False Gods (14 page)

The green fire in their eyes spoke of monstrous appetites and Petronella felt a gut-wrenching terror greater than anything she had ever known.

Only Maggard stood between her and the walking, diseased corpses, and he was but one man. She had watched him train in the gymnasia of Kairos many times, but she had never seen him draw his weapons in anger.

Maggard’s pistol barked and each shot blasted one of the shambling horrors from its feet, neat holes drilled in its forehead. He fired and fired until his pistol was empty, and then holstered it and drew a long, triangular bladed dagger.

As the horde approached, her bodyguard attacked.

He leapt, feet first, at the nearest corpse and a neck snapped beneath his boot heel. Maggard spun as he landed, his sword decapitating a pair of the monsters, and his dagger ripping the throat from another. His Kirlian rapier darted like a silver snake, its glowing edge stabbing and cutting with incredible speed. Whatever it touched dropped instantly to the muddy ground like a servitor with its doctrina wafer pulled.

His body was always in motion, leaping, twisting and dodging away from the clutching hands of his diseased attackers. There was no pattern to their assault, simply a mindless host of dead things seeking to envelop them. Maggard fought like nothing she had ever seen, his augmetic muscles bulging and flexing as he cut down his foes with quick, lethal strokes.

No matter how many he killed, there were always more pressing in and they steadily forced him back a step at a time. The horde of creatures began to surround them, and Petronella saw that Maggard couldn’t possibly hold them all back. He staggered towards her, bleeding from a score of minor wounds. His flesh was blistered and weeping around the cuts and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin, despite his respirator gear.

She wept bitter tears of horror as the monsters closed in, jaws opening wide to devour her flesh, and grasping hands ready to tear her perfect skin and feast on her innards. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The Great Crusade wasn’t supposed to end in failure and death!

A corpse with mouldering, sagging skin lurched past Maggard, his blade lodged in the belly of a giant, necrotic thing with green flesh that was thick with flies.

She screamed as it reached for her.

Deafening bangs thundered behind her and the creature disintegrated in an explosion of wet meat and bone. Petronella covered her ears as the thunderous roar of gunfire came again and her attackers were torn apart in a series of rancid explosions, falling back into the fires of the skiff and burning with stinking green flames.

She rolled onto her side, crying in pain and fear as the terrifyingly close volleys continued, clearing a path for the massive, armoured warriors of the Sons of Horus.

A giant towered above her, reaching for her with his armoured gauntlet.

He wore no helmet and was silhouetted by a terrible red glow, his awesome bulk haloed by blazing plumes of fire and pillars of black smoke. Even through her tears, the Warmaster’s beauty and physical perfection rendered her speechless. Though blood and dark slime covered his armour and his cloak was torn and tattered, Horus towered like a war god unleashed, his face a mask of terrifying power.

He lifted her to her feet as easily as one might lift a babe in arms, while his warriors continued the slaughter of the monstrous dead things. More and more Sons of Horus were converging on the crash site, guns firing to drive the enemy back and forming a protective cordon around the Warmaster.

‘Miss Vivar,’ demanded Horus. ‘What in the name of Terra are you doing here? I ordered you to stay aboard the
Vengeful Spirit
!’

She straggled for words, still in awe of his magnificent presence. He had saved her. The Warmaster had personally saved her and she wept to know his touch.

‘I had to come. I had to see—’

‘Your curiosity almost got you killed,’ raged Horus. ‘If your bodyguard had been less capable, you’d already be dead.’

She nodded dumbly, holding onto a twisted spar of metal to keep from collapsing as the Warmaster stepped through the debris towards Maggard. The gold armoured warrior held himself erect, despite the pain of his wounds.

Horus lifted Maggard’s sword arm, examining the warrior’s blade.

‘What’s your name, warrior?’ asked the Warmaster.

Maggard, of course, did not answer, looking over at Petronella for help in answering.

‘He cannot answer you, my lord,’ said Petronella.

‘Why not? Doesn’t he speak Imperial Gothic?’

‘He does not speak at all, sir. House Carpinus chaperones removed his vocal chords.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘He is an indentured servant of House Carpinus and it is not a bodyguard’s place to speak in the presence of his mistress.’

Horus frowned, as though he did not approve of such things, and said, ‘Then you tell me what his name is.’

‘He is called Maggard, sir.’

‘And this blade he wields? How is it that the slightest touch of its edge slays one of these creatures?’

‘It is a Kirlian blade, forged on ancient Terra and said to be able to sever the connection between the soul and the body, though I have never seen it used before today.’

‘Whatever it is, I think it saved your life. Miss Vivar,’

She nodded as the Warmaster turned to face Maggard once more and made the sign of the aquila before saying, ‘You fought with great courage, Maggard. Be proud of what you did here today.’

Maggard nodded and dropped to his knees with his head bowed, tears streaming from his eyes at being so honoured by the Warmaster.

Horus bent down and placed the palm of his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder, saying, ‘Rise, Maggard. You have proven yourself to be a warrior, and no warrior of such courage should kneel before me.’

Maggard stood, smoothly reversing the grip of his sword and offering it, hilt first, to the Warmaster.

The yellow sky reflected coldly in his golden eyes, and Petronella shivered as she saw a newfound devotion in her bodyguard’s posture, an expression of faith and pride that frightened her with its intensity.

The meaning of the gesture was clear. It said what Maggard himself could not.

I
am yours to command.

T
HUS
ASSEMBLED
,
THE
Astartes took stock of their situation. All four phalanxes had rendezvoused around the crash site as the attacks from the diseased and dead things ceased for the time being. The speartip was blunted, but it was still an awesome fighting force and easily capable of destroying what remained of Temba’s paltry detachment.

Sedirae volunteered his men to secure the perimeters, and Loken simply waved his assent, knowing that Luc was hungry for more battle and for a chance to shine in front of the Warmaster. Vipus re-formed the scouting parties and Verulam Moy set up fire positions for his Devastators.

Loken was relieved beyond words to see that all four members of the Mournival had survived the fighting, though Torgaddon and Abaddon had both lost their helmets in the furious melees. Aximand’s armour had been torn open across his side and a splash of red, shockingly bright against the green of his armour, stained his thigh.

‘Are you all right?’ Torgaddon asked him, his armour stained and blistered, as though someone had poured acid over its plates.

‘Just about,’ nodded Loken. ‘You?’

‘Yes, though it was a close run thing,’ conceded Torgaddon. ‘Bastard got me underwater and was choking the life out of me. Tore my helmet right off and I think I must have drunk about a bucket of that swamp water. Had to gut him with my combat knife. Messy.’

Torgaddon’s genhanced body would be unharmed by swallowing the water, no matter what toxins it carried, but it was a stark reminder of the power of these creatures that a warrior as fearsome as him could almost be overcome. Abaddon and Aximand had similar tales of close run things, and Loken desperately wanted the fight to be over. The longer the mission went on, the more it reminded him of Eidolon’s abortive first strike on Murder.

Restored communications revealed that the Byzant Janizars had suffered terribly under the assault from the swamp and had hunkered down in defensive positions. Not even the electro-scythes of their discipline masters were able to coerce them forward. The horrific enemy had melted back into the fog, but no one could say with any certainty where the creatures had gone.

The Titans of the Legio Mortis towered over the Astartes; the
Dies Irae
reassuring the assembled warriors by the simple virtue of is immensity.

It was left to Erebus to point the way onwards, he and his depleted warriors staggering into the circle of light surrounding Petronella Vivar’s crashed skiff. The first chaplain’s armour was stained and battered, its many seals and scripture papers torn from it.

‘Warmaster, I believe we have found the source of the transmissions,’ reported Erebus. ‘There is a… structure up ahead.’

‘Where is it and how close?’ demanded the Warmaster.

‘Perhaps another kilometre to the west.’

Horus raised his sword and shouted, ‘Sons of Horus, we have been grossly wronged here and some of our brothers are dead. It is time we avenge them.’

His voice easily carried over the dead waters of the swamps, his warriors roaring their assent and following the Warmaster, as Erebus and the Word Bearers set off into the mists.

Fired with furious energy, the Astartes ploughed through the sodden ground, ready to enact the Warmaster’s wrath upon the vile foe that had unleashed such horrors upon them. Maggard and Petronella went with them, none of the Astartes willing to retreat and escort them back to the Army positions. Legion apothecaries tended their wounds and helped them through the worst of the terrain.

Eventually, the mists began to thin and Loken could make out the more distant figures of Astartes warriors through the smudges of fog. The further they marched, the more solid the ground underfoot became, and as Erebus led them onwards, the mist became thinner still.

Then, as quickly as a man might step from one room to another, they were out of it.

Behind them, the banks of fog gathered and coiled, like a theatre curtain in a playhouse waiting to unveil some wondrous marvel.

Before them was the source of the vox transmission, rearing up from the muddy plain like a colossal iron mountain.

Eugan Temba’s flagship, the
Glory of Terra
.

SEVEN

Watch our backs

Collapse

The betrayer

R
USTED
AND
DEAD
nearly six decades, the vessel lay smashed and ruined on the cratered mudflats, its once mighty hull torn open and buckled almost beyond recognition. Its towering gothic spires, like the precincts of a mighty city, lay fallen and twisted, its buttresses and archways hung with decaying fronds of huge web-like vines. Its keel was broken, as though it had struck the moon’s surface, belly first, and many of the upper surfaces had caved in, the decks below open to the elements.

Swathes of mossy greenery covered the hull and her command spire speared into the sky; warp vanes and tall vox masts bending in the moaning wind.

Loken thought the scene unbearably sad. That this should be the final resting place of such a magnificent vessel seemed utterly wrong to him.

Pieces of debris spotted the landscape, twisted hunks of rusted metal and incongruous personal items that must have belonged to the ship’s crew and had been ejected during the massive impact with the ground.

‘Throne…’ breathed Abaddon.

‘How?’ was all Aximand could manage.

‘It’s the
Glory of Terra
alright,’ said Erebus. ‘I recognise the warp array configuration of the command deck. It’s Temba’s flagship.’

‘Then Temba’s already dead,’ said Abaddon in frustration. ‘Nothing could have survived that crash.’

‘Then who’s broadcasting that signal?’ asked Horus.

‘It could have been automated,’ suggested Torgaddon. ‘Maybe it’s been going for years.’

Loken shook his head. ‘No, the signal only started once we breached the atmosphere. Someone here activated it when they knew we were coming.’

The Warmaster stared at the massive shape of the wrecked spaceship, as if by staring hard enough he could penetrate its hull and discern what lay within.

‘Then we should go in,’ urged Erebus. ‘Find whoever is inside and kill them.’

Loken rounded on the first chaplain. ‘Go inside? Are you mad? We don’t have any idea what might be waiting for us. There could be thousands more of those… things inside, or something even worse.’

‘What is the matter, Loken?’ snarled Erebus. ‘Are the Sons of Horus now afraid of the dark?’

Loken took a step towards Erebus and said, ‘You dare insult us, Word Bearer?’

Erebus stepped to meet Loken’s challenge, but the Mournival took up position behind their newest member and their presence gave the first chaplain pause. Instead of pursuing the matter, Erebus bowed his head and said, ‘I apologise if I spoke out of turn, Captain Loken. I sought only to erase the gross stain on the Legion’s honour.’

‘The Legion’s honour is our own to uphold, Erebus,’ said Loken. ‘It is not for you to tell us how we must act.’

Horus decided the matter before further harsh words could be exchanged. ‘We’re going in,’ he said.

T
HE
RIPPLING
FOG
bank followed the Astartes as they advanced towards the crashed ship and the Titans of the Legio Mortis followed behind, their legs still wreathed in the mists. Loken kept his bolter at the ready, conscious of the sounds of splashing water behind them, though he told himself that they were just the normal sounds of this world – whatever that meant.

As they closed the gap, he drew level with the Warmaster and said, ‘Sir, I know what you will say, but I would be remiss if I didn’t speak up.’

‘Speak up about what, Garviel?’ asked Horus.

‘About this. About you leading us into the unknown.’