Before he can speak, two objects clatter across the rocks.
The Space Marines react instantly, recognising the frag grenades before they even settle, but it is no use: the grenades are primed to detonate on impact.
The gulley fills with sound and light.
Halser lands heavily on his back behind a narrow limb of rock, his ears ringing from the blast. Great plumes of dust mingle with the storm as he strains to see the others. Bulky, grey shadows dash through the smoke but he cannot see who, if anyone, has fallen. He repeats his prayer, sounding even less convinced. ‘Everything that happens is the Emperor’s will.’
The limb of rock explodes as a round of bolter fire slams into it. The sergeant rolls clear, dropping into another gulley and glimpsing muzzle flare above a distant crest of rock. He marks the position.
The smoke dances away in the storm and Halser spots Brother-Librarian Comus, crouching a few metres away. He looks uninjured, but he is clutching the ornate mantle that surrounds his gorget, grimacing in pain. The cables that connect the metal hood to his skull are pulsing with inner fire.
Halser catches his eye, nods to the location of the enemy and mimes a throwing movement; then he taps his bolt pistol and waves it down the gulley.
Comus nods in reply, but the grimace remains on his face and as he unclips a grenade from his belt he clutches his head with his other hand, furiously massaging his temples.
There is another deafening blast as Comus’s grenade finds its mark.
At the same moment, Sergeant Halser emerges from the far end of the gulley, sprinting towards the crest of rock. As he knifes through the clouds, a black-armoured figure rises and tumbles away from him, thrown back by the grenade blast.
Halser fires as he runs, unloading several rounds into the reeling figure and drawing his chainsword. As he vaults over the lip of rock, the sergeant’s blade is already rattling and spitting oil.
The enemy tries to return fire, but before he can level his pistol at Halser, the sergeant’s chainsword slices through his forearm in a shower of sparks, blood and splintered bone.
As his opponent staggers back, clutching countless wounds, Halser gets a clear look at him.
The Traitor Marine is clad in ancient, black armour, twisted and sculpted into a baroque mess of curves and spikes, and trimmed with golden, razor-sharp edges. The mouth grille of his helmet has been wrenched into a bestial leer and his breastplate is emblazoned with a pus-yellow eye.
The sergeant howls. The sound could either be rage or ecstasy, it is impossible to tell. He raises his chainsword to strike again.
The Traitor Marine is too fast. He blocks Halser’s chainsword with his own and the air fills with sparks and the sound of grinding gears.
Halser lifts his bolt pistol but, before he can fire, pain explodes in his side. He is lifted from his feet, spun around and sent crashing to the ground. Before landing he glimpses a second Traitor Marine, looming out of the storm and lifting his bolter for another shot.
Halser rolls to one side as the ground explodes around him.
Then there is a screech of grinding metal and the gunfire stops.
He rises from the ground and sees the second Traitor Marine drop his bolter and clutch his chest, howling in pain. The blade of a sword has emerged from his chest armour and is slicing up towards his throat. The sword shimmers with unnatural light as it rips the enemy warrior in two, emitting a final, blinding pulse as it wrenches free in a fountain of blood and sparks.
Brother-Librarian Comus steps around his victim as he topples, lifeless, to the ground. His force sword is still blazing with psychic energy as he turns towards the other Traitor Marine but, before he can strike, he clutches his head in agony and stumbles, the tip of his sword clattering uselessly against the rocks.
The remaining Traitor Marine turns his gun on the Librarian but the left side of his helmet evaporates before he can pull the trigger, leaving a smouldering pulp of ruptured armour and charred brains.
He drops to the floor with a whistling gurgle.
Sergeant Halser steps over him and fires a second shot into his mouth grille. Then another. He keeps firing until the traitor’s head is nothing but a bloody stain on the rock. Then he crouches low and spins around, peering down the barrel of his gun. The rattle of bolter fire echoes around the valley, but the sound is distorted and muffled by the clouds, making it impossible to pinpoint anything.
‘Squad Elicius,’ he grunts into his vox-bead, ‘state your condition.’
Voices crackle over the comm-net. The fighting has been brief. Only Brother Thymus has fallen.
Halser shakes his head, suspicious at the ease of their victory. ‘Hold your positions. The enemy don’t usually attack in such small numbers.’ He turns to see that Comus has dropped to his knees and is still clutching his head.
He rushes to the Librarian’s side. ‘Are you wounded?’
As Comus looks up, his face is ashen and his eyes are blazing. ‘Is the device sending me mad? Can’t you hear it?’
Halser shakes his head in confusion. ‘Hear what?’
‘The clouds,’ groans Comus, his voice filled with horror. ‘They’re talking to us.’
Chapter Four
Monks and servitors melt into the shadows, scattering like vermin before the approaching Navigator. A servo-skull drifts ahead of him, trailing smoke-shrouded censers and bearing a tall, guttering candle. As the light flickers across rows of gloomy alcoves, it picks out the Domitus’s cowering denizens. They peer suspiciously at the slender noble and mutter prayers into their hoods. Even the ship’s most ill-omened wretches breathe a sigh of relief as Palchus van Tol passes them by.
At the end of a long, vaulted passageway stands his father, peering through a leaded viewport. It is hard see anything through the metre-thick panes, clouded as they are by ash and cobwebs, but as Palchus approaches he can just make out the vague, spectral presence of Ilissus.
‘They were Relictors,’ he mutters.
‘Who were?’ asks the baron, turning towards him.
‘The Adeptus Astartes sent down onto the planet. I spoke to some of the stevedores. Mortmain himself had sworn them to secrecy.’ He grimaces. ‘It was not easy to extract the truth.’
‘Oh yes, I know who’s down there.’ Baron van Tol fixes his half-lidded eyes on his nephew. ‘You’re not the only one here with sight.’ He raps his knuckles against the glass. ‘What do you see now, though?’
Palchus looks out at the ghostly planet and shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing beyond the warp storms, that is. I’ve never seen such power.’
The baron sneers. ‘It’s a dirty, crude form of sorcery, but yes, it’s certainly powerful.’ He looks around, noting the hooded figures flitting through the shadows, and leans closer to his nephew, lowering his voice. ‘If Mortmain doesn’t act soon the corruption will spread.’ He plucks an object from his braided ceremonial jacket and lifts it up into the candlelight. It is a tiny hourglass, housed within a frame of intricately engraved finger bones.
Palchus grimaces at the sight of it. The sand has gathered in the centre, refusing to fall either way. He grabs his father’s wrist, pulls the hourglass closer and shakes it, to no effect. ‘What does it mean?’
The baron shrugs. ‘Time is on the run, Palchus. The storm on Ilissus is spreading.’ He lowers his voice even further. ‘The concordat has only bought us a brief reprieve. If Ilissus isn’t destroyed soon, the other Houses will smell a rat. They have a little more insight than these plebeians.’ He looks back at the planet. ‘They won’t believe this rubbish about the Black Legion. They will see the storms for what they truly are. We will be ruined.’
‘Then what do we do?’ Palchus’s voice is edged with panic. ‘The inquisitor is obviously lying to us. Why would he send Space Marines onto a planet scheduled for Exterminatus?’
The baron shakes his head and puts the hourglass back into his pocket. ‘The Relictors are scavengers. They’re famed for it. They’re vile magpies, al
ways peering beneath stones that ought to be left unturned. Everyone knows they’re just a step away from heresy, but Inquisitor Mortmain must have allowed them one last chance to explore the planet for some reason. Before–’ He pauses and curls his lip with displeasure. ‘Before the problems arose, Ilissus was famed for its scriptoria. One in particular is said to house documents and relics older than the Imperium itself.’
‘The Zeuxis Scriptorium.’
The baron nods. ‘The Zeuxis Scriptorium is particularly infamous. The priests in charge had similar interests to the Relictors, interests that most reputable people would consider heretical. It has been lost for centuries, but the Relictors have a knack of unearthing things.’ He pulls back his shoulders and raises his chin. ‘I must think. Meet me in my chambers in an hour.’ As he ambles off down the passageway, another servo-skull drifts down from the rafters and trails after him, lighting the way. ‘Do nothing,’ he says, sneering at Palchus as he disappears around a corner.
Palchus drums his fingers against the viewport. What’s Mortmain thinking? Why would he delay even a second when so much is at risk? Why would he ignore the concordat? Someone must know. He stands there for a few minutes, muttering to himself, until an idea hits him. It seems to arrive fully formed, as though the ship itself has answered his question. ‘Of course,’ he mutters. ‘There are other Relictors on board. They must know what’s going on.’
He strides over to an empty alcove. It is a shrine of some kind, but he pays no attention to the hunched, winged statue crouched in the darkness, as he sits on a stone bench and closes his eyes. He places his fingers beneath the peak of his cap, resting them on a swelling in the middle of his forehead. Then he whispers an incantation under his breath and, after a few minutes, his breathing begins to quicken and beads of sweat appear on his face. Numb pain spreads from his forehead and he moans softly. Images tumble through his mind. He sees engines: vast, oil-black behemoths, thundering and belching far below him in the belly of the Domitus. Then he sees miles of featureless hab blocks, housing legions of crewmen and priests and whole regiments of Guardsmen. Many of the Guardsmen are wounded and as Palchus’s mind touches theirs, he feels agony and fear. He moves on, holding his breath as he looks through flight decks, chapels, cloisters and hangars, searching desperately until he senses something quite different from the Guardsmen: a sliver of cool, hard arrogance. ‘Yes,’ he whispers. The minds of the Adeptus Astartes are unmistakable. He removes his fingers from his forehead, pulls his cap back into place and finally exhales. ‘Just a few kilometres away.’ To find his targets so easily seems a little odd, but Palchus is so anxious he does not pause to consider the odds of stumbling across the Relictors so quickly.
He rises and looks out into the passageway. The baron’s light has faded from view. ‘I’m sorry father,’ he says, his voice trembling with emotion, ‘I won’t just sit around as our name is thrown to the dogs.’ With that, he turns and hurries in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing into the endless maze of corridors.
After a few seconds the large, winged shape crouched in the shrine climbs down from the wall. As it steps out into the passage, the outline of the thing is hard to discern, but as it slips quietly after Palchus, one of the hooded onlookers is unfortunate enough to catch a brief glimpse. He stumbles back against the wall with a curse, left with an image of torn, ruptured flesh and battered, jagged iron. As the onlooker drops to his knees, pressing his palms over his eyes, he hears the rattle of chains, scraping into the distance.
After half an hour, Palchus notices that the passageways are growing narrower and less well-kept. There is no sign of any servitors and piles of waste lie uncleared in the corners. The air grows thick with the smell of engine oil and faeces, and the Navigator hides his face behind a silk, perfumed handkerchief. Are these really suitable quarters for Adeptus Astartes, he wonders? Then he remembers which Chapter he is looking for: the Relictors. Their fall from grace is almost laughable. An open sewer is the perfect place to house men with so many accusations of heresy hanging over them.
Eventually, the ceiling falls so low that the servo-skull is unable to follow and Palchus curses, stumbling to a halt in the darkness. ‘What is this place?’ he mutters, pulling a small light from his jacket pocket. As the thin beam washes over the walls ahead, he sees the passageway is no longer made of stone: it is a jumble of corrugated iron, rusted heating vents and gurgling, hissing pipes.
‘Perhaps this isn’t right,’ he mutters, stooping and edging slowly forwards.
Then he hears a sound from behind him and turns around, levelling his light at the shadows. The darkness ripples and slides but he can see nothing clearly. A feeling of dread grips him.
Palchus draws his sword and considers turning back, but barely has the thought formed in his mind when the door behind rattles free of its supports and slams down onto the stone floor. The resultant clang causes the Navigator to flinch so violently that his light slips from his fingers and bounces away into the shadows, extinguishing itself as it goes.
Palchus curses as pitch dark descends. ‘Is anyone there?’ he calls, his words echoing weirdly through the narrow passageway.
There is no reply.
Palchus drops to his knees and reaches through the darkness. He is sure he can pinpoint where the light fell, but as his fingers brush over the cold stone, they find no trace of the metal cylinder.
‘Where is it?’ he hisses, with a rising sense of panic.
As the Navigator’s fingers stretch further, they brush against something soft and warm.
He yelps in horror, scrabbling back towards the wall.
Terror grips him as he climbs to his feet and backs away as fast as he can. The darkness is so complete that he is forced to feel his way along the cold, sticky metal of the walls, cursing under his breath as his fingers catch on jagged edges and broken screws.
Despite the pain he gradually picks up speed, gaining confidence as his eyes start to adjust to the dark. He realises that there is an opening up ahead and breaks into a sprint, holding his sword out ahead of him as he runs.
As Palchus nears the doorway, he glimpses movement up ahead: a hunched, glistening shape, too fast to make out clearly.
Seconds before he reaches the opening, the door clangs shut.
Palchus slams into it with a grunt. His sword buckles and twists painfully in his grip.
As he slides to the floor, holding his hands up in front of his face, he senses something in the darkness.
A shape is approaching.
Chapter Five
As the rest of squad Elicius clamber awkwardly over the rocks, Sergeant Halser pauses on an outcrop and waits for Brother-Librarian Comus to catch up. As he watches his old friend approaching he feels a painful mixture of anger and guilt. Comus’s power armour is cloaked in dust and as he stumbles over the weird terrain his face remains locked in a grimace, but he still has the libellus clasped firmly in his grip. ‘I had no choice,’ growls Halser to himself. ‘This is our last chance.’
He wipes his visor and scours the horizon for signs of the enemy. The sun has already slipped lower in the sky, trimming the clouds with bronze and making it even harder to see. Halser grabs the auspex from his belt but it is still dead. They have heard nothing from Brother Silvius since the crash. More worryingly, they have not been able to contact Fleet Sanctus or the Domitus. They are utterly alone. As his gaze falls back on the stooped figure of Comus, Halser keeps thinking the same thought. This is our last chance.
Comus is only a few metres away when Halser notices something odd. As the Librarian enters a narrow defile, he vanishes briefly from view, before re-emerging and giving the sergeant a wave of his sword. Sergeant Halser nods in reply, but then frowns. A bank of dust drifts between the two Space Marines and when it clears, Comus has vanished. Halser prepares to call out, but before he can, Comus reappears, climbing into view exactly as before. He even gives Halser the same wave, as though nothing has happened. Halser feels a chill of
alarm. Something is wrong, but he is unable to say exactly what. Comus could have stumbled back into the defile, but there was something strange about the way he signalled. His second wave was identical to his first. Halser shakes his head and rises to greet the Librarian. Déjà vu, he thinks, but the sense of alarm stays with him as he helps Comus up the rocks to his side.
‘Are you fit for duty?’ he asks, hiding his concern behind a scowl. He realises that there are tears of blood welling in the Librarian’s eyes.
Comus nods, but is too short of breath to reply.
‘Is it the presence of the Traitor Marines?’ asks Halser. ‘Is that what’s causing you such pain?’
Comus frowns and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he manages to grunt after a few minutes. As he speaks, small flecks of blood glisten on his lips. He nods at the libellus. ‘It is the xenos device – and something else. There is something else here.’
Halser waves at the columns of rock and the rolling clouds. ‘This is the work of heretics, though, surely?’
Comus follows his gaze and looks up at the tormented sunset. ‘Something else,’ he repeats.
Halser realises that he has never seen his battle-brother in such pain. ‘Should you head back to the gunship, Comus? We don’t have time for passengers. Perhaps you could help the tech-priests? They seemed to think the repairs would take a while, but an extra pair of hands might speed things up.’ He hesitates. ‘Perhaps you could show me how to use the xenos device.’
Comus grips the sergeant’s arm. ‘No. I must continue. I’m shielding you from something.’ He waves at the clouds. ‘That’s why…’ His words trail off and he grimaces again. ‘The pain is not just from the libellus. It’s because I’m holding back the prayers.’
‘Prayers?’ Halser shakes his head in confusion. ‘Whose prayers?’
‘There are prayers on the wind. And they are filled with such power they would flay you to the bone if I let them.’
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