by Guy Haley
Raldoron’s auto-senses failed to shut out the gun’s roar. Dampened, the discharge still made his ears ring. He relished the sensation. While his orders prevented him from attacking, the gun was proof that the Imperium was fighting back.
Raldoron’s vox pulsed. Thane’s notifier rune blinked in the upper right of his helm-plate.
‘On the walls again, First Captain?’
Raldoron paused in his patrol. He looked out between the mighty teeth of the crenellations over the blasted plain. War remade worlds so quickly.
‘I could hide inside,’ said Raldoron. ‘It is safer. A few of my officers have intimated as much to me, but I will not listen to them. I am a Blood Angel. I am no logistician. My place is in battle, with sword in hand and bolter kicking in my fist.’
‘I prefer battle myself,’ voxed Thane, as he approached around the turret’s giant turntable. ‘If you would have me, I would accompany you.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Raldoron. He looked out over the tangle of wrecks. ‘I feel that something is about to happen.’ They spoke over the vox, insulated to an extent from the roaring of the wall guns, though no conversation could survive the macro cannon’s report.
‘Your lord is well known for his second sight,’ said Thane. ‘Do you share it?’
‘In truth, I am not sure,’ said Raldoron. ‘I anticipate things, but I have always attributed that to my augmentations and training. I would not wish for Sanguinius’ foresight. It is a curse as much as a gift.’
‘It appears you perhaps do have a little of his power,’ said Thane pointing. ‘The bombardment has ceased!’
They looked upwards. A last shower of shells screamed down. Lightning flickered through the churning clouds, purple, yellow and green. The heavens writhed with dying winds.
‘Fresh devilry,’ said Thane.
‘It is beginning,’ said Raldoron tersely. ‘Maintain bombardment of enemy positions,’ he voxed to the gunnery command centres. ‘All companies stand ready for assault.’
Thane looked at him. ‘How will they come against us?’
‘That, I do not know,’ said Raldoron. ‘But it is time. That I know in the pit of my being.’
The skies rippled like water, and in the clouds a face appeared, flat as a pict from a plastek flimsy projected onto an inadequate screen. It wavered with the movement of the clouds, unfocused at first, then became sharp as a knife to the skin.
At first, they took it for a sort of daemon. The face was horned. Its short muzzle ended in a maw surrounded by lamprey teeth. Six eyes glowed above it. But then, like the effect of a trick picture, the face changed in Raldoron’s perception, and he saw he was looking at the distorted war-mask of one of the Legions.
‘Word Bearers,’ Raldoron said.
‘Sorcery,’ said Thane. ‘They have fallen far.’
‘Hearken to me, oh people of Terra!’ the being said, its harsh voice penetrating the racket of the guns.
‘Perhaps they have come to offer their surrender,’ said Thane drily.
The Palace guns continued to fire.
‘There’s my father’s answer to that,’ he added.
‘Predictable,’ the Word Bearer said. ‘But it is not primarch or Space Marine I address, but you, the common people, the subjects of Lord Horus who languish under the tyranny of the False Emperor.’ The guns boomed on, but every word was clear, bypassing ears and auditory systems to ring in the minds of everyone on the planet.
The head turned, sweeping across the world. With that glance the legionary took in continents, and he laughed at what he saw with a low, monster’s growl.
‘Heed my offer!’ the Space Marine said. ‘I am Zardu Layak, the Crimson Apostle. I am the herald of the Warmaster Horus, rightful lord of mankind. I call on you all, people of the nations of Terra, to hearken to me and hearken well. There comes a choice now, twixt life and death.’
The voice boomed away across the valleys of the truncated mountains and tore around the globe. The Apostle waited for his words to be digested before he continued. Some of the warriors on the defences shouted up at the vision in defiance. Others screamed.
‘I come with an offer to you all. Lay down your arms. Renounce your False Emperor. Raise your voices to the Warmaster and plead for your lives, and you will be spared.’ Another pause. Where the maw of the Space Marine’s mask projected onto the clouds, a vortex spun, and down it floated an island. That was how Raldoron instinctively named it. It was not a craft. It was not a platform or an orbital plate, but an island made of bone. Even from so far away, the ivory glint of it and the rough, compacted surface of the thing made it clear that it was formed of thousands of skeletons, crushed together.
The island ceased descending when it was level with the walls. It came down close by the Helios Gate, and began a circuit of the defences, passing in front of Raldoron and Thane’s position. Guns tracked the island, las-beams, plasma and shells hammering at it, but they did no harm. The island rippled, the shots passing through.
‘A vision. An illusion,’ said Thane.
‘Maybe, but this Layak is there,’ said Raldoron. ‘Look. He shows himself to us.’
He pointed. Upon the top of the island was a pulpit formed of a monster’s skull. From the empty brainpan, Layak delivered his sermon. Around the pulpit eight thousand mortal priests in purple robes swayed from side to side in worshipful silence.
‘The Emperor is a liar,’ said Layak. ‘You have all been deceived. He has lived among you for thousands of years, biding His time, using your ancestors as He uses you now. The Emperor speaks of Unity. The Emperor speaks of the protection of the species. The Emperor speaks of the furtherance of mankind. The Emperor speaks of many things, and all He says is lies. Know this, people of Terra, He is false! The Warmaster, great Horus, has seen through His deceit, and commands me to relay to you the truth of the Emperor’s ambition.’
The island rotated as it floated by. The wall guns continued to shoot at it, but it was a mirage called with magic, and it passed by unharmed. Seemingly serene, it nevertheless moved at pace, and was soon shrinking out of sight down the sweep of the Daylight Wall. Raldoron ordered surveillance automata to track it, giving him a doubled view. Via his auto-senses he looked down on the traitor. From the wall he looked up to the sorcerously projected image.
‘The Emperor is a parasite! He uses your sacrifices to raise Himself up in the warp. Your blood and your souls are His meat and drink. He wages a campaign to challenge the Pantheon of true deities. Listen to me, misguided, abused children of Terra. Let it be known to you that the Emperor desires only apotheosis. He would become a god and supplant the Gods of War, Life, Pleasure and Knowledge. He would transcend this plane of existence, and abandon you all to the monsters He pledged to rid you from. It is He who is the traitor to the species, not Horus! Horus will save you. Look to the sky and see his fleets. Witness how many others have seen reality for what it is, unclouded by lies and wishful thinking. Know that the coming of Horus is the coming of truth! He is the chosen of the gods, the powers in the warp who have watched over humanity for time immemorial until, to their dismay, the Emperor barred them from their worshippers. He has seen the gods’ glory and serves them willingly. He does not wish to supplant them. He does not spoon-feed you pleasant fantasies. He is not a lying tyrant – he, Horus Lupercal, is the saviour of mankind!’
Layak pointed skywards, to the churning air and the fleet that waited beyond for Terra’s answer. Raldoron’s wall captains reported in, sending target locks for verification. He blink-clicked and thought-approved them all. They were as good targets as they could be, straight shots, but every beam of energy and solid round passed through the island.
‘I am a prophet of the gods. I am Horus’ servant,’ said Zardu Layak, ‘and I say to you, rejoice! The gods are coming here, to this world. They will bestow their power and their wisdom to any person strong an
d faithful enough to take it. Look upon me, and witness one of their champions. I swear to you that they will treat mercifully those who turn their backs upon the False Emperor. They will be kind to those who kneel to the righteous powers of this universe! This is my pledge! You will survive, you will prosper. You will know mastery of this realm, and glory in the next. This is their compact with me, and through me, with you.’
Again the figure paused. Again thunder rolled its drums.
‘As I come to you with these joyous tidings, I must also convey a warning. If you do not embrace the true faith, if you do not acknowledge the true gods, if you do not pay obeisance to Khorne, God of War…’ The sky shook at the speaking of the name. Men cried out. ‘To Nurgle, God of Endless Life…’ The sky shook again, and again as he spoke the names of the other powers. ‘To Tzeentch, God of Knowledge, and to Slaanesh, God of Pleasure… then you will be slain by them and their servants, and your souls will be cast into the warp, there to be devoured. Only then, in the life that comes after this as surely as night follows day, will you know the magnitude of your mistake. There you will see through the Emperor’s tissue of lies in despair. In the warp you will beg without hope for the chance to change your actions. There is but one choice!’ Zardu Layak boomed. The island of bone had passed hundreds of kilometres to the south by now.
Through the automata’s eyes, Raldoron witnessed the thrall-priests of Layak cast back their hoods, rip open their robes and expose their torsos. They were eyeless, every one, bloody sockets in their faces, and their bodies cruelly cut with ritual scars and burned with brands. In their right hands they held daggers of dull metal.
‘This is the end!’ Layak roared.
The priests lifted their daggers to the sky and howled praise with tongueless mouths.
‘Grovel before the gods and beg for their mercy!’ Layak demanded.
The knives plunged into the breasts of the priests. They fell as one, their blood rushing from their opened hearts and pouring through the gaps in the bone to sluice the land below.
‘Now is the time, now is the moment! The way is clear! The doors open! Turn on the slaves of the False Emperor, repent before it is too late and liberate yourselves from His tyranny!’
The island rose up, rapidly vanishing into the crowds, chased all the way by a tempest of ineffectual gunfire.
Drops of rain plinked off Raldoron’s battleplate, the few turning rapidly to many. It ran over his eye-lenses, smearing the view.
‘What is happening?’ asked Thane. He held up a cupped palm.
Only then did Raldoron see that the drops of rain ran bright and crimson on Thane’s yellow armour.
‘A rain of blood,’ Raldoron said.
A great howling split the sky, then another, then a third. Three streaks of lurid energy shot down from above, each displaying brief glimpses of howling faces. One by one they slammed down. More thunder rumbled.
On the horizon, screeching horns blew.
Physical movement pushed through the line of shimmering energy fields guarding the contravallation. Constructs so large they were visible from the wall top across scores of kilometres of broken land emerged from the battlesmoke. Three huge siege towers pushed their way through the landing craft wrecks, taller even than the broken ships, and big enough to grind the smaller of them flat.
Sirens rose up from the city. Still the enemy fleet did not re-engage with their cannons, but across the land between siege line and wall sped the fire of more conventional weaponry as enemy artillery opened fire again. These hit the weakened shields, with many passing through to strike the wall itself.
‘This is it,’ said Thane. ‘The circling is over. The duel begins in earnest.’
‘There will be a landing soon,’ said Raldoron, looking up into the bloody rain.
‘Let us strike blood together, brother,’ said Thane. He held up his yellow gauntlet. Raldoron crashed his forearm against the Imperial Fist’s.
Explosions rippled over the aegis.
‘I will not let that sermon rest without reply,’ Raldoron said. He clambered up onto the firing step, and faced the mighty cannon. Framed by the fires of the enemy’s impotence boiling off the shields, he raised his bolter and demanded the attention of friend and foe alike.
‘Now! Now!’ Raldoron shouted. He opened his communications to all the men under his command: his company, his Chapter, the warriors of other Legions pledged to the Helios section of the Daylight Wall, Martian cyborgs, mortal humans, grizzled soldiers and terrified conscripts.
‘The oath! Take the oath!’ he commanded.
His men turned about, took to one knee and bowed their heads.
‘We are the sons of the blood of Sanguinius!’ Raldoron shouted over the howl of weaponry.
‘We are the sons of Dorn!’ Thane echoed.
‘In this moment we take our oath, solemnly to be upheld, that we defy these prophets. We deny their superstitions, their bloodthirsty idols, mumbled cantrip and fearful fetish. We deny these so-called gods. We deny their right to be. On this day, not one traitor shall pass this wall. Not one being who spits on the Emperor’s name. Not one with treachery in his heart. Not one in thrall to these false gods. We fight to the last of our blood, for the Emperor, for the Imperium, for Unity, for Terra!’
‘For the Emperor, for the Imperium, for Unity, for Terra!’ half a million voices, human and transhuman, roared back, loudly enough to be heard over the guns.
‘Let our defiance be our first blow!’ Raldoron shouted. ‘Let that be our oath!’
There were no parchments to be affixed by wax, or time to observe the proper rites, but in the gathering of warriors there was more solemnity than any official practice could contain. There was no distinction between man and superhuman, only brotherhood, and the shared will to prevail.
Raldoron rejoined Thane.
‘Well said, Blood Angel.’
‘Now I am ready to fight,’ said Raldoron.
Dorn himself spoke then, a message that went to every helm, vox-bead and address system in the Palace.
‘The time for speeches is done,’ said Dorn. ‘The first great test is here. My order to you all is simple, yet heed it well, and exert yourselves to see it done.
‘They are coming. Kill them all.’
Angels of Death
Angron freed
First on the wall
The Nightfall, Terran orbit, 15th of Quartus
A single note sang through Horus’ fleet, calling all to action. Upon the Nightfall it was greeted gladly.
‘That’s it. That’s the signal. All engines full ahead!’ bellowed Terror Master Thandamell, wild with excitement.
All mutual respect between the Legion and its servants was gone aboard the Nightfall. The bond had been failing for a long time, a process of erosion quickened since Skraivok had installed himself, and come thence to collapse. It was not so on every ship, but under the Painted Count’s overlordship, the crew were reduced to chattels. The slave masters moved among the thralls, laying their scourges across the backs of those deemed to be performing their duties too slowly. No Night Lord would lower himself to the tedious administration of day-to-day discipline. Every overseer was drawn from the thrall-stock of the ship. All were desperate men, and sadists. Their eagerness to perform their duties exhilarated Skraivok. He had never been a gentle man, but his character was changing under the influence of the sword, becoming more wanton in its cruelty – quickly enough that he could see it himself, invigorating enough that he did not care.
‘Thandamell!’ Skraivok crowed from the shipmaster’s dais. ‘What glories await us! What fine adventures we set ourselves upon. When the bards compose their sonnets of this war, come victory or defeat, the name of Gendor Skraivok will be remembered, and that is very fine. When the chroniclers of the future ask where Konrad Curze was at the moment the first assault crashed against the wall
s and find no answer, they will know that I, the Painted Count, was there in his stead! As Curze blunders his way across the cosmos whining for his father, it is I who bring the sons of the sunless world to glory, for power, for plunder and for pain! Onwards, sons of the night! Onwards to victory.’
Thandamell grinned savagely. ‘What a lovely speech,’ he said. ‘Are you all done now?’
‘Of course, Thandamell.’ Skraivok gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword and gestured to a slave to bring him his helm. ‘If you would be so good as to release the primarch, I have a ship to board. Order the Raptors to depart immediately. Take the enemy by surprise, clear a safe zone. I wouldn’t want my crowning achievement to be spoiled by my death.’
‘How do we get him out?’ said Thandamell.
Skraivok, on his way to the nearest lifter, stopped.
‘Who, terror master?’
‘Angron. How do we get him off the ship?’
Skraivok waved a hand around dismissively.
‘I shall let you decide on that. I’ve other prey to hunt.’
The Nightfall shuddered from stem to stern with the push of its engines. Terra’s tortured orb swelled. Klaxons alerted all aboard to imminent planetfall. On decks below, warriors readied themselves for the drop.
‘You, serf!’ Thandamell barked. ‘Prepare to cut power to the labyrinth.’
Angron blundered from a smoking chamber. Delicate crystalline pain engines lay broken on the ground. The daemon primarch panted with effort, his red skin crossed with a thousand welts. The pain engines could keep a normal man occupied with an eternity of torments – yet another trap in Perturabo’s maze. Under Angron’s fury, they had lasted four minutes. Behind him stretched a trail of destruction through the intricate workings, a road of smashed priceless technologies, caved-in walls, ruptured conduits and broken machinery.
