Cult of the Warmason Page 20

  Rhodaan glared at the sorcerer. ‘Find them.’

  ‘I already have,’ Cornak reported. ‘And he isn’t far away.’

  Trishala felt the walls of the Warmason’s Cathedral shake as the artillery barrage rained down on it. The corridors and halls were filled with the screams of terrified refugees, convinced that the entire temple was going to be demolished around them. Trishala and the Sisters knew better, as did the acolytes who moved among the people and tried to ease their fears. The cathedral had been built to the standards of Vadok Singh. It could withstand any storm, even one hurled against it by man.

  No, it wasn’t concern that the cathedral would be destroyed that vexed Trishala. What bothered her was why Mount Rama had been targeted. Who’d ordered this attack and why? Certainly there’d been no warning voxed to them by Colonel Hafiz or Cardinal-Governor Murdan. If Palatine Yadav had been aware of such a plot then why should he have taken such pains to alert them to the Chaos Space Marines when a few moments later the barrage would begin?

  Thinking of Yadav, Trishala considered the last vox communication from the palatine. The barrage had driven him and forty surviving soldiers down into the catacombs beneath Mount Rama. He was going to bring the survivors in through the underground Mourning Door. It was the only route into the cathedral that wouldn’t be closed off by the siege-plates. Only a handful of the priesthood knew of the door’s existence. Yadav was certain he could get inside without the enemy discovering his intentions.

  As another artillery barrage set the walls shaking, Trishala prayed the palatine was right.

  Chapter XI

  The thunderous barrage unleashed by Lubentina’s militia against Mount Rama continued to rain down on the summit, obliterating the surrounding structures and filling the cathedral with tremulous booms as shells slammed against the building’s metal hull. Anxious prayers and quaking psalms rose from the masses of refugees as the cathedral’s clergy strove to placate their fear. Sobs and screams echoed from those regions where there was no acolyte to appease the frightened laity.

  Across the vox, Trishala and Kashibai could hear a sound that shook them far more than the artillery turned against them. Over the secured channel that only those of rank within the Order of the Sombre Vow had access to, came the voice of the man who was senior even to the Sister Superior.

  ‘I have taken to the catacombs,’ Palatine Yadav’s tone was agitated, his words clipped and hurried. ‘It is my fear that we’ve been followed down into the passageways. The soldiers with me report hearing the sound of something moving in the distance.’

  Kashibai studied Trishala’s face, read the grim expression in her eyes, the resolute set to her jaw. ‘You don’t mean to abandon the palatine?’ she asked.

  Trishala shook her head. ‘Our duty, our sacred vow, is to guard the relics of Vadok Singh. We protect the Warmason’s Casket and the Shroud of Singh.’ She gestured at the Sisters around them in the narthex, weapons ready to defend the Great Gate should it somehow be breached. ‘Holding the cathedral is a part of executing that duty. Detaching a squad of Battle Sisters for a reckless rescue mission isn’t.’

  ‘If not for the palatine, we would have welcomed Chaos itself into these halls,’ Kashibai pointed out. ‘He has risked much for the people of Lubentina. Even if you don’t feel obligated to help him because he is your superior, surely you can’t turn aside from one who has saved us all from disaster.’ She could see just a hint of softening in Trishala’s eyes. While that appeal to her sentiment was open, Kashibai pressed her cause. ‘We have to at least try, or it will be a stain on the Order’s honour, turning our backs on a palatine. Just a small force, warriors you can spare without weakening the perimeter.’

  Trishala shook her head. ‘Who can I spare? With Debdan’s troops proving traitor, I need every Sister patrolling the corridors and seeking out any enemies they let slip inside. It is dire enough that I have only the frateris militia to watch the gate.’

  ‘But every Sister isn’t committed to that role,’ Kashibai pointed out.

  ‘We have no reserves left,’ Trishala said. ‘After Debdan’s treachery, every patrol has had to be strengthened. We know at least one gene­stealer is unaccounted for, but there’s no saying how many more the brood brothers let inside.’

  ‘But you haven’t,’ Kashibai persisted. ‘There are still the Sisters guarding the relics in the sanctuary.’ She held up her hand, trying to forestall the dismissal she knew was on Trishala’s tongue. ‘You said it yourself. By holding the walls, keeping the enemy from entering the cathedral, we protect the relics. So long as you hold the perimeter then our duty is honoured. The guards can be withdrawn, committed to posts where they can be active...’

  Trishala motioned for Kashibai to be quiet. She needed a moment to settle the turmoil in her mind. On the one hand there was the sacred obligation entrusted to her, to protect the Warmason’s Casket. Against that had to be weighed her loyalty to Palatine Yadav, her duty to him as commander of the Adepta Sororitas convent. Kashibai’s proposal was trying to let her have it both ways. To continue protecting the relics while also doing right by Yadav. It was a temptation Trishala found herself incapable of resisting. Even so, she was judicious about what resources she would commit to the endeavour.

  ‘Try to reach the palatine,’ Trishala said. ‘You can take Sister Bashir’s squad. If you head down through the crypts, you will find the tomb of Karim Das. Behind the casket there is a panel that can be opened and admit you to the catacombs. God-Emperor willing, you can be back in before the xenos learn you’re outside.’ She could see the uneasiness on Kashibai’s face. It was no mystery why she was troubled. ‘One squad is all I’m willing to detach from guarding the relics. They’ll be enough. Your mission is one of rescue, not battle.’

  ‘What if the enemy reaches the palatine before we do?’ Kashibai asked.

  Yadav’s words crackled across the vox. ‘If they have already found me you must count me as lost. I have only thirty-four men with me, not enough to resist more than a token force. There is a time for valour, and a time to recognise when a fight is hopeless.’

  ‘If the enemies following you are cultists, my Sisters can still rescue you,’ Trishala stated. ‘But if your pursuers are Chaos Space Marines then it would need more Sisters than I can spare to overcome them.’ She looked over at Kashibai. ‘There is no shame in recognising the fact, unpalatable as it might be.’

  Kashibai bowed her head. ‘Understood, Sister Superior. If the Traitors reach the palatine before we do, then we are to withdraw.’

  ‘I know you, Sister,’ Trishala told Kashibai. ‘Don’t let your compassion move you to undue risk. Now hasten, gather Sister Bashir’s warriors before I change my mind.’

  As she watched Kashibai hurry away, Trishala reflected that it was even more important to keep the enemy from breaking through now that the guard in the sanctuary had been reduced. She prayed the Sisters left would be enough to deal with cultists or xenos they’d missed on their patrols.

  The Battle Sisters simply couldn’t afford to let any enemies get a foothold inside the cathedral.

  It was mammalian weakness that provoked the sense of relief Bakasur felt when the interior wall of the tomb crumbled and exposed the round gash that had been torn from the roof of the catacombs. He knew that the psychic energies his brain projected would distort a stray artillery shell ever so slightly, such that its fury should descend where it wouldn’t threaten the magus. Still, that impractical human residue felt a twinge of fear with every incoming shot. Logic was a thing that was simply at variance with the human mentality. Bakasur regretted the traces that blighted his biology even as he was thankful that the Great Father’s bloodline had advanced him far beyond the limitations of such emotion-driven creatures.

  As the magus and his bodyguards slipped through the hollowed tomb they encountered the Inheritors who’d laboured so long to prepare this entrance
for them. The genestealers clustered about the bone-lined passageway beneath the cathedral. Beyond them could be dimly seen the glow of lights and the smooth walls of the crypts of the cathedral proper. Even the razored claws of Inheritors had found ripping through the reinforced ferrocrete of the crypt walls an arduous task. Persistence and complete obedience to the Great Father had kept them at their work. Aid from the genestealers already on the other side made the task much quicker. Just as the Inheritor Captain Debdan’s men had allowed to slip inside had prepared the way for the pure-strains to enter, so had they prepared the way for Bakasur’s arrival.

  Stepping into the hall, Bakasur could feel the extreme age of the cathedral rushing down on him. The dust of millennia clinging to the walls had thickened into a stony concentration, a patina of neglect that caked the floor to a depth of several centimetres. Hidden behind the maze of chapels and hallways, the oldest catacombs had been forgotten by the acolytes. They had been sealed away, cut off from the cathedral’s chambers. Isolated until they were rediscovered by the cultists, until the claws of genestealers dug through them to rejoin them to the crypts beneath the Warmason’s Cathedral.

  Bakasur brushed his hand across the encrustation, feeling it flake beneath his touch. As it crumbled away, the residue of a conduit was revealed, the petrified remains of a purity seal still clinging to it. Mankind had endured for so long, he reflected, yet in all that time they’d only become weaker and more decadent. They’d lost vibrancy and direction, allowed themselves to be consumed by distractions and deceits. Their ambitions had been shackled to monolithic traditions and cyclopean diktats. Humans had reached their limit. It was time for them to be swept aside, to vanish into the night and make way for those who would inherit.

  The magus closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind, casting his mentality far from the confines of his body. Through the storm of artillery he could see the cultists persecuting the siege on the Great Gate. He could feel the Sisters of Battle and the desecrater Trishala concentrated on patrolling the corridors, ready to lash out at the first enemy they found. His psychic coils flowed out across the cata­combs. He noted the presence of Palatine Yadav and a handful of soldiers trying to make their way to the cathedral from below. The Chaos Space Marines were close behind, soon to overtake the retreating cleric. The sorcerer Cornak kept his mind shielded from Bakasur’s awareness, but the magus could read the determination of the others. Warsmith Rhodaan intended to force Yadav to expose the way into the cathedral. The intention was more than mere possibility – to the Iron Warriors it was a certainty.

  The Inheritors drew aside as Bakasur entered the cathedral. From a side passage, several dishevelled refugees and acolytes stepped into view. All were in a weakened state, their bodies exhibiting injuries both new and old. In one respect, however, they were all alike. On each of them was the fresh brand left by a genestealer’s ovipositor.

  Raising his hand in a placating gesture, Bakasur reached out to one of the initiates. His palm hovered just above the acolyte’s forehead. Deftly, with the delicacy only practice could instil, he drew from the man’s mind the network of memories he needed to consult. He could see Trishala ordering all those injured by the cultists brought down into the crypts and sequestered. He felt the cold of the underground, the dark isolation. He heard that moment when the genestealers came and slaughtered the frateris militia guarding the crypts. He felt the stab of the ovipositor as the Inheritors broke down the doors and brought both freedom and enlightenment to the captives. Some tried to fight, the Sisters who’d been sequestered with the others among them. These found only the freedom within death.

  Bakasur delved past the fresh surface memories. In exploring the deeper thought, the magus observed the maze of passages and chambers the acolyte had learned during his years of service in the cathedral. The direct perspective, unfiltered and undiminished, let Bakasur experience the familiarity of routine with a visceral intimacy.

  A cold smile flickered on Bakasur’s face. He knew now the route by which they would reach the sanctuary, unchallenged and unobserved.

  The explosion ripped through the winding passageway, knocking bits of bone and ferrocrete from the walls. A gritty smog came billowing up the corridor, clattering against the ceramite of Rhodaan’s power armour. The optics of his helm flickered as they adjusted the filters to compensate for the disturbance of his vision. The warsmith swung his horned head around, glancing over his Space Marines. The catacombs within Mount Rama had been built for the use of mortals, not the Iron Warriors. The bulk of the armoured giants filled the tunnel entirely, forcing them to advance in single file. Their pauldrons scraped against the morbid walls, sometimes ripping femurs and vertebrae from their settings. Their mass crushed the ribcages that were interlaced across the floor, pulverising them to jagged splinters. Their helms gouged the grinning skulls that stared down from the ceiling, stripping away teeth and jaws.

  Tens of thousands of Lubentina’s populace had been entombed just along the stretch Rhodaan had already traversed. There might be millions more, for there was no estimating the extent of the catacombs. Or how much of them the Iron Warriors would have to penetrate before the priest was in their hands. He would be the key, that slave of the False Emperor. He was the one who would lead Rhodaan to the door and set the Iron Warriors on the last leg of their hunt.

  Periphetes came marching out of the gritty plume of dust and smoke. ‘The way ahead is collapsed,’ he reported. ‘The barrage brought the roof down.’ He pointed at the ceiling overhead. As he did, Rhodaan noted that Periphetes’ armour had been cracked in places by the blast.

  Rhodaan turned towards Cornak. ‘Well, hexmaster, do your spells tell you of a way around the collapse?’

  ‘Perhaps we’re getting close to the priest, Dread Lord,’ Gaos said. ‘Flesh is cowardly when pressed too close. They may have voxed their artillerists to drop that salvo right on top of their position. The nearer we get, the more desperate they’ll be to stop us.’ He caressed the barrels of his autocannon. ‘As though they can.’

  Rhodaan shared Gaos’ appreciation of the chances the priest and his entourage had once the Iron Warriors reached them. It wasn’t a question of crushing them, only a matter of when, of how much effort they would need to invest in the enterprise. The delay was an annoyance to Rhodaan. He turned towards Cornak. ‘This rat hunt becomes tiresome. I would see an end to it.’

  ‘Caution, warsmith,’ Cornak advised. ‘Haste has collapsed many a victory into defeat.’

  ‘Leave sermons to the Word Bearers,’ Rhodaan snarled. ‘It was you who brought this scheme to me, that the Third Grand Company should pay honour to Perturabo. My warriors have done their part, and now it is time for our sorcerer to do his.’ He pointed his chainsword at the tunnel ahead. ‘Draw upon your magic. Clear the way for us and sniff out this priest’s hiding place.’

  ‘You know the threat that hovers over me... over us all,’ Cornak hastily corrected himself. ‘The doom I have foreseen should this xenos psyker...’

  Rhodaan glowered at the sorcerer. ‘Iron within. Iron without,’ he hissed. ‘Have you forgotten the meaning of those words? There is no place for weakness among us. Are you weak, Brother Cornak? Does fear of this prophecy make you unfit to be among us?’

  ‘It was I who told you of the relic,’ Cornak said. ‘My magic that brought you this far.’

  Rhodaan activated his chainsword, letting the teeth whir into murderous life. ‘What have you done for me lately?’ he mused. ‘I give you a choice, sorcerer. Use your sorcery for me or against me. Either way you will become vulnerable to this xenos witch you fear.’

  Cornak’s fingers curled more tightly around the staff he carried, but it was the only display of anger he allowed himself. When he spoke, it was in a respectful and resigned voice. ‘As you will, warsmith.’ The sorcerer fell to one knee, scratching a cabalistic sign in the floor. He held the head of his staff over the mark while slithe
ring, inhuman words dripped off his tongue. A flare of bilious green light flashed, the sound of a roaring tempest bellowed, the stink of sulphur rose.

  ‘The way is clear to the left,’ Cornak declared, exhaustion now colouring his tone. ‘A passage that circles around the cave-in and will intersect with the route the priest has taken.’ He looked up from the still glowing mark he’d drawn upon the floor and stared at Rhodaan.

  Rhodaan nodded and returned his chainsword to an idle setting. ‘Lead the way, Brother Cornak. Trust is a luxury in short supply on Castellax.’

  Cornak didn’t protest as he took point and marched further into the gloom of the catacombs. He knew there was only so much defiance Rhodaan would tolerate before it could no longer be indulged. The warsmith’s plans would be much easier with Cornak’s magic to draw on, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared to go on without the benefit of sorcery.

  The black passages and corridors through which Cornak led the Iron Warriors opened into a larger, cavern-like chamber. Great pillars of fused bone supported the vaulted ceiling overhead while stone icons rested in niches cut into the walls. Doorways yawned in the face of the wall opposite the passage the Space Marines had been following, dark openings that each sported a golden plate above the lintel and a bronzed lantern bolted to the wall beside it. Across the stretch of the chamber, itself forty metres in length, there were no less than a dozen such doorways.

  As the Iron Warriors stepped into the funerary chamber, their attention shifted from the darkened doorways to the tunnels that gaped at either end of the span. Rhodaan stared at the floor, noting that the dust had been disturbed, swept aside recently. Someone had been here and tried to obscure their presence. In that they’d failed, all they’d managed was to conceal their numbers.