‘Ghost signal,’ he said. He looked at Lakmhu and tapped the side of his helm. ‘Hear it, brother? Someone is receiving vox messages in there.’
‘From where?’ Lakmhu asked.
‘Let’s find out.’ Amatnim stepped back.
‘Should we blow it open?’ Apis asked, running a hand along the door. ‘I have the remaining melta charges handy. Might bring down the roof, though.’
‘No. There are easier ways. Look there, at the pillars.’ Amatnim gestured. ‘There are sensor nodes in every pillar. The locking system is automatic. They need someone to open the door from the outside.’
‘We probably should have taken prisoners,’ Gernt said.
‘No. They wouldn’t trust such a task to someone who could be taken captive – or killed so easily.’ Amatnim kicked at the ash around the remains of the servitors for a moment and grunted. ‘There we are. As I thought.’
Lakmhu growled impatiently. ‘Why are we here? What is in there that’s so important?’
‘Do you ever think about faith, brother?’ Amatnim said as he sank to his haunches. He plucked the blackened skull free of the ashes and examined it. Wires hung from it, and strange devices, now warped by heat, clustered the skull like barnacles.
‘Constantly,’ Lakmhu said.
‘Have you ever wondered if we’re wrong?’ Amatnim stood, still clutching the skull. He looked at the Dark Apostle. Lakmhu was staring at him in incomprehension.
Finally, he said, ‘I have not.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’ Amatnim paused. ‘Neither have I, come to that.’
‘Then why ask the question?’
‘Someone must.’
‘I was right. You are mad.’
‘Faith unquestioned is a blade untested,’ Amatnim said. He extended the skull. ‘They do not question. That is why they worship a corpse.’
‘And we worship the Pantheon.’
‘Yes. The four paths to the Primordial Truth.’ Amatnim pulled the skull to his chest and flicked ash from its crumbling crown. He held it gingerly, careful not to crush it, and continued to brush away ash until a metal barcode was revealed, set into the skull. ‘We follow all in moderation, and thus avoid truths becoming lies.’
‘Even as the Urizen taught us.’
‘And yet Erebus encourages some among our brothers to follow one god or the other, when it suits his purposes. As if offering their souls up in sacrifice…’ Amatnim glanced slyly at Lakmhu, watching to see if his jibe had struck home.
‘If they are not strong enough to wield the blade, then the stone is their fate,’ Lakmhu replied, with pious certainty.
‘Yes. Sometimes I wonder, though… will it ever be our turn, to lay on that stone?’
‘Only if we fail.’
Amatnim held the skull up to the closest pillar. An unseen sensor blurted a code-sequence. Scanning pulses danced across the skull, reading the barcode, as it would have done when the servitor had been functional. There was a hiss of escaping air, and hidden pneumatics groaned to life. Amatnim crushed the skull and cast the pieces aside as the great door began to open. ‘There we are. Come, brothers. Let us see what there is to see.’
Pressurised air jetted from unseen vents as the vault cracked wide. Amatnim waved the others forward and drew his sidearm. Gernt was the first through, and as he stepped into the vault, a heavy weapon opened up, driving him back against the frame of the portal. He returned fire, his boltgun roaring. ‘I count six hostiles, possibly more,’ he spat, as the others sought cover to either side of the opening. Impact craters opened on his battleplate and he sank down, cursing. ‘I could use some help.’
‘Patience, brother,’ Apis said. He plucked a frag grenade from his belt, but before he could throw it, Amatnim caught his wrist.
‘No. I don’t want anything damaged. Lakmhu – send in your hounds.’
Lakmhu gestured and the bloodletters surged forward through the doorway and into the vault. Screams and shouts followed. Amatnim stepped through as Apis dragged Gernt to his feet. The vault was not as massive as he’d assumed. Rather, it was a utilitarian space, crammed with scrivener-plinths, where scribe-servitors hunched, their mechanical limbs twitching across spools of parchment. More parchment lay in heaps and drifts, every inch covered with lines of script. Tables had been overturned at the rear of the vault, and he spied robed adepts crouched behind them fearfully, aiming weapons that had likely not seen use in decades. Among them were half a dozen Battle Sisters – the hostiles Gernt had noted.
One of the women hefted a heavy bolter. It was braced across one of the overturned tables, and she let it drift with a gunner’s grace. Servitors were blown to bits even as they continued at their labours. One of Apis’ warriors staggered, sparks and pressure fluid spilling from his battleplate. The other Battle Sisters immediately consolidated their fire on him. The warrior fell like a toppled tree and did not move. The bloodletters reached them, then. The woman with the heavy bolter kicked back from the table and swung it about.
A daemon rolled away, screeching. Steam rose from its red flesh. Something about the rounds had hurt it more than he’d expected. Materialised Neverborn could be banished with enough damage, but Amatnim suspected there was something else at play. Some form of blessed ammunition, perhaps.
One of the other women – the leader, he thought – turned her weapon on the closest servitor and blew its shrivelled brains out. ‘Destroy the recorders,’ she roared. ‘Grenades.’
‘Stop them,’ he said. Targeting runes settled over a scribe’s pale, frightened features and he fired, reducing the man’s head to a red mist. Apis and the others followed suit as the bloodletters rampaged among the defenders. A few grenades made it, and explosive fragments peppered Amatnim’s armour, but the majority of the servitors continued their work, uncomprehending and unaware of the battle going on around them.
It was over in moments, though it seemed to take much longer. The Battle Sisters died standing, daemon-blades cutting them down, even as bolter-fire chewed their frames. The scribes were next, and the bloodletters howled as they collected skulls with savage abandon.
Soon, only the woman he’d identified as the leader remained. She took cover behind the servitor plinths, using them to make her way towards one of the alcoves that studded the far wall. Whatever she was going for, Amatnim knew he couldn’t allow her to reach it.
He paced swiftly after her. Right on her heels, he reached for her. But at the sound of a sharp ‘click’, he jerked back. The woman spun, her fist aflame. He avoided the blow, but she continued to move. Her knee caught him in the side, and he stumbled, off balance. The burning fist cracked across the side of his helm, and the heat caused his display to flicker. He drew his axe-rake and swept it out, driving her back, knocking the crackling power maul from her other hand. She was fast, her power armour lending her speed, but he was faster. He landed a blow that tore a ragged hole in her armour, and the meat within.
She staggered, somehow still on her feet, backing towards the alcoves. Blood stained her mouth and chin as she bared her teeth. He circled her, getting between the wall and her. She lurched forward, burning fist raised. He caught the blow, felt the heat envelop his hand and forearm. He chopped his blade into her side and pulled, wrenching her augmetic arm from the shoulder housing in a flurry of sparks. She screamed then, a gasping, gurgling cry, and he sent her tumbling away with a twitch of his blade.
He studied the burning hand for a moment, and then tossed the artificial limb over his shoulder. ‘You fought well. But the end was never in doubt.’
She fumbled at the ground, trying to rise. A quick diagnostic scan showed major internal injuries, broken bones and ongoing blood loss. She would be dead in moments. Daemons crept close, splintered fangs bared in eagerness. Red, raw things, their muscles moved like pistons beneath crimson flesh. They scraped their brass blades across the
walls and floor as they circled her, tasting her blood on the air.
One, unable to contain itself, darted forward. Amatnim caught it by the horn as it lunged past him, and gave it a sharp jerk, snapping whatever passed for its neck. The body dissolved like molten metal. The other Neverborn drew back, snarling in frustration.
‘There was no need for that,’ Lakmhu said disapprovingly.
‘Keep them under control and I won’t have to do it again.’
‘Let them have her. What does it matter?’
‘Keep them back until I say otherwise. I wish to speak to her.’ Amatnim dropped to his haunches beside the woman. ‘They will have you before you die, if I let them. Indeed, they will make the moment of your death stretch for hours, before they lose their hold on the materium. Do you understand me?’
She shook her head, coughing. Blood splattered the stones.
He tried again. ‘You are strong. I can help you. I will help you. Simply ask, and I will keep them from you. I will give you that much – if you but ask.’
He could not be certain she understood him. Pain had dulled her mind to animal simplicity. She tried to crawl away, her body barely responding. It was only when he caught sight of the bolt pistol, laying half hidden beneath a fallen servitor, that he understood. He reached out, caught the weapon with the hook of his axe-rake, and dragged it towards her. She caught it with a groan, and the gathered daemons hissed in pleasure. She slumped and rolled, painfully, slowly, until she could aim the weapon at him.
Amatnim did not move. He crouched and waited. She pulled the trigger. There was a loud ‘chunk’. The bolt pistol was empty. He smiled. ‘The gods yet have need of me, it seems. But your part in this has come to an end, I fear.’
She fell back. Breathing in short, ragged gasps. The daemons leaned close, eyeing him warily. They hungered for her soul. He removed his helm and set it aside as he hunkered over her. ‘Ask, and I will give you peace,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Just ask.’
She spat in his face. He sat back and wiped her blood from his cheek. She gave a rattling sigh, and went limp. He crouched for a moment longer, giving her soul the time it needed to depart. Then he rose, rubbing her blood between his fingers. He looked at the Neverborn. One of the creatures rose on its hooves, its angular, narrow body stretching as it thrust its skeletal features close to his own. It spoke, in a voice like stones rolling through broken glass. The words slipped from his mind the moment he heard them. But he understood regardless. The others rose as well, converging on him.
He smiled. ‘My apologies, but she was mine – my kill. There are other souls in this place. Have them, if you would.’ His smile faded. ‘But this one was mine.’
He held the daemon’s gaze for long moments. It gave a contemptuous snort and turned away, dragging its blade along the ground. The others followed it as it loped away, out of the vault, seeking new prey.
‘You take chances, my lord,’ Apis said from behind him.
‘The gods love a gambler.’ Amatnim looked down at the dead woman. ‘She was strong. Mad, but strong. It is a shame that they are blind to the glories of the Primordial Truth. A hundred of them would be the equal of a thousand cultists.’
‘They say some have come to know the truth. Only a few, though.’ Apis drew a combat knife from his belt. ‘I will add her skull to the pyramid.’
Amatnim gestured. ‘No. Leave it where it is. We have plenty for the pyramids. If Khorne wishes this one in particular, he may collect it himself.’ He turned and looked at the alcoves. ‘What was she after?’
Lakmhu gestured with his crozius. ‘Likely the controls to those flamer-jets set into the ceiling. I think she meant to incinerate this vault and everything in it.’ He joined Amatnim and looked down at the body. ‘You should have let the Neverborn have her.’ He glanced around. ‘This – this is why you blazed a path through this system? Parchment. The tattered philosophies of a dying regime?’
Amatnim picked up a length of parchment. ‘Look at it.’
‘Why would I sully my eyes with such filth?’
‘Is that any way to talk about the writings of the Urizen, brother?’ Amatnim allowed himself a small surge of pleasure at the look on Lakmhu’s face. The Dark Apostle snatched the parchment from him and scanned it.
‘No. No, this isn’t– Why is this here?’ He dropped the parchment and picked up another handful. And another. Becoming more frantic with each. ‘What are they doing with his words?’
‘Transcribing them.’ There were books scattered about. The work of the mortal adepts, Amatnim thought. He leaned close to a servitor, studying the primitive vox-relay attached to its spine and skull. The automata had been converted into living receivers. Information filled their heads, and they scratched it down. He’d seen it before on other worlds, but this time, the relays were short range. Whoever was on the other end was close. So close. He smiled.
At last. After all these centuries… Amatnim had found him.
‘They are defacing them. They are twisting his words…’ Lakmhu spun, teeth bared. His crozius snapped out and a servitor’s head burst. ‘Defilers. Apostates!’
‘Servitors,’ Amatnim corrected. ‘They lack the capacity to understand the enormity of their crime, brother. Indeed, I doubt these even know that we’re here.’ He lifted a tangle of parchment. ‘To answer your question, yes. This is why we are here. What would you say if I told you that this is not the first chamber of this sort that I have discovered?’
Lakmhu stared at him. ‘How many?’
‘More than you’d expect, less than you might hope.’
‘They… they feast on us. On our writings, our wisdom. Like carrion birds.’ Lakmhu sounded horrified. ‘How has this happened?’
‘What do you notice about these?’ He held up the parchment, and the Colchisian glyphs that had been scratched across them. ‘Look closely. Look here – at the placement. The shape of the glyphs, the writing is from top to bottom, rather than across.’
Lakmhu frowned. ‘They were written by a Colchisian.’
‘Yes. And recently.’ Amatnim’s smile faded. ‘For more than a hundred years, I have followed his trail, this lost brother, from world to world, system to system, always a decade or more behind. But now… now, at last, I’ve caught up with him.’
‘A traitor?’ Lakmhu said, his disbelief evident.
‘A prisoner.’
Lakmhu snarled again, and the energy field of his crozius flared as he tightened his grip on the haft. ‘They dared take a Bearer of the Word captive?’
‘They worship the corpse of a god, brother. There is little such creatures will not dare.’ Amatnim looked around the chamber. ‘This is the object of my quest, brother. Kor Phaeron himself set me this task. To find the Lost One and bring him home.’ He smiled. ‘And Erebus set you to stop me.’
Lakmhu paused. Amatnim leaned close. ‘Now you are starting to see. You ask yourself why. What reason could the Hand of Destiny have to fear the return of this lost brother? And how was he lost in the first place? How did he come to be in the hands of our foes for so many centuries?’
Lakmhu stepped back. ‘I don’t know what you are implying, brother, but choose your words carefully. Erebus would not do this. He would not have a part in this madness.’
‘Then why set you to dog my heels? To hinder or perhaps even kill me?’ Amatnim raised his hands in a calming gesture. ‘These are the questions any brother of our Legion might ask, Lakmhu. And a Dark Apostle especially. You know the machinations of the Dark Council, the strife between hosts, the bitter rivalries between brothers. Dissension, decadence and despair – it has been the story of us since Nuceria, when your master slew our brightest soul. And for what?’
‘To ensure victory,’ Lakmhu growled.
‘And yet we lost.’
‘Not all victories come on the battlefield, brother.’ Lakmhu thumped hi
s chest with a closed fist. ‘We served the will of the gods, as we do now.’
‘Yes. As I do.’ Amatnim bowed his head. ‘The gods have given me this quest, and I will complete it. My only question is will you help me, or will you allow your loyalty to Erebus blind you to the truth?’ He extended his hand – a gesture of brotherhood, even on Colchis. Some things were universal.
Lakmhu shook his head. ‘I…’ He turned, looking at the chamber and its contents. ‘You are mad. This is mad. All of this…’
Amatnim noticed Apis surreptitiously raising his boltgun. He twitched a hand, and the other Word Bearer subsided. He needed Lakmhu, for the moment at least. The Dark Apostle’s death would bring questions – and questions would bring challenge. There was no telling how many spies Erebus had inserted into the host. Lakmhu was simply the most obvious, the one meant to attract the most attention.
Erebus was cunning – one of the few grudging compliments Kor Phaeron had ever paid him, in Amatnim’s hearing. Amatnim still wasn’t sure why Erebus wanted to prevent him from succeeding in his mission, but he was certain that the self-proclaimed Hand of Destiny would stop at nothing to do so.
But if he could turn Lakmhu, reveal the truth to him…
‘Victory hangs by a thread, brother. Will you help me?’
Lakmhu looked up. Before he could answer, however, an alert-chime sounded over the vox. Amatnim cursed. ‘What is it?’
The reply was garbled and static-ridden. ‘…leet inbound…enemy vessels…’
Amatnim turned to Apis. ‘Get upstairs. Burn everything. I will see to this place.’
‘We’re easy targets, scattered on the ground,’ Lakmhu said. ‘They won’t hesitate to pound this world flat, to kill us.’
‘I am aware. That is why I chose to use gunships.’
Lakmhu grunted. ‘Perhaps I should not have questioned you, then.’
‘Was that an apology, brother?’
‘It was as close as you’re going to get. What do we do with this place?’
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 18
