Castellan by David Annandale

Author:David Annandale
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2017-12-11T11:35:12+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Apotheosis

The Purgation’s Sword roared westwards over the burning towers of Algidus.

‘The abominations mock us,’ said Drake.

‘That is their nature,’ said Crowe. ‘But I feel the laughter of the fates this night, too.’

The rift stabbed upwards from the centre of the Cathedral of the Saints Unforgiving. It had blasted a hole through the roof, and it reached up to the sky, a whirling torch of scabrous colours pointing at Desma as the planet ascended towards the zenith. Daemonic shapes emerged from its length, spiralling down towards the ground, a descent of monstrous angels.

Why the cathedral? Crowe thought. The fanaticism that had erupted there was dangerous, but it was not heresy. Then he thought, Of course the cathedral. The psychic tension was not localised. He had felt no geographical spikes in its strength, only the gradual rise in power as the long day had given way to night. The rift could have potentially opened anywhere in Algidus. Striking the cathedral, though, was the perfect attack on hope and faith. It was a blow for despair and for greater frenzy.

‘At least we have the real enemy in our sights,’ Sendrax said.

‘Do we?’ said Crowe. The psychic tension had not snapped. It was still intensifying, and faster now. ‘This is an escalation. I do not think it is more than that.’

There was no doubt as to their strategy now. The Harrower and the Malleus Maleficarum were converging with the Purgation’s Sword on Saints Unforgiving. The full strike force would hit the daemons, smashing the abominations in their greatest concentration.

‘Closing this rift will not mean victory, will it?’ said Drake.

‘No.’ Crowe voxed all the Grey Knights. ‘Our position is unchanged, brothers. We must hold the battlefield, contain the damage, and hold off the enemy until we truly know what it is we must defeat.’

Berinon slowed the gunship as it flew down the Boulevard of Holy Submission, heading towards the parvis of the cathedral. The ­Malleus Maleficarum was rumbling along the centre of the road, and the ­Harrower was coming into sight on the port side. Daemons swarmed out of the shattered doors of the cathedral. They descended on a crowd of the penitent that the Grey Knights had penned in at the square. The Crusader’s hurricane bolters made short work of the barricade of fallen rockcrete, and the tank smashed through the ruins of the hab block. A stream of daemons was already flowing over the rubble, spreading horror out into the wider city. Thousands of abominations had emerged from the rift, and the psychic pain of Algidus was climbing rapidly. Crowe felt it like a stiletto stab at the base of his skull. It joined with the snarls and venomous laughter of the sword.

Your fate is written. Your path is chosen. Descend and fight and carry the Dark Gods to victory. There is no escape. Your hopes are merely the lures to your doom. I taste them, warden. I devour them. They nourish my vengeance. You will feed me until there is nothing left but your soul, and you will give that to me gladly.

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