Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘What sort of defences?’ Kespu rasped.

  Without turning, Amatnim said, ‘Minor, as I said. Nothing to threaten any vessel larger than a frigate. We shall brush them aside and take control of the orbital dockyards, where possible. From there, we will land troops at eight predetermined coordinates.’

  ‘An auspicious number,’ Lakmhu said. There was a hint of approval in his voice.

  ‘When one goes to war, one seeks the approval of the Lord of Skulls. Such has it ever been, so must it ever be.’ More runes flickered to life on the projection. ‘There are more than fifteen hab-zones on this world. Most are small – a few million souls. Easy meat. I will lead the assault here – Pergo, one of the larger cities.’ Another run was illuminated. ‘Apis, you and your brotherhood will support me. The rest of you may choose your own targets.’ He turned to look at the others. ‘We will consider this a testing ground. If we cannot take this world, then Almace is beyond us.’

  He allowed that to sink in, trusting that they were sensible enough to see the truth in his words. When he judged that they understood, he swept out a hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Return to your vessels and ready yourselves for war.’ He paused. ‘Ravage and burn the unbelievers. Bring them the truth, in flame and iron, and raise great pyramids in the name of the Pantheon. Do as you were born to do, brothers – and know that the gods love you for it. Gloria Aeterna.’

  ‘Gloria Aeterna,’ Apis, Kespu and the others responded. Glory Eternal. One of many oaths that the sons of the Urizen swore on an almost daily basis, but the one Amatnim cherished the most. It was a pledge. A promise. Serve the gods, and be granted glory; fail, and be forgotten.

  ‘A pretty speech,’ Lakmhu said, as the others departed. ‘You almost make me believe that the gods favour us over all others.’

  ‘And do they not?’

  Lakmhu sneered and looked past him, at the projection. ‘I still see no sign of strategy here. For all your fine words, we seem to be following the simplest of raider’s tactics. Where are your vaunted stratagems, your cunning ploys?’

  ‘You do not see them, because you are not looking. The outer worlds are no threat to us, and expending the effort to bring them to heel will waste time, for little gain. Too, they are expendable, in the eyes of our foes. Besides raw resources, they hold little military value. So, I will make them gifts to my subordinates. As we advance towards the core, our more… distractible brothers will break off to take slaves and build pyramids of skulls, as is their wont. Their foolishness will not hinder us. Indeed, they will help us, by cutting the enemy’s lines of supply.’

  Lakmhu smiled thinly. ‘I see your game. You seek to prevent others from following Kallabor’s path. You offer them easy glory, to fill their souls.’

  ‘Is that so wrong, brother?’ Amatnim asked. ‘This way, they are of use.’

  ‘You are a coward.’

  Amatnim snorted. ‘If you believed that, you would have already made your move, rather than allowing Kallabor to test the waters for you.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘As you like.’

  ‘Why Pergo?’

  Amatnim paused. ‘A commander must be seen to take the field, on occasion.’

  ‘Yes, but why that field, in particular?’

  Amatnim frowned. ‘Speak plainly, brother. What exactly are you accusing me of?’

  ‘I have heard your reasons for laying siege to this world. It is a waste of time, in my opinion – but I understand your intent. A wise warrior learns his limits before attempting to exceed them.’ Lakmhu gazed at the projection. ‘But I know you well enough by now to know that you must have some other goal. So I ask you plainly – why Pergo?’

  Amatnim hesitated. At times, he forgot how clever Lakmhu could be, when his temper was held in check. It was what made the Dark Apostle so dangerous. ‘The Apostolic Libraria – a repository of Ecclesiarchial wisdom,’ he said finally. ‘One of them, at least. Imagine having written so much about the gods and their worship that you needed a second world just to house the books. Or a hundred.’

  ‘Blasphemy,’ Lakmhu said, with a thin smile.

  ‘Depends entirely on your perspective, I suppose.’ Amatnim gazed at the rune representing the city. ‘This system belongs not to industrious craftsmen or warmongers, but to clergy. Hoarders of knowledge and speakers of litany. Even as we are.’ He looked at Lakmhu. ‘They are much like us, though we both deny it,’ he said.

  Lakmhu frowned. ‘Careful, brother. Jesting aside, that is blasphemy.’

  Amatnim grinned. He could hear the ire in the other Word Bearer’s voice. ‘You know, some say that they use a corrupted version of the Urizen’s own words to guide their false church. That they built their self-righteous fortress atop foundations made from the bones of Colchis. What do you think of that, brother?’

  ‘I think it is ridiculous. They are weak. If they followed the word of Lorgar, they wouldn’t be. We would not prey upon them as we do.’

  ‘It must not be, and so it is not, eh?’

  ‘That is the way of all things, brother,’ Lakmhu said sanctimoniously. He sniffed. ‘All of this, then, so that you can burn a few books?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Is that your idea of a suitable offering to the gods?’

  ‘Do you know what I was, before we first set our feet on the path of enlightenment?’ Amatnim gestured to himself. ‘I was an Iconoclast, brother. I rode wings of fire and plied my axe-rake against the wisdom of ages.’ He knocked a knuckle against his grey shoulder-plate. ‘I was part of the Ashen Circle. It was my privilege to murder the history and culture of a people, all in the name of the Urizen. And I do the same, here and now.’

  ‘Nostalgia, then,’ Lakmhu said dismissively. ‘The bane of many a warrior. Somehow, I thought you above such things.’

  Amatnim smiled sadly. ‘How one so wise can understand so little…’ He turned, hand sweeping out to indicate the projection. ‘This, brother, is the heart of them.’ He shook his head. ‘Our enemy values this place more than a hundred forge worlds. Trust me on this. Destroying this world makes a statement. It makes our intentions clear and draws the eyes of the gods to us, while at the same time weakening the resolve of our foes. All strategic gains. And, of course, it will lend us new allies…’

  Lakmhu glared at him. ‘What new allies are you talking about?’

  Amatnim scrolled through reams of information with a wave of his hand. ‘I have studied thousands of hours of data, and correlated sixteen points of interest in the immediate area. These are the major trade lanes for this part of the system. And these…’ He gestured, and several points on the map were illuminated. ‘These are sites of pirate activity.’

  ‘Pirates?’ Lakmhu said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes,’ Amatnim said, smiling. ‘Reinforcements, you could call them.’

  ‘We have a fleet – what do we need with a few ragged pirates?’

  ‘The orbital defences of Almace will be of a margin greater than those possessed by this world. We have neither the numbers nor the fortitude to plough through them as we will do here.’

  Lakmhu grunted in sudden understanding. ‘You intend to herd them before us, like chattel?’

  ‘If needs must. But they may well have more uses than that. Pirates have haunted the wild spaces of this system for generations. They may know of ways to penetrate defences, or secret routes by which we might avoid detection. Failing that… they will serve as a ready-made shield to allow us to close with the enemy, and gut them.’

  ‘And why would they do this? Pirates are not soldiers. They do not serve the gods as we do.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But in time, they might. If we show them the rewards that await them in service to the Pantheon, and the Urizen. Burning Pergo – spitting on the colours of those who have hunted them – will go a long way to convincing them. Regardless, they will come in hand
y when it comes time to lay siege to Almace.’

  ‘And why must we lay siege at all, eh?’ Lakmhu glared at him. ‘Why must we do this? Why fight in the mud, when we sail the stars?’

  ‘I have told you, brother. The gods will it.’

  ‘If they do, they have not said so to me.’

  Amatnim turned back to the map. ‘Maybe you are not listening, brother. Clear some of those hymns from your ears and maybe you’ll be able to hear them.’

  Lakmhu paused, as if chewing over some problem. Then, ‘I have been thinking about your speech, from before. Pretty as it was, I find myself puzzled.’

  ‘A common occurrence, I suspect.’

  Lakmhu didn’t rise to the bait. Amatnim gestured for him to continue. The Dark Apostle cleared his throat. ‘We both know that what we seek is not what you claimed. If it were, our masters would be here – not us.’

  Amatnim frowned. ‘Perhaps.’ He sighed and ran a hand over his pate. ‘There was truth, amid the hyperbole. We are broken. Not as badly as Fulgrim’s lackeys, or so thoroughly as Angron’s curs, but we… bend beneath the weight of our own hubris. Surely you must see that as well as I.’

  Lakmhu looked away. ‘We remained a Legion, while others crumbled.’

  ‘Did we? I think we are a Legion in name only. The Urizen is silent, our wars are fought at the behest of others, and those who lead us spend more time fighting each other than our true foes.’ Amatnim shook his head. ‘We are broken, brother. We simply do not realise it. We must be one again – one faith, one army, one brotherhood. But first, the impure must be purged.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’

  Amatnim looked at him. ‘You know the answer, brother.’

  Lakmhu was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. ‘I should kill you now.’

  ‘You’ve tried already. Or will you continue to insist on the pretence that Kallabor wasn’t your doing?’ Amatnim snorted. ‘No, brother. You won’t kill me. If you do, this fleet will crumble, and any hope you have of completing your own quest crumbles with it.’

  ‘You do think highly of yourself, Amatnim.’

  ‘Someone must.’ Amatnim pointed a finger. ‘Erebus is a deceitful snake.’

  ‘And Kor-Phaeron isn’t?’

  ‘Kor-Phaeron is old. And he was the Urizen’s mentor. What is Erebus, next to that?’

  ‘He is the Hand of Destiny. The Anointed of the Gods.’

  ‘Is that why he bows to Abaddon? Is that the gods’ will, do you think – or is it Erebus currying favour with one he thinks is mighty enough to protect him, when the Urizen returns from his pilgrimage?’

  Lakmhu bared his teeth. Anger flashed in his eyes, and his blade slaves grunted eagerly. They could sense the violence in him, and they slid their swords from their shoulders in readiness. Amatnim stepped back, one hand on his axe-rake. ‘Kor-Phaeron has always been the soul of our Legion. His words guided Lorgar, who guided us. Erebus uses us – uses you – for his own advancement. That which I seek will prove him false, once and for all. And then he will be cast into the outer dark, where he belongs.’

  Lakmhu shook his head. ‘You continue to speak blasphemy, brother, despite my warnings. Were you any other, I would break you here, and leave your carcass as a warning for others.’ He pointed his crozius at Amatnim. ‘But I spare you, because I need you. We shall know which of us is right, when the day comes. But until then… until then, I spare you.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘As I spare you, brother.’ He looked back at the projection. ‘I think that moment comes fast upon us, though. My quest nears its end.’

  ‘And yet we waste time on a library,’ Lakmhu said. ‘Why not simply bombard it from orbit, then, the way we have the others? Why waste time burning it by hand? The same goals would be accomplished, and we would spare our forces unnecessary casualties.’

  ‘I thought you spoke for the gods, brother? Which do you think they would prefer? This victory must be symbolic – a show of power. Something too great to ignore.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I am a faithful man. Let the gods speak, then. I am here, and I listen with great eagerness.’ He stood patiently, head tilted. When no answer was forthcoming, he sighed and turned to the Dark Apostle. ‘There. I suppose that is plain enough. Now come, brother. Cheer up. It is not every day that you get to burn a repository of falsehood.’

  Chapter Four

  17:15:09

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  The welcome feast was an ordeal. Calder endured it with the patience of Dorn. He chafed at the thought of work going undone, but maintained a facade of polite stoicism. Suboden and Karros fared better – the Raven Guard had done his best to make himself even more inconspicuous, while Suboden had gone the opposite route.

  Like Calder and Karros, the khan had shed his battleplate. He was clad in thick, colourful robes and a mantle of eagle feathers that draped his broad shoulders. His hair was bound in a neat braid with golden wire, as were his moustaches. It contrasted strongly with the dark, plain uniform of unfamiliar design that Karros wore.

  The khan padded through the crowded chamber like a tiger on the prowl, haughty and proud. Ecclesiarchial notables scattered before him, and aristocrats trailed in his wake, whispering. There were few of the latter in attendance. The noble families of Almace were a spent force, mostly absorbed by the Ecclesiarchy over the centuries. But some remained; they preened like gaudy peacocks amid the crimson tedium of the Ministorum representatives, or the grey monotony of the Administratum bureaucrats.

  Amongst these warring hues wandered officers of Eamon’s ‘bodyguard’, looking out of place and uneasy. Calder had tried engaging a few of them in conversation, but they seemed overawed and had little to say. They provided him little refuge from less welcome conversational partners, such as those who now had him cornered. A group of noteworthy individuals – masters of trade and finance, overseers and Administratum adepts.

  A whirlpool of interminable conversation lapped at him. Bureaucrats, deacons and functionaries chattered to each other and him, battering at his walls with incessant questions relating to inanities such as the latest fashions on Macragge or the weather on Ardium. Fortunately, his training had prepared him to endure such things.

  ‘Do you eat, then, my lord?’ a heavyset man said, drawing Calder’s wandering attentions back. The man held a plate filled with foodstuffs – crustaceans, processed grains, slices of the native cheese – and nibbled on something green. ‘Only I did not see you partake of the meal, earlier.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ an older woman said, looking up at him. Her dress was worth more than the average worker made in their lifetime, and heavy with artificially grown gemstones. Calder could read the signs of multiple juvenat treatments on her too-tight flesh. ‘Is our humble provender not up to the standards of Holy Terra and Ultramar?’

  ‘My apologies. It has only been thirty-six standard hours since I last consumed my weekly allotment of nutrient paste,’ Calder said in a bored tone.

  They goggled at him. Calder smiled. A younger man laughed. ‘A joke?’ he said, almost hopefully.

  ‘No,’ Suboden said, appearing behind the young man and startling him. The White Scar held a goblet in one hand. It looked absurdly small in his grip. ‘The sons of Dorn have no sense of humour. They think it inefficient. I, however, know many jokes.’ He leaned towards the older woman, his smile wide and feral. ‘Would you like to hear one?’

  The mortals scattered like frightened birds. Suboden straightened and chuckled. ‘I thought you were a politician, brother. Don’t you know how to talk to them?’

  ‘I was talking to them. I did not wish to frighten them.’

  ‘And that’s your problem, brother. They grow overly familiar.’ He took a swig from his goblet. ‘They seek to draw us into their petty circles of influence. Can you feel it? Like stepping into a nest of grass-vipers.’

 
‘It is their nature,’ Calder said.

  ‘Ignorance is no excuse for heresy,’ Suboden said. ‘They’re weighing us, brother – mark my words. Feeling us out. Trying to decide how best to make use of our presence. Whether our arrival means Eamon is weak – or stronger than he’s ever been. Whether the rumours of invasion are true. You can hear them whispering, as well as I. It’s worse than Ultramar. It’s worse than Armageddon, come to that.’

  ‘You speak as if Chogoris is free of such things,’ Calder said, as Suboden snagged a decanter from a passing servant. The startled man yelped and fled.

  Suboden poured himself another goblet of wine, and sniffed it. ‘Not free, no. And hardly any more subtle, though it pains me to admit it. It is the nature of man to scramble for any advantage, when the seasons change.’ He took a sip and licked his lips. ‘Good vintage,’ he murmured. Then, ‘I do not blame them, brother. Or Eamon for encouraging them. Which he is, in his way. It is simply tedious. When your tent burns, do you waste time arguing about how the fire started, or do you put it out?’

  ‘Sound advice. Perhaps we should switch places.’

  ‘Oh no. This is your burden, brother. Bear it in good humour, and leave the rest to us.’ Suboden drained his goblet and refilled it. ‘I’m surprised to see you out of your armour,’ he said. ‘Did you have that uniform specially made for the occasion?’

  ‘In a sense,’ Calder said. All Huscarls were provided with the same uniform, tailored to their massive frame. The outfit was black and simple, after the fashion of Post-Unification Terra, with yellow piping, and the Chapter sigil pinned to their chest. ‘There are occasions when battleplate is more hindrance than help.’