[Dawn of War 01] - Dawn of War

by C. S. Goto - (ebook by Undead)

  “And this artefact, what is it?” asked Gabriel, trying to cut through the irrelevant details—time was short.

  “It is a stone—a small gem called the Maledictum. Inside is contained a daemon of great power—a daemon prince, born of the forces of Chaos itself,” replied Mordecai with sinister force.

  Gabriel was shaking his head, trying to make all of the pieces fit together. It didn’t make sense. “How is it possible that the citizens of Tartarus did not know all of this? These markers… and the artefact itself must lie buried beneath their own cities. Why do their records contain no mention of any of this?”

  “When the warp storm last visited Tartarus, three thousand years ago, it drove the local population into insanity. When the Imperium resettled the planet, it did so as though for the first time. Lloovre Marr himself cleansed the planet of all survivors of the storm—it is said that the rivers ran with blood. All traces of the previous colonists were eradicated. Lloovre Marr and his comrades built over the dark places without ever knowing what lay beneath,” explained Mordecai.

  “That is why the history books begin so precisely in 102.M39?” asked Isador.

  “Yes, the previous records were all expunged by the Inquisition,” replied Mordecai. “And thus the people of Tartarus remained ignorant of what lay beneath them, even when they built a network of underground tunnels as escape routes from the capital city.”

  “Knowledge is power, inquisitor,” said Gabriel, quoting the motto of his Chapter with a wry smile. “The Inquisition’s secrets may have hobbled the people of this world.”

  “If this Maledictum stone is as powerful as you say, inquisitor,” said Isador, his interest piqued, “would it not exert some kind of effect on the people even whilst it is buried?”

  “A good question, Librarian,” replied Mordecai. “The ancient text in the Registratum Malfeas suggests that the daemon within the stone may be imprisoned, but it is not without power, particularly if its thirst for blood is satiated. It is possible that the stone could affect the affairs of Tartarus—it is certainly affecting them now.”

  “And what about the eldar?” asked Gabriel, as he realised that the words of the eldar witch had proven true. “Do they seek this power for themselves?”

  “No, captain. It was they who imprisoned the daemon in the first place, placing it behind a complicated combination-lock. Their farseer entrapped the daemon in the stone, and buried it. She rigged the burial chamber with a psychic lock that could only be breached by the residual power that she imbibed into a ritual dagger, which she also buried. Even if someone were to recover the stone itself, it could only be awoken in a final ceremony performed on ground consecrated by the blood of a devoted population,” explained Mordecai, pausing as the expression on Gabriel’s face changed.

  “Inquisitor, the whole of Lloovre Marr is constructed on top of a giant reservoir of blood—just look down into that chasm. It appears that large sections of the population must have been cultists for some time—perhaps influenced by the power of the stone, or perhaps mutated by the sea of blood that seeps through their soil. Even their lho-sticks must be saturated with the resonances of blood and death,” responded Gabriel. “It seems that it was not only the people of Tartarus who were ignorant about the events here, it seems that the Inquisition was also kept in the dark.”

  “How do you know this story, inquisitor?” asked Isador, his scholarly scepticism making him suspicious. “Did you learn it from the eldar?”

  “No, Librarian,” answered Mordecai. “The eldar have fiercely safeguarded all knowledge of the stone—even going so far as to interfere with our efforts to retrieve it. As Chaos’ most ancient enemy, they see themselves as the only capable defence against its influence. And we are all paying for their arrogance now.”

  “I’m not sure that you have answered my question,” persisted Isador, his years of training in the librarium showing. “How do you know all this?”

  “Because we were here, Librarian Akios,” said Mordecai, pausing to let the statement sink in. “The Inquisition was here three thousand years ago, when many Chapters of the Space Marines were still young. An inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos led a Deathwatch recovery team to Tartarus, drawn by the presence of the eldar and a particular eldar artefact. This team saw the eldar farseer imprison the daemon with its own eyes.”

  “And what was the Deathwatch team here to ‘recover’?” asked Gabriel, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

  Mordecai sighed audibly, as though he had not been willing for the conversation to reach this point. His warhammer was still swinging rhythmically from one hand to another, but he broke the rhythm and hefted it into the air, brandishing it above his head in both hands. “This,” he said. “The Deathwatch team came for the materials needed to construct this warhammer—a daemonhammer. It was forged from a shard broken from the sword of the avatar of the Biel-Tan—the fabled Wailing Doom of Khaine himself. That was the very weapon with which the avatar slew the daemon prince on that dark night—and this is a daemonhammer unlike any other. It is the God-Splitter.”

  “And the Inquisition stole part of this glorious weapon,” said Gabriel, shaking his head in disappointment. “What a mess.”

  “You still do not know it all, Captain Angelos of the Blood Ravens. That Deathwatch team was led by a certain Captain Trythos, also of the Blood Ravens—the first Blood Raven ever to serve a secondment with the Ordo Xenos,” said Mordecai, revealing more than he should have done, but enjoying this last fragment of power.

  Gabriel shook his head. The great Trythos had been here before—was it here that he had been mortally wounded whilst on a Deathwatch mission, before his body was returned to the Third Company and enshrined in the sarcophagus of a blessed dreadnought? The same dreadnought that was destroyed by the eldar this very morning.

  “Yes, Gabriel—Brother Trythos, Captain of the Blood Ravens Third Company lies at the start of this affair—the hidden history of your own company is also embroiled in the history of Tartarus.”

  “I assume that there is still time to avert the disaster,” said Gabriel, resolution fixing itself across his face.

  “This is already a disaster, Gabriel. The power of the Maledictum has grown—it is enough to turn the faithful and drive men mad. Many of the local population have already turned, as you have seen, but some of the Imperial Guard also teeter on the edge of a precipice. It is affecting you and your Marines too, I can feel it.

  “It is calling to the warp storm, drawing it in to eclipse the system when dusk falls tomorrow. It wants to trap us here with it, so it can force even the best of us to serve its twisted will. This is why I encouraged you to leave… and why I still encourage it,” explained Mordecai, appealing to Gabriel to see sense at last.

  “You should have revealed this to me at the start, Toth. It would have made matters easier, although it would not have changed my decision. You know that I cannot leave this planet as it is. I will not shrink away in the face of such evil,” said Gabriel, full of resolve.

  “I would not have it any other way,” said Mordecai, slinging his warhammer over his shoulder and thumping his other hand down on Gabriel’s shoulder guard. “Let us end this bickering and face our enemy together. United, we have a better chance of thwarting the Alpha Legion’s plans for the Maledictum.”

  Returning the gesture, Gabriel slammed his palm down onto Mordecai’s shoulder. But when they turned to Isador, the Librarian was already walking away, muttering to himself, whispering silently.

  They are weak, Isador. Terrified of the power that you alone amongst them can understand. It is yours… yours for the taking… before the small-minded cowards destroy it… think of the good you could do in the name of your Emperor… think of the power you could wield in your Chapter…

  Isador shook the voice out of his head. It is mine…

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the very centre of the Temple of Dannan, the dark corridors gave way to a majestic co
urtyard. It was bounded on each side by the arches of stone cloisters, decorated in the High Gothic style of the finest Imperial architecture. Intricate engravings scrolled across the arches, depicting scenes of glory and honour from the history of Tartarus and displaying the ritual iconography of the Imperial cult itself. Above the largest arch in the north wall was a magnificent icon, carved deeply into the pristine stone. It showed the image of the Golden Throne, ringed by the ineffable presence of the Astronomican, singing the Emperor’s grace for all the galaxy to hear—sending out a beacon for the souls of the faithful, no matter where they might be.

  But the icons were defaced and vandalised, sprayed with blood and chipped away by the clumsy strikes of clubs, sticks and fists. Here and there, the stone was riddled with pits and holes, as though it had been struck by a barrage of gun shots from close range. And, in the centre of the courtyard, the once verdant and beautiful plants had been burnt to ashes. In their place stood a ring of human cultists, stripped to their waists, trembling with fear and excitement. A series of grooves had been etched into the flagstones, leading from their feet to a small, circular hole in the middle, like the radials of a wheel. The hole dropped away from the temple, plunging down into the great subterranean reservoir of blood, hidden in the vaulted chamber under the city, like an underground cathedral in its own right.

  When Sindri had realised that the temple had been built directly above the blood-chamber, he had laughed—there are no coincidences on Tartarus. It was as though the whole planet had been designed with this ceremony as its goal.

  The sorcerer paced around the ring of cultists, dragging the eldar’s curved blade over their backs as they winced and moaned, concentrating in towards the hole in the centre of the circle. Thin trickles of blood seeped out of the cuts in their backs, running down their bodies and dripping into the blood grooves in the stone floor. Gradually, the grooves began to fill with red, and the lines pushed slowly towards the hole, one droplet at a time.

  As they bled, the cultists chanted and swayed to an erratic, ugly rhythm, and Sindri stepped spasmodically, in time with the broken beat. The spell seemed to inflate throughout the courtyard, spilling out of the mouths of the cultists and pushing against the cloisters that surrounded them. A field of scintillating energy was building gradually, as the chanting grew louder and the blood flowed thicker. The cultists were being bled in body and soul together.

  Suddenly, Sindri stopped circling the group, halting behind one of the cultists. In an abrupt movement, the sorcerer lunged forward and grasped the woman’s hair, pulling it violently back to expose her neck. Spinning the dagger in his other hand, he brought it smoothly across the cultist’s throat, dropping her onto the ground as her life-blood gushed from the mortal wound. She fell forward, along the blood groove, spilling her blood into a river that flooded the channel and rushed towards the hole in the ground.

  The other cultists continued to chant and sway, their eyes wild with fear and ecstasy as Sindri started to circle them once again. Guardsman Katrn watched the movements of Sindri with hungry eyes, imploring the sorcerer to give him the honour of being next, impatient to blend his blood with the thousands of other devotees whose essence had drained into the great reservoir over the decades and centuries. He chanted the spell with extra energy each time Sindri passed behind him, as he felt the cold slice of the curved blade cut into his back.

  Katrn had already shed the blood of many Tartarans, fighting his way from Magna Bonum, but now it was time to give his own blood to the cause. His mind reeled with disbelief at the thought that so many of his brethren could still not see the truth of their origins; they were still blind to their place in the plans of the daemon prince; they still thought that war had to have a purpose—that shedding blood for the Blood God was not enough in itself. The fools.

  Sindri stopped again, yanking back the head of another cultist and slitting his throat without ceremony, dumping the body forward into the circle with a casual push. The sorcerer was moving faster now, driven into a trance by the chanting, the motion, and the pungent scent of the fresh blood. The incandescent field around the courtyard was pulsing with energy, pressing against the stonework and splintering cracks into the Imperial icons.

  Finally, the sorcerer stopped behind him, and Katrn’s soul rejoiced as his head was pulled back, exposing his neck to Sindri’s blade.

  “Sindri!” bellowed a voice, shattering the discordant chant and making the energy field flicker.

  Please, oh please cut me, begged Katrn in his mind. Please.

  Sindri stayed his hand and snapped his head round to see who dared to intrude on the ceremony. “What!” he hissed. “What, my lord,” he added, struggling with the words.

  “The Space Marines have breached the Dannan sector—they are on their way. Your cultists bought us almost no time at all,” said Bale, his voice full of disgust. He was growing sick of the sorcerer’s plans collapsing into ruin just on the verge of their success.

  Katrn felt the sorcerer release his head and withdraw the knife from his neck, snatching him back from the verge of glory. He cried out in frustration as Sindri walked round the circle towards the Chaos Lord, instructing the cultists to carry on chanting while he was away.

  “The circumstances that you mention demonstrate divine providence, Lord Bale,” said Sindri, raising his arm and guiding Bale out of the courtyard. “Everything is proceeding according to plan. Once I have completed the ceremony, you will have that which we have plotted and schemed to achieve.”

  Bale looked at Sindri for a moment, suspicious of his choice of words. “I do not trust you, sorcerer,” he said frankly. “What will happen if the Blood Ravens should arrive before this ‘providence’ graces us?”

  “Providence has already graced us, my lord—if only you had the eyes to see it. When the Space Marines arrive, then we shall play the good hosts and indulge them in a bloody feast,” answered Sindri, risking a subtle slight. “But at all costs, Lord Bale, you must keep them from interfering with the ceremony. This is a delicate process, and I cannot afford for it to be interrupted… again.”

  Uncertain, Bale nodded and turned to walk away, leaving the sorcerer to do what needed to be done.

  “And Bale,” called Sindri after him, using his unadorned name once again, “might I advise that you throw everything at the cursed Blood Ravens. Everything. Their contribution to our project might prove most useful in the end, especially at this critical juncture.”

  “Do not tell me how to fight Space Marines, sorcerer!” retorted Bale, stamping to a halt and looking back over his shoulder.

  “My apologies,” said Sindri smoothly. “I just thought that you would be pleased to finally get your chance to engage the Blood Ravens.”

  Bale did not answer, but stormed back into the dark interior of the temple, leaving Sindri to turn back to the cultists in the courtyard. If the truth were known, he was pleased at the prospect of a proper fight at last.

  Now, where was I, thought Sindri, as the rhythm of the chanting started to penetrate his soul once again. Ah yes… power demands sacrifice.

  Katrn gasped with ecstasy as the sorcerer tugged back his head once again and drew the icy touch of the eldar blade across his throat. As the Guardsman slumped down into the blood groove at his feet, he could feel his life gushing out of him, pouring his soul into the fecund embrace of the Blood God himself.

  Another Thunderhawk roared overhead as Inquisitor Toth’s own vessel blasted into the air to return to the spaceport at Magna Bonum. All of the transports were required to help with the evacuation, but Colonel Brom had released a detachment of his Tartaran Guardsmen to assist the Blood Ravens, and a Thunderhawk was temporarily requisitioned to take them to Lloovre Marr.

  The gunship did not even land, it just dropped down above the road and opened its hatch, tipping a couple of squads of Imperial Guardsmen out onto the flagstones. Then, with a roar of power, it eased back into the sky and flashed off into the night, heading back towards
the evacuation point.

  One of the Guardsmen rushed forward to greet Gabriel, stooping into a bow as he approached.

  “Captain Angelos, I am Sergeant Ckrius of the Tartarus Planetary Defence Force,” said the young soldier proudly. His uniform was ripped and dirty, and his face was blackened by the smoky report of his weapon. But his sergeant’s pips were sparkling and clean, as though he had just finished polishing them. He looked up into the face of Gabriel with fierce determination burning in his eyes. “I bring two squadrons of storm troopers and the regards of Colonel Brom. He regrets that he cannot spare more.”

  “Thank you sergeant, you are most welcome here,” replied Gabriel, nodding to the young Guardsman and wondering how bad things must be at the spaceport for such a youthful soldier to be put in charge of two entire squads. He studied the lad’s face and saw how it must have aged over the last couple of days; he was not much more than a boy, but he had survived more than many men, and his sparkling eyes spoke of an undiminished resolve to save his homeworld.

  For a moment, Gabriel saw himself in those eyes—he had once been a young Guardsman on Cyrene, before the Blood Trials, before the Blood Ravens had changed his life forever.

  “Tell me sergeant, how fares the spaceport?” asked Gabriel.

  “The orks have regrouped and are attacking in force, captain. Many civilians have been killed in the crossfire as they struggled to get into the spaceport, but we are holding out as best we can…” Ckrius trailed off, apparently unwilling to go on.