Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 6

  Calder looked at him. ‘Then why attack them at all? Why expend the resources?’

  ‘As well as producing agri-tithes, they’re shrine worlds. Well, two of them. Hopewell is a mortuary world. Was a mortuary world, I should say.’ Eamon smiled thinly. ‘None of the worlds in this system are of any great strategic value, as I’m sure you are aware. We are self-sufficient, but nothing more.’

  Calder looked at him. ‘This makes little sense. If not conquest or conversion, then what is the goal? Destruction for destruction’s sake?’

  ‘The actions of the cursed ones often make little sense.’ Suboden stroked his wispy beard contemplatively, tugging on the braided end. ‘But you’re right. They do not seem to be interested in conquest, or raiding.’

  Karros spoke up, then. ‘No. They’re making straight for Almace.’

  ‘A good assumption. But where are they now?’ Calder asked.

  Eamon grimaced and looked at Tyre. The swordmaster’s smile was grotesque and mirthless. ‘Gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’ Suboden demanded.

  ‘Just that, my lord. Vanished into the wilderness between the rim and the outer core.’

  Eamon spoke up. ‘This system is larger than it looks – much of it is empty, save for asteroid fields and other celestial phenomena. And our augury systems are out of date and stretched to the limit besides. At the moment, it is all we can do to keep the regular trade lanes monitored.’

  Tyre grunted. ‘Once they reach the core-edge, we’ll spot them.’

  Calder nodded. ‘But by then, it’ll be too late.’ He stared at the projection, calculating. ‘At current speed, they’ll likely reach the core system in seventy-two standard hours. From there, it’s an additional forty-eight to Almace. We must make ready.’

  Karros and Suboden exchanged glances. ‘He’s right,’ Eamon said quickly. ‘While I would dearly love to know the reason this system has been afflicted with this horror, that knowledge is of secondary importance to ending it.’ He clasped his hands before him. ‘All of the remaining resources of this system are at your disposal, lieutenant. If the Emperor’s own begotten son trusts you, then I can do no less.’

  Slowly, the cardinal-governor sank to one knee, and spread his arms. Tyre and Lorr glanced at one another, and Calder at once understood that this was unusual. Cardinals, especially those who ruled worlds, were not supposed to abase themselves, even before the Emperor’s Judgement made flesh. ‘Will you help us, son of Dorn?’ Eamon asked, softly.

  Calder looked at Suboden and Karros. Then, he nodded.

  ‘We will do as we must,’ he said.

  Chapter Three

  14:00:00

  Odoacer System, spinward edge

  The holo-display was the colour of blood. Leering, daemonic faces bulged from the surface of the projection, mouthing obscenities. Amatnim irritably waved a hand through them. ‘Be gone,’ he murmured. The daemons subsided grudgingly, sinking back unseen into the circuitry of the hololithic projector.

  While the places beyond real space offered sanctuary to the followers of the Primordial Truth, they also came with their fair share of annoyances. Ships that prowled those cosmic seas long enough often picked up vermin, of sorts. Minor daemons and peculiar manifestations plagued the systems of the Glory Eternal. A small price to pay for the power that came with such things, but the more obnoxious entities often chose the most inopportune moments to reveal themselves.

  Around him, his captains murmured among themselves. He watched them through hooded eyes, weighing them individually and as a group. They were a glorious assemblage, culled from the thousand Chapters of the Legion. Word Bearers all, for only the faithful could be trusted in these times. All were armed, for he did not fear them. And in any event, he too bore weapons. By his side hung his faithful axe-rake. It, like the bolt pistol holstered on his hip, had seen him through a thousand crusades, and would see him through a thousand more, gods willing. He wondered how many of his followers could say the same.

  Some led only a few warriors. Others commanded small fleets. But all had bent the knee to him. The Dark Council had seen to it. The wise men of Sicarius had perceived the way the winds of fortune were blowing, and had thrown their weight behind Amatnim and his destiny. The gods had set their shoulders to the wheel of his fate.

  But that was not to say that those wicked old men did not intend to take advantage of his triumphs. They had sent their servants and slaves to watch him. To wait and scheme in his shadow. Lakmhu was one such, as were many of those now assembled on the command deck. An army of spies and plotters. Amatnim smiled, and knew that they would be wondering what the expression meant. His every utterance was dissected for meaning and purpose. Such strife was infuriating, for all that it fed the gods. It was an obstacle.

  But obstacles could be overcome, with proper planning.

  ‘We shall take each mid-system world in turn, one at a time,’ he said, studying the holo-display. ‘We shall illuminate our path to Almace by the light of world-pyres.’

  ‘Consolidation?’ one of his subordinates, Kespu, asked. A tall, gangling creature – skeletally thin, even in his ornately wrought battleplate. His red armour was studded with precious gems and gilt, and he wore robes of brightly dyed damask. Kespu was accompanied by a coterie of scuttling daemonborn – the malformed offspring of lesser Neverborn and mortal parents. The twisted creatures hid their abnormal shapes within cowls and robes, and busied themselves scratching Kespu’s utterances onto the scrolls they held, as they murmured softly to one another in their bleating tongue.

  Amatnim acknowledged Kespu with a nod. ‘No. We continue to strike, and move on, as we have been. When we reach mid-system, Ashu and Kallabor will break off from the main advance.’ He looked at two of the Word Bearers to his left. He knew them only by reputation. Ashu had fought at Calth, or so he claimed, and his battleplate, like Amatnim’s, was scraped grey. He was a line soldier, built for war and good at little else.

  Kallabor, on the other hand, was of the new breed, raised up from mortal existence in the decades following the retreat from Terra. His armour was the colour of a new wound, and, judging by the smell, had been etched with holy acids recently. Glass vials and clay jugs, marked with sigils of binding, hung from his battleplate. He recalled that Kallabor was a diabolist by inclination, as many among the captains of the Legion were.

  Lakmhu stood just behind him, and Amatnim wondered whether the Dark Apostle had been whispering into the other’s ear, only moments ago. Kallabor was exactly the sort of warrior Lakmhu preferred – boastful and devout in equal measure, but powerful in his own way. And foolish enough not to realise that his power was nothing more than a gift.

  Amatnim gestured to the system display. ‘You will continue to raid the outer worlds – slaves and supplies are the priorities. Burn everything else. By the time we’re done, this system will be a pyre, marking our triumph.’

  Ashu folded his hands in salute, but Kallabor bristled. ‘Send someone else,’ he growled. ‘I will not be denied my fair share of glory, brother.’

  Amatnim did not look at him. He imagined that Lakmhu was smiling. For all his oratorical skill, Lakmhu was predictable. ‘You are denied nothing. All contribute, in their own way. And all are rewarded.’

  ‘If all are the same, then there should be no issue. Send another.’

  Amatnim sighed, softly. He could feel the eyes of the others on him. Their gazes were calculating and cold. Brotherhood was a fluid concept, at times. The gods favoured those who seized their moment, and showed initiative.

  He turned and fixed Kallabor with a steady stare. ‘And who would you suggest, brother? Kespu? Apis? Which of your brothers should step up, where you falter?’

  ‘I do not falter.’ Kallabor flexed his hands, and Amatnim felt the tug of the warp.

  ‘Then do your duty.’

  ‘I do.’ Kallabor sp
read his arms, and looked around. ‘I challenge a weak leader, as the gods command. Their hands are upon my shoulders, and they have turned their faces from you, Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash.’

  The words were part insult, part ritual. An old rite, one of the oldest in the Legion. The gods gave their favour with one hand, and took it away with the other. It was the duty of the faithful to punish those who had lost the goodwill of the Ruinous Powers. To be a Bearer of the Word was to serve one of the most murderous meritocracies in existence. Only the strong and the clever survived. Thus were the gods entertained.

  But this was not the gods’ will. This moment belonged to another. Amatnim met Lakmhu’s gaze, and saw the Dark Apostle’s lips twitch, as if restraining a smile. Tiresome Lakmhu. So short-sighted, for one so blessed.

  Amatnim turned his attentions back to Kallabor. ‘Is that the way of it, then?’ he said. ‘Is this truly the moment you wish to do this?’

  ‘It is past time,’ Kallabor said, smiling. He reached for a clay jug and scraped the wax seal away with a flick of his thumb. ‘You take too long, brother. The gods demand a feast, and you feed them scraps. Almace awaits, and yet we waste our energies on lesser targets. Why do you dawdle so?’

  Amatnim stepped away from the hololithic projector as the others made room. He could hear some among them making wagers, and laughed. Kallabor flushed, thinking it was directed at him. ‘I do not dawdle, brother. I merely take my time. This is not a war of conquest, whatever you might think. It is a battle for the soul of our Legion.’

  Silence fell, at these words. Amatnim nodded and looked around. ‘Yes, you heard me. We know about souls, don’t we, brothers? We make use of them the way a merchant makes use of coin. We hoard them and barter them, we sell them piecemeal or all at once. We are the farmers of the gods, and it is by our efforts that they are nourished.’

  He turned, keeping Kallabor in sight, but seemingly paying him no heed. A calculated provocation. ‘The gods have spoken, and I obey. Almace holds something of value, and it is my quest to find it – to bring it before the Dark Council, so that it might raise up our Legion. That it might unite us, in a way we have not been united since the Urizen turned his eyes from us.’

  An intake of breath. Murmurs. Some angry, some thoughtful. As it always was. Amatnim felt the pulse of the warp beating in his head. Something was coming, climbing up out of the abysses of Kallabor’s clay jugs. The other Word Bearer was murmuring the words of binding. Amatnim let him mutter. While another might have silenced his opponent then and there, Amatnim recognised the value of the opportunity at hand. Kallabor was giving him a gift, whether he realised it or not.

  ‘The galaxy burns with righteous conflagration, brothers. And where are we? Where are the Bearers of the Word, the Chosen of the Gods? Why do we not lead our cousins from the Eye of Terror in a grand crusade, the equal of that ancient war that brought us here? Why do we let others lead the charge?’ He made a fist. ‘We lack unity. We seek sublimity at the expense of purpose. But not for much longer.’

  He turned, presenting his back to Kallabor. Inviting him to make his attack. ‘That is why we are here, why we burn a path to Almace. To find the thing which will unite us, as we once were.’ He locked eyes with his subordinates, each in their turn – inviting them to disagree. None did. This was not their moment of challenge.

  ‘Enough talking. Turn, Amatnim. Meet your fate.’

  Amatnim turned. ‘Meet my fate? Have you added divination to your bag of tricks, Kallabor? Have you seen my future then? Tell me – what is it?’

  ‘Death,’ Kallabor said. He flung out his hand, and the air rippled about him. There was a smell, like sour milk and burnt meat, and a sound like tearing silk. Something bled into sight, talons striking the deck as it hurled itself towards Amatnim.

  The daemon was a simple thing – an amalgamation of hunger and pain, given flesh by the word of a god. It was all teeth and loose, gangling limbs, a cyclone of talons and gnashing jaws. It wailed as it sped towards him, in a voice that was at once that of a frightened child and a demented ancient.

  Amatnim steeled himself, but did not draw a weapon. It was not necessary. Instead, he flung out a hand, fingers spread, and caught the charging Neverborn by its waxen skull. It thrashed for a moment, confused by its abrupt stop. Thorny tendrils lashed out, scraping across his armour and flesh. ‘Stop,’ Amatnim said simply.

  It stopped. A half-formed maw gave vent to a shrill whine of confusion. ‘Sit,’ he murmured. The daemon sank down on its excess of limbs, shuddering and whimpering. Amatnim heard a murmur pass through the ranks, and allowed himself a smile. He studied the daemon for a moment, and then turned his gaze onto Kallabor.

  ‘Is that it, brother? One little half-made thing? Is that all you have to throw at me?’

  Kallabor stared at him in incomprehension. ‘What–? How…?’

  Amatnim whistled. The daemon stiffened and rose, undulating around so that it faced its summoner. It growled softly. Eagerly. Kallabor was not a kindly master, Amatnim suspected. ‘Let us see how you deal with such a tiny thing, eh?’ he said. He gestured, and the daemon sprang towards Kallabor, howling. Acidic slaver flew from newly sprouted jaws as it barrelled into him, knocking him back.

  Word Bearers scattered, shouting and cursing. Kallabor bellowed as the daemon tore at him, its claws easily slicing through ceramite. He shouted an incantation, exorcising the creature. It came apart in his hands, dribbling away into nothing. But the damage had been done – his vials and jugs had been cracked or shattered. While they might resist terrestrial weaponry, the claws of daemons could cut through most things.

  Filmy shapes solidified about him as he lurched to his feet. More Neverborn, and these not under his control. Most diabolists were wise enough to mystically harden the tools of their trade, to avert just such a catastrophe. But some, like Kallabor, were lazy as well as overconfident. They never considered the dangers of the Neverborn they wielded like tools.

  Something with the face of an angel and the claws of a crustacean cooed as it clutched at the diabolist, seeking to embrace him. He cursed and snatched at the bolt pistol holstered on his hip. More daemons took shape around him – a raw, red-skinned thing with horns of brass and a face like a flayed skull hooked his arm as he tried to fire. A thing that was all jointed legs, with a face like that of a lion, chortled as it lashed out at him with heavy, iron hooves. Kallabor fell back, his bolt pistol thundering.

  He did not call for aid. He was brave, if nothing else. Or perhaps it was pride that stilled his tongue. Regardless, Amatnim watched respectfully as the diabolist was slowly but surely torn apart by his own daemons. Kallabor stumbled, and they fell on him like wolves. They bore him down in a wave of teeth and claws, and he was borne to the deck in silence. The first of the daemons, the angel-faced concubine of Slaanesh, rose, her pretty jaws dripping red. She delicately licked her lips, as she fixed a nearby warrior with her black, blank gaze. ‘He was sweet,’ she purred. ‘Will you be sweet?’

  Amatnim put a bolt shell in whatever passed for her brain. As her body came apart, the other Word Bearers followed his example. Bolters, pistols and various other weapons thundered across the observation platform, and the daemons were reduced to bubbling ichor. Amatnim strode over to what was left of Kallabor.

  Incredibly, the diabolist was still breathing, though it was a tenuous thing. He had been gutted and hollowed, his armour ripped open and the flesh within scooped away. Garlands of yellow fat decorated cracked bones as exposed lungs flexed and shrank. One heart was gone, plucked out and eaten, but the other still beat fitfully. Amatnim sank to his haunches beside the dying warrior, and peered down at him. ‘A good try, brother,’ he said softly. ‘But you failed. And your soul is forfeit. The gods receive you as you deserve.’ He reached into Kallabor’s ruined chest, caught his remaining heart and tore it loose. Kallabor twitched, sighed, and was gone.

  Amatnim stood, stil
l clutching the heart. He looked about him, and took a bite of it. Then, he handed it to Kespu. ‘Eat, brothers. Eat of Kallabor’s heart and take some of his courage into you. Honour him, for he was faithful, in his way, if foolish.’

  As the others gathered around, Amatnim turned to find Lakmhu glaring at him. ‘How did you accomplish that?’

  ‘Accomplish what?’

  ‘The daemon, brother. You stopped it with a gesture. That is not possible, save for one blessed by the gods.’

  ‘And you have answered your own question.’ Amatnim smiled.

  Lakmhu snorted. ‘Truthfully, brother…’

  Amatnim raised his hand. On the palm of his gauntlet was carved a circular sigil.

  ‘A sign of binding,’ Lakmhu said. He turned to watch as deck-slaves dragged what was left of Kallabor away. His armour would be stripped and sent to the ship’s armoury, if it wasn’t stolen en route. What remained of his body would be ground into nutrient paste and fed to the slaves of the gunnery decks, after the gene-seed had been harvested.

  ‘Kallabor was a second-rate diabolist. His bindings were slapdash. A child could have undone them, given a chance. It was only a matter of time before something he summoned hollowed him out and wore him like a mask. I’ve saved him the humiliation of that, at least.’ Amatnim watched as the other Word Bearers finished devouring the heart of their fallen brother. ‘Will you take your fair portion, Dark Apostle?’

  ‘I have courage enough for my purposes.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘So I see.’ He brought his palms together with a resounding crack, catching the attention of the others. ‘Now. As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted – we will reach mid-system in a matter of hours.’ At his signal, the hololithic projection changed, displaying not a system, but a single world.

  ‘The world is called Pergamon, according to the records our data-slaves harrowed from the last world.’ Amatnim gestured, and the projection expanded. Data spilled through the air, most of it of no interest to anyone save him. Amatnim had found that too often logistics were the bane of his Legion. They could not see the forest for the trees. ‘It is a tithe-hub for this part of the system. Everything heading to or from Almace comes through here. Orbital dockyards form an artificial belt about the planet. There are also minor orbital defences scattered across these coordinates.’ He twitched a hand, and red runes blazed to life on the projection.