Dark Disciple(科幻战争)-第6部分

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the　galaxy　and　as　such；　they　were　borne　with　reverential　care。　They　lay　upon　black　cushions；　and
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were　carried　upon　the　backs　of　creatures　whose　flesh　was　completely　swathed　in　black　cloth　to　hide
their　obscene　forms。
Marduk　picked　up　his　customised　bolt　pistol；　its　squat　barrel　protruding　from　the　carved　maw　of
a　daemon。　It　felt　natural　and　light　in　his　hand；　though　a　mere　mortal　would　struggle　to　bear　its
weight；　and　he　rammed　a　sickle…shaped　clip　into　place　before　holstering　it　at　his　hip。
Even　in　times　of　relative　peace　the　brothers　of　the　Host　bore　live　weapons；　for　though　they　were
disciples　and　custodians　of　the　Dark　Creed；　they　were　holy　warriors　first　and　foremost；　and　it　was
part　of　their　tenets　to　be　always　reminded　of　the　Long　War　against　the　cursed　Imperium；　to　be　ever
in　readiness　for　holy　battle。　Bitterness　fuelled　their　beliefs　and　passion；　and　the　holy　bolter　and
chainsword　were　the　tools　with　which　the　proper　order　of　the　galaxy　would　be　instated。　No　warrior
could　forget　the　betrayals　of　the　Corpse　Emperor；　or　the　fallacy　of　his　church；　while　they　held　their
sacred　weapons。
Next；　he　lifted　his　archaic　chainsword　from　its　cushion。　His　grip　closed　around　the　hilt　of　the
weapon；　and　he　felt　the　familiar　rush　as　it　bonded　with　him；　barbs　piercing　the　flesh　of　his　palm。　The
power　and　rage　of　Borhg’ash；　the　daemon　eternally　bound　within　the　chainsword；　surged　through
him；　and　he　restrained　the　urge　to　lash　out；　to　feed　the　beast’s　hunger。　The　blood　of　thousands　had
been　shed　beneath　its　biting　teeth；　and　it　was　with　some　reluctance　that　he　sheathed　it；　allowing　the
locking　clamps　to　secure　it　at　his　waist。
“Soon　you　shall　feed；　dear　one；”　said　Marduk　to　appease　the　daemon；　and　he　felt　a　twinge　of
unease　as　his　bond　with　the　daemon　weapon　was　severed；　as　if　a　part　of　his　body　had　been　cut　from
him。
Marduk　dismissed　his　servants　with　a　wave　of　his　gauntleted　hand。　They　retreated　into　the　dark
recess…hollows　in　the　chamber　walls；　disappearing　from　mortal　sight。
Whispering　a　prayer；　he　turned　and　walked　across　the　chamber。　The　great　doors　reared　up　before
him；　intricately　carved　into　a　representation　of　the　maelstrom；　replete　with　daemonic　forms　and　the
souls　of　mortals　writhing　in　agony。　The　amorphous　carving　shifted　maddeningly；　souls　screaming
out　in　silent　torment　as　flames　consumed　them　and　devils　cavorted。
Pressing　his　palms　against　the　doors；　Marduk　pushed　them　open；　and　they　swung　aside
soundlessly。
An　entourage　of　twelve　chosen　warriors　knelt　upon　the　flagstones　beyond　the　doors；　their　heads
bowed　low。　At　their　fore　was　the　icon　bearer；　Burias；　his　head　lowered　to　the　ground　before　his
master。
“Arise；　my　brothers；”　said　Marduk。
The　devotional　ceremony　lasted　for　twelve　hours；　and　the　mournful　voices　of　the　Host　rose　and　fell
as　they　intoned　their　hymnal　responses。　The　morbid　peal　of　bells　echoed　out　across　the　cavernous
expanse　of　the　cavaedium；　signalling　the　end　of　the　communal　worship　of　the　gods。　Marduk’s　throat
was　raw　from　his　elocutions　and　recitals　from　the　books　of　Lorgar；　but　he　felt　refreshed　and
invigorated　by　the　communion　with　the　great　powers　of　the　ether。　It　was　always　this　way　for　him。
For　three　months　it　had　been　this　way；　with　prayers；　sermons　and　services　dominating　the　lives
of　the　Word　Bearers　as　their　ship；　the　Infidus　Diabolus；　ploughed　its　way　through　the　roiling　sea　that
was　the　warp。　The　Host　was　eager　for　battle；　for　the　fields　of　war　were　the　truest　halls　of　worship　to
the　gods；　but　these　hymnal　services　served　their　needs；　while　not　engaged　against　the　enemy；　and
they　fuelled　the　hatred　and　stoked　the　fires　of　vengeance　that　burnt　within　the　breast　of　every
warrior　brother。
Warp　travel　allowed　the　Infidus　Diabolus　to　travel　vast　distances　in　months　or　years　rather　than
decades　or　more；　but　Marduk　would　allow　none　of　his　battle…brothers　to　enter　stasis　while　on　these
journeys；　for　these　times　were　important　lulls　during　which　affirmations　could　be　renewed　and
dedications　and　oaths　of　servitude　to　the　great　gods　blooded　anew。
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As　the　Host　filed　away；　returning　to　their　cells　for　individual；　silent　communion；　reading　of
scripture；　the　blessings　and　refitting　of　holy　bolters　and　other　daily　rituals；　Marduk　found　himself
gazing　upon　the　blessed　crozius　arcanum；　lying　dormant　upon　a　plinth　at　the　front　of　the　alter
overlooking　the　nave　where　the　Host　had　gathered。
The　crozius　arcanum　was　the　hallowed　staff　of　office　of　the　Dark　Apostles；　the　bearers　of　the
true　faith。　Once　it　had　symbolised　belief　in　the　Great　Crusade；　in　the　Imperium　of　Man　and　the
optimism　of　the　Crusade　bringing　enlightenment　to　the　galaxy；　but　the　Emperor’s　lies　had　long　been
revealed。
The　Emperor　had　claimed　that　gods　did　not　exist；　that　they　were　merely　the　creations　of　weak
minds。
Hypocritically；　it　was　this　same　Emperor；　though　his　body　was　now　a　mere　rotting　corpse；　that
the　Imperium　prayed　to　as　their　patron　deity。　The　fallacy　of　the　lie　and　its　hypocrisy　filled　Marduk
with　bitterness　and　rage。　In　truth；　that　anger　had　not　waned　with　time；　but　rather　had　grown　stronger
and　deeper。
In　ignorance；　blindness　or　perhaps　fear；　the　Emperor　had　proclaimed　that　there　were　no　great
godly　powers　in　the　universe；　but　he　had　been　wrong。　He　had　lied。　There　were　deities　in　the　depths
of　the　warp；　tangible　and　very　real；　and　they　were　more　powerful　than　anyone　could　have　imagined。
It　was　to　these　ancient　gods　that　the　Word　Bearers　had　pledged　their　allegiance；　and　it　was　the　faith
in　them　that　they　sought　to　bring　to　the　universe。
Once　the　Great　Truth　had　been　revealed；　the　Legion　had　thrown　off　the　repressive；　enslaving
beliefs　of　the　Imperium　and　dedicated　themselves　fully　to　their　holy　cause。
The　crozius　arcanum　had　been　sanctified　to　the　true　gods；　and　it　was　a　potent　symbol　of　the　Dark
Creed　and　faith。　It　had　been　purified　in　the　blood　of　millions；　and　countless　unbelievers　had　been
smitten　beneath　it。
Its　haft　was　as　black　as　ebony　and　studded　with　spikes。　Marduk　longingly　traced　the　blood…red
veins　that　ran　up　its　length　with　a　finger；　marvelling　at　the　workmanship。　The　hilt　of　the　crozius　was
bound　in　the　tanned　skin　of　a　cursed　unbeliever；　the　Chaplain　Atreus　of　the　cursed　Ultramarines
legion；　who　had　been　flayed　alive　on　Calth　by　Lord　Kor　Phaeron。　The　head　of　the　holy　weapon　was
like　a　flanged　mace　or　power　maul；　eight　raised；　spiked　wedges　forming　its　shape。　When　activated；
the　spiked　head　was　wreathed　in　energy；　and　it　would　sunder　the　foes　of　Lorgar　with　the　selfsame
potency　of　a　power　talon。
Marduk　longed　to　lift　the　weapon　up　in　both　hands。　Only　two　Dark　Apostles　had　wielded　this
mighty　weapon：　the　ancient　Warmonger；　long　since　interred　in　the　sarcophagus　of　his　mighty
dreadnought；　whose　sanity　was　only　barely　kept　in　check；　and　Jarulek：　Jarulek　the　Blessed；　Jarulek
the　Glorified；　beloved　of　the　gods。
Not　anymore；　thought　Marduk　with　savage　relish。　This　was　his　time。　His　star　was　in　the
ascendant；　and　once　he　had　faced　the　Council　of　Sicarus；　he　would　be　allowed　to　wield　this　potent
artefact　himself。　As　it　was；　he　had　held　it　in　his　hands　once；　when　he　had　rescued　it　from　oblivion
within　the　xenos　pyramid；　but　even　he　was　loathe　to　break　the　taboos　and　traditions　of　his　order　by
bearing　the　holy　weapon　into　battle　before　he　had　been　fully　embraced　into　the　fold　by　the　council。
He　felt　the　approach　of　his　underlings　behind　him；　and　his　eyes　narrowed。　Running　his　hands
lingeringly　over　the　crozius；　he　left　them　waiting　for　a　moment；　to　reinforce　their　place；　and　his。
At　last；　he　turned　towards　them。　They　stood　at　the　foot　of　the　raised　platform；　and　with　a　gesture；
he　beckoned　them　closer。
They　ascended　the　steps　side…by…side；　and　though　they　both　bore　the　hallmarks　of　Lord　Lorgar’s
gene…seed；　they　were　as　different　in　appearance　as　night　and　day。
Kol　Badar　was　ancient；　having　been　a　captain　of　one　of　the　great　battle　companies　of　the　XVII
Legion　long　before　the　great　Warmaster　Horus　had　aligned　himself　with　the　true　powers　of　the
universe。　His　face　was　broad　and　bullish；　though　his　flesh　was　wasted　almost　to　the　point　of
emaciation；　and　creases　so　deep　they　looked　as　if　they　had　been　carved　with　knives　lined　his　face。
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His　head　was　bald；　and　pipes　and　cables　sank　into　his　cranium；　connecting　him　to　his　immense
battle　suit。　He　wore　archaic；　age…old　Terminator　armour　and　towered　over　Marduk　by　half　a　metre。
He　walked　with　heavy　steps；　his　every　movement　filled　with　power　and　weight。
Kol　Badar　was　the　Host’s　Coryphaus：　strategos；　war　leader；　and　the　voice　of　the　battle…brothers。
It　was　his　role　to　lead　the　chorus　of　hymnal　responses　in　prayer；　and　to　art　as　the　link　between　the
Host’s　Dark　Apostle　and　his　warriors。　At　his　side；　dwarfed　by　his　sheer　bulk；　swaggered　the　Host’s
icon　bearer；　Burias。
Where　Kol　Badar　was　all　brute　power　and　smouldering　anger；　Burias　walked　with　a　warrior’s
subtle　grace；　his　movements　relaxed　and　fluid。　He　was　wolf…lean　and　darkly　handsome；　his　full　head
of　pitch　black；　waist…length　hair　oiled　and　scented。　His　pale　face　encapsulated　all　the　noble　bearing
of　his　heritage；　and　it　was　said　that　he　resembled　Lorgar；　before　he　had　ascended　to　daemonhood。
Burias　was　the　epitome　of　the　warrior　ideal：　a　consummate；　balanced　warrior。　His　body　was　as
proud　and　strong　as　his　faith；　and　though　he　was　young　in　comparison　to　Kol　Badar；　he　had　been
blooded　in　battle　across　a　thousand　ile；　though　there　was　a　lingering；
dangerous　intensity　in　his　wide　eyes；　just　a　hint　of　the　power　lurking　within；　straining　to　be　released。
Burias　was　one　of　the　possessed；　and　though　he　kept　the　daemon　Drak’shal　at　bay　with　sheer　force
of　will；　he　willingly　gave　way　to　the　beast　once　the　fires　of　battle　were　met；　and　the　results　were
invariably　bloody。
Burias　bowed　low；　dipping　his　tall；　eight…pointed　icon　before　him；　and　Marduk　acknowledged
him　with　an　incline　of　his　chin。　Kol　Badar　bowed　his　head；　carefully　measuring　the　movement　to　be
at　once　mildly　insulting；　yet　not　overtly　disrespectful。
“The　Enslaved　one　is　requesting　that　he　be　allowed　to　reconstruct　his　armature　arrays；　that　he
may　continue　his　work　upon　the　Nexus　Arrangement；　lord；”　said　Burias；　his　voice　neutral。
“It　is　foolishness　to　allow　it　such　privileges；”　said　Kol　Badar。
“Walk　with　me；”　ordered　Marduk；　turning　on　his　heel　and　striding　away。　He　did　not　speak　as
they　exited　the　cavaedium　by　a　side　portal　within　the　sacristy；　walking　up　corridors　lined　with
skulls。
One　of　the　kathartes；　skinless　daemonic　furies　that　inhabited　the　Infidus　Diabolus；　perched　upon
the　shoulders　of　a　winged　angel　of　death　statue　above　them；　baring　its　teeth　at　their　passing。　Marduk
flicked　his　gaze　up　towards　the　daemon；　and　it　lowered　its　head；　whimpering　like　a　dog　beneath　the
switch。　Blood　glistened　across　its　exposed　musculature；　and　it　shimmered　like　a　distorted　pirt　image
before　disappearing　once　more　into　the　sea　of　souls　that　was　the　warp。　Immersed　in　the　tides　of　the
ether　buffeting　the　Infidus　Diabolus；　the　katharte　would　take　on　its　truer　form；　that　of　an　angelic
maiden；　as　dangerous　as　it　was　alluring；　propelling　itself　through　the　formless　other　world　upon
feathered　wings；　its　siren　call　signalling　the　death　of　those　of　weak　min