by Cavan Scott
‘Don’t forget your prayers,’ Kerna reminded the seething Doom Eagle. ‘It’s midday devotions.’
‘Then go pray yourself,’ Ritan shot back. ‘I shall petition the Emperor as I perform my maintenance rituals.’
‘How efficient,’ Meleki muttered darkly as they watched Ritan stalk towards the central keep, absently throwing his helm in the direction of a sickly-looking serf, demanding that it was cleaned.
Kerna placed an arm on his fellow pilot’s shoulder. ‘Pay no attention to Ritan. He is feeling the frustration of being so far from what he considers the action, but hasn’t the maturity to control himself. It will come.’
Maybe, he added to himself.
‘Doom Eagles should feel no frustration,’ Meleki insisted. ‘We know our duty and must serve – wherever that may be.’
Kerna nodded, switching his attention to the Techmarine. ‘The Land Speeder may have vexed our saturnine brother, but I’m pleased to report that the Heart of Sorrow performed beautifully on my flight back from Garm. You have worked miracles, Jerius.’
‘She served you well?’
‘As I am certain that she will for many years to come.’
‘I thought the only certainty in life was that it will end,’ a voice observed behind them. Kerna turned to see Vabion approach. He bowed slightly, acknowledging the comment.
‘You have been studying our doctrines, Librarian.’
‘It was either that or converse with Brother Ritan,’ Vabion smiled grimly. Kerna mirrored the gesture. In the short time he had known the venerable Ultramarine, Kerna had come to like Vabion – especially as he seemed to have the measure of their troublesome brother.
‘All Doom Eagles acknowledge our eventual passing. It informs our every decision,’ Meleki added, eager as always to help.
‘A lesson many Ultramarines could do well to learn,’ acknowledged Vabion, turning back to Kerna and changing the subject. ‘Tell me Brother Kerna, did you notice anything peculiar during our journey back from Garm?’
Kerna frowned. ‘Peculiar, Librarian?’
‘In the crops,’ Vabion clarified, peering deep into the Doom Eagle’s eyes. ‘Anything unusual about the sorghum?’
Kerna could only shake his head. ‘Not that I could see, although I admit, one field of cereal is much the same as the next for me.’
Vabion held the pilot’s gaze for a moment, as if he was searching for something.
‘Very well. Thank you, brother.’ The Librarian faced Meleki. ‘Do you know where I may find Sergeant Artorius?’
‘In his chambers, sir. The sergeant always prays alone.’
Vabion nodded sharply. ‘Of course. I must not keep you from your own devotions.’
With that, the aged Librarian marched towards the building Artorius used as his private quarters to the east of the central tower.
‘What was that about?’ Meleki asked, watching the Ultramarine leave.
‘No idea, lad,’ Kerna admitted, casting his mind back to his flight from Garm. Had he missed something? What had Vabion noticed about the crops?
The air of the chapel was cool against Falk’s flushed skin, the sound of his sobs punctuated by the thwack of the leather crop against his exposed flesh.
His diseased flesh.
He rocked on his knees as he continued to lash himself, bathed in the light from the stained glass window that dominated the chapel. Scintillating reds, blues and ochres dappled his body, illuminating just how far he had fallen.
Of course, the window was a conceit. The serfs’ chapel was deep within the keep, far from the thick exterior walls. It was not Orath’s sun that made the colours dance, but a series of tiny lume-globes set behind the stylised representation of the Emperor.
A trick of the light.
A lie.
Like Falk’s very life.
‘Why?’ the serf cried out, staring up into the image’s harsh eyes. ‘Why must I endure this torment?’
The Emperor didn’t reply, but glared down at Falk, his glazed features twisted into an expression of disgust.
‘All I ever wanted was to serve you.’
You have served Him. You have served Him well, whispered the voice in his head.
‘And this is how I’m repaid. By being made to suffer.’
The crop was now drawing blood, Falk’s shoulders a latticework of self-inflicted cuts. The arm he had been hiding for so long felt like it was on fire, twitching uncontrollably as it hung against his pustule-encrusted side. He didn’t care who saw it now. He just wanted to be whole again.
You can be whole.
‘Then tell me,’ Falk wailed, tears slicing paths through the dirt on his cheeks. ‘Tell me how I can be free of this affliction. Hear my plea.’
‘I hear you.’
Falk’s breath caught in his throat, his head snapping up. Could it be? Could his prayers have been answered?
They have been answered.
Hardly daring to breathe, he gazed up into the face of the Emperor, a face that was now smiling warmly down at him.
‘You have endured much,’ the Emperor acknowledged, his benevolent face shining more than ever. ‘You have proved your devotion.’
‘Is this the voice of the Emperor?’ Falk whispered, doubting his own senses, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his good hand. ‘Is this the voice of my Lord?’
‘It is, my child. You will be blessed.’
‘I have been blessed,’ Falk laughed, a childlike grin spreading across his pocked face. Then he bent double again, suddenly afraid to look upon his god. ‘I am not worthy.’
‘You doubt me?’
‘No,’ Falk cried out, rising back to his knees, the crop dropping from his hand. ‘You are my Saviour.’
The Emperor nodded, with the sound of scraping glass. ‘I am. And you have been chosen.’
‘For what?’ Falk asked, the intense pain in his arm all but forgotten.
‘A holy quest,’ the Emperor replied, ‘to find your reward.’
Falk struggled to his feet, never taking his eyes from the window.
‘Will I be healed?’
‘You shall be made anew.’
‘Oh thank you, Lord. Thank you.’
The Emperor raised a hand, silencing the serf.
‘You must travel deep beneath this fortress, to a place forbidden. Only there will you find salvation.’
‘Beneath?’ A frown crossed Falk’s sweat-drenched brow. ‘But how?’
‘Follow the song in your heart, my child. You will know where it leads.’
The lights behind the window flared white, bleaching out the colours in the Emperor’s fine robes. Falk raised what used to be an arm to shield his eyes but when he looked again, the Emperor had returned to His usual pose, just another image in a stained glass window.
No, more than that. Much more. This is where He appeared to you. Where He changed your life.
‘Where he chose me,’ Falk giggled, covering his mouth with trembling fingers.
Yes. Now will you go? Will you obey your Emperor?
Falk rushed to where he had discarded his robe.
‘I will,’ he promised, throwing the cloak around him, not even noticing when the rough cloth scratched painfully against his raw shoulders. ‘I must.’
Then follow the song.
‘But I can hear no song?’
Yes you can. Listen to your soul.
Falk paused for a second, confused, uncertainty clouding his mind once more – and then there it was, where it had been for the last few days. A distant voice, singing at the back of his mind. At first he had thought the strain tuneless, an irritant, symptomatic of his troubled state of mind, but now he could hear it as it truly was. A soporific aria of such monotonous beauty. A gift from the Throne.
Follow the son
g, Falk. Follow your destiny.
‘My destiny.’
And the destiny of all on Orath. You will bring them the greatest gift of all.
‘They shall praise my name.’
They shall join the song.
‘Yes,’ Falk declared, stumbling out of the chapel. ‘All shall sing His praise.’
As Falk left the chapel, the lume-globes behind the Emperor’s window blew out, one by one.
FIVE
Vabion found Sergeant Artorius exactly where Meleki had said, kneeling in his private command chambers. He hovered at the door for a second, not wanting to disturb the commanding officer’s devotions. Even though he had only known the Doom Eagle for a short period, Vabion couldn’t help but respect the sergeant. Artorius was a Doom Eagle through and through, his demeanour grave, his outlook pragmatic to the extreme. From the few stories Artorius had shared over the modest rations served in the echoing refectory, the sergeant did his duty, no matter what the cost, and expected his men to do the same, without hesitation. His eyes had flashed with each memory – victory against the ork hordes of Gantalere, the routing of Raven’s Gate – but his words weren’t the vainglory Vabion had experienced from lesser Marines. As he had expected from a son of Gathis II, Artorius focused on the Doom Eagles who had fallen in the midst of triumph, those who had given their lives in the line of duty. In Artorius’s eyes, they were as worthy as the men who had left the battlefield alive, perhaps more so. He honoured them with every retelling.
Vabion had listened to each story without comment. He, of all men, appreciated the importance of self-sacrifice.
‘Sergeant, may I have a word?’
Artorius looked up from the shrine set into the corner of the room.
‘Vabion,’ he said, rising from his knees and approaching the Librarian with arm outstretched. ‘I trust your inspection at Garm was satisfactory.’
The Ultramarine grasped the sergeant’s wrist. ‘Your men are performing their duties with distinction, Artorius. You should have no concern there.’
‘I do not.’ There was no challenge in the sergeant’s voice, just a statement of facts. ‘But I do not need to be able to read minds to see that something vexes you, my friend.’
Vabion paused for a moment, searching the sergeant’s face. Is that what they were – friends? He’d kept the secret for two hundred years, not telling another soul outside of his own Chapter. The hesitation as he made up his mind must have been excruciating for the Doom Eagle, but Artorius waited respectfully, his lined face unreadable.
‘I have not told you why I came to Orath.’
‘And I have not asked.’
‘Which is appreciated, but it is time.’ Vabion indicated the controls beside a screen set into a large stone table, covered in scrolls and data-slates. ‘May I?’
Artorius merely nodded, following the Librarian to the desk. Vabion jabbed at buttons set into its surface. The lights of the chamber dimmed as a hololithic image shimmered into view above the table, the faint buzz of the projectors rising in pitch as the vision of Orath solidified. Artorius had told his stories, now it was the Librarian’s turn.
‘It began with a call for help. Eldar raiders had descended on Orath, to strip the planet of its riches.’
‘The crops?’ Artorius asked, turning his attention back to the Librarian. ‘They were attempting to steal the harvest.’
‘Nothing so mundane.’ Vabion’s hands moved over the controls, the planet spinning on its axis. ‘A sinkhole had appeared in one of the plantations.’ A red dot pulsated in the middle of the northern hemisphere’s major continent. ‘Here.’
‘But, that is…’
‘Right beneath our feet, yes.’ The hololith zoomed in to present a curved map of the surrounding countryside, but instead of the recognisable masts of Fort Kerberos jutting towards them, nothing but a gaping fissure marked their present location. ‘No one knew what had opened it, although the local workforce had reported one of the minor earth tremors that still occur to this day.’
‘There was nothing minor about the ’quake we endured on our arrival,’ Artorius reminded him, not taking his eyes off the crevice.
‘Indeed,’ Vabion agreed. The Librarian had to admit that they had been increasing in magnitude. The recent seism, not two weeks previously, had even opened a crack in the wall of the keep. The breach had been easily repaired, but the fact that it had happened at all was a worry. Another sign Vabion had missed? Maybe.
The Librarian forced his thoughts back to the story in hand. ‘The sinkhole revealed hidden treasures. A curious farmhand descended into the chasm and discovered an underground chamber, full of alien artefacts.’
Artorius bristled at the description. ‘Alien?’
Vabion nodded, staring into the hole on the map’s surface as if he could gaze back through time. ‘Orath, it became clear, had been sacred to the eldar for centuries, a world of great importance.’
Artorius’s brow furrowed. ‘But there are no signs of previous civilisation. No ruins or temples.’
‘Not on the surface, but beneath the ground.’ Vabion could feel himself being scrutinised by Artorius now, as questions no doubt raged through the sergeant’s mind. Why hadn’t he been told about this? What had been found? Thankfully, Artorius allowed him to continue, whether he deserved such an honour or not.
‘The farmer discovered a chamber full of treasures, a shrine no less. He began trading the artefacts he unearthed, attracting the wrong kind of attention.’
‘Some of these artefacts got off world?’
‘The fool advertised what he had to offer, broadcasting what he had found to the entire subsector.’
‘And he was noticed.’
‘The people of Orath knew nothing about the ways of the universe. When the first traders arrived, the farmer greeted them with open arms, but they were just the beginning.’
‘The raiders?’
‘They descended like locusts, laying waste to the planet. Supply ships were destroyed, crops burned, the locals slaughtered.’
‘Xenos scum.’
Vabion nodded. ‘The raiders set up a barricade so that no one else could plunder the loot. And so we were summoned.’
Vabion paused for a moment, lost in his memories. His last drop. If he had known back then, would he have taken more care to remember each and every detail? The sound of the clamps being released in high orbit, the bone-shaking vibrations, the blistering heat of re-entry breaking through the heavy shielding, air so hot it singed your throat. Then would come the roar of the retro-thrusters, the realisation you were minutes from impact, seconds sometimes. The concussive jolt before hatches blew clear, the drop pod unfurling like a demented flower of death and destruction. The roar of battle greeting you like an old friend, beckoning you out into the carnage.
Vabion gasped as he found himself back in the past, charging down the still-smouldering ramp, screaming at the raiders: ‘Courage and Honour!’
But he never made it to the battlefield, instead he was flying, not by Thunderhawk or even jump pack, but by the force of his own will. He soared higher and higher over Orath, looking down at the gaps in the harvest, swathes of blackened sorghum, broken and rotting. He could still hear the battle far away, the screams of the raiders, the calls of his battle-brothers and behind it, just on the edges of his perception, a low, keening song – accompanied by a deep-rolling laugh.
‘Vabion?’
Artorius’s voice was like a slap in the face, bringing him to his senses.
‘What was that?’
The Librarian realised he was leaning heavily on the stone table.
‘A vision. More insistent than the first.’
‘The first? What else are you not telling me, Vabion?’
It took all of the Librarian’s strength to stand. ‘It was an easy victory. The cowards turned and ran, a
bandoning their booty with little in the way of a fight. But I had to see it for myself.’
‘The farmer’s treasure trove?’
Vabion nodded, his head still spinning from the fury of the vision. ‘I volunteered to descend into the subterranean chamber myself.’
Now it was Artorius’s turn to lean in.
‘What did you find?’
Ritan was still fuming as he stomped through the corridors of the keep. It was typical of Meleki, trying to get the upper hand, to make himself look good in Kerna’s eyes. He snorted humourlessly. What good would that do him? Kerna fancied himself as Artorius’s confidant, but he was the same as the rest of them. Older too. Past his prime. Probably why he was content to babysit this dismal listening post. Ritan would run through checks, performing training runs, but he didn’t have to enjoy it, or the company it forced him to keep.
Let Meleki suck up to Kerna. Ritan would prepare for when the Fist of the Fallen returned to their natural environment; when they were knee-pad deep in xenos bodies. Angrily, he swiped his chainsword through empty air, imagining its teeth biting through tyranid hide or ork bulk. Soon, he prayed, make it soon.
Ritan’s nose wrinkled, not through frustration for once but something suspicious. He sniffed deeply, his ire suddenly displaced by curiosity. There was something there. A sour odour – almost too faint even for Space Marine senses. Ritan inhaled, feeling his neuroglottis fire as the fort’s cool air washed over his tongue. Yes, he was right. A spore in the air; noisome. Toxic.
Without another thought, he drew his bolt pistol with his right hand, the grip of his left tightening around the hilt of his chainsword. He was too far from the refectory, too deep within the main structure, to be troubled by what little food waste the fort produced. No, this was something else, something malevolent. Maybe he would see action on this loathsome ball after all.
SIX
Dain charged up the steps to his hab, his lungs screaming for breath, and flung open the unlocked door. They never threw the bolt, even at night. Why would they? The settlement was safe. Everyone looked out for each other. They were a community.