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Vox Dominus – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Vox Dominus

Anthony Reynolds

Part One

She had no face.

Or at least, not a face that he could discern.

Whenever he tried to focus on her, her features became blurred and smudged, like an over-developed pict image. Indeed, even to try made his eyes hurt. If he looked at her askance, focusing past her, he could see something of her features. They were unremarkable, it seemed. Air tubes fed into her nostrils, and her expression was blank. But whenever his gaze was drawn closer again, trying to discern more, her face would fade into obscurity.

He was as a ghost, floating weightless and insubstantial, unconstrained by his physical flesh-prison. He had cloaked himself in protective wards and enacted the letting-rituals that would hide his presence. But still she turned her blurred child’s face up towards him.

She saw him. Her power was astonishing. She pierced his aegis without effort.

‘Daal’ak’ath mel caengr’aal,’ she said, in a long-dead tongue that he nevertheless understood. ‘The blightwood grows.’

A convulsion wracked his earth-bound body back on the Infidus Diabolus. For a moment he was in both places at once. He could smell the powerful incense coiling around him, could hear the chant of his Host and feel the vibration of the ship’s engines. Yet he was also in the fathomless ocean of unreality, where the vision had brought him, surrounded by nebulous darkness and the powerful psychic void-presence of this girl.

The vision began to shatter like a flawed crystal, threatening to send him crashing back to his body. It cracked and splintered, leaving just the girl’s blurred face, looming close in to his own. He could not look away.

He could see her eyes now. She allowed him to see them. Galaxies shone in their fathomless black depths. She looked through him.

He tried to retreat, willing himself back to his body, but she held him, ensnaring him with her will. Her face was close now, filling his vision. It shivered, violently, shaking and shimmering before him.

A bewildering array of images, sensations and feelings flashed through his mind then, an overwhelming display. She was showing him these things. She wanted him to see them.

Later, when he returned to his flesh, he would be unable to recall exactly what he saw. Vague impressions and sensations would be all that he was left with: skies of burning yellow, an oppressive drone of a billion melancholy daemonic voices; a slender woman’s face, shining like milk and moonlight, tears running down her face. She was in a place of darkness, surrounded by movement. He saw a single blue eye, so clear and so perfect, with three pupils that jutted together to form one.

Devoid of context he could not understand them, nor perceive their purpose.

Lastly, he would remember that phrase. ‘Daal’ak’ath mel caengr’aal’. The blightwood grows.

The child – whatever she was – had seen the face of gods, and she had not baulked before them.

Then she pushed him away with her tiny child’s hands, sending his spirit hurtling through the void, spinning out of control, and the lightning flash of images and sensations was severed.

Back on the Infidus Diabolus, Marduk smiled.

The black-eyed cherubs exhaled a heady smoke and he breathed it in, letting it coil within his lungs as he rose from the waking dream. To a lesser being, the incense would have been fatal. To the Dark Apostle it was merely an aid in communing with the Dwellers Beyond. The poisons it contained helped open his soul, the better for the gods to speak their will through his flesh. Still, their message was often confused and difficult to discern.

Who was the faceless girl? What message did she have for him? One thing he was sure of was that he must possess her. He must have her knowledge. He must have her power.

The Host was gathered in prayer in the expansive cavaedium at the heart of the Infidus Diabolus, but the Dark Apostle was alone, unobserved and hidden from view, away from his congregation. He knelt before a shrine covered in candles and braziers. Fire and faith danced in his eyes. Shadows writhed in the darkness beyond the candlelight.

The martyry he prayed within was dedicated to his former master, Jarulek. He liked to come here to worship – it made him feel close to his gods. It had been he who had ended Jarulek’s life, after all, an action that had clearly been ordained by the Ruinous Ones.

No one within the Host knew the dark secret of Jarulek’s death, of course, though many no doubt suspected, Marduk’s Coryphaus among them. This pleased him. Jarulek was a fearsome warrior-priest and beloved of both Council and gods. Any warrior able to best him would be rightly feared.

Besides, Marduk himself sat on the Council now. His power and reach had surpassed that of Jarulek. Truly, the gods had blessed him.

The morbid chanting of the Host surrounded Marduk, embracing him and echoing around the enclosed space of the martyry. Behind it, barely audible, other sounds could be discerned. Hisses, groans, muffled screams. Those beyond the veil of existence were making themselves heard. The denizens of the living ether were joining the Host in prayer. It was a good sign.

The service had entered its final movement. The droning reaffirmation of faith was led, as ever, by the Coryphaus. The Host’s newly appointed First Acolyte had completed his ritual sermon and gloriatus, and the doxastika was now nearing its conclusion.

Enusat. The new First Acolyte. Marduk had personally chosen him, picking him from among a wide field of aspirants. Though there had been many more likely candidates presented to him on Sicarus, postulants handpicked for larger things from among the Hosts of other Dark Apostles, he had chosen Enusat from within his own ranks – never again would he allow an outsider to hold a position of influence within the Thirty-Fourth, not after his last Acolyte’s treachery.

What Enusat lacked in formal teachings and religious indoctrination, he made up for in other ways, ways that could not be learnt by rote or by any amount of studying the Urizen’s holy scriptures. He was highly regarded within the Host and respected by all. What’s more, Marduk trusted him, utterly and implicitly, as he trusted few others. Such loyalty was to be valued. Everything else could be learned.

Most First Acolytes harboured dreams of power, always looking for their moment to overthrow their master. Such was the accepted way of things in the Legion, and Marduk himself had certainly fallen into that camp. He had no such fears with Enusat, however. He was a wardog, fierce and utterly loyal; a devout killer with an unwavering sense of duty. Tell him to saw off his own arm and he would, without question or hesitation.

Marduk felt the presence of an attendant hovering at the martyry’s entrance. He could smell the foetid odour of its decaying flesh, and could hear the uneven rasp of its breath. It had been lurking there for some time, but it knew better than to disturb his meditations.

The final, doleful verses of the doxastika were intoned, and a deep, resounding bell tolled. Silence filled the void.

Marduk rose to his feet, servos in his revered battle plate purring softly. His armour had been with him since he had been first embraced into the Legion, and was as much a part of him as his own flesh.

For a time after the Boros Gate campaign, he had worn the ancient Terminator armour that had once belonged to the Warmonger, but the bond had not been the same. To not wear his own engraved plate felt akin to missing a limb, and while the Terminator armour was powerful, he had disliked the sensation of restriction it brought to his movement.

His own armour itched beneath his skin now, fusing to him, joining with his flesh and bone. Perhaps it was jealous and sought to ensure it was never removed from him again. The notion did not concern him. What need had he to remove it?

He turned. His face was hidden in shadow, backlit as he was by the braziers and candlelight. Only his left eye could be seen, burning with lurid witch-fire.

He towered over the hunched servant cowering before him.

‘Speak,’ he said.

‘We near our destination, revered one,’ hissed the robed creature, keeping its gaze obediently downcast. ‘The time of translation is near.’

‘Good,’ said Marduk. ‘See that the Coryphaus and First Acolyte join me on the bridge.’

‘As you will it, revered one.’

The pitiful creature backed away, bowing as it retreated, but Marduk gave it no mind. His mind was already occupied, projecting forth to the battle ahead. Too long had he been cloistered in the halls of Sicarus.

His left hand closed around the haft of his crozius, and he felt a thrill rush through his enhanced system. He longed to kill. He ached for it.

It was time to praise the dark gods in the manner that pleased them most – by killing in their name. It was time to worship in the purifying fires of battle.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Treacheries of the Space Marines in Great Britain in 2012.
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