by Darius Hinks
Then he turned, grabbed the two priests by their robes and hauled them out into the light.
The scene outside the Ostensorio was almost as chaotic as the gruesome struggle taking place within it. The battle-brothers of the Fourth Company were racing towards the building, weapons raised, but as they climbed the steps the walls and buttresses started bulging and toppling. Captain Vatrenus and his Space Marines took aim as the cause of the destruction rose into view.
The enormous bulk of the daemon tore forwards, ripping open the roof of the Ostensorio as though it were wading through a low tide rather than demolishing a building the size of a cathedral. Huge hunks of crenellated marble collapsed beneath its bulk, tumbling down onto the Blood Angels below.
Captain Vatrenus roared a command and the air filled with bolter fire as daemons flooded through the broken doorway. Antros turned, but before he could reach the doorway, Lord Rhacelus and the rest of the Librarians emerged from the Ostensorio, covered in filth and dust, still hurling gouts of psychic energy as the monster crashed through the building above them. A low, tectonic groan filled the air, but it was not coming from the doorway. Mephiston was still crushed against the daemon’s circular mouth, his blade burning red as it sank deeper into the thing’s insubstantial flesh. The sound was coming from the point of contact. It was such a bass rumble that Antros could feel it resonating in his guts. Cracks started to spider out from the base of the Ostensorio, splitting the roads into shards of rockcrete and gaping chasms that opened up before the staggering Blood Angels.
The noise grew louder and the Ostensorio finally collapsed, thundering to the ground with all the fury of a landslide.
A tower of dust and flies reached up towards the heavens, blocking out the sun, like a doom-laden finger laying judgement on the screaming masses below.
As Antros fell backwards, his battleplate crushed beneath a tsunami of rubble and broken bodies, he caught a final glimpse of Mephiston. His ink-black wings were spread and he was soaring clear of the explosion, a triumphant angel, his ivory face turned to the heavens, the daemon’s severed head clutched in his fist.
Chapter Five
The Circle of Consonance, Arx Angelicum, Baal
The Quorum Empyrric had gathered deep in the undercroft of the Carceri Arcanum – the place Mephiston was most likely to be found when not ensconced in his own chambers. The gloomy, brick-built vaults were one of the oldest parts of the Librarium and they were a good match for his saturnine character – dark, labyrinthine and unwelcoming. It was also here that the Blood Angels kept their most dangerous relics, so it seemed a sensible place for the Chief Librarian to spend his hours. It was to Mephiston the Chapter Master would turn if any of the items locked in the Carceri were to ever gain their freedom.
The Quorum Empyrric was Mephiston’s conclave of trusted advisors, consisting of his most powerful Librarians as well as other distinguished officers of the Chapter. These luminaries were seated around Mephiston on a circle of stone chairs in the central chamber of the undercroft, a meeting place known as the Circle of Consonance. They had been summoned to discuss the terrible events in the Ostensorio.
The ceiling of the undercroft had crumbled away many centuries earlier and a column of green, moss-infused light poured down from the halls above, giving the scene a subaqueous quality. Mephiston was staring into this emerald tower of light, studying dust motes as they flashed and danced. He seemed akin to the dust. The abyssal light made his sunken features as ghoulish as anything in the surrounding crypts. He looked to Antros like a piece of carrion, preserved in chemicals for an esoteric rite.
If Antros had wished to, he could have used his enhanced vision to discern the distant, domed ceiling of the upper levels, hundreds of feet above. At present, however, he was oblivious to the tumbledown beauty of the ruined cellars; he was thinking instead of the elevated company he was keeping. The summons that Mephiston promised Antros on Thermia V had finally come, but he had not expected the meeting to be anything as grand as this.
He glanced around the circle, wondering if anyone would dare to question the Chief Librarian on the madness he had unleashed in the Ostensorio. Epistolary Rhacelus showed no sign of concern, of course, despite having locked horns with the behemoth that destroyed half the Ostensorio. Mephiston’s equerry was as venerable and immobile as his ancient stone chair. He was watching the Chief Librarian with the same expression of haughty disdain he always wore – nostrils flared as though smelling something unpleasant, lip curled, one eyebrow raised. He was unarmoured but the lack of greaves and pauldrons did not make him any more human. He was as perfectly made as all Blood Angels. Beneath his simple red surplice, the iron-hard architecture of his massive, superhuman physique was visible, but, like all of his kind, he displayed a perfection that was almost disturbing when seen close up. He had the exaggerated, imperious features of a classical statue. Rhacelus was ancient, even by Blood Angels standards, and not above reminding his subordinates of the fact. Antros had heard him describe his role in conflicts that were footnotes in some of the Librarium’s oldest texts. His white hair was oiled and gleaming, and the harsh angles of his jaw were softened by a short, silver beard, but the years had left a more unusual mark on him. So many centuries of staring into the immaterium had given his eyes a strange, cobalt sheen. They were iridescent like the eyes of a cat, flickering as though lit from behind. He raised his hand in a slow, regal movement and a scrum of robed blood thralls rushed from the shadows. He took a chalice from a proffered tray, sipped from it, then dismissed the servants with a wave of his finger.
Seated near the brothers of the Librarius was the veteran battle-brother who had admitted Antros to the Ostensorio: Captain Vatrenus. As Antros looked his way, he guessed that Vatrenus would be the one to challenge Mephiston’s actions. Unlike Epistolary Rhacelus, Captain Vatrenus could not hide his outrage at what had happened in the Ostensorio. There were a few fresh scratches on his Mark VII plate, but it was his face that showed the real impact of the fight. His jaw was jutting out and his deep-set eyes were simmering beneath his heavy brow. The idea that the Arx Angelicum could be attacked in such a way had left him wide-eyed with indignation.
For the moment, Captain Vatrenus held his ire in check, so Antros turned from the battle-brothers of the Fourth Company and looked at the one member of the Quorum Empyrric not seated in a chair. Scholiast Imola was the most senior Chapter-serf in the Librarium – oldest of all the scholiasts. The Chief Librarian had spoken often of Imola’s fathomless wisdom and despite being a mortal she was regularly admitted to his inner council.
Imola’s ancient form was preserved in an ornate, bronze casket called an embryon, which had been carried to the meeting in a mechanical palanquin that walked on dozens of hydraulic legs. The top of the palanquin was a seething nest of serpentine limbs, clad in ribbed steel and ending in a mixture of styluses, claws and lenses that cradled the little chest. The centre of the casket was filled with crimson liquid, but it was just possible to make out her small, foetal shape floating in the solution – pale, blind and suspended by rubber umbilical cords.
Antros turned his gaze to the other side of the circle, and the only non-Baalite members of the meeting. The emissaries of the Adeptus Ministorum lacked the martial perfection of the Space Marines, but they were imbued with another, equally potent power – a faith so furious that it inured them to the simple privations of the flesh. A mixture of passion and devotion radiated from their bleached faces, as vivid as the light shining from Rhacelus’ eyes. Two of them were physically present and a third appeared in the form of a flickering hololith. The projected priest was the same senior prelate Antros had seen in the Ostensorio and he had been introduced to the quorum as Confessor Zin. Zin’s image was hanging a few feet above the ground, at the centre of the circle of stone chairs. His likeness was now life-sized, rather than the colossal figure Antros had witnessed in the Ostensorio.
‘My Lord Mephi
ston,’ said Captain Vatrenus, unable to hold back his outrage any longer. ‘We have assured you that all necessary measures have been taken to secure the Ostensorio. Epistolary Rhacelus has spoken at great length of the psychic wards he has employed to seal the breach in real space and I have detailed the work of my squads.’ His tone was bullish. ‘Chief Librarian, will you explain what you were attempting? I do not understand much of what occurs in the Librarius, but this was more shocking than anything I have seen before. My lord,’ he said, making no effort to hide his disapproval. ‘What was so important that you would risk the sanctity of our fortress-monastery?’
Mephiston fixed his gaze on Captain Vatrenus. ‘They were vermin,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing more. The Arx Angelicum was never in danger.’ His words flowed into each other, heavy with an odd mixture of accents, making it hard to catch his meaning.
‘Lord Mephiston,’ said the hololith of Confessor Zin, his jowly features trembling. ‘Perhaps I could help illuminate your council on why you risked such hazardous methods?’
Vatrenus looked appalled by the mere existence of the priest, but Mephiston gave him a vague nod.
Zin’s eyes flashed triumphantly and he cast his gaze around the members of the quorum. ‘Noble lords of the Librarius, Mephiston has admitted me into this most sagacious gathering because the time has come for plain speech. You should know that I have seen your master’s name written in the funeral pyres of a thousand loyal souls. For nearly a decade, the God-Emperor has filled my dreams with visions of Mephiston, and Mephiston alone, calling me hither. Lords of the Librarius, you should know that it has been prophesied that Lord Mephiston is the Astra Angelus.’ Zin’s hand trembled as he snatched a medallion hung around his neck and held it up as though it explained his words. The design was impossible to make out through the interference of the transmission, but he waved it at them as proof. ‘Ten long years ago, the jewel of the Cronian sector, Divinus Prime, was stolen from the Light of the Emperor – snatched from the sight of even the most determined astropathic choirs. But it has been written in the blood of our holy martyrs that Mephiston will one day lead us back there – lead us to the site of our most hallowed shrines. What you saw in the Ostensorio was proof that this could be done. Mephiston has travelled through the immaterium unaided.’
Captain Vatrenus glanced at Epistolary Rhacelus, disbelief clearly written across his face. His eyes widened in shock as Rhacelus looked calmly back at him, confirming the priest’s outlandish claim through silent assent.
Zin raised his voice, perhaps sensing the captain’s doubt even from across the galaxy. ‘Every one of my visions and prophecies has proven to be true. The ritual in the Ostensorio achieved something incredible and divine. Your lord travelled safely through the warp and located the stolen world of Divinus Prime. He has pinpointed the location of a place that the rest of the Imperium cannot even see.’
Zin lowered the medallion and collapsed back in his chair, exhausted by his own fervour, looking expectantly at Mephiston to continue the tale.
The Chief Librarian remained silent and Zin leaned closer, triggering a burst of interference that sheared his head, creating a double-headed, shimmering phantom. ‘Lord Mephiston, will you not tell us all what you saw? I have travelled across half the galaxy to see you. I have faced…’ His words faltered. ‘I have faced things that I will not easily forget, and lost many friends, but I will reach Baal within days, Mephiston.’ His tone became desperate. ‘And now that I am so close, I beg you to tell me what you have learned. You have achieved the impossible, but what did you see, my lord? I must know!’
Antros bridled at the priest’s tone. For a mortal to demand information from one of the Adeptus Astartes was shocking, but to speak in such a way to the Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels was incredible. Antros saw that he was not the only one to note the break with protocol. Captain Vatrenus’ face had flushed a dangerous red and he had clenched his teeth together with the strain of staying quiet.
Mephiston remained motionless. He paid no attention to the priest and continued watching the spiralling dust with a cold, reptilian stillness.
‘Divinus Prime is no ordinary world!’ whispered Confessor Zin, attempting to snap Mephiston out of his reverie. ‘I must know how we can recover it.’
The two other priests echoed the words ‘Divinus Prime’ in awed whispers.
‘We are at the very gates of damnation, Astra Angelus,’ continued Zin. ‘The very gates.’ He plucked a leather-bound book from his robes and began quoting from it, his voice shaking with passion. ‘On the banks of the Esomino, before the walls of Volgatis, was His wrath made manifest!’
‘His wrath,’ whispered the other priests.
‘Five times five hundred were the foes he cast unto the earth,’ continued Zin. ‘Five times five were the walls that toppled before his voice. Behold, the brazen beasts of the–’
‘Confessor Zin,’ interrupted Mephiston, finally breaking his silence. There was something dangerous about his soft tones and the priests hushed. Then Mephiston seemed to notice something odd about his hand. It was clenched into a fist but Mephiston stared at it as though he had not willed his fingers to close. He paused, neglecting to finish his sentence as he slowly opened his fingers and placed his hand back on the arm of the chair.
‘Yes?’ demanded Zin.
After a few seconds, Mephiston looked up from his hand and continued in the same flat, dispassionate voice. ‘You need not quote me the Vicissitudes in its entirety.’ There was no anger in his voice, just quietly stated fact. ‘I have read all five translations.’ He nodded at the book in Zin’s hand. ‘Uliarus missed most of the original intent but I have a copy of the Pindarus that I could lend you.’
Epistolary Rhacelus snorted in amusement but Zin’s disappointment changed to frustration. ‘What did you see, Chief Librarian?’ he snapped. ‘What did you find? You were gone for twelve days. What has happened to Divinus Prime?’
‘This is too much,’ growled Captain Vatrenus, leaning forwards in his chair and glaring at Zin. ‘You will not speak to the Chief Librarian in such a way.’
Mephiston raised a hand and Antros saw that he was listening to a distant voice. He could even hear the exact words, lisping and hissing in his lord’s thoughts. They were spoken in ragged tones. We are what our scars have made us. We are born in blood. The words were accompanied by a familiar vision: the same lidless, flayed, veiled face Antros had seen on Thermia. The words and the face vanished as quickly as they came and Antros realised that he had read Mephiston’s thoughts again. The idea unnerved him. Mephiston’s mind was not for him to see. Such insight was heretical.
‘Your Cardinal World still exists, Confessor Zin,’ Mephiston said, looking at the priest directly for the first time and moving forwards so that light spilled across his face. Mephiston’s features must once have matched the beauty of his battle-brothers, but his face was now a shattered death mask: a bleached collision of jagged angles and harsh lines, all pointing to his intense, unblinking eyes.
Zin’s hololith squirmed and looked away, visibly shaken by Mephiston’s gaze. ‘Are you sure? Divinus Prime is safe?’
Mephiston raised an eyebrow. ‘Safe? No. It is not safe. Nothing in the Cronian Sector is safe, Confessor Zin. You of all people should know that. The Wars of Sanctitude are no nearer completion than when we began prosecuting them, a century ago. But…’ He paused and looked into the shadows. ‘But Divinus Prime still exists. I spent several hours there.’ He frowned in distaste. ‘It is a mess, like the rest of the sector.’
The priests made the sign of the aquila at this and looked aghast, and Confessor Zin stared across the galaxy, attempting to look Mephiston in the eye. Even as a projection, there was no mistaking his alarm.
‘Divinus Prime is hallowed ground,’ he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘It is forbidden to all… all but the most senior members of the Ecclesiarchy.
With respect, my lord, you were never given permission to go there.’
Aloof as he was, even Rhacelus balked at the words ‘given permission’. ‘You asked the Chief Librarian to find your world, Confessor Zin,’ he drawled, not deigning to look at the priest, ‘and he found it.’ His words washed across the gathering, gravelly and languid. ‘A little gratitude might suit you better than this disrespect.’
Zin’s eyes widened in fear, but he bit back a reply. He looked at someone else in the strategium of the frigate that was hurling him towards Baal. He nodded and turned back to Mephiston. When he spoke again, it was with a more emollient tone. ‘The priest I saw you holding in the sacristy, my lord – was he from Divinus Prime? Was he one of my own order?’
Mephiston nodded. ‘Prester Kohath.’ The look of distaste remained on his face. ‘A luckless pawn, caught up in a pointless schism, confused by his own transgressions.’
‘Transgressions? Schisms?’ exclaimed Zin. ‘I assure you, Chief Librarian, there are no heretics on Divinus Prime. It is not possible.’
Mephiston held up his hand. ‘The sector is dancing to a tune not of our making, confessor. Would that it were otherwise.’ He shrugged. ‘But I did not say Prester Kohath was a heretic. The idea of heresy had barely taken shape in his mind when I lifted him from his home.’ Mephiston glanced past the hololith and looked directly at Antros.
Antros stiffened as Mephiston’s corpse-cold eyes locked on to his, giving him the dreadful sensation that his soul was being flayed. Had the Chief Librarian sensed that Antros was prying into his thoughts? Had be brought him here to denounce him before the quorum as a heretic?
Antros tried to look calm as Rhacelus and the other Librarians watched him with grim countenances.
‘Then he still lives?’ asked Confessor Zin, ignorant of the glances being directed at Antros. ‘You have a survivor from Divinus Prime here, in your Librarium?’ Hope kindled in his red-rimmed eyes and he clutched his medallion, mouthing a prayer. ‘I would beg that you hand him over to my brethren immediately,’ he said. ‘And then you can fulfil the holy mission allocated to you by the God-Emperor himself, by showing me how I may find the banks of the Esomino, and the sacred gates of Volgatis.’