False Gods (24 page)

Despite himself, Aximand became caught up in Erebus’s words, his oratory worthy of the iterators, with the precise modulation of tone and timbre to entrance his audience.

‘Tell us!’ shouted Luc Sedirae.

The lodge took up the cry until Serghar Targost was forced to restore order with a bellowed command.

‘We must take the Warmaster to the Temple of the Serpent Lodge on Davin,’ declared Erebus. ‘The priests there are skilled in the mystic arts of healing, and I believe they offer the best chance of saving the Warmaster,’

‘Mystic arts?’ asked Aximand. ‘What does that mean? It sounds like sorcery.’

‘I do not believe it is,’ said Erebus, rounding on him, ‘but what if it was, Brother Horus? Would you refuse their aid? Would you allow the Warmaster to die just so we can feel pure? Is the Warmaster’s life not worth a little risk?’

‘Risk, yes? But this feels wrong.’

‘Wrong would be not doing all that we could to save the commander,’ said Targost.

‘Even if it means tainting ourselves with impure magick?’

‘Don’t get all high and mighty, Aximand,’ said Targost. ‘We do this for the Legion. There is no other choice.’

‘Then is it already decided?’ demanded Aximand, pushing past Erebus to stand in the centre of the circle. ‘If so, then why this charade of debate? Why bother even summoning us here?’

Maloghurst limped from Targost’s side and shook his head. ‘We must all be in accord here, Brother Horus. You know how the lodge operates. If you do not agree to this, then we will go no further and the Warmaster will remain here, but he will die if we do nothing. You know that to be true.’

‘You cannot ask this of me,’ pleaded Aximand. ‘I have to, my brother,’ said Maloghurst. ‘There is no other way.’

Aximand felt the responsibility of the decision before him crushing him to the floor as every eye in the chamber turned upon him. His eyes meet Abaddon’s and he saw that Ezekyle was clearly in favour of doing whatever it took to save the Warmaster.

‘What of Torgaddon and Loken?’ asked Aximand, trying to buy some time to think. ‘They are not here to speak.’

‘Loken is not one of us!’ shouted Kalus Ekaddon, Captain of the Reaver squads. ‘He had his chance to join us, but turned his back on our order. As for Tarik, he will follow our lead in this. There is no time to seek him out.’ Aximand looked into the faces of the men around him, and he realized had no choice. He never had from the moment he had walked into the room.

Whatever it took, the Warmaster had to live. It was that simple.

He knew there would be consequences. There always were in a devil’s bargain like this, but any price was worth paying if it would save the commander.

He was damned if he would be remembered as the warrior who stood by and let the Warmaster die.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Let the Lodge of the Serpent do what it can.’

T
HE
DIFFERENCE
IN
Davin’s moon in the few hours since they had last set foot on it was incredible, thought Loken. The cloying mists and fogs had vanished and the sky was lightening from a musky yellow to bleached white. The stench was still there, but it too was lessened, now just unpleasant rather than overpowering. Had the death of Temba broken some kind of power that held the moon locked in a perpetual cycle of decay?

As the Thunderhawk had skimmed the marshes, Loken had seen that the diseased forests were gone, their trunks collapsed in on themselves without the life-giving corruption holding them together. Without the obscuring mists, it was easy to find the
Glory of Terra
, though thankfully there was no deathly message coming over the vox this time.

They touched down and Loken led Locasta squad, Torgaddon, Vipus and Marr from the Thunderhawk with the confident strides of a natural leader. Though Torgaddon and Marr had held their captaincies longer than Loken, both instinctively deferred to him on this mission.

‘What do you expect to find here, Garvi?’ asked Torgaddon, squinting up at the collapsed hulk of the ship. He hadn’t bothered to find a new helmet and his nose wrinkled at the stench of the place.

‘I’m not sure,’ he answered. ‘Answers, maybe; something to help the Warmaster.’

Torgaddon nodded. ‘Sounds good to me. What about you, Marr? What are you looking for?’

Tybalt Marr didn’t answer, racking the slide of his bolter and marching towards the crashed vessel. Loken caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder guard.

‘Tybalt, am I going to have a problem with you here?’

‘No. I just want to see where Verulam died,’ said Marr. ‘It won’t be real until I’ve seen the place. I know I saw him in the mortuary, but that wasn’t a dead man. It was just like looking in a mirror. You understand?’

Loken didn’t, but he nodded anyway. ‘Very well, take up position in the file.’

They marched towards the dead ship, clambering up the broken ramps of debris to the gaping holes torn in its side.

‘Damn, but it feels like a lifetime since we were fighting here,’ said Torgaddon.

‘It was only three or four hours ago, Tarik,’ Loken pointed out.

‘I know, but still…’

Eventually they reached the top of the ramp and penetrated the darkness of the ship, the memory of the last time he had done this and what he had found at the end of the journey still fresh in Loken’s mind.

‘Stay alert. We don’t know what else might still be alive in here.’

‘We should have bombed the wreck from orbit,’ muttered Torgaddon.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Loken. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

Tarik raised his hands in apology and they pressed on through the groaning wreck, along darkened hallways, flickering companionways and stinking, blackened corridors. Vipus and Loken led the way, with Torgaddon and Marr guarding the rear. The shadow-haunted wreck had lost none of its power to disturb, though the disgusting, organic growths that coated every surface with glistening wetness now seemed to be dying – drying up and cracking to powder.

‘What’s going on in here?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘This place was like the hydroponics bay a few hours ago, now it’s…’

‘Dying,’ completed Vipus. ‘Like those trees we saw earlier.’

‘More like dead,’ said Marr, peeling the husk of one of the growths from the wall.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ warned Loken. ‘Something in this ship had the power to harm the commander and until we know what that was, we touch nothing.’

Marr dropped the remains and wiped his hand on his leg as they journeyed deeper inside the ship. Loken’s memory of their previous route was faultless and they soon reached the central spine and the route to the bridge.

Shafts of light speared in through holes in the hull and dust motes floated in the air like a glittering wall. Loken led on, ducking beneath protruding bulkheads and sparking cables as they reached their ultimate destination.

Loken could smell Eugan Temba long before they saw him, the reek of his putrefaction and death thick even beyond the bridge. They made their way cautiously onto the bridge, and Loken sent his warriors around the perimeter with directional chops of his hand.

‘What are we going to do about those men up there?’ asked Vipus, pointing to the dead soldiers stitched to the banners hanging from the roof. ‘We can’t just leave them like that.’

‘I know, but we can’t do anything for them just now,’ said Loken. ‘When we destroy this hulk, they’ll be at rest.’

‘Is that him?’ asked Marr, pointing at the bloated corpse.

Loken nodded, raising his bolter and advancing on the body. A rippling motion undulated beneath the corpse’s skin, and Temba’s voluminous belly wobbled with internal motion. His flesh was stretched so tightly over his frame that the outlines of fat maggots and larvae could be seen beneath his parchment skin.

‘Throne, he’s disgusting,’ said Marr. ‘And this… thing killed Verulam?’

‘I assume so,’ replied Loken. ‘The Warmaster didn’t say exactly, but there’s nothing else here is there?’

Loken left Marr to his grief and turned to his warriors, saying, ‘Spread out and look for something, anything that might give us some clue as to what happened here.’

‘You don’t have any idea what we’re looking for?’ asked Vipus.

‘No, not really,’ admitted Loken. ‘A weapon maybe.’

‘You know we’re going to have to search that fat bastard don’t you?’ Torgaddon pointed out. ‘Who’s the lucky sod who gets to do that?’

‘I thought that’d be something you’d enjoy, Tarik.’

‘Oh no, I’m not putting so much as a finger near that thing.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Marr, dropping to his knees and peeling away the sodden remnants of Eugan Temba’s clothing and flesh.

‘See?’ said Torgaddon, backing away. ‘Tybalt wants to do it. I say let him,’

‘Very well. Be careful, Tybalt,’ said Loken before turning away from the disgusting sight of Marr pulling apart Temba’s corpse.

His men began searching the bridge and Loken climbed the steps to the captain’s throne, staring out over the crew pits, now filled with all manner of vile excrescences and filth. It baffled Loken how such a glorious ship and a man of supposedly fine character could come to such a despicable end.

He circled the throne, pausing as his foot connected with something solid.

He bent down and saw a polished wooden casket. Its surfaces were smooth and clean, and it was clearly out of place in this reeking tomb. Perhaps the length and thickness of a man’s arm, the wood was rich brown with strange symbols carved along its length. The lid opened on golden hinges and Loken released the delicate catch that held it shut.

The casket was empty, padded with a red velvet insert, and as he stared at its emptiness, Loken realised how thoughtless he’d been in opening it. He ran his fingers along the length of the casket, tracing the outline of the symbols, seeing something familiar in their elegantly cursive forms.

‘Over here!’ shouted one of Locasta, and Loken quickly gathered up the casket and made his way towards the source of the call. While Tybalt Marr disassembled the traitor’s rotten body, Astartes warriors surrounded something that gleamed on the deck.

Loken saw that it was Eugan Temba’s severed arm, the fingers still wrapped around the hilt of a strange, glittering sword with a blade that looked like grey flint.

‘It’s Temba’s arm right enough,’ said Vipus, reaching down to lift the sword.

‘Don’t touch it,’ said Loken. ‘If it laid the Warmaster low, I don’t want to know what it could do to us.’

Vipus recoiled from the sword as though it were a snake.

‘What’s that?’ asked Torgaddon, pointing at the casket.

Loken dropped to his haunches, laying the casket next to the sword, unsurprised when he saw that the sword would fit snugly inside.

‘I think it once contained this sword.’

‘Looks pretty new,’ said Vipus. ‘And what’s that on the side? Writing?’

Loken didn’t answer, reaching out to prise Temba’s dead fingers from the sword hilt. Though he knew it was absurd, he grimaced with each finger he pried loose, expecting the hand to leap to life and attack him.

Eventually, the sword was free, and Loken gingerly lifted the weapon.

‘Careful,’ said Torgaddon.

‘Thanks, Tarik, and here was me about to throw it about.’

‘Sorry.’

Loken slowly lowered the sword into the casket. The handle tingled and he had felt a curious sensation as he had said Tarik’s name, a sense of the monstrous harm the weapon could inflict. He snapped the lid shut, letting out a pent-up breath.

‘How in the name of Terra did someone like Temba get hold of a weapon like that?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘It didn’t even look human-made.’

‘It’s not,’ said Loken as the familiarity of the symbols on the side of the casket fell horribly into place. ‘It’s kinebrach.’

‘Kinebrach?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘But weren’t they—’

‘Yes,’ said Loken, carefully lifting the casket from the deck. ‘This is the anathame that was stolen from the Hall of Devices on Xenobia.’

T
HE
WORD
WENT
out across the
Vengeful Spirit
at the speed of thought, and weeping men and women lined their route. Hundreds filled each passageway as the Astartes bore the Warmaster on a bier of kite-shaped shields. Clad in his ceremonial armour of winter white with burnished gold trims and the glaring red eye, the Warmaster’s hands were clasped across his golden sword, and a laurel wreath of silver sat upon his noble brow.

Abaddon, Aximand, Luc Sedirae, Serghar Targost, Falkus Kibre and Kalus Ekaddon carried him, and behind the Warmaster came Hektor Varvarus and Maloghurst. Each one wore shining armour and their company cloaks billowed behind them as they walked. Heralds and criers announced the route of the cortege, and there was no repeat of the bloody scene on the embarkation deck as the Astartes took this slow march with the beloved leader who had fought beside them since the earliest days of the Crusade. They wept as they marched, each one painfully aware that this might be the Warmaster’s last journey.

In lieu of flowers, the people threw torn scraps of tear-stained paper, each with words of hope and love written on them. Shown that the Warmaster still lived, his people burned herbs said to have healing properties, hanging them from smoking censers all along the route and from somewhere a band played the Legion March.

Candles burned with a sweet smell and men and women, soldiers and civilians, tore at themselves in their grief. Army banners lined the route, each dipped out of respect for the Warmaster, and pleading chants followed the procession until at last they came to the embarkation deck. Its vast gateway was wreathed in parchment, every square centimetre of bulkhead covered with messages for the Warmaster and his sons.

Aximand was awed by the outpouring of sorrow and love for the Warmaster, the scale of people’s grief at his wounding beyond anything in his experience. To him the Warmaster was a figure of magnificence, but first and foremost, he was a warrior – a leader of men and one of the Emperor’s chosen.

To these mortals, he was so much more. To them, the Warmaster was a symbol of something noble and heroic beyond anything they could ever aspire to, a symbol of the new galaxy they were forging from the ashes of the Age of Strife.