Part 11 (1/2)

a”The Cadian Shock are the guardians of Scarus. But forgive me, brother-codicier. I do not see the ties between my home world and your Chapter. What are the Death Guard to you? How grave are their sins, that no other evil can match them in your eyes?a”

Zaur stood in silence for some time. When he finally moved, it was to place a gauntleted hand, cold as fresh snow, on Setha's head. When he finally spoke, it was in a buzzing voice contained within Setha's own mind.

See, Cadian. See what they did to us +

The vision began. A vision of a war a- The War a- that began ten thousand years before. In a distant solar system, one hundred centuries ago, Seth witnessed the betrayal that scourged the hearts of the Raven Guard against their Astartes brothers.

It was soon over. When the vision faded, Seth felt pale and weak. He bolstered his strength to speak his last question.

a”Zaur a”

a”Yes?a”

a”Since coming to Kathur Do you hear the voice, too? Something has awoken on this world. It cries for aid.a”

Zaur nodded once, very slowly. a”I hear it. I hear it even now.a” The codicier looked down at the Cadian. a”Have you heard the reply?a”

a”No.a”

a”That is my true fear, and the reason I have taken such stern heed of the Tarota's warning. Because I not only hear the voice crying for aid, I also hear something out there answering.a”

a”This second voice, what does it say?a”

a”It is wordless, much like the plea for aid we both hear. A simple, powerful projection that conveys a single message.a”

a”What message?a”

Zaur opened his mind once more, letting his sixth sense envelop Setha's surface thoughts. He could feel the rhythms of the mortala's body, beating and bubbling in their short lifespan. The Astartes knew, just for a moment, how frail and mortal it felt to be truly human. He feared nothing in his service to the Throne, yet he felt himself fearful of that incredible weakness.

a”Listen,a” said Zaur, letting the voices flowing through his psychic sense wash gently into Setha's lesser mind. It was a simple diversion of mental energies, the equivalent of a man damming one river to form another.

Come to me, the first voice said without words.

We come, was the equally-wordless reply.

We come.

Part II.

The Herald.

CHAPTER VIII.

Echoes of Heresy.

Within the warp.

We come.

It pulsed this wordless rea.s.surance in a relentless stream of subconscious telepathy. We come. We come. We come.

Sometimes it would forget its own name.

It knew this was because of the warp. Travelling in the domain of its master brought the creature close to its G.o.da's touch, and all that was still human within it would slip into unremembered darkness.

On these occasions, occasions which might last a mere hour and might last anything up to a decade or more, it would simply self-identify by the t.i.tle its various minions used when addressing it.

The Herald, they called it. The Herald of the whispering G.o.d they all served.

The Herald had not moved from its throne in many months. Barnacle-like scabs, crusty blooms of dried blood and calcified pus, now bound it to the bone and corroded metal of its command seat. The Herald felt the encrusted gore connecting him to the throne, and by extension, to the s.h.i.+p all around it.

The Herald knew its strength, its incredible might. It knew it would take little effort to move and shatter the solidified filth, but it wanted to enjoy the serenity of its repose for a few more moments. It breathed deeply within the decayed sh.e.l.l of its armour, feeling the silent rumble of its vessel spearing through the warp. Daemon-things in the darkness beyond the s.h.i.+pa's hull shrieked and clawed at the vessel, desperate to enter and prostrate themselves before the Herald. They left streaks of diseased flesh along the rancid hull as the great s.h.i.+p powered on, ignorant of the would-be supplicants.

The Herald chuckled.

Some of the creatures populating the bridge a- the weakest ones, whose lives meant nothing a- cowered and whimpered at the sound. It was the first time the Herald had made any noise in weeks.

One of the bridge crew, long deprived of its legs, crawled up the steps to the Heralda's throne. Once, it had been a man. Now it left a viscous trail in its legless wake, and had too many mouths.

a”We draw near, Herald,a” several of the thinga's mouths said.

Now the Herald stood. The crusted gore binding it to the throne shattered into powdery, infected shards, many still sticking to the Heralda's armour like warty protrusions.

With the Heralda's sudden, albeit slow, activity, the hollow bone spines jutting from its back began to emit a low buzz. The Herald was awake, and the hive within its body awakened as well. The first flies, bloated and sticky, skittered from the flared holes at the tops of the hollow spines.

The Herald turned its horned helmeted head, seeking something. It could barely see. Its eyes were gummy with b.l.o.o.d.y tears, having been closed for too long. Sight pained it.

a”Weapon,a” the Herald growled in a low, burbling voice. The bridge crew shrank back, some pressing against their consoles in fear, some because their own organic corruption bound them to their stations just as the Herald had been bound to its throne.

One of the figures flanking the great throne stepped forward. Its armour was that of an Astartes, but swollen, corroded and cracked through ten thousand years of plague and battle. It was the same gangrenous colour of the Heralda's own armour.

a”Herald.a” Blood-caked respirator pipes thrust into the front of the Astartesa' helm vibrated as the second figure spoke. a”I bear your blade.a”

At these words, the corrupted Astartes held out a colossal scythe in his swollen fists. It was over three metres long, the pole as thick as a mana's thigh, the curving crescent blade glinting in places under a patina of b.l.o.o.d.y rot.

The Herald took the scythe in its own gauntleted hands. A memory swam up through the warp-holy murk of its thoughts. A name.

Its own name?

No Manreaper. The name of the weapon it now held. With a psychic nudge, the Herald activated the antiquated power weapon. Its scythe blade hissed as energy flooded the ancient metal. The organic decay taking root on the blade itself crackled and popped as it burned away. The stench was cancerous, but that was far from unusual in the Heralda's presence. The entire s.h.i.+p itself reeked of the egg-like s.h.i.+t-smell of a terminal wasting disease. The air within the vessel was poison to all but the creatures that dwelled within.

The Herald took a deep breath within its enclosing armour, savouring the holy scent that reached its acute olfactory senses. Vision returned with increased clarity now, shapes resolving clearly to make out the scene of the bridge all around. A great screen faced the throne, showing the beautiful chaos of warp flight. It was like looking into the mind of a madman, seeing all his thoughts as colours.