His Will
(Guy Haley)
IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battle fleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
TO BE A MAN in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
They could hear them talking on the other side of the wall panels, but they could not distinguish what was said.
Brother Clydeus was crammed closely against Frater Mathieu. He couldn’t stand to be trapped. The innards of the walls brushed against his face, stuffy with machine heat and the smell of dust and old grease. The metal reinforcements of the relic box dug into his wrists. It was just about light enough to carry on his back with the head strap, but there wasn’t any room for that in the hole. The walls pressed in on him, crushing his soul. He was scared of small places, and he was ashamed of that. But if they were found, they were dead, and that scared him even more.
Frater Mathieu said it was a test of his belief. Clydeus had no wish to fail – that was all that stopped him from weeping – so held the box tight even though his arms shook, and kept his mouth shut.
A few tiny lumens blinked deep in the workings, warning of some overlooked malfunction. Their illumination touched on the skulls of the machina opus embossed on the inside of the panels. All the panels bore the mark of the Machine-God, though no one would ever see them. Clydeus fought his fear by focusing on them. He breathed slowly, inspired by these hidden signs of devotion to draw on his faith. The machine-priests worshipped the Emperor in their own peculiar manner, but they shared a god, so in a way, he told himself, the God-Emperor was looking at him through the hollow eyes of the idolatrous skulls.
It did a little to dampen his terror.
‘Protect us, oh lord of Terra.’
His half-breathed prayer brought a hissed rebuke from Frater Mathieu.
‘Silence.’
Mathieu was staring intently through a crack in the wall, where a buckled plate had opened up the slightest gap. A knife edge of light cut across his eyes. They were steely. He was always so calm, always so brave. Clydeus wished he could be like him, but he wasn’t. The light of the Emperor shone so brightly in Mathieu.
The frater said Clydeus would find his courage, but Clydeus thought him wrong. He had no courage, none at all.
The muffled conversation moved off. He heard Hiven laughing.
‘Master, I cannot bear it in here,’ Clydeus whispered. ‘Let me out.’
‘Be quiet, Clydeus,’ said Mathieu calmly. ‘We will only be in danger a moment longer. You can and shall bear it, in the Emperor’s name.’
‘Yes, frater.’
‘Fear not, Hiven is coming back.’
Familiar footsteps approached, the drag of a ruined foot and the thump of a crutch, very loud; deep noises carried much better through the metal than words. Hiven was alone, that much was clear.
Clydeus whimpered as the wall panel in front of Mathieu was yanked back hard.
‘They’re gone,’ Hiven said. ‘I don’t think they were looking for you, so that’s good news.’
Clydeus fell out of the open wall. Wires tangled him, and he fought them off, almost dropping the precious box. Mathieu stepped free of the priest hole with far more dignity. He rubbed at a long burn on his forearm given him by a heat exchanger pipe. Clydeus looked at him in wonder. Mathieu had not made a sound. The older priest saw him looking and tugged the sleeve of his filthy robe over the wound.
Clydeus was young, not yet in his twenties. His hair was cut in an unflattering bowl through which his ears protruded. Clydeus hated his ears, and his large nose. He did not regard himself as handsome, not that a priest should think about such things, and Clydeus punished himself often for doing so, but he did think about them.
Mathieu, on the other hand, was handsome. He was only a few years older than Clydeus, but infinitely more worldly, and exuded a confidence that made Clydeus feel inferior as much as it comforted him. Clydeus loved and worshipped Mathieu, but he envied him, and sometimes that shaded into hatred.
Both of them wore the robes of the Acronite Mendicants, the cream of the rough fabric so grimy it was almost black after so many months hiding.
‘You are sure they are gone, Brother Hiven?’ said Mathieu.
‘Yes,’ said Hiven. ‘They’re not much to worry about. They’re only doing it for the extra ration. They’re not very diligent.’ He was talking fast, stimulated by the rush of adrenaline. If that made him seem unreliable, it was not so, for Hiven was a good guide and a valued friend. He was pale with lack of sleep and malnutrition, the ugly crop of boils around his lips especially livid, but helping the priests energised him. It kept him alive.
‘What were they doing? It’s a little late for a patrol.’
‘They were sent down by the masters, to make sure we’re not planning anything. Don’t worry. If they suspected you were here, they won’t say.’
‘Do not underestimate the evils men will do for a small advantage,’ Mathieu said.
Hiven rubbed his jaw. ‘Things aren’t so bad yet. The masters won’t come down here themselves. From what the patrol said, they think it’s beneath them,’ said Hiven. He looked about nervously, though the corridor was deserted, and there was no sign of tampering on the ancient metal to indicate the installation of machine spies. ‘I think there aren’t that many of them. We could resist.’
Speaking about the masters was dangerous. Clydeus felt a fresh stab of fear.
‘There’s no way we can fight them. It does not matter if there are ten or a thousand. Even one of them will slaughter us,’ said Mathieu sternly. ‘I want you to put any thoughts like that far from your mind, Brother Hiven. Do you understand me?’
‘I wasn’t talking about–’
‘You were,’ said Mathieu. ‘The reprisals could be terrible. They would kill hundreds of us, cruelly too, as examples to the rest. Fear is their greatest weapon. Do not provoke them into using it.’
Hiven nodded and shifted his crutch under his armpit. He looked away.
‘Yes, frater.’
‘We must merely endure, until the Emperor sees fit to save us from this unclean bondage.’
‘Yes, frater.’