Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 11

  ‘Kor Phaeron’s truth.’

  ‘As I said, I know the truth.’

  ‘Sophistry.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But I notice you do not deny my assumption. Because you know in that, at least, I am right.’ He tapped Lakmhu’s chest, provoking a warning grunt from one of the blade slaves. ‘Erebus’ loyalties have always been suspect and his faith is decidedly self-centred.’

  Lakmhu brushed his hand away. ‘Careful, brother. My patience is finite.’

  ‘And still you do not deny my statement. Perhaps because you harbour some doubt, eh?’ Amatnim leaned close. ‘Tell me, brother, is it Erebus who wishes me dead – or just you? And if it is him, why then does he fear me?’

  ‘The Hand of Destiny fears nothing,’ Lakmhu snarled. ‘Least of all some swollen-headed legionary who never had the courage to question the doddering pronouncements of a creature like Kor Phaeron.’ As he spat the words, his blade slaves growled in support.

  Amatnim stepped back, hands spread. ‘Ah, and there is the bile our Legion is infamous for. The poison that burns in all our veins. A heady venom of envy, spite and wrath.’ He was provoking the other Word Bearer now, enjoying his anger.

  ‘Spite is but strength, envy merely the seed of ambition and wrath is the reward of all who oppose us.’ Lakmhu waved his blade slaves back. ‘These things are what drive us. Mock them if you will, but know you mock your brothers at the same time.’

  Amatnim was about to reply but paused. Though the slaves continued to work and the mortal warriors continued to board, the Word Bearers who were present were watching the confrontation closely. Such duels of words were what passed for entertainment among the Legion. They were tests of will, wit and wisdom. If he was judged to have failed, he would have to contend with more than just Lakmhu.

  ‘You are wrong, you know,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I have questioned Kor Phaeron often. He at least holds to those traditions, unlike Erebus.’

  ‘Erebus does what the gods ask of him, and only that.’

  ‘And they ask him to serve Abaddon, then? To keep us weak so that we cannot threaten the Warmaster’s claims of ascendancy?’ It was an old accusation – almost ritual, at this point. Some Word Bearers believed it to be gospel. Others thought it simply one allegation amid thousands of similar claims. The members of the Dark Council had spent centuries waging a war of contention with each other.

  ‘Abaddon was chosen by the gods–’ Lakmhu began.

  ‘As were we,’ Amatnim said. ‘Are you any less faithful than Abaddon?’ Amatnim looked around. ‘What about you, brothers?’

  Lakmhu stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

  Amatnim smiled. ‘When the Warmaster shattered the Cadian Gate in his futile impotence, all the devils left hell for warmer climes – us included. We all followed where he led. Now the galaxy burns once more, and we shake the stars with our march. A beautiful, glorious time to be alive, wouldn’t you say, brothers?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it was a reward for our faith.’ He laughed, and others laughed with him. Bitterly. Angrily. But together.

  Lakmhu glanced around. Amatnim knew the Dark Apostle was making the same calculations he was – or perhaps trying to figure out a way of strategically withdrawing from the argument. ‘You speak dismissively of one the gods have chosen to enact their will.’

  ‘And Erebus does not, when he thinks the Warmaster’s spies aren’t listening?’ Amatnim shook his head. ‘Lakmhu, my brother, you know as well as I that though we all inevitably serve the same masters, we are not on the same side. It stings my conscience to know we are at odds.’

  Lakmhu laughed bitterly. ‘Not even you indulge in such a vice as that, brother.’

  Amatnim frowned. ‘Without conscience, man is no better than an animal. It was his conscience which drove the blessed Urizen to set himself against his father and brothers, Lakmhu. It was his conscience that brought us here, to this moment amidst all moments. It is conscience that drives me here.’

  Lakmhu shook his head and looked away. ‘It is lucky for you, brother, that the gods favour the foolish and the mad. That is all I will say.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll have more to say before the hour is out. You’re quite voluble, even at your most solemn.’

  ‘Only in defence of the truth,’ Lakmhu snapped.

  ‘The truth… do you remember when we used to debate its nature, rather than blindly defend it?’ Amatnim asked, softly. ‘When we cast our arguments like javelins and wielded rhetoric like shields? When our name meant something.’

  Lakmhu stopped. ‘I…’ He looked away, gazing at his blade slaves, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Those were more innocent times. Before the scales dropped from our eyes and all was revealed to us. When we saw the truth for what it was.’

  ‘Only it wasn’t the truth, was it?’

  Lakmhu spun. ‘Amatnim…’ he began, warningly.

  Amatnim looked around. ‘It wasn’t, was it, brothers? There is no one truth, is there? The truth is a multifaceted thing. That is what the Urizen taught us. That the truth is the headwaters of a hundred great rivers, and to find it, you must follow one. But we do not all follow the same river. And because of that – we fight. Like the little desert tribes, we wage war over water, while the men of the cities – men like Abaddon – build dams.’ He sighed. ‘Once, we were the ones chosen to guide the galaxy to the truth. But now we are supplanted in our own duty by one who sees the truth only as a means to an end.’

  Heads nodded, and murmurs of quiet assent filtered over the vox. The clamour of preparations had faded, and the rumble of the guns seemed like a storm on the horizon. Amatnim looked at Lakmhu. ‘You’re right, brother. I make sport of us. Because we deserve it. We took something glorious and we carved it up between us, without care for what might come of it. We took handfuls of the truth and enshrined it until it grew stagnant and sour. Until it tasted of nothing save poison.’

  They were all watching him now. Even Lakmhu. Amatnim allowed himself a brief flicker of pride. ‘We drink this poison, brothers, for it is better than dying of thirst. But what we should be doing is breaking the dams.’ He paused, letting the moment stretch. ‘That is why I have led us here, brothers. This system is the first crack in the dam.’ He bowed his head. ‘The water – the truth – will flow free, as the gods will.’

  Apis raised a fist. ‘Gloria Aeterna,’ he growled. The others followed his example, and the words beat on the air.

  ‘Gloria Aeterna, my brothers. Now – get aboard the gunships. We have a world to burn!’ Amatnim raised both of his fists as the other Word Bearers snarled in eagerness. They made for their vessels, filled with righteous fire. Amatnim turned to find Lakmhu glaring at him. He laughed at the expression on the Dark Apostle’s face.

  ‘You have only yourself to blame, brother.’

  ‘You baited me.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But you allowed yourself to be baited.’ Amatnim looked up at the gunship. ‘We should get aboard. It is almost time to launch.’

  Lakmhu didn’t move. ‘Why?’ he said softly. ‘Why can you not simply accede to the inevitable? Why must you try to provoke me?’

  Amatnim turned. The question surprised him. There was something akin to concern in Lakmhu’s voice – not the usual wrath, or spite. It made him uneasy to hear it. ‘Why must you incite others to challenge me?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘Because that is what your faith, as misjudged and mistaken as it is, drives you to do. As my faith drives me. We serve the gods in our own ways, brother.’ He paused. ‘I hope, one day, you will see that. Otherwise I will have to kill you. And that will be a sad day indeed.’

  He left Lakmhu standing there and climbed the boarding ramp. He did not look back to see if the Dark Apostle followed.

  Chapter Six

  18:10:06

  Almace, Primaris-
grade cardinal world

  When Calder was shown into the strategium, Eamon was sitting on the terrace, watching the sunrise. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he called out.

  ‘Yes.’ Eamon’s guards – Crusaders – fell in behind Calder, moving with admirable silence for men in armour. The Crusaders watched Calder warily, with hard, flat eyes. He suspected that they were calculating how to cripple, or even kill, him. He was tempted to ask what conclusion they’d come to. It would be an interesting conversation, if nothing else.

  Eamon laughed. ‘Genuine agreement, or more politesse, Huscarl?’ He dismissed his guards with an elegant wave of his hand. They turned and departed without hesitation.

  ‘I have some sense of aesthetic appreciation,’ Calder said as he stepped through the double doors onto the terrace. He saw a cybernetic cherub scuttle away into the curtains of artificially cultivated ivy that draped either side of the terrace, and wondered if this meeting was being recorded. ‘Suboden Khan should be meeting with Captain…’

  ‘Keel,’ Eamon supplied.

  ‘He should be meeting Captain Keel at any moment now. The fleet will start for Pergamon at the earliest opportunity.’ Calder looked up, scanning the sky for any sign of ships leaving the orbital dockyards that cluttered the upper stratosphere.

  ‘The Ecumenical Council hasn’t met yet,’ Eamon said with faint protest. ‘Formal permission has not been extended…’

  ‘There isn’t time, unfortunately.’

  ‘Better to ask forgiveness than permission,’ Eamon said. He smiled weakly. ‘No matter. They will agree, ex post facto. We will ensure it.’

  Calder nodded and moved on. ‘Lieutenant Karros will complete the landing zone preparations. From there, we must begin the work of readying Almace for war.’

  ‘You think it will come to that?’ Eamon asked, pulling apart a sweet pastry. Calder recognised the food as a planetary staple – sugared breads filled with cooked fruits. There were substantial orchards to the south-west. Almost the entirety of the planet’s southern hemisphere was given over to agri-production, including a form of native grain.

  ‘I think it is a strong possibility.’

  ‘The fleet will not be able to turn them back?’

  ‘The fleet will not attempt to do so. Suboden is not a fool. He will attempt to bleed them, and draw them off, but if the preliminary reports from Pergamon are accurate, their numbers are such that it won’t make much of a difference. When they arrive – not if – we will be cut off and isolated.’

  ‘Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.’ Eamon pushed his half-eaten pastry aside. ‘What about evacuation?’

  ‘A waste of resources,’ Calder said bluntly. ‘Evacuations on the scale you’re suggesting are often accompanied by panic, riots, civil unrest. There is enough of that going on at the moment.’ Calder set one of the data-slates he held upon the table. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve compiled several potential threat matrices, with breakdowns along cultural, political and economic lines.’

  Eamon took a swallow of recaff, but made no move to examine the data-slate. ‘How many is several, lieutenant?’

  Calder paused. ‘One hundred and forty-three.’

  Eamon winced. ‘I’ve heard your sort don’t require sleep.’

  ‘We do, but not as much as a normal human.’

  Eamon looked up at him. ‘Are you? Human, I mean. Do you consider yourself such?’

  Calder frowned. ‘Of course. What else would I be?’

  ‘More? Less? Something else.’

  Calder shook his head. ‘I am human. That word contains multitudes. I am one of them.’ He set down another data-slate. ‘These are the areas of the cathedral-palace I will require access to immediately. An analysis of potential weak points must be made.’

  Eamon picked up the data-slate. ‘Some of these areas don’t exist,’ he said after a moment. Then, more forcefully, ‘You’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Doubtful. I have studied the composite schematics for this structure. All of these areas exist and are potential weak points in my defensive preparations.’

  ‘Well, if they exist, I assure you, I’ve never seen them before. I’ll ask my staff, however. Some of them have been cluttering up the place for centuries…’ As the cardinal-governor spoke, Calder watched his jaw twitch – a small thing, invisible to the unaugmented eye. He traced the twitch and took note of the variety of micro-expressions occurring across Eamon’s face. For a baseline human, the cardinal-governor had impressive self-control, but Calder recognised the signs of falsehood as clearly as if they were stamped on the man’s brow. Eamon was hiding something.

  For half a second, he considered confronting the man with his observations. But that might have repercussions. There were other ways of learning what he needed to know. Ways that didn’t endanger his working relationship with Eamon. A relationship that was necessary for the successful defence of Almace.

  ‘That would be ideal,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you.’

  Eamon flashed a quick smile. ‘I am at your service, lieutenant.’ He gestured to the rest of the data-slates. ‘Now, what other problems have you brought me?’

  The next three hours went quickly. Calder had made estimates of everything, ranging from ammunition consumption to ration distribution timetables. Eamon’s gaze was growing foggy as the discussion proceeded. Even the cardinal-governor had his limits, it seemed.

  When they’d at last finished, Calder said, ‘You will convene the Ecumenical Council today. We must begin defensive preparations within a day’s cycle.’

  ‘Is that an order or a request?’ Eamon asked, as a servant cleared away his plate and cup. He gestured, forestalling Calder’s reply. ‘Yes, I intend to. I would ask that you be present. Your requests will carry more weight if you deliver them in person.’

  ‘You wish me to intimidate the council into acquiescence.’

  Eamon blinked. ‘Are we past the stage for politesse, then?’ He waved a hand. ‘Never mind, yes. Most of them will not admit that what we face is a system-wide threat. They insist it is the work of raiders, of rebels. They do not want to confront the looming apocalypse.’

  ‘A curious word.’

  ‘An old word. It means, literally, an uncovering. A revelation.’

  ‘Religious.’

  Eamon nodded. ‘Sometimes.’ He scratched his chin. ‘It’s the slowness of it, I think. We’ve convinced ourselves that the ending is a thing of sudden fury, rather than a slow suffocation. We see fires on the horizon and think that is where they will stay. But they never do, do they, lieutenant?’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  ‘And that is why I need you there. I need your experience. You are proof that we stand at a precipice. If you cannot convince them then they will not be convinced.’

  ‘And if that is the case?’

  Eamon looked out over the rail of the terrace. ‘I have a responsibility to this world, to this system, as well as the souls that dwell within it. I have been neglectful. Soft, perhaps. Seeking to balance charity and tyranny. That changes today.’

  Calder felt satisfaction at those words, but also something else – a flicker of what might have been regret. He had read the initial reports of his Intercessors, of Karros’ warriors and the White Scars as well. By their standards, the people of Almace were well treated. By the standards of the wider Imperium, this place was a paradise. Even Guilliman might have been impressed. And now, perhaps forever, it was transforming into something else. Ploughshares would be beaten into swords, and a place of worship given over to war.

  As Calder left him there, staring out over his city, he wondered if that was why Eamon had looked so defeated as he said those words, rather than triumphant.

  Suboden Khan reclined in his command throne, half watching the hololithic reports that circled him like vultures. He took in the information at a glance, processing
it and filing it away for later consideration. A sense of anticipation gripped him, making concentration difficult. ‘It feels good, doesn’t it, Kanim?’ he said to the warrior standing beside his throne.

  Like Suboden himself, Kanim was built for battle. But where his khan wore all white, Kanim’s armour was daubed blue in places – notably on his right arm and shoulder-plate. He wore a crystalline force hood over his bare head and held a highly stylised staff in his hands. Kanim was a Stormseer – a Librarian, a zadyin arga, a master of lightning and speaker to spirits of prophecy and storm.

  His battleplate was covered in lines of delicate Khorchin script. From his belt hung tanned and stretched ork scalps, upon which more lines had been inked by a steady hand. A tulwar was sheathed at his side, its horsehide sheath decorated with the tusks and dried ears of more greenskins. Kanim tapped the pommel of the blade and said, ‘Yes, my khan. Better than wasting our time destroying landing zones.’

  ‘Yes. That is a waste of our talents.’ He paused. ‘Rukn seems to enjoy it, though.’ The thought of the chief of the brotherhood’s Scouts made him smile. Rukn was old. As an aspirant, Suboden had learned the art of the silent kill from him, and more besides.

  ‘Rukn is strange,’ Kanim said. He leaned against his staff, running his fingers over the equine shapes carved into its length. He murmured to himself – or something else – as he did so, and Suboden felt an almost electric pulse.

  ‘True. What do the spirits say about our chances, shaman?’

  ‘That we have the same chance as any man – and better than most.’

  Suboden laughed. ‘Good! I’d hate to start out under a cloud of ill-omen.’ A vox-pulse chimed on the throne’s comm-panel and he straightened in his seat. ‘Ah, at last. They’re here.’

  ‘Are you certain that this is necessary, my khan?’

  Suboden smiled lazily. ‘We must have no light between our shields, shaman. Two fleets become one. I intend to impress the importance of unity upon them in person, so that there is no mistaking my commands for requests.’