Shroud of Night

by Andy Clark

  Dysorian and his companions entered a huge chamber. Brass steps a quarter of a mile wide led up from its entrance arch, into an artful spill of crimson and gold light falling through stained-glass windows high above. Every hundred feet, the steps were flanked on either side by baroque teleportation platforms, broad, sigil-inscribed discs surrounded by incomprehensible banks of machinery. The air stank of ozone and crackled with esoteric energies as consignments of promethium barrels flashed into being. Each fresh manifestation sent thunderclaps rolling through the cavernous shrine. Gangling cargo-servitors descended on hydraulic booms to gather up the holy cargo and spirit it away to destinations throughout the hive.

  The Imperial Fists climbed the steps quickly, ascending hundreds of feet beneath the cold stares of tech-magi, servitors and weird cyber-cherubim. At the top, they found their way barred by a conclave of electro-priests, behind whom rose banks of ancient machinery. The priests parted at an unspoken signal, making a corridor through which a bulky figure lumbered. Wheezing and gurgling, tattered robes doing little to conceal that he was more grotesque machine than living flesh, Magos-ethericus Corphyx came to greet them. Tentacular mechadendrites snaked from within his robes, and three piston-driven legs carried him forwards with a thudding gait.

  ‘Imperial Fists,’ his voice buzzed from a vocal emitter set somewhere within his central mass. ‘Omnissiah’s blessings upon you. Your presence is an honour both unexpected and unlooked for.’

  ‘Magos-ethericus Corphyx,’ said Dysorian, inclining his head in what could generously have been called a gesture of respect. ‘Myself and my brothers are engaged in the task of inspecting and assessing the defences of Hive Endurance, on behalf of Canoness Levinia. Several more of my senior battle-brothers are still sweeping the upper and lower levels. Meanwhile, we are here to inspect the security of your teleportarium, and by extension that of all the teleportaria in this hive.’

  ‘Commendable,’ buzzed Corphyx. ‘But eminently unnecessary. My apologies that you have wasted your time, captain.’

  Dysorian bristled. ‘Magos-ethericus,’ he began, ‘the nature of the technologies you are using here presents a clear potential risk of infiltration. Should enemy forces gain possession of another of this planet’s teleportarium facilities, they could storm this site from within and secure a foothold that could see the whole Hive conquered. Tsadrekha has faced two Chaos invasions within the last month alone. We are cut off from the outer systems of the Unity now, and the beacon does not just light the way for the servants of the Emperor to find this world. You know as well as I that Tsadrekha is the prize over which our enemies fight, and that when their killing blow lands, it will land here, where the beacon is kept alight.’

  ‘These are empirical facts,’ said Corphyx. ‘Their pertinence to this situation is nil, however.’

  ‘What my captain is saying, honoured magos,’ said Pavras, ‘is that our system monitors claim the enemy are coming soon, likely in very great numbers. It is still unclear whether it was a teleportarium breach that allowed the sack of Hive Eternum, but my captain wishes me to inspect your facilities for any potential defensive weaknesses that our enemies might exploit. We are of the Imperial Fists. I am sure you are aware of our expertise in such matters.’

  ‘I am aware of your Chapter’s experiential familiarity with matters of conventional siege warfare,’ said Corphyx. ‘It is, again, irrelevant to this scenario. The capacity to build or demolish ferrocrete walls efficiently is in no way synonymous with an understanding of the deeper mysteries of the Omnissiah. Your assistance is not required at this time, and your continued presence is becoming a sub-optimal variable.’

  ‘Unacceptable,’ said Dysorian, his voice loud enough that the Fulgurites to either side stiffened their stances. Electricity buzzed through their staves. ‘I have been charged with the defence of this entire hive, and I do not intend to fail in my duty because some obstreperous–’

  The captain’s words were drowned out amidst the sudden wailing of alarm hymnals. The shrine’s electro-sconces strobed a deep, blood red, and spools of rune-covered parchment began to spill from the chattering data-banks behind Corphyx.

  Dysorian and his brothers reached for their weapons, while the Fulgurite priests hefted their staves, looking for enemies.

  ‘Magos,’ shouted Dysorian over the booming alarms. ‘Are we under attack?’

  ‘Insufficient data,’ replied Corphyx, his emitter’s volume increased to painful levels. ‘I will consult with the motive force and interpret the inload-revelations of the Omnissiah. Remain if you wish.’

  The magos turned away, and the ranks of Fulgurites closed behind him. Dysorian fought down the urge to shove his way through them, instead turning to his battle-brothers.

  ‘Pavras, I want you to commune with whatever sensor inputs and vox-channels you can. Gather information and compile. Lydanis, ensure that all battle-brothers are in a state of full combat readiness and patched in to channel seven-aleph.’

  ‘This much arcane technology may interfere, my captain,’ said Pavras. ‘It may take time.’

  ‘Be as swift as you can, Pavras,’ replied Dysorian. ‘We need information. Now.’

  As his battle-brothers followed his orders, Dysorian sent a priority vox-hail to Canoness Levinia via the hive’s hardened supreme command channel. This was her city, her Order’s world; if anyone had a clear view of what was occurring, it would be her.

  Dysorian did not have to wait long for a response. The canoness’ voice filled his ear, stern and sharp as cut glass.

  ‘Captain Dysorian.’

  ‘Honoured canoness, I assume that alarms are also sounding in the spire. Are we under attack?’

  ‘We seek revelation on that matter even now, brother-captain. There appears to be but a single visible contact, high up on the very edge of the auspex net, beyond the tempestosphere.’

  ‘Ordnance?’ asked Dysorian. ‘Some form of cyclonic warhead or viral payload?’

  ‘Unlikely, brother-captain. The scryers inform me that it is moving too slowly, and appears too small, to be a warhead.’

  ‘I’ve little patience for mysteries,’ growled Dysorian, turning away from the muttering priests and hastening back down the steps of the shrine.

  Minutes later, he led his brothers out onto an external rampart several levels above the shrine’s armoured dome. Dysorian hurried into the watery daylight of the Tsadrekhan dawn. The hive wall stretched vertiginously above and below. Waves boomed distantly against the city’s lower slopes, while salt-wet winds howled around the rampart, causing its supports to creak and groan. There were skitarii arrayed neatly along the rampart’s fire step, the teleportarium well below and the armoured battlement to their fore.

  The Mechanicus soldiery were staring up into the churning clouds, fusils and rad carbines at the ready. Dysorian ignored them and gripped the rungs of a ladder set into the hive’s metal hide. He climbed quickly, skirting a huge stained-glass window until, several hundred feet up, he reached a sloping roof.

  Showing none of his three centuries, Dysorian clambered up onto a roof between crackling antenna and thrumming sensor dishes, ignoring the sickening drop and the screaming winds that plucked at him. Still the hive loomed up and up above them. Pavras and Lydanis followed, as fearless and tireless as their captain. The lieutenant had unslung his bolt rifle, while Pavras was checking the charge of his plasma pistol.

  ‘If something is coming, better to see it for ourselves,’ said Dysorian over the wailing wind.

  So saying, he clamped his helm in place and magnified its optics to maximum. Running through visual filters, the captain scanned the clouds until, at last, he caught sight of a golden glow swelling into being.

  ‘Not a warhead,’ voxed Pavras. ‘It almost looks like–’

  ‘It’s a person,’ said Lydanis. ‘Armoured. Female. She… are those wings?’

  ‘It loo
ks like an angel of the Emperor…’ breathed Dysorian. ‘No such thing. What trickery is this?’

  At last, his hail to Canoness Levinia was answered, a choral chime giving way to a clear channel.

  ‘Brother-captain, we are blessed,’ she said, and in her voice Dysorian heard a note of rapture that made him wary. ‘Vid-capture and archival interrogation confirm it. Her aspect, the blade she wields, the way in which she descends from the clouds on high in the hour of our greatest need. Captain Dysorian, this is Celestine, the Emperor’s Living Saint!’

  ‘How do you know this, Levinia?’ asked Dysorian. ‘It could be some ruse of the enemy’s, some malefic manifestation of the Great Rift.’

  ‘No, captain,’ said Levinia firmly. ‘My heart tells me it is so in a voice that can only be the Emperor’s own. I have faith, captain. It is she, and she will deliver us.’

  Amidst the alarms rose a tumult of tolling bells and amplified plainsong. The angel descended into its midst, clearly visible now to all three Space Marines as she swept gracefully down through the tattered clouds. Celestine’s face was a mask of cold beauty, distant and ethereal as her hair danced about it like a halo. The metallic wings of her jump pack flexed dextrously, holy light and spectral flame wreathing them as the Living Saint descended upon Hive Endurance. In one hand, Celestine bore a blade of sublime craftsmanship. The other was empty, held outwards as though in benediction.

  ‘The Living Saint,’ breathed Pavras with something resembling awe. ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘They say she was instrumental in bringing back Primarch Guilliman,’ said Lydanis. ‘That she fought alongside him all the way to Terra. They say she even stood and fought on the killing fields of Cadia, before the end.’

  ‘And look how that turned out,’ said Dysorian gruffly. ‘If it’s even really her.’

  The angelic figure had passed from their sight now, sweeping down upon the spire.

  ‘The saint comes to us, captain,’ said Levinia. ‘I must greet her in person. The scriptures say that she shall choose two of our sisterhood to attend her and walk in her blessings as her Geminae Superia. It is my duty to preside over the choosing. Go with the Emperor’s grace, Captain Dysorian, and be glad, for today is a rapturous one.’

  With that, Levinia cut the link.

  From the hive spire high above, proud hymns carried upon the storm winds, echoing out across the slate-grey immensity of the ocean until they were swallowed by its endless indifference.

  ‘All right,’ grunted Dysorian. ‘Not an attack, then. Not yet. But whatever the provenance of this miracle, we still have a task to perform. And I fully intend to investigate the safety measures in this shrine, even if I have to take that magos by the mechadendrites and–’

  The renewed blare of alarms drowned Dysorian’s voice out again, silencing the captain for the second time in a matter of minutes.

  ‘Dorn’s fist, what now?’ he snarled.

  ‘Perhaps the Emperor’s seen fit to send us some more saints?’ suggested Pavras, but his words died away as the clouds lit with angry trails of flame. As they watched, streaking beams of light stabbed down across the horizon, artificial lightning strikes that raised distant plumes of fire at the furthest reaches of the Space Marines’ vision.

  ‘That was Fort Gloriana,’ said Dysorian grimly.

  ‘Orbital bombardment,’ said Pavras, checking his auspex readings. ‘More signatures incoming. And massive energy readings from the outer orbital envelope.’

  ‘They’re here at last,’ said Dysorian.

  ‘That is the other thing they say of the Living Saint,’ said Lieutenant Lydanis. ‘That she is the herald of woe. The harbinger of disaster. She appears in the darkest hour, when her aid is most needed, but never without a price.’

  ‘Sounds suspiciously like superstitious nonsense to me, lieutenant,’ said Dysorian over the howl of the wind. Above, the first black specks could be seen, plunging down through the cloud cover as the skies blazed ever brighter with fire.

  The waves reflected the crimson glow, and for a moment they seemed to stand above an ocean not of water, but of blood.

  ‘Whatever the case, my captain, we should get back inside the hive,’ said Pavras. ‘We’ve sighted the foe, and we know what’s coming. They’ll be raising the void shields. We’ll be needed for the defence.’

  ‘Well said, Pavras,’ said Dysorian with a stern nod. ‘Speculation won’t get us anywhere. Now is the time for steel and fire, boltguns and blades and sheer damned grit. Now begins the battle for Tsadrekha, and it is a battle we will win.’

  Dysorian clambered back down the ladder and headed into the teleportarium shrine with his battle-brothers close upon his heels. High above, the Living Saint was being welcomed with a mixture of delight and religious terror by the Adepta Sororitas while, higher still, the servants of Chaos blazed down through the Tsadrekhan skies.

  The invasion had begun.

  Chapter Two

  Tsadrekha was a mote amidst the darkness. The planet wore an artificial halo of wreckage, a sprawling veil of blasted warships and ravaged defence platforms that extended for many miles. Some of the butchered hulks still crawled with voidfire, or trailed fat sparks as they drifted.

  Out beyond the fringes of the stellar abattoir, reality flickered. Oily streamers of light flowed into screaming faces and monstrous shapes that were gone as swiftly as they appeared. The disturbance grew, clawing and ripping at the fabric of real space until it tore like flesh. Hellish light spilled from many wounds. The ships of Excrucias’ fleet surged with their drives lit and their gun decks unshrouded. Dozens of craft thundered from the warp, trailing ectoplasmic streamers of anger and sorrow, regret and lust that burned away in the harsh light of the real. Captained by supremely skilled warriors, the warships fell swiftly into formations as elegant as they were deadly.

  They arced away towards the distant planet, leaving behind them a ragged swathe of torn reality and writhing warpstuff that would not heal as it should.

  Kassar sat upon a grotesque chaise longue fashioned from gold, glass and living flesh. He and the warriors of his Harrow were surrounded by deranged opulence, from marble flooring and mats of human skin, to garish works of art framed in gold and painted with noisome substances Kassar didn’t care to identify.

  Electro-candle chandeliers dangled from a vaulted ceiling busy with obscene frescoes. Weird furnishings and objets d’art made from precious metals, sinew and bone thronged the room.

  When they had first been led to their quarters, Haltheus had looked at his comrades’ dusty, battered armour and laughed dryly at the contrast. Yet for all its grandeur, as the door slid closed and locked firmly behind them, the Alpha Legionnaires had recognised their prison cell for what it was.

  The opulence, though distasteful, hadn’t troubled Kassar overly. After having his warriors subtly rearrange the room’s furnishings for optimum cover in the event that their hosts turned on them, he had simply ignored it.

  By Kassar’s count, the door had closed seventeen days, six hours and twenty-three minutes ago. It had opened since only to admit robed menials who brought excessive feasts, and bore away the mostly untouched and rotting foodstuffs from the day before.

  Beyond sparring and tending to their wargear, there had been little to occupy the Unsung during their enforced captivity. Yet they had not been idle.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ asked D’sakh, the Harrow’s vexillor, idly spinning one of his foot-long knives between his fingers.

  ‘Pressure change,’ nodded Kassar. ‘Empyric shift.’

  ‘Warp translation,’ said Makhor, seated nearby at a table of jade and gold. He slotted the magazine back into his bolt pistol and sighted down its barrel before giving a grunt of satisfaction.

  The thump and whine of heavy footfalls announced Ges’khir, the Harrow’s last surviving Terminator. Ges’khir had not removed any section o
f his spiked armour for many years now. Kassar doubted he still could.

  ‘Our wait is over,’ said the Terminator, his voice rumbling from his helm’s vox emitter.

  ‘Or this is simply a brief halt to regather the fleet, and account for empyric drift,’ said Makhor. ‘We do not know that we have reached our destination.’

  ‘Ever the voice of optimism,’ said D’sakh sourly.

  ‘I would be a poor naysmith, were that the case,’ said Makhor without rancour.

  ‘True enough,’ said Kassar. ‘But…’ With a thought, he sent a complex string of clicks through the Harrow’s encoded vox-channel. A signal in their own private battle cant, serpenta.

  ‘Continue with your tasks. Converse in fourth cypher. Information exchange.’

  Clicks of acknowledgement came back from the Harrow, who continued to spar, check weapons or give the appearance of meditation.

  Just sixteen of them now. Kassar could remember when the Harrow had stood at a full century, proud and determined to do the primarch’s bidding. Hundreds of years had passed, but still he saw them clearly in his mind’s eye. Kassar never forgot anything. He had not decided whether that was a blessing or a curse.

  Kassar mentally assessed them, gauged their readiness. His brothers, still alive. To the untrained eye, most of them were indistinguishable. They bore the same markings and insignia, eschewing almost all personal honours, while unhelmed their features were – for the most part – eerily alike.

  Kassar knew them all, though, down to the last nuance and detail.

  Haltheus and A’khassor, the Harrow’s Techmarine and Apothecary, both brothers serving in roles that necessity had forced upon them.