Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 13

  Filthy creature. Trying to trick a prince.

  ‘Yes, filthy,’ he said absently.

  He made a good living, preying on the trade routes that stretched the length of the system. More than enough to keep his crew happy, and himself in the luxury he deserved. The system-merchants of Odoacer were fat and weak. Easy prey, if you had the nerve. Occasionally, when he could talk some sense into his fellow captains, they even managed to take a rogue trader or two. There was enough plunder there to see them through a standard year, if they were careful.

  It isn’t enough.

  ‘No,’ he said softly.

  You deserve more.

  ‘It is mine by right,’ he said out loud.

  He rubbed his temples, trying to recall what had woken him so suddenly. It had been a dream. Or had it? He’d seen… What had he seen? The images were hazy, hard to decipher.

  There had been a light–

  The light of truth.

  And a battle standard, burning.

  The standards of your foes.

  And something… someone else. A man – no, not a man. More than a man. A Space Marine. Ganor shivered. He’d seen them, in his youth, but only at a distance. They’d towered over his parents and the other nobles like demigods of war.

  He closed his eyes. His head ached with the weight of sleep.

  No more time for sleep, young prince. They are coming. The Bearers of the Word will show you the way.

  The vox-unit in his quarters chimed. Slowly, he turned to it. He stared at it dully.

  Answer it.

  He glanced at his reflection, and for a moment, he didn’t recognise himself. He felt a thrill of fear run through him, but it quickly faded. What was there to be afraid of here, or in all the galaxy? Was he not Prince Ganor Kabalevsky? Was he not the true heir to the throne of Almace?

  The vox-unit chimed again. Urgently. He answered it.

  And his reflection smiled.

  Pergamon, Secundus-grade tithe world

  Amatnim strode across the marble floor, the echoes of his steps preceding him. Mighty pillars, carved to resemble coiling stairways and now crowded with pilgrims, rose to either side of him. Beyond them, immense bookcases filled the walls from floor to ceiling. Millions of books filled this repository. Ancient texts, diligently compiled across the centuries by the adherents of a dead god. Now, many lay scattered across the floors, and loose papers sifted through the air like falling snow.

  The floor shook, as an explosion gripped the street. Pacifying the city was taking longer than he’d anticipated. Its defenders were tenacious, driven to extremes by their false faith. Every street, every crossing, would be consecrated in blood before the end.

  Somewhere, daemons were howling in pleasure as they loped through the dying metropolis, hunting souls. He felt their savage calls resonate through him, and felt a brief flicker of pity for their quarry. But he quickly quashed it. Such was the well-deserved fate of all who failed to acknowledge the gods. Ignorance was no excuse for such sacrilege.

  And yet… was it not the task of he and his brothers to purge such ignorance from the species? Was it not their duty to bring the truth to those blinded by lies? What was truth to a dead man, save a eulogy? He sighed, unable to answer his own questions, and annoyed by the distraction. He had other matters to think about. Pergamon had not yet fallen. The city had not yet fallen. But it would.

  He passed through an archway shaped like a rising angel and into the northern chamber of the library. The massive chamber was circular and rose to a domed roof, decorated with an enormous mural depicting some noteworthy event in the planet’s history. It had three floors, the upper two shaped like rings so that those above might look down on the ground floor. Large shelves lined the curving walls on each floor, and a forest of stone pillars rose from the level, passing through the upper reaches to support the roof. Spiral staircases encircled many of these pillars, connecting the different levels.

  This was but one part of the library – a dozen more chambers of similar size and shape encircled the central tower, which seemingly doubled as a bastion. Each was connected to the central tower by a short causeway, dominated by security archways. So far, his followers had had little luck breaching those archways, thanks mostly to the efforts of the library’s defenders.

  Throughout the chamber, mortals, clad in the stained remnants of old uniforms and plundered armour, flung books into a great pile, laughing as they laboured. As the eminent Kor Phaeron had written in his seventy-fifth treatise on faith, joy was found only in servitude. Amatnim watched the mortals and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good,’ he murmured.

  ‘My lord?’

  Amatnim turned. ‘Yes, Apis?’

  ‘Something for your collection, my lord.’ Apis extended the volume. ‘Poetry, I believe, though I am no judge of literary merit.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘A trait we share, brother.’ He opened the book gently, mindful of the ash and blood that stained his gauntlets. Outside, an explosion rocked the street. Boltguns growled and the screams of the dying drifted on the wind, like the sweetest music. ‘How goes it, then?’

  ‘The city is on fire.’

  ‘Our doing?’

  ‘No.’

  Amatnim looked up from the book. ‘They set their own city on fire?’

  Apis reached up and removed his helm. His face was streaked with sweat, blood and ashes. ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Well. That is the calibre of our opponents. Destructive in defeat, as well as victory. What about the central bastion?’

  Apis hesitated. ‘The defenders are proving obstinate.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘That’s one word for it.’ The convent of Battle Sisters occupying the bastion were putting up a fierce resistance. He’d expected no less. ‘Have we found the lord deacon yet?’

  ‘Fortified bunker farther up the crater slope,’ Apis grunted, watching as an entire shelf of sermons went into the fires. ‘Set deep into the bedrock. We haven’t cracked it yet, either. Dusep is in charge. You know how he enjoys such puzzles. If he weren’t so good at spouting catechisms, I’d swear he was one of Perturabo’s curs.’

  Amatnim nodded. ‘Yes. What is it he always says? Something about sieges…?’

  ‘Sieges are the whetstone of a soldier’s faith,’ Apis recited.

  ‘That’s it. Very well. Leave him to it. If nothing else, it keeps the defenders preoccupied.’ That was Amatnim’s way of war – divide the enemy, prevent them from making any sort of concentrated defence. The key was to have subordinates who could be trusted to pursue their own initiative. It made little difference whether they did so out of loyalty or ambition, so long as they succeeded.

  The city would be theirs by nightfall or the morning after, if things continued apace. Once they found the lord deacon, he would be convinced to send out a message calling for the peaceful surrender of the remaining defence forces. Most of them would ignore him, but some would seize the opportunity to join the winning side. They always did. Humans were pragmatic creatures, at heart, and for the unenlightened, one god was the same as another. They would learn the difference soon enough.

  ‘I do not see the Dark Apostle anywhere,’ Apis said. ‘I wonder if the gods have gifted us with his death.’

  ‘Careful, brother. I can get away with such blasphemy, but you cannot.’

  Apis frowned. ‘He is all bluster, that one. Not a real warrior.’

  ‘No. But his blade slaves are, and he will set them on you with no hesitation.’

  ‘Why do you put up with him?’

  The question was just shy of impertinent, but Amatnim treasured these brief moments of informality. Apis was a good soldier – loyal and faithful. A hundred such, and he could have conquered any world, any system. ‘He serves Erebus, and Erebus is part of the Dark Council.’

  ‘As is Kor Phaeron.’

&n
bsp; ‘Exactly.’ Amatnim held up the book, balanced on his palm. ‘Equilibrium. That is our way – we worship all gods equally, and so enjoy the boons and blessings of the Pantheon. One master might lead us astray. Many masters keep us to the path, for despite all their pulling and pushing, or even because of it, we can but go forward. The Urizen was wise and foresaw that without such balance, we might become as Fulgrim’s catamites or Angron’s lunatics. In every host, there is balance – many leaders, sometimes working at odds, to ensure that the will of the gods is manifested.’

  Apis grunted and shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think I prefer the old ways, with Lorgar at our head and our guns aimed at the enemy, rather than each other.’

  Amatnim nodded, though he knew it had never truly been like that. The Urizen had pitted his sons against each other even before they found the truth. He had tested their faith through competition and fostered rivalries. The strongest, the most faithful, had risen, and those weak of faith or lacking in skill, had fallen.

  Just like now. This too was a time of testing. The galaxy was in upheaval. A great revelation was in process, and the Bearers of the Word would need to be ready. The Urizen waited, letting his sons sharpen their sacrificial knives on each other to weed out those unfit to serve him in the apocalypse to come.

  Amatnim knew that he would be found worthy. The gods had whispered this to him, even as they’d set his feet on the path to glory. He would fight at Lorgar’s side again. But first, the truth would be revealed. The Legion would at last pass the test the Urizen had set. Amatnim would be the one to show them the way.

  A cry made him turn. A Word Bearer thudded towards them, forcing a pair of Sisters Dialogous before him. ‘I found these rats scurrying for safety, my lord,’ the Word Bearer rumbled, his helm’s vox-grille turning his voice into a growl. ‘You wished us to take prisoners. I thought it best to bring them to you.’

  Amatnim nodded. ‘Yes. And they’re in one piece. Very good… Gormlek, is it?’ He paused. ‘You came with the Dark Apostle, I believe?’

  Gormlek struck his chest with a fist and bowed. ‘I have that honour, my lord.’

  Apis snorted, and Gormlek glanced at him. His helm, wrought in the shape of a daemon’s snarl, seemed to twist into a grimace, but he said nothing. Amatnim motioned for Apis to be silent and turned his attention to the women. They were both old, by the standards of mortals. Their hair was grey and cropped short, and their wrinkled faces were like cracked sandstone. Both were bruised and bloody, their hands bound before them by strips torn from their own robes. But they stared at him in wary defiance.

  ‘Do you know this book?’ he asked them, holding up the volume Apis had brought him. ‘Do you recognise it?’ He waited. When no answer was forthcoming, he gave a terse nod. Gormlek growled, grabbed one of the women by the neck and drove two fingers into the small of her back. She spasmed as her vertebrae cracked, and cried out in pain.

  ‘A bit harder and Gormlek would have crippled you,’ Amatnim said. ‘A bit higher and you would have died. Do you know this book?’

  The woman spat at him. Amatnim nodded, and Gormlek drove a finger into the base of her skull. She staggered as he released her, and her companion was forced to catch her before she fell. ‘A bit higher, a bit harder, and he would have punctured your skull. You have one more chance. Do you know this book?’

  ‘Yes,’ the other woman said, her voice hoarse. ‘Yes, damn you, we know every book in this library. Every book, every shelf, every page.’

  ‘Good. That means you know this place well. Tell me – where is the vault?’

  The woman stared. ‘What vault?’

  He sighed, reading the lie in her eyes – and the calculation. He considered torturing it out of her but knew it would be futile. He realised that he’d made a mistake, mentioning the vault. They’d die before they told him, now that they knew why he was here.

  ‘As I expected. Burn it. All of it.’ Amatnim tossed the book aside. ‘Turn their lies to ash, my brothers. Teach them the penalty for such heresies.’

  The women howled in despair. Not for themselves, he knew, but for the books. In a way, he admired such devotion. Would that more servants of the Dark Gods had such dedication to their words. Gormlek reached for one, chortling. But he paused, hand outstretched. ‘My lord, do you hear–?’

  Amatnim did. He recognised the hiss of superheated air an instant before Gormlek’s head was reduced to bubbling slag. ‘Take cover,’ he bellowed. ‘Ambush!’

  Even as the words left his mouth, boltguns sang, their harsh rumble-crack splitting the air. Mortal slaves fell, bodies torn apart by the high-velocity rounds. Blood slopped across the marble. Amatnim took a step back as small impact craters formed on his armour. An automatic targeting array spun across his visor, tracing the trajectories back to their point of origin. His hand fell to the bolt pistol holstered at his side, even as the targeting runes locked on to heat signatures and flashed crimson.

  He drew and fired smoothly, already in motion. Around him, Apis and the few other Word Bearers present sought cover behind pillars and toppled shelves. Amatnim slid into the lee of a pillar, beside Apis. ‘Six targets, second level, dead ahead,’ he said, without preamble.

  ‘Four more, third level, to our left,’ Apis growled. His boltgun roared as he sprayed the bookcases on the second floor of the library. ‘They’ve caught us in a crossfire. You have my word that the sentries will be punished for this, my lord.’

  ‘Given the situation, I suspect that they have already gone to meet the gods. But I thank you for the assurance regardless, brother.’ Amatnim activated the command vox-channel. ‘Report. Casualties? Besides Gormlek, I mean.’

  The others sounded off from their positions throughout the chamber. No further Legion casualties as yet, though their mortal servants were dying in droves. Then, that was what they were for. Every bullet they took was one less to strike a brother. Indeed, a mortal’s greatest joy was to die for their master. Their blood consecrated the ground and their screams were as music to the gods, who would consume their small souls and make them as one with the Primordial Truth.

  Apis winced as a ricochet dug a bloody groove across his cheek. He hastily donned his helm. ‘We were overconfident,’ he said, as it locked into place. ‘We assumed that the causeways were the only way in or out.’

  Amatnim nodded. The air was full of ash and burning paper, and his auto-senses fuzzed and whined as they attempted to compensate. ‘Given the rate of fire from the third level, I’d say they brought a heavy bolter.’

  ‘And a meltagun, given the state of Gormlek’s head,’ Apis said. He leaned around the pillar and snapped off a shot. ‘They must have followed the inobservant fool right back to us.’

  ‘Well, he’s paid for his mistake.’ Amatnim heard the telltale hiss of superheated air again. ‘Down.’ He and Apis crouched as the unseen meltagun vomited a wash of heat. An unlucky cultist was caught full in the chest and came apart in a cascade of burnt flesh and scalded bone. ‘They’ll try grenades next. To flush us out.’ He tracked the path of the meltagun, estimating the position of its wielder. The clouds of smoke and paper hampered his targeting array, but he fired regardless.

  His faith was rewarded by a sharp cry, and a glimpse of a grey-armoured form, stumbling briefly out of cover. Though the battleplate they wore was inferior to that of the Word Bearers, it still gave them some protection. ‘Apis.’

  ‘I see her.’ Apis’ boltgun cracked, and the Battle Sister spun away, half her head gone.

  ‘Moving,’ Amatnim said, hurrying towards the dead woman’s position, firing as he went. Apis and another Word Bearer followed, covering him. As Amatnim reached another pillar, he heard a shout and the roar of a heavy bolter. ‘Cover,’ he growled, gesturing for Apis and his companion to seek safety. The two Space Marines dropped flat and began to crawl. Amatnim stepped out from behind the pillar and fired, his shots smashing thr
ough shelves and sending an avalanche of books spilling onto the floor.

  With the enemy momentarily distracted, Apis and the other Word Bearer managed to reach him. Amatnim recognised him as Yatl – another of Lakmhu’s lackeys. He nodded amiably to the warrior, wondering if Yatl would seek to take advantage of the situation. A shot in the back, and the Battle Sisters as the obvious culprits.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ Yatl growled, loosing a burst at the second level.

  ‘There must be some way in or out of the central bastion that we missed,’ Amatnim said. ‘We need to conduct an auspex sweep, grid by grid.’ He reloaded briskly, ignoring the chunks being chewed from the pillar. ‘I want it found, before they have a chance to seal it again.’

  Apis signalled acknowledgement and bent forward. Amatnim heard the click of the vox as he swung out from behind the pillar and snapped off a shot blind. His targeting array spun, momentarily clear. It highlighted less than twenty potential targets. ‘Less than I thought,’ he murmured.

  ‘Maybe they’re attempting to escape,’ Yatl said. He bent around the pillar and fired. ‘Come out, you cowards,’ he bellowed a moment later. ‘The Dark Gods thirst for your souls!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that will convince them,’ Apis muttered.

  ‘Would you have me ask them nicely?’

  ‘I would have you stop yammering and show some fire discipline,’ Apis growled.

  ‘Enough,’ Amatnim said. ‘They aren’t trying to escape. This is a reconnaissance in force.’ He activated his vox-link, so that the others could hear him. ‘Now that they’ve lost the advantage of surprise, they’ll be retreating. We cannot let them get away. Ready yourselves.’

  A chorus of clicks assured him that the others had heard and would obey. Though they had spent millennia in the Eye of Terror, his warriors were all veterans and still held to the discipline that had carried them through the Great Crusade and the Heresy. Those who did not soon found that faith alone rarely carried the day. You needed fire and steel to back it up. ‘On my mark,’ he growled.