On more than one occasion they glimpsed enemy constructs stalking along bridges and walkways far below, moving towards the shield-dome and the battle raging outside, but they appeared unaware –or unconcerned– with the Astartes already within the shield.
It seemed that the entire superstructure of the enemy continent-city revolved around this strangely alien building, and all the walkways, ramparts and flyways within the veil led towards it. Undoubtedly, it was a structure of great importance, and Sor Talgron felt strongly that the last vestiges of humanity on this doomed world were hidden within.
They covered the ten kilometres to the heart of the city swiftly, moving at a fast pace that they could have maintained for days on end.
At last they drew near the central temple-building. The storm-god statue loomed above them, its arms bathed in lightning. They were just stepping out from beneath a towering archway of crystal splinters, stalking warily towards this central structure, when Sergeant Arshaq spoke.
‘Life readings,’ he warned, consulting the squad’s auspex. They were the first life signs that the device had registered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen.
Sor Talgron barked an order and Squad Helikon formed a defensive perimeter around their captain. They continued to advance, drawing ever closer to the huge, cylindrical temple that rose up before them.
Gaping, triangular portals were cut into the sides of the temple. The interior was filled with blinding light – nothing within its brilliance could be discerned.
Warily, the Word Bearers advanced towards the nearest portal. Sor Talgron shielded his eyes against the bright light. There was a delicate shimmering sound emanating from within, and with a nod he ordered Squad Helikon in.
Stepping inside was like being transported to a completely different location. Sor Talgron felt the change in the air against his burnt skin. The air here was cool and vaguely fragrant, where outside it was hot and filled with the acrid stink of electricity. His gaze was immediately drawn upwards. The immense structure was formed around a vast cylindrical shaft, which disappeared into the distance overhead. This lofty expanse was filled with shimmering light that descended from above like an ethereal waterfall falling in slow motion. A strange, lilting sound accompanied this fey light, something akin to the sound of glass chimes, overlaid with the hum of energy. Hundreds of arcing balconies and gantries ringed this central shaft, and walkways criss-crossed the expanse. So focused on these disturbing wonders was Sor Talgron that he barely registered the panes of glass silently sealing the portal behind them.
Standing atop a fluted pillar of glass was an exact replica of the colossus half a kilometre overhead, though this statue was a ‘mere’ fifty metres tall. Its head was thrown back rapturously, its arms held skywards in what might have been praise or glory. Shimmering light bathed this statue in radiant brilliance.
The floor sunk away below them in a steep series of tiers – hundreds of them. And upon each tier crowded the kneeling figures of men, women and children. These were the first people that the Word Bearers had encountered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen – the last of the world’s population.
All had their heads bowed to the floor in prayer, facing towards the glass idol of their profane storm-lord. Sor Talgron guessed there must have been some forty thousand people packed into the stadium-like temple, all of them murmuring in low voices and rocking from side to side, as if lost in a trance. None seemed to have noticed the appearance of Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon.
Upon a dais at the bottom of the circular tiers, a diminutive old man stood leaning upon a staff of glass and silver. He raised his head, staring up at Sor Talgron and his brethren. He did not appear surprised or shocked at their appearance; rather, he wore a mournful expression on his cracked parchment face.
‘Stay with me,’ said Sor Talgron. ‘Hold your fire, and follow my lead.’
His eyes were locked on the one who could only be the religious leader of the enemy civilisation. This was the one that Kor Phaeron had met with less than two days earlier. Flanked by the warrior-brothers of Squad Helikon, he began marching down the steep stairs towards the enemy leader.
At some unspoken command, the entire congregation of men, women and children stood, turning to face the intruders into their realm. The Word Bearers tensed, levelling weapons towards the crowd. Sor Talgron expected to see the flush of anger and resentment in their faces, but they stared at the towering Astartes forlornly and, perhaps, with a little disappointment.
‘Nobody engage,’ warned Sor Talgron.
For all that the enemy appeared to pose little threat, he knew from experience that it took but a single individual to turn the mood of a mob murderous – indeed, the Chaplains of the Legion were skilful at inciting just such emotion. Were the crowd to turn on them, the resulting massacre would be terrible. He and his brothers would reap a bloody toll, taking down hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these people, but there were only half a dozen, facing more than forty thousand. Even Astartes would eventually be dragged down by such numbers.
The warriors of XVII Legion descended the steep tiers, eyeing the crowd that parted before them warily. The people regarding them stood in absolute silence, which was, Sor Talgron thought, perhaps more disconcerting than had they been braying for blood; at least that he would have understood.
The old man regarded their approach solemnly.
‘What are we doing?’ hissed Sergeant Arshaq, using a closed vox channel so none of his squad could hear.
‘I want to see how divergent these people really are,’ said Sor Talgron, replying on the same closed channel.
He had known Arshaq for decades, both having been raised in the same temple on their grim home world of Colchis, and the captain overlooked such breaches in protocol from the sergeant, valuing his opinion. The sergeant’s silence to his answer was enough to tell him that Arshaq did not approve, but he knew him well enough to know that the sergeant would back him up, no matter what.
They descended to the bottom of the tiers, and started up the steps of the dais towards the old priest. Sor Talgron levelled his bolt pistol at the elderly man’s head.
‘Squad Helikon,’ said Sor Talgron in a low voice. ‘Establish a perimeter.’
‘Yes, captain,’ said the sergeant of Squad Helikon, nodding. With clipped commands, Arshaq directed his squad members into position. They spread apart, facing outwards, scanning the crowd for potential threats.
Talgron stepped onto the final level of the dais and came to a halt before the old priest. The elderly man came up barely to his mid-section, and though he was clearly ancient, his eyes were bright and alert. Something in his gaze made Sor Talgron vaguely uneasy. Was he a sorcerer? He dismissed the notion immediately. The old man was unnerving, but he felt no threat from him. He lowered his pistol.
‘I am Sor Talgron, Captain of Thirty-fourth Company, XVII Legion,’ he said, his voice ringing out loudly, breaking the silence.
‘Why do you bring death to my world, warmonger?’ said the old man, speaking a corrupted, archaic form of Low Gothic.
‘You will order the complete surrender of your armed forces, effective immediately, and relinquish control of the world designated Forty-seven Sixteen,’ said Sor Talgron, ignoring the old priest’s words. ‘Understand?’
‘Why do you bring death to my world?’ said the priest again, but again Sor Talgron refused to acknowledge his words.
‘You will lower the lightning-shield protecting this structure,’ he said firmly. ‘You will order your people and your infernal thinking machines to cease all hostilities. Do I make myself clear?’