[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  “It offends me that we have not yet won this war,” came Kol Badar’s voice in Marduk’s ear. “This wretched planet resists us with every step!”

  Marduk and Kol Badar were communing over a closed vox-channel, their words heard by none but each other. The Coryphaus was located over a hundred kilometres away, in the north-east of the sprawling city known as Sirenus Principal, fighting to hold a key landing-zone from Imperial counter-attack. The Imperial Guard, bolstered by White Consuls, had been battling for six solid days to retake the location.

  “Their resistance is frustrating,” said Marduk. “But it cannot last.”

  He rose to his full height and dropped two Guardsmen with carefully aimed shots from his bolt pistol. Shouts and gunfire empted all around him, and Marduk broke cover, closing the distance with the enemy swiftly.

  “They threaten to overrun us at a score of key locations, through sheer numbers,” continued Kol Badar.

  “The other Hosts too are struggling to maintain their footholds.”

  “Our faith is our armour,” growled Marduk as he killed, tearing apart the chest of a Guardsman with his chainsword. He stepped forward and gunned down two more Guardsmen who were backing away from him, horror written across their faces. “With true faith, nothing can harm us.”

  “Empty rhetoric,” came Kol Badar’s crackling reply. “It means nothing.”

  “Speak not such heresy, Kol Badar,” said Marduk, breaking the arm of a Guardsman with a backhand swipe, before clubbing him to the ground with his bolt pistol. He slammed his boot down upon the warrior’s neck, breaking it with an audible crack. “Armoured with true faith, nothing can defeat us.”

  “All your praying will not stop their Bombards and Basilisks from ripping the Host to pieces, little by little.”

  “We will break them,” said Marduk. “Their world is falling around them. It will be only a matter of time before their will is broken.”

  The Dark Apostle lowered his smoking bolt pistol as the enemy routed before him.

  “Casualties?” he said over his shoulder.

  “Two,” replied Sabtec, champion of the exalted 13th. “Shulgar of 19th Coterie, and Erish-Bhor of the 52nd.”

  “The enemy?” said Marduk, surveying the carnage before him. Bodies were strewn across the open square that the Imperials had been trying to retake.

  Sabtec shrugged, the servo-motors of his power armour whining as they tried to replicate the movement.

  “Two hundred, give or take.”

  “A goodly sacrifice,” said Marduk.

  Sabtec grunted in response, and the Dark Apostle could feel what his champion was thinking.

  “Every one of their deaths brings us closer to victory,” he said. His words sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

  Sabtec saluted and spun away, barking orders.

  A hot wind clawed at Marduk’s blood-matted cloak, bringing with it the redolence of butchery and oil, industry and suffering, and the insidious electric tang of Chaos itself.

  The world was changing, and it would never again be the same. Like a worm wriggling its way through the core of an apple, the taint of Chaos was now rooted in the very substance of Boros Prime. Even if the Word Bearers were to leave, the Imperium would be forced to abandon it.

  Even so, Marduk’s face was grim. Victory was a certainty, he was sure of this, and yet with every passing day it seemed further from their grasp. The acidic taste of defeat was in his mouth, no matter how he tried to deny it.

  His warriors were genetically enhanced killers armoured in the finest power armour. Each was more than a match for fifty or a hundred lesser mortals. Their weapons slew tens of thousands with every passing day, and their war engines sowed terror and destruction across the length and breadth of the world. A demi-Legion of Titans marched behind them, laying waste to entire cities.

  Nevertheless, the number of XVII Legion warrior brothers fighting upon the surface of Boros Prime numbered less than seven thousand all told, whereas Imperial vermin infested this world.

  Boros Prime was home to more than twelve billion, and almost another two billion had been evacuated to the relative safety of the planet from its surrounding planets and moons. More than half of that number served in its armed forces, or had been drafted into service. Every citizen of eligible age served a tenure in the Guard—even the bureaucrats and public servants knew their way around a lasgun and basic small-unit tactics. By Marduk’s reckoning, the five thousand warriors of Lorgar faced off against nigh on ten billion soldiers. Added to the mix were the White Consuls, and while there were no more than three companies engaged here on Boros—three hundred loyalist Astartes—their mere presence bolstered the resolve of the Guardsmen, and they were always to be found in the thickest fighting. In these battles, neither side gave any quarter, their fury and hatred fuelled by ten thousand years of mutual loathing and bitterness. It was glorious.

  Industrious forge-hives located towards the poles spewed out a constant stream of weapons and armour, and the smoking plains outside the world’s sprawling cities were dominated by massive tank formations. The Titans of Legio Vultums had stalked out to meet one of these grand tank companies, and had notched up a kill-tally numbering in the thousands. Nevertheless, these confirmed kills were rendered insignificant against the sheer number of tanks taking the field. Four Titans, ancient war engines that had stalked across battlefields for ten thousand years, were brought down and three others suffered crippling damage as their void shields and armoured carapaces were hammered by ordnance and focused battle cannon fire. One of the Titans, one hulking Warlord-class engine, now a daemonically infested monster, was laid low by a devastating barrage from super-heavy Shadowswords. Suffering these losses, the Legio had been forced from the plains back into the relative safety of Boros’ cities.

  Far to the north, in the frozen wastes, the Dark Apostle Belagosa, the ranks of his host swollen with the warriors of Sarabdal’s Host, fought a bloody siege against the largest of the world’s industrial forge-hives. Five thousand kilometres southward, Ankh-Heloth’s 11th Host ranged eastward, occupying and destroying the equatorial city-bastions in turn.

  Every day tens of thousands of enemy soldiers perished, but every day scores of Word Bearers fell, and their loss was felt keenly. On all three fronts, the Word Bearers suffered.

  Marduk’s gaze lifted. Though he could see past the choking fumes engulfing the lower atmosphere, he knew that beyond, hanging in orbit like a malevolent sentinel, was the Kronos star fort. It too still held out, fighting Ekodas and his Host to a standstill. Like clockwork, every hour the star fort would unleash its barrage upon the world below, decimating everything within a three-kilometre radius of its target. The constant need for Marduk’s Host to shift its battlefront to avoid annihilation was growing tiresome, and while on one hand he wished that Ekodas would hurry up and take the orbital bastion, there was a part of him that relished the Apostle’s failure.

  Nevertheless, Marduk felt his anger rise as he gazed heavenward. If the star fort had fallen, then the Chaos fleet would have been able to move into high orbit and commence a devastating bombardment upon the planet below that would have quickly changed the tide of the war. As it was, no Chaos warship was able to move into position without coming under fire from the Imperial star fort. For the thousandth time, Marduk cursed Ekodas’ name for his weakness.

  Like rolling thunder, artillery batteries in the distance began to roar.

  “They attack again, Dark Apostle,” called Sabtec.

  “Let them come,” said Marduk.

  Ashkanez stalked back and forth within the centre of the gathering of hooded Astartes of the 34th Host, the strength of his faith and conviction obvious in every inflection, in every movement.

  The clandestine meeting was taking place in the dead of night within the burnt-out shell of a bunker complex. The ground shook with intermittent artillery shelling in the distance, and flashes lit the night sky. Aircraft could be heard roaring overhead. It was
a small group, numbering less than twenty of the cult members. With the war raging it was difficult for Coterie members to slip away from their warrior brothers unobserved, yet even so, the Brotherhood met in dozens of small congregations like this whenever it could.

  Burias draw his hood up over his face as he ghosted in to join the gathering.

  “In the aftermath of the cleansing the Legion shall be stronger,” Ashkanez was saying. “The Legion shall be unified once more.”

  Ashkanez stopped stalking back and forth and lowered his voice.

  “But more than this,” he said, “it is prophesied that the Urizen shall once more walk among us.”

  Burias’ eyes widened, and there were gasps and muttering from amongst the gather warrior brothers.

  “Yes, my brothers,” said Ashkanez after a moment. “Once the cleansing has been achieved, our lord and Primarch Lorgar shall rejoin the Legion. Once more he shall lead us in glorified battle, striding at our forefront and setting the universe aflame with faith and death.”

  “Then let us begin!” growled a voice in the crowd, which was greeted with murmurs and foot-stamping in agreement. Burias found himself nodding and lending his own voice to the proclamation. Ashkanez lifted a hand for silence.

  “I understand your eagerness, my brothers, for I feel it too. But no, we must not act yet. We must gather our strength, for the reach and cunning of our enemy is great.”

  “Who is the enemy of the Brotherhood, lord?” said a voice from nearby.

  Burias smiled, for he recognized that voice—it belonged to the brutal champion Khalaxis, a mighty warrior. He was pleased that Khalaxis too had been embraced into this noble fraternity.

  “I cannot say,” said Ashkanez. “Not yet, at least. The enemy has ears everywhere. Perhaps even amongst us here.”

  A heavy silence descended on the gathering. Ashkanez’s gaze fell upon Burias, noticing him for the first time. Even hooded as he was, Burias felt the First Acolyte’s eyes burrowing into his own.

  “But know that the day draws near, my brothers. And when it comes, we will all have our part to play.”

  Ashkanez’s eyes lingered on Burias as he spoke these last words, and the Icon Bearer knew that they were spoken for him in particular. He would be ready, he swore to himself.

  “Return to your Coteries, my brothers,” said Ashkanez. “All will be revealed soon.”

  As the hooded warriors began to filter out of the shattered bunker-complex, Burias almost bumped into a towering warrior. Burias had noted his presence at several other Brotherhood conclaves, and though the warrior had always been careful to keep his identity concealed, as did all the brethren, from his size he was clearly garbed in Terminator armour—one of the Anointed.

  “My pardon, brother,” said Burias.

  The warrior did not respond, but as he looked up into the dark shadow of the warrior’s hood his eyes widened. The hulking warrior turned away, pulling his cowl down lower, and moved off.

  “It surprised me as well,” said Ashkanez in a low voice, suddenly at the Icon Bearer’s side. Burias had not heard the First Acolyte’s approach. “But he has been with us since the beginning.”

  “But…” said Burias. “You promised me—”

  “This changes nothing,” said Ashkanez.

  Burias’ face split in a daemonic grin, though hidden within the darkness of his cowl, it was all but invisible.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Proconsul Ostorius’ humming power blade was a blur as he cut through the melee. Wave after wave of boarding parties were assaulting the Kronos star fort in this, the latest attack by the Word Bearers, and as ever Ostorius was in the thick of it.

  Ostorius fought with astonishing economy of movement, expending no more energy than was required. For all his skill, there was no flourish or showmanship in his combat style; he merely killed, effectively and efficiently, again and again.

  He slashed his sword across the faceplate of a Word Bearer, cutting deep into flesh and bone, before spinning and driving his blade into the throat of another enemy. Blood bubbled up from the wound, spitting off the super-heated power sword’s blade.

  Ostorius whipped his sword free, and before the Word Bearer had even hit the ground he was already away and moving, engaging a new foe. With his combat shield he turned aside a blade stabbing for him and cut down the Word Bearer with a stroke that sliced the enemy open from right shoulder blade to left hip.

  Another Word Bearer leapt at Ostorius, animalistic growls emitting from the vox-amps set into his helmet. He hefted a massive chainaxe in both hands, and brought the screaming weapon down towards Ostorius’ head.

  The Proconsul of Boros Prime swayed aside at the last moment, the roaring teeth of the chainaxe missing him by centimetres. He ducked beneath a second blow and severed one of the traitor’s legs above the knee, his power sword shearing through armour, flesh and bone. The Word Bearer fell with a snarl, blood pumping from the terrible wound, and Ostorius moved on.

  The next minute passed in a blur of motion and blood, until Ostorius came to a halt. Blood splattered his armour, and he was breathing heavily, his heart beating fast. Dimly he felt pain receptors flaring, and glanced down to see the rerebrace protecting his left upper arm shorn completely through, the flesh beneath a bloody ruin. He could see the white of bone, but could not even remember being struck.

  He glanced around the deck as pain nullifiers flooded his system. A dozen White Consuls, all splattered with blood and carrying injuries, moved amongst the fallen, dispatching those Word Bearers that still lived without mercy.

  Twenty-five Word Bearers lay strewn across the deck floor, all dead. Eighteen White Consuls had fallen. Nine of those would recover, given time—Astartes did not die easily. Nevertheless, only one, perhaps two, of the fallen White Consuls would be able to fight again within the next few days or weeks, and time was not a luxury that Ostorius could afford.

  Kronos had held out for two months now—an astonishing feat given the force besieging it—yet the Proconsul knew that it would be but days now before it was overrun. He prayed that Librarian Epistolary Liventius would uncover the source that shrouded the Boros Gate soon. If he did not, then Boros would fall, it was as simple as that.

  His gaze was drawn to the enemy Thunderhawk, sitting idle on the deck. A carefully aimed shot had taken out its pilot as it had attempted to pull away. A foul reek emerged from within its gaping assault ramp pods, along with a growling sound of static that made Ostorius feel faintly sick.

  The enemy was growing bolder. Previously, all attacks had been launched via Deathclaw, corrupted drop-pods that burrowed through the thick armour plating of Kronos like flesh-eating maggots. However, with Kronos’ shields failing, they were now able to launch attacks directly into its launch bays, with Word Bearers delivered right into the heart of the star fort via Thunderhawk and Stormbird.

  “Shall we set explosives to destroy it, Proconsul?” said a battle-brother.

  “Not just yet,” said Ostorius, eyeing the Thunderhawk thoughtfully. Apart from some exterior damage it had sustained in the assault, it was mostly intact. With minor repairs, it would again be spaceworthy.

  An Apothecary was kneeling beside the bodies of dead White Consuls, extracting their precious gene-seed, the lifeblood of the Chapter. His narthecium whirred and crunched as he cut through plate and flesh.

  Vox-chatter from elsewhere upon the star fort crackled in his ear; the latest assault had been underway for perhaps fifteen minutes, and already the enemy had breached the star fort’s defences in more than a dozen places.

  “Not today,” said Ostorius under his breath.

  Never in his life had Ostorius felt this weary, and his mind was hazy with exhaustion. He had not slept—not truly slept—since the start of the siege. He had snatched moments of rest here and there, in between attacks, and during those lapses in battle he allowed isolated sections of his brain to shut down, but it was not real, healing rest. Plenty of time to rest when he was
dead, though, he thought, morbidly. He was sure that time would come soon enough.

  Frantic calls for reinforcements were broadcast suddenly from a deck location eighty floors below his current position, and Ostorius snapped back to full alertness. He responded curtly, and was moving purposefully a moment later.

  “Come brothers,” he called. “We are needed. Deck 53b-E91.”

  Marduk’s spirit ripped away from the prison of his flesh, soaring free.

  The release had been more difficult than usual to attain, and this caused him a moment of disquiet. It was forgotten when he was overwhelmed with stimuli.

  The material world around him was now nothing more than a shadowy presence rendered in shades of grey, yet his witch-sight afforded him a vision richer and more alive with colour and movement than mortal eyes could ever realise.

  His aural senses too were overwhelmed. Billions of voices screamed out in terror and fear, joining the sublime cacophony of the Discords, which could be heard in both this plane and the real. Theirs was an unholy, rapturous din.

  He could hear the leathery flap of wings as kathartes circled around him, brushing his soaring soul affectionately. A hundred kilometres away, a corrupted Titan of the Legio Vulturus let out a cry, the reverberant bass note shaking the doomed planet to its core.

  Invisible to mortal sight, daemons in their tens of millions had descended upon Boros Prime, and Marduk saw them now in their full glory, a dizzying panoply of radiance and majesty, of horror and despair. Like a swarming tide they had come here, attracted by the sheer scale of the savagery being enacted in the name of the gods of Chaos, summoned by the powerful emotions being unleashed across its continents.

  Invisible to all but those with the witch-sight and will to see them, these daemon spirits swarmed across the skies like a hellish, ethereal living soup, and waited in great, menacing groups around the living. Even those pathetic mortals unable to perceive them felt their presence, perhaps as nothing more than a shiver or a breath of ice across the back of their necks. They suffered the nightmares that the daemons brought with them, their minds giving voice to their doubts and their fears.