Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  Opposing fire began to slacken. He recognised the tactical pattern – he’d used it himself, often enough. The women would be falling back in stages, through the forest of shelves and pillars. Some would move, the rest would provide covering fire. They would take up new positions every few moments, fire and retreat.

  Aided by the inbuilt systems of his battleplate, he analysed the rate and direction of enemy fire until he’d pinpointed a gap in the pattern. ‘Now,’ he said. He swung out from behind the pillar and fired again and again, as he advanced through the storm of falling paper and ash. Apis and Yatl followed his example, flanking him, their boltguns lightning up the shadows between shelves.

  Amatnim could see them now, grey shapes in carnelian tabards, retreating through a ruin of toppled shelves and blasted pillars. He could hear the hunting howls of the surviving cultists as they loped through the chamber, following their masters. He fired again, and a woman screamed. She fell, and one of her Sisters caught her by her robes, dragging her backwards. The wounded woman continued to fire her boltgun, despite the trail of red smeared on the floor in her wake.

  ‘Brave,’ Apis said.

  ‘Wretched animals,’ Yatl said.

  Amatnim said nothing. Yatl was wrong, but he would learn in time, if someone didn’t kill him first. He paused, and the other Word Bearer stalked past, chanting loudly. Apis stopped as well, head cocked. ‘Something?’ he asked.

  ‘Why this way?’ Amatnim said. He turned, scanning the heights. He could hear bolter fire above, and the vox crackled with voices. And something else – a fluctuation of static, interference on the vox-link. ‘Listen.’

  Apis turned. ‘Is that a vox signal?’

  ‘Yes. But a signal for what?’ Amatnim whirled. ‘Yatl – pull back!’

  ‘What?’ Yatl paused. The interference rose to a shrill whine, and Amatnim caught Apis by the shoulder-plate and jerked him back as something monstrous stepped into view. The hulking machine shouldered aside a shelf, sending it crashing to the floor. A vox-caster strapped to its chassis blared a hymn to the God-Emperor, and the hateful sound filled the chamber, drowning out all but the loudest explosions.

  ‘Dark Gods, what is that?’ Apis muttered, across the vox.

  ‘They call it a Penitent Engine,’ Amatnim said. The Penitent Engine was a skeletal frame set atop two jointed legs, with two long arms. Within the frame, a pilot writhed in a nest of wires, tubes and chemical injectors. The woman was emaciated, her scarred and bloody form shrouded in a filthy tabard, and chains strung with funerary bells. Her face was hidden beneath a cowl marked with the sigil of the Ecclesiarchy. Wasted limbs twitched, and an arm swung out with a groan of pneumatic pistons. At the other end was the seared nozzle of a heavy flamer, surmounted by the jagged blade of a chainfist.

  Yatl was hurled backwards by the blow, the chainfist drawing sparks from his battleplate. He cursed and crawled back towards Amatnim and Apis, his armour bleeding lubricant and smoke. The Penitent Engine stomped after him, its controller twitching in her harness.

  ‘Get him up,’ Amatnim said as he tried to draw a bead on the pilot. She was exposed – intentionally so – but the war-engine’s movements made it difficult. It thrashed so erratically, his targeting display had a hard time catching up. Its chainblades tore through shelves and pillars as it clomped towards them. The vox-caster blared prayers and curses as the pilot twitched in something that might have been religious ecstasy.

  ‘Ambush?’ Apis said as he dragged a cursing Yatl back the way they’d come. From above came the sound of boltguns. The other Word Bearers had realised what had happened, and they paused in their advance to shoot at the rampaging machine. The Penitent Engine replied in kind, its heavy flamers washing across the upper levels, and setting shelves and Word Bearers ablaze.

  ‘Distraction,’ Amatnim said as the vox crackled with pained screams. ‘Grenade.’

  ‘I should–’ Apis began, but Amatnim shook his head. Chainblades hacked through the pillars and cut down any cultist who got too close. He was forced to duck aside as a twitching body hurtled past, trailing ragged lengths of intestine.

  ‘Grenade. Now.’

  Apis unhooked a grenade from his armour and tossed it to Amatnim. Amatnim paused, waiting until the engine was preoccupied with the warriors above, before sprinting towards it. He primed the grenade as he ran, knowing he would only get one chance.

  The Penitent Engine spied him as he drew close and whirled, chainblade screaming as it slashed towards him. He fell to his knees and bent backwards, sliding across the blood-slick floor. The chainblade bit the air just over his head, and he twisted, hurling the grenade into the nest of cables, pistons and wires that hung from its back. The machine turned, following him as he rolled to his feet, bolt pistol spitting.

  His shots pierced a number of cables and fat sparks of electricity danced on the air. The pilot shrieked out nonsense litanies, her tattered lips peeled back from rotten teeth. The subsequent explosion cut those short. The Penitent Engine staggered, bleeding oil. The chainblades struck the floor, digging into the ancient marble. Fire gouted from the heavy flamers and washed across the floor, driving Amatnim back.

  The pilot’s ragged tabard was set alight, as were the spilled puddles of oil. She shrieked and thrashed in her harness, forcing the war-engine to its feet. Its movements were noticeably slower this time, more awkward. The brutal grace it had displayed earlier was gone. The pilot’s cowl was wreathed in flames as the Penitent Engine staggered towards Amatnim. He backed away, firing. Past the machine, he saw Apis and several other Word Bearers approaching. They opened up on the war machine, and the pilot screamed, as if the engine were a part of her. Instinctively, she turned, filling the air with fire.

  Amatnim darted forward through the flames. He caught a handful of cabling and hauled himself up. He shoved the barrel of his bolt pistol against the pilot’s burning cowl and pulled the trigger. The Penitent Engine made a sound, deep in itself, like the groan of a dying beast. Then, with a hiss of pneumatics, it sank down, the pilot’s carcass hanging limp in the frame. Amatnim dropped to the floor as it fell.

  ‘Keep moving.’ He waved Apis and the others ahead. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’ He moved to where Yatl lay. ‘Can you move, brother?’

  ‘With help.’ Yatl made to haul himself up, awkwardly. ‘My armour’s power unit was breached. Joints are seizing up.’ He looked up at Amatnim. ‘Repairable, with time.’

  Amatnim helped, supporting him. ‘I’m curious, brother – do you recall Erebus’ sermon, on the slopes of Sabine?’

  Yatl looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Suffer not the weak, for they break the will of even the strongest among you.’

  ‘Yes. A good speech, despite the speaker.’ Amatnim lifted his bolt pistol meaningfully. ‘Do you understand why I asked you the question?’

  Yatl hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are one of Lakmhu’s. I know this and you know this. But now, you are also one of mine. Do you understand?’

  Again, Yatl hesitated. Amatnim leaned close, until their helms were almost touching.

  ‘Yes, brother. I understand.’ It sounded as if Yatl were biting off the end of every word.

  ‘Good. Now stand.’ He spotted a crowd of cultists, edging through the ruined shelves, their weapons extended before them. ‘You there – come here and support this warrior.’

  The cultists hurried towards them and eagerly took Yatl’s weight, though it bent them nearly double. ‘Take him back to the gunships.’ Amatnim tapped Yatl in the chest. ‘Remember this moment, brother. It is in your best interests.’

  ‘Artfully done, my lord,’ Apis said approvingly as Amatnim joined him and the others. ‘Mercy has a keen edge.’

  Amatnim checked his bolt pistol’s ammunition. ‘Let us pray it is so, brother, else I might wish I had killed him here.’ He looked up. ‘Sound off. Does anyon
e have eyes or augur-sign on our quarry?’

  The vox crackled. ‘I see them. They’re heading for the causeway.’ He knew the voice – a low, oily purr. A warrior named Saper. One of Apis’ followers.

  Amatnim gestured, and Apis and the others started towards the causeway. ‘Can you intercept?’ The roar of the Battle Sisters’ heavy bolter sounded, from somewhere above.

  ‘Not at the moment. They have us pinned. My apologies, my lord.’

  ‘No matter. May the gods watch over you, brother.’

  ‘And you, my lord.’

  ‘They’ve split up,’ Apis said.

  ‘Buying time. Someone is trying to get back into the bastion. We must see that they don’t.’ He started forward, the others following. They broke into a run, hurdling fallen shelves and chunks of broken pillar. They moved swiftly through the makeshift labyrinth, heading for the entrance to the causeway. Even delayed as they were, they were faster than the Battle Sisters.

  But the chamber was enormous, larger than a cathedral, and filled with obstacles. Amatnim’s auto-senses were stretched to their limit, seeking ways around the growing flames and through the forest of shelves. Too, he kept an eye out for more surprises like the Penitent Engine. But none revealed themselves.

  ‘There,’ Apis said suddenly. Amatnim turned and his targeting array homed in on several grey forms hurrying through the growing conflagration.

  ‘After them,’ he said. He took aim at the distant figures, and a targeting rune settled over one. He fired, and the shape pitched forward. Apis and the others moved up, taking their own shots as they advanced. The Battle Sisters backed away, weapons growling.

  The causeway entrance rose above the shelves, an ornate gothic arch, decorated with stone flowers and angelic figures. Dozens of lumen-torches flickered silently in their sconces, casting their glow across the flat, semicircular steps. The Battle Sisters retreated through the archway. Two of the surviving eight remained behind, taking cover behind the ornamental pillars that lined the causeway.

  Amatnim led the way, letting their shots impact against his armour. A foolhardy thing, perhaps, but sometimes one needed to make a show of it. Apis and the others followed his example, and the rearguard were dispatched with a flurry of well-placed shots. As they stepped over the bodies, he saw the others making for the opposite end of the causeway. Another archway waited there – this one sealed. The door was an iris of adamantium and ceramite plates. He suspected that whoever had built it had foreseen this very moment.

  The iris cycled open as the Battle Sisters raced for the archway. Amatnim fired, emptying his bolt pistol. Apis stopped beside him and did the same, trying to bring their quarry down before they reached safety. Three fell, but the others slipped through the iris. It began to close with a grinding sound. Grenades did nothing to halt its progress, serving merely to fill the causeway with smoke and debris.

  Amatnim reached the archway even as the door slammed shut. He stared at it for a moment, then his gaze travelled up to the pict-caster set into the apex of the archway. It was housed in a skull, set back into an alcove. The lenses in its eye sockets whirred and clicked as it recorded him. With deliberate slowness, he reloaded his bolt pistol and fired, destroying the skull and the device it contained.

  He turned as the others reached him. ‘How many?’

  ‘Three my lord. Two are dead. The other…’ He gestured.

  Amatnim saw one of the Battle Sisters crawling towards them through the smoke, a trail of crimson stretching in her wake. Her battleplate was ruptured, and her tabard rags. Blood stained her face and neck. Her teeth were bared, and she held something clutched to her chest. Apis looked at him. ‘Should I kill her, my lord?’

  Amatnim was silent for a moment, watching her draw close, bemused by her determination. If only that resolve could be harnessed in good cause. ‘Look at her, Apis. Is she not beautiful, in her dying wrath? Glorious.’ He gestured. ‘Yes, brother. Grant her peace.’

  Apis took a quick step towards the crawling woman and kicked her over onto her back. He lifted his boltgun and then spun back, hand raised. ‘My lord! Get back–’

  The explosion lifted Apis from his feet and hurled him forward. The shock wave drove Amatnim back against a pillar, and he cursed as his visual feed blurred. He wrenched his helmet off and was immediately struck by a wash of heat, and the smell of cooking flesh.

  Apis lay nearby, his grey battleplate burned black. He groaned and began to push himself upright. ‘Grenade,’ he grunted, his voice edged with static. Servos creaked and whined as he rose, bits of marble sliding from his armour. The other Word Bearers had been knocked sprawling as well. None of them were injured – the grenade hadn’t been enough to pierce their armour.

  ‘Yes,’ Amatnim said. He shook his head. He could hear the thunder of bolters from close by. ‘If any of the others are taken alive – shoot them.’ He knocked on the archway.

  ‘Now, find a way through this. I want to be in by nightfall.’

  Cern stared at the security door, wondering if the enemy would breach it. She could hear the clang of blows, echoing through the antechamber of the gatehouse. The heart of the library was a bunker of adamantium and ceramite. A Titan could crack it, but even a god-machine would need time to peel the bastion open. Her eyes flicked up. A mural of the Emperor’s grace as witnessed by Saint Jopala covered the flat ceiling. It had been painted centuries ago, and was beginning to flake away.

  She rubbed her eyes, wondering if it was a sign. The enemy was more determined than she’d feared. Disciplined as well. She’d fought the dogs of abomination before and they tended to lack the capacity to form coherent strategies. But these monsters were soldiers. They would find a solution, eventually. One of the causeways would fall. And then it would be over, bar the dying.

  She felt nothing at the thought of her own death. Next to the destruction of this place, what was death? She coughed, tasting ash. So many books, so much wisdom – all gone. All that remained was to ensure that what was buried beneath this bastion stayed there. That was her duty, and she would see it done, one way or another.

  She sighed and turned at a soft touch on her elbow. A lay-Sister waited, holy cloth unfolded across her arms. Cern laid the boltgun she’d been using across it. The lay-Sister nodded and bore the weapon away, to clean and reload it. To ready its spirit for the next battle.

  ‘Status,’ Cern said. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Too much smoke. She cleared her throat and repeated herself.

  ‘Only two others made it back, besides you,’ Gurna said. She motioned a servitor forward. The withered automaton wore red rags about its shanks and was stooped from the weight of its augmetic prosthesis. It dragged another ferrocrete bulwark into place before the door as two of its fellows moved to weld the portal shut with plasma torches.

  Cern nodded, feeling tired. ‘It was a calculated risk.’ She’d hoped to do enough damage to drive the foe from the library, at least briefly. But the Archenemy was tenacious.

  ‘We’re running low on ammunition as well,’ Cassila said, her voice similarly hoarse from smoke and shouting. Her youngest bodyguard looked pale and shaken. This was her first real experience of war, Cern recalled.

  ‘We’re low on more than that,’ Gurna muttered.

  Cern looked around. Fewer than half of her commandry still lived. Of those, a third were too wounded to stand. A poor showing. She ran a bloody hand through her hair. ‘The God-Emperor provides. Every moment we endure is a moment more Almace has to ready itself. We bleed so that they might live.’

  Cassila bowed her head and murmured a prayer. Gurna laughed.

  ‘If the Ecumenical Council lets them, you mean. I can’t see those fools allowing Eamon to turn their pretty world into a fortress, any more than the lord deacon allowed us to here.’ She spoke with a smile, but there was a real bitterness in her words.

  ‘The God-Emperor will
speak to them,’ Cern said, and she dearly hoped it was so. Canoness Lorr would ensure it – she had a tendency to interpret His words in the most aggressive manner possible. She frowned as she thought of her superior. She had not got along with the other woman. Lorr had more faith than most, but she was dogmatic, and she took pleasure in punishing weakness, something Eamon had chided her for more than once.

  They’d clashed often, in the commandry councils. Eventually, Lorr had grown tired of the disagreements and sent Cern away. Somewhere she was still useful, but couldn’t argue. She sighed again and thought about how ridiculous those arguments seemed now. How she’d give her good arm to have Lorr and the rest of her order beside her now.

  But it was better this way. Hers was a holy purpose, and one she would hold fast to, whatever came of it.

  A cyber-cherub flitted into the antechamber and landed heavily on her shoulder. The creature squalled and tugged at her ear. She swatted at it, causing it to leap into the air. She looked at Gurna. ‘See to the defences. I want this place ready if they manage to get through.’

  ‘It will be done, palatine.’

  Cern nodded in satisfaction. The cherub flitted away, message delivered, and she followed it through an access shaft into the central bastion. The bastion was like a spike of adamantium driven into the slope of the crater that Pergo occupied. The library had grown around that spike. The bastion had three levels. The uppermost had been sealed off, as had the lowest level. It was the lowest that she was concerned with, at the moment. It contained that which she had been sent to Pergamon to protect.

  For the moment, it was safe. The time was fast approaching when she would have to destroy the vaults and what they contained. It was the only way to prevent it from falling into the hands of the foe. But not yet.

  She followed the cherub into the bastion’s tacticum chamber, where a quartet of the oldest members of her commandry controlled the citadel’s automated defences. Concealed multi-lasers and sensor-directed heavy bolter emplacements studded the exterior of the central bastion, and these swept the nearby streets with mechanical efficiency. The enemy had managed to get into the library regardless, but the streets were filled with the bodies of their slaves. Idolaters and worshippers of abomination died in droves.