Shouts and screams echoed through the lift bay, accompanied by the percussive barking of bolt weapons as more of the ghostly attackers materialised, dropping from overhead and emerging from shadows that had been empty moments before.
Moving faster than he could track, one of the insubstantial attackers darted around Sabtec, a fraction of a second in front of his coughing bolter, and the Word Bearer backed up a step, attempting to put some extra space between him and his ethereal attacker.
The creature darted forwards, dissipating into mist as Sabtec fired upon it. It re-formed just to his left, and he swung his bolter towards it. A blade slashed down in a diagonal arc, slicing the holy weapon in two, and a second blade stabbed towards Sabtec’s throat. He swayed aside from the attack, but such was its speed that it still gouged a line across the faceplate of his helmet. Dropping his useless bolter, he grabbed his attacker’s slim arm. Feeling solid armour and flesh beneath his grasp, he hurled his attacker away from him, sending it spinning through the air, and drew his sword from his scabbard.
‘Thirteen!’ he roared, bellowing the rallying cry that would bring the warriors of his coterie together.
Thumbing its activation glyph, Sabtec brought his sword humming to life. The metre-and-a-half blade gleamed as a sudden wave of energy raced up its length, and he swung it around in a glittering arc to deflect a dark blade that sang towards his groin. The blade severed the attacker’s hand at the wrist, and the eldar warrior gave out a hiss of pain before becoming one with the shadows once more.
‘Thirteen!’ roared Sabtec again, breaking into a run towards the bulk of his coterie, which was fighting its way towards him through the confusing blur of darting shadows.
‘Twenty-third, form up on me,’ he roared, seeing Namar-sin’s warriors becoming isolated and surrounded.
Even as he closed with his warriors of the 13th coterie, he saw one of them hamstrung by a slashing blade from behind and fall. Instantly, a trio of shadows materialised around the fallen warrior, looming like shades of death over him, and they dragged him backwards.
One of the black-skinned eldar warriors made a slashing motion with its hand that parted the substance of the air, cutting aside the veil between real space and beyond. In an instant, the fallen warrior was bundled through the rent in reality, which sealed up behind him as if it had never been.
Sabtec slashed with his blade, keeping the darting shadows around him at bay. He focused on one of the creatures as it materialised behind another of his squad brothers, its slanted, milky white eyes focused on its prey.
Sabtec roared as he launched himself forwards and impaled the shadow eldar on his power sword, plunging the weapon into its throat. Its blood danced upon the energised blade, spitting and jumping. Sabtec freed his weapon, slicing it out through the side of the eldar’s neck. Its head flopped to the side, and it dropped to the ground. The glowing runes across its body blazed with sudden light, and then faded, smoking slightly, leaving just a shattered eldar corpse lying on the floor.
Having formed up, the 13th coterie fought back to back, protecting each other’s vulnerable flanks. The enemy was coming at them from all directions, yet the warrior brothers had fought alongside each other for countless centuries, and each could predict his brothers’ movements with the understanding that came from a lifetime of shared battle.
Heavy bolter-rounds from one of the Havoc Space Marines of the 217th ripped a swathe through the shadows, tearing two of the eldar apart. A pair of blades punched into his back and he was dragged into another dark rift that swallowed him, closing off behind him.
Sabtec’s 13th blazed away at the shadows, most of their shots missing their targets, but a few striking their attackers, blasting bloody chunks out of armour and flesh.
The attack ceased as quickly as it had started as first one of the mandrakes stepped into shadow and was gone, and then another and another, until the Word Bearers were alone, smoke rising from the barrels of their boltguns, and steam venting from the cooling chambers of plasma weapons. The sudden silence was eerie, and Sabtec’s breathing sounded loud in the confines of his helmet. The warriors of the 13th took the moment’s respite to load their bolters, dropping empty clips to the floor.
Sabtec turned his head left and right, seeking the enemy, but it seemed they had truly gone. Still wary, he broke from the circle of his squad, and moved cautiously forward.
‘Report,’ he snapped.
Of 13th coterie, two members were dead and one was missing, taken by the dark eldar. Three of the surviving members were wounded, but not seriously. The 217th Havoc coterie had fared even worse, with three members dead, Namar-sin included, and two of their squad missing, leaving only three members remaining.
Sabtec swore.
‘You three,’ he said, stabbing a finger towards the remaining warriors of Namar-sin’s coterie, ‘you are 13th now. 217th is dead.’
The brother warriors bowed their heads in assent. It was a great honour to be taken into the hallowed 13th coterie, but they had fought as part of the 217th under Namar-sin for centuries.
Ammunition was running low, and the Word Bearers moved amongst their deceased kin, stripping them of weapons, grenades and clips. Sabtec knelt alongside each of the fallen warriors, speaking the oath of the departed over each in turn. With his combat knife, he carved an eight-pointed star into the forehead of each warrior, solemnly intoning the ritualised words, and daubed their eyelids with blood.
Kneeling over the corpse of Namar-sin, Sabtec removed his helmet, and placed it on the floor alongside his fallen brother. Then, he reverently lifted one of the champion’s hands up, and stripped it of its gauntlet. Cradling the warrior’s meaty fist in one hand, he reached again for his knife, and began to saw through the champion’s fingers, using the serrated edge of his blade.
After hacking through each of the digits in turn, he tossed a severed finger to each of the members of Namar-sin’s coterie. He kept one for himself, for Namar-sin had been his battle-brother since the Great Crusade, and he had respected the warrior greatly, and valued his comradeship.
He began to strip his battle-brother’s body, removing his shoulder plates and placing them carefully at his side, before moving onto his gorget and outer chest plates, removing each piece carefully and reverently. The other members of his squad stood by solemnly.
He pulled the breastplate away with a sucking sound, taking with it the outer layer of skin that had long fused with the armour.
The flesh of Namar-sin’s broad torso was heavily muscled, and the tissue of that muscle glistened wetly. With a deft movement, Sabtec sliced a deep cut from the breastbone to the navel. Inserting his hand into the cut, he searched around in the chest cavity, groping behind the thick, fused ribcage. Grasping Namar-sin’s motionless primary heart, he pulled it free, cutting it loose with his knife.
Sabtec stood and lifted the heart up in his bloody hands.
‘Namar-sin was a mighty warrior and devoted brother of the true word,’ said Sabtec. ‘We mourn his passing, yet rejoice, for his soul has become as one with Chaos. In honour of his service in the name of Lorgar, we eat of his flesh, that he may live on with us as we continue the Long War without him, and that we may carry his strength with us, always.’
Lifting the heart to his mouth, Sabtec took a bite, ripping the flesh away with his teeth. Blood covered his chin, and he chewed the lump of flesh briefly before swallowing it. Then he stepped in front of the first of the three remaining warriors that had belonged to Namar-sin’s coterie, offering the heart.
Marduk stared through the thirty-centimetre thick porthole into the inky blackness beyond as the lift continued to power its way down into the stygian depths of the ocean. Little could be seen apart from occasional bubbles of expanding gas, and the visage of his skull helmet was reflected back at him, distorted in the curved therma-glass.
‘There is no going back now; we have not the time. I feel the threads of fate weaving together. The time of the completion of
this… necessary task, draws close,’ said Marduk with a hint of impatience and irritation. ‘Sabtec and Namar-sin are veterans. They can look after themselves.’
The lift strained and creaked alarmingly as the building pressure of the water outside pressed in. The thick metal plates of the hull, supported by countless brackets and thick bolted girders, flexed inwards, groaning like a beast in torment.
The lift had descended at a steady rate, down the shaft carved from solid ice. The rate of descent slowed as they reached the lower crust of the ice and plunged into the sea, before increasing in speed once more as they sank further into the icy depths. They were some four thousand metres below the surface, nearing halfway to the ocean floor.
Burias was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, glaring hatefully at the bulging hull as if daring it to give way.
‘Be calm, icon bearer,’ snapped Marduk, turning away from the porthole. ‘Your restlessness is distracting.’
Marduk could feel Burias’s impatience like a living thing, intruding on his spirit.
‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Marduk in irritation.
‘I am envious,’ said Burias, pausing in his pacing for a moment, flashing Marduk a dark glance. ‘I had wished to fight the eldar again. I wish to test my speed against them.’
‘You sound like a spoilt child,’ spat Marduk. ‘Recite the Lacrimosa. Begin at verse eighty-nine. It will calm your nerves.’
Burias glowered at Marduk.
‘Eighty-nine?’ he said, furrowing his brow.
‘And when the accused are confounded and confined to flames of woe, rejoice and call upon Me, your saviour,’ he quoted.
‘The Lacrimosa has always been a favourite of yours, hasn’t it, brother?’ asked Burias.
Marduk smiled. Alone amongst all the warriors of the Host, he tolerated Burias referring to him as brother, in honour of the blood-oaths that the pair had sworn aeons past, when they were both idealistic young pups, freshly blooded in battle. Nevertheless, Marduk allowed the icon bearer the honour only when they were alone, or out of earshot of the other warrior brothers of the Host, for such familiarity was unfavourable, especially now that he was certain that his ambitions of becoming Dark Apostle were fated to be, at last, fulfilled.
A Dark Apostle must be aloof from his flock, a symbol of the undying faith of the holy word. He had learnt that from Jarulek, and it was, his arrogant master had taught him, part of the reason why the role of the Coryphaus was important. The Dark Apostle must be more than a warrior; he must be an inspiration, a saint, the holiest of disciples. He must be raised above the warriors of the Host, for the gods spoke through him. A Dark Apostle had no brothers except others of his rank, for it was deemed that familial relations within the Host humanised him too much, weakening the awe he was held in by his warriors. Such a thing led to a weakening of the strength of the Host, and a lessening of the faith.
‘A Dark Apostle,’ Jarulek had lectured him condescendingly, ‘must be above reproach, above question. He cannot have close ties with the warriors of his flock. Your Coryphaus is your closest confidant, and your will is enacted through him. He is the bridge that spans the gap between the Dark Apostle and the Host.’
Marduk pushed the distracting, errant thoughts back, his mood darkening.
‘The Lacrimosa brings me great calm,’ said Marduk. ‘It at once soothes my soul and rekindles my hatred.’
‘I shall do as you suggest, brother,’ said Burias. ‘So long as Sabtec leaves a few for me, I guess I can wait.’
Another loud groan shuddered the lift, and Burias scowled.
Kol Badar stamped towards them, and the cordial companionship between Marduk and Burias evaporated. At once, they were no longer long-time friends and blood brothers; now they were once again First Acolyte and icon bearer.
‘This lift is a relic,’ remarked Kol Badar. ‘If a fault in the hull appears, we will all be crushed to death. This is a foolish endeavour, an unnecessary risk.’
‘Are you going senile in your dotage Coryphaus?’ snapped Marduk. Burias sniggered. ‘You are repeating yourself. Your protestations have been heard before, and duly noted. I don’t care what you think. I am your leader now, and you will do as I wish.’
The Coryphaus’s brow creased in anger.
‘If a fault appears, then we are dead,’ Marduk said, more calmly. ‘Such would be the will of the gods, but I do not believe it will be so.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Kol Badar.
‘Have faith, Coryphaus,’ said Marduk. ‘Each of us is in our allotted place, as per the will of the gods. If it is our time to die, then so be it, but I do not think that it is. The gods have much more in store for me, of that I am certain.’
‘And for me?’ asked Burias.
Marduk shrugged.
‘You speak as if all our actions are already predetermined,’ growled Kol Badar.
‘Are you so sure they are not?’ countered Marduk. ‘I have seen things in dream visions that have come to pass. Many amongst the Host have. Does such a thing not suggest that every decision that we think we make has not already been determined beforehand? A path set in front of us that we, try as we might to avoid our fate, are condemned to walk?’
‘By that rationale, why should we strive for anything? Why should we seek to destroy our enemies, if the outcome has already been decided?’ asked Burias.
‘Don’t be a fool, Burias,’ said Marduk sharply. ‘The gods help those that help themselves. If you were not going to try to defeat your enemies, then you were already fated to lose.’
‘If what you suggest is correct, then this,’ said Kol Badar, levelling his combi-bolter at Marduk’s head, ‘is the will of the gods?’
The Coryphaus’s weapon system whined and clicked as fresh bolts were loaded into the firing chambers. Burias licked his lips, glancing between the First Acolyte and Kol Badar.
Behind them, kneeling in a tight circle with his squad, Khalaxis half-rose to his feet, but the heavy hand of one of the Anointed held him in place.
The sergeant-champion glowered up at the Terminator-armoured warrior, his rage building, but he relented and remained kneeling, watching the outcome of the confrontation.
Marduk took a step forward so that the twin barrels of the Coryphaus’s weapon pressed against his forehead.
‘Pull the trigger and find out,’ said Marduk.
After a tense moment, Kol Badar bent his arm, removing the weapon from his superior’s head, and stalked away angrily.
‘What if he had pulled the trigger?’ asked Burias quietly.
‘Then I’d be dead,’ said Marduk.
Sinking ever deeper, the lift continued descending through the inky-black water. This was more of an abyss than the depths of deep space, thought Burias. At least there pin-pricks of light could be glimpsed, distant stars and coronas a hundred million light years distant. Here, the darkness was complete and all-consuming.
Still they descended. It felt like they had been descending for days, though it had been less than an hour, and Burias continued his restless pacing, stalking back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Khalaxis’s squad knelt in a close circle around Marduk, who was in a half-trance, intoning from the unholy scriptures. The warriors of the Anointed stood in a second circle around the kneeling figures, the Coryphaus leading a morose counter-chant.
Of the warrior brethren, only Burias stood apart, for he could not calm his mind enough to be part of the communion.
Impatience knotted his stomach, and he snarled in frustration.
Burias stamped around the interior of the lift, slamming the butt of his icon into the grilled flooring with each step. The flickering lights above were irritating him with their incessant buzzing and for a moment he toyed with the notion of smashing them.
While other Astartes warriors within the Host took pleasure in creation, painstakingly copying the illuminated volumes of the Books of Lorgar into new volumes, labouring for we
eks on end over each page, Burias had not the patience for such pursuits. He took pleasure in destruction, whether it was ripping apart a living creature and watching its life fade, or smashing apart the profane statues of the Imperium.
What worth was a hundred years of toil if a man could destroy it in seconds?
Thankfully, the Host was almost constantly at war. It was at times like these, however, when the enemy was so close, yet the thrill of battle was denied him, that his fury rose, clouding his mind and shattering his concentration.
He paced around the extent of the lift, until finally he saw a soft glow permeating up from below through the porthole windows.
In the distance below, the lights from the mining station were radiating up from the ocean floor.
It looked like some outpost station on a desolate asteroid or moon, with the blackness of space all around it. A broad, domed central hub, roughly the size of the largest galactic battleship, was rooted in the rock bed, surrounded by dozens of bulbous satellite outbuildings. Cylindrical, transparent corridors connected all the sub-structures to the main hub. Light, harsh and unnatural, spilled from the arterial tubes, and peering closely, Burias thought he could see vehicles and people moving through them, like tiny insects within an artificial environ-farm.
Burias rolled his shoulders and stretched the muscles of his neck.
‘Finally,’ he muttered.
Pressure gauges vented, equalising the compressed air within the lift with that of the mining facility. The sides of the lift slid aside with a clatter and water gushed down from above, slipping off the angled surfaces of the lift’s hull, and draining away through the grates set in the floor. Darkness greeted them inside the mining facility, though an infrequent strobe of light sparked from severed cables hanging loose from the low ceiling.
The Word Bearers walked cautiously forward, stepping through the dripping water, weapons seeking targets. There were none.
Kol Badar’s Anointed led the way, combi-bolters and repeater autocannon tracking from side to side.
The air was hot and humid, a far cry from the dry, gelid atmosphere on the planet’s frozen surface.
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