Fear to Tread

by James Swallow

  ‘Neither did I.’

  SEVEN

  I Call Conclave

  Faces in the Fire

  Running Cold

  The lithocast chamber was filled with warriors as Captain Raldoron entered, each standing atop a shallow plinth under a cone of faint light. Every pedestal was occupied, and not one presented a man below the rank of company captain. There were close to three hundred of them, representing almost the full complement of the IX Legion. The colours of their armour were stark and blood-bright against the intentionally muted shades of the chamber’s sand-coloured walls and floor.

  A marker rune, displayed on the inside of his helmet, illuminated Raldoron’s place as his gaze fell upon a vacant podium. He offered nods to the other men he passed. Nakir and Galan were in the row behind; there was Carminus of the Third Company, the fingers of his augmetic arm drumming absently on the stock of his holstered bolter; Berus, the High Warden, red robes covering his black battledress; the honoured armourer Metriculus, forever glaring through those machine-forged eyes of his.

  The First Captain noted other splashes of colour out of place amidst the sea of red. The Space Wolf observer sent by Malcador was here as well, and standing next to the warrior in grey was another in slate-black armour, the stark white of his hair and beard framing his scarred face. The Word Bearers Acolyte Kreed did not meet his gaze.

  Raldoron stepped up to his plinth and, with great formality, removed his helm and fastened it to his belt.

  Against one wall of the lithocast chamber, ranged like a low ziggurat, were three more podia, the tallest carved from red granite to mimic the wind-smoothed shape of a natural stone outcropping. The room fell silent as Sanguinius emerged through an oval hatch and stepped up to the high vantage. At his sides were Azkaellon and Zuriel, and they followed him, dropping to one knee. The assembled Blood Angels did the same, and from the corner of his eye Raldoron saw Kreed and Redknife give identical, studied bows.

  ‘Rise,’ said the primarch. His usual smile was notably absent. ‘I call conclave.’

  ‘We heed the call.’ Raldoron’s voice was just one of those raised loud enough to echo off the walls.

  ‘The fleet proceeds at full alert,’ Sanguinius went on, the Angel’s words strong and resonant in the stillness of the chamber. ‘Our course and objectives remain unchanged. But after what we saw at Phorus…’ His noble aspect stiffened. ‘I bring us together so that we may speak as one. You are my sons, my swords. There are questions and we shall answer them together. Speak freely.’

  ‘My lord.’

  Raldoron suppressed a brief tic of amusement at the first warrior to break the silence. He could have gambled a primarch’s ransom in gold against the certainty that the captain of the Fifth Company would give voice before all others. Amit stood, his arms folded over his chest, his dark eyes flashing. ‘What would you say that we have seen?’

  ‘Phorus was a warning, captain,’ said the primarch, accepting the directness of Amit’s challenge without comment. ‘A grand gesture by the enemy, doubtless conceived to strike fear into the hearts of those coming to oppose them.’

  Amit caught Raldoron’s eye and spared him a look; then suddenly he seemed to lose definition and become jagged, like a low-gain sensor return. Ripples of colour crossed through him before he became stable once again. Like many of the Blood Angels in the lithocast chamber, Captain Amit was not physically present. At this moment, he stood in a transmission vestibule on board the battle-barge Victus, on the far side of the fleet. Hololithic arrays embedded in all the plinths allowed representations of each company commander to be part of the gathering, without them needing to travel from their own ships. The power requirement and cogitator processing capacity to operate the multiple real-time holograph communications streams was high, and the system was rarely used on this scale. Beyond the range of a few light days, the delay in the message transfer became problematic and unwieldy, but with the massed fleet in close proximity the chamber was performing its function perfectly.

  ‘Master, one world aflame does not concern me.’ Amit gestured at the air. ‘But a shadow over every sun…’ He let the sentence hang.

  ‘This… veil…’ began Captain Nakir. The fanciful name for the shadow-effect had been coined by one of Admiral DuCade’s men, and a day later it had spread throughout the entire fleet. ‘What manner of weapon is it? What can kill the starlight?’

  ‘The stars cannot be dead.’ Helik Redknife spoke without waiting to be acknowledged, mild derision in his voice. ‘I would know it.’

  Nakir’s lip curled. ‘But something has been done, and on a scale that dwarfs anything I have ever encountered.’

  ‘The universe is a gathering of the unknown,’ offered Redknife cryptically. ‘That has always been true.’

  ‘Perhaps, Wolf Captain.’ Sanguinius glanced at the other warrior. ‘But it is my father’s wish that we know it all the same.’ He nodded to Zuriel. ‘Tell them.’

  The Sanguinary Guard produced a data-slate and read aloud from it. ‘This is from the fleet log. Picket ships among the sternguard wings report that an opaque mass resembling a black cloud has formed, six-point-three light days beyond the designated outer marker of the Signus Cluster. Long-range optical observations in all directions appear to support the conclusion that this mass has completely shrouded the system.’

  ‘Is it some form of displacement?’ said Galan. ‘There are stories of worlds falling wholesale into the immaterium after catastrophic warp space events. Could that happen to an entire star system, and to us along with it?’

  Nearby, Metriculus stroked his chin, dismissing the question. ‘The energy to achieve such a result would likely be greater than the sum total output of the galaxy itself. It is irrational to conceive it.’

  ‘Are these rational times?’ Redknife’s reply was almost a whisper.

  The primarch shook his head slowly. ‘We remain in normal space, Captain Galan. Our Navigators confirm this to us, although they report that they have lost all contact with warp beacons beyond the line of the veil.’

  ‘Chronometrics have been affected,’ Zuriel reported, ‘and so too have our communications. Vox-signals directed into the cloud mass are reflected back. The astropaths...’ He hesitated, shooting the Angel a look before continuing. ‘An astropath aboard the Ignis attempted to make a sending through the barrier. He claimed he was assailed by screaming, maddened echoes of his own telepathic voice.’

  Azkaellon spoke for the first time. ‘He took his own life shortly afterwards.’

  Raldoron suddenly felt compelled to ask the question. ‘How?’

  ‘He broke his own neck,’ said the Guard Commander, ending it there.

  Sanguinius brought his hands together before him. ‘I have ordered a single ship to disengage from the fleet, the cruiser Helios. They are following a reverse course back along our path of approach to the Signus Cluster. Their orders are to conduct a close examination of this phenomenon.’

  He did not give voice to it, but Raldoron saw the concern in his primarch’s eyes, and found it reflected in those of every one of his brothers.

  ‘The nephilim have nothing but tricks,’ grated High Warden Berus, glancing around and gaining nods of agreement from many of his brothers. Berus’s image crackled with a spit of static. ‘On Melchior we saw what they are capable of. I believe what we encounter here are more of their mind-games and shadow-play.’ He smiled without humour, showing a feral, unlovely grin. ‘This is what they do, brothers. They assault us under the pretence of supernatural powers and sorcery! It is warfare that only succeeds against the weak and the credulous.’

  ‘I watched Phorus burn. We all did,’ Amit shot back. ‘That was no illusion.’

  Raldoron agreed with his comrade. ‘The corpses and the wrecks. The ruined planet and the barrier. We cannot deny this truth, my brothers. Nothing we have seen since entering the Signus Cluster is akin to any weapon known to be used by the nephilim.’

  ‘Or any other foe, f
or that matter,’ added Galan.

  ‘If I may offer an opinion?’ All heads turned towards the Word Bearer, whose image shimmered and jumped as it filtered in from the bridge of the Dark Page. The primarch gave Kreed a nod and he went on. ‘Captain Raldoron is correct, and so is the esteemed Warden. But what you fail to consider is the mindset of these monsters. Our Legion did not have the privilege of drawing blood on these aliens as yours did, but what I have been told of them paints the picture of a tenacious enemy. And if, as we believe, the Khan did indeed obliterate their home planet, then maybe these are the last of their species in the universe.’ He spread his hands. ‘How can we know what tactics they will employ when their survival is at stake?’

  Amit’s face twisted and he pointed a finger, his holograph stuttering. ‘You brought this mission to us, messenger. Do you know more than you have revealed?’

  For a microsecond, Raldoron saw a flicker of uncertainty in Kreed’s eyes; then it was gone and he was shaking his head. ‘I can offer only my impressions as an outsider. More than that… I can’t say.’

  ‘The truth of this will out.’ Sanguinius’s words silenced any further conversation. ‘While the Helios undertakes its mission, I have also ordered the Hermia to take on a force of legionaries and travel ahead to Signus VI, the planet known as Holst.’

  ‘The hive-world?’ said Redknife. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘A single ship rather than the fleet,’ Azkaellon broke in. ‘The Hermia is stealth-capable. It will be able to close to landing range with a much lower chance of detection.’

  ‘Holst is as silent as every other world in this system,’ continued the primarch, ‘but if it is intact, we may be able to learn more about the invasion. There may even be survivors.’

  Kreed inclined his head. ‘I have dispatched Captain Harox and two of my best trackers to assist in the operation. If someone still lives on Holst, they’ll find them.’

  Redknife raised an eyebrow. ‘Trackers?’ he repeated doubtfully.

  The Acolyte sniffed at the implied barb. ‘It is not only wolves that know how to hunt, captain.’

  The Angel scanned their faces. ‘In the interim, return to your companies and prepare for war.’ His aspect became grim. ‘The battle that lies ahead of us will be unlike any we have faced. I know it in my blood. We will be tested, my sons.’

  Raldoron raised his mailed fist and led the return, as was the First Captain’s duty. ‘For Baal and Terra,’ he called, his voice resonant. ‘For Sanguinius and the Emperor!’

  ‘Sanguinius and the Emperor!’ The shout echoed throughout the fleet.

  The Stormbird rumbled out of the aft launch bay and powered into a diving turn across the inert thruster nozzles of the Hermia. The drop-ship threaded around the Blood Angels cruiser and past the slick of wreckage the larger vessel was using as cover. Once, orbital transfer docks had studded the bright ice rings of Holst like gemstones strung along a necklace, but now they were no more than collections of metal fragments. Junkyard remains had spilled into the planetary halo, disrupting the sparkling planes of dust and the shepherd moons. It was ideal camouflage for the cruiser and the drop-ship, enabling the former to come close and the latter to sprint the rest of the distance to atmospheric interface. Regular falls of debris rained down on the ice world, and the Stormbird moved within a swathe of such wreckage. If enemy units were watching the skies, they would not be able to pick out the drop-ship from the burning remains.

  That was the theory, of course. The reality was, if the helm-servitors flying Stormbird Delta-25 Blood’s Eagle were not as good as promised, everyone aboard would perish in a fiery collision long before making planetfall.

  Meros dismissed the thought as he rose from his cage-

  seat, and moved to secure his weapon and auxiliary battle gear in preparation for landing. One way or another, they would soon be on Holst’s frigid surface.

  He passed Sarga, who gave him a nod. ‘Ready for this?’

  ‘Always,’ said the other Blood Angel, his attention straying.

  Meros looked and saw Sarga was watching Captain Harox and the two other Word Bearers sitting up at the aft of the Stormbird. The three warriors in their granite-grey armour were already fully sealed in their suits – in fact, Meros noted that they had arrived from the Dark Page with their helmets in place and kept them on all through the pre-launch briefing and take-off. Harox and his men were leaning forwards, each of them engrossed in the pages of a small book that was connected to a pouch on their belts by an adamantine chain. The chains each bore a single silver medallion, although Meros could not make out the design stamped upon it. ‘What do you think they are reading?’

  Sarga shrugged. ‘Battle doctrine, maybe? You know, I asked one of them if I could see and he showed me a page. Didn’t understand a word of it. All written in some old cuneiform system.’

  ‘Probably a Colchisian text,’ Meros suggested, moving down the compartment. ‘Perhaps when we return you can ask Kreed to read it to you.’

  At the arming rack, he took up his bolt pistol and worked the slide before slamming it deep into his hip holster. Behind him, he heard the hatch to the rear compartment open and close, and presently felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked up into a dark, serious face. ‘Kano?’

  His battle-brother nodded. ‘I decided I’d join you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the Apothecary, glancing around the compartment where the other Blood Angels were seated. ‘I thought you had to remain aboard the flagship with Raldoron.’

  ‘The First Captain can do without me for a while.’ Kano gave a brief smile, but it seemed forced. ‘I called in a favour. I needed…’ He hesitated, correcting himself. ‘I wanted to take a look down there.’ The legionary jerked his head in the direction of the planet.

  ‘I thought I was the reckless one, forever in harm’s way. You’re supposed to be sensible, all bookish and thoughtful…’ Meros saw that Kano already had a boltgun slung over his shoulder. ‘I won’t say I’m unhappy to have you stand with me, brother. It’s just unexpected.’

  That hesitation was visible again, and this time Kano didn’t try to hide it. He knew his old friend too well. ‘Everything about this mission has been unexpected.’

  ‘Aye, no dispute.’ Meros gave a nod, eyeing his comrade. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what really occupies your thoughts? Not that iron-skull Annellus, surely?’

  ‘The Warden? No.’ Kano frowned. ‘He thinks me a target to keep in sight, that’s certain. But I’ve decided to stay as clear of him as I can.’ He leaned in, speaking in low tones. ‘You’ve heard about the deaths, yes?’

  ‘An astropath, on the Ignis.’

  Kano nodded. ‘And the rest.’

  That brought Meros up short. ‘There were others? Other astropaths?’

  ‘No, not yet at any rate. I thought you might have heard something from the medicae staff on the Red Tear.’ He paused. ‘Suicides, Meros. Not one of the Legion, but a handful of crewmen, Legion-serfs. All of them took their own lives after the… the sign on Phorus.’

  The Apothecary considered this. It was a harsh truth that some unaugmented humans simply could not withstand the mental pressures of extended space travel and combat operations. Deaths, sometimes self-inflicted, others from uncontrolled emotional outbursts, were regrettably a fact of life among naval crews. He repeated this to Kano.

  ‘Not all at the same time. On eight different ships, at the exact same instant.’

  ‘A coincidence.’

  Kano shook his head. ‘I don’t believe in them.’ He placed his hand on Meros’s shoulder once again. ‘You trust me, brother. Let me hear you say the words.’

  Meros broke into a confused grin. ‘Of course I do, you fool. I owe you my life. That debt earns you my countenance until the grave.’

  The other warrior guided him further down the Stormbird’s central aisle, where the roar of the engines was loud enough to cover their conversation from the earshot of others. ‘I m
ust tell someone,’ Kano said, his gaze momentarily turning inwards. ‘Meros, I saw something.’

  The Apothecary said nothing, his expression neutral as Kano told him of the vivid dream that had come to him in the meditation cell, the endless fall and the bloody, crimson-stained angel.

  Meros had seen many sides of Brother Kano in the years that they had been comrades-in-arms; he had seen him elated in the moment of victory, at his lowest ebb during a long night of battle when death had seemed certain. Furious and enraged, happy and laughing. But never this. Never uncertain.

  He took a moment to assimilate the former Librarian’s words, knowing full well what they might mean. Meros didn’t insult Kano by suggesting that it might have been no more than a dream; his friend was trained in the arts of the mind, and he of all men would know the difference. ‘If the Wardens hear of this, you’ll be taken off the line, censured.’

  ‘At the very least,’ said Kano bitterly. ‘If not for the insistence of the primarch himself, every Blood Angel who shares my skill might have suffered the same fate as the psykers of the Imperial Fists, isolated and locked away from our brothers. If the Wardens had their way, we would have been exiled back to Baal.’

  Meros folded his arms. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  The steady vibration of the Stormbird’s thrusters shifted in pitch, and the deck trembled beneath their boots. ‘We’re entering Holst’s atmosphere,’ said Meros.

  Kano nodded, turning away. ‘Thank you for your counsel, brother. Keep this between us for now, yes?’

  ‘On my oath,’ agreed Meros, even as he realised how much the other man’s words had troubled him.

  Delta-25 Blood’s Eagle shrieked through the outer regions of the hive-world’s sky, trailing hot plasmatic gas and torn air. A shower of metal fragments from the shoals of orbital wreckage burned up around it, becoming brief flashes of immolation before atomising under the incredible temperatures at the interface zone.

  Baniol was the chief flight officer, strapped into the flight couch at the rear of the narrow cockpit, resisting the g-forces of the descent with all the strength he could muster. Like Tolens, the engineer in the seat behind him, Baniol was a Legion-serf. That meant he was a human auxiliary in the employ of the fleet, an ordinary man in comparison to the organic war machines carried in the Stormbird’s troop bays. Once, Baniol had dreamed about becoming one of them, a Space Marine; but that dream had faded away a long time ago, dying in the cold light of reality. He had been deemed too weak. Too human.