Dark Imperium: Plague War

by Guy Haley

  ‘Is that so?’ said Typhus.

  ‘A moment,’ said the nurgling. ‘This form is unbefitting.’ Starveling-thin arms tore apart the last of the uniform, and the creature began to frantically stuff its mouth with anything it could get its hands upon. Scraps of gut, writhing maggots, strips of cloth. All went into its capacious maw and was shredded on needle-sharp teeth. The man moaned a tomb gate’s scraping. Still he would not die.

  The nurgling grew fatter and fatter. As it ate more of the port master, mouths appeared in its flanks. A huge one opened across its belly. Scraps rolled towards it from the dead bridge crew, globules of blood at first, then gobbets of flesh, until limbs and finally entire corpses were drawn towards it. The creature continued to stuff itself, but the larger remains would not fit, and so they softened like wax in a fire, turning the same green as the nurgling’s skin, and ran up and onto the imp’s body where they joined with it directly.

  The nurgling belched loudly. ‘Excuse me,’ it said, and split open like an overripe fruit.

  In the mess rubbery bones formed. Feet first, then femurs, knees and a pelvis hoisted up like the frame of a primitive house under construction. Vertebrae rolled up and stacked themselves one atop the other, threading themselves onto a whipping spinal cord. As ribs sprouted from the backbone, exposed muscle crept up to cover the hardening skeleton, and by the time shoulders branched like tree boughs, skin was laying itself down over the legs. Arms burst out of the mass. Hands budded, and finally, when the gory construction was almost complete, a skull, soft at first, heaved itself out of the chest cavity, inflated, hardened, and set itself firmly upon the neck.

  The manifestation of the daemon went from birth to death with no life in between. Its skin hung loose in slimy drapes. Guts unravelled and dropped to the floor from its ragged belly as quickly as they were made. When the vessel was complete, the nurgling who began it all peeped out from the pulsing organs within the open gut and winked at Typhus.

  The head rose. A single eye slid open. A set of asymmetric horns sprouted like a crown around its scalp, the greatest thrust forward at the front like a spear.

  Typhus bowed his head. He knew this being. At other times, when the warp was weak, Typhus had commanded it. In these circumstances, with the Great Rift open and reality aflame, their positions were reversed. It demanded respect. He would not, however, kneel.

  ‘As Mortal Herald of Nurgle,’ said Typhus, giving the title the Plague God’s favour granted him, ‘I greet you, Lord Mollucos, Exalted Plaguebearer, Immortal Herald of Nurgle, three hundred and forty-third favoured of the great Grandfather.’

  Mollucos’ single eye narrowed. ‘You neglect the hierarchy’s blessed fluidity. Your intelligence is out of date. I am three hundredth favoured. The order of decay is ever in flux, epidemics flare and wane, daemons rise, daemons fall.’

  ‘You have gained a sacred number of rare worth,’ said Typhus. ‘Three times one hundred.’

  ‘All numbers are sacred to my kind,’ said the herald. ‘Whether first captain, or fourteenth primarch, the cohorts of the plaguebearers count everything, for everything counts.’

  ‘A daemon of your rank, Lord Mollucos, can be relied upon to speak riddles,’ said Typhus, ‘though your purpose is clear enough. You have come to speak with me about my gene-father. I trust my concerns about his course of action are to be addressed?’

  ‘Concerns are leaves on dying trees, they fall away in ignorance of the trunk’s rotting,’ gurgled Mollucos. ‘The wardens of the manse speak with the stewards of decay. The stewards of decay gossip with the chamberlains of entropy, who pass to them the words of the Great Unclean Ones. The uncleanly know the mind of the great Grandfather, for they are one and the same. From Grandfather, to the uncleanly, to the chamberlains, to the stewards, to the wardens of the manse these words came, through three times three times three mouths, then delivered to my attention, so I might deliver them to you.’ Mollucos’ tongue pushed out past rotted teeth. It waved around in the air with a will of its own, snapped the miniature mouth at the tip and drew back into the exalted plaguebearer’s rancid gullet. ‘Your concerns are nothing. You will listen. You will obey.’

  ‘What does the god of blessed rebirth command?’ asked Typhus. ‘I warn you I will not aid my gene-father. He is sentimental. He yearns for the comforts of old pains, rather than seeking out new suffering. This petulant war against his brother, his creation of the plague planet and his plans to turn every world he finds into a mirror of Barbarus, they reveal his weakness for the past. His will to persist excludes the potential of Chaos. He desires rotting stability. He is blind to the glories of endless rebirth.’

  ‘There is truth in what you say,’ said Mollucos. ‘Nevertheless, Grand­father commands that you cease now your rivalry with the daemon primarch Mortarion. At the command of the most high, you are to marshal your fleet and sail the aseptic seas of this realm’s void to Parmenio. There you will attack the weapon called Galatan, and bring it into the service of our master. Turn the guns of the mortals upon themselves, aid Mortarion in his conquest of that world, and know divine favour for seven years.’

  The herald’s message angered Typhus. It was he who had brought the Death Guard into Nurgle’s service; it was his plans that should be followed, not Mortarion’s. After all this time, it still rankled. He was wise enough not to say so directly.

  ‘So. Our god has changed his mind,’ he said coldly. ‘Our plan was to ravage Ultramar, despoil it, sicken it, pervert it. The victory was to sow the seeds of despair in the king of the Five Hundred, not to give him mercy through death. The misery of a primarch would have been a delicious draught. His death means nothing. It was agreed.’

  ‘It is unagreed. You speak the words of the believer, yet you too suffer an attachment to continuity. Chaos is change. Continuance is in variety. Permanence is death. The schemes of Mortarion are selfish, but laudable. You will aid him to achieve the stealing of Ultramar into the garden, whether you agree with them or not. You will add to Nurgle’s domains.’

  ‘Then my lord Mortarion is failing to bring Roboute Guilliman to heel. I will not serve him.’

  ‘Be not foolish, mortal. You overstep your rank. You guess the will of the Plague God. He is unknowable. You cannot second guess a force such as he. Serve him as you pledged to, or suffer the consequences. He is your master. Obey.’

  ‘And if I choose not to?’ said Typhus.

  Lord Mollucos smiled unpleasantly. ‘Among all mortals, perhaps you are arrogant enough to defy a god. Very well, should you take the road away from the garden, you shall know an eternity of divine displeasure.’ The Immortal Herald leered. ‘Why do you resist? Already you have clawed three of Guilliman’s star manses from this wretched firmament. Breaking another bauble of the Anathema’s get will prove no challenge for you. Unless you fear to try the ramparts of ancient, mighty Galatan? Are you a coward as well as unfaithful?’

  ‘I am neither!’ growled Typhus. He vowed to himself that one day, when he had his just rewards and was elevated to daemonhood, he would destroy the essence of this being. The temptation to crush its soul and cast it back into the warp as a foretaste of his vengeance was almost too great to resist.

  ‘Seven years’ favour, or forever in anguish. Choose well, Typhus who was Typhon.’

  The herald’s single eye closed. He let out a pained groan, and his body fell apart into a splash of reeking liquid. The nurgling tumbled free of its deliquescing torso, and plopped down onto the floor. It stuck out its tongue and scrabbled its way back within the remains of the port master’s innards, tenting the rags of uniform and skin with its horns. Stumpy legs waggled around its buttocks as it burrowed inside, then its fat little shape sank away. The psychosphere of the command block shifted. Magic dispersed. The way to the warp closed. The herald was gone.

  Finally, the port master, reduced to little more than a shrivelled upper torso, was permitted to
die. He let out his death rattle, and passed on to the horrors of the warp. The last pieces of his body bubbled and dissolved into violently green slime.

  Typhus stared at the mess for a while. Galatan. He had avoided tackling the greatest of the Ultramarian star fortresses. It was vast and powerful, and guarded by more than simple Space Marines. But it was a challenge to overcome, a chance to prove his fortitude again.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall take Galatan, and I shall make Mortarion choke on the glories of my victory, and have him thank me for it.’

  He turned on his heel, already ordering his men to regroup and depart the Odyssean orbital port.

  Chapter Seven

  A night aboard

  the Macragge’s Honour

  Yassilli Sulymanya was permitted to see the primarch before they reached Parmenio. She doubted she would have seen him at all if she’d been forced to wait for the drop out of warp. Her ship was ready to depart the fleet as soon as they were free of the empyrean. It would not survive the war Guilliman was rushing towards.

  Guilliman called for her while she was sleeping. It was late in the sixth watch, a time designated loosely as night. She rose immediately from sleep, rinsed out her mouth with tepid, metallic ship’s water, and picked up the slender stasis box she had for the primarch. Meetings with Guilliman were precious, and she left the room before she had her uniform on properly. She jogged down the corridor doing up her buttons. Time dribbled away from her slowly but unstoppably. The fear of wasting a second of her audience with the primarch nibbled at her composure.

  The Macragge’s Honour grumbled over ripples in the warp. It shook twice, very gently, the twitch of an animal shaking off a flea. The voyage was the calmest Sulymanya had experienced in some time.

  She joined Roboute Guilliman in an out of the way transit conduit. He was a blue shadow in the gloom, more apparent by the noise he made than by sight. He paced with a machine’s patience, heading towards the distant prow. In his armour he looked like a robot warrior of the Cybernetica Legions. He matched their height and their heft. If his head were hidden with their metallic dome, he could have been a machine, but his face was uncovered – a human component nested in cera­mite, a proud face, a fierce face. He was a giant, a mechanical marvel, a post-human demigod.

  Guilliman was human in spite of everything about him that was not. She instinctively knew that they were kin. Care for his fellow man had scribed the lines into his face. Upon his shoulders rested the fates of them all.

  That is why she did not fear him.

  For all the whine and purr of his battleplate and the clank of his boots on the metal decking, and despite her soft-footed approach, the primarch heard her coming. He could not simply look over the massive shoulders of his warsuit, so he shouted out directly forward, loudly enough that she would hear.

  ‘Yassilli Sulymanya, how goes the search for the truth?’

  She ran to catch him. He did not slow his stride, which, though seeming ponderous from behind, was swift. As she spoke, she had to jog to keep up.

  ‘Slowly, my lord,’ she said. She clutched the stasis box to her chest. ‘I’ve finally finished collating all the information my agents gathered during our last expedition. I apologise it took so long, but my lateness is a sign of our success.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing what you have.’

  ‘It was a good haul, my lord. I will have the materials transferred to your private library as soon as first watch is called. I have the catalogue here for you.’ She pulled out a compact data slate from its leather case at her belt and held it out for him. He took it without reading it.

  ‘I am sorry for the nature of this venue,’ he said, gesturing at the tight confines of the conduit. ‘I must make full use of all my time. I find the walk to the prow focuses my thoughts, and I like to arrive at places without fanfare sometimes.’

  ‘I would say it keeps the crew engaged with their work.’

  ‘There is that,’ he said. His orator’s voice imbued the simplest statement with the force of a passionate declamation, though he spoke measuredly and without drama. ‘Mostly it is for my own sanity. Too many trumpets. Too many men in uncomfortable uniforms saluting like their life depended on it. The people need their rituals, but I do not need priests screeching out my titles every time I open a door. Frankly, it is an annoyance.’

  She didn’t really know what to say to that.

  ‘You will be ready to depart when we break warp, I assume.’

  ‘My crew are prepared. We’re ready,’ she said proudly.

  ‘I won’t ask if you understand the gravity of what I am asking you to do,’ he said, still pacing, still facing forward. ‘You are too intelligent not to know.’

  ‘It’s a risk, a big risk. But my House earned its charter by taking risks, and made its fortune by taking more. I don’t want to let my ancestors down by shying away from a challenge, do I? Running Nachmund sounds like fun, in a borderline suicidal kind of way.’

  ‘Fun is a form of justification for action that never worked for me.’ He smiled as he said it. ‘But your enthusiasm pleases me, even if it does not entirely mask your trepidation.’

  ‘You said I’m intelligent. I like to think so too, but I’d be a medically certifiable idiot if I wasn’t a bit scared.’ She clutched the stasis box closer to her. It had taken many lives and much effort to get it to the pri­march. She had to wait for the perfect moment to hand it over, otherwise it would not seem right. She looked up at his face, trying to read his statue’s expression. ‘But in case you’re feeling worried about me, or even a little bit guilty about sending me to my certain death, it’s an honour.’

  ‘I have killed many people with honour in the past,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I am enjoying this journey. It is incredibly smooth. Every trip I make my ship bounces around like a bug in a sample jar.’

  ‘Nachmund will readjust your parameters for “smooth”.’ Guilliman smiled grimly. ‘Travelling the warp was even easier than this in the days the Emperor walked the stars with us,’ he said. ‘Then, the warp seemed a calm pond to the raging sea it is in this benighted age.’

  ‘Roboute,’ said Yassilli suddenly. He glanced sidelong at her use of his given name.

  The liberty had been taken only once before, and recently, and though he had not rebuked her for speaking this way it took him by surprise, she could tell.

  ‘What?’ she said, mischief lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘It is your name, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed, his voice no less stentorian. ‘Although I’d half come to believe my name is “my lord” or “the Imperial Regent” or “blessed primarch”. A term I find particularly irksome.’

  ‘Do you find my use of your first name impertinent?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said wryly. A little of the demigod’s tone slipped from his voice, a little warmth took its place.

  Yassilli was hardly abashed. ‘Then I apologise, my lord Guilliman.’

  Guilliman stopped his walking and looked down at the woman. ‘I said it was impertinent, I did not say I disapproved, Yassilli.’ His voice softened further, becoming yet more human, and his heroic expression did not change exactly, but he somehow became more relatable. ‘I find your familiarity refreshing. It is good to be reminded that I am a person as well as a primarch. And I do have a sense of humour, despite what you might have heard.’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about that, my lord.’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  She shrugged. ‘I try not to.’

  ‘You really have no fear of me, do you?’ he asked. ‘I find that amazing, as well as saddening. Everyone is frightened of me now.’

  She flashed her brilliant smile at him. ‘I suppose I should be frightened of you, but no, I’m not. There’s plenty to be afraid of in this galaxy. Why
be afraid of the one who is trying to save us?’

  He loomed over her, his eyebrows drawn together, two disapproving thunderheads shadowing his eyes. ‘I am Roboute Guilliman, primarch, gene-engineered son of the Emperor of Mankind. I am the Avenging Son, the Victorious, the Blade of Unity, the Master of Ultramar. I am the Imperial Regent. Empires tremble before me. I was made one hundred centuries before your birth, millennia before your House rose to prominence. I have fought daemons and defied beings that call themselves gods. Species have died at my hand. Now, tell me again, do you not fear me?’

  She stared up at him. Her smile was a little less cocky, but she was still wearing it, proud as a badge. ‘When you put it like that, maybe I do a little bit.’

  Guilliman returned her smile tenfold. Some faces are transformed by smiles; Guilliman’s was not one of those faces. Warm though his expression was, he retained the look of an image carved from marble to grace a cenotaph.

  ‘More impudence,’ he said, though his tone was kind. He resumed his walking. ‘You may call me Roboute, if you wish. I miss such signs of common feeling.’

  ‘I thank you, Robu,’ she said.

  ‘Now you overstep the limit,’ he said.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Somehow, I doubt your sincerity,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I assume you have business you wish to discuss, and have not come simply to test the limits of my indulgence.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I have. About Nachmund. I’ll need everything there is to know about the passage through the gap. I’ve already approached your Navigators, but you know how close-mouthed they are. They won’t speak with mine. Likewise your astrogators. In fact, pretty much everyone won’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Nachmund is of particular sensitivity,’ Guilliman said. ‘You have my seal. It will open any door. If it does not, send the denier to me and we shall see whose orders are obeyed.’

  ‘I do have it,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to flash it around the fleet when you’re a few kilometres away from whoever I’m flashing it at. It seems… tactless. Like I’m showing off.’