‘Warsmith,’ Nicodemus began slowly, ‘that need not be the case. I assured you once that my Lord Guilliman had a plan. You have executed your part of that plan flawlessly, Iron Warrior. Lord Guilliman still has need of such ingenuity and skill. The Imperium is frail, Dantioch. An Iron Warrior’s eye could spot such weakness and the good grace of his hand might make it strong once again.’
‘What more would you ask of me?’ the Warsmith said.
‘To stand shoulder to ceramite shoulder with my Lord Guilliman and help him fortify the Imperial Palace.’
‘Fortify the Palace…’ Dantioch repeated.
‘Yes, Iron Warrior.’
‘Perturabo will make us pay for such fantasies.’
‘Perhaps,’ Nicodemus said solemnly. ‘But I believe the genius of your victory today lay in your acceptance that the Schadenhold – for all its indomitable art – would fall. Lord Guilliman shares your vision. Humanity’s future lies in such contingency.’ The Ultramarine let the enormity of the idea linger.
Dantioch didn’t answer. Instead he watched the remaining vestiges of life leave the body of his friend and battle-brother. Vastopol’s crusted eyes fluttered before rolling and gently closing, the dry whisper of a dying breath escaping the warrior-poet’s lips.
As the Venerable Vastopol faded and left them, he heard Dantioch tell the Ultramarine: ‘You talk of the arts of destruction. Perturabo’s progeny are unrivalled in these arts: indomitable in battle and peerless in the science of siegecraft. Show me a palace and I’ll show you how an Iron Warrior would take it. Then I’ll show you how you would stop me. I don’t know how long I am for this Imperium, but I promise you this: whatever iron is left within this aged plate, is yours…’
The iron within. The iron without. Iron everywhere. Empires rise and they fall. I have fought the ancient species of the galaxy and my Legiones Astartes brothers will fight on, meeting new threats in dangers as yet unrealised. We are an Imperium of iron and iron is forever. When our flesh is long forgotten, whether victim to the enemy within or the enemy without, iron will live on. Our hives will tumble and our mighty fleets decay. Long after our polished bones have faded to dust on a gentle breeze, our weapons and armour will remain. Remnants of a warlike race: the iron of loyalist and traitor both. In them our story will be told – a cautionary tale to those that follow. Iron cares not for faith or heresy. Iron is forever.
And as our battle-plate, our blades and bolters rot in the sand of some distant world, they will pit and tarnish. Their dull sheen will corrode and crumble. Grey will turn to brown and brown to red. In the quietly rusting scrap of our fallen empire, iron will return to its primordial state, perhaps to be used again by some other foolish race. And though the weakness of my flesh fails me, as the weakness of my brothers’ flesh will ultimately fail them, our iron shall live on. For iron is eternal.
From iron cometh strength. From strength cometh will. From will cometh faith. From faith cometh honour. From honour cometh iron. This is the Unbreakable Litany. And may it forever be so.
Feast of Horrors
Chris Wraight
Helmut Detlef drew his steed to a halt. The sun was low behind him. The shadows in the forest were long, and the tortured branches beckoned the onset of a bitter night. If he’d been alone, Detlef might have felt anxiety. The deep woods were no place for a young, inexperienced squire to be after dark.
But he wasn’t alone. The figure next to him sat astride a massive war-horse. He was decked in full plate armour and carried a long, rune-carved sword. A thick beard spilled over his chest, falling over the Imperial crest embossed on the metal. His cloak hung down from gold-rimmed pauldrons and the open-faced helm was crowned with a laurel wreath. Only one man was permitted to don such ancient armour – the Emperor’s Champion, Ludwig Schwarzhelm, dispenser of Imperial Law and wielder of the dread Sword of Justice.
By comparison, Detlef’s titles – squire, errand runner, occasional herald – were pretty unimpressive. Still, just to serve under such a man was an honour almost beyond reckoning. Detlef was barely out of the village and less than two years’ service into the Reikland halberdiers. In the months since joining Schwarzhelm he’d already seen things men twice his age would hardly dream of.
‘That’s it?’ he said, pointing ahead.
‘That’s it,’ replied Schwarzhelm. His voice was iron-hard, tinged with a faint Averland accent. Schwarzhelm spoke rarely. When he did, it was wise to take note.
The trees clustered near the road on either side of them, overhanging as close as they dared as if eager to snatch the unwary traveller and pull him into the dark heart of the forest. So it had been for the many days since they’d ridden from the battlefront in Ostland. The Forest of Shadows had been true to its name every step of the way.
A few yards ahead, the wood gave way to a clearing. In the failing light it looked drab and sodden, though the bastion rising from it was anything but. Here, miles from the nearest town and isolated within the cloying bosom of the forest, a sprawling manor house stood sentinel. The walls were built from stone framed with age-blackened oak. Elaborate gables decorated the steep-sided roofs rising sharply against the sky. The seal of Ostland, a bull’s head, had been engraved ostentatiously over the vast main doorway, and statues in the shape of griffons, wyverns and other beasts stared out across the bleak vista. Warm firelight shone from the narrow mullioned windows and columns of thick smoke rose from the many chimneys.
‘How should I address him?’ asked Detlef, feeling his ignorance. The task of learning his duties had been steep, and Schwarzhelm was intolerant of mistakes.
‘He’s a baron. Use “My lord”.’
Or, more completely, Baron Helvon Drakenmeister Egbert von Rauken, liege lord of an estate that covered hundreds of square miles. Detlef might once have found that intimidating, but after serving with Schwarzhelm, very little compared.
‘I’ll ride ahead to announce you.’
Schwarzhelm nodded. His grey eyes glittered, in his craggy, unsmiling face.
‘You do that.’
Their arrival had been unexpected. Despite that, the Baron’s household managed to put on a good show. Servants preparing to turn in for the night were dragged from their chambers and put to work in the kitchens. The household was roused and told to put on its finery. By the time the sun had finally dipped below the western horizon, a banquet fit for their visitor had been thrown together. Detlef found the process intensely amusing. The combination of irritation and fear on the faces of the mansion staff was worth the long trek on its own.
Rauken’s banqueting hall, like all the rooms in the house, was a study in baroque excess. The high-beamed roof was decorated with tasteless frescos of Imperial myths, all lit by an oversized fire roaring in the marble-framed hearth. The floor was also marble, black and white chequers like the nave of an Imperial chapel. The table looked as if it had been carved from a single slab of wood, even though it was over thirty feet long. Its surface had been polished to a glassy sheen, reflecting the light of the dozens of candelabras and sending it winking and flashing from the crystal goblets and silver plates.
The guests, a dozen of them, were no less opulent. All looked well-fed and comfortably padded. The ladies were decked in frocks of wildly varied shades, draped with tassels, bows and lines of pearls. Even at such short notice they’d managed to arrange their greying hair in heaps of tottering grandeur, laced with lines of gold wire and emerald studs. Their sagging faces were plastered with lead whitener, their lips and cheeks heavily rouged. Their male companions were also finely turned out, replete with sashes, medals, powdered wigs and jewel-encrusted codpieces. They strutted to their places, jowls wobbling with anticipation as the food arrived.
From his seat on the edge of the chamber, Detlef watched them intently, trying to pick out the ones Schwarzhelm had told him about. Most of the party were Rauken’s blood-kin, but some of his more senior aides had been invited. Among them was Osbert Hulptraum, Rauken’s personal p
hysician, a fat waddling grey-faced man with a balding pate and bags under his eyes. Next to him sat Julius Adenauer, the chancellor, all thin lips, clawed fingers and sidelong glances. His scraggy beard looked wispy even in the low light, and he minced around like a parody of a woman.
At the head of the table sat Rauken himself. He was massively corpulent, red-cheeked, with a bulbous nose laced with broken veins. He’d chosen to cover himself in robes of velvet, not that they did much to hide his generous belly. As he beckoned the guests to take their seats, his many chins shivered like jelly.
‘We are honoured,’ he said, his voice surprisingly high. ‘Truly honoured. It’s not every day this house hosts one of the finest heroes of the Empire.’
A murmur of appreciation ran across the throng. Schwarzhelm, sitting at Rauken’s right hand – the place of honour – remained impassive. He’d heard it all before. He’d exchanged his armour for simple robes in the red and white of the Imperial palace, but still looked by far the most regal presence in the room.
‘So let us eat,’ Rauken said, ‘and celebrate this happy occasion.’
The guests needed no encouragement. Soon they were shovelling heaps of food on to their plates – lambs’ livers, roast pigeon, jugged hare, moist sweetbreads, slabs of pheasant pie, slops of something dark brown with quail’s eggs floating in it, pig’s cheeks in jelly, all washed down with generous slugs of a dark red wine brought all the way, Detlef had learned, from the vines of the Duc d’Alembourg-Rauken in Guillet Marchand on the banks of the Brienne.
Like all the servants present, Detlef had been seated behind his master in case he was needed during the meal. His stomach growled as he watched the guests begin to cram the fine food into their mouths. At least his position let him hear the conversation.
‘So to what do we owe this honour, my lord?’ asked Rauken, munching delicately on a fig stuffed with mincemeat.
‘The Emperor likes me to meet all his subjects,’ said Schwarzhelm. He’d not touched the food, and had taken strips of dried meat from a pouch at his belt.
‘Well then, I hope we’ve not been amiss with the tithes. Adenauer, are we up to date?’
‘We are, my lord,’ replied the chancellor, dabbing grease from his chin. ‘The records are available for scrutiny.’
‘Very good,’ said Rauken, looking at Schwarzhelm nervously. ‘You’re not eating, my lord?’
‘Not muck like this. I prefer my own.’
Schwarzhelm’s flat refusal cut through the conversation like a blunt axe-blade. There was a nervous laugh from one of the women, soon cut off when she realised he wasn’t joking.
Detlef smiled to himself. The dinner promised to be an amusing one. It was only then that he caught the eye of the serving girl sitting beside him. She was as fleshy and rosy-cheeked as the rest of them, but much younger. He found his eyes drawn to her chest, appealingly exposed by a low-cut, tight-laced bodice.
She smiled at him, and her eyes shone in the candlelight.
‘Have you eaten?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he hissed back. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Come and find me when this is over. We’ll see what we can do about that.’
Detlef grinned. This evening was getting better all the time.
By midnight, the chairs had been kicked back and the guests had tottered back to their rooms, belching and wiping their mouths. Baron von Rauken had taken his leave last of all, having heroically demolished a four-tier suet pudding arranged in a pretty good approximation of the Grand Belltower in Talabheim.
Soon the room was empty apart from Schwarzhelm and Detlef. The candles had burned low and the polished tabletop was slick with grease. Detlef found himself gazing at the extensive remains on the salvers, his stomach rumbling.
‘Avoid it,’ said Schwarzhelm. ‘This is no food for a soldier.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Detlef, privately hoping he’d go away so he could attack the pickled pig-shins.
‘Get some sleep.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘After you’ve cleaned my armour.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Schwarzhelm looked at him carefully. As ever, his expression was inscrutable. It was like trying to read the granite cliffs of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
‘Where are your quarters?’
‘Above the kitchen.’
‘Stay in them tonight. And keep your sword by your bed.’
Detlef felt a sudden qualm. ‘Do you expect trouble?’
‘I don’t call on these fat wastrels for enjoyment,’ Schwarzhelm said, not hiding the contempt in his voice. ‘The Emperor’s worried about this one.’
‘Is he behind on his taxes?’ asked Detlef.
‘On the contrary. He’s paid them all.’
Detlef shook his head. The ways of the aristocracy were a mystery to him.
‘I’ll keep an eye out, then.’
Schwarzhelm grunted in what might have been approval.
‘Maybe I’ll take one of these for later,’ said the knight, pulling a juicy chunk of bull’s stomach from the table. Without a further look at his squire, he stalked off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Detlef waited for the heavy footfalls to recede, then started to help himself. Knowing what was to come, his stomach gurgled with anticipation.
‘Take it easy,’ Detlef said to himself. ‘Just a few of the good bits to keep my strength up. Then I have an appointment to keep.’
An hour later, and the house was still and silent. High up in the west tower, the physician Hulptraum paced up and down inside his bedchamber. He was still dressed in the black robes of his office. His bed was untouched, and a large goblet of wine stood drained on his desk. He looked agitated, and his fingers twitched. Next to the goblet was a long, curved dagger. It was hard to see the hilt in the meagre candlelight, but the blade had some script engraved on it. The language wasn’t Reikspiel.
‘Tonight,’ he hissed. ‘Of all nights...’
There was a knock at the door. Hulptraum started, his eyes bulging. ‘Who is it?’
‘Adenauer. Can I come in?’
Hulptraum put the knife into the top drawer of the desk and slid it shut. ‘Of course.’
Adenauer entered, looking terrible. His skin, pale before, was now deathly white. His wispy beard seemed to have become little more than a curling fuzz and his eyes were rheumy and staring.
‘Osbert, you’ve got to help me,’ he said, through gritted teeth. One hand was clutching his distended stomach, the other was clasped against his temple.
‘You’re still here?’ asked the physician, not obviously evincing sympathy.
‘What do you mean? I’m ill, man. Surely you can see that?’
Hulptraum smiled coldly. ‘I’m a doctor. And yes, you’re ill. You should be down in the kitchen with the others.’
Adenauer looked bewildered. ‘Can’t you give me something? I... oh, gods below...’
He started to belch loudly. A thin line of sputum ran down his chin and his body bent double.
Hulptraum remained supremely indifferent. ‘I don’t have time for this, Julius. Nothing I could give you now would help. The fact is, this has been prepared for months. All for this night. This one night. The night he turned up.’
Adenauer was now on his knees. The sputum became a watery trail of blood. His stomach was writhing under his robes, as if an animal were trying to get out of it.
‘Sigmar!’ he cried, spasming in agony. ‘Help me!’
Hulptraum crouched down beside him, ignoring the increasingly putrid stench coming from the chancellor. ‘He can’t help you now, old friend. You’d better get down to the kitchen. You’ll find the others there too.’
Adenauer’s eyes didn’t look as if they were seeing very much. Sores had begun to pulse on his face, spreading with terrifying speed. His tongue flickered out, black as ink, leaving loops of saliva trailing down to his chest. He collapsed on the floor, clenched with pain.
Hulptrau
m got up and returned to the desk. He retrieved the dagger, ignoring the thrashing of the transforming chancellor.
‘You will not prevent this,’ he hissed, no longer talking to Adenauer. ‘I don’t care who you are. You will not prevent this.’
With that, he left the room, padding out into the corridor beyond. Behind him, Adenauer retched piteously. Caked lumps of bile slapped to the floor, steaming gently. He remained stricken for a few moments longer, heaving and weeping, streaming from every orifice.
Then something seemed to change. He lifted his thin face. It ran with mucus like tears. The eyes, or what was left of them, shone a pale marsh-gas green.
‘The kitchen!’ Adenauer gurgled, though the voice was more like that of an animal. It looked as if he’d finally understood something. ‘The kitchen!’
Then he too was gone, dragging himself across the floor leaving a trail of slime behind him. The door closed, and the candle shuddered out.
No candles burned in Schwarzhelm’s chamber. The shutters were locked tight and the darkness was absolute. Nothing moved. Deep down in the house, there was a distant creak, then silence again.
Heartbeats passed in the dark.
Slowly, silently, the door-handle began to turn. The door swung open on oiled hinges. It was just as dark outside as within. Something entered. Quietly, slowly, it made its way to the bed. A blade was raised over the mattress.
It hung there, invisible, unmoving, for a terrible moment.
Then it plunged down, once, twice, three times, stabbing into the soft flesh beneath. Still no noise. The knife was an artful weapon. It had killed many times before over many thousands of years and knew how to find the right spot.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 67