Scions of the Emperor Page 8

  The door clanging shut behind me caused me to jump.

  'Come with me,' he said, turning away. His Nostraman accent caused the words to sound clipped, emphasising that it was a command, not a request.

  The sound of his armour was a constant whine in my ears, the thud of boots on the metal deck a steady drumbeat.

  I followed without comment or question, cowed by his presence and his attitude. I jogged to maintain pace, though could not escape the feeling that he was checking his stride for my benefit. We travelled by conveyor, heading up, and then a short distance along another deck until I came before double doors of black wood, decorated in gold with the lightning strikes of Terra behind the winged skull of the Night Lords.

  A state room of sorts.

  'In here,' my guide said curtly, gauntleted finger jabbing a runepad set into the wall. He remained just long enough to usher me into the interior before turning away, the door sighing closed at his departure.

  My eye was first drawn to an immense window - a row of several windows in fact, together easily fifty metres broad - and the arc of a planet just in view below the Nightfall. Flickers of light played over the greenish-blue atmosphere and I saw the flash of lance-light across the void. Trails of torpedoes descended towards the surface, the bright moments of light illuminating the snarling prows of more warships. Plasma plumes from engines pushing these vessels through their manoeuvres gleamed azure against the dark canopy of space.

  My breath came in gasps, my heart trembling at the thought - I was witnessing an actual battle.

  'Imagine being even closer.'

  The voice was soft, but startled me all the same. I turned my head towards its source and was amazed to see a man standing at the far end of the window, taller even than the Space Marine that had escorted me. He was clad in ornate war-plate, though it was hard to see as the lumens had been dimmed and most of the light came from the reflected starlight of the planet through the windows.

  His face was gaunt and pale, eyes fixed upon me like a predator. Thin lips smiled even as that gaze dissected me with a swift glance.

  Konrad Curze.

  He stepped towards me, purposeful but not aggressive. While the Space Marine had been a seething mass of contained aggression, there was a detachment about Curze. He directed my gaze to the view with a finger and stood behind me, one hand resting lightly on the back of my neck. There was no movement, no caressing and I felt oddly safe with the weight of that armoured glove pressing against the curls of my hair.

  'This is what you wanted to see.' His voice was quiet. I saw his reflection against the darkness of space, the voids of his eyes intent upon the arc of world below us.

  I nodded, not daring to speak.

  'Why did you want to see me?'

  'I…' I thought to step away but his grip tightened ever so slightly, reacting to the intent before it had even crystallised in my mind. I cleared my throat, mouth dry. 'I told the lieutenant I wanted a combat attachment. I never thought…'

  'I did not say that you asked to be here, I said that you wanted to be.' Curze released his hold and stepped back. My breath exited in a gasp of relief, though I hadn't realised I had been holding it in. 'You crave this, Ennylin.'

  I turned as he backed away a few steps. The primarch gestured towards the pict-feed in my hand.

  'You have a gift, I expect. A way of capturing moments that few others do?'

  'I see…' It was hard to explain how my attention was drawn to the innermost thoughts shown in the face and movements of a person. I felt them as much as I saw them. As I had with Khagashu and the Night Lord, now I did so with Curze. 'Yes, I have a very good eye. I reveal the truth with my footage.'

  'The truth?' He seemed offended at first but then his smile returned, though there was no warmth in his eyes to match the twist of his lips. 'The truth is a dangerous thing, Ennylin. Do want to see the Imperial Truth?'

  'Yes, I've wanted to see the real crusade ever since I was selected for the remembrancer corps.'

  He nodded. A few seconds later the door hissed open again and another Space Marine entered. His face was lean, not without handsome elements, though two scars marked the left side, across brow and cheek, giving the impression of a permanent sneer. I then realised that the lower scar had little to do with his arrogant demeanour - the Night Lord's lip was curled with scorn, his eyes assessing me. While I had felt the predatory nature of Curze that had been a cold, practical sense. From this one I noted the hallmarks of unalloyed malice. He was not just a killer, but one that took pleasure in what he did.

  'This is my equerry, Captain Jago Sevatarion,' said Curze. 'He will give you what you want.'

  I approached the Space Marine, determined not to be daunted by his presence though his calculating gaze made my blood run cold.

  'Thank you, captain,' I managed to muster before my voice abandoned me.

  'Call me Sevatar,' he said, eyes flashing with genuine amusement. 'Let us see if we can find you some war to remember for the Emperor.'

  'Hold on.'

  Sevatar's instruction was not necessary - in fact I think he delighted in the irony of issuing it, given that my hands were clamped so tightly to my restraints that I had lost feeling in my fingertips. The gunship bucked beneath us, buffeted by turbulence and seemingly erratic thrusts of the plasma jets which I assumed were necessary to keep us on some kind of course.

  Sevatar stood next to me, armour whining constantly as it adjusted to his ever-changing stance, compensating for the plunging, yawing motion of the Thunderhawk.

  'How. Can. You. Stand. Up?' It was hard to talk with my teeth gritted so hard.

  Sevatar grinned, turning his lower scar into a vicious curl.

  'This is nothing remembrancer. We're travelling more slowly for your benefit.' He slapped a gauntleted hand on the thick restraint. 'If this was a combat drop your spine would have snapped in two, even with these to hold you.'

  Some kind of landing thrusters kicked into life, arresting our descent suddenly. Blood rushed from my head and I felt myself pushed into the bench, despite the support of the restraints. Spots danced across my vision and I felt dizzy.

  It lasted a few seconds, I suppose though it felt longer. I heard the crunch of landing gear on the ground, and we settled hard, jolting me back against the side of the fuselage. Drop harnesses creaked up as they released the squad of Night Lords that had accompanied us. Sevatar pushed on his helm and twisted it with a hiss of closing seals. It was fashioned with a fanged skull over the faceplate, most disconcerting to have looking down at me two bat-like wings splaying in a crest to imitate the Legion's badge. From above the bench he drew a long-hafted weapon, its chain-toothed end slightly curved, the teeth themselves glinting in the ruddy light of the gunship's interior. A weapon as cruel as its bearer.

  'Is it going to be dangerous?' I asked as he banged a fist against my harness release. The padded bars lifted upwards and the belt seemed to slither back over my waist like a serpent. I stood up, using a support beam to steady myself as I crouched and twisted to pull my pict-feed from the locker underneath.

  'Let us hope so,' replied the equerry, voice projected with metallic hint by his armoured suit's vocaliser. 'We don't want you getting bored, remembrancer.'

  The front of the Thunderhawk opened, letting in dim light and a wall of noise. I hadn't noticed how the thick hull had insulated us, but as the crack of light grew wider I caught the staccato beat of boltguns, the boom of heavier weapons and the crackle of lascannons. Sounds I had only heard before from recordings, now stark in my ears.

  The squad moved out first as the ramp touched down, breaking into a run, the thud of their boots deafening on the metal mesh as they disembarked. I followed beside Sevatar at a more casual pace. The sound intensified and the air swirled with dust as we stepped from the ramp onto a blasted street.

  I lifted the pict-feed and plugged it into my optical receiver, blink-activating the recording device so that everything I looked at would be availa
ble to respool and edit later. That was the nature of the videlith, a raw archive as much experiential as visual, my experience and instinct drawing the view to tell the unfolding story as it occurred around me.

  'Record what you like but do not go that way,' said Sevatar, pointing towards smoke-filled sky to our left. Tracer fire and the blossom of half-hidden explosions lit the low clouds, while a pall of blackness spilled from burning towers. 'The primarch would prefer you stay alive.'

  He stepped away, but turned as I spoke. 'Where are your other remembrancers?' I asked, suddenly nervous.

  'Some of them were bad at listening,' he said. 'Others grew sick of what they saw and left. There are probably a few still around somewhere, but I doubt they are really fit to remember anything these days. War has an unpleasant effect on those that witness but do not wage it.'

  'Plenty of remembrancers accompany the Legions without difficulties,' I pointed out. 'Are you threatening me?'

  'No, I am not. And those other remembrancers? They did not watch the Night Lords in action…'

  He turned away and strode off, leaving me with my disturbed thoughts.

  Wherever I was, the fighting had moved on. I swept my eyes around the vicinity, taking in the nearest buildings and the narrow streets between them. In this area they were mostly two or three storeys tall. Most showed signs of damage but were standing, roofs holed or burnt through.

  I moved to the closest and rubbed a hand over its grey surface. It was smooth, not at all like stone or brick. Some kind of extruded resin material, I guessed. There was a film of dirt on everything, ash and dust that came away on my fingertips. I held up my hand, looking at the smudges so that the pict-feed would record it. I saw scraps of metallic material in the shattered rubble and pieces of pinkish glass scattered in places. The interiors were decorated in different ways but with familiar styles - papering on the walls with repeated geometric or natural patterns. Carpets underfoot made from tightly-wound fibres. Pictures…

  Pictures of humans, which was no revelation. There had been no hint of xenos since my arrival, but it was strange to see picts of people of all ages, their friends and families, playing or posing, or sitting with pets.

  So normal.

  Even more normal than the lives of the colonists waiting in orbit, who would labour long and hard to bring this world back to a semblance of civilisation. Rebuilding it in a vision more fitting to the Imperium, though from what I saw there was little here that would have caused affront to the Emperor of Mankind.

  I moved from home to home, and then came upon a communal building. Judging by the small chairs and tables, the crude pictures on the walls, it was likely some kind of tutelarium.

  The more distant bark of guns and thunder of artillery came back to me as I passed through a broken wall into a garden. Trees had been turned to ragged stumps, the beds and lawn churned to mud by the passage of the battle. I placed my foot into the gigantic imprint left by a Space Marine boot, like one of the tutelarium children following the footsteps of their teacher.

  I was away from the square where Sevatar had deposited me, and I first thought to head back.

  My second thought was that he had been insistent I remain in this locale, but there was nothing here to see, not really. Detritus of the crusade, just like the grain haulers and the ferrocrete mixers and other civilian flotsam that washed up after compliance.

  This was not what I had come to see, not what Konrad Curze had promised me.

  Drawn by the continuing storm of battle, I headed towards the smoke-shrouded towers further on.

  Moving from broken shell to shadow to fallen wall, I kept out of sight of the gunships that roared back and forth overhead. I recorded every glance up into the smog-choked heavens, tracking the blue plume of their jets and the yellow flare of heavy bolters pouring fire into their foes beyond the broken towers ahead of me.

  Despite venturing into the proscribed area, I was still blind to what was really happening, the battle some kilometres distant. Unsure exactly what lay ahead, I steered myself towards one of the taller edifices, its two closest sides pocked with weapon marks, the windows blackened by fire in the upper levels.

  A vantage point.

  Inside was a mess of broken pipes and cables, steam still spilling from a severed utility connection, soaking the ceiling and walls.

  I dared not use any kind of elevator or conveyor and found a stairwell, ascending a dozen floors breathlessly in my quest for a better view.

  Recording all of it, every one of the one hundred and forty-four steps, I pushed through an access door from a landing and found myself in what seemed to be some kind of medical facility. At least I guessed as such, from the white tiled walls and shining metal cabinets. In an adjacent room were bunks, bloodied bedding spilling from them, footprints and handprints in crimson on the walls. A familiar impact in the tiles dotted every wall, which I assumed was left by bolter rounds. I pushed my finger into a few of them to give a sense of their scale for the pict-feed.

  The windows were covered with slatted blinds and I opened one to gaze across the city.

  All was ruin, as far as I could see. The city seemed to stretch forever, a vast conurbation, though not of the scale of a Terran hive or arcology. And there seemed barely a building untouched by destruction.

  Yet my thoughts for this were fleeting, my eye drawn to movement far below. I zoomed in my optical implant to see that it was a column of people, dressed in their ragged clothes, escorted by a handful of Night Lords.

  The line stretched on along winding streets, its destination out of sight, its origin similarly obscured. Thousands of people being escorted from the dying city.

  I kept recording, even as I tried again to follow the column of refugees into the distance.

  That's when I made the connection between their route and the black plumes of smoke. They were being herded towards… pyres? Furnaces?

  I almost threw up at the thought and staggered back from the window, sweat prickling my skin as the reaction flooded through me.

  This was what Sevatar had warned me against.

  I panicked, running back towards the stairs, but through the pulse of my horror-quickened heart I heard the bang of a door opening nearby and voices rising up the stairwell. Heart trying to beat its way out of my ribs, I eased the door open. The footsteps that ascended were booted, but not the armoured thud of Space Marines. The voices, calm and dipped, were accented and not speaking Imperial Gothic. The tone of command told me that they were not civilians, and they were not idly here.

  I pushed out onto the landing, knowing if I stayed in the medicae facility I'd be trapped. Shadows from below betrayed how close the hunters were and I headed upwards, just wanting to put distance between myself and these unknown city dwellers. As horrified as I was by the thought of the Night Lords' actions, I could not divorce myself from the notion that these people represented some kind of threat that warranted such drastic action.

  The door clanged shut behind me as I ascended the steps, its sound echoing through the stairwell. The shout from below that followed was a mixture of surprise and triumph.

  Propelled upwards by overwhelming fear, I ran and kept running until the stairs ended. I slammed through the last door and into a maintenance area, the hum of machinery - miraculous that it was still working, I thought - filled the space. But I saw no doors out, save for a small metal opening that I thought would lead to the roof.

  There was no other option; my pursuers were clattering up the stairs.

  I hit the roof door with my shoulder and barrelled through, hoping desperately that there would be some other exit once I was there.

  I stumbled out into smoke-filled wind, two dozen storeys above the city.

  There was another shed-like housing ahead of me, but as I set off towards it the door opened, revealing a man and a woman in dark blue uniforms, rifles in their hands.

  Even before I processed this predicament, I heard a sharp retort from above. The woman's head
exploded, followed a moment later by a second snap and the detonation of her companion's chest.

  Rapid drumming sounded behind me and I turned to see more of the locals had spilled up from the machine room below, only to be met by a lethal salvo of fire from above.

  The roar of the gunship's jets filtered through my punished senses, accompanied by the continued thunder of the heavy bolters. The crack and whoosh of a launch preceded a blast of heat and noise from the exploding machine chamber, the hot wind almost knocking me from my feet.

  The gunship dropped fast, armoured figures spilling from its opening assault ramp in the prow, the squad slamming down onto the roof with bolters ready.

  They advanced past me, not giving me a second glance, their weapons occasionally barking as they spied some target in the ruined storey below, now exposed by the missile of the gunship.

  A figure approached me, carrying a long-hafted chain-weapon, his face hidden behind a mask of skull and wings.

  'I told you it was not safe,' said Sevatar.

  I looked at this horrific vision of a warrior and heard the bitter humour in his tone. I recalled his offhand remarks concerning dead remembrancers and a new dread replaced the fear of being slain by the city's inhabitants.

  He crooked a finger, beckoning, and then nodded to the Thunderhawk. Though I knew it was likely I was walking to my death just like the column of people far below, I could do nothing except comply.

  The flight took only a minute, probably less, far less dramatic than our atmospheric descent. When the ramp lowered again, Sevatar led me out onto another roof, this time of a fortified building.

  Curze was waiting there, standing at a parapet, watching the scene below.

  My legs buckled but Sevatar caught me, hoisting me up with his free hand, half-dragging me forwards. He dumped me next to an embrasure, so that I could see out into the stretch of city beyond.

  It was like looking into a caldera of a volcano, but as I scoured the bright gleam of flames, I saw that in fact it was a series of craters, massive holes broken into the foundations of the city.