Oliphant’s head began to bob gently with dark understanding. Then he looked at the Excoriator with warm eyes and his simple smile.
‘You have your faith,’ he told Kersh, ‘and I have mine. You remember, when we first met, I said that I knew you would come?’
‘I do.’
‘He came to me, corpus-captain.’
‘He?’
‘The God-Emperor…’
‘Pontifex, with respect, you would not be the first cleric to claim to have experienced a divine visitation,’ Kersh said softly.
‘I know not whether I were dreaming or awake,’ Oliphant continued, staring off into the distance. ‘The God-Emperor came to me. Glorious in His corpse-lord’s plate – black as the depths of space – yet impossible to look upon, like a sun or the fierce glare of some bright star.’
Kersh couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘You have seen this?’
‘Many times,’ Oliphant confirmed, his gaze still fixed some way distant. ‘Before you arrived. And since. It is how I knew His Angels were coming. That help was on its way. That we were destined for the Adeptus Astartes’ protection.’
‘You see him still?’
‘From time to time,’ Oliphant smiled. ‘He walks among us. He is in the corner of the eye, in the shadows, waiting to reveal His true purpose. It is His mysterious way.’
‘I don’t know what that is,’ Kersh told him honestly. ‘But I don’t think it is your God-Emperor.’
‘We shall see, sir,’ the pontifex said. ‘He will reveal Himself to you in due course.’ Kersh grunted. ‘The God-Emperor fights on our side, Angel. Have faith in that.’
Kersh thought of the Emperor – now all but a corpse on his sarcophagus-throne.
‘Pontifex,’ the Scourge said. ‘The Adeptus Astartes live for victory and the Great Dorn has shown us that there are many kinds. Stood amongst the corpses in the Imperial Palace, with the Emperor – all but dead – returned to the safety of its thick walls, the primarch would have felt little desire to celebrate victory. Walking from the deathtrap of the Eternal Fortress – a survivor of Iron Warriors ingenuity and the Iron Cage – Dorn would have felt no jubilation. These were not victories in a traditional sense – those to which mortals aspire when they see demigods crafted in stone and bronze, and hear of the exploits of heroes. Demetrius Katafalque, in the Architecture of Agony teaches us that these were victories, that frustration of the arch-enemy’s desires and the impediment of evil is a kind of victory. That in a galaxy perpetually at war – in an existence of continuous slaughter – survival is victory.’
‘What are you saying?’ Oliphant mumbled, entranced by the Excoriator’s words.
‘Do you trust me, pontifex?’
‘I do, Angel.’
‘And do your people trust you? Will they do as you ask – no matter how strange and daunting the road you ask them to take?’
‘They are my flock. I am their shepherd. The God-Emperor shows me the path that I might lead and they follow.’
Kersh looked around at the crowds of cemetery worlders. He imagined the Certusians in their thousands and thousands, huddled about the Memorial Mausoleum. He took a deep breath and nodded slowly to himself.
‘Gather your flock, pontifex,’ the Scourge told him finally, ‘and as many shovels as you can lay your hands on. Your people take the crow road tonight…’
Sister Sapphira rose from the baptismal waters of the communal font. Rivulets of holy water cascaded down and around the curves of her purified flesh. Droplets splashed against the surface of the pool and then spattered the cool floor of the chancery as the palatine stepped out into the towels and attentions of her Sisters.
She stood there in silence as members of her mission proceeded to dry her and dash her with consecrated ash from an itinerant stoup. All the while, incense burned from globes suspended from the ceiling and prayers were whispered by the attending women. As Sapphira’s limbs, torso and bust were bound with sackcloth ribbon, Sister Klaudia – wearing her cornette and ceremonial robes – read from Saint Severa’s Articles of Faith and Flame and offered blessings to her palatine and superior.
Sapphira felt the sting of the baptismal bath, replaced by the chill of the chancery air, in turn replaced by the raw irritation of the sackcloth. The chamber-candles flickered, allowing the shadows to momentarily encroach. About the chancery pillars and devotional stonework of the entrance-archway, the palatine thought she saw movement. The Sister’s spine became host to an irrepressible shiver and her bare flesh pimpled. Her nightmare had returned. A giant in midnight plate. An emissary of death. A vision of netherworld insanity.
It had haunted her. She could feel its presence, like a predator stalking its prey. A thing of the beyond, come to test her faith. She had sensed it while at devotion, during lonely sentinel duty and down in the consecrated vault, where she attended upon the sacred bones of Umberto II and her obligations of protection and preservation. She had even awoken to the nightmare watching her sleep in her private cell. From the darkness Sapphira saw the glow of unnatural life, the radiance of an eye watching her through the rent of a battle-smashed helm. It was the horrid attention of that eye and visions of the ghostly warrior that drove Sapphira to hope that her own eyes deceived her. She prayed to Saint Severa and Umberto II for guidance, and had almost begged confession of Pontifex Oliphant. She could not bring herself to confide in her Sisterhood – especially at a time of such uncertainty. With the discovery of the Ruinous monument and the arrival of the Adeptus Astartes, there never seemed to be an appropriate time to admit her affliction, and Sister Sapphira had taken refuge in the regularity of baptismal baths, consecrational dustings and blessings.
The light of the all-seeing eye dimmed as two Sisters in the slender, cobalt plate of their calling entered the chancery. It had been the breeze accompanying the Sisters’ entry to the mission-house that had initially guttered the candles. The first cradled a heavy flamer while the second held a meltagun to her breast. Presenting themselves before their palatine, the pair of dominiate Sisters placed their weapons on the floor and rose, taking off their helmets. Sister Klaudia concluded her blessings and stepped aside to acknowledge Sister Lemora and Sister Casiope.
‘Sisters,’ Klaudia acknowledged. ‘With what justification do you disturb the palatine?’
‘The Adeptus Astartes have visited the pontifex,’ Casiope reported, nodding first to Klaudia before addressing her superior.
‘And?’ Sapphira prompted.
‘The cemetery worlders are being moved from the city centre and out onto the necroplex,’ Sister Lemora confirmed.
‘The necroplex?’ the palatine marvelled. ‘Out beyond the perimeter?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Insanity.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Palatine,’ Sister Klaudia said. ‘I fear the Excoriators are not to be trusted.’
‘They are the Emperor’s Angels, Sister,’ Sapphira reminded her. ‘You think them corrupted?’
‘I think they’re Dorn’s savages,’ Klaudia told her honestly. ‘They fight like dogs amongst themselves and this Scourge that leads them is detested and distrusted even amongst his own kind.’
‘What do you think?’ Sapphira put to the other two Sisters.
‘They are gene-breeds, engineered for battle,’ Lemora said. ‘I think they’ve probably settled on using the Certusians as cannon fodder.’
‘You?’