The Unburdened

by David Annandale

  Kurtha Sedd had been chosen. So the Urizen declared. It was the Urizen who could grant him the vision to see his full truth at last.

  Reaching out, leaning to the edge of equilibrium, balancing over the void.

  ‘Guide me.’ A whisper falling into the dark.

  It would take so little to fall with his words.

  So little for the chains to loose forever, for the end of all burdens.

  Once more, his flesh became a thing of unimportance, a great distance away. His soul was free, suspended in the black. But the soul too, was a burden. It was the source of burdens, the curse that willingly wrapped itself in chains.

  To be free of all burdens was to be free of his soul.

  And now he saw. Now he saw the shape of the vision.

  He saw the Octed.

  There, in the furthest depths of Calth’s network of caverns, meaning had been carved through the rock. The lines and curves of the tunnels, their intersections and the extrusion of caverns, they all came together to form the symbol. Kilometres long, the eight-fold rune waited to be unleashed. It was incomplete. Passageways had collapsed. Others were fragmentary, reaching towards each other and fulfilment but stopping short. The Octed intruded into existence, and it writhed in the limbo of potential.

  A great task.

  Kurtha Sedd saw what was there, he saw what might be, and he saw what he must do.

  And then, though its being was partial, its full power a revelation to come, the Octed unveiled a great truth. It took the pain of Kurtha Sedd’s life. It took the burdens. It took the contradictions and lies and the betrayals and the blood, and it gave them meaning. As the tunnels formed its contours, it took the lineaments of his torment, and showed their form. Their shape. The rune they made, and the words they bore. His life had come to this point so that he could understand the revelation. He needed to be conscious of the burdens of existence, to feel all their dagger points, to know the nuances of their mass, so that he might grasp the awaiting transcendence.

  All burdens must be shed.

  The past, the present, the material body itself.

  And then the flesh shall be fused with the warp.

  A great task.

  He was weightless. Unburdened, he began to step forwards.

  A hand grasped his arm.

  Toc Derenoth caught Kurtha Sedd as he was about to walk into the abyss. The Chaplain’s pleas for guidance had echoed through the caverns and off the walls of the crevasse in which Toc Derenoth and some of his battle-brothers had fallen. Toc Derenoth had followed the sound and the withdrawing darkness to here. A second later and the Chaplain would have been gone.

  Toc Derenoth pulled Kurtha Sedd’s right arm, bringing him back from the void and turning him around. ‘Chaplain,’ he said. ‘Can you understand me? Are you well?’ He dreaded to learn that Kurtha Sedd was mad. The loss of the company’s leader in addition to the newest casualties would hurt. The divide between the more pragmatic and more spiritual Word Bearers would grow worse. With no clear mission, the injury caused by the Legion’s abandonment of Calth would fester.

  Kurtha Sedd faced him in silence for a moment. Then he shook his arm free of Toc Derenoth’s grasp and removed his helm. Toc Derenoth took a step back. The Chaplain’s eyes blazed. They were wide with revelation, shining with the reflected glory of black flame. Toc Derenoth had rarely seen Kurtha Sedd’s face in the decades since Monarchia. It was a gaunt, wretched death’s head, the skin mortified again and again by an overlapping patchwork of runic scars. The rituals embedded in his flesh were deep wounds. They were self-inflicted assaults, as if the pain of the flesh would distract from the pain of the soul. They were bleeding anew, all of them, whether recent or more than forty years old. Kurtha Sedd’s skull was covered in a thick film of blood, and the eyes looked out from their hollows with terrifying joy. The Chaplain was as changed as he had been by the events on Khur. The bitterness and the tortured rage that had defined him since then were now overlaid by a ferocity of faith, a determination that could shatter worlds.

  Toc Derenoth felt Kurtha Sedd’s gaze pierce his being, seeing not who he was but what he must become. After a few seconds, they focused on him and the present.

  ‘Brother,’ said Kurtha Sedd. His voice was strong with barely contained urgency. ‘You live. Are you alone?’

  ‘No. There are others. I’m not sure how many. We were scattered by the fall.’

  ‘Find them. Gather them. Bring them here.’ He gestured at the pit behind him. ‘We have work to do. The gods await us. There are miracles to come.’ He pushed Toc Derenoth back. ‘Find them,’ he said. ‘Find them!’

  Toc Derenoth had never disobeyed the Chaplain. Now, though, he was staggered by the force of the command. Nothing could disobey Kurtha Sedd now. The very stone would march at his command. Toc Derenoth turned and ran back into the gloom, calling to his brothers on the vox. Kurtha Sedd’s voice travelled before him. He was not pleading now. He was preaching.

  ‘Brothers!’ Kurtha Sedd shouted. ‘The end is before us! The end of the enemy! The end of his hope! The end of all lies! Transcendence is here! THE FLESH OF VICTORY WILL BE OURS!’

  With a voice as loud as the quake, he was shaping the destiny of all Fifth Company.

  He was roaring truth.

  THIRTEEN

  Unfinished duty

  Absolute

  Rise

  The vision was leaking away from Kurtha Sedd’s mind. He was having more and more trouble keeping the contours of the Octed before his eyes. The means of transcendence became vague. He knew he could reach into the warp. But he was no longer sure he knew how. The perfect clarity that had come when he was suspended over the void was no longer his. He raged with prayers and sermons as his brothers gathered before him. He shared the truth. He shared the wonder of the Octed. It was as if imparting the revelation diluted it.

  But that could not be so. His duty was to spread the Word. That was the meaning of his role as Chaplain. The gods could not have shown him the truth only to decree he should be unable to turn reality to their service. But though his conviction was strong, and sacred fanaticism spread before him, ignited by his voice, his confidence in his skills, and in his ability to complete the appointed task, diminished.

  The burdens were wrapping their chains around him once more. Something was dragging him back from the edge of the transcendent. Something was trapping him in the old pains.

  It could not be his brothers.

  Aethon, he realised.

  That task remained undone. He had not killed that echo of his past. The reminder of old friendship, the old friend, still lived. No matter how far the devastation of the quake had spread, Kurtha Sedd knew Aethon had survived. Fate would not be cheated. The test Kurtha Sedd most dreaded was for that very reason the most vital. He had not proved his faith. He had not smashed the chains of that burden.

  He paused in his sermon. He faced the truth. He let it sink in.

  Until he killed Aethon, Kurtha Sedd’s work would be incomplete. He would be incomplete.

  Blood still coated his scalp and face. He wiped it from his eyes and replaced his helm. He looked at his congregation. Word Bearers and cultists were arranged in a semicircle before him. The mortals were torn bags of flesh. Bones stuck out of arms and shoulders. Some had dragged themselves here, unable to walk on shattered legs. Kurtha Sedd knew better now than to be surprised that any had survived the fall. They were useful tools of the gods, and their faith impregnable. It was as invincible as the faith of the worshippers on Khur. Theirs had been misplaced, through no fault of their own, and he had been able to destroy it only by destroying them. He had been right to do so. Unbending faith was a power, even when it was faith in lies.

  But faith in the truth. Ah, that is a greater power yet.

  The cultists served the gods. They served the truth. They would serve until there was
nothing left of their flesh.

  That time is coming.

  It would come when he killed Aethon. Not before.

  He drew his crozius. Blood coursed down his face and pooled around the interior of his gorget. ‘War and revelation await us,’ he announced. He turned his back on the congregation and walked to the edge of the abyss. He spread his arms. ‘We have work to do.’

  So did he.

  He had to stanch the injury to his great vision.

  ‘The Chaplain has much to say about the flesh,’ Vor Raennag said.

  ‘Yes,’ Toc Derenoth said. He kept his voice neutral. He wanted to see where the sergeant was going with his thoughts.

  They were standing near the edge of the drop, on the left side of the cavern. Kurtha Sedd had ceased his preaching for the moment. He was giving orders for the formation of work parties and the disposition of defences.

  ‘Do you know what he means?’ Vor Raennag asked.

  ‘No.’

  Vor Raennag frowned. ‘You are being very cautious with your responses, brother.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What do you think of Kurtha Sedd’s words?’

  ‘What is there to think? I cannot doubt his truth.’ Nor did he. But he was evading Vor Raennag’s question. The sermon was making him think. It fired his faith. It also made him uneasy.

  ‘I do not understand what the transcendence of the flesh will be,’ Vor Raennag said.

  ‘We will soon enough.’

  ‘Will we?’

  Toc Derenoth said nothing.

  Vor Raennag sighed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, brother. I don’t question the Chaplain’s faith or that he has been chosen by the gods themselves. I believe they speak to him.’

  ‘You wonder if he interprets their words correctly,’ Toc Derenoth said.

  ‘Faith is not enough. Training and experience matter. There is a hierarchy in the Chaplaincy for a reason.’

  ‘Kurtha Sedd is no novice.’

  ‘No. But he is not Erebus.’ Vor Raennag glanced down into the darkness. ‘What Kurtha Sedd says lies below must be incredibly powerful. It would dwarf the forces already unleashed. They have hurt us as well as the enemy. Now we are to descend and begin a massive excavation. Our position is vulnerable.’

  ‘You’re worried about the strategy.’

  ‘Aren’t you? You lead your squad now, brother. Is this the moment to begin such a project? Should we be dividing our forces?’

  ‘How do you know we are?’ Kaeloq had come up behind them and spoken before Toc Derenoth could answer. His tone, even through the distortion of the vox-grille, was sneering. It was also angry.

  Vor Raennag looked at him. ‘You have something to say, legionary?’

  ‘That your faith is dangerously lacking, sergeant.’

  Vor Raennag took a step towards him.

  ‘And,’ Kaeloq continued, ‘Kurtha Sedd calls for you.’

  Vor Raennag grunted. He flexed unclenched the fist he had formed and stalked towards the Chaplain.

  ‘You as well, brother,’ Kaeloq said.

  Toc Derenoth nodded. Kaeloq fell in with him as he followed Vor Raennag.

  ‘How can he have doubts?’ Kaeloq demanded.

  Toc Derenoth said, ‘They are concerns about strategy. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh? He is ready to embrace the transcendence of the flesh?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Kaeloq answered, hissing with religious ecstasy. ‘I hunger for it.’

  But what is it? Toc Derenoth wondered.

  Ahead of them, Vor Raennag had reached Kurtha Sedd and begun to speak to him. ‘Chaplain, I do not question the importance of the Octed. But should we be dividing our forces before we–’

  Kurtha Sedd struck him with the crozius. The blow was sudden, crashing against Vor Raennag’s right shoulder. The spikes of the eight-pointed star slashed the side of his face open to the bone. Vor Raennag staggered. He slipped over the edge of the gorge. He dropped, grabbing at the ground. He held on to the stone, and started to pull himself back up. Kurtha Sedd kicked his skull. ‘Be still,’ he snarled.

  Toc Derenoth stiffened as if the command had been directed at him. So did Kaeloq. Throughout the cavern, no one moved.

  Vor Raennag sagged. His grip slipped. Only his head remained above the drop now.

  ‘Am I a fool?’ Kurtha Sedd asked. ‘Do you think I do not value the military victory?’ He leaned over Vor Raennag. ‘It is your understanding that is deficient, sergeant,’ he said. ‘The tactical and the spiritual are the same. I should not need to explain that to any Word Bearer.’ He straightened. He spread his arms in worship towards the abyss. ‘We shall labour for the gods. We will undertake a task whose completion will steal the planet from the Ultramarines more utterly than any invasion. Calth itself will turn on them. It will be one with Chaos. As we shall be. We shall be without burden. Ours will be the flesh of the warp.’

  He lowered his arms. He turned to face the Word Bearers again. ‘But we have another task first. We must welcome our enemy to his doom.’

  Then he whispered. He spoke to Vor Raennag without looking at him. The whisper lashed across the cave. Toc Derenoth winced. ‘There will be no more questions now. We have found the truth. The time for doubt has ended. He who doubts is without faith. You will have no other warning, sergeant. Next time, you fall.’

  He marched away from the sergeant. Word Bearers and cultists followed him. Toc Derenoth watched Vor Raennag lift himself up. He walked away with Kaeloq. There was no choice.

  There could be no more questions. Even so, they remained. The flesh of the warp. He wondered about that. The meaning of the phrase was obscure. It made him uneasy.

  He would do as the Chaplain commanded. But he would watch.

  He could not shake the impression that his claim on his very being had become tenuous.

  The anointing of Sor Gharax began.

  The Bull stood in the centre of the cavern. The cultists held his attention with their chants. They gave offerings to his rage, and he accepted them, crushing the bodies with his power fist. Kurtha Sedd was satisfied the Dreadnought would contain his fury until it was called for. Until then, the cultists prepared Sor Gharax for holy war. Khrothis, a broken arm twisted behind her back, led the ritual. The mortals took splinters of bone from the sacrifices, dipped them in the blood, and marked the sarcophagus with the runes of worship. Signs of excess, of plague, of war and of transformation spread over Sor Gharax. Rather than cover the engraved words, the blood appeared to entwine with them. With ropes woven of hair and cloth, the cultists hung limbs and skulls from his arms.

  Kurtha Sedd watched the transformation and approved. He did not think Sor Gharax would be subject to the fusion to come. Even so, the Bull was becoming a thing with purloined flesh. This was fitting.

  Kurtha Sedd walked the perimeter of the cave. The Word Bearers followed. Where he pointed, they took up positions. There were two tunnels that fed into the cave on the side opposite the great rift. The entrances were too large. To defend them properly, most of the remaining company would have to be assigned to that mission.

  Pointless. The goal was not to keep the Ultramarines out. The goal was their destruction. The goal was the death of Aethon.

  An ambush, though. A kill-zone for the enemy to pass through. Something to slow the Ultramarines down. He might need a bit more time. ‘Set up a crossfire,’ he said. ‘Include both entrances in a single ambush.’ He raised a hand to forestall objections none would dare voice. ‘This is not ideal, I know. But we will bite into their flanks. That will be sufficient. And there is cover.’ Huge pillars rose to the ceiling throughout the cavern. They were so old they were encrusted with limestone formations. Kurtha Sedd wondered if the Ultramarines even remembered this region of the caverns existed. The columns were of human construction, b
ut they were touched by age and the malevolence of the force below. They were tactically useful. They would help disrupt the coherence of a charge.

  ‘Will they come, Chaplain?’ Kaeloq asked.

  Kurtha Sedd nodded. This sort of question, worshipful and awed, was acceptable. Kaeloq was not challenging him. He was seeking enlightenment. ‘They will come. They will leave their hiding places. We’ll see to that.’

  He would leave the Ultramarines no choice. The terms of the war were about to change. The Word Bearers had been throwing themselves against the XIII Legion’s strongpoints and navigating territory that Aethon knew well. No longer. This cavern and the depths it revealed belonged to the Word Bearers. This time, there would be no searching for the Ultramarines. They would be the ones to seek, and they would find their doom waiting.

  So Kurtha Sedd preached. So he must believe.

  Am I Aethon’s doom? It is my task. It is my fate.

  Yes.

  The questions kept coming back at him. His answer never changed. Nor did his doubts.

  When the dispositions were complete, he returned to the lip of the abyss. He stood beside a pillar whose base extended over the void. Two half-circles of Word Bearers and cultists defended his position. The rest of Fifth Company waited near the entrances and behind the stalagmites. They were ready.

  He was ready.

  ‘Brothers,’ he called, filling the cavern with his voice, ‘our true work begins now.’

  He began to chant. He spoke words given shape by the Octed. Their sounds were cancerous, a corrosion of the real. His spirit reached out to the depths of the abyss. He called to the darkness. He touched the veil. He called to the beings beyond it.

  Though he did not stop chanting, he paused before he exercised his will and tore the veil. Was he truly worthy? The absolute clarity of his vision was lost to him. He knew what he must do, but not how to do it. The warp and the flesh must be one. He knew this. But a shadow of ignorance fell between his task and his action.