Chapter Thirteen

Mormotha, Divinus Prime.

They thundered across the plains, trailing a great mountain of dust as they screamed between the penitent trees. The priests of Tarn Abbey had left a surprisingly powerful array of vehicles behind and, as dawn turned the bleached landscape in to a kaleidoscope of reds and golds, Antros saw their destination rushing towards them out of the heat haze. He was hunched in one of the eagle-prowed skiffs they had discovered in the abbey. They were antiques, elaborate constructions of iron and brass that no one had expected to work, but the priests had obviously treated them as holy relics. Their engines had a deep, powerful growl that filled the morning with noise and fumes as they hurled the Blood Angels along, gliding just a few feet above the ground.

Rhacelus was next to him, staring into the dust storm trailing from Mephiston and Mariah's craft. Behind them, the two priests, Zin and Brennus, were laying on the floor clutching onto the spars that lined the hull. Captain Vatrenus and some of his Tactical Marines were standing, legs wide as they braced against the lurching motion of the vehicle, their bolters raised and trained on the shapes blurring past.

Mormotha was constructed in the same ossuary fashion as the abbey, but as the rising sun painted it in warm, golden hues, Antros saw that Divinus Prime's capital was built on a much grander scale. The entire city was contained within a circular wall, hundreds of feet tall and punctuated with gun emplacements and missile batteries. Antros could see the silhouettes of soldiers on the walls carrying banners emblazoned with the sigil of Divinus Prime, a winged sword hilt, and others bearing the symbol of the Adeptus Ministorum.

Unlike Tarn Abbey, Mormotha was perfectly intact. The bleached walls matched the macabre beauty of the penitent trees, the curved, bone constructed crenellations reaching up, talon-like, into the clouds.

Broad, paved roads approached the city from several directions and they were all crowded with refugees and weary looking soldiers. Barley a soul looked up as the skiffs hurtled past them, whipping up clouds of chalk dust. The columns of survivors just trudged on into the morning sun, heads down, carrying a pitiful collection of personal belongings and hauling their wounded on makeshift litters. An army of rickety servitors trundled and lurched through the refugees, carrying broken equipment and the corpses of those who had not survived the journey. It was a miserable scene and Antros started to understand the scale of what had befallen Divinus prime.

He could see thousands of dispossessed souls stumbling through the barren scrubland, their lines disappearing into the distance. It was one thing to hear the Quorum Empyrric discuss these wars in derisive tones, but quite another to see the consequences. There were families mixed in with priests – normal citizens of the imperium, just trying to stay alive, hollow cheeked elders hobbling on bandaged feet, and mothers cradling their febrile infants, all staring at the walls up ahead with the vacant expression of people who could remember nothing but the need to keep walking. Many would never reach their goal – the roads were lined with the corpses of refugees who had died within sight of the capital.

The gates to the city stood open and there were crowds of hooded, white robed priests waiting to welcome those who staggered inside, offering cups of water and hunks of bread as they helped them into the shade. The air was full of noise and movement as mechanised hymnals fluttered overhead – leather bound tomes borne through the air on broad, dove white wings. As they flew they broadcasted the ghostly recordings of long dead Terran choirs. Singing along tunelessly with hymnals were the relic sellers who haunted all shrine worlds. Antros saw plump, lavishly dressed frauds with rubicund faces, cheerfully peddling holy tracts and crudely made reliquaries to wretches who could not afford to feed themselves.

The Blood Angels landed their skiffs outside the gates and stormed through the noisy throng, drawing surprised glances as people saw the towering figures of Mephiston, Mariah and the other Blood Angels. Mephiston and Mariah paused as they walked into the centre of a large crossroads. The four roads that met just inside the gates were broad enough to support a whole phalanx of tanks, but they still seemed narrow because of the soaring town houses and temples that surrounded them. The buildings were constructed in the same funerary style as the penitent trees outside: sturdy, fluted columns supporting domed turrets and grand pediments, all intricately wrought from millions of warped, fossilised bones. The city would have looked like a mausoleum if it wasn't overrun with thousands of distraught refugees, all talking and yelling at once. The steps of chapels and basilicas swarmed with crowds of bellowing, sunburned survivors, all venting their pent up grief and anger on the officials who were trying to aid them.

As they passed through the mob, Antros heard the same story repeated over and over: cities and towns that had become slaughter houses, bloodbath battles as the secessionists known as the Enlightened turned on their brothers, killing those who would not embrace their new doctrine. It sounded to Antros as though many had embraced the new cult. He heard refugees mutter of family members and friends who had converted to the new faith. They spoke of them in shocked, desperate tones, calling them apostates.

Antros and the others gathered around Mephiston and Mariah at the centre of the crossroads, drawing more surprised glances. The Blood Angels looked like an impregnable bastion as crowds of mortals backed away from them, crying out in alarm and calling for guards.

+Even those that know its name will not speak openly of the Blade Petrific,+ said Mephiston inside Mariah's head. She looked at him and then realised that Antros nodded in response.

+It is an article of their faith, discussed only in their most sacred rites.+

Mephiston gave Mariah a meaningful look and he realised that Antros had seen her thoughts again. Antros looked at the crowds wondering if he could delve into the mind of a local and find a memory that could lead them to their prize. It was no use. No one had any memory of the Blade Petrific.

He was about to ask Rhacelus if he was still blind but the commotion caused by their arrival had drawn the attention of one of the beleaguered officials.

"Hello?" called the man, barging through a scrum of arguing merchants and reaching Mephiston.

He was full of bluster, and seemed about to demand something of them, but the colour drained from his face and he stumbled to a halt. He looked from Mephiston's corpse like features to Mariah's inhuman beauty, to Rhacelus' imperious glare and then Antros' inhuman beauty, and shook head, opening and closing his mouth a few times, forgetting whatever he had been intending to say.

Prester Brennus stepped from behind the Blood Angels and the man visibly relaxed as he saw someone of more normal proportions.

"Brothers," he said, as Confessor Zin also stepped out of the crowd.

"Welcome to Mormotha. I'm Prester Cyriak. Where have you travelled from?" He glanced nervously at the Blood Angels, noticing Captain Vatrenus and his men striding through the crowds to join them. "And who are your companions?"

Prester Brennus stumbled forwards and grabbed his hands. "Tarn Abbey is gone!" he cried. "The Enlightened crucified anyone who would not join them! There coming here next! The apostates will tear down these walls and butcher-"

"Calm yourself brother," replied Prester Cyriak. He embraced Brennus. "Word has reached us of the murders at Tarn Abbey, but you need fear no more." He waved at the crowds. "Arch-Cardinal Dravus has summoned everyone still following the true imperial creed. Three are whole regiments of Volscan Dragoons have turned their back on the apostasy of their brothers and travelled here to fight for the Arch-Cardinal. And more loyal soldiers are arriving every day." His eyes flashed with pride. "There are thousands of militiamen here too. Zorambus is coming to meet his doom, brother. These atrocities will soon be over and once the Arch-Cardinal has dealt with that wretched fraud, he intends to perform an even greater miracle. He means to return us to the arms of the Emperor."

"What do you mean, brother?" asked Confessor Zin.

Prester Cyriak was struggling to contain his excitement, but he managed to keep his voice low. "The Arch-Cardinal has spent many days praying in the wilderness after the Emperor blessed him with a vision. Dravus is seeking a way to break this unholy silence that has enveloped us. He seeks a way to return us to the light of the imperium."

Zin glanced triumphantly at Mephiston. "Do you see? Do you see what you have done, my lord? Your mere presence on this world has broken the curse. This can be no coincidence. It is as it was prophesised!"

Prester Brennus slumped in Cyriak's arms, overcome with exhaustion and emotion. "Forgive me, brother," said Cyriak, looking pained at the man's suffering. "I must get you to the infirmary."

He summoned some of his fellow priests over and ordered them to find treatment for the man. Confessor Zin muttered a quick prayer over the barley conscious Brennus and promised to visit him as soon as he was able.

"Take us to the Arch-Cardinal," said Mariah and Rhacelus, once Brennus was gone. Cyriak grimaced and looked to Zin for support. "Brother, as you can imagine, even if it were within my power, I could not simply admit strangers to the Arch-Cardinal's presence. I'm sure your companions pose no danger but I would need some kind of-"

Rhacelus and Mariah stepped Forwards, their master-crafted armour glinting in the sunlight, their hulking frames threw Cyriak into shadow and the man looked up in terror. "We are the sons and daughter of Sanguinius," they said clearly nauseated at having to address so lowly a specimen. "And we can assure you that we do pose a threat." They flicked back their cloaks and rested their hands on the pommel of their swords. "Question the will of a Blood Angel again and you will meet the Emperor sooner than you expected."

Cyriak backed away with a horrified grimace, his hands raised protectively. He shook his head and was about to flee when Zin interceded.

"Prester Cyriak," said Zin, stepping between Rhacelus, Mariah and the priest.

"If you could inform the Arch-Cardinal that I am here, and that I am in the company of Lord Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, he will be all too pleased to see us, I assure you."

"But he's not here!" said Cyriak. "He travelled alone to the Arazi Plains. As I said it has been prophesised that he will receive guidance from the God-Emperor."

Zin pressed Cyriak further. "Brother, where exactly in Arazi Plains? We must speak with him urgently. Lord Mephiston cannot be left waiting. You must send word to-"

"We will wait," said Mephiston, studying the crowds of refugees that were staring at them.

As Mariah looked at Mephiston she noticed that his left arm was shaking and the armour was hazed by a cloud of black sparks. Mephiston followed her gaze and gripped the vambrace. He muttered under his breath until the sparks were extinguished, but his arm continued to tremble.

+Are you ok Mephiston?+ Mariah asked him in his mind.

Mephiston nodded. "Take us to Father Orsuf."

Cyriak looked at Mephiston's arm, his eyes widening in fear, and he seemed unable to reply.

"Orsuf is alive?" asked Rhacelus, glancing at Mephiston.

"Do you know a Father Orsuf?" asked Zin, looking confused but trying to give Cyriak a reassuring smile. He nodded at the growing crowd that was forming around them. "It might be better if we were out of your way."

Cyriak nodded eagerly, clearly delighted by the prospect of making the Blood Angels someone else's responsibility. "Yes, of course. Of course. And I do know Father Orsuf. The old preacher. But he rarely receives guests. Is there anyone else? I'm sure someone..." His words trailed off as he flushed red.

"He will receive me," said Mephiston.

Cyriak nodded and started barging a path through the crowds waving for them to follow. "Please forgive me for..." He grimaced.

"No need to apologise, brother," said Zin, as he and the Blood Angels followed the awkward-looking priest off the main thoroughfare. He led them away from the gates and deeper into the city. Each street they entered was a little less crowded than the last and a little narrower. Antros quickly saw why Mormotha was know as the Labyrinth. Each concentric circle of the city was crowded with grand, ecclesiastical buildings: basilicas, mausoleums and tombs all striving to outdo the other's macabre beauty. Their porticoed facades flooded the avenues and fountains below with confusing pools of shadow.

As they neared the abbey, its tall, panelled doors swung open and a stern-faced preacher emerged to greet them. He limped out from beneath the abbey's arched porch and grimaced as he stepped into the light. He was thickset and burly but he moved with the studied slowness of the extremely old, leaning heavily on a staff. His spine was so twisted by battle-trauma that he had to tilt his head on one side to look up at the Blood Angels. His head was shaven and his face was covered in a network of old, silvery scars, surrounding a nose that had been broken so many times it looked like an S. He looked more like a crippled old street fighter than a priest and his ecclesiastical robes seemed oddly incongruous. Where his left eye should have been there was a large augmetic lens, fixed in a housing of battered iron. It turned slowly in its angry socket as he tried to focus it on Mephiston.

"By the Throne," he said, smiling. "Lord Mephiston."

Mephiston surprised Antros by speaking directly to the abbot, addressing him in respectful, almost warm tones. "Father Orsuf," he said. "I heard a malicious rumour that you had retired."

Orsuf scowled with embarrassment and tried to straighten his spine so he could offer Mephiston a salute. "My chainsword is still oiled and ready, Lord Mephiston, hanging on the wall of my study. It would be an honour to join you in battle once more. An honour! It has been too long since we fought together."

Mephiston gripped the man's shoulder. "I am joking, Adamis. You served the Emperor more fiercely than any preacher I ever saw. It can be no coincidence that you have been granted a few twilight years in which to reflect. You have earned a rest."

Orsuf shook his head furiously. "I have no use for rest, Lord Mephiston. Let me get my weapons."

He was about to limp away but Mephiston held him back.

"I need your mind, Adamis, not your weapons. I need to know more about your home. I have come here on an urgent mission but Divinus Prime is a mystery to me. I must learn the history of Mormotha and its construction. From what I have read you have become this city's lead scholar, and you were always a man of great insight."

The old preacher looked pleasantly Baffled by Mephiston's praise, but he smiled again. "It does my old bones good to see you." He shrugged. "And I am something of a historical relic, I suppose, so perhaps I can assist you." He waved at the building behind him. "The Tomb of the Eremite is one of the oldest structures in the city and our library contains some of the earliest records."

Mephiston's face remained as impassive as ever, but Mariah could sense his pleasure at the old man's reply.

Father Orsuf shrugged, laughing quietly to himself. "Strange days, strange days." He shuffled back up the steps towards the porch and waved for them to follow. "All are welcome at the Tomb of the Eremite."

He led them slowly through a series of candlelit chapels and into a large refectorium. The long, Spartan room was mostly empty, with just a few monks sat eating in silence from wooden bowls. Then he paused and looked at Mephiston, unsure what to do next.

Mephiston ordered Captain Vatrenus and his Tactical Marines to explore the city, acquaint themselves with its layout and report back in the morning. Then he turned to Epistolary Rhacelus. "Lexicanium Antros will be required to do more than observe in the days to come," he said. "We must accelerate his training."

Antros struggled not to grin but Rhacelus looked appalled by the idea. "My lord, is that wise?"

Antros could see the anger pouring out of him and it was not hard to guess the reason. Rhacelus had heard that Antros had been reading Mariah's mind trying to get information from her.

"Make him ready," said Mephiston. "He must master the rites listed in The Glutted Scythe before the return of the Arch-Cardinal. You saw how much use bolter fire was. It will fall to the four of us to rid these people of heresy."

Rhacelus glared at Antros but said no more.

Zin spoke up. "Forgive me, my lord, but I would like to see if I can find more news of the Arch-Cardinal. I am most keen to speak with him. Perhaps he is already on his way back to the city?" he said, looking at Cyriak.

Cyriak nodded. "It's possible. At the very least we could ask if he has been seen by any of the new arrivals." With that, Zin made the sign of the aquila to Mephiston and the two priests hurried away. Mephiston left the hall with Father Orsuf and Antros was left facing Epistolary Rhacelus and Mariah.

Rhacelus flared his nostrils with displeasure, as though considering a stain on his armour. Then he looked at the courtyard outside the refectorium. "Follow me, then," he said and they headed out into the morning sun.