Calder glanced up. The body of the relic-keeper hung from the canopy, among the censers, twisting gently in the breeze. As he watched, one of the dead man’s sandals slipped from a limp foot and fell to the street. Calder followed its trajectory idly. He felt only the dullest glimmer of pity for the man, but even so, he wondered if there had not been a better way. Something of that must have showed in his body language, for Lorr cleared her throat.
‘You seem displeased,’ she said.
Calder looked down at her, somewhat startled by her perceptiveness. ‘The most efficient solution is not always the most optimal,’ he said after a moment.
Lorr smiled, her scarred features making the expression almost a grimace. ‘He was given a command by the cardinal-governor. He failed to obey. The punishment for such heresy is death.’
‘You sound almost gleeful, canoness.’
Her smile widened, becoming almost grotesque. ‘I am ecstatic, lieutenant. At last, my faith is rewarded. Eamon has been kind – too kind – to those who defy him. Now, the time for kindness is done. The weak and sinful will be purged by this tribulation. This is a baptism of fire, from which a new Almace will rise – stronger, and blessed in the eyes of Him who guides us.’ She made a fist. ‘Our faith will light the dark, and we shall cast our defiance into the teeth of the God-Emperor’s foes.’
Calder said nothing. He wondered what she would make of all that he had seen and heard in those ancient days, before he had been consigned to the vaults to await Guilliman’s summons. Too, what would be her reaction to Eamon’s prisoner? Would her faith shatter at the sight of the Anchorite, or would it only redouble itself? Then, part of him suspected that she already knew. He could not say which thought unsettled him more.
A vox-operator signalled them. ‘It’s Swordmaster Tyre, my lord,’ the man said nervously. He was a member of one of several squads assigned to the Cardinal’s Gate in support of Lorr’s Battle Sisters and Calder’s Intercessors. ‘Channel two-six-alpha.’
Calder cycled through the vox signals until he found the correct frequency. ‘Tyre, this is Calder. Status?’
‘It’s as you predicted, lieutenant – Low Town is indefensible. I’m ordering a general withdrawal. You might want to let the White Scars know.’
‘No need. Rukn has his orders. He’ll bleed them from below as we hammer them here. Pull back to the Cardinal’s Gate and disperse your formations across High Town. We’ll join you in… five standard hours.’
‘You sound confident.’
‘No confidence. Experience. They’ll lose most of their momentum in Low Town. Discipline will begin to break down. They’ll be looking to enjoy themselves – or for reinforcements.’ He paused, wondering how best to explain. But Tyre saved him the trouble.
‘Reinforcements,’ Tyre said, and laughed harshly. ‘That’s one word for it. Speak plain, lieutenant. They’ll be looking to unleash the legions of hell on us.’
‘Yes. But Rukn will do what he can to prevent that. As will we.’ He paused again. ‘If we can’t, we will need to alter our strategy.’
‘I will make the cardinal-governor aware of the situation.’
Calder cut the link and looked at Lorr. ‘You heard?’
She grinned. ‘Oh yes. I’m looking forward to it.’ She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, as if scenting the air. ‘The chance to fight the Archenemy again is truly a gift from the God-Emperor.’
Calder’s vox clicked. ‘Solaro,’ he said. ‘Status?’
‘Busy,’ came the reply.
‘So I assumed. Report.’
‘Siege weapons moving along the northern causeway, towards the Pilgrim’s Gate.’
Calder frowned. As he’d predicted. The enemy would seek to breach the gate and bring the weapons through High Town in order to train them on the cathedral-palace. ‘Focus your efforts on disabling those weapons. I don’t want them getting in range of the palace.’
‘Might be too late already.’
‘Then do what you can.’
‘Trouble?’ Lorr asked. Calder looked down at her.
‘Only the expected variety.’
Lorr smiled. ‘They are predictable, in my experience. Puppets to fell powers, unable to–’ She was interrupted by a shout, from the end of the street. A Battle Sister hurried towards the steps. ‘Aysha,’ Lorr said, descending to meet the other woman. ‘Something to report, Sister?’
‘The enemy, canoness! They come.’
Lorr laughed, low and savage. She looked at Calder, her gaze wild, and he nodded. She laughed again and quickly descended the rest of the way to the street. Calder followed more slowly. With the fire-corridor in place, the street was a killing field. The enemy would charge and die. He’d made sure to leave them no other choice.
He could hear them now, even without his auto-senses. The clanging of great bells and the piping of flutes. Shouts and hymns and the rattle of undisciplined gunfire. Kenric, one of his Intercessors, was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.
‘Estimates put enemy numbers at several hundred,’ Kenric said, as he fell into step with Calder. ‘Maybe three. No organisation to speak of.’
‘Just humans?’
‘So far.’
Calder nodded. ‘The traitors won’t show themselves until they’re sure of support. This is just a distraction.’ Shouts now from the other end of the street. Soldiers fell back, taking up position behind the outermost bulwarks. Lorr was already there, exhorting her followers in ringing tones. Calder signalled his Intercessors with a single vox-click.
They would hold the centre. It was imperative that the defenders see them doing so. Morale was as much a weapon as a bolt rifle.
His display flickered and magnified the opposite end of the street. He could see them coming – thin, feral faces, some masked, others bare, twisted bodies wrapped in rags or plundered armour, carrying weapons as poorly treated as their wielders. They carried standards made from scrap metal and rotting body parts, or great bells that clanged hollowly.
Calder had made a study of the battlefield markings of the enemy – at least those it was safe to look at. He recognised the primitive heraldry of at least three distinct groups, all of them far from home. Some of them he’d fought before, as the Indomitus Crusade stretched across the stars.
‘Place your shots – standards and leaders first,’ he said. ‘Kill anyone shouting orders. Leave the slaughter to Lorr and the others.’
He did not bother to check that they had heard him. They would follow orders. The bulwark was tall enough to shelter the Primaris Marines, but just barely. Calder set his shoulder against the ferrocrete and peered over the top. The enemy were flooding into the street, howling and chanting.
‘Animals,’ Kenric said softly.
Calder glanced at him. ‘No. That is what makes this all the worse.’ He turned, checking the rest of the line. Men and women in Ecclesiarchy red clutched their weapons with nervous intensity. Some were afraid, others eager. But he was satisfied that they would hold. Lorr prowled behind them, her voice raised in exultation.
‘Raise your voices to the heavens, so that the God-Emperor might hear you,’ she cried, lifting her crackling power maul. ‘Sing, Sisters! Sing, penitents – sing!’ She wheeled, her flat gaze sweeping across the ranks of soldiers and Sororitas. ‘Sing the song of our last days, sing so that we are not forgotten. Meet their daemon-hymns with our own holy song! Sing!’
And they sang. Calder watched in silence as the troopers first raised their voices in song, and then their lasguns, setting them across the barricades. The Sororitas followed suit, their voices more practised. Battle-hymns were as much a part of their arsenal as the bolter. He raised his own weapon. ‘On my mark,’ he said through the vox.
‘Shall we sing as well, lieutenant?’ Kenric asked.
Calder glanced at him. ‘Sing if you wish, Kenric. So l
ong as you can shoot at the same time.’ Targeting runes flickered to life as the first of the foe reached maximum optimal range. Calder felt a flicker of pity for the debased figures racing towards him through the dust. Misplaced faith had led them to their deaths as surely as if they’d put guns to their own heads. But they’d made their choice and now would suffer the consequences.
The voices of the faithful met in the dusty air, and for a moment, Calder imagined the songs twisting in battle above his head. Then, the first las-bolts erupted from the bulwarks and several cultists fell, their howls cut short. But more pressed forward, trampling the bodies of the fallen in their eagerness to reach their foes.
Behind him, Kenric began to sing. One by one, the other Intercessors joined him, and the deep, basso rumbling of their voices stretched out. Troopers shot nervous glances their way, and their singing faltered, but Lorr nodded in evident pleasure. ‘See,’ she shouted. ‘See – the angels of the Emperor add their voices to yours! You are blessed, you sons and daughters of Almace. Show them your thanks – sing!’
Once more, the song rose, bolstered by the throbbing pulse of Primaris voices. The enemy raced towards the barricades, and Calder’s targeting runes flashed green.
‘Fire,’ he said.
Bolt rifles thundered, and the foe died.
Chapter Twenty-Three
95:10:20
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Dusep watched in satisfaction as the trio of heavily armoured Deimos-pattern Vindicators rumbled up the throughway. Their Demolisher cannons thundered one after the other, shattering the foundations of the causeways and clearing the streets of rubble.
In their wake, mortal chaff marched in rigid formation under the watchful eyes of Legion overseers. Dusep had always favoured martial rigour over theological. Off the battlefield, faith was between a man and his gods. On the battlefield, Dusep was the only deity his slaves needed to worry about.
The Word Bearer stood atop the observation cupola of a heavy Medusa field gun. Behind him, his slaves rang their tocsins, and called out the eightfold prayers of far-slaughter. The ancient weapon had seen him through a thousand sieges. Its red flanks were marked by kill-runes, and he’d trained its crew himself. The Medusa growled as its treads crunched over broken bulwarks, and he patted the top of its blast shield affectionately.
Red drifts of bodies were flattened beneath the Medusa’s weight as the advance growled forward. There were larger corpses mixed in among the mortal meat – Imperial Fists. But only a few. A bare handful, and not enough to stop him. He studied the bodies as his brothers plundered them, taking sections of battleplate, or even gene-seed. The latter was worth a lord’s ransom, in the Eye. It was also a delicacy, among certain fraternal lodges.
As he watched, two Word Bearers shucked their helms and shared a meal of raw gene-seed, gobbling it down with no thought to the mortals who might be observing them. Dusep sighed at their lack of civility and made note, intending to chastise them later. Discipline had to be maintained, especially in front of the slaves.
‘My lord, the Pilgrim’s Gate is just up ahead,’ one of his assistants quavered. Dusep looked down at the mortal and cuffed him, knocking him sprawling.
‘I am aware. Do not speak again unless it is to tell me something I do not know.’ Dusep looked up as an assault-cutter – one of several – scythed overhead. The bulky vessels were archaic, even by his standards. Little more than aerodynamic drop pods, and armed to the teeth. They were hurtling towards the prearranged drop points, their bellies full of mortal meat. Slave-soldiers and cultists. Their blood would sanctify the battlefields above, calling the children of the gods to war. He frowned at the thought. Daemons always complicated what should be a relatively simple matter.
He heard shouts from behind the Medusa, and saw that the troops following in his wake had stopped. He could hear them arguing with each other from here. While the cults made for excellent battlefield chaff, they had exaggerated notions of their own importance. Get enough of them together in one place, and they started vying to be top of the midden heap. Even slaves had a hierarchy, however ridiculous the notion.
Dusep looked down at his cowering aide. ‘On your feet, maggot. We have a rendezvous to reach. Get them moving.’ He reached for the lash hanging from his belt as the mortal scrambled to his feet and leaped down from the Medusa.
‘You shouldn’t beat them, so,’ a nearby Word Bearer said. ‘They are fragile and there are better uses for their pain.’
‘Hello, Morkesh. Come to contribute to the war effort?’ Dusep looked down at the other Word Bearer. Morkesh was a diabolist by inclination. He wore a ritual harness, studded with spirit-bottles and prayer scrolls, and there were censers built into the cooling vents of his armour’s power pack. Sweet-smelling smoke cloaked him at all times, and it seemed to take the shape of leering faces whenever the wind blew just right. ‘Maybe conjure up some living siege weapons for us, eh?’
‘Mockery, brother?’
Dusep laughed. Morkesh sounded annoyed. That was good. Dusep wasn’t overly fond of Morkesh, or diabolists in general. Neverborn might be blessed of the gods, but they were a curse on the battlefield. You couldn’t give them orders, no matter what fools like Morkesh claimed. They were like a natural disaster. You just had to hope that they went in the right direction. ‘No, no, of course not. I wouldn’t dare. Why are you here?’
‘I go where I am needed.’
‘I don’t recall asking for your help, brother.’
‘I don’t recall offering it, brother.’ Morkesh looked around. ‘The winds of Chaos blow strong here. Daemons press close all about us, clawing at the barriers between worlds. They smell the blood of the fallen.’
‘Is that what that stink is?’ Dusep made a show of looking around. ‘Well, where are they, then? I can’t see them, and I have very keen eyes.’
Morkesh ignored him and crouched, tracing his fingers through the effluvia on the ground. Dusep shook his head and turned away, slightly repulsed. Despite his jibes, he could feel the Neverborn as easily as Morkesh, if not perceive them. The air felt oily when they were about. It felt wrong. As if the universe had grown ill.
Dusep did not consider himself especially devout. He knew the names of the gods, and made the ceremonial ablutions on the holy days. He painted his battleplate the correct shades, when necessary. But the gods were remote things. They prowled battlefields far beyond those ruled by Dusep and his brothers. Like many in the Legion, he did just enough to avoid drawing the ire of the gods or their representatives, but no more than that.
‘They’re coming,’ Morkesh said.
‘I thought they were already here.’
Morkesh looked at him. ‘They are both here, and not. The universe has been made permeable and things may be in two places at once.’
‘Yes. Things have changed, haven’t they?’ Dusep sighed. ‘Things were simpler, in the old days, before all this… confusion. Gods and daemons. When it was just a man and his faith and the desert.’ He turned, and studied the distant spires of the cathedral-palace. He began to calculate how best to crack it.
Morkesh laughed. ‘Yes. It is a grand time to be alive.’ There was a sound on the air, as of chains rattling. Or hooves stamping. The oily sensation had grown worse. The mortals had fallen silent, and even the other Word Bearers paused watchfully.
‘Gods grant that it stays that way,’ Dusep muttered.
Almace, Primus asteroid facilities
Hasht warmed his gloved hands over a plasma vent as the Blessed Ones went about their holy work. He kept his distance, as was only prudent. Too close, and the gods might decide to add his soul to their bounty.
It was cold in the chamber, despite the heat issuing from the vents. The miners had damaged the environmental controls on this level. The Blessed Ones hadn’t noticed. Wouldn’t notice, until Hasht and the others started freezing t
o death. He pulled the collar of his uniform tight, trying to ward off the chill.
Around him, the remainder of his brotherhood stood watching the proceedings with the appropriate levels of awe and appreciation. He studied their faces, noting those who were missing. Their membership had never been as large as some and it had shrunk drastically in the past few days, from several hundred to barely sixty. Men and women he had sworn blood oaths with were gone, their bodies crushed and lost, or frozen stiff on the asteroid’s surface. Worse, most of them had died without seeing the faces of their enemy. Those who were left, he barely knew, or didn’t want to.
He raised his hands, flexing them. Feeling the ache of the cold. It wasn’t much different, this. Serving the Blessed Ones, or serving in an Astra Militarum regiment – you still wound up cold and far from home. You still wound up on a stone, with a knife at your heart. If the gods wanted you, they’d have you one way or another. Better to serve them willingly than be served up to them. That’s what the Blessed Ones said.
He watched them, careful not to look directly at them. They didn’t like that. Some of them would tolerate it, but most would kill a man the way Hasht would kill a fly. Then, the Emperor’s angels weren’t much different.
He looked away as they killed another group of miners and dumped their blood into the troughs. Bodies were stacked like ingots in the corner of the chamber. Some of those in his brotherhood were already eyeing them hungrily. Protein was protein, and it’d had been a day or two since any of them had eaten anything more than a ration bar.
Hasht wasn’t that hungry, quite yet. But he knew he soon would be. He wondered whether he’d be able to stomach it, this time. He reached for his canteen but found it empty. They hadn’t yet managed to get to the hydrogen cyclers for the facility. He turned to one of the others – a hard-faced woman named Skeda – and gestured. ‘Water,’ he said.
‘No water,’ she said, handing him a battered flask. He took a swig and nearly choked on it. Whatever it was burned like hot embers going down his throat. Gasping, he handed it back. She grinned. ‘Bartered it from the half-breeds on the gunnery decks. They brew it in the siphon tanks. Good, eh?’
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 39