Dark Imperium: Godblight

by Guy Haley

  He looked over them, and he felt pity, an emotion he had once only had small stores of. There were far more listening than he thought, drifting even now from the comfort of the flames to hear him speak his testimony.

  ‘His name was Frater Othis.’

  A light sliced across the crowd. Odrameyer looked up into the face of Iax’s larger moon. As if it were a sword blade, the moonbeam cut the lid of cloud, and stars, cold and pure in the dark of the void, shone upon the sickened land.

  Murmurs went through the crowd. Odrameyer’s heart lifted a little. Once, he had not believed in signs. He did now.

  ‘When the Adeptus Astartes arrived, the enemy’s attacks became larger, more desperate. On the day we were relieved, the largest attack came. The sky turned black with clouds of flies that fell biting on my regiment, so thick that when flamers were turned against them, the air seemed to burn, and then filled again. Under the cover of this assault, the dead attacked in a horde so vast, I cannot put a number on their multitudes.

  ‘We people of Cadia are bold, raised to be warriors from birth, and yet that day I saw many men and women who I knew to have courage in them tremble with fear. There were tens of thousands of the dead coming at us, moaning and snapping their black teeth. The flies surged around them, bleeding our las-fire of its strength and obscuring our aim. Our big guns took a toll on them, but we were poorly supplied with artillery, and our tanks’ magazines were empty of shells. Before we knew it, they were on us, biting and clawing, falling in an avalanche of rot into our trenches. Scores of us fell in those first moments, hundreds in the minutes afterwards.

  ‘I remember my moments of terror in shame, for a Cadian officer should have no fear, and yet I did. I feared to die. Moreover, I feared to become like the dead, and be made a slave to the very beings who would destroy all we value. I called a retreat, but my voice was not heard, for my vox-operator choked upon the swarm of insects, his body putrefying in front of me as they packed his mouth with their bodies. There was a blast of plasma as my gunner unleashed his gun, and another, greater wash of heat when his weapon exploded. In his panic, he did not purge the firing chamber, and the cooling vents were clogged by the flies. The rest of my command squad died, blasted apart by the sun gun’s failure. I was flung clear, scorched, but alive. It is my great dishonour that I lay there and watched our colours burn in the mud.

  ‘The dead were coming closer, I could hear their moans, and I prepared to die, yet then another voice came to my ears, that of Othis, and that is when I saw the Emperor at work.

  ‘Othis advanced calmly, his pistol held up, his chainsword inactive. No temporal weapons did he deploy, but he wielded the word of the Emperor. He sang the great hymns of Cadia, and his voice was loud with his faith, full of a heavenly music, and the power of elemental forces. The flies dropped from the sky around him, little more than flecks of blackness trodden underfoot. The dead swung towards him, their dark masters sensing his holiness and his light, and desiring above all things to douse it. But when they approached, they fell down, truly dead, and they did not rise again. I watched him go, alone, the flies falling around him, the dead stumbling to a final halt, and then he was gone into their midst.’ Odrameyer’s voice was strong again, swollen with the wonder of what he had seen.

  ‘My soldiers, in full retreat and close to the edge of breaking only moments before, stood amazed, their weapons hanging from limp fingers. They stared after Frater Othis, into the gap he had pushed into the dead and the swarms. I scrambled up to my feet, my fear forgotten. I took up the standard pole of my colour sergeant, paying no heed to the burn of the hot metal as I brandished it over my head, and shouted.

  ‘“He is with us! The Lord of Mankind watches over us, sons and daughters of Cadia! He is with us! Attack, attack, for the Emperor, for Terra, for Cadia!” There was no strategy, only a desperate charge into the teeth of death. By instinct, we formed a wedge, ragged at first, then firmer and deeper as the regiment gathered together, and poured up over the trenches. Everyone. Infantrymen, artillerymen, tank crew who had lost their mounts, staff officers, the hale, the injured. Every tank still running. Every person on that battlefront who could hold a gun. Support auxilia abandoned their crates of powercells and took up the weapons of the fallen. Our medicae put down their stretchers and drew their pistols.

  ‘“Onward, onward! For Cadia!”

  ‘We ran into the foe. They fell before our fury and our faith, their strength denied them by the power of the God-Emperor Himself, and we slaughtered them. Their return blows were feeble, their protective shrouds of flies faded away. I caught one last sight of Othis. Though far ahead, the path he had pushed into the enemy had not closed, as if they could not cross the ground he had walked upon. I saw him hold aloft his holy symbol – a heavy, golden, barred letter I. I had often thought it beautiful, but I did not understand the power of that symbol until that day.

  ‘There was a blinding flash. I threw up my arms to protect my eyes, but then I saw the light did not hurt my eyes, and the blast front that followed touched not a single one of my warriors, nor did it stir even a hair on their heads. But where it touched the dead, it was another matter.

  ‘They exploded into ash, showers of it, soft and fine as snow, and they fell to nothing for a mile around. The light tore the heart from the horde of the dead. I looked up then, and thought I saw in the pillar of holy flame touching the sky, a great giant in golden armour, our god come to save us.

  ‘Then He was gone, and the light was gone, and the sky was clear of toxic cloud, but blue and pure, and the trails of Space Marine assault craft were grey across it. We were saved, by the Emperor. By then we were too exhausted to do anything other than watch the fire trails of their drop craft. No one cheered. There was no celebration.

  ‘Of Frater Othis there was no sign, only a blackened circle some hundred feet across at the heart of the enemy horde, surrounded by the ash of the dead.

  ‘After the battle, I reported what I had seen to Lord Guilliman’s corps of logisticators. They showed no interest in what I’d witnessed. But I heard rumours of similar happenings, and of what happened on the plains of Hecatone. I thought never to see the light of the Emperor again, though I felt blessed to have done so, and would have died happy having seen it, until Frater Mathieu sought me out, and questioned me about the battle. I saw the same light in his eyes. That is why I pledged my regiment to the Adeptus Ministorum, before we could be inducted into Fleet Primus. And so here we are.’

  Odrameyer looked to Mathieu, who nodded. By now the clouds had fled, and the sky was full of stars. The planet was on the far side of the sun to the Great Rift. It had turned its face from Chaos’ horror, and the night sky was the untouched void. Up there, the great ships of Guilliman’s crusade looked placidly down, metal gods in their heaven.

  ‘I have nothing more to say,’ said Odrameyer. ‘This is my testimony. The Emperor protects.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  KILL-TEAM

  Not long after Mathieu’s crusade set out, psychic storms began growing over the planet. They affected the upper orbits first, intensifying the effects of Mortarion’s spells, and dashing the last slender hopes the Imperial forces had of hunting out the artefact from orbit, but occlusion works both ways. Two Overlord tank lifters ghosted through the poisoned atmosphere towards the surface unseen.

  In their loading clamps the Overlords carried armoured vehicles of the Novamarines in quartered bone and blue. The lead bore a Repulsor main battle tank, Executioner class. Behind its brutal block of a hull was slung an Impulsor grav-transport, no less hard in outline, though a little smaller. On the benches in the rear of the Impulsor, six Primaris Space Marines in Phobos plate faced one another across the open-topped back, feet mag-locked to the deck, armour systems bracing them in position. The trailing Overlord carried two further Impulsors, both fully occupied, Assault Intercessors in the first, ranged Intercessors in the sec
ond. There were but five Space Marines of the ranged group: Justinian Parris’ squad, four of whom occupied the transport compartment, the other driving. The sixth position was taken up by Magos Fe, a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, who wore badges proclaiming his allegiance to Mars and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Justinian had the honour and responsibility of keeping him alive.

  The tech-priest was not enjoying the ride down through the atmosphere. Through the clear faceplate of his environmental gear, his features were locked in a rictus, teeth clamped so tightly together they looked like they might break.

  ‘Relax,’ said Maxentius-Drontio, Parris’ second. ‘We will be down soon.’

  ‘I will attempt to,’ said the priest. He had a small, delicate head, a charac­teristic exaggerated by his brutal augmetic limbs and his heavy helm and chestplate.

  The vox clicked in Sergeant Justinian’s earpiece. Maxentius-Drontio opened up a private channel. ‘Probably wishes he could have ridden down in the Executioner, but his equipment’s worth more than he is. Got to keep them separate, in case we lose one.’ He was in good humour, and found the tech-priest’s discomfort amusing.

  Maxentius-Drontio switched back to open frequencies. ‘It will be fine, just hold on,’ he said.

  The tech-priest was pressing as hard as he could at the bench with his robotic hands, helping brace himself against the backrest. ‘There is no provision for such an action,’ he said, half strangled by fear. ‘Nothing to grasp.’

  ‘Take it up with Cawl,’ said Maxentius-Drontio. ‘These are his designs.’ He patted the seats. ‘You’re a tech-priest. You know him, yes?’ His lack of seriousness was lost on Fe, who managed a frightened shake of his head.

  ‘No, no, I have no personal connection with the Archmagos Dominus. But if by the will of the Machine-God I ever meet him, I will submit a respectful request for a pattern alteration to the templates of these machines.’

  The ships were coming in at a shallow angle and low speed, energy emissions restricted, to lessen their chances of detection. Not that Justinian expected to be seen. The atmosphere was a greenish soup. Blinking runes on his retinal display warned of corrosive elements. Warp lightning crackled in the skies, and where the bolts went ghostly faces grinned.

  ‘I would not want to breathe this air,’ Justinian said to Maxentius-Drontio.

  ‘We might not get much choice,’ said his second. ‘This stuff will eat through our seals eventually.’

  So much had changed in such a brief space of time. A few months had passed since their battle aboard Galatan. The Sixth Auxiliary Squad had been permanently attached to the Third Company and redesignated as Fourth Battleline. They were now serving under Lieutenant Edermo in the second demi-company, who despite Justinian’s somewhat cold first meeting with him, had been impressed by Squad Parris and sought them out.

  Not that there was much left of his squad. Only three of them had survived the attack on the Crucius Portis II, Achilleos being the other besides he and Maxentius-Drontio. He wore his bionic left arm as a mark of honour, leaving his armour off to display the gleaming chromite of the limb. Mechanical fingers curled loosely around his bolt rifle.

  The other two were still relatively new to the squad, and they were not like Justinian and the others, who were Mars-born all. One, Orpino, had been a Scout who had experienced the apotheosis of Cawl’s Gift rather than the older process of transformation, whereas the other had been a firstborn who had undergone the Calgar Procedure and crossed the Rubicon Primaris. He was not alone, for although all were Primaris brothers in the group of twenty-six, nine of them had been firstborn, including Apothecary Locko and the lieutenant, whose own near death in the attack had forced the issue for him.

  Following Chapter Master Dovaro’s death, the depletion of firstborn ranks on Galatan and the arrival of more Primaris tech with the crusade fleets, conversion from the old type of Space Marine to the new had been enthusiastically embraced by the Chapter. They were rapidly moving from being one of the Ultramarines primogenitor Chapters with the fewest Primaris Marines to one with the most. That they all shared exactly the same physiology made it a little easier for Justinian to feel brotherhood with them, but only a little. The cultural gulf between Ultramar and Honourum remained.

  His helm vox pinged. The lead Techmarine pilot was opening up a communications channel to the whole recon force.

  ‘Prepare for release in three minutes. Activate grav-engines on my mark.’

  In the driver’s compartment, Pasac, the fifth and final member of Justinian’s squad, responded. ‘Instructions received. Awaiting activation order.’

  There was no difference Justinian could see, just the same thick clouds all around them. He imagined then falling through them forever, and never hitting the ground. But the engines were changing pitch, the Overlords were braking. The underslung tanks shivered.

  ‘Surface soundings positive. Three hundred feet and closing. One hundred feet altitude required for safe insertion. Approaching. Activate.’

  The Impulsor’s engines came on. A wave of contragrav bleed-over passed up through the tank from the protection baffles and shook the transport.

  ‘Engines active,’ Justinian’s driver announced. Identical responses came from the other three tanks.

  The lead Overlord dipped suddenly.

  ‘Insertion position reached. Tank one, away.’ A pause. ‘Tank two, away.’

  The lead aircraft pulled up into a steep climb, flashing past the nose of Justinian’s transport. Their own Overlord dipped low, a bird hunting insects over water.

  ‘Tank three, away,’ their pilot said. The carry arms holding the Impulsor in front of Justinian’s sprang open, and it vanished into the fog. Then it was their turn.

  ‘Tank four, away.’

  Justinian’s tank fell quickly. The Overlord disappeared, and for a second they were alone in the green murk. Then they reached a height where the contragav could bite, the thrum of the engines changed in pitch, and they came to a cushioned stop. Water bulged up and washed away from them.

  Boot locks disengaged. The Intercessors got up, presenting their bolt rifles to the fog. Fat droplets swirled about them. Their world was restricted to a sphere ten yards across. Magos Fe remained seated, barely less terrified than before.

  ‘I can’t see anything in this,’ said Maxentius-Drontio.

  ‘Lieutenant Edermo, can you hear me? Provide location pulse,’ Justinian voxed. He got nothing but silence in return. ‘Brother Pasac,’ he ordered his driver. ‘Slow search sweep.’

  The stablights on the front of the tank came on. All they did was fix two cones of light into the fog. Mud-brown water stretched in all directions. The tank turned slowly around, the thump of its contragrav twitching the water’s surface like a drumskin.

  ‘Looks like the hydroways have overflowed,’ said Justinian. ‘But where are we?’

  ‘I see something,’ said Achilleos. He braced his bolt rifle on his thigh so he could point with his augmetic arm. ‘There.’

  Justinian followed his gesture past the antennae of the orbital comms array atop the driver’s compartment. There were a number of shadows off to the left of irregular shape, but they could have been anything. His suit’s sensorium was as useless as his own eyes, the retinal display and the augur screen embedded in his vambrace both crawling with nonsense alpha­numeric runes.

  ‘Ten degrees left, Pasac, fifty yards ahead,’ Justinian ordered. ‘Let’s see what we have here. Maybe we can use it as a landmark to guide the others in. Brother Orpino, get on the iron storm.’

  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ said Orpino. He went through into the driver’s compartment. Justinian got a glimpse of Pasac in the dark, surrounded by shining screens, before the door slid shut again. A moment later, Orpino emerged from the compartment hatch, and took hold of the pintle stubber attached to the ring.

  They coasted forward,
lights only dazzling them, still lost. The shapes grew, and suddenly resolved into a copse of trees of no mortal species.

  ‘What by the Throne…?’ murmured Maxentius-Drontio.

  The trees were tall, oddly pyramidal in shape, covered in slick bark that wept rivulets of slime. Huge, globular flowers quivered on top of the squat trunks, sticky yellow pollen puffing out of them at odd intervals. But it was their mouths that gave away their true nature: like those of sea beasts, huge slits lined with teeth that ran most of the way up the trunk. They sighed and whispered. A fat pink tongue lolled out of one and splashed into the water as the tank passed by. Their branches twitched like fingers, and reached out to touch.

  ‘Stay clear,’ said Justinian.

  ‘Where by the primarch are we?’ asked Achilleos. ‘My cartograph makes no sense.’

  ‘That’s why we need him,’ said Maxentius-Drontio, nudging Magos Fe with his boot. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I can do nothing without my machines,’ said the tech-priest touchily. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘We have no fix on them,’ admitted Maxentius-Drontio.

  They coasted on at minimal speed. Dozens of the trees crawled out from the fog, and then buildings, submerged up to the top of their ground-floor doors. These too proliferated.

  ‘A civitas,’ said Achilleos.

  ‘Yes, but which one?’ said Maxentius-Drontio.

  ‘Any sign of Lieutenant Edermo?’ Justinian asked Pasac.

  ‘Negative, brother-sergeant. No signum, no vox. Nothing.’

  ‘Then head for the centrum. Carefully, and slowly.’

  The buildings grew in stature as they neared the middle of the town, dead plants hanging off their sides. The patterns of roads and canals emerged, each one lined by daemon trees.

  ‘Hiastamus,’ said Orpino. ‘Look, brothers.’