The Plagues of Orath Read online

  ‘Alice.’ His wife’s name sprung to his lips and Dain was running through the streets of the village, feet pounding on the wet paths as he rushed home. ‘Please be all right. Please be all right.’

  Four

  In the courtyard of Fort Kerberos, Kerna closed his eyes and let the driving rain pelt against his face. He breathed deeply, savouring the heady aroma of water against hot flagstones. For a moment, he was transported far across the Imperium, to home. Not the fishing village where he had been born, where he had first been chosen to endure the Aspirants’ trial all those years ago, but to Ghost Mountain, the highest summit of the rain-lashed Razorpeaks range.

  How many times had he stood on its peak, gazing down at the world below, remembering where he had come from? As a child he’d gawped at the flimsy gliders the tribesmen of Gathis II used to traverse their home world, marvelling that men could fly. Years later, as a fully-fledged member of the Doom Eagles, he still marvelled, although the reason for the wonder had changed. Now he was amazed that the people he’d left behind even survived armed only with primitive tools.

  Yet the rain made no distinction between Space Marines and those the Adeptus Astartes protected. It fell on battle-brother and poor peasant alike. All were equal when the heavens opened.

  ‘Brother Kerna.’

  Meleki’s voice roused Kerna from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see the recently-promoted Scout crossing the courtyard, accompanied by Jerius, the rain hissing off the Techmarine’s red power armour. Of course. Artorius had granted the pair special dispensation to miss midday prayers to continue the young pilot’s Stormtalon training. They would perform their devotions later.

  ‘Good day, Brother Jerius. Meleki,’ Kerna said, grabbing the Doom Eagle’s wrist in greeting.

  Behind them another voice rang out.

  ‘Is it?’ Kerna turned and felt his spirits sink just a little.

  ‘Every day is good serving the Emperor, Brother Ritan,’ Kerna reminded the thorn in all their sides.

  The Space Marine just grunted.

  ‘The left stabiliser needs tuning,’ Ritan barked at Jerius, ripping the helm from his head to reveal a face surprisingly free of scars. The only outward sign that the young Doom Eagle had seen battle was the ocular implant that had replaced the eye he’d lost on the fields of Nigraven. Ritan would go far – he was as brave as he was arrogant – but would foster little in the way of camaraderie in his brothers.

  Just the way he’d want it, Kerna considered.

  ‘Your Land Speeder was underperforming?’ Jerius inquired, regarding the craft that was idling behind them with such intensity that it was as if the Techmarine was already attempting to commune with the machine-spirit within.

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Ritan growled, his strong jaw so tightly clenched that Kerna could almost hear the Space Marine’s teeth grinding together. ‘I could hardly bring her out of the turns.’

  ‘You didn’t seem to be having problems from where I was looking,’ commented Kerna, his hackles rising at Ritan’s tone. One day the Space Marine’s lack of respect would lead him into trouble. Luckily for Ritan, his battle-brothers would come to his aid, whether they held him in high regard or not.

  ‘It deteriorated during our impromptu final sweep,’ Ritan spat, his good eye flashing with irritation.

  ‘Yes, what was that all about?’ Kerna asked, genuinely intrigued. He had been surprised to find that Ritan and Vabion had not returned when he had brought his Stormtalon down. ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘Ask him,’ Ritan snapped, throwing a dark glance over his pauldron. Kerna followed his gaze, seeing Librarian Vabion approaching. ‘There was nothing we haven’t seen day after day. Field after field of wheat.’

  ‘It’s sorghum,’ Meleki corrected. Kerna had to suppress a smile, although with his face the way it was, no one would be able to tell the difference.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Ritan scowled back, ‘some of the damned seeds must have got sucked into the engine.’

  ‘I will check it immediately,’ Jerius said without emotion.

  ‘You do that,’ Ritan growled, favouring Meleki with one last glare before continuing on his way. ‘I need to strip my weapons, make sure something is working around here.’

  ‘Don’t forget your prayers,’ Kerna reminded the seething Doom Eagle. ‘It’s midday devotions.’

  ‘Then go pray yourself,’ Ritan shot back. ‘I shall petition the Emperor as I perform my maintenance rituals.’

  ‘How efficient,’ Meleki muttered darkly as they watched Ritan stalk towards the central keep, absently throwing his helm in the direction of a sickly-looking serf, demanding that it was cleaned.

  Kerna placed an arm on his fellow pilot’s shoulder. ‘Pay no attention to Ritan. He is feeling the frustration of being so far from what he considers the action, but hasn’t the maturity to control himself. It will come.’

  Maybe, he added to himself.

  ‘Doom Eagles should feel no frustration,’ Meleki insisted. ‘We know our duty and must serve – wherever that may be.’

  Kerna nodded, switching his attention to the Techmarine. ‘The Land Speeder may have vexed our saturnine brother, but I’m pleased to report that the Heart of Sorrow performed beautifully on my flight back from Garm. You have worked miracles, Jerius.’

  ‘She served you well?’

  ‘As I am certain that she will for many years to come.’

  ‘I thought the only certainty in life was that it will end,’ a voice observed behind them. Kerna turned to see Vabion approach. He bowed slightly, acknowledging the comment.

  ‘You have been studying our doctrines, Librarian.’

  ‘It was either that or converse with Brother Ritan,’ Vabion smiled grimly. Kerna mirrored the gesture. In the short time he had known the venerable Ultramarine, Kerna had come to like Vabion – especially as he seemed to have the measure of their troublesome brother.

  ‘All Doom Eagles acknowledge our eventual passing. It informs our every decision,’ Meleki added, eager as always to help.

  ‘A lesson many Ultramarines could do well to learn,’ acknowledged Vabion, turning back to Kerna and changing the subject. ‘Tell me Brother Kerna, did you notice anything peculiar during our journey back from Garm?’

  Kerna frowned. ‘Peculiar, Librarian?’

  ‘In the crops,’ Vabion clarified, peering deep into the Doom Eagle’s eyes. ‘Anything unusual about the sorghum?’

  Kerna could only shake his head. ‘Not that I could see, although I admit, one field of cereal is much the same as the next for me.’

  Vabion held the pilot’s gaze for a moment, as if he was searching for something.

  ‘Very well. Thank you, brother.’ The Librarian faced Meleki. ‘Do you know where I may find Sergeant Artorius?’

  ‘In his chambers, sir. The sergeant always prays alone.’

  Vabion nodded sharply. ‘Of course. I must not keep you from your own devotions.’

  With that, the aged Librarian marched towards the building Artorius used as his private quarters to the east of the central tower.

  ‘What was that about?’ Meleki asked, watching the Ultramarine leave.

  ‘No idea, lad,’ Kerna admitted, casting his mind back to his flight from Garm. Had he missed something? What had Vabion noticed about the crops?

  The air of the chapel was cool against Falk’s flushed skin, the sound of his sobs punctuated by the thwack of the leather crop against his exposed flesh.

  His diseased flesh.

  He rocked on his knees as he continued to lash himself, bathed in the light from the stained glass window that dominated the chapel. Scintillating reds, blues and ochres dappled his body, illuminating just how far he had fallen.

  Of course, the window was a conceit. The serfs’ chapel was deep within the keep, far from the thic
k exterior walls. It was not Orath’s sun that made the colours dance, but a series of tiny lume-globes set behind the stylised representation of the Emperor.

  A trick of the light.

  A lie.

  Like Falk’s very life.

  ‘Why?’ the serf cried out, staring up into the image’s harsh eyes. ‘Why must I endure this torment?’

  The Emperor didn’t reply, but glared down at Falk, his glazed features twisted into an expression of disgust.

  ‘All I ever wanted was to serve you.’

  You have served Him. You have served Him well, whispered the voice in his head.

  ‘And this is how I’m repaid. By being made to suffer.’

  The crop was now drawing blood, Falk’s shoulders a latticework of self-inflicted cuts. The arm he had been hiding for so long felt like it was on fire, twitching uncontrollably as it hung against his pustule-encrusted side. He didn’t care who saw it now. He just wanted to be whole again.

  You can be whole.

  ‘Then tell me,’ Falk wailed, tears slicing paths through the dirt on his cheeks. ‘Tell me how I can be free of this affliction. Hear my plea.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  Falk’s breath caught in his throat, his head snapping up. Could it be? Could his prayers have been answered?

  They have been answered.

  Hardly daring to breathe, he gazed up into the face of the Emperor, a face that was now smiling warmly down at him.

  ‘You have endured much,’ the Emperor acknowledged, his benevolent face shining more than ever. ‘You have proved your devotion.’

  ‘Is this the voice of the Emperor?’ Falk whispered, doubting his own senses, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his good hand. ‘Is this the voice of my Lord?’

  ‘It is, my child. You will be blessed.’

  ‘I have been blessed,’ Falk laughed, a childlike grin spreading across his pocked face. Then he bent double again, suddenly afraid to look upon his god. ‘I am not worthy.’

  ‘You doubt me?’

  ‘No,’ Falk cried out, rising back to his knees, the crop dropping from his hand. ‘You are my Saviour.’

  The Emperor nodded, with the sound of scraping glass. ‘I am. And you have been chosen.’

  ‘For what?’ Falk asked, the intense pain in his arm all but forgotten.

  ‘A holy quest,’ the Emperor replied, ‘to find your reward.’

  Falk struggled to his feet, never taking his eyes from the window.

  ‘Will I be healed?’

  ‘You shall be made anew.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Lord. Thank you.’

  The Emperor raised a hand, silencing the serf.

  ‘You must travel deep beneath this fortress, to a place forbidden. Only there will you find salvation.’

  ‘Beneath?’ A frown crossed Falk’s sweat-drenched brow. ‘But how?’

  ‘Follow the song in your heart, my child. You will know where it leads.’

  The lights behind the window flared white, bleaching out the colours in the Emperor’s fine robes. Falk raised what used to be an arm to shield his eyes but when he looked again, the Emperor had returned to His usual pose, just another image in a stained glass window.

  No, more than that. Much more. This is where He appeared to you. Where He changed your life.

  ‘Where he chose me,’ Falk giggled, covering his mouth with trembling fingers.

  Yes. Now will you go? Will you obey your Emperor?

  Falk rushed to where he had discarded his robe.

  ‘I will,’ he promised, throwing the cloak around him, not even noticing when the rough cloth scratched painfully against his raw shoulders. ‘I must.’

  Then follow the song.

  ‘But I can hear no song?’

  Yes you can. Listen to your soul.

  Falk paused for a second, confused, uncertainty clouding his mind once more – and then there it was, where it had been for the last few days. A distant voice, singing at the back of his mind. At first he had thought the strain tuneless, an irritant, symptomatic of his troubled state of mind, but now he could hear it as it truly was. A soporific aria of such monotonous beauty. A gift from the Throne.

  Follow the song, Falk. Follow your destiny.

  ‘My destiny.’

  And the destiny of all on Orath. You will bring them the greatest gift of all.

  ‘They shall praise my name.’

  They shall join the song.

  ‘Yes,’ Falk declared, stumbling out of the chapel. ‘All shall sing His praise.’

  As Falk left the chapel, the lume-globes behind the Emperor’s window blew out, one by one.

  Five

  Vabion found Sergeant Artorius exactly where Meleki had said, kneeling in his private command chambers. He hovered at the door for a second, not wanting to disturb the commanding officer’s devotions. Even though he had only known the Doom Eagle for a short period, Vabion couldn’t help but respect the sergeant. Artorius was a Doom Eagle through and through, his demeanour grave, his outlook pragmatic to the extreme. From the few stories Artorius had shared over the modest rations served in the echoing refectory, the sergeant did his duty, no matter what the cost, and expected his men to do the same, without hesitation. His eyes had flashed with each memory – victory against the ork hordes of Gantalere, the routing of Raven’s Gate – but his words weren’t the vainglory Vabion had experienced from lesser Marines. As he had expected from a son of Gathis II, Artorius focused on the Doom Eagles who had fallen in the midst of triumph, those who had given their lives in the line of duty. In Artorius’s eyes, they were as worthy as the men who had left the battlefield alive, perhaps more so. He honoured them with every retelling.

  Vabion had listened to each story without comment. He, of all men, appreciated the importance of self-sacrifice.

  ‘Sergeant, may I have a word?’

  Artorius looked up from the shrine set into the corner of the room.

  ‘Vabion,’ he said, rising from his knees and approaching the Librarian with arm outstretched. ‘I trust your inspection at Garm was satisfactory.’

  The Ultramarine grasped the sergeant’s wrist. ‘Your men are performing their duties with distinction, Artorius. You should have no concern there.’

  ‘I do not.’ There was no challenge in the sergeant’s voice, just a statement of facts. ‘But I do not need to be able to read minds to see that something vexes you, my friend.’

  Vabion paused for a moment, searching the sergeant’s face. Is that what they were – friends? He’d kept the secret for two hundred years, not telling another soul outside of his own Chapter. The hesitation as he made up his mind must have been excruciating for the Doom Eagle, but Artorius waited respectfully, his lined face unreadable.

  ‘I have not told you why I came to Orath.’

  ‘And I have not asked.’

  ‘Which is appreciated, but it is time.’ Vabion indicated the controls beside a screen set into a large stone table, covered in scrolls and data-slates. ‘May I?’

  Artorius merely nodded, following the Librarian to the desk. Vabion jabbed at buttons set into its surface. The lights of the chamber dimmed as a hololithic image shimmered into view above the table, the faint buzz of the projectors rising in pitch as the vision of Orath solidified. Artorius had told his stories, now it was the Librarian’s turn.

  ‘It began with a call for help. Eldar raiders had descended on Orath, to strip the planet of its riches.’

  ‘The crops?’ Artorius asked, turning his attention back to the Librarian. ‘They were attempting to steal the harvest.’

  ‘Nothing so mundane.’ Vabion’s hands moved over the controls, the planet spinning on its axis. ‘A sinkhole had appeared in one of the plantations.’ A red dot pulsated in the middle of the northern hemisphere’s major continent.
‘Here.’

  ‘But, that is…’

  ‘Right beneath our feet, yes.’ The hololith zoomed in to present a curved map of the surrounding countryside, but instead of the recognisable masts of Fort Kerberos jutting towards them, nothing but a gaping fissure marked their present location. ‘No one knew what had opened it, although the local workforce had reported one of the minor earth tremors that still occur to this day.’

  ‘There was nothing minor about the ’quake we endured on our arrival,’ Artorius reminded him, not taking his eyes off the crevice.

  ‘Indeed,’ Vabion agreed. The Librarian had to admit that they had been increasing in magnitude. The recent seism, not two weeks previously, had even opened a crack in the wall of the keep. The breach had been easily repaired, but the fact that it had happened at all was a worry. Another sign Vabion had missed? Maybe.

  The Librarian forced his thoughts back to the story in hand. ‘The sinkhole revealed hidden treasures. A curious farmhand descended into the chasm and discovered an underground chamber, full of alien artefacts.’

  Artorius bristled at the description. ‘Alien?’

  Vabion nodded, staring into the hole on the map’s surface as if he could gaze back through time. ‘Orath, it became clear, had been sacred to the eldar for centuries, a world of great importance.’

  Artorius’s brow furrowed. ‘But there are no signs of previous civilisation. No ruins or temples.’

  ‘Not on the surface, but beneath the ground.’ Vabion could feel himself being scrutinised by Artorius now, as questions no doubt raged through the sergeant’s mind. Why hadn’t he been told about this? What had been found? Thankfully, Artorius allowed him to continue, whether he deserved such an honour or not.

  ‘The farmer discovered a chamber full of treasures, a shrine no less. He began trading the artefacts he unearthed, attracting the wrong kind of attention.’