Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  It’s not the worst cell I’ve ever been tossed into. It’s dry, which is always a major factor. Absence of previous inhabitant’s bones – that was just the once – is certainly a welcome feature. A hole in the corner provides better latrine facilities than many of the hellholes I’ve fought in. There’s even a thumbed copy of von Strab’s treasonous work – On the Rights and Rites of Conquest – set on the floor. Missing pages, torn out in haste, reveal its true purpose. A better-treated book sits on a wooden stool in the middle of the room. I turn it over as a Battle Sister slams the metal door shut behind me. The Litanies of Faith. Certain passages have been marked with glued tabs. I open them and glance at the small text, squinting to read it in the light of the faint lumen behind a small caged opening in the ceiling. They are verses that talk about repentance and penance, and many lists of the heresies that can be committed against the Ecclesiarchy.

  An unwelcome reminder of why I’m there and a sharp blow to the complacency that has been creeping up on me since we arrived.

  No windows. No bed. The first is to be expected. The second seems like a punishment, but is more likely a practicality. It stands to reason that anyone that has roused the ire of the Sisterhood in some way is already guilty of blasphemy at best, and probably something far worse.

  Ever since the Colonel arrived I feel like I’ve been falling from one calamity to the next. It’s as if he’s a vortex of some kind, sucking the good fortune out of any situation. Just a day ago, a little more perhaps, I was the man in charge. Safe, in comparison to a life of potentially lethal missions one after the other. Content, I might even say.

  Maybe not. The Colonel’s arrival didn’t trigger anything that wasn’t going to happen anyway. He didn’t bring the warpborn that drove the orks out of the upper hive. He certainly didn’t engineer the growing discontent that had been nagging at me, bored by the mundanity of it all.

  But it is an annoying habit, of disrupting everything around him just by being there. Is it simply that he’s drawn to the places of turmoil, or do his actions just have a way of shattering the lives around him?

  Heresy. That’s a new one. I’m guilty of murder, insubordination and all sorts of bad business, but I’ve never been accused of false worship or misrepresentation of the Emperor. I never intended any offence to His Throne-bound Majesty when I said that He had delivered me from the flames.

  Was it the truth? It seems a long time ago, though no more than a year, I think. I was incoherent for some of that time, days of agony that all blend into each other. I could have claimed to be a High Lord of Terra and I wouldn’t know it. So, yeah, it felt like the Emperor had saved me from a terrible death.

  Is that heresy?

  The cell may not be too inhospitable but probably the worst fate I could imagine is waiting for me when the door opens next. Even when I stabbed that stupid sergeant and ended up sentenced to death, when the Colonel came for me, that was hanging or a firing squad. Not sure now on the details, it’s all lost in the mess of battles and killing that followed. Maybe that bit of brain got fried when they drilled into my skull to release warp vapours. Maybe the abyssal passenger destroyed it or the god-plant wrote over that memory with something else. Emperor knows just how much my brain and thoughts have been fragged over the years…

  A relatively quick death, commuted to service in the Last Chancers, which promised a far less efficient but almost as certain means of execution. Turns out that didn’t finish me, but of all the grisly ends that I’ve just about dodged along the way, conviction for heresy is prob­ably one of the worst.

  The Ecclesiarchy doesn’t just kill heretics. There has to be purging so that the soul can depart without corruption. If not, that soul goes into the abyss not the Emperor, lost to His immortal strength.

  A lot of purging.

  Arco-flagellation, that’s a good one. Turned into a berserker-fighter with implant weapons and no mind of your own. A sacrificial shock trooper hurled at the enemy. Death-masking, a drawn-out, suffocating way of dying, breathlessly screaming repentance as the hot metal burns into your face and sears off your features.

  The Ecclesiarchy don’t mess around when it comes to deterrents. When we landed on Ichar IV there was a mass castigation of a company that retreated from the tyranids and allowed them to overrun an isolated shrine. Two hundred men and women branded on the forehead and staked out in front of the landing port as a reminder that the Astra Militarum exists only to protect the Emperor’s domains, and no domain is more holy than the soil of the Ecclesiarchy.

  Seeing two hundred corpses on arrival would have been a shock, but that wasn’t the worst of it – they weren’t dead… Fed and watered, kept alive for days while sunburn crisped their skin and wounds festered.

  I think I need to escape.

  I mean, I am guilty, I think. I am the Burned Man and there’s no end of witnesses out there that will attest to the truth, and the Sisterhood are going to be pretty pissed off by that. No doubt the Colonel will put the boot in as well if he gets the chance. Not a vindictive man, but I can feel it’s become personal between us, no matter what he says about thinking the Burned Man could have become the next von Strab. He came for me, nothing more.

  So, I need to get out of here before they come for me. I will die trying to escape, that seems certain. I’m somewhere beneath the battle abbey and even if I get to the surface I have to get to the walls and out somehow. Then there’s the life of a waster. I wouldn’t survive two weeks in the wilderness, unless I can get Orskya and her people to take me in.

  But even dying of thirst, buried in an ash flow, seems preferable to whatever the Sisterhood will do to me. They’re all zealots. That’s pretty much essential, even for those that aren’t Battle Sisters.

  A bolt-round in the head or back seems a better way to go than being seared by a thousand holy candles, or crushed beneath a slowly lowered statue of the Emperor, or having body parts cut off and burnt before His presence – extremities first, then limbs, then innards, watching my body literally go up in incensed smoke before my eyes.

  A shudder runs through me as I hear the scrape of the door bolt. Whatever plan I might have concocted, it’s too late now.

  Two Battle Sisters step through, one of them with the regalia of a Sister Superior. She might even be the one that spoke to us in the wastes, I’m not sure. Their silvered war-plate hisses as they move, their presence accompanied by the hum and static of the power generator in their armour. The plate gives them a height and bulk that makes me feel smaller, though I guess the warrior-women inside aren’t any bigger than me – certainly shorter than Orskya.

  Raised by the Ecclesiarchy, orphaned daughters of Imperial servants, they’ve been trained to fight for the Emperor as long as I’ve been learning to scrap for myself. I might be able to get past before one of them brings up her weapon, but I recall a painfully long, straight corridor beyond the door. Better than having my eyes put out with flaming brands and my skin stripped away to be turned into purity seal parchment.

  I take a step, fists bunching, legs tensing for the sprint.

  The next thing I’m aware of is being slammed down into the floor, the gauntleted fingers of a Battle Sister around my throat. I hit the bare ferro­crete hard, winding me, the powered glove just tight enough to make every gasp uncomfortable. Boosted by her armour’s systems, the Battle Sister pins me down while the Sister Superior looms near my shoulder, the ridiculously wide muzzle of her bolter pointed at my face. I can smell holy anointments on their armour, pungent but sweet-smelling.

  ‘Further resistance would be unwise, Lieutenant Kage,’ says the standing Battle Sister. ‘Non-compliance will be met with further force and restraint.’

  The grip around my throat relents slightly.

  ‘All right,’ I whisper, almost choking on the words. ‘I’ll behave.’

  The Battle Sister straightens, lifting me to my feet. She pulls
me closer so I can see my reddening face reflected in the lenses of her helm.

  ‘I will break your legs if you try to run,’ she says, uncurling powered fingers from my throat.

  I nod and stumble away, towards the door. Another Battle Sister is waiting there, turning to lead the way from the cell.

  ‘Can I speak?’ I ask, voice hoarse.

  ‘If you speak, choose delicate words,’ the Sister Superior answers, falling in behind me. The other Sister shuts the door, its clang reverberating down the hall. From beyond other cell doors pained moans and pleas for help greet our presence. I hear wailing, screams begging for forgiveness muted by thick stone walls.

  ‘How did the battle against the warpborn go? Did your Sisters return safely?’

  ‘There were some casualties,’ the Sister Superior replies. ‘The enemy were thwarted but they will return.’

  A door opens ahead of us and a Sister in the colours of the Hospitallers steps out. I glimpse past her and see a woman strapped to a wooden stretcher, two young orderlies tying it in turn to a bench. She writhes against her bonds, screeching and sobbing. I wonder what manner of torture this unfortunate is undergoing but as we near the cell I hear her words clearly.

  ‘The flames live! The flames live! They took my son! The flames that walk killed them all!’

  Face set, the Sister Hospitaller closes the door and moves to the next one. I hear more gibbering, almost wordless, lamenting some nightmare of the warpborn visited upon them.

  ‘This is a ward, not a dungeon,’ I say, realising what most of the screaming and hollering is about. ‘The warp-touched ones, you’ve brought them here?’

  ‘By the Emperor’s strength their souls will be unburdened of corruption,’ the Sister Superior tells me. ‘If not, we shall grant them the release they crave.’

  We continue in silence up a wooden spiral staircase to the surface, coming out through an alcove in the main garage-cloister where Rhinos, Immolators and other armoured vehicles are being maintained, each surrounded by a small cluster of augmented tech-adepts. I’m so used to seeing them in the ceremonial red robes, to come across followers of the machine-god in white stitched with silver confuses me for a moment. I wonder what sort of entertaining theological discussion might take place between the devoted of the Omnissiah and the Sisterhood of the God-Emperor but then see that each of the tech-adepts wears a mouthless half-mask, binding the jaw shut. They communicate with each other in squawks and clicks of Techna-lingua coming from vox-units set into their throats, but otherwise cannot speak. So much for healthy debate.

  Crossing through engine fumes and clouds of incense, I’m led across the cloister to the open space behind the gates where we first entered. I can see the gun towers around us, silver-armoured Sisters patrolling the ramparts, but no sign of the Colonel or the others.

  ‘What happened to the rest of the ones that came with me?’

  ‘They have been sequestered in dormitories,’ says the Sister Superior. ‘It is cramped but they are safe for the time being.’

  My escorts take me into the building on the other side, three storeys high and jutting from the inner face of the main wall. Smaller gun turrets dot the upper floor and roof.

  Inside is a wide chamber and more stairs. I am taken up the flight to the next floor, coming into a chapel room with altar, lectern and a bunch of paintings and small statuary. The rest of the Sister Superior’s squad stand ready, five along one wall, two on the other. My escorts fall into place with them, leaving me standing before Canoness Erasmisa. With her is a short, slight man in a brown robe tied with a golden belt, his head tonsured with the symbol of the Adeptus Ministorum, a large metal-bound book under one arm and a long-handled mace held in his other hand. He looks tired, his eyes bloodshot and ringed, the skin hanging from his ageing face.

  My prosecutors, no doubt.

  I swallow hard, realising that this is it, there’s no coming back from this. No last-minute escape. No sudden leap to freedom. I will be tried, judged and sentenced to an excruciating death and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do to stop it.

  I consider falling to my knees and begging. After all, if I admit my sins does that not release my soul of its guilt?

  But I’m really not the begging type, and for all that maybe I have committed heresy, I still believe that the Emperor brought me back, and He doesn’t do stuff like that on a whim.

  ‘Kage,’ says the man, looking me up and down. A hint of a smile ghosts across his lips. ‘I can see why they called you the Burned Man.’

  ‘I’ve had worse names,’ I say.

  ‘Indeed, I am sure you have, young man,’ says the priest. ‘I am sure you have. Quite a life you have lived, by every account I have heard.’

  ‘Not all of it wasted, I hope,’ I say with pride. ‘I’ve done wrong, I admit that, but there’s fewer enemies of the Emperor around because of me.’

  ‘Certainly!’ The priest steps closer, looking at me with strange fascination. It’s unsettling me so I turn my attention to the canoness. She views me with all the delight of someone examining the shit they’ve just trodden in.

  ‘It is remarkable, is it not?’ says the priest, turning his head to look back at Erasmisa. ‘He certainly has been through the wars, you cannot deny that.’

  ‘Many have fought on the battlefields of the Emperor,’ the canoness growls back. ‘Some survive when millions of others die. That does not make them saints.’

  ‘Saint?’ I say but neither of them is paying me any attention, obviously continuing a discussion begun before my arrival.

  ‘Yet this story of the Burned Man… The testimony of Colonel Schaeffer is unequivocal. The story recounted by Kage’s followers and his exploits since the arrival of the infernal wound speak to the signs of sainthood.’

  ‘It is a disgrace that you associate this…’ the canoness throws a dismissive gesture towards me, ‘with the likes of Keeler, Sabbat and Celestine.’

  ‘Ah, but you forget that not all saints come from your orders, canoness,’ the priest replies.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask, trying to get my head around the point of the conversation. ‘Are you saying you think I’m a… a saint?’

  ‘A living saint, perhaps,’ the priest says with an enthusiastic nod. ‘My apologies, young man. I am Preacher Deniumenialis, the sole remaining clergy of this Adeptus Ministorum facility. Most soldiers I have dealt with just call me Old Preacher.’

  ‘And sainthood…?’ I throw a glance at Erasmisa, who flinches at my use of the term, biting back angry words.

  ‘Well, I think there is cause for examination, certainly,’ says Old Preacher. ‘Such matters are not decided upon whim, and there would be serious debate. It is not for me to appoint you with such a title, obviously.’

  ‘Indeed it is not,’ says the canoness with notable conviction.

  ‘But you have fulfilled many of the criteria, I assert. Some of it seems very obvious to me.’ For the first time he shows some annoyance as he looks at the canoness. ‘How one can ignore the symbolism of striking down a serpent I do not know…’

  ‘So, I’m not a heretic?’

  Erasmisa’s jaw tightens so hard I think I hear teeth cracking.

  ‘It is a clerical judgement, in which I defer to Deniumenialis,’ she says between gritted teeth.

  ‘Of course not, young man.’ Old Preacher pats me on the arm. ‘One that has been touched by the Emperor in this way cannot be tried for heresy! You may be the embodiment of His will, I believe. Perhaps a saint, perhaps just the beneficiary of a miracle. Neither is heresy.’

  ‘Please tell me you ain’t mentioned this to the Colonel yet,’ I say. ‘I really would like to be there when–’

  I’m cut off by a sudden loud clanging of bells. Not real bells, of course, but simulated clamour from voxmitters set into the roof of the chapel. The Battle Sisters are alre
ady moving, turning to the doors, and I see the looks of concern on the faces of the preacher and canoness.

  ‘They’re not ringing out in celebration for me, are they?’

  Eleven

  BATTLE AT SAINT SILVA

  I have quite a broad experience of alarms of various kinds. Shipboard sirens, air attack blasts, alert signals and every kind of loudmouth officer shouting his fragging head off, I’ve heard them all. There’s really nothing like a fake bell pealing constantly at deafening levels to get the heart racing and the body moving.

  The crash of the Battle Sisters’ steps echoes around the bare corridors and chambers of the battle abbey, heralding the blaze of silver, red and black as they flood the walls. At a rough count I say there must be about a hundred and twenty of them, plus whoever is manning the fixed guns. In the vehicle compound, engines growl into life, the smoke of their exhausts lifting to join the censer-smog above the abbey. The bell-ringing ceases, replaced by a stream of High Gothic I don’t understand – it could be a prayer or orders, it’s impossible to say. After half a minute this gives way to a rousing verse of song, a hymnal glorifying the strength of the Emperor, singing the praises of Saint Catherine.

  I find myself milling around in the main cloister, not sure what to do. The Colonel and about two dozen hivers and wasters emerge from a door opposite, some of them still covering their ears. As if summoned, Canoness Erasmisa appears beside me, three other Sisters in dark robes behind her.

  ‘Return to your quarters at once,’ the canoness barks. Her fellow Sisters Famulous head towards the building Schaeffer and company left.

  ‘Give us back our weapons, revered canoness,’ says the Colonel. ‘We can help.’

  Deniumenialis arrives next, a Sister Superior at his shoulder.

  ‘Old Preacher, tell the canoness that we should help defend the walls!’ I say.

  He looks surprised by the request.