mountains, all of them terminating at Mephiston’s upraised arms.

  ‘The Lord of Death,’ said Antros, awed by what he was seeing. As the lights connected with Mephiston, they flashed out across the steep-sided valley. Hundreds of crimson strands, a network of lethal blood magic, each thread skewering a daemon. The Chief Librarian was the nexus of a vast web of energy, linking him to every warp entity within sight of Volgatis. Most of them were gathered beneath the huge porch that led to the gates, between the feet of the giant statues, and, as Mephiston’s magic tore through them, they were rooted to the spot, juddering and twitching as the blood consumed them.

  The air was buckling under Mephiston’s wrath. More crimson threads lashed out through his fingers, piercing the pink, giggling daemons on the battlements. A dome of red power spread out over Antros’ head, slashing through hundreds of malformed silhouettes and fixing them in place.

  Antros loosed his grip on the walls and gave himself to the gravitic pull of the blood storm. He bounced and crashed over the icy battlements until he was near enough to see the Chief Librarian better. Some of the Sisters managed to follow, gripping tightly to the embrasures as they battled with the furious current. Then Antros crawled over a shattered lintel and managed to get near the top of the gates, close enough to see Mephiston’s face as he began the next stage of his rite.

  Mephiston remained utterly calm. His battleplate was chipped and splattered with daemon-filth, but he was completely in control of his powers. He closed his extended hands, clenching them into fists, and as he did so every daemon held by his blood lightning crumpled and snapped. The screams shifted in pitch to something desperate, rather than rapacious, and the inhuman giggling broke into staccato, confused bursts that sounded more like choking than mirth.

  As Mephiston’s fists closed completely, the daemons imploded, sucked from reality like water whirling down a hole.

  Then there was quiet. No screams. No gunfire. Everything ceased. The only sound left was the gentle moan of the wind, rushing across the frozen peaks.

  The psychic force that had been dragging Antros towards his lord ceased and he fell backwards, wrong-footed by the sudden absence of resistance. He landed in a mound of blood-slick rubble and saw that Mephiston had lowered his hands and was staring out across the corpse-strewn valley.

  Every one of the daemons had vanished, but a newcomer was emerging from the distant banks of snow. It was a warrior in gleaming white plate riding bareback on a massive snake-like creature that had gaudy wings and a long, bird-like head.

  He is more significant than I thought, more powerful than I thought,+ said Mephiston in Antros’ head.

  ‘You have defeated his army,’ said Antros, confusing those Sisters near enough to hear him. ‘What can he hope to achieve now?’

  He is not merely a sorcerer. He is the plaything of something far more powerful.+ Mephiston’s tone grew urgent, passionate even. +This is about more than just the blade. I see it now. I see why I have been called here. Someone wanted me to know of this. Someone wished me to see him here – to be at this battle. It was fated.+

  As the Unbegotten Prince rode his serpent across the crimson-splashed ice, he showed no interest in the mounds of slaughtered Guardsmen that clogged the road. Rage boiled through Antros. Every one of those men had died believing they were fighting for the Emperor. Pieter Zorambus had dazzled them with lies and happily watched them all die. He was wearing the same welcoming smile he had shown in Tarn Abbey.

  Antros stood up and unholstered his bolt pistol.

  He will crush you,+ said Mephiston. +And I have yet to understand what you are to me. Wait, Lexicanium Antros.+

  There was a crunch of breaking rocks as the Sisters clambered to their feet. Antros whirled around, gun raised, to see Rhacelus striding towards him through the falling snow.

  The veteran had removed his helmet and there was shock in his eyes as he saw what had been done to Antros’ face.

  ‘You need an Apothecary,’ he said, grimacing. ‘You are a disgrace.’

  Antros laughed. ‘Your concern is touching.’

  Rhacelus raised an eyebrow, then turned to watch the scene taking place at the gates. More of the Seraphim staggered out of the smoke to look. Antros noticed that there were pitifully few of them left to revel in the banishment of the daemons. And those that had lived to see it were all carrying shocking wounds.

  The Unbegotten Prince rode towards the gates at a leisurely, menacing pace and Mephiston showed no sign of attacking, so the warriors gathered on the battlements followed his lead, holding their fire and allowing him time to approach and call out.

  ‘Old friend!’ cried Zorambus, grinning at Mephiston. Then, noticing the stern, defiant faces of the Seraphim, he laughed, waving at the Chief Librarian. ‘Don’t you realise who he is? What he wants? We’re both just players in the same game – the great game. He is here to steal your great prize as much as I am. What do you think he’ll do if he wins? Do you think he’ll leave you as you were?’

  Zorambus’ smile faltered as the Seraphim continued staring at him with the same determined aggression.

  ‘You knew?’ he said, frowning. ‘You knew he had come to steal the blade and you still chose to fight alongside him?’

  Silence rang out from the gates and Antros studied the faces of the Seraphim nearest to him. None of them showed any trace of surprise.

  Zorambus’ face started to twitch with the effort of suppressing his fury and he began sweeping his sword from side to side as though preparing to strike an opponent.

  ‘Pathetic,’ he sneered. ‘After all your talk of vows and faithful service.’ He continued swinging his sword, then jabbed it at the mirrored sky. ‘Do any of you know what this Miracle means? And it is a true miracle. Not one of those parlour tricks performed in the name of that mouldering corpse on Terra.’ Zorambus dropped from his steed, waded through the piles of fallen dragoons and hauled one up to face him. The man’s side was a bloody mess, but a gasp of pain echoed round the silent valley, revealing that he was still alive. ‘What do you think you died for, dead man?’ he spat.

  The man tried to pull away, horrified by the transformation of his prophet.

  Antros grabbed his bolt pistol, but Rhacelus gripped his arm and shook his head, nodding at Mephiston. The Chief Librarian was leaning out over the battlements, staring intently at Zorambus.

  Zorambus gave the dragoon a fierce, backhanded slap. ‘Tell me what you were fighting for!’

  The man cursed and spat blood in his face. ‘For the Vow. To stop these unbelievers hiding the Emperor’s power from Him. To free the Blade Petrific so that it could be used to purge the galaxy of–’

  ‘No!’ howled Zorambus, with a snarling, delirious laugh. ‘No, you did not! You were a piece in a game. No, not even a game,’ he laughed. ‘A joke!’

  The man frowned, confused, but Mephiston nodded. He did not cry out but let his voice be carried by the psychic storm still howling through his bones. ‘A competition.’ He looked up at the reflection overhead. ‘You hid Divinus Prime just so you could play a game.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re good!’ laughed Zorambus. He looked at the Seraphim. ‘He pretends to be surprised, but who do you think was my competitor in this game?’

  Some of the Seraphim standing near Antros glanced at each other, their stern expressions faltering slightly.

  Zorambus gave Mephiston a nod of grudging respect. ‘You played well, brother. I will give you that. I notice the canones
s is not here. I presume you killed her first?’ Then he hurled the dragoon to the ground and waved his sword in a dismissive gesture. ‘Not that it matters.’ He gave his sword another couple of swipes and Antros and Rhacelus glanced at each other in belated recognition. Zorambus was drawing a rune in the air with his sword.

  ‘Leave the walls,’ said Mephiston, looking at the Seraphim who were surrounding him.

  Some of them started to respond, but others looked at him with doubtful expressions.

  ‘Where is Saint Ophiusa?’ muttered one of them.

  Others shook their heads. ‘I haven’t seen her since the Astra Angelus arrived.’

  ‘Now!’ cried Mephiston, leaping from the walls, wings forming at his back.

  ‘Zorambus was buying time,’ growled Rhacelus, turning to the nearby Seraphim. ‘He was stalling, preparing some kind of–’

  A scream rang out as Zorambus plunged his sword into the chest of the wounded soldier he had been tormenting.

  Mephiston was soaring through the air, his aetheric wings spreading wider as he dived. Vitarus was in his hand, pulsing with hunger.

  Zorambus smiled as he raised his own, bloodied sword.

  Mephiston smashed into Zorambus with such force that they tore a channel into the road. Mephiston raised Vitarus to strike but Zorambus slipped from his grasp, morphing into a wisp of light that reformed a few feet away, his expression flitting from grin to snarl and back again.

  Mephiston rolled onto his feet and levelled Vitarus at the sorcerer’s head. The blade jolted and spat liquid fire. Zorambus barely had time to raise his own blade in time to parry the flames. He staggered backwards over the corpses, sneering as the blast forced him to the edge of the road.

  ‘Too late!’ he laughed, glancing at the walls of Volgatis. A subterranean groan started to judder through the fortress.

  The Seraphim standing near Antros and Rhacelus looked at them warily, making no move to go.

  Rhacelus stared out at the huge portico that led to the gates and sneered in annoyance. ‘Go,’ he snapped to the Seraphim.

  The Seraphim remained where they were, watching Rhacelus with doubtful expressions.

  ‘You’re about to die,’ he said, as though speaking to errant children. ‘Volgatis is coming down.’

  The Seraphim looked around as understanding dawned on them. The enormous edifice was quivering and juddering, shedding bones, mortar and clouds of dust.

  Rhacelus grabbed Antros’ arm as cracks spread across the walls. ‘You will need your wings, Lexicanium.’

  Antros looked down at the sheer drop and nodded.

  Finally understanding the danger, the Seraphim began leaping out into the banks of snow, flame kicking from their jump packs as they dived away from the two Blood Angels.

  As he followed Rhacelus up onto the parapet, Antros saw the scale of the spell Zorambus had cast.

  The enormous statues that held the portico aloft were rising from their kneeling positions and straightening their backs. There were six of the stone colossi, sixty or seventy feet tall, with features worn away by the ages and empty sockets for eyes. As Antros and Rhacelus prepared to leap, the statues stood erect and shrugged off their centuries-old burden, tearing away the face of Volgatis like a paper mask.

  The mountainous structure boomed, spewing stone and ash as though hit by a warhead. The valley echoed with the sound of its collapse and thunderheads of smoke billowed across the road, mingling with the falling snow.

  The two Librarians leapt into the void as the battlements fell away from beneath their feet. Antros conjured sanguine wings and dived, blind, into the tumbling clouds, followed by a storm of rocks and the screams of collapsing architecture.

  He lost sight of Rhacelus as he flew and as the ground loomed suddenly out of the miasma, he barely had time to break his fall. He staggered as he landed, stumbling across bodies and the burned-out chassis of tanks.

  He whirled around and saw the six stone goliaths, vague silhouettes, towering overhead. The enormous golems waded into the explosion of rubble and hammered the walls with their tank-sized fists, trampling the ancient buttresses and columns with their feet. The noise was incredible, amplified by the acoustics of the narrow valley to an apocalyptic roar of white noise.

  Antros watched in amazement as Volgatis fell. ‘The Blade Petrific,’ he muttered, his words drowned out by the convent’s death throes.

  Lights pulsed in the smoke and Antros stumbled off through the dust, gripping his bolt pistol.

  Mephiston was standing on the turret of a wrecked tank, his hand raised to the heavens. Above him, spinning in a sphere of blood, was Zorambus.

  As Antros approached, he saw that Mephiston’s armour was riven with hairline fractures, a tracery of black lines covering his battleplate. In places, the armour had splintered away, revealing flesh that was fading into darkness.

  Antros staggered to Mephiston’s side, unbalanced by the violent tremors shaking the chasm. The disloyal doubts that had plagued him on Baal resurfaced as he watched the Chief Librarian quivering and sparking like a piece of kindling. There was something almost daemonic about him.

  Mephiston’s expression was still as obdurate and unyielding as it had been on the battlements. Whatever the Gift was doing to his flesh, it had not overcome his will. Antros shook his head, trying to rid his mind of doubt.

  ‘The blade!’ he cried, struggling to be heard over the fury of Mephiston’s blood magic. The crimson cage he had spun around Zorambus was crackling like a massive force weapon, causing the surrounding air to judder and grind. Zorambus was hacking at the inside wall of the sphere with his falchion and each blow flashed with psychic power, but the sphere simply stretched to swallow the impact. With every failed slash of his blade, Zorambus howled in outrage.

  Mephiston looked briefly at Antros with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Volgatis!’ cried Antros, jabbing his staff at the tumbling walls and the rampaging golems. ‘He’s destroyed it!’

  Mephiston hesitated as he took in the epic scale of the destruction. He lowered his hands for a second, forgetting about his captive.

  Zorambus seized the moment and hacked with renewed fury at the ball of blood that contained him. His falchion sliced through and the sorcerer gushed from the red sphere, slapping onto the road in a gout of blood, his armour now as red as Mephiston’s. Gore drummed down onto his back but he managed to stand, slipping and staggering away from Mephiston, using his sword as a crutch.

  Mephiston looked from the tumbling walls of the fortress to Zorambus and then back again.

  ‘So we both lose,’ laughed Zorambus, between coughs and splutters. ‘The Blade Petrific will–’

  Zorambus’ eyes widened as a shimmering sword blade slid out from the middle of his chest. He stumbled forwards, sliding along the length of blade and revealing a stern-faced Rhacelus standing behind him, still clutching the crackling sword.

  ‘There’s losing and there’s losing,’ said Rhacelus, drawing back his sword for another blow.

  Zorambus grinned, then disintegrated – collapsing into a torrent of silver shapes that splashed across the ground.

  Rhacelus curled his lip in distaste as serpentine, insectoid creatures spilled across the rocks towards him. They looked like overgrown silverfish and as they reached Rhacelus they flooded over his armour, thrashing and shivering as they sought gaps between the layers of ceramite.

  Mephiston looked back from the destruction of Volgatis and levelled Vitarus at Rhacelus. The blade hurled a blast that danced over the silver shapes, crumpling their segmented abdomens and turning them to ash.

  Rhacelus staggered backwards, thrashing wildly as the shapes scurried across his chest, pounding them into pulp with his free hand and raising his force sword with the other.

  Antros swung his staff and added his warp fire to Mephiston’s, surrounding the
staggering shape of Rhacelus in a nimbus of psychic flames.

  The silverfish moved with incredible speed and Antros howled a warning as some of them reached Rhacelus’ exposed neck.

  Mephiston strode forwards, still calm, and made a slicing gesture with his free hand, scattering more of the silverfish. He was about to jab Vitarus again when a shape hurtled through the fumes and crashed down a few feet away, scattering rocks and tearing open the wall of snow and fumes.

  Mephiston froze as a Seraphim lurched and weaved towards them out of the whirling clouds. It was Saint Ophiusa. Her power armour was drenched in blood and there were ragged holes torn in the ceramite. Her veil was gone and her flayed, crimson face stared out of them from the white landscape. She was gasping in pain, clearly near to death, but there was a wild ecstasy burning in her eyes as she looked at Mephiston.

  ‘Astra Angelus,’ she hissed, dropping to her knees, smoke trailing from her jump pack. ‘The moment has come! Providence and prayer… brought you… here. Brought us together. You answered my… prayers.’ She glanced at the destruction taking place behind them. The huge golems were smashing through the walls of Volgatis, tearing down buttresses and towers. ‘I kept the blade safe for you. There is still time.’

  Rather than looking at the golems, Mephiston stared at Saint Ophiusa. ‘The vision was you?’ he said. ‘You summoned me here?’

  She looked confused. ‘Of course. You know I did.’ She stepped closer, frowning and reaching out to him, her voice trembling. ‘We prayed together. I would not presume… to summon… one such as you. But we agreed that…’ She shook her head. ‘But you know what we have done.’ She touched her face. ‘You saved me. You know that we are–’

  Rhacelus let out a strange choking sound and staggered away from them, clutching at a hole that had appeared in his chest armour. His eyes were wide with surprise as he looked at Mephiston and Antros.

  ‘I…’ he began. Then his words trailed off as his skull began to ripple and sag, like it was a sack full of liquid rather than hard bone and brain matter.