by Toby Frost
A figure entered the corridor. Marbo slowed his breathing and opened his eyes. The man wore a grimy white tunic over tough civilian clothes, with improvised insignia stitched onto his upper arm. An autogun was slung over his right shoulder on a leather strap. His wild hair and beard made him look like a madman, but as he turned Marbo saw that his eyes were calm and shrewd. Marbo stilled his breathing and waited.
As the man approached, the details of his outfit became clear: the padding on his tunic, the chipped armour on his elbows and lower legs, and the odd little hat he wore – red and almost ludicrously small, as if he had stolen a child’s cap. Dozens of charms hung around his neck on a variety of strings and chains – Ecclesiarchy symbols and things that Marbo didn’t recognise. They tinkled gently as he approached. The man didn’t look like a priest, but Marbo didn’t much care about that: he was a target.
The man walked past, boots squeaking slightly on the floor. He sniffed and paused, a metre from the darkness where Marbo crouched. The guard stood there a moment, head tilted to one side, seeming to listen for something. Then he rubbed his nose, breathed again and moved on. He wasn’t going to sneeze after all.
Marbo rose up behind him as quiet as a cobra. The guard took another step.
Marbo grabbed him round the neck and drove his long knife into the man’s back. The guard bucked, arching his spine. His hands grabbed Marbo’s forearm, trying to find purchase to tear free. But the wound in his back was fatal, and even if it hadn’t been enough, the toxin on the blade had been distilled from some of the most lethal creatures on Catachan.
The guard stiffened violently, shuddered and went limp in Marbo’s grip. Marbo lowered him, careful not to let the foam around the dead man’s mouth touch his skin. He heaved the corpse into the dark space beside the statue.
Marbo crept down the corridor until he came to the doorway from which the guard had emerged. Keeping low, Marbo looked around the corner, down a wide staircase and into a sub-chapel of the main temple. Where the hab-blocks had been grim and functional, the staircase was darkly magnificent, decorated with carved crimson wood. Marbo paused to get his bearings, trying to work out where the best way in would be, then he sneaked down the staircase.
At the bottom of the steps, he looked into the little chapel and froze.
The chapel had been carefully and thoroughly vandalised – no, more than that: desecrated. A large painting hung along the side wall, showing a procession of guildmasters being blessed by Saint Helena. Someone had scratched her face out with a knife. Words were scrawled over the painting. ‘LIES LIES LIES’.
Three statues stood on the opposite wall, their heads all knocked off. Behind the altar, a painting of the Emperor on his Throne was covered in the same scribble, too wild to read. The Emperor had a pair of upturned fangs. Tusks, like an ork.
Knife in hand, Marbo looked at the defaced painting of the Emperor as if sizing up an enemy.
Something yowled in the main body of the temple. Marbo whipped around, hand reaching for his ripper pistol, and speakers squelched and crackled into life. There was a scream of feedback, then the sound of a battle-hymn played over a recording of thousands of tramping boots.
‘Cowardice, laxity, disrespect! Like worms we burrowed deep below the soil, thinking ourselves hidden from the Emperor’s light. We were wrong – so very wrong! We lurked down in the darkness, hiding in the caves like beasts, and yet our sin has found us out!’
Marbo sniffed. The noise would make good cover. He crept out of the shrine and turned right, towards the nave.
He stopped at a pair of massive doors, twice his height and made of the same scarlet wood as the staircase. Marbo quickly checked them for traps: sensors fixed to the doorframe, vehicle batteries wired to the brass handles. It was impossible to be certain, but they looked untouched.
Something moved behind him. Marbo whirled as if on a spring, saw a figure and threw his knife in one motion. A guard stood before him, the handle of Marbo’s knife shuddering in his chest. A lasgun dropped from open fingers. The man stared at the blade sticking out of his robe, incredulous, and collapsed.
Marbo retrieved the knife. As he wiped it on the hem of the guard’s robe, he saw that it was not the sign of the aquila hanging around the man’s neck, but a row of spent shell cartridges and long canine teeth. He hauled the man into the chapel and dumped him behind a screen, then returned to the doors.
The handle turned easily. Marbo pushed the door open, just a fraction, and looked inside.
Between eight and ten men stood in the nave. About half of them were praying, the others standing guard. All wore robes and carried weapons – autoguns, shotguns, a chainsword and a flamer so crude that it seemed to have been made from an industrial blowtorch. In the centre of the group stood a tall, thin man, no more than thirty, his hood raised. A servo-skull hovered beside him, a vox-thief protruding from its eye socket. A piece of metal had been attached below the skull, like a jutting lower jaw.
Dozens of statues decorated the length of the nave, in alcoves and on pedestals, ranging from power-armoured giants to tiny figurines that could have fitted in Marbo’s hand. The head of each one had been painted as if it were wearing a red cap. Several wore necklaces of spent cartridges.
Above the altar there hung a huge, crude representation of a skull, sliced from sheet iron. It bore the same red tonsure. Below it was a metal shape like a jagged crown. Marbo knew it instantly; no one on Dulma’lin could have failed to do so. It was the skull and jawbone of the orks, perhaps taken from them as a trophy – or perhaps made in imitation.
The preacher raised a hand, waggling a finger at the rafters. The speakers crackled around him. ‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘you thought yourselves good, did you not? You thought yourselves safe in your guilds, digging tunnels out of the sight of the Emperor? Worms! You made your bargains at your household shrines, crept to confession to barter away your sins, yet the stain of your lassitude will not be washed away! For you cannot buy your way out of oblivion. You cannot deal your way out of the Emperor’s wrath!’
Marbo quietly closed the door. There were too many to take silently, and a frontal assault would be suicide. Besides, he’d seen enough. He passed the small, desecrated shrine and glanced down the corridor. From what he’d seen of the outside, there would be a door leading out nearby – no less ornate than those inside the temple, but far more durable. He walked quickly down the corridor, the ranting sermon covering the small amount of sound made by his boots.
The corridor opened into a small hall. A portrait on the far wall, showing Bishop Mardoni of Ryza blessing the troops mid-combat, had been draped with strings of teeth and shells. On the far side was the main door, an airlock of ornate metal.
A cowled man stood by the door, hood up, shotgun in his hands. Marbo drew back, listening, waiting for the sermon to rise to its peak. He drew his ripper pistol and checked the magazine.
‘Oh, Excelsis, cavern of vice, harlot city among the fallen strongholds of Dulma’lin, now is your day of reckoning!’ The voice swelled into a roar, testing the limits of the vox system. ‘Just as the Emperor chose Samoth Sarr to speak the truth, the Master of Mankind has sent an angel among you – not to summon, but to reap, not to reveal himself, but to strike down from shadows an inexorable as death itself! The hour is come!’
Marbo stepped out, raised his gun and fired twice. Two bullets threw the guard into the doors. He hit the ground dead, leaving a stripe of blood across the wood. Father Sarr’s ranting was at its peak. Surrounded by noise, as though he were in the centre of a storm, Marbo holstered his gun and heaved the dead man aside. He reached out to the console beside the door and pressed a button. The eyes of a little steel skull flicked from red to green, and the bloodstain across the doors split into two as they rumbled apart.
Lavant shook his head, half disbelieving. ‘This Father Sarr is obviously mad. That’s bad enough – but the fact that anyone would follow him… By the Throne, why?’
Marbo crouched be
side them in the rubble, his story over. He shrugged his massive shoulders and looked away, as if nothing would surprise him.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Straken said. ‘We’re going in. Either this crazy preacher surrenders and we restore order here, or we take him and his people down. Either way, we’re putting this lunatic out of business.’
‘Right,’ Lavant replied. ‘You say you unlocked the east doors?’
Marbo nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ Straken said. ‘We won’t have long before they find out. Catachans!’ he called, and the soldiers around him readied their guns. ‘We’re going in! Marbo, you lead the way. Lavant, let’s get this done fast, all right?’
The captain nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Then let’s go.’
They moved out, falling back from their position in the ruins. Straken hoped they were still being watched: it would seem as if they had decided to retreat. Twenty metres away from the road, Marbo turned right into the ruined buildings, picking his way through gaping doorways and darkened rooms. Lavant hissed an order for silence. It was barely necessary.
They swung out in a wide arc, flanking the temple. ‘There,’ a trooper said. Straken knew him from the Borealis Incident, a few years back: Graves, a las scar like a stripe across his forehead. He pointed through an empty window at the doorway across the road.
It looked so easy. Lavant leaned over to Straken. ‘You think it’s safe?’
Straken stared at him. ‘Safe for what?’ He raised his voice. ‘When I say, we rush it. If you see anyone inside, blast ’em. Let’s not take any chances, not after Yalsky.’
‘Damn right,’ a voice muttered on the edge of the group.
‘With me!’ Straken cried, and he dashed out of cover. His boots hit the road, and he rushed towards the doors with great bounding steps, dimly aware of the yells of his men behind him but running too fast to register whether they were under fire. Fifteen metres from the door... Ten metres... Five–
A figure moved in the darkness. Straken’s shotgun roared and someone stumbled inside the temple. A second robed body rushed across the doorway and disappeared to one side. A diode flickered in the doorframe, and the metal doors began to close.
Straken shoved his arm into the gap, wedging it open between elbow and palm. Lavant reached the door, dropped down and fired two quick bursts into the dark. Someone screamed within the temple and the captain scurried inside. ‘I can’t hold it long,’ Straken called, and Lavant got to work on the door panel. The doors slid apart again and Straken rushed in after Lavant, pumping his shotgun as he entered.
‘Lavant, take five men and clean out the upper floor,’ he snapped. ‘The rest of you with me.’
There was no point in trying to be stealthy. Straken ran across the entrance hall, then turned into the corridor. Following Marbo’s directions, he glanced left into the small chapel. The desecration disgusted him – it was as bad as he’d thought – but there was no time to pause. A clatter of gunshots broke out above as Lavant got to work. It sounded like a storm beating the ceiling. Straken ran on, deeper into the temple. He reached the wood-panelled doors, took a deep breath and stormed into the nave.
The zealots saw him and went for their guns.
A bearded man swung up his autogun, and Straken fired one-handed into his chest. The man staggered, gun firing wildly into the rafters. The cultist beside him raised a hotshot lasgun, took aim and punched a burning hole into a statue centimetres from Straken’s head. Straken dropped and rolled aside, using the pews as cover. One of Straken’s team yelled, ‘For Catachan!’
Straken rolled again, stood and shot the zealot in the side, the force of the blast hurling the man out of view. The low boom of the shotgun rang around the nave.
A door flew open behind the altar and more of Sarr’s men ran in. Suddenly the raid became a gunfight. Lasguns cracked and spat. Autoguns rattled out shells. A robed figure ran out of the back of the hall, pushing past the newcomers. Sarr, Straken thought. It had to be.
Straken darted down the side of the nave, using columns and statues for cover. Stone exploded close to him, and he fired back and dodged behind a chipped pillar. Someone screamed behind him – one of his own men. He heard voices calling for support, and leaned out to see two Guardsmen dragging a wounded comrade out of danger. Straken leaned out and fired across the nave, his metal hand a blur as it racked the slide on the shotgun. Another of Sarr’s followers cried out and fell, and two more ran for cover. Sergeant Halda dragged the injured Guardsman to safety. Straken took cover behind a pillar to reload.
A stained glass window exploded above the nave, and a robed man fell screaming onto the pews, his body smashing the wooden seats apart. Lavant appeared at the broken window, laying down enfilading fire. Straken almost grinned – perhaps there was some spirit in the captain after all.
Suddenly, a zealot lunged around the edge of the pillar. He was massive, his overalls pulled down to bare his chest, his head shaven and the scalp painted red. Straken aimed and fired in one motion – and the shotgun clicked.
The man roared and swung a chain at Straken. Blades and hooks flew out from the links. Straken ducked back and down, but the madman was fast, and whipped the chain down and left.
Straken blocked it with his steel arm, but the chain flicked past. He felt it hit his back, and the zealot cried in triumph and yanked it. Pain streaked across Straken’s back like fire. Maddened, he leaped forwards and punched in one movement, and the man fell, his forehead caved in like an egg.
The shooting had stopped. Straken reloaded his gun. He could hear men moving quickly between the pews. He walked out, grimacing. His back felt as if he’d been scourged by a commissar.
‘All enemy down,’ Halda called. ‘Thorn’s taken a hit in the side. He’ll live.’
‘Good.’ Straken looked up at the broken window. ‘Lavant, what’s your status?’
The captain smiled. ‘Six enemy dead. We’re all fine. I got you a present, colonel.’ He tossed a rifle down, and it clattered on the stone. The barrel was almost a metre long. ‘We got the sniper.’
‘How about the priest?’
Lavant shook his head.
‘Hold position,’ Straken said. ‘I’m going after the preacher.’
He jogged to the rear of the nave, past the bodies and the defaced statues. The air smelt of burning and dust. A bust of Malcador gazed at him from an alcove, the face blackened by a stray lasgun shot.
The door behind the altar led into a narrow passageway. Spare robes hung on pegs along the wall. Straken slipped inside, still moving quickly but trying to stay as quiet as he could.
At the end of the corridor, a narrow set of stairs curled into the ground. Straken hurried down them, the lacerations on his back stinging like acid burning into his skin. As he reached the third step, half a dozen shots rang out.
He dropped down, bullets ricocheting around the staircase over his head, spinning and whining like Catachan bloodflies. A figure lowered a pistol and pulled out a spare magazine. Straken fired with his shotgun and the man howled, dropped the gun and ran out of view.
Straken jumped down the last few steps. Bunks stood against the wall beside the stairs. There was a large console on the far wall, no doubt for controlling the lighting in the nave. Before it stood Father Samoth Sarr.
Sarr glanced left, then right, quick and desperate. As Straken raised his gun, Sarr seemed to realise that there was no way out. He froze, and very carefully drew himself to his full height.
‘You killed my men,’ Straken said.
He had expected Sarr to fight, or rant, perhaps even to beg. But he had not expected him to smile. ‘Me?’ the preacher said. ‘Oh no. That was the work of one greater than I. I merely announce his coming. The Emperor has sent His angel of night, and he has marked the souls he reaps. Just as he marked me.’
Sarr pulled his hood back. His scalp was dried blood and bare bone. Someone, perhaps Sarr himself, had scalped him.
‘You see?�
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Straken fired. Sarr folded over double, gagging. Straken pumped the shotgun to finish the job, and as he did Sarr lurched upright.
Sarr took two great, shambling steps away and fell across the console. Straken turned, almost unable to believe that the priest could still move at all. He flicked up the shotgun and fired it into Sarr’s back.
The effect was hideous and lethal. Father Sarr slid down the console and onto the floor. His hand snagged on a lever and it flopped down, pulled by the weight of his corpse.
Straken saw the lever move, and lunged for it. He was just too slow.
The speakers squealed into life, but what came out was nothing like the hymns they had played before. It sounded like a jumble of human voices, deafening but indistinct, backed by a bass rumble of traffic.
Boots clattered on the steps behind him. Straken yanked the lever back up, but the sound did not stop; instead, it rose in volume. He looked round. Lavant was staring at him. ‘The damned thing’s locked,’ Straken shouted.
‘Then rip the wires out!’ Lavant replied, and he rushed to Straken’s side.
A voice joined the noise, if it was a voice at all. Over the racket came a snarling, guttural sound, grunting but somehow structured, like a wild boar given a voice. One of the soldiers made the sign of the aquila across his chest.
Lavant ducked down beside the console. Suddenly, he stood. ‘Back,’ he called over the animal sounds, ‘Everybody back!’
They dashed back, to the edges of the room.
The console burst in a shower of sparks. A cable flopped out of the ceiling like a dead snake. Slowly, the noise faded. The speakers wound down, and the grunting voice dimmed and twisted into nothing, taking the street noises with it.
The silence that followed felt enormous. On Straken’s left, a trooper who had looked tough five minutes earlier said, ‘What the hell was that?’
Orks, Straken thought, and then realised that the noise wasn’t quite right; the orks didn’t really sound that way. Perhaps it had been a genuine ork’s voice, recorded and doctored, but the way the noise had been made didn’t matter as much as what it actually was. With a sick feeling, he realised what he had heard: an attempt to mimic the orks – to get their attention. Grimly, Straken said, ‘ Listen up, Guardsmen! We are moving out, right now. On the double, people!’