by Darius Hinks
Antros staggered on through the thick, energy-sapping atmosphere and the shocking heat, ignoring the pain as his suit started to melt into his skin. His rebreather filtered out the worst of the fumes but he still felt like he was breathing molten metal. The air burned in his lungs until he could hardly bear to take another breath but still he lurched on. As he neared the sand roamer he saw Ramiel, struggling with the engine, attempting to wrench a part free before the fuel caught fire and took his face off.
‘Ampelos!’ cried Ramiel, staggering back from the truck, a broken axel in his fist. ‘I told you we’d make it!’
Antros frowned. Of course his name was Ampelos. Where had he heard the name Antros?
By the standards of the Blood tribes, Ramiel was a giant – thickset and over six foot tall, with none of the wasted, stooping posture that marked out most of the tribesmen. ‘Get your arse up here, Ampelos!’ he cried, climbing up into the driver’s seat.
Ampelos clambered over the top of an ash dune and tumbled down the other side. His tumble became a roll and tongues of fire flashed in the folds of his thick, rubber suit. When he came to a halt at the bottom of the slope he howled in annoyance and pain.
‘What made me ever listen to anything you have ever said, ever?’
‘Because I always talk sense,’ grinned Ramiel as Ampelos climbed up beside him in the truck. ‘And you know that once we’ve joined the tribe of the Angels you will thank me every day for getting us there.’
Ampelos replied with a kidney punch that only succeeded in knocking more laughter from his brother.
‘We’re almost there!’ said Ramiel, his eyes widening behind his mask. ‘Angel’s Fall! For Throne’s sake, think of it, Ramiel. We will see them.’
They sat there, both picturing the scene. From their earliest childhood they had whispered tales of crimson angels. Giants who strode the deserts. Armoured colossi, unaffected by radiation, afraid of nothing and no one. Heroes who waged war across the stars, crushing every tribe that defied them.
‘And when we complete the trials they will take us to the Arx Angelicum,’ breathed Ramiel, his voice rough with emotion. ‘They will make Angels of us.’
From anyone else, Ampelos would have found this absurd, but he actually believed Ramiel might get them to the mythical fortress of the Blood Angels. While still a youth, Ramiel had butchered all his rivals and become the new Anxur Anuath of the Cruor tribe. He was still in his teens and his reputation was so fearsome that not one of the other Blood tribes had raided their territories for nearly a year. Even the most stubborn elders of the Cruor tribe had bent the knee.
‘I think they just might,’ said Ampelos in a quieter voice, buoyed by his brother’s determination. ‘We’re going to do it, Ramiel.’
They both looked forwards, through the filthy windscreen. There was a deep fissure before them, perhaps only twenty or thirty feet wide, but so deep that they could not see the bottom. Ampelos looked in either direction and could see no end to the crevasse.
He was about to say something, to make one last plea for sense, when Ramiel gunned the engines and they hurtled forwards. They both slammed back in their seats as the sand roamer raced towards the chasm, its six wheels trailing fumes and dust.
Ramiel steered the truck towards a natural ramp – a sloping lip of rock that jutted out over the drop. The wind howled through the truck as they sliced through the fumes and out across the void.
They seemed to hang above the abyss. Ampelos felt all the seconds of his life collide. He knew that this jump was the fulcrum of everything that had been and everything that would come. Then, in that fractured moment, he saw the future. As in so many of his life’s crucial moments he saw, vividly, what lay ahead: only one of them was going to be an Angel.
They were two-thirds of the way across when the undercarriage tore free.
The sand roamer kicked to one side and then turned, end over end, in a slow, graceful tumble.
When they came down on the other side it was with a terrible grinding of tearing metal plates and escaping gas.
A cold slap of agony exploded in Ampelos’ face and, for a few seconds, he knew nothing.
Then he drew a flame-hot breath and howled in pain. He was lying a few feet away from the vehicle, his mask smeared with blood and his nose pulsing with furious pain.
He looked around and saw the truck on its side. ‘Ramiel!’ he cried. Smoke was drifting around the base of the vehicle. Ramiel had broken one of his legs free but he could not lift the other from the wreckage. He was trapped. ‘Ampelos!’ he howled, straining to free himself, his voice hoarse with agony.
Ampelos staggered over to him, swaying and stumbling like a drunk, dazed from the crash.
When he got there, he grabbed Ramiel and hauled with all his strength.
Ramiel gasped in agony and blood jetted from his thigh.
Ampelos paused, horrified.
‘Get me out!’ cried Ramiel. ‘Don’t let me burn!’ There was no fear in his voice, only fury.
Ampelos pulled again, but only succeeded in spraying more of his brother’s blood into the air.
Ramiel’s eyes rolled back in his head and he seemed on the verge of passing out. Even through his mask, Ampelos could see that his brother’s face was a ghastly white.
Ampelos groaned a curse as he saw flames licking around the fuel tanks.
‘You are going to make it,’ said Ampelos. ‘I will not let you die!’
Ampelos turned and looked into the heat haze. He saw, to his surprise, the figure of a man, standing calmly in the heat of the desert. It was hard to be sure through the fumes, but it looked like a warrior of some kind. Ampelos could not see the stranger clearly, but he had no choice but to approach him. He would not simply stand by and watch Ramiel die.
‘I’ll be back,’ he said, gripping Ramiel’s arm, then he rushed towards the stranger.
As he reached the man, the smoke rolled back and revealed such a glorious sight that Ampelos gasped. Standing near the edge of the chasm was an Angel. It was clad in golden armour and had a pair of pure white wings folded behind its back. The Angel’s face was turned to the heavens, as though in prayer, and its beautiful features were bathed in Baal’s infernal, bloody light. All the fury of the Carrion Sea had been unable to touch this perfect being. Its polished armour was immaculate, with no sign of corrosion or dirt and the flawless alabaster of its face radiated purity and health.
At the sound of Ampelos’ approach, the Angel lowered its gaze and turned to face him. It was carrying a gilt-handled sword and, as it stepped towards him through the drifting embers, Ampelos saw its face more clearly.
His stomach turned and his mouth filled with bile acid. Immediately, Ampelos sensed that something was wrong. The stranger’s face was beautiful but out of place. Ampelos could not understand how, but he knew that this figure should not be here. It was as though this moment had happened before, many years earlier, and memory told him that things should be different.
The Angel’s face was incredibly beautiful but such utter wrongness bled from it that Ampelos was terrified. He could barely summon words. All he managed to cry out was a strangled ‘Wait!’
The false Angel smiled. ‘You’re human?’ Its voice was as serene as its eyes were flawless.
‘I’m Ampelos,’ he gasped, pulling back his rebreather, struggling to breathe. ‘Of the Cruor tribe.’ His skin blistered immediately and he quickly refastened his hood, but the Angel had seen enough to smile.
‘What kind of fool walks through the Carrion Sea?’ the Angel asked, good-willed amusement written across its face.
Ampelos groaned in pain, struggling not to flee. He dropped to his knees, overcome by exhaustion and confusion. ‘A fool like my brother,’ he gasped, waving feebly at the trashed sand roamer behind him. ‘I have to free him.’
The false Angel’s face was transformed b
y mock-concern and it held out a hand to help him up. ‘Do you?’
Ampelos dared not refuse the hand and as he climbed to his feet he saw the Angel’s face close up. It was so clearly untrue that he thought his mind might break. Every atom of his being screamed in horror and revulsion.
‘Yes,’ muttered Ampelos, talking more to himself than the stranger. Anger and pain tripped the words from his lips. ‘Of course. We are destined to become Angels.’
The Angel smiled sympathetically. ‘It does not look like your friend would have done very well in the Place of Challenge, Ampelos. You must go to him. The fire has nearly reached those fuel tanks. You must free him. Unless…’ The Angel shrugged. ‘Perhaps you have seen another future?’
Ampelos reeled, filled with guilt. ‘What do you mean?’
The false Angel smiled again as its wings spread out behind it, refulgent and shimmering in the radioactive haze. ‘You have seen the future. You know that only one of you will achieve the glory you seek. You wandered away because you saw that. If your brother dies, you will be that one.’
Ampelos laughed derisively at the suggestion he would leave his brother to die on purpose. Words of refusal and denouncement circled his thoughts, but, as he looked at the Angel, he found he could say nothing. He knew that this moment should be different, that it had been different. The Angel should not be here, questioning his motives like this.
‘You are a lie,’ he cried. ‘You are not here.’
Anger flashed in the stranger’s eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough to trigger something in Ampelos.
The rage he had seen in the Angel’s eyes reminded him of something. The idea grew in his mind. Suddenly it seemed crucial that he remember what the stranger’s fury reminded him of.
The false Angel saw his hesitation and the flash of anger returned.
Ampelos frowned and a word formed, unbidden, on his lips. ‘Rhacelus?’ With the word came a flood of images.
The Angel reared away with a frustrated howl, swallowed by a vortex of scenes that exploded from the air and Antros recalled his true name again – his Blood Angels name. Sensing he had achieved a victory of some kind, Antros dived after the Angel.
As the Angel tumbled through a maelstrom of places and people, its golden armour dissolved into currents of colour, washing up into Antros’ face, blinding him as he swam in the Angel’s wake, calling out the name Rhacelus with increasing conviction. As the shapes gyrated around him, Antros saw Rhacelus appear ahead of him, stripped of his disguise as he plunged through the storm of light and pigment.
Antros powered through the tumult after him, grasped Rhacelus’ ankle and hauled him towards the brightest of the lights, driven by some unexplained instinct.
They were back in the courtyard outside the refectorium. Everything was as it had been when Antros sat down. Rhacelus was still clutching his force sword and the blade was sparking with empyrric fury. Antros thought that Rhacelus was about to strike and he stood up, backing away from him.
Rhacelus stared at him, his eyes still blazing blue. Then he closed his eyes and lowered the sword, letting it clatter onto the stone tiles. He remained like that, eyes closed, his face a mask of concentration, until Antros spoke.
‘My lord?’ Antros said. ‘Have I passed?’
‘You let your brother die?’
Antros’ worst fears were confirmed – the false Angel that had transposed itself onto his memory was Rhacelus. The old veteran had pried into Antros’ past and seen Ramiel’s death.
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I was looking for help. I only left him for a moment.’
‘But then you hesitated?’ Rhacelus watched him closely.
Antros looked away. ‘Perhaps, for the briefest moment. But nothing I could have done would have saved him.’
Rhacelus shrugged. ‘It does not matter to me, Antros, but I see it matters to you. You carry a great guilt – and guilt could cloud your judgement.’ He leant closer. ‘I have seen the hunger in you – the ambition to succeed. And now I know what feeds it. You are determined to prove yourself. You want to prove that your brother’s death was fated, rather than being your fault. Isn’t that true?’
Antros said nothing and continued staring at the ground.
Rhacelus nodded. ‘I saw this shadow over you and thought it was something worse. We can complete your training, Antros, but know that I will be watching you, always. I know you now.’
Antros nodded. He did not doubt that for a second.
‘Is there anything else I should know?’ asked Rhacelus, looking closely at Antros.
Something about the exchange prompted Antros to speak more openly than he would usually dare. ‘What do you know of Mephiston’s “Gift”? Of its origins, I mean. Have you ever asked him what he really saw on Hades Hive? What kept him from dying beneath the rubble that day?’
Suspicion and anger crossed Rhacelus’ face. Then he sighed and nodded, adopting a more neutral expression. ‘A reasonable question. Calistarius survived that day, and was reborn as Mephiston, because Sanguinius saw his most promising son dying and refused to let him go. He saw hope in Calistarius. He saw a soul so like his own that it could wield the power of a primarch.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Mephiston’s Gift is the might of the Angel.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I know it because I believe it. My faith in Mephiston is complete. I would follow him into any hell he chose without a moment’s pause.’ He leant close to Antros, his sapphire eyes flashing. ‘He will save us all.’
Rhacelus spoke with such passion that Antros felt ashamed for ever doubting the Chief Librarian, and he nodded, humbled by the fire in Rhacelus’ voice.
Rhacelus waited to see if Antros would push the matter any further. Then he lifted up a gold-edged, porphyry box that was chained to his battleplate. Using a gold key, also chained to his power armour, he unlocked the box and slid out a small, leather-bound book.
‘Read with me, Lexicanium,’ he said, addressing Antros by his correct rank for the first time. ‘And for Throne’s sake concentrate. There are very few words in this book, but you could read it for a century and not catch its true meaning.’ He gave Antros a warning glare. ‘Whatever drives you, there are no shortcuts to true knowledge. This text rewards hard work and dedicated study. If the Emperor is willing and you can forget your dead brother for a while, we will find out how great your talent really is.’
Chapter Fourteen
Mormotha, Divinus Prime
In the next three days, Antros lived through a dozen different lifetimes. Under the stern tutelage of Rhacelus, he memorised and recited each of the invocations recorded in The Glutted Scythe. They sat motionless in the courtyard, oblivious to the rising and falling of the sun, neither drinking nor eating as they worked slowly through the text. Priests would occasionally wander past them, paying tribute to the Tomb of the Eremite or hurrying to prayers, but if they paused to look at the Librarians, all they saw were two colossal warriors hunched over a small book. The dangerous, warp-fuelled rites being enacted all took place behind the eyes of the two Blood Angels. Rhacelus weaved entire warzones inside Antros’ mind, plunging him into the endless battles he had fought during his centuries as a Blood Angel. At the crucial moment of each conflict he ordered Antros to join him in whichever evocation he had employed to defeat the enemy. Each time Antros faltered, Rhacelus firmly intoned the words again, leading him through the rituals as enemies erupted into flames or collapsed, screaming, into fragments of dimensionless agony.
As he grappled with each of Mephiston’s dark sacraments, Antros felt his grasp of the galaxy expanding and deepening, so that, by the time they were finally interrupted, he felt as though he had been reborn. All the ambition and fervour that had brought him to this point seemed like the naive enthusiasm of a child; he was no less determined, but he now understood the hazardous journe
y he was beginning. Damnation and glory were a thought’s-breadth away from each other.
On the third morning of their time in the courtyard, Antros and Rhacelus were drawn from their visions by a harsh clanging of cymbals and tuneless bells.
Antros gradually focused on the scene, shaking his head free of a dozen realities as he rose to his feet, moving with the awkward hesitance of a somnambulist. He reached out to grasp a pillar as he tried to reacquaint his senses with the material world. After all he had seen and done at Rhacelus’ side, it seemed odd to recall that they had only just arrived at the abbey. The courtyard had been transformed during their absence. As his vision cleared, he saw that it was now crowded with a mixture of monks and heavily armed militiamen and preachers – religious zealots, wearing straps of ammunition and psychotic stares. The air rang with impassioned prayers and catechisms as they crowded around the tomb at the centre of the courtyard.
As Antros stumbled out of the cloistered shadows, the preachers nearest to him faltered, staring in shock, but the flood of priests attempting to reach the tomb soon pushed them forwards. They had adorned the whole courtyard with scraps of parchment and there was a celebratory air to the gathering.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Antros, halting one of the militiamen.
Behind him, Rhacelus had also risen from the stone pew and the militiaman looked up at them both wide-eyed, taking in their weapons and huge suits of power armour.
‘Arch-Cardinal Dravus,’ he said. ‘We’re giving thanks for his safe return.’ Despite his obvious fear of the Blood Angels, the priest stared at them ecstatically. ‘He’s survived his trials in the wilderness. He has returned to us with a message from the God-Emperor. He knows how we can end this war and reunite the Children of the Vow!’