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The Black Pilgrims – Extract

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The Black Pilgrims – Extract

‘Genestealers, brother. I am sure of it,’ said Ercus, the smile in his voice plain to hear.

Adelard brought up his brothers’ life signs. The temper of a crusader was short. Elevated heartbeats were a useful telltale. They pulsed quickly, but not as yet with the frantic rhythms of rage.

‘Forgemaster Dolus, what progress?’ he said.

‘There is extensive systems degradation throughout. The machine-spirits are sluggish. It will take many prayers to both the Emperor and the Emperor-as-Omnissiah to bring them to full effectiveness.’

‘Twice the prayers, twice the time,’ said Mallas.

‘It is a holy vessel, brother,’ said Dolus. ‘Holier than most. I will wake them, make no mistake. This task is not beyond the skills of the forge. But be warned, repairs must be made to the craft’s power net. Many sectors will remain without one or more critical systems until this can be done.’

‘We have gravity here and air, though it is foul,’ said Adelard.

‘And in the next you might find light, but no gravity and no air. I shall do what I can to ease your passage. Wait.’

Dolus shifted his communications channel. Binaric cant squealed over the vox-net as he conversed with one of his Techmarines. Chanting, flattened by electronic transmission, came with it.

‘We have progress,’ said Dolus.

Lights sputtered on in the nave-way. Ancient lumen globes burst in showers of white sparks as energy flowed into them after long absence. The Sword Brethren raised their weapons instinctively.

Fewer than half the globes lit up, most of the others strobing on the edge of malfunction. The lights hid more than they revealed. The nave-way was too monstrous to illuminate. Shadows shrank back to either side of the columned aisles, but refused to retreat further.

A chime drew Adelard’s attention to an icon in his helm.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Dolus’s efforts show us the way. A power spike – functional systems.’ He gestured with his hammer. ‘Come.’

A door set into a three-layered frame, all carved with saints and heroes, let them into the inner part of the ship. It opened, protesting, but it opened. Fresher air gusted out around it with a moan that died as the pressure equalised.

‘Power, gravity, air,’ said Adelard. ‘Can you see this, forgemaster?’

‘I can, Castellan. If you will excuse me, I will use your squad-link as a carrier so that I might approach the machine-spirits here. You will experience a twelve per cent drop in efficiency.’

‘Let it be done,’ said Adelard.

A faint buzz came onto the channel as Dolus co-opted their suits’ capabilities.

They were in a corridor five metres wide: a cramped space after the vastness of the nave-way. Pointed arches made up the ceiling. The lights up there no longer functioned, and so the corridor was lit by tapers of filthy tallow set atop skulls mounted on the wall. Stalactites of fat hung from dead chins, soot staining the walls above them. Detritus choked the floor – rags of cloth, broken machines, holy objects and bones.

So many bones. A carpet of them, ankle deep, that the Terminators’ heavy boots burst into powder.

‘What happened here?’ said Godwin. ‘The faithful, butchered!’

The Sword Brothers spoke quiet prayers for the souls of the departed.

‘There must be thousands of dead here,’ said Ercus, playing his suit-lamps further down the corridor.

‘Can you hear something?’ asked Rolan.

‘Yes, brother,’ said Mallas. ‘Singing?’

Adelard concentrated. His suit’s aural sensors increased the gain, sifting through near inaudible sounds. He caught it too. ‘A hymnal?’

‘Perhaps they have not all perished after all,’ said Ercus. ‘Perhaps Morholt was right, and the vessel was protected. Praise be to the Golden Throne if so!’

Godwin panned his suit-lamps down at the floor, having to lean his entire torso forward to do so – a graceless movement in Terminator plate. ‘Your first guess was better,’ he said. ‘Look.’

Amidst the bones, Godwin’s lamps picked out a horror; a skull, not entirely human. Although the bones of its face bore the features of the children of Terra, it grew knobbled and brutish towards the occiput.

‘See, genestealers,’ said Ercus, unable to keep self-satisfaction from his voice.

Rolan clicked the vox once, too annoyed to vocalise his acknowledgement.

The Sword Brothers’ equipment whined as they initiated combat protocols, bringing their suits’ machine-spirits to full awareness. Adelard savoured the angry pulsing of his battleplate’s power systems.

Weapons raised, they followed the source of the song.

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