Hammer and Bolter: Issue 23 Read online

  With all his might, with every last moment of his strength, Rafen fought to utter a warning. From his mouth came a single, strangled word. A curse.

  ‘Horus–‘

  Gold shimmered in the darkness. The figure in armour was there, and Meros did not seem to see him. With infinite slowness, a gauntlet of brass and shining amber raised to place a hand over the silent lips of an unmoving mask. The message was without ambiguity, the command unmistakable.

  Silence.

  Unaware, Meros held out a hand to touch the other warrior’s shoulder. ‘Rafen? We are victorious… What troubles you?’

  But then the moment faded, and the sands became as blood, drowning them both.

  The Touch of Sanguine Dawn opened and cast crimson liquid across the flagstones of the Hall of Sarcophagi in a steaming tide.

  Wet with fluids, Rafen stumbled from the interior of the golden orb and fell to one knee. He coughed and tore the breather tubes from his nostrils, taking ragged gulps of air. ‘I… I am alive…’

  ‘Indeed.’ The dark voice drew his gaze up. He found himself looking into burning eyes that dared him to break away. The power of Lord Mephiston’s will was almost impossible to resist.

  Finally, he released Rafen and the warrior looked down at the tracks along his arms where numerous vitae guides had been implanted. ‘The… blood…’

  ‘Gone,’ Mephiston told him. ‘The measure of the Primarch’s sacred vitae has been returned to the Red Grail, to its rightful state. Balance, restored at last.’

  Rafen slowly climbed to his feet, as blood-servitors swept in to clean and reconsecrate the ancient sarcophagus. ‘Then at last my mission is complete. I feared it would destroy me.’

  The psyker-lord looked up, to the ornate stained-glass windows set in the walls over their heads. ‘You have stood at the edge of death’s abyss for weeks, Rafen. Lemartes and many others believed you would perish, and pass unto the Emperor’s right hand. But you defy the odds once again.’ He turned that baleful gaze back toward the Blood Angel. ‘One might wonder if you were blessed. Or cursed.’

  Rafen drew himself up. ‘Whatever the Emperor wills.’

  Mephiston came closer. ‘A question, Brother-Sergeant. What did you see in there?’

  ‘Nothing…’ The lie came to him before he could stop himself. He thought of red sands, a golden warrior, a kinsman millennia-dead. Now, as he stood here in this place of stone and steel, what he had experienced seemed like the fantasy of a fevered mind. Rafen’s hand strayed to his chest, to the place where his progenoid gene-seed implant lay dormant. ‘I… dreamed. Nothing more.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the psyker. ‘It is written that the Great Angel was possessed of a powerful psionic talent. Some say that he read the hearts and minds of his warrior sons as if they were open pages of a book. That he saw his own death at the hands of the Arch-traitor. That to him, even the veil of time was a malleable thing.’ He nodded. ‘The power of Sanguinius resonated through his very blood. Even ten thousand years on, we know this to be true.’ Rafen watched as Mephiston crossed to The Touch of Sanguine Dawn and stroked it with infinite gentleness. ‘These great sarcophagi,’ he went on, ‘they were built to his design. They are links to his will. And one might wonder if, after so many centuries of use, if they might not have absorbed some measure of his eternal power.’ He turned back to face Rafen. ‘Do you understand, Brother-Sergeant?’

  When Rafen spoke again, the truth welled up in him. ‘I saw something,’ he admitted.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A myth,’ Rafen whispered.

  ‘Open it,’ commanded the warrior in gold. ‘Do it now.’

  ‘My lord–‘ Brother-Sergeant Cassiel tried to object, but a single sharp look was enough to silence his objections. ‘As you wish.’ He threw a nod to the legion serfs crowded around the flanks of The Touch of Sanguine Dawn, and as one they opened the petals of the sphere.

  Dark rivers of crimson flowed from the interior, running away into drain vents. Light from the Hermia’s lumeglobes revealed the figure within, a muscled form pale in flesh, breathing hard. With every passing second, the colour returned to him.

  Sarga leaned in. ‘The wound has closed. I see no signs of lingering infection.’

  ‘What about the shard itself?’ asked Cassiel.

  Sarga nodded to himself. ‘Destroyed. The sarcophagus disintegrated it, purged all trace of it from his system. He lives.’

  ‘Get him out,’ said the gold-armoured warrior.

  The serfs did as they were ordered to, and moved to carry the Blood Angel to a grav-litter. He stirred, and pushed them away, standing on his own, blinking in the light.

  ‘We… are freed…’ He whispered.

  Cassiel gave him a fresh robe. ‘Meros. How do you feel, brother?’

  He gave a nod. ‘I live. Thanks to you.’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  Meros turned to see who had addressed him, and a flash of shock crossed his face. ‘You–?’ But then in the next moment, he composed himself. ‘Forgive me. The golden armour… I thought you were… Someone else.’

  ‘You know who I am?’ The warrior was a towering figure, resplendent in the master-crafted wargear of a High Sanguinary Guard – the praetorians of the Primarch himself. Dark, shoulder-length hair fell about his gorget, framing a long, noble aspect.

  ‘You are Azkaellon,’ said Meros, ‘bearer of the Glaive Encarmine and the banner-master. First among the Sanguinary Guard.’ He met the other man’s gaze. ‘What do you wish of me?’

  ‘I came to see if you would die,’ Azkaellon replied, his voice cold and steady. ‘I learned of your bravery on Nartaba Octus and wished to see the face of a battle-brother who would meet such odds. With those wounds, I expected to witness your passing… but clearly the strength of the Great Angel himself runs strong in your heart.’

  Meros gave a shallow bow. ‘I will not die yet. Sanguinius will tell me when that time is at hand.’

  For the first time, Azkaellon showed a flicker of emotion; the briefest of smiles. ‘You seem certain,’ he went on. ‘Tell me, Meros. How do you know that to be so?’ He nodded to the sarcophagus. ‘Did you… see something while you slumbered?’

  Meros recalled visions of red sands, a golden warrior and a kinsman he did not know. His hand strayed to where his progenoid gene-seed implant lay beneath his flesh. ‘My own fears made manifest,’ he replied, at length. ‘Now banished forever.’

  ‘As it should be,’ Azkaellon said, with a nod. ‘Now rest, Meros.’ He looked around at Cassiel and the others. ‘All of you, gather your strength and prepare for battle. I have this hour received orders from our primarch. The Hermia and Task Force Ignis are to rendezvous with the rest of our Legion’s ships.’

  ‘Which flotilla?’ said Sarga.

  Azkaellon did not grace him with a glance. ‘All of them. The Legion musters in its entirety for battle and new glory.’

  Meros’s brow furrowed. Such an assemblage of the Sons of Sanguinius was unprecedented. For the primarch to gather them all for war, the deed would be of great import. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Our liege-lord’s brother, the Warmaster Horus Lupercal, has given us a duty that only the Blood Angels are capable of,’ said the Sanguinary Guard. ‘We are to bring the light of the Imperium to the worlds of the Signus Cluster.’

  GILEAD’S CURSE

  Chapter Nine

  Nik Vincent and Dan Abnett

  Every tale must take its twists and turns where they may fall. I have no say in the unfolding of this story, and can only re-tell the events told to me. Gilead’s saga is a long and complex one. He has lived too many life-spans, fought too many foes and saved too many lives, for these tales to take a simple course. The Rat King was dead, and the noble Vampire Count dispatched, and yet the threat was not expunged from the land, and Gilead and his faith
ful companions made their way to Nuln in pursuit of they knew not what.

  Gather round, listen closely, and take heed. A tale has only the value of its telling and of its message, and you might all learn something from Gilead te tuin Tor Anrok. I know that I have.

  In a matter of days, Gilead was on the road again with Fithvael and Laban at his side. He had not thought to travel with an entourage, but then he had been confident that he would find his quarry in the great north lands, and was not a little surprised to find he was travelling south again, back through the Empire to the great city of Nuln.

  The journey was not a difficult or arduous one. Gilead retrieved his palfrey, and a few hours of tracking brought the elves to the Vampire Count’s war steed, which was broad of back and comfortably seated both Fithvael and the boy. They removed its armour, sigils and other adornments and threw a blanket over its back in place of the heavy saddle that it was accustomed to. The horse was big and bulky, but looked as much like a carthorse as anything else by the time it was stripped of its finery, and it drew few glances on the roads they travelled, mostly in darkness.

  ‘Why think you to ride to Nuln?’ Laban dared to ask when Gilead advised the elves of his plan.

  ‘To save my legs,’ said Gilead, clucking at his horse to move a little more quickly as the sun crawled idly over the horizon.

  ‘I don’t–’ began Laban.

  ‘In all things, we use our heads to save our legs,’ said Fithvael. ‘Thinking costs less than physical labour. Have you learnt nothing, boy?’

  ‘Perhaps my education should begin here,’ said Laban, finding his confidence. ‘Perhaps it should begin with an explanation of what we are doing, and why.’

  Gilead, who was a length or two ahead of the war steed, turned his horse and stopped so that it filled the path in front of Fithvael and Laban’s shared mount.

  ‘We are doing what we always do, what we were sworn to do, what we strive to do. When we need not serve ourselves we serve others. Now, we do both, and we do it with a good grace, and with fewer questions, if we know what is good for us,’ said Gilead, glaring at the youth.

  ‘And by “we”, you mean me?’ asked Laban, making eye contact with Gilead over the Fithvael’s shoulder.

  Gilead said no more, but turned his horse back in the direction they were heading. At the first opportunity, he made his way off the road and into a sparse stand of trees.

  Once fed and sitting before a small, but comfortable, fire, Gilead explained his purpose in heading for Nuln after spending so much time in the north.

  ‘The vampire sent me south. He did so for a reason.’

  ‘I was there,’ said Laban. ‘I heard what the creature said, yet I could make neither head nor tail of it.’

  ‘You speak like a human,’ said Gilead, an edge of contempt creeping into his voice.

  ‘Tell the boy,’ said Fithvael, ‘and tell me. I would follow you anywhere, te tuin, and you know it, but I, at least, deserve your confidence.’

  ‘I have never had anything but confidence in you, old man,’ said Gilead. ‘You have ever been a valued teacher and a faithful friend, and I will not soon forget the great services you have performed for me, or for others besides.’

  ‘Then tell us,’ said Laban.

  Gilead glanced at his young cousin, then turned back to direct his words at Fithvael.

  ‘There is a scholar in Nuln,’ said Gilead. ‘You must remember him, I’m sure?’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked Fithvael. ‘He is a knowledge thief, a scoundrel and a liar… if he is the man I remember.’

  ‘But he was refined,’ said Gilead, ‘and “genteel”.’

  ‘By human standards, perhaps,’ said Fithvael. ‘But I fear you are attempting a jest, my lord, and your demeanour confounds me.’

  ‘Confounded,’ said Gilead. ‘I’m sure that’s the very word, Fithvael. I am confounded, too. I must know where the threat comes from if I am to do battle with it. The land is dying. The creatures of the air, earth and water, the men, women and children of other, lesser, races are perishing, and now the plague has struck our own kind. Our own Baneth has been taken from us. I would he had been longer in our lives and taken a slower route into our memories.

  ‘Aye,’ said Laban, bowing his head.

  ‘Aye,’ said Fithvael.

  ‘The scholar is an imperfect man, more so than many, but if he can help us, if he can direct us and fill the gaps in our knowledge, his debt to me, his debt to all our kind, will be paid.’

  ‘My fear precisely,’ said Fithvael. ‘Can we gain the knowledge by no other means?’

  ‘By many means,’ said Gilead. ‘By many means that will eat up time and miles, and lead us on a quest that could take a score of years or more to unweave the clues and mysteries that will no doubt be laid before us. I seek a shorter, surer route.’

  ‘You seek a dangerous route.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Gilead. ‘I will not trouble you to enter the city at my side.’

  ‘It troubles me little,’ said Fithvael, ‘but the boy might be kept from the worst of the dangers.’

  ‘I’m not a boy,’ said Laban. ‘I was sent to learn. I was given into your care to squire my cousin Gilead and to learn what he might teach me. Spare me nothing.’

  ‘Fine words,’ said Fithvael, feeding and banking up the small fire so that they might rest beside its warmth during the daylight hours before taking to the road once more.

  ‘I’ve had no need of a squire these many years,’ said Gilead.

  ‘You had need of me,’ said Fithvael.

  ‘Of you, my friend, yes, but I would hardly call your services “squiring”.’

  ‘It matters little,’ said Fithvael. ‘The boy is right. Baneth was a younger soul than I, and has left us already–’

  ‘He left us prematurely,’ said Gilead. ‘I will not hear you speak of your death.’

  ‘Time is short,’ began Fithvael.

  ‘Not for us,’ said Gilead. ‘Not once this malaise is thwarted.’

  ‘Then let it be so,’ said Fithvael, ‘but do not deny the boy. He is right. He came to us from the High Council, and it is our duty… it is your duty to further his education, to make of him a strong, noble-minded cousin for our future.’

  The roads into Nuln were much travelled. People came from far and wide to benefit from city-life. Artisans came to work, labourers and domestics to serve, and gentlemen to trade or teach in the universities. It was the university that Gilead planned to visit.

  It was almost dusk when the three elves travelled the last mile of the Nuln Road to the north gate of the city. It saw more traffic on an hourly basis than any other single gate into the city, and the road was thronging with people exiting and entering Nuln as lights and lanterns began to be lit all over the city. The guard lit the brazier that stood at the gate, partly to keep the soldiers warm, and partly so that light was easily cast on the men and women scurrying back and forth from their places of work or learning, to their homes outside the city, or from their occupations on the surrounding land and beyond to their homes within its walls.

  Gilead had chosen the route, because, as busy as it was, there was a good chance that their passing would go unnoticed. On the other hand, if they were stopped, the volume of traffic through the gate would make it easy enough for Gilead to hand the guard a little coin by way of payment for ease of entrance into the town, without it being remarked upon by the hordes of people around them.

  On this occasion, no move was made against the two steeds with their three riders, and the elves entered the city unmolested.

  They travelled through the industrial district of the city, still busy and noisy despite the plague that had decimated the countryside. The Malaise seemed not to have struck the towns so severely, although it soon became clear that locals were growing food on every available plot of land, and were
utilising all outside spaces. Balconies which once held flowering plants now supplemented the household kitchens with small quantities of leafy vegetables and soft fruits. The plants were a little grey and threadbare, but the buildings around them seemed, somehow, to protect them.

  The elves kept their hoods up and their sleeves down, covering as much as they could of their heads and hands, and they slumped down onto their mounts, bringing their knees up and curving their backs so as to seem of more human proportions. The postures they adopted were not comfortable and Laban began to suffer quite quickly, but it was imperative that they not be seen or recognised.

  In times of strife, prejudices are closer to the surface and more brutal, and anyone could fall under suspicion, any foreigner or non-human.

  The elves were singular among the crowds, but went unnoticed.

  The safest places in the cities were often also the most dangerous. The slums, the hovels, the out of the way, hole-in-the-wall places could effectively conceal the presence of a thief or murderer or even an elf, while,at the same time, in the same places, the most innocent woman or child might be brutalised physically or mentally for very little reward.

  Gilead preferred these places where people chose not to look too closely at anything but coin. A relatively small amount of money could prevent prying eyes from noticing how tall the elves were, how slender, how upright, how pale… how other. Gilead preferred to go to the places in the city where everyone’s eyes were cast down or away, where no one looked for the truth in the eyes of another. His elf eyes could speak true and still his otherness would cause anything from a feint or swoon to an unprovoked attack.

  The elves found their route along Commercial Way and around the university into the Maze and the old slum districts of Neuestadt. The streets were narrow and crooked with overhanging roofs and odd junctions, and the three elves soon had to dismount and walk in single file. Gilead led them and Fithvael brought up the rear. Laban walked between them, leading the old war steed.

  ‘Why has he brought us here?’ Laban asked over his shoulder. ‘This place is full of filth and degradation. Thieves and assassins too, no doubt.’