by Rob Sanders
‘You don’t speak much, do you, serpent girl?’ Goura Shengk said. He followed the question with a mocking hiss, like that of a snake. Perdita ignored him and tore a strip off one of the clean cloths. Moving in on the towering Dark Apostle, she began to bandage his wound and tie the dressing off in the palm of his hand.
The Word Bearers were fanatical warriors, keepers of the dread word and each an acolyte to the ruinous gods. Dark Apostles were unholy warlords at the head of such monstrous hosts – their minds were archives of forbidden knowledge while the flesh of many was thrice-damned by the presence of daemons feeding from their dark souls.
Perdita had every reason to fear Goura Shengk but she did not. It was hard to fear a foe whose death you had practised a million different times in a million different ways.
‘You are more than you seem, I suspect,’ the Word Bearer said, flexing his bandaged hand. ‘Like all who serve your master’s Legion. You needn’t worry. We have given our word – and nothing is more important to a son of Lorgar. The strength of our word survives the ages, given as it is to deities and dark princes. You can expect no trouble from us, girl.’
Perdita’s eyes flashed down at the cell floor. Blood had not merely dripped there. The Word Bearer had used it to make glistening signs and symbols about his kneeling form.
‘Nothing to worry about, I assure you,’ Goura Shengk said, stepping out of his circle of blood. ‘Just servants of Chaos, honouring their gods. Your master has his chapel. We have the Shrine of Iron and the darkness of the warp all around us.’
The Assassin sensed the Dark Apostle’s arm reach around her and felt his huge hand on her shoulder. She tensed, as she might anyway. She could not give herself away by reaching for a weapon or assuming a combat stance. At the temple she had been trained to exploit the weaknesses of even those opponents seemingly without them – opponents like Space Marines. Motioning her around, Goura Shengk pointed out several key symbols on the floor. They were hard for Perdita to look at, filling her head with an existential dread.
‘The Dark Pantheon,’ the Word Bearer said. ‘Gods that are ever before us and behind us. Within and without. Men like your master are fools to fight without their blessing. Other renegades are fools still for choosing one dread deity to the insult of all others. Bearers of the Word worship all dark forces in all their wondrous manifestations. The Shrine of Iron was built to honour such patrons.’
‘My lord,’ Perdita protested, keeping her voice weak and pleading. She tried to push against his hand but the traitor’s grip held her firm.
‘Do not turn your back on the Ruinous Powers, girl,’ Goura Shengk warned. ‘Look and you will truly see. Open your heart to their darkness and you will be rewarded – for only gods have the power to grant your heart’s desire.’
‘You are hurting me,’ Perdita said, fighting the Dark Apostle as a menial might, reaching behind and scrabbling at his girder-thick arm. At the same time she slipped a stiletto dagger free from where it was concealed in the sleeves of her robe. She held the narrow, envenomed blade within her other sleeve, ready to strike.
‘There,’ the Word Bearer pointed, moving his finger around the circle: ‘The Changer… the Great Lord of Decay… the Prince of Excess… the Blood God… All are there to serve your desires and in turn be served by them.’
Perdita blinked. The final damned sigil drawn in the Dark Apostle’s blood began to boil on the floor as she stared at it, and she was finding it hard to drag her gaze away. Her grip tightened about the stiletto blade. She thought of all the places she could plunge it. Into the Dark Apostle’s eye. His temple. One of his hearts. Through the flesh of his throat.
‘Yes,’ the Word Bearer said. ‘The Blood God. He calls to you, sister.’
Perdita heard a hum in her ears to match the veil forming before her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was losing control and hated herself for it. The spitting sigil seemed to respond as much to that as her desire to end the Word Bearer.
‘Yes…’ Goura Shengk said, before he was interrupted. The dread seduction of the moment broken, Perdita felt someone else standing over her. Autolicon Phex was there, holding the humming barrel of his heavy plasma gun above her head, the muzzle against the side of the Dark Apostle’s head.
Blinking the confusion from her eyes, Perdita tore her gaze from the sigils on the floor and whipped the envenomed blade up to rest under the Word Bearer’s chin. She felt an unconscious snarl slip from the mask of her features.
‘Ah, a successor son of Guilliman,’ Shengk said, his voice dripping with derision. ‘Here to avenge your kindred, brother?’
The Word Bearer backed from both the legionnaire’s barrel and Perdita’s blade. The Assassin heard the sound of armoured footfalls in the corridor. With Phex away from his post, Vilnius Malik had moved in. He paused next to Phex.
‘The strike master’s orders,’ the former Night Lord said. ‘This filth is wanted on the bridge.’
At the mention of Lord Occam, Perdita got a full hold of her emotions. The burning rage guiding her blade evaporated. She served her master with her deadly talents and not herself. She hadn’t killed for herself in years.
The legionnaire’s indication that Occam was on the command deck surprised her. The bridge had belonged to Sergeant Hasdrubal for the past day, with Lord Occam having taken to his quarters. The Assassin suspected that he was praying to the God-Emperor for spiritual guidance in this dark place.
Perdita, who made it her business on the ship to know most things, had heard his last request was of the High Serpent. Blatch subsequently sent for twenty of the best needlers and artists from amongst the Seventh Sons, with inks and their crude equipment. This was another way Perdita knew the strike master to spend his time – adorning his flesh with the symbols and markings of his chosen Legion. It appeared to help him think. In that way he was little different to Goura Shengk with the patterns on his floor.
The Dark Apostle smiled at Perdita.
‘Summoned to the bridge – that can only mean one thing,’ he told her. ‘We have arrived.’
Occam gripped the pulpit railing of the bridge. The Iota-Æternus was holding station in between a roaring warpstream of immaterial energy and the choppy radiance of an unnatural star. The system’s afflicted sun flickered between blazing white light and a darkness, like a malfunctioning strobe, momentarily lighting up the Q-ship and the surrounding system before plunging it back into gloom. With each pulse of unnatural radiation the warped star made the Iota-Æternus roll.
‘This is it?’ Occam asked.
Ghesh, the ship’s Navigator, came forth and confirmed the location with a bow of his mutant head.
The strike master stared out across the void. This was where the Word Bearer’s directions had taken them. While hundreds of moons rode out the rough immaterial weather of the region, each appearing as though dread runes and continental sigils had been carved across their rocky surfaces, Occam could see no planet orbiting the system’s strange sun.
In a glittering miasma orbiting the star, however, the strike master could see a nebulous cloud of crystals hanging in the void. Occam hadn’t noticed it at first. Naga-Khan’s bridge crew had fared no better, returns from long-range augurs – already struggling in the storm – being bounced straight back off the reflective surface of the crystal cloud. Like a billion shattered mirrors, the crystal shards reflected the colour and bizarre features of the Maelstrom around it.
‘Yes,’ Goura Shengk said, as he was escorted onto the command deck by Malik and Phex. Occam turned to see that Perdita was with them, in her disguise as a cultist menial. ‘In answer to your question, that is unholy Ghalmek, daemonforge and Shrine of Iron. We just don’t like to advertise it.’
‘Our augurs show nothing,’ Occam said.
‘And they won’t,’ Shengk said.
‘I expected more in the way of defences,’ Sergeant Hasdrubal said, although it wasn’t clear if he was talking to Occam, the Dark Apostle or bot
h.
‘Ghalmek is well fortified,’ Shengk said, ‘as it needs to be, situated here in the Maelstrom – to defend itself against mutant migrations, daemonic incursions and pirates. Again, we tend not to advertise it. If a host breaches the crystal cloud, it will soon discover its mistake. Even given such precautions, thousands have tried across the ages and thousands have failed, for mighty Ghalmek still stands. This is why, legionnaire, if you hadn’t bartered, your White Crusade would have been for naught.’
‘Unbeknownst to the frater legions,’ Occam assured the Dark Apostle, ‘the Alpha Legion fights on their side – and the Alpha Legion always finds a way.’
‘How do you know we haven’t already?’ Ephron Hasdrubal said over Shengk’s shoulder, taking a little of the pride from the Word Bearer’s ruined features.
‘What of your own arrays, augurs and monitoring stations?’ Occam asked, noting that he hadn’t seen any orbiting platforia either.
Goura Shengk stepped forward and pointed through the lancet ports at a nearby moon.
‘Look.’
As Occam peered up at the cursed moon he saw a colossal daemon eye open on its surface. Massive and bloodshot, the infernal creature sat like a tick buried in the rock of the moon’s rune-carved surface. As the strike master stared about at the other moons, he saw more predatory eyes open to watch the progress of the Iota-Æternus. The daemonic gaze made Occam feel uncomfortable.
‘Shipmaster,’ Occam said, ‘prime the batteries.’
‘We shouldn’t do that,’ Goura Shengk said. ‘If you come to Ghalmek in peace, then act like it.’
Occam looked from Hasdrubal to Naga-Khan.
‘Prime the batteries,’ the strike master insisted, ‘but do not run out.’
‘Proceed towards the northern pole,’ the Dark Apostle said. ‘We shall need to present ourselves. There are rituals to observe. You had better let me do the talking.’
‘That’s why we brought you,’ Occam said, nodding to his sergeant. Hasdrubal moved up behind the Word Bearer and rested the tips of his multi-blade against his side. ‘But if what proceeds from your mouth displeases me, you shall come to know suffering like no other. We shall find another way in and you can bleed your last on my deck, a short distance from the unholy soil of your daemon home world. We can all win here or you can lose. Am I understood, Word Bearer?’
‘Crystal clear,’ the Dark Apostle said with a black smirk.
As the Iota-Æternus moved on through the system, more daemon moons opened their eyes, watching the Alpha Legion vessel proceed through the flickering light of the sun. The command deck was silent and tense. Heading for the top of the cloud, as instructed, the Iota-Æternus found itself reflected in the shattered, silvery crystal. The shards seemed to have an unnatural sentience of their own, parting like a swarm to admit the ship’s prow and dimensions. Within the cloud, Occam saw that some of the smashed pieces were tiny slivers while others were chunks of crystal almost as large as the Iota-Æternus itself.
Daemon faces glowered from within the crystal, staring through the silvery surface like ghostly nightmares, looking hungrily at the Q-ship passing through the cloud and the souls within.
As the crystals parted, Occam could make out structures beyond. A wall of burnished metal and rows of guns came into view.
‘All stop,’ Occam called, while Hasdrubal allowed his torturer’s blade to dimple Goura Shengk’s robes.
The Q-ship came to a halt above the daemon world of Ghalmek. In front of the Alpha Legion vessel lay a monstrous Word Bearers battleship. Warp-encrusted. Battle-scarred. Ancient. Occam suspected that its pattern dated back to the dark days of the Heresy, perhaps even earlier. Its hull was covered in unholy scripture while parts of its metal architecture, including its colossal rows of antique cannons, were afflicted and warped with daemonic possession.
Occam stepped forward. He could feel the fear on the bridge. It would take nothing for the battleship to turn the Iota-Æternus into a flaming wreck or a vaporised cloud of nothingness. He looked about through the lancet screens and down at the daemon world.
The flickering light of the damned star felt its way through the crystal cloud, bathing the daemon world in intermittent gloom and complete darkness. The surrounding shards created a shattered sky. A billion daemon entities looked down from their crystal prisons, feasting upon the deviance and devotion of Ghalmek’s citizenry.
The Shrine of Iron was a relatively small planet, but appeared larger due to the ancient cage of void docks, planetary scaffolding and monstrous platforia that surrounded it. Rusting in their age, some of the structures had been painted a dirty crimson while others bore dark symbols of summoning. The shrine fleet sat at anchorage about the planet, docked with the surrounding structure like magnificent, unhallowed cathedrals in the void. Occam could see Word Bearers battleships, grand cruisers and grotesque daemon ships, docked alongside bloated carriers that were spiked like sea urchins and used for transporting pilgrim labour. He could see a blizzard of lost and captured Imperial shipping amongst the larger vessels, repurposed for the traitors’ own profane use. Dark Mechanicum factory ships and ark tenders were also in sight, moving between new ships under construction, indulging in daemonic rituals and making blasphemous adaptations.
The planet’s surface reached up to meet the orbital scaffolding. The daemon world was buried in thousands of years of architectural accretion. It was like a single, fat hive that covered the entire surface of the small planet. Nests of spires housing pilgrims, workers and deviant constructs reached up from the architectural malaise. Infernal forgeworks and manufactoria blazed across the surface. Rising above the smog of damnation and industry were continental cathedra – entire regions busy with the towers, spires and steeples of unholy temples, all built to honour the Chaos Pantheon.
The four dread Powers were very much in evidence on Ghalmek. Forges raged to create weapons of war for the Word Bearers and their pilgrim armies of the afflicted. At the tolling of stratospheric bell towers, rivers of cultists seeped downhill like diseased effluence from vaulted churches. Twisted temples grew out of cathedral structures like mutations, while within unholy Bearers of the Word indulged their daemon overlords with veneration and worship.
Occam looked back at the fanged mouths of battleship cannon aimed at the Iota-Æternus.
‘Open channel,’ the strike master commanded. He gave Goura Shengk the hardness of his eyes. ‘Time to talk to your brothers.’
The Dark Apostle bowed his head and approached a runebank. Adjusting the channel, he spoke across it in a strange language. His words were ancient, uttered in an accent of flint and sparks.
As different voices filled the bridge from the voxhailers, there was an exchange. Although Occam didn’t understand the language he could tell by the intonation that the voices were surprised and cautious. After completing the exchange, Shengk was handed over to another. Backing from the runebank and Hasdrubal’s blade, the Dark Apostle bowed his head once more to Occam.
‘Renegade vessel,’ the voice said. It sounded like iron scraping through crackling embers. ‘My name is Sor Tandrach, First Acolyte to Malthusa Vho’tek – the Lord High Apostle and Herald Orbital. The Lex Diabolitora, the battleship under whose guns you find yourself, as well as the void infernal and daemon skies of Ghalmek, are his. The punishment for your trespass is a death to flesh and the imprisonment of your eternal soul. However, Apostle Shengk informs me that your miserable band of renegades have been of some service to him and ensured his return to face trial on mighty Ghalmek. For that, you will receive passage to the surface and an audience alongside Goura Shengk to plead for your existence with his unholiness, the Grand Apostle and Abyssal Prince of All-Ghalmek.’
‘I applaud your mercy and wisdom,’ the strike master said, looking at his sergeant. Hasdrubal nodded.
‘The one known as Occam,’ First Acolyte Tandrach continued, ‘and only he, shall accompany Apostle Shengk to the surface. Your vessel shall dock in the adjacent bay.
Any attempt to deviate off course and the Lex Diabolitora will open fire. Run out your weaponry and the Lex Diabolitora will open fire. Attempt to leave this place unsanctioned and the Lex Diabolitora will open fire.’
‘I think we understand,’ Occam replied. ‘Extend my appreciation to the Grand Apostle. I look forward to an audience with his unholiness.’
ο
Forked Tongues
Occam took the controls of the stolen lighter himself. It was a battered agri world craft, formerly used for transporting grain between surface silos and freighters in orbit. He had asked Arkan Reznor on the flight deck for something disposable but reliable. The warpsmith had asked Occam if he could accompany the strike master and share the risk of the daemon world. It was regrettable he could not, since Reznor would have been much more comfortable behind the controls of the lighter. The strike master usually had one of the Seventh Sons perform such a duty, as there were a number of talented pilots among their number. By comparison, Occam’s skills were rough. He could get the craft from orbit and put it down fairly harshly on a landing pad. It was everything in between that was the problem.
As the lighter spiralled down through the thin atmosphere, a billion daemon entities looking down on its progress from the shattered sky above, Occam guided the craft towards a colossal polar structure. While the Iota-Æternus was docked above, amongst half-constructed daemon ships and under the guns of the Lex Diabolitora, Goura Shengk directed the strike master towards the Cathedra Nox – an architectural nightmare spanning a small continent. The structure was part cathedral, part fortress. Amongst its skyscraping bell towers, spires and warp-encrusted steeples Occam could also see courtyards and surface-to-orbit laser silos. Sacrificial plazas, warped statues and domed libraria were decorated with heavy weapons emplacements. Magnificent stained-glass windows depicting Dark Gods sat in thick walls.