Cult of the Warmason

by C. L. Werner

  This was the relic the Sisters had sealed away behind force fields and firing lines. Bakasur thought again of the Great Father’s design, his intention to harness the Iron Warriors and use them to ensure the cult’s victory. They had yet to secure the cathedral, but with the Warmason’s Casket in their possession they would break the soul of their enemies. This affront to the Imperial Creed would weaken them, leave them ripe for true wisdom and the glories of the Great Father. What had seemed dangerous to him once now filled him with awe. For once he forgot himself and when he motioned the genestealers to take up the Warmason’s Casket it was a gesture of command rather than appeal.

  Chapter XII

  For nearly an hour the bombardment of Mount Rama had been faltering. What had been a vicious rain of annihilation had dwindled to a mere patter of occasional shells. Trishala had spoken with the Sovereign Spire and even reached the officer who’d replaced Colonel Hafiz as commander of the local militia. The defence forces were doing their best to maintain the barrage, but there had been complications. Ammunition supplies had been sabotaged, batteries had been overwhelmed and destroyed by cultist raiders. A few crews had even turned traitor, disabling their guns themselves.

  Whatever the cause, Trishala railed against it under her breath. The barrage had become an asset in her defence of the cathedral, restraining to some extent the activities of the cultists. Now that the guns had gone largely silent, the cultists were bringing captured tanks and converted mining vehicles up to the square. The hybrids employed the machines as both firing platforms and mobile cover.

  The acolytes and many of the frateris militia had their hands full keeping quiet the crowds of refugees packed inside the cathedral. Trishala had only a hundred and forty Sisters to fend off the attackers and guard the relics. Between them the Battle Sisters only had three multi-meltas to counter the enemy armour, a strain rendered even worse by the ferocious retaliation the cultists loosed against the heavy weapons any time they fired. After the first shot, they had to alternate fire to one of the other multi-meltas to avoid the immediate fury of the xenos horde.

  Trishala still thought they could yet deny the rebels access to the cathedral. When a captured Leman Russ was disabled by the multi-meltas, the tank created a new obstruction on the steps. Or at least it should have if the cultists hadn’t brought a massive recovery vehicle into play, some obscene metal behemoth designed to salvage damaged Goliaths. The gigantic wrecker soon had the tank dragged away, its crew cleverly using the Leman Russ to shield it from the Sisters. In a matter of minutes the way was again clear for the cultists to bring their machines towards the Great Gate.

  Different scenarios played through Trishala’s mind. What to do when the xenos battered their way in. What chambers to fall back to. Where to send the refugees so that they were out of the way. The narthex itself would have to be conceded to the enemy, but the Sisters could use the connecting corridors to fire into the first packs of cultists that desecrated the cathedral. They’d pay a high price for their achievement.

  ‘Sister Superior!’ The call came from Sister Archana. As she forced her way across the crowded narthex to the aperture Trishala had chosen for her own post, the question of why Archana had left her station in the gatehouse was forgotten. An ashen-faced deacon was rushing alongside her, his robes hiked up above his knees as he struggled to keep pace with the warrior. Decorum had no place in an emergency.

  ‘The xenos,’ Archana gasped as she rushed up to Trishala. It was odd that the Battle Sister didn’t use the vox to relay her words, but as she continued it was clear her news was too dire to trust to any machine-spirit’s keeping. ‘They’ve violated the sanctuary.’

  Sickness boiled up inside Trishala’s belly. The genestealers! She knew for certain at least one of the creatures had been admitted by Debdan’s traitors. There was no reason to believe there weren’t more. It had to be them. Hiding from the patrols, skulking around in some corner until the defences around the sanctuary were at their weakest!

  ‘I... I have seen it... Sister Superior,’ the deacon stammered. ‘Much death. There didn’t seem to be anyone alive. So much blood...’

  Trishala loomed over the petrified priest. ‘What of the relics? What about the Warmason’s Casket? What about the Shroud of Singh?’

  The deacon’s eyes fluttered, as though unable to comprehend the questions. Trishala swung away from him, looking instead at Archana. ‘We must find out if they’ve destroyed the relics,’ she told her. The honour of their order, the sombre vow that bound them all, was at risk. What did it matter if they held the cathedral if the sacred relics had been stolen? ‘Get Sister Reshma.’ Trishala paused a moment, wondering how many warriors she dared withdraw. If the defences here collapsed too quickly it would still come to nothing. The xenos had killed, had slaughtered, but would they recognise any value in the relics? It was just possible the monsters had left them alone.

  In the end Trishala decided that ten Sisters were enough to investigate. She left instructions with Sister Nikhila, alerting her to listen for Trishala’s signal. With that signal she would detach three more squads and send them to the Celestial Chapel.

  Trishala led her retinue at a hurried pace, forcing their way through passageways and halls choked with the terrified survivors of Tharsis. Only when they were nearing the sanctuary did she allow their haste to slacken. Speed surrendered to caution as the Sisters fanned out, no warrior drawing nearer their goal unless she had the guns of her comrades keeping her covered. There was no need to remind them of the ghastly quickness and lethal claws of the genestealers. The only thought of comfort was that if the Sisters in the lead fell their deaths would be avenged by those who followed.

  The Battle Sisters gained the sanctuary without incident. The xenos appeared to have left no guard behind. The bodies of several hybrids lay slumped near the entry, ripped apart by the bolters of the Sisters protecting the relics. The corpses of the defenders lay scattered about the rest of the sanctuary, huddled across pews, plastered against columns, and splattered along aisles. There was no mistaking what had killed them with such brutal abandon. Trishala had seen only too clearly how the talons of a genestealer tore through power armour and the carnage they visited against the flesh within.

  Choking down her disgust at the slaughter of her warriors, Trishala focused upon the more pressing concern. The relics. Were they safe? Had the xenos been content with massacre or had they turned to desecration as well? Racing towards the altar, Trishala soon had her answer.

  The column housing the field generators had been broken open and the mechanism itself savaged beyond recognition. The heavy curtains that concealed the alcoves where the relics reposed had been torn down. Most of the artefacts lay exposed upon their plinths and pedestals, seeming to Trishala’s eyes almost naked without the distortion of their protective force fields. Even the stasis field that guarded the Shroud of Singh against the ravages of time had been disrupted. The ancient cloth of gold stood exposed upon its alabaster pedestal, the imprint of the Warmason’s face still pressed upon the fabric.

  The Shroud of Singh was untouched, even if it was undefended. The relief Trishala felt was soon erased when she looked to the pedestal of the cathedral’s chief relic. There she found only emptiness. The Warmason’s Casket was gone!

  Shame. Guilt. Panic. All three briefly fought to overwhelm her. Trishala rebuked them all. On her lips were the tenets of the Imperial Creed, the litanies of the God-Emperor. In her mind she prayed to the Golden Throne for guidance, a way to redeem the trust she’d failed.

  Casting her eyes to the floor, Trishala found her guide. Splotches of ichor, a slime that never issued from human veins. The splotches started near the altar and then withdrew towards the recessed ambulatory. One of the genestealers had been hurt and retreated. If the xenos had fled along with those that stole the Warmason’s Casket, then the Sisters could pursue them. Catch them. Reclaim what the aliens had stolen
.

  ‘Sister Archana, wait here for Sister Nikhila,’ Trishala ordered. ‘She will be here soon with a detachment that will guard the remaining relics.’ She looked over the rest of her retinue and pointed at the trail of ichor.

  ‘The rest of us are going to find these thieves who’ve dared to defile the honour of the Order.’

  Up through the buried cathedral crypts the Iron Warriors climbed. The giants set a pace no unaugmented human could have matched. In short order the Space Marines had penetrated Yadav’s hidden door and followed the abandoned maze of corridors that ascended into the cathedral proper. Faintly they could hear the sound of gunfire in the distance.

  ‘The xenos still fight to get inside,’ Captain Uzraal suggested, contempt in his tone.

  ‘You should be grateful they are so accommodating,’ Rhodaan told him. ‘With them to distract the defenders of this place it will make our task easier.’ He swung around, fixing his gaze upon Cornak.

  ‘What we seek is above us,’ the sorcerer said, wagging his staff at the slanted ceiling. When he’d probed the mind of Palatine Yadav, Cornak had extracted not only the secret of entering the cathedral but also the location of the relic the Iron Warriors were seeking.

  ‘Then let us be finished with it,’ Rhodaan declared.

  At his command the Iron Warriors pressed on, sweeping through galleries and vestibules cluttered with centuries of devotional paintings and religious sculptures. The worshipful depictions of the False Emperor and His vassals were repugnant to these veterans of the Long War, but there was no time to waste in obliterating the offending articles. The few acolytes bold enough to interfere were swatted away like insects. For the panicked masses of civilians who fled at their approach, the Iron Warriors didn’t spare a second glance. So long as they weren’t in the way the flesh held no interest for them. Let them spread the alarm. Nothing would stand between the Space Marines and their objective.

  Reaching the Celestial Chapel, the Iron Warriors found far less resistance than they’d expected. The door leading into the chamber had been forced, torn from its fastening to lie sprawled across the floor. The sanctuary within was a charnel house. The iconography of the False Emperor’s worshippers stared down from the walls upon the bloodied bodies of Sororitas, the pallid corpses of xenos hybrids and the mangled residue of robed acolytes. The light filtering down through the glassaic windows set an eerie panoply of colour across the carnage. At the far end of the hall, a white altar stood upon a raised dais, the remains of a cleric sprawled at its base.

  The signs of violence provoked an increased urgency in the warsmith. Rhodaan roared at his followers, urging them inside. Brother Mahar, the first to rush through, was struck in the side by a burst of bolter fire. He crashed into the rows of pews, splintering them under his armoured weight.

  Turu was close behind his fallen comrade, lunging through the doorway in a great leap that sent him hurtling deep into the room. He came up, loosing a burst from his own weapon at the foe who’d shot Mahar. The shells tore apart a line of pews and wore away at the face of a pillar. The violent assault drove the enemy from concealment. A lone Sister of Battle, her black armour coated in marble dust from the scarred pillar, tried to bring her gun swinging around to target Turu. In that brief instant she lost her view of the doorway. With her fire distracted, Rhodaan roared into the sanctuary. The warsmith’s bolt pistol raked the woman, pitting her power armour and throwing her into one of the pillars. Her maimed body left a crimson smear against the marble as she dropped to the floor.

  ‘Secure the room!’ Uzraal barked at the Space Marines. ‘If there’re more of these viragos creeping about, make them regret it!’

  Rhodaan stared across the destruction that had already been visited on the sanctuary. Before their arrival, this place had been the scene of fierce battle. The dead hybrids left little question who the Sisters had fought. The real question was who had prevailed and what their victory betokened for the Third Grand Company.

  Cornak marched across the destruction, hastening towards the altar. As soon as Rhodaan noted the sorcerer’s hurry he gave a warning sign to Uzraal and started after him. In all his dealings with Cornak, the warsmith always sensed a reserve, things the sorcerer didn’t disclose. Seeing him make straight for the altar suggested to Rhodaan that the mystic had gleaned more information from Yadav than he’d let on, such as the precise situation of the Warmason’s Casket and the other relics.

  Rhodaan caught hold of Cornak’s shoulder just before the sorcerer climbed the few steps of the dais. Cornak swung around, his staff half raised as though he’d considered braining his accoster until he discovered he faced the warsmith.

  ‘The prize belongs to the Third Grand Company,’ Rhodaan reminded Cornak. Behind him, Brother Gaos had aimed his autocannon towards the sorcerer. Uzraal had done likewise with his meltagun, slowly circling around to flank Cornak.

  ‘The prize!’ Cornak scoffed. He swung his staff around, thrusting its head towards a bare pedestal. He ignored the other alcoves and the other relics. Only the empty pedestal warranted his attention. ‘Someone else has stolen it before we could!’

  The sorcerer’s agitation was so great as to allow his facade of servitude to slip, to sneer brazenly at the warsmith he’d sworn to obey. His discomfiture was such that he hadn’t foreseen the cost of provoking Rhodaan. In a heartbeat, the horned Iron Warrior fell upon Cornak, bowling him back into the altar. Rhodaan’s fist cracked against Cornak’s helm, a kick of his boot sent the staff spinning from his grip.

  ‘Another word, another breath that displeases me, hexmaster, and I will break you in half,’ Rhodaan hissed. The pressure of his clutch pressed Cornak still farther across the altar. The sorcerer started to reach up at him, to thrust him back, but thought better of such resistance.

  ‘After the long journey from Castellax,’ Rhodaan said. ‘After all the ordeals we’ve gone through and risks we’ve taken, now you tell me that what we’ve come for isn’t even here?’

  ‘But it was, Dread Lord,’ Cornak insisted. He pointed again to the empty pedestal. ‘It was right there. The xenos must have stolen it.’

  Rhodaan leaned close, the fanged beak of his helm only millimetres from Cornak’s optics. ‘And why would the xenos want it? Of what use is it to them? Unless, of course, your psyker friend ripped those secrets right out of your mind.’

  ‘I can find it again!’ Cornak’s entreaty rang out. ‘If you give me the chance, I can track down these xenos, wherever they’ve gone.’

  ‘How will you do that when you’re afraid of their psyker?’ Uzraal laughed.

  ‘He will do it because he fears me more than a xenos witch,’ Rhodaan told Uzraal. ‘Isn’t that right, Cornak?’

  ‘Yes, Dread Lord,’ Cornak replied. ‘My spells will find where the Warmason’s Casket has been taken.’

  Rhodaan was silent a moment, weighing the sorcerer’s words carefully. At last he released his hold upon Cornak and let him rise from the altar. ‘You’ve promised me much, magician. Pray to your gods that you can deliver.’

  Rhodaan turned from the sorcerer, growling new commands to the other Iron Warriors. ‘Cornak will find a new trail for us to follow. It seems we must linger a bit longer on this miserable world.’

  ‘Brother Mahar’s wounds are minor,’ Uzraal reported. Rhodaan looked past him, scrutinising the injured traitor. His armour was pitted and scoured by the shots the Sister had fired into him, but nothing that would slow him down. Nothing the artificers of Castellax couldn’t repair once they were home.

  Rhodaan looked again to Cornak. ‘Now it is your turn. Lead me to the xenos and my relic.’

  Scrambling down the side of the Warmason’s Cathedral, Trishala felt her gorge rise. It wasn’t a question of heights. Even as a girl on Primorus, she’d never felt anything but exhilaration staring down from the summit of the hive-city. No, what tore at her senses, what had her heart
hammering inside her chest was the steep angle of their descent, seeming to make a mockery of gravity as well as perspective.

  The path taken by the thieves was clear enough. First there was the alien ichor left behind by the injured xenos, but once they were outside the confines of the cathedral, navigating the layers of funerary barnacles clinging to the exterior wall, other traces left no doubt as to where the cultists had gone. Sides of crypts had been broken open, smashed apart to allow the thieves to pass through. Genestealer claws had gouged hideous furrows in the roofs of tombs onto which they’d dropped, marks that stood stark and barren against the weather-beaten stone.

  It didn’t take long for Trishala and Reshma to spot the purple-hued xenos scrambling along the tombs. Among them the Sisters could see a tall, lean figure in flowing robes, his arms locked about an object. Trishala’s pulse quickened. Was it the Warmason’s Casket the cultist was carrying away with him? Why else would the xenos be withdrawing from the cathedral instead of trying to force their way inside? Despite his burden, the hybrid moved with an even easier grace than his six-limbed companions.

  Reshma paused in the doorway of a smashed crypt, sighting down the barrel of her bolter. She glanced at Trishala. ‘Sister Superior?’

  Trishala debated for only a moment. Reshma was a remarkably accurate shot. From this distance it would still need the Emperor’s grace to hit the cultist with anything that resembled accuracy. Then there was the problem of the relic’s fate. If it fell from this height it would be smashed against the slopes of Mount Rama. A sorry end for the precious artefact, but a better one than being a trophy for the cultists to gloat over. Grimly she nodded to Reshma.

  Reshma leaned forwards, dipping her weapon and sighting just ahead of the robed hybrid, aiming not where he was but where he would be. The bolter roared and the shot sped downwards. A low gasp escaped Reshma. ‘Missed,’ she muttered before snapping off a second shot.