The hardest choices

933.M41

"You cannot stand against me!" the voice cried aloud with a thousand tongues. It was vile and putrid, dripping with malice and scorn. The raw syllables provoked a visceral revulsion in the soul, making hairs stand up all over the body and leaving the feeling of clammy sweat dripping down the back of the neck. To hear that voice was to feel dirty inside, soiled to the core as if one's soul had been sullied by the caresses of a vile molester. It was the essence of Chaos, an echo of Nurgle's will and it polluted the world by existing.

Again the voice cried, "Nothing can withstand the Grandfather!" Reality shuddered as a thousand tongues spoke but he did not listen. He closed his ears to the blandishments of Chaos and focused all his power upon the burning glyph in his hand. He was a towering Transhuman, clad in esoteric armour that proclaimed his status as a battle-psyker of the Librarius. Lightning bolts and twin-tailed comets adorned his plate, constellations picked out in chains of jewels across his hearts and in his right hand was a staff topped by an astrolabe. His face was weary from a lifetime of confronting horrors, but his expression was defiant and his will was set in stone. He was Echeb, Chief Librarian of the Storm Heralds and the Spirit of the Storm and he was battling a Daemon of Chaos.

Before him an abomination writhed. It could not be ascribed any categorisation of being, no phenotype or species, for it had none. It was blubbering mass of flesh sprouting hundreds of writhing tentacles. Grey fronds waved from a central mass, thick with blubber and spotted with sores and pustules. It reeked of decay and rot, oozing toxic filth that stained the ground and left it forevermore tainted. Disease wafted off this abomination, like the stench of a gangrenous wound and one would retch to smell it. But the worst thing about it was that it was covered in mouths, human mouths opening over every inch that wasn't coated by sores, a thousand tongues to speak lies and spread its corruption far and wide.

"I am Gar'kinda!" the Daemon roared, "Beloved of the Grandfather, his emissary and town-crier! You are nothing compared to that, nothing!"

Echeb refused to heed its words as he yelled, "Exite inpuratus bestia!"

The Daemon recoiled from the abjuration, the words striking it like hammer-blows. Its body convulsed and the tentacles shook like leaves in a gale as Echeb sought to banish it back to the warp. The Daemon was stuck most cruelly but was not finished; it redoubled its efforts, throwing lashing tentacles at the Librarian. A hundred spears struck for his hearts but they rebounded off the glowing symbol in the air between them. A glyph of banishment sprouting from Echeb's left fist, burning in the air between them. Echeb was left physically unharmed but his mind felt every blow, the strikes communicated to his spirit via the enchantment he was employing. The Sigil of Astraea was a potent ward but it skirted the line between psychic art and heretical sorcery, Echeb was risking more than his life by casting such incantations, he was imperilling his soul. Yet it had to be done, he knew of nothing else that could defeat so powerful a Daemon.

"You shall die here and your flesh shall become a breeding ground for the diseases of Nurgle!" Gar'kinda bellowed.

But Echeb channelled all his awesome power into the sigil as he invoked, "Imperator, ejectus incimus!"

The Daemon reeled back as its flesh began to dissolve, falling apart before the banishment. Its nature was more psychic than material and the touch of warp-power was its bane. Its tentacles began to fall off it but yet it bellowed, "You shall pay little worm, a million years of torment is only the start of the tortures that await you after death!"

Echeb stood firm as he cried, "Egomet mitto vos procol!"

The words of the banishment ripped into Gar'kinda and the Daemon's flesh exploded, a putrid shower of filth painting the walls with gore. Echeb felt splatters of its rancid bile rain upon his armour and knew it was one last attempt to infect his flesh. He burned them off with a thought as the Daemon's essence retreated into the Warp, the Neverborn filth abandoning its meat-puppet and falling back into the nightmare of the Immaterium. Echeb had done it; he had defeated the Daemon and held the line against the horror, though he knew it was but a single battle in a never-ending war.

Wearily he dispelled the Sigil of Astraea and turned to take in his surroundings. He beheld a temple, a standard Imperial chapel fitted out in a typical manner but now defiled. The devotional images on the walls had been altered to show scenes of madness, the faithful painted with diseased flesh and suppurating wounds. Their rapturous expressions subtly altered to become the delusional madness of infection. Holy icons were smeared with dung and double-headed eagles dripped with pus. Beautiful tapestries had been replaced with banners sown of human skin, psychic echoes telling him the victims had still been alive when they were skinned. And the altar was drenched in blood, countless sacrifices resulting in the summoning he had just defeated.

Echeb's knees felt weak as he beheld his victory. He had been part of a campaign to put down a pitiful rebellion on Cibus when he sensed the confluence of warp-energies in the city of Jalhi and rushed here with a single squad, only to arrive too late. The summoning had been completed seconds before he burst through the doors and the Daemon had sent forth its minions against him. Hundreds of black-clad cultists rising to confront the Space Marines. Echeb had left the squad to deal with them as he confronted the Daemon directly but saw the battle had been fierce. Hundreds of bodies lay in repose, torn apart by bolter and knife but nine Transhuman bodies lay amongst them, overwhelmed by the sheer number of foes.

Sorrow filled Echeb's soul but he saw one yet drew breath. A Brother named Orath, standing among the dead with a Thunder Hammer in hand. He looked drunk, swaying back and forth with a swoon. His Mark VI armour was scored in many places and enemy blood stained his blue heraldry a deep purple from head to toe. The ferocity of the fight was obvious but he yet stood, a feat Echeb held to be remarkable. Truly this Orath was a superlative warrior.

Echeb stepped down from the dais and said, "It is over."

Orath's beaked helm turned slowly as he asked, "The Daemon is banished?"

Echeb nodded slowly as he stated, "Yes though the cost was high. Your Squad-brothers…"

"Died in glory," Orath intoned with a hint of solemn pride, "Sergeant Nimor fought like the heroes of old, taking twelve fatal wounds before he fell. He entrusted his Thunder Hammer to me with his dying breath."

"An epic feat," Echeb sighed, "A shame that none shall ever know."

Orath started in shock, "What?! You would deny them glory in death, their names should be inscribed on the Rock of Heroes!"

Echeb heard the distress in his voice and lamented, "Alas this battle must never be celebrated. The filth of the Warp broke through the walls of reality. Daemons walked this world under our watch, word of this cannot be allowed to spread."

Orath's head lowered as he whispered, "I… I understand. This temple must be razed and the deeds committed here buried. We cannot allow any taint to linger."

Echeb looked upon the Marine with pity and sighed, "So naive… I'm sorry Orath but you do not understand the scale of the threat. This whole city must be burned to the ground."

"What?!" Orath yelled, "Why?!"

Echeb gestured about him and said, "Recall our entrance, use your perfect memory and count the foes. When we entered there were three hundred and nine cultists present, yet I count only three hundred and eight bodies. One escaped, one cultist fled our wrath. He is out there right now, hiding among the citizens."

"One Heretic?" Orath breathed, "You would level a city of a million people to kill one Heretic?!"

"I would," Echeb murmured, "He carries the seed of the Warp within him and will find fertile ground for his lies among the masses. He cannot be allowed to escape."

"So call Captain Jossat," Orath urged, "He has Fourth Company with him. They could secure the city, root out this lone Heretic and slay him. You can't kill a million people to ensure the death of one!"

Sadly Echeb sighed, "Possibly but he may yet slip our net... No, the price of failure is too great to leave matters to chance, the loss of this entire planet would only be the start. Every mortal who resides here must be put to the sword, there is no other way."

"No," Orath growled.

Echeb blinked in surprise, "No?"

"I won't let you," Orath snarled, "You speak of killing a million innocents for fear of what might happen… I won't allow it!"

"You defy my order?!" Echeb hissed as anger rose within him.

"We are the Emperor's Finest," Orath snarled, "We are the Champions and defenders of mankind. We do not massacre innocents; it strikes a blow at everything we stand for. This is not what my squad-Brothers died for. There is a line between heroic battle and wanton slaughter, between Heresy and innocence. A line we do not cross. We are the Storm Heralds; we do not do things like this!"

"I do," Echeb snapped, "I do unthinkable things so others do not have to. I coat my hands with blood so Brothers like you can remain noble. I have slaughtered innocents beyond count, because it must be done, because the risk of a single slip is too terrible to contemplate. Someone has to make the hardest choices and if you won't then I will."

"Fourth Company won't follow such an order," Orath growled.

"They will if they believe they are killing Heretics," Echeb countered, "Tell them the masses are corrupted and they won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

"You would lie to them?!" Orath gasped, "You would paint the innocent as traitors and let our Brothers think they are committing honourable bloodshed?!"

"I've done it before," Echeb sniffed, "Coating vile deeds in the robes of righteousness, so the Brother's honour remains untarnished. The Librarius order is the Chapter's shield against dishonour; we protect your nobility but cannot share it."

"Then I shall stop you!" Orath yelled as he hefted his hammer.

"Oh, Orath…" Echeb sighed, "You are noble and pure-hearted, but you have no way to stop me."

As they had been arguing Echeb had been gathering his psychic power and a vicious telepathic lance stabbed through Orath's mind, breaking through his mental walls with ease. Echeb effortlessly bypassed the defences, he had helped build them after all, and silenced Orath's conscious mind, sending him into a stupor. There was no bellowing cry of defiance, no furious charge into the face of death. Orath simply collapsed to the ground, dropping the Thunder Hammer as he lay unconscious. Echeb sighed at the sight and said, "Alas poor Orath, better you had died in battle than live to see this."

With a moment to spare Echeb opened his vox and called, "Strike Cruiser Pax Mortis, this is Master Echeb. Fourth Captain, are you there?"

A voice came back, "Jossat here, report status."

Echeb replied, "Captain, we have dealt with the incident but have suffered casualties, we require an Apothecary at once. There is more: I have uncovered a moral threat. Reinforcements are urgently needed, recall all squads and redeploy at once."

"Explain," Jossat barked.

A small voice protested at the back of Echeb's mind but he overrode it as he said, "The taint is far more wide-spread than we suspected. Jalhi city has been subverted by a vile cult. Heresy spreads far and wide, under a mask of innocence.

"Confirm that," Jossat demanded, "Are all the citizens tainted?"

Lies spilled from Echeb's lips, "There can be no doubt, the entire city swears fealty to Chaos. Listen not to pleas of innocence, be fooled not by false protests of loyalty. Every living soul within must die before they can complete their foul machinations. Strike now before they sacrifice this planet to the Ruinous Powers."

"It shall be so," Jossat replied, "In the Emperor's name there shall be no mercy for Traitors."

"For the Emperor," Echeb intoned feeling bile at the back of his throat.

The vox snapped off and Echeb sagged. He had just broken every tenant of the Storm Heralds and precept they fought under. He had lied and deceived and sentenced innocents to death, all to prevent a greater tragedy. The weight of it was a burden upon his soul but he bore it stoically as he had done so many times before. He took responsibility so his Brothers did not have to, so they could hold themselves noble and pure. His honour sacrificed for theirs.

The deed had been done but that left one loose end. Echeb looked upon the fallen form of Orath and considered his fate. He had seen too much, that was certain, he had looked upon the darkest deeds of the Librarius and realised the hidden truths. The Librarius operated apart from their Brothers to prevent exactly such revelations, the fear and superstition the Initiates held psykers in helping close their eyes to the vile necessities that held back extinction. Orath had ripped that veil asunder and seen the truth, for this he should die. Yet he remained stalwart and true, a shining example of the virtues Echeb wished to protect. It was for Marines such as this Echeb acted, to keep them pure and unsullied. Plus he was a superlative warrior; such an asset was not easily cast aside. Yes, Orath deserved to live; but his memories were a problem.

Echeb began to see a way to resolve this. He could take Orath's memories and leave the warrior intact. Yet no simple mind-wipe would suffice. Orath had lost his squad-Brothers; he was the last survivor of the band. That would provoke questions and doubts; he would yearn to know what had happened to his kinsmen and would never let the matter lie. Orath would poke the absent memories until he found the truth, putting Echeb back into the same predicament. No, for this to work Echeb would have to scrub Orath's mind to the bedrock, erasing all experiences and deeds and formative moments. Orath would be left a blank slate, with no recall of his identity and deeds, yet with all his skills and combat-instincts left intact.

His will set Echeb knelt by the slumbering Orath and as doom fell upon the city on dark wings he placed his hand upon the noble warrior's helm and whispered, "Forget…"