Sons of the Emperor

by Warhammer 40K

  Ferrus stopped a metre away.

  'You live, though I cannot fathom how,' he said, and eyed the onyx-skinned giant with wary respect.

  'I must be tougher than I look.'

  Ferrus gave a short, mirthless laugh.

  'You look tough, brother.' His eyes narrowed, heightened senses still alert to any sudden threat. 'You bled for them. Why?'

  The onyx giant smiled and he moved his arm away to reveal a child lying in his grasp, little more than a babe, terrified but breathing. His red eyes flared like hot coals, diabolic yet warm. It was the first of many contradictions that Ferrus would come to learn about his brother.

  'She lives too,' he said. 'And I bled for life, for innocence. She is not alone. There are others. This war is over.'

  As they saw the Dragon cradling the child, the warriors of the city lost their taste for blood and laid down their weapons. Then, with the smoke yet to dissipate and the fires of battle still burning, the Emperor came forth and gave his edicts. He promised clemency for the natives and the rule of the Imperium. He promised truth, and shared of his dream for mankind's pre-eminence amongst the stars.

  Sarda had listened dumbly to the words of the golden lord and recalled them dimly as he tramped aboard the transport. He was bound for a ship that would take him and his kind to other worlds, to other colonies. He did not spare a glance for the corpse hanging from the battlements. Veddus could rot for all it mattered now. He had seen the Dragon's selfless act, witnessing a sacrifice that gave the word fresh meaning in his eyes. Mercy. They had all seen it. He chose to remember it.

  And he had heard his name, spoken amongst the Imperials. Not a dragon, not a beast, but a legend all the same.

  They had called him Vulkan.

  'What is your answer?' asked Vulkan.

  'It is simple,' said the Emperor, and his expression betrayed no emotion beyond the desire to speak the truth. 'Your brothers will be great and powerful. They are beyond mankind in so many ways, as are you. They will learn to be warriors quickly, the ways of conquest and liberation. Leading armies, inspiring the lesser men around them to greatness will be second nature to them, as it will to you. But your lesson, Vulkan, it is the most crucial and you are uniquely disposed to teach it.' The Emperor put a fatherly hand on Vulkan's shoulder. 'Humanity.'

  They did not speak again until the ship came, but when it did Vulkan bid farewell to Nocturne and followed his father into the sea of stars.

  Kalta-Ar despised the tapping of hammer on chisel and chisel on stone almost as much as he detested the sunless sky that seemed to leech out his soul with its emptiness. The ever-present dusk-like glow sapped his reserves of will as much as the desert heat of his home world had once sapped the energy.

  'Is there no way to quieten that infernal tapping?' he snapped at Arkula, his second-in-command.

  'I don't think so, brother-cha... Apostle.' Arkula handled the new title with all the ease of a fresh initiate with a primed grenade. 'They have to break the stone somehow.'

  Both the Dark Apostle and his coryphaus were clad in ruddy battleplate, all emblems and designs of their former loyalties obscured by the red, the symbols of their renewed allegiance to the true gods painted upon the armour. Together they continued along the top of a half-built wall, surveying the vast construction site around them. The central cloisters had been raised, and the garrison chambers, while a tent city for the slaves spread across the long, shallow hillside. Four small chapels and the central nave of what would be the main shrine of the Beneficta Diabola had their foundations laid. Rickety scaffolding clad the white stone of the outer walls, as well as the two high towers that flanked the nave. Slaves crawled, climbed and laboured everywhere, several thousand of them.

  The tips of the two pinnacles crackled with energy, drawing in the power of the aether that surrounded the near-deserted moon. Companion rune-stone monoliths on the perimeter gleamed with the dispersed mystical power, keeping at bay the empyrean mass and the predatory denizens that lurked within.

  Kalta-Ar looked up again out of habit, thinking to see a glimpse of a distant star. Just the same ruddy formlessness that had swathed everything since their arrival, slowly stirred by strange currents but otherwise featureless.

  Thirty armoured figures were stationed at strategic points around the construction, their bolters and heavier weapons held casually, though the Word Bearers legionaries moved with the same alertness as though in a field of battle.

  'It is fascinating, that normal humans are so easily cowed,' observed the Dark Apostle. 'Not a whip or rod in sight, and yet they break their backs for us. Simple threat is enough to bind them to our slightest will.'

  'And no chains are needed, nor fence, Apostle,' said Arkula. His gaze moved outside the encompassing walls to a spread of desolation as featureless as the sky, except for the deep furrows of the quarries. Lines of rune-etched barrier stones flanked the causeway between the delving and the Beneficta Diabola, protecting a steady progression of naked figures dragging blocks of stones, or pulling empty sleds back to the quarry. Another ten-strong squad of Kalta-Ar's legionaries patrolled the crude road.

  'Give them a little food and water and they are happy to endure the worst debasements of body and pride,' said Kalta-Ar. 'They are bred for subservience. As it was ordered by the gods on Colchis, so again will it be on Sicarus by the will of Lorgar Aurelian.'

  Mention of the primarch's new capital world drew the eye of both warriors to the artificial mound beyond the far side of the growing temple-settlement. North, Kalta-Ar had dubbed it, for lack of any other means of navigating. The constructed hill was surrounded by its own perimeter of ward-runes, separated by less than a kilometre of open ground naked to the empyrean. At the summit, almost as high as the peaks of the cathedral-town's ward-needles, loomed a great archway of black and gold.

  'When will the Urizen come?' asked Arkula. 'Apostle,' he added quickly.

  'When the work is complete.'

  A giant armoured in dark red hurried towards them up a nearby stone stair, his bolter in one hand. The pair awaited him at the top of the steps, where he halted, banging fist against his chest in salute.

  'Dark Apostle, Brother Rigana is missing,' reported Isaikash.

  Kalta-Ar's attention snapped to the half-built dormitories in the north-east quadrant where the named warrior was meant to be stationed.

  'Missing?' said Arkula. 'Be more specific, brother-sergeant.'

  'I cannot, brother-coryphaus,' said the legionary. 'He did not answer the hourly roll call and I investigated. He is not at his post, and I can find no sign of him. He is not answering any comms.'

  'And there is still no sign of what happened to Hesta-Pek, Gesuat and Takla-Gad?' demanded Kalta-Ar. 'That is a total of four legionaries lost in the last twelve hours. This is unacceptable!'

  'What can we do, brother-Apostle?' said Isaikash.

  Kalta-Ar pulled out the wickedly serrated sacrificial dagger from his belt, its cruel blade shimmering without starlight or sun to reflect. He started down the steps and pointed the dagger towards the centre of the complex, at the original rites chamber where mouldering bones were heaped in pits to either side. A dance of wyrdflame lit the edges of the mystic circles within the open chamber.

  'This is daemonsign. The wards must be faltering. Bring me another fifty slaves.'

  Letting the corpse fall, its arterial spray spattering the ritual circle in which he stood, Kalta-Ar studied the witch-fire atop the ward pinnacles. He could see no difference to the wan green flames and the shifting aura that connected across the site. A quick survey of the blood-channels etched into the floor of the broad chamber found no blockages - glistening red meta-geometry surrounded him. He even inspected the runes carved into the blade itself, but there was not a mark upon the bloodied knife. The runes shimmered with warp power, coils of tenebrous energy floating from the razor edge.

  He gestured for Arkula to bring the next sacrifice. The Word Bearer hauled one of the slaves to its feet by t
he wrist, almost pulling the limb from its joint. Only a murmur of pain came in response. Kalta-Ar took the wretch's chin between finger and thumb, turning the face one way and the other, looking for some sign of vitality. There was fear, but not much. The slave looked dead already for all the vigour it displayed.

  'Perhaps we have made them too docile,' he remarked, slashing open the slave's throat. Blood fountained across his armour as he tossed the rag doll of a carcass away. 'The gods thrive on pain and fear, ambition and despair.'

  'They exist without hope, Apostle,' said Isaikash. 'With nothing to live for, perhaps their souls are too weak to please the gods.'

  Kalta-Ar considered this as he beckoned for another.

  'Did not the great Urizen and Kor Phaeron overturn the altars of the Covenant to punish their laggardly rituals?' said Arkula.

  A scream cut across the vox, silencing any reply.

  A scream, drawn out, agonised, no sound Kalta-Ar had ever expected to hear from a legionary. It lasted fully five seconds before abruptly ending.

  The signal-ident of the transmission came from Brother Kai-Alak.

  'Aakas, Hora, Apall-Af,' the Dark Apostle reeled off the names of the closest legionaries. 'Investigate! All brothers, stand at your guard, and watch the slaves.'

  It took half a minute for the three legionaries to close in on Kai-Alak's last position. Kalta-Ar paced for the full thirty seconds, agitated.

  'Kai-Alak is dead,' Hora told them over the vox.

  'Dead, not missing?' Arkula demanded.

  'Definitely dead,' said Aakas. 'You'd better see for yourself, Apostle.'

  * * *

  The first element of the scene that drew Kalta-Ar was not the blood and body parts, or the broken pieces of armour scattered across the bare stone floor. It was the slaves. Seven of them, standing compliantly to one side, heads bowed but with their eyes fixed on the remains. Two questions immediately surfaced through the tumult of the Dark Apostle's thoughts.

  'Why are they still alive, and why aren't they terrified?' he asked nobody in particular. Arkula attempted to answer but Kalta-Ar stopped him with a raised hand. 'I am not interested in your theories, coryphaus. Not yet. Let us observe a little more before we draw conclusions.'

  The markings on the broken pieces of armour confirmed that the wearer had been Brother Kai-Alak. He had not only been dismembered and decapitated, but the rest of the remains had been utterly shredded.

  'Gods...' muttered Isaikash.

  'What have you found?' said Kalta-Ar.

  'I was just thinking that we heard him screaming,' explained the legionary. 'He was alive for a while, feeling everything as this was done to him.'

  'I think it cut off his arms and legs and then went to work on the rest of him,' added Arkula, with more relish than was entirely appropriate. He picked up half a helm, cloven neatly in twain. Brain matter and blood spilled onto the floor. 'It saved his head for last.'

  'They must have seen what happened.' Hora pointed at the slaves, hammers and lever bars still in their hands. 'They were here when we arrived.'

  Kalta-Ar approached the closest and looked down at its grimy face. He activated the external vocaliser of his war-plate, the volume dialled down for personal address.

  'Did you see what did this?'

  The slave nodded dumbly.

  'Tell me what you saw.'

  'A shadow, lord of lords,' said the slave. It moved a wisp of greying hair out of its face and gazed up into the Dark Apostle's helm lenses. 'A shadow picked him up and cut him to pieces.'

  'It has to be a daemon,' said Apall-Af, his bolter pointing to the doorway and then the unglazed windows as if expecting attack. 'Something that came through the wards.'

  'The wards are sound,' said Kalta-Ar.

  'Perhaps somewhere on the peri—'

  'The wards are sound!' Kalta-Ar calmed himself and regarded the slave, thoughts turning slowly into conclusions.

  'What if it was a power that has already been summoned?' he considered aloud. 'Something being sustained and hidden within the wards already.'

  'Sustained by whom?' asked Isaikash. 'The slaves?'

  'Some kind of part, perhaps. Maybe they think it will save them. Why else would the daemon not attack them? Why take on an armoured legionary rather than these helpless thralls?'

  'What have you done?' demanded Arkula, looming over the slaves. They moved away from him a little, but showed as little emotion as normal. 'What have you unleashed, you gods-damned cretins?'

  They stared with vacuous gazes, either not comprehending his meaning, or unable to articulate their response.

  'I want a full search of the entire complex.' Arkula thrust a finger towards the door. 'Every room, every hall, every cellar and vault. If they are hiding something, we will find it.'

  'Wait,' ordered Kalta-Ar when the others started to move. 'There is another way.'

  He held up the ritual blade and looked down at the slave he had spoken to.

  'You are going to confess your wrongs, or you will know pain greater than anything you have lived through thus far.'

  There was a spark of a reaction, a moment of fear.

  'I know nothing, lord of lords,' said the slave. It backed away a step, holding up a hand. 'I tell you what I saw. The shadow, it tore apart your warrior. It threw him up and took him to pieces. I saw nothing else.'

  The others started to chorus their affirmatives of this position.

  'Enough of your lies, scum,' said Arkula. He slapped a hand back across the face of the nearest slave, slamming it into the rough wall. The skull cracked hard, leaving blood on the pale plaster.

  Kalta-Ar had expected an outburst - cries of anger, of pain. Not one of the slaves even moved towards their injured companion. He saw that their attention was fixed not on the wounded slave, nor Arkula, nor the Dark Apostle. They looked at something behind and above him with a mixture of growing horror and disturbing smiles.

  He turned quickly, pulling free his crozius. The other legionaries responded with him, bolters raised.

  A thing like a shadow waited on top of the wall. It was impossible to make out its actual shape, though there seemed something vaguely humanoid about it. Before any command could leave the Dark Apostle's lips, it sprang upwards. Silhouetted against the ruddy sky, the shadow fragmented with an ear-splitting screech. Dozens of winged shapes fell upon the Word Bearers, beaks like plasteel blades slashing at their armour. Hora went down under the first flurry, losing an arm as he toppled, his war-plate scattering like pieces of torn paper.

  'Fall back,' barked Arkula, his commander's instincts taking over in the face of the unnatural apparition. His tone brooked no argument and even Kalta-Ar found himself responding, retreating swiftly through the door.

  Bolters roaring, the Word Bearers closed together and followed.

  'Stop wasting your ammunition!' snapped Arkula. 'We have little enough as it is. Do you think bolt-rounds will stop this creature?'

  The Word Bearers ceased firing. They darted looks towards Kalta-Ar as they closed around their Dark Apostle, seeking insight from their spiritual leader. He held up the sacrificial blade like a shield, smoke-like wisps of power curling across his gauntlet.

  'It's in the eastern repository!' The shout over the vox came from Hasda on the other side of the settlement. A crackle of another transmission cut short, the only sound a strangled gurgle.

  Bolter fire echoed from behind the Dark Apostle's group and they turned, weapons ready.

  'Who is firing?' demanded Arkula. 'Reports, for all that is holy. Remember you are legionaries.'

  'There's something moving through the first vaults.' Ghoa-Lok spoke hastily, his words coming fast in a flow of combat stimulants rather than panic. 'I think it's beneath—'

  'A black pool just swallowed Ghoa-Lok, coryphaus. We are falling back along the southern transitorum,' Sergeant Dario continued tersely between short gasps. 'There's something ahead of us. It's seeping through the walk of the southern annex. Like oil. We
are turning north again, via the presidia.'

  'The slaves are att—' a desperate shout from Alekas alerted them to a fresh danger. Bolter fire rang out again and hoarse shouts replied.

  'I think this daemon is not so powerful as it pretends,' said Arkula. 'Why does it try to attack us one at a time? Nothing conjured by these wretches could really be a threat to your power, Apostle.'

  'You have a plan, coryphaus?'

  'Do not fight with bolts and blades what we can overcome with faith,' said the second-in-command. 'It is a daemon, my brother. Banish it, or - better yet - bind it to your will. Turn it back upon the miserable curs that thought to trouble us with the detritus of their worthless prayers.'

  'Apostle, the cathedral is not safe for us,' said Isaikash. He broke from the circle and headed towards the corridor on the other side of the chamber. 'If the daemon does not come for us, the slaves will.'

  'You suggest that we run from unarmed scum?' Arkula snarled. 'We are not abandoning the Beneficta Diabola.'

  'The grandest tower can be swallowed by enough grains of sand,' said Kalta-Ar.

  Though the idea of using one of the many binding rituals appealed, it took time for such ceremonies. He was not so dismissive of the daemon's power as Arkula either, knowing that all manner of powerful entities were jealous of the construction being raised in honour of the gods' most favoured son. A rival prince would need only the smallest opportunity to strike a blow in this fashion - a creature perhaps beyond his knowledge to control.

  The Apostle drew his plasma pistol, though more from habit than any confidence it would be of use against the spectre that hunted them. 'A wise head rules the heart and knows when to concede to greater minds. We do not have the numbers to quell a slave revolt, nor the expertise to defeat this daemon-predator. We will withdraw to the portal bridge and seek the aid of the Urizen.'