Mephiston: Revenant Crusade

by Darius Hinks

  Sorcery folded itself into physics and the materium welcomed him back.

  As time and space fell back into step, he realised how close he had come to losing himself. His omniscience had become a kind of dazzling blindness. Without focus, everything had become nothing. No knowledge. No truth. Not even lies. Just a void. Old Night had divested him of flesh. It had turned him into a ghost and thrown his path into shadow. He had to locate the present and bind himself back into the materium. He tried again to recall his name but it slipped on ahead somewhere, always just out of reach.

  The ghost saw a familiar shape marching through the whirl of thoughts. It looked like another warp shadow, another echo of the empyrean, but he sensed it was more than that.

  He focused harder, honing in. It was a Blood Angel, clad in the blue of the Librarius, his skin leathery and taut, marking him out as antique, even amongst the Adeptus Astartes. The face triggered more faces – a whole slew of noble warriors. The lone Space Marine became a window onto a legion of similar heroes, like a grand parade gathering before a shattered mirror.

  The actual threatened to slip into abstraction again. The ghost stared harder with his mind’s eye, determined to anchor himself in fact. He had to find the root of his rootlessness – the cause of his blindness. He forced the kaleidoscope of heroes to coalesce back into a single Blood Angel.

  ‘Rhacelus,’ he whispered, pleased to recall the warrior’s name. It was his equerry, the Epistolary, Gaius Rhacelus. At the sight of his brother Librarian, a fierce urgency gripped him.

  The ghost clawed slowly back towards the truth. The glamours of the warp released their hold and he began to make out details around Rhacelus. The Librarian was onboard a ship and the ship was under attack. The ghost grasped at these hard, objective truths like a drowning man clawing at the air.

  Rhacelus stumbled against an oil-slick bulkhead, thrown by a violent tremor. His battleplate clanged against the pipes and sparks scattered through the gloom. Hooded blood thralls tumbled around him, thudding hard against the floor, muttering oaths as oil splashed across their crimson robes.

  Rhacelus righted himself and strode on with the blood thralls scrambling after him. They looked like children beside his armoured, transhuman bulk.

  The ghost tried to call out to Rhacelus, but no sound emerged, only colours and light.

  ‘My lord,’ said one of the blood thralls to Rhacelus, wheezing as he struggled to breathe the fume-laden air. The man looked dazed. Blood thralls were made of sterner stuff than most humans, but these men were as broken as the ship. ‘Shall we…’ The thrall glanced warily at the smoke-filled shadows. ‘Should we return to the Strategium?’

  Rhacelus did not break his stride, his ceramite boots hammering out a tattoo as he walked. Servitors rattled clear as he strode by, narrowly avoiding destruction, watching blank-eyed from the shadows.

  More tremors hit, each more violent than the last, toppling the blood thralls and scattering debris. Even Rhacelus dropped briefly to one knee, before grabbing a girder and hauling himself up again.

  Rhacelus paused to wipe oil from his armour, then marched on. One of the blood thralls hurried after him, tapping furiously at a blinking auspex. ‘That last one came from below. In the hold. Inside the ship.’

  Rhacelus halted and looked around, revealing his face more clearly. Flickering suspensor lumens dragged the Librarian in and out of the darkness. He was brutally magnificent. His oversized features were angular and chiselled, as though sculpted by a deranged visionary. His eyes burned deep, otherworldly blue as he took the auspex from the blood thrall and examined its columns of shimmering glyphs.

  The serf hesitated beneath the glare of the veteran Blood Angel. ‘My lord, there’s something beneath the starboard cargo bays.’

  The ghost could taste panic in the man’s mind. He latched on to it, seizing another anchor in reality.

  ‘Maybe it’s not just the xenos,’ said the blood thrall. ‘Could something have followed us from the empyrean? Warp creatures? Perhaps that’s why the void shields are failing?’

  Rhacelus handed the device back and gripped his sword. The ghost recognised it instantly. Lucensis. An immensely beautiful weapon. Few beyond the Chapter could understand the potency of such elegance and symmetry. Beauty is no indulgence, thought the ghost, beginning to recall his philosophy. Beauty shows us how to live. How to be balanced and strong. How to be true.

  As the ghost studied the deadly relic, he recalled the divine armouries of the Arx Angelicum, and then the rest of the fortress monastery on Baal. A torrent of graceful, powerfully wrought designs flooded his mind. It was so beguiling he almost lost himself again so he stared back at Lucensis. Rubies were pulsing along the rune-inscribed pommel, ignited by something. He saw blood dripping from the Librarian’s palm – a self-inflicted wound. The scent of the blood rushed through his thoughts, reigniting the vile hunger, giving him another foothold in reality.

  The blood thrall took a few steps backwards, eyeing Rhacelus’ antique weapon.

  ‘Find First Officer Castulo,’ said Rhacelus. ‘Tell him I will join him on the command bridge shortly. He must hold this course. The master of armament must do what he can to keep the Blood Oath intact. I will resolve the problem beneath the cargo bays.’

  The blood thrall attempted to nod his head and shake it at the same time. He glanced anxiously at the other thralls and then back at the Space Marine. ‘Hold this course, my lord?’ He looked at the oil-spewing pipes and the smoke rolling down the passageway. ‘Towards the xenos? But the ship is coming apart. And there is no sign of the rest of the fleet. My lord, we are only a single frigate. I–’

  Rhacelus raised an eyebrow.

  The serf paled and performed a low bow. ‘My lord.’ He waved at his equally confused-looking subordinates. ‘The bridge.’

  Rhacelus held up a warning hand, his eyebrow still raised in disapproval. He looked down at the man’s robes. They were crumpled and dirty from where he had fallen. The blood thrall blushed with shame and furiously dusted himself down. Then, after bowing a second time, he led his men away.

  Rhacelus waited until they were out of sight, then turned and peered back down the passageway.

  ‘Are you there?’ Rhacelus whispered, staring into the gloom.

  Nameless as he was, the ghost knew Rhacelus was talking to him. He cried out, trying to wrench himself from the shadows, trying to reply, but it was impossible. He was mute. Lost in the darkness.

  Another tremor rocked the vaulted ceiling, hurling ribs of ancient ferrocrete across the deck. Rhacelus shook his head, then marched off in a new direction. He reached a hatch, wrenched it open and plunged deeper, clattering down a series of narrow companionways, heading for the lowest bilge levels of the ship.

  The ghost followed, coiled in Rhacelus’ shadow, still trying to recall his own name.

  As they descended, one physical, one incorporeal, the barking of the klaxons was drowned out by a louder noise – the deep, womb-like pulse of plasma engines, throbbing rhythmically through the ancient bulkheads. It was an oddly bestial sound but, beyond it, the ghost heard something even stranger – voices, wailing and howling.

  The voices ignited a forgotten pain in the ghost. His instinct was to recoil, but the pain was so familiar, so real, that he latched on to it instead, grasping another handhold in the now.

  Rhacelus paused, glancing around at the shadows, as though he had heard the sounds too, but then he advanced with the same, carefully measured pace as before, striding through a bewildering network of passageways, following some unseen beacon.

  At the end of a passageway Rhacelus reached a gilded door with an intricately engraved surface but no handle. The screams grew louder. The maddening scent of blood grew stronger.

  Rhacelus had a small, crystal flask mag-locked to his munitions belt. He took it out, unscrewed the lid and allowed a single drop of dar
k liquid to fall onto his fingertip, then he dragged his finger against the rusty metal, drawing an I and an X.

  The door rattled aside but Rhacelus paused at the threshold, peering through the shifting darkness. Something was moving up ahead.

  The ghost slipped past him but even with half its soul still in the warp, it could not fix the shapes into anything recognisable – they were shadows thrown by shadows, darkness bleeding darkness.

  Rhacelus raised his power sword, recited an incantation and spilled silver light across the floor. The shapes billowed and rolled away from him, as though he had disturbed a nest of insects.

  As the ghost rushed past he heard the voices more clearly. It was a chorus of screams, muffled and distant, like the victims of a catastrophe heard on the breeze from afar. Carefully, he reached out with his mind but could find no trace of daemons. This was reality. Whoever these voices belonged to, they had not followed him from the warp.

  Rhacelus approached another door and a figure stepped forwards to greet him. It was another colossus in power armour and this one was even taller and broader than Rhacelus, looming over the massive Librarian by a full head. It was a Primaris Marine, clad in hulking Mk X Tacticus armour painted in the crimson of the Blood Angels Third Company.

  ‘Brother-Lieutenant Servatus,’ said Rhacelus, banging his fist against his chest armour.

  ‘Epistolary Rhacelus,’ replied the Blood Angel, mirroring the salute.

  ‘Has the Chief Librarian emerged since I last came?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Servatus was on the verge of saying more, but he stopped himself and continued staring into the middle distance.

  ‘Speak up, brother-lieutenant.’

  ‘I heard sounds, my lord. Howls. As though the Chief Librarian were in pain.’

  ‘The galaxy is torn, lieutenant. And so is he.’

  Servatus nodded.

  ‘Is the servitor in there?’

  ‘The Oraculist? Yes, my lord. At least I presume so. I saw it enter when we first emerged from warp space and I have not seen it leave.’

  Rhacelus nodded, then waved at the door.

  Servatus turned and tapped at a rune slate. Symbols flickered briefly across the door’s burnished metal, then vanished as dozens of bolts slid back. Servatus pushed the door open and Rhacelus moved to step past him.

  Rhacelus paused. ‘The hull has been breached in several places. Rejoin your squad, brother-lieutenant. Make for the bridge and find First Officer Castulo. You must hold the bridge. I will join you there.’

  Servatus saluted and hurried away, slamming a clip into his bolt pistol and donning his helmet as he ran.

  Rhacelus entered the chamber and closed the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Mephiston?’ he said. ‘Are you…?’

  The ghost did not hear the rest of the question. At the mention of his name, the galaxy collapsed. Deaths too numerous to count filled his eyes. Unimaginable violence ripped through his brain. The screams rose in volume, desperate and deafening, like a physical assault – claws, raking the inside of his skull. Above it all, though, a great hunger gripped him, even greater than a thirst for blood. He knew, once more, who he was. He knew what he had been born for.

  His hearts pounded harder as he rushed on.

  He was Mephiston.

  He had the answer.

  He was the answer.

  Rhacelus pushed more light through his sword and revealed a confusing sight – an intricate network of strands draped across the whole room. As Mephiston reeled under the weight of his identity, Rhacelus reached forwards, brushing the tips of his gauntlet across the web. It fell back, tumbling from his touch, forming a corridor in front of him.

  Rhacelus stepped into the darkness and the strands dropped down behind him, barring his exit. The air was heavy with warm mist and the iron-stink of blood. Rhacelus’ lip curled into a hungry snarl. He staggered, battling to control himself.

  ‘Mephiston?’ cried Rhacelus, looking around, straining to be heard over the screams. ‘Are you in here?’

  He reached a shape hanging in the knots – a corpse, draped in red robes. It was a Mechanicus adept, swinging a few feet above the ground. There were glistening tubes trailing from his shattered head, linking his augmented flesh to the strange gossamer that filled the chamber.

  Again, Mephiston tried to call out to Rhacelus. Again, Rhacelus did not hear the call, but he did hear the chorus of screams that swelled in response. There was such malevolence in the sound, such fury, that Rhacelus raised his sword.

  ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘We’re under attack. Xenos. Necron cruisers. The Blood Oath is damaged. There are countless boarding actions. My lord, I must know what you intend to do. Whatever you are…’ He looked around, his powerful voice faltering as he studied the bloody mesh. ‘Whatever you are doing.’

  Mephiston could not answer, so Rhacelus hurried on through the crimson threads, past other corpses trapped in the mesh, all hanging at different heights and pierced by the cords that filled the chamber.

  Mephiston followed. He could not make out many details in the gloom but he recognised the bodies – traitors and heretics all, pieces of the trail that was leading him to their master. He glimpsed baroque, curse-warped armour and sharp, Chaos-tainted augmetics, all woven into the design. Some of the hanging figures were moving. It was a macabre puppet show, enacting a performance that Mephiston recognised with satisfaction, recalling the meticulous work that had led him so close to the truth. There was beauty here too, even if it was of a different kind. Each pained gesture and twisted thread reminded him of an invaluable truth. He could see intricate pictures in the gore – glimpses of the future, echoes of the past.

  Rhacelus reached out and grabbed one of the crimson threads. He growled in surprise and Mephiston knew why.

  It was skin.

  The whole web was woven from shreds of warm skin.

  At the same moment they both saw the architect of this grotesque display.

  Rhacelus staggered to a halt, staring. Sitting on a brass command chair at the top of a stone dais was a naked figure. His massive frame was bent forwards and he was writing slowly on a large brass salver, held before him by a wasted, winged servitor wearing a white mask. The figure’s face was thrown into shadow but Mephiston could easily recognise himself. His excitement faded as he saw what his journeys in the immaterium had wrought on his flesh.

  He saw the same shock on Rhacelus’ face.

  Mephiston had been flayed.

  The quivering mass of skin that filled his chamber had been torn from his own body. His organs and muscles were exposed. He looked like a dark jewel, glistening in the light of Rhacelus’ sword. His skin was draped up from his shoulders, forming a pair of colossal, trembling wings that enveloped the entire chamber in a bloody embrace. It was horrific and divine. Even through his revulsion Mephiston saw the artistry of it – the intricate work of art he had woven with his own flesh.

  Rhacelus faltered, staggering back down the steps of the dais, but Mephiston had already overcome his shock and plunged gratefully back into his body.

  Immediately, he was under attack. Incoherent howls scrabbled against his soul, accusing and denouncing. He saw the shadows clearly for the first time through his powerful, warp-fuelled eyes. A tide of mutilated flesh crawled over the dais towards him, spectral, insubstantial bodies, all of them shockingly brutalised. He saw soldiers of every kind – Guardsmen, Blood Angels, skitarii – all screaming at his skinless body. Baying for his blood, as though they could possibly understand its worth.

  At the foot of the dais, Rhacelus barked a curse and waved his sword, scattering spirits. They whirled and snarled, like wolves driven from the kill. Rhacelus lunged at them, but Mephiston knew they could not be so easily banished. However valiant Rhacelus might be, this fight was not his.

  Mephiston gave in to bloodlust, let
ting hot fury envelop him. There was no risk. The Blood Angels’ curse had no power over him anymore. He could harness it without fear. It exploded through his muscles, filling him with dizzying power and, after so long silent, he finally cried out. He let out such a deafening howl that his soul sang with the fury of it. Crimson light shot across the web he had constructed from his own skin.

  With another roar, hundreds of the shadows rushed forwards, swarming across the dais and tumbling over Mephiston in a flurry of limbs. As the spirits crossed the dais he stood to meet them. He had been nailed to the brass chair with long, ornamental knives and, as he stood, the few remaining shreds of his skin tore away.

  He reached up into the storm of phantasms, still howling as he grasped a shadow by its throat. The spirit became flesh. Ephemeral darkness fell away to reveal a bloody, broken Guardsman. The man’s vengeful cry faltered and his anger was replaced by shock. He looked down at his reanimated body, dangling from Mephiston’s grip, and groaned in horror. His chest had been torn off by shrapnel and the left side of his torso was absent. There was no way he could be alive and he knew it, but still he struggled, gurgling and choking.

  ‘My lord!’ cried Rhacelus, but Mephiston’s attention was fixed on the Guardsman.

  The chorus of howls faltered and the shadows fell back.

  ‘I confess,’ said Mephiston, his voice a furious whisper as he looked the corpse in the eye, ‘to nothing.’

  He lifted the undead Guardsman higher and hurled him into the air. As the soldier left Mephiston’s grip, he returned to shadow, enveloped by the other ghosts. Mephiston watched him tumble away, defiant and shaking with bloodlust. Then he dropped into his chair and looked at the brass salver the servitor was holding before him. The emaciated, semi-human creature was borne on mechanical wings – crude, metal likenesses of the mighty blood pinions that arched up from Mephiston’s back – and its white mask was a beautiful, porcelain copy of Mephiston’s sharp, hawk-like features.