Awakenings, p.27
Awakenings, page 27
Relics of a lost age.
She would have to do as she was. Her, and her motley gang of acolytes. She glanced at them now, each in turn: Bledheim, who blanched in the face of danger; Silq, still carrying a terrible wound in her shoulder; Mercy, wearing her confidence like a fragile mask; Brondel, tugging the end of his beard in gleeful, outlandish anticipation.
Perhaps Heldren had been right.
Did I choose wisely?
And then there were the others, accreted in her wake: Metik, whose labyrinthine mind was near unfathomable; Aethesia, implacable behind her brass gorget; Nol, chewing on his bottom lip like a nervous child; Mandreth, whose set jaw and steel gaze spoke of his determination to see this through.
No. The only mistake would be in underestimating these people.
She’d questioned them – and herself – long enough.
They mounted the steps leading up to the cathedral’s main entrance. As they neared the top, caught in the shadow of the towering doorway, Mandreth held out his arm, crooked at the elbow, and glanced to the skies. Sabbathiel followed his gaze. A dark blur spiralled out of the iron smear of the clouds, at first nothing more than a tiny spot, but then resolving as it spread its wings, describing lazy circles as it drifted down over their heads, before finally coming to settle on Mandreth’s outstretched arm, head bobbing. His falcon.
Sabbathiel shuddered at the sight of it. She’d seen what it could do at close quarters, rending with its talons, gouging with its beak. It was as deadly a weapon as any power sword.
So, Mandreth’s anticipating a fight, too.
Swallowing, she led the way through the door.
Inside, her footsteps rang out in the empty space. Here, she sensed, was a place haunted by the absence of life and sound, emptied now of the throng and bustle, the fire and brimstone, the contemplators and the aesthetes that would typically inhabit such a world.
An empty cathedral.
An empty vessel.
Beside her, Mandreth bristled. Footsteps approached, the soft scuff of moccasins upon stone. She looked up to see an older man in robes coming towards them along the central aisle. Above him, a great mechanism whirled and turned – an orrery, of sorts, resembling again the symbol which had now grown so familiar to her. Planetary bodies circled in their ponderous dance, and electrical currents danced and arced between the two globes, spitting and crackling as the orrery cycled.
Thanks to Rasmuth, Sabbathiel now thought she understood the significance of the design.
Two bodies in alignment, joined by a bolt of power.
One globe represented the Emperor, the other the Divine Avatar. The electrical charge marked the passage of the soul between the two. It was the core of their philosophy, the ideology that underpinned everything that had happened here on Hulth.
The becoming of their new Emperor. Their so-called salvation.
Why didn’t I see it earlier?
Sabbathiel had not even paused to consider what would happen if they were right. The notion seemed inconceivable. If the Emperor really could transfer His consciousness into a new host, then everything would be different. The Imperium – the galaxy – would shudder with change. The universe would be remade.
Just as it was when I awoke from my slumber. When I was remade.
But no, she’d seen what had become of Rasmuth. Blighted by the Plague God’s kiss. Tainted by his own blasphemous concept of faith.
This plot, this ritual, it was not an exercise in piety; it was a dangerous game of corruption.
The robed man, a priest, had come to a halt before them. He looked tired, unshaven, with dark rings around his eyes, bruised from too many years of service and lack of sleep. Yet the way he held himself was somehow imperious, too, superior – as if he were looking down upon them from some lofty position of grace.
‘Father Rand?’ asked Sabbathiel.
He looked at her appraisingly. ‘No. I am Father Crucias. I’m afraid Father Rand is unavailable at this time.’ He glanced at Mandreth and smiled. ‘Nevertheless, I welcome you back, inquisitor. And I see that, this time, you have brought along all of your friends. The pious are always to be encouraged here. Might I be of some service?’
‘You can tell us where they are,’ said Sabbathiel.
Crucias frowned. ‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘Rand, Sinjan and the others. We know they’re here.’
The priest’s brow furrowed. He offered her a deep frown. ‘You must be mistaken, inquisitor. As I explained, Father Rand is preoccupied with his sermons. He requires utter solitude in which to contemplate the Emperor’s good word. As to the other name you mentioned – Sind-Jon, was it? – there is certainly no one here by that or any other name.’
Sabbathiel gritted her teeth. Her patience was stretched so taut that it wasn’t so much threatening to snap but to rend her apart from the inside. Just as she was about to respond, she heard Mercy issue a polite cough from over her shoulder.
Curious, Sabbathiel turned to regard the towering woman.
Mercy met her eye, then glanced at the priest. She made a slight gesture as if seeking approval to approach. Sabbathiel nodded, stepping to one side to allow Mercy room.
Mandreth shot her a confused look. Sabbathiel shrugged. Mercy stepped closer to the priest.
‘Yes, my dear? How might I–’ He reeled back as Mercy’s fist struck him hard across the jaw, sending a spray of bloody spittle high into the air. Crucias’ hand started to lift towards his face… and then he toppled over, backwards, into an unconscious heap on the flagstones.
Mercy regarded her fist, before plucking free an errant tooth that had embedded itself in her knuckle. She flicked it at the insensate priest. ‘The bastard bit me,’ she said, before shrugging and returning to her position at the rear of the small group.
Sabbathiel gestured for them to fan out. ‘They’ve got to be somewhere here. Find them.’ She glanced up at the servo-skull hovering over her left shoulder. ‘You too, Fitch. Tell me where they are.’
She watched him drift away into the depths of the cavernous interior, red traceries playing over every surface. Then, drawing her sword, she stepped over the unconscious priest and followed behind.
‘Over here.’
Sabbathiel, who had been studying the figure in the immense stained-glass window, doused red in the refracted light of his robes as the waning sunlight spilled through from outside, turned to regard Silq. She wrinkled her nose; there was a lingering stink here of charred meat and ash, the remnants of a recent pyre. ‘What is it?’
Silq motioned for Sabbathiel to join her. Elsewhere, the others were searching the other exits, passages and side chambers.
Where was everyone? The priests, officials, penitents, worshippers – the place was disturbingly empty.
She hurried over to join Silq, who was standing close to the altar, peering down at the worn flagstones beneath her feet. They carried a glossy patina from centuries of scuffing boots.
‘What?’
‘There, can’t you hear it?’ said Silq.
Sabbathiel waved her quiet, tilting her head as she strained to hear over the echoing sound of the others moving around. ‘I can’t–’
And then she heard it.
A sound like distant, soaring moaning, a plaintive lament, rising and falling in crescendo. A sound that felt somehow wrong – not quite discordant but sung at a pitch that seemed to curdle the contents of Sabbathiel’s stomach. The sound of a choir, giving itself up to the taint of the unclean.
‘They’re down below,’ she called. Her voice seemed to fill the enormous space of the nave, reflecting from every surface. She saw Mandreth making a beeline for her. The others, too, had stopped what they were doing and were watching her, waiting intently for instruction. She glanced up at Fitch, ever-present above her left shoulder. ‘Fitch – find us a way down. It must be around here somewhere.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ She was sure she could detect a hint of irony in its tone.
The servo-skull began a slow sweep of the surrounding area, lights tickling every surface as it passed overhead. After a moment, it stopped just above the far side of the altar. ‘There is a hollow space here, beneath one of the slabs.’
‘Nol,’ said Mandreth, nodding for the ogryn to investigate. Nol lumbered around to the other side of the altar, his footsteps so thunderous that Sabbathiel was surprised he didn’t shatter the flagstones underfoot.
‘Where?’ said Nol. He gave the altar a light shove out of the way, which – given the ogryn’s size and strength – had the effect of sending it crashing over, spilling candles, icons and the leaves of an ancient-looking book across the floor. He watched it happen with a vaguely interested, yet somewhat confused expression, before turning back to Fitch, who was playing a beam of red light back and forth across the slab in question. The stone had the size and appearance of an inlaid tombstone, but as Nol stooped down to lift it, Sabbathiel was surprised to see a concealed iron hoop embedded at one end, through which the ogryn looped a single index finger.
Nol grunted as he slid the stone aside with a grating screech, revealing a dark hollow beneath.
Sabbathiel and Mandreth moved closer. The others were circling now, too – in particular Aethesia, who had refused to stray out of eyesight of Sabbathiel during the search and had already drawn her sword.
Sabbathiel peered into the hollow. Worn stone steps descended into some form of subterranean grotto or crypt, where they disappeared into a puddle of Stygian gloom. The strange, disharmonious chanting she’d heard earlier was louder now, clearly emanating from whatever lay below.
Sabbathiel glanced around the small group, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
This is it.
This is where we bring this sorry mess to a close. This is how we purge the heretic. Nothing else matters now.
Nothing.
Each of them understood. Each of them was ready. She hadn’t spoken a word.
Aethesia made a series of small, precise gestures with her hands: I shall scout ahead and ensure the way is clear.
Sabbathiel nodded. She stood back to allow Aethesia room to broach the opening. The null maiden paused, then glanced back at Sabbathiel. There was something there, in her eyes. Something knowing, something unsaid.
Her hands moved again. If I do not return from this, seek out Jherek.
Jherek.
The name from her vision. The man by the water.
Another twisted player in this bizarre game? The mysterious benefactor who had sent the Sister of Silence to her aid?
‘Aethesia, wait–’
But the null maiden was already gone.
They stood for a moment, listening to Aethesia’s retreating footsteps, watching the darkness for any sign, any movement, as if she had left ripples in her wake as she waded into that liquid night.
Silence.
And then:
The familiar sound of a sword sliding into flesh. A low groan. A wet thud. The clang of metal on metal.
Sabbathiel hurried down the steps after Aethesia, her own blade in her fist, power crackling along its glinting edge.
The steps opened out into a wide passage, lit warmly by a series of tallow candles mounted in small, irregular recesses in the walls. Walls that were formed from human skulls and thigh bones, neatly stacked and architecturally set – an ossuary, a repository of the lost. There must have been thousands of them in that small space alone, watching her with their mournful, fleshless smiles and empty eyes.
Ahead of her, several yards along the passage, Aethesia was carefully lowering the body of a black-clad man to the ground. He had a puncture wound through his chest, and his head was lolling back on muscles that had recently lost all sense of tension and animation. Another similarly dressed man was already dead on the ground beside him. Sabbathiel recognised the look of their armour immediately, from the corpse she’d seen back at the safe house after the attack.
Sinjan’s personal guard.
‘He’s here, then,’ said Mandreth, from behind her. She hadn’t heard him follow her down the steps. His voice was tight, constrained.
Sabbathiel’s only response was to heft her sword in readiness, and nod for Aethesia to continue leading them deeper towards the ominous sounds of the ritual.
Ahead, the passage wound around a dog-leg, and Sabbathiel realised they were skirting the void beneath the main nave of the cathedral. The walls here were still formed from the remains of the dead, but now they seemed older, more gnarled and yellowed, encrusted with a thin patina of grime. The floor, too, had become more like loose scree, and her boots crunched with every step. Not that they feared announcing their approach – the noise of the chanting had reached such a volume that Sabbathiel was barely able to hear herself think.
The sound continued to stir within her a deep sense of unease, and while she was in no way fearful, she was nevertheless trepidatious of what they might find at the end of this short journey. It felt to her as if they were descending into some surreal underworld; as if they’d somehow left the physical realm behind up there in the cathedral and were now trespassing on the domain of something baneful and unreal, a thing that should not exist.
Such is the nature of Chaos.
She was more certain now than ever that the cult had succumbed to the same imprecations as Rasmuth, fed, no doubt, by the man’s hubris, his desperate desire to shepherd his own, peculiar version of the God-Emperor back to life, to bask in the reflected glory of that act.
But what are they really awakening in that ritual?
It looked as though she was about to find out: ahead, the passage opened up into a huge underground chamber full of people.
And there, on a raised plinth at the heart of their gathering, was the pale, unarmoured body of an Adeptus Custodes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘To face one’s past is to face one’s future.’
– Sister Phelia Vengous, On Human Endurance
Sabbathiel sucked at the warm, stale air, trying to drag it down into her lungs, trying to steady herself.
The subterranean chamber was vast – a huge, cathedral-like space, mirroring the immensity of the edifice above. Yet the walls down here had been erected from human suffering, the net sum of a million deaths, their skulls and bones woven into some dreadful semblance of order, some grotesque temple to the oblivion of death.
Beneath a stark, vaulted ceiling, lit by the warm glow of myriad candles that floated free on suspensor platforms, people had gathered by the score. Many of them wore the same black carapace armour of Sinjan’s guards – his entire personal army was here, it seemed – but others bore the hallmarks of clerks, arbiters, enforcers and minor officials.
All of them had their heads thrown back in rapturous, disharmonic song, apparently oblivious to the arrival of Sabbathiel and her team.
The worshippers had gathered around a central plinth, which in turn was surrounded by the surviving architects of this foul theatre: Jolas and Nemedia Bleeth, Father Rand and Atticus Sinjan, along with several dignitaries that Sabbathiel did not recognise.
On the plinth itself lay the thing that had sent such shock waves through Sabbathiel when she had first glimpsed it: the pale, disrobed form of the Custodes.
His eyes were closed, his inky-black hair swept back from his milky flesh. Ribbons of silver scar tissue described a map upon his body. Not a map of grids and lines, but the cartography of stories; a history of his travels, his life, his personal war. His chest fluttered with shallow breath. A gaping wound, packed with primitive bandages, was evident in his lower torso. He was near death, enveloped in a deep coma from which his mind might never emerge.
Sabbathiel forced herself to look upon him.
A Custodes. One of the Emperor’s chosen, forged in His image.
Just like the Astartes…
She was back there, on the battle-barge, standing in the shadow of Leofric. He towered over her, resplendent in his gleaming silver armour, this supposed knight of redemption, of purity. A symbol of all that was good and right. The very embodiment of the Emperor’s will…
And yet, in truth, he was as blind and lost as the rest of them.
The Dark Angels had searched her ship, even while the enemy stormed their barges. And all the while, the Grey Knights had waited.
They had found the thing in her vault, the daemon bound in human flesh.
Sarasti.
They had killed her acolytes, obliterated everything she was, everything she could have been.
And now, here, she was living it all again:
The snarl on Leofric’s face, the curl of his lip, the disappointment…
The punch of the bolt-round chewing into her gut, her hip, throwing her back, blinded by agony.
The kiss of the warp as the storm roiled over her.
The comfort of downy feathers, embracing her as the light faded from her eyes.
The promise of peace, of sleep…
A hand on her shoulder, dragging her back from the brink.
Lights pricking her eyes.
The roar of the chanting.
The chamber beneath the cathedral.
The dying Custodes.
‘Sabbathiel?’
Mandreth.
He was right there beside her, a tether to the material world, clasping her shoulder, concern etched into the thin lines of his face. ‘Sabbathiel? Astor?’
She nodded groggily.
‘Can you fight?’
She blinked, comprehension dawning. He was holding his sword.
She turned. Sinjan’s guards had peeled away from their flock, weapons raised.
They were attacking. Scores of them.
