Pharos Page 26

  Not all of the supplicants came there for reasons of business; a number simply wished to look upon Sanguinius. These pilgrims disturbed him, but their ranks grew daily. They doted upon their celestial angel-emperor. The stories they told dazzled themselves against the more mundane truth of him. There was talk of a growing cult that worshipped their father as a god, an alarming repetition of Lorgar’s heresy, ever stronger now that Terra was feared lost to the Warmaster. Now, Sanguinius too had come to the uncomfortable situation where he had to deny his own divinity.

  He was an angel in form only. He was not a god.

  Terran vertebrate organisms were all tetrapods – four limbs were given each. He had six. If he had been gifted an additional set of arms rather than wings, he doubted very much that he would be regarded so highly. None of his brothers had these extra limbs, or anything like it. A four-armed emperor would be hard to adore.

  All of the primarchs had their quirks, the same superhuman physiology, a unique apportioning of their father’s many gifts. Some bore physical differences, but the majority of these were not of their father’s making – Ferrus’ hands, Magnus’ missing eye, Vulkan’s coal-black skin, Angron’s barbaric implants. Could it not be the same with him, that the wings came from other hands? His wings were not a divine blessing; he had always feared them to be something else, and since Signus those fears had grown.

  His wings were a teratology. The simple fact of Sanguinius’ wings was that among all the primarchs, he was the only true freak.

  And yet they had been his flesh and blood since birth. As much as a piece of him feared the truth of their provenance, the entirety of him loved them. Much good had come of them. Had they not been deemed so beauteous that they had stayed the hands of the mutant-hating tribes of Baal? And perhaps, he thought as he soared on his lonely flights through the skies of Macragge, it was the very fear of the corruption his wings represented that prevented him from becoming corrupted.

  He had been tested on Signus Prime, and he was being tested again. Macragge presented a different kind of test. He had mastered his inborn fury on Signus; here he must go further and learn patience before he faced Ka’bandha again. That time would come, as surely as the death he saw in his mind’s eye.

  He smiled ironically. Fury came easily to him. The calm to hide it was a less simple emotion, but one long practised. Patience had never been his strong point.

  The tall doors to the Receiving Chamber swung wide at his approach. A long avenue, ornate as a cathedral’s nave on a backward world, divided another monumental space in two. This place too was crowded to bursting during the times of audience. In the evening it was empty but for his honour guard. Statues of the warrior kings of Macragge lined the way to the far end where other doors, huge and bronze and set into a multiply vaulted arch, led into the throne room’s antechamber. The sharp smell of outdoor air curled from Sanguinius as he marched his way down the avenue, his last feelings of freedom evaporating with it.

  ‘This better be important, Azkaellon,’ he said to himself.

  The second set of doors opened up. The antechamber was a tiny space in comparison to the plaza and hall that preceded it, eight of Sanguinius’ strides across. Tall windows lined the side, set into delicate traceries of stone. They were set directly upon the walls of the Fortress of Hera, artificial cliffs faced with massive blocks of ashlar that dropped sheerly three hundred metres to the city. A statue of middling merit occupied much of the right-hand side of the chamber, but it was not there for its artistry. The whole thing was laced with explosives, a last-ditch boobytrap for those who might seek to lay the new emperor in the dirt with the old.

  Sanguinius paused before the Master of Mankind.

  The Emperor looked off to one side, His blank eyes fixed on an invisible vista.

  ‘Why did You have to die, Father?’ whispered Sanguinius. ‘I am sorry for my presumptuous assumption of Your title. Roboute says You would understand. I am no longer so sure.’ He touched the armoured foot of the figure. ‘I am sorry for my uncertainty also. I am sorry we have failed You.’

  Sanguinius bowed at the waist and touched his forehead, then passed through the golden doors of the throne room.

  Another gargantuan hall, with a broad, high vaulted roof supported by two colonnaded arcades. A balcony ran along the bottom of the dome capping the centre of the space, directly above his throne.

  His throne, he thought. The idea was ludicrous; indeed, it felt like a game.

  The throne room was big enough for Sanguinius to take flight within, but he avoided doing so. He felt like a caged bird when he flew in there. Instead he walked down the long aisle.

  ‘Azkaellon? I am here, my son. What troubles you so much to call me down from my meditations?’

  There was no response. One of the banners lining the avenue rippled in a sudden cold draught. Sanguinius glanced at it, the trailing end of it flapping near where Guilliman had spent his wrath on the wall.

  Sanguinius turned about. Most of the standing candelabra were out. A few lumen globes hovered in the air, casting a dim light that failed to penetrate the shadows confounding even his primarch’s eyes where they gathered most thickly. The room was cold. His feathers shifted as the skin around their shafts tightened.

  He paused and sniffed the air. Beneath the chill scent of coming rain, there was a rank smell, noisome as the old filth of an uncleaned abattoir.

  Hesitantly, he walked forward, every sense alert to danger. There was something very wrong.

  Sanguinius regretted his lack of battleplate.

  ‘Azkaellon?’ he shouted. His voice thundered around the empty throne room.

  He approached the throne, glittering emptily under a shaft of light. Guilliman had an aseptic way of doing things, but he had a talent for theatricality where it suited his goals. He walked up the dais, and from there was able to look up and down the throne room’s entire length.

  ‘Light,’ he commanded. The candles did not burst into flame as they should. The sparsely situated lumens remained the only source of illumination.

  There was a thickening of the shadow in the darkest corner. Sanguinius marched towards the dark spot. The vile smell grew stronger, and he half drew his sword in response.

  Sanguinius reached the shape. A dark cloak of stinking, filthy material had been set up against a column. Its placer had cunningly arranged it, imbuing it with the semblance of human shape by means of precise folds. The Angel reached out and touched the cloak, and it collapsed with a foetid waft. He slid his sword back into its scabbard with a click.

  ‘I’m behind you, Sanguinius,’ said a voice, soft yet commanding the whole space of the throne room. Sanguinius turned to face it, his sword coming clear of his scabbard with a musical rasp.

  Sat in Sanguinius’ throne, Azkaellon unmoving at his feet, was his brother.

  ‘Ave Imperator,’ said Konrad Curze.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Secret ways

  Primary Location Alpha

  Master of the mountain

  High in orbit, aboard the teleportation deck of the Lord Shadow, Krukesh and Skraivok watched the hololith in silence.

  Barabas Dantioch, the renegade warsmith, went about his business, unaware that he was being observed. The small hololith projector buzzed loudly, disturbed by unknown forms of interference.

  ‘Fascinating, Skraivok,’ said Krukesh. ‘It appears you were not lying after all. What a shame. I was looking forward to having you killed. How did you do it?’

  ‘My tech-magi, it was they who did the calculations,’ said Skraivok. A flagrant lie. This was the hardest part, obscuring the source of the information. ‘Pleasing, is it not?’

  ‘They have done well. I will reward them,’ said Krukesh.

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Skraivok smoothly. ‘I have already done so, my lord.’

  ‘According to Lord Skraivok’s da
ta, we have only a few moments, my lord,’ said the Master of Teleportations.

  ‘Wait,’ said Krukesh. ‘I want to watch this Iron Warrior. He may reveal something to us.’

  The sound of the image was patchy, the voices of the men in the chamber thin and echoing. They could catch none of the conversation between the warsmith and the tech-magos who worked with him.

  The image rippled.

  ‘You must go now, Krukesh!’ urged Skraivok. ‘My Mechanicum contingent have no clear idea how long the window will remain open, but it will not last forever.’

  Krukesh took a last look at the hololith. ‘Very well,’ he said. His helm cowl – decorated with bat wings, as his battleplate helm also was – was bolted into place over his head. He held out his arms so that his lightning claws could be placed upon his hands. ‘To the pods!’ he ordered. ‘This better not be some kind of trick, Skraivok,’ he added, dangerously.

  ‘I did offer to lead the strike,’ said Skraivok. ‘To prove my confidence and my loyalty to you, Lord Krukesh.’

  ‘You did. Of course it could be a double-bluff.’ His voice growled out of the vox-grille of his helmet. As with all aspects of the Night Lords’ battlegear, the voice distortion was intended to frighten. ‘If I were not to take a few matters on faith, we would never get anything done. Provost, order the attack. We’ll catch them by surprise.’

  A tattooed serf officer snapped a crisp bow. The Terminators were all within the egg-shaped teleport pods. The pods’ interiors were white but glowed luridly in sterilising ultraviolet light. The illumination was unnatural-looking, the teleport deck dark outside the pods. It always reminded Skraivok of home.

  Krukesh walked into his and pointed one massive claw at Skraivok.

  ‘I suppose if this works, I better stand by my promise,’ said Krukesh. ‘Maybe we can put aside our differences.’

  Skraivok bowed. ‘It is my wish only to serve you, my lord Kyroptera,’ said Skraivok.

  ‘Yes, well, there is a chance your conciliatory actions are genuine,’ said Krukesh. ‘Prepare to teleport!’

  Gas hissed into the chambers from wide-mouthed vents as the doors of the pods shut on hissing pneumatics. The deck crew sprang into hushed action. Forty of them were required to operate the temperamental machinery, ten tech-adepts presiding, one for each pod.

  The air pressure increased, similar to the growing presence of a storm. Generators in the next room pulsed with titanic power.

  The deck crew and tech-adepts shouted to one another, ritualised announcement and response patterns that fell together with the rhythms of a shanty.

  ‘Teleport target site locked.’

  ‘Capacitor array primed.’

  ‘Pod internal pressures at optimal.’

  ‘All systems operating within acceptable parameters.’

  ‘Biopatterning ready.’

  ‘Transmission ready.’

  ‘Geller apertures ready.’

  So they ran off their checklist, station by station, the adepts chanting their machine cant. This worship of the machine had always seemed paradoxical to Skraivok. Why had the Emperor let it persist when He had suppressed every other religion? Because He was liar, and a hypocrite. An inconvenient truth His loyal servants chose not to see.

  Get on with it! thought Skraivok. He glanced nervously at the hololith. The image quality was degrading. They did not have time to waste!

  Losing Krukesh had its advantages, on the surface, but Skraivok would rather the Kyroptera made it to the assault site intact. His rivals would use the loss of their commander as a convenient excuse to execute Skraivok. Whatever the outcome, he would not remain there. He had his best men stationed nearby, and his shuttle remained prepared for flight.

  ‘Engaging, engaging!’ sang out the teleport crew in unison. Those men still possessed of human eyes flipped thick goggles of smoked glass over their faces. Servitors threw massive lever switches. The whine of power reached a crescendo. Harsh white illumination glared from the narrow windows set into the pod doors, building from a couple of blinks a second to a headache-inducing flicker that pulsed faster and faster but never became a solid light.

  The teeth-crawling sensation of active warp technology afflicted Skraivok. An odd scent penetrated his helm’s mask. For a chilling second he though he heard laughter, and he knew that the daemon was amused.

  The light blazed. Skraivok shielded his eyes.

  ‘Teleport successful! Shutting down!’

  ‘Shutting down!’

  The light shut out. The weirding left. It did not cease – Skraivok thought that it was always there, somewhere, but it moved on from the deck, a powerful, unseen entity departing.

  The pods hissed open, empty.

  Quietly and without drawing attention to himself, Skraivok exited the teleport deck and headed to the embarkation deck. With the political situation as fluid as it was, he would be safer in combat.

  ‘Throw them back!’ roared Polux from atop the metal wall. ‘Do not allow them into the mountain!’

  His Lightkeepers stood shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel entrance. There had been forty of them assigned to the fortress-observatory of the Emperor’s Watch, twenty of his own most trusted veterans, and twenty others drawn from the refugee members of the broken Legions. Guilliman had intended that all of his allies feel trusted. It was a diplomatic move more than a practical defence.

  Polux gave silent thanks for politics. Without the Lightkeepers, the mountain would be lost.

  Several had fallen. The paint of those left was scorched brown and black with a week of constant fighting. There was little difference between the bright yellow of his Imperial Fists, the sombre black of the Raven Guard and Iron Fists, the white of the White Scars or the green of the Salamanders. They were true brothers now, liveried in the colours of war.

  All over the mountain the Night Lords attacked. Polux had left six major entrances open into the Pharos, more than he liked, but two of them were too big and awkward to block with landslides. Dantioch had vetoed the destruction of the tunnels themselves, and as it was, the blocking of so many entrances had compromised the strength of the beacon.

  Six entrances. One was at the mountain’s summit. Opening only on to the promontory, it was unassailable from the ground now the funicular was gone. Fire from the Emperor’s Watch kept that area free from airborne assault.

  That left five to defend. Three were low down the mountain, and most at risk. One was held by the unwilling Mechanicum’s remaining automata and their meagre number of Thallaxii guardians. Another of the lowermost was protected by Sergeant Solus and half of the surviving 199th.

  And then there was this, a high slash in the southern face of the great mountain wall, and the most at risk. Polux deduced the enemy would concentrate their main attack there and had constructed a rampart across the cave mouth. In matters of siege, he was rarely wrong.

  A sentry gun went up with bang, its remaining rounds cracking off like celebratory fireworks. A trio of Dreadnoughts led the way, their sarcophagi hung with the bloody remains of recent victims.

  ‘Bring the ancients down!’ ordered Polux. Bolt-rounds blew in profusion off his shield. The energy field generator had failed several minutes ago, stressed too far by the amount of incoming fire. Three lascannon beams stabbed out from the rampart. Two slammed into the lead Dreadnought, but it shrugged them off. Glowing holes shone in its armour. The third caught the Dreadnought protecting the lead machine’s left flank. Its shoulder joint came apart in a spray of liquid metal and electrical discharge, and its arm hung limply at its side. It staggered, then advanced with its brothers.

  ‘Again! Again!’ ordered Polux.

  Jetbikes roared past the cave mouth, strafing the metal bulwark. Polux had sited his defence carefully, giving the warriors manning it enough firing options without exposing them to the enemy outside.


  A seething tide of Night Lords came up the mountain. Preliminary bombardment had scoured the forest and the minefields it concealed away. Unmanned sentry guns and concealed snipers thinned the enemy’s ranks, but there were so many Night Lords.

  The Dreadnoughts were thirty metres away and closing steadily. The slope here was shallow, too treacherous for siege tanks, but not quite the defender’s gift the steeper upper mountainsides were.

  ‘Bring them down – concentrate fire on the lead. Follow my targeting information. Mark.’ Polux highlighted the head and joints of the oncoming Dreadnought unit leader with his auto-senses. ‘Squad Three, rad grenades.’

  A hail of fist-sized missiles were tossed out over the wall’s sloping parapet. These were meant for the following legionaries, not their entombed brethren. They exploded with minimal force, spreading deadly clouds of intense, short-lived gamma radiation all down the mountain. The danger registered in their foe’s auto-senses, and they were pushed together into narrow, invisible corridors as they tried to avoid the new hot zones.

  ‘Support squad, open fire. Squads Three, Four and Seven firesweep rad-free zones.’ Polux kept his commands simple, brief, lacking the adornment others used. He suppressed his Inwit accent, speaking the clearest Gothic he could so that all the legionaries would understand, wherever they hailed from. This was perhaps unnecessary; even had they not understood him, Polux fed an information-rich stream of combat data to the visors of all the legionaries under his command. The habit of his Legion was to leave nothing to chance.

  Muzzle flashes sparkled along the length of the forty-metre wall, spearing from gunloops and parapet alike. The heavy support squad adjusted the coherence patterns on their lasbeams, and fired again.

  Four beams connected with the first Dreadnought, smashing its helmet, sending its arm spinning free, and punching through its sarcophagus. Its power plant detonated, sending hot metal scything out into the Night Lords. A second fell a moment later, one leg reduced to a tangled metal stump. It fell forwards onto its front, howling out its anger.