that power is unleashed, it will shatter the planet’s core. Come,” he said, motioning Marduk
forward.
The pair approached the glowing bell towering over them. The intensity of the light it projected
was dimming, so that it was bearable to look upon, and Marduk saw that it was smooth and the
colour of blooded steel. Tiny script-work wound around its circumference, covering most of the
bell. Waves of hot emotion, hatred, jealousy, anger and pain emanated from the Daemonschage.
“Place your hands upon it,” ordered Jarulek.
Marduk moved a hand tentatively forwards and touched his fingers gingerly upon the metallic
surface.
“It’s cold,” he said and placed both his hands firmly upon its surface. There were presences
there. A myriad of voices screamed painfully in his mind and he pulled his hands back sharply.
“I have already bound the Daemonschage with the spirits of over a thousand daemons.”
“Such hatred I felt,” said Marduk. “This is a powerful binding.”
“The daemons are angered that they are within the physical realm, yet they cannot manifest,”
chuckled Jarulek. “But it needs more daemons bound within this prison before it is complete. My
strength wanes. It falls to you, First Acolyte, to complete the ceremonies of binding.”
“You honour me, my lord.”
“The construction of the Gehemehnet is all but complete and that is where my strength is
needed. The Daemonschage is to be transported to the top of the tower. You will complete the
summoning there, Marduk, and then the Daemonschage will sound and this world will be ripped
asunder.”
The thunder of ordnance was constant. The lines of artillery and siege tanks boomed one after
another, billowing smoke covering their positions. The shells had been hurled relentlessly towards
the traitor lines for almost three hours and the salt plains and earthworks were pockmarked with
craters. It was impossible to gauge enemy casualties, though Laron guessed they were few. The
armour of the enemy, together with the defensive bulwarks and bunkers, would most likely ensure
protection against most of the incoming fire.
He was pleased however that the brigadier-general was pushing for the war to come to a head. A
long, drawn out siege was not a war for an Elysian. Surgical strikes, lightning raids and daring
attacks deep into enemy territory: that was how the warriors of Elysia were meant to fight and it
seemed that at last they would have the chance.
Still, it would not be easy and the loss of the Imperial cruiser had been a shock, its destruction
testament to the unholy power of the enemy.
“Looks like the brigadier-general has had a change of heart,” said Captain Elias. Laron had
promoted the man from sergeant when the brigadier-general had given him the mammoth task of
becoming acting colonel. He nodded his head.
“Shinar’s air defences are famed throughout the sector,” said Elias. “You were the one that
reminded me of that, sir. Won’t we be blown out of the air on the approach?”
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“It is going to be bloody, no two ways around it, Elias, but the brigadier-general feels that such a
risk is necessary. The threat the enemy poses is far greater than was first understood. It is not going
to be pretty, but this is war and it is what the Emperor demands of us.”
That suits me fine, thought Laron. The frustrations and stresses of the previous week had built
up, and he longed for the simplicity of leading his men into battle once again.
Elias was right though, they would be at the mercy of the enemy guns until those emplacements
were silenced. He prayed that their objective was achievable, else the 72nd and the 133rd would be
slaughtered.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Gehemehnet rose almost fifty kilometres into the atmosphere. Black, oily clouds circling the
tower far below hid the land from Varnus’s eyes, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. The giant,
red planet Korsis dominated the sky above. It hung so close that it was an intimidating, looming
presence.
Hot vapours rose from the hollow shaft of the Gehemehnet in long, steaming exhalations. The
breath of the gods themselves, the Discord had told him, and its touch was intoxicating. It came
from deep within the planet, for Varnus knew that the shaft plunged far beneath the earth, into the
fiery heart of Tanakreg.
He noticed that there were fewer than a hundred slaves atop the tower: those that had proven to
have the strength and will to survive its completion. Each man was crouching on his haunches,
accompanied by an overseer who stood just behind him. Looking around at them, Varnus felt
sickened. They all looked like worshippers of the Chaos gods, far from the industrious servants of
the Emperor that they had once been. Varnus knew that he too must look like one of the cursed,
blessed, followers of the ruinous powers and he seethed.
He knew that he had changed. Outwardly, the change was obvious, but the most damaging
changes had occurred within him. His blood ran thick with serums concocted by chirurgeons and his
mind was filled with hateful visions of darkness and death. Voices spoke within him constantly,
chattering maddeningly, and heretical thoughts plagued him. He wanted to embrace the gods of the
Ether, to allow himself to succumb utterly to their will, and he knew that the last barriers of
resistance were being eaten away.
The tower spoke to him, its voice soothing him.
A massive, black-girded construction was brought over the lip of the tower, held aloft by a trio
of spider-legged cranes, and Varnus stared at it in wonder. Its shape was bewitching to the eye and it
was swung over his head to hang over the top of the open shaft. It had eight black, iron legs, the first
of them touching down on the stone only metres to Varnus’s left.
It was an eight-legged armature that rose to a point, like the frame of a giant, triangular tent.
That point was embossed with beaten metal the colour of blood, and thick, spiked chains swung
from the legs, hanging down into the vast emptiness of the shaft within the tower. Seeing the chains
made Varnus put a hand to his neck, feeling around the circumference of his collar. He realised that
he no longer wore a chain around his neck, though he had no recollection of the overseers having
removed it.
He felt the Gehemehnet beneath him tremble and the feet of the black frame sank into the stone
as if it were made of quicksand. Varnus blinked his eyes, as if they were deceiving him. He saw
fields of the skinless dead beneath a burning daemon sky. But the stone was once again solid,
holding the frame tightly in place.
There was a trembling in the air and a feeling of anticipation built within him. He felt a rumbling
bass note shudder through the tower and the ceaseless blare of the Discord began to blend into a
monotonous chant that rose up loudly around him. His internal organs shuddered as the intensity of
the volume rose and the black arms of the armature began to resonate with power, chains shaking
and clinking.
Darkness spilled from the centre of the Gehemehnet, fingers of shadow clawing out over the top
of the stones and questing out in all directions. The gloom engulfed Varnus and he began to shiver.
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He saw flickers of movement in the darkness, shapes clustered all around him, and he felt their hot
breath on his neck. They whispered to him and their talons brushed against him, painfully cold and
ethereal. He could see the blood-red glow of their eyes in the netherworld staring hungrily out at
him and he felt nausea and disorientation.
A trio of Discords rose from within the Gehemehnet, rising up out of its hollow shaft, their
tentacles playing out around them like gently waving undersea fronds, angelic voices blurring with
daemonic roars and melancholic chanting that boomed from their speakers. Beneath the cacophony
of voices was the rhythmic grinding of machinery, the pounding of metal drums and the deep
reverberations of pipes. Varnus felt the hairs of his body rise with the potent sounds.
Behind the Discords came a red, armoured figure, arms outstretched to either side, appearing out
of darkness like some devil arisen from its hellish realm beneath the earth.
Varnus was in no doubt that this was a priest of the ruinous powers and he felt awed and
horrified in equal measure. Faith and power, these were the two things that the warrior-priest
radiated. He saw the shadowy, insubstantial shapes of daemons circling the warrior. He could feel
their excitement and relentless hate being strengthened by the priest’s radiance.
The warrior was huge and his ornate, red armour was scarred from battle. He wore no helmet,
but appeared to suffer no ill-effects from the scarce amount of oxygen. His eyes were closed as he
chanted, his voice powerful and deep. Varnus did not understand the meaning of the words the priest
spoke, but he knew them well, having heard them for weeks on end within the roar of the Discords.
The chains hanging from the black frame began to rise and their barbed tips began to wave
around in the air like the searching heads of serpents. They reached out towards the slaves, who
were all face down but Varnus. The tip of one of the chains approached him and it hovered in the
air. The barbed tip was the size and length of his forearm and he saw that the dark metal was
covered in tiny script. It swung back and forth before him, mesmerising and moving gently in time
with the rhythms of the Discords, as if held in thrall by some fell snake charmer.
With the speed of a striking serpent, the chains struck down into the backs of the slaves, driving
through their bodies and ripping out through their chests. The slaves were lifted up into the air,
transfixed upon the living chains running through them. The bladed tips of the chains coiled around
and lunged again, stabbing again and again the bodies of the slaves impaled on other chains, until no
body was pierced fewer than a dozen of times.
The blade hovering before Varnus hung in the air before him, waving back and forth before it
too plunged forward, but not into him, instead it descended into the back of the overseer at his side.
The black-clad slaver squealed horribly as the bladed chain tore back and forth through its body, and
it was lifted high in the air, along with all the others, black blood showering Varnus.
The chains began to knit together, forming an intricate pattern within the eight-legged frame
above the hovering priest, who continued on with his intonation, uncaring of the mayhem that had
been unleashed around him. The chains bound together tightly until they resembled a giant spider
web, complete with grisly trophies. The bodies of the slaves and the overseers hung impaled and
wrapped within the chains, and Varnus was horrified to see that most of them were not yet dead.
They twitched and moaned, and their life blood dripped down onto the Chaos Marine priest beneath
them.
He stood atop the Gehemehnet walls, his limbs shaking as he realised that he stood alone. Every
other slave and overseer was within the sickening chain-length spider web, dying. Only he had been
spared.
The priest’s eyes opened and fell upon him. He felt as though the warrior’s gaze pierced his soul
and he cowered before him. Though the Chaos Marine continued to chant his monotonous
incantation, Varnus felt a voice throb within his mind.
The Gehemehnet has chosen you to witness its birth. You are privileged, little man.
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Screaming shells rained down upon the Word Bearers, throwing up great explosions of earth as they
struck at the embankments. The bombardment had increased in tempo and they detonated across the
entire length of the Shinar peninsula.
The Warmonger stood atop the battlements in the centre of the first line of defence, uncaring of
the mayhem exploding around him. The enemy’s pitiful shells could not harm him and he stood
motionless in the midst of the bombardment, surveying the battlefield coldly.
The other war machines and daemon engines of the Legion had been pulled back to the second
line. Their unarmoured attendants would have been slaughtered beneath the fury of the attack and
the daemon engines would have stormed forwards across the plain, eager to get to grips with the
enemy. They would have been uniformly destroyed. None but the Dark Apostle would be able to
restrain them.
The Dreadnought’s augmetic senses pierced the fire and smoke that surrounded the first line,
and he saw a series of detonations erupt further out along the salt plains, several kilometres away.
This was no bombardment of the Word Bearers, and the Warmonger was momentarily confused.
Not even the pitiful gunners of the Imperial Guard could be so inaccurate with their fire. A second
line of explosions ran out along the salt plains, this time two hundred metres closer to the Word
Bearers’ lines. His senses could not pierce the vast clouds of smoke that rose from the detonations.
“Kol Badar, the enemies of the Warmaster are on the approach. They mask their advance with
ordnance and blind grenades.”
“Received, Warmonger,” came the vox reply. “Incoming aircraft have been picked up. Be
ready.”
“The blessings of the true gods upon you.”
“Kill well, old friend.”
“The enemy has made its move, Icon Bearer. Your time has come,” said Kol Badar.
Burias bowed his head to the massive, Terminator-armoured war leader.
“You do me a great honour, my Coryphaus,” he said.
“Remember it, Burias,” growled Kol Badar. “Do the Legion proud. Do not make me regret
giving you my favour.”
“You will not, Coryphaus,” said Burias, his handsome, pale face serious with devotion. “My
first kill will be dedicated to you, my lord.”
He could not gauge the reaction of his words upon the Coryphaus’s face, hidden as it was
beneath his quad-tusked helmet, but he thought the warlord’s posture showed that he was pleased.
Good, thought Burias.
He turned away from the Coryphaus with another bow of the head, to face the gathered warriors
below him, on the off-face of the embankment. Explosions detonated around them, but the warriors
were unflinching, their helmets turned up towards him, awaiting his order.
Burias slammed his icon into the ground and the warrior-brothers stood motionless in rapt
attention.
“My brothers, the time has come for us to ride out and face the enemy head on,” he roared, the
daemon Drak’shal giving his voice unholy resonance and power.
