As Silvana’s Martyrdom began to move, six frigates fell in on the heavy cruiser’s flanks, their captains reporting in. Their faces flickered about him, as the command throne’s built-in holo-display units whirred to life. They looked young to him. Too young. But they followed orders well enough.
‘Establish vox-link to all ships in formation,’ he said. Beneath the platform, the servitor hardwired into the throne controls gave a squawk of assent. ‘All ships – lay in a new course. Grid one, point four.’ The edge of the map. He paused. He felt Klemistos observing him, and Noels and all the rest of the crew. Waiting. Praying.
It was nothing. He was sure of it. Just one more noise, echoing out of the dark. Klemistos was just rattled – they were all rattled. But they had to be sure. He cleared his throat. ‘All ahead standard. Thibault Excelsis formation.’
He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
In the Imperial Navy, the ramifications of an error might not be felt for hours, days, weeks. A divergence in headings, a split-second hesitation before correcting course… It reverberated. A ship, even a small one, was not simply a vessel but a nation state of steel, and its captain, a king. Like a king, he had to be certain at all times. Ware had never felt less certain in his life than he had these past weeks.
Hours passed amid a litany of reports. Long-range scanners plied the stars, but found nothing out of the ordinary – the new ordinary, rather. But as they drew closer to the rim, the scanners grew less forthcoming. Something was interfering with the augur-systems.
By the time they reached the grid-point, they were all but flying blind. Ware ordered his small fleet into a defensive formation. Minutes became hours. Hours stretched. Ware barely moved from his throne. He could feel the wind rising. There was a storm brewing, out there between the leering stars.
‘You feel it as well, don’t you?’ Klemistos murmured. He stood behind the command throne, leaning against his staff, head bowed.
‘Yes. What is it?’ Ware asked.
Klemistos shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He shivered. ‘But it is almost here.’
‘Then we’re just in time,’ Ware said. He licked his lips, the fifth cup of recaff churning in his gut. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He stared at the viewscreen, willing something – anything – to happen.
He blinked. The blackness had seemed to twitch. He rubbed his eyes. Behind him, Klemistos abruptly clutched his head and grunted, as if in pain. Ware glanced at him in concern. ‘Klemistos…?’
‘It’s here,’ the chief astropath hissed.
‘Incoming warp signature,’ a rating cried suddenly, turning from her duty station.
Ware sat upright. ‘Identify it. Report when you have something!’ A babble of voices filled the deck, as everyone began shouting at once. He stared at the viewscreen. Something was happening, out there in the black. As if space were being folded back in on itself.
‘Maybe it’s someone coming to check on us,’ Noels said. ‘Last time we were docked, there were whispers – they say one of the Emperor’s sons has returned to lead the Imperium back to glory.’ Ware had heard the same whispers. Could that be it, then? Was relief finally on its way for their beleaguered system?
‘No,’ Klemistos rasped. He screamed, his staff falling from his hand. The astropath folded up like a puppet with cut strings, clutching his head, howling in agony. As Noels stooped to see to him, Ware found he couldn’t look away from the viewscreen.
At first, there was only the void. An unsettled ocean of stars. Then – light. Bright and raw, ripping upwards through the fabric of the universe. Stars blurred and stretched, contorting in cosmic agony as the firmament came unglued and spread, as if to allow the passage of something awful into reality.
‘Report,’ Ware said hoarsely. Then, more firmly, ‘Report, damn it. Someone tell me what we’re seeing. What is that?’
A moment later, he got his answer. The void convulsed again, spewing light. The ship that emerged from the unfolded space was larger than it had any right to be. To Ware’s horrified gaze, it seemed as if it had somehow grown, in the centuries since it had first left the orbital dry dock of its commissioning, and become something too massive – too monstrous – to be perceived at a single glance. A thing alive, rather than a construct of mortal hands.
It was a leviathan of the under-realms, clad in barnacles of ritual and faith, but not any faith that Ware recognised, save from dim memories of childhood nightmares. Its slate-grey hull bristled with weaponry and grotesque decoration – undulations of metal which resembled vast, pitiless faces; sweeping gargoyle-laden buttresses and towering statuary that crouched or stretched from precarious positions. Great plates, carved with immense sigils that stung his eyes and leagues of coiling script, covered the curve of the hull. Enormous comm-towers, shaped like titanic, screaming faces, blared unceasing messages of malign devotion across all communication wavelengths.
Ware tried to blot out those voices, to ignore them. He’d heard such things before – only once, and that had been enough. His soul twisted in him, trying to flee the wrongness of the vessel that now filled his viewscreen. It hurt him to look at, and he could hear Klemistos weeping, somewhere behind him. Even Noels – unflappable Noels – seemed shaken.
‘God-Emperor above,’ the aide rasped. He clutched the back of Ware’s throne for support. ‘That’s not a ship, it’s…’
‘An abomination,’ Ware croaked. Hololithic projections of the frigate captains spun about his throne, as his subordinates demanded orders. Servitors squalled binaric death cries in their cradle-stations, bleeding oil and sparks onto the deck. Some of his crew clutched at their ears, as monstrous frequencies overwhelmed the vox-systems. Others spun away from their stations, eyes bleeding, mouths open in silent pleas. They convulsed and whined like beaten animals, or tore at their own flesh, as if trying to dig the sound out.
‘What’s – what’s happening to them?’ Noels whispered.
‘Cut the vox. Cut it now,’ Ware said. ‘Before we lose everyone.’ He fought back the surge of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He spotted the book the cardinal-governor had given him, lying forgotten on the deck. He retrieved it. His mouth was dry. He felt old and ill, and knew, in his heart, that he’d been right and wrong all at the same time. He licked his lips.
‘All hands to stations. Roll out the guns. The Archenemy is here.’
The warp convulsed and vomited forth pilgrims.
The first, and largest, of them was at once cathedral and warship, hallowed and abominable. Its name, scrawled on its hull in the language of a dead world, was Glory Eternal. And it was. Every deck plate and scrap of hull resonated with a chant to the glory of the Ruinous Powers. It was a note in a glorious hymn.
It was not the single note. Others joined it. Ships of all shapes and sizes, the only uniformity the loyalties of their crews, burst from the warp, adding their own voices to the hymn. Two ships, ten, a dozen, more. Small vessels, mostly – frigates and corvettes, a swarm of escorts and fighters. There were others. Heavy cruisers and light.
But none so large as the Glory Eternal. It easily dwarfed the waiting heavy cruiser and its miniscule escort. Aboard the great vessel, its captain and commander studied the viewscreen with a smile of satisfaction.
Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash was tall and proud, as befitted a true son of Lorgar. His bare head was shorn smooth and tattooed from crown to chin with the three hundred approved Sigils of Faith. His slate-grey power armour was unadorned, save for a profusion of prayer scrolls and holy script nailed to the edges of each section of the ancient Mark III battleplate. He stroked the prayers, murmuring the words without looking.
He had memorised them all, of course. And thousands more besides. Prayer was the bedrock of the soul. It set deep foundations and supported the spirit in troubling days. Only through prayer and meditation could one find the truth of their being and set their feet on
the correct path. Only by listening when the Dark Gods spoke could one know peace.
If only those who now quaked in his shadow could know the same peace. He stared at the vessels, wondering what sort of men might be looking back at him. Were they afraid, these slaves of a dead god? Or were they mad, like so many of their ilk, blind to all things save duty and obedience? He pitied them, regardless. If only they would listen to the song in their hearts, and accept the truth of things.
But such was not to be. Not here, not this day. He could taste his crew’s anticipation. Their eagerness to shed blood in the name of the gods. Men were meant for either the knife, or the stone. Wield the one, or be bent across the latter.
Amatnim did not give the order immediately. Pleasure deferred was pleasure magnified. So it was said by the slaves of the Dark Prince. And the skull taken in haste was a skull wasted, as the adherents of the Blood God were wont to insist.
Instead, he watched as the enemy readied themselves for one last battle. Hands clasped behind his back, he counted the moments, allowing their despair to build. They would see his might, and hope would dwindle. The Lord of All Things would be pleased, even as his rival, the Great Gamesman, would feed on the desperate hopes of those unwilling to surrender to the inevitable. A man’s soul was never more appetising than when it slid along the razor’s edge.
He turned a serene gaze upon his crew, and the command deck of his vessel. The Glory Eternal had been a battle-barge, once. A mighty warship, its hull painted azure and gold, its crew native to the Five Hundred Worlds, and with a different name. It served a new master now. He had taken it in honest combat, face to face and blade to blade, and he cherished that victory even now, these many centuries since.
Some among his brothers mocked him for such notions. To them, the ways of open war were for lesser souls – only chattel fought in the mud. But Amatnim held fast to the teachings of the Crimson Lord, as well as the Urizen. There was more glory in an honest blow, struck well, than in all the schemes of the cunning. There was hope there, and despair. Blood and satisfaction. The gods fed well from the struggles of simple men.
He felt the crew’s anticipation grow – a murmuring crescendo, swelling in the vaulted expanse of the command deck. Even the slaves wired into their control thrones babbled in excitement as their withered fingers played across antiquated cogitator panels. The bestial overseers who maintained control of the crew howled and thumped the deck with split hooves and the stocks of their guns. The great cathedral bells hanging from the highest points of the deck were rung, setting the stifling air to twitching. Clouds of incense stirred as the vague shapes of half-formed Neverborn hissed and wailed, begging for a moment of satisfaction – just a taste of the deaths to come.
Amatnim spread his arms, like a conductor before his orchestra. Every eye, mortal or otherwise, was upon him, and he allowed himself a moment to indulge in the sensation. He raised his hands, and then brought them down in a sharp gesture.
‘Fire,’ he said.
A moment later, the Glory Eternal shook down to the lowest decks as the macro-cannons, fusion beamers and plasma projectors which studded its form gave vent to the ship’s killing fury. Battle-klaxons sounded, alerting duty stations. Amatnim tilted his head, eyes closed, listening to the shrieks of his crew as death was doled out in grandiose fashion.
He did not need to look to know that the rest of the fleet was following suit. The void was aflame with the fires of destruction. The servitors hardwired into the sensor-alcoves spat static as the enemy responded – dying beasts, snapping uselessly at their killers. He barely listened. The ship’s crew knew their business, and he was content to let them kill as they wished.
When he at last opened his eyes, he saw that the firmament was alight with burning debris. Enemy frigates hung like sparks in the black, tumbling slowly in place. Some were being boarded by the smaller vessels under his command. Others belonged to his fleet – the unlucky few whom the gods demanded as the price of victory.
Casualty reports came in, in the form of raw data spilling from the blistered lips of the servitors. His gaze found the enemy heavy cruiser, great wounds torn in its hull, bleeding fire and plasma. Not destroyed, not yet, but grievously wounded. He wondered whether they would continue the battle to the bitter end, or whether they would seek to escape. Either was a satisfactory conclusion to this opening engagement.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said to no one in particular. He spoke simply to etch his voice upon the air. To cast his words to the warp, so that the gods might hear them, and know that he appreciated the boons they had bestowed upon him.
‘There is grace in silent death, and beauty in the cold fire of ships burning in the void. Vibrant hues paint the black, and in their turning I see the glories to come.’ Hands behind his back, he contemplated the words, and found them lacking. Some among his Legion prided themselves on their ability to weave words, to win wars with oratory. Amatnim was not one of them. His rhetoric was one of example – he led by doing, rather than saying.
And yet, the desire to improve was ever there. The search for perfection was among the cardinal virtues the sons of Lorgar aspired to. To perfect oneself, even as one accepted the imperfections. To hope, even in despair. To kill, but in sublime fashion. These were the pillars of their church, set deep by the hands of the gods.
One followed the will of the gods in all things, if one wished to prosper. That was why he stood here, on the bridge of this vessel. It was the will of the gods. This was his quest – his mission. Though the Dark Council had set him on his path, they were but the mouthpieces of the gods. Even as Amatnim was their hand.
‘And I shall reach out, and claim glory in their name,’ he murmured, extending his hand towards the dying ships on the viewscreen. ‘Sing them a song of greeting, brothers,’ he continued, speaking over the deck’s vox-link. ‘Force them to their knees, so that we might pass in honour and peace.’
Reports from his subordinates flitted across the vox. Two ships claimed, in the name of the gods. Four burning bright, every soul aboard offered up. ‘These deaths I give unto you, O great ones,’ Amatnim said. ‘Take them, and bless me with victory in the trials ahead.’
‘We have met the enemy, then.’
‘And successfully, Lakmhu.’ Amatnim turned. ‘Hello, brother. Come to watch?’
Lakmhu, like Amatnim, was clad in battleplate of an archaic mark. His power armour was daubed crimson, and inscribed with innumerable sigils and cramped lines of script, copied from certain volumes kept in the holy libraries of Sicarius. Lakmhu had once venerated another god, and served as his priest. Now, he bowed only to the Ruinous Powers. He spoke with their voice, and walked in their shadow as a Dark Apostle.
Trails of parchment hung from the plates of his armour, and swirled about his legs as he walked. A heavy tome with a dark cover made from human hair was chained to one hip, and another was strapped to his chest-plate, its pages stirring every so often like a thing alive. He carried a heavy crozius in one hand, its length decorated with runes of power and holy abomination. His other rested on the holstered shape of a heavy bolt pistol, hanging low on his hip. Behind him came the hulking shapes of his blade slaves – twin warriors, possessed by feral Neverborn and bound to Lakmhu’s will by ancient rites.
They had been Space Marines, once. Now, they were something else. They retained the shape of men, but it was a shape broken and twisted into a contorted parody of humanity. Clad in the broken remains of crimson power armour and ragged robes, their flesh bulged through scarred plates of ceramite, and was lumpen with unnatural tumours of fat and muscle. Their arms were too long, their legs too thick and bent at wrong angles, and their heads were like dollops of melted wax, thrust into golden helms. These were wrought in the shape of the Urizen’s beatific face, and surmounted by crowns of candles.
The pair wielded daemonic blades, forged from the living talons of a Neverborn king. Or so
the stories said. The swords were longer than Amatnim was tall, and even the blade slaves needed two hands – or, rather, claws – to wield them. The weapons sweated smoke, and strange sigils glowed along the length of each dark blade as they lay at rest across their wielder’s shoulders. Amatnim eyed the creatures warily. He gestured to the viewscreen. ‘See, Lakmhu. It is even as the portents promised.’
‘As you interpreted them, you mean,’ Lakmhu corrected, harshly. ‘The gods but give us seeds, Amatnim. It is up to us to collect the harvest.’
Amatnim frowned. ‘Do you doubt me, brother?’
Lakmhu did not meet his gaze. ‘I doubt all things, save the gods. Victory is a gift that we do not yet have in hand. Let us not crow over it prematurely.’
Amatnim grunted and turned his attentions back to the viewscreen. Frigates ceased to exist, consumed by fire. The Glory Eternal roared forward, brushing aside the wreckage of lesser vessels. Slaves murmured communications from the rest of the pilgrim-fleet, as the last of them appeared. The Glory Eternal was but the first note of an iron song that would ring out from one edge of the system to the other.
Amatnim had spent decades building his fleet, one ship at a time. He had enslaved the savage populations of a hundred barren worlds, and set them the task of crafting the vessels he required. He had made pacts with twisted Mechanicum renegades, and bargained with daemonic craftsmen. All because of a dream. A wonderful dream, of a god with golden eyes and a voice fit to soothe the troubles of a galaxy. A dream that had sent him on a quest of centuries, building ships, building an army, building influence. He had made himself a rival to demigods and daemon princes, all in the name of a dream.
And now, he was here at last. Glory was within his reach. He turned from the viewscreen. ‘Take us towards the core. Plot a straight course, where possible.’ Slaves and bestial crewmen scurried to obey.
‘What about the outer worlds?’ Lakmhu asked.
‘What about them?’
‘We should consolidate our gains. We cannot afford to allow ourselves to be–’
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 2