Hand of abaddon, p.7
Hand Of Abaddon, page 7
If I am delayed… Syreniel began, choosing a different approach.
The other Sister appeared to consider this. At length, she relented and gave a curt gesture towards the end of the corridor. East.
Syreniel nodded, despite this aggression directed her way. The other Sister did not acknowledge it but appeared to glare through her as the Vigilator moved on.
She found Sister Etruvia in an anteroom, amongst a slew of astropathic messages translated and transcribed onto parchment. The room, one of several, she would later learn, was almost overburdened. Tables and desks stood piled high as missives from across the various sectors of the galaxy funnelled into this nexus.
Amongst the minutiae, Syreniel saw reports from the Black Ships, the witch-tallies and unconfirmed sightings yet to be investigated by the Order, as well as military operations and requests for aid.
Loitering at the threshold, Syreniel had the air of an unwelcome guest as her cadre mistress turned to regard her.
Pariah, she signed, adding disdainful inflection through her movements. If the Sister in the corridor had been hostile, then Etruvia held only unyielding ice. At her bidding, Syreniel entered and hoped her findings would spur a thaw.
She spoke without utterance of her posting to Battle Group Praxis, where she had served as enforcer and assassin to Admiral Tiberion Ardemus. The fact Ardemus had perished, his flagship with its entire complement along with him, presented little consternation to her audience, who listened stony-faced throughout. Only when Syreniel reached the part about the entity and their apparent immunity to her pariah nature did the other occupant of the room, who stood to Etruvia’s right, sign an interrogative.
Both had been conversing in the way of the Order when Syreniel arrived, ruminating on the endless ill tidings. Both were armed and armoured in the manner typical of the Sisterhood, only Etruvia had a red cloak and bronzed Vratine, whilst the other, the Knight Abyssal, wore silver-azure artificer armour and a black cloak to denote her station.
And she had the touch about her? His grace?
Syreniel gave a solemn nod to the Knight Abyssal. I saw her survive enemy fire, breach a plexi-shield with only the strength of her arm.
A quirk of fate could explain the enemy fire, a hitherto unseen weakness in the plexi-shield the breach, Etruvia countered. What convinces you she is a conduit?
Instinct. A feeling.
The cadre mistress sneered, and Syreniel saw the glint of bared teeth through the narrow slits in her gorget. And what has instinct brought you, pariah? You are not fashioned to listen to your feelings.
Nonetheless, signed Syreniel, it is the only answer I have.
Etruvia was unwilling to let the matter pass. Perhaps had you denied your feelings, you would not have broken the oath of tranquillity on Hyrelion and we here now would be having a different conversation. Perhaps had your discipline been more robust, your Sisters would not have died there.
Syreniel gritted her teeth at the unwelcome memory, of Angared and Villenia slain in the temple at Merita. A witch hunt gone awry. Her feelings having got the better of her. Composure came with difficulty, but it did come.
I cannot attest to what is not, only what is, my cadre mistress.
Etruvia’s eyes burned with well-stoked anger. And insolence into the bargain–
She would have gone on had the Knight Abyssal not raised her hand to stop her.
Tell us of this entity. It did not recoil at your presence?
Syreniel shook her head. I perceived no visible effect.
Then it could not be Neverborn, Etruvia stated with a definitive hand gesture.
The Knight Abyssal appeared unconvinced, her mood pensive. And yet the pariah gift impresses itself upon any being. Only we of the soulless are unaffected. Her studious eye appraised Syreniel. Did she have a name, this individual?
Syreniel gave it but it yielded nothing by way of recognition. She appeared a servant, albeit one of rank…
Yet there is more, isn’t there, the Knight Abyssal coaxed.
Syreniel found her stare penetrating but braved it regardless. Her sins had been laid bare long ago, after all. I think the face she wore was a mask, her entire persona in fact. It brushed up against my mind, searching for weakness.
A witch?
It had the psychic spoor, I am certain of it.
And you were alongside the other, when you encountered this creature, the one you believe touched by His grace?
Another nod.
And what of her reaction?
Fear, undoubtedbly, but also resolve. As I felt her touch, the presence of the other receded and we parted ways with it.
You let one of the Neverborn escape? Etruvia cut in, spite exuding from her every pore.
The Knight Abyssal came to Syreniel’s defence. Not a moment ago you claimed it could not be Neverborn. You cannot have it both ways, Sister.
Subtly chastened, Etruvia bowed her head in contrition but her glower remained on Syreniel. The other’s regard was more inquisitive though.
Much is obfuscated, but none of this inspires confidence. She paused to think, the many missives around her a tangible reminder of the ongoing peril the Imperium endured. I am aware of your transgressions, Syreniel, a misdeed that can never be forgiven or forgotten, but you have done well bringing this to the Order. Much may be revealed in coming days and only He knows how this latest intelligence may benefit Lord Guilliman’s cause. Alas, we cannot ask Him. But I see a way for you to serve, Sister… she signed, reaching for a curled scroll sitting atop a nearby stack.
Syreniel noticed it bore an Inquisitorial stamp.
Chapter Eight
one hell for another
the ones who live
let me be thy instrument…
The stamp of booted feet resounded in the tunnels as troopers ran to the blaring of whistles. Following the scuffed tracts of lumen paint, a frantic stampede that would brook no stopping had broken loose. Like an auroch herd fleeing a wildfire, it would not even slow until it was free. And that freedom was the light, a killing light where the enemy awaited.
Kesh saw a man trip, fall. He became lost at once, swallowed in the frenzy, a choked-off scream his last contribution to the war. And he was not the only one. Others who stumbled did not rise, for the throng did not wait, could not wait. The dark closed and the light ahead promised. Madness held them, impelled them, and amongst the huffing, heaving masses she felt that creeping dread again, that unease like an unsettling visitor who refused to leave.
Her squad held each other together, hands on shoulders, gripping collars and coattails, the staunch discipline of Mordian tested to its limit. It helped that they could see better than most, being born of a night world having its advantages. Sight brought calm, at least a measure of it, and the more practical benefit of clearer navigation.
Munser shouted throughout the advance, urging courage, promising retribution if that courage failed, and then convincing in his affirmation that it would not.
Ahead of her, Kesh made out the next section in the line, the bellows of the commissars in her ears as they roared the soldier-horde on. Into the dark, into the light, into death… She shook her head, the seep of despair near tangible. A stumble, her feet tangling with a boot left in the tunnel, lost by some poor soul lying dead somewhere, and she nearly took a tumble herself but for Garris yanking her up. Still running, she flashed a grateful glance his way. A curt nod was the only acknowledgement and then they were in the flow again. It felt like miles, hearts hammering, breath heaving, but it was merely feet. At the barked orders of their captain, they took the second left fork.
Munser repeated the order, every order. Firm and clear, that was his way. It served them now as they sped on.
Out of Tartarus, and trading one hell for another.
Light expanded, bled deeper as they closed on its source, and Kesh could practically feel the relief. No war shouts yet. They were too far away for that, and the heavy thunder rumbling above as the god-engines walked was drowning out almost everything except her inner voice.
God-Emperor, let it hold, let it hold… Don’t bury us here, in the forgotten dark.
Spills of earth teemed regularly now, gathering on shoulders, around packs and bandoliers. Banks of it built up in the corners and recesses. With every step, they were filling their own graves a handful of dirt at a time.
Still several feet out, they heard the Termites, their drilling engines giving out a shrill whine that cut through air like a blunt knife. Nails scratching glass, teeth on edge.
More light, brighter, wider, a dull clamour coming from above now. The scent of foetid air, musty on the breeze. The tang of cordite and fyceline. A muffled explosion and the rattle of automatic gunfire, the whip-crack fizzing of las-beams. Now the shouts, now the screaming. Voices bellowing in foreign tongues through laud hailers, reacting to the attackers in their midst.
‘On, on!’ roared the commissars. ‘He is watching! He bids you bring them death!’
Death! the soldier-horde roared back. DEATH! One mass, a single organism bent to the same purpose. A beast giving over its fear to hate. The Imperial way.
As Kesh’s platoon reached the last few yards and the threshold of a wide ramp of earth flattened by the Termite’s tracks, the din of battle reached them in earnest and the yellow light of the upper world, a world they had known for months, flooded over the troopers. Rising then, the booted heels of their comrades ahead of them in the line, grinding upwards towards a wide lip of earth, they dug in to the climb. She reckoned on another fifty feet to the summit, loose dirt and grit slipping underfoot.
‘Up, up!’ roared the commissars again, a shot ringing out as someone faltered.
A feverish rush towards that light above, eyes blinking, pulses racing until–
The earth split and the walls caved against the relentless pressure, a mucky avalanche slewing down the shelved ramp and into their midst. A man cried out, a fear scream presaging their imminent deaths. In seconds dirt rode up around Kesh’s ankles, then her knees. She strove, they all did, desperately climbing, but they were wading through mud and the milky wash above was closing like an eyelid shutting out the world. And the light.
Darkness fell then and choking terror, the muffled shouts and scared fighting. Their fear, the dark, each other.
Kesh heard a gurgled death, someone stabbed in the neck most likely. A commissar dared raise his voice, tried shooting a few but got mobbed, dragged down even as the earth continued to bury them. Despair washed over the troopers, thicker and more pervasive than the dirt clogging their throats. A lumen torch flared but quickly failed, its bulb smashed in the scrum. Men and women digging, clawing with trench shovels, with knives and bare hands. Backs bent, elbows pushing, spitting, huffing fevered breaths.
Ghates, grossly displaced from his unit, fixed Kesh with a look as the chaos dragged him down and the earth rose above his mouth. She reached but was too far to grab him, fingers snatching air. She couldn’t say his name because the air was too thick with dirt and she was choking anyway. He blinked once before the black deluge took him, buried alive in an improvised grave.
Out of panic the section was tearing itself apart as every fear became manifest in that dark, claustrophobic space…
And then, the trembling of the earth slowed, stopped. The cave-in abated. It had swallowed some – poor Ghates’ gloved hand frozen in a claw, grasping for the light – but not all. It didn’t have to. They were killing each other anyway, giving in to that undefinable pall of dread. She saw Lodrin swing a trench-club, wild-eyed and near raving. Kesh blocked his arm, held his wrist fast.
‘Stop! Stop this… Breathe. Just breathe and be still.’
Lodrin paused, fear turning his eyes large.
Others had stopped to listen, the fighting beginning to ebb. She saw Garris turn to look, releasing the gun strap he had been using to strangle a fellow trooper.
There was light here, Kesh realised, issuing through some crack perhaps, or maybe it was–
‘Be still,’ she said again, terrified but seeing the attention of the survivors was upon her. Her hand closed around a lumen torch and she lit it, the flare refulgent in the darkness. ‘We are the Guard. We are His soldiers, His hammer. And we do not give in to despair.’
Rellion was dead. The captain had a bayonet lodged in his chest, his hands wrapped around another trooper’s throat. Kesh averted her eyes to focus on the ones who lived.
‘The earth has stopped. We are still alive,’ she told them. ‘But we have to fight to stay alive.’ She turned then, the torch snagged in her belt, and moved the first clod of dirt. Then a stone. Then another. ‘Dig,’ she said. ‘Find the light.’
‘You heard her,’ bellowed Munser, a gash on his forehead like a crack in stone. ‘Dig, damn you!’
Lodrin, who she had just let go of, joined her. He went to work with trench-axe and shovel. Others followed. Garris and then two more. Soon an entire labour gang toiled at the collapsed earth-face, pulling and digging, hacking and hefting, chains of troopers funnelling rock and dirt. They did it wearing scarves wrapped around their faces to keep out the dust, or rebreather masks if they had them. The trenchmen did the bulk of the digging, remembering their old skills, but Kesh stayed at the forefront, unable to stop. Their fear ebbed with the salve of honest work until a tiny shaft of light pierced the gloom and cool air filtered through.
Faint grey light turned to yellow and got brighter, wider, until an aperture the size of Kesh’s fist was made. She thrust her hand through it, pulled more earth aside, dirt seemingly falling away at her merest touch, until it fell away entirely. Light and sound rushed in.
Blood pulsing, she cried out in defiance, shaking loose the dirt around her legs and ankles, hauling herself out and up.
‘With me! With me!’
They followed, many hundreds strong, not in platoons but as a mass of warriors, and swarmed into city streets.
It had been Varta once, but that was before the war, and the occupation. The enemy named it Slaugheln, but the Guard had simply taken to calling it the Last Stronghold. For were it to fall, there would be no others. Here, this place, would be where the fight for Barren and a vital part of the Anaxian supply chain would be won or lost.
As Kesh ran, the heady fuel of freedom feeding tired muscles, the battlefront imposed itself in all its glorious and bewildering fury. The Last Stronghold was an immense, fortified city. It had once housed hundreds of thousands, but many of those citizens were dead or enslaved, or else turned to dark masters. Beyond its towering outer walls lay manufactoria and hab-blocks, refineries and depots. At their backs was the great Citadel Wall, garrisoned by enemy guns and foot soldiers garbed in black iron. They paid little heed to the interlopers below, intent instead on the attack from without, the tremor of the city’s abused void shields turning the sky purple with every bruising impact.
In a vast courtyard before the sealed gates, bands of Imperial soldiers stood and fought. These were the forces who had made it through the tunnels and out the other side. Skirmishes had broken out in all directions, the Imperial troops stretched thin and waning against the enemy defenders. Swathes of robed cultists and the more heavily armed Guard defectors had reacted to the loyalists in their midst. The surprise attack, meant as a swift hammer blow, had failed to materialise and the Imperial assaulters were struggling to capitalise.
A large band, several platoons strong, had erected makeshift defences and fired from behind weapons crates and collapsed statuary. They made their stand around one of the Termites, its armoured skin threaded with bullet impacts, point defence guns blazing. A handful of red-robed Mechanicus troops fought alongside them, their deflagrating beams adding to the fusillade of lasguns and autocarbines. A gallant stand, but enemy fighters mobbed their position.
Only one of the breaches had been wholly successful and only part of another, the one to which Kesh belonged. Those from the first platoons had all but been destroyed, scrap companies forming in an attempt to stave off total annihilation. A third attempt at undermining had entirely collapsed, perhaps due to some malfunction or some unknown agency of the enemy, trapping and burying hundreds of soldiers within. Those who had emerged from the other two tunnels were therefore outnumbered and losing ground.
In short, in those few seconds of stark revelation, the situation looked bleak.
Kesh felt a surge of pride and anger. She hadn’t endured the horrors of Gathalamor, survived a massacre in the royal palace on Kamidar, lived through a burning hell-storm and been almost buried alive to capitulate without a fight. She lifted her arm, a clenched fist raised to the heavens, and roared.
‘If we die, we die in His name! Ave Imperator!’
‘Ave Imperator!’
‘Ave Imperator!’
‘Ave Imperator!’ they chorused, turning to righteous hatred for their courage.
Her massive warrior band swept out with abandon, almost immediately overwhelming several skirmishes taking place throughout the streets, purging enemy positions and consolidating allied ones. They rose, her host, like a crushing tide and the cult army was driven back, hemmed in, slowly destroyed. Gained ground stayed Imperial.
In short order they had taken the courtyard and the major arteries feeding into it, though thick tranches of agitators remained beyond this fragile cordon. Cries of victory rose up, premature, driven by relief. It wasn’t over. More would be needed.
Above Kesh, the great walls of the city loomed large and forbidding. They cast a shadow across half a district, rumbling to the steady percussion of macrocannons, static weapon emplacements and rocket batteries.
‘Those guns,’ she said, a cluster of troopers having gathered around her even as the bulk dispersed. One amongst their number was a captain of the Vardish. ‘We have to silence them.’
