by Chris Dows
‘Chapter Master, I have my orders. No one is to enter at this time.’
Her words were almost hissed. Gaul could see she was in a difficult position, but his patience was rapidly abandoning him. The time for diplomacy was over. He needed to take a more direct approach.
‘Sister Superior, this vessel currently houses over a hundred of my battle-brothers, all of whom have been in a state of combat readiness since we set off on this journey. Such is their desire to fight, they would relish the opportunity, regardless of who their opponents might be.’
To her credit, the Sister Superior did not so much as bat an eyelid in response. While the repercussions of her allowing him to pass might be severe, they would be nothing compared to the damage she and her sentinels would endure in a battle with his Space Marines. She kept her gaze locked onto Gaul, only flicking her eyes to his honour guard as she finished her sentence.
‘There is no need for threats, Chapter Master. You may pass – but you alone.’
Gaul looked back to his four veterans, then turned to the Sister Superior.
‘These warriors are here to honour his holiness. To enter without them would be an insult. Would you have that to answer for as well?’
The Sister Superior looked at Gaul for a long moment. Without blinking, she took one step to the side and nodded towards the entrance. As he marched past, Gaul noticed with grudging respect that her finger had been on the trigger of her bolter throughout their exchange. Raising both arms before him and letting his cloak fall behind his shoulders, he pushed against the two massive wooden arched doors of the sanctuary and leaned into them. They swung open with a deep, ancient creaking and he had to squint against the intense golden light flooding the chamber’s interior. Striding forwards, he held one hand high with fingers spread wide, both in greeting and to show he held no weapon, lest his sudden entrance be taken as a hostile act. As it was, voices were raised in protest the second he appeared. The high-pitched childlike wailing of Lozepath’s neutered clerical attendants mixed with violent oaths from the Sisters of Battle. Gaul’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dazzling surroundings, and he came to a halt yards before the raised dais on which Lozepath lounged. Black-armoured figures swarmed towards him, weapons readied to fire. In response, two of his veterans stepped forward, one on either flank, and drew their bolt pistols. Behind him, Gaul heard two chainswords buzz into life. Calls of ‘blasphemy’ and for them to immediately disarm went unheeded. Gaul would give no such order. Palatine Serenaird strode towards him, power sword and bolter drawn, her face darkening with fury.
‘How dare you enter without my permission, Chapter Master! Do you realise the disgrace you bring upon yourself and your brothers?’
Serenaird swept past the veterans and stood inches away from Gaul. Her head only came up to the Chapter Master’s chest armour, but though she was effectively surrounded by the towering forms of Gaul and his honour guard, it was obvious from the righteous anger burning in her eyes that she was very far from being intimidated. As far as Gaul was concerned, this made what he had to say much easier. He had no more time for games.
‘May I remind you, Serenaird, this is my ship. I do not require permission from you or anybody else to do anything. And with regards to bringing disgrace upon my Chapter…’ Gaul’s gaze flashed down to her humming weapon, then back to her eyes. ‘The true dishonour is yours for drawing blades at the sight of those who provide shelter and protection to your Sisterhood and the Saint.’
A chorus of oaths erupted around the chamber. Four Sisters moved towards the veterans at his side, the muzzles of their weapons aimed directly at the Space Marines’ heads. Gaul readied himself to restrain the Palatine. He would have to move fast to prevent her from getting off a shot.
‘Chapter Master Gaul. Were you not informed I was at prayer?’
Lozepath’s voice was like oil on water. It slid around the high-ceilinged chamber like silk, soft and strong in equal measure. Gaul kept his gaze fixed on the Sister’s eyes for a few more seconds, then turned and bowed towards the dais. As he did so, he caught the furious glares from various clerics and other minions standing at floor level and on the eight high steps leading to the altar. They were of no consequence. What was of the greatest importance was the distorted, twitching form of Lozepath’s personal sanctioned astropath sitting to the Living Saint’s left. Anger flared brighter in Gaul’s chest. The creature’s head was attached to a series of cables snaking behind the wide, ornate throne on which Lozepath sat and directly into the main communications network of his ship. The psyker’s hood had fallen back from its ashen face and its eyes were glowing white. Gaul had seen enough of the creatures to know this one was still active. Emperor’s Throne, it had been transmitting its dream-message for far too long.
‘Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I am here on the gravest of business. Our shipmaster has detected an astropathic communication from your chambers, and I must insist it be terminated immediately.’
There was a gasp from around the room at Gaul’s words. More Sisters of Battle stepped towards his honour guard, and Gaul could feel the hatred emanating from Serenaird. Beneath his cloak, Gaul clasped his unseen hand around the handle of his relic blade. His hopes of avoiding bloodshed were fading with every second, but the stakes were far too high for inactivity. Gaul knew if he drew Acritus, there would be no going back. Regardless of who he stood before, right at this moment he desired it more than anything.
‘Come forward, Chapter Master. I would speak with you.’
Lozepath’s command seemed to catch everyone by surprise. Gaul caught a dismissive wave from the seated figure, and heard the Sisters move warily around him and the honour guard. Gaul turned his back on Serenaird and, making sure both of his hands were visibly empty, mounted the steps. Lozepath gestured to the right side of his throne, a holy relic retrieved from his unsalvageable flagship. Every step Gaul took up to the wide platform was scrutinised by the Sisters of Battle, all of whom still had their weapons trained on him and his battle-brothers. As he reached Lozepath’s flank, the Living Saint’s astropath issued a strangulated cry and fell from his seat to the floor. Several shaven-headed serfs tended to him, roughly disconnecting cables from his head before dragging the psyker away towards an antechamber at the back of the chapel.
Lozepath leaned on his right elbow and beckoned Gaul to within earshot. Such was the intensity of the energy that surrounded his body, Gaul found it difficult to look upon him at close proximity, even with the protection of his augmented vision. Underneath its shimmering field, Gaul got the impression of a simple white cloak and thick golden sash, around which was slung a jewel-encrusted sword belt. The weapon itself, a mighty blade taller than a man, rested tip-down in front of the throne’s left arm.
‘I take it you believe my communication with Salandraxis to be a deliberate breach of your orders and a dangerous mistake, Chapter Master.’
Lozepath did not turn to look at Gaul as he murmured the words. The Living Saint’s eyes burned with a ferocity equal to that of any daemon Gaul had faced in his countless battles with the forces of Chaos.
‘Highness, we cannot afford to give away our location so far from our destination. We may attract the attention of the Despoiler. I would not have your safety compromised.’
Gaul’s response was brutal in its simplicity. Had Tentera been present, he felt sure the venerable Chaplain would not have approved of the accusation. However, it was a truth Gaul would not hide. Regardless of his inviolability, the Living Saint had put them in immediate, terrible danger.
Lozepath shifted his weight to the other side of his throne as he considered the Chapter Master’s words, the glow from his body intensifying, then fading. Leaning back over to the right, he beckoned Gaul closer once again.
‘There are three things you need to understand, Chapter Master. First, the needs of an entire planet outweigh our own. Salandraxis has not heard from me since
we set off on our journey, and they had to know I was safe and nearing my return. Second, my righteous authority overrules anything you or any other warrior of the Adeptus Astartes might hold, regardless of how well intentioned your actions may be. And third…’
Lozepath grabbed hold of Gaul’s left vambrace. The movement was unnaturally fast, and by the time Gaul had looked down to the action, he could see the ceramite beneath the Living Saint’s hand glowing. At red he felt minor discomfort. At white, his forearm was crisping. He looked back up to see a flaming intensity in Lozepath’s eyes, his soft, red lips transformed into a sneer.
‘If you ever enter this chapel against my wishes again, I will have you executed.’
Lozepath released Gaul’s arm, and the Chapter Master looked down to see a molten handprint smoking on the surface of his vambrace. For long seconds Gaul stared at the damage, waiting for the anger within his breast to subside. When he eventually flicked his eyes back to Lozepath’s face, Gaul let his arm fall, his cloak shrouding the mark left upon him. Gaul dropped his voice to a low growl.
‘If you continue in the delusion that I serve you before the Emperor and His realm, you will be the one to suffer. Heed these words – I will not repeat them.’
The sneer dropped a fraction on the Living Saint’s lips, but before he had time to react any further, Gaul took a step back, bowed his head and then marched down the steps without looking to the Palatine. His fury was almost beyond control, but he had said what he needed to say. The blind faith of the Adepta Sororitas would not allow them to see the reality of the situation they had been led into, and Gaul would make no excuses for doing what he felt to be right. As he reached the opening doors, he heard his honour guard barge their way past the Sisters and take up formation behind him. Other than the sound of their marching boots, their departure was watched in absolute silence. Exiting the chamber, Gaul looked to the Sister Superior who had tried to stop him from entering. Even though her skin was like porcelain, she looked ashen. Without a word she turned and walked back into the chapel, likely summoned to answer for her actions. He did not expect to see her again.
As Gaul marched away from the chapel, he finally allowed his fury to sweep through him. Lozepath’s psyker would be detected by an astropath of the enemy, of that he was certain. Despite the Living Saint’s considerable power, they were an easy target, six ships or no. Looking down to his arm, he realised he would need attention for his ruined armour and flesh. And then, the words of the Chaplain Venerable Dreadnought came back to him. He should use his belief an attack would come to his advantage. Coming to a junction, Gaul stopped dead and, instead of heading to the medical facility, turned towards the bridge. He needed to speak with the fleet’s shipmaster immediately.
Khârn heard Lukosz’s hail come once again from outside his chamber. Anger flared in his breast and he sprang to his feet, instinctively picking up Gorechild as he strode to the hatch. He had made it very clear he wished to be left in solitude. The after-images of his vision were fading, and Khârn needed clarity of thought to see the Red Path’s direction. So far, such a focus had eluded him and interruptions would not help bring the answers he desired. Activating the huge bulkhead door, he brought the chainaxe up to Lukosz’s neck and snarled.
‘Your explanation had better be a good one, or your head will be joining those on my trophy chains.’
Lukosz looked straight into Khârn’s eyes, his face impassive as Gorechild’s teeth whirled a hairsbreadth from his throat. As his rage subsided, Khârn lowered the huge weapon, giving Lukosz enough room to offer a small bow.
‘My Lord, the ship’s astropath requests your presence as a matter of urgency.’
Khârn considered Lukosz’s words as he felt the vibration from Gorechild idling in his hands. His response was good enough. Deactivating the chainaxe, Khârn allowed it to spin to a halt and lowered it.
‘Very well. Are repairs to the ship complete?’
While Khârn had been seeking the direction in which they should be sailing, he had allowed Roderbar to halt the Skulltaker for repairs. Now that he had rediscovered the Red Path, he was not willing to risk straying away again. Khârn remained convinced the Blood Father would soon make his intentions known.
‘Not to my knowledge, lord.’
Khârn raised Gorechild again to Lukosz’s throat.
‘Then I suggest you find out for certain while you still can.’
Somewhere in the far corner of the dimly lit chamber, Khârn could hear weeping. Ignoring the thousands of symbols and sigils scrawled onto the bare metal of the walls, he brushed past heaps of parchment lying in piles across the floor. Behind the dais on which the creature would send and receive its messages to the warp, what looked like a discarded collection of rags shook violently. The crying became softer as Khârn approached. He was in no mood to be patient.
‘You requested my presence, sorcerer of the warp.’
Khârn folded his arms and watched as the shaking astropath reached out with a claw-like hand and pulled itself up along the wall, avoiding his stare as it rose to its feet. Turning, it kept its head and face in shadow. Looking to the floor, it searched around for a few seconds until it found a long strip of parchment. As the creature held it to the low light, Khârn could see the length of creased vellum was covered in furiously scribbled imagery, much of it blurred together as the psyker had swept over the still-fresh ink with the sleeve of its cloak. It had been written in haste, the scrawled ramblings of a lunatic. It began whimpering as it looked down on them. Whatever the runes meant, Khârn recognised they held a connection with the astropath’s current distress.
‘A place of gold and purity, so fierce the eyes that cannot see still burn with its glorious power. The message drives the darkness from within. My beautiful, beautiful sanctuary is exposed!’
The psyker began to cry again, and dropped the scroll to the floor as if it had become unbearable to look upon. Turning to the dais, it stumbled up its two high steps and fell onto a simple iron seat. Leaning forwards, it placed its unseen face in its hands. Khârn growled at the repugnant display of suffering before him.
‘Where was this message sent to, sorcerer? Can you see?’
Bony fingers swept away from its shrouded face and balled into spindly fists as it spoke in a defeated sigh. Khârn looked down to the parchment, then up again as the creature continued in a hoarse whisper.
‘The voice that speaks is holy. It passes through the warp with a dreadful radiance. I cannot listen to nor look upon it. The splendour overwhelms me.’
Khârn could control himself no longer. Lurching forwards, he grabbed the psyker and yanked it to its feet. The hood fell back to reveal a cadaverous head. Despite it having completely empty eye sockets, tears were flooding down its cheeks. Khârn raged at the creature.
‘Enough of these mindless riddles. Construe what you have seen or I will crush your skull and end your ravings forever.’
The astropath tried to recoil, but its struggle was pitiful in his grasp. After a few seconds, it stopped its bleating and seemed to regain some semblance of control. It stared past Khârn into space, its voice taking on a soft, lyrical tone. The murmurings of a dream half-remembered.
‘The Adeptus Astartes speak! I hear them whispering in the ether. But… their words are meaningless, their message veiled in shadow. I cannot see with whom they commune.’
Khârn stared at the creature. Its face was overrun with confusion and doubt. His hold on the psyker became a crushing grip, and the astropath’s face contorted with pain.
‘Formless sounds. But getting louder. Yes. Louder still. So close I can touch them with my mind. So close–’
Khârn felt something snap beneath his left hand and the psyker wailed. Relaxing his grip, he allowed it to slump back into its seat, nursing its now broken shoulder. Turning, Khârn walked over to the discarded parchment and picked it up as he thought over th
e words he had heard. At the very edge was an angrily scrawled circle, and what appeared to be meaningless lines surrounding it suddenly resolved themselves into the shape of lightning bolts and wings. Khârn felt a rush of adrenaline. He had seen this symbol in his vision. His sudden turn made the astropath flinch in its chair, but Khârn did not approach. Instead he pondered on what he had just heard. This time, it made sense.
‘You do not know who sent the message, its contents or destination?’
The psyker shook its head dumbly. Khârn let the unfurled scroll fall to the floor as he folded his arms.
‘But you do know from where it was sent?’
A single nod. Khârn’s heart raced.
‘Then that is where we shall go.’
Lukosz suspected something the second he saw the group clustered together on the flight deck. It was not unusual for allegiances to form for mutual protection, but they were typically short-lived and terminated by betrayal on the battlefield. Mixing a former Blood Angel with a trio of World Eaters and an expelled brother of the Steel Brethren was a lethal accident waiting to happen. Four of them had supported Morenna on Haeleon, and the way that they abruptly finished their discussion on spotting Lukosz was even more disconcerting. Lukosz gave them enough space to move off, waiting for the last of them to leave. Shobaris, a fellow legionary from the years before Angron had come to lead the World Eaters, hurried into the bowels of the ship and disappeared into an engineering chamber. Lukosz, following, entered some seconds later, power sword in hand and ready for trouble.
Lukosz arrived just in time to see Samzar slamming into a bulkhead. There was a wheeze as the air was driven from his comrade’s body by the impact, but Lukosz could see the pain meant nothing to him. His assailant lumbered into view. It was the World Eater Olpadra, the one remaining member of Morenna’s supporters who had not been talking some minutes previously. The brute waited to see which way Samzar would bounce off the wall, and Lukosz spotted the length of heavy gantry rail in his hand as he adjusted it accordingly. Rushing forwards, Olpadra swung the pole in a high arc, hoping to crack the side of Samzar’s already misshapen skull, but the veteran was too fast for him and ducked. The resulting clang was lost in the cacophony of sounds from the massive drive generators which, while idling at station-keeping, were still deafening in volume. From below, Lukosz could hear the slave gangs toil under the shouts and lashes of their shift masters. Olpadra grimaced as the force of the vibration shot up his arms. It was clear to Lukosz that he had every intention of taking Samzar’s head. This would be an honour duel to the death.