Dark Imperium: Plague War

by Guy Haley

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Septicus made for the foot of the ramp and hauled himself hand over hand up its creaking timbers.

  ‘Out of my way!’ he boomed. ‘You heard him, I must stir! The mixture must not stiffen!’

  Ku’gath found himself recreated in miniature as a living bust supported upon a toadstool stalk. The sorcery recreated his head and shoulders in every detail, including the pulsing inner parts ordinarily obscured from view, which were revealed in cross section by the projection. A daemon lacks the sense of the body a mortal has, being eternal and impermanent of form, but though Ku’gath had been many things in many shapes throughout his immeasurable existence, he found the sensations bestowed by the Mycota Profundis a little strange. In truth he welcomed it. Eternal life offered few new sensations.

  The Mycota Profundis was employed solely within Mortarion’s horarium, and though the physical location of the room of clocks varied – it was often within the Black Manse upon the Plague Planet, in the corrupt hives of Rottgrave, or housed in a wing of Nurgle’s own mansion in the warp – for the last decade it had resided upon the Endurance, the daemon primarch’s flagship from his days in the Emperor’s service. Hateful, unsullied, mortal stars shone through the gaps rotted in the wall. Ku’gath could smell the void beyond, clean and untouched by Nurgle’s corruption.

  Mortarion was not ten feet from Ku’gath’s manifestation and covered up to the neck by the black mycelia that allowed their communion. The grand clock at the centre of the chamber was still. Silence, Mortarion’s battle scythe, served as the clock’s pendulum, but currently the weapon was in the primarch’s unmoving hand. From the bell jar atop the apparatus, the alien ghost of Mortarion’s adoptive father looked on.

  ‘O great and most potently pestilential Mortarion!’ declaimed the daemon into the clashing of the clocks that crammed the room. ‘What service might I provide for you? You call upon Ku’gath Plaguefather, and he answers!’ The irony that Ku’gath had to play the cheerful servant to Mortarion much as Septicus did to him was not lost on the Great Unclean One. It annoyed him enormously.

  Mortarion’s mouth was hidden behind his ugly rebreather. Despite this his voice was clear and sepulchral, deep as midnight bells in drowned cathedrals tolling for the damned.

  ‘My brother approaches. He will arrive in the Parmenio System within a few days. This I have foreseen. Our plans change. I require your help.’

  ‘But this is part of the plan!’ said Ku’gath. ‘You goaded him to come to Parmenio. He treads the seven-step path to ruin as you desired.’

  ‘He runs the path too quickly. He uncovered the secrets of my warp-clocks far faster than I would wish. He banished Qaramar, guardian of the final days, to the warp. The rootling network joining world to world is vulnerable without Qaramar’s ceaseless watch.’

  ‘I sensed his passing. He is fifth in Nurgle’s favour. The storm his return to the garden whipped up blows winds all can smell.’

  ‘You are phlegmatic about his banishment,’ said Mortarion.

  ‘My humours are well balanced. I am not a scion of the Blood God to see rage everywhere, or of the infinitely cursed changer who anticipates schemes and plots, and writhes with dissatisfaction. I see what there is. It is well within the power of Roboute Guilliman to end the likes of Qaramar forever. The sword he bears…’ Ku’gath shuddered.

  ‘Are you afraid of him, third favoured of Nurgle?’

  ‘I am,’ said Ku’gath, deciding the course of honesty was best. ‘The sword he bears burns with the wounding fires of the Anathema. The death it carries allows no rebirth, only an end. The sword is the creation of the being I will not name. It is a weapon that could kill me. It could kill you.’

  ‘Nothing can kill me.’

  ‘Ah, Lord Mortarion, do not be so sure,’ said Ku’gath with exaggerated sagacity. ‘Qaramar was lucky. He is present at the end, he always has been, and therefore always will be. Fate grants him protection neither you nor I can claim. We must be cautious.’

  ‘Then it is of the highest importance that our plan works correctly. Guilliman moves too fast.’ Mortarion’s blind white eyes looked at Ku’gath piercingly.

  ‘We can accommodate these shocks. We will prevail.’

  ‘Is your phage ready?’

  Ku’gath pulled a face. ‘Need you ask?’

  ‘If the answer is no, then he does indeed move too fast!’ Mortarion rebuked. ‘If he comes to Parmenio, I must snatch him away to Iax. When he dies there, his realm will become mine in the materium and the warp. But he comes too soon. I am not ready. The rootlings have not finished their growth from clock to clock.’

  ‘Can he not be slowed, O harbinger of ruin? Perhaps you might employ your mastery to upset the warp?’

  ‘I have tried,’ said Mortarion guardedly. ‘Etheric storms fail. The first daemonic legions I commanded against him were defeated. Those sent after again frittered to nothing before they could draw close to his ships. My attempts to force him from his course come to naught.’

  ‘Troublesome,’ said Ku’gath.

  ‘More than troublesome,’ said Mortarion. ‘I fear that he is under the protection of the thrice-cursed Emperor.’

  Ku’gath winced at open voicing of the forbidden name.

  ‘I said I would not name Him, why must you?’ the daemon wailed.

  ‘The warp is smoothed, and though Guilliman is too unimaginative to see that this is the case, hateful light quells the storms before his ship. My father’s work, perhaps.’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘My brother Magnus. He too is my rival.’

  ‘Better it is the red cyclops! If your so-called father is again moving His will in so coordinated a way we have much to fear!’ said Ku’gath in dismay. ‘Not only the sword, but the Anathema Himself? It cannot be! We cannot face that sort of foe and live.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Plaguefather.’ Mortarion took a phlegmy, rattling breath. Yellow vapour puffed from the vents of his rebreather. ‘My cursed sire’s influence in this realm has long been weak. If He were gathering more power to Himself, we would know. It could be that the misplaced faith of the mortals eases Guilliman’s passage. Guilliman surrounds himself with sorcerers, priests and psykers in his hypocrisy. Perhaps it is their doing. Or maybe it is simply ill luck. Or perhaps my father does not remain a worthless corpse and is active again. I cannot see. The numbers are not clear. My divinations tell me nothing.’

  ‘I am not so optimistic,’ said Ku’gath.

  ‘When are you optimistic, Plaguefather?’

  Ku’gath’s antlers quivered bashfully. ‘I tend to pessimism, I agree, but this is too much. A primarch walks the stars for a century, and saints of the Anathema and His unliving legion are abroad. These are all signs that He-of-Terra is gathering strength again.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Mortarion. ‘If so, He is ten thousand years too late. The plans of our master and his warring brothers are too far progressed. Extinction awaits humanity. Chaos shall pull this galaxy entire into the depths of the warp, and the Great Powers shall glut themselves upon the souls of every species. We must gather what lands we can before they are snatched from our grasp and become the kingdoms of other beings. Ultramar will be ours, if you help me now.’

  ‘I am busy,’ said Ku’gath. ‘The plan demands my attention on Iax.’

  ‘Plans change. You must come to Parmenio with your Plague Guard. My warriors require the support of Nurgle’s glorious Neverborn.’

  ‘What of my great work? If I leave now, there is a danger it will not be finished and all we have done will have been for nothing.’

  ‘There will be no great work if my priggish brother is not there to receive it as a gift. As in all things, Ku’gath, material effort must conjoin with the ephemeral to result in effect. Parmenio is the house of the sixth plague. The Pestiliax Godblight cannot be the sixth plague, it must
be the seventh, for if it is not the seventh, it cannot be the Godblight. Iax-that-will-be-Pestiliax is the house of the seventh plague. It is ordained. Number is all, timing is all. The plan must progress to the order of the sacred order of three and seven. Seven Hundred Worlds in Ultramar and beyond can be ours, or none shall be.’

  Ku’gath grumbled deep in his gut.

  ‘Something ails you?’ said Mortarion. ‘Perhaps you do not agree,’ he said with a dangerous glare.

  ‘No, no, sacred numbers of Nurgle need the proper care and attention. A touch of blessed wind, that is all.’ He forced a hiss of foetid gas from a perforation in his exposed guts.

  Mortarion was not fooled. ‘I know you, Ku’gath. You do not agree with me. Let me put it another way. Guilliman has brought many men and ships from beyond Ultramar to his cause. This realm of his has become a rallying point for the Imperium. You may not care very much for the doings of mortals and the world of flesh beyond a playground for your pestilences, but what happens in this mortal sphere will affect you. The great victory of Nurgle will be delayed. Perhaps our gains could be reversed. You will be forced to start again. How many times have you failed now to pay back the Grandfather for your life and recreate his greatest sickness, the one your greedy former self devoured? It could be remade soon. It will not be if my brother pushes his advantage.’

  Ku’gath looked aside, embarrassed by this reference to the manner of his birth. He was unworthy, a pest made mighty by chance. Mortarion plucked mercilessly at the strings of his insecurities.

  ‘I require reinforcement,’ said Mortarion. ‘At the least I must blunt Guilliman’s attack, force him to take time to recover his strength so that the transformation of Iax to Pestiliax will be complete, and a new Scourge Star shall shine with baleful light at the heart of Ultramar.’

  ‘You have a more ambitious plan?’

  ‘To take him alive. Snatch him from his armies. If we are fortunate, and bold, we can capture him, and imprison him, and then you might work your great skill upon his body at your leisure.’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  Mortarion nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But he must die on Iax whether we catch him or not. Only then can the clocks chime in dolorous harmony, and the rootway that binds them tick to tock drag this pathetic realm into Grandfather’s garden. The Lord of Rot will be pleased. If you choose not to help, Guilliman will drive us from Parmenio, and push back our gains across his kingdom, and then will Lord Nurgle be happy? Will he laugh and indulge us if a trillion trillion trillion baccillae are purged from existence?’

  ‘He shall not,’ said Ku’gath stoically. ‘What of Typhus? Can he not aid you? The last I recall from looking into the wider war, he leads a substantial part of your Legion. Summon him.’

  Mortarion’s scarred face wrinkled with anger. ‘My son will not heed me. He uses his disagreement with our change in priorities to vie with me for Nurgle’s favour. He does not see that ravaging Ultramar with plague and sword is not enough. He cannot see the greater prize. Typhus never had vision beyond his own aggrandisement. The primarch must die when and where we say, and to plague. His realm must be offered to Nurgle under our stewardship, or another of the four shall take it. It is we two who must push forward this plan. Three would be better. Two will have to suffice.’

  A sigh rattled its way up from Ku’gath’s diseased lungs. He did not want to leave his work. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The Plague Guard will join with you. If you will give me a few days to prepare a path through the garden from my place to yours. The way is winding, and not lightly traversed, I–’

  Mortarion lifted up one hand with difficulty. The strands of the Mycota Profundis prevented easy movement, but his gesture was clear. Silence.

  ‘All is prepared. Your passage here will be easy. Pestiliax is a viable anchor, there is no need for you to walk the wending ways of Grand­father’s garth. A cabal of pest-witches begin their summoning ritual. They make much of their abilities. I shall allow them to prove what little worth they have, vile magicians that they are.’ He sneered when he spoke of the sorcerers. He was steeped in magic, yet he still attempted to deny the truth of his being.

  ‘Very polite of you to inform me before tearing me away from my business,’ said Ku’gath. He half meant it. A summoning could be abrupt, and unpleasant. Ku’gath was unkind to mortals who dared to interrupt his experiments with foolish requests and demands for power.

  ‘Though I know you resent me, I truly do not wish your endeavour to go awry for it is my endeavour also,’ said Mortarion in conciliatory tones. ‘Roboute Guilliman must die by plague, and he must die on Iax. If any being in any realm can accomplish that, it is you, Plaguefather. You shall redeem yourself, and I shall win Nurgle’s eternal favour. Your presence is required here on Parmenio Prime, to ensure the road is laid for my brother to Iax, by one way, or by another. I cannot do it without you.’

  ‘I almost believe you flatter me.’

  ‘I do,’ said Mortarion. Without warning he burst from the stringy fungal strands cocooning him. A sweep of Silence cut the stalk bearing Ku’gath’s manifestation through. It toppled, and the miniature head burst on the floor into a mound of rancid meat, sending Ku’gath back to his body.

  ‘Hmph,’ said Ku’gath, opening his eyes. His corpulent body shivered, bursting the mat of mycelia clinging to him. The strands shrivelled back even quicker than they had grown. In no time at all Ku’gath was covered in little more than a smear of black slime. Septicus stepped back quickly from the edge of the cauldron, relinquishing the paddle to its owner. He walked down the spiral gangplank, crushing nurglings as he went, and took up his station by Ku’gath’s knee.

  The Plaguefather looked down at Septicus. His doleful mien was a marked contrast to the jollity of his servants.

  ‘What did the Lord of Death want from you, my most noisome benefactor?’

  ‘A lot of this, and a lot of that,’ said Ku’gath. ‘For one so enamoured of silence, he talks a great deal. What he did not voice is his misgiving.’

  ‘How so?’ said Septicus.

  ‘Mortarion frets that I cannot do as I promised!’ Ku’gath said indignantly. He took up the paddle and forced it through the slurry in the cauldron. ‘I, the brewer of the finest maladies in the universe. He had the insolence to lecture me on the importance of the proper use of the sacred numbers!’ he added. ‘Not that it matters. The plague will be efficacious no matter where it is deployed, and in what order of whatever sequence the fallen Mortarion deems important. Pah!’ He snorted hard, blowing out ropes of snot and showers of maggots from his nose. ‘Seven this and three that, he’s obsessed! As if numbers excuse him of his connection to the warp. Numbers! The lengths Mortarion goes to distance himself from sorcery are laughable. The primarchs were creatures of our world before any of them fell, and he is now an arch-sorcerer. He is a liar, and, and, he insults me! I am an artist!’ Ku’gath looked sadly at Septicus. His stirring slowed as his mood lowered.

  ‘You are, my lord. You are a most talented artist!’ said Septicus.

  Ku’gath sniffed. ‘If Mortarion wants a plague to kill one of the Anathema’s get, then he will have one. Eventually.’ He looked dolefully into the cauldron. ‘Mortarion is a troubled being. He keeps his jealousies to himself, but mark my words, Septicus, and mark them well, I suspect this entire campaign is the result of him wishing to prove his fortitude over that of his brother, and nothing more than that. Seven times, probably,’ he grumbled.

  ‘A fine way of showing his devotion to our Grandfather, who is the lord of endurance among his many dominions,’ said Septicus, attempting to soothe Ku’gath. ‘Now is your chance to prove yourself to Nurgle, and create the most potent disease ever devised!’ As soon as he said it, Ku’gath’s glower showed his efforts had gone awry. Septicus’ smile of relief slipped as Ku’gath growled.

  ‘Or, perchance, to fail again.’

&n
bsp; ‘Never, my lord!’ said Septicus. He waddled forward and placed a solicitous hand on Ku’gath’s obese thigh.

  ‘Oh yes. Again. Every time I try, I fail! If I may confide in you, dear Septicus.’

  ‘You may!’

  Ku’gath’s voice dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘I fear I shall never ­recreate Grandfather’s greatest plague.’ His stirring slowed to a stop. His head drooped. ‘Rotigus waits to replace me in Grandfather’s affections. He would be third, or perhaps even higher! I cannot fail now, or I shall be exiled from my place at Grandfather’s right hand.’

  ‘You need but a little time, your grotesqueness.’

  Ku’gath breathed out heavily. His nurglings looked up at him in concern, their games forgotten. ‘What do I know? Mortarion is right, of course. I am but a humble concoctor of disease. Mortarion is a general born. For now, we must defer to his leadership. If he says the spawn of the great destroyer must be delayed, then we should take him at his word. Septicus,’ Ku’gath said.

  ‘Your most verminous?’

  ‘Pack up your abominable pipes, summon the Plague Guard to our side. Call back half our legions from the cities of Iax-that-will-be-Pestiliax, gather up my palanquin bearers from the sumps and cesspits. We have a new world to infect.’ Ku’gath returned to pushing the wooden paddle around the sea of goo. ‘This will have to wait, although mayhap all is not lost, for fresh ingredients might be procured to enliven the mixture.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes. We will not be long!’

  ‘I will see it done, my lord!’ said Septicus. With a flourish, he plucked up a handful of nurglings from the floor. Their giggles turned to shrieks as he pounded them flat, spat on them, and threw the mess into the air. While falling messily, the crushed bodies flowed together, distended and inflated with a wet pop, becoming the still-living stomach sac of a gargantuan beast. Septicus caught the rubbery mass, and with an affectionate squeeze forced three spines of bone from the top, pop, pop, pop! Lastly, he reached into the roomy pouch behind a flap of skin upon his breast and pulled out an ivory mouthpiece. He licked the sticky juices from it, then took up the tract dangling from the stomach bag and plugged its ragged end with the mouthpiece. He tucked the bag under his arm and gave an experimental squeeze. The most repellent noise honked from the bone pipes, making nurglings burst. With a gleeful smile playing upon his blistered lips, Septicus set the mouthpiece between his teeth and took a deep breath.