Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius Page 4

  The spirit’s face remained expressionless, driving Prester Kohath to an even greater rage. ‘How do you know my name, ghost?’ he snapped, looking around for his pistol.

  ‘Ghost?’

  To Prester Kohath’s horror, the phantom turned to face him and he caught a brief, unbearable glimpse of its eyes.

  ‘What do you see?’ repeated the spirit, still holding the grub.

  ‘Death,’ muttered Prester Kohath.

  The ground shifted and hurled Prester Kohath forwards. He landed, gasping, just a few feet from the ghost.

  ‘Look harder.’

  Prester Kohath looked back to his dying brethren instead, reaching out to them with a trembling hand.

  His head jolted back, against his will, forcing him to look at the grub. It was now sated and red, coiling and uncoiling between the ghost’s fingers.

  Kohath saw a flash of iridescence and looked closer. Slowly, the grub parted its flesh to reveal tiny, diaphanous wings.

  ‘Death?’ asked the ghost. ‘Or transformation?’

  There was doubt in the spirit’s voice. This was a genuine question. Prester Kohath turned to look it in the eye. What he saw in those eyes finally broke his nerve. His screams rang out, even over the din of the battle, and when the echoes ceased he was on another world.

  Chapter Three

  Librarium Sagrestia, Arx Angelicum, Baal

  Bells rang out in the Orbicular Tower, summoning a tide of crookbacked wraiths. They boiled from the shadows – pale, emaciated serfs; skittering, spider-legged savants and hooded, tube-limbed scribes, all chanting and typing as they ran, pounding at ceramic keys with metal-hinged fingers and singing hymns through oily, riveted throats. As they flooded the tower’s cloistered walkways they filled them with a storm of parchment and plainsong, dizzy with ecstasy and fear.

  As the multitude grew larger it grew more frantic and confused. Robed figures in a variety of shapes were soon milling around the statue-lined halls of the Librarium. Human bondsmen argued furiously over the exact meaning of the alarm, while blank-eyed servo-scribes spewed reams of data at them, grinding out perforated sheets with clanking, crank-handled forelimbs.

  Just as the frenzied scene seemed on the verge of outright violence, a giant in night-blue armour walked into the centre of the tumult, towering over the mob in his gleaming battleplate. Lucius Antros carried an ornate staff, as tall as he was, and he announced his presence by cracking it several times on the flagstones.

  The serfs ceased their arguing and stepped back to create a path, panting and wide-eyed as they let the Librarian by. Even the servitors ceased their mechanised din, wheeling and clattering away as Antros stepped up into an iron pulpit and looked down at the sea of upturned faces. Even amongst this strange assembly, he was a striking individual. He wore no helmet and his face bore all the hallmarks of a Blood Angel: chiselled, noble and inhumanly beautiful, framed by a shoulder-length mane of blond hair. His looks alone would have made him an impressive sight, and yet, it was not the most arresting thing about him. Antros’ perfect features were marked by a fierce craving; hunger burned in his flawless blue eyes.

  Antros was irritated by what he saw: a mania, coiling through the minds of even his most experienced blood thralls. And an absurd undercurrent of panic. He allowed his consciousness to snake through the crowd, plucking at the thoughts of his servants, peering into their blinkered little souls. Their daily routine of study had been interrupted and that was enough to drive them into a frenzy. Since his return from Thermia V he had felt buried alive in these halls, crushed under a mountain of timid bureaucrats and myopic scriveners. He had barely slept since the death of Lieutenant Myos, troubled by images of the slaughter at the pit and waiting with mixed emotions for a summons from Mephiston.

  He had no doubt who would be responsible for stirring up this current nonsense. The chief pedant herself. ‘Scholiast Ghor?’ he asked, his voice strong and resonant. ‘Are you there?’

  There was a scuffle at the far end of the hall as a woman strolled through the crowds. She was dressed in scarlet robes, embroidered with golden runes and, in her own way, Dimitra Ghor was just as striking as Lexicanium Antros. She was so tall and wasted that her robes seemed to hang from her skull-like, shaven head. Only the knife-blade tips of her shoulders gave any hint of the brittle, keen-edged body beneath. Her features were angular and androgynous and her skin was papery and translucent, revealing the pulsing veins beneath. She embodied everything Antros found oppressive about his subordinates. Dimitra was as dusty and dry as an old page. She climbed the pulpit with careful, unhurried steps, like a mantis edging towards its prey.

  ‘Are you responsible for this?’ he asked, nodding at the speakers blaring overhead. The distorted, amplified sound of the bells was still ringing out through the Librarium.

  Though unusually tall for a mortal, Dimitra looked like a child beside the Librarian, dwarfed by his transhuman bulk. ‘Yes, Lexicanium,’ she replied, keeping her gaze respectfully locked on the floor. She spoke through tight lips, her face rigid. Her large, wide-spaced eyes added to the strangeness of her appearance; the irises so dark that she seemed to only have pupils.

  Antros could feel the servants of the Orbicular Tower concentrating on the exchange, even if their eyes were fixed on their feet, and he sensed that their loyalties were still with Ghor, rather than their new lord. He had little interest in the convoluted hierarchies and protocols of blood thralls, but such disrespect could not be tolerated.

  ‘Then I overestimated you,’ he said. ‘Even the most junior Rubricator can memorise the Rites of Convocation. What is this nonsense you’re broadcasting?’

  Dimitra glanced up at him, her eyes like discs of flint. ‘The auguries were quite clear.’

  ‘The auguries were quite clear, Lexicanium,’ he growled.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ she said, her voice taut. ‘The signs were quite clear, Lexicanium. There is a psychic rift in the Ostensorio. The warning comes from the highest authority: from Lord Rhacelus himself. We are to seal the gates and ensure that no one leaves or enters the tower.’

  Antros shook his head in disbelief at the mention of the Chief Librarian’s equerry. ‘Rhacelus? What are you talking about? A psychic rift inside the Arx Angelicum? Inside the Librarium? Show me what you have.’

  Dimitra slowly drew out a bundle of thin vellum strips, stuck together by carefully applied wax seals. Her hairless scalp was haloed by a forest of brass-rimmed lenses – dozens of them, all different sizes and shapes and fixed to a metal crest. They moved as she examined the documents with infuriating care, focusing on each page in turn and flicking through them with her long, tapered fingers. She held one of them up and used another of her lenses, a mechanised lorgnette, to examine it. The frame of the eyeglass whirred and clicked as it dropped in front of her face and focused on the vellum. Then she nodded and handed it to Antros. ‘It appears that there is a blood rite in progress that has not gone according to Lord Rhacelus’ prognostications.’

  He shook his head. ‘Only the most senior Librarians are permitted to enter the Ostensorio. Nothing could have gone wrong with Lord Rhacelus present.’

  He looked closer at the text and his augmented irises swam with glyphs and runes. He was sure that she was misreading the signs. Only the most powerful brothers of the Librarius would perform invocations in the Ostensorio. The suggestion that they might lose control was absurd. Then another thought occurred to him: however ridiculous this summons might be, it gave him an excuse to break from his tiresome duties in the Orbicular Tower. And perhaps even to hear news of Mephiston. He shoved the papers into a pouch strapped to his leg armour and turned to face the crowd.

  ‘I will make a brief visit to the Ostensorio. Return to your scriptoria and continue your work.’ None of the serfs dared to look up but he felt the relief in their minds. The scribes hated any interruption to their work and they r
arely left the Orbicular Tower.

  There was an explosion of rustling noises as the serfs and servitors began clearing the hall.

  Antros strode off across the flagstones, passing quickly through the scriptoria, calefactories and libraries of the Orbicular Tower, then out through the eastern gate into the wider Librarium. He crossed the soaring bridge known as the Spear of Sanguinius and marched on through the countless writing rooms, sacrariums and reliquaries of the Sagrestia, accompanied all the while by the harsh clanging of the amplified bells. Then he entered the oldest quarters of the Librarium – dark, narrow walkways, lined with crumbling, winged statues that formed tunnels with their overlapping swords. Blood thralls from other quarters of the Librarium were rushing in the same direction, and Antros saw the same ridiculously frantic expressions on their faces. He had never felt such a mood in the Librarium before.

  Antros’ own mood grew darker as he saw a priest of the Adeptus Ministorum loitering in the shadows beneath one of the statues. He grunted in disapproval. Over the last few months Baal had been invaded by wide-eyed pilgrims from the Cronian Sector. Even by the standards of the Ministorum, they struck Antros as an odd bunch. Their white-and-gold robes were not so unusual, but they also had white lead painted on their faces and rouge smeared around their eyes, which made them look either sinister or absurd, depending on the light. These white-faced fanatics carried banners emblazoned with a winged, angelic figure and Antros had heard it rumoured that both the banners, and the face paint, were meant as some kind of tribute to Mephiston. If this were true, it was an affront to the dignity of the Chief Librarian, but the Chapter Council had taken the surprising step of allowing a small group of pilgrims access to the Librarium. He had never heard of such a thing happening before but it was said that Mephiston himself had given the order. The zealot beneath the statue showed little understanding of the great honour that Mephiston had bestowed on him – he was wailing and praying in the most undignified manner, pleading for a glimpse of the Chief Librarian. Mephiston was not, of course, to be found idling in the Librarium and Antros doubted the pilgrim would recognise his idol even if he walked past him.

  Finally Antros arrived at the north gate of the Ostensorio. He came to a halt and smiled at the sight of the vast doors. They were a marvel – crimson slabs of Baalite rock, hundreds of feet tall and covered with glittering, blood drop stones from the Cruor Mountains. The red stone had been carved with images portraying the early life of Sanguinius and his first meeting with the God-Emperor.

  His smile faded as he saw battle-brothers of the Fourth Company gathered at the foot of the steps before the huge gates – two squads of Tactical Marines in full battleplate. These giants towered over the blood thralls who were dashing between the buildings, and however nonchalantly they cradled their beautifully inscribed bolters, there was no disguising the threat of death that poured from behind their featureless visors.

  Antros strode up to the captain in charge, the only warrior in the line with his face visible, his helmet mag-clamped to his thigh.

  The officer’s stern features were almost indistinguishable from those of the heroes chiselled into the crimson gates behind him. He was as inhumanly perfect as Antros and also carried himself with the confidence of a veteran – a confidence Antros could imitate but not yet feel. The captain’s only trace of mortality was a thick, ridged scar that began at the right-hand corner of his mouth and crossed diagonally up to his left cheek.

  Antros climbed the steps and saluted. ‘Captain Vatrenus,’ he said.

  The captain nodded in recognition and returned the salute. ‘Lexicanium Antros,’ rumbled the other Space Marine. Even without the amplification of his helmet, the captain’s voice resonated like a tolling bell. They had met during the cleansing of Thermia V, but Vatrenus made no mention of the campaign.

  ‘I received strange news in the Orbicular Tower,’ said Antros. He was unsure if he would be able to talk his way inside, but had decided to try. ‘The auguries implied that Epistolary Rhacelus needs my help.’

  The captain raised an eyebrow.

  ‘If my masters are assembled here,’ said Antros, ‘Lord Rhacelus should know that I am–’

  The captain raised a hand to silence him, as though he were the lowliest of menials, and Antros had to bite back an angry retort.

  Captain Vatrenus looked into the middle distance and Antros heard the crackle of a vox-message, relayed through a bead in his ear. The captain was clearly surprised by whatever data he was receiving. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Lexicanium from the Orbicular Tower, Lucius Antros. He has learned of the situation.’ There was another crackle of vox-chatter and Vatrenus nodded again. ‘Standing right in front of me.’ He nodded. ‘Very well.’ After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped aside and waved Antros on with his bolter, then he grabbed him by the arm. ‘Take care, brother,’ he said, looking warily at the Ostensorio. ‘If I were you I’d wait in the Auran Chapel and keep your head down.’ He grimaced with distaste. ‘From what I hear, Lord Rhacelus is involved in something unusual.’

  Antros was not surprised by the captain’s tone. There were few in the Chapter who weren’t unnerved by the mysteries of the Librarius. Antros nodded and stepped forwards.

  Up ahead of him, another battle-brother of the Fourth Company opened a door at the foot of the gates. This opening was a less imposing aperture, only twenty feet or so tall. It was decorated just as lavishly as the main gates, but Antros did not pause to study it, hurrying on into the Ostensorio as the door slammed behind him.

  Several members of the Librarius were gathered inside the darkened chamber – Codiciers and Epistolaries all dressed for battle in massive suits of polished blue ceramite. Antros had never seen so many of his brothers in one place. The air was charged with blood magic and he sensed immediately that a grand ritual was in progress. Dead-eyed cherubs lit the scene, drifting beneath the barrel vaults on flashing, golden wings. Thuribles trailed from their fingers, glinting in the candlelight and trailing a fine, crimson mist. Scrolls of parchment fluttered beneath their fat little legs and the air was thick with incense-heavy smoke that almost, but not quite masked the iron-rich, abattoir stink of the chamber. Antros reached the chapel and climbed its steps for a better view of the proceedings.

  On the far side of the chamber was a huge, shimmering hololith – a projection of a Ministorum priest, sitting on an ornate, ceremonial throne. His face was painted white, like all the other pilgrims that had come to Baal, and he looked like an enormous ghost, towering over the scene as the projection flickered in and out of view, broken up by crackling bursts of interference. Even through the red mist that filled the chamber, Antros could see that he was a senior prelate of the Adeptus Ministorum. His chasuble was embroidered with beautiful images of the Golden Throne and his plump frame was draped in religious baubles. The hololith was forty or so feet tall and the priest’s face was quivering with anticipation as he fidgeted and shifted in his chair, staring intently at the Librarians.

  Gathered around the feet of this spectral throne was a group of cowled pilgrims, their faces hidden in their deep hoods and their hands clasped in prayer. Antros could feel the religious fervour burning in their chests. They believed they were about to witness a miracle they had long prayed for.

  The Librarians were assembled in the centre of the hall with their backs to the projection, standing at the top of a broad, circular dais. They were arranged around a golden monstrance – a tall, metal stand, set on a wide marble base at the centre of the dais and supporting a semicircular cradle of brass. With their heads bowed and their swords raised, it looked as though the Librarians were worshipping a huge, metal chalice. Antros had never before been admitted to the Ostensorio. It was a site of great mystery to him – reserved for only the most senior members of his order. On any other occasion, he would have paused to marvel at the beauty of the monstrance. It was a masterpiece of devotional craft, dozens of feet wid
e and filigreed with elegiac scenes of angelic warhosts; but he was not looking at the ancient relic. Hovering above it, spitting and steaming, was a sphere of boiling blood.

  Antros was so surprised by the huge crimson ball that he let the tip of his staff clatter against the steps. The sound of metal hitting stone rang out through the gloom.

  Some of the priests glanced in his direction, but the Librarians paid him no heed. Their eyes were firmly closed and their raised weapons were linked to the sphere by cords of red fire, flicking back and forth and painting ghostly images in the dark. The strands of blood magic coruscated and coiled, feeding the inferno above the monstrance. Since entering the Ostensorio, Antros had felt psychic energy tugging at his consciousness, pulsing through his veins and echoing round his skull like a sinister hymn. He realised that the aetheric power was emanating from the red sphere. As it blazed brighter it filled his mind with an inhuman, looping howl. The pitiless song of the warp.

  ‘Lexicanium,’ cried one of the Librarians, turning briefly away from the monstrance to look at him. His face was glistening with sweat and the lights made it look like he was drenched in blood. His features were contorted with pain and concentration and it took Antros a moment to recall that his name was Peloris. ‘Stand by me!’ gasped Peloris, trembling. ‘Be ready! We’re losing him!’

  Antros rushed to his brother’s side, his pulse racing at the thought of joining in such a powerful invocation. As he neared the dais he saw that there was a shape forming in the centre of the sphere. He peered closer, fascinated. Something was alive in the blood. Something wreathed in fire. ‘Losing who?’ he whispered, but Peloris did not reply.

  The Librarians around him were straining in agonised silence as the sphere grew larger, their eyes clamped shut as they channelled furious gouts of psychic flame through their swords. They resembled riggers working at a storm-lashed sail, shaking and scowling as elemental power tore through them. Antros could feel the carrion chill of blood-craft washing over his face and the behaviour of the guards outside began to make sense. This ritual was not going to plan. That much was clear from the circle of grim faces flickering in and out of view as the cherubs whirled overhead. The ghostly colossus on the far side of the chamber leant forwards in his chair, his eyes straining wider.