The Buried Dagger - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  No Death Guard legionary had ever died in that fashion. No one, be they a Pale Son or Terran-born warrior, had ever shamed the XIV Legion by falling prey to something as paltry as a sickness.

  Until Zurrieq. For that was what had claimed him, a contagion so incredibly virulent that it could burn through the fortress walls of his body and the soldiery of his bloodstream. Poor Zurrieq had been invaded – no, worse than that. He had been conquered from within by the chimeric phage that Crosius had spoken of.

  A disease that could cripple the most indomitable of the Legiones Astartes? Before, Mortarion would have ridiculed the notion. But he had seen it with his own eyes, and the reality shook him. The strength of the Death Guard was to him an immutable law. To see it so thoroughly broken was an event he had no way to frame.

  And if that were not enough, it seemed the power of this capricious virus reached into the realm of the unearthly as well. How else could one explain the undeath? By all known measures, Zurrieq should have been a corpse, and yet he lived still… if such a grotesque existence could still be called that.

  Mortarion looked down at his gauntlets. He had silenced the beating of his son’s heart as a mercy, to free him from this shame, only to watch the blade he used turn to rust and crumble. The decay, the living rot, the infestation, whatever it was, had transformed the legionary.

  Into what, the primarch did not know.

  On entering the command deck of the Terminus Est, Mortarion’s gaze was immediately drawn to Typhon. The First Captain was engaged in conversation with his officer Vioss and Mortarion’s equerry. Morarg gave his master a warning look, and he had the immediate sense that the matter of Raheb Zurrieq’s strange condition was only one of his problems.

  ‘What now?’ he demanded, cutting through the tense silence that had fallen.

  ‘There’s been a development,’ said Typhon, his expression neutral. ‘It seems our trial is upon us.’

  Mortarion angrily waved him away and focused all his attention on Morarg. ‘Speak, Caipha.’

  The equerry’s hands clasped one another. ‘Lord Mortarion, the vox-operators have been following my orders to check in with the co­mmanders of the other ships in our flotilla. The reports they have returned are… troubling.’

  ‘It is happening out in the fleet,’ added Vioss. ‘Documented instances aboard the Balefire, Indomitable Will, Lord of Hyrus and several others.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hundreds. And more with each passing hour,’ said Vioss.

  Morarg gave a solemn nod. ‘The same malady that befell Zurrieq. The chimeric infection.’

  ‘How can this be?’ thundered Mortarion. ‘There has been no physical contact between those ships and this one! How could it spread?’ He glared at Vioss, daring him to say that was not so, but the Grave Warden nodded in agreement.

  ‘No direct contact has occurred between any ships since we left Ynyx, with the exception of the docking of Greenheart and the shuttle that brought the lieutenant here from the Endurance.’ Vioss anticipated Mortarion’s next question before he uttered it. ‘Captain Kalgaro’s senior Apothecary confirmed there have been no recorded outbreaks of the chimera aboard your battle-barge, my lord.’

  ‘Not yet,’ muttered Typhon, drawing a hard glare from his commander.

  ‘Our enemies could have secreted a weapon on our ships,’ offered Morarg, thinking out loud. ‘Something that acted in a delayed fashion.’

  ‘Your theory does not track. The craft that have declared contagion outbreaks follow no pattern to that end,’ said Vioss. ‘Some are part of the splinter fleet, newly arrived from another sector. Others are those that travelled with the Endurance to Ynyx.’

  Morarg glanced at Typhon. ‘True. But if the perfidy of the Navigators was as widespread as the First Captain suggests, this might be another aspect of that conspiracy.’

  ‘Who among my loyalist brethren could even conceive of such an underhanded assault?’ Mortarion scowled. ‘Guilliman and Dorn don’t have it in them. The Wolf or the Khan are too proud…’

  ‘Perhaps the Lord Corax?’ Morarg took up the thread. ‘Ach. Curse me if this situation doesn’t have the fingerprints of the Hydra all over it!’

  ‘The Alpha Legion stand with us under the Warmaster’s banner,’ insisted Vioss. ‘What benefit would they gain from attacking an allied Legion?’

  Typhon gave a shake of the head, cutting off the line of argument. ‘Forgive me, but this must be said. We cannot limit ourselves to thoughts upon conventional lines, and place blame in ordinary means.’ He took a step towards his primarch. ‘Do not forget where we are! Our ships travel through the deeps of the immaterium, and that must not be forgotten. The realities of our material universe are malleable in this realm.’ He drifted off, examining the shutters across the command deck’s exterior portals, running a hand over them. ‘Here, all barriers are permeable.’

  ‘The Geller fields keep the warp at bay,’ insisted Morarg. ‘It has no purchase within our ships!’

  ‘And yet…’ Typhon gave him a sideways look. ‘All walls can fall, if enough pressure is applied. Every Death Guard knows that truth.’

  ‘Then what would you have us do, captain?’ Mortarion demanded.

  ‘You already know my thoughts on this, lord.’

  Mortarion swallowed his annoyance and turned away to find the Terminus Est’s communicatory pit, where hooded crew-serfs monitored the intermediate-range vox-systems that allowed the vessels of the fleet to converse with one another over short, sub-stellar distances. He stalked closer and they all bowed in unison.

  ‘Look at me,’ he growled, irritated by their diffidence. ‘Open the vox-network to all our craft. Voice-signal, hololithic, datum line. All channels and general frequencies. I want every ship in the fleet to heed my words.’

  A brassy armature folded down from the ceiling of the chamber and turned to present a scanning head to the primarch. Unfolding into a flower, at its centre was a thick glass lens, and the device emitted a fan of red laser light, scanning in his form and rendering it into a digital form for transmission.

  The most senior of the vox-serfs gave a bow to cue him, and Mortarion drew in a slow breath. He disliked the performative aspect of speaking in such a manner. He had never been one for clever speeches and poetic oratory – that sort of thing he left to Horus, Lorgar or the Phoenician. Mortarion did not know how to speak in as theatrical a way as his siblings did. He could only give from the heart, be direct and unvarnished.

  ‘My sons,’ he intoned, and Mortarion heard the echo of his words resonating distantly through the decks of the Terminus Est. Silence fell in their wake, here and on every craft where the signal reached. ‘We have been waylaid.’ He resisted the impulse to glance towards Typhon, sensing the First Captain at the edges of his perception. ‘An unidentified malaise of great potency and chimeric form is loose among our number. At this hour, there is no cure. This weapon poses a true threat, even to us. It cannot be allowed to spread unchecked. And for the moment, the face of our true enemy… the culprit behind this contagion… remains unclear.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘All commanders, log my order: every ship in the fleet is to seal its airlocks, landing bays and launch tubes. Teleportariums are to be taken offline. A total lockdown protocol is now in effect, so that we may marshal our strength against this insidious assault and work to expunge it. Lines of communication will be opened between all senior Apothecaries on all ships. Pool your knowledge, my sons. Examine this contagion and bring me word of how to kill it.’

  He raised one hand to make a throat-cutting gesture to end the transmission, but hesitated before the motion. The faint shade of the bone-deep dread he had experienced in the isolation chamber ghosted around him, and Mortarion wondered if his legionaries sensed some measure of it too. Was there fear in his voice? He could not leave his sons with such thoughts to dwell upon.

  �
�Be sure. This… pestilence,’ he began again, grasping for the right words. ‘This… Destroyer plague… It will not end us. We shall face it and do as the Death Guard will. We will endure. We will advance. My father’s Palace stands, awaiting the thunder of our boots. We will see the sun set on the Emperor’s corrupt Imperium, my warriors. I swear that to you, on the black sands of lost Barbarus. We will break those walls and have our due. What is owed shall be called to full account.’ Now the words came to him easily, even as Mortarion realised that he was echoing what Typhon had told him earlier. ‘We are facing a great test. But the Legion will survive this poison.’ He reached back in his thoughts for a familiar oath, rejecting the hollow ring that came with it. ‘You are my unbroken blades. By your hand shall justice be delivered, and doom shall stalk the halls of Terra.’

  ‘For Barbarus and the Legion,’ snarled Typhon, his attestation repeated a heartbeat later by Vioss, Morarg and everyone else on the command deck.

  Mortarion knew that the same response was sounding on all the ships of the fleet, but drew his hand across his throat and cut the signal.

  Typhon continued to lead his crew in the salute, but Mortarion put a hand on his vambrace and pulled him away. ‘Listen to me,’ he hissed, low and menacing, quiet so that only the captain heard his words. ‘I want your specialists to get us out of this madness. Find a way to return our ships to the material realm.’

  ‘My lord, what you ask is not a simple task.’ Typhon mirrored his low tones. ‘There are many dangers to be considered. Passing through the warp’s veil is not like using a doorway. It is a maze that must be traversed, a shifting labyrinth with walls made of smoke–’

  ‘Spare me,’ Mortarion said, cutting him off. ‘You say this malaise comes from the warp, but you are reluctant to leave it?’ He leaned in. ‘What are you hiding from me, Typhon?’

  The First Captain hesitated, as if he were surprised by the pri­march’s accusation. Then he turned to look back at the sealed shutters, and his lips thinned. ‘You more than any living being know the true colour of my soul, Mortarion.’

  ‘I do,’ he agreed, ‘that is why I am asking you the question.’

  Typhon did not reply. Then out of nowhere, an alarm tocsin brayed into life. Mortarion released his grip on the First Captain and turned to Vioss, snapping out a command. ‘Report!’

  The Grave Warden peered at a gas-lens screen and his eyes ­widened. ‘Scry-sensors are registering an energy surge on board the Coldreign.’

  ‘Captain Tayge’s ship,’ noted Morarg. ‘A light cruiser from the Reprover battle element.’

  ‘Show me.’ Mortarion gestured, and from a hidden hololith emitter in the floor came a cone of emerald light. The glow formed into a scanner view of the Death Guard fleet, zooming in through the motes of colour to make the shape of the warship in question. The Coldreign was under power, moving off its assigned position, making erratic turns as it extended away from the fleet. ‘Hail them,’ he added.

  ‘No response, my lord,’ said one of the vox-operators. ‘All communication channels are dark.’

  ‘Confirming…’ Vioss gave a bleak nod. ‘Yes. The Coldreign’s warp engines are in flux and their Geller fields are reconfiguring. They are preparing to translate back to normal space.’

  ‘That would be a mistake,’ said Typhon.

  Mortarion gave him an angry look. ‘You have someone on that ship? Can you not… reach them?’

  Typhon shook his head. ‘There is only fear and terror aboard that vessel now. A moment of weakness has doomed them.’

  The warning chimes changed tone, becoming strident and ­grating. ‘Energy surge increasing,’ reported Vioss. ‘They are attempting the jump.’

  Mortarion stared into the hololith as an eerie shimmer passed over the length of the Coldreign’s image. But what he saw was not the expected effect, with the destroyer falling away into a rip in space-time; instead the arrow-prow of the three-kilometre-long ship gave a violent shudder, and it began to twist. Mortarion’s jaw hardened as he watched the vessel distort. It was as if an invisible giant held the craft at bow and stern, inexorably crushing it, bending and distending the Coldreign into an unrecognisable mass of adamantium. Explosions flared all through the ruined hull, and strange torsions of metal grew out of the dying starship. It turned itself inside out, exposing crew decks and systems tiers, discharging atmosphere and debris into the empyrean.

  And then, as a final brutality upon it, the Coldreign imploded, collapsing into a dark, craggy fist of wreckage.

  ‘No life signs detected,’ said Vioss, after a moment. ‘Sensors show evidence of atemporal displacement, mass inversion and–’

  ‘The ship is dead,’ said Typhon, silencing the Grave Warden. ‘We must be cautious if we do not wish to see more of our brothers follow it into oblivion.’ He walked away, without sparing his primarch another look. ‘I will return to the sanctorum, and find our path once more.’

  Mortarion watched him depart, suddenly gripped by the ominous sense that he had become a stranger aboard the ships of his own fleet.

  The grim fate of Raheb Zurrieq

  Four

  Eclipse

  Messengers

  The Sleeper Awakens

  It was deep night over Terra’s greatest peak when Rubio returned to the Imperial Palace, and his suspicions were aroused when the monitors of the Adeptus Custodes granted him direct entry into the inner reaches, without first stopping to board and search the shuttle he had commandeered.

  It was not protocol, and it was not expected. Although the Knight-Errant’s permissions were all in order and correct, even he as one of the Chosen was not immune to the ironclad security procedures that the primarch Rogal Dorn had instituted across the Terran capital. Few beings could pass as freely as he did now, and that could only mean one thing.

  Despite travelling in vox silence on his suborbital flight back from the edge of the acid-rainforest, Rubio was expected. The Sigillite knew he was coming, and he had smoothed the way.

  Leaning into the cramped cockpit, the warrior looked over the shoulder of the mute servitor-pilot and saw the play of text on the hololithic monitor screen before it. They were being directed to a tertiary flight platform on the eastern range of the Briar’s Arcade. Rubio frowned, his suspicions confirmed. The landing pad was isolated and provided direct access to Malcador’s sanctuary tower.

  After touchdown, as the dying whine of the shuttle’s engine echoed out across the Palace towards the Petitioner’s City and beyond, Rubio strode off the little craft’s drop-ramp and into the middle of a cluster of Chosen troopers in grey carapace armour. None of them spoke to him or offered a word of explanation, and he did not need them to act as guides. Still, the soldiers jogged to keep pace with the legionary as he crossed a connecting bridge, and passed through the membrane of the shimmering void shield cowl that surrounded the tower.

  Malcador’s private domain had its own layer of secondary protection beneath the mighty barriers of the Palace, and they were more than just technologies that could resist energy weapons or kinetic impact. Rubio sensed other forces at the edges of his perception, and glimpsed semi-invisible warding icons that had been secretly worked into the tower’s decorative sculptures and elegant architecture. That the Sigillite had reservoirs of power unknown to all others had never been in doubt, but Rubio found himself wondering, now he was close at hand, what depths they plumbed.

  The bridge led into an entrance hall, and as they passed inside, Rubio caught a glimpse of another figure in storm-dark power armour moving off in the other direction. He saw a sullen, heavily scarred face before it vanished into shadow. It was another Knight-Errant, that much was certain, but his aura and his aspect were unfamiliar to the psyker.

  How many of us are there? Rubio wondered if he would ever know.

  The troopers halted in front of a wide door, as silent as ever. It slid open on whispe
ring electromagnetics to allow Rubio into a great reading room. Other doors ringed the chamber, amid shelves of mnemonic tablets, datum orbs, scrolls and heavy, ancient books. Oddly, many of the shelves had obvious gaps where items had recently been removed, and Rubio saw a human-form mechanoid in the process of selecting a series of black-clad tomes. One by one, the silver-skinned robot plucked them from their places and craned them into a hod-like carrier mounted on its back.

  ‘I am relocating a few items from my collection,’ said Malcador, in a lecturing tone. Rubio followed the sound of his voice, coming across to him from a long, upholstered bench. Flickering light illuminated the surroundings, cast by plasmatic flames burning in a black metal basket atop a staff. An imperious iron eagle peered out of the fires, and the staff stood as rigid as a spear that had been rammed into the ground. The Sigillite had a data-slate in his hand, and he switched it off with a flick of his wrist as he looked up, dropping it on a nearby table. ‘I am sending them somewhere more secure.’

  ‘There is a place on Terra more secure than the Imperial Palace?’ Rubio looked closer at one of the shelves and his eyes narrowed as he realised he could not read the titles on the spines of the books. It was not that they were in a language he did not know, but rather that the words were blurry and malformed, shapes that only gave the impression of being letters.

  ‘There isn’t,’ Malcador agreed, then pointed at the books. ‘Don’t stare too hard. The cantrips in place upon these works have a deleterious effect on those without the clearance to know them.’ He smiled, and there was a little cruelty in it. ‘A Librarian in the greatest library, and yet unable to read. What a tragedy.’

  Its work done, the now fully loaded mechanoid sped away on wheels hidden in the soles of its feet, leaving the two of them alone. ‘This knowledge is forbidden,’ said Rubio. ‘Isn’t that what tyrants always say? To stop the lesser orders from learning too much, lest they challenge their dominance.’