Mephiston Lord of Death Read online

  Still a dozen metres from our foe, I reach through the brittle surface of the materium to grasp the lethal potentialities of the warp. My will gathers the energy, shapes it, then sends the electric curse into the beings of my enemy. My mind is consumed by a single word: heat. My instincts, unleashed in this moment, turn to a single obsession: blood.

  So it is with our Chapter. Blood. Always blood. Our history, our legacy, our name and hope and final doom. In the end, they are all blood.

  There is nothing but blood.

  Before me, three of the Sanctified begin to scream. I feel my lips pull back in a snarl of satisfaction. For a Space Marine, even a fallen one, to cry out in this way, the agony must be beyond measure or description. I would laugh, but that impulse died with Calistarius. The traitors stumble forward, then collapse to their knees. Their movements are spastic, barely under their control, and soon will not be at all. They claw at their helms, tear them off. They gasp, as if the air could be of any help. Their eyes are staring wide but blind. Everything they are has become an expression of my will, and I have told their blood to boil. That which is a metaphor for my Chapter’s curse has become literal for these wretched creatures. Their screams choke off into ragged, keening gargles as gore foams and bubbles from mouth and nose and ears and eyes. They die, and I hope their death-pain pursues them into the nothingness.

  I have visited a terrible but needed end on three of the Sanctified, but I saw and appreciated only its first moment. I know what followed because it could be nothing else, and in a small corner of my perception I see the bodies and their froth of steaming blood. I am already striking again before the first three are dead. Bolter rounds from the right slam into my armour. The blow might have been enough to disrupt the concentration of other Librarians, but if that is the hope of my attacker, he truly is ignorant of the thing that confronts him. I rush him before he can fire again. He rises to meet me, trying to draw his gladius. He is much too slow. I thrust Vitarus at his neck. To its power is added the scarlet light of my will. The blade slices through the seam of his armour. It plunges into his throat, through the other side of his helmet, and severs his spinal cord. I yank the sword away. The Sanctified stands still for a moment, as if he cannot believe he is dead, and then falls.

  Four dead. I turn to seek more victims. I am retribution. Is my hunger for destruction the same thirst that marks my brothers? The very question is disturbing, and I will not examine it now. Nor do I need to, because there is no one left to kill. The rest of the squad has exterminated the Sanctified. My hunger withdraws.

  ‘Brothers!’ The lone defender of the chapel emerges from behind the altar. ‘You are well met indeed. The Emperor is showering me with his blessings.’ He walks forward, removing his helmet. ‘I rejoice that I shall have you at my side when—’ He stops. He stares.

  So do I, even though I knew what to expect. Each of us sees before him a revenant. ‘Quirinus,’ I mutter.

  He speaks the name no one has uttered aloud since Armageddon. ‘Calistarius?’

  The name of a dead man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RESURRECTIONS

  Before Armageddon. Before Hades Hive, the Death Company and the crushing fall of the Ecclesorium.

  They were storming an enclave of the Word Bearers. The traitors had established a foothold on Arlesium. Their heresy was a gale blowing over the primary land mass, and reaching out to infect the rest of the system and beyond. The Blood Angels came to purge them, root and branch. The Chaos Space Marines had seized the fortress city of Ecastor. Calistarius stood beside Quirinus in the doorway to the Thunderhawk’s cockpit. They stared ahead at the approaching outer defences. Anti-aircraft fire sought them out. The gunship’s pilot flew through the barrage with deft confidence.

  ‘A worthy battle lies before us,’ the Reclusiarch said.

  The Librarian nodded. The line was something of a ritual between them, an echo of their first engagement as Scouts, many worlds and decades ago. Calistarius’s response should have been, ‘May we always be so blessed.’ Instead, he said, ‘Horus will rue this day,’ speaking words ten thousand years out of place. His tone was furious but hollow, as if his voice were not truly his.

  Quirinus gave him a sharp look. ‘Brother Calistarius?’

  He blinked. ‘May we always be so blessed,’ he said. He would not remember, until later, his other words. He would not remember, until later, how his mind had slipped in time. Now, he noticed Quirinus s gaze. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  I have Calistarius’s memories, but they are not mine. They are knowledge, mere information about a fallen battle-brother. There is nothing visceral, nothing felt about them. They are events from the life of someone else. I was never Calistarius. I do not recognise the self that once inhabited this form.

  But Quirinus remembers him. Quirinus has never known Mephiston. Quirinus remembers an old friend who fell to the Black Rage, and played out the final act of his tragedy in the Death Company, dying at the last beneath tonnes of rubble. Quirinus and the Harrowing Faith were caught in a freak warp storm, called into existence by the intensity of the Armageddon slaughter, before Mephiston was birthed from the tomb.

  The memories of Quirinus end with Calistarius. To be confronted by his presence is disturbing, as if a fragment of Calistarius were also rising up before me. Quirinus, too, has been transformed by his journey to this point, this meeting. Time in the warp is a protean thing, and Quirinus has seen centuries pass, if I judge the age I see in his face correctly. His armour, a holy relic more than ten thousand years old, has stood the ordeal well, its strength and power to inspire undiminished. But there is a glint in his eyes, and it is the dull shine of flint. Quirinus has always been possessed of an iron faith, but the fanaticism I see now is, I think, brittle.

  So I tell myself, and so I believe. The souls of my brothers cannot hide from my scrutiny, and I have no reason to mistrust my judgement. Except for the fact that I have every incentive to question Quirinus’s.

  We are aboard the Crimson Exhortation once more. We are gathered in the captain’s quarters: Quirinus, myself, Castigon and Albinus. Neither the Reclusiarch nor Calistarius served with Fourth Company during Armageddon. Albinus, however, has known both almost as long as they knew each other.

  Castigon’s quarters are spare, but large enough for small gatherings of this sort. In the centre of this chamber is a bronze table. A single data-slate and a hololith projector rest on its surface, an exquisite representation of crossed swords surrounded by a majesty of wings. There is also a large occuliport, and through it the four of us are standing witness for the final moments of the Harrowing Faith. I am impressed by Quirinus’s feat. Warp-eroded as the frigate was, it was held in existence by one thing alone: the strength of the Reclusiarch’s faith. Such virtue must be acknowledged, though it is not altogether a surprise. Quirinus was a figure approaching legend before Armageddon, a legend untainted by much of the darkness that is our Chapter’s lot. His disappearance was a hard blow.

  Now, bereft of the holy will that held it together, the Harrowing Faith slips towards its end. We are not losing it to the devastation of void warfare. It is not being vaporised by a plasma detonation.

  It is simply fading out of existence. Its bonds of reality dissolve. It becomes vague, as if seen though a sheen of tears. Its presence falls away, becoming first a vivid dream, then less than a memory. Finally, there is only the faint idea of a ship. Then it is gone.

  I feel the gaze of Quirinus against the back of my neck. I turn to face him. His face is hard and filled with sanction. ‘Your death has served you well, Calistarius,’ he says.

  ‘I am not Calistarius,’ I state. Best that he learn this now. Best that he accept this now. It is unwise for friend or foe to mistake what I am.

  ‘Mephiston, then.’ I can hear how my name sits strangely in his mouth. ‘The death of Calistarius has served you well.’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘And what do
you claim to be?’

  The hostility of the question is obvious to all present. I let the silence stretch to an uncomfortable length before I answer. ‘I am Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels,’ I say, speaking with calm, frozen deliberation. Nothing more need be said. I am silent once again. I know, in my darkest of hearts, that Quirinus is right to wonder what, exactly, I have become. But I will not have others question and doubt me, not before I have found the answers.

  ‘Brother-Reclusiarch,’ Albinus puts in, ‘you have not witnessed Chief Librarian Mephiston’s deeds in the years of your absence. They speak for themselves.’

  ‘So does his presence.’ Quirinus means nothing good by that statement.

  Albinus chooses to ignore the irony. ‘Precisely. Mephiston came back to us from the Black Rage. Is that not cause for hope? By the Emperor, we have precious little of that. Or would you have Astorath simply lop off his head as a precautionary measure?’

  At the mention of Astorath, the skin at the back of my neck tightens. The Redeemer of the Lost and I have spoken. He has never implied in word or deed that I should be executed. Rather, it is I - or the wary, watchful part of myself - who speculates about the eventual necessity of my execution.

  ‘Hope must be real,’ Quirinus goes on, ‘not an illusion. By his own admission, Mephiston did not come back from the Black Rage. He replaced Lexicanium Calistarius.’

  ‘This is sophistry,’ the Sanguinary Priest objects.

  ‘Is it?’ Quirinus rejoins.

  Is it? I wonder, but say nothing. Neither does Castigon. He seems content to let the matter unfold without his assistance.

  ‘It is,’ Albinus answers. ‘Yes, there has been a transfiguration. What of it? The victories he has won for the Chapter and the Emperor - they are what matter.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Quirinus asks me.

  Albinus jumps in again. ‘He is also not the only one among us who has escaped the Black Rage.’

  Quirinus brushes off the point with a brusque wave of the hand. ‘I do not find Chaplain Lemartes to be the beacon of hope that so many of you do. He has not overcome the Black Rage. He is able, for now, to direct it in the field of battle. And when not in combat, he is in stasis.’ A pointed glance at me. ‘Not helping shape the fate of the entire Chapter.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking solely of Lemartes,’ Albinus says. ‘There is another—’

  ‘I would be no less doubtful about him. Two abominations are not more acceptable than one. They are worse.’

  The corners of my lips twitch. ‘You consider me an abomination?’

  ‘Was I ambiguous just now?’

  ‘You were not. Would you care, though, to explain the reasoning?’

  ‘The Black Rage defines who we are.’ Quirinus speaks with passion and with sorrow. There is nothing frivolous in his condemnation of me, nor is there anything as petty and banal as personal animosity. He does not resent Mephiston for replacing his friend Calistarius. He mourns the loss of the one, but the rejection of the other, I come now to understand, flows from the deepest of religious convictions. ‘It is a foundational fact of our existence as Blood Angels,’ Quirinus goes on. ‘Our contest with it is as constant as the beating of our hearts. If our hearts cease to beat, what are we? Dead. If we overcome the Black Rage, what are we? Are we still Blood Angels? How could we be? You have returned from the country of no return. You have returned from the dead. And what stands before me? Death.’

  Is he wrong in what he sees? No. Is this the full truth? No.

  Could the full truth be worse?

  ‘Death,’ I repeat. I say the word with ownership. It is mine.

  Quirinus does not appear to notice what I have embraced. ‘There is the shadow of the grave about you, Mephiston,’ he says. ‘We are warriors, bred, designed and trained to bring destruction to the Emperor’s enemies. But surely that destruction is also in the service of something. It is not an end in itself.’

  ‘You believe that is why I continue to live? For the purpose of indiscriminate destruction?’

  ‘I do not know what you are, Chief Librarian. But I do know what you are not.’

  My lips twitch again, but I do not respond. Quirinus will believe what he will. There is no arguing with him. Much as I would wish to, I cannot simply dismiss his doubts, not even from my own mind. I have changed since last we met. More properly, I have come into being. Quirinus has not been left unscathed by his time in the warp, but his transformation is far less radical. Calistarius would still know this Blood Angel. His memories are his own. He is the product of a continuum of experiences.

  Castigon clears his throat. ‘This is, of course, an important debate, brothers,’ he announces. For the first time, I find myself swallowing contempt as I listen to Fourth Company’s commander. I know he finds much to agree with in Quirinus’s position, but he is choosing to be the politician, and so avoids committing himself. ‘We do, however, have the more pressing question of our immediate actions. Chief Librarian, you have indicated to me that there is something of great matter on Pallevon. Reclusiarch, your reappearance would appear to be confirmation of this fact. I would appreciate your counsel.’ He makes no mention of Albinus. I suspect Castigon had him attend as some sort of peacemaker. If the captain is a politician, he is, I will grant, a canny one.

  Castigon activates the hololith projector. A display of Pallevon appears, with the Crimson Exhortation at high anchor. There is no sign of the Destiny of Pain. ‘Our assault on the traitor ship was successful,’ he says. ‘Our first blows were mighty, and we inflicted crippling damage. The momentum of battle was against our foe, and he chose to flee into the immaterium.’

  ‘How unlike the Sanctified,’ I comment. I mean no irony. Retreat is not in the blood of that warband. They fight to the end, and sometimes beyond.

  ‘Agreed,’ Castigon says. ‘The logical conclusion, then, is that the flight was a strategic retreat.’

  ‘The ship had nothing more to accomplish in-system,’ I deduce. ‘You have scanned the planet?’

  ‘Yes. There are many contrails, fading now, all concentrated over the city of Vekaira.’

  ‘An invasion,’ Albinus says. ‘Their forces have already fully deployed.’

  Quirinus’s face is a mask of horror. ‘This cannot stand,’ he says. ‘The Sanctified must be exterminated.’

  ‘Of course they will be, Reclusiarch.’ Castigon sounds irritated at being instructed in his duty. ‘Did you imagine we would allow traitors to seize an Imperial world without challenge?’

  ‘I’m sorry, captain. I meant no disrespect. But there is more at stake here than you know. It is imperative that I speak to the company as a whole. Glorious, sacred destiny awaits us below.’

  Glorious. Sacred. Words that have no place here. It takes no effort for me to reach out and touch the currents of the warp. They are rushing us to the surface of Pallevon. The pull is overwhelming. There is nothing holy in the cataract down which we are about to plunge. Yet there is no deception in Quirinus. I have scrutinised him as closely as he has me. He is untainted. His faith is legendary. It has always been a model to be celebrated.

  It sustained him through his ordeal in the empyrean, and now it points him to Pallevon. To Vekaira.

  Down the cataract. Into darkness.

  We descend on Pallevon. We descend in force. We descend on wings of fury, bearing judgement, bearing destruction. We come to punish, to purge and to cleanse. The atmosphere of Pallevon is torn by a rain of iron and fire. Gunships, transports and drop pods streak to the ground. Their landing is a rhythm: the pounding, rising, drumbeat backing to the symphony of war.

  ‘Brothers,’ Quirinus said, ‘during my exile in the empyrean, I was vouchsafed a vision.’

  He spoke in the loading bay of the Crimson Exhortation. Ammunition had been blessed. Oaths of moment had been sworn.

  We muster on a great plain just outside the city walls of Vekaira. We gather our strength. We become a most terrible siege engine.
/>   ‘Below,’ Quirinus said, ‘there is a shrine. It is sacred to our beloved primarch. It has been hidden from all eyes for millennia, but now it unveils itself. Its existence is a reward for our faith. It is also a challenge to our worthiness. To find the shrine, and to liberate it from the stain of the fallen, that is our mission. That is our quest.’

  Very little is known about Pallevon. Our records are sparse, fragmentary, ancient. None, I discovered in the preparation for planetfall, is more recent than five thousand years old. Abandoned by trade routes, ignored by the Adeptus Administratum, Pallevon has fallen from memory. It is an island in the galaxy, contained by a bubble of obscurity. It has been left to stasis or decay for five millennia.

  Not long ago, I walked the decks of a ship lost five thousand years ago. I do not see coincidence here. I see design.

  We descend. We make ready to march. At no point is there any vox-transmission from any source on Pallevon. Silence from invaded Vekaira is to be expected. But the rest of the world is just as quiet. There are no internal communications. There is no mobilisation of the planetary defence force. There is only the hollow stillness of the sepulchre.

  Quirinus affixed the purity seal to Castigon’s armour. Trailing from the seal was the parchment on which were written the litanies for our mission. And with that, our path became unalterable in law as well as in fate. The loading bay erupted in cheers. Quirinus’s words inspire hope in my brothers.

  I do not call them fools. I do call them wrong.

  Quirinus, Castigon and I stand at the gates of Vekaira. We look down the gradual slope from the wall to the plain, and the brutal pageantry of the Fourth Company of the Blood Angels. Pallevon’s sun is a red giant. Daylight is a perpetual sunset, with the fall of evening marking a receding tide of blood. In the wash of the dying light, our assembled host reverses the ebb of the tide. A storm of crimson is rising to smash all before it. The air is rent by the roar of Thunderhawks, Stormravens and Stormtalons, by the earth-tremor growl of Baal Predators and Land Raiders and Rhinos, and by the unwavering, merciless tramp of ceramite boots.