The First Wall

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Pulling back, triarch.’

  ‘Not mustering for counter-attack?’

  ‘No, triarch, they are moving away from your position.’

  ‘Good. Cover fire and advance by company.’

  ‘Affirmative, triarch.’

  Forrix turned back to the open hall, almost tripping over the body of an Imperial Fists legionary. He looked down. The warrior’s helm had been cracked open by an autocannon hit. Moving his gaze back to the hall, he counted his dead. Thirteen more. Not a bad price to pay for getting across the hall, but he’d expended a good amount of heavy weapons ammunition and powercells to do it.

  All to get two hundred metres closer to an objective he wasn’t even trying to destroy.

  Exultant Wall zone, eight days since assault

  Amon was known for his patience even among the Custodians, but he had not expected his investigations to be quite so lacking in progress. Gatherings of the Lectitio Divinitatus were scattered all across the Palace, and far beyond he suspected, yet he had seen nothing more threatening than glorified debating groups and book discussion. Whatever power the officers in the quarantine barracks had tapped into was so far absent elsewhere.

  Keeler’s information about the Lightbearers was the only solid lead they had, but Amon shared her opinion that such progress would be wasted if he made his involvement known. Consequently, the Custodian had agreed to allow her to return at the next gathering to see if there was a repeat of her previous experience. She had claimed it might have been her own, unique connection to the Emperor that had brought about the vision, although Amon was inclined to believe it was more a case of shared massed hallucination. Even without artificial induction, such shared manias were possible, and under the constant stress of the siege all kinds of psychological phenomena were bound to surface among the stifled populace.

  Pessimism was no excuse for lack of thoroughness, and Amon was determined to continue to observe as many of the remaining sects as possible, in case the Lightbearers proved to be a false hope. His current self-assigned target was a gathering of Imperial Army recruits taking place in one of the makeshift medicae sprawls that had been set up a few kilometres from the fighting at the Exultant Wall, where many casualties were arriving from the offensive through the Lion’s Gate space port.

  His presence would be considered exceptional if not threatening, and so he went clad in nondescript cloak and robes. If anyone paid him attention it was likely they would take him for a warrior of the Legiones Astartes rather than a Custodian. He expected no trouble but carried a gladius-style blade favoured by the Imperial Fists concealed within his garb.

  He caught the smell of blood and rot even before he came to the outskirts of the medicae encampment. Though ostensibly a field hospital, there was little more here than in the other slums, the only exception being that the inhabitants were wholly of the Imperial Army rather than from the dwindling non-combatant populace of the Palace. The hospital stretched for three kilometres and over several storeys of former Administratum hab-blocks, the cells and dorms well suited to wards and quarantine rooms. Infants carried ration packs and water flasks, while older children acted as stretcher-bearers, a constant stream of wounded coming in from the front lines. The grisly task of disposing of those that did not survive fell to them also, in almost equal numbers, bodies carried to funeral pyres in an old power plant building a few hundred metres west of the facility. The furnaces burned as constantly as they had done before the siege but now with a far more grotesque fuel.

  Flies swarmed thick, drawn by gangrene. Every effort had been made to provide sanitation but the stench of urine and faeces could not be masked. As Amon picked his way through the lines of miserable wretches, he encountered no few that were dead in their cots, their fluids seeping into the bedding. The more he observed the dismal scene, the greater his misgivings. Having witnessed the horrors of the quarantine zone, and the proximity of the first apparition to that degradation, it occurred to Amon that this great hoarding of the dead and dying might be some other part of the Death Guard’s plague-scheme.

  It took only a few minutes to locate the shrine that had been erected – the surrounding chambers were empty of patients, which made it instantly stand out among several city blocks of virtually wall-to-wall casualties. In what had once been a ranking clerk’s offices, the wooden aquila that had served as a backdrop to the administrator’s duties had been brought forth onto an altar of ammunition crates, draped with service medals and identity tags. Laspacks and bullets were placed at the foot of the altar, ankle-deep, as offerings to a far more belligerent form of deity than the one worshipped by the Lightbearers.

  Watching the hundred or so wounded troopers, Amon observed the usual ritual forms – incantations, marching songs instead of hymns, and finally a shared moment of silence. The soldiers were instructed by their leader – a nondescript woman in the uniform of a corporal, the side of her head wrapped in bloodied bandage – to turn their thoughts to those still fighting, to ask the Emperor to lend them strength in the ongoing battle.

  Amon was about to depart, seeing nothing amiss, when he caught a sweet-smelling breeze. The troopers were talking in unison, the words barely audible but clearly intoned.

  ‘He is the Life Within Death. The Breath on your Lips. The Hope in your Heart.’

  A ghost light played about the aquila on the makeshift table, like dappled sunlight reflected from water. A breeze stirred the pile of offered munitions, so that casings clinked against each other, settl­ing into the pile.

  The chanting grew louder, the same words over and over.

  ‘He is the Life Within Death. The Breath on your Lips. The Hope in your Heart.’

  The troopers, heads bowed, swayed to the tempo of their invocation, the corporal-priest standing before them with eyes closed, hands clasped to her chest. A line of glistening drool fell from the corner of her lip and dripped to her filthy shirt.

  That was not all. Her eyes moved back and forth rapidly beneath their lids, like one in the throes of deep sleep. The veins in the back of her hand grew darker, as though black fluid ran through them.

  Amon’s fingers closed around the hilt of the gladius as he moved from beneath the shadow of a broken stair, boots crunching grit underfoot.

  The woman’s eyes snapped open, orbs of pure black, glistening with a sheen of mucus that dribbled down her cheeks. She turned towards Amon as he broke into a run, a screech rousing the hundred-strong congregation from their reverie. Opening their eyes, they cried out in disgust and alarm, even as the corporal threw a hand towards Amon, another shriek of command issuing from cracked lips.

  A few responded, pulling at combat daggers and pistols, leaping forward to intercept the accelerating Custodian. They fell, gutted or headless, not even interrupting his stride. The Neverborn creature hissed and pounced like a hunting cat, fingernails that had become claws lancing towards Amon’s face. He swerved and brought up the short sword, stabbing through the creature’s chest as it passed, cutting from breastbone to pelvis.

  Almost bisected, the remains flopped to the dusty floor, where the monstrosity continued to flap and flail through a trail of filth and blood, turning back towards Amon. The rest of the gathering erupted into mayhem, some trying to flee, running into others immobile with terror or stepping forward to aid the Custodian.

  He stepped around a lunging hand and brought the sword down hard, tip piercing skull and ferrocrete. He ripped it out and struck off the head to be sure. Even then the body quivered for several more seconds, claws raking at the dirt. When it finally flopped sideways, Amon saw that the clawing had not been random, but had etched a diabolic symbol into the floor, the shallow inscription filling with bodily fluid.

  Amon was at a loss as to what to do next. Several of the congregation had already fled, others were starting to run. Were they tainted? Did he need to hunt each of them down? Others were clearly shocke
d, ignorant of their part in the manifestation.

  He stepped quickly to the altar. The aquila shone with a coating of ice.

  ‘Nobody leave!’ he bellowed, drawing back his hood. ‘I am Custodian Amon Tauromachian, and by the authority of the Emperor you are all under arrest.’

  None of the remaining congregation tried to leave, awestruck by the presence of the Custodian revealed in their midst. Amon struck the aquila with the pommel of the gladius, knocking it from the altar, before striding back to the corpse. It had all but melted into a puddle, like an oil slick in the dust and grime. Even as he activated his vox to call for assistance, his thoughts turned to his companion in the investigation.

  Keeler would not be able to argue away this event quite so easily.

  The Keeler issue

  Kroeger’s plan

  Phosphex

  Exultant Wall zone, twelve days since assault

  ‘How could you possibly not see the threat posed by this cult?’ Amon rarely raised his voice outside of battle, but his words rang back to him from the vaulted roof of the hall, the last word echoing menacingly.

  Keeler opened her mouth to answer but was quieted by the raised hand of Malcador.

  ‘It is to that very point that this debate is turned, Custodian,’ said the Regent.

  They moved in brisk procession along an inner passage of the Ultimate Wall – Dorn’s decree was that they speak only as he moved between other engagements that required his attention. The thunder of impacts and the counter-fire of the towers was a constant vibration in the walls and floor. The clank of magazine hoists pulling up shells to the macro cannons and the tramp of booted feet echoed from side corridors and bastion chambers.

  Footfalls ahead betrayed the presence of four Imperial Fists squads clearing the path to the Praetorian’s destination – a moving cordon of Templars from Sigismund’s command. Their presence ensured the impromptu conclave went unheard.

  As well as Malcador and Dorn, the gathering included First Captain Sigismund, and Constantin Valdor. These giants were forced to pace slowly so that Malcador could keep up, his staff tapping on the bare ferrocrete floor. Keeler was accompanied by Kyril Sindermann, who now spoke for the first time.

  ‘To accept that is to concede that Lady Keeler herself poses a threat to the Emperor,’ said the former iterator. He smoothed a crease in his robes with precise, delicate hands. ‘And my own beliefs, though they are of substantially less importance at this juncture.’

  ‘Captain-general, I know what occurred in the hospital,’ said Amon. ‘Coupled with the evidence from the quarantine barracks, it is obvious that there is a link between the rites of the Lectitio Divinitatus and daemonic activity.’

  ‘And what do you propose?’ said Malcador. He cleared his throat of the dust that drifted through the beams of lumen light. ‘I am not certain a purge of the theists will be productive, even if possible. The siege is too finely poised to risk immense resentment among a significant swath of our soldiers.’

  ‘This is not a discussion of prosecuting a law, but of guaranteeing the sanctuary of the Imperial Palace,’ said Valdor. His armour hummed as he turned to look at the Regent. ‘The battle rages on many levels, you know this.’

  ‘I cannot spare any warriors,’ Dorn said bluntly. He looked aggravated at being waylaid outside of the strategium, but his presence was essential. Amon had hoped the Praetorian would be a staunch ally, but he apparently needed some further persuasion. ‘I cannot tell you how the spirit war fares, but the physical conflict stands upon the balance. The enemy are in control of half the base levels of the Lion’s Gate space port, and nearly a similar amount of territory in the upper spire. A force of unknown size is targeting objectives in Sky City, but Commander Rann cannot spare the firepower to eradicate them without weakening the defence of the transport bridges. I have drawn together a reinforcement strike that Captain Sigismund will lead within the hour, but that leaves me with no reserves. All of the Legions are stretched thin.’

  ‘Given your recent encounter with the daemon Samus aboard the Phalanx, let us recall that timely reminder of the perils posed by the Neverborn,’ said Amon, moving his gaze to Keeler. ‘Let us not also overlook that incident’s connection to you, through the figure of Mersadie Oliton.’

  ‘I know little of what happened,’ replied Keeler, looking from Amon to Malcador. ‘In any event, Mersadie and I parted company long ago.’

  ‘I hear accusations but no solid proposals,’ Malcador said again, shaking his head. ‘Rogal is correct, we cannot spare warriors from the walls to patrol the Inner Palace. Such a diversion may be the only intent of these manifestations.’

  ‘We must trust in the Emperor to protect us,’ said Keeler. ‘I witnessed His power, I swear. It is by His will that the Neverborn are kept at bay. The worship of the Lectitio Divinitatus will only strengthen that power.’

  ‘That is true, to a point,’ conceded Malcador. ‘It is the telaethesic ward that shields us from daemonic intrusion. The Emperor is under constant assault, perhaps it is not surprising that the odd leak is now occurring.’

  ‘Is the Emperor in danger?’ demanded Valdor. ‘What of the ­security of the Imperial Dungeon?’

  ‘The Emperor is always in danger, Constantin. It is the nature of being the adversary of the Four Powers to live with their enmity. But is He physically threatened by this? I think not.’

  ‘What of the Silent Sisterhood?’ asked Keeler. ‘Should they not have a representative here?’

  ‘The Sisters of Silence are as stretched by these attacks as all of our other forces,’ Dorn told her. ‘Having been forced from their lunar facilities, they lack some of the support they would normally have to conduct widespread anti-psyker actions. They guard the walls against sorcery even as the Emperor guards Terra against the daemonic.’

  ‘Perhaps it is simply the psychic that we should investigate,’ suggested Valdor, looking meaningfully at Keeler. ‘You profess powers that can only be described as coming from the warp.’

  ‘From the Emperor,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Not from the enemy.’

  ‘A distinction only you seem to be able to make,’ said Amon.

  ‘You ignore several pertinent facts,’ argued Sindermann, stepping protectively next to Keeler. ‘Firstly, I myself have witnessed rites of abjuration using the holy text.’

  ‘The supposed banishing of a daemon aboard the Vengeful Spirit?’ Malcador scratched his chin. ‘Was not that conjuration precipitated by your own hand?’

  ‘In error,’ Sindermann said hastily, ‘through a cursed book. Regardless, it was the power of the Emperor that allowed Lady Keeler to dispel the Neverborn.’

  ‘I felt real power with the Lightbearers,’ said Keeler. ‘Power we could harness. Why should the Emperor protect us at His expense without us giving back? Our prayers can be used as weapons against the unholy, just as surely as bolts and las-blasts are the foes of mortals.’

  ‘Let us put that aside for a moment, lest we are sidetracked,’ Malcador said quickly. He looked at Sindermann. ‘You said “firstly”, indicating you have other reasons why we should not suspect Keeler in this matter?’

  ‘The first apparition took place when she was in confinement. The second when she was elsewhere. The only manifestation we have when Lady Keeler was actually present seems to be entirely benign.’

  ‘Is such a thing possible?’ asked Sigismund, breaking his silence. The Templar followed a little apart from the group and Amon had almost forgotten him. ‘Can it be possible to channel the essence of the Emperor in such a way?’

  Amon noticed Dorn’s deep frown, as though vexed at the First Captain’s contribution.

  ‘We will not be indulging in superstitious speculation,’ the primarch growled.

  ‘Is it superstition, when one has evidence of the supernatural?’ said Sindermann, receiving a glare of admonishment from the
tower­ing commander. He absorbed the brunt of Dorn’s displeasure with a visible flinch, even his long experience of the primarchs no surety against the intimidating presence of the Emperor’s gene-sons. He continued in more subdued fashion. ‘If the power of the Neverborn can be channelled by sorcery, cannot a person of faith act as focus for the Emperor’s might?’

  ‘I do not know if this is a discussion of theology or metaphysics, but neither is useful for our purpose,’ Valdor said, cutting off a reply from Malcador. ‘What is to be done about these cults? I accept the argument that for the time being a harmless worship of the Emperor may be good for morale, and perhaps keep minds looking for a greater power from wandering down paths left unexplored.’

  ‘Harmless?’ said Amon. ‘Twice we have seen what these ceremonies can do, breaching the ward that protects Terra.’

  ‘I did not say it was harmless, only that if it is so, it may have a use,’ Valdor told his subordinate. He swung his gaze down to Keeler. ‘There are hundreds of groups practising your faith around the Imperial Palace?’

  ‘At least,’ she replied. ‘For longer than the siege has been in place.’

  ‘So it seems to me there is more connection to the efforts of the Death Guard than the cults themselves.’ Valdor stopped and the group halted with him at the junction of the main corridor and a side passage that led back towards the Inner Palace region. ‘The quarantine zone and the hospital are the common denominator, more than the cult. Amon, concentrate your efforts on other such pits of misery, for any activity by the Lectitio Divinitatus in such places brings greater risk of corruption.’

  ‘What of the Lightbearers?’ asked Amon.

  ‘Keeler will continue to attend and monitor their meetings,’ said Malcador.

  ‘I will report anything untoward as soon as it occurs,’ Keeler said.

  Amon shook his head. ‘I find that little assurance, given the bar that has been set to judge what is untoward.’