Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Why aren’t they attacking?’ Evek murmured. He scratched at his plasma-scorched armour as if it were his own flesh.

  Lakmhu sighed, and looked towards the distant ore-crawlers perched in the shadows, their plasma-cutters glowing red. ‘They do not need to. Our numbers are reduced and we are isolated.’ Figures in void-suits moved slowly among the crouching vehicles. The miners, come for their vengeance. And not just miners. Larger shapes, in black, prowled among the lesser orders. ‘They can eliminate us at their leisure – though they will suffer great casualties in the attempt. So they will wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Reinforcements,’ Lakmhu said. He turned away, listening to the whispers of the Neverborn. They were still close, unseen. They always would be. Daemons clung like barnacles to places where blood had been spilled in the name of the Dark Gods.

  Perhaps that was why the gods had allowed them to get as far as they had. He smiled. ‘Hubris,’ he murmured.

  Evek looked at him. ‘What are your orders, Dark Apostle?’

  Lakmhu waved the question aside. ‘What does that matter now, eh? We have come to the end of it, whatever this was – quest or fool’s errand, it is done.’ He pushed himself erect. ‘It is done, and I am done, and we are done. Even the king of fools himself.’

  They looked at him in bewildered silence. Surrender was an alien thing to them. Incomprehensible. For a legionary, there was always another option. Always another choice. But the gods were the arbiters of choice. And they only ever gave you the one that suited their needs.

  ‘You wish to… give up?’ Evek murmured. ‘Victory might still be within our grasp.’ It was almost a growl. Lakmhu shook his head.

  ‘We have already won. We won the moment we set foot on this arid rock. The moment our forces landed on Almace.’ Lakmhu laughed softly. ‘You see it, don’t you, Evek? Plans within plans. The gods do not show us a hundred paths – but only one. That is what Amatnim does not see. That is what his sort never sees. They think of things in terms of victory – their victory, their defeat. But our victories, our defeats, they only serve the gods.’

  He looked at his bloody hand. The red crystals cracked and fell away. ‘This system will never recover from what we have done. We have set it alight, and whether it burns forever or for a day, the damage is done. That is our victory. That is what the Neverborn have been whispering. I was too preoccupied to see it at first, but now it is clear.’

  The others were listening now. Not just Evek. Lakmhu heard the crackle of unfamiliar frequencies in his helm, but he ignored it. The enemy would soon be here, and they would play their part in the grand design the gods had laid out for them.

  ‘We are all of us seeds of a great tree. Glory nestles in our blood.’ He pointed at Evek. ‘You said it yourself – the gods want our blood. Not our triumph. Not our victory. Only our blood. Why?’ He flung out a hand, indicating Almace. ‘A bastion of corpse-worship. A cathedral world. And now, its sanctity is tainted – by us. By our sacrifice. We have come here and made an indelible mark upon this place.’

  He turned, arms spread. ‘War, brothers. A war is not won by a single great victory, but by many small ones. That is what we always miss, in our rush to glory. Amatnim – and yes, I as well – thought this was to be a great victory. But instead, it is a small one. We have wounded the great, doddering beast that is our foe, and left something of ourselves in the wound, as we have left pieces of ourselves across the galaxy.’ He looked at them. ‘Small victories, brothers. And glory eternal.’

  He looked up, past the girders and tanks, past the asteroid belt to the stars themselves. He thought, perhaps, that something looked down at them. He thought that he heard the laughter of thirsting gods. He knew, then, that they were pleased. And he knew that it was enough. He turned, as his display lit up with targeting runes.

  Drop pods the colour of death slammed down to the asteroid’s surface. Five, at least. That, then, was what the Raven Guard had been waiting for. They were taking no chances. He felt their impact, saw the dust, but heard nothing. As the ramps descended, and white-clad forms streamed through the clouds of dust, a figure wreathed in elemental fury strode among them. They had brought a witch – an architect of falsehood. How fitting.

  The dust parted before the witch, revealing blue-and-white armour, stained by blood and fire. A bearded face, as fierce as that of an eagle, with eyes that held storms. A staff, wrapped in psychic lightning. The Neverborn fell silent, and Lakmhu realised that they could smell the death of some among their number. A mighty witch indeed.

  ‘The gods send us one last gift, brothers. We will not be gunned down by slaves. We will die like men, at the blades and bolters of kin. Rejoice, brothers. In death, we are vindicated.’ Lakmhu lifted his crozius and struck a girder, causing a noiseless reverberation like that of a great bell.

  ‘Gloria Aeterna, my brothers.’

  And with those words on his lips, Lakmhu led the last of his brothers into glory.

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  ‘Here I am,’ the Dreadnought said again. The voice, distorted as it was, seemed familiar to Amatnim, as if he had heard it before, on some far-flung battlefield. But he could not place it, could not attach a name to it.

  ‘Come out then, sons of Lorgar. Or has your courage deserted you in the centuries since I wore the colours of the Legion?’ The Dreadnought turned, studying the daemons that crept towards him. ‘Or perhaps you prefer to let these abominations wage war on your behalf? Is that what you have become in my absence?’

  As he spoke, the Neverborn drew back, their black eyes fixed on him. Amatnim looked around, puzzled. Did the creatures recognise him? Did they know who was contained in that sarcophagus?

  The Dreadnought turned, surveying the daemonic ranks arrayed before him. Then he swept a talon out, and spat a single, thunderous word. A word that Amatnim had not heard in centuries – a word from lost Colchis. A word he had forgotten the meaning of, but which sent a spike of pain through him. He staggered, shaking his head, even as the word slipped from his grasp. He wasn’t the only one it hurt.

  The Neverborn screamed – as one, they screamed. The sound rose to such agonising heights that Amatnim was forced to cut his audio-sensors. But it did no good, for the sound was not simply noise, but something horribly spiritual. A scream of elemental fury and frustration – but also of resignation.

  The daemons flickered like a distorted signal, their forms stretching and wavering before snapping back into focus. A strange light swelled, seeming to rise from the Dreadnought’s battered chassis, and Amatnim was forced to turn away. The light spread, and for a moment, Amatnim thought he glimpsed great wings – not two, not four, but six or a dozen or more – rising from the Dreadnought’s back, and a face – wise and pitiless in its wisdom – superimposed over the bare helm of the ancient war machine.

  He knew, then, deep in himself, why he was here. And in his head, the whispers of the gods fell silent. Just for a moment. That inhuman gaze, like a solar flare narrowed to the width of a human eye, lashed across the invaders. As bright as the Astronomican itself.

  ‘This place is not for you,’ the Dreadnought said.

  Around him, daemons came apart, scattering like ash on the breeze. The effect spread like a contagion through their ranks, claiming them even as they turned to run, to flee.

  ‘What is happening?’ Apis hissed, turning as the Neverborn crumbled away. ‘What is this?’ The light began to fade as quickly as it had come, but the damage was done.

  ‘Anathema,’ Amatnim said softly. He shook himself and stepped into the open. ‘Who are you?’ he called out. ‘Identify yourself.’

  The Dreadnought turned towards them. The light faded to a bare glimmer, leaving only an ancient warrior rather than the horror of moments before. ‘I already told you, boy. I am him whom you seek. I am the Anchorite, by fate and by choice.’
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  Amatnim glanced at Apis, who gave a slight shrug. Amatnim turned back to the Dreadnought. ‘That is not your name, I think.’

  ‘I have no name. I entombed myself so that I might pass through narrow straits to sublimity,’ the ancient Dreadnought rumbled. ‘But it is ever out of grasp. Am I unworthy of such understanding? Or have I simply not proved my worth to the satisfaction of the universe?’ The lumbering war machine shouldered aside a leaning statue. Broken marble spilled across the ground.

  Amatnim felt the ground shake with the Anchorite’s tread. ‘Answer me that, brother,’ the Dreadnought said. ‘What is the nature of worth? How might the unworthy become worthy? Do you know? What wisdom did you find in the dark places?’

  Amatnim waved Apis and the others back. There was a brittle edge to the Anchorite’s words that he didn’t like. Perhaps the ancient warrior was mad – who wouldn’t be, imprisoned for millennia on a world such as this? ‘I have more wisdom than you know, brother. Come – join us, rejoin your Legion, and you shall have it as well. The wisdom of clarity – of truth revealed.’

  The Anchorite stopped. He stood between them and the last defenders, however unwittingly. Amatnim ground his teeth in frustration. ‘And is that why you came, boy? To dig me from my tomb and tell me fanciful stories?’

  Amatnim stood and stepped into the open, after only a moment’s hesitation. The Dreadnought was a massive thing – archaic and monstrous. Not like a Helbrute, but unsettling all the same. His brutal shape was shorn clean of insignia or device. Bare metal bore the marks of claws and bolter-fire. Amatnim cleared his throat. ‘I came because the gods showed me your torment, and I knew that I could not leave you to rot in this place. Move aside, brother, and we will finish this last task and depart.’

  ‘Where will we go, then? Not Colchis, for it is gone. Not Terra. Where, then, boy?’

  Annoyed, Amatnim looked directly into the Dreadnought’s optical sensors. ‘Sicarius, brother. Where the Dark Council waits to welcome you.’

  There was a sharp, staccato sound. It echoed in the quiet. Amatnim realised that the Anchorite was laughing. ‘And who is on this council? That jackal Kor Phaeron? Or that adder Erebus? Who guided your steps, boy?’

  ‘Stop calling me boy, nameless one. I am Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash, and I am a veteran of the Long War no less than yourself.’

  ‘Amatnim.’ The Dreadnought leaned forward. ‘I know you now. One of Kor Phaeron’s curs. You liked to burn books, I recall.’ Another staccato laugh. ‘Books aren’t known for fighting back, are they?’

  Amatnim bared his teeth. Anger thrummed through him. He had imagined a broken hero, an ancient sage, chained and grateful for freedom. Instead, he had come to rescue an ungrateful monster. ‘I did not come here to be mocked, old one. But stand aside, and I will forgive you your loose tongue.’ He swept out his axe-rake for emphasis. ‘We shall slaughter your captors before we depart for happier fields than this.’

  ‘Stand aside? No, I’ve done that enough for one lifetime. I stood aside at Isstvan and Calth. But not here, boy. Not now.’

  Amatnim hesitated. It almost cost him his life. The Anchorite moved so swiftly that only the grinding of servos alerted Amatnim to the blow. He threw himself aside as the claw swiped out. Missing its target, the blow ripped chunks from a nearby statue. Amatnim came to his feet swiftly.

  He struck out instinctively, and his blade drew sparks from the Dreadnought’s sarcophagus. The great machine whirled, quicker than Amatnim believed was possible. The blow caught him in the chest and he was hurled back against a broken plinth. As he sagged, his battleplate screaming damage warnings in his ear, he saw Apis and the others open up on the Dreadnought. Bolters roared, but the Anchorite ignored them. He reached out and caught Amatnim by the shoulder-plate.

  ‘What is a man to do when he has lost his faith? I felt as if I were in the desert, with no one to guide me out. The gods spat in my face, and whispered false promises. They showed me oases, but there was no water in them, only blood.’

  The Anchorite lifted him, claws tightening. ‘And then, I saw the light. It stretched across the dark skies, and drew me on, and I followed. Through the sands I stumbled, until I beheld a city on the hill – a city of gold, as great as a mountain, and shining like a caged sun. And in that city, the truth. Not the falsehoods you peddle as such, but the real thing. The truth that we turned from, unable to bear its mighty light.’

  ‘There is… there is only one truth,’ Amatnim said, fumbling for one of the grenades on his battleplate. He had to break the Dreadnought’s grip before the maddened ancient crushed him. ‘It is older than any city – older than man himself.’

  ‘And that is the lie. The oldest lie.’ The Anchorite lifted him higher, dragging him up the pillar. Bits of broken stone pelted Amatnim. He snatched a grenade loose and primed it.

  ‘Blasphemy,’ Amatnim spat, as he thrust the grenade into the nest of exposed cabling and pneumatics that formed the Dreadnought’s shoulder. The explosion cracked the pillar, and he found himself tumbling backwards amid a deluge of broken stone. The Anchorite bellowed, his chassis wreathed in black, greasy smoke.

  Amatnim hit the ground, and damage runes flashed across his helm display. His battleplate was compromised in multiple places, but he was free. He forced himself to his feet, trying to recall where he’d dropped his axe-rake.

  There was a flare from somewhere far above. He looked up, and saw fire spreading across the sky. Something massive had perished in orbit. A sick feeling spread through him. He tried to contact the Glory Eternal but received only static.

  He cycled through frequencies, trying to catch the voices of his subordinates. They were few and far between – and all of them reporting a new force. Drop pods were streaking down, disgorging reinforcements. The guns had stopped. The constant roar of artillery was stilled. He heard boltguns bark, and saw Apis and the others converging on the Anchorite. ‘Do not kill him,’ he howled. ‘He must live – the gods have commanded it!’ They could still triumph. If they took him. If they could escape this world…

  ‘If I must die to spite them, then let me die,’ the Anchorite roared. The Dreadnought smashed a Word Bearer to the ground, crumpling the warrior’s chest-plate like foil. A second crimson form was sent tumbling away, missing a head.

  Amatnim cursed. They were going to have to cripple the brute, and drag his sarcophagus back to the gunships. Only there were no gunships. No matter – a different plan. There would be other vessels. They would take one of those. He was too close to fail. The gods would not abandon him here, on the cusp of victory. Would they?

  He spotted his axe-rake and moved to snatch it up. A hand caught his wrist. He turned, and a yellow fist slammed into his head, further damaging his helm. He stumbled and swung about, to see the towering Imperial Fist standing before him, one hand pressed to the wound in his gut.

  ‘Almace stands,’ the Space Marine said simply.

  Amatnim made to retort, but stopped. He shook his head. ‘I do not care about this world or you, or any of this. I came for him.’ He pointed in the direction of the Anchorite. ‘Let me take him, and I will leave this place. It will stand and you will live.’

  The Imperial Fist’s only reply was a wordless growl. He lunged, moving faster than one so wounded had any right to. The warrior crashed into him, and he staggered back. He went for his knife, but his opponent caught his hand, and drove an elbow into his throat. The Imperial Fist had height and reach and strength. His knee slammed into Amatnim’s solar plexus, and the Word Bearer bent instinctively, though his armour had absorbed most of the impact. He stumbled, and the Imperial Fist drew his own knife. They came together, and Amatnim caught his forearm, holding the blade at bay.

  In the back of his head, something had begun to laugh.

  ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘No!’ He snatched at his blade, and thrust it towards his opponent’s visor. The Space Marine blocked the
blow with his forearm. They broke apart, and began to circle one another. As they did so, Amatnim could see the remaining defenders rallying. The Anchorite lifted a Word Bearer and slammed him down across a bulwark, snapping the luckless warrior nearly in two. Apis and the others were falling back, shooting as they went. He saw Saper gut a mortal with one of his knives.

  He locked gazes with Apis. The other Word Bearer looked away. Amatnim laughed softly. And the gods laughed with him. With him and at him and through him. He glanced down, at the blood and ichor staining the stones. At the Anchorite, bellowing catechisms as he murdered his brothers. It had all been for this, from the beginning.

  He looked at his opponent. ‘It’s too late now,’ he said. ‘He’s out. The truth is revealed. Centuries of dogma, based on the words of the Urizen. We have all been on the same path from the beginning – some of us are simply farther along than others.’ He stepped back, and lowered his knife. ‘As a wise man once said, death is nothing, next to vindication.’

  The Imperial Fist lunged. Amatnim made no attempt to block the blow.

  The gods had never meant him to succeed. At least not in the way he’d imagined.

  But it was a victory nonetheless.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  100:00:00

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Calder sat on the steps, the wound in his midsection aching as it slowly repaired itself. He still held his combat blade, the Word Bearer’s blood staining it. He could not understand what had happened – or why.

  Had it been suicide, or something else? A sacrifice. He pushed the thought aside, as it made him uneasy. What was it Karros had told him? They are not us. They do not measure victory as we do. They do not recognise defeat.

  He looked up as a pair of Stormtalons arced across the sky, trailing dark smoke from straining thrusters. Troop vessels and assault-cutters rose unsteadily across the city, seeking the dubious safety of the stars. Most would be shot down before they reached orbit. The enemy had come to Almace, but they would not leave it.