The Dreadnought turned, ancient servos whirring. ‘Then, an epiphany. A crash of understanding, amid the tumult of war. I saw the futility of it all. Ouroboros, the serpent that devours its own tail. They broke us, and we sought to break them. But we had become stronger for the breaking, and so too might they. And then what? More wars? More vengeance, meted out across the tapestry of the galaxy?’
There was a sound. Calder wondered if the ancient warrior was laughing – or weeping. The Anchorite stretched out a claw and touched the words etched into the metal of his cell. There was something almost wistful in the gesture. ‘I saw then that the cycle could end only one way. So I stopped. I set aside my blade, and bent my knee. I waited for my cousins – for Guilliman’s sons – to kill me, there in the dark. And they might have. But fate had other plans in store.’
‘They spared you,’ Calder said in disbelief. None of this made any sense. It was madness, and yet the evidence was before him.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ The Anchorite made a sound that Calder was now certain was laughter. ‘I was put in chains, and interred in an oubliette. Left to rot for the rest of that war. When my brothers broke themselves on the walls of Terra, I sat in the dark, and prayed for their souls. Things answered me, seeking to sway me from my penance, but I am no stranger to such spirits. The deserts of Colchis were thick with them, like fleas on a cur’s back. I banished them from me and continued my prayers.’
A sudden thought occurred to Calder. ‘This time we speak of… you were not interred in a Dreadnought then.’
‘No. That came later.’
Calder glanced at Eamon. The cardinal-governor cleared his throat. ‘The Anchorite attempted to take his own life. Not the first time, but the most successful, necessitating the procurement of an amniotic sarcophagus.’
Calder had trouble fathoming such a thing. He turned to look at the hulking Dreadnought. The ancient warrior seemed to slump, as if in shame. ‘Why?’
‘I am weak.’ The Dreadnought turned. ‘We were all weak. Weak of soul, weak of body and will. We allowed all that we had built to fall to ruin, for the lies of a few.’
‘Absolution lies only in death,’ Calder recited.
‘Indeed, cousin. But my absolution is denied me. Century upon century I persist. I share my wisdom with the those of the true faith. The faith my brothers – my gene-father – turned from.’
Calder paused, wondering if he’d heard correctly. ‘You share your wisdom?’
‘I was quite the scribe, in my youth. I wrote down the pronouncements of the holy, and committed every prayer to memory. I read one of the first copies of the Lectitio Divinitatus, that most sacred of texts. See – here, the great passages inscribed upon these walls. Is it not beautiful?’
Calder felt a chill race through him, though he could not say why. He turned, truly seeing the markings for the first time. He looked at Eamon, seeking some answer to a question he could not voice.
‘The Anchorite has been one of the voices guiding the Ecclesiarchy from the beginning,’ the cardinal-governor said softly. ‘So much of what we are is thanks to him, though we have diverged somewhat in recent centuries.’ Eamon’s smile was a brittle thing. Calder wondered what it must have been like for a mortal to learn that the origins of his faith lay in the ramblings of a mad legionary, confined to a war machine.
‘All rivers must find their own way,’ the Anchorite said. ‘Such is the nature of faith.’
‘How?’ Calder asked. ‘How… how did any of this happen?’
‘Mercy,’ the Anchorite said. ‘The future is always born in mercy. It’s giving, or the lack of it. Guilliman spared me. I do not know why. Maybe he saw what I saw. That the way forward could not be built on a foundation of treachery and vengeance. Or maybe…’ He trailed off, servos grinding as he turned away from Calder. ‘I do not know. I know only that I persist, and in persisting, am driven to speak. To share what I learned that day.’
The Anchorite fell silent. Calder felt a peculiar flash of pity for the ancient warrior. ‘He did not speak of you,’ he said.
‘What?’ The Anchorite’s head turned, gears protesting.
‘Guilliman. He did not speak of you when I was assigned this task. Why?’
‘How should I know? Perhaps he has forgotten me.’ A dull rumble of mechanical laughter followed. ‘That would be fitting, I think. A fair reward, for one such as I.’
‘He has not forgotten you,’ Eamon said softly. Calder looked at him. Eamon cleared his throat. ‘After our initial request for aid was ignored, I used a certain code sequence, devised by the primarch when the Anchorite was first given into my ancestor’s keeping.’ Eamon traced his fingers across one of the litanies scratched into the wall. ‘He knew, even then, that the Archenemy would come for their prodigal brother. Perhaps not for millennia, but eventually.’ He looked at Calder, his eyes wet with unshed tears. ‘And now, they have.’ He swallowed. ‘I knew. I knew, the moment we were cut off, the moment contact with the other systems was lost, that the day had come around at last. So I sent a message, hoping that it would find him. Find you.’
Eamon’s voice was thick with emotion. There was fear there, and grief. But also hope. Calder understood. He looked at the Anchorite. ‘We lack the manpower and resources to resist a conventional siege for long.’
‘It will be anything but a conventional siege, I suspect.’ The Anchorite shifted his weight, and the cell shook. ‘My brothers and I espoused a different philosophy of war to most. We believed the quickest blow was best. Dig for the vitals immediately.’ He gestured with a claw for emphasis. ‘If they are here for me, they will attack the cathedral-palace. That will be their focus, to the exclusion of all else.’
‘So I have surmised.’ Calder turned to Eamon. ‘We will need to isolate the cathedral-palace. I had hoped to use it as a supply route between fronts. But if their end goal is to acquire your–’
‘Guest,’ Eamon interjected.
‘Prisoner,’ Calder went on. ‘Then we must prevent that at all costs. We will need to split the city – destroy transit routes, seal access paths and barricade every gate and tunnel. Parts of the city must be sacrificed to save the whole.’ His mind was already conducting the necessary calculations. His earlier strategies were nothing but ash, now. New ones would be required. In a way, it was a relief. It was a simpler thing to defend one area than an entire city. Necessary resources could be freed up and put to better use elsewhere and new defensive measures implemented. But there was no time to complete them all before the enemy arrived. Some would have to be done under fire.
He spared only a brief thought for those he’d impressed into service to defend Low Town. Their sacrifice was more necessary now than ever. The blood they would shed would buy him the time he needed to make the cathedral-palace inviolate.
His own blood too, come to that. And that of his warriors, and Karros and Suboden. And Eamon as well. All their lives were mortar for his walls.
In the end, that was a price he was more than willing to pay for victory.
Chapter Seventeen
83:00:30
Odoacer System, coreward edge
Amatnim slumped in his command throne, watching the end of his quest approach. Almace was a vibrant orb even at a distance. It was ringed by a wide halo of stellar debris – asteroids and dust, turning with infinitesimal slowness, like a great wheel. Beyond it, an array of orbital defences and dockyards crowned the world.
‘Beautiful, is it not?’ he said to Apis. The other Word Bearer stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, the very image of the soldier at rest.
‘It looks like a target to me.’
‘But a beautiful one.’
Amatnim studied the hololithic data-feeds from the long-range augurs. The orbital defences were archaic but well maintained, unlike those they’d encountered above Pergamon. The fleet would take heavy losses just
getting into position, and there were few of them left as it was. But it would be worth it, in the end. And besides, the gods only promised glory – not that you would live to claim it.
He’d given orders for the rest of the fleet to take up an approach formation to navigate the debris field. The sooner they were through, the better. The Glory Eternal anchored the centre, with the remaining cruisers to either side. Frigates and pirate vessels ranged ahead and on the flanks. Assault craft arrowed in front, hunting the foe.
Apis coughed discreetly, alerting him to the presence of a newcomer. Amatnim didn’t turn. ‘What do you want, Lakmhu?’
‘Kelim has not reported in,’ Lakmhu said from behind his throne.
‘Don’t you have an assault to be preparing for, brother?’
‘Others can oversee the chattel. I wished to speak to you – before the end.’
Amatnim glanced up at the Dark Apostle. Lakmhu wasn’t looking at him, but at the viewscreen. Yatl stood behind him, alongside Lakmhu’s remaining blade slave. The creature glared at Amatnim and shifted its weight, as if in anticipation of an attack. Yatl’s gaze was unreadable, though he had his helm clasped under his arm. Amatnim smiled and turned away. ‘Speak, then, O worthy emissary of the gods. Unburden your soul, I beg you.’
Lakmhu grunted. ‘Kelim has not reported in.’
‘So you said.’
‘Are you not concerned?’
‘Not particularly. We are not pursued. If he failed, then at least he might have taken them with him. And if he succeeded, he will join us soon enough.’ Amatnim smiled. ‘And are you concerned, then? Or was this merely a pretext to chastise me?’
Lakmhu did not turn his gaze from the viewscreen. Amatnim realised that he was studying the debris field. ‘Our forces are depleted. Can we truly take this world?’
‘Perhaps. I am not planning on it, however.’ Amatnim gestured to the distant planet. ‘No. I want only one thing from this world. And once I have it, we can burn Almace to glass for all I care. Or leave it to the children of the gods, if that is your preference.’
Lakmhu laughed softly. ‘Not mine, but the gods might well appreciate it.’ He looked at Amatnim. ‘Once this is done, there will be a settling of accounts between us, brother. I will have recompense for what I have endured.’
‘And what have you endured, brother, that was not of your own making?’
Lakmhu frowned. ‘Am I to blame, then, for your attempts at provocation?’
Amatnim made a show of considering this. Then shook his head sadly. ‘The Urizen had a saying about provocation, did he not? Remind me of it.’
Lakmhu’s frown deepened. ‘Provocation is the soil in which knowledge flourishes.’
‘And there we are – wisdom at last.’ Amatnim pushed himself to his feet. Lakmhu’s blade slave grunted and grasped the hilt of its weapon more tightly. ‘This game between us is one of provocation. We push against one another, testing and challenging each other. The truth is a garden of forking paths. We have each chosen a path and are determined to lead the other down it. Now, I know that my path is the correct one – but so too do you. But the garden is the same, whatever the chosen path.’
Lakmhu laughed. ‘Fine. You wish to speak of truth – do you truly believe that what you seek will undo Erebus? And if so, that the result will mean a stronger Legion?’ He grinned mirthlessly. ‘Or will it be our end? That is my fear, brother. That your path leads to the doom of us all, and you are too blind to see it.’
Amatnim frowned. ‘I think you underestimate us.’
‘And I think Kor Phaeron has fed you a steady diet of half-truths and spite. Throughout this whole affair, you have insisted on your path – on your truth, to the exclusion of all others. You play the philosopher, but you are nothing of the sort. You want me to walk your path, but you will not even consider mine.’
‘And why should I? I know Erebus well enough to know that he is not worthy to be my master. Nor is he worthy of being yours.’
Lakmhu shook his head. ‘That is not for such as you – or I – to say. The gods choose us. We do not choose them.’
‘There, at least, we agree.’ Amatnim crossed his arms. ‘You are right. When this is done, all accounts will be settled. Not just between us, but for the Legion as a whole. All secrets will be brought to light, all truths revealed. An apocalypse, in the ancient sense of the word. Then you will know the truth, as I know it.’
‘Or you will know my truth,’ Lakmhu said pugnaciously.
‘We shall see. For now, brother, you have your orders. See to them.’
Lakmhu’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘Gloria Aeterna, brother.’
‘Gloria Aeterna, Lakmhu.’
Lakmhu gestured to his blade slave and turned to depart. Amatnim let him get halfway to the steps and then said, ‘Yatl – stay.’
Yatl hesitated, but Lakmhu nodded and the warrior relaxed. As the Dark Apostle departed, Yatl turned to meet Amatnim’s gaze.
‘You owe me a debt,’ Amatnim said. ‘You recall this?’
‘I– yes.’ Yatl bowed his head. ‘What would you have of me, my lord?’ The way he asked the question said he already knew. Amatnim had little sympathy for him. Yatl was ambitious and foolish in equal measure. Such men soon fell afoul of the wicked and the wise alike.
‘I think you know.’
Yatl paused. ‘Lakmhu is loyal, my lord.’
‘I suggest learning how to dissemble if you wish to have a future as a provocateur, brother. He is not loyal. He is a blade at my back, and I grow tired of waiting for him to strike. So I will do it first. Kill him. Kill him and be exalted in my sight. Will you do this?’
Amatnim knew what Yatl’s answer would be, even before he’d asked the question. Yatl would make the attempt, because he knew Amatnim would compensate him fairly. And because he feared the consequences if he said no.
‘I live but to serve the chosen of the gods, my lord,’ Yatl said, head bowed.
Amatnim laughed. ‘A very careful choice of words. The Urizen would approve.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Go. I leave the details to you.’
‘You were blunt with him,’ Apis said. ‘Was that wise? He might just tell Lakmhu…’
‘I have no doubt he will. And even if he doesn’t, Lakmhu will suspect him regardless. He might even attempt to kill him. Poor Yatl will be forced to defend himself.’
Apis frowned. ‘You don’t care if he succeeds, do you?’
‘No. I simply want Lakmhu preoccupied until we have succeeded in our quest.’
‘Why not simply kill him?’
Amatnim sat down in his throne. He considered his words, before replying. ‘Because I am not yet sure which of us is on the right path through the garden.’ He looked at Almace. ‘But once we have our prize in hand, I will be. And then I will know which of us is right and which of us is wrong. I will know which of us serves the right master. I will know which of us is the Urizen’s truest servant…’
He leaned back, eyes closed.
‘I will know which of us the gods have truly blessed.’
The deployment bay was in tumult as Apis descended the gantry stairs. It was a pleasant sort of confusion, however. He’d always found it comforting. The sound of ammunition hoppers being loaded, of assault vehicles being readied, the crash of steel and the cursing of warriors – no, soldiers.
Apis did not think of himself as a warrior. He was a soldier through and through. Discipline was his dogma, and he held to it with all the fervour he could muster. Warriors looked at battle as a lover. Apis knew that it was a task to be accomplished.
He watched as something that had once been a Predator battle tank scuttled across the deck on jointed legs of meat and iron. Past it, he spied Lakmhu and his closest followers making for a gunship. Idly, his hand settled on his sidearm.
An easy shot, even from here. One pull of the trig
ger, and the threat was ended. But he restrained himself. Not out of fear, or worry – but respect. Amatnim wanted Lakmhu alive. It was a mistake, but it was Amatnim’s to make. Apis just hoped he wouldn’t be among those who paid for it.
He knew that both Amatnim and the Dark Apostle thought him a fool. They thought him a pawn, and unambitious. Apis was both, and content to be so. But that did not make him an idiot. Things were coming to a head between them. Lakmhu would be forced to retaliate, even if Yatl failed – or refused Amatnim’s command. Amatnim was counting on it. But Apis intended to see that any such retaliation was unsuccessful. Indeed, he intended to make sure that Lakmhu never even got the chance to retaliate.
Too, he wanted to check on his own followers – to make sure that they were ready for the battle to come. He continued his descent, noting the immense queues of mortal warriors waiting to file into the bellies of dropships and troop landers. Behind them waited red-daubed battle tanks and assault vehicles.
Some of those in the queues were cultists. Others had been soldiers of the Astra Militarum or planetary defence forces. All now served the Primordial Truth. Apis watched as a Leman Russ, studded with censers and skulls, trundled up a loading ramp, its crew singing an off-key hymn.
‘A sight to stir the ichor, is it not, captain?’
Apis turned as a familiar voice cut through the noise. He recognised two of his men – Saper and Gernt – sitting on overturned ammunition drums nearby.
Saper, as always, was sharpening a combat blade – one of half a dozen he kept on him at all times. Most were standard issue, others were of xenos manufacture – including one he’d taken off of a rak’gol clutchmaster – and at least one that was daemon-tainted. Saper never drew that one. Instead, he left it to murmur incessantly in its wolfskin sheath.
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