Cult of the Warmason

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Did they go to the left or right?’ Uzraal asked Rhodaan, noting the same signs.

  Rhodaan’s gaze shifted, looking towards the darkened doorways ahead. The optics in his helmet picked out the splotches of blood that stained the threshold of one opening. Someone hurt had come through here recently.

  ‘Neither,’ Rhodaan said. ‘Though they mean us to think they have. Our prey is hiding in the rooms beyond those openings ahead of us.’

  ‘The priest,’ Cornak declared.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ Rhodaan decided. He aimed his bolt pistol at one blood-stained doorway, sending a burst into the darkness. When there was no response, he shifted his aim to another opening. This time a cry of horror echoed from the room beyond as some lurker panicked or was hit. An instant later a stream of fire came blasting out from three of the openings. The Space Marines could see tan-uniformed soldiers leaning out from behind the doorways to loose shots at them.

  The Iron Warriors surged forwards. Bolters snarled as they fired into the shadows, returning the shots levelled at them by Yadav’s soldiers. A few screams rang out, grisly testament to the savagery of Rhodaan’s Space Marines.

  Suddenly the roar of boltguns intensified, the gunfire of the Space Marines returned in kind from the darkened doorways. Turu staggered back, one pauldron smoking where a shell had pierced it, one vambrace shattered where a high-impact round had splintered the ceramite. The other Iron Warriors spread out, wariness replacing contempt for their enemy. Rhodaan could see black-armoured shapes clustered about the marble doorway where he’d spotted the blood. It was from them that the heavy fire had come. Yadav had been reinforced, but his new protectors had been cagey enough to bide their time, to try to gull the Iron Warriors into thinking they faced only a rabble of common flesh.

  Rhodaan looked aside at Cornak, recalling the sorcerer’s prediction that the priest wasn’t alone. The vagaries of his divinations were going to get someone killed. But perhaps that was the intention.

  ‘Sororitas,’ Uzraal spat, aiming his meltagun towards the marble doorway.

  Rhodaan set a restraining hand on the captain’s weapon.

  ‘I still want the priest alive,’ the warsmith warned. The admonition carried across the vox to every Iron Warrior in his command.

  ‘And the others?’ Uzraal asked.

  Rhodaan peeled off a burst from his bolt pistol, the explosive rounds slamming into one of the black-armoured women as she leaned out from the edge of the doorway. Her body was flung back, hurled into the shadowy interior of the crypt.

  ‘I only need the priest,’ Rhodaan said. ‘Kill everything else.’

  The thunder of artillery slackened after half an hour. Trishala could only guess at the reason.

  The lessening of the barrage brought such an influx of hybrids swarming out from the devastation of Mount Rama that Trishala found herself praying the guns would resume their earlier violence. Thousands of cultists draped in purple and crimson came rushing up the steps, converging on the cathedral faster than the Sisters at the firing apertures could shoot them down. The mob brought plasma guns and mining lasers up against the door, striving to burn a hole through its metal frame. Other bands of cultists employed similar tactics against the side doors and windows, burning through the outer shutters only to find the immense siege-plates lying behind. Gangs armed with picks and mauls climbed up onto the balconies, hammering away at the doors. It would need stronger measures to get through the heavy armaplas sheets. Trishala watched the motley throng with trepidation, recalling only too clearly the destruction wrought by the blasting charges they’d used to obliterate the perimeter at the base of the mountain. Even the Great Gate might not withstand such an attack. The rebels had shown evidence that they wanted the cathedral intact, but she couldn’t depend on their plans not having changed.

  From the firing apertures nearest the gate, Sisters with flamers sent sheets of fire pouring into the xenos mob, plasteel baffles preventing a backwash from spilling into the narthex. Frateris militia posted at other embrasures knocked cultists from the balconies with lasguns and shotguns. Grenades tumbled from the open mouths of gargoyles as acolytes pushed explosives out of their hollowed necks.

  Like a rolling tide the cult was driven back only to come rushing in again. The ground was strewn with their dead and dying, yet still the fanatics came. Trishala wondered that they were so eager to accept such casualties. Throughout their rebellion, the xenos had exhibited a murderous cunning and subtlety. Was it zealotry that drove them to this extreme, stirred them to throw themselves again and again into the withering fire of the Battle Sisters? Or was there something more, something she’d failed to spot?

  The temptation to send patrols through the cathedral nagged at Trishala’s mind. She needed every fighter here, keeping the hybrids away from the Great Gate. The only Sisters not committed to that role were those posted to the sanctuary guarding the Warmason’s Casket and theirs was a duty Trishala wouldn’t compromise any more than she already had. She regretted hearkening to Kashibai’s arguments and allowing Bashir’s squad to go down into the catacombs with her. She needed them here.

  The xenos were up to something, and it wasn’t just to see if the Sisters would run out of ammunition. Trishala racked her brain trying to figure out what that purpose was, where the real attack would come from. Only when she had some clear idea, only then could she justify withdrawing any of her warriors from the outer defences. One of those blasting charges and the walls would be breached. She had to use every resource to prevent that.

  It was that fact that troubled Trishala the most. Because she felt they were exactly where the cultists wanted them to be.

  ‘God-Emperor help us,’ Kashibai prayed as the roar of bolters swelled around her. The noble’s tomb into which the Sisters had carried Palatine Yadav reverberated with the din of battle. When Kashibai reached Yadav, she’d found him injured from the fighting in the plaza. So too were some of the soldiers in his retinue. It had been her decision to take to the tombs leading off from the Rakesh Hall. If the rebels were following Yadav then the Sisters and soldiers could ambush them when they came into the hall and started down the false trail they’d laid.

  Only the enemy pursuing Yadav wasn’t a mob of cultists but a warband of Chaos Space Marines!

  The musty gloom of the tomb was broken by the muzzle flashes from the Sisters’ bolters and the bright glow of militia lasguns. Each burst of light threw eerie shadows over the murals painted across the stone walls and cast an uncanny luminance about the great crystal sepulchre at the centre of the room. The once flawless coffin, grown in a titanium mould by the highest arts of the tomb-cutters, was now pitted and gouged by the shots that had struck it. A jagged crack shivered across its side where Sister Bashir had been hurled against it after she’d been hit by a burst from the Iron Warriors. Her body lay crumpled on the floor, a malfunctioning servo in her left leg causing the limb to twitch with a ghastly semblance of life even though her chest had been ripped in half.

  Kashibai rose from behind the sepulchre and blasted away with her boltgun. The shots raked the fearsome giants that were closing on the crypt. Her fire did nothing to stem their advance, only bringing a grinding roar from the autocannon one of the monsters carried. The stream of bullets sliced through the marble doorway, driving splinters into the face of the soldier who crouched there. The injured man toppled out from his cover, falling full into the lethal stream. His body flailed while the bullets tore him apart.

  ‘Iron within! Iron without!’ one of the Traitor Space Marines bellowed. The next instant there was a bloom of foul black smoke that spilled across the chamber. It was swiftly followed by another and still another. The Iron Warriors were laying down a veil of smoke to obscure their advance. Vainly the surviving soldiers and the Sisters loosed a fusillade into the swirling cloud. It was difficult enough to bring down the giants when they were visible. Unseen, the mon
sters were as good as invulnerable.

  ‘God-Emperor protect us,’ Palatine Yadav groaned from the far corner of the crypt. The priest’s despairing utterance was like a blast of polar wind, chilling the Battle Sisters. If even the palatine had lost heart, what hope did any of them have?

  Kashibai called them back to their senses. ‘To reach us, they have to come to us,’ she assured them. She knew there was no chance of outfighting the Chaos Space Marines. They had to out-think the monsters, lure them into overconfidence. Play upon their ancient hate and their superhuman arrogance.

  Heartbeats stretched away into seconds, yet still the expected detonation failed to occur. The violence of the traitors’ bolters persisted unabated, ploughing the head from the shoulders of one trooper and ripping a second apart at the spine. Screams rose from the other tombs as the soldiers posted there likewise fell victim to the oncoming Space Marines.

  A blinding flare of light, a deafening roar of sound ripped through the crypt. The sensors in Kashibai’s helmet dulled the impact of the assault, permitting her a hazy view of the crypt and an impression of sound beyond the ringing in her ears. She could see the figures of militia soldiers staggering about in confused agony, clutching at their heads and pawing at their eyes. The Iron Warriors cut down the disoriented men with a ruthless storm of gunfire. The blinding flash had come from a grenade thrown into the crypt by their enemy.

  Marching in from the swirling smoke came the hulking Iron Warriors. Sister Sarala trained her bolter on the leading Space Marine, but before she could fire she was thrown back by a burst of fire that crunched through her breastplate and mutilated the body within. Sister Vimala fared slightly better, peeling off a shot that smashed the forearm of a looming Traitor Space Marine. He staggered back, dark blood jetting for a moment from his mangled limb before the chemical coagulants in his veins sealed the injury. Before she could manage another shot Vimala was torn in half by a blast from the autocannon carried by another Iron Warrior.

  Kashibai and the last of Bashir’s squad, Sister Ankita, rushed out from their cover, converging upon the horned Chaos Space Marine who commanded the others. Ankita’s rush ended with a butchering sweep of the Iron Warrior’s chainsword, the mangled ruin of her body strewn across the floor. At the same time, the giant met Kashibai’s charge, seizing hold of her shoulder. As though her armoured weight was nothing to him, he wrenched her off the ground, holding her suspended in the air for an instant before flinging her against the wall. Stone splintered under the vicious impact, her helmet cracked and somewhere in her chest she could feel something splinter. Kashibai collapsed to the floor, sprawled upon the wreckage of her late comrades.

  The rattle of bolters persisted a few moments longer as the Iron Warriors completed their massacre of the local militia in the other tombs. Kashibai struggled to rise but the Chaos Space Marine’s attack had savaged her armour. No power flowed into the servo motors, leaving the heavy ceramite plates an inert bulk that weighed her down. Weakened by her injuries, Kashibai found herself unable to move. All she could do was watch helplessly as the traitors stalked through the carnage they’d unleashed.

  Brother Mahar gestured with his weapon at the corner of the crypt. ‘Warsmith Rhodaan, the priest.’

  Rhodaan turned from the crystal sepulchre and stared into the corner of the tomb. Imperiously he marched across the litter of bodies and approached the cleric. He towered over Yadav, clutching him by the top of his skull and lifting him off the floor. The fingers of his gauntlet dug into the man’s flesh, setting trickles of blood running down his face.

  ‘The flesh can scream if it likes,’ Rhodaan growled. ‘The False Emperor can’t help you now. He never could.’

  Somehow Yadav summoned the courage to spit into the beaked mask of the Chaos Space Marine’s helmet. The defiance only amused the monster.

  ‘The flesh thinks it can die quickly,’ Rhodaan mocked. ‘Perhaps, if it tells me what I want to know. I make no promises to flesh.’ His fingers tightened and Yadav’s face contorted in agony. ‘It retreated into these catacombs with a purpose. There’s another way into the cathedral, isn’t there? If it wants the pain to stop, tell me the way.’

  Again, Yadav fought through his anguish to glower at his captor.

  ‘No need to question the flesh further, Dread Lord.’ Cornak moved to join Rhodaan. ‘He obligingly thought about what you wanted the moment you asked it.’ The giant tapped a finger against the side of his helmet. ‘Now that information is here. I know the way.’

  Rhodaan turned his head and stared at the sorcerer. ‘You are certain, Cornak?’

  The sorcerer laughed cruelly. ‘The mental anguish he feels now tells me his thoughts were true. Shame and guilt come quickly to those of limited perspective.’ He brushed the butt of his staff against the Sororitas draped across the sepulchre, spilling the body to the ground. ‘There is a way up into the cathedral. An entrance down in the roots of the building.’

  ‘Then we are done here,’ Rhodaan declared. His grip tightened about Yadav’s head, crushing his skull into fragments. A fling of his hand cast the priest’s quivering body into the ruined sarcophagus.

  ‘This is as far as the priest was able to get,’ Cornak stated. ‘There is a safeguard at the entrance itself, however. Something he intended those already inside to disable for him.’

  Rhodaan nodded. ‘I would expect as much. It won’t keep us from getting inside. You’ve done well, hexmaster. I free you to raise your protective shields. Hide yourself from this xenos witch of your prophecy. Soon the Warmason’s Casket will be mine and we can all be quit of this sorry little world.’

  One by one, the Chaos Space Marines withdrew from the crypt. Kashibai listened to the sound of their boots crunching across the cata­combs. Only when she couldn’t hear it anymore did she try speaking into the vox. The Iron Warriors might still hear her or their sorcerer might discover her through his witchcraft, but by then she hoped to give warning to Trishala. She had to alert the Sisters that the Iron Warriors were coming.

  All that rewarded her efforts was a crackle of white noise. Kashibai’s impact against the wall had damaged the vox. She couldn’t transmit to the cathedral.

  The guides he chose from among the enlightened acolytes led Bakasur up through the heart of the cathedral. The retinue of hybrids and pure-strains that accompanied the magus made good time as they rushed through service corridors and maintenance halls. There were few who saw the cultists as they rose up through the cathedral. Those few were quickly silenced by genestealer claws and the psychic vibrations of Bakasur’s mind.

  At last, the magus was near his goal. The sanctuary to which Trishala had ordered all the relics of the Warmason gathered. It was true enough that she’d left guards to watch over the Celestial Chapel, but hardly enough to disrupt Bakasur’s plans.

  Dutiful, loyal in the extreme, utterly devoted to their master, Bakasur’s hybrid bodyguards didn’t hesitate when the magus ordered them to attack. The twisted aberrants stormed the Celestial Chapel, crashing through the towering doors, flinging their gilded panels inwards. As the panels came down, the cultists opened fire, defiling the pristine environs of the temple with blasts of plasma and the boom of shotguns. Alabaster pillars were blackened, elegantly carved pews were splintered. Rich carpets and lavish hangings were trampled and shredded by the rushing cultists.

  The few acolytes present cried out in horror, shaken more by this desecration of the sanctuary than a true appreciation of their own peril. One acolyte evaporated in a burst of plasma, a second had his face extinguished by the blast of a shotgun. A score of black-armoured Sisters turned their zealous fury against Bakasur’s guards, mowing them down with merciless disdain.

  It was a necessary diversion. Much as those hordes throwing themselves upon the gate and thereby commanding the attention of the cathedral’s guardians, so the sacrifice of his bodyguards distracted the defenders of the sanctuary.
While the Sisters were cutting down the hybrids, the real thrust came.

  Out of ventilation shafts and up from maintenance pits, the Inheritors came. The genestealers were upon the Sisters before they were even aware of this new horror. Scything claws raked across power armour, shearing through the flesh and bone beneath. Screams drowned out the bark of bolters as the marauding aliens mutilated their prey.

  As complete as the slaughter of Bakasur’s bodyguard had been, the massacre of the Sisters was equally thorough. It was over in a matter of minutes. The sanctuary was reduced to a shambles, its holiness now stained with the blood and offal of its guardians. Striding through the carnage, Bakasur entered the Celestial Chapel.

  When Bakasur reached the middle of the sanctuary, the foremost genestealer hissed and lowered its gaze. The Inheritor led him through the havoc, prowling to the curtained alcoves beyond the altar. A shimmering haze surrounded each niche, a somehow menacing weave of distortion. The magus opened his awareness, drawing in the entirety of his surroundings and not merely what could be seen with his eyes.

  Bakasur pointed to one of the pillars that rose beside the altar. The genestealer sprang at it, gouging the marble with a sweep of its claws. The dextrous, hand-like members reached into the exposed cavity, tearing at the machinery concealed within. As fragments of wire and pipe came spilling out of the pillar the haze surrounding the alcoves dissipated.

  Sweeping his hand, the magus tore down the curtains. The exposed alcoves now displayed their hidden treasures. Bakasur had little interest in the jumble of religious relics the Sisters had brought from elsewhere and deposited in the sanctuary. Nor did he have any use for the artefacts of Vadok Singh that had always belonged here. There was one object and one object alone that he wanted.

  Resting upon a pedestal of shiny obsidian, the Warmason’s Casket was a metre long and half as wide. Precious metals and invaluable gems adorned its surface, ancient designs of tribal whorls writhed across its length. Depicted upon its lid was a representation of the Emperor crafted from some luminescent stone that had the shine of pearl and the vibrancy of moonlight.