The First Wall

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The First Wall Page 15

by Gav Thorpe


  ‘Not so, Lord of Iron,’ said Abaddon. ‘Perhaps we need the presence of your brothers for the victory, but a breach can be made beforehand. Your plan surely does not rely on having Angron leading the charge all the way to the bridges?’

  ‘No.’ Perturabo glared daggers at the First Captain. ‘I can break open the gates by conventional means.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Layak. ‘We can begin the binding of the immaterial before we need to create the physical. Something to start the process, you could say. Do you remember Samus?’

  ‘The daemon that almost destroyed the Phalanx?’ said Perturabo. ‘That was a masterful plan, though Dorn thwarted it eventually.’

  ‘We were able to insert Samus into such a vulnerable position by implanting a connection into the form of Mersadie Oliton, who was already bound to the entity by shared experience. In order to breach barriers of the nature we face here, to create a gateway across the telaethesic ward, one can use a physical vessel to mask the Neverborn presence or anchor it. No pure daemon can set foot on Terra yet, but our daemon primarch allies can do so because of their once physical nature. Though made of the immaterium now, they yet leave an imprint on the real universe that gives their presence… solidity. Similarly, my possessed brethren and certain Neverborn-powered artefacts have been brought to the surface because of their physicality.’

  ‘And what will you use?’ Typhus stepped closer, a fume of tiny flies issuing from the grille of his helm as he spoke. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘You have become the host of the Destroyer Hive, and that gives you considerable power,’ said Layak. ‘Your voice echoes far in the warp and there is one you must help me call.’

  ‘What will you summon?’

  ‘Samus is of an order of Neverborn the Word Bearers call the ­Heralds of the Ruinstorm. There is one for each of the powers, strong in the favour of their patrons. Your grandfather, the Lord of Decay, can send to us a creature that is named Cor’bax Utterblight.’

  ‘I thought you said no daemon can be summoned to the surface of Terra,’ said Abaddon.

  ‘And we stand outside the ward,’ added Perturabo. ‘What use is a creature barred entry as much as my distorted brothers?’

  ‘No daemon can manifest,’ Layak said sharply. ‘Samus was a Never­born of the soul, working through the minds of those it sought. All of the Heralds of the Ruinstorm are such, their greatest power being the corruption of thought, not body. The Utterblight does not need to take form to begin its work. The Life Within Death. The Breath on Your Lips. It is the Spirit of Hope, seeded in the hearts of all humans.’

  As he spoke, the intestine started to move in his grasp, a slow pulse rippling along its length. The pulsing grew more vigorous, becoming writhing, and then curving up out of the corpse like a viscera serpent. With a wet tear, the organ pulled from the body, its ragged end growing maw-like, rows of fangs erupting from the pallid flesh.

  ‘Behold the cosmic worm, the cruach-maggot that feeds upon the universe,’ declared Layak. He held out the coiling mass towards Typhus, who held out an arm for it to crawl onto, looping about the wrist and forearm.

  ‘A marvel,’ said the Death Guard, turning his hand one way and the other to examine the entity. ‘A tendril from the worms that burrow through Nurgle’s garden itself.’

  ‘Indeed, that chew their way through all of existence – the worms of entropy.’ Layak crouched and punched his fist through the chest of another corpse. He prised open the shattered breastbone and then reached in to pluck free the heart within. It seemed a shrivelled, small thing in his palm. ‘The source of life. The seat of love. The vault of hope and courage and defiance.’

  The Word Bearer held up the heart and began to chant in a strange tongue, witch-light playing around his hand. Abaddon felt something tugging at him, an insubstantial grip that teased at his own hearts, seeming to pluck at the arteries in his chest. He tried to catch a breath but found himself unable, as though he were drowning.

  His gaze flicked to Perturabo, who watched the proceedings intensely, his eyes moving from one component of the ritual to the next, never stopping long on Layak or Typhus or their grisly accoutrements. Layak’s chanting grew louder and the warp glow intensified, the heart in his grip like a weak yellow lumen.

  Abaddon’s hearts had almost stopped, so slow was their beat, but he could not take the breath to utter an injunction and his body seemed paralysed. He stared at the heart in the sorcerer’s hand and saw it beat, in time to the thud in his chest. Only his human heart functioned; his secondary organ was like a useless weight behind his chest bone. His heart pulsed again and the thing in Layak’s fingers twitched in sympathy. The sorcerer turned to him then, proffering the heart like a prize.

  Abaddon raised his hand to take it, almost drawing his fingers back as the heart pumped once more in time to his own, gaining rhythm and speed. Layak’s six eyes bored into him, yellow will-o’-the-wisps in the fog and flies, moving in and out of focus as oxygen starvation started to affect Abaddon’s vision.

  As the offering plopped down into his palm Abaddon felt a moment of release and took in a long, shuddering breath. Now he felt a triple-pulse, of his own hearts and the organ in his hand, thudding in unison with each other.

  From Typhus the gut-snake lifted up as though scenting prey, its toothy mouth gaping, sweeping left and right in an eyeless search. Abaddon took a step closer, holding out the beating, glowing heart. The intestinal serpent stood out straight from Typhus’ arm, like a rearing cobra, a gurgle issuing from its rippling throat.

  It descended with purpose, not striking swiftly, but almost delicately plucking the heart from the palm of Abaddon’s gauntlet. Leaving a rope of thick drool, it pulled back, the passage of the heart into its innards visible by the bulge that travelled its length.

  Layak’s chanting resumed, become more strident, almost a screeching. The gut-serpent started to weave back and forth, and leapt from Typhus to judder across the floor, spasming as if in pain. It coiled about itself, teeth sinking into its own flesh where the glow of the heart shone through. Razor-sharp teeth opened up its meat with ease, and it swallowed the heart again, chewing it from its own insides. It started to swell as it ate, spines and scales breaking from the surface, rows of paired wings splitting in the manner of a moth emerging from its cocoon.

  Lifting from the ground with a buzz of dozens of wings, the scaled serpentine creature weaved around the legs of Layak, moving in time to the tempo of his voice. It moved to his icon staff, and then around his head, forming an obscene halo. Then it ascended, flitting across the chamber, coiling and uncoiling as though at play, growing larger still until its girth was as wide as Abaddon’s waist.

  With a shriek that was echoed from the mask of Layak, it plunged down, spearing into the corpse pile in front of the sorcerer. Like a las-drill it burrowed swiftly into the charnel heap. It was several metres long, far greater than the depth of the bodies, but continued downwards, disappearing into the ground. As its tail vanished into the exposed viscera Abaddon caught a momentary sight of a flower­ing bloom made of gristle and veins, a swirling hole at its centre, before the disgusting petals closed and the wound erupted into a pile of festering meat laced with hundreds of maggots.

  With a gasp Layak stumbled backwards, eyes dimming. Abaddon made no move to assist him, but watched as the Word Bearer straightened, leaning a little on his staff for support.

  ‘Beautiful,’ whispered Typhus.

  ‘It is done,’ croaked Layak. He turned three pairs of eyes upon Perturabo. ‘The Utterblight will begin its burrowing into the souls of the defenders, now it is time for you to launch your attack.’

  The primarch surveyed the chamber, examining Layak and Typhus, the corpses where the worm-daemon had disappeared. He nodded, once, and then left without a word. The clank of the Iron Circle joining him reverberated through the bastion.

  ‘Now we return to
Horus,’ said Abaddon.

  ‘No, not yet,’ replied Layak. ‘The ritual must be completed within the ward, when the Utterblight has thinned the barrier sufficiently. Typhus, return to your primarch and continue your assaults. Know that every disease-ridden corpse feeds the cruach-worm and makes it stronger.’

  ‘We shall make a banquet for the Utterblight,’ promised the plague sorcerer, lifting his scythe in salute.

  Abaddon watched him go and then approached Layak. He stopped, two paces short of weapons’ reach, aware of the blade slaves that had silently re-entered the chamber behind the Word Bearer.

  ‘What did you do to me, sorcerer?’ he growled, holding back the urge to seize Layak and pound the answer from him.

  ‘I gave you a taste of what will come. The slightest inkling of what your genefather has endured to gain his power. When you come before the gods and demand their support, you must give of yourself for their favour.’

  ‘And am I… The ritual, it bound me to that creature somehow?’

  ‘No, you are free from any bargain or influence. It is to Typhus’ fate that the star-maggot is drawn, not yours. This will not be the last time Typhus seeks out the worm of entropy for his designs.’

  ‘You speak of matters beyond the end of the siege.’

  ‘Horus’ victory, or defeat, is not the end – it is the beginning.’ Layak turned away, took a step and looked back at Abaddon. ‘In time you will embrace that destiny.’

  Abaddon watched the Word Bearer depart, his mood sour. He thought about the Warmaster and his brothers, the changes wrought upon Typhus and his companions, and of the Neverborn and possessed that he had seen in Horus’ court – Tormageddon and others. He could see clearly what price the powers demanded, beyond simple allegiance. Layak seemed convinced that Abaddon would one day voluntarily pay it. What was he willing to give to serve his father and brothers?

  The traitors gather to perform a dark ritual.

  The ghost

  Dangerous beliefs

  Short supplies

  Palatine Arc quarantine zone, Barracks-C, two days since assault

  Several different nightmares had tormented Katsuhiro since he had arrived at the defence line. Coming within the walls, he had hoped perhaps his night-time tortures would end. Like all hopes he had nurtured since arriving, that was another to be crushed by reality.

  He murmured in his bunk, trapped in a vision in which his skin and flesh fell away piece by piece. He felt no pain, but was left a bare skeleton, green-and-grey moss growing from his bones as he lay in a shallow grave. The moss thickened into fresh muscle, giving him a new form, and flowers blossomed on his verdant not-corpse. All the while he heard singing, wordless but the notes like a waterfall, sometimes light and refreshing, other times ­booming and powerful.

  It was not the dream that was the nightmare, but the waking.

  This night he was ripped from the embrace of the plant-death by Chastain barging into the dorm he shared with fifty other guards. All of them were veterans from Outside. Nobody ever called it the first line or the outer defences any more. The Outside was all they had to say. ‘I was on the Outside, were you?’ Even through the farts and snores, every man and woman woke at the loud footfalls of the new arrival, their senses keyed to any potential danger, a paranoia that even kilometres of high walls and gun towers would never set at ease for the rest of their lives.

  ‘What’s the racket?’ demanded Sergeant Ongoco.

  ‘Something’s in the mess hall!’ Chastain told them. ‘Get your guns!’

  ‘Where’s the officer of the watch?’ Ongoco asked as Katsuhiro and the others rolled from their bunks. Katsuhiro dodged aside as Corporal Lennox in the bunk above him dropped straight to the floor.

  ‘Quick, forget your shirts!’ Chastain hovered at the doors ashen-faced and wide-eyed, and then disappeared back into the corridor.

  Bare feet padding on the varnished ferrocrete floor of the barracks, East Wall Second Guard Company followed, snatching lasguns from the wall racks as they flowed towards the passageway.

  Katsuhiro was about five from the front of the line, Lennox beside him.

  ‘Why didn’t he sound the alarm?’ asked Katsuhiro. Lennox just shrugged in reply.

  It was only fifty metres to the mess – probably the reason Chastain had headed to the dorm rather than the watch station on the floor above. Lasgun in hand, Katsuhiro followed the others through the double doors into a broad hall filled with tables and benches, enough for five hundred troopers to be seated at one time. The only light was from dull orange night-lumens set in the walls, barely enough to see the vague shapes of the furniture.

  The serving hatches in the far wall were all closed with plasteel shutters but a paler light shone through the gaps from the kitchens beyond, swaying and dipping as though the source were moving back and forth.

  ‘First and third squad with me,’ called Ongoco, not bothering to wait to see if any officers were going to turn up. He pointed to the doors to the right of the shutters. ‘Second and fourth, that way. Fifth hold the rear.’

  Part of second squad, Katsuhiro hurried towards the right-hand doors. The light played out through the cracks between and below, ripples of white tinged with green. His hairs prickled across his arms and the back of his neck as he caught a strange scent. It brought to mind a forest canopy and mouldering leaves beneath, though he had never seen such a thing. While Lennox reached for the door, Katsuhiro had a flash of the dream, the earthy scent of mulch soft beneath his rebirthing form.

  ‘Weapons ready,’ croaked the corporal, voice breaking as trembling fingers curled around the door handle.

  Katsuhiro brought up his lasgun, Spilk and Kalama to either side of him with weapons readied too.

  Lennox dragged open the door and the trio stepped forward, Spilk turning to the left, Kalama to the right while Katsuhiro was focused ahead.

  The light came from everywhere, flashing from the reflective surfaces of the massive ovens and stove tops, dancing around the dormant lumen fittings, gleaming from rows of pans hanging on wall hooks. The thud of the opening doors at the far end drew their attention, guns swinging towards Sergeant Ongoco and his squad.

  Katsuhiro advanced, allowing the rest of second squad into the kitchen, gun barrel swinging towards the shadows cast by the erratic light. The tiles were cold underfoot, the sensation helping to keep him grounded amid the otherworldly shimmer. The smell of nature grew stronger and Katsuhiro thought he heard the sound of wind in trees, the rustle of leaves and creak of arboreal giants.

  ‘There!’ Kalama jabbed her lasgun towards a patch of wall between the chimneys of two bread ovens. Light rippled over bare brick, seeping along the lines of mortar. Dust crumbled where it touched, each speck falling slowly, glinting like a tiny particle of light.

  Blinking, Katsuhiro thought he saw an outline in the gathering motes. Instantly he thought of a man, beautiful and strong, an arm reached out towards the troopers.

  He heard Spilk snarl in disgust and the hum of an energy cell charging.

  ‘No!’ Katsuhiro knocked his companion’s lasgun upwards as he pulled the trigger, the beam of red light blasting into the ceiling. Panicked shouts came from others and a flurry of shots erupted along the kitchen from both ends, hiding the wall in a cloud of exploding brick dust.

  For a heartbeat longer Katsuhiro saw a face amidst the billowing specks, frown creased in disappointment, full lips pursed.

  Then it was gone.

  ‘By the Forefathers, that was disgusting,’ muttered Kalama. Katsuhiro turned to see her lip ripple in disgust, eyes fixed on where the apparition had appeared.

  He was confused. The entity he had seen in the ghost-light had been anything but disgusting. The memory of it left an ache in his chest, longing for its return.

  ‘Everyone stay where you are!’ barked Sergeant Ongoco. ‘Nobody’s going now
here until this is reported.’

  Katsuhiro caught a last flurry of leaf-whisper and the forest scent.

  ‘What are you happy about?’ demanded Lennox, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Nothing, corporal,’ Katsuhiro said quickly, pushing the smile from his lips.

  Karachee Flats, sixty-eight days before assault

  A strange light brought Zenobi from a fitful slumber. She awoke huddled on a bench, the company banner clutched to her like a child, her pack and lasgun sticking out of a half-open locker underneath. Her head rested on Seleen’s shoulder, a folded coat for a pillow, who in turn was butted against Menber, who sat wedged against the wall.

  The light came through the windows in a wavering, golden haze. It was sunlight, itself a rarity to the downhivers, but unlike anything Zenobi had seen before. She had managed the occasional trip to the hive-skin to watch a sunrise – it was virtually a rite of passage for those working on the line – and recognised that there was something sickly about the light that crept into the carriage to cast thin, long shadows.

  There were far more people inside the compartment than intended, so that the benches were filled with half-asleep troopers, nearly as many curled on the floor between. She rose quietly, mumbles and groans sounding from those around her as their weight shifted, though she tried to ease herself free without disturbing them. She almost tripped over her kitbag and took a couple of seconds to shift it around and force it fully into the wooden locker.

  ‘What are you doing?’ murmured Achebe, slumping sideways into the space created by her departure. His eyelids fluttered open, a yawn splitting his face to reveal a dark tongue and stained teeth. ‘Is it breakfast?’

  Others were stirring or had already awoken, either just sitting ­quietly where they had found themselves or, like Zenobi, picking their way carefully through the maze of bodies to see what was going on.

  She saw nothing of the officers – integrity or regular – and assumed that they had found alternative accommodation more suited to their rank. Sergeants Alekzanda and Asari-dokubo were crouched in the vestibule by the doors, sharing a knife to pare away slices of something from a rations packet. Alekzanda looked up as her movement caught his attention. His eyes were bloodshot, dark rims around them, but his expression was as determined as ever.

 

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