Chapter 3 Librarium Sagrestia, Arx Angelicum, Baal

Chapter Three

Librarium Sagrestia, Arx Angelicum, Baal

Bells rang out in the Orbicular Tower, summoning a tide of crookbacked wraiths. They boiled from the shadows – pale, emaciated serfs; skittering, spider-legged servants and hooded tube-limbed scribs, all chanting and typing as they ran, pounding at ceramic keys with metal-hinged fingers and singing hymns through, oily, riveted throats. As they flooded the tower's cloistered walkways they filled them with a storm of parchment and plainsong, dizzy with ecstasy and fear.

As the multitude grew larger it grew more frantic and confused. Robed figures In a variety of shapes and were soon milling around the statue-lined halls of the Librarium. Human bondsmen argued furiously over the exact meaning of the alarm, while blank-eyed servo-scribes spewed reams of data at them, grinding out perforated sheets with clanking, crank-handled forelimbs.

Just as the frenzied seemed on the verge of outright violence, a giant in night-blue armour walked into the centre of the tumult, towering over them mob in his gleaming battleplate. Lucius Antros carried an ornate staff, as tall a he was, and he announced his presence by cracking it several times on the flagstones.

The serfs ceased their arguing and stepped back to create a path, panting and wide-eyed as they let the Librarian by. Even the servitors ceased their mechanised din, wheeling and clattering away as Antros stepped up into an iron an iron pulpit and looked down at the sea of upturned faces. Even amongst this strange assembly, he was a striking individual. He wore no helmet his face bore all the hallmarks of a Blood Angel: chiselled, noble, and inhumanly beautiful, framed by a shoulder-length mane of blonde hair. His looks alone would have made him an impressive sight, and yet, it was not the most arresting thing about him. Antros' perfect features were marked by a fierce craving; hunger burned in his flawless blue eyes. Antros was irritated by what he saw: a mania, coiling through the minds of even his most experienced blood thralls. And an absurd undercurrent of panic. He allowed his consciousness to snake through the crowd, plucking at the thoughts of his servants, peering into their blinkered little souls. Their daily routine of study had been interrupted and that was enough to drive them into a frenzy. He had no doubt who would be responsible for stirring up this current nonsense. The chief pedant herself. "Scholiast Ghor?" he asked, his voice strong and resonant. "Are you there?"

There was a scuffle in the far end of the hall as a woman strolled through the crowds. She was dressed in scarlet robes, embroidered with golden runes and, in her own was, Dimitra Ghor was just as striking as Lexicanium Antros. She was so tall and wasted that her robes seemed to hang from her skull-like, shaven head. Only the knife-blade tips of her shoulders gave any hint of the brittle, keen-edged body beneath. Her features were angular and androgynous and her skin was papery and translucent, revealing the pulsing veins beneath. She embodied everything Antros found oppressive about his subordinates. Dimitra was as dusty and dry as an old page. She climbed the pulpit with careful, unhurried steps, like a mantis edging towards its prey.

"Are you responsible for this?" he asked, nodding at the speakers blaring overhead. The distorted amplified sound of bells was still ringing out through the Librarium.

Though unusually tall for a mortal, Dimitra looked like a child beside the Librarian, dwarfed by his transhuman bulk. "Yes, Lexicanium," she replied, keeping her gaze respectfully locked on the floor. She spoke through tight lips, her face rigid. Her large, wide-spaced eyes added to the strangeness of her appearance; the irises so dark the she seemed to only have pupils.

Antros could feel the servants of the Orbicular Tower concentrating on the exchange, even if their eyes were fixed on their feet, and he sensed that their loyalties were still with Ghor, rather than their new lord. He had little interest in the convoluted hierarchies and protocols of blood thralls, but such disrespect could not be tolerated. "Then I overestimated you," he said. "Even the most junior Rubricator can memorise the Rights of Convocation. What is this nonsense you're broadcasting?"

Dimitra glanced up at him, her eyes like disks of flint. "The auguries were quite clear."

"The auguries where quite clear, Lexicanium," he growled.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, her voice taut. "The signs were quite clear, Lexicanium. There is a psychic rift in the Ostensorio. The warning comes from the highest authority: from Lord Rhacelus himself. We are to seal the gates and ensure the no one leaves or enters the tower."

Antros shook his head in disbelief at the mention of the Chief Librarian's equerry. "Rhacelus? What are you talking about? Show me what you have."

Dimitra slowly drew out a bundle of thin vellum strips, stuck together by carefully applied wax seals. Her hairless scalp was haloed by a forest of brass-rimmed lenses – dozens of them, all different sizes and shapes and fixed to a metal crest. They moved as she examined the documents with infuriating care, focusing on each page in turn and flicking through them with her long, tapered fingers. She held one of them up and used another of her lenses, a mechanised lorgnette, to examine it. The frame of the eyeglass whirred and clicked as it dropped in front of her face and focused on the vellum. Then she nodded and handed it to Antros. "it appears that there is a blood rite in progress that has not gone according to Lord Rhacelus' prognostications."

He shook his head. "Only the most senior Librarians are permitted to enter the Ostensorio. Nothing could have gone wrong with Lord Rhacelus present."

He looked back closer at the text and his augmented irises swam with glyphs and runes. He was sure that she was misreading the signs. Only the most powerful of the Librarius would perform invocations in the Ostensorio, the suggestion that they might lose control was absurd. Then another thought occurred to him: however ridiculous this summons might be, it gave him an excuse to break from his tiresome duties in the Orbicular Tower. He shoved the papers into a pouch strapped to his led armour and turned to face the crowd. "I will make a brief visit to the Ostensorio. Return to your scriptoria and continue your work." None of the serfs dared to look up but he felt the relief in their minds. The scribes hated any interruption to their work and they rarely left the Orbicular Tower.

There was an explosion of rustling noises as the serfs and servitors began clearing the hall.

Antros strode off across the flagstones, passing quickly through the scriptoria, calefactories and libraries of the Orbicular Tower, then out through the eastern gate into the wider Librarium. He crossed the soaring bridge known as the Spear of Sanguininus and marched on through the countless writing rooms, sacrariums and reliquaries of the Sagrestia, accompanied all the way by the harsh clanging of the amplified bells. Then he entered the oldest quarters of the Librarium – dark, narrow walkways, lined with crumbling winged statues that formed tunnels with their overlapping swords. Blood thralls from other quarters of the Librarium were rushing in the same direction, and Antros saw the same ridiculously frantic expression on their faces. He had never felt such a mood in the Librarium before.

Antros' mood grew darker as he saw a priest of the Adeptus Ministorum loitering in the shadows beneath one of the statues.

He grunted in disapproval. Over the last few months Baal had been invaded by wide-eyed pilgrims from the Cronian Sector. Even by the standards of the Ministorum, they struck Antros as an odd bunch. Their white-and-gold robes were not so unusual, but they also had white led painted on their faces and rouge smeared around their eyes, which made them look either sinister or absurd, depending on the light. These white-faced fanatics carried banners emblazoned with a winged, angelic figure and Antros heard it rumoured that both the banners, and the face paint were meant as some kind of tribute to Mephiston. If this were true, it was an affront to the dignity of the Chief Librarian, but the Chapter Council had taken the surprising step of allowing a small group of pilgrims access to the Librarium. He had never heard of such a thing happening before but it was said that Mephiston himself had given the order. The zealot beneath the statue showed little understanding of the great honour that Mephiston had bestowed on him – he was wailing and praying in the most undignified manner, pleading for a glimpse of the Chief Librarian. Mephiston was not, of course, to be found idling in the Librarium and Antros doubted the pilgrim would recognise his idol even if he walked passed him.

Finally Antros arrived at the north gate of the Ostensorio. He came to a halt and smiled at the sight of the vast doors. They were a marvel – crimson slabs of Baalite rock, hundreds of feet tall and covered with glittering, blood drop stones from Cruor mountains. The red stones had been carved with images portraying the early life of Sanguininus and his first meeting with the God-Emperor.

The smile faded as he saw battle-brothers of the Fourth Company gathered at the foot of the steps before the huge gates – two squads of Tactical Marines in full battleplate. These giants towered over the blood thralls who were dashing between the buildings, and however nonchalantly they cradled their beautifully inscribed bolters, there was no disguising the threat of death that poured from behind their featureless visors.

Antros strode up to the captain in charge, the only warrior in the line with his face visible, his helmet mag-clamped to his thigh. The officers stern features were almost indistinguishable from those of the heroes chiselled into the crimson gate behind him. He was as inhumanly perfect as Antros and also carried himself with the confidence of a veteran – a confidence Antros could imitate but not yet feel. The captains only trace of mortality was a thick, ridged scar that began at the right-hand corner of his mouth and crossed up to his left cheek.

Antros climbed the steps and saluted. "Captain Vatrenus," he said. The captain nodded in recognition and returned the salute. "Lexicanium Antros," rumbled the other Space Marine. Even without the amplification of his helmet, the captain's voice resonated like a tolling bell. "I received strange news in the Orbicular Tower," said Antros. He was unsure if he would be able to talk his way inside, but had decided to try. "The auguries implied that Epistolary Rhacelus needs my help."

The captain raised an eyebrow.

"If my masters are assembled here," said Antros, "Lord Rhacelus should know that I am -"

The captain raised a hand to silence him, as though he were the lowliest of menials, and Antros had to bite back an angry retort.

Captain Vatrenus looked into the middle distance and Antros heard the crackle of a vox-message, relayed through a bead in his ear. The captain was clearly surprised by whatever data he was receiving. "Yes" he said. "The Lexicanium from the Orbicular Tower, Lucius Antros. He learned of the situation." There was another crackle of vox-chatter and Vatrenus nodded again. "Standing right in front of me," he nodded "Very well." After a moments hesitation, he stepped aside and waved Antros on with his bolter, then he grabbed him by the arm. "Take care brother," he said, looking warily at the Ostensorio. "If I were you I'd wait in the Auran Chapel and keep your head down." He grimaced with distaste. "From what I hear, Lord Rhacelus is involved in something unusual."

Antros was not surprised by the captain's tone. There were few in the Chapter who weren't unnerved by the mysteries of the Librarius. Antros nodded and stepped forwards.

Up ahead of him, another battle-brother of the Forth Company opened a door at the foot of the gates. This opening was a less imposing aperture, only twenty foot or so tall. It was decorated just as lavishly as the main gates, but Antros did not pause to study it, hurrying on into the Ostensorio as the door slammed behind him. Several members of the Librarius were gathered in the darkened chamber – Codiciers and Epistolaries all dressed for battle in massive suites of polished blue ceramite, apart from one who was dressed in red and black ceramite. Antros never seen so many Librarian's in one place. The air was charged with blood magic and he sensed that a grand ritual was in progress. Dead-eyed cherubs lit the scene, drifting beneath the barrel vaults on flashing, golden wings. Thuribles trailed from their fingers, glinting in the candlelight and trailing a fine, crimson mist. Scrolls of parchment fluttered beneath their fat little legs and the air was thick with incense-heavy smoke that almost, but not quite masked the iron-rich, abattoir stink of the chamber. Antros reached the chapel and climbed its steps for a better view of the proceedings on the far side of the chamber was a huge shimmering hololith – a projection of a Ministorum priest, sitting on an ornate, ceremonial throne. His face was painted white, like all the other pilgrims that had come to Baal, and he looked like an enormous ghost, towering over the scene as the projection flickered in and out of view, broken up by crackling bursts of interference. Even though the red mist that filled the chamber, Antros could see that he was a senior prelate of the Adeptus Ministorum. His chasuble was embroidered with beautiful images of the Golden Throne and his plump frame was draped in religious baubles. The hololith was forty or so feet tall and the priest's face was quivering with anticipation ah he fidgeted and shifted in his chair, staring intently at the Librarians.

Gathered at the feet of this spectral throne was a group of cowled pilgrims, their faces hidden in their deep hoods and their hands clasped in prayer. Antros could feel the religious fervour burning in their chests. They believed they were about to witness a miracle they had long preyed for.

The librarians were assembled in the centre of the hall with their backs to the projection, standing at the top of a broad, circular dais. They were arranged around a golden monstrance – a tall, metal stand set on wide marble base at the centre of the dais and supporting a semicircular cradle of brass. With their heads bowed and their swords raised, it looked as though the Librarians were worshipping a huge, metal chalice. Antros had never before been admitted to the Ostensorio. It was a site of great mystery to him – reserved for only the most senior members of his order. On any other occasion, he would has paused to marvel at the beauty of the monstrance. It was a masterpiece of devotional craft, dozens of feet wide and filigreed with elegiac scenes of angelic warhosts; but he was not looking at the ancient relic. Hovering above it, spitting and steaming, was a sphere of boiling blood.

Antros was so surprised by the huge crimson ball the he let the tip of his staff clatter against the steps. The sound of the metal hitting stone rang out through the gloom.

Some of the priests glanced in his direction, but the Librarians paid him no heed. Their eyes were firmly closed and their raised weapons were linked to the sphere by cords of read fire, flicking back ad forth and painting ghostly images in the dark. The strands of blood magic coruscated and coiled feeding the inferno above the monstrance. Since entering the Ostensorio, Antros felt psychic energy tugging at his consciousness, pulsing through his veins and echoing through his skull like a sinister hymn. He realised that the aetheric power was emanating from the red sphere. As it blazed brighter it filled his mind with an inhuman, looping howl. The pitiless song of the warp.

"Lexicanium," cried one of the Librarians turning briefly away from the monstrance to look at him. Her face was glistening with sweat and the lights made it look like she was drenched in blood. Her features were contorted with pain and concentration and it took Antros a moment to recall that her name was Mariah. "Stand by me!" gasped Mariah, trembling. "Be ready! We're losing him!"

Antros rushed to her side, his pulse racing at the thought of joining such a powerful invocation. As he neared the dais he saw that there was a shape forming in the centre of the sphere. He peered closer, fascinated. Something was alive in the blood. Something wretched in fire. "Losing who?" he whispered but Mariah did not reply.

The Librarians around him were straining in agonised silence as the sphere grew larger, their eyes clamped shut as they channelled furious gouts of psychic flame through their swords. They resembled riggers working at a storm-lashed sail, shaking and scowling as elemental power tore through them. Antros could feel the carrion chill of blood-craft washing over his face and the behaviour if the guards outside began to make sense. This ritual was not going to plan. That much was clear from the circle of grim faces flickering in and out of view as the cherubs whirled over head. The ghostly colossus on the far side of the chamber lent forward in his chair, his eyes straining wider.

"Concentrate," said Mariah glancing at him. "Be ready."

Needles of red energy spraying from Mariah's power armour, flickering across the clouds of scented smoke. Antros felt the force of shivering along the length of his staff.

The noise grew louder and the flagstones answered in kind groaning and creaking beneath the hunched Librarian. Then the whole room started to judder, as if in the grip of a quake.

There was a harsh cracking sound, as though the air its self had snapped, and Peloris was lifted off his feet and hurled away from the monstrance like a child's toy. His massive armour-clad form clattered across the flagstones, trailing smoke as he crashed into the base of a pillar. He cried out in rage and frustration as the cord of magic he had been channelling lurched free, a wild serpent, lashing back and forth.

"Peloris" bellowed one of the other Librarians on the far side of the circle.

Even in the shifting light, Antros recognised him Epistolary Rhacelus was Mephiston's equerry and one of the longest serving veterans in the Chapter. Rhacelus had been responsible for much of Antros' training and his contemptuous glare still haunted his dreams. The psychic hood of Rhacelus' power armour was ablaze with warpfire and, as he climbed to his feet, his whole body shook under the strain. Sparks where crackling around his eyes and gums spitting and dancing as they danced around his face, but he drew back his shoulders and kept his force sword aloft, holding up the column of energy he was channelling. "Lexicanium Antros," he said calmly, as though he were merely ordering a servant to fetch him a drink. "Close ranks." Despite his exertions he managed to give Antros a warning glance. "do not let me down, neophyte."

Despite his raging heart, Antros stepped calmly into the circle, catching the loose arc of crimson on the head of his staff. The impact rocked him back on his heels, but he held his place, clutching the staff in both hands as it quivered and sparked. Pain washed over his flesh, as though he had been set alight, but the agony was dwarfed by the torrent of visions that exploded in his head. Another world superimposed itself over the Ostensorio. Vast sheets of flame thundered past beneath him as powerful wings hurled him through the air. The vision was wonderful and overwhelming. It took every ounce of his training to anchor his thoughts."what is this?" he cried, his voice contorted by pain. He sensed a being of incredible power forming above the huge chalice. "What are we summoning?" Rhacelus was unwilling, or unable, to reply. He merely twisted his lip into an even more disdainful curl.

Antros tried to decipher the shape in the blood. It was still too vague to make out so he switched his gaze to his fellow Librarians. As the light of the sphere swelled and enveloped them, the Librarians noble features began to change, growing feral and furious. They howled in outrage and Antros joined his voice to theirs as he felt the cause of their anger. Whatever Rhacelus had intended to invoke, they were now facing something more horrific. The warp itself was straining to breach the sanctity of their fortress-monastery. Incredibly, something was trying to enter the Librarium. Antros found it hard to breath, suffocated by a potent mixture of outrage and excitement. The vision threatened to overwhelm him again, but then he sensed a presence beside him and turned to see Lexicanium Peloris. Peloris was barely able to stand. His power armour had been rent open by the psychic blast he had taken and his mouth was full of blood. He managed to nod at Antros. "I'm ready," he said. "If you fall."

"What are we -" began Antros.

"Now!" said Epistolary Rhacelus, interrupting Antros as he sliced his sword down through the air. It connected with a brass circular channel, embedded in the flagstones, creating a blinding shower of sparks. The other librarians followed suit, smashing their swords against the metal, severing the cords of power enveloping the dais with crimson light. For a second the red sphere burned white, blinding everyone, then the light vanished, leaving nothing. All the lights had vanished – not just the sphere but the cords of magic too. Unbalanced, Mariah staggered forward, straining to discern shapes in the void.

For a while there was nothing just the laboured breathing of the unseen Librarians and the think charnel stink. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Mariah saw a crouched, powerful shadow, just visible in the centre of the circle.

+I was sure the answer would be there+ said a hushed voice, directly into Mariah's mind. +But I found nothing.+

Light seeped back into the chamber as braziers sputtered back into life and the cherubs' candles reignited, revealing the figure they had wrenched back from the warp: Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, Master of the Librarius.

The Lord of Death had returned.