Cult of the Warmason

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Lubentina will be different,’ Bakasur said. ‘Here we will be triumphant. Here we will rise to our destiny.’ His pallid hand reached out to her. ‘You were denied the gift of ascension before. This time will be different. Even a defiler such as yourself may serve the Great Father.’

  A feeling of obscenity coursed through Trishala as the magus pointed. With all her being she wanted to rebuke his profane declarations, but her tongue was frozen. The urge to split Bakasur’s skull thundered through her heart, but her arm remained at her side. She felt as helpless as the child cowering with her family in the security shelter, watching as the xenos came to destroy her world.

  The roar of a bolter boomed through the cavern. Trishala was struck in the side, sent crashing to the floor by the impact of explosive shells. She could see Bakasur leap back, still holding the Warmason’s Casket before him. Striding into the power plant were the Chaos Space Marines.

  ‘Tell me xenos, is your arrogance such that you think we will serve your little father?’ The voice was that of Rhodaan, the horned lord of the Iron Warriors.

  Trishala heard the growl of the warsmith’s chainsword as he agitated its machine-spirit and set the whirring teeth into motion.

  ‘Kill the half-breed filth,’ Rhodaan bellowed to his followers.

  At Rhodaan’s command, the Iron Warriors surged forwards, rushing at the magus. They’d had a taste of the hybrid’s abilities already, and seen for themselves that he could ward away their gunfire. When the Space Marines came close enough to get to grips with Bakasur, it might be a different story.

  ‘Warsmith! At our flank!’ The warning shout came from Uzraal and a moment later the Iron Warriors captain was discharging his meltagun into a clutch of charging genestealers. The foremost of the aliens was reduced to a smoking husk, the ones immediately behind it flailing on the ground with portions of their carapace melted away. Periphetes and Gaos opened up on the alien throng, holding them back, but Turu fell under a carpet of slashing claws. This time there was no timidity in the xenos attack.

  A buzzing inside his head made Rhodaan turn from the aliens rushing out from the shadows and charge at the magus instead. Bakasur had witnessed Cornak’s sorcery and seen how effective the magic was at crippling Space Marines. Now, with his psychic abilities, he was trying to manifest a similar effect. Rhodaan intended to finish him before he could make good the effort.

  Bakasur realised his peril as Rhodaan came at him. Desperately he lifted the Warmason’s Casket, holding it before him like a shield. Without hesitation the Space Marine brought his chainsword screaming down. Its edge chewed into the magus’ arm, hewing through it to savage the body of the robed hybrid. The buzzing in Rhodaan’s head evaporated as the maimed cultist slumped to the ground, the relic pressed close to his bloodied breast. This time Bakasur wasn’t feigning death with a psychic illusion.

  Before Rhodaan could reach down and seize the relic, his mind was beset by a different kind of assault. It was like a mental avalanche, a psychic scream of monstrous fury. The offence of the entire cult, their concentrated hate and anger at the fall of their prophet, all condensed and focused by a mentality even more powerful than that of Bakasur. A merely human mind would have been liquefied under that psychic storm. A mind attuned to psychic vibrations would have been stunned into idiocy. Rhodaan was neither of these things. He was staggered by the assault, felt blood gushing from his nose and ears, heard his hearts struggling to recover their equilibrium after the attack rushed through them. But the warsmith didn’t fall; he was able to face the gloom where he sensed the perpetrator of the attack lurking.

  ‘Iron within! Iron without!’ Rhodaan shouted the war cry of his Legion as he dashed towards his hidden assailant. A genestealer lunged at him, the warsmith’s chainsword slashing out to rend its limbs and open its skull. The litter of the dismembered creature strewed his path as he drove into the darkness.

  The optics of his helm compensated for the radioactive glow cast by Rhodaan’s surroundings. Shadows couldn’t hide the bulky frames of mighty turbines or the armoured shells of atomic nodules. The power source of the Warmason’s Cathedral had become the heart of the xenos cult.

  The nodules were aglow with the decaying half-life of their fuel cells, creating the reddish glow that pulsed through the walls and ground. Several of them had spilled from the broken turbines, embedding themselves in the rock. Tangles of twisted metal created a spider web of plasteel overhead, support beams stretching down to create a deranged forest of columns. When a crouching genestealer launched itself downwards from one of the overhangs, Rhodaan’s chainsword caught it in mid-leap, hewing away the limbs of its left side and leaving the rest to flop about on the ground.

  ‘You would have been wise to let us leave,’ Rhodaan shouted into the darkness. ‘You should have contented yourself with the flesh of this world. Now I’ll have to kill all of you.’

  The threat was meant to goad the lurking Great Father into the open, but when the creature came at him, Rhodaan was unprepared for its wrathful cunning. After the attack of the genestealer, his attention had drifted upwards, searching among the twisted metal for some trace of his foe. The atomic nodules had been dismissed from his thoughts as a refuge too deadly for any enemy to choose.

  Up from one of the glowing pits, the Great Father climbed. It poss­essed the same shape as its four-armed spawn, but its carapace was discoloured with age, darkened until it was almost black. Old scars criss-crossed its chitin, standing out in stark comparison to the darkened hue. Its claws were immense talons, each the length of Rhodaan’s forearm. Its head was a bloated swelling of cranium and jaw, the fangs as long as knives. The eyes that stared from the creature’s face were hoary with age and filled with an inhuman malevolence. Gigantic in its proportions, the patriarch easily twice the size of even the pure-strains that had accompanied it across the stars, the huge genestealer lashed at Rhodaan once more with its tremendous mentality.

  Rhodaan felt the awful spectacle the patriarch presented. He’d faced the fearsome broods of the tyranids before and the sensation he now felt recalled to him the experience of meeting one of the xenos tyrants in battle.

  The warsmith stumbled, knocked back against one of the columns by the patriarch’s mental assault. He swung around, sighting the huge genestealer as the alien leapt at him from the edge of the nodule. The monster’s enormous claws slashed out, only Rhodaan’s genetically enhanced reflexes and mechanically augmented speed enabling him to duck their murderous sweep. The talons raked across the column, shearing through the plasteel.

  Rhodaan struck at the Beast, bringing his chainsword slashing for the creature’s belly. Exhibiting a speed and agility that contrasted with its enormous size, the patriarch darted away, swiping at the Space Marine as it retreated. Rhodaan was knocked back by the glancing blow, a deep gouge running the length of his helm’s fanged beak.

  Lunging at him once more, the Great Father allowed Rhodaan no respite. A psychic screech assailed his brain, threatening to overcome his mind while the patriarch’s claws slashed at his body. By the narrowest margin, the warsmith darted out of the monster’s path. This time the rending claws only caught one of his pauldrons, disfiguring the insignia of his legion. The chainsword did better, rending across one of the patriarch’s arms and leaving it hanging limp and bleeding.

  The patriarch glared at Rhodaan, the amber-coloured eyes sunk deep in its chitinous skull possessed of a primordial degree of malevolence. The monster reared back, giving ground before Rhodaan. The Space Marine pursued the Great Father warily, watching for whatever trickery it intended. He wasn’t lulled by the fiend’s display of caution. The patriarch wouldn’t concede this fight until one of them was dead.

  The nearly blinding flare of Uzraal’s meltagun rushed through the patriarch’s lair, for a brief instant banishing the shadows and overwhelming the crimson glow. From above there sounded the anguished shrieks of pure-strain ge
nestealers. A litter of partially melted aliens crashed to the floor amidst the slag of their perches. The Great Father’s ploy was clear – to lure Rhodaan into an ambush.

  ‘More of them up in those girders,’ Captain Uzraal cautioned Rhodaan. ‘They seem leery of dropping down in range now.’

  ‘Keep an eye on them,’ Rhodaan told Uzraal. He kept his eyes on the patriarch, trying to guess what it would try next now that the ambush had failed. The Beast’s gaze kept shifting from the warsmith to Uzraal and back again. ‘If their leader goes for you, melt his face off. We’ll worry about the ones above after.’ Rhodaan noted the quick shift of the patriarch’s gaze, the way the genestealer’s eyes glared at him. As he had with Cornak, he buried his intentions deep within his mind, layering his thoughts to deceive a psychic spy.

  ‘If he gets me, withdraw to the spaceport,’ Rhodaan ordered Uzraal. At once he saw that his suspicion was right. The Great Father shifted its massive bulk ever so slightly, positioning itself for another rush at the warsmith.

  Uzraal was an old comrade of Rhodaan’s, serving as one of his Raptors before he became warsmith. He didn’t need Rhodaan’s intention explained. He knew what was expected of him, and it wasn’t a retreat to the spaceport. Swinging the meltagun around, he poised the weapon at the patriarch. The huge genestealer’s attention was diverted once more, the alien monster jumping away from the path of Uzraal’s aim, putting several columns between itself and the captain.

  As the Great Father was moving, so too was Rhodaan. Driving through the cluster of twisted metal, he flanked the hulking monster. Explosive shells sped from his bolt pistol, pelting the Beast’s side, drawing streams of treacly ichor from its carapace. Then the warsmith was bringing his chainsword swinging around, its teeth chewing into one of the columns just as the patriarch spun around to combat its original antagonist.

  The severed length of column came stabbing down, impaling the charging patriarch like a spear. The Great Father reared back, flailing at the corroded metal that pierced its side. The scything talons of its clawed hands raked across the thick metal, splitting it and leaving much of its length to crash to the floor. By then, however, Rhodaan was capitalising on the patriarch’s distress. The chainsword came chopping down, gnawing into one of the monster’s legs, chewing through chitin and muscle, shredding flesh and bone. The hulking xenos brought both talons whipping around, but all they found was the broken stump of the column Rhodaan had brought down. While its claws raked the ancient metal, the warsmith’s gun pumped rounds into the patriarch’s body.

  A keening shriek rang out from the Great Father, urging the pure-strains down from the web of steel. Uzraal was ready for their descent, waiting until the swift-moving xenos were in his sights and then loosing a blast from his meltagun. The second shot wrought even more destruction upon the nest of twisted plasteel. The structure collapsed in upon itself, smashing and crushing the genestealers that had avoided the direct effect of Uzraal’s shot.

  ‘Warsmith, the whole place is coming down!’ Uzraal barked, already drawing back towards the crimson-lighted chamber.

  Rhodaan heard the warning, but even as he turned the maimed patriarch was coming at him once more. The monster’s talon sheared the right horn from the Space Marine’s helmet before his chainsword was raking across the Beast’s wrist, sending the alien claw spinning away in the dark. The patriarch’s head darted forwards, its fangs scraping across Rhodaan’s breastplate, scarring the ceramite and defacing the combat honours affixed to it. A burst from the bolt pistol answered the xenos violence, punching a line of craters down its shoulder and side.

  The Great Father roared, a cry of agony as well as fury. Gone was the crafty Beast that had lurked like a spider in its web while minions fought its battles. Gone were the psychic tricks and the appeals to its multitudinous spawn. All that was left was the spite and bitterness of the vanquished, the dying belligerence of hate. The patriarch slammed into Rhodaan, bowling him onwards. The genestealer ignored the biting teeth of the chainsword and the havoc visited on it by the bolt pistol. The debris crashing down from the disintegrating nest didn’t give it pause as it plunged across the collapsing lair with its enemy.

  The sensors in Rhodaan’s armour flashed in warning, alerting him to the swelling radiation. The Great Father was driving him towards one of the nodules, seeking to bear him down into an atomic tomb. He glared at the monster, then brought his armoured helm crashing into the patriarch’s face, raking his remaining horn cross-wise until he pierced one of those amber eyes. In his battles against the tyranids, Rhodaan had found few points as sensitive as the eyes.

  The patriarch was staggered for an instant as its eye burst beneath Rhodaan’s savagery. A heartbeat of weakness, but it was enough for the warsmith. Raking his chainsword along the Beast’s shoulder, he ripped away both arms on that side. Freed from the monster’s clutch, he emptied his pistol into the Great Father’s back, piercing the dark chitin to penetrate the soft tissues within.

  Even in its anguish, the Great Father turned to confront its foe. Strength, however, was swiftly failing that huge xenos body. Rhodaan brought his boot slamming into the patriarch, tumbling it sidewise. The Beast crashed down at the edge of the glowing pit. Before it could struggle up again, Rhodaan had slapped a fresh clip into his pistol. A burst of explosive shells provided the momentum to pitch the alien headlong into a radioactive grave.

  ‘When we win the Long War,’ Rhodaan snarled down at the patriarch, ‘we will see that all your xenos breed burns.’

  Rhodaan marched out from the patriarch’s lair only a moment before the compromised nest of twisted plasteel came crashing downwards. The warsmith didn’t glance back at the destruction. If any of the Great Father’s brood had survived the collapse they’d be in no condition to cause trouble. By the time they could dig themselves out, the Iron Warriors would be long gone.

  Captain Uzraal joined Gaos and Periphetes around the mangled body of Bakasur. None of the Iron Warriors had been impertinent enough to retrieve the relic from the hybrid’s corpse. That was an honour they knew belonged to the warsmith alone.

  Rhodaan stalked past his followers, letting his gaze linger on each in their turn. Then he was looming over Bakasur’s bloodied body. He brushed away the lifeless hands and took up the Warmason’s Casket. He held it reverently before him, carefully displaying it to the surviving Iron Warriors. ‘This is what we came here for.’

  Contemptuously Rhodaan snapped the broken box in half and tossed the jewelled pieces aside. Uzraal sputtered in disbelief. Periphetes tried to reach out to stop the action with his mangled arm. Gaos simply cried out in protest.

  The warsmith ignored them all. It wasn’t their place to understand, only to obey. He cared nothing for the vessel or the veneration the people of Lubentina had shown it. The treasure that had lured him from Castellax was what the casket contained.

  ‘The Dekatherion,’ Rhodaan announced as he held up a rod of onyx laced with silver. A bulb of some shimmering crystal tipped one of its ends while the other was ringed with a series of switches and knobs.

  The Iron Warriors were awed simply gazing on the device, but for Rhodaan the effect was even more pronounced. He held in his hand a relic, but not the sort the flesh of Lubentina would venerate if they knew its origin. The Dekatherion wasn’t the creation of Vadok Singh even if it had come to reside in a relic devoted to the Warmason. It was the invention of Perturabo, primarch of the Iron Warriors.

  Rhodaan’s grip tightened around the relic. He glanced across at his followers. ‘We have what we came for. Let us be quit of this place.’

  Solemnly, the Iron Warriors turned from the havoc of the catacombs and the xenos tunnels. With their leaders slain, the cultists would be a disorganised rabble of small consequence to the Space Marines. Such forces as the Imperial authorities had remaining to them would know better than to challenge their departure.

  Rhodaan had learned
many times over the Long War that most of the flesh who bowed to the False Emperor weren’t nearly so ready to die for Him as they claimed.

  Painfully, Trishala rallied her flagging strength. The shots the Iron Warriors had fired at her had shattered her shoulder and arm. The pain her injuries caused her was nothing beside the agony she suffered as she watched Rhodaan smash open the Warmason’s Casket. The heretic’s claim about what the relic had contained only magnified the hurt. Her mind fought to reject the very possibility that such a sacred relic could have housed anything belonging to the Chaos Space Marines.

  As Trishala rose to her feet she stumbled to where Rhodaan had so contemptuously tossed the fragments of the casket. While part of her railed against the desecration and her inability to prevent it, she was pragmatic enough to understand that there was nothing she could have done. One Sister against five Space Marines. All she would have done was die to no purpose and the Iron Warriors would still have despoiled the Warmason’s Casket.

  Tenderly she knelt and retrieved the gilded fragments. Trishala would carry them back to the cathedral and put them with the other relics. That much at least she could do. She cast an uneasy look at the wreckage under which the Iron Warriors had entombed the Great Father and its ilk. The catacombs would be filled with the cultists corrupted by the patriarch and the genestealers that had been absent when it met destruction. Unable to raise the cathedral on the vox, she couldn’t even be certain the Order of the Sombre Vow still held control of it.

  Duty. Obligation. Faith. These were the things that demanded her fealty now. Trishala would return what remained of the Warmason’s Casket, set it beside the Shroud of Singh and the other relics. Whatever else happened, this purpose at least was within her ability to fulfil.

  Epilogue