Mephiston Lord of Death Page 7

  They are conjuring.

  There is a glow in their midst. It is not of part of the ocean of red light that has drowned the world. It is not truly light at all. It is a condensed ball of the immaterium. It is growing. It is not a colour of the spectrum. Red may be the colour of rage, but that orb is coloured in rage. Its appearance is impossible and absolute. Its existence reveals a terrible logic behind the nonsense strategy of the Sanctified. They have not been waging war. They have been performing a ritual. Their sacrificial charge is part of that rite, and so is our response. We have been acting as predictably as clockwork mechanisms. The ritual might as well have been our own, so eagerly have we performed our assigned role.

  There is still a question: what do the Sanctified hope to gain?

  The answer will have to wait. I streak towards the witches. All their concentration is on the sphere in their centre. They do not see me coming. They have no consciousness of me until I have begun to kill them.

  I do not act as a psyker in this moment. I will not risk feeding the orb. No matter. I have other ways to kill. There are four witches here. None are wearing helmets. Their psychic hoods are no defence against a plasma pistol. I fire as I land, and vaporise the head of the nearest traitor. Now there are three. One does not react. He remains focused on the orb, his hands outstretched toward it. His face, a relief map of ritual scarification and branded runes, is frozen in ecstatic concentration. The other two come at me.

  They do not hold back. They attack from either side, lashing out with bolts of dark energy. The crystals of my psychic hood pulse once, and neutralise the bolts. My lip curls in contempt. I raise my pistol. As I pull the trigger, a bolt hits the barrel, knocking the weapon from my hand. The two traitors close with their power blades. They know their sorcery is no match for mine.

  The battle regresses to an ancient form. We fight with swords. They continue their simultaneous attacks. I parry their blows, but am kept on the defensive. They are skilled. They do not give me a chance to retaliate. Warp energy haloes their blades. I keep mine in check. It is still a match for theirs. It has killed for so many tens of centuries that it is peerless at its task. It hungers for the blood of the traitors, but its opportunity does not come. The witches slash at me with mechanical precision. I cannot block all the blows. Neither can my armour turn them all.

  The orb is growing. It has a gravitational pull. It would be easy to trip and fall into this monstrous creation.

  I must bring this stalemate to an end. The traitor to my left thrusts, and I let him make the hit. The sword pierces the seam of my armour beneath my arm. The blade sinks into my flank. I make the wound mine and slam my arm to my side, trapping the sword. The witch tries to yank his weapon out. He fails, and instead pulls me forward. He doesn’t have time to realise his mistake. I plunge my sword into this throat, then twist it back and forth. The Sanctified gurgles, blood frothing from his mouth and nose.

  The other strikes while he thinks my attention is diverted. He is wrong. I used the execution of his brother as bait. He aims his blow at my head, but I crouch as I slide my sword from the dead traitor and slash to my right. The edge of the sword is so keen that even without the power of the warp, it can cut through ceramite if it strikes with enough force. I swing with both hands, and sever the traitor’s right leg just below the knee. He topples. He is easy to finish off.

  I turn from my prey to the last of the Sanctified witches. The orb has grown in the last few seconds. I realise that I have continued to feed it. I tried to kill dispassionately, but that was a delusion. I hated the warriors I have dispatched. The shedding of their blood was an anger-soaked pleasure. I struggle and struggle, yet still I am a pawn in this game, playing out my role to the end. Though faced with this truth, I will not cease my resistance. I cling to the faint hope that I will end the game if I kill the last witch. I want to believe that I am not too late.

  As I approach, the traitor breaks his fascination with the orb. He turns his head to look at me. He smiles. Before I can kill him, he plunges his head into the orb. His legs stamp and tremble. The fingers of his right hand twitch once. Then his headless body falls to the ground. The orb pulses and begins to rise. In desperation, I seek to touch the thing with my will. I try to take it apart. What I encounter is a concentration of rage that has been building for five thousand years. The entire history of Pallevon’s fall can be read here in its passions. The terrible worship of the spire ensured that all of the furies released in the self-murder of a population flowed to this spot. Our struggle with the Sanctified has been the capstone of this dark work, the final, necessary, harvest of rage.

  And still the full nature of the work is hidden from me. The meaning of that statue is a lethal obscurity.

  My attempt to dispel the orb founders. There is too much strength here. The collective psychic strength of billions hurls me back. The violence is such, the force of the blow is physical. I stagger. Blood pours from my ears. I know that the thing in the shadows is laughing at me. There is nothing to be gained by false restraint now, and I roar with frustrated anger.

  The orb continues to ascend, gathering speed, and still growing stronger as it feeds on the conflict below. It flies to the top of the spire. In its final seconds, it accelerates into a streak. It strikes the tower.

  There is a sudden end to the sunset. Night arrives, but it does not fall. It emanates from the tower. Darkness erupts from the tip of the spire. It climbs to the sky, a twisting, surging rope of black, and it screams with the anger of ten billion murdered souls. At the height of the clouds, it spreads in every direction, staining the firmament until the world is held beneath an obsidian dome. For a few moments, the reign of the abyssal night is absolute. The only light is from muzzle flashes in the bowl. Then illumination returns, now as a poisoned chalice of Chaos. The air begins to split. Cracks form in the materium. Fire gouts from them. These are not true flames. They are fragments of violent thought given flickering form. They do more than burn. They corrupt what they consume, dragging souls further into the embrace of the warp, fuelling themselves on agonised consciousness.

  At the same moment that the cracks appear, there is the sound of a tolling bell. It is accompanied by the distinct sensation, inaudible but huge, of clockwork gears, long frozen, engaging at last. On the battlefield, after millennia of suspension, time moves forward once again.

  The frozen warriors are frozen no longer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BROTHERHOOD

  Click. Click. Click.

  A rhythm in my mind and soul. It resonates in the ground, the air, my frame, unfelt by any but myself.

  Click. Click. Click.

  The beat of the inexorable, of the gears turning against each other and grinding all hope to dust. The machine is at work, as it has been since the Eclipse of Hope vanished five millennia ago. The mechanism advances, indifferent to any attempt to arrest it.

  Click. Click. Click.

  The sound, too, of fragments snapping together, bit by bit, obscenity by obscenity, until the full mosaic appears. I do not see it yet, but I sense the approaching revelation. Let it come. I retrieve my pistol and plunge back down into the amphitheatre, throwing myself headlong into the gears. I will arrest the inexorable.

  The battlefield was a cauldron before. How to describe it now? The turmoil has the frenzy of warring insects, and the destructive tragedy of hurricane waves breaking on rocks. Battle formations disintegrated following the initial moment of clash. Contests between individuals or small groups scattered through the field, separated by the motionless warriors. Suddenly, there are three times as many combatants, and there is no more order at all.

  The ancient Space Marines are berserkers. Inarticulate baying howls from their helm speakers. Their movements are huge, rapid, explosions of offence. There is no defence at all. They strike without distinction, attacking whoever is nearest, whether Blood Angel or Sanctified. A few briefly continue the duels that had been held in suspense for so long, but after
clashing arms a few times, they turn on the new arrivals. There seems to be no thought to their actions, only instinct, and a seeking out of prey. I see fire arms mag-locked to their armour, but they use only their chainblades. Swords and axes wreak deadly havoc, their motors somehow working after so many centuries inactive, the register of their snarls high-pitched as though hysterical from hunger after so long.

  I enter the storm of battle. Before me, Albinus and Brother Ronovus are struggling against four of the returned warriors. Ronovus empties a bolter clip into the chest of one foe. At point-blank range, the shells punch through the armour and burst out the Space Marine’s back, trailing mummified flesh, petrified bone and blood black with age. The wound does not slow the berserker at all. It is as if Ronovus were fighting the armour itself. But then the warrior’s helm speaker unleashes a howl of pain and a stream of incoherent, yet clearly articulated, invective. The being inside the armour is somehow alive, even though it has been withering away for tens of centuries. The warrior swings its chainaxe down on Ronovus, who blocks the blow with the barrel of his gun. The axe smashes the bolter in two.

  I strike the warrior’s limbs and head with a strobing, writhing blast of occult energy. I reduce the abomination to pieces. It collapses, destroyed. Blood is pounding in my ears. I hate the thing I have killed. I would kill it again. I would exterminate all trace of its existence.

  The vox-feed is little more than snarls. Rage breeds like a plague over the battlefield. I hear Albinus roaring. He follows my murderous example and pulls out his chainsword, though he still has his bolt pistol at hand. And now that gun is pointing at me. I don’t have time to form a question in my mind before he fires. The rounds sing past my left ear. I hear the sharp crack of impacts behind me. I whip around, sword out and flaming, and cut off the head of the one who would ambush me. It was a Sanctified. I turn back, blood from the traitor running down my armour, and am in time to see what I do not have time to prevent. Albinus holds one warrior at bay. Their blades lock and grind against each other. Ronovus has drawn his chainsword, but still another revenant has appeared behind him. It clutches its blade with both hands and stabs downwards, as if gutting a sacrifice. The teeth chew through Ronovus’s power pack, armour, and then spine. The berserker forces the sword down until Ronovus falls, dead, then withdraws its weapon.

  As it turns its attention to me, a terrible thing happens.

  Ronovus rises to his feet. He joins the other warrior and closes on me.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Implications fitting the mosaic pieces together.

  ‘Albinus,’ I shout. The Sanguinary Priest has just severed the right arm of his opponent. ‘Left!’

  Albinus throws himself to one side and down as I lash out with a massive burst of transformative power. I do not target the berserkers themselves. I strike something with no will, no sense of identity that might resist. The force we fight has torn the air. I do the same to the ground. The earth flashes, then splits with a scream of rock. The energy I have unleashed collides with the reality of matter, and mutual annihilation occurs, releasing star-heart heat. Stone becomes molten. The warriors fall into a pit of lava. They sink quickly, struggling to the end to reach me. I watch, feeling the purging sear on my face. The thing that was Ronovus disappears beneath the surface of the incandescent rock, his vocaliser issuing a torrent of blasphemous rage. The light and heat fade, leaving only a glow and troubled stone where the berserkers had stood.

  There is a momentary lull in the battle around us. Albinus stands beside me, looking at the patch of ground that has swallowed our brother and our other attackers. We are breathing hard, fighting back the Thirst. It comes upon us so easily. It withdraws so reluctantly. But after a moment, Albinus can speak. ‘What monstrous sorcery is at work here?’

  ‘The same that froze the battlefield and then unleashed it on us.’

  ‘But how is this possible?’

  I shake my head. ‘What matters is that it is happening. We can seek answers later.’

  ‘And Ronovus,’ Albinus says. ‘His gene-seed…’

  ‘It was lost to us when he rose,’ I answer. His dark resurrection marked his progenoid glands as corrupted. We can do nothing for his legacy.

  Albinus nods, and then the whirlwind catches us again as more berserkers attack. Above us, another fissure in the air opens, like a sword wound in flesh. Flames reach down for us, eager for the fuel of combat. This sorcery challenges my own, and I accept the thrown gauntlet. I seize the flames, make them mine, and direct the fire onto our attackers. I pull the crack in the real wider, and the fire becomes a torrent. The area explodes with uncanny light. A pillar of immolation consumes our enemy. I release the fire, and it remains in place, feeding off the detritus of its victims.

  ‘Mephiston,’ Albinus says.

  ‘I know.’ I saw the armour worn by two of the berserkers I just destroyed. Our ranks are thinning. The enemy’s are growing. Though the Blood Angels will never surrender, this war is moving toward a single possible outcome.

  I will not permit such a defeat. I will free us from the path, and I must do so now, because at last I can see the end, and it draws very near.

  The tower is the key. It is the source of everything. I point to the darkness that even now continues to erupt from the spire. ‘Is that the work of our primarch?’ I ask Albinus. ‘Is that the light of our Emperor?’

  ‘It is not,’ he admits.

  ‘No. It is not. Neither is what lies within.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Whatever I must.’

  ‘You will act alone.’

  Even now, when it must be clear to all that the tower is not worth defending, the statue retains its hold. Its authenticity is too powerful, granting it immunity from the doubts of my brothers. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Do not damn us,’ Albinus warns.

  ‘Consider how close we already are to that state,’ I tell him, and take my leave.

  I could fly over the field of battle to the tower. Near its base, a contingent of the Blood Angels and Sanctified still grapple, though the war has now spread over a wide swath of the amphitheatre. I do not fly. The Rage and Thirst are barely submerged, and they demand violence upon the enemy. So I run down the slope of the bowl, sword before me. I am an engine of destruction, gathering momentum and fury. Warp energy surrounds me, but it does not become wings. I am a meteor, a being of force and blood-red fire. I slash through the war zone, incinerating and dismembering. Everything I see pushes me closer to the edge of paroxysm, and it would be so easy to lose control, so easy to become the walking apocalypse. But my will is the source of my power, of my control over the warp, and by that will I stay just this side of blood-hazed mindlessness.

  The effort of control is massive, though. What release I feel in the devastation I unleash is barely enough because of what I see. It is not just the dark turn in the tide of battle that outrages me. It is not just the monstrosity of our fallen brothers rising again to turn on us. There is another detail that is apparent to me now, as I pass, a wind of fire and blade, through the thick of the fighting. The true nature of the ancient berserkers is becoming apparent, and I long to wrap my hands around the throat of the being responsible for this horror. Weathering had eroded any Chapter markings from the armour of the ancient warriors. But as they fight and kill, a gradual transformation occurs. As if absorbing the shed blood, their armour is taking on colour. The shade is a familiar red. On their left pauldrons, the heraldry of a winged drop of blood has appeared. They are Blood Angels. I do not know how this can be, but it is the horrific truth. They are us, us at our worst. They fight with enraged savagery, then feast upon the gore of their victims. They are the Chapter as it might become. Perhaps here lies the solution to the dark resurrection. Time and destiny have been sheared in this place, and death is the threshold to a fallen future. If I do not end this madness now, all of Fourth Company will be of the berserkers’ number before the crimson dawn.

 
I reach the tower. Our tanks are still manned, but the guns are silent. There is no order to the battlefield any longer, and any heavy weaponry is as likely to kill one of our own as the enemy. Storm bolters spit shells into the darkness, but the defensive line is otherwise calm. There is no siege. I doubt there ever really was. We were lured to this place for the purposes of slaughter and conversion. I suspect the Sanctified have been pawns as well, only partially aware of the game being played. Many of their bodies litter the amphitheatre. None have risen. They have served their purpose, but we are the true targets. The tragedy is ours.

  I enter the tower. I am not surprised to find Quirinus in the great vault. For a moment, I wonder if he has been guarding the statue during the entire battle, but then I see that I do him an injustice. He has been in the thick of the fighting. He is covered in blood. His armour is disfigured by gouges and burns. The tabard hangs in tatters. His purity seals are intact, but their scrolls are so begrimed and torn that they resemble ragged bandages. He stands before the statue, legs apart and braced, crozius at the ready. His helmet is lowered, as if he were a grox making ready to charge. ‘I saw you coming, Chief Librarian,’ he says.

  So. For once, Quirinus and I are of a like mind. What will transpire in this vast chamber is more important than the battles beyond the tower. ‘And do you see what I have come for?’ I ask him. He must have. The vault is filled with blinding light. Its source is the statue.

  ‘I do.’ His tone is reverent.

  He sees only what he wishes to see. He witnesses light from a statue, and feels holy awe. He is blind. Sanguinius is brilliant. It is difficult to look at him without squinting. That light, though, has nothing sacred about it. It is sharp, fanged, and eager. It is the foul companion of the darkness rising from the spire. It is the light of a supernova, the burning, enormous illumination that means destruction. All of the gathered warp energy has come to this point. It is the key to the endgame, our very personal doom, and Quirinus will defend it to the last.