by Andy Clark
Clambering atop the generatorum left them exposed to the full force of the ventilator winds that howled across the cavern. Krowl kept a firm grip on Syxx, preventing the terrified cultist from being plucked off the rattling mass of pipes and scaffold.
At the generatorum’s highest point, a bulky metal tower jutted up, the wind singing through it. A thick braid of taut electro-conduit wires stretched away from it, vanishing at a steep angle into the clouds below.
Hanging on to precarious handholds, Skaryth climbed up and grabbed hold of the wires. He tugged on them, carefully at first and then with increasing aggression. At last, he turned his back to the drop and signalled that the wires would hold them.
‘It would be a long and arduous climb,’ said Kassar. ‘We’d risk losing the cultist, even if we tied him to Krowl again. Besides, it would take too long.’
‘The ground, then?’ asked Kyphas.
‘No,’ said Kassar. ‘Remember the Tetanyphic Fortress on Bloodforge?’
‘Hah!’ barked Skaryth. ‘Perfect. Krowl, the guide-wires from that last bridge we crossed should be thick and long enough. Fetch them.’
Krowl lumbered off through the glare, returning minutes later with two thick coils of metal wire. Clasps still dangled from them where he had ripped them away from the bridge. He clambered back up onto the generatorum, and laid the coils at his brothers’ feet.
Kassar cut the wires into sections, Hexling slicing through them as though they were binding twine. He lifted a length, wrapped it several times about each of his gauntlets, then pulled on it as hard as he could. He nodded with satisfaction. Straining with his full strength, Kassar couldn’t snap the cable.
‘This will work,’ he said. ‘Weapons mag-locked. Bind the cultist to Krowl again.’
The Unsung prepared themselves. Syxx panicked when he realised what his guardians intended, but didn’t fight them as he was hoisted up and bound securely to Krowl’s backpack. Kassar could hear the cultist’s heart racing, though, and smell his fear sweat.
‘My idea,’ said Kassar, clambering up to the precarious spot below the wires. ‘So I’ll go first. Krowl is to follow me, then Skarle. The rest of you, bring up the rear in whatever order you choose. Give it a firm ten count between each of us. I’d rather be outnumbered on the other side than have the wire snap under too much weight.’
Kassar received vox pips of acknowledgement.
‘Good luck, captain,’ said Skaryth.
‘See you on the precinct roof,’ said Kassar. Then, before he could think too hard about what he was going to do, he looped his length of wire over the electro-conduits, made sure its ends were bound around his gauntlets and gripped securely, then leapt out into space.
The wind howled around him, and he plunged through it. His length of guide-wire skimmed over the electro-conduits from the generatorum, forming an improvised zip-line. Weighed down with armour and wargear, Kassar hurtled down it at a ferocious speed.
Murky clouds veiled his destination, ripping apart as he plunged through them. His twin hearts thumped as the yawning drop sped beneath him, undoubtedly lethal even for one such as he. Gunfire and tank engines raised a muffled cacophony from below.
Runes flashed in his auto-senses, urgent proximity warnings. Something huge and dark loomed up through the murk. Kassar brought his knees up to his waist, bracing for an uncertain landing.
He whipped in over a parapet of black metal, seeing fleeting impressions of armoured men pass on either side. Then he struck the side of another generatorum block, this one encased in black armour and stamped with grim gold aquilas.
Kassar dropped, falling fifteen feet and slamming down on metal decking. His auto-senses were alive with target locks and threat warnings. Mortis was already in his hand.
The top of the building formed a metal crater fifty feet across and fifteen deep, with the generatorum jutting from its centre. It was ringed on all sides with armoured battlements, and on the fire steps behind them stood Adeptus Arbites in bulky spotter-helms, sniper rifles clutched in their hands.
The men were turning in shock, to stare at the Heretic Astartes who had just hurtled out of the clouds to land in their midst. The huge optic lenses of their helms made them look like insects.
Kassar shot one man before his enemies had even reacted, throwing his body back against the battlements. His second bolt hit another Adeptus Arbite in the face, exploding his helm. Kassar saw some of the men trying to wrench their helms off, while the optics of others were hissing and clicking as their wearers frantically refocused. They must have been firing down into the battle below, he realised, using the optics to compensate for the cloud cover and extreme range.
‘They won’t help you now,’ he said, and gunned down another two of the Adeptus Arbites before ripping his sword from his scabbard and charging.
Sniper rounds whipped around him, a couple of lucky shots ringing from his armour, but his enemies were at a horrible disadvantage.
Kassar slid in low, running one man through, then spun, sliding his blade free and slashing it across another of the Adeptus Arbites’ throats.
Krowl rushed in overhead, Syxx clinging to his back like grim death. Krowl’s boots hit the decking, and his bolter gauntlet roared to life.
Another sniper shot hit Kassar, this one punching through his power pack and lodging in the meat of his back. He cursed, feeling his armour’s power dip as its systems struggled to compensate. Spinning, Kassar shot his attacker through the chest, killing him.
Skarle flew overhead, landed, and unleashed the fury of Gift.
Shots rang out again, and Kassar saw sparks rain from the side of the generatorum.
‘They’re trying to shoot out the wire,’ he voxed. ‘Stop them!’
He, Krowl and Skarle launched themselves into the Adeptus Arbites. Men were hacked and bludgeoned, rent and blasted. Blood sprayed.
Thelgh arrived, unlocking his stolen bolt rifle and adding its point-blank salvoes to the fight. Kyphas followed, dropping into what was rapidly becoming a massacre.
Kassar gutted another enemy and turned in time to see the last of the Adeptus Arbites running for the generatorum. The man had torn his helm free, and unholstered a bolt pistol from his hip.
‘No!’ roared Kassar, firing his bolter.
Too slow.
Even as he was punched from his feet, the Adeptus Arbite managed to loose off a bolt that struck the electro-conduit cables where they met the generatorum. There was an explosion of sparks, a whipping report, and the cables snapped backwards like a released slingshot.
Over the vox, Kassar heard Skaryth utter a frantic curse.
‘Skaryth,’ voxed Kassar. ‘Skaryth!’
For a beat, none of the Unsung moved, appalled at the sudden loss of another of their brothers. He would be falling. Plunging to a crushing, ignominious death.
Then they heard Skaryth’s voice, tight with effort.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Just. Get up here and pull me in before I lose my grip!’
Kassar leapt up onto the fire step, letting out a shout of triumph as he saw Skaryth’s fingers clinging to the lip of the parapet. One hand. He had just made it.
Leaning over the sickening drop, Kassar grabbed Skaryth’s wrist. The scout was dangling over the dirty clouds, boots kicking against the smooth metal of the fortress’ flank. The electro-conduit had fallen away into the chasm below.
Skaryth swung his other arm up, Kassar gripping that too.
‘Up you come, brother,’ said Kassar.
‘Gladly,’ gasped Skaryth as he was hauled over the rampart. The two Alpha Legionnaires crashed to the fire step in a heap, then clambered to their feet.
‘Too close,’ said Skaryth.
‘Fifth cypher,’ said Kassar. ‘Glad to have you with us, Skaryth.’
‘Thanks for pulling me up,’ said Skaryth. �
��Now, let’s get what we came for.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kassar. ‘Lead the way.’
It took them twelve minutes to reach the command sanctum of the precinct fortress. The Adeptus Arbites were occupied with the besieging forces outside their walls, fighting a furious battle to repel the Khorne worshippers that bayed all about. The din from outside was phenomenal, the barely controlled panic within the fortress palpable. The Adeptus Arbites did not realise that the subtle venom of the Alpha Legion had been injected into their stronghold until it was too late.
The Unsung cleared one chamber after another. They kept to their knives and blades, approaching their victims from the shadows and silencing them before any alarm could be raised. Finally, they swept into the command sanctum, blade work and sniper fire eliminating the senior enforcer and his command staff before they even realised they were under attack.
Kassar saw one man, wounded but still breathing, reaching for a vox headset. He crushed headset and hand alike beneath his boot, before hoisting the Adeptus Arbite to his feet.
‘Cogitator access,’ Kassar said as Thelgh sealed the sanctum door. ‘Vid feeds. Vox access. Everything you have. Do not make my brother ask you a second time.’
Kassar glanced at Kyphas, who had unsheathed a pair of knives, and who growled menacingly through his vox grille.
Shaking, the Arbite nodded.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have a family.’
‘Then obey, if you wish to see them again,’ said Kassar.
The Arbite nodded and hurried to a console, stumbling in his fear. Sweating, hands shaking, he punched runic keys.
‘Don’t try to deceive us, corpse worshipper,’ rumbled Kassar. ‘Your death need not be quick. Nor those of your loved ones.’
The man shot a fearful glance at him. With a final clatter of keys, he unlocked the warding of the console and brought up the primary information feeds for the hive.
‘Under… Underbilge and Main Hive,’ he stammered. ‘We don’t have clearance to observe the spire. The Battle Sisters rule there. Our laws don’t apply.’
‘This is everything?’ asked Kassar. The man nodded eagerly.
‘Yes, everything you asked for,’ he said. ‘Now, please, I won’t tell anyone that you’re–’
Kassar cut him off with a punch to the face, a sharp jab that rocked the man’s head back, crushed his skull and broke his neck. The Arbite bounced off the console, spattering its keys with blood, and crumpled to the floor.
‘Knowledge,’ said Kassar. ‘Power. Let us see what we can learn.’
The situation was dire. They cycled through vid-logs, auspex feeds and cherubim occula, vox-channels full of military exchanges and frantic, civilian chatter. They absorbed strategic information, inloaded detailed auspex maps, pillaging the Adeptus Arbites’ cogitators for everything they had.
On the surface, night had fallen.
A massive superstorm was battering the outside of the hive, throwing waves hundreds of feet into the air, lighting the clouds with weird warp energies from the rift.
Lord Khordas had rammed a spacecraft into the side of the hive, his audacious assault finally winning him a beachhead. Imperial forces had responded in large numbers, and a desperate warzone had spread out through the core levels of Main Hive. The beacon remained unassailed, however, and a massive Imperial force had deployed around the primary access gate between the upper levels of Main Hive and the spire.
‘Nothing is getting through there without a considerable fight,’ commented Kyphas.
The Khorne worshippers were pouring in through the maglev tunnels, also. Tunnel thirteen had been the first, but it was not the last. Striking against the compromised defences around the hive’s roots, more and more warbands of traitors were pouring into the Underbilge, slaughtering as they went.
‘Khârn,’ said Skaryth, indicating a crimson clearance rune blinking its way along a processional.
The Betrayer was on the move, cutting a bloody path up through the hive, eschewing any form of elevator or conveyor. He seemed to be shedding all the blood he could, and though the Unsung couldn’t locate him in any vid feeds, eyewitness reports spoke of a billowing crimson mist building around him.
There was talk of the Cicatrix Maledictum, of empyric bleed.
Of daemons.
‘There,’ said Skaryth, his voice eager. ‘There! Level zero-zero-seven, near the hydro-repugnor batteries one level up from point beta. It’s them! Kassar, our brothers live!’
The Unsung gathered around the vid feed, several of them grinning with relief.
On the screen, a grainy image showed an area of partly swamped manufactorum, long since abandoned to rust and decay. Splashing through its shallow waters was A’khassor, Makhor at his back. The two of them were splattered in blood, firing their bolters at something out of shot.
Behind them, the others flickered into view. Haltheus, limping and towing a makeshift stretcher made from wreckage. Behind it came D’sakh, firing his bolter back into the gloom at half-seen Tsadrekhans. Sprawled upon the travois was Phaek’or, a heavy compact bound around the stump of a missing arm.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Skaryth. ‘It actually was his arm.’
Kassar shot him a look.
‘They’re under attack,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to lose. Kyphas, fastest route to our brothers. Skaryth, use this equipment, vox them on a secure channel, arrange a rendezvous. Bring them to this set of coordinates. We’ll meet them there.’
Skaryth glanced at the location Kassar had provided.
‘A mass conveyor,’ he said. ‘That should take us…’
Kassar nodded.
‘All the way up.’
He basked in the Emperor’s light.
It washed over him and filled him up, a gentle radiance that burned like the heart of a star.
He needed nothing. Not sleep, nor food, nor worldly goods, for he had the light and love of the Emperor, and that was all.
He had been young, when the light first came to him. A fresh recruit, his new-stamped lasgun clutched in sweating palms. A sacrifice upon the altar of battle, whose contribution would ultimately mean pitifully little.
The darkness had come, the blackening. The loss.
It had obscured the beacon by which mankind sailed the stars, and in its absence, ancient terrors had crawled from the shadows and fallen upon their worlds.
The Emperor’s armies marched out like never before, to battle the horrors at their gates, and he had marched with them.
Young.
Frightened.
His life measurable in hours.
And then, on the killing fields of Dessah, amidst the acid-flats and the raging fires, the light had come upon him.
These were distant memories now, all but erased by the light within, yet still he recalled them when he could. He made himself do it, to remember where he had come from, to retain his humility, his humanity.
The medicae had rushed to him, and the priests. They had feared some weapon of the foe, some spiritual contagion, yet the light that poured from him had driven back the fiends of the pit. It had won victory that day, though he had felt his nerves burning away, his eyes seared from their sockets. Even as he had received the Emperor’s gift, he had burned for it in purifying flame.
They had called it a miracle, which it was.
They had called him a prophet, or a saint, or an angel, which he was not.
He was a humble man given a godly gift.
He was hope’s willing martyr.
He was Kaleb, and he was the beacon.
For time beyond time he had remained, basking in the Emperor’s light. He could not sleep, must not, for it was in those dark watches that the nightmares returned. He had always to be the day, the light, the watchman’s lantern that drove back the shadows.
Priest
s and seers had flocked about him. They had found ways to keep him ever wakeful, ever vigilant. They had found ways to keep him alive in this transcendental state but not, by their definition, sane.
None of it was any matter to him. He was Kaleb, the unremarkable boy made remarkable by the Emperor’s gifts. He had prayed to the Master of Mankind for a way that he could save all of his friends in the regiment, all of his family back on Gydo’s Reach, and in his beneficence the Emperor had answered.
He would not squander that unimaginable honour with selfish sleep. And besides, who could ever close their eyes upon such wonders as he saw with his eyeless gaze?
As he lay within his cradle, the Emperor looked down upon him from stained glass rendered to life by Kaleb’s gifts. His eyes were kind. Fatherly. His smile was the most beautiful thing that Kaleb could ever imagine.
Around the cradle, his sanctum spread out amidst a golden haze. Its floor thronged with the souls of departed warriors, standing their own sacrificial vigil rather than take their rightful place at the Emperor’s table. Perhaps it was the energies of the Great Rift that made it possible, the enemy’s power turned back upon them. Perhaps it was Kaleb’s light that gave them strength. Perhaps they were not real at all, but he hoped that they were. Their presence, their vigilance, made him feel safe.
Higher swept the galleries and pulpits, where his attendants laboured night and day. Every one of them wore a shimmering halo in Kaleb’s sight. Sometimes he saw them framed with beautiful, flowing scripture and illuminations as though they were the characters in some holy text. At others they resembled cogs and gears of crystal, gold and light, turning smoothly in a beautiful, mechanical dance.
Most wondrous of all, though, were the Sisters of the Crimson Tear. Wherever they went about him Kaleb saw them with flowing angel’s wings rising from their shoulders, burning haloes upon their brows, and the golden blades of warrior queens sheathed at their hips. Upon the stern visage of each he saw the Crimson Tears of their order, wrought in glinting firelight, and knew that they would die to defend him.
But now, she came. An angel amongst angels. A demi-goddess flown from the Emperor’s side upon swift wings of determination and duty.