The ring of his boot on metal confirmed to Azrael that he was back in the material realm. The weight of his gun, the sigh of fibre bundles settling, the thrum of generators and buzz of electrical cables were all welcome signals that he was alive and real.
He continued forwards a few paces, allowing the others room to exit the eldar portal as he analysed his environment.
It was dark; the only light came from a few buzzing red globes set behind wire mesh in the ceiling of the chamber. The room itself was out of use, and appeared to have been abandoned some time before. It was a few metres wide, twice as long, a wheel-locked door at the far end.
The walls sagged oddly.
He stepped closer and saw that in fact it was not the walls themselves that curved into the floor but an accretion of... something he had not encountered before. He would have taken it for spraycrete, but it recoiled slightly at his touch. Not so much soft as hollow.
A grunt of distaste caused him to turn. Belial was on the opposite side of the room, peeling back a layer of the material like pulling a scab from a wound. The analogy seemed even more disgustingly apt as a pulsing, fleshy undersurface was revealed.
‘Throne’s heart,’ growled Cathas.
Belial let the covering flop down and his power fist glimmered back into life.
‘Which way?’ Azrael asked, looking to Ezekiel.
The Chief Librarian convened with the other two psykers and they communed for several seconds, saying nothing. They gathered closer, drawn to one another, a nimbus of power faintly glowing around them.
Ezekiel broke away from the others, leaving a slight after-figure of golden light in his wake.
‘We have found the heart of the darkness. This way.’
The lock-wheel on the door screeched into motion at a gesture from the Chief Librarian. The grate of corroded metal set Azrael’s nerves on edge.
‘I am sure a clarion blast would have announced our presence more succinctly,’ said Belial.
‘Our presence is already known, brother-sergeant,’ Ezekiel replied coolly. He waved and the door swung inwards with a drawn-out creak. ‘Head left. The enemy are gathering.’
Azrael allowed Belial and his Deathwing to take the lead again. Operating in close confines against a deadly enemy was their speciality. Following them out, flanked by the two Epistolaries, Azrael stepped into a corridor wide enough for the Terminators to advance two abreast. The same strange cladding covered the walls and ceiling, the lighting spheres set within puckered orifices, the faint stench of blood on the air mixed with oil and sweat.
‘Incoming signal,’ warned Belial.
The squad halted. For the first time since leaving the Deathwing, Azrael felt slightly adrift without his sensorium link. He was no longer enmeshed with the others, a step removed and reliant upon their reports.
With a wheeze like a dying lung expelling its last breath, a hatch opened in the floor a short distance ahead. A wire-thin figure clambered out, skin so pale as to be white like the creatures found in lightless caves. It was naked, deep pink welts covering its alabaster flesh. Massively dilated eyes turned towards them. The boy, for such it must have been, flinched at the sight of the Terminators, baring black gums and stubs of teeth. With a rattling cry, it dived back into the darkness beyond the hatch.
One of the Terminators moved forwards, storm bolter aimed at the opening. While he guarded the entry point the rest of the squad advanced past. Movement from the squad behind urged Azrael and his companions forwards without any word, but it was clear the two Terminator squads were acting in unison, guiding their charges towards the objective.
He glanced past the Deathwing warrior on overwatch. The hatch led into pitch blackness, joining a crawlspace just a metre below the deck. There was no telling how many enslaved crew lurked in the gaps between the halls and chambers. Would they resist, or simply allow the Dark Angels to pass unhindered?
Azrael allowed the Terminators to perform their duty and lead the way along the corridor, which became dank a few metres on. The floor was slick with mould fed from the drips of a broken pipe that jutted from a cavity in the wall-flesh.
‘Which way, Brother-Librarian?’ Belial asked when they reached a T-junction at the end of the passageway.
‘Left,’ replied Ezekiel. ‘We must find somewhere to descend. The sorcerer is somewhere in the middle decks amidships.’
‘The arterial hall is this way,’ said Belial, pointing to the right. ‘It may be the swifter route, even if less direct.’
‘Go left,’ said Azrael. ‘The confines suit us better than our foes.’
Belial offered no argument and led his squad down the left-hand passage while the other Terminators trained their guns to the right.
The dampness increased, the humidity growing as the heat rose. Thin mist hung in the air, glinting in the ruddy light. Belial pressed on directly into the ship at the urging of Ezekiel, passing several smaller chambers. Azrael glanced through the next door as they passed.
‘Wait!’ He stopped at the threshold for a better look.
It had been a dormitory of sorts. The remains of bunks stretched down each wall, broken lockers beside each triple-stacked set of cots. Thin, patched blankets lay strewn over the floor and bed frames. Buckled metal plates and bowls were scattered about, along with wooden spoons and upturned serving platters. Old food rotted in the mesh of the deck.
There were emaciated bodies amongst the detritus. Almost skeletally thin, skin peeled back from lesions across their chests, backs and shoulders. Rictus grimaces contorted their faces, but even so they appeared to have died in terror. Their fingers were bloody and broken, as though they had clawed at the walls and doors, perhaps trapped, trying to escape.
A shadow flickered across the far wall.
‘Movement,’ he told the others, bringing up Lion’s Wrath.
‘Nothing on the augur system, my lord,’ Belial replied.
Azrael was certain he had seen something. He thought to take a step closer to investigate but changed his mind.
Dead flies and maggots covered the bodies and he spied the mangy, furred corpses of rats amongst the debris.
‘Even the vermin died,’ he whispered, retreating a pace. He focused on their purpose. ‘Keep moving. The sorcerer must be slain.’