Master of sanctity, p.19
Master of Sanctity, page 19
Gas erupted from the daemon’s deflating body, spraying a cloud of yellow filth into the air like a fountain. Sapphon rolled off its bulk to his feet, slicked head to foot in grime and gore.
‘Immolate it!’ he called, signalling for the other warriors to step away and allow the heavy flamers to do their work.
With white hot flames licking across its corpse, the daemon started to sink into the material of the palace, spreading out like melting fat, discolouring the floor and running in rivulets around bony growths.
‘It is not truly dead,’ Sapphon told the others. ‘It, or other things like it, will manifest again.’
‘What of the casualties?’ asked Caulderain.
‘Both alive,’ reported Apothecary Cassaen. He pointed at Daellon. ‘Unconscious but the armour took the brunt of the hit. Telemenus does not fare so well. The wound is grievous but not fatal, but the injury is already infected by the pestilence of this place.’
Sapphon joined the Apothecary and saw what he meant; black lesions were blistering the wound in Telemenus’s chest while a thin drizzle of milky fluid seeped from the fresh scab of Larraman cells closing off the injury.
‘Can you treat it?’
‘I can boost the armour’s conventional anti-disease systems but this is no natural malady. The skills of the Librarius would be more use here.’
‘Wake up Daellon. Carry Telemenus. I have an idea that may be beneficial to him and us.’
The last of the daemonspawn had been purged from the room. Galain and Temraen half-lifted Telemenus between them, while Caulderain marshalled the other Deathwing into formation. The sergeant signalled when they were ready to proceed and fell in beside Sapphon.
‘As much as I would not abandon a brother here, the lives of many more than Telemenus depend upon our swift success,’ said the sergeant.
‘That may be so, but Belial’s plan is not without significant risks,’ replied Sapphon. ‘Once we have broken free and located one of the Ravenwing teleport homers, one of us will have to recalibrate the signal and force-teleport back to the Penitent Warrior with the targeting information we have gathered. Such a manoeuvre is highly unpredictable, and in that regard Telemenus is as likely as any of us to succeed. And if the reverse teleportation succeeds he will be aboard the strike cruiser where Brother Ezekiel can attend to him.’
They advanced in silence for a few minutes, steered by the gentle pulse of a nearby teleport homer on their specially-tuned sensorium. For the moment it seemed the fortress had expended itself conjuring the massive plague daemon and their progress went unopposed.
‘If not for Telemenus, who would be making the force-teleport?’ Caulderain asked as they stopped at a junction with a ribbed tunnelway to get their bearings.
‘I would ask for a volunteer, of course,’ said Sapphon. ‘Does it matter?’
The sergeant paused before replying.
‘It is tantamount to a terminus mission. Tradition dictates that we should draw lots. Would you have entered yourself into the draw?’
‘What sort of question is that to ask of me?’ said Sapphon. ‘I do not understand what you think you are implying.’
‘The warriors grumble and talk, Brother-Chaplain, and I chastise them for it. But I have to know whether you consider yourself above such sacrifice.’
Sapphon drew in a sharp breath, astounded by the insolence of the question. He tempered his response, knowing that there was no malice intended by Caulderain’s inquiry.
‘My bravery is beyond question, brother-sergeant. Why would the battle-brothers doubt that?’
‘Not your courage, Brother Sapphon, but your dedication to them. The Hunt consumes Brother Asmodai and we understand why he is so harsh in his discipline. You are our spiritual leader, the head of the Chaplains, but rarely do you walk amongst us and hear our woes or give us praise. Since your ascension there are those that think you have abandoned us.’
The observation bit deeply but Sapphon could not argue against such concerns. His duties as Master of Sanctity – his real duties to the Inner Circle – did not allow him the time needed to perform the usual ministrations of a Chaplain. It was not until that moment that he realised how much the Deathwing looked to him for guidance; Belial was almost as uncompromising as Asmodai in his treatment of his warriors.
The truth was that the Hunt for the Fallen overtook any other consideration, and his role in the Hunt was of paramount importance to the Supreme Grand Master and the Chapter. However, this mission to Ulthor was going poorly, and it was likely they would leave in defeat. The Deathwing would need to believe in their leaders in the coming days and weeks.
‘Yes, brother-sergeant, I would draw my lot with the others,’ Sapphon lied.
Faith
A susurrant scrabbling woke Telemenus. Everything was dark, save for a single patch of light that surrounded him but lit nothing else. He was out of his armour, kneeling on a hard floor, though all he could see of the ground in the circle of light was a flat white surface. He laid a hand upon it, feeling neither warmth nor cold.
‘Is this death?’ he asked, quickly realising that he was in no mortal space. ‘Is this all that awaits us? Oblivion?’
His voice disappeared into emptiness.
Another light appeared, a glowing shape that grew larger and larger. It was a skull, thrice the size of Telemenus. It hovered just out of reach. Telemenus thought he could hear the beating of massive wings and something moved in the darkness beyond. An eagle settled upon the top of the skull and regarded the Space Marine with a single eye; the other was an empty socket fitted with a blood-red gem.
‘What are you?’ asked Telemenus.
‘You know me.’ The voice was incredibly powerful, but not loud. It filled Telemenus, far more than sound. ‘I am the beginning and the end. I am the harbinger and the resolution. I am the creator and the destroyer.’
‘Forgive me, Lord Emperor!’ Telemenus cried, abasing himself, forehead to the ground, palms laid on either side. ‘I am not worthy.’
‘Not yet. Look at me, Telemenus.’
The Space Marine forced himself to look up but did not straighten. He trembled, every fibre of his body awash with fervent energy. The eagle was unmoving, claws digging into the bone of the giant skull. Distant flames burned in the eye sockets of the apparition, and in that flame Telemenus saw himself reflected, a tiny silhouette consumed by the fires.
‘I serve your will.’
‘And I receive your service.’ Warmth washed through Telemenus; a sensation he had not felt for many decades, repressed by training, suppressed by hypnotic suggestion. It was the feeling of being loved. From his childhood he had never known such a feeling, washed away with an infancy of bloodshed and hardship, but his body remembered. In the womb and in the cradle, a pure, unconditional love, and it was this that he felt from the Emperor.
‘I died?’ Telemenus was afraid to ask the question. It was strange that in life he had not been fearful of death.
He was shaken by the terror of the thought. It felt odd to be afraid, and the fear in itself added to the sensation, feeding back into itself to raise his dreads to a terrifying level. Now that he was divorced from his mortal shell emotion was raw, unchecked by artificial stimulants and hormonal therapies. The fear that gripped him was primal, unstoppable. He realised that this must be how every battle-brother felt when they died. They lived and fought without fear, but in the end they all died suffused with dread and utterly alone.
‘Never alone,’ declared the Emperor. ‘Those that die in my service are never alone. What lord you think I am, to demand such sacrifice and offer no succour in its delivery? Fear no more, Telemenus. Be strong in the knowledge that you do my work.’
‘I have faltered of late,’ said Telemenus. ‘My faith is tested.’
‘All faith is tested – it is the nature of the faithful to endure hardship. If doubt did not exist, there would be no triumph over it. How can victory be achieved without battle?’
‘I did not die well.’ Telemenus had a brief flash, of a rusted shaft penetrating his flesh. The memory brought a spasm of pain from waist to shoulder.
‘That has not yet been decided.’
‘My fall will be remembered with honour?’
‘Whether you have died.’
‘Oh.’ Telemenus sat up and linked his hands in his lap. He kept his gaze down, only occasionally glancing up at the divine spectre before him. ‘It seems unlikely that I will survive such a blow.’
‘I made you well, and you are strong enough to withstand such injuries. Fortune plays its part and only one lung was crippled. Your hearts still beat and that is enough for the moment.’
‘But my life still hangs in the balance? Do you suspend your judgement?’
‘Life and death are not mine to grant, not in this way. I breathed life into the gene-seed that created you. I gave life to your primarch. But death, death comes from many places and it has nothing to do with my judgement. The unjust sometimes live and the worthy perish. There is not a force in the universe that can overcome that primal truth.’
Telemenus pondered this revelation for a while. He could feel a scratching inside him, like a fingernail picking at the interior of his body.
‘That is a disease trying to ravage your inner organs. The blade brought a daemon-curse and it is trying to devour you.’
‘Will you protect me?’ said Telemenus.
‘I always protect you, Telemenus. Do you not feel my hand at your side in battle? Do you not feel my breath upon you when the rage sustains you? Have I not given you this fine body and the greatest weapons and armour of my followers? What else do you require?’
‘Purpose.’ Telemenus mumbled the word, knowing that he had to tell the truth but horrified by the admission. He could feel his strength ebbing away. He sagged, limbs weak, heart beating feebly in his chest. He knew he was losing the battle with the infection. It was leeching away his life, and he had not the will to fight it. He did not know whether he deserved to live. ‘I no more see the cause for which I fight. The Marksman’s Honour was but a temporal goal, an easement of my pride in place of true calling, but it is no substitute for conviction. Even before I knew of the Fallen, before the lies and secrets were laid bare, I had doubts. I was jealous of my brothers and suspicious of my superiors. I relinquished my honour in pursuit of vainglory. Forgive me, Lord Emperor, but I have brought shame to you and the Chapter.’
‘You are not in a position to make such judgement, Telemenus, but your confession is heard. Do you wish forgiveness, or to make atonement?’
‘I do not understand, Lord Emperor.’
‘If you die now you surrender to my will, burdened by this despair and loss. Live and you are granted fresh means to fight in my name. If you are delivered back to the mortal world, will you transcend the distractions that have plagued you? Will you make amends for your transgressions?’
‘I will!’ Telemenus forced himself to his feet, legs trembling. He clenched his fists to his chest, feeling his hearts strengthening as they were spurred by purpose. The thought of a fresh start, of returning to his body with honour and duty and vigour meant more to him than anything else; not for the sake of life but for the sake of the Emperor.
He looked at the dead visage before him.
‘This is a fever-dream, made real by the Eye of Terror,’ said the Space Marine. ‘I see that now.’
‘Are you so certain?’ said the giant skull. ‘Here there is no definition of real and unreal, all things are possible. Does not the light of my Astronomican stretch across the warp to the far corners of the galaxy? Do you think me incapable of reaching out to my dying servants?’
‘I… I am not sure…’
‘Do you seek proof, Telemenus?’
‘No.’ The Dark Angel’s body was clad in armour now, the white of the Deathwing. He felt power surging through him. ‘Belief is enough.’
He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the bottomless pits of Chief Librarian Ezekiel’s gaze; one real eye and one bionic. Telemenus could not move his head but he felt Ezekiel’s bare hand upon his chest; a suffusion of warmth coming from the fingertips pressing into his flesh.
‘Where…?’
‘Aboard the Penitent Warrior, brother.’ Ezekiel removed his hand and stepped back. Sensation started flowing back into Telemenus and he blinked to clear his eyes.
‘I do not understand.’
‘Nor I, not fully. You force-teleported back to the ship and your vox-system contained a recording from Brother Sapphon.’
‘We lost all comms on the surface. The sensorium went haywire.’
‘So we gathered. Sapphon’s message contained a detailed firing solution, based on a triangulation of the teleporter homing beacons. We will commence bombardment shortly.’
‘Not everybody was in vox-contact,’ said Telemenus. He tried to sit but could not. He was still paralysed below the neck. Sensation had not yet returned to his arms or legs. ‘If they do not know of the orbital strike…’
‘An unavoidable situation. We are broadcasting data across the teleport signal, we hope that will be sufficient warning for those unaware of the plan.’
Telemenus’s thoughts turned to himself and his recent experience.
‘The infection? The daemon-curse?’
‘Cleansed, both physically and psychically.’ There was something in Ezekiel’s demeanour that suggested he was not being fully truthful. Telemenus was tired of secrets and falsehoods.
‘Were you… Were you the Emperor?’ Ezekiel looked genuinely confused by the question. ‘Never mind.’
‘The infection was deep, its corrupting influence spreading. Drastic measures were required to excise it.’
‘Drastic? How drastic?’ It was no shame to be fitted with a bionic or augmetic; to some Dark Angels such alterations were considered a badge of honour. To fight on for the Chapter was the only concern that filled Telemenus at the moment. ‘How much was excised?
Ezekiel stepped away and a Chapter serf in the robes of an apothecarion orderly wheeled a lighted mirror into place with a screech of poorly oiled bearings. Telemenus moved his eyes to the right and looked down at his body.
Very little remained. Everything below his ribs was gone, as was his left arm.
The wounds were stitched and heavily cauterised and a splay of cables and pipes connected him to a life system building into the bottom of the bunk. His skin had a dark cast to it, evidence of the canker that had tried to overwhelm his Space Marine physiology. His veins and arteries stood out like cords.
He was just a head, torso and arm. For a moment it didn’t register that he was looking at himself. Yet he felt very little pain and he certainly was not upset by the discovery; perhaps the sustaining elixirs pumping through his body were suppressing the natural horror he thought he should feel. He looked at Ezekiel, who watched with soul-searching eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Telemenus. The anti-pain stimms were flooding his system and it was hard to form any coherent thought. ‘That certainly was drastic.’
Division
Asmodai felled another cyclopean daemon with a punch that turned its face to a pulped mess. The remains of its body collapsed into a pile, strands of mould quickly covering the unnatural corpse.
‘Brother-Chaplain!’ Sergeant Daeron’s call did not distract the Chaplain as he caved in a daemon’s chest with his crozius. ‘Brother Vascaertes reports detecting a signal anomaly, four hundred metres ahead.’
‘Signal anomaly? Be more specific, brother-sergeant.’ Asmodai presented his left shoulder to deflect a serrated daemonblade away from his chest. He turned back sharply, smashing the back of his hand across the creature’s face before driving the head of his crozius arcanum into the side of its neck. Thick sludge spewed from the wound as the plague-creature fell back, an anguished moan escaping tattered lips.
‘Apologies, Brother-Chaplain, that is all I know.’
‘Brothers, rally to me! Push on to Vascaertes’s location.’
Progress had been tortuously slow, opposed every step of the way by daemons of all shapes and sizes. Materialising out of the warpstuff that formed the structure of the citadel, there was no end to their attacks. Ulthor was partially submerged within the warp itself, the abode of the daemons. Every time a physical vessel was destroyed the essence of the daemon entity simply formed another. Vascaertes and several others had been sent ahead to scout the surest path to the centre of the palace but it seemed they had discovered something else.
Asmodai and the others came upon the lead squad, who had formed a wall of storm bolter fire and armour across a bridge that spanned a seething river of blackness fifty metres below. The surface of the fluid roiled with a life of its own, forming transient shapes that looked like half-formed faces. Vascaertes and his companions kept up a steady stream of fire, keeping back several enormous slug-beasts and a tide of spiderlike, gangling creatures with mandible faces and eerily human hands.
The Space Marines with Asmodai moved up to lend further support, assault cannons and storm bolters adding to the barrage of fire, tearing apart the oncoming horde of misshapen daemons.
‘Vox-channel kappa,’ said Tyronius. ‘Automated signal coming through.’
Asmodai used a sub-vocal command to activate his vox-receiver on the frequency. At first the Chaplain heard a stream of numbers, voiced by a servitor. After that followed a message which he immediately recognised came from Brother Ezekiel. The Librarian had remained in orbit, removed from direct contact with the warp space overlap. The psyker had been unsure whether even Space Marine training and centuries of experience were enough to shield against psychic possession on a daemon world. Now he was somehow sending a message down to the surface.
