The Killing Ground

  His priests cried out as the ghostly shapes of the congregation were swept up in the maelstrom of bone-chilling light. Like wind-blown mist, the spectres dispensed with individuality and became one howling mass of gibbering faces.

  'The Emperor protects!' screamed Togandis as the anguished phantoms screamed and wailed. The sourceless wind pulled the glittering, ghostly mass around the interior of the temple, slicing the air and twisting in coils of glittering silver light.

  They gathered beneath the rose window at the far end of the nave, above the mighty bronze portals that led to the outside world, a roiling, tumbling, churning mass of light and mist. Silver tongues of cold fire burst into life around the edges of the temple, leaping from pillar to pillar and Togandis's eyes filled with tears at the sudden stench of burning flesh.

  Frost was forming on the pews before him and a skim of ice crackled in the font beside him. The priests and vergers were on their knees, hands clasped in prayer. Still their eyes were full of adoration, and Togandis knew that the terror of the visions was meant solely for him.

  Only he beheld the true face of the spirits, for they had come for him and him alone.

  The mass of spirits shot down the nave towards the altar and Togandis felt their hunger for him in every agonised wail. The hundreds of mouths ran together and the billowing light flared outwards like the wings of some terrible, avenging angel.

  'In Your eyes we are but humble servants,' screamed Togandis, the words snatched from his mouth by the cold air. 'Turn your face towards us and banish shadows, shield Your servants and protect them from the iniquities of the warp!'

  The spirits were losing cohesion, skins of light peeling back from the angel of retribution as it came towards him. Togandis closed his eyes. He clutched the holy aquila that hung around his neck and lifted his prayer book high.

  A blast of silver fire swept over Togandis and he felt the glacial cold of the dead pass through him. The ache of their pain and the horror of their existence suffused every molecule of his being, from his overburdened feet to his sweat-streaked pate, but, finding no purchase, they poured from him with a wail of frustration.

  His heart creaked and bulged at the strain placed upon it, the valves and arteries pushed to their limits in keeping Togandis alive. Blood vessels strained and twisted, but whatever reserves of strength the cardinal's flesh possessed were up to the task of keeping him alive for a little longer.

  Togandis kept his eyes closed for long moments, knowing that were he to open them he would gaze into the face of something so terrifying it would be the death of him. Sudden, unnerving silence descended on the church, the only sound the heave of his breath and the echoes of the departed.

  A hand brushed his shoulder and he cried out, feeling a knot of pain in the depths of his chest and a tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers.

  'Cardinal?' said a tentative, awed voice at his ear. Togandis recognised the speaker. It was one of the evening vergers, though he did not know the man's name.

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Togandis opened his eyes.

  The temple was as it had always been at night: cool, shadowed and dimly lit by the stuttering glow of candles. No trace remained of the silver flames or the vengeful spirits, but a rime of melting ice dripped from the lip of the font.

  Togandis waited until he was sure that his voice would not betray his earlier terror.

  'What?' he asked at last.

  'Was that an angel?' asked the verger.

  Togandis looked beyond the verger to the enraptured faces of his priests. What was he to tell them? The truth? Hardly.

  The light of faith was in their eyes and he could not take that away from them.

  'Yes,' nodded Togandis. 'That was an angel of the Emperor. Pray you never see another.'

  NIGHT IN THE mountains north of Barbadus was absolute.

  With the descent of the sun, the Unfleshed had tentatively ventured from the cave, their steps hesitant and wary as though they feared that the sun might return at any moment. Through the course of the long day, the Lord of the Unfleshed had felt his tribe's sense of hurt betrayal as the sunlight hovered on the brink of destroying them.

  The cave stank of fear and only when the light ventured no farther did that fear turn to relief. They would be safe, for a time at least.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed could taste the tribe's terror, a rank outpouring of chemicals that had once been a scent to be savoured in others, but which only made him angry now.

  He was tired of fear, tired of having it as his constant companion.

  Though he was powerful and strong, fear had nestled in his heart for as long as he could remember: fear of the Iron Men, fear of the Black Sun, fear of his own monstrous nature and fear of what the Emperor would make of it when he finally stood before Him.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed lifted his arm and stared at the raw, pink newness of his flesh. The slick, sheen of his body had faded over the course of the day and as he tentatively explored the surface, he felt the new skin responding to his touch.

  Instead of pain, he could feel the texture of his clawed fingers and the roughness of his hands.

  Perhaps this place would be a new beginning for him and the tribe.

  He looked over to where the tribe feasted on yet more of the fleshy creatures that grazed on the mountains.

  Their meat was rich and tender, and their limbs no match for the ferocious speed of the Unfleshed.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed wanted to be away from this place, but did not yet dare lead the tribe far from the cave for fear that the sun would catch them in the open again. Most of the tribe were growing new skin across their bodies, but at wildly differing rates, and those without a thick enough covering would die if the sun found them without shelter.

  Eventually they would have skin to match his, but it would take time for their more degenerate bodies to catch up to what his had already achieved. Rippling skirts of flesh took longer to cover than knotty lumps of bone, and fused craniums of meat that pulled and twisted as each mouth fed, tore and healed as their owner took wrenching bites of food.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed glanced over his shoulder.

  Though the night was dark, the dead city below was bathed in light.

  To mortal eyes, the city was as empty and silent as ever, but to eyes fashioned with sorcerous engineering of the darkest realms and a mind grown to maturity within the womb of a creature saturated in chaos magic, the streets were alive with a cavalcade of shapes. Not the shapes of the living, but shapes of... something else.

  Before now, the Lord of the Unfleshed had been aware of them as a glimmering presence on the edge of perception, but he saw they were gathering now, drawn to this place of death by the arrival of the Iron Men's machine.

  Uriel and his companion had not seen these presences, or even been aware of them, but the dreadful energies washing from the terrifying machine had found common cause in the forgotten streets of the dead city, drawing back those that had once called it home and filling them with borrowed power.

  He had kept the tribe away from the gathering strength of their unquenchable rage, knowing on some marrow-deep level that to disturb the pool of anger and pain would be to invite disaster.

  As though his observation had given the lights notice of their presence, the Lord of the Unfleshed saw them drifting through the streets towards the metal barrier that surrounded the city. Where such a barrier would prevent creatures of flesh and blood from egress, it provided no such impediment to these beings of light and rage.

  They came towards the mountains and the tribe feasting at the mouth of the cave.

  The tribe felt them come, baring their fangs and unsheathing their claws.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed stood and watched the approach of the light. He did not fear them, for the world of the Black Sun had vomited horrors worse than them from its smoky depths.

  The tribe retreated within the cave and the Lord of the Unfleshed stood protectively
before them, resplendent and magnificent in his new suit of skin. He felt the burning rage at the core of these strange beings of light, but more than that he sensed their hunger and their desire to wreak harm on those who had wronged them.

  As he watched them approach, the mouth-watering flavour of burned flesh arose in the back of his mouth with the forgotten taste of human meat. He moaned and thick saliva gathered in the folds of his jaw.

  He shook his head.

  Uriel had forbidden them to taste the rich flesh of humans and drink their warm blood.

  The Emperor did not want them to eat His subjects.

  Behind him, the tribe grunted and worked their fanged mouths as the smell of cooked flesh filled the cave and they too recalled the taste of human meat. The smell was overwhelming and the Lord of the Unfleshed struggled to keep his mind on the approaching beings.

  Without seeming to move, they gathered at the cave mouth, a jostling cascade of ghostly, heart-lit shapes. He saw the suggestion of human forms in their depths, men, women and children who looked upon him with expressions that ranged from pity to anticipation.

  Their faces were blackened and burned, the flesh seared from bodies, and the Lord of the Unfleshed felt their pain, an eternal agony that could only be ended one way. He knew that these were no living things, but dead things that should not be.

  They surged into the cave towards the Unfleshed, but instead of death they craved life.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed felt the dead wash over him like a tide, a tumbling cascade of thousands of lives. The cave filled with light, burning, all-consuming light. It pressed against him, oozing into his body by some unknown process of osmosis.

  A million thoughts, like a swarm of angry insects, roared in his head and his hands flew to his skull at the deafening noise. Thousands of voices echoed within him, each one clamouring to be heard over the others, each one begging, pleading and demanding to speak.

  Pain filled him as he felt his body burning, the blood boiling in his veins, the meat of his body searing and his bones cracking in the fire. The walls of the cave seemed to twist and melt, as though fading away, only to be replaced by walls raised by human hands and cast down by the artifice of man's war machines.

  Instead of rock above his head, he saw sky, clear skies filled with cruciform shapes shedding iron canisters that descended on vapour trails and exploded in sheets of white-hot flame. Fire surrounded him, leaping and dancing like a living thing as it consumed everything around it with gleeful abandon.

  He knew he was seeing their deaths, these beings of light and anger, but could not force the images from his mind. He heard screaming: deafening, heart-rending screaming.

  'No!' bellowed the Lord of the Unfleshed. 'Get out of my head!'

  He heard the terrified roars and cries of the tribe and surged to his feet, clawing at the new skin that clothed his face. Yellow talons tore great gouges in his cheeks and the pain was welcome for it was pain. Flaps of sliced skin hung down from his face and fresh blood pattered on the floor of the cave.

  His limbs rippled with unnatural motion, convulsing and swelling with the presences that poured into him. His every muscle, fibre and cell was suffused with the energy and fury of the dead.

  Only the pain remained his and he clasped his claws across his heart, tearing outwards in an upward fan, scoring a series of bloody grooves across his chest like the wings of an agonised, screaming eagle.

  The Lord of the Unfleshed dropped to his knees with his clawed arms upraised as the dead of Khaturian filled him, pressing the last remnants of his pain and fear into a creaking corner of his cranium.

  Instead of his own pain, he felt the entirety of theirs.

  Their rage and their fury were his.

  Only one thing could end it: death.

  NINE

  URIEL AWOKE FROM a deep slumber, surprised that he had fallen asleep with such ease and that his dreams had been untroubled by visions of blood and death. He had been so long away from the real world that he had quite forgotten what it was to sleep without fear of such things.

  Pasanius slept soundly on the bed across the room, his eyes darting beneath his lids. Uriel frowned as a snatched fragment of the dream he had been having returned to him.

  He had seen a cave and something bright and malevolent that had emerged from its depths. Uriel could not make out its shape or identity, but he knew that whatever it was, it had been something unutterably dreadful. He shook off the last vestiges of the dream and swung his legs from the bed.

  As quietly as he was able, he poured a goblet of water and rinsed his mouth. He tasted ashes and a metallic flavour that reminded him of blood. He caught the tang of something burning nearby and wondered if the quarters they had been assigned were near a kitchen or mess hall.

  Uriel rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, frowning at the sluggishness that seemed to afflict his limbs and thought processes. A Space Marine could normally go from sleep to wakefulness in the time it took to draw breath, but ever since arriving on Salinas he had felt a lethargy that seemed to leech his vitality.

  Perhaps that explained the perpetually downcast faces he had seen on the streets and among the Falcatas. This was a grim world, but perhaps the melancholy he felt ran through the very fabric of the world and its inhabitants.

  Pasanius stirred on his bed and sat up, reaching up to rub his scalp, a scalp that was now shaggier than it had been in a long time. Both arms came up, but only the left was able to make contact with his head.

  'Damn, but I can't get used to that,' said Pasanius, looking at the red stump of his right arm. 'I hated it when I had that xeno-tainted arm and now I miss it. How's that for perverse?'

  'It's only natural, I suppose,' said Uriel. 'I heard that some men who lose a limb claim they can still feel it itching, as though it's still part of them.'

  'Who did you hear that from?'

  'It was back on Tarsis Ultra,' explained Uriel. 'Magos Locard told me of an ancient Adept of Mars by the name of Semyon who developed a whole slew of new forms of augmetic implantation. It seemed this Semyon claimed to be able to produce electrographic images of subjects that showed their limbs still in place, even after they had been surgically removed.'

  'How could he do that?' asked Pasanius, rubbing at his stump, which Uriel saw was an angry red, with patches of raw scabbing where the skin had been worn down.

  'Locard didn't know,' said Uriel, rising from the bed and beginning a series of stretches to loosen the muscles in his arms. 'He said that Semyon was part of something called the Dragon Cult and that no one really knew if he existed at all. His work is like some sort of myth on Mars. The story goes that he died during the Martian schism back at the end of Old Night.'

  'Emperor's teeth, that's so long ago, who knows what's true and what's not?' said Pasanius, joining Uriel in stretching.

  'That's kind of what Locard said,' replied Uriel. 'He said that so much of Mars was laid waste that any kind of history was as good as legend.'

  'Legend is time and rumour,' nodded Pasanius. 'Isn't that what they say?'

  'With enough time, everything becomes legend,' agreed Uriel. 'One day you and I might be legends. Perhaps there will be murals in the Temple of Correction.'

  'Or statues on the Avenue of Heroes,' smiled Pasanius.

  The two friends passed the early hours of the morning, reminiscing over Macragge and the beauty of the world they hoped to see again soon. Within a few hours, both had come to the realisation that it had been a long time since either of them had endured a proper Astartes strength and endurance test. Without their fellow battle-brothers to measure themselves against and to drive them onwards, their powers had waned. It was an unwelcome truth to learn.

  As they finished their exercises, there was a polite knock on the door and Eversham entered, looking as dangerous and catlike as ever. The man's face was unreadable, though Uriel had never found it easy to read the emotions of mortals.

  'Good morning,' said Uriel.


  'Indeed,' said Eversham. 'I trust you rested well?'

  'Well enough,' said Pasanius.

  'What can we do for you, Mister Eversham?' asked Uriel.

  'Governor Barbaden sends you his greetings,' began Eversham, 'and bids me inform you that he has arranged for you to consult with the Janiceps.'

  THE SUNLIGHT ON Serj Casuaban's skin was welcome after the cramped, claustrophobic interior of the House of Providence. Though the air in Junktown wasn't exactly fresh, it was certainly better than the stale aroma of death and desperation that saturated every breath he took within its metal corridors and wards.

  Junktown was a somewhat obvious name for the largest district of Barbadus, but it was, Casuaban reflected, an apt one. Many of the original dwellings that had stood here were rubble, demolished in the original war of pacification and never rebuilt. Those that remained stood cheek by jowl with the detritus of that war.

  A regimental graveyard of fighting vehicles had been abandoned here, the remains of a dozen armoured companies whose crews had mustered out of the Falcatas or which had broken down and could not be repaired. The ingenuity of the locals in rendering vehicles that had once borne their enemies into battle was little short of ingenious, and abandoned squadrons housed entire families, with engines serving as reconditioned heating units and ammo stowage as makeshift sleeping compartments.

  Thousands of people lived here in cramped conditions until the work klaxons blared to summon them to work in the munitions forges or promethium refineries. A pall of ash and sullen melancholy hung over Junktown and Casuaban knew that his presence was only tolerated due to the medicines he was distributing and the treatment he was providing.

  Casuaban sat behind a metal trestle table, applying a soothing bacitracin poultice to the arm of a male worker who had been burned while processing gel fuels for shipping off-world. The man had been lucky; a trained corpsman had been on hand to treat the wound at the site of the accident, yet the scarring was likely to be severe.