Ruinstorm

by David Annandale

  A staff stopped Sanguinius’ blow. Its head was a cluster of nestled, savage blades, and they held the sword fast. The hand that clutched the staff was huge and clawed. It was on the end of an arm thick with scaled muscle and deadly with curved spines down its length.

  The Emperor was gone. In His place, a daemon towered over Sanguinius. Multiple twisted horns framed a skull with monstrous jaws and eyes that were blind yet filled with awful knowledge. Its torso was covered in eyes. Some gazed at Sanguinius with hunger. Some with amusement. Some with anger.

  The daemon parted its jaws. When it spoke, a tongue long as a serpent uncoiled to taste the Angel’s pain.

  ‘By paths of eight and gods of four, I am Madail the Undivided. By fates of eight and edicts of four, you shall serve. You shall be the Angel of Ruin.’

  The maelstrom slowed. The rush of non-being coagulated. It became real. It became nightmare. It became the interior of a ship.

  Madail the Undivided

  Sixteen

  The Shattered and the Returned

  The Sthenelus cut through the void partway between the necrosphere and Davin. Its full auspex array was directed at the bones. Khalybus paced slowly back and forth across the width of the strategium, his bionic legs taking strides of perfect, mechanical regularity. His gaze never left the oculus. He watched the slowly shifting view of the necrosphere. At this distance, all he could see was a wall of grey lined by faint, broken, jagged veins of black. The lines were huge topographical features, the bones pushed together in mountain chains larger than worlds.

  All dead. Everything was dead. Except something waited in the necrosphere. The auspex had picked it up several times during the transit through the shell. The first reading came just seconds before the primarchs alerted the fleets to the presence of an enemy. The last time was as the Sthenelus had emerged from the shell into the Davin System. None of the contacts had lasted for more than a fraction of a second. Never long enough to triangulate the foe’s position, its size, or its nature. Just enough to confirm its existence. There had been no contacts since the frigate had reached the void inside the necrosphere.

  Khalybus was patient. He would wait for the enemy to move again. While the three Legions travelled to Davin and began their landings, he held the Sthenelus back. Alone, the ship prowled, hunting the Pilgrim.

  He had ignored the glowering stare at his back for hours. He finally grew tired of it. Without taking his gaze from the oculus, he said, ‘I know what you are going to say, Iron Father. My orders will stand. But speak, and I will listen.’

  ‘I do not speak for the benefit of outsiders,’ said Cruax. His voice sounded like stones rattling in a hollow iron case.

  ‘I’ll withdraw,’ Levannas said. He stood at the starboard end of the strategium. The Raven Guard kept himself still, merging with the shadows pooling at the base of the wall. It was easy to forget he was there. Cruax made a point of never forgetting. The years of fighting alongside Levannas had done nothing to temper the Iron Father’s dislike. The XIX Legion had failed to support the Iron Hands at the crucial moment on Isstvan V, and for Cruax, the sin of the primarch was the sin of the entire Legion. The stain could never be expunged, no matter how vital a role the remnants of the Raven Guard had played in the survival of Khalybus’ company ever since.

  ‘No,’ Khalybus said. ‘Your place is on the bridge.’ He had no great love for the XIX, but he had learned to value Levannas’ strategic mind, and his friendship. The war was too long and too desperate to turn from any winning strategy, and any true ally. Khalybus had adapted the company’s tactics to the new war. He believed that he had not betrayed the tenets of the X Legion. And he had Cruax to keep him honest.

  The Iron Father grunted, displeased. Then he said, ‘Our vigil here is for nothing. Meanwhile, three Legions are on the surface of Davin. We are not where the war will be.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Khalybus said. ‘There is no fighting yet on Davin. I believe the attack will come from here.’

  ‘From where?’ said Cruax. ‘We are patrolling less than a sliver of that surface. We have wasted enough time.’

  Khalybus glanced Levannas’ way. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘I think our presence over Davin would be redundant. Here we might make a difference.’

  ‘I think so too.’ He wasn’t sure why he was so determined to hold a position close to the necrosphere. Cruax was right. It was highly unlikely that the Sthenelus would scan just the right region when the enemy moved again. He did not like to admit that he was compelled by something like intuition. That was not a proper rationale. It was too human, too beholden to the weak flesh. Even so, he obeyed his instinct. Just beyond the edge of perception, there was something familiar. He did not know what it was or how it could be, and he would not speak of it to anyone.

  ‘We will meet the Pilgrim at last,’ Levannas said, sounding as certain as Khalybus felt.

  ‘And we will fight it alone, in the end.’

  Khalybus watched the necrosphere. Waiting.

  He thought Now the moment before the shout.

  ‘Contact!’ Seterikus called from the auspex station. Legionaries manned all the critical systems of the frigate; very few mortal officers had survived this long into the war. ‘There is movement in the shell. It’s big.’

  ‘I know,’ said Khalybus.

  The monster moved so fast, it broke through the shell seconds after being detected. And Seterikus was right. It was very big. It did not appear so, as it emerged from the inconceivable vastness of the necrosphere, but as it entered the system and made for Davin, its scale became clear. At last the enemy had a shape. It was a warship. It was gigantic, far larger than any battleship Khalybus had ever seen. It dwarfed the likes of the Red Tear and the Invincible ­Reason. Yet its silhouette was familiar.

  ‘We are being hailed,’ said Demir.

  ‘Let us hear it,’ Khalybus said. ‘One second only.’

  He expected the daemonic electronic howl, the screech trying to break up his rational thoughts. What disturbed him more was the tone underneath the scream. This was what was familiar. For all the distortion, the signal was still that of a specific vessel. The daemonic forces that had created the monster wanted it to be recognised. They wanted the pain that came with that knowledge.

  Demir cut the sound after a second. Smoke rose from one of the vox-casters. Silence fell on the bridge. The daemon ship grew larger in the oculus. It was moving fast. Its form became clearer.

  ‘Captain,’ Demir began. He too had a bionic larynx. It was not suited to the expression of emotion. Such displays were not part of the culture of the Iron Hands. The machinic ideal was cold, not easily moved. Yet Demir’s voice cracked in horror.

  ‘I know,’ Khalybus said. It was hard to speak. ‘Warn the fleets. The Pilgrim is here. It is the Veritas Ferrum.’

  Secondary auspex and pict screens lit up with green confirmations, even as the primary screens were flashing red with warnings. The cogitators of the Sthenelus had recognised the Veritas too. Its trans­ponder signatures were beyond doubt. The outline of the ship was familiar. Enough remained for the mockery to be apparent. This was the strike cruiser of Captain Durun Atticus. It had survived Isstvan V, exacting a steep price from the traitors as it made good its escape. It had destroyed the Emperor’s Children battle-barge Callidora and its escorts. Khalybus had followed the traces of the Veritas Ferrum’s heroic war. He had searched for years to find it and its captain again.

  He had found it. He hoped no remnant of Atticus was aboard the abomination.

  ‘Magnify,’ Khalybus ordered. Swallowing his disgust, he studied the vid screen displays in the strategium, taking what he could to learn the nature of the foe. Levannas and Cruax joined him.

  The Veritas Ferrum had grown many times its original size. Colossal spikes of iron and brass jutted from its hull. Its flanks bubbled with pustules and
sores a hundred yards wide. They swelled, burst and grew again.

  Levannas said, ‘That disease might be a weakness.’

  ‘Yes,’ Khalybus began. He looked more closely. ‘No,’ he corrected. He pointed to a blister that had just burst a quarter of the way down from the prow. ‘Look. That did not leave a crater. The plates are thicker now.’ As he spoke, another sore split open. Molten fluid spread outwards, then solidified. The ship was growing stronger.

  The Veritas Ferrum’s statuary had turned into gnarled gargoyles. They moved, jaws snapping and claws raking the void for prey. They were huge, each of them the size of a frigate, though against the colossal scale of the swollen Veritas, they were comparable to the statues, battered by the years of war, that still stood proudly the length of the Sthenelus. The gargoyles of the Veritas were in the mould of its figurehead. The prow was a horned skull. Jaws that could snap an escort in half opened and closed, hungry, raging, laughing.

  The guns of the ship had grown too. They looked like jagged, broken bones forged from brass. Flames licked up from their barrels. Acidic blood ran down their length, in defiance of absent gravity, scoring the guns with lines of strange, shifting meanings.

  Khalybus exchanged a look with Cruax. The Iron Father nodded. ‘Our struggle has been a long and honourable one,’ Cruax said. ‘I am proud of what we have done.’

  ‘As am I,’ said Levannas.

  ‘What are your orders, captain?’ Cruax asked. He spoke with grim acceptance of what was coming.

  ‘They are what they must be,’ Khalybus said. ‘We attack.’

  Vox communication with the surface was erratic. Carminus had no trouble reaching the Chapter Masters in the field outside the temple, but it took him many attempts to reach the forces inside. The Chapter Masters were having the same difficulty. The armies were in a state of limbo. There was no enemy to attack on the surface, but the prolonged silence from the primarchs had the commanders on edge. Now an enemy was coming, and there was nothing the planetside forces could do.

  The fleets, at least, could act. The flagships of the Dark Angels and the Ultramarines joined the Red Tear in pulling out of orbit. Three vast wedges of ships took shape, pointing towards the approaching Veritas Ferrum. Davin was already diminishing to the rear as the fleets built up speed.

  ‘More contacts,’ said Mautus. ‘They’re coming out of the necrosphere behind the Veritas.’

  ‘Identification?’

  ‘None yet.’

  ‘Vox, are they hailing?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ said Neverrus. Then, with more excitement than dread, ‘Captain, vox signals from inside the temple.’

  It was Azkaellon. The vox stream kept breaking up. Static bursts swallowed words. Carminus heard ‘…vanished…’. That told him what he needed to know.

  ‘I hear and acknowledge, Azkaellon. The enemy has emerged. It is the Veritas Ferrum.’ He had difficulty believing the gargantuan auspex contact could ever have been an Iron Hands strike cruiser, but he had to accept the report from Khalybus. He had never heard a legionary of the X speak with horrified grief before. ‘There are more ships with it,’ Carminus went on. ‘We are closing to attack. I am leaving the Victus and the Scarlet Liberty in orbit. They will await your call for a forced evacuation.’ If they hear it. The thought came before he could suppress it. ‘Please acknowledge.’ When he received only static as a response, he repeated himself.

  This time, he heard fragments of words, isolated syllables, ‘…ledged…’.

  There was an electronic shriek in the signal, and the vox cut out. Carminus frowned at the abruptness. He did not think Azkaellon had broken communications voluntarily.

  There was nothing he could do. His duty was clear. He must not dwell on what was happening below. He must not think of the absence of the primarch.

  He turned back to Neverrus. ‘The hails,’ he said. ‘One second. No longer.’ Premonition told him to follow the example of the Iron Hands.

  Neverrus did as he ordered. When she looked back at him, her face was pale with shock. ‘The Sable is out there,’ she said.

  ‘More contacts,’ Mautus warned. ‘There’s a lot of movement.’ He paused. ‘There’s too much movement.’

  ‘What do you mean, too much?’ Carminus said.

  ‘Attempting to resolve the data, captain.’

  While Mautus worked his station, trying to make sense of the information pouring in, Carminus looked through the bridge oculus. The Red Tear was leading the Blood Angels fleet. To starboard, he could see the leading edge of the Ultramarines formation, the Samothrace at their head. Past them, beyond his sight, the Dark Angels were moving out too. The tacticarium screens to the left and right of his command throne updated the positions moment by moment, hololithic diagrams arranging themselves into a shape that was both a triple-headed spear and a moving wall. Three aimed their might at a single target. The auspex returns of the Veritas ­Ferrum defied belief, but no matter how huge the ship was, even with its escort it was outnumbered.

  Or so Carminus had thought until a moment ago. He looked straight ahead. The Veritas would not be visible for some time yet. He was staring into the grey-tinged void, anticipating the fires of war to come, and waiting for the worst news.

  Carminus blinked. There was nothing to see, yet he had an impression of movement. He turned his head, using his peripheral vision to capture more light. The feeling intensified. Movement, too vague and pervasive to define. ‘Auspex,’ he said to Mautus, ‘tell me what is happening out there.’

  ‘Resolving,’ Mautus said. His voice was hoarse.

  The first symbols to appear on Carminus’ screens were more ships pouring out of the shell behind the Veritas Ferrum. The Sable was one of the first. It had not become gigantic, though the data on the auspex returns showed grievous deformation in the cruiser’s shape. The vessels kept coming, and so did the identifications. The Ultramarines reported the presence of the grand cruiser Virtu and the battle-barge Eternal Rampart. The Dark Angels saw the return of the strike cruisers Judgement of Night, Recurve and Voulge. Mautus identified ships from other Legions as well. There were many from the forces that had been scattered after Isstvan V. Ships lost to the Salamanders, Raven Guard and Iron Hands returned, corrupted courtiers to the Veritas Ferrum.

  ‘There is a pattern,’ Mautus said. ‘None of these ships were destroyed in engagements. They have been listed as missing or lost in the warp.’

  The Veritas’ escort kept growing in number until it became a squadron. Then a strike force.

  ‘The Pilgrim has been busy,’ Carminus muttered.

  Past the ships, the displays disintegrated into a fog of lines. ‘Mautus,’ Carminus said, ‘what is the other movement?’

  ‘It’s the necrosphere,’ Mautus said a few moments later. ‘It’s contracting.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘Variable speeds, fleet master.’ The schematics on the tacticarium screen still showed a fog at the edges of the system. It had vectors now. ‘Some of it is almost as fast as the ships.’

  The spatial geography of the conflict took shape in Carminus’ mind. Based on the relative speeds of the opposing forces, the collision would occur at a point less than half the distance between Davin and the original position of the shell. The wedges of the fleets were aimed at an amorphous swarm of daemonic ships. And coming behind them, a closing fist.

  ‘The Sthenelus is engaging,’ said Neverrus.

  ‘Tell them we are coming,’ Carminus told her. ‘Tell them they do not fight alone.’ He advanced to the command pulpit, as if the few steps from the throne would bring him closer to the conflagration.

  The grey-black of the void swirled, tightening. In the centre of the view, a star twinkled. It was Carminus’ first sight of the onrushing monster.

  The sealed gateway behind the altar pulsed, a vein of bloody light mixing with the vertic
al white line. A few minutes after the pulse, Azkaellon brought word of the Veritas Ferrum.

  The Lion cursed. He punched the altar in frustration. It cracked along its full length. Beside him, Curze was motionless. He was a statue of night and bone, draped in rags and chains. He had not moved or spoken again since the Lion and Guilliman had questioned him. Frozen in horror, he stared at the portal, his eyes fixed on a point beyond the wall, beyond the present, waiting for the possibility that Sanguinius might triumph. The Lion had never seen the Night Haunter so bereft of certainty. All his mockery and taunting knowledge had drained away. Curze had made himself into a monster, reflecting the abattoir he saw the universe to be, and anchoring himself on the inevitability of fate. Even that pillar was crumbling before him now. The Lion could almost have pitied him. The memory of Curze’s victims prevented the Lion from seeing anything other than a first touch of justice descending on the crow.

  He would have drawn more satisfaction from Curze’s plight if he wasn’t trapped in uncertainty himself.

  Guilliman grunted.

  ‘Tell me you see our way forwards,’ the Lion said. The inaction since Sanguinius vanished stabbed at him. He was stymied. He had been convinced the Angel had been mad to step into the portal. Now he had proof.

  ‘I don’t,’ Guilliman said. He pointed at the gateway. ‘But I wonder if the change we see there coincided with the emergence of the Veritas.’

  ‘Damn Sanguinius!’ the Lion roared. ‘Damn him for the fool he is. I was right to begin with. We should have destroyed this cursed world as soon as we entered the system.’

  ‘I don’t think that would have advanced our cause,’ Guilliman said. He was studying the gateway as if he could divine answers from the flow of colours in the light. ‘I think Davin was dead until the portal opened. Now there is something active again.’