by Henry Zou
Chapter Eighteen
The skies belonged to Nautical flyers. Lightnings and Marauders dominated the troposphere while Vulture gunships hunted above the canopy. The drone of engines became a constant, interrupted only by the pounding of bombs. With the Argo-Nauticals now anchored off the coastal mainland, sorties increased twenty-fold. No longer were they restrained to long-distance probes. With fuel stations and rearmament well within flight range, de Ruger was able to conduct the sustained aerial campaign he had craved.
By the one hundred and sixtieth day of the insurgency, the Imperial ground advance had secured one-fifth of the Bastón mainland, no easy task considering the choking terrain. The coastal Imperial provinces previously threatened by rebel attack were declared green zones of safety. Along the northern coastal tip, the provinces of Fontabraga, Fuegos, Uventin and Mentulo were secured by elements of the Caliguan Second and Tenth Brigades. Likewise, the littoral channels and port city of Dellavio were held by Persepian Orcas, while the roads were blockaded by Caliguan sentries drunk on pilfered liquor.
Every indigenous village encountered was put to flame. Charred rubble was reconsecrated by preachers who followed the Imperial advance, rendering the bone-rich soil ready for replanting and immediate resettlement.
Insurgent junk fleets retreated to the inland estuaries where the larger Orcas and Persepian naval hunters could not follow. Many other Carnibalès were driven underground into their system of fighting tunnels. Initially, Caliguan foot troops sent forays underground but traps hidden within the labyrinthine tunnels soon convinced them otherwise. Rather, the Imperial Guard were content to collapse the hidden entrances when they stumbled across them. Imperial intelligence estimated the war would be won in five weeks.
On the sixth day of their march the 88th Battalion reached the Gouge. From afar, the knitted tree line dropped away suddenly into an almost vertical decline. Yet deciduous growth defied gravity and continued to grip the rock with horizontal roots, their branches bent and twisted as they struggled to reach the sunlight. It was only the purchase afforded by the stunted, multi-stemmed trees that allowed the 88th and their captors to descend into the gorge.
On the valley floor, the gathering war camp resembled a barbarians’ mustering army mixed with equal parts refugee exodus. White canvas tents were mixed with lean-tos of flapping plastek sheets. Carnibalès fighters and leashed canines picked their way between the huddled rags of non-combatants. Forges embedded in rock shelves smelted and hammered. Villagers stirred cauldrons. The tents formed circles, cowering at the base of totems that towered like monoliths. The stony obelisks were festooned with offerings of dried human remains, bones and plundered Guard equipment. Judging by the campfires, Baeder guessed five or six thousand were settled here.
At the centre of the camp, rising thirty metres into the sky, was by far the largest totem. The stone was roughly hewn at the base, blending into a colossal human face at its upper portion. Androgynous and smooth-skinned, the face had no features but square-cut cheekbones and a sharply-pointed chin. The broad, sweeping panes of granite gave the totem crude, powerful dimensions. Bloodied Imperial Guard helmets were stacked a dozen high around its base: Persepian pickelhaubes, padded Caliguan R-61 anti-ballistics, cloth-covered FEN-Cam helmets of the Riverine. Along with the helmets were shreds of torn fuselage, the turret of a burnt Chimera and even a string of severed hands.
It was under the central totem that the 88th finally met the Dos Pares.
Three armoured superhumans, the tallest almost three metres in height, waited for them. Like the totem, there was a broad, uncompromising presence to their frames. Their power armour was blackened umber with a glossy carmine sheen that caught the morning light. Each panel was etched and worked into the organic, stylised texture of flesh. Bronze charms, monstrous talons, opalised jewels, braided scalps and trophies from untold warzones hung from the armour plates. Their helmets, like their armour, were individually unique in design. They resembled theatrical masks with furrowed foreheads, wickedly-beaked noses and warped venting grilles that symbolised howling mouths. Baeder knew they were Archenemy, yet the soldier in him was humbled by the might of these superhuman warriors.
Mautista halted them at a respectful distance from the totem. The Riverine were silent. They settled around the totem with wide-eyed expressions. Carnibalès began to light incense from iron braziers, fanning the smoke with dried palm fronds. Mautista approached the Archenemy warriors alone. He opened his arms wide with his palms facing the sky and knelt down. The shortest of the warriors plodded forwards. He was slightly taller but many times wider than the rake-thin Mautista, with antlers that branched wide from the brow of his helmet. Reaching down he gripped Mautista’s throat in his gauntlet and said something to him that Baeder could not hear. Mautista smiled in glee, despite the fist encircling his crookedly narrow neck. Baeder guessed it was some sort of a greeting ritual.
The antlered warrior withdrew his hand from Mautista’s neck and pointed at Baeder. ‘Come forward.’
The voice was soft and sonorously rich. It was startling. Baeder stopped several paces away from the antlered one and swore he would not kneel. The antlered one stared at Baeder with black visors like deeply sunken eyes. Suddenly, without realising, Baeder found himself sinking down onto his knees. It was not even a conscious effort.
‘Fyodor. I know your name and it is Fyodor Baeder. May I call you Fyodor? Good. You may call me Gabre.’
‘Yes,’ Baeder said, not finding the words to say anything else.
Gabre gestured at his fellow warrior who had a helmet visage that resembled a lamenting crone. ‘This is Atachron the Old.’ He turned and pointed at his other side, at the last warrior with torso armour that was worked to resemble a black-faced daemon with a flat nose and a thin, darkly secretive smile. ‘This is Sau, of Poisoned Mischief.’
‘How do you know my name?’ Baeder asked, immediately feeling weak for doing so.
‘We have had visions of you, Fyodor,’ replied Atachron. ‘You are a great man. An admirable man. The gods show you unprecedented favour.’
Baeder rocked back on his heels, unable to comprehend what they were saying. The fever was throbbing in his sinus cavities.
‘You must be tired,’ Gabre said.
‘Yes,’ croaked Baeder, nodding weakly.
‘Do you wish to feed and water your men? Perhaps have us tend to their wounds and ailments?’
Baeder nodded.
Upon his assent, Baeder’s men were led into a shallow cave at the edge of the camp. The Guardsmen went mutely, whether silenced by exhaustion or fear of the Chaos Marines, Baeder did not know. The cave was wider than it was deep, a gap of shade at the bottom of the canyon. Beards of climbing creepers drooped across the sandstone entrance.
Inside it was cool and sheltered from the tropical heat. The temperate clime instantly felt soothing on Baeder’s blistered skin. Rush mats were spread out on the rocky ground. Someone had prepared for their arrival and incense smoke wafted from wood lanterns.
Without being told, the Riverine lowered themselves onto the rush mats, hushed and expectant. The Carnibalès brought them pails of sloshing water and set them around the rush mats alongside strips of washing cloth. The sight of the clear water almost made Baeder give thanks to whatever Dark Gods the Carnibalès worshipped. Despite their fatigue, the festering state of their bodies warranted immediate attention. The Riverine clambered for the pots, dredging up slopping handfuls onto their faces. Baeder clawed at his skin, scraping away pieces of dried dirt with his nails. The cold water on his heat-rashed skin took the edge off the stings, the itches and the prickling burns. Scabs, gore, mud and sweat all fell away from them like a layer of hardened clay. Some scrubbed so hard their skin began to bleed. The pails of water soon turned black and were replaced with fresh ones.
When the Carnibalès finally took away their pails, they distributed jerry cans full of dist
illed spirits that smelt strongly of kerosene. The men tipped them into their mouths, alcohol spilling out and down their fronts. After having taken their drink, some sat around in a stupor with their eyes closed in a state of half sleep. Baeder dabbed some of the spirits onto the infected cuts that criss-crossed his body. He did not remember sleeping, drifting off with the wash rag in his hand. He simply woke up fitfully to the smell of incense several times. The Riverine were sprawled on the mats around him, in various states of intoxication. Some were laughing incoherently. Trooper Roschig was squatting over an incense lantern dragging deep, chest-heaving inhalations. His eyes were rolled up to the whites and he was babbling. As an officer, Baeder wanted to get up and wrench Roschig away from the incense. But his limbs wouldn’t respond. He closed his eyes and didn’t remember falling back asleep.
The smoke rose and fell in coils of purple. Outside the air was filled with the chirp of valley beetles and birds shaking off the morning rain. Sun spilled through the cave mouth onto mats and smoke and bodies.
In the furthest corner, away from the others, was crouched Corporal Sendo Schilt. He breathed short gasps through his mouth, trying to inhale as little of the incense as possible. The fumes were dark magic, perhaps even spirits trying to invade his body. Some of the Riverine were going mad. Schilt was sure of it. They lay on the mats, giggling in childish glee.
Schilt would not damn his soul like those fools. Perhaps the Ecclesiarchy had been right about Baeder. Maybe the mainland had tainted him. Perhaps the entire battalion had been tainted. But he was not, and he would not be damned with them.
Schilt gnawed at his nails as his mind tried to find a way to keep him alive. Perhaps if he brought back proof he had killed Baeder, the Ecclesiarchy would pardon him. Surely Cardinal Avanti would reward him for his piety? Perhaps a dog tag and an ear would suffice? Yes, thought Schilt, that would buy him his pardon.
He would wait until nightfall. Then he would strangle the bastard colonel in his sleep. Schilt had strangled many living creatures to death and it never bothered him. He would have to bite off Baeder’s ear too, for the Carnibalès had taken his blade, but that didn’t bother him either. The hardest task would be escaping the Archenemy camp. But he would come to that when the moment arose. The incense was making it hard to think. Schilt just wanted to lie down and close his eyes for a while. When he did, the backs of his eyelids were illuminated in complex spirals with a mathematical significance that Schilt didn’t understand. Outside the cave, he began to hear chanting. The shapes in his eyes pulsated and oscillated in sync with the chants.
He would kill Baeder after he rested, Schilt decided. Then he would be given the Emperor’s Forgiveness.
At night the war camp was still. The campfires were put out to prevent aerial observation and not a sound was heard. Noise discipline was absolute. The shadowy outlines of Carnibalès sentries and their canines patrolled the upper edge of the Gouge.
It was during this period of darkness and quiet that Mautista came for Baeder. They woke him from his slumber and marched him foggily back to the central totem. A large Munitorum-issue tarpaulin had been stretched around the monolith, with the totem providing central support to form a circular tent.
Inside, the air was dry and stale. Nothing moved. Even the motes of dust that flitted before the sodium lamps seemed suspended. The ground was layered with rugs of woven wool, exotically off-world and, judging by the faded tones, very old. The offerings of dead Guardsmen were still stacked around the central pillar, although now other items adorned the room, items that Baeder had never seen before. A yellow Astartes helmet hung from the roof, a round shield of layered bone and iron was hooked on the wall, even the fanged skull of a xenos creature two metres in length was anchored against a support beam. There were other trophies too, but these were just unfamiliar outlines lost in the shadows of the great tent.
Beneath the sodium lamps stood two Chaos Marines. Baeder recognised Gabre and Atachron. The two stood in the thick shell of their armour with their helmets curled beneath their arms. Their faces were bare and chalked in white. Lips and eyes smeared in kohl gave their features an unnatural depth. In the pale light their faces were all cheekbones and stern jawlines.
Baeder knelt this time, if only out of neutral respect to their martial prowess.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Atachron intoned.
‘Rise please. We only want to talk between soldiers, as equals,’ said Gabre.
Baeder knew as soldiers they were anything but equal. The presence of leadership radiated off them, instilling calm and confidence with every slightest gesture or tonal inflection. He remembered the Chaos Marine who had ambushed Seeker Company at the Kalinga Curtain and the raw measure of its combat power. Baeder had hated the Chaos Marine for killing his men. But in retrospect, he had been acting only as he would have done, protecting the men under his command. Perhaps in a strange, indirect way, they were indeed just soldiers.
Baeder rose. Gabre picked up an autopistol from the trophy stack behind him. It was a Brickfielder-pattern, a local replica used by Bastón officers. The body was finished in contrasting wood grains of gum-sap and blackspur panels with a frosty black parkerising on the exposed metal components. Gabre released the magazine, checked that it was fully loaded and slammed it back in. He racked the slide. Holding it barrel first, he handed the weapon to Baeder. No soldier could be whole without his weapon. It was a gesture of absolute trust. Either that, thought Baeder, or the Chaos Marines were so confident in their abilities that even armed he would pose no threat. Whatever the gesture signified, it humbled the colonel.
‘The Imperium has betrayed your men. How does that make you feel?’ Atachron asked.
Hopeless, utterly hopeless. But Baeder kept these thoughts to himself. Instead he remained silent.
‘The Ecclesiarchy has condemned your regiment to death. We offer you a chance to keep your soldiers alive. But let me make this clear, we do not need your alliance. It is a privilege we grant you.’
Baeder stiffened. He was speaking to the devil, he realised. They were asking him to damn his soul. Baeder had always imagined the lure of Chaos to be seductive, but he never before thought how.
As if reading his thoughts, Gabre chortled. ‘We are not inviting you into our way. We are allowing you to fight your enemies. An enemy of my enemy is another sword at my side.’
‘It is simple, Fyodor,’ said Atachron. ‘We are going to end this war now. Solo-Bastón will be reclaimed in our name, no matter what role you play. But we are letting your men, betrayed and sacrificed, exact revenge.’
‘The end justifies the means?’ Baeder asked, mostly to himself.
‘Ask yourself this. On what basis, by what authority do you decide your moral prohibition or ethical imperatives?’ said Gabre.
Had he been asked that question before the insurgency, Baeder would have answered ‘the Emperor’. ‘None,’ Baeder began, but halted his words and corrected himself. ‘Or rather, my own. As an officer to my battalion.’
‘The authority of human reasoning thus replaces high authority. A philosopher of old said that, Iman Kant, I believe. I ask you again, what prohibits you from keeping your men alive?’
‘Nothing,’ Baeder found himself saying. ‘I…’
‘Fight with us, Fyodor. We have seen things you have not.’
Baeder took a step away, shaking his head. ‘Why did you invade this world? It was Imperial territory. Your actions brought about the death of thousands,’ he said.
Gabre seemed slightly amused. ‘We did no such thing.’
‘It was the Imperium that instigated this,’ Atachron said. ‘The Ecclesiarchy began removing kin tribes from their native land, herding them into work camps so their soil could be tilled by Imperial agriculturalists.’
In truth, Baeder had suspected this. But it seemed like everything he had known had fallen apart over the past few mont
hs. His loyalty to the Imperium; his faith in the God-Emperor. Now he clung to the last vestiges of his reality. The new truth that these Chaos followers showed him was overwhelming.
‘The Bastón fought back, but against local militia guns and machines, they only escalated the violence,’ said Atachron.
‘What they did not know is that Solo-Bastón has long been one of the recruitment worlds of our Legion, ever since the days of the Fragmentation. We came to the aid of our benefactors.’
‘Just four of you?’ asked Bader, suddenly drawn to the narrative.
‘We did enough, didn’t we,’ snorted Gabre.
‘Avanti is a sick, cruel little man. He embodies the corruption of the Imperium. Exploitation, hierarchy, materialism, all hidden under a veneer of Imperial benevolence.’
It was enthralling to hear such physically powerful beings belittle the cardinal. These were thousand-year-old warriors, mocking the desiccated puppet master of Imperial Bastón. There was a righteous, natural law to their judgement. Baeder could not help but agree.
‘You are at a crossroads, Fyodor Baeder,’ said Gabre, using his birth name.
‘One road, you can fight for your men again. Avenge those who have fallen and impel those who still yet live with purpose. We can give you this.’
‘The other road,’ Atachron intoned, ‘the other road leads you to an anonymous death, dying for a cause that has betrayed you, and holds no meaning.’
‘Will I need to worship your gods?’
‘You do as you wish. Piety is witnessed through action, not in scripture and cathedral stone.’
Baeder held out his hand. The great, segmented gauntlet folded his within its palm. ‘I will fight side-by-side as long as only I command my men and no one else,’ said Baeder.