PLAGUE OF CHANGE
Soul’s Well
Allhallow, Scorpid Cluster
Vandersen limped and staggered through the tall, vaulted corridors of Soul’s Well, too tired to take in the beautiful tapestries and ornate autosconces that lined the walls. He was led through inner gates and along darkened tunnels, his escort the three vassals from the Great Portal. The fortress monastery was immense. It felt like he had been walking for the best part of a day since he had passed through its legendary gateway, and he had long ago stopped staring in awe at the spectacle and grandeur that surrounded him.
The older warrior marching in front of him, who Vandersen now thought of as Elder Pox because of his acne-cratered visage, was still staring straight ahead as he marched with clockwork precision along the cold stone corridors. By contrast, the two guards behind their sergeant were watching him like hawks. Whenever Vandersen veered close to a wall, hoping to rest his head on a buttress or stone memorial plinth, one of the two vassal warriors behind him would prod him with the butt of a las-spear, or simply guide him with a firm hand back on course.
After a while Vandersen came to realise that the one to the left of him was taking any excuse to hit him, whilst the one on the right was stern, but not violent.
They will beat you to death, you know, said the nasty voice in his head. Once you have given your news.
He risked a glance backwards, catching a glimpse of his two guards – one grizzled and bearded with heavy brown curls, one with a clean jaw and a nasty smirk. The smirker saw him looking and brought the end of his polearm up, catching Vandersen under the chin and rattling his brain as his jaws thumped closed. He half-fell as he turned, steadying himself with an outstretched hand before staggering onwards, almost falling into Elder Pox before resuming his stumbling walk. The bearded guard gave a tut of disapproval, but he was not sure if it was aimed at him or at Smirker.
Three more minutes and they had reached a massive vaulted hall, long columns reaching up to arc out and become the inner ridges of vast domes. Despite his exhaustion, this time Vandersen could not help but look upward, taking in the elaborate friezes and frescos that stretched up and around the domes. There was enough gold leaf here to feed a keep for a dozen winters.
‘The grand atrium,’ said the guard with the beard. ‘Count yourself lucky, pilgrim. Few of your number ever get this far.’
‘It’s very… amazing,’ said Vandersen lamely. ‘But I have work to do.’
The cruel voice in his mind laughed, a high-pitched and mocking sound. He shook his head, trying to clear it out. His brain was hurting, now, a thumping headache that got worse every time he looked up at the frescos of Imperial saints and the gargoyle-like creatures they were impaling on their lances.
Thump, thump, thump.
Vandersen realised the noise was not his headache, but footsteps. Footsteps so heavy they echoed around the dome like the drums of war.
‘Is this him, High Vassal Fiorenz?’ said a voice from behind and to the right, rich and mellifluous.
‘It is, my liege.’ Elder Pox’s voice sounded like a rough croak by comparison.
Vandersen looked around, and saw a figure from legend.
The Lord of Soul’s Well was massively built, head and shoulders taller than Elder Pox and near twice as wide. His armour was every bit as ornate and exquisitely fashioned as that of the stranger who had attacked the fortress, but where that one had worn battleplate of black with ornate gold filigree, the Absolver lord wore fluted and sculpted armour of ivory white. An ermine cloak cascaded down from a gorget framed by two massive pauldrons, and a strange backpack of onyx rose behind his head.
His expression was not that of a king, nor even that of a guard looking down on him. He had an easy smile, and a glint in his eye that made Vandersen frown as if he should recognise him.
‘Long day, my lad?’
‘I… I have work to do,’ said Vandersen.
‘And what work is that? Can you not afford a respite, given the circumstances?’
‘I bring a message for the Castellan of Soul’s Well,’ he replied, doing his best to shake his head clear of the chuckling that echoed through it. He felt himself shrink inside for a moment, the words bubbling out of him. ‘There is one here who would make you pay for your pres… presump…’
‘Let’s take this somewhere a little quieter,’ said the armoured lord, lightly placing a hand that could have crushed a human head upon Vandersen’s shoulder. ‘That will be all, high vassal. Please wait in the southern vestibule.’
‘Of course, my liege,’ said Elder Pox. ‘Though your message said we were to escort the–’
‘That will be all.’
‘Of course.’ The guard sergeant, his face twisted up into what he probably thought was a smile, backed away, motioning his men to do the same. They bowed as one, turned smartly, and made their way back the way they had come.
The Absolver, his hand still on Vandersen’s shoulder, started slowly towards one of the side chambers that opened out from a wall full of sculptural scenes of battle. Half dazed, Vandersen walked alongside him, shooting occasional glances up at the lord’s handsome features as he talked. Vandersen had to keep reminding himself the kingly figure was talking to him, and him alone.
‘You have important news, I hear. Let’s retire to this chamber before we speak of it.’
Vandersen nodded. He had a feeling that retiring anywhere would mean he was unlikely to come back out, but was too intimidated to disagree.
‘I find the grand atrium to be excellent for bellicose speeches, my lad, but absolutely awful for personal discourse. I only chose it as a rendezvous to fulfil certain expectations.’
‘Yes, but… I have work to do,’ stammered Vandersen.
‘So you say,’ nodded the king, guiding Vandersen through into the chapel. ‘And we shall see you to this work as soon as we can.’
Hard, confident footsteps filled the hall as another Absolver strode quickly up to them. He was clad head to toe in ivory battleplate, wax-sealed ribbons of parchment on each of his great pauldrons.
‘Master Castellan,’ said the ivory warrior, ‘it is as you suspected. The recently translated fleet has elements of the First emerging from some manner of broad spectrum data-shroud. Their command echelon has already made planetfall, and only now is approaching us for an audience.’
‘I have business to conclude here first,’ said the king, ‘for this young man speaks of an angelic figure in black. I am sure they would understand.’
The newcomer bowed his head. ‘Of course.’
‘Have Sergeant Nexa ready his hunters for despatch to their location, and tell him to act as necessary to ensure our shared agendas align. Use those exact words. Tell him to greet our visitors with due honour, and let them know I will be with them as soon as I can.’
Striking a fist upon his breastplate in salute, the messenger turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come. The king smiled down once more at Vandersen, guiding him towards the room at the edge of the atrium. The chapel was a visual feast, all statue-lined alcoves and elaborate chandeliers, but ultimately it was nothing next to the presence of the Absolver lord.
Vandersen still found it difficult to look away from him. His tanned skin wrinkled around the eyes, reminding Vandersen of his father. His teeth were white, but one was broken behind a swollen and slightly bruised lip. The lack of perfection made the Space Marine seem a little less frightening, more human than the statue-like saints of battle depicted in the keep’s mosaics and friezes.
The armoured giant pressed his palm against a rune-slate as they passed inside, and a heavy door slid shut behind them.
‘My name is Master Castellan Moddren of the Angels of Absolution,’ he said. ‘I have the honour of being the steward of this great fortress, Soul’s Well. And you, my young guardian of the forest?’
‘Vallac Vandersen of Sixth West.’
‘I see. Tell me, Vallac. This work you speak of. Is it to bear me a message?’
‘Yes!’ said Vandersen. ‘If you are truly the master castellan of this fortress.’
‘I do indeed have that honour. Sometimes I even get to defend it.’
‘Then I am to tell you this.’
The words came out in a strange groan, as if it were someone else speaking through Vandersen’s mouth.
‘You will wear your innate corruption for all to see,’ he said in a guttural monotone. ‘You and all those who consider themselves absolved, you will exhibit the sins of the fathers, and we will expose the truth within. There is no escaping it, the work of aeons has already begun.’
Vandersen suddenly collapsed to the floor, panting, with sweat rolling down his temples. His throat felt hot, stinging, as if he were choking back vomit. Moddren dropped to his haunches, placing one large hand behind Vandersen’s spine and propping him up.
‘Where did the black angel give you this message, Vallac?’
‘In the Duskenwald. I escaped through the sally port, but he tracked me down.’ The words came in a rush, as if a dam had broken. ‘I did not want any of this, I just wanted to escape, I don’t belong here!’
‘Catch your breath, son. No need to proceed until you are ready.’
‘Aren’t there other Absolvers coming to meet you?’
‘In time,’ said Moddren. ‘If there is a hostile action levelled against our planet, no matter how small, then it has my full attention. They can wait.’
Vandersen gulped down air, sitting upright and nodding. After a minute had passed, he pushed the giant’s hand to one side. ‘I can continue,’ he said, coughing to clear his throat as he got to his feet. His vision swam, churning like blood in a whirlpool. He staggered, but Moddren guided him to sit on one of the chapel’s pews.
‘You can talk sitting down,’ said Moddren gravely. ‘Go on. You say you escaped.’
‘Yes,’ said Vandersen, nodding again. ‘He attacked us. But I’m not sure how. Some kind of witch-magic, I think. He didn’t even fire a shot.’
‘What did this magic look like, Vallac?’
‘It changed them,’ said the young man. ‘It came out of his staff, and changed them into monsters.’ He looked up to meet Moddren’s eyes. The Absolver lord was gazing down, full of concern, the finger-thin beard around his mouth pulled into a triangle by his downturned lips. Vandersen found himself caught somewhere between awe and dread before pulling his wits back together.
‘I can continue,’ he said, hugging himself for a moment before exhaling deeply. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Good. This Space Marine, Vallac. He looked something like me, did he not?’
‘No,’ said Vandersen. ‘Not really. He was… big, but he had all this gold script on black armour, strange tusks on his helm, and a weird device clamped around his head.’
‘Did it have coils at the temple, and a kind of hood?’
‘I think so,’ said Vandersen with an involuntary shiver. The hairs on the backs of his forearms were sticking up at the memory. ‘It’s hard to explain. The hood lit up, before all the men began to… change.’
‘That makes sense to me. He was using witchery. What else did you see before you ran?’
‘Up on the battlements, the men were being attacked by something. I saw glimpses of something weird. Whatever they were just appeared out of nowhere. I could hear them, but I never saw them. I just ran.’
‘Understandable,’ said Moddren, nodding. ‘But you say he came to you in the woods?’
Do it, pawn of lies, said the voice in Vandersen’s head. Do what you came to do.
He felt his headache build to a peak.
‘Yes,’ he said, screwing his eyes shut. ‘He ran me down as I was trying to get away from Sixth West. He came at night, and caught me up.’
His headache was splitting, now, robbing the corners of his sight. ‘He told me to give you this message.’
Reaching out with his good wrist, Vandersen grabbed a heavy shriving iron from the end of the pew and brought it round hard towards Moddren’s scalp. Quick as a snake, the master castellan caught his arm, squeezing so hard the wrought iron stick fell from his shaking hand. Vandersen could feel his bones grinding. He convulsed, nonsense spewing from his lips.
Let it flow, foolish curseling! screamed the voice in Vandersen’s head. Let it out!
‘I think that concludes our conversation. For now,’ said Moddren, hauling Vandersen to his feet and sliding the chapel door open with his other hand. ‘I have enough information to work with, high vassal!’
Vandersen swam in a hazy fugue, fighting to keep focus. From the other side of the grand atrium, he could see the trio of guards running towards him, their las-spears held at the ready.
‘Escort this young man to a holding cell. Do so with great care. He is unpredictable, and likely mind-snatched by some entity that wishes us harm. He attacked me, or at least tried to. He still has much to offer us.’
‘Yes, my liege,’ said Elder Pox. ‘If this is the best they can do, they have sorely underestimated us.’
The smirker moved quickly behind Vandersen and grabbed him by the wrists. He felt them yanked back before the cold metal of a finger-thick chain pressed against his flesh and pulled tight.
The master castellan pulled his helm from its mag-clamp at his waist and placed it over his head, its laurel-crowned faceplate glinting in the gloom. ‘Command,’ he said, the vox unit making his voice strangely mechanical, ‘muster an immediate speartip strike force for Sixth West. Prime clearance.’
The bearded guard scowled disapprovingly in front of Vandersen, his las-spear’s tip hovering close to his throat.
‘Move, traitor,’ he said.
Vandersen was pushed hard, and he staggered away, bullied across the mosaic floor of the Grand Atrium and into a dark corridor leading away from the light.
He caught a glimpse of Master Castellan Moddren as he left, staring intently at him as if he were a bothersome insect.
Vandersen was shoved roughly into a cell that was no larger than the inside of a privy. He was forced to stoop and crawl even to get his legs clear of the rapidly closing door, scrabbling to the back of the tiny room to gather his legs up against his chest. The door slammed shut with a resounding clang that made his brain rattle in his head.
‘Make the most of it,’ said Smirker from outside. ‘That’ll seem like paradise by the time we’re finished with you.’
The bearded guard laughed, a peculiar cross between a grunt and a sigh. ‘They aren’t too kind to heretics, down here,’ he rumbled. ‘And rightly so.’
Vandersen shook his head as if trying to shrug off a bad dream, desperate to think of the words that would persuade the vassals outside to unlock the door. The low throb of pain in his forearm brought his mind back into focus; if he wanted to get out, he had to gather his strength. He stared down at his arm. Thick bruises, purple and yellow, were beginning to blossom where the king’s gauntleted fingers had dug into his flesh.
It’s no more than you deserve, basal wretch, said the little voice in his head. Even this cell is too good for you.
‘Shut up!’ said Vandersen, unconsciously scrabbling at the cloth bundle still tied to his waist. He felt something there.
‘Shout and scream all you want,’ said Smirker. ‘We’re quite used to it.’
Vandersen plucked at his waist some more. Something was making it difficult to sit down. His hands found something there, something large and round. He dimly remembered being given something in the forest, and felt a rising feeling between relief and mounting terror that the guards had not confiscated it. He took out the hessian sack at his waist, stared at it as if he had never seen the like, unravelled it, and looked numbly at the contents.
A fleshless human skull stared back.
‘Do as he says, little piglet,’ it said. ‘Scream.’
Vandersen screamed.
In the hearth chamber of Sixth West sat Gohorael of Caliban. The high-backed castellan’s seat he had chosen for his throne was positioned at the head of the elder-table, and one of the keep’s servo-cherub attendants hovered above each shoulder.
Before him were the remnants of the keep’s defenders – those that had surrendered to him, suffered debilitating wounds, or been so overcome with fear they could do nothing but watch as their new master took his due. Not a single man or woman amongst them had kept their true form, each twisted by eldritch power into something far deadlier and more unsettling than a human being.
‘Come forth the brave,’ said Gohorael. ‘You who would carry my message to the next flock, and the next.’
A barrel-chested creature with tiny, handless arms no thicker than sticks stumbled forwards. The distended sac of its cranium flapped like the bulging head of an octopus.
‘I sherve,’ it slurred, thick strings of drool pouring from its discoloured jaws. It was repulsive, thought Gohorael, but the killing light of bloodlust was in its eyes. It would serve as a distraction, at least, and as a vessel for the infectious changes to come.
‘So you do,’ said the giant. ‘I name thee Non Manus. You may spread enlightenment to the non-believers.’
At this, Gohorael took one of the age-browned skulls from around his neck. He untangled the cord wrapped though its eye sockets, and placed it around Non Manus’ neck with the ceremony of a king bestowing a mantle of leadership upon his fondest arch-duke.
The mutant clacked its jaws, ropes of spittle flying left and right.
‘Now bear that relic south, and make your way into the next keep you find,’ said Gohorael. ‘Use its power to destroy any who would resist the gift of our presence, then return it here.’
‘Yesshhh,’ said the creature, nodding as if it had only now seen the light.
‘And who else amongst you would spread the word of the Architect of Fate?’ said Gohorael, his arms held wide. ‘This world is in grave need of his teachings.’
‘I will,’ said a long-limbed freak of a man, odd bulges of muscle protruding from his elongated neck. He seemed as if he had been crying, but stood proud nonetheless. ‘I will bear this new truth for the betterment of all.’
‘Ah!’ said Gohorael. ‘An eloquent one. How gratifying. Bow that mighty head, and inherit your destiny.’
The lanky creature knelt down, eleven foot of gangling muscle folding itself into a crouch by Gohorael’s throne. The Space Marine took another skull from the octocraniad wreath, placing it over the mutant’s neck.
‘You were once called Fenas, were you not?’
‘I was,’ said the creature. ‘But I have since seen the light. My mind is aflame, and I have been reborn.’
‘So you have,’ said Gohorael. ‘You may keep your mortal name. I dub thee Fenas the Brave. You will make a fine spokesman. Go eastward into the night, carry that treasure with you, and spread the word of the Primordial Truth.’
‘I shall,’ said Fenas, unfolding himself before walking out of the hearthroom as if in a dream.
‘May I approach?’
Gohorael looked askance at the next supplicant. He had the appearance of a normal man, older than the rest and running to fat, but for two things – his eyes were missing from their sockets, and a second pair of arms hung limply from his armpits.
‘Ah. My would-be host.’
‘Yes,’ said the human, scraping a nail gingerly at the edge of the red-black pits that were once his eyes. ‘Harasen. I was the one foolish enough to resist you.’
‘And now?’
‘I see things much clearer, my lord. You have my undying allegiance.’
‘I can believe it. You are fortunate, for I am in a forgiving mood. Come to me, Harasen. I give you a new name this day.’
The castellan moved forward, easily avoiding the debris of the broken chairs and shattered candelabras that lay on the floor despite his blindness. He knelt in front of the improvised throne, and bowed his head.
‘I name thee Truthseer,’ said Gohorael, carefully taking one of the skulls from around his neck and placing the leather loop that bound it over Harasen’s eyeless head. ‘You above all others have looked upon the glory of change, seeing its light without mortal senses to cloud your perception. Go forth, head east at all times, and share your vision with all you meet, even when the unbeliever and the naïf tries to stop you.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Harasen. He got to his feet, a little unsteady, and headed for the gate.
‘The work of aeons is underway once more,’ said Gohorael. ‘Now who amongst you has the courage to be next?’
In his tiny cell, Vandersen bit his lip, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes. The varnished skull was still staring at him, that maddening grin seeming to mock him.
‘Go on, moon-child,’ it said. ‘Scream again. You’re going to die here, friendless and alone. You know it to be true.’
‘No,’ said Vandersen, pushing his fists into his eyes.
It was no use. The pain was still there, and the images. Oh, the images he had seen over the last few minutes. Even one of them was enough to scar the mind forever.
‘Let it all out, insignificant worm,’ said the skull. ‘It’s building up in your head. If you don’t let it out, it’ll burst.’
‘Leave me alone!’ shouted Vandersen, his words reverberating around the cell as if it were the size of an empty cathedral.
‘But you are not alone, plague bringer,’ said the skull. ‘I am in here with you. And I will have my sport.’
‘No!’ said Vandersen, flinging the skull hard against the door. The door flew wide open, and the skull simply stopped in mid-air, turning to face him with a mocking grin. In the corridor beyond was Smirker, scrabbling upright from a half-slump.
‘What in Ferna’s chalice is–’
Vandersen found himself shivering, quaking, convulsing as his mind-wracking headache spread to encompass his entire body. His stomach convulsed, a wrenching feeling in his core as if an invisible claw clenched at his guts.
A stream of glowing white energy suddenly shot from his mouth, past the skull and into Smirker’s open jaws, slamming him back against the corridor wall. Smirker spasmed and shook, limbs flailing as the outpouring of energy pinned him against the wall. The brickwork blackened and cracked around him, a halo of incendiary energy that left an inverse silhouette as if he had been shot by a heavy flamer.
Vandersen heard running footsteps, the sound somehow clear as day over the horror that eclipsed his mind. It was the bearded guard, disbelief slowing his pace as he witnessed the supernatural spectacle before him.
Vandersen bit down hard on the energy pouring from his mouth. The strange emanation beaming out of his craw ceased for a blissful moment.
Smirker slid to the flagstones, wisps of white smoke curling from his mouth and nostrils. The other guard turned to Vandersen with an expression of pure hatred, speartip pointed straight at his chest.
The floating skull turned in the air to stare right at Vandersen once more. His mind filled with flickering images of bloody carnage. He opened his mouth to scream. As the guard stepped forwards with his spear levelled at Vandersen’s chest, another beam of light shot out, catching him in the neck.
The big man convulsed as the cascading beam travelled up over his chin and into his mouth, forcing its way in like a snake burrowing into a prey-beast’s tunnel. He dropped the las-spear to the flagstones with a clatter and fell limp onto the recumbent, comatose form of his guardmate.
Vandersen gave an involuntary sob of fear and confusion. It became a rueful laugh, then a gabble of unintelligible syllables. Then, as Smirker and his bearded comrade clambered clumsily to their feet and stood vacant-eyed before him, his laugh turned into a horrible cackle that sounded as if it came from no living thing.
Fenas the Brave stumbled through the woods, the skull around his neck bouncing madly as he stooped under this tree and that. Forced to run almost bent double by his impossible height, he had scratches all over his arms and legs, some quite deep, and his throat was sore from crying.
He ploughed on regardless, driven by some nameless desire to… share. To propagate his gift.
Fenas felt his vision begin to clear. He slowed, then stopped altogether, staring in horrified amazement at his elongated, over-muscled limbs. Sobs rose in his chest, great wracking spasms of terror and panic.
Fear not, said the voice in his head, the voice he could swear was coming from the varnished skull around his neck. The glory that you hold within you is more beautiful than the sunset. You serve a divine purpose. March on.
Fenas nodded, choking down his anguish and making off again. There, on the horizon, he could see his quarry. A set of low walls, the remains of an ancient hill fort. Fires sent lazy trails of smoke into the evening air, and faint strains of viol music reached down to him, piercing the fog in his head. He recognised the tune – the Dancing Duke, it was called. It had been one of his favourites, before.
You are the bringer of truth, said the skull around his neck. This night, they will dance to a different melody. Fenas nodded, his grin exposing far too many teeth, and resumed his loping, ungainly run.
The vassal guard known as Jethred Ghaunn got unsteadily to his feet. For once, his habitual smirk was entirely absent. He was still in the corridor outside the holding cell, but his throat and chest were aching as if he had choked on a lungful of dank fire smoke.
Jethred had been looking forward to spending some quality time with the captive, Vandersen. Once that bearded oaf Trenton was off his attendance cycle, Jethred was going to practice a little with his knife, telling the high vassal the wounds he inflicted were in self-defence. Such little indulgences helped him forget what happened at the Five Challenges last year, if only for a while.
Instead, though, Jethred had been caught off guard when the door flew open, his spear up as some kind of servo-skull distracted him. The prisoner, Vandersen, had taken his shot. He had felt something hit him, pushing inside him before disappearing entirely without leaving so much as a bruise behind. The prisoner too was gone, his tiny cell empty of everything save a scrap of sackcloth. There was no sign of Trenton.
Jethred felt a rising need to flee, or at least to move away from that horrible cell, and find somewhere bright. Somewhere with lots of people.
The kitchens were a good place to start.
The vassal guard felt something burn in his chest as he set off. It felt like a very weak acid, but covering his skin as well as his insides – and it itched like fury. Each time he scratched it, it got worse. He could feel it moving up his throat, slowly but surely.
He heard heavy footsteps, the thunderous thumping of a Space Marine. He turned the corner to be confronted by a looming wall of white ceramite – one of the Absolvers, accompanied by three vassals.
‘What happened?’ asked the Space Marine, his vox-cast voice intense and angry. ‘The autoseraphs are reporting a prisoner breach.’
Jethred was about to reply when a great torrent of burning white ectoplasm shot from his mouth, spraying the Adeptus Astartes and splashing onto the vassals nearby. The Space Marine fell back, clutching his helm. His attendants screamed, clawing at their clothes as the fabric clung to the molten flesh beneath.
All three of them began to shudder, strange growths jutting from their skin. Jethred drew his knife and stuck it right in the neck joint of the Space Marine’s armour, aiming for his jugular.
The blade snapped. Then the Absolver backhanded him in the gut, sending him sprawling down the corridor.
Jethred rolled in a tangle of limbs. His stomach had ripped open inside him under the force of the blow; he could feel it as a queasy knot of horror and pain. It was so painful he could not help but let that feeling out.
His vision became a blinding white blur, the agonising light in his head turning his world inside out.
When he recovered his wits, the walls were streaked with glowing red-black lines, molten stone dribbling from their undersides. In the corridor before him, the Absolver had been cut into three smouldering chunks. One of the vassals was neatly bisected from shoulder to hip, his remains steaming gently in the corridor. The other two were staggering away, one clutching his stomach, the other grabbing at his head as if to keep it from splitting open. Glowing white ectoplasm dribbled from his mouth.
A good start, young dolt, said a voice inside Jethred’s head. But we still have work to do.