by Darius Hinks
Antros looked down at his ruined body. His power armour had been crushed by whatever warp creature had been dragging him into the immaterium. When Mephiston’s blazing form had plunged in after him, the ceramite plates had already been slicing into his muscles. By the time Mephiston had hauled him back to reality, he looked as ruined as Volgatis. He tried again to move but he still could not feel his legs. He wondered how Mephiston imagined they would cross the miles back to the capital.
Antros rested his hand on his bolt pistol, thinking the unthinkable as he considered all that he had seen. The scale of his doubt staggered him. Since the moment of his insanguination, he had believed that the Chief Librarian had been saved by Sanguinius himself – cured of bloodlust and madness as a proof of what the Chapter could still be; proof that their bloodline could yet be saved. But now he had seen Mephiston use his power to aid a Chaos-worshipping witch, a heretic who stole a relic so powerful thousands had died trying to protect it. How could such power have come from the Angel?
There was a blast of white noise from Mephiston’s vox and then a voice cut through the din.
‘Nothing,’ said Captain Vatrenus in his usual blunt tones.
Mephiston shook his head. ‘Look again. I know there are dragoons hiding in the caves to the east. We cannot leave any remnants of that army intact.’
‘Chief Librarian,’ said Vatrenus, then severed the link.
Antros slowly raised the pistol.
‘Perhaps you will kill me, Lexicanium Antros,’ said Mephiston calmly, without turning around. ‘But not today.’
Antros stared at the gun, horrified by the accusation, but knowing it was fair.
‘We are transitory beings, Antros,’ said Mephiston. ‘To live is to change. We do not remember what we were yesterday or know what we will be tomorrow.’ Mephiston looked down into the valley at the smouldering wreckage of Volgatis. With the death of Zorambus, his golems had become lifeless stone once more. Even from here their shattered forms were visible, sprawled across the ruins. ‘Perhaps I will never know who saved me that day,’ continued Mephiston, lowering his voice. ‘Perhaps I will never know who plucked Calistarius from Hades Hive and created this monster called Mephiston. But I know what I am now, what I am in this moment.’
He stood up and turned to face Antros. There was no trace of emotion in his features. ‘The Blood of Sanguinius is in my veins, Antros, I know it. And the Angel sees more, and further, than those two damned sorcerers could ever dream of. They cared nothing for the souls on this world, Antros. They came here to compete for a prize. I realised that the moment I met Zorambus. For all the incredible power required to create it, the “Miracle” was just a discreet veil, flung over Divinus Prime to hide a trivial game they were playing to amuse their master.’
‘Their master?’ gasped Antros.
Mephiston nodded and held up the little iron bolt he had taken from Arch-Cardinal Dravus at the amphitheatre. A ghost of a smile played around the edges of his thin lips. ‘I have him, Antros.’
Antros shook his head, confused.
‘I have tried for decades to locate the scourge of this sector, Antros – the puppet master behind all these pointless wars.’ Mephiston looked up at the eagles circling overhead. ‘But he is so clever, so powerful. I have never been able to even glimpse his shadow. I have to admit, it took me a while to realise why the Angel allowed Saint Ophiusa to call me here. I thought it was so I could save myself.’ He glanced at his hand and Antros saw that it was twisted at a peculiar, painful-looking angle, the flesh almost entirely transparent in places. Behind his armour, Mephiston was burning away, fading into darkness. ‘It was only in Mormotha that I saw it. But now I understand.’
‘Understand what?’ Antros was now engrossed in Mephiston’s words, his despair supplanted by a sudden rush of hope.
‘I was not brought here to save myself. There is no salvation for me. The Blade Petrific is not a cure or a harness for my Gift. I see that now.’
‘Then why was Ophiusa able to call you here? What were all your visions and auguries pointing to?’
‘I see it clearly now. The monster that plagues the Cronian Sector is no longer beyond my reach. He was so engaged in his arrogant, callous little game that his mask slipped. He has revealed his face.’ Mephiston held up the bolt, swinging it on its chain. ‘That witch is rushing straight home to claim her prize, Antros – rushing to present the Blade Petrific to her master. She will be my guide.’ He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. ‘Look.’
Antros watched with delight as the sky rolled away like mist, revealing the galaxy whirling overhead. Stars and clusters of stars turned around the mountaintop. It looked like an astrolabe made of diamonds, with every system and spiral arm linked by the same, intricate network Antros had seen in the Chemic Spheres.
Mephiston led Antros’ mind across the heavens and he saw their fleet rushing towards them – vast battle-barges tearing into real space and hurtling towards Divinus Prime. Then Mephiston led his mind further and showed him something else. A starship was soaring away from Divinus Prime – a small, sleek craft, unmarked and glimmering with stealth shields.
‘The witch,’ breathed Antros.
As the ship translated from real space and slipped from view, Antros gasped with pleasure. It had left behind it a silver thread, a luminous trail that hung down through the stars and traced all the way back to the Tamarus Mountains and the tiny bolt held between Mephiston’s fingers.
‘That’s why you let her go,’ whispered Antros.
Mephiston nodded and Antros saw something he had never expected to see: the Chief Librarian smiling.
‘The Blade Petrific was never meant to save me from destruction, Antros. The power of Sanguinius cannot be tempered, I see that now. I am not destined to be saved. But I am destined to save our Chapter. To prove that we are worthy heirs of Sanguinius. I do not need to control the Gift – I need to live long enough to unleash it in the right place.’ He held the bolt up against the sky, looking through it, his breath billowing in the bitter mountain air. ‘And now I have a map.’
About the Author
Darius Hinks’ first novel, Warrior Priest, won the David Gemmell Morningstar award for best newcomer. Since then he has carved a bloody swathe through the Warhammer World in works such as Island of Blood, Sigvald, Razumov’s Tomb and the Orion trilogy. He has also ventured into the Warhammer 40,000 universe with the Space Marine Battles novella Sanctus.
An extract from Azrael.
The Chapter serf’s eyes glistened and his lips quivered with suppressed shock. His whole body trembled as he waited for Grand Master Azrael’s permission to return to his position at the communications bay of the Penitent Warrior. Azrael regarded him without thought for several seconds, his mind blank, robbed of inspiration by a moment that left him shocked and numb.
‘Very well, Artisane,’ he managed to say. The serf fled back to his bench, to the comfort and shared grief of his companions.
Nobody else on the bridge had heard yet, each engrossed in their own affairs and duties. The battle-barge was poised above the world of Rhamiel and was one of many ships in escort to the Rock, its complement of First Company veterans standing ready to respond to their commanders’ next words.
His Chapter aide, Delefont, had his back to the Grand Master. The unaugmented human discussed some detail of navigation with the manoeuvres team. Sergeant Belial, second in command, was at the position of the gunnery officer, overseeing the firing solutions for their next bombardment of the renegades’ headquarters.
Azrael stood alone. He felt cocooned in silence, isolated from everything that had transpired in the last forty-two seconds since the tightband communiqué had arrived from Master Sheol. The universe had changed. Azrael’s world had shifted on its axis and what happened next would determine not only his own fate, but very likely that of the entire Chapter of the Dark Ange
ls. Not just the thousand warriors that besieged Rhamiel, but unknown generations to come.
Into the gulf came a storm of thoughts of personal, strategic and historical import. He considered ripples from a stone being thrown into a pool, but really a boulder had been tossed into a raging torrent. To try to discern what effects that might have, and what measures might be taken to guide the course of the ripples, was pointless.
‘Focus.’
It was as though the word came from outside him, but Azrael had whispered it himself. The single utterance brought clarity. His priorities were clear, the issues to be addressed falling into place as soon as the decision was made.
He activated the Chapter-wide vox channel.
‘This is a terrible day in the history of our brotherhood,’ he began. ‘Supreme Grand Master Naberius is dead. By authority of my position as Grand Master of the Deathwing, I hereby issue notice of command and assume temporary leadership of our Order for the duration of the current campaign.’
All eyes on the bridge turned to him, surprise in some, shock and despair in others, and he could imagine such a reaction from the many Dark Angels fighting on the world below. It was imperative that tragedy did not become disaster.
It was his duty by tradition and doctrine to take over directly to ensure continuity of command, but they did not permanently grant him the highest rank of the Chapter. When the present campaign was resolved the members of the Inner Circle would convene to select one from their number to be the next Supreme Grand Master. Azrael was, by opinion of most of the Inner Circle and previously Naberius himself, the natural successor. Yet it was possible that others might put forward another name from amongst the leadership. A strong display during the Rhamiel suppression would forestall any potential for disruptive politicking amongst the Chapter’s commanders.
‘Our resolve must remain the same, to bring the traitors to the justice of the sword. All battle-doctrine remains as briefed – pursue your enemies without remorse and fight for the shade and memory of Lord Naberius.’
Belial quickly crossed the bridge, the mass of his Tactical Dreadnought armour dwarfing even the Space Marines attending the control stations, its size matched only by Azrael’s own Terminator plate.
‘How did it happen?’ asked the senior sergeant. ‘Do we have details?’
‘Few,’ replied Azrael. ‘The Supreme Grand Master’s Thunderhawk was brought down as it led the assault towards the enemy citadel. Honoured Decifael reported unusually intense anti-air fire. Traitors swarmed the wreckage, hundreds of them. Decifael was the last to fall. We just received his last transmission. Naberius was killed by enemy shelling of the crash site before cultists overran their perimeter. Too easy. The artillery was already marked on that position, the renegades poised for the following attack. This was planned and executed with precision.’
Azrael did not continue, keeping further suspicions to himself.
‘We cannot allow his remains to be taken by the enemy,’ Belial said. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Our foe is are twisted, corrupted by the Warp Powers. Who can say what dark acts they might perform on the body of a Chapter Master, what rituals such a vessel might fuel?’
Azrael did not reply, though he had already contemplated the possibility.
‘The Chapter banner lies with them,’ Belial continued.
‘But we would better honour the sacrifice of Lord Naberius with victory,’ Azrael countered. He gestured towards a hololith projection of a sphere a little larger than his head, slowly rotating to show hotspots of conflict across Rhamiel. Red icons clustered around Imperial institutions overrun in the earliest days of the rebellion, such as the Adeptus Arbites precincts, the Administratum tithe houses and the star ports. Black icons marked where significant ground defences had been eliminated, concentrated around the capital fortress known as the Iron Stalagmite and several Adeptus Mechanicus forge cities.
‘The cultists are the froth of rebellion, but they are churned by a darker, deeper force. We know there are Night Lords here, orchestrating events. From our initial contacts, it seems that the taint is restricted to the upper echelons of the ruling hierarchy plus several regiments of the planetary defence force, aided by a large number from a dissident faction of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This is a coup d’état, not a popular uprising. Naberius believed that if we can sever the command of the Night Lords and eliminate the armed resistance, the world might be restored to order in good time.’
He did not add that Naberius and the Chapter Council had also believed there was an even more sinister root to Rhamiel’s turn against the rule of the Emperor. Belial did not need to know of such discussions. A name, much cursed by past leaders of the Dark Angels, had been mentioned in connection with the revolt – a name that had forced a vote on the council which Naberius had narrowly won. A vote in which Azrael had joined with those eager to bring several companies to Rhamiel in pursuit of nothing more than rumour.
Whether the Fallen were here or not, it seemed the arrival of the Dark Angels had been expected, if not desired. The speed with which the rebels had sprung their counter-attack certainly suggested the latter, and Naberius’ death may have been their intent all along.
‘I do not think the two objectives are at odds,’ said Belial. ‘A strike into the enemy command base would deprive the foe of Naberius’ remains, secure the Chapter banner and provide intelligence on the whereabouts of the traitor legion puppet masters.’
It was hard to argue with such an assessment. The Dark Angels had only scant information regarding the Night Lords and their role on Rhamiel. Even their numbers were unclear, though for them to remain hidden so well it suggested only a handful of Space Marines were operating directly on the planet. Near-orbital was littered with micro-moons and asteroid satellites, plenty of cover for a small ship to drift undetected for some time.
‘Very well, we strike at the headquarters. First Company only. The short-range teleport screen is no longer an obstacle. The renegades have foolishly left the beacon on the downed Thunderhawk operational, giving us a location fix for teleport assault direct into the compound.’ Naberius had planned to use teleport homers to support his swift assault. It was ironic that in death he had succeeded in what he had failed to do in life. ‘The remaining companies will continue with the cordon operation.’
‘Coordinates have already been obtained,’ said Belial. ‘I have checked them myself against the latest surface reports. They should deliver us into a central courtyard just outside the inner wall.’
‘We can get no closer to the citadel?’
‘Their anti-strike shield also bars teleport, Grand Master,’ said Belial. His voice carried just the tiniest hint of censure – disappointment that his commander thought there might be something Belial had overlooked.
‘Of course, sergeant,’ Azrael replied. ‘Who is on first strike?’
‘I will lead Squad Belial and Squad Therizon will simultaneously teleport. Remaining squads to deploy in pairs as detailed in your standing assault doctrine, Grand Master.’
‘Then I will join Squad Therizon.’
Belial opened his mouth to say something but then stopped himself.
‘What is it, sergeant? Give voice to your opinion.’
‘As Grand Master of the Deathwing it is your duty, your right, to lead the assault. As Supreme Grand Master you have wider concerns to occupy your attention. But it is not my place to make assumptions.’
‘It is a good observation, Belial, but mistaken in one respect. If I cannot command the Chapter with a blade in my hand, I am not fit for the position.’
Belial smiled, a rare occurrence.
‘Of course, Grand Master. A truth I overlooked. You shall bring credit to the First Company and I am sure the Chapter Council will endorse your elevation permanently.’
‘Any thoughts of the future are just a distraction from the mission at hand, serge
ant. The Chapter Council, and my role within it, can wait until victory is secured.’
Belial accepted this with a salute and started towards the door. Before he had left the bridge, Azrael’s train of thought had sped on and he signalled for Delefont to attend him.
‘Convey my regards to Master Sheol and have him prepare the Fourth Company for a supporting assault. The Deathwing shall break the rebel gates, and Sheol shall have the honour of meeting us.’
Click here to buy Azrael.
For that most beloved baboon of the moon, Joe Hinks.
A Black Library Publication
First published in Great Britain in 2017
This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Lie Setiawan.
Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-548-7
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
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