[Grey Knights 03] - Hammer of Daemons

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “Then what?”

  “I do not know.” Alaric sat back, feeling the strength bleed out of him. “And you think that I can give you answers?”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  Durendin stood up and smoothed down his devotional robes. He walked up to the chapel’s altar and took a brazier from its stone slab. An icon of the Emperor looked down on the Chaplain, as one by one he lit the candles and incense lanterns arranged around the altar. It was an ancient ritual, reflecting the lights that had gone out in the souls of so many Grey Knights since the Chapter’s foundation, and reminding the Grey Knights who still lived that their battle-brothers’ souls were gathering to fight alongside the Emperor at the end of time.

  Alaric imagined those souls gathering like fireflies around a pyre, eager to fight, and he felt sorry for them. For the first time, it occurred to him that their sacrifice might not be worth anything after all.

  “I cannot give you answers to this, Alaric,” said Durendin. “I think you come to me more in hope than in expectation, and I must disappoint you. I was given the Chaplain’s burden because I am exactly the opposite of you. I see only the Grey Knights’ way, the endless battle against Chaos. Everything else must be seen through that lens. There can be no doubt and no compromise in the eyes of a Chaplain. You are alone, Justicar, as are we all.”

  “Then I do not think I can do this,” said Alaric. “My duties on Drakaasi are clear. Chaos must be punished. The Emperor’s justice must be done, but I am just one man, and the lords of Drakaasi are so many and so strong. It is just as Venalitor said, I can either die here accomplishing nothing, or fight on and win renown for their Blood God. I cannot win.”

  “Then that is your fate, Alaric. A Grand Master would never accept that, of course, but as you said you are not a Grand Master. Please, it is best that you leave now. You are bleeding on the floor of my chapel, and it is an ill omen.”

  Alaric looked down at his chest. The wound was bleeding, blood flowing in time with the pumping of his hearts. The blood was trickling down the pew and pooling around his feet.

  “Am I going to die?”

  Durendin looked around at him, but Alaric could not read his expression. “If I was to say yes, what would you feel?”

  “Relieved,” said Alaric. “The choice would have been made for me.”

  “But Drakaasi would carry on as before, so I suggest you live.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good luck, Justicar. Perhaps I can meet with you again, the real me, I mean, back on Titan. I imagine I would be very interested to learn of these conversations.”

  “Goodbye, Chaplain.”

  Durendin looked away, and as he turned, his features melted away and left him without a face. The features of the Grand Masters dissolved away, too, leaving columns of smooth, unmarked stone. One by one the stars outside began to go out, and the Chapel of Mandulis withered away into the desert.

  Alaric took a long, painful breath, and the darkness lifted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alaric awoke to light. He lay on his back, staring up. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. He wondered, not for the first time on Drakaasi, whether he was dead.

  The light was coming from a chandelier, hanging from a ceiling frescoed with images of battle. Victims were painted lying in heaps beneath the feet of armoured warriors, all of them with the sigils of Khorne glowing on their armour. The sky above writhed with blood-laden clouds, and carrion daemons swept in to tear apart the living and the dead. Titanic armies clashed in the distance.

  It was a work of genius. The artist would have been one of the greatest of his generation on any Imperial world, perhaps good enough to gain sector-wide recognition. Instead, the mind behind the work had been enslaved by Chaos, withered away by madness until unholy masterpieces were all that was left.

  Alaric wondered who that person had been. Had he been insane to begin with, tortured and brilliant, listening to the whispers of the warp for solace? Or had he been just one of those millions of citizens preyed upon by Drakaasi’s forces? Alaric imagined the nameless artist huddled among a great crowd of other terrified citizens, waiting for death, perhaps praying for deliverance or trying to offer some comfort to his loved ones. Then the death had come, but not for him. Drakaasi’s servants had found out about his skill and chosen him to live on, enslaved, and had rotted his mind away until visions of bloodshed and war were all that he could create. He must have wished he were dead. Perhaps he was still alive somewhere on Drakaasi, still creating horrors for Khorne.

  Alaric lay still for a long time. It was only by the Emperor’s grace that he was not dead or insane, too. He wondered how easily he would break. It would take longer to break Alaric than to corrupt the painter who had created the image above him, but how much longer? As the galaxy reckoned things, probably not a great deal.

  Alaric tried to sit up, but the pain inside him was a hot, red spike piercing his torso. He gasped and fell back. Beneath him was an unyielding surface, and Alaric wondered if it was a mortuary slab in a cathedral of the Blood God, and if he was finally dead.

  He turned his head. He was lying on a huge hardwood table laid out as if for a feast. Bronze plates and chalices had been pushed to one side so that he could be laid there. The table was one of several in a grand feasting chamber as dark and lavish as anything Alaric had seen on Drakaasi. The walls were hung with silken drapes of crimson and black, held up by false columns of black marble. The floor looked, at first, like marble, but at a closer look revealed that it was paved with gravestones in so many different styles that they must have been brought from many different worlds. Devotional inscriptions of Imperial Gothic marched past Alaric’s eyes, the names of the desecrated dead.

  An altar to Khorne stood at one end of the room. It was a great, irregular chunk of stone, stained black, and covered in ancient gouges: an executioner’s block. Behind it was the symbol of Khorne, wrought in brass, and inlaid with red lacquer. It was the symbol of a skull, so stylised that it was little more than a triangle topped with a cross, nevertheless, it radiated such malice that it hurt to look at it. The floor in front of the block had drains to carry away the blood. The executioner’s block was still used for its original purpose.

  Alaric tested his body for injuries. It felt comforting, because it was part of his training. There was still enough Grey Knight left in him for him to act like a soldier. He had the familiar cacophony of pain from hundreds of minor injuries. His chest was the worst. His breathing was hampered, and one of his hearts was wounded. He could still move, and fight if need be, but it was a major injury, even for a Space Marine, and back on Titan he would have been sent to the apothecarion to recover. On Drakaasi, he would just have to fight through it.

  One of the drapes was pulled aside. Beyond it, Alaric glimpsed more finery, a magnificent chamber surrounding a grand staircase lined with brass statues.

  Haggard entered the feasting chamber. He looked so completely out of place, unkempt and grimy like all the slaves, wearing his stained surgeon’s apron, that Alaric wondered for a moment if he was really there at all.

  “You’re awake,” said Haggard.

  “So it seems.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “It was a real mess in there,” continued Haggard. “One of the lungs won’t work. One of the hearts is looking shaky, too. Your spine made it, that’s the main thing. There were splinters of metal in there as long as my finger. It was only by the Emperor’s will that none of them severed your spinal cord.”

  “Thank you, Haggard,” said Alaric. “I don’t know if I could have survived without your help.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Haggard. “Please, don’t thank me. I don’t know what will happen next.”

  Alaric tried sitting up again. This time he bit down the pain. A few of Haggard’s crude stitches burst, and fresh blood ran down his chest. He saw that he was wearing the armour in
which he had been fighting at Gorgath, with the breastplate removed. The wound on his chest was huge and ugly. No one but a Space Marine could have survived it.

  “Whatever happens, Haggard, I’m better facing it alive,” said Alaric.

  “I pulled this out of you,” said Haggard. He held up the shard of the Ophidian Guard’s sword. In his hand, it was the size of a short sword, the broken haft like a hilt, the edge and point still sharp enough to glow in the candlelight. “You didn’t really think you could kill Ebondrake, did you?”

  “Our meeting was unplanned,” replied Alaric. “I wonder if anyone on this planet could kill that.” He looked down at the shard in Haggard’s hand. “Can you hide that among your medical gear?”

  “It certainly looks painful enough,” said Haggard, slipping it into one of the pockets of his stained apron where he kept his makeshift surgical tools.

  “Keep it for when I return to the Hecatomb. Speaking of which, where am I?”

  “Still on board,” said Haggard. “These are Venalitor’s chambers.”

  “Here? The ship isn’t big enough.”

  Haggard shrugged. “Physics only works here out of habit. If Venalitor wants to bend it to give himself a place fit for a duke, then he can. Listen, Justicar, it was Venalitor who brought me up here to keep you alive. Whatever he’s going to do, he needs you alive and conscious to do it. He’s going to punish you.”

  “But he doesn’t know I’m awake.” Haggard looked down at the floor. “Yes, he does, Justicar.”

  The sound of scaephylyd claws on the gravestone tiles was unmistakeable, so were the armoured footsteps descending the marble staircase. An honour guard of scaephylyds clattered into the room, pulling Haggard away. Haggard didn’t resist.

  Duke Venalitor followed them in. He was surrounded by scaephylyd slavers carrying shock prods. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and they scuttled away. Behind him, Alaric could just see Haggard being herded up the staircase.

  “So, Justicar,” said Venalitor. He suited his surroundings perfectly. The dark magnificence of his chambers matched his own, with his splendid red and black armour and the multitude of swords at his back. The place was a reflection, like Venalitor himself, of pure arrogance.

  Alaric didn’t reply. Venalitor had deliberately made himself vulnerable without his attendant slavers, but Alaric was wounded and unarmed. Venalitor would kill him if he and Alaric fought, and Venalitor wanted to remind Alaric of that fact.

  Venalitor walked past him and knelt in front of the altar to Khorne, whispering a few words of prayer.

  “The Blood God,” he said, turning back to Alaric, “listens. When you have earned his respect as I have, he hears you. I ask him for strength to conquer, and I am granted it. I ask for armies, and they march under my banner. They call you Alaric the Betrayed, you know, because you were betrayed by your Emperor. You asked him to deliver you from Chaos, from Drakaasi, and he ignored you. He is just a corpse, who cannot hear your prayers, Grey Knight. That is the ultimate betrayal. My lord will grant you everything you want if you only get his attention.”

  Alaric climbed down off the table and stood. He was unsteady on his feet, but he did everything he could not to show it.

  He could fight here, and die. At least it would be over. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to Venalitor’s blasphemous words any more.

  “You have that chance, Alaric,” continued Venalitor.

  “You are asking me to join you?” Alaric smiled. “Only in desperation would anyone think such a thing was possible.”

  “You have seen the scum of Drakaasi’s cities,” said Venalitor unshaken. “You have mingled with the even lower vermin of the Hecatomb: those killers, those broken men, the violent dregs of your Imperium. That is the lot of the great majority of those who come here. Khorne despises them, and they are left to rot or be killed as fodder for His bloodlust. The lucky ones become sacrifices, but you, you are different. You do not belong with those scum. You have yet to even glimpse what you could become on Drakaasi. The Blood God is willing to listen to you if you will only let him.” Venalitor indicated the altar. “It is so easy, Grey Knight, and it is the only choice you have. No matter what you do, or how hard you try, you will die in the Blood God’s name. The only way out is to bow before a real god for once.”

  “Then I will die,” said Alaric.

  “A few drops of blood,” said Venalitor, “that is all he requires.”

  “He will have to wring them out of me.”

  Venalitor shook his head. “You try to humiliate me. You even try to cross swords with Lord Ebondrake. The Blood God looks upon such audacity, and smiles. That you honestly believe you can win some victory over me is indication of the mental strength a champion of Chaos requires. The fact that you are still alive shows you have the strength of arms. You could rule this planet, Alaric. Then you could do with Ebondrake as you please. You could even put me on this altar, and have me slit from neck to belly, if only you do it for Khorne.”

  “Never,” said Alaric, “not as long as I live, never. You will just have to sacrifice me like all the rest of your vermin.”

  Venalitor smiled. “There is something noble in you, I think. The Emperor’s lackeys taught you well, I will give them that. Victory means so much to you, and you see it in the bleakest of situations. For you, dying here is a victory.”

  “My duty allows for no failings,” said Alaric, “and it does not end in death. You cannot defeat that, Duke Venalitor.”

  “You had a duty towards Sarthis Majoris too, did you not?”

  Alaric could not answer.

  “Do you know what we did to that planet?”

  Alaric fought for something to say, something that would silence Venalitor, something devastating, but there was nothing.

  “We separated the men from the women,” continued Venalitor with a smirk, “and we killed the women in front of the men. We killed them badly, in all the ways you can think of and a few you cannot. Then we let the men fight back. Half of them wanted revenge and the other half just wanted to die. The grief in their eyes was like a hymn to the Blood God. The madness was joyous. So many of them were begging the Blood God to take them in, to turn them mindless, that I made a new army from them and marched them on to the next city. Your duty was to prevent that, Justicar. I think it is fair to say that you failed.”

  “Your atrocities are nothing new,” said Alaric, trying to keep his voice level. “We cannot save every world. We can only fight.”

  “Until death?”

  “Until death.”

  “But you did not die. You are here. Sarthis Majoris died, but you survived. What manner of duty did you fulfil, exactly?”

  “Your words cannot sway me, Venalitor. I am a Grey Knight.”

  “Not any more. You became something else, something less, the moment I was able to take you alive. At least your friend had the good grace to die at the first opportunity. You cling on like a disease, pretending there is some victory in your failure to the Corpse-Emperor, and ignoring the only chance for redemption you have, the chance given to you by Khorne.”

  Alaric looked around him for a weapon. There was nothing of use. It would have to be bare hands. “I shall be redeemed, Venalitor. Here and now, I shall be redeemed.”

  Alaric charged Venalitor. The duke had been at ease, speaking idly as he stood before the altar, but he was still ready.

  His hand caught Alaric by the throat. His other arm knocked away Alaric’s fist. Venalitor lifted Alaric off his feet, and threw him back down into the table. His body splintered through the table, throwing gilded plates and chalices everywhere. The wound in his chest tore open, and for a moment he was blinded with pain.

  “So you really do want to die?” asked Venalitor.

  Alaric sprang to his feet. The wound in his chest was bleeding freely. Venalitor waved a hand, and the blood formed tendrils that lashed around his neck. He tore them aside, but by the time he had his bearings again, Venalitor had g
ot behind him. Venalitor caught him by the shoulder and the neck, and kicked his legs out from under him. Alaric fell forwards, and Venalitor thrust him into the executioner’s block of the altar. Alaric’s head smacked into the stone, and the smell of old dried blood hit him.

  Venalitor drew a sword from his back, a short, curved blade, like a shining razor in the candlelight. He stabbed it into Alaric’s back.

  Venalitor knew the ways in which a human body could be made to feel pain. The tip of the blade hit just the right point, and nerve endings caught fire in agony. Alaric could not move, only spasm on the altar as pain washed through him.

  He fought it. Venalitor pulled the blade out, and let Alaric slide to the floor. Venalitor flicked the blood from the tip of his sword onto the altar, and it smouldered there, the brass icon of Khorne glowing in gratitude.

  “I will not kill you, Justicar,” said Venalitor. “You are too valuable to me in the arenas, and there is still some use the Blood God can get from you. Just because you refuse His will now does not mean that He will be denied. I will just have to break you first. In the long run, it makes no difference.”

  The slavers entered the room. Alaric fought them for a while, throwing them aside, dashing them against the floor, and snapping their insect limbs, but, slowly, their shock prods found their mark, and he was forced down onto his knees, still fighting.

  Venalitor watched. There were always more scaephylyds to be enslaved, and there was no need to risk damaging his valuable gladiator. Alaric fell onto his hands and knees, and a shock prod was forced down on his neck above his iron collar, so that his face was pressed against the gravestone floor.

  “I know what you are, Grey Knight. I know about Ghargatuloth and Chaeroneia, about Valinov and Thorganel Quintus. I know what you can do. None of it will help you now.”

  The scaephylyds swarmed over him like ants over a corpse. They manacled his hands and feet and turned him over to carry him up on their shoulders.