‘The barn!’ he cries, waving to a low, stone building at the side of the road near his men. ‘Take cover! Volter, buy them time.’
The Relictors finally move with some speed. Two of them lift Comus from his feet and charge from the road with him while the rest dive for cover. At the same time, Brother Volter drops to one knee and brings his lascannon to bear on the approaching hordes. The far end of the road erupts in blue flames as he finds his mark. Tiny, black-clad figures spin into the air and for a moment the advance falters. Before they have chance to return fire, Brother Volter rolls across the road and drops into the roadside ditch.
Seconds later, the road where he knelt explodes like a lake in a hailstorm. Stone and shrapnel whines through the air as the enemy guns tear up the landscape.
As the Black Legion continue to race down the road, the Relictors hunker down by the barn and open fire. The enemy make no attempt to find cover and the air shimmers with the heat of the Relictors’ bolter fire.
The evening lights up again as Brother Volter fires a second shot with his lascannon, cutting another great hole in the advancing ranks.
As the wall behind him starts shattering under the enemy fire, Sergeant Halser clamps his helmet into place and looks from his men to the gates behind him. Through the gap he sees a stampede of white-robed figures as the pilgrims empty the streets and rush to defend the walls. ‘What can they do?’ he wonders aloud. Then he remembers the pain of Frater Gortyn’s prayers, clawing at his thoughts.
‘Comus,’ he snaps, dragging the still cursing Pylcrafte from the ditch. ‘I think I have a chance of reaching the scriptorium. The pilgrims will focus their attention on the Traitor Marines. Can you lend me your support if they try and stop me?’
The reply through the vox-bead is a hoarse, indecipherable grunt, but a clearer voice appears in the sergeant’s thoughts. ‘Be quick. There are too many of them for us to hold.’
‘I think you may have help,’ replies Halser, watching the pilgrims rushing to man Madrepore’s battlements. He turns and addresses Pylcrafte. ‘I’m going in. Stay and fight, or help me find the scriptorium.’ Then, as the enemy fire grows in ferocity, he leans on one of the iron gates and shoves it back a few more centimetres, allowing himself enough room to squeeze thorough and enter the city.
The sight that greets him is bewildering. At the heart of the city is a huge fortified temple with a thick, hexagonal tower at its centre. Nestled around it are hundreds of other buildings, all constructed of the same, writhing, coral-like rock, and all glittering with rows of crystalline eyes. As the eyes roll and blink, the buildings shimmer, so that the city seems to be undulating with light, and the whole scene is shrouded in vast, drifting columns of moonlit cloud. The storms Halser saw from orbit seem to be emanating from this single point. The combination of glimmering eyes and writhing clouds is overwhelming. It looks as though Madrepore is carved from shifting, moonlit water.
Halser pauses for a second, trying to see a way through the pulsing clouds and milling, panic-stricken crowds. He hisses into his vox-bead: ‘Which way, Comus? What do I do?’
‘Head for the centre of the city,’ comes a reply in his mind. ‘The prophet has built his temple directly over the scriptorium. If anyone knows what happened to its contents, it will be him.’ There is a pause, then Comus speaks through the vox-bead, his voice a ragged growl. ‘I don’t know how long I can keep them out of your head, sergeant.’
Halser nods, but still hesitates, unsure how to proceed through the incredible display. Most of the pilgrims are charging to the walls, but hundreds are also racing down the wide road that leads from the gate to the temple.
‘So many of them, and all damned,’ mutters a trembling voice at Halser’s side and he remembers the inquisitor’s acolyte is still with him. Pylcrafte is waving his cane at the shifting clouds, as though he can ward off the corruption surrounding him.
The sergeant turns to speak, but before he can, a huge section of wall explodes just above the gate. The air fills with screams and spinning chunks of masonry and, to Halser’s delight, the road ahead clears, as the pilgrims scramble for cover.
‘Keep close,’ he cries, charging down the road.
As he approaches the temple walls he sees a long building to his left, topped with a huge stone star and crowded with pilgrims. Many of them have stopped to watch him and, even with Comus shielding his thoughts, he starts to feel their furious prayers battering against his mind. He tries to ignore them and focus on reaching the doors to the temple, but as he does so, he stumbles to a halt.
He is back at the city gates, looking down at Pylcrafte.
‘So many of them, and all damned,’ says the hooded figure, waving his cane.
Halser curses and shakes his head, trying to rid himself of his confusion. ‘What is happening?’ he cries. ‘I keep seeing the same thing, over and over.’
He hears the voice of Comus in his head again. ‘Sergeant. The power of this Astraeus is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I think time itself is bending to his will.’ He pauses. ‘Or maybe not even that. It feels almost as though time is collapsing.’
Halser groans in frustration. ‘By the Throne, Comus. What are you talking about?’
There is no reply and Halser vents his frustration on the city wall, slamming his armoured fist into the rock and shattering a cluster of blinking eyes. Then he tries again, racing off towards the temple with Pylcrafte stumbling after him, still cursing and muttering into his hood.
Brother-Librarian Comus lies bleeding in a ditch. Bolter fire rattles and whines overhead but he is only vaguely aware of it. All his attention is fixed on the small, metal-bound book clutched in his hand. He remembers the first time he handled the xenos device, given to him by Inquisitor Mortmain, all those years ago. It took months of fierce, uninterrupted prayer before he would even consider opening his mind to such unholy, alien sentience. He was sure of his purpose then: to glean what he could whilst keeping his mind intact. But now what does he feel? The thing is killing him, he is sure of that. Every time he allows those luminous characters to flood his mind, he feels a little more of his soul being torn away. Even on a purely psychical level the effect is obvious: he has been bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth since they arrived on Ilissus and, without the aid of his battle-brothers, he can barely stand. However, that is not the worst of it. The thing that fills him with dread is that the libellus no longer feels so alien. It no longer feels wrong. It is becoming part of him. Comus draws himself upright and closes the book with a shudder. What is he becoming?
He turns to the Relictor crouched next to him in the ditch. Brother Borellus has his bolter balanced on the scorched earth and his shoulder is jerking back as he fires round after round down the road, picking off the advancing traitors with medical precision. For a second, Comus cannot recall exactly how they got there.
‘Where are the others?’ he groans, wiping the blood from his eyes.
Brother Borellus holds fire for a second but does not turn around. ‘Brothers Sabine and Thaler are just behind you, further down the ditch. Strasser, Vortimer and Brunman are holed up in the barn, although they’ve taken some heavy hits. Volter is on the far side of the road.’ A note of pride enters his voice. ‘His lascannon is giving them pause for thought.’ He fires off another few rounds, muttering happily to himself as more of the traitors spin back into the clouds. ‘And Sergeant Halser has entered the city, with Inquisitor Mortmain’s servant, but…’ He looks down at the Librarian briefly, his voice hesitant. ‘…you know that.’
Comus nods, relieved that Borellus’s words make sense. He cannot help but notice, though, that his battle-brother’s Low Gothic seems unusually crude and clumsy. He realises, to his horror, that he is comparing it unfavourably to the alien language that has embedded itself in his thoughts. Anger knots his stomach. Why should they have to endure this? Why should they have to prove themselves after so many long centuries of service and so many sacrifices in the Emperor’s name? He
shakes his head and looks back along the ditch. As Borellus stated, there are another two Relictors crouched behind him firing steadily into the oncoming ranks. Above them, further down the road, rise the walls of Madrepore and its shimmering, hexagonal tower. Prove them wrong, Sergeant Halser, he thinks, grasping one of the religious texts chained to his power armour. Show them what we are worth.
Chapter Seventeen
As Inquisitor Mortmain marches through the Domitus, he draws the billhook from his belt. The black metal blinks red under the flashing lights as he strides through the corridors, swinging it back and forth, testing the weight of the blade in his hand. Crude script runs down its centre: words too vile for even an inquisitor to study. As he reaches a shattered door he pauses, listening to what he hopes is the sound of vast, thermonuclear weapons powering up. But the ship is shaking so violently he cannot be sure if he is hearing the result of his orders or the sound of the approaching daemon.
‘Cerbalus,’ he breathes, wondering if he has the strength to face the coming encounter. He is an old man, and all the faith in the galaxy cannot match the fury of youth. The officers on the bridge have their orders and they will work fast, but he will still need to buy them time. The inquisitor casts his mind back through the decades to the day he bound Cerbalus to his will. On the scorched earth of Azoras he and his brothers faced the monster down, armed with powerful, ancient wards and a bitter chorus of litanies. But the cabal that saved Azoras is no more. Inquisitors Medeon, Orium and Shaaraim are long dead. This time he must face the beast alone. Even his old friend Sergeant Halser will soon be gone: torn apart by a firestorm of Mortmain’s own creation.
Mortmain looks down at the capital I emblazoned across his breastplate. Youth is gone. Friendship is gone. Faith will have to suffice. He kicks the broken door, scattering the blackened metal across the heaving corridor and strides into the next chamber. He enters a pillar-lined cloister, so wide and tall it seems as though he has stepped out into a stormy, summer’s evening. The air is cloying, thick and sulphurous. Ancient, beautiful mosaics are tumbling from the walls, exploding across the flagstones like brittle, enamelled rain.
At the far end of the central colonnade there is a shape. It is no more than a shadow amongst shadows, but Mortmain knows his prey. Evil seeps from it like smoke. The inquisitor peers through the darkness, straining to make out details, but the shadow shifts and ripples across the floor, liquid and supple.
There is still hope, thinks Mortmain. The idea surprises him, but once loosed from his subconscious it grows in certainty. ‘There is hope,’ he breathes, realising that the daemon is bodiless; it has no host. Its vile presence has been set loose by Justicar Lyctus and his Grey Knights, and without a physical home it will soon be dragged into the immaterium, folded back into the shifting hell that spawned it.
The shadow elongates and drifts down the colonnade, assuming a fixed shape only when it is a few metres away. It adopts the form of a man; or, at least, something resembling a man. It towers over Mortmain, three metres tall and topped by the head of a diseased, slick-feathered carrion crow. As the daemon steps closer, it spreads a pair of ink-black wings and two scrawny arms, delighting in the destruction it has wrought. ‘Do you think, master,’ it asks in an amiable tone, ‘that, after all these years of service, I might request something in return?’
Mortmain gives no reply, stepping sideways between the columns, passing the billhook from hand to hand. He knows his pistol would only feed the thing’s strength, but the blade has secrets even Cerbalus does not share.
‘Come now,’ laughs the daemon. ‘Is it so much to ask?’ Its form breaks apart and reassembles itself behind Mortmain, causing him to whirl around and adopt a fighting stance. ‘Think of the squalid deeds I have performed at your request. Think of the blood on my hands that should have been on yours. Surely I deserve a little thanks? A little recompense?’
Mortmain backs carefully away. There is hope, he thinks again as he notices an edge to the daemon’s voice. Despite its attempt to sound calm, he senses an undercurrent of emotion. Decades of interrogation have honed his senses until he can discern even the subtlest hints of fear, or anger. As he circles the daemon, Mortmain realises that he has one final weapon: the daemon hates him, hates him with a passion that could even blind it to anything else.
‘You think I would let your vile presence pollute the body of an Imperial inquisitor?’ Mortmain’s voice is as calm and even as the daemon’s. Suddenly he feels as though his entire life has been building to this moment, this single test of his will. Can he keep the daemon distracted long enough for the crew to launch the attack on Ilissus? Can he play one final trick on a servant of the greatest trickster of them all? ‘Try me, Cerbalus!’ he roars, relishing the look of shock in the daemon’s avian eyes. ‘I will take you down, daemon! Send you back to the pit you crawled out of!’
Cerbalus’s huge, ragged wings droop and it tilts its head to one side, surprised to find the old man in such a defiant mood.
Before the daemon has chance to reply, Mortmain snaps a syllable so coarse and guttural he has to spit it out with a grimace. As he speaks, the first of the glyphs carved into his billhook blazes with light and he attacks with surprising speed, slashing the blade through the daemon’s leg before it has chance to recoil.
Cerbalus screeches. The sound slices through the cacophony, shrill and hideous as it echoes around the towering columns. ‘How?’ it whines, scrabbling back into the darkness, tearing up flagstones with its clawed feet.
‘How?’ cries Mortmain. ‘How can I hurt you like that?’ He swings the billhook from side to side, flinging inky blood into the shadows as he advances on the huge, cowering shape. The first character on the blade is still aflame with the force of his oath, and as he advances he spits out another contorted syllable. As the sound leaves his lips, a second glyph pulses into life and Mortmain leaps forwards, hacking another chunk out of the daemon’s leg.
Cerbalus wails in pain and shock and, with a beat of its enormous wings, hurls itself up towards the distant, ribbed vaults of the ceiling.
‘Your name, daemon!’ Mortmain’s voice is a deep, victorious howl. ‘I did not share everything with you! Do you think I have been idle all these long decades? Do you think I never foresaw this moment?’ The inquisitor climbs on the shattered stump of a marble column and levels the billhook at the shape hovering overhead. ‘Face me, abomination! Or are you afraid?’
Cerbalus swoops across the chamber and wraps its shifting form around one of the pillars, several metres above Mortmain. At the word ‘afraid’ its bird-like head snaps around and glares at the inquisitor. ‘Afraid?’ it screeches. Its rage is so great that its form shifts through dozens of shapes, trembling and flickering in and out of view. ‘You are nothing! You are the lapdog of a puppet corpse. How can you even look at me? You are an insect!’
The lights in the chamber dim as a grinding, deafening hum rumbles through the walls.
The daemon snaps its head in the other direction, peering at the broken door. ‘You have already begun,’ it whispers. ‘Exterminatus.’
The chamber lurches to one side and Mortmain is forced to grab a pillar to steady himself. ‘Go, then, daemon,’ he cries. ‘You will find nothing but pain here.’
Cerbalus looks back at the inquisitor, its eyes full of dark fire. ‘What would you know of pain?’ The daemon launches itself from the pillar, ripples through the darkness and materialises next to Mortmain.
Before the inquisitor can raise his billhook, a ragged, filthy claw slices through his leather cloak and sends him flying across the room in a spray of blood. He slams into a pillar with a howl of pain and scrambles away into the darkness, cursing under his breath.
Cerbalus spins on the spot, spreading its wings and arching its long neck as it laughs with pleasure, forgetting everything but the ecstasy of revenge.
Mortmain staggers from pillar to pillar, his head spinning. Once he reaches the far side of the chamber he pulls back the shr
eds of his cloak to reveal an arm that is equally torn. His left bicep is completely ruined, hanging from his tattered flesh like raw steak. As the daemon continues spinning through the shadows, laughing to itself, Mortmain tears a strip of leather from his cloak and ties a quick tourniquet. He still has the glowing billhook in his right hand, and as he taps it against his breastplate he is relieved to feel that it is still intact. Without the prayers and sigils worked into its ornate metal, the mere presence of the daemon would split his mind as thoroughly as his ruined arm.
Suddenly the laughter is right next to him, but this time Mortmain is ready. He rolls clear of the daemon’s claws and chants a third, potent syllable, lighting up another character on his weapon.
Cerbalus cringes at the sound, but before it can withdraw its claw, Mortmain chops down with the billhook, slicing another piece of the daemon and causing it to screech in pain and frustration.
This time it does not flee, though. Before Mortmain can draw breath for another letter, the daemon stoops low over him and a talon rips open his thigh, sending him toppling to the ground. The pain is like nothing he has ever experienced but, as he slams onto the floor, he manages to gasp another syllable and lash out with the billhook.
Cerbalus croaks and gurgles as the blade rips open its throat.
By now the inquisitor’s black weapon is alive with flaming characters. ‘I have your name!’ howls Mortmain, attempting to disguise the lie by screaming it with all the force he can muster. ‘I will banish you, Cerbalus! You have no place here!’
The daemon’s twisted, stooping form backs away from him, clutching at the wound in its throat, unable to comprehend how the inquisitor’s weapon could sever flesh that does not even exist. ‘My name? How could you?’
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