Throne of light, p.5
Throne Of Light, page 5
His men had spent their lives well. He had his distraction.
Areios dropped his gun and ran up the side of a mound churned up by the psyker. He pulled the grenade free from his belt as he reached the top. He had only one. It was cylindrical, black with a grey band around the middle. A skull adorned the top seal. Upping his supplementary musculature’s power boost to maximum, he jumped, primed the grenade and flung it hard to get it through the protective vortex.
The psyker turned towards him, showing a face wracked with pain and hatred. Beneath the witch marks and corruption inflicted upon the wretch by his connection to the warp, Areios was surprised by how young he was.
The grenade clanged into the vortex, almost deflected before it went off despite the force of Areios’ throw.
A sphere of leaden energy burst out. Not of the mortal plane, it was unimpeded by the stones, and although it barely touched the psyker, that was sufficient. He screamed. The vortex dropped to the ground.
Psyk-out overspill washed over Areios. He was no psyker, but even so gentle an encounter with the weapon made him sick to his core. He felt his soul gutter like a candle in a breeze, his battleplate’s machine-spirit shut down, and he too fell.
He lay dazed, his armour systems offline, until the earth began to rumble, and his vox crackled back on. Gunfire picked up. The psyk-out grenade, so rare and potent, had bought him only seconds.
Fighting the weight of his dead armour, he crawled on hands and knees to where the youth had fallen. Pebbles rose quiveringly into the air. The earth thrummed to a constant tremor. The psyker was ahead, listlessly rolling, not quite conscious. Bolts zipped overhead, but his position protected him. It was down to Areios to finish him. He called on his armour again, and got no response, so crawled on. The psyker was getting to his feet, his shielding gyre of stone rising with him.
On the third attempt, Areios called his machine-spirit back. His displays came on. Power surged through the warplate. Areios launched himself forward, putting all his considerable strength and that of his armour into the leap, and hit the youth. His underfed, young frame crumpled under the impact, and they both went down. Areios landed on top of him, breaking every bone in his body.
The psychic phenomena ceased. Areios got up, drew his pistol, pointed it at the psyker’s head, but did not fire. The youth was dead. He looked even younger now, barely out of childhood, Areios thought.
‘Company, advance,’ he commanded. He marked the positions of his fallen men on the company noosphere, directing the Apothecaries to retrieve their gene-seed, and went to get his gun.
A few moments later and it was all over. The cannons stopped. Grenades saw to a couple of the anti-air guns too defiled to guarantee the purity of their machine-spirits. The rest were deemed salvageable by Areios’ Techmarine. Efforts were already beginning to collect useful war materiel.
A flight of Astra Militarum landers roared overhead, bound for the landing zones. The cessation of the bombardment had already been noted, yet Areios reported his success formally anyway, as his training dictated he should.
‘Captain Areios, First Company, First Battalion, First Division. Confirm primary target eliminated.’
The void shields of Tiantin City glimmered in the distance, strengthening again now they no longer weathered incoming fire. Though churned up by the siege and the counter-attack, the lands around the city were not too badly affected, at least beyond the traitor lines. Farms, forests and exurbs were still recognisable as such. The trenches would be bulldozed. Agricolae servitors would till land fertilised with corpses. Suladen would return to its dull but useful existence.
The Imperium would persist. That was worth the lives of a few of his brothers.
‘Fleet command receiving,’ an anonymous voice responded, ‘mission objectives updated.’
The chime of incoming data announced his new orders. He was about to read them when one of his sergeants voxed him from the far side of the compound.
‘Brother-captain, I have a group of twenty traitor Astra Militarum who have surrendered. Their leader is offering intelligence in exchange for their lives. What shall I do with them?’
A leader reacts according to his own temperament. The merciful might spare them. The zealous burned them. The cunning interrogated them. Areios was none of those things. For him, actions of war were dictated purely by immediate tactical consideration.
‘They will have nothing to tell us. They made their choice. They will serve only as a drain on resources as we advance. Execute them all.’
A brief rattle of boltgun fire drifted towards him as he read his orders, and then it was done.
‘Techmarine Isupi, stay here and catalogue this weaponry for delivery to the fleet logisters. Choose three men to help you. The rest of you, we leave now.’
A fresh faceguard was found for Areios, and he exchanged it with the damaged part of his helmet. Ammunition was brought up.
Re-equipped, he gave the order.
‘Forward! For Guilliman! For the Emperor!’
He passed the corpses of the executed men on his way out of the artillery park. He did not even register them, for the next killing ground was already shining in the runes of his display.
Chapter Four
TIANTIN CITY
A DRINK
AN UNFORTUNATE DEATH
The bells of Tiantin City rang without stopping. Priests led processions dressed in the black and white of mourning, their faces smeared with ash. Woeful versicles called out from laud hailers drew responses of murmurous thunder from the crowds.
‘This is a fine display of contrition,’ said Vitrian Messinius. He turned from the open window, his half-cape swishing about his armour’s power generator, like a flag displaying his impatience. ‘Yet they should not have turned in the first place.’
‘Close the window, Vitrian,’ said Eloise Athagey. She sprawled upon the couch, a large glass goblet in one hand, with an insouciance he suspected was deliberately calculated to goad him. For a groupmaster, Athagey had an antagonistic relationship towards authority, provided it was not her own being challenged, of course. ‘Sit down, have a drink. It’s another planet taken with minimal bloodshed and precious little material damage. Lord Guilliman will be pleased.’
‘Will he?’ said Messinius. He stalked over to the centre of the room where Athagey sat. ‘The Segmentum Solar was supposed to be secure. Now rebellion flares within striking distance of the Throneworld in every direction we look.’
‘You’re being overly dramatic.’
‘I am not one for theatrics.’ The parquet flooring squeaked under his weight as he came to a halt and stared down at her. ‘Would Fleetmistress VanLeskus be pleased, that we dally here putting down these insurrections when our schedule demands we be away into the Segmentum Pacificus?’
‘She sent us here. She knew what we would face.’ Athagey’s good humour cracked.
Messinius felt a little guilty bringing up the fleetmistress, but as much as he liked Athagey, she could be insufferably arrogant, a tendency that needed curbing from time to time.
‘That is why we are soon to be reinforced by two battle groups from Fleet Sextus,’ she went on, explaining a strategy he already knew. ‘Together with the elements from Quartus and Quintus, we number seven battle groups across four sectors.’ She scowled and cradled her drink. ‘VanLeskus is jealous of my success, otherwise I wouldn’t be here holding the back line.’
‘I am sure she has other reasons to assign you this duty,’ Messinius said. ‘Good reasons.’
‘Yes? Then why are you here? You’re supposed to be the commander of all Space Marines in Fleet Tertius. You should be with Tertius Alpharis One, not out here with me.’
‘She has her reasons for that as well,’ Messinius said again.
‘Not sharing glory. That’s reason enough for her. She won’t want her perfect record of victories put down to the help of a Space Marine, especially one so high in the primarch’s favour. While she’s off gallivanting, we have to hold the line. Still, it is for the best, because we are doing a good job of removing these fallen brethren of yours from these worlds.’ Her gaze went distant. ‘That will be borne in mind when talk of advancement comes around.’
‘You are being needlessly self-centred. There are larger things at stake than your status. Think of your duty, not of your honour roll.’
She looked stung. ‘Do you really think all I care for is my own career? I jest. Mostly.’
Messinius answered with a hard stare.
‘I am wounded. We do good work here.’
‘Wounded or not, jesting or not, you underestimate the sons of Lorgar at our peril. We are here because they present a genuine threat to the security of Imperium Sanctus that is as great as those found further out from Terra. Put away your ego. There is some plan at play here.’
‘Beyond destroying the Imperium?’
‘Are you deliberately being provocative today, Eloise? Forces of the Warmaster have always wanted that. It is the how that we must be wary of. We should be thankful you are here to stop them.’
‘Was that an attempt at flattery?’ She smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Do stop being such a bore. Have a drink.’ Messinius ignored her gesture at the table, well stocked with beverages by nervous planetary officials, close by the couch. ‘Relax, if that’s even possible. And step away – it’s like looking up a bloody mountain when you’re standing over me like that.’ Her smile deepened. ‘An impressive, awe-inspiring and even beautiful sight, but one does get a crick in the neck.’
Messinius grunted and stepped back.
‘And now a smile, Vitrian?’
‘One hundred years have I served. These last years with you have seemed particularly long,’ he said.
‘A veritable touch with the point. I shall take that as a compliment. Now, have a drink, I insist. It’s an order, in fact.’
Messinius raised an eyebrow at Athagey’s goblet. Large in her hand, it would barely provide a mouthful to him.
‘I’ll get it for you.’ She stood up, and went to the table.
‘It worries me that the Word Bearers spend so much time and effort to rile up the populations,’ Messinius said. ‘They are demagogues and false prophets, and doubtless they seek to destroy morale and delay us. Yet I cannot see the immediate strategic worth in turning these systems. They offer no appreciable gain other than distraction. Their nature as holy worlds is a provocation, provocation is distraction. That begs the question, what are they distracting us from?’
‘How can you be certain distraction is their aim?’ said Athagey. ‘You forget that these men follow the whims of mad gods. They undermine the faith of the people. For a Legion of zealots, surely that is a goal in itself?’
She poked about the table, looking for a vessel big enough for the Space Marine. She settled on a tall bronze goblet in the Ascanian style. She filled it with wine. The half-bottle open was insufficient, so she opened a second.
‘They forget that the Emperor is their god, lord lieutenant. They feel He has abandoned them. The enemy offer an alternative, as blasphemous as it is to say so. There are many more psykers emerging on these worlds. The people are presented with terror daily. They seek protection.’
‘Is that so?’ said Messinius. ‘Then let the barking of boltguns remind them of who their true protector is, not only their master, but He who vouchsafes the very continuance of their lives.’
‘That is more or less what I was going to say, though not so belligerently as you.’ She handed him the goblet. In Messinius’ gauntleted hand it seemed ridiculously dainty, though it had been crafted to heroic proportions. ‘You are in poor spirits.’
‘This is a miserable form of war,’ Messinius said. ‘We slaughter those who would be loyal were it not for the privations they must endure, spreading greater suffering as we do, the slaughter we commit ensuring others will fall under the spell of diabolical priests who use our successes against us.’
‘It is not quite so simple,’ said Athagey. She raised her glass. ‘Your health.’
‘Yours also,’ said Messinius. He drank. The wine was pleasingly sharp on his tongue, conjuring up a great thirst in him. It had been hours since he had refreshed himself properly, he realised, so many duties he had, and he had the unseemly urge to drink it all down. He refrained.
‘You see, I find all this encouraging.’
‘Explain,’ said Messinius.
‘The Word Bearers are embarked on some sort of holy crusade, that much is obvious to me. Their targeting of the Black Ships is a worry, I admit, but on the whole their primary goal appears to be to subvert as much of the Emperor’s faithful as possible – that’s why I believe they are targeting these cardinal and shrine worlds. It is almost…’ She searched for the word.
‘Vindictive,’ said Messinius.
‘That’s the word,’ she said, and tilted her glass at him. ‘But vindictiveness never won a war. They are too bound up in their faith. They miss larger prizes.’
‘I fail to see how that is encouraging.’
‘Because it means they are working on their own,’ she said. ‘If they are working alone, they are working towards their own agenda.’ She smiled. ‘And that means that the Warmaster has no control over them. Don’t you see? The enemy are divided. We have been fighting this war for nearly half a decade. We were reeling from the opening of the Great Rift. The Imperium was divided. But as our efforts progress I see it is they who suffer from division, not us. By all rights, they should have moved on Terra by now.’
‘What about Fleet Secundus?’
‘Fleet Secundus is the stopper in hell’s gate, that is all.’
‘An interesting theoretical,’ said Messinius, who had picked the term up from his time with Guilliman. ‘But you make a fundamental error. You assume they will follow a logical path. Do you think the Rift was opened by logic? Do you think their daemonic allies respond to reasoned argument? Captain Areios was forced to deploy a psyk-out grenade today against one of their witches. The enemy are weaponising our own citizens against us. It is bad enough when they take up arms, but when they wield the powers of the warp, how are we, in our mundane armour with our mundane guns, supposed to fight these wild talents? If the primarch taught me one thing, it is that we fight a war against foes who do not think as we do, whose goals are inexplicable. When their efforts were restricted to planetary conquest and raiding parties, their greater strategy did not matter. Each threat was met and dealt with on its own. We did not see the strategy beneath. We do not see the strategy now. Abaddon has had ten thousand years to formulate the manner of his revenge. I, therefore, take no comfort in the knowledge that the Warmaster has not yet advanced on the Throneworld, or that the old Legions appear divided. When it comes, their attack will be from an unexpected direction.’
‘So then, you must agree that simple distraction is probably not their game.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘If you are correct then I fear we may soon feel the touch of their sorcery on a much grander scale, and I fear we may be helping facilitate it.’
‘How?’
‘Death. Blood. Suffering. All these things are useful to them.’ He dipped his head in thought. ‘Every move we make is fraught with danger.’
‘But we must make them, and there is no primarch here to tell us what to do. We – you and I, and all the rest of the commanders of these fleets – must choose. Why do you think I like drinking?’ she said. ‘Listen, the priests will begin cleansing the populace. There will be an inquisition. There will be burnings and horrors just as bad as those inflicted by the enemy. We can do nothing to prevent that. It is necessary. So let us not dwell on the suffering to come. Let us drink together and celebrate this victory, which was won quickly and well. Let us drink to all the people who have been saved from the dominion of Dark Gods, and all those who will now not turn from the light of the Emperor, and whose souls will be saved by the Adeptus Ministorum. Let us remember, also, those who were tempted from the light into the darkness, and mourn their failure. And finally, let us drink, Vitrian Messinius, to you and I and a task well accomplished, because tomorrow we will have to do it again, and then again, until the stars are free of evil, and the peoples of mankind might sleep safely in their beds and no longer fear the night.’
‘You and I will not see out that war,’ said Messinius. ‘It has lasted for ten thousand years, and will exceed our span by ten thousand more.’
Athagey smiled again, sadly this time. ‘Then that is another reason to drink,’ she said.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter!’ Athagey shouted.
A harried-looking official of the Departmento Munitorum came inside.
‘My lady, we have had a communiqué from Fleet Tertius high command. You must attend with a response immediately.’
‘VanLeskus, eh?’ she said, letting her annoyance show.
The official held out a lead cylinder dangling seals. Athagey took it, opened it, took out and unfurled the flimsy within, and read it with a frown.
‘Bad news?’ asked Messinius.
She nodded, still frowning. ‘From Xeriphis. The assault there has failed.’ She crumpled up the flimsy. ‘That damn fool Dionis has let Battle Group Iolus be practically wiped out by the Word Bearers. He’s dead.’ She looked up at Messinius. ‘They’re going to merge the groups.’
Messinius could not read Athagey’s expression.
‘Is that good news or bad news, as you would see it?’
‘Honestly?’ she said, and took a long drink of wine. ‘I have no damn idea. But my ambition aside, it’s not good news is it?’
She set down the goblet and scooped up her coat.
‘If the planetary governor wants to speak to anyone, you can speak to her, lord lieutenant,’ she said as she went for the door. ‘I’m busy. VanLeskus wants a report immediately.’
