by Guy Haley
The nurgling reached its destination, leaned out on one hand and pointed with the other at an innocent-looking volume nestled among all the rest. It looked no less ordinary than the others, being the height of two handspans, and a few inches thick. The leather binding looked dry, its age hard to judge. It could have contained the details of anything.
The nurgling let go with a trill of delight and plopped onto the floor, then it ran across the room into a patch of shadow.
There had been nothing in the room besides Fabian, the books and the imp. Now there most assuredly was something else, huge and rotting. A wave of stench hit him. The Great Unclean One he had seen enter the library, the thing he had chased all the way down there, stepped forward. The air shimmered around it, as did the walls. Although there was insufficient space to hold it, somehow it fit. The imp clambered up its folds of flesh, using loose muscle fibres like ropes, until it reached the monster’s enormous hand. It squirmed inside the palm, and the greater daemon began to pet it.
The beast looked down on Fabian with a face from a nightmare, yet it appeared bizarrely good-humoured, almost benevolent. Like the imp, it had two other mouths, one in its belly, the other in its left arm. All three of them smiled.
‘Hello, historitor,’ it said with a voice like a knot of snakes hissing. Its mouth was full of churning maggots, and when it spoke they fell out in twos and threes. ‘I am Rotigus the Rainfather, second in Nurgle’s favour. It is my great pleasure to meet you.’
Fabian raised his gun and fired. The las-beam hit it right between the eyes. The creature peered up at the smoking mark, pupils crossed.
‘That was a little rude,’ it said, and returned its gaze to Fabian. It grinned, and more maggots pattered to the floor. ‘I will take no offence. You know nothing of me apart from the lies your kind tell. I only ask that you hear me out.’ It lifted its right hand away from the imp’s head and waved it above, as if gesturing to another presence. ‘I mean you no harm.’
Fabian was overcome by terror. He sought some heroic rejoinder, the sort of declamation a Chapter Master might make before laying into this thing with his power fist, but could think of nothing. He swooned, close to passing out.
‘What do you want of me?’ he croaked.
‘I want to give you something,’ it said. ‘My god is a generous god. He brings gifts, gifts of life and gifts of death. He is the lord of rebirth, and the end of suffering. What I have is not quite so dramatic, but you will like it just the same.’
As the beast spoke, Fabian could feel his suit perishing. The rubberised fabric tightened, threatening to crack. Delaminated carbon flaked from its armour plates. The power indicators on his laspistol dimmed, one after another. He should run, but he could not.
‘If I were you, mortal,’ Rotigus went on, ‘I would read that book there.’ It extended a long black nail towards the volume its minion had pointed out. ‘I would reach it down for you, but, you know, if I were to do so, you would not be able to read it.’ It sniggered, and each heave of its chest spilt maggots from its mouth like grain falling into a hopper.
‘Why would I do anything you suggest?’ said Fabian. ‘I have read of your kind. You tempt and you corrupt. That is all you do.’
‘Is that so?’
‘All your gods are evil.’
‘All gods are gods. They are neither good nor bad.’ The mouth embedded in Rotigus’ belly licked its split lips. ‘Nine of your primarchs turned from your god to the Great Four. They were men far above you. If they did so in their wisdom, do you not think the offers of Chaos are worthy of consideration?’
‘No,’ said Fabian. He backed away. The air twisted, and suddenly Rotigus was behind him, blocking the door, and there was no way out.
‘I’m not done with you yet,’ it said. ‘You pursue knowledge, do you not? That is your purpose. That is your drive. I can see your thoughts, mortal. I know that as much as you revile me you are curious about what I say, so thirsty for knowledge you are. You are thinking, why this book, why is this monster showing me, tempting me, what knowledge is in there?’ Rotigus gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘You justify this to yourself. You are wondering what I might be giving away. What power the knowledge could give you against my kind, and whether it would be worth the sacrifice of your soul. “Fabian the hero”, part of you thinks, and it is tempted. Another part of you is tired with war, and despairs. “This is a way out”, you think. But we both know that those thoughts are only half true. The real reason you want to look into that book, is because you just want to know. You have always just wanted to know. It is why the Anathema’s son raised you up, and it is why you will be his undoing.’
‘I will not betray Lord Guilliman!’ Fabian shouted, choking on fear. He brandished his weapons impotently.
Rotigus laughed. ‘How delightful. Well then, ask yourself this, if he is too pure to betray...’ It licked its lips and gave a knowing look. ‘Why would your lord lock away this book? Why would he lock this whole library against you and all other scholars, when he chose you specifically to uncover knowledge and reveal the truth? Just for one book. That book, right there.’
‘It’s symbolic.’
‘Rot, and you know it.’ Rotigus held up a finger. ‘I’m going to tell you why. In that book is a truth that the primarch does not want revealed.’ Rotigus leaned forward. Gas puffed from holes in its guts. Its face was inches from Fabian’s. ‘Hypocrite,’ it whispered. ‘So take it, and know what kind of being leads your race towards extinction, and this reality to dissolution. Go on.’
Fabian hesitated. He stared into the daemon’s eyes, knowing he would never ever be able to get the thing’s face out of his mind as long as he lived. He polluted his soul for a moment of defiance. It seemed worth it.
‘No,’ he said. He drew and activated his power sword. Against all the odds, the powercells caught, and the disruption field ignited.
Rotigus sighed. ‘Very well,’ it said. It passed its hand in a wide circle, and all the books in the room collapsed into sodden dust. Then it reached with its right hand for Fabian, still cradling its pet in the left.
‘Let’s see how you fare in the garden,’ it said, but Fabian moved back, and struck hard with his sword, cutting deeply into the thumb of the daemon.
The fist and tentacles on Rotigus’ left hand closed reflexively, crushing the nurgling purring in its palm.
‘Ow!’ it shouted, snatching back its hand. Dark ichor sprayed from the wound, and it sucked at it. Maggots wriggled into its flesh from its mouth. It wiped the remains of its pet down its side.
‘Look what you made me do,’ it said, staring at the mess in its palm. A shadow gathered about its right hand, forming into a short staff topped with three circles of living wood that glowed with dangerous light. ‘You’ll pay for that. Perhaps a little change here and there will make you more pliable.’ He grinned. ‘Body of a slug? A maggot’s face? Ever-running bowels? A combination, perhaps. Then you’ll listen.’ Rotigus raised up its wand. Pale ghost lights played around its triple rings of living wood. ‘Something to prettify you in the Grandfather’s eyes…’
‘I told you, historitor, not to follow this thing down here,’ came a loud voice.
Heavy, clanking footsteps approached. Rotigus turned to look, moving a little, so that Fabian could see past it down the corridor. Chief Librarian Tigurius was coming towards them, his helm ablaze with psychic power.
‘You may flee if you wish, spawn of Nurgle, and save me the time of sending you back to the warp.’ He sounded annoyed.
‘You have faced none like me,’ said Rotigus. ‘I am not going to run from you, little sorcerer. You should be running from me!’
‘I am a Librarian of the Ultramarines. I run from nothing. Protecting this knowledge is my duty. This is my library, and I command you to go from it forthwith.’
Tigurius levelled his staff. Rotigus punched its forwards.
Surges of energy burst from both, crashing into one another halfway between the two with a force that threw Fabian back into the room and made the halls shake.
Blazing with arcane power, daemon and psyker fought.
Fabian’s gaze was drawn upwards. The imp was back, and peering down from the shelf. Out of all the books in the room, only a single one survived.
It put a finger to its lips, and pushed the volume from the shelf. It landed with a thump on the floor a few feet from Fabian.
Hesitantly, he reached for it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
TWO BROTHERS
Maldovar Colquan stood on the command deck of the Macragge’s Honour. Colquan held his tall helm one-handed by his side. A servitor waited behind him, carrying his guardian spear. Hundreds of people worked with a tense efficiency all around him.
Isaiah Khestrin was firmly in command, occupying the primarch’s command dais rather than his own, rather more modest throne. Runners bore scrips of parchment from station to station. Servo-skulls transported data loads from one side of the deck to the other. Servitor choirs sighed nonsense words interspersed with technical information. Tech-priests from every common specialisation worked among human crew. Ultramarines stood guard around the back.
Colquan was a golden presence in their midst, unmoving as a block of stone, face set. The crew paid as much attention to him as they would a crag.
Fleet Primus encircled Iax. Nothing could leave its surface. The Imperial fleet was unopposed. There were few forces that could take on three full battle groups of the crusade. Even Mortarion’s Legion, fully assembled, would have been hard-pressed to prevail against them.
Fractured reports of a large force moving on First Landing came from the surface, but proper numbers were lacking. The Lord of Death commanded one of the greatest, most coherent threats to the Imperium, and yet he had wished to take on Guilliman practically alone.
It made no sense. Colquan was aware that Guilliman and Mortarion were operating on a level even he would struggle to process, but taking that into account, neither strategy of the opposing sides seemed appropriate.
In the battle groups were hundreds of thousands of men, a quarter Titan Legio, aircraft, tanks, warriors from every branch of humanity. Guilliman had not deployed them. The ground was difficult, Colquan agreed. Large war machines would be easily outflanked in the karst landscapes round First Landing. Plague put less durable strains of humanity at risk, that much was true, but what about the Adeptus Mechanicus, or Colquan’s warriors of the Ten Thousand? Surely they had a role from the start, not hanging back to act as executioners. Guilliman had told him no.
‘These primarchs play a dangerous game,’ he said to himself.
He feared Guilliman had underestimated the threat of Mortarion’s plague. He feared this would be the end.
He did not approve of this plan.
He was tense and he showed it. Khestrin wanted him off his bridge. The fleetmaster would have preferred Colquan to wait in the teleportarium with his men, for the time his part of the battle came. He had no authority to order Colquan away, so the tribune stayed. Currently, they studiously ignored each other.
‘Give me status on the bombardment of the plague nexus,’ Colquan said suddenly. A strike group slightly detached from the fleets were punching columns of lance fire through the atmosphere.
‘No return on bombardment effectiveness, my lord. We are firing blind,’ an officer responded.
‘Keep up lance bombardments on the Novamarines’ mark. Prepare main batteries for firing should clarity impose itself. I want this over with as soon as possible.’
Khestrin glanced up from the report he was reading and addressed the tribune.
‘Are the Ten Thousand ready for teleport strike, tribune?’
‘We are.’
‘Then perhaps you would like to join them?’ he said, a little tautly.
‘When a locus lock is provided,’ said Colquan. ‘There is no point in us descending to attack the artefact until its location is properly determined, and the secondary attack site shall only be engaged at express order of the primarch or tetrarch.’ He remained steadfastly where he was.
He did not trust this human to win the battle. A dozen ships waited in reserve, the most potent weapons the Imperium had in its arsenal ready for launch, all pointed at the planet; Guilliman’s insurance against Mortarion’s victory. Colquan thought such power should not rest in the hands of mortal men. The consequences if Khestrin launched them at the wrong time were unthinkable. As much as Colquan wished the primarch gone, if he died then the Imperium would go with him.
A squalling message from the surface screeched out of a vox-horn. It took tech-adepts several passes with their filtering equipment to make sense of it. When they were done, a clarion blew, announcing a priority communique.
‘The primarch sallies out. The battle enters the second phase.’
‘Is the pre-lock still valid?’ Khestrin asked his gunnery chief.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then fire upon the predesignated target immediately.’
Colquan’s grip tightened on his helm. ‘Mortarion will make his move soon. We enter the most dangerous phase of the battle.’
The main gate of Puscinari’s Barbican swung open. The enemy responded slowly. You could see the ripple of realisation spreading through them like waves in oil as ten thousand decaying helmets turned towards the gate.
Gunfire blasted out from every corner of the barbican. The north-facing guns still active on the first and second wall tiers joined the batteries on the third, and those on surrounding peaks, targeting the field before the gate. They scoured the ground of foes, monster, man and Space Marine, melting the rockcrete of the highway leading away from First Landing to a viscous lava. Flights of Inceptors burst from concealed positions and dived down. After two minutes of ferocious, world-shattering bombardment, the wall guns cut out, and Guilliman’s force sallied forth.
They came in Repulsor, Gladiator and Astraeus grav-tanks, many dozens of them of them in a score of Chapter colours, pouring through the gate, already firing their main weapons before they had cleared the arch. They powered forward and spread, blasting apart everything that came against them. Inceptors and Suppressor squads roared ahead, clearing the enemy from the sides of the advance while the wall guns continued to fire, gridding the battlefield further out and annihilating the foe square by square.
The sally was fiercely opposed, and after only a few moments of disarray, the Death Guard reorganised themselves, and turned their medium-range guns onto the path of the advance. Shells hammered into the vehicles, blasting many to pieces, yet still they went on, driving straight into the enemy. Siege mantlets were targeted from behind by Gladiator tanks jinking through the narrow gaps between, blasting out field generators and leaving the warriors sheltering behind them at the mercy of the wall guns. Repulsors formed spearheads that crushed traitors into the dirt with their pounding contragrav.
To the foe, the primarch’s gambit must have seemed reckless. There were many tanks, but the Legion of Mortarion outnumbered them greatly. It seemed a doomed charge, and would have been, if a simple charge had been Guilliman’s intention.
The tank formation split, then split again. A large arrow of tanks peeled off to the left, heading around the base of the walls, where Space Marines leapt out and attacked Plague Marines already pushing into the city.
Another portion of the tanks drove to the east, pulling the attention of the foe’s left flank away, while the central formation broke in two, and circled the middle of Mortarion’s army. Several were blasted to pieces, or bogged down and overwhelmed in melee, but enough fulfilled their objective, shepherding Plague Marines by fire and grav-pulse into a dense mass a mile across.
The sky rumbled. A point of light appeared overhead.
A single shell fired from the Macra
gge’s Honour fell through the atmosphere. It was a munition of rare manufacture, warded against the effects of the psychic storm by the remains of human pariahs salted into its metal, and its guidance system was locked on to a psy-beacon buried beneath the plain.
Roboute Guilliman watched it descend, a cacophony of voices in his helm reporting successful completion of manoeuvres. The tanks raced away, still shooting.
‘A display of weakness can be a strength,’ Guilliman said. He turned to Felix, who stood at his side. Behind him were the entirety of the Concilia Psykana. ‘You know what to do, tetrarch.’
‘Remember,’ Natasé said. ‘The sword is the key. Draw on your father’s power, or die.’
Guilliman nodded, then walked out of the gate towards the enemy alone as the star fell from the sky and exploded.
Roboute Guilliman headed into its false sunrise.
The descending torpedo carried a single magma warhead. The use of such weapons was intended for Exterminatus-grade actions. They were planet killers, not tactical devices.
At four hundred feet above the surface of Iax, the warhead’s servitor brain detected optimal airburst height and detonated. High explosives erupted in a sphere around a core of potent isotopes, crushing them. Atoms fused, releasing vast amounts of energy. Condensed gas metals around the warhead core were vaporised instantly, creating a cloud of plasma that raced out far in excess of the speed of sound. The shockwave hit the ground, reflecting back into itself, intensifying the effect. A compact firestorm roared in the heart of Mortarion’s army, obliterating traitors who had plagued the Imperium for centuries.
Guilliman walked towards this nuclear starburst, his post-human physiology protecting him from the heat and light. The ground rose up beneath as the shockwave passed towards the city through the earth. Troops were flung off their feet, then blasted by a roaring front of superheated gas. Guilliman’s tanks fled as quickly as they could, though some were caught. Mortarion’s army were far less nimble, and hundreds of them died instantly.