Exitus Ultima Chapter 28
She ran for there was nothing else she could do. She was no mighty Space Marine, no fiery confessor, not even a strong enforcer of the Vettia. She was but a humble functionary, a faceless beancounter for the counting of holy tithes. Her life had been dull and that was how she liked it, only herself and her daughter, eking out their days in dreary toil. She had no desire for excitement or strife, but it had found her anyway. So Arleia ran.
The stones of the Cathedral shook underfoot, dancing in a manner no building ever should. The air was close and hot, stifling with a wet tang while the metal tang of blood clogged the nostrils. Stained glassic windows came and went, lit from behind by ethereal flashes emanating from pitch black clouds. Something was wrong with that light, twisting the holy imagery. With each booming flash the saints rendered in glassic became cruel and mocking, the light somehow making their piety hollow and their virtues into vice. Selfless and brave heroes became greedy cowards, the pious seemed sinners and the wise malicious tricksters.
Arleia kept her head down as she ran along soaring passages, brown robes tangling her sandaled feet and the rosary chain hanging from her belt clapping with every step. She had left her offices, a sin on any other day, but all thoughts of duty were driven from her mind. The storm had come from nowhere, wrapping Dramacus in a tornado of infernal hate. The counting-clerks had run, all of them, seeking their loved ones or the comfort of vice. Arleia had one thought in her head, to reach her daughter. Trikse was so young, she had to make sure her daughter was safe. Trickse was all she had, ever since her rat-bastard husband had run off.
Arleia reached the end of the passage and turned into a side corridor. Even in the high spires of the Cathedral there were servant's ways, bleak narrow tunnels, to allow swift egress where the high and mighty would not be troubled. That the same passages were used to bring joygirls and joyboys to the opulent quarters of the Cardinal, bishops and prelates, was an open secret, known to all but never discussed. Arleia counted herself fortunate to have avoided such a life and would not risk her position by seeing things none wanted known.
She ducked into the corridor, only to run straight into someone. A doughty older woman, heavy in girth and with arms made thick with muscle from dragging wet laundry up and down hundreds of stairs every day. Arleia screamed, she thought a monster had her, but swiftly realised it was only a servant like her.
"Shawee?!" Arleia gasped, "What are you doing here?"
"I should ask you the same thing," Shawee barked, "What's going on out there?!"
"I don't know, the sky, the stone… something evil is loose."
"You heard it too?"
"I didn't hear anything, I just… I just know it's evil."
A booming crack split the air, making stone dust trickle from the roof. The whole spire felt like it was swaying, nothing something one wanted to feel while hundreds of metres above the ground. Arleia was seized by an animal instinct that the tower was about to collapse at any instant, the urge to flee rising. She had to get out, she had to reach her daughter.
"I have to reach Trickse!" she yelped.
"She's in your quarters?" Shawee asked.
"Doing her prayers like a good girl."
"Down in the undercroft, down is good. Let's go!"
The pair took off, racing along the passage. Arleia had walked this route every day since she was a novitiate, twenty-eight years ago, but never had it seemed so long. They would have to run a kilometre, cross the main processional and drop fifty levels of winding stairs. A taxing journey on an average day, but to do it with the spire shaking and the air trying to suffocate her was epic feat. By the time they were halfway there breath was gasping in her lungs and her heart was trying to burst through her ribs. Pain spiked her shins with every step and her feet were numb, but she pressed on, thinking only of Trickse, her little girl was all alone in their quarters, she must be so scared.
Suddenly Shawee pulled up, "What's that noise ahead?!"
"I don't…" Arleia gasped breathlessly, "No wait… is that thunder?"
"You've never been in a fight I see, that's gunfire."
The pair inched on, warily approaching the end of the corridor. They paused at the opening and saw a magnificent processional, lit by hanging candelabras and lined with soft carpets and paintings of past Cardinals in stern poses. Arleia crossed this every day, the stairs were directly opposite, but never had she seen it like this. Glassic windows had been blown in, spraying shards everywhere and a howling wind filled the passage. The storm was inside, the terrible evil outside had found a way in, but that wasn't the worst.
Striding down the processional came figures in Ceramite, towering giants with broad pauldrons and glorious heraldry. Arleia had never seen an Astartes before but recognised them instantly, all Imperial citizens knew them from statues and paintings. They were in blue, and grey, and gold and even one in yellow. They were mighty, they were majestic, they were the God-Emperor's Angels let loose to challenge an uncaring universe and they were mid-battle.
Guns so broad Arleia could not lift one boomed, while heroes swung swords crackling with lightning. They were battling something Arleia could not see, shifting shadows and bulging silhouettes. Arleia's eyes could not fix upon them, something about their forms defied understanding. No, it was her mind, her subconscious causing her eyes to steer clear, trying to preserve her sanity by not looking. All she knew was they made her sick to her stomach and the urge to vomit all over the walls clawed up her throat.
"Forward!" a giant in blue with a crackling fist roared, "Let nothing bar our path!"
"They rise in number!" a warrior with a long sword cried.
"These are but the dregs," one with a Morningstar howled, "They possess flesh to walk among us, the true horror is yet to come."
Arleia thought for a second about running out and throwing herself at their feet, but then a second party came past. Warriors with ridiculous amounts of gold and heavy axes. Upon their shoulders lay a bier, and upon that pallet a wounded demi-god lay. Arleia's throat closed as she beheld Roboute Guilliman in person, injured badly but breathing still. His sons carried him through the fray, hacking down anything that dared approach as they rushed their Gene-father away from danger.
They swept past, and then they were gone, pressing on and leaving the women behind. Arleia gasped, "Holy God-Emperor, it was him, it was truly him."
"Still alive," Shawee breathed, "Thank Him on Terra."
"Should we follow?"
"Follow them?! No way, wherever they're going we don't want to be."
"Is it safe to cross?"
"Nowhere's safe, but we have to try."
Shawee ducked out and ran for the far stair. Arleia was a step behind, praying for all she was worth that they went unnoticed. Her feet slipped on pools of blood and piles of entrails nearly tripped her. The Space Marines had left slaughter in their wake and she almost gagged on the stench of opened bodies. All her life she had sought piety, praying nightly and meditating on the Holy Scriptures. Yet the God-Emperor had never favoured her, and it turned out He did not favour her today either.
Halfway to the stairs something came at them. A creature of hunger and greed, avarice incarnate, adopting flesh and walking in the worlds of men. Arleia looked directly at it, she couldn't stop herself. She beheld a face with a hundred eyes, surrounding a hooked beak and a crest of pink feathers. The body was soft and squid-like, with whipping tendrils that were tipped with sword points. Rags of uniform still clung to it, the man it had taken as a host reduced to wisps of cloth. The lower half was constantly changing, an ever swirling torrent of flames and flesh, shifting from moment to moment, never fixed, never true.
"Daemon!" Arliea screamed in horror.
"Throne!" Shawee shrieked in absolute terror.
"Run!" Arleia cried.
"Throne, throne, throne, throne, throne!" Shawee howled over and over as she collapsed, clawing at her own face as her sanity shattered at the mere sight.
The Daemon pounced, stooping upon the howling woman as its beak snapped and tore. Arleia didn't stay to watch her friend die, she turned and ran, diving through the door and pounding down the winding stair. Her mind teetered on the brink of insanity, the sheer unearthly horror of Chaos threatening to plunge her into a sea of madness but she held on. Trickse, she had to reach her daughter, she couldn't let the Daemon have her.
Forty years of sermons had drilled into her the horror of Chaos. Stern preachers teaching about the Daemons of the Warp and their yearning to eat the souls of men. Scripture taught they had sent the Daemon Horus and his armies of Traitors at the dawn of time to challenge the God-Emperor and He alone had beat them back to the hell from whence they came. He suffered eternally to deny the hosts of hell, sustained by His great love for humanity, fighting for the souls of all mankind. Yet the impious and the Traitor undermined His great work, bringing Daemons forth with their sinful ways, to eat the souls of the faithful. Arleia couldn't let that happen, not to her or her daughter.
Every step of the way Arleia heard a wet slathering noise chasing her. The Daemon was following, it had her scent and wanted to eat her soul. Terror lent Arleia speed and she dashed down the winding stair, growing dizzy as the turning way kept coming. Fifty levels down she ducked through a narrow door and ran down a stone passage. This deep the shaking was lessened, but she still heard the wet slathering noise, the Daemon was on her tail.
Arleia reached her quarters and threw the door open. Inside was a rude dwelling. A modest room, with a kitchenette that was little more than cupboards and two heating coils. A latrine was behind a narrow door and a sleeping room behind another. Trickse had the sleeping room to herself, Arleia slept on a mat. A shrine to the God-Emperor took up the rest of the room and before it a young girl knelt. Blonde hair made of curls, a face so innocent and so filled with fear.
"Mama!" Trickse called, "I was praying as you told me."
"Never mind that," Arleia gasped, "Come here child."
"Is it the bad men?" Trickse asked, "Did they come back?"
"It doesn't matter, we have to go."
"Are we going on a journey?"
"Don't ask questions, just come here."
Trickse came over as Arleia moved to the cupboards and took something out. Then she sat on the sleeping mat and waved her daughter over. The child came and sat in her mother's lap, curious as to what was happening. Arleia's mind was brewing with terror, she could hear the Daemon outside the door, it was coming for them, coming to eat their souls. All Arleia could do was try to keep the fear off her face, so as not to trouble her daughter, and spoke steadily, "Do you love the God-Emperor?"
Trickse looked up, "Of course silly."
"Do you believe in the Golden Throne?" Arleia pressed.
"Yes, mama."
"Then everything will be well."
Arleia took her daughter in a tight embrace, holding her close as she squeezed hard, "I love you Trickse."
"Mama, you're hurting me," Trickse gasped.
"Hush child, He loves us all," Arleia breathed as tears formed.
"Mama…"
"I won't let it eat your soul," Arleia wept.
Trickse went limp and when Arleia drew her hand back the knife she held was wet with blood. She closed her eyes and pressed her head to the blonde curls, not daring to look. She heard the door cracking as the Daemon tore it apart, hungry to feast on those within. Arleia's terror was all-encompassing but she kept her eyes closed as it entered her dwelling. She held her daughter tight, refusing to look upon sin incarnate and when she felt the heat of its breath upon her head she reached up and with one smooth motion slit her own throat.