by Marc
Aescarion, braised and broken but still alive, straggled to her feet. Castus had changed, too – he was faster and stronger than any Marine. But she had her faith, which was something Castus could not claim. She had her faith – and that had been enough once before.
The two circled slowly through the debris. Aescarion’s auto-senses told her that the armour was pumping painkillers through her battered frame at an alarming rate. The pain was stemmed but she could clearly feel that the whole left side of her body had been badly damaged.
She looked to where Castus’s eyes should be, to see if there was any semblance of humanity left there. Past the menacing glow, she thought she could just make out the shadows of a face, a pair of eyes that had once belonged to a human being.
This might be my only chance, she thought. This may be the last time I will ever be able to ask him.
It was a question that she had meditated upon for many years, something she simply could not understand. It was something that would keep her awake at night, and now that she had the opportunity, she had to ask.
‘Why did you turn?’ she asked calmly. ‘Why did you surrender and desert your Emperor?’
In what was left of Castus’s mind something flickered and a memory sparked. He had seen the woman before, long ago, rising on a column of flame. This was something Parmenides had not told him about. Could it be that he had not always been a servant of blessed Nurgle? Was there something else, a life that also happened to be his?
But that spark of recognition was drowned out in an instant. There was nothing else. Nothing else but an eternity of beautiful decay, for that was the inevitable path of everything that lived: to rot, to collapse, to die.
‘Why?’ Castus’s voice was thick and dark. ‘Why not? He is no Emperor of mine. His Imperium is dying beneath him.’
Aescarion tried to hold his gaze, but it was gone, taken over by something inhuman. She slowly swung the comforting weight of the power axe, ready to strike, knowing that he would not hesitate to kill her as quickly as he had done her Sisters. ‘It is dying because of weak souls like yours. You defile the spirit of humanity. Eventually you will not even care if you see defeat or victory – all that will matter will be the blood which is shed around you. Your damnation will make a shell of you in the end.’
There was a sound that might have been laughter from inside Castus’s helmet. He held the morningstar high, ready to bring it down in a brutal arc.
‘My beloved master Parmenides was right,’ he sneered, recalling words that he was sure he had never heard before. ‘You have no imagination.’
‘Really?’ Aescarion took a teleport homer from her belt and flicked it to Transmit. ‘I would beg to disagree.’
A score of punctures opened up in space-time as the teleport beams locked onto the signal and sent their cargo. Three squads of Battle Sisters materialised with a thunderclap.
In the time it took them to pull the triggers of their bolters, Castus had realised that the woman had used his savouring of the victory to her advantage. Raising both arms above his head and yelling a vile Chaotic curse, he drove the shield and the morningstar into the floor with such force that it shattered and he fell, through the maze of decks and into the darkness below.
The Battle Sisters poured volley after volley into the hole, but as the tongues of fire leapt from the boltgun muzzles a great column of flies twisted upwards from the lower decks. So vast in number were they that the swarm of tiny bodies absorbed every bullet. The insects fell dead to the floor in drifts, many ablaze, but by the time those still living had dissipated, there was no sign of the abomination which had summoned them.
Johannes, still alive, hauled herself over to the edge of the hole and peered down. She spat a gobbet of blood-flecked phlegm into the darkness. ‘This isn’t getting any prettier.’
Aescarion kneeled behind her, exhausted. ‘His master has pulled his puppet strings and dragged him back through the warp to Saafir.’ She turned to the Sister Superior of the first squad. ‘Search the ship. Kill everything.’
As the Sororitas rushed to do her bidding, Aescarion pondered. She had lost him now. But she had found him once and she could find him again. A link between them had been forged. And if Castus had a weakness, that link would be it.
ON TERRA, THEY said, the very air tasted different, it had the tang of age and of honour. It was heavy with the smell of power, they said. And they were right.
The Ecclesiarchal palace dominated a continent, as if the ground itself had sprouted a great gothic mountain range, fluted and pinnacled, shot through with uncountable temples and monasteries, all the myriad departments of the Adeptus Ministorum.
Deep within this vast creation were the quarters of the Ebon Chalice, the Convent Sanctorum. And within this, the chambers of Canoness Tasmander. Aescarion was not young but Tasmander was definitely old, a white-haired bull of a woman with a heavy face and deep, imposing voice. Her campaigning days were over now, and she administered to the practical and spiritual needs of her younger Sororitas. Once she had been a warrior of rare skill and ferocity, so strong and brutal in the pursuit of her duty that she gained respect even from the squabbling bureaucrats of the Administratum and the immensely proud Space Marines.
She sat in her quarters, at a desk carved from black marble. The room was of similar black stone, an elaborate mosaic of the Order’s symbol covering the floor, and all around hung ancient standards and litanies held in power fields to prevent their ageing. In many ways, the canoness herself was a holy relic, old and revered – and still powerful.
Canoness Tasmander had seen many faces come and go on Earth. She had learned to recognise how they changed. Aescarion’s had changed more than most.
Standing in the centre of the room, stripped of her armour and dressed only in her simple Sororitas robes, Aescarion lost half of her bulk. She was slender but wiry, with a strange pent-up energy that marked her out as a fine leader. She had been called before the canoness few times before, and then it had been only for praise. But this was different, she knew it.
‘Sister Aescarion,’ the canoness began, ‘you know that I value you as a stalwart of this order. There is not one in the Ministorum who would not have cause to praise your faith. Let that not be doubted – you are one of the foundations upon which the Ebon Chalice is built.’
‘Thank you, my canoness.’ Aescarion knew that Tasmander would not approve of her pursuit of Castus. She had undertaken it as a personal task, an act of vengeance, while at all times, the Canoness had stipulated, the Order must act as one. But surely, Aescarion told herself, the destruction of such foes as Castus was the reason the Orders Militant existed?
The canoness leaned forward, her voice turning cold. ‘There are paths down which our faith may take us which are false. I have seen it many times and it is one of the saddest aspects of my post, may He forgive me. For a servant of the Emperor to pursue harmful goals through nothing worse than devotion is a tragedy.
‘I have long approved of your determination and purity of hatred towards the Darkness which threatens us all. But if you look within yourself, you will find that it is personal wrath that drives you to actively hunt Castus, not the good of the Imperium or my orders. A Sister’s duties are to the Emperor and the Imperial cult, to the Adepta Sororitas – but not to her own lust for revenge. Your rage takes you away from this order and you are too valuable an asset for us to lose.
‘You will no longer be party to any military operation that may bring you into a confrontation with Castus. Are my orders clear?’
Aescarion turned her eyes to the floor. She knew that she had not done anything wrong. Her faith was strong. She could not do anything to harm her blessed Order, she knew that. But now she was barred from acting upon that faith.
Which is the greater, she thought? The orders of my canoness, which have been the word of law since I was not much more than a child? Or my faith, which has driven my soul through this savage universe and never once failed me?
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‘I understand and obey. But if I may presume, this is a matter which affects me greatly. Castus’s turning by Parmenides was the greatest act of abomination I have ever witnessed.’
Tasmander nodded. ‘And you could not let that go unavenged. I am not attributing any wrongdoing to you, Aescarion. But the Ebon Chalice is an Order Militant. I can accept absolutely nothing other than total obedience. This order is a legion of Sisters acting as one. I cannot let you fracture that allegiance. Now will you heed the word of the Ministorum and cease this dangerous pursuit?’
Aescarion raised her head and looked the formidable canoness in the eye. The war inside her was over. The decision was made.
‘Of course.’ she lied.
THE NEXT TIME he stopped to think about what he had become, Castus did not recognise a human being. He had died, and not noticed. Where once his blood flowed there was stagnant, brackish sludge. Where once organs had throbbed with life, there were desiccated twists of petrified flesh. He was not truly alive, but knitted together and animated by the millions of diseases which Nurgle’s unholy touch had introduced.
The shield’s covering of skin had developed senses – when it fended off blows, he felt pain. The morningstar had become a part of him, the crystalline fist fused around the haft of bone. The helmet had slowly melted and reformed until it and his skull were one. Through its slit he saw only mottled shades of green and purple, the more diseased the brighter. He was something he no longer recognised.
But what did that matter? He had transcended mere humanity. He was the greatest of men. He would see the Imperium fall and live to triumph in its ruins. He should accept these petty changes and rejoice. Shouldn’t he?
The warrior gazed down from the promontory. The cavern had not changed after all these decades. Above, the city of Saafir was a mass of festering rot, seeping through the ground, making the whole planet unclean. In the night sky, the nearest and brightest points of light were planets which had fallen to his daemonic hordes. But down below it all, the cavern was the same, with its long, narrow isthmus of stone on which Castus now stood.
And Parmenides, of course. The daemon prince was still there. Castus had long given up wondering if Parmenides was really a majestic demigod who would deliver all he had promised, or a malevolent beast who was laughing at him. He had grown to realise that there were more important things. To serve Parmenides was to serve the greater powers which linked this world to the next with chains of their will. Castus told himself this every second of his waking.
But behind his thoughts, wasn’t there something else? Wasn’t he a little more than the champion of the Plague God? Hadn’t there been a Castus before, a different man but the same? There was only one thing he could say for certain. He had not always been like this.
Below him, the immense waves of decaying flesh rolled and split, and Parmenides’s vast face appeared once more, with its malignant grin and dead black eyes.
‘My boy.’ the daemon prince said, ‘you have done much for me. Led my armies. Carved out an empire. Nurgle is much pleased. But now your talents must be turned to another task.’
Castus kneeled on the rock, laying his shield in front of him, ready to receive his holy orders.
‘I must confess.’ Parmenides continued, ‘I cannot see how these little fleshy creatures can be such a nuisance. But now they prepare to strike back at us. A ship is coming, my boy. It is heading for this very planet, such is their insolence, so it is you, my treasured champion, who will demonstrate to them the insanity of their actions. Lead my fleet and be sure to show them the true way of all flesh before you break them. They must not breach Nurgle’s sacred boundaries.’
Castus bowed his head. A cancerous shock rippled through the air. The warfleet’s ancient teleporters took hold of the warrior’s altered frame and hefted him up into orbit to make ready for the foe’s arrival.
THE HALL IN the centre of the Convent Sanctorum had been sealed for many days. Although a questioning nature was not encouraged in the Adepta Sororitas, Battle Sister Aescarion could not help but wonder what political machinations could be going on in there, carried out by men who arrived in secret, dressed in shadows. When she was summoned there, she realised the truth almost at once. It had been a long time since the canoness had sought to separate her loyalty from her faith. While Aescarion had done everything she had been told, on all her campaigns skirting the furthest reaches of the Imperium, throughout the savagery of her many battles, she never forgot her thirst for the blood of Castus.
The hall had been a chapel thousands of years ago, rebuilt and absorbed as the Ecclesiarchal palace spread itself across the continent. The grey stonework had been carved with stern gothic fluting, the ceiling was high and vaulted and the air was cold. In the middle of the hall was a large table around which sat the delegates, perhaps a score of them. All but one of them were mere presences. The lights set high in the chapel’s ceiling hid their hooded faces.
In the centre of them all sat the only visible being, the inquisitor. He was still dressed in his ceremonial Terminator armour, elaborately inlaid with precious stones, with the massive scarlet Inquisitorial seal on the ring of the power-glove. He had an intense face, drawn and lined, not with age, but with the terrors his calling had forced him to endure, and it looked incongruous amongst the great shifting plasteel plates that gave him the bulk of a walking tank. He indicated Aescarion’s designated seat with a wave of the power-glove. It was at the head of the table, and her invisible judges sat in an intimidating crescent before her.
‘Sister Aescarion… I am aware of the differences the Ministorum has had with the Inquisition in the past.’ the Inquisitor began. His voice echoed grandly around the old stone. ‘But I am sure you have seen enough in your service to realise that, while we may go about things differently, we both have similar goals at heart.’
Aescarion had always been suspicious of the Inquisition. With their obsession with secrecy, they seemed to her not far removed from the heretics they monitored. She had herself refused any part in dealing with them in the past. But now, she knew, there might be a chance to realise the wish that she had harboured for most of her career in the Ebon Chalice.
The inquisitor raised his unarmoured hand and a servitor somewhere in the back of the room caused a stellar map to be projected into the air above the centre of the table. A network of fine lines and icons appeared, marking out the western edge of the Segmentum Pacificus. One planet was highlighted.
‘The activities of Chaotic forces have always been our primary concern.’ the Inquisitor continued. ‘The planet indicated is Saafir, which we have been monitoring very carefully for over twenty years. Now, we understand that there is an official position held by your canoness regarding Castus and yourself. Is that correct?’
‘That is so.’ Aescarion felt a ripple of excitement in her blood. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to even mention that name around her.
The inquisitor nodded gravely. ‘A point has been reached where it is no longer feasible, we believe, for this to stand.’ He gestured again and several planets lit up around the marked one. These are the planets which Parmenides and his foul hordes have secured so far. They are mostly barren worlds in which we have little interest. However, Saafir itself is of considerable material value, with incalculably important mineral resources.’
‘I know.’ Aescarion replied. ‘I was in the force sent to recover it in the first place.’
The inquisitor allowed himself a smile. ‘Quite. For these reasons we have been content merely to contain this threat.’ A dozen more planets lit up on the map. ‘These worlds are under attack now. If Parmenides secures them they will give him a considerable sphere of influence. His empire is, in effect, a Chaotic centre of operations within Imperium-controlled space. This is a state of affairs that cannot be tolerated.’
Aescarion glanced from the inquisitor’s face to the shadowy figures on either side. She could feel they were studying her intently, tr
ying to gauge her reaction. What could have brought them here, officials of the Imperium so important their identities had to be kept from her? Then she knew.
‘The Exterminatum.’ Aescarion breathed.
The inquisitor raised his eyebrows. ‘You are perceptive, sister.’
‘With respect, inquisitor, though you will know I am not disinterested in the fate of Parmenides, I fail to see why I have been called here. I have pressing duties elsewhere on Terra.’ She knew full well why they needed her. But she wanted, she needed to hear them say it.
‘Sister Aescarion, Parmenides’s area of influence has recently become off-limits to all Imperial craft. Any warfleet we send will be intercepted.’ His voice dropped – he was saying this with reluctance, Aescarion realised, because he was so unused to telling such important information to a member of the Ecclesiarchy. ‘We know that the forces sent to attack any Exterminatus mission will be led by Castus. Now, in truth, all of our intelligence concerning Castus and most of that concerning Parmenides has come to us indirectly from you. Records from his days in the Ultramarines are next to useless – only you know his mind now.’
Aescarion looked at the inquisitor slyly, ‘You need me?’
The inquisitor looked at one of his companions, and the silhouette nodded to him. ‘Yes, sister.’ he replied. ‘We need you.’
‘Because only I know how Castus might think.’
‘That is not the only reason you are here.’ The inquisitor shifted uneasily in his seat, the servos of his armour whirring. This was not something he wanted to say. ‘One of the forces which governs this galaxy, and the Imperium within it, is Fate. It is a strange force which cannot be manipulated, only accepted and worked around.
‘Part of the reason the Imperium has endured is because we take Fate into account.’ Above the table, the map winked off, leaving only the inquisitor lit. ‘Lesser leaders ignore it, which is why they all eventually fall. In this matter, it is Fate that connects you to Castus. You are a thread running through his life. Without you, he is completely in the thrall of Chaos. But so long as you are alive, there is a link between him and the Imperium that he cannot escape.