Pandorax

by C Z Dunn

  In the space of a few minutes, hundreds of thousands of plague zombies spilled out of Atika, the flow showing no signs of abating. In among them, larger figures emerged, firing upon the loyal Space Marines from behind a wall of the undead. Seemingly unnoticed in the melee, the Plague Marines killed almost at will, the little return fire they did receive soaked up by their shields of rotting flesh. But Tzula noticed them, just like she noticed the taller shape at the rear of the horde, giving out orders and guiding his slave army.

  Casually shooting the head from a plague zombie, Tzula set off in the direction of her new target, muttering a single word under her breath.

  ‘Corpulax.’

  085961.M41 / Piraeus Stronghold. 4,218 kilometres

  north-east of Atika, Pythos

  Shira squeezed off her final shot, the laspistol power pack dying along with the cultist she had aimed for. His body slumped to the ground alongside the seven others she had picked off from her vantage point on a ledge several metres above the tunnel. She ejected the spent cell and slammed another one home before dropping to the ground in search of new targets.

  Further down the mineshaft, Epimetheus finished his duel with the final Black Legionnaire, his force halberd bifurcating the Traitor Marine with a wail of sparking energy and the wrench of tearing bone. The two halves of the ruined body had not ceased twitching by the time Shira caught up to the Grey Knight.

  ‘Is that the last of them?’ Shira asked, swinging a boot at part of the corpse and kicking it derisorily.

  Epimetheus knelt down and rifled through the pouches and containers strapped around the dead Traitor Marine’s waist. He pulled out a couple of grenades and a handful of bolt shells, adding them to his own kit. ‘That’s the last of anyone. I’m not detecting any signs of life, no presences registering in the warp.’

  Confirmation, not that either of them needed it, came when they entered the next cavern and found the hold’s defenders dead at the mine face, a desperate last stand that had come to nothing. The bodies of hundreds of Cadian Whiteshields, boy soldiers pressed into the service of the Emperor, lay intermingled with those of the miners, few of them any older than the Imperial Guardsmen they had died alongside. They had given a good account of themselves – the lifeless forms of scores of dead cultists attested to that – but their defence had been doomed to failure because of the presence of Traitor Astartes among the aggressors.

  It was an all too familiar sight to Shira and the Grey Knight. For months they had been operating across the north of Pythos’s main continent, responding to distress calls from Imperial Guard and militia units coming under attack from enemy raiding parties. Rather than concentrate his forces on one coordinated offensive against a single delver-stronghold, Abaddon had instead opted to launch smaller assaults against clusters of mines, synchronised so that the Imperial forces garrisoned there could not come to each other’s aid. The strategy had been ruthlessly effective. For every stronghold Epimetheus and Shira made it to in time to aid its defence, two more would be lost. With the battle to retake Atika underway, there would be no reinforcements to bolster the Imperial Guard, and despite the Warmaster teetering on the verge of defeat in the war for Pythos, he could still strike with impunity in the north.

  Grimly, Shira and Epimetheus set about piling up the bodies ready for burning.

  ‘So what are you going to do when all this is over?’

  Shira’s question caught the Grey Knight off-guard. Her chatter was ordinarily banal, often centred around asking him if he had met specific figures from the age of the Horus Heresy, or about Space Marine bodily functions or lack thereof.

  ‘I mean, when the war is over,’ she added, hacking her way through the thick undergrowth as they made their way back to the shuttle.

  ‘If all that you and Tzula have told me is true, the war is never over. The Imperium of Man is in a constant state of conflict. There will always be battles to fight,’ Epimetheus answered, hoping that would be the end of it.

  ‘That’s not really an answer,’ she smirked. ‘Do you plan on rejoining your Chapter or are we going to keep our double act together? The Silver Ghost and his daring sidekick, flying around the galaxy coming to the aid of those who need it most.’

  Epimetheus reached out in front of them, grasping a low-hanging bough that was barring their way and tore it from the trunk of the mighty redwood as if it were nothing more than a twig. ‘It is no longer my Chapter. In some regards very little has changed, but the Imperium has moved on in the last ten thousand years. I am a man out of time, a throwback. I probably have more in common with Abaddon than I do the modern Space Marine.’ He stared off into the distance, almost wistful. ‘When the enemy is driven from the face of Pythos and the Damnation Cache has been resealed, I plan to leave here and make my way into the Maelstrom. I shall take the fight to the enemy and do what I was bred to do.’

  ‘I knew you’d keep our little team-up going,’ Shira said, coming to the shuttle they had left cloaked beneath a gargantuan tree, its trunk as wide as the shuttle was long.

  Epimetheus punched in a string of numbers onto a barely visible external keypad. The camouflage faded away to reveal the sleek black hull of the craft, its side hatch slowly dropping to the ground to form a boarding ramp. Shira made to climb up it but Epimetheus halted her. ‘It is something I must do alone. The Maelstrom is a deadly place littered with daemon worlds that make Pythos look like a pleasure planet. Without the correct psychic wards in place, its denizens would tear your soul apart as easily as cast eyes upon you. A simple laspistol would be no defence there.’

  Shira looked as if she had just taken a punch to the gut. Though he could read minds, reading people had never been one of Epimetheus’s strengths. In the months he had spent around the pilot, he had learned one way of dealing with her, however.

  ‘But you are a very good shot with it,’ he said. ‘Almost as good as you are a pilot.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you’re a lousy liar,’ Shira sniggered climbing up the boarding ramp. ‘And besides, don’t think you’ll be rid of me anytime soon. There’s still plenty of war left on Pythos.’

  Her point was punctuated by the crackle of the vox.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Korbienev of the Cadian 99th. Murranz Hold is under attack. I repeat Murranz Hold is–’ The panicked voice drowned in a sea of static.

  ‘See?’ Shira said, strapping herself into the pilot’s seat.

  Five minutes later, the Silver Ghost was airborne, racing south to do what he was bred to do.

  085961.M41 / Atika Hive, Pythos

  Tzula was not the only one to notice Corpulax’s presence on the battlefield.

  Carving through the plague zombie horde, one of the Deathwing had also spotted the Plague Lord and was making his way to engage him. In their ivory Terminator armour, each of the Dark Angels First Company looked alike, except for those few who forewent helmets. Tzula had been trained by some of the finest analytical and observational minds at the Ordo Malleus’s disposal and, being more than a casual observer, had noted the positioning of the three purity seals running along his left greave on the sole occasion she had met this particular Dark Angel. His name was Balthasar. Not that it mattered. She would reach Corpulax first and avenge Dinalt’s death.

  Coming up on the traitor’s blindside, she took aim with the plasma pistol and pulled the trigger while still several metres away. Instead of taking his head off as she’d intended, her shot struck two of the ever-shifting mass of thralls who got in the way. Corpulax turned to find the source of the attack. When his eyes found Tzula amongst the press of undead flesh, he gave a sickly, wet grin.

  ‘I had a feeling we would meet again, you and I,’ he said through a throat full of mucus. ‘You took what is rightfully mine and I demand to have it.’

  Instinctively, Tzula looked down at the knife tucked into her belt.

  ‘Have you really been so foolish to keep it on you? Delivered it right into my grasp?’ With a gesture he parted the plague zo
mbies standing between them, giving him a clear view of the junior interrogator. ‘Yes you have, and saved me the trouble of torturing you for its location. Bring it here, girl, and your death will be swift. Make me fight for it and you’ll beg me to kill you a thousand times over before I allow you to die.’

  ‘It’ll be sticking between your ribs before that day ever comes. This is for my master.’ Tzula fired again, but Corpulax countered with another gesture, moving the plague zombies back into her line of sight. Broiled necrotic flesh and limbs tumbled to the ground.

  ‘How very touching. You seek to avenge Dinalt’s death. You’ve been spending too much time around these Dark Angels. Vengeance blinds them too.’ The Plague Lord’s bolter barked to life, forcing Tzula to dive and roll. His gun tracked her movements, the shots felling thralls but leaving the figure in the black bodyglove unscathed. Coming out of her roll, Tzula swung the pistol around but her shot only despatched more of the mindless slaves.

  ‘And what do you know of the Dark Angels, traitor?’ Balthasar’s shadow fell across Tzula and she threw herself to one side as he opened up with his storm bolter. The shield of walking corpses continued to do their job, gobbets of shredded dead flesh all that hit Corpulax.

  ‘This one’s not too bright, is he? Or maybe the vengeance has literally blinded him.’ Corpulax opened up a channel through the plague zombies to allow Balthasar a good look at him. The Deathwing hesitated for a fraction of a second, his rate of fire faltering as he saw the Plague Lord clearly for the first time. ‘That’s right, we were once brothers, you and I. You could almost say we were Legion, couldn’t you?’

  Balthasar’s fire intensified, but his shots were wayward. It looked to Tzula as if the Deathwing was enraged, fighting angry.

  ‘Don’t worry. Your dirty little secrets are safe with me.’ Corpulax waved his skeletal hand again, this time making a claw as he did so. Every plague zombie in a fifty-metre radius broke off from swarming Imperial Guardsmen or clogging up tank treads and converged on the Dark Angel and junior interrogator. ‘But you’ll soon be taking yours to the grave, “brother”.’

  Balthasar drew his power sword and swung it in a wide arc. Heedless to the danger, the mindless thralls walked onto his blade while others of their kind were shredded by his storm bolter. Tzula drew her combat knife and stabbed away at the cloying mass one-handed, her plasma pistol glowing and dangerously close to overheating in the other. Arms, legs and heads parted company with their owners in a storm of carnage, yet the throng did not abate.

  The corpulent black armoured figure moved among his servants, a pathway opening before him then closing just as quickly in his wake. The bolter hung at his side, the mind-controlled crowd his weapon of choice now. As he drew closer to the beleaguered pair, he raised his fleshless hand.

  ‘His hand! Don’t let it touch you,’ Tzula yelled, straining her vocal cords to be heard over the incessant din of battle.

  In a blur of steel and energy, Balthasar brought his power sword upwards, tearing through any plague zombie unfortunate enough to be in its way before making contact with Corpulax’s wrist. The Plague Lord threw his head to the sky and let out a howl, its moist bass momentarily drowning out the sound of artillery fire and daemonic chatter. Balthasar’s sword died in his hand, the energy field sputtering and dissipating. Even devoid of power, the blade’s sharp edges were lethal, carving up undead as the Dark Angel tried to press home his advantage and plough through the tightly packed bodies to reach Corpulax.

  Although his hand had been severed, the Plague Marine retained control of the horde, rotting forms moving into position behind him to cover his escape. Balthasar fought relentlessly to reach the traitor, smashing thralls out of the way with his fists and the pommel of his sword but it was all in vain. For every metre of ground he won, Corpulax drew ever closer to the safety of Atika.

  The vox-bead in Tzula’s ear awoke. It was Azrael’s voice. ‘All forces pull back. There are too many of them. We’re going to blast them from orbit.’

  Still slashing and firing, she started to retreat but halted when she realised that Balthasar was still heading in the opposite direction. ‘You heard Lord Azrael. We’re retreating so the horde can be bombed from space. You have to move. Now.’

  The Dark Angel stopped, nonchalantly swinging an elbow and taking the heads from a pair of zombies who had ventured too close to him. Away in the distance, the red and white Chapter symbol of the Consecrators stark against the black of his relic armour, Corpulax was swallowed up by the darkness of Atika.

  ‘Balthasar,’ Tzula urged. Tanks reversed past her at speed, clearing the way for the Space Marines and Guardsmen following behind.

  Sheathing his sword, Balthasar turned and ran after the junior interrogator, the deep blue of the twilight sky already streaked by white contrails heralding the death to come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  152961.M41 / The Underhive. Atika, Pythos

  Corpulax emptied the magazine of his bolter into the prone form of the Dark Angels Scout, the shredded body convulsing under every impact. Blood gushed from suppurating wounds, coating the green armour in a layer of crimson and pooling around the twitching Space Marine. Reports of yet more bolters sounded from further along the tunnel, the Scout’s squad mates having been cornered by the cadre of Plague Marines accompanying Corpulax and meeting the same fate.

  The Plague Lord revelled in the kills, not so much in the act itself but in what they represented. For months the Scouts had been operating ahead of the main contingent of Dark Angels and Grey Knights, locating and destroying ammo dumps, guiding forces to sacrifice sites and reconnoitring plague zombie activity. Seemingly able to become one with the darkness, the Dark Angels Tenth Company struck with impunity, often gone before the Chaos forces had realised they had ever been there, and with a trail of corpses to mark their leaving. These kills were merely five weighed against the hundreds inflicted upon his forces, but it was five less pairs of eyes to gather intelligence for the enemy. Five fewer warm bodies that could uncover the location of the Emerald Cave, especially as it was so close to being opened.

  The clank of armour heralded the return of the Plague Marines, their bloated shapes resolving out of the gloom, each of them reloading their bolters. Corpulax made to do the same, reaching down with his free hand to take a clip from his belt only to remember that he no longer had a free hand. All these weeks later it still felt like it was there, the Deathwing’s power sword having cauterised the wound, denying Corpulax the pleasure of having the stump fester as a constant reminder of its loss. Gripping his bolter under his armpit, he used his other hand to retrieve fresh ammo and slide it home before wielding the weapon once again. A sudden noise from the darkness soon had him raising it again.

  Oblivious to the gun aimed at her head, the Davinicus Lycae leader was almost forehead to barrel with it when Corpulax spoke. ‘You shouldn’t go sneaking around in the dark like that, Dormenendra, I could have blown your head off.’ This was a stretch of the truth. Corpulax’s enhanced vision had identified the cultist leader while she was still many metres away, even in the pitch blackness.

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, Plague Lord. I did not mean to startle you.’ The woman’s deferential tone drew wet chuckles from the Plague Marines. More followed when she fell to both knees before Corpulax.

  ‘As flattering as it is, I gather you didn’t come all the way down here just to prostrate yourself before me. Have you news?’ For a cult that had persisted in one form or another since the time of the Horus Heresy, the Davinicus Lycae got through figureheads at a prodigious rate. Dormenendra was the latest cultist to have ascended to the head of the cult, those who had assumed the mantle since Morphidae having either fallen to the predations of the planet, the enemy or ambitious pretenders from within their own ranks. Corpulax had a grudging respect for the woman as, in her case, she had assumed the role by means of the latter.

  Dormenendra raised her horned head to look upon the Plague Lord before lift
ing herself to her feet. Despite the elongated growths from her temples, she barely came up to Corpulax’s chest.

  ‘I do, my lord,’ she said. ‘The Emerald Cave has been breached.’

  In his centuries of existence, Corpulax had seen many things in service to both his masters. As a loyal Space Marine fighting in the name of the Emperor he had witnessed the Exterminatus of worlds, the destruction of xenos races and entire cultures brought to their knees. In his second life, reborn as a scion of the Plague God, he had travelled deep within the Eye of Terror to seek audience with daemons, inflicted pain beyond the ken of man and presided over butchery on an epic scale.

  What he saw before him in the Emerald Cave made all that came before it pale as if to nothing.

  Colossal in the truest sense of the word, the Prisoner from the Emerald Cave virtually filled its confines. The top of its head – or what passed for a head – almost scraped the top of the cavern, and its corpulent bulk spilled nearly to each wall. Its mottled blubber bubbled and pulsed, a sheen of stagnant moisture, like toxic sweat, reflecting the green light of the glowing gems embedded in the walls. Smaller versions of itself detached from its hide, bursting free from pustules in a shower of stinking fluid. Some would be immediately subsumed back into the whole, while others would squabble and fight, trying to catch the attention and favour of their progenitor. Others would become food, the host growing fat tentacles and scooping them up, dropping them into maws it could form at will.

  Awed at this sight that no mortal – no post-mortal – had witnessed for almost ten millennia, Corpulax fell to his knees as Dormenendra had done before him not an hour earlier. Even fully armoured and with his enhanced physique, augmented greatly by his patron’s gifts, Corpulax looked like an ant before a demigod. Curious, two of the recently detached spawn slid down their creator’s flesh to take a closer look at the supplicatory figure at his feet, probing and prodding at Corpulax with foetid appendages. Where the bickering of its children had failed to gain notice, this pair of errant progeny succeeded and the immense daemon sprouted a plethora of eyes where its bulk met the floor of its prison, intrigued by the minuscule worshipper.