by Gav Thorpe
‘Do not lose it,’ whispered Walker on Dark Paths. The farseer pointed to Ezekiel. ‘I would speak with your warlock, if I may. There are details of the Dark Summoner’s powers that only one with the gift of warp-sight would understand.’
Azrael nodded and returned to the others.
‘Ezekiel, choose two of your best psykers to accompany us. The farseer wishes to speak with you.’
The Librarian nodded and moved past Azrael to approach the eldar. ‘Dagonet, my vox is broken. Contact Lanval. I would have ten of his warriors as escort. Belial amongst them, if he still lives.’
‘Not Lanval himself, my lord?’
‘I will not rob my Chapter of all its best commanders in one action. You will remain also, as witness to what has occurred. Choose your two most diligent Chaplains – I feel we may be in need of spiritual as well as physical and psychic strength in this endeavour.’
‘Asmodai and Cathas,’ the Master of Sanctity replied without hesitation. ‘Their zeal is unmatched.’
‘If I do not return before nightfall, kill the eldar.’
‘I will be sure the farseer pays for any treachery.’
‘Not just Walker on Grey Paths. Kill them all. If we do not return, whatever the price, you will make the eldar rue the day they courted the wrath of the Dark Angels.’
Date Ident: 114940.M41#1423
The eldar called Blade of Winter Tears waited for the Dark Angels, a barely visible silhouette against the white-and-gold shimmer of the portal. Belial stomped past Azrael, his squad close on his heel.
‘Your pardon, my lord, but you are not entering that infernal conjuration first,’ declared the sergeant. ‘Squad, prepare arms.’
The four other Terminators assembled around their sergeant. The glow of power fists gleamed from their ivory armour but fell strangely on the fabric that clothed the eldar warlock, as though absorbed by the silky robe.
‘Let us be about this endeavour without delay,’ Azrael told his men. He looked at Walker on Grey Paths. ‘Any duplicity will be punished.’
‘Of course, Azrael of the Dark Angels.’
At a nod from the farseer, Blade of Winter Tears stepped to the threshold of the portal, sword raised as if in salute, coruscations of power rippling along its length. Azrael signalled to Belial and the Deathwing advanced towards the gate. As they approached, Blade of Winter Tears stepped forwards, the edge of her sword parting the rift before her.
With Belial in the lead, the Terminator squad of Sergeant Caulderain at the back, the Dark Angels marched through the breach between worlds.
Date Ident: Unknown
Azrael had expected something akin to teleportation – an endless but instantaneous half-moment of transition followed by an explosive re-entry into reality aboard the target ship.
Instead he found himself in a tunnel, with an arched roof, as though made of deep grey marble veined with purple. Slender golden columns and vaults held the walls every few dozen metres. It seemed almost solid.
Almost.
As he turned his head quickly to the side, to check Ezekiel was still at his shoulder, he caught a glimpse beyond the passage. Through the wall. Stars, distant and cold, obscured by a glittering curtain of rainbow colours. It lingered now on the very edge of his vision.
Ezekiel’s face was unmoving, as though set in stone. There was not the faintest flicker of psychic energy in his eye or from the tracery of his psychic hood. Looking over his shoulder, Azrael saw that the other two Librarians, Epistolaries Dalgar and Maldarion, were likewise rigidly passive in expression.
‘It would be unwise to look with our inner eyes,’ said Dalgar, guessing Azrael’s question from his look. ‘Not while in this unnatural burrow.’
Azrael sped up, passing Belial’s squad to come alongside Blade of Winter Tears.
‘Can you speak our language?’ he asked. ‘How long until we arrive at our objective?’
‘One cannot expect a beast to speak, so we learn to interpret the meaning of their grunts and barks,’ the eldar replied.
‘Arrogant xenos f–’
Azrael glanced back to see Ezekiel holding out a hand to restrain Asmodai, whose crozius blazed in his hand.
‘Stand down, Chaplain,’ growled Azrael. ‘Save your ire for the traitors.’
The passageway continued ahead until hidden by the haze of distance, without rise or fall or turn. There was light but from no source, and a sense of weight, or gravity, though Azrael knew logically that they traversed the empty void of space.
‘How far? How long?’ he asked again.
‘The stride of a god, within his heartbeat,’ Blade of Winter Tears replied, still with gaze fixed ahead. ‘The journey shall take as long as it takes – your expectation and prior knowledge will make it neither longer nor shorter. I will warn you when we are approaching the Dark Summoner.’
They continued on in silence. Total silence, Azrael realised. Not a footstep from the massive Terminators, nor even a creak or hiss of actuators. It was disturbing, and after some time the lack of auditory input started playing tricks on his mind, as did the illusory nature of their confinement.
It seemed to Azrael that perhaps the walls were real, after all, and he and his companions were ghosts. It occurred to him that the eldar had betrayed them and now only their shades remained, wraiths being taken to some soul-prison for whatever vile practices the aliens employed for their witchcraft.
He felt the weight of the Sword of Secrets, and tried to reassure himself that it was real, that he was real. Blade of Winter Tears walked with such ease it seemed she barely moved, every swing of her arms and every stride efficient and effortless. Azrael resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to prove to himself that she was also more than just phantasm.
The monotony of their silent journey, the endlessly repetitive surrounds, made time meaningless. He understood why their guide had refused to be drawn on a specific time of arrival. Distance in this place was not set.
‘We have arrived,’ the warlock said, stopping, her voice sudden and startling.
The tunnel seemed unchanged, going on infinitely in front and behind the Dark Angels.
‘Where?’ asked Azrael.
‘I have not yet spliced our thread to that of the sorcerer’s domain,’ Blade of Winter Tears replied. ‘We are close. I will attempt to release you into the starship as close as possible to its heart where the Dark Summoner resides. It is impossible to do so perfectly. I cannot say how much further you will have to proceed on the far side of the veil.’
‘You speak as though you are not coming, warlock,’ said Ezekiel.
‘That would be wise,’ said Azrael. ‘We cannot afford to lose her – she is our only means of returning to Rhamiel.’
‘That is correct. I will remain within the threadway and seal the gap between realms when you have passed through. You will need to return to the point of entry. I will sense you and bring you back.’ The eldar looked around, obviously at something other than the mirage of the corridor. ‘You must return as swiftly as possible. We are safe here for the moment but this threadway is only temporary. I can protect it from assault for a while but not indefinitely.’
‘Very well.’ Azrael took a breath, looked at his companions to assure himself they were ready, and then nodded to the alien. ‘Do it. Open the portal.’
As before, Blade of Winter Tears ceremonially cut the air in front of her. Azrael could see no change with the look of the everlasting passage.
‘It is done,’ said the warlock. When Azrael remained where he was, she stepped back and looked at him for the first time. Her helm’s eyes were ruby-like ovals, betraying nothing of the face within. ‘You cannot see it? How did humans survive this long with such dull senses? Simply walk past me and you will come upon the starship of your prey.’
The Sword of Secrets sheathed, Azrael took up the Lion’s Wrath in both hands. He turned his back on the eldar to address his warriors.
‘The mission is simple. We locate
the traitor sorcerer and eliminate him. Kill anything that attempts to stop us. All other considerations are secondary.’ He stepped in front of Belial as the sergeant attempted to pass him by. ‘I lead this time.’
Azrael squared himself in the tunnel and advanced to where he thought the breach was located. He could feel the faintest of vibrations at the nape of his neck.
He turned to look at his companions, but as he twisted he felt the tunnelway slip backwards, receding rapidly away from him until it was nothing more than a bright spark, and then just a memory.
Date Ident: Unknown
The ring of his boot on metal confirmed to Azrael that he was back in the material realm. The weight of his gun, the sigh of fibre bundles settling, the thrum of generators and buzz of electrical cables were all welcome signals that he was alive and real.
He continued forwards a few paces, allowing the others room to exit the eldar portal as he analysed his environment.
It was dark; the only light came from a few buzzing red globes set behind wire mesh in the ceiling of the chamber. The room itself was out of use, and appeared to have been abandoned some time before. It was a few metres wide, twice as long, a wheel-locked door at the far end.
The walls sagged oddly.
He stepped closer and saw that in fact it was not the walls themselves that curved into the floor but an accretion of... something he had not encountered before. He would have taken it for spraycrete, but it recoiled slightly at his touch. Not so much soft as hollow.
A grunt of distaste caused him to turn. Belial was on the opposite side of the room, peeling back a layer of the material like pulling a scab from a wound. The analogy seemed even more disgustingly apt as a pulsing, fleshy undersurface was revealed.
‘Throne’s heart,’ growled Cathas.
Belial let the covering flop down and his power fist glimmered back into life.
‘Which way?’ Azrael asked, looking to Ezekiel.
The Chief Librarian convened with the other two psykers and they communed for several seconds, saying nothing. They gathered closer, drawn to one another, a nimbus of power faintly glowing around them.
Ezekiel broke away from the others, leaving a slight after-figure of golden light in his wake.
‘We have found the heart of the darkness. This way.’
The lock-wheel on the door screeched into motion at a gesture from the Chief Librarian. The grate of corroded metal set Azrael’s nerves on edge.
‘I am sure a clarion blast would have announced our presence more succinctly,’ said Belial.
‘Our presence is already known, brother-sergeant,’ Ezekiel replied coolly. He waved and the door swung inwards with a drawn-out creak. ‘Head left. The enemy are gathering.’
Azrael allowed Belial and his Deathwing to take the lead again. Operating in close confines against a deadly enemy was their speciality. Following them out, flanked by the two Epistolaries, Azrael stepped into a corridor wide enough for the Terminators to advance two abreast. The same strange cladding covered the walls and ceiling, the lighting spheres set within puckered orifices, the faint stench of blood on the air mixed with oil and sweat.
‘Incoming signal,’ warned Belial.
The squad halted. For the first time since leaving the Deathwing, Azrael felt slightly adrift without his sensorium link. He was no longer enmeshed with the others, a step removed and reliant upon their reports.
With a wheeze like a dying lung expelling its last breath, a hatch opened in the floor a short distance ahead. A wire-thin figure clambered out, skin so pale as to be white like the creatures found in lightless caves. It was naked, deep pink welts covering its alabaster flesh. Massively dilated eyes turned towards them. The boy, for such it must have been, flinched at the sight of the Terminators, baring black gums and stubs of teeth. With a rattling cry, it dived back into the darkness beyond the hatch.
One of the Terminators moved forwards, storm bolter aimed at the opening. While he guarded the entry point the rest of the squad advanced past. Movement from the squad behind urged Azrael and his companions forwards without any word, but it was clear the two Terminator squads were acting in unison, guiding their charges towards the objective.
He glanced past the Deathwing warrior on overwatch. The hatch led into pitch blackness, joining a crawlspace just a metre below the deck. There was no telling how many enslaved crew lurked in the gaps between the halls and chambers. Would they resist, or simply allow the Dark Angels to pass unhindered?
Azrael allowed the Terminators to perform their duty and lead the way along the corridor, which became dank a few metres on. The floor was slick with mould fed from the drips of a broken pipe that jutted from a cavity in the wall-flesh.
‘Which way, Brother-Librarian?’ Belial asked when they reached a T-junction at the end of the passageway.
‘Left,’ replied Ezekiel. ‘We must find somewhere to descend. The sorcerer is somewhere in the middle decks amidships.’
‘The arterial hall is this way,’ said Belial, pointing to the right. ‘It may be the swifter route, even if less direct.’
‘Go left,’ said Azrael. ‘The confines suit us better than our foes.’
Belial offered no argument and led his squad down the left-hand passage while the other Terminators trained their guns to the right.
The dampness increased, the humidity growing as the heat rose. Thin mist hung in the air, glinting in the ruddy light. Belial pressed on directly into the ship at the urging of Ezekiel, passing several smaller chambers. Azrael glanced through the next door as they passed.
‘Wait!’ He stopped at the threshold for a better look.
It had been a dormitory of sorts. The remains of bunks stretched down each wall, broken lockers beside each triple-stacked set of cots. Thin, patched blankets lay strewn over the floor and bed frames. Buckled metal plates and bowls were scattered about, along with wooden spoons and upturned serving platters. Old food rotted in the mesh of the deck.
There were emaciated bodies amongst the detritus. Almost skeletally thin, skin peeled back from lesions across their chests, backs and shoulders. Rictus grimaces contorted their faces, but even so they appeared to have died in terror. Their fingers were bloody and broken, as though they had clawed at the walls and doors, perhaps trapped, trying to escape.
A shadow flickered across the far wall.
‘Movement,’ he told the others, bringing up Lion’s Wrath.
‘Nothing on the augur system, my lord,’ Belial replied.
Azrael was certain he had seen something. He thought to take a step closer to investigate but changed his mind.
Dead flies and maggots covered the bodies and he spied the mangy, furred corpses of rats amongst the debris.
‘Even the vermin died,’ he whispered, retreating a pace. He focused on their purpose. ‘Keep moving. The sorcerer must be slain.’
Date Ident: Unknown
Sounds of industry from ahead had the party advancing with caution. Chains clanked, ratchets ticked, metal squealed. The light that spilled from the arches and doorways flickered as though cast by flames. Shadows moved through the light, indistinct and jerky.
They arrived at a wider area that stretched up to a vaulted ceiling encompassing several decks above and below reached via ramps and winding metal staircases. Lines of spindly naked figures laboured at pulleys and capstans, raising and lowering five platforms, each large enough to carry a Thunderhawk. More of the withered minions worked at loading and unloading the platforms, toiling with a monotonous intensity.
‘Nothing but bone and sinew,’ said Belial. ‘A miracle that they have the strength for such labours.’
‘A dark miracle. Spite and hatred bring their own peculiar strength,’ replied Ezekiel.
Corpses. The cargo was an unending mass of cadavers, marked by the same wounds and lesions as those Azrael had discovered earlier. By the hundreds they were laden onto the platforms, lowered and then dragged off at the bottom some twenty metres below.
> The source of the strange light became clear. There were rows of furnaces on the bottom deck. Rather, furnace-like openings in the walls. The gleam from within the huge ovens was like no normal flame, tinged with purples and greens that left bizarre shadows lingering on the edge of vision.
The bodies were fuel for these despicable furnaces, bundled without ceremony through open grates in front of each doorway. Despite the scores of corpses being thrown into the infernal fires every few seconds, Azrael saw no smoke issuing from the flames, and could detect no charnel smell. The hellish furnaces consumed everything.
‘Where are the overseers?’ said Asmodai, turning to the left and right, his pistol seeking a target. ‘Someone will pay for this butchery and degradation.’
‘No life signs...’ muttered Garvel. ‘Why are there no life signs?’
‘They need no overseer, brothers,’ Maldarion said ominously. He strode towards the closest line of labouring figures and grabbed one by the arm, jerking her from her place.
The woman did not respond as he turned her towards the others. Her face was slack; her arms fell uselessly to her sides. Her eyes looked as though they were filled with black fluid, dark and oily, but otherwise devoid of any spark of intelligence or life.
‘Dead?’ Azrael stared at the creature in Maldarion’s grip. ‘By what power?’
The dead thing sprang into life, its face snapping towards Azrael. It lunged at the supreme Grand Master, caught in the Librarian’s grasp. With a noiseless snarl it ripped itself from its own arm with a crack of bones and spurt of blood, swiping broken-nailed fingers towards his face.
The Sword of Secrets parted it from shoulder to hip with one blow. The animated cadaver fell to the deck, still jerking and flailing.
The hall resounded with the pattering of thousands of bare feet as the dead slaves broke into shuffling runs towards the interlopers in their domain.