Mephiston: Revenant Crusade

by Darius Hinks

  Mephiston nodded. As he allowed the memory of the Chemic Spheres to fall away, he stared at the picture in the locket, determined to remember the man he once was. Determined to breathe life into his corpse.

  ‘Do not leave me, Rhacelus,’ he whispered, as Morsus swam back into view.

  Mephiston gripped the hilt of Vitarus, staring into the depths of his mind. For the first time in his life, he looked his accusers in the eyes. The shadows that haunted him looked back in silence, the rage fading from their eyes. He was back on Morsus, standing before the cogitator in the heart of the ogryns’ cathedrum. Rhacelus was at his side and all the living souls in the nave were watching him. His tremors had vanished and he could stand upright once more.

  Mephiston nodded, understanding the question in the ghosts’ eyes and making them a silent promise. One by one, they nodded back, before slowly dissipating, snatched away by a breeze that sprang up from nowhere.

  For the first time in centuries, Mephiston’s mind was silent. Thanks to the loyalty of Rhacelus, he would keep his oath. Calm washed over him. He saw what he must do.

  He looked from face to face. It was a disparate bunch – the charred, monstrous ogryn, the survivors of the Sabine Guard, so skeletal they were swamped by their greatcoats, and his own battle-brothers, standing proudly at his side, looking back at him from behind the tinted visors of their helmets.

  ‘If the Emperor demands a crusade,’ Mephiston said quietly, ‘he shall have one.’ He looked from Llourens to Argolis. ‘No more retreats. We will burn these mines clean.’

  Llourens paled as she registered Mephiston’s words and passion flashed in her eyes.

  ‘For the Emperor,’ said Rhacelus, gripping his force sword and clanging the hilt against his chest armour.

  There was a moment of shocked silence, then a chorus of voices, human and abhuman. ‘For the Emperor!’ they cried, raising their weapons above their heads. ‘For the Emperor!’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The Horns of the Abyss,’ said Codicier Lucius Antros, looking out from the Dawnstrike’s observation deck. He was surrounded by movement and noise as the Gladius-class frigate edged into position, but his gaze was fixed on the scene outside. His training had revealed many extraordinary and disturbing sights to him over the decades, but this was beyond anything he had yet experienced.

  The golden-armoured Space Marine at his side nodded, taciturn as ever.

  They stood before what looked like the paint palette of a lunatic. Every conceivable colour, and some inconceivable ones too, had been splashed across the stars. The dazzling hues formed a rippling sea, a sea that was exploding, endlessly – erupting and collapsing, thrashing and recoiling. From a distance, it could have been mistaken for a natural phenomenon – a nebulous, geomagnetic storm that had boiled out of control, magnetic fields colliding and detonating – but this close, only a few hundred miles away, there could be no mistaking the truth: this bizarre manifestation was the death throes of reality. Planet-sized limbs of matter grappled and lashed, creating fleeting, recognisable shapes: tormented, bestial faces, blossoming bundles of viscera, the spires of great palaces, the irises of lidless eyes.

  For a moment, Antros was lost in the madness of it, his mind reeling before the cataclysmic conclusion of time and space. The Great Rift was physics in reverse – the ordered universe breaking down into the raw stuff of Chaos.

  He looked back at the reason Dragomir had brought him up here: the Horns of the Abyss. The orbital facility that no longer had anything to orbit. Once, it had rested gently in the gravitational pull of Dragomir’s home world, Tocharion, but Tocharion was gone, devoured by the rift, along with the fortress-monastery that Dragomir had once called home. The Sons of Helios were now a refugee Chapter, rootless and homeless.

  The Horns of the Abyss was a recent name, of course. Before the arrival of the Great Rift the facility had been called Saarik Station, but as it slipped slowly towards destruction, it had taken on a more sinister persona. The facility consisted of two orbiting spheres, linked by a cage of gantries and struts. Each of the spheres was several miles in diameter, peppered with anchorage points and weapons batteries, but the close proximity of the Great Rift had warped and mangled them, giving the station the appearance of a leering, horned skull. It hung over the madness of the Cicatrix Maledictum like a man clinging to a cliff edge. Even now, purposeful, chromatic tendrils surrounded it, preparing to drag it down into the hellish blaze.

  The Chapter Master was bathed in warp light. His burnished, master-crafted armour reflected the madness of the storm, blazing crimson and sapphire, making it hard to see him clearly. He had removed his helmet and Antros was once again taken by the strangeness of his tattoos. Every Sons of Helios battle-brother wore a tribal-looking design on his face, but the Chapter Master’s was by far the most elaborate – every inch of his skin was inked with intricate, menacing black lines, like scrimshaw, depicting the trembling rays of a burning sun. Like many others in the Chapter, Dragomir had a long, carefully plaited beard. When he removed his helmet, the Chapter Master pulled his beard from his armour and allowed it to tumble across his chest in a way that, to Antros, seemed barbaric.

  The Sons of Helios were far from barbaric, however. It had taken several furious battles to reach this point and Antros had been constantly impressed by their calm, unshakable dignity. There was something humbling in their determination. The more he watched them resist the madness of the Great Rift, the more he felt sure they held the key to Mephiston’s dilemma. If he could understand their strange relationship with the warp, he could share that skill with the Chief Librarian.

  ‘This is our last piece of home,’ said Dragomir. ‘It will be the first time we have stepped onboard since the fall of Tocharion. But I am sure our brothers are still down there.’

  He waved for the serfs and menials to leave the observation deck. Once the huddle of cowled figures had left, he turned to Antros, studying the blue, rune-inscribed war-plate that marked him out as a scholar of the Librarius. ‘The Sons of Helios have never stared into the abyss, Lucius Antros. We have never seen the places you and your kind have seen.’ He raised his chin, his expression a mixture of doubt and pride. ‘For all these centuries we have kept our gaze averted. But now the abyss stares into us. If my brothers are still alive down there, I must know what has become of them.’ He stepped closer to the armoured glass. ‘I have taught you as much as I can about how we think and fight, but if you really want to know how we survive the Cicatrix Maledictum, you will need to see us pushed to the limit, at the very gates of the abyss. Nothing I’ve shown you so far can match the challenge we face down there. We are here to fight for our souls, codicier, and the soul of our Chapter.’

  Antros heard carefully masked pain in the Chapter Master’s voice as he continued.

  ‘We built our entire creed around avoiding the psychic arts.’ He gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘Purity of mind, strength of arms, those are our weapons, Brother Antros, rather than the esoteric and the obscure.’ He shook his head and looked out at the ruined station and the madness beyond. ‘But look where it has led us.’

  ‘Warp sight rarely gives clear answers,’ said Antros. ‘If the Librarius could see all ends, there would be no Great Rift. Visions and prophecies only ever show half of the truth. And even that can be misunderstood. But why go back down there, Lord Dragomir? You still have four squads on this ship. Chapters have been rebuilt from less.’

  Dragomir nodded, but Antros could sense he was holding something back. Antros could easily have pushed his way into the Chapter Master’s thoughts and found out what, but such an intrusion would be a breach of protocol at the very least. Mephiston had spent a great amount of time teaching Antros how to use his gifts, but he had also spent time teaching him when not to use them.

  ‘I will do whatever is needed to reach my men,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The distress signals we received w
ere truncated and unclear. And now we hear nothing at all. If my men live, I need to know if they are still mine, or…’ He hesitated, glancing at the galactic wound thrashing outside the oculus. ‘Or if they have become something else. We will be sorely pressed, codicier. The discipline that you have asked so many questions about is our only hope. If you truly wish to understand it, this is your chance.’ He gave Antros a sideways glance. ‘Why are you really here? Your Librarius training must be rigorous. Yet you have gone to great lengths searching for a new way to shield your mind from the warp. You told me you have searched out other Chapters who think as we do. What has driven you to ask these questions, Brother Antros? What puzzle are you trying to solve?’

  Antros had the unnerving sense that Dragomir was using the very tools he claimed to have abjured – that he was peering into his mind somehow. His quest stemmed from a shameful secret – the absurd, dreadful doubts he harboured about his own Chief Librarian. He was desperate to find a cure for Mephiston so he could disprove his own suspicions, but he would never share such troubling concerns with anyone, least of all a stranger.

  He replied too quickly, his tone flippant, his explanation obviously untrue. ‘A Librarian is like a beacon in the warp – attracting every kind of horror. We must always search for better ways to safeguard our souls.’

  Dragomir frowned, clearly sensing the lie.

  ‘Is your Chief Librarian travelling with you?’

  ‘He is. I left Mephiston on the far side of the sector and will return to him directly after leaving you.’

  ‘I fought with him at the Siege of Pactolus. He wields great power.’

  ‘You spoke with him?’

  ‘No, we were the relief force. I merely observed him from afar. He was impressive.’ Dragomir hesitated. ‘There were many who spoke of him though, in the aftermath. You must know that there are some who question the source of his power.’ Dragomir spoke, as always, with surprising directness.

  Antros’ reply was brittle. ‘Do you question the source of his power?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Dragomir sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Forgive me. I have offended you.’

  Antros changed the subject, nodding at the station. ‘We will have to work fast.’ The station was listing badly and edging towards the rift.

  ‘There is time. Our cogitators predict that we have nearly seven hours. After that, the station will break down and become part of the storm but until then we have a chance.’

  ‘You mean to board a vessel only seven hours away from sinking into the warp?’

  ‘I will only take one squad. If we fail to return, the Chapter still has a chance to survive.’ Dragomir glanced at the winged blood drop on Antros’ armour. ‘If it were Baal that had been lost, and the sons of the Angel who had been wiped out, what would you do? Would you leave even one of your brothers alone down there?’

  Antros was about to argue further – to point out that anyone on the space station was liable to be either dead or corrupted – but he checked himself. Dragomir was right. If it were Blood Angels on that orbital facility, and they were the last of their kind, he would have to know what had become of them. And there was another reason he did not argue with Dragomir. Such a hazardous venture, so close to the warp, should finally help him answer the question he had spent the last few weeks considering: did the Sons of Helios carry a unique gift, or were they simply heretics?

  He clanged his fist against his chest armour and bowed his head.

  When they stepped into the darkness of the station, there were only seven of them: Antros, Dragomir and a single squad of his proud, gold-armoured sons.

  Dragomir led the way, tracking the distress signal on an auspex, and Antros walked behind him, his staff held out, washing cool blue light over the tormented ruins. The bulkheads were so mangled and tortured they resembled a wreck dredged from the ocean, or the innards of a diseased monster. Antros felt as though he were marching down the throat of a leviathan. Tumour-like growths had burst through the walls – pale humps of fungus. Antros paused to examine one, pressing the end of his staff against its surface until it tore like wet paper, spilling an avalanche of ink-black spores down its smooth white skin.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Dragomir, looking back.

  Antros shook his head as the spores floated away, tumbling up into the darkness. He followed them with the light of his staff as they drifted higher, alighting on the gantries overhead. The struts were hooked and barbed, like an impenetrable mass of thorns, and at the touch of the spores they twisted further, grinding and screeching as though in pain.

  ‘If your brothers are still alive,’ Antros asked, ‘how long do you think they have been trapped here?’

  Dragomir watched the buckled shapes dancing in Antros’ light. ‘Three years.’

  Antros halted. ‘Three years?’

  ‘It makes no difference. I must know what became of them. If they have turned, their existence is an abomination. If one of my sons has fallen, I will bring him the Emperor’s mercy.’

  Antros studied Dragomir and his brothers, impressed again by their calm dignity. Then he nodded and continued along the walkway, keeping clear of the pale, ghost-like shapes that surrounded them. He had the worrying impression the fungus was reacting to his presence – swelling and shifting as he passed.

  After an hour or so, they ascended from the lower levels into dormitories and drill halls. They looked into one of the larger cells but saw no sign of life. Religious texts lay discarded on the floor next to piles of robes and abandoned scraps of armour. Dragomir’s battle-brothers would not willingly have left their quarters in such a disgraceful state, thought Antros, rolling a dented chalice beneath his boot.

  ‘They left in a hurry,’ he said.

  Dragomir nodded and gestured towards a weapons rack on the wall. There were empty spaces where the bolters and chainswords should have been hanging. ‘But not unarmed.’

  Antros was about to move on when he noticed something glinting on one of the bunks. He bent to pick it up and saw that it was a small mirror, cast to resemble a stylised sun, the Chapter badge of the Sons of Helios. There was an inscription scored into the back, a simple design of four intersecting triangles. He looked closer and realised that the triangles were staring eyes. The simple, geometric symbol seemed out of place amongst the elaborate solar imagery displayed on most of the Chapter’s insignia.

  ‘This symbol,’ he said, holding the mirror up to Dragomir. ‘What is it? Some kind of personal heraldry?’

  Dragomir took the mirror and peered at the tiny engraving. His face was hidden behind the polished faceplate of his helmet, but Antros could hear the pride in his voice.

  ‘It is an agora. A sacred mirror. The icon on its back is the symbol of the Sleepless Mile.’ Dragomir held out his arm and Antros saw the same symbol – four staring eyes – engraved into Dragomir’s golden vambrace. Behind Dragomir, the other Sons of Helios brothers bowed their heads, as though in prayer.

  ‘The Sleepless Mile,’ muttered Antros, looking more closely at the mirror, fascinated. The Sleepless Mile was the mental discipline Antros was so keen to learn more of. It was a form of meditation, but the Chapter Master had been frustratingly vague each time he asked for more details.

  ‘The mirror is a doorway, leading us to purity and strength,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘Once an acolyte ascends to full brotherhood I entrust him with an agora so that he may begin to walk the Sleepless Mile. It is a difficult, inward journey. These are not the psychic arts that you might employ. We do not project our souls through sorcery. We simply find the centre of our being so our subconscious can reveal hidden truths. It takes determination, but over time it will ensure the strength of our minds, and their purity, so we can be inured to the predations of the Ruinous Powers.’

  These last words were intoned with the singsong formality of cant and Antros guessed that Dragomir was quotin
g from one of the Chapter’s sacred texts.

  Antros had studied countless initiation rites and training rituals in his quest to help Mephiston, but this one seemed unique. He felt that, finally, he might have found the answer. ‘But what is the Sleepless Mile? Was it a place on Tocharion?’

  Dragomir tapped the flaming sun emblazoned across his chest armour. ‘It is a place in our minds, Lucius Antros. It is hard to explain to a stranger. It is a journey within, a path to revelation. A way to create the perfect warrior. A way to free oneself of useless passions. With no Librarius to guide us, we gird our consciousness in other ways. We are each on a pilgrimage into the darkness, to see if we are strong enough for a lifetime of duty. Each day we turn our mind inwards and strive to travel further down the Sleepless Mile. A true warrior must be master of his thoughts, as well as his body.’ Dragomir was warming to his subject, but then he shook his head. ‘There is no time for this now. We must move.’

  Antros was fascinated and keen to ask more, but the chronometer in his peripheral vision was flickering away, a constant reminder of how little time they had.

  Dragomir handed the mirror back to him. ‘Keep it. I will try to explain better when we have more time.’

  He looked at the auspex and led them on into the next chamber. It was a training hall. Battle servitors lay discarded in broken heaps, their blades and drills buckled. Looming over everything were the same pale, ghostly spore sacks they had seen when they first docked. In this chamber, tumours had burst through the ceiling too, hanging down like stalactites, some of them quivering with internal movement. Their white skin was thinner than the one Antros had touched earlier and it was possible to make out the black spores teeming inside.

  Antros paused, illuminating the pallid mounds with his staff, struggling to find a route through them.

  ‘This way,’ said Dragomir, finding a narrow path between two of the larger spore sacks.

  They moved carefully through the training room, along a series of narrow corridors and then out into a vast hangar bay, crowded with the silent, looming shadows of abandoned gunships and shuttles. They stood on an observation balcony, looking down over the hangar below. Dragomir stared intently at the auspex as it bleeped and burbled, relaying the static-slashed distress signal.