Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Read online

  Apis hesitated. He wanted to leave. He didn’t care for the meditation chamber or the things he glimpsed in the fug of the censer. But he sat. ‘Are the gods truly with us?’

  ‘Do you doubt them?’

  Apis shook his head. ‘I merely wish to know the nature of our quest – is it merely another campaign, or is it a crusade? Do we march in holy purpose, or merely to fulfil some objective of the Dark Council?’

  Amatnim was silent for a time. When he answered, he did so slowly. ‘The gods are manifold. They, like us, are legion. Each god has many hands, put to many wheels. That some of those hands are upon our shoulders is obvious. For Khorne, well… we drown a system in war and slaughter. His hounds flock to us, eager to shed blood. For Nurgle, there is the despair our presence brings. The plagues that rise in the wake of any war. For Tzeentch – look around. We stew in our own ambitions. A hundred petty schemes and hopes surround us, and more are conceived or dashed asunder by our actions. And Slaanesh… well. The Dark Prince seems to favour Ganor, whatever else.’

  ‘But there’s another reason,’ Apis pressed. ‘The way you speak – it is as if the gods have joined together in this matter.’

  Amatnim smiled and leaned forward, wafting the incense about himself with a loose gesture. ‘They have. Or so Lorgar claimed.’

  ‘Lorgar?’ Apis said. ‘But no one has seen him in centuries.’

  ‘That is true. And yet, I did.’ Amatnim’s gaze became unfocused. ‘I went into the desert of bones and meditated for forty days and nights before the black gates of the Templum Inficio. No sustenance, only unceasing prayer. And on the eve of the forty-first day, I heard a child’s voice, and it bade me find our lost brother. And so I did, and my quest began.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot say what awaits us at the end of our quest. Only that it is of import to the gods. The universe drowns in a new and blessed madness. But the Risen Son would build dams and dykes to hold back the seas of truth.’

  ‘Why does Lorgar not sally forth to meet him?’ Apis asked, without thinking.

  ‘I think he will, brother. But not yet. The ground must be made ready for him.’ He frowned. ‘Places like Almace – or Pergo – are cancerous nodes of deceit in the body of ultimate truth. Anathema worlds, where all but the strongest Neverborn are rendered ineffectual upon their surface, and the words of the gods sound hollow. If they are allowed to flourish unchecked, all that has been done, might yet be undone. What we do, here, now, might well cease their spread.’

  ‘Or it might encourage it,’ Apis said. The thought came unbidden, and he did not know why he spoke. Was something smiling at him from the depths of the censer steam? He felt the pressure of the Neverborn gathering close. Attentive. Anticipatory.

  Amatnim smiled. ‘Yes. Either way, the gods will be pleased.’

  ‘But…?’ Apis pressed.

  Amatnim laughed. A loud rumble, as of a contented predator. A soldier’s laugh. Not that of a priest. Apis relaxed. ‘But I have no doubt in my destiny, or in the gods’ plans for us, brother. They have guided me and guarded me across black seas of infinity. Why then would they abandon me on such a hostile shore?’ He clasped the back of Apis’ head. ‘Fear not, brother. They are with us, and we will know victory. Now come. I would be on the bridge, when we reach our goal.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  ‘Leave nothing alive,’ Lakmhu snarled, as cultists flooded past him into the mining facility. Booby traps at the main entrances had cut their numbers, but their courage was undimmed, thanks to the Word Bearers who stalked in their wake. He stepped past the entry bulkhead and into the hall, following his servants.

  The entry hall to the facility was larger than he’d imagined. Gantries stretched into the dark like rusty highways, grav-shunts parked along their lengths. And beneath the gantries – a deeper darkness. There were lights there, far past the limits of human vision, but not that of a Space Marine. The lower levels, the ore processors, the thermal forges – a kingdom of industry, ripe for the taking. It was almost a shame to destroy it. But when the gods commanded, their servants could but obey.

  ‘Bring me skulls and flensed meat,’ Lakmhu continued, exhorting the pathetic creatures that swarmed about him, spilling across the unguarded gantries. ‘Bring me blood and souls. Or offer up yours in recompense. The gods demand it!’

  A ragged cheer went up, and some among the cultists began to sing. Lakmhu tuned them out as he turned to Yatl. ‘Report.’

  ‘We’ve secured three other entrances. Losses at thirty-two per cent.’

  Lakmhu grunted. ‘More traps?’

  ‘The meat is cunning.’

  ‘Too cunning. What about the launch bays?’ He’d sent hand-picked warriors to secure the identified bays before more ore-cutters were launched. He’d seen the first wave of small vessels arrow towards the fleet, even as his gunship had touched down. He didn’t know what they hoped to achieve, but he had no doubt it would serve to infuriate Amatnim. The thought pleased him immensely.

  ‘They haven’t checked in.’ Yatl paused. He pointed. ‘Did someone warn them about not taking the shunts?’

  Lakmhu turned, even as the first grav-shunt exploded, consuming a dozen men and wounding twice that many who had been standing nearby. As if that had been a signal, the other shunts blew up as well, one after the next. The darkness was as bright as day for several moments. Lakmhu watched in silence as almost a third of the chattels he’d brought in died without firing a shot.

  Yatl laughed. ‘Well. That was amusing, if somewhat unfortunate.’

  Lakmhu turned to look at him, and Yatl choked on his laughter. ‘Contact the fleet. We need more chaff to herd into this warren. I am not risking Legion lives in this place.’

  Yatl nodded – and then made a quiet sound. Almost an exhalation. Slowly, he toppled backwards, a stream of blood spurting from his ruined visor. Lakmhu whirled as he heard the shot that had killed his aide. Another shot took him high in the chest, and he stumbled back into the looming shape of his remaining blade slave. The brute caught Lakmhu and spun, putting itself between him and the unseen sniper. A second crack then a third followed. Another Word Bearer fell from a gantry, as the survivors opened up with their boltguns, firing in all directions. The red-armoured warriors fell back towards the entry point, abandoning the surviving mortals. An old tactic, honed in a thousand wars. Ingrained and instinctive. To press forward in unfavourable circumstances was to invite defeat.

  Lakmhu heard the chatter of autoguns and the distinctive hiss of lasrifles. ‘Ambush,’ he muttered. Of course. He’d expected that. He hadn’t expected them to have weapons that could pierce power armour, however. He pushed away from his bodyguard and lurched towards Yatl. Despite the bullet in his brain, Yatl was still alive. The meat was strong, even if the mind was in ruins. That was good.

  He drew his knife and winced. He glanced down at his own wound. It had sealed, trapping the bullet inside him. He’d have to dig it out later. He slammed the knife down, puncturing the seals on Yatl’s armour. Swiftly, he pried away the chest-plate, revealing the black carapace beneath – or what had been the carapace, several thousand years ago. Centuries in the warp had given it the consistency of muscle tissue, and it pulsed with grey veins that spurted ichor as he sliced through them. Yatl made a sound like a groan.

  More shots rang out, and screams from the mortals as they realised their benefactors were abandoning them. The others were almost at him. Bullets hissed from the dark around them, forcing them to bunch up as they withdrew. Lakmhu paid the incoming fire little heed, concentrating on the task before him. They needed reinforcements. All it would take was a little sacrifice.

  With a grunt, he tore one of Yatl’s hearts out and spoke the six sacred words taught to him by Erebus himself. Yatl had been riven with ambition. Desire. Need. His soul-stuff would taste sweetest to the court of the Dark Prince, and Lakmhu called out to them. He squeezed
the heart, and for every drop of blood the whispers in the back of his mind grew stronger. Smoke rose from the droplets. It smelled like incense and rotten sugar.

  He whispered a prayer for Yatl’s soul as he consigned it to the hungry maws of the Neverborn that crouched beyond the veil. The smoke swirled about him and he felt questing tendrils brush tenderly across his armour.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Hunt them. Take what you wish, with my blessing.’ Laughter greeted these words, and he heard the scrape of claws on metal. And then, something else – a low pulse. Hidden, before now, beneath the noise of the ambush. He heaved Yatl aside and saw something through the slats of the gantry. A sensor-plate, attached to a remote detonator. Yatl’s heart slipped from his hand, and the Neverborn wailed in frustration as his concentration slipped. He rose to his feet – but slowly, too slowly.

  He saw the others drawing towards him. Bunched together in close formation, so that they could more effectively direct covering fire. A Legion tactic. The sort of tactic their foe would predict – not the foe he’d expected, but the real one. ‘Back,’ he roared. ‘Get back – scatter–’

  Too late. A ripple of explosions tore through the nearest gantries, filling the air with shrapnel and bodies. The explosions swamped the retreating Word Bearers, obscuring them from Lakmhu’s sight. He was thrown backwards by the force of the blast. His blade slave caught him and sent him hurtling back through the entrance as the last of the explosions went off. Lakmhu lay still for long moments, trying to reorient himself.

  As he picked himself up, his blade slave stepped through the smoke, its flesh and armour charred and torn. It was otherwise unharmed and it still held its weapon. Behind it came half a dozen Word Bearers, some supporting others. He looked down at his hand, stained with Yatl’s blood, and heard the murmuring of the Neverborn. Having had their appetites aroused, they were not eager to subside.

  He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  ‘Fall back to the entry points,’ he said. ‘We need reinforcements.’

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  ‘Incoming.’

  Amatnim looked up from his tactical projections. ‘What?’ His skin was still damp from the mediation chamber, and it chafed against his battleplate at the sudden motion.

  A flare of light filled the command deck as a ship exploded. He dismissed the projections. ‘Which vessel was that?’ he demanded.

  Another flare of light. And another and another. The viewscreen seemed to ripple with them, and he could hear the Glory Eternal’s subsonic snarl of consternation. ‘Someone report – now!’ Amatnim bellowed, as he rose to his feet.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ a Word Bearer said, from the primus strategium, just behind the command throne. The raised plinth was all but hidden by a constant swarm of tactical data and telemetry feeds. Amatnim turned.

  ‘So I gathered. By whom? And from where?’

  ‘The asteroid belt. It started as soon as we entered.’

  Amatnim turned back to the viewscreen. The fleet had entered the asteroid belt, trusting the smaller vessels of the pirates to find relatively safe paths to the planet beyond. Where that wasn’t possible, frigates employed their weapons batteries to break up the chunks of debris and open larger pathways for the Glory Eternal and the remaining cruisers. He saw a flash, and pointed. ‘There – grid point zeta twenty-six. Magnify.’

  The image on the viewscreen shimmered and expanded. A squat shape spurted from the greater tumbling mass of stellar debris. Amatnim recognised it as a type of mining vessel. It closed quickly with an assault-cutter. There was a staccato flash as an improvised plasma lance scythed out, cutting into the assault craft’s hull. The lance flickered again and again, too rapidly for the cutter’s crew to react. The larger vessel succumbed, its death throes consuming the smaller.

  More small vessels slashed into view, their thrusters hurling them forward in fits and starts – a clear sign that they were being pushed past tolerance levels. Some exploded before they reached their targets. Others only managed a single shot, before they were ripped apart by the strain of the attempt.

  ‘Fireships,’ Amatnim said, not without admiration. ‘They’ve converted ore-cutters into fireships.’ He turned. ‘Contact all ships – I want them to target those vessels. Now.’

  More explosions lit up the viewscreen. Damage estimates rolled across the data-feed. Escorts and attack craft burned in the void. The ore-cutters were little more than armoured torpedoes, built to withstand damage that would crumple any other vessel of comparable size. Worse, they were armed. The lances they wielded were small pinpricks of light, but they stung nonetheless.

  Amatnim sank back down in his throne. The ore-cutters were no threat to the larger vessels in his fleet, but they were a definite hindrance. They impacted against the fleet’s screeners, scattering them or forcing them to tighten their formations.

  ‘Contact the Dark Apostle,’ he said to the Word Bearer at the vox-station. ‘He should have landed by now. When you’ve established a link, patch it through to my personal frequency.’ He turned back to the viewscreen.

  He watched the pirate vessels, led by Prince Ganor’s frigate, spread out ahead of the Glory Eternal and the rest of the fleet. They were eager – impatient. He’d learned much about them since Ganor had joined him. Most of the pirates were just that, criminals and outlaws. But some, like Ganor, were victims of circumstance. The worshippers of the Corpse-God were harsh with those who proved themselves unwilling to serve their morbid creed. They alienated those who might otherwise have been their staunchest servants.

  He smiled. ‘So has it ever been,’ he murmured. Ganor served a new master now, though he knew it not. The princeling had a daemon in his belly no less savage than that which inhabited Lakmhu’s slave. In time, with the proper attention, it might even grow into something great and terrible.

  He wondered what would become of Almace, under Ganor. And what would become of Ganor, if he was made ruler of Almace. Together, they might become something truly pleasing to the gods. But first, the world had to be wrested from its current rulers.

  His vox chimed, interrupting his train of thought.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lakmhu snarled, his voice distorted by static.

  Amatnim grinned. Lakmhu sounded stressed. ‘We are under attack. Ships launched from the mining facilities. Would you mind seeing to it, brother?’

  ‘Humour, Amatnim?’

  ‘No. Simply a request, from one legionary to another.’

  Silence, broken only by the crackle of static. Soon, they would be out of vox range, unless Lakmhu managed to take the facility. Then, ‘I will make the attempt.’

  ‘That is all I ask, brother.’

  Lakmhu cut the connection. Amatnim sat back, smiling. ‘All ahead full,’ he called out. ‘Almace awaits.’

  Prince Ganor cursed as the command deck of Kabalevsky’s Wrath shivered. The frigate shuddered again, as its forward batteries unleashed a salvo against another wave of ore-cutters. The tiny vessels ceased to exist. But there were more coming. Dozens of them, hiding in the asteroid belt. The damned miners had seemingly weaponised every scow at their disposal. He ground his teeth in frustration. He could only imagine what the Word Bearers were thinking.

  Conflicting shouts from his crew warred for his attentions. Ganor turned as Loomis, his first officer, called out to him from the primus strategium. ‘My lord, three more on the starboard side.’ Loomis was a spare, hollow-cheeked man, his bald head studded with feed-cables that connected him directly to the frigate’s systems. Loomis had been a devotee of the Machine-God, once. Now he served Ganor.

  ‘Can we avoid them?’

  ‘No, my lord. They’re too close. No time to alter course.’

  ‘Then keep firing,’ he snarled. ‘Take as many of them out as possible.’

  Thankfully, there weren’t that many ore-cutter
s. He knew enough about the mining facilities to know that there were maybe a few hundred – three, at the most. Their plasma lances were little more than pinpricks to the larger vessels of the fleet. But for anything smaller than a frigate, they might spell disaster.

  ‘Incoming vox, my lord,’ a crewman called out.

  ‘Patch it through,’ Ganor said.

  ‘If I survive this, I’m taking your head, Ganor,’ Amina Dheel snarled. ‘You never said anything about dogfighting miners.’

  Ganor winced and modulated the frequency volume. ‘Dheel – how nice that you’re still alive. We’re almost through the asteroid belt. If you’d like to meet on neutral ground…’

  Dheel’s response was inarticulate cursing. Ganor swiped two fingers across his throat, and the vox-operator cut the frequency. He sat back. He knew the other captains would be sending him similar messages, blaming him for things entirely outside his control. But they’d see things differently once they reached Almace.

  His hands curled into fists as he stared at the viewscreen, watching broken asteroids spin past the prow of his ship. Little dots of light marked the presence of outposts and augur-stations. Almace knew they were coming by now, whether the cardinal-governor had admitted it or not. He slumped back in his seat, imagining the homecoming that awaited him. Imagining what he would do with a world – a system – of his own.

  It will be as it was before.

  He nodded. It would be like it had been before. That perfect kingdom of childhood memory, when the Kabalevsky name was feared and respected.

  All will love you and bow before you.

  He smiled slightly, and felt something in him purr in satisfaction. Ever since he’d met Amatnim, he’d felt as if he possessed a greater clarity than ever before. As if his desires were within reach. As if all the galaxy were there for the taking.

  It is yours. All you have to do is listen… listen…

  He sat back, feeling the reverberations of the guns echoing through the deck-plates. Every thud felt like a heartbeat. Every pulse brought him a step closer to his goal. Asteroids cracked and shattered, spinning from the frigate’s path. Other vessels closed in and ranged ahead and a brief, mad urge to fire on them – to claim the vanguard for himself – filled him. Instead, he signalled Loomis. ‘All ahead full. We’re close enough to the edge of the belt to burst through.’