Hell Night - Nick Kyme

by Warhammer 40K

  The barrier was narrow, just as Pyriel had warned, and as the Phalanx had tried to keep pace with the Salamanders on the way to the advanced assault line, some stepped out of it. A muted cry and then they were no longer seen or heard from again. By the time the firing line was erected, some several dozen troopers were missing. The Salamanders, as of yet, had not succumbed.

  Tsu'gan saw the flickering white forms of the warp echoes through the Librarian's psychic shield. They lingered, angry and frustrated, ever probing to test the limits of Pyriel's strength. Though he couldn't see his face through his battle-helm, Tsu'gan knew by the Epistolary's juddering movements that he was feeling the strain. He was a vessel now, for the near-unfettered power of the warp. Like a sluice gate let free, the energy coursed through him as Pyriel fought hard to channel it into the shield. One slip and he would be lost. Then Tsu'gan would need to act quickly, slaying him before Pyriel's flesh was obtained by another, heralding the death of them all, Salamanders or no.

  One of the creatures breached the barrier wall, corporealising to do it, and Tsu'gan lashed out with his fist.

  It was like striking adamantium, and he felt the shock of the blow all the way up his arm and into his shoulder, but did enough to force the creature back. It flashed briefly out of existence, but returned quickly, a snarl upon its eldritch features.

  'Hard as iron you said,' Tsu'gan roared into the comm-feed as the weapons fire intensified.

  Overhead the Earthshaker shells were finding their marks and the void shield rippled near its summit.

  Emek battered another of the spectres back beyond the psychic cordon, the exertion needed to do it evident in his body language.

  'Perhaps too conservative,' he admitted.

  'A tad, brother,' came Tsu'gan's bitter rejoinder. 'Iagon,' he relayed through his battle-helm, 'what are the readings for the shield?'

  'Weakening, my lord,' was Iagon's sibilant reply, 'But still insufficient for a break.'

  Tsu'gan scowled. 'Ba'ken…'

  'We must advance,' the acting sergeant answered. 'Fifty metres, and apply greater pressure to the shield.'

  At a hundred and fifty metres away, the danger from energy flares cast by void impacts and friendly fire casualties from the Earthshakers was greatly increased, but then the Salamanders had little choice. Soon the bombardment from the Basilisks would end when they ran out of shells. The void shield had to be down before then.

  'Brother-Librarian,' Tsu'gan began, 'another fifty metres?'

  After a few moments, Pyriel nodded weakly and started to move forwards.

  Tsu'gan turned his attention to the Phalanx.

  'Captain Mannheim, we are advancing. Another fifty metres.'

  The Phalanx officer gave a clipped affirmative before continuing to galvanise his men and reminding them of their duty to the Emperor.

  Despite himself, the Salamander found he admired the captain for that.

  The bells tolled on as the Imperial forces resumed their march.

  THE STAIRS WERE shallow and several times Dak'ir almost lost his footing, only narrowly avoiding a plunge into uncertain darkness by bracing himself against the flanking walls.

  Near the bottom of the stairwell, he was guided by a faint smudge of flickering light. Its warm, orange glow suggested candles or a fire. There was another room down here and this was where the scratching sound emanated from.

  Cursing himself for leaving his weapons in the cell above, Dak'ir stepped cautiously through a narrow portal that forced him to duck to get through and into a small, dusty chamber.

  Beyond the room's threshold he saw bookcases stuffed with numerous scrolls, tomes and other arcana. Religious relics were packed in half-open crates, stamped with the Imperial seal. Others, deific statues, Ecclesiarchal sigils and shrines were cluttered around the chamber's periphery. And there, in the centre, scribing with ink and quill at a low table, was an old, robed clerk.

  The scrivener looked up from his labours, blinking with eye strain as he regarded the giant, onyx-skinned warrior in his midst.

  'Greetings, soldier,' he offered politely.

  Dak'ir nodded, uncertain of what to make of his surroundings. A prickling sensation ran through his body but then faded as he stepped into the corona of light cast by the scrivener's solitary candle.

  'Are you Munitorum?' asked Dak'ir. 'What are you doing so far from the strategium?' Dak'ir continued to survey the room as he stepped closer. It was caked in dust and the grime of ages, more a forgotten storeroom than an office for a Departmento clerk.

  The scrivener laughed; a thin, rasping sort of a sound that put Dak'ir a little on edge.

  'Here,' said the old man as he backed away from his works. 'See what keeps me in this room.'

  Dak'ir came to the table at the scrivener's beckoning, strangely compelled by the old man's manner, and looked down at his work.

  Hallowed Heath - a testament of its final days, he read.

  'Mercy Rock was not always a fortress,' explained the scrivener behind him. 'Nor was it always alone.'

  The hand that had authored the parchment scroll in front of Dak'ir was scratchy and loose but he was able to read it.

  'It says here that Mercy Rock was once a basilica, a temple devoted to the worship of the Imperial Creed.'

  'Read on, my lord…' the scrivener goaded. Dak'ir did as asked.

  ''…and Hallowed Heath was its twin. Two bastions of light, shining like beacons against the old faiths, bringing enlightenment and understanding to Vaporis,'' he related directly from the text. ''In the shadow of Aphium, but a nascent township with lofty ambitions, did these pinnacles of faith reside. Equal were they in their fervour and dedication, but not in fortification—'' Dak'ir looked around at the old scrivener who glared at the Salamander intently.

  'I thought you said they were not fortresses?'

  The scrivener nodded, urging Dak'ir to continue his studies.

  ''—One was built upon a solid promontory of rock, hence its given appellation; the other upon clay. It was during the Unending Deluge of 966.M40 when the rains of Vaporis continued for sixty-six days, the heaviest they had ever been in longest memory, that Hallowed Heath sank down beneath a quagmire of earth, taking its five hundred and forty-six patrons and priests with it. For three harrowing days and nights the basilica sank, stone by stone, beneath the earth, its inhabitants stranded within its walls that had become as their tomb. And for three nights, they tolled the bells in the highest towers of Hallowed Heath, saying, ''We are here!'', ''We are here!'' but none came to their aid.''

  Dak'ir paused as a horrible understanding started to crawl up his spine. Needing to know more, oblivious now to the scrivener, he continued.

  ''Aphium was the worst. The township and all its peoples did not venture into the growing mire for fear of their own lives, did not even try to save the stricken people. They shut their ears to the bells and shut their doors, waiting for a cessation to the rains. And all the while, the basilica sank, metre by metre, hour by hour, until the highest towers were consumed beneath the earth, all of its inhabitants buried alive with them, and the bells finally silenced.''

  Dak'ir turned to regard the old scrivener.

  'The spectres in the killing field,' he said, 'they are the warp echoes of the preachers and their patrons. They are driven by hate, hate for the Aphiums who closed their ears and let them die, just as I am driven by guilt.'

  Guilt?

  Dak'ir was about to question it when the scrivener interrupted.

  'You're near the end, Hazon, read on.'

  Dak'ir was compelled to turn back, as if entranced.

  ''This testament is the sole evidence of this terrible deed - nay; it is my confession of complicity in it. Safe was I in Mercy Rock, sat idle whilst others suffered and died. It cannot stand. This I leave as small recompense, so that others might know of what transpired. My life shall be forfeit just as theirs were, too.''

  There it ended, and only then did Dak'ir acknowledge that the old man
had used his first name. He whirled around, about to demand answers… but he was too late. The scrivener was gone.

  THE EARTHSHAKER BARRAGE stopped abruptly like a thumping heart in sudden cardiac arrest. Its absence was a silent death knell to the Phalanx and their Astartes allies.

  'It's done,' snarled Tsu'gan, when the Imperial shelling ended. 'We break through now or face the end. Iagon?'

  'Still holding, my lord.'

  They were but a hundred metres from the void shield now, having pressed up in one final effort to overload it. Without the heavy artillery backing them up, it seemed an impossible task. All the time, more and more Phalanx troopers were lost to breaches in the psychic shield, dragged into dank oblivion by ethereal hands.

  'I feel… something…' said Pyriel, struggling to speak, 'Something in the void shield… Just beyond my reach…'

  Despite his colossal efforts, the Librarian was weakening. The psychic barrier was losing its integrity and with it any protection against the warp echoes baying at its borders.

  'Stand fast!' yelled Mannheim. 'Hold the line and press for glory, men of the Phalanx!'

  Through sheer grit and determination, the Guardsmen held. Even though their fellow troopers were being swallowed by the earth, they held.

  Tsu'gan could not help but feel admiration again for their courage. Like a crazed dervish, he raced down the line raining blows upon the intruding spectres, his shoulders burning with the effort.

  'Salamanders! We are about to be breached,' he cried. 'Protect the Phalanx. Protect your brothers-in-arms with your lives!'

  'Hail Vulkan and the glory of Prometheus!' Ba'ken chimed. 'Let Him on Earth witness your courage, men of the Phalanx.'

  The effect of the sergeants' words was galvanising. Coupled with Mannheim's own stirring rally, the men became intractable in the face of almost certain death.

  Tsu'gan heard a deep cry of pain to his left and saw Lazarus fall, impaled as Dak'ir had been by eldritch fingers.

  'Brother!'

  S'tang and Nor'gan went to his aid as Honorious covered their retreat with his flamer.

  'Hold, Fire-born, hold!' Tsu'gan bellowed. 'Give them nothing!'

  Tenacious to the end, the Salamanders would fight until their final breaths, and none so fiercely as Tsu'gan.

  The battle-hardened sergeant was ready to make his final pledges to his primarch and his Emperor when the comm-feed crackled to life in his ear.

  'You may have cheated death, Ignean,' snapped Tsu'gan when he realised who it was. 'But then survival over glory was always your—'

  'Shut up, Zek, and raise Pyriel right now,' Dak'ir demanded, using the other Salamander's first name and mustering as much animus as he could.

  'Our brother needs to marshal all of his concentration, Ignean,' Tsu'gan snapped again. 'He can ill afford distractions from you.'

  'Do it, or it will not matter how distracted he becomes!'

  Tsu'gan snarled audibly but obeyed, something in Dak'ir's tone making him realise it was important.

  'Brother-Librarian,' he barked down the comm-feed. 'Our absent brother demands to speak with you.'

  Pyriel nodded labouredly, his hands aloft as he struggled to maintain the barrier.

  'Speak…' the Librarian could scarcely rasp.

  'Do you remember what you felt before the first assault?' Dak'ir asked quickly. 'You said there was something about the shield, an anomaly in its energy signature. It is psychically enhanced, brother, to keep the warp echoes out.'

  Through the furious barrage a slim crack was forming in the void shield's integrity, invisible to mortal eyes but plain as frozen lightning to the Librarian's witch-sight. And through it, Pyriel discerned a psychic undercurrent straining to maintain a barrier of its own. With Dak'ir's revelation came understanding and then purpose.

  'They want vengeance against Aphium,' said Pyriel, beginning to refocus his psychic energy and remould it into a sharp blade of his own anger.

  'For the complicity in their deaths over a thousand years ago,' Dak'ir concluded.

  'I know what to do, brother,' Pyriel uttered simply, his voice drenched with psychic resonance as he let slip the last of the tethers from his psychic hood, the crystal matrix dampener that protected him psychically, and laid himself open to the warp.

  'In Vulkan's name,' Dak'ir intoned before the link was overwhelmed with psychic static and died.

  'Brother Tsu'gan…' Pyriel's voice was deep and impossibly loud against the battle din. A tsunami of raw psychic power was coursing through him, encasing the Librarian in a vibrant, fiery aura. '…I am about to relinquish the barrier…'

  Tsu'gan had no time to answer. The psychic barrier fell and the warp echoes swept in. Thunder split the heavens and red lightning tore across boiling clouds as the warp storm reached its zenith.

  Already, the breach Pyriel had psychically perceived was closing.

  'Maintain positions!' roared Mannheim, as his men were being taken. 'Keep firing!'

  Secessionist fire, freed up from mitigating the Imperial artillery barrage, was levelled at the Phalanx. Mannheim took a lucky las-round in the throat and was silenced.

  Tsu'gan watched the officer fall just as Pyriel burst into violent conflagration. Running over to Mannheim, he scooped the fallen captain up into his arms, and watched as a bolt of flame lashed out from Pyriel's refulgent form. It surged through the void shield, past the unseen breach, reaching out for the minds of the Librarian's enemies…

  Deep in Aphium rebel territory, in an armoured bunker sunk partially beneath the earth, a cadre of psykers sat in a circle, their consciousnesses locked, their will combined to throw a veil across the void shield that kept out the deeds of their ancestors. It was only around Hell Night when the blood storm wracked the heavens and brought about an awakening for vengeance, a desire for retribution, that their skills were needed.

  One by one they screamed, an orange fire unseen by mortal eyes ravaging them with its scorching tendrils. Flesh melted, eyes ran like wax under a hot lamp, and one by one the psyker cadre burned. The heat inside the bunker was intense, though the temperature gauge suggested a cool night, and within seconds the psykers were reduced to ash and the defence of Aphium with it.

  Upon the killing field, Tsu'gan detected a change in the air. The oppressive weight that had dogged them since mustering out for a second time on Hell Night had lifted, like leaden chains being dragged away by unseen hands.

  Like mist before the rays of a hot sun, the warp echoes receded into nothing. Silence drifted over the killing field, as all of the guns stopped. The void shield flickered and died a moment later, the absence of its droning hum replaced by screaming from within the city of Aphium.

  'In Vulkan's name…' Tsu'gan breathed, unable to believe what was unfolding before his eyes. He didn't need to see it to know the spectres had turned on the rebels of Aphium and were systematically slaying each and every one.

  It wasn't over. Not yet. Pyriel blazed like an incendiary about to explode. The Librarian's body was spasming uncontrollably as he fought to marshal the forces he'd unleashed. Raging psychic flame coursed through him. As if taking hold of an accelerant, it burned mercilessly. Several troopers were consumed by it, the mind-fire becoming real. Men collapsed in the heat, their bodies rendered to ash.

  'Pyriel!' cried Tsu'gan. Cradling Captain Mannheim in his arms, he raised his bolter one-handed.

  …you know what you must do.

  He fired into Pyriel's back, an expert shot that punctured the Librarian's lung but wasn't fatal. Pyriel bucked against the blow, the flames around him dwindling, and sagged to his knees. Then he fell onto his side, unconscious, and the conflagration was over.

  'Tsu'gan. Tsu'gan!'

  It took Tsu'gan a few seconds to realise he was being hailed. A curious stillness had settled over the killing field. Above them the red sky was fading as the warp storm passed, and the rain had lessened. On the horizon, another grey day was dawning.

  'Dak'ir…'

&nb
sp; Stunned, he forgot to use his derogatory sobriquet for the other sergeant.

  'What happened, Zek? Is it over?' Mannheim was dead. Tsu'gan realised it as the officer went limp in his arms. He had not faltered, even at the end, and had delivered his men to victory and glory. Tsu'gan's bolter was still hot from shooting Pyriel. He used it carefully to burn an honour marking in Captain Mannheim's flesh. It was shaped like the head of a firedrake.

  'It's over,' he replied and cut the link.

  A faded sun had broken through the gathering cloud. Errant rays lanced downwards, casting their glow upon a patch of distant earth far off in the wilderness. Tsu'gan didn't know what it meant, only that when he looked upon it his old anger lessened and a strange feeling, that was not to last in the days to come, spilled over him.

  Rain fell. Day dawned anew. Hell Night was ended, but the feeling remained.

  It was peace.