‘Power? You mean witchcraft?’
Comus closes his eyes and presses a hand against one of the dozens of purity seals that adorn his power armour. His fingers press deep into the lump of wax and crumpled parchment, and when he opens his eyes they are a little clearer. ‘No, not witchcraft. At least, not the sort you mean. I hear catechisms and the names of saints. I hear prayers that speak of obedience to the Immortal Emperor.’ He massages his scalp. ‘But there is a power in them like nothing I’ve ever…’ His voice trails off and his eyes fill with confusion. Then he turns to Halser. ‘I do not believe Ilissus has fallen to the Black Legion. Some great power is in control here, but it has no love of Chaos.’
Halser shakes his head furiously. ‘Of course the planet has fallen to Chaos. Inquisitor Mortmain was certain. Exterminatus is only hours away.’ He looks at the rest of the squad, picking their way across the brutalised landscape. The inquisitor’s acolyte is tiny in comparison, leaning heavily on his cane as he stumbles after the Space Marines. ‘Pylcrafte said the clouds were a mark of Chaos. He said they arrived with the Black Legion.’
Comus locks his gaze on the sergeant. ‘I do not place much faith in the words of that man. I sense he is holding something from us.’
Halser shrugs off the Librarian’s grip and nods at the horizon. ‘Well, we will find out the truth soon enough if we keep moving. We only have six hours. Then Inquisitor Mortmain will begin the bombardment, Chaos or not.’
They have not travelled far when shots ring out again.
The squad vanishes silently into the storm.
Sergeant Halser drops behind a trunk of rock. ‘Brother Vortimer,’ he hisses into his vox-bead, ‘Is anyone hit? What do you see?’
The reply is a burst of white noise.
‘Brother Vortimer?’
There is another hiss of static, but this time words are audible beneath the distortion. ‘Bolter fire. The shots went wide. They are holed up in some kind of building. Half a kilometre east. It might be a tower but I can’t be–’
The signal dies.
Halser feels his pulse quicken. He will not lose another man. He opens up the comm-net to include the whole squad. ‘Brothers Vortimer, Borellus and Sabine: circle around, approach from the rear. The rest of you hold your positions. Wait for my signal.’
He turns to face Comus. ‘Is this the power you felt?’
The Librarian shakes his head. ‘This is Traitor Marines.’ He frowns. ‘They are in such terrible pain.’
Halser looks at his auspex and curses the blank screen. Then, as a particularly fierce dust cloud twists past, he risks a glance around the stone. Brother Vortimer is right; there is some kind of building to the east. As the clouds roll past he sees it quite clearly: a fluted spiral of rock, topped with crumbling, teeth-like projections that resemble the merlons of a castle. It looks to be part of a larger building, but before he can make out anything else he sees movement behind the jagged stone. As he ducks out of view he glimpses a flash of light.
A fizzing whine cuts through the storm and, a few metres to the left of Halser, the ground dissolves into a cloud of dust and spinning rock. As stone pings off his armour the sergeant curses. ‘Lascannon.’ He looks back at Comus. ‘They’re not in too much pain to fire their weapons.’
Comus shakes his head. ‘Something is badly wrong with them, though. Why do you think their aim is so bad?’
Halser nods at a narrow trench a few feet back, and as they drop heavily into it he opens up the comm-net. ‘Vortimer, Borellus, Sabine – are you in position? What do you see?’
Halser receives his answer in the form of gunfire: a whole volley of rattling shots that ring out from the tower.
‘Move in!’ he cries, leaping from the trench and racing in the direction of the gunfire.
Chapter Six
Palchus awakes to darkness and the sound of rattling chains.
He tries to move but an awful, wrenching pain explodes in his stomach. ‘Who’s there?’ he gasps, trying to stand. To his horror, he realises he is trapped. Thick, leather straps are wrapped around him, binding him to some kind of metal chair. Terror grips him. ‘You don’t realise what you’re doing!’ he cries, peering into the shifting shadows. ‘I belong to the House of van Tol.’
The sound of scraping metal continues, but there is no reply.
Palchus raises his voice into something approaching a scream. ‘I am Navis Nobilite! You may not treat me like this!’ He strains to free himself from the chair and feels the awful pain in his stomach again. Something is embedded in his flesh and he realises his jacket is drenched with blood. ‘What have you done to me?’
Finally there is a reply: a liquid gurgle that comes from somewhere behind him. The words make no sense whatsoever but, simultaneously, Palchus becomes aware of something else. As the vile belching sound fills the darkness, the Navigator feels words forming in his mind. He realises, to his amazement, that the small, hard eye embedded in his forehead is processing the gibberish into a language he can understand. It is as though the warp itself is speaking to him. Every syllable adds to his pain, like needles being pressed into his brain.
‘You did that to yourself, actually.’ The words appear as thoughts, rather than sound, and the thoughts are full of hate. The sense of malice is so great that the Navigator lets out an involuntary whine.
‘Did what?’ he manages to gasp eventually.
‘You have quite literally fallen on your sword, Palchus.’
The Navigator peers down at his stomach. It is too dark to see anything clearly, but he can just about make out a glimmer of twisted steel, jammed into his belly. ‘I need help then!’ he cries. ‘You can’t just leave me like this.’ His fear starts to mingle with rage. ‘Who are you?’
The burbled reply makes no sense but, as before, words appear in Palchus’s head. ‘I have more names than I care to remember. Some of them might make sense to you, I suppose, but none of them come close to the truth. My current master calls me Cerbalus. That will suffice for one such as you.’
Palchus latches desperately on to these shreds of information. ‘Your master? Who is your master? Let me speak with him. As soon as he realises who I am, you will find–’
‘Oh, Inquisitor Mortmain knows very well who you are, Palchus van Tol. You are here on his instructions, in fact.’
Despite his agony, Palchus lets out an incredulous laugh. ‘Mortmain? He would not dare!’
The darkness fills with the sound of scraping metal and a face appears directly in front of Palchus. It is the most terrifying thing the Navigator has ever seen. It must once have belonged to a mortal, living man, but now it is a fleshy casket, straining to contain a writhing, unspeakable horror. The shaven scalp has split in several places, revealing cherry-coloured coils of bone and a faint, shimmering light. The eyes have been scorched away, leaving two blackened pits, with cold blue fire shimmering in their centres. The whole head is torn and misshapen. Only one thing seems to be holding the mangled lump together: a mass of rusty chains snake in and out of the face, embedded deep in the bones and glinting dully as the mouth opens in a wide, toothless grin. ‘Oh, you would be surprised at what he dares.’
As the ruptured flesh talks, Palchus sees the reason for the gurgling, moist quality of its voice. The thing’s throat is torn and ruined, and its vocal cords are clearly exposed, rattling loosely in a nest of glistening muscle.
Palchus tries to pull back from the monster. Terrible as its appearance is, the thing that really appals him is the voice in his head. The words are so unnatural and malignant he can feel his mind buckling under the strain. This is no mortal creature leaning over him. Something unholy has been bound into the flesh of man. The word ‘daemon’ drifts into his thoughts, but he tries to squash it before madness overwhelms him. ‘You have to help me,’ he gasps.
‘Of course I do,’ answers the pile of gore and chain. ‘Mortmain was most concerned for your safety. I cannot leave you in this awkward condition.’
&
nbsp; Palchus screams. The monster has placed a hand on the sword in his belly and is tugging it up towards his ribcage.
‘Of course,’ it continues when the Navigator is quiet again, ‘I can remove this blade quickly or slowly. I can remove it with care, or less care.’
‘What do you want of me?’ moans the Navigator, as fresh blood pools in his lap.
‘I want you to talk, Palchus, that is all. There is no need for any more unpleasantness. I just need to know why you and your family have come to the Domitus.’
Palchus sees a glimmer of hope, then sighs as he realises the truth of his situation. Strangely, he feels his fear diminishing slightly as he accepts his fate. ‘You could never let me live. Not now you’ve told me who your master is.’
There is another rattle of shifting chains and something appears in front of Palchus’s face. It is the monster’s hand. The fingers are grey and crooked. Gleaming patches of bone are visible beneath lines of jagged, crudely sewn skin. The nails are purple and torn. But it is not the ruined flesh that Palchus notices, it is the long, metal syringe in its grip.
‘You’re quite wrong,’ explains the voice in Palchus’s head. ‘If you would just talk to me, I can wipe away all memory of this encounter. My master has an endearing propensity for mercy, you see. He has specifically requested that I try to help you. You will be found slumped in a gutter, near the slaves’ quarters, wounded but alive, and your father will reprimand you for nearly getting yourself killed.’ The monster brings the needle closer to Palchus’s face so that he can see the liquid dripping from its tip. ‘All you need to do is explain why you have not left for Terra. What is your family’s particular interest in this planet? What links you to Ilissus?’
Palchus’s heart begins to race again as he sees that he might be able to survive after all. All he need do is tell the monster about the true cause of Ilissus’s storms.
The ravaged face moves closer, sensing that the Navigator is about to speak.
Then Palchus closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip. To his surprise, he realises that something means more to him than his own precious life. How could he confide in this creature? If the truth about Ilissus were revealed, it would be the end of everything; the end of House van Tol. Their long, distinguished history would be stricken from Imperial records. His glorious lineage would be made worthless. Their properties would be taken and, worst of all, they would be disgraced. The whole of Terra would think that Palchus van Tol was the son of a traitor.
Palchus groans in torment. ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ he whispers, unable to believe what he is saying.
The monster leans on the broken sword and sends another bolt of agony through Palchus’s stomach. ‘Are you sure?’ A long, rusty knife appears in front of Palchus’s face. ‘I’m more than happy to extract the information from you, but people don’t generally enjoy my methods.’
Palchus knows all too well the methods that are likely to be employed by an Inquisitorial lackey, but there is a new sensation mixed with his abject terror: a surety that he cannot let this dreadful being discover the truth. ‘Some things are worth dying for,’ he says quietly.
The thing laughs. ‘Oh, you won’t die, Palchus, I will make sure of that.’ The blade presses against the Navigator’s trembling throat. ‘I’m very skilled at my craft. I’ve had millennia to perfect it.’
Palchus’s voice remains oddly calm as he replies. ‘My father had doubts about coming to the Domitus. He knew it would be disastrous if one of us spoke out of turn. His great fear was that Mortmain might discover the truth.’
‘The truth, Palchus? What is the truth?’
Palchus lifts his chin and flares his nostrils. ‘The truth is that you will get nothing from me. My father foresaw just this kind of eventuality. He made us take precautions.’
The voice in Palchus’s head sounds excited, as though trying to contain laughter. ‘Precautions? What do you mean? What kind of–’
The sentence goes unfinished as Palchus stamps his right foot on the stone floor with all his strength. The heel of his boot collapses and the explosive charge contained within fills the chamber with blinding light.
The blast is so powerful that the sound travels several kilometres, to a small, dingy chamber, where Palchus’s father looks up in alarm.
Chapter Seven
The ground splits and churns as Halser races towards the tower. Rocks and bolter shells rattle against his helmet as he weaves through the enemy blasts. At the foot of the building he launches his power-armoured bulk against a rotten door and it implodes in spectacular fashion, sending him tumbling into a small courtyard. The gunfire grows even more frenzied, but the sergeant turns his tumble into a roll and clatters across the exploding flagstones, scraping to a halt behind a ruined well and raising his bolt pistol to return fire.
He sees a row of Traitor Marines, slumped against the undulating parapet at the top of the strange tower. One of them is carrying a twisted, horned lump of metal. At first Halser cannot recognise it, but as a beam of crackling blue light erupts from the thing’s barrel, he realises it is a lascannon.
The well disintegrates and Halser is thrown back across the courtyard. The impact would have killed a mortal man, but the sergeant’s power armour softens the blast with a wheeze of hydraulics, allowing him to roll clear, unharmed. As a second Traitor Marine opens fire with an equally grotesque bolt pistol, Halser stands and calmly fires back. Shots ring out from several directions at once, filling the courtyard with light, sound and smoke, and making it impossible to see anything. Power-armoured boots pound back and forth, and metallic voices ring out through the din.
Halser cannot be sure if he has hit anything. He tries to aim at the traitor with the lascannon, but the drifting smoke makes it impossible to be sure what he is seeing. Twice he almost fires and then lowers his weapon, afraid of hitting one of his own men. He sees a flash of sparking metal to his left. Comus is jamming his force sword into someone Halser cannot see. There is a screech of grinding metal as the Librarian wrenches his blade free, painting the clouds red as he staggers back and prepares to swing again. ‘Their shots are wild!’ he cries, levelling his sword at the walls. ‘Someone else is attacking them!’
Someone else? Halser pounds through the smoke to get a better view. As he nears the wall he sees the Chaos Marines lined up on the battlements. Comus is right. All of them are being twisted into bizarre positions: dragged awkwardly to one side or wrenched back over the wall. One of them manages to aim his bolter at Halser, but the shot whines past his head, missing by a metre as the traitor struggles to hang on to his gun.
Halser sprints through the whirling clouds, calling for the squad to advance as he spies a staircase at the foot of the circular wall. As he pounds up the crumbling steps, he sees the reason for the Chaos Marines’ odd poses. The clouds of smoke and dust have taken hold of them, wrapping around their misshapen power armour in hazy, shifting columns.
The traitor with the lascannon hefts it round to face the oncoming sergeant, but as he tries to aim he slumps forwards onto his knees, weighed down by the storm.
Halser raises his bolt pistol to fire and pauses in shock. His opponent’s leg is now encased in stone, stone that merges seamlessly with the clouds. The limbs of smoke are solidifying as they envelop the Chaos Marines, and morphing into rock. ‘By the Throne,’ gasps Halser, stumbling to a halt. He does not have long to consider the strangeness of the scene. The parapet behind him explodes as another shot goes wide. Halser puts aside his amazement and charges at the beleaguered enemy, jamming his rattling chainsword into the first breastplate he reaches and howling a battle-cry as he disappears in a shower of blood and shredded armour.
The others race up after him, firing calm, precise shots into the heaving mass. The enemy outnumber them two to one, but there is no contest. As the Relictors blast them apart, the Chaos Marines are wrenched to the ground by vast, animated banks of smoke. As they drop to the flagstones, the smoke forms spines of roc
k – just like all the other twisted pillars that cover the planet’s surface.
For a few minutes the clouds pulse with light as Halser and the others unleash a sustained volley at their howling foes. Then, as it become clear that there are no shots being fired in return, Halser wrenches his rattling chainsword from a limp body and staggers back, raising the bloody weapon over his head and turning to face his men.
The gunfire ceases and the Relictors lower their guns, surveying the carnage they have wrought. The walls of the tower are scorched and peppered with holes, and the mangled remains of Chaos Marines lie sprawled across the blood-slick masonry. The Relictors watch in amazement as the columns lose their last shreds of smoke and settle into solid, fixed limbs of rock, enveloping the fallen like a shroud. Horned, groaning helmets adorn the towers like onyx studs in a vast piece of jewellery.
Halser counts the Space Marines gathered on the wall. Only seven have climbed up with him. There is no sign of Comus. He looks down into the courtyard and sees the Librarian’s distinctive blue power armour, spread-eagled across the flagstones, surrounded by blood. A man is backing away from him, quickly disappearing into the rolling dust clouds.
The sergeant’s pulse pounds in his ears, still charged with bloodlust and, without a second thought, he raises his pistol and guns down the receding figure. Only as he climbs down the steps does he see that the fallen man is unarmed and his robes are embroidered with Imperial insignia. Halser curses and turns the man over with his boot. He is still alive but gasping for breath and clutching feebly at the ragged hole in his shoulder. His robes must have originally been white, but they are quickly turning red. The wound looks bad but not fatal and Halser cannot decide whether that is a good or bad thing. The Imperial aquila is emblazoned across the man’s chest, but there is something about him that reeks of heresy: both his eyes have been surgically removed, replaced by a two lines of ragged stitching, and a lump of crystal in the shape of a star has been hammered into his forehead.
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