by Gav Thorpe
‘Sumat aton sumat utuhl nakon autah eras pheton sumat.’ The words came in the familiar tempo, no faster or slower than any of the other incantations, but Njal shared the urgency with which Izzakar spoke.
In all directions, the bolter fire was growing in vigour with each passing second in response to the swelling crowd of lesser daemons and beasts raging down the sides of the caldera. The boom of the assault cannon and snarl of fragmentation missiles added to the din. Njal fumed, powerless to aid his brothers. He longed to have his pistol in hand, to smite the coming foes with the Allfather’s wrath, but Izzakar was still occupied with the gate.
The toxic presence of the greater daemon merged with the reflection of the portal, becoming one with its energy. It fed on the flow of immaterial effluent like a thunderwolf with a great elk carcass, voracious and unceasing. The Stormcaller recoiled when he felt it on the furthest extent of his wyrdsense. A burning touch permeated his skin, flowing along his nerves like a swarm of biting ants. He wanted to retch and shout but he raged in silent immobility, enduring the suffering, so that Izzakar was free from distraction while he continued his delicate work.
+It is almost ready,+ the Thousand Sons Librarian declared.
A flare of blue fire burst past Njal from across the caldera, splashing across the slab-armour of Olaf the Thrice-Slain. Ceramite melted beneath the blast, sloughing away from the adamantium skeleton beneath. Warpflame and bolt shells spewed across the crater.
The pool bubbled violently and the ground shuddered with the approach of the greater daemon.
Silver threads wove up into the gold, forming artery-like structures within.
+It is done!+ announced Izzakar, curling Njal’s lips in a triumphant grin.
The golden column exploded, engulfing the Stormcaller with immaterial shards. He staggered back, wrenching control of his body from Izzakar with a painful throb at the base of his skull.
‘Into the portal!’ he bellowed, but his command came too late.
Something majestic and terrifying reared up through the split wound of the portal, detonating into material space with the force of a demolisher shell. Wings of feathered gold and cerulean beauty sighed open, the wind of their movement washing through Njal’s thoughts more than across his armour. A vulture-like face stared down at him from within the coalescing motes of psychic power, twin black orbs for eyes either side of its crooked beak.
A wordless howl ripped from Njal, a reflexive response triggered not by conscious thought but centuries of psychodoctrination. Psychic power burst from his staff. A storm of white flares and razor-ice slammed into the manifesting entity, hurling its coagulating material form out of the portal gate. Ripped feathers and scattered scales turned to glittering dust.
‘Into the breach!’ Njal called again, stepping around the pool to throw more wrathful blasts at the reeling greater daemon.
Valgarthr waved forward Majula and her Navis Guard. As they entered the silver light of the portal, the Navigator and warriors faded from sight. Squads of Stormriders splashed into the strange pool after them while Njal hurled lightning at his enemy.
Njal panted. His head ached as though the crystal-latticed psychic hood upon his scalp squeezed his skull. Inside the torrent of skyfire, the Tzeentchian daemon writhed, long beak opening and closing with curses lost in the fury of crackling blasts. It forced itself up to a crouch, its scaled, bird-like legs bent beneath it, while its long neck twisted left and right as it tried to raise a clawed hand against the flow.
Arjac’s Wolf Guard fired a last salvo into the swarming ring of daemons and then thrashed through the pool after Valgarthr’s warriors. Olaf and Grímr plunged after them.
With a triumphant screech that rebounded oddly from the open skies, the Lord of Change threw out a wing, its battered feathers forming a shield against the assault of the Stormcaller. Njal stumbled as a counter-pulse snaked along his own lightning strike, bathing his staff in a red nimbus. Burning pain flared through his fingers and arm and he staggered back. Izzakar snarled, sympathetically wounded by the attack.
The greater daemon straightened to its full height and glared down at the Space Wolf. It drew forth a skull-tipped rod from a slit in the sky. The eyes of the wand-head were as empty as those in its own face. Twin pits of darkness sucked at Njal’s soul.
+Into the portal, Stormcaller.+
He tried to respond but the soul-leeching effect of the greater daemon drained his limbs of any strength. The gibbering of the daemon horde was scant metres away, the scrabble of claws and hiss of flames loud to his boosted senses. He could feel the psychic static pinging from the tips of his beard-hairs, every fibre of his nervous system taut as it tried to fight off the malign influence spilling from the daemon.
The bright flare and thunder of Bjorn’s assault cannon was like an eruption beside his head, both deafening and blinding. Njal blinked through a stream of tears as a hail of shells slammed into the Lord of Change, raking across its feathered breast, tearing immaterial flesh from its face.
The venerable Dreadnought’s claw swung back, slamming into Njal’s chest. The blow hurled him across the pool, and into the warm embrace of the portal-beacon. The Rune Priest’s last sight was of Bjorn turning. Daemons clambered upon his back, prising away the plates with flame-tipped fingers. Cascades of purple sparks cut like lascannon beams through melting ceramite, exposing tangles of lubricant-spewing pipelines that swayed like viscera. The ancient warrior yelled his defiance.
‘For the Allfather!’
CHAPTER 14
AFTER THE OLD GUARD
The crash of war-plate on hard ground shuddered through Njal, the pressure dampeners of his Terminator armour doing their best to absorb the impact. He slid a short distance and came to a halt. Lying on his back, he could see the portal and was surprised to see a large gateway of plasteel and crystal. Within the square arch, an insubstantial curtain undulated through shades of blue and green, its light dappling on the gilded interior surfaces.
He sat up and saw a darker shadow in the energy veil. Around him, Arjac’s pack levelled their storm bolters and heavy weapons. The shadow almost filled the space within the gate, eclipsing its light. The shade grew deeper, thickening as something approached through the gateway.
Trailing sparks and with his claw wreathed with white lightning, Bjorn erupted from the portal. The veil brightened in his wake. But only for a moment. More dark shapes quickly clustered into the energy field.
‘Sever the crossing!’
The Dreadnought’s metallic bellow spurred Njal into action. He pushed himself to his feet and let Izzakar’s soul bleed into his nervous system. The Thousand Sons Librarian extended his will through Njal’s outstretched fingers, motes of power dancing between the tips of the gauntlet. Runeshapes in the crystal structure of the gateway cracked and reformed. A second later, the miasma within the arch exploded, showering Njal and the others with a storm of glass-like shards. A pulsating darkness filled the space, obscuring all that lay beyond.
Njal retreated and eyed the portal warily while Izzakar slipped back into dormancy. The Stormcaller thought he could feel pressure on the far side of the gap, as if something pushed at the air, but there was no reaction from the portal itself.
+I have severed the link completely,+ Izzakar informed him. +Nothing can pass through.+
‘Including us.’
+We shall not be going back that way,+ admitted the sorcerer.
‘If I was a suspicious man I would think that an easy way to trap us here.’ He took stock of his surroundings. ‘Wherever here is…’
The portal jump had brought them into a hall not dissimilar from the one where their odyssey had begun. It had the appearance of something that was yet to be completed, a grand work unfinished.
The walls were bare ferrocrete blocks set upon each other, banded with plasteel reinforcing. Vaults of the same held up a ruddy, semi-transparent ceiling, and high windows gave a glimpse of cloudy sky above mountainous terrain. Large f
lagstones of pale blue covered the floor, each inset with a symbol.
Njal examined them in more detail. The sigil was a stylised hollow sun with eight flame-like ejections, similar to the cardinal points of a compass.
+The mark of my Legion, but in a place I have never seen before.+
‘Look closer.’
Njal could see that at the centre was a faint design of a serpent eating its own tail.
+What does that signify? It is not part of any lore I have read.+
‘I think there is your answer,’ said Njal, turning his attention to the two grand doors at the far end of the hall. They dominated the short wall, almost filling it, of naked plasteel obviously awaiting further decoration. The moulding depicted a giant figure of a man in baroque armour, horns upon his brow and shoulders, half-opened wings of dripping fire behind him. An expression of aloof contempt stared back, a hole as a setting for a gem in place of a single eye.
‘The Crimson King,’
+Magnus cloaks himself in many guises. His form is as fluid as thought, but I am unfamiliar with this appearance.+
‘It is Magnus the daemon prince, commander of the traitor Legion you belonged to. That is the face of your master.’
+This chamber…+ A gush of doubt welled up inside Njal, unfamiliar and chilling, seeping from the knot of psychic potential that was his unwilling passenger. +A throne hall, perhaps.+
‘Guard the doors,’ snapped Njal, turning to his battle-brothers. He waved his staff towards the smaller entrances at the other end of the hall. ‘Secure this whole area now.’
+I sense a terrible purpose to all of this, a pattern within the anarchy.+
‘So do I.’ Caught up in the discussion, Njal spoke quietly but openly. Arjac looked on with distaste and the others cast him strange glances. The Stormcaller no longer cared. His need to share his thoughts with Izzakar to unravel the mystery around Prospero outweighed other concerns. ‘The emergence of the Planet of the Sorcerers, the breaking of the Portal Maze, the armies of dedicants and daemons… It is all related.’
‘Is all well, Stormcaller?’ asked Valgarthr. He stalked back across the hall. ‘You are acting strangely. How is it that you know so much of the traitors’ maze?’
Njal ignored the question and was about to continue his musing when Arjac interrupted.
‘Our Lord of Runes communes with spirits of the past,’ he said, to the Rune Priest’s surprise. ‘I do not think it is wise to interfere in wyrd matters.’
The warning halted Valgarthr. Though he did not seem wholly satisfied by the explanation, he said nothing else. Arjac stepped closer.
‘You need to be cautious, Stormcaller,’ he warned softly.
‘I cannot spare more effort to worry about the sensibilities of our brothers’ Njal replied.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Arjac. ‘You are becoming overly dependent upon this traitorous shade.’
‘We came for the Old Guard, but have uncovered something far more important,’ he said, hoping explanation would quell Arjac’s doubts. ‘Magnus has brought forth his daemonworld with plans to infiltrate the old portal network.’
‘And if he succeeds?’
‘How far did the Portal Maze extend?’ The question was for Izzakar, who took a few seconds to respond.
+One cannot measure the interdimensional in distance, nor time. But vast, in theory. Where we conquered in the Emperor’s name, we laid foundations for the Portal Maze. It was but a fraction complete when the Emperor sent your predecessors to Tizca.+
‘And if Magnus the daemon gains control of it?’
+He will have stable warp paths for his immaterial allies across a large part of the Imperium.+
‘But the warp is everywhere, what difference does that make?’
+What you call daemons, I studied as intersectional formulae. They are eddies in the warp, tiny fragments of fluid consciousness birthed from larger swells and storms. Even when they manifest in the material universe, their greater part must remain within the confines of warp space. The Portal Maze bridges that distance. Brings it closer, if you will.+
‘Meaning daemons would be more powerful.’
Njal heard Arjac growl as he pieced together the conversation from the half he could hear.
+Yes. New manifestations. More powerful representations of existing formulae. And if Magnus himself has become warp-bound by his transition it would also mean less of a drain on his own inherent energy to maintain physical form.+
‘We cannot allow that to happen.’
‘I agree,’ said Arjac. ‘How are we going to stop Magnus?’
Njal did not have an answer for the hearthegn.
+I do not think you have either the information or the warriors to intervene. Even if you reunite with Bulveye, if the Crimson King succeeds, you will face the untapped power of the Empyrean and an unending host of warpspawn.+
‘We will find a way,’ said the Stormcaller, addressing both Izzakar and Arjac.
Njal thudded down the hall to where Rockfist’s pack guarded the main doors flanked by the Dreadnoughts. It struck him as odd to see the Wolf Guard in this place, the throne room of Magnus, so similar to their role as door wardens in the Fang. He chased away the distracting thought. His mission, highly tenuous even at the outset, now verged on the impossible. The threat posed by Magnus’ plan was more important than rescuing Bulveye’s warriors.
Arjac followed close, his voice a taut whisper.
‘We may lack the might to intervene ourselves but we can ensure that a warning reaches Fenris.’
Njal followed up on this fresh thought, ‘Or even further… to Lord Guilliman and perhaps Terra itself. Magnus’ quest for dominion over the Portal Maze threatens even Ultramar and the Throneworld.’
Before Arjac could respond, a flash of light passed overhead. An instant later, a thunderous boom shook the hall from ceiling to floor. Something winged – artificial and blocky rather than daemonic or organic – swept after, flickers of brightness at its bow. Across the throne room, warriors turned in surprise.
‘Is that a Thunderhawk gunship?’ said Arjac, head craned up to look at the shadow passing over.
‘Bigger,’ replied one of the Long Fangs.
+Do your companions not know a Stormbird when they see one?+
‘It was grey,’ said Ulfar, voicing Arjac’s thought.
‘One of Bulveye’s?’ the hearthegn said, looking at Njal. The psyker had a look of intense concentration, staring up towards the glassite where the gunship had passed. Gold frost coloured his brow, a sign of psychic activity. He blinked and turned his otherworldly gaze to the Wolf Guard. Focus returned to his eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Njal. He strode towards the main doors, staff hammering on the floor, Nightwing weaving around the warriors ahead. ‘This way.’
The Wolf Guard, Dreadnoughts and Stormriders assembled quickly, breaking away from their watch positions to fall back towards the Stormcaller. He thrust his staff and the doors flew open at his will, slamming outwards into a corridor. The passageway was lined on each side with gated arches, their bare metal wrought in designs that interlocked about an eye symbol with triangular and hexagrammic shapes. Beyond them lay more chambers bereft of ornament and furniture.
The far end was sealed by a large armoured portal, lock bars clearly visible, its controlling gears half-protruding from the flanking pillars of the wall. Generators buzzed into life at their approach, a shimmer of a golden nimbus about the gate’s mechanism, an extension of the force that enveloped Njal’s outstretched hand. Ratchets clanked and gears whined into life, pulling apart the two slab doors. Bright sunlight poured in, and with it came the sharp retorts of weapons.
The opening gate revealed a distant mountainside wreathed in smoke and haze. The flicker of weapons fire sparked across Arjac’s sensorium even at this distance – twelve hundred metres according to its augury. As the company hurried forward the reason for the brightness became evident, two pale stars midway between horizon and zenit
h, one to each side. Beyond the gate stretched a bridge – or causeway, more rightly – that ran as straight as a bolter shot towards the mountain.
About halfway along the causeway, a thick swathe of blue-armoured warriors held against attack, taking cover in rocky outcrops that jutted from the wall, several suits of broken armour lying upon the hard stone already. The robed corpses of scores of cultists littered the bridge. Against them ranged a company of Space Marines bearing the mark of Russ upon grey armour, though its shade was slightly different from that of those that hailed Logan Grimnar as their commander.
Above circled a gunship vaster than a Thunderhawk, its prow fashioned as a snarling wolfshead, hull sheathed in gilded lightning strikes. Plasma gleam lit the armour of the combatants and the polished stone, joined by the flicker of lascannon fire and stream of bolt propellant. More heavy weapons fire slashed along the bridge from the far end, its source obscured by the firefights and melees raging for control of the causeway.
Advancing out into the light, Arjac felt a strange sense of dislocation. While Valgarthr and the surviving Stormriders hurried on, their weapons trained upon the knots of Thousand Sons holding against Bulveye’s warriors, the hearthegn moved to the low boundary wall to the right. The sensorium data made no sense, suggesting there was nothing below the citadel. Arjac leaned over the parapet and looked back.
The fortress was not much larger than what they had seen, the greater part of it taken up with the main hall and entranceway, flanked by smaller towers and turrets. Three narrow pilasters rose from the centre, piercing the sky like crooked fingers. The citadel was fashioned of smooth stone, polished marble veined with violet and sky blue and from red-tiled roofs rose dozens of flagpoles. Upon them flew blue standards, each carrying the warp-pupil eye of Magnus, symbol of his cultists.
‘This was not built by Magnus, but for him,’ said Arjac as Berda joined him.