THE DEVINE ADORATRICE
Graham McNeill
It is a time of legend.
The galaxy is in flames. The Emperor’s glorious vision for humanity is in ruins. His favoured son, Horus, has turned from his father’s light and embraced Chaos.
His armies, the mighty and redoubtable Space Marines, are locked in a brutal civil war. Once, these ultimate warriors fought side by side as brothers, protecting the galaxy and bringing mankind back into the Emperor’s light. Now they are divided.
Some remain loyal to the Emperor, whilst others have sided with the Warmaster. Pre-eminent amongst them, the leaders of their thousands-strong Legions are the primarchs. Magnificent, superhuman beings, they are the crowning achievement of the Emperor’s genetic science. Thrust into battle against one another, victory is uncertain for either side.
Worlds are burning. At Isstvan V, Horus dealt a vicious blow and three loyal Legions were all but destroyed. War was begun, a conflict that will engulf all mankind in fire. Treachery and betrayal have usurped honour and nobility. Assassins lurk in every shadow. Armies are gathering. All must choose a side or die.
Horus musters his armada, Terra itself the object of his wrath. Seated upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor waits for his wayward son to return. But his true enemy is Chaos, a primordial force that seeks to enslave mankind to its capricious whims.
The screams of the innocent, the pleas of the righteous resound to the cruel laughter of Dark Gods. Suffering and damnation await all should the Emperor fail and the war be lost.
The age of knowledge and enlightenment has ended. The Age of Darkness has begun.
Slender tendrils of fragrant smoke drifted from fang-mouthed oil burners, filling the bed-chamber with a delicious mix of cinnamon and honeysuckle. A fine sheen of oiled sweat and perfumed breath completed the indulgent atmosphere. Early morning sunlight shone in golden streaks through the slatted timber louvres over the windows, spilling languidly over the breathless couple that lay in the sumptuous bed, their eyes unfocused, their limbs entwined and their minds blissfully self-absorbed.
Three bottles of fine Caeban wine sat on a handmade table beside the bed, and red stains all across the sheets were testament to the wildness of its consumption. Raeven slipped his arm from Lyx’s shoulders and traced a finger over the coiled tattoo behind her ear that was normally hidden by her auburn hair.
‘Do you know how much trouble you’d be in if anyone saw that?’ he asked.
‘You’ve seen it,’ she replied.
‘Yes, but I’m not going to report you for a cult tattoo.’
‘Then why should I worry?’ she said with a grin. ‘You’re the only one who gets to see it.’
‘Not even Albard?’
‘Especially not Albard,’ she laughed, but he saw through her levity.
‘You’re not really mixed up with the Serpent cult are you?’
Lyx shook her head and kissed him. ‘Can you really imagine me dancing naked in the forest?’
‘I am now. Is that what they do?’
‘That’s what they say,’ said Lyx. ‘That, and sacrifice virgins and mate with nagas.’
Raeven made a disgusted face. Like most people, he’d heard the rumours about the vile practices of the Serpent cult – their misguided belief in old gods and their abhorrence of all forms of authority. And like most people, he’d dismissed them as just that, rumours.
‘Anything left to drink?’ asked Lyx.
He reached over her to examine the bottles. All were empty, and he slumped back onto the bed with a sigh.
‘No, it’s all gone.’
‘We drank it all?’ asked Lyx, turning onto her side. She gave him a full-lipped smile as the movement pulled the sheets down her body. Raeven took a moment to savour the nut-brown colour of her flesh and the way it rose in goosebumps in the chill air of the high bedchamber.
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.
‘That explains why my head feels like one of your father’s pet nagas is squeezing it.’
Raeven rubbed his eyes and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Like Lyx, his skin was the colour of young oak, ridged by cut lines of defined musculature. He was slender where his brother was bulky, and toned where Albard could only generously be described as ‘stocky’.
With nothing nearby to drink, Raeven reached up and pulled down a coiled pipe of leathery azhdarchid skin and sucked upon the copper end piece, until the smouldering embers in the bowl on the shelf above the headboard took light. He puffed a stream of aromatic smoke into the air, making a pillow of his arm.
‘I doubt if old Oruboros or Shesha could even break an egg open, these days,’ he said at last. ‘It’s a stupid comparison to make.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she pouted.
‘I do, but you’re prettier when you’re sad.’
‘That must be why you’re so cruel to me.’
‘One of the many reasons,’ agreed Raeven, letting the soothing effects of the smoke ease away the disquiet he always felt when he woke in the same bed as Lyx. As enticing as her bodily charms and paramour’s skills were, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that there was something unnatural about their...
Their what? Lovemaking? Hardly, since there was little love lost between them.
Rutting had something of a ring to it, in that it perfectly encapsulated the frenetic violence of their coupling, but didn’t quite express the frisson he took from its taboo nature. Raeven glanced over at the ring on Lyx’s finger and almost laughed as his genhanced eyes read the betrothal inscription laser-etched upon its platinum surface.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Lyx.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I just caught a glimpse of the vow Albard had inscribed on your ring.’
She pulled her hand below the sheets, and her face flushed. She shrugged.
‘It’s a nice ring, and you insist I keep it on.’
‘Yes,’ said Raeven, letting the smoking pipe coil back up to the bowl. ‘I like to know what I’m defiling.’
She smiled and reached over to pull him towards her. Her fingers brushed over the steel-rimmed sockets bored through the meat of his body at his neck and spine. He saw her flinch at the cold, metallic presence in his skin, and took a moment to savour the look of distaste that flashed in her eyes.
‘You don’t like them?’ he asked.
‘No, they’re cold.’
‘You should be used to that by now,’ said Raeven, pushing her down onto the bed. He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head to the side.
‘Did it hurt?’ she asked. ‘When the Sacristans cut you open, I mean?’
Still supporting himself on his elbows, Raeven nodded. ‘Yes. The Sacristans had us immobilised with muscle inhibitors, but father decided we would undergo the surgery without the benefit of pain-blockers, just like they did in his day. We were paralysed, but awake the whole time.’
She flinched at the thought of being cut open by the iron-faced priests of Mars and their lickspittle Sacristans. Raeven felt his jaw clench at the memory of the procedure, strapped in a bronze gurney in the depths of the Sanctuary as he and Albard faced each other across the expanse of bottle-green ceramic tiles and sterile steel.
‘I suspect father expected me to scream, but I was damned if I’d give him the satisfaction.’
‘What do they feel like now?’ she said, probing the edges of the sockets in his flesh and sliding her fingers inside, despite her avowed distaste. So like her to express squeamishness one moment, naked interest the next. She’d been like that the first time he’d taken her to his bed, pleading with him that what they were doing was wrong, but coming back night after night for more of the same.