by Darius Hinks
The Blood Angels landed their skiffs outside the gates and stormed through the noisy throng, drawing surprised glances as people saw the towering figures of Mephiston and the other Adeptus Astartes. Mephiston paused as he walked into the centre of a large crossroads. The four roads that met just inside the gates were broad enough to support a whole phalanx of tanks, but they still seemed narrow because of the soaring townhouses and temples that surrounded them. The buildings were constructed in the same funerary style as the Penitent Trees outside: sturdy, fluted columns supporting domed turrets and grand pediments, all intricately wrought from millions of warped, fossilised bones. The city would have looked like a mausoleum if it weren’t overrun with thousands of distraught refugees, all talking and yelling at once. The steps of chapels and basilicas swarmed with crowds of bellowing, sunburned survivors, all venting their pent-up grief and anger on the officials who were trying to aid them.
As they passed through the mob, Antros heard the same story repeated over and over: cities and towns that had become slaughterhouses, bloodbath battles as the secessionists known as the Enlightened turned on their brothers, killing those who would not embrace their new doctrine. It sounded to Antros as though many had embraced the new cult. He heard refugees mutter of family members and friends who had converted to the new faith. They spoke of them in shocked, desperate tones, calling them apostates.
Antros and the others gathered around Mephiston at the centre of the crossroads, drawing more surprised glances. The Adeptus Astartes looked like an impregnable bastion as crowds of mortals backed away from them, crying out in alarm and calling for guards.
Even those that know its name will not speak openly of the Blade Petrific,+ said Mephiston inside Antros’ head. He saw Rhacelus nod in reply and wondered if he was meant to have heard the words or not. +It is an article of their faith, discussed only in their most sacred rites.+
Mephiston gave Antros a meaningful glance and he realised he was speaking deliberately to him. He looked again at the crowds, wondering if he could delve into the mind of a local and find a memory that could lead them to their prize. It was no use. Whatever sorcery had shrouded Divinus Prime was still clouding his second sight. Even the attempt caused him to wince as he saw a shattered reflection of his own thoughts – ideas and hopes dredged from the recesses of his memory. The harder he tried to explore the minds of others, the more he felt as though his own mind were being examined. The sensation was deeply unpleasant. He was about to ask Rhacelus if he was still blind but the commotion caused by their arrival had drawn the attention of one of the beleaguered officials.
‘Hello?’ called the man, barging through a scrum of arguing merchants and reaching Mephiston.
He was full of bluster, and seemed about to demand something of them, but the colour drained from his face and he stumbled to a halt. He looked from Mephiston’s corpse-like features to Rhacelus’ imperious glare and then Antros’ inhuman beauty, and shook his head, opening and closing his mouth a few times, forgetting whatever he had been intending to say.
Prester Brennus stepped from behind the Blood Angels and the man visibly relaxed as he saw someone of more normal proportions.
‘Brothers,’ he said, as Confessor Zin also stepped out of the crowd. ‘Welcome to Mormotha. I’m Prester Cyriak. Where have you travelled from?’ He glanced nervously at the Blood Angels, noticing Captain Vatrenus and his men striding through the crowds to join them. ‘And who are your companions?’
Prester Brennus stumbled forwards and grabbed his hands. ‘Tarn Abbey is gone!’ he cried. ‘The Enlightened crucified anyone who would not join them! They’re coming here next! The apostates will tear down these walls and butcher–’
‘Calm yourself, brother,’ replied Prester Cyriak. He embraced Brennus. ‘Word has reached us of the murders at Tarn Abbey, but you need fear no more.’ He waved at the crowds. ‘Arch-Cardinal Dravus has summoned everyone still following the true Imperial Creed. Three whole regiments of Volscan Dragoons have turned their back on the apostasy of their brothers and travelled here to fight for the arch-cardinal. And more loyal soldiers are arriving every day.’ His eyes flashed with pride. ‘There are thousands of militiamen here too. Zorambus is coming to meet his doom, brother. These atrocities will soon be over and once the arch-cardinal has dealt with that wretched fraud, he intends to perform an even greater miracle. He means to return us to the arms of the Emperor.’
‘What do you mean, brother?’ asked Confessor Zin.
Prester Cyriak was struggling to contain his excitement, but he managed to keep his voice low. ‘The arch-cardinal has spent many days praying in the wilderness after the Emperor blessed him with a vision. Dravus is seeking a way to break this unholy silence that has enveloped us. He seeks a way to return us to the light of the Imperium.’
Zin glanced triumphantly at Mephiston. ‘Do you see? Do you see what you have done, my lord? Your mere presence on this world has broken the curse. This can be no coincidence. It is as it was prophesised!’
Prester Brennus slumped in Cyriak’s arms, overcome with exhaustion and emotion. ‘Forgive me, brother,’ said Cyriak, looking pained at the man’s suffering. ‘I must get you to the infirmary.’
He summoned some of his fellow priests over and ordered them to find treatment for the man. Confessor Zin muttered a quick prayer over the barely conscious Brennus and promised to visit him as soon as he was able.
‘Take us to the arch-cardinal,’ said Rhacelus, once Brennus was gone.
Cyriak grimaced and looked to Zin for support. ‘Brother, as you can imagine, even if it were within my power, I could not simply admit strangers to the arch-cardinal’s presence. I’m sure your companions pose no danger but I would need some kind of–’
Rhacelus stepped forwards, his beautiful, master-crafted armour glinting in the sunlight. His hulking frame threw Cyriak into shadow and the man looked up at him in terror. ‘We are the sons of Sanguinius,’ said Rhacelus, clearly nauseated at having to address so lowly a specimen. ‘And I assure you that we do pose a threat.’ He flicked back his cloak and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Question the will of a Blood Angel again and you will meet the Emperor sooner than you expected.’
Cyriak backed away with a horrified grimace, his hands raised protectively. He shook his head and was about to flee when Zin interceded.
‘Prester Cyriak,’ said Zin, stepping between Rhacelus and the priest. ‘If you can inform the arch-cardinal that I am here, and that I am in the company of Lord Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, he will be all too pleased to see us, I assure you.’
‘But he’s not here!’ said Cyriak. ‘He travelled alone to the Arazi Plains. As I said, it has been prophesised that he will receive guidance from the God-Emperor.’
Zin pressed Cyriak further. ‘Brother, where exactly in the Arazi Plains? We must speak to him urgently. Lord Mephiston cannot be left waiting. You must send word to–’
‘We will wait,’ said Mephiston, studying the crowds of refugees that were staring at them.
As Antros looked at Mephiston he noticed that his left arm was shaking and the armour was hazed by a cloud of black sparks. Mephiston followed his gaze and gripped the vambrace. He muttered under his breath until the sparks were extinguished, but his arm continued to tremble.
‘Wait, my lord?’ said Antros.
Mephiston nodded. ‘Take us to Father Orsuf.’
Cyriak looked at Mephiston’s arm, his eyes widening in fear, and he seemed unable to reply.
‘Orsuf is alive?’ asked Rhacelus, glancing at Mephiston.
‘Do you know a Father Orsuf?’ asked Zin, looking confused but trying to give Cyriak a reassuring smile. He nodded at the growing crowd that was forming around them. ‘It might be better if we were out of your way.’
Cyriak nodded eagerly, clearly delighted by the prospect of making the Blood Angels someone els
e’s responsibility. ‘Yes, of course. Of course. And I do know Father Orsuf. The old preacher. But he rarely receives guests. Is there anyone else? I’m sure someone…’ His words trailed off and he flushed red.
‘He will receive me,’ said Mephiston.
Cyriak nodded and started barging a path through the crowds, waving for them to follow. ‘Please forgive me for…’ He grimaced.
‘No need to apologise, brother,’ said Zin, as he and the Blood Angels followed the awkward-looking priest off the main thoroughfare. He led them away from the gates and deeper into the city. Each street they entered was a little less crowded than the last and a little narrower. Antros quickly saw why Mormotha was known as the Labyrinth. Each concentric circle of the city was crowded with grand, ecclesiastical buildings: basilicas, mausoleums and tombs, all striving to outdo each other’s macabre beauty. Their porticoed facades flooded the avenues and fountains below with confusing pools of shadow, so that Antros soon found it impossible to keep track of their route. Navigation was made even harder by the fact that every architectural detail was built of the same, sinuous bone-work.
As the shadows grew deeper, the shapes started to look more sinister: twisted, knotted spines, warped into balustrades and pediments, all studded with grinning skulls. The air was still crowded with winged hymnals that filled the streets with their eerie, distorted music, but they soon reached a district that was free of the wailing refugees. Hooded faces looked down at them from high, colonnaded balconies. They eyed the giants below them with blank, unreadable expressions.
Cyriak led them on through a series of empty gardens and up a steep, cobbled street towards an abbey, perched at the summit of a hill that looked down over the whole of Mormotha. They had been walking for nearly an hour by now and, as they neared the imposing, domed building, Antros paused to look back. Seeing the city from this vantage point revealed that the capital was even larger than he had imagined. Mormotha’s bone-white maze of streets sprawled out for many miles, and Antros realised there must be millions of people inhabiting its crush of temples and monasteries.
To the east, he saw the great gates and the square they had entered through, still clogged with crowds. To the south was a palace complex – a huddle of buildings that dwarfed even the massive structures surrounding it. The palace buildings were linked by dozens of covered pergolas, giving the impression of a vast spiderweb, and even from several miles away Antros could hear bells ringing in its towers.
The north side of the city faced out onto a sun-burnished expanse of ocean. The calm, glittering waters were dotted with small ships and beyond the city walls there were docks and warehouses.
The western side of the city was dominated by a space port so huge Antros could make it out even at this distance, and near the space port was a colossal amphitheatre that looked to be at least a mile wide. This vast, terraced circle was surrounded by a legion of crumbling statues that looked down over the surrounding buildings with regal indifference. Everywhere he looked Antros saw grandeur and magnificence, but he sensed a void at the heart of Mormotha. Most of the plazas and markets stood empty and the few people who were on the streets hurried through its grand arches in silence, their heads down. The city felt like a memory, as lifeless and fossilised as the bones that had built it.
As they neared the abbey, its tall, panelled doors swung open and a stern-faced preacher emerged to greet them. He limped out from beneath the abbey’s arched porch and grimaced as he stepped into the light. He was thickset and burly but he moved with the studied slowness of the extremely old, leaning heavily on a staff. His spine was so twisted by battle-trauma that he had to tilt his head on one side to look up at the Blood Angels. His head was shaven and his face was covered in a network of old, silvery scars, surrounding a nose that had been broken so many times it looked like an S. He looked more like a crippled old street fighter than a priest and his ecclesiastical robes seemed oddly incongruous. Where his left eye should have been there was a large augmetic lens, fixed in a housing of battered iron. It turned slowly in its angry socket as he tried to focus it on Mephiston.
‘By the Throne,’ he said, smiling. ‘Lord Mephiston?’
Mephiston surprised Antros by speaking directly to the abbot, addressing him in respectful, almost warm tones. ‘Father Orsuf,’ he said. ‘I heard a malicious rumour that you had retired.’
Orsuf scowled with embarrassment and tried to straighten his spine so he could offer Mephiston a salute. ‘My chainsword is still oiled and ready, Lord Mephiston, hanging on the wall of my study. It would be an honour to join you in battle once more. An honour! It has been too long since we fought together.’
Mephiston gripped the old man’s shoulder. ‘I am joking, Adamis. You served the Emperor more fiercely than any preacher I ever saw. It can be no coincidence that you have been granted a few twilight years in which to reflect. You have earned a rest.’
Orsuf shook his head furiously. ‘I have no use for rest, Lord Mephiston. Let me get my weapons.’
He was about to limp away but Mephiston held him back.
‘I need your mind, Adamis, not your weapons. I need to know more about your home. I have come here on an urgent mission but Divinus Prime is a mystery to me. I must learn the history of Mormotha and its construction. From what I have read, you have become this city’s leading scholar, and you were always a man of great insight.’
The old preacher looked pleasantly baffled by Mephiston’s praise, but he smiled again. ‘It does my old bones good to see you.’ He shrugged. ‘And I am something of a historical relic, I suppose, so perhaps I can assist you.’ He waved at the building behind him. ‘The Tomb of the Eremite is one of the oldest structures in the city and our library contains some of the earliest records.’
Mephiston’s face remained as impassive as ever, but Antros could sense his pleasure at the old man’s reply.
Father Orsuf shrugged, laughing quietly to himself. ‘Strange days, strange days.’ He shuffled back up the steps towards the porch and waved for them to follow. ‘All are welcome at the Tomb of the Eremite.’
He led them slowly through a series of candlelit chapels and into a large refectorium. The long, spartan room was mostly empty, with just a few monks sat eating in silence from wooden bowls. Then he paused and looked at Mephiston, unsure what to do next.
Mephiston ordered Captain Vatrenus and his Tactical Marines to explore the city, acquaint themselves with its layout and report back to him in the morning. Then he turned to Epistolary Rhacelus. ‘Lexicanium Antros will be required to do more than observe in the days to come,’ he said. ‘We must accelerate his training.’
Antros struggled not to grin but Rhacelus looked appalled by the idea. ‘My lord, is that wise?’
Antros could see the anger pouring out of him and it was not hard to guess the reason. Rhacelus had been there in the Chemic Spheres. He heard Mephiston claim that Antros might bring about his doom. Rhacelus clearly did not trust him.
‘Make him ready,’ said Mephiston. ‘He must master the rites listed in The Glutted Scythe before the return of the arch-cardinal. You saw how much use bolter fire was. It will fall to the three of us to rid these people of heresy.’
Rhacelus glared at Antros but said no more.
Zin spoke up. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but I would like to see if I can find more news of the arch-cardinal. I am most keen to speak with him. Perhaps he is already on his way back to the city?’ he said, looking at Cyriak.
Cyriak nodded. ‘It’s possible. At the very least we could ask if he has been seen by any of the new arrivals.’ With that, Zin made the sign of the aquila to Mephiston and the two priests hurried away.
Mephiston left the hall with Father Orsuf and Antros was left facing Epistolary Rhacelus.
Rhacelus flared his nostrils with displeasure, as though considering a stain on his armour. Then he looked at the courtyard outside the refectorium. ‘F
ollow me, then,’ he said and they headed out into the morning sun.
The square courtyard was surrounded by cloistered walkways but there was no sign of any priests loitering in the shadows. At the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by faded mosaics, was a large tomb. It was a wicker-like mesh of femurs and ribs and, like the rest of the surrounding architecture, the thing was beautifully made, the interlocking fossils woven into an intricate design that incorporated haloed saints and writhing nests of serpents.
Rhacelus walked on and indicated that Antros should sit on the mosaic floor.
Antros did as instructed but Rhacelus remained standing and drew his force sword. Antros could not entirely hide his surprise as Rhacelus rested the blade on the back of his neck, but he refused to flinch from the touch of the metal.
‘We should be on Baal,’ said Rhacelus, looking scornfully at the dusty courtyard that surrounded them. ‘This is no place for me to teach you anything. We should be in the Chamber of the Ensanguined, at the heart of the Fifteenth Basilica, surrounded by all the wisdom of our forbears. But I’m afraid you will have to imagine such glories, neophyte. If the Chief Librarian wishes me to teach you the imprecations of The Glutted Scythe, I must see whether your mind is ready for the next stage of its development. Rest assured, should you prove unworthy, my blade will spare you any shame.’
‘My lord,’ said Antros, ‘I am ready. Whatever the–’
‘Then seek the fathomless path,’ whispered Rhacelus.
Antros’ words faltered as he tried to understand what those words might mean. Then he realised he could not remember who had said them. He looked around in confusion, remembering that he was alone. The Carrion Sea stretched out as far as he could see in every direction: fierce, ember tides, hissing and steaming as they belched plumes of smoke up to the blood-red sky. The deserts of Baal Secundus were uniformly infernal, but the Carrion Sea had a particularly fearsome reputation. Antros looked down at his patched-together rad-suit and saw that it was beginning to shrivel and crack. What had possessed him to attempt this crossing? Then he remembered. The brutal, featureless landscape was broken by only one thing. The growling hulk of his sand roamer. It looked like a wounded beast, hovering in the rippling heat and spitting oil across the ash. ‘Ramiel,’ he grunted. ‘I will kill you for this.’