Belisarius Cawl- the Great Work - Guy Haley Page 14
‘Have you considered it?’ asked Felix, refusing to let the matter drop. ‘Have you considered that you were in fact betrayed?’
Thracian’s eye lenses glinted in the hard sun.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’
Thracian made it clear that line of conversation was over by setting off again. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The major ways are sealed. There is but one way remaining to the tower. It is a hard climb. We shall ascend the Crooked Stair.’
The party followed on behind him.
They went through the smaller gate and headed upwards, climbing a huge stairway carved directly into the basalt face of the mountain and roofed over with a vaulting of patterned brick. Every inch of the stone was carved with statuary of awe-inspiring beauty. The stair took a circuitous path, switching back on itself unexpectedly. The width, too, was inconstant. There were stretches where it was wide enough for Space Marines to march ten abreast, then long runs far narrower. It varied in pitch from precipitous to shallow. The effect was neither aesthetically pleasing nor did it follow the optimal route, and did not seem to suit defensive purposes.
‘Where the black rock extrudes through the basalt, our predecessors were forced to go around,’ said the Scythes’ Forgemaster, Sebastion. ‘The black rock does not cut easily, it breaks when worked, and there were legends that it should not be disturbed if possible. It is because of the black rock that the way to the citadel bends about so. It is called the Crooked Stair for good reason.’
As if the mountain itself wished to provide proof of Sebastion’s words, they rounded a sharp corner and found a pile of rubble where masonry had cracked off, revealing the blackstone beneath. Their boots crunched on broken reliefs of past heroes. The blackstone glowed with inner life, swift motes of green darting away out of sight when observed.
‘The mountain is shedding its skin,’ said Cominus.
‘All my life I thought the builders of the monastery beholden to child’s tales, and I thought of them with scorn,’ said Sebastion. ‘No longer.’
Shortly after they came to a pile of armour lying on a small landing, empty of every trace of flesh and blood. Damage from explosives and weapons fire had melted the rock and scorched many of the armour pieces black, but as elsewhere there were no corpses.
The stair began its final stretch.
Felix walked to the end of the landing in disbelief. What confronted him was more of a wall than a way up. He looked up the brick tunnel, which bent itself perpendicular to accommodate the change in angle as the stairway became a ladder. He reached up, and rested his hand on the steps by his head.
‘The Angel’s Ladder,’ said Thracian. ‘We are nearly at the citadel.’
‘Epistolary Gathein,’ Felix said.
The blue-clad psyker came forwards, and surveyed the empty wargear. The others remained silent as he performed his witch’s work. A heaviness came over them, suddenly gone when Gathein ceased his scrying. He drew in a deep breath and stood back.
‘They fell alone,’ said Gathein. ‘They were trying to hold the invasion back from the citadel.’
‘This is the main access?’ asked Felix.
‘There are tunnels,’ Thracian said. ‘But none of those routes are direct, and all of them were collapsed before the attack. They are plugged by stone blocks of a thousand tonnes each. When Kraken came for us, this was the sole way remaining on the ground,’ said Thracian. ‘It is a ceremonial way. Most traffic came into the Emperor’s Watch by air. Our aspirants must tread the stair as part of their final initiation. There is no other way to the top.’
Felix looked up again.
‘Then this fortress should never have fallen,’ said Felix. He sheathed his sword, and began to climb.
The steps in the rock were barely wide enough to take the toes of the armoured Space Marines, and they slowed, even their might taxed by the difficulty of the climb. They did not tire, but they lacked nimbleness in their battleplate, while their reactor packs and wide chests made balance difficult, and they were forced to stow their weapons. Felix in particular struggled: his Gravis plate was almost too large and heavy to make the climb. The Scythes were prepared for the ascent, but their gene vault, Brother Tyliphus’ corpse and the Terminators needed winching up. Several of Thracian’s warriors went ahead and lowered cables for the purpose. Felix watched as the methanol vault crawled upwards. Its labouring suspensor unit nullified mass as best it could, but still it taxed the Scythes of the Emperor, who sang their laments through teeth gritted with the effort.
Cawl clambered up with the efficiency of a spider, his multiple legs rippling easily up the steps, arms grasping for hand holds, while his weaponised lower limbs swept both upper and lower reaches of the shaft for threats. His giant axe he held far back from his body in one rigid arm, the most humanlike of all his supplemental limbs, but the awkward weight did not inconvenience him, and he was soon out of sight of Felix.
Qvo-87 followed next, floating past the labouring Space Marines on a contra-grav engine with a small, metallic chuckle.
The Angel’s Ladder went a quarter of a mile straight up. Even the Space Marines were sweating within their power armour by the time they reached the top. The stair was at its steepest there, and had become plain in construction, with the carvings restricted to inspirational mottos, but as Felix hauled himself up over the lip, he found himself in a hall of great grandeur.
Polished marble, only slightly damaged by the planet’s fall, led along a straight hallway to a pointed arch furnished with polished bronze doors that stood half-open. The way was lined by statues on podiums which rose over three hundred feet from dark trenches either side of the hall to stand level with the floor. The ceiling had been made of crystal, now all broken. Surprisingly, the statues were not all of Space Marines.
Several Scythes of the Emperor had already attained the top, and were securing their gene vault before rigging their cables to bring up their Terminator armoured brethren. Cawl stood at the far end of the hall with Qvo-87. Felix paused on his way to join him, looking up into the faces of the mortal humans and the Space Marines lining the walkway. Several were missing pieces. Not one was unmarked by battle damage.
Thracian joined him.
‘This is the Walk of the First Scythes. These are the first of our order and the men and women of ancient days who fought at our sides in the Heresy,’ said Thracian. ‘Since then we have had special care for the humans of Sotha. They were heroes to us all, human and transhuman alike.’ He stopped before a heroically posed human soldier. ‘This one, Meriq, he was my favourite when I was a boy. They say he was such a great warrior he could fight with a Space Marine on his own terms.’ He shook his head at the idea. ‘Who knows if any of the legends from those times are true. The same stories say this hall was once a promontory of rock, and Roboute Guilliman himself rewarded the survivors of the war with our mark.’ He tapped at the crossed scythes on his shoulder plate. ‘I like to think the tales are true, but who can tell?’
‘When you meet the primarch, Chapter Master, you can ask him yourself,’ said Felix. ‘Though I warn you to be straightforward and not too worshipful. It annoys him. But he can be coaxed to reveal the truth of ancient days. The stories he tells are often surprising.’
‘You are from those times, so I heard,’ said Thracian. ‘What do you know of the days of legend?’
‘Nothing. I was a boy when I was taken,’ said Felix. ‘And what do boys know?’
‘Decimus! Decimus!’ Cawl’s voice intruded, bringing unwelcome recollections of Felix’s apotheosis back to him.
‘Archmagos,’ said Felix.
‘We are ready to proceed within. Join me.’
Felix looked down the corridor. While he had been examining the statues, Cawl had gone to the bronze doors leading into the lower reaches of the Scythes of the Emperor’s citadel.
Cawl had spoken with Felix pri
vately, so Felix now spoke to Thracian.
‘The archmagos is up to something,’ he said, as Cawl and Qvo passed the gate. ‘Come with me.’
Thracian checked his warriors’ progress. Forgemaster Sebastion was overseeing the winching of the Terminators up the Angel’s Ladder into the Walk of the First Scythes.
‘How long?’ Felix heard Thracian ask his men. He was not privy to the reply. The Chapter Master then turned to Felix.
‘It will take some time to bring the Terminators up the stair,’ the Chapter Master said. ‘Yet Cawl forces us to follow. I gave him full rein to do as he pleased here, but the Hall of the Founder is one of our most sacred sites. I will not let him loose alone in there. I wish he would have waited.’
Thracian and Felix passed through the bronze doors into a large chamber, the Chosen and a good portion of Thracian’s men following. The Hall of the Founder was also faced with marble and played host to more statues, these all Space Marines in heavily decorated battleplate. An iron rondel set into the centre of the floor bore the crossed scythes of the Chapter, and was surrounded in turn by mosaics of cut stone depicting the ten stylised equines who represented the Chapter’s companies. Two flights of stairs led off at the back of the room, one upwards and one downwards, both flights being more elegantly finished and less punishing to climb than the Crooked Stair.
Not enough daylight got in through the doors to light the room, and it was as dark as any natural cave. Nevertheless, it was apparent a terrible battle had taken place in the Hall of the Founder. It was badly damaged; much of the marble facing in the room was shattered, showing the black rock of the mountain beneath, and half the statues had been toppled. Blackstone shone behind the holes in the false ceiling. Over sixty suits of armour lay in pieces all over the ground, many atop webs of cracks in the paving that showed how hard they had fallen. The wargear was uniformly ruined, ripped open by immense claws, burned by chemical flames and pierced by spears of bone. Acid spatter dotted the wall facing and the paving, but – as it was everywhere upon Sotha – no trace of organic material remained. Each gobbet of flesh and splash of mucous had been gathered up by the harvester creatures of the hive fleet and taken away for reuse.
Cawl and Qvo-87 performed mysterious work at the centre of the room. They stood still for a while, then their artificial enhancements would go into a brief burst of activity, then they would stand still again. There was a tension there.
The ground shook.
‘Did you feel that?’ Felix asked Thracian. ‘Another tremor.’
‘It is a pattern,’ said Thracian. ‘Regular.’
Soft, brief pulses of energy pushed through the stone. Unlike the earlier earthquakes, they came unaccompanied by visions, and were of short, regular duration and power.
‘Cawl,’ said Felix. ‘Stop what you are doing.’
The archmagos ignored him. He performed further actions of esoteric technomancy, his hands moving through the air as if conducting an orchestra, while his servo-skulls swooped about his head in tight patterns.
The pattern of the tremors changed, becoming a repeating cycle of five brief vibrations followed by a sixth, stronger quake.
‘Cawl!’ Felix shouted over the vox. ‘I know you can hear me. What are you doing?’
A large slab of marble slammed down from the ceiling.
‘Cawl!’
Thracian looked up and pointed. ‘There!’
Lights blinked on in the depths of the blackstone. It glowed with line-straight runs of pulsing dots that raced around one another in increasing density. The tremors picked up strength, until the mountain shuddered with each. Lesser beats joined the shaking, and it became a percussive beat.
The rest of the Chosen came running into the room with a number of Thracian’s veterans. All of them had their guns up and ready. Ixen leapt sideways as a statue leaning forwards on its plinth broke off at the ankles and toppled to the floor.
‘Tetrarch! What is happening?’ shouted Cominus. The vox blurred, smearing his message to broken gibberish. Each tremor spiked interference in their vox-comms.
‘Cawl, that’s enough!’ Felix said. He marched forwards, only to be intercepted by Alpha Primus halfway across the hall’s floor, who blocked his way. Each step Felix made to bypass him he matched.
‘The archmagos must not be disturbed,’ said Alpha Primus. ‘Wait.’
‘Out of my way!’ Felix said. ‘He’s going to bring the mountain down.’
‘You will wait,’ said Alpha Primus. Witchfire shone around his head.
Bolt rifles and bolters were trained on the giant. Alpha Primus swept his dull green eye lenses over the other Space Marines like they were nothing.
‘Move!’ Cominus shouted. ‘Move or we open fire!’
‘Do not threaten me,’ said Alpha Primus. His hand settled on the hilt of his chainsword. Cold energies crawled across his head and shoulders.
‘Cawl!’ shouted Felix.
The tremors became a thrumming, then stabilised, so that the mountain vibrated constantly at a low, tooth-jarring frequency. A final panel of marble cracked and shifted to hang half off the wall.
‘I do apologise, Decimus, but this is an exciting development,’ Cawl shouted. ‘I intended only to attempt a preliminary linkage with the xenos machine, but its activity levels have enabled me to do far more than that.’ He gave a little bow. The light of his augmetic eyes dimmed as his vision turned inwards. ‘It is my great pleasure to present to you a little of the Pharos’ ability.’
Chapter Twelve
The Hall of the Founder
Light flooded the hall, and then there were warriors everywhere; men of the Scythes of the Emperor, running down the stairs and up the stairs into the hall, firing behind them as they came.
The party reacted predictably, switching their weapons to bear upon the newcomers, but it took them only an instant to see them for what they were. Though solid seeming, they were not. Yansar gasped as one ran right through him. Tullio moved out of the path of another.
‘Hold fire!’ Felix commanded.
‘They are phantoms. They’re not real,’ said Daelus. His voice broke up, and he had to repeat himself twice.
‘Steady!’ Felix said, seeing the unease taking the Scythes of the Emperor. ‘This is an image capture.’
‘This is xenos sorcery,’ said Cominus, watching the silent rush of Space Marines.
‘No,’ said Thracian helplessly. ‘Why must we bear witness to this? I could not save them. I could not help them.’
‘I do not see you among them,’ said Felix. It sounded more of an accusation than he had intended.
‘I was not here,’ Thracian said. ‘I was not here to help them. I pulled my company out.’ The vox stabilised, as if relishing Thracian’s shame. ‘I ignored my orders. We evacuated. We left them to die. This is the last stand of the Scythes of the Emperor.’
‘Your Chapter lives, thanks to you,’ said Felix.
‘My brothers died,’ said Thracian angrily.
The way the light shone on these Space Marines betrayed a different time of day and active lumens in the ceiling. Shadows from objects Felix and his men could not see passed over the room. The projection field encompassed nearly all of the Hall of the Founder, but it ended with sharp delineation between the then and the now before it hit the walls, and the company instinctively moved to the edge of the display. Once they were out of the display field it seemed to become more real and the present became unreal, no more solid than an uneasy premonition. Felix felt as if he were being pulled into the scene the machine replayed, and that if he only listened a little more attentively, he would hear the shouts of the warriors and the reports of their guns.
In silent play the warriors ran together, forming up in a circle around a pair of captains, a Chaplain and three company banner bearers who occupied the great iron rondel. Stray tyranid b
easts exploded under gunfire as three warriors forced the bronze doors closed. Owing to the limitations of the projection, Felix could not see what was coming for them, but he knew, and his hearts quickened in sympathy. Many of the Scythes of the Emperor in the display were unhelmeted, and Felix saw their lips moving in song. The words were different to those he knew from his own Chapter, but he recognised a death hymn when he saw it.
Cawl watched Space Marines past and present with interest. Qvo-87 took notes.
The guns of the Scythes of the Emperor flashed. Bolt trails disappeared beyond the edge of the projection field. Short bursts became fully automatic fire.
In a tsunami of garish alien flesh the tyranids rushed into the chamber. Felix felt their ghostly presence as they passed through him, stirring his Emperor’s gifts to life and flooding his body with combat stimulants. The same was happening to them all. They tensed, ready to sell their lives as their brothers in the doomed Chapter died.
Running tyranids burst from the staircase leading down. Winged tyranids boiled from the staircase leading up in a rush of crimson and cream.
In seconds, the Scythes of the Emperor were overwhelmed. The desperation on their faces, the sorrow at the loss of their Chapter and the shame of defeat, all seemed so much stronger without the faintest whisper of sound.
Felix watched the standard of the Fifth Company fall to the ground, painted with arcs of arterial spray. He saw a desperate scout try and fail to take it up.
‘Enough,’ said Felix.
The Chaplain swung his crozius, obliterating the skull of a genestealer in a cloud of disruption lightning. Three more tore him to pieces. He fell near where his broken armour still rested on the floor. Statues collapsed under the onrushing horde to lie where they lay in the present.
‘Cawl! Turn it off!’ Felix ordered.
More death, more blood. Loyal servants of the Emperor clawed down to make feedstock for tyranid bioforms. They could not save themselves. They could not be helped. All Felix could do was watch them be ripped apart and be consumed.