by Guy Haley
The three tunnels, despite their outward similarity, were different in character. The lowest went on for a kilometre before curving down at a sharp angle to become a tubular pit a hundred metres deep. Solon had been on the mapping expedition for that one, lowered down on ropes to find it terminating in a perfect bowl of black stone. The upper tunnel wound its way on random curves for thousands of metres, twisting back upon itself twice, before abruptly narrowing into three tiny apertures that went off in different directions.
The middle tunnel went straight on towards the mountain and the Pharos, joining with the main system there.
Corvo’s strike force went far enough that they were all within. Oberdeii was at the head with Corvo and Tebecai. He glanced back at the green curtain of the entrance, wishing he were back outside.
‘This is the way, Captain Corvo,’ said Oberdeii. At the thought of going back into the tunnels, his voice quavered, and he cursed himself inwardly.
‘Tell me what to expect.’
‘The tunnels are extensive, and mostly unknown. We had mapped maybe ten per cent reliably before the invasion, at least so Magos Carantine told me, captain.’
‘Reliably?’
‘Getting accurate readings is hard. And they don’t always… They don’t always seem to be the same, my lord,’ said Tebecai.
Corvo grunted. He had evidently seen stranger things in his time.
‘This tunnel is the furthest out from the mountain,’ said Tebecai. ‘It’s about twenty kilometres to the main chambers at the centre. It’s not bad going to begin with – perfectly level for the first three kilometres, but it branches at the mountain and the path we need takes on gradient. It’s shallow at first, but increases in steepness.’ He muttered under his breath. ‘Or it did the last time we looked.’
‘I take it these caverns are not simply caverns, neophyte,’ said Corvo.
Oberdeii drew in a shaking breath. ‘Captain, we had an incident here. I… Well…’
‘The Lion himself ordered us not to speak of it,’ said Tebecai, finishing the sentence for him.
‘Then do not,’ Corvo said with a respectful nod.
Oberdeii relaxed a little. ‘The upper levels have walkways put in by Warsmith Dantioch and the Mechanicum teams. The major tunnels of the lower complex have them too – those that lead to locations that have a direct bearing on the functioning of the Pharos.’ Oberdeii parroted words spoken him by Arkus long months ago, before they began the mapping initiative. It comforted him to be repeating information from before, when life was secure. ‘The material of the tunnels has some odd properties.’
‘Such as?’ asked Corvo.
‘Light absorption, and at sunset and sunrise, light emission,’ said Oberdeii.
‘Lord Dantioch calls it the light event, but the Sothans call it the light song,’ said Tebecai. ‘For a few seconds the tunnels fill with golden light.’
‘Noted. That will stand to our advantage. The Night Lords dislike bright light.’
‘The main–’
Corvo held up his hand. ‘The others have returned. It is time to move on. Continue your explanation as we march, neophyte. Column! Double pace. Support squads to the rear.’
Corvo set off at a lope, his long legs eating up distance. Oberdeii cast a final look behind him. Now the Sothans were no longer with them, the column of Space Marines went faster.
‘There are steep slopes and sudden drops, and it is hard to maintain purchase in those places,’ continued Oberdeii. ‘We must remain on the path – if we leave it we will become lost. The walls baffle auspex and most other scanning techniques.’
‘So you had to map it all manually?’ said Corvo. His speech came easily from his vox-grille. The pace they went was achievable for the Scouts, but they panted as they ran. Corvo did not.
Tebecai gave Oberdeii a sidelong glance. ‘My lord, this a strange mountain.’
The tunnel closed in around them, fluidly organic, like the tubule in an organ of an unimaginable creature. The light from the mouth dwindled away to a grey-green suggestion. The weight of stone and years pressed hard on Oberdeii.
The tunnel widened. Two apertures presented themselves, the left an extreme, horizontal ellipse, the right a tall circle.
Oberdeii slowed, and stopped. The column following him and Tebecai did the same. He looked into the darkness of the cave. Something deep down looked back into him.
And they shall know no fear.
He took a hesitant step forward.
And they shall know no fear! The voice in his mind became hysterical, a parody of the recordings of the Emperor.
I am not afraid, he told himself. I am not afraid.
But he was afraid, and he should not be. He was not afraid of the Night Lords, or dying, or fighting. He was afraid of the deep cold under the earth, he was afraid of the endless turns and twists of the tunnels. He was afraid of the great machine, still impossibly functioning after millions of years. He was afraid of the things he heard whispering from the shadows. He was afraid of the revelations that waited for him, eager to spill more of the universe’s boundless horrors into his mind…
But most of all, he was afraid of the dark.
‘Is there a problem, neophyte? Have you lost your way?’ asked Corvo.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I have not. It is the right-hand branch. It will take us deep into the mountain, past Primary Location Beta, and on towards the quantum engines.’
‘Then proceed.’
‘Yes, Captain Corvo.’
They shall know no fear.
The Emperor’s words echoing in his mind, Oberdeii choked down his unease. He stepped out of last dying glow of the Sothan sun and into the endless, alien deeps of the Pharos.
The Sothans did not have long to wait for their pursuers. Before an hour was out they came into the clearing.
They were savages, far removed in appearance from the polished uniformity of the Ultramarines. Their dark blue armour was covered in the images of death, skulls painted upon their face masks. Their squad markings were small and often obscured, their plates festooned with jangling chains from which hung the bones of their victims. Skulls were gathered at their waists in obscene bunches. Some of the warriors were wearing masks over their helms. A moment passed before Mericus realised they were the stretched, tanned faces of their victims. One wore a long cloak made of skin. Lightning patterns flickered over the larger plates of some of them. There were other images playing there, bright and red. Mericus was glad he could not see them.
There were at least sixty traitors. Twenty in plain view in the clearing before the cave mouth. The movement of the quicktrees left and right betrayed the presence of more. The thick saplings crowding the edge of the clearing parted.
‘Now?’ asked Dorican.
‘Wait!’ whispered Mericus. ‘There are more coming to the left and right. We must catch as many as possible if we are to help the others.’
He made no mention of their own survival. There was no chance of that.
The Night Lords gathered below their position. One of them was a tracker of some kind, pointing out the marks of the Ultramarine’s passage to his superiors. One bore a massive axe, while another carried a glaive.
‘Mericus, they’re going to see us soon!’
‘Pretend you’re on a phantine drive, Hasquin,’ said Mericus.
‘These aren’t phantines!’
‘They’ll kill you just the same if you make a mistake. Hold your fire.’
More of the Night Lords were coming into the clearing. Despite their ill-favoured look, they were disciplined, and fanned out to secure the area. Their commanders were directly beneath them, night-blue monsters in cloaks of scarlet. Mericus shrank back into the scrubby plants of the ledge.
‘Now? We have to open fire now!’ hissed Chelvan.
Mericus shook his h
ead. More of the enemy were converging on the clearing. Their guard never faltered, with their bolters up, heads and weapons tracking together as they covered every centimetre of the terrain.
A Night Lord looked toward the concealed heavy weapons. Mericus flinched, but they were not noticed.
Corvo’s force had made no effort to hide their passing, but had instead damaged the vegetation around each cave mouth. The Night Lords fanned out, silently sending recon parties inside. The rest retreated into the brush and kept watch. There were still not enough of their total number in the clearing for Mericus’ liking, but there never was going to be a perfect moment. Better they preserve the element of surprise.
‘Fire!’ he shouted, abandoning stealth.
Let the bastards know who killed them. He wanted them to be aware as they died that mere mortals had brought them low.
The bass chugging of three heavy bolters was deafening, drowning out the almost pathetic-sounding crack of lasguns. The lasbeams stabbed out at the Space Marines to little effect. But when large-calibre mass-reactives thundered into the lead Night Lords on jets of short-lived fire, they easily penetrated war-plate. Ceramite ruptured as it struggled to contain the explosions. Blood burst from huge wounds. One Night Lord lost his arm, another his head. Five were dead before they realised what was happening, more gravely injured or knocked off their feet by the force of the impacts.
Mericus’ triumphant grin turned to a frown. He never expected them to react so quickly. There was no confusion as he would have expected from a human soldier, no wild weapons discharge. They smoothly fell into a covering fire pattern, those closest to the treeline aiming up at the rocks, stepping backwards as they shot, those furthest running full pelt into the cover of the trees. Bolt-shells burst all around the Sothans’ vantage point, peppering them with painful splinters of rock. But Govenisk had been correct, their angles of fire were poor. As the rock face below them was shattered into chips, the men of the Sothan First remained unharmed.
‘We’ve got them on the run!’ shouted Eontagn, one of Govenisk’s men. He stood up to better aim his lasgun and paid for his rashness with a bolt-round to his torso. Eontagn ceased to exist as a human being, his remains showering them with fragments of flesh.
‘Stay down!’ screamed Mericus at the men. The elation of battle flooded him, and the heady mix of fear and adrenaline birthed in him a ferocious joy.
Mericus’ world shrank to a sphere centred on the clearing. Each burst of propellant as the bolts ignited on their way out of the heavy bolter barrels was a starburst. The smell of shattering rock was sharp and invigorating. The leaves of the trees took on an emerald lustre. Most glorious of all was to see the Night Lords run from the wrath of smaller men.
It could never last. A Night Lord came to the edge of the trees with a missile launcher, his fellows round him in a protective formation.
‘Kill the heavy weapon!’ shouted Mericus.
Dorican tracked the bolter around, never taking his finger off the trigger. Large calibre mass-reactives blew small craters in the black soil, and stitched up the chest of the traitor. He fired as he died. The rocket went wide of its mark, shooting over the Sothans’ heads.
On the cliff above their position the missile exploded, bringing a tumble of rock down over the middle heavy bolter. Men screamed as they were pelted with rubble. The bolter collapsed on its bipod, the gunner dead.
‘I’m out!’ yelled Dorican.
Chelvan was up, a bulky replacement magazine in his hand. He slapped it into place and hit Dorican on the shoulder.
Mericus saw the Night Lord aiming for Chelvan, aiming a killing shot from a hundred metres away. He shoved at Chelvan’s legs, but the bolt caught him anyway. His arm blew free, the impact sending Chelvan screaming forty metres down the cliff.
‘That was all our ammunition!’ shouted Hasquin.
‘Dorican – make every bolt count!’ said Mericus. He was calm, far calmer than he had ever been in his life. Perhaps this was how the Legiones Astartes felt, fearless. ‘Look to the left! They’re coming up the sides.’
The Night Lords were clambering up the cliff face, making huge power-assisted leaps, their fingers digging fresh handholds into the rock. One slipped and fell from a height that would have slain a mortal man, but he scrambled up unharmed and went for a second attempt.
Mericus crawled past Dorican as he panned his weapon around. Night Lords died on the cliff face. The chugging of the weapon battered at his head. Mericus felt something go in his ear, his hearing dimmed, the sounds of the battle muffled by a painful ringing.
On his belly, Mericus made his way to the position of the second bolter team. The avalanche had crushed them, and Mericus had to shove blood-sticky loose stone out of the way to get at the dead loader. Rolling one large boulder free, Mericus found him. The leather magazine pouches were close to his fingertips. With a smile of relief, he reached for them, undid a clasp stiff with grit, and pulled out a full clip, grunting at the weight of it.
‘Dorican! I have it!’
His triumph was short-lived. A roaring shook the world. Shouting penetrated the ringing in his ruined ears, bangs of close-range gunfire, and the heavy bolters fell silent. He rolled over onto his back and was confronted with the stuff of nightmares.
A Night Lord towered over him, the turbo fans of his jump pack whickering. He wore sleeves of human skin over his arms. His mask was cast in the shape of a leering skull, small bat wings either side of it.
‘Look at what we have here.’ Dispassionately pronounced, the words struck an awful, stomach-turning fear into Mericus. ‘More flesh for the flensing.’
The Night Lord reached his obscenely clad hand down and grabbed Mericus’ shirt, hauling him to his feet.
Three other jump troops landed on the ledge. Only seven of Mericus’ command remained alive, their hands on their heads and fear plain on their faces.
‘Take them back to Lord Kellendvar,’ the monster ordered his comrades.
The Night Lords reached for men who wept open tears of terror. They were careless of their great strength, breaking the bones of mortal limbs as they seized their prey.
Jump pack jets ignited with throaty roars. The Space Marines leapt into the air. Mericus dangled from his captor’s hand like an infant taken by a giant in a story. He swung uncomfortably, felt something wrench in his shoulder. The Night Lord turned glaring helm lenses on him, and dropped him to the ground.
Mericus fell hard, sprawling on the sparse grasses. He struggled to his feet, finding himself in a crowd of looming giants. One of them slapped him hard across the cheek, breaking his teeth and sending him reeling. He spat blood, tried to stand, but a second blow broke his nose and spun him into the red darkness of unconsciousness.
It was a state he would long for many times before the end.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The blood of Sotha
Under the mountain
Whispers in the dark
Kellenkir plunged arms stripped of armour deep into the chest cavity of the skinless man, the one whose uniform gave his name as ‘M. Giraldus’. Their Apothecary had gone to great lengths to keep him alive for as long as possible, and he breathed still, but though his eyes were lidless and impossible to close, they looked upon distant vistas neither brother could see. There was a peace in them that Kellendvar found fascinating. Only minutes before, the man had been screaming uncontrollably.
The peace of his last moments had got into his brother. Kellenkir took a deep, shuddering breath and wrenched out his hand, bringing with it the mashed remains of the man’s heart. With one final clack of lipless teeth, the Sothan perished.
‘Kellenkir?’ asked Kellendvar. His brother’s eyes were closed in rapture. ‘Brother?’
A slow grin spread over Kellenkir’s face. ‘Death is so sweet,’ he said. ‘I think I understand it better now.’
Kellen
dvar’s eyes went to the sword of plain steel locked to Kellenkir’s side. He found he could not look at it for long. There was something amiss about it, a falseness to the way it caught the light that made him wary.
‘We are losing time,’ said Kellendvar.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kellenkir absently, already selecting his next victim.
He tossed aside the carcass. The body had become a bit of meat, unrecognisable as the man it had been.
‘See what we do to those who will not aid us!’ shouted Kellenkir. He lifted his bare, blood-soaked arms high over his head. ‘Tell us where the Ultramarines went, and we will be merciful.’
His boots squelched in bloody mud as he walked up and down the line of the Sothans. There were five remaining, kneeling at the edge of the gory clearing, a bolter to every head, forced to watch the torture and death of their fellows. Those that had shut their eyes had had them opened permanently. More than one stared unblinkingly, their cheeks tracked with blood. But they would not answer the question put to them.
One was close to cracking. Govenisk, his name ribbon proclaimed. A tremble afflicted his lower lip, and as he rigidly looked forward, he could not stop his eyes dancing up to rest upon the faces of the Space Marines before he remembered his terror, and snatched them away.
Giraldus, Govenisk… Kellendvar supposed they all had names, these feeble little people, they all had lives. He found it odd to think of them as human, or that he had been that way before his elevation. Mortal, weak and doomed to die at the hands of the strong. He owed the Emperor that much, nothing more.
He had been told, upon induction to the Legion, that the cruelties of Nostramo were not unusual in the galaxy, but that there were gentler places. That they, as Night Lords, would follow the example of the Night Haunter and strike terror into the hearts of evildoers so that the innocent could sleep easily.
There had been so many evildoers, and so few innocent. The men who had told them of this proud task and laid strictures upon their behaviour had died one by one, to be replaced by the very creatures they were meant to oppose. All the while the Legion had been sent on mission after mission to non-compliant human worlds, or those that had been brought into the fold and subsequently rebelled. Kellendvar wondered when he had started to question. It was not a definable moment, but an accretion of doubt. He had lost count of how many people he had flayed and mutilated before the Imperial Truth began to look like no truth at all. The memories of the Space Marines were eidetic, or very nearly so. But the tide of blood had been so great that he could not comprehend the enormity of what he had been ordered to do and retain his sanity. Each face he had peeled free of its skull, each babe tossed into the fires, he remembered them perfectly individually. Their terror, their pleas. Every one ignored in the pursuit of a callous, greater good. But when he tried to enumerate them, he simply could not. He could not let himself count the tormented dead.