The First Wall

by Gav Thorpe

  Layak’s blade slaves dashed forward to confront Rogal Dorn, whose unstoppable advance had carried him a hundred metres ahead of his gene-sons. It was clear his intent was not to support the legionaries, but to pursue a more personal mission.

  Wickedly serrated blades lashed at the arms and legs of the ­primarch as the two blade slaves attacked in unison, dodging the churning blades of Storm’s Teeth. The air about the sorcerer churned with power, but Abaddon could see the faint shimmer of Neverborn struggling to manifest. The Emperor’s shield was still protecting the port; no daemon could answer the Word Bearer’s summons.

  Loosening the grip of one hand, Dorn swung a hammer-like fist, crushing the skull of a blade slave. It fought on for several more seconds, jerky and weak, until it fell backwards and thrashed upon the floor for a few heartbeats more. The second drew back, putting itself between the primarch and its master.

  Abaddon could feel a hot wind rushing over him, emanating from the sorcerer. It was strange, a sensation felt through his Terminator plate, not of the physical realm. His skin prickled at the sensation and his gut crawled at its touch, even as he saw the shapes of the Neverborn growing more substantial.

  Had Layak known this? Could he sense the thinning of the Emperor’s protection?

  Abaddon’s armour snarled as he took a step forward. He checked himself. To be cut down by Dorn was pointless. Perturabo was on his way, a primarch to counter a primarch.

  Dorn drew a bolter, chased with gold and styled with the Imperial aquila, like a pistol in his hand. He fired at Layak even as his chainsword sought the blade slave, bolts exploding against the warp shield of the sorcerer, Storm’s Teeth carving a furrow through ferrocrete where the blade slave had been half a second before.

  Then Dorn was upon the priest, ignoring the blade slave to crash his weapon thrice against the dome of power that guarded Layak. The sorcerer responded, wrapping himself in scarlet lightning before unleashing it from the tip of his staff, the bolt sending Dorn back three steps.

  Snakes of dissipating energy crawled over the primarch, flicking between armour and the blades of the slave creature as it leapt to the attack once more, sleeve-swords aimed for Dorn’s midriff.

  The primarch drove the hilt of his chainblade down, slamming the pommel into the neck and shoulder of the slave. Spine snapped, the Neverborn-infused carcass flopped like a netted fish, spasming across the ferrocrete ahead of a trail of blood and dark ichor.

  If Abaddon was to strike it had to be now. Dorn would be upon Layak in moments.

  The vox crackled and Layak’s voice hissed into his ear.

  ‘I give up my life not for you, mortal soul, but for the glory of Chaos that you will come to serve.’

  Gathering more Chaos power, Layak let his shield collapse, the energy of the dome whirling into his staff head, becoming a burning black flame. He swung with sword and staff together, both trailing sorcerous fire to crash against the golden armour of the Emperor’s Praetorian. A storm of power exploded from the contact, once more forcing the primarch back, arm raised across his face as sable flames engulfed him.

  Again Layak attacked, this time to strike the ground at Dorn’s feet. His voice rose in unintelligible supplication, a screeched prayer to the gods of the warp. Ferrocrete exploded upwards, becoming claws that snatched at the primarch’s limbs. Dorn fended them off with swings of his chainsword, spinning teeth chewing through the animated surface in a shower of sparks and stone.

  Still the air about the sorcerer writhed faster, Neverborn flitting into and out of existence, half-glimpsed by Abaddon as his gaze moved between the duel with Dorn and the wider battle.

  Dorn’s arrival had bolstered the defence, but he had not brought sufficient reinforcements with him to retake the terminals. Khârn had resumed his rampage further along the main bridge while Iron Warriors companies led by Kroeger, seeing Dorn engaged, forged ahead across flanking viaducts and monorail tracks. Dreadnoughts crashed like battering rams into the last ranks of the Imperial Fists, met by cannonades from tanks arrayed along the approaches to the main bastion.

  Higher burned the immortal flames that wreathed Layak, so dark they swallowed light yet edged with a power that was blinding in its intensity. A third sorcerous detonation rocked the primarch, but Abaddon could see that such conjurations were not given freely. Layak’s armour was peeling away like skin flaking from charred flesh, carried away on the thermals of warp energy that he channelled through his body. Revealed skin was ancient like wrinkled parchment, yellowing and thin, devoid of the muscle one expected of a warrior from the Legiones Astartes, little more than withered bone.

  There was another form around the sorcerer, far larger but less distinct: a winged mind-shadow that matched Dorn in height, but far broader of shoulder, and possessed of arms like writhing tentacles.

  Abaddon wondered if this was the true form of Layak or some Never­born brought to his summoning. Whichever, the daemon ­struggled to manifest as did any other, sometimes seemingly whole and flesh, other times nothing more than a sketch of vaporous movement.

  Dorn advanced with purpose, hanging his bolter upon his belt to take up his chainblade in both hands once more. Layak was almost unmoving before him, flares of warp power spitting from his amorphous, shifting silhouette. The Praetorian ignored the sparks as they scythed across his armour, bringing back Storm’s Teeth for a blow.

  ‘Remember this moment, Abaddon. I give my life so that you will take my place upon the path to glory.’

  The chainsword fell, cleaving through apparition and physical body alike. Flames and blood were as one, showering from the churning teeth as they slashed down through horned head and armour.

  What was left of Layak detonated with a burst of multicoloured light. Abaddon had never seen a primarch tossed aside like a child’s toy before, and felt the psychic shock wave wash over him like a hurri­cane across his nerves.

  Abaddon’s vision blurred and for an instant he thought he saw a great tree, its leafless branches ablaze with dark flames. The fires crawled down its trunk, burning down to the roots.

  The crash of heavy war-plate drew him back. Dorn had landed a score of metres away and lay unmoving, coils of oily smoke drifting from the joints of his armour. Dozens of Imperial Fists sprinted towards him, voices raised in despair.

  Of Layak all that remained was a rune-marked crater in the ferro­crete, its metres-deep sides glowing with power from sigils burnt into the material.

  From the ripples of flame left in the bottom of the hole, a clawed hand appeared, red-scaled and taloned. An arm followed as a Never­born pulled itself through the breach, struggling like an obscene chick from an egg, dripping with the life fluid of the sorcerer. It was not much larger than a human, spindly of limb and possessed of a long, bulbous head with dead white eyes and curling horns. A belt of skulls hung about its waist and a triangular-bladed sword of dark grey gleamed in its fist.

  It pulled itself out fully and stood upon the stone of the Imperial Palace, the first true daemon to set foot upon Terra.

  Beyond, Dorn rose to one knee amid a creaking of armour, hand still gripping the hilt of his chainsword.

  A second daemon emerged from the ruin of Layak, baring needle-teeth, forked tongue tasting the sweet air of this forbidden world.

  Yet it was not the daemons that drew the eye of Dorn: his head was tilted back, looking up to the darkening skies. Abaddon turned slightly to follow his gaze and saw the blue plasma jets of a gunship falling through the murk, dark against the continuing muzzle flare of cannons higher up the flanks of the space port.

  As it approached, Abaddon saw the colours of the Iron Warriors, with the IV Legion’s symbol embossed in gold upon its prow. Legionaries scattered as it landed behind the Warmaster’s captain, front ramp whining open even before the landing gear touched down.

  From the ruddy interior advanced six automatons, striding i
n perfect unison, weapons trained outwards as they formed a half-ring around the front of the gunship.

  With thunderous tread on the metal ramp, the Lord of Iron followed, his immense hammer in hand.

  Cor’bax Utterblight

  Faith prevails

  Two brothers meet

  Basilica Ventura, western processional, twenty-two days since assault

  More than forty half-born had fallen to Amon’s blade yet they thronged around the platform in even greater number. The pile of corpses acted as a barrier of sorts, forcing them to come at him in ones and twos as they pushed past the mounds or crawled over the dead. Keeler stood behind him with Sindermann, neither of them moving.

  His guardian spear was slicked with blood and other fluids, affecting his grip. He could fight for hours more if needed, but soon the whole platform would be choked with the dead. His footing would be uncertain, and he would have no room to swing his blade properly. Long before he tired in mind or body he would be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his foes.

  He signalled the Zenith gunship.

  ‘Raptorae Sextus, I need support run on my position.’

  ‘Unable to locate you, Amon. Too dangerous to fire in your vicinity. Set transponder to maximum broadcast.’

  ‘I am at maximum!’ Amon chopped the head from a tainted woman and calmed himself. ‘Attack runs on the platform steps. Cut off the flow to my position.’

  ‘Understood, Amon. Inbound in thirty seconds.’

  Amon sensed movement behind him, coming from Keeler. He took a narrow grip on his spear haft and swung wide, slashing its tip across a handful of foes in a single arc. In the precious seconds between their bodies tumbling and fresh foes replacing them, he glanced back.

  The fly swarm that had surrounded Keeler was breaking apart, becoming individual insects that drifted up like motes on the thermals of a fire. The spread of their disintegration rapidly increased, becoming a whirling vortex streaming upwards and revealing Keeler beneath. Her head was tilted back, mouth agape, and from it issued a dark smoke that followed the swarm, adding to the unnatural maelstrom that twisted higher and higher.

  The half-born foundered, tumbling into each other, tripping on bodies. Like sleepers waking from long slumber they blinked and gazed numbly at their surroundings. Some slipped in the viscera spilled on the platform, crying out in horror.

  The fly-funnel merged with the smoke, forming the body of an immense wormlike creature with a yawning maw at one end, arching over the platform. It passed a few metres above Amon’s head, bending down towards the processional.

  Keeler gasped and fell to her knees, pulling Sindermann down with her. Moans and grunts from those that had moments before been tainted by the Neverborn presence betrayed that they were free of its grasp. Amon saw intelligence in their eyes – fear and shock as they gazed at the golden warrior in their midst.

  The tail of the smoke worm detached from Keeler and it flopped to the ground, becoming more solid as it did so. Flies churned in the interior, becoming pulsing muscle, while the smoke rippled like grey-green skin over the forming mass.

  Amon realised that the Zenith was still on its attack run.

  ‘Raptorae Sextus, abo–’

  The ripple of rotary cannons cut off his transmission as the golden attack ship swept over at cruising speed, wing cannons chewing ­furrows through the people milling on the steps.

  ‘Abort! Abort!’ Amon transmitted. ‘Target the creature!’

  The worm-beast reared up, a tendril-ringed mouth lunging towards the gunship. Glinting teeth sank into a wing, and the daemon-thing wrestled against the thrust of the engines. The gunship’s structural integrity gave way before either beast or jet, the wing tearing away. The gunship spun crazily for several seconds, spiralling down until it crashed into the crowd on the processional.

  The worm-beast continued to change, becoming smaller and obesely humanoid. Its mouth widened and limbs sprawled from its sides, while horns like shattered tree limbs extruded from its mucus-sheathed flesh. Its gut billowed in folds like a cloud, wart-ridden skin turning to patchy green and grey.

  Amon raced to the edge of the platform as it started to feed, massive jaws engulfing two or three people at a time. Its body rippled as it gulped them down, swelling with power as it devoured them. Many were still in numb shock, easy prey for the bloated monstrosity, mindless of the ravening daemon. Its hands became jaws, snapping up even more victims, shovelling their mangled corpses into its distended gullet.

  Three Custodians emerged from the downed cutter, spears cracking bolts at the abomination. They detonated harmlessly across skin thick with scabs and patches of lichen-like growths. A fang-limb swept out, picking up one of the Custodians, auramite shrieking as impossibly strong jaws crushed his armour. His companions set about the arm with their spears, hacking hunks of flesh away, ichor spilling from the wound. Where it fell, the fluid of the daemon formed into small, rotund creatures that cackled and pointed at the futile attempts of the Custodians.

  Amon was about to leap down when he heard footfalls behind him. Keeler approached, leaning heavily on Sindermann. She looked down at the monstrosity without saying anything, her chest heaving as though from great effort.

  The daemon had grown again, the size of a gunship now. It plunged forward, trampling another of the Custodians beneath its bulk. The worshippers were still recovering from their mass possession, and screams echoed back from the high buildings. Panic spread outwards like a ripple, terrified Lightbearers stampeding over each other as they fled.

  Amon’s auto-senses activated as a blinding flash filled the broad roadway. Through the filter of his helm, the Custodian saw a figure emerge from one of the doorways opposite. Light as bright as a star almost obscured the person completely, an indistinct silhouette at the heart of the blaze.

  His auto-senses adjusted, Amon saw a man swathed in a voluminous robe, a staff in hand.

  Malcador.

  The Regent swept out his staff and the nimbus of light became a flurry of burning bolts, siphoned through the staff’s head to fly across the processional. Each impact sent the daemon reeling, slipping and squirming across the ferrocrete, a trail of slime left in its wake. Eyes bubbled up from the frothy trail, tentacles stretching out of the murk. Blue flame leapt from where the bolts struck home, igniting immaterial flesh, feeding on its corrupted nature.

  The monster flexed, partially turned itself inside out, its incorporeal body extinguishing the flames within fleshy folds. A new fang-ringed mouth puckered open, widening to its previous immensity. Malcador raised his staff once more, but before he could let loose with another blaze of psychic power, the Neverborn abomination retched out a tide of body parts and filth. Heaving, it projected already rotting carcasses at the Regent, the noisome deluge spraying from a hastily conjured shield of silver energy.

  Where the daemon vomit slid to rest, a gang of the smaller creatures gambolled from the bodily ruin, pelting Malcador with handfuls of dripping offal and faeces, forcing him back towards the doorway as disgusting projectiles smeared across his imma­terial ward.

  ‘Wait!’

  Keeler’s injunction came just as Amon tensed to jump down to the processional. She held out her hands towards the daemon, eyes closing. Amon saw nothing physical linking her to the monster but a moment later it reared up as though struck, gurgling madly, tongue lolling as if it were being choked. Keeler pulled her hands and the worm-beast writhed as though on reins, flopping backwards over itself. The daemon slithered back to its two stubby legs, turning a nest of milky eyes up towards its tormentor.

  Its guts started rippling in preparation for a fresh torrent of filth.

  Beyond, Malcador swept away his diminutive tormentors with a sheet of white fire. Their cackles became shrieks, the popping of their bodies like wet wood in a bonfire, a greasy smoke rising from their demise.

  ‘Wait…
’ Keeler gritted her teeth, eyes screwed shut, and wrenched her hands again. The huge Neverborn yelped, a startlingly high-pitched noise for its girth, and fell sideways again. Malcador unleashed a flurry of psychic bolts into its thrashing maw, setting fire to its pustule-crusted tongue and gums, teeth melting like iron in a foundry fire.

  ‘Now!’

  Amon leapt, guardian spear in both hands.

  He fell onto the exposed gut of the creature, the tip of his spear cutting deep through immortal skin and blubber. With all his weight behind it, the spear pushed deep into the daemon’s innards and he followed, plunging into a coagulating mass of blood and greenish ichor.

  The monster heaved around him, but Amon reversed his grip and thrust upwards from inside the beast’s belly, piercing what would have been the brain in any corporeal animal.

  He waded through bile, the guardian spear torn from his grasp as the monster bucked, trying to eject him out of its burning mouth. Amon grabbed hold of slime-covered flesh, gauntleted fingertips tearing chunks from its insides.

  With a last scream, the daemon exploded, becoming a fountain of gore and mucus that rained down over a hundred metres of the processional, splashing over the buildings in a final tide of filth.

  Amon lay among the ruin of its body, slicked from head to toe in viscera and gelatinous waste. Feet slipping on bodily debris, he retrieved his spear, wary lest the daemon reformed in some manner. A few blobs of flesh quivered here and there, but cleansing fire from Malcador’s staff turned the remains into a pyre, forcing the Custodians to retreat along the processional.

  In the distance the craft of the Silent Sisterhood took off, jets screaming as it accelerated away to the south while gold-and-white armoured figures intercepted the fleeing worshippers.