Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘This isn’t necessary,’ Eamon said.

  ‘Our life for yours,’ the one standing behind him said. Eamon turned.

  ‘Be that as it may, I’m perfectly safe down here. I am the only one with access.’ The Crusaders stared at him in silence. Eamon sighed and turned back to the corridor. ‘Never mind. Come. He’ll be waiting.’

  The Crusaders fell into step with him, one to either side. He ignored them, as he always did. It had been harder, when he was younger. He hadn’t been so used to shadows then. Now it was second nature, like so many things.

  The corridor was barren by the standards of the cathedral-palace. It still resembled the colony ship that the structure had once been, with bare grating and hull-plate walls. Access hatches and air shafts ran above and alongside it, hidden from view. He knew that legions of servitors, most several centuries old, worked unseen in those places, labouring to keep the heart of the citadel beating. Tangles of cabling and conduit-sheathing hung from the ceiling, in places. There were no statues here, no pillars or murals. Only bare metal and ferrocrete. No cyber-cherubs, either, which was something of a relief.

  No spies had ever come this deep into the city’s heart. Not even his own. No one could be allowed to know the secret of this place. It was his burden alone, and had belonged to his family since time out of mind. It was passed down from parent to child, back to the first of his line. Back to Terra itself.

  In time, he would have to take a wife, or nominate an heir. Some child, plucked from the Low Town slums and trained in the schola progenium to shoulder the burdens of rulership. More than one of his ancestors had started out that way. The thought of doing the same to some unknowing innocent made him slightly ill. But needs must, when necessity drives. Perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. Perhaps it would all end here.

  The enemy his family had feared for so long were on their threshold at last. They would be here all too soon, and Almace would suffer as it had never suffered. The sick feeling in his stomach grew worse. ‘Would that it had never come to this,’ he murmured. One of the Crusaders glanced at him. He didn’t know their names, though he’d asked often enough. He couldn’t even be sure that they were the same ones every time. Only Tyre knew, and he refused – politely – to tell Eamon anything. Another tradition.

  Sometimes, he thought he was caught fast in a cage made of tradition. Wherever he turned, a new one seemed to rear its head. He took comfort in knowing that all of them had purpose, whether he understood it or not. Some things had to be taken on faith.

  The corridor ended at a bulkhead. It could only be accessed by a biometric scanner. There were shallow alcoves to either side of the bulkhead, and as he and his bodyguards drew close, a pair of angels lurched from them. The angels were clad in filthy robes and golden, beatific death masks. They had no wings; instead, each possessed a profusion of jointed, artificial arms, all of which were tipped with a variety of weapons.

  Eamon stopped. The two combat-servitors were, like many such automata, things of sublime craftsmanship. They had not been mass-produced, but instead assembled by the hands of trusted Mechanicus adepts. Each was as individual as a snowflake, and as deadly as a squad of infantry.

  The angels undulated towards them, moving with that peculiar boneless grace that some servitors possessed. Beneath their robes, unseen limbs flicked and twitched, propelling them with inhuman swiftness. They uttered mechanical hisses as they drew near, the vox-emitters built into their masks warming up. Then, one spoke. ‘Identify.’

  Eamon pulled back his sleeve, exposing a scarred forearm, and drew a thin blade from within his robes. Quickly, he drew a bloody line down the inside of his arm. Then, he extended it to the angels. The servitors crept close, like wary hounds. Thin filaments – biometric sensors – extended from ports on their masks and brushed against the wound. One of the angels looked up, the blind eyes of its death mask fixed on Eamon’s face. ‘Access granted.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. The guardians retreated to their alcoves. Eamon glanced at his bodyguards. ‘I go alone from here.’ They didn’t protest. They never did.

  He went to the bulkhead and placed his hand against the biometric augur built into the frame. Hundreds of hidden sensors flickered to life, scanning him for weapons and God-Emperor alone knew what else. It took only a few moments. The augur chimed, and the locking seals of the viewing port set into the bulkhead released with a slow sigh of stale air. Eamon leaned close and peered into the darkness beyond the bulkhead. The inhabitant of the chamber had no need of artificial light. ‘I am here.’

  ‘What news?’ The words shuddered through Eamon, deep and awful. The voice of the being he knew only as the Anchorite. The secret hidden at the heart of Almace.

  ‘They are coming. They will be at our walls soon.’

  ‘And the others?’

  Eamon shrugged. ‘He is an Imperial Fist.’

  A low rumble of monstrous laughter shook the air.

  Eamon stepped back, unable to repress a thrill of fear at the sound. He had known the prisoner since childhood, but it never became any easier to be in his presence. ‘He knows that I am hiding something.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘We have kept this secret for centuries. I cannot be the one who fails to protect it.’

  The Anchorite was silent for several moments. Then, another laugh. Softer, this time. ‘Have you ever considered that it is not up to you to decide such matters?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I am saying that we are but tools in His hands. And a tool does not question its use.’

  ‘And what if he should discover the truth?’

  ‘That you are here, implies that he already suspects.’ The Anchorite fell silent. ‘You were followed.’

  ‘What? Impossible.’

  ‘I have grown sensitive in my confinement. I can hear the beating of two hearts.’

  ‘My bodyguards…’

  ‘No. I know the sound of their hearts. This is new. Someone followed you.’

  Eamon felt suddenly weak. ‘No. No. Not like this. What should I do?’

  ‘What you have always done, young Eamon…’ The Anchorite’s words reached out to him, as it had done throughout his life, and the lives of his forebears. There was comfort in them. Purity and certainty.

  ‘Have faith.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  79:06:20

  Odoacer System, coreward edge

  ‘We have found them, my lord.’

  Kelim looked down at his aide. The tall, gaunt mortal was clad in rich, oxblood robes and ceremonial carapace armour. Colchisian runes marked his cheeks and brow, and lined his fingers. Prayer scrolls hung from his armour and rustled softly in the recycled air of the command deck. He stank of incense and rot, despite his tidy appearance.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I would swear it on my life, great one,’ the creature simpered, with obsequious humility. Timp – that was his name. Timp. A foolish name for a foolish creature. A magister, he called himself. The leader of a minor cult, grown large enough to be of some use.

  ‘That is good, Magister Timp. Because it is your life I will claim in recompense if you have played me false.’

  The mortal blanched and began to babble assurances. Kelim waved them aside. He reclined in his command throne, listening to the ship’s eager snarl. There was a daemon-spirit in the cruiser’s engines, and veins of ichor ran through its pitted hull. In a few centuries, Lorgar’s Word would no longer be a ship, but something else. Something glorious. He hoped to still be its commander on its day of apotheosis, if only to see its final shape.

  He stroked the armrest of his throne, as if it were the ruff of a hound’s neck. ‘Easy, girl,’ he murmured. The ship responded with a sound like a funerary bell. It smelled blood on the cosmic wind. The enemy was on the run, seeking safety.

  Kelim
had harried the White Scars for days, ripping at their flanks, giving them no time to make repairs or rest their engines. He knew the Khan’s whelps of old, and knew that to give them a moment’s peace was as good as handing them victory. But even so, he was wary. Though their fleet was depleted, there was still the battle-barge to consider. No easy prospect, that – though a part of him was eager to test his skills against prey of such quality.

  Luckily, he had plenty of chaff to throw at it. He brought up a sensor map of the area, noting the positions of his fleet. The cruisers Ucephalot, Skullhound and Dagmar’s Penitence followed Lorgar’s Word in a rough wedge. Their auxiliaries ranged ahead and around them, screening the larger vessels from attack.

  He knew the commanders of the three cruisers by reputation. The Ucephalot was commanded by Kespu Dimmak, a singer of dark hymns and a cunning agitator. One of Amatnim’s favourites. Dagmar’s Penitence was under the yoke of the Thessalonian – a hooded enigma whose origins were unspoken. Some whispered that he was a Neverborn, playing at war. Those same whispers said he owed his physical form to Lakmhu. Whatever the truth of it, he was almost certainly one of the Dark Apostle’s hounds.

  And then there was Gorham. A vox-rune blinked. ‘Speak of the daemon and he shall appear,’ Kelim murmured as he tapped it.

  ‘They’re making for Almace, Kelim,’ Gorham said without preamble. The commander of the Skullhound was a fleshless nightmare. He’d flensed his own head at some point, leaving only raw muscle over the bone. It gleamed wetly, even through the remove of the hololith. Brass sigils had been affixed to his cheeks and brow, hooked into the red meat.

  ‘As I expected, brother. We’ve cut their little fleet in half. They no longer have the numbers to operate in isolation.’

  ‘Blood God’s luck, that, eh?’ Gorham chortled, and Kelim resisted the urge to frown. Gorham was a fool, but he was right. It had been luck that had seen their quarry slip his trap. And only luck had prevented him from losing more ships than he had when the Raven Guard had decided to overload their reactors and ram themselves into the cruiser Gallowstongue. While not so battered as their prey, his ships had taken enough of a beating to warrant returning to Pergamon when they had run the White Scars to ground.

  It irked him not to be in at the kill – but the thought of having his newly acquired ship blown out from under him irked him even more. Besides which, he thought it best to be visibly elsewhere when Amatnim and Lakmhu finally decided to settle the matter between them. He was not certain yet which side suited his ambitions best. Amatnim was a generous lord, but blithely pragmatic. Lakmhu demanded more loyalty, but had the ear of Erebus – or so he claimed. The wisest course seemed to be to wait until a victor emerged, and then immediately and publicly purge those whose loyalties were to the defeated party.

  ‘I demand right of first blood, brother,’ Gorham growled. ‘One of them is trailing behind. I want it.’ Pulled from his reverie, Kelim gave a negligent gesture.

  ‘By all means, brother. Break yourself on their guns if you like. I’m sure the Blood God will approve of your sacrifice.’

  ‘Are you trying to dissuade me or encourage me, Kelim?’

  ‘Whichever pleases you most, brother.’

  Gorham laughed. ‘That is why I like you, Kelim. You’re vermin, but honest.’

  Kelim tamped down on a spurt of anger. Regardless of how things went, he might have to deal with Gorham. ‘High praise,’ he murmured. ‘They should be coming into visual range any time now. Do as you will, but be swift. I can’t have you compromising my strategy any more than you already have.’

  ‘Is that what you call it, brother? A few daemonhosts chained up in boarding torpedoes is hardly a plan.’

  ‘Because you’re only seeing the surface elements, Gorham. And that is why I am in command, and you are asking my permission to get yourself killed.’

  He cut the link before Gorham could reply and sat back. ‘Sometimes, I despair at the state of the Legion.’ He looked at Timp, hovering near his shoulder. ‘Are they ready, Timp?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, and eager to die in your name,’ Timp said with a wide smile. ‘They are the gate, and your hand is upon the key.’

  ‘Then consider the gate thrown wide. As soon as we’re within range to do so, fire at will.’

  Timp nodded and turned. He barked an order, and it was relayed across the bridge. Kelim listened as his crew hustled about their duties. If he strained, he could hear the murmur of the Neverborn, waiting just beyond the veil. They were eager and impatient.

  There were thirteen boarding torpedoes in the bays, awaiting launch. Each one had been daubed in protective sigils and sacred unguents to carry it safely to its target. Aboard each were volunteers from among the mortal crew – those who’d allowed themselves to become doorways to the Primordial Truth. Like the torpedoes, they too had been specially prepared, their flesh cut with holy pictograms and their bellies full of the nectar of the gods. Unarmoured and unprotected, their fragile bodies would shatter upon impact. But what would arise from them would be beautiful indeed.

  The Neverborn would swarm the ships of the foe, overcoming them and claiming the vessels in the name of the Word Bearers. Triumph and triumphal sacrifice, all in one. The gods would see him and bless him at last. And Amatnim – or Lakmhu – would surely be pleased with the addition of several new ships to the fleet.

  Kelim smiled as proximity klaxons sounded. The enemy had been sighted.

  Victory was at hand.

  Suboden Khan leaned forward on his throne. ‘Estimated numbers?’ The command deck of the Silent Horseman was quiet. Subdued. The banners and totems that hung far above him stirred in the recirculated air, but the sound of their rustling was swallowed up in the drone of servitors.

  Kanim shook his head. ‘Too many.’

  ‘That is not an estimate.’

  ‘But it is a fact.’

  Suboden accepted this and sat back. Tactical projections swarmed his throne – each one a decision yet to be made. Should they run – or fight? ‘Four cruisers, including a ship of the line – dozens of smaller craft,’ he murmured. ‘And us with three, and no escorts to speak of. Not to mention we’re limping at half-speed so the Crassus can keep up.’

  ‘We could abandon her,’ Kanim said. Suboden glared up at him.

  ‘We’ve shed blood with them, shaman. You know better than to suggest that.’

  ‘Due diligence, my khan. Someone must.’

  Suboden grunted and tugged on his moustaches. He’d considered it himself. Kanim knew that. That was why the shaman had said it. The Crassus was venting plasma and its hull had been breached in numerous places. It was staggering in their wake like a stallion that was too stubborn to die. But death caught you in the end, however stubborn or fast you were. The only question was in whether you chose your own death, or it chose you.

  ‘Ogilvy is a good woman, a proud daughter of the Imperium. She will understand.’ Kanim spoke softly. Suboden’s frown deepened.

  ‘And if she does not?’

  ‘She will. It must be done, my khan. Someone must hold them back. We must reach Almace. Our guns will be needed. The spirits say as much.’

  ‘I am not inclined to care. They have been singularly unhelpful thus far.’

  Kanim smiled and nodded. ‘They said you would say that.’

  Suboden shook his head. ‘Crassus, report,’ he said, signalling a crewman to activate the command channel. Static was his only reply. Communications had become more difficult the longer they were out here. Something in the ether, or so Kanim claimed. The shaman believed that the void-spirits were growing restless as the enemy polluted the stars with their presence. Suboden thought that was as good an explanation as any.

  Whatever the reason, it was getting harder to stay in contact over long distances. If all the vessels in his impromptu fleet had been of the Adeptus Astartes, it would not have
worried him. If, if, if. He shook his head. Might as well hope the Warhawk would return and aid them, as wish for that. He grunted and tried to contact Orlanda’s Wrath.

  Suboden shifted impatiently in his command throne. Kanim glanced down at him, features pensive. Suboden frowned. ‘What are the spirits saying, shaman? What do they say to you?’

  ‘Fire and death,’ Kanim said flatly. ‘Always fire and death.’

  ‘The enemy’s,’ Suboden said.

  Kanim said nothing. ‘Contact established, my khan,’ a crewman said. ‘Vox only.’

  Suboden turned. ‘So long as I can speak to them. Keel – do you have a visual on the Crassus?’ Keel had proven himself an adept battle-captain, if slow in taking the initiative. And if he survived, a satisfactory fleet might be rebuilt around him.

  The vox made a sound like a strangled felid. ‘–ay again, Silent –orsema–’ Keel’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, as if he were at the other end of a great tunnel. On the projection before his throne, Suboden could see the ident-rune signifying the Exorcist grand cruiser coming about. He frowned.

  ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘He’s falling back towards the Crassus,’ Kanim said.

  ‘Now he takes the initiative. Idiot. I need his ship in one piece.’ Suboden gestured to a serf. ‘Tighten up the frequency. Try to re-establish contact. Quickly.’ He turned back to the projection. Blinking runes swarmed slowly towards the Crassus. Escorts and assault craft. The enemy had realised the cruiser was dead in the black. ‘They’re coming into firing range.’

  Kanim nodded. ‘It looks like the spirits have made the decision for us.’

  Suboden nodded. He paused, for a fraction of a second, considering the myriad consequences of his next actions. Departure preserved his vessel, and the assets within it. They would be needed on Almace. That was certain. And yet it irked him to leave warriors – even mortal ones – on the field. He glanced at Kanim and found that the shaman was smiling. ‘Oh shut up,’ Suboden muttered. Then, more loudly, ‘Bring us about. Intercept course. I want us between the Crassus and the foe.’ He thumped the armrest of his throne. ‘If they want a fight, then by all of the spirits in the mountains we’ll give them one.’