Astorath: Angel Of Mercy, page 2
Sergeant Dolomen gave a hard bark of laughter. ‘Oh, it’s passed on by the gene-seed all right, brother.’
‘Silence, Dolomen,’ said Astorath coldly. ‘This is the first time you have witnessed the curse?’
‘It is. I do not know what to make of it.’
‘I have seen it in Primaris Space Marines before,’ said the sergeant attending Lamorak. He stepped forward around his Priest.
‘Who speaks to the Lord Redeemer?’ asked Dolomen.
‘Sergeant Bedevoir, Third squad, Ninth Company,’ said the sergeant.
‘Explain what you mean to the Lord Astorath,’ said Dolomen.
Power tools whined. Artemos undid the bolts of Gawin’s breastplate. It came away with a squelch, trailing ropes of bloody matter.
‘I saw this once, on the crusade, before Baal,’ said Bedevoir. ‘We didn’t know what it was. We thought it was some trick of the enemy’s. Three brothers of our gene-line went mad, raving about the arch-traitor.’
‘Three of the Blood,’ corrected Dolomen.
‘Why did you not report this?’ said Artemos.
‘I did. Nobody else knew what to make of it either.’ Bedevoir took a further step into the room. ‘We were fighting daemons, sorcerers, foes that I could not comprehend. What happened to those others was nothing compared to some of the things I saw, some of the things I killed. They were…’ He struggled to find the words. ‘This knowledge of the flaw you have given us, it was a secret before, kept from us who share your heritage.’ It was an accusation. Astorath stared at him with hard eyes.
‘But why not report it now?’ pressed Artemos. ‘Now you know of our curse?’ He had taken off the warrior’s left arm plates, exposing skin covered by branching dark veins.
‘Because I did not know the signs,’ said Bedevoir. ‘I did not think it remarkable at the time. Only now, when I have seen the Rage with my own eyes, did I make the connection.’
‘A disappointing lack of vigilance,’ said Astorath. ‘You should have known.’
‘From imperfect descriptions? Even after we arrived at Baal, we were told so little – a few briefings, nothing in depth. Ares was a captain. We are warriors, not medicae.’ Bedevoir turned to Dolomen. ‘Brother, there are only handfuls of the original Red Wings left, and they are scattered. We continue their traditions as best we can, we have taken names according to their custom, but we are not them, not yet. You saw Ares. You saw his hair, the white hair of their Chapter. None of us have that. We are Primaris. We do not look like them. We do not carry their unique genetic markers.’
‘Be glad of that,’ said Artemos. He was shining his backpack light into the chest cavity of Gawin. ‘The distinctiveness of each strain of the Blood is often connected to a worsening of the flaw. The more extreme the divergence, the more violent the curse.’
‘That might be so,’ said Bedevoir, ‘but then what do we know of the flaw? We know little of the Thirst, how it manifests, how to manage it, how to channel it. We know nothing at all of the Rage. Ares was the only one of the original breed of Space Marine stationed here. Seven warriors from his company survived the tyranids. Only seven. They were split up and assigned to other groups of Primaris like ours who were attached to the Red Wings. They were supposed to help us become what they were.’
‘You have failed. You have ceded the planet to the enemy,’ said Astorath.
‘There is less than a demi-company of us here,’ said Lamorak, indignation overcoming some of his awe. ‘We are a scouting force, that is all. We did not expect this. We do not have the manpower to deal with the Rage or the xenos, and we have the population to consider.’
‘The capital is safe,’ said Bedevoir. ‘The majority of the population is located there. We have it under control.’
‘But you have lost the world,’ Dolomen said.
‘We will take it back.’
‘Listen to your sergeant, Brother Lamorak. He displays true mettle. Be calm. You are hard-pressed,’ said Astorath, ‘but remember what you are. Do not dishonour yourself by saying you cannot accomplish the tasks which have been entrusted to you.’
‘This manner of war is new to us,’ said Lamorak. Shame made his words leaden.
‘Then learn it,’ said Astorath.
‘We do not need your help,’ said Bedevoir.
Astorath inclined his head and stared at Bedevoir until he looked away. ‘I will be the judge of that,’ he said.
There was a clatter as Artemos dropped surgical tools into a silver bowl. Blood spattered onto his armour.
‘Harvest his gene-seed,’ said Artemos. ‘Honour his memory.’ He turned to Astorath. ‘It should be safe. This is a simple case of the Rage manifesting. There is nothing new here.’
‘Only the nature of the sufferer, that is sufficient cause for us to be cautious,’ said Astorath. ‘Test his gene-seed thoroughly before you use it for implantation. We will take a sample back to Corbulo.’ He addressed this last comment to Lamorak. It took a moment for the Red Wings Priest to realise Astorath was asking permission.
‘Yes, of course. If you so command it, Redeemer.’
‘It is good you agree. I would not wish to compel you.’ Astorath rested a fatherly hand on the dead warrior’s arm. ‘Gawin is the first confirmed Primaris Space Marine to fall to the Black Rage, Brother Lamorak. We in this room stand at the threshold of a new era. The hopes of all our bloodline are proven false, and we need to find out why. You will tell me everything – of the flares, the xenos, the psykers, and the coming of the Rage. Start from the beginning. Start now.’
CHAPTER ONE
FAR FROM THE HIGH TOWERS
The warp, three weeks ago [nominal]
They were things of the warp as much as they were things of the worlds of dust. In that, maybe they were unique. Maybe they were not. Once, perhaps, there had been more life forms that straddled the barrier. They survived where these others were gone, and even that did not matter to them. They lived. They were. They survived the great storms of the past and they would survive the storms of the present, for as much as the turmoil of the empyrean battered at them and winnowed their numbers, it granted opportunity. As storms clear the ocean bed of debris, as fires scorch the forest of dead wood, the rift opened new opportunities for the strong to prosper.
They drifted in the raging currents of the immaterium. Against all the odds, they remained whole in the vortexes of unmaking, bulbous air sacs crusted over and their tentacles wrapped tight against their bodies within the confines of their bio-fields. In the warp they were scavengers, siphoning shreds of soul energy from the recently devoured, darting away when threatened by the daemonic things they shared their feeding grounds with.
In the materium they preyed on flesh.
Solitary, alone, racing along currents from one part of nowhere to another, Third One lived a life no human mind could comprehend. It thought, but its thoughts were alien to any sentient being. It felt, but its emotions had no analogue. It had no name or age or identity as a being of the materium would recognise it. Third One was not its name. Third One was not what it was, but it knew, in its alien way, that Third One was what it must be, and soon.
It was time to breed.
Instinct drew Third One towards the great roar of the warp-materium interface. The Great Rift resembled an endlessly breaking wave seen from within. Souls and half-beings and things that never were rolled over and over in its curl. Light flashed and sounds howled. The pull towards it was irresistible. Worlds from the materium fell into the maelstrom and were torn apart. Vessels traversing the warp were dragged to their doom. Yet Third One knew where to stop. It knew where to wait. It drew to a halt at the edges of the interface, where the conflicting currents of reality and unreality were at their weakest, and a creature of its sort might best profit.
It waited eternities. No time at all passed. Seconds and centuries meant nothing there, and so they meant nothing to Third One.
Second One was already there. Second One arrived after Third One. There was one, there were two. They approached one another, colours racing over their gelatinous bodies. Tentacles rose up in elaborate threat displays. Their float sacs pulsed angry reds and blues. They poised on the edge of battle, there at the soul-falls at the end of the world, their bio-fields shimmering.
Third One reached out a pseudopod. Second One recoiled, then reached out in turn. Colours of aggression changed to appeasing pinks and yellows. Nests of eyes regarded one another, and shimmered assent.
Their tentacles twined, the hooks upon the underside piercing the other’s tendrils to drag them closer. Lesser tentacles waved forward. Their bio-fields merged, becoming stronger, shutting out the daemonic, making them an island of reality.
More of their kind gathered and formed their own binaries of Second Ones and Third Ones. Last to come were the First Ones, the largest sort, and they descended into the growing swarm. Violence broke out as First Ones vied with one another for the most promising binaries and binaries fought off First Ones they rejected.
Third-Second One repelled two First Ones’ attempts to join. One they killed, and ate its remains while they showed their colour songs to more suitable suitors, until, finally, one approached they did not reject, and with complex patternings of welcome they came close to each other.
The agreement was made quickly. Third-Second One further integrated with themselves and First One, until the three were an indivisible triad.
Other ones, twos and threes merged. The unsuccessful washed back and forth in the shallows of the warp. The last First Ones joined, or fled, or died, and then all were triads.
With many eyes directed by conjoined souls, First-Second-Third One peered through the rift and watched the shores of reality.
Lights shone on the far side. Prey light. Food.
The enslavers started to move.
Far from the high towers, Esmera felt a fight coming.
‘Give me that.’
Esmera followed the youth’s pointing finger to her bread. She gave him a mild look.
‘Why?’ she said.
They were walled in by crowds. By then the news had spread, and everyone was in the main square looking eagerly to the skies. Dulcis was a hard place to live. No one paid the street people any attention. The youths could knife her right there, and no one would care.
‘Because if you don’t I’ll smack you into the dirt, then I’ll let my friends have a go at you,’ said the youth.
The youth was like most bullies, supported by two smirking accomplices who were too cowardly and weak to survive on their own, but dangerous under the direction of their ringleader. One was fat and strong, the other small and wiry with a vicious face. He smelled bad, and had dead eyes. Esmera had seen this configuration before.
‘Come in from the villages, have you, swampies?’
‘How can you tell?’ said the fat one.
‘Because I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen you before. You’d be hard to miss, you’re so fat.’
‘I’m going to take time cutting you,’ said the fat boy. He moved forward. The leader shot out his arm and caught him hard in the stomach.
‘You don’t get to say what’s what. I do.’
‘Right, yeah, sorry, Cen,’ said the fat boy. Boy was about right. He was younger than the others. His face flushed and he looked like he was going to cry.
The skinny one scowled. ‘Tougher than you for it.’
‘Now you’re catching on.’ Esmera smiled. ‘You don’t know me. How can you say that? I might be the most dangerous girl in this town.’ She used ‘girl’. It was lesser than woman, less threatening. She was a woman though, older than they, and better than they were in other ways too.
The fat boy and Cen laughed. The skinny one licked his lips. He had a fluffy moustache coming in. So young yet already a killer. The others were engaged in the malicious play of thugs that may or may not end in violence. The skinny one just wanted to hurt her. He had a knife. She could feel his need to use it, real as his bad breath in her face.
‘How old are you?’ said Cen.
‘Older than you.’
‘Then wise enough to know if you give me that bread you might walk away from this.’
‘No,’ she said. Giving no warning, she turned on her heels and fled, pushing her underfed body between two townspeople gawping up at the sky. There was a roaring coming from up there. Atmospheric engines. A ship was approaching from the void. That was remarkable, but she didn’t have time to look.
The youths were after her a fraction of a second later. She’d wrong-footed them, as she knew she would. She knew town; they didn’t.
She sprinted through the crowded main square of the upper fort, dodging past market-day stalls and piles of cages holding waterfowl from the marsh. Fat Boy blundered into them, breaking the wicker and bringing a retributory cudgel swinging at his arm. Esmera glanced over her shoulder to see him beaten while aviforms scattered and his friends tore past. Cen was angry. Skinny Boy looked ready to kill.
She flew down the main ramp, past the rusted teeth of the top gatehouse and the grim metal skulls housing the spirits that commanded the gates. The road was caked in dung and rushes, a good surface to run on. The ramp switched back on itself, but she knew the short cuts. She jumped, landing on the roof of the mechman’s tech shack. He only yelled at her. He knew her. He didn’t know the youths that tumbled after. She got shouts; they got shot at.
She led them into the Warren, the part of town where hundreds of small shops and businesses crammed the old roads and throttled alleys. It stank of breweries, chemicals, dyes, and worst of all, the eye-watering reek of the tannery district and the open-gut stench of the abattoirs. All of it was in there. It was no place to live, but this was her territory. She grinned as she panted. She’d lose them in the Warren, no problem.
She skidded sharply round a corner, wrong-footing them again, hurtled down an alleyway no wider than her outstretched arms, and dived under a curtain that divided the alley from a stall on the other side.
‘Esmera! Watch it!’ shouted the stallholder after her. They all knew her in the Warren. She was tolerated there – she’d made sure of that. She was useful to them, occasionally.
She slowed to a jog. There was no sign of pursuit. Low buildings of hardened mud hemmed her in, all squat, no more than three storeys tall. She was moving away to the edge of the Warren, nearer to the Clara Flumine river and the high towers of the Administratum district on the far side.
She’d barely broken a sweat. She was used to running away.
The smell of the river came up the alley. Most of the setts on that street had been prised up by the city folk to build their homes, and the road surface was little better than mud and rubbish compacted over the bedrock. The alley joined a lane. An open sewer ran down the middle, pouring chemical-tainted filth into the river. She could see the river now. The wide, muddy waters swallowed the sewer discharge, diluting it to nothing, but in the city the shit stink was heavy on her throat. Huts made of sodden fibreboard and cast-off metal scraps slumped together, drowning in the mud. On the far side of the water were cliffs of stonework, topped by crenellated walls, and behind those the grand buildings of the Imperial government. The district was a tiny part of sprawling Tywell City, but its offices and cathedrum lorded over all parts of the settlement save the citadel itself.
She was walking now. She crammed the bread into her mouth, eating it quickly before someone else tried to take it off her.
Meat-barge horns wailed from the docks further downstream. The ripe odour of marsh eel wafted over on the breeze. A baby cried in a hovel nearby. A stray canid nosed at a pile of rags and pulled out the scaled corpse of a dead marsh lizard. No one was about.
The sounds of the crowds carried over the Warren down to the river district. There was a boom in the air, and she turned to look back to where it had come from, up at the citadel, dry on its hill.
A small red-and-white ship was landing. The citadel was a stacked cake of fortifications, four rings of walls atop each other, and the ship came down towards the highest landing pad. The sound of the crowd’s excitement grew louder as it approached, only drowned out by the last, thundering roar of braking jets as it put down upon the pad. A wash of grey smoke bled off into Dulcis’ clouds.
She resented the boys for chasing her down here. She’d wanted to see the off-worlders land. Some fool had said they were the Emperor’s men, the Angels of Death, but she hadn’t believed that. But now, as she watched the ramp at the front of the ship open, she wasn’t so sure. The ship was a compact thing, covered in guns. She’d never seen the like before.
Tiny figures came out of the citadel and waited. Larger figures emerged from the ship. Her mouth hung open, the bread forgotten on her tongue. The Angels of Death had come! They were giants, towering over the welcoming party, clad in shining armour that winked in the weak sun. She took a few involuntary steps forward, their presence drawing her in.
She heard a noise behind her, and turned in time to see Skinny Boy launch himself off the top of a shack, so full of the need to hurt her he leapt with little consideration for his own safety. His chin connected with her head, his elbow drove the air from her lungs, and together they went down into the stinking mud. The remains of the bread bounced off and rolled to a halt at the edge of the sewer.
‘Got you,’ he breathed into her ear. His ripe breath choked her. She tried to escape, but he wrestled her to a halt, his thin fingers gripping her wrists painfully.
Cen and Fat Boy came out of a side alley.
‘Got her!’ Skinny called triumphantly.
Mud soaked through the back of Esmera’s smock and trousers. She bucked under him, but he wouldn’t budge.
‘Get off me!’ she said.
