The adepts at Stratix Luminae were trying to control mutation. They were growing mutated flesh and trying to make it whole again. I, and the highest officers of this Chapter, believe they succeeded. The evidence Korvax gives us shows that the experimentation was in its final stages and was only halted by the deaths of the adepts at the hands of the eldar. It is waiting there to be recovered and used. Used by us, brothers, to reverse the poison that is killing the Soul Drinkers.’
Karraidin stepped up to the pulpit, the boots of his huge Terminator armour clunking on the metallic floor. The Soul Drinkers Chapter had never possessed many suits of the advanced armour and Karraidin's was one of the few left. He had earned it, though - a resolute and fearless assault leader he had proved himself capable of leading the hardest ship-to-ship attacks. He had joined Sarpedon in the heat of the Chapter war and there were few veterans in the Chapter that Sarpedon trusted more.
The first force will be under my command.’ began Karraidin. 'Our objective is the lower floor of the facility. The force will consist of my squad along with Squads Salk and Graevus. The mission is to recover experimental material and data - Techma-rine Lygris and Solun and Apothecary Pallas will go in with us as support. You do not need to be reminded that whatever Korvax found may still be there.'
The second force,' said Sarpedon, 'will be commanded by me. We will secure the surface and the exterior of the facility, and hold it until the assault force is extracted. Stratix Luminae is located in one of the most heavily enemy-infested systems in Imperial space and we will be seen, if we have not been located already. It is likely the facility will be attacked and we must ensure the facility and our landing zone remains secure at all costs. Luko, Kry-del, Assault Sergeant Tellos and myself will be in command on the ground. All Marines not in the assault or the ground force will remain on the fighters as interception and reserve.’
Every Marine would know what that meant. Up until now Sarpedon had not risked the whole Chapter at once - Marines could not be replaced and there would be no edict from the Adeptus Terra to resurrect the Chapter if it was all but destroyed. The mission was about survival, and the future of the Chapter could be risked because it was that future they were fighting for.
Sarpedon took out his battered, well-thumbed copy of Daenyathos's Catechisms Martial. 'Emperor, deliver us.’ he began, 'so that we might deliver creation from the Enemy...'
Together, solemnly and all aware that it could be for the last time, the Soul Drinkers began to pray.
STRATIX LUMINAE WAS pale as a cataract stricken eye, several thousand square kilometres of frozen tundra broken only by rare rock formations and the single incongruous structure of the Adeptus Mechanicus Biologis installation. From above, it was barely a pinprick of artificiality in an infuriat-ingly dead world. But Teturact could feel the life within, a life rather like himself that seethed with potential.
He pulled his consciousness back through the hull of the ship and into the ritual chamber. Deep in the heart of Teturact's ship, this was a secret place he had forbidden anyone to enter.
It was the only part that was clean and free of the corpses that littered the rest of the ship. Lacquered, decorated panels of exotic hardwood covered the walls and ceilings. Tapestries hung from the walls, covered in images of Imperial heroism that seemed desperate and comical now so much of that Imperium had turned into Teturact's nightmare. The floor was tiled with mosaics of devotional texts, and the air was perfumed by censers that swung slowly from the ceiling.
Glow-globes concealed in chandeliers produced a light that made the shadows harsh. The light glinted off relics assembled in alcoves set into the walls -the finger bones of a saint, the hereditary power axe of Stratix's priesthood chased with silver and set with gemstones, the furled banner of the Adepta Sororitas, sacred works of art from the distant Imperial past and powerful symbols that had seemed vital to its future. Teturact had gathered them from Stratix itself and holy places his forces had conquered. Their influence was a painful veil over the brightness of his power, as if some new gravity was dragging his mind back down to mortality - it pained Teturact to enter the room, but it existed for a reason.
This was the only place that Teturact had ordered kept pure in his entire empire. Its components had been looted from luxurious upper spires and sacred conquered places, and assembled here into a place of purity that Teturact had ordered kept inviolate. The reason was simple - the most powerful magics required something to be defiled as part of the enactment, and nothing was so powerful as the defiling of purity.
Teturact's wizards were ranged before him, hooded and deformed, their heads hunched down in reverence because it was to him that they owed everything. This unholy nugget of purity must have been painful for them, too, a sharp painful obstruction to the complete corruption of the ship, but they were bound to Teturact's will and took the pain as he demanded.
You know what you must do, he thought at them. Make it happen.
One wizard shambled forward. He pulled down his hood and Teturact saw he had not one face but several, melded together as if they had melted into one. Several malformed eyes blinked in the light of the chamber's chandeliers. One of its mouths opened and began to keen, a low, buzzing drone. Its other mouths joined in, weaving a grotesque harmony that would have reduced mortal men to tears.
Gnarled limbs reached out from beneath its tattered robes, some arms, some pincers, some tentacles. Each hand made a different sign of blasphemy in the air, trails of red light spelled out symbols of heresy.
The other wizards shuffled into a circle around the singer. Teturact's brute-mutants carried him back out of the circle and each mutilated mind began to enact a separate part of the spell. One was a pure stab of rage, a bright red spire of burning hatred that provided fuel for the ritual. Another took that hatred and wove it into a tapestry of suffering, the chamber resonating with psychic after-images of torture and despair.
The lacquer on the walls began to peel. Images of the Emperor's sacred armies tarnished and were obliterated. The tapestries began to unravel and a patina of age and corruption spread across the gleaming relics. Even the light changed, gradually becoming dimmer and yellower, making everything in the room seem older.
Shapes began to appear, broken spectres drawn by the ritual's power, shadowy forms that stood hunched over the circle. The magic was drawing curious warp-creatures like blood draws scavengers. Monstrous things were watching. Perhaps the gods themselves, who would look down on Teturact with jealously that he had achieved what they could not and built an empire of suffering in the heart of the Imperium.
He could taste it, like old blood. This was one of the oldest magics, and it was his to command.
The keening rose, becoming louder and higher. Another wizard entered the circle and drew a knife of blackened iron from its robes. This wizard was larger than the rest, broad-shouldered with a musculature that showed even through its robes. It threw its head back, revealing a face with shredded skin that hung like ribbons over the red wet features beneath, and plunged the knife into its stomach.
Ropy purple entrails slithered out and where they hit the floor a dark stain spread like rust, warping the mosaics until the devotional High Gothic texts were squirming symbols of disease and death. The wizard sank to its knees and scraped the point of its knife through its spilled entrails, divining the course of the magic now coursing around the room. It carved a final sigil in the floor and the symbol lit up.