fraction then the bombardment would miss the planet altogether, or would fall far from the target.
Worse, it could fall upon the Imperial Guard on the planet’s surface far below.
With its holo-screens blank and its sensor arrays rendered inoperative, the Dictator cruiser
advanced into position. Muttering prayers to the Emperor that the algorithms he had been provided
with were accurate and that his team of logisticians had coordinated them exactly, the ship’s flagcaptain
breathed out slowly as the gunnery master initiated the launch sequence. The port battery,
housing hundreds of massive weapons that could cripple a battle cruiser, were activated. Thousands
of indentured workers slaved to match the exact range and trajectory initiated by the gunnery crew
as they readied to fire. The gunnery captain prayed that his barrage would fall against the target.
His worry was in vain, for the Vigilance never had a chance to unleash its orbital bombardment.
A surge of warp energy from the infant Gehemehnet surged from the tower, creating an opening
to the Ether for the smallest fraction of a second. In that brief flicker, the darkness of space was
replaced with the roiling, red netherworld, a place of horror where the natural laws of the universe
held no sway, and the nightmares of those of the material plane were given form. It was filled with
screams and roars and the deafening, maddening blare of Chaos. It lasted but the blink of an eye, but
when it passed, the Vigilance had gone with it, dragged into the realm of the Chaos gods.
Without the protection of its Gellar field, which it had no time to erect, the cruiser was overran
with hundreds of thousands of daemonic entities, its structure turned inside out. The physical forms
of those unfortunates within the Dictator cruiser were driven instantly insane at the exposure to the
pure energy of the warp, their bodies mutating wildly as Chaos took hold. Their souls were
devoured and their screams joined with those of countless billions who had been consumed to feed
the insatiable gods of the realm. Within the blink of an eye the Vigilance was no more.
Marduk was rocked as the fledgling strength of the Gehemehnet surged. Such staggering power!
Only once before had he witnessed the birthing of a Gehemehnet, for to construct one of the
potent totems was a draining experience. Only the most powerful Dark Apostles would even attempt
to create one, and the process would often leave them shattered wrecks, weak shadows of their
former selves.
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Jarulek’s presence was evidence of the truth of this. Marduk had been shocked by the
appearance of his master when he had arrived back at the rained shell of the once prosperous
Imperial city.
Jarulek seemed to have aged several millennia. His skin was sunken and wasted, and bones and
spider-web lines of veins were clearly visible beneath translucent, script inscribed flesh. His lips
were thin and drawn back from his teeth like those of a long-dead corpse. Deep, dark, sepulchral
sockets surrounded his eyes, though they flashed with defiant strength.
He is weak, thought Marduk, licking his lips.
“You feel the awakening, First Acolyte,” said Jarulek.
“Yes, Dark Apostle. It is… astounding.” Marduk replied truthfully. “It must have taken much of
your strength to imbue the tower with such potency.”
Jarulek waved a hand dismissively.
“The great gods gift me with the power to enact their will,” said the Dark Apostle lightly, but
Marduk could see that he was almost utterly drained.
Jarulek saw Marduk’s narrowed eyes and raised an eyebrow on his skeletal face.
“You have something to say, First Acolyte?”
“No, my Dark Apostle,” he said. It would not be wise for Marduk to antagonise his master, not
yet. “I am merely in awe of the power of your faith. I aspire one day to reach such glorified
heights.”
“Perhaps, but the path to enlightenment is a long and painful road. Many fall along the way to
eternal damnation and torment, seeking that which they desire too quickly, or by taking up
challenges that are far beyond their reach,” said the Dark Apostle evenly, his velvet voice
enunciating the words carefully.
“With your guidance, lord, I hope to avoid falling prey to such temptations,” said Marduk.
“As I would expect, my First Acolyte. The Imperials draw near?”
“They do, my lord. The Coryphaus pulls the Host back from its advance.”
“I do not require the Host to hold them indefinitely. It is but days until the conjunction. That is
when Korsis will be largest in the sky and the seven planets of this system will be aligned. We need
but hold them until then. The Coryphaus understands my needs.”
“To be pushed back at all is an insult to the Legion. It shames us all.”
“To expect the unattainable is foolish, my First Acolyte. I never asked Kol Badar to destroy the
foe, it is unnecessary. He must merely hold them until the alignment and buy time for the
Gehemehnet to be completed.”
“And it is nearing completion, my lord?”
“It is. That is why I have called you back from the front line, to aid me in the final stages of its
summoning. This Gehemehnet is to be different from any other totem that has been constructed
before, for I have called it forth not to turn this planet to a daemon world, but to shatter it utterly,”
said the Dark Apostle with a smile on his face.
“My lord?”
“It must be complete for the alignment. When the red planet is high, the Daemonschage will toll,
signalling the death of this planet, and a great treasure will be revealed, a treasure that will be
unlocked by the Enslaved.”
“The Enslaved?”
“One who will come to us. With the secrets unlocked, we will launch a new era of terror upon
the followers of the Corpse Emperor. We will take the fight to those we hate the most.”
“The arrogant, cursed offspring of Guilliman,” said Marduk.
“Indeed.”
“First Acolyte, a question.”
“Yes, my lord?” asked Marduk, frowning.
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“Have any holy scriptures appeared on your flesh yet?”
“No, my lord. I bear none but the passage that you honoured me with,” he said, indicating his
left cheek where the skin of the Dark Apostle had knitted with his own.
“Tell me immediately if words begin to form upon your skin, First Acolyte. They… they mark
your readiness to proceed with your induction into the fold.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Marduk, bemused. “I will consult you immediately should such a
thing occur.”
“They are planning to pound us into the ground with their artillery,” commented Burias, standing
atop the first defensive line and watching as the Imperials advanced slowly. “Are we just going to
cower back here and allow them?”
The salt plains were spread with Imperials as far as the eye could see. They advanced in a
massive, sweeping arc towards the curved first line of the Word Bearers’ defence. The first bulwark
was wider than the other three that guarded the crumbled remains of the Imperial city and, but for
the reserve led by Bokkar, every warrior of the Host stood upon it awaiting the enemy. Havoc
squads hunkered down within those bunkers that were intact, placed at one hundred metre intervals.
Burias and Kol Badar stood side by side as they watched the advance of the foe. A mass of salt
dust rose up behind the advancing army.
Kol Badar swung around, his one good eye staring coldly down at the Icon Bearer. His other
eye, shattered by shrapnel, had been replaced with an arcane augmetic sensor by the chirurgeons.
“You question the orders of your Coryphaus, whelp?” he snarled.
“No, Coryphaus, but I feel Drak’shal raging to be unleashed.”
“Keep a rein on your daemon parasite, Burias. Its time will come soon.”
“I shall, Coryphaus.”
“They have more ordnance than we.”
“There is no sign of that Ordinatus machine, though.”
“No. Its range is not as great as their artillery’s. If it advanced ahead of the main battle line, it
would sustain damage. The methodology of the Adeptus Mechanicus is rigid. They deviate not at all
from their ritual tenets and the modes of behaviour programmed into their mechanical heads. They
will not risk damage to the machine.”
“You know a lot about the followers of the Machine-God, my lord?”
“I have learnt much from the Forgemasters of Ghalmek. And I fought alongside Tech-Priests of
the Mechanicum during the Great Crusade, marching to battle alongside blessed Lorgar and the
Warmaster,” he said, bitterness in his voice. “And afterwards, I fought against them.”
“I am sorry to have dredged up painful memories, Coryphaus.”
Kol Badar waved away the words of the younger Word Bearers warrior-brother.
“Bitterness, anger and hatred is what fuels the fires within. If we forget the past then we will lose
the passion to dethrone the False Emperor. To lose the fire is to fail in our sacred duty, the Long
War,” growled Kol Badar. A thought struck him, was the Dark Apostle fuelling his own hatred of
the First Acolyte to keep the fires within him stoked? He dismissed the thought instantly as
irrelevant to the situation at hand.
The Coryphaus placed the talons of his power claw upon Burias’s shoulder plate and exerted just
enough pressure for the ceramite to groan.
“No, we do not attack just yet. But when we do, Burias, you will lead it,” he said generously.
“You do me much honour, Coryphaus,” said Burias, surprise on his face.
“You may be the lackey of a wretched whoreson, but you should not be held in the shadows
because of it,” said Kol Badar.
Burias tensed and the warlord could see the daemon within flash in his eyes.
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“The First Acolyte is on the cusp of greatness,” said Kol Badar, “though it is a dangerous
position and his fate is not yet determined. He may yet be deemed unworthy. Your precious master
may fail at the last. Be wary, young Burias. Make sure you know where your loyalty lies, with the
Legion, or with an individual.”
Burias stared at the Coryphaus for a moment before he gave a sharp nod of his head and Kol
Badar released his crushing grip on the Icon Bearer’s shoulder.
“Do well, and I will see you initiated into the cult of the Anointed,” said Kol Badar and he was
pleased to see fires of ambition and greed come to life within the younger Icon Bearer’s eyes. He
had him.
“Go now. Gather the most vicious berserkers of the Host. I want eight fully mechanised coteries
ready to roll out on my word. I feel that the enemy will bring the fight to us, and when they do, I
want you ready to meet them head on.”
Marduk walked with the Dark Apostle towards a small, twin-engine transport, the pair of holy
warriors accompanied by an honour guard. Daemon heads spewed smoke as its engines were revved
and the doors hissed shut behind the Word Bearers. Marduk saw the Dark Apostle’s eyes close in
prayer or exhaustion.
On the short journey to the base of the Gehemehnet, Marduk marvelled at how the Imperial city
had been transformed. From a bustling city of millions, it had been rendered into a wasteland of
industry. Every building had been levelled and the fires of the Chaos factorums blazed in the dim
light, spewing fumes and smog into the roiling sky. The ground was black with oil and pollution,
and lines of slaves, each a thousand strong or more, wound through the black detritus and slag piles
like multi-legged insects. Huge pistons drove up and down, conveyor belts piled with rock and
bodies fed into hissing, steaming vaults and furnaces, and chains with links larger than battle tanks
wound around immense wheels, turning the machineries of Chaos. It was almost like an infant
version of Ghalmek, the daemonic forge monastery world, one of the great stronghold worlds of
faith and industry of the Word Bearers, deep in the Maelstrom.
Black dust was kicked up as the shuttle landed and the honour guard stepped to the ground,
scouring the area for any threat before they stood to attention. Marduk allowed the Dark Apostle to
alight first and his dark eyes followed the movement of the older warrior priest as he stepped out of
the shuttle. Even his movements were stiff, he thought. Truly it seemed the Dark Apostle was
drained almost to the point of exhaustion. He smiled to himself.
They marched across the blackened earth towards the vast doors of a roaring furnace factorum,
ignoring thousands of slaves and overseers that dropped to the ground to grovel before their master.
Gears and chains groaned as the sliding doors were dragged aside and a blast of intense hot air
radiated out from within, making his vision shimmer.
Workers prostrated themselves on the ground as the Word Bearers entered the massive factory.
Huge vats of liquid metal were being poured into a vast mould, along with other liquids that flowed
from dozens of spiralling tubes and distillery pipes. The super-heated liquid metal was doused with
blood and clouds of heady steam rose.
“Now this, this is what sets my Gehemehnet apart from any other,” said Jarulek, his eyes alight.
A dozen huge chains lifted the mould into the air and it swung across the factorum to hang
overhead. With a nod from Jarulek, it was released and it fell with bone shaking force ten metres to
the floor of the factory. The entire area shuddered as it landed. The floor of the factorum cracked
beneath the impact and small, spider web cracks spread across the surface of the mould. Searing
light spilled from the branching cracks. Without the benefit of its inbuilt reactive auto-sensors in his
helmet, Marduk squinted his eyes against the glare. More of the miniscule faults appeared across its
surface, spilling light in all directions, and the mould began to crumble into tiny granules, falling to
the ground, smoking and hissing.
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The black mould exploded outwards suddenly, spreading scalding hot granules across the
factorum, and blinding light filled the area. Overseers and slaves screamed and recoiled as burning
particles seared into their skin and their retinas were burned away.
Even to Marduk the glare was painful and he hissed as super-heated granules burned the skin of
his face. Still, he did not flinch, for he was determined not to show any weakness before the Dark
Apostle.
A towering, glowing shape stood in the middle of the factorum.
“You have made a bell,” he said dryly.
Jarulek laughed, though the laughter tailed off into a hacking wheeze.
“A bell, yes. With this Daemonschage the power of the Gehemehnet will be harnessed. When
